A/N: I was really upset when I wrote this. I just found out that I can't draw anime, no matter how much I long to. But I think this actually turned out kinda… I don't know how to say it. Maybe after you read it, you'll think of a word to describe it. This is a Lisbon version of what I was feeling, and what I wish could have happened. Please enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Jane and Lisbon would have a baby boy with a girl on the way. Does that even remotely sound like I own it?

Disclaimer 2: I didn't realize that Never Let Them See You Cry is the title of a lot of things. I don't own any of them, and this fic isn't based on anything except my messed up life.

Warnings: OOC, language, and a small but intense (for me to write, at least) amount of fluff

Never Let Him See You Cry

"Dammit!" Lisbon cried, throwing the case folder down on her desk. It hit with a sharp smack, making her headache even more colossal. She whimpered and massaged her temples as tears threatened to spill. "Don't," she warned herself. "Don't do it." She remembered her motto: Never let them see you cry.

When she had regained most of her control, she calmly picked up the folder and began to search relentlessly for something that would give them a lead. The frustration started to build once more, and she slammed the folder onto the desk again. This time, all of the documents and information inside went sliding onto the floor.

Lisbon sat there, staring at the mess of paper, wishing for heat vision. Finally, she put her arms on her desk, laid her forehead on them, and began to cry quietly. This job was so demanding sometimes, so hard… For a moment, Lisbon wondered why she had ever even wanted to become a law enforcement agent in the first place.

It was well past midnight and she had nothing. Nothing to help them solve the murder of two children, brother and sister, found brutally maimed in their mother's attic. She wanted to close this case as soon as possible; the emotional and physical tolls were almost intolerable for her for two reasons: she desperately wanted to find the evil bastard who had done this and lock him up for good; and the little boy looked very similar to a certain blonde she knew.

She cursed softly. Don't think about him. But she found that impossible now. His adorable curly hair, his kind blue eyes, his beautiful smile… "Why can't I stop thinking of you?" she asked herself aloud.

"Thinking of who?" a smooth voice said from her doorway.

To her embarrassment, Lisbon squeaked and jerked her head up. Damn him. "No one."

"Liar," Jane said, walking into the office and stopping in front of her desk. He hadn't noticed the tears yet. Maybe she could— "Lisbon?" he asked, his tone now concerned instead of teasing. "Lisbon, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"

"'m not crying," she mumbled. "Go away. I have work to do."

"Unless you're planning on doing your work on the floor," Jane said, smiling gently so as not to offend her, "you should pick up the papers you need before continuing."

Silently, Lisbon moved from her chair and knelt on the floor, picking up the documents one by one. Jane didn't move to help her, and she hadn't wanted him to, anyway. She was a bit unstable right then, and there was no telling what she would do if she even looked into his eyes. She didn't even want to think about it, but she did.

Once the information was back in its folder and Lisbon was back in her chair, she began to look through it again, reading every line twice. She only realized that going back to the folder was a mistake when Jane cleared his throat and said, "Um, hi?"

"Why are you still here?" she asked, not looking up from the sentence she was halfway through… again. She knew if she got frustrated again, she wouldn't be able to control her emotions this time.

"Because I'm worried about you, Lisbon," he said. "You spend all your nights here, going over and over the information for cases that we've nearly closed; you sleep for a bit, then wake up and start over again half an hour later. It's not healthy. I don't like to think of you here alone. That's why I'm here so late tonight."

Lisbon didn't answer him. She'd just noticed something she hadn't before. Could this be what they needed? She kept reading, reached the bottom of the last page, flipped it, and read the back.

"Lisbon?" Jane looked at her expectantly.

Nothing. She put the case folder down slowly and waited. Instead of gradually making itself known, the exasperation exploded before she could stop it. She started crying again, returning to her previous head-on-arms position. But rather than the soft sobs that she had restained herself to before, she was wailing – weeping – and it scared her.

She heard Jane walk around her desk. "Oh, honey, don't cry," he begged. "Please don't cry anymore."

The only word that registered in Lisbon's muddled mind was honey. He called me "honey."

His arms went around her, and she moved hers so that they were wrapped tightly around his neck. He pulled her up so that she was standing and led her to her couch. She kept crying, instinctively nuzzling against his chest, seeking the comfort that only he could give. She was whispering, "Never let them see you cry," in an attempt to calm herself down. But then she was saying something a little different: "Never let him see you cry." She didn't want him to see her like this - crying in the arms of your consultant wasn't on the Top Twenty Most Unembarrassing Things To Do, after all - but she wasn't leaving now.

Jane was kissing the top of her head repeatedly, murmuring things like, "You're okay," and "It's all right," each accompanied by a term of endearment: "love," "sweetheart," "darling." Lisbon listened to his voice over her sobs. She had never heard him talk like this to anyone. Then he pulled her into his lap, holding her like an infant, and began to rock her. It was so calming to be in his arms. She knew he was doing everything he could think of to get her to relax. She deeply appreciated that he was doing this for her.

She felt herself letting the frustration go. But even as her tears receded, she still clung to Jane. She couldn't find the strength to let go. Thankfully, he didn't seem to mind, and kept pressing kisses into her hair.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his tone careful.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. She didn't know what would happen once she moved away from him, his warm, comforting arms and soft, gentle, soothing kisses. Then she said the only thing she could think of. "I'm sorry."

"I understand. It's hard. It won't get any easier in the near future."

"Gee," she chuckled, "thanks. That helps."

Jane looked at her and smiled. "But I believe that you can face whatever it throws at you, Lisbon. I've never known anyone more stubborn, brave, or smart." He kissed her head again. "You're doing all that you can to solve this, but upsetting yourself to the point of letting me comfort you won't solve anything. Please, get some rest, at home in your own bed, and work on it in the morning."

"Okay," Lisbon agreed, finally pulling away from him. She missed his warmth immediately and itched to pull him back, but other than that, nothing else happened, and she couldn't have cared if something did. She was exhausted. She knew she needed the rest, but she wanted to do a couple more things before she couldn't even manage to keep her eyes open. "First, I want to tell you something." Without waiting for him to reply, she went on. "Don't laugh. When I was a little girl, I wanted to learn how to cross-stitch. I wanted to know how to make pretty things, like my mom and grandma did. So my mom offered to teach me how. Every day after school, we would sit outside and stitch. We would use the same pattern, and she would slow down to help me." She smiled, remembering. "She was a good teacher."

Jane looked confused. "Lisbon, why are you telling me this?"

"Patience. When we had finished the first pattern, we compared our pictures. Hers was infinitely better than mine was, but I didn't think I had done too badly. My mom got it framed for me, and I hung it in my room.

"After she died, we moved to a smaller house. I put all of my things in one box, taking special care to protect my cross-stitch picture. I wrapped it in cloth, bubble wrap, anything soft, putting it in the middle of everything else to cushion it. I wrote 'FRAGILE' all over the box. When we loaded it into the moving van, it was the last thing to go in. I worried about it all the way to the new house."

"Lisbon…" He could tell something bad was coming.

She ignored him. "We got there in an hour, but it felt like days to me. My brothers decided that they wanted to help unload. Since my box was last in, it was first out." Lisbon smiled at Jane forlornly. "They dropped the box from the truck, and dropped it twice more as they were walking upstairs to my new room. I chased them out of the room and tore open the box. Nothing breakable that had been on top was salvageable, so I dug through it until I found my picture. I hadn't thought anything bad would happen it when I packed the box, so I'd put a box of permanent markers on top of it."

"Lisbon, you don't have to tell me this."

Her sad eyes burned into his. "I want to. The glass on the picture had cracked, and the markers had been crushed and had stained the fabric. It was ruined; the last thing I'd ever done with my mother. I wouldn't speak to anyone, and I cried for days. One day, I thought about the picture and started crying again. Then I realized, 'This is ridiculous. You can make a new one. You know how to.' I managed to find the pattern we had used, and I redid the picture. I still have it."

Jane was silent for a minute, not really knowing what to say. Finally, he asked, "What was the picture of?"

"The background was a sunset," Lisbon said, "and over that, there were words." She blushed slightly and didn't continue.

"What were the words?"

"'Never let them see you cry.'"

"I'm sorry, Lisbon." Jane took her hand. "I'm sorry for everything that's happened to you that you didn't deserve."

She smiled at him. "Thank you," she murmured. There was one more thing she wanted to do before she gave in to sleep. She leaned forward and kissed his mouth. His lips responded immediately, forcing hers to open so that he could explore her mouth with his tongue. He tangled one hand in her hair and placed the other on her waist, pulling her closer to him. Lisbon moaned softly; this was exactly the way she imagined it would be.

But she was surprised when he said in a low voice, "I love you, Teresa. You can cry in front of me."

He had seen and experienced one of her weaknesses tonight, and he still loved her. Lisbon decided, then and there, that it was okay to cry when you wanted to, as long as you had someone who would comfort you and understand. She had lost her source of comfort at the age of twelve. Twenty-some years later, she had found it again in the man she loved, who loved her, too. And as they sat on her couch, kissing, sleep all but forgotten, she realized that life wasn't about finding a motto to live your life by.

It was about creating your own.

A/N: I'm really pleased with the way this turned out, even though it's pretty random. (The first version I typed up on Word had a lot of penguins in the beginning. Please don't ask why. If you do, you'll run away screaming. Trust me. It's happened to me before.) I like the way I represented Jane. Also, I wanted to ask you guys: Does it seem like I write too many fics that have Jello moments where Lisbon's crying? It irks me, because I don't want to write the same thing all the time. Please tell me what you think. I will be überhappy!

You have to walk carefully in the beginning of love; the running across fields into your lover's arms can only come later, when you're sure they won't laugh if you trip.