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She wakes slowly and she feels almost hungover, though at first she can’t quite figure out why. Then, as her consciousness filters in it all comes back to her in pieces; driving to Malibu and back with Jane last night.
That would be more than enough reason to explain her exhaustion all on it’s own but it isn’t just that. It’s the comedown from the emotional rollercoaster of these past few days; finding his body in the water and the sheer terror that she was going to lose him, then seeing his world shatter again as he regained his memories of Red John, and the unexpected rush of him kissing her.
That memory cuts through her fog like a knife, awakening her body the way he’d done last night with his fingers on her jaw. He’d kissed her and she’d brought him home, invited him to sleep in her bed. It had seemed so simple in the moment but now in daylight she’s not entirely sure how to approach the reality of it.
Anticipation flutters in her stomach as she works up the courage to roll over and look at him but when she does there’s no one else there. For a brief moment she wonders if she’d dreamt the whole thing. It wouldn't be the first time she’d dreamt about them, but they’d never been anything more than hazy glimpses of possibilities her conscious mind hadn’t really believed were possible. The brush of his hand in hers or his lips on her cheek. Her memory of last night is far more vivid and cohesive than any of those dreams so she tells herself the far more likely explanation is that he’d simply woken up and gone snooping, just as she’d recklessly given him permission to do.
She tries to bat the away the anxious thought that there is also the possibility he’d had time to let his emotions settle and when he’d woken up next to her he’d regretted it and simply left.
That causes a sharp stab of dread in her stomach and she closes her eyes for a moment until it passes, telling herself to just be a cop and go get the facts instead of lying in bed speculating.
She makes her way downstairs and is relieved when she’s greeted by the sight of him sitting on her couch, drinking a cup of tea, still dressed from last night. The only thing that’s changed is he’s not wearing his jacket, just his shirt and vest — and no shoes.
“Hey,” she says, surprised and a little bewildered by how it feels to see him like this in her home, looking so incredibly domestic it almost feels like he’s always been here.
“Hi,” he answers, smiling at her at warmly. He holds her gaze as if he’s waiting for her to continue the conversation but then she catches his eyes flick down and she becomes all too aware that she is wearing nothing but a long t-shirt that barely hits mid thigh and she can’t think of a single thing to say to him.
She’d been too exhausted last night to care, had pretty much stripped off in front of him, but it feels different now, in daylight with his eyes on her legs and the true implications of what they’ve started settling in.
He breaks the silence for her, “You got hot in the middle of the night and kicked off all the blankets.”
She feels her face twist in confusion, unsure what to make of this particular statement.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he explains. “About the t-shirt. I’m already used to it. You slept like that — without the blankets covering you, I mean — for most of the night.”
“So, you’ve already spent a while looking at my legs is what you’re telling me?” she replies quickly, and she honestly can’t tell if she’s embarrassed or if she’s flirting with him.
“Something like that,” he says, looking like he’s trying not to smile too hard at the notion.
His smile helps loosen her tension a little but she’s still unsure what to do next, whether to go sit next to him, or carry out her usual morning routine and make her way to the kitchen for coffee. She can’t remember the last time she had another person here when she woke up, had another person to share her morning with.
“Lisbon?” he questions, when she still hasn’t moved or said anything.
“I’m sorry, this is just a big change for us,” she explains a little stiltedly, gesturing between them.
“Is it?” he says, casually, still sipping his tea.
“Isn’t it?” she counters with an embarrassing upwards intonation to her voice that she knows must give away that she is feeling much less calm about this whole thing than he seems to be.
He just shrugs as he puts his teacup down carefully on the coffee table.
“It’s not new that you’re the most important person in my life, the person I trust the most, the person I like being around the most. The only thing that’s changed…,” he says, standing slowly and walking towards her like she’s a frightened deer, “…is now I can do this.”
He brings his hand to her waist so gently she almost can’t feel it, and she can’t quite decide if that’s a good thing or if she wishes he would just make his touch more known, and then he leans in to kiss her slowly. It’s gentle, and brief, like he doesn’t want to overwhelm her but it does anyway because it’s Jane. Her stomach flips a little and when he pulls away she’s far more breathless than such a chaste kiss should cause her to be.
“Do you…have you changed your mind? If you don’t feel the same…” he questions gently, though she can see the hesitance in his eyes, like he doesn't really want to ask in case the answer isn’t the one he wants.
That brings her back to the moment, putting everything into sharp focus, as she shakes her head firmly, “No, I do, Jane. You’re all of those things to me too. I just…”
“What?” he prompts her gently.
“I never thought you felt…it just never seemed like you wanted more. Than partnership. Friendship. I’m still getting my head around that,” she tells him honestly.
“I understand,” he responds seriously. “I kept a pretty tight lid on it. Maybe not as tightly as I felt I should sometimes but still, I can’t blame you for assuming I didn’t feel this way. The truth is I wasn’t sure I could be ready for how I feel about you. It scared me, so I tried to lock it away.”
She reads nothing but honestly in his voice, and sincerity on his face, and it’s disconcerting in a way but also comforting. Doubt has come to be a cornerstone of her relationship with him over the years, a safety net of sorts she’d always kept in her back pocket to protect herself. But as her mind reaches reflexively for it now she discovers it simply isn’t there.
His hand is still ghosting over her waist and she has her answer now; she wishes he would just touch her properly.
“What changed?” she asks carefully.
“Remembering them yesterday. It all came flooding back, all the grief, but also all the love. And then the pieces of the last few days filtered in and the realisation of how close I was to just walking away, never seeing you again. I realised what a waste it would be to not let myself be happy again. Feel that much love again.”
She almost stops breathing when she hears the word love, wholly unprepared for how easily he says it and how thoroughly it strips her of any lingering pretence, any armour she’d thought still remained between her heart and the truth of her own feelings.
Her eyes close for a moment but she feels his hand come to her face like a silent request to come back to him so she does, opening them to his gaze on her, tender and patient.
“For the record, it’s not like I knew you felt this way either,” he tells her gently and she knows he’s offering them both a reprieve, a way to process his words through the acknowledgement that they’d both been holding back this whole time.
She can’t help but scoff at him now, rolling her eyes a little, “Oh come on, yes you did, you must have.”
“No,” he shakes his head.
“What about all the little digs, the jokes about seducing me, or the implications that I didn’t want you to read my mind because I was thinking about you?”
He offers an almost shy chuckle, “All distractions. A game to deflect from the seriousness of what I felt for you and a sort of hopeful ego boost, I suppose. But I was never arrogant enough to think you could actually want me, Lisbon.”
“So yesterday, what made you say something?” she asks, curiously.
“Caution to the wind, I guess. Your assertion that you weren’t my type, the suggestion that I couldn’t possibly want you — I found I couldn’t bear to let you think that.”
His sincerity overwhelms her again and she tries to inject some levity to the moment, turn it into simple flirting, “So, I’m your type, huh?”
But he doesn't let her.
“No, Teresa. There is no type. There’s only you.”
“God, we’re going to be so late for work,” she tries to deflect in panic, tearing her eyes away from his so she can breathe again.
“Don’t get mad,” he says, raising his hands in supplication. “I called in sick for us both. You need a day off after how much driving you did yesterday. And I pulled the trauma card. Told them you were helping me recover. Which isn’t untrue by the way. I’m really not ready to be back at work after everything that happened yesterday and I think we deserve this, a little time to ourselves.”
Her first instinct is to argue. She doesn't take days off, never knows what to do with herself without work to occupy her but she is exhausted still and she’s not entirely sure how to go back to the office with him now that they’ve changed the nature of their relationship.
“So — we’re just going to spend the day here?” she asks hesitantly, also not entirely sure how to spend a whole day with him in her home now that they’ve changed the nature of their relationship.
His face shifts and she sees uncertainty creep in, “Unless you want me to go? I can go if —”
“No, you don’t have to go,” she says, reaching out to hold him in place with her hands firmly gripping his arms. It’s pulled her closer to him, though she hadn’t meant to, and she feels that dizzying rush again. She finds herself almost breathless from the sheer act of touching him and she needs to regain her equilibrium somehow, so she reaches for the familiar, “I need coffee.”
“There’s a fresh pot in your kitchen,” he tells her with a gentle smile and she’s relieved to see his uncertainty fade.
“You made me coffee?”
“Well, I knew you wouldn't want tea so…” he shrugs, like it’s not a big deal.
And maybe it shouldn’t be; he’s made her plenty of cups at the office over the years by now. But it feels different here, just like how everything feels different with him now, and that dizzying rush fades a little, softens into tenderness and affection that allows her to reach up, wrap her fingers around the back of his neck, and kiss him softly.
Her stomach swarms with butterflies as she tries to get used to the idea that she can just do this now if she wants to. “Thank you,” she tells him.
“You’re very welcome,” he beams at her.
His smile is so big it almost reminds her of a schoolboy who’s just received a gold star for doing something right and she can’t help but fall a little more in love with him than she already was.
—
She returns to her couch a minute later, settling beside him, and they sit in silence sipping their tea and coffee respectively.
He seems to be perfectly content in the stillness and quiet, while she finds herself unable to stop thinking, her thoughts racing through all the what nexts she doesn’t have answers for.
She tries to steal glances at him but every time she does, he’s already looking at her. He seems so comfortable in his newfound freedom to do that and it doesn’t seem fair when she is a bundle of nerves because the more she looks at him the more she wants him.
It feels like the tide rising inside her; inevitable and unstoppable — and she’s she doesn’t want to.
What she’s not sure of is whether he wants her.
Of course she knows he wants her, in this new big picture way — he wants to be with her, he wants to share space with her, sip his tea on her couch next to her. He’s made the depth of his feeling for her terrifyingly clear but his desire? That feels terribly unknown. He’s barely touched her this morning and his kisses have been so gentle. He seems perfectly calm and in control and she doesn’t know what to do with that.
“Lisbon — you’re thinking very loudly. Talk to me.”
She leans forward to put her coffee down and then shifts, lifting her legs up onto the couch and tucking them underneath her so she can face him. She resists the urge to pull her t-shirt down over her thighs. It makes her nervous to be this bare in front of him, especially when he's still wearing his usual armour. But at the same time, she wants him to look, is desperate for any hint of his own desire, and feels a warm glow of gratification when he does.
His eyes rest on the curve of her thigh as she settles herself in front of him and his breathing seems to hitch, for just a second.
Caution to the wind, she thinks to herself.
“Yesterday…you said there were a lot of things you’d do if I said it was okay.”
“Ah, I see,” he answers, placing his own cup down next to hers. His voice drops and his gaze on her changes entirely, “Would you like to me to tell you about them?”
She feels herself blushing in response and all she can do is nod.
“Well, top of the list obviously was kiss you.” He leans in and does just that. It’s still soft, like he's testing out what she wants, what she likes, but there’s more intention to it as well. It’s slow and he lingers against her lips with his hand brushing her jaw so lightly she’s not entirely sure if he even is until he drops it and she feels the loss of his touch all too keenly.
“Tell you you’re beautiful without the pretext of a lavish gift just to be able to offer you a fairly minor compliment,” he continues, pausing for a second. “You are so incredibly beautiful, Teresa.”
“Jane,” she rolls her eyes, looks away to avoid the compliment.
“Teresa,” he says seriously, gently nudging her face back to him with knuckles against her jaw and his thumb on her cheek. He doesn’t say it again, seems to be aware that she isn’t used to hearing that and needs time to feel comfortable accepting it from him but he makes a point of holding her gaze to show her how seriously he means it.
“That was high on the list too. Calling you by your given name, not just Lisbon.”
“You do call me Teresa,” she says, confusion filling her face.
“No, I introduce you to others as Teresa. It’s different. I wanted to call you Teresa in situations like this, where it was just the two of us. Where I could say your name like an endearment.”
He does just that now, unravelling his hands to cup her whole cheek in his palm, “Teresa.”
It makes her shiver and she leans into him, feeling the burning desire for him flowing dangerously into every part of her body.
“What else?” she asks, her voice almost a whisper as she tries to maintain the tenuous grip she has on her self control.
“Make you breakfast.”
“Coffee doesn’t count as breakfast, Jane,” she argues, trying not to be irritated by the sudden switch back into seemingly safer territory.
“Oh, I know. I’m saving it.”
“You’re saving breakfast?”
“Uh huh.”
“Why?”
“Gotta keep you around somehow. Food is always a good incentive for you since you rarely feed yourself properly.”
“There are other incentives you might consider you know,” she finds herself telling him, remembering what he once said about dilated pupils and hoping her face shows her desire to him as clearly as her body is showing it to herself.
“Such as?”
She leans forward, grabbing the open collar of his shirt to pull him to her, and kisses him with abandon.
“I’m starting to become familiar with that one,” he murmurs against her mouth. “What else?”
She kisses him again, taking her hand in hers at the same time and sliding it under the hem of her shirt. She fits it into the curve of her waist firmly, holding him in place long enough to be sure he’s understood her.
And he does, bringing his other hand to her waist and holding her firmly.
She feels herself sigh in relief at the way the firmness of his touch finally grounds her, slows everything down in her mind and allows her to focus simply on this moment right here.
He lets his thumbs brush lightly over her skin and it feels so heavenly she can’t stop herself from pressing her tongue against his lips, to deepen the kiss.
“I think I’m getting the idea,” he says, in a low voice when she breaks for air.
“Good,” she answers, still a little breathless as she leans in to kiss him again, discovering that each time she does it feels even better than the last and her sense of control comes alive again with her hands on his body.
—
The second she puts his hand on her skin he feels every ounce of control shatter.
As she continues kissing him he holds her firmly by the waist and pulls her closer.
His lets his hands slide down now, raking his nails down the sides of her thighs and back up again to wander up her spine. He can’t let his hands settle; there are too many places he needs to touch her.
When he ghosts his fingers back down her sides, she moans quietly into his mouth and instantly he needs to hear that sound again so he lets one hand leave her waist to travel up her abdomen and between her breasts. Then he flips it so it’s the back of his hand and his knuckles that drag a slow path down the swell of her breast and over her nipple.
He’s rewarded with an, “Oh,” that’s half gasp, half moan, and entirely the most arousing thing he’s ever heard. So he drags his hand back up, flicking her nipple a little harder, causing her to shudder and grasp at his waist suddenly, kissing him even more desperately.
His fingers touch her everywhere, mapping her body like he once tried to map her face while blind, and then he drops his hands to the hem of her shirt because touching her isn't enough. He need to see her too.
“Yes,” she murmurs against his mouth, pressing kisses along his jaw now.
He curls his fingers around the hem of her shirt and as he does they brush lightly over the edge of her underwear against her stomach and she bites his neck.
As he lifts her shirt, she raises her arms above her head to help him and then he’s pulling it off and tossing it on the floor as he takes in the sight of her. Her hair is mussed from taking off her shirt, and her eyes are glazed with desire and she’s almost completely naked in front of him and for a moment he thinks he might pass out.
But she shifts suddenly and he realises she’s leaning back, laying down with her head resting on the arm of the couch.
She uncurls her legs and carefully raises one to rest on the other side of him so that when she holds her hands out to him and he takes them in his own, she can pull him down directly to cover her body with his.
The only problem is…
“You’re extremely overdressed,” she reads his thoughts a little breathlessly as his lips find her neck and her hands try to work the button of his vest.
He stands up and she smiles up at him, raising her eyebrows at the speed with which he has the buttons of his vest and his shirt entirely undone. He removes them together, tossing them behind him somewhere, and then his hands are on his belt in a rush, bare chest heaving.
It hits him suddenly, the realisation that he’d let his desire for her overtake him so wholly that he’d simply assumed this was where they were heading without actually asking. He feels shame wash over him and says, “I’m sorry, I got carried away…is this what you — ”
She cuts him off quickly with a breathless, “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Jane, do you think being unsure would have me here like this?” she says with an amused but fond smile, gesturing to her practically naked body lying on her couch. “I’m sure.”
All he can do now is nod at her as he breathes deeply and steps out of his pants and boxers. She holds her hand out to him again and he lets her pull him down, knees between her legs so he can lay directly on top of her.
His fingers skim her sides and slide into her underwear as she lifts her hips to let him pull them down before she does the rest of the work to kick them off her feet.
Now he’s lying naked between her legs and her hands have moved to his hips without him even realising and his are resting at the sides of her breasts while he braces on his elbows above her. A moment of panic hits him, as he becomes acutely aware of how long it’s been since he’s done this and he tells her nervously, “It’s been a while…”
But she stops him with her thumb pressed gently against his lips.
“Shhh, Jane. Just stop thinking. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise.”
She pulls him down, kissing him slowly and deeply, making her desire for him crystal clear.
And that manages to do exactly what she’d instructed him to do. It wipes all thought from his mind and simply leaves him to feel.
He feels the hot slide of her tongue against his. He feels her soft breasts pressed against his chest. He feels the tiny roll of her hips. He feels her skin under his fingers as he slides one hand under her back and runs it down to cup her ass.
Then she’s hooking one leg around his waist and she rolls her hips again, letting her impatience become a little more obvious.
“Jane,” she murmurs again gently. “Just feel. Feel how much I want you.”
And his body knows how to listen to her, pressing into her slowly as he descends on her mouth in hunger.
She doesn’t hold back the sounds of her pleasure as he moves — slowly at first, for his own benefit, already overwhelmed by the amount of pleasure he feels finally being with her like this.
Every sounds she makes, every little gasp and moan, intensifies his own pleasure and he increases his pace, desperate to keep hearing how good he’s making her feel.
“Don’t stop,” she moans in his ear.
“Why. Would. I. Stop,” he mumbles incredulously against her neck.
“Hush,” she laughs as she grips his back tighter, and his movements become more frenzied. Her laughter turns back into uncontrolled gasps of pleasure telling him her orgasm is building and suddenly all he can focus on is getting her there, hearing her cry out with the pleasure he is giving her.
He shifts his weight slightly and she opens her mouth as though she’s about to protest the loss of him pressed against her — but then he lowers his mouth to her nipple and his tongue swirls around it as his fingers dig into her ass. The change in angle has him pressing against her clit with each thrust and it only takes a few more before she comes with her hand tightened in his hair.
That’s enough for him to break and he shudders through his orgasm while she whimpers through the aftershocks of her own and finally pulls his mouth back to hers, kissing him lazily as her breath returns.
—
After a minute, he turns his head away from her kisses and she assumes he’s had enough intimacy, that he needs some distance from it, the way he does sometimes when he’s shared something vulnerable and purposely shifts the conversation to something frivolous.
She assumes in this context he’ll stand and get dressed, make an excuse to snoop through more of her things to shift the emotional focus off himself — but he doesn’t. He just turns his head and buries it in the crook of her neck. He tucks his fingers in the curve of her waist, occasionally running them up and down her sides lightly.
It’s the exact opposite of what she’d expected from him; he seems to find immense peace in this intimacy.
She’s a little bit surprised to find that she does too. It’s like her body knows what to do even while her mind is still analysing the situation. Her hand comes to the back of his neck and her nails scratch up and down through his hair while she turns her own head to kiss the top of his.
Then she simply lets her hand wander the expanse of his back, sometimes scratching gently with her nails, sometimes drawing patterns with the pads of her fingers. She can’t imagine feeling anything less than trapped under the weight of any other man’s body. She cannot fathom feeling safe and content like this with anyone but him.
It’s simultaneously surprising to her and completely natural somehow and she tries to bite back the giddy smile that’s rising to her face. It’s habit; she’s taught herself to reign in her joy around him over the years so she could try to pretend not to be completely in love with him.
But there’s no need for that now.
She allows the smile to bloom uncontrollably on her face and finds herself teasing him, “So…was seducing me over coffee supposed to be less sophomoric than dinner?”
“You were expecting far too much of me, walking around in just that shirt,” he sighs happily.
“Oh, I thought you were used to it?”
“I lied. You were nervous and I didn’t want to make you more uncomfortable. But I’m only human, Lisbon, and you have incredible legs. Incredible everything actually,” he murmurs into her neck, pressing light kisses to her pulse point.
And oh god, she feels the tide rising again.
“Hey, Jane?” she says, trying to put a halt to his ministrations before she loses herself in him once more.
“Yes, Lisbon,” he answers while his hand sweeps down her side with intention.
“I need food.”
His hand pauses immediately, but remains firm and warm against her thigh. “Hmmm. Well, I could make you breakfast, I suppose,” he offers.
But before she can even reply he quickly adds, “On one condition.”
“What would that be?” she questions, unable to keep the smile out of her voice.
He shifts his body and props himself one elbow now, letting his free hand rest gently on her stomach and locking his eyes on hers, “If I play the breakfast card this soon…you have to promise you’ll find other reasons to stick around.”
It’s supposed to be a joke, she knows, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety to it as well, and she realises with a stab of sadness that he’s genuinely afraid she might change her mind about him.
“I promise,” she tells him sincerely, at the same time making a silent promise to herself that she’ll find ways to make him sure that she isn’t going anywhere. “I do actually have a few reasons of my own for wanting to keep you around, you know?”
At that he just closes his eyes with a smile and presses a soft kiss to her lips before carefully peeling himself off her and siting up on the couch.
She can feel herself still grinning as she pulls her underwear back on and tells him, “I’m gonna go shower while you cook.”
“On your own?”
She can’t help but laugh a little at his crestfallen face. “Yes, is that a problem?”
He shrugs, “Oh, it’s just — well, showering with you was on that list too.”
She narrows her eyes at him, examining his face carefully before she asserts, “It was not.”
“Okay, maybe not,” he confesses. “But it is now!”
“Hush, go make me breakfast. You know how grumpy I get when I’m hungry.”
“Mmmm but you’re sexy when you’re grumpy,” he smirks at her now, standing to pull his boxers back on while she reaches into the pile of their clothes on the floor, pulling on his shirt instead of her own.
“You cannot be serious.”
He just shrugs.
“You are so weird,” she says, trying not to feel embarrassed by him calling her sexy. It feels a little absurd considering she’d just seduced him on her couch.
And then he does it again. “No, you’re just very sexy.”
He reaches inside his shirt and tugs her closer to him with his hand on her lower back and leans in to kiss her neck softly. It’s very distracting and she can feel his pride growing with each press of lips to her skin and the way she starts to melt into him.
She turns her voice firm, “Jane. I am starving. I will let you shower with me later if you’re good now and make me breakfast like you promised.”
“Oh, there’s that authoritarian streak again. Also sexy for the record,” he winks as he releases his hold on her.
“Go,” she laughs, gently pushing his chest as she turns to head up the stairs.
“Hey, Lisbon?” he calls out to her.
“Yes, Jane?” she smiles as she pauses to look at him.
“That promise of a shower later…that would seem to suggest I’ll still be here tonight.”
“I think that’s a pretty safe assumption don’t you?” she offers him softly.
“Okay, then,” he grins. “Breakfast awaits.”