AN: I know, it's a pretty long one-shot, but I got carried away. Hope you'll still enjoy. Let me know. A new chapter of Locked in Love will come soon, I promise.

Disclaimer: Not even Paris is mine.

The final countdown

Jane is leaving. Jane is leaving. Like a mantra, an endless repetition of words that just won't sink in, they drill themselves into your mind. You've never known how tiring just one thought can be, how it gnaws at your brain till every nerve ending is frayed and all you can feel is this heavy exhaustion, strong enough to paralyze your every movement.

Jane is leaving.

You've known it for several days now, are immersed in those words as if they were a nasty cold water shower, leaving you gasping for breath as the pain numbs your bones.

Jane is leaving.

Red John has been found. Has been killed. Found his eternal ending at Jane's gunpoint. Jane is free now, both in mind as well as of any charges, his shooting clearly an act of self-defense. No DA in the country would even try and take it to trial. Therefore, Jane is off the hook. His commitment to the CBI, even to your unit, is of no value any longer.

So he is leaving.

Of course you should have seen it coming, but then again, you were very happy in the land of denial, the happy place where you were never going to find the illusive serial killer responsible for his family's death and Jane would just give up and move along. With you of course.

Get a grip, Lisbon.

He was never going to stop the chase and you know it. Even if he would have started a relationship with you, sooner or later, he would make his priorities known and none of them would involve you personally. If anything, you were never more than a means to an end. Easy access to first-hand information.

You should be glad there was never a real moment where you gave into temptation. How complicated would your life had become if you and Jane had crossed the line from friends to lovers? The damage to your heart as he executed his plan without any regards to you would have been as irreparable as unavoidable.

Yeah, you're sure glad you never took that step. Very relieved indeed.

Still, all this time when you hadn't found Red John, at least you could keep an eye on him, at least you knew (most of the time) where he was. Even when he was annoying the hell out of you, even when you had to bail him out of jail or get him out of his own created mess, you always knew things were going to work out fine and that, at the end of the day, you would find his blonde curly head resting on his couch. Not yours, but at least safe.

But now he's leaving and the thought that soon, very soon, this mantra will change into 'Jane has left', does nothing to soothe you. Instead, it increases your panic, makes your heart thump wildly against your chest like a caged, wounded animal and has created several leaks in your tear ducts.

You love him. It's as easy as that. No amount of wishful thinking, no dates with other men, however attractive they might be, no cold showers or provoked fights could have stopped the rapidly growing feelings of love for this man. In fact, they are still growing, faster than ever now that you know that soon, his couch will be empty and the game you played has come to an end with you as its biggest loser.

No more smiling face, lighting up the darkest skies. No more origami creations as a wordless expression of gratitude or (more often), of apology. No more cups of cinnamon coffee (your favorite; it didn't take him long to find out) as a solace during troubled cases. For someone not ready to fall in love again, his faith in you never wavered. If nothing else, that's a precious gift he's given you. You hope that it is enough solace to keep you from doing some very stupid things like taking your father's example.

He was leaving. And in your mind, two more words followed this inevitable occurrence. He wasn't merely leaving. He was also leaving you behind.

You know he knows about the pathetic, ridiculous, shameful crush you have on him. There's no need to consult a psychic, real or not, to figure that out. He never made fun of that fact (okay, so he did, but at least not in public), for which you are grateful, nor did he encourage you by any means, but still…why did you expect a bit more from him than his mere announcement that he was taking an undefined leave of absence to 'gather his thoughts'?

You couldn't possibly blame him for that. In fact, you probably would have urged him on to take some time off. No matter how much time he had planned the murder of his personal nemesis, now that it was over and done with, he looked pale, tired. As if all the years of restless energy, fueled by pent-up frustration, anger, self-hatred and guilt had culminated into that one single moment and now there simply was no energy left to even be relieved.

You know that feeling.

Patrick Jane was spent and yes, you know he deserves his vacation. You do hope he gets some peace of mind, some closure (though you hate the word since it just doesn't really mean anything tangible), some rest.

If only he would see how much it costs you to bravely say goodbye and move on.

If only he would somehow acknowledge, just for once, that you have become more than a boss, a coworker, perhaps even more than a friend.

If only he wouldn't have used the word 'we', when he first told you about his plans.

You remember the conversation well. It was only a week ago, three days after the killing of Red John.

"Hey Lisbon."

"Jane. How are you?"

"Fine, I guess. Look…"

His posture showed an abnormal insecurity and you smiled at him in what you hoped was an encouraging way. It unnerved you to see him so vulnerable. What did he think you were going to do, chew his head off?

"What is it, Jane? Just tell me."

"I eh…I've spoken to Hightower. I'm taking a few weeks off, you know, to gather my thoughts, maybe go on a vacation. We both deserve it, don't you agree?"

We. How can one small word, two letters only, make a person cringe like that? If you thought not seeing him would be the worst of your pain, forget it! When Jane hits someone, he hits hard.

There was no mistaking who he had referred to. There was only one person in his life he would take a vacation with these days.

Kristina Frye.

The unforeseen factor. The blind spot you hadn't counted on. Why is the hurt you haven't seen coming always the worst? Why weren't you better prepared?

Losing Jane to Red John? Either by death or by arresting him and taking the man you love to trial? Heck, you had always figured it would end one of those ways and though you dreaded the moment it would happen while constantly praying it never would, it was at least a scenario you mentally braced yourself for the best you knew how. Like boarding up a house when the storm was coming.

But losing him to another woman? Where had that come from? That was not in the plan! Where were his psychic abilities when she came along? If, and that was a monumental big IF, Patrick would ride off into the sunset with his damsel in distress, it was supposed to be you, damn it! Not that you were much of a damsel, but distress surely seemed to apply!

Several times these days, as the countdown to his final day has begun, you've tried to signal your distress to him, but for the first time he seems perfectly blind and deaf to your pleadings.

Instead, like a kid going on a school trip, he is bombarding you with enthusiastic ideas, plans, brochures and maps. Europe is supposed to be the place to be. Starting in London, taking a tour to Scotland, then Ireland, France, etc. With excitement shining in his eyes, more blue and more expressive than ever now that the worry-lines have all but faded from his handsome face, he shows you lots and lots of pictures.

The lush green parks of Ireland, the sunbathed coastline of the south of France. Paris at nighttime. You always wanted to go to Paris. Ever since your mom told you all about her year as an au-pair in the famous romantic city, it's been your dream to see it all for yourself, preferably with someone to share it with. Haven't you told him that? You're sure you have. He must have forgotten.

And as if torturing you by images is not enough, he guilelessly adds insult to injury with endless tales about his plans when he gets there. No, they. When they get there.

"Can you imagine, Teresa? Walking along the Seine River hand in hand, kissing on the top of the Eiffel tower, eating in some quaint little bistro with checkered tablecloths and a candle stuck in an empty wine bottle? Than go back to the hotel and make love all night? Have breakfast in bed, or on the balcony as we watch the sun come up? Can you imagine the magnificent view?

Yes. Yes, you can. That's just the problem. You can see it all too clearly. And it makes you sick to your stomach as mental pictures of the two of them entwined on a bed force themselves on your unwilling retina.

Patrick's oblivious. As the days roll by until the very last (he's leaving tomorrow), more and more spicy details roll out of his mouth until you know his itinerary by heart. If he even notices your pale complexion or the bags underneath your eyes, he doesn't comment upon it, like he would have done before. His concern no longer goes out to you. It's like he's gone already, leaving a very shallow hologram of himself behind.

With one more day to go, you toss and turn in bed, trying to think of the best way to say your final goodbyes to him. Nothing seems to fit.

If you shake his hand like he were nothing but a pleasant business partner, you know he won't ever let you get away with that. He'll be genuinely hurt and as much as he has inflicted stab after stab to your gut these past few days, you cannot bear doing the same to him.

But if you let him hug you, you know he'll have to pry your form away from his own with a crowbar. Pathetic as that might be, when the time comes, you're not sure you're above and beyond such drastic actions.

So you toss and turn some more until your bed looks and feels like a disaster area and you groggily get up two hours earlier than your alarm clock. You take a quick shower, get dressed and make your bed, hoping against hope that the mundane tasks will help you suppress the painful churning of your stomach.

Tomorrow, his couch will be empty.

Today, there's nothing left to do but take your loss as proudly as you can. You can do this, Lisbon. It's only a couple of hours. When you come home tonight, make sure you can be proud of yourself.

Toddling around the house doesn't help and two hours before you're supposed to be there, you park your car on the parking lot next to his, as is custom. Even the sight of his beloved Citroën makes your throat constrict.

Get a grip, agent Lisbon.

Knowing that eventually, you'll have to get out of the sanctity of your car and into the office, you drag yourself out and with a snail's pace, make your way to the building's entrance. Dead woman walking.

Surprise, surprise, there's nobody there except the two of you. He wakes up when you step out of the elevator and for the first time, his smile doesn't warm up your entire body. You wish there was another way to get to your office, but you'll have to pass his couch. Taking whatever detour you're trying to come up with, will only alarm him and now it's too late for him to start asking questions.

He deserves this break. You will not ruin it. You will smile, hug him and wish him a great time. Even if it kills you. Tonight, you can fall apart. Not before that.

"Good morning, Teresa. You look tired."

"No shit, psychic."

Oops. You hadn't meant that to come out loud. Immediately alarmed, he gets up from his couch and takes two strides until he's right in front of you.

"What's wrong, love?"

Why is he using terms of endearment? Why is he making this so damn hard?

"Nothing. I just couldn't sleep."

"And not just tonight. No offense, darling, but these last few days, you seem exhausted. I'm worried about you."

"I'm surprised you noticed."

"Hey, I know I've been preoccupied with planning our trip, but I still believe what my eyes are telling me. I'm sorry if this week has worn you out. I should have known that I was just a little overbearing. I guess I hoped to involve you in our plans, not just spring it upon you. You know, ease you into it."

It's the single most moronic thing he has ever attempted to do, and that means something. How did he ever think he was easing you into his leaving when he never once stopped reminding you?

You silence apparently freaks him out. You feel his hand caress your cheekbone.

"Teresa…talk to me, please."

And just like that, the floodgates are opened. You wobble over to his couch, sinking onto it as if your legs can no longer carry your weight. Your sight is blurred as the culmination of all the tears you've refused to cry so far fight their way out with a force.

The feeling of the other cushion sagging makes you aware that he's taken a seat next to you and a moment later, you feel his arms around you.

Fighting it is beyond your energy limits and it feels just so good that you indulge, if only for a few minutes. Katherine is just gonna have to forgive you for stealing her man. She gets to spend some wonderful fairytale weeks with him in Europe, so in your opinion, the least she can do is grant you a little moment with him. Too bad if she doesn't.

The tears subside after a while, but you don't dare look Patrick in the eyes. You must look a fright, with your eyes all swollen, your nose running and track marks on your cheekbones.

So much for getting a grip, agent Lisbon. The only grip you have is on his drenched blue shirt.

"I'm sorry, I got you all wet."

He chuckles softly.

"It'll dry. At least you're talking. Now tell me, what's the first thing you think we should see in Paris?"

What the…? Insensitive pompous jerk! How can he ask you a question like that only moments after your shameful little meltdown?

You struggle yourself free from his embrace, raise yourself up to your full height, glad you've chosen to wear high heels today, unpractical as they might be, your green eyes suddenly dry and heated with rage as you shoot daggers at the man who has broken your heart. The red hot anger sure feels better than the lethargic waves of pain.

"I don't know! I don't give a rat's ass! You can screw her in broad daylight in the middle of the Louvre museum for all I care. Just don't call me when the gendarmes arrest you! I can't bail you out in France, London or whatever capital in Europe! Just shut up and leave already!"

It's like you've hit him with a sledgehammer. You're afraid you've gone too far as he stands to approach you again, apprehensive like he would a wild animal.

"Teresa…who are you talking about? Who do you think I'm taking to Europe? I…God, I'm such an idiot! I thought you understood…I…"

Now what is he babbling about? Of course you understand! Suddenly, you don't want to fight about it with him anymore. What's the point? As deflated as before, you decide to put an end to this charade. Nothing matters any longer but getting him out and withdraw to lick your wounds in private.

"Patrick, you don't have to be nervous about it. Of course I know you're involved with Kristina. So it's clear you're taking her. I just…I want to wish you well, but…"

This is so hard. The air gets thinner with every second that slips by. You have to turn away from him. Not seeing him might make it easier to sever the last ties.

Then again, having him draw you back into his embrace, nullifies that idea.

"Patrick, let me go. Please…"

"Not before you promise me you'll sit down and listen. You got this all wrong and I'm so sorry for the mix-up. I just wanted to surprise you and it all turned haywire."

You stop struggling, his hold is just too strong. Either that or you're too weak to fight him. You would bet your last penny it's the latter of the options.

"Teresa, look at this."

He shoves an envelope into your hands. When your quivering fingers refuse to open it, he plucks it from your grip and tears it open. An airplane ticket falls out. An open-ended ticket to London. In your name.

"Patrick, I…"

"You'd better start packing, love."

"But…work?"

"It's all cleared with Hightower. Your job will still be here when you come back."

"But…Kristina?"

"Well, if you insist, we could invite her along."

When hell freezes over.

"But, you…she…you…"

He chuckles again, the rumbling feels good against your own body.

"Teresa. Look at me. Read my lips. I do not have sexual relations with that woman."

"Last time someone spoke those words, he was lying through his teeth."

"Well I'm not. I was always talking about you and me. In all the plans. Didn't you think I would remember your wish to go to Paris? Did you actually think I could be so cruel as to rub your face in the fact I was taking another woman there?"

"I feel so embarrassed."

"No need. I'm sorry, love. Sorry for not telling you that it's you I want. All along. I never planned on falling in love again, but it happened and now I'm free. It's you I want, my darling Teresa. It's you I want to take long romantic walks with, you I want to wine and dine and woo in a little bistro, It's you I want to make love to and share a breakfast with. Though I think we should skip the Louvre, just in case we end up disgracing poor Mona Lisa. And that's just Paris! Think about all the other beautiful places we're going to see. Please say you'll come with me!"

"On one condition."

"Anything. Just name it."

"Shut up and let me kiss you."

THE END

Epilogue:

Europe is wonderful. Paris is everything you have dreamed off and more. There's the quaint restaurant he's been telling you about. There's the walking hand in hand along the river banks. There are the endless hours of making love and waking up to fresh coffee, croissants and getting crumbs in the bed while making love again.

You expect a ring on top of the Eiffel tower, but it doesn't come. Which is okay. You again hope for it to appear in a glass of champagne in the famous Maxim's restaurant, where you have a drink after visiting the Opéra. Again, you're slightly disappointed. But you've forgotten all about it when he gently undresses you in your cozy hotel room. He adores you and for now, that's plenty.

A week later, you find yourself on a terrace looking over the coast of your namesake city of Lisbon. It's a breathtaking view as you got here just in time to see the sun set. It's a balmy evening and you're quite at ease. You're not aware that your friend, your lover, is watching you with an intensity that's new to even him. Mindlessly you're eating your way through a plate of the delicious, famous cream cakes called Pastéis de Belém, when a piece of paper stuck in one of them catches your eye.

It has something written in Portuguese on it:

Quer se casar comigo?

With glee, you take out a new present Patrick has given you before you took off: a little gadget that translates about a dozen European languages. Carefully, you type in the words and press the "Translate" button.

You almost drop the thing as the translated sentence appears in the little display:

Will you marry me?

You look up to find Patrick on one knee, holding out a small velvet box, which contains an antique ring you were admiring in a small shop window the day before.

Trembling and crying, you mumble "yes" and, quivering more than you do, he slides the delicate piece of jewelry onto your finger.

"I know you expected the proposal in Paris and it took all the restraint I have not to give in, but you have to admit, proposing on the Eiffel Tower. That's just so sophomoric."

You cry some more as you cling to him.

Europe indeed is wonderful