A/N: I'm taking some liberties with the letter here, since we know that Jane first apologized to Lisbon for leaving her on the beach in the letter he had just sent when he was apprehended.
Also, if you're curious, Jane is reading the Inspector Gamache series by Louise Penny. If you want to read some really beautifully written, non-gory mysteries, I recommend them. They are outstanding.
Lisbon,
It's the rainy season here, which means fewer tourists but also lots of time spent inside. I'm running out of things to read in English. Luckily, I think my Spanish is improving substantially.
Maybe I'm melancholy because of the rain, but I've been thinking about the day I left you on the beach. I never really apologized for that. I know it was low, even for me.
I need you to know that I meant what I said right before I left. You have no idea what you've meant to me all these years. Hopefully all my letters to you prove that you still mean more to me that you know. Sometimes you're the only thing that keeps me sane.
XXX
Jane stayed up too late the next night, drinking endless pots of Earl Grey and planning. "Planning" resembled reclining on the couch in his airstream and flipping through a dog-eared paperback, but his mind was in two places at once.
First and foremost it was generating ideas for making Lisbon happy—for wooing her, really. The other half of his brain was following Inspector Gamache's efforts to solve a murder in rural Quebec.
Gamache seemed to be holding his own, so he set down the book and closed his eyes, focused on Lisbon. Roses would never do, she wasn't the type. And she'd turn up her nose at a fancy French restaurant. She might appreciate a date somewhere classy, but in her heart she was a bacon-cheeseburger kind of girl.
The truth was, he didn't exactly know what she did on her dates. He knew she had them, occasionally, and a few one-night stands. He knew about Mashburn, although he still wondered why Lisbon had been embarrassed, hiding in the bathroom when he'd shown up. He supposed her standing out in the open, broadcasting her sexual exploits might have been awkward.
He knew she'd go to dinner and the movies with her friends occasionally, but that was all so banal. He needed to do something big. Special. Like the pony. She'd loved the pony.
Opening to the last page of the book he reached for a pen and began jotting down wooing ideas. Not that he needed to write them down to remember, but he needed to see them in black and white to tell himself he was really going to do this.
He was going to make it up to Lisbon, and if his plans worked, he'd have a kiss by Christmas.
XXX
Jane strolled into the office two hours late the next day, having fallen asleep around three and not bothered with an alarm.
Lisbon wasn't at her desk, which concerned him, until he saw a paper cup of coffee sitting in the trashcan that had been emptied the previous night. The white plastic lid had her lipstick imprint on it—a nearly sheer nude tone she'd only recently started wearing. She was here; she just wasn't at her desk.
Abbott strolled out of his office, wearing the expression of a long-suffering man. "Mr. Jane, how kind of you to join us," he said dryly.
"You're very welcome," Jane replied politely. "I was going to get to some tea. Want anything?" A personality, perhaps?
Abbott ignored him. "Can you tell me why you're two hours late?"
"Uh, traffic," Jane replied blithely.
Abbott, clearly not amused, crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I find that hard to believe considering the fact that you currently live in a FBI appropriated Airstream Trailer in our parking lot. Which," he added, "I have asked you to move. Repeatedly."
"As soon as I find a trailer park with good feng shui," Jane assured him.
The truth was that he planned on leaving the trailer there as long as it irritated Abbott. He'd even bought a potted tree for his front "yard" and an Adirondack chair. He'd sit out there after work, sipping his tea and reading, waiting for Abbott to leave (one of the last, always) so he could cheerfully wave goodbye to him.
"Where's Lisbon?" Jane asked, changing the subject before Abbott could continue his reprimand.
"Working, like you're supposed to be," Abbott said. "I had a box of cold cases delivered to your desk this morning. You know, that article of furniture you're so invested in ignoring? I'd like you to go through them, see if anything catches your eye."
"Lisbon is supposed to be working with me," he replied, a little too quickly and a little too penchantly. "That was the deal."
Abbott raised an eyebrow. "Lisbon is currently training on our new computer system. Since you seem unaware of how to turn your laptop on, I assumed we were wasting our time in setting you up for training as well." His voice was laced with sarcasm. "Is that acceptable to you?"
Jane sniffed. "For now." Then he left Abbott to stew and went in search of Wylie.
The Coyote was sitting at his desk, hunched over a computer terminal, white cords leading up to his ears. Jane could hear the faint buzz of what sounded like death metal coming from them.
He stood in front of Wylie and mimicked speaking, opening and closing his mouth but making no sound.
The analyst pulled the earbuds out. "Huh?"
"I need you do me a favor," Jane replied.
"Okay," said Wylie, looking eager.
"Can you 'Google' something for me?" Jane asked.
Wylie's face fell. "Seriously man?" He sighed and opened a new page on his screen. "What do you need?"
Jane leaned forward and divulged the first part of his plan.
XXX
Lisbon re-appeared late in the day, wearing a pair of slim-fitting black slacks and a royal blue silk blouse. Her hair was down and curly. She had earrings in—little sapphire studs.
He was laying on the couch, and he set the folder he'd been flipping through on his lap, folding his arms behind his head so he could watch her.
She'd been dressing more femininely lately—although there'd never been mistaking Lisbon for anything but feminine. Now that she wasn't the boss, she seemed less invested in hiding behind leather jackets and blazers. The change was…delectable.
She caught him staring, but he didn't care. "Nice of you to show up today," she said dryly.
"I've been here slaving away all day," he replied. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
She rolled her eyes and wandered into the break room. In need of oolong himself, he got up and followed her.
Lisbon ignored the coffee pot and went to the fridge instead, pulling out a white cardboard box and opening it.
Jane wrinkled his nose. "What is that?" he asked, opening the tea cabinet (he'd added several brightly colored sticky notes to the door that said 'tea cabinet' in all capital letters).
"Late lunch, early dinner," she replied, opening the microwave door.
"Lisbon, is that… a Hot Pocket?" he asked, aghast.
She turned the microwave on. "Yeah?"
"That's disgusting," he said. He pushed past her, opened the microwave and tossed the half thawed thing in the trash.
"Jane! That was my lunch!" she yelled.
She normally favored spring green salads or chicken-salad sandwiches with slivered almonds and bits of apple. What had changed?
"I'm sorry, but as your friend I can't let you eat that," he replied. "It's not even food."
"Well, I'm still living out of a motel so I can't exactly make myself a nice bagged lunch to go," she replied sharply, hands on hips.
He felt a kick of guilt in his gut. The reason she was living out of a motel was because he dragged her here. He already had his shiny new Airstream, and she was sleepy on a lumpy mattress in discount motel. He'd uprooted her life. Again.
"You haven't found an apartment yet?" he asked, realizing he should have known sooner.
She shrugged. "I haven't had a lot of time to look. Besides, I need to figure out what to do with my house in Washington."
"You had a house?" he asked.
He remembered her beige, totally impersonal rented condo in Sacramento. She'd had unpacked boxes in the hallway years after moving in.
"Yeah," she said a little wistfully, "it was a nice place. Cozy. I had a fireplace and a yard. I thought about getting a dog."
The mention of getting a dog made him feel sad. She should have a dog.
He started to realize that she hadn't just found a place to live and a job, she'd really found a home, a legitimate one.
Maybe, if he'd never come back she'd had moved on, found someone to share that cozy home with. Maybe a barista, named Kevin, who knew how to make her lattes perfectly. Kevin probably had a beard and an excellent record collection and a great relationship with his parents.
Jane hated Kevin. Fucking Kevin.
"Well then, we need to find you a place," he said suddenly. He couldn't have her living out of a motel for the next year—not like he had done.
"I think I can manage on my own," she pointed out, looking at him like he was a little crazy.
"I don't doubt you can, my dear," he replied, "but I can tell you if the place has the right energy. And I owe you dinner." He looked down at the hot pocket, sitting on top of the trash, pale and sad.
"Energy? That sounds like fake psychic baloney," she replied. "But you do owe me dinner, that's for sure." She pointed at him. "And you're paying."
She thought he was cheap. He needed to fix that too. He really wasn't, he just didn't carry around a lot of money and it certainly didn't mean much to him. All the money in the world hadn't made him feel better…well, after.
But she deserved the best place money could buy, so he was going to get it for her.
"Let's go," he said, gesturing to the door, one hand on the small of her back.
XXX
Teresa decided that Jane had somehow managed to get weirder during his island sojourn. He'd always been eccentric, but lately he seemed a little bit crazed. She'd caught him staring at her…appreciatively on more than one occasion. That was nice, but a little weird. Also he'd been way too touched by the socks. He wore them every day. She suspected he washed them at night in his sink and left them to dry for the next morning. She hoped to God that's what he was doing.
Now he was insisting on buying her dinner and going apartment shopping, something that would have normally way too boring to interest him.
His current vehicle was a big F-150 hooked to his trailer, so they took her FBI issued car to the restaurant. It was situated in an outdoor shopping plaza, bustling with Christmas shoppers. The whole plaza was done up in brickwork and was strung with white and glittering holiday lights.
He directed her to a restaurant in the middle of the chaos, and since parking was abysmal, she opted for valet.
Jane opened the restaurant door for her and ushered her in with a hand on her back. He'd been touching her a lot lately too.
The place was filled to capacity, the loud sound of live music coming from the back of the dining room.
"We're never going to get a table!" she shouted over the din of conversation, clinking utensils, and, to her delight, soulful blues music.
"I made arrangements," he replied, talking at a normal volume but right next to her ear so she could hear him. His lips brushed against her skin and she tried not to shiver. His beard tickled and she scratched her ear when he pulled away.
Jane said something to the hostess, and she led them down a hallway and up a short flight of stairs. There were a handful of tables set up on a tiered level above the main dining room. She realized that the building was a converted theatre of some kind. The tables looked out to the main stage where a band was enthusiastically crooning the blues.
It was easier to hear up there. "How did you set this up on such short notice?" she asked, impressed.
"I, uh, called ahead earlier," he admitted. "I thought we would go out tonight. I would have confirmed the plans with you, but you were in training so I just took a chance."
She was strangely touched that he would have thought to take her out for music and dinner, and also that he would have considered checking the plans with her first.
It wasn't a fancy restaurant, but a music house, really, that specialized in barbeque, good beer and excellent music. It was everything she loved.
They ordered platters of gleaming ribs, cornbread, spicy slaw and French fries. She had a beer, cold and perfect, and Jane actually had a bottle himself before switching back to water.
They didn't speak for nearly the entire duration of the meal, her eyes were locked on the stage, her body unconsciously swaying to the music. She'd always loved the blues. Chicago had its fair share of great bands and venues, and it was probably the one interest she'd had in common with her father.
He'd called it 'equipment for living,' and she understood. Sometimes, when things were rough she wanted to wail out her sorrows with a great band backing her up.
She smiled wryly. More often than not she'd had the Patrick Jane Blues or the I Need to Apologize to a Congressman Now Blues.
The song they were playing now was about unrequited love, painful and exquisite.
"What are you thinking about?" Jane asked, taking her beer bottle and helping himself to a swig.
She pondered at the fact that he'd always been willing to steal her food, her drinks, as if sharing saliva with her held no aversion for him.
"Thinking about my dad," she admitted a little sadly. "And you, to be honest."
"Me?" he asked.
"I've got the Patrick Jane Blues," she teased.
Something like remorse crossed his face. "I'm not that bad, am I?"
"Not usually," she said. "But you've got your moments."
He reached out across the table and held her hand. She let him. He felt warm and nice. "I hope a lot less of them now," he admitted. "And I'm sorry for giving you a repertoire of sad songs to sing."
"They aren't all sad," she said. "Some of them are funny."
"I've got the Left On the Beach Blues," he said. "That one was sad."
She was surprised he brought it up. "Yeah, it was."
He'd really hurt her that time. Really.
She thought he'd finally opened up to her, admitting that he cared, that she was his best friend, just like she considered him hers.
"I meant what I said that day," he said slowly. "Before I left you there. It wasn't a lie. I just didn't want you involved. I wanted to spare your career and maybe your life."
"Well, that worked out great, on the career piece," she said dryly. Then more gently she said, "You should have trusted me."
He looked away from her to the band, his hand squeezing hers a little. "I spent two years realizing that. I'm sorry, Teresa."
His words surprised her, made her a little uncomfortable. They were shockingly sincere. "Okay," she said dumbly.
They stayed there for a long time, sharing beers, holding hands, neither of them quite willing to move.
When they finally left it was after ten, and Jane took the keys from her the minute they hit the cool air outside and the valet returned the car.
"I had less to drink than you," he said, helping her into the passenger seat.
She wasn't about to argue. She felt pleasantly buzzed.
She rested her head on the seatback and trusted Jane to get her back to her motel safely. As she drifted off she felt his hand take hers once more, holding it between their seats, and she didn't bother to pull away.
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