the veil that keeps me blind, 7/15
Title: The Veil That Keeps Me Blind
Chapter: 7/15 (Book II)
Notes: This is one of the shortest chapters. It’s also one of the most important, and the last part of Book II.
Book II
Chapter 7
xxxxx
Jane cannot wait until Monday.
Less than 24 hours later, Jane finds himself standing outside her front door in the early evening, in circumstances not entirely unlike those of six months prior. This time, however, he knows she is home. He will resort to picking her locks if he must, although he remains hopeful that it will not come to that.
He rings the bell twice. Then he waits.
“Jane?”
Lisbon answers the door in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, confusion evident both in her voice and in the way she furrows her brows the moment she opens the front door.
Jane wastes no time. “We need to talk,” he says immediately, not waiting for an invitation to walk through the front door.
“Jane!?” she repeats herself, more forcefully this time. “What are you doing here?”
“I said we need to talk.”
Before she has a chance to protest, he shuts the front door behind him and guides her into her living room. He is wound up and anxious, as proven by his impulsive decision to show up at her doorstep without even an inkling of a plan in his mind. There is a thrill that comes with abandoning his usual calculated plans and letting his emotions guide him. It has been a long time since anything other than Red John caused him to feel this unrestrained.
(The comparison, he knows, goes only so far; otherwise it is entirely unfair to Lisbon.)
In spite of his lowered inhibitions, he still notices the state of her living room. Her books and furniture have not moved, they all sit exactly as he remembers; even the artwork left behind by the previous tenants remains in place, completely unchanged but for an extra layer of dust. Yet most of her personal effects have been removed, likely stored in the extra boxes that are stacked together on her living room floor.
Neither one of them sits down.
“Okay,” she says, her words slow and deliberate. “You said you wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”
For lack of a better plan, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “You said you were glad to see me. What did you mean by that?”
Lisbon frowns and makes no attempt to conceal the irritation in her voice. “I meant exactly what I said. Although I’m starting to rethink that.”
Not the answer he is looking for, but certainly the answer he should have expected.
“That was not my question, and you know it.”
Having caught her off guard, Lisbon is on the defensive. She folds her arms protectively over her chest, another move that seems completely uncharacteristic of Lisbon herself. Who was this woman she played while undercover, and how much of that woman will Lisbon carry with her now that it’s over?
“Then what was your question?” she snaps, her arms releasing their hold; she looks more like herself again.
“My question,” he steps forward and straightens his posture, trying to maintain his figurative high ground, “is why you were so surprised to see me in San Francisco. Don’t try to tell me you weren’t; you didn’t hide your reaction fast enough.”
“So I wasn’t expecting you,” she answers. Her eyes narrow and she steps forward herself, only a few feet separating them now. “I wasn’t expecting any of you.”
“But I was different, wasn’t I? You weren’t just surprised to see me in San Francisco, you were surprised to see me at all. Tell me I’m wrong. I know I’m not.”
Lisbon looks up at him inquisitively, holding his gaze until her expression softens and the biting edge fades from her tone.
“Why does it matter?” she asks, with an intensity that makes him shiver involuntarily. Her eyes are clear and bright and honest, threatening to sever the last of his ties to rational thought.
“I don’t know what you want, and I don’t want to fight with you.” She shrugs her shoulders, not quite in defeat, but perhaps in fatigue. “You show up here unannounced with these loaded questions and who knows what kind of hidden agenda. You’re not even supposed to be here. So just out with it Jane. What is it that you want from me?”
“I want you.”
If he is surprised at his admission, or how easily it slips out, it is nothing compared to the shock with which Lisbon meets his words. She simply stares back at him, her face blank and expressionless, as though his admission has not yet registered.
“I want you,” he repeats. “And I want answers, but I’m not going to force them from you. Six months ago you said we would talk later, but you left without saying a word. What am I supposed to make of that?”
Lisbon remains silent.
“You’re the one who is always saying that we’re a team and we’re in this together, but you disappear for months and we hear nothing from you. I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing or if you’re okay, and you couldn’t even leave me a note saying you had to go away for work and you’d see me when you got back?” He says this all at once; not cool and detached as he’d hoped, but urgent, pleading. He finally exhales and his voice softens. “I’m not asking loaded questions, I’m just asking questions.”
Jane crosses the invisible line between them, leaning forward and touching her arm gently. That seems to break her daze enough that she blinks once and her eyes focus on him once again.
“You were the one who wanted this, Teresa.” He feels her pulse quicken under his touch, and that sends a thrill down his spine. She is not as unaffected as she would probably like to be. “My plans were set, and I was fine with the way things were. Then you came along and changed them, and I didn’t even have a chance.” Although he tries to keep his voice even, it unconsciously begins to break. “I fell in love with you.”
Before he even knows what he’s doing, the hand on her forearm moves to her lower back, pulling her into him. (She doesn’t resist.) He kisses her then, unable to resist the familiar scent and feel of her. He knows her, he knows this, maybe too well for his own good. Within moments, she’s kissing him back.
Everything else fades into the background as he traces indistinct lines across her back, discovering memory in touch and taste and sound. She opens her mouth for his tongue without hesitation, and the kiss quickly turns from chaste to desperate as he pours months of bottled up emotions into every stroke of his hands and swipe of his tongue.
Jane doesn’t know how much time passes this way, with only the pounding of his heart as a guide, until he finally finds the willpower to pull away.
He studies her reaction intently. Her face is flushed and her breathing is uneven, and if he had been unsure of his feelings for her, every last notion of uncertainty vanishes in an instant.
He doesn’t want to leave her, not now, but he has made his point. This time, it’s his turn to walk away. What happens from here is her decision now.
“Like I said, Teresa,” he leans in and whispers directly in her ear. “I never had a chance.”
He turns and puts one foot in front of the other, walking out her front door and into the cool December air.
He doesn’t allow himself to look back.
xxxxx
Chapter: 7/15 (Book II)
Notes: This is one of the shortest chapters. It’s also one of the most important, and the last part of Book II.
Book II
Chapter 7
xxxxx
Jane cannot wait until Monday.
Less than 24 hours later, Jane finds himself standing outside her front door in the early evening, in circumstances not entirely unlike those of six months prior. This time, however, he knows she is home. He will resort to picking her locks if he must, although he remains hopeful that it will not come to that.
He rings the bell twice. Then he waits.
“Jane?”
Lisbon answers the door in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, confusion evident both in her voice and in the way she furrows her brows the moment she opens the front door.
Jane wastes no time. “We need to talk,” he says immediately, not waiting for an invitation to walk through the front door.
“Jane!?” she repeats herself, more forcefully this time. “What are you doing here?”
“I said we need to talk.”
Before she has a chance to protest, he shuts the front door behind him and guides her into her living room. He is wound up and anxious, as proven by his impulsive decision to show up at her doorstep without even an inkling of a plan in his mind. There is a thrill that comes with abandoning his usual calculated plans and letting his emotions guide him. It has been a long time since anything other than Red John caused him to feel this unrestrained.
(The comparison, he knows, goes only so far; otherwise it is entirely unfair to Lisbon.)
In spite of his lowered inhibitions, he still notices the state of her living room. Her books and furniture have not moved, they all sit exactly as he remembers; even the artwork left behind by the previous tenants remains in place, completely unchanged but for an extra layer of dust. Yet most of her personal effects have been removed, likely stored in the extra boxes that are stacked together on her living room floor.
Neither one of them sits down.
“Okay,” she says, her words slow and deliberate. “You said you wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”
For lack of a better plan, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “You said you were glad to see me. What did you mean by that?”
Lisbon frowns and makes no attempt to conceal the irritation in her voice. “I meant exactly what I said. Although I’m starting to rethink that.”
Not the answer he is looking for, but certainly the answer he should have expected.
“That was not my question, and you know it.”
Having caught her off guard, Lisbon is on the defensive. She folds her arms protectively over her chest, another move that seems completely uncharacteristic of Lisbon herself. Who was this woman she played while undercover, and how much of that woman will Lisbon carry with her now that it’s over?
“Then what was your question?” she snaps, her arms releasing their hold; she looks more like herself again.
“My question,” he steps forward and straightens his posture, trying to maintain his figurative high ground, “is why you were so surprised to see me in San Francisco. Don’t try to tell me you weren’t; you didn’t hide your reaction fast enough.”
“So I wasn’t expecting you,” she answers. Her eyes narrow and she steps forward herself, only a few feet separating them now. “I wasn’t expecting any of you.”
“But I was different, wasn’t I? You weren’t just surprised to see me in San Francisco, you were surprised to see me at all. Tell me I’m wrong. I know I’m not.”
Lisbon looks up at him inquisitively, holding his gaze until her expression softens and the biting edge fades from her tone.
“Why does it matter?” she asks, with an intensity that makes him shiver involuntarily. Her eyes are clear and bright and honest, threatening to sever the last of his ties to rational thought.
“I don’t know what you want, and I don’t want to fight with you.” She shrugs her shoulders, not quite in defeat, but perhaps in fatigue. “You show up here unannounced with these loaded questions and who knows what kind of hidden agenda. You’re not even supposed to be here. So just out with it Jane. What is it that you want from me?”
“I want you.”
If he is surprised at his admission, or how easily it slips out, it is nothing compared to the shock with which Lisbon meets his words. She simply stares back at him, her face blank and expressionless, as though his admission has not yet registered.
“I want you,” he repeats. “And I want answers, but I’m not going to force them from you. Six months ago you said we would talk later, but you left without saying a word. What am I supposed to make of that?”
Lisbon remains silent.
“You’re the one who is always saying that we’re a team and we’re in this together, but you disappear for months and we hear nothing from you. I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing or if you’re okay, and you couldn’t even leave me a note saying you had to go away for work and you’d see me when you got back?” He says this all at once; not cool and detached as he’d hoped, but urgent, pleading. He finally exhales and his voice softens. “I’m not asking loaded questions, I’m just asking questions.”
Jane crosses the invisible line between them, leaning forward and touching her arm gently. That seems to break her daze enough that she blinks once and her eyes focus on him once again.
“You were the one who wanted this, Teresa.” He feels her pulse quicken under his touch, and that sends a thrill down his spine. She is not as unaffected as she would probably like to be. “My plans were set, and I was fine with the way things were. Then you came along and changed them, and I didn’t even have a chance.” Although he tries to keep his voice even, it unconsciously begins to break. “I fell in love with you.”
Before he even knows what he’s doing, the hand on her forearm moves to her lower back, pulling her into him. (She doesn’t resist.) He kisses her then, unable to resist the familiar scent and feel of her. He knows her, he knows this, maybe too well for his own good. Within moments, she’s kissing him back.
Everything else fades into the background as he traces indistinct lines across her back, discovering memory in touch and taste and sound. She opens her mouth for his tongue without hesitation, and the kiss quickly turns from chaste to desperate as he pours months of bottled up emotions into every stroke of his hands and swipe of his tongue.
Jane doesn’t know how much time passes this way, with only the pounding of his heart as a guide, until he finally finds the willpower to pull away.
He studies her reaction intently. Her face is flushed and her breathing is uneven, and if he had been unsure of his feelings for her, every last notion of uncertainty vanishes in an instant.
He doesn’t want to leave her, not now, but he has made his point. This time, it’s his turn to walk away. What happens from here is her decision now.
“Like I said, Teresa,” he leans in and whispers directly in her ear. “I never had a chance.”
He turns and puts one foot in front of the other, walking out her front door and into the cool December air.
He doesn’t allow himself to look back.
xxxxx