I hope this story doesn't step on anybody's toes, or read too similar to anything else. Far superior authors to myself have done similar work, but I hope mine is just different enough to separate it from the pack. Frankly, I wasn't sure whether or not to even post it, but here it is.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rated T
Please forgive any discrepancies from the show. I've had to rely on FF and Youtube to keep up with it.
They say anticipation can be the best part.
Holding onto that final shred of self-control before succumbing to temptation.
That thrilling, giddy rush of knowing that something is about to happen that can change your life.
They say that good things come to those who wait, and that patience is a virtue, and the best things in life are worth waiting for, and I suppose they're right.
But how long is too long to wait?
He's reclining on the couch in my new Texas apartment, shoes toed off onto the rug, and the lamplight throwing flecks of gold into his hair. Sometimes, when I think he is distracted, I find myself surveying him, cataloguing each new feature that doesn't track with my memory of how he used to be. They are small, but noticeable. The way he smiles just a little brighter; walks just a little freer. Life is still not perfect for him, but it's a damn sight better than it used to be.
He sips the wine in his hand and smiles at me. He seems content to sit in silence, even though I have a thousand questions I want to ask him, about his life in South America, about what he did with himself for the two years we've been apart. The letters he sent contained few details about his day-to-day activities, filled instead with his own personal musings on pain and loss, and life and death.
I was glad to receive every one of them of course. Proof that he hadn't forgotten me; our friendship, everything we had. Proof that it had meant something to him.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, after a while.
"Nothing."
"Doesn't seem like nothing."
There's really no point telling him about it; he already knows it all. Two years spent divided between being mad at him and missing him, the whirlwind of circumstances that got me here working for the FBI instead of in Washington. The audacity of him to make decisions for me without even considering the possibility that I might not have been interested.
He made me a term, for God's sake. A condition, a point on a list. A possession.
Although, to be fair, he did seem sincerely surprised and ashamed of himself when I finally pointed this out to him. I have absolutely no doubt that it wasn't out of spite or some grandiose male posturing, but that it never even occurred to him to ask me what I thought. After all, why would he have expected anything else after over a decade of simply telling me what he wanted, and then watching me fall obediently into line?
But he forfeited that right when he left again. Sure, it wasn't the total communication blackout that Vegas turned out to be, but when he took off to hide under non-extradition in South America, he took a great big chunk of my life with him.
Of course, I know that he would have been arrested if he'd stayed. The FBI was combing the country for him within hours of discovering McCallister's body. They would have thrown the book at him hard, and from a great height, just to have one arrest to show to the public. So I understand why he needed to go.
But I just keep coming back to the fact that he left me again, when I needed him the most.
"Thinking about the case?" he asks. "Because I've cracked it."
I can't help the small smile that appears on my lips. "Of course you have."
"I have a brilliant idea for flushing out the killer," he tells me, leaning forward eagerly towards me.
"And what's that?" Even now, there is a twinge of apprehension. Though technically we are equals now, and all his crazy stunts are finally someone else's problem, the phrase 'I have an idea' will forever be synonymous with trepidation and a mini heart attack for me. Just one of the many wonderful side effects to being an authority figure in Patrick Jane's life.
"It involves secret recording equipment, raisins, and a duck," he goes on. "Want to help me?"
Part of me would love to, just like old times. But I don't dare. If it all goes pear-shaped, I don't have the power to protect him anymore. I don't even have the power to protect myself. I can't afford to make a single slip-up in these first few months, not when I have so much to prove.
I'm under no illusions that I was offered this job on the strength of any of my own achievements. And though I didn't do it as often or as spectacularly as Jane, I did achieve things at the CBI.
I kept my team safe through the Red John nightmare.
I kept on closing cases when Jane was in Vegas.
I took down Tommy Volker when nobody else dared to touch him.
I'm proud of those things. I know I'm a good cop. But I also know the only reason the FBI gives a damn about who I am or what I can do; is because Jane wants me here. I can see it in other agent's eyes when we're introduced or when we pass in the corridors.
I can almost hear what they're thinking.
"Teresa Lisbon, eh? So this is Patrick Jane's little lapdog. They said her career was over. Guess it's all about who your friends are."
It really isn't fair. I have a right to be here just as much as they do. I am a good cop. I can do this job, and do it well, with or without Jane.
Once again, I'm playing Watson to his Sherlock. The perennial sidekick. He's the main event and I'm the opening act that nobody can be bothered to listen to.
"I'm not the one who's got the FBI over a barrel," I point out to him. "Unless you've got some other damning evidence hidden somewhere to be used as blackmail." As this thought occurs to me, I can't help but glance at him questioningly. "There isn't any more, is there?"
"As long as they stick to the terms of agreement, they won't have to find out." He takes a long swig of wine, draining what remains of his glass. "Besides, they know better than to try and turf you out Lisbon. I'd never accuse our FBI brethren of being among the world's great thinkers, but surely they wouldn't be that stupid."
I know perfectly well that if they try and renege on any one of his demands, he'll be out the door. And this time, they won't find him.
Every time he walks out the door, he could be walking out of my life forever. That's a scary thought.
"Teresa." His hand on mine brings me out of my reverie. "Are you okay?"
"Sure, Jane. I'm fine." I proffer the open bottle of wine. "Another drink?"
He grins at me. "I hope you're not trying to liquor me up so you can take advantage of me in a drunken state."
"I would never," I retort, scowling at him. "I'm an officer of the law."
There's something extra in his smile this time as he hands over his glass for me to top up. "That's the great thing about being a consultant I guess. I don't have to make any such promises."
Maybe it's just the wine talking, but I can almost swear there's a gleam in his eye as he says this.
Within the hour, the bottle of wine is finished. To be honest, I'm a little surprised at how fast it disappeared. We've been so caught up in talking about the old days at the CBI, I hardly even noticed how much I was drinking, or how late it is getting. It's now past midnight and we have work in the morning. I can't speak for Jane of course, but I fully intend to be on time.
"You really shouldn't drive," I tell him, as he unsteadily rises to his feet, swaying a little. "I feel worried enough about you in a car even when you're sober."
"I'm an excellent driver, Teresa," he protests, eyeing me sternly. "Just because I go a little faster than you do…"
"Speed limits are there for a reason. And it would make me feel better if you'd stay here tonight. Crash on the couch and in the morning I'll take you to your trailer to pick up your stuff."
"I'm fine," he insists, stubbornly.
"No you're not." I'll wrestle those keys out of his hand if I have to, and he knows it. "Look, either you hand over the keys or I'll take them from you myself."
He suddenly lets out a great yawn, and I know I've won this battle. He tosses me the keys, and then flops back down unceremoniously on the couch and closes his eyes, as I take the empty bottle and glasses to the kitchen. On the way back, I flip the light off in the living room, so only the moonlight filters through.
I can just make out his silhouette as he shifts around a little, trying to get comfortable, and his slow, deep breathing seems almost deafening in the surrounding silence.
His voice makes me pause in my tracks as I make for my bedroom.
"Thanks Teresa," he says, sleepily. "You're always looking out for me."
"Who else would?"
His low chuckle fills my ears as I finally exit the room.
I'm up early the next morning, the craving for coffee too strong to ignore. Surprisingly, Jane is still asleep; the alcohol must have hit him harder than I thought. I'm now doubly grateful that he consented to stay the night. He probably would have wrapped his car around a telephone pole with the state he was in, or God only knows what else.
The sun is just beginning to rise as I pour out the coffee and pop some bread into the toaster. I can hear him stirring in the living room, and after a moment, he pads into the kitchen too.
"Morning," he greets me, running a lazy hand through his messy hair, blinking in the brightening light.
"Good morning. How's your head?"
"Voicing its displeasure about the wine I drank." He winces. "Very loudly."
"What's Abbot going to say about you turning up to work with a hangover?"
He shrugs. "Nothing that I expect to have any interest in hearing."
He certainly looks like he's had a rough night. Aside from the tousled hair and apparent photosensitivity, the rumpled clothes and the beard top off the whole effect. Although, on him it all kind of…works. Even as dishevelled as your average hobo, he still makes all those endorphins and hormones rush to my head like a racecar. I guess some things haven't changed.
His fixes himself a cup of tea. The toast pops. I butter myself a slice and then offer him one. He should at least have something in his stomach before we get to work.
"This is all terribly domestic, isn't it?" he manages to say, between bites. "Cooking breakfast together, carpooling to work. It's been a while since I've done this."
"Me too." On the rare occasion I invite someone back to my place, he's out the door by sunup. I have no interest in running any kind of a bed and breakfast operation.
He turns to me, all seriousness. "You'll find someone to share your mornings with, Teresa," he says. "I know you will."
"It doesn't matter right now anyway," I lie, probably not all that convincingly. "More than enough to keep me busy." Sometimes I think I'd really like to have a proper relationship again. Just so I could remind myself what it feels like.
"Being busy won't make you happy, you know."
I force back a snort of irritation. Has he learned nothing since our conversation on the plane? He doesn't get to tell me how to live my life.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we recently have a conversation about your right to dictate the terms of my life?" I ask him, and he has the grace to look slightly ashamed of himself.
"You've been taking care of me for years," he says quietly. "I feel I should return the favour."
"I don't need you to take care of me."
"But what if I wanted to?"
I suddenly realize that he's edging a little closer to me, his tea abandoned on the other side of the counter, and my skin starts to prickle.
"What if I were to tell you that it would make me happy if you let me look out for you, the way you always have for me?"
"I was your boss," I gently remind him. "It was my job."
"Not anymore. We're equals now."
"Sure we are." I can't help the sarcasm that flows out with these words. "We might be in a different state, and in a different agency, but I'm still playing second fiddle to you, Jane, just like I always was."
He takes my hand in his again. "You don't play second fiddle to anybody, my dear. Least of all me."
"Let's not kid ourselves here," I counter. "Of the two of us, you are always going to be the shining star." He couldn't be any different if he tried. He's always had a magnetic personality, making every person in the room turn to look at him, no matter what he's doing. It's one of the many things I love about him.
His fingers tenderly thread through mine. "We both know I wouldn't be anything if it weren't for you."
He's never looked at me this way before. He's never stood so close. I don't think my heart's beaten this quickly in my entire life, or that I've ever forgotten how to breathe like I am doing now. He leans in even closer, and I see his lips part.
"Feel free to stop me," he whispers.
Oh God.
I've been imagining this moment for over ten years, but never in my wildest dreams did I think it would become a reality. My eyes slide closed, the anticipation building all the time, as his hands come up to cup my face. When his lips touch mine, the kitchen around us seems to fade away.
He's so hesitant at first, as though waiting for me to push him away from me, but starts to take encouragement as I start to kiss him back. Within moments, I feel my body press against the kitchen counter, as the kiss becomes less gentle and more ardent.
Ten years of waiting, and I'd convinced myself it could never be as good as I imagined it would be; but somehow it is. From the way he holds me, to the way he kisses me like the world is about to end. His fingers trail up and down my back, he tickles my earlobe, kisses my neck.
"Teresa," he breathes. I don't think my name has ever sounded so good as it does coming out of him.
But all too soon, it is over. We pull apart, gasping for air. I actually feel myself stumble a little, and have to lean on him briefly for support. My head starts to clear, my thoughts start to come back, and he's smiling down at me, as he presses another kiss to my forehead.
"You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that," he says.
"Trust me, I really do."
If only we didn't have to go to work today, we could do so much more. Kissing him was only the start. I want him to touch me, feel him against me, his skin on mine. I wonder if he's thinking the same thing.
An odd beeping noise shatters the magical spell. My cell phone is ringing. Reality is back.
"It's Abbot," says Jane, glancing at the display. "Duty calls." My spirits sink a little when he steps away from me, and takes his arms from around my waist.
"You better go and take a shower." His voice sounds a little hoarse. "We should probably get going soon."
Every cell in my body is screaming for me to invite him to join me, to peel all my clothes off, and get his hands on me again, but amazingly, I still have work in the back of my mind. I still have a lot to prove at the FBI. My career is too important to me to put it at risk.
Somehow, I vow I'll get through the day without losing my wits, and then I'll bring him back here, take the phones off the hook and let him give me what I've always wanted.
He is worth the wait.
Hope you liked it!
