Solitude, Part 2

A/N: I finally managed to wrestle Jane's reflections to the point they made sense to me. Hopefully they suit the tenor of Lisbon's reflections in Solitude, Part 1.

Jane sat alone on the beach and let the sun's caress ease the morning chill. Eyes closed, he listened to the swell and the lonely cries of the seabirds. He was completely and utterly free. He carried no responsibility or burden, was beholden to no-one. He could come and go as he pleased without causing the slightest ripple in the fabric of life around him.

He was likewise free of possessions. If he so chose he could up and walk to the next village without even bothering to pack. That was true freedom. He pondered that thought, turning the idea over and contemplating the doing of it. His thumb strayed to his wedding band and his foot nudged against his old shoes. His half formed ideas failed to take root and lapsed back into the subconscious. Perhaps he wasn't quite as free as he wanted to believe.

Rather than fret on the matter he continued to bask in the sun. Once sufficiently warmed, he opened his eyes and took in the endless ocean. Yes, he had nothing and no-one to worry about at all. Perhaps he needn't move again. He could stay right where he was, allowing the wind, the sand and the sun to fix him in place. He might desiccate to the point he transformed into a rock. It would be immortality of a sort he could bear, a passage of millennia staring sightlessly out to sea. Perhaps he'd become a puzzle for future generations, a mystery as to who'd carved the statue of the Watcher.

The light grew and the feel of the sun insinuating its burning tendrils into his skin brought the fantasy to an end. Jane exhaled deeply. He had absolutely nothing to do and that state of mind was beginning to wear thin. Somehow he'd amassed a treasure hoard of time with nothing to spend it on. He still didn't have a wife and child to care for, nor yet were there murders to solve or old friends to seek out or the prospect of bantering with his dearest friend.

He'd finally laid to rest the memories of his family; it had taken many nights and more bottles of cheap rum than his liver was willing to forgive. Angela and Charlotte were truly gone and the burden of his vengeance set down.

His heart remained empty, however. He was more like an automata than a fully functioning man, a replica of a human following simple instructions: Eat, sleep, smile, walk. He executed the basic functions of life without touching on a greater meaning to his existence. He functioned, he survived; to what purpose or benefit he couldn't say.

His lassitude felt all encompassing, more fundamental than either ennui or weltschmerz. Part of him could still enjoy the delights of nature - boredom was not the enemy - but he felt disconnected from the wonders he observed.

Perhaps it was freedom that was the root cause of his predicament. To be free was a fine concept in theory, but in practice too much of it left you untethered. His choices had landed him without human connections, possessions, responsibilities or purpose. The thought of acquiring those chains again was frankly daunting. Nevertheless he had nothing more to gain from carelessly drifting through life.

If he was to take up a burden again, why not start with a sweet one. For the first time in many years, Jane seriously considered finding a woman. His options were limited in a small village but there was nothing to stop him moving to more plentiful hunting grounds.

He was well aware his looks and charm could win him most anyone he desired. He recalled an old conversation with Lisbon and her team. He'd compared Women as accordions. Complicated to play, but vulnerable to anyone with the music to unlock their hearts.

Ignoring his unease, he clinically considered what sort of entanglement he might use to restart the pulse of life in his body. He could live in comfort with a rich widow, their shared pain would allow for a deeper connection. Alternatively he could take up with someone half his age, use his experience to guide and mould her to suit his predilections, bask in her youthful worship to rejuvenate his faded passions.

Jane shifted uncomfortably in the sand. Even as his body responded to his daydreaming his mind felt wearied. When it came to women he'd learnt the truth about himself long ago. He could win over most any woman except for the ones he truly desired. The key to his method of seduction was to stay remote, to make a cool headed assessment of his target's expressions and responses. Once his heart was engaged, however, he lost all sense of control and floundered as badly as the next besotted chump.

He might easily have followed in his father's footsteps and become a player, spent his life knee deep in women and never had a connection of any worth. Fate intervened, however, and a young Angela had set her cap at him before he'd barely started down that road. Her love came at a time when he'd been waking up to who and what his father truly was and helped sway him away from becoming a more highly evolved predator of the same stamp.

Angela had made no secret of either her love or her expectations of Patrick and in so doing overwhelmed his adolescent heart. That devotion never faded, not through poverty, isolation, rapid wealth or the arrival of Charlotte.

Jane wasn't a completely reformed character, of course, far from it. He'd been utterly ruthless in preying on the weak minded and suggestible to build his wealth. His motivation, however, had been founded on building the perfect life for Angela and their child. It kept him human and ensured he was capable of being open about his feelings and responsive to the needs of others. Ultimately, of course, it also proved to be his undoing. He'd merged himself so completely with the women in his life he barely had anything left when they were snatched away from him.

A familiar pain tightened Jane's chest. He breathed deeply and dug his toes into the warming sand, focussing on gritty texture between his toes. The sensation passed as quickly as it came. Deep down he knew finding a woman wasn't the answer to his problem. Certainly not anyone he was capable of seducing. What he needed was someone to drag him to his feet and chivvy him along to some worthwhile purpose.

Unbidden his mind flashed to Lisbon waking him up with a kick to his couch. A smile creased his face as he pictured her irritated expression. Now there was someone wise to his ways. He imagined her sitting next to him on the beach and wondered how long she'd let him wallow there before her patience ran out. Thirty minutes at the outside, he calculated, and that was assuming she'd had her first coffee and another to hand.

God he missed her. He missed not being able to share the little pleasures he worked so hard to find even amidst his despair. Carefully strung together, they'd given him the fortitude to carry on. Those small treasures were lying around his new home in abundance, but their lustre was dimmed without Lisbon to share his appreciation.

Sometimes his yearning for her presence made his self- control slip to the point he'd half turn to say something out to Lisbon before remembering their friendship had been his greatest sacrifice to the altar of revenge.

Did she hate him? Did she curse their very meeting and wish they'd never become associated? Or worse, had she simply forgotten about him? Perhaps she'd pushed the memory of their connection aside to double down on her career in law enforcement and the mountains of tedious admin that came with it.

It was enough to give him pause, but on reflection he couldn't attribute her such mean spirited behaviour. In his experience Lisbon was somewhat unique. While she railed against his intractable behaviour and never missed an opportunity to berate him for his unprofessionalism, he rarely got the sense she genuinely expected him to change. It was like they had an unspoken deal. He would be difficult and close cases and she would yell at him a lot and accept him for what he was.

The gap between tolerance and acceptance was a great one, and especially precious to Jane. In return he cherished Lisbon's bedrock of decency. She might frustrate him but he never thought less of her for it, and while he did try to change her attitude in subtle ways, it was only in the sphere of bringing her around to his plans for Red John.

Whatever their differences and attitudes, their partnership worked. Lisbon's colleagues might scratch their heads and the people from Jane's world might question why he wasted his talents on the cops, but it was an alliance formed on mutual respect and genuine affection.

Now that he'd finally gotten to the point where he could think of something other than himself and his loss, Jane allowed himself to speculate on what Lisbon might be doing. The logical answer was working at the CBI but he had a sneaking suspicion her luck with that organisation had run out. She'd aided and abetted his murder of McAllister and had already been on suspension due to the fallout from the Blake Association.

Without him being there to finesse the situation he very much feared she would have taken the fall. He pondered whether criminal charges were likely in play and decided they weren't. Lisbon was a canny operator and the Blake Association ensured they wouldn't want the scrutiny of a public trial. Kicked out with a handy severance pay, he concluded.

Now that he'd allowed himself to think of Teresa his interest was sparked. It was the first time he'd really thought about anyone else in months. Rather than let that guilt weigh him down – he'd dealt with enough guilt already - he tried to picture her new life.

He found it surprisingly difficult. His image of her was so strongly bound to the CBI it was near impossible to separate the woman from the job and the job from the institution. With an effort he pictured her in some other agency, perhaps running another team that would gladly lay down their lives for her.

She'd be in a new apartment she'd give barely any thought to. He smiled as he pictured the same old cardboard boxes stacked up against a new wall. In his imagination he furnished the rest of the apartment to Lisbon's taste and then his smile faded.

Was he being unfair to his friend? With him gone she might be free to open her heart to a life outside of work. Could she be dating someone? Living with them? That brought a pang but also a sense of relief, of gladness. He hoped she had found someone and grabbed hold of some simple, human happiness. There were only so many chances life would throw to you, and he knew from bitter experience the cost of letting them slip through your fingers.

He reflected carefully on his years working with Lisbon, on the friendship that grew as unexpected as a spring flower in a bitter glacial landscape. They'd had their false starts and misunderstandings without ever losing their good intentions toward one another.

Lisbon had been everything he needed, or at least could allow himself. In return he flattered himself he'd brought colour and wonder to her highly disciplined life. He'd dazzled and infuriated and inspired and frustrated. Intentionally or not, he'd given her a chaste romance that spanned nearly a decade and though she'd been a willing and witting accomplice, he knew she'd have wanted more while he got exactly what he wanted.

Despite the sun and the pleasant heat on his skin and the calming seethe of the waves, Jane felt uneasy. He owed Lisbon a tremendous debt of gratitude and it did not sit well with him. In his life he'd rarely recognised obligations but those he did were treated with utmost gravity.

Musing on his friend the and situation she might be in, he resolved that if she'd found happiness with another, he wouldn't resent her for it.

He'd remain a devoted friend regardless and in any case it would probably be for the best. He felt too weary to indulge in a grand passion, or even to allow someone so far in he couldn't imagine life without them. Far better to see Lisbon safely in the arms of someone who would be completely present for her, rather than having her make do with the shabby replica he'd become.

Thinking of Lisbon he realised she must be equally starved of news about him. The final voicemail he'd left her would have assuaged fears of his death but little else. She deserved to learn about the measure of peace he'd found thanks to her steadfast love and support.

Perhaps he could find a way to write to her. If he went through a third party he should be able to keep them both safe from any official scrutiny. He pictured the long journey his letter would make from hand to hand to boat to plane and most likely an RV. His carefully selected words of well wishes and gratitude might act as a balm to Lisbon's concerns.

His missive, like a thread of gossamer, would gently reconnecting him with his Lisbon. Perhaps in time the strands would multiply and grow strong enough to build a bridge between them once more. He had the time to slowly work at that pleasant task. All the time in the world.