A/N: Here it is, last episode before the writers pull out the big guns for the two-part finale which starts next week (Did you see the previews? Gah!). Anyway, this was just a filler episode, in my mind, except perhaps the termination of the SumCho relationship—a ruined opportunity as far as I'm concerned. But I do so love seeing Simon Baker in natural lighting—he's even prettier on the beach. I loved the glee he took in finding out more about Lisbon's past, and it was funny how much he relished the awkwardness he caused. My favorite line from him was when he learned how many children Greg had (3): "Breeder," he'd said simply, as if this would have been vital information for Lisbon, lol.

I couldn't decide which way to go with this tag, so I've divided it into two parts. Part I is an introspective, slightly angsty piece about Cho. By contrast, Part II is lighter and more humorous, with Lisbon and Jane post case, and mild hints of Jisbon. I hope you enjoy them both.

Episode Tag: "So Long, and Thanks for all the Red Snapper", 4x22

Part I: Cho

Kimball Cho hated pain. That's why he'd become addicted to pain killers. That's why he'd left the Playboys and gone into the Army. That's why he'd put Summer Edgecomb on a train to her sister's. Avoidance; that's what it really was. If he numbed himself enough, he couldn't feel it for awhile, so he'd pop a few more pills, or climb into a cold, empty bed.

He'd long since adopted this habit, checking out when things got too painful. Sometimes it had been for self-preservation, but mostly it was because, quite simply, pain hurt. He hated this about himself. In his job, he was fearless, even downright brave at times. But at the first hint of pain—physical or emotional, his insides turned to Jell-o.

Because of his outward demeanor, he'd earned the name Iceman when he'd been with the Playboys. Somehow, he'd been redubbed the moniker almost immediately when he was in Special Ops; he just couldn't get away from that characterization. Truth was, he chose to be cold outwardly, because inwardly, with emotional attachments anyway, he was scared shitless. If you loved someone, you got hurt; that had been his only experience with that worthless emotion. And since pain hurt, he mostly didn't even try.

He'd tried with Summer though. Initially, of course, he'd steered way clear of that hot mess, because she was a hooker, and because she herself lived in a world of pain. He'd told himself he didn't want any part of it. But unlike such women as Elise, who could only chip a little at his wall of ice, Summer had bored right on through with laser precision. She'd nettled him, challenged him, downright infuriated him, and he found himself falling for her so hard he knew when he finally hit bottom it would hurt like hell. Staring after her departing form in the railway station, the pain of it threatened to overwhelm him.

But once he'd found her, strung out on coke and beaten once again by some animal from the streets, he knew he had to quit her cold turkey, just like he had those damn pain pills. He'd flushed them ruthlessly down the toilet, frightened of the pain that would come when they'd cleared his system. Now, watching Summer leave, he felt equally ruthless, and he knew it would be a long time before she was gone from his system. The pain of it had kicked in the moment he'd bought her ticket.

He wished there was some magic pill he could take to numb himself now. He'd just gotten to the point where, through lots of physical therapy, he could manage his back pain with over-the-counter meds. Managing the pain from the loss of Summer would be nearly impossible. He knew he could do it, but this particular injury might never heal completely. He loved her, would miss the way she made him feel. She brought out the romantic, protective side in him. She made him feel things in bed he had never felt before (he tried to ignore exactly how she'd honed those skills, because that was another painful thought), and she made it her sole purpose in life to coax a smile from him every day. Most days, she even got him to laugh. He'd almost made the mistake of getting used to that.

His love of irony made him appreciate how she had been just as addictive for him as the pills. He knew he'd be having Summer withdrawals for years, and he'd have to be careful not to use work or a spate of one-night-stands to deal with the pain of pushing her away. It would be like taking Hydrocodone all over again, substituting one addiction for another. And he'd called Summer messed up.

No, he'd just have to face that pain was going to be a part of his life from now on, and like the addict he was, he could no more take one pill than he could ever kiss Summer again, or he'd be tempted to fall off the wagon completely. With her safely gone, he could avoid the immediate temptation of her presence. Avoidance of pain—the story of his life.

"Good-bye, Summer," he said to himself, for she was far out of earshot in the noisy train station. He watched her blond head disappear into the crowd, and for once he allowed the unwanted agony to wash over him like a tidal wave. His hand went to his heart, and his face contorted into a grimace.

Dammit.

Kimball Cho hated pain.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Part II: Lisbon and Jane

"So tell me, Lisbon," said Jane, over lunch al fresco at the Santa Marta Bayside Café. He couldn't be near the ocean without getting clam chowder.

"What was the real reason you broke off your engagement with Greg?"

She stilled briefly, then continued to tear off a hunk of sourdough from her edible bowl.

"I told you, we were just too young."

"Uh-huh. That was story number one. Story number two was that you mutually agreed to take a break. Story number three was he just wasn't the man for you. The case is solved, you apologized to Greg—"

"How did you-?"

"You can fess up now, Lisbon; I won't judge."

"Ha," she said over a mouthful of bread. She picked up her spoon to dive back into her thick and tasty soup. "That's all you ever do with me."

"Not fair, Lisbon, not fair. Do I ever question any of your choices?"

She thought for a minute, sipping her lemonade. "No, though there have been times when you've browbeaten me into changing my mind."

"That's not judging, that's encouraging you to open your mind to different options. And speaking of changing—let's get back to the original subject, you sneaky little minx." He shook his spoon at her, then used it to take a bite of his soup.

She grinned slightly at his usual perception. When she used her food to escape answering, he raised an amused eyebrow. "Okay, then I'll tell you my guess."

She shrugged in resignation, knowing that he would guess whether she wanted him to or not.

"You loved him, though you loved your freedom more. Greg wanted to stay in Chicago near his folks, but you wanted to get as far away from home as you could. Am I right?" he finished, not unkindly.

She blanched a little, her gaze going toward the pier where the boats bumped gently against their moorings. She could easily get off this conversational merry-go-round right now. She sighed in defeat, and opened up.

"We'd been out of high school a couple of years. I was going to community college and waitressing, while Greg was working at a boat repair shop on the lake. My father was at his worst with my little brothers. After one particularly bad day, without telling anyone, we just…left."

"Aw," he said simply. To her surprise, he didn't pry any further. She was more than happy to end the conversation; seeing Greg again had dredged up too many bad memories she'd rather forget. For many years she'd felt nothing but guilt where Greg was concerned. Seeing him happy, with a beautiful family, had gone a long way toward helping her to forgive herself.

"You're wondering though," he continued, "what might have been, aren't you?"

"Sure. Don't we all?" He more than anyone, she imagined.

"Yes. You're also wondering, if that great guy wasn't right for me, what kind of man could possibly do?"

She nodded, and stabbed a fork at her salad.

"He wouldn't have to be perfect looking or anything, Lisbon. You aren't married to a specific physical type, I don't suspect."

"No. Blondes, brunettes, tall, short—no preferences here. So much for your contention that I'm too particular."

He snorted a little. Of course she was particular. "Oh, but you are particular about a man's personality and habits—we've already established that."

She set down her fork and dabbed her lips with her napkin. "Okay, before you go any further, I'm wondering about how you could possibly suggest someone for me. In recent years, you've shown interest in a lying therapist, a fake psychic, and a murderess."

Despite the brief flash of pain with the mention of each of the women from his past, he had to concede she had a point.

"Touché, Lisbon. But I can look at your needs and desires a little more objectively than my own, I think."

"I should hope so. Okay, since you're going to do it anyway, proceed."

"You don't have to say it like I'm about to hand down your death sentence."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow, and he chuckled.

"Fine. Here it is then. Teresa Lisbon's ideal man would have to be pretty thick skinned to withstand the constant criticism—"

"Hey-!"

"Because she is intensely particular. Or maybe particularly intense? Either way, he would be strong enough to dish it back to you, too. He would be witty in a dry sort of way, and slightly more intelligent to keep you on your toes. It would be really helpful if he were in law enforcement in some capacity, so he would be understanding of the hours and risks you face, as well as how much you love your job. He'd have to get along with your co-workers, because they are your de facto family, and you would be proud to introduce them and not keep your relationship a secret, like you did with Walter Mashburn."

Both her eyebrows shot up at that, and she flushed a bright crimson. She didn't even bother asking how he'd known. His eyes twinkled at her merrily, and he sipped his iced tea.

"You think you're pretty smart, don't you," she commented in annoyance. He toasted her with his glass.

"How am I doing so far?" he asked.

"Fine," she snapped, and his grin widened.

"You have to admire him, look up to him, and he must feel the same toward you for it to work. You have to share similar interests in movies and those pulpy crime novels you read on the sly. As for the physicality aspects, he has to make your heart pound as fast as when you tackle a perp, or it'll be dead on the table—or the couch, or the bed—whatever your preference. Though I suspect the shower is your favorite loca—"

"Jane," she said warningly, blushing anew.

"He can't bite his nails—we've already established that too—can't be a cover stealer or a snorer or leave the seat up. He has to be so in tune with you that he knows what you want without your having to voice it. He must be dependable and not make promises he can't keep. He has to remember all the special occasions, like birthdays and anniversaries, but you don't expect him to go overboard. Now if he does, you'll act like he shouldn't have made a big deal, but inside you'll be deeply touched by his attention."

Lisbon found herself so enraptured by the mental picture he'd painted, that she leaned forward over the table, listening intently, imagining this paragon he'd invented for her.

"Above all, though," he finished, his face growing serious. "He must be your best friend, first and last, because I wouldn't allow you to commit to anyone who wasn't."

She met his eyes, unusually sincere in his handsome face. The light ocean breeze stirred his blonde curls, and she felt the very tips of his fingers resting mere millimeters from her own where their hands rested on the table.

"Thank you, Jane," she said simply. He nodded and tore off a bit of his own bowl, dipping it into the chowder.

They ate awhile in silence, finishing their lunch and enjoying the bayside ambiance. Jane always seemed happiest near the beach, as carefree as a child. His face was more relaxed, the fine lines formed by grief and sleeplessness less noticeable. She loved seeing him this way.

She recalled the dating video she'd happened upon that he'd made with Erica Flynn. In it, he seemed fairly hopeless that he would ever find someone that would measure up to his late wife. That's why he'd remained single, she suspected. Patrick Jane was actually just as particular and intense where women were concerned, and she knew in her heart that the other women she'd mentioned were poor substitutes, women he'd latched onto out of despair or loneliness. She reached her fingers out the last small distance and touched him.

"There's someone out there for both of us, Jane; we have to believe that."

Their eyes met again in unspoken understanding, and he nodded, but she still saw the doubt there, at least for his own part.

In the meantime, she thought, we have each other. But something made her too frightened to say that aloud. Looking into his blue-green eyes, bright and placid in the dappled sunlight, she saw that he was thinking the exact same thing.

"Yes," he said softly, in that eerie mind-reading way he had, "I'm thinking the same thing."

Her heart clenched, then picked up speed, like she was chasing a perp.

"Lemon meringue pie?" she ventured.

He grinned knowingly, appreciating her attempt to hide both their true feelings.

"Definitely. Two forks?"

"Of course. You know me so well, Jane."

"That I do, Lisbon. That I do."

A/N: I'd like to dedicate this tag to one of my favorite "Mentalist" writers, Ashley Gable. This episode was her last with the show, and she will be sorely missed. She wrote some of my most favorite episodes, including "Russet Potatoes," "Red Badge," "His Red Right Hand," "Red Hot," and "Strawberries and Cream." So long, Ashley, and thanks for all the red episodes!

And by the way, the Lisbon/Jane part of the tag was inspired by a Twitter conversation I had with Ashley. She said she believed that Lisbon broke up with Greg to get away from her abusive father. Since she was the writer, I take her word as law ;).

Until next time…thanks for reading!