Title: La Vie Est Belle
Summary: (there's nothing I can say except you can and you will)
AN: A little something post-finale (which I cannot stop watching – something my Youtube account will attest to) As always, reviews are very welcome...and feel free to take a look at my other stories (not-so-subtle-hint-hope-it-wasn't-too-blatant-but-do-please-check-out-my-other-fics) FYI, I might end up adding to this as a collection of one shots.
None of The Mentalist belongs to me. If it did, our happy couple would have been together from Day One.
X
The first pregnancy book appeared a week after Fiji.
It materialised out of nowhere – the cover was shiny and new and it promised "comprehensive advice for all expectant parents". She didn't want to tell him that it scared the hell out of her when she opened it up and found an artist's impression of a foetus at ten weeks (the bookmark was placed there specifically and she realised he'd worked out their conception date - an intended night at a restaurant where they didn't quite make it to the restaurant) Her eyes fixed on the image of the life that was growing inside of her – the responsibility pressed down on her and she struggled to breathe.
Out of nowhere, his voice (comforting and familiar and it soothed her soul) penetrated her daze. "You okay?" She had no idea how long she had been there, frozen to the spot – her mind raced with endless thoughts that would not cease. His arms slipped around her waist from his position behind her, his torso pressed against her back and she couldn't believe she had spent so long without him, that she'd managed to function without him like this.
She managed a nod and turned around in his arms – the book still encased in her hands and now pressed against his chest.
"Sure?" He asked – his voice was uncertain and hesitant and she had so many things she needed to say but could hardly trust herself.
"Yeah," She replied and her words failed to convince either of them (he knew her better than she knew herself) so he held her in his arms, pregnancy book clutched in her fingers and wedged between them. Her gaze remained firmly on his collar.
"You do want this, don't you?" Of all the things she had expected to hear (a joke, a witty comment, a comforting remark) that had been at the bottom of her list.
Her eyes caught his gaze and she saw something in him that she hadn't wanted to be there, that she had never thought would be present again. It was fear and she hated that she had put it there. "Of course I do…more than anything…" Her voice softened and she knew that tears threatened (hormones rose within her almost constantly and it was a struggle not to cry at an advert for new washing powder) "I'm just…." She searched him for understanding and found acceptance of everything (of her insecurities, of her doubts, of every part of her) "…I'm scared."
It was almost a relief to utter the words – they were slowly gaining gravity and she needed to speak before her insecurities drowned her.
He reflexively held her tighter, loved her more and she felt everything fall away.
"What if…what if I can't do it?" Teresa glanced down towards his chest – he wore a casual shirt (still as well dressed as ever, despite his new found informality – he was who he was and she loved him ceaselessly for it) and her gaze traced the shirt's pattern, distracting herself from the tears that began to fall. Teresa Jane (nee Lisbon) was supposed to be the strong one (except in the face of his love, his proposal, their marriage and she realised she was becoming well acquainted with wiping away fallen tears) Teresa Jane didn't cry. Much.
"What do you mean?" Patrick asked, moving the book from her tight grip (knuckles white and her ring shining in the sunlight); she placed her hands on his chest, fiddling with the buttons and he knew (he didn't have to look because he just knew) that her bottom lip was wobbling – he stroked the small of her back and wished he had the words to tell her everything (how beautiful she would look holding their baby, how much their child would adore it's mother, how everything would be right and okay)
"What if I'm not supposed to be a mother?" He knew the tears were starting to fall and he hated that he couldn't make her see. "What if I mess up or drop it or it hates me?"
"Maybe hold off on calling our child "it"…." (She swatted at him and there was his Lisbon)
She lifted her head to meet his eyes, "I'm being serious." And he could see it in her eyes.
"I know."
A pause.
"There's nothing you can say is there?" (He wished there was.)
He kissed her.
(there's nothing I can say except you can and you will)
X
He touched the bump a lot.
She was convinced that for the majority of the time, he was unaware that his hand seemed to drift towards it, instinctually protecting her and their child. Standing in line at the coffee shop (decaf only and it was a poor imitation) or cuddled on the sofa watching an awful reality show that she secretly loved and he not so secretly hated - her head rested on his chest, blanket wrapped over them and his arm holding her – or even, in the middle of the night when she needed to pee (yet again) she would wake and his hand would be there, always.
Like it was then, standing in the middle of the department store, playfully bickering about what crib to buy.
"We can't buy it." There was a barely concealed smirk on her face as they both looked at the far too expensive (though admittedly beautiful) cot. She gave him a sneak sideways look and felt a jolt of butterflies in her stomach (she still felt them, even now when she thought about how far they'd come, from where they'd been and she had an overwhelming sense of joy) His arm, wrapped casually around her waist, his warm hand resting at the side of her growing stomach, stroking it gently – she felt the baby kick response as it was prone to do whenever his/her ("it's a girl Lisbon, I'm sure of it") father was around.
He kissed her head, his lips touching her hair gently. Sometimes - like now (amidst all the other shoppers, wandering around the department store on a grey Sunday afternoon) it felt like they were the only two people in the world – in their own little private space – just him and her. "Yes, we can buy it." He replied, his lips brushing her ear and she grinned outwardly. "Our daughter is going to be spoiled. Starting with this crib."
"Our son is going to be a nightmare if you keep this up…." She heard him chuckle lightly at the change of gender, "We don't need something this…extravagant."
"Meh…" He squeezed her tighter and her six-month-sized bump responded again with a kick, "…only the best."
She knew the battle was already lost (probably many years ago when she first fell ridiculously in love with him) and now their…child…now had an overly expensive but skilfully crafted crib.
"And now…we go home." She told him at the cash register as the sales assistant rang through the prices of their numerous purchases (most of which were unnecessary but she loved the pride and adoration he already demonstrated towards their child so she kept quiet and watched his glee) "We don't need anything more."
He chuckled and she knew what it meant - it told her "don't be silly Teresa, we're only just getting started".
In the end, they'd made it to one more store (full of overpriced baby clothes – she held back her sarcasm as his face wore an expression of such enjoyment as they browsed the miniature clothing that she couldn't even make a caustic remark) before they retired to their car, his hands ("I'm pregnant, not incapacitated", "I'm an over-protective husband, indulge me") laden with bags full of their purchases.
He drove (she was too tired and her feet hurt and she just couldn't stop her eyes from drifting shut) and she felt his hand entwine with hers as he navigated the traffic, held it all the way and she drifted into sleep, dreaming of her husband and son.
X
The nightmares came back as her due date approached.
At first, he would just breathe heavily and occasionally, her name would emerge, murmured painfully from his lips. And she would just rest against him, kiss his temple and run her fingers through his hair just how she knew he liked it. They became progressively worse – a shout, a pained cry – he would toss and turn and all she knew to do was to lay next to him, hold him and promise him (a low, soft tone that she would later use to calm their child) that everything would be okay.
When he woke (usually with a start and with her name echoing in the black stillness of their bedroom) he held her tighter than ever, sleepily kissing her cheek and she would feel his heartbeat return to a normal pace, his tense muscles relax and she would pray for his release from fears that still haunted him.
And in the end, there had been no dramatic, climatic birthing scene – her waters broke in their bathroom (mid-morning whilst he was at a scene of crime with Cho – she'd called him calmly and he'd marvelled at her for being so in control – always stoic and calm, his Lisbon) and he had dashed to meet her in the hospital, his face a picture of worry as the nurse directed him to her room.
"You haven't missed anything…" She reassured him when he almost burst into the room, "I'm here for the long haul."
And she had been.
Twelve hours – and lots of hand holding ("I love you….but you're sort of breaking my fingers Teresa…") and some tears (from both of them) – later, their son arrived – messy and screaming and she'd never felt so in love (with Patrick, with her son, with their life that she had never dared imagine) There had been so many phone calls afterwards that he'd lost count, standing over the hospital cot where his son lay (his son – pink skinned and new to the world) and it reminded him of how many people were now invested in his life (his future) after being so alone, for so many years.
He held their son in his arms (still nameless but he loved the little boy more than he'd ever thought possible) and looked over at his sleeping wife, curled on her side (all bed hair and beautiful) and felt so complete.
An hour or so later, she stirred and slowly awoke to find him sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair next to the bed, one hand resting entwined with hers and the other holding their son to his chest, watching the hospital television set.
"Hey…" He greeted her softly and she smiled delicately in response, "Not in pain are you?" A look of worry passed over his face and she responded quickly to allay it.
"No…" Her voice was slightly croaky and she pulled herself up in bed, "Just tired. But I have my two favourite men with me…." She grinned sleepily at him and she realised that she was not only a wife but a mother now and the thought made her feel so incredibly excited. He moved to sit next to her on the bed, careful of her sore body, one arm round her shoulders and the other placing their son to rest on her bent knees – the little boy faced them with a look of wonder and a smile appeared (his first and they both treasured every one that followed)
She watched his tiny face – tired delicate eyes and a cute button nose – and she could hardly believe that she had created something so beautiful – tears came and she let them fall.
She felt him squeeze her into his side and she didn't need to look at him (she never did) to know that he was teary eyed as well. "I love you two so much." He whispered to her ear, his voice gravelly with emotion (his lips brushed her hair and his body was so warm and strong and he was everything she wanted).
"We love you back."
Her happy little fairy tale ending.
X