Caesura

Summary: There's nothing Patrick Jane forgets. Ever. OneShot – Patrick, Teresa. Somewhere between "I'm leaving" and "I'm back".

Warning: This drabble took a look at me and ran. So: not a drabble but drabble-esque, fractured, angst, plot-less-ness, fluff.

Set: During and between S07's last episodes. Somewhere between "I'm leaving" and "I'm back", with a glimpse at the finale. Companion piece to "enough to live on".

Disclaimer: Standards apply. The lyrics are by Vienna Teng, "Enough to go by" and written in italics and marked with a ().

(I'm at your back door with the earth of a hundred nations on my skin
you won't recognize me cause the light in my eyes is strange)

He's dizzy from the explosion, from fear and relief. Teresa's arms are around him, warm, strong and reassuring, and she's murmuring into his ear while half-carrying him away from the house and towards her car.

"Don't ever do this to me again, Jane."

There is something that nags at him right there, but he doesn't realize until much, much later.

Hypothesis: Life goes round in full circles.

If Patrick Jane didn't know this before he knows it by now. Has known it for the past few years, actually, because every time you think you have it figured out it goes around biting you in your behind. It works that way with children, people, criminals and events. It works that way with everyone, even with him.

(It doesn't seem to work that way with Teresa Lisbon, but she's a different matter entirely.)

It started with a psychic. It started with a psychic who became arrogant and haughty and who provoked a serial killer. A psychic who went public, addressed the media and who paid his price. In Patrick's case Angela and Charlotte paid for his stupidity and hubris. And Patrick paid, too, paid with a collapse and a life led in shadows of ghosts of the past, in restlessness and without a place to find peace in.

No.

It wasn't as much a price as it was penance: for his beautiful wife, his sweet daughter. For all the people he had hurt in the process of making himself a name, and then in his quest for revenge.

Paradox: Patrick's life is penance for his taking advantage of people's hearts, and in the process he breaks hers again and again.

Teresa Lisbon always was strong. From the moment Patrick met her first he had her pegged: eldest sister, responsible for her siblings, sometimes more mother than sister. Difficult childhood, parents probably dead or alcoholics. Catholic by heart because she needs something that is more than everything. Can't lie, can't watch injustice without acting. Too-strong sense of justice, which is why she joined the police, hard worker, tough woman but a soft heart. Probably couldn't pass a puppy without wanting to pet it. Patient – more patient than others – even Saint-like, sometimes. But ready to bend the rules in order to fight for justice. When Patrick saw her for the first time he didn't think things like "I need her help" or "She looks tough" but "She will be useful", and thinking back makes him cringe. And still, for years and years and years it is what he had done: he'd used Teresa Lisbon for his schemes and his plans and had pretended he could live with it.

Which he couldn't.

The strangest realization of all: she grew on him. Or maybe he grew on her and didn't notice? The way she cocked her head to the right when she was skeptical of something he said, and the way her hands started playing with strands of her own hair when it fell onto her shoulders openly, and the way her lips twitched upwards on the right first before she started to smile in earnest, and the way she blinked when she greeted someone, and the way her eyes softened when she looked at him were so familiar he sometimes felt like something was wrenching his heart out of his body. A clawed hand to the gut, merciless, and was that the way you knew you are in love? This painful realization that he'd rather eat shards of glass than let her walk into a house that held two crazy robbers, that he'd rather have her angry at him than have a killer after her. He would have risked it – risked her never talking to him again, shatter her feelings for him into tiny, irretrievable pieces – if it meant she was safe. And, at the same time, he couldn't. His life was nothing, it was worthless, without her. It was terrifying in its finalty. It felt like he had given up a part of himself in order to love her like that, and he didn't mind the slightest. Should human beings be able to do this? Were they meant to love like this?

Probably not.

(Too reckless, too protective, too justice-driven. She just was too selfless, and that was why she wouldn't live long.)

And: he was holding her back.

So he'd done the only thing that was sensible, the only logical thing to do: He'd taken his van and ran. It felt natural. How often had he uprooted his life and left? Many times before. He'd grown up in a wandering circus, after all. All he was he had learned there: don't dwell, don't connect, don't smile too honestly. Three things that ended in forging bonds, and he'd always tried to avoid it. After Angela and Charlotte all the more. He figured he'd fallen for her, hard, but that didn't mean he couldn't get away again. After all, it had always worked in the past. He'd spent a year on a goddamn beach, after all, without as much as talking to her. (Lie. He'd written letters. But thinking back he'd written them for her, not for himself, and strangely that made all the difference.) As he drove through the states he had the Airstream for himself. The sun shone and sometimes rain clashed against the windows. He saw the sun and the moon and the stars, had breakfast whenever he felt like it and dinner when he was hungry. He smiled at pretty women at the gas stops and made a few children laugh at road houses, and he fell asleep listening to the silence and the soft whisper of the night. He didn't worry about robbers and kidnappers and killers and thugs. He didn't think of death rates and survival chances and I'll do it again in a heartbeat if it means you'll be safe criminal records. And, best of all: he didn't read people. It was hard on some days, but always worth it. People surprised him if he didn't dig deeper before they even started to talk. A young mother, a homeless man, a rebellious teenager: every one had his story, and each one was different. Patrick felt like he could get used to being surprised, except every time he was reminded at the fact that Teresa still managed to surprise him easily despite the fact that he'd known her for the past ten – eleven – or something – years.

(Would it be enough to go by if there was moonlight pulling the tide
Would it be enough to live on if my love could keep you alive)

His phone was another issue. Taking her calls was impossible but switching off his phone turned out to be similarly impossible, as well. He wasn't sure why he was forcing himself to carry it with him at all times, expecting it to ring any second, expecting her face to pop up on the screen, to read her name. Some kind of torture, perhaps. Patrick tried leaving it somewhere he couldn't see or hear it, and when this turned out to be impossible he tried letting the battery go dead. He went to bed that night believing he'd finally fall asleep easily, tired and desperately wishing be here I want to feel you close for a calm, dreamless night. Instead, he was unable to even fall asleep. Four hours, a glass of water, soft music from the radio, a quick poker match in which he beat himself and a few pages of his current book later he gave up and plugged in the charger and fell asleep within seconds, the silently recharging phone right next to his pillow. He had the sneaking suspicion that it was the kick he got whenever her picture appeared on the screen of his phone, the adrenaline rush of seeing her smiling face. But still he couldn't bear to hear her voice, so he ignored her calls. It didn't make him feel much better, but he didn't feel worse, at least.

[It's not until she is seated across from him in the interrogation room, her arms crossed over her chest and glaring at him from the other side of the table, that he realizes one thing. Her voice flows past him in a rush, he loves the intonation, the way she emphasizes certain syllables, and while he knows she's angry (and has every right to be). He's angry at her, too. For bringing him back like that. For not seeing that he's doing this for her. For knowing exactly that he isn't doing it for her sake only but also for himself. Because Heaven knows he's not strong enough to watch her put herself into danger every single day. He resents her for knowing that he knows she knows: it makes him angry in the same way it makes him sad and makes him love her even more. But he smiles and sips his tea.

And then:

Teresa opens her mouth and closes it again, in the blink of an eye, and yet she's not fast enough to trap and swallow the soft choking sound that tears through her and into the silence that hangs between them so desperately. Her throat works, her jaw clenches, and Patrick can see all the things she hasn't said written in her eyes. And – he is an utter and complete idiot – he resents her for making this hard for both of them and loves her even more for caring so much. For loving him enough to let him go.

That second, Patrick Jane is reminded of the fact that strong women fear, too, and it's both humbling and thrilling. Because she fears for him.]

"Jane? Will you stay here?"

The bullpen is empty, Abbot, Cho and Wiley are gone and it's just the two of them left. Teresa looks tired.

Looking up from his sofa, Patrick takes her in: leather jacket, purse, sturdy shoes, strands of her hair fall into her face. Her eyes are very green and very weary and she probably wonders whether he's back, or just crashes on the couch because he's too tired to go back to his Airstream, or whatever. Sometimes it's hard to second-guess her: she's just so damn good at surprising him.

In the dim bullpen, the only light that illuminates her features are the green emergency exit signs, and light from the lit façade in front of the windows. She's beautiful.

"Jane?" Teresa repeats his name.

He starts. "Yes?"

Her eyes are hooded. "Are you leaving now?"

"Yes." He gets up hastily, buttons down his jacket. "Yes, I'm coming."

The glance she gives him is unreadable, and he feels the usual giddy mix of anticipation and possessiveness: she's his. It's a miracle in itself, so he catches her elbow and kisses her, softly, in the dark hallway.

"Sorry," he whispers when they part, his forehead pressed against hers. "I'm back now."

In the darkness, her smile is soft. "Okay."

Paradox: Patrick never forgets anything, but he can't remember falling in love with Teresa Lisbon.

It's just there, from one day to the next. Somewhere between beaches and benches and churches and crime scenes. Between criminals and colleagues, revenge and redemption. Maybe it's Markus Pine whose courtship makes Teresa Lisbon shine even brighter, or the new job, or the new setting. No, hold that: Patrick is pretty sure it started earlier, maybe in dark attics or between overflowing desks and leather couches, back in the days when he jumped off every speeding train he could find and she jumped after him in order to save him (mostly from himself, but from other things, too.) Maybe Grace knew long before Patrick, it would explain so much. She'd say Patrick had left Teresa love letters long before he started actually writing to her. Rigsby would say the tension had always been there, and Cho would press his lips together and say nothing. Abbot expected it right from the moment he met the woman Patrick Jane had put on top of his list of demands that had to be fulfilled in order for him to agree to work with the FBI, Fisher at least had suspected something (he'd distracted her quite nicely, hadn't he? Figures she'd be the Princess-type) and Michelle – no. This is something that happens when you breathe justice and live for your job was something he wouldn't dive into yet. And maybe they were right. Maybe he'd loved her far earlier than he had realized, and maybe he'd even known it. Maybe he'd denied it for her sake, and most probably for his sake, as well. And maybe he'd only realized how much he needed her when she walked away. Maybe that was the selfish, stupid part of him: the fact that he couldn't let her go, not like that, because he couldn't imagine his life without her. And then he'd left, himself. And she hadn't stopped him. If anything, it showed him how much she loved him: the fact that she had let him go, and the words that failed her in the dim interrogation room with just the table and a cup of tea and the world between them.

Full cycle: it ends with a psychic. It ends with a psychic who became arrogant and haughty and who provoked a serial killer. A psychic who went public, addressed the media and paid his price. Fake. The words etched into his skin with a knife, his face blue and lifeless, his nerd glasses gone. Patrick spots them two meters over, neatly folded and set down for him to find. A serial killer who didn't accept a copycat: and that was all that had to be said. He sees the connection, the snake eating its own tail, and it makes him sick. It disgusts him, the world in which cruelty towards one another is the only thing some people seem capable of. This one human trait that distinguishes mankind from instinct-driven animals, the one thing they possess that no other living thing is capable of: mindless cruelty towards another, just for the sake of amusement.

In a world that was dark and cruel, what was there to live for?

In a dim bar two miles from the end of the world, Patrick mourned what he had and couldn't let go of. The woman behind the counter was nice, he knew that much even through the haze of the alcohol. If his phone vibrated he didn't hear it over the tinny music of the game machine. The woman was worried about him, too, unwilling to let him drive in his state, but her concern felt oppressing. Had he ever got drunk when Teresa was there? He couldn't remember and blamed it on the haze that had fallen over his senses. He never forgot anything, after all. And the sky was beautiful. He'd go, pick up Teresa, they could go for a walk… Then he remembered he was alone and decided to take the walk, nevertheless.

When he wakes up the next day, it is with her voice in his ears.

Get up, Patrick.

[So this is it.]

She was still waiting. She'd let him go, again. She'd always given him enough space, time for his own thoughts to strangle himself with, enough rope to hang himself from. But she'd always been there to step in if he only wanted it, if he let her know that he needed her help. Would she wait this time? She'd stayed in Texas for him. How often would she take him back?

As many times as necessary, her voice whispered. As long as you come back to me.

Fact: The man who calls himself Patrick Jane is a patchwork quilt of many things, and these days, all of them belong to one woman alone.

(Carry the weight of me in your heart.)

Maybe he didn't deserve her. Maybe she deserved better. But he'd come to a point at which he had looked back and seen his life, and he couldn't say whether he'd repeat all his mistakes again or he'd try to change something, given the chance. He'd also reached an age in which he didn't dwell on such thoughts. Regretting things was one thing. Dwelling on them was another, and took away precious time. He'd given anything for his wife and daughter to be alive again: he'd give anything to be with Teresa right now. And the contradiction was painful, but life was painful, as well.

Lifting his hand to shade his eyes from the bright morning sun, he read the sign: Land to sell. The sun rays reflected off the thin wedding band on his ring finger.

[A conversation.

"Shut up!"

"Why? Are you embarrassed? That's adorable. And I'm only saying the truth."

"No, it's not, and you're not, either. I'm not, I mean. I'm very, very selfish. And you making compliments gives me goose bumps."

"Isn't that a good thing?" He teases.

She glares at him. "The other kind of goose bumps, believe me. You don't compliment me."

Wounded: "I do!"

"Well, it never sounds honest, so don't start now-"

He catches her hand. "I think you don't understand, Teresa. Whatever I say to you, it's always my honest opinion. Unshakable truth. I'd never lie to you."

Her lips tighten, fractionally, and the past never is buried and dead he thinks that she's not saying something, won't be saying it, but then she does.

"I know. You wouldn't lie to me anymore. Still, sometimes I have the feeling the Patrick Jane I met eleven years ago is still there, and then I…" She sighs, looks to the ground, looks up again, and her hand in his turns and grasps his. "I still am getting used to this, I guess. I'm sorry. Does that hurt you?"

He thinks, quickly. Finds his feelings match his thoughts. "No. I know you. I should have realized it earlier. I'm sorry, too."

She leans forward until her forehead connects with his chest and he marvels at the emotions the slight touch calls forth. It feels like she fits there with him, belongs with him. Like his heart calms when she is there to touch him and ground him and love him like that. And he doesn't deserve it, doesn't deserve anything of what she gives him so freely and most certainly cannot return it so fully and completely. He's broken, he's broken himself, he is the shell of a man who once was filled with bitterness and now has to collect something again to fill him. And he might have found it, but he knows it might also be hard to believe for her. Still. If she can look past all of his protective walls and see the man he was and could be and still loves him regardless he's damned if he isn't willing to try.

"Maybe," he says and has to swallow past the lump in his throat that screams at him to tell her how much he loves her, that she is the one thing that makes getting up in the morning worth the hassle and that the mere sight of her is like falling in love over and over again, every day and every hours and every second of his new life, "I should compliment you more often, then, so you can get used to it?"

Her chuckle is light and God, he loves her she twines her arms around his neck and stretches upward to kiss him.

"You can try."

"You can bet on that."]

At night, when her body is soft and pliant in his arms and the scent of her shampoo fills his nose, Patrick realizes what it was that bugged him since they'd left his kidnapper's house.

"Teresa."

"Hmmm?" Her voice is sleep-laced, so familiar. He could die he loves her so much, but he smiles instead.

"You still call me Jane."

"Hm-hm?"

"Why don't you call me Patrick?"

Her silence tells him she's awake, and that she's seriously contemplating the answer she is about to give. It's not that he thinks her answer might hurt him; he's just curious. Patrick Jane has a pretty accurate picture of himself: some would call it arrogant. But it helps, knowing that he can read people perfectly, and the small uncertainties that come with Teresa Lisbon – well. He's not too arrogant to be blind to his blind spot when it comes to her.

(And it's much more fun that way, either way.)

"I don't know," she says, finally, lifting her head from his chest to look at him. "It's a habit. Would you like me to call you by your first name?"

No hesitation. "I'd like that very much."

She smiles: a shift of the corners of her lips, a brightness blossoming in her eyes. Patrick thinks Oh God I love you that she's never more beautiful than in moments like these, when he is the only one to see her and she smiles only at him.

"I love you, Patrick."

She whispers his name with an inflection he's never heard before, and it goes straight down to his groin.

Her smile when he kisses her again tells him she's anticipated his reaction correctly.