Chapter Text
Rain drummed on the ground without mercy or rhythm, turning solids into softs. Soil caked on her soles in layers. One layer at first, then another and another, over and over until the heavy mushy substance flew off like an egg white ripped from the yolk with every five paces she ran.
“Over here!” she screamed, gulping down water. “I see them! Over here!”
More and more feet joined the rain in hammering the ground. What was once a dirt road quickly turned into a riddled mud field. In its centre was a hole deepening with every hand shoveling away the soil. It ran between fingers like pancake batter. The deeper they dug, the colder and thicker was the ground, slowing down their progress until someone finally brought a shovel. In seconds, the hole widened like a sinkhole and revealed the rest of a car cabin. Someone shone a light inside the window and Lisbon banged on the glass at the first sight of red hair.
“Grace!” Lisbon gasped for air, as if the last of it escaped her lungs with the name, never to return. “Get a medic in here! Dig it up!”
Grace’s face was peaceful, eyes closed and lips slightly apart. Next to her on the passenger seat was Rigsby, his head hanging down on his chest. In the back was a man in a suit and Lisbon’s black hands dug back into the ground as soon as she recognised the back of Cho's head.
She counted a minute and twenty one seconds before they breached the window, another eight minutes and eleven seconds before they dug the hole big enough to extract them from the vehicle. Ambulances were already standing by at that point and Lisbon ordered the paramedics around, personally seeing to it that each member of her team got immediate assistance.
Grace’s face was smothered with an oxygen mask, Cho and Rigsby were being revived next to her.
“I'm sorry,” came from next to Lisbon, “For what it's worth. I'm sorry.”
She turned to him, to his wet face embraced by sticking curls. His hands were black like hers, up to the elbow. The hem of his vest and jacket was sprouting water like a faucet. She searched his eyes for any warmth they had to offer, but he stared ahead unfocused. With his jaw set, he hung his head, turned around and left. She didn't run after him, screaming his name for explanation.
Another ‘A’ turned out more like a ‘B’. Lisbon curled one hand over the one holding the pen, squeezing it tight to her chest. The shaking wasn't stopping. Taking a deep breath, she asked her own body to obey. To hold it together just a few more hours.
“Those can wait until morning,” said Wainwright, standing in the doorway. He must had appeared out of thin air. She could have sworn he wasn't there a second ago. Or was she so out of it?
Tucking her hands under the table, she turned her eyes back to the report. “I'm just finishing the report, sir.”
He took a step closer and she could feel his eyes on her. Her hair was frizzy from drying it with the CBI towel at local showers and she was wearing a spare pair of jeans and a CBI hoodie, the one they got for the department's sports day a month ago. Rigsby scored the winning goal that day. Cho actually smiled when he tripped right after. Grace was the referee and Jane drew a crowd of children with his magic tricks.
As if she just ran her hand over an open wound, she flinched and caught Wainwright’s judging look. “Where's Jane?” he asked.
“He left,” she returned to scribbling her signature.
“Where to? Should he be alone right now?”
“I don't care.” She caught the tone in her voice and could tell so did Wainwright. Taking a deep breath, she rested the pencil down and her boss used the opportunity to slide the papers away.
“Go home, Lisbon. Get some sleep.” The words crawled into her ears uneasily, as if they didn't fit. She shook her head and this time, she looked at him with a silent plea.
“I can't.”
“You have to. It’s an order. The hospital will call you as soon as they wake up.”
They. Wayne Rigsby. Kimball Cho. Grace Van Pelt. Her team.
She got down to her car on autopilot, looking ahead without watching or seeing anything, opening doors and closing them behind her. There was a familiar figure standing by her driver's door. She recognised his posture, his hair. He was dressed in clean clothes. Her feet carried her no further than a few feet from him before sudden anger clouded her vision.
“What are you doing here,” she asked, voice cracking at the seams. Tears sprung into her eyes before he could answer and he rushed to her to hug her instead. Knees buckled underneath her. He carried her weight, embracing her like a supporting pillar while she chased a sob that slipped out of her lips.
“It's okay, Lisbon. It's gonna be okay. There.”
She closed her eyes, letting his voice spin a web around her head that'd make all the noise in her head silent. The harder she scrunched them closed, the less visible she would be. That was her theory as she curled into his arms and he guided her to the floor. “It's okay,” he repeated and she felt lighter as he stroked her arm. “I'm gonna drive you home, okay?”
A nod was all she could muster. Evading eye contact, she let herself be coaxed back to her feet, then to the passenger’s seat where Jane made sure her seatbelt was on before closing the door. Ride home was a slideshow of yellow street lights and grey sidewalks that her eyes couldn't keep up with. He said nothing. She said nothing. She walked up a flight of stairs with his hand at her back and he unlocked the door for her with ease and light hands, as if he'd opened this door a hundred times before. In a few minutes she was sitting on the couch, wrapped in her throw blanket when he brought her a cup of hot tea and guided her hands to wrap around it. By then, her head felt no more like a dense piece of metal. Fuzzy, malleable feeling stretched itself somewhere between her ears. She attempted a deep breath and soon realised it was under his guidance.
“That’s good, very good. One more deep breath.” She did as he asked and looked into his eyes in a way that seemed to surprise him. The tips of his fingers grazed her hand. “I want you to know Lisbon that this wasn't your fault.”
“I know that,” she heard herself say, calmly, silently. “We followed your lead, Jane.”
He smiled in the saddest way. “That's right.”
“When will this stop, Jane? Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho are still in the hospital. They could die.”
“I know,” he said and held her gaze. Willfully, painstakingly. “They knew the danger, Lisbon. This is their job.”
“Screw what the job is, Jane,” she shook her head, feeling it weighing down once more. “What's the tipping point? Is there even a line you won't cross?”
“To get Red John? No, there isn't.”
“Would you watch them die just to get closer to him?”
“Yes.”
She watched him with disgust. He didn't flinch or look away. He had the insufferable gall to look into her eyes without shame.
“Would you watch me die to get close to Red John?”
He clenched his teeth, that much she could tell by the muscle in his jaw. With the urgency of a rabbit bound to run from its fox, he searched for something in her eyes and then leaned forward, bowing his head ever so slightly. “No.”
With warm palms, Lisbon swallowed and felt blood drain from her face. Her chest tightened up, something inside of it picking up pace.
A shameful cold sensation ran down her back at the weight of his words. Suddenly, she wished she had heard ‘No.’ She wished she was nothing but a means to an end to the man who was standing up, walking to the door.
“Don't leave,” she heard herself say. He halted at the door. “Don't leave, please,” she repeated, this time absolutely deliberately in spite of the chill it sent through her body. It felt like minutes before he finally turned around. There was none of that comforting boyish charm on his face. He looked older. He looked scared as he cautiously studied her; her face, the tone of her voice, probably her body language too as she sat there wrapped in a blanket with dried tears covering her cheeks. She opened her lips to say more, to explain, but no sound kept coming out.
Finally, he turned and took off his jacket, hanging it by the door. The sound of the hanger giving under the weight of the jacket let her shoulders sack with relief. He moved in her space hesitantly, which was so unlike him, until he took a seat next to her on the couch. It felt like sitting close to a bonfire and with the heat upon her skin, she let her mind wander back to his embrace and selfishly wished he'd hold her again. Maybe he'd let her close her eyes and fall asleep with his arms around her. She imagined he would, If only she managed to weave together the words to ask so. As she brought the cup of tea to her lips, his hand tenderly caught hers, his fingers on her pulse.
“You're shaking,” he stated and she frowned at her inappetence of hiding it. She set the cup down and Jane took both her hands into his, rubbing them warm with gentle strokes. She dared to look at him and he wasn't smiling. His brows were knitted together as he held her hands to his chest and she fought the urge to curl up against him. Blood had rushed to her face by now. She wished he would kiss her. She wished she could give him the comfort he was now giving her.
In a sudden brush with clarity, she cautiously pulled her hand back only to find it trapped by his. His wedding ring rubbed against her knuckle. Their eyes met. He looked sorrowful as his hand carefully reached for her cheek.
“Jane,” she whispered, in a way so small, “You don't have to-”
“Teresa,” he said. “I… I care about you.”
“I know you do, Jane.”
“No,” he licked his lips and frowned as no more words seemed to come to his tongue. His thumb brushed her cheek and she felt her heart bubbling up. Soon, tears would spill from her eyes, so she closed them and let his hand guide her forward until their lips met.
What does a kiss feel like? she thought. What does it feel like to kiss lips you'd seen smiling a hundred times? What does it feel like to kiss the mouth that argued with you, lied to your face and obsessed over a killer? It felt soft like his voice. It felt gentle like his touch at the small of her back.
His hand cradled her jaw and she squeezed his hand against his chest, letting him know she wished this. More than anything. Their lips parted and met again and Lisbon felt infatuated with the hotness of his breath.
Her head was clear. Empty of doubts and anger and accusations. All she could think about was how complete, how serene it felt to kiss Jane. Slowly, over and over. He was a statue once shattered, put together from a thousand pieces she’d mend together like gold.
Their lips fit together perfectly, moving fluidly like molasses when he slowly pulled away, barely an inch further than he needed to to take a breath, just to study her heavy eyes. She took a shaky intake of air, searching him for any sign of distress with her own heart beating inside his chest and her whole face flushed red. He brushed a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. He smiled. He kissed her again. She felt her chest ache with happiness and leaned back into the cushions under his command.
Lisbon wondered about Jane many times. His effortless charm, witty banter and colourful insults made for quite a mosaic in her mind. Was he actually a sociopath who used everyone and everything? Under all of that which he could so easily summon, what was Jane like? A good friend? A selfish lover? Was he a dominant partner in a relationship or was he kind and gentle and patient? Was he anyone at all under his drive for revenge?
His answer was not an easy one; she received it in pieces. In small little clues he was leaving on her skin like love notes in a locker. He kissed her with gentleness, he kissed her carefully, yet every plea of her tongue his own answered with abandon. His hands were possessive, roaming along the planes of her back, the curves of her waist and hips, yet they never caged her in. He applied just enough pressure to make her body alight, as if he'd studied her body for years, confident in every reaction he coaxed out of her. Nothing about him was harsh or rough and Lisbon wondered why she ever considered that an option when he smiled at her in the dark as he laid her down on the bed, making sure there was a pillow under her head. His skin was warm, scorching to the touch when she slid his shirt off his shoulders. His body wasn't hardened by detective work or police training and yet, the tips of her fingers admired every wrinkle she traced on his face and every dip of muscles under his skin. He was beautiful. She was naked under him and buried her hands in his hair as Jane kissed her until she felt her eyes roll in the back of her head.
That was when her phone started ringing. Dressed in only his opened pants, Jane fetched the phone, handing it to her as she gathered a blanket around herself.
“Lisbon? Yes. Yes, that's great news. Thank you, I'll be there right away.”
With a click, the call and the moment ended. She felt suddenly bathed in shame, watching him stand in the moonlight in the corner of her bedroom, rubbing his jaw as he looked around for his clothes. He brought her her shirt and underwear and they dressed without saying a word, briskly.
“Are you coming to the hospital?” She asked on her way to the door, swallowing the thousand other questions she had.
“Of course,” he said, soothing down his hair and looking just as awkward as her. They left her apartment and got into her car. The ride was silent. Lisbon parked at the hospital, turned off the car and just stared ahead for a moment. The same hot sweat left in wake of his hands now stuck to her skin like a cold film. Under it, deep beneath her muscles she felt her veins twisting, choking her heart. She would turn now and see his face; a disappointed, saddened face full of shame and regret. Soon, he would request a different agent and that wouldn't be the worst of it: He would stop talking to her. He would find a different couch to sleep on in the office. He wouldn't drive her up the wall any longer with his antics, he wouldn't be there to read her mind or make her smile. He would be gone.
Before her mind could spiral even further, she felt a touch and looked to see his hand joining hers. She wiped her eyes and dared to look at him and saw the same scared eyes looking back at her. Yet, or in spite of it, he leaned over and gave her a kiss - a quick, soft touch of his lips to the corner of her mouth - then squeezed her hand and got out of the car.
“Come on, Lisbon.”