fic: thanks for the memories (even though they weren't so great) (jane&lisbon, pg)
Title: thanks for the memories (even though they weren't so great)
Pairing: Jane/Lisbon friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~800
Spoilers: post-4x10 (Fugue in Red).
Summary: She turns away a little (she won't turn her back, now or ever, but she's taken so much from him tonight; the least she can give him is this).
"I'm sorry," she says again, as he reaches out for the doorjamb, clings to it like it's the only thing keeping him upright, "Jane, I'm so sorry."
He turns his head slightly to the side, his back still to her. "I-" and his voice is rusty, gravelly
(familiar)
"I just need a minute."
"Of course," she says, her mouth barely moving, and she's not sure he even hears her.
She turns away a little (she won't turn her back, now or ever, but she's taken so much from him tonight; the least she can give him is this), averts her eyes, doesn't acknowledge the hitch in his breath.
She gives him a minute (and another, and another), then approaches him; touches the small of his back lightly, ignores his sharp breath of surprise.
"Let's go," she says, gently, and - after a moment - he nods once, jerkily. She reaches around him with her other hand and pulls the door shut, her hand careful but sure
(and maybe, maybe it's not her place, but he doesn't stop her).
She guides him back down the hallway (and it's just like at the bar, but nothing like at the bar; he lets himself be lead back to the stairs, silently, almost childlike in his acquiescence, and she did this to him).
She-
"Just - let me be happy," she hears him plead, again and again, in the silence.
"I'm sorry," she says, helplessly, like it's the only thing she can say, and he shakes his head.
He meets her gaze for the first time - since - looks at her properly, sad and solemn and almost still, the lines around his eyes somehow deeper, and it's a Jane she knows, a Jane she remembers.
"I needed to remember," he says, quiet and resigned, and her throat aches.
His gaze slides past her, and she doesn't stop him when he moves towards the front windows. He reaches out and touches the handlebars of the tricycle lightly.
(When he buckles his seatbelt, she asks, softly, "Ready?" (to leave here, or to go back, even she's not sure, and it probably doesn't matter), and he's staring, resolutely, out the front windshield, jaw set, when he nods almost imperceptibly
The rest of the trip is in silence).
"Jane," she says, in the silence after she cuts the engine, "I'm glad you're OK."
He rolls his head towards her on the headrest, the first time he's looked at her since they left. "Am I?" he doesn't really ask.
(He doesn't follow her, immediately, but she's nothing if not stubborn and he's nothing if not
(broken)
hurting, so, reluctantly, he climbs out of the car).
"It's very sweet of you, Lisbon," he says, standing, awkwardly, hands in pockets, in the middle of her living room as she busies herself rounding up a clean blanket and pillow, "But I think I'd rather - be alone tonight." (There's no malice in his voice, just weariness, a deep sadness).
There are places she's not ready to let him, yet (maybe ever) - her heart, her bed - but this, this she can do this for him.
She drops the blanket and pillow at the end of the couch. "Jane," is all she says.
(and she knows this won't stop him from torturing himself all night, torturing himself like it's only just happened, torturing himself for ever forgetting them, but she wants him to do it here, under her roof (doesn't kid herself that it'll hurt him any less)).
After a long moment, he sighs and leans down to undo his shoelaces, and she allows herself the slightest of smiles.
He toes of his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket and reclines on the couch, folds his hands behind his head.
She perches on the edge of a couch cushion. "Do you want some tea?" she asks, a little hesitantly (and maybe this is a Jane she remembers, a Jane she knows how to handle, but it's also a Jane she's never met, a Jane with wounds far more raw than she's ever seen).
"No. But - thank you," he murmurs, and she knows he means for far more than the tea.
"Yeah, well," she deflects, ribs him gently, "Who knew you'd find a way to be even more insufferable?" His smile is tired, but genuine.
"Was I really that bad?" he plays along.
"Worse," she says, exaggeratedly, probably trying a little too hard (but she wants this - this moment of normalcy, because anger, she can deal with, but grief-)
He snorts, softly, and shifts on the couch.
"Try to get some sleep," she says, softly, finally, and his hand lands on her thigh, warm and heavy, and she covers it with her own and squeezes tightly for just a moment.
Disclaimer: The Mentalist belongs to Bruno Heller, CBS et al. No copyright infringement is intended.
Pairing: Jane/Lisbon friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~800
Spoilers: post-4x10 (Fugue in Red).
Summary: She turns away a little (she won't turn her back, now or ever, but she's taken so much from him tonight; the least she can give him is this).
"I'm sorry," she says again, as he reaches out for the doorjamb, clings to it like it's the only thing keeping him upright, "Jane, I'm so sorry."
He turns his head slightly to the side, his back still to her. "I-" and his voice is rusty, gravelly
(familiar)
"I just need a minute."
"Of course," she says, her mouth barely moving, and she's not sure he even hears her.
She turns away a little (she won't turn her back, now or ever, but she's taken so much from him tonight; the least she can give him is this), averts her eyes, doesn't acknowledge the hitch in his breath.
She gives him a minute (and another, and another), then approaches him; touches the small of his back lightly, ignores his sharp breath of surprise.
"Let's go," she says, gently, and - after a moment - he nods once, jerkily. She reaches around him with her other hand and pulls the door shut, her hand careful but sure
(and maybe, maybe it's not her place, but he doesn't stop her).
She guides him back down the hallway (and it's just like at the bar, but nothing like at the bar; he lets himself be lead back to the stairs, silently, almost childlike in his acquiescence, and she did this to him).
She-
"Just - let me be happy," she hears him plead, again and again, in the silence.
"I'm sorry," she says, helplessly, like it's the only thing she can say, and he shakes his head.
He meets her gaze for the first time - since - looks at her properly, sad and solemn and almost still, the lines around his eyes somehow deeper, and it's a Jane she knows, a Jane she remembers.
"I needed to remember," he says, quiet and resigned, and her throat aches.
His gaze slides past her, and she doesn't stop him when he moves towards the front windows. He reaches out and touches the handlebars of the tricycle lightly.
(When he buckles his seatbelt, she asks, softly, "Ready?" (to leave here, or to go back, even she's not sure, and it probably doesn't matter), and he's staring, resolutely, out the front windshield, jaw set, when he nods almost imperceptibly
The rest of the trip is in silence).
"Jane," she says, in the silence after she cuts the engine, "I'm glad you're OK."
He rolls his head towards her on the headrest, the first time he's looked at her since they left. "Am I?" he doesn't really ask.
(He doesn't follow her, immediately, but she's nothing if not stubborn and he's nothing if not
(broken)
hurting, so, reluctantly, he climbs out of the car).
"It's very sweet of you, Lisbon," he says, standing, awkwardly, hands in pockets, in the middle of her living room as she busies herself rounding up a clean blanket and pillow, "But I think I'd rather - be alone tonight." (There's no malice in his voice, just weariness, a deep sadness).
There are places she's not ready to let him, yet (maybe ever) - her heart, her bed - but this, this she can do this for him.
She drops the blanket and pillow at the end of the couch. "Jane," is all she says.
(and she knows this won't stop him from torturing himself all night, torturing himself like it's only just happened, torturing himself for ever forgetting them, but she wants him to do it here, under her roof (doesn't kid herself that it'll hurt him any less)).
After a long moment, he sighs and leans down to undo his shoelaces, and she allows herself the slightest of smiles.
He toes of his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket and reclines on the couch, folds his hands behind his head.
She perches on the edge of a couch cushion. "Do you want some tea?" she asks, a little hesitantly (and maybe this is a Jane she remembers, a Jane she knows how to handle, but it's also a Jane she's never met, a Jane with wounds far more raw than she's ever seen).
"No. But - thank you," he murmurs, and she knows he means for far more than the tea.
"Yeah, well," she deflects, ribs him gently, "Who knew you'd find a way to be even more insufferable?" His smile is tired, but genuine.
"Was I really that bad?" he plays along.
"Worse," she says, exaggeratedly, probably trying a little too hard (but she wants this - this moment of normalcy, because anger, she can deal with, but grief-)
He snorts, softly, and shifts on the couch.
"Try to get some sleep," she says, softly, finally, and his hand lands on her thigh, warm and heavy, and she covers it with her own and squeezes tightly for just a moment.
Disclaimer: The Mentalist belongs to Bruno Heller, CBS et al. No copyright infringement is intended.