Kaleidoscope   von Jisbon
                                   (Jisbon)
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                               Kapitel 1: Graze
                               ----------------


Set:  Somewhere in season 1, after 1/17 (“Let’s do a trust fall.”)
 
 
“Change came in disguise of revelation, set his soul  on fire.
She says she always knew he’d come around.
And the decades disappear like sinking ships”
(The Killers/A dustland fairytale)
Graze
 
“You can go  in now.”
The Doctor  whose name tag identified him as “Dr Cains”, was  ill shaven
and slightly overweight. Just as  obvious he was tired and frustrated and Jane
couldn’t help but ask himself whether  the fact that the man had been ignored
during the recent promotion or an  encounter with his latest patient were to
blame.  Given the circumstances the latter seemed to  be likely.  But if he
ever felt anything  remotely like pity, that feeling withered the moment his
wedding band was  briefly glanced at and all the wrong assumptions were made.
“Maybe  she’ll listen to you.”
The fool  hadn’t even read Lisbon’s intake form properly nor had he ever
looked at her  right hand. 
But Jane wasn’t  in the mood for explanation’s of any kind, he had already
smelled to much  disinfectant and lost enough time.   
“Oh, I  doubt that.”
Instead he  smiled and shrugged, like they were having that kind of a
relationship, where  he was used to waiting for her on hospital corridors,
because he told her to be  careful all the time and she just never listened. It
was a bad joke but the  irony wasn’t wasted on him and the moment his fingers
touched the doorknob the  grimace vanished. 
 
 Jane sneaked a quick peek before he entered  the small room, took a moment to
observe and to detect Lisbon’s mood. They  hadn’t talked since the incident;
there had been too many others around, too  much fuss. Which is why he had no
idea if they’d just talk or if he was about  to enter a grumpy lion’s den.
Not that it  would have mattered much anyway. 
What he saw  was no unusual sight and therefore held no evidence: Lisbon sat on
a small desk  and fought her way through a bunch of paper and she seemed
completely absorbed  by her dull task. The slightly stiff, banged left arm was
the only detail to  differ from the familiar picture—that and the fact that
she wasn’t sitting in  her office but in a hospital room. 
The coffee  from the machine that accompanied Jane was probably a thin swill and
lukewarm  at most, but he carefully placed the cup on the table corner
nevertheless. 
It was the  best peace proposal he had to offer and apparently it was an
unwanted one. 
Lisbon  didn’t say anything like that—in fact she didn’t say anything at
all—and she didn’t  have to. The way she tensed a little when she heard him
approach, the way she  didn’t look at him practically sang about her
suppressed anger and her wish to  be somewhere else. He took a few steps back
and leaned  his back against a wall.
This would  take a while. 
The first  thing he said was:  “Listen, I am sorry,”  because he really was
and for once she didn’t have to make him say these words.  
“Don’t beat  yourself up. I’m okay, it’s only a graze.”
She  answered absent mindedly, didn’t even bother looking at him. Instead, she
 scribbled at the dismissal form like her life depended on it. Two hours ago her
 life had depended on something else, but he was not going to point out the 
obvious for her. 
 “Once I’ve filled these out, I’m outta here.  Jones has probably already
lawyered up and I don’t want to waste any more time  in here.”
Cains had probably  tried to persuade her to stay the night “for safety
reasons, in case she was in  a shock” something like that, and fled because he
found that particular nut too  hard to crack, but Jane wasn’t going to give up
that easily. Honesty had failed  him so far, which is why he continued with
half-jokes. 
“I guess I  owe you a free punch.” 
He smiled  miserably, not only because he had seen her punch suspects before and
was  pretty sure that she had a terrible right hook, despite being so tiny. 
“I’ll keep  that in mind.” 
Still  nothing but the scratching of her pen to fill the small room.
“You should,  it’s probably your once in a lifetime chance to do what
you’ve been thinking  about for some time now. And don’t say you didn’t,
because I know you did.” He  shifted uneasily from one foot to the other and
became serious again. “The  situation was under control until I crashed the
party. I deserve it.” Another  variation of the truth—and an ugly little
understatement as well.   
“I know you  didn’t mean any of this to happen.” Polite emptiness seemed
to be all Lisbon  was willing to offer him but he could not content himself with
that “little”  here. This was something they had to clarify.
This had happened:  Last night the owner of a medium sized business was found in
a puddle of his  own blood. The first thing Lisbon wanted to do, in the morning,
was to have a  talk with his partner in business, Robert Jones. And she had
brought him, her  consultant, along for all the insight he could give. When they
arrived at the  house there had been a lot of screaming and waving of a gun, on
Jones’ side—a clear  case of a man being unable to cope with what he had
done. And a tale of too  much alcohol, judging by the smell on his breath.
 According to his own, slightly confusing  statements Jones had been torn
between shooting himself and shooting them. Lisbon  had told him to stay behind
and keep quiet, but like always, he had known so  much better. Instead, he had
been his usual self, playing his games asking all  the wrong questions and
drawing all the right conclusions, being about ninety  percent sure that the man
wouldn’t fire.
But this  time ninety percent hadn’t been enough.
The  catching remark that pushed Jones over the edge had been: “Go ahead,
shoot  yourself if you feel you have to. You’ll ruin that nice, expensive
looking suit  with your brain muck, but at this rate you’ll be very, very dead
and won’t care  anymore. That’s your choice.”
In this  very moment Jones had decided to shoot at them. Lisbon had been his
first  choice, because she was the armed one. She had thrown herself to the
ground,  but she had been a second too late, the second the bullet had needed to
graze  her shoulder. Seconds after that Sac PD had finally arrived and tackled
down  Jones.
Jane hadn’t  been of much benefit to anyone.  
“You leave  me hanging here, but I guess it’s only fair.” He tried to make
it sound like an  objective estimation, something to notice and cope with, but
failed miserably.  Because having earned such a treatment was dead certain
nothing to pass over  with levity—not even for him. 
 And he was used to passing over a lot of  things.
“I’m not  leaving you anywhere, Jane.” Lisbon sounded a little tired,
strained like she  had been explaining the same matter to a stubborn child the
whole day—a  stubborn child named Patrick Jane to be precise. “You simply
did what you  always do and this time I wasn’t fast enough to balance it. Now,
can we please  drop the matter?”
She meant  what she had said, that much was obvious to him. 
Justice was  the romantic ideal she clung onto, he had know that much already.
What he had  only guessed til today was where she saw herself in the big
picture. Now he  knew for sure—and he wished he didn’t. 
And  suddenly, he was so mad at her. 
For meaning  what she said, for not thinking about leaving him despite the fact
that he  nearly had gotten her killed today. For  being who she was. For blaming
herself instead of him, for acting like dying in  the name of “justice”
would be no big deal. For a whirlwind of reasons that  surprised and alarmed him
at the same time, but at the very moment they were  just another thing to pass
over.  
Right now,  he was just going to be angry, because that feeling demanded neither
excuses  nor explanation’s of any kind. 
“Oh,  please, Lisbon! Stop being a saint, just once!” he growled, seemingly
absorbed  with brushing away an imaginary lint from his shoulder with a tense
hand. 
Lisbon  stiffened before she put the pen aside and finally, for the first time
during  this whole mess, looked him in the eye. It was a cold and stern look and
she  was trying to hide something behind it. His always observing eyes noted
this and  a few other things, like how pale her face was and he was fairly
certain that  it was not only the effect of the neon light. The same applied for
the dark  circles around her eyes and the larger amount of make-up she had used
today to  hide those. 
This was  not about Jones, this was about something that she had been lugging
around for  longer.
“I never  pretended to be a saint, I’m just being reasonable. Somebody has
to.” She  clenched her right hand into a first.   “And besides you
wouldn’t know anyway, since you don’t even believe in  the existence of
saints.” She pointed out triumphant, her voice laboriously  controlled.
No, of  course he didn’t—how could he? He wasn’t even she sure Lisbon did,
catholic  school or not, but that was neither here nor there at the moment. 
Seemingly,  he had finally managed to get through to her, but he suddenly
doubted if it was  a desirable place to go in her current state of mind; or in
his for that  matter.  
But he  should have thought about that earlier. Much earlier, because now it was
now  impossible to retreat to his fortress of fake smiles and smug remarks.  
“I don’t  need to, and for what it’s worth, I never accused you of
pretending. I know you  don’t do that…at least not when it comes to
important things.” 
He shook  his head in awe, because she really was a puzzle. One he hadn’t
solved yet and  maybe never would. It was not the first time that the thought of
their limited  time together grazed him, but it was the first time that the
weight almost  buried him.  He’d find and kill Red John  and then… Yeah,
what then?  He had never really thought about that time.  It was an elusive
thing, too far away and much too close at the same time.  Maybe he’d die doing
it, maybe there’d be the death penalty waiting for him or  he’d have to live
out the rest of his days in a federal prison, he didn’t  really care—at
least that’s what he preferred to tell himself. Something else  he insisted on
fooling himself with was that he had become incapable of caring  about any
living human being; that Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt were just  background
actors, the supporting group preparing the stage for his grand,  final entrance.
(Someday and somehow, he would have to stop lying to himself.)
And Lisbon  had known enough about his private madness and agreed to working
with him  nevertheless, despite her own doubts. 
“You really are a saint.” The words came out  much more gentle then
originally intended, affectionate and a little surprised.  
He had  always enjoyed solving puzzles and if things were different… But that
was a dangerous  game to play, because things weren’t different.  They
couldn’t be.
With his  outlooks that would be an all too cruel joke . 
His words  had a strange effect on her. For a moment, before she hastily turned
away from  him, he even hallucinated angry tears glittering in her eyes. Absurd,
because  he had never seen her on the verge of crying before. Preposterous,
because he  would have bet on the fact that they’d not be there, because the
realization  that she could have died today took two full hours to hit her. 
“For somebody who claims to be so smart you’re  talking something that does
sound remarkably like bullshit right now.”
The boss was back—at least that was the impression  she tried to make. 
And she did  her best and did acceptable, but her performance was not nearly
good enough. He  was the expert, he noticed the little creak in her voice, the
clenched fist. Sarcasm  had never suited her much and the fact that she took
refuge there told him how  much she wanted the upper hand over him, to remind
him that she was his boss. 
 But for all that his expertise was worth  nothing because he had no idea about
what she was trying so hard not to think about. 
“You are  one to talk, Lisbon.” A cruel smile distorted his lips.
And he knew  then she’d be unable to leave things here. He was not only
questioning her authority,  he had somehow ended questioning her view on her job
and the whole cop thing.  Questioning who she was, that’s what he had been
doing. He hadn’t planned on  doing it, it had just happened.  Sometimes,
conversations just did that­—even to  him. 
Lisbon cleared  her throat and forced herself to withstand his gaze. 
“I have no  idea what you...” she hissed, reaching for the now certainly
cold cup of coffee  next to her in a hopeless attempt to steady her nerves. 
 “Really, Lisbon?” 
Jane  interrupted her impatiently while he took an impulsive step toward her. He
 didn’t even know what he wanted to do there, probably something pointless
like  grapping her arm and Lisbon breaking his because of that—fortunately
enough they  already were in a hospital, he thought humorlessly.  But whatever
it would have been his sudden  movement startled her enough and she ended up
sweeping the cup off the table  instead. 
For a  laughably long moment they both watched his peace offer taking a short
flight  in his direction, and then land in the space between them. The brown
liquid  splashed over the floor and the plastic cup rolled out of sight, under
the bed.  
“Damn it,  Jane!” Lisbon growled before she grabbed a stack of paper towels.

He didn’t  stir and he didn’t say a word. He told himself that it was
because he was a  coward and couldn’t tell her that apparently nervousness
made her inept; after  all she was the one with the gun in here.  A soft spoken
voice in his head, one which he  wanted  to silence so badly  and which
sounded remarkably like Charlotte’s  told him something else:  That he was 
sorry, again for getting rough and driving her into a corner like this, that 
she deserved better. 
And while  she moved to clean up the mess, she muttered something. Something
that was  probably never meant for him to hear, something he didn’t really
understand.  “Saint”, “resources” and “matter” were the few words he
was able to identify  unambiguously. 
 It was at this moment that the door opened and  a very young nurse stepped in
and she immediately noticed the loaded atmosphere.  “I…I’m sorry, I
didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just come back in a few minutes.” 
Something akin to panic stained her voice. 
Lisbon shook  her head and stopped her.
“That won’t  be necessary, we were done here anyway,” she said with the
full weight of her authority  acting calm and completely ignoring him, “And
I’m sorry for …this,” Lisbon added  while she pointed at the floor and the
soggy paper towels. 
Jane  considered himself dismissed then. 
 
During his  drive through Sacramento, his brain kept replaying the moment in the
hospital  room where Lisbon had muttered those words he hadn’t understood. 
They held the last clue to explain her  strange behavior; that was a safe
assumption. It took him til he was halfway  through Sacramento to solve the case
nevertheless. He tested the words in  various orders and a few gaps remained,
but he finally got the tune. 
“If I were I saint I wouldn’t want to know…would  it be the access to the
CBI resources or me you’d mourn so eager. It wouldn’t  even matter.”
And when he  finally did, he was on the verge of turning over, right there on
the freeway  just to return to the hospital. Of returning there just to shake
her til she  came to her senses; of continuing a fight that couldn’t be won
today because  some things just weren’t rational—fear wasn’t,
fundamental’s weren’t… and trust  wasn’t as well.
He knew  that probably better than anyone else. 
 And this is why he let the moment pass and  still followed traffic, still was
on his way to the CBI at the end of it. Because  he had to admit something: It
was an ugly question but maybe, perhaps  well-earned. 
And a part  of him was irked again, because he had told her the truth, only a
few weeks  ago. Maybe she hadn’t listened, or she had been too stubborn to
search for the  truth somewhere behind jokes and silly trust falls. 
“Lisbon, I want you to know that you can trust  me. No matter what happens,
I’ll be there for you. I will. I need you to know  that.”
He couldn’t  help but smile at the memory then, because it was so typical of
her, and of him  to dance around the truth like that.
Jane  fetched out his phone, flipped it open and dialed Lisbon’s number. 
And then he  had to wait, because she didn’t take his call. Maybe she
couldn’t because she  was somewhere on the road as well, but it seemed much
more likely that she just  didn’t want to. Either  because she wasn’t  in
the mood for struggling with him anymore or because she was embarrassed by  her
little outburst, the outcome was the same. It was no real surprise, the  real
surprise was how lost it made him feel. If he wasn’t able to tell her now, 
he’d…
And while  he was still trying to decide what to do, her voice suddenly filled
the car.
“This is Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon. I can’t  take your call right now, but
if you leave a message…”
He let his  hand fall slowly and then completely stopped because he had just
changed his  mind: He would just follow the orders of that very distant Lisbon
and leave her  a message.
“…I’ll call you back as soon as possible.”
Jane  cleared his throat. Speaking to machines had always made him feel stupid,
but  he had to do this. “Lisbon, for somebody so smart you seem to think
something  that does sound remarkably like bullshit.” 
He put  effort into faking a cheerful voice and then he held off, again. Because
he hadn’t  called to say something like that. 
There were  many things he could and should have said, things she probably
wouldn’t believe  because sneaky remarks and disbelief were her way of
protecting herself—but  knowing that failed to legitimize his omission.
Despite all this, was a unique  possibility, because she wasn’t there to brush
him off.
 “No, I’m sorry, that wasn’t funny at all. And  actually, that’s not
what I wanted to say.” He grimaced and found himself at a  loss for words,
again. It wasn’t like him to stutter like this, but then again  it wasn’t
like him to tape or to be this…real. His showman camouflage felt very  far
away and he felt so vulnerable, but he forced himself to continue speaking.  
“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry we agued and I’m sorry, I…You matter. Don’t
ever think otherwise.”  His voice sounded hoarse, throaty and he spoke  way
too quick. This was not a joke. 
 “So…take care of yourself, please. Let me…”
He quickly  hung up then because he just couldn’t say, “Let  me take care of
you, you have no idea what you mean to me”. 
 It was neither the time nor the place for  these words.  
 

If  he ever had those psychic powers he had faked in another life, Jane would
have known  how wrong he was about many things, about the time when he would say
this or “It’s  over, it’s done”, about Sheriff Hardy, Red John and a
million other things but  since there never was such a thing as psychics he had
no idea then.

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