AN: I don't own The Mentalist. Title from the poem "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by Robert Frost.
"Jane!"
He turns around only to be crushed with the Herculean strength of her arms. She burrows her face into the crook of his neck, and the jarring impact of her body against his forces her tears to spill over. They slip down his neck.
She's holding a fistful of his jacket, as though the action alone will tether him here, will prevent him from leaving. On instinct, he reaches up to cradle the back of her head with one hand, the other wrapping around her shoulders to pull her closer.
He drops his head, rests his lips against her temple.
"Please," she begs, a whisper. "Please."
There's only one thing in the world he wouldn't give her.
Unfortunately, she's asking for exactly that.
He lets his own tears fall, holding her tighter.
He can't say the words, but he has to. He has to. So he does. "Escape with me," he breathes. He knows what her choice will be, but he wants a chance to say goodbye. "One last time?"
She pulls back enough to meet his gaze.
He'd swore he'd never make her cry again. He should have known he'd fail at that, too.
Lisbon gives him a terse nod.
For twenty-four hours, they are a tangle of twisted souls and sheets, of hearts and hands. He memorizes her body again, knowing that when he leaves this time, he won't come back.
He can't.
She sleeps beside him, a silver sliver of moonlight revealing porcelain skin.
He's never loved like he loves her. He will not survive her.
He has until dawn.
She'll likely sleep until after, but he wants to be gone long before she wakes. He can't bear to see her cry again.
So he takes her in, breathes her in, trying not to concentrate on the silent tears staining his skin.
He can't resist one last brush of his lips against hers, and this is what destroys him.
And, ultimately, what saves him.
She responds to the kiss, waking slowly and threading her fingers through his hair. She pulls him back to the bed, taking in his clothed body, knowing he'd been planning on running.
"Hold me," she commands, and he is helpless, so he does.
He strokes her hair.
"I'm right," she whispers against him. "You know that, don't you?"
He nods without hesitation.
"But you're right, too. Do you know that?"
He can't find it in himself to answer.
"I've been praying," murmurs Lisbon. "Praying and thinking and praying some more."
"And?" He kisses the top of her head.
"And I don't care about right. What I care about is us." She traces his collarbone, a familiar motion. "We've weathered worse than this, Jane. We can't let this break us. We can survive anything the world throws at us except each other? How does that even figure?"
He has to laugh at this. It's true, really - they'd made it past a serial killer, an exile, a stint in detention. And now the only obstacle they face is -
Themselves.
"I'll bend for you, Jane, but I won't break. I need to know you'll do the same for me."
For the first time in weeks, he sees light in the darkness.
She must feel this in him, because she props herself up on an elbow to examine his face. "Oh, Jane - " she begins, and she rolls them over, cradling his head against her chest, and he finally allows himself to cry freely.
He lets the storm run its course before he even tries to speak.
"I'll bend for you, too, Lisbon - as far as I am able."
She directs him upward, brushes her lips to his forehead.
"I'll start," she whispers. "I'm going to apply for an intelligence analyst position. I can choose a specialization that keeps me completely out of the field."
"But will you be happy?" Jane murmurs.
Lisbon smiles softly at him. "I'll still be doing what I love. Just with less risk." She wipes his eyes. "Will you be alright with moving? I'm not sure where they'll place me. It could be at any of the field offices, or at HQ - "
He cuts her off with a series of kisses.
"I'll follow you to the ends of the earth, Teresa," he murmurs.
He feels her smile. "Good," she says.
He pulls back slightly, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. "I'll see a doctor. Start medication. Start therapy. It's time I started dealing with this."
She bites her lip, as though to try to keep herself from crying, but the tears spill out anyway. "You have no idea," she whispers, "what that means to me. What you mean to me."
He caresses her jaw, her cheek, reverent hands worshipping light from darkness.
"I love you," he murmurs, and the centre holds.