Redamancy
(noun): the act of loving in return
"January 6th, 2009."
His voice floats through the air like dandelion seeds caught in a breeze, erratic and unsteady – but also with the potential to germinate life.
He hears Lisbon turn her head to face him. His curiosity at seeing her expression wins out over any fear he has about the territory he's beginning to chart for them, and he shifts, daring himself to meet her eyes in the half-light.
A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. It disguises the exhaustion he knows has consumed every particle of her being, every piece of who she is.
"Not all of us have a fully-functional memory palace, Jane," she quips, arching an eyebrow.
He grins. "Ask me what happened on that day," he urges, all eagerness, and she rolls her eyes.
"You're such a showoff," she says.
"Lisbon – " He draws the second syllable out.
He smiles again at her quiet laughter. "Okay, okay. Jane, what happened on February 6th, 2009?"
"January 6th," he immediately corrects her. "Come on, woman – this is important."
"Oh, yeah? How so?"
His heart forgets that it's supposed to be pumping blood as he says, "It's the day I fell in love with you."
Her expression – her hope, her awe, her raw emotion – sparks currents of electricity through him, and he grins in response to her tentative smile.
"Really?" she whispers.
"On January 6th, 2009, you called and asked me to come back. Not in as many words," he hastens to add. "I believe you actually ordered me to pick up some pizzas."
Lisbon chuckles.
He wants so badly to touch her. But the inches between them are vast, and he's never been strong. "When you called, I, uh...it was the first time...I knew you'd put yourself on the line for me." He holds her gaze. "And I fell."
Luckily for him, though, she's always been strong, and she closes the distance.
He wakes hours – or perhaps minutes – later. Time doesn't seem to follow its normal rules. Not here, not with her.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs, his head pillowed on her breasts, his hand playing with her fingers.
Her chest rises as she inhales. "What for?"
"For hurting you." Jane pulls her hand closer and kisses her fingertips. "I've hurt you so deeply, so many times." He turns his face toward her skin. "I won't give excuses because you deserve better than that. But I'll give you my word. I'll be different. I'll be better."
Her lips ghost his temple, her fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to her.
"I'm sorry, Teresa – I'm so sorry."
Lisbon murmurs in his ear, soothing the tension he hadn't even realized had been slowly consuming him.
"I know you are," she whispers. "I know. And it's okay, Jane – we'll be okay. I promise."
He breathes.
Jane watches as Lisbon sits at the end of the bed, legs crossed, smiling slightly as she re-wraps an elastic bandage gently around his bruised ankle. Any pain he'd felt from the strain had long ago been neutralized by the rush of endorphins flooding his system – and of course, Lisbon's clever, sure fingers on his skin.
She scrounges up a bag of ice and sets this on his elevated ankle, sending him a reproaching look. "You shouldn't put weight on this for a few days at least, Jane," she says, adjusting the towel around the ice bag.
"Absolutely not," Jane agrees. "I'll need some company, then, don't you think?"
She just shakes her head, but he catches her wide smile before she can hide it.
"Can I – "
His voice shakes as much as his touch.
Lisbon smiles gently. "You don't have to ask, Jane."
So he reaches out, brushes the back of his finger down the line of her jaw. Lisbon closes her eyes at the contact.
Jane takes this as a good sign, so he continues. He outlines as much as he can, the masterpiece of her body, vowing that some day there will be no surface of her skin that he hasn't touched, that he hasn't memorized.
He hesitates slightly near her heart, and he catches her smile again. Without opening her eyes, she grabs his hand in a swift motion and guides his fingers to her ribs. "You don't have to ask," she repeats.
So he doesn't.
"Lisbon," he whispers.
"Hmm?" She's half-asleep, but he needs to say the words.
"Lisbon."
She groans slightly, blinking her eyes awake to study him. "Jane? You okay?"
His thumb brushes nervous strokes up and down her hip.
"Jane?" Lisbon repeats.
He breathes in a whiff of cinnamon.
"I want you to know that this...this is it for me." He exhales. "You are it for me."
She shifts to lie next to him on his pillow, wrapping an arm around his torso.
"It's always been you," Lisbon breathes as she settles against him. "You know for me it's always been you."
He closes his eyes.
He wakes to feather-light fingers on his chest, a tickle of silky hair against his skin. Lisbon pops one button of his shirt, and he opens his eyes.
"Is this okay?"
"More than," he manages to get out in reply, and Lisbon continues her work, grinning.
The air is cool against his skin. She is anything but.
His breath hitches.
She trails a finger down his sternum, and he reaches for her blouse, helping her pull it over her head.
Lisbon suddenly stills, studying him. "Are you sure?" she asks.
He responds by guiding her to straddle him and unhooking the clasp of her bra.
"Okay, then," she murmurs, reaching for him.
He nearly loses it right there.
Seconds later, or though it seems, they are bare, open to each other for the first time.
"I love you," he says, and her smile is exquisite.
When their breathing settles, she hooks a leg over his hip, and he pulls her into his arms. She falls asleep with an ear pressed to his heart.
"I love you," he says. It's a caress and a whisper, a fact and a vow. It's their past, their present, and – now – their future.
He says it again, and she smiles against his skin.