Chapter Text
She doesn’t even remember the drive home.
Van Pelt had suggested they all go out, once Abbott had let them leave. Get something to drink, celebrate Jane’s victory, be in each other’s company for a few more hours while they let the loss sink in.
She thinks the invitation was more for her benefit than anything. Van Pelt and Rigsby have each other to go home to, and she’s fairly certain that Cho prefers to process these types of things alone.
She had declined. She’s not sure being alone is the best thing for her right now, but she can’t bring herself to be out in the world much longer. She needs to go home, get in bed, and let herself cease functioning for the next day at least before she has to pull herself back together.
Besides, she isn’t ready to explain to them yet that she shouldn’t be drinking.
She’s home now, and as much as her mind and body are both yelling at her to lay down, her stomach is begging for food. She’s hungry— she hasn’t eaten in a while, and she certainly hasn’t been eating well lately. She supposes she should get better about that soon. She’ll have plenty of time now— no job to keep her busy, no Red John to track down, and no Jane to distract her.
No Jane.
He had cooked for her that night, nearly a month ago now. The night that they’d solved the murder of Eileen Turner, he’d asked to come home with her.
“Do you want to watch the video?” she’d asked, lump in her throat as she sat down on the couch, trying to encourage him to do the same.
“No,” he’d answered quietly, still standing behind her. It had taken her a few seconds to realize it when he walked away. When she turned around again he was in the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” she’d asked, watching him inspect the contents of her refrigerator.
“I’m making us dinner.”
“Jane—“
“I’m hungry,” he protested adamantly before adding: “I can’t watch it. Not tonight. Not yet.”
His voice had sounded so pained in that moment, she was grateful she couldn’t see his face.
“Why not?”
“Because,” he’d answered, a pan on the stove as he set to work at something she couldn’t see, “it’s… we’re getting close. Too close, we’re getting to the end.”
“And that’s good isn’t it?”
“It is good, but it’s… it’s going to get worse before it gets better, Lisbon. It’s going to get bad at the end. He’s not going to go down without a fight, and… I just need a night. I need time to prepare.”
“You’ve been preparing for years,” she’d said it a bit more sternly than she’d meant to.
“I know,” he answered quietly. “I know.” He darted about the kitchen in silence for a few moments more, as she sat trying to make sense of what he’d said. “I’m scared,” he told her after a minute, turning to face the living room for just a moment before getting back to work.
She stood, approaching him slowly. “I’m scared too.”
“You should be,” he answered, avoiding the eye contact she was searching for, his back to her as he chopped vegetables. “You’ve seen what happens to people who get close to me. This is the end game, Lisbon. You have a target on your back.”
She wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Instead, she’d stepped up next to him at the counter, rather than hover behind him, and watched his hands at work so carefully with her kitchen knife.
Knives like that had been plaguing her dreams lately.
“What are you making?” she’d asked, choosing not to ignore the elephant in the room, but to contemplate it quietly, to herself.
“Stir fry,” he answered, gesturing to the assortment of ingredients he’d gathered on the counter. She hadn’t even known she’d had enough ingredients to make anything. She’d been subsisting on frozen meals a lot in those months.
She’d moved to help, but he’d quickly nudged her away. “Sit down,” he’d told her. “Have something to drink. Let me do this for you.”
She didn’t get it then, but she thinks she gets it now. He wanted to take care of her because he was so convinced that he was putting her in danger; wanted to do some good to make up for all the damage he had caused. His life had become entirely wrapped up in death and destruction and chaos and deception and his answer to it, his grand plan to get his head back on track, was to cook her dinner.
She almost laughs at it, and the rush of amusement jolts her out of the memory, back to her dim, empty kitchen. She lets out a shaky breath as she opens the fridge, trying to find something that seems at least a little appetizing. She sighs and gives up, opening the freezer and pulling out a frozen pizza. They’re not the healthiest thing in the world, and she really doesn’t want to wait the twenty minutes it takes to heat one up, but it’ll have to do.
She needs to eat; it’d be different if it was just her, but it’s not.
She waits for the oven to preheat and puts the pizza in, then finally allows herself to collapse on the couch and close her eyes. She thinks back to that night again.
He had tried to take care of her. He had seemed so sad, and scared, and hurt, and he had tried to take care of her. It had made her want to take care of him too. She smiled and joked with him over dinner and wine, doing anything she could to bring a smile back to his face, and afterwards she had nestled close to him— tried to hold him— on her couch over bad TV and more wine.
And when the wine ran out, the TV got boring, and they couldn’t bring themselves to talk anymore, she had welcomed him into her bed.
It’s a little fuzzy, but she remembers that he was gentle, careful. That he held her and touched her and kissed her as though he was so afraid she might break. She would have been annoyed if it were any other man; he’s the only one with reason to believe that she might.
Red John had reached into his mind and destroyed a memory; murdered a woman for making Jane happy. And yet there she was, trying to commit the same cardinal sin that got Eileen Barlow killed. Maybe that’s why she saw tears in his eyes as he lay underneath her, his hands gripping her hips and his voice pleading with her not to stop (she had no intention to).
In that moment, loving Patrick Jane felt like nothing short of a death sentence, and she couldn’t have cared less.
He had been right about a target on her back, and it was proved weeks later, when she woke up in the hospital, scared out of her mind and with a slight, lingering pain. Jane had been quick to assure her that Red John hadn’t harmed her, thankfully. Her doctor had confirmed the same once she’d come into the room and Jane had left, but she’d had other news to share.
Lisbon made sure that it wasn’t on her chart; she couldn’t afford to have it in her file, not then. Especially not after what had happened the night before. The doctor thankfully hadn’t taken much convincing, nor required much explanation.
She couldn’t have anyone knowing that she was pregnant. She especially couldn’t have it on any record, not when Red John could have eyes anywhere— not when he could be at the top of the CBI—, not when anyone could read her like a book and make the logical jump to conclusions. She wasn’t going to put herself in the line of fire again— she was lucky enough to have survived the first time— and she wasn’t going to let Red John take another child from Patrick Jane.
Now, she thinks that, in some capacity, she hadn’t really prevented it. Jane isn’t going to get to know his kid— he’s not going to know he has a kid, because of Red John. Even in death, he had managed to take this from Jane, and take Jane from all of them.
She had taken him back to the CBI that night. They’d gotten dressed, tried as hard as possible to look as though nothing had happened, should prying eyes catch them on the way back. It’s a level of precaution she’d ordinarily laugh off, but since that night she’d been finding herself almost as paranoid as him.
“Thank you,” he muttered, before leaving her car. “For tonight, and… for everything.”
“Yeah,” she cleared her throat, trying to avoid eye contact, shutting down. “Of course. Thanks for dinner.”
“Lisbon,” he had continued, his voice pleading for her attention, breaking down the weak wall she had attempted to construct. “Next time,” he told her quietly, as she had turned to meet his gaze, “I’ll be there to make you breakfast.”
She nodded a little, offering a small smile.
Liar, she had thought then, despite the hope that had bubbled up in her chest.
Liar, she thinks to herself now as, for what must be the millionth time in her life, she heats up her own damn meal.