A/N: Charlotte's birthday. Set... any season from 2nd to 5th. Or something. I don't really know why I wrote this. I think... it kind of wrote itself. Do not hesitate to leave a few words after having read it.
His head is about to explode. It is night, he is asleep, no, he is not, this is a dream, and one second he wants it to be reality, the next he wants to wake up, wake up, Patrick, honey, daddy, daddy, wake up! A small voice from thousands of days ago echoes in his head.
He sits up in his... bed.
He is alone. But he's not.
Daddyyyyyyy, time for breakfast!
"Charlotte?" he says to an empty room. The night is dark, dark, dark but something other than his usual dreams must have woken him up, something... Is it time for breakfast? He is hungry. But he is not sure what for.
The screen of his cellphone flashes, momentarily blinding him.
He answers without checking the name on the bright screen, "Hello?"
"Jane?"
It's Lisbon. He jumps up from the bed, mattress, whatever, it is not as if it matters, and hurries down the narrow staircase into the empty kitchen. The sun is just about to make its way above the horizon, its golden rays barely visible, casting a strange kind of glow upon the sky.
"Yes, Lisbon?" He says, already preparing a cup of tea.
He is wearing nothing but pajama pants; his hair is a mess of dark golden curls and the bags underneath his eyes are so heavy he can practically feel them resting upon his cheekbones.
"Um..." Lisbon hesitates, something Jane knows only happens when she has not yet switched from the very private Teresa to the very professional agent Lisbon.
"What's the matter, Teresa?" he says, trying to hold onto her private person a little longer, before all evidence of the woman is gone, replaced by authority and steel.
"Are you at home?"
He frowns, suspecting what might be happening but doubting his own suspicion, "Yes. Why?"
He can practically hear her bite her lip.
"Could you let me in?"
A breath later, he is opening the door to the outside world, letting her in.
She brings with her the warm wind of a summer night. She does not hug him, does not look him in the eye. He nearly frowns. As if she could ever succeed in shutting him out. He decides to let her be for just a little while longer. He is tired and he too awake, too aware, too lost in this reality.
"Would you like a cup of tea?" He heads to the kitchen, knowing she will follow.
"Okay," she says, but she is not really present, her eyes on the sky outside the panorama windows.
He can smell her newly washed hair from where he is standing by the counter: lemon and brown sugar. He eyes her, feeling himself read as much information as possible off of her.
"Bad dream?" He says and even though she does not move or react in any way, he knows he is right.
She slowly tears her eyes away from the horizon and looks at him.
"I never dream," she says, face expressionless but eyes filled with emotion, "but tonight, I dreamed that you were dead, Jane."
He is not at all emotionally prepared to be serious about something like this, not when it is sprung upon him like this. He does the only thing he can think of, trained celebrity psychic with a handsome face of fake joy flashing through his mind: he smiles.
"So it was a good dream, then. Isn't that what you've dreamed about since you got stuck with me as your consultant? Getting rid of me?"
She does not smile. Usually, when Jane says these things to Lisbon, the woman rolls her eyes in annoyance or simply ignores him.
However, something is different this time, because Lisbon's eyes only harden.
"Cut the crap, Jane. Stop pretending like you don't care about anything but Red John. Stop it." She says it as if she is trying to convince herself that her words are true. He hears the question within the words.
"I dreamed that you were dead, Jane. Don't patronize me because of it."
His hands freeze on the kitchen counter.
"Well, Lisbon, what do you want me to say?"
He feels cruel for this inability to help her out when she opens up to him like this. She is not prone to admitting things like these and he knows she must have fought a great inner battle to even go here. Her face is mostly covered in shadow and her eyes are dark. He stares at her, not sure what to do or say, not knowing if he should keep offending her until she leaves or let her stay. Either option is within his power.
"When was the last time you slept, Jane?" The question throws him off guard; he had expected her to be so caught up in herself that she wouldn't notice the state he was in.
"Ten years ago," he deadpans. He doesn't say it to win her sympathy, and he knows she knows this.
He hands her the blue cup and keeps his eyes on her face as she takes a small sip.
"I just wish… you'd sleep."
She is naive.
He sips his tea and eyes the young dawn before them, "I don't."
She is desperate; she needs to know why on earth the mind of this man will not grant him a few hours of peaceful rest every once in a while. But she does not say anything.
They stand in silence and sip their cups of tea while watching the new born day grow older. The dawn arrives, and the sky turns a crimson pink.
"Today is Charlotte's birthday." Lisbon says out of the blue. If it were even slightly possible that Jane would ever drop something, his cup of tea would be on the floor, shattered.
"I know, Lisbon I know." Her honesty unnerves him to no end. He's never seen her quiet like this. Tired and afraid but somehow so at ease, as if he does not have any effect on her at all.
"You planning on going to the cemetery?"
"I don't know. Probably not. I mean, what's the point? She's dead."
Lisbon glares at him.
"You're too stupid for your own good, Jane."
He smiles at her, cold and charming, "So. You're planning on insulting me into going there. Great plan, Lisbon, great."
Her face softens, green eyes becoming amber when the dawn is painted in them.
"Jane," she begins, "grieving is never a bad thing."
"Lisbon. You surely must have noticed that I grieve every day. No difference what day it is."
She puts her cup on the counter, the sound echoing in the empty house.
"Of course it's different today! Jane, you can't walk around with all these feelings inside of you without expressing them in some kind of way. You can't... Jane, you can't not grieve until you killed him. It's not healthy. Don't let your loss and mourning become a symbol for this quest to kill him, Jane. Don't... Mix them up. You're allowed to love them. Love them. Mourn them. Go visit your daughter's grave on her damn birthday."
He stays silent. There are no words on the tip of his tongue, no thoughts racing before themselves in the palace of his memories, no feelings, no flashes of golden hair and soprano laughter. For a moment, all he sees is a freckled face with green eyes, framed by dark hair. He looks into her eyes, trying to read her eyes. But they're too calm. Too honest. Too.. at peace.
He looks away.
She puts her cup on the counter, defeated, "I don't even know why I went here."
He does not turn around when the door slams shut. Eyes trained on the horizon before him; it is the very same horizon he would watch while holding a sleeping baby in his arms a lifetime ago.