sinking like sand
Title: sinking like sand
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Not it.
Spoilers: Small reference to something from 3x01. If you’ve seen that, then you’re set.
Summary: Sometimes the first step is the hardest part. Or, four times they could have kissed, and the one time they actually did.
Author’s Note: This is an (extremely) belated birthday gift for my favorite hopeless romantic, chizuru-chibi. She routinely requests that I write more seduction and/or more romance, so I decided a while ago to abandon my original plans for her birthday gift and write this instead, which is part of the reason why this is over a month late. I suppose I did well to finish this in six weeks given my usual writing pace! ;) Thanks to yaba324 for betaing. Title is from Sara Bareilles’ Send Me The Moon, originally suggested by tidbit2008 in a brainstorming session for another fic she was writing.
Anyway, I had a blast writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it half as much as I did. And happy belated birthday, Chibs.
PS: Somewhat random ficmix is here for anyone who is interested.
xxxxx
like a wall of stars
we are ripe to fall
--M83
xxxxx
i.
It was all Jane’s fault. The man refused to follow simple instructions if his life depended on it.
And this time, it had.
He could not even behave himself on a simple ransom drop, and so Lisbon had been forced to step in. Again.
It is just before eight o’clock on a Tuesday night when it happens, and they are on the wrong side of town. They have done more than their fair share of ransom drops in the past, but Jane is feeling particularly contrary tonight. He’s also incredibly distracted from the moment she arrives, head held high, wearing street clothes.
He whistles, taking notice immediately.
“I didn’t know you owned one of those, Agent Lisbon.”
“Oh, hush. It’s just a skirt, Jane.”
She rolls her eyes, taps one foot impatiently, trying to brush off his comment. She isn’t entirely comfortable on the job in her present attire, and he isn’t sure he wants to know where she’s hidden her weapon. Confirming that the rest of the team is in position, she turns back to him and quirks an eyebrow.
“You know, it wouldn’t have killed you to put on a pair of jeans for this.”
Jane shrugs. Aside from discarding his jacket, he’s sporting the same suit he wore all day. “I don’t own a pair of jeans.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” she mutters quietly in response. “Just try to blend in for a change, would you?”
“You’re acting like I’m going to get into trouble,” Jane scoffs, feigning offense.
Lisbon raises an eyebrow in response, then checks her watch. Less than two minutes until the drop.
That is, of course, when Jane decides to go investigate. He slips around the corner into the darkened alleyway before she has the chance to stop him.
She glances back down at her watch. One minute before the scheduled drop. Sighing, she strides quickly to catch up to him, and when she does, her words slur together; one long, angry hiss as she grabs his shoulder.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?”
Jane does not look up, focused on whatever he is searching for at the back corner of the alley. Her relief that he hasn’t camped himself out at the dumpster that is the designated drop point is only minimal. Not when they have less than thirty seconds now and there is no way out at the back of the alley. A fact that Jane himself now remarks on.
“Of course there isn’t,” she snaps, her voice rising just above a whisper but still as brusque as ever. “If you had paid attention when I briefed the team, you’d know that!”
“Well, I --” he begins. The sound of footsteps, loud and heavy, echoes around them, inching closer. They are no longer alone.
Jane’s face freezes in momentary panic; he had not planned for this. Lisbon knows they only have a few more seconds. Surely in this dark corner, if they appear occupied, no one would think twice. So she does the only thing that comes to mind.
She grabs him by his shirt collar and throws him back against the wall. The panic on his face gives way to shock and confusion, but there’s only one other reason they could be back here, so she tugs on his shoulders, stands as tall as she can in her heels, and kisses him.
At first, it’s light contact at the side of his lips; from this distance, she’s hoping that will be enough. But suddenly, there’s the unexpected feel of their bodies pressed together, when his arms snake around her waist to complete the illusion. She tries to steady her breathing, tries desperately not to give herself away.
Then one of them (really, it could be either one) shifts, and the illusion vanishes completely with this simple movement.
His lips are warm but rough against hers, eager. When his hands inch down her waist to pull her in closer, she welcomes it rather than fights it; practically pliant in his arms. (No longer the other way around.)
Her own hands fall at the nape of his neck as his tongue pries her lips open, demanding. But she gives as good as she gets, her lips migrating from neck to collarbone; nipping lightly, then applying more pressure. She knows she’s on the right track by the low growl he emits; she grins against him at the sound of it.
Abandoned and forgotten in the corner, they are so distracted by each other that it takes the unpleasant screeching of tires against pavement to rip them back to reality.
Lisbon jumps back hastily, her hands tugging fruitlessly at her skirt as she watches a second car go by with Rigsby at the wheel, tailing their suspect according to plan. She is infinitely grateful for the dim lighting now; no match for her heavy breath, but easily concealing the flush of her cheeks.
Jane’s own impeccable posture slumps against the brick wall, and she revels in the sight of him, panting and speechless in the shadows.
“Right. Back to work.” Her voice is lower than usual, dulcet tones in the crisp night air. Then it grows more sarcastic, bossy, in a way that reaches the last level of his resolve. “Why don’t you stay here, Jane. I think you’ve caused more than enough trouble for one night.”
When she walks away, her hips swing just a little, and his eyes follow her with a dangerous ferocity. One last thought passes through his mind before he surrenders to pursuit.
Oh, he’ll give her trouble alright.
ii.
When the doorbell buzzes, the sound unpleasant and shrill as it reaches her ears, Lisbon steals one last look in the mirror. She’s wearing black from head to toe. Her face tight and drawn, she is in mourning.
She has always hated funerals.
First her mother, then her father. Interspersed, all four grandparents, one by one. Finally, Sam Bosco, with his final words weighing against her chest as she eyed Mandy from several pews away.
Her feet are heavy as she trudges down the steps and toward her front door, opening it with unsteady hands.
“Jane?”
“Hey, Lisbon,” he says, waiting for her to step aside and let him in.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her back is to him as she shuts the door.
“I thought you could use a ride to the service,” he answers. He pauses for a beat, offering a wry smile, and adds, “I figured if I called, you’d say no.”
“So you just came over unannounced?” Her voice, while still subdued, holds the hint of playful sarcasm again. Of life.
“My backup plan was to pick the lock,” he teases, then winks slyly. “Thanks for opening the door. I didn’t want to resort to criminal activity unless I had to.”
Lisbon migrates back towards her living room, where her purse sits waiting on the coffee table. “Yeah, well,” she says, looking back at him over her shoulder, “today you’d have gotten away with it. Every cop in Sacramento is already busy.”
“Lisbon,” Jane breathes, taking quick, deliberate steps until he stands behind her. “He wouldn’t want you to be like this.”
“I know.”
There are still unshed tears in her eyes, but she refuses to cry. She knows that if she starts, she won’t be able to stop, and she needs to maintain her composure as best she can. In the absolute silence that fills her apartment, she can hear each breath they take. In and out, in and out. Taunting her.
“If he’d had his way,” she says finally, “he’d be buried on the golf course.”
Jane laughs quietly. “Retirement treated him well.”
“It did.” She nods in agreement. Growing serious again, she adds, “I miss him.”
Her whispered confession echoes off the walls and rings in her ears; the phantom sounds occupying her attention so that she does not realize when he leans in closer.
“I know you do.” His words ghost across her ear, and he kisses her gently on the cheek, a reassurance. “Minelli loved you, Lisbon.”
“I loved him, too.” She sighs again, wishing she’d had the strength to tell her former boss how much he meant to her while he was still alive.
Jane’s hand lingers against the small of her back. “Come on,” he urges gently. “We’d better go.”
“Okay,” she agrees.
It is rare for them to be this close, even in the worst of circumstances, both wanting to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But when she looks up and him and turns around, there is trust in her eyes, and weakness, something she’s never let him see before. A hint of a smile plays at her lips and she stands on her toes, returning his earlier gesture by grazing the corner of his lips quickly before whispering in his ear.
“But I’m driving.”
He laughs in spite of himself, and follows her out the door.
iii.
Contrary to popular belief, Lisbon doesn’t hate Christmas.
She actually enjoys the holidays. Maybe she doesn’t always spend time with family and maybe she doesn’t always have time to put up a tree, but she celebrates in her own way, on her own time.
This year, Van Pelt is hosting a holiday party. It falls on the Friday night before Christmas, and it’s already in full swing by the time Lisbon arrives. She quickly scans the room, noticing several women from yoga class, a few familiar faces from CBI, and of course, Cho and Elise standing together with Rigsby while the latter sends soulful looks in Van Pelt’s direction.
Lisbon begins to wonder if the Citroën she saw parked outside was just an illusion when its owner sneaks up behind her, taking her by surprise.
“Be careful with the eggnog, dear,” he announces, something almost melodic in his warning tone. “Rigsby’s already spiked it.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Her laughter fills his ears, bright and warm as it mixes with the soft music and cheery lighting from the holiday decorations in Van Pelt’s living room.
“This is some party,” she remarks, her eyes scanning the room once more. “Better turnout than at the mandatory CBI holiday luncheon. I barely recognize anyone here.”
“Well, our Van Pelt is quite the social butterfly,” Jane says with a wink.
The two settle into easy conversation, comfortable together while everyone else socializes happily around them. Several acquaintances from yoga or coworkers from CBI stop by for a few minutes, but for the most part, they are left alone. It’s Van Pelt who is the first of their team to notice them, almost half an hour after Lisbon’s arrival.
“Hey boss, Jane,” Van Pelt calls out from her position by the dessert tray. “Having a good time?”
Lisbon wonders why the entire room suddenly falls silent, all eyes in her direction. Then, she follows everyone else’s line of sight, and she realizes exactly why.
Mistletoe.
Oh, she’s putting Van Pelt on stakeout duty for a month.
Jane too, from the way he’s looking at her. Like he’s enjoying every minute of this at her expense.
“It’s tradition, Lisbon.” Jane says, grinning down at her. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint Van Pelt’s guests now, would we?”
“Speak for yourself,” she mutters back.
Jane teases her by drawing out the moment, snaking one hand around her hip and leaning forward. His breath is warm against her face, and she feels her heart flutter involuntarily.
“Hush, woman,” he whispers, and then he kisses her.
He is gentle, unassuming, applying slow, steady pressure against her lips. She responds in turn, fumbling with her hands until they rest against his chest. Her eyes close, and before she registers this, he is pulling away again.
Her eyes open just in time to see a hint of remorse in his expression, of reluctance. Her hands fall down at her sides once more, and she steps back, not quite trusting her own reactions.
“So.” Jane’s voice is low and throaty amidst a roomful of whistles and catcalls. “Disappointed?”
Lisbon feels her cheeks rouge, warmth flooding over every one of her senses, and she wonders if he’s referring to their audience, or herself.
“You should wear red more often,” he continues, and she only blushes harder. “The sweater, I mean. You look lovely tonight.”
Flustered and well aware that everyone else in the room is still staring in their direction, she resorts to the only thing that comes to mind.
“Bite me,” she retorts.
He answers back, prepared, with a simple, “Later.”
Elsewhere, Van Pelt asks Rigsby to send her a copy of the pictures.
iv.
They arrest their suspect at 6:00 on a Thursday night. An hour later, Lisbon and Jane are drinking whiskey from plastic cups. Alone in the attic while the rest of the team has gone home.
Tonight there is no closed case celebration.
It is the first time Jane invites her to his sanctuary, instead of waiting for her to come to him. They sit silent and cross-legged, side by side on the floor, opting to forgo the uncomfortable wooden chairs he’s dragged up to the window. She’s busy blaming herself, and he’s just wondering where it all went wrong.
She’s on her third drink (he’s set a slower pace, just finishing off his first) when she finally speaks.
“I keep replaying it in my head,” she mumbles quietly, berating herself over the top of her cup. “The interview; how we didn’t see it. He was sitting right in front of us, and we let him go.”
Jane swallows hard and refills his own cup. Setting the bottle down on the floor beside him, he stretches his legs out and looks away. “Even I didn’t see it, Lisbon. You can’t blame yourself.”
“I can’t count on you to read people for me,” she argues. Her words are just beginning to slur, the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach finally starting to take hold. “It’s my responsibility to make the calls, Jane. I’m the reason he had a chance to kill both sisters.”
He frowns when he sees the unfiltered guilt and despair in her eyes. This is one of those days where catching the bad guy isn’t enough.
“He didn’t act like a killer,” he persists, reaching across his body to pass her the bottle. She refills quickly, her body language loosening with each minute that passes. He continues, but he isn’t sure whom he’s trying to convince. “He had no tells, nothing to show that he was lying. There wasn’t even any evidence.”
“That doesn’t help the Chaslers any, does it? They still have to bury both of their daughters,” she remarks bitterly. This time when she downs the rest of her drink, she sets the empty cup beside her and looks up at him with sad eyes. “It’s funny how life is a matter of minutes sometimes. If we figured things out just a little bit sooner, Allison would still be alive.”
“Hey...” Jane reaches out to touch her arm, reassuring her the only way he thinks she will allow, only to realize that for once, he has no idea what to say. Instead, he moves his hand from her arm, reaching over her to retrieve the bottle.
With his defenses already faltering due to his inability to provide true reassurance or absolution when she needs it most, Jane is completely taken aback when Lisbon pushes the bottle out of his hand and kisses him square on the mouth.
She tastes of whiskey but smells, as always, almost exclusively of cinnamon, and he allows that inherently intoxicating combination to take over when her tongue presses urgently into his mouth. Primal instincts, ones he thought he locked away a long time ago, take over, and he lifts her onto his lap. With one hand, he keeps the base of her head in place, and with the other, he begins to trace the outline of her rib cage through her shirt.
She whimpers when Jane withdraws his lips to trail kisses along her jaw line, down the column of her neck. He catalogues each one of her reactions in the base of his memory, both the immediate and the more gradual. The gentle reverberations of her body against his when he pulls her in closer and abandons her neck in favor of the softness of her lips, the sudden intake of breath when he unexpectedly traces the underside of her breast.
With reality temporarily suspended, Lisbon engulfs his senses and overtakes his mind. The taste of her is heady, addictive, and when her hands reach clumsily for the buttons on his vest, he wants nothing more than to give in. But then she murmurs his name from somewhere deep in her throat, and reality comes crashing back down with an alarming jolt.
She looks at him with part hurt and confusion, alcohol distorting her usually clear green eyes, and it takes the last bit of his resolve to lift her out of his lap and settle her at a safe distance.
“We can’t do this,” he says. “You deserve better, and you’ll never forgive me if we do.” When she offers to response in either acceptance or rebuttal, he continues, “You’re in no shape to drive, but if you give me a few minutes, I’ll be sober enough to take you home.”
Jane releases an exaggerated groan as he lifts himself to his feet, leaving her alone to compose herself while he returns to the Serious Crimes floor to collect her things, lock her office door, and get them both some water.
Back in the attic, he helps Lisbon stand, supporting her with one arm and leading her down to the parking lot. She offers no resistance at the sight of his vehicle, and within a few minutes of setting off down the dimly-lit streets, he realizes that she has fallen fast asleep.
Upon arriving at her apartment, he is able to rouse her just enough for her to get inside the front door on her own two feet. He insists that she eat something, but all she can manage is toast before slowly climbing up the stairs and disappearing into her bedroom.
Jane considers leaving a note and disappearing into the night, but when he considers his options -- his dreary motel room, the couch in the bullpen, or worse: the lonely attic without her -- the decision is far too easy. He rummages through her linen closet and retrieves a light blanket and spare pillow. Then he settles in on her living room sofa, oddly content in spite of all that has occurred that night.
He is still there when she wakes up the next morning.
v.
In the end, there is only one way it could actually happen.
Red John dies, but it’s Rigsby who kills him, three shots to the chest when he tries to get away. The coroner hauls the body bag into the van; there will be no trial.
There’s nothing left to do but heal.
Jane comes back to work on a rainy day in April. He arrives in Lisbon’s office soaking wet, but surprisingly composed, calm. She looks up from her paperwork and requests, matter-of-factly, that he find some dry clothes; after all, they have a suspect coming in any minute.
Translucent as she ever was, she does not fool him. When he looks back, she is smiling.
Spring slowly becomes summer, and summer gives way to fall. The foundation of a more traditional friendship gradually begins to form. Without the threat of someone tracking his (and consequently her) every move, Jane takes her out as often as she will allow it. Together they see Shakespeare in the park, mock B-list police movies from the last row in the theater, and frequent some of the restaurants she’d never visit on her own.
They’re closer at work too; he spends more time in her office than in his familiar perch on the couch in the bullpen, while she’s taken to leaving a little earlier in an effort to prevent him from spending too many nights at the office. If the rest of the team notices the change, they do not say anything.
(It’s almost as if they’ve been expecting it.)
One Saturday in October, Jane stops by her apartment to pick her up for dinner just as the sun is setting, and he cannot suppress the thought that this evening, somehow, is different. Yet she opens the door in dark jeans and a light blue blouse, as always a contrast to his expensive gray suit, and he finds that different is really only normal. It’s been coming on so slowly that he did not even notice.
Lisbon tells him she just has to grab her purse and she’ll only be a minute, but he follows her inside anyway. When she sees him behind her, she quirks an eyebrow and turns her head, causing her hair to tumble against her shoulders.
Through the expression on her face, she raises the unspoken question, and he does not hesitate to answer.
Jane leans forward first, but she follows his lead, for once willing to relinquish control, and they kiss for the first time.
Lisbon is sweet and undemanding, her lips gentle against his. Her eyes close and her hands find their way to the base of his neck, and he feels affection surge within him, stronger than ever before. He cradles her face in his palm, all warmth and closeness amidst years of waiting, and he holds her as she sighs against him, until enough time has passed that they are forced to pull apart.
There is no urgency as he takes in the sight of her, and when her eyes flutter open, wider and brighter than he’s ever seen before, he realizes that she has always been the answer. Even before he knew there was a question left to ask.
“So, dinner,” he says finally, studying the curve of her smile, the hint of a laugh at the corner of her eyes. “Are you ready?”
As they fall into step together, a careful pattern they’ve perfected only after years of practice, he hears her soft, assured reply.
“I’m right behind you.”
xxxxx
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Not it.
Spoilers: Small reference to something from 3x01. If you’ve seen that, then you’re set.
Summary: Sometimes the first step is the hardest part. Or, four times they could have kissed, and the one time they actually did.
Author’s Note: This is an (extremely) belated birthday gift for my favorite hopeless romantic, chizuru-chibi. She routinely requests that I write more seduction and/or more romance, so I decided a while ago to abandon my original plans for her birthday gift and write this instead, which is part of the reason why this is over a month late. I suppose I did well to finish this in six weeks given my usual writing pace! ;) Thanks to yaba324 for betaing. Title is from Sara Bareilles’ Send Me The Moon, originally suggested by tidbit2008 in a brainstorming session for another fic she was writing.
Anyway, I had a blast writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it half as much as I did. And happy belated birthday, Chibs.
PS: Somewhat random ficmix is here for anyone who is interested.
xxxxx
like a wall of stars
we are ripe to fall
--M83
xxxxx
i.
It was all Jane’s fault. The man refused to follow simple instructions if his life depended on it.
And this time, it had.
He could not even behave himself on a simple ransom drop, and so Lisbon had been forced to step in. Again.
It is just before eight o’clock on a Tuesday night when it happens, and they are on the wrong side of town. They have done more than their fair share of ransom drops in the past, but Jane is feeling particularly contrary tonight. He’s also incredibly distracted from the moment she arrives, head held high, wearing street clothes.
He whistles, taking notice immediately.
“I didn’t know you owned one of those, Agent Lisbon.”
“Oh, hush. It’s just a skirt, Jane.”
She rolls her eyes, taps one foot impatiently, trying to brush off his comment. She isn’t entirely comfortable on the job in her present attire, and he isn’t sure he wants to know where she’s hidden her weapon. Confirming that the rest of the team is in position, she turns back to him and quirks an eyebrow.
“You know, it wouldn’t have killed you to put on a pair of jeans for this.”
Jane shrugs. Aside from discarding his jacket, he’s sporting the same suit he wore all day. “I don’t own a pair of jeans.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” she mutters quietly in response. “Just try to blend in for a change, would you?”
“You’re acting like I’m going to get into trouble,” Jane scoffs, feigning offense.
Lisbon raises an eyebrow in response, then checks her watch. Less than two minutes until the drop.
That is, of course, when Jane decides to go investigate. He slips around the corner into the darkened alleyway before she has the chance to stop him.
She glances back down at her watch. One minute before the scheduled drop. Sighing, she strides quickly to catch up to him, and when she does, her words slur together; one long, angry hiss as she grabs his shoulder.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?”
Jane does not look up, focused on whatever he is searching for at the back corner of the alley. Her relief that he hasn’t camped himself out at the dumpster that is the designated drop point is only minimal. Not when they have less than thirty seconds now and there is no way out at the back of the alley. A fact that Jane himself now remarks on.
“Of course there isn’t,” she snaps, her voice rising just above a whisper but still as brusque as ever. “If you had paid attention when I briefed the team, you’d know that!”
“Well, I --” he begins. The sound of footsteps, loud and heavy, echoes around them, inching closer. They are no longer alone.
Jane’s face freezes in momentary panic; he had not planned for this. Lisbon knows they only have a few more seconds. Surely in this dark corner, if they appear occupied, no one would think twice. So she does the only thing that comes to mind.
She grabs him by his shirt collar and throws him back against the wall. The panic on his face gives way to shock and confusion, but there’s only one other reason they could be back here, so she tugs on his shoulders, stands as tall as she can in her heels, and kisses him.
At first, it’s light contact at the side of his lips; from this distance, she’s hoping that will be enough. But suddenly, there’s the unexpected feel of their bodies pressed together, when his arms snake around her waist to complete the illusion. She tries to steady her breathing, tries desperately not to give herself away.
Then one of them (really, it could be either one) shifts, and the illusion vanishes completely with this simple movement.
His lips are warm but rough against hers, eager. When his hands inch down her waist to pull her in closer, she welcomes it rather than fights it; practically pliant in his arms. (No longer the other way around.)
Her own hands fall at the nape of his neck as his tongue pries her lips open, demanding. But she gives as good as she gets, her lips migrating from neck to collarbone; nipping lightly, then applying more pressure. She knows she’s on the right track by the low growl he emits; she grins against him at the sound of it.
Abandoned and forgotten in the corner, they are so distracted by each other that it takes the unpleasant screeching of tires against pavement to rip them back to reality.
Lisbon jumps back hastily, her hands tugging fruitlessly at her skirt as she watches a second car go by with Rigsby at the wheel, tailing their suspect according to plan. She is infinitely grateful for the dim lighting now; no match for her heavy breath, but easily concealing the flush of her cheeks.
Jane’s own impeccable posture slumps against the brick wall, and she revels in the sight of him, panting and speechless in the shadows.
“Right. Back to work.” Her voice is lower than usual, dulcet tones in the crisp night air. Then it grows more sarcastic, bossy, in a way that reaches the last level of his resolve. “Why don’t you stay here, Jane. I think you’ve caused more than enough trouble for one night.”
When she walks away, her hips swing just a little, and his eyes follow her with a dangerous ferocity. One last thought passes through his mind before he surrenders to pursuit.
Oh, he’ll give her trouble alright.
ii.
When the doorbell buzzes, the sound unpleasant and shrill as it reaches her ears, Lisbon steals one last look in the mirror. She’s wearing black from head to toe. Her face tight and drawn, she is in mourning.
She has always hated funerals.
First her mother, then her father. Interspersed, all four grandparents, one by one. Finally, Sam Bosco, with his final words weighing against her chest as she eyed Mandy from several pews away.
Her feet are heavy as she trudges down the steps and toward her front door, opening it with unsteady hands.
“Jane?”
“Hey, Lisbon,” he says, waiting for her to step aside and let him in.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her back is to him as she shuts the door.
“I thought you could use a ride to the service,” he answers. He pauses for a beat, offering a wry smile, and adds, “I figured if I called, you’d say no.”
“So you just came over unannounced?” Her voice, while still subdued, holds the hint of playful sarcasm again. Of life.
“My backup plan was to pick the lock,” he teases, then winks slyly. “Thanks for opening the door. I didn’t want to resort to criminal activity unless I had to.”
Lisbon migrates back towards her living room, where her purse sits waiting on the coffee table. “Yeah, well,” she says, looking back at him over her shoulder, “today you’d have gotten away with it. Every cop in Sacramento is already busy.”
“Lisbon,” Jane breathes, taking quick, deliberate steps until he stands behind her. “He wouldn’t want you to be like this.”
“I know.”
There are still unshed tears in her eyes, but she refuses to cry. She knows that if she starts, she won’t be able to stop, and she needs to maintain her composure as best she can. In the absolute silence that fills her apartment, she can hear each breath they take. In and out, in and out. Taunting her.
“If he’d had his way,” she says finally, “he’d be buried on the golf course.”
Jane laughs quietly. “Retirement treated him well.”
“It did.” She nods in agreement. Growing serious again, she adds, “I miss him.”
Her whispered confession echoes off the walls and rings in her ears; the phantom sounds occupying her attention so that she does not realize when he leans in closer.
“I know you do.” His words ghost across her ear, and he kisses her gently on the cheek, a reassurance. “Minelli loved you, Lisbon.”
“I loved him, too.” She sighs again, wishing she’d had the strength to tell her former boss how much he meant to her while he was still alive.
Jane’s hand lingers against the small of her back. “Come on,” he urges gently. “We’d better go.”
“Okay,” she agrees.
It is rare for them to be this close, even in the worst of circumstances, both wanting to maintain some semblance of professionalism. But when she looks up and him and turns around, there is trust in her eyes, and weakness, something she’s never let him see before. A hint of a smile plays at her lips and she stands on her toes, returning his earlier gesture by grazing the corner of his lips quickly before whispering in his ear.
“But I’m driving.”
He laughs in spite of himself, and follows her out the door.
iii.
Contrary to popular belief, Lisbon doesn’t hate Christmas.
She actually enjoys the holidays. Maybe she doesn’t always spend time with family and maybe she doesn’t always have time to put up a tree, but she celebrates in her own way, on her own time.
This year, Van Pelt is hosting a holiday party. It falls on the Friday night before Christmas, and it’s already in full swing by the time Lisbon arrives. She quickly scans the room, noticing several women from yoga class, a few familiar faces from CBI, and of course, Cho and Elise standing together with Rigsby while the latter sends soulful looks in Van Pelt’s direction.
Lisbon begins to wonder if the Citroën she saw parked outside was just an illusion when its owner sneaks up behind her, taking her by surprise.
“Be careful with the eggnog, dear,” he announces, something almost melodic in his warning tone. “Rigsby’s already spiked it.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Her laughter fills his ears, bright and warm as it mixes with the soft music and cheery lighting from the holiday decorations in Van Pelt’s living room.
“This is some party,” she remarks, her eyes scanning the room once more. “Better turnout than at the mandatory CBI holiday luncheon. I barely recognize anyone here.”
“Well, our Van Pelt is quite the social butterfly,” Jane says with a wink.
The two settle into easy conversation, comfortable together while everyone else socializes happily around them. Several acquaintances from yoga or coworkers from CBI stop by for a few minutes, but for the most part, they are left alone. It’s Van Pelt who is the first of their team to notice them, almost half an hour after Lisbon’s arrival.
“Hey boss, Jane,” Van Pelt calls out from her position by the dessert tray. “Having a good time?”
Lisbon wonders why the entire room suddenly falls silent, all eyes in her direction. Then, she follows everyone else’s line of sight, and she realizes exactly why.
Mistletoe.
Oh, she’s putting Van Pelt on stakeout duty for a month.
Jane too, from the way he’s looking at her. Like he’s enjoying every minute of this at her expense.
“It’s tradition, Lisbon.” Jane says, grinning down at her. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint Van Pelt’s guests now, would we?”
“Speak for yourself,” she mutters back.
Jane teases her by drawing out the moment, snaking one hand around her hip and leaning forward. His breath is warm against her face, and she feels her heart flutter involuntarily.
“Hush, woman,” he whispers, and then he kisses her.
He is gentle, unassuming, applying slow, steady pressure against her lips. She responds in turn, fumbling with her hands until they rest against his chest. Her eyes close, and before she registers this, he is pulling away again.
Her eyes open just in time to see a hint of remorse in his expression, of reluctance. Her hands fall down at her sides once more, and she steps back, not quite trusting her own reactions.
“So.” Jane’s voice is low and throaty amidst a roomful of whistles and catcalls. “Disappointed?”
Lisbon feels her cheeks rouge, warmth flooding over every one of her senses, and she wonders if he’s referring to their audience, or herself.
“You should wear red more often,” he continues, and she only blushes harder. “The sweater, I mean. You look lovely tonight.”
Flustered and well aware that everyone else in the room is still staring in their direction, she resorts to the only thing that comes to mind.
“Bite me,” she retorts.
He answers back, prepared, with a simple, “Later.”
Elsewhere, Van Pelt asks Rigsby to send her a copy of the pictures.
iv.
They arrest their suspect at 6:00 on a Thursday night. An hour later, Lisbon and Jane are drinking whiskey from plastic cups. Alone in the attic while the rest of the team has gone home.
Tonight there is no closed case celebration.
It is the first time Jane invites her to his sanctuary, instead of waiting for her to come to him. They sit silent and cross-legged, side by side on the floor, opting to forgo the uncomfortable wooden chairs he’s dragged up to the window. She’s busy blaming herself, and he’s just wondering where it all went wrong.
She’s on her third drink (he’s set a slower pace, just finishing off his first) when she finally speaks.
“I keep replaying it in my head,” she mumbles quietly, berating herself over the top of her cup. “The interview; how we didn’t see it. He was sitting right in front of us, and we let him go.”
Jane swallows hard and refills his own cup. Setting the bottle down on the floor beside him, he stretches his legs out and looks away. “Even I didn’t see it, Lisbon. You can’t blame yourself.”
“I can’t count on you to read people for me,” she argues. Her words are just beginning to slur, the effects of alcohol on an empty stomach finally starting to take hold. “It’s my responsibility to make the calls, Jane. I’m the reason he had a chance to kill both sisters.”
He frowns when he sees the unfiltered guilt and despair in her eyes. This is one of those days where catching the bad guy isn’t enough.
“He didn’t act like a killer,” he persists, reaching across his body to pass her the bottle. She refills quickly, her body language loosening with each minute that passes. He continues, but he isn’t sure whom he’s trying to convince. “He had no tells, nothing to show that he was lying. There wasn’t even any evidence.”
“That doesn’t help the Chaslers any, does it? They still have to bury both of their daughters,” she remarks bitterly. This time when she downs the rest of her drink, she sets the empty cup beside her and looks up at him with sad eyes. “It’s funny how life is a matter of minutes sometimes. If we figured things out just a little bit sooner, Allison would still be alive.”
“Hey...” Jane reaches out to touch her arm, reassuring her the only way he thinks she will allow, only to realize that for once, he has no idea what to say. Instead, he moves his hand from her arm, reaching over her to retrieve the bottle.
With his defenses already faltering due to his inability to provide true reassurance or absolution when she needs it most, Jane is completely taken aback when Lisbon pushes the bottle out of his hand and kisses him square on the mouth.
She tastes of whiskey but smells, as always, almost exclusively of cinnamon, and he allows that inherently intoxicating combination to take over when her tongue presses urgently into his mouth. Primal instincts, ones he thought he locked away a long time ago, take over, and he lifts her onto his lap. With one hand, he keeps the base of her head in place, and with the other, he begins to trace the outline of her rib cage through her shirt.
She whimpers when Jane withdraws his lips to trail kisses along her jaw line, down the column of her neck. He catalogues each one of her reactions in the base of his memory, both the immediate and the more gradual. The gentle reverberations of her body against his when he pulls her in closer and abandons her neck in favor of the softness of her lips, the sudden intake of breath when he unexpectedly traces the underside of her breast.
With reality temporarily suspended, Lisbon engulfs his senses and overtakes his mind. The taste of her is heady, addictive, and when her hands reach clumsily for the buttons on his vest, he wants nothing more than to give in. But then she murmurs his name from somewhere deep in her throat, and reality comes crashing back down with an alarming jolt.
She looks at him with part hurt and confusion, alcohol distorting her usually clear green eyes, and it takes the last bit of his resolve to lift her out of his lap and settle her at a safe distance.
“We can’t do this,” he says. “You deserve better, and you’ll never forgive me if we do.” When she offers to response in either acceptance or rebuttal, he continues, “You’re in no shape to drive, but if you give me a few minutes, I’ll be sober enough to take you home.”
Jane releases an exaggerated groan as he lifts himself to his feet, leaving her alone to compose herself while he returns to the Serious Crimes floor to collect her things, lock her office door, and get them both some water.
Back in the attic, he helps Lisbon stand, supporting her with one arm and leading her down to the parking lot. She offers no resistance at the sight of his vehicle, and within a few minutes of setting off down the dimly-lit streets, he realizes that she has fallen fast asleep.
Upon arriving at her apartment, he is able to rouse her just enough for her to get inside the front door on her own two feet. He insists that she eat something, but all she can manage is toast before slowly climbing up the stairs and disappearing into her bedroom.
Jane considers leaving a note and disappearing into the night, but when he considers his options -- his dreary motel room, the couch in the bullpen, or worse: the lonely attic without her -- the decision is far too easy. He rummages through her linen closet and retrieves a light blanket and spare pillow. Then he settles in on her living room sofa, oddly content in spite of all that has occurred that night.
He is still there when she wakes up the next morning.
v.
In the end, there is only one way it could actually happen.
Red John dies, but it’s Rigsby who kills him, three shots to the chest when he tries to get away. The coroner hauls the body bag into the van; there will be no trial.
There’s nothing left to do but heal.
Jane comes back to work on a rainy day in April. He arrives in Lisbon’s office soaking wet, but surprisingly composed, calm. She looks up from her paperwork and requests, matter-of-factly, that he find some dry clothes; after all, they have a suspect coming in any minute.
Translucent as she ever was, she does not fool him. When he looks back, she is smiling.
Spring slowly becomes summer, and summer gives way to fall. The foundation of a more traditional friendship gradually begins to form. Without the threat of someone tracking his (and consequently her) every move, Jane takes her out as often as she will allow it. Together they see Shakespeare in the park, mock B-list police movies from the last row in the theater, and frequent some of the restaurants she’d never visit on her own.
They’re closer at work too; he spends more time in her office than in his familiar perch on the couch in the bullpen, while she’s taken to leaving a little earlier in an effort to prevent him from spending too many nights at the office. If the rest of the team notices the change, they do not say anything.
(It’s almost as if they’ve been expecting it.)
One Saturday in October, Jane stops by her apartment to pick her up for dinner just as the sun is setting, and he cannot suppress the thought that this evening, somehow, is different. Yet she opens the door in dark jeans and a light blue blouse, as always a contrast to his expensive gray suit, and he finds that different is really only normal. It’s been coming on so slowly that he did not even notice.
Lisbon tells him she just has to grab her purse and she’ll only be a minute, but he follows her inside anyway. When she sees him behind her, she quirks an eyebrow and turns her head, causing her hair to tumble against her shoulders.
Through the expression on her face, she raises the unspoken question, and he does not hesitate to answer.
Jane leans forward first, but she follows his lead, for once willing to relinquish control, and they kiss for the first time.
Lisbon is sweet and undemanding, her lips gentle against his. Her eyes close and her hands find their way to the base of his neck, and he feels affection surge within him, stronger than ever before. He cradles her face in his palm, all warmth and closeness amidst years of waiting, and he holds her as she sighs against him, until enough time has passed that they are forced to pull apart.
There is no urgency as he takes in the sight of her, and when her eyes flutter open, wider and brighter than he’s ever seen before, he realizes that she has always been the answer. Even before he knew there was a question left to ask.
“So, dinner,” he says finally, studying the curve of her smile, the hint of a laugh at the corner of her eyes. “Are you ready?”
As they fall into step together, a careful pattern they’ve perfected only after years of practice, he hears her soft, assured reply.
“I’m right behind you.”
xxxxx