Yes, you are seeing right. I actually updated in under a month. I know. I'm shocked too.
This chapter turned out a little angstier than I intended but I hope you will still like it.
Rating and pairings are the obvious.
Disclaimer: So not mine.
"Why do people insist on killing each other?"
Lisbon typed in the last few sentences of what felt like the hundredth report that day, the case of a twenty-five year old man who'd been killed because he'd constantly parked in his colleague's designated space. Of course, instead of talking to him about it, the colleague had instead lain in wait for him one night and stabbed him five times with a kitchen knife.
During the man's confession, Lisbon had needed to force herself not to get up and physically knock some sense into him. What was happening to the world, that something so minor warranted the taking of a life? She really worried about the state of humanity sometimes.
"Why can't people find other ways of resolving things then murder?" she said.
From the couch a few feet away, there was a soft chuckle.
"You'd better hope they don't, or we'll all be out of a job," Jane said.
"It'd be worth it," she said. " And I could find something else to do."
"I don't think so," he said. "You, my dear, were born to be a cop. It's who you are."
In all honesty, she really couldn't imagine herself being or doing anything else. Even when she'd been young, and all the other girls had dreamed of being singers or movie stars, she had never seen the appeal. Her whole life, she'd been taking care of people, so it only made sense that she should have a career that did the same thing. Police officers looked after people, they stopped bad things from happening, and they made a difference.
But on days like today, it really made her wonder if she made a difference at all. Their murder victim today had a wife and a young son. The boy, only three years old, would never know his father, purely because someone else had thought they had the right to take him away. Had the murderer even given a thought to the pain he was going to inflict on these people? Or had he been so blinded by anger he could only see revenge?
"Yes, well sometimes I wish I could be someone else," she said. "Or be somewhere else, where people solved their problems with negotiation instead of violence."
"Oh Lisbon," said Jane, and she knew he was smiling. "Sometimes I think you forget that the world is not made up of people like you."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Simply that you are a very rare commodity," he said. "Most people care more about their own problems then those of everyone else."
She processed that strange statement for a moment, and eventually decided it had been intended as a compliment. He certainly hadn't seemed to be mocking her, but then again, what did she really know about the way her consultant's mind worked?
"Thank you?" she asked, hoping for some guidance to his intentions.
He chuckled. "It was a compliment."
There was no new case today, so they'd all (except for Jane of course) spent the majority of it doing paperwork. He had spent most of the day on her couch, sleeping, which she had been pleased about. If he was sleeping, then he wasn't bored, and if he wasn't bored, he wasn't wreaking havoc on everyone else. That was more than a fair trade-off for having to put up with his constant presence all day.
He yawned, stretched, and began to ease himself up into a sitting position.
"I think it's safe to say we're not going to get a case today," he said. "I might head off for the day."
"Sure," said Lisbon, nonchalantly, though inside, she was practically bursting with curiosity. For the past month, Jane had got into the habit of leaving the CBI early one day each week. The first few times he'd done so, she had asked him where he was going to be told only that he had 'stuff to do.' She had no idea what kind of 'stuff' would be pressing enough to justify his need to devote time to it every single week, but she hoped against hope that it wasn't what she had begun to suspect.
Most of the time, Jane only became cagey like this when something came up that had to do with Red John. She wondered if he had decided to pursue his own private means of tracking down his nemesis, doing his own investigation as it were. As with most of his endeavours, she was terrified about what might happen, should he succeed. What if he did find Red John? What if he tried to take on the serial killer on his own? What if something happened to him? She'd never forgive herself if she weren't there with him when it all went down.
Jane could feel Lisbon's eyes on his back as he left her office, knew she was simply dying to ask him again what he was doing. She'd been worrying ever since he'd started taking these early afternoons. She probably thought he was going after Red John on his own, hatching some secret plan to bring the serial killer down.
In a way, she was right. What he was doing did involve Red John, but not in the way she thought.
He drove his blue Citroen through a pair of wrought-iron gates, and parked at the side of the road bordering a lawn dotted with neat rows of gravestones.
Yes, over the last month, for the first time since his brother-in-law had dragged him there, Jane had been coming to the cemetery to visit his wife and daughter's graves.
Or at the very least, he had been trying.
The first week, he'd spent an hour driving up and down the street outside the gate to the cemetery, unable to bring himself to enter.
The following two weeks had seen him drive inside but be unable to get out of the car. He'd merely sat, clutching the steering wheel, and staring at the spot where he knew they were.
Today, for the first time, he managed to work up the nerve to exit the car, though he still didn't dare approach any closer. Instead, he leaned against the Citroen and listened to the wind whistling through the trees, and the faint humming of a lawnmower somewhere off in the distance.
He couldn't tell Lisbon that he had been coming here. She'd want to come with him, to make sure he was OK. He couldn't let that happen. He needed to do this by himself; he had to find it in him to be able to take this life-changing step and put his past behind him.
The day he could walk all the way up to their gravestones and look at them without wanting to vomit; that was when he'd know he was ready to let them go. Possibilities he'd never allowed himself to consider before became clearer now to him with every passing day. His debt to his family, repaid. His wedding ring, off (he felt his fist clench involuntarily around it.) Himself, happy, instead of constantly angry and vengeful.
One day, he hoped he could bring Lisbon here. She, who had been his support system for so long now, deserved to see this place. If it weren't for her, he wouldn't even be standing here right now, trying to work up the courage to walk away from his car. She was the one he owed everything to, his life, his job, and his sanity. She had the right to see what it was that had made him need her so much in the first place.
Maybe then, she would finally understand.
At the end of it all, he wanted her to see that he was willing to do what it took to be a better man for her. That a future with her was what he truly did want. But it was to be a long, slow process, and the threat of her meeting somebody else in the meantime remained all too real. It was however, a risk that he had no choice but to take.
His brain was screaming at him to take a step away from the car, but his body seemed simply unable to comply. Not yet. The only time he'd be worthy of seeing the earthly remains of his wife and daughter, was when he'd rid the world of the animal that was Red John, and corrected the cosmic balance.
Then, and only then, could he start getting his life back.
"Here's your large latte with extra sugar Agent Lisbon."
The young man at the coffee cart smiled at her as he handed her the cup.
"Thanks, Greg," she said, her mind already back in her office where there were three more reports waiting to be finished, along with four emails she needed to send and two phone calls, one to the D.A's office and one to Forensics. In fact, she really needed to make that call to the D.A right away. Keeping herself busy was the only way to stop herself from fretting about Jane, and what he was doing. Besides, she was still furious with him for rocking up to the CBI yesterday and gleefully announcing to them all that he was using some of his casino winnings to buy them an espresso machine for the office.
Cho had rolled his eyes, Van Pelt had smiled, Rigsby had whooped, and Lisbon had crossed her arms and told him that on no account whatsoever was he to bring his ill-gotten spoils into the CBI. Of course, for all the notice her consultant took of her, she might as well not have spoken.
This morning, the shiny new machine had been delivered and set up in the breakroom. A steady stream of agents had been trickling in during the day and sampling the coffee. It had only annoyed her more to hear them all oohing and aahing over the smooth blend and full flavour.
Well, she was perfectly happy with the coffee cart, thank you very much. And more to the point, she took great pleasure in denying Jane what he wanted most of all. She wasn't stupid. While she knew her consultant was enjoying the near-hero treatment he was receiving from everybody at the office right now, she also knew perfectly well that he'd bought that coffee machine with her in mind. Outrageously expensive gifts were his classic fallback if he ever wanted to get her off his case about something.
Well, if he expected gratitude and compliments from her, he could just think again. He could manipulate her, lie to her, piss her off, but she was not going to be bought, no matter how many emeralds, ponies, and couches he threw her way.
She took a sip of her latte, frowned, and then held the cup back out to Greg.
"You couldn't make this a double shot, could you?" she asked.
"Anything for my favourite customer," Greg said. At her questioning look, he flushed. "You're the only one who has ever bothered to learn my name," he admitted quietly. "To the others I'm just the guy who works the coffee machine."
She smiled sympathetically at him. "I'm sure that's not true."
"Well, your team are always polite to me," he allowed, as he added the extra shot. "But only because they follow your lead." He cleared his throat nervously, and his hand was shaking violently as he gave her back the coffee. "I was just wondering, if um, maybe you'd like to go out with me sometime. To dinner. Or lunch. Or whatever."
Lisbon got the impression that he'd been psyching himself up to ask her this for quite some time. He'd said it all so quickly that she'd had trouble understanding him, and hadn't been able to look at her. She held back a sigh. She could really do without this today.
"That's nice of you, Greg," she said, as gently as she could. "But I don't think that's such a good idea."
Immediately, she thought of Jane, and whether she'd be so quick to refuse if he had been the one who made the offer. This did not help.
For a moment, the barista looked crushed, before valiantly forcing a smile onto his face, and waving an airy hand as if the matter had no importance.
"That's OK," he said. "No problem. I just thought I'd ask, but it's no big deal."
On the contrary, she could tell that to him, this was an extremely big deal, but couldn't help being grateful that he was giving her an opportunity to escape before it could get any more awkward.
"It's because of Jane, isn't it?" he blurted out, unable to stop himself.
OK, so maybe it did have to get more awkward.
"I always suspected you liked him," Greg went on, smiling ruefully. "The first time I saw you together."
"You're wrong," she said, wondering why she had to keep telling people this. "Jane and I aren't together."
"You smile a lot when he's around, and the only days you forget to tip me are when he's with you."
That could possibly be true. Jane did tend to command her attention most days. He could be very distracting, what with his crazy antics and outlandish plans, and that smile.
She reached into her wallet, pulled out a five-dollar note and stuffed it into Greg's tip jar.
"See you tomorrow, Greg," she said.
He smiled at her. "He's a lucky guy," he said.
"I told you," she said, with some frustration. "We're not together."
"Maybe not yet," said Greg. "But you're holding out for him. And I see the way he looks at you. Classic star-crossed lovers scenario." He gave a humourless chuckle. "I never stood a chance."
"Star-crossed lovers?" she asked, with a little smirk at the antique turn of phrase.
"Lit major," he explained. "Wanted to be an author, now all the writing I do is names on the side of coffee cups."
His disappointment reminded her forcefully of another writer she knew. He had the same look on his face right now that Castle always did when he talked about Beckett. There wasn't anything she could do for Castle, but she knew he'd want to help this kid out. That was the kind of person he was.
"Do you have a manuscript?" she asked.
"Just some crap that I've been working on for years and is only half-finished."
"Let me know when you finish it. I know a guy."
Greg garbled his thanks, and she finally left the cart, thinking about what he'd said about Jane. Was she holding out for him? She didn't think she was, really. She'd only agreed to discuss the possibility of a relationship after all, she hadn't agreed to the relationship itself.
And her refusal for dinner with Greg was quite justified. He was almost ten years her junior, far too young for her.
But what about the two other men who had asked her out over the past month; the bartender from the bar near her place, and the guy she'd met at the supermarket? She'd turned them both down flat in one sentence, citing work as an excuse, yet on both occasions, her thoughts had jumped instantly to her consultant, much like they'd done just now.
She enjoyed Jane's attention at the office, basked in the glow of being the 'chosen one' who got to know his secrets. He'd given her the two best kisses of her life. He'd promised her more, many more, if she wanted them. He rarely left her side, he made her laugh when she was at her lowest ebb, and he surprised her every day, both in good ways and bad, and he was exciting and challenging and fun to be around.
Basically, now she came to think about it, he was everything she'd ever wanted in a man. All the others she'd dated were missing one or two key ingredients, but Patrick Jane had the full set.
She arrived back in her office and closed the door behind her. She took a seat at her desk, and buried her face in her hands.
She might as well just give up now.
She was sunk.
"Richard, how could you not have told me?" Martha Rodgers swept around the living room in the way only a true actor could. She turned with a flourish and faced her son, who closed his eyes, praying for patience.
"It's been almost two months since you came home from Sacramento, and you kept this to yourself all this time."
"Mother," he began, as calmly as possible. "We were there to investigate three murders, not to make glittering social connections. Haven't you got enough of those anyway?" he asked, churlishly.
The Grand Dame rolled her eyes. "One can never have enough connections, darling. Haven't I taught you anything?"
"Well, under your tutelage, I was able to mix most cocktails by the age of seven," he said, mildly. "But other then that, being your son has mostly been one long lesson of what not to do."
Martha narrowed her eyes at him. "I did the best I could to cater for the needs of a son, as well as my own deep-seated need for the stage. Every time I left you for an acting job, it ripped my soul in two."
"Could've fooled me," Castle muttered under his breath. For the billionth time in his life, he cursed his big mouth. He and his mother had actually been having a quite normal conversation to begin with. Of course, by Castle family standards, a 'normal conversation' could take in any manner of things such as why a straight-laced lawyer from Manhattan would spend two nights each week dressed as a woman (stage-named Constentina Sparkles) and how it may have gotten him/her killed.
Their latest case at the NYPD was a doozy, and who better to go for insight on their victim's intriguing night-time habits, then the biggest showman (or woman) that Castle knew? After spinning an Oscar-worthy tale of the man's apparent struggle with convention and overwhelming desire to perform, his mother had then treated him to a list of the best performers she had seen.
It was then that Castle, the eternal fool, had put his foot in it. He'd mentioned a few incidents with Jane in Sacramento, forgetting his mother had been a fan. She had demanded to know how he knew the man, he had told her the story, her dramatic outrage had commenced, and so it had gone on since then. For almost two hours now.
He stared pleadingly at his cell phone, hoping that Beckett would receive his telepathic message and ring him with an update on the case, or a request for coffee, or anything to get him away from this.
"Patrick Jane," his mother said dreamily. "He was quite famous back in the day. He truly had a gift. He was so sympathetic, so charming, so…handsome. I almost wished I had some long-dead relative just so he could put me in touch with them. I could've really dredged up some sorrow. There wouldn't have been a dry eye in the house." She sighed. "It would have made wonderful television."
"Mother," said Castle, resigned to once again making a point that had already been addressed twice during this agonizing conversation. "He's not a real psychic."
"Of course he is," she retorted, stubbornly. "I saw what he could do with my own eyes, and nobody takes Martha Rodgers for a fool."
Castle stifled a laugh with difficulty. "Other then your husband who cleaned you out of house and home, literally, and foisted you on me," he said.
"It triggered a change in my life, for which I am a stronger person," said his mother, with dignity. "And there is nothing better for an actor, then to suffer."
"Of course," Castle agreed.
"So what was he like?" Martha asked. "Mr Jane?"
"He's smart. Like genius-level brilliant. And he knows it. Sometimes he comes across as a bit of a jerk," said Castle, truthfully. "But he's a good guy. He does the best he can with what he has, which isn't much. Took a bit of a shine to Beckett," he added, off-handedly.
"Really?" said his mother, cautiously. "And how did you feel about that?" She knew that most of Beckett's would-be suitors came in for some sort of punishment from her son, whether becoming base material for a bumbling character in a book, or chum for his group of writer buddies at poker night. She blamed herself for Richard's difficulties with sharing; after all he'd been an only child.
What misfortune did Patrick Jane have to endure, for showing interest in Detective Beckett?
Castle knew what she was thinking, and shook his head. "It wasn't like that," he said. "I thought it was like that, for a while, but it wasn't."
"Well, that's a good thing then," she said, and they exchanged smiles. "But if I may say so, darling," she ventured, "you need to stop getting so upset every time Beckett spends time with other men. You really don't have any right to tell her who she can and can't be friends with."
"I know that," he said. "And I'm working on it."
This was true. Ever since they'd returned to New York, and with Josh well and truly out of the picture, Castle had been playing the waiting game. And when she came to work one day and talked about Harry, who'd she'd had dinner with last night, he focused on pushing down the jealousy, and for the first time ever, succeeded.
And why? Because even though he couldn't remember what had happened in that hospital, he knew it had been something. Something big.
It turned out that Harry was an old friend from the academy, a happily married man with two kids. There was no need for Castle to feel threatened whatsoever. Oh, he knew that many more men would cross their path between now and the time he and Beckett finally (if ever) gave it a shot. And he would still feel jealous at times. He was never going to get used to others having her when he couldn't, but he owed it to her to at least be less openly hostile. Her happiness came first. He had to remember that.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Martha. "But that means you have no excuse not to tell me that you know Patrick Jane."
Castle sighed. And then, miracle of miracles, his cell phone rang. He snatched it up and saw Beckett's caller ID.
"Thank God," he said into the phone. "I don't care what they say. Hell is a place on Earth, and I'm living it."
He smiled at Beckett's low, soft chuckle. "Talking to your mom?" she asked.
"How could you tell?"
"You've got that tone," she said. "The one that sounds like you want to throw yourself off a bridge. Anyway, the guys figured out that club our victim performed at and the name of his dance troop. Constentina Sparkle and the Sequin Sisters."
"You can't be serious. Please tell me you're serious," he said, in delight.
"You can't make this kind of crap up, Castle," said Beckett. "Wanna take a ride with me down to the club and see what we can find out?"
"Is that a trick question?"
"I thought so. I'll pick you up in five."
"Duty calls?" asked Martha, as he hung up.
"A police officer's work is never done," he said.
"I know," she said. "And what exactly is it that you're doing, again?"
He chuckled. "I love you, mother."
"Love you too, kiddo."
Lisbon arrived home from work in a state of such deep exhaustion; it was a wonder she could even stand up. She literally ached down to her bones. Her head pounded. It was an effort to breathe, to blink, and to think. She staggered over to the couch and collapsed onto it, hearing it groan as it took her full, dead weight.
She could not realistically see herself moving from this spot for at least the next few days. Every last ounce of energy had drained out of her.
Red John was dead.
After years of searching, they had finally, finally found the serial killer. Jane of course, had been the one to track him down. He'd been acting weird for weeks, secretive, moody, so naturally, she had feared the worst. She'd been right.
It turned out that Jane and Red John had been keeping up a correspondence of sorts, messages sent to Jane's cell phone from untraceable numbers, Jane sending letters to a post office box officially registered to no-one. Three months this had been going on, right under her nose, and she hadn't known.
Some detective she was.
And then today, her consultant just disappeared, without warning. There one minute, gone the next, without so much as a word.
They went through Jane's seldom used desk, tore the cushions off his beloved couch as well as the one in her office, for any clue to where he might have gone. She put an APB out on his blue Citroen, but that plan came to nothing when they found it still in the parking lot. Clearly, he was taking no chances in stopping them from coming after him.
That was when she'd realised exactly what they were dealing with. The only reason Jane would go to such lengths to keep them away from him was that he was closing in on Red John.
She called anyone and everyone she could think of that Jane might turn to for help. Minelli, Hightower, Rosaline Harker, but they all said they hadn't heard from him. She went through all their Red John cases again looking for any clue or similarities but found nothing.
Time was running out. Jane had been missing for almost four hours and they were still no closer to tracking him down. He could be dead already, or lying somewhere, with his lifeblood draining away and she wouldn't be able to help him.
Red John was just too damn good at what he did. There were no loose ends anywhere. All his victims and associates were dead, except for Kristina Frye, who was far too damaged to be of use to anyone. She phoned every taxi and bus company to find out if they'd remembered picking Jane up. Nothing. She showed his photo to street vendors and pedestrians surrounding the CBI. Nobody recognised him.
It wasn't until she was pacing around the bullpen, cracking her knuckles, that she finally thought of one more person she could call. The one suspected associate of Red John who had yet to meet a horrible death. Bret Stiles.
She loathed Bret Stiles. It made her sick to the stomach to even think of Bret Stiles. She had very much hoped they would never cross paths again, but still, ignoring the bile rising in her throat, she looked up his number and dialled.
"Agent Lisbon," he said when she'd got through his two secretaries. "What an unexpected surprise."
"Where the hell is he?" she asked.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Cut the crap, Stiles. I know that you have some sick little friendship with Red John. You know where he is, and if you know what's good for you, you'll tell me."
"I deduce from your abruptness, that the time has finally come. Red John and Mr Jane are finally going to settle the score."
"Not if I can help it," she said, vehemently.
"I could tell you where they are, but you will be too late," said Stiles. "It will be over."
"You have three seconds to tell me what I want to know, and if I get there and something's happened to Jane, your life is going to become very, very unpleasant, very, very quickly. Do you understand me?"
There was a long silence.
"Very well Agent Lisbon," he said. "I suppose I always knew this day was going to come. It's finally time to pick a side." He dictated an address, which she scribbled down on a scrap of paper.
"Godspeed, Agent," he said.
She didn't remember a lot of what had happened next, at that nondescript brick house that Stiles sent them to. There were flashes, however. She distinctly remembered the smell of cordite in the air when they'd first shown up, which had turned out to be from a poorly-aimed shot from a gun she'd never even known Jane owned.
She remembered entering a room, to see Jane and Red John circling each other like sharks, sizing each other up.
She had a clear recollection of her own desperate pleas to her consultant to stop this before someone got hurt, to just, for once in his life, listen to her.
She'd seen a glint of silver from a knife in Red John's hand as he lunged toward her. She was fast, and avoided his reaching arms, and then she instantly knew his plan. He had never intended to end things with Jane today; the idea had been to get her here, and kill her in front of him, to add another level of torture to their little game. She understood now why Jane had been so determined to keep her away. He must have suspected double-cross, and been trying to protect her, in his own way. But she knew he'd never miss the opportunity of a one-on-one with Red John.
She didn't want to die. Not just for the primal, instinctual reasons, but who would watch out for her brothers if she were gone? Her niece? Her team? And who in the wide world would take care of Jane? Someone had to. She didn't flatter herself that her death would have nearly the same effect on him as his wife and daughter's but she had always tried to be a calming influence on him. What would happen to him without her to look after him?
She couldn't die today. Too many people needed her. So she knew she mustn't let Red John get his hands on her.
She remembered two gunshots, and then Red John fell down dead. She looked around to see both Cho and Jane with guns raised, saw them pass something white between them, and then Van Pelt and Rigsby came bursting into the room, from where they'd been searching the rest of the building.
"Whoa," said Rigsby, stopping dead, so that Van Pelt nearly collided with him in the doorway. "He's dead. He's really dead." He looked to Jane and Cho. "Who did it?"
The wait for the answer was excruciating. It felt as if the last seven years hung in the balance for Lisbon, her past and future all riding on this.
"I did," said Cho.
For the first time in his life, Patrick Jane didn't know where he was going next. He'd always a plan, a goal, but now he had nothing. He had achieved his life's purpose. Red John was dead.
He sat through interview after interview at the police station and answered the same questions over and over again. Yes, he was sure the dead man was Red John. Yes, he owned a gun. Yes, he had fired at him, and missed. Yes, he had considered Lisbon to be in mortal danger. Yes, he believed Agent Cho's actions had been justified. For hours and hours it went on, until finally it was over. The most they had been able to charge him with was possession of an unregistered weapon. He paid the fine, and gladly surrendered the gun. He wouldn't need it anymore anyway.
Cho emerged twenty minutes after he had, without charge. He was simply an officer acting in the line of duty.
Jane's plan had worked.
Cho had cottoned on to what was going on a month ago. He had surprised Jane at the office one night when he thought everyone had gone home, reading the latest communication from Red John.
At first, Cho had urged him to tell Lisbon, saying he would do so himself if Jane refused. But when Jane told him of his suspicion that Lisbon was the intended target, he changed his mind. Cho was loyal to their boss in the way that night followed day, unwavering.
The plan had been nothing more then the two of them simply trading guns when they'd found the chance during the showdown. At Jane's signal, they both fired, Cho deliberately aiming wide, so that there would be no doubt that the kill shot had come from his Glock, fired by Jane.
They wiped their prints from the barrels and then swapped back. The whole process had taken less then thirty seconds. Thirty seconds to absolve oneself of murder.
Cho had one stipulation in agreeing to this plan. They had to tell Lisbon the truth. Jane had been reluctant, but agreed. In his heart, even though it might drive her away from him for good, he knew she more than anyone deserved the truth.
He lay on the couch some more, barely noticing the people and things around, and not much caring. He pulled himself out of his funk enough however, to shoot a meaningful look at Cho as he left. He owed the man a lot today.
What was he supposed to do now? He had the rest of his life to live, but what to do with it? Was there even any point going on?
He dismissed that thought. Suicide was not an option. It was the easy way out, the coward's way out. And if he lay here any longer, he knew the idea would become ever more appealing. He was after all, a coward. He got up slowly, and knew what he had to do.
He knocked at the door, and it opened after a minute. She looked beyond exhausted. Her eyes, dark-circled, and drained of their usual lustre, widened as she took in the sight of him.
He shouldn't be here. It was unfair of him to expect more of her than she had already given. But he had nowhere else to go, and nobody else to turn to.
She was all he had now.
"Hey," she said quietly.
"Hey."
"Are you OK?"
He shrugged.
"Come in."
He followed her meekly into the living room. She sat him down on the couch, fixed him tea, and brought it to him. He sipped it mechanically, not tasting it, not feeling the sensation of it running down his throat, only becoming aware he'd finished it when he saw the empty cup.
He stared at it for a few seconds, before she gently tugged it away from him.
"You can stay here tonight," she said. "You shouldn't be alone."
He wondered if she had guessed about his suicidal thoughts. She had probably thought about this day almost as much as he had, probably thinking it was up to her to make him want to keep on living.
He sat there, still as a statue, and let her do her nurturing thing, admiring her simple beauty as she brought him a sandwich, insisting that he eat, dug around a closet for some old clothes of her brother's for him, and then disappeared into her bedroom, returning with a pillow and a blanket.
"It's not as nice as yours at the office," she said, of the couch as she threw the blanket over it. "But it should do for tonight."
"It'll be fine," he said, speaking for the first time in over forty-five minutes. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here and foisted myself on you."
"It's OK," she said.
"It's not OK."
"Yes it is," she said. "In fact, if you hadn't shown up on your own, I probably would've come got you myself. "
"Even so," he went on. "Someone ought to be taking care of you."
She scoffed. "I don't need anyone to take care of me," she said. "I take care of myself."
"Well, you're doing a very poor job of it," he said, bluntly. "Have you taken a look at yourself recently, Lisbon? You're a wreck."
"Thanks a lot!" she said, offended. "OK, so I haven't washed my hair in a couple of days. So sue me."
"That's not what I meant and you know it," he said. "I'm talking about how pale you are at the moment, you're thinner; you're needing more coffee than usual just to get through the day."
"So? I have fair skin, I have a job that requires a lot of physical activity and I've got performance reviews to write this week so I need the extra energy," she said.
"Most of which you just burned out by fussing over me," he said.
"Jane," she said gently. "What you've been through today would be enough to break anyone. You're in no state to be taking care of yourself right now. I'm just glad you felt you could come to me."
"Where else would I go?"
They sat in silence for a moment, as they pondered that.
"You're right, you know," she said. "I am a wreck."
"It's OK. So am I."
She chuckled, grimly. "What a pair."
He glanced at her, as she let out a long sigh. "You should go get some rest," he said. "You need it."
She nodded. "There are spare blankets in the hall closet if you need them," she said. She touched his arm. "Try and sleep. It'll do you good."
He lay down on the couch, listening as she flicked off the light and shuffled out of the room. He heard the shower running, and suddenly stop a few minutes later, before more footsteps, and the click of her bedroom door as she closed it behind her.
He lay there for what seemed like hours, the enormity of all that had happened today still processing in his mind. His body screamed for sleep, but his mind was far too busy. So many things to think about. If things had gone differently today, if his plan had failed, how different things would be right now. Red John would still be alive and at large, and he himself truly alone in the world, grieving for his best friend.
He and Cho had taken a hell of a risk. But it had been worth it. He was glad they'd done it, and he'd do it again.
If he had to bet, he'd say Lisbon was lying awake right now too, turning it all over. Wondering. Without fully being conscious of what he was doing, he found himself walking down the hall to her bedroom, and turning the handle.
She was sitting up in bed, her bedside lamp on, and a dog-eared novel in her hand. She didn't seem all that surprised to see him.
"Can't sleep?" she enquired.
He shook his head.
"Me neither."
He gestured to the book. "Moby Dick?" he asked.
"Seemed appropriate." She patted the spot next to her. "Come sit with me," she said, and when he hesitated, "It's OK."
He lowered himself onto the bed, as she closed the book, and tossed it aside. Her hair was damp from the shower, she was wearing her jersey and not much else, he guessed, by the way she shifted herself further under the covers.
Any other time, this knowledge would have conjured up wicked thoughts from the nether regions of his mind, but his overwrought brain seemed to be unable to accept any kind of new information just now.
"Lisbon?" he said. "There's something you should know."
"Beckett! Beckett!"
Kate rolled her eyes as her partner's voice rang out like a foghorn across the office. A few heads popped up in irritation at the disturbance, and glared at Castle as he tore out of the elevator at a run. She saw him narrowly miss Karpowski who was turning a corner with an armful of files, and bellow an apology back to her. Even Captain Montgomery poked his head out of his office as the writer thundered past. With the eyes of the whole room upon him, Castle skidded to a stop at her desk.
"Have you-have you seen the paper this morning?" he gasped, breathlessly.
She sighed. "If it's another glowing review of the Nikki Heat movie, then I've got another news flash for you Castle; I don't care."
He shook his head vigorously. "It's not that." He pulled out a copy of the Ledger from his jacket and shoved it into her hands. "Just look. Page ten."
She flipped to page ten, where a large headline proclaimed, "Serial Killer Meets Demise At Hands Of CBI." Just underneath were two photos, one of a smiley-face drawn in blood, the other a long lens photograph of Jane and Lisbon talking to what looked like the county coroner.
"Oh my God," she said, quietly, skimming over the article. "They did it."
"Yeah," he agreed. "According to that, no charges have been laid. Apparently Cho took the shot that killed him."
"So it's over for them," she said. "Just like that."
"Jane must be pleased," said Castle. "This is what he always wanted."
"Mmm," she said, non-committaly, not fully listening. She wondered how she would feel if she were in Jane's position right now. If she caught her mother's killer and her years of investigation finally came to an end. Would she be happy? Relieved? Would she be scared to find out who she was without the case to hide behind? Would she feel lost, unsure of where to go or what to do next?
She knew one thing. When that fateful day finally came around, she knew she'd need something to hold on to. She knew that Lisbon would be Jane's rock during this period (whether he liked it or not.) She and the mentalist were alike in several ways, most prominently, that neither of them liked having to ask for help. That was why they had partners like Castle and Lisbon, who understood their pride, and knew what they needed without having to be told.
Castle said something she didn't quite catch, buried in her own thoughts.
"What?" she asked, absent-mindedly.
"I said, do you want to have dinner with me tonight?" he repeated himself.
"Sure," she said, with no other plans, and always happy for a couple of hours to hang out with her partner. "We'll hit Remy's after work."
He swallowed. "I was thinking somewhere different."
"Cheapskate," she smiled. "OK, we can eat at the Old Haunt, but honestly, someone as rich as you really doesn't have an excuse for so many free meals."
The look on his face gave her the sense that this was again the wrong answer.
"What?" she asked again, flicking through more of the paper.
"Do you always make things this difficult when people are trying to ask you out?"
The newspaper fell to the floor, and pages went fluttering off in all directions.
"Well, hallelujah. I finally have your attention," said Castle, only half-joking.
"Please tell me you're joking," said Beckett.
"Oh, I'm deadly serious, Detective," said Castle, and he looked it too. "I think the time has come for me to finally go after what I want. And I think you know what that is."
She chose not to comment on that. "What brought this on?" she asked. Personally, she'd been perfectly fine with not talking about it, and pretending the hospital incident didn't happen.
"Perspective," he said. "If Jane can take down a serial killer, I can ask you out."
"And what if I say no?" she said. A shadow crossed his face, but he stood his ground.
"Then say it."
She wanted to. Oh Lord, how she wanted to. Stay friends. Keep things simple and uncomplicated. Insure herself against any further heartbreak. But she couldn't do it.
"Go ahead," he prompted. "Turn me down."
"I-"
"Yes?"
"I-can't," she admitted, shamefacedly. "I don't want to turn you down." She forced herself to look into his eyes. "I'd love to go out with you," she said.
It was the end of the world as she knew it. The beginning of the end. But she'd never seen Castle grin quite so big as he did right now.
"Let's make it tonight at eight, then," he said. "I'll pick you up. Wear something nice."
"Sure," she said. "Now let's get back to work."
"Yes of course, but go ahead and start without me. I just have something I need to do."
She watched in puzzlement as he walked steadily to the break area and closed the door behind him. After a minute, she distinctly heard what sounded like a whoop of joy, and a series of small thuds, which made her wonder if he was jumping up and down.
And then the door opened, and he was back, ignoring everyone's astonished stares.
"So, I like the wife for the murderer," he said, all business again. "What do you think?"
Jane woke in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, next to a very familiar person. According to the clock on the bedside table, it was almost noon. He and Lisbon had slept for over half a day.
Well 'slept' may not have been the most accurate term. What had happened to them was closer to a full system shutdown. It was as if all the fatigue they'd put aside in order to catch Red John, came rushing back at once. They'd both simply crashed out.
A curious thing had happened. They'd started off lying on opposite sides of the bed but sometime during the night, they'd met in the middle and she was now curled up against his side with her head settled on his chest. He reached over now and put his arm around her, holding her to him, keeping her there.
She stirred, but he stroked her cheek soothingly, and she settled down again.
He wondered what she'd say when she finally did wake up and saw the position they were in. Though there hadn't really been anything sexual about it, sharing a bed with, and them waking up wrapped in the arms of a work colleague was a very intimate thing to do.
Her jersey had slipped over the course of the night and now exposed her left shoulder. As he gently tugged it back into place, she sighed.
He sighed too, as he thought back to last night, as he told her the real truth about what had happened with Red John. She'd taken the revelation fairly well, all things considered. He suspected that she was so relieved to have everyone alive and not arrested; she'd decided to just let it be. Of course, he and Cho would both get an earful later, but he'd always expected that.
The shrill ringing of his cellphone broke the silence. He fumbled for it, hoping to get it before it woke her. But it was too late; she was already mumbling and squirming around in his arms. He cursed the unknown caller as he finally snatched it up and saw an unfamiliar number on the caller ID.
"Patrick Jane," he grumbled into it.
"Hey man," said a male voice. "Richard Castle."
Jane forgot to be grumpy in the face of his surprise. "Hey Castle," he said. "What's up?"
"I just saw the paper," said Castle solemnly. "And I thought congratulations were in order."
Jane was a little taken aback by this. He'd been so caught up in his own head yesterday, it hadn't even occurred to him that the press would be all over this like wild dogs. But of course, he was an idiot. They'd just taken out a notorious serial killer; of course there'd be media attention.
Ugh. He hated journalists. And if he hated them, Lisbon absolutely loathed them.
"Thanks," he said to Castle. "But it wasn't just me."
"I know that, but still, this was what you've been working for. How does it feel, now that you've done it?"
"Right now, I don't feel good or bad about it. It's still sinking in."
He felt Lisbon move her head again, and this time she also opened her eyes sleepily.
"Jane, what's the matter?" she asked. "Is it work?"
"No, it's OK," he said, pulling her in tighter. "Go back to sleep."
She obliged, and he stroked her hair in a steady rhythm as Castle spoke again.
"Sorry," he said with a sly chuckle. "Not interrupting anything, am I?"
"We were sleeping."
"We?"
"I'm at Lisbon's," he explained.
"Oh," said Castle. "Should I be extending further congratulations?" he asked.
"Not yet," said Jane. "But hopefully, soon."
"On a related topic," said Castle brightly. "Guess who's got a date with Kate Beckett tonight?"
"You actually asked her?"
"Yeah. It was time."
"Well congratulations yourself, Castle. And good luck."
"I'll need it."
Jane chuckled. "Good to hear from you, Castle. Keep in touch."
"Will do."
Jane hung up the phone and looked down to see Lisbon's green eyes, looking back at him.
"I thought you were going back to sleep," he said.
"How could I, with you babbling away on the phone like a teenage girl?" she asked. "Besides, I'm awake now. What time is it?"
"Just past twelve," he said.
"What?" she shrieked, sitting up in a hurry. "We should have been at work hours ago, why didn't you wake me?"
"Lisbon," he said, exasperatedly. "Bertram gave us all a few days off, don't you remember? We don't have to be back at work until Monday."
"Oh," she said, and to his delight reassumed her spot on his chest. "That's all right, then."
"Comfortable?" he asked her.
"Yep."
"Good," he said, and started playing with her hair again.
"Jane?" she asked, after a while. "What happens now?"
"Well, we're going to stay in bed for at least another hour," he said. "And then I'm going to get up and make you some breakfast, or I suppose, technically, lunch. You're going to go take a nice long shower, and then we'll spend the rest of the day catching you up on all your TV programs. I've seen your DVR, you've got stuff on there from six months ago."
"That sounds good," she said. "But it isn't what I meant."
"I know it isn't. But right now, I don't know what I'm doing next. I'll tell you as soon as I do, but I can assure you, it won't be anything that will take me away from you." He paused. "I think we have some unfinished business."
She smiled, and pressed a light kiss to his lips. "Ready when you are," she said.
Richard Castle threw open the front door to the loft with such force, it rebounded off the wall and slammed shut again. With a growl of frustration, he opened it again and stormed through it, kicking it shut with a crash that made the walls shake.
He walked over to pour himself a scotch, downed it in one, and then hurled the glass at the wall, where it exploded into a million pieces.
"Dad!" Alexis had appeared at the bottom of the stairs, in her pyjamas, looking horrified. "What is going on?"
"Hey, pumpkin," he said, would-be-casually. "It's late. Why aren't you asleep?"
"I was," she said. "I came down here because I thought an elephant had escaped from the zoo and was stampeding around our apartment. But it's just you."
"Yes," he agreed. "It's just me."
"So," she said nervously. "How was your date with Detective Beckett?"
"Fine," he spat. "Just fine."
"This is not 'fine,'" said Alexis, crossing her arms defiantly, just like her mother used to do whenever they fought.
He gazed at her. His daughter. His baby. The one female in his life that had never let him down, or ripped his heart to shreds, and then stamped on it in six-inch heels. He said nothing, but simply opened his arms to her. She ran into them, and he hugged her tightly to him.
"Daddy, what happened?" she asked.
Daddy. She only ever called him that anymore when one or both of them were really, really upset. And soon, she'd be off to college, leaving him. His baby girl was going to be all grown up and he was going to be all alone.
They went over to the couch and sat down, and he told her the whole miserable story.
Things had started off so well. He'd arrived at Beckett's door, flowers in hand at eight sharp. He'd had to practically pick his jaw off the floor when she answered it, in a sleek black dress that clung to her and showed off her long legs. He'd taken her arm and escorted her downstairs to where he'd parked his Ferrari (because he didn't care what she said, he knew she liked it) and they set off.
They'd arrived at the New York branch of the restaurant they'd been to in Sacramento within twenty minutes. She'd gasped when they walked inside to find all the lights off, candles everywhere, and a single table set for two, near the fireplace.
He pulled the chair out for her and then the waiter appeared with the wine selection. Once they'd made a choice, he whisked off to get it for them, leaving them alone.
That was when things had started to go wrong.
Instead of being flattered or pleased that he'd booked the whole restaurant just for them, Beckett had accused him of trying to buy her, and that she didn't care how much cash he flashed, it wasn't going to work. She said he was being ridiculous and over-the-top, and entitled people like him were the reason she hated Manhattan. She'd said all this is a joking way, but he knew there had been truth behind it, and it made him mad. He wasn't trying to buy her. All he'd ever wanted was to treat her like she deserved to be treated, and to make this night special.
Thankfully, the wine had arrived at that moment, and the presence of the waiter pouring it out for them allowed him time to bite back the angry reply that had been forming on his lips. She always was uncomfortable with showy things, he reasoned. Her reaction should not have come as so much of a shock.
They got all the way through their first glasses of wine, and the soup, without further incident. Castle was just starting to feel fully relaxed again, when she brought up the case they'd been working on. They chatted about it for a few minutes, until Castle felt that he would like to guide the conversation away from work for once. This was a date, not a working dinner. He wanted to find out more about her.
She agreed, but without work as a sounding board, the conversation tended to taper off at regular intervals, leaving them both to grope around for a topic they'd not yet discussed. He wanted to punch something in frustration. Why was this so difficult? This was Beckett, his best friend, who he could talk to about anything, for hours on end. The one who gave him tips on dealing with Alexis, etiquette advice, the occasional scathing comment on his wardrobe, hairstyle, intelligence quotient, etc. They always had something to talk about.
After a few more minutes of awkward small talk, the main course arrived and they had an excuse to be silent. But even eating their meal together felt different. They didn't tease each other, or steal bites from each other's plates, or even look at each other. But worse was still to come.
Between the main course and dessert, he asked her if she had any other family besides her dad. Naturally, this conversation segued into a conversation about her mother, and Castle, who really didn't want to make the tone of discussion any more depressing that it already was, waited for her to finish, and then asked as gently as he could, if she'd prefer to talk about something else.
And all hell broke loose.
She asked him if he thought her mother was something that she could just dismiss, and he said of course not, but talking about her made her sad, and it made him sad to see it. To which she replied she deserved to be sad, because it had been thirteen years and she still hadn't caught the killer yet, and too bad for him if he didn't like it, because it was all his fault the case had been reopened. He'd then told her to stop being ridiculous, and that her mother would never have wanted her to live her life this way. To which she'd angrily snapped what would he know anyway, he'd never met her mother. To which he'd snapped back that anyone with half a brain would know no mother would want her child to suffer.
She'd gotten to her feet then, and informed him that nobody was making him stay, and that if he didn't want to face reality for what it was, to just GO back to his novel-writing fantasyland, and leave her alone.
To which he flatly refused.
At which point, she'd picked up her purse, brushed aside the waiter who had just brought them the seven-layer mudcake, and left the table.
"… and then she stormed out," he told Alexis, dully. "I called after her but she didn't even look back. And by the time I got outside, she was gone."
"I'm so sorry, Dad," said his daughter, laying her head on his shoulder. "I know how much this night meant to you."
"It's not just tonight, pumpkin," he said dejectedly. "I don't think I'll ever see her again."
Alexis hesitated. "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing," she said.
"What?" he asked, surprised.
"You have to stop chasing her, Dad," said Alexis seriously. "Every time something like this happens, it comes that much closer to killing you. And I can't stand to watch it anymore."
"But-" he protested.
"No buts," she said firmly, once again as if she were the parent and he the child. "You don't deserve to be treated this way, especially when your only crime was falling in love with her."
"If I could just make-"
"I mean it, Dad," she said. "You've done enough. You've put yourself out there too many times. Now it's her turn."
Beckett arrived at Castle's loft, nearly two hours after storming out of the restaurant. She knew that she'd screwed up. Castle had been trying to do something nice for her, and all she'd done was throw it back in his face. And tonight had the makings of being the best date she'd ever had, if only she had just shut the hell up.
Her only defence was her discomfort with the way Castle flaunted his wealth, but she deeply regretted her accusation of him trying to buy her affection. He would never do such a thing. And now she had time to look back on it more calmly, she was able to appreciate that talk about her mother was not the best date conversation.
And besides, he hadn't told her they had to stop talking about, had he? He'd simply asked if she wanted to talk about something else, giving her an escape route, and she'd chosen to interpret it as a personal affront. And she didn't even want to think about her behaviour for the rest of the night; it was too humiliating.
She had to apologize. She knew it. And she'd been sitting in the lobby for nearly twenty minutes trying to work up the guts.
She knocked on the door. After a short wait, it swung open to reveal Alexis, who frowned when she realised who the visitor was.
"You've got some nerve turning up here," said Alexis, aggressively, surveying Beckett with dislike.
"Your father told you what happened, then?" asked Beckett, unnecessarily, unnerved by this sudden cold shoulder from Alexis, who she'd always got on fairly well with in the past. But she understood why. Hell, if she were in the teen's position right now, she'd be doing exactly the same thing.
"Yes he did," Alexis confirmed. "Every detail."
"Can I see him?"
"Absolutely not," said Alexis, firmly. "Not after the way you treated him tonight."
"Alexis, I want to apologize."
"Oh, of course. You have to repair enough of the damage you caused so he'll come in tomorrow and help you with your cases and bring you coffee, and wait on you hand and foot," sneered Alexis.
"I never asked him to do any of that," said Beckett, defensively.
"Just like you never asked him to fall in love with you either. But he still did. And you know it."
She couldn't deny this.
"Who's at the door, sweetheart?" Castle's voice rang out from inside.
"It's her," Alexis called back, venomously.
"Oh," Castle sounded unsurprised, but not exactly pleased. "What does she want?"
"Castle, I need to talk to you," Beckett called out. "Let me in."
A long pause.
"Fine," he said. "It's OK, baby," he added to Alexis, who had turned around to give him an 'are you sure about this?' look.
Beckett stepped forward, expecting Alexis to move aside and let her pass but the teen stood her ground.
"Oh, no you don't," she said.
"But your father-"
"Dad doesn't know what he wants right now. But I know he loves you way too much to tell you what I'm about to say, and you need to hear it."
"And what's that?" asked Beckett.
"You have to choose," said Alexis. "Right now. Before I let you into this apartment you have to decide whether you're in or you're out. And then, you go straight up to him and tell him so."
"Alexis, it's complicated," protested Beckett.
"I don't care," she said. "You are not going to string him along like this any longer. He deserves better. And if you don't want to be with him, you need to tell him now and give him a chance to get over you. You owe him that."
Not for the first time, Alexis seemed far worldlier then her seventeen years as she stared Beckett down.
"Alexis, you can't make me make a decision now," said Beckett. "You don't understand. I need more time."
"You've had three years," Alexis snapped. "That's more than enough time. And this 'will I, won't I' trip you've been on for the past three years ends tonight."
She folded her arms, impatiently.
"What's it to be, Beckett?" she said.
Jane poked his head into Lisbon's office, blinking in the afternoon light that streamed in through the window. Six months after the death of Red John, things had gone pretty much back to normal. Jane had taken three weeks off after the fact, but he and Lisbon had still seen each other almost every day.
As far as their relationship went, things were still up in the air. But neither had dated anybody since, and Lisbon felt it was just a matter of when.
"Hey Lisbon," he greeted her. "Whatcha doing?"
"Drafting a response to a complaint," she grunted.
"About what?" he asked.
"I'll give you a hint," she said. "It involves you, a zebra, and a quarter million dollar security system."
"Oh, yes." said Jane off-handedly. "That was a good one."
"Yeah, brilliant," she said, sarcastically. "Though it turns out Ms Cartwright's lawyer is failing to see the humour in it."
"Meh. Lawyers. They don't have a sense of humour about anything. So you're not busy then?" he asked.
For the first time, she looked up from the computer. "Something tells me this will go faster if I just ask you what you want," she said.
"Want to take a drive with me?" he asked.
"In that death trap you call a car? Pass."
"Please?"
"Jane, I've got things to do…"
"Teresa."
Her protests stopped at the use of her given name, the first time he had ever done so.
"Please come with me," he repeated. "It's important."
Ten minutes later they were in his car. Jane had refused to say where they were going, only that she would understand when they got there. She was having horrible ideas about some grandiose plan or if this was some trick to get her out of the office for a while.
After a couple of miles, Jane made a turn up a sweeping drive, and through some iron gates. And then she saw the gravestones. She knew he'd heard her sharp intake of breath as his hands tightened on the wheel for a moment.
"Jane, are you sure about this?" she asked as he pulled the car to a stop.
"Yes," he said, in the same determined tone he used to use when he talked about Red John.
"You don't have to do this."
"Yes, I do."
He got out of the car, walked around to her side and opened the door for her. He held out his hand, and she took it.
It was probably one of the most surreal moments of Patrick Jane's life, as he led Lisbon across the lawn to where his wife and daughter lay. Finally, his past and his present were going to cross over, the three women he cared about the most, in the same place, at the same time. Well, more or less.
Lisbon dropped his hand as they approached and hung back a few steps to let him go on his own, but he shook his head and took her hand back.
"It's OK."
She nodded, and came to stand next to him.
"Angela and Charlotte," she read. "You've never called them by their names before. I always wondered what they were."
He nodded.
"Is this the first time you've been here?" Lisbon asked him.
"No," he said. "I've been coming here every week for almost a year now."
She gasped. "So this is where you've been disappearing to! I'm so sorry Jane, I never even considered this, I always thought you were…" she trailed off.
"Up to something," he finished for her. "Don't feel bad, my dear. Your suspicion is perfectly understandable."
She smiled a little. "So, why did you bring me here?" she asked.
"There's something I want you to see."
She looked around. "What?" she asked.
He chuckled. "Not there," he said, and held up his left hand. "Here."
Her jaw dropped as he tugged his wedding ring off his finger.
"Jane," she said, breathlessly, "Patrick…"
From his pocket, he produced an envelope, with the word 'Angela' written on the front. He placed the ring inside it, sealed it, and then set it at the foot of the tombstone.
"Figured it was time to give it back," he said, hearing a slight quaver in his voice. Lisbon stopped gaping and hugged him.
"It's OK," she said. "It's OK."
He let her hold him for a moment, before reaching into his pocket again for another piece of paper, which he handed to her. She unfolded it and her brow furrowed in confusion.
"It's the title deed for my place in Malibu," he said. "I'm selling it."
"You're what?" she said, mouth dropping again.
"Stop gaping dear, it's unbecoming of you," said Jane.
"Why are you doing all this?" she asked him. "And why now?"
"I've finally come to terms with my past," said Jane. "And I thank you sincerely for letting me do that. But now I'm ready to start living my life again. And I'd like it to include you, if that's what you want."
She swallowed.
"I can't promise that I'll never think of them again," he said. "And there's still going to be days when you're going to have to pick me up when it all comes back, but I know how I feel about you isn't going to change. So what do you say?"
There was a brief pause.
"Yes," she said. "I say yes."
His face broke into a grin. He wanted to pick her up, twirl her around, kiss her, scream out the news to the world. But not here, and not now. She seemed to be thinking the same thing, as she smiled back at him.
"Are you ready to go?" she asked, gently.
"Yeah."
"Did you want to say something to them?" asked Lisbon. "I can go wait by the car."
"Dead people can't hear, Lisbon," he said. "And besides, they know."
He put his arm around her, and they walked off together. But he couldn't resist looking over his shoulder once or twice to look at the two white stones on the hillside.
"Mail." The middle-aged man, who pushed the mail trolley, paused just inside the bullpen. "Where's Agent Lisbon?"
"Gone for coffee," sad Jane, from the couch. "I'll take it."
This would be an excellent chance to go through and take out all the nasty complaints before she had a chance to see them. She couldn't get mad about stuff she didn't know about, after all. And in the meantime, he could write up some highly entertaining replies, much better than her usual insincere apologies and explanations.
"Whatever," said the man, removing a handful of envelopes from the trolley and handing them to Jane. "And tell that woman not to lock her door if she still wants to receive mail."
"Don't talk about Lisbon like that," said Jane, sharply.
"And what are you going to do about it, pretty boy?" the mail guy snapped.
"Is there a problem here?" broke in a new voice. Lisbon had returned, and glared at the mailman.
Mail Guy grunted. "No problem, Agent Lisbon," he said, and shuffled off.
"Do you know how incredibly sexy it is when you stare people down like that?" asked Jane, conversationally.
"Shut up!" she said. "Whatever he said to you, you probably deserved it. And give me those!" She snatched the mail from his hand.
"I was defending your honour," said Jane, sulkily. "People used to appreciate it."
"Probably the same kind of people who wear three-piece suits and quote Shakespeare like he's their personal friend," said Lisbon, waspishly.
"So why do I go out with you again?" he asked.
"Because I have handcuffs, and know many, many ways to use them," she said, wickedly.
"Touché. Hey what's that?" he asked, pointing at a cream-coloured envelope. "Doesn't look like a complaint."
She opened it, and a huge smile crossed her face. "That's because it isn't. Look." She tossed him the letter.
You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Richard Alexander Rodgers (aka Richard Edgar Castle)
Katherine Johanna Beckett
To be held at The Plaza Hotel, New York City on August 17th at 6:00pm
RSVP: May 24th
"Better go tell Bertram," said Jane, when he'd finished reading it. "We're going to need to take some annual leave."
I know I said this would be the last chapter, but I'm thinking of extending to one more, to write the wedding. Will you guys read it, if I do? If not, I hope you enjoyed this story and I had a blast writing it. Thanks for reading!