Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.

A/N: Hope you and your loved ones are all doing well. Stay inside, wash your hands, take care of your mental health, and enjoy the chapter! The prompt is more of a metaphor than a direct reference this time, so don't worry if you can't identify it.

(By the way, you should have seen my double take when I realised this story had reached 400 reviews. Honestly I'm overjoyed and deeply touched, thank you so much to all of you.)

Warnings: I almost added some additional horror in there, then decided we could all do with a break. Descriptions of light hypothermia, blood and injuries, pain and exhaustion, as well as covering some heavy subjects related to murder. I did my best to keep the gore to a minimum but as always, if any of this triggers you, please stay safe.

Hour 16: Lisbon
Sword

The river is excruciatingly cold.

She knew it would be before she stepped in, of course. The water biting on her toes earlier had given enough warning. And she remembers all too well the much harsher winters of her childhood in Chicago – fooling around in the snow with her brothers, running barefoot across the ice crusted yard on a dare, laughter shaking her body just as much as the shivers did.

But as she makes her way across on increasingly numb legs, she realises it wasn't enough.

Nothing could have prepared her for the necessity of holding herself upright despite rocks slipping under her toes, sand losing its integrity, shells stabbing her soles – every new step revealed a traitorous, hidden dagger. Nothing could have prepared her for the death grip on her heart when she slips and falls, freezing water licking at her collarbones, nor for the way her lungs expel all air in a rush and for a long, terrifying second, refuse to take in some more.

She gets to the river bank exhausted, so cold she can barely feel her limbs. The earthy slope seems impregnable – even though it's far from acute, and definitely less than it was on the other side. Shivering, she lies a long moment curled in the dirt, every new breath an almost inhuman effort.

From this angle, she can see an easy path to the top.

If only she could get her body to move.

Get up, Lisbon, says Jane, vibrating by her side. Come on. Don't give up now.

"Can't."

Yes you can. Pull yourself up, it's easy. You can do it.

"T – too cold."

Temperature won't get any better if you stay there, you know. Please, Teresa. Do it for me?

"Told you I – didn't want to – go. Told you this w – would happen. You never – "

A violent shudder courses through her body, waking up the distant aches of her wounds.

" – never listen to me," she adds, closing her eyes.

Don't you dare fall asleep!

Jane's voice comes strong and angry, so loud that she jumps and cranes her neck, hoping to find him up the ledge. But he isn't there – of course he isn't. Nobody is. No one to help her fight – or even endure – the wind blowing chills on her skin, or the pain slowly making itself known again as her body shivers off the cold. She lets out a small sob, quickly silenced out of habit, and the reflex is somehow enough to shake off the tired lethargy muddling her thoughts.

She needs to get to the house. Quickly, before she freezes to death.

Rolling over, she collects herself on knees and elbows, keeping her injured palms close to her chest and her throbbing ankle off the slanting ground. Slowly, carefully, she crawls her way up, interrupting her progression every three steps to take deep breaths. When she reaches the top, the thin afternoon sun greets her with caressing warmth on her cheeks and bare arms. She closes her eyes a moment, soaking in the sunlight.

It's going to be okay, whispers Jane in her mind.

"You don't know that," she whispers back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

Of course I know. It's almost over. You're doing great.

"Great? Every inch of my body hurts! I'm not even sure I can stand."

See? If you have enough cheek left in you to snark at me like this, I'm fully confident everything will turn out fine.

"Oh, shut up," she groans.

Jane's chuckle tinkles like a wind chime, and she almost joins in – until she realises there really is a wind chime hanging near the front door of the house, ringing cheerfully with every breeze as if to beckon her closer.

You'll be fine. Go on.

On her knees, she takes a moment to touch her mother's cross, quivering hands clinging to long-forgotten comfort. Then she takes a fortifying breath, wraps an arm around the nearby tree for stability, and pulls herself up, hissing when her bad foot touches the ground. The wind chime tinkles again as the world capsizes around her. Heart beating too fast, she remains motionless until the dizzy spell passes, then takes a tentative step.

Not too fast, whispers Jane, waiting ahead.

She glares, too tired to argue the obvious. But the sun gleams through his smile, making it difficult to stay annoyed with him, and she ends up smiling herself in between two winces.

Somehow trying to reach him becomes a game. Four steps in his direction, he hops back three. Two more, he grins and bounces where he stands. Another, and he's hopping away again. Rationally she knows she'll never catch up with him – he isn't even there – but it makes walking easier when she focusses on smaller goals. Two more steps. Three more. And so on.

Getting to the porch is almost a surprise – some small part of her is astonished to have made it this far. Jane is clapping and cheering her on with ridiculous enthusiasm somewhere behind her. She ignores his antics, climbs up the three blue stairs on wobbly legs, teeth clenched against the pain. Another heaving breath, eyes half-closed, leaning against the wall. Then she knocks.

No answer.

She sighs. Of course there isn't. She's getting used to this.

"How – how long is it polite to wait before – breaking in?" she mutters.

Meh. No need to break in. Just open it.

Jane's eyes flicker to the door and back to hers, eyebrows raised expectant. She frowns, then shrugs – it won't hurt to try. Fingertips slipping on the cold metal, she presses on the latch and pulls the handle, careful to keep her injured palms away.

The door opens smoothly. She blinks.

"How did you – "

– know it was opened? Easy. We're in the middle of nowhere and there's a wind chime hanging near the front door.

"So?" she asks, taking a cautious step over the threshold.

So, either the owners are elderly people, an age group more likely to forget to lock their door – especially if they've lived away from the city for a while – or this place belongs to hippies who probably don't believe in the necessity to lock their door in the first place.

"That sounds like a really big leap. What if this house belongs to people who just enjoy wind chimes?"

Sure, could be. But I wasn't wrong about the door, was I?

He grins at her from the middle of the room, rocking back and forth on the ball of his feet, looking so self-satisfied she isn't sure if she wants to slap or kiss him.

A regular occurrence, he points out.

She settles on rolling her eyes and closing the door behind her.

"You're right. You figured out everything – all on your own. Where would I be without you, huh?" she teases, leaning against the wall and scanning the room for a phone.

Hmm, he ponders, tapping a finger to his lips. In a small, boring town up in Washington, working as a police chief?

No phone in sight. Cold sweat beads on her skin.

"How about Sacramento, leading a – a successful major crimes unit in a state-wide organisation?"

And working for corrupt bosses?

She snorts.

A sweat drop slides down her forehead, making the burn above her eyebrow sting. But it's the least of her worries – her mind feels fuzzy around the edges and all of her injuries are screaming with renewed pain. Her body is giving her clear signs of being about to shut down on its own if she doesn't get some rest.

I think the bathroom is this way, whispers Jane, dropping the banter and pointing to a door on the left.

"Bathroom?"

You need to clean and dress your wounds.

She blinks away the white fog threatening to take over her vision, then breathes in several times in an attempt to return some oxygen to her bloodstream. Dizziness recedes slowly. She clenches her teeth and half-walks, half-hops to the room Jane pointed to.

Thankfully, he wasn't wrong – she wasn't, she, it couldn't be him, he isn't here, isn't real – and the small bathroom is a sight from heaven. Relieved, she lets herself fall on the edge of the bath tub and sets her foot on the toilet seat. Her ankle gives a last angry pulse before the pain subsides. The fog finally starts lifting, allowing her mind to regain a bit of clarity.

"Crap," she mutters, noticing the footprints trail from the bathroom to the front door.

You need to remove your clothes, says Jane, frowning at her from the doorway.

She considers the mud covering her neck to toe with growing disgust.

"A shower is what I need."

You can't stand. You won't be able to take one right now.

"Well, what am I supposed to do? Can't keep tracking mud everywhere."

Just – get out of those clothes, clean your wounds as well as you can, and find a place to sleep. Everything else can wait.

She bites her lip. It makes sense – too much, and she hates it.

"We'll see," she groans, extending an arm over the sink.

Reaching anything from where she sits is of course impossible. She grimaces and gets up, leaning heavily on the countertop, her effort rewarded when she finds painkillers and antibacterial hand wipes in the cabinet behind the mirror.

Painkillers first, says Jane when she takes the wipes out.

She rolls her eyes, sitting back on the edge of the bathtub.

"I need clean hands to scoop water. Won't be able to stand long enough to wash with soap."

You don't need water to chew those pills.

"But I will need water to wash away the taste," she answers.

There's a glass you could use right there, Jane points out, lips quirking up.

She ignores him and turns the pack of wipes in her hands.

The alcohol in there is going to hurt, he adds. Your hands could be shaking too much to open the bottle.

Fingers tight on opposite ends of the envelope, seconds away from ripping it open, she stops – and scrunches her eyes hard. Helplessness rises up like a wave. She drops the pack, fighting to keep the tears away.

There's a bath just behind you, Teresa. You don't need to get up. Just wash your hands there.

"Dammit," she sobs. "Couldn't you have said that earlier?"

The handle slips out of her grasp twice before she manages to open the tap, making her very grateful it wasn't knobs. Eyes half-closed, she lets the running water wash away most of the dirt. It's cold, almost as much as the river was, but the numbing effect allows her to lather up with soap and rinse it off without too much pain. A clean face cloth wrapped around her hands, she uncaps the bottle of painkillers on the fifth attempt, almost dropping its content in the process.

Three at least, whispers Jane as she reaches for the small white pills with shaking fingers.

The taste on her tongue is metallic, unbearably bitter, and it takes two whole cups of water to get rid of it. But the fact she feels better almost immediately – be it the medicine, the water, or just a placebo effect – makes the unpleasantness worth it.

She kicks off socks and trousers, disgusted when she notices the mud streaks along her legs. But the makeshift bandage on her side is caked with dried blood and cannot be removed as easily. She hesitates, ponders her energy levels, then lowers herself into the bathtub – mud on her legs she could tolerate, but mud in her wounds she shouldn't ignore. If she gets a quick shower out of it, then who is she to complain?

Thanking all heavens for the handheld shower head, she waits for hot water before working it up her body, holding it a long time behind her neck just for the wonderful way it warms her up.

Feels good? asks Jane.

She smiles, hearing the affection in his voice tones.

"Never had a better shower."

Well, that's not true. What about that time when –

"Fine. Never had a better solo one," she laughs.

The water washes away rivers of dirt, brown slowly turning to pink as she removes the fabric stuck to her skin. The graze doesn't look good, pain throbbing deep into her ribcage every time she touches its dark red edges. Clenching her teeth, she fishes to the side for the pack of wipes she dropped earlier.

"Distract me?" she asks, ripping it open.

Jane remains silent – after a few seconds, she looks up, expecting him to have disappeared. But he leans against the threshold just as he did earlier, watching her with a careful expression. She frowns.

"Jane?"

He moves then, two steps in her direction before sliding down against the wall, sitting facing her. From this close, she can see the deep creases on his cheeks, the fine lines surrounding his eyes, the spiky stubble on his chin – a feat of memory she didn't expect from herself. One that makes her long for home – for him – that much more deeply.

Earlier, when we were talking about Lazarus, he starts, quiet and serious. I told you that you should have made sure he was dead. But you said you weren't like me. What did you mean by that?

She stops and stares.

"Seriously? That's what you choose to distract me with?"

He shrugs.

That's what you chose to distract yourself with.

With a groan, she pulls a wipe out of its package, taking great care to keep the white fabric away from her palms.

"Well I changed my mind," she mutters, hissing when the alcohol burns her side.

I don't think it's very healthy to do that, you know. Ignoring your issues.

"You're – one to – talk," she pants.

You'll need to let it out one day. Why not now?

"Because – you're not – actually – here. We should – have – this conversation – in – person."

Then think of this as a test run.

She bites her lip, taking some time to get her breath under control.

"Fine," she says shortly, avoiding his gaze. "I meant – I shot someone before. People. Several. I know what it's like to end a life. It's hard. I don't feel guilt for – for the times I did it. It had to be done. But – "

Cold sweat beads on her temples, rolls down her neck, but she refuses to give up and keeps running the wipe methodically down her side, again and again, until the fabric comes back clean. Only then she stops, breath loud and heavy, and rests her forehead against the tiles for a moment – pain pulsing violent with every heartbeat.

"Every time I killed, it was – protection. Self-defence, or – or defence of others. And I don't – "

A shiver runs up her spine, raising goosebumps on its way. She pushes herself away from the wall, grabs a towel and wraps it around her shoulders, then carefully climbs on the edge of the bathtub again.

Say it, Teresa.

She swallows, throat clicking harsh, and opens the drawers she didn't explore earlier. In the third one, she finds more medical supplies – bandages, cotton pads, elastic bands. Everything she needs, thank God. She can barely believe her luck.

Then a wrong move sends a spike of pain shooting up her leg, and – no. There is no luck involved. Just a respite, a temporary one she must make the most of while it lasts.

Luck would be better than that.

Jane shifts, drawing her attention back to him.

Stop deflecting and finish your thought, Lisbon.

She swallows, looks away.

"I don't think I could do what you did," she whispers. "I don't think I could kill in cold blood."

And?

"And I don't – I don't understand how you could. Never did."

But you always knew it would happen.

"I thought you would realise you couldn't, when the time came."

But after Carter, you knew it would. You knew that, Lisbon.

She remains silent and wraps linen tightly around her ribs, holding it together with tape – praying that it holds up until she gets to safety. Then she takes the elastic band and looks at her ankle. The swelling isn't as bad as expected. The colour, however, is worrying – deep purple starting under the bone and stretching over her foot.

Jane is back on his feet, waiting at the door again, and catches her attention with a sigh.

Why are you acting like you didn't know?

"I did know," she answers, gritting her teeth as she bandages her ankle.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I had hoped – "

She falters, mouth dry. Jane looks nothing but curious, which only makes the matter worse.

"We had grown – closer, in the previous months. Remember?"

I remember. We were in love. We just couldn't admit it to each other. Or ourselves.

She bites her lip.

"I had hoped that this – what we had – would be enough. To stop you, I mean."

Then you gave me your gun when I asked.

"Yes. I did."

Did it make you angry? That I asked?

She takes her time to think about it, hissing as she uses the last antibacterial wipe on her palms and applies a large bandage over the cuts.

"No," she answers after a while.

Because you knew by then it had to be done. Nothing else would stop him.

She nods.

"It's not that you did it, Jane," she adds, quiet. "It's that you could do it at all. It scares me."

What does?

"When you killed Carter, it changed you. Made you – hard. Ruthless."

I was a conman, Lisbon. I was already ruthless. Had to be.

"Not like that. When I met you, you were – "

Softer? he chuckles.

She shakes her head, pulls herself up. The glimpse of herself she catches in the mirror is startling – with dark, wet hair framing a pale face and the vivid red burn above her eyebrow, she looks like a ghost straight out of a horror movie. She doesn't linger, wraps the towel around her chest and limps her way out of the bathroom.

"You lost part of yourself, Jane," she says, low and quiet, leaning on every flat surface she meets.

I'm still me, though. You know that, right?

She pinches her lips, keeps going without a word. Dizziness comes and goes as she moves across the house. Jane leads the way, trails of light dancing behind him, making her scrunch her eyebrows and look away.

Clearly, she needs to rest.

The first door she comes across is a cupboard full of thick blankets and winter coats, and for a second she battles with the temptation to just crawl in a corner like she used to when she was a child. But Jane points out to a door a bit further on her left, and – yes, fine. A bed would be a better option.

Or a more reasonable one, anyway.

A sweet, indefinable smell floats to her nose when she opens the door – something warm and comforting she immediately feels at ease with. The blinds are closed and the room is dark, but the bed is large, covered with fluffy blankets and plush pillows, and she can feel her eyes water from sheer relief. She doesn't try to contain her tears this time – simply closes the door behind her and limps to the edge, runs the back of her hand on the soft fabric to make sure this is real.

You're safe, whispers Jane in her ear.

The sigh she lets out almost comes as a sob, but she's fast past caring. She sits, then rolls over carefully, lets the towel slip off, and pulls the sheets over her head. Every angle of her body is infused with muted pain, but she can ignore it – the blanket hugs her tightly, and if she allows herself it's so easy to imagine the weight of Jane's hand on her hip, the warmth of his chest against her back.

I didn't lose my soul, Lisbon, he says again, so close behind her. I promise.

I know, she thinks.

Then what are you so afraid of?

She closes her eyes, ready for sleep to claim her.

"I don't know," she answers, so softly she barely hears her own voice.

Next prompt: Coat