Chapter Text
2006 | Sacramento, California
September
One, two, three, the digital numbers flash before the couple, indicating the passing floors as the elevator travels up. The car jerks a bit as it reaches its destination, a robotic voice informing them that they've reached the ninth floor. Lisbon's grip tightens and releases on the handles of the gift bag in her hand in a spasmodic sort of pattern as they step off into the muted hallway.
Jane notices the nervous gesture for what it is, and wastes no time encapsulating his wife's other hand in both of his own. Lisbon starts, then shoots him an apologetic glance as she recognizes her fiddling. She doesn't miss the hint of concern buried beneath his crystalline irises, nor the silent reassurance they try to convey.
She squeezes his hand once, twice, in sync with the unidentifiable feeling squeezing around her chest. She can tell he wants to ask her if she's alright, if she feels a little hollow too, but she doesn't give him a chance before they're standing in front of a sturdy wooden door.
It swings opens shortly after the third knock, Rigsby's beaming face greeting them. He ushers them inside, trading hugs and shoulder slaps before he herds them into the familiar living room. Lisbon does her best to tamp down the melancholic feelings, and pulls into place her most convincing smile.
They exchange pleasantries and Lisbon hands over the gift, tsk-ing at her friend when he tries to sneak a peak.
"You both have to open it," she says as she and Jane settle themselves onto the couch— hip to hip, thigh to thigh.
"Grace'll be right out," Rigsby defends half-heartedly as he takes a seat on the well-worn chair across from them.
As if on cue, Van Pelt's soft footsteps echo across the hardwood floor, and their redheaded friend rounds the corner. From within her folded arms, a small bundle whines, and Lisbon finds her smile turning genuine. From the corner of her eye, she can tell that Jane's is doing the same.
"Lisbon, Jane, meet Ben!" Grace announces, perching on the corner of the cushion beside the brunette.
Rigsby beams proudly as the other couple ooh and aah over their not-quite newborn— who seems to favour his father with the shock of dark hair sticking up every which way, and deep chocolate eyes that blink slowly, unaware of the attention.
"Oh Grace, he's so beautiful," Lisbon says, pulling her friend into a side hug. Her fingers itch to stroke the child's smooth, rosy cheek, but Rigsby clears his throat in a somewhat affronted manner before she has the chance to act. Jane chuckles as Lisbon rolls her eyes and aims a well-practiced raised brow in his direction, adding; "Good job, Wayne. You two made a lovely kid."
His megawatt smile returns. "Right? He's just the best. You guys will get it when you have kids."
If, her mind supplies unhappily as her smile falters, and the vice around her ribs returns at the innocent comment.
She's quick to check herself, and ignorant of the temporary slip, Grace shifts the bundle in her arms.
"Do you want to hold him?" she asks, and Lisbon takes her up on the offer, easily taking the baby from Grace into her awaiting arms.
"Hello, baby," she says, and Ben grunts, his little arms waving even littler fists in the air as Lisbon adjusts her grip. "Hi."
She leans into Jane's side to allow him a better view, his hand coming up to shake the baby's hand.
Rigsby pulls a camera out from somewhere unseen, a goofy grin in place as he urges the other couple to look his way.
"It's for the baby book!" he explains eagerly. "Ben's gotta know his family. We already have Cho in there and— oh! Remind me to show you guys the picture after. It's awesome."
Grace chuckles. "I swear we weren't holding him at gun point when we asked if he wanted to hold Ben, but it totally looks like we did."
Lisbon snorts. "Yah, I can see that."
"Some big, scary army man he is," Jane jokes. "Scared shitless by a baby."
Ben blinks. The others laugh.
"See? Even the kid knows it."
"They're perceptive," Grace agrees.
"Absolutely," Jane continues. "You want a good judge of character? Give a person a baby and see what they do. They can smell the bad vibes."
"Alright, Mr. Baby Whisperer," Lisbon starts before Jane can go so far as to imitate sniffing the air. "Let's see how saintly you are, then."
"Ten bucks the baby's gonna cry," Rigsby jokes as Lisbon slides the baby over to her husband.
Grace clicks her tongue and sends her own husband a long-suffering look— though not without the undeniable undercurrent of affection.
Jane settles back into the couch, adjusting little Ben's head into the crook of his elbow, and sends his friends a smug look.
"And you dared to doubt me," he brags. "Kids like me, isn't that right, Ben?"
As if he'd just taunted fate itself into answering, the baby's eyes grow misty and a frown forms upon his pouty little lips. All eyes draw to the infant at the first sound of upset: half whine, half wail. The floodgate open and the baby cries, long and loud, and Jane frowns, bouncing the baby lightly in the hopes of settling him enough that his proclamation might yet be cemented in truth.
No such luck, it seems.
"Don't worry Ben," Lisbon coos, directing an impish smile at her husband. "I don't like him either."
"She's lying," Jane scowls, handing the baby back over to Grace. "She loves me."
"Good judges of character, huh?" Rigsby teases once the baby quietens to his wife's soothing shushes. "So— what is my son saying about you?"
"That he's tired and needs a nap," Jane replies, wit still sharp despite the baby's unexpected reaction.
"He's just cranky," Lisbon teases, patting his hand placatingly and snuggling back into his side. "He's also missing his nap time."
***
Familiar noises permeate the relative silence of the vehicle several hours later as they pull out of their friends' parkade and embark into the night; car horns and busy streets reminding the couple that the city never sleeps.
"That was… nice," Jane starts lamely, ten minutes into their half-hour commute home.
Lisbon makes a little noise of acknowledgement somewhere in the back of her throat, eyes staying fixed on the road ahead. Her husband, ever-perceptive, doesn't miss the way her knuckles whiten slightly as her grip tightens on the wheel.
Somewhat stiffly, she says; "It was really great to see them again."
Jane catalogues her tone, purposely trying to keep his own nonchalant in the hope of lightening the somber atmosphere. "It was, wasn't it? Ben is quite the good-looking kid, isn't he? I was scared I wouldn't be able to lie to them of the baby was ugly."
Lisbon allows a short chuckle. "He is. Very cute."
"You looked super hot holding the baby," he teases, and her gaze flicks in his direction briefly, endearingly annoyed. "What? Can I not say that?"
"You're ridiculous," she says. "But right back at you."
The attempted-and-ill-landed flirty moment passes, and truthfully, he doesn't know what to say next as he watches the buildings shrink in the rearview window. He knows they have the same thing on their minds— it wouldn't take a mentalist to see it. Wayne and Grace's newest addition has stirred up a whole well of repressed and vaguely jumbled feelings.
"I know I'm supposed to be happy for them, and I am," she starts, stressing the last bit. "But is it wrong that all I feel right now is jealousy?"
Jane hums. She tucks a fallen strand of hair behind her ear before continuing.
"I mean, Grace said Ben was an accident, and we've been trying for—"
Lisbon bites her tongue to stop herself from continuing. The bitter thought sits uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach now that she's unwittedly voiced it, the pit filling with guilt and a touch of shame. It makes her feel icky, as Jane's students would say.
His gaze drops to his lap, watching the way the street lights glint off the gold band on his finger. "I don't think there is a right or wrong way to feel right now."
Lisbon nods, but fails to agree. What kind of friend thinks like that? Collecting herself with a steadying breath, she amends; "No, no, it's wonderful. Ben's wonderful. I'm very happy they're all doing so well."
"Lisbon," he starts, but she cuts him off with a tense half-smile and a shake of her head.
He knows her too well by now, knows every look and inflection of her voice, and knows that that particular look means she's fine. He also knows that any attempt to get her to continue the conversation right now will only end with uncomfortable silence and fraught one word answers, so he reigns in all the things he'd like to say, and puts a pin in them until she's ready.
Jane checks his watch, then goes back to watching the cars out the back window to kill the time. Another ten minutes until home— fifteen, if he can convince her to stop at the taco truck along the way.
Without any conscious intent, she utters quietly; "What if we can't?"
Her jaw snaps shut immediately at the realization of her unwitting inside words falling outside, and she swallows down the regret. The small, cowardly part of her is glad that she has to watch the road and can't turn to face Jane's undeniable concern.
She can sense him shift beside her, his gaze moving from his lap up to her profile. In her minds eye, she imagines his expression— a perfect mix of empathy and concern; the slight downturn of his lips and the thoughtful crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes. Heat rises to her cheeks at the mental image, and it's almost enough to make her cry knowing that it's bound to be accurate.
"Lisbon," he starts slowly, all thoughts of fish tacos leaving his immediate attention.
She can hear it in his voice that she's right.
"Don't. Just nev-never mind," she manages around the lump growing in her throat. "I don't wanna talk about it right now."
She's proud of the fact that the second utterance comes out a little stronger than the first, but she sees Jane's hand creep nearer to her thigh in her periphery, and she knows that he sees right through her.
"It will happen, Teresa," he says calmly, but assuredly. "It might take us some time, but it will."
Lisbon clears her throat pointlessly. The lump remains. "It's been a year and a half already."
"Fourteen months," he corrects lightly, and she scoffs. "It's been fun though so far, hasn't it?"
The corners of her mouth tick upwards, and Jane takes it as an early win.
"Maybe it's time we see a specialist."
The small smile drops, along with his sense of victory. "That feels like failure," she whispers, and finally, his hand settles on her leg. The heat of his palm seeps through her jeans, burning the skin of her thigh, and oh, she just can't help herself today from blurting out all of her fears, can she?
"Why?" he asks, though he probably already knows the answer.
She swallows uncomfortably. "Because I know how much you want this, and how much I want this," she says. "And it didn't hurt so much in the beginning but now I— I can't explain it, Jane."
He watches as one hand leaves the wheel, fingers brushing away a tear before it has a chance to leave her lashes. Jane squeezes her leg, his heart growing heavy in his chest. He's always been good with words— careful and calculating— but what can he say to that?
Truthfully— he's been disappointed too. Ever since their 'scare'— though he's loathe to call it that since it would have been welcomed regardless— he's been able to confidently say that he wants kids with Lisbon. He'd even settle for just one. It wasn't something they'd talked about at all in the years leading up to that moment, but ever since, the thought had taken root, steadily growing as they'd progressed through the expected adult milestones— marriage, new and steady jobs, a new and settled house. And then one day, a few months after their wedding, it had bloomed into something more tangible, into a want moreso than an abstract concept. A want that his wife shared, in spite of her upbringing. It would never cease to amaze him, the depths of love that she had to share.
The car slows to a stop at the intersection, the red light glinting off the sign for their street. The the steady tick-tick of the signal light acts like a metronome in the silence, keeping time for a piece that he's not quite sure how to play. Instead, he waits until Lisbon guides the car around the corner before flipping his palm upright on her thigh. Her palm finds his after a moment, their fingers tangling together.
"It'll happen, Teresa," he repeats quietly, assuredly. "I know it will. After everything we've been through— the universe owes us."
Her small chuckle in response is music enough. He cracks a small grin too.
"It'll happen," she whispers, and somehow, she knows the words to be true.