Chapter Text
He walked away from her.
He saw her crying. He must have.
Her hands clenched tight inside her pockets. Her teeth pinching her lower lip to stop the tears from flowing. He must have known and observed. Patrick Jane could read a stranger's life story from across a crowded room, could catalogue every microexpression, every tell. Sure enough, he had to know she needed him. That they needed each other.
But he didn’t or worse, he did and chose to ignore it.
He turned his back anyway.
Left her standing alone beside that oak tree at the funeral of a coworker who'd become so much more – a friend, a brilliant and young woman, who had so much potential and future ahead. All of it snuffed out by a bullet.
He’d said he was leaving for "someplace nice." As if it hadn't been mere months since he'd confessed on that airplane that he couldn't bear waking up in a world where he wouldn't see her face. Funny how it took less than ten seconds to walk away from her now, a goodbye kiss still burning on her cheek.
These were the thoughts circling Lisbon’s mind as she collapsed onto her sofa later that night after the funeral, a bottle of wine within reach. After he walked away, not even looking back, as she stood there, tears falling until his figure blurred, then vanished. By the time she returned to the gravesite, Abbott, Cho, and Wylie were already gone. The chairs were folded. The crowd had thinned. She walked to her car alone.
This is it, she’d thought, hands shaking around her keys.
This is the end. He gave up.
She gulped the wine letting it burn her throat.
"I can't do this anymore. It could’ve been you in that coffin.”
But they'd survived worse than this. She'd thought that meant something. That it meant they had each other now.
Because all she wanted after the funeral was him.
She was looking forward to the comfort of going home together, curling up on the couch eating takeout, her coffee and his tea, his arm around her shoulders while they pretended to watch TV and didn't talk about death. Anything but apart from each other.
But apparently, she was the only one thinking that way.
His solution was what it had always been: to leave. With or without her. Maybe she hadn't even crossed his mind when he made the decision, his grief too loud to hear anything else.
She was such a fool to think this time would be different. She’s a fool drowning her sorrow with wine, knowing it wont change a damn thing. She's all alone in these four walls of her apartment.
What did it say about them that he kept doing this? What did it say about her that she kept letting him?
He'd walked into that house without thinking about how she'd react. Why couldn't he just trust her to do her job?
Why couldn't he choose her for once?
She couldn’t understand how a human heart could hold anger, frustration, fear, and love all at once without splitting open. Right no, she wished it would. At least then it would be over.
How could he give her an ultimatum of choosing her job or him? Her work is the only constant in her life before he came into the picture. It’s the building block of who she is. To quit means to shatter herself into pieces she couldn’t recognize anymore. Is that what he wants?
She wanted to call him. But the white-knuckled grip on her wine glass said she wasn't in the right headspace for that conversation yet.
She wanted to get in her car, call every contact she had in the department, track down that damn Airstream. But she was afraid of what she'd find if she did. Is he happier without her? Are they better off without each other?
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to kiss him.
Now she understood what she'd read once. That love and hate light up the same regions of the brain. With this much hatred coiling in her chest, there had to be an equal (maybe even more) measure of love feeding it. And God help her, she was in too deep. Too in love with a man who would always choose to run.
And she was always stupid enough to wait.
She turned on the TV, desperate for the noise of some mindless show to drown out her thoughts. But she was lying on the couch where they used to sprawl together on lazy Sundays. She’s wearing his shirt – the sky blue one with little flowers – that hung on her like a dress, too big for her size.
Maybe she’s torturing herself because she smells him with every intake of breath. What if he’s gone away forever? Will this be the last remnants of him that she could keep?
With the amount of time he’s walked away, she should be numbed to this, but this, this was different. This time he'd said he loved her, and love was supposed to mean staying. Now that he’d left, did that mean he didn’t anymore? Her eyes burned. She squeezed them shut, and the tears that had been building finally broke free.
"Damn it, Jane," she whispered sharply, and grabbed her phone.
Her thumb hovered over his name for only a second before she pressed call. "Come on. Pick up, pick up, pick up,” swiping at her tears with the back of her hand and sniffing hard.
No answer.
He's probably busy, she told herself. That's all.
She showered and went to bed with a missing space beside her and called again.
No answer.
He'll call back. Maybe he's asleep.
Afternoon came the next day. Why won't he pick up? What if something had happened?
No answer.
That night, the worry curdled into fury. Why the fuck am I still trying? She cursed herself, pacing the apartment, phone clenched tight.
The day after that. One last time, she said. When it stopped ringing, she dropped the phone, almost smashing on the table as her anger and worry simmered to the surface.
And finally she stopped.
There’s a new case to keep her busy anyway.
It has been a week and she has stopped trying to call him. But some part of herself hoped that he would. Even just a tiny sign, maybe a text, an emoji or anything at all. But nothing.
They have a new case now, an odd one actually, something that Jane’s tricky brain would love to solve. A talent that the FBI needs to crack this case. Leaving with no choice and with Abbott’s insistence, she put out a warrant for him.
Ding.
The elevator opened as he walked out with his three-piece suit with a stoic, even calm demeanor. Well, at least one of them was doing fine.
She didn't know if she should be happy or mad, whether to hug or punch him. So she did neither. She made him tea instead, hands steady even as her heart tried to claw its way out of her chest.
She wanted to scream at him. Demand answers. Ask him if he'd thought about her even once while he was gone. But the bullpen was full of eyes and ears, and she refused to fall apart in front of the team. So she kept her voice light. Casual.
"What were you doing in Arizona?"
"I went to the Grand Canyon." A faint smile, like this was normal.
She could play this game too. "The Grand Canyon."
"Mm." He sipped his tea. "Have you been?"
"No. I hear it's big."
"Huge. Yeah."
How could he sit there so calm, just sipping his tea?
“How's the tea?,” she asked with a polite smile
“Hot. Good. Thank you.”
“I would have mailed you your cup, but I didn't know where you were.”
“Well, you knew I'd be back.” He sounded so confident as if he’s complacent that she knows, that she’ll be there waiting for him anyway.
“No, I didn't. I put out a warrant for you because I can't read minds,” enunciating the words. “The first time I called you, I thought, “he missed my call”. The second time, I thought, “he's busy. Okay, he'll call me back” The third time, I thought, “he's dead. He is dead in a ditch on the side of the road”
“I didn't mean to scare you.”
“Well, you did scare me.”
“I'm sorry.”
“That doesn't make it any better.”
“I'm working through something, and I just need space to think. I can't soldier on like you, Lisbon.”
"You think I'm not upset?" Her voice cracked. "We're all hurting, Jane. But you don't see me abandoning my work. Abandoning you. You're important to me and so is my job. I don't get to just run away when things get hard."
"That’s because you’re better than me.”
She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Better than you? Wow. Do I get a medal for that?,” she snapped back.
Jane’s mouth twitched, a half-hearted chuckle escaping before he could stop it, knowing she's being sarcastic. He reached for his tea, focusing on the cup because it was easier than looking at her, easier than admitting he had nothing left to offer that wouldn’t make things worse. “I’m sorry, Teresa.”
"Would you stop saying that?" She exhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists at her sides. "Sorry doesn't fix this. It doesn't erase the fact that you left me and now you're here drinking tea like nothing happened. Like I didn't have to drag you back. Like we're okay."
"I know, Teresa." His voice dropped. "But I can't function when I'm constantly terrified something's going to happen to you. I needed to sort through that on my own."
Her laugh was hollow. Bitter. "Well, I know you're just stopping by, so I won't take up much of your time. After this case, you can go back to your Grand Canyon." She met his eyes, and hers were burning. "Maybe then we'll finally stop fooling ourselves."
He looked stricken. The teacup froze halfway to his lips. "Fooling ourselves? What–what do you mean?”
She stood, chair scraping back. Her chest felt too tight. "I have paperwork."
"Teresa,” he put down his cup. “I just need some time.”
“Alright. I'll give you time,” she said, trying to control her anger because in her experience, decisions made out of strong emotions don't end well. She would still give him the benefit of the doubt. So stupid. “But I also need something from you.”
“What’s that?”
“Don't ignore my phone calls.”
“Okay,” he said kind of relieved, “that’s-that’s fair.”
She nodded and walked away before he could see her tears.
After Abbott persuaded Jane to take a read on Gabriel – a man who claimed to have "visions" and may or may not be a murderous psychopath – he made his way to Lisbon's desk.
She knew he was coming. He could tell by the way her shoulders tensed, the way her fingers suddenly flew across the keyboard with renewed purpose. She shuffled papers. Clicked her mouse. Adjusted a file that didn't need adjusting. Anything to avoid looking at him.
He stopped in front of her desk.
She kept typing.
"Are you angry with me?"
"You tell me." Her eyes stayed locked on her screen.
"Teresa…"
"Jane, I can't do this right now." She said firmly, still not looking up.
"We need to talk. We'll-we'll talk, right?"
"No." She clicked through something on her computer with more force than necessary. "What we need is to close this case."
"Please, Teresa."
The typing stopped. Her jaw tightened so hard she might’ve cracked a tooth. For a moment he thought she might actually look at him, but she reached for a file instead, flipping it open. "Alright. After the case, we talk."
"Okay." He nodded, waiting. Hoping she'd glance up. Give him something – anger, hurt, anything but this cold wall she'd built between them, a wall that he’d spent years breaking down.
She didn't.
He stood there a moment longer, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. She turned a page, pen poised like she was about to make a note, and he realized he'd been dismissed.
He walked away.
Behind him, she finally exhaled – a shaky, painful breath she'd been holding since he appeared. Her pen trembled slightly in her hand.
She gripped it tighter and got back to work.
Because that's what she did. She soldiered on. Curse resiliency.
The bullpen was bathed in golden hour light, orange and fading fast. End of shift. Agents filtering out in twos and threes, voices trailing off down the hallway. The space grew quieter. Emptier.
She told herself she wasn't looking for him.
But her eyes kept drifting in search of him. He'd left earlier with Abbott. She'd seen it in her periphery while pretending to be busy. But she'd expected him back by now. Expected him to be there, waiting. Times like this, they always went home together.
She missed the Airstream, as cramped and ridiculous as it was. She had never felt suffocated in that tiny silver can, not with him. But what did she expect? He's probably got a lot in his mind to think about her. The empty couch is confirmation enough, and the fact that he's nowhere to be found. He was nowhere to be found for a week, but why is she looking at his couch longer than necessary? As if staring hard enough might conjure him out of thin air.
Damn it. She grabbed her jacket, keys jangling too loud in the empty bullpen.
She hated how much she missed him.
Hated that even after everything, her first instinct was still to wait for him. To hope he'd come back. To want him there.
Until it's 11 pm and she had done everything to fill the hour. Dinner. Dishes. Mindless scrolling. Reviewing the case again. A long shower. Skin care. Body care. Folding laundry that didn’t need folding. But all she could think about was Jane. What could he be doing tonight?
Driving home earlier, her hands had actually turned the wheel - muscle memory steering toward where his Airstream used to be parked before her brain caught up, before she wrenched the wheel back with a curse. He's not there. Stop it, Teresa.
But she couldn't stop.
In her kitchen, she rummaged through cabinets with shaking hands. Past the coffee, past the sugar, searching until her fingers closed around a box shoved in the back. Tea. His tea. Earl Grey. The one he'd been drinking almost every day when they decided to go back to her place instead of the Airstream.
She doesn't even like tea.
But she made a cup anyway.
Stood at the counter and drank it even though every sip made her throat close, even though the bergamot coated her tongue. Cursing herself with each swallow. Pathetic. This is pathetic. What a sad, desperate way to feel close to someone - choking down something you hate just because it reminds you of them. But she could do it. She could even force down hot lava down her throat for him.
Her phone sat on the counter. Her eyes kept darting to it. Checking. Hoping. Hating herself for hoping.
Of course there weren't.
When had she become this person? She'd always been strong. Self-sufficient. She didn't need anyone. Except somewhere along the way, she'd started needing him. He made her care for him, fall in love with him.
Until she noticed, the cup was empty. When did that happen? She stared at the dregs at the bottom, the leaves clumped and useless.
Are we all addicted to what ruins us?
Lisbon lay in bed on her back, staring at the ceiling, twisting the sheets between her fingers. The bed felt too big. She turned her back to not look at the void beside her in the shape of him.
She turned onto her other side, pressing her face into her pillow so she wouldn't have to see it. But now, she could feel the absence more acutely. The dip in the mattress that wasn't there. The weight that should've been pulling the blankets taut. The warmth that should've been radiating from the space beside her.
The want to feel his calloused hands to her waist and his stubbles scraping her forehead is almost palpable, almost physical. Maybe that’s what happens when someone becomes a part of you and then leaves. Your body sawed in half, leaving a phantom half of yourself.
Where could he be?
She'd checked her phone three times in the last ten minutes. No messages. No missed calls.
Was it the coffee keeping her awake, or the not-knowing? She pressed herself harder into the pillow.
Maybe she should call him.
But what's the point?
He'd already made his choice.
And it wasn't her.
Outside, a car passed. Headlights swept across the ceiling and for one stupid, hopeful second, she thought maybe it was him coming back.
Fuck this.
She sat up abruptly, reaching for her phone on the nightstand.
Her thumb hovered over his name.
Don't ignore my calls. That's all she'd asked of him. One simple thing. Now that he was back, he wouldn't ignore her again. Right?
Right?
She pressed dial before she could talk herself out of it.
The ringing felt endless. Her heart was in her throat.
Please. Please pick up.
There’s a thing inside you that’s eating you. A thing that’s lingered in your mind for many years.
Jane’s still not sure of the case of Gabriel but what he said was not wrong. Fear is scratching and crawling in his insides. He tried to shove it down but his brilliant mind is a machine that conjures up every possible nightmare. Every way Teresa could be hurt.
And the worst part? Every time he looked at her face, heard her voice, it got worse. Because it crystallized exactly what he stood to lose. It wasn't that he didn't want to be with her. God, he wanted nothing more. But he needed to clear the fog, untangle the barbed wire in his head, and become someone who didn't see her death every time she walked out the door. Someone better.
So he did what he'd always done - the only thing he'd ever known since he was a kid in a carnival, going from one place to another with no roots, no anchor, no place to call home.
He ran.
Drove to Arizona, stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon. Hoping that staring into something that enormous, would make his problems feel small by comparison.
It hadn't.
Scenic views weren't a match for the terror gnawing at his insides. Weren't a match for the memory of Lisbon's face in the morning light - the way the sun caught her freckles with strays of hair would falling across her forehead.
Nothing will ever match because she's everywhere. Around him, in his mind and heart.
And he knew he had to work through this if he didn't want to screw this up.
Watching her face in the interrogation room felt like swallowing shards of glass. She was hurt. Angry. Worried. He could hear it in every clipped syllable, see it in the rigid set of her shoulders, the way she looked coldly at him. And when she'd said about “stop fooling ourselves” he didn't know what she meant. He is clueless when it comes to her. All he could do is hope that she didn’t think that him leaving was because of her, about them, or that he loved her less.
Nothing could be further from the truth. He loved her so much it was killing him.
So he went to a tavern. Ordered a beer. Then another. Let the noise and the alcohol blur the edges of his thoughts. Maybe if he got drunk enough, he could forget. Just for a moment. Just long enough to stop seeing Teresa's corpse every time he closed his eyes.
He stumbled out around midnight, the world tilting slightly. Stretched his muscles, decided to walk off the buzz. The night air was cool. Sobering, almost.
At least, the buzz was better than the terrible images in his mind.
He wandered into the woods absentmindedly. Swaying slightly. It was a miracle he didn't trip over a root, fall into a ditch, get bitten by something venomous in the dark.
That was all he remembered before waking up on the grass the next morning, head pounding, dew soaking through his shirt.
Morning light hit his face. He blinked, disoriented. Pushed himself upright and looked around. There was a cabin. Weathered wood, sagging porch. A hand-painted wooden post with LAND FOR SALE on it. Beyond it, a lake – still and glass-smooth in the early light. Ducks gliding across the surface, leaving gentle ripples.
People say there’s a moment - once, maybe twice in a lifetime - when your future stands in front of you, where it flashes in your eyes. Montage of images, of places, but for him it was just a woman's face. Just Teresa's face.
Teresa and him. Here. The mist of dread parted just enough to let in a shaft of light. A projection of a future he hadn't dared imagine.
He could renovate this place. Add a deck, fix the roof, plant a garden. She’d come home from work and he’d be all sweaty building their house, something to keep him busy. They'd have coffee on the porch in the mornings. Watch the sunset over the water. Build something together.
A place that was theirs.
A sprout of hope bloomed in his chest.
Then he picked up his phone to check the time. And he saw one missed call. Teresa.
Shit.
His stomach dropped. He must've missed it at the tavern. Don't ignore her calls. That's all she'd asked. One simple thing. The bare minimum. And he'd failed her, again. He could already picture the look on her face. Not anger - that he could handle because that would mean she still cares enough to be mad at him. No, it would be worse. That disappointment. That resignation. The look that said she was getting tired. Because that was the one thing he would never be able to win back once it was gone - her love.
With all the stupid, selfish things he was doing now, he was probably losing it bit by bit. Watching it slip through his fingers like sand while he stood there, paralyzed, unable to hold on and too terrified to let go.
“Hey. Sorry to bother you this late. I just… wanted to know if you’re okay? Where you are, maybe, because, uh…” A small breath. “You didn’t answer and I-I worry about you. Just… just text or call me. Goodnight. I lo—” A sharp inhale. “Night, Jane.” The line went dead. His stomach dropped and suddenly the mist in his mind returned, shrouding the hope that peeked through.
He pressed his palm to his forehead. God, he was an idiot. A coward.
He stared at her name on the screen, thumb hovering over the callback button.
What the hell was he supposed to say? Why cant he stop himself from sabotaging the only good thing he has left?
He was about to call her when Abbott's name flashed across the screen.
"Jane, I'm glad I could reach you," Abbott said, relief evident in his voice.
"Well, I'm trying to be more findable these days." Jane reached his hand down to scratch the chin of a Dalmatian that had wandered over from somewhere. The dog leaned into his hand, tail wagging.
"Look, we're running a ghost ship right now. We need you. Are you ready to come in?"
Jane glanced back at the cabin, the lake. "Uh, yeah. I think I can do that."
"Are you nearby?"
He looked around at the trees, the overgrown path he must have stumbled down last night. "To be honest, I have no idea where I am."
Abbott said about Lisbon and Wylie finding more dead bodies buried. He needs him to go to the scene to help figure out what kind of sick serial killer they were dealing with.
"Is Lisbon there?" He tried to sound casual. Abbott paused - the kind of pause that said he knew exactly what was happening between his two agents, even if they wouldn't admit it. "Yes. With Wylie. Why?"
"Where's the location?"
He stood there for a moment, phone still in his hand, heart hammering.
Was he scared or excited? Both. Neither. He didn't know anymore. Does she even want him there? After last night's missed call? After everything? Is it selfish to go rushing to a crime scene for the sole reason of seeing her face? But maybe, if he showed up, if he helped her crack this case, if he proved he could still be useful, still be there when it mattered...
Maybe that would count for something. He started moving.
He rushed to find his Airstream. He splashed water on his face until the fog in his head cleared. Brushed his teeth. He sniffed his shirt smelling a mix of sweat, alcohol and dirt. He couldn’t go out smelling like this with his crumpled clothes. So, he changed to his black suit with thin white pinstripes, a plain white shirt, and of course, the vest is non-negotiable.
He changed quickly, finger-combing his hair into something resembling civilized, checking his reflection in the car window. At least now he wouldn't show up looking or smelling like he'd spent the night passed out in the grass surrounded by curious wildlife, or in her words before giving off “a homeless vibe.”
Lisbon was surprised when he saw Jane’s airstream arriving at the crime scene, but she didn't let it show on her face. She remained neutral as if she hadn't worried herself last night about his whereabouts. Good thing sleep crept in and took over.
She'd asked for one thing. One thing.
And he couldn't even do that.
If he needed time and space away from her – if that's what this disappearing act had been about – then why the hell was he here now, walking towards her?
Jane adjusted his collar and smoothed down his jacket as he climbed out of the Airstream. He met her eyes across the distance but she looked away first. Not a good sign.
“I know I missed your call last night. I didn't – I didn't mean to,” he said in a slightly frantic tone as if he’d been rehearsing this. “I’m sorry.”
There it is again. Sorry. Like the word could undo the damage, make her forget. But she didn’t let him see she was hurt or upset. But damn it. Damn it. Those blue eyes caught the light, swallowing her into its depths. But she has to play it cool.
“You’re sorry." Her voice came out flat. She crossed her arms. "You seem to be saying that a lot lately."
"Teresa, I really didn’t mean to–"
"Don't." She held up a hand. "You want to help? Great. Abbott briefed you?"
His jaw tightened. "No, but–"
"Then let's get to work." She turned away, gestured toward the dig site. "Wylie's over there.” She gave him the case rundown like he was just another consultant. It hurt hearing her talk to him like this. Like they were back to square one. Strangers with a professional obligation and nothing more. He knew what she was doing. This was how she coped - burying herself in work, hiding behind the veil of professionalism. But Jane knows to himself he cant - wont go back to just being "friends."
“Hey,” he said gently like when he used to when he calms her down she’s having a bad day or stressed out, touching her elbow slightly.
She jerked away like he'd burned her. "I really don't want to talk to you right now. But I can set that aside for now, so if you're here to help, then help."
"When, then?" He took a step closer. She took one back. "When can we talk?"
"I don't know, Jane." She finally met his eyes again, and she let him see it this time – the exhaustion, the hurt. "I don't know if I have anything left to say that I haven't already said. And you’ve pretty much made up your mind with where you want to be. Or don't want to be."
"Teresa, that’s not what this is. We–we agreed right? When you're ready. After the case–"
"That was before you ignored my call." Her voice cracked slightly, just for a second, before she reined it back in. "I didn't ask for much, Jane. I never ask for much."
She never asked him for anything. She's the only person who ever took a leap of faith for him without demanding guarantees. She covered up his messes, gave him her gun - no questions asked, got off an airplane and walked away from a stable future in D.C. - all for him. She'd rebuilt her entire life around the uncertainty of loving him.
"I was at a tavern. I didn't hear it, I swear–"
"A tavern." Something bitter twisted in her chest. "Of course. So, you were drunk."
"It's not – that's not –" He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated that he can’t seem to say the right words. “Well, I was but -"
"You were drunk at a bar. That's why you didn't pick up." Her tone was flat, dead. "Well, that's comforting"
"No, it-it wasn't like that. I was alone. Just.." He took a step toward her, desperation bleeding into his voice. "Look Teresa, I'm back."
She looked confused and paused a little to examine his face. “What does that even mean, “you’re back”? I thought you wanted time?" She took a step back, not playing this one step forward and two steps back dance with him. "You know what, I can't do this here.” Her throat tightened. "I can't keep having the same conversation where you apologize and I forgive you and then you leave again anyway."
Jane looked stricken. "I'm not leaving."
A bitter laugh escaped her. "Well, you already did. It's what you always do." That felt like a punch at his guts. His glance dropped to the ground feeling the weight of her words, shoulders curling inward slightly. She's not wrong.
She dropped her hand, her expression was carefully controlled again. "I need you to focus on the case. Can you do that?"
He stared back at her with a desperate look in his eyes. "Yeah, I can do that."
"Good." She turned toward the excavation site. "Then let's go. We’ve got ourselves a serial killer."
She walked away before he could say anything else.
After the raid on Mustang Creek Brewery, finding Gabriel's body hanging, they were back to square one. Gabriel was ruled out. Whoever this serial killer is, he or she is careful enough to not get caught. The team dispersed with orders to go home, get some sleep, and come back fresh in the morning. Double their efforts before the killing could escalate.
Jane stood in the bullpen, watching agents file out. Watched Lisbon as he fought the idea if he should or shouldn’t go to her. But it seems like his legs have a mind of its own, walking towards her. His body knows that he doesn't want to be apart from her tonight. Especially not now, when his head felt clearer than it had in weeks.
“Hey,” he said in front of her desk, looking at her as she gathered her things. "The case is done, or kind of." But she doesn't look at him, like she doesn't hear him.
”Listen, I know you're mad at me." He stood there, feeling suddenly awkward, hands sliding into his pockets. "You should be. I don't blame you. But I was thinking, if you don't want to talk, we could just... eat dinner together? Anywhere you want." The words came out rushed, a little desperate. "I'll shut up. I won't say anything unless you want me to. I just want to – I mean, if it's okay with you–"
She stared at him for a moment, then reached for her bag. Slung the strap over her shoulder. "Getting what you want out of technicality." Her voice was measured, controlled. "You haven't changed."
"Well." He offered a small, tentative smile. "It's worth a shot."
"You said you needed space." She tilted her head, studying him. "Now, you want to have dinner with me?"
"I told you I'm working through it. I’m trying, Teresa. I’m really trying.”
She looked at him for a long moment. He could see her walls, see her trying to decide whether to let him in or shut him out. Finally, she gave in and exhaled. “Alright. But I’m not in the mood to go out tonight. I’m tired.”
“It’s okay. We could order take out.”
When they arrived at her house, she paused at the door, keys in hand. "This doesn't mean everything's okay," she said without looking at him.
"I know."
"I'm still angry with you."
"I know."
He pretty much understood in the car ride to her place. Twenty-three minutes of silence. She hadn't spoken. Hadn't turned on the radio. Hadn't even looked at him. But he didn't mind one bit if it meant he could see her and be with her in close proximity. It was more than he deserved.
She unlocked the door. "Good."
The door swung open. She stepped inside, and for a moment he thought she might close it in his face. Tell him this was as far as he got.
But she didn't.
She left it open.
He followed her inside, and the familiar scent of her place – lavender laundry detergent, coffee, something uniquely her – brought back so many memories of the many times he had been here. All the mornings that he made her coffee in the kitchen while she got ready for work. All the things they did on the couch. How had he walked away from this?
"I'm going to change," she said, heading toward the bedroom. "Order whatever you want. Mine’s –”
“Pad See Ew, extra vegetables, mild spice and spring rolls.” That earned a fond smile from her, but it quickly faded. He’d still take it. All he really wants is to be around her tonight. Even if it was just dinner in silence. Even if she relegated him to the couch and barely looked at him all night. He'd take whatever she'd give him.
When she emerged from the bedroom in her usual sleeveless navy blue nightgown – the soft silk one that fell to her knees – it almost took his breath away. He'd missed this. It took everything in his willpower to pull her to him and kiss her right there and then.
Lisbon curled in the corner of the couch, tucking her feet under her. Jane sat at the other end - careful to leave space between them. Careful not to presume. And as he'd promised, he didn't talk. Didn't push. When the food arrived, they ate in silence at her small coffee table. He watched her twirl noodles around her fork, saw the exhaustion in her shoulders, the way she kept her eyes down.
They are playing it safe. Tip toeing to the problem that sooner or later, they have to address.
But she's the one to decide when. If he'll stay or leave. He'd follow her lead. He'd take anything she was willing to give.
She broke the silence when they were almost finished eating. “This is the longest time I’ve not heard you talk. It’s uncanny.”
He giggled. “Is that permission to talk?”
"Just about the case. How did you know Gabriel wasn't the killer?" she asked, softer now.
Jane shrugged. "Well, he genuinely believed what he was saying. That kind of conviction is hard to fake."
"But you can."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Touché. But I'm not that good."
"Oh, don't undersell yourself." She leaned back slightly, the ghost of amusement crossing her face. "I've seen you do it."
"But you can see right through me. Other people wouldn't, so it doesn't count." He paused, then added with a spark of mischief, "Besides, you did enjoy playing fake psychic on that jewelry case we had."
She laughed. A real one. Jane knew because he recognized the sound, the way it softened her eyes, the way her smile reached all the way there. “Oh yeah. That was fun. I almost puked, but…” She kept talking, filling the space with details from that day, but Jane stopped hearing the words. He nodded when he was supposed to, eyes fixed on her face. Everything else blurred, like a scene slipping into slow motion, the camera refusing to look anywhere else. The way her hands moved when she talked. The slight tilt of her head.
"Do I have something in my teeth?" Her voice cut through the haze. She was frowning at him now, self-conscious under the weight of his stare.
"No." His gaze dropped immediately to his food. But the truth pressed up anyway, clawing at his throat. "I-" He swallowed hard. "I miss this. I miss you."
She looked at him, just for a second, but abruptly stood, picking up her takeout box. "I need to - Let me throw this out. And get some water. Do you want water?" He nodded and she was already moving toward the kitchen, putting distance between them, her back to him as she busied herself. Wrong move, Patrick.
She threw out the take out box to the trash bin, grabbed a glass and turned on the tap. Her mind adrift only cutting off when the water overflowed, pooling on the counter.
Shit.
She shut off the tap. Lifted the glass to her lips and drank it fast, trying to drown the burning in her throat that meant tears were coming whether she wanted them or not.
Why is she overreacting to what he said? Did she leave because she got uncomfortable or she's afraid to admit she misses him, too?
Her back hit the counter. Hands gripping the edge. What are they doing having dinner together having a casual conversation as if this was just a normal day?
This is how it is with him every time he leaves. That Vegas fake breakdown for six months. Two years after Red John. And now this. He always expects to slip right back into her world like he'd never left a crater in it. Like she's just there on a shelf for him to need her again.
If their relationship is gonna go on like this, she doesn't know how much pain she could take. Maybe, it's better to rip the band aid off, rather than ignoring it, letting it fester and rot and poison them both.
She took a long, shaking breath. Pressed her palms flat against the counter, gathering herself then walked back to the living room. She only made it as far as the coffee table. Stopped there, standing, unable to sit back down and pretend anymore.
"I can't do this."
Jane looked up, fork frozen halfway to his mouth. "What?"
"I can't go on like this. You and me. This… whatever this is."
He set down his fork carefully, his heart skipped a beat. "Teresa, if it's about what I said. Look-"
"No." She held up a hand. "This is a yes or no question. Don't give me something where I have to decode what you mean or read between the lines, okay?."
His throat worked. He nodded.
"Are we done? Is this your way of breaking up with me?"
"What? No-" he abruptly stood but he froze his step when he saw her step back.
"Because you should just say it." Her voice went frantic, words tumbling out faster. "You should say it straight instead of making me wonder for weeks where this is going, what you're thinking, if you're coming back or if I'm just supposed to wait forever like some pathetic -"
"Teresa, if you could let me explain first -" he struggled to get a word in edgewise.
"Not everyone can read minds, Jane!" Her voice broke. "So if this is it, if you're done, just tell me. So we can stop hurting each other. We can-" Her breath hitched. "Just tell me. Please. Are we done?"
"No." His voice was firm, urgent. He stood, taking a step toward her. "Teresa, I'm not breaking up with you. That never-that didn't even cross my mind." A surge of panic forming in chest. "Are you?"
"I-" She stopped. Swallowed hard. "No. No, but-"
"But what?"
"But you said you couldn't do this anymore!" The words exploded out of her. "You said it right there at the funeral. You said you couldn't..." Her hands were shaking now, gesturing wildly. "You've been asking for space. Away from me. You left for a week, Jane. A week without so much as a text or a call. What the hell am I supposed to think?"
He didn't care anymore if she stepped away every time he went towards, he chased her until he caught her elbows. "Listen to me, Teresa." His voice cracked. "My leaving is not because I don't love you. Please, just-just understand that I couldn't stay knowing I could lose you at any moment." His fingers tightened slightly, grounding himself in the solid warmth of her. "Because that would kill me, Teresa. It would."
"You're scared of losing me so you resolve that by leaving me?" She yanked her elbows free, stumbling back a step. Angry tears streaked down her face and she swiped at them furiously. "You know how crazy that sounds?!"
Jane's face crumpled. "I know. I know it doesn't make sense, but-"
"It doesn't!" She was crying openly now, not bothering to wipe the tears away. "It doesn't make any sense, Jane. You either stay or leave, and you keep walking away" And she saw him bow his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Where does this leave us?"
He looked up.
And the sight of him gutted her.
Those ocean blue eyes had gone dark. Deep, storm-dark blue. Swimming with tears that spilled over and tracked down his face in steady streams.
She'd never seen Jane cry like this. His lips were trembling. Shaking so hard he couldn't seem to form words. His mouth kept opening and closing, trying, failing, like his throat had locked around everything he was desperate to say. "I just can't lose you, Teresa." He must have said this countless times by now, but it landed like the first time.
"I panic every time there's a risk." His breath hitched, catching on a sob he was trying to swallow. "I keep picturing you in that coffin." He pressed both hands to his face now, trying to physically hold back the tears. It didn't work. They kept coming, leaking between his fingers. "Every time I hear a bullet, I panic thinking what if you got hit and I'm not - I'm not there.”
He exhaled a long breath and his body shook with it. He paused, fighting to ease his breathing back to normal, biting his lower lip so hard she thought he might draw blood.
"Remember those nightmares?" His voice was barely a whisper now. "Where you had to shake me awake?
She nodded slowly, her own throat tightening. She remembered. Those nights where Jane would jerk violently, grip the sheets, chest heaving, sweat soaking through his shirt. She'd had to shake him awake. Once, she'd even had to slap him. She'd never asked what he saw. She knew it was about that night opening that door. So, instead, she'd just held him every time. Whispering promises into the dark. I'm here. I've got you. You're safe. I’ve got you. I’m not letting you go.
"You thought it was that night, right?" His red-rimmed eyes found hers. "Well, it used to be. Yes. But I never told you-" His voice cracked. "It’s you, your face, for a while now. Your face covered in blood."
A gun shot, echoing off concrete walls.
A shrieking scream. Teresa's scream, then cutting off too fast.
Blood pooling beneath her. Soaking into her clothes.
Her neck sliced open by a knife. The wound gaping obscenely. He watches the life drain from her eyes.
Her body, grey and cold and stiff with that tag tied around her toe.
Lisbon's heart seemed to constrict in her chest, squeezing so tight she couldn't breathe. Knowing how painful it must be for him to see it over and over in his head. "I see you on the floor. I see myself finding you the way I-" He couldn't finish. Couldn't say it out loud.
He reached out blindly, hands grasping for the arm of the sofa but couldn’t quite reach it, trying to hold on to something solid to keep his balance. When he looked at her, she saw it - a man who had lived through the worst nightmare imaginable and was now trapped in the unending terror of living through it again. Except this time, it would be worse. This time, it would be her.
And suddenly, guilt twisted in her gut. Was she asking too much of him?
He took a shaky step toward her. "I love you." It came out broken. "And I'm scared."
Her body moved before her mind could catch up - closing the distance between them in two steps and pulling him into her arms. She cradled his head against her neck, one hand threading through his hair, the other wrapped tight around his back. And he collapsed into her arms, like he's been free-falling with a parachute until finally he reached solid ground. Safe ground. Her.
She was surprised by how immediately, how fiercely he gripped her back. His full weight sagged against her, and she had to brace herself to keep them both upright.
I'm here, I've got you, I'm here - she repeated like a lullaby in his ear.
She tried to pull back slightly, just enough to see his face, to wipe away his tears, but he nuzzled tighter into her neck, a broken sound escaping his throat.
He wasn't letting go. Couldn't let go. So she didn't pull away again. Just held him. Let him fall apart in her arms the way he'd held her together so many times before.
But she knows, they both know, they can't hold each other forever. Even if she doesn't want to let go. Even as he clung to her to lock her in place.
It can't fix this.
Holding each other can't fix this.
“Jane,” she whispers hesitantly.
“Little longer." His voice was muffled against her neck.
"We can't." Her throat tightened. "You know we can't.
He breathed her in first before he gave in and let her pull back. She cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing away the tear tracks on his cheeks. “I know that I may never know the pain you went through. Losing your family the way you did. Finding them like that. I can't even imagine it, Jane. I won't pretend I can. And I never asked you to move on or forget. I would never ask that of you.”
She looked him straight in the eyes, took his hand, and pressed his palm flat against her chest - right over her heart. “All I want want is for you to know that you have me. Right here. You have me.”
"I know, Teresa -"
She nodded, gripping his hand tighter against her chest for one more moment. "But the fact that your first instinct when you got afraid was to leave?" loosened her hold. Let their hands fall away from each other. "That tells me you don't trust me. You don't trust that I can carry this weight with you. That I'm strong enough to help you through it."
"That's not true." Panic flared in his eyes. He reached for her hands again but she pulled them away. "That's not true at all. You have it all wrong, Teresa - "
"Isn't it?" She shook her head, backing up a space. "I would follow you to the ends of the earth, Jane. I would give up everything for you - my job, my career, my life if it came to that. I trust you. I love you. And I needed you that day but you walked away from me." Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I'm not something you put down and pick up whenever it's convenient for you. That's not how this works.”
“What? No. You’re not something I put down. You’re the only thing I keep coming back to. And leaving you was one of the hardest things I've ever done.”
"But you did it anyway. Sometimes I think, if you're really so afraid of losing me - if that's what this is - then you should've never chased me onto that plane.” Her voice gave out. She pressed her fist to her mouth, trying to hold back a sob.
Having means losing - you can't have one without the other.
"Don't say that." His own voice was breaking now. "You - you don't mean that." He told himself she was just hurt. That's why she was saying these things. She didn't mean it. She couldn't mean it. She wasn't rethinking them.
"You shouldn't have made me fall in love with you just to break my heart like this." The words came out muffled, anguished. "To finally have me and then let me go the second things get hard. To make me think I finally had someone who would stay."
Each word landed like a physical blow. She watched them hit him. Watched him flinch with every accusation. Watched his face crumple like she was tearing him apart piece by piece.
And maybe she was. Maybe they were tearing each other apart and neither of them knew how to stop.
"I want to stay -"
"But you didn't. You didn't stay. And I would never ever do that to you, Jane. Because I believe that we’re worth fighting for. That you’re worth fighting for. “
"No, no, no. This is going out of hand." His breathing was getting faster, more erratic. He ran both hands through his hair, gripping it like he might tear it out. "You're mad and hurt and I'm not thinking clearly and we're not in the right mind to -"
He took another step toward her, hands out, begging. "Let's recalibrate, please? We can work this out. We can. Let's just breathe and-and talk through this properly and-"
His voice was rising, words tumbling over each other faster and faster. "Please, Teresa? Please, I'm begging you, just-just give me a chance to-"
She shook her head slowly. Let out a long, shaky breath. "I'm tired."
"Okay. Okay, that's-that's fine." Relief and desperation flooded his voice in equal measure. He nodded rapidly. "Let's go to bed. You need rest. I'll-I'll be here on the couch and we can talk in the morning when we're both calmer and-"
"No, Jane."
The relief died instantly. His face went ashen. "What?"
"I'm tired of everything. I think you should go."
He closed the distance between them in two strides, hands reaching for her shoulders, her face, anything. "Teresa, please. Don't do this. Don't-"
"I need you to leave, Jane." She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly so small. So fragile. "Please, just go."