AN: Hello dearest readers! I miss writing for you all - grad school is not granting me much free time. But here's a little ficlet nonetheless. I'm in the process of writing out a multichapter - I have four chapters at the moment but won't start posting until I have the whole thing written. That way I'll be able to post regularly even if my schedule won't allow me to write. Anyway, I hope you like this oneshot, and be on the lookout for a new multichapter from me eventually!

This story starts in the middle of The Crimson Hat (during the conversation when Jane "can't" remember telling Lisbon he loves her) and goes AU after that.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.

Burgundy

"So that thing you said before you shot me…what did you mean?"

"What did I say? I was kind of hyped up."

The tears sting at my eyes before I can will them away, and I look down quickly.

Why say the words in the first place if you didn't mean them? If you planned to take them back?

Bastard.

"Right," I say softly, focusing on a freckle on the back of my hand determinedly and refusing to meet his eyes. "Yeah, me too."

My voice quivers, shaking on the last word. I'm sure he's heard it.

I catch him tense out of the corner of my eye, but when he moves to stand up, I turn and walk away, my pace brisk.

I have to get away—I can't risk letting him touch me, like I knew he was going to.

Jane's touch is poison.

I've realized that now.

As I walk away from him, the stubborn tears finally fall. But I pretend they haven't and leave them be. I try to keep my breathing even, and as I climb the stairs I feel heavy, as though I'm still tethered to the ground—as though I'm leaving a part of myself behind.

In a way, I am.

I slam the door behind me and jump, startled, when I find myself face to face with Cho.

He takes one look at me and says, "Want me to kick his ass?"

I wipe at the tear tracks on my face absently, knowing Cho won't judge or pity me. His offer is tempting, but I have to decline.

"No," I say, resigned. I pause, then continue, knowing what I have to do now.

"Kick him off the team instead."

He raises an eyebrow, surprised. "You sure?" He knows I am, but he has to ask.

"We'll see this last con to the end, but after that…yeah, I'm sure."

I make to move past him, but Cho grabs my forearm.

"I know Jane's a bastard," he says, "but why take him back after Vegas only to decide you're through now? I mean," he adds, backtracking. "Not that I blame you. In fact, I think it's the right decision. But why now?"

I've never heard Cho say so much on personal matters, and it is this that makes me decide to answer honestly.

I shake my head hopelessly. "I'm tired of pretending," I say, shrugging and wiping at fresh tears. "I'm so damn tired of pretending that I matter to him. And I'm tired of waiting."

"Okay," Cho says simply, and his grip on my forearm tightens slightly, almost imperceptibly, and I know he's trying to offer some small semblance of encouragement. He steps around me and opens the door.

He doesn't shut it behind him, and it's suddenly obvious why.

Cho wants me to listen. Whatever this conversation will be about, he wants me to hear.

So I step back into the shadows, hovering, waiting.

As soon as Cho steps off the stairs, Jane greets him warmly. Cho doesn't bother with niceties.

"The only reason I'm glad you're alive right now is because your death would kill Lisbon," he says, and his footsteps stop echoing. I can picture him standing in front of Jane, staring him down.

Jane obviously is speechless.

So am I.

"Whatever the hell you just told her, it broke her heart," Cho continues. "To be honest, I'd thought you'd given her more than enough heartbreak over the years, but it turns out that Lisbon is always stronger than I think. But enough is enough. You don't deserve to have her in your life, and she's finally kicking you out of hers. After this con is through, I don't want you to ever contact her again—or anyone else on the team."

Cho's footsteps begin to echo once more, but then Jane finally speaks, and Cho stops walking.

"She said that?" Jane asks, and his voice is so quiet I have to strain my ears to hear it.

"Yeah," says Cho, and he begins walking again.

I slip quietly away into the darkness.

After the botched Red John takedown, we hand the case over to the FBI, and Jane disappears.

Life gets back to normal.

I can breathe again.

Eleven months later

I push open the door to the attic, grunting as I slide its weight to the side.

I haven't been up here since before Jane left for Vegas. If I'm being honest with myself, I'd been scared to.

But there's nothing here. Nothing to be scared of.

Just a lot of nothing. And dust.

But that's not entirely true. I notice a piece of paper lying on Jane's old desk and walk across the room. The ink is faded now from the sun through the window, but it's legible.

And it's Jane's handwriting.

Dear Lisbon,

I understand. I totally, completely understand. And you were right. You're always right. I'm going to miss you like hell, but I owe this to you. You deserve far more from me. It's the least I can do.

I don't know if you'll ever find this letter, but I hope that you do. Or, in the case that you are happy without me, I hope that you don't. There's an explanation on the back of this paper for why I took back those words to you. If you want to know, flip it over. If you don't, tear it up and never think about me again. I understand. I really do.

I can tell you in person, too, if that's what you want.

If that's what you'd prefer, meet me here in one year's time.

Jane

I set the paper down without looking at the other side.

He's on the rooftop when I arrive, and my breath catches.

I eye him through the window of the attic warily. He looks good—much better than he'd seemed a year ago. His hair is tidy, the blond curls tame for once, the three-piece suit traded in for a leather jacket and jeans.

I walk across the floor and step outside. He turns around, his hands in his pockets, a look of complete and utter surprise on his face.

"Hi," he manages.

I can't speak, so I just nod instead.

"I didn't think you'd actually show up," Jane says.

"Nor did I."

He chuckles and shrugs helplessly. "I'm glad you did." He takes a step forward, looking at me intensely. "How are you?" he asks. "You look…you look good."

I manage half a smile. "Thanks. So do you." Our eyes meet for the first time in a year, and I blurt out, "I missed you."

And suddenly he's hugging me, squeezing my torso so tight I wonder if he'll ever be able to let go.

"I missed you, too," he says. "More than you could possibly imagine."

I squeeze him back tightly and drop my forehead to his shoulder. I breathe him in, and suddenly everything comes flooding back.

There's a reason I wanted him out of my life. All he ever does is hurt me—and the team. What's stopping him from doing the same now?

I extract myself from his arms and take a step back.

My eyes are dry.

Good.

He deserves no more of my tears.

Jane's hands falter for a second, as though he doesn't know where to put them now that they're not tangled in my hair. He settles for fiddling with them instead, and I realize how nervous he is.

"So I take it you want to know what the back of the letter said?"

I stare at him, wary. "To be honest," I say, "I'm not sure that I do."

He nods and looks down.

"But," I continue, "I think I have to."

Jane looks up at me, and there's a glimmer of something in his eyes that I can't quite read.

"I meant what I said," he says in a rush, "which is exactly why I had to take it back."

My jaw drops a fraction of an inch. Oh. Well, I hadn't expected that.

"You did?" I ask, almost a whisper.

He nods. "Like I said, I was hyped up; I wasn't thinking straight. When I'm not thinking straight, it turns out, I tend to think of you. But I couldn't allow myself to think like that, because it was compromising—I needed to be impartial and cold and calculating, and I couldn't be when I was thinking of you. I needed to ignore all emotion in order for the plan to work. So I tried to. Which is why, when you asked again, I had to take the words back. It's not because I didn't mean them—far from it. It's because I meant them too much."

I tuck a strand of errant hair behind my ear. "Oh," I say lamely.

"I'm sorry," Jane continues. "I'm sorry I thought the plan was more important than your feelings. I know now it could never be. And I'm sorry that the first time I said those words to you was under duress. I was hoping to tell you some ordinary day, when we were just sitting together, and suddenly I was completely overwhelmed by how much I loved you. You deserve that. And you certainly did not deserve to hear that I didn't remember telling you I loved you. I'm so sorry, Lisbon."

I work through his speech in my head, trying to sort through it all, but my brain isn't quite functioning, isn't quite processing the situation.

Finally, some of his words come through.

"You love me?"

"I always have," Jane says simply. "Always will, as a matter of fact."

I cross my arms over my chest, closing myself off. "I'm not sure this was a good idea," I say. "Because knowing you love me doesn't change anything. You're still going to obsess over Red John, you'll still always choose him over me, and I'll still be sleeping alone at night. You loving me doesn't change any of those things."

Jane steps forward forcefully, and I have to look up to meet his eyes. They've changed from sea-green to icy blue, and I'm wondering how it's possible that he looks like my worst nightmare.

"But I want to change all of those things," he says vehemently. "That's the point, Lisbon."

My eyes narrow. "I'm not sure I understand."

He runs his hand through his hair distractedly, and it is then that I notice.

He's no longer wearing his wedding ring.

He knows the second I realize. "A lot can happen in a year," he says quietly.

"What happened to you?" I ask, matching his tone.

"I picked myself up," he says. "I stopped staring down death every day, and it was like breathing again. I sold the house in Malibu and bought a place in Napa. I said my goodbyes. I'm hoping to say more hellos."

I grab his left hand and touch the white band of skin where his ring had been. I can still feel his scrutinizing gaze on me.

"I loved you," I say. "Before that day one year ago, I loved you. But the day you told me you loved me, the day you took it back—well, so did I." It's a lie, but he doesn't deserve the truth.

He nods quickly. "I understand," he says tersely, his voice almost breaking.

Damn it. No one in the world deserves as much heartbreak as the man standing in front of me has experienced. And I will not add to it.

I sigh.

"Jane," I say, and he glances up at me again. I amend my statement. "There's no way I could have forced myself to fall out of love with you. You have to know that. I don't want to love you now, but I do, regardless of everything that's happened."

He leans down so that our faces are within an inch of each other. "I'm not asking you to give me another chance," he says. "I'm going to earn it."

I smile slightly at him. "You'll have to," I say. "Because I'm out of chances to give."

He rests his forehead against mine.

Seven months later

The sun is sinking below the horizon as we stroll through the vineyard, and I shiver as the cold of evening swirls around us. Jane shrugs out of his jacket and puts it over my shoulders in a fluid motion. My hands grip the leather, and I breathe in his scent. It's burgundy wine and fresh dirt and something that is uniquely Jane.

I glance over at him, taking in his t-shirt and blue jeans. It's hard for me to picture Jane in his three-piece suit these days—now his wardrobe is more casual, fit for someone running a small vineyard. It's earthy and perfectly him.

The sun disappears, and I turn to face him. He just looks at me, smiling broadly, and I look at him, hardly daring to believe this is real.

"I love you," I say quietly, but there's no one and nothing around to hear us save for endless rows of vines.

Jane's smile widens, and he tips my face upward with a hand under my chin as he leans down. Our lips meet.

He tastes like wine. Burgundy wine and something intangible…something like…hope.

"I love you, too," he says. "Always have. Always will."