Title: Thrice
Rating: T
Characters: Jane/Lisbon
Summary: Three was their fate...
Disclaimer: Hey Bruno, want my idea? Maybe you should fry Frye's brains. no pun intended. nope, not mine in the past, in the present, but I'm not so sure in the future (:
Jane could always remember the first time they met.
A little girl came running in to his carnival tent when he was nine. She looked scared beyond humanity's means, and looked at him with pleading eyes.
"My...my name is Theresa. Would you pwease save me from my father? He hit my brother again! There is lots of bwood!"
Little Patrick saw the terror in the girl's green-blue eyes, and vowed to protect and to save her from any danger. He saved her, told another 'cwop' as she begged him to tell. But after she came back once to pass him a pink rose and to say thank you, he never saw her again. Though he moved on and got married, he never really forgotten her, and never expected to see her again. She was the past tense.
Then Red John mercilessly murdered his wife and his daughter, leaving him without a smile anymore; only an empty body kept alive by raging hatred, guilt and ultimate remorse. Then he met her again.
She became a 'cwop'. He needed her now to catch that gruesome shit. Those green-blue eyes that seemed so open now always hide secrets. She forgotten him already. He guessed she psychologically avoided remembering her past. But as he got closer to her, he saw the times when her sparkling eyes made him show his rare hundred-watt smile, he would also catch occasional looks of pure terror flitting across those eyes, and the feeling of protectiveness would come back. He hopes he wold catch Red John, and as Bruno told him, to take care of that 'terrified little girl'; for her now, he would give up killing that bastard with his own hands. She has become his present tense. On her desk would be a vase that he places a dark pink rose everyday, to show his gratitude towards her in helping a broken man heal again.
What Jane did not tell anyone was that under his cynical personality, he had a real talent of getting glimpses into the future.
He saw in his 'future tense' that the vase on her work desk would be transferred onto her bedside one day, and when that day comes, she would wake up every morning to see a hundred-watt smile and a red rose in it. To say I love you.
Now he nervously walks towards her office, a stalk of red rose in his left hand, a red box in his right.
A red ruby was waiting to find the fourth finger of Lisbon's left hand.