A/N: Firstly, I am so flattered so many of you enjoyed That Night with the Cabernet that you asked for a sequel. So here you go! I hope this won't disappoint. This is again a little rambling (which is really how my brain is working currently lol). But...I have no doubt there will be a sequel to this oneshot too at some point as I'm far from finished with Jane & Lisbon in this setting. But as I am struggling with time to write at the moment rather than starting a new story with this sequel (or continuing my ongoing ones presently (though I do intend to get back to those soon when I have more free time)) thought I'd leave this as a oneshot so there wouldn't be any expectation of a further update on this one.

Anyway, all that being said, here is the short (very fluffy) sequel and I hope you enjoy it. (And as Lisbon did all the talking before, here is Jane's POV now in the continuation).

THAT DAY AT BREAKFAST

No. It can't be her. Here? Now?

But it is.

It IS.

I need to say something.

The pride she felt at surprising me is veering quickly into concern now.

"Jane?"

My name spoken from her lips brings an immediate smile to mine. It's warm and oh so familiar yet now so unfamiliar and her shy grin in response makes me feel...

I can't trust my voice or what I might say. I can't trust the thoughts running around my head from spilling out. Plus, they're disjointed and all colliding for attention at once and I'm feeling excited for the first time in...

And...

BREATHE...

SLOWER...

LOWER YOUR PULSE RATE...

YES...THAT'S IT...

But still...

I'm showing her too much of myself. I'm being too open. She can see something different in my eyes she's never seen and her cheeks flush. I can see something different in hers too. Or maybe it's something I could never acknowledge. Until now...

I react quickly and embrace her. Both as a way of confirming this vision before me is real and as a way of hiding my face from her. And hers from mine.

Coward rings in my head. What else is new? quickly follows it.

So, I stop her from reading me. Stop her from seeing just how much I've missed her. How much I've thought about her.

Fruitless, I know. Stupid, even.

I write to her frequently, tell her I miss her in every letter. It's not that she doesn't know this stuff already. But seeing is different. It's more personal.

Intimate.

Too intimate.

Christ, I'm terrified.

Then I feel her hair tickle my face, the awkwardness in her frame, the surprise when I hold her without speaking first. Her fingertips caress my back when the surprise fades into something else.

Happiness, I think.

But it's been so long since I've experienced that emotion I'm unsure. Or maybe I'm just reading myself. Because I think whatever it is I feel it too.

"Jane?" she repeats, an amused lilt to her voice.

I can't let go. Not yet. So I answer finally, still in her arms, "The beard confuse you that much, Lisbon?"

When I say her name I sigh. Audibly. It's a sigh full of contentment and two years in the making and she laughs softly at my attempt at humour to get me through this moment.

"More that shirt you're wearing than the beard," she responds, and I know she's smiling and she knows I haven't been shocked entirely into muteness. She continues, "And what the hell are you wearing instead of pants?"

She's nervous so she's gabbling.

I laugh then, squeeze her tighter as my head falls towards her shoulder. She lets out a gasp, stiffens slightly at the further moulding of our bodies, closer and longer than we've ever shared personal space. But she doesn't move away. Not right away. I read a sense of bewilderment as she holds me for another second before she finally draws back to look me in the eye. Questions fill her expression. Is this different for you now too? What IS this we're experiencing?

"It's called a sarong," I reply, answering her more vocal and much easier question.

"Oh," she replies. She takes another step back until she's out of my grasp and assesses my appearance again fully. After, she raises a critical eyebrow. The tension – this new type of...something we're feeling – is replaced with something much more familiar from our past lives and our past selves. Gentle teasing is easier to comprehend and work with right now. "Just tell me you still have some pants somewhere."

I suggest a walk on the beach to catch up then I notice her look at my eggs with ravenous envy. Breakfast first is soon agreed. I push my barely touched plate towards her and order her coffee as I order a fresh plate for myself. She attacks the eggs greedily and I grin. "How was the flight?"

Mouth full, her eyes roll until they almost leave her head. My smile widens as I wrap my hands around my mug and take a sip of tea, facial muscles twitching as they struggle with an actual real grin.

She swallows quickly, eyes lighting up as her coffee arrives. The cafe owner smiles at her as he delivers it and I frown in surprise. He's never been that friendly to me and I've been coming here for well over a year. A niggle of jealousy sprouts from someplace inside me and I'm more surprised that it took so little to conjure up that particular reaction by something so trivial.

She nods a thank you for the coffee with a smile of her own. He's no threat to me or what Lisbon or I have but I need her attention focused on me. I've been denied of her presence by my side for too long. I know it's childish but I don't care. I want to be the one to impress her, to make her smile, to hear her laugh.

I blink at the realisation I've just inadvertently stumbled upon and my smile drops quickly. I had these same compunctions once before. This same sophomoric need to be seen by someone. And I married her. The gold band on my finger calls to me as I think of Angela and I drop my mug on the table to feel its metal.

I turn it a full rotation.

A full circle.

The symbolism and irony of my actions and those words in my head isn't at all lost on me.

"It was hell," Lisbon says, gaze thankfully focused on the plate in front of her. "I honestly thought I was going to die before I got here, Jane."

As she looks up to gauge my response when I don't immediately reply I can't cover my expression or reaction quickly enough. A line appears between her eyes. It disappears just before she might have asked me what's wrong when her eyes fall to the ring on my finger. Huh, it's still there is expressed so loudly it's as if she's actually spoken the words. It's not said in some awful territorial way, it's more curious mixed with concern than displeased. But she goes back to eating instead, more subdued, uncomfortable, nonetheless.

Part of me wants her to ask me why I'm still wearing it. A greater part of me is grateful she doesn't.

Because I really don't have an answer if she did.

I respond lightly instead that it's more likely for one to be killed by food poisoning than in a plane crash then offer a quick glance of the eggs on her plate with a smirk to make my point further, follow it with a smooth teasing grin. She relaxes at our once familiar dance immediately, answers it with a well practiced chassé of her own. "If I do then you're going down with me." She adds, smile sparkling as she looks in my eyes, "I can live with that."

"Or die as the case may be."

"Touché."

"It's beautiful here," she says as we stroll along the beach. "I can see why you must love it."

I mutter a contented response, the warmth of the sun on my face and the soft hum of the ocean beside us making the perfect backdrop to the conversation.

We walk on a few more steps and I realise I've barely spoken since we left the cafe. Not because I'm uncomfortable in her presence but because I am. I'm enjoying listening to her talk. To hear English spoken. To discern the Chicago and California dialects in how she says certain words. The ebb and flow of the words sound like music, someone finally playing a tune I can recognise. My brain sparks to life and I'm reading the pauses between words, the tone from beginning to end of a sentence, what she means and feels and not just the words she says. Foreign accents are like looking at photographs to me. I can see them and I know what the picture is meant to represent but I can't touch their objects in much the same way the nuances of the English language provide me. It's like 2D compared to 3D.

She continues to talk and I hear her speak of our old team and where they've found themselves in life now. She talks of Rigsby and Van Pelt's child Maddie in glowing terms, shows me a photo of her on her phone. As I look at the baby girl I'm reminded of two things. Charlotte at that age first, naturally. My heart contracts as it does when I think of her, pain and love intertwined like always.

Secondly, I'm more acutely aware of the passage of time than I have been in quite a while. I haven't thought much about it the past two years as days pass, one much the same as the one before. I don't have a clock to punch, somewhere to be. No one to miss me when I do or don't show up at any appointed time. No one to call me to ask where I am. I don't make many plans. I meander, mostly. Drift along the shore.

"There's something else, Jane," Lisbon says, the earnest in place of excited for the first time since we've met again.

"Oh?"

She points to the sand, "Can-can we sit?"

So it's that important. "Sure."

We sit and look out to sea, a sailboat in the distance catching our eye momentarily. She straightens her dress as she gets comfortable. "It's Abbott."

"Oh," I say with a smile. "G-man still on my trail, is he? I'm flattered."

"It's not funny, Jane."

But it is. She's worried she'll lead him to me. Which she probably will. I couldn't care less.

"Lisbon, the extradition laws-"

"I know. I'd never have risked coming here if they weren't on your side. But even so..." She shakes her head, brow furrows, bites her bottom lip. She's really worried. About me.

And that makes me do nothing but smile.

"Jane!"

Her telling me off now is like a spark to a flame and I grin wider. I can't help myself.

"It's all going to be fine, Lisbon. Don't worry."

"But-"

"Whatever happens this is worth it." I stare into her beautiful green eyes, silently trying to make her believe I'm being absolutely truthful.

"THIS is WORTH it," I repeat slowly, amusement knocked out of me by just staring at her. It's the first time in two years I've really looked into her eyes. But that day in the park couldn't be more different to this conversation.

Trust me, I said then.

Believe me, I'm saying now.

"O-okay," she finally relents with a smile on this occasion in place of a frown on that one.

And just like that, this day – one I thought was going to be like so many preceding others – is important. It feels like a page I've been struggling to finish has finally advanced to the next by the warming breeze of an emerald sea air.

Of course, I'm not naive enough to believe I'm fixed merely because she's suddenly here on this beach with me on this beautiful day. Her nickname may have been Saint Teresa once but she's no miracle worker. There are no such things. And I was never really not broken my whole existence. And I'll never be fully free of my past. Not because I haven't tried or because I'm built that way, but because no one ever truly is.

But in this moment I feel lighter and far less burdened.

And that is definitely a cause for celebration.

She makes me feel better.

She makes me feel...

I didn't know this day was coming.

But it's here.

- THE END -