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Taking a Bite Out of the Devil’s Cherry
The office is quiet now that it’s considered after hours. There isn’t a hum of constant conversation nor are there phones ringing off the hook, just the persistent buzz of bright lights and the odd footsteps of those who are left. Lisbon sits alone at her desk, shoulders slightly hunched, pen moving steadily across the last of the paperwork (for now) from the Mendelssohn case now that Betty Fulford is behind bars. It’s highly likely she won’t remain there for as long as she should after a psych assessment, but the major crimes team have done their jobs, it’s up to the prosecutors now.
The blinds are drawn across all the windows, giving an illusion of privacy in this very public building. It’s not like Lisbon wants to be seen as unwelcoming, she doesn’t enjoy shutting out the team, but since Jane’s return, she’s become wearier, perhaps because of the front that she’s been putting on. The front that is telling everyone that things haven’t changed, they’ve gone back to how things were, as if Vegas, Lorelei, and the ‘I love you’ slip didn’t happen.
She forgot all that fleetingly, when she and the team found their consultant convulsing on the floor of the victim’s house.
His body had gone into shock from the poisonous tea, the belladonna, but thankfully his body fought back. Lisbon was so worried, unable to stop thinking about how unfair it would have been for him to finally find his way back to her, to them, only to pass away on one of their very first cases back together. Now, encased by solitude in her office, she can’t help but wonder if him being back is fair on her at all.
Those six months apart may have been hard, with her so wrapped up in concern for him on top of the rapidly increasing caseload, but at least they were free from the games, the schemes, and the dishonesty that they had all come to accept came with Patrick Jane.
This case though, was a stark reminder of why he is like that. When Lisbon discovered that he was communicating with a hallucination of his daughter, it was like a bucket of freezing cold water was chucked over her. It was a reset, made her forget everything he had done to hurt her – because why does it matter if he hurt her?
The clock ticks on the far wall, its rhythm annoyingly loud in the quiet. She glances up just as the minute hand edges past 8pm, and stares for it a second longer than necessary. There are no footsteps in the corridor, the elevator hasn’t dinged in some time, and there’s no muffled chatter coming from the bullpen. Everyone must have left – apart from Jane of course who will be in his thinking room obsessing about Red John she’s sure.
Lisbon sighs, casting a glance over her desk which has become a battlefield of paper. There are the written statements, the forms that need her signatures, the case file that’s now closed to her right. She loves her job, she thinks what she does is important, but the bureaucracy is exhausting – there can’t be a CBI without the ‘B’ though.
She rubs at her temple and leans back in her chair, letting it creak in protest. If she knuckles down, she can probably be done and out of here in twenty minutes, but something is making her pause. It’s like a sixth sense, one that has crept in the longer she and her partner have worked together. It makes her skin prickle and her subconsciously chew the inside of her bottom lip.
Something is wrong… she can feel it.
They didn’t have case closed pizza tonight. It was not exactly a conscious decision but one that now she’s thinking about, Jane pushed them towards. There was his mention of the big baseball game tonight, one that he has no interest in, but Cho certainly does. He talked to Rigsby about his son just long enough for the agent to decide he wanted to read him a story before bed. There were also his comments to Van Pelt, about the benefits of having an early night too, something that would have stuck because of her recovering from a cold.
It made the whole team want to get their paperwork done and dusted so they could head out. He didn’t attempt to nudge Lisbon out the door, knowing it would make her suspicious, but now her suspicions are strong enough that she’s getting to her feet quickly and leaving her work behind, to head upstairs where she assumes he’s holed up.
She could never fully understand what it’s like to be in his head, she knows that, and she wouldn’t want to. What she can grasp is how hallucinating Charlotte must have been incredibly difficult for him. It could have potentially reversed some of the progress he has made in his search for peace.
Lisbon feels how her brow dips on spotting how the door to his thinking room has been left ajar. Usually, it’s not only slid shut but locked – either on the outside or from the inside – ensuring the privacy that he desperately requires, most likely stemming from paranoia. Perhaps it’s understandable that he would be paranoid, she muses, but this just sets off alarm bells in her head. “Jane!” She calls out his name with a quick rapt on the metal door with her knuckles, but still she doesn’t receive a response.
Trying to ignore how her heartbeat has kicked up in pace, she slides open the door, letting it groan on its runners. “Jane-” Lisbon is silenced by the sight of him on the floor, curled up on one side. “Jane!”
Her breath catches hard enough to hurt as she crosses the room in three strides and drops to her knees beside him. Jane lays on his side, one arm curled awkwardly beneath him as if he has folded in on himself. His face is flushed an alarming shade of red, damp curls clinging to his forehead, sweat has darkened the collar of his shirt. “Patrick.” She uses his first name now out of desperation.
“Teresa, you can call me Patrick.”
Still no response. Her hand finds his shoulder and shakes, gentle at first, and then rougher. Nothing. His skin is far too hot, and the heat of it shoots a bolt of fear straight through her chest. When her fingers slide to his neck, she can fleetingly feel relief because he does have a pulse – but it’s weak, thready, barely there. “No.” The word slips out of her before she can stop it.
Lisbon’s eyes dart across his face, searching for clues the way she searches a crime scene. Looking for bruises, blood, any signs of foul play. Her gaze moves over his hands, his wrists, the open room around them. There’s nothing obvious and certainly nothing that explains this.
Is he sick? Did he hit his head? Did someone get to him? A colder thought follows, sharp as ice sliding down her spine.
Red John. She swallows hard, forcing the panic down, looking up to the wall where the smiley face would be painted if it existed, but thankfully it doesn’t.
Her next breath shudders as she fishes her phone from the pocket of her jacket, her other hand stroking his cheek, attempting to keep him tethered to the world as she knows it. “This is Special Agent Teresa Lisbon.” Lisbon somehow manages to keep her voice steady when the call connects. “I need urgent medical assistance in the CBI loft now. Unresponsive male in his late thirties, weak pulse following a possible collapse. Hurry.”
Deciding they don’t need much more information than that, she ends the call and drops the phone down to beside her knee before resuming her focus on Jane. “Stay with me.” She murmurs, but Lisbon knows that he can’t hear her, if he could then he would wake up, probably tell her she’s being silly.
Her training pushes through the rising panic. She slides her hand under his jaw, tilting his head gently back to keep his airway open, then leans close enough to feel the faint whisper of breath against her cheek. It’s shallow and uneven, but it’s there. “Okay. Okay.” She whispers to herself, her fingers moving to his eyelid to lift it carefully.
The pupil stares back at her is huge, blown wide, swallowing the blue of his iris. Lisbon’s stomach drops as her mind races through endless possibilities faster than she can stop them. It could be… head trauma or an overdose or a stroke or poison. The last thought strikes harder than the rest and refuses to leave.
Poison.
Her gaze snaps around the room again, suddenly searching with new urgency. Lisbon pushes herself upright, legs protesting after kneeling on the hard floor. Her eyes sweep the room again, higher this time, searching for anything out of place. The small table by the window catches her attention.
From the floor its surface was hidden by the steep angle, but standing, she can see it clearly now – Jane’s favourite teacup sitting neatly beside the teapot, a metal tea strainer resting on its saucer. Next to it lay a crumpled brown paper bag. “No…” She mutters, approaching it quickly, every instinct screaming that she’s about to confirm the worst thing she can imagine.
Lisbon picks up the strainer, bringing it to her nose just like Cho had done at the crime scene. The scent is bitter but not as bitter as the taste in her mouth. Recognition hits her with a startling clarity that makes a wave of nausea wash over her. It’s Belladonna, deadly nightshade, just like at Mendelssohn’s house… but this time Jane has ingested it on purpose.
A hollow, breathless sound escapes her as she turns back towards him lying motionless on the floor. “Jane… What did you do?” She whispers with tears prickling at her eyes.
It’s the pounding sound of approaching footsteps that has her wiping her tears away before resuming a crouching position, running her fingertips through his curls as if they will stop her from spiralling. Two paramedics then burst through the doorway, relief flickering across their faces that they found the right place in the CBI maze, before reality replaces it.
“Agent Lisbon?” The taller one asks, already kneeling beside Jane’s motionless form. She nods, rising to her feet before taking a step back, giving the duo room to do whatever they need to do to keep her consultant, her partner, her friend alive. “I’m Dean, this is Will. What happened here?”
Lisbon gulps down nothing, the words catching in her throat. “I-I don’t know. This is Jane. Patrick Jane. He’s… a consultant here.” She drags a hand through her hair, trying to steady herself. “I came up to check on him and found him like this. I think he’s consumed Belladonna. It’s toxic.”
Will doesn’t look up. “His pulse is weak, pupils dilated, skin hot.” He glances to his partner. “We can administer a benzodiazepine for now, but he needs to get to the hospital and quickly.”
Dean is already pulling equipment from the bag that was previously on his back. “We may need help with the stretcher.” His eyes flick back to Lisbon, assessing, careful but direct. “Agent Lisbon, do you think Mr Jane here made an attempt on his life?”
The question hits so hard that it almost knocks her off her feet. It’s not surprising, not really, not considering the circumstances but she’s not allowed herself to think like that. Not until now. “No. I-I don’t know.” Her voice falters, the certainty she wants to have nowhere to be found. She shakes her head quickly, as if the motion can make it true. “No. He… he wouldn’t. He…”
Her gaze drifts to Jane on the floor, pale beneath the flush, an oxygen mask now on his face, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths as the paramedics work. She never finishes her sentence.
It’s all she can think about during the ambulance ride. It rattles through the city streets, siren wailing in piercing bursts that bounce off buildings and tunnel straight through Lisbon’s skull. She sits rigid on the sidelines, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles have gone white, watching the rise and fall of Jane’s chest as the paramedic, Will, monitors his vitals.
As she watches him, the question replays over and over in her head: Was this a suicide attempt?
A psychologist wouldn’t be surprised, not after everything he’s lost, not after years of grief that he has learnt to wrap up in charm and quips and a maddening smile he wears like armour. Trauma has a way of circling back, of finding quiet moments to sink its teeth in.
But Lisbon isn’t a psychologist, and she’s unable to make it fit.
He has unfinished business with Red John still living and breathing somewhere in the world. Justice is still out of reach and revenge continues to burn in him like an eternal flame. Jane doesn’t give up. He bides his time, plots, thinks, and continues to endure his pain because he believes that he deserves it. She doesn’t agree with that, but he’s too stubborn to ever admit that he may be wrong about that.
Her eyes flicker between the IV line, the oxygen mask, and the wires monitoring his vitals, and she considers how small he looks like this. Jane has been stripped of his wit, his control, his pig-headedness, and in its place is a vulnerability so human that it makes her heart ache. He wouldn’t… would he?
The thought refuses to settle. It hovers, heavy and unresolved, pressing against her chest until it’s hard to breathe.
When they make it to the hospital, the ambulance doors burst open and immediately she’s surrounded by noise and movement. Voices overlap, wheels rattle, and within seconds Jane is moving again as he’s rolled through the sliding doors under the harsh glow of the emergency department. Lisbon does her best to follow, but she’s stopped in her tracks by a nurse who says gently but firmly. “We need space to work ma’am.”
“He-” Lisbon halts herself, jaw tightening, the ‘he needs me’ lost on her lips. She nods once instead, stepping back as the gurney disappears down the corridor. Words drift back to her in fragments as the doors swing closed.
“…gastric lavage…”
“…physostigmine ready…”
“…heart rate unstable…”
And then silence.
The waiting area is far too bright, too clean, too ordinary for what is happening just beyond the double doors. Lisbon begins to pace before she realises that’s what she’s doing, aggravating her bottom lip with her teeth, anxiety blooming too strongly for her to push it back down.
He knew what belladonna did, he knew the risk, and yet he… he…
The thoughts keep relentlessly circling when her phone vibrates in her hand. She pauses mid-stride and looks down, the screen glowing with a name she was partly expecting but also dreading in equal measure. Bertram is the CBI Director, so of course he would be made aware if the emergency services are called to one of his buildings. He will want a full report of what’s gone on and although she should be the one to give him it, Lisbon stares at the phone until the buzzing goes away. Because what would she even say?
“Yes our star consultant poisoned himself. I don’t know why but I probably should have seen it coming.”
Her chest tightens and the phone starts to ring again, but this time she makes the bold choice to decline the call, because right now there’s only one thing that matters, and that’s Jane. He has to pull through.
It’s barely five minutes later when her phone vibrates again, but this time she doesn’t hang up, not when it’s Cho’s name on the screen. Her brow furrows as she answers it immediately, putting the device up to her ear. “What is it, Cho?”
“Boss, we have a case. Bertram called me. Said he tried you a couple of times.”
Lisbon squeezes her eyes shut, pressing her fingers against her temple. A case. Of course there had to be a case. The world won’t pause just because hers has tilted off its axis. “A case.” She repeats, already feeling the reprimand waiting for her because of not reporting for duty. “Cho, you’re going to need to lead this one.”
There’s a brief pause on the line. “Everything okay, boss?”
The question cracks something open in her chest. She stares at the double doors to the ER, words tangling before she forces them out. “No, I…” Her voice falters. “I’m at the hospital with Jane. He-” The words stick momentarily, not feeling real being said by her tongue. “He drank belladonna. O-on purpose this time.” A silence fills the line, like Cho is processing what he’s been told, most likely stunned but not having the lexis to admit that. “Will you guys be okay?”
“We will be fine.” Cho says at last. “Boss, keep us updated. And if you need anything…”
“I know, I know. Thank you.”
Lisbon isn’t quite sure at what point her team became more like family. It was a gradual change, one that was initially a little jarring for her, but now she’s grateful for it. Jane’s absence in Vegas reminded her how quickly things can change, how he won’t be here forever, but she has a feeling that Cho, Rigs, and Grace will always have her back, whether they’re still working together or not.
Thinking about Jane being gone right now though, is too heavy to process, so she resumes her pacing. She has no idea how long for, but eventually a voice breaks gently into the hallway’s stillness. “Agent Lisbon?”
She swivels on her heels too quickly. “Yes?”
“I’m Doctor Felix. We are taking Mr Jane to the ward. We believe he’s out of immediate danger.” For a moment, she doesn’t understand the words. They float in front of her, disconnected from meaning, but they do eventually land. Out of immediate danger. It’s hardly a glowing testament of his prognosis, but it’s something, something to hold onto.
Her knees nearly give out. Relief floods her so suddenly and so completely it leaves her dizzy, like surfacing after being held underwater too long. The tight band around her chest snaps, and she draws in a breath that feels like the first real one of the night. Her vision blurs, not from panic this time, but from the overwhelming release of it. She presses a hand to her mouth, steadying herself, the tremor in her fingers finally visible now that she doesn’t have to hold everything together.
The doctor continues her explanation. “We pumped his stomach and administered a physostigmine, which should reverse the toxin. His stomach won’t be happy going through it twice in a matter of days, though. He’s got quite the fever, so we’re using cold IV saline directly into his bloodstream to cool him down.”
“C-Can I see him?” Lisbon asks with a stammer.
“Yes, of course.” Doctor Felix then hesitates. “Agent Lisbon… I believe a psych consult may be beneficial.”
“He won’t want that.”
“Patients rarely do.” It’s a hard truth, and one she struggles to disagree with.
The private room she finds Jane in is much quieter than the general bustle of the ER but still with the hum of machinery and faint scent of antiseptic. A single plastic chair is by the bed, something that doesn’t look at all comfortable enough for hours of sitting, but still it’s waiting for her. Lisbon doesn’t know how long she will be here, but she suspects it will be a while until he wakes.
Jane lays motionless beneath crisp white sheets, the starkness of them making him look pale and fragile in a way Lisbon has never seen before. A clear oxygen cannula rests beneath his nose, thin tubing looping behind his ears, and an IV line disappears into the back of his hand, the bag above him dripping slow, cold saline into his bloodstream. Another monitor traces the fragile rhythm of his heart in quiet green pulses across the screen.
The fever still flushes his face, though the harsh redness has faded into something softer, speckled with exhaustion. Damp curls stick to his forehead, pushed back just enough to reveal the crease between his brows, even in sleep. His lips are parted slightly, breaths shallow but steady now.
Lisbon hovers in the doorway for a moment before stepping closer, as though afraid his condition may worsen if she moves too quickly. She pulls the chair closer to his bedside before sitting down, her eyes never leaving his face. The worry starts to settle in slowly, heavier than the panic had been. The panic was loud and urgent, but this is quiet yet relentless, a weight pressing against her ribs.
He had chosen this.
The thought refuses to settle no matter how many times it circles back. Her gaze drifts to the IV line, the monitor, the rise and fall of his chest. She reaches out and rests her hand gently beside his on the mattress, wanting to take hold of it, but feeling like she’s not allowed to. The warmth of his skin near hers has to be enough for now. “Jane…” She whispers into the noisy quiet. “Don’t… Don’t do it again.”
It’s the early hours of the morning when Jane eventually wakes.
At first it’s only a change in his breathing but then his fingers twitch faintly against the sheets, a small, restless movement that breaks the long stillness of the room. His eyes open slowly, not focussing straightaway. They move instead, unfixed and glassy, scanning the ceiling, the lights, the outlines of machines murmuring quietly beside him. A disorientated confusion flashes across his face, like someone trying to remember the end of a dream that won’t quite come back.
His breathing quickens, chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. The crease between his brows deepens as he tries to piece the world together, trying to work out where he is and why his body feels heavy and almost alien to him. A small sound escapes him, barely a gasp, but it’s enough to make her stir.
She had fallen asleep sitting upright in the chair, head tipped forward, one hand still resting near the edge of the mattress. The change in his breathing pulls her awake instantly, training snapping into place before full consciousness even catches up. “Jane?” She wastes no time leaning forward, eyes scanning his face for acknowledgement.
His gaze drifts toward her, his entire expression spaced as if he is struggling to lock his attention into place. For a long moment, he just looks at her as if trying to decide whether she belongs to the dream he was pulled from or the room. “Hey.” Lisbon greets gently, voice rough with sleep and hours of worry. “You’re in the hospital. But you’re going to be okay.”
His breathing stutters again, and this time his focus holds onto her face. She witnesses the moment it all clicks into place. The change is subtle but unmistakable, like a curtain being pulled back but awareness floods in suddenly, memory following close behind.
Lisbon sees it move across his face in real time, the recognition and understanding, before the devasting quiet. His gaze flickers briefly around the room from the IV line to the hospital ceiling, before dropping away from her entirely.
Shame settles in its place. It makes him appear small, like a man caught in the aftermath of something he can’t undo. Patrick Jane may be good at many things, but he can’t turn back time, if he could then he would have done so long before now. It’s like he’s scared to look at her, and it completely shatters her inside.
The walls she has been holding up all night crack without warning. He sees it before she can stop it, the hurt – that she would have much preferred to hide away – flashes across her face in a way that’s so raw and unguarded that it makes his chest ache. She looks exhausted. Not just tired from the long night, but worn down in a deeper way, the kind of weariness that settles into the lines around her eyes and the tension in her shoulders.
There’s also relief there, relief that he has woken up, but it’s tangled with something much heavier. Disappointment? Fear? Pain? She swallows, struggling to find the right words and finding none of them. “Jane…” She doesn’t know what to say. Every sentence she tries to form collapses before it reaches her mouth.
Why? Feels too much.
What were you thinking? Too accusatory.
You scared me. Too vulnerable.
So Lisbon reaches for something practical instead. “Water?” She offers, picking up the plastic bottle from beneath her chair. She bought it from a vending machine sometime after midnight when the waiting became unbearable. It’s half empty, the label crinkled from all her nervous fidgeting, but he won’t mind one bit. He nods.
She slides an arm carefully behind his shoulders, mindful of the IV line, helping him sit up just enough. He’s weak. She can feel it immediately in the way his weight leans into her more than he would ever normally allow. “Slowly.” She murmurs, pressing the bottle to his lips. Jane’s hands lift on instinct but tremble before they can take it, so she steadies it for him. He has a small sip, then another, gulping the liquid down with visible effort like it hurts.
Up close, she can see the remnants of the fever in his flushed skin, the exhaustion etched into the faint shadows beneath his eyes. When she lowers the bottle, their stares meet again. The shame is still there but there’s also a fragility that is new to her. He’s lowered his walls, he’s being real, he’s not hiding behind tricks and gimmicks. “Thank you.”
It’s the first thing he has said since regaining consciousness, but it’s raspy as if it has taken every ounce of effort to utter it. Lisbon sets the bottle down carefully and takes a breath, knowing that she’s going to have to steer this interaction, even if she doesn’t know where to yet. “You’re going to be okay.” Her voice is soft like cotton. “Thank God.”
Jane watches her, his eyes now gleaming with unshed tears as he concentrates on breathing. His mind is blank, completely unsure of what to say, knowing that nothing he could say will make up for the anguish he’s caused her. Lisbon releases a slow breath and sinks back into the chair beside the bed. Her hand lingers on the mattress near his, not quite touching, but close enough that the distance feels intentional instead of accidental. “You scared me.” She can’t help but admit this now, and it sits in the room for a few beats.
“I’m sorry.”
Lisbon exhales sharply, the breath trembling on the way out. For a second it almost sounds like a laugh, except there’s nothing amused about it. “You’re sorry?” She repeats, the disbelief plain in her voice. “Jane, I thought you were dead.”
The bluntness of it lands between them and stays there. Jane’s stare drops to the blanket pulled up to his chest. “I… I wouldn’t do that to you.” It sounds weak and even he knows it, not helped by his six-month absence and his “fake” breakdown. “I just wanted to see her again. Charlotte... Even if she was a figment of my imagination.”
The confession drains the tension from Lisbon’s posture and replaces it with something sadder. She leans back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, eyes searching his face as if hoping to find a version of this that makes sense. “Did you?”
Jane shakes his head almost immediately, looking defeated. “No. I didn’t hallucinate at all.” A faint, humourless breath leaves him. “Must have been a bad batch or the wrong dose or-”
“You could have died.” She interrupts in a tone that’s far too urgent for the early hour.
“I realised that when it was too late.” He pauses, guilt crossing his face. “I did try to reach for my phone to call you, but I was falling off my chair and into darkness before I could stop it happening.” His voice softens. “I am sorry.” And she can tell from the lack of deflection and obvious regret, that he means it. He really means it. “It must have brought up some unpleasant memories for you.” He continues quietly. “Your father… you found him, right?”
The shift in topic catches her off guard, and her expression tightens instantly, the door he’s nudging at she keeps firmly shut. “Yes.” She answers honestly but then she’s shaking her head, pushing the past back where it belongs. “But we aren’t talking about that. We’re talking about you.” She edges forward slightly, refusing to let him redirect the conversation. “They asked me if you did it on purpose. If you wanted to die.”
Jane blinks at this, not quite expecting the harsh reality to leave her mouth. “What did you say?”
“I said that I didn’t know. I-I don’t know.”
The truth, it hangs for a second or two. It’s not an accusation as such, and it’s far from being reassuring, it’s just honest – because Lisbon genuinely doesn’t know. His face twists in pain on grasping this, hating that he’s putting her through this. It’s the last thing she deserves.
“I don’t want to die.” He tells her with a surprising level of certainty. “I-I mean… living does hurt. A lot. But…” He takes a breath, almost enjoying how his lungs burn as he does. “I have stuff to do.”
Lisbon stares at him, exhaustion and emotion entwining together behind her eyes. “Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“No.” Jane shakes his head slightly. “I’m just being honest.”
He’s just being honest. It’s something she has longed for, his honesty, but now that she has it, she doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Lisbon gnaws at the inside of her bottom lip as she thinks, a nervous habit that she’s good at masking usually but now she doesn’t have the energy to. Jane can picture her in her teenage years doing the exact same thing, hair tied back for school, three younger brothers completely reliant on her. She’s gone through so much, too much, and he’s just adding to that load.
Maybe it would be better for her if he wasn’t around anymore. “Doctor Felix has ordered a psych consult for tomorrow.”
“I don’t need that.” His response is immediate and defensive.
She tilts her head, studying him, the question gentle but unyielding. “Don’t you?”
They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, until the intensity of her eyes boring into his forces him to look away. “What time is it?”
Lisbon sighs before checking her watch, it taking a second longer than usual to read it because of the tired fuzziness to her vision. “Almost 3am.”
“You should go home and rest.”
She gives him a flat look. “Giving you the opportunity to escape? That’s not happening.” And he knows there’s no way he’s going to be able to persuade her otherwise. “And anyway, we have a case, so either I’m here with you or looking at a dead body somewhere. It’s not really a contest.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. “You flatter me.”
“Hush.”
“Teresa…” The way he says her name sucks the air out of her lungs, her attention fixed on nothing other than him. “I promise you, this wasn’t intentional. Yes, drinking the tea was, but the result not at all.” His eyes hold hers, earnest in a way he rarely allows himself to be. “I screwed up. And I swear I won’t do it again.”
Lisbon studies him quietly, examining his face for the familiar signs of trickery but there’s none, just tiredness and stark sincerity. The tight knot in her chest loosens, if only a little. “Okay.”
He lets out a slow breath, some of the tension leaving his shoulders now the really hard part is out of the way, but then his stare narrows as he appears to properly observe her for the first time since waking. “When did you last eat?” She blinks, thrown by the sudden pivot. Her mind scrambles through the blur of the last twelve hours and comes up mostly empty. “It was that granola bar at around six pm, wasn’t it?” He reminds her. “You must be hungry. Go and get some food. I will be here when you get back.”
Her arms cross as suspicion peeks through the fatigue. “You will?”
“I will.” He reassures before tiredly raising a hand. “Scout’s honour.” Lisbon hums at this before standing up, muscles stiff and aching as she does. He watches her move towards the doorway like he’s making sure she actually goes. “Oh, and I would kill for a cup of tea.”
She stops and glances back, her brow lifting. “An actual cup of tea or some deadly nightshade?”
“Ouch.” He winces and she smirks, turning again with one hand already on the door. “Oh, and Lisbon.” She pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “Thank you. F-For finding me in time.”
The smirk is lost on her face and is replaced by inexplicable relief, because his gratefulness reaffirms to her that he should be okay. “You’re welcome.”