Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Three hours later she walked back into the bullpen knowing exactly where she would find him. He was still on the couch. On his back, hands folded over his stomach like he'd been carefully arranged for viewing. Eyes closed, not asleep.

Her heels announced her entrance in a rhythm. The building was empty now, the lights still dimmed. His eyes opened on the third step and he sat up immediately.

His gaze swept over her in one unhurried pass, taking in the dress, the flushed cheeks, the way she was holding herself together.

She stopped a few feet from him.

He was already analyzing. She could see it happening. The narrowing of his eyes, the calculation.

Before he could speak, she marched forward and dropped onto the couch beside him. This time not with a professional distance. No, directly next to him. Hip to hip.

Her purse slid from her shoulder and hit the floor.

"I hate you, Jane."

He looked at her calmly, reading her again.

She turned toward him fully now, eyes bright, chin lifted. "Don't look at me like that. I really do. I hate you."

There was heat in it, but it was wobbly around the edges.

He waited.

"I just had the fanciest dinner of my life," she continued, waving a hand vaguely in the air. "Cloth napkins. Actual candles. A waiter who described butter like it had a résumé." She blinked at him. "Butter, Jane."

His mouth twitched, but he wisely kept it contained.

"And I couldn't enjoy it."

That part landed heavier.

"I kept sitting there thinking about you. Which is ridiculous, by the way. Completely irrational. Because what exactly have you done to earn that?" She gestured at him broadly. "Nothing. You've done nothing."

He tilted his head slightly. Still watching.

"He is nice," she pressed on. "Marcus is nice. He's kind and thoughtful and emotionally available, which apparently is a thing people value. He opens doors. He makes reservations. He doesn't sleep on office furniture." She slapped the couch cushion once for emphasis. "He is objectively excellent."

She leaned closer, eyes narrowing. "And still I kept wishing it was you."

There it was.

"But no," she went on, voice climbing again. "You would never ask me out. That would require initiative. Instead you lie there, look at me like I'm something fragile and rare, tell me I look beautiful, and then fall asleep on this godforsaken couch like a Victorian ghost."

He actually smiled at that.

"Stop smiling," she snapped, though there was no real venom in it. "This is serious. I am a grown woman. I should be able to enjoy a date with a perfectly suitable man without wondering whether Patrick Jane is going to be quietly disappointed in me."

"I wasn't disappointed," he said softly.

"Of course you weren't," she shot back. She lifted her hands in exaggerated quotation marks, "You hoped I had a great time," and added, "Sure."

She mimicked his voice just enough to make it sting.

"You are not the only one who reads people," she continued. "I know you. You don't actually want me to have a great time. You want me to have a nice enough time. A pleasant time. A time that ends with me walking back in here and sitting next to you."

She poked his chest with one finger. "Orbiting."

He didn't flinch.

"But you're too much of a coward to actually do anything about it."

That one landed. She saw it in the way his shoulders stilled. He wasn't a coward. He was terrified and scared, but not a coward.

She saw the flicker of that in his eyes and immediately looked away.

"I shouldn't have said that," she muttered. Then, stubbornly, "The coward part. The rest stands."

He let out a slow breath. "How did you get here?"

She rolled her eyes. "I took a cab. Marcus dropped me off at home like the perfect gentleman that he is. I should have invited him in." She threw her hands up. "But no. Apparently my guilty conscience is shaped like you. So I let him kiss me on the cheek and sent him away. You're welcome."

He hadn't been worried about Marcus. He'd smelled the wine, and was glad she didn't drive.

She leaned back abruptly against the couch, staring at the ceiling. "I am in my prime, Jane. I would like to date the men I want to date. I would like to feel uncomplicated things."

"You should," he said.

She turned her head slowly toward him. "Don't you dare agree with me in that calm voice."

He almost laughed.

"You should," he repeated, gentler.

She studied him for a long moment, and the anger shifted. It didn't disappear, but it changed shape.

"Why is everything about him right," she asked, the fierceness softening just a notch, "and I still don't feel it?"

That question was not angry, it was tired.

She slid down a little on the couch until her shoulder pressed more fully against his. Then, without asking, she tilted her head so her cheek rested against him.

He didn't hesitate. He took her hand where it lay between them and threaded his fingers through hers.

They both stared at the ceiling now.

Her voice, when it came again, was quieter but still edged with wine and honesty. "I sat there tonight thinking, this is good. This is what I'm supposed to want. And all I could think was how you would make fun of the butter."

A small sound escaped him.

"And how you would lean back in your chair like you owned the place even though you absolutely would not." Her fingers tightened in his. "And how you would look at me across the table."

He swallowed.

"I don't want to be ruined for normal men," she said, almost fiercely again. "That's very inconvenient."

He turned his head slightly toward her.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"Good," she replied at once.

She turned slightly, angling herself so she could lean into him without fully committing to the word cuddle.

Her eyes slipped closed.

"You're very calm," she murmured, voice lower now. "For someone who's just been accused of emotional sabotage."

"I'm choosing not to defend myself," he replied.

"Why?"

"Because you're not entirely wrong."

That pulled her upright slightly. "So you admit it."

"I admit," he said, measured, "that I have complicated your life."

She let out a short laugh. "That's a very polite way of putting it."

He looked at her fully now. "You deserve uncomplicated," he said quietly. "You deserve someone who shows up clearly. Who doesn't come with… debris."

She watched him carefully.

"And you think that's not you," she said.

He did not answer immediately.

She shifted again, this time sliding her hand up slightly so their fingers were still intertwined but her thumb could press lightly against the inside of his wrist. She felt his pulse there.

"I don't want uncomplicated if it feels empty," she said softly.

That was less tipsy bravado and more truth.

"I don't want to sit across from someone perfectly suitable and feel like I'm performing the role of a woman who should be impressed."

He swallowed.

"I want to feel…" She hesitated, frustrated. "I don't know. Something."

"You feel something," he said.

"Yes," she snapped lightly. "That's the problem."

He smiled at that.

She shifted again, this time fully turning her body toward him, one leg tucked slightly under herself. She was close now. Close enough that he could see the faint smudge of mascara at the corner of her eye.

"You don't get to ruin me and then act noble about it," she said quietly. "You don't get to step back and say I deserve better if you're the one standing in the way."

He absorbed it slowly.

"I don't want to stand in your way," he said.

"Well, you are."

And just when the air between them felt as though it might hold, she stood.

She moved to her desk like she needed a task. She yanked the drawer open harder than necessary and pulled out the tequila. The cap twisted off with sharp efficiency.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said carefully.

She glanced at him over the rim of the bottle.

"Luckily," she said, lifting it in a small salute, "I have formally resigned from letting you decide what I do with my life."

She took a long swallow.

She angled the bottle toward him in silent offer.

He shook his head.

"Boring," she informed him, though there was less bite in it than she intended.

"I didn't know you still kept a bottle in your desk," he said.

"Not still," she corrected, a flicker of something sad crossing her face. "Again."

She leaned back against the desk, bottle dangling loosely from her fingers now.

"I got rid of it for a while," she said. "Thought I was evolving." She rolled her eyes at herself. "Then Washington happened."

Her expression shifted, just slightly.

"I put one back in the drawer. Because when things go right, or wrong, and there's no one there who understands what it cost, you need something to toast with." Her voice thinned slightly. "After Bosco, I still had the team. I still had you. And then all of a sudden, I had nothing."

She raised the bottle solemnly.

"To lonely me."

She took another gulp, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I wasn't spiralling, by the way," she added quickly, almost defensive. "You can't exactly take a shot every time you close a petty theft case. I would have been unconscious by Tuesday." A faint smile tugged at her mouth. "It was just there. In case I needed to mark something. Or unmark something."

He watched her, something unreadable in his eyes.

"I brought it to Austin," she continued. "Just in case. Thought maybe I'd need it again."

She pushed off the desk and walked back to him. Sat down beside him, again close.

"But then," she said, nudging his knee lightly with hers, "this deeply irritating man showed up and ruined my commitment to dramatic solitude."

He huffed a quiet laugh.

"Most of my loneliness disappeared the second you walked back into my life," she went on. "Which is very inconvenient, by the way. I had adjusted to being stoic and self sufficient."

She took the bottle again, smaller sip this time.

She took another sip. Paused. Looked at the bottle.

"…This speech would land better if I weren't actively drinking it."

Her mouth tilted.

She pointed the neck of the bottle at him. "You. You have to take a sip for that."

"For what, exactly?"

"For being the catastrophic variable of this." A softer look. "You're the problem in all of this. Of everything, really."

He laughed, charmed in spite of himself. "Everything?"

"Yes. Don't make me list examples. I will."

"Fair enough."

He took the bottle, drank, then set it deliberately on the floor, just out of reach.

"Good," she murmured, approving. "Very proud of you."

She leaned in close, lips near his ear. "And don't think I didn't clock you moving the bottle away from me, clever man."

She did not reach for it again. Instead she rested her head to the backrest, before moving her head sideways in the hollow of his neck. After a few seconds she exhaled, long and warm against his collar.

"I had a feeling you'd smell this nice."

He smiled despite himself. She smiled too. He did not linger on it. It felt unfair to want too much from a moment she might not remember clearly tomorrow.

She shifted, tucking her feet up on the sofa, pressing fully into his side. The weight of her settled.

"I'm going to take a nap," she murmured.

He allowed himself two seconds. Just two. The quiet of her breathing against him, the simple fact of her choosing to fall asleep here.

"Teresa, it's better if—"

"Don't send me home." Her fingers curled into his jacket. "Not tonight."

"I won't," he said, and took her hand properly. "Trust me."

"I somewhere always trusted you," she replied, already softer. "That is one of the problems, by the way."

He wrapped an arm around her, steady strokes down her back.

After a moment he said gently, "We're not staying here."

Her eyes cracked open. "You promised-."

"I'm taking you to my Airstream."

She brightened instantly. "Oh. Field trip. That's different."

"Up."

"No, this feels nice," she protested, burrowing deeper to encourage the back stroking.

"It can be nice elsewhere. Up."

She sighed theatrically but stood, grabbing her bag with exaggerated competence. She wobbled once, then straightened. "That was intentional."

"Of course."

He slipped an arm around her waist and guided her toward the elevator. Inside, she stepped deliberately close, dress flawless, his suit rumpled, but perfect.

"We look good together," she whispered.

"We do."

She grinned at that, triumphant.

Getting her to the Airstream was not difficult exactly, but it did involve navigating distinctly tipsy Teresa complications.

She stopped twice on the way. Once to tell him that he was a "show off", before hooking her arm through his to be able to walk closer to him. The second time she stoped with sudden focus, one finger pressing lightly into his chest.

"By the way, don't think you're the only one who notices things," she said. "You may have the whole psychic theatre act, but I see things too."

He tilted his head. "Do you?"

"Yes. Constantly." She began ticking them off on her fingers. "The way your voice drops half a register when you're worried. The way you pretend to be amused when you're actually… not."

He raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

"I'm not done." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "You scan every room twice. You always stand slightly to my left when you think something might go wrong."

He blinked.

She leaned in, smug. "You read tells. I read you."

He tried not to smile.

"You think you're the only one allowed to have instincts?" she went on, fierce and quick. "Please." She poked his chest again, softer this time. "You're not the only observer in the room, Jane. You just have better branding."

He went very still at that.

"And for the record," she added, chin lifting, "I knew what this would feel like before you did."

"What would?"

She stepped in close, almost chest to chest now.

"This," she said simply.

Then, with a crooked grin, she hooked her arm through his and started walking again like she had just won something.

"Psychic," she muttered under her breath. "Amateur."

They were almost at the Airstream when she added, abruptly, "Oh, and this is wildly unfair to Marcus."

He glanced down at her. "Is it?"

"Yes. Marcus was being perfectly kind and polite." She gestured vaguely. "And now I am leaving with the narrative villain."

"Well," he said lightly, "thank you."

She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Relax," he added, gentler, more himself. "I'm just taking you somewhere you can sleep without falling off a couch."

She gave him a look.

"No dramatic seduction arc planned for this evening," he continued. "I left my villain cape at home."

"No, that part's been clear for twelve years," she shot back instantly. "Rule number one, Patrick Jane does not sleep with Teresa Lisbon."

"Rule number two," she continued, counting on her fingers, "be just attentive enough that Teresa develops feelings, but never, ever act on them."

He opened his mouth.

"Rule number three," she finished, squinting at his hair, "maintain suspiciously handsome hair at all times to ensure maximum confusion."

"Okay. Enough." He opened the door. "Welcome to the Airstream."

She stepped inside, turning slowly. "It's smaller than I thought."

"Thank you."

"But it's nice." She amended. "Neater than I expected."

"That's your place for the night," he said, nodding toward the bed.

"Our."

"Your," he repeated, already reaching for a glass. He filled it and handed it to her. "Drink. You'll thank me in the morning."

She drained it theatrically and extended the glass back without a word.

He refilled it.

This time she took it normally, only a small sip, keeping the glass in her hand.

"Why did you take me here, Jane?"

"I wasn't sending you home alone. And this was closer."

She waited.

"And?" she prompted.

He hesitated.

"I don't like the idea of you alone when you're… not steady," he said carefully.

"Because?"

He met her eyes. "Because you matter."

She held his gaze. "Like everyone matters?"

"No, you know that."

Silence.

"Knowing and hearing," she said quietly, "are not the same."

He exhaled once, through his nose.

"I brought you here because I would worry," he said, more plainly now. "And I don't enjoy worrying about you."

That was as close as he would go. She nodded, accepting the translation.

"My things women accidentally left behind drawer is tragically empty," he said, turning away slightly. "But I have shirts, if you want something more comfortable."

"That would be nice."

He tossed her the largest one.

She slipped off her heels and stood, turning her back to him.

"Can you help?" she asked, simply, indicating the zipper. "At home I have a contraption for it."

There was nothing playful in it. It was small surrender of independence.

He stepped closer.

He reached up first for her hair, gathering it carefully, slowly drawing it forward over her shoulder so it wouldn't catch. His fingers brushed the side of her neck in the process, accidental in theory. Her breath shifted immediately. So did his.

For a second he let his hands hover, as if giving himself the option to step back.

He didn't.

"You looked beautiful tonight," he said quietly, voice lower than before. "I'm sorry it ended the way it did."

His fingers found the small metal tab of the zipper. Instead of pulling right away, he steadied the fabric with his other hand, his knuckles grazing the bare skin at the top of her spine.

She inhaled.

He felt it.

He began to draw the zipper down, slowly. As the fabric loosened, his fingers followed the line downward, not lingering overtly, but not detached either.

His fingertips brushed her back more than strictly necessary to guide the dress open. The skin there was warm. He could feel the subtle shiver that traveled outward from where he touched.

Her shoulders lifted slightly, then eased.

Goosebumps rose under his hand.

Her breath left her in a soft exhale that was almost a sigh.

He stopped the second the zipper reached its end. He stepped back, giving her space, though the air between them felt tighter than before.

"You confuse me, Patrick Jane," she said quietly.

He did not answer.

"You do this," she continued, fingers curling slightly at her sides. "You stand close enough that I can feel you breathe. You touch me like it means something."

A small breath.

"And then tomorrow it's like it never happened."

Silence.

"That hurts."

She swallowed. "That hurt," she repeated, softer now, knowing he knew exactly which moment she meant.

His jaw shifted almost imperceptibly.

"You deserve better," he said at last.

She let out a quiet, almost incredulous breath.

"I really don't want better," she said, still not turning around. "I want you to stop deciding what I deserve."

He shouldn't have reached for her. He knew that.

But a loose strand of hair had fallen against her bare shoulder, and before he could stop himself his fingers brushed it back into place.

His knuckles skimmed her skin.

She inhaled sharply.

"Maybe don't," she murmured.

He froze.

"It makes me want to kiss you," she said.

He went completely still behind her.

"And that's not what you want," she added, barely above a whisper.

A small huff of air left him, almost a quiet laugh.

She shifted slightly, as if to turn toward him.

He stepped back half an inch.

"Teresa," he said, softer now. "When I kiss you, I don't want tequila getting any of the credit."

"When?" she asked softly. "Not if."

He allowed himself the faintest smile. "Tipsy Lisbon is still very sharp."

"I'll wait until I'm sober, then" she said.

"Good," he replied, quietly.

He turned around, hands sliding into his pockets to make the point clearer. There was the soft rustle of fabric behind him, the quiet sound of her stepping out of the dress, and putting on a shirt.

"I'm decent again, gentleman," she announced after a moment. "You may turn around. Nothing to see."

He turned. Took her in anyway, in his shirt, sleeves too long, bare legs.

"I beg to differ," he said lightly, a small glint in his eye.

"Men," she muttered, climbing onto the bed with a small bounce. "Now come here. I'm going to fall asleep in your arms and you're going to pretend you don't love it."

"I'll take the couch."

She blinked at him. "Patrick. Come here, please."

"Teresa…"

"Not tonight," she cut in. "You can invent a reason if you need to. Blame it on your back problems."

"I don't have back problems."

"You stretch twice a day with a tragic little groan," she informed him.

He huffed a laugh despite himself.

"Please?" she tried again, softer, eyes less sharp now.

He looked at her for a long second, then exhaled.

"No funny business," he said as he got into the bed beside her.

She immediately rolled into him like that had been the only correct outcome. She tucked herself against his side, head on his shoulder, one arm sliding around his waist. A second later, she draped one leg over his, claiming territory that technically violated the terms of the agreement.

He glanced down at the leg.

"Of course," he said with a smile.

She sighed, satisfied, nuzzling slightly closer.

"'S nice," she murmured into his neck.

His hand found her back, slow strokes up and down.

"And different," she added.

"Different?" he asked quietly.

"Different than the other idiots," she said sleepily. "You're better."

"A better idiot?" he murmured.

She made a soft, dismissive sound.

"The best," she breathed out on an exhale, like it cost her nothing to say.

He smiled, unseen, and kept tracing slow lines along her back.

"Please keep doing that," she mumbled. "Feels good."

She made a soft approving sound.

"Good night, Teresa."

"Good night," she sighed happily.

Then she lifted her head just enough to press a slightly off center kiss to his cheek.

"Oops," she said, with zero remorse.

He shook his head faintly.

A second later, her hand slipped under the hem of his shirt and rested warm against his side. Within moments her breathing evened out, leg still draped over him, hand still tucked under his shirt.

He stayed awake a little longer, smiling into the dark, his hand still moving slowly along her back.

No funny business.