He woke up in the middle of the night, a sleeping Lisbon in his arms.
In many ways, this was the hardest birthday he'd ever had.
It was undeserved.
When he first saw the teacup, for a few seconds, he was awash with love and gratitude as the magnitude and meaning of what she'd done hit him. He'd felt that feeling before-with Angela, and tenfold with Charlotte.
In an instant, the doors to that special wing of his memory palace flung open and he was flooded with memories of his little girl and her crayoned birthday cards. Princesses and dinosaurs wished him a Happy Birthday. He remembered Angela's baked cakes, and telling her that they could afford to order one from the best bakery. Because he deserved it.
At the time, he'd dismissed the princess and dinosaurs and the prattled, lisped "Happy Birthdays" as something he deserved.
Then came that first birthday after Red John. It sent him into the abyss.
He didn't celebrate a single birthday since that day.
But tonight, he was literally rendered speechless. He'd been more than a little worried about what Lisbon had planned. Part of him feared that she'd throw a secret surprise party. Part of him dreaded her gift-he had no idea what she'd gotten him. And then she appeared with the cupcake, with the candle. All he could think was that she was his light. The flame in her eyes was the purest fire and he could not look at her as she presented the cupcake.
"Make a wish," he'd been asked.
A thousand wishes flew through his mind-pictures of what he wanted. Stay with me. Be safe. Don't leave me.
When she presented her gift in its beautiful, whimsical box, he looked at her. And when he opened it, the bottom fell out of his heart.
That moment when he saw the gift was the most exceptional moment of his life, except for the day Charlotte was born. Immediately, he recognized that it represented so much more than the restoration of a beloved object. She'd pieced him together. Piece by piece. From the day she'd helped him up off the floor of the CBI, she'd been piecing him back together.
Even when he'd so cruelly left her to face the Red John fallout, all alone.
Even when she had no idea that she'd ever see him again.
She pieced it together,
At first, he didn't know how to respond to the gift. He didn't deserve the unconditional love in Lisbon's eyes, the kindness in her smile as she encouraged him. He didn't deserve the hours of painstaking effort and the love she'd put into reconstructing his favorite teacup. He didn't even deserve having his Airstream decorated with pretty lights.
She kept the pieces.
She kept the pieces...
Holding her tighter, he brushed his cheek against her hair, drying the tears that had gathered.
He thought about the pieces she'd put back together. For so many years after his family's deaths, he was alone in his bed, or for what passed as one. His previous life, a life shared, became a vast land of loneliness, with sleeplessness as his bed-mate.
And then he met Lisbon, and over time, a very long time, grew to love her, but made excuse after excuse to avoid connection. And each time he crafted an excuse, the look of hurt in her eyes grew, and though denial should have become easier for him, it became increasingly difficult. Especially after he killed Red John, he feared she would look into his eyes and see his corruption. He feared that she'd look at his hands and be afraid of him.
Erica Flynn was right: he was drawn to Lisbon's innate goodness and purity. So why would Lisbon want to be with someone like him? She only took a life to save another. She didn't exact revenge. She believed in something pure, in justice.
He didn't blame her for giving up on him and taking up with Pike. Pike had not strangled the life out of someone with his bare hands.
When she took up with Pike, he thought it might be better for him-he'd at least still have her in his life. But Pike was taking her away, and rather than watch her leave, he came to his senses, and went after her in the nick of time and miraculously, she felt the same way. It almost convinced him that there was a higher power.
He thought about how different his life was since that night on the plane. He couldn't count all the times her mouth kissed his, or all the times her mouth encircled, engulfed him...no. He couldn't count all that. He couldn't count how many times he returned those kisses, how deep and wet and coffee-tinged her mouth was. How the remnants of her coffee combined with the taste of tea in his mouth.
It tasted wonderful.
And with each taste, each touch, each kiss, each smile, she was piecing him back together.
He was a work in progress.
From there, his thoughts drifted to the first time they made love in a Florida hotel: a night that turned back the clock and took him back to being a gawky teenager: shaking, unsure, touching her as if he'd never touched a woman before. And unbelievably, she acted the same way, all shaky hands and trembling voice, tentatively reaching out, even inquiring if she was "doing it right". He was simultaneously exhilarated and frightened when his hands first touched her breasts, doubly so when his mouth first kissed her breast. He was so sure that she would push him away.
But she didn't.
He remembered all the times over the years that he'd thought about how it would be to make love to her. Perhaps in a frenzied rush their first time, followed by hours of unhurried endless sex. He closed his eyes, and held her even closer to him, remembering how grateful and overcome he was after their first time, not wanting to show her lest she think less of him, kissing her sweetly in the hollow of her throat. How lucky he still felt after every time they made love. Because after each time, whatever was holding him together made him stronger.
And now he can't imagine ever being without her again. He's serious when he tells her he's afraid: because if he breaks and shatters again, no one will be able to piece him back together.
This night, she provided comfort to him when they went to bed. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, finally grasping onto his forearms, her sweet, strong legs on his shoulders, as he plunged into her. Told him to forget about her, that this was a night for him. She was his real present.
She's my gift, he thought with a wonder he was not used to feeling. She's mine, all mine.
It still seemed unbelievable. He did not deserve the privilege of burying himself deep inside her body, looking down on her as she arched toward him. He did not deserve the way she looked at him, as she moved up and down on him, and sideways and forwards and backwards, bracing, possessing him in more than body. He did not deserve that she let him touch her.
He was lucky beyond any definition of the word.
The teacup might be telling him something. Maybe next year, he'll be strong enough to talk about what his birthdays were like when he was a father. He thinks about what he told her: that after a bone breaks, they often say that the healed bone is stronger.
He now knows that this is true.
The next morning, he tries out the teacup at the office. Her repair work holds up. He spends the entire day flaunting the cup, especially in front of Abbott. Lets him see that not a drop is leaking. That what was destroyed is now whole again.