5A.N.: Hey all! So this is my first fic since the show ended - :'( but although I'm so sad to see it go, I have to say it was wrapped up beautifully and as lovingly as could be, so my thanks to all involved for a wonderful finale and an amazing seven year run! I'm throwing back with this fic, there were so many times in earlier years that I was so mad at Jane for how he treated Lisbon that I'd have loved to see her leave him in the lurch, so I've just written a few takes of how she might have done so, while trying to show how their relationship changed over the time. I imagine all these but the last to be set in Jane's attic, but open for interpretation! Hope you enjoy, please do review :)
"Goodbye, Jane," she says, and turns on her heel. He watches her go for a heartbeat, and in one more is running to her. He grabs her hand where it rests at her side and grasps it within his two hands, urges her toward him. She resists but lets her hand remain in his grasp, and they stand like that for what must be an eternity – him at her back, her facing away, their hands still fused together. She turns then finally to him and he takes her other hand in his other, holding her desperately in pace. But she won't stay, he knows that now.
"I'm going now, Jane," she says. "Please come with me. Please. Leave this. Come with me."
He breaks his hands from hers and throws his gaze bitterly to the floor, anywhere away from hers.
"You know I can't," he says hoarsely and she nods her indignant nod, angry only at herself for letting herself believe, even for mere seconds, that he might do as she asked, and the sting when he hadn't. She leans forward, running her hands down his forearms, circling them at the wrist, and smoothing her thumbs against his skin. Even now she tries to calm him.
"I can't stay," she says and he nods.
"I know."
She grasps his wrists tightly, so tightly it hurts. Just as it occurs to him that this might well be the first time she's ever hurt him, the stinging pain is released. When he looks up again, she is gone.
"I can't do this anymore, Jane," she says, and he knows it's over, because she has never said those words so quietly before, but in haste and anger; never thoughtfully. Jane meets her eye line and nods. He understands. He deserves this. This mightn't even have a lot to do with him at all. She reaches toward him. She cradles her head in his hands and presses quiet lips against his cheek and it is so gentle and beautiful that it doesn't feel real – that this is Lisbon – Lisbon – kissing his face seems absurd. And all is gentle and all is quiet, but then she pulls him to her, closes her arms around him, hands at the back of his neck. He can barely breathe she is so close, and he knows how much this is going to hurt them both. His hands at her back, holding her so tight it cannot be comfortable, but she is holding him thus too. Maybe if they focus on this fleeting pain they will be able to leave off the reality of what is truly happening. There are no more words – there is no need. She gives everything she's got, like she's always done with him. He's just going to turn his head into her when she breaks suddenly off and walks away. He watches her go. She does not look back.
"No Jane, no more-"
"-Lisbon!"
"How could you, Jane? How could you? I'm done with you, Jane, I am done."
"No!"
"Yes."
She looks at him. "You've crossed lines, Jane, I just never thought you'd cross me. I thought I was the limit."
He stands, ashamed, yet unapologising.
"I was wrong." She sighs. "I hope you find what you're looking for, Jane. And by God, I hope you make it out of this alive."
"Me too," he says and she throws her eyes, now brimming with tears, to the heavens.
"I wish I could help you, Jane. I wish you'd let me help you, but I can't go on like this, not if you won't let me in. And you're not going to, are you?"
He shakes his head no, but it wasn't really a question in the first place. "I can't."
She nods, bottom lip full with indignance.
"Well then." She pats her lap with finality, stands. "I'm not going to hang around and watch you kill yourself, not if you're not going to give me every chance of saving you. It wouldn't be fair to me. It's never been fair to me." She can feel her words choking, determined tears now escaping from her eyes. "It's never been fair to me, Jane," she repeats, "but I've never said, because I-"
"-Lisbon, you don't need- I understand. I get it, I do. You're probably right, as always." He stands too. "Lisbon, I-"
"-Don't Jane. You don't need to say anything. I know you have to go on. You need to."
He nods, because he can't argue with her anymore.
Her look is cold and hard as she launches herself at him. Her kiss is warm and hard, and it is severe and it is gorgeous. Her hands are in his hair, on his back, and his are around her waist, pulling her closer still. And i's so intimate, and unexpected and so right and so wrong. He will not let himself be fooled though – this is nothing but desperation. For the friend she is losing, for the loss of the love she never had, but who'd always have her.
She breaks away and from tears or passion she is breathing hard. Her lips are redder, her cheeks flushed, from shame or shock he does not know.
"So long, Jane," she says, and he nods. She walks away and he goes after her, turns her by the hand and looks at her – really looks at her. Tears are streaming now. He leans forward, kisses her softly now, fingertips grazing her chin. And then he lets her go.
He hears her hesitate on the sixth or seventh step down from the attic. He can picture her, just out of eyesight, steadying herself, perhaps touching a finger to her lips; she'd have closed eyes, bracing herself for what lay - Her footsteps break his dream. He listens, every footstep he hears takes her further from him, but she's already gone further from him than she's ever been before.
So she'd gone. Eight months ago, she'd left, never to return to him again. It had been hard; different this time. It should have been him, he thought. He'd always thought it would be him. She would cope better with this. She was always the strong one. Life is much different now, and yet, almost the same; just one big change that had managed to seep through to every corner of his life.
He finds himself wondering about her God. This day he goes for a short stroll, as he so often does, to pass the time, and without thinking about it at all, he finds himself sitting on the back row of a church stall. He can imagine her, sitting, further up the rows of pews, just as she had done that day in Sacramento, just as he had watched her do a hundred times since. He remembers seeing her then, on bended knee, praying for him. He says a prayer for her now. He doesn't believe, not really, but he won't let a small thing like that stop him doing what he wants. He wishes he did believe, so he throws in a mention of that while he's at it. He doesn't suppose it's his thoughts on the subject that matter so much, not when he's praying for her.
He sits and remembers that day they had reunited then. She'd been much younger then, not quite as in love with him as she one day would be, but well on the way even then, he thinks to himself with a smile. It had been such a blessing that day. He sits back in the seat, leaning heavily against the backrest, discomfort in his bones. He's moving slower these days. He looks up to the ceiling, around the walls; admires the architecture, the decoration, the devotion of the faithful. He looks at the altar then and remembers the last time he was here, not a reunion but a parting, when she'd had to go.
He sits in silence a long while, he isn't sure just how long. He lifts himself up then, with effort, and stands, a lone figure making his way to the dimming light of day. He doesn't reckon he'll return here again himself. The day he does will be a day of leaving too, but if his prayer turns out as he hopes, then it might just be a day of reunion too. She'll watch him come as he watched her go, she'll laugh and tell him that she told him so. And he will smile, and hold her hand, and will never leave her side.
