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Broken things lose their value the moment they stop being whole. A bowl can no longer hold; a mirror can no longer reflect. Once fractured, they are reduced to fragments.
For Jane, it was a blue teacup - his favorite cup. Something that brought him comfort. A hug in a cup, he used to say. But it came to an end when an FBI guy brushed past him, the cup slipping out of his hand. Gravity did the rest. Porcelain met the floor and burst into clean, geometric pieces. To anyone else, it was just a teacup. Easily replaced.
But Jane felt his heart shattered with it. He cursed the FBI agent who caused it. He cursed Abbott, too - the man who swept in without apology and took over the Red John investigation just as they were getting close.
He walked away, told Lisbon it was over.
Like the teacup, Jane believed himself beyond repair - shattered by guilt, defined by the one loss he could never undo. A man who failed to protect his family does not get to be whole again. He becomes something dangerous. A thing that wounds anyone reckless enough to try to pick him up.
Broken things, in simple terms, are useless. They cut the hands that reach for them. Broken people are worse: they poison, ruin, leave damage in their wake.
That was what Jane believed.
Lisbon didn’t.
When the elevator doors closed, as they had so many times before, she refused to accept the finality of it. He can’t possibly give up now.
Back in the bullpen, the mess was still there. No one had bothered to clean it up. She took a broom and dustpan, sweeping porcelain from the floor with care. But when she reached her office, a foolish, insistent thought stopped her.
What if this really was the end?
If the Red John case was over, Jane would have no reason to stay. No reason to linger in the CBI, no excuse to hover at her door with a cup of tea in hand. She would never see him again.
Lisbon set the dustpan down. Instead of the trash, she found a box and placed the broken pieces inside, one by one. Careful not to pierce herself with the sharp edges. Almost every day she had seen him drink from that blue cup. Maybe, when the time came for them to part and move on with their lives, this would remind her of him.
The thought surprised her. The sentimentality of it embarrassed her. She didn’t interrogate the feeling too closely. She was afraid of what it might confirm. What truth would come out.
She knows Jane has done terrible things. She had watched him bury a man alive, but she had also seen him give up his one chance at getting Red John to protect her. She had seen his kindness in the way he comforts the grieving family, the way he stops at nothing to catch the killer, the way he shielded a little girl from the horror of Red John's presence in her mind.
Hence, she knows this deep in her heart: there is goodness in the heart of every broken man.
If you told someone you kept a broken teacup in a box for years, they might laugh, thinking you were joking. Or they might look at you with concern, the way people do when they judge that something is wrong with you. Who does that, after all?
Lisbon never told anyone.
Just as she never mentioned Jane’s letters that arrived at her door in Washington, slipped there by his old carny friends like some kind of a contraband. She read every one of them by the fireplace, a good glass of wine in hand, letting his words warm the room in ways the fire could not. When she was done, she placed them back carefully in their box, setting it beside the box that contained Jane’s broken teacup.
That box went everywhere with her.
It went with her when she moved to Washington. When she settled into a house in Austin. When she said yes to Marcus and agreed to move to D.C. She carried those pieces everywhere she went, every attempt to leave the past behind. Funny 'cause she seems to always bring it with her, couldn't let go a memory of Jane.
The thought made her smile as she stepped toward the repair shop. Jane's birthday was only a few weeks away. She knew he didn't like to celebrate, didn't like the fuss from other people. Well, good thing she wasn't other people. She'd made it clear to him that his birthday wouldn't be passing unmarked on her watch. Thus, she intended to use every trick in her arsenal to surprise him. That meant being careful. Extra careful. It was difficult to keep secrets from a man who made a living pretending to read minds. Even more challenging now that they were practically inseparable - at work, at his airstream, at her place. She'd have to double her efforts to keep the nature of this gift hidden.
The bell above the door chimed as she entered. The shop smelled like dust and glue and something antique. Her boots echoed against the worn hardwood floors as she made her way to the counter, past shelves lined with various kinds of ceramic wares; broken bowls, vases, or plates traced with veins of gold, silver, or beige.
She handed the box to the man behind the counter. He looked like in his early 50s. She also guessed he’s Japanese since he wore a dark green kimono, but his English was pretty good.
She watched closely as he lifted the lid and examined the contents. He turned the pieces over with practiced hands, assessing angles and edges.
Her finger tapped an unconscious rhythm against the wooden counter. Her eyebrow arched with anxious attention, reading his expression for any sign of bad news.
"Don't worry, miss," he said at last, reassuring her. "It's in rough shape, I won't lie. But I've handled worse. This can be done."
Relief loosened something in her shoulders. "Oh, thank God," she breathed, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I'm sorry, I just - it's important."
"No trouble at all," he said with a kind smile. "Are you a collector, or…?"
"Oh. No." Lisbon shook her head quickly. "Nothing like that."
"Ah." He nodded knowingly. "So this is personal. Forgive me for asking. Most customers who come here are restoring antiques. Valuable pieces, family heirlooms, that sort of thing." He gestured at the shattered cup. "But from the condition of this, it's been damaged for quite some time. And unless I'm mistaken, this isn't particularly expensive or rare."
"It’s a birthday gift. For my boyfriend," she said simply, though she still feels a shudder calling Jane like that. "He's not a picky person, he barely owns anything, really, but this cup mattered to him. I'm hoping he'll like it because honestly, I can't think of anything else to give him that he won't figure out ahead of time."
The man nodded, as if that explained everything, and assured her he would do his best. Then, almost as an afterthought, he began to talk about kintsugi - a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold, sometimes powdered silver, or platinum, a practice that did not hide the damage but highlighted it. Lisbon hadn't intended to stay for small talk, but it piqued her curiosity that some people devoted their lives to fixing what others would throw away. He told her, briefly, about his childhood and a Japanese teacher who had shown him that brokenness was not the end of a thing’s story.
They said their goodbyes, and he told her she could pick it up after a week. Lisbon thanked him, her hand lingering on the box just a moment longer before she let it go. As she glanced around the shop one last time, she noticed the shelves filled with mended bowls and fractured cups, seams glowing faintly in the light. Beautiful, broken things that had been given another chance.
And the man’s voice echoed in her head as she went out to the street: some things are even more beautiful for having been broken.
Jane's reaction was priceless - his eyes widened, his fingers stilled on the cup, tracing the white veins that now held it together. Even better, he genuinely hadn't guessed. Despite her confidence that she could keep a secret from the great Patrick Jane, part of her had been certain he'd figure it out eventually. He always did. But not this time.
After a few sips of wine, he motioned for her to come closer, a habit he’s getting used to these days. She settled onto his lap, and his arms came around her waist immediately, pulling her flush against his chest as he nuzzled into the curve where her neck met her shoulder. His breath was warm against her skin as he closed his eyes, and she felt the tension leave his body in one long exhale. The universe seems to have shrunk, narrowed to the size of her in his arms.
She smiled, feeling her cheeks lift against his temple as her hands found his neck to slip into his curls - her favorite habit now. There had been many moments like this between them - wordless interludes where they simply relished each other. Warmth and cold rolled into their skin and bones. She brushed her nose against his temple, and he responded by tightening his embrace, his hands splaying wider across her back.
But the serenity cracked the moment his hand slipped beneath her shirt. A few heated make-out under the stars later, shirts hastily untucked and unbuttoned stumbling to the cozy confines of the Airstream. The cool metal door clicked shut behind them, sealing in the heat of their bodies, the quiet night left on the other side.
Now, Lisbon lay sprawled on her stomach, the thin sheets pooled at her waist, her body boneless and gloriously spent. Her skin glistened with a sheen of sweat like dew on petals.
Their lovemaking had been like striking flint - one spark igniting the other, each kiss answered with a deeper one, each thrust matched and raised, building until they'd burned through each other completely, until pleasure lifted her hips off the mattress, until he buried himself to the hilt as release tore through him.
Jane sat upright against the pillows, propped on his back. Each golden strand of curls pointed in its own rebellious direction, giving up symmetry. A chaos courtesy of his lover’s eager hands. And now his hand absentmindedly tiptoes over her freckles scattered across her back, tracing the ladder of her spine.
She hummed contently, her cheek turned toward him, one hand resting loosely on his thigh. Her face was near his waist, her hair a dark spill against his skin.
“How did you even put it back together?” he murmured as his fingers drifted to the scatter of freckles across her shoulders.
“I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve,” she said teasingly and he felt her smile against his skin.
“Oh, come on, Teresa,” he teased softly. “Today’s my birthday.”
“It’ll ruin the magic, don’t you think?” she replied, tilting her head just enough to look up at him.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you? The fact that I didn't figure out your gift."
“Mmh-mm,” she answered, punctuating it with a gentle kiss against his waist.
His breath hitched despite himself. His hand slid into her hair, “You really kept the pieces all these years?”
“It was kind of an instinct,” she said. “I knew it was your favorite. And I saw how hurt you were when it broke. So when you walked out, I cleaned it up, put it in a box… and kept it.”
“That’s kind of weird,” he said fondly. “And endearing.”
"I guess they were right," she murmured against his skin. "I am crazy about you."
He chuckled. “Now, I’ll have a hard time topping this.” He smiled down at her. “You never once thought about throwing it away?”
“Oh, I had plenty of time,” she said as she rolled onto her back, pulling the sheets up to her chest. She looked up at him. “Especially when you left after Red John,” her voice faltered at the mention of the name. “I knew that day would come. But hearing your voice on that call… I really thought that was it. That I’d never see you again.” Her voice softened. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t do it.”
Jane shifted, propped on his elbow, and he felt as if this woman right here in front of him is all he needs to breathe, to live, the feeling so overwhelming it constricts his throat. “You’re unbelievable,” he said finally with a fond sigh. “I don’t even know what to say, Teresa. I -” He faltered. He genuinely have nothing to offer that could be adequate to express his gratitude and love for this woman. No one would have done that. Only her.
“A kiss would be nice,” she said with a smirk tugging at her mouth.
He didn’t hesitate. He leaned down and kissed her slowly, deeply, letting his lips say everything he couldn’t find words for. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.
“I guess,” she whispered, “it was a way to keep a reminder of you.”
His expression shifted to something heavy settling behind his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For everything I’ve put you through. You didn’t deserve any of it.” He thought of all those years. Every time he'd left. Every time he'd let her down. Every promise broken. Every line crossed. How could anyone stand it? How could anyone put up with him and still love him despite it all?
She saw the guilt before he could hide it. Lisbon reached up, cupping his cheek. “Patrick. Hey.” She waited until he met her gaze. “It’s okay. You’re not responsible for my choices. I chose to help you. I chose you. And I knew what I was getting myself into.”
His breath shuddered. "It's just…" His voice broke, and he swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I don't know how I got so lucky." His fingertips traced a path along her collarbone, down to rest over her heart. "There's so little in me worth holding onto, Teresa. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd walked away - god knows I gave you enough reasons to. But you never gave up. You stayed through all of it. I'm just…" He shook his head, searching for words that had always come so easily before. "Lost for words."
He gave her an intense look that pierced her eyes, her heart, with that honesty that had been in his eyes on that day in the airplane. Enough to knock off the air in her lungs. Before she could draw another breath, he surged down to crush the space between their lips. She felt like flowers bloomed across her skin, petals unfurling in rapid succession.
"I am so in love with you,” he said with that sincerity only reserved for her.
His palm spread warm over her chest, right above her heart. It was light to a match as her own heartbeat kicked up beneath his touch.
"Are you real?" he said with his dazed and glassy eyes, like he was trying to convince himself she wasn't a dream.
She couldn't help the soft laugh that escaped. "What are you talking about?"
"You," he said, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. "This. What we have." His eyes searched her face, moving from her eyes to her mouth and back again. "I don't mean that it doesn't feel real, but this feels so right it's like a fantasy, something I would've imagined in my wildest dreams. Something I never thought I deserved to actually have. But here you are, in the flesh..."
"I'm not perfect, Jane," she said, feeling dizzy from the intensity of his gaze. No one has ever looked at her like she was something so precious and untarnished. "You said I'm messy inside," she added with a smirk.
"Yes, but I don't need you to be perfect, Teresa." His voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I love you - every beautiful and messy part of you."
A surge of butterflies took flight in her stomach, wings beating frantically, her heart swelling until it felt too big for her ribcage. She would never tire of hearing those words from him. Even though she wasn't ready to say them back - at least, not yet - she could show him. She let him feel everything in the way she reached up, fingers threading through his curls, and pulled him down to her. "Lucky for you," she murmured against his mouth, "you're stuck with me."
Their lips met smiling, unable to help themselves, the joy breaking through even as the kiss deepened. "And I assure you, I am very real," she said as her mouth opened under his, and when their tongues met it was electric. Jane shifted above her, his weight settling as he hovered over her body, one hand braced beside her head while the other to her neck.
They kissed like they were quenching their thirst for each other - drinking each other in, always needing more, never quite satisfied. She let him know exactly how much she wanted this, wanted him, as she arched up into his body. Her hands sliding down his back, nails dragging lightly along his spine in a way that made him gasp against her mouth.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire, lips swollen from her kisses. "Best birthday I've ever had”
She ran her hands down his chest slowly. "It's not over yet." Her fingers traced lazy patterns. "Still got a few hours left."
"Is that right?" He dipped his head to kiss along her collarbone, making her gasp. "And what do you have in mind?"
She tugged him back up to meet her gaze, a wicked smile playing at her lips. "I thought the psychic was supposed to read people." Her leg hooked around his hip, pulling him closer. "Can't figure it out?"
His answering grin was all heat with desire. "Oh, I have a few theories." His hand slid down her side, igniting every nerve ending. "But I'd hate to assume. Maybe you should spell it out for me."
"Where's the fun in that? I thought you liked puzzles, Jane,” she said as her thumb traced his lower lip.
"Teresa Lisbon," he murmured against her ear sending shivers down her spine, "you are going to be the death of me."
She smiled against his neck. "What a way to go."
He laughed, the sound vibrating through both of them, before capturing her mouth again and this time there was nothing gentle about it. They were mauling each other now; her teeth catching his lower lip, he retaliated with his tongue dragging a hot, wet path up her throat and she tilted her head back for more. The fire that had burned between them earlier reignited.
“I want you again,” he said as he traced the underside of her breast with gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes.
"Can't get enough of me?" she teased, though her own voice came out breathless.
“I guess I am crazy about you, too.”
As much as she craved the stretch of him filling her again, she wanted something else more. She wanted to watch him fall apart. To give back what he'd so thoroughly given her.
"This time," she said teasingly as her hand slid down his chest, following the trail of golden hair that led lower, "I want you to lie down."
His eyes darkened, pupils swallowing the blue, "Teresa..."
"Lie. Down." She pressed against his chest, firmer this time. Jane complied, stretching out on his back, propping himself up on his elbows to watch her. The sheets rumpled beneath him, wrinkled and disheveled, still carrying the faint musk of sweat and sex from their earlier rounds.
She straddled his thighs, deliberately positioning herself just below where he wanted her most. Taking her time, she let her gaze travel the length of him as her fingers followed the same path - feather-light graze down his stomach. She felt his muscles jump and contract beneath her touch.
When her hand finally wrapped around his length, just to give one teasing stroke - she'd expected to find him still soft, still recovering. Instead, she was surprised by the half-hard heat of him already responding to her touch. A slow smile curved her lips as a fresh wave of arousal came that she had to fight the urge to simply straddle him and sink down, taking him inside her, abandoning all patience.
"Tell me what you want," she murmured, leaning in to brush her lips against his in a kiss that was barely there, “...we could take our time or I could just...” She knew exactly which buttons to push to drive him crazy. Had learned his body over these past months. Tonight, she intended to use every bit of that knowledge.
"No," he managed to say as his chest rose and fell rapidly with anticipation. "I don't want to rush this time."
Their previous lovemaking had been all heat and passion. Fast and intense. This time, he wanted to savor it, to draw it out, to let the pleasure build slowly like a tide coming in rather than a wave crashing over them.
"Understood," as she let go of his length and let her lips and tongue traced a path down his body, like following invisible cracks of him, sealing each fracture with kisses like liquid gold poured into broken porcelain.
Starting with his earlobe, gently biting it before soothing it with the flat of her tongue. She moved to his neck and felt his response immediately, his hand finding her waist, fingers spreading wide. When her mouth found his throat, right where his pulse hammered wildly, both his hands rose to cradle her head. She felt him trying to stay still, felt him failing.
Lower to his chest, his stomach, his hip bone. She felt the muscles quiver and jump under her attention, his breath coming faster. Her lips mapped every invisible seam, every fracture line etched by grief and guilt and years of self-imposed penance.
Each kiss was like sealing all the cracks with her mouth, with all the love she could offer.
She deliberately avoided his length, seeing it twitch as it felt her breath when she got near. Feeling him thrust into empty air as she caressed his inner thigh. She loved watching Jane like this. Jaw slack, mouth parted, breath coming in ragged gasps.
But it wasn't just lust that made her gaze linger - it was the privilege of seeing him completely unguarded. Vulnerable in a way he allowed no one else to witness. Letting himself receive, letting himself feel without deception.
One of the most fascinating things about Patrick Jane, she learned now, was that he was, at his core, a giver. What his clever fingers could do, what that wicked mouth was capable of - he could unravel her within minutes if he wanted, or torture her by drawing out her pleasure until she was shaking and begging. She knew the control it took for him to simply lie back and accept. To not immediately turn this around and make it about her instead.
The secret nature of their relationship - barely touching in the office, keeping careful distance in front of the team - only intensified moments like these. All that pent-up want finding release behind closed doors. There had been other times she'd done this, focusing solely on his pleasure, but they were rare. Jane always tried to redirect, to make it about her, as if he didn't quite believe he deserved to simply take.
But she was determined to give and give and so she finally stroked him firmly - she was rewarded by a guttural moan. A bead of moisture gathered at the tip and she swept her thumb over it, spreading the slickness, using it to ease her next stroke until he was fully hard in her hand.
"Kiss me," he managed to say and she met his lips without breaking rhythm. He tried to deepen the kiss but kept breaking away to gasp or groan, unable to focus on both sensations at once.
When her grip tightened slightly, twisting her wrist on the upstroke the way she'd learned drove him wild, he fell back against the pillows with a strangled sound. His hips lifted involuntarily, thrusting up into her fist, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of her.
"Teresa..." Her name was a prayer on his lips as he began thrusting up to meet each stroke of her hand. The sight of his length going in and out through her fist just drove something primal within her. She missed that feeling of him inside her, but she also knew another way to drive him absolutely mad.
She took him in her mouth.
A string of curses spilled from Jane's lips. The wet heat of her mouth, the clever slide of her tongue, her hand stroking what her mouth couldn’t reach - the combined sensations threatened to end this far sooner than he wanted.
"S-slower," he gasped, breathing erratically, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding back. "Teresa, please –”
She released him with a wet pop, her lips swollen, and looked up at him with dark eyes. "Jane, you could let go," she said softly, her free hand stroking his trembling thigh. "I want you to.”
"I don't want to yet," he said through gritted teeth, eyes squeezed shut as if blocking out the sight of her would help him maintain control. "Not yet.”
She was cut off as he sat upright with surprising speed, catching her completely off guard. His mouth found her breast immediately, tongue circling her nipple before drawing it between his lips with gentle suction. When he added his hand to knead her other breast, her grip on him faltered slightly, lost in the twin sensations of his mouth and hands.
"You are," she laughed breathlessly, "the most stubborn man I eve-"
Her words dissolved into a gasp as his hand slid down her body with clear intent. She knew she'd lost this battle the moment his fingers dipped inside her with ease. He withdrew slowly, then pushed deeper, and she felt him hum against her breast at how ready she was - still slick from everything they'd done, their combined evidence making each stroke effortless. He was building her pleasure with the same precision she'd used on him, and it was working far too well.
"This isn't -" Her protest broke as his fingers curled inside her, "fuck, that's not...mmh, fair."
"I want...I -," he murmured against her breast losing in the pleasure with her expert hands, thumb circling the sensitive head in a way that made his hips jerk involuntarily. "Oh god, I, uh...inside. I wanna feel you again,” as his fingers demonstrated with an explicit in-and-out motion that made her vision blur. "Please."
Before she could respond, he caught her wrist gently, stopping her movements. Their eyes met and understood what each other wanted. He took her other hand too, intertwining their fingers, then, with grace, rolled onto his back, pulling her with him until she straddled his hips.
She rose up on her knees, positioning herself above him. Their joined hands steadied her as she reached down with one to guide him and took him inside her. The stretch was exquisite, even after everything they'd already done. She knew she'd be sore tomorrow, would feel him with every step, but God, she still couldn't get enough of him.
Hands laced like knots as she rocked against him. It almost turned white as the pace quickened, chasing their climax. Then her hands went slack in his, all strength draining from her body as waves of pleasure rolled through her. Jane held her through it, his hands releasing hers only to catch her waist, guiding her trembling body down against his chest, keeping her close. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, breathing hard, feeling his heart hammering against her chest - almost as fast as her own. His fingers stroked soothingly up and down her spine.
“Keep-keep going,” she whispered against his ear, her body utterly spent like a balloon deflated of all its air.
His hips began to thrust up erratically, chasing his own finish now. His fingers splay wide below her armpit, the other gripping her waist to hold her steady, as he spilled inside her with a guttural groan.
They stayed locked together as their breathing gradually slowed, neither willing to break the connection.
"Happy birthday to me, indeed," he murmured, his voice drowsy with satisfaction. His eyelids heavy as he nuzzled into her hair. "Ready for round three?,” he said jokingly, even as his cock softened slightly within her.
"Calm down, birthday boy." She chuckled softly against his neck. She shifted just enough to feel him twitch inside her, "You’re practically still inside me, Jane.”
"Mmm, I'm aware." His hand traced idle patterns on her back.
She looked up at him, dazed, “And actually, it would be round four.”
His eyebrows shot up. "Four? Really?"
"Mmm-hmm," she confirmed, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. "Don't be coy with me. You knew exactly what you were doing."
His laugh turned to a sharp intake of breath as she shifted, lifting herself off him, losing the connection. The sudden emptiness made her inner muscles clench on nothing, a faint ache blooming. She settled beside him with a contented sigh. "We should probably change these sheets," she said, even as she burrowed deeper into his side, making no move to get up.
"Yeah, we should," he agreed, his arm coming around her shoulders, "Tomorrow."
She yawned. “Night, Jane.”
"Goodnight, Teresa." His lips pressed against her temple
His breathing evened out first, and she lay there listening to it, feeling the rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, and thought about broken teacups mended with gold. About the look on his face when she'd given it to him. About this man beside her, loving her with everything he had. About how some things really were more beautiful for having been broken.
About how they'd both shattered and somehow found a way to piece each other back together.
Somehow they'd learned to fill each other's cracks with something precious - not hiding the damage, but making it part of something new.
Something stronger.
Something beautiful.
Her hand found his over her ribs, fingers intertwining one last time as sleep pulled her under.
Two broken things, made whole together.