Title: Meadowlark

Rating: T for sexual references

Warning: Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts/ideation and acts of self-harm.

Spoilers: Goes AU after 6x08.

Disclaimer: Obviously, I'm not making any money off of this.

A/N: This is a short one, folks. Three chapters but less than 5,000 words. I should be writing my novel right now, but I keep responding to fic prompts instead. The addiction is real, people.

This fic is dedicated to Grrarrggh, who requested Lisbon faking her death while Jane is away on his island.

xxxx

When Jane sees Pete's large, lumbering figure seated at a table on the patio at his favorite beachside restaurant in the little village on his way back from the post office, sweating in the tropical heat and looking uncomfortable, his stomach clenches.

"Well," Jane says, dropping into the seat next to him. Happiness at the sight of his old friend wars with a nearly overpowering sense of dread. "This can't be good."

Pete avoids his eyes. "Hey, Paddy," he greets him without enthusiasm.

Jane raises his eyebrows. "Okay, now I'm really worried. Why are you here, Pete?"

Pete finally looks up at him, sorrow in his eyes. "It's…it's your little friend. Pepper." He clears his throat. "She's gone, Paddy."

Jane tilts his head and manages a half smile, waiting for the end of the joke. "Gone where?"

"She died," Pete says soberly. "Not too long ago. We just found out. I thought—well, Sam and I thought it'd be better if you heard it from someone you knew."

A pit opens in Jane's stomach. "No," he croaks. His hands shake. "It's not true." Bile rises in his throat.

"I'm sorry, Paddy," Pete says miserably. Jane reads the truth in his eyes and sucks in a ragged, painful breath.

He stands so quickly he knocks over his chair. Stumbles away, blind.

He makes it to the edge of the patio before throwing up in the bushes Javier has planted along the edge of the seating area. Dusk has stolen over the island, a gray haze blanketing the glimmer of pink on the horizon where the sun has disappeared.

He feels Pete's hand, heavy on his shoulder. He throws it off and scrambles away. He runs away from the sound of Pete's voice, calling his name, as far and fast as he can. His legs ache and his lungs burn, but he keeps going, willing to run forever if he doesn't have to see that look in Pete's eyes and face what it means.

Night falls. His feet blister and start to bleed in his old brown shoes, but he keeps going. He puts on a burst of speed and finds himself on the edge of a cliff a few miles from his little shack. He's pondered cliff jumping from this spot, just for the thrill of it—to remind himself he is alive—but he'd discarded the idea as too risky because he doesn't know how deep it is. He looks down at the water, black and swirling under the starry sky.

He doesn't think. Just leaps off the edge, the free fall an eerily literal metaphor for his mental state. Feels the smack of water against his hands, then his face as he breaks through the surface. He plunges into the depths, the momentum from his fall causing him to sink like a stone. The water is cold down here at the bottom.

He tries to stay underwater, but his natural buoyancy pushes him back to the surface. Angrily, he kicks out. He swims out as far as he can, to a place the locals have warned him to avoid. The undertow is wicked when the tide recedes. When he reaches a spot where he can feel the pull of the undertow sucking him out to sea, he flips over onto his back and stares at the sky. He floats, drifting, succumbing to the pull, his mind a careful, anguished blank.

Then he thinks—no.

He doesn't believe in God, but there is no way the universe, the pure laws of physics and statistics could be this cruel. The universe pulls towards balance and stability in all things. And the premature death of Teresa Lisbon is a destabilizing fact. So. He isn't going to take this on faith.

Besides, what does he think he's doing, pulling some kind of Romeo and Juliet crap? He's always hated that story. Of all the stupid idiots in the history of literature. At least Romeo should have been one hundred percent sure of what the hell he was doing before he ended his miserable existence. And if Lisbon found out he'd managed to drown himself over her alleged death, when she was in fact alive, she'd be pissed as hell. And probably very sad. And though his death would be no great loss to the world—and would in fact probably restore some level of karmic balance—condemning Lisbon to anything resembling the grief he'd just tasted, not to mention the grief he'd lived with for the past ten years, is unacceptable. He deserves his suffering, but he would spare her what he could. He can always find a nice place to drown himself back in the U.S. if this whole preposterous notion of Lisbon being dead actually turns out to be true. First, he needs to find out the facts. He starts to swim back.

Of course, the moment he decides not to give up just yet, it becomes infinitely harder. The ocean plucks and pulls at him, trying to fold him back into her embrace, but he resists, his hands slicing cleanly through the waves. He swims parallel to the coastline until he finds a place where the undertow isn't so powerful and he can start making his way back to land. He finally makes it back to shore, shivering and exhausted, his muscles shaking with effort.

Pete is there, waiting helplessly.

When Jane staggers out of the sea, Pete rises and cuffs him hard on the arm. The blow lands with the force of a bear cuffing her cub. Jane falls over, flat on his back.

"Damn you Paddy, I thought you were going to drown yourself." Pete's voice is unexpectedly emotional. He swipes at his nose with the back of one giant hand. His voice trembles. "And you know I can't swim."

"It's not true," Jane says, his voice perfectly calm beneath the shivers. He stares up at the sky again. The stars are particularly beautiful tonight.

"Paddy," Pete says unhappily.

Jane sits up. "Where is she?"

Pete closes his eyes. "She's gone, Paddy."

"Fine," Jane says impatiently. "Where was she before all this happened? You must know, if you were getting the letters to her."

"She was working as chief of police in this little town in Washington called Cannon River." Pete swallows. "She died of cancer. It happened quick. A couple months."

Cannon River. It's a place to start. Jane hauls himself to his feet. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" Pete asks warily.

"Back to the States," Jane says, heading purposefully towards his little apartment so he can pick up a few necessities.

"You're still wanted for murder," Pete says, alarmed. "You'll be arrested the minute you try to cross the border."

"That's the general idea," Jane says, and picks up his pace.