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I Never Promised You a Rose-Garden.... (I)
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Jane doesn't share. He's not a team player. He has vast reserves of self-confidence and self-belief, because who else has he ever had to rely on?
He's been alone for much of his life. A haphazard upbringing, erratic education and troubled teens. Carnival circuits and boarding houses and always running. A pattern that he kept, when he took to the road, surviving on his wits and an esoteric skillset that only just kept him out of a criminal lifestyle, moving onwards, until the Pacific Ocean stopped him. A scant half-dozen years of happiness, maybe, taken brutally from him, and an equal time spent climbing out of the pit of pain that had taken him into.
He doesn't like schools, or churches, or courthouses, or hospitals. Hates to be confined, at anyone's mercy. Doesn't sleep well, always aware of his surroundings. Too many bus-stations, lonely pull-outs. There are few places, few times, that he truly relaxes, few people that he trusts. There has been very little security in his life.
He understands what his life has done to him, but he sees no need to try and explain it to others. What good will that do? It has happened, and he lives with it. No amount of talking can give him a happy, secure upbringing with two loving parents, a home, friends. It can't bring anyone back, turn back time and allow him to erase his mistakes, take a different path.
Don't talk to cops. One of the first lessons. Almost pathological secrecy. A lifetime of lies and loneliness. And now what little trust and happiness he has in his life are invested in a cop. A small, bossy cop, who is presently singing along (not quite in tune) to the radio, as she unpacks groceries. He leans around the doorway. Wearing her smart suit, he gets to admire her legs.
"How did your day in court go?"
"So-so. I think the jury will nail him." Hands him a couple of cartons, indicates a high shelf. "I ran into Carmen – she says 'hi', and could you please stop sending them, I quote, 'such weird shit.'"
..."You know they actually have a name for it in the chambers?" Carmen says. "Every time the paperwork arrives, someone will ask if the Jane Curse has struck again."
"You should get little stickers to warn people..." Trails off.
"Purple ones. Two means that it's one of his really strange ones." Carmen's grin becomes positively filthy. "So, does he like to play games behind closed doors, too?"
She'd still been twitching with horrified embarrassment when she got back to the office...
"Meh. Has to be more exciting than corporate law..." Poking through the bag. "Did you get any more OJ?"
She watches him putting things in the 'fridge, and grins. Watching him being domestic is by far the weirdest thing she can ever think of.
The phone rings, land-line, not her cell.
"It's our day off tomorrow." Jane grumbles, already getting pouty.
She feels her eyebrows rise, tries not to let her heart do the same. He never uses language carelessly, and she has begun to notice a few more of those collectives creeping in. Tries not to put too much store in it.
The caller is her sister-in-law, Sam, asking if she's coming to them for Thanksgiving this year.
Thanksgiving. She's not looking forward to it. It isn't that Niall and Sam don't have a lovely family or wonderful friends. In fact, they throw themselves into festive things whole-heartedly, parties and family meals and jolly social gatherings. Which is a big part of the problem. The year before last, they had tried to set her up with a school-teacher cousin of Sam's. A major factor in last year's decision to stay in with ice-cream and Cary Grant.
"...so, Sean said you've met someone? Are we ever going to get to meet him?"
A hand swoops in, the phone out of her grasp before she has a chance to react.
"Samantha? Hi, I'm Patrick...I'd be delighted to meet the rest of Teresa's family."
In the process of thumping him, she stops, hands on his chest. Jane meets her eyes, his expression wary, a little hopeful, decidedly nervous. He's actually serious, she realizes.
Taking him to a family event. That's a huge step.
It's years since she had someone to bring to anything. Oh, she's dated, but there had been no-one serious. (And there was...well. Holidays then had been horrible, fraught with guilt and tension.)
Grabs the phone back, tries to sort her scrambled thoughts, field Sam's happy enthusiasm. But two arms go round her waist, a chin on her shoulder, and between the voice in one ear, and the lips under the other, she finds herself weakly agreeing.
Puts the handset down, and there is a pause.
"Jane...Patrick. Do you have any idea what you've just done?"
She's not quite sure how to phrase it. The eternal singleton is going to be turning up with a man, and there is going to be scrutiny beyond belief.
There are going to be assumptions made, big assumptions. This is a public 'we are a couple' thing. This is taking him to meet her sister-in-law. Who is probably hunting out bridal magazines at this very moment. She groans softly.
"Are you ashamed of me?"
"What? No." Her head whips round. "Why would I be?"
"You've obviously not told your family about me." He's a little hurt.
"Because..." He'll know within five minutes of being there, she might as well get the embarrassment out of the way now, "they have been trying to set me up with guys for years. I rather wanted to keep my private life with you private."
"Oh." Pause. Different tone. "Oh."
It's no more than he should have expected. When he'd first met her, the detached part of his mind that catalogued everyone had wondered why she was single. Even in his numb state, he had been aware that she was attractive. Weak little flame that had roared up into an inferno.
"Lisbon...Teresa." Sober, a little quiet. "I want to do this. For...us."
He's not quite sure what he was really thinking when he'd taken the phone, invited himself in. Except that five days without Lisbon seems like a horribly empty thing, and he'll endure dogs and small children and rampant curiosity to be with her.
His face, usual wide grin absent, just a small hopeful half-smile, eyes a little tense. She bites her lip, finds a smile of her own, as she cups his face in one hand, kisses him.
"You know they live in mountain country?"
"Well, I might have known your family would head to Boulder."
"Oh, you're Vegas all the way, aren't you?"
"What terribly low-brow taste we both have." His mouth twitches. "It's a long time since I visited Vegas. I got thrown out of a casino."
"Is there anywhere you haven't been thrown out of?"
"SeaWorld." He says, promptly. "But give it time."
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"I know you're still awake." she says softly.
"How?" His mouth curves, but he doesn't open his eyes.
"Your face changes." Runs her finger down his nose, his lips. He catches at the tip of it, soft kiss.
"Is that good or bad?" Eye half-opens.
"Different. You look peaceful when you sleep, and that so isn't you."
"You watch me sleeping?"
"Yes." She admits. "Are you really serious about meeting my family?"
He props up on an elbow.
"I'm really serious. Lisbon, I want to spend time with you."
"That's going to get confusing. There will be a few Lisbons there."
Her family call her Tree. (Or sometimes 'T-bone', but that's just Sean at his most annoying.) She's never been a Terri. Or a Tess. Tee or Tez to friends, sometimes. So many variations on 'mother' Teresa, 'saint' Teresa, jokes that got old fast. Most people call her Lisbon. He calls her Lisbon, though he can make it sound somehow dirty when he does. Calls her woman, and he's the only one who could get away with it. Calls her sweetheart, when nobody else hears him.
"Tree." Cautious, tries it out, strange on his tongue. "I think you'll always be Lisbon to me. My Lisbon." Warm hands, gently possessive.
He's always been Patrick. Never Pat or Ricky, diminutives never stuck. (Except Trick - a name from the last truly carefree period of his life.) All three syllables, surname included, thundered out far too many times during his patchy education, uttered to applause later on. Mr Jane, to the people he paid. Mostly, now, he's just Jane.
"Patrick..." Soft voice, her nose in the angle of his jaw. "No, still my Jane..."
"Nobody else wants me."
"Good." Tiny kisses, creeping up his neck...
Later, warmly entwined, hovering on the edge of sleep, her head tucked beneath his chin, they murmur other names to each other, soft little love-names.
In his craziest moments, fleeting fragile hopes between the dreaming and the dawn... he dares to wonder, sometimes.
If you asked him if he was married, he would hesitate, because now the answer lies somewhere between 'not any more', and 'not quite'...
If you asked him if he loved Lisbon, there would be no hesitation in him. He does.
If you asked him if he was scared, there would be no hesitation there, either. He's terrified.