Disclaimer: I'm not making money off this, and I don't own The Mentalist. If I did, we'd have elebenty seasons!
Author's Note: I resolved to write a tag for every ep, but Green Light has been a real problem. Partly because I enjoyed the ending so much and partly because others have written lovely continuations of it. I hope this is different enough from the others to be worth posting!
I used to tell myself that once I accomplished my vengeance, I'd be free of my past. But I was a fool. Nobody can ever be free of their past.
I told Kim that going back would mean going backward, and she told me it didn't have to. I'll always be grateful for that, because it gave me the push to come back to Lisbon. Of course, then I got stuck again until sheer panic sent me running after her, the only part of my past I absolutely have to have in my future.
On my island, I had nothing of my past with me except the clothes I'd been wearing when I got there. And, of course, my thoughts, some of which I wrote to Lisbon. She was the person I missed most, the only sacrifice I truly regretted. Things are just things, easy to leave behind, though I admit to dreaming of my old brown couch from time to time. And, occasionally, my dear old teacup.
I didn't miss them nearly as much as I missed Lisbon or even the rest of the team, of course. But I did miss them. The couch I got back, but the teacup was shattered, gone forever, I thought.
Until Lisbon reassembled it.
Leave it to her to show me that some things can, in fact, be fixed. And that we can safely carry our pasts into our future, cracks and all.
As we sit back sipping champagne and enjoying our time together, I reflect on all the times Lisbon has surprised me. This is my favorite. Well, my favorite outside the bedroom. And to judge by her smile, she enjoyed it too.
Our new normal is a happy one. Lisbon sparkles with it, liberated from the walls I forced her to hide behind for so many years. I may not have her glow, but I am happy too. I just have more baggage to sort through, weighed down by fears and regrets and guilt.
I have a good reason to make the effort to sort myself out, though, because part of Lisbon's happiness is knowing she makes me happy. I don't want to diminish her joy by appearing anything but happy, or at least content. And this birthday was a high pressure occasion for us both, even though I didn't want it to be. Lisbon wanted to make a fuss, to show me I am loved; I needed to make sure she didn't get any mixed signals that would make her question herself or, worse, us.
I fiddled with the box for a moment before opening it, having no clue what was in it but knowing I needed to look thrilled to receive it. I try not to act in front of Lisbon anymore, but this was an important moment. Too important to leave to chance.
I should have trusted her. No acting was required, since I was moved almost to tears by the teacup. It was not just a beloved object; it was a story. A story of a woman who, while her world was crumbling around her, took the time to pick up pieces of mine. Who held onto those pieces through two moves, who didn't throw them out even as she packed to move a third time to be with another man.
This teacup, so painstakingly restored, is a symbol of all the best things about Lisbon's love: Hope. Perseverance. Patience. Careful attention to detail. It's a metaphor for how she loves me. No gift could have been more perfect as she tries to make me see that the anniversary of my birth is a day worth celebrating.
And suddenly I feel that yes, this day is worth celebrating. Not because the world was dubiously graced with my presence forty-six years ago, but because that fact gives happiness to Teresa Lisbon. I am worth something because I am worth something to her.
I tear my gaze from the teacup and smile at her, and she smiles back, her eyes twinkling with mischief over the rim of her champagne flute as she takes a sip. I can read her thoughts clearly: she's expecting us to make love shortly, and she went out and bought some sexy underwear that she's very much looking forward to seeing my reaction to.
Right now I'm so overwhelmed with emotion I'd actually prefer a cuddle, but I'm sure once I get a glimpse of what she has in store, I'll change my mind.
Lisbon grins at me, moving her shoulders in a subtle little waggle that means she's feeling playful. I've always enjoyed reading Lisbon's body language, but I'm learning a whole new vocabulary now that we're physically intimate. She has a range of signals, each with many shades of meaning, and I delight in each nuance I detect.
Stretching out my hand, I give her my best come-hither look. Instead of popping out of her chair to settle into my lap as I obviously want, she gives me an arch look in return. "What? You're expecting something more?"
"Not expecting. Hoping."
"Greedy," she mock scolds. "You realize you're setting yourself an awfully high bar for my birthday, right?"
"I peaked early. I'll never be able to top the pony," I say. But of course I can. I'm thinking diamond earrings to match the engagement ring that won't count as a birthday present.
Of course, that will work only if she's willing to go public by then. Which I'm not at all sure about. It's my left hand still stretched out to her, and I can't miss the way the light shines off my ring. It's increasingly an unspoken issue between us, but in my own typically passive aggressive way, I've decided that wearing it is part of our concealment efforts. Taking it off would make people talk, after all, and watch me to see why I finally did.
The instant Lisbon decides to publicly acknowledge our status, it will come off.
"Two ponies?" she grins. "Maybe a whole petting zoo?"
"Do you want a whole petting zoo?" She should know better than to put ideas in my head. She'll end up with a safari park in Africa if she keeps goading me in this direction.
"Of course not. I'd rather you stick to the vegetable or mineral categories."
"Noted," I say, dropping my hand and sipping my champagne. Mineral it is. Though I might toss her a salad as a bonus, just to cover my bases.
"What did you wish for?" she asks.
That she will die of old age. "If I tell you, it won't come true," I smirk. And I want it to, desperately. In fact it's become my new obsession. I'm sure she thinks I've been coaching her in some of my mentalist methods and psychic con acts out of some obscure plan to take our show on the road after we leave the FBI, but the truth is that I'm trying to arm her with every possible tactic she can use to keep herself safe.
Just like I'm determined to save Abbott's career because he knows he mustn't risk her unnecessarily. Another boss might not be so careful of her. That I like him, sympathize with him, helps, but it's Lisbon who matters most. Abbott knows that. He's been in our corner all along, and he values Lisbon for the fine agent she is, as well as her role in keeping me stable and productive.
"Ha, ha. Be that way," she grumbles. Then she stands up, takes the three steps to my chair, and gracefully lowers herself into my lap, sliding her arms around my neck. "Stop brooding," she commands.
"I'm not brooding," I assure her.
"Yes, you are. I can tell, you know," she tells me. "So stop it." She kisses me, then sits back with a frown. "What's wrong? Don't tell me you're in a funk about getting old."
I let out a brief laugh. "You're trying to cheer me up by calling me old? I'm surprised you didn't buy me a cane."
"Next year. What's up, Patrick?"
I know she's serious when she calls me by my first name. And I'd like to tell her why I'm a little melancholy, but the truth is, I'm not really sure. "I guess...I'm not used to celebrating my birthday anymore."
She hums a little, thinking, and starts toying with the hair on the back of my neck. That's a sure way to distract me, and she knows it. "Thinking of the last time you did?" she asks gently.
I wasn't, but now that she mentions it... "Angela let Charlotte bake the cake. It was, um, well, I appreciated the thought."
"You'll be glad to know I did not make the cupcake," Lisbon grins.
"Too busy?"
"Well, I had some shopping to do."
I love it when I'm right. I toy with the buttons on her blouse, unfastening them until I catch a glimpse of silvery blue lace. "Happy birthday to me," I chuckle.
"Shall we move this party indoors?" she suggests, shifting off my lap and getting to her feet.
I rest my hands on her waist, stopping her from moving away. I'm suddenly overwhelmed again, wanting to say so much but lacking the words.
"What?" she says softly, giving me a gentle smile.
"Thank you," I say hoarsely.
"Hey, it's your birthday," she smiles. "You're welcome." She takes the champagne flute out of my hand and sets it on the table, then takes both my hands and pulls me out of my chair.
She thinks I'm thanking her for the presents, the teacup and whatever she has planned for me in bed. And I am. But I'm also thanking her for so much more. For the past, for all her patience and loyalty and sacrifice, without which I wouldn't be alive today. For the present, the happiness of having her in my life, the sheer joy of waking up beside her. But most of all, for the future. Does she realize how precious a gift that is for a man who's spent the past decade mired in the past, not daring to look ahead?
As I follow her into the Airstream, I feel my melancholy drop away. There's no need to dwell on the unchangeable past, not when I can bask in such a joyful present and look ahead to the future we will build together, limitless in its possibilities.
This is my birthday.
The perfect day to start again, to be reborn. I will always be a former con man, a widower, a bereaved father; that can't be changed. But now I am something else too.
Patrick Jane, a happy man.