Rating: T
Spoilers: Goes AU mid-season 6.
A/N: Part one of three.
xxx
"Hey," Marcus said, nuzzling Lisbon's hair as he flipped through the channels. "Wanna order take out?"
"Sure," Lisbon said absently, nestling closer to him on her living room couch. Marcus was delightfully warm, and his arms felt wonderful around her. "What do you want to get?"
"Ladies' choice."
She smiled at his gallantry. It was so nice being with someone who actually asked you what you wanted, instead of just informing you what you wanted in the most obnoxious manner possible and then haranguing you about your eating habits for ten minutes afterwards. "Mm. Italian."
"Works for me." Marcus got up to make the call, then settled back down next to her. She'd selected an old movie in his absence.
She slid her arms around his waist when he sat down. "Thanks for cooking," she teased, pressing a light kiss to his jaw.
He grinned and dropped a kiss on her lips. "Anytime."
"Is this okay?" she said, gesturing to the screen. "It's only about fifteen minutes in."
"Sure. I think I've seen this one, but it's been a while."
Lisbon found herself getting more engaged in the movie as the story developed, but Marcus fidgeted, his attention waning.
He reached over to the bookshelf next to the couch and picked up a framed photograph. "Are these your brothers?"
Lisbon turned her head to look. "Yeah. Jimmy, Tommy, and Stan."
"Skater kids," Marcus commented. "Do you know how to ride a skateboard, too?"
"Who do you think taught them?" she asked, leaning her head against his shoulder as she returned her attention to the movie.
Marcus set the photo back on the shelf. "What's this?"
She picked her head up to look again in time to see him reaching for the box of rosewood on the center shelf. She froze.
When he took hold of it, her entire body tensed even further. Should she lie? Tell the truth? All she knew was she didn't want Marcus touching that box. "Just some old letters," she said neutrally. She could hear her high voice in her own ears.
Marcus felt her tension against him. Surprised by her reaction, he removed his hand from the top panel of the box and glanced back at her. "Ohh, I get it," he said, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as he studied her expression. "What is it, old love letters?"
"No," Lisbon said shortly, her face burning. "Nothing like that."
He tilted his head and continued to study her. "Pen pal?"
"Sort of." She hoped the desperation she felt to get him off this subject wasn't evident in the tone of her voice.
Marcus looked back at the box as though it were a critical clue in a mystery he'd only just discovered.
It's not a clue, she thought miserably. Just—leave it alone. If she were a different person, she would distract him. Laugh it off, distract him with a playful caress and a kiss. Instead she drew away, unable to tolerate the idea of him touching her right now.
"Hey," he said, soothing. "I'll leave it alone, okay?"
Some of the tension left her shoulders. "Thank you." See? That was what was so great about Marcus. When you asked him to leave something alone, he, you know, actually did so. He didn't feel the need to pick at the topic like a scab until the whole thing cracked and bled.
He put his arm around her again. Lisbon wasn't really in the mood for cuddling anymore, but she leaned against him anyway.
He glanced at the box. "Must be some pretty important letters."
She tensed again. "Marcus." A warning.
He shrugged. "I'm just saying. They must be important to you."
"Why would you think that?" she asked irritably.
"Well, aside from the fact that they're obviously upsetting you, they're on the middle shelf."
She drew away again and cast him an incredulous look. "So what?"
"That shelf is the most easily accessible one from this spot on the couch. If you wanted to read one of the letters, you'd just have to reach over and you could take the whole box down," Marcus mused. "The middle shelf signifies pride of place."
Ugh. She was never dating a detective again.
She glanced towards the built in shelves by the front door. Marcus had given her a postcard from the place he'd taken her on their first date. She'd placed it on the lowest shelf, which was about at the height of her hip, and propped it up against a book. She'd angled it towards the front door, so anyone—Marcus—would see it right when they came in. She saw it every day when she unlocked her door… and then walked right past it.
"It's just a shelf," she said finally.
"Mm," Marcus said, but he was clearly unconvinced.
They returned to watching the movie, each dissatisfied but unwilling to risk further antagonizing the other. They were no longer cuddling. Instead, several inches separated them on their respective seat cushions.
"Pen pal…" Marcus said slowly, apparently unable to let it go. He turned his head to look at her. "Jane was in South America for two years, right?"
"Yeah," Lisbon said, her response clipped.
Marcus didn't take the hint. "The letters are from him?"
She sighed. "Marcus, why are we talking about this? They're just letters."
"If they were just letters, they wouldn't be on the middle shelf," Marcus said obstinately.
"Look, you know Jane and I are friends. What do you care if he sent me a bunch of letters while he was away?"
"All right, let me ask you this. If I wrote you a letter, would you put my letter in the box with his?"
Her face betrayed her answer.
"That's what I thought," Marcus said, a tinge of bitterness creeping into his voice.
She tried to recover the situation. "I'd put your letter in its own box."
"Yeah. And where would that box go? On top of the fridge? The place where you keep your winter clothes?"
"Marcus, for God's sake. They're just letters."
He glanced over at the box again. "Have you ever thought about moving that box somewhere else?"
"Like where?"
Marcus was thoroughly agitated now. "Like to a bottom shelf. Or a top shelf. The back of your closet. Anywhere that doesn't tell anyone who looks at it that it's the most important thing in the room!"
"It—does not say that," Lisbon spluttered, horrified. It didn't! Did it? Oh, shit. Had Jane ever been in this room? No. He'd stopped by to pick her up or drop her off a couple of times, but he had never invited himself in. She hid her relief.
"Okay, fine. Let me put it another way." He fixed his eyes on hers. "Let's say you and I keep seeing each other. Let's say we get married. Would you move the box then?"
"Who said anything about getting married?" Lisbon said, hearing her voice go shrill with panic.
"Hypothetically. If you and I got married. Would you move the box?"
She cut her eyes away. "Marcus," she said unhappily.
"Jesus Christ." Marcus got to his feet and raked a hand through his hair. "What the hell are we doing here, Teresa?"
"Apparently, we're fighting about a bunch of old letters for no good reason," she muttered.
He ignored this. "I thought we had something good going on here."
"We did!" She hastily corrected herself. "We do. Marcus, forget the letters. Let's just—go back to watching this stupid movie."
His gaze stayed riveted to her face. "Are you in love with Jane?"
She went still. "They're—" she swallowed hard. "They're just letters, Marcus."
He laughed mirthlessly. "No. They're not."
"Marcus—"
He ignored her and crossed to the front closet. He opened the door and yanked his jacket off the hanger.
Lisbon got up off the couch and followed him. "What are you doing?" she asked, incredulous, as she watched him shrug into his jacket.
He turned to face her. "Teresa, I've been pretty clear with my intentions towards you. But if you're not in this with me, then I really don't see the point of trying to keep this relationship going."
"You're breaking up with me?" she said, stunned. "Over a bunch of letters?"
He sighed. "It's not about the letters, Teresa. It's about what they represent."
"Marcus, look, I'm sorry. I'll move the box, okay?" She felt ill at the thought, but she pressed on. "I'll stick it in the back of a closet, if you want." Marcus was right. If she wanted a real relationship with him, she needed to let the past go and prioritize him. She could do that. She could. She'd shove that box under the bed in the guest room and put Marcus' postcard on the bookshelf. She could even get a frame for it.
"What would that achieve?"
"I don't know," she said, goaded. "You're the one who brought it up in the first place!"
"I don't want you to move that box because you feel like I'm holding it over your head, Teresa," he said, exasperated. "I want you to move it because our life together is more important to you than what's inside it." He looked at her sadly. "But that isn't true, is it?"
"Marcus, you and I have only been going out for two months," Lisbon said desperately. "Those letters—they were all I had during a very difficult time in my life. But I—I want to move on. I want to move on with you."
"No, you don't," he said, his heart in his eyes. "You want to want to move on with me. That's not the same thing."
"I just—need more time," Lisbon said unhappily.
He sighed. "Teresa. How long did you work with Jane? Back at the CBI, I mean."
"Twelve years."
"And you guys were never involved back then, right? You never slept with the guy. Never shared a drunken kiss? Nothing?"
"No!"
Marcus nodded, as though this is was the answer he'd expected. "And then he left for two years? After destroying your career and the agency you worked for?"
"That's wasn't Jane's fault—"
Marcus dismissed this protest. "But he left for two years afterwards, right?"
"That's right," she said stiffly.
"Yeah," he said, his mouth twisting wryly. "I don't think time is going to do the trick."
Tears stung her eyes. "Marcus," she said helplessly. She looked at him, her gaze imploring.
He stepped forward and cupped the back of her head in his palm, then bent his head and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Good-bye, Teresa."
The tears didn't spill over until after he'd closed the door behind him.