A/N: So I originally wrote this as part of my new series Moments, but then I realized that it fit more closely with my post finale fic Masquerade, so this is a companion piece to that. Assume that it takes place later that same night, it's Lisbon's POV. You don't really have to have read Masquerade to read this, but you might want to :) In any case enjoy!

"If there's one thing I've learned

It's how easy the tables turn

And if there's one thing I know

It's the fine art of letting go"

She laid on her bed next to the open nightstand drawer, staring up at the ceiling. It was raining outside, which was fitting. The drops spattered the windows in staccato bursts, sparking sympathetic twinges in her injured shoulder. Her fingers toyed with the paper that rested on her stomach, tracing the edges and points, running across each delicate fold, each meticulously crafted crease.

She was forcing herself to think about other things-anything-besides The Jane Predicament. That's what she was calling the whole situation, The Jane Predicament. She just couldn't bear to put the words 'Jane' and 'murderer' together, even in her head. So she thought about other things, like Madeline, and what a relief it was that she and her kids had come out of the shoot-out unscathed.

She thought about O'Laughlin and VanPelt. About the look on VanPelt's face when she'd realized, when Craig had pulled the the necklace from her neck as he took his last breath.

She thought about how it was pretty selfish of her to be slightly relieved there wasn't going to be a wedding, because now she wouldn't have to wear that confection of a dress. She thought that Jane would be endlessly amused with her for thinking that...which brought her back to The Jane Predicament, which made her angry. Angry at him, angry at herself.

Angry he'd wormed his way into her life, angry that she'd let him. Angry that he had done what he'd always said he would do, angry that she hadn't been there to stop him. Angry that Red John wasn't brought to proper justice, and angry that he hadn't suffered more. Mostly, she was angry that she wasn't really angry at all. She was hurt.

A sharp sting in her finger-she'd gripped the paper in her fist tight enough to crumple it-an edge had sliced shallowly into her flesh, staining little red spots onto the paper. Her eyes riveted on the crumpled heap in her hand and she felt an irrational urge to cry. She sat up, ignoring the protesting pain in her shoulder, and began to gently and carefully smooth out the kinks she had created.

It looked different once she was done-not like it had originally looked-rumpled, and smudged, and dotted with blood.

For one crazy moment she imagined that this was what her soul looked like, his too.

Why couldn't she fix it? Make it like it was before?

She tried again to smooth it out, to no avail. It still looked wrong, different...battered.

She couldn't fix it, couldn't restore it back to its former perfection. She hadn't been able to fix him either.

She held the paper gingerly in her palm. She didn't really care if it was tattered and broken...it was still hers.

She closed her sandpaper eyes for a long moment, just breathing. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and climbed out of bed to go make herself a cup of tea, placing the origami frog reverently on her nightstand.

A/N: The lyrics are the property of Plain White T's and The Mentalist doesn't belong to me either! :)