Disclaimer: I don't own anything Mentalist related except some DVDs.

Author's Note: Before Blue Bird fics fall completely out of fashion, I wanted to get in this sequel to Anger Management, which a couple of reviewers requested.

I am an idiot.

This is not news. But tonight I am an idiot who has just lost the only good thing in his entire idiotic life. An idiot whose clever plan backfired horribly. Instead of convincing Lisbon to stay, I've sent her fleeing to Pike and DC after telling me I have no idea how to act like a decent human being. There's a very good chance she'll never speak to me again.

If I drink myself into a coma, maybe I won't compound my stupidity by chasing after her. I might as well take up drinking as my new hobby. I need something to fill all the empty days and nights ahead, seeing as how I just trashed any hope of ever spending them with the only person who stops me from feeling lonely.

Focused on that goal, I'm shocked when my door is kicked open. Damn, losing Lisbon made me forget all about the case. That kind of sloppiness will get me killed.

Good.

But not tonight, apparently. The sad lawyer and wrongly accused kid have come for their vengeance. I can sympathize. And the company makes me feel a little less like feeding myself to the sharks.

But sad lawyer's tale of woe hits too close to home. He lost the love of his life through cowardice and fear. I just lost my second and last chance at love for the same reasons. At least Lisbon isn't dead, I console myself. Though I'm probably dead to her. She's forgiven me much worse, but this was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.

All she's ever wanted from me was the truth. And I just couldn't give it to her. Everything she gave me over the years, the sacrifices she made, the risks she took for me, to protect me and help me get my vengeance, and I couldn't do this one simple thing for her.

Well...not simple. Truth is not a simple thing when you make a living lying. It's huge, actually. Scary. Monumental.

She deserved nothing less.

I am an ass.

She deserved the truth from me, not trickery. But she was right: I was focused on what I needed, not what she needed. I was so angry and hurt that she was leaving me, I came up with a plan to stop her. But I should have just given her what she needed, what she'd been hinting around at, too afraid to ask me straight out because she didn't want to be hurt again.

I hurt her. Again.

I am the sorriest excuse for a human being to ever walk the earth.

But I can fix this. I'll find her. I'll tell her the truth. I'll give her what she deserves.

I have to go to the airport.

mmm

Sitting in the optimistically named TSA interview room, my ankle throbbing, I try to console myself that the point of going to the airport and lying my way onto Lisbon's plane was to tell her the truth. I accomplished that, so it wasn't a failure.

Sitting here alone contemplating a Lisbon-less life feels like failure, though. I'll never see her again; that hasn't changed. She's moving in with Pike, probably at this very minute. She won't want a lovelorn fool around stirring up trouble in her nice new tidy life.

But she knows. She knows the truth. Even if it didn't change anything. I have a long, long list of regrets in my life, but never telling her is no longer one of them. And if things don't work out with Pike, she'll know I'll be waiting for her with open arms.

I perk up. Of course things aren't going to work out with Pike, I realize. Lisbon may think she wants a nice normal life, but like a lot of cops, she's an adrenaline junkie. She craves excitement. Her job in DC might provide that, but Pike certainly won't. Eventually she'll wake up and realize he doesn't know her at all, because she never opened up to him, and he's not the kind of guy who can fill in the blanks.

Okay. Lisbon is gone, but it doesn't have to be forever. I can still fix this. It's just going to take time. And truth. I have to resist the temptation to manipulate her.

That's going to be tough. But I can do it. I have to. Living the rest of my life without her is not an option.

I need a plan. I'll give her some time to settle in, and then I'll write her a heartfelt letter. She liked my letters from the island, after all.

Except, what if Pike picks up her mail? They're living together after all. Starting an argument is not going to endear me to her.

Email? Meh. Too cold. Texting has the same problem, with the added restriction of brevity. How long will it take for her to pick up when I call?

My heart sinks.

Wylie! He can hack the FBI's travel expenses and tell me when Pike is out of town. Then I can overnight my letter when I'm sure only she will see it.

Not perfect, but workable. It'll do until I think of something better. Now, the hard part: the letter itself. It has to be perfect. Irresistible. I have to pour my heart out in a way that she'll recognize as genuine.

Dear Lisbon, I won't ask for your forgiveness, because I know I don't deserve it. But I want you to know how sorry I am for not telling you the truth to begin with. I don't blame you for kicking me to the curb like a sack of putrid garbage.

No. Too harsh. And self pitying.

Dear Lisbon, The worst sin a con man can commit is falling for his own con, and I fell for one I didn't even know I was running: that I could never fall in love again.

Ugh. Can I use the pronoun "I" any more in one sentence?

Dear Lisbon, You are the finest person it has ever been my privilege to know, and I'm grateful for every day I had with you. Please know you will always be the most important person in my life. If you ever need a slightly deranged consultant again, all you have to do is call.

Hm. Maybe. A little maudlin though. Maybe I should try for some humor?

Dear Lisbon, Roses are red, violets are blue, I may be a jackass, but I love you.

Someone just shoot me now.

Maybe I should get some sleep and a decent meal—not to mention a cup of tea—before trying to compose the most important letter of my life.

The door creaks open again, but I ignore the stone-faced, unimaginative TSA agent bringing in more pointless paperwork in an attempt to make my brain shut down permanently. I respond to the third round of the exact same questions with weary resignation. They have to let me go eventually, even if Abbott has decided to let me stew for a bit to teach me a lesson.

I wonder, if I become useless at crime solving, will he beg Lisbon to come back on his own initiative?

He might. Or he might just toss me in prison. Would Lisbon come see me in prison? Try to help me? Or just be grateful she wasn't around when I self destructed?

Deep in thought, I barely notice when my interrogator leaves. I note the door opening again, but it isn't interesting enough to distract me from calculating the odds of Lisbon yielding to pity.

My nose gets the first clue. Instead of Mr. TSA's heavy handed body spray, a delicate scent of green tea and eucalyptus reaches me, reminiscent of the body products at the Blue Bird Lodge.

Wait.

I stop breathing as my attention snaps to the person sitting across from me, trying to figure out if I'm hallucinating. I'm a little lightheaded from having drunk my dinner and severe emotional distress, but that's never resulted in visions before. Particularly not accompanied by an olfactory component.

Maybe I've had a psychotic break? If this is insanity, sign me up. I can spend the rest of my life happily staring at my Lisbon hallucination in a padded cell somewhere, no trouble to anyone.

Then she says, "Hey," in a soft, warm voice that's so different from the last time she spoke to me that I think I must be imagining it. This can't be real.

"Hey," I croak. If I'm talking to the wall, maybe TSA will let me cop to an insanity plea.

"This is another fine pickle you've gotten yourself in, huh?" She sounds amused. She sounds exactly like I imagine she would if I hadn't tricked her and she hadn't washed her hands of me.

"Meh. I've seen worse, pickle wise." If this figment of my imagination can banter like Lisbon, I'm all set. Just lock me up.

"Yes, you have." She's so gentle with me I could weep. She looks like an angel; there's a radiance about her I've never seen before. A kind of quiet joy. This, I think, is how she would have looked if I'd had the courage to speak up before it was too late.

Her eyes sparkle with anticipation as she asks me if I meant what I said. Poor Lisbon, never able to trust my words. Except...it looks like she does. She even returns them to me, in a way.

I have to tease her a little, because I love playing with her. She tries to scold me but can't stop smiling.

My heart is pounding as I ask her about Pike. Her happiness dims for a second, and she deflects. Just like the real Lisbon would.

Then she scrunches up her nose a little, so adorable I can hardly breathe, and says, "Say it again."

"Say what again?" I stall, trying to think straight. If I'm not already insane, I will be shortly. I have to prove to myself this is real. I have to touch her.

I have to kiss that "you're so full of shit" look off her face.

I get up, the twinge of pain in my ankle real enough. Slowly, I lean over the table, terrified I'll find only air where I'm seeing her eyes fluttering shut in expectation of my kiss. As I force myself to breathe, I realize I'm equally terrified I won't, because if this is real, I'm going to have to step up and be the man she deserves. And I don't know if I can.

My fingers touch her chin, and I shiver with realization. This is real. She is here. She didn't go to DC, she loves me back, she's waiting—a little impatiently—for me to kiss her.

So I do.

And she kisses me back, sweetly, lovingly.

She's saved me one more time, I think in amazement. And as we part and she smiles at me, her fingers trailing down my cheek, I know that this is not only real, it's permanent. Forever.

I am an idiot. All my planning, all the money I spent trying to trick her into staying with me, was a waste. All it took was the truth. That was all she needed. It's probably all she'll ever need.

So that's what I'll give her.

I may be an idiot, but at least I'm teachable.