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He sips his tea and stares out the window of his attic hideaway.
It doesn’t take long for her to come, the flash of her blonde hair in the reflection of the glass catching his eye first. He’s almost afraid to turn his head and wonders if watching her through the glass could be enough to satisfy him but eventually, he turns, and she’s there standing next to him, gazing out the window too.
She doesn’t look at him though, just says, “What are you doing, Dad?”
“Waiting for you,” he answers with a serene smile, taking in all the details he hadn't thought to focus on the first time she appeared. He hadn’t recognized her, hadn’t known her immediately, so he’d been distracted by the revelation and then all too quickly she’d gone from him again.
Now he drinks her in, searching her features more carefully. She has his eyes but her mother’s smile, just as she always had. Her straight hair confuses him. But then again, teenagers are all about changing their appearance. He tries to see the five-year-old he remembers in her but he can’t. Maybe that’s normal though. He can remember looking at her at five and trying to see the baby she’d once been and struggling then too.
Next to him, she sighs in disappointment. “Drinking more tea is not what you were supposed to take from that experience.”
“Did you really think I wouldn’t do anything I possibly could to see you again?” he scoffs, ignoring the judgment on her face.
“I’d hoped,” is all she says.
“You’re less fun this time. I miss the sass,” he tries to goad her back into the playful banter they’d exchanged before.
She turns now to face him, leaning with her back to the window, and tells him, “Good thing you have someone else in your life who can give you sass.”
Her eyes are fixed on his door and he hears the sound of it opening and turns to find Lisbon stepping inside, taking in the teacup in his hands and the brown paper bag on the table.
“Did you take more belladonna?” she scolds. “Jane!”
Beside him, Charlotte’s eyes are on Lisbon but her words are directed at him, “She loves you.”
“No, she doesn’t,” he hisses, standing up from his chair and putting his teacup down with a shaky clatter before turning to meet Lisbon head-on.
“No, she doesn’t what?” Lisbon asks, stopping in front of him right as Charlotte leans in to whisper in his ear, “And you love her.”
He brings his gaze back to Charlotte and hears the words slip out without permission, “Yes, I do.”
The feel of Lisbon’s hand on his arm takes him by surprise, “Jane? I know you’re talking to her, not me. I don’t…I don’t want to take that away or interrupt but I’m worried about you.”
“That’s love, Dad,” Charlotte says, wrapping her fingers gently around his other arm. “Don’t you want that?”
“Yes,” he answers, still looking at Charlotte with grief and longing.
“Love you can keep,” Charlotte counters gently, letting go of his arm and looking towards Lisbon again.
“I can…” he starts to say but Lisbon’s voice pulls his attention back to her instead.
“Jane…you’re scaring me,” she says, and he can hear it in her voice, see it in her eyes and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like being the cause of her worry but he had to do it. He had to see Charlotte again.
“Please don’t drug yourself alone again, anything could happen to you.”
He can’t focus, feels his attention being pulled between them both. He wants to reassure Lisbon but he also wants to talk to his daughter.
“I’m fine,” he says, turning back towards Charlotte.
But she’s gone and he feels a black hole open up in his stomach at her loss.
The sudden stab of sadness must show on his face because Lisbon’s face softens even more and her eyes search his gently. “I’m gonna stay with you for a while, make sure you don’t have another seizure.”
“Yeah, okay, sure,” he agrees a little absently, as he turns to sit back down on his chair. There’s still more tea in his cup but he knows Lisbon won’t let him drink it if he tries and he can’t actually bring himself to argue with her over it.
In the reflection he sees her sit down on his bed and she looks so tired and small. He wonders how much of that is his fault.
He can’t bear to see her like that so he just gazes out the window instead. His mind is fuzzy and his heart is heavy and he can’t think of a single thing to say. So they just sit together in silence and he’s not sure how long they’ve been doing that when his eyes flick to where the reflection of her should be but instead finds empty. He jumps a little in panic at her sudden absence but then he turns in his chair to look at his bed directly and realizes she had simply laid down, head on his pillow, and fallen asleep.
He stands and moves to pull the blanket from the bottom of his bed, covering her gently, and then he sits down on the floor and rests his head against the edge of the mattress, listening to her breathe and occasionally murmur something in her sleep.
The sound of her here with him becomes a meditation of sorts and he doesn’t fight it when he eventually starts to doze off.
When he wakes she's gone and so is his tea cup and the bag of belladonna.
—
He tries to resist but the pull to see Charlotte again is simply too strong and he buys himself more belladonna.
She left him so quickly last time, so this time he brews the tea a little stronger. He drinks it a little quicker. And he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
He waits all night, sitting on the edge of his makeshift bed, and the sun rises but Charlotte doesn’t come and he doesn’t move.
His phone rings. Lisbon. He doesn’t answer it.
The shadows move across his attic and he should be downstairs, complaining about a case and riling Lisbon up just so he can see that little frown line between her eyes that he loves so much, or so she’ll hit him and he can revel briefly in the feeling of her hand on him and her body close to his.
But he can’t move.
He hears the rattle of his door opening and he knows it’s her but he can’t bring himself to look directly at her, knowing he’ll only see her disappointment in him. Still, he is aware of her movement in his vision as she crosses the room and comes to sit next to him on his bed.
She sits so close that her thigh is pressed against his.
She waits.
He doesn’t speak.
And she waits, placing her hand on top of his where it rests on his thigh bracing himself to stay upright.
When her thumb moves gently on his skin and he feels it as an ache in his chest, he finally moves, turning his head to look at her.
“She didn’t come back this time,” he tells her and allows himself to break. His face cracks and his breath is ragged and his eyes are full and he does the only thing he can think of to do.
He leans towards her and lets her arms come around him, while his circle her waist, and his head rests against the top of her sternum.
“Shhh,” she soothes, one hand on the back of his head, the other rubbing circles on his back. “It’s okay, Jane.”
They stay like that for a while and he thinks about Charlotte’s words again.
She loves you.
“Tell me about her,” Lisbon asks softly and for a moment he’s afraid she’s reading his thoughts and pulls away, as though it’s the physical proximity that’s giving her such power. But as he sits upright his thoughts settle more rationally, reminding himself that no one can read minds, and he focuses on her question instead.
“Which her? The five-year-old she was before she died, or the teenage hallucination.”
“Either. Both. Whichever you want,” Lisbon offers gently.
He takes a breath to steady himself as he considers what it is he actually needs to say.
“The first time, on the diamond case, she said I needed to get over my obsession with Red John. She said it was creepy and she was so over Red John. Such a teenager,” he manages to smile just a little at the memory.
Lisbon follows his lead, taking the lighthearted path for her reply, “Well, that’s probably why she didn’t come back, Jane. She’s a teenager with better things to do than hang out with you up in your attic.”
“She’s not real,” he says seriously, meeting her eyes.
“I know, Jane.”
“She’s just a product of my subconscious…” he acknowledges hesitantly. “So she’s me, really.”
Lisbon doesn’t look away and her hand squeezes his as she carefully offers, “Maybe that’s why she didn’t come back. Maybe you know it’s time to let go, to find another way to live with their deaths. A healthier way.”
Neither of them is willing to mention Lorelei’s name but they both know she’s the elephant in the room; the path of self-destruction he’d been running down at an ever-increasing pace until it had turned into a brick wall and she’d disappeared, leaving nothing but an imposter in her place.
Leaving nothing at all for him to hold onto.
Charlotte’s voice echoes in his memory again. Love you can keep, she’d said.
He thinks about how tightly he’s kept hold of his love for her and Angela.
And he thinks about how hard he’d tried to keep hold of Lorelei.
And he thinks about all the phone calls Lisbon made when he was in Vegas.
And he thinks about Lisbon’s thigh pressed against his now, her hand gripping his, and how maybe she’s been trying to keep hold of him this whole time.
And finally, he thinks about how maybe he’s trying to keep too much. Angela and Charlotte. Lorelei and Red John. Anger and revenge. Lisbon. He can’t hold it all and he realises he’s been heading towards this choice for quite some time.
When it really comes down to it, does he want to hold onto Red John — or hold on to Lisbon?
The answer is laughably easy now that he’s dared to ask himself the question.
“She told me something else,” he exhales, a sense of peace starting to settle inside him.
“What’s that, Jane?”
“I love you.”
Her face changes, pinches tight with uncertainty and she shifts on his bed, just enough to remove the comforting pressure of her thigh against his, though her hand doesn’t let go of his.
“Your hallucination of your daughter told you that you love me?” she questions like she’s not sure she heard him correctly.
“Yes,” he says simply.
She pulls her hand away now and stands. There’s panic written all over her face and she tries to hide it, walk the tone of their conversation back to some place lighter, “Well, those drugs also turned garden gnomes into real people in your mind so, I don’t think you need to put too much stock into everything you hallucinated, Jane.”
She doesn’t believe him, he realizes. It’s not that she doesn’t want to hear it, it’s that she doesn’t think it could be true. It’s not an unreasonable conclusion on her part, he admits to himself with a cold slither of guilt in his stomach. He’d abandoned her for six months, told her he loved her just weeks ago, and then pretended not to remember it. He’d thrown himself into getting a step closer to Red John, brushed aside all of her concerns like they didn’t matter, kissed Lorelei.
Now he’s told her he loves her again after drugging himself to try and hallucinate his dead daughter. He can hardly blame her for her skepticism or her discomfort.
“No, that’s not…” he stands, trying to get her attention again, offer her a reason to believe him.
But she cuts him off, avoiding his eyes, and says, “You’ve had a rough night. Why don’t you get some sleep? We can handle things without you for a little while.”
It hits him all at once just how exhausted he is and he finds himself nodding without protest as she walks quickly to the door, eager to get away. He can’t bring himself to chase her no matter how much he wants her to believe him.
She pauses in the doorway and looks back at him cautiously. “Jane? I can trust you not to take any more tea, right? I don’t…I don't want to come check on you later and find you hurt.”
“No more tea — I’m done, Lisbon,” he answers sincerely. “You don’t have to worry about me, I won’t do anything but nap.”
“Good. Thank you,” she says, closing the door behind her.
—
He’s true to his word and he doesn’t take belladonna again.
Instead, he carefully unlocks certain doors in his memory palace and reacquaints himself with his five-year-old daughter, including all the sass he’d pushed to the side because remembering her at her most sweet and innocent had made it easier to focus his anger all these years.
But now he remembers the way she would huff and stamp her foot when he was being too slow for her liking.
He remembers the way she would chastise him for playing wrong with her dollhouse, telling him what to do and what to say, sometimes going so far as to banish him with a sullen, “You can’t play if you’re not going to do it right!”
He remembers her stealing bites of his toast, fries off his plate, and cookies right out of his hand because, in her world, anything that was his was also automatically hers.
Lisbon doesn’t mention his confession or his experiments with hallucinogenic tea, but he notices her watching him more closely every time he goes to the little kitchen in the bullpen. He makes a point of making sure she can see the teabags he uses and that nothing else goes into his cup and he can see her relief each time.
He waits a few weeks, lets them settle back into their normal rhythm so he can show her that he’s okay. That his encounters with his hallucinogen-created daughter aren’t clouding his judgment or driving his actions.
This time he goes to her apartment, after work, when they’ve just closed a case and there’s nothing new yet to focus on.
He chooses this moment so it isn’t driven by adrenaline or subterfuge or connected to their work in any way at all. He chooses it so that it’s not anchored to his place of isolation and recent grief, so there’s less suggestion that it might simply be borne out of loneliness.
His planning is deliberate and careful but ultimately he knows all can actually do is hope; he tries to take heart in the notion of 'third time’s the charm' and he knocks on her door nervously.
“Jane, what are you doing here?” she answers, surprised but still stepping aside to let him in.
“I need to tell you something but first I need to give you this,” he explains, handing over a piece of paper to her.
“What is this?”
“A drug test. Mine.”
“Okay? Why?” she questions, handing the paper back to him without bothering to read it.
“To prove I’m not under the influence of anything, that when I tell you what I need to tell you, there’s no doubt, this is all me.”
“Tell me what?” she sighs warily.
“That I love you.”
“Jane…” her face closes and she shakes her head at him, clearly ready to retreat or argue with him.
“No, just listen. Please. I love you. And that really shouldn’t be a surprise. I shot my only Red John lead to protect you. I’ve been showing up to this job for years, even though the pay is terrible and I hate guns and you’re always kind of mad at me but the truth is it makes me happy that I get to see you every day. And the truth is, I was jealous of Bosco. I was jealous of Mashburn. And even Red John knew you were the one thing he could ask of me that would tip my hand and undermine my ruse. He knew I could never sacrifice you because I’m in love with you. It’s that simple, Lisbon.”
“How was any of that simple, Jane?” she protests loudly, shaking her head at him with an expression that he reads as a mix of disbelief and exhaustion.
He tries to step closer to her but she immediately steps back, asking, “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s true,” he says plainly.
“But why should I believe you?” she demands, shakily. “You said it once before and then told me you didn’t remember. Why would you do that, Jane? And just because you haven’t drunk the tea again or taken any other drugs, doesn’t mean you’re telling me the truth.”
“Why would I lie about this, Lisbon?”
“Honestly Jane, I have no idea,” she shrugs, crossing her arms in front of her and walking to her couch to put more distance between them.
But not before he realizes she has tears in her eyes that she’s desperately trying to contain.
He walks slowly to the couch and sits down beside her, half expecting her to get up and run — but she doesn’t.
She doesn't look at him though so he very carefully raises his hand and touches the side of her jaw, gently turning her head to face him.
“Damnit, Jane. If this is some kind of joke, it’s cruel,” she whispers.
“This is no joking matter, Teresa. I love you and I’m pretty sure that you love me too and I’m gonna kiss you now unless you stop me.”
His hand still rests gently underneath her jaw and he presses his lips to hers with that same gentleness, wanting only to show her how he feels with something she might trust more than words.
Her own response is anything but gentle; she grabs at his shirt, fisting the material in her hands to pull him closer as she kisses him hard and fast. It’s laced with desperation and fear and longing and every time her tongue touches his it sends so much unbridled desire down his spine he can barely think. His hands find her waist and he tugs her with intention, lifting her until she straddles his lap and he lets his hands roam her back while hers release his shirt and rise to his cradle his face.
It’s this gentle touch of hers that refocuses his mind and he slows her down, with his finger gently on her neck, stroking steadily against her pulse point until their kiss slows to a stop alongside it and he carefully pulls back, releasing her from his touch.
Her eyes stay closed until he says her name, “Teresa.”
When she opens them a tear trickles down her cheek and she swipes it away herself before he has the chance to do it for her.
“You don’t have to be scared. I’m not going to disappear— or take it back. You were right when you said maybe I knew it was time to find another way to live with their deaths. A healthier way. I’ve been running from my own happiness, so afraid that being happy without them would mean I had let them down, betrayed them. But the truth is, I’m so tired, Teresa. I don’t want to keep running away from happiness anymore. I want so badly to just rest in it. And it’s you.”
Her eyes search his intently, clearly trying to determine if she believes him and he simply sits, allows his face to open up to her completely, and waits.
He expects words; an interrogation, but instead she leans in and kisses him again and he feels her questions in that instead. She kisses him slowly this time, and he responds in kind, trying to give her all the answers she needs. He feels the fear and desperation fade from her lips, replaced entirely by tenderness and love and eventually she rests her head against his and tells him, “I love you, too.”
A smile breaks over her face as the words settle between them and he would swear it lights up the whole room.
“So, what now?” she asks, glancing down as though she’s only just realized exactly the position she’s in. Before she has the time to let embarrassment catch her, he rests his hands on her waist to show her that there’s nothing to be embarrassed by; this physical shift in their relationship is entirely natural. In response she lifts a hand to his hair and brushes through it gently, looking for all the world like she’s finally been given permission to do something she’s been denied for far too long.
“To be honest, I would love a cup of tea right now,” he answers.
She slaps his shoulder playfully and climbs off his lap with a little smile, “Not funny, Jane.”
“Hey, I just meant a regular cup of tea!” he defends, hands raised in peace.
“What makes you think I even keep tea here? You know I only drink coffee,” she tells him with a challenge in her eye and the tiniest of smirks on her mouth.
“Lisbon,” he asks pointedly, “Do you, or do you not have tea?”
She relents with a smile and eye roll, “Fine, yes I have tea, Jane. But you can make it yourself. Don’t think I’m gonna fuss over you just because I’m in love with you.”
“That is perfectly fine, I wouldn’t expect anything of the sort, Lisbon. Just lead the way.”
As he follows her to her kitchen he doesn’t try to suppress the giddy smile on his face and the butterflies in his stomach as he replays her words in his head.
Just because I’m in love with you.
—
When his tea is brewed he settles on her couch with his back against the armrest and his legs stretched out. He catches her by the waist as she passes by, pulling her down so she’s settled between his legs with her back against his chest.
She snorts a little at the maneuver. “So, this is how it is now? You tell me you love me and now we just do this?” she says, gesturing around their bodies.
"Yes, Lisbon. That’s exactly how it is,” he tells her happily, reaching now to retrieve his teacup from the shelf behind him. He takes a few sips before circling his arms around her, carefully holding the cup between his two hands as it rests gently against her stomach. Her own hands rest gently on the outside of his thighs, idly drawing patterns with her fingers, content it seems to just sit quietly with him.
He gets a little lost in thought as he glances around her living room, taking in everything he can, tucking away questions he wants to ask her sometime, when suddenly he feels his teacup being lifted from his hands. She holds it in her own and lifts it to her mouth, taking a few sips before lowering it again to place back in his.
“So, this is how it is now, huh? You say no to tea of your own and then steal from mine!”
“Yep, that is exactly how it is, Jane. You got a problem with that?” she teases, twisting slightly to look up at him.
He presses a soft kiss to her forehead with a happy sigh, “No, no, not at all actually. I think I can live with that just fine.”