No part of Bruno Heller's Mentalist is mine. And Wintersong belongs completely to Sarah McLachlan.

Number 1 in the Holiday/Next Time Series

GOD BLESS US, EVERY ONE!

The Christmas party hadn't been so bad. Cornell from Organized Crime had been quite amusing with a little alcohol in him. He was a pretty big guy. It was surprising how little it had taken to get him completely inebriated. Apparently it was an annual event, his fellow team members seeing how quickly they could get him tanked and under the table. There had been the usual insipid conversation, as well as a kind of delirium Jane thought must be necessary for people who see the worst of society and risk their lives on a daily basis to have anything close to a good time free of inhibitions. He'd never gone to the annual event before, but Grace's Christmas spirit had reached a near fever pitch for some reason, and when she had pleaded with him to "Please at least show up this year", he had been unable to say no.

In spite of the fact that it was Christmas Eve, there had been a lot of people there. He would have assumed they would want to be with their families, but it occurred to him for the first time that most of the CBI agents lived in the same personal circumstances as those in the Serious Crimes Unit—very little or no family to speak of, at least not close by. Instead, many of the revelers had reserved rooms at the hotel where the party was held as a precaution against DUI.

Lisbon had left earlier, good-naturedly wishing everyone a Merry Christmas, and he didn't have much reason to stay after that. He had chosen long ago to not attach any significance to the fact that she seemed to be the only person whose company and conversation he truly enjoyed. Everyone should have one person in their life that they . . . liked? That really didn't describe it fully. Cared for? No, that was too much. He couldn't deny that he cared about Lisbon, but he wouldn't entertain the notion that caring for her was fundamental to his relationship with her. He didn't deserve that kind of friend.

She had made him promise that he would not spend Christmas Eve in that "probably infested hole" upstairs in which she knew he had taken up near residence. She had even arranged a room for him at a three-and-a-half star hotel, and he was sure she was footing the bill personally. Of course, the promise was a lie, but he didn't feel too badly about it, knowing she had lied about her plans for the holiday too. The reason she had given for leaving the party early was to catch the red-eye to Chicago to see her brothers over the four-day holiday leave she had requested. She was able nowadays to be a bit more convincing, but as soon as she told the team her plans, he had spotted the lie.

"Hey, Boss, what are you doing for Christmas? Celebrating with some old movies and mint chocolate chip?" Rigsby had asked in the discussion of holiday plans. She had laughed lightly, shaking her head at him.

"Nope. This year I'm going to see my brothers. It's been a while." She had said it with a smile—no trace of the tells that hindered her attempts at deception in the first years he had known her. Those had fallen away one by one. The guilty look, the lift in her voice, the rebellious glance up through her bangs as if she were daring him to catch her in the falsehood—all were gone now. But as the last words left her lips . . . there it was. That slight shift in her eyes. Lisbon's eyes were too honest to lie to anyone who was really watching. And Jane was always watching.

No, he didn't feel the smallest bit of guilt as he quietly made his way to the back entrance of the CBI, saying good evening to the parking lot guard.

As he approached the door, he looked up and was puzzled to see a faint glow shining in the window nearest his couch in the bullpen. What was that about? Maybe a last straggler from the cleaning crew was still up there. He had left his journal tucked safely away in the couch, and he would retrieve it before he went up to his—yeah, probably infested—"hole".

The elevator was still broken—had been out of service for the past three days. He took the stairs two at a time to emerge from the stairwell on the Serious Crimes floor. When he rounded the corner toward the bullpen, he noticed Lisbon's desk lamp was on. Glancing toward the bullpen door, he realized the glow he had seen from the parking lot came from the Christmas tree Grace had put up on his desk. "It's not like Jane uses it anyway" had been part of her argument to convince Lisbon to allow it. Just as swayed by Grace's need to have more than a paltry bit of Christmas as he had been, the Boss Lady had given in. But he was sure Grace had shut the lights off before they left for the party.

He stopped at Lisbon's open door to peek in, only to find that her office was empty. Turning back toward the bullpen to retrieve his journal, he stopped short when he realized someone was lying on his couch. Even in the low light emitting from the tree and in spite of her dark clothes, the outline of her slight form left no doubt as to her identity. She laid on her right side, facing the back of the couch, hands tightly clasped in front of her face, her knees drawn up into a partial fetal curl. He took a moment to marvel that she was small enough to fit completely within the depth of the seat in such a position. He moved a few steps closer and noticed the glass setting on the floor behind her at the same time that he realized music was playing softly, probably on Grace's computer. The strains of one song had just ended when another began, sung by a woman with a clear and haunting voice.

The lake is frozen over
The trees are white with snow
And all around
Reminders of you
Are everywhere I go

It's late and morning's in no hurry
But sleep won't set me free
I lie awake and try to recall
How your body felt beside me

When silence gets too hard to handle
And the night too long

As he watched her, Lisbon rolled at the waist until she was looking up at the ceiling, her knees still angled toward the couch's back. Her movement had pulled her left arm across her until her hand rested on her chest leaving her right hand still lying on the seat cushion next to her head.

And this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by

The next word was high and plaintive, a note of mourning sung as if it were torn from the singer's very heart.

Oh -
I miss you now, my love
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas
Merry Christmas, my love

Jane watched, mesmerized and a little horrified, as Lisbon closed her eyes and a single tear, capturing a sparkle of light from the tree, slid from the corner of her left eye and trailed down her temple into her hair. She covered her face with her hands and lay weeping, her sobs escaping in silent breaths. He wondered at what age she had learned to cry so quietly.

A sense of joy fills the air
And I daydream and I stare
Up at the tree and I see
Your star up there

He wondered for whom she wept. Her most recent loss as far as he knew had been Bosco just over a year ago. Though there had been no mistaking the man's feelings for her and her affection for him, Jane knew they had never been lovers. He looked more closely at the glass. The color of the liquid was rich and dark. Not Bosco. She had forsaken his preferred tequila for Scotch—the bottle she kept stashed away in the kitchen for toasting with the team on special occasions.

And this is how I see you
In the snow on Christmas morning
Love and happiness surround you
As you throw your arms up to the sky
I keep this moment by and by

Though the lyrics lamented a lost lover, he realized she wasn't mourning a lost love. She was mourning all of them—mother, father, estranged brothers and all the other loves of her life, past and future.

The song ended, and she roughly wiped her face dry. She suddenly turned and swung her legs over the edge of the couch seat, planting her feet flat on the floor and her hands on either side of her as if to push herself up. He knew he had watched for too long and was about to be caught, but she paused in that position leaning forward, her face some inches above her knees, giving him the seconds he needed to duck backwards into her open office door. She stayed that way for some time—he guessed—firming her resolve to go home to her empty apartment. He wondered if she had even put up a tree. He had only been to her home once, and, judging by the fact that the only artwork on her walls was purchased from a mega-home store by the previous tenants and half of her belongings were still packed in boxes stacked in the living room, he guessed not.

Still able to see her through the open blinds, he watched her lean down to collect the glass before she stood and walked to the tree. She reached out tentatively with one finger and nudged an ornament—the origami swan he had made as part of a group of animals because he knew how it would please Grace and amuse Lisbon. She watched it sway back and forth on its paperclip hook for a moment, smiling at it wryly before she sighed and walked out through the doorway and into the break room across from where he stood.

She poured the remaining Scotch down the sink and turned on the tap, her fingers fluttering back and forth in the stream of water, waiting for it to warm. He was drawn toward her as she performed the mundane task of washing the glass, squirting a drop of dish soap into it then using her fingers to push the foam around the inside and outside surfaces. She rinsed the lather away and turned off the tap, shaking off the excess water as she reached for a dish towel. He should probably just walk away before she turned around and caught him watching her.

"Flight get cancelled?"

Her shoulders tensed, and she paused in her movements, but only for a second or two before she resumed her slow circular sweeps with the towel. She opened the cabinet door and stretched up as far as she could reach to tip the glass upward onto the shelf. In an instant he was behind her, reaching up over her to push it firmly in place, her arm remaining extended over her head until she lowered it in sync with his. They stood a moment like that, her looking down into the now empty sink, him just behind her looking at the crown of her head. Without thinking, he moved his hands to rest on her shoulders. He had only touched her like that once before—one hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her as she looked on at the graveside funeral of a murdered girl, herself having shot the girl's killers to save him during one of his half-baked schemes.

"How long have you been here, Jane?"

"Long enough to enjoy the music. Was visiting your brothers ever a part of the plan?

"No. How long have you known?"

"Since you first lied to the team about it." He didn't count it as a lie to him. He had never believed it after all. His hands moved down her back to her waist, and he slid both arms around her. She tensed again, and her hands flew in reflex to grasp his forearms to pull them away from her, but he didn't budge.

"What are you doing?"

"What? I've hugged you before."

"Not like this."

He knew this was more intimate than the one time he had embraced her on a side street outside a victim's family home—even more intimate than the one time he had held her in his arms as they danced at the high school reunion of a bunch of strangers. But since any form of physical intimacy was generally well outside his periphery, he didn't think it any stranger than those occasions, even if he was acutely aware of the way the satin of her blouse warmed between her waist and his hands. On the contrary, he wanted to fully hug her, even if from behind. She was still wearing the four-inch heels she had donned for the party, so she was too tall for him to comfortably tuck her head under his chin. He chose instead to lean his cheek on her shoulder, careful at least to face away from her neck. It really didn't surprise him when she relaxed into him and let her hands rest on his arms.

"You are such an ass."

He turned his head, resting his grin against the top of her shoulder, noticing the fabric of her blouse was warm there, too. He didn't bother moving his lips away to speak.

"You and your Christmas sentimentality."

She closed her eyes and chuckled, leaning her head against his only momentarily before she patted his hands, signaling the hug was over.

"I have ice cream at home calling my name."

He gave her a slight squeeze and brushed his lips against her shoulder in a not-really, sort-of kiss before he let her go. Without looking at him, she stepped around him and walked to her office to collect her things. She sensed him following her.

"Go to the hotel, Jane. The room's paid for. It's Christmas Eve. I don't want to think about you holed up here for the night."

"Well, Lisbon, I'm happy and flattered that you would think of me during your off hours at all."

She smirked at her scarf before she wound it around her neck then picked up her coat to slide it on.

"I mean it. Please go to the hotel . . .," she looked straight at him now. ". . . for me."

Well, since she put it like that. He nodded at her, only vaguely understanding why it would be so important to her. She wanted a reprieve from worrying about him. One night in a hotel wouldn't really change anything—he wouldn't sleep any better, and his mind would be occupied with the same dark thoughts. But it would be an illusion of something more normal. He could at least give her that. She nodded back, signaling that she knew he would do as she asked.

Watching her shrug her bag onto her shoulder, he was taken by a sudden impulse.

"Come to a late supper with me. There's a little Sicilian restaurant not far from here. It's not too cold, we could walk there. Or you could drive and drop me at the hotel after."

She paused in her movements and looked at him, smiling as if she were laughing at him only a little, mocking him.

"'That's a very sweet offer. Do I really seem so sad?'"

He wondered why that was so familiar. Ah, he remembered. It was the same thing he had asked her after they had cleared his former psychiatrist, Sophie Miller, of murder. Lisbon had seen him kiss Sophie good-bye and teased him over it, then immediately tried to cheer him out of what she thought was his sadness over— Why had she thought him sad? Over saying good-bye to Sophie? That hadn't been it at all. He had only been contemplating the sad life Sophie had come to and that, due to the fact that his debt to her was now paid in full, he could close the door on that chapter of his own life.

"D'ya wanna drive?" She had that look she wore when she felt badly for him, like he was a child whose favorite toy had broken.

"Ah, that's a very sweet offer. Do I really seem so sad?"

She didn't want him to read anything into it, and he seemed to be laughing at her a little. She went on the defensive.

"What? I was just asking you if you wanted to drive."

"You don't like it when I drive—you despise it."

"You drive way too fast!"

"I drive just fast enough . . . You hate not being the one in control, and yet you're willing to overcome your irrational fears to cheer my up." He smiled at her. "That's a beautiful thing, Lisbon." He unclicked his seatbelt. "Thank you! I'd love to drive."

He knew he had stepped over the line but was still surprised by her quick reaction.

"Never mind." And just like that, any sympathy or soft feeling she had for him in the moment was gone as she threw the vehicle into gear and accelerated so quickly that she actually peeled out.

They bickered most of the time they were together, sometimes like siblings, sometimes like kids on the playground and sometimes—like then—as if they were a long-married couple. If asked, he would be hard pressed to say which one was his favorite. He carried on the mock conversation as she had begun it.

"What? I just asked you if you wanted to go to supper."

She smiled, knowing he had understood her joke. She was wise enough to not psychoanalyze him as he had her. Sometimes it was best to just let it be, and she always knew when that was the case. She knew him. She had asked for a few of his secrets, and he had learned to give them up to her willingly, not having them extricated in times of weakness or drug-induced cooperation. Unlike Sophie, he didn't think his debt to Lisbon could ever be fully repaid.

She wanted to say yes. She was considering it. But he knew what her answer would be.

"Rain check?"

He slid his fists into his jacket pockets and looked down at the floor, nodding once. "Sure."

But he quickly looked up and grinned genuinely at her. "But next time I won't take no for an answer."

Her smile was non-committal, not wanting to promise anything. No mind. Next time he would badger her until she gave in under the power of sheer annoyance. For her, it was his one unfailingly irresistible charm.

She turned out her light, stepped out of the office with him and turned back to lock her door. A few steps toward the stairs and she realized he wasn't following her. She turned back to look at him uncertainly.

"You coming?"

"I just need to get a few things."

She looked at him pointedly.

"Before I go to the hotel."

She gave him a tired smile and turned to go.

"Merry Christmas, Teresa."

In its usual context, the phrase would have been meaningless to him. He hoped she comprehended what he was trying to say even though he wouldn't exactly have been able to put it into words himself—what it meant in the context of them. She stopped in her tracks, looking straight ahead for a few seconds. Then, she turned and walked back to him, and, laying her left hand on his right shoulder, she rose up slightly on her toes and kissed him lightly on his left cheek before whispering in his ear.

"Merry Christmas, Jane."

He turned his face toward her and tucked his chin, looking at her in mock surprise then raising his eyes as if to look for something hanging from the ceiling over his head. She smiled at him and lifted her hand to pat his cheek. Turning again, she walked to the stairwell and disappeared through the door.

He suddenly thought to call to her to wait while he gathered his things so he could walk her out, but she had said her good-bye, and whatever the moment had been was over.

Later in his hotel room, he read a note from Lisbon wishing him a good night and telling him she had ordered breakfast to be brought to his room at eight the next morning (including hot tea and milk). He smiled down at the paper in his hand. Not content to merely dictate where he spent the night, she would also mandate how long he remained there. Control freak.

He decided to lay his journal aside for the evening. He guessed he wanted a kind of reprieve too. He slipped into his pajamas and, even though he usually didn't drink hard liquor, rummaged through the stocked refrigerator until he found a small bottle of Scotch. After pouring all the dark amber liquid into a glass tumbler, he turned on the television, turned off the bedside lamp and sat on the bed leaning against the headboard, his legs extended in front of him and the down comforter pulled up over him.

He picked up the remote and channel surfed, deciding to watch the old black-and-white "A Christmas Carol" that was playing on a non-stop twenty-four-hour loop on the movie classics channel. The flickering light from the television was all that lit the otherwise darkened room. He nursed the Scotch, taking a sip every several minutes, grimacing at each swallow. In the film's final moment, when Tiny Tim cried out his Christmas blessing on all the gathered company, Jane raised his glass in a silent toast to Lisbon and downed the final bit of drink.

He clicked the remote to power off the television, set the tumbler on the bedside table and scooted full under the covers, pulling the comforter up around his ears. He shifted to lie on his left side, the knuckles of his left hand curled into his cheek where Lisbon had kissed him. And then he indulged himself in a way that over the years had become completely foreign to him.

Remembering that New Year's Eve was only a week away, he closed his eyes and thought to himself with a smile, "Next time."

END