Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, no money gained, and I'm way too poor to be confused with Bruno Heller anyway.

AN: It's Thanksgiving in the United States, and while I'm not from the US, I have a lot to be grateful for so I'll happily borrow your tradition this year because two of those things relate to you (and some of you are American, so I'm not too far off the mark):
1- I'm grateful for The Mentalist – an amazing show that allowed me to break a writing and publication dry spell of four years, and a fandom that taught me to enjoy my craft again.
2 - And of course, I'm incredibly grateful for you all readers – for your continued support in October while I was writing this story, even as my Red John showdown was dissolving itself in angst and hard situations, and for your patience with my antics when I had no idea where this was going and was stringing you along while fumbling in the dark. You took a risk reading me, and I considered myself blessed. Thank you.

Many of you felt my ending lacking and hard to bear because of it's openness and hints of disaster. But that ending wasn't the first I planned. I won't go through the reasons I decided to change it, but I acknowledge the fact it was a hard one and may not have been as satisfying as some of you wanted. So here is the original, romantic and sweet ending I had in mind – my Thanksgiving gift to you.

Warning: Enough fluff to rot your teeth! Take note: this doesn't follow the last one, it replaces it. Enjoy, peeps.


Alternative Epilogue
Broken Glass

She wakes up to slow beeping and a pervasive smell of ammoniac.

The first deep breath she takes is painful – as if her lungs and the muscles of her chest weren't used to working on their own anymore. Her eyelids feel glued together and crusty with sleep, and once she opens them, she finds herself blinded by the weak light of rising dawn coming from the window on her left.

Then she realises her fingers are twined with soft strands of hair, down near her thigh. She's suddenly grateful for the slight angle in which her mattress is propped, as it allows her to get a better look at her surroundings without the fuss involved in trying to get up – something which she's pretty sure she couldn't do on her own right now. And she usually isn't much of a romantic, even a closet one – but what she sees there melts her heart.

Patrick is sleeping against her side.

Well, half-sprawled against her side would be a better description – his legs are still dangling from the chair he's sitting on, and the position in which he sleeps can't be comfortable at all. But he's warm against her, one arm thrown around her leg, the other one propped as a stand for her own – and she realises then how desperate he must have been for a touch if he resorted to holding her hand to his head like that, even in sleep.

Especially in sleep.

Moving is hard – like trying to swim in jelly. But with painful focus and determination, she's able to run small circles against his temple with the tip of her thumb. And slowly, slowly, she hears his breathing change, becoming quick and shallow, until she can feel him moving slightly under her palm.

She smiles, just a small quirk of lips, and keeps her eyes opened – keeps them on him.

She knows he's fully awake when he stops moving at all, stops breathing even – but his fingers tighten trembling on her wrist, and she lets her hand slip from his hair to his palm, then squeezes as hard as she can.

Which admittedly isn't that hard – but is enough to make Patrick's breath hitch and start again with a rough sob.

He still isn't moving.

"Hey," she tries to say.

And it sounds more like a click of lips followed by a whine, but it does the trick – because he raises his face to hers so quickly she hears a snap in his neck, and God that must have been painful.

"You're awake!" he says with a smile eating half of his face, eyes shining bright with unshed tears, and voice hoarse with hope and desperation and sweet sweet relief.

She longs to feel his arms around her, but settles for squeezing his hand again – and leaning in his palm when he reaches for her cheek.

"Water?" she tries to say, unsure at first if he understands the words coming out of her dry lips – but then he nods and kisses her fingers.

"I'll get you some ice, just – stay there, alright? Stay awake, wait for me."

She blinks in stead of a nod, and he runs out of the room, coming back so quickly she barely has time to string two thoughts together.

"Teresa?" he says, a mass of quivering anxiety.

"Mhm," she answers, and he breathes out relief again – as if letting her out of his sight would have been enough to make her disappear.

But that must have been what he thought was really going to happen.

The ice is cold on her lips, colder still on her tongue – but his fingers linger near her mouth and it's a pleasure to find them warm when she sucks on them lightly, teasing, to give him proof of life. He chuckles.

"What happened?" she asks, voice rough with disuse but finally understandable.

"You don't remember?

- I was shot," she says, frowning. "Then – "

She racks her memory to try and make sense of the jumbled mess of information flooding her mind.

"Then you – in a sarong? That can't be right."

His chuckle becomes a full-blown laugh, one oozing relief and happiness and a bit of desperation still. And she raises a shaking, unstable hand to his cheek, one in which he leans in turn as he calms down, traces of happiness still obvious on his features – because they need the connection, they need the closeness, anything to renew the bond between them. Anything to make sure each of them is alive and well and healing – slowly, but healing nonetheless.

Mind and body and spirit, she hopes.

They both jump in barely concealed panic when a sound of glass crashing outside the room breaks the silence – and laugh, out of breath, clinging to each other's hands.

Then a nurse comes barging in, and panic flares up again.

They're both such a mess.

It'll take time.

"Oh, miss Lisbon, you're awake!" says the Hispanic woman, smiling at her. "That's very good, I'll call for a doctor to see you. Mister Jane, you'll have to wait outside now, we need to do some tests.

- Can't he stay?" she pleads, unwilling to break contact just yet.

"I'm sorry, it's policy," the woman says, compassion seeping in her smile.

"Policy," she mutters, and Patrick chuckles softly, eyes brimming with ill-concealed laughter.

She frowns at him, but he shakes his head and kisses her fingers.

"You reminded me of something. I'll explain later," he says, then gets up and releases her hand reluctantly. "When can I come back?

- In fifteen minutes," says the nurse, watching over them fondly. "Don't worry, I'll stay here and watch over her until you're back, as usual.

- Thank you, Conchita."

The woman waves him away, and he kisses her forehead before leaving the room – not too far, she can see him lurking in the hallway not ten feet from the door. She smiles.

"You are very lucky," says the nurse as she takes her vitals. "If you had a weaker constitution, you would have died. You nearly did – with all the blood you lost, we had to keep you on life support and artificial coma to give your body a chance to heal."

She shivers – thinking of Bosco, thinking of his will to live and his ultimate fate.

"Am I going to survive this?" she asks quietly, with a glance toward the anxious form of Patrick behind the door.

"You should," says the nurse. "Open your mouth now, my dear."

The tests take longer than fifteen minutes, of course – but halfway though Patrick comes back, and his presence at her bedside makes the poking and prodding surprisingly bearable. Then the nurse leaves and they're alone again.

They spend a few more quiet minutes mapping each other's features with their eyes and, in his case, with the fingers he trails slowly over her face, neck and arms.

"You killed him," she says when the silence becomes suffocating.

"I did," he nods.

"Good," she whispers. "Why didn't they lock you up?

- I escaped," he grins.

She stares.

"Repeatedly," he admits. "Then they just stopped trying to keep me away from you.

- Are they coming to get you now?" she asks, voice rough – finding herself choked by emotion.

"No," he says softly. "I made a deal with Abbott.

- A deal?

- Five years working for the FBI. I'll remain on parole until the contract is done, but at the end of it, they'll drop all charges."

He kisses her hand again, eyes watchful and intense – and she knows there's more to this story, but for the life of her she can't begin to guess what. It's so – out of character for him to allow himself under someone else's thumb.

"Why did you agree to this? It's not like you at all."

He swallows – she can see his throat bobbing up and down.

"I don't care what happens to me," he says. "But you? If I let them prosecute me, they would throw you in prison as accessory for murder. I couldn't let that happen, so I – I begged Abbott for a deal. With the SCU's track records, he was only too happy to agree.

- Damnit, Patrick," she whispers, hanging on his hand tightly.

"It's alright," he grins – a frail, overwhelmed thing, miles away from his usual one. "I don't mind. It'll be fun, they have cool toys and I'm sure I can convince Abbott to give me a couch. We talked while you were – out of it. He's not as bad as he makes himself to be."

She opens her mouth, closes it – and closes her eyes too, frowning deeply.

God, I can't believe he would do something like that.

Then she sighs, looking at him again – taking in his tired, shining eyes, the lingering traces of desperation in the slant of his mouth and a bruise she didn't notice before on his right cheekbone.

But that's the whole point, isn't it? Of course he would.

"Hey," he says, softly interrupting her thought process. "Partners, remember? You don't owe me anything. I'm the one who messed up in the first place, pulled you under. It was the least I could do. Let's – let's just call it even, okay?"

Even? Are you mad? I owe you so much, and one day I'll find a way to make it up to you.

"What happened to your cheek?" she asks instead – hoping to distract him from reading her thoughts on her face.

"This?" he asks, raising his eyebrows and pointing at the bruise. "It's nothing – a, er, a gift from your brother Tommy.

- What?

- He wasn't very happy with me," he says ruefully. "Told me I should have stayed with you and called the EMTs as soon as you got shot.

- That's stupid," she says, frowning. "You didn't have a phone! I don't even know how you got hold of one.

- McAllister's," he says, swallowing. "But he's right – I should have called as soon as I picked it up. Instead I waited until I was back in the chapel and – you nearly died. Because of me.

- Shut up!" she says fiercely. "That's not true – you saved my life, Patrick! Saved me. We both did what we had to do. Don't you dare fall back into one of your self-loathing, self-pitying episodes! If you do, I'll – I'll kick your ass so hard you'll feel it right up to that Memory Palace of yours!"

He blinks a few times, stunned by her outburst.

"Let's just call it even, okay?" she adds more quietly, throwing back his own words at him.

He nods, stroking her cheek with his thumb – then grins.

"Self-loathing, self-pitying episode? Really, Teresa? Nice to finally know what you thing of me, after all those years spent working together..."

She tries to glare, but of course the half-smile sticking to her lips belies her attempt.

"Come here," she says instead, patting the bed cover. "Hold me?"

He suddenly looks overwhelmed again, and she isn't quite sure why – until foggy memories of making the same request while lying on a cold, hard floor comes to mind. But he obeys, removing his shoes and carefully sitting near her on the bed, sliding by her side in a way that gives her the feeling it's not the first time he's doing this.

Then her thought process comes to a halt, because he's cradling her against his chest and she can hear his strong, calm heartbeat just under her ear.

I'll never tire of this.

"I love you," he says, half-sigh, half-whine. "Don't do this to me, ever again. Please?

- I'll try not to," she whispers, words muffled in his shirt – fingers dancing on his back, spelling unsaid words of devotion.

She feels her mind becoming sluggish again, overcome by tiredness – and while she knows the need to rest is normal in recovery, she can't help but feel a bit helpless and annoyed with herself. Sleeping isn't what she wants right now. But Patrick's breathing is slowing too, and as she entwines their legs together, she comes back on her position.

Maybe a bit of sleep wouldn't be so bad, after all.

For both of them.

They wake up some hours later, when the same nurse as earlier – Conchita, says Patrick – comes to check on her.

"Mister Jane, what are you doing? I've already told you not to disturb her sleep!

- He wasn't," she mumbles, yawning. "His heartbeat is comforting.

- See? I'm her own personal lullaby," he grins, unmoving.

"You're her own personal something all right," the woman says, smiling as she scolds him. "Better get out of bed now, there's a gentleman outside coming to see you.

- Me?" he asks, frowning.

"Both of you, if I understood well."

The nurse leaves. He gets up, and she rubs her eyes before fumbling around the edge of the bed until she finds the controls. If she is to receive visitors, she'll need to stay awake long enough to greet them.

"I bet it's Abbott," he says, stretching his back and slipping his feet in his previously discarded shoes.

"Abbott? Why?

- I may have, ah, hinted that with the CBI closed, you needed a job and that my collaboration with the FBI would be – let's say healthier if you were around," he grins, rubbing the back of his neck.

She frowns.

"You're free to refuse, of course," he says, correctly interpreting her expression. "But – I'm hoping you won't," he adds softly. "It's a long way from Austin to Sacramento, and I love working with you. I'd miss you if you weren't around.

- You love it when I'm there to clean up your messes, you mean," she says, the corner of her lips quirking up – and her eyes saying I'd miss you too.

"But Teresa, don't you see? That wouldn't be your job anymore," he says, suddenly serious. "We'd be partners. Equals. It would be great, don't you think?

- That's – actually, that sounds pretty fun," she smiles. "An in on your cons?

- Of course," he grins. "Let's see what kind of trouble we can make."

And she grins back, because of course they might get in trouble again – Patrick is who he is, and she's who she is – but as long as they're together, from now on, they'll be fine.

They'll be fine.


So... this is it. For real this time.

I didn't expect the sheer enjoyment I'd get from writing this specific version of these characters again – it was like meeting cherished old friends after years without seeing them. So thank you for that, peeps. It was fun.

See you on the next one! It shouldn't be too long in coming now.