A/N: I wanted to do a little something about Lisbon's scars I would assume she received from her drunken abusive father. I know they didn't say what kind of abuse that she had gotten from him, so this is my take on her being a big sister.
You'll understand more after you finish reading it. Also it might be a little over the top, but I think that she is hiding a lot under her tough exterior. So here is this little fic.
Enjoy, in a sadistic way.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist, but if I did…
Scars Are Beautiful
They stumbled up the stairs and down the hall to get to her room. Clothes were flying off in the darkened apartment; her jacket thrown haphazardly over a small table lamp, his vest on the floor, nearly tripping the two almost lovers.
It was a frenzy, like it would be the last time they would ever get to be together. She had clumsily fumbling with his buttons, only getting a few undone before she grew frustrated and ripped his baby blue shirt apart, the buttons flinging off, pinging onto the wall and onto the hardwood floor, all the while keeping her lips firmly attached to his.
He chuckled into her mouth and attempted to release the closing device on her button up shirt, he managed to get all of them out of their respective loops. They hadn't removed the garments, just split them so they could enjoy the skin on skin contact they had gotten from the previous action.
Her hand squeezed between them, searching for his pant latch as he kissed her all over her face. He grabbed her wrist, realizing what she was going for, and then snatched her other one and pressed her against the wall just outside her bedroom, her arms above her head. He dropped tiny, wet kisses down her jaw, down her neck till she let out a moan, one that urged him on as he hit a sensitive spot. He smirked into the base of her neck.
Stopping to let both of them breathe a little, he switched her small, delicate hands to one of his much larger ones. To take her mind off of what he was doing, he kissed back up, and engaged their tongues in harmless battle. Keeping her occupied, he moved his free hand down, and skillfully flicked her pants open, and tugged on the side of them, causing them to pool around her feet in a wad of useless cloth.
She stepped out of the cloth and kicked them away. She arched her body against his, grinding her pelvis to his. He let off a tortured groan and pushed back, running his hands down the sides of her torso.
She wriggled her self away from him and took off to her room, not three feet away, in nothing from scarlet lacy bra and panties, and her mossy green work shirt. As she got to her room, he could hear her laughing. Tearing his top from his well sculpted body, he chased after her. Before she reached the queen sized bed, illumined by silver moonlight shining in through the huge window to the left of it.
He caught up to her, and pulled her flush up against him, allowing his body heat seep into her. He let his eyes lock on to hers, as he slowly, excruciatingly slow, slipped the loose shirt from her shoulders and down her arms, letting the tips of his fingers, brush lightly on her skin, goose bumps following his tips.
As it dropped to the floor, he eased her back until she felt of the back of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She fell back, pulling him with her. He propped him self up as to not smash her. She lifted a knee, brushing it up along his side and leaving it up, her other leg she left down, parallel to his body. He settled him self between her legs, after nudging them apart with him self. He looked down once-ing her over, using the light to see.
The moon light made her pale, creamy looking completion pop out to his retinas. He intended to look back into her eyes, planned to kiss her until she couldn't remember her own name, but as his eyes adjusted to the brilliant light, he noticed lines, thin and thick, circles that looked like gun wounds and cigarette burns, all scars that have long since healed. He expected her skin to be flawless, not littered with battle wounds.
He glanced back up at her orbs, green as the shirt she was wearing, but moments ago, orbs that were filled with lust and fear. Lust for what had, and would continue to happen, and fear for the scars, like he would turn away from her. He could see tin her looks, and body movement that she had hoped that he didn't see them, but it was impossible to miss.
"Oh Teresa." He whispered, rubbing his thumb over a thick patch of white colored scar tissue.
"It's nothing Patrick." Teresa said, using, for one rare time, his first name. She tried to cover her self, but he moved her arms away, not saying anything, and not looking up from his thumb tracing her over of her scars.
"It's not 'nothing' Teresa. This is…how did you get this one?" He asked, changing the subject slightly, looking at a circular burn. Teresa sighed, this was not something she wanted to be doing right now, but she looked down at the patch he was talking about.
"Dear ol' dad. He had one of his many blackouts and though my body was the ash tray. Better me than the house or my brothers, right?" Patrick kissed it gently and moved to another one, one diagonal to her belly button, long, about two inches across and not very thin, but not completely thick either.
"Car accident. I was teaching one of my little brothers to drive and he freaked out because a leaf flew onto the window shield, and before I could stop him, he swerved into a tree, the glass broke and well…" She chuckled as she gestured to her abdomen. He kissed that one too. He would trace a scar, ask about it silently, getting something like 'I was shot…' or 'A suspect decided he wanted to attack me…' or the most common on one, 'My father…' and the rest of the story would follow it soon after. After she told him, Patrick would kiss it softly, in hopes to make her feel better, to seal the memory away.
He thought he'd seen the worst it, but when he reached one on her side, one that was thin as it around to her back, it grew wider. He let his finger go after it, but jumped when it started to go around and Teresa grabbed his hand, preventing him from reaching his destination.
"No." She told him, the look in her eyes told him he needed to push, even if she didn't want him too.
"Teresa, let me see." She shook her head violently.
"No." She told him again, more stubborn than the first time.
"Teresa. Come on." She shoved him off, knocking him onto the floor, with a loud thud before he could look up and see what she was hiding; she had thrown her shirt back on and fled the room. Patrick got up from the floor and followed the sounds of her foot falls.
When he found her, she was leaning over the sink, gripping the counter tightly, turning her knuckles white. She was shivering slightly, but he chalked it up to it being as cold as the tundra in here and her not wearing many clothes.
"Teresa…" He let her name troll of his tongue. She stiffened considerably and Patrick walked behind her, his chest grazing her back. He knew her scars hurt, not physically, not anymore, but mentally, emotionally, they were as painful as the day she received them. She had to sleep with them, go to work with them, have sex with them, but he'd bet that's why she kept her room dark, so her sex partners didn't see them, and when they were done, she'd put clothes on so they wouldn't feel them and ask her about it.
"Teresa, I've seen them. Why not show me this one? That way you don't have to hide from me." His voice was calm, wanting her to let him in, and it wouldn't happen if he forced her to open up to him.
"Because." She grumbled, looking at a small pool of clear water that was left over from washing her dinner plate. "It's ugly. Every man whose seen it, cringed back or pitied me. I hate pity."
"I'm not every other man Teresa, you know that. And I wouldn't pity you, promise."
"How do you know what you'll do? Just, let it go Patrick." At least they were still on first name basis Patrick thought.
"I can't until you do. You're still holding onto it because men don't know what to do. I will."
"It makes me ugly-" Before she could finish, Patrick spun her around, so she was facing him, surprise was evident on her face. He held her shoulders.
"You are very beautiful. The most beautiful woman, I've ever…The scars make you so much more so. It shows you can survive the world. That you are strong."
"But-" He suddenly had her face in his hands.
"You…are…so…beautiful…" Each word was emphasized by a kiss on the corner of her lips, each one lasting longer than the last.
"No." He brought her flush up against him once again, hoping this wouldn't be the last time he'd do it. "This is not a Jane-Lisbon moment. It is a Patrick-Teresa moment. Look at us, we're half naked, no way this is work related." He smiled lightly, she followed suit. His face went serious once more. "You need to show me. It's the only way to get other this insane notion that you're not the most beautiful thing ever."
She gulped and then he knew she was going to take the shirt off and walked to the living room, not three steps away. She turned on the light, making Patrick realize that they had been standing in the dark that whole time. Letting out a shaky breath, Teresa slipped the shirt off again.
And as Patrick walked closer, she moved her hair from her back to over her shoulder's, and turned.
It was all Patrick could do to not gasp or completely fall over. Teresa's back had several, nine or so, lines that went wide at the top of her back and as they trickled lower, they also grew thinner.
"Are those…?" He knew what they were; he just couldn't dare say it out loud. How could someone do this to her? What could she have possibly done to deserve this?
She nodded and gasped as he traced the whip makes over her back. She felt his lips linger on different parts of her back before he stood and hugged her, pushing her back to his chest, like in the kitchen, but closer. Teresa looked over to see his eyes, not filled with pity like the guys who have seen them, but comfort, warmth, a sort of love, but she wasn't sure.
"How?" He asked.
"My father. He was angry at my little brother."
"So you get to hit instead?" Teresa shook her head.
"I offered to take his place."
"So you could get whipped to death? Or to hospital?"
"So I could save my brother." Patrick shook his head in wonder.
"You amaze me sometimes Teresa. You're so beautiful inside and out."
"Patrick." Her voice was pleading; she wanted him to stop telling her, what she thought, were lies.
"You are." He turned her around, so her head rested on his pecks. "And I'm going to be the man to prove it to you." He swooped down and let his arm slid under her knees. As she picked his gorgeous lover in a bridle styled carry, she let out a slight startled scream and wrapped her mars around Patrick's neck. He let out a chuckle. Walking up the stairs, Teresa realized how close she was to his neck and gave into the urge to kiss it. She left a wet trail as she worked her way up to his jaw.
He walked a little faster, almost at a run. He entered the room and dropped her on the bed, then he propped him self over her."
"Feel pretty yet?" He asked kissing her lips before she could answer. She made a face to seem like she was thinking, when he pulled away.
"I think your going to have to show me a little more." She said grinning like an idiot.
"You little minx." He murmured, but stopped talking as her mouth sought out his.
Teresa woke the next morning, feeling sore and achy, but it was a good ache, an ache she could get use to. The next thing she noticed was that there was a soft snore next to her telling her that Patrick was asleep next to her, and in his sleep he was tracing her back scars. It felt nice, she concluded, to have someone that would not freak about her scars. Realizing she was lifting her head from his cheat, Patrick subconsciously pulled her closer with his other arm. As Teresa listened to his soothing heart beat, she thought:
'Maybe scars aren't so bad.'
A/N: Wow, that took a while…Did you like it?