Chapter Text
It is snowing.
Lisbon stands on the balcony and looks at the familiar buildings, the reflections of the street lamps on the wet asphalt, the small crow hopping around on the pavement. First snow makes the scene softer, a bit magical, but she knows it won’t last. It is only the beginning of November in Chicago, and winter isn’t ready to stay quite yet.
Music is playing inside. One of the older students has brought a portable vinyl player, the record – Simply the Best by Tina Turner – is scratchy, and there are skips between beats.
Lisbon hums along anyway. A couple of years back, before the Academy, she used to listen to the same album while doing the dishes in the mornings, after making sure her brothers were safely in the school bus. We Don’t Need Another Hero was often the thing that got her through the day.
Back then praying had been difficult, and Tina Turner seemed more likely to answer than the saints.
*
Lisbon wakes up with a start. The television in her motel room has lost its connection, and the screen is filled with static snowfall, too.
Someone – well, obviously Jane – is knocking at her room. Lisbon looks at her watch and makes a face. It is a couple of minutes past two in the morning.
She puts on her hoodie and stomps to the door.
Jane takes one look at her, makes some quick calculations, and asks:
“Would you like to come and have some pancakes with me?”
“At two o’clock in the morning?” Lisbon groans.
“There is an excellent diner two blocks from here. They told so in the reception.”
“Two o’clock in the morning, Jane.”
Jane lets his smile slip. For a moment all Lisbon sees is exhaustion and anxiety.
“It’s the anniversary”, he says.
Lisbon doesn’t have to ask. She touches Jane’s shoulder and nods.
“Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed”, she says and closes the door.
*
Lisbon thinks about the border they’ve apparently crossed and wonders when it happened. When did she become the person Jane trusts enough to ask for help in the middle of the night?
Lisbon thinks about the miles they’ve driven together, crossroads, hundreds of bodies, bad coffee and terrible tea in the gas stations, the way Jane says her name when he picks up the phone.
”Lisbon.” Like he had been waiting for her to call all along.
Jane sounds delighted almost every time, although Lisbon mostly calls to inform him about some development in their latest case or to ask for advice.
For a moment she feels guilty. Jane never calls her to ask for help, and when he knocks, Lisbon meets him with a grumpy face and irritation.
Then again, how could she have known?
She buttons up her blouse, puts on her leather jacket and walks to the door again. Jane is waiting for her. His smile seems effortless, no cracks, no hint of anxiety.
Lisbon thinks about the phone calls, only a couple of seconds she has to wait before Jane picks up. The way he says her name: like he’d gotten just the present he’d wished for.
Lisbon thinks about Tina Turner and the saints, and how instead of them, nowadays she tends to turn to Jane when she needs help.
“Jane”, Lisbon says, and maybe she can’t say it quite the same way, but she hopes he understands.
Jane smiles at her, but his eyes are serious, and he answers: “Lisbon.”