Work Text:
On days one and two of Jane’s trip somewhere nice, Lisbon felt untethered, strung out, and entirely unlike herself. Leaving the office for the night, she went back to her desk three times trying to figure out what she was forgetting.
On day three, his absence had settled in, and she left the office without feeling like she was missing something. She went straight home, bone weary from two sleepless nights, and crawled right into bed.
On day four, she was so sick of her own thoughts that she took herself out to a busy bar to get drunk on beer and other people’s conversations.
On day five, she ran. She ran for miles until she felt like she might collapse on the street if she tried to keep going.
On day six, she had a glass of wine and allowed herself a good cry.
On day seven, she fell asleep on the couch in front of a movie, clutching her silent cell phone.
***
On the first day of his return, she slipped past him, asleep on his couch, after the last of the paperwork related to Gabriel’s dead body had been completed. Tapping her toes on the floor of the elevator impatiently, she descended through the building as she thought back on their brief meeting at the mass gravesite. He had said he was “back,” but the worry she had been carrying around for the last week didn’t seem to have abated. He had said, “It’s nice see you,” with the hint of a charming smile, his body heat almost close enough to feel, scents of sweat, pine, bergamot, and black tea swirling around her. She couldn’t help the small smile she returned.
Making it out of the elevator, past the guards, and to her car, she climbed in. Automatically she flipped the visor back up from its deployed position and paused, for the eighth day in a row, at the prayer card tucked into the visor from a funeral she should have never needed to attend. And, like each previous day, she remembered the wrung out feeling she had, walking over to the tree he had perched under, never expecting that the ground was about to be pulled from underneath her.
She was grateful for her current distance from him, but also resented it. He was sleeping peacefully on his couch while she drove home alone. Of course it was her choice; she could have nudged him awake, but she wasn’t ready for the conversation they needed to have. She hadn’t worked out yet where they were or where they were supposed to be, and she was angry. He had waltzed back into the case and said he was figuring things out. He had said it almost impatiently at first, like her question was an inconvenience to him. He said it as though that was supposed to be enough, as if that was supposed to patch the wounded part of her that spent the week wondering how she could possibly survive moving on from him should he decide to stay gone. As if it could stitch back together the pieces of her that questioned if she could be the kind of woman who could leave a job she loved for a man, and the nauseating truth that no matter how much she might think she wants to be, she isn’t.
When they needed him, the team expected her to be able to reach him. Expected her to be able to answer their questions about whether he was alright, where he was, when he’d be back. Every question was like a punch in the gut, because she should have been able to answer them. But he had taken even that small dignity away from her.
He had sat across from her in an interview room that morning, smug and irritable, as if she was overreacting. The audacity of it made it hard to even relish seeing his face again. What did he think of her, that she was disposable when he needed her to be? She’d realized over the years that she’d be almost anything for him. But a convenience? No. She had made that perfectly fucking clear while they were divided by a hotel door in Key West not all that long ago.
No. She was not done with whatever this was. Without her consent, years ago if she’s being honest, he had taken her heart, and if he had any right to keep it, this was not how she was going to live. She was not going to spend her life wondering what might send him careening out of it again. She wasn’t going to tie herself in knots to get him to stay. Good for him for “figuring it out,” but dammit if she was just going to manage his tantrum like he hadn’t cut her open. No matter how much she wanted to. And god she wanted to.
The more she thought, the more she gripped the steering wheel, the heavier her foot became on the pedal. He could sleep wherever he damn well pleased tonight, just like he had done for the last week.
As she pulled into the driveway, her phone rang and lit up with the image of his boyish grin. She wanted to throw it out the window; instead, she pressed the button to silence the trilling. Uncharitably, she thought, How do you like it?
She stomped up her steps and didn’t even bother to toe off her boots before heading to the kitchen for a glass of wine for the second time this week. Her nerves were frayed, and she knew she’d never sleep, but with the investigation mounting, no sleep was no longer an option. This fact stoked her anger further - she should be focused on a serial killer, not the banality of her personal feelings.
She had barely poured the wine when she heard the knock at the door. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, she thought, knowing full well who was on the other side.
She held the knob for a moment, contemplating whether she even had it in her to open it. But she did. Of course she did.
“What are you doing here, Jane?” she asked, defeated.
“I thought you might like some company,” he said, smiling at her.
“I’ve done fine on my own for the last week,” she spat plainly, shrugging her shoulders.
He looked appropriately contrite, but then, with Jane, looks could be deceiving. “Let me in, Teresa,” not said demandingly, but clearly with the expectation of compliance.
Well that’s fucking rich, she thought. Of course, she’d be lying if she denied that a large part of her wanted to welcome him in, wanted to give him whatever he asked for. But the sharp stabbing that had been ever present in her chest since she watched him walk away and leave the cemetery, and her, behind was enough to spur her quiet defiance. She tilted her chin up and looked him directly in the eye as she responded, “No.”
He fidgeted and for a moment she thought he was going to reach out to touch her, but he wisely seemed to think twice about it.
She sighed. “I can’t do this now, Jane. We can get through the case and then we can talk, but it’s been a long day, I’m tired and…” He interrupted her by actually reaching for her hand across the threshold. His fingers burned her skin, and for a fraction of a moment she started to cling back, until she remembered herself, remembered why the touch felt just a bit awkward, why she was feeling such an acute impulse to run. She surprised herself when she tore her hand away, the fury of the past week building in her. When she spoke, it sounded rough and ragged; she hadn’t expected her voice to betray the way she felt inside. “Jane. You left me. You left me in a cemetery after we buried Vega.”
This seemed to surprise him. Good, she thought. Smug bastard. But then, suddenly, she was overwhelmed with everything all at once. The way her heart sank, bleeding into her stomach while she watched him walk away, the tossing and turning every sleepless night, the feeling of foolishness every time a phone call went unanswered. It all bubbled up so quickly thats she knew she wouldn’t be able to tamp it down in time.
“God damnit!” She felt the tears coming, and she’d be damned if she let them fall in front of him. Not tonight. She fled in the direction of the bathroom, seeking a hiding spot whose boundaries he was likely to respect. She slammed the bathroom door behind her and paced the short length of the room restlessly, once, twice, and a third time before coming to rest on the edge of the tub. The tears were streaming in hot rivers down her face; she shoved her palm in her mouth and bit down hard trying to stifle the sobs that she knew were coming next. She may have put some distance between them, but the asshole still had ears.
She estimated that it took approximately 37 seconds before his knock on the door. “Lisbon…”, he started, but didn’t seem to have a way to finish.
She should've told him to leave. She should’ve, but she didn’t. She didn’t want him to leave, not really, not again. She just wanted him to understand, but she couldn’t seem to wrangle the words to explain. He fucking understood everything else about her; how could this be the thing he couldn’t figure out?
“Just...give me a minute,” she said, congratulating herself on sounding so composed with the short sentence. She didn’t get a response but she could hear his footsteps retreating from the door. She angrily wiped the tears away from her face, took in a big breath through her nose, and then slowly blew it out through her mouth, then repeated the same pattern a second and third time. Eventually she felt her heart rate slow, her chest no longer catching on each breath. She splashed cold water on her face and stared at herself in the mirror until she built up enough armor to withstand whatever came next.
She stepped quietly out of the bathroom and retraced her earlier steps. She found him standing in the living room, gazing out towards some unseen middle distance, one hand shoved in a pocket, the other hanging listlessly at his side, his thumb rubbing the side of his forefinger over and over in an unending loop.
He seemed to notice her presence and spun slowly to face her. She widened her stance and lowered her shoulders in a vain attempt at creating a confident facade; he’d see through it anyway. “You left me,” she stated simply, once again.
“I didn’t leave you,” he countered, sounding slightly put out. “And we’ve been over this: I was always coming back.”
Her anger spiked again and for the second time tonight she was grateful for it. Anger felt safe; anger, she knew how to navigate. “Of course, Jane, you said that this morning, you were always coming back.” Then, slightly more menacingly, “I guess I just missed the memo.”
He opened his mouth to respond, face looking annoyed, but then something seemed to shift. His brow furrowed a bit and he cocked his head as he said, “You actually thought I wasn’t coming back,” he said in realization of what she thought was obvious. “Lisbon, that’s –” he let out a short breath and then slightly softer he finished, “ - that’s ridiculous.”
She could feel her fist clench, her face redden, her eyes narrow. She took two slow measured breaths as she let herself soak in the anger and frustration that was lodged in the center of her chest. When she felt as though she was capable of speech, voice calm but incredulous, she parroted, “That’s ridiculous?” She consciously tensed her muscles then forced them to relax before continuing coldly, “Jane, your leaving has been the one constant in our entire 13-year relationship. You run, and I’m the one left holding the bag, I’m the one made to look like the fool.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked at her like she was the crazy one. “Fool? Lisbon -“ he swallowed as he seemed to search for a response. “You’ve never been a fool.”
She couldn’t stop herself from rolling her eyes. “Oh yeah? Do us both a favor, Jane, and get real. Vegas, New York, hell, even Venezuela. So many times, Jane, you ran, and I was left, waiting.”
She huffed out some low sardonic laugh, a sinister wisp of a thing. “I tried to let you go, I really did. When I was in Washington, when I was with Pike, I really tried. But I couldn’t. I can’t let go of someone who will always leave. In what world does that not make me the fool?”
The tears were back now. No use hiding. The venom in the truth she was saying was too satisfying to stop. She loved him. God, she loved him, but now her sadistic side was winning; she wanted to hurt him, too. “Before, was…before,” her voice cracked. The insinuation clear: before Thomas McAllister, before vengeance and fugitives. Before an airplane confession 13 years in the making. And then more quietly, “But I thought that we’d be different now. How fucking stupid.”
He wasn’t looking at her and was instead staring at the floor between them, thumb tapping the inside of his pointer finger. She felt his silence like a stalemate, but then quietly, suddenly, he whispered, “Do you still want to?”
She looked sharply at him, not understanding. He waited a beat before clarifying, “Do you still want to let me go?”
Her face crumpled just a bit as she lost control of a sob that crept out, unbidden, from her chest. She brought her hand up to cover her mouth for a second before shaking her head slightly. She took a deep breath that she blew out through pursed lips. “No,” she whispered. “No, of course not.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, he surged forward and gathered her in his arms. She was stunned for a moment, confused by the fact that he seemed to break tonight’s unspoken rule of no physical contact. But then, quickly she recovered. She allowed him to hold her, to rub soothing circles on her back. Almost as soon as she forced herself to relax into his embrace and wrap her arms around his waist, he buried his nose in her neck and breathed in deeply. She could sense he was building up to something, so she let him sway them gently as he found the words. Eventually, he spoke softly, voice rough.
“Lisbon, I know…I know you are always going to be a cop - hell, the world is safer if you are. A-and I am always going to be a broken man who is afraid of losing you.” He paused and she fought the urge to argue with him in favor of letting him go on. “But then Vega…” he cleared his throat, his voice coming out tightly now. “I felt like I was losing my mind with fear. I had to go. I had to leave to get away from - - to figure out how we can reconcile the parts of ourselves that we can’t let go of.”
The choice of his words were important; Jane was nothing if not impeccable with his word. He had said, “reconcile the parts of ourselves that we can’t let go of’. In that sentence, the “can’t” felt significant. It’s not that they won't, it's that they can’t. The challenge was so tightly wrapped around who they are, fundamentally: she, a cop; he, a widower. Letting go of either is impossible.
She pulled away, not creating distance, but enough that she could look him in the eye again. The fight had gone out of her, the remnants of her fury painted on her tear stained cheeks. Still heavy with sadness, she pointed out, “You couldn’t even answer my call.”
He bowed his head. “Truthfully, Lisbon, I was drunk. You had me brought back, and I was still a mess and I…I didn’t even hear it ring.” He shrugged. “I am sorry for that, Lisbon. I meant what I said. Your request was fair. I should have had it on me. I should have picked up.”
She nodded her acceptance but found for the first time since he arrived that she couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eye; she was afraid that she might still find him lost and untethered. “So what now, Jane? We’re back where we started.”
He lifted her jaw with his thumb and forefinger to make eye contact before saying, “Figuring things out wasn’t hyperbole, Lisbon. I meant it. And I’m doing it.” His voice became incrementally lighter as he added, “I have some ideas.” He crooked a hint of a smile at her and gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Oh yeah?” she asked, mirroring his slight smile. “Your ideas get me in trouble, Jane.” Almost as if he couldn’t help himself, his grin grew wider. “Seriously Jane,” but now she couldn’t keep the amusement out of her voice. “Read me in.”
His eyes sparkled; Jane was in his element, her man with a plan. “I’ll tell you what,” he began, his smile turning mischievous. “You let me stay here tonight. No funny business, I promise…I’ll even sleep on the couch,” he said as he gestured in the vague direction of the sofa behind them. “Then, in the morning, I’ll do you one better. I’ll show you.” He had ducked down to make sure their eyes were level, all hope and sly confidence.
She made him wait for it. Figured it was the least she could do. She squinted her eyes skeptically, but when his smile didn’t fade, she knew she hadn’t fooled him. She rolled her eyes good naturedly. “Fine,” she said, and lost the battle with her cracking smile.
“Good,” he whispered. Then, almost reverently he pulled her back in for another hug, tucking her head under his chin for a moment, before finding the crown of her head with his lips and gently placing kisses there. She inhaled the scent that enveloped her from within his arms; sweat, herbs, pine, and Jane. She focused on their shared breathing for a moment before becoming acutely aware of the exhaustion that had settled in her shoulders.
“Jane –” she started. He gave her one more kiss on the top of her head before sliding his hands down to her biceps and gently creating space between them. “You look exhausted, Lisbon.” He glanced at the couch once again, “Really. I’ll be fine here. It’ll be like old times.” She nodded but was surprised to find herself unable to walk away from him.
“Jane, this isn’t going to be that easy.”
“I know,” he whispered.
She pouted at him and tugged his hand as she took a step backwards in the direction of the bedroom. He cocked his eyebrows at her, slightly surprised, slightly mischievous. “Just sleeping,” she emphasized. He raised his hands in mock surrender and then crossed his right pointer finger over his heart and pledged, “Scout’s honor.”
She rolled her eyes at him and smirked, “Yeah, that holds about as much weight as the tenets of the lollipop guild.” He chucked, but then ducked his head down to kiss her. It was chaste but surprisingly tender. She met him in the moment, allowing herself to be grateful for his presence, maybe for the first time since she saw him in the FBI conference room yesterday morning. When he broke away he only pulled back slightly looking intensely into her eyes. “I love you, Teresa,” he whispered.
“I know. I love you, too”.