A/N: This was definitely a challenging piece to write, I've always found it difficult to dabble with Jane's POV and getting inside his head was pretty daunting. Writing emotions is something that I'm not particularly comfortable with. Nevertheless, I hope I've done the idea justice. (Title from Taylor Swift's Exile)

A special thanks to heclosescases on twitter for being the beta on this one and for her unwavering encouragement and support!

Patrick Jane was no stranger to pain, grief and heartache, a trilogy of emotions he had become particularly acquainted with over the past decade. Pain rippled through every nerve in his body the night he had found the bodies of his wife and daughter cold, bloody and lifeless. In the days that followed the funeral, he'd teetered over the edge of insanity, threatening to fall over, until he'd inevitably landed in a psychiatric ward, locked in a room and strapped down to a bed. The pain was still etched deep inside him when the doctors had deemed him stable enough to leave; the six months he had spent locked up had done nothing to lessen it, rather they had only taught him to live with it in a manner that allowed him to maintain some semblance of control over himself.

He had then surfed the waves of grief. Sometimes, the waves would crash into him so strongly, he could feel the air being knocked out of his lungs. Other times, they would wash over him at random moments, triggered by reminders of happy families and little girls with flaxen curls, and then the tears would flow freely, as if his pain had been condensed into a deluge of rain.

They said that time heals all wounds, but he had never allowed himself that time. To be honest, he wasn't even sure if that was possible in his case; he found heartache almost as natural as breathing. Instead, he had consumed himself with a needless quest for vengeance, a self-imposed burden that had almost destroyed him, convincing himself that he was a horrible failure—both as a husband and a father—and that killing the man that had taken away his family was his only chance at redemption. Initially, he'd just wanted Red John dead, it didn't matter how. But the fantasy had then grown darker and more twisted over the years, until he wanted nothing more than to shoot Red John himself, to see a metallic bullet rip through him, slowly taking his life away breath by breath.

Obviously, Lisbon had been against his desire for bloodshed from the very beginning, having made it clear that she wanted Red John caught the right way, caught in a way that wouldn't subject Jane to imprisonment or a life on the run. They had argued about it almost every time Red John sent their team on a wild goose chase, but ultimately, she had acquiesced. She could see just how damaged her partner had become over the years and realized that men like Red John could manipulate a jury into acquitting him. She had also gone as far as supporting Jane's every move so that he could exact his revenge. In the end, he succeeded with her support; he was free from the shackles of revenge.

It was liberating at first, no longer having the burden of Red John weighing him down. The fact of the matter was that Angela and Charlotte were long gone, Red John's death made no difference to them, but he'd needed to see to it for his own peace of mind. Having paid the penance for his sins, he was finally free to move on with his life, albeit as a fugitive in Venezuela.

For the first time in over a decade, he rented an actual apartment, a stark difference from spending fleeting nights in motel rooms and sleepless nights in the CBI attic. It was a small studio apartment that came with basic furniture and blue paint chipping off its walls. He'd made a few additions to make the place a touch more homely, a few potted plants, a desk lamp and an essential teakettle. His desk was neatly lined with a few books in Spanish, in an effort to learn the language, and a pen and notepad sat at the forefront, always prepared for his weekly letters to Lisbon. Initially, he'd kept busy since it had taken him a good three months to fully settle down into his new home, but when the loneliness and emptiness crept in, it was almost paralyzing. He was completely alone on foreign land, thousands of miles away from the one person who mattered most.

Physically, he'd moved on, and yet, an invisible string still tied his heart to Lisbon; he couldn't cut himself loose if he tried. Everything about defeating Red John had been meticulously planned. His escape to South America had been meticulously planned. But falling in love with her had never been part of the plan, and yet it had happened so naturally, so organically, he couldn't pinpoint exactly when it had occurred. It wasn't like there was anything he could have done about it though, acting on his feelings had been far too risky and anyone that got close to him undoubtedly got hurt. What was worse though was that he knew she returned his feelings, her hurt and anger during his 6-month Vegas stunt pretty much confirmed it, but with Red John in the picture, he never dared to consider the possibility of what could become. And now that it was safe, his hands were tied by an entirely different set of circumstances. Even in his death, it felt like Red John had still won; losing her was ultimately the price he had paid.

Time dragged forward painfully and immeasurably. The sun would sink and rise. Dawn came and went and dusk faded away rapidly. Days dissipated into weeks and weeks into months, and yet the ache of missing her never seemed to diminish; it only grew. It was a cold and unwelcome feeling that had taken up residence in his chest. Like broken glass, its jagged edges pressing into his heart, every contraction deepened the cut. The ache completely consumed him and sometimes he missed her so much, he could barely breathe.

Seven hundred and fifteen days into exile, and he still missed her with an ache that was almost unbearable. It was just another day of going through the same, dull, repetitive routine. After spending nearly two hours on the beach, he was tired. Tired from the heat. Tired of the hue of the water, ever-changing yet always familiar, always carrying a touch of green, a constant reminder of her eyes. Tired of not knowing if she was okay. Tired. Just tired.

Frustrated, he returned to his apartment and put on the kettle. He turned on the ceiling fan, welcoming the cool breeze, before rummaging through his tea drawer in search of peppermint tea. He'd acquired quite a collection over the two years. There were boxes of English breakfast, oolong, earl grey and even jasmine, but no peppermint it seemed. As he emptied the drawer, his eyes flitted to a box stashed away at the back, almost forgotten; its contents were atropa belladonna tea bags and he wondered if today was the day.

He had stumbled across it during his early days on the island when he was exploring the bustling streets of Venezuela, having found it in a hidden shop. At the time, he'd justified the purchase by telling himself that he'd only open the box in case things got too bad.

The vendor had sold him the box for a hefty price and with a warning, explaining that the tea was known to cause instant hallucinations. Jane had given him a conciliatory shrug and made his way back home. When he returned, he tucked the box away out of sight, a modest effort to dilute the temptation. And then he hadn't given the tea much thought一that was until today.

Of course, Jane was no stranger to the hallucinogenic tea, having taken it before to see his daughter. He was well-aware that taking the tea is hit or miss, the first time he had accidentally ingested it, he had gotten to spend an entire day with his deceased daughter. The second time he had tried, he passed out instead and woke up in a hospital bed at one thirty a.m., with Lisbon hovering over him, her face tear-stained and heavy with concern.

Her voice was shaky and she'd cradled his hand between her palms. "I- I thought you were trying to kill yourself," she'd sobbed. Guilt washed over him.

He tried to reply, but the words got caught in his throat. His entire mouth felt as though it had been washed down with sawdust. Recognizing this, she'd immediately touched a paper cup filled with water to his pallid lips. He then sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and motioned for her to sit beside him.

"Hey, hey, hey. Who's making my best friend cry?" he had joked once his mouth was adequately hydrated. She'd then let out a short laugh, mid-sob.

"You complete idiot. Please tell me you're not trying to kill yourself. What the hell were you thinking?!" she'd chastised, tightening her grip on his hand.

He looked down at their intertwined hands, embarrassment twisting his features.

"I- I just wanted to see Charlotte again. I admit, it was stupid and reckless. It didn't even work this time and I now have you worried in the middle of the night on a hospital bed. I'm a mess. Thank you for saving me, Teresa." His voice was thick with emotion.

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Let's get you checked out of this hospital. Stay over at my place tonight. Tell me all about Charlotte, I promise you'll feel a lot better. I'll even make you a cup of tea that won't land us back here." He'd been grateful for her offer, not particularly wanting to go back to his motel alone.

And so they had wound up on her couch at three a.m., each nursing a hot cup of peppermint tea. He'd told her about Charlotte, about her passion for music, and her tendency to cause mischief, a trait that he attributed to himself. They'd talked for hours until he eventually ended up falling asleep on her couch. There was a blanket carefully tucked around him when he woke up.

The memory made him smile. It was pathetic really, how Lisbon had ended up saving him from the stupid tea, only for him to be standing in an obscure town in Venezuela, contemplating said tea in the hopes of seeing her this time. He halfheartedly tried convincing himself that consuming belladonna was stupid and dangerous and may not even reap the benefits that his heart so desired but his thoughts contradicted his movements. As if on autopilot, he found his fingers ripping open a sachet and dropping the tea bag into a cup. Then, he was pouring boiling water and watching the liquid transform from transparent to a deep shade of purple.

Bittersweet steam wafted upwards, offering him one last chance to come to his senses before pouring the tea down the drain. Instead, he drained away all thoughts of rationality and ruminated on the best strategy for optimizing the side effects of belladonna. Based on his previous experiences: it was all about concentration, he concluded. The higher the concentration, the more likely he was to seize. A lower concentration would maximize his chances of hallucination without being lethal. With an execution strategy in mind, he removed the tea bag and discarded half of the tea into the sink before adding water to the remainder, hoping that he'd reached an appropriate level of dilution.

Armed with uncoerced poison, he walked over to the bed and sat down as a safety precaution. He mused that his seated position would at least save him from a concussion in case he were to pass out or seize. Then, he drank the bittersweet tea in large gulps; there was nothing to savor, especially when Lisbon was at the finishing line, or so he hoped.

Carefully, he placed the empty cup on his bedside table and lay down, hopeless and hoping, wanting and waiting. Quiet surrounded him, save for the pitter-patter of a leaky faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip. For minutes, he tossed and turned and twiddled his thumbs and nothing. No sight of Lisbon. Disappointment suffused him and he sighed, placing a hand over his eyes.

A few moments later, he realized that the pitter-patter of the faucet had started blending in with the sound of soft footsteps. He looked up, not daring to believe. And there she was in all her glory, standing at the foot of his bed, clad in a navy blue jersey, the exact one she'd worn the night they'd tricked a confession out of Dr. Carmen. He felt the mattress sag momentarily as she shuffled across on her bare knees before laying her head on the adjacent pillow, facing him.

He relished the sight of her and took the time to memorize the moment. She was all pale skin and dark hair, jade eyed with a faint blush. Just as beautiful as he remembered and he couldn't quell his smile.

"Are you going to say hello or are you just going to stare?" She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"You came," were the only words that he could manage. The domesticity of the situation and her proximity had rendered him speechless.

"And you're an idiot," she countered. "Even as a hallucination, I'm not going to approve of a drug habit, Jane."

"It's not a drug habit if it's just this once," he replied, but his voice lacked conviction. It was a dangerous game but he'd already started playing and there was no going back now.

"You're arguing with yourself here," she said, quirking an eyebrow, and they both laughed. Her laughter settled warmly in his chest, and for the first time in months, he felt whole again.

She briefly glanced around the room. "I like what you've done with the place. It's rustic and cozy. The lighting is pretty grim though. I'd easily get depressed if I had to live here."

"Well, I mostly use this place to sleep. I spend around eighty percent of my day on the beach."

"I can tell," she said, glancing at his bleached hair and tanned skin appreciatively. "So, how are you holding up?"

"I'm not going to lie. Not that well, actually. I have my routines here, a place to come back to every night. I have the luxury of visiting the beach every day. I have a stable supply of tea. And yet, I don't feel at home."

She raised her head momentarily and looked around the room again. "I don't see a couch here. Maybe that's what you're missing," she joked, settling her head back on the pillow.

He pursed his lips. "Yeah...that wouldn't help though."

"Why not?" Curiosity painted her face.

"Because there's something I've come to realize. I can get a couch to replace my CBI one, I can replace my wardrobe and stash of tea. But you, my dear, are irreplaceable. Home is where you are."

"Then come back to me, I'm waiting."

"They'll lock me up for premeditated murder."

"Not necessarily. I'm sure that members of the Blake Association would speak in exchange for a reduced sentence. What have they got to lose now? If they confirm that Thomas McAllister was Red John—California's most notorious serial killer—wouldn't a judge consider that? You've gotten off a first degree murder charge once, who's to say you can't do it again?"

"Going back to the States on a whim? Assuming that everything will work out in my favor? It's too risky."

"Who are you and what happened to the Patrick Jane I know? You're the biggest risk-taker I've ever known. And I happen to be a cop surrounded by other cops."

"Things change. I've changed."

"Not really. Swapping out three-piece suits for island shirts and a sarong doesn't change a man."

"Yeah, but killing a man does."

Her annoyance became apparent in the slight shake of her head and roll of her eyes. "Look, I'm not trying to inflate your ego or anything but you did end a serial killer's terror regime and helped expose a network of corrupt cops. You know you've done humanity a favor."

He gave her a half shrug and a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Hmm…There's something you're holding back, something you're not telling me. Come on Jane, what are you really afraid of?" Her gaze was scrutinizing as she tapped an index finger against her lips.

Her astute observation gave him pause and the silence was almost palpable.

"What is it Jane? Spit it out," she pressed. Her arms were crossed and her stubborn expression revealed that she was going to beat it out of him whether he liked it or not.

He took a fortifying breath. "I'm afraid that you've moved on and I'm afraid that you hate me. I'm afraid that if I come back, things between us won't be the same."

"And what makes you think that?"

"Because I deserve it, the way I treated you. I wouldn't blame you if you hated me. I disappeared for six-months and had you worried sick. I told you I loved you then pretended to forget. I lied to you and never fully let you in and all you ever gave me was your unconditional support. You lost your job at the CBI because of me, I've interfered with your career and..."

"Jane. Shut up," she interrupted. "Whether you're done listing your grievances or not, please say you haven't been agonizing for months over something you haven't even confirmed with me."

"Well, then deny what I've said. Make me feel better. End my misery."

"You know I can't do that."

"Why the hell not?" His bottom lip quivered in frustration.

"Because- because I'm a damn hallucination, Jane. I can't cure self-loathing, I can't change beliefs."

He sat up with his shoulders slumped in defeat. "This conversation got depressing really quickly," he said, bringing a finger to his temple.

She sent him a sympathetic look and sat up too, leaning her back against the headrest. "I'm sorry, but this is your own brain. I can't do much to help other than give you pseudo company."

The sunlight that streamed through the window had mellowed and she was growing less and less visible. He let his eyes linger on her bare legs for a few seconds. "In that case, I usually go down to the beach to watch the sunset everyday, it's quite relaxing. Would you care to join me?"

"Yeah, of course. As long as you promise not to leave me stranded...again," she said. Her tone was somber but her eyes held a teasing glint.

She was of course alluding to the last time he'd cruelly abandoned under the pretense of watching the sunset. Her words had sobered him up faster than an ice-cold bath and suddenly, the bed was desolate. He twisted around the room desperately in search of her, only to be met by disappointment. Damn. Damn. Damn. At first, he cursed the tea for being lousy; it hadn't even let him maintain the hallucination for a satisfying duration of time. Then, he cursed himself for being stupid enough for taking the tea, knowing damn well that he wouldn't grow addicted to the tea, rather, he would grow addicted to the sight of her.

Briefly, he considered steeping another teabag, but that thought had to quickly be shaken away. He didn't actually have a deathwish and Lisbon certainly wasn't around to take care of him this time.

Defeated, he put on his shoes and made his way to the shoreline, alone. He sank to the sand stretching his legs out, leaning his weight against his palms. The sky was stained with wisps of cherry and gold and a promise of darkness; a picture of contentment and serenity and a complete juxtaposition to the unsettlement Lisbon's abrupt departure brought him. Of course, most of the queasiness could be attributed to the belladonna he drank but he wasn't focused on that.

Monotonous waves ebbed and flowed, transient yet always there, rising, falling, scattering the colors of the sky. He buried his fingers into the sand, sifting handfuls of golden dust, over and over, as if searching for answers while his mind agonized over the events of the afternoon, obsessing, thinking and analyzing his recent revelation. Was he really wasting away on this island out of fear of seeing her? All he knew was that moving on from her was beyond the realm of reason. For him, it was her, it would always be her. Seven hundred and fifteen days and he was still ardently and hopelessly in love with her. Everyone else paled by comparison.

A gust of wind brushed past him, dispersing grains of sand from his palm, ruffling his hair. What he felt though was gentle fingers threading through his curls, their movements tender yet firm, distracting him from his internal battle. His heart rate rocketed in anticipation. Surely it couldn't be her... He was almost certain that he'd pushed his luck enough for one day.

Her soft voice came in confirmation. "I hope you're done agonizing because there's something I'd like to say."

He twisted his head over his right shoulder and found her disentangling her fingers from his hair. Her smile was blinding, almost as bright as the sinking sun, and her eyes were so brilliantly green, it took his breath away. She was wearing a yellow flowery sundress that left the freckles on her shoulders exposed and her previously straightened hair had succumbed to the salty, humid air, having returned to its natural waves, cascading across her back. She looked ethereal in the warm, pre-evening glow.

She moved beside him, flaring her dress out as she sat. "I know why you left me that day," she stated.

"Oh?" Words failed him.

"You did it to protect me," she continued. "If you hadn't left me behind, I probably would've died in the blast. Losing me was too big of a risk and you care about me far too much. I forgave you, Jane. A long time ago. When I found you unconscious after the blast, all I could think about was your safety."

He let out an incredulous laugh. "Now this is just stupid and borderline narcissistic, I'm comforting myself by pretending you've forgiven me for something I haven't even apologized for yet."

"Well, what's stopping you? You've sent me exactly one hundred and one letters so far, one every week. You've had plenty of chances to apologize," she said, indignantly.

"I just haven't figured out how to word it yet," he responded lamely.

She scoffed at him. "Try this: 'I've been meaning to apologize for leaving you on the beach that night.' It's short, sweet, conveys you're sorry and that you haven't forgotten that you hurt me that cursed night. It's really not that hard."

"In my next letter, Lisbon," he promised, sighing. She gave him a conciliatory nod.

The sun continued to dip below the horizon, illuminating a quivering path across the water. They quietly observed, their eyes steady on the horizon, faces aglow with the last golden rays before twilight. Sky-burst reds and yellows melted into softer hues of pink and lilac, rendezvousing with deep belladonna purple, the calm of the night. Darkness prevailed and light departed and she was still beside him.

Eventually, she broke the silence. "It's getting late, I think you need to get back home."

He shook his head in desperation. "No, no. Please, I don't want you to leave. God, Lisbon I miss you so much. This would hurt a lot less if I hadn't been stupid enough to fall in love with you. I don't deserve you." The words needed to be said out loud.

"I miss you too, you know," she said softly, choosing to ignore the latter half of his confession. "Although I guess it's easier on my end. At least I get your letters so that I can know you're alright. You don't even know if I receive them, let alone read them."

Repressed tears painfully constricted his throat until he could no longer contain them. He placed his hands over his face and pressed his forehead to his knees, a vain attempt at hiding his tears. He shook uncontrollably in the dark.

He felt her palm move across his shoulder blades in soothing motions. "It's okay to cry, you know. You've been through a lot. I just hope you feel better."

He looked up, wiping his tears. "I thought that spending time with you would give me some clarity. Instead, I'm even more confused, and I miss you so much more."

She gave him an apologetic smile. "You're going to figure things out…eventually, I have faith in you."

"Come home with me?"

"Of course."

He stood up, brushing the sand from his clothing. They walked back to his apartment in silence.

"Come to bed. It's been a long day, we both need some rest," he said, smoothing the space beside him on the mattress. From the corner of his eye, he could see her trading her sundress for one of his cotton t-shirts.

"I'll join you in a moment, just close your eyes," she responded gently.

Her voice blanketed him, wrapping around him like the comforting warmth of a cup of tea. He succumbed to his exhaustion, his eyelids sliding shut.

The bedsheets did not smell like her when he woke up and his bones felt as empty as the space next to him. His chest felt constricted, as though it was being weighed down by a ton of bricks. He was simultaneously floating and drowning and everything felt wrong.

He sat up and sighed, reluctant to take on day seven hundred and sixteen. Belladonna may have been a temporary balm for his aching heart but it certainly wasn't a sustainable solution, neither was it a substitute for the real thing. If anything, it made matters worse, seeing her so vividly had increased the ache of missing her tenfold.

Later that afternoon, he threw the remaining tea bags into the sea, one by one, and watched them wash away.

Four years later, he woke up knowing she was next to him. Her hand was warmly settled onto his hip and her presence was the cinnamon she smelt like, comforting, and indisputable. And she was still there when he opened his eyes, beautiful as always. Sunlight had slipped through the blinds, marking her with golden stripes. Her wedding ring gleamed in the faint morning glow. He lay still, admiring her, enjoying his rare moments of peace before the inevitable chaos of the morning.

As if on cue, the baby monitor on the nightstand crackled, filling the room with a familiar wail, a calling for attention. Teresa stirred and moved to nudge her husband but he was already at the door.

"Relax darling, I'll get her." And with that, he made his way to the adjacent room.

He scooped up his daughter from her crib and held her close to his chest, her cries dying down at her father's touch. Oh, how he'd missed the small joys of fatherhood.

"Good morning, my love. Is someone hungry?" He cooed. The newborn squeezed her fist around her father's finger as if in affirmation and he took a few strides towards the bedroom.

He transferred his daughter into her mother's outstretched arms before getting back into bed and wrapping his arms around his wife. Their daughter was tiny and perfect and a tangible testament to their love; it made his heart soar. His face broke into an inexorable smile.

This was home.

A/N: This was a random idea I got a few months ago after re-watching 5x02 and 6x09 back to back. At one point, I had to completely scrap what I'd written and start over so I was skeptical that I'd actually ever get this done. I'm so glad it's over because I was constantly doubting myself.

Also quick disclaimer: I obviously have no idea how belladonna actually works, that part about playing with the concentration to pick and choose side effects is total nonsense, I just needed a way to have him hallucinate without killing him lol.

Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!

You can find me on twitter: whiteorchiids.