Chapter 11: Acceptance

Jane snuggled into the couch cushions with the throw drawn under his chin. The room was slowly brightening as dawn prevailed over night. It had been years since he'd slept well and he reveled in the feeling of well-being from a good night's sleep.

The faint scent of vanilla penetrated thoughts still thick and fuzzy with sleep. Good for stress, depression ... maybe an aphrodisiac. Meandering thoughts followed random connections. Loved the smell when Sam baked ... always surprised at the sharp taste ... the alcohol in the extract? He bunched up the throw and buried his face in it. Blanket smells like vanilla ... marketing ploy? ... wouldn't it would wash out? He shifted position at a pleasant stirring in his groin. Vanilla ... Lisbon's couch. ... Ah. Shampoo maybe? His eyebrow twitched. Uh-uh, hair smells like cinnamon. ... body wash? The sound of a shower followed and he was overwhelmed by the image: Teresa, naked in billowing steam. Head thrown back, eyes closed, ruby lips parted. Water cascading over milky skin accented by sable hair and rose nipples. Desire and arousal surged. He had to picture a grisly murder scene to chill the reaction.

For years after his family's murder he had no interest in sex. Even when he indulged in the timeless dance of flirting and seducing, overwhelming guilt short-circuited any chance of consummation. It had with the gorgeous grieving widow ... later proved murderess. With Erica Flynn. He frowned, worried at the thought that she, too, was a murderer. Kristina Frye. This was different. He was literally enveloped in Lisbon's home. And in Teresa's affections if he let himself think about it. The pull of connection, normalcy, happiness, home, ... love ... was nearly irresistible.

It scared the hell out of him.

He'd kept the smiley face to crush any thought of moving on before avenging their deaths. Yet time, forged friendships, and worthwhile work made that harder with every new year. Giving up would be easy. Lisbon wanted him to, especially after the nightmare of his murder trial. She could be the future he'd despaired of ever again having.

To his horror he had momentarily considered the offer made by Timothy Carter, Red John's proxy. Later, Jane figured Red John had listened in but any transmitter had vanished with Carter's revolver. Red John wanted to "quit." "Retire." His proposition was more powerful than that of any prostitute: Red John would quit, leave – and Jane would be free to have a future with Lisbon. Jane shuddered. Trusting his future, his Lisbon, and – god help them – maybe a family to Red John's promise would be madness.

Jane told himself it was mere physical reaction to a beautiful woman. And she is, he thought wistfully despite himself. However pleasant and necessary the weekend had been, this had to be the last day and the last indulgence of this sort. It would be insane to count on Red John leaving him and, infinitely more important, – Lisbon – unharmed. And regardless of Red John's overture, abandoning his quest would destroy him. He filled his lungs with Lisbon's scent then tossed the throw aside. He stretched and rose, reluctantly in control once again.

Lisbon turned restlessly in bed, acutely aware that one Patrick Jane lay sleeping in her townhouse beyond her bedroom door. After the fugue there was no way she could leave Jane alone to grieve and brood in that damned, depressing attic or equally depressing motel room. That did nothing to salve the exquisite torture of this domestic interlude.

She had bought furniture for her first apartment when she started working at the SFPD. Lisbon told herself the bedroom set came with a queen-sized bed even though a single or double was ample space for just her. True, she'd fled from Greg and the stultifying, traditional future he planned. But her determination to succeed in a challenging profession didn't silence a quiet hope to have a family as well some day. That hope faded as her 30's overtook her 20's. Predictably, men outside law enforcement were put off, alarmed, by the danger inherent in her job. She was blind-sided by the reactions of fellow cops. Their keen appreciation of the risks was amplified by professional competition and even jealousy. Men in law enforcement were rarely in the vanguard of social change. Most thought she should marry a cop rather than be a cop herself. Cho and Rigsby were different, self-selected by being willing to work for a woman. Of course, anyone who worked for her was automatically off limits. Which left ... no one.

Patrick Jane was offered a job at the CBI on the force of sheer brilliance. Despite serious misgivings, she accepted Minelli's suggestion to add the shattered survivor to her team. Gradually, unintentionally, unconsciously, Jane had gone from her brilliant-but-enormously-irritating consultant to valued team member, to friend and more than friend.

After Hardy, after McTeer's murder, after the bomb vest not even she believed the threadbare explanation that she tolerated Jane because "he closes cases." She loved him. Was in love with him. If pushed, she'd guess – hope? – the feelings were reciprocated though she never knew exactly where she stood. Was there room alongside Angela and Charlotte? Could he bear being that vulnerable again after their devastating murders? Was she sure their relationship was based on more than help in hunting Red John? Being in love with Patrick Jane was akin to loving someone with a deadly illness. His brilliance was terrifyingly scant protection against a gun or Red John's knife. Even if he prevailed, what then? His legal tour de force after Carter couldn't be repeated.

Mere thought of the trial nauseated her. The death penalty was off the table when they found Debbi Lupin in that basement torture chamber. But the months Ardilles spent preparing his case against Jane were agonizing nonetheless. Jane was banned from the CBI, of course. She saw little of him once she returned to work after physical therapy. When she did see him he was preoccupied and distant. Her every night was filled with nightmares of the death penalty (her subconscious was flagrantly unconcerned with fact or logic), of Jane broken by years in prison, of Jane beaten, raped, dying at the hands of uncounted inmates imprisoned because of him.

It was irrelevant. She loved him. Would always love him. Even if the personal life she ached for with him could never be. Even if he would never be on this side of her bedroom door, filling the empty space in her bed and heart.

Lisbon sighed and rubbed away an incipient headache. One more day and things would go back to normal – had to go back for sanity's sake. She rose tiredly, gathered her clothes and went in to shower.

It was awkward for the first time since he recovered his memory. The banter during breakfast was flat, their smiles unconvincing as they studiously ignored the impending end to their shared weekend.

Lisbon cast about for small talk. "Like the book you were reading?" She hoped Jane wasn't reading it because of Wainwright.

Jane eyed her and smiled. "I'm not wasting time worrying about Wainwright." She frowned that he read her thoughts so easily. He explained, "Anything psychology is an obvious connection to Wainwright. We both know his opinion of me and that you worry about it."

She snorted, "And you don't?"

He gave her a sunny smile. "Nope. I only care about the opinions of people I respect."

She opened her mouth, but could only say, "Oh," unsure if that included her. Then warmth swept through her when she remembered Jane asking if she thought he was anti-social after their first case under Wainwright.

Jane moved his breakfast plate away and sipped tea before getting back to her question. "The book's somewhat interesting. I'm familiar with the sociopathic traits highlighted by the author, of course." Lisbon quelled her reflexive negative reaction to what sounded like boasting. Jane really was knowledgeable. Focused on the book, he didn't notice. "The research she cites on environmental contributions versus the heritable component – that's new. Surprising that childhood abuse and attachment disorder are not implicated..." He drifted off as he followed that thought.

Makes sense. Jane picks up a lot by observing, but wouldn't know the academic research. After a moment, "Jane, penny for 'em?"

He focused on her, jarred back to the present. "Sorry. Of course I want to relate the material to Red John." He looked grim for a moment. "Lack of conscience and severely limited emotional capacity don't capture everything I see, though."

Animated, as she gathered the dishes, "That's what I thought. There's an explanation–"

"–Which is?" He rose to help load the dishwasher.

"What if it's several disorders? Psychopathy and megalomania, for instance?"

He waggled his head back and forth, temporizing. "Mmm. Where does that get you? Piling on a grab bag of diagnoses is more guessing than understanding."

She deliberately bumped her shoulder against his when she passed. Archly, "Of course there's an easy explanation."

He stopped. Eyebrows raised he looked at her skeptically. "Oh?"

"Evil."

He huffed, "And now we plunge into the supernatural."

"Does it matter? At some point diagnostic categories are academic. Red John is malicious, destructive, sadistic, malignant. 'Evil' is a good working description in my book."

He demurred, "It helps to understand how he thinks. He has delusions of grandeur, an exalted opinion of himself. He has followers. Cloaks his ... butchery in some larger purpose. My god, Lisbon, Carter even talked about 'making a positive change in the world.'" He abruptly stopped. He'd revealed more than intended.

She faced him. Deadly serious, "Thought you were going to share information so we can catch the sonofabitch?"

A muscle flexed in his jaw. Curtly, "It was Carter, not Red John–"

"–You know damn well Red John dictated everything Carter said. Spill."

After a moment of stony silence. "Most of it was personal – goading, cat and mouse. Two things might be useful. He said he wanted to quit, get a new face, new life. And – and what I just said. He denies he's a monster, wants to 'make a positive contribution,'" he related with painful irony.

She took a deep breath and consciously relented. "The idea he wants anything 'positive' is ... unbelievable. Could explain how he attracts followers." Jane nodded, acknowledging that was relevant to the team's work. She tilted her head, eyes narrowed, "Do you believe he wants to quit?"

He stood stock still as he considered the disturbing possibility. Was their investigation, his quest for vengeance, prolongnig the very butchery they vowed to stop? He swallowed. "No." Intensely, "Someone who's committed dozens of brutal murders doesn't just change his mind. He might pause, take a break. But sooner or later he'd kill again."

Softly, "I agree." She deliberately regrouped. "Um, I have a bunch of errands. Come with, or–"

"–I'll come." He much preferred her company to obsessing over Carter and Red John.

The morning was spent running errands. Things finally felt normal in the SUV, product of years of companionable company driving to and from crime scenes. By one o'clock Jane looked longingly as they passed restaurants and deli's.

"Lisbon." She glanced over. "Is lunch on your list or are we on the starvation plan?"

"Suck it up, Jane. Next stop, Cho's." At his questioning look she expanded. "Bought a house, remember? It's finished and he invited us."

"Oh." Jane assumed the invitation was extended during the fugue. He was silent for the 20 minutes it took to drive there.

Lisbon parked on the quiet, tree-lined street. The houses were solid but old enough that rehabbing made sense for people who wanted modern interiors with the convenience of living close in. Jane stood next to the SUV and scanned the surrounding neighborhood.

"Cho chose well." Most houses had already been renovated. The city had resurfaced the streets and repaired sidewalks. Newly xeriscaped public areas were lush even after a hot, dry summer.

Cho answered the door dressed in a black tee, jeans and sneakers. Jane plastered on a big smile as he stepped in. The inside was as different from the quiet, solid exterior as night and day. The interior was subtly Asian and sleekly modern, done in a palette of taupes, griege, and cool white, set off with custom charcoal woodwork. Cerused oak floors kept it light. Vivid teal and magenta accents made it interesting.

"Cho, this is great," Lisbon said, moved to uncharacteristic enthusiasm.

Jane's stock smile transformed into an appreciative grin. "You have hidden talents, my friend." Lisbon noticed Jane blink, as though surprised by his own words. Jane had wandered to the living room walls where he examined the artwork, a grouping of martial arts certificates, and striking photographs. "Photographer, too, I see."

Cho resigned himself to Jane knowing more about him no matter what. "Beer? Soda? Tea?"

After Lisbon and Jane had their beverages he showed them the rest of the house. The upstairs held three generous bedrooms. The kitchen, formal dining room, living room, and study were on the first floor. An exercise room and utility space occupied the walk-out basement. Sacramento streets had been raised long ago to prevent flooding. His first floor was street-level, but like many buildings in the area, a full-height level below was necessary. Cho led them to the back yard after the tour. Jane whistled at the elaborate stone patio.

"Elise's friend does stonework. Worth it."

"I'll say," Lisbon echoed. Having rehabbed the place, everything reflected deliberate choices by Cho. She smiled to herself at how the house mirrored the character of her reserved, talented, efficient second in command.

Jane eyed the mound of burgers, chicken, and sausage waiting to be grilled. "Who else is–"

They turned at the sound of doors opening. "Van Pelt, Rigsby," Lisbon welcomed. Cho nodded and turned to light the grill.

"The rest of the estimable team, of course," Jane said, big smile back.

Lisbon was struck by the smiling, expansive Jane. 'I only care about the opinions of people I respect.' Of course. He's nervous meeting the team after being laid bare during the fugue. Oh, Jane. Have more faith.

Rigsby and Van Pelt awkwardly paused, taking Jane in. Lisbon was reminded of cats meeting, undecided whether it was friend or foe. After a second Van Pelt stepped forward with a warm smile and surprised Jane with a hug.

"I'm so glad you're back, Jane."

Rigsby even patted him on the shoulder, more familiar than usual in his relief that the memory thing was over. Rigsby uncomfortably stepped away. "Where do you want the food, Cho?"

"Cold stuff on the table." Rigsby unloaded the cold food plus a stack of foil-wrapped cobs of corn. Van Pelt set out paper plates, plastic-ware, and cups. Lisbon hurried to the SUV and returned with the cake she'd bought and the three-inch looseleaf binder from the CBI.

To Jane's relief, he sensed no ill will, despite having been an ass during the fugue, despite taking $38,000. Lisbon must have told them I returned it. Jane brought the corn over to Cho by the grill. Jane turned to rejoin the others.

Cho stopped him with a quiet, "Jane." Jane turned back. "I owe you an apology."

"For?"

"What I said at the Wilcox house."

Jane shrugged, disinclined to talk about anything that happened during the fugue. "Don't remember, doesn't matter," he said lightly.

"I said you were a hustler. I was wrong."

That garnered a puzzled look. Jane took a breath, "No you weren't."

Cho put the tongs down and faced him. "You came back after taking the money, wanted to be called on it. A hustler would be two states away."

Jane swallowed and looked away. Tongue-tied for once, "Uh, okay." He drifted off to join the three agents sitting at the table. He half-listened in till he noticed the CBI binder on top of the low stone wall. Curiosity piqued, he went over and flipped open the cover. It was a scrapbook of the SCU's cases. He smirked at the realization that Lisbon had been keeping one despite her insistence that CBI senior agents didn't compete. His expression morphed into appreciation as he idly leafed through the pages. The three inch binder was full to bursting with newspaper articles, commendations, grateful letters, and monthly memos recording the SCU's top close and conviction rates. Jane had joined six months after Lisbon took her position and he'd worked nearly all the cases. More than a few letters mentioned him by name. He looked up to find Lisbon's gaze trained on him. She nodded and calmly returned to her conversation with the other agents.

Everyone enjoyed the afternoon. The agents held their breaths when Elise arrived, unexpectedly bringing her five-year-old and seven-year old nieces. Jane swallowed hard then proceeded to amuse the kids with sleight of hand and teasing. That evening Jane repacked his away suitcase and had Lisbon drop him off at the CBI.

On Tuesday Lisbon had Cho take $38,000 down to Evidence to add to the S&L robbery case. The SCU somehow "forgot" to file the additional money on Friday. Lisbon knew Wainwright would send a memo admonishing her to handle evidence more carefully. With the Wilcox family's hotel bill and take out delivery receipts, all the money was accounted for. Wilcox's accusations against Jane would be ignored as slander for Jane's role in the arrest.

She received a bouquet of French blue hydrangeas just as Cho was leaving her office. He paused and Rigsby and Van Pelt looked in as Lisbon opened the attached card. Jane was conspicuously absent. Van Pelt was brave enough to ask.

"Flowers-" Lisbon answered. She opened the card and straightened in surprise, "-Every week for a year." She read the card, "'Thanks for keeping me from making a big mistake.'"

When the case work was wrapped up an hour later, Cho found an envelope in place of his bookmark in the novel he was reading.

"What's that?" Rigsby asked.

Cho opened the envelope. "Two season's passes to the San Fran Giants. And a note."

Rigsby frowned when his laconic friend stopped. "Which says?"

"'Thanks for putting up with me.'"

"Signed?"

"No."

Even though it had all ended well – Cho told him and Van Pelt about putting the missing money in Evidence – Rigsby remained annoyed at being out money because of their light-fingered colleague. It wasn't till mid-morning that he found a sealed envelope in his stash of snack food.

"Cool!" he exclaimed looking inside.

At Cho's inquiring glance he said, "All expenses paid voucher for two for a week at that fancy resort we visited for a case, you know the one with the gigolo? Good indefinitely."

Van Pelt wasn't at her desk and Cho commented acerbically, "Good. Gives you and Van Pelt time to get back together." He ignored Rigsby's frown. "What else?"

"Sixty-three bucks!" He grinned, as happy about the $63 as the voucher worth many times more. "And a note." He read, "'Thanks for putting up with me. And for the loan.' Not signed."

"'Course not." Cho returned to his book. His lips quirked just a fraction.

Van Pelt was disappointed not to get anything, but rationalized it away since she hadn't been tricked, or pick-pocketed, or groped. After lunch she was surprised when Security brought up a mysterious 30" x 30" flat box for her.

"What is it, Grace?"

"Give me a minute, Wayne. Let me read the card first. Says, 'We may disagree on the inspiration, but the result is magnificent. Thanks for being a friend.' I have no idea what it is."

Cho, "Open it already."

"It's really heavy." She pulled out what appeared to be a picture and unfolded the bubble wrap. "Oh my gosh! It's beautiful!" The gift was a scale replica of the main stained-glass rosette window of the Notre Dame Cathedral.

An hour later, Jane quietly came down from his aerie for tea. The commotion had died down. His colleagues – his friends – were busy with work. He sipped his tea, satisfied.

FINI