A/N: I didn't want to write this but I started it by accident and couldn't stop. I loved the tags for 6x13. Half of them seemed to be about new gifts and the other half were about the pony. This one is a little different.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist. If I did, everyone (Pike and Jane) would have left Lisbon the hell alone this season, so she could at least get used to living in a totally different state with a brand new job before people started proposing to her/trying to make her move halfway across the country again.

"I never thought Fischer would be the fairy princess type," she says, taking a seat on the couch as Jane goes to the back of the trailer to look for something.

She's still a little shocked that the FBI agreed to buy him an Airstream, let alone that they let him out of detention and made her an agent. Actually, even Cho becoming an agent is a bit surprising—not because he isn't capable, but because she remembers he and Rigsby having a violent altercation with the FBI only a few years back.

"Yes, it's quite a shame she never had what she wanted as a child," Jane says. She hears a bit of rustling and then he continues, "Here it is."

"Here what is?" she asks, not entirely sure whether he's talking to her.

"I have something for you."

She laughs. "Didn't you already get me what I wanted as a kid? Years ago?"

"Yes." He returns from the back of the trailer. "This is something else, though. I'd been meaning to give it to you before, but I know you've been quite busy."

He sits beside her on the couch and hands her a small cardboard box sealed with masking tape.

"This is addressed to you," she says, reading the label. It's for a post office box in Austin, but it reads Patrick Jane in messy handwriting at the top. In place of a return address, there's a small five-pointed star drawn in blue ink.

"I know. But it isn't for me. It's for you."

She pulls out her keys and goes to cut the box open with one of them.

"Wait," he says. "You can't open it yet."

"What do you mean?"

He looks at her for a long moment, then starts. "It means a lot to me…that you would come all this way and give up your old life to work with me again."

"It really wasn't a big deal," she lies. "I didn't—"

"Please let me say this." He has the same look on his face now as she remembers from that day on the beach more than two years ago now. "I've done things in the past to jeopardize our friendship, to betray your trust, and I don't want to do that again."

She swallows and can't speak. He can't really be apologizing sincerely, can he?

"If you open this box," he continues. "It might hurt you, and it might ruin our friendship again."

"So…you don't want me to open it?" She stares at him in confusion.

"No, I do. But don't open it today. Or tomorrow, or the next day. I want you to open it soon, but only when you're prepared. You have to be prepared."

"This isn't another severed tongue in a Tupperware container, is it?" she tries to joke.

He doesn't smile. "No, it isn't. It's…no, I can't give you any details. You just need to be ready."

"How am I supposed to be ready if I have no idea what it is?"

"I don't know." He looks away.

She leans forward and tries to catch his gaze again. "Is this illegal?"

"I'm sorry, Lisbon. I can't tell you anything."

Later that night she puts the cardboard box onto the coffee table in her living room and looks at it for a while, trying to imagine what could fit inside it that might hurt her and her relationship with Jane. She tries shaking it a few times, but can't hear anything.

She really hopes it isn't another severed tongue.

She expects Jane to bring up the box in conversation over the next few days, but he doesn't mention it. She comes up with a couple theories involving the Blake Association or the dissolution of the CBI, but they're half-baked at best and she isn't sure what new information could possible hurt her. But she's supposed to be preparing herself by thinking of every possible scenario, so it isn't a total loss.

She glances at him sometimes to find him watching her with an expression of concern, but he always fake-smiles as soon as he sees her looking back. She decides he's just worried about Ardiles and LaRoche's murders, and after hearing about the break-in at the Rigsbys she realizes he has a right to be. She won't open the box until they catch whoever's doing this, she thinks. She'll be more ready if there isn't a murderer hunting down the people she cares about.

By the time it's over, she's almost completely forgotten about the box. As they're leaving the hospital, she invites Jane over for tea and to see her new house, and when he says yes she can't hide a smile. She knows he has a strange relationship with houses, and that she never really invited him over during their days at the CBI (save the time she needed to be hypnotized). She can't remember ever seeing the motel room where he lived, though she supposes she did visit the CBI attic sometimes, and that that was a little like his home.

She gives him a very brief tour and then leaves him in the living room while she makes tea in the kitchen. When she brings in the mugs she finds him sitting on her couch, fiddling with a tiny glass figurine she was given while police chief in Washington.

"I think it's supposed to be a crow," she tells him. "Or a raven, maybe. I'm not sure."

"Hmm."

When he puts down the crow/raven and takes the tea, she realizes his wedding ring is gone.

How long ago did he stop wearing it? Did he take it off before the kidnapping scheme because he was worried something would happen to it? Or was it even before that, for a different reason? And how did she not notice?

"It probably isn't the kind you like," she says, sipping her own tea and trying not to stare at his fingers.

"It's perfect," he tells her, regarding the coffee table in front of them. She looks too, remembering that the box is still there, waiting for her.

"I haven't opened it yet," she says.

"I know. I would have been able to tell before if you had."

"It's really as terrible as you said?" she asks.

He gives her a resigned look. "I never said it was terrible. Just that it might hurt you."

That night she dreams of opening the box and finding his wedding ring.

She tells herself that that theory wouldn't make sense either.

Talking to Agent Pike in the FBI's 'art gallery' reminds her of the few dates she had in Cannon River, which were nice but went nowhere. She's been thinking of a romantic relationship for years as something she should do, something she should really make time for because she wants to be happy someday and it would probably help, but she hasn't been able to even commit to the idea of finding someone. She's always tried to tell herself that it isn't because of Jane (or at least, not entirely because of Jane), but because she's been dealing with so much insanity over the past several years that she isn't sure how to handle a normal relationship with a normal person, however nice. At the CBI, it was always much easier to bury herself in work and hide the idea of a relationship somewhere in the future while quietly hoping that by the time that future arrived, it would be with Jane.

In Cannon River there was little police work to bury herself in, but she took to doing a lot of volunteering and occasionally consulting with the law enforcement of neighboring towns, and it was usually enough. Sometimes going on dates was fine, but she could never seem to convince herself to make things serious with anyone.

In the borrowed mansion after the party, she can tell during her phone conversation with Pike that he's interested in her, and she doesn't dissuade him. After hanging up, though, she feels the same sort of uncomfortable blankness she always felt after the dates. She knows he's attractive, that she should be attracted to him, but she isn't sure she can will herself into that.

Jane wakes up while she's searching for food and comes into the kitchen.

"Any tea?" he asks.

"Nothing," she tells him. "Next time you ask for a mansion for one of your cons, can you ask for a mansion where people could actually live?"

"Certainly. I'll make sure our next mansion is appropriately stocked with ice cream and boxes of macaroni and cheese."

She smiles and finds one of the unused glasses from the party. "At least there's running water here."

As she's filling the glass, Jane walks over from the doorway and stands nearby, facing her, with one hand resting on the kitchen counter. She looks up to see that strange expression on his face again, the one from the beach and their conversation a few weeks ago.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

He looks away. "I want you to be happy, Lisbon."

Her hands squeeze into fists automatically. "Okay, sure."

"No, I mean…I know it wasn't fair for me to take you out of your life in Washington. I know you had to leave everything behind. I don't want to keep getting in the way of you being happy."

He's starting to scare her.

"Jane, I chose to come here. You didn't force me. And I like it here. The FBI was a great opportunity." She swallows. "And I wouldn't have moved here if I didn't want to work with you again."

He meets her gaze. "But you aren't happy."

She tries to smile. "I'm fine, Jane. I'm really fine."

He nods but doesn't respond. In that moment she makes up her mind.

The next day she leaves immediately after they've gotten a confession and the paperwork is finished, even though she's heard rumors of case-closed pizza being on its way. She doesn't tell anyone where she's going or what she's going to do, least of all Jane, and she drives more than a little over the speed limit all the way home.

Once inside the house she tries to calm herself by making tea, though she isn't paying attention to what she's doing and ends up making coffee by force of habit. She makes herself drink at least half of it before she can't take the wait anymore.

She gets a pair of scissors and sits on the living room floor to cut open the seal on the box, slicing right through Patrick Jane. The blue star where the return address should be seems purposeful—not like someone testing out a pen. Lifting the flaps of the box, she's greeted by a piece of paper written in the same messy handwriting as she saw on the outside.

Miss Teresa Lisbon,

I'm writing this note to you like I was asked to do by Patrick. You might remember meeting me a long time ago during one of your case investigation things, and we also spoke on the phone two years back when you were trying to find Patrick. So you know that me and my family were sending his letters to you as they came to us. You also know that we never read what was written to you, since there was always a second envelope addressed to you inside the one addressed to us.

Several months after these letters started coming, we found a note for us inside the first envelope that told us not to forward the second envelope to you. Instead, we were supposed to hold onto it and not send it to you until we were told. All the envelopes after that that had blue stars in the corner we were supposed to keep, and we sent you the ones that didn't.

I got a call from Patrick today though telling me to get those letters with the stars that we didn't forward to you and put them in order by date and send them all to his new address in Austin with this note to you at the top. So here you go.

She sets the paper down on the floor and tries to breathe normally. None of her theories about the contents of this box included it being full of missing letters to her. She finds a set of envelopes filed neatly in a row and counts them quickly—thirty. The same number of letters that she has in a smaller box on her bookshelf, minus the envelopes. Half of his correspondence never made it to her. Because he chose not to have it delivered.

Because it might hurt her, he said.

She takes the first letter out of the box, noting the blue star in the corner and a date from two years ago written below it. She decides that he must have always been planning to have these delivered to her. Maybe always in person, too. She uses the scissors as a letter opener and pulls out the two pages inside and starts reading.

An hour and a half later she's read fifteen of the letters and has to stop because she's crying too hard to continue. She makes it to the kitchen and tries to get water but she drops the glass onto the floor and pieces go everywhere and she can't will herself to get the broom and dustpan and clean it up. She ends up sitting at the kitchen table, staring at a tiny stain on the surface and trying to stop shaking.

She shouldn't be crying. She hates crying, and she isn't sad, or at least she doesn't think she's sad. She started to tear up during the third letter and tried to fight it until the fifth one before breaking down.

All the letters that she got while in Washington were full of intricate, vivid details about the island and the people there and only sometimes would he mention their past. It was always little reminders about interesting cases or silly things they had laughed about or the like—things she didn't usually think about, but which were nice to remember.

The letters she's reading now are nothing like that. They're written in that same style that's so characteristically Jane she can almost hear his voice saying the words to her, but they're nothing like the other letters.

Because he's talking about his childhood and learning to steal and then he's telling her a little about Angela and a lot about Charlotte. And then he's explaining to her what he knows about her own family—her mother dying in the crash and her father's suicide—and he's saying that he wishes she felt comfortable talking to him about it but that he's never going to ask her to. And he's telling her about the year he doesn't quite remember and she's crying now because they both have too much pain in their memories and she's never heard him be so sincere before in all the years she's known him.

She can't seem to calm down even sitting at the kitchen table, so she gives up and goes back to read the other half.

Even though she can't remember the last time she cried this much, she can't figure out why he thought these would hurt her or their friendship, or why he didn't just send them to her in Washington. She would have read them and probably cried the way she's crying now, but she wouldn't have been angry.

There are three left. He's gone through the memories in chronological order, so now she's just about at the part where he faked (allegedly) a breakdown and disappeared for six months, and the tone changes so sharply she almost drops the letter.

Teresa,

When I was leaving the CBI building after getting myself fired and you followed me to the elevator trying to convince me we could fix this I realized I loved you. I didn't say it, though—I said "you're sweet" and I let the doors close and I left you the first time.

I thought that I could forget about it once I was away but there was too much free time to think and alcohol made it worse. I used to listen to the messages you left me on voice mail until you stopped trying to call and I tried to convince myself that I didn't really love you because I had sworn to myself to never make you a target.

When I finally saw you again in that church you were so angry with me that I should have felt guilty but I was too happy to see you to even stop smiling. I thought about kissing you on the cheek and I thought about telling you I loved you, but I knew you would take either of those things very badly right then and I couldn't.

I hadn't intended to tell you later either, in your office. I'd only intended to shoot you and continue with the plan, but when I said it I knew I could never again try to convince myself that it wasn't true.

When you tried to ask me about it later I wanted more than anything to tell you again but I couldn't make you any more of a target. I couldn't make myself take it back either, though, and I couldn't deny that I'd said it. I hoped that if I said I'd 'forgotten' that you would realize that I'd meant it but that I was trying to protect you. I tried to hint to you that I'd meant it later, and when I held your hand I hoped that you would understand that I couldn't say it again until Red John was dead or until I was one hundred percent certain he wouldn't be able to hurt you. And that's true now.

I love you more than you can imagine.

-Patrick

She isn't crying anymore, though she's still shaking and she's so dizzy now that it's difficult to read. She tears open the next letter anyway.

Teresa,

The worst fight we've ever had was over the list of Red John suspects, and I'm going to apologize for that now even though it was almost two years ago. I should have listened to you. Forgive me for not stopping you from driving away, for letting you go into a dangerous situation alone at a time when I knew there were risks everywhere.

I don't think I told you this, but I found you because I kept calling your cellphone and you kept hitting ignore until finally you didn't, and I was relieved until I heard that voice I knew was Red John saying you couldn't come to the phone. After that everything was whitewash. I couldn't be terrified because I couldn't think.

I remember finding that house and the dead body and seeing you there with his mark on your face, but I couldn't be reminded of what I'd seen in my house years before because I still couldn't think. I remember checking your pulse and you were alive and calling 911, and the paramedics made me let go of your hand so they could take you to the ambulance. I remember yelling that I needed water and getting a bottle of it from someone and trying to take the blood off of your face. He had touched you. He had put someone else's blood on your face, on your lips.

I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought this up because I'm sure that you don't want to think about it and talking about it makes me feel ill.

I didn't start thinking again until the doctors told me that you were otherwise unharmed, and then I was relieved and terrified and furious all at once. They had a guard at the door to your room and they told me to go home and sleep; that you wouldn't regain consciousness for a while. I kept driving back and forth through the city until morning.

When you woke up I wanted to tell you that I loved you. I didn't because I knew that he could do worse things to you, unspeakable things, and that what had happened was only a warning.

I wish that I could have found a way to tell you and keep you safe at the same time.

-Patrick

She isn't sure that she can keep reading but her fingers are opening the last letter without her permission and it's much shorter and the handwriting is ragged.

Teresa,

That day when we stopped to watch the sunset and I was certain that it was the end I was supposed to have told you everything. I have no real excuse for why I didn't, aside from the fact that I had no idea how you would react and I also wasn't sure that I would be able to leave you there after telling you how I felt. But because I didn't tell you, the entire event must have seemed like just a con to you. Please believe me when I say that it wasn't, that I meant everything I said and that more than anything, I didn't want to hurt you.

I don't think that I can do this anymore. I miss you terribly and I need to see you again. It doesn't matter if it means risking my freedom. I love you and I need to say that to you in person and I need you to believe it.

-Patrick

She's in the kitchen again and managing to get water without breaking another glass. Everything in the room seems darker, as though the lights have been dimmed, and she can't find any ibuprofen to make the headache stop.

Her phone is on the kitchen counter—two voicemails. She doesn't remember it ringing. Both messages are from Jane.

"Cho has brought back the old CBI tradition of case-closed pizza, but I can't find you anywhere. I hope you aren't hiding somewhere, doing paperwork. Come back and join us, Lisbon."

"No one seems to know where you are and I'm…concerned. Please call me back and let me know that you're safe."

Her hands are still shaking but she's dialing a number and listening to it ring seven times before someone picks up.

"Hello?"

"Am I calling too late?" she asks, not recognizing her own voice.

"No, it isn't too late here," Van Pelt assures her. "Are you alright, boss?"

She almost starts crying again at the word 'boss'.

"I'm fine, thanks. I just wanted to make sure you and Rigsby made it back okay."

It's true—she does want to see if they're okay. It's also a better reason for calling than 'I just opened what was basically Pandora's Box and now I have no idea what to do and no one to talk to about it.'

"We did, we're doing great. Thank you so much again, and…" There's the sound of a voice in the background. "Oh, Wayne says thank you, too."

"Tell him I said hi."

She takes another sip of water and listens as Van Pelt relays the message.

"So how is the FBI? And how is Jane? He didn't get into trouble for helping us, right?"

She swallows. "No, he didn't. He's…fine. Same as always."

The next morning she comes to work a little earlier than usual, but there's already a fresh coffee on her desk made exactly the way she always makes it. Jane wanders back into the room a few minutes later and walks over to her. She uses all of her remaining energy making her face completely blank before looking up at him.

Within half a second his smile vanishes.

"You opened the box," he says.

All she can do is nod.

She only catches Jane looking at her once during the briefing that morning, and he immediately looks away. She's assigned to work with Fischer, who asks if she's alright. She says she didn't get enough sleep, which is at least true. Fischer seems to know not to press for more details.

Later that day she's walking by herself to one of the evidence storage rooms, counting the floor tiles, when she runs into Agent Pike.

"Hey, I didn't get a chance to talk to you yesterday after the case," he says, grinning at her.

She can't manage to smile back. "Sorry. Something came up and I had to go deal with it."

He seems oblivious to the pain in her voice. "Well, I just wanted to thank you and your team for your help with our case, and we'd be more than happy to work with you guys again and maybe return the favor."

"Okay. Sure."

"I was also wondering," he continues. "If you wanted to go out to dinner with me sometime."

She doesn't even pause to think about it.

"I'm sorry, I can't," she tells him. "You seem like a great guy, but I…"

"It's fine." He nods. "Don't worry about it."

She finds a note on her desk at the end of the day in Jane's handwriting.

I know that you need time. Please let me know if and when you want to talk.

She folds it into quarters and hides it under her stapler.

For the next week she doesn't talk to him about anything other than the cases and she's always assigned to work with either Cho or Fischer in the field. She doesn't ever catch him looking at her, but she notices that he barely smiles now.

During the evenings she rereads the letters and rereads them and rereads them until they're just as familiar as the ones she got in Washington. She counts the number of times he used the word 'love' and its derivatives in the last three letters (six times), and she tries to imagine him writing the final one, which is dated only a week before his return. She also buys sleeping pills and drinks even more coffee than usual.

She's supposed to be thinking about what to do. She knows that she should be conflicted, that she should be remembering every single time he hurt her and calculating how much risk is involved and watching poorly-written television dramas to figure out what to do (since she doesn't have any real people she wants to talk to about it).

But she isn't conflicted at all. She loves him, and she's in love with him, and she's known that for a long time. She can't will herself into being unsure. So the purpose of this week, she thinks, is to make herself strong enough to not start crying when she does talk to him again. She's sick of crying.

He answers the phone on the second ring. "Lisbon?"

"Jane, can you…" she hesitates. "Can you come over? We should talk."

"Fifteen minutes," he says, then hangs up.

It takes about fourteen minutes and thirty seconds, she notes, before she hears a knock on the door and goes to answer it. She doesn't smile and neither does he.

She tells him she's going to make tea and he nods and follows her to the kitchen. Neither of them speak as she goes through the motions of finding a box of tea and filling a pot with water.

She stops right before turning the stove on and instead turns to face him.

"Jane…" she starts. "Why didn't you send me those letters before?"

He tilts his head suddenly, as though it isn't the question he expected. She wonders how he thought this conversation was going to go.

"I thought that I should let you…move on," he finally says, looking at the ground. "But then I couldn't, and I'm sorry. I—"

She interrupts. "I'm not mad, Jane."

"Really?"

"Really," she tells him. "I was mad at you when you disappeared and I was mad at you when I moved here, but I'm not mad now."

He's silent for a long time, and she steps toward him until they're close enough to touch, getting him to meet her gaze again.

"You want to know if I meant it," he says.

"Did you?"

"Yes. I love you." There's no hesitation.

She thinks it's going to be hard to say but it isn't, not at all. "I love you too."

He starts to smile, the first real smile she's seen from him in a week. "Really?"

She laughs. "How can you not know that by now, Jane?"

And he's taking her face in his hands and tracing circles with his thumbs across her cheekbones and pressing his lips softly against hers and dammit, she swore she wasn't going to cry. Her eyes are shut tight and she's trying not to shake because she doesn't want him to stop kissing her.

And he doesn't stop, not for a long time.

Later, she finally makes the tea she promised and sits next to him on the couch in the living room, as close as possible. He takes her hand and laces their fingers together and she knows he's looking at the cardboard box on the coffee table in front of them. She put all the letters back inside it yesterday, but left it open and in an obvious place so that she'll keep being reminded.

She doesn't want to hide anything in the future anymore. She wants this to be happening now.

"Teresa?" He turns his head and she feels his breath in her hair.

"Mmhm?"

He squeezes her hand. "I want you to be happy."

"I know," she tells him. "I know."