A/N: Just some Jisbon angst, because why not?
You're right. You're right. I have forgotten how to act like a normal human being. And I play games. I lie. And I trick people to avoid the truth of how I feel. And the idea of letting anyone close to me is, is terrifying for obvious reasons. But the truth, Teresa, is that I can't imagine waking up knowing that I won't see you. The truth is - I love you. You can't imagine how good that feels to say out loud. But it scares me and it is the truth. It is the truth of what I feel.
What had possessed him to say that out loud?
Worse still, to say it after following her to the airport, getting blocked by a number of guards, and stealing aboard a plane?
How could he have been so ridiculously stupid?
She didn't love him, of course she didn't. He lied to her and tricked her and played games with her trust, and sometimes let her stand by his side when he felt he couldn't pull his plan off alone. Why would she care for him, him, when she had someone like Marcus Pike in her life, sweet, reliable Marcus, who never forced her into anything, who trusted her, who was frank with her, who loved her? The only reason she'd managed to stand her consultant was because she felt sorry for him.
He hated it when people felt sorry for him.
Most days, he didn't think about her- his organized mind was handy for distracting his thoughts. Whenever he felt her absence like a dagger sticking into his heart, he clutched his wedding ring, which he had put back on a couple of months after she left.
Angela, he reminded himself. You didn't get Teresa, but at least you didn't betray Angela's memory.
That wasn't working today.
It was impossible for him to ignore her- not when she was sitting in front of him, like she always did, as if she had never left, coffee in hand, looking at the menu of the tiny café. It was a small establishment- only two tables, since most of its business depended on takeout, but the food was mouth-watering, and he had been a regular customer here for a while now. No point in grabbing takeout if there was no one to return home to.
"Mr. Jane!" Agatha, the barista beamed at him. "Nice to see you, sir. The usual?"
He saw her head shoot up from the corner of his eye at the sound of his name. "Yes, yes, the usual." He muttered. On other days he might have chatted with Agatha, making small talk, listening to gossip, maybe some harmless flirting- but not today. Not when she was here. No when she was the only one he wanted to talk to and run away from at the same time.
Agatha talked happily as she got his order ready, about the local gossip, about the new building cropping up nearby, and how the coffee grounds you got these days simply weren't as good anymore. He replied absent-mindedly, enough to keep the conversation going, and collected his order and made his way to the empty table.
She wasn't looking at him anymore, he saw. She was staring out of the window, looking at the busy traffic. And he couldn't help but remember long hours spent in cars, driving to a crime scene, spent in comfortable silence or playful conversations, bantering over the details of the plan to arrest a criminal, her exasperation at his reckless actions. She was the only person who had managed to break down his walls, and he was a fool, an utter fool- he had taken her for granted, assumed that she would never leave, that she was as constant as the sun rising in the east.
Should he talk to her?
Should he?
He should, right?
No, he shouldn't.
He should.
No.
Yes.
No.
Would tossing a coin be too obvious?
He sneaked another look at her, but she had returned to looking at her phone screen. She was wearing a ring on her finger- how he hadn't noticed it before, he didn't know.
You fool, he told himself and returned to drinking his coffee.
It had been a year since she had been in Austin. But one of their cases needed her to be here, so here she was.
Most of the time, she was able to keep her mind off the one person she desperately missed the most, and ever since she had accepted Marcus's proposal, she had done her best to forget him. And yet, there were days- days when she'd turn around, expecting to see his smile- not Marcus's sweet and encouraging look, but Jane's smile, full of mischief and humor with crinkles from constant smiling, grinning like a Cheshire cat and merry eyes twinkling like Christmas lights. Or maybe she'd be searching a room of a house where a murder took place, and she could almost hear him calling her. Lisbooon!
Sometimes, she would use the tricks that he taught her- once, she had known that the man in front of her was lying about his age from nothing but his hands. He'd had everything that money could do for him, and his skin had been clear and spotless like a younger person's, but his hands had given him away. When her colleague asked her how she had known, she'd waved it off as 'experience from a previous case'. Leaving out the fact that Jane had taught her this. Look at their hands, Lisbon. Always look at their hands. They can do all they want to their faces and necks and clothes and whatnot, but they can't disguise their hands.
Or the time he had taught her about how shoes could tell her how much money a person really had. Take a note of everyone's shoes. You can borrow all the clothes that you want in this world, but in nine cases out of ten they wear their own shoes. Especially women.
Her colleagues in DC were nice and friendly, but that was all that they were. They were friendly colleagues. Not friends. Not confidantes. Not partners.
She spent most of her time waiting for something to go wrong, for a file of complaints to land at her desk, or for a room to mysteriously blow up, but it never happened. Because of course, Jane wasn't there, so who was going to do all the ridiculous things that exasperated her?
Her days felt dull, indeed.
She was being uncharitable to Marcus- he was nice, but he wasn't Jane. He wasn't Patrick. Marcus was like a sunny glade or a beautiful garden- peaceful and calm and relaxing- but Jane was like a thunderstorm, all thunder and lightning and adrenaline, but thunderstorms were precious, they were beautiful, and there was something about the soul-baring ferocity of them that made one feel alive.
The truth is, I love you.
Oh God.
Oh God.
Why hadn't he told her before? Why had he waited for so long? Why couldn't she have known before she agreed to Marcus's proposal?
Why, Jane?
She quietly sipped her coffee and checked her messages. She heard the door to the little café open, but she didn't look up, instead choosing to reply to a work email.
"Mr. Jane! Nice to see you, sir. The usual?" She heard the barista speak.
It was almost a reflex action to turn and look at him. Think of the devil, she thought.
He didn't seem to have noticed her- he looked lost in thought. He replied briefly to the waitress, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. He sat down at the other table without looking at her.
So he had noticed her, because there was no way he hadn't taken a note of the only other customer in the place.
He didn't want to speak to her.
But she wanted to. She really wanted to.
She wanted to tell him that she was sorry. That she didn't want to hurt him. That he mattered to her. That he was her first choice- would always be her first choice, no matter what.
That she loved him.
But she had been taught too well by her father- that a promise was a promise was a promise, and Teresa Lisbon may not have gotten along well with her father- but she always kept her promises.
And the symbol of her her promise was currently resting on her finger.
And so, despite everything, despite years of companionship and trust, despite laughter and smiles and tears and pain and a thousand other things they had once shared, they found themselves silent in each other's company. In that moment, if someone had asked them whether they knew each other, they would both have remembered a million memories and then simply said that they used to. Because ten years weren't enough to break the barrier of a tiny hoop of gold sitting on her finger. Because ten years of love and trust and friendship failed against the opposition of one promise.
So they both just drank their coffee and pretended not to look at each other.
A/N: I'm sorry?
Edit: Why is Brett Partridge a character tag, but Marcus Pike isn't?