Spoilers for 6x09 "My Blue Heaven". Jane/Lisbon. This show is killing me this season (in the best way). Which is why I wrote a fic about it when I haven't written one since 2011. SO MANY FEELS.
What if Jane had written one last letter to Lisbon before coming back to the United States?
The Last Letter
The life he lived now was calm, easy and carefree. He awoke every morning to a perfect sunrise, spent his days doing whatever he pleased, and went to sleep in silver moonlight - still warm enough to leave the window open and have his bare feet peeking out from under the covers. It truly was a paradise on earth. So many people would kill to be here, to live this life. How ironic, he thought. He had killed to be here and what did it get him?
Emptiness.
He enjoyed the sun, savoured his tea and loved to watch the waves but inside, he felt nothing. Well, not nothing. The sunlight hours kept him distracted but at night, lying there trying to sleep through all the demons in his head, he had so much time to think. So very much time to think of only one thing.
Her.
His favourite part about his time here was when he wrote his weekly letter to Lisbon. He would picture her in his mind while he wrote, almost seeing her there with him. He saw her half smiles, her warm green eyes, the wavy dark hair he would recognize anywhere. He would picture her here, and imagine how she would act here instead of back in California, all work and pressure and responsibility. How would she look here - carefree, happy, relaxed? What did that Lisbon look like?
He liked to think the subtle scowl she had when deep in thought would disappear here, and that her hair would always be undone. He pictured her wearing a colour other than black, and maybe even a dress that didn't allow room for a sidearm. Wishful thinking.
He wanted so much to bring her here, to give her a reprieve from the hard life she'd been handed. A break from the heavy responsibility she always felt to be everything to everyone and fix every problem in the world, and always before taking care of herself. He wanted to be the one taking care of her for once, instead of the other way around.
Killing Red John brought the satisfaction he imagined it would for all those years. Although, he expected to feel lighter, even remedied, by the act as if casting out Red John from the world would bring the ultimate inner peace. He had hoped that for so long just to find out he was only half right. He felt lighter knowing that his mission was complete, but heavier at the same time. He still missed his wife and daughter and that would never go away, nor did he want it to. They deserved to be remembered. He had found some closure here, alone with his thoughts. But if he was honest with himself, he knew that closure had happened a long time ago.
After two years by the ocean, he removed his wedding band. He knew it wasn't his time here that made that choice, it just made his choice clearer. He had moved on long before coming here.
He had woken up this morning to the sound of waves and, still half immersed in a dream world, imagined Lisbon there with him. Sitting at the desk, sipping a fresh cup of coffee and smiling into the mug, looking out at the bright rising sun just beyond the window. For a fleeting second he could have sworn it was real, and for that second, his heart caught, inexplicably unable to pump blood as it normally did without fanfare.
He shook his delusion away, made a cup of tea and sat down where just moments ago, there she was. He gathered a piece of paper and pen and set to work.
He wanted these letters to be truthful, sincere and above all, to show her that he trusted her, with all parts of him. He's pretty sure the distance and the written word made a coward out of him, being so easily able to be open with her now, thousands of miles away, but not when she stood mere inches from him. He wanted that to be different but then, he wanted a lot of things to be different.
This time, he wrote about his waking dream - her, there at the desk this morning, with her coffee and with him. He wrote that he wished it were true, more than anything. But that wasn't true, more than anything he wished for her to be safe and happy, whether she was away from him or not. What right did he have to want to keep her here when he knew she wasn't the type to sit idly by and watch sunrises for the rest of her life. Lisbon was a woman of action, not suited to a lifetime of quiet moments.
He wrote that he was sorry, as he always did. He was always sorry for something. He used his letters now as a craven way of apologizing for all the hurt he had caused her, but he hoped that she saw the sincerity in it. He was sorry for leaving her on the beach, for making mess after mess for her to clean up, for destroying the CBI and the job she loved, for Lorelei and for not being so honest with her in person. He wrote that she hoped she understood, although he knew she would. She always did understand him. Being understood in English by a tourist was not the same thing as being understood, he had found out.
He wrote that his mind was finally at peace but now his heart wasn't. He was lonely, sure, but it wasn't a peace to be found in anyone but her. He wanted her to know that.
Lisbon didn't do much in her free time anymore. She never used to have free time, between juggling high profile cases and Jane's antics, she was busy all the time. Not that she minded. Now, being stuck as a police chief in a small and quiet town she found she had a lot of free time. Free time at work to think, and free time at home because she rarely worked more than eight hours a day - a novelty she never could have imagined in her line of work, before the CBI was shut down.
She enjoyed visiting with Rigsby and Van Pelt - Rigsby and Rigsby she had to correct herself. She was truly happy for them and their growing family, and their genuine friendship was something she cherished. Good friends were hard to find these days. But even when not alone, Lisbon still felt lonely inside. She was always bottling up something, never sharing her full self with anyone, not even her friends. She had always been that way.
When the Rigsbys had to leave unexpectedly, Lisbon was sad to see them go but she was also a bit excited as terrible as that was. Today was Friday, and that meant a new letter to read. His letters kept her sane and tore her up inside all at the same time.
She longed to know that he was okay, and hoped he was happy in his new life. And though she loath to admit it to herself, the sentimental side of him that he poured into his letters drove her crazy. His words had a knack for drawing out all of her feelings about him that she had kept hidden for so long. No matter how hard she tried to deny it over the past two years, these letters reminded her that she really did miss him, down to her core.
As was ritual by now, she'd had a few glasses of wine by this time of night and she made sure to keep the bottle close. She never could tell if it helped dull the heartache or only made her feel it more.
As soon as her former colleagues left, she took out the box she kept all his letters in and pulled out this week's as yet unread letter. She had saved it for now, knowing her friends would see the emotion on her face if she had read it before they came. She curled up on her sofa, wine in hand, and opened up the neatly folded paper to be greeted by his words.
Hey.
Today I woke up in one of those very odd half dreams - have you ever had one of those? I opened my eyes and there you were, beautiful as ever, sitting at the very desk I write this on now, sipping coffee. Coffee! Vile stuff, but you love it I know. You had such a light in your eyes and you were free and relaxed. I so wish I could bring you here so you could feel that way. You deserve some peace.
I think a lot these days, which shouldn't surprise you. All I've got is time and sunshine. Oh, and I have a beard now. Mostly out of laziness. I hope that whatever you are doing now, that you are happy. I know I've caused you so much pain and I'm not sure I can ever make up for that but I would try for the rest of my life if it meant being with you everyday. Working with you at the CBI was the most useful I ever felt. I felt like I was finally a good person, under your guidance. I know how much you loved the CBI and I'm sorry for the destruction my personal mission caused, not only to your life but also to your heart. You took care of me when I needed it most and I just want to do the same for you, although now, stuck in this place, I feel helpless.
All my time thinking here has led me to the conclusion that while this place may be peaceful, I am not at peace. My vendetta has been exorcized, my work is done and yet I still have so much missing. I know now that no amount of thinking or being surrounded by paradise can bring that kind of peace. Only you, and you alone, can ever give me a full heart.
You know who
She was glad she brought the bottle as tears slowly ran down her face. God, she just wanted him to be here and she wanted to hold him and tell him how she felt too. But the letters were always one sided. She didn't know where he was to send them to, and neither did his carnie friends who passed his letters on to her. Besides, the FBI was probably watching her. They would notice. It was safer this way, if not terribly unfair.
Still, she wanted so desperately to write back, to answer his apologies with ones of her own, for waiting so long, for being so stubborn, for her denial and her guilt for wanting to stop his plan to kill Red John, if only to save him from the fate he was living now. Her guilt because she never could tell for sure - did she want to stop him in order to spare his delicate psyche the burden of murder, or simply to keep him here in California, with her?
Part of the pain she felt now was that of not being able to write back and tell him she felt the same, and part of it was years of knowing his words were true, but not wanting to admit it until now. When it was too late, her chance was in the past. This was her life now - a rainy forest town, a lot of wine and short letters from the man she loved, but would never get another chance to tell.
He was found and he wasn't even upset by it. Maybe he was getting rusty, or maybe he was just tired of running, the novelty of it wearing off. Here came the FBI, crashing into his paradise, and he couldn't be happier to see Abbot. He never would have thought that would be the case years ago when he first ran away to this idyllic oceanfront escape.
And so he jumped at their deal, but he still had enough pride to come up with some of his own terms first. He wasn't an idiot. He wasn't yet sure what kind of game Abbot was running, why he would come back here to draw him out, what could be so important. But he didn't much care to think about it right now. All that mattered was setting foot back on American soil, closer to her. He would figure out the rest later. He was sure he could.
A short time later, how long he had no idea, he was on a plane, then another plane, then in a car, and finally, at an ominous looking building. It looked ominous even amid the backdrop of the clear blue California sky. Somewhere only people in suits would go. It didn't take a genius to figure it out.
He was genuinely surprised to see Cho, and proud. He knew Cho would go on to do great things, he was a great man. It was good seeing a familiar friendly face again, but his mind wandered to another face as Cho directed him to a bland looking door among a hallway of bland looking doors. He hoped his thoughts were true, and that she was waiting behind the door, only mere feet away once again. So close.
He opened the door, almost in awe of the gravity of being back home again so quickly, and there she was. She didn't hear the door, and she didn't move, her back facing him as she sat alone at a long table and must have been wondering when something was going to happen. He had to stare for just a moment to take in the sight of her. Her hair was down and wavy everywhere, slightly longer than he remembered it being. She had a light sweater on, so soft and different from her usual harsh lined work clothes. His fascination must have shown on his face because Cho walked away down the hall, how far he didn't know, Jane wasn't listening for footfalls. He didn't care if anyone was around anyway.
He couldn't stand it anymore. "Hey," he offered as a greeting, almost hesitant.
She quickly turned around, a bit of surprise still evident on her face, but soon replaced with warmth and relief at seeing him. He could swear her eyes were a bit glossy but he knew better than to say so.
"Hey," she said back, her voice creeping up into the warm smile already developing on her face. She was used to his familiar greeting from the letters.
She knew it was going to be emotional seeing him, but she was unprepared for the ferocity of all the feelings mixing up inside her right now. The sight of him, in his typical formal attire when he really didn't have a job, his hair all wavy and lightened by the sun, that beard which just made him seem more manly, rough, but she knew better. His face smiling and open, she could see he really did miss her. She wanted to reach out, to say so many things, and wondered if there was even time for that, and how would she start off anyway. She was already a bundle of nerves but more than that, she was just plain happy to see him.
"Nice beard." Oh, great, thirty seconds of him back in her life and she was already deflecting him with her dorky voice. Real attractive, Teresa, she berated herself. He smiled anyway. He didn't care. And he did look rather handsome with that beard. Only he could pull off the homeless chic look with such charm.
"Thank you for the letters," thank you for letting me know you were alright, is what she really meant. He knew.
He just smiled and seemed to be taking her all in. She felt somewhat exposed. For once, he wore his feelings plainly on his face. He was happy to see her. She wasn't surprised by that, but she was surprised by him quickly closing the distance between them and holding her close. After a second, she responded, wrapping her arms around him too, so glad to be right here with him in this moment, and so dizzy by it at the same time.
"I missed you," he said.
"I missed you, too," she replied, a little breathlessly. It was then that he realized just how true it was, she really had missed him.
Maybe he wasn't so delusional after all. His mind had played tricks on him in isolation, making him think he over-imagined her feelings for him as a coping mechanism, to keep him sane and to keep him from being lonely. Maybe she didn't feel the same and even worse, maybe she just pitied him. His mind would tell him these things, alone, late at night when there was no one there to tell him otherwise except the moonlight.
But here and now, he knew for sure. He was happier than he could have ever imagined to know that she felt the same, but at the same time, he was nervous. Patrick Jane, nervous and unsure of himself, for the first time in a long time. Writing the letters had brought about a new sense of intimacy between them and living that in person was taking some getting used to.
They held each other too long to be professional but too short for lovers, as was their way about everything. Always living in the murky middle. Breaking away, Jane found his chair without turning to look for it. He was transfixed now, with her here now, so solid and warm in his arms, the sensation better than he imagined on all those lonely nights by the ocean.
Jane couldn't take his eyes off of her or wipe the silly grin from his face, even after they were seated. He didn't care if she noticed for once. She pretended not to, and stole a glance at him too. Her eyes betrayed her emotions, a rare occurrence for Lisbon.
Concentrating on negotiating proved difficult. Abbot's deal was on the table and suddenly, Jane's plan was a bit off course. He realized things had changed around here since he'd been gone. His usual plans didn't work and frankly, he was a bit thrown off. He knew he could figure it out eventually. He would do whatever it took to be back here, working with Lisbon. Anything so that he doesn't have to leave again, even if it meant not figuring it out and rotting away in jail for the rest of his life. He knows he couldn't leave again, not after seeing her just now and realizing the full effect she had on him. He can't leave.
So the detention centre it was, a nicer name for a softer form of prison. At least he's here, one step closer to the life he wants, and a million steps closer to her.
The detention centre wasn't so bad. It lacked the sunshine, the ocean waves and the good food of his former home away from home, but it allowed the same amount of time for thinking. His surroundings may have changed, but his thoughts didn't.
He marvelled at how just days ago, he was lying on his uncomfortable bed in his spartan little apartment dreaming of being here with her, or her being there with him, it didn't matter where they were as long as they were together. And now, after a quick series of events and only a few days, here he was back in California.
He was still fighting to be close to her, but somehow it was more believable to his mind that it would happen now.
Lisbon closed the front door to her house, taking off her shoes and coat automatically, and let go of the tired sigh she hadn't realized she'd been holding. What a whirlwind day. He was here, back in the States, closer to her, but still so far away. Her heart quickened at just the thought. He told her to trust him, he must have a plan. He always did.
Was it going to involve uprooting her life this time, like his plans usually did? She looked around. She had a house now, a real house. She even decorated it and bought furniture and put care into hanging up pictures and artwork, unlike at her last apartment where she merely left up the previous tenant's pictures. She didn't care back then. Now, she did. She wanted a real home, like this. But looking around now, no matter how proud she was of her decor choices and abilities, she knew this wasn't really a home. It was just where she came to sleep at night and pass the time during her days off. It housed her things, which she had more of now, but still only a few actually held meaning.
She already knew what she would do - anything he asked. She pretended to be just fine and even happy sometimes with her new life, but she wasn't. She was pretty sure everyone could tell in the split seconds when her expression would drop, or maybe someone saw her through her office blinds when she was alone and not keeping up her act. But no one ever did. Only Jane would have studied her closely like that.
She spotted her close friend Merlot on the coffee table; an unopened bottle sat there, forgotten from earlier tonight when Cho had called her. It was the only thing out of place in her living room. She had so much time for cleaning now. Maybe not for much longer, she thought with a half smile. But after a day like today, anyone would agree the wine was much needed and she began walking towards it but her foot brushed something.
Looking down, she saw her mail on the entrance way floor. Some bills, some ad mail, and an unmarked white envelope with a handwritten 'L' on it. Her heart stopped for a second. This could only be from one person, but how it got here puzzled her. Jane was in the FBI detention centre, and he had only arrived this morning, always flanked by security. She hadn't gone to visit the carnival either, to pick up her weekly correspondence. The letters never appeared at her door, like any regular piece of mail.
She bent down and picked it up, almost reverently. It was not addressed. Someone had to have dropped it off at her house. She hadn't been aware of her surroundings before entering her house, a routine she had gotten used to. Nothing ever happened here in this town, why bother being so vigilant. She didn't care like she used to.
It didn't really matter how the letter had gotten there. She carried it over to the couch, her familiar reading spot. She poured a very large glass of merlot before opening it, somehow knowing she would need much more than usual after the day's earlier events, her emotions still raw and her head still in shock at seeing him. Jane, here, solid and real in her arms.
She took a deep breath and opened the letter, wondering when it had been written, but her question was soon answered.
Hey.
So I've made a decision. I don't know if you will get this letter before you already find out what I've decided, but here goes anyway. Don't say I didn't try to warn you.
I'm coming back. I can't stay here anymore. Not because it isn't safe, don't worry about that. The FBI as found me here, but it doesn't really matter, I can't be extradited anyway. But I want to go, I want to come back. Not for their reasons or to make amends for my criminal sins, to wipe my record clean. I don't care about any of that. I'm coming back for you. You're all I want.
Being here, in isolation, has done funny things to me. I've found a mental peace, yes, but I also realized how much I had locked down my heart, willing it out of existence for the most part.
A tourist came by the other day. She was pretty, and spoke English. I miss speaking English. I told her that, and that I missed being understood. We talked for awhile. Spending time with this woman, I realized that I did indeed miss being understood, but that it wasn't about speaking English, or any language. She heard my words, knew them, but she did not understand me. You understand me. You are still with me even when I do things you view as terrible - my deceit, my killing of Red John. You take your oath seriously, and do not condone criminal behaviour. But you don't condemn me, either. With all my flaws and moral questionableness, here you are.
I miss being understood by you. I don't care if I have to go to jail for the rest of my life to get that back, I will. Whatever it takes. Because I may be sane again, but I'm going crazy without you here. I need you, and I always have.
I hope you will be happy to see me when I get back. I promise I will make it up to you - all the pain I have caused you.
I love you so much.
Love,
Patrick
Her heart was pounding so loudly in her chest, and at the same time it hurt with such intensity. So this is what it felt like to have your heartstrings pulled. She never knew. She wiped the tears from her face and re-read the last sentence again, and again. She may not have believed it had she not seen his face just today, open and free, telling her just the same thing without words.
Life was becoming so complicated, but she still knew what to do. Lisbon always knew what to do. She quickly set down her untouched wine, grabbed her keys and was out the door.
The FBI building at nighttime looked the same as it did in daylight - cold, commanding, impersonal. She quickly parked her car and went inside, nervous and hurried at the same time. She approached the security checkpoint, and the large man seated there, his expression like a rock and his demeanour even more so.
"Sheriff Lisbon," she held up her badge. "Here to see Patrick Jane."
The guard eyed her curiously. She had forgotten about her appearance until now, the same day-off look she had sported earlier, soft sweater, hair untamed, and now she was trying to be authoritative.
"There's no agent here by that name," the guard responded.
"He's in detention, under Abbot's orders," she replied.
"Detainee visitation is restricted. You need permission from the officer in charge."
"Please, it's an emergency," she pleaded, hoping her disheveled appearance adequately communicated that.
The guard took her in for a moment. He knew of Lisbon, of course, who didn't after the publicity surrounding the Red John case and the dissolution of the CBI. He knew she had a reputation as a good agent, if not somewhat rogue, but she was never immoral, she was never like the Blake Association. Her clandestine work was not done to cover up criminal activities, it was done to uncover them.
The guard's stern face softened a little. "Look, I know who you are. I know the good work you have done. I'm putting faith in you that this is part of that good work. Don't let me down," he said, handing her a security clearance badge, granting her access.
Lisbon's face broke into a genuine smile. "Thank you," she said sincerely.
The guard signalled a nearby agent to accompany Sheriff Lisbon to the detention wing, to Patrick Jane's cell. She couldn't believe it worked. She hadn't really thought about her plan before she got here, she just wanted to see him. And here she was, on her way to see him. That knowledge terrified her fragile heart, so used to staying unattached. But she knew what she wanted to do.
After a long walk, they arrived at Jane's cell. There was a guard posted at the door. The guard and her escort exchanged brief words, and the guard nodded.
"You have ten minutes," her escort stated curtly.
She nodded, and the door opened quietly. The cell was dark, the only light coming in through the small barred window, and it wasn't much. She could see Jane on the thin mattress, sound asleep. She gingerly stepped inside, and the door closed behind her. The guard remained outside. Jane rustled a bit at the sound of the door closing, slowly opening his eyes. Lisbon didn't dare move, and she didn't know why. Jane's half-opened eyes soon landed on her and he became fully awake. He sat up quickly on the edge of his small government-issue prison bed.
"Teresa. What are you doing here?" he murmured, his voice still groggy with sleep.
"Hey," she offered quietly. "I had to see you." She took a seat beside him on the lumpy mattress.
"At this time of night?" his face turned teasing and she could see his smile even in the dim light. "Are you breaking me out of here?"
"No! That's for you to figure out. I'm sure you can think of something," she responded playfully, her smile not controllable.
"Yeah, I will," he sounded sure of himself.
She suddenly became very aware of his presence, right next to her, so close for the second time in as many years. She could feel the warmth from his body inches away, sitting close by. She could see his chest rising and falling slowly with his breathing, could hear it too. She could see his clear blue eyes looking at her, shining even in the darkness, and seeming to look right through her. His eyes looked so different now than they used to, so open and inviting, clear and calm, the opposite of the thundering ocean he spent so much time living beside.
"I got this today," she pulled out the last white envelope she had received. By the look on her face now, he knew she hadn't read it when she came to see him earlier today.
"Yeah," he said. For my next trick, I'll be at a loss for words, his mind joked nervously.
"Do you mean it?" Her question took him by surprise.
Did he mean it? He studied her face, only partially visible in the darkness, but it was enough. She was waiting for an answer, mentally trampling all over her emotions and her nerves until she got one. Did he mean it? He knew what she was asking of course. Did he really love her? How could she think he didn't, especially after all this time. He was at a loss. He knew she kept her distance from people for good reasons, her heart was fragile and others had so easily broken it. It only made sense to protect it from that happening again. Did he mean it? She sounded younger than she ever had when she had asked that, almost shyly, and coupled it with a look that he couldn't bear.
It wasn't the way he had really meant for this to happen. For the first time he told her in person to be in a cold, lonely prison cell. He was supposed to have orchestrated a brilliant arrangement with the FBI so that he would be free, outside, working with her. Maybe he would have taken her out to dinner and then taken her to the park bench they had secretly met at while he was on the run, hunting Red John. Maybe he would have told her there.
Sitting here with her now, watching her wait patiently and impatiently at the same time for his answer, he knew it didn't matter. None of it did. It didn't matter if he took her on a date, a real date, or not. It didn't matter that he was wearing a very ugly orange jumpsuit, or that she had obviously been crying and didn't think to brush her hair before coming here. It didn't matter that this moment wasn't perfect, like he had imagined. Because his imagination couldn't have predicted that it would still, just the way it was, be perfect.
Her tears started falling almost immediately when he began to speak. "You know I do. I mean it. I always have, and I've been a selfish coward for so long, but I love you," he answered, finally.
Unable to control herself any longer, she began to cry, and Jane reached out to hold her close for the second time in as many years, and the second time today. He missed everything about her, even more things than he realized, like the the colour of her lips and the smell of her hair.
She didn't know how long they stayed like this, until her sobs had quieted, the years of emotion and denial and separation coming all at once and then being calmed by his arms around her and his whispers. She guessed it had been longer than her allotted ten minutes, although she didn't really care. After another long while, she pulled herself back just far enough to see his face and the glimmer of uncertainty in his eyes.
"I love you too, Patrick," she said, firmly, confidently, eyes bright and free.
His eyes cleared again and the smile on his face was contagious. He was never one for absolute truths before this moment, but now that he knew for sure, he felt absolved, and a previously unknown feeling of lightness overtook him. This had been what he was expecting to feel two years ago, in that park, and he revelled in it.
He kissed her then, and although stunned, Teresa eagerly responded. She felt in her own heart a crack forming, but this time there was no pain, no hurt in sight.
He wouldn't write her any more letters, but his words would remain. She didn't need paper tokens of affection when she had the real thing right beside her, his lean body so close. He pulled her into his chest once again, her head landing over his heart, and she smiled to herself as she heard it beating, calm as ever.
She knew she would go along with whatever plan he had thought up, had known it all along, but now she knew for sure. He was her travelling home.
the end.