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The last thing Teresa Lisbon expects when she’s been summoned to the FBI, is to be reunited with one Patrick Jane. But here she is, and here he is, in all his sun-kissed glory, hair a little longer and curls a little looser. He wears a suit jacket over a green patterned shirt, and she can’t recall a time when she’d seen him in anything other than blue and gray.
He looks older, the lines around his eyes more pronounced from his time in the sun, though his eyes sparkle with a new light that she hasn't really seen much of before.
And seeing him again a mere foot before her, alive and healthy and real— she can't help the smile that splits across her face. The best she can come up with in the moment is nice beard— it is a very nice beard; more mature, sexy even— and then she's thanking him for the letters and he's beaming back at her.
He pulls her to his chest faster than she anticipates, hugging her— no, engulfing her in his arms and it feels even better than the last time they’d held each other. His touch is insistent, heavy, and she can't help but to think of how she’s missed this— missed him.
They separate far too soon for her liking, and even though Abbott joins them, she can't keep her eyes off of him. She catches herself sneaking glances at his profile, tracing the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw; craving a little more time to drink this new version of him in.
Of course she's had an inkling of what charges might be laid against him, but it doesn't make it any easier to listen to them read aloud so casually. Especially when Jane just sits there with an amused expression on his face and undeniable tricks up his sleeve— his familiar stubbornness bountiful.
Her name being on his list is another surprise, and it's sweet for a moment until it isn't, and she realizes what it means. Of course she wants to work with him again, to close the gap that the distance had brought forth, but then she’d have no say. Washington isn't great, it's lonely and isolating— perfect for her own self imposed purgatory— but it's her own. She calls the shots and people actually listen to her instead of undermining her authority and causing problems and running away and breaking her heart and—
Maybe that last bit was a tad dramatic, but all the same.
And then Jane is— well, he's Jane. He's headstrong and stubborn and fighting the FBI, for God's sake. How he ever thought that he could bend them to his will, she has no idea. But then he's back in cuffs and she's excused, and back in Cannon River before she can even fully process what just happened.
Jane is back. He's alive and well, and incarcerated. And she's back in this God-forsaken town in her God-forsaken uniform, twiddling her thumbs and catching drunk-and-dissorderlies, and her life is completely upturned once again, and it's all his fault.
And then Kim shows up, asking for her help as if she's ever had any modicum of control over her ex-consultant. As if he's ever listened to her, followed orders, stayed when told—
But the FBI leaves her with no room for refusal, and she knows in her bones that she's in for some trouble. They think she's playing some game, but Jane has always danced to his own tune, and rarely does he like to make it a partner performance. But they need him, and to get him they need her, and again, she's half pleased and half perplexed. They aren't even in the same state and he's playing with her life.
She's nothing if not a good little soldier though, so hauls herself back to Austin, back into the familiar role of the innocent bystander in Jane's schemes.
He leaves again— and she thinks this is it, he's really done it this time. And then she thinks, well this is on me. I trusted him, and I was played for the fool. Was I really expecting this time to be any different?
The answer is unfortunately yes. For all of Jane's tricks and deceit, he was growing predictable. She's in on the plans one moment, and in the dark the next. He's in her life one moment, out the next. It's their cycle, just the way of the world— ongoing, rarely changing.
He completes the cycle by coming back, surrendering in the most Jane way possible. Big, dramatic, easily avoidable.
Lisbon's upset, and rightfully so. She tells him she's done being a pawn, and he acts chastened, remorseful. But his actions don't match his words— he says he wants to work with her, be her partner— except he's still too Goddamn determined to get his way. She mentally prepares herself to return to Washington once more, and though she wants to be happy that she has some sort of closure— she can't be.
He broke back into her life and bulldozed any sense of stability she'd regained, and she can't be angry.
It's maddening. He's maddening. But she can't. She missed him— misses him still. He's one building over but it feel like he's a thousand miles away, back on that beach in Venezuela, her heart with him.
Because as much as she wants to loathe him— she loves him. She can't not. He's her best friend, her confidant, the writer of her precious letters. He risked his freedom to stay in contact, to keep her afloat when she felt like she was drowning when he first ran away. He's both her downfall and her saviour, the deep, dark, open ocean that threatens to swallow her up, and the life preserver that keeps her afloat. He both frustrates her, and brings unimaginable joy— more than anyone she'd ever dream of meeting in Cannon River. She really doesn't want to go back.
And then, by the grace of whatever powers may be, she doesn't have to.
So when she barges into his cozy cell and tells him he's brought the FBI to its knees, it's not with the air of generalized disappointment she used to regard him with. No, now she's impressed, and maybe just a little bit excited. His eyes sparkle with mirth as he essentially tells her I told you so, and though he looks a little guilty when she tells him off for muddling in her life, the sparkle doesn't dull.
And perhaps that's the reason she can't seem to stop herself from leaning closer, closer, until their faces are mere inches apart. Let's see what trouble we can make, she tells him, and his smile widens even further. It's hypnotic, something she's rarely seen so openly. He gives them out easily nowadays, and her heart stutters a moment.
His eyes are large, pupils wide and she briefly remembers him telling her once upon a time that that was a sign of want. But the blues of his irises are still present, still as careful and clever as ever. She'd gladly drown in his gaze, her mind drifting along to the what-if's and the maybes that two years apart had left her with in abundance. But she doesn’t have to, because a hand settles over hers from where she leans on the bed, his other wrapped around his new handmade socks, testing the waters.
She's the one to take the plunge, closing the gap between them with a splash. His lips are soft, a little chapped though, and his scruff teases her chin and the palm of her hand. He kisses her like a starving man devouring his first meal in a decade, and she lets him. She's been dreaming about this moment for years and years, and it doesn't disappoint.
When he falls onto his back, she falls with him, his hand tangled in her hair and hers around his suit jacket's lapels. He forgets about the socks for a moment, his newly freed hand grabbing her waist, pulling her closer until their both balanced precariously on the one-man cot, legs tangled and breaths mingling. She's not as young as she used to be— way back when she first started to love him— and her backs gonna be feeling this awkward entanglement tomorrow, but when he guides her head back down she doesn't resist.
This doesn't mean that all is forgiven, but it's a good place to start. They'll have to have a chat, to sort out the ocean's worth of tangled feelings between them, but for now they let their joint lips do the talking.
In a moment, there's going to be guard rapping on the glass warningly, and they'll be forced to seperate— embarrassed, but ecstatic.
In a minute, they're going to exit the cell hand in hand, twin smiles on their faces.
In an hour, Jane is going to ask her to dinner, and he's going tell her all of the things that he couldn't bear to write in his letters.
And come morning, Lisbon is going to drag herself out of his cozy grip in her hotel room bed, so they can get ready for the first day of the rest of their lives.