Notes: set late season 4, before Something's Rotten in Redmund. Enjoy, and tell me what you think.
Warnings: vague reference to canonical nastiness, including implied child abuse and neglect and Jane's whole mess.
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Wayne opened his mouth. He closed it again. He watched Jane pull his blue teacup from the break room cupboard. He took a deep breath. He opened his mouth. He closed it again.
"Whatever it is, just ask," said Jane without turning around. "The worst I can do is not answer."
Wayne wasn't so sure about that. He'd never seen Jane throw a punch, but he had seen him destroy people's lives with a word and a flash of shining white teeth. Not that he'd do that to Wayne. Probably.
"I'm going to figure out what you want to know as soon as I turn around," Jane stated as he poured the steaming water. "I just thought it would be polite to give you a chance to ask it yourself."
Wayne swallowed. Ever since their first few cases, he had been a little bit in awe of Jane. He had no idea when admiration had started mingling with fear. Jane sighed, dunking his teabag in an easy, practiced motion.
"Really, Rigsby, just spit it –"
"How'd you feel when you knew you were going to be a dad?"
Jane froze. Wayne held an apology in the back of his throat, ready to deploy the moment Jane's shoulders so much as shivered. He had never seen Jane throw a punch, and he had also never seen him cry, and he really, really wanted to keep it that way.
Jane let out a long, shaky breath.
"Sit down, Rigsby," he said, and he sounded very, very old. Rigsby sat. Jane turned. "Tea?"
"Um. No. Thank you," said Wayne automatically.
"Suit yourself." Jane took a seat across from him, eyes boring into him with all the powerful scrutiny he usually kept hidden behind a charming smile. That smile was usually false and occasionally terrifying, but right at this moment, squirming beneath Jane's stare, Wayne missed it.
"I wouldn't have asked," Wayne blurted out at last, unable to bear the silence. "It's just . . ."
"I'm the only person you know who's a father," Jane finished for him. "And you're scared."
"Yeah. I mean, I'm excited too," Wayne hastened to add, "but I – I don't feel like I'm ready.
Or, I don't know. Good enough."
"Well that's because you're not," said Jane matter-of-factly. "You're not ready and you're not good enough and you're never going to be."
"Right," Wayne bit out, moving to stand. This had been a bad idea.
"Wayne."
Jane caught his wrist. His hand was cold and his grip was strong and his eyes were bright and pained and honest and Wayne wasn't really sure how to deal with an honest Jane, so he sat back down.
"Nobody is good enough for their children," said Jane, releasing Wayne's arm but holding his gaze. "Not a single person on this planet."
"That's not –" Wayne began to protest, but Jane cut him off.
"Name one person who hasn't been damaged by their father."
Wayne thought. There was the boss, who had practically raised her brothers on her own. Cho, who'd ended up in a gang. Grace, the coach's daughter, who believed in psychics but not in therapists. His own father didn't bear mentioning. He glanced across at Jane, who had mercifully returned his attention to his tea.
"Well, I don't know anything about your dad," Wayne pointed out, but it was half a joke even as he said it. After all, Jane hadn't been born an amoral, egotistical conman. Probably.
Jane smiled humorlessly and didn't dignify that with a response.
"You have to give up the idea that you need to be a perfect parent," he said instead. "You're not going to be. That's a fact. You'll just have to get used to it. You give them everything you can but it's not always going to be enough. You just hope –"
Jane's voice broke, and he swallowed roughly. Wayne was inordinately glad that he wasn't looking at him anymore.
"You just hope that you don't fail them too badly."
There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Jane cleared his throat and pushed away from the table, his walls sliding back into place.
"You'll be fine. You're a better man than your father, a better man than me." He placed his teacup in the sink and ran the water. His voice was light and even. His hands didn't shake. "Worst case scenario, you die on the job, they grow up with a dead hero for a father and have a bit of a complex about living up to your name. Sad, but not horrible."
That wasn't the worst case scenario and they both knew it. Wayne wasn't likely to end up in jail or taunt a serial killer, but there were so many things that could go wrong – freak accidents, incurable diseases, errors of judgment which turned a moment of teenage recklessness into a permanent consequence. But Jane was trying to reassure him. False hope had been his trade, once, and giving it away for free was his idea of mercy.
"Yeah," said Wayne. "Thanks."
Jane turned back to him, eyes sparkling. It was an illusion. A trick of the light; a slight of hand; or maybe just the glint off the knife-edge of his mind. It had been cruel of Wayne to ask. Jane had been so distant lately, so cold, he had almost forgotten it was a defense mechanism. He had almost forgotten he was still human.
"I'm sorry," Wayne blurted out.
Jane smiled. It looked like something cracking.
"You have nothing to apologize for. If you'll excuse me."
He disappeared around the corner, towards the elevators. Towards the attic. Wayne hesitated for a moment, then headed for Lisbon's office.
"Hey, Boss?"
"Yeah?" She glanced up from her paperwork. Wayne shifted guiltily under her expectant stare.
"You, uh. You might want to check on Jane later. Just, y'know. If he doesn't come down for a while."
She held his gaze for a moment, a question building in her frown, but she didn't ask.
"Alright," she said shortly. "Thank you."
Wayne nodded his acknowledgement. As he returned to his desk, he imagined he could feel Jane above him, alone in the attic, alone with his memories. He shivered.
When his son was born, he didn't text Jane.