A/N: This is a Blue Bird AU. I know there have been quite a lot of Blue Bird AUs, but as the old saying goes—'if you can't have a redbird, a bluebird [AU] will do'. Or something like that. I wrote it because I thought Lisbon's emotions about leaving/staying should have been a bit more complex than what we saw in the episode. Be warned that this means most of this will be pretty dark.

I'm running a risk here because I haven't finished all of this. There are eight installments and I'm completely done the first half, but still filling in some scenes on the second (I write everything wildly out of order). Barring unforeseen circumstances though, I hope to have all of it up in the next few weeks.

Standard disclaimer applies.

The first thing she does when she gets back to her hotel room is take off that goddamn dress and put on regular clothes. All she can think for about a minute is that she shouldn't have thrown a glass of water in his face—she should've punched him. Something that would've hurt. Something to get rid of this feeling that she's trapped in a soap opera, that she's stuck in one of those stupid love triangles where both choices are the wrong one.

She blames misdialing the taxi company's number and her shaking hands on anger. On her second try, the operator tells her it'll take twenty minutes for a cab to arrive. She has to pack the few things she's brought, has to—

"Lisbon?" His voice in the hallway. "I need to talk to you, could you please—"

"Leave me alone." She could open the door, she could open the door right now and punch him like she should have before—but she doesn't want to even see his face.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have tricked you, but I—"

"There's no excuse, Jane. There's no reason or excuse or lie you can get me to believe right now." She wishes that were true. "All you do, all you've ever done, is use me. I used to think it was just to catch Red John, but I don't know what the hell you're getting out of it now."

"I just…I needed a chance to talk to you, Lisbon."

"You've had months to talk to me," she snaps. "I thought when you made me move here that you were actually going to try to fix things, try to act like a decent human being. You wrote all those stupid letters to make me think you'd changed, and then once I was your sidekick again you went right back to how you'd always been."

"I know that." His voice is wavering as though he's about to cry (but she won't believe it). "I know that and I'm sorry. I should have said something to you before."

"Said something before about what?" Why isn't she telling him to go away? "You're so twisted up in secrets that you can't even talk to me about anything real. I've been waiting for years for you to talk to me about something, anything that matters, and all you ever do is run away."

"I'm sorry, Lisbon. I'm…" he trails off. "This has been…terrifying for me, and I thought that if I just had more time, I could…"

"You could what, Jane?"

A pause. "Could you please open the door?"

She's going to punch him. She's going to punch him in the face.

Her hands are still shaking as she takes the handle and pulls the door open to see him. "What the hell do you want from—?"

"I love you."

He's staring right at her with reddened eyes and this isn't happening—she's dreaming it, or maybe hallucinating it, or something else—but it isn't happening and it isn't real.

"What?" Her voice cracks.

"I love you," he says again. "And I needed to say that, and I didn't want to trick you again but I didn't know how else to get more time. So I'm telling you now that I love you."

She feels like her clothing is made of lead, like her necklace is strangling her even though she knows it isn't.

"No," she chokes. "I don't believe you. I wanted to believe you when you said that the first time, and then you pretended it hadn't even—"

"I meant it then, too," he interrupts. "I meant it and the only reason I pretended to have forgotten was that I thought he would find out and I thought I would lose you too."

"Red John's been dead for years now, Jane. You can't use that as an excuse. You can't." She wants to wipe the tears away from her eyes, but it'll just call attention to the fact that she's crying. (How many times has he made her cry these past few weeks? How many times has he made her cry since the day he walked into the CBI?)

"You're right. You're right and I should have told you sooner." He takes a breath. "But I didn't, so I have to say it now. I want you to be safe and I want you to be happy because you deserve that more than anyone. I love you and I hope that you can believe that, because it's the truth."

"It's too late," she says. "You can't—"

"I know. I know that. But I needed to tell you anyway. I needed to tell you and now I have."

"Go away." And it isn't what she means but if he says it again she's going to fall apart, she's going to collapse right here. "Just go away, Jane. Just leave me the hell alone, okay?"

"Okay." He gives her a broken smile and nods. "Okay. I love you, Teresa."

She slams the door and the next five minutes are a blank.

In the backseat of the taxi she keeps whispering 'it's too late' under her breath like a mantra, rubbing at her eyes until she isn't crying anymore. The driver glances at her a couple times in the rearview mirror before turning up the volume on a Latin pop station.

She takes out her phone to call Marcus, but her fingers won't dial anything. She can't talk to him when she's still hearing Jane's voice in her head.

Five times. He said 'I love you' five damn times, and she—

It's too late. It's way too late.

Once arrived, she stares at the departures board for a good long while. It's an international airport, so she could get a flight to Nassau or Santo Domingo or Caracas if she wanted (though she doesn't have her passport with her, so maybe not). She glances out of reflex over the information for Austin before finding what she should be looking for. If she were going to go to D.C., she thinks, she would buy a ticket for Dulles or Reagan National. She might call Marcus first and ask him which would be more convenient for him, since she doesn't have a car there.

There are a few free seats on the flight she wants, it turns out.

"Going home?" the man behind the row of kiosks asks.

"Sort of," she tells him. "I think so."

Her flight doesn't leave for a few hours, so she walks past the crowds of tourists speaking twenty different languages and the infinite line of fast-food restaurants that each promise the quickest service in the airport. She won't cry in front of all of these strangers. Maybe she can do this without crying at all.

She skirts a 'closed for renovations' sign and walks down a long hallway to a terminal cluttered with paint cans and scaffolding but clear of people. There's row upon row of empty chairs at each of the gates, but she sinks to the floor in the corner of the room, back against the wall.

She stares at the plane ticket for a few minutes, reading every sequence of letters and digits several times each as though expecting them to change. When she finally takes out her phone and dials the number, she still has no idea what she's going to say.

She could still tell him that the case was fake, that she'll be coming in a day or so once the paperwork goes through. She could still tell him that she will marry him after all.

"Teresa," he greets. "How's your case? You guys finish yet?"

She goes to speak but her throat closes and her eyes burn and all that comes out is a choked sob.

"Hey, what's wrong?" His voice softens and fills with worry. "You sound like you're crying. What happened?"

She could still tell him that she's fine, that something unexpected happened but that she'll be there hopefully tomorrow.

"I can't do this," she says.

"Can't do what?"

"I can't move to D.C. with you." She needs to breathe, she needs to take a breath. "I can't. I have to stay here."

"What do you mean?" He only sounds confused, not angry. "Are they telling you that you can't transfer?"

"No, I just...can't do this, Marcus. I can't be with you." She can't make her voice go above a whisper. "It isn't anything you did. This just won't work. It can't."

There's a short pause.

"Teresa, I don't know what's made you this upset, but I'm sure we can work everything out once you get here. You don't need to—"

"Please listen to me. I'm staying here."

Five seconds of silence.

"Why?"

"I don't know." The words come out garbled and she has to clear her throat. "I don't know. I just can't do this. Moving across the country with someone I only met a few months ago, even someone like you…I can't. And marriage and settling down somewhere…I want that to be what I want right now, but it's not. And you deserve somebody who wants that as much as you do."

Another silence.

"So we can't work this out," he finally says.

"No. I'm sorry." She tries to swallow another sob but can't. "Why aren't you getting mad?"

"I am mad." His voice is drained and distant. "And I don't think you're telling me everything. But I don't really want to yell at you, not when you're already crying."

"I'm sorry," she says again. "I wanted this to work, but—"

"But you don't think it's going to. Okay. I don't understand, but okay. I just wish you hadn't…" he trails off, tone growing even colder. "I hope you find a way to be happy, Teresa. But I think if we keep talking I'm going to…I think I need to just hang up now."

"Okay."

There's a quiet click and the call ends.

She waits for twenty minutes before making the next call, until she's sure her voice is going to be clear enough to understand. It only rings once.

"Where are you?" Abbott asks as a greeting.

"At the airport." Steady, she has to keep her voice steady and even and not at all terrified. "I'm going to Austin. I need you to cancel the transfer paperwork. Please."

"That should be easy enough," he says. "Does Jane know about this?"

"No. Could you not tell him?"

"You don't want him to know?"

"No," she says. "But don't worry about him doing anything crazy. He won't. I think."

On the flight back to Austin she flips through an issue of Skymall, forcing herself to read through descriptions of inflatable pool chairs and automated water dispensers for cats. After twenty pages she starts to hear Jane's voice in her head, making silly comments about all the products. She switches to reading everything backwards, but it's too late.

What the hell was she doing with Marcus?

She's known for a long time now that she's in love with Jane, that no amount of distance or anger has been able to erase it, that every time she's tried to fabricate romantic feelings for someone new, it's failed miserably. She knows that the right thing to do would've been to turn down the D.C. offer as soon as Marcus made it. He might have been a bit disappointed, but she wouldn't have had this guilt hanging over her head like she does now. She wouldn't have had the quiet shame of staying in Austin after telling everyone she was leaving. (Not that she cares much about the FBI rumor mill, but having the rest of the team think she's flighty and indecisive sounds very unappealing.)

She was supposed to be the responsible one. She's been the responsible one since the day her mother died, and what she's done now doesn't make any sense.

But she can't blame Jane for it. Even when she's broken the law at his request, it's been to stop murderers and defend innocent people. She's never been quite this reckless before in her personal life—even breaking off the engagement with Greg years ago doesn't seem anywhere near as cruel as what she's just done to Marcus. She should have known bet—

"Ma'am?" It's a flight attendant, in the aisle next to her with a drink cart. "What beverage do you want?"

She could get something alcoholic and try to drown out this guilt, drown out Jane's voice and the memory of their most recent conversation, drown out how badly she wishes he were sitting next to her and holding her hand.

"Just water, thanks."

She's almost home when she remembers that the refrigerator is empty, but she stops at a convenience store instead of the supermarket. The lighting gives everything a sickly yellow tint and the man behind the counter doesn't even glance at her while ringing up milk and a box of cereal.

The house has an abandoned feeling to it, though she hasn't been gone very long at all. After putting away the convenience store purchases, she uses her keys to cut open all the boxes stacked in the kitchen, haphazardly removing books and plates and a few photographs, setting everything on the floor. Her fingers fumble over a glass figurine and a piece chips off as it hits the ground.

She rubs at her eyes and stands, dizzy, pausing a moment before walking out of the room. The lighting on the basement stairs is dim, but she makes her way to the laundry room and opens the washing machine.

A small box, untouched. She was going to leave it here. She was going to leave the goddamn letters here and hope that someone else inadvertently destroyed them so she wouldn't have to do it herself, on purpose. She was going to force herself to forget, whatever it took.

She takes the box out but sets it on the shelf where the detergent should be. She won't read them again, not now. They don't prove anything.