A/N: This will be my final attempt at Mentalist fics. I hope this will be an enjoyable final ode to my fics for you. My first chapters are usually nothing special, but it will pick up next chapter as I set the future in motion.

This story is really an AU of sorts that will eventually align with cannon by the end, mainly dealing with the question of what would have happened and how would the stars have aligned for our dynamic duo had Jane's wife and child not been brutally killed? What if the reason they passed by one another was something much more malevolent and trying? How would these two people find the strength to hold onto what they have? What if secrets from both of them are what threatens to pull them apart and not revenge seeking? Anyway, I hope you will like it. Enjoy!

The chill wind swept down on her like something she'd expect from her hometown back in Chicago. She clasped her jacket tighter around her body, catching a shiver not even the hot coffee in front of her could cure. Though there was little snow in Sacramento, it wasn't unusual for cold to come from the Pacific, drenching the bustling city in a cloud of chilly weather.

Today, however, it was more than just the low clouds and cold wind that was making her slim body shake; things were changing. She hated change. Well, no, she didn't hate change, she just didn't like when it sprang up on her like a jack-in-the-box. It was something she tried to avoid if possible. First, her relationship had crumbled, not that she'd consider it a relationship in terms of length, but it was the first one in a long while. Secondly, and probably most assuredly the reason for her sour mood, was her job was asking her to move to a position that would challenge her, make her a force in a job mostly filled by males. That made her nervous for a lot of reasons. She shivered again; God, how she wished it was vodka in her cup and not coffee.

"Long day?" a voice, sweet as honey, asked from the table next to hers, barely audible over the outdoor speaker playing some obscure song.

She glanced over involuntarily (being a detective made her actions almost autonomous), her green eyes falling to a blond man, his lips curled into a smile, dimpling at the corners and his teeth perfect through the opening in his lips. He was sitting alone, a cup of tea settled in front of him. She was taken aback by his handsomeness; his face was masculine, with a sharp jawline that receded to strong chin. His eyes were greenish-blue, but in the wave of clouds, they almost seemed as gray as the sky itself. Peculiarly, he was wearing an expensive looking suit, his hair slicked back in a neat wave. She almost would call his attire pretentious.

"You could say that," she answered, weighing her words carefully. "Am I that transparent?"

"You're almost invisible, my dear," he replied with a small chuckle, displacing a small strand of hair from his immaculate wave, falling across his smooth forehead. "It is rather unfair, though."

The questioning detective in her came roaring to the forefront, despite the reservations she felt about how charming this guy seemingly was. She had interrogated enough of these kinds of guys to know there was something wrong underneath. But, well, with her qualifications, she wasn't quite weirded out, yet.

"Unfair how?"

She was surprised when the well-dressed, charmingly handsome man stood and joined her at her table, pulling the chair out from her left and sitting to face her. This disarmed her; normally, she'd tell this creep to move on, but something rooted her to her chair, her mouth closing and her eyes staring at him with such intensity that the cold around her was forgotten in an instant. She was used to commanding situations—being the dominant one in conversations.

"Well," he told her, his eyes giving back the intensity of her own, "you could say it's how I make my living. For example," he said, holding up his index finger, "I am willing to bet you've just had a relationship sour."

She snorted, breaking the intense gaze between them. "I'm sorry, but any random stranger can guess that. I'm sitting alone outside a coffee shop in cold weather."

"Heartbreaker, I suspect," he went on, ignoring her attempt to explain his observation. "It wasn't what you thought it would be. He was too needy, but you…" he trailed off, his voice going soft, "…you are very strong, very much a control freak."

"You're creeping me out," she said, narrowing her eyes at him. She wasn't sure why, however. Was it because he was so charming and confident, or was it because he was hitting things dead on? There was a difference with the criminals she interrogated and this guy: she could read the deadbeats in the interrogation room. This guy was completely unreadable to her; a blank canvas of flesh and bone.

"Sorry," he apologized, though he made no attempt to leave her table. "It's your lack of perfume."

"Excuse me?"

"You aren't wearing perfume," he explained, motioning to his own neck to demonstrate. "You've opted not to wear it because it reminds you of him. He bought it for you."

"You smelled me?" She leaned back away from him in indignation.

"I smell you every day," he admitted. "Anyway, it's a lovely scent of jasmine. I'd say wear it."

"Are you aware that I am a police detective?"

"Oh, really? Fascinating. I suspect that encourages your need for control," he replied with a grin. "I'll help you: my name is Patrick Jane. I do hope that your research on me brings up the good articles. It would be a terrible waste for you to find the gossip, wouldn't it?"

She was stuck between being intrigued by him and ready to pull out her handcuffs currently hanging out in her pocket and slamming him into her coffee. He was strange, but something about him made her hesitate. She wasn't shaken by his uncanny ability to know about her troubles, she was drawn to his mysteriousness—how hard it was to read him. It was oddly refreshing to have a challenge on her hands.

"Depends how juicy the gossip is," she said, an involuntary smile falling across her face. "Teresa Lisbon," she introduced herself. "Patrick Jane. Nice name."

He smiled wider at her. "Suits me just fine. Teresa. That's a nice name, too."

In the coming days, weeks, and years, this would be the one memory that stuck in Lisbon's brain. It was innocent, then. It was something new and different, and the challenge was exciting. This is the moment she'd think about when things got hard, when things were no longer as blameless as they once were.

In all of the guesses and manipulations that he'd make between this moment and the moment they fell away from each other, there was a sense of loyalty; the conversations they had every day at the outdoor coffee shop would give her the chance to put him together like a puzzle, and understand him better than anyone. And, like nobody else could, he understood her—not to judge, and not to dismiss, but to advise and to collect her doubts. He was interested in her; in her home life, but especially in her professional life. It fascinated him greatly.

"We took your advice," said Lisbon, sipping her coffee and sitting back against the chair. "It didn't take him long to confess."

"Naturally," he replied, taking a small sip of his customary tea. "He was a narcissist. You just needed to stroke his ego enough for him to slip up."

"Mm," she agreed. "My team keeps asking me where I am getting my tips. When do you think you would want to meet them?"

"When it's appropriate," he answered. "Do you have another case for me to look at?"

In hindsight, she'd come to realize that his manipulations started early, but she didn't catch it. Changing the subject when she asked when he he'd like to meet her team, deflecting it to another topic. It wasn't clear then, but it would make sense in the future. Actually, a lot of what he said and did would make sense at a later date.

And, like always, she'd pull another folder from her bag and hand it over.

Their friendship reinforced at the same table, at the same time every single day. When Lisbon was having a particularly bad day, she'd vent to Jane, who, in turn, would give his advice and suggestions, to which she normally heeded. Though she'd do this to him, he'd never willingly give any information to her.

"What is it that you actually do, Jane?" asked Lisbon, finishing off the last of her scone. "I mean," her eyes raked over him slowly, "you dress to impress. Are you a lawyer?" She laughed.

"Not quite," he said quickly. "I'm a lot of things."

"You just seem well off." She motioned to his perfectly tailored suit and flawless hair. "You've never really given me anything about yourself other than the basics."

"I'm boring," is all he said.

She'd think back on this. In fact, she was thinking about it right now. She couldn't believe it, but she was sitting at the table at the coffee shop, sipping on her coffee, clasping her hand around her jacket, her eyes falling to the empty seat next to her.

"See you tomorrow, Teresa," he said.

"As always, Jane," she answered.

That was a year ago.

The same place, the same time, the same song playing on the outdoor speaker…

But he was gone.

She sipped her coffee, but her mind was elsewhere.

Where was Patrick Jane? Why did he leave with no goodbye? Most of all, why did this mysterious stranger make her care so much?

Lisbon slid the folder into the UNSOLVED pile, blowing out a breath that bounced the stray strand of hair from her forehead. Turning herself around, she hurried through the bustling bullpen, her badge scraping her belly as she glided forward through the clicking sounds of keyboards and phones ringing piercingly. It was the busiest time of the year: summer. Sure, you got whackos in winter and fall and spring, but the warmer weather always brought about fights and stupid antics that led to a folder with a victim's name on it. Along with it being the busiest, it was also the longest of her career. Gone were the days when she had Jane's help, not that she necessarily needed it, but it gave her a boost in her solved percentages.

"We are getting our asses handed to us," Cho told her, falling in line beside her as she made her way to the elevators. "I just got off the phone with someone asking us when we are going to solve her son's murder."

"We can add it to our growing list, Cho," she replied, a small, disjointed sigh squeaking out behind her words. "Rigsby and Van Pelt are working on leads on the Dublino murder, right?" She jammed a finger behind her near their desks.

"All morning." He waited until they came up on the elevators before he spoke again. "Minelli wants to see you, too, after lunch." He took in her sour face. "Don't kill the messenger, we might not be able to solve it."

Before she could reprimand him, he was gone, leaving her standing there waiting for the lift. She couldn't really blame him for stating the truth, anyway. Now, though, she had to worry about what Minelli would say. She was still new in her position as Special Crimes' head detective, and she hadn't proven herself quite yet—not even with the tips Jane had given her and her case closing rate. The year Jane hadn't been helping had been rough; she was great at her job, but she was no Jane. She couldn't see the little nuances that he could.

She braced herself for her usual lunch routine that some would call sad. She coached herself in the lift as it descended, while she was getting into her car in the parking garage ten minutes later, and while she was ordering her customary cup of coffee. She didn't expect to see him there as she had done when he first disappeared. Now, she just sipped her coffee slowly, her eyes glancing around and looking at the other patrons, Jane's observations from times gone by flooding her with memories:

"She's having an affair," he said, nodding his chin toward a red-headed woman sitting with a younger-looking man. "See how she hides her ring hand?"

She followed his eye gaze. Sure enough, her hand was stuck under the napkin on her lap. "No way!"

He chuckled softly and sat back. "The young fellow she's with is very enamored with her. I'd wager he's known her a long time. Maybe a friend of her husband's? No, too young. Possibly a relative of her husband's. She keeps staring at his face. She finds familiarity there."

She laughed and shook her head. He was amazing at reading other people. And when she would ask him about it, he'd quickly change the subject and the question would be lost in translation.

She snapped herself back to her present and sighed, wrapping her hands around her hot coffee. She didn't know why she kept coming back here expecting to see him. She knew he was gone. She didn't even know much about him, but she felt like she knew him for twenty years—it was like losing a dear friend! How could she possibly miss someone she doesn't even know enough to pinpoint his personality?

In the days after he vanished, she had researched him in hopes she'd find something, anything, about him. The only thing she found was another man with his name, but too old to be him. There were no missing persons reports bearing his name. She wasn't even sure if he had family. It's like he didn't exist at all.

She was tired of thinking about him! Tired of hoping he'd be sitting at the table when she arrived for her lunchtime coffee! She got along just fine without him before he showed up, and she'd suck it up and forget him now! She finished her coffee and headed back to the office, dreading the whiplashing she was sure she was going to get from Minelli. Pile up the shit while the fire is still burning, huh?

So, when she walked into his office five minutes later, she was surprised to see a smile on his face. She stood awkwardly at the door waiting for him to beckon her in.

"Ah, here she is now," he said, waving his hand for her to come in further. "Good. We can get this started."

Lisbon walked herself into the office and noticed that the chair to her left was occupied.

"He says you've met before," Minelli was saying, though his voice faded as her eyes locked onto the man in the chair.

"We have," Patrick Jane said, standing and planting that familiar smile across his face. "We meet again."