A/N: So many of us, it seems, were so starved for romance (that we aren't getting on the show) that we've seemed to venture somewhat into fantasyland with our tags. I hope you don't mind another entry here. I won't go into all that disappointed me about this episode; I believe I covered it on Twitter.

Episode Tag: Black Helicopters, 6x13

From his usual position on the couch, Jane watched Lisbon absently sipping her coffee, seemingly enthralled by her computer screen. He knew, of course, that was total bull. She hadn't scrolled or clicked in at least ten minutes. There was something bugging her, something on her mind that had nothing to do with JJ LaRoche's murder or whomever it was that was killing former CBI members and associates. They were both a bit jetlagged, after having just returned from California to investigate LaRoche's murder scene. Sad thing, that. JJ had been a good guy. Misunderstood, socially awkward, lonely, some vengeful psychopathic tendencies—but a good guy-a man after his own heart. Jane was genuinely sorry he had died.

But back to Lisbon.

"Any more theories about our killer?" he asked, though Jane had plenty of his own.

"What?" He noticed her back stiffening.

Aw, just what I thought. There was something else on her mind entirely.

"Oh, uh, no," she amended, realizing suddenly what he'd asked. She kept her back to him, and he watched her with keen interest.

He decided that in this case, the direct approach would be best. He waited until she began typing again, apparently having snapped out of her daze.

"Still mad at me?"

"Mad?" She was trying to be nonchalant, but she was angry all right.

"You've been neglecting me, Lisbon."

This made her turn around so fast it was a wonder her swivel chair didn't come up off its pole.

"I've been neglecting you? I've been neglecting you?" It was like she was practicing her lines from a script. He tried not to grin.

"Yes. You refused to go to Mexico with me in my new Airstream. You sat with Cho on the plane. Neglect, Lisbon. That's what it is. Can't you see me suffering over here, withering on the vine from your lack of sunny attention?"

She raised an eyebrow. He looked relaxed and at ease, despite the fact there was a killer out there that might be targeting one of them next.

"You look okay to me."

He shook his head dolefully. "Well, the withering is mostly on the inside. Now, if you'll just admit why you're upset with me—"

"I'm not upset," she barked in exasperation. A few heads turned their way, and Lisbon flushed, then lowered her voice. "I wasn't mad before, but I'm getting there now. Why don't you sleep off your jet lag and let the rest of us get some work done."

He sighed and looked down at his worn brown shoes. "Let me take a shot in the dark here. You're still upset that I didn't give you a gift the other day. I mean, I gave something to Cho, to Kim, to Abbot, and even to Wiley. How could he forget me? you thought."

"What? That's ridiculous."

He looked up in time to see the betraying flash of hurt in her eyes.

"Why would you think I'd forget you, Lisbon?"

As if by magic, he produced a snow globe the size of a softball. Within the water-filled glass bubble was a tiny Eiffel Tower, surrounded at its base by the Paris skyline. A tiny merry-go-round stayed perpetually frozen at the foot of the tower, and miniature people poised to forever soak in the beauty that was Paris. Lisbon's eyes widened with delight as he reached beneath the base of the globe to turn the key of a music box. Clair de lune began to play, and he shook the plastic snow around inside, causing a little blizzard to descend upon the romantic city scene.

"Jane? What-?"

He stood and placed the snow globe carefully in her small hands. She turned it around and studied it, completely in awe.

"It took longer than I thought for it to come in the mail," he explained apologetically.

Lisbon was speechless, so Jane continued the conversation on his own, the tinkling music accompanying him.

"Your favorite books as a little girl were the Madeline stories. You totally identified with the spunky and fearless little French girl. She even went to a Catholic school like you did. Saved wayward strays." He smirked in self-deprecation. "And, as I recall, Madeline went on an adventure to America once—to Texas, I believe. Hmm…The parallels are astounding," he teased gently.

Her eyes, slightly misty, met Jane's sparkling ones above the little world she held in her hands.

"Yes."

She didn't even bother asking how he knew all this. Jane always just knew.

"Because of your love for those books, you've always wanted to go to Paris. As a matter of fact, that's what you usually thought of, when you needed something to inspire you to keep living—the thought that one day you would make it to Paris."

She nodded solemnly, clearly touched.

"Charlotte loved those books too," he said, his mention of his daughter so extremely rare that her attention rested completely on Jane rather than his gift. "We'd planned to take her to Paris that summer…" Jane said, his voice trailing off to the distant past.

He cleared his throat, then focused once more on Lisbon, his smile returning.

"When you got older, you longed to escape the difficulty of your home life, your humdrum existence," he continued. "Paris seemed the ideal place to do that. But career and criminals got in the way of that, and you never went."

He reached out an index finger to touch the globe almost reverently.

"Someday, Lisbon, I promise to take you there myself," he vowed.

She smiled, showing her dimples, but he could tell she didn't really believe him. "That would be nice. And thank you for this." She toasted him with her gift. "It's beautiful."

The music was slowing, and she rewound it once more before placing it on her desk to the right of her computer. She would glance at it frequently the rest of the day, smiling each time.

"You're very welcome, Lisbon. And don't ever think I'd forget you—you who were all that got me through the last twelve years. You…were my Paris."

It was perhaps the most perfect thing he'd ever said to her. His own words must have embarrassed him a bit, for when she turned to face him again, he was stretched out once more on his couch, eyes closed, chest rising and falling convincingly.

Well, she thought, watching him a few moments with undisguised affection, he still finds ways to surprise me.

Mission accomplished, Jane thought. She was no longer angry with him. All was right with his world. In no time at all, he drifted off to the dying strains of Debussy.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

One year, three months, and sixteen days later…

It really was a cliché to honeymoon in Paris, but a promise was a promise.

Jane stood holding Lisbon's hand (she would always be Lisbon to him, though technically she was now a Jane) beneath the Eiffel Tower, both of them looking up with awe. The monument was much grander than either of them had ever imagined. They both felt surreally like they were inside Lisbon's snow globe, though in June, there was happily no sign of snow, plastic or otherwise.

After a few moments, however, Jane's eyes became more captivated by his wife's face, glowing now with a little girl's excitement. She only lacked a black beret. He'd have to remedy that.

"Oh, my God, Jane. This is so…surreal," she said softly, echoing his thoughts.

"Yes," he concurred, squeezing her hand, but he didn't mean because they were in Paris.

Things had happened rather quickly after he'd given her that snow globe. He'd watched from the sidelines as she'd met a fellow FBI agent whom Jane deduced instantly meant trouble—for himself anyway. Lisbon had gone out on two apparently incredible dates, and Jane could see that if he didn't do something quickly, he would lose her forever to his own fears and procrastination. So, he'd shown up on her doorstep the night of that all-important third date, sans wedding ring, a few Bloody Marys in for courage.

The rest, as they say, was kismet.

He kissed her now, beneath the Eiffel Tower, just because he wanted to. Because he could.

They strolled by the Seine, hand-in-hand, the sun on their faces, the river lapping gently at its bank seeming to play a very familiar tune.

"And that's all there is—there isn't any more."

Fin

A/N: Thanks for reading. Please indulge me further with a review. Fingers crossed for more Jisbon next week.