Shelter from the Storm
By Lady Chal
Summary: On a dark and stormy night, Lisbon comes home to an empty house and a missing husband. In the course of her investigation, she gains some unexpected insight into some of Jane's idiosyncratic ways...
AN: Been meaning to do a Mentalist story for years. Have several started, but this is the first one I've actually gotten around to finishing. Absolutely loved the finale, but Jane's line about Lisbon still being a mystery to him caused me to think that perhaps there are a few mysteries to him that she has never taken the time to ponder or explore. This is just one of the many ideas rolling around in my head as I lay in my camper at night, listening to the sound of rain on the roof. All the standard disclaimers apply, not mine, etc. etc. etc.
"The house is looking good."
After thirty-seven minutes of nothing but the rhythmic whisper of the wiper blades against the glass, Cho's voice seemed unnaturally loud within dark cabin of the SUV. Fortunately, Lisbon managed not to jump. God forbid she garner any further scrutiny from the man who was rapidly showing all the signs of an overprotective boss. She had enough of that in her life already, thank you very much.
"Yeah, Jane's really been making progress," she murmured, "I'm a bit surprised, actually. I would never have expected him to take such an interest in manual labor."
"I'm not." Cho said brusquely, as he shoved the Tahoe into park and considered the shadowy length of the house for a moment. "He's got plenty to keep him motivated."
"I suppose," Lisbon said, reaching above her head to turn on the map light and rummaging about on the floorboard for her purse. "It's just weird not having him around the office, you know? I figured he'd get bored with building inspectors and floor plans inside of a month and be back on the couch snooping through files and stirring up the status quo."
"I didn't." Cho said.
Fingers at last encountering the elusive strap of her bag, Teresa paused to look up at her boss in surprise. "You didn't?"
"No," Cho said frankly, "and neither should you." Cho paused for a moment, and then switched off the engine. "Frankly, once he fulfills the partial contract he worked out with Abbott, I don't expect he'll ever come back. He's not like us. He's not wired for this job, the toll it takes. It's harder for him. He only did it as long as he did-
"-Because of Red John." Lisbon sighed.
"And you." Cho said firmly. "He came to the CBI for Red John, but he came back for you."
A low roll of thunder rumbled dimly outside the vehicle, followed by another hammering deluge of raindrops. Cho gave a moment to appreciate the long metallic rattle on the rooftop before finally selecting his next spare sentence. "Take tomorrow."
Lisbon shot him a surprised glance, "Really?"
Cho shrugged. "Wiley and Tork can wrap up the paperwork. Files for the new batch of recruits will be in from Quantico next week. I'll want your input."
Lisbon rolled her eyes. "God, Cho! I'm not an invalid, I'm just-"
"Carrying Jane's kid." Cho said matter-of-factly. "And I'm the one who will have to deal with his crap if you get so much as a papercut. Take tomorrow."
Defeated, she shot him a sidewise look. "This is why you insisted on driving me home, isn't it?" The argument that it was a good thirty minutes out of his way had certainly held no water with him.
Cho returned her gaze, completely unrepentant. "Yes."
Grumbling under her breath, she released the seat belt and popped open the door as Cho did the same. Knowing there was no point in arguing, she allowed him to hoist her carry on from the back of the SUV and haul it up onto the front porch as she dug out her house keys. "Thanks Cho," she said. He responded with his usual stoic nod and as he turned to go, some unknown devil of curiosity and discomfort made her call him back.
"Kimball?"
Cho stopped on the top step, waiting patiently.
"You really don't think he'll want to come back some day?"
Cho thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his damp FBI windbreaker and then shook his head. "No."
He let the splashing water and thunder fill the void between them for a moment before making his observation.
"That bothers you."
Yes. No. Maybe? She shook her head. "I don't know, I guess I just didn't believe it somehow. His skills and insight… he's got such a gift, it just seems like such a waste for him not to use it."
"He's used it," Cho reminded her. "It wasn't wasted. It won't be wasted now. It'll just be different."
"Gotta love change," Lisbon said wryly.
Cho snorted. "We've lived through our share."
"Yes we have," she said softly, but that knowledge somehow didn't make her feel any better about it.
"Teresa…" the rare sound of her given name on Cho's lips was startling, and her heart could not help but give an involuntary squeeze at the implication. This is important. Pay attention.
"Take the time. Enjoy it. Let Jane take his. You won't get it back again. If I've learned anything from Jane, it's that."
She expelled a long sigh, "You're right."
"I am." She offered him a weary smile. "Night, Cho. Drive safe."
He shrugged his usual farewell and hurried back through the rainy darkness to the SUV as she unlocked the front door and stepped into the front room. A single lamp burning on the table inside cast the room in a dim golden light. A book on plumbing and a yellow legal pad filled with Jane's scrawling hand occupied the dining table. A good sign, she thought. The soft whoosh of water coming from the kitchen as the new dishwasher changed cycles was an even better one. Absolute Heaven! How in God's name had they survived this long without one?
Moving quietly through the house, she shot a glance at the microwave. It was well after midnight. She and Cho had wrapped up their testimony in a Federal trial in Kansas City a day earlier than expected, and had been fortunate enough to switch their flights for an early return, though it had meant coming in on the red eye. She'd decided not to tell Jane. Better to surprise him. Though she'd only been called out of town on a couple of cases since their marriage, she still wasn't entirely certain she trusted Jane to be left to his own devices for too long. It certainly hadn't boded well in past experience.
Apparently, she still had grounds for misgivings. The bed, though rumpled, was not occupied. She frowned as she ran a hand over the pillow and mattress, finding no trace of warmth. The call of the bathroom after the long drive from the airport forced her to postpone her search and she took the opportunity to change for bed before going off in search of her insomniac husband. She should have known better than to believe him when he said he was sleeping just fine.
She started with the usual suspect -the only suspect, really- but was dismayed to discover the couch vacant, the throw neatly folded over the back. A small knot of unease formed in her chest. His car was here, parked next to hers. The dishwasher was running. The bed had been -well- not slept in, but used. All the expected signs of occupation, but no occupant.
A small gossamer ripple, still new and disconcerting, rolled through her belly as though the child had sensed her growing anxiety. Soothing a hand along her side, she murmured softly, "Where do you suppose your daddy has gotten to, huh?"
Unfortunately, it did little to ease either her or the baby, and she was forced to pause for a long moment, breathing through her nose as she warred with the desire to retrieve her gun and the need to revisit the bathroom for a much less pleasant call. Forcing back both nausea and panic she carefully checked each room until she had reviewed and confirmed all the evidence. Evidence that clearly suggested Jane should be here, but undeniably concluded that he definitely was not.
It was an eerie scenario that had all the hallmarks of one of those Friday night true crime dramas Jane always teased her for watching. God, she could almost hear that insipid reporter's voice droning in the back of her head:
A dark and stormy night, a remote country dream home miles from the city or even the nearest neighbor… The wife comes home from a business trip to a seemingly normal house on a normal Thursday night… Everything in its place, except for her beloved husband, - a man with a dark and tragic past…
She drew a deep breath and gave herself a mental shake. Now she was just letting her imagination run away with her. There could be other explanations. Maybe he went for a walk… In the rain… Ok, not likely. But on the other hand, it was Jane.
Moving back to the bedroom she retrieved her robe -and yes, her gun- before stepping out onto the front porch. Holding the weapon low, half concealed in the folds of her robe, she stood at the top of the steps and carefully scanned the perimeter, her eyes seeking out the shapes and shadows illuminated in the brief flashes of lightning. A wild, jagged bolt split the sky, turning the darkness to day, and she saw it - the blazing silver juggernaut gleaming beneath the oak trees at the far end of the pond.
Of course… the Airstream. Why hadn't she thought of it?
Stepping back into the house, she grabbed a flashlight from the kitchen drawer, a rain coat from the closet and dropped her keys into the pocket of her robe. Back out onto the porch she locked the door behind her and cast about for the pair of bright red ladybug garden clogs Jane had insisted were an absolute necessity for country life. Sadly, he had been proven right on that account. -Not that she'd want to be caught dead in them, but they were growing on her...
Picking her way carefully down the path, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other (because a girl could never be too careful), she couldn't quite push back the continuation of the true crime narrative that resumed in the back of her head.
The old Airstream… a favorite retreat… parked at the far end of the meadow… It seemed a likely explanation... Little did Teresa know the macabre horror she would discover inside…
Or, more likely…
Investigators were suspicious… the scene of bloody mayhem inside the RV just didn't add up… Had Patrick Jane been brutally murdered by an old adversary with an axe to grind? One of the hundreds of violent individuals he had put behind bars? -Or had his beloved wife finally shot him for being a jackass and scaring the crap out of her?
She started as her flashlight caught the glow of a pair of yellow eyes peering out from beneath the front wheel of the Airstream. Raising her gun slightly she directed the beam more closely upon them and relaxed as a familiar three legged mongrel drug itself out from under the RV with a wagging tail.
"Lucky," she sighed in relief, and lowered the gun. She honestly had no idea which neighbor he actually belonged to, but in the past few months he appeared to have ceded a significant portion of his loyalties to Jane, who didn't seem to mind having him underfoot while he was working on the house, and who was probably guilty of sharing more than one lunch with him. At any rate, it was a safe bet that if Lucky was lurking about, Jane was not far away.
Testing the door of the Airstream, she found it unlocked. Easing inside, she played the light slowly over the interior and found Jane, quietly composed on the bed, dead to the world.
-Or maybe just dead. She hadn't actually checked yet.
Moving quietly up the steps, she paused at the end of the bed and listened until she heard the reassuring sounds of deep breathing with perhaps the faintest hint of a snore. Not dead then.
Switching off the flashlight, she set it on the table, then shed her dripping rain coat and hung it over the railing to dry. Toeing off the garden clogs, she set them on the top step and then padded barefoot to the bed, staring down at her husband with narrowed eyes. Of course, he would take his half out of the middle. Well, dammit, he was just going to have to move the hell over!
"Teresa," her husband's lazy voice, calm and pleasant and completely unperturbed mumbled from the darkness, "Why are you standing over me with a gun?"
Yanking back the covers, she placed her weapon on the shelf beside the bed before dropping onto the mattress and giving her beloved spouse a well-deserved jab in the ribs. Jane yelped and scrambled towards the wall as she pulled the blanket back up and punched his pillow -now hers- into a more comfortable position.
"Honestly? I was thinking about shooting you and selling the interview rights to Stone Phillips to fund my defense."
"What?" Jane blinked at her in wary surprise. Pregnancy hormones had made her somewhat more volatile these days, but even this was a bit excessive.
"Jesus Jane! What the hell are you doing down here? You scared the crap out of me!"
"Me? I- What are you doing down here?" he retorted, "You're supposed to be in Kansas City."
"Cho and I finished up early."
"Obviously," Jane said dryly. "Why didn't you call and tell me? I'd have picked you up at the airport."
"I wanted to surprise you," she huffed.
"Oh, I'm surprised." Jane mumbled. That earned him another swat.
She settled in beside him with an exasperated breath. "Seriously, Jane. What are you doing out here?"
"Well, I was sleeping -until my sweet wife arrived to inflict bodily injury and express homicidal intentions upon my person."
He had returned to his serene, almost cadaver like pose, flat on his back, hands folded across his chest, but he cracked one eye open to fix her with a curious, inquiring stare. "What's gotten you so riled up?"
She shot him a sour, disbelieving look. "I thought something had happened to you," she said seriously. "You weren't in the house. The light was on, the dishwasher was running, but I couldn't find you. -It was creepy as hell."
A slow smile spread across his face as his awakening faculties replayed the scene she'd just described and finally made the connection to her Stone Phillips reference.
"To all outward appearances, Patrick and Teresa were such a happy couple…" he began, dropping into an almost pitch perfect imitation of the reporter's singsong cadence, "No one would have suspected the dark secret of their marriage, the violent rages that-"
A series of quick, furious swats assailed him from the darkness, but this time he was ready for her attack, rolling her into his arms and pulling her tightly to his shaking chest. "Now, now," he chuckled, "you'll upset the baby."
"The baby's already upset," she growled, pushing her head tighter against his chest and breathing in his scent.
"Really?" He raised his head slightly to regard her. "Well, we can't have that."
Levering himself up on one elbow he swept a hand along her side, seeking out the swell of their unborn child. After a couple of soothing strokes, he suddenly scooted down the bed to drop a soft kiss upon her belly.
"It's alright, little one, Daddy's here." Three soft kisses dotted across her skin in between muffled whispers. "You are safe… You are loved… and you are wise."
Rising to his knees, he hovered over her for a moment and placed a long, lingering kiss on her forehead. "You, too." he added, then quirked a brow at her. "Better?"
"Jackass," she sniffed, but it was better, and there was no sting behind the word.
"Mmm." A tremble of lightning briefly illuminated his features, revealing his enigmatic and knowing expression.
"Mmm, what?" she demanded as he settled back down beside her, close, but not crowding. -Careful to leave her enough space to get comfortable.
"That settles it, then." Jane said seriously. "No more Dateline for you. 48 Hours is off limits, too."
"Jane," she growled.
"I'm serious, Teresa," though she was fairly certain he wasn't, "Pregnancy hormones, firearms and Stone Phillips are a dangerous combination. I believe it's putting undue strain on your mental stability. -Of course that could work to your advantage for an insanity plea…"
"Mmmm… as long as we're on the topic of mental stability, you still haven't told me what you were doing out here in the silver bucket in the middle of a thunderstorm. -Waiting for Dorothy and Toto and the tornado to whisk you off to Oz?"
"I have no idea what you're inferring, Lisbon. -They showed up, didn't they?"
"What?!."
"Putting aside the pungent odor of wet dog that is currently creeping from the sofa up front, I heard the distinct click of toenails follow you up the stairs. -I knew you were a sucker for the mutt."
She let this pass, recognizing his weak gambit to once again distract her from the topic at hand. She decided to switch tactics; employ Cho's stoic powers of observation.
"You haven't been sleeping again."
"On the contrary, Agent Jane, I was sleeping quite soundly until you came barging in here with your stinky dog, scary gun and ice cold feet."
"Well, if that's how you feel about it," she rolled toward the edge of the bed only to be pulled firmly back to his side.
"Stay put, woman." He growled. "You're not going anywhere."
"Not if you tell me why you're sleeping in this tin can in the orchard instead of in our bed where you're supposed to be," she said sweetly.
"You're supposed to be there, too."
"I was working."
"I know." He didn't sound upset about it. Not worried, or disturbed or anything that she could put her finger on, but there was something…
"Jane, it was just trial stuff. Not even field work. Nothing even remotely dangerous."
"I know."
"You know what the job is like. There's always going to to be travel involved. Cases away, interviews, depositions, trials, task force training…"
"I know." He shook his head slightly, "Really, Teresa, it's nothing."
"Hey," She laid her hand upon his arm, willing him to look at her. "It's not nothing to me. I don't like worrying about you when I'm not here."
"That cuts both ways, you know."
Damn. He had her there. She sighed deeply. "I guess we still have a bit more figuring out to do, huh?"
"Meh." Jane said dismissively. "It's a process. We're doing what we need to. -But if it makes you feel any better I wasn't pacing the floor to the early hours with morbid visions of your cadaver splayed out across a conference table."
"Then what was it?" Teresa wondered.
Jane hesitated, shrugged, "Empty house… empty bed…. I just missed you."
She was glad it was dark inside the Airstream, she could feel the telltale clench of her throat and misting of her eyes at that admission.
"I missed you, too." She said softly. She didn't need illumination to sense the satisfied grin that was spreading across his face, but she wouldn't mind a little more light shed upon the question of how that came to bring him here. Sometimes the man was a damned enigma, wrapped inside a conundrum, locked inside a puzzle box, and much as she dearly wanted to take a hammer and smash through to the answer, she sensed that this time it wouldn't be the right approach.
Something of her conversation with Cho tugged at the edge of her consciousness. What was it he had said? -Take her time. Let Jane take his. Enjoy it, because it wouldn't come again. He was right about that. In truth, even though Jane was being frustratingly opaque, she had enjoyed every second of their banter since she'd decided not to shoot him. It's not really about the answer, it's about the quest to find it.
Like most investigative work, it was all about asking the right questions, and it suddenly occurred to her that when it came to the man she had married, had known and worked with for more than a decade, she hadn't asked nearly enough. What was it Jane had said to her once? Even after all these years she was still a mystery to him? Well, as he had so eloquently phrased it, that one cut both ways as well.
She let the sounds of the night fall around and between them: the low rumble of the thunder... the rattle rain on the aluminum hull, punctuated occasionally by volley droplets and a gust of wind… Lucky's soft snores from the couch up front, Jane's gentle breathing beside her. He had returned, she noted, to his original position, flat on his back, hands folded across his chest. Not his usual sleeping position, but rather one of meditative sleep. Over the years, she'd come to recognize the difference between a sleeping Jane and a working one. Exhausted, worn out, sleeping Jane lay on his side, curled into himself out of habit, or instinctive self-protection. Working Jane lay flat on his back, hands on his chest, contemplating Elvis-shaped stains on the ceiling from behind his eyelids while the background noise of the office clattered on around him. Occasionally he might drift off into real sleep for a half hour or so, but she rarely said anything as he usually woke up from these working naps with an answer to the problem at hand.
He had been visiting his memory palace, she was certain. Possibly still was, from the look of it. But what choice memories had he been polishing when she'd found him? And why had he felt the need to trudge down to the Airstream in the middle of a rainy night to do it? God, what was it with this thing, anyway? She really didn't get it.
No, she thought acidly, that wasn't completely true. She didn't want to get it. If she were to be perfectly honest with herself -and she was coming to discover that being in a relationship with Jane required her to be perfectly honest with herself- the truth was she'd always had a bit of a chip on her shoulder about the Airstream. The silver bucket had eventually grown on her until, like the old blue Citroen, she had eyed it as just another quirky Jane contraption, but unlike the silly powder puff blue car, her initial reaction to the Airstream had been outright disdain. It was ridiculous. Impractical. It stood out like a sore thumb and got worse gas mileage than a Patton tank.
Those were just excuses, though. If she was going to follow that treacherous path of perfect honesty, then she would have to admit the real reason she'd hated it was fear of what it represented. In the entire time she had known him, Jane had always lived like a transient. After a while he'd even given up on the pretense of the long-stay motel room and just lived out of his car and the CBI attic. There had been a period, after his return to the states and establishment in the Austin office, when she had hoped to see a new Patrick Jane, a man who had healed, a man ready to put down roots and restart his life.
And then he'd gone out and bought a damned Airstream instead of a house. Nothing had changed. Same old Jane, living like a vagabond, with no roots and nothing to tie him to anyone or anything. From that moment to the day of Vega's funeral she had viewed the motorhome with a wary eye, always waiting for the day Jane would pack it up and roll out of her life without so much as a jaunty wave.
Well, that explained why she hated it -why she feared it- but it really didn't answer why Jane loved the damned thing so much. He'd never really said, and she'd never really asked him.
Another gust of wind buffeted the side of the RV with a hearty lash of rain and she felt the big vehicle rock ever so slightly. "Are you sure this thing is safe?" she asked doubtfully. "What if it flips over?"
"Safe as a baby in it's mother's arms," Jane said calmly. "It's just a little wind and rain."
"That's not necessarily comforting," she mused. "We're pretty sure Mom dropped Jimmy."
"I'll bear that in mind when you are holding our child," Jane said solemnly.
She shook her head. "I just can't believe you find riding out a rainstorm in this thing conducive to sleeping."
Jane chuckled, "You know the old saying. Nothing like the sound of rain on the roof to remind you how good you have it."
She thought about that for a moment. "Actually, no, I don't know that one."
She felt him shift slightly on the pillow to squint at her in the darkness. "Really?"
"Really."
"Hmmm…. Must be a carnie saying then. You know… It's comforting. It's the sound of shelter. Makes you thankful that you're warm and dry." Jane paused. "It could be worse. You could be out in the rain."
She considered this. Jane was right. There was something cozy about the sound, an intense awareness of the smallness of the space, the rumbling dark, the warmth of Jane's body pressed next to hers. Something in Jane's words tugged at the back of her mind… a carnie saying…
"You grew up in one of these, didn't you?"
"I wish," Jane chuckled dryly. "Try a 1978 Winnebago Chieftain. Old man won it in a poker game in Indiana. -Come to think of it, that one smelled like wet dog, too. He always said he was going to get an Airstream, but he'd lose the stake at the card table every time he got close."
There was, she thought, just the smallest tinge of longing in his voice, buried somewhere down beneath the dry sarcasm and bitterness that edged his tone on those rare occasions when he spoke of his father. Jane had always been an intensely private man, and as a rule, she'd respected those boundaries. God knew she understood the reasons for them. She had enough of her own dark childhood shadows she preferred to leave in the past. But tonight, it was that small wistful note that caught her attention, gave her pause, made her wonder and think about a young boy who once must have laid awake at night in an old Winnebago dreaming of an Airstream Silver Sovereign.
And then, like a key turning in a silent lock, she understood. How many nights had she thrown the windows wide in that first San Francisco apartment and lay there in the dark, listening to the clatter of the street cars and imagining it were the familar rattle of the el-train rattling past the old Chicago house? There were certain sounds, the rumble of trains, the drone of traffic, even rain on the roof that reminded you of home and comfort and loved ones around you even when you were lying alone on the darkest of nights. And if you were really good, good enough to close your eyes and imagine, you could reconstruct it all perfectly in your head in a palace built of sound and memory.
"You've parked this thing somewhere…" she mused softly, "in your head, haven't you?" She felt him turn his head on the pillow to look at her in surprise, felt, more than saw the unnamed emotion that chased across his features and through his body.
"Bravo, Lisbon." he said softly.
"Where?"
A faint intake of breath, the smallest moment of hesitation, and then, softer. "A fairground on the old Midwest circuit… I don't remember where. Iowa, I think. Maybe Cedar Rapids." Another pause, and then, even more softly, "It was a long time ago."
"You were little?"
"Very."
She let the gentle sound of the rain rattle between them for a few moments. "Must have been a special place," she said.
"Mmm." The sound was noncommittal, but the faint smile that spread across his face was not. "I liked it." he said, at last.
Reaching out, she traced a hand along the warmth of his arm before soothing her way over his wrist, finding and seeking the warm throb of his pulse beneath her fingertips. It only jumped a little before returning to its slow, steady beat.
"Take me there."
She felt the stilling of his breath, heard him swallow hard and felt his fingers seek and twine with hers. Lightning flashed outside the windows, highlighting the silver raindrops that slid down the windows of the motorhome, the expression of wonder on Patrick Jane's face.
"All right," he said softly, and then he did.
With perfect, Jane-like precision, he described it all in vivid detail: the long winding gravel drive, lined with young oak trees that led into the fairground with a large white grandstand overlooking the old dirt track where horses once raced and stock cars now rumbled. To the east lay the Midway, all bright lights and raucous music, cotton candy and Ferris wheels, vendors selling cheap jewelry and roach clips with bright beads and feathers.
Halfway up the Midway, a white llama wearing a green jeweled blanket and red tufted halter, posed for pictures of children on its back. Daisy the elephant gave rides to more children in a sawdust ring as placid ponies trod endlessly round and round in circles. To the South lay the horse barns. Giant golden Belgian's clomped down the alleyways in gleaming black harness trimmed with polished silver and brass, their long flowing manes and tails combed and braided and be-ribboned as they made their way to the show ring. To the west lay the exhibition buildings, filled with quilts and jellies and jams, handmade furniture, photographs, paintings and acres and acres of domestic handiwork.
"And where are we in all of this?" she asked him finally.
"To the north," he murmured, just beyond the race track on the far side of the Midway. "Better to keep an eye on the equipment, far enough away to get a little sleep."
He drew a small breath, his voice dropping a little lower, soft and hypnotic. "Pete and Charlie and Stinky Bill are parked across the way in the bunkhouse. Sammy and Millie are in the ladies trailer on the other side. Sean Barlowe has his big Airstream set up behind his tent at the North end of the Midway.
"And where is everyone?"
Jane shrugged. "Working. -Always working. Morning til Midnight, the Midway never sleeps. The Old Man is out hawking for Barlowe, Pete and Bill take tickets and run the menagerie. Charlie keeps the big metal running. Sammie and Millie are in the concession stand, up to their elbows in sugar and grease."
"And you?"
"Right here." Jane said softly. "Laying in bed after the kitchen table is knocked down and the bed is made up. It's raining… they'll be shutting the midway down soon… not safe to run the rides… no one to ride, anyway. They'll have to put up the animals. Clean the concession wagons. Another hour or so and they will be back."
"You are all by yourself?"
Jane smiled faintly. "You're never alone on the circuit, Lisbon. There's people underfoot 24/7. Lucky if you can find a minute to yourself."
Again she felt the silent click of understanding, the turning of another tumbler throwing wide another secret door. She had an impression of a small curly headed blonde haired boy, alone in an old Winnebago, listening to the sound of rain on the roof and consoling himself with the knowledge that somewhere just beyond the boundaries of his shelter were his parents, his rough and tumble rag-tag people.
"But you were alone," she said softly, "in here."
She felt him swallow in the darkness.
"Eventually," he murmured. "For a little while. Then I was out there working, too."
"Eventually?"
"Mmmm… After my mother died."
She lay there for a long while, listening to the soft droplets of water that fell from the trees above to land on the polished silver roof. In all the years she had known him, she suddenly realized she had never heard him speak of his mother before. His father, yes, infrequently and in generally disparaging tones. He'd mentioned an aunt once, and even a grandfather, but of the woman who'd borne him, he'd said not a word that she could recall.
"What was she like?" she felt the words leaving her lips before she could call them back, and silently cursed herself, fearing she had dug too deep into a subject that was far too painful, half expecting Jane to brush it off with a glib answer and retreat into his shell.
She felt him take one breath, two, as he seemed to consider the question.
"I wish I knew," he said at last.
She felt her heart squeeze just a bit. "You don't remember?"
He rocked his head slowly on the pillow. "It was so long ago… all I really have are vague impressions."
The rain drummed softly above their heads as the silence feel between them for a minute.
"She was beautiful," he said at last, "like an angel, I remember that. She always smiled, even when there didn't seem to be much to smile about. She just seemed to generate happiness and spread it about wherever she went."
So that's where he gets it from, Teresa thought. For a man so consumed by tragedy, grief and self-loathing, Jane had always radiated with a certain something, an almost indefinable joy for the smallest pleasures of life that, often as not, proved contagious to those around him. She wondered what else he had inherited from his mother. His smile, she would wager, and probably that head of angelic golden curls. For all that his father had raised –no, practically steeped him- in cynicism and chicanery, she had a sneaking suspicion that at heart, Patrick Jane was his mother's son.
"She used to sing," he murmured softly, "after she put me to bed. She'd sit up front with her bare feet on the dash and sing along with the radio until I fell asleep." He paused, "No Bon Jovi, though."
The gentle rattle of raindrops on the aluminum skin of the Airstream whispered above their heads. The thunder had quieted to an occasional low rumble as she turned the thin and faded childhood memory about in her mind. She could see how the sound of rain on the roof -the sound of shelter- might prove a comfort. -A reminder that he was safe enough for the moment, even if no one was there to reassure him of the fact.
That thing you said to the baby…"
"Mmm?"
"You are safe, you are loved and you are wise."
"Oh, that." His voice seemed to sound a little rusty, caught on a memory both painful and sweet.
"She was the one who said that to you?"
He was silent a long moment, almost too long. "I don't know," he said at last. She heard him draw a ragged breath, felt him swallow. "I used to say that to Charlotte," he said softly, "every night before she went to sleep. I don't know where it came from."
She turned her head on the pillow to fix him with a certain gaze. "It came from her, Jane," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe so."
She lay there for a long moment, absorbing the comforting sounds of the rain and the thunder, the smell of wet dog and the warmth of Jane's body beside her. He was right, she realized, there was something about it, something warm and cozy and safe in the small space that wrapped itself about them, sheltering them from the storm outside. It might well have been a comfort to a small boy's rootless existence, the only real home he might claim for his own. Likewise to a lone man, half a lifetime later, struggling to rebuild his tattered world after a decade spent in the single-minded pursuit of the man who had shattered it. She occasionally had to remind herself that Jane wasn't like normal people. He hadn't had a real home in more than a decade. A handful of suits, that single pair of brown loafers, a blue tea cup and an old Citroen had been the only possessions he'd seemed to require. What would such a man, coming back to the world, do with an apartment or even a house? No doubt, he'd find it intimidating at the very least …and far too empty.
She was suddenly overwhelmed by the wave of tears that threatened to flood her throat and nasal passages. God, she was such a fool! Why had she never seen it before?
She heard a faint rustle as Jane, sensing her discomposure, turned his head on the pillow to study her shadowed profile.
"You ok?" he asked softly.
She swallowed hard, and nodded, reaching out to find and twine his fingers with hers. "I think," she said softly, "I owe you an apology."
"For what? -The wet dog and cold feet? Or for almost shooting me?" She could practically hear the arching of an eyebrow in his voice.
She snorted. "No, you deserved that, and we can Febreeze the mutt if you're going to be particular about it."
"What, then?"
"I'm sorry for giving you such a hard time about the Silver Bucket."
The white of his teeth flashed in the darkness as he grinned. "You always were a jealous woman."
She shook her head. "Not jealous, afraid."
She had his full attention now. "Afraid? Of what?"
She didn't answer, and sensed in his long silence that –like her- he was just now realizing that what the Airstream had represented to each of them were two very different things.
"You thought I would run away again," he said quietly. Taking her silence for the affirmation that it was, he expelled a defeated sigh. "-And then I did."
She gave his fingers a small squeeze. "You came back."
"Mmm. As I recall, you didn't give me much choice in that matter," he said dryly. "-Not that you ever did. I would have come back anyway, Teresa. I'll always come back to you."
She sniffed softly. "I know… I just-"
"You just what?"
"I'm just sorry I was so mean about it. I'm sorry I pushed you away. I didn't even think about what this tin can might mean to you beyond an easy escape route. I didn't understand."
He took a moment to consider this. "And you understand now?" he asked carefully, his tone of voice not quite angry, not quite fearful, yet somehow tinged with both of those emotions.
She swallowed hard. "I think- I think maybe I do now."
Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her thoughts, choosing her words carefully. "Sometimes… sometimes I forget where you come from, the life you grew up in. I can't even imagine it. I forget that you're not like the rest of us and I get so frustrated with you because of it. –Or I get scared, because I know you're not like the rest of us, not as connected to things, or houses or jobs because you don't need them like we do. And if you don't need them, then maybe you don't need…"
"Teresa-"
She shook her head fiercely, "No, let me finish. I'm sorry I was such a witch about the Airstream. I should have realized. You weren't running away. You were looking for a home, Jane, something familiar, something safe, a place where you belonged. What else would a kid from the carnie circuit pick?"
He rolled to his side to look her fully in the face, his hand tightening around hers. "You, Teresa," Jane said firmly. "I picked you. You're my home, -have been for a long time now."
She heard the truth in his words. Worse, she felt it. Looking back, it was ridiculously clear. Jane's transient homeless vibe had faded somewhat over the years. Long stay hotels had slowly been traded for a nest in the CBI attic and showers in the locker room, but if he'd had a home in those ten dark years of hunting Red John, it had been a brown leather couch with a table, a lamp and a small stack of books parked just outside her office door. It was a scene he'd recreated behind her desk in the FBI bull pen in spite of the mind-numbing bureaucratic regulations of the federal government.
In the early days, when he'd been her responsibility, she'd let it slide. She knew he didn't sleep well, and though it annoyed her to find him snoring on his couch in the bullpen in the middle of the day she'd given up chastising him for it. She'd had a strong suspicion that for Jane, it was the only place he could sleep, the only place he felt safe enough to allow it. For all those years she'd thought that if Jane had anything close to a home it had been the CBI, but Cho was right: it wasn't about the work, or even Red John, though it might have started out that way. Somewhere along the line, it had become about her, though it had taken both of them years to realize it.
It occurred to her that in years to come she would do well to remember this night. For all that he had been throwing himself into finishing the house, for him, it would probably always be just a house. Home for Jane had never been about fancy houses in Malibu or humble cabins in the woods. It wasn't even about four wheels and the sound of rain on the roof. For Jane, home was a feeling – of safety, of belonging, and the wisdom to know the difference.
She was suddenly aware of her husband's still silence, of his fingers gripping hers just a little too tightly, of his gaze weighing on her in the darkness with an intensity that seemed just a bit uncertain.
"What?" she asked softly.
"You're thinking pretty loudly over there," he muttered.
"Oh yeah?" she smiled teasingly, "What am I thinking?"
He shook his head. "I have no idea," he admitted.
Had he always been this bad at reading her? She didn't think so. Once upon a time he'd been pretty damned good at it. Terrifyingly so.
Rolling closer to him, she pulled his face to hers.
"What I am thinking," she said softly, "Is that you are safe." She dropped a kiss upon his forehead.
"You are loved." She murmured, dropping another on the tip of his nose.
"And you are very, very wise," she finished, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.
She felt his smile spread as he mumbled against her mouth. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah." She said firmly, snuggling into his side. "Go to sleep, Jane. You're home, now. We all are."
"Not sure I can sleep, after that," he said wryly. Reaching up, he slid the window above his head open just a crack, allowing the sweet smell of rain and damp earth to fill the warm interior of the motor home.
"Shall I sing to you?"
"No!"
A husky, slightly off-key humming floated from the open window, punctuated by a strangled male groan.
'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood
When blackness was a virtue the road was full of mud
I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form
Come in, she said
I'll give ya shelter from the storm
"Really Lisbon? Bob Dylan?"
"Shush, Jane, I'm singing."
"Yeah… that's the problem… -Ow!"
The rain had stopped. Now and then a wayward breeze stirred the trees, shaking small sporadic droplets of water down onto the gleaming aluminum skin of the RV. After a moment, a lone cicada chirped, followed by another and another. Emboldened by the serenade, a chorus of frogs joined in, slowly swelling to crescendo their joyful symphony of the night.