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I Never Promised You a Rose-Garden (II)
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She likes the fact that she can come home, choose to have a long, luxurious bubble-bath and an equally long, luxurious evening of making love, slow and sensuous. Or that some evenings, she can march in through her front door, and grab him by the shirt-front, tow him to bed for quick, hot sex. (One or two occasions when they haven't even made it to the bed.)
He maintains that he's a healthier way to wake up than coffee, too, though she's not giving up the java just yet.
But she really likes the days when she can come home from work, kick off her shoes, and they will just be together, cooking dinner, watching tv. Their rare days off, doing nothing more outrageous than going for a walk or to a movie. All the small things that make them seem like a normal couple.
It makes the days when his reckless anger is barely contained, the nights of shattered sleep, so much harder to bear. For every step forward, something will drag him back. He's never going to be a hundred per cent happy or healthy or well-adjusted. She has long since come to that conclusion, and she is prepared to live with that. Sealed some kind of bargain with herself, the day she kissed him, the night she took him as her lover.
They have never discussed the future, both aware of the fragile balance between them, still finding their way together, at the beginnings of something. And she is honest enough to admit that she does not want to push him, have to hear him speak so calmly of his desire to rip another human being open. Dares to hope that some day he will be able to come to some kind of terms with his past, may be able to acknowledge that there could be a better way. Truly fears that the only way to stop him may involve a dark and painful path for both of them...
...The plane bumps again, bad weather over the Wasatch Range, and she stifles a groan. She does so hate not being in control, of the movement and of herself. She can cope with all sorts of horrors on the ground, but air-travel upsets her.
He sighs theatrically. Waits.
"What?"
"No chance of joining the Mile High Club." he says, wicked grin.
"You're an animal." Luxury of being able to be all cross and pathetic. Puts her head on his shoulder. "Euww."
He settles her more comfortably. For the next few days, he does not need to worry about touching her, they can hold hands, be together without reservation. Plane jolts again, and his woman makes another little moan. He bites his lip and carefully does not laugh, soothes her as she grouches softly. Love is being ready with a barf-bag.
He's been to Colorado before, but only to Aspen. He has never been particularly fond of the cold. (Always though it was an accident that he'd been born in a landlocked state. Nature had designed him for lounging on a warm beach.) He hadn't been particularly enthusiastic about skiing, either. Or the majority of his wife's family and friends. But he'd still been trying to fit with the monied crowd, then, hadn't sneaked off to play cards with the chalet staff, or hang out with the reviled snowboarders. Social chameleon, adapting, adopting, becoming the persona that was to serve him so well.
That persona is a tattered shadow at best, now, the gilt flaking off to reveal the cardboard. And he doesn't quite know what to replace it with.
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She hadn't quite believed he was serious about this trip, wondered if he would have second thoughts. But here they are. Watches him swing the case off the luggage carousel. One case, and that had been strange, too, packing their clothes together. More of his shirts have found their way into her closet, a spare pair of jeans, gradual encroachment.
Their double absence in the office shouldn't be so noticeable over a holiday. Neither of them quite ready to confront the issues of being completely public, finding their way carefully. Two cars, two places to live, two people gradually spiraling together, their lives beginning to entwine. Neither of them quite sure where they are going.
All around them, joyful reunions. She notices his attention stray, watches a man scooping up a small child of indeterminate gender. Little crease on his forehead, smooths it out when he realizes she is watching him.
That is something she is truly apprehensive about. He responds well to children, but she does worry about him, knows that it still hurts him deeply. Something so dark, that there aren't words. Wonders how exposure to her nephews will affect him, if he will be able to maintain his calm.
He looks uncertain now, almost unsure of himself, slightly awkward in his slacks and shirt, out of any comfort zone he knows. She watches him toning down the brash arrogance, dimming his brightness, projecting a more subdued charm...Small tug on his hand, and she makes him look at her. Reaches up and kisses his cheek.
"They're not an audience, they're my family." (Since when did he become so easy to read? He's supposed to be the enigmatic man of mystery.) "You don't have to...just be yourself, Patrick."
"Yeah, well..." That open distress in his face, looks away. What if they don't like who he really is? Whoever that actually is.
No suit, no tricks, no lies, nothing to hide behind. Nervous man, meeting his girlfriend's family for the first time.
"At least you only have one brother to deal with. And you got on okay with Sean..."
(Sean's on call. In one way, she's disappointed. He's good company, when he's not being an asshole. But the idea of Sean, Patrick and a number of small children together is actually quite nerve-shredding.)
"...and Dom is always busy this time of year."
Dominic is her middle brother, the one she doesn't often talk to. Or talk about. Jane had only found out about him from a photograph. And the outfit had been a bit of a shock.
("He's a priest?"
She had smiled at his expression. It's not often that Jane is surprised.
"Sean always tells people he left us for another guy. They really didn't get on, growing up.")
Lisbon doesn't even want to think about those two ever meeting. She's only ever been a nominal Catholic, attending as a child because she had to. Once the reality of life took over, she had better things to occupy her mind, when there was a whole household to run. She does not mock the faith of others, simply has no time for it in her worldview, a slightly kinder one than Jane's sometimes cruel dismissal. His experience of 'faith' is a far more cynical one.
But she can see her brother waving through the crowd, and Jane has no choice but to obey the small hand tugging on his.
Niall gets his first proper look at the man Tree has finally admitted to seeing. Not at all what you would picture from Sean's airy description as a 'middle-aged widower', which is technically accurate, and somehow totally misleading. Knows who he is, of course, quite beside being a work colleague - (Sean had admitted to not having realized until afterwards) - Can't imagine how he'd be, if something happened to Sam or the boys. Still not quite prepared for the good-looking blond his sister is towing along. The guy looks almost like a movie star.
He also looks somewhat apprehensive, despite the smile. But Teresa draws him into introduction.
"Patrick, meet Niall. He's my nice brother."
Bigger, blunter features than Sean, but the Lisbon grin, a firm handshake.
"Of course, you've met the gremlin, haven't you?"
There's a stability to Niall, a sense of sturdy self-reliance. Jane tries not to read, but it's what he does, automatic reflex. And there are things he knows, too, from what Teresa has (and hasn't) told him. Another one of the family who had to grow up too fast, supporting his sister with his own quiet strength.
Niall notes that his sister doesn't try and wrestle the case to the car, content to let her man manage. Which has to be a first. He's impressed.
Jane sits quietly, listening as the siblings catch up, drawing a mental map in his mind of who's who. Also notes that Lisbon...Teresa is less bossy with Niall. They are much nearer in age, though – this is the brother who took on the role of man of the house. Who took the brunt of the drunken rages. (Though it was Sean who had ended up in hospital, a factor in his future career.) Determined to be everything his own father stopped being. Not a man who will ever set the world on fire, but a decent, honest family man, who will never have cause to be ashamed of what he does for a living.
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It's a nice street, a good neighbourhood. Quiet, reasonably affluent, easy commute into the centre. Small family houses, neat lawns and smart cars. A little cookie-cutter, perhaps, but there's nothing wrong with peaceful domesticity. Jane still regards the house with trepidation.
She can't know quite how strange this is for him. He's lived in a lot of places, but an ordinary suburban home has never been one of them, not in his full memory. Far more likely to find a prayer meeting or a séance in the front room, growing up. Minivans and school runs and the nine to five are an alien world.
Turmoil behind the door, and a horde of children and dogs burst out to engulf them. The children fling themselves at Lisbon. The dogs fling themselves at Jane.
It's an effective ice-breaker, if rather hard on his jacket. The scrum eventually resolves itself into two small boys, and two slobbering hounds of indeterminate breed.
"Patrick, meet Michael, Daniel and the hounds of heck. Mikey, Dan, take Scooter and Dub out back, let the poor guy breathe, huh?" Niall grabs the more enthusiastic of the mutts, grins at Patrick. "Now, if you're lucky, Robbie will spit up on you, and you can have the full-on Lisbon experience."
His particular Lisbon is laughing at him, and he has to grin, himself. Not much left of his composure, in the face of a welcome like that. He finds that he doesn't mind, swept up the steps and into a house where maternal order battles against the forces of small boy, and is just about winning.
Samantha Lisbon is a sweet-faced woman with long light brown hair. She still looks remarkably fresh and together for the mother of three boys, the youngest of whom is riding on her hip, sucking a fist. A kind woman, trying very hard not to let him know that she knows who he is, what has happened to him. Obviously combines a terrifying efficiency with that sweet face, has the dogs corralled, the boys marshalled off for tea, in short order.
Jane, washing up in the bathroom, listens to the noise of the family downstairs, meets his own rather startled gaze in the glass. There is nothing dark or dreadful about this happy family, the house is full of love and decency. Warm and welcoming and eminently normal.
Little tap at the door.
"Uncle Patrick?" Small, clear voice. "Mom wants to know if you want ham salad or chicken?"
Uncle Patrick. Can he do this, can he be this man? Does he dare?
Takes a breath, and opens the door, grins at the boy. Oldest one. Michael.
"I'll eat anything that stays on my plate long enough."
Almost pauses in the doorway downstairs, because this is really not something he's used to. But Lisbon pushes a chair out, and Michael and Daniel have a little argument about who gets to sit next to the guest, and Sam is already hospitably dishing up something that smells good. Finds himself somewhere he never expected to be. In the middle of a comfortable family dinner, a happy mix of conversation around him, including him, part of a group, not centre of attention.
He's still not sure who he is now. But he's the man that Teresa Lisbon loves and trusts enough to bring here. And he really, really can't screw this up.