AN: Just joining in the host of fics out there clamoring for Jane and Lisbon to get it together already :)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist, nor do I make any money from these stories.
The weakening Texas sun is on its way down in an otherwise clear sky, but a dry wind is still blowing the dust and leaves into miniature whirlwinds, sending them dancing and spinning across the deserted FBI parking lot. It is not a wholly barren landscape, however, as the red-bud trees dotted around the lot are still smothered in their blushing purple-pink flowers, and the bluebonnets in the surrounding gardens are in full bloom. The effect is…pleasant. And depressing. The sun sinks further toward the horizon and its dwindling rays are now filtered through the glossy dark green foliage of the red-bud planted nearest to where I have parked my trailer. I blink my eyes in the dappled green light and contemplate the staid fragility of those delicate florets, and the corresponding nature of the situation in which I now find myself.
April really is the cruellest month.
This train of thought causes me to scoff inwardly a little at my own melancholy. It's somewhat new to me: depression, no, but this cruel and constant ache of unhappiness accompanied by a stunted sense of inaction. When I lost Angela and Charlotte (lost, God what a euphemism!), the pain was sharp and agonising and it drove me along that torturous road of revenge. Now, the ache is dull and slow, a constant squeeze that threatens to cut off the blood supply to my chest. Seeing Lisbon, Teresa, every day has become an exercise in torture: a torment to which I have nevertheless become inexorably addicted, unable to change, unable to adapt.
I know that she too is finding it difficult. Our interactions have become awkward, jarring; no longer do we banter freely, exchange knowing witticisms back and forth between us, disguise mild flirting behind feigned frustrations. Now those frustrations are real, and it has reached a point where something must now be done about it before the whole unpleasant mess implodes.
"Jane?"
Uh oh. It looks like that something is going to be happening sooner rather than later. How did she manage to walk right up to me without my noticing? And in heels, too. She's been wearing them a lot lately, it seems. Part of the 'Marcus effect.' I can hear the sarcastic lilt to the comment even in my head. When those heels are accompanied by a skirt, as they are right now, they do something really quite amazing to her legs, and as much as I appreciate this, I am a man after all, an emerging part of me wishes that it occurred instead as a response to the 'Patrick effect.' That particular influence, on the other hand, seems to have no impact on her wardrobe and everything to do with that endearing little frown line she gets between her brows; the one that's right now adorning the face in front of me.
"Teresa. To what do I owe the pleasure? Aren't you supposed to be out for yet another scintillating dinner with the illustrious Agent Pike?'
She crosses her arms over her chest and widens her stance. It pulls her dress in all sorts of new and fascinating directions. "We have a case, Jane. Haven't you checked your phone? And can't you just call him Marcus? I'm getting tired of all the cutesy honorifics."
Cutesy? I wasn't being cutesy, I was being… jealous, belligerent, incorrigible? Probably some combination of the above. But that's not the point. And how did we get to a place where that could even be mistaken for the point?
"My phone's in the trailer. I was just sitting out here, enjoying this delightful spring evening. Join me?" I pat the step beside me.
"Didn't you hear me? I said we have a case." But she sits down anyway, careful to keep a little distance between our bodies. This tiny action brings forth another painful squeeze in my chest and I adjust my own body until our legs and arms touch. She stiffens, but to my intense relief doesn't pull away. We sit there in silence for a long moment, just watching the setting of the sun. At least, she's watching the sunset. I'm watching the way in which the fading light brings out the subtle copper highlights in her hair, tiny dancing fireflies glistening in a glossy darkness. I take sad solace in the little details such as this that I can now allow myself to take note of, to linger in. The old Jane could never have let himself contemplate at any length the deep beauty of that hue, the way the soft raven waves fall against her cheek, the trembling flutter of her eyelashes as they rest for that brief instant on the gentle rise of her cheekbone every time she blinks. I think of a moth's delicate legs quivering on the smooth silk of a blushing petal. If only…
If only what? If only I could speak up? If only I could speak the words that fit with these tiny precious moments? If only I could tell her how I…
Words fail me. But then again, they always have when it comes to my feelings for Lisbon. When there can be no words, I dare myself to consider, can I bring myself to act?
I raise one tentative hand and bring it slowly, gradually, towards her, towards that one lock of dark hair gracing the side of the face. I sweep the strands gently back, a single finger brushing against the smooth shell-pink curve of her tiny ear. She turns to look at me. The frown line is there, deepening, and I have the inexplicable urge to kiss it away. The expression in her eyes is one of reproach, mingled with confusion and sadness.
I move my hand from her ear, down the arc of her face to her chin, and around, until it cups her distant cheek, turning her face towards mine. My thumb smoothes the soft down and I marvel at her stillness, a statue beside me were it not for the warmth I feel spreading beneath my fingers and the gently throbbing pulse point in her neck. My thumb continues to sweep across her cheek until it comes to rest for one still moment at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes close, her chest rises and falls with shaky breath. My own heart beating faster, I trace the fullness of her lower lip, reveling in its tantalizing softness, and my mouth is drawn down to find hers.
A phone's sudden ring blasts through the quiet.
My mind is blank for a moment as she springs away from me like a racehorse at the gate, fumbling in her bag to locate the intruding device.
"Lisbon." A brief pause as she adjusts her hair, smoothing it back from her face, before running her hand down her body to rest, agitated, at her hip. "Yeah, Boss, I know. I'm with him now. We're on our way."
She ends the call and stands there a moment, looking at me. I want to say something, anything that will seal this moment, keep it safe until the time comes when we can return to it, but for some reason I can't read the expression on her face and this distresses me. I stand up and move towards her, but she takes a step back and returns the phone to her bag. Her expression is now familiar, that serious mask she conjures up in an always futile attempt to hide emotion.
"Teresa—"
She dismisses me. "We have to go, Jane."