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Jane sunk down onto his couch in the office, thankful that everyone else had headed home for the evening. The image of the body they’d been called to examine seemed burned into his eyes in a way that not even the Red John victims ever were – except for his own family, of course. It was as though in looking at the man, lying across the table, blood seeping out between his legs, lips torn and bloody, hands tied, Jane could feel it all happening. His imagination just kept taking him through the crime, one step at a time, as if he’d been there… He shuddered, covering his face with his hands.
“Rough case,” a voice beside him commented. Jane just barely managed to control the jerky motion of surprise that ran through his body in reaction to being startled. He looked up at Kimball Cho and pasted a smile on his face. He couldn’t think of anything clever to say; he felt bone-tired. Cho didn’t look tired, though, just sort of calculating.
“You know something,” Jane replied, cocking his head. “You stuck around because you know something the others don’t know.”
Cho smiled. Jane liked the fact that, unlike Rigsby or Van Pelt, Cho didn’t get upset that Jane could read him, at least not usually. Sometimes they played their little game, where Cho would pretend that Jane was wrong for a while, but he always had the sense that the detective knew they were playing and wasn’t actually offended at being found out. By the way that Cho reacted, though, Jane knew they weren’t going to play today. It was an interesting smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. His eyes were sad.
“It’s something that affects you,” Jane continued. “Emotionally, I mean.” The smile faded, but Cho nodded.
“I just know how hard it is to work on a case that hits so close to home,” he replied.
It was like falling through a tunnel. It was so far off what Jane expected that he couldn’t control his reaction, couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. Certainly couldn’t stop his face from paling, although it must have, because he suddenly felt so cold that all the blood must surely have drained out of his body. His heart pounded. “What?” he asked, weakly, knowing that he was giving things away, unable to stop.
Cho turned to him, his expression carefully neutral, the way he did with victims. With victims. “I know,” the detective said. “I know what happened in Oregon. And I understand how hard today must have been.”
“What happened in Oregon?” Jane turned the question back on Cho in his best disbelieving tone, falling back on an old trick, intended to inject just a little doubt into the other person’s memory.
“You were raped.” Jane shuddered.
“You can’t possibly know that,” he replied, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“I read the hospital report.” Cho was watching him carefully. Jane suddenly realized that he’d pushed himself as far away from the other man as he could, crammed up against the arm of the couch, his whole body tight. He took a breath, consciously trying to relax. Cho seemed to be waiting. Finally, Jane realized he was also staring at the space above Cho’s shoulder, and he refocused his attention. He couldn’t dredge up a smile this time, though. Cho nodded when their eyes met. His expression was gentle, nonthreatening. “It’s not in your case file because your case file is limited only to what happened in California, excepting criminal charges in other states. There were no criminal charges in Oregon. You were a victim. But I did a more thorough search on you – on everyone. It isn’t something that most people would find – small town, a single report, no charges laid. But I had a suspicion and information is useful.”
“You sound like me,” Jane offered. His voice sounded like it was coming down a pipe.
“We’re not dissimilar,” Cho agreed.
They watched each other a moment longer, and then Jane dropped his eyes. “I don’t know why this matters to you,” he muttered.
Cho reached over and grasped Jane’s hand. Jane nearly gasped at the contact. His muscles tensed again and he had to fight against the reptilian voice that screamed in the back of his mind, get away, get away! Then Cho ran his thumb, oh so gently, across the curve of Jane’s hand between his thumb and his index finger. Jane shook uncontrollably, choking on sudden tears.
“You know why,” Cho said softly.
“K-Kimball,” Jane stuttered, unable to look up. “I can’t. You know I can’t do this.”
“I know.” Cho’s thumb was still stroking back and forth. “But you would if you were ready.”
The tears spilled over. Jane couldn’t speak. He nodded wordlessly, still avoiding eye contact. There was a rustling noise as Cho shifted over on the couch, repositioning himself so that their bodies nearly touched. He squeezed Jane’s hand, not hard, but firmly. The pressure was reassuring. Then Cho leaned in while Jane’s heart rate skyrocketed and he desperately fought to stay in control of his breathing and stay on the damn couch instead of jumping up and bolting out the door. “I’ll be here when you’re ready,” Cho whispered, his lips close to Jane’s ear. Jane felt those lips graze against his temple in the softest, safest of kisses. Then Cho released his hand, stood, and walked toward the door.
“Kimball,” he called suddenly, heart still pounding. He looked up to see that he wasn’t too late; Cho was paused at the door, waiting patiently. “I-I want to be ready,” he admitted, flushing, refusing his instinct to look away. Cho deserved that much.
Cho smiled, brilliantly, and nodded. “Good night, Jane,” he replied.
“Good night, Cho.” He watched the detective walk away, and when the man had gotten onto the elevator and the doors had closed and Jane was alone again, he stretched out on his couch. The images were gone. Cho’s smile remained.