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I Never Promised You a Rose-Garden (III)
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A house with three small children and two dogs in it wakes early. Jane opens one bemused eye, as his brain processes unfamiliar sounds.
There's nothing but a sleepy little growl from under the quilt, and deciding that his darling might be better woken later with care (and coffee), he goes off to shower, makes his way downstairs with unusual trepidation.
The kitchen is already a hive of activity. Outside the door to the laundry room, the dogs make a protest that they cannot get in. Michael and Daniel are absorbed in a welter of juice and cereal. Sam is already wrestling something that resembles a young pterodactyl into the oven. (Her parents and her sister's family will be joining them.) Niall, who has got most of Robbie's breakfast into him, gives him a cheery wave of a plastic spoon.
"Morning. Tree didn't keep you awake with her snoring, then?"
"I've...adapted." He'd slept surprisingly well, for him. Usually, a strange bed and uncertainty keep him wakeful. But a small, warm armful seems to be changing that. "I..."
The door-catch gives suddenly, and Scooter and Dub throw themselves at Jane again, convinced that all he needs to make his morning complete is a new covering of dog-hair and dribble. Juice gets turned over in the boys' attempt to be helpful, and Robbie starts grizzling. Even Sam is beginning to fray at the edges, scolding as she attempts to juggle mopping up, dogs and apologies.
"I'll deal with the poopmeister, darling." Niall drops a kiss on his wife, swings his smallest son up. "C'mon, stinker." Grimaces at Jane. "Sorry about this, we're not normally this hectic."
"It's fine." Jane grins back, finally gets a hold on Dub's collar. "Breakfast theatre. It could catch on. Really."
Doesn't really get a chance to sit down. Michael is nearly eight, and Daniel is five, and to them, he's another useful play-mate, and they don't see why he wants to spend time doing boring grown-up things like eating breakfast.
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Lisbon rolls over, finds the bed cold, and opens her eyes. Not too unusual an occurrence, though she realizes how far gone she is when she becomes impatient at the lack of coffee materializing. Laughs at herself, and stumbles sleepily off to wash. It would never do to let him know that he is becoming an indispensable part of her morning routine. That she wants him to be. Squashes that thought hastily.
When she gets downstairs, she finds his absence explained. He's been roped into playing soccer with the older boys. (The dogs are helping.)
Waves out of the window at him. He waves back, hands in a 't' shape, hopeful smile. She mimes an exaggerated eye-roll, grinning. She hopes he might actually let the boys win, but fears he won't.
Sam, up to her elbows in the sink, peeling potatoes, looks from the window to Teresa.
"He's very good with children...oh." She falters, blushes.
Always that awkwardness.
"We see so many dreadful things at work, it's nice to see kids who are just being happy." And to see him happy, too. (Absently, she's searching for the tea.)
"Morning, sis." Niall settles the newly clean and now placid Robbie back in his high-chair. "Oh, heck, are our monsters bothering him?"
"He's keeping them out from underfoot for me." Sam says, looking stricken. "He seemed quite keen when they asked him."
"Sometimes he has a mental age of six." Lisbon says dryly, smiles at her sister-in-law. "Just be forever grateful that we don't have Sean here as well."
"I think Gremlin might have some competition for the title of favourite uncle." Niall slings an arm round his sister's shoulders, watches her carefully dunking the tea-bag. "You're off the hard stuff in the mornings, now?"
"I..." Shuts her eyes, knows that he will never let her live this down. "Trust me, he's vile about his tea. I'm thinking of taking him out to Celestial Seasonings, and letting him loose to annoy them."
Niall grins, and merely obeys his wife's silent frown to refresh the coffee-pot.
Jane comes jogging back to the house, summoned by the waving of a mug. He doesn't look particularly distressed – slightly winded, but grinning hugely. Small shadows jostle at his heels, talking excitedly, vying for his attention.
It's not as hard as he thought it might be. Perhaps because they are boys. There is nothing to remind him of his daughter in the dark, sturdy little creatures who drag on his hands. Their wide hazel eyes and dark heads remind him rather more of the woman smiling sleepily at him over the table, warming her hands on her own mug of coffee.
Drops an apologetic kiss on her upturned face as he scoops up his tea.
"I was intending to pander to your caffeine addiction, sweetheart, but I got press-ganged."
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By mid-morning, and the run up to Dinner-time, the house is stretched to bursting point, two more children in the mix. A boy slightly older than Robbie, which just means that he can fling his food further, and a solemn little girl with glasses and poker-straight hair, aged between her cousins.
Not used to this many people just going about their lives. Frenetic activity of a crime scene, families ripped apart in various ways, aftermath and debris...Here, it is simply the clamour of voices, laughter and anecdote. Strange role reversal, he finds himself in a three-way discussion with Sam and her sister Jen over pie recipes. Lisbon is discussing guns with Jen's husband Carl, and Sam's father. But it suits them, and they don't care what anyone else thinks. Sam's mother might be a little inclined to purse her lips, but she turns out to be susceptible to the Jane charm, and can soon be heard imparting wisdom on the subject of peach cobbler.
Dinner is a triumphant parade of dishes. And if Jane doesn't take part in the Grace, he doesn't actively cause offence either, biting down on his tongue for once, mindful of hospitality, and the hand holding his under the edge of the table.
...In his mind, he remembers dimly, home-cooked meals around a large table, accents that were pure mountain, last time he had anything approaching a family, before they had to move on again. Nearest thing he ever had to a grandmother, Tullai's Gram...
Mid-afternoon, and Sean calls, with his usual litany of bizarre turkey-related mishaps, cheerfully teasing his sister about the lack of wild excitement to be had at Niall's...
"...Yeah, 'cos tonight Mr Party-animal is going to be sitting in his apartment, watching Pickle attempt to eat her own weight in kitty-treats..." Lisbon laughs down the phone. "...yeah, he's here...Patrick?"
Startled to be included, Jane takes the phone.
"Happy Turkey Day. You've met the Stepford Lisbons now - how are you finding my lovely nephews?"
"They're nice kids."
A laugh.
"See if you still think they're nice kids when they come and sit on your head at five in the morning. In my absence, guess it's up to you to be the bad influence on them, I consider it our duty to save them from becoming as boringly conformist as my big brothers..."
Lisbon isn't sure what Sean has just said, but she doesn't like that grin on Jane's face.
"...oh, which reminds me, I told Dom that our sister has shacked up with some godless dabbler in dark and occult forces. He'll probably call to exorcise you later..."
Jane is still sniggering when he repeats this piece of news. Lisbon rather dreads a verbal run-in between Dom and Patrick. He seems unconcerned.
"Meh. His Jesuit mind tricks won't work on me..." Waves his hand. "These aren't the 'droids..."
Niall nearly chokes on his drink, laughing.
Dom does call, but he has to break off the call to deal with an altercation between two of the homeless in the shelter where he's serving dinner before he has a chance to say much more than 'hello'.
Jane looks rather thoughtful for a while after.
The Lisbon siblings had hung together in the face of tragedy and the disintegration of their happy childhood. Dealt with it in different ways. Teresa seeks justice, answers, closure for those who have lost people, puts herself in harm's way for others, takes care of those in her charge. Niall seeks to be everything his own father stopped being. Dominic has found his own security, a benevolent father figure, idealization of an absent maternal archetype. Maybe he provides hope and comfort to those who choose to believe, but it seems that he also has a practical side. Sean does what he can for people in pain.
They bicker with each other, some of them don't get along as well as they could. Spread out over the width of the country, they don't see each other much, sporadic visits. But they are still a family.
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They leave the boys with their grandparents, to have a civilized evening out for the grown-ups...
...Teresa, slithering about on the ice, and he catches her before she follows her turkey down the marked lane, both of them clutching each other and laughing.
Patrick, face intent as he hefts his own turkey, lining up his shot, fierce concentration. She's entertained by the fact that he can be so insanely competitive, even when it involves slinging frozen poultry about. And, as usual with anything involving hand-eye co-ordination, he's pretty good.
It's loud and silly, and about as far from sophisticated as you can get, and it has to be some of the most fun he's had in a long time. He's just knocked a load of plastic pins down with a dead bird, and he feels good about it, because Teresa is flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him. For tonight, he's simply a man showing off to his admiring girlfriend. And the world doesn't end. He cannot and will not regret it – there is no man who could, seeing those eyes and that smile.
Niall watches his sister jumping up and down and squealing as Patrick gets a strike, the proud way he flings his arms up and grins at her. Hopes this guy will treat her the way she deserves. Thinks he will, by the way he drops a tender kiss onto her cold nose, scolds her into turning her collar up. Knows as well as anyone could, how little Tree needs protecting from anything, but it's still a good thing to see someone trying to take care of her for a change. The fact that she's letting him do it says a lot.
"Hey." Sam slips her hand into his. "Whatcha doing?"
"Watching them." Kisses his wife. "What do you think?"
"I think it could turn into something serious. He's the first guy she's dared let us meet."
"Well, this one isn't married..." Bites his lip. "Shit. Poor bastard." Instinctively, they cuddle closer. "I can't imagine..."
"Don't." She shivers. "Just don't, Ny."
Common consent, primal need, they want to get home, see their boys. The evening temperature is dropping fast, it doesn't take much to persuade the other two – it's considerably chillier than Sacramento, and neither of them are used to it.
"You're forgetting your roots, woman." Jane teases her, yelps when freezing hands find warm skin under his shirt.
Strolling back down Pearl Street. Part of the holiday crowd, and for a moment, Jane can truly feel part of it, too. The glass wall is shivering, cracking now, he's no longer apart from the world, observing it, he's drawn into the flow. Time is moving on, and he's moving with it. Not all the pain is bad.
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Thinks afterwards that perhaps it is his very dread of them that draws the nightmares to him, evil moths to the flame of his fear. Blood and blades and darkness, and he comes up out of it, reaching out to find his Teresa, alive and whole.
There have been a good few nights when she has held him, reassured him that she is there, she is safe. Talked him back into the now. He can never, will never tell her what he has seen in his nightmares, but she has seen the crime scene photos herself. This shattering pain in him is not new.
"I've had to bury everyone I've ever loved." Holding her so tightly, he's hurting her. "I can't do it again. I won't."
"Hush. Hush, darling...Patrick, let me breathe..." Struggles a little, until he releases her, only so far, caged in his arms. His eyes are still slightly wild, and she smoothes the damp hair back off his forehead. Watches his face move from that sleep-dazed fear to waking mortification.
Doesn't want to try and sleep again, wants to creep out into the night and hide himself. Feels like he's polluted this place, somehow. Hopes that this has just been one of his silent night terrors, and not one of the loud ones.
Even when she has slipped back into sleep, he lies staring into the dark, body taut with angry shame. How long will she endure this? How long must he?
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Wakes, gritty-eyed, stiff neck and sour mouth. Hears Sam shepherding the boys outside, cringes from her words.
"...Uncle Patrick isn't feeling well, you leave him be, 'kay?"
But five minutes later, a scuffling at the door, and then there's a knock. He can't face them, turns his head. Teresa slips out of bed, and he hears her talking softly, high-pitched agitated whispers. Almost flinches away, when she shakes his shoulder gently.
"Patrick?" Makes him sit up, see them.
Daniel, face solemn, hefting a lamp in his small hands, the cartoon shade askew and flex trailing. Michael, the spokesman.
"Mom said you had a bad dream last night, so we want you to have our light."
He's going to lose it completely, in front of this whole wonderful, lovely family, he can feel it. He manages a nod to Danny, who hands the precious night-light over, satisfied that he's done what he can, and Teresa shoos them gently out.
She looks at him, sitting there, with the ridiculous little lamp in his hands. Raises his head and looks back at her. Nothing to hide behind. Love and awe and laughter and the beginnings of tears in his eyes.
"They wanted to." she says. "Life's simple when you're that age."
He reaches one blind hand for her, drowning grip.
"I love you. Us. Together. But...children." he says, hoarsely. "I can't...not with - Him still out there."
Every day that passes, this bubble that he lives in, pretending that he can be normal, simply trying to live, day to day, because - looking back is an inferno of pain and guilt, but he can't look forward, for himself or for them. Not while the monster is still out there in the world, thorn in his mind, prickle of pain across his skin.
She stares at him. This house, this life around them...it isn't what she has ever thought of, ever planned for herself. She's never particularly wanted children of her own. It isn't that she dislikes them – she's quite capable of going soft and gooey over a small baby – but she has been on her own for so long, finds it quite strange enough adjusting to another adult in her life. Cannot see how she would ever manage her job together with the demands of a child.
Cannot see how she could manage the demands of her job and a child, and this terribly damaged man here in front of her.
But this mental leap to a future, even as he denies it... He does things to her, messes with her mind even when he doesn't mean to. Knows that he has gone too far, by the dawning look on his own face, at the blank shock on hers, but he doesn't let go of her hand. She tries to turn the conversation to a lighter place.
"Where did you ever get the idea that I might want another one of you?"
Some of the tension going out of him, but his face is still serious.
He hadn't ever planned on children – his own utter disaster of an upbringing was no example, his father hardly a role model, he'd become so used to his unsettled existence, couldn't quite adjust to even having a home. Her announcement had terrified him, the ultimate move in the game, their daughter's clear declaration of her new allegiance. And then – this little creature in his hands. Wonder and fear.
He can try to find a way back to love, but he had failed so utterly in the role of a father, he doesn't think he can ever dare to trust himself so far again.
She's watching him closely.
"I don't want anything but you." Tells him, with a quiet intensity that takes the breath out of him. "Just you, Patrick. We'll get through this together."
He doesn't quite trust his voice, just stretches out an arm, wordless gesture. She cuddles up, kisses him softly.
"They like you, you know. Not just the kids."
She moves to get up, and he tightens his arms.
"Just...a few minutes more. Please."
She settles back into his arms, and he just holds her warmth close, reassurance of life and love. 'Humble' has never been a word in his vocabulary, but he's...grateful.