Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish they were mine. But they're not.
Author's Note: So I liked the case, but I'd have loved a better look at what was going on with Jane and Lisbon. So this is me trying to fill in the blanks.
I'm a man who knows how to get what he wants. I rarely fail. When I do, I don't take it well.
I'm also a selfish son of a bitch sometimes.
These two character flaws are why I'm sitting here enjoying a breathtaking view of the Grand Canyon and ignoring the eleventh call in a row from the only woman in the world who could possibly make me happy again.
Except she won't. Because she can't untangle her job from her identity, no matter how that job pains me. And I resent that.
Before I left, she told me I couldn't be jealous of her job, and I told her I wasn't. But that's not exactly true, I've come to realize over this past week. She chose her job over me, and I'll always be jealous of anything she grants a higher priority than my needs.
I'm trying very hard not to remember how many years she spent knowing she wasn't my highest priority.
I should really text her and let her know I'm okay. I don't want to talk to her, because I'm afraid some of my anger and frustration will spill into our conversation and sour it, but a text doesn't carry that risk.
Still, when I pick up my phone and see her picture, I'm overcome with bitterness that a job holds a larger share of her heart than I do. So I put it down again.
She knows I'll come crawling back eventually. I always do. Until then, she has her job to keep her happy. It won't keep her warm at night, but it won't run out on her either.
Huh. Maybe she's not being so unreasonable after all.
mmm
All during the trip back to Austin I debate whether it was Lisbon or Abbott who put the APB out on me. Or maybe it was Cho. He has a subversive sense of humor, after all. I could see him doing that.
But I know it was Lisbon the moment I set eyes on her. Surprising. She misused her precious job to bring me back. Maybe her priorities aren't as clearly defined as I thought.
Or maybe they are. The office is greyer, more somber than I remember. Vega's death cast a pall over it, and it hits me that everyone here is grieving. They're also short handed. Is this Lisbon sacrificing my needs for the needs of the team?
My escort deposits me in an interview room, and I contemplate escape until he returns with my teacup, filled with a delicious smelling brew. The first sip tells me Lisbon made it. I decide to stay long enough to enjoy it, at least. I missed my teacup.
I missed her, too. But I'm not ready to admit it. Not until I find out why I'm here.
She walks in, calm and composed. She doesn't look like she's been pining. I'm a little hurt by that, but even I realize that it's childish to want her to suffer just because I am.
She starts the interview as if we're strangers, as if I'm a witness to some crime. Maybe I am, in her eyes. Failure to appear—how many times over the years has she hunted me down and dragged me to work? This is the first time since we've been involved, though.
We exchange banalities about the Grand Canyon. She's trying to get a read on me, just like I'm trying to peer behind her professional mask. I don't like it when she wears it with me. She knows that, so either she's trying to throw me off balance, or she's afraid she'll explode with suppressed rage if she lets herself be my girlfriend right now.
Except she's not angry. How can she not be angry?
She's annoyed though, snarking about mailing me my cup and claiming she didn't know I was coming back. And then, finally, some true emotion peeks through when she tells me how I scared her.
I honestly regret that. Dammit, I should have texted her. Looking into her weary eyes, I can hardly bear myself. How does she do it? How does she keep finding ways to forgive me the unforgivable?
I need her to know that this is not about us. It's about me and my issues. It's about needing time to sort through the mess in my head. There's a dozen years' worth of crap piled up and I never sorted through any of it until poor Vega made me face my worst nightmare head-on. I not only can't soldier on like Lisbon, but I also can't deal with my feelings while I'm with her. Because when I'm with her I only want to be happy. I want to ignore all the bad things and focus on the good ones. And I've come to realize that if I don't clear out some of the debris in the corners of my mind, it's going to get worse and worse until I really, irreparably hurt her.
I tell her I understand when she explains that she can't run away from her job because it's too important to her. And I do understand it. I just haven't worked my way through to acceptance yet.
She promises me time, and asks in return only that I don't ignore her calls anymore.
"That's fair," I say, and hide my grimace.
Someone who's loved and cherished should never have to ask for something so basic.
I watch as she walks back to her desk, back to her first love, giving me the space I asked for. I marvel at her strength, her centeredness. She wouldn't fall apart if I left her forever, not like I would if she left me. She would soldier on. Eventually she would even learn to smile again, be happy without effort. Her heart would heal. It would always have the cracks where I broke it, much like my teacup, but it would still be perfectly functional.
There's a sense of relief in knowing I can't destroy her. My love—my selfish, vainglorious love—destroyed my wife and daughter. But there's no danger of that happening to Lisbon. Some two-bit crook may gun her down in the street someday, but that wouldn't be my fault.
It would still destroy me, though. That's the part I can't get past. I want her to make allowances for my fragility, but she won't. I can't help but read that as lack of love, though intellectually I know it's not. It's more that she can't truly understand or believe that I wouldn't recover from her death.
She's not going to let me change her. That's her strength showing. And I love her strength. I depend on it. How else could she have put up with all my shit all these years?
When Abbott stops by to persuade me to go evaluate this so-called psychic, I'm reluctant to tear my attention away from my pondering but a little relieved to have a distraction. Gabriel isn't an easy read; I can't tell if he's a conman or killer. But whichever one he is, I don't want him near my Lisbon.
Looks like I won't be hitting the road again after all.
mmm
Sick of my own company, I drown out my thoughts with beer and pinball, followed by a nocturnal ramble that ends when I literally can't stay upright any longer and find a nice patch of grass to bed down on. Fortunately it's a warm, dry night, and I don't wake until the sun is fully up.
And damn if a three-legged dog doesn't greet me first thing. Three, huh? If there is a deity up there, he/she/it is having a good laugh at my expense. Nice dog though.
I have no idea which way I came last night, so I can't retrace my steps. Instead, I follow the dog, who isn't letting his misfortunes slow him down or deprive him of joy. There's a lesson to be had there, I realize. Of course, maybe it's easier to be a three-legged dog than a broken man. One is obvious and garners sympathy; the other is hard to discern and tends to make people roll their eyes and think you should just get over it and live in the moment. But I can't get over it, any more than this dog can grow a new leg.
But wait. That's a false equivalence, isn't it? The dog isn't sitting at home whining because he can't walk like other dogs. He's out here roaming around, patrolling his turf and investigating strangers. He isn't terrified he's going to lose another leg somehow. He's living the same life he would have lived if he'd never lost his leg.
I can't live the life I would have if I'd never talked about Red John, because the family I would have lived it with is gone. And I wouldn't want to go back to that shallow, self-satisfied conman anyway.
But as I emerge from under a tree and come face to face with a little house and a beautiful pond, all of it for sale, I have an epiphany: I can still lead the kind of life I would have had. I can build a new home, a new family. I can remove the last influence that evil man has on my life, stop punishing myself, and remember only the good times with my beautiful Angela and Charlotte while I make new memories with Lisbon. I can stop letting fear poison my happiness.
It's easy to think and hard to actually do, of course. Fear is a habit, and a deeply ingrained one at this point. It will take sustained effort to overcome. It will take strength I don't know if I have.
Maybe I can borrow some of Lisbon's.
mmm
I'm still constructing my—our—beautiful new life in my head when Abbott calls and asks for my help. After I hang up, I realize Lisbon called last night. I must have missed it while I was playing pinball. Dammit, that was the one thing she asked for, and now she thinks I've refused to give it to her.
My new buddy leads me to his home, where I get directions back to the bar. Fortunately it's only a short walk; I must have gone in circles last night.
I retrieve my keys from Amber and set off to join Lisbon.
An apology is the first order of business, but she ignores it, wary and pissed. "What are you doing here?"
It's not exactly a welcome, but what did I expect? "I'm back," I tell her.
"What does that mean, exactly, you're back?" She is so done with my glib excuses and unreliability.
"Well, it means I'm...figuring stuff out. Figuring it out." It will take a while to explain it to her, and a crime scene is not the place. "It's good to see you." I can't wait to show her the pond in the sunshine with ducks playing in it. I can't wait to lay out my plan for her and see what she says.
Very quietly, she says, "It's good to see you too." Her honest heart won't let her pretend she didn't miss me, and she's too relieved at my return to snark at me that if I'd been smart, I could have spent the night in her bed. The thought gives me a pang of longing, but I quickly tamp it down. I can't have her thinking I came back just because I'm horny.
So I get down to the unpleasant business at hand. She won't want to talk about anything personal here, and she'll be in a much better frame of mind if I help with this case first.
Ugh. I hate serial killers.
And "psychics."
And I really hate when they're mixed up together.
mmm
It's a long day. A long, terrifying day, though at least Lisbon didn't insist on being the first into the brewery and didn't tell me to stay in the car. She let me watch her back, even though I was staying so close I nearly stepped on her heels several times.
Poor Gabriel. I should have warned him what happens when you pretend to read a serial killer's mind on television.
At least he won't have to live with the consequences.
Lisbon is tired and horrified and very much does not want to be alone tonight, but she'll never ask me to come home with her. Not when I've asked her for space. I'd invite her to the Airstream, but I know she's thinking of a nice warm bath and her own space. So I present myself at her desk as a supplicant. "May I come over tonight?"
She's too surprised to play it cool; her head whips up, and her eyes are wide and full of longing. "Okay." Then she remembers herself. "Are you done figuring things out? Or just taking a break?"
An excellent question. "I've figured out some things. The most important things. And one of them is that I don't like being apart from you. And I don't plan to ever leave you again."
"Good." Her eyes are shining now, and she smiles, a big but brief one. I can tell that she's not convinced it's permanent, but she's glad to have me back for however long I'll stay.
"Will you be here much longer?" I'm trying to be respectful of her dedication to her work, despite my strong desire to lift her from her chair, help her into her jacket, and pull her out of here by the hand.
"No. I just need to finish up." She glances back at her screen, then up at me. "No, you know what? I'll finish tomorrow." She begins closing her computer down.
It seems I'm not the only one trying to turn over a new leaf.
"Want me to pick up dinner on the way?" I offer.
"Why don't you just ride with me? I still have some lasagna in the freezer," she offers.
What has she been eating while I'm gone? Takeout, I bet. Or worse, nothing. Dammit, what was I thinking, leaving for a whole week? "Sounds good."
She's definitely exhausted; she hands me her keys as we reach the parking lot. We don't talk much on the drive, but I can sense her looking at me, full of questions she'll never bring herself to ask.
"I spent the evening playing pinball," I tell her. I skip over the drinking part though, since that's a sensitive topic for her. "And I went for a moonlit stroll. It was beautiful. Then this morning I went for another walk in the country and met a beautiful English setter. He was missing a leg, but it didn't hold him back at all. We should get a dog. You like dogs, don't you?"
"We don't exactly have a dog-friendly lifestyle," she yawns.
"I'd like to scale back my involvement with cases," I say. I don't tell her I'm planning to scale it back to zero; that's best addressed once we're both better rested. "I want to make a life. A real life with a real home. With comfort and fun and not nearly so much death and despair."
She looks out the window, and I catch the sadness in her reflection.
"I don't imagine I'll be able to avoid it altogether," I assure her. "Asking you how your day was will probably supply a steady stream of puzzles to apply my mind to. Sort of...informal consulting. Over dinner. Or relaxing with a glass of wine. Doesn't that sound much more pleasant?"
"Can you handle that?" she asks softly. "You won't drive yourself crazy worrying that you're going to get a call from Cho telling you I've been hurt?"
"I have to find a way, don't I? You've made it clear that you and your job are a package deal." Oops, that came out more sharply than I intended. "Not having to see the danger up close should help me ignore it. Plus, I'll keep busy."
"Doing what?"
"I'll figure something out. Walking the dog, maybe. Cooking ridiculously extravagant dinners. Opening a tea shop. Performing at children's parties. Learning Italian. All of the above."
She smiles. "That sounds nice."
"Yes, it does." Maybe if I make my life look tempting enough, she'll be more open to making changes in hers.
When we get inside her house, the first thing she does is turn and hug me. "I missed you," she whispers.
I hold her, tucking my face into her hair. "I missed you too. And I'm sorry. That's the last time I run off. I promise."
Her arms tighten around me. "It better be." She sighs. "I understand that you need to work through things alone sometimes. You always have. But please, next time, at least send me a postcard, okay?"
"There won't be a next time," I tell her.
"If there is," she persists, and I know she doesn't believe me. I can't really blame her, all things considered.
But I can think of a good way to convince her. "Okay. I promise. At least a postcard." And something to remember me by. Something to remind her of my promise, my commitment.
I tip up her chin so I can kiss her, long and slow and loving. She melts against me, and my heart soars. This is where I belong, with her. This is the foundation of our new life.
I need to take this serial killer down fast so we can both focus.
And then we can start looking for a dog. Maybe there's a three-legged one sitting at the shelter waiting for us.
If there is, I'll name him Epiphany.