Red Cross

Well, lucky for you, readers, I'm sick, and the only way I know how to deal with it is to project onto fictional characters.
Definitely not the most creative plot, but you'd be amazed how much better *I'm* feeling . . .

)()()()(

Monday morning budget meeting, with the new boss - not something Lisbon could miss, no matter how hard it had been to drag herself out of bed. Squad leaders who missed budget meetings tended to get volunteered for various unsavory activities, such as reducing their budgets.

Now the meeting was running long and the fluorescent lights were hurting her eyes, and the droning voices were soothing her to sleep, in her metal folding chair against the wall, while the blood pounded through her temples.

. . . What were they talking about, again?

When they finally took a break Lisbon went to the ladies room to splash cool water on her face. Her reflection in the mirror had very pink cheeks. For the first time, it occurred to her that she might be coming down with something.

Hmm, she was probably infecting the entire CBI as she spoke. Typhoid Lisbon.

Still, she went back into the room - well, if she was contagious, it was already too late - and finished out the meeting, like a good soldier. Squinted at print-outs and nodded appreciatively at the blurry power-point. And meanwhile she kept a mental tally of her symptoms; headache, check. Her throat felt scratchy and raw. She was becoming increasingly aware of an ache in her neck and back (the folding chair was not helping), and her skin was super-sensitive, like her clothes were chafing her.

"Thank you all for coming," Hightower was saying, and more blessed words were never spoken. Lisbon forced herself to smile, to nod to her peers as they milled past. Made herself gather her things unhurriedly, managed to keep from staggering as she made her way out into the hall.

Enough with the heroics: they didn't have a case at the moment and Cho would have things under control at the office. She just wanted to go home and collapse.

She whipped out her phone and called her second in command, heading to the parking lot.

"`Lo?"

"Hey, you know what, I've got a nasty bug," she announced, hoping she sounded sufficiently ill. "I'm going to cut out and sleep it off."

"Sure thing," said Cho. If he was surprised his usually invincible boss was under the weather, he didn't express any concern. That's what she loved about Cho.

"Is that Lisbon?" She heard in the background. Jane. She so wasn't up to this.

"Talk to you later," she said quickly, hanging up almost before she heard her agent's placid, Bye. She liked Jane, she really did, but he was kind of high-maintenance and she was running on fumes.

She pushed through the double doors (and they sure were heavy, all of a sudden) and out into the sunshine. The California heat felt good, like it would bake the illness out of her. She noticed that she was shivering. Ugh.

It was an effort to drive, navigating on autopilot, concentrating on the powerful homing beacon in her chest, locked on to her bed. The stairs up to her apartment seemed longer than she remembered.

She dropped things on the floor as she passed through her doorway: her shoes first, then her purse, her jacket and finally her sensible black pants. In only her cotton undershirt and her underwear she crawled into bed, shrugging out of her bra as the last restrictive item of clothing. She tossed it blindly across the bedroom. She didn't care where it landed – she just wanted to sleep for 30 hours and wake up a new woman. The silky sheets felt amazing on her irritated skin and smelled faintly like detergent – heaven. As she burrowed down in her blankets her eyes were already closing of their own accord, and within seconds she had fallen into a deep sleep.

...

Lisbon was awakened several hours later by the sound of someone coming into the room, but she was too miserable to pay any attention. The bed seemed to be pitching and rolling, like a boat; she felt seasick. She was distantly aware of a broad, cool weight on her forehead and then her hot cheeks. She knew if she could just go back to sleep, she could escape this whole ordeal. She turned on her side, away from the intrusion, and pulled the blankets up over her eyes, where it was dark and quiet, where nothing hurt. With an act of will she forced herself to slip back into a deep sleep. There was something bothering her, but she couldn't figure out what it was, and frankly she was too tired to care.

...

The next time she woke she could tell it was late in the day; the light had grown dim. She felt clammy and damp. Her fever must have broken, for now. Ick.

Slowly she sat up in bed and pushed her sweaty hair out of her face. Her skin was no longer burning and her head was a little better, although her chest felt tight. She coughed and grimaced at the sharpness in her throat. Still, there were some signs of improvement.

She looked around the room and was puzzled by a dark shape in the corner – what was that? She turned on her bedside lamp, fumbling for the switch, and then stared dumbly at the man sleeping in her vanity chair: Jane. He seemed to be asleep, his head tucked down on his chest, eyes closed. What the hell was he doing there? She vaguely remembered somebody coming in the room, but would have chalked it up to a hallucination . . . had that been real? How had he even gotten into her house?

. . . she wasn't wearing any pants.

Surreptitiously, she leaned over to her dresser and fished out some pajama shorts from the top drawer. Leaning over made her dizzy. She put them on under the sheets, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Jane. In her house. She couldn't help looking around the room to see it as he must have seen it – it was a non-descript apartment, she knew that, not decorated with much enthusiasm, a little sparse. There was a trail of clothes reaching from the bed to the door – her bra was prominently displayed in the middle of the room – but it was otherwise tidy. There were a few pictures of her with her brothers or friends, but noting particularly revealing.

"This is a really uncomfortable chair," Jane remarked calmly. She startled and her eyes met his across the room: had he really been awake this whole time? Had he just watched her change clothes?

"I hear there's a great couch in the office," she said, flinching at how raspy and dry her voice sounded. It hurt to talk. She wouldn't be trying that again any time soon.

Jane just shrugged.

There were a lot of things she wanted to say to him – what the hell are you doing in my house, and, get the hell out of my house! topped the list – but her throat really, really hurt and she didn't want to start screaming. Instead, she dragged herself out of bed and staggered towards the bathroom; she needed to pee. "I'm going to take a shower," she muttered, over her shoulder. Her eyeballs felt huge in her head – seriously, were they, like, swollen or something? Every time they moved in any direction, the muscles protested. She rubbed her face with her palms.

"You're probably dehydrated," said Jane helpfully. "Why don't you drink some water?"

Lisbon shot him a nasty look that made her eyes ache, couldn't hold it very long, and focused her attention on making it to the bathroom. She would have liked to stalk across the room but it was more like a wobbling trudge. Man, she felt pathetic. She really needed that shower.

When the bathroom door clicked closed behind her she felt as victorious as if she'd finished a marathon. At least here, on her own toilet, Jane couldn't intrude on her privacy. Ew, had he been watching her sleeping? When she was all sweaty and gross? She was really going to have to sit down with him and have a serious conversation about personal and professional boundaries – just as soon as she could talk, of course.

She struggled out of her clothes and shuffled under the ready stream of water. Usually she liked her showers just this side of scalding, but unfortunately this time the hot water didn't feel good: her skin felt burned and parched, and the water seemed to sting. She would have to settle for lukewarm.

She scrubbed slowly and took frequent breaks washing her hair – it hurt to raise her arms too long. What was he doing out there? Going through her bookshelves, no doubt. She stepped out of the shower and immediately started to shiver when the cool air hit her skin. He was probably reading her diary, too. She'd better hurry.

Next problem – she hadn't brought any clothes into the bathroom. She couldn't exactly walk around in front of Jane in just a towel. Crap, she should have anticipated this. "Jane," she croaked. Well, that was no good – he'd never hear her over the shower fan. She cleared her throat and used all the humidity she'd gained from the shower to hock a yellow loogie into the sink. "Jane, can you step out of the room please?"

"Because you didn't bring a change of clothes in with you?" asked Jane cheerfully. "I noticed that, but you seemed annoyed so I didn't want to mention it."

Lisbon concentrated on taking deep, even breaths. She felt a little bit more like a human being but her patience was low. "Now, Jane."

"Don't worry, I'm going, I'm going . . ." She listened for the click of the door closing and then stuck her head out of the door. The room was deserted.

Dripping on the carpet, she dug up a SUNY sweatshirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants. Without bothering to brush her hair she made her way carefully out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, where Jane was perusing her selection of cookbooks.

"Back among the living?" he inquired, looking her over.

"Uh, yeah, I guess." She just managed to make it to the counter before collapsing onto one of the stools, sighing in relief at being off her feet.

"You really are sick," he marveled, aloud.

"You sure you're not psychic?" Lisbon shot back grumpily.

He was looking at her as she slumped heavily on the countertop, and Lisbon wasn't sure what to make of his expression; he seemed – uncertain, like he didn't quite know what to do for her. It was kind of endearing, actually.

Wait, it wasn't endearing at all. It was annoying, because Jane was annoying. Anything else was the fever talking.

"Well, thanks for stopping by, Jane," she said, not at all subtly, "it was really fun to find you in my bedroom when I wasn't expecting it. Let's never do this again."

Jane looked doubtful. She was suddenly aware of her position, boneless as a ragdoll; she wasn't cutting a very imposing figure here. Reluctantly, she hoisted herself upright.

"Maybe you need to see a doctor," he suggested.

"It's just the flu or something," said Lisbon, rolling her eyes. "You don't treat these things, you just sleep them off. I just want a bottle of aspirin and about 13 hours uninterrupted hours in bed. Lock the door when you leave and I'll see you Tuesday." Her stomach rolled and Lisbon closed her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. "Uh, better make that Wednesday."

"I think I'm going to stick around," said Jane, as though anything she'd said could have been considered optional.

"I'm not sure why you're even here now," she said, "but I really don't need you to stay."

"Well, I thought you might be faking," confided Jane, "which was fascinating, and I had to know, what could be so important that the formidable Agent Lisbon would skip work? So I just thought I'd come over and look for some clues. But then I discovered that you actually were sick, which was . . . not as fascinating."

"Sorry to disappoint," said Lisbon. "But if I say I'm sick, I'm sick."

"You were fine yesterday," Jane pointed out.

"Yeah, and now I'm sick."

"You know, some people believe that illness is caused by an imbalance in the body," said Jane, turning to the sink, and she realized he was washing her dirty dishes. "When you repress your feelings - like, I dunno, anger, or grief – your body reacts by getting sick."

"And other people believe that illness is caused by microbes," snarked back Lisbon. "I think they're called doctors." Concentrating all her energy, she reached for the coffee maker and flipped it on.

"What are you doing?" asked Jane.

"I want coffee," said Lisbon, snapping the carafe into place. She needed to feel more alert to deal with Jane, and a little stimulant might clear her foggy, aching head.

"Coffee is a diuretic," Jane pointed out disapprovingly. "You need to keep hydrated."

"Mmf," she muttered, watching the pot fill. Sure, now he chose to argue with science.

"Come on," said Jane, trying another tack, "when your brothers were sick as kids, did you give them soda?"

"No, I made them drink Pedialyte. And that stuff is disgusting. But guess what? I'm an adult, and I can make my own crappy choices now." You taught me that. Triumphantly, she poured herself a mug from the newly percolated pot.

The truth is, she used to hate it when her brothers got sick (and they always did it all at once) because sometimes, when it was bad, they called for their mother. It was the only time they'd forget. And Lisbon - wasn't her.

"Coffee's not going to make you feel any better," Jane warned, watching her cradle the mug.

"Nothing short of a shotgun's gonna accomplish that," she rasped, then noticed him flinch. Oh, right: shotgun – Hardy. She was about twenty seconds behind the ball today. "Sorry."

Jane waved her apology away. "How about herbal tea," he bargained; "nice and hot, plus mostly water?"

"Don't have any," said Lisbon dully. Sparring Jane was taking energy she didn't have. If she were by herself, she could bitch and moan and have a little pity party and it would be alright, alright as long as there was nobody around to see it – but in front of him, she had to keep it together. Because she liked to hide her weaknesses in the dark place beneath the covers. And it was exhausting.

He put the last dish in the drying rack (and really, that was very nice of him to do. Nicer if he'd leave afterwards, though) and turned around. Her vision might have been slowly going blurry and she quickly turned her mind to something else, anything else;

"What did you think I might have been doing?" she asked. If he was going to stay, she might as well get some use out of him. "If I'd been – playing hooky?"

Maybe Jane understood, because he gave up on the beverage list and launched into an enthusiastic monologue. And it was good, because Lisbon could just sit quietly and listen to him. "Well, my first thought was maybe you had family in town, maybe you had to pick you a brother from the airport. And I'd like to meet your brothers someday – "

God no, thought Lisbon.

"But your car was still in the lot outside, so I knew that wasn't it. Then, of course, I thought you might have some secret lover. Perhaps you planned to spend the day in bed with him . . . "

Lisbon chose to blame her blush on the fever.

"But that didn't feel right. No recent changes in your routine, no indications – " Jane broke off, continued as though he'd never changed subject, "so then I thought, maybe it's something to do with a case. A little off-hours investigating. So I figured I'd better come in and check."

Red John, thought Lisbon, like ice in her heart. There was no other case she would try to hide from him.

Jane was still talking. "But the lights were out in the apartment, and you were pretty convincing, what with being in bed and all, so I decided you must really be sick."

"And yet, you still didn't leave." Maybe the coffee had been a bad idea; it was too hot, too thick, it tasted like cigarette ash. Reluctantly, she pushed it aside and rested her head in her hands, listening to her blood pound.

"Well, then I was worried."

She glanced up at him, surprised by the honesty in his voice; he was looking down at the counter. He took her coffee mug away and carried it to the sink to dump it out. She watched him rinse it, stand with the cold water running, and fill the mug again. Then he brought it back to her.

"It's just the flu," she said again, stupidly wanting to make him feel better. If she could have reached his hand, she'd pat it. Instead she drank his water, since it seemed so important to him. Yes, she's aware this is messed up, but it's what she does.

"It's been going around," Jane agreed. "Organized Crime has two guys out, and the new assistant, Mary – " they both fell silent, because Mary replaced Rebecca and Lisbon doesn't want to talk about it.

"I'm pretty sure I infected the entire managerial staff at the meeting this morning," she said, although it hurt to force the words through her raw throat; "so I'm sure I won't be the last. Plus you," she added as an afterthought. "You're going to get it, for sure."

"I never get sick," said Jane, and Lisbon had to admit that, in her experience, this was true.

She was aware of the growing weakness coming up from her legs; the brief improvement she'd seen from her nap appeared to be at an end, and now she needed to finish this water and get back to sleep. She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing, trying not to think about the way her chest hurt.

She felt his hand sweep her bangs aside, feeling her forehead – he was doing it wrong, thought Lisbon, using his palm instead of the back of his hand. "You feel warm," he said.

She felt shuddery and frail. "I'm going back to bed," she slurred. "Feel free to let yourself out."

She knows she got back to the bedroom without his help, knows she made it to the bed, but she can't actually remember getting under the covers. But she's under them now, so obviously she got there somehow.

For a while she sleeps, dreamless and heavy as lead, but she keeps being teased back to the present by the whine in her skull, telling her she's running a temperature, and the burning in her chest that makes it hard to breathe. It hauls her up, keeps her on the knife edge of her dreams.

A car, the highway, the view from the passenger seat –

No, Lisbon blinks those thoughts away, stubbornly. Too long ago, that was too long ago to think about now.

The warehouse, her second year in San Francisco, when she was still green and not paying attention –

She's walking through the cavernous space, past rows of boxes, the weight of her gun heavy on her hip, but it's not drawn, and she's thinking about her brothers, always about her brothers, not the possibility that the suspect might still be here. And because she's young and not the boss, she never worries that somebody is going to get hurt, and it doesn't seem possible that she, herself, might get hurt, it doesn't seem like something that can happen –

And then the wall of boxes is falling towards her, and she has time to think somebody must've pushed - and then the weight slams into her and pins her down, and it's hot and hard to breathe, a sharp spike of pain and all that dust, and she hears somebody calling her name; she knows who it is, knows he will come for her, dig her out, but she's being crushed, oh, hurry -

And she sits up in bed and gasps out; "Sam?"

There is a startled silence, and Lisbon knows she has said something wrong the minute she hears the word in the air, but can't worry about it because she starts to cough, wracking coughs that push her forward, doubling her over, still struggling to draw in air.

She remembers – Sam is dead.

It's Jane who is propping her up, tucking two pillows behind her so she can sit up and can finally breathe. Jane who is wiping her face with a damp washcloth.

She lays back and tries to get her facts straight, although they keep skating away from her. It didn't happen like her dream. Sam pulled her away before the boxes fell, and chewed her out pretty good about it, too; damn it, Teresa, get your head in the game! She smiles at the memory of his purple face. Always watching out for her.

Now Jane is fussing and she is waving him away – fine, I'm fine – but he doesn't leave, not yet. He checks her fever and says it is going down. His hand lingers. She wonders who it is that he remembers doing this for, where he learned it, but the thought makes her sad.

Man, they're a pair, the two of them, right?

Still, she lets him fuss just a little and doesn't try to talk, in case it sets her off again. She feels warm under the blankets and sluggish, her thoughts slow-moving and thick, but not bad, not anymore. She drifts off again eventually, after she drinks a bottle of some wretched sports drink and takes an aspirin.

He slinks out sometime in the night, while she is wading through ordinary dreams, about paperwork and grocery shopping. Knowing she will be back on her feet in a day or two. Knowing she'll be fine.

Get your head in the game, she thinks to herself.

FIN

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A/N – Why yes, I did switch tenses at the end there, thank you. Also, do we actually *know* if Lisbon was in the car when her mother was killed? I added it thinking it might be interesting (blink and you'll miss it), but that might not be canon . . .