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Nothing makes sense, he thinks, as Tamara drains her third glass of wine, giggling endlessly at a joke he just made. Underneath the table, her bare calf slides across his thigh. He should be enjoying himself. This is his recipe for some good fun, followed to the last letter. And it's working. Yet he cannot shirk the feeling that he's wearing another man's skin, part of him constantly screaming in his head— Get me out of here!
Nothing makes sense.
Except for her. Somehow.
Teresa.
And that's terrifying for an unfathomable reason. A fear so stark it's ingrained into muscle memory, warning him to run away from whatever it is he feels when she traps him into those emerald eyes of hers. Whatever it is that has trained this kind of reaction to something so simple as attraction. His so-called tragedy.
"Patrick, are you listening to me?" Tamara's voice finally breaks into his consciousness.
He grins. "Sorry, babe. I was just distracted by how well the red of your dress flatters your skin."
Another giggle.
Red. Why does that color suddenly make him feel like he's standing on the precipice of a great discovery? What does he know about red? Red: the color of passion, of great desire. The color of blood as well. Some eastern cultures use red wedding dresses as a sign of good luck or fertility. If you want to bed a woman, buy her red flowers.
The memory palace is intact, her voice appears in his head, unbidden .
"Tell me more, I wanna hear more," his date purrs, her eyes glinting beneath a curtain of lashes.
"Oh I could go on for the entire night, Teresa."
He only realizes his slip after he sees the smile fade from his escort's lips. Crap.
"It's Tamara," she politely corrects him.
"Of course, Tamara—you must forgive me, I did almost die ."
And she's back to laughing. Patrick takes a sip of his wine, a veiled attempt to calm down his nerves.
It's lucky that the names are so similar. In fact, it's more than just the names in which the two women share similarities. Any professional mind-reader would read his choice for what it is, from Tamara's chestnut bangs to the light color of her eyes to the slightness of her build—a desperate effort to relieve himself of pent-up emotions accumulated throughout his time with Teresa.
But of course, Tamara is nothing like the CBI agent.
For one thing, she has dodged none of his flirtations so far. And for another, there is no honesty—or dignity, for that matter—in her eyes. And the fact that he's still thinking about Teresa means that he has utterly failed in that little plan of his to burn out his attraction for her via more conventional means.
He drains his glass in sudden haste, gesturing at the waiter to bring the check. Tamara frowns with confusion.
"Excuse me, my lovely lady. I just remembered something very important that I must do."
***
Funny how crime sleeps when she can't. She'd give anything to be dragged to a crime scene across the state right about now. Then again, she doesn't know how she will react to not meeting him there.
She sighs, grabs the remote and turns off the TV. It had seemed like a good idea to fill the silence with some comforting background noise, but The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is the last movie she needs to watch right now, and she does not care for a random reality show either.
She switches off the light and turns to her side. If she doesn't sleep, at least her body and eyes will rest. That's something.
Her phone buzzes, and she thinks— Of course. Of course, how didn't I think of it earlier? I had to taunt the criminals with just the threat of closing my eyes. But no, she reconsiders—If this was about the job, there would be a call. Not a message. She sits up, turns on the light again, and grabs her phone from the nightstand.
Are you sleeping?
It takes her a moment to grasp the reality of having an actual text from him. She checks the time. 1.34 AM. If he's texting her from that woman's bed because he randomly craved some chit-chat, he's so going to regret it. But no —a sudden worry prickles her chest. This might be important. What if he… ? The question barely forms in her mind as her fingers blaze across her phone's keyboard.
Not yet. What is it?
The buzz of his answer comes almost immediately.
I am kinda outside your apartment.
She stares at her phone's screen like doing so will somehow clear the illusion. Until she's taken too long to answer, so Jane double texts. She vaguely remembers Trixie from the evidence department saying that that is a big deal in dating life. At the same time, she feels irritated at her brain for thinking that in reaction to Jane.
It's cold. Can you open? Please?
She climbs down the stairs to her living room, flipping lights open on the way, and struggling with the sleeves of her robe. She doesn't really believe she'll actually find him at her doorstep, until she opens the door, and he's there. His eyes capture hers briefly, before they sink down her body. When he looks upwards once again, his gaze is slightly off-center. It reminds her of when he caught her dressing in her office last spring. And just like then, she feels almost naked.
"Jane." Her voice is a quiet rasp in the night chill.
His breath mists the air. "Cute PJs."
She inspects herself absent-mindedly, still coming to terms with the fact that he's actually here. Her old white Scout Girls t-shirt peeks through her untied robe, paired with loose dark sweats. She looks back to him, smiles faintly.
"Are you okay?"
"Peachy. May I come in?"
She studies his eyes more intently, searching for the presence of the man she knows. "Did you—did you remember something?"
"Does it look like I did?" he returns.
It doesn't. But she had to be sure.
It's odd how he manages to sound both like himself and at the same time like a different man completely. Another moment passes in silence, as she waits for him to name his cause. But of course, things are never that simple with him. When have they ever been?
"Phew! It's so cold out here," he proclaims, rubbing his palms. "It's best that we go inside, don't you think?" he prods her again, his pupils rolling sideways in an exaggerated manner.
She frowns, but steps aside eventually, knowing that the shortest way to obtaining the truth from him is by letting his antics play out first.
As he walks beside her, she catches a whiff of female perfume. And she's suddenly back at the CBI bullpen, seeing that woman kiss him. For several seconds, it's all she can think about, as he lazily strolls into her seating area, her at his wake. How their lips fused together, how his hand flew to her waist. She doesn't know why she felt so offended. Almost like being cheated on. Which is absurd.
"What happened to your date?" she asks, unable to help herself.
He turns around to face her. In the dim light of her living room, his eyes look tired, his golden locks rumpled. Perhaps it's on behalf of him that she took offense, she muses. Her Jane. Who would have loathed selling himself out to a random hooker.
"Always with the questions, Teresa," this Jane remarks, his gaze holding hers firmly.
She tilts her chin. "It's my job to ask you questions. Since you're hardly the willingly sharing type. Most of the time, it saves me from any surprises later."
"Is that what I am to you? Just part of the job?" he questions.
She shakes her head, confused. Why does everyone always ask her this question? "Where is this coming from? I've told you—we're friends."
"And I've told you that I think there's more to it than just friends. "
Just like in the hospital, her heart skips a beat. Despite the winter temperatures outside, her skin feels hot suddenly, her lungs airtight. She's started to suspect the motive behind this nighttime visit, and it fills her with equal parts terror and heat. Then she notices the glaze in his eyes.
"Are you drunk?"
"I assure you I'm in full control."
"What?" she starts, letting some casual mirth spill into her tone, "Tamara ditched you so now you've come here to try out your luck with me?"
"She didn't ditch me. I ditched her."
She nods, not missing a bit. "Glad that you're finally seeing some reas—What are you doing?" Her voice rises up mid-speech, as he abruptly closes the distance separating them in a few strides, stopping inches away from her. Jane—the old Jane—would have known better than to walk up to her like that. Her defense reflexes fire up. She leaps aside and twists his arm behind his back, bending him forward.
"Ow," he complains.
She's left staring at him wide-eyed, her thoughts slowly catching up to what just happened.
Jane murmurs something, it almost sounds like That is so hot, but she cannot be sure.
"I'm sorry," she blurts, letting him go, feeling all flushed and awkward.
He stumbles a little as he finds his balance, turning around to look at her, both of them now standing at opposite directions from where they stood before.
"That was stupid of me," he admits.
Silence settles, as she stares at him, unable to believe that he just—Did he just try to kiss her? His expression slowly changes, all levity gone. Replaced with an earnest kind of sincerity. It's almost like she's seeing the real Jane again.
"You were right," he says, his voice a quiet rumble, "I was running away. And I did start to remember something as you said. The fact that I have feelings for you."
If she was speechless before, she's now forgotten language entirely.
"Don't be so surprised, Teresa. I told you at the hospital that there was more between us than friendship, I meant it on my side as well. It's because of how these feelings attacked me that I am terrified to find out why I have not acted on them. And honestly, I don't want to find out. If finding out means I don't get to have this with you."
This can't be happening. This is not happening. It has to be a ruse. A means to get her to open her heart to him. Only it doesn't look like he's lying. The usual guard is missing from his eyes, leaving his soul bare under her scrutiny. And it's so breathtaking, she thinks she might never think of the ocean as beautiful ever again.
She doesn’t know what he reads on her face, but finally, he propels on with: "Now if you'll let me, I'd like to kiss you."
He takes a slow step forward as he says so, and her stomach clenches. Words spin together and apart in her mind, trying to form sentences, arguments about why this specifically is a very bad idea. But Jane enters her personal space, and all sense disappears.
Oh, he knows exactly how to do this. She knew he would. His hand cradles her face first, fingers tangling with her hair, thumb grazing her temple, while his other hand brushes down her shoulder. He unravels her, their breaths mixing together, as his nose sways close to hers.
She vaguely remembers another time, another instance in this very apartment. His arms cushioning her as she tipped forward, caught in the spell of his soothing voice. That was then. Only a piece of his magic used on her.
This is different.
This is all of him pressed into a single moment. His charm and his aura of seduction, his earnestness and his grace and his delicate sleight of hand. It is all of those things and it knocks the breath out of her lungs long before their mouths have touched.
And when that finally happens, it is only a flitting brush of lips, as they both sway together, struggling to find balance. But it's enough to spread flames throughout her body. Despite all the prelude, she's not prepared for her reaction to Jane kissing her.
Her breath comes out in a hot gush, her blood sings and her heart races. She spreads like a flower, draping herself over him, as his arms fly around her, drawing her in. Her fingers weave through his hair, finally satisfying a curiosity that had lain dormant for years at the back of her mind.
The second crush of their mouths is steadier. He cups her face again and pries her lips apart with his own, drawing a soft sigh from her throat. She surrenders her mouth willingly. And when his tongue ventures in, it's all she can do to grab his shoulders for balance. He hums quietly, pressing her closer to him. He tastes of wine, and sunlight, and Jane, and part of her is still in awe of this moment, of kissing him. Part of her already knows that this changes everything, but the rest of her is too preoccupied to care.
Of all the times she reluctantly imagined what it would be like to kiss him, it was never like this.
Jane kisses with an agency and a tact that is missing from when they face armed situations. He explores her mouth like he catches criminals, with a thorough single-mindedness that makes her lose herself into him. His flat palm presses warmth into her lower back; his towering frame swallows hers completely—it's always a kind of surprise, what with her constantly wearing heels at work, but he really is so much taller than her; his arms practically cage her upper body.
His ragged breathing and soft grunts fill her ears. She doesn't think she's ever seen him this out of control. It awakens wicked ideas and desires in her, an eagerness to exploit this rare advantage. So she locks his chin in her grip and does a trick with her tongue. It earns her more than the desired effect, as Patrick groans into her mouth, and deepens the kiss yet again, while his hand slides a little lower down her back.
He starts to move them. She would never use the word clumsy in association to him, but it is with clumsy abandon that they both shuffle towards the wall, what with all the kissing and touching and feeling. He doesn't remember, but it feels as though he's trying to cover for lost time as much as she is. Years of yearning expressed in a single gesture.
She gasps when her back finds hard surface, and he immediately dives in, eager to swallow the sound. As well as the immediate yelp following it—a reaction to him abruptly dipping to lift her up, her legs folding across his thighs.
She's so pressed up against him that she can feel everything—the heat radiating from his body, and the rapidness of his heartbeat, and the rigidity under his belt. And that latter part is such an intimate aspect to know of him that she swears her mind short-circuits for a moment. He strokes her cheek and she lifts her palm without thinking, placing it over his hand, her thumb kneading his knuckles. She can feel the cold band of his ring against her index finger.
She loves everything about him, she thinks in despair. Everything.
Slowly, reality dissolves around her. It could be seconds, hours, or years that they keep kissing, she wouldn't be the wiser. But eventually Patrick grunts, a shudder going through his body. He pulls back and her legs slip to the floor, his arms steadying her at the last moment. Her eyes flutter open, disoriented. The look she sees on his face makes her stomach burn and twist at the same time. His eyes are darkened, his lips swollen, his golden locks tousled from her ministrations. But there's also something else there, the spark of an awareness that was missing before.
"What is it?" she breathes, her voice weak.
He stares at her, his chest undulating as he struggles to calm down his breathing.
"Jane?" she asks softly when he stays quiet for too long, her hand squeezing his shoulder.
"I—I remember," he blurts.
"Oh."
Oh.
The words land like a crashing wave on the shore. They suck the delirium out of her thoughts, leaving behind an empty shell of a moment. She studies his eyes intently, wondering what he's thinking, what he will do now. Her relief over him finally being back to himself is dampened by her worry as she sees the shadows return to his eyes. The shadows that she fell in love with—as well as with the man bearing them—but which she now wishes had stayed gone.
"I don't understand. How did this trigger your memories? It's nothing that has happened before," she remarks. Because questioning around the more pressing subject is easier, familiar ground to tread on.
He shakes his head. "I don't know."
Another round of silence passes. His eyes fall to her lips, and despite the darkness that has weighed on them, her heart lurches. For an instant, she swears she sees yearning in his expression. As though he's seriously considering just taking it up from where they left it off. Instead, he exhales, his usual calm finally settling in.
"Lisbon, I—I can't," he says, stepping back.
It's the words she's feared for the last minute, but she refuses to let her disappointment show. She nods. "It's alright. We don't have to do this."
"I want to," he says with a wave of passion, his gaze gripping hers, and she forgets to breathe for a moment, her heart filled with the fierce desire to believe him. As if reading the doubt in her eyes, he pushes on, "Trust me—I want to. But I can't. Not until he's dead."
She licks her lips, weighing her next words carefully. "Jane, I'm saying this mainly as a friend"—it's odd and almost painful to use that word after everything that just transpired, but it suddenly feels imperative that she keeps her feelings out of this—"you cannot let him dictate your life."
He smiles bitterly. "I'm afraid it's a little too late for that."
She huffs, anger rising in her blood suddenly. "I'm not Kristina, I can protect myself."
"You don't know that."
All the sincerity and desire that had marked his face a while ago are now gone, his walls fully reared. Tears sprinkle her eyes despite her best efforts to keep them back. Quietly, Jane leans forward, places a soft kiss on her forehead, before pulling back, a regretful look on his face.
She wonders if he wishes he could erase the memory of what just happened between them.
"Goodnight, Teresa."
He turns around and marches to the door, leaving her to stare at the empty space around her. She finally lets her tears fall.
She'll never be the same again.