Sleep-glued eyes flutter open, at first lazily and then with a steadier rhythm like the the sheer wings of a butterfly. Slowly, I accustom myself to the blue curtains and plain walls, the dull machinery framing my large hospital bed with dusty-blue sheets.
My eyes turn last to the most colorful, lifelike creature in the room. He slumps into the blue plastic chair, his charcoal three-piece suit rumpled because of his awkward sitting position, his face darkened with stubble and the lack of proper sleep. His golden hair falls in all directions as if he has run his hand through it too many times without someone to put it back in place, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest.
Startled, he wakes, his ocean eyes searching until his gaze finally crashes into my widened dark brown ones.
"Teresa. You're awake." His voice holds a tinge of relief with undertones of held-back pain. Cautiously, he unfolds himself and shuffles over to the edge of the bed where a slightly more comfortable stool sits. He places his elbows over his knees, his hands beneath his chin, and waits for me to speak.
"You haven't worn that suit for months. I'm surprised I remember it." I bite my lip.
His gaze shifts from contemplative to concerned within seconds because he knows my nervous habits.
The unavenged angel sits in front of me, golden curls and a golden soul that hasn't been polished in so many years that many consider it dulled and worthless. But I never needed polish to see what he couldn't.
Dear lord, why have you done this to me?
I fiddle with the needles sticking into my hands, so focused so that when the words come out, I can't see his face.
"How can I live like this? What's going to happen to me?" I whisper.
"What do you mean?" His eyes are so fearful, so drained, I almost don't answer.
"Patrick... You died five days ago. In a horrible car crash. "
His face seems frozen in shock. I'm not sure if it's because my angel is attempting to understand this, or if I am and just don't realize it.
Now the words seem to flow out so easily. I turn my head away and my wavy dark hair falls like a tapestry between him and me.
"I always supposed that I would be able to save you from Red John. That if I got to him before you, or if I prevented you from dying at his hands, then it would all work out somehow. But I was wrong. You die in the most painful yet mundane way, and I'm 100 miles away when I hear about it over the CBI radio. All that's left is your old wedding ring."
It's not so easy to speak anymore.
"It's all I have now."
I brush my hair away and turn back towards him. "I couldn't save you. Even though you were always there to save me."
"So..." I'm choking on my words, but I fight against it. "I don't know how long I can hold onto you."
"I'm so sorry. You mean more than I can ever say." I reach out to him, tangle my hands in his angelic curls and ever so gently bury a longing kiss into it.
Suddenly, I'm startled awake. My eyes fly open as they rush to take in my surroundings. No blue surrounds me, no machinery. I am the only person in this attic of sorts in the CBI headquarters. Deep browns mesh with the unwashed windows facing the city, a blanket haphazardly on a chair, a book in a corner, a rickety table. I take a breath and sit up to take stock.
What just happened? The dream was so long, so intensive. I went through a whole three weeks, it seemed. Somehow, I dreamed I went undercover with Agent Wayne Rigsby and discovered Patrick Jane's death a week later, as well as Agent Grace Van Pelt's coma. Where did that come from?
In reality, my team is all a few floors down. And Jane's still wearing the ring. In fact, I'm surprised he hasn't come up here to this haunt of his and found me sleeping.
But in a way, I'm thankful he didn't.
It's cool in the room, and I grab the blanket unthinkingly. As I readjust myself, the dream and reality mixes in a warm pool in my stomach, leaving my thoughts more tangled yet more clear than they were originally.
I always knew that I deeply care for him, that I would do almost anything to help him. Hell, after he killed the supposed Red John, I was hoping he would find some peace in avenging his family. It's more than sibling love, more than friendship, but...
I called him the unavenged angel. Maybe I do see him as one, more and more each day.
Maybe I don't want to wait until something terrible happens to me...
Ortohim I shudderingly consider.
To explain why after all these years, he's worth protecting somehow.
So I won't have to whisper words I always wanted to say to a dead body, apparition or not.
I purposely fold up the blanket and walk out. Going down the stairs, I hear Van Pelt asking, "Boss? What are you doing up there?"
"Grace." I lightly grab onto her shoulders and look seriously into her green eyes. "As your boss, I know it might not be easy to do. But as your friend, if you ever want to talk about anything, I'm here for you. And..."
I give a slight wisp of a grin. "I know you'd like a girls' day out sometime, and I would be honored to join you, whatever it entails." Hopefully not with too much clothes shopping.
Grace seems puzzled, but as I pull her into a hug, I feel her respond more kindly.
"Of course." She looks back at me and smiles, moving towards the kitchen area with a bit of a lightness in her eyes. She hasn't been like that in a while. I think the whole team misses the old Grace, before the horrors of the summer.
With new possibility in my step, I swing into the bullpen and call out to Agents Cho and Rigsby, "We've worked really hard on this last case, and I think it deserves a team's night out tomorrow..."
Rigsby and Cho turn to each other in surprise, and for Rigsby, amusement.
"Including pizza, beer, and..." I pretend to give a resigned sigh, "even pool." Usually the bets between them get pretty high on how well Jane does against them.
Rigsby, like a little kid, breaks out into a grin and says, "Thanks, Boss!" He moves to high five Cho, who has the closest thing to a smile on his face.
Mission accomplished, I turn to go to my office, my arms swinging, the air flowing through my fingers as if combing through hair.
I pause, thinking of the silky feel of my hands through his curls in the dream. I find myself lost in it for a second, until I remember that Jane could be anywhere, and I have to prepare myself to talk to him. Cautiously, I peer into my office, then back at the bullpen. He isn't there.
In my office, I collapse into my comfy office chair and stare petulantly at my surroundings. I can't deal with him here. He'll float around and annoy me to the point that I'll do anything to drive him out. And that won't solve anything.
Suddenly, an idea floats in and refuses to leave. I lock the door of my office and with determined steps move towards the stairs. Talking for a second brings me back to the present, and I call out to the bullpen, "If you see Jane, tell him I'm on the roof."
Behind me, I hear Rigsby quietly wondering what Jane's done wrong now, and Van Pelt good-naturedly shushing him, though she's thinking it too. I know they might believe I'm angry, but that's not true.
Finally, I look out at the view around me on the very plain, very grey roof. There are only fluffy white clouds in the sky, and I start to relax, until I hear the door open, and I whip my head around.
"This is new. What's going on?" His smile seems easy, his posture open and the light around him so bright, eyes glinting in the indirect sunlight.
I stare at him for a while, attempting to understand what I wanted to say. He stands there patiently, waiting for me.
Yet again.
Perhaps that's why I finally burst out with, "You're a fool sometimes."
His face doesn't alter much, but I can tell he's puzzled and unsure where this is going.
"You do crazy things, and then I yell at you, and you ignore me." I take a deep breath. "And that's hard. Because I know I'm not any better. I put myself in danger, and I could say it's because of my job, but there's really no use to it because you're too damn good at arguing back and leaving me frustrated and speechless." I scrunch my arms up and tuck them around me. I hate admitting it, but if I don't then I'm not being honest to him, or myself. Besides, he'd try to interrupt me if I didn't.
His head turns slightly more toward me, his face unreadable.
"Because as stupid as it is, I don't want to see you hurt."
"Somehow, you've worked so hard to help me out. To be a good friend to me all through the craziness. And as much as I've tried, I don't think I've been able to do as much to protect you from"
His mouth opens to speak, then snaps close. He understands I'm not done yet.
"I want to help you too, and I just don't want to wake up someday and find that something's happened to you, and I wasn't there to save you. You don't deserve that."
The wind is the only sound besides our breathing in the pause.
"Somehow," I release large sigh like I don't know how, "you're someone really important to me, and it wouldn't be the same without you bothering me every day."
I close my eyes, and it rushes out.
"Maybe I want to know that one day I can save you, even if I couldn't before."
I open one eye and glance at him for a reaction, whatever it is.
Ocean eyes contain small pools of unsaid emotion, of feeling never possible to express. Feelings hidden for so long and ignored because the deeper you try to hide it, the more it means leak out into a vulnerable place, his heart, as a gift from me to him. His hands loosen and his face softens, lines forgotten and color richened.
We're both terrible at expressing our real emotions, but for once, we're taking chances; we're looking at each other, facing each other, but the walls are no longer so high dividing us from ourselves and each other.
His face changes back to playful, a smile crossing his features like a rainbow after a rain shower, and he finally quips, "So, if you were a superhero, would you want to be Wonder Woman, Zatanna the magician, Black Canary, or Katana the sword-master?"
I gingerly hold my tongue between my teeth. Before this, I would snip at him or ignore him. But not today.
"I don't really know Katana that well, but I always thought it would be impressive to wield a sword if I knew how to use it." I walk closer to him, my hips swaying slightly, a small grin playing over my face.
"I'm not so sure you're the Wonder Woman type. I would pin you more as Black Canary or Zatanna. Take your pick." He moves closer as well, almost strutting, but I know him too well to be impressed by it.
"Both of them wear godawful fishnet tights." I tilt my head in mock displeasure.
"I'm sure that anyone who would underestimate you would get a nasty surprise." Jane added.
I can almost feel the warmth emanating from him. My smile can't help but widen.
A light rain begins to fall, gently peppering my hair and my face, my hands and my lips. I always enjoy rain, as long as I don't get soaked. My eyes drift close as I raise my head to the sky.
I can imagine a lovely little house not too far out of town, perhaps in the suburbs, perhaps not. There's enough space for things to bloom and grass to grow. The house is white with some red trim, and a wraparound porch. There's a magnificent window that allows the sunrise to come into the kitchen when the season is right, a large yet cozy living room, and places to roam. The house is full of warmth and cheer and life. I can imagine Patrick and I there, living out our days, laughing and bantering over coffee and tea (coffee for me, tea for him). I've never realized, but this house has been in my imagination for a while now, and I relish instead of fear it. This could be our lives.
The rain stops. Drops still rest on my skin, but I don't mind too much. It was only pineapple rain, after all.
My face turns down to see him, and I notice water held within his lashes and dancing in his hair. Without any reason, his smile becomes so wide and so genuine that I almost gasp in amazement. In all the time I've known him, he's never looked more dear or more beautiful to me.
My voice finally escapes. "Let's go grab a blueberry muffin," I say. He probably wants a cup of tea too.
We walk side by side, no worries or fears, simply us and this moment.
I pause to open the door, and as I do so he gently places his arm in the crook of my open one. He seems excited yet cautious, and I turn closer to him and squeeze his hand for encouragement.
Patrick Jane is an angel. He is a man with faults and hopes and irritations. He is a soul who had his wife and child taken away from him, and the desire to avenge them. He fights for justice, and while he annoys, bothers, and bemuses those he investigates, he is like no one else.
Maybe we don't need a definition for what we have. It's our own, without the need for words or long declarations or explanations, but perhaps...
In our way, we love each other. We own a little house, white with red trim, and we have made it all our own.