A/n This idea has been floating about in my head for a while. Being the kid of Jane and Lisbon wouldn't be smooth sailing because of their history, so I wanted to write about the consequences of that.

This fic won't be for everyone! It's not Jisbon-centric but I do still hope you enjoy it!x

/

1.

In the soft cradle of rural Austin, Texas, where the hum of city life is somehow near and far simultaneously, the land stretches out in an assortment of dusty fields and tangled oak groves. Here, the breeze smells of cedar and sun-warmed earth as towering trees stand tall like old guards around a calm, glimmering lake. A gravel road winds lazily past fences patched with wire and vine, leading to a small house that has been built by the owners from the ground up.

It's quiet perhaps apart from the lazy breeze and the occasional chirp of crickets, a quietness that travels inside the property – but after a day of negative noise at High School, it's required.

In a back bedroom, lit by the late-afternoon sun leaking through half-closed blinds, a teenager stands close to a mirror decorated with Polaroids, stickers, and scribbled notes. They're fourteen and small for their age, with sharp cheekbones and bright, watchful blue eyes that seem a little too intense for the sleepy backdrop they live in. Their room looks lived-in in the way that only a teenager's room could: laundry draped across a desk chair, open textbooks on the desk, an empty mug with forgotten tea in the corner. The walls are half-covered in posters and a few clumsy but heartfelt attempts at sketches.

The mirror reflects their silhouette, shoulders tense, face serious with concentration. They lean in closer, studying the way the light catches on the wet strands of their hair. The top is a chaotic blend of tight curls – half their natural deep brunette and the other half bleached to a pale, yellowy blonde. The line between the two is jagged and imperfect yet real.

With one hand gloved and the other holding a small bottle, they dab a cool champagne-coloured toner onto the bleached curls. It smells strongly of chemicals, the scented candle burning on their window ledge doing little to mask it. They work slowly, precisely, gently combing the mixture through with their fingers.

Their fringe flops stubbornly into their face, half-curled and rebelliously uneven. They don't bother to push it away, they're too tired to try, and they're silently hoping that doing this will make them feel a little better about waking up tomorrow.

There's a knock on the door before it's pushed open, the familiar creak echoing through the room. "Hey." Comes the warm voice as the teenager's mother steps inside, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and her blazer still worn, showing them that she's not long home. To most she may be known as Special Agent Teresa Lisbon, but to Casey, she's just Mom. "You're doing your hair?" She says, stepping further in, taking in the bottle of toner and the stained gloves. "It's nice."

"It's not finished yet." Casey replies, not looking away from the mirror, applying another bit of toner to a stubborn section of brass-coloured curl.

"Oh. Okay." Lisbon leans against the doorframe, arms folded. "How was school?"

The teenager shrugs, still focused on their reflection. "It was school."

Her eyes narrow just slightly. "Are you still having problems, honey?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

A pause. Lisbon presses her lips together but doesn't push, she knows the signs. The dropped shoulders, the clipped tone, the way Casey's voice goes a little too flat. "You know where we are when you do." She tells them gently. "Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Will your hair be done then?"

Casey nods. "Can I eat up here?"

"Casey-" Her tone holds that familiar parental edge, the one that warns of boundaries and family time and the rules they're both trying to pretend still work when currently their relationship is strained.

"Please." It's not whiny nor is it bratty. It's just… tired.

"Okay." She agrees quietly after a sigh. "But only tonight." Casey gives a barely-there nod and goes back to their hair, as if that bit of compromise cost them something they don't want to explain.

Lisbon lingers for a moment, watching them, taking in how fragile they continue to appear and hating that she doesn't know how to fix it. She wants to say something else, to try to say something helpful, to make things better, but she doesn't know what. "We'll call you when it's ready." But instead this is how she leaves it.

"Thanks." And then they're alone again.

It's strange at the moment being Casey Jane, and there are no signs of it not being so. Life was… normal for most of their life. They have parents who love them, a wonderful house, and good prospects in their future but right now everything is hard. It is unusual for things to feel easy as a fourteen-year-old, they acknowledge that, but not all fourteen-year-olds have to live with the family history they have.

They were five when they found out about their older sister, Charlotte. She would be thirty now if she was still alive, if she wasn't murdered by a notorious serial killer along with her mother. Obviously, Casey didn't discover the truth of what happened until later, until they were ten, but even then, it was almost too much to learn. What they didn't realise is how much more there was to find out.

They were eleven when they came home from a summer camp bawling their eyes out because a mean kid teased them about their father being a killer. They made the kid eat dirt, thinking that there is no way that their amazing father could do such a thing, but it was true. And they're still struggling to accept that.

It's not helped with age thanks to the more of their peers finding out, and now the bullying is relentless. What's terrible about it all though, is how they sort of understand why this is happening to them – because how is it okay that their father did that? That their mother is okay with that? Even if he did it because of how much he loved and grieved his wife, Angela, and daughter, Charlotte. It's too much to process, too much to work out, and they're still just a kid.

Casey snaps a plastic cap over their head, smoothing it down with both hands so the champagne toner can do its thing without drying out. They glance at their phone, screen lighting up with all of their missed and ignored notifications when all they're doing is checking the time. There's the class group chat that for some reason they're still a part of, a notification from the school app that none of the students care about, and an unread message from Luce that's three days old. None of it feels worth reading.

Ten minutes should do it, they think, setting the phone down face-down on the dresser.

With a tired sigh, they peel the gloves off one finger at a time, tossing them into the little bin under the desk. They then reach into the top drawer and pull out an eyebrow razor that they tend to use to keep the neat shape to their brows, but now they're using if for another purpose.

They stare at themselves in the mirror again. The plastic cap is ridiculous, like a bubble-wrapped crown, but they don't look away. They angle their face slightly, curling the left side of their lip in a half-dare at their reflection before bringing up the razor to their right eyebrow, the same side that their hair is bleached, and with zero hesitation they drag it through the short bristles. It takes a few strokes, but they end up cutting a clean, narrow slit just past the arch.

Hair falls in a tiny line, clinging to the edge of the blade. It's done in just a few seconds, and Casey swipes the stray hairs away with the back of their hand. They lean in closer, tilting their head, studying the effect. It's subtle yet sharp, perhaps a little dramatic and defiant, but they love it.

They imagine walking into school next week and seeing the disappointment on their teachers' faces leading to them being scorned by the principal, but it doesn't feel important anymore. Honestly? Getting suspended would be a relief. A forced vacation from all the idiots they have to go to school with.

It is about twelve minutes later when they're rinsing out the toner in the bathroom sink. They wrap their hair in a towel, then pat their face dry with a flannel. The eyebrow slit is a thin, perfect line, still slightly pink, but clean. They catch their reflection again in the fogged mirror, this time only briefly, before pulling on an oversized hoodie and heading downstairs barefoot.

Dinner should be ready.

The scent of garlic and paprika is faint but promising and it leads them to the closed kitchen door. It's very rarely closed. Their father has always stressed the importance of an open downstairs, it reflects the openness they share as a family as they go about life together. So the closed door makes Casey pause.

Inside the kitchen there are raised voices, not quite arguing but definitely not laughing either. "It's not getting any better." Their mother says, her voice is firm but weary. "I'm worried what's going to happen if they keep withdrawing."

Casey freezes. There's a beat of silence, and then their dad, Patrick Jane, speaks with an almost heavy softness. "Can you blame them for withdrawing? Having to deal with all that on a daily basis." His voice cracks a little, and the teenager's stomach sinks. That's the tone he gets when he's blaming himself, even if he's pretending not to. They can almost picture his expression: the furrowed brow, the way he rubs the back of his neck, that faraway look in his eyes like he's reliving something he can't fix. "Maybe we should look at other schools."

"This is their third school in two years." Lisbon says, and there's this edge of exasperation layered under the concern, like she's trying so hard to keep it together and it's fraying around the edges. "We keep moving them, but the problem isn't going to go away. This is going to follow them round until the other kids are old enough to not treat them so badly for something that isn't down to them."

"I could home school them!" Jane interjects, a little too loud, like the idea just erupted from his chest.

There's a beat but then Lisbon flatly replies, "Jane, you didn't even go to high school."

Casey feels something twist in their chest. They hate being spoken of in this way and they're stuck between wanting to listen and wanting to run and hide. Part of them wants to laugh. They suddenly feel far too visible, like a ghost eavesdropping on their own haunting.

They stand frozen, breath shallow, ears ringing with the weight of what they've just heard. The words echo around their mind, looping like a cruel, taunting chorus. Their fists clench at their sides, nails digging into the damp fabric of their hoodie. Heat rises in their chest, sharp and fast, the way it always does right before the spiral starts.

Before they can think too much, they're already moving. Up the stairs, two at a time, heart hammering. The towel comes off mid-step, flung against the railing as their curls, still damp, spring loose. In its place, they pull a khaki green beanie over their head. It works at taming their hair and will protect them against the chill outside as they plan to venture out, to run away.

Their hands tremble as they shove their phone into the front pocket of their hoodie, then yank open the wardrobe to grab their small backpack. It's already half-packed from last week's daydream of running away. A granola bar, a notebook, a charger, emergency cash. They shove in their wallet, zip it with shaking hands.

Downstairs, the muffled voices continue, unaware – that's until the front door slams.

Casey is on their bike before either parent even registers it. The used chain groans in protest as they kick off, tyres crunching over gravel, breath cold in their throat. The wind cuts against their damp hair under the beanie, making their eyes sting. They don't care about where they're going, they're running on autopilot, they just need to go. It's classic fight or flight, and more recently, their reaction is always flight.

"Casey!" It's Jane's voice, sharp and sudden, slicing through the dusk. But they're at the end of the driveway already, the lake glittering to one side of them, and they don't plan to turn around and they certainly don't plan to stop.

They just pedal harder, faster, away from the concerned cries of their parents.