Lisbon's reflections
Meanwhile in Seattle
Another day, another case. Lisbon, sporting a messy ponytail and navy blazer with her white blouse tucked firmly into her belted pants, headed from the front double doors of the Seattle PD and walked towards the train station. Her apartment never had any parking, it was easier to leave the car at HQ, which was a short train ride away. It rained lightly, as it always seemed to do in Washington, so she hastened pace to get to shelter. Shoulders to her ears, she hustled down the street, as many did the same. A large man in a black overcoat smacked dead into her shoulder even though she tried to sidestep him.
"Hey, watch it!" she exclaimed, as neither of them stopped as they rain became heavier. People lose their minds in the rain, she thought to herself as she brisked the steps to the train station. She couldn't wait to get home and get out of her wet socks, have a hot shower and a mug of cocoa.
She sat on the train, broodingly peering out the window as the lights of the Seattle night blurred through the raindrops. Whilst she didn't hate working for the Seattle PD serious crimes unit, her mind often drifted back to the CBI days, the team she had, and the unique way they'd solve cases, mainly thanks to Jane.
Ah yes, Jane, she thought, unsurprised he'd entered her thoughts yet again. It had been nearly a year since things went down. She wondered, where he was, what he was doing, if he was okay. It was Jane, of course he was okay, he'd always have a way to get himself out of a tight spot, no matter what it was. A smile crossed her face, as it often did when she thought of him. She missed him more than she'd care to admit. As annoying as he was, he was her partner, her comrade, her friend for a decade. Work felt empty without him.
"Lisbon, its done. I just wanted to let you know I'm okay. And I'm going to miss you"
The last time she had heard his voice. The first time she had heard the message was in the FBI/Internal Affairs investigation. They played the voicemail from her phone. She fought back tears as she heard his voice, as she first knew for sure he reached out before he went underground, as he realised that she was important, important to him, an important part of her mission. She kept her composure. Succinct. Noble. And told them the lies she needed to. From there, she knew he was in a lot of trouble. In serious trouble. And it was then she came to realise that she was likely never going to see him again. She couldn't see how even Jane could get out of this one. He may have been able to fool the jury last time, but that incident, as well as all the compounding evidence, it just seemed like an impossibility.
Jane was a wanted man, and not just by her. Bertram was dead, shot by Cordero. Cordero was dead, shot by Jane. To add to Reede Smith in their custody too, that she had shot herself. So much bloodshed, when weeks before they were all supposed to be on the same side… well, on the surface at least. All law enforcement. If years of working with Jane hadn't shaken her ability to trust, then this certainly shook it to its very core.
Sheriff Thomas McAllister was found murdered. A single bullet wound to the torso, his ultimate cause of death a crushed larynx causing asphyxiation. She was relieved that none of the bullets in the investigation of the final mess came from her service weapon, it was easy enough to complicit that Cordero had stolen it from her as it was found unfired on his person. She often imagined what Jane would've been like on that lake's edge, squeezing the life out of McAllister, the culmination of years of pain and a personal vengeance vendetta of epic proportions. It brought her mixed emotions of guilt, victory, revulsion, satisfaction and horror. But he did it. He won. And now she'd likely never see him again. It made her feel hollow and used.
She'd managed to escape any charges herself, as did the team. Without Jane, there was no case. And given the way everything went down, they knew it would be hard to make anything stick against them. Given the disaster law enforcement had on their hands, they needed all the qualified personnel they could get. Once the investigation concluded, she was shipped off to Seattle without much of a choice, but was grateful she still had a job.
She remained a bit of a loner in Seattle. The team she was part of was good, and it was nice not to be in charge. Whilst the pursuit of justice was always satisfying, she felt herself oddly unsatisfied in her work, like she was just going through the motions. She didn't fit in well with the team. They were incredibly by the book, no room for creativity. Kind of how she was many, many years ago before Jane came into the picture, she came to realise. But years and years working beside the charlatan had opened her eyes up to alternative methods, and whilst she didn't relish bending the rules as far as he did, there were merit to parts of his methods. She'd learnt to trust her gut more, how to judge situations better, and the value of orchestrating small situations to elicit information. But it didn't matter, her opinions weren't valued within the team and everything she contributed was tarnished with the scepticism caused by her recent past and involvement with the whole CBI/Blake Association fiasco. They closed cases, but not nearly as many as she'd like, as she grew increasingly frustrated as her suggestions fell on deaf ears.
Her personal life was much the same. Non-existent. She didn't have any friends here, not that she really had many either in Sacramento. But the familial relationship she had with her team was enough to satiate the natural human need of comradery that she didn't find she needed anything else. She spoke with Rigsby and Van Pelt regularly, she had been down to visit them a couple times since she moved. She was envious they had each other to lean on through everything. Here in Seattle, the disconnect she had with the team at work meant that she craved that human attention a little bit more. She'd had a handful of one night stands, all with similar looking blonde-haired, blue-eyed men, preferably in a suit, all of which she'd block and never speak to ever again. The casual intimacy was never really her style, but there was a certain void in her life that she simply wasn't sure how to fill.
She walked up to her apartment across the road from the train station, taking off her coat as walked in the door. As she hung it up, she noticed the corner of an envelope sticking out from her inside pocket. She furrowed her brow in confusion, she didn't remember putting anything in there. She pulled the envelope out. On the front there was a familiar blue cursive scrawl that read "Pepper."
Intrigued, she slowly opened the envelope, trying to remember where she had been called Pepper before. And then it hit her. She froze, envelope half open. "Like Cagney and Lacey had a baby and named it Pepper," her memory flashed. Jane's carney friends Sam and Pete. They sniffed her out as a cop the minute they lied eyes on her. Wait, could that have been Pete she bumped into on the street earlier? Surely not? Here in Washington!? Her heart started to race as she frantically tore the envelope open the rest of the way, hands slightly shaking, but careful not to damage its content. She pulled the lined piece of paper out, as her eyes welled up slightly as she read the first line.
Lisbon
I hope this letter reaches you well
I'm okay. I've settled down somewhere warm, near the ocean, in a country with no extradition treaty. I'm beginning to find my feet each day, a regular routine. There's a little beach shack that makes the best eggs. No one here speaks English, and I can't speak the local language, but I'm learning bits to get by. I'm left alone with my thoughts a lot.
I hope you're okay. I left you a message before I left. Optimistic, I know but I just wanted to let you know that I was okay and that I'd miss you. I'm sorry for the way everything played out and causing so much trouble and grief for you. I hope the fallout wasn't bad, although I realise it would have been. I'm so deeply sorry for everything I've put you through.
I wanted to thank you too. You were my rock for the 10 years. You know me in ways no one else does, stuck by me through everything, despite everything. I'm sorry I was never as appreciative as I should have been. Your loyalty, your friendship, your support, means everything to me. Our partnership was really very special and I miss it every day.
Please tell the team how thankful and sorry I am. I hope your lives have all become more peaceful now that I am out of the picture.
With much love from afar.
U no hoo
She read the letter over and over again, savouring each sentence and imagining how his voice would say each word. She smiled. She was relieved to know he was good and so thankful to hear from him. It helped ease the sadness she was feeling, but sprung tears to her eyes at the same time.
She lay in bed that night, her mind awash, staring blankly at the ceiling in her insomnia. Her thoughts lingered to her blonde-locked consultant. They had been through so much together, so much history. She didn't realise quite the bond they had until he was gone. They were there for each other through some really tough times. The way he showed genuine concern and helped her through one of the most difficult moments in her professional career after she was drugged and framed for murder by her shrink from the company mandated therapy sessions. The way he opened up to her about his most vulnerable moments where he needed the help of a kind-hearted psychiatrist to get him through, or why he had such difficult with the camera crew tailing them for the media puff piece. But perhaps the toughest of times were when he wasn't there. His six-month trap-building anxiety-inspiring breakdown hiatus in Vegas, and now… well, now. His longest absence threatened to be indefinite.
She had always felt the urge to be quite protective of Jane, whether it be like a sister sticks up for a brother, or a wife protects her husband, or like a mother protects an inquisitive toddler, she wasn't quite sure. But there was a definite deep-seated type of love. She remember putting her job on the line, as well as breaking the trust of a long-time friend she respected and admired, Bosco, in order to get charges dropped against him. Punching a suspect in the face in front of his lawyer and going through six-months of anger management classes just to keep him out of serious trouble. Stopping numerous people from chasing after him after he did his usual button-pressing, infuriation-inspiring Jane thing. The fear she felt when he had been kidnapped in gunfire, the frantic search to get him back, which ended in her own kidnapping, and finding herself oddly relieved to be taken hostage as she knew she would be led to him. When he was kidnapped in a politically charged murder case, and the way she messed with him a bit before uncuffing him. When he was held hostage at City Hall and she tussled with the local authorities to maintain control of the situation, resorting some manipulative low blows the charlatan would've been proud of, just to make sure she could keep him safe as best as possible. When he heart stopped as she found him cling wrapped to a chair in what seemed to be a scene from a horror movie, complete with real gunshot victims. When she feared the worst after he went missing in the final days of the RJ hunt, and Hightower came back from the dead and went full-on Rambo with machine guns to rescue Jane after he was kidnapped by Kirkland. Hell… the clown got himself kidnapped a damn lot. Why did he have to be so reckless? Why did trouble always seem to find him? Why did she always have to save his annoying ass? She stifled a chuckle as she argued away with herself in her head.
Then there were the softer moments. The sweeter moments. How he got all offended when she stated the obvious fact that he was untrustworthy and they demanded they do a trust-fall. Her stomach flip-flopped with butterflies as he caught her. The way they shared an ice-cream sundae on the rooftop as they discussed the afterlife and how they'd like to be remembered, his profound disbelief and cynicism pronounced, a contrast to her faith. The way he fumbled at her face when he suffered temporary blindness, rousing that he wanted to know what her face felt like when she was smiling. The way he handed her a beautiful purple hydrangea with his charming boyish smile and a twinkle in his eye, as he pulled her into his latest plan to entrap a culprit. The way they slow danced in Rancho Rosa to a song she loved so dearly. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't relived that particular moment over and over in her head, the way she lost herself in his surprisingly masculine embrace.
She snorted at herself in derision as she remembered Sean Barlow's taunt, "lying in bed, thinking of Patrick." Well, who says there's no such things as psychics… here she is doing it again. Was she really that easy to read? Years of experience with Jane told her that unfortunately, she was indeed. "You're a little bit in love with him." Well yes, a little perhaps. Perhaps a platonic love as Jane graciously put it. Perhaps a little that came with the territory of working closely with anyone for a decade, a friendship borne through proximity and a genuine care for one another. Or perhaps she was just plain, good ole fashioned, a little bit in love with the charismatic enigma. It might have been hard while he was being secretive and controlling, but it was much harder with him not around at all.
It wasn't like her conflicting amour had come from nothing. The first time the words escaped his lips was in an impromptu undercover ruse as they followed a lead to a rehab facility. All of a sudden, he was spouting off that she was his wife, struggling with the bottle, calling her darling. He called out 'I love you" as she walked away, and although it was all just make-believe, she couldn't help but feel a tingle and a half-smile amidst her annoyance.
But far more significant was when he dropped the words, "Good luck Teresa, Love You," before he pretended to shoot her. They were alone in her office, it was no-one's ears but her own. It wasn't part of the plan, it had no benefit to the con. And then he had to carry her. Covered in blood that wasn't hers, dripping from her arm… where they got it from, she didn't want to think about, he carried her. An arm hooked under her arm with a hand on her side, the other under her knees, they wandered the halls of the CBI, passing as many security cameras as practical on their way out. In any other situation, this would have been quite intimate, him carrying her in his arms like that, akin to a married couple crossing the threshold. But she was supposed to be dead. Her heart pounding inside her limp body, nervous they were going to be caught, adrenalin coursing her veins, not just from the risqué of the situation, but from the last words uttered by the man that carried her.
But what made it all so worse was when she forged the courage to confront him about it later. It wasn't really in character to be so upfront about matters of the heart, but it was interfering with her concentration and plaguing her mind relentlessly. She needed to clear the air so she could focus on their ruse at hand.
"What did I say?" his response, a coy expression, a questioning glare.
Like the charlatan who declared his memory palace was a mighty fortress which no detail ever escaped once committed could forget letting those little words slip to his closest colleague, friend and confidante. Like anyone could forget a single moment of such an adrenalin fuelled, high-stakes play. Why the denial? She knew he was lying about forgetting. Hell, she knew he knew she knew he was lying. But why lie anyway?
She sometimes wondered why it was her head that was asked for. Was it just because she was his boss and involved in the case? Or because she was the person closest to him? Or something more? No one questioned it. Just like no one really questioned the unorthodox relationship she had with Jane. She knew people gossiped and rumoured churned ripe, but to think the serial killer's requests were based just on water-cooler talk was naïve as well.
Then in one of the weirdest of situations she could only ever find herself in with Jane, she found him flirting with her while he was pretending to carry her severed head in a cardboard box. "Must have been awhile since you rode on the handlebars of a man's bike. Kind of romantic, don't you think?" How anyone could see the humour is such a twisted situation eluded her. Everything was funny to him, everything was just a joke. Even the way he toyed with her head, pun intended.
And then, amidst all the chaos, a fleeting moment of calm and tenderness as they sat on the side of the road as the dust settled. He was alive. She was alive. Their plan didn't work, but he was there, and she was there. And in that instant, that was all that mattered. The way he ran his hand down her forearm and clasped at her hand. All the worry she had felt for the last six-months, the anxiety, not eating or sleeping well, it dissolved for a moment. He was holding her hand, and although he wasn't ready to confront it, he had told her he loved her. They were very different people, but in some ways, they were very much alike in how they guarded their feelings. Maybe there were some real aspects to his breakdown, his guard was breaking, and things were slipping through the cracks. There were maybes, and there were hopes.
But before she could process anything, the serial killer's mistress declared that Jane had slept with her. She waited for Jane's denial, but it didn't come. Instead, he touched her face, he kissed her head. Lisbon couldn't remember feeling such a searing jealousy and pure anger like she had felt in that moment. It burned through her, a fireball deep within. It surprised her. How furious this woman made her. How protective and territorial she felt over Jane. The sheer blinding hatred she felt towards this woman. And yet, she couldn't understand why. As she yelled at him later, perhaps a little too emphatically, I am not your girlfriend. Maybe she said it out loud to remind herself more so than to remind him. She was so riled up in jealousy, she barely hung onto Lorelei pointing out why Jane continued with his work at the CBI. "I think you do it to be close to Teresa Lisbon, I think you're a little bit in love with her." Deep down, she knew why she felt so fiercely, but would never admit it, not even to herself. But for the second time in the short period he'd been back from such a long hiatus, Jane's apparent love for her had been voiced in words.
It was an emotionally wrought and confusing time. They went back to working together, languidly rekindling their professional closeness, not talking about things that were difficult to talk about, as they were so well versed in doing. She felt such repressed anger and rage whenever he spoke of her, whenever she thought of the days they spent alone together after he broke her out of prison[28]. She reacted recklessly at times. If only she talked through these things with him when he was actually here. Now she didn't even have the choice. She didn't know where he was, or if she'd ever speak to him again. She vowed that she would make the effort to not feel this way again, and to push herself to talk about things that plagued her brain before it was too late in future.
The weeks peeled by and the letters kept coming every now and then, each one arriving to her in a way a little more surprising and stranger than the last. Sometimes they were a quick note with a seashell, sometimes a bit more of an essay. They gave her warmth, a little pep in her step to get through the day. She kept them lovingly tucked away in a small rosewood box on her bookshelf, a box her mother used to keep her recipes in. On her lonelier nights, she'd pour herself a nice glass of red, and stream over them with a wistful glint in her eye. She traced her fingers over the carefully formed cursive script, reminiscing about the intimacies of their friendship and mourning its absence from her life.
Another common Sunday, unpacking her groceries, she found a letter tucked into her box of granola. Her face lit up and she shook her head, always amazed with how they managed to get her these things without her noticing. So much for being a detective, she thought.
Lisbon
I hope this finds you well. All is well here. I have my routines. Weathers finally turned. It's a little cooler, but far from cold. But the ocean's still warm. And with the warm currents comes an abundance of sealife. Just yesterday I watched a pod of dolphins play so close to the shore I could almost touch them. They're the kind of things I think you'd enjoy.
I've found a tailor, yup a real bespoke. The kind of thing where I explain what I want, he doesn't agree and then he does it anyway. Despite his sometimes poor taste, his work is excellent. I think you might be surprised at the look. Maybe one day you'll get to see it. Let's just say I've gone native.
I've been meaning to apologise for leaving you on the beach that night too. There's so much I want to apologise for and I hope I'll get the opportunity to do it in person one day. You being absent is the one thing that has made this new chapter strange and sad.
Miss you,
U no hoo
It pained her that she had no way of writing back to him. No way to let him know that she was receiving her letters and appreciated them. No way to share that she was doing okay too, and she missed him too. Despite it being over a year since everything went down, and the anguish she felt was still as fresh as ever.
She skulked down the familiar route to the train station again one night, her thoughts again focused on angst. On a whim, she stepped into a little tattoo parlour she walked past every day, 'Blue Ink'. She didn't have any tattoos, nor had she ever considered it being raised a catholic. She scanned the walls of the various artworks and photos with intrigue.
"Can I help you lady?" a well-tattooed woman asked from behind the front counter.
"Maybe" she said thoughtfully "I'm just admiring the art for now"
She scanned the walls for a while, across the skulls and the roses, until she came across a geometric, crisp lined origami swan. Her eyes sparkled for a second as she thought back to the early CBI days, the origami frog Jane placed on her desk while she was seething at him after the Wagner arrest. It jumped and startled her. It made her smile, despite Jane's insolence. She giggled to herself softly. It was a perfect thought. It was such a succinct symbol of her relationship with Jane, and in extension, her CBI family and the years they spent together hunting down Red John and every other bad guy that crossed their desks.
"Could you do something like this, but a frog instead of a swan" she asked the front counter woman. She wandered over and took a look.
"Yeah for sure hun," she confirmed whilst loudly chewing on her gum. "I'll get Marco to sketch something out now, he ain't doing nothing."
She worked with Marco on the sketch, making out the frog just as she remembered it, with sharp black lines and a soft deep green background fade. Green, the total opposite of red and their red associated trauma, a symbol for growth and new life. She looked at Marco's sketch and sighed with satisfaction. It was perfect.
"Where we gonna put this?" Marco asked. Lisbon thought. She didn't want it somewhere completely overt, it wasn't for others to see, it was for her. She wanted it somewhere close to her heart. 'By her side' she thought as she rubbed her own ribcage, forever by my side, it was fitting.
"On my ribs, here on the side" she requested
"Ah mama, we don't recommend rib pieces to virgins. They hurt. Hurt a lot," Marco explained.
"That's okay, I want it to hurt," she said bluntly to Marco's surprise.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Suit yourself. Just you gotta hold still or you gonna get messy lines and I don't do refunds for wimps"
She nodded.
She took off her blazer to reveal her badge and gun hinged to her waist. Marco jumped back in surprise, his eyes darted around and he looked panicked.
"Relax," Lisbon said flatly, "do a good job and I won't go poking around to see whatever it is you don't want me to see, okay? I'm just here for the art."
Marco shot a dirty look at the front counter woman and agreed, "Don't worry mama, only the best comes from these hands."
She lay on her gun side down and pulled her blouse up, placing her top arm around her head.
The machine started buzzing as Marco got to work. It tickled at first, and then it burned. It hurt, it hurt a lot. She could feel tears wanting to spring to her eyes, but she willed them back with sheer determination. She gritted her teeth. Yes it hurt, but the pain was welcome. It was everything she'd ever felt since the disbandment of the CBI manifesting in a permanent reminder, a symbol of what it all meant, of what Jane meant to her. Through the pain, for a moment, she felt like she was in control again.
