how swiftly we choose it
Title: how swiftly we choose it
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Yeah, right.
Category: Lisbon, Jane/Lisbon
Spoilers: Small mention of 2x15, but mostly through 2x08.
Summary: She never says ‘I told you so.’ (It’s always next time.)
Author’s Note: I started this almost two months ago now, and when I started it, I had every intention of finishing it before mid-March. Obviously, that did not happen because, as it turns out, this fic had a mind of its own. Huge thanks to both of my extremely patient and thorough betas, boutondor and tidbit2008. And to Yana, for some serious virtual hand holding.
xxx
strange how certain the journey
time unfolds the petals for our eyes to see
strange how this journey’s hurting
in ways we accept as part of fate’s decree
-Vienna Teng, “Eric’s Song”
xxx
She sees him once, before.
It’s 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, and she sits in the diner, sandwiched between Sam Bosco and the rookie as her fork prods a particularly interesting piece of lettuce.
“Hey, Lisbon,” Bosco invades her personal space with an elbow to her ribs, and she tears her attention away from her salad. “You should pay attention to this.”
She glances up and catches sight of a television screen. Out of nowhere, he makes an entrance: flashy suit, impossibly gelled-back hair, hands gesturing dramatically. It’s an act alright, but a good one. He’s smooth.
Her eyes roll of their own volition.
“Not a great idea,” she states matter-of-factly, her cautious gaze never leaving the fuzzy picture on the television screen. “Baiting a serial killer like that.”
She leans back against the seat cushion, an introspective but comfortable silence settling in around the team until the usually quiet rookie interjects, “You don’t really think Red John is somewhere watching this, do you?”
Lisbon arches an eyebrow and cranes her neck to take a good look at the junior agent. He’s young, just three weeks out of the academy, and still incredibly naive. He’ll be officially instated in a month when she transfers to Sacramento.
“We have no way of knowing what Red John is capable of,” she explains, her tone stern even as she tries to be as patient as possible. “Red John has killed at least seven women that we know of, and the CBI is desperate enough to ask this ridiculous fraud --” she pauses just long enough to hazard another glance at the television, “-- for assistance.”
On her other side, Bosco makes no attempt to contain his amusement. “It’s a good thing you haven’t already transferred. That poor clown wouldn’t know what hit him.”
“Hey, I can control myself!” she protests, half indignant and half good-natured, turning her attention back to her salad as she attempts to stab a particularly stubborn cherry tomato.
The tomato finally surrenders and the conversation shifts, but Lisbon remains in quiet contemplation. Her thoughts linger around serial killers and her impending transfer for hours, long after they return to headquarters, until a case comes in to serve as distraction.
It’s an open and shut case with only one suspect who makes sense, but it still takes almost three days to make the arrest. Only when the team regroups in the bullpen, suspect finally booked, does she hear the news.
RED JOHN STRIKES AGAIN.
Coworkers whisper in the hallways; it runs across the bottom of her television screen; someone leaks crime scene photos on Fox news. It’s all anyone wants to talk about.
She never says a word.
---
Several years pass.
Her transfer to Sacramento completes seamlessly; she keeps her head down, works hard; her boss takes her under his wing. Her promotion comes early, but it is not entirely unexpected. She knows she’s earned it.
She thrives.
She should have been more careful.
---
Jack Morris stops her in the hallway one morning.
“Good luck,” he says, with no attempt to hide his sneer. “You’re going to need it.”
Morris is one of the last remaining members of the old boys’ club, still hasn’t forgiven her for being Minelli’s latest protégé (not that he ever got along with Minelli, anyway), and things only got worse when she took over the Red John case.
So she doesn’t think anything of it, and that’s her first mistake.
Minelli calls her up to his office later that same day.
---
“Excuse me?”
Stunned, she stares back at Minelli, rubbing her temples in shock and frustration.
“I’m assigning a consultant to your team,” Minelli repeats. “His name is Patrick Jane, and he’ll be working with you full time starting on Monday.”
Her face falls as she remembers that day in the diner and her own words, eerily clairvoyant. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says finally. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no.” His reply is quick and his eyes reassuring, but Lisbon does not take comfort. “As I’m sure you know, he’s worked with us in the past, and we’ve found him useful in closing cases.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “But he does come with baggage, and he can be, well, a handful. He wants access to the Red John case, and I only trust him with my best team. This works out well for everyone.”
Not for me, Lisbon thinks as she meets his eyes and nods, begrudging her acceptance. I’m going to regret this, she adds, although outwardly she remains silent.
But really, she has no idea.
---
Monday comes around all too soon.
She arrives early, coffee in hand, only to find her office door unlocked.
She pushes the door open, making a mental note to talk to the weekend janitor, before shedding her jacket and hanging it up carefully. It takes her several minutes, until she sits down at her desk and turns on her computer, for her to notice that she is not alone.
The man on the sofa sits up and offers what she’s sure he believes is a charming smile. She, however, is both too stunned and too irritated to be charmed, so she scowls instead.
“Agent Lisbon, I presume,” he offers, still grinning. “You must be my new boss.”
She glares at him from behind her desk, more for his safety than for hers, and replies crossly, “Not for long if I can help it, Mr. Jane.”
He stands and strides purposefully towards her desk, leaning in and encroaching on her personal space. “Not a morning person, are you?”
She’s almost too stunned to reply. He flashes another smile in her direction and, while she’s still not exactly charmed, she’s not as angry as she might have been.
“Just be glad I already put my gun away, or I would not be held responsible for my actions.” She pushes back on her desk chair, standing up to level with him. “For future reference, it’s generally considered common courtesy to knock, and breaking into your boss’s office isn’t the best way to make a first impression.” She crosses her arms over her chest protectively, nerves arising at the sudden intensity of her new consultant’s stare. Managing a half smile, she adds, “That may have worked for you as a psychic, but not here and not with me.”
“There’s no such thing as psychics.” Jane continues to smile, but his tone gives an edge of defiance.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she replies, her demeanor softening as her lips relax into a tentative smile. “I’m not the one who needs to be convinced.”
A soft knock on the door interrupts their almost truce.
Lisbon quirks an eyebrow at her consultant, as if to prove her point about breaking and entering, and calls out for the interrupter to ‘come in.’
The blinds rustle softly as the door opens and Minelli steps into the office. “Lisbon, I’m glad you’re already here --” he’s saying. He trails off, however, when he notices Jane, who has settled back on the couch. Minelli extends a hand and officially welcomes Jane to the CBI, saying, “Oh, good. I see you two have already met. I hate to interrupt, but Lisbon, do you have a minute?”
“Uh, sure.” Lisbon looks from Jane to Minelli and back again, jerking her head towards the door. “Jane, your desk is out there. Why don’t you go get settled before we get called out.”
In what will become a rare act of obedience, Jane rises from the couch and acquiesces, muttering something about desk chairs as the door swings shut behind him.
It takes Lisbon all of three weeks to move the couch out into the bullpen.
---
“Stay in the car, Jane.”
Her warning is stern and clear as she leads Cho and Rigsby to make the arrest. In an ideal world, she would have been able to leave Jane at the office, but going back to the office risks losing the suspect and that’s not a trade she’s willing to make, Jane or no Jane.
He doesn’t stay in the car.
Instead he wanders right into the chase and gets knocked down by the suspect, fleeing on foot.
She wants to admonish him, plans to, until she catches sight of him sitting on the sidewalk, face scuffed and hand bleeding. His suit, however, seems to be impossibly intact.
“Let me take a look,” she offers softly, eyeing his injured hand. She inspects the wound carefully before finally glancing at the abrasions that mar his face. “That’s going to need stitches,” she says, her voice slow and deliberate as her lips hint at sympathy.
She’s rewarded with a whimsical smile, seemingly genuine for the first time since he joined the team the week before. “You did this often with your younger brothers, didn’t you?”
Although slightly unnerved at the accuracy of his personal inquiry, she returns his smile with ease and releases a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.”
They sit side by side on the pavement, all thoughts of scolding him long since forgotten. It’s hours before she remembers her ill-heeded warning.
She never says ‘I told you so.’
---
In the three years since the murder of Jane’s wife and daughter, Red John strikes only twice. Once on the anniversary of their deaths, once on what would have been Jane’s daughter’s eighth birthday. It’s Lisbon who makes the connection, just months before Minelli officially transfers the case to her team.
One month to the day after Jane rejoins the CBI, Red John strikes again.
Welcome back, mister Jane. So glad you could join me once again.
She gags when she sees the face on the wall. The nausea does not fade.
---
Patrick Jane terrifies her.
He’s reckless and frenzied and almost unhinged from the moment they get the call. A tempest, readily prepared to destroy everything and everyone in his path. The three days it takes for the trail to run cold are the three worst of her professional career.
Her heart sinks when forensics confirms that the man she shot was, in fact, just an alcoholic in deep withdrawal and had nothing to do with Red John aside from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was nothing more than a desperate man, deep in delirium tremens; she of all people should have noticed the signs.
Not that it would have given her any options. The man still had Jane in a stranglehold, and she was the only one with a clean shot.
Which only leads her back to Jane and her current situation.
She retreats into the safety of her office until long after the rest of the team calls it quits for the day, rerunning the previous seventy-two hours in her mind on an endless loop. When she finally emerges, she realizes she isn’t the only one who remains.
“Jane?”
He swings his legs around to sit up, still hidden by shadows in the darkness of the bullpen, and she lowers herself, cautiously, beside him. The moonlight catches on his wedding band.
The shimmer, it’s blinding.
“Next time,” she exhales. “Next time.”
It’s his turn to be skeptical.
---
She doesn’t believe her own words, either.
---
He never asks about the cross she wears around her neck, and she never offers. But she hangs back when they’re called to a hit and run that falls under jurisdiction. She holds the pendant between the pads of her thumb and index finger, as if to reassure herself that it’s still there.
His hand brushes along the small of her back.
“I know,” is all he says.
(His touch burns.)
She wonders, maybe, if he does.
---
She falls into patterns, a creature of habit.
He follows her around, wreaking havoc even where there is no havoc to be wreaked. It’s all she can do to keep up with the paper trail.
But some days, she smiles.
---
The months pass. Red John strikes again.
(The nausea still lingers.)
Jane ignores her warning, goes off on his own. He returns with his left arm in a sling.
She never says ‘I told you so.’
---
Next time, she tells herself. Next time.
---
The eldest of her brothers calls from the hospital.
“It’s a girl!” he announces, ecstatic, and she conjures up the image of his face, beaming, at different moments in his life. She wishes she could be there to see it first hand, but the nearly 3,000 miles between them prevents that. She plans for a long weekend, instead.
When the day arrives, Rigsby waves her off, sandwich in hand. Cho extends a rare smile as he congratulates her.
Jane reminds her to bring a light jacket and to take a few hours to see the cherry blossoms. “D.C. is lovely this time of year,” he whispers in her ear, leaning in a little too close for comfort. He pulls back and smiles, almost wistful.
She’s stopped asking how he knows.
---
A soft creak from the opening of her office door interrupts Lisbon’s train of thought.
She doesn’t look up from the report she’s typing; everyone else knocks.
“Yes, Jane?”
He ambles in, impish grin on his lips, and places both fists on the edge of her desk as he leans in and invades her personal space. “What time does your flight leave?” he inquires.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” she replies. Although she’s grown more accustomed to Jane’s constant prying, nerves settle in her stomach at the thought of his uncanny sixth sense uncovering her untruths. She sighs, trying to pass her anxiety off as irritation, and focuses all her energy on the soft tapping of her fingers against the keyboard. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”
“I hate to disappoint you, Lisbon, but you are my preferred target.”
He reacts quickly, but he’s in close enough range that the pen she tosses hits him square against the chest.
“Ow!” he exclaims, soothing the affected area with one hand. He’s lucky she keeps the scissors in her top drawer. “The holiday weekend will be good for you. Maybe you’ll even find yourself inspired to relax a little; I need a break from your violent tendencies.”
She laughs softly, her voice laced with sarcasm. “My violent tendencies need a break from you,” she counters. She gently squares her shoulders, trying to keep her body language as subtle as possible. When she originally lied about her Thanksgiving plans, she did it to keep Jane from continuing to pry. Naturally, he would completely subvert her intentions. “Maybe that’s what I should be thankful for, having thousands of miles between us.”
“Now that really hurts.” Even as he furrows his brows, feigning anguish, he smiles down at her.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re like an overgrown child, you know that?”
“Speaking of children, your nephew is almost four now. Isn’t he?”
“In January,” she replies, smiling softly at the thought of her brother’s children.
He returns her smile, although there is a sadness to his expression, a rare occasion where real emotion seems to break through his mask. “And your niece,” he continues, “You must be excited to see her again.”
“I am.”
He smiles again, this time with a hint less sadness, and says, “Happy Thanksgiving, Lisbon. Have a good flight.”
“You too, Jane.”
Monday morning she arrives at the office relaxed and rejuvenated to find an origami crane sitting on her computer keyboard. In her locked office, no less. Although she should take it as a sign, she doesn’t realize how easily he saw through her lies until he confesses a year later.
It takes significantly longer for her to realize that it isn’t so much that she’s a bad liar, not to the average person, it’s just Jane.
---
She keeps the origami crane.
In time, he adds to her collection.
---
Sometimes, when there’s a significant lapse between brutally slain women and red faces on the wall, she almost forgets. Almost. But then come the bodies and the blood, and the red face smiles back at her, taunting her from above.
That sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. The storm that’s all but certain.
This time she almost allows herself to hope, but Renfrew is playing Jane and Jane is playing Renfrew, and she really ought to know better. Tijuana materializes in the distance, and she grips the steering wheel that much tighter.
They arrive too late, the bloody mess in the bathtub just growing cold, to do anything but stare helplessly at the scene and gag at the taste of dry, dusty air. She files it away with the rest of the almosts and just misseds.
She lowers herself to sit down beside him on the bed, paying no attention as nameless, faceless coworkers diligently search for evidence they all know won’t be there. She breathes, in and out, because there aren’t words and, even if there were, she wouldn’t know where to begin.
It is he who finally breaks the silence, his voice dry and defeated as it cuts through the desert heat. “Well, you can say it now.”
Her refusal comes in a soft concession of a rain check they both know she’ll never use. She stretches out a hand and tries to reassure him, instead.
She never says ‘I told you so.’
(It’s always next time.)
---
The raw, angry wounds dissipate, replaced by a subtle ache that never quite heals.
A week later, she recalls Jane’s words on revenge and mutilation, a ticking time bomb, and her own inevitable dilemma. She’s almost relieved that her unavoidable fate has been placed temporarily on hold.
Almost.
---
The next lapse is only temporary. It’s two girls -- twins -- and writing in the sky.
Red John slips through their fingers yet again, but she can’t, won’t risk Jane’s life.
“I don’t think you mean what you say. I think you choose life.” Her voice breaks, heavy with the weight of responsibility and the memory of those same words that never got her father to see sense, either. “Can’t you see there are people who care about you, who need you. You’re being selfish and childish, and I want you to stop it.”
“I wish that I could but, you know, some things you just can’t fix.”
Her father never believed her, and she reluctantly concludes Jane never will either. But Hardy breaks free, and Jane saves her life.
She finds him in the Plasketts’ back yard eating an orange. He hasn’t said a word since shooting Hardy, and she approaches him cautiously. The words are there, at the tip of her tongue, but she never gets a chance to speak them.
“You don’t have to say it,” he comments, raising the orange to his lips. “I don’t choose life, but you do.”
She shifts her weight nervously and reaches out to touch his wrist, willing him to look at her. “What’s the difference?”
“Everything, Lisbon. It makes all the difference in the world.”
Unable to respond to this assertion, she shivers in the warm afternoon air and accepts the remainder of his fruit when he offers. Standing beside him in lonely silence, she resolves to be more careful in the future. Jane may not hold his own life in any regard, so she would have to do it for him.
“Revenge is for fools and mad men,” he once said. And for a minute, she had allowed herself to hope.
The problem is, though, that if revenge is for fools and mad men, Jane is both.
---
Lisbon doesn’t realize how much of herself is invested in her job until she almost loses it.
The realization comes to her as she turns over her badge and gun. She feels incomplete and empty and entirely not herself, even more so than the small tug she gets if she leaves her watch on the dresser in the morning.
It’s been a long time coming, really, the way her life has gone in the last few months. Hardy, Red John, Bosco, Red John again. Naturally, the event that throws her entire world off kilter is the one thing that blindsides her before she’s regained her footing.
She can’t remember, and that’s the underlying problem. Her father never remembered, either.
She allows Jane to hypnotize her, an act of true desperation if there ever was one, but she fails the polygraph and really has no other choice.
“I can count on you not to tell anyone about this, right?” she manages, fighting the tears that threaten. But what she really means is, “I can trust you, right? That you weren’t playing me with that trust fall.”
She recoils when he reaches for her; his touch still burns.
She banishes him as quickly as possible, but there is no solace in the hollow silence of her apartment. Her natural instinct when faced with such a personal crisis is to throw herself into her work, but with that safety net so violently torn from her, she finds herself left with nothing to keep her company except the wide black expanse of her memory. Until Jane does something she doesn’t expect.
He comes back.
---
“I know what happened.”
Not trusting herself to speak just yet, Lisbon wordlessly steps aside and allows Jane to re-enter her apartment. She leads him back to where they sat just hours earlier before she finally manages a quiet plea. “What did I do?” she implores, her heart pounding in anticipation.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” she repeats, stuttering from both relief and uncertainty. “Then why can’t I remember?”
“Because,” he begins, and even in her extreme emotional distress, Lisbon finds comfort in the familiarity of his face, his voice. “Carmen’s been putting Lorazepam in your coffee.”
She stares back at him incredulously. Honestly, she would be less surprised to find out she’d killed McTeer. “I don’t know where you think you’re going with this, Jane,” she warns, holding both arms protectively against her chest. “But that’s a leap, even for you.”
“Just hear me out.” His voice carries his usual self-assured tone, but there is a softness that soothes it slightly. She listens, anxious but attentive, as he explains how Carmen kept bringing her back, week after week refusing to sign off on her file, so he could continue to slip the drug into her coffee. “It makes sense, really. You haven’t been yourself, and it’s more than Hardy or Bosco or even me.” He pauses, eyes catching her skeptical gaze. “He would have given you a double dose on Tuesday to cause the memory loss; that’s why you don’t remember what you did Tuesday night, even under hypnosis.”
“What does that even mean? Carmen was working for the killer so that I would take the blame?”
Jane shakes his head. “Carmen is the killer. I already had Cho pull his financials; it checks out.” He leans forward and pats the cushion just next to wear she sits. “You can relax; we’re going to clear you. Oh, and Lisbon? One more thing.” He waits for her to nod her attention before he continues, “You may have had misgivings, but I never once doubted your innocence.”
“Thank you, Jane,” she replies, the constant edge in her tone finally subsiding. “But how are we going to prove it? We’re off the case.”
“Inconsequential details.” He grins conspiratorially, and she finds herself returning the gesture. “I have a plan.”
---
It’s easier than she thought it would be, letting go. Losing control.
“I act calm, but on the inside I'm so angry sometimes I think I'm going to explode.”
She isn’t sure she’s lying.
Jane knows she’s telling the truth.
---
Having Sam Bosco back in her life turns out to be trickier than she initially thinks.
“Does he mean that much to you?” he demands. “He closes cases. Is that all it is?”
She’s well aware that it isn’t, but Bosco of all people should understand that some things are better left unsaid.
If Sam and Jane don’t get this under control, she thinks, They may kill each other.
Three weeks later, Bosco is dead.
“I love you, Teresa,” he says -- before.
“It had to be said.”
At the funeral, she can’t look Amanda Bosco in the eye.
---
Sam would never tell Jane to look after her.
She doesn’t push it; she isn’t sure she wants to know.
---
Life goes on.
She doesn’t particularly like keeping the tequila in her desk drawer, but maintaining their SFPD tradition makes things seem less final, less permanent. It lessens the guilt, if only slightly.
Bosco’s gone. Minelli’s gone. Red John is gone again (but she doesn’t want him back).
She finds it harder to carry on as though nothing has changed.
---
“Talk to me.”
He takes his eyes off the road long enough for her to feel his eyes linger.
She shivers. Outside it grows dark, the sky painted bright reds and yellows as they drive back from yet another crime scene.
“Eyes on the road, or else I’m driving,” she threatens.
Sight now returned to highway before them, Jane remains undeterred. “Talk to me, Lisbon,” he repeats.
“There aren’t any good movies out right now.” She shrugs her shoulders and tugs uncomfortably at her seatbelt where the restraint rubs against her chest.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he admonishes. “Tell me what’s on your mind; you’ve been so sad lately.”
“I’m not sad,” she denies futilely.
“There’s no point in lying to me. You’ve been sad for months now, sad and guilty. You need to deal with your emotions, otherwise you’ll never be able to move on.”
Something inside her snaps, and her response is both biting and impulsive. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Well, we both know I don’t advertise myself as the poster child for emotional health, but I won’t let that happen to you.”
“You won’t, will you?” she asks, cheeky and defiant. Fidgeting in the passenger seat, she eyes Jane cautiously.
“I won’t.” He speaks without his usual bravado, replacing it instead with a calm determination that shakes her to the core. “It isn’t your fault, what happened to Bosco. You can’t blame yourself.”
She reluctantly abandons all hope of denial and, instead, shifts herself back against the window so that she’s almost facing him. “I’ve been telling you the same thing for years,” she counters. “You never listen to me, either.”
Chuckling quietly, he cranes his neck to look at her. “Saint Teresa,” he breathes before returning to face the road. “It certainly is fitting. Patron saint of lost causes.”
“Lost causes?” It’s her turn to laugh this time. “I think you mean Saint Jude.”
“Technicality,” he scoffs. “I’m still right.”
She considers this for a beat before answering softly.
“Aren’t you always?”
---
He brings her home, but he doesn’t drop her off.
The sun has long since set, and the only light illuminating her front porch comes from a few far off street lamps and the floodlight she has set on automatic timer. She shimmies her key into the lock, unlatching the door with a turn of her wrist; his hand lingers on the small of her back.
“Closed case drinks?” she offers, setting her keys down on the table by the door with a soft thud. “I don’t have much, but --” she trails off, eyes cast downward with sudden uncertainty.
“Tea is fine if you have any,” he replies with a wink.
“How do you feel about Lipton?”
He scrunches his nose in displeasure and follows her into the kitchen. “I suppose I can make do,” he answers, sighing dramatically as he busies himself in several cabinets. It’s entirely different from his usual method of investigation that she observes so routinely at crime scenes. He appears more casual, maybe even natural, without his suit jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up; he looks instead like a friend who is completely comfortable in a kitchen he knows well.
The thought doesn’t scare her as much as it would have just a year ago.
They settle in on her couch after retrieving their drinks. He leans back against a throw pillow, tea cup positioned carefully towards the edge of her coffee table; she slips off her shoes and tucks her legs underneath her, sipping quietly from the bottle of Diet Coke that’s been in her fridge so long that it’s flat.
It’s surprisingly easy, sitting in her living room with Jane, talking about everything and nothing all at once. She absent-mindedly wishes that this Jane, free of his usual mask, would make appearances more often. He’s just finished recounting his experiences working the carnie circuit in a particular town in West Virginia when she shifts suddenly, replacing the cap on her now-empty bottle.
“Flute,” she admits, exhaling quietly, her own impulsivity hanging heavy in the air between them. Bravely, she meets his steady gaze.
Patrick Jane, for once, is speechless.
She smiles almost brazenly at his lack of reaction. “Orchestra,” she continues, “not band.”
He slides over, sofa cushions shifting beneath him, before finding his voice. “You would have been first chair; you excelled at everything you did, even then.”
He reaches out, two fingers against her wrist, and she recalls the way it felt that night at the high school reunion. Just dancing, the quiet pull of normalcy.
(His touch still burns.)
She turns toward him and, though inches still form an invisible barrier, the separation is anything but solid. It’s never been this close before, she thinks, her heart pounding.
She kisses him.
It’s brief, soft, tentative. She pulls away, embarrassed, and her hands flatten an invisible crease in her slacks. I’m sorry, she means to say, but she never gets a chance.
His eyes grow dark, and he kisses her back.
What her initial kiss lacked in length and depth, his more than compensates. He leans in, pressing her against the arm rest as his teeth brush against her lower lip. She pushes back, throwing one leg over his lap, straddling him. His hands find her hips, thumbs sneaking underneath her shirt as he holds her in place. His lips migrate immediately to that spot on her neck that it usually takes months for lovers to find (and even longer to recognize); she hums her approval.
By the time they make it to her bedroom, her blouse hangs open, unbuttoned, from her elbows, and his vest sits haphazardly on her coffee table.
“Lisbon,” he murmurs, teeth tugging on her earlobe. She shudders violently in response as he backs her against the door, hands pressing into her sides, branding her.
Later, as she locks her legs around him, she thinks that this was probably inevitable.
---
When she wakes the next morning to the incessant blaring of her alarm clock, she is alone.
She isn’t all that surprised.
She rolls over and blindly reaches for her alarm clock, depressing the ‘off’ button with her index finger. She quickly showers and dresses with her usual methodical precision, doesn’t think about it as she tosses her crumpled blouse into her hamper.
She doesn’t have time for doubts, anyway.
In the kitchen, though, she finds her coffee already brewing and blueberry muffins sitting on the counter. A second mug is just visible behind her own favorite, and that’s when she notices the tea kettle on her stovetop.
“You thought I left.”
It’s a statement and not a question as she spins on her heels, startled. Jane leans against the door frame, dressed but still casual without his jacket and vest. Lisbon shrugs her shoulders, lips curling, shy and apologetic.
“There’s no need to deny it,” he smiles knowingly.
She doesn’t deny anything, instead laughs softly as she bites into a muffin. She tosses another in Jane’s direction and pretends not to notice his wedding band as sunlight invades the quiet privacy of her kitchen.
No time for doubts.
---
They don’t talk about it. Their colleagues, trained investigators and all, would not notice the difference.
He still naps at work, but can’t sleep at home; she still threatens to shoot him every time he pisses off their suspects. They don’t suddenly spend every off-duty moment together.
(It’s not that kind of fairy tale.)
She finds great comfort in that.
---
Three weeks later, everything changes.
It’s been a long time since Lisbon nearly lost it at a crime scene, since her days as a rookie inspector for the SFPD, but the second her eyes land on the taunting red face on the wall, she knows instinctively that the end is coming.
Two bodies on the floor: four year college roommates who never made it to a reception being held in their honor.
Rigsby steps cautiously behind her. “He’s changing his pattern, boss.”
She just nods, too numb to speak. Her brain and her body no longer connected.
“Lisbon!” Jane rushes to her side the second he arrives at the crime scene. “Lisbon,” more urgently now. “This was waiting on my windshield when I got in my car this morning.”
She reaches out a latex-clad hand, fingering the note carefully.
You changed the rules, mister Jane. You cannot have them both.
This is your fault. Their blood is on your hands.
She makes it back to CBI Headquarters before locking herself in the ladies’ room. She wretches once, twice into the toilet.
Your fault, your fault, your fault, echoes against the cold tile walls.
The bitter taste in her mouth, it lingers for days.
---
She pretends not to notice when he slips out of bed in the middle of the night.
Next time, she thinks. The end is coming. Next time.
The nausea is constant now.
---
Red John takes one final victim.
It is the first Friday in May, not two weeks after the college roommates, and Lisbon still dreams in red every night. She’s in court when it happens, aggravated because testifying pulled away from the team’s current case. On the courthouse steps, she traces the power button on her phone: nine missed calls, all from Cho.
Her finger hovers over speed dial for just a moment.
“Boss,” Cho gives nothing away with his usual intone, but she knows him better than that. He rattles off an address, and she sighs against the door of her car. “You need to come before the press gets wind,” he says simply. “It’s Red John; we found him.”
---
The first thing she notices when she arrives at the scene is the glaring absence of Jane’s beloved car.
She doesn’t feel any anxiety, any dread; she doesn’t feel anything at all as she parks behind the lone CSU van. It’s an ordinary suburban neighborhood just an hour outside of the city, and Cho meets her on the front steps.
He and Jane were casing the neighborhood, Cho explains, looking for anyone who may have noticed something out of the ordinary two nights prior, the night their victim first went missing. This was the final house in their designated route, and it would have ended as such: this man, like all the others, had no information pertinent to the case. But Jane had to be Jane and wandered into the man’s kitchen, and things quickly deteriorated from there.
Although Cho omits most of the details, Lisbon deduces the general chain of events enough to understand what happened. Red John is dead and Jane is gone, in that order.
The first thing her eyes focus on when she enters the house is the body, stretched horizontal on the kitchen floor. There are no wounds, no blood, no sign of struggle. Just a body, lying lifeless before her.
She leans in, balancing on one knee, and that’s when she notices the slight foaming at his mouth that she’s seen only once before. Rebecca.
“He was down before I could cuff him,” Cho remarks.
“And we’re sure --” her voice trails off, laced with uncertainty. “We’re absolutely sure that it’s him?”
“We’re sure.”
One look at Cho’s face convinces her.
Red John’s final victim was himself.
---
Jane doesn’t come back.
Rigsby and Van Pelt arrive, not long before the national media gets wind, but Jane stays away for days as they slowly, methodically uncover every last piece of evidence that remains in the house.
Friday turns into Tuesday before they find it, well concealed in the closet of the spare bedroom, the lock box that officially links this otherwise incredibly average man to every last one of Red John’s victims. Photographs and trinkets that, except for Jane’s wife and child, are all inconsequential objects that no one would have noticed missing.
She carefully slips one evidence bag into her pocket as Van Pelt leans forward, reaching back into the box.
Curiosity evident by furrowed eyebrows, Van Pelt holds up a set of well-worn rosary beads. “Which victim does this belong to, Boss?”
“That’s mine,” Lisbon inhales sharply, her voice shallow and shaky. “My mother gave it to me for my First Communion.”
Van Pelt opens her mouth to ask another question, but Lisbon doesn’t hear, instead taking the rosary from Van Pelt’s outstretched hand and fingering the beads gently. Rising to her feet, she quickly puts Cho in charge and retreats to her car. She drives for hours, unable to go home and unable to go back to work, and it isn’t until she’s parking at Crissy Field that she realizes her subconscious took her all the way to San Francisco.
She exhales, slow and heavy, as she makes her way along the beach; in her head, echoes and case files. Nineteen would be Red John’s final number.
“I was number twenty,” she murmurs quietly. “I am number twenty.”
---
She sits at the picnic tables alone until the sun sinks low in the sky, doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching her until the bench creaks beside her and Jane taps gently on her shoulder.
“Lisbon?” She turns to look at him, eyes dull and expressionless, and remains silent. Undeterred, Jane repeats, “Lisbon?”
In the days since she last saw him, she’s forgotten how unnerving it is to be the focus of Patrick Jane’s undivided attention. She shivers, looking straight out over the marina. “I forgot how cold it gets here,” she says absently.
“I thought you might have.” He flashes a small knowing smile and holds out a jacket, the spare she keeps at the office, before laying it carefully over her shoulders; his hand lingers. Sensing she still isn’t ready to talk, he continues, his voice far off and almost foreign in her stunned haze. “I went back -- to the house, but it was just the last of the CSU team closing the place down. You weren’t at home, so I stopped by the office. Obviously, you weren’t there either. I considered where you might have gone, and I came out looking for you.”
“Was this the first place on your list?” Her mouth curls ever so slightly before her gaze fixes on a knot in the wood of the picnic table; her voice sounds foreign as it leaves her lips.
“The second. You mentioned once that you used to come here for department picnics when you lived in San Francisco, so I took a chance.” He leans forward and gently tugs at the sleeve of her jacket, forcing her attention. “Lisbon,” he implores softly, “Van Pelt told me what happened. I’m sorry.”
She tries to speak, but the sound catches in her throat. She coughs before managing, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I have everything to be sorry for. If we hadn’t found him --”
She releases a quick breath and clasps her hands together, pushing thoughts of what could have been as far from her consciousness as possible. “It’s over now.”
He simply nods in reply, and they sit together in silence as the sun sinks lower and lower on the horizon. “I had a clear shot,” he admits quietly. “When I realized it was him. But I hesitated, and before Cho could cuff him, he went down.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.” It’s her turn to reach out and gently touch his forearm as she replies. “But I’m also not sorry it wasn’t at your hands.”
“I know you aren’t,” he offers, but the look of sadness that tinges his face reminds her that he still is.
Instead of responding to this, she reaches into her pocket and retrieves the evidence bag. “I have something for you,” she carefully extends her hand, placing the bag carefully in Jane’s outstretched palm. “Since there won’t be a trial, I thought you would want these back sooner rather than later.”
She watches in fascination as Jane fumbles with the plastic before finally holding the cool metal of his wife’s wedding rings and his daughter’s charm bracelet in his hands. He handles each item with a soft reverence that both warms her heart and causes it to ache.
He does not cry, but when he extends a hushed ‘thank you’ she notices the dry tracks of unshed tears.
“He took something from everyone,” Jane says finally, placing the jewelry back in the bag before slipping it inside his jacket. “But never something obvious, something that would be noticed. Except --”
“Your wife and daughter,” she finishes.
“And you.” He holds her gaze, steady and certain, as he offers his correction.
In the deep silence that follows, he reaches for her hand and interlaces their fingers. The ache that settles in her chest is becoming familiar now.
“You don’t have to be alone,” he says finally. Though he watches the last remaining boats on the marina instead, his grip on her hand tightens, and after all this time, he doesn’t have to see her to see her.
She runs the pad of her thumb along the crevice where their hands join. “I know,” she breathes in response.
As the last vestiges of sunlight disappear on the horizon, she considers how impossible this all seems. She understands alone better than anyone, but together no longer seems so out of reach.
She thinks she’d like the chance to find out.
xxx
fin
xxx
Rating: T
Disclaimer: Yeah, right.
Category: Lisbon, Jane/Lisbon
Spoilers: Small mention of 2x15, but mostly through 2x08.
Summary: She never says ‘I told you so.’ (It’s always next time.)
Author’s Note: I started this almost two months ago now, and when I started it, I had every intention of finishing it before mid-March. Obviously, that did not happen because, as it turns out, this fic had a mind of its own. Huge thanks to both of my extremely patient and thorough betas, boutondor and tidbit2008. And to Yana, for some serious virtual hand holding.
xxx
strange how certain the journey
time unfolds the petals for our eyes to see
strange how this journey’s hurting
in ways we accept as part of fate’s decree
-Vienna Teng, “Eric’s Song”
xxx
She sees him once, before.
It’s 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon, and she sits in the diner, sandwiched between Sam Bosco and the rookie as her fork prods a particularly interesting piece of lettuce.
“Hey, Lisbon,” Bosco invades her personal space with an elbow to her ribs, and she tears her attention away from her salad. “You should pay attention to this.”
She glances up and catches sight of a television screen. Out of nowhere, he makes an entrance: flashy suit, impossibly gelled-back hair, hands gesturing dramatically. It’s an act alright, but a good one. He’s smooth.
Her eyes roll of their own volition.
“Not a great idea,” she states matter-of-factly, her cautious gaze never leaving the fuzzy picture on the television screen. “Baiting a serial killer like that.”
She leans back against the seat cushion, an introspective but comfortable silence settling in around the team until the usually quiet rookie interjects, “You don’t really think Red John is somewhere watching this, do you?”
Lisbon arches an eyebrow and cranes her neck to take a good look at the junior agent. He’s young, just three weeks out of the academy, and still incredibly naive. He’ll be officially instated in a month when she transfers to Sacramento.
“We have no way of knowing what Red John is capable of,” she explains, her tone stern even as she tries to be as patient as possible. “Red John has killed at least seven women that we know of, and the CBI is desperate enough to ask this ridiculous fraud --” she pauses just long enough to hazard another glance at the television, “-- for assistance.”
On her other side, Bosco makes no attempt to contain his amusement. “It’s a good thing you haven’t already transferred. That poor clown wouldn’t know what hit him.”
“Hey, I can control myself!” she protests, half indignant and half good-natured, turning her attention back to her salad as she attempts to stab a particularly stubborn cherry tomato.
The tomato finally surrenders and the conversation shifts, but Lisbon remains in quiet contemplation. Her thoughts linger around serial killers and her impending transfer for hours, long after they return to headquarters, until a case comes in to serve as distraction.
It’s an open and shut case with only one suspect who makes sense, but it still takes almost three days to make the arrest. Only when the team regroups in the bullpen, suspect finally booked, does she hear the news.
RED JOHN STRIKES AGAIN.
Coworkers whisper in the hallways; it runs across the bottom of her television screen; someone leaks crime scene photos on Fox news. It’s all anyone wants to talk about.
She never says a word.
---
Several years pass.
Her transfer to Sacramento completes seamlessly; she keeps her head down, works hard; her boss takes her under his wing. Her promotion comes early, but it is not entirely unexpected. She knows she’s earned it.
She thrives.
She should have been more careful.
---
Jack Morris stops her in the hallway one morning.
“Good luck,” he says, with no attempt to hide his sneer. “You’re going to need it.”
Morris is one of the last remaining members of the old boys’ club, still hasn’t forgiven her for being Minelli’s latest protégé (not that he ever got along with Minelli, anyway), and things only got worse when she took over the Red John case.
So she doesn’t think anything of it, and that’s her first mistake.
Minelli calls her up to his office later that same day.
---
“Excuse me?”
Stunned, she stares back at Minelli, rubbing her temples in shock and frustration.
“I’m assigning a consultant to your team,” Minelli repeats. “His name is Patrick Jane, and he’ll be working with you full time starting on Monday.”
Her face falls as she remembers that day in the diner and her own words, eerily clairvoyant. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says finally. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, no.” His reply is quick and his eyes reassuring, but Lisbon does not take comfort. “As I’m sure you know, he’s worked with us in the past, and we’ve found him useful in closing cases.” He pauses, clearing his throat. “But he does come with baggage, and he can be, well, a handful. He wants access to the Red John case, and I only trust him with my best team. This works out well for everyone.”
Not for me, Lisbon thinks as she meets his eyes and nods, begrudging her acceptance. I’m going to regret this, she adds, although outwardly she remains silent.
But really, she has no idea.
---
Monday comes around all too soon.
She arrives early, coffee in hand, only to find her office door unlocked.
She pushes the door open, making a mental note to talk to the weekend janitor, before shedding her jacket and hanging it up carefully. It takes her several minutes, until she sits down at her desk and turns on her computer, for her to notice that she is not alone.
The man on the sofa sits up and offers what she’s sure he believes is a charming smile. She, however, is both too stunned and too irritated to be charmed, so she scowls instead.
“Agent Lisbon, I presume,” he offers, still grinning. “You must be my new boss.”
She glares at him from behind her desk, more for his safety than for hers, and replies crossly, “Not for long if I can help it, Mr. Jane.”
He stands and strides purposefully towards her desk, leaning in and encroaching on her personal space. “Not a morning person, are you?”
She’s almost too stunned to reply. He flashes another smile in her direction and, while she’s still not exactly charmed, she’s not as angry as she might have been.
“Just be glad I already put my gun away, or I would not be held responsible for my actions.” She pushes back on her desk chair, standing up to level with him. “For future reference, it’s generally considered common courtesy to knock, and breaking into your boss’s office isn’t the best way to make a first impression.” She crosses her arms over her chest protectively, nerves arising at the sudden intensity of her new consultant’s stare. Managing a half smile, she adds, “That may have worked for you as a psychic, but not here and not with me.”
“There’s no such thing as psychics.” Jane continues to smile, but his tone gives an edge of defiance.
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she replies, her demeanor softening as her lips relax into a tentative smile. “I’m not the one who needs to be convinced.”
A soft knock on the door interrupts their almost truce.
Lisbon quirks an eyebrow at her consultant, as if to prove her point about breaking and entering, and calls out for the interrupter to ‘come in.’
The blinds rustle softly as the door opens and Minelli steps into the office. “Lisbon, I’m glad you’re already here --” he’s saying. He trails off, however, when he notices Jane, who has settled back on the couch. Minelli extends a hand and officially welcomes Jane to the CBI, saying, “Oh, good. I see you two have already met. I hate to interrupt, but Lisbon, do you have a minute?”
“Uh, sure.” Lisbon looks from Jane to Minelli and back again, jerking her head towards the door. “Jane, your desk is out there. Why don’t you go get settled before we get called out.”
In what will become a rare act of obedience, Jane rises from the couch and acquiesces, muttering something about desk chairs as the door swings shut behind him.
It takes Lisbon all of three weeks to move the couch out into the bullpen.
---
“Stay in the car, Jane.”
Her warning is stern and clear as she leads Cho and Rigsby to make the arrest. In an ideal world, she would have been able to leave Jane at the office, but going back to the office risks losing the suspect and that’s not a trade she’s willing to make, Jane or no Jane.
He doesn’t stay in the car.
Instead he wanders right into the chase and gets knocked down by the suspect, fleeing on foot.
She wants to admonish him, plans to, until she catches sight of him sitting on the sidewalk, face scuffed and hand bleeding. His suit, however, seems to be impossibly intact.
“Let me take a look,” she offers softly, eyeing his injured hand. She inspects the wound carefully before finally glancing at the abrasions that mar his face. “That’s going to need stitches,” she says, her voice slow and deliberate as her lips hint at sympathy.
She’s rewarded with a whimsical smile, seemingly genuine for the first time since he joined the team the week before. “You did this often with your younger brothers, didn’t you?”
Although slightly unnerved at the accuracy of his personal inquiry, she returns his smile with ease and releases a quiet laugh. “You have no idea.”
They sit side by side on the pavement, all thoughts of scolding him long since forgotten. It’s hours before she remembers her ill-heeded warning.
She never says ‘I told you so.’
---
In the three years since the murder of Jane’s wife and daughter, Red John strikes only twice. Once on the anniversary of their deaths, once on what would have been Jane’s daughter’s eighth birthday. It’s Lisbon who makes the connection, just months before Minelli officially transfers the case to her team.
One month to the day after Jane rejoins the CBI, Red John strikes again.
Welcome back, mister Jane. So glad you could join me once again.
She gags when she sees the face on the wall. The nausea does not fade.
---
Patrick Jane terrifies her.
He’s reckless and frenzied and almost unhinged from the moment they get the call. A tempest, readily prepared to destroy everything and everyone in his path. The three days it takes for the trail to run cold are the three worst of her professional career.
Her heart sinks when forensics confirms that the man she shot was, in fact, just an alcoholic in deep withdrawal and had nothing to do with Red John aside from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was nothing more than a desperate man, deep in delirium tremens; she of all people should have noticed the signs.
Not that it would have given her any options. The man still had Jane in a stranglehold, and she was the only one with a clean shot.
Which only leads her back to Jane and her current situation.
She retreats into the safety of her office until long after the rest of the team calls it quits for the day, rerunning the previous seventy-two hours in her mind on an endless loop. When she finally emerges, she realizes she isn’t the only one who remains.
“Jane?”
He swings his legs around to sit up, still hidden by shadows in the darkness of the bullpen, and she lowers herself, cautiously, beside him. The moonlight catches on his wedding band.
The shimmer, it’s blinding.
“Next time,” she exhales. “Next time.”
It’s his turn to be skeptical.
---
She doesn’t believe her own words, either.
---
He never asks about the cross she wears around her neck, and she never offers. But she hangs back when they’re called to a hit and run that falls under jurisdiction. She holds the pendant between the pads of her thumb and index finger, as if to reassure herself that it’s still there.
His hand brushes along the small of her back.
“I know,” is all he says.
(His touch burns.)
She wonders, maybe, if he does.
---
She falls into patterns, a creature of habit.
He follows her around, wreaking havoc even where there is no havoc to be wreaked. It’s all she can do to keep up with the paper trail.
But some days, she smiles.
---
The months pass. Red John strikes again.
(The nausea still lingers.)
Jane ignores her warning, goes off on his own. He returns with his left arm in a sling.
She never says ‘I told you so.’
---
Next time, she tells herself. Next time.
---
The eldest of her brothers calls from the hospital.
“It’s a girl!” he announces, ecstatic, and she conjures up the image of his face, beaming, at different moments in his life. She wishes she could be there to see it first hand, but the nearly 3,000 miles between them prevents that. She plans for a long weekend, instead.
When the day arrives, Rigsby waves her off, sandwich in hand. Cho extends a rare smile as he congratulates her.
Jane reminds her to bring a light jacket and to take a few hours to see the cherry blossoms. “D.C. is lovely this time of year,” he whispers in her ear, leaning in a little too close for comfort. He pulls back and smiles, almost wistful.
She’s stopped asking how he knows.
---
A soft creak from the opening of her office door interrupts Lisbon’s train of thought.
She doesn’t look up from the report she’s typing; everyone else knocks.
“Yes, Jane?”
He ambles in, impish grin on his lips, and places both fists on the edge of her desk as he leans in and invades her personal space. “What time does your flight leave?” he inquires.
“Tomorrow afternoon,” she replies. Although she’s grown more accustomed to Jane’s constant prying, nerves settle in her stomach at the thought of his uncanny sixth sense uncovering her untruths. She sighs, trying to pass her anxiety off as irritation, and focuses all her energy on the soft tapping of her fingers against the keyboard. “Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”
“I hate to disappoint you, Lisbon, but you are my preferred target.”
He reacts quickly, but he’s in close enough range that the pen she tosses hits him square against the chest.
“Ow!” he exclaims, soothing the affected area with one hand. He’s lucky she keeps the scissors in her top drawer. “The holiday weekend will be good for you. Maybe you’ll even find yourself inspired to relax a little; I need a break from your violent tendencies.”
She laughs softly, her voice laced with sarcasm. “My violent tendencies need a break from you,” she counters. She gently squares her shoulders, trying to keep her body language as subtle as possible. When she originally lied about her Thanksgiving plans, she did it to keep Jane from continuing to pry. Naturally, he would completely subvert her intentions. “Maybe that’s what I should be thankful for, having thousands of miles between us.”
“Now that really hurts.” Even as he furrows his brows, feigning anguish, he smiles down at her.
She rolls her eyes. “You’re like an overgrown child, you know that?”
“Speaking of children, your nephew is almost four now. Isn’t he?”
“In January,” she replies, smiling softly at the thought of her brother’s children.
He returns her smile, although there is a sadness to his expression, a rare occasion where real emotion seems to break through his mask. “And your niece,” he continues, “You must be excited to see her again.”
“I am.”
He smiles again, this time with a hint less sadness, and says, “Happy Thanksgiving, Lisbon. Have a good flight.”
“You too, Jane.”
Monday morning she arrives at the office relaxed and rejuvenated to find an origami crane sitting on her computer keyboard. In her locked office, no less. Although she should take it as a sign, she doesn’t realize how easily he saw through her lies until he confesses a year later.
It takes significantly longer for her to realize that it isn’t so much that she’s a bad liar, not to the average person, it’s just Jane.
---
She keeps the origami crane.
In time, he adds to her collection.
---
Sometimes, when there’s a significant lapse between brutally slain women and red faces on the wall, she almost forgets. Almost. But then come the bodies and the blood, and the red face smiles back at her, taunting her from above.
That sinking feeling at the pit of her stomach. The storm that’s all but certain.
This time she almost allows herself to hope, but Renfrew is playing Jane and Jane is playing Renfrew, and she really ought to know better. Tijuana materializes in the distance, and she grips the steering wheel that much tighter.
They arrive too late, the bloody mess in the bathtub just growing cold, to do anything but stare helplessly at the scene and gag at the taste of dry, dusty air. She files it away with the rest of the almosts and just misseds.
She lowers herself to sit down beside him on the bed, paying no attention as nameless, faceless coworkers diligently search for evidence they all know won’t be there. She breathes, in and out, because there aren’t words and, even if there were, she wouldn’t know where to begin.
It is he who finally breaks the silence, his voice dry and defeated as it cuts through the desert heat. “Well, you can say it now.”
Her refusal comes in a soft concession of a rain check they both know she’ll never use. She stretches out a hand and tries to reassure him, instead.
She never says ‘I told you so.’
(It’s always next time.)
---
The raw, angry wounds dissipate, replaced by a subtle ache that never quite heals.
A week later, she recalls Jane’s words on revenge and mutilation, a ticking time bomb, and her own inevitable dilemma. She’s almost relieved that her unavoidable fate has been placed temporarily on hold.
Almost.
---
The next lapse is only temporary. It’s two girls -- twins -- and writing in the sky.
Red John slips through their fingers yet again, but she can’t, won’t risk Jane’s life.
“I don’t think you mean what you say. I think you choose life.” Her voice breaks, heavy with the weight of responsibility and the memory of those same words that never got her father to see sense, either. “Can’t you see there are people who care about you, who need you. You’re being selfish and childish, and I want you to stop it.”
“I wish that I could but, you know, some things you just can’t fix.”
Her father never believed her, and she reluctantly concludes Jane never will either. But Hardy breaks free, and Jane saves her life.
She finds him in the Plasketts’ back yard eating an orange. He hasn’t said a word since shooting Hardy, and she approaches him cautiously. The words are there, at the tip of her tongue, but she never gets a chance to speak them.
“You don’t have to say it,” he comments, raising the orange to his lips. “I don’t choose life, but you do.”
She shifts her weight nervously and reaches out to touch his wrist, willing him to look at her. “What’s the difference?”
“Everything, Lisbon. It makes all the difference in the world.”
Unable to respond to this assertion, she shivers in the warm afternoon air and accepts the remainder of his fruit when he offers. Standing beside him in lonely silence, she resolves to be more careful in the future. Jane may not hold his own life in any regard, so she would have to do it for him.
“Revenge is for fools and mad men,” he once said. And for a minute, she had allowed herself to hope.
The problem is, though, that if revenge is for fools and mad men, Jane is both.
---
Lisbon doesn’t realize how much of herself is invested in her job until she almost loses it.
The realization comes to her as she turns over her badge and gun. She feels incomplete and empty and entirely not herself, even more so than the small tug she gets if she leaves her watch on the dresser in the morning.
It’s been a long time coming, really, the way her life has gone in the last few months. Hardy, Red John, Bosco, Red John again. Naturally, the event that throws her entire world off kilter is the one thing that blindsides her before she’s regained her footing.
She can’t remember, and that’s the underlying problem. Her father never remembered, either.
She allows Jane to hypnotize her, an act of true desperation if there ever was one, but she fails the polygraph and really has no other choice.
“I can count on you not to tell anyone about this, right?” she manages, fighting the tears that threaten. But what she really means is, “I can trust you, right? That you weren’t playing me with that trust fall.”
She recoils when he reaches for her; his touch still burns.
She banishes him as quickly as possible, but there is no solace in the hollow silence of her apartment. Her natural instinct when faced with such a personal crisis is to throw herself into her work, but with that safety net so violently torn from her, she finds herself left with nothing to keep her company except the wide black expanse of her memory. Until Jane does something she doesn’t expect.
He comes back.
---
“I know what happened.”
Not trusting herself to speak just yet, Lisbon wordlessly steps aside and allows Jane to re-enter her apartment. She leads him back to where they sat just hours earlier before she finally manages a quiet plea. “What did I do?” she implores, her heart pounding in anticipation.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” she repeats, stuttering from both relief and uncertainty. “Then why can’t I remember?”
“Because,” he begins, and even in her extreme emotional distress, Lisbon finds comfort in the familiarity of his face, his voice. “Carmen’s been putting Lorazepam in your coffee.”
She stares back at him incredulously. Honestly, she would be less surprised to find out she’d killed McTeer. “I don’t know where you think you’re going with this, Jane,” she warns, holding both arms protectively against her chest. “But that’s a leap, even for you.”
“Just hear me out.” His voice carries his usual self-assured tone, but there is a softness that soothes it slightly. She listens, anxious but attentive, as he explains how Carmen kept bringing her back, week after week refusing to sign off on her file, so he could continue to slip the drug into her coffee. “It makes sense, really. You haven’t been yourself, and it’s more than Hardy or Bosco or even me.” He pauses, eyes catching her skeptical gaze. “He would have given you a double dose on Tuesday to cause the memory loss; that’s why you don’t remember what you did Tuesday night, even under hypnosis.”
“What does that even mean? Carmen was working for the killer so that I would take the blame?”
Jane shakes his head. “Carmen is the killer. I already had Cho pull his financials; it checks out.” He leans forward and pats the cushion just next to wear she sits. “You can relax; we’re going to clear you. Oh, and Lisbon? One more thing.” He waits for her to nod her attention before he continues, “You may have had misgivings, but I never once doubted your innocence.”
“Thank you, Jane,” she replies, the constant edge in her tone finally subsiding. “But how are we going to prove it? We’re off the case.”
“Inconsequential details.” He grins conspiratorially, and she finds herself returning the gesture. “I have a plan.”
---
It’s easier than she thought it would be, letting go. Losing control.
“I act calm, but on the inside I'm so angry sometimes I think I'm going to explode.”
She isn’t sure she’s lying.
Jane knows she’s telling the truth.
---
Having Sam Bosco back in her life turns out to be trickier than she initially thinks.
“Does he mean that much to you?” he demands. “He closes cases. Is that all it is?”
She’s well aware that it isn’t, but Bosco of all people should understand that some things are better left unsaid.
If Sam and Jane don’t get this under control, she thinks, They may kill each other.
Three weeks later, Bosco is dead.
“I love you, Teresa,” he says -- before.
“It had to be said.”
At the funeral, she can’t look Amanda Bosco in the eye.
---
Sam would never tell Jane to look after her.
She doesn’t push it; she isn’t sure she wants to know.
---
Life goes on.
She doesn’t particularly like keeping the tequila in her desk drawer, but maintaining their SFPD tradition makes things seem less final, less permanent. It lessens the guilt, if only slightly.
Bosco’s gone. Minelli’s gone. Red John is gone again (but she doesn’t want him back).
She finds it harder to carry on as though nothing has changed.
---
“Talk to me.”
He takes his eyes off the road long enough for her to feel his eyes linger.
She shivers. Outside it grows dark, the sky painted bright reds and yellows as they drive back from yet another crime scene.
“Eyes on the road, or else I’m driving,” she threatens.
Sight now returned to highway before them, Jane remains undeterred. “Talk to me, Lisbon,” he repeats.
“There aren’t any good movies out right now.” She shrugs her shoulders and tugs uncomfortably at her seatbelt where the restraint rubs against her chest.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he admonishes. “Tell me what’s on your mind; you’ve been so sad lately.”
“I’m not sad,” she denies futilely.
“There’s no point in lying to me. You’ve been sad for months now, sad and guilty. You need to deal with your emotions, otherwise you’ll never be able to move on.”
Something inside her snaps, and her response is both biting and impulsive. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“Well, we both know I don’t advertise myself as the poster child for emotional health, but I won’t let that happen to you.”
“You won’t, will you?” she asks, cheeky and defiant. Fidgeting in the passenger seat, she eyes Jane cautiously.
“I won’t.” He speaks without his usual bravado, replacing it instead with a calm determination that shakes her to the core. “It isn’t your fault, what happened to Bosco. You can’t blame yourself.”
She reluctantly abandons all hope of denial and, instead, shifts herself back against the window so that she’s almost facing him. “I’ve been telling you the same thing for years,” she counters. “You never listen to me, either.”
Chuckling quietly, he cranes his neck to look at her. “Saint Teresa,” he breathes before returning to face the road. “It certainly is fitting. Patron saint of lost causes.”
“Lost causes?” It’s her turn to laugh this time. “I think you mean Saint Jude.”
“Technicality,” he scoffs. “I’m still right.”
She considers this for a beat before answering softly.
“Aren’t you always?”
---
He brings her home, but he doesn’t drop her off.
The sun has long since set, and the only light illuminating her front porch comes from a few far off street lamps and the floodlight she has set on automatic timer. She shimmies her key into the lock, unlatching the door with a turn of her wrist; his hand lingers on the small of her back.
“Closed case drinks?” she offers, setting her keys down on the table by the door with a soft thud. “I don’t have much, but --” she trails off, eyes cast downward with sudden uncertainty.
“Tea is fine if you have any,” he replies with a wink.
“How do you feel about Lipton?”
He scrunches his nose in displeasure and follows her into the kitchen. “I suppose I can make do,” he answers, sighing dramatically as he busies himself in several cabinets. It’s entirely different from his usual method of investigation that she observes so routinely at crime scenes. He appears more casual, maybe even natural, without his suit jacket, shirt sleeves rolled up; he looks instead like a friend who is completely comfortable in a kitchen he knows well.
The thought doesn’t scare her as much as it would have just a year ago.
They settle in on her couch after retrieving their drinks. He leans back against a throw pillow, tea cup positioned carefully towards the edge of her coffee table; she slips off her shoes and tucks her legs underneath her, sipping quietly from the bottle of Diet Coke that’s been in her fridge so long that it’s flat.
It’s surprisingly easy, sitting in her living room with Jane, talking about everything and nothing all at once. She absent-mindedly wishes that this Jane, free of his usual mask, would make appearances more often. He’s just finished recounting his experiences working the carnie circuit in a particular town in West Virginia when she shifts suddenly, replacing the cap on her now-empty bottle.
“Flute,” she admits, exhaling quietly, her own impulsivity hanging heavy in the air between them. Bravely, she meets his steady gaze.
Patrick Jane, for once, is speechless.
She smiles almost brazenly at his lack of reaction. “Orchestra,” she continues, “not band.”
He slides over, sofa cushions shifting beneath him, before finding his voice. “You would have been first chair; you excelled at everything you did, even then.”
He reaches out, two fingers against her wrist, and she recalls the way it felt that night at the high school reunion. Just dancing, the quiet pull of normalcy.
(His touch still burns.)
She turns toward him and, though inches still form an invisible barrier, the separation is anything but solid. It’s never been this close before, she thinks, her heart pounding.
She kisses him.
It’s brief, soft, tentative. She pulls away, embarrassed, and her hands flatten an invisible crease in her slacks. I’m sorry, she means to say, but she never gets a chance.
His eyes grow dark, and he kisses her back.
What her initial kiss lacked in length and depth, his more than compensates. He leans in, pressing her against the arm rest as his teeth brush against her lower lip. She pushes back, throwing one leg over his lap, straddling him. His hands find her hips, thumbs sneaking underneath her shirt as he holds her in place. His lips migrate immediately to that spot on her neck that it usually takes months for lovers to find (and even longer to recognize); she hums her approval.
By the time they make it to her bedroom, her blouse hangs open, unbuttoned, from her elbows, and his vest sits haphazardly on her coffee table.
“Lisbon,” he murmurs, teeth tugging on her earlobe. She shudders violently in response as he backs her against the door, hands pressing into her sides, branding her.
Later, as she locks her legs around him, she thinks that this was probably inevitable.
---
When she wakes the next morning to the incessant blaring of her alarm clock, she is alone.
She isn’t all that surprised.
She rolls over and blindly reaches for her alarm clock, depressing the ‘off’ button with her index finger. She quickly showers and dresses with her usual methodical precision, doesn’t think about it as she tosses her crumpled blouse into her hamper.
She doesn’t have time for doubts, anyway.
In the kitchen, though, she finds her coffee already brewing and blueberry muffins sitting on the counter. A second mug is just visible behind her own favorite, and that’s when she notices the tea kettle on her stovetop.
“You thought I left.”
It’s a statement and not a question as she spins on her heels, startled. Jane leans against the door frame, dressed but still casual without his jacket and vest. Lisbon shrugs her shoulders, lips curling, shy and apologetic.
“There’s no need to deny it,” he smiles knowingly.
She doesn’t deny anything, instead laughs softly as she bites into a muffin. She tosses another in Jane’s direction and pretends not to notice his wedding band as sunlight invades the quiet privacy of her kitchen.
No time for doubts.
---
They don’t talk about it. Their colleagues, trained investigators and all, would not notice the difference.
He still naps at work, but can’t sleep at home; she still threatens to shoot him every time he pisses off their suspects. They don’t suddenly spend every off-duty moment together.
(It’s not that kind of fairy tale.)
She finds great comfort in that.
---
Three weeks later, everything changes.
It’s been a long time since Lisbon nearly lost it at a crime scene, since her days as a rookie inspector for the SFPD, but the second her eyes land on the taunting red face on the wall, she knows instinctively that the end is coming.
Two bodies on the floor: four year college roommates who never made it to a reception being held in their honor.
Rigsby steps cautiously behind her. “He’s changing his pattern, boss.”
She just nods, too numb to speak. Her brain and her body no longer connected.
“Lisbon!” Jane rushes to her side the second he arrives at the crime scene. “Lisbon,” more urgently now. “This was waiting on my windshield when I got in my car this morning.”
She reaches out a latex-clad hand, fingering the note carefully.
You changed the rules, mister Jane. You cannot have them both.
This is your fault. Their blood is on your hands.
She makes it back to CBI Headquarters before locking herself in the ladies’ room. She wretches once, twice into the toilet.
Your fault, your fault, your fault, echoes against the cold tile walls.
The bitter taste in her mouth, it lingers for days.
---
She pretends not to notice when he slips out of bed in the middle of the night.
Next time, she thinks. The end is coming. Next time.
The nausea is constant now.
---
Red John takes one final victim.
It is the first Friday in May, not two weeks after the college roommates, and Lisbon still dreams in red every night. She’s in court when it happens, aggravated because testifying pulled away from the team’s current case. On the courthouse steps, she traces the power button on her phone: nine missed calls, all from Cho.
Her finger hovers over speed dial for just a moment.
“Boss,” Cho gives nothing away with his usual intone, but she knows him better than that. He rattles off an address, and she sighs against the door of her car. “You need to come before the press gets wind,” he says simply. “It’s Red John; we found him.”
---
The first thing she notices when she arrives at the scene is the glaring absence of Jane’s beloved car.
She doesn’t feel any anxiety, any dread; she doesn’t feel anything at all as she parks behind the lone CSU van. It’s an ordinary suburban neighborhood just an hour outside of the city, and Cho meets her on the front steps.
He and Jane were casing the neighborhood, Cho explains, looking for anyone who may have noticed something out of the ordinary two nights prior, the night their victim first went missing. This was the final house in their designated route, and it would have ended as such: this man, like all the others, had no information pertinent to the case. But Jane had to be Jane and wandered into the man’s kitchen, and things quickly deteriorated from there.
Although Cho omits most of the details, Lisbon deduces the general chain of events enough to understand what happened. Red John is dead and Jane is gone, in that order.
The first thing her eyes focus on when she enters the house is the body, stretched horizontal on the kitchen floor. There are no wounds, no blood, no sign of struggle. Just a body, lying lifeless before her.
She leans in, balancing on one knee, and that’s when she notices the slight foaming at his mouth that she’s seen only once before. Rebecca.
“He was down before I could cuff him,” Cho remarks.
“And we’re sure --” her voice trails off, laced with uncertainty. “We’re absolutely sure that it’s him?”
“We’re sure.”
One look at Cho’s face convinces her.
Red John’s final victim was himself.
---
Jane doesn’t come back.
Rigsby and Van Pelt arrive, not long before the national media gets wind, but Jane stays away for days as they slowly, methodically uncover every last piece of evidence that remains in the house.
Friday turns into Tuesday before they find it, well concealed in the closet of the spare bedroom, the lock box that officially links this otherwise incredibly average man to every last one of Red John’s victims. Photographs and trinkets that, except for Jane’s wife and child, are all inconsequential objects that no one would have noticed missing.
She carefully slips one evidence bag into her pocket as Van Pelt leans forward, reaching back into the box.
Curiosity evident by furrowed eyebrows, Van Pelt holds up a set of well-worn rosary beads. “Which victim does this belong to, Boss?”
“That’s mine,” Lisbon inhales sharply, her voice shallow and shaky. “My mother gave it to me for my First Communion.”
Van Pelt opens her mouth to ask another question, but Lisbon doesn’t hear, instead taking the rosary from Van Pelt’s outstretched hand and fingering the beads gently. Rising to her feet, she quickly puts Cho in charge and retreats to her car. She drives for hours, unable to go home and unable to go back to work, and it isn’t until she’s parking at Crissy Field that she realizes her subconscious took her all the way to San Francisco.
She exhales, slow and heavy, as she makes her way along the beach; in her head, echoes and case files. Nineteen would be Red John’s final number.
“I was number twenty,” she murmurs quietly. “I am number twenty.”
---
She sits at the picnic tables alone until the sun sinks low in the sky, doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching her until the bench creaks beside her and Jane taps gently on her shoulder.
“Lisbon?” She turns to look at him, eyes dull and expressionless, and remains silent. Undeterred, Jane repeats, “Lisbon?”
In the days since she last saw him, she’s forgotten how unnerving it is to be the focus of Patrick Jane’s undivided attention. She shivers, looking straight out over the marina. “I forgot how cold it gets here,” she says absently.
“I thought you might have.” He flashes a small knowing smile and holds out a jacket, the spare she keeps at the office, before laying it carefully over her shoulders; his hand lingers. Sensing she still isn’t ready to talk, he continues, his voice far off and almost foreign in her stunned haze. “I went back -- to the house, but it was just the last of the CSU team closing the place down. You weren’t at home, so I stopped by the office. Obviously, you weren’t there either. I considered where you might have gone, and I came out looking for you.”
“Was this the first place on your list?” Her mouth curls ever so slightly before her gaze fixes on a knot in the wood of the picnic table; her voice sounds foreign as it leaves her lips.
“The second. You mentioned once that you used to come here for department picnics when you lived in San Francisco, so I took a chance.” He leans forward and gently tugs at the sleeve of her jacket, forcing her attention. “Lisbon,” he implores softly, “Van Pelt told me what happened. I’m sorry.”
She tries to speak, but the sound catches in her throat. She coughs before managing, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I have everything to be sorry for. If we hadn’t found him --”
She releases a quick breath and clasps her hands together, pushing thoughts of what could have been as far from her consciousness as possible. “It’s over now.”
He simply nods in reply, and they sit together in silence as the sun sinks lower and lower on the horizon. “I had a clear shot,” he admits quietly. “When I realized it was him. But I hesitated, and before Cho could cuff him, he went down.”
“I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.” It’s her turn to reach out and gently touch his forearm as she replies. “But I’m also not sorry it wasn’t at your hands.”
“I know you aren’t,” he offers, but the look of sadness that tinges his face reminds her that he still is.
Instead of responding to this, she reaches into her pocket and retrieves the evidence bag. “I have something for you,” she carefully extends her hand, placing the bag carefully in Jane’s outstretched palm. “Since there won’t be a trial, I thought you would want these back sooner rather than later.”
She watches in fascination as Jane fumbles with the plastic before finally holding the cool metal of his wife’s wedding rings and his daughter’s charm bracelet in his hands. He handles each item with a soft reverence that both warms her heart and causes it to ache.
He does not cry, but when he extends a hushed ‘thank you’ she notices the dry tracks of unshed tears.
“He took something from everyone,” Jane says finally, placing the jewelry back in the bag before slipping it inside his jacket. “But never something obvious, something that would be noticed. Except --”
“Your wife and daughter,” she finishes.
“And you.” He holds her gaze, steady and certain, as he offers his correction.
In the deep silence that follows, he reaches for her hand and interlaces their fingers. The ache that settles in her chest is becoming familiar now.
“You don’t have to be alone,” he says finally. Though he watches the last remaining boats on the marina instead, his grip on her hand tightens, and after all this time, he doesn’t have to see her to see her.
She runs the pad of her thumb along the crevice where their hands join. “I know,” she breathes in response.
As the last vestiges of sunlight disappear on the horizon, she considers how impossible this all seems. She understands alone better than anyone, but together no longer seems so out of reach.
She thinks she’d like the chance to find out.
xxx
fin
xxx