Red Moonlight flooding over me

This is a one shot; I will not turn this into more. (That little habit of mine has given me too many multi-chaps to rack my brain over…) One shot. That's it. Love it, though. That'll make my life.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine – if it were, wouldn't I be writing a new episode of Mentalist and making Jisbon happen, instead of posting story upon story of hopeless Jisbon romance.

She sat by the window; the white moonlight poured out, illuminating the room.

She fingered the hem of the man's white shirt she was wearing. Her eyes remained fixed on the road below. On any other time of day the street below would be covered in cars. But at this late hour of night (or morning, she wasn't keeping track of time really), the only activity was the fallen leaves whirling around on the pavement.

Behind her, she heard activity, but she didn't look around. She knew who it was.

He emerged in the doorway behind her, wearing his pants and shoes with his vest and jacket thrown over his arm.

"Teresa?" His voice was quiet, concerned.

His eyes are on her; her skin is ivory, glowing. Her hair falls ever so gently upon her slouched shoulders. His proud, resolute beauty is vulnerable and small in the glow of the moonlight. And all he wants to do is take her into his arms and never let her go. Never hurt her again like he knows he's about to. Never let her be hurt by the cruel ways of the world again.

"You're leaving." It's a statement, not a question.

She hears him come closer; then his reflection appears in the window. Shirtless. Sorry.

"I can't stay here anymore. You understand."

Slowly, silently, she nods. Tears start stinging her eyes; she didn't want this to happen.

She loved him. All those years, she loved him.

And then one day, completely out of the blue, it happens. The case that ended it all: Red John's death.

Tempers flew, nerves were on end, until all of the sudden everything was done. All of the sudden the dark cloud that was always hanging above their heads, all those years, evaporated.

They ended up at her apartment.

And now, he was leaving. Because he couldn't take living here anymore: here, where all the hurt took place. All the dark memories of hatred-driven days of vengeance.

He had to leave. She knew he had to, she knew he was going to. Then why was this so painful?

"I know." She said. Her voice wavered and the first, warm tear spilt from her eye. "I just don't want you to go."

"I know." He stays a step or two behind her. She misses his warmth already. Why does he have to leave her?

"I don't want you to leave. But I want you to be happy, Patrick." She said, expertly containing her emotions. He silently feels impressed and heartbroken about that. "Even if your happiness means leaving me."

She looks up at him for the first time in the conversation. Her watery emerald-eyes meet his. Blue and broken. Tired.

"I'm going to miss you, Teresa. More than words." He smirks when he realizes the pun. She notices it as well – a hint of a sorrowful smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He bends down to her eye-level, comes closer, closer… "I love you. I wish I knew how to stay."

She resists the urge to stay 'Then do'…

Their faces are so close… Inches apart.

His hands go to the collar of her (his) shirt. "I'm gonna need my shirt back, though…" He says, fingering the fabric, slowly sliding the shoulder over her skin.

She looks down shyly, blush already creeping up her neck.

He closes the space between them, capturing her lips in searing kiss. She smiles against his lips as he pulls her up, into his arms and carries her away.

X

She wakes a few hours later, alone in a cold bed.

He's nowhere to be seen.

She feels the warm, prickling sensation of unwanted tears against her cheeks.

Patrick Jane, the man she loved to hate for years, and turned out just loving unconditionally, has left her. Left her for a life of aloneness, for a clean slate without her, somewhere else.

She sat up, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugged them.

And then she saw it, lying at the foot of her bed. As if it had been picked up from where it was unceremoniously thrown on the floor, and was part of a big back-and-forth internal battle, before being neatly folded and placed on the bed.

His shirt. Hers, now.

She pulled it towards her and shakily pulled it on and buttoned it. It smelled like him; felt like him.

This was the only part of him she had left now.

And she wasn't going to let it go.

Oooh, angsty. Who didn't see that coming from me? Like? No? Let me know!

Much love, Zanny