A/N: Episode tag to 6.21 Black Hearts that verges into AU. Tried something different here as it's in the present tense and first person (Jane's POV) in this two shot. It's a bit of an experiment so please be kind. Second chapter is pretty much written so will be posted very shortly.

Title is based on one of my favourite Marx Brothers films (just because I was struggling with the title as I usually do). Don't get your hopes up, it doesn't have any of the hilarity of that classic, only the names are similar.

I don't own The Mentalist or any of its characters and am making no profit from taking them for a gentle stroll through my imagination.

A Night at the Airstream

Chapter 1 - Arrival

I read the passage of the novel in my hands for the fourth time. But, like the three previous attempts, my parietal lobe is not playing ball tonight. It may have something to do with the subject matter. What made me select Wuthering Heights as my book of choice for the night I wish I knew. I am already punishing myself enough without reading about a brooding man's revenge and his love for a woman who marries another.

Slamming the book shut, I push it to the far side of the table in the Airstream, swap my hands for the contents and comfort of a china cup instead. I'm suddenly wistful for my turquoise teacup and close my eyes as I take pleasure in a slow sip of chamomile. I can almost imagine my fingers wrapped around its gleaming smooth surface and the smell of red brick and soft dusty leather in the air, the sound of keyboards clicking just behind my ear. My smile is interrupted by the harsh glare of headlights against my eyelids. I open my eyes and blink reflexively as I read my watch set at just after two am.

Although there is no need, I peer through a slat in the blinds to catch sight of my late night visitor. There is only one person it could be - I am not exactly known for my wide circle of friends. My heart hammers with equal parts trepidation and hope. The fact Teresa Lisbon has chosen to stop by in the middle of the night makes me believe a decision has been made of the future path she has decided to tread. As usual as of late, once more I'm assessing the odds of whether that future lies in Austin (with me) or in D.C. (with him). The late hour leads me to think it's around sixty-eight percent not in my favour. A swirl of nausea comes over me like a whirlpool in my gut.

Upon hearing the car door shut I instinctively fix the throw on the pull out bed I haven't climbed into yet, plump up the pillows. I throw the remnants of my tea down the sink and run a hand through my hair. It's impossible to stop moving, as if that'll stop my brain working. But I'm assessing all the time, my mind unable to stop running scenarios - perhaps she's here about a case and was unable to reach me on my cell due to a network being down...maybe my phone battery is dead...

A weight has settled on my chest and I draw a deep breath to rid myself of it. I analyse the approaching footsteps as they squish over dewy grass. Purposeful. I adjust the chances of the visit being case related accordingly and allow myself a small breath of relief. I know I'm most probably kidding myself but I need the hope.

Three taps come to the door as I stand in my kitchenette. I calculate how long it would take me to answer if I were lying in bed asleep then roll my eyes. Am I so incapable of an honest moment even with something so trivial? Or am I merely attempting to delay the decision about to be laid at my door for a few more seconds? It reminds me of Schrödinger's cat - as long as I don't answer the door then she is not leaving me.

I move quickly and grab the handle before I theorise any further.

Any hope her visit is due to phone problems is quashed immediately when I see her face. Her emeralds lock on me, expression taught and shoulders tense. When she swallows thickly my last vestiges of optimism are eradicated. Slivers of pain snake through to every nerve ending.

I speak, surprised at the normality of my tone, and wonder how it's possible to talk so coherently when one's heart is concurrently shattering into tiny pieces. My long years of affecting my behaviour have once more been useful in conveying nothing that I do not wish to be seen. "Lisbon, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

She's embarrassed and her eyes stray to my largely unkempt appearance. My shirt in untucked and open to the top of my chest, my shoes are discarded, I have two day stubble. "Jane...I'm-I'm sorry. It's the middle of the night, I know. Were you asleep?"

I admit to a half truth with a smile. "Just reading. Come in."

She stands awkwardly in the small area beside the door as I lock it behind her. I can sense her look around for a place to set her purse. "Just put it anywhere," I say as I turn around. She places it on the passenger seat at the front then removes her leather jacket and piles it on top. Whatever this conversation entails requires more than a few seconds of our time. She turns the sleeves up of the cream blouse she wears to her elbows and she reminds me of a pint sized gladiator preparing for battle. Wisely, I keep this to myself.

For a moment we look at each other as her tongue troubles her upper lip. "So?" I eventually say, moving to fill the kettle to give my hands something to do other than shake.

"Sorry for coming over so late. I should have called first."

I nod and busy myself with tea making. "You know I don't sleep much. It's no problem." I take a breath as I remove the milk from the fridge. "I take it this isn't related to work."

"No."

She says the word with so little intonation I wish I didn't have my back to her so I could read her face. On second thoughts, perhaps it's better I cannot.

"Please, take a seat at the table," I tell her. "I'll bring the drinks."

She has picked up my copy of Wuthering Heights and is flicking through it as I arrive back with two steaming cups of green tea. The chamomile needs a counterbalance. "I never liked this book much," she says, screwing up her face. "If only they'd just talked to each other properly."

I raise an eyebrow, unsure if she's being deliberate in her choice of words. "Hmm," I agree. "Would have made for a much shorter and less dramatic book, though, if they had."

She smiles then notices the hue of the tea I've given her and makes another face. "Yeah, guess so."

I come to sit beside her and she shifts closer towards the window. "Sorry, not much room."

"It's fine," she shrugs. She takes a cautious sip and licks her lips.

She doesn't like the tea but she says nothing, too preoccupied with what she came here to say. She's also wondering why I haven't pushed for the reason for her visit. I can practically feel the question radiate off her. I decide to take the bull by the horns instead as it's obvious how difficult it is for her to say the words.

"You've decided to go to D.C., then," I state, before taking a fortifying long sip of tea.

She doesn't respond and I turn my head towards her. She nods quickly and purses her lips into a thin line.

I smile and I hope it's reassuring. "You're doing the right thing."

She blinks and I see a spark of hurt. "You think so?"

"If it's what you want and it makes you happy then I want that for you too." I truly mean and believe the words but saying them out loud is accompanied by a sharp pain in my gut.

She places her cup back on the table. "How do I know if it's really the right thing, though?" she says so quietly I can barely hear her.

I'm longing to tell her that if she has any doubts then she should not go. I almost do.

She speaks first. "I even started writing one of those pros and cons lists."

"Practical if not exactly on the romantic side," I quip. "And what were your findings?"

"Fifty-fifty," she states much too quickly.

"I highly doubt that."

She's wrapped her hands around her cup and looks at me. It becomes a stare. "You know there's only one reason for me to stay here, Jane. It's not about checking items off a list or comparing them. It was a stupid idea as not everything on the list has the same importance as everything else on the opposite side."

Or someone else she leaves unsaid.

A whoosh of emotion surges through me and I open my mouth as if it needs to be expelled. She was right about surprising me one day. "I-I'm not sure what you want me to say to that, Lisbon."

She fixes me with the same determination I've seen on her many times before when she's interrogated murderers. "It's not about what I want you to say, Jane."

"I've told you-"

"You've told me you want me to be happy. You've asked me what I want. You haven't told me what you want me to do."

"It's not my place to tell you what to do. And you already know what I want, in any case." As much as I want her to stay I can't have her doing it because of some long standing obligation she feels towards me.

"How do I know when you won't tell me?"

I sigh and shake my head. "You know the last thing I want is for you to leave, Teresa. But it has to be your decision, not mine."

She sighs and her shoulders slump as she nods. "Yeah, I-I know. You're right, of course. I'm just...I just don't want to lose you again."

She pins a lock of hair behind her ear and her fingers caress her cross. It almost sounds like she's experienced my death already. I had no idea until now the toll those two years apart took on her or just how much she missed me. Is it wrong that my soul sings a little upon witnessing that revelation?

"You won't," I tell her as we lock eyes. "I'll visit...I'll write, we'll talk on the phone...we did two years with barely any contact. We can make do with just a few hours away by plane."

Tears threaten as I imagine that future. I'd do it, of course. I'd live for those visits, for those calls. Even if I had to put up with Pike hovering around in the background as a third wheel. I try to ignore the part of my brain that tells me that I'd be the third wheel, not him. It'd be better than the abyss I'm facing without her at all.

But I also know it's not nearly enough to make a friendship work long term and that we'd lose what we have now in time as her priorities shift and she enters a new phase of her life. I'm not ready to move on from her and I find it impossible to believe I ever will be. Also, I simply don't want to – the only future I want to imagine is seeing her every day for the rest of my life.

Then, I see a vision of myself as a crazy white haired uncle who, because she knows I am alone, she'll force to spend Christmas Day with her and her family as the years progress, someone fun for the day to entertain the troops before I'm packed back in my box again and not seen or heard from until the following year. An act of charity for the holiday season.

"You mean that?" she asks, bringing me out of my morbid imagined Christmas future.

"Every word."

She nods and exhales. "Good."

"When do you leave?"

"I-I don't know. Haven't told Abbott yet."

"You've told Marcus, though."

A tight nod. "Yeah..." A wrinkle appears across her brow.

"What else?"

She says nothing and I hazard a guess from her panic stricken expression. "He asked you to marry him?" Even I'm surprised he's moved that fast. I disliked him already for threatening to take her away from me. Now I hate him for piling more pressure on her. He already has her, why does he feel the need to rush headlong into marriage too? Insecure, much?

"Yeah..." She shakes her head. "I-I haven't agreed," she assures me quickly. But she hasn't said she has turned him down either.

"You're thinking about it," I say. I don't hide my shock.

She flushes and shrugs as she takes a sip of tea. She knows it's a crazy idea. I breathe out. For a moment I hardly recognised the woman I'd known for over a decade.

"Obviously it's too soon for that," she says.

"He's a go-getter, have to give him that," I venture.

There must have been a trace of bitterness in my tone as she tilts her head. "You don't like Marcus?"

"He's a good man." It's a good line too and says nothing of my feelings towards the interloper.

"Yeah, he is," she agrees.

I smile and nod graciously. But I'm sad and now I want her to leave, to allow me to wallow in self pity for a good few hours. Maybe finish Wuthering Heights and move on to Middlemarch while I'm at it.

She makes herself more comfortable at my side instead. She's feeling more relaxed now the subject is settled. She doesn't appear happy, though, merely resigned and I guess she's trying to spare my feelings by not appearing enthusiastic. And I know she'll miss me and that the parting will be bittersweet. Just bitter for me, though. She thumbs through my paperback again as she takes another sip of tea.

"Well, how about we celebrate?" I say with such phony chirpiness she looks at me with concern. I get up from the table and fetch some tumblers and a half open bottle of scotch I've stowed away in the back of a cupboard. I wave it in front of her. "It's not Champagne but will it do? Toast your success?" If she's staying a while I need a drink to get through it.

"Sure," she says. Her tone doesn't sound celebratory in the slightest.

After two measures each we're more at ease with each other again and talk about Wuthering Heights for a few minutes. We discuss our literary tastes further as we drink some more. We've rarely done this, I realise, and am saddened that I've just noticed how little we discuss that isn't related to work, especially lately.

Her cheeks have taken on a rosy glow and I'm tempted to put an arm around her and make a pass. She's looking at me like she wouldn't mind if I did. As I take another sip it's not just heat from the whisky that's warming the blood in my veins. I set the glass down and yawn loudly. It's definitely time she went home.

She yawns in turn and covers her mouth with her hand, yawns an apology. "We should have done this when you first got back," she tells me. She fills up our glasses again with an impish grin.

"What? Got drunk and stayed up talking all night?" I smile. When I hear her giggle the last thing on my mind is sending her home. If this is going to be the last night I spend with her (well, the only night I get to spend with her) then I want to enjoy it to its fullest.

I toast her with a slainte and we clink glasses.