Thought of the day: Just accidentally sent my agent a chapter of this fan-fiction instead of my edits of a few chapters that I've been working on. She was all "is this your idea of a joke?"
She thinks she's so cool organizing my book for me and whatnot. Well, think again bitch, I got FF to write.
A/N: Another short one. It's pretty much Part 2 of the last chapter though, I just felt like they needed to be split up. Also, possible/probable M rated scene below (I don't know how these ratings work, the point is, there is gunna be sexy times).
Edit: Hey guys I'm horribly busy at the moment and also I'm now into the more complicated part of this story. I'm working on the next 4 or 5 chapters now, and won't post the next one before I've figured out exactly where I'm going with it. But I'm getting there! Thanks for all your feedback it's been really helpful.
I am transfixed by the photo of Angela Jane. It's possible that I have never seen someone look so happy. She is smiling radiantly at the camera. At the photographer.
I look back at Jane. He is looking just as intensely at the photo of the Grey twins as I am at the photo of his long dead wife.
By now, Rigsby and Cho have appeared behind me, alerted by Jane's cries. They look from the photo in my hands to the ones in Jane's.
"Shit," Cho says.
"What does it mean?" I whisper.
Jane looks up at us with a forced smile. "It might be nothing."
"Shit," Cho says again.
How did none of us notice? It's true that the photo of Angela that we are most used to is the one the media showed at the time of her death. An older Angela, an Angela holding a young girl in her arms. The photo in my hands was taken years before that, but the similarities to Lucy and Harriet Grey are uncanny.
"What about the Hall boys, do they look like... like anyone?" Van Pelt asks, appearing alongside us.
Jane opens the second case file and scans the pictures. "No," he says. "I don't think so."
He looks up at me helplessly and I cringe and close my eyes. "I don't know who it is," he says.
I want to sit with him, to hold him. But not in front of the team.
I turn to them. "Go and find everything you can about those girls. Anyone they've ever talked to, ever looked at."
One by one they leave and go back to their desks and I watch them walk away. Then I look down at the picture in my hands. It feels wrong, like I shouldn't be touching it. I hold it out to him, feeling a bit awkward. "Here."
He takes it wordlessly then gives me another strained smile. "Sorry."
"For what?"
He shakes his head. "You know. The picture. It's just always been in there, it's not-"
"It's fine," I say. I want to ask him to leave with me, right now. To go home, to deal with this tomorrow. But I don't. I stand there, looking down at him, lost for words.
"Not a coincidence after all," he says.
"No," I agree.
"I finished my profile," he tells me, handing me six napkins covered in nearly illegible scrawls. "Well, I thought I had anyway."
"Professional," I say.
"Sticking it to the man," he replies.
I hold the napkins gingerly, then finally put them in the top drawer of my desk. "Jane?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you want to get out of here?"
He gets up and puts the files in the drawer with the napkins. He looks down at the picture of his wife, considering it, then puts it in the drawer too.
He turns to me. "Not the most original pick up line, Lisbon, but I'll let it slide."
He insists on making me dinner and I don't argue with him. While we eat, I try to decide whether I should be asking him about the case, or distracting him from it.
When he finishes his plate, he waits for me, then takes both the plates to the dishwasher. Then he walks back, moves his seat closer to mine, and puts his hands on my thighs.
"In detention," he starts, wary, uncertain, "in detention I had a lot of time to think."
He looks down at his hands and I wait for him to continue.
"I thought about you. I thought about what was best for you, and if it was me."
"You don't get to choose what's best for me," I say, and he grimaces.
"That's not what I meant. I mean, I was trying to figure out if I was ready for you. To be what you need. I decided that I wasn't."
"You can't just decide-"
"Oh shut up, Teresa," he says. "I can decide what I want, and you can decide what you want. And at the time, I decided that I wasn't ready. I hope that doesn't..." his upper lip twitches with suppressed laughter, "...displease you."
I frown, and his smile breaks through. "I'm always displeasing you, aren't I?"
"You're a bit difficult sometimes," I say, refusing to bite.
He chuckles. "Don't be ridiculous, I'm an absolute delight and you know it."
When I begin to smile back, he touches my lips. "I'm trying to be serious. Sorry. What I'm trying to say is that I've loved you for a long time, Teresa."
I lean forward and kiss him, not able to stop myself. He pulls away after a while. "I haven't finished talking, woman, control yourself."
I laugh this time, and kiss him again. He feigns anger, but pulls me onto his lap.
"I'm trying to tell you how much you mean to me, you shameless hussy," he says. "Do you want to hear it or not?"
"It would me much more fun if you showed me," I reply.
My bravado dims when I remember the events of the day. The picture of his wife had rattled me. And reminded me of all the reasons that we have been keeping each other at arms length.
"I don't want to pressure you..."
He laughs. "I'm not a virgin, Teresa. Do you think I won't know what I'm doing?"
I blush. "I didn't mean-"
He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. When it ends, I begin to apologize, but he kisses me again in resistance. His hands are on my ribs, and he slowly forces me to retreat until we are both by the door to the hall.
"I don't mean to alarm you," he says. "But I haven't been a hundred percent celibate all these years. I think I can do... what's required."
I suppress any questions about his prior women, mostly because his lips are holding mine hostage, but also because I realize that I have been naive about him. Yes, maybe he was telling the truth when he said he has loved me for a long time, but he isn't a saint, far from it. I shouldn't expect him to act like one. I don't want him to act like one.
He feels my insecurity and stops kissing me. His eyes are hard when he looks at me. "You're the boss," he says.
"Since when?" I reply.
And so he opens the door to the hall, grabs me by the waist and pulls me through. He pushes me against the wall outside the bedroom and kisses my lips, pausing sometimes to gaze down at me in mild surprise, as if I have only just appeared in front of him. His hands never leave my body, and my body aches.
Finally, he pulls himself back and opens the door to my bedroom. He holds out a hand, gesturing for me to enter. "After you."
As soon as I have walked through the door, his hands grip my hips, shutting the door behind him with a kick of his foot. He presses me against it, his lips once again on mine. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
He begins to unbutton my blouse, pausing every now and then to kiss the skin that he reveals. He peels it off me, his palms grazing my skin. I begin to shake, and can't control it.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
I nod. I move my hands inside his jacket and slide it off his shoulders. "Stop talking."
He grins at me and puts his hands under my upper thighs, lifting me off the ground and pinning me fully to the wall. His smile dims and our lips intertwine and my breath becomes shallow, sharp. My hands run over him and I can't think straight, can't get through the cotton.
He lowers me to the ground and takes my hand, helping me unbutton his vest, his shirt. His breath is hoarse when my fingers finally meet his skin, and his hands move from mine down to my buttocks.
When I finally manage to open my eyes, I see a long white scar on his stomach. He cringes when I touch it.
"Who did that to you?" I ask.
"No one, no one," he replies, breathless and lost. He lowers his face to my breasts and kisses them over and over again. When he looks back up at me his eyes are moist and I feel myself dissolve into his arms.
"Are you sure you're okay, Teresa?" he asks again, smoothing my hair back as he pushes against me. I don't reply but I know that he can feel my response.
He kneels down and takes my shoes off one by one, a finger running over the coarse skin of my heel, then his hands glide up my legs to my zipper, sliding my pants off me.
He gently lifts me onto the bed and runs his hands over me, into me. I tense, and relax. Breathe, and suffocate under his touch.
I look up at him as he enters me, my eyes wide, my lips parted and trembling. His own eyes smile down at me, full of everything that he has lost, everything that he has found.
Yes, I'm happy, Patrick.
