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When Jane sees her sitting there, waiting for him in this sterile little FBI conference room, it’s like an out of body experience.
His first thought is that her hair looks the same. His second thought is that she’s so beautiful he wants to die, wants to sink to her feet and beg her to give him peace because the island didn’t, because nothing can but her touch.
Saint Teresa, he names her, and to him, the epithet is no joking matter. Not anymore.
If he was more of an artist, more of a poet, he’d admire her from behind for a minute, taking in her dark hair and her tight shoulders and the way she clasps her hands nervously on the table. But Jane is more active, much more selfish, and he wants all her attention on him. He wants her to find him still handsome after all these years. He wants her to see that he’s the same; no, he wants her to see that he’s better. He wants to look in her eyes and see the love and loyalty he remembers before he felt the cool steel of her gun in his hands in that park. If those feelings are gone, he wants to needle and plead and look pathetic enough to put them back there. He wants, wants, wants —
“Hey,” he announces, eyes intent on her, easily summoning a wide smile to his face. It’s her. How could he not smile?
Lisbon spins around, and with her own bright eyes and delighted smile, with the way she jumps to her feet without his prompting, her own greeting eager and warm, he knows he’s already passed half the test. He steps deeper into the room, in her direction, letting the door fall closed behind him. His hands rise slightly, without his permission, but she doesn’t step close enough to take into his arms.
She must want to exchange more words. That’s okay; he can oblige. It is pretty difficult when all he wants to do is to mold them together into one being and kill anyone who tries to separate them. Unfortunately, Lisbon frowns on murder. He shouldn’t add to his tally, lest he go one too far beyond her capacity for forgiveness.
Her own eyes are studying him, finding the most obvious difference immediately. “Nice beard,” she teases, obviously trying to diffuse the moment, but he refuses to let her. Not this moment. Not when he’s spent years looking for peace only to find it a foot away, teasing him, warm and soft and alive and—
He can’t help it; he steps forward into her embrace. They’ve been talking for the past couple seconds, something about “thank you” and “letters” but none of that matters because he’s too desperate. He wants to feel her under his hands, pressed against his chest, cradled in his body where he knows she’s safe and secure. “Oh, I missed you,” he breathes, wrapping her up, inhaling the cinnamon and orange scent of her hair as he gently rocks her body back and forth. He suddenly realizes how Lisbon must feel when her prayers are answered, except his version is better because she is tangible, better than any god one might worship. Teresa Lisbon is beautiful and strong and complicated and messy and paradoxically perfect to him in every way. There’s no need for proselytization because he needs no persuasion to get on his knees before her.
He tightens his hands on her back, pulling her deeper into his body. She hums slightly at his uncharacteristic use of force, and he has to pull every biofeedback trick in the book to coax the fire coursing through his veins back to a slow, steady ember. “I missed you too,” she murmurs into his shoulder, and yes , that’s her thumb rubbing back and forth against his trapezius, turning the muscle into butter with her mere touch. He strokes his palm along her knobs of her spine, hoping to impart at least a fraction of the comfort she’s giving him.
He breathes in and out once more, storing up this feeling until he can have it again, before he pulls back. She goes too, but not far, fixing him with that familiar affectionately-worried look, like she’s already anticipating some mess she’s going to have to clean up. “What’s going on, huh?” She asks him carefully. “Why am I here?”
He pats her on the arms, smoothing down her jacket, just thrilled to be touching her. “You’ll see,” he promises. “It’s going to be great. Trust me.”
He doesn’t say it as a test—he means it—but he can’t help the way he searches her face for any indication of suspicion or anger. She’s clearly nervous, uncertain, but that’s to be expected.
Then, it happens. Just as he’s getting ready to sit, gesturing her into her own chair once more, she touches his arm. Gentle, soft, just her fingertips brushing over the fabric of his suit jacket. She looks truly anxious, as if facing a firing squad, and he swallows hard.
“Is… are you permanent?” She whispers. “Are you back?”
She looks… Jesus, she looks hopeful.
He feels himself unspool like the hem of a skirt that’s too far gone, losing shape and substance as it flutters in the wind. She wants him. She wants him. He can see it now; he can tell she wants him like he wants her. She’s worried about his absence the way he’s terrified of being torn from her once again, this time not of his own volition. He has to reground himself, he thinks, white noise buzzing in his ears as his world narrows down to her. It has to be with her body.
These thoughts have come and gone in an instant; it takes him several more seconds to form some sort of words. “Oh, god,” he half-moans, half-breathes, and with a single step, he’s in her space, his hands coming up to cradle her jaw. He angles her chin upwards so their faces are as level as possible, and then his mouth is on hers.
There’s no gentleness or test period. There’s no dipping of his toes into the ocean; he sprints in, heedless of the waves, happy to be caught up in the undertow. He groans at the feeling of her soft pink lips, tracing the seam with his tongue. She’s surprised for an instant, but without additional prompting, she surges forward, tossing her arms around his neck. She almost jumps as she does so, half-scaling his body, necessitating the drop of his right hand to her ass as he hefts her up so she can climb him like a tree if she so wishes. She opens her mouth as his tongue gets demanding, and his eyes roll back in his head at the taste of her.
“Jane,” she manages to whimper against his mouth, though it comes out half-formed, barely discernible. He wants her so badly that he doesn’t care if it hurts; the brush of their teeth and the bruises forming on their jaws are evidence of the satiation of years of this. This buildup of desire and loyalty and dependence and love. He loves her. It’s a golden light; a clearing of smoke. When it comes to this, he’s done with the games and the pain and the wars they’ve fought together and won. He belongs to her, body and soul. And she is going to be his if he has to grind the FBI down to dust to have her.
He kisses her deeper, staking his claim behind her teeth, in the bruises his fingers are pressing into her jaw before sliding his hand on her cheek to the back of her neck so he can angle her just so—there. Yes. He’s unable to stop the full-body shudder. He feels himself growing hard, and he presses himself against her with a moan, tugging at her lower lip with his teeth. He wonders what she'd do if he slipped his fingers under the waistband of her pants, just to feel her. The only thing that stops him is the idea that someone will walk in and see her as only he's supposed to see her. Her mouth open in ecstasy, the blush traveling down her body, the heat in her eyes before they flutter closed, all for him. No one else.
Just the thought makes him roll his hips into hers, swallowing the helpless noise she makes when he does so. Even biofeedback can’t help him now.
She takes his soft bite of her lip as an opportunity to soften the kiss, bringing one of her small hands to his chest, sliding through the wide opening to rake her fingers through the coarse, light hair she finds there. He groans into her mouth at the touch, nipping at her lip once more in retaliation.
“Do you wear your shirts like this now?” She teases between kisses.
He smiles against her mouth. “No, I unbuttoned it just outside that door in an attempt to seduce you,” he says, trailing kisses down her neck. He bathes the hollow of her throat with his tongue, eliciting a soft sound from her lips and the clench of her other hand in his hair. “Now be quiet,” he tells her, dropping both hands to her ass and lifting her up onto the table, “I’m reaping the rewards of my own acumen.”
She tries to respond, but because that’s difficult to do with his tongue in her mouth, she has to swallow her own retort. He presses her back on the table, lamenting that there’s not enough time to drive her out of her mind the way he wants. “I want you,” he says aloud from his position now between her breasts, making sure she knows. Just in case it’s not obvious.
Her breath hitches, and she pulls away. “I know,” she says, a faint blush crossing her alabaster skin—she’s getting even less sun than she used to. Where the hell has she been? “Me too. But we don’t have a lot of time,” she pulls back. He chases her, latching his lips to her jaw once more, kissing his way to her ear. “Abbott said he’d be right back. What are you going to do?”
“That depends on you,” he breathes into her ear, grinning when she shudders in his arms. “Two things. First, do you want to be with me?”
He plies her with more kisses when he feels her tense at the question; she’s not used to the direct approach from him, but after two years of her absence, he’s tired of hiding. It works, of course. She tilts her head to give him better access, curling her hand around his bicep to stay upright. “Jane, there’s a lot you’ve-”
“Hush, no time,” he interrupts, nipping her ear. He’s taking advantage of the moment, but if it means he wins her, he’ll play dirty. “Yes or no?”
She pauses, taking his face in her hands so she can push him back a little. He goes without complaint, letting her study his expression. “Do you want to be with me ?” She asks, clearly nervous.
He raises his hands to her waist, squeezing lightly. “I love you, Teresa Lisbon,” he swears, serious and solemn as he looks directly in her eyes. “I’m committed to you regardless of your answer. Now, yes or no?”
Her eyes dart across his face. He sees the exact moment she reaches a decision and relaxes before she even speaks, reading her acquiescence in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispers.
Only with supreme force of will does he suppress his violently ecstatic reaction to that answer. “Next question," he continues, "do you trust me?”
“Jane, what are you-”
“Trust me, Lisbon,” he half-commands, half-begs, and she folds immediately.
“Okay. Yes,” she agrees, blushing crimson, probably wondering exactly how she's agreeing to any of his schemes after two years of his absence. Well, he'll show her. He intends to prove himself to her in any way necessary, to do anything so long as she remains at his side.
“Good. Excellent. Now, as soon as we’re done here, call Van Pelt and tell her to initiate Code White. When Abbott walks in, you can’t panic. I promise I’ll catch you up when we’re alone again,” he tells her, already thinking that any catch up will be secondary to laying her out on a flat surface and devouring her. “Got it?” He adds, hoarse at the thought of his own fantasies.
“Okay,” she agrees, though he can already see the panic behind her eyes. Abbott will see it too; hopefully, Jane can manage to redirect him. “What’s Code White?”
Jane spares a brief, passing thought for the plans he put in place for after Red John, trying to account for every outcome. Funeral arrangements, fake passports for the team, and the like. Code White is special-made for Lisbon in the then-likely event he killed his nemesis without getting away clean. It had been half for Lisbon’s benefit, half out of sheer selfishness—his strong desire to keep her from the witness stand in his inevitable trial.
“One last thing,” he says, ignoring her question as they watch the doorknob begin to turn. He guides her into her seat, sitting next to her. Unable to handle the small distance between them, he taps his foot against hers under the table. Then, he twines their hands together, laying them very carefully, and very visibly, on the table for Abbott’s viewing. He leans over to Lisbon, brushing a deliberate, slow, and chaste kiss across her cheek, eyes locked with Abbott’s.
“Don’t give the game away, Mrs. Jane,” he says under his breath, wincing as Lisbon sharply inhales and her hand squeezes his with superhuman strength. Well, it is a surprise. He can’t expect her to greet it with the same ease as all his other lies. He wonders what she’ll do when she discovers the full extent of his play.
Well, that’s a problem for another day. He nods to Abbott. “Hello again, Dennis. I’m not sure you’ve been properly introduced,” he grins, motioning to Lisbon. “This is Teresa Lisbon Jane. My wife.”
Abbott’s eyes widen, and Jane smirks, nodding down to where his hand is joined with Lisbon’s. It had taken barely any sleight of hand to put a ring on her finger, a sparkling diamond he’s kept in his pocket far longer than he’d care to admit. The chaos he is about to sow might make this his favorite con yet.
Well, he thinks, as he glances over at a now-relatively-composed Lisbon, who is smiling tightly at Abbott, the chaos is reason number two. Number one sits next to him, unaware of the paperwork and forged signatures Van Pelt has been keeping safe for him in California, that with two phone calls will make them husband and wife in the eyes of the law.
He flexes his wrists, his old wedding band now properly on his right hand. There's a new one, gleaming platinum, in its place.
Time for some fun.