AN: Hello all! I've been working on this for a while and would love to hear what you think, I think it's something quite different in style and content than what you're used to from me, so I'm excited to hear what you think. Hope you enjoy!
Afterwards, when Patrick Jane thinks back on the evening, he comes to the realisation that that he is probably too old to still be kissing girls goodbye at his trailer door. He had thought that part of his life was well over; but then life did indeed have a funny little knack of reminding you just who was, and perhaps more importantly, who was not in control, and turning everything on its head in doing so.
He'd never expected to find himself at this again. He'd moved past this years ago, had completed the list: met the girl, married her, found them a home and raised their child. He'd done it all, and so he wasn't supposed to be back here.
But he was.
So here he has been, watching Teresa Lisbon – however the hell it came to this – as she walks away from his Airstream, her path lit by the nearby FBI security lights outside, just as he had once watched Angela walk away from his father's caravan under the lights of the fairground.
He had been so happy, so very happy, with Angela once, that it has come as a shock to him that he has had the good fortune to be this lucky, this happy, again. It has come too as a shock at just how easy it is to be with someone else, but in the same while he finds himself not surprised at all to find it in Teresa Lisbon to make him feel this way. And, as he has thought for years on what has been lost, he finds himself marvelling at what now has been won, that which once had been won, and he is glad.
Here he goes once more, it would seem.
It was only meant to be a cup of tea.
It had been a long day, towards the end of a long week, and they had both been feeling the strain.
"Do you want to come in," he'd asked her as he'd been walking her to her car, "for a cup of tea?"
The instinct to decline had come naturally to her lips, a well-practised habit of distancing herself from him when she'd rather say yes. She'd had plenty of practise with that, but not anymore. Even just a while ago when she'd have loved to accept him, to humour him - she'd have wanted to with such desire – just to sit in comfortable silence with him and close her eyes and pretend like nothing had changed since they had done the same in Sacramento, she'd have dearly, sincerely wanted to, would have thought better of it and softly, sadly, firmly declined, keeping her distance, protecting herself. She would have had to say no and regret it the whole way home.
She didn't have to anymore. Things had changed. Things between them had changed.
"I'd like that," she'd smiled, and he'd gestured ostentatiously to his Airstream.
"Your carriage awaits, m'Lady," he'd gushed, and she'd swatted at his arm, and where as a while ago she'd have thrown his arm away from her and laughed her disapproval of his silliness, she finds that, though she still swats his ridiculously proffered arm away, she does gently grab it back towards her, her hand gently held around the gathers of his suited arm, running down till she meets his hand, more than ready for a rare while of peace. He keeps her hand in his and leads her up to his trailer door, and she smiles.
She watches him as he potters around, making tea for the two of them, both enjoying the comfortable, tired, easy silence. The transition from friends to something more had been easier than she ever had imagined – and she'd had plenty of time to imagine such a future over the years. She thinks on how far they have come as Patrick settles in beside her, cup of tea in hand. It feels intimate, cosy, and just what she had wanted for a long, long time.
That had been almost two hours ago, and one cup of tea had turned to two, and then to a sleepy stupor, a fuzzy affection between them. Glancing down his left shoulder, trying very hard not to stir her, Jane watches Lisbon struggle against sleep, slumped affectionately against his shoulder.
How had it come to this, Jane wonders. After all they had been through, all the things they had seen, how had they found themselves wound up here, tucked away in the corner of the FBI car park in Austin, of all places?
He was very glad they had, he decides.
Lisbon looks up to him then, ready to say something, but the words fall away as she sees how he's looking at her, and she feels herself blush.
"What?" she asks, feeling her face flood with colour.
He does not answer her, but draws her to him suddenly, and kisses her cheek with such enthusiasm and yet, somehow, such gentleness that she has never felt this loved from something so simple. She sits up then, turns to face him, and he does the same.
"What was that for?" she asks quietly.
She's looking at him and she's not sure, doesn't want to push him, so she pretends like she doesn't see that his eyes might well have been welling up.
"We're here," he says, taking her hands in his. "I can't believe we're here." He shrugs, and she feels her own eyes tearing up. "I never dreamed- I never. We made it, Teresa. After everything."
She draws him to her, one hand at his neck, and takes him into her arms and holds him dear.
"It's getting late," she whispers then, her voice somewhere near his ear. She buries her head into his neck and he hears the muffled groan.
"What's wrong?" he dares to ask.
"Too soon till morning." He barely hears her voice. He smiles in spite of himself and knows he loves her very much.
With a last pat to his chest she pulls herself away and stands, fixing her rumpled clothes. She puts her jacket on and pulls her hair out from underneath.
"I'd better go home," she says.
Patrick nods.
He knows she's right, but-
It was only meant to be a cup of tea.
They had been strolling around the carnival when the air had turned cool and he'd invited her in under all the lights of the fair. His father was away out somewhere and he knew they could be in peace alone for a rare while.
They'd warmed themselves up to a cup of tea. He'd poured her one and teased her as she'd loaded her cup with sugar. One cup had turned to two, and they then had turned to other talk; talk of themselves, talk of the future.
At some stage they'd moved to the trailer's sofa and their hands had found each other as they shared the small space. From there they now found themselves in utter comfort, collapsed aside one another in this trailer that somehow seemed a lot brighter with her by his side. He is stretched out, one arm bent behind his head, his feet crossed on the floor, she curled into him, her head on his stomach, one hand resting there too.
"We're going to get away from all this someday. We really are. We'll make a run for it, leave this all behind. We'll do what we want, be what we want. What we want, and no one will be able to spoil it. From the day we leave here, we'll have the life we want," he says quietly, still looking at the ceiling, reaching for her hand and turning it over in his.
He turns to face his love.
She is looking at him and is quiet for a moment.
"Unless," he stutters, propping himself up on his elbow, turning to face her, sure he must have gone too far: "unless you want to stay. I mean, I thought that's what you wanted-" he trails off.
She is quiet still, thoughtful. Then with a hard, determined almost wild look in her eyes, she launches herself at him and kisses him fiercely, fistfuls of shirt in one hand, the other somewhere near his cheek. The force lands him flat on his back and they break off laughing. Angela kisses him once more, softly this time, and rests her head on his chest, curling into him once more.
"What was that for?" he asks, laughing.
She looks up at him with her expressive eyes. "That's all I want," she murmurs. "That's all I ever wanted. I always knew I wanted to get away from this. All these years, I never dreamt someone here would want to do the same, that I'd have someone to escape with me. Especially not the fair's darling," she adds as an afterthought. "Not someone like Patrick Jane, 'Boy Wonder'," she teases, splaying her hands as though showing his name in bright lights, before sobering and letting her hands fall into her lap. "So, yes. That's what I want. You, and me, away from here. Someplace nice."
"Someplace nice," he repeats, running a finger over the back of her hand.
"Someplace beautiful." Her free hand dances across her mouth as she yawns, long and silent. He looks at her and knows he loves her very much.
"Our ones will be back from the show soon," she says then, stretching to a sit and fighting off another yawn.
He looks at her.
"I'd better go home."
Patrick nods.
He knows she's right, but-
He takes her hand and draws her to him once more, kisses her nose, her lips, and keeps her hand in his as he walks her to the door. She opens the door out and turns back to him, his arm around her waist.
"Goodnight, Patrick," she says, standing up on tiptoe, and kisses his cheek.
"Goodnight."
He watches her walk away and finds himself wondering once more how lucky they are to have each other, how wonderful it is to have found each other at this time in their life. To feel this way about someone, to have someone have you this happy when no one else can. He's had many years living with a lack of love, an absence of love, and he is ready to love her more. It is a beautiful thing to love this much, to be this loved.
He smiles, looking down to the ground, finding himself stunned by how overcome with emotion he is at this realisation. They've ended up here, together, against all the odds, and he is glad.
She turns then, silhouetted by the casting light behind. She smiles ruefully, bashful as though somehow afraid someone somewhere will know how happy she is to be with him, how happy she is for their future together. She is afraid to let them know, which is just silly; after all, these people they're living their lives out amongst must, after everything, after all, must know – how could they not? They've seen their shared and hidden looks, their moments of hardship and of bliss, they've been watching them grow together for years.
In fact, when he thinks about it, he knows that this has been an inevitability; a beautiful, indisputable inevitability.
Her look is abashed but although her voice is quiet, it is bold, and it surprises even him.
"I love you," she says, and he smiles.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he says and she smiles too.
"Tomorrow," she agrees.
He raises his hand in farewell and she does the same.
She turns homeward and he watches her go.
She is gone now and so he closes the door gently behind him.
Tomorrow.
It seemed so far away, but they would have tomorrow, and the next day, and if they were really lucky, the rest of their lives.
All starting with tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
He couldn't wait.