Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.
A/N: A few weeks ago, I got this delightfully abusive private message telling me "Jisbon fans" weren't interested in angsty retellings of the show, and I should consider writing something else – or stop writing at all. I could start ranting about how many different fans are interested in many different things, but then I realised answering with a story would be more enjoyable for everyone and would convey my point better.
Warnings for the whole story: Being an LGBT+ writer, I write LGBT+ characters. There's a lack of those in canon material, so I took some liberties with the sexual orientation and gender of some members of the cast, and made most of the others strong allies. If you don't agree with this, please don't bother reading my stories.
Warnings for part 1: Most of this chapter occurs in the late 70s/early 80s, so please place it in context of time period. Mentions of: Religion, Homophobia (one slur), Death and Suicide, Gambling, Alcohol and Drugs, Abuse (physical and emotional) of spouses and children, and I probably forgot some other things. If any of this triggers you, please stay safe.
Spoilers: Retelling of events alluded to in 3.02 "Cackle-Bladder Blood", 4.19 "Pink Champagne on Ice" and 4.22 "So Long, and Thanks for all the Red Snappers".
Kindred
Part 1
She's seven the first time she asks – already a big girl who knows how to read, and of course the letters etched on her palm become something of a novelty as soon as she realises she can make them into a name.
"It's a tricky question, Reese," says her mother, sitting on the edge of her bed. "I'll tell you what my mother told me when I was your age, but if you ask your father he'll have another story, and if you ask at school they'll tell you something else. Nobody knows for sure, so you have the right to believe what you want."
"Like when the priest says the world was created in seven days, but Sister Mary Francis says it was millions and millions of years instead?"
"Exactly like that."
She chews on her lip a few seconds before nodding her understanding.
"It happened a very long time ago," her mother starts, smiling – and she settles under the blankets with a grin, because story time. "Once upon a time, there was a young Princess who had to marry a Prince."
"What was her name?" she interrupts.
"What do you think it was?"
She thinks about it for a second.
"Sophia. Like my bunny," she adds, hugging the plush rabbit in her arms.
"Alright, then," her mother smiles. "Once upon a time, Princess Sophia came of age, and it was time for her to get married. So the king and queen decided to throw a huge ball for her birthday and invited everyone in the neighbouring kingdoms. Princes and Dukes and Counts and Earls – "
"And other Princesses, too?"
"Princesses?"
"Well, yes. It was her birthday. It would be sad if her best friends couldn't come!"
"Ah yes, of course. Everyone was invited, and they were all planning to be very kind to Princess Sophia – especially the young men, in the hopes that she would marry them. Then they would become her Prince and, later, the new King. But Princess Sophia was a romantic soul who believed in marrying for love, and she didn't want to be wed to just anyone. So the night before the ball, she prayed very hard that God would give her a sign to identify her true love."
She listens with rapt attention, enlarged eyes going seamlessly from her mother's face to the silver letters in her hand.
"The next morning, when she woke up, there was a name written in the middle of her palm – but the strangest thing was nobody else could see it. She realised then, this was the answer to her prayer – this was the sign God gave her so she could recognise her true love. So when came the night of the ball, she waited and waited until she would meet someone with that name – "
"Did she meet him?" she asks excitedly.
"Not that night," says her mother with a grin. "And she was very disappointed, especially when she met a young Earl with the same name as the one written in her hand. But the boy couldn't see his name in her palm, so she knew it couldn't be him."
"But it should have been him. It was his name!"
"Ah, but that's the trick, Reese. Remember when you came back from school one day and told me there was a Tommy in your classes? That Tommy wasn't your brother, wasn't he? And don't you already know boys with the same name as the one written in your palm?"
She looks down on her hand, bites her lip.
"There's a Jane in class C," she offers, unsure. "But she's a girl."
Her mother startles, face ashen suddenly drained of blood.
"You have a girl's name in your hand?" she asks, very quietly.
"I – I don't know? There's two of them."
She frowns, lightly tracing the letters on her skin.
"The other one is a boy's name, but I don't know any Pa – " she starts, but suddenly her mother is hugging her too tightly against her chest, kissing her forehead hard and breathing heavily in her ears.
"Don't tell your father, do you hear me? Don't ever show your hand or talk about the name in your palm, unless one day you meet someone with that same name and you are sure your name is in theirs. Let it be a secret between you two. Alright? Promise me, Teresa."
"Okay," she answers, frowning. "I promise."
And she knows not to ask questions when either of her parents use her full name, so she stays silent until her mother releases her, strokes her cheek with an unreadable expression.
"What happened to Princess Sophia?" she asks then. "Did she ever meet her Prince?"
"Yes, she did," says her mother, smiling sadly. "But he wasn't a Prince. They met the next day when she decided to leave her kingdom to go and look for someone who would see the mark in her hand. When the stable boy helped her on her horse, that's when he saw his name written in her palm."
"The stable boy?"
She crinkles her nose.
"That's gross! Horses stink!"
"Ah but you see, once he took a shower he didn't stink so much anymore, and they were very happy together. But of course, the King and Queen didn't like that at all."
"Because they had a huge ball for nothing?
"That's right! But the stable boy knew how to read and write very well, and he was very good at maths and geography too – they couldn't just say he wasn't fit to be a Prince. So one day, the kingdom's evil Minister said they should pass a new law to force the Princess to marry only a Prince of royal blood. He used a little bit of dark magic too, so the King and Queen would be sure to agree, and they decided to sign it the next day in front of the whole court."
"That's terrible!" she says, hanging on to every word.
"Yes, it is. But Princess Sophia was a clever girl, just like you. The night before the law was signed, she prayed to God again. She was so happy with her stable boy, she wished that all the people in the world would get the same mark as hers, and understand why she didn't want to marry someone else. So she prayed, and prayed, and prayed all night for other people to find a name on their hand in the morning."
"And did it work?"
"Yes it did! All the people everywhere, in all the countries and kingdoms of the world woke up that morning with a name in their hand. Of course, once they understood that the stable boy was Princess Sophia's true love, they stopped trying to push for the evil Minister's law and they held a huge wedding. Princess Sophia became the next Queen, her stable boy became the King, and all was well in the world."
She lets herself fall against the pillows, still staring at the name in her hand. Her mother tucks her in, kisses her forehead – but doesn't close the light yet, because their nightly ritual isn't finished. As usual, she still has questions.
"So, the name in my hand," she asks. "It's the name of my true love?"
Her mother bites her lip, a cautious expression on her face.
"Some people say that, yes. And most of the time, for most people, it appears to be true. But sometimes, Reese, it doesn't work like that. Sometimes the person whose name matches yours will be a – a friend instead, maybe your best friend in the world, someone very close to you that you can't – won't marry."
"Why?"
"Sometimes you won't meet that person for a long time," she explains. "Sometimes when you meet them, they'll already be married to someone else. Sometimes you'll just feel good with that person, but you won't want to kiss them at all."
"I don't want to kiss anyone anyway!" she pouts, and her mother laughs.
"One day, you may change your mind about that."
"But – do you always meet them?"
Her mother kisses her forehead.
"Some people do. Some people don't. But if you're good, if you say your prayers every night and obey the laws of God and men, someday you will."
She closes the lights, her daughter's voice calling to her back before she reaches the door.
"Is Daddy's name on your hand?" she asks, already half-asleep.
"Goodnight, sweetheart," says her mother after a few seconds of silence, shadow of defeat hiding itself in the shadows of the night, before closing the door softly behind her.
"It's a curse – a trick of the Devil," says his father, spitting on the ground. "Soulmates, pah! There's no such thing. You'll hear stories about true love and the Great Gift of God – but hear me out, son. Those are for townies – suckers, the lot of them. Not for people like us."
He's ten and already well-versed in reading people, even if he doesn't yet dare call them out on their lies. But some are easy to catch, easier than most – and right now, there's a wind of pain stirring the curtain of disdain veiling his father's face.
"I thought the Devil didn't exist," he says in a neutral tone – his need to know the truth at war with his need to thread carefully around the man.
A brief burst of rage glints in the eyes of his father, and he takes a step back in alarm – but this time, instead of rounding up on him as he usually does when he mouths off, his father sighs and rubs his face with his right hand.
The left, he raises up toward him, palm first.
"See the scar there?" he says, anger and grief flashing over his features in quick succession. "See the name?"
"That's mum's name," he says, then frowns. "Isn't the soulmark supposed to be invisible to everyone but – "
"That's because she's dead," the man cuts him coldly.
His eyes widen – he didn't know that.
"I – I thought – you told me she ran away."
But his father isn't listening.
"When the person whose name is written on your hand dies, it becomes a scar. Look around you – see your Uncle Sean near the new cotton candy cart? He was born with a scar. Samantha over there? She can't even read the name on her palm – says it's in some sort of strange alphabet, no way to make out a word. And her husband Pete, the poor fellow – the name on his palm? His sister's. Does that sound like a gift to you, Paddy?"
He spits on the ground again.
"Nah, that's a curse, a trick of the fates. A virus attached to humankind. Just a way to make yourself mad thinking about something that isn't supposed to exist."
"But it does exist," he says softly, almost to himself. "There is a name on my hand."
"Yeah, there's a name on your hand, boy. There's a name on everyone's hand. Doesn't mean you'll ever meet that person, and even if you do, doesn't mean you won't make yourself both miserable together. Better off forgetting all about it."
And it's true that both his parents were miserable together, he ponders – remembering how often his father's gambling and vicious words made his mother cry, how often she would helplessly punch the walls of the trailer after their arguments, nearly tearing their home apart once, or twice, or twice more.
His father still gambles, of course, and his viciousness hasn't lessened since his mother ran away – died, whispers his mind – but there could be some truth to his statement. Just looking at the bare facts would be enough to dishearten anyone.
How can you find one specific person in a sea of billions of people scattered all over the Earth?
It's a shame, he thinks, slowly going over the letters in his palm.
Teresa Lisbon – it's such a nice name.
She's twelve when she learns how quickly love can turn to tragedy, and how fragile life is.
Not that those two things are mutually exclusive – but they're still reeling from their mother's death when Tommy comes to find her late one evening, all pale face and red eyes and shaking hands, and she doesn't think twice before scooting over to the side and patting the bed cover. He settles near her, knees drawn to his chest, and refuses to meet her eyes.
"I found my soulmate," he whispers after a while.
"Tommy, that's amazing!" she says loudly, and he glances up in alarm. "What's wrong?"
He chews on his thumb instead of answering, and she flicks his hand to make him stop – because mum is gone and who else would do it otherwise?
"Stop that," she whispers. "It's disgusting."
"Sorry," he says, and starts chewing the inside of his cheek instead.
"What's wrong?" she repeats, frowning.
"It's a boy," Tommy blurts out. "My soulmate – it's a boy's name on my hand."
She blinks.
"I met him today at the youth centre," he says quickly, words tumbling out of his mouth like a waterfall. "His name is Jeremy. He's older, fifteen I think? Wasn't sure at first, so I waited until I could see his hand. But then we played pick-up football, and I saw it, and there was my name on it – so I waited until we were alone and introduced myself."
He takes a shuddering breath, tears spilling from his eyes – and he wipes at them angrily, but they keep coming fast.
"He laughed at me. Called me names."
"Oh, Tommy," she sighs, opening her arms. "Come here."
Face hidden in her neck, he weeps the same silent, painful sobs he cried when they lowered their mother's coffin in the ground. It breaks her heart all over again, and for the very first time she feels the weight of her years falling on her shoulders – because twelve is still young but ten is younger, way too young to already know that kind of rejection. Way too young to already know that kind of grief.
His tears slowly abate, and after a while his breathing becomes more peaceful, even as he stays against her. She never stops rubbing small circles on his back.
"Do you want me to break his legs?" she asks.
He snorts.
"I'm serious," she insists.
"Yeah, I know. You'd do it, too – I know you would."
He takes a deep breath, raises big watery eyes to her and smiles, just a little.
"Thanks."
"Anytime," she answers, hugging him tightly.
They stay silent for a moment.
"I just wish he'd be my friend," says Tommy softly.
"Maybe he'll come around."
"It's like – I don't want to kiss him, that'd be gross. But we had fun before, when we were playing football. We could be like that. Best friends. Or just friends. Is that weird?"
"No, it's not," she says, then bites her lip. "Tommy, even if – you know. Even if you wanted to kiss him, it wouldn't be weird."
"Yeah, but I don't!"
"Okay but – I mean, you're soulmates, right? You must have his name on your hand for something."
"I'm not a faggot!" says Tommy harshly, bristling.
"Is that what he said to you? What a jerk! My little brother isn't a faggot, you hear me?"
He doesn't answer – averts his eyes instead. She hugs him closer, lets her cheeks rest on the top of his head.
"You're not. Don't listen to any word he said."
They stay silent for a while, listening to the wind whistling through the trees, and the wooden floors creaking in the attic.
"Reese, what – what if he's right?" he whispers, so quietly she almost doesn't hear him. "What if God gave me a boy's name in my hand because I'm supposed to like boys that way? What will Dad say?"
She sighs.
"Tommy, I don't care what Dad, the priest or the sisters at school say. I don't care what anyone says, and you shouldn't either. It doesn't matter if you like girls or boys or both. You know why?"
"Hm?"
"Because God loves us – He wouldn't put a boy's name on your hand or make you like boys if He wasn't okay with it. And if God is okay with it, everyone else should just shut their mouth."
Her brother sniffles but doesn't answer, and for a moment she thinks maybe she should have kept her own mouth shut. He stays against her, though – so she can't be handling it that bad, right?
"You won't tell dad?" he asks suddenly, his voice very small and fearful.
"Of course not. I promise. I won't tell anyone."
"And – can I stay here tonight? I don't want to go back to sleep with Stan and Jimmy."
I don't want them to hear me cry, is what he doesn't say – but she hears it all the same, and nods.
"Sure. Get under," she says, lifting the blankets.
He cuddles next to her, head on her shoulder, gripping her arm like a lifeline.
"Is your soulmate a boy or a girl?" he asks, voice muffled by the blankets.
"A boy," she says, left hand closing tight on itself.
"What's his name?"
She bites her lip, her mother's warning – don't ever show or tell anyone, let it be a secret between you two – still ringing in her ears. But telling Tommy won't hurt, isn't it? Telling isn't showing, and it's Tommy. It's not like he'd blab around – he really has no reason to.
"Patrick Jane," she says after a few more seconds of hesitation.
"Jane?"
"Yeah."
"That's a girl's name."
"Yeah. Mum, she – I think she thought my soulmate was a girl for a while. Remember how she yelled at me last year when I invited Brenda to play and kept the door closed? She thought we were kissing or something."
I think she still believed it when she died, is what she doesn't say – and it's kind of embarrassing and sad to think about, because she didn't care enough about the issue to clear the misunderstanding when she realised her mother thought she liked girls that way, and now she won't ever be able to clear it at all.
Plus, she isn't sure there's something to clear in the first place.
Boys are fun to be around, but girls are pretty.
"That's funny," Tommy giggles sleepily – and yes, yes it is.
A little bit, at least.
She grins, kisses his forehead – and when his breathing becomes slow and regular, she sighs and closes her eyes.
He'll be fine.
Three days later, Tommy learns of his soulmate's suicide attempt – gets kicked out of the hospital by Jeremy's parents when trying to visit, and feels rejected all over again. She tries to help, even goes so far as to pretend to be Jeremy's girlfriend just to try and get through to him. But there's no competing with a family so full of hate – and when they threaten her with calls to the police to keep all and every Lisbon away from them, she can only obey and go back to her brother, hugging him as hard as she can to try and protect him from the world. From being hurt again.
But hugs can't heal wounds as deep as that one, and Tommy is never quite the same afterwards.
He's fifteen when he decides experimenting with an altered state of consciousness could be beneficial to his act.
That's what he tells himself anyway. The truth would probably be more along the lines of wanting to try new experiences and, especially, wanting to go against his father's orders. Because the clean, innocent boy-scout act is starting to get on his nerves – especially as it gets enforced out of opening hours – and he feels the need for a reprieve.
Winning a few hands against Pete is easy, almost as if he lets him win – though Pete would never do that, right? Requesting beer instead of money is a bit harder – takes guts and stubbornness in pursuit of his plans – but Pete's knowing grin tells him he won't talk about this to his father, and all in well in the end.
And when Sam winks at him and presses a small plastic bag with funny smokes in his hand as he leaves their trailer, well. Who is he to refuse such an enticing temptation?
There's a beautiful little clearing about a mile away from where they set camp, with a small rock formation and a river. The kids found it earlier, but it's nearly midnight now – there won't be kids around at this hour. Confident, large beer in one hand, Sam's joints in his breast pocket, he treks through the sand and trees to his intended spot.
And is dismayed to find it already occupied.
"Oh. Hi," says the girl with a bland smile. "I didn't think people would come here at this hour."
He groans softly and takes a swing of beer instead of answering – that way at least he'll have a taste before his father yells and empties it on the ground. Or over him, depending on his moods.
Wow, that's disgusting.
The girl laughs at him gently, while he marvels at the disgustingly bitter flavour.
"I have wine," she grins. "Trade?"
"No way. That thing tastes like Daisy's piss. Trust me, you don't want it."
"It's beer," she shrugs. "Share, if you don't wanna trade."
"Alright," he relents.
She pats the rock – and he sits, passing on the bottle of beer. She takes a small sip, eyes closed. He's mesmerised.
"You're – Paddy, right?" she asks when she notices him staring. "The Boy Wonder act?"
He hums noncommittally.
"I'm Annie," she says, stretching her hand.
He grins and kisses her hand instead of shaking it, making her blush.
"Pleasure to meet you," he says, holding her gaze.
He already knows who she is, of course – Angela Ruskin, daughter of the owner and all-around carnival princess, seventeen years old and way out of his league. The county fair isn't that large, but she runs in higher circles than he does – they don't usually talk outside of set-up days, when everyone works together to assemble or dismantle the rides.
Not that it matters right now, as they sit side by side in complicit illegality. He lights up one of Sam's joints – offering her the first puff, emboldened by the appreciative glances she sends his way, and watching carefully how she smokes it so he won't look like an idiot when it's his turn.
She still owes him a taste of wine.
"Why did you come here?" she asks, stretching her legs before her.
"To have a drink," he grins.
He's feeling pleasantly buzzed already, whether it be the funny smokes or the beautiful girl by his side.
"No, I mean – you could drink back there, why did you come here? In this clearing, alone?"
"To escape my father," he blurts truthfully.
Oh. These things are messing with my head. Better be careful.
But Annie sighs and drops her head on his shoulder, and he feels like a million bucks – enough to let go of caution and just enjoy the moment.
"Me too," she whispers, breath tickling his neck.
She takes another gulp of beer, puts the bottle back down. He suckles on his joint, trying not to cough – waiting for her to speak again. But she opens her left hand instead and stares at her palm, keeping quiet, and he suddenly hates the silence between them.
"What's his name?" he asks, and she looks up sharply.
When he doesn't break eye contact, she shakes her head a little – then she steals his joint and takes a large puff before settling back against him.
"Walter," she says, voice neutral, with barely a hint of crack – one that could be attributed to the smoke anyway. "Yours?"
"Teresa," he answers.
Then he shrugs – carefully, as her head is still against him.
"I don't really care about it," he adds.
"Why?"
"I won't meet her anyway."
"You don't know that," she says quietly, eyes returning to her palm.
"The odds are really bad," he explains, light-headed and feeling talkative. "On the travelling circuit, we – we stay between ourselves, you know? We don't mix well with the townies. So even if she lived in the States, and even if her place was somewhere in the Midwest or California, and even if she came here to see my show – you know. I'm the Boy Wonder for them, not Patrick Jane."
"Maybe you should start showing your palms to the public," she suggests. "As part of your act. Can't be that hard to do when you play psychic."
He shrugs again – and this time she lifts her head from his shoulder, turns to face him.
"And then what?" he asks. "She runs away from her life to join us? That's ridiculous, no townie would ever do that."
"Maybe you can run away from here and join her."
And then she shrugs, but he's not too far gone to hear the note of wistfulness in her voice, to see the faint dismay in the slumping curve of her back.
"You want to leave," he says, surprised.
"Is it so hard to understand?" she says, bristling and defensive and vulnerable.
And it makes him think of his father, the very reason he isn't sleeping in their trailer right now, so he shakes his head and gropes around the ground to find the bottle of wine he knows she left at their feet somewhere.
But she's ahead of him already, and his fingers brush against hers as she swipes the bottle right under his hand. She brings it to her mouth, eyes twinkling – and his body is floating in a sea of haziness, pulse beating fast and hard, as she cants her head back and swallows a whole mouthful, using her tongue to stroke the rim without breaking eye contact.
"That's a little unfair," he complains, licking his lips.
His mouth is dryer than the sand under their feet, and her smile is brighter than any light around.
"How is it unfair?" she teases.
"You promised me a taste of that."
"Did I?"
She crosses and uncrosses her legs, grinning at him in clear invitation, and when she takes a new swing he stops holding back, leans over and tastes the wine right out of her mouth. It's tart and sweet and heady, with hints of fruit and woman – and he realises he doesn't need alcohol or drugs to find those altered states of consciousness he was looking for.
He just needs Angela.
She's seventeen, and already too old for her age.
In her weeks of seven hells, Saturdays are the worst. For most people they're made of sunshine and lazy mornings in bed, a welcome reprieve from hard work and life obligations. But hers are made of rousing the boys up before the sun shines, making sure they're all packed with spare clothes and ready to go spend the next two days at friends' houses – then coming back to fix their father's lunch, which he probably won't eat because he's passed out on the couch again, and won't wake up until late afternoon.
Then leaving home for work at seven – because Casper's opens at eight on week-ends, and they expect her to be there half an hour before her shift – and spending the next eight to twelve hours serving breakfast, then lunch, and sometimes also supper to happy normal families, pretending to be happy herself as she cleans after them.
Those days she comes back home late, knackered and hoping to avoid her father – most of the time succeeding, as long as he didn't drink all the beer already, and the games on television are captivating enough to distract him from the sound of the front door unlocking. Her homework she'll do on Sunday, after Mass – if she has time between making sure the house stays clean, taking care of her father, and escaping his fists whenever the alcohol runs out.
She meets Greg on a Saturday.
At first, busy with the morning rush, she doesn't pay attention to the new cook except to send one or two brief functional smiles his way when he gives her the next plate orders – but when she leaves the dinner to take a fifteen minutes break outside, he follows and smiles shyly.
"I – uh, wasn't sure, but they told me you were, so I wanted to ask if – I'm not making any sense. Sorry about that."
She looks at him, slightly amused, but doesn't answer. He doesn't look like he's finished talking anyway, and she's on her break.
"Are you Teresa Lisbon?" he asks quickly, shuffling his feet.
"Yes," she says – paying more attention to the fresh winter air filling her lungs than to the bumbling teenager by her side.
"I'm, uh, I'm Greg. I mean – I'm Gregory Tayback," he says with a bright smile.
"Hello, Gregory Tayback."
When she offers no other reaction, he shuffles his feet some more.
"I'm your soulmate," he says in a breath.
"No you're not," she answers, frowning.
He blinks in surprise. Then smiles again, raises his left hand, palm facing her.
"Look," he insists. "Isn't that your name?"
His palm is blank.
"My soulmate's name isn't Greg," she says, eyebrows raised. "And I don't see anything in your hand. You must be mistaken."
"But you're Teresa Lisbon, right? Show me yours."
"No," she says, closing her hand in a fist. "I told you, I'm not your soulmate."
She moves toward the door to escape him – but as he raises a hand to stop her, she steps back in alarm and he freezes, taken aback by her strong defensive reaction.
"Alright," he says quietly, slowly letting his arm fall back to his side as she watches him with careful, mistrustful eyes. "It's okay. I won't hurt you, I promise."
"Good," she says, swallowing – her throat suddenly too tight. "Because if you try, I'll break your fingers and kick your ass."
"I believe you," he grins, an easy and honest thing, and moves aside.
They become tentative friends after that – and Greg is funny and kind, the perfect distraction from her hellish home life. So when her father commits suicide barely a month before her eighteen birthday and he offers himself to help her pick up the pieces, she allows it – allows herself to be vulnerable before him, allows herself to be soothed and taken care of until she can find her strength back.
By the time she does, she fancies herself in love with him, and he definitely loves her back so there's no harm in agreeing to date him, kiss him and, one late summer night, make love together on the back seat of his car.
"I'd like to marry you," he whispers in her neck, still breathing heavily from their shared pleasure. "Not now, I know it's too soon, but – someday."
"It's definitely too soon," she agrees, because she has no idea what else to say.
Marriage is such an alien notion when she has three brothers to care for and ambitions of a career far, far away from Chicago.
From that point on, though she doesn't realise it just yet, their relationship dies a slow death – the quiet agony of a fire burning its kindling too quickly to light up the bulkier wood. As kind and honest and reliable Greg is, he just can't understand the appeal of escaping from this small life – and while he supports her when she dreams of becoming a cop, his dreams for himself include manual labour as a living, many children and a stay-at-home wife which he'll provide for with his own business.
She's twenty-two when, along with a model of a classic car, her grandfather gifts her with the opportunity to leave town after graduation. Tommy is turning twenty-one in August and already living with his girlfriend, Stan and Jimmy are easy enough to deal with when they're far away from their brother's influence, and his offer to 'take them in if she wants to try for that job in San Francisco' comes just as she stopped wishing for it. She can't even bring herself to resent his silence and lack of help all those years – what he offers now is too valuable to turn down in a moment of pride.
She's leaving.
"We need to talk," she says that night.
"We do," Greg agrees, sounding nervous. "I've been waiting for – for months, but – now that you're finished with the academy, well – "
He takes a deep breath, then to her horror he falls on one knee and takes out a small box from his pocket.
"We've been dating for nearly five years now, and we've been so good together. You're the most amazing, determined woman I know, and I love you. I knew from the moment I met you that we were soulmates, and I'm so happy we found each other. Teresa Lisbon, will you become my wife?"
In other circumstances, she could have said yes – could have decided to try for a long distance relationship, or let him convince her to move to California together in six months. And if he didn't word it that way, she would have.
Perhaps.
Maybe.
But the fact remains that accepting his proposal – this proposal – would be a sham, and she can't do that to him.
"Greg," she says, then chokes, starts again. "Greg, I'm sorry. I can't."
"Why not?" he whines, slowly getting back on his feet
She turns away, and by the way he stays powerless and defeated already before her, she knows rejecting his proposal is the only thing she can possibly do – she just doesn't know how to explain to him that their lives are running in opposite directions, have been for a while now, and she can't envision a way to attune their dreams anymore. And, truth be told – she doesn't really want to.
So she takes the coward's way out.
"I can't," she repeats, and tears are falling from her eyes now. "Because we're not soulmates. We've never been."
"What? Of course we are," he laughs, sounding a little desperate. "There's your name in my hand! Teresa Lisbon, look!"
He shoves his palm under her nose, just like he did five years ago – and it's still as blank as it was back then. She shakes her head.
"Greg, I told you the first time – I can't see it," she says, and wipes her cheeks because she needs to stay strong to do this.
"That's impossible, it's you! It's your name!"
"You have the wrong Teresa Lisbon."
All his features are frozen in denial.
"You – you're just doing what you did back then, lie to me to push me away from you. I thought you trusted me, I thought we were past this! I thought – "
"I'm not lying. I wouldn't lie about that."
"Look, just – show me your hand. You say you're not lying? Prove it."
For a moment she's tempted to deny him, because that's private. But she can read in the stubborn tilt of his jaw that he won't believe her if he doesn't see it for himself – and really there's no reason to refuse, except perhaps for a childish oath she took when she was barely seven, when her mother thought she had a girl's name in her palm. So she sighs, unclenches her left fist and bares it to his dismayed eyes.
As expected, he doesn't take the sight of her blank hand very well. But no tears, no plea, no declaration of undying love can move her now – and Greg leaves heartbroken, but at least she was honest with him, honest in her rejection. And as he walks away, she finds she can live better with herself than if she tried to convince him they needed to take a break, escaping forever in the process.
This way is cleaner, at least.
The next morning she calls to apply for the job offer in San Francisco and, as soon as they enthusiastically call her back, she buys her plane ticket.
No sense in waiting any longer.
She's twenty-two years old, and she's free.
They wait until Angela hits her twenty-first birthday before escaping together, just to be on the safe side – he knows his father won't go looking for him, but Annie's parents might, and her brother Danny definitely will raise all kinds of troubles for him as soon as he finds them. So they leave under cover of the night, and their hushed laughter is irresistible as they run away in a frenzy, because their life suddenly became such a cliché.
Los Angeles and its many street shows would seem like the best place for them to make quick money, but the cost of living there is too high – and the place is far too close to Carson Springs, far too close to home for comfort. They find a small apartment in Truckee instead – which has the joined advantage to be less than forty miles from Reno, where he's sure to find a stage gig as soon as he can get there, and on a direct highway line to Sacramento, where Angela will be able to study as soon as he makes enough money to support them both.
Which should be easy with their special set of skills.
Right?
The first year is hard – nearly unbearable, in fact.
They don't realise it at first – they escaped in May, and for a while they only need to gather enough money to pay rent and food, spending the rest as they see fit. The apartment they found isn't so bad in itself – it's clean, mostly devoid of pests, and while not in the finest neighbourhood, it's cheap.
And they're in love. They don't need anything else.
But when autumn comes around, they realise their new home lacks proper isolation – and the nights in Truckee are cold, so much colder than anything they were used to when they lived with the show, where at least up north they could heat themselves with a fire in a barrel. After five months of playing assistant, Angela finds a part-time spot as a waitress to bring them a bit of stability, and he'll often work both menial jobs and street gigs from dawn to well into the night just to scrap by. Money is tight and food is scarce – because he adamantly refuses to beg for charity, and his girlfriend is just as prideful as he is, and they'll resort to petty thievery before getting free help from townies.
But they've had worse, and they can get through this.
At least that's what he tells himself when they curl around each other in the middle of the night, shivering, trying to fend off frostbites when snowstorms rage outside.
"Maybe – maybe we should – you know," she whispers one morning, when they find the kitchen window covered in frost and the pipes with frozen water flow. "Maybe we should go back."
"Maybe it's time to stop trying to live like townies," he says, glancing at her sideways. "Bar gigs can only go so far if I can't get – clients. Regulars."
She bites her lip, then nods – because they promised each other to leave the Carney ways behind, but there's no point in living honestly if they aren't living at all.
"Just until we get enough money to stop starving," he promises. "Just until we can get by."
His first mark is a middle aged woman who lost her very rich husband a few months back – and who's less interested in contacting the Great Unknown than in flirting and seducing any younger man paying her attention. Her act of tears and misery is abhorrent, but at least that way he doesn't feel the slightest guilt about conning her out of money.
"I'll never be clean again," he complains one night, washing of the perfume and lipstick the woman left on his skin. "It feels like prostitution, except without the – you know, the sex part."
"It is, in a way," says Angela offhandedly.
He frowns, eyes closed, as a deep shiver creeps up his spine – he doesn't realise he's rubbing the wash cloth harder on his neck until she takes it off his hands and replaces it with her arms.
"I hate that you have to do that kind of gig. But it's only temporary," she says, looking at him with a serious expression – one that means you better believe what I'm saying, Paddy, else I'll kick your ass. "As soon as we have enough to buy a car, we'll get far from here. Far from her."
"This kind of life is easier when we travel around," he whispers, forehead against hers.
"It is," she agrees. "But this – a stable home – it's what we want. Isn't it?"
"It is," he says, echoing her previous words.
He doesn't tell her how much he misses the freedom of living on the circuit, seeing new places every week, leaving everything – every townie trouble – behind as soon as they change location. But he does tell her how a stable home, to him, is any place far away from his father where she lives also.
It's not even a lie.
Things start getting better when they have enough money to buy a car and break their lease. They move to Nevada first, then east to Kansas, then Illinois, and finally they stop in Pennsylvania because they heard a lot of good things about the casino and hotel gigs in Philadelphia.
That's when he meets Jack Hellion, and they hit if off splendidly.
For Angela, it's dislike at first sight. Jack has a good heart – but he drinks, he uses hard drugs, he gambles and worse, cheats while gambling, he loves his nomadic life, and over everything else she hates the influence he has on her boyfriend.
But for him, Jack is someone fun to spend time with – someone who understands what he's going through because he used to work the carnival circuit with his family, someone with the same mindset, complementary showman skills and abilities. Someone smart – not the smartest of course, that'll always be himself. But smart enough to enjoy his shenanigans, and even plan some of his own.
An equal.
A friend.
And he doesn't have enough of those that Angela can just ask him to forget about Jack.
They stay far away from each other's gigs at first, spend time together outside of work instead, playing cards, being kids – something he never allowed himself even when he was a kid – until one day Jack finds himself in a bind.
"That contortionist idiot broke a rib trying to fit into a bucket," he groans. "I need a new opening act."
"Okay, let's talk straight here. Are you asking me for a favour?"
He grins – Jack just groans again.
"Fine. Yes, I'm asking you a favour, Paddy. What do you want?"
"Teach me how you do that sleight of hand trick with the cards."
"No way! You're asking to learn my trade there, I won't have you put me out of a job! Ask for something else, or else you teach me how to hypnotise people."
"You wouldn't be any good at it," he says, still grinning. "Alright then. Teach me the card tricks and to pick pockets, I'll open your act and teach you how to make yourself a Memory Palace."
They haggle a bit more because Jack's a tight pain in the ass, but finally settle on a fair trade for both of them. They spend even more time together as a result – that annoys Angela to no end – and start helping each other on stage.
What they didn't expect is the sheer success of their double act.
A psychic and a magician in the same night's entertainment? The public eats it up, asks for more, and the cash flows in – as well as very good gigs and contracts for both of them, as long as they agree to work together.
At this point, it's not an issue.
Yet.
With his first pay check, he buys himself a good suit – has to look the part if he wants to keep up the act – and flowers for his girlfriend. And she acts as if it was a waste of money, but he can see how much she enjoys them – even if she's right about their frivolous nature. But it's been so long since the last time they could treat themselves to anything nice – or even unnecessary, and they're both so tired of it.
Tired of uncertainty.
So with his second pay check, he buys Angela a ring and treats her to the best restaurant they can afford.
"I wanted to ask you," she suddenly says as they walk back home, enjoying the warm summer night. "Why didn't you ever take my suggestion and show your palms to the public as part of your act?"
He stops, taken aback by her random question – but she looks at him with curiosity, not accusation nor jealousy, and he can only raise his eyebrows in disbelief.
"Because I already have you," he says. "Why would I want anyone else?"
Don't you know that already?
Then he narrows his eyes at her, because he can see his answer pleases her but isn't what she's waiting for – and what does she want to hear?
"Don't you ever – regret it? Leaving with me?" she asks again, this time with hints of worry and something he can't quite –
Oh.
"Are you – ?!" he starts asking, voice raising high, before he stops himself.
No, wait. First things first.
"Listen," he says after a quick glance to the busy street.
Not what he had in mind, but if she's determined to press the issue now, he'll have to make do.
"We never talked about this, because I thought you knew. You're the only one I want, the only one I see. I don't care about some random stranger living her life somewhere – especially when right in front of me is the strongest, most beautiful woman I've ever known."
He fishes the ring he bought earlier from his pocket – dropping on one knee in his work suit would be a very bad idea, but he can still kiss the back of her hand before placing the shiny piece of jewellery in the middle of her palm.
"You're better than me in every way," he says as her eyes water slightly. "The only one I can really trust, the only one I can fully be myself with. I love you, and I would like us to spend the rest of our life together. So – Angela Ruskin, will you marry me?"
"It's stunning," she whispers, eyes on the diamond ring, before raising them to his. "Yes, yes of course I will, Paddy. Of course I will."
Each of their kisses are etched in his memory palace, but this one – this one, he knows he'll store in a special place.
And that ring is indeed stunning on her finger.
"I wanted tonight to be perfect for you," he admits once they start walking again, hand in hand. "I had this all planned – a nice meal, then a walk to that little park you like, and there – well. I'm sorry."
"I don't care," she laughs. "There's no need to be sorry – this night is already perfect to me."
"But I care," he insists. "And I'll make it up to you, I promise."
I'll spend the rest of my life making you happy. You'll see.
"I was afraid," she says later, when they lay breathless and entwined in bed. "I thought you'd never want to commit to me – to us."
"I've considered myself married to you since we left," he breathes in her neck, eyes closed. "I just lacked money to get you a ring. I though you knew?"
She nods. Kisses him lightly.
"I did, but – "
She sighs, playing with his fingers sprawled on her stomach. He opens his eyes, props himself on a elbow. Spends some time looking down at her, committing every detail of her smiling face to memory – the rosy lips, high cheekbones, arched eyebrows. The wispy locks of hair stuck to her temples with sweat.
The unfamiliar twinkle in her beautiful brown eyes, and the new swelling of her breasts.
"You're pregnant," he says – and it's not a question.
"I missed my period last month. I didn't take a test yet, but – yes. I think so."
"I'm going to be a father."
"Yes, you are," she grins, kissing his goofy smile.
They get married the Carney way, whispering their vows to each other while riding three times around the county fair's carousel – promising each other they'll hold a real townie ceremony one day, back in California. With all their friends and family, and perhaps even their child as ring bearer.
Meanwhile there's work to do, and rubes to fleece, and fame to be gained, and money to pile up so they can buy a house somewhere nice and make sure little Charlotte never lacks of anything.
"Don't you think it's time to fly solo?" she asks him one day, when their daughter is three.
They're sitting on the couch in their Topeka apartment, wrapped in each other's arms after their daughter has gone to sleep.
"You're talented enough to work alone, you don't need to keep opening Jack's shows," she adds, looking up at him from his lap.
He frowns at her.
"That's not what you want to ask," he says, taking in her slumping shoulders and tangled hair. "What is it?"
"Stop it, I hate it when you read me like that," she groans. "We can never have a real conversation when you do that."
He just waits – she rubs her cheek against his stomach, then sighs.
"I miss California," she says. "I'd like Danny to get to know Charlotte, too. And – I'd really like to live in only one place, Paddy. We've been moving so much, it's like being on the road all over again."
"And now that money isn't tight anymore, you'd like to sign up for college," he adds, with a slight smile.
"Well, yes. That too."
"Fair enough," he grins. "I've been thinking of getting an agent anyway. Maybe start private practice again. There's a lot of marks in Los Angeles, rich ones too – "
"People," she interrupts him.
"What?"
"People," she repeats heatedly, getting up. "They're people, Paddy, not marks. You have to stop thinking like that."
"I'm still fleecing them," he says, raising one eyebrow. "How do you think we get to pay for all this? You're not complaining about that."
"Doesn't mean I have to like it," she mutters, disappearing in their bedroom.
It's not the first fight they have about that issue – and it probably won't be the last one, he knows. He just has no idea what she wants from him. They've seen how life on a townie's pay check looked like, is she really that eager to go back to poverty? And how does she expect him to pay for those studies she wants so much? Or Charlotte's education?
What does she expect him to do with himself if he doesn't have a stage to perform on?
He doesn't follow right away, stays sitting instead, staring for the first time in years at the name etched in his left palm. Wondering how life with a soulmate would be. Would she balance and complete him like Angela does? Would she challenge him instead?
Would she side with him on this issue?
Guilt suddenly fills his mind so completely he nearly sobs aloud – and nothing matters anymore except making Angela happy, because he loves her and she gave him a daughter, a reason to live for and become better. How would he live with himself if he strayed, gave up at the first sign of hardship? Love to him is more than a feeling, it's a sacred oath – one he made to himself as well as her. He's a coward in many ways, he knows – but not in this.
Not in this.
So he joins her in bed and promises to do his best, and the next day breaks up his partnership with Jack – who deals with the news better than expected, considering he's leaving him in the dust, but still takes him for fifty bucks before they leave. A week later he sneaks up in Malibu and buys them a home, before sending Angela and Charlotte plane tickets – from Topeka, Kansas to Los Angeles, California. And they get married on their new beach property, after bailing Danny out of jail – inviting all of Annie's family, but making sure his father isn't around.
Charlotte makes an adorable ring bearer – just like they dreamed it a few years ago.
He starts working television gigs and builds himself a study in their backyard to start private practice again, so that he won't have to invite clients into their home, and Angela signs up for law and economics classes. Their daughter starts kindergarten, then elementary school – learns how to read, write and do maths. Takes piano lessons from her mother, and swimming lessons from himself, and she's so talented in everything she does.
He's so proud of her.
Of them.
It's not perfect of course – they still have their arguments, the same ones over and over again, and he isn't at home enough as he still moves all over California for his gigs.
But no family life is perfect, and mostly they're happy.
Then Red John happens.
Nest chapter is already half-written.
Realistically, expect between two and three weeks before the next update so I can get a head start on part 3 – I'm keeping up with the 8-to-12k words per chapter for this one, and outside of NaNoWriMo I'm usually a slow writer.
In the meantime - cheers, people. Don't let yourself be deterred. Write what you want to write.