Wow. Two stories in six months? I must be on a roll.

Okay, this is my first published foray into the Mentalist fandom, but it's not my first time writing the lovely Jane and Lisbon, so hopefully I've managed to do them justice. I'd planned to finish one of my multi-chapters before straying into yet another new J/L piece, but after that finale... *swoons* Well. Apparently I have no self-control. Anyway, here's what I came up with in the glorious wake of "Blue Bird," so without further ado, here's my attempt at drinking the proverbial post-ship-sailing Kool-Aid. *grins* Hope you guys enjoy!

Lyrics and bookend quote are borrowed from OneRepublic and Veronica Roth.

Disclaimer: ...Yeah, right.

So now, you confess that you need me,

And now, you release what you're feeling,

But how is this supposed to ever be the same?

It takes her a full ten minutes to get off the plane.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen, she tells herself as she clings to her own arms and crushes a now-damp Kleenex in her hand. The crumpled material sticks to her skin; she doesn't notice, doesn't think she can feel anything but the persistent thrumming of her heartbeat against her ribs and the ache of repressed tears building in her throat. This wasn't how her time with him was supposed to end: fighting through closed hotel room doors, making admissions that only drew blood, leaving each other in more pain than they were when they first met. He wasn't supposed to lie to her (again), manipulate her into believing her happiness was the only thing he wanted; she wasn't supposed to fall for his tricks just as hard as she'd once fallen for him. They weren't supposed to end up hurting each other. She wasn't supposed to admit he'd ever caused her pain.

But here she is, sitting alone on an almost-departing flight, and now that he's gone, the plane feels as empty as she does inside.

Her shoulders hitch as she bites back the turmoil clawing at her throat. Damn it, Jane, she mouths silently. Goddamn it. How could she have been so stupid? She should have known from the minute she called for a taxi that he'd never let her go. After all, this is the man that put his whole life on hold for more than ten years while he chased down a serial killer and claimed his revenge. This is the man who's worn the same pair of shoes for twelve years and had them resoled rather than replaced. Jane is many things, but "open to change" is not one of them; she'd known that well before she decided to rock the boat and leave, and she thinks she's stupid for letting it surprise her in the first place. He won't take this lying down. He'll do something stupid, like fabricating a letter from a killer, digging up an old murder case, chasing down a plane because he…

"…but the truth, Teresa, is that…I can't imagine waking up knowing I won't see you. The truth is… I love you."

Because he loves her.

"Good luck, Teresa. Love you."

Like she still loves him.

"…it scares me…and it is the truth…"

She leans forward and presses her forehead to her knees.

The hand that comes to rest gently on her back draws her out of the agony she's been spiraling into. She holds back the pressure rising in her chest and looks up to find the kind-eyed woman in Twelve A rubbing gentle, soothing circles on her spine, the gesture so maternal it nearly brings fresher tears from her eyes. She holds them back, determined to appear brave, but when she opens her mouth to speak, all she manages to do is draw in a shaky breath that rattles against the inside of her lungs, and as the sound whispers quietly through the empty air, she prays no one's heard her sound so weak. The woman next to her doesn't seem to mind, however. She merely continues tracing invisible lines up and down Teresa's back with her fingertips, and if the younger woman closes her eyes, she can almost pretend it's her long-dead mother's touch.

"He hurt you once, didn't he?"

The question shocks Lisbon from her stupor. Startled, she opens her eyes wide and lets her jaw hang slightly in surprise, because she's been on the receiving end of such questions before, but never from anyone but Jane. "What?"

Twelve A's expression softens behind her glasses. "More than once," she observes, her voice as gentle as her hand. Up, down. Up, down. The motion is almost hypnotic, and if she hadn't been listening closely, Lisbon thinks she would have missed the woman's next words. "That's why you told him it's too late, isn't it?"

Her first instinct is to deny it. She has so many reasons for the answer she gave, so many reasons that would absolve her if she were only to say them out loud. She tells herself it's not about the endless days wasted loving a man who'd lied to her and left her and used her time and time again. She tells herself it's because she's engaged to someone else, and for a second there, she can almost believe it. But the minute she tries to force those words past her lips, she knows without a shadow of a doubt she's only lying to herself. It's not about Marcus―it's never been about Marcus. It's always been Jane, even when she didn't see it. The revelation knocks her flat on her ass. "Yes."

The woman beside her smiles sadly. "I thought as much." She sighs. Lisbon's intensely private nature is beginning to make her regret her almost-silent admission when Twelve A speaks again. "You know, it's funny," she murmurs, her eyes adopting a faraway look. "We always seem to hurt the ones we care the most about. But if we get right down to it…" Her gaze catches Lisbon's. "It doesn't stop us from loving them any less."

Lisbon swallows. The lump in her throat has swelled big enough to choke her.

Twelve A reaches out to take her hand. "I don't know you, dear, but I do know something about regrets. You're going to have to live with the choices you make. So you have to decide which you'd rather live with: What happens if you stay on this plane, or what happens if you get off."

"Attention all passengers: Due to unforeseen complications, takeoff will be delayed for the next half hour. We apologize for the inconvenience. Thank you for your patience, and please accept a complimentary beverage while you wait. Thank you for choosing American Airlines."

Teresa scarcely takes a breath. Delayed takeoff. There's still time.

"You have to decide which you'd rather live with: What happens if you stay on this plane, or what happens if you get off…"

"I love you, Teresa. And it makes me happy to be able to say that to you…"

And suddenly, she's on her feet.

She doesn't see the look of bittersweet pride on Twelve A's face as she grabs her few carry-on bags and marches toward the front of the plane. She barely notices the flight attendant's alarmed look as she resolutely heads for the door, and when they try to stop her, she straightens her spine and does the only thing she can think to do:

"My name is Special Agent Teresa Lisbon, FBI, and I need to get off this plane."

The door opens, and securing her badge, she steps out into the balmy night air.

Behind her, the entire plane begins to cheer.

The airport is beginning to quiet down as Lisbon trades tarmac for rough carpet and tile. She takes a deep breath as the automatic doors swish shut behind her, cold air flooding her lungs. The part of her brain that's still functioning as an FBI agent knows that if she wants to find Jane, heading towards the TSA detention area would probably be a good place to start, but for reasons she doesn't care to think about, she can't bring herself to take that first step just yet. As much as she needs to see him, as much as she needs answers, she can't look into those seascape eyes until she's had a chance to think first.

And in order for her to think, she first has to be alone.

The bathrooms on this side of the airport are small and rarely frequented, but they serve her purpose well as she stumbles through the doors and locks herself in. The room is sterile, white, black tiles breaking up the monotonous lack of color, three sinks gleaming dully in the harsh fluorescent light. She angles herself towards the one in the corner, and her hands are shaking uncontrollably by the time she forces them under the lukewarm spray.

Time drags forward with immeasurable inexorability as she stands there, for seconds or hours, clutching the sink. Water drips slowly from the faucet in an erratic rhythm, droplets breaking apart as they catch the rim of the drain. Tinier droplets join them in salted flashes of silver. She stares at them almost unblinking before it dawns on her to question their origin; when she looks up and catches her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror, she realizes those little droplets are her own, infinitesimal pieces of her shattering against the white porcelain of the sink. Trembling fingers trace the lines of saline painting her skin. She feels so disconnected somehow, as if one touch will fracture the brittle framework that makes her. Why is she even crying? She's not this weak.

Dammit, Jane, what have you done to me?

But… she knows what he's done to her. She knows what he's done, or claimed to do, and that's what she can't wrap her head around no matter how hard she tries. "The truth is… I love you. You can't imagine how good that feels to say out loud, but it scares me… and it is the truth." How many times has she replayed that in her mind? She's heard a variation of it before, four years ago, when he put three bullets into her Kevlar vest and spent six months shutting her out of his life. He took it back then―what's to stop him from taking it back now? What is there to prove that he actually means what he said, that he's not just screwing with her and saying whatever he needs to in order to convince her to stay? How is she supposed to trust him when he's proved to her so many times that she can't?

Because you want to trust him, Teresa. Isn't that good enough?

No, she tells herself. It's not good enough. It's nowhere near good enough―that's the problem. She's spent so many years waiting for him, so many years caring about him when he thought he had nothing left, praying for him to find the forgiveness he sought even if it was only from himself―she did everything she could for him, and in the end, everything still fell apart. He still left the CBI for six months without sending her a word. He still abandoned her on a beach in California after telling her how much she meant to him, more than she knew but apparently less than his revenge. He still killed Red John and ran for two years, years that could just as easily have been decades had Abbott and Fischer not tracked him down and enticed him to come back. A year ago, she'd thought she'd never see him again, and it had nearly killed her inside, but she'd made her peace with it. He didn't belong to her, and he never had. But now, twelve years and a thousand regrets later, when she's the one leaving for a future and a man she could someday learn to love… Now he can't let her go. Now he's telling her all those things she'd needed to hear so long before, and it's killing her all over again because she wants to believe him, but she can't risk giving him the part of her she's kept locked away for so long only to watch him leave again. She can't, and she's terrified, and she's hiding in this bathroom now because it's easier than facing what she's not sure is the truth. So why is she even standing here when she knows Marcus is waiting for her in D.C.?

Because I can't love him. And it's not fair to either of us to pretend that I do.

The world seems to stop spinning for half a second as the gravity of that one statement hits her full-force. I can't love him. Not I could love him, or I'll learn to love him, or even I'll make it work. I can't. That's the most honest thing she's told herself since this whole ordeal started. That's what she's somehow always known, but refused to admit even to her own mind. I can't love him.

She sags limply against the wall, and gravity takes her slowly, gently, off her feet.

It's been staring her in the face this whole time, this revelation that, in retrospect, seems so painfully obvious it shames her to think that she's never realized it before. All this time, all these months with Marcus, she's been beating herself up for not feeling the way she knows she should feel about him―she's analyzed, and over-analyzed, and come to the conclusion that the reason she can't commit to loving him is because there's something wrong with her, because she's defective in some way. If she's being honest with herself, she knows she is: She's stubborn, and hard, and distant, and afraid of much more than she'd care to admit―but even with all that against her, it's never once crossed her mind to think that it's not something wrong with her, but it's something not right with him. Marcus is a good man, she knows it―a little pushy and passive-aggressive at times, but good, strong and steady and sure. He's the kind of man she would have settled down with in another life: bought a house, had kids, gotten a dog and a white picket fence, lived the American Dream. But she'd had an opportunity at that life before, when she was nineteen and still reeling from her father's suicide and Greg was promising to keep her afloat, and she'd turned it down because it had been wrong for her then and it was wrong for her now. She'd given back the ring and taken care of her brothers and entered the Academy as soon as she finished her degree, and she'd done it all because she'd known, she'd known, that it was the right choice for her. That same assurance, warm and terrifying and pulling undeniably at her sternum, is what she's feeling right now, and it's not sending her towards Marcus. It's leading her towards Jane, and she finally understands that she can't give whatever's left of her heart to Marcus Pike because she cannot give away what no longer belongs to her.

"Lisbon. I want you to know that you can trust me. No matter what happens, I will be there for you. I will. I need you to know that."

"I'm looking for someone who, uh… someone I can trust. Someone strong. Someone at peace with themselves. Someone better than me. Someone who knows the... worst side of me and still loves me."

"Look, I-I've been thinking… a-about you leaving, and… I want you to know that I-I really want you to be happy, and that is the most important thing to me, that you do what makes you happy."

"You're right. You're right; I-I have forgotten how to act like a normal human being. And I play games, I lie, and I trick people… to avoid the truth of how I feel. And the idea of letting anyone close to me is―is terrifying for obvious reasons. But the truth, Teresa, is that… I can't imagine waking up knowing I won't see you. The truth is… I love you. You can't imagine how good that feels to say out loud, but… it scares me… and it is the truth, it is the truth of what I feel."

And sitting there on that bathroom floor, back to the wall and knees to her chest, she laughs until she cries because she loves Patrick Jane, and it's okay, and she cannot for the life of her understand how something so painful and complicated for so long can become so unbelievably simple with one confession. They're both broken, and she can still see the cracks when they're held up to the light, but maybe it's the mixing of pieces and the sharing of scars that will make them whole again. She's not perfect, and neither is he―he's hurt her, and she's hurt him, and she knows the damage they've done to each other won't just go away or cease now that the truth is out in the open. But even with the risks, even with the memory of past hurts and the promise of future ones, they've chosen each other over and over again, and though it seems small, it's more than enough. They're not running anymore. He loves her. She loves him. And it might not be perfect, but nothing ever is, and it's a damn good place to start.

"I needed to get to this, and you deserve to hear it. I love you, Teresa. And it makes me happy to be able to say that to you."

He's stripped his soul bare and laid the truth out at her feet. Now it's her turn to let go and embrace that honesty, and smiling through her tears, she pushes herself forward and never once gives thought to looking back.

Dawn is creeping over the horizon in mixed shades of pale pink and yellow when she enters the TSA office and asks to see Jane. They check her bags at the door, as if expecting her to be part of some grand scheme to spring their detainee from custody, but after a few assurances that though she's a member of the FBI she's not here in any official capacity, they agree to let her through. Let Abbott fill out the paperwork―that's not why she's here. She just needs to talk to Jane, and she'd rather not wait 'til they're in front of an audience of their peers to have this particular conversation. It's taken twelve years and a thousand mistakes to get them here, and she's not wasting any more chances when there's this much on the line.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. It's in your hands, Teresa. You don't have to run this time.

And she doesn't. Because all it takes is that one split second where his eyes meet hers, and suddenly, running is the last thing on her mind.

"…Hey."

It's funny, she thinks, how much you can see in another person's eyes. It's not like the movies, all their thoughts and feelings imprinted like words in a book. It goes so much deeper than any unsubstantiated cliché, deep enough to rattle her bones and steal the air from her lungs when his eyes come alive with joy and relief at her presence and his lips turn up in the shadow of a smile. "Hi."

"This is another fine pickle you've gotten yourself in, huh?"

He barely blinks at the rapid change in subject. This is what they find familiar, this teasing and prodding and these comments rife with snark. Maybe it's just another form of dancing around the issue, but honestly, she doesn't care―they've survived on repartee and furtive glances for twelve years, and two more minutes of it while they gather their courage won't make a difference. "Eh, I've seen worse, pickle-wise."

She smiles. "Yes, you have." Her gaze holds his a long moment before she tilts her head to gesture at his bound and injured foot. "How's the ankle?"

"Oh, it's fine." He shrugs it off like it's nothing, like jumping a fence and getting arrested by the TSA is just another walk in the park. She waits for him to make another witty comment, but it never comes; instead, his eyes trace the planes of her face, memorizing every freckle and line and scar. He's memorizing her, as if he thought he'd never get the chance again. The realization sends a pang through her heart. "You didn't go to D.C."

She shakes her head. "No." There's so much she needs to tell him, but reservation is holding her back. She can't give herself up to him completely until she knows what her heart's already told her to be true, so she drinks in the disbelieving wonder in his expression and screws up her courage. His eyes tell a story all their own, but she needs to hear it from his lips, and she has to steady herself when the words come spilling off her tongue. "Did you mean what you said?"

The second and a half of silence that stretches between them feels like an eternity. She hangs onto her confidence with a white-knuckled grip and tells herself that what he says doesn't matter: if he backpedals, she's strong, she'll cut her losses and figure out things on her own. But if he's ready for this, if he really does want her, if everything they've fought for has finally brought them full-circle after twelve years and a serial killer and two thousand miles' distance in between…

He holds her gaze. "Yes I did."

And the last vestiges of doubt are finally swept from her mind. His words may have given her the confirmation she wanted, but it's the pure, unmasked love she sees in his face and his eyes right now that convinces her he's telling the truth, and God, she has to remind herself to breathe. She smiles.

"Good."

And of course, he has to ruin the moment, because he's Jane, and this is what they do.

"Just to be clear, we're talking about pickles, right?"

Had he been anyone else, she probably would have slapped him. Hell, had she not been so completely and ridiculously overwhelmed, she probably still would have. But his voice is just a little too unsteady and the joke a little too flat, and she knows he's secretly giving her an out if she wants one. She ignores another little pang in her chest and lets it slide. He's got faith in everything but her ability to love him, and it's up to her to change that. "No―Um, the other thing."

Feigned comprehension dawns on his face. Once a showman, always a showman. "Oh, that," he whispers heavily, as if there was ever any doubt.

Her eyebrows arch in half-amusement. "This is no joking matter."

And it's not, even if she lets him tease her like this was any regular conversation on any regular day. She expects to have to twist his arm, somehow, to get a straight answer, but he surprises her by looking directly into her eyes and speaking in a voice that's low and smoky and warm. "Yes," he says, pausing to let it sink in. There's no hint of deception in his features―just blatant, honest, open truth. "I meant what I said, every word of it."

"Good." She summons all her courage and puts every ounce of strength she has into making him believe her. "Because I feel the same way."

And oh, the brilliant, wide smile he gives her is one of the most beautiful things she's ever seen.

His red-rimmed eyes are damp as he stares back at her, heart on his sleeve and joy in his gaze. He'd really thought he'd been too late, she realizes. He loved her, and he'd told her, but he'd been prepared to let her go because to him, her happiness was worth more than his. He would accept whatever decision she made even if it didn't involve him, and that understanding is bittersweet enough to make her hurt. He actually, honestly, truthfully, and completely loved her enough to let her go.

"Well, that's lucky," he says. She can't help but agree.

Then his face falls, and she feels her stomach go with it.

The cogs are turning in his head nearly fast enough for her to see as she watches him puzzle it out. He sounds almost unsure when he speaks. "What about Pike?"

"I just don't understand, Teresa. This, us… What we have is worth something, okay? I care about you, and yeah, maybe it's too early for you to tell if it's honest to God, head-over-heels true love, but it's still here. I'm still here. And I know you care about Jane; I know you've always cared. But… how can you walk away from a good thing for someone you don't even know you can trust?"

She never meant to hurt Marcus. In all honesty, hurting him was the last thing she wanted―but it happened anyway, and they ended that phone conversation with her in tears and him in wounded silence. She knows he deserves better, but… he also deserves the truth, and because she can't share their last call with Jane, not yet, she swallows her guilt and says the only thing she can:

"He'll understand."

Someday.

She prays to God it's both true and enough.

Seconds drift by in unbroken silence. She thinks he's seen through her from the sympathy in his gaze and the gentle set of his mouth, but when he doesn't say anything, she's thankful. She gives in to the timid, insecure impulse bubbling up in her throat and delivers the words with as much bravado as she can. "Say it again."

He doesn't miss a beat. "Say what again?"

She gives him a look in answer, but the punch line she's expecting never comes. He looks at her, one of those looks where she swears he sees into her, then rises slowly from his chair and reaches to gently take hold of her chin, lifting her face up to him, sliding the callused flesh of his finger imperceptibly across her skin before he kisses her with everything his words can't say. We should have done this a long time ago, she thinks, before losing herself in the warm pressure of his lips. But we're here today, and maybe, in the end, that's enough.

The TSA agent keeping watch over them begins to bang on the glass and protest their unauthorized physical contact. Neither of them gives a damn, but when they finally break apart, Jane interlaces their fingers and locks his gaze with hers. "I love you," he whispers.

She smiles through the burn of sudden tears. "I know," she murmurs back.

And she does.

Later, after Abbott has sprung them and they've gone to their newly-booked hotel room and spent hours confessing and apologizing and learning each other, she'll wake up tangled in his arms and smile, letting the words "I love you" ghost across the fabric of his shirt. Later, they'll venture back to Austin and learn their new boundaries and eventually progress their relationship beyond these deep, lingering kisses that are too much and not enough in the same breath, and he'll put his ring on the chain around her neck, and she'll realize that she's got him, too, every time she reaches for her mother's cross. Later, someday, maybe there will be a band on her finger and a hyphen in her last name and a house full of warmth and laughter and possibly even a kid or two, and she'll smile because for the first time, the thought of that life doesn't fill her with apprehension or fear. But for now, she's content to be here, with him, and let the warm light of dawn chase all of their shadows away. They've been to hell and stumbled a few times on the way back, but somewhere between here and there, they found each other. This time, they're not letting go.

And as he returns her brilliant smile, she thinks that's all that matters.

I used to think that when people fell in love, they just landed where they landed, and they had no choice in the matter afterward. And maybe that's true of beginnings, but it's not true of this, now.

I fell in love with him. But I don't just stay with him by default as if there's no one else available to me. I stay with him because I choose to, every day that I wake up, every day that we fight or lie to each other or disappoint each other. I choose him over and over again, and he chooses me.