A/N: This fic takes place after S6-E8 and is a rewrite that irons out some of my frustrations from the series, but primarily is about the relationship between Jane and Lisbon. There is a lot that mirrors the actual show - I do not own TM or any of the characters/storylines, this is just my take on what I dreamed for the last season and a half.
The first couple of chapters are very reflective of past events - might be just worth a skim to those well versed with the events.
I originally wrote this just for my eyes, as writing it gave me joy. Apologies that it's very long.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned as he sat up on the springy wood-framed bed in the corner of his one-roomed apartment. The bed croaked under his weight as pushed the hessian sheet to one side and swung his well-tanned legs around so his feet hit the floor. Another rough night's sleep, but that wasn't anything new. It was warm and humid, despite being shortly after dawn. The sound of the waves crashing on the shore, and the smell of the early morning sea breeze stimulated his senses. He stood up, his bare feet on the concrete taking him to the open window, tattered beige curtains that framed his view fluttering in the soft breeze. He looked out towards the horizon as he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
He filled the kettle at the leaky tap and set it on top of the gas burner, which was a mere six feet away from where he rested his head at night. He searched the small bench for matches, behind the red aluminum container that held his stash of tea, a white pot of sugar, finally finding the small matchbox behind a bag of polvorosas and two stray guavas he had picked up from the market yesterday. While he waited for the water to boil, he wandered out to his little aging timber balcony. The view from the third floor allowed him to look out over the brooding ocean and the dusty streets below, so he'd spend many an evening out here, pondering on the little timber bench. He thoughtfully watered the little pot plants around the edging, including his beloved thyme and basil plants, that he leaned forward and inhaled deeply.
The sharp whistle of the kettle summoned him back inside. He poured the boiling water into a small terracotta-coloured cup bearing a lapsang souchong tea bag. It was surprisingly difficult to come by such tea on this little Venezuelan island, but he managed to get his hands on enough to see him through for some time. He sat down at the little desk at the end of his bed, sporting an array of books he'd ready back-to-back more than once – Murder by Family, Daily Zen, an assortment of titles to pass the abundance of time he now had on his hands. His Spanish-English dictionary lay in prominent standing, despite his impressive memory, he struggled with fluency required for linguistics but needed to learn enough to get him by.
He grabbed a pen and started on the lined pad that lay center to the table.
"Dear Lisbon" his pen swirled onto the paper. He put the pen down and took a sip of his tea.
He wasn't quite sure what to write. Lisbon being absent was the one thing that made the new chapter of his life strange and sad.
He found his thoughts always seemed to find their way to Lisbon. What was she doing? Is she seeing someone? Is whatever she might be doing now bringing her the same professional satisfaction as her action-filled agent role? Does she think about him at all? Does she miss him? No of course not. Why would she, with everything he put her through? He wondered if she was appreciating or even reading his letters. They were an important outlet for him regardless, but he was ever curious with how they would be received on the other end.
He finished his cup of tea and donned a muted red sarong with his 'island shirt'. One of the highlights of his new neighbourhood, was a charming old grump, Victor, who was quite the talented tailor. Reasonably priced too. Whilst he didn't stray from the long-sleeved, collared, button up shirts he had worn for years at the CBI, the soft and light quality materials Victor used, complete with patterns and the occasional 'charetteras' epaulets (that he hadn't asked for, mind you), gave it a softer and breezier feel to match the climate.
He headed down to the beach, as he did every morning, taking his shoes off as he hit the sand. He walked the rocks, breathing in the air and admiring the simple but remarkable beauty of the nature around him. His favourite swimming spot was tucked away from the busier beat of the beach, a little secluded area, untouched by the havocs of man. He stripped to his trunks, his feet thumping on the damp sand as he unhesitantly ran into the welcoming warm waters. He was never overly athletic, but he valued the therapeutic benefits the ocean provided, as his arms and legs propelled him forward through the salty blue. He would be back again in the afternoon to do it all again.
He walked the familiar stretch of sand after his swim. The day was warming up, the sun a fierce mistress whilst the sea breeze cut through the thick, humid air. He spotted a curious shaped shell wedged into the sand – a cowrie, white and curled delicately, with grey spots. He picked it up. It was perfectly formed, smooth, and made him smile. He gave it a quick wash at the edge of the lapping waves and took it with him. A shell always carried around the sound of the ocean with it, something he wished he could share with the woman that often perturbed his thoughts.
He wandered up the beach in the opposite direction to a straw thatched roofed bar and café. A simple spot, run by a kind young gentleman, Alfredo, well known for its fresh grilled fish and freshly squeezed juices. The assorted metal furniture teased the sand's edge providing direct ocean views for its patrons. It was the only place in town that could make eggs just the way he liked them.
"Ah senor Jane, se siempre?" called out Alfredo as he saw Jane approach, wiping down the bar with a rag, before flinging it onto his shoulder
"Si, huevos reveueltos y una taza de te," Jane replied, confirming his usual order of scrambled eggs and a pot of tea. "Muchos gracias."
"Siempre te. Te mataria tomar una taza de café?" Alfredo muttered under his breath.
He tried to make small talk with Robert sitting at the bar. A gentleman of many years, and surely not too many left on this planet, Robert was the only fluent English speaker he had met in his nine-months on the island. Although he wasn't completely sound of mind, the conversation suited Jane well. He just appreciated the interaction, and the ability to be able to converse expressively and have the other person understand. The darling ladies down at the post office were always a good laugh, even though he was more than aware they mocked his terrible Spanish behind his back. He enjoyed his broken Spanish conversations every time he went to post something for Lisbon, and knew that although his verbal communication wasn't on par, he was still able to charm them with a flash of his pearly whites and baby blues. His charm and golden locks were a universal language.
One of the little pleasures he had in his life was the enjoyment of eggs cooked well. He enjoyed his meal in silence, as his crisp blue eyes stared out into the seeming endlessness of the ocean. He was in paradise, but it certainly didn't feel that way. Keeping to himself was a high price for his piece of mind. He felt trapped, lonely, alone. He might as well have been in prison, just one with a spectacular view that served good eggs. He sipped is tea pensively and stroked his gruff beard, wondering what might be next for him in this journey.
The satisfaction that his vengeance gave him was sort of an empty one. He felt accomplished, satiated, having completed a mission that had taken over his life for the better part of a decade. But it was merely a sense of achievement for completing a goal, not the kind of satisfaction he was hoping for in avenging his wife and daughter's deaths. And what did it cost him? He supposed he started with nothing when his vendetta began, and without trying, without intending it, something grew along the way.
The final days were intense. He survived nearly on adrenalin, his long sought-after vengeance tantalising close, he could taste it. With Kirkland and Partridge dead, at the hands of RJ one way or another, his list was down to five. Their trip up to Napa revealed more than he had ever imagined. He had reanalyzed and reiterated in his head the many interactions with Sheriff McAlister. He was a cold-blooded hunter, able to move stealthily, a sneaky ominous air about him. Like he said, it took a certain bloodlust and a stomach to be a hunter. Jane stared into his empty blue-eyes and knew this was a man capable of killing, one that relished in taking life. But he couldn't be definitely sure he was RJ at this stage, he was difficult to read, as one to expect such a complex serial killer to be.
His first interactions with McAllister he admitted he never suspected him of anything more than being a creepy, inept local sheriff. He remembered the games of rock, paper, scissors they played together, showing off his mentalist skills that he could win every time. But now he knew he had skills to rival his own, he couldn't help but chuckle about his acting skills. He wondered what it was like for him, knowing exactly who he was, putting on façade as his team worked the case. The slimey satisfaction of being right under Patrick Jane's nose, the man desperately hunting him down for 4 years, the man who insulted him on television, the man whose family he slaughtered in puerile revenge 5 years before. Dangling right in front of him with absolutely no clue, childishly playing rock-paper-scissors out in a field.
He remembered how he was the one they caught with Van Pelt's red-headed siren trap, the way he hit on her, oozing sleaze, complimenting her beauty, telling her about the murderer on the loose oh so ironically, trying to get her into the car on the premise that she was intoxicated. Then the wrath of Rigsby and his underlying love came down and rained fury. If only they'd arrested him then. If only he was better at figuring things out, if he was smarter, if he had known things by then and not been so damn naive. The number of people that would still be alive. He was right there, they could've taken him in then, and it would've been all over. He bet RJ enjoyed the whole interaction, it would've amused him greatly. Hindsight, such a wondrous thing and a guilt-triggering curse.
Then the way he saved him up on that church roof. He had just caught Charlie out, but he had missed a crucial read which Cho saw coming a mile away as Charlie took him hostage by gunpoint. He was surprised with how he showed up at the top of the ladder, taking down the assailant with ease and offering a hand up to his precariously flailing self. How powerful he looked, how powerless he felt. He remembered frantically crawling to safety on all fours across the narrow ledge that RJ trumped with ease. "Guess I just felt obliged to keep an eye on you," and didn't he know it. As Lisbon ascended to his safety, he got the piece of information that would help him in the end, as RJ expressed his disdain as the stray pigeon flew at him. The relief he always felt to see her face when he was in trouble. The countless times she came to his aid. The support she gave him through everything. He never deserved such a thing, but she gave her all anyway.
He couldn't help but feel morose over Rigsby and Van Pelt's somewhat impromptu wedding. He was happy for them, at least he knew he should be happy for them, he wanted to be happy for them. But he couldn't help but feel a seeded sense of longing, of jealousy, emotions that shouldn't shroud one's view if they were a good person. But he also knew that a good person was something that he was not. Not entirely anyway, not anymore. There was a part of him that felt bitter that everyone else got to have a normal life, everyone else could find new happiness. He could normally rise above such craven emotions, emotionally-detached was how he was able to cope with everything in life. Whether intentional or not, it was something Dr Miller had really helped him with during his padded cell days.
Dr Miller, Sophie, another soul damned because of him. The memory of Eileen, RJ's greatest trick led him straight to her door. Sophie, such a beacon of life, touched him and changed his trajectory, pulled him out from his deepest abyss when he was at his lowest and most vulnerable. And he unknowingly dragged her into his dystopian hell, which ultimately cost her own life. That's just what he seemed to do. Poisoned all that was good and pure around him. He had even tainted Lisbon, as she had morphed from being adamant she would stop him from taking RJ's life with his own hands in the early days, to admitting that some people don't deserve a trial or a jury, but deserve what they have coming to them. Changing from being an ever-so stringent, morally bound officer of the law, to condoning egregious murder for cold-blooded revenge. It was like he'd polluted her pure soul.
The ocean calming and hypnotic, his thoughts deep and brooding, he ordered more tea from young Alfredo. Silence. Was the best way for him to think. He remembered he'd often plead for it, as he tried to work things through. To not be disturbed so he could process his thoughts. He locked himself in the attic for the better part of a week to refine his list. Alone. Silence. Ha, he thought, be careful what you wish for.
He knew he had jumped the gun so to speak when he made the assumptions after Kira Tinsley's death. RJ had certainly done his research, hiring a Private Investigator that looked warily like Summer Edgecombe to go for the usually impenetrable Cho. As soon as he confirmed she wasn't hired by Visualize, he knew RJ had to have been behind it. Her death was sloppy, messy, hasty. Not his modus operandi, no, he was always clean and deliberate. Perhaps rushed because he knew that they had figured it out. But more than likely the dirty work was done by a minion and not RJ himself. He wasn't sure why he suddenly got so caught up in the idea of the tattoo. He didn't think things through properly like he normally would, and jumped to illogical conclusions. It was like he was desperate to have an excuse to gather the final five together, to finish things once and for all. Another life wasted from their futile battle.
He remembered waking up after the apparent explosion, his guardian angel Lisbon by his side. Finding out what had happened, the capture of Reede Smith and ruling him out, the manhunt for Bertram. It didn't take him long to realise what the blast was – just a good show. RJ wasn't either of the survivors. Stiles was a dying man. It had to be Haffner or McAllister. More likely McAllister, as the other two saved also bore the same ominous three-dotted tattoo. And Haffner seemed too much of a follower, too submissive. But that didn't mean he didn't have a tarantula in the other pocket of his jacket. His final undeserving gift from Sophie, the crippling phobia that plagued this enigmatic tormentor, an Achilles heel to exploit.
His mind wandered to Lisbon yet again. Take my car, the last words she spoke to him. FBI pointing guns at her, her career that she'd worked so hard to build, surely awash. All because of him, just to have his back. She really trusted him 100% in those moments, although he wasn't sure how he managed to earn that. He had her gun tucked into the back of his belt. Her car, her gun, her trust… looking back she really gave him a lot. And he didn't give anything back in return. Well, apart from a pony, and a donut on occasion. Why would she do all these things for him? He wished he could have a proper opportunity to thank her. Oh what he would do to have a single moment with her again.
He stood up and placed his dishes up on the bar. As he counted the cash out for his wares, he looked over the bar to Roger, quietly sipping a beer, looking lost and bereft. Roger was here most days, he didn't make for much conversation, but sat there in the same spot, doing the same thing day in, day out. Alone. Without companionship. He watched the way the sea breeze flicked his wispy silver mane and the wrinkles that made framed his slight frown in his morose expression. Was this too his fate? Loneliness. Routine. Morose? He stretched his Spanish muscle and thanked Alfredo for his meal and tea, before making his way back down the picturesque coastline. He walked the water's edge, sandals in hand, the waves washing in and out, licking his feet as he walked the idyllic white sands.
Alone in paradise, his only company was his own thoughts. He had all the time in the world to ponder, think, reflect, analyze and re-evaluate anything and everything. Predictably, his thoughts always converged on one thing. One person. One woman. One angel. He thought back to the way she helped him up the first day they met after Hannigan had punched him in the face. The caring hand on his shoulder as she led the way so she could tend to him. The on-a-whim crack she gave him on the case that earnt him his consulting role, and not that he knew it then, would change his life in so many ways.
The hours upon hours of driving around together, delivering justice, like a couple of bumbling superheroes. The lecture she gave him about being selfish and realising people cared for him when they arrested Hardy, how she confronted him about pulling away from the team after Kristina was kidnapped and how she could see straight through all his lies. The time she let her guard down for just a moment and let herself go in his arms as they swayed at the high school reunion in Rancho Rosa, her pulse giving away her hidden feelings. The way she pushed him to the side with a protective hand on his arm as he hid and she drew her weapon when there was a shootout in the CBI parking lot. The way he pushed her into the arms of a billionaire when he felt his feelings were growing too cogent that they would become a danger to them all.
The way she helped him and never gave up on him in his fugue, and his tryst with belladonna. The jealousy (or was it?) he felt emanate from her when Erica Flynn came out of prison to assist them with a case. The jealousy that was definitely there with his involvement with Lorelei. Their shared cocktails at the cabaret where he could've sworn he saw a tear escape from her eye. Singing Kansas City together, albeit over a body, their little moment, the army of two. That was them, a formidable team, a real army of two. The post case chats on his couch, the way she admonished him about an apple after they'd both been kidnapped. The way she questioned his slipped I love you in one of their most daring schemes. He regretted how he handled that one, he admitted to himself. How different might have things been if she only really knew.
He remembered their conversation with Sean Barlow, lying in bed, thinking of Patrick. You're a little in love with him, eh? But he's so secretive and controlling. That's hard, isn't it? She blushed and didn't deny it, he remembered changing the subject right away in her defense. He knew there was truth in Sean's words, he could feel it in her reaction. But she was also always so guarded, he doubt she'd ever be masochistic enough to let that emotional guard down to him fully.
Bad things happen to people who got too close to him. He often wondered why RJ never killed Lisbon. Or any of the team for that matter. Lisbon had been the closest person he had been to for a very long time. Perhaps all a part of the game. Perhaps he just knew him too well, and knew he would completely give up on life if anything happened to Lisbon. But he didn't have to think that way anymore. With RJ dead, his world was more open to possibilities. He didn't need to be afraid for that reason anymore, although there were still a hundred and one reasons he could be afraid.
So many moments and memories to reflect on. He knew he was probably overanalyzing things too deeply or reading into things too far, but he felt sure she had feelings for him too. Or maybe that was just a figment of his imagination, something that in his loneliness he had willed so hard for it to be true, he was just trying to imagine it as a reality. How could she anyway, after everything he had put her through? And even if she did, she was too much of a realist and a professional to ever act on it, and it would fade with each passing day he was gone. Nonetheless, how deeply he felt was clear to him, but time and space would be his enemy.
And the most painful of memories, his beloved Angela. And even more so, his beloved Charlotte. The demise of RJ didn't do anything to alleviate his guilt. It didn't bring them back. It didn't change the fact that they were dead and it was entirely his fault, their blood was on his hands, still as fresh as it was twelve years ago. He never talked about his family much. He didn't know how. And it still just hurt too much. He had opened up about tid bits to Lisbon. The one person that gave him the most comfort in the world and all he could still manage were snippets. It brought him such shame and disgrace, as well as sorrow and anguish. Normally quite the wordsmith, he couldn't articulate any of it, like there was something in his mind that stopped him from doing so to avoid the immense trauma of it all. A small part of him knew he should talk about it with someone, figure out how to talk about it, and work it through. But the bigger part of him was stubborn and knew that doctors were frauds in white coats. The guilt, the self-loathing, the avoidance - It still held him back and made him the scarred and troubled man he was today.
He strolled back through the dusty paths, past the makeshift windows and the stray dogs wandering the streets, back to his lonely little apartment. He stared out at the ocean once more, before heading inside. Taking a seat at his little desk, he placed the shell down next to the lined paper, picked up the pen once more, and began to write.