The Circle
Version of how Jane removes his ring. Initially I didn't think Lisbon should be there, but somehow she wrote herself in. Set shortly after Blue Bird, following the 'More Than Words' style. ;) (NB: I am aware that this tale bears slight resemblances to/overlaps with other people's work – RosePeony and Nic, I think? - but I promise that the bulk of mine was already on paper by the time I read those. Great minds…?!)
One day, in the golden time that rose in Florida and flowed beyond, a random assignment sends Jane and Lisbon back to the sun-baked shores of southern California. It has only been a little while, in the grand scheme of time, but this previous life, with the memories it holds, seems both close and remote at once. One evening, after they are done, Jane asks her if she would like to take a drive north. She finds herself accepting, more than a little curious, less afraid of consequence, now, and they take their hired vintage car and head towards Malibu in the thickening darkness. She is surprised at the direction, but doesn't ask questions: she senses there is a journey ahead, an intent, and she trusts him to lead her there safely.
Eventually they reach a part of the coastal road that she remembers all too well: a blustery cliff top that offers a glorious ocean view and a wonderful pink-and-orange sunset, she knows, even though the light is gone and only shadows remain. Her breath catches a little. She sees herself standing there, windblown and hopeful, a person already lost to the past. But this time the car whirrs softly on – and this time, she is warm inside it. It is another hour of the clock now, after all.
A few minutes later Jane heads up past his old house, that beautiful, wrecked mansion of dream and ruin, and Teresa's heart clenches. She steals a concerned glance at him, but he is staring straight ahead: he won't look, though she knows that his heart has clenched too. And still she doesn't ask. She knows him better than that.
Some distance beyond, the car pulls into a sandy track bearing off to the left: the sky is turning pale and cold; dawn would be there soon. They have driven through the night, as they have done so often before, wordless for the most part, but companionable and content for all that.
The track is little used, that much is clear; she wonders how he knows it's there. Jane stops the car and they both get out. He gives her a tender lopsided smile over the pale green hood and she returns it with a small thrill of anticipation somewhere deep.
"What is this? "Where are we going?" she finally asks, a little apprehensive, a little amused, a little unsure.
"You'll see," is his cryptic response, a muted twinkle in his eye, and she shakes her head wryly in familiar ignorance. She hadn't really expected a proper answer, and these days she wasn't even sure she wanted one, now that she had been let in at last.
He smiles in affection, takes her hand, safe and loving, and they stumble down the rest of the track: sand and earth and stone and the tang of salty air and loneliness. She feels far away, secluded, like an explorer, though she knows the road is only a few metres above; she can hear the faint drone of the odd car on its way to god knew where. But down here in uncharted land they are two adventurers together, alone, slipping and tripping and holding on tightly to one other, to no one else.
"Ready?" Suddenly the track has become a narrow twisting path running steeply down to the beach, turning this way and that, and he is clambering down what looks like a cliff face onto a wide solid ledge below.
"Are you kidding?!" she exclaims, stopping short, feeling the tall grasses whip against her legs in the colourless breeze. "You want me to bash my head on the rock or something?!" It is a stock response; they both know she doesn't mean it. She would go with him almost anywhere.
"It's not as bad as it looks. Come now, don't tell me the mighty Agent Lisbon is scared?" he counters, dancing their dance, but the usual words of teasing banter are lower and throatier, softened in tenderness and intimacy and love. A voice just for her. "Shut up, Jane," she responds, glowing inside, and he grins because he knows her so well, and holds up his hand. It is strong and warm and dry to the touch, and she gives herself up willingly to him as they scramble down and down and ever down.
The space is bigger than it looked from higher up; it forms a sheltered little cavern, a little secret of rock and sand, tucked away from prying eyes. And it feels, somehow, like a journey's end.
"How'd you find this place?" she asks curiously, as they sit down side-by-side, thighs touching, backs supported by the reassuring bulk of time-old rock.
"Oh, you know," he replies, non-committal, with a half smile, looking out over the ocean and waving a casual hand. "There was a path. I followed it."
She gives him another wry look at that, the faintest of affectionate eye-rolls. He is staring out to sea, tracing circles in the sand-strewn rock with an oblivious finger. Teresa hugs her knees to her chest, and brushes away the strands of hair blowing across her face, the chill of a budding dawn seeping into her limbs. It is so peaceful here. He has always loved the ocean, with its sounds of escape and freedom. And she will always love it too, because of him. She listens to the waves and the wind, as a husky, tender voice breaks her from her reverie.
"I used to come here with Angela and Charlotte sometimes, to see the sun rise. Or go down. Whichever." He smiles as he finally speaks their names, their light blazing bright and true and warm in his unmasked face. He turns that face towards her, in some kind of peace.
The sudden mention of them is shocking. He has never explicitly talked about his wife and child to her before, and she has never asked, fearing to tread on sacred ground. She is silent for a moment, flashes a quick look at him. But he is staring ahead again, at the washed-out ocean, its fury stilled, his shirt untucked and untidy. Her beloved, rumpled Jane. She pauses, asks a question in her gentlest, softest voice, not wanting to startle him back into silence, to scare him into retreat.
"You did?" It is all she dares, but she thinks that maybe she has been called to ask.
"I did." Shadows cross his face; she can see his jaw grit a little tighter as he closes his eyes in surrender to his feeling. But he senses, perhaps, that she is struggling, and he turns and gives her a warm, sad smile.
This warmth in his eyes emboldens her, his sadness conquers her reserve, and she ventures further, resting the side of her head on her knees. "It's a beautiful place. Magical."
"Yes, it is," he says with an air of finality. She thinks that that's all he will say, that the rest will be locked back up, maybe not forever, just for now, but then… he begins to talk. Haltingly at first, but it is everything to her. He tells her, in shy stilted sentences far removed from his usual effortless silver tongue, with smiles of love and sorrow and joy, of family picnics and Angela's laughing trepidation, and the time he dropped Charlotte's teddy bear onto the sandy, rocky bay a little way below; and how she had howled and howled until a special coin trick had dried her tears.
Teresa listens with her whole heart, privileged to have been invited inside a time and a space that means so much. And as she does, she wonders exactly why he has brought her here, to this intimate spot. She begins to feel just a little uncomfortable, like an intruder, as if she is treading on solid imprints left by his dead wife and child – so vital, so alive. She thinks that time and space are curious things, and that somehow Angela and Charlotte are still here, sitting on this ledge, laughing and eating and watching the golden, life-giving sun rise and shine on their beloved faces. The breeze has lifted a little and she shivers again. Already on the horizon she can see tones of peach and apricot warming the sky, a mellow sustenance filling them all with life.
He has fallen quiet now, gazing out at the gentle radiance infusing the grey, poking its strong fingers through the colourless chill. He touches his ring: she thinks he is about to twiddle it – that old familiar habit that is one of the things she most associates with him. But he doesn't. Instead he holds it gently between thumb and index finger and in one swift motion slips it off and tucks it into his breast pocket, squeezing it there for one infinitesimal moment before a barely audible sigh leaves his breast: a breath of life, of two lives, drawn into release. She is stunned – she is on the periphery of another private moment, looking in - but she also knows, instinctively, that he wants her to be here for this. She feels a little sad; finds herself hoping that this ring – for so long such an important symbol for one life, two lives, three - doesn't end up cold and discarded in a drawer somewhere. She finds that she wants to honour Angela's memory. She hopes he'll always keep it someplace close.
She understands why she is here now. This removal, this detachment, it is a commitment. To her, to life, to whatever their future would be. It is all backwards, of course: normally it is the giving of a ring that signifies union, an eternal and infinite circle, togetherness without beginning or end. She knows that Patrick and Angela will always be together in some measure, but she does not mind; they belong in a different time, on a different plane, joined in love in the beauty of memories and what-ifs and the myriad possibilities of time and dimension. But her own Jane is here and now, and he has taken off the golden enchanted ring that bound him to the subtle world, and its absence on his finger reflects her own warm, living presence.
His eyes are closed again, he has leaned his head back against the rough rock. But he reaches out a hand and draws her close. An introduction of sorts: in some philosophical, otherworldly, Jane-like way, he wanted to introduce her to the woman and child for whom he gave so much.
"They would have liked you, you know," he remarks absently, murmuring into her hair, and she feels a quiet pressure behind her eyes, and tightens her arms around his waist.
Whichever way she looks at it, it is okay, because they will not come here again. It is an introduction, but it is also a farewell, in a special space that holds in its windswept, rocky arms a particular set of memories, a particular expanse of time, and there will be other places and other sunrises and other sunsets, just for her.
Little bit nervous about posting this one, because the ring thing is so important and special to so many people, all with their own equally worthy ideas of how it should take place (if at all). So I hope you'll understand that mine is merely one idea in a thousand. :) (Also: please forgive the geography! I've based it on coast paths in England, lol.)