The season finale has left me in a bit of a slump (Mostly I'm just angry with Jane, and I feel badly for Lisbon.). As I've said before, I often write for therapy, and the idea for this companion piece to "A Magician Never Reveals" and "Nothing Up My Sleeve" came to mind to help me bridge between what is and—at least in part—what I would like to be (Mostly I want to cause Jane some pain so I can forgive him, and I want to give Lisbon back some of her dearly loved control.). There's no fluff, no romance. Like I said, it's Therapy. With a capital "T".

NO MORE ILLUSIONS

He sat and stared at the phone.

It was a very ordinary phone, quite common in its color and design, nothing to commend it to special consideration. But consider it he did.

He thought back to the series of events that had brought him to this place. Not to this building or to this room, but to this phone.

Four weeks, twenty-eight days ago, he had killed Red John in a busy food court of a bustling city mall. It hadn't been the plan, not in the strictest sense, but it had played out so beautifully. Patrick Jane did not believe in any god or embrace any religious philosophy, but something—whether Fate or Providence or Destiny or Karma—seemed to have been on his side that day when what he wanted to do became what had to be done. At least as he saw it. Those were the events that led to his being in jail. Those that had brought him to be staring at this phone were quite something else.

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In those first two days, he hadn't expected anyone to visit and knew he didn't have the right to even hope that someone would. All of that was best abandoned at the clicking of the cuffs. He was due to be arraigned sometime within forty-eight hours after his arrest. Not really caring about mounting any kind of defense, he had agreed to accept a court-appointed attorney. The whole thing would boil down to mere paperwork anyway. That being the case, he hadn't expected to see his defense counsel until he actually appeared before the judge. So, when the guard poked his stick through the bars of the cell to nudge at his foot and tell him he had a visitor, Jane was a bit nonplussed as well as relieved. Thirty-one-and-a-half hours and he was already bored.

He was surprised when Andy-the-guard led him to the Special Visitors' Room. This was different from the regular visitors' room in that it was surrounded by a combination of bars and wire mesh that provided a certain amount of privacy if the occupants remembered to keep their voices down. It was meant for meetings between prisoners and their attorneys or A.D.A.'s looking to make deals, as opposed to the larger, more open visitors' room that was for meeting with family and friends. Again, Jane did not expect a visit with his as yet unknown counsel, and he was no small-time thug with information to offer on his kingpin to interest a prosecutor looking to make a trade. So, curiosity over the nature of this visit at least gave him a sense of anticipation. Probably, he thought ruefully, the last he would know for the rest of his life.

He stepped into the room and looked into dusky brown eyes.

"Madeleine."

He didn't have much in the way of conversation to offer her, but she had looked at him so soulfully, and he had just wanted her to stop. She must have realized her expression as well as his intention because her eyes narrowed even as she pressed her lips together in irritation.

"Patrick."

She sat down and folded her hands together on the table between them, and he mirrored her actions, a mocking but friendly glimmer in his eyes. That seemed to irritate her, too, but this time her own eyes lit with amusement. He could tell that particular emotion surprised her under the circumstances, but at the same time, she knew she shouldn't be surprised.

"I understand you haven't hired an attorney."

Right to it then.

"Madeleine, please." He sighed heavily but maintained his slightly impish expression. "There really isn't any point in—"

"What do you intend to do?" She had suddenly leaned forward, nearly coming off of her chair to be closer to him. When he hesitated, not knowing exactly what she was asking, she elaborated. "How do you intend to plead?"

"Guilty," he said without hesitation, as if that should be a given, the only suitable answer.

She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, her full lips pressed into as thin an exasperated line as they would go. Surveying him for a moment, she sighed through her nose and spoke.

"They're charging you with murder one."

"I know."

"And you're pleading guilty."

"Yes."

"And you're going with a court-appointed attorney."

"Yes."

"An underpaid, overworked, part-of-the-system court-appointed attorney."

"Yes." It was hard not to keep the note of exasperation out of his own voice now. Where was this going?

"You do know California has the death penalty."

"Madeleine, I'm ready for this to be over."

He didn't know exactly what he'd expected, but it had not been the harsh bark of laughter.

"At least you haven't lost your penchant for the dramatic." She tilted her head and looked at him in that patronizing way she had when she knew she had reason to feel superior. "Patrick, the last lethal injection was stayed by the court in 2006 because someone realized the drug combination caused conscious asphyxiation."

He swallowed hard.

"The moratorium's never been lifted—there are over six hundred people on death row. You could be on death row for decades, decades, Patrick."

She suddenly ducked her head and raised her left hand to rub her fingertips across her forehead in agitation. After a few seconds, she brought her hands together again on the tabletop, frowned at them, then cleared her throat and started over, as if she were just remembering her manners.

"I was worried about you and called the D.A. I still have friends there, and after what they nearly . . . well, let's just say they were very cooperative. They told me you didn't seem to be very interested in your case, that you weren't moving, just accepting . . ."

Her voice trailed off, and she frowned again. She hadn't looked at him since she had used the word "decades" twice. She cleared her throat once more and raised her eyes to his.

"Patrick, you helped me when no one else could have. You saved my life and the life of my children. I can't ever repay that debt. I also can't sit back and let you make such a grave error in judgment, even when I know you're hell bent on being six kinds of stupid."

He had to chuckle at that. "What do you want me to do, Madeleine?"

"I want you to hire a good attorney."

"Madeleine, I told you, I intend to plead—"

"I know. I don't understand, I don't agree, but I know. It's not the plea. It's the sentencing. If you intend to plead guilty, you at least need someone to argue for a life sentence instead of the death penalty."

"To hear you tell it, one's the same as the other."

"Death row isn't prison, Patrick. It's death row. There is a difference."

He didn't want to talk about this anymore. He'd made his decision, and he didn't want to ask her about the difference. This was as hard as he had imagined it would be, and it was getting more difficult by the moment now to maintain his damned nonchalance. If she said much more . . .

"If you won't do this for yourself, Patrick, please do it for me . . ." Something flickered across her expression, and her eyes nearly closed in a half-blink. ". . . and for everyone else who cares about you."

He executed his own shattered blink. She hadn't said it in a pointed way, but she had meant to make a point. It was better if he ignored that.

"I'll consider it."

She looked at him long and hard before reaching across the table and taking his hand in one of hers and giving it a gentle squeeze. She turned and motioned toward the guard, and Jane's eyes followed her as she rose and swept regally out of the room. He looked down at the piece of paper she had slipped into his palm and recognized the name and what looked like the cell phone number of the most obnoxious, arrogant and successful defense attorney in the city.

Halfway back to his cell, he had asked Andy-the-guard if they might switch directions so he could make a call.

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His attorney had argued strenuously with him over his plea. "This isn't right," he had said. "You can't just lie down and let them do this. Please, please reconsider."

In the end, with the confidence of Hannibal, the counsel for the defense had pled guilty per his client's wishes. Before leaving Jane in the hands of a very burley county sheriff's deputy for transport back to the jail, his lawyer had assured him he would work on the sentencing argument and go over it with him before their next appearance. Jane committed it to the list of things he didn't need to think about and rode back to the county lockup wondering what was for lunch.

The next incident that led to his current position had transpired four days later.

By now, his presence in the common areas had caused enough of a disturbance that the county sheriff and warden had decided that it would be best if Mr. Jane were kept to himself. He took his meals in his cell, and had two one-hour spots of television viewing per day. Outside time was shared with two very non-conversant guards. Jane had made a mental note to be more circumspect in his remarks to the other inmates once he reached his permanent address.

He was also coming to realize that spending a few days in jail with the certainty that someone would be able to get him out if she were to only apply herself was quite different from facing the prospect of the rest of his life being spent there with prison food, prison bedding, prison company and—worse yet—prison insomnia. He had long thought, long believed that killing Red John would bring him a sense of rest and peace. While he did feel a calm assurance, and kind of peace, that he had indeed done the right thing, rest did not come.

But on that fourth day after his arraignment, another visitor did.

He had managed with little effort to not think too much about the life that had ended with his most recent actions and decisions or any of the people connected with it. So, while he was glad to see Cho, he was surprised and annoyed by the slightest twinge of disappointment.

The agent stood looking through the small, single window, not turning when Jane entered. It wasn't like Cho to pander to dramatic effect—he had to have heard him come in, the door was that loud. Still, he waited until the chair scraped out and Jane dropped into it, graceful and light as ever before he turned.

His eyes had gone first to where he knew Jane's eyes would be, but they had dropped quickly to his chest. By the furrow of his brow, Jane guessed he was taking in the wardrobe change and that the sight was a slightly troubling one. But when Cho's eyes again met Jane's, his face cleared and he only sighed shortly before raising a rolled up paper bag and dropping it on the table within reach.

"Here. Your stuff was still at the office. Thought you could use some of it."

Ah, yes. Cho had been in juvey. He would know.

"Thanks. The soap here was starting to itch. Razors aren't so great either."

"Yeah, well, function has to suffer if they don't want it used as a weapon. I didn't bring one, by the way. Would've been confiscated."

Jane nodded, as he peered down into the sack. Soap, shave cream, aftershave, deodorant, toothpaste (not his usual brand, he'd been low, Cho must have picked that up on the way), toothbrush. Searching through, he found two books. His brow furrowed, and he realized he was looking for his journal.

"They took it."

"Who?" he looked up, almost snarling. Instantly he realized it was foolish to still be so protective of it.

"The DA's office. It's evidence now." He paused for only a moment. ""S'not like you need it anymore anyway."

There was nothing in his tone, really, and nothing in his expression. But Jane knew he was angry. Thing was, Cho's anger was always cold. Resentful. Heated ire was easier to deal with. Met with calm, it could be intensified. The same if met with equal heat. Reassurances could calm it, and apologies, sincere or not, could assuage it. But this? There was nothing, no way to meet this. Time and choice were its only smoothers.

"Evidence?"

"Yeah. Guess that's a moot point now."

Cho stood with his hands at his waist, pushing his jacket back on either side as he stared unseeing out that little window and chewed on the inside of his cheek. Jane had never seen him look so pensive.

"If you've got something to say, just say it Cho."

Without hesitation he turned back and spoke.

"You need to change your plea."

"Cho, I've already—"

"It wasn't murder one."

"What?"

"They're charging you with murder one. They're saying you got up that morning, put a loaded gun in your pocket—," the look of pained exasperation was almost amusing, "—and planned on going to the mall to shoot Red John. That's not what happened."

"But I did—"

"You didn't plan to."

"I always planned to—"

"Not that day, in that place, in that way, you didn't."

Jane shook his head at the man's sheer stubbornness. At that, Cho quickly pulled out the chair opposite and sat down, leaning across the table with a sense of urgency.

"I know you always intended to kill Red John. I mean, you never said anything, not to us anyway." Cho paused and searched Jane's face for just a moment before deciding what he was wondering or looking for wasn't important right now. "But you didn't intend to shoot him. You don't like guns, you're not so certain with guns. I know you killed Hardy, but considering you were less than twenty feet away, and that shotgun fired wide array buckshot, you would've had to have been fifty feet away and blind to miss."

The assessment surprised a chuckle out of Jane. "I guess it wasn't a demonstration of any significant prowess, was it?"

Cho smirked, leaning back in his chair. "If there'd been more distance between you and Red John, there's no way you would've hit him . . . shooting through you pocket like that."

They shared the moment of dark humor before Cho returned to the subject at hand.

"You took the gun because you thought you were routing the mole, and you didn't know what he would do. Then Bertram turned out to not be our guy. You called Lisbon, stuff starting happening. You had no way of knowing Red John was reading the paper a few tables over. The recording bears all that out."

"Recording?"

"We were recording, remember? It's all on tape—he practically confessed to everything, you mentioned he had a gun, he got up to leave, you stopped him, he told you . . ."

Cho's voice trailed off, and both men visibly tensed.

"It's not. Murder. One."

"No jury's going to believe I didn't want to kill him."

"You don't have to prove you didn't want to kill him. You just have to prove you didn't plan to kill him that day in that way at that place."

Cho's anger had dissipated significantly since he'd been able to say what he'd come to say. That accomplished, there was little left. Still, his eyes held Jane's as if waiting for him to say something, ask something, broach some something. When nothing else was said, a bit of the previous coolness leached back into Cho's demeanor.

"Well . . .," the agent searched for parting words. Finding none to suit, he rose and headed for the barred door as the guard unlocked it, and suddenly Jane realized this might be his last chance to ask.

"How's Lisbon?"

It took a moment for the answer to sink in and for him to realize that the single word was indeed the perfect exit line.

"Alive."

It had never occurred to him that that wouldn't be a given. His mouth opened in question, but there was no longer anyone in the room of whom to inquire.

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Of all people, Jane wouldn't have believed he would be so nervous to see Wayne Rigsby. But when he had rounded the corner to see the large agent standing, looking out the window of the Special Visitors' Room much the same way Cho had one week previous, Jane's gait had hitched slightly and slowed.

Rigsby wasn't stupid—far from it. But he had a way of seeing the world in black and white, wrong and right. He looked at people the same way. Everybody was either a good guy or a bad guy. For the one, Rigsby exhibited everything from affection to patience to befuddlement to concern. For the other he had nothing but cold disdain. Jane wasn't sure how he would feel about where he fell in the bigger man's reckoning.

At the sound of the prison-side door opening, Rigsby turned immediately and dropped a small white paper bag on the table and grinned.

"Hey, man. I got you a couple of muffins. Marie's last two blueberries."

Jane couldn't help but grin back and was glad Rigsby didn't catch the look of relief that he felt wash over his features. Wayne had a way of folding himself into a chair rather than sitting. He leaned forward and seemed to start from the knees and work his way up as he lowered himself into the seat, ending with rubbing his hand down his tie to keep it from catching on the table before he sat up and looked at Jane expectantly.

"You take one. Trying to watch my weight."

Jane handed the second muffin and one of the two paper napkins across and both men set to tearing off small pieces and eating them one-at-a-time. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, Jane asked up front.

"How's Lisbon?"

He might not have a right to ask, but he figured he at least had a responsibility. When Rigsby tensed then immediately relaxed at the question, Jane was glad he had spoken up. His lack of inquiry had possibly been interpreted as a lack of interest—the one thing Wayne would have deemed as unforgivable.

"Better."

"I haven't heard anything . . . just that she was shot."

"While you were talking to her."

"She said she would be okay, that she thought she'd be all right."

As the words came out, he realized how foolish he'd been. The woman always downplayed her hurts.

"One of the bullets took a sliver of her clavicle. The other punctured her lung. Grace didn't know until after she came back from calling 911. Boss had dragged herself across the floor to O'Laughlin—," a pained grimace, "—and she was having trouble breathing."

He paused then drew in a sharp breath.

"Grace said it sounded like she was drowning."

Jane swallowed thickly and put the next bite of muffin down, suddenly bereft of appetite.

"The lung collapsed, Grace called 911 again. She and Hightower got Lisbon into a car, Grace drove her five miles to the Rangers' station. It was the nearest place a helicopter could land."

Jane clasped his hands in his lap, and he felt his breath labor. When he'd heard the shots, Hightower's voice screaming her name followed by another shower of gunfire, he had been completely focused on her, panicked until he heard her voice. She had assured him that she was okay—wounded but okay. He had unconsciously matched his respirations with hers as if he could help her breathe. Or had it been the other way around? He had made sure (or so he thought) that she was all right and proceeded to the next order of business. Once he realized Red John was at hand, he had all but forgotten her. All but. Thinking on it later, he knew he had had to deliberately shut her voice out of his head during the following conversation. Now he thought back and focused on her again and cursed himself. By the time he'd hung up on her, there had been a distinct wheeze . . .

". . . difficult surgery. They had to keep her knocked out for a few days. On a respirator. When the lung finally started working again, staying inflated, they let her wake up."

Jane fought the urge to lay his head on the table. He would be relieved to go back and bury his face in his pillow. She'd been hurt—really hurt—and he hadn't even called, hadn't braved being ignored or hung up on. He didn't deserve any consideration, but she hadn't deserved that. She would've at least known he had tried.

Rigsby noticed the fallen expression, the now untouched muffin. He reached across the table and tap-touched Jane's hand in understanding, ending the miserable reverie.

"Jane. It's okay. She's all right. She went home from the hospital two days ago, be back on light duty in a couple of weeks . . . Really . . . she's okay."

Jane raised his eyes, and the gratitude he saw there for the simple information and assurance made Wayne's mouth go dry. He slid his hand up to Jane's wrist, encircled it and squeezed, a gesture of friendship and comfort, before picking up the last morsel of muffin from his own napkin. Jane watched him for a moment, contemplating.

"And how is Grace?" he asked softly.

At that, Wayne's motions, his whole being stilled completely. He took a shallow breath and seemed to restart.

"Physically she's all right. After Lisbon was shot, they all figured she was out of commission. O'Laughlin had Grace and Hightower at gunpoint. Lisbon somehow managed to sit up and throw something at him. The distraction gave them the chance . . . Grace and Hightower drew their weapons . . ."

"Grace shot him."

"Yeah. Grace and Hightower."

Wayne was absentmindedly folding his napkin over and over. It was down to a tiny square, and he was trying to fold it one more impossible time. Realizing what he was doing, he shoved it away and sighed, wagging his head slightly.

"Grace 'as been taking some personal time."

"I'm sure that will do her good, get away, have some space—"

"She sat by Lisbon for three days straight. Cho and I brought her food, but she didn't eat much, didn't leave, didn't change clothes or even shower. It's like she had to keep seeing . . ."

His voice trailed off, and Jane nodded in understanding.

"She had to see tangible evidence that Craig had shot Lisbon. Evidence that she did the right thing in shooting him. Had to keep making sure it was real, it was true."

"Yeah," Rigsby grumbled. "When Lisbon woke up, she went home. Different. She's different."

"Well, it may take a while—"

"No." Wayne's softness of voice made it sound even more emphatic. "No. I don't think she'll get over it. The things he said, watching him . . . and Lisbon . . . It made things different for her."

It was clumsily phrased perhaps, but Jane was absolutely certain he knew exactly what Rigsby meant. He was just as certain Grace wouldn't be visiting. Not for a good long while at least. She would do well to handle the essentials, and that wouldn't include him.

"I need to get back." It took Jane a moment to catch up with Rigsby's abrupt change in demeanor—he was all business now, almost official. "Got a date with PSU."

"Professional Standards?"

"Yeah, they're wrapping up. It's one of the stipulations for Lisbon coming back."

Jane felt his stomach muscles clench. She had known so much. His plans and intentions, the gun. It hadn't occurred to him that all of it could still cause problems for her even after Red John was dead.

"LaRoche talked with her at length—interrogated her more like. He's satisfied. Should smooth things over. We're not expecting any trouble."

LaRoche was looking out for her then. But only because he believed her to be inculpable. Jane breathed easier, but it still didn't seem to sit right. He accepted there was nothing he could do for her now.

Both men were suddenly aware that the visit should end. Rigsby gathered his crumbs into his napkin before tucking it away in his trouser pocket, and Jane put the rest of his muffin in the bag for later.

"I'll come back, before your sentencing. You know when that'll be, by the way?"

Jane had heard from his lawyer just that morning. It seemed to him things were moving even more slowly than usual. The defense attorney had learned that Judge "Dread" Hildred had insisted on hearing arguments, but his court was currently tied up with a complicated double homicide trial. Jane's first appearance in Hildred's courtroom had been less than stellar, getting the case of a popular A.D.A.'s murderer thrown out. But Jane had learned to walk the fine line between making court entertaining and turning it into a circus, between wasting time and making the most of it, and Hildred had come to appreciate how he livened things up without letting them get out of hand, even greeting him convivially in the courthouse hallways. The good judge had presided over his arraignment as well. Jane remembered he had looked disgruntled at the guilty plea, staring at the accused long and hard before accepting it. He wondered if Hildred wasn't dragging his feet for reasons of his own but was warmed somewhat by the man's continued interest in him.

"Don't know yet. Hildred wants me all to himself, and his courtroom's tied up for the foreseeable future."

"Can they do that? Keep you in here like that?"

"I didn't ask for bail. And I guess as long as nobody makes a fuss . . ." Jane shrugged.

"I know Hildred's bailiff. I'll ask him to keep an eye on the docket and give me a call."

Both men rose from their chairs, and Rigsby motioned to the guard before turning back to Jane.

"And I'll tell Lisbon you asked after her . . . concerned."

"Thanks, Wayne. For everything."

A nod, a guileless grin, and Rigsby was gone. Jane shuffled back to his cell and collapsed on his bed to lie staring up at the ceiling. Of all people, Jane wouldn't have believed he would have to make such an exhausting effort to keep his feelings hidden from Wayne Rigsby. After a few minutes, he unthinkingly opened the little white bag from Marie's and pulled off a bite of muffin, putting it in his mouth and chewing slowly.

And just as slowly, he began to consider things. Maybe he had been hasty. Maybe he needed to rethink. For the first time since Cho had walked out of the Special Visitors' Room, Jane began to mull over the agent's arguments on the subject of his plea. He knew what some had intimated and what he had scoffed at was true: he had never contemplated life after Red John. He was sure he would not survive the encounter, and if by some chance he did, he would just go on as life proceeded, living an aimless existence whether inside prison or out.

He hadn't considered living life because he didn't deserve it. But surely he could do better than that, perhaps make amends for the life he had lived. Hadn't he been doing that to a degree with the CBI, catching killers and other bad people, making them pay for what they'd done and stopping them from doing more harm? And couldn't he continue to do that, even if somehow offering up that bit of helpfulness was the only satisfaction he could ever have for himself in life? It was a conundrum, a puzzle he couldn't seem to work out, and as the days dragged out and he awaited Judge "Dread's" good pleasure, he grew more and more confused on the issue.

Always at the back of his mind now was Lisbon. No, she was closer than that, and he realized she always had been. He just hadn't let himself see her there, wouldn't let himself think on her. He knew she must be mightily disappointed as well as angry, her heart hurting if not broken. Heartsick. That was the word. If he knew Lisbon at all—and he did—she must be heartsick. She wouldn't want him to take the easy way out, wouldn't want him to try to weasel his way out of getting what was coming to him. She'd want him to take the punishment, do the time. She was probably fairly certain that every despicable thing she'd ever thought of him was true, that every reason she'd had to distrust him was now proven to be so. If he tried to shy away from the just consequences now, her low opinion of him would be confirmed. While he could live with that for himself, he didn't want her to suffer any more on his account. If it even mattered to her any more.

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Andy-the-guard approached his cell door with a soft greeting before sliding the key and snapping the lock back. "You've got a visitor." Jane had attributed the twinkle in his eye to gladness that someone had come to see his well-behaved and admittedly lonely charge. It had been two weeks since Wayne's visit. He hoped it was Cho. He was getting low on a couple of things.

He rounded the corner, grin in place and stopped dead in his tracks, the grin sliding away. He almost turned and ran the whole way back.

She was sitting at the table, hands clasped, and he could see even from that distance that her fingernails were digging into her skin. She was utterly still, her head tilted forward slightly, causing her hair to fall like a veil across her features. He was glad he couldn't see her face and coughed lightly as he took the last few steps forward, giving her a chance to get the mask in place. He hoped today she would not be translucent.

It wasn't until he sat across from her that he noticed the corner of the thick bandage peeking out just above the top button of her oxford shirt, and an image floated unbidden into his mind's eye of Lisbon, her shoulders fair and perfect, unmarred, over a froth of pink. He blinked it away and catalogued everything else he had taken in as soon as he walked through the door.

She was thinner, if that was possible. Her hair seemed a bit longer though her fringe was trimmed, probably by herself or Grace. The rest of it fell in near unruly curls, and he knew it was because she couldn't yet comfortably hold her straightener. He wondered fleetingly how she managed to wash it, long and thick as it was. She leaned forward without actually slumping, and she looked tired. Her feet wound around the front legs of her chair like a child in school, and she gave off the very strong impression of a person just trying to hold themselves still.

He sank into the chair across from her, all pretense of grace and nonchalance stolen away.

"Hey."

"Hey," she said back not looking at him, her cheeks sucked in, and her lips pursed around her slight overbite. She offered no other greeting.

"How's the shoulder?"

She started to rotate it but thought better. "Okay. A little stiff."

"You're feeling all right? Rigsby said it was bad for a while."

"I'm back on light duty. Just the desk. No field work."

"That's good. I'm sure you'll be back to normal in no time."

He winced at his own stupidity even as she scowled, still not looking at him. As he watched her, one leg started to jiggle and she began to twitch, seemingly all over. None of her movements were large or out of control per se, but there was a general air of unease. He was disappointed to realize that nearly all of her composure had likely been exhausted in the effort it had taken for her to just show up. She had nothing in reserve at this point. If she were to cut the visit short, storm out suddenly, it might be the best thing for her, at least for her peace of mind and dignity.

"Why did you come here, Teresa?"

At that her head jerked up, and anger flared in her eyes.

"It was Cho's idea."

The implied barb shouldn't have hurt, but it did. He knew she had seen it, but to her credit, her expression held not even the slightest bit of smugness. He knew that although her face was nearly emotionless, anger might be the only feeling she had for him now, and for some reason he wanted her to give into it fully and freely, wanted to see some spark of life, of abandon.

"He tried to talk me into changing my plea."

Although her expression didn't change, he perceived the deepening of her breathing. He enunciated every word more clearly.

"He says what happened wasn't murder one. That I should fight it."

Still no change in that stony gaze.

"And with the attorney Madeleine recommended, I think I'd have a good chance."

She knew he was baiting her, and she didn't want to give in—only wanted him to stop. He nearly smirked when he saw her open her mouth to reply, thinking she was rising to it, but his triumph was cut tragically and chillingly short.

"Do whatever you want, Jane."

Everything was completely still for a moment, then he opened his mouth to take in a full breath. His voice was low and raw with the effort to control some depth of feeling for which he had no name.

"For seven years, you've told me when to eat, when to shower, when to shave, when to sleep, where to sleep, who to talk to, who to leave alone, how to behave, where to walk, how fast to drive . . . and you have nothing to tell me now?"

"I am telling you. Do whatever you want. It's the only thing I'm sure you'll listen to."

The dig was a small one. They why was he so angry? It was, after all, what he'd been after.

"What was I supposed to do, Lisbon? Let him walk away?"

"You could have waited for back-up." Her voice was unflinchingly flat.

"And asked him to join me in a cup of tea while we waited for them to show?"

"You could've kept him there. You had a gun."

"So did he!" Her insistent calm was infuriating.

"You wanted to do this, even though you knew it was wrong."

"That doesn't mean it was wrong to do it."

"There," she almost hissed in satisfaction. "You can find a way to twist that around, but you couldn't find another way to keep him there until he could be arrested?"

She grew more still, more controlled even as he became more agitated.

"He said he was starting over! Working with children! I did what I had to do!"

"You did what you wanted to do."

"It's not my fault they were the same thing!"

"How convenient."

That was it. Though anger flamed deep and hot inside him, he eyed her with perfectly manufactured cold disdain and fought to keep the tremor from his voice.

"Don't be angry about this. You don't have the right. I told you—I told you over and over this is what I would do. You're the one who refused to listen. You wouldn't believe . . . kept believing, kept . . . hoping—" His voice grew harsher if that were possible, and his breath hitched, and he felt his face contort, and he hated himself. "—You had no reason to think this would turn out differently. I told you!"

Through his diatribe, she had seemed to shrink before him into something small and delicate, but he realized the only change in her position had been for her to lower her head, her hair falling again into that silken curtain.

"Yes, you did," she said, her voice eerie with composed and calm agreement. "It was the only promise you managed to keep."

His face fell, literally pulled by gravity, into complete surprise and shock at her audacity to have expected anything from him. He was horrified to realize he had given her reason to do so. Just as horrified to know all of this seemed to be affecting him more than her and that he was nearing abject failure at hiding it. This was why he hadn't wanted to think of her, of any of them. Not only did he not have the right—he didn't have the strength. Not to think about them and face what was now his future. He slumped in his chair.

"I didn't want to hurt you."

She looked up at him, her eyes guarded. Opaque.

She was struck by how haggard he looked. Rigsby had been the only one to talk to her about his visit though she knew Cho had been and now Madeleine. By Wayne's account, Jane had been downright chipper. Now his face was heavily lined, the corners of his mouth turned down in sorrowful grooves, his eyes dim and beseeching.

Truth. The fact that he was telling it didn't seem to matter.

She put her hands flat on the table and pushed back to rise from her chair. Turning her back on him, she raised her chin to the guard and spoke softly. "Open up."

He sat watching her, knowing she had no intention of turning back. She was done. Over. He should have been able to take some consolation in the fact that her shoulders were slumping, but he found nothing satisfying in any of this. She laid her left palm against the cold bars as the guard unlocked the door and slid her hand across as she moved over the threshold, the door clanging shut behind her.

"Lisbon."

He wanted to run to the free side of the table, wanted to rush to the bars to peer at her, say one last thing to make her not leave like this. The irony that this, the most horrifically unpleasant visit, was the one he didn't want to end no matter how it kept hurting both of them bit into him. To his great relief, she stopped and turned to look back at him.

"What, Jane?" she said impatiently. "What will you say to me now?"

He hesitated, frantically scanning his brain for something, anything to say that would make sense, that would soften her heart or make her forgive or give her peace or make some sort of something possible, whether it made sense or not. He sagged with the hopelessness of it. She lashed at him cruelly.

"Will you tell me you're sorry? Will you say you didn't mean it? That if you had the chance you would go back and do things differently?"

Her eyes narrowed, and her voice lowered.

"Will you say you wish he hadn't been there? Will you tell me you wish it had never happened?"

His mental processes failed him briefly before he realized there was only one thing for him to do. His mouth slid into a near smile, casual and careless, the perfect picture, the very personification of indifference.

Her gaze circled him, taking in the picture—Patrick Jane, arrogant and uncaring yet exposed, staring at her from behind bars. He watched as apathy took possession of her own features, her shoulders, her body, enshrouding her. She had told him she didn't need protection, didn't need a knight-in-shining-armor, and she had been right. She carried her own. He hoped it wasn't for good, for always, that she would find a time, find someone else with whom she could lay it aside. He hadn't expected the regret to be so palpable.

Straight and impossibly tall, she turned finally and walked away. Once she disappeared from sight, his breathing relented to the pressure in his chest and broke into a deep, slow, almost primal measured pant. The sound of it echoed, lone and rasping around the metal and concrete space.

Later in his room, lying in the dark, he felt humiliated over his lack of control. When Andy-the-guard had cleared his throat behind him, indicating that when the visitor's gone the visit's over, he had ducked his head with the realization that there were tears in his eyes. It only made it worse that the whole thing had seemingly had no effect on her.

The more he thought if it, the more it ate at him. He writhed in his bed until the morning hours, until the pre-dawn's grey light rolled over the skylights of the holding cells' central hub. She had walked away showing no emotion. No anger, no hurt, no rejection. Complete indifference. As if there were nothing and never had been anything between them. He hated this. Hated how it was left, how it was to be. Hated that she didn't care anymore and never would again. Hated that he would never be able to convince her to at least understand, to hear him out. Hated that that last picture of him looking at her through the bars would be the way she remembered him.

At 8:45 a.m., he requested the use of the phone, and now here he sat. At exactly nine, he dialed, listened to the receptionist's greeting, stated his business and waited for the call to be transferred. At the sound of his defense counsel's voice, he spoke.

"Yeah . . . about my plea . . ."

END