I wasn't sure how I felt about last night's episode, but as I've thought about it today, there was a lot of sweet wistfulness in it, from several of the characters. I even liked Cho asking Lisbon where she was going after he gave her the victim's info and looking a bit disappointed to hear she was headed back to the island to follow Jane's hunch. I think it's sweet that he didn't want to be in the bullpen by himself. But that has nothing to do with this tag. I didn't think I'd be writing one, but whispers woke me up this morning, and my only release was in writing them down. Information specialist has written and posted a lovely tag ("Semi-Precious"), which I think more than does the episode justice and half convinced me not to post. But once the whispers start, there's no stifling them, so here's my offering.

WHERE THE TIDE TAKES US

His walk back from the seaward side of the island had started out at a thoughtful stroll. But as he approached the thin strip of what passed for civilization on San Felix Island, he had picked up the pace to a purposeful gait. Once his feet hit the pier, he had increased speed once again to a brisk stride, actually breaking into a brief jog up the gang plank. Though Lisbon was nowhere to be seen—and guessing just what threats had been uttered in his most recent absence—he knew that after several hours of truancy over the duration of the case she would appreciate the extra hustle.

Now he stood at the transport's aft watching the still pier-altered boats bob and tumble in the wake of the larger vessel, his hands curled around the white railing, feeling the grit of salt and dampness, enjoying the slight abrasiveness of it against his palms. Shortly, as fully expected, Lisbon appeared at his side, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail with one of those hairbands she always kept in her pocket.

"Glad to see you finally made it," she grumbled at him, voice just barely rising above the sound of the engine.

"Can't get rid of me that easily."

"I've never seen you move that quickly where a good scam or a cup of tea didn't figure in." He knew she'd been watching for him. "It's a good thing, too. I don't know how I would've explained the loss to Agent Wainwright."

"Meh," he said looking unconcernedly toward the receding waterfront. "I knew you'd never let them leave without me."

"It's a transport vessel, Jane," she retorted flatly. "They've got orders—I couldn't make them wait if I tried."

"I don't know, Lisbon. You're quite formidable with very little effort."

"I don't think even flashing the badge—"

"I wasn't talking about the badge, dear."

She silently accepted the back-handed compliment, her eyes straight ahead after his example. The quiet between them stretched out, and sensing something working in him as she'd come to do more and more often of late, she finally broke the silence and peered up at him.

"You okay?" she asked in that high, light voice.

"Oh, sure . . . sure." He looked down at his hands on the rail. "Just thinking."

"Dare I ask?"

"Dare away, but it's not necessary. I was actually wondering how so many misfits could happen to come together in such a small place."

"They were running." He didn't miss the sharper tone of her voice, though the pitch was still soft. She turned to look back at the island, the storefronts worn flat and tired by wind and sea. "Trying to get away from their pasts, the things they despise, the mistakes they've made, the people and things that have hurt them. I guess San Felix was as far as they could go."

"You think they made it?"

"No," she practically snorted. "You can't get away from your past. You can leave it behind, but you always carry a piece of it with you. It's always there, no matter where you live or lay your head. Who you were is always part of who you are."

Now the soft and sharp was tinged with something else. Bitterness? No, that wasn't part of Lisbon's make-up. Regret maybe. Definitely sadness. He had only meant to deflect her from his own thoughts on his most recent activities, not cast her into the wake of her own hard memories. Before he could make amends, she shook herself and came back to the present, looking up at him again, squinting against the sunlight.

"You know, you shouldn't have run off so much. I think this place has more than its share of crazies, and you could've gotten hurt. Eddie Fish was a dangerous man, and Whit Naylor is a psychopath. What would you have done if either of them realized you were on to them? If anything had happened to you on that island I might never find you."

"I was fine. Everything under control. No need to worry so."

"Oh—well, then, that's fine. I'll just stop worrying. All fixed. No problem." She let go of the rail to flail her hands and roll her eyes.

"Lisbon, really, resentful facetiousness doesn't suit you—"

Her voice went into a languid sing-song as she continued her exaggerated lack of concern. "I'll just stop worrying. Stop wondering. Stop being concerned. Stop caring. Stop—"

"Don't stop," he cut her off abruptly.

She looked back at him and pursed her lips, hands once again grasping the rail for stability against the boat's rolling movement. Abruptly, she turned to look at the island, now a near flat line of green and brown in the vast blue, and he followed her lead. The wind had pulled at her hair, teasing strands from its confines. She huffed in frustration and reached up to gather them back and out of her face.

"Wind's picked up. I think I'll go back to the cabin." She peered up at him again, gaze lanced with concern despite her earlier diatribe. "You coming?"

He squinted as if against the reflection of the bright light on the water and shook his head. "No." He inhaled deep, puffing out his chest, and looked down at her, teasing amusement twinkling in his eyes. "I'm not so delicate." When he saw that his jesting brought no answering smile, his own grin turned soft and he looked back toward where the island was fast disappearing. "I'll just stay out here a while."

"You sure you're okay?" As much as she would hate to hear him say it, Lisbon was very much a creature of feeling as well as habit.

"I'm fine. Now get in out of the elements or you'll never get that hair under control once we get back."

"Yeah, well," she attempted a sulk, her dimple sparking only a little, "try not to fall off the boat, will ya? I don't feel much like a swim today."

He twisted to look over his shoulder and watch her walk fore, one hand holding her unruly hair in place, the other skimming the side rail to keep her on an even keel. He turned back, barely able to see San Felix now, and thought on the single pure bloom he had tossed to the oceanward waves.

Lydia Bibb had been right. He did feel a bit better, although he knew it wasn't due to the ridiculous superstition that tossing a flower into the sea could give peace to the dead. He supposed it was the comfort of the ritual itself—silly really. Unaccustomed as he was to belief in anything beyond what he could hear and see and handle for himself, he had reached a point where he couldn't deny the solace of such things, even if he had once been adamant in arguing their pointlessness. A visit to a place he hadn't been in years, a prayer uttered under the imminent threat of a bomb, a flower in the water—there was something to be said for sentiment and ceremony, rote and ritual, and for the connection they wove to times, events and people. Realistically, however, he had to think the relief that had come with the old woman's offering had been an assuaging of her own vague feelings of guilt over her apathy toward a nameless dead girl on the beach. Jane knew a million blooms in the water would never bring him such acquittal. Lately, though, he couldn't deny the feeling of something ebbing and flowing in him, swirling and eddying, against the "can't be's" and "no way's" to include at least a few "what ifs" and "just in cases".

The boat had entered the thin strip between island and mainland tides that was akin to open sea, and he had felt the broader rolling of the boat under his feet, but a sudden lurch had him grasping the rail more tightly. A spray rose up from the side of the transport and was wind-carried back to where he stood, landing on his neck, soaking his collar and causing him to shudder with an instant chill. And suddenly he didn't want to stand looking back anymore, the uncertainty and cold of it, for the moment, a little more than he wanted to bear. He turned and walked fore, forsaking the rail, acclimating his gait to the pitch of the boat, not quite willing to allow his decisiveness to completely lack at least a small amount of daring. With one last look back at San Felix, he stepped into the warmth and safety he knew awaited him in the cabin.

END