AN: Written for #TMCreativeFest over on Twitter organized by the fabulous Leafenclaw. This fulfills prompt 076 (They were just never meant to be - Lisbon's thoughts about Jane during his exile).

Warnings: one swear word.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist. Inspired by "D'Arline" by The Civil Wars, who wrote the lyrics used at the end of this fic.

Hope This Finds You Well

Dear Jane,

Hope this finds you well.

Scratch that. This letter won't find you at all because I don't know where to send it. Why am I even writing this?

I –

Sorry for the smudge. And for poking a hole through the paper. My pencil slipped – I guess those anger management classes I took for you didn't help much.

I guess what I'm trying to say is –

I miss you.

There. I said it.

Oh, and fuck you, too.

Dear Jane,

I'm sorry about the last letter. I won't take it back, but I am sorry.

I wrote it before I got your first letter, and I thought I wasn't going to hear from you again. And it was just a little too bittersweet for me – more bitter than sweet, really, because we both know that (wherever you are) you're safe but you're not happy.

The same can be said for me, I guess.

I left California. It was too hard – being around all those broken memories, the places we'd been together. Places you'll probably never see again. It made me want to leave them behind, too.

So I did.

I think you'd like Washington. It's beautiful here, if a bit rainy. It's also rustic and kind of rural, and I think you'd like that, too.

There's so much I need to tell you. But I'm not really sure how to do that yet.

For now, though – I still miss you. More than I did before, though I didn't think that was possible.

How do I end this letter? Nothing quite seems appropriate.

– Lisbon

Dear Jane,

We got a foot of snow yesterday. Reminds me a bit of growing up in Chicago. Winter driving is practically a sport here, just like it was in the Midwest. It's not that bad, though, as long as you slow down. I put some sand bags in the trunk of my mustang to keep the back wheels from skidding – I'd forgotten how terrible rear-wheel drive is for snow. I suppose it's not exactly cool where you are. Get some sun for me, will you?

I have free time now. Lots of it. I suppose that's what you get when you work as Police Chief in a small town. I've been reading mostly – Cho sent me a list of recommendations, and I'm making my way through that.

You asked if I was making friends. Can I lie and say I'm trying?

Who am I kidding? You'll be able to tell I'm lying even if it's on paper.

Nobody understands. Not like Cho, or Rigsby, or Van Pelt.

Or you.

It's just not the same.

We should have talked more when we could. We missed so many opportunities, and we left so many things unsaid.

Miss you. A lot.

– Lisbon

Dear Jane,

Is this killing you? Writing to me but never getting a response? I have the better end of the bargain by far; at least I know you're there, at least I can see your messy handwriting.

At least I can save each letter you send me.

Have you changed much? Is your hair lighter, your skin more tanned? It'd be healthy for you to get more sun, you know.

Are you still wearing those three-piece suits?

Do you think I should consider adoption?

Sorry. I know that was out of the blue. It's just – I want a family. Always have wanted one. I don't see myself leaving Washington anytime soon, but I'm not convinced the man I need is here. I could raise a child on my own, right? I can do this, can't I?

I never asked you what it was like to be a parent. You know, all the good parts. I wish I would have. I know you loved being a father – one of the few times I could read you was when you were with children. It was like you were free. I liked that look on you. I wish you could have that again.

I miss you still.

Yours,

Lisbon

Dear Jane,

I've decided it's agonizing either way.

Before, you were close but unavailable. Now, you're distant and just as unavailable. At least before I'd get to hug you occasionally.

What I'd give –

Sorry.

Miss you more.

Yours,

Lisbon

PS – I've decided that if I ever see you again, you deserve to be punched for (1) the all-purpose apology you gave me a couple years ago and (2) about a hundred other incidents you never apologized for but should have.

Dear Jane,

I went on a date.

It was an absolute disaster.

I really miss you.

Yours,

Lisbon

Dear Jane,

Are you moving on?

Really, truly?

Is it possible?

I'm not sure that it is.

We were happy at one point, weren't we? I mean, not unequivocally or irrevocably happy. But still. Happy-ish. We smiled. We laughed. We found reason to be happy.

What if I can't find that reason anymore?

I'm not sure I'm going to ever stop missing you. But I think I've decided that that's okay. If the only reason I can find to be happy in this world is when I'm looking forward to opening a new letter from you – or, better, reading one – well, then, that's a hell of a lot more than most people get in life. I guess that will have to be enough.

Yours,

Lisbon

Dear Jane,

We're going to see each other again. I have to believe that we will. Maybe when we do, we can –

We were too good at unspoken communication. Sometimes, the words need to be said aloud.

I miss you. Always.

Love,

Lisbon

Though I could get over you

But please don't ask me to