A/N: Two things I need to point out since this is a bit AU: 1) Lisbon doesn't get arrested by the FBI and 2) Jane doesn't call Lisbon after he kills RJ.

Second Jisbon fic here. I totally meant to write a few other pieces over the summer but I could never get to them. Anyway, I came up with this scenario before 6x08 aired hence the AU. Originally, I envisioned this a certain way and it didn't come out like it at all. I contemplated scrapping the whole thing about halfway through but I'd already agonized over it for so long I couldn't turn back. So here it is. I hope you enjoy it more than I enjoyed writing it. *deep sigh*

Disclaimer: Oh, you think I own The Mentalist? You're cute.

That Which We Cannot Say

For all the shit that went down today, she almost finds it comical that her day ends her with participating in what has become a weekly routine: climbing into a tree to help her 76 year old neighbor's cat down from where it had lodged itself in amongst the branches. Later, as she's climbing the steps to her apartment, smelling of wood and cat and picking splinters out of her pants, she decides that it's less comical and more sobering. It reminds her that for all the tragedy Red John's reign of terror had caused, for all the pain and bloodshed it had brought, there were still those who had never known that heartache and now, never will. People like her neighbor who went about today just as they had any other, not realizing how one man's death had changed the lives of so many. It wasn't that they were ignorant. It was that they simply didn't know.

She knows, of course. She's seen it, lived it, hunted it, watched as the blood-lust of the state's most notorious serial killer slowly destroyed her friends and colleagues and anyone else who was unfortunate enough to cross him. It's been an exhausting 10 years in every sense and she'd be lying to herself if she said that in her darkest moments she's never thought about walking away from it all, just dropping everything and hopping on the next flight out of Sac, consequences and responsibilities be damned.

But it's over now. The man was dead, strangled and left bleeding on the ground in a scene that almost seemed anti-climactic given his reputation.

So the devil does bleed.

They never found Jane afterwards. In fact, the only things suggesting he'd even been there were the extra set of footprints around the body and the handprint around McAllister's neck. The FBI had swept the park and church, turned his motel room upside down but with nothing to show for it. Jane had literally disappeared, and if it hadn't been for the fact that she had no idea if he was even alive and ok, she would've smiled at the thought that he had once again outsmarted everyone else.

An ache has taken up residence in her heart and it twinges as she unlocks her apartment door and lets herself in. She had dutifully avoided thinking about Jane's absence as it related to her since they arrived at the crime scene and the search began earlier that afternoon but in the silence of her own home with no FBI-delegated tasks to keep her occupied, she finds that it's the only thing she can think of.

She remembers then that she's holding her mail, having picked it up after the cat debacle, but the thought of looking through them just seems so insignificant compared everything she's been through today that she simply tosses them onto the table by the door without a second glance. Honestly, she doesn't quite know what to do with herself now, doesn't know how to move on, how to be normal now that her job is literally gone and her partner for nearly a decade is wanted for murder. She supposes it'll take time, lots of time before she even begins to wrap her head around this whole mess but right now, she's barely capable of sorting her damn mail so coping with all this in a healthy, rational fashion can go straight to hell for all she cares.

"Lisbon."

The sudden voice sends her quite possibly a few feet into the air, foot knocking into the table leg next to her as she reflexively grapples for the non-existent sidearm at her hip.

"Jesus! What the—" She squints into the darkness and as her eyes adjust to the moonlight shrouding the room in a soft glow, she sees a figure sitting on her couch.

Oh, my god.

The first thing she feels is relief, overwhelming relief drowning out the uncertain dread that had been churning sickeningly in her stomach. He's alive. He's ok. He's here. That last thought triggers her next wave of emotion: panic.

"Jane? What the hell are you doing here? There's a state-wide manhunt for you in case you've forgotten." Her voice is thick, words getting stuck somewhere in her throat before clawing their way to her mouth.

She steps closer, approaching with the caution one might show a wild animal that had wandered onto your path. He looks fine, no visible wounds, he's even relaxed back into the sofa, fingers idly playing with the threads of one of her pillows. But she knows him well enough to know that the man was basically a goddamn iceberg: 10% visible, 90% carefully hidden from plain sight.

He surprises her with a small, wry smile. "Exactly. They're too busy shutting down every airport from here to San Jose and pulling over well-meaning citizens that the last place they'll think to look is right under their noses."

He has a point. The FBI had essentially frozen all major law enforcement agencies north of San Francisco and were in the process of doing the same for the rest of the state while simultaneously turning over every rock they could find in their hunt for Jane. They'd even collected his Citroen from where he'd last abandoned it in Malibu after the explosion and sent it up to Sac as evidence. But they hadn't even thought about searching her or the rest of the team. Idly, she wonders how long he's been sitting in her apartment, waiting for her to come home.

"Still, you shouldn't be here," she says at last although her resolve is somewhat weaker than before.

There's a beat of silence and she knows he can hear the words left unspoken. But I'm glad you are.

"I wanted to see you," he replies softly, looking her dead in the eye.

There's something in his voice, something pained and raw and visceral that has the anxiety creeping back, snaking its way through her gut and winding around her chest. She watches as he gets up from his spot on the couch and takes those few steps towards her, into the moonlight streaming from the window so she can finally see him properly. His vest is unbuttoned, his shirttails untucked, but her eyes are drawn to the small, darkened stains dotting his pants that look suspiciously like blood. Somehow, however, she knows it isn't his.

"What happened?" It sounds ridiculous coming out of her mouth— after all she knows what happened— but she needs to hear his side of things.

His eyes flit away from hers for a moment and she sees him retreating back into the events of the day. He's silent for several seconds but just when she's about to reach out to him to pull him back to the present, he slowly answers, "He begged for mercy. After everything he's done…to all those people…" He pauses, sliding his gaze back over to meet hers, and the intensity in his sea blue eyes nearly startles her. "In the end, he was nothing by a coward."

There's a subtle harsh finality coloring his tone that constricts her heart, makes her want to take him in her arms in an attempt to assuage the quietly simmering tension roiling just beneath his surface. But she refrains, balling her hands loosely into fists instead.

"And now?"

His shoulders rise in a small shrug. "It's over. I can breathe again." He sucks in a steadying breath as if to prove his point. "For the first time in 10 years, I can breathe again."

Fear drops like lead in her stomach and she can hear exactly what he's saying behind those words.

"I know," she says simply, unable to find other words to articulate what she wants to tell him. That she's always known that this was a possibility, that the day he completed his road to revenge would be the day he walked out of her life forever; that she knows he needs this, this clean break from his past in order to move on with his future but it doesn't make it any easier to accept; that she knows this is good-bye even though neither one of them wants to say those words because the moment they do their selfishness will win out and she'll be begging him to stay and he'll be asking her to come with him. She knows all that but doesn't know how to say any of it, doesn't know if she can if she's being honest and not for the first time, she curses her own cowardice.

He's still looking at her intently and she sees the exact moment the light in his eyes dims and a muted sadness takes its place. "I'm gonna miss you," he says after a moment, so quietly she strains to hear him. "I just had to say that in person. You deserve that much."

She wants to say something, anything but the words won't come and she's barely breathing and the silence is so deafening she swears she can hear her own heart shattering in her chest. So instead, she stares at him, willing herself to memorize every line on his face, every messy swirl of his hair, every feature that is so essentially Jane because the thought that this could quite possibly be the last time she ever sees him absolutely terrifies her and she needs to cement this moment in her mind.

He holds her gaze with matching intensity before taking a step closer, blue eyes never leaving hers, until they're standing toe-to-toe and he's so close she can smell the sweat on his skin. She doesn't dare stop him or move or breathe as he leans in, heart pounding in her ears, eyes fluttering shut of their own accord, and when his lips touch the juncture where her jaw meets her neck, she almost sinks to her knees right then and there. Heat floods her body, spreading from that point just below her ear where the gentle pressure of his lips lingers for a second longer before pulling away just a hair.

"Be well, Teresa," he murmurs, his breath coming in short, warm puffs against her skin.

His head shifts a fraction and she feels the tip of his nose brush the shell of her ear in the lightest of touches. He hovers there for what seems like a small eternity, neither one of them willing to break whatever spell had come over them just yet. It's the most intimate experience they've ever shared and she feels the inexplicable need to both cry and burst into flames.

And then it's over. One second he's there, standing so close she can feel the heat radiating off his body, warming her, engulfing her, the next, he's gone, brushing past her and leaving her standing alone in the middle of her living room. She misses his presence instantly, the feeling of his lips still imprinted on her skin, and it isn't until she hears the front door open and close that she finds it in her to finally open her eyes. For several long moments, she doesn't move, just stands there rooted in that same spot, mentally reliving the past few minutes. And then it hits her, it really hits her.

He's gone.

Suddenly, she's cold, freezing in fact and the icy fingers of panic start coiling around her chest, slow and unrelenting, and oh god, she isn't ready for good-bye, not just yet. The thought barely forms in her head before she finds herself turning on her heel and sprinting for the door. Her feet pound against the stairs, a rapid staccato in time with the frantic beating of her heart, the fact that it's nearing midnight and the danger of waking her neighbors (and getting him arrested) is entirely a possibility hardly registering in her mind. She's on the last landing when she sees him hurrying down the walkway leading up to the complex.

"Jane!"

He barely has time to turn around before she launches herself at him, the force nearly knocking both of them to the ground. Her arms go around his neck and she clutches him so tightly she thinks she's hurting him until she feels his own arms wrap around her waist and he's crushing her into his chest like he's afraid she'll disappear right before his eyes. She turns her face into the crook of his neck and it's only when she feels his jacket dampening beneath her eyes that she realizes she's crying.

Just like that, the cold that had been seeping into her bones starts to fade, his comforting warmth enveloping her once again. The panic is still there, the fear, the dread but so long as she's in his arms, she can pretend they're nothing but faceless shadows in the night. She closes her eyes, willing herself impossibly closer, and as they stand there clutching each other so tightly they can barely breathe, she can almost believe that nothing else matters, that everything they're not saying out loud and have blatantly chosen to ignore is right there being poured into every second of their embrace.

It's him that starts to pull away first, his hands releasing their vice-like grip around her back. Reluctantly, she does the same but can't bring herself to let go completely so she slides her hands down to grab his lapels instead, keeping him close for as long as she can. She tips her head forward, eyes still closed, his forehead coming to rest lightly against hers. She inhales and the smell of blood and sweat and gunpowder and grass fills her nose, reminding her of how much they've both gained and lost today.

The desire to say the words that had been weighing heavily in her heart since he told her he'd miss her starts to build, blossoming in her chest and bubbling up her throat until they're right there but in the end, she can't do it, can't bring herself to say them. She may be selfish enough to want one last moment with him but she isn't selfish enough to ask him to throw away his chance at a clean start. Not when he's waited so long for this. So she swallows them back down, ignoring the way her stomach churns unpleasantly as she does.

She knows she needs to let go, let go and let him disappear into the night but her hands are still curled into his jacket and she's finding it nearly impossible to loosen her grip. And then she feels his own hands move, leaving where they had been resting heavily on her waist to run down her arms and coming to grasp her own. He holds her for a moment, his callused palms warming hers, before tightening his grip and squeezing her hands briefly, and when he starts to let go, she feels herself doing the same, allowing him to gently pull away from her. At the last second, when their only point of contact are her palms hanging on the tips of his fingers, she feels him hesitate for the briefest of moments but the spell passes and her arms drop to her sides, heavy and limp.

She forces herself to keep her eyes shut until she hears his footsteps fade, not wanting to have to watch him walk away. When she finally does open them, she's alone for the second time tonight, Jane having disappeared so thoroughly into the night she would've been tempted to believe he was never there. But she knows better, can almost feel him standing there in front of her if she tries, all solid, comforting warmth and playful smiles. Months from now, years even, when all she has left is the memory of him, she'll think of this moment and how it felt to be in his arms like maybe the world righting itself and happy endings weren't such distant possibilities. It's a thought that both comforts and saddens her but she'll hold on to it for as long as she can because then maybe there'd still be a chance he'll come back to her one day. And that's all she can really hope for.

The cold is starting to creep back, nipping at her fingers and toes before flooding her very bones, but whether it's the chill of the night air or his absence she doesn't know nor does she care because what the hell good would knowing the difference do anyway?

Gone is gone and, cold or not, she'll miss him all the same.

A/N: Yea, I don't know. I tried. I'm sorry. I actually think it started straying OOC towards the end. Ugh. UGH. *flies into the sun*

Oh, and I finally joined the masses and got a tumblr a few weeks ago. My url is midnightraptor. tumblr .com if anyone is interested. *end shameless self-promotion*

Happy New Year everyone! :)