Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The next two weeks pass in a haze. 

Lisbon's house is packed up quickly and put on the market with the help of Van Pelt and Rigsby. She even gets a call a few hours later that the house has been bought. She figures it’s a local that’s had their eye on the property for a while, but she’s surprised they feel no need to tour the home before making an offer. Of course, there is an inspection period before the closing, but it’s still a surprise. 

She ignores the faint pain in her heart at the idea that her Washington home is already completely out of her reach. She had built a life here, after all. It was small, quiet, and a little lonely, with a few exceptions, but it was hers. For two years, all that tethered her to the world were the team’s occasional visits, the FBI's meddling, her very boring job, and Jane’s flowery letters. She had volunteered at the local schools and food pantry, and she had attended the church right down the road. Perhaps her life had been empty of close connection, but she had also been in complete control. Almost

And she doesn’t need a reminder from a man like Sean Barlow to remember just how controlling Jane can be. It wouldn’t do to forget that he has very carefully manipulated everyone around him for his entire life to get what he wants. He seems to be more circumspect with his manipulations when it comes to her, but even still, an honest Jane is a bit of a paradox. He can be honest and manipulative at the same time. She’s seen it. Telling her openly that he intends to woo her is not only about giving her the truth. It has also shifted all her thoughts to him and his plans. When a phone rings, when a door opens, when she receives the onboarding paperwork for her new job. She thinks about the kiss he had given her every night, and she knows he intended it that way. 

Van Pelt and Rigsby are united in their joy that Jane has returned to the States healthy and free from murder charges, but they are not so united in their opinions of their relationship. Not that Lisbon has spilled the beans about anything, but it’s evident from the way they both look at her that Cho has filled them in on whatever his suspicions might be. Cho is typically uninterested in the interpersonal relationships of his friends, but she knows he is protective of her. He’s said as much in the aftermath of Red John. She actually suspects that he was the angriest of the four of them at Jane’s abrupt departure, mostly because of the scrutiny that she faced in his wake. 

In a very Jane-like move, Lisbon has intentionally decided not to dissuade Cho. If he can keep Jane off her back a little until she’s ready to trust that he won’t up and leave, she plans to take advantage of that. 

Van Pelt finds her when Rigsby is taking some furniture to the local Salvation Army. “I remember what it was like those first few months,” she advises. “Have you told him about that?”

Lisbon hasn’t, because she can’t bear to lay more guilt on Jane. She wants to throw up some barriers, but there are some weapons she refuses to use. 

“Don’t be too hard on him, Boss,” Rigsby mumbles a few hours later, blushing, as he loads the moving truck when Van Pelt is making a run for packing tape. He doesn’t elaborate, probably because their relationship is still deferential despite her best efforts, but she nods regardless. She understands what he means. She’s known Rigsby for a decade, is now closer to him than her own brothers. She knows that he wouldn’t speak a word if he didn’t think it was not important. 

The rest of the move goes smoothly and rapidly, and she waves goodbye to the delivery guys who are bound for her new storage unit in Austin, courtesy of an early morning text from her self-appointed real estate manager. She hugs both of the Rigsbys goodbye, makes them promise to visit soon, and hops on an afternoon flight to her new home base. 

Jane picks her up in the newly acquired Airstream at the airport at eight p.m. with take-out Chinese, and then the haze truly descends. 

They go house hunting the next morning, and the first place Jane takes her to, a small, quaint bungalow on Scales Street in Mueller, is the winner. Still, Lisbon makes them go to three others just so she doesn’t have to see the smug look on his face. It doesn’t work, of course, and once she’s put in the call to the agent, he pulls the plans of the first house out of his inner jacket pocket, already marked up with furniture locations and sample paint swatches. 

Lisbon fights him on the swatches — the current paint is fine, and she doesn’t want to deal with that right now — and his suggestion of a California King bed — she wants a Queen, and they compromise with a King — but she lets him have his way on the rest. Fighting Jane on home decor is not worth it, especially given that she’d rather spend some quality time at the range and the gym with Cho while he sorts it out. 

After all, he picks her out a great TV and equips it with multiple additional ESPN channels to prove his worth, and it works like a charm. 

The rest of their impromptu vacation goes by. Jane sleeps in his Airstream, but he spends all his waking hours with her unless she’s training. She’s starting to wonder why he requested one of her nights every week if he intended on spending all of them with her. 

They talk a lot, but avoid the sensitive subjects out of silent, mutual agreement. She wonders briefly if they’ll ever talk about Red John, or if Jane is content to go the rest of their lives never speaking his name again. Lisbon is not sure she feels the same, but she’s certain she doesn’t want to press the issue now. She wants to see how he’s coping. Jane is different now; some of those differences she can name, and others she can’t quite put a finger on. She wishes that she had more time to catalogue him before they are thrust into a new dynamic, but at the same time she wants to work and put Jane’s confession of love to the side for a while. 

To be concise, she is conflicted. But every day, she gets to see Patrick Jane and hear him and occasionally touch him and it’s enough.  

Also pursuant to their deal, he passes her a fresh letter on Sunday, and she accepts it with a smile, tapping him affectionately on the wrist. 

She’s almost completely moved in by the time their first day rolls around. They don’t receive a real case, but a few hours in, the FBI gets a request from Austin PD to help with an escaped convict.

They go out in pairs, though Lisbon and Jane are babysat by Fischer due to Lisbon’s lack of badge. 

Jane, as always, is quick to point out things that no one else notices. He offers up the information more easily than usual, likely bored and not wanting to drive aimlessly around Austin with Fischer in the car. The information leads them to an address: 164 Sterling Avenue. They park two houses down and exit the vehicle. 

“I’m going to call Abbott. See how he wants us to proceed,” Kim announces, walking a few feet away. 

Walking a little closer to the house, but keeping her posture casual and as un-coplike as possible, Lisbon studies the entrance. Jane, always at her side, watches her watch the building. After about fifteen seconds, he opens his mouth. “Lisbon?” He prompts. 

He doesn’t need to say anything else. Jane has always been able to tell when she’s noticing something, and he likes to fight her on her instinct to keep quiet until she has evidence. He’s usually right to do so, so she doesn’t get too irritated when he pushes her to say her half-formed thoughts aloud. 

“Something isn’t right,” she says, studying the verdant lawn and organized porch. “There are toys on the porch. The door is open. Would you leave the door open if you were in hiding?”

Jane hums, eyes now searching the doorway in earnest. Suddenly, he bounces on his heels, and she knows he’s onto something. “He switched the numbers,” he points out, clearly thrilling in the solve. “Look: numeral four is not attached to the wall like the one and six. This is not 164 Sterling Ave.”

The words are hardly out of Jane’s mouth before Lisbon is sprinting down the street, eyes searching the street numbers nailed to the exterior walls of each house. When she sees one missing a final numeral, she ducks down to survey the scene. 

Just then, their perp sneaks out the side door, watching something on his phone. 

Lisbon doesn’t hesitate. She shouts a warning, he tries to run, and within twenty seconds, she slams him up against a nearby Jeep. He grunts, and she feels the familiar rush of adrenaline that she’s missed so much working in Washington. Jane and Kim run up to her just as she’s finished cuffing him, and Kim helps her haul the man to his feet. 

When Lisbon meets Jane’s gaze, she notices that his eyes have darkened. She shudders in response, knowing that he won’t miss her reaction. 

Kim takes the perp to their car. Lisbon and Jane follow, his hand pressed firmly against the small of her back. He leans over her shoulder as they walk. “I’ve missed watching you run,” he breathes. 

Her heart twinges. She hasn’t missed watching him run. “Lots of hiking in Washington,” she says instead, light and non-engaging. 

She can tell by the sudden regret in the lines around his eyes that he’s rethought his flirtatious statement. He stays silent as they drive the perp back to headquarters.

Upon entering Abbott’s office, where the man himself is in a friendly-looking conversation with a few Austin PD officers, Fischer immediately and openly gives credit to Jane and Lisbon for the arrest. Lisbon’s estimation of her raises several notches, and she can’t hide her resulting reevaluating glance.

“Good work,” Abbott says to Jane, not looking at Lisbon, though his face doesn’t change at all with the positive sentiment. Lisbon gets the feeling that he’s saying it for show, given that their colleagues from Austin PD are present. He’s probably still pissed that they played him so thoroughly. 

Jane laughs; only Lisbon can tell from the faint, dark, and mischievous look in his eyes that he’s about to say something inflammatory. She considers heading him off at the pass, but Jane likely wouldn’t do something to jeopardize their employment so early on. Plus, she’s honestly doing Abbott a favor. If she doesn’t allow Jane to let off some steam in the moment, he’ll plot a much more insidious revenge for later. 

“Oh, that was work?” He says innocently, twinkle in his eyes firmly in place. “I’ve played hide and seek games more complicated.” 

“That man assaulted an officer,” the Austin PD officer growls, turning red.

Jane nods. “Who here hasn’t?” He says cheerfully. “Everyone needs a good punch to keep them in line, wouldn’t you agree, Lisbon? Plus, the man committed tax fraud, for goodness sake; he’s not a hardened criminal-”

“How dare-”

“I apologize,” Lisbon cuts in smoothly, pinching Jane on the back. He yelps, and she starts to pull him away. “Please excuse us.” Jane permits himself to be led back to the bullpen, and Lisbon winces a little at the loud conversation they leave behind. “What was that about?” She hisses. “I was expecting a rude comment, not a fountain of them!” 

Jane shrugs, walking so close to her that his jacket brushes the back of her shoulder. She blushes, wondering what their new coworkers must think of them, but she doesn’t pull away. Seconds later, she feels Jane’s breath on her ear.  “Abbott needs to be patient to work with me,” he murmurs. “You know this. We should discover sooner rather than later if he can handle it.”

Lisbon doesn’t dignify that with a response. After all these years, she’s well aware of the tightrope he likes to walk. However, she believes that he’d never do anything to get her fired. That was true before as well, with the obvious exception of Red John. And even then, he fought like hell several times to reinstate her, even if by doing so he froze her upward mobility.

Pressing her lips together, she does her best not to let her steps stutter, lest Jane turn to her with his all knowing eyes. She doesn’t think about the last Red John exception. It’s in their past. She knows he won’t talk about it, so she has to put it out of her mind. 

She doesn’t really mind her lack of upward mobility at the CBI. After all, she knows her worth, and she had also known from the beginning that Jane would tank her career. As long as she had her own team and they caught criminals, she could justify her lack of promotion.

Her eyes scan the bullpen critically. She likes that she’s now Jane’s equal, not his boss, but it will take some time to get used to treating Fischer with deference. Her negotiations with Abbott put her above Cho and Wiley on the totem pole, but truthfully she’d rather work for Cho than Kim. She doesn’t trust Kim. 

Once they’ve arrived at her new desk, Jane makes his excuses. Errands. Like that’s not terrifying. He eyes the space behind her, and she knows he’s imagining a couch. He won’t hang around until he has one, and she knows he’s already started working on Kim. 

“I’ve let you settle in,” he warns her as he buttons his jacket. Man, she misses the vests, she thinks wistfully, ignoring his curious look. Clearly deciding not to interrogate her about her intrusive thoughts, he extracts a blank sheet of paper and a white envelope from his jacket pocket, sliding it across her new desk. “I believe I’m owed.” He straightens then, winking at her. “See you tomorrow, Agent Lisbon!” He calls over his shoulder. 

The office empties in stages, but soon enough, she’s alone. It’s eight p.m. She promised to meet Cho at the gym at 5:30 a.m. tomorrow, so she needs to get going shortly. So… what to write? 

After a few minutes of thought and aborted attempts, she smirks, putting pen to paper. 

—

Dear Jane,

How are you?

What’s new with you?

Okay, fine. You win. I don’t know what to write. We just spent the last two weeks together. You built half the furniture in my house yesterday, for god’s sake. Today, we caught our first criminal as FBI, and with that stupid little smirk, you told me that I owed you a letter and you left. 

I bet you’re laughing at me. I can hear it from that stupid silver trash can of yours. 

Although… You never said how long the letters needed to be.

Lisbon

—

Teresa Lisbon is not unfamiliar with the low, flirtatious tones of Patrick Jane. He’s a seductive man at his core: he slips into the hearts of victims, witnesses, law enforcement officers, and innocent little old ladies on the street alike. It’s never really bothered her; Jane is the way that Jane is, and his techniques frequently result in her being able to put criminals behind bars. Seduction is even one of his tamer methods, so sometimes she even feels relieved he pulls that side of him out when she knows the vigilante side is lurking around the corner. Even when she knew she loved him, it wasn’t too bad. She doesn’t consider herself a particularly jealous person. With few exceptions that she doesn't like to think about, she knew his flirting was nothing concerning.

His earnestness, his honesty… the walls come down only for her, and that is the Patrick Jane she wants. The man behind the mask. The tangled mess of brilliance and pain and obsession and the deep, deep desire to live that she had seen in his heart from day one, even when he hadn’t seen it himself. 

So the flirting, she’s usually fine with. 

Then, why, oh why, is his one-sided banter with Krystal turning her stomach?

“Awesome,” he says lowly into his phone right behind her. “I look forward to it.” A date. With another woman. Well, that’s great. Just great. She, in fact, is looking forward to a nice night alone, parked in front of her new T.V., undisturbed by irritating consultants. Irritating, beautiful, alluring consultants…

Damn it. She’s such a bad liar that she can’t even lie to herself any more. Or maybe she’s now so good at perceiving lies that she can’t lie to herself any more? 

Now, he’s pacing impatiently, bored, clearly thinking about his date. His date with not-her. She tries desperately to tune into the coroner’s explanation of the body, but her mind is spiraling down the drain, and she knows it. She had been so certain that his confession meant that he intended to woo her. To look at only her with lust, to take only her on dates, to let only her run her fingers through his golden curls —

“— are we gonna be that much longer?” Jane breaks through her haze of thoughts, and he — what on earth; is he smirking at her? “I’ve got some plans,” he adds, drawing out the ‘s’ for as long as possible, leaning between Fischer and her and ignoring the dead guy on the concrete in front of them.

And okay. Fine. So she has a breaking point. 

“Let’s check the perimeter,” she grits out, speaking through her teeth as she grabs him by the sleeve and hauls him past the other officers, the techs, the people mulling around outside, until they’re far enough away to be out of earshot, but close enough to be seen. She doesn’t want any accusations of impropriety. Not on their first real case.

“What the hell, Jane?” She hisses as soon as she comes to a stop, taking her hand from his sleeve like the fabric is burning her. She doesn’t want to touch him right now. Well, not affectionately, at least. 

“Bee in your bonnet, Lisbon?” He asks mildly, sliding both hands into his pockets. 

She could kill him. She really could. “I guess I should’ve expected something like this,” she says bitterly, “from the man who confessed he loved me and took it back a few hours later.” 

She watches as every muscle in his body tightens, then deliberately relaxes. If she hadn’t known him so well, she would have missed it. “Straight for the jugular,” he says. His posture might be relaxed, but his eyes are burning. “More honest than I expected, though. How long have you held that one in? Does it feel freeing, to say it?” 

Closing her eyes, she tries to calm down. Jane is Jane. He’s needling her. And sure, her consultant has always been contrary, but he rarely picks at her this intensely without purpose. She needs to figure out why. “You’re flirting with Krystal. You’re planning to take her on a date.” 

His eyes flicker with some nameless emotion. “Yes,” he agrees.

Her brows furrow as she studies him, trying to hide the hurt that wells in her at his affirmative answer. “We had a deal,” she says, more weakly than she would’ve liked. 

“The deal was that you stay away from other men, not that I stay away from other women,” he says.

She can’t believe he’s treating the agreement between them so lightly. “It was not-”

“Do you doubt me?” He interrupts, stepping forward and taking her hand in his. She tries to shake free, but he just grips her more tightly. “I can recite our agreement verbatim, if you like. It’s burned right here.” He brings her hand to his temple. “And here.” He presses it over his heart. “I can hold you to your word.”

“What are you, a lawyer now?” She accuses. His physical actions being so at odds with his words shakes her ability to form coherent sentences, but she tries. “Even if I didn’t say it, I thought it was implied-”

“And I thought, my dear, that it was implied that our letters would say something,” he replies, his eyes narrowing as he finally brings them around to what he wants to talk about. In contrast, her own eyes widen with realization. “Yes, it’s like that,” he answers her unspoken question, and his mask fades to reveal real hurt. Not serious, but he’s unhappy with her, and he’s unafraid of letting her know. “Ninety-five words. Seven of which were crossed out. Thirty-eight of which were an unfeeling description of a nice day we spent together.”

“I - I didn’t realize,” she begins.

“You did,” he pushes back. “I know I’ve placed you in an awkward position. I know you’re uncomfortable. But so am I. I am not used to restraints like the ones with which you’ve trapped me.” 

“You can leave at any time,” she throws out, shifting onto her back foot. She needs an escape route.

A flicker of anger. He rakes his fingers over his face. “Woman, you are impossible,” he groans. “I don’t want to leave. I’m trying to prove to you that I won’t leave. ‘For where you go I will go, and where you lodge I will lodge,’” he quotes. 

She smiles a little, feeling her heart go back to its steady thumping. His way with words is remarkable; four sentences, and he’s put her back at ease. “Ruth 1:16. My grandmother used to say it to my grandfather.” 

He takes her other hand. “And I say it to you, Lisbon. I say it to you.” 

Squeezing both his hands before letting them drop — they are still in the eyeline of multiple FBI agents — she sighs. “Krystal’s behind this, isn’t she?” 

He nods. “She’s Mr. X.” 

“And you would like to give Fischer the run around.” 

He dips his head. “Stress test,” he replies playfully. “Tell Cho not to spoil my fun, would you?” 

She shakes her head. “One of your classics, then? Last minute, big reveal, daring save?”

He leans in, breath hot on her cheek. “You bring the helicopter,” he whispers in her ear, before beginning to stride off, back to the crime scene. 

“Jane?” He stops, turning around. “I’m sorry. I’ll try. With the letters. I promise.” She pauses. “But in the future, please tell me if we have a problem. Save flirting with other women for Plan B. At least.” He gives her a short nod, but the shy smile curling at the corner of his lips makes her heart melt. These little pieces of proof that he’s nervous, uncertain. . . worried about this too gives her butterflies. She doesn’t like when he acts out with a trick to get her to do what he wants, but she has known him for over a decade. She knows what she’s getting into with him. She can ask him to do better, but she can’t expect him to change overnight. “And we’re not ‘lodging’ together anytime soon,” she adds, teasing. 

He smiles in truth then, wide and simple and beautiful, like an angel. He certainly has the looks for it: golden curls, blue eyes, and white teeth. Sometimes she can’t even process how handsome he is. “There is no woman on this earth that could dissuade me from my pursuit of you, despite your desire to keep me from your bed,” he purrs, and her heart thumps hard. Then, he winks. “I’ll call you!” 

He’s gone, and she’s left behind, shaking her head and pulling out her phone. “Cho? Yeah, it’s me. Jane’s up to something. Be ready.” 

—

My dearest Lisbon,

I would like to provide you with an example of my expectations. If it is less flowery than you anticipate, please be remembered of your chains that bind me.

We’ve spoken little of our shared past, and I hesitate to open Pandora’s Box, but there’s something very important I’d like to discuss. 

Your dusty pink, silk blouse. Whatever happened to it? 

You know the one. It was collared, a button down. You usually paired it with that grey blazer with the tiny pink pinstripes. It was rarely in rotation — I would venture to say you found it too feminine — but if your memory eludes you, I very specifically remember you wearing it when we sang to that sheriff from Wyoga Lake. 

Anywho, it was not present when we unpacked your clothing. I even checked when I came over last night — you were in the bathroom — but it was not in your closet. Did you spill something on it? Was it lost in transit? 

You will hesitate to believe me, but it was always a little harder to look away from you when you were wearing that blouse. I will not wax poetic and violate the terms of our agreement, but I am merely stating an objective fact when I say that it brought out the green of your eyes, and the pale blush of your skin. A man can only take so much. 

When I was on the island, I often wondered what you might be wearing. Now, don’t be like that, my dear, I don’t mean in the salacious sense. I simply wondered what you looked like. If you’d cut your hair. If you’d switched shampoos. If you were still walking the streets of Sacramento as confidently as you always did. Such daydreams gave me comfort, even if they were just that. 

Sometimes I wondered what you would look like, sitting next to me on the beach, looking out at the waves. I hope that will not forever only be a daydream.

Yours,

Patrick

—

When Lisbon asks him what his plans are in Houston for the evening, he’s already mentally arranging the details of said plans, ones that involve only the two of them. Though he doesn’t make his proposal aloud — Fischer is sitting right there, and he wouldn’t put it past her to invite herself — he makes sure to send an open smile Lisbon’s way to butter her up a little. 

“Tonight,” he announces, “I plan on painting Houston red.” He winks at Lisbon, enjoying her faint blush. 

“Where’s Cho?” She asks, and his smile flattens ever so slightly. She would only care where Cho is if she thought he needed a babysitter for some terrible scheme. Hm. Well, perhaps she wants the evening to relax. They can certainly just hang out in his hotel room as well, though with each passing week, each lost hour, the temptation of her body is growing harder and harder to resist. If he sees her on a bed, it probably doesn’t bode well for him. 

Good thing he has excellent self-control. 

“Arm wrestling with some heavy objects at the gymnasium,” he replies. 

“I just want room service,” Kim interjects, which suits Jane fine. His eyes flicker back to Lisbon, awaiting either her honest desire for the same or a little, playful white lie about having her own fun. 

Then, she knocks his world off its axis. 

“I happen to have a date,” she says airily, meeting Kim’s impressed look and deliberately avoiding his gaze. 

The truth about Jane is that he rarely focuses all of his attention on one thing. There’s always cases, of course. He thinks about the books he’s reading. Scanning his surroundings and the people in them. He’s always planning his schemes, innocent and not so innocent. Lisbon, of course, has her own reserved corner of his mind; he’s always thinking about her to varying degrees. 

The word date, however, fires all of his synapses in one direction. And Teresa Lisbon suddenly has a hundred percent of his attention, whether she wants it or not. 

“Sorry, a date?” He clarifies. She’s messing with him. She has to be. Perhaps she picked up some dates at the fruit stand this morning. She’s about to pull one out of her bag, triumphant for successfully unsettling him. 

She looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. He scans her face quickly; she’s certainly teasing him, but he also sees signs that she’s telling the truth. “What, like I couldn’t possibly have a date?” 

It takes all of Jane’s considerable restraint and willpower not to say something in front of Kim, who he might like a little more now but still has no intention of trusting. “Could you excuse us for a moment, Kim?” He asks lightly, but his eyes are dark and set on Lisbon.

Kim looks between them, then: “Sure,” she says, awkwardly, “just, um, knock on the window when you’re ready to go.” She’s probably onto them, but Jane could care less. One day, soon if he gets his way, Lisbon will have a ring on her finger. In fact, he’s starting to think the ring won’t be enough. He’ll have to ponder other ways to make sure the world knows she’s his without running afoul of her temper. He’d like not to be accused of boorish behavior, but if he’s honest, he’s more possessive of Lisbon than he’s ever been of anything or anyone else, Angela included. 

With his first wife, he had no concept of what it would be like to lose everything. Now that he knows that pain, he clings all the tighter. His thoughts range from acceptable to physically impossible. He wants to put a ring on her finger. He wants to bring her flowers. He wants to read her mind. He wants to violate the principle of impenetrability and occupy the same space as her. If he could carry her with him everywhere he goes, maybe that would be enough to soothe his battered and ruined heart. 

Without bending the laws of physics, he’ll have to settle for the ring and the flowers.

When Kim shuts the door behind her, he scoots to the edge of the backseat in a flash. His left hand sinks into her hair, settling on, not gripping, the nape of her neck, and his right forefinger and thumb captures her chin so he can lock her gaze to his. 

“Jane-” she protests.

“Tinted windows,” he interrupts. 

“She’ll know-”

“And?” He pushes back recklessly. Surprisingly, she goes silent, and he begins his perusal. 

Reading Lisbon is both the easiest and the hardest thing in the world, because it’s entirely situational. When it comes to her job, her friends and family, or generally, ethical decision-making, he knows what she’s going to do before she does it. Her daily life and the details of it are an open book to him. He can clock her mood from fifty feet away; that’s how attuned to her he is. 

However, when it comes to Lisbon and romance, especially romance with him , he has to admit he’s in freefall. 

He had been surprised about the qualities of her ex-fiance. He had teased her relentlessly about Mashburn, but he had been taken off guard when he realized that she slept with him. He had made up some bullshit about turtlenecks when they had spoken about fetishes. 

Now that he’s earnestly pursuing her, he would compare pleasing her with cliff diving. It’s easy to get the little wins: the small touches, the crime-solving, the banter, the letters, the quality time. Things that bring a smile to her face. It’s like diving off a rock into the ocean, the way to open water clear. 

The big gestures, however, are an entirely different story. I love you is an utter taboo; a stormy dive into rocky, shark-infested waters. Kissing her would be like jumping without being able to see the water at all. All the commitments he wants to make, the life he wants to have with her… he doesn’t even know if there is an ocean to catch him.  

Searching her eyes now, he’s relieved to discover that they’re not cliff diving today. Her eyes are starting to sparkle, unable to hide her glee at catching him out. No, today they’re playfully splashing in the shallows, and he can cross ‘killing a man for dating Lisbon’ off his to-do list. Or probably more likely, cross ‘breaking down into a puddle and looking so pathetic she has to cancel all dating forever’ off his to-do list. 

“You’re teasing me,” he says finally, “that’s not very nice.” He looks a little longer. “But you are meeting someone. A man . Who?”

She rolls her eyes but gives in without any further argument. “I’m sure you remember Osvaldo Ardiles. He wants to talk to me.” 

“He lives in Texas?” Jane asks, his eyebrows shooting up. That is not a name he expected to hear. 

She shakes her head, dislodging his fingers. However, his hand remains on her neck, and she keeps her head close to his. “He’s in Chicago. Private practice, now.” 

A pause. Then: “He’s flying all the way to Houston… to talk to you.”

She nods. “Private jet and everything.” 

“Wow, that’s very impressive,” he lies through his teeth. Then, his eyes narrow. “Why?” 

“I don’t know; I’ll find out tonight,” she says, “but he said it was business.” 

He just looks at her. “It can be both. Ardiles always had a crush on you.” At her unimpressed look, he sighs. “Do you want me to come?”

“No offense, but he hates you,” she laughs, “and I get it. Do you know how many times he had to deal with evidence issues in your cases? Police misconduct?” 

Jane frowns. “Maybe he’s upset with you. He was a suspect at one point.” 

Neither of them have said the words ‘Red John’ since his return, and they’re not going to start now. 

“Nearly everyone was,” she dismisses, “plus, he was cleared by the FBI. No, I’ll go alone.” 

“Then I’m waiting up for you,” he says, measured. 

“Jane-” She begins, then she catches the determination in his face, and sighs. “Okay, fine. I will call you when I leave the restaurant.” 

He agrees, though he knows that he’ll find a way to make sure she enters her hotel room safely. Piece of cake. Now, onto more pleasurable matters…

He rubs his thumb over her jaw. “You are a cruel woman, my dear,” he says, “what will you give me in payment for aging me five years over the course of a minute with your lies?” 

A blush spreads across her nose and cheeks, belying her next words. “Nope, you con me all the time; turnabout is fair play.” 

He tightens his grip on the back of her neck, just a little, but she gasps all the same. The pit in his stomach grows hot. “If you don’t pay me now,” he threatens, “I will exact my revenge when you least expect it. Probably in the bullpen. All our coworkers watching…” 

After examining his expression for a lie, she arches an eyebrow. “Okay, what’s your price?”

“A kiss,” he breathes, letting his eyes fall to her lips. Her pretty, red lips. She’s so beautiful that he’s almost in pain.

“No way!” She says immediately. “It’s not a real date,” she explains, rolling her eyes, “it’s like with Krystal.” 

He prepared for this answer. “Ah, very well. Not a real date? Then not a real kiss,” he agrees, before he tugs hard on the back of her neck, ducking his head, and pressing his heated lips to the pulse point in her throat. 

She gasps, and for a second, he thinks she’ll push him away… but then her small hand finds his shoulder and the other goes for the curls on the top of his head, and she pushes his face hard into her neck. He moans obligingly, opening his mouth so he can suck hard, lightly scraping his teeth across the throbbing, pink skin. This is what he had been talking about, when he said that the ring isn’t enough. It’s juvenile and sophomoric, but marking her neck calms the part of him that wants to ruin Ardiles for the crime of sitting across a dinner table from her. Her little, audible pants are destroying his self-control, and if Fischer wasn’t standing a few feet away, he’d already have pulled her into the backseat. 

“Jane,” she murmurs on a sigh, gripping his shoulder so tightly now that he’s sure to have bruises. “Jane,” her breath hitches, as his beard scrapes the skin of her chest. When he nudges her, a button comes undone, revealing the edge of a dark blue bra. 

And that’s his limit. With a groan expressing sheer torture, he tears himself away, letting her go as he leans back, legs spread wide, against the backseat. He watches her eyes dart down to his lap and widen before looking quickly back up to meet his gaze. Her eyes are dark and hazy with barely-repressed passion, and he knows his are the same. 

“Jane-” she begins again, voice raspy. 

But he’s had enough. “If you say my name one more time, I promise you that it will not matter to me that our colleague is three feet away,” he warns her, feeling like he’s gargling rocks. His throat is almost closed. “If you want your time, you will not say another word.” 

Lisbon is never one to listen to any sort of order from him, but she must sense just how untethered he is, because she nods and doesn’t speak. Instead, she fixes her hair and leaves him to regain control over himself. After another minute, he no longer feels like he’s about to snap. 

Lisbon looks at herself in the mirror, then looks at him. She nods, then knocks on the window.  

—

Dear Jane,

I’ve really enjoyed reading your stories about the island, but I’ve liked the stories from your childhood even better. And because you follow me around everywhere, I have nothing to write to you about except the past. 

We never went to the carnival. Before, it just wasn’t the sort of thing we did. After, money was too tight. If we could’ve saved for anything, it would've been a Bears game. We couldn’t swing it, but to get out of the house, we would go to the stadium anyway just to sit outside and listen to the game. The boys were well behaved because they wanted to hear the announcers. Other tailgaters would give us hotdogs and a coke sometimes, and in return, I’d run to the corner store for things they had forgotten. It was years before I realized most of them had never needed anything from the corner store at all. Those people… not all of my memories of Chicago are nice, but some are. 

You met Tommy, and I could tell he liked you, but I’ve wondered how you would get along with Stan and James. They’re good people, and you’re great at getting along with pretty much anyone if you put your mind to it, so probably well. I consider you as part of I just wanted you to know that I’ve thought about it. 

Lisbon

Chapter Text

Abbott listens carefully from his office through comms as Jane’s plan to entrap another suspect works perfectly. Once Cho has the woman in custody, he catches the end of Lisbon and Jane’s exchange.

He’d been listening to the beginning of it as well. Jane’s reminiscing about his old CBI stakeouts with Lisbon and the team. Lisbon’s snappy, quick retort, clearly intended to keep comms open. Cho’s calm, quiet confidence, but Abbott notices how he doesn’t tell Jane to be quiet over the comms, either because he is nostalgic himself or he knows telling Jane to shut up is futile. 

Jane stays quiet until the woman has been handled, and then he picks right back up, needling at Lisbon like a child. Lisbon handles him masterfully, even through a teasing compliment about the floppy hat she had been provided to keep her undetected, and Abbott can hear her pulling him to his feet before she takes both of their comms out. 

Jane and Lisbon. Lisbon and Jane.

The problem of Patrick Jane and Teresa Lisbon has been turning over and over in his mind for the past three weeks as they’ve settled into the FBI. It’s already clear to higher ups just how good a team they make; his solve rate has already had a bump, and he gets the feeling that Jane hasn’t even begun to show what he’s capable of. Abbott can tell that he’s not a fan of Kim or himself yet, though Wylie seems to be slipping through some cracks. Abbott wouldn’t be surprised if that was because of his unique skill-set. Jane is clearly a luddite, and Wylie is useful. Wylie is also young, impressible, and Abbott is also sure that Jane finds him malleable. 

Lisbon, Abbott is finding, is surprisingly more difficult to read. 

It’s not that she’s smarter than Jane, or operating on more levels. If he had to put a finger on it, he’d say she’s more difficult to read because she hasn’t quite decided what she wants out of this opportunity. She’s cordial with the team, but she sticks close to Cho in meetings and debriefs. She keeps an eye on Jane, but his leash is longer than Abbott had previously believed. She’ll let Jane insult people, push against protocol, and play tricks. Sometimes, when she stops him with a short warning of his name or a hand on his arm, he listens. Sometimes, he doesn’t. Abbott often can’t tell why she stops him one time and not another, but he thinks he’ll get a handle on it in time. 

So, Abbott is successfully monitoring Jane through Lisbon. But handling Lisbon? 

He can admit that he has harassed her over the past two years. He doesn’t regret it; his job had been to find and recruit Patrick Jane, and Lisbon is his only discernible weak point. When they first met, he had said some things with the design of driving wedges, and even though he had been unsuccessful, he meant it a little. On paper, Patrick Jane’s consultancy for the CBI had been a nightmare, regardless of closed cases. Abbott had been so sure it was mismanagement; surely someone else could have cut down on the complaints and mistrials and still gotten Jane to cooperate.

Now, three weeks into Jane’s consultancy with the FBI, and after reading about the fates of decent agents like Ray Haffner who tried their hand at containing Jane, he’s not so sure. 

Besides that, he’s surprised to find that Lisbon is a better agent than he expected. She’s always prepared and perceptive. He’s already picked up on the way she drives Jane’s thinking, always boring holes in his theories and being generally contrary, even when she agrees with him. He’s started to realize that she does it to understand his thought processes and find possible evidence trails. Anything that can be used to back up Jane’s instincts, which are nearly always correct. 

And, well, okay. He has to admit they’re growing on him. Lisbon is dedicated, and because wherever Lisbon is located is where Jane is located as well, his consultant is similarly committed, though whether that commitment is for solving the case or simply being close to Lisbon remains to be seen. It’s a completely unique experience to watch them solve a case. Jane is a bit like a cat owner with a feather, lowering and tugging it away from the other agents on the unit, testing and teasing. 

But with Lisbon, the teasing is different. He often pulls the back of her chair toward his couch, speaking to her in low tones. Abbott can tell she pushes back, even when she agrees with him. Oftentimes, they’ll come to some sort of conclusion, and when they stand together in a certain way, Cho is already half across the floor, ready to lend a hand. His agents are always at least half a step behind, and it’s like getting a look behind the curtain of why the CBI’s Serious Crimes Unit had the best record in the state. 

For the past few hours, as the case wraps up, Abbott has been pondering a new angle. 

Jane is in love with Lisbon. It’s the one thing he allows to be written all over his face. When she isn’t with him, but she’s visible, he watches her with a dark-eyed, possessive intensity that makes Abbott frown instinctively. It’s the kind of look that a man gives his wife when he’s come home from war. It’s the kind of look that screams danger, that reminds Abbott that Jane is a ticking bomb when it comes to threats to Lisbon’s happiness and safety. He remembers the body of Thomas McAllister. He remembers the look in the eyes of Red John’s disciples when Jane was mentioned: awe and fear and fury commingled. 

It’s a bit surprising, is all. Abbott has met a lot of people like Patrick Jane. Until Lisbon had begun to receive secret love letters from Jane, Abbott had been convinced that Jane was merely using her to get to Red John. Now that he knows that’s untrue, that a man like Patrick Jane—brilliant, arrogant, handsome, manipulative—could fall for a woman like Teresa Lisbon—faithful, quiet, humble, unassuming—he’s had to do a lot of reevaluating of Lisbon herself. All those years ago, he had missed something. He’s starting to see what it is. 

He’s also certain that Lisbon loves Jane. She’s utterly loyal to him, just as protective of him as he is of her, and from what he understands from years of dating women, Jane has qualities that are as attractive to women as catnip is to cats. What he’s uncertain of is whether her feelings also tend toward the romantic end of love, and he resolves to figure it out. 

He waits for the rest of the team to leave, closing his door and shutting his blinds. He waits another hour after that, then calls downstairs. 

“Fred, has Agent Lisbon signed out yet?” 

“No, sir,” the desk agent reports. “Would you like me to send someone to track her down for you?” 

“No, that’s fine,” Abbott replies. “Thanks, Fred.”

Abbott hangs up the phone and gets to his feet. He switches off the lights in his office, then, as soundlessly as possible, opens his office door. 

The first thing he hears is the click of men’s dress shoes as they cross the floor. He can tell from the directionality that someone is moving from the break room to the bullpen. He peeks his head around the corner. 

Sure enough, Jane, laden with two mugs, is crossing over to Lisbon, who has her head buried in a file. 

“You promised me by eight, you’d be finished,” Jane reminds her as he approaches. “I have a big night planned tomorrow; you’ll need your sleep to keep up with me on the dance floor.”

“I hope this band is better than the one two weeks ago,” Lisbon grumbles. “Jazz is supposed to be natural. Ad-libbed.”

“I promise you, my dear, this time, my research was thorough,” he says, handing her a mug. “I had no idea your tastes were so discerning, but I have to admit, I’m pleased to have an expert on my arm. I don’t suppose this means you will finally tell me what instrument teenage Lisbon tossed aside before going to kiss some boy under the bleachers?”  

“Hmph,” she replies, blushing, but Abbott watches as she catches him by the sleeve of his jacket before he can return to the couch. Jane pauses at her side, smiling as she releases his sleeve just to reach for his shoulder, tugging him down. He obliges her without hesitation, dropping a hand to her hip as if the intimate touch is the most natural thing in the world. 

Abbott feels a bit like a voyeur as he watches Lisbon press her lips to Jane’s cheek. It’s not perfunctory; instead, she lingers, brushing her mouth against his cheek again, then his chin before retreating back a few inches. Then she speaks, so raspy and quiet and intimate that Abbott can barely hear. 

“Thank you, Patrick.” 

Abbott can’t take his eyes off the train wreck as he watches Jane’s entire body tense like he’s in danger, like a gun has been pointed at his head. His hand tightens on her hip before sliding around to her back. Abbott can’t see his face, but he doesn’t need to see it; he can read Jane’s body language loud and clear.  “I like it very much when you call me Patrick,” he purrs—there is no better word to describe his tone—as he ducks just a little, letting his nose brush Lisbon’s. “Again,” he says, and the breathy order is almost threatening. 

It doesn’t faze Lisbon, though, as she puts her foot on the floor to push herself backwards, sliding out of Jane’s arms. “Probably not a good idea,” she flirts lowly, “if this is your reaction.” 

This time, as they’ve separated, Abbott can see Jane’s eyes widen, then narrow. “Oh, I can behave, Lisbon. But you, dearest, are a tease.” 

Lisbon’s mouth drops open. “I am not!” She replies indignantly. 

Jane’s mouth widens into what on any other man would be an ugly smile, but he somehow makes it work. God, Lena has him watching too many rom-coms if he can identify different smiles like this.

“Prove it,” Jane goads. 

Lisbon frowns. “Fine. Patrick.”  

Jane’s eyes flutter closed, and he breathes deeply for a few moments. Finally, he opens his eyes, and though Abbott can’t see the look in them, he sees Lisbon bite her lip as a reaction. “Thank you, Teresa,” he says, and Lisbon blushes. 

Abbott decides this has gone on for long enough. He carefully returns to his office, opening and shutting the door audibly. When he returns to the bullpen, Lisbon is clacking away on her keys, and Jane is seated behind her on the couch. And—yes—there’s the familiar look. Jane’s eyes dart to Abbott, his mouth twitching up in an amused half-smile, before his gaze returns to Lisbon. 

“Burning the midnight oil, Agent Lisbon?” He asks, striding over. Lisbon doesn’t look surprised to see him, which means Jane and she had heard the ruckus with the door. She takes her hands off the keys, getting to her feet. 

Jane huffs, but his eyes are twinkling. “I might as well be invisible,” he complains. 

“Hush,” Lisbon chides, and Jane obeys. Then, she looks up at Abbott. “Just finishing some paperwork, Sir. I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.” 

Neither of them say that Jane will be leaving with her, and Jane grins at the awkward moment. 

“That’s fine,” Abbott agrees hurriedly. “Uh, Lisbon, could I have a word?” 

Lisbon nods, and Jane’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Abbott guides Lisbon to one of the observation rooms. 

Lisbon turns to face him, wary. “What can I do for you, Boss?” 

Abbott laughs a little. “You know, Lisbon, sometimes I get the feeling that you’re the one people should be calling boss. Hell, if you had a more traditional career path, I might be calling you boss right now.” 

Lisbon frowns. “If this is some sort of insult to Jane…” She begins. 

“No!” Abbott interrupts. “Look, I don’t blame you for being skeptical of me. After what went down in California, and your … unconventional … interview process, I’d be uncertain too.” 

Lisbon just watches him. “Boss-”

“Abbott,” he corrects. “Or Dennis, is fine. When we’re off the clock.”

“Are we off the clock, Abbott?”

“Yes. Because if we were on the clock, I’d tell you that what we put you through in California and Washington was necessary. Both to tackle the Blake Association and to find Jane.” He sighs. “Off the clock… I like you, Lisbon. I’m sorry that what we put you through then is making it difficult for you to trust me now.” 

He can tell she doesn’t believe him. “No apology necessary,” she says. “You were doing your job.” 

Abbott sighs. “This isn’t one of those… Fine,” he says instead. “Then let me just say that you’re making an impression here, Lisbon. A good one. I’m looking forward to working with you more.”  

“Thank you,” she says, but doesn’t offer anything further.   

“And listen: I took you up on that suggestion to talk to your old bosses, and they set me straight on some things.” He pauses. “I won’t deny that I hope you’ll be a moderating influence on Jane, but I'm not going to threaten either of you with the other. I trust you’ll do your best to rein him in when needed. If he does something to make the higher ups decide he’s not worth it, that'll be my problem, not yours. But I think you like working with him, so I want to work with you on this.”

Lisbon nods, a little less hesitant. “I understand what you’re saying, and I appreciate it,” she says, careful. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

He shakes his head. “Go home, and take Jane with you.” 

Lisbon turns red. “Oh, we don’t—Jane lives in his Airstream, Sir, we’re not—”

Abbott puts a hand up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lisbon.” 

Lisbon stops searching for an excuse and smiles a little. Her smile is quite beautiful—it makes her eyes lighten to a more pastel green. He can admit her attractiveness from a neutral perspective. “See you tomorrow, Abbott,” she replies, a small showing of grace. 

But before she leaves, she turns back. “In the spirit of this conversation,” she ventures, “could I ask a favor?” Abbott nods, intrigued. Maybe this will be the glimpse into her psyche that he needs. 

“Jane doesn’t know the full extent of what happened, when he was… away,” she tells him. “I would just ask that you don’t tell him.” 

“May I ask why?” Abbott says. “I’m sure he can guess most of it—”

“That’s different than knowing. And he wants to move on; I can tell. I would appreciate it.”

He nods, slowly. “Sure, Lisbon.” 

She thanks him and makes her retreat, and by the time Abbott’s done packing up, they’re both gone.

Seconds later, Abbott’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out. It’s a text from Jane. 

I hope you saw what you needed to see. 

Abbott can’t help the grin that is spreading across his face. Yeah, Jane and Lisbon are growing on him. 

—

Dearest Teresa, 

Well, you’ve done it once again. Another man with whom we work is a little in love with you. How do you accomplish this task so easily?

You don’t have to answer that, my dear. It’s quite obvious. You are irresistible, and now Dennis Abbott is starting to see the light. 

I wouldn’t be concerned, of course. Dennis is quite devoted to his wife, and he knows you’re unavailable. He just has a little work crush on you. He is beginning to see your worth as an agent and as a person, as those who spend the slightest time in your presence are wont to do. Your loyalty, cunning, dedication, and kindness is seducing him. I speak as, of course, another prey to your infinite wiles. 

I can see your face turning a lovely shade of crimson, so I will stop. I turn to more formal matters. 

We are certainly growing on Wylie. I wonder if he would be tempted with field work, the way Van Pelt was. I have noticed your little compliments to him; perhaps you should dial it back a little or Abbott might catch on. I don’t think Kim would notice if an anvil fell atop her. 

All my hope,

Patrick 

—

By the time Jane arrives back in Austin from the crime scene, he is… antsy. 

Cho had called him that morning with a new case across the border and flight details for the team, but Jane had waived him off, a plan already taking form in his mind. He would take the Airstream down, meet Lisbon and the rest at the scene, make up an excuse to hang around, and pout until Lisbon agrees to drive back with him after they enjoy a pair of burritos—the locals have informed him that the burrito was invented in Juarez. 

He’s not sure about that, but he did help an older woman find her cat, and she rewarded him with the name of the best local spot: Burritos Crisostomo. And that’s where Lisbon and he should’ve been, except Cho and Kim had waltzed up and ruined his plans by informing him that Lisbon has been caught up with Ardiles’ death. 

Osvaldo Ardiles. Still causing him problems beyond the grave. 

The one bright spot had been Cho’s pleased surprise at the Mexican jumping beans. And Kim’s challenge of a gift to her had given him a new plan: get presents for the whole team, both buying some goodwill and having an excuse to get Lisbon something as well. 

When he finally gets back to Austin, he’s met with an empty chair. No Lisbon. Now, he’s more than antsy, but before he can call her, Kim is pulling him into the observation room. 

Twenty minutes later, with Kim chattering in his ear, he cranes his neck and—there. There she is. Finally.

It’s the work of a minute to give Wylie his gift and head Kim off with a clever insult—really, who grabs a present from someone’s hands before it’s given?—then he strides towards the only bright spot in his life. 

The aforementioned bright spot, however, looks up with a grumpy expression as he approaches. Dismayed, he slows, eyes scanning, trying to see what she’s upset about. Is it serious?  Is the Ardiles problem worse than expected?

… No. This is annoyed-at-Jane grumpy, not deep and not serious. He speeds up again, winking at her as  he bypasses her for his couch. He’ll wait to touch her until she’s in a better mood. 

Seconds pass before she loses her patience, snatching up a familiar sheet of paper on her desk and turning her chair to face him. She gets to her feet so she can lean over him menacingly. To be honest, he finds it adorable, but he closes his eyes to rile her up a little. For fun. 

“Why would Abbott know I am ‘unavailable’?” She whispers furiously, waving the paper angrily in his face. “And Kim’s not that bad!” 

He keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the way her breath fans across his face. “Dennis is no fool, my dear, and only a fool would see you with me and intervene.” 

“Kim asked me what your type was last week!” She hisses. 

Jane smirks. “See my previous statement.” She kicks his couch once, huffing, before returning to her seat. He listens to her mutter furiously under her breath, and his skin prickles. She’s so lovely when she’s grumpy. He wants to bundle her in his arms and tease and coo and cajole—

“What was Firlock doing in Gentry?” Lisbon says. “It’s a long way to drive for a day trip.” 

Ugh. The case. Interrupting his lurid daydreams. Sometimes, Lisbon is quicker to compartmentalize than he’d like. Plus, he knows exactly how long it is. He just did the round trip, planning to have a cute little FBI agent at his side for the leg back. 

“Mm,” he agrees anyway, mind already spinning with new opportunities. “But it’s a nice drive, though. How are you doing on the case files?” 

“They put me to sleep,” she admits, and his heart flutters at the mental image of Lisbon slumped over some files, breathing gently. He’s seen this scene before, many times, but not since his return. “I decided to take a break and look at her photo-share site. Check this out.” 

He gets to his feet with a groan, all to mask his heart, now pounding. The bullpen is alive around them, but Lisbon’s invited him closer. An inch.

He’ll take a mile. 

“These are the pictures she downloaded the night before she left for Gentry,” Lisbon explains, pointing to the images. But Jane isn’t looking at the photos. He bends down until all that’s stopping his mouth from brushing her ear is a thick curtain of dark hair. He’s undeterred though. As he points to one of the images, he raises his other hand and tucks her hair behind her ear, sweeping that hand around to settle on her far shoulder. He only laments that she’s wearing her blouse buttoned to her neck. 

“You look stunning today,” he breathes. “I thought you would be on that plane with Cho.” 

“Jane…” she warns, but she can’t hide the way she shudders as his hand inches from her shoulder to her neck, thumb gently stroking.

“I had plans for you,” he says, dark and low and liquid. “Plans that I dislike having to delay.”

“What kind of plans?” She asks.  

“One word, darling.” He leans in closer. “Burritos.” 

“I—what?” 

He brushes his hand down her back, taking a small step away to a more respectable distance. “What did you think I was going to say?” He asks innocently, grinning. There is no better fun in his life than teasing Teresa Lisbon. She's certainly done enough of the reverse recently. He's owed a little retribution. 

He watches as Lisbon pulls herself together, turning his attention to the photos in earnest this time. He easily works out that the farmer’s market in the photos is in Gentry.

“Okay,” Lisbon says, “so she sees these photos on the internet, and the next day, she jumps in her car for an all-day road trip.” She sounds appropriately skeptical. “Why does somebody do that?” 

“Well, that corn on the cob looks very tasty,” he observes, still teasing. 

“You’re really into food today,” she retorts, but he ignores her. 

“I could drive my Airstream down to Gentry,” he says casually, but from the way she peers up at him, she’s got him pegged. He’s unreasonably pleased that she sees through him. He wants her to know his intentions.

He says it anyway. “Want to join me?” 

Her response is prepared. “In the silver bucket? No, thanks.” 

He’s not a sore loser, of course. But that’s because he doesn’t lose at all. “Well, Fischer it is, then,” he says cheerfully, eyes following the faint tensing of Lisbon’s shoulders. “Of course, if we’re trying to blend in, Fischer is a little too no-nonsense FBI. She’ll interrogate first, play nice later. I’ll have to leave her behind if she’s hindering my methods.”

Lisbon is catching on, and she spins to face him. “I know what you’re doing—”

“And the cartel is involved,” he interrupts her. “If I have to ditch Fischer, it would be so dangerous to be unarmed…” 

“Then I’ll tell Kim to handcuff you to her,” Lisbon blusters, but she’s folding. He can tell. One more nudge.

He sets his hands on her armrests, closing her in. “Say the word, Teresa, and I’ll show you exactly why handcuffs are not a deterrent for me,” he breathes. He enjoys her like this. Contained in his embrace. Unable to escape without causing a scene. Then, he smirks. “At least, not without the proper incentive.” 

She won’t ask for clarification, of course, but the images she’s dreaming up are probably just as good as the ones playing in his own head.  

“Fine, let’s go,” she agrees. 

“Excellent,” he says. “You have some old jeans in your go-bag, correct?” She nods. “Perfect, that’s all we’ll need.” 

—

Jane,

I’m writing this as you’re driving. The speed limit is really just a suggestion to you, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a good thing you bought this silver bucket. At least it will keep you from doing a hundred down the road. 

Have I ever told you that Jimmy plays poker? He’s not any good. I haven’t played him since our lessons at the CBI, but I’m pretty sure I’d smoke him. When we were young, he bet one of my mom’s old gold bracelets and lost it. I got it back. I never told you because I wanted you to underestimate me, but I guess it didn’t help me much, did it? Maybe it’s about time for a rematch. What do you say? 

I like telling you about my family. It’s easier to do it on paper, but you knew that, didn’t you? You look smug right now, staring at the road. You probably know what I’m writing right now. What does it feel like to know everything about everyone all the time? 

I scratched that out, but on the off (but likely) chance you can figure it out, I’m sorry. Once I reread it, it didn’t sound right. I don’t mean it the way it sounds. I like you the way you are.

Even if you do drive me crazy. 

- Lisbon

—

To Lisbon’s credit, she’s ready to go after giving some of her work to Cho and speaking to Abbott, who clears their trip. When she climbs into the Airstream, settling into the passenger seat, something inside Jane loosens. 

When they leave the Austin city limits, that thing loosens further. 

She’s been to the Airstream before now; last week, he had picked her up in the vehicle to drive to a farmer’s market. But that had been a short journey, interspersed with strangers and the city. Now, with I-10 stretching out ahead of them like miles of molasses, he ponders the lack of tension as they speak about this and that, easy and ordinary. 

Jane can admit to enjoying the puzzle of cases, now that he’s working with Lisbon again. Solving murders is a nearly unmatched mental exercise, but without the march toward Red John, he can see himself growing weary of it eventually. Not soon, but in the long run, is this truly how he wants to spend the rest of their lives? 

He knows law enforcement was Lisbon’s first love, and that she’d miss it terribly if they left. Even exotic countries and endless trips might not fill the hole left by the calling she feels. Plus, he has to work for the FBI for a while longer at least.  

He considers the source of the loosening. Perhaps it isn’t longing for a quieter life. Perhaps it is just being here, alone with the woman he loves, for once not trapped in the memory of his past failures. It returns, sometimes, that pain. Even now. The island was his coping mechanism, and he had been so certain that the quiet life would heal him. But instead, Teresa Lisbon was the only thing tethering him to the world. His letters to her, providing an outlet of honesty when all he wanted was to talk to her. The dark-haired Venezuelan women on the beach, one short enough to be her from a distance, reminding him that she exists somewhere without him. And finally, Abbott’s offer, a life line to a drowning man. He’d never tell her this, but he would’ve come back even with the certainty of a murder charge. Seeing Lisbon again, even through cold, grey, metal bars, would have warmed him more than the South American sun. 

Here, with Lisbon grinning as she tells him about Annie’s college plans, he ponders a strange truth, now that he is in her presence anew. The memory hurts. It always has, and it always will. But it does him no harm, not with her by his side. His eyes slip to his wedding ring, shining against the leather of the steering wheel. He will move on with her, for her. This is how it’s meant to be. 

When they pull over for the night, he doesn’t have to work too hard to get her into bed with him. She puts up a token protest but gives in within minutes, blushing as she retreats to the bathroom. He takes those minutes to do some preparations of his own. When she comes out, she’s wearing a t-shirt and cotton shorts. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen a more lovely sight. 

“Come to bed,” he says quietly, and she obeys. She doesn’t climb into his arms, but she lays at his side on her back, her hands folded over her stomach. He turns on his side, backed up against the wall, facing her. 

“Just to sleep,” she confirms, and he smiles at her softly, nodding. Then, he reaches across her face to tuck her hair behind her ear, telegraphing his movements, slow and deliberate despite the futility of the action. Her hair is already out of her face; he knows, because it is spread across his pillow. 

It takes her, his clever agent, seconds to notice. 

“You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” she observes, trying desperately to keep her voice even. But he can hear the awe, the weight of her words, and he knows instantly this had been the right call. 

He uses the hand brushing invisible hairs from her face to cup her chin, turning her head to face his. Her eyes are evaluating him with surprise, huge and green and glistening just a little. He shifts closer, opening a small world just for them in this bed, in a park on the side of the highway, alone together and stealing every bit of joy back that the world has taken from them. “I’m not married,” he says, and the words have the impact of a bullet. 

He can sense that he has driven her to speechlessness, so he leans over her, reaching for the bedside nook. He enjoys the press of her soft, warm body against his, yearning to settle on top of her and kiss her until neither of them can breathe. To bracket her on either side with his arms, to enclose their already small world once more, until all she can see, smell, and taste is him, him, him —

When his fingers grasp the ring he left in the nook, he’s brought back to reality. Not yet. He has unfinished promises to make. 

He returns to his side of the bed, holding the ring between his forefinger and thumb, curled on his side, still facing Lisbon. Subconsciously, he’s brought it halfway between them, and he has to fight down nerves as he begins his prepared speech. Well, prepared today. For him, that’s plenty of planning. 

“This ring has been with me for a very long time,” he says, low and raspy. The words are hard to say, but they’re hard in the way that the truth always is. “And, uh… it has obvious significance with my past.” 

His eyes drift shut, just for a moment. Significance. Angela. Charlotte. Red John . He feels a gentle pressure on his hip and looks down to see Lisbon’s small hand on his waist over the blanket, her thumb rubbing gentle circles. With each pass of her thumb, he can feel soothing waves of comfort emanate from his hip, down his legs, up his spine, driving his heart to keep beating, calm and slow. Having her with him is a sweet solace, an easement on the pain that has been his constant companion for over a decade.

The memory hurts. It always has, and it always will. But it does him no harm, not with her by his side.

With a renewed determination, he continues. “It also represents meeting you,” he says, forcing his eyes to hers. He’s nearly bowled over with the compassion, the sympathy, the deep affection that he’s so certain proves she loves him as he loves her, even if she’s not ready to trust him with that love. “If I didn’t have this ring,” he continues, “I would never have met you.” 

Her hand tightens on his hip. Her lower lip wobbles. He swallows hard, looking away, back down at the ring. “So, in a sense… it has the potential to represent my future as well. And I—I’m not expecting you would ever wear it, and I know we’re not together, truly, so maybe this is exactly the sort of thing you didn’t want to deal with right now, when we’re still… but I want to share it. With you. And… I want it to represent our future. Because when I met you— because I met you—you saved me.” 

He looks up again, almost afraid to, knowing he has shocked her with this, knowing her true feelings will be written all over her face. But he meets her eyes, because he also can’t not look at her any longer.

Lisbon is crying. That’s the first thing that registers. Tears are streaming down her cheeks. She’s smiling, but it’s unsteady and overcome, and that’s all he reads before she has scooted forward and wrapped him up in her arms. He closes his fist around the ring and returns the embrace fiercely, his own eyes watering as he sniffles, burying his head in the soft waves of her hair. 

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he tries to joke, his voice heavy. 

She tugs on his hair, sending shivers down his spine. “Shut up,” she retorts, sniffling herself. “You did so.” She tightens her hold briefly before untwining their bodies, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. “Are you sure about this, Patrick?” She says. “I don’t doubt that you mean what you’re saying, but this is a big step. You were right, we’re not together yet. You don’t have to do this before you’re ready.” 

His heart thrills at the single syllable, delicate, precious word. Yet. “I’m sure,” he says firmly. “There’s no doubt in my mind. I don’t want to put it away forever, I couldn’t, but I want us to share it. I’ve been thinking about things that would prove to you that I’m not going anywhere.” 

A dawning look of horror crosses her face. “That’s not the reason you’re doing this—” She begins, rambling and nervous.

“No!” He insists, cutting her off clean at the pass. “I’ve thought about this… before. But I want to do it now. Before anything happens. I’m completely committed to you, and I want you to know that.” He pauses. “You don’t have to accept it. Not right now. But… but I needed to offer.”  

“Okay,” she says. “I—I trust you.” She looks away as she says it, blushing, perhaps aware of what the words will do to him. 

He senses that she needs a breather, so he leans into the heady feeling of her trust, grinning at her so widely he’s sure he looks silly. “Of course, if there’s anything I can say to convince you to shorten the waiting period…” he trails off, waggling his eyebrows, sliding his arm around her waist and laying his index finger against her spine, trailing it down… 

“Stop it!” She exclaims, knocking his hand away. “Here, let me see the ring. I have an idea.” 

He shrugs, handling it over, pretending like seeing his old wedding ring in her palm doesn’t set something in him on fire. She leans over to the side table where she puts her necklace when she sleeps and—oh. 

He knows where this is going. 

He knows she can feel him tense. “Is this alright?” She asks, hesitant. 

“You’d wear my ring?” He says, low and almost dark. 

“Around my neck,” she amends. “With my mother’s cross.” 

Predictably, the idea wrecks him.

“Please,” he begs, fully aware that he sounds near inhuman with greed and want. The need to see her with his ring claws at his soul, like nails scraping against a locked door; that part of him is dark, often hidden, but no less part of him. “Can you do it now? Tonight?”

He knows she doesn’t like to sleep with her necklace on, but he must sound desperate enough that she threads the ring through the thin, gold chain without protest, picking up the ensemble and clasping it around her neck. He would’ve offered to do it for her, but his hands are shaking badly. He doesn't trust them not to close around her and never let go. 

She turns back to him, ring and cross hanging together right before her chest dips to her breasts, and he breaks anyways. Without conscious thought, he’s already climbed half over her, tucking his head under her chin and brushing his eyelashes over the strong chords of her neck, his nose settling into the hollow of her collarbone.

His lips, brushing over the place where their lost loved ones touch in golden shrines that she now carries, every part of him in her hands. 

“Jane,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry; I’m not…” 

He knows exactly what she's trying to say. The idea that she wants to apologize for not being ready for him hurts him. Badly. “Shh,” he hushes, and he can feel her shudder against him. Tentatively, she puts one hand in his hair and rests the other behind his scapulae. If he could melt into her embrace, he would. “This is enough, Teresa," he lies, sort of. It is enough, in the sense that no possible thing could be better. It is enough because it is all she can give, and that has to be enough. "Right now, this is everything.” 

That one is the truth. 

And she must sense that he’s telling the truth, that at least he doesn’t intend to try to take their embrace another step further, because she relaxes. He makes sure to shift his weight so he’s not crushing her, but otherwise, this is where he intends to sleep tonight. Safely pillowed between her breasts, her heart thumping against his cheek, touching nearly every part of her. He takes her hand and laces their fingers together, just for good measure. 

Before he drifts off, he hears her speak. “You can talk about them, you know,” she says softly. “If you want to talk, I want to hear.” 

He fights against his lethargy, rising to the barely-hidden hope in her tone. He wonders if speaking about his family will feel the same as when she had rubbed circles into his hip. There’s only one way to find out. 

“One thing no one guessed about Angela is that she could fix any appliance you set in front of her. One time, the A/C broke, and it was a hundred and ten degrees outside…” 

He lets her presence wash over him as he tells her the story, any lingering fear that he would miss the ring on his finger disappearing a little with every word spoken. The ring is with Lisbon, connotations of revenge now replaced with words of commitment and love. He has new, better ways of keeping Angela and Charlotte alive in his heart.

—

Lisbon,

You’re sleeping now. I think I wore you out. Emotionally, I mean. Don’t hit me. 

I have told you this before, but I spent a lot of time reading on the island. And because of the lack of works translated into English, I spent a lot of time with the Bard—a friend had copies of his works, and I admit I could read them a hundred times and never grow bored. I take this one out of its context, so please don’t smack me next time I see you, but it is apt: 

other women cloy
The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies

Your patient admirer,

Patrick

Chapter Text

Lisbon wakes to the feeling of a pair of familiar eyes on her. 

More specifically, a pair of eyes on her neck. 

“Good morning, my dear,” Jane says, voice thick with his own waking, eyes roving from his ring around her neck to her face. His eyes are dark and intent, and it’s far too early in the morning for her to resist him. Their hands are already brushing, and sometime in the night, she had hooked her ankle over his. 

She reads the promise in his eyes. Every day. Every day could be like this. And it would be so easy.

It would be so easy to roll into his arms and let him hold her. To feel his warm chest against her back and let him gather her up in his arms and shelter her completely the way she knows he wants to. For all that she shields him at work, she knows he’s equally capable of the same in their personal lives. All she has to do is let him. With his ring around her neck, she already feels more settled in the rough waters of their relationship. She knows that, as much as he had given it to her to loosen his own chains, there is no doubt he also had intended to give her a piece of himself that she would hesitate to give back. 

Manipulative to the end. She has to hand it to him; if he had all the facts, she would probably have given in by now. Just one glance at his mouth, and she wants to let the rest of the world melt away…

She feels that inner strength well up, the one that sounds like her father, the voice that yells independence is the only way to survive. She can’t need anyone to survive; she has to be tough. With any other man, she would maintain that independence and easily be able to hold herself at arm’s length. With Patrick Jane, that’s an impossibility. When she allows him in, they will no longer be two separate people. He will demand togetherness, in all ways, even though she knows he struggles with vulnerability in his own way.  That only makes it worse, in a way. She can’t hold back if he’s intent on carefully and painfully bearing his soul to her. It wouldn’t be fair.  

He already demands so much from her, and what's even more terrifying: she gives it happily and freely, because she loves him. And  they’re only teetering on the edge of something more. 

These are heavy thoughts for the morning, especially with Jane lying next to her, watching the expressions cross her face and reveal her to him. She shoves it down, sighing as she uncrosses their ankles, brushing his hand one last time with hers before withdrawing.

Inner strength achieved, albeit through memories she’d rather not relive, she rolls off the bed to remove herself from the situation. He stops her with a hand on her arm. “Thank you,” he says, slow and careful, eyes boring into hers. 

She knows that he means for last night, so she just nods quickly. “Anytime,” she promises, before standing up and going for a shower. 

When he’s out of sight, out of reach, thoughts finally begin to bubble up in her head without permission. 

Last night had been… intense. The memory of Jane’s mouth on her neck, the tears in his eyes, his confession. The drop in weight of one less thing between them is affecting her more than she thought it would. She never thought too much about the ring, if she’s honest. A passing thought about how they might be perceived. A wonder if he was waiting for them to officially get together to take it off. Truthfully, she also thought that he forgot about it entirely. 

Lisbon turns on the water and ties up her hair as the water heats. The light pressure is soft on her shoulder as she washes herself. 

She can’t stop thinking about his words. If I didn’t have this ring, I wouldn’t have met you. Those words had torn at her heart more than anything else. Jane rarely discusses his past anymore—not that he really had before either; even the death of McAllister remains a mystery to her. Somehow, though, it just doesn’t feel right to bring it up. Apparently, Jane had found some sort of peace on that island with his actions, and if the State of California doesn’t want to prosecute him, that’s something they’ve clearly worked out with the FBI. He’s come out clean and clear, and he’s with her. That should be enough, but sometimes the thoughts sneak their way inside regardless of her shooing them away. They both made choices, and to say that those choices haunt her would be a gross understatement.

She told him all those years ago that she had changed her mind, that she had decided Red John needed to be killed. She doesn’t know what she would’ve done, though, if she had been in that church with him. In some ways, she’s thankful that he had taken that decision out of her hands along with her gun. In other ways, it’s another mystery that keeps his motivations cloudy and uncertain. 

Jane is the most important person in the world to her. Even as she holds herself back, waiting to feel ready, she knows that she would do anything for him. The curiosity burns in her to understand what he wants, hand in hand with the desire to know him in all ways, to know of what he’s capable when the chips are down. Abbott had never shared the autopsy report, and she hadn’t pried; she wants to hear the truth from Jane, and no one else. 

But Jane hasn’t shared. If they talk about anything from before their reunion, it’s innocent little stories of his time on the island. Nothing of his struggles. Nothing of his pain. She’s adhered to this unspoken rule as well, telling him only the few fond memories she has of hiking in the Pacific Northwest or the kids to whom she’d teach self-defense twice a month at the local high school gym. 

But now, he’s cracked open the gates. And he’s done it in a big way: expressing gratitude to the worst time in his life because that tragedy set her in his path. If she hadn’t heard the words from his mouth and wore the proof of them now around her neck, she would think it a dream. Rarely, she’s imagined her life without Jane, picturing their paths if Red John had never existed. Even now, she would choose that life for him in heartbeat, knowingly, to her own detriment. To the detriment of the victims of the cases they couldn’t have closed without him. She knows he is happy here with her, but if she could give her life to erase the tragedy that still haunts him, she would do it without hesitation. 

There are some things Lisbon will never say to Jane. Those rare intrusive thoughts are an example. Though, before last night, she never could have imagined him saying something like… that… either.

She switches off the water, grasping for her fluffy white towel, soft and expensive, the kind of indulgence that Jane does so well. She dries her body, the familiar, repetitious motion of her hands at least somewhat of a distraction from the maudlin thoughts in her head and the wrenching ache in her chest. She searches her heart one more time as she slips on her underwear and snaps on her bra, wondering if it would feel right to go out there and throw herself into his arms. With his ring around her neck, surely she has to be ready? 

Just the idea causes her stomach to churn as she dries her hair,  the towel tumbling from her hands to the floor. She holds her breath at the feeling, bracing her hands on the sink, helplessly letting the doubt well up once more, so paralyzing it burns her eyes. Why can’t she trust him? What’s wrong with her? 

Over and over again, she pictures the same thing: the ease with which he has walked out of her life before. The ease with which he could do it again, slipping away with tears in his eyes and a gentle kiss pressed to her cheek. And she will be left with nothing. Despite Abbott’s recent praises, there’s no guarantee of even her job without Jane at her side. 

Lisbon shudders at the thought of the last two years. She can’t do that again. She won’t. 

She stares at the ring around her neck until her eyes blur, pushing down the pathetic urge to crawl onto Jane’s lap and confess everything while he strokes her hair. She craves his touch; he’s been generous with it since they reunited, but it’s mostly been fleeting. Innocent. Light. The deepest part of her wants him to envelop her the way he did last night. Maybe if he holds her, she can let it all go. 

No, she’s okay like this. It wouldn’t be fair to Jane to make him carry the weight of her doubt and nerves, especially given how much he seems to be certain of her. She can flirt with him, accept his loving touches, and live on the edges of the precipice for a little longer. Maybe a solution will present itself. Maybe she will wake up one day and trust him utterly. 

Maybe he’ll give up on her and content himself with being her friend. Maybe he’ll find someone else. 

In the privacy of his bathroom, as she bends to pick up the towel she dropped, the stab of pain she feels at that thought is nearly crippling. 

Setting her shoulders back, she leaves the bathroom. She climbs into the front seat as Jane puts the keys into the ignition. 

“There’s a diner about half an hour up the road,” he tells her, graciously not commenting on her lengthy shower. 

“Sounds good,” she says, smiling faintly when he glances over at her with a soft look in his eyes. He reaches his hand over to grasp her thigh, close to her knee. Even through the denim of her jeans, each of his fingers is like a white-hot knife, piercing her with the desire to be closer to him. He squeezes as he drives them out of the campground, and she sighs shakily. 

They maneuver onto the highway with little trouble. Once they’ve settled onto the road, Jane looks over at her again, his eyes dark like the deep blue of a winter storm. “I like us like this,” he says quietly.

Lisbon’s smile flickers. After last night, she’s not sure how much more she can take. “Like what?”

“Alone,” he says, low and deep, just the way he knows she likes it. “Together.”

“You mean you like me all to yourself,” she teases, a measly attempt at lightening the mood. She picks up his hand to get it off her thigh before she explodes, intending to set it back on the wheel. Instead, she finds herself playing with his fingers. He really does have beautiful hands, quick and steady and deliberate in everything he does. Though she would never say it aloud, it’s obviously sexy, his showman gestures and sleight of hand. Her personal magician, who sometimes lets her behind the curtain. 

He grins at her, tapping his thumb on her pulse point when he has the chance, but otherwise, he lets her play. “Is that so wrong?” He asks, a little more vulnerable. She can tell by the way he refocuses on the road ahead.  

Though he can’t see it, her smile dims. “Jane…”

“Usually, I have to compete with the ineffectual criminals of the world,” he says lightly, but she knows his intentions are anything but. 

“It's not a competition,” she tells him. “You know that right?”

“I do,” he agrees, his tone easy in a way that tenses her shoulders. He notices, of course, hooking her little finger with his. Their fingers are truly entangled now, the product of her deep affection for him and his relentless need to be close to her. If she so wished, she could find a metaphor there somewhere. “I’m afraid my psychosis when it comes to relationships is not quite normal,” he adds. She can’t help her slightly strangled laugh. That's an understatement. She moves to hold his hand in earnest, squeezing it, and his index finger finds her pulse once more. 

“Why do you do that?” She asks, surprising herself. When he looks at her askance, she runs her finger over his on her wrist. 

He shrugs. “Habit. And…” he hesitates. “It’s a reminder.”

“Of…?” She prompts. 

With a sigh, he flips their hands so he is holding hers. His grasp envelops her entire hand, holding more tightly than usual, and she realizes he’s gathering some sort of courage. “That you are alive, Teresa, and with me, is a miracle worthy of your religion,” he tells her, now squeezing so strongly that it hurts a little. “Please forgive me if that’s a fact I like to regularly remind myself of.” 

She swallows. “Patrick…” She begins, melting like ice on a hot summer day. Wordlessly, she brings his hand to her mouth before she can think better of it, kissing his knuckles with so much automatic comfortability that she’s embarrassed half a second later. Though she can hear his quick intake of breath, he waves her off any further words when she opens her mouth to try for them. 

Instead, he changes the subject. “You’re not… freaking out about that. Are you?” 

Her hand closes reflexively around the two pendants hanging from her neck, hidden beneath the fabric of her shirt. He’s probably been building up to the question since she came out of the bathroom. She knows she can’t lie to him, though it’s the automatic response she wants to have. “A little,” she admits. 

“And you don’t want me to be offended if you keep it hidden for a while,” he observes knowingly. 

She nods, blushing. 

“That’s fine, Teresa,” he says. “If the urge comes to give it back,  though… talk to me first, hm?” 

So I can talk you out of it, she reads between the lines, and the walls close a little more. She pushes the urge down. She should be ready for this. If the thought of him giving up on her breaks her heart, why can’t she let him in? 

It’s a circular argument; it always comes back around to what would kill her. If he leaves her again once she has given in her entire heart, she would not survive it whole. And looking at him now, smiling, golden-haired, bright and brilliant, imparting some outrageous story about his time on the island as they approach the diner, she can’t imagine a world where such a man—larger than life, more beautiful than words—would stay for her. 

She runs her hand over the place that his ring is hidden, gathering the strength of his conviction. She watches as he pretends not to notice.

—

Jane,

You’re ordering at the counter for us right now. I figured I would get a few lines of writing in during the few minutes we’re separated. 

Oh. Never mind. You’re behind the grill now. The chef doesn’t look too happy with you. I’m keeping an eye on the situation; you’re always in need of saving, aren’t you? 

I guess that’s as good a topic for this letter as anything. 

Have I ever told you that I like the way you’ve always let me take charge in dangerous situations? Especially before, at the CBI. It’s not easy being a woman and the lead of an investigative team. If people don’t think you’re incompetent, they at least think you should be protected. Even if you can run circles around me in your mind, you’ve (usually) respected my authority when the chips are down. I appreciate that. More than you know. 

Or maybe you know. I’m going to tell you anyway. 

You’re walking toward me looking like the cat who just got the cream. The chef liked your eggs, then. Patrick Jane, converting one cook across America at a time. It’s good to know some things never change. 

Lisbon

—

When they arrive at the farmer’s market, Jane tells Lisbon to put on the jeans and lose her blazer. A man like him can get away with a suit, but Lisbon looks like a cop in one. When she comes out of the back, she looks like an ordinary woman, if an ordinary woman was the most gorgeous person on the planet. 

Maybe he’s biased, but oh well. The point is that the jeans she’s wearing perfectly cup her ass, and he has to look away before he comes to the conclusion that work can wait. He wonders what she would do if he told her that it was all over because she’s worn a pair of jeans for him that she’s worn many times before back at the CBI. He hadn’t allowed himself to look then. It’s frustrating that he’s still not permitted to do so now. 

“Okay,” she says, tucking in her button-down, pulling him from his thoughts, “so split up, look around?” 

Jane nods, deciding to let the jeans go—as much as he can. He approaches her from the front, lifting her hair out of the collar of her shirt. It’s a silly excuse to get her within the circle of his arms for a few moments, but he’ll take what he can get. He takes an extra few seconds to run his fingers through the glossy locks, and she allows it with a faint blush. He tucks her hair behind her ear, leaving a wildflower in the wake of his fingers. She’ll find it later, he thinks with a soft smile. “If you hear screaming, I’m being murdered, and I expect you to save me,” he teases. 

Lisbon laughs, her shoulders dropping as she releases a little bit of tension. That is his intention. “As always,” she says warmly, and he doesn’t suppress the urge to kiss her forehead before ushering her out of the vehicle. God, she smells good. Still cinnamon, as it has been from the very beginning. He likes the reminder of how long she’s been in his life. 

With an overly casual affect, but one he approves of as undetectable to anyone except for him, Lisbon ambles over to the honey tent as he surveys the scene. It takes him half a minute to spot the most cult-y looking group and deliberately wander next to the man offering samples. A few complimentary comments, and he’s buying a jar of peanut butter and a tub of peanuts. The peanut butter needs salt, but the tub of peanuts will be delicious.

When the man who Jane immediately marks as the leader of the group asks him where he’s going, it’s the makings of moments to decide on a course of action. 

“Uh—we, actually,” he says, looking around for Lisbon dramatically, despite knowing exactly where she has been this whole time. His sixth sense. One always has to know the location of one’s guiding star. “Teresa!” He calls, beckoning her over. She comes slowly, eyes taking in the situation and the expression on his face. He can tell the instant she realizes what kind of con he’s running; her face freezes in a micro-expression of exasperation and apprehension before smoothing over into a warm, loving smile. 

She’s still making her way when Jane turns back to the man. “Probably west,” he answers, shrugging, slouching his shoulders a little, dropping his facial muscles into something less sharp. “No set plan—just looking for some level road to set the silver sovereign on.” 

“It’s a nice rig,” the man observes. 

Jane looks back at the Airstream with a smile before his eyes settle on Lisbon, who has now come to stand next to him. He opens his arm to her, and she settles into his side, slotting there so neatly that it’s like the space belongs to her. He feels her warmth bleed into him, and he pulls her in a little tighter. He’s happy to take advantage of having her close. “Yeah, it’s home,” he says, injecting insecurity and a little bit of worry into his tone. He can feel Lisbon’s mind working. “At least ‘til I find someplace for us to settle down.” 

Lisbon, as usual, is quick on the uptake. Maybe it’s just jarring to see him without his usual self-confidence. She brings up a hand to rub against his stomach, soothing and loving. It's a naturally possessive touch, displaying the kind of comfort and ease only capable between two people in a monogamous relationship. It tells the world that he’s hers. He wonders if she’ll touch him similarly once they’re together. He imagines wrapping his arms around her the same way, hand splayed across her abdomen, artfully careless, a signal to the world this is his woman. He likes it just as much as being claimed as her man. “My home is with you, Patrick,” she tells him, bringing him out of his fantasies, before turning to the man. “We’ve had some bad luck,” she says ruefully, leaning her head on his shoulder. Her hair spills down his chest. “But my husband is a provider.” 

“Gonna get myself a farm one day,” Jane elaborates, holding Lisbon’s hand against his stomach and squeezing before looking back at the man. 

“It’s a good life,” the man agrees, “you two—you’re married?” 

Lisbon smiles, lifting her head so she can gaze  up at him. He returns  the look, enjoying how even in the midst of the con, the world quiets around them when all of their attention is on each other. “Yes, in all the ways that matter,” she replies, before her brows furrow in light, faked displeasure. “We don’t need some piece of paper from the government telling us what to do.” 

The man nods approvingly, and Jane mentally high-fives her for her excellent read of the situation. She’s getting good, he thinks proudly. 

“Gadsen Grove,” he reads the sign. “Citizen’s Farm. What’s the deal with that, huh?” 

“Just homesteaders, focusing on living our own way.” 

“Oh yeah, like a commune?” He pushes, testing the waters.

Sure enough, the man looks away to hide the truth in his eyes. The benefit of being a good liar, Jane thinks, is that it’s the work of nothing to spot mediocre ones. “Nah, none of that hippie stuff,” he’s quick to say. “No, we’re just steering clear of the power grab going on out there.”

“Mmhm, I feel you,” Jane says. He feels the weight of Lisbon’s quiet at his side. She can tell when he’s working his magic, but he can also tell that she’s waiting to jump in if necessary. 

He has the passing, insane thought that they would make a killing if they decided to go on the circuit. Well, he supposes it can be plan Z, just in case. He never worked with someone else before, but working with Lisbon is always a treat. Maybe he can get them into a room for a case, just to feel it out. 

Well, he’s drawn this out long enough. Time for the hook. “If a man wants justice and freedom in this world,” he proclaims, puffing his chest a little to sell it, “he’s gotta get it himself.” Teresa nods at his side, and he can feel her admiring look out of the corner of his eye. He also feels her tense a little, and he tucks the reaction away for later dissembling. 

The man copies her, and his hesitant approval forms into a genuine green light. 

Time to cast the line. “Well, nice talking to you,” Jane says, squeezing Lisbon twice around the waist. “Uh, we better hit the road.” Lisbon echoes his sentiments with an unfamiliar gentle, whatever-you-say smile, and they turn to go. 

One step.

Two steps. 

“Hey, you know if uh—if it’s farming you like, you should come visit us.” The man follows after them, and Jane turns them to face him. “Take a look-see.”

“We wouldn’t want to be any trouble,” Lisbon says quietly. 

The man smiles at her, every signal in his face reading as condescending. Jane can feel her mentally bristle. “No trouble,” the man says gently, before turning back to Jane. “Actually, I’m heading back there right now.” 

“Honey?” Jane asks. 

“Whatever you want to do works for me.” 

Jane smiles back at the man. “Sure, why not then. That’s a very generous offer,” he says, taking his arm from around Lisbon to reach to clasp the man’s hand. “I’m Patrick—this is Teresa.” 

“Alex,” the man offers. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances.”

“You too,” Jane smiles. 

The rest of the case is a breeze. They easily secure an invitation to stay the night from Alex, and Jane enjoys another night with Lisbon snoring inches away from him. She even leaves the necklace on for him, which he gazes at, unendingly, after being deprived of the sight for the entire day. He doesn’t sleep much, instead chooses to spend the night wondering about what it would be like to make their home in a place like this. Some place remote, quiet, with just the two of them and a dog or two. A cat, if Lisbon wants one. 

He deliberately doesn’t think about the other thing they could have. If he thinks about the patter of little feet, the sticky, sweaty warmth of a small body between them on lazy mornings, he’ll wake up Lisbon and start begging. And he promised to give her time. 

He can’t deny his eagerness. The only thing that keeps him patient is the realization that they’re pretty much already living as a couple. He can wait a while longer to kiss her if it makes her feel secure. Her security, her happiness, is all that matters to him. 

They separate in the morning to gather intel after telling Cho to bring a black helicopter and a tank down to the border. When the cavalry arrives, Lisbon is the first to grab her gun from the Airstream, looking around worriedly at the sheer amount of weaponry around them. He has to shake his head gently at her when she tries to investigate the guns for shaved off serial numbers. That can all be accounted for later. 

She sits half on his lap as they ride with Alex up to the gate. 

“I don’t like this,” she murmurs. When Alex steps out, they follow him, Lisbon unconsciously curling her body in front of his. He lets her. She’s the one with a gun, with combat experience. Even as he trails Alex to speak with Abbott, to establish his place as a trustworthy advisor, Lisbon follows him, her eyes tracking their surroundings. He knows that she’s clocking shaky hands, angry demeanors, and any threat to them and theirs. His clever little bodyguard. 

She hangs back while he addresses the commune, gun tucked away but within easy reach. It feels ordinary, familiar in the best way, to have her there. He’s missed this from their CBI days. Rigsby, Van Pelt, and Cho are the closest thing he has to family, but Lisbon is his partner. The person he trusts the most, the woman at his side. And nothing is more exhilarating than revealing a killer with his partner ready to back him up. The dazzling show he’s allowed to put on for her thrills him. With every reveal, he puts criminals away and a satisfied smile on that lovely visage.

When the killer pulls a gun on him, emotional and blind to everyone but the man who has revealed her, Lisbon disarms her and has her on her knees in seconds.

“Good show, dearest,” he breathes as she hauls the woman to her feet, already calling out orders for everyone to remain calm and let the FBI take over the scene. Any play at meekness and gentility disappears. 

Alex sidles up to him. “So, not your wife?” He asks. He sounds a little hurt and a lot uncertain. Jane can even detect the beginnings of gratefulness. 

“Not yet,” he replies, smiling proudly at his Lisbon.

Later, he gives Kim a wand. 

Later still, he gives Lisbon a letter. 

—

Dearest Teresa, 

A lot of things don’t change. 

How I feel about you—that will never change. Never ever. I worry that you don’t understand that. What can I do to convince you? 

I’m sure you’ve noticed the presents flying around the bullpen in the last few days. Wands and jumping beans and action figures. I hope you didn’t think that my ring was your present. Surely you know by now that I am capable of much more. 

It took me some time to track this down. I know your childhood had darkness in it. I will not ask you to share more than you wish, though I will tell you that the metaphorical door is open whenever you wish. But you’ve shared with me several happy memories. Enough for a lead or two, I might say. 

Is this convincing, darling? 

Love,

Patrick

[enclosed: a pair of worn World Series tickets. The year, stamped nearly illegibly in the corner: 1908.]

—

When they hear of LaRoche’s near death experience, Abbott gives the order to bring him to Austin. Then Rigsby and Van Pelt barely make it out alive from their own attack, and Lisbon comes by the Airstream after work.

“Pack up,” she orders when Jane answers the door. “Until this is over, you’re staying with me.” 

Given the situation, Jane gives her nothing more than the flicker of a smile before he agrees, packing in a few minutes. She knows, despite everything, part of him must be satisfied by this turn of events. He’s managed to “accidentally” sleep over at her house several times, but her intentional invitation likely thrills him. 

He likes being near her. He knows, she’s certain, that she likes being near him too. 

She gives him the option of her spare bedroom, but he opts for the couch. On the wall, in a place of pride, are the World Series tickets, encased in a new glass frame. It’s been a long time since the Cubs have won, and she knows that he must’ve spent a fortune. He’d practically had to hypnotize her into accepting them. 

He makes her breakfast in the morning, a steaming cup of coffee both in her favorite mug and in the thermos he brought along. She knows that means that it’s hers now; he loves gift-giving through sleight of hand. He drinks tea as he watches her take a few bites, waiting for her hum of approval before he digs into his own eggs.

A few hours later, a familiar figure exits the elevator. Jane stands from his couch, pulling Lisbon up from her chair by the elbow as he makes his way to their old friend. Lisbon doesn’t pull away, but she shifts so that his grip is more natural. 

“J.J.!” Jane calls out, and Lisbon can tell he’s genuinely happy to see the man. She is too; she’s always liked LaRoche, even when he has been their antagonist. She’s never forgotten the box, and she knows that’s a large part of why Jane likes him. Vigilante justice is something they have in common. 

“Jane,” LaRoche says evenly, his eyes darting to the place that Jane’s holding her. Only then does she pull away with a blush, but Jane doesn’t give up, affixing his fingers instead to the small of her back. Then, gently, he skates his fingers around to her side, and though his touch is near imperceptible, she is now standing in the circle of his arm. 

LaRoche smiles, then, and Lisbon’s blush deepens. 

“Sir,” Lisbon nods to him. 

“Teresa,” LaRoche greets, his expression softening. Jane told her last night that LaRoche has a soft spot for her, and Jane is never wrong about those sorts of things. “It’s J.J. And it’s good to see you back in the game.” 

Lisbon reaches out a hand, and he clasps it in both of his, finding a balance between professional and personal.. “We were relieved to hear you were all right,” she says, squeezing his hand before releasing it. “When I realized I might’ve brought you into this…” 

With a shrug, LaRoche absolves her of any guilt. “I’m glad you did, so I can tell you that this was no career criminal. The trap was effective, but rudimentary. It’s telling that he or she did not wish to confront me face to face. Perhaps that will help with your little list.” 

A few seconds later, Abbott makes his appearance, greeting LaRoche with a hardy handshake before going straight to business. “Agent, we’ve got your safe house set up. If you’ll come with me, I have two agents that will take you.” 

LaRoche sighs. “You have no need of an old IA man like myself, hm? I can understand. I’d like a word with Mr. Jane before I go.” 

Lisbon watches as Jane nods, his hand brushes her side before he drops contact and steps out from his place at her side. She doesn’t take her eyes off them as they step off toward the elevator, LaRoche clearly dominating the conversation. At first, Jane is smiling, but he grows more serious as LaRoche grows more intent. After about three minutes, they rejoin the group, and LaRoche agrees to cede himself to the custody of the FBI. Jane looks fine, but Lisbon can tell that he’s shaken. When he slides a hand around her back, resting his thumb on her spine, she doesn’t question it. 

—

Patrick,

I hope you’re not expecting a long letter. Not with the events of this week. Honestly, I’m worried. I know we can make it through this together, but I’m afraid I just want it all to work out. I trust in our team, both old and new, to make that happen. 

Despite everything, I’m happy to see everyone again. It feels like old times, doesn’t it? I know the five of us will never be a team again, but having you, and Cho… it means the world. Even if I want to strangle you sometimes.

Lisbon

—

Jane receives Lisbon’s latest letter and reads it immediately in the breakroom. After he’s read it three times, he walks over to her desk. 

“Jane? Everything okay?” 

He pulls her to her feet, and into his arms. 

“Jane!” She hisses. “We’re at work!” 

He just holds her tighter. “I’m going to solve this, Teresa. And then we’re going to talk.” 

She gives into the embrace for a moment, her hands snaking around his neck. Her thumb begins to rub a familiar pattern into his shoulder, and he lets himself bury his face in her hair. Just for a moment. 

The reunion with Van Pelt and Rigsby is welcome, but tense. Once they have their assignments, they split off, just like old times. 

A few hours deep into the afternoon, however, when Lisbon is in the Fish Bowl with Cho and Rigsby, Grace approaches him on his couch. 

“How are you doing?” Grace says, putting a hand on his shoulder as she sinks into the couch next to him. 

Jane sighs. “I’ll be better when we ensure you and your children are safe.” “I noticed you didn’t make any guesses about who might have done this,” she points out. 

Normally, Jane would tease her, draw her out, keep his opinions to himself. This is not the time. “All of you have good instincts. I would lean towards Lisbon’s choices.” 

“I’d have thought you would suspect Volker.” 

“He certainly has the resources,” Jane admits. “But Volker wouldn’t waste time with Ardiles—or even your family.” 

“He would come straight for Lisbon,” Grace finishes, and Jane nods shortly. He doesn’t tell her that Volker is someone that he keeps tabs on. Even from Venezuela, he’d had eyes on the man. He’s almost certain that he would’ve seen this coming if it had been instigated by Volker, even from within prison.

Grace pauses for a long moment, clearly working up some courage. “Speaking of Lisbon… how’s that going?” 

He just looks at her, but she’s not telegraphing concern or interest. No, the little furrow between her brows, the set of her mouth… Grace is displaying very clear signs of guilt. 

He leans in. “What aren’t you telling me, Grace?” 

Grace sighs. “When Lisbon came up to pack up her house, I—I was angry. With you. I said something to her.” 

“Tell me.” 

Grace shifts, uncomfortable. “Listen, you weren’t—you came back, and all that was left was your own murder charges. But we were in a lot of trouble when you left. It was bad, Jane. It didn’t feel fair that you could just come back. I told her to remember what it was like, back then. I thought I wanted to… I don’t know. I guess, dissuade her from moving too quickly. But I see now that I was speaking out of anger with you, not her best interest.” 

Jane takes a deep breath in and out. His heart is beating fast, but when his eyes find Lisbon in the Fish Bowl, bent over some papers, he is able to exhale some of that tension. She’s right there. She’ll always be right there, if he has anything to say about it. 

“What’s between Lisbon and me, Van Pelt, is none of your business.” Grace winces at the sound of her former last name, but she doesn’t interject. “I’m only going to say this once. You’re my friend. One of the few friends I have in the world. But Lisbon is… she’s everything. Do not come between us again.” 

Grace presses her lips together at the threat, but she nods. “I won’t. I hope you two work it out, Jane. I really do. I’m rooting for you.”

If it had been anyone but the team setting his and Lisbon’s relationship back, he’d be plotting revenge. And, well, he is a little. Grace will get hers in a nonviolent and hilarious way after all of this is over. But for now, he has more important concerns. 

“What do you mean, ‘it was bad?’” He asks, eyes searching Grace’s face and posture for answers that she probably won’t give him voluntarily. “The four of you were cleared.” 

Grace shrugs. “I don’t know how much I can tell you.” Lie. “All I know is that a few weeks in, where we thought we’d be arrested any moment,  Cho was sent to Quantico with Abbott’s letter of recommendation. We were let go with full severance benefits and more, enough to start our business. Lisbon… she was the only one sent away in disgrace. And you know what she’d do for us. For you, too. But she wouldn’t talk to us.”  She sighs. “I know this is a really bad time for us, but she still looks… brighter. More alive. If I were her, I’d be afraid of losing that too.” 

Grace speaks the truth. Jane does know what Lisbon would do in that situation. And it’s looking more and more like there are only two people who can give him answers. The first one is Lisbon herself. However, Jane’s tried that, and Lisbon won’t talk to him. 

Well. Dennis Abbott it is. 

After he catches the man who is after the only people who Jane cares about in the whole world.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jane wants to do when he gets the call is find Lisbon. 

Grace is missing. He should’ve seen this coming, should’ve protected her better. He’s better than this. 

Maybe it’s time to face the fact that the island made him lose his edge. 

He knows they aren’t going to find anything in this hotel room. He knows that Haibach, or likely, his accomplice, prepared enough to forestall that possibility. But Rigsby’s eyes are red-rimmed, his skin pale like death, and Jane can’t leave him. He can’t let Rigsby lose his composure, has to keep him focused on the facts. The team needs to be as sharp as possible. Grace’s life is on the line. 

Jane’s hands twitch at his sides as he reviews the room, just in case he’s wrong about the lack of evidence. There are five, small, capable fingers that should be in his grasp that are not. He needs her comfort with the desperation of a man drowning, needs her at his side, safe, with a desire that is all-encompassing. He’s weak without her, too consumed with worry and fear when she’s not within his eyesight. Now more than ever.

Rigsby sidles up to him, tense, with more color leeching from his complexion by the second. “Nothing,” he confirms. Jane barely resists the urge to reach out and touch him, to try to provide some modicum of comfort. “There’s nothing,” he repeats, less tense, but his shoulders are already slumping in something much worse than anger.  

Jane exhales. While he longs for Lisbon, he’s been thinking, mind spinning out with plan after plan, moving everything he knows about Haibach to the Big Top in his memory palace, reviewing each interaction like it is its own act with thousands of spectators. Nothing can be missed. They’re going off-book for this one, that much is certain. Maybe, before yesterday, he would have trusted Abbott enough to let him in on it. But now, he knows that Abbott has hurt his people before in ways unknown, and Grace is far too precious to waste on an uncertainty. “I will do anything to bring her back to us, safe and unharmed,” he swears, low, ensuring no FBI tech or agent is listening in. “Do you understand me?”

Though not as well as Jane, Rigsby does know something of revenge. “Cho and Lisbon-”

“-would do anything for Grace,” Jane assures him. “And I promised Lisbon not to leave her out anymore. We’ll work together.” He gives into his need to comfort and pats Rigsby’s shoulder before guiding him outside. He notices something spark in Rigsby at his last words, notices his eyes dart to Jane’s empty left hand and his mouth widen into an ‘o’, but truths about Lisbon and his relationship will have to wait. 

He thinks back to the bar, to Rigsby’s comment about how Grace and he had always thought something would happen between him and Lisbon. Jane had gently deflected, successfully diverting Rigsby’s attention. Not Cho’s, who he knows has been keeping an eye on things. Cho hates to get involved, but he can’t help but be protective of Lisbon. The two of them have a friendship that Jane doesn’t always understand; if it were anyone but Cho, he might have a jealous thought or two. But it is Cho, Lisbon’s right hand man, Jane’s own good friend, and Jane could not bear him ill will if he tried. 

“Remember when you bought her a pony?” Cho had said, a faint smirk on his face. 

Of course Jane remembers. When it comes to Lisbon, he remembers it all. 

Which is why it’s so goddamn frustrating that there’s something he doesn’t know. 

When they arrive back at the FBI, Lisbon is pacing outside the main entrance. After Rigsby exits the car, Lisbon makes for him immediately, reaching up and placing both hands on his shoulders. “We’ll get her back,” she swears. Then, her eyes widen as Rigsby gathers her in his arms for a short, rough hug. She meets Jane’s eyes over Rigsby’s shoulder, and the confidence fades from her posture, an honesty and openness only available to him. He covets every little truth. He can read every worry crossing her mind at this moment, and he can’t help but to reach out to her. His hand extends toward the one she has loosely curved around Rigsby’s back, tangling their fingers together. At her touch, something terribly taut in his body loosens. He has Lisbon within reach. They can do anything. 

Haibach has no shot against them. 

“He’s here,” Lisbon says, her deceptive strength holding Rigsby in place when he lurches for the doors behind her. Rigsby can’t be let anywhere near Haibach. “No, Jane and I will do the interrogation. We’ll crack him.” 

“Like an egg,” Jane confirms, though he’s uncertain. Haibach was tortured because of him, and he’s been plotting revenge for years. They’ll get something off him, but he likely won’t break. Jane will have to seize any small opportunity for information. Luckily, that’s what he’s best at. 

As predicted, Haibach sticks to his story in the interrogation. Whiny and annoying and not smart enough to cause them this much trouble damn it, and he knows it. In his own way, he’s gloating. Jane can see it, Lisbon can see it, and Haibach knows they can both see it. As the rest of them pull at any discernible loose threads, Jane settles onto his couch to think. 

Half an hour later, he has an idea. 

His eyes dart up to Lisbon, who is speaking to Kim across the room. She senses his gaze on her and meets his stare. After a few moments, electricity crackling between them, she strides toward him. 

“Sit with me,” he says when she pauses half a foot away, and she acquiesces without hesitation. He opens up his arm, laying it on the back of the couch, and she settles back. A half-embrace, but at least he can feel the back of her shoulders burning into his elbow. Every touch, even through several layers of clothing, is still a revelation. The string linking their hearts, relaxed and thrumming. 

“What if she’s dead?” Lisbon says quietly, the fear she had written about in her letter now written across her face. He can’t bear it. Lisbon should never have to be afraid. She should only ever be blissfully happy. 

“She’s not,” he promises. He can’t know it for sure, but Haibach is not one to let his revenge pass so quickly. It will make him sloppy. Jane breathes deeply, pressing a dark curl from Lisbon’s face before leaning in and whispering three short words in her ear. Lisbon pulls back, eyes wide. “You got that?” He adds, a smile crooking at his lips. 

Lisbon stands, no smile to be found on her own face. Instead, she looks pissed. “You’re crazy, you know that?” She shouts, cheeks turning pink, louder than anyone at the FBI has probably ever heard from her. “You don’t care who gets hurt, you just have crazy plan after crazy plan, and I’m sick of it!” Even Haibach is staring from the interrogation room. 

Jane stands, brushing his hands down his suit pants in a casual motion, before he leans into her personal space. “C’mon, Teresa. You like it best when I’m a little crazy, but you’re afraid to admit it to yourself.” 

Lisbon shoves him hard in the chest, sending him sprawling back onto the couch. Despite everything, his mind can’t help but jump to other things. He looks up at her like she’s a goddess ready for his worship, eyes dark and hooded. “Our friend is dead, and you won’t face it,” she brings her hand up, rubbing at her eyes, and he sobers at her obvious upset. “I’m taking Cho. Maybe we missed something in the hotel room. Don’t call me.” 

She spins away, speaking briefly with Cho and Rigsby before she takes the former with her out of the bullpen. Seconds later, Rigsby is at his side. “Whatever it takes, man,” he says. 

Jane gets to his feet, ignoring the curious and pitying looking from everyone else. 

Seconds later, he is in Haibach’s face, enjoying the vitriol that he gets to pour over the man who took one of the very few people in his life that Jane could call family.

—

Be safe. Come home. 

Jane finds the note in his pocket as they’re driving up to the cabin, and despite the seriousness of the situation, his heart nearly bursts.

—

Lisbon’s heart is in her throat as the chopper lowers to the ground. 

“They’re okay, Lisbon,” Abbott soothes, uncharacteristic of him, but then again, she’s pretty much hyperventilating at this point. “I see them standing outside. Everyone looks conscious and able to stand on their own.” 

Lisbon can barely hear him, barely feel anything but Cho’s hand pressing down over her thigh, as if to ground her to the seat. 

Cho’s hand stays until the chopper is on the ground, and Lisbon doesn’t listen to Abbott when he commands her to wait. She’s the first out of the helicopter. The cold snow immediately soaks through her shoes, but she doesn’t care. Jane is standing there, speaking softly with LaRoche. 

She sprints forward, and seconds later, he’s caught her in his arms. 

“You’re okay,” she says into his jacket, enjoying the way his large hands slide up and down her back. She winds her hands tighter around his shoulders, and with ease, he lifts her into him, raising her onto her tip-toes. When he exhales, she sinks deeper into him, desperately pressing every inch of herself to his body, blotting out every iota of space between them. 

For a few precious moments, she doesn’t spare a single thought for the chaos around them. 

“And so is everyone else,” he replies, answering her next question, one arm tight around her waist to hold her weight, the other now gently petting her hair. The slow strokes lower her heart rate bit by bit, as she’s sure is his intention. Her face, unseen, floods with redness. She’s never been the type for emotional, public embraces, but her mind had gone blank at the sight of him, alive and well, and the relief had been too hard to contain. And, in for a penny…  “It went exactly how we planned.” 

“It was a good idea,” she affirms, barely audible into his suit jacket. She spares a thought for the three words he whispered in her ear. 

Hares. Tupperware. Banana. 

The complex series of codes that Jane had drilled into her and Cho’s heads all those months ago had paid off. The animals describe a specific set of groups of their various teams, along with whether they were to play a role. 

Hares: Cho and Lisbon, Jane and Rigsby and Van Pelt. No FBI. Public fight. 

Tupperware: LaRoche.

Banana: Meaning, the unexpected person will be the critical piece. After Jane had slipped a tracker into her pocket, in a way obvious to her but not to the room, she had known what to do. She’s run enough cons with Jane to know, with a few hints, exactly what he’s thinking. 

She called LaRoche into action immediately after her pretend-fight with Jane, Cho at her elbow. Then, after Jane and Rigsby had left, they had played their roles as FBI agents, Lisbon sending LaRoche regular coordinate updates based on the tracker, until it was time to track Jane down. 

“I saw Haibach’s sister at the window, readying to shoot,” LaRoche says from beside them, somehow completely unphased by their embrace. “Once I took her down, Rigsby handled Haibach, and everything went smoothly from there.” 

Lisbon tries to pull away, but Jane’s arms are wound far too tightly around her waist. Jane ducks down, his breath tickling her ear, and she shivers. “LaRoche knows the score,” he murmurs, nose brushing her hairline. “He won’t say anything about your or Cho’s involvement to Abbott.”

“I don’t think Abbott would react badly-” 

“No,” Jane interrupts, harsh suddenly. Lisbon winces, and immediately, his thumbs brush soothingly over her low back. An apology.  “No Abbott,” he says more calmly, but no less certain.

“No Abbott what?” Abbott says, walking up to them with Kim at his side. Cho is checking on Grace and Rigsby, and the two other agents who had come with them are reading Haibach and his sister their rights. Jane’s arms finally loosen around her, but before Lisbon can move away, he simply shifts her so that she’s pressed against his side. 

“Jane-” She tries to scold him, though she is not immune to his closeness, her body naturally leaning against his.

“You’re cold,” he cuts her off immediately, and Lisbon sighs. She is cold. “If it’s all the same to you, Dennis” he adds, “we’ll debrief later. I’m sure everyone wants to get out of this snow, and we need to drive Van Pelt to a hospital.” 

Abbott raises an eyebrow, but he nods. “Agent LaRoche, will you come by in the morning to give us your statement?” 

“I wouldn’t miss it,” LaRoche says evenly, and Lisbon feels a burst of affection for the man. She really should’ve kept in touch with him. 

“We’ll see you back at the FBI,” Jane says, before he guides the five ex-CBI agents toward the car they had driven up in. He tosses LaRoche the keys and tells the other three to pile in the back. Then, he seats himself shotgun. 

Lisbon stands outside the car. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but she’s not going to-

“It’s me or Cho,” Jane says, glee and triumph bleeding through his tone in a way that makes the rational part of her bristle but the emotional pit deep in her stomach ache with anticipation. 

“It’s Jane, Boss,” Cho clarifies helpfully. 

With a sigh, Lisbon complies, sliding onto Jane’s lap. He wraps a securing arm around her waist. No one mentions the fact that Rigsby and Van Pelt, as a married couple, would’ve been the obvious choice. Not even, despite her obvious reticence, Lisbon. 

After twenty minutes, Lisbon has fully relaxed into Jane. After an hour, she’s half-asleep, along with Rigsby and Van Pelt, who are leaning against each other. 

Jane brushes a gentle kiss across Lisbon’s brow when she turns her head into his chest. Among friends and family, she says nothing about his overt gestures of affection. If she can’t trust these people, she can trust no one.

“You’re a lucky man, Patrick Jane,” she hears LaRoche say. 

She’s asleep before she hears Jane’s response. 

—

I’ll always come home to you. 

Lisbon blinks back tears when she finds a response note in her pocket in the hospital bathroom. 

It’s time, she thinks, conscious now, after they nearly lost Grace, at the cost of waiting. 

Jane deserves the truth.

—

Abbott looks up with a smile as his wayward consultant slips into his office. That smile fades into a frown when he gets a good look at the man before him. 

Jane has kept it light since they struck their deal those weeks ago. Abbott has, very deliberately, not given him a reason to act out in the way of which Patrick Jane is surely capable. In that room with Jane, he had seen the writing on the wall. Don’t mess with Teresa Lisbon, and his cases get closed. 

But the Jane entering his office now is not the same one that grinned at him knowingly over Lisbon’s shoulder, and certainly not the same one who placed Voltron on his desk. This is the Jane he met across the negotiation table, cold and calculating through the guise of a blinding smile, and perfectly capable of arranging the rest of them to his pleasure. 

The rest of them, save one. 

Lisbon is the line. 

Don’t cross the line. 

“What can I do for you, Patrick?” Abbott greets, leaning forward as Jane shuts the door, a perfect eyebrow raised in question. He knows how to play this game too. Not half bad, if he’s honest. But the man approaching his desk is quite the opponent. 

Jane sits. Or, more accurately, he drapes himself over the arm of the left chair, arm braced over the back of it, the same way he does when Lisbon sits in said chair. It’s meant to evoke a certain image. It does. Jane reads his posture in an instant, smirking. “You must have some idea,” he says airily, but there’s no question of the danger in his tone. 

It’s strange. Abbott is frequently the most powerful man in the room. If Jane dove at him, Abbott could take him down in an instant. But Jane’s power lies not in his physical presence, but in his mind. Abbott has no concerns about what will happen in this room, but after? When Jane is loose on the FBI, seriously displeased? There’s reason to fear him, and Abbott is a reasonable man. 

He decides to pivot. “Are Van Pelt and Rigsby on their way home?” 

Jane freezes, but allows him the diversion. “Van Pelt was released from the hospital this morning,” he says. “Lisbon and Cho offered to take them to the airport.”

“But not you?” 

“No, not me. I wanted to talk to you.” 

“Talk, then.” 

Jane leans further across the chair, tilting his head to the side. “A few weeks ago, you asked Lisbon into your office.” Abbott just blinks. He knows to which conversation Jane is referring, and Jane knows that he knows, but he won’t jump to any conclusions. “You know, when you spied on us for a few minutes, then asked to speak with her?”

Abbott doesn’t look away, but he can’t help the faint darkening of his cheeks. He remembers that moment all too well. Lisbon’s lips on Jane’s cheek. Jane’s sigh of pleasure at Lisbon’s recitation of his given name. It had been too intimate for words. 

“That was a private conversation.” 

“You promised her something, then.” Abbott’s eyes widen, and Jane rolls his. “She relaxed after. At first, I thought it was something about her place here. But then, you made that clear after this case, and you wouldn’t have needed to if you had then. Then Van Pelt…” His tone turns from conversational to hard within a heartbeat. “I’m missing something. Something about Lisbon. And I am certain that you’re one of the people who knows. That conversation… you were promising her not to tell me about it.” 

“How could you possibly–”

“Lesson number one, Dennis, when dealing with a fake psychic,” Jane interrupts, smirking coldly. “Never tell him his guesswork is correct.” 

Abbott considers several approaches. He decides to go with honesty. “I gave Agent Lisbon my word,” he says finally. “If you want answers, then you’ll have to ask her.” 

Jane leans forward. “So there are answers to want,” he confirms, hungry. 

Abbott pauses. Then nods. 

Jane unwinds. “Thank you, Abbott.” He stands, making for the door. 

“Jane - wait.” Jane pauses, but he doesn’t turn around. “When she tells you… remember that there was a job to do. And I did what I had to do.” 

Jane leaves without a true response, but Abbott is reasonably sure he hears a whisper of “No promises” before his consultant has disappeared. 

Abbott leans back in his chair with a sigh. Either Jane will return with Lisbon on his arm, or he’ll return and burn Abbott’s career to the ground. 

“C’mon, Teresa,” he whispers to himself, before he continues with his business. 

No use dwelling on it. It’s now out of his control. 

—

I’m coming over. 

—

He waits for her on her couch. 

It’s a comfortable couch. He should know; he picked it out himself after she permitted him to decorate her new home. Not as good as his couch at the FBI, but a nice, leather number. They have years to break it in, to make it worn and creased and perfect. 

It will be their couch. Soon. Tonight, if all goes as planned. 

His hands move restlessly over the soft, cashmere blanket that hangs over the arm of the couch. His posture is imperfect, when there is no one here to see. He itches to make a plan, to lay a trap, to ensure his success. Complete the steps of the strategy he had laid out when he had seen her in that FBI conference room, held her in his arms and swore that he would find himself back in her embrace soon if it killed him.  When he starts to seriously contemplate the possibility, he takes out her note, opening it with care to avoid crinkling it further. It had taken a beating during the Haibach ordeal. 

Be safe. Come home. 

What, he wonders, would he have done if he had gotten a note like this on the island? If Lisbon had, for once, decided not to shoulder every burden, to suffer alone, to deal with whatever pain the FBI had doled out to her? What would he have done if she had asked for what she wanted, instead of resigning herself to the kind of life that was so easy for her to leave behind in only two days? 

He’s no stranger to Lisbon’s independence. It had served him, even, back when he had to put catching his wife and child’s killer above all else. Teresa Lisbon, always strong. Kind to everyone and hard on herself. Dependable but unwilling to depend. Taking in a man who had nothing only to turn around and give him everything. 

He would’ve come home. It’s the only answer. Even now, he is one word from her away from sealing the two of them together forever. But not until he reteaches her one last trick from the very beginning of his love for her, before her trust in him had eroded. 

How to fall, knowing he will catch her. How to unwind, knowing he will treasure and shield every unspooled truth. How to speak, to tell him everything from the beginning, knowing that he will still love her in the end. 

And Patrick Jane, the conman to end all conmen, knows that his tricks and gags will only teach her the opposite. 

So when Lisbon comes through the door, calling his name as she drops her bag on the entrance table and takes her jacket off, tossing it onto the back of a bar seat, she is met with a man unguarded.

“What’s wrong?” She says, immediately, taking a seat at his side. “What happened?” 

He avoids her gaze for a moment, afraid that she will find recrimination in his eyes when that’s not really his intention. He’s upset she’s lied to him, sure, but he doesn’t want to put her on the defensive. Instead, he reaches out, taking her hands in his. 

“Tell me about your life in Washington,” he says, still looking at her hands. 

Lisbon is unconvinced. “Jane? What’s this about, huh?” She dips her head, attempting to meet his eyes. 

He keeps his eyes down. “It was a boring life, hm? No big busts in the small town of Cannon River?” 

“Patrick.”  

As he is sure she intended, his eyes snap immediately to hers. “You took the fall for the team.” The words come out in a rush, but he takes care to leave them devoid of accusation. “When the CBI was dismantled.” 

She pauses, then nods. “I did,” she confirms.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“You can’t even say his name,” she points out, gentle, as if he’s a sleeping lion. And maybe he is. “I thought I was respecting your wishes not to talk about that time.” 

Red John. The name still sends shivers down his spine. Always will. But he hadn’t thought that he was still weighing on Lisbon. “I just didn’t know we needed to talk about it,” he says, and he’s telling the truth. He would kill a man for Lisbon. Already has. A conversation about… that… is doable. “Clearly, we do.” 

She shakes her head, and despite his best intentions, he can’t help the flicker of a smile that crosses his face. His Lisbon is strong. Stubborn. What other kind of woman could love a man like him? “No. I won’t put you through that.” 

He gives in. It’s not like he particularly wants to talk about what happened that day either. “Fine. At least tell me what Abbott asked of you in return.” 

A silence. She pauses, even longer this time. “It’s over,” she says finally. “Any deal has been done for a long time now—long before you came back. Why does it matter to you?”

What does it matter? She can’t be serious. “It matters because something is holding you back, Teresa. From us. And this period of your life is the only thing that remains in the dark.” He sighs. “I told you I love you. I gave you my ring.” 

“You did,” she says, quiet and trembling. 

“Unless you have complaints?” 

She looks at him with watery eyes. “Jane-” she begins, her voice nearly inaudible. 

“Why are you holding back?” 

“I don’t want to hurt you!” The words burst from her lips, and tears track down her cheeks in earnest. 

He cups her face in his hands. “You will probably hurt me,” he admits. “But my imagination is very active, Lisbon. Believe me: it’s far more of a torment to imagine the kinds of things that could have happened to you.” 

She pulls away, but takes his hands again. “Do you know…. Can you even comprehend how hard it was for me?” She says, looking away. 

“No,” Jane says, “because you’re keeping it from me.” 

“Everyone moved on. Everyone found peace. But I couldn’t.”

“Tell me,” he says, half-desperate, half-command.

She sighs, and he knows with a sudden, painful anticipation that he has won. “We made a deal.” 

—

Eleven months ago

It’s been a while since Lisbon has awoken in a hospital room. When she does, there’s a moment of disorientation. She half-expects Jane at her bedside, a hand trembling against her hair. His wedding ring gleaming as he looks at her with the kind of agonizing affection and primal fear that you can’t fake. Not even Patrick Jane. 

She wants it, nearly more than she wants to live. 

Instead, a smiling doctor and an unsmiling Dennis Abbott greet her. 

“You’re quite lucky, Chief Lisbon,” the doctor says, almost conspiratorially. Lisbon sighs; she hates when doctors are overly friendly. “One of your broken ribs punctured a lung. It was touch and go for a while. We tried your emergency contact, but the number was not in service. You should fix that!” The doctor winks. “Luckily, Agent Abbott found out you had been admitted and let us know about your circumstances.” 

Lisbon has no idea what the FBI told the hospital, so she just nods.

“We’re keeping you for a few days to recover, and then it will be recovery at home. The bruises should clear up in a jiffy. The stab wound and the ribs will take longer. Do you have someone to take care of you?”

“I do,” she says. She doesn’t. 

“Great!” The doctor chirps. “Well, I’ll leave you two to debrief. That’s what it’s called, right? So fun!” 

She disappears, and Lisbon sighs. 

“I know,” Abbott says, and they share a brief moment of camaraderie before it slips away. “How are you feeling?”

She ignores the meaningless platitude. “McRoberts?” 

“In custody,” he confirms. “Everything we heard over the wire is more than enough to keep him.” 

“Good,” she says, but she’s unsure what to say beyond that.

Abbott allows a few beats of silence. Does he expect more from her? Maybe he would be open to a lecture about his incompetent backup team. Maybe he will say something about their response time, the longest minutes of her life, her prayers for help, for peace, for a certain someone to somehow show up and save her, going unanswered. 

“Will you call Jane?” Abbott asks instead, and she wants to break his nose. 

“You would love that, wouldn’t you? To get your hands on him?” She doesn’t tell him that she has no real way to contact Jane. That he hadn’t left her with one. It’s a fact that hurts her a little more every day. At this point, it aches like the aftermath of a stab wound. She would know. At the moment, she is fully able to compare the two.“That wasn’t part of our deal.” 

“Our deal is done.” 

“What?”

“You fulfilled your part,” Abbott explains. “You took the fall in exchange for pardons for your team. You have helped us catch several Blake Association members, and in your capacity as a consultant, you were injured.” 

It’s a rote, mechanical explanation. Lisbon narrows her eyes. “McRoberts has given you names,” she deduces.

If Abbott is surprised at her insight, he hides it well. Then, his jaw ticks. Not well enough, she thinks with satisfaction, for someone who was Patrick Jane’s partner for a decade. “Quite a few,” he admits. “My superiors believe it's over.” 

Lisbon doesn’t protest, but she doubts him. The Blake Association is insidious, powerful even without its head. She’ll be watching her back for the rest of her life. “So you have no more need for me.”

“You can go back to your life.” Abbott confirms. She thinks he’s at least a little embarrassed at being called out for valuing the capture of criminals over the safety of a disgraced ex-agent that he believes is a bad cop. She wonders if her work on these cases, as successful as she’s been while maintaining her job and life in Cannon River, has changed his perspective at all. 

“You can leave, then.” Her dismissal is cold. It has to be, with the way she’s forcefully suppressing anything else. 

“Do you think he realizes what you’ve done for him?” Abbott asks. Lisbon wonders if he means to be cruel but then figures it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t reply. 

Jane cares about her. She can tell from his letters. She has to believe it, because her friendship with Jane—terrifyingly—is the most meaningful relationship she’s ever had. So what if he left her here alone to deal with the fallout of Red John? He couldn’t have stayed. She’d rather never see him again than only see him behind bars. She hopes he’s happy somewhere. Healing. It’s all worth it, if he’s safe and happy. 

She says nothing, but Abbott reads the answer in her face. 

A shadow passes over Abbott’s face. Something regretful. Something furious, probably for his team, who had let her down in an unacceptable way. It’s enough for her to wonder if there’s an alternate universe where they were on the same side, where they could be friends. “I’m sorry about this, Chief Lisbon,” he says. “Truly.” 

“I understand, Sir,” she replies. 

“The FBI will take care of everything with your job and your leave. I can’t recommend you for a commendation, but I would if I could.” 

“I understand,” she repeats, a little more numb. 

“Goodbye, Lisbon,” he says, and then he is gone.

Lisbon waits to be certain before succumbing to tears.

—

She tells Jane the story carefully, as factual and even as possible, but she can’t help but remember that feeling. Being left, used and discarded, with nothing but an empty life. The reason she wants to cling so hard to this comfortable and safe status quo in which they’ve found themselves. She knows, now, finally, that he will understand. It gives her a sense of relief, actually. 

When she’s done with her explanation, ending by briefly saying that Abbott had fired the agents who let her get hurt, she finally looks up. 

What she sees shocks her. 

Jane is pale, so pale that he looks nearly ill. His eyes are red, as if he has rubbed them more than once, and anything but dry. His hand in hers is still, likely to keep her from stopping out of worry, but his free hand is clenched into a fist. 

“Allow me to summarize,” he says, the anger in his voice palpable. Lisbon gestures for him to continue. “You left the CBI in disgrace after helping to facilitate the capture of the most prolific serial killer in our lifetimes, perhaps in American history.” She says nothing, but she knows he reads her agreement in her eyes. “You did this because Abbott”—he sneers at the name, and Lisbon winces—“promised that the team, sans me, would be taken care of and have no charges brought against them.” 

“And he delivered-” she tries to say.

“Please don’t interrupt me,” he says quietly, but the demand in his voice is clear. She nods. She can give him this.  

“Then, he asked for your help with Blake. He asked, but gave you no real protection despite the certainty that these people would know you were after them.” Again, Lisbon says nothing. She doesn’t need to. “Then, on top of everything, after everything you’ve done, he used you for bait, picked an inept team as backup, and you were hurt.” 

“Jane-”

“No, I’m sorry, not just hurt. You nearly died.” 

She’s not sure how he surmised that from her story, then realizes, as his eyes scan her face, that he didn’t. He is guessing, and within seconds, he knows he has guessed correctly. “You nearly died,” he repeats, and his hand shakes within hers. No, she realizes, zooming out to assess him wholly. His entire body is shaking. 

“I would’ve done anything to help shut down Blake, Patrick,” she says. Her voice sounds shrill to her own ears. Desperate. Willing him to understand. “You know that.” 

“And you knew that I would’ve never wanted that for you!” He says, loud and furious. 

“You weren’t here!” She says, her own voice rising in volume to match his. “You weren’t here, and you know me. You know I would never step aside and let the people that supported him get away.” 

“You had no resources, no protection, no friends, and Abbott took advantage-” 

“I knew what I was walking into-”

She stops talking as he deflates in front of her, and she helplessly reaches forward to cup his cheek in her hand. Suddenly, the room is so silent that she can hear the AC kick on, hear the faint noise of cars driving down the street even through the closed windows. “Why would you do it, Teresa?” He murmurs, leaning into her touch. “Why would you do it, knowing how I feel about you?” 

Because I wasn’t sure, she wants to scream, not after you left me behind. “Because someone had to,” she says instead, “and I was the best equipped. Abbott knew that, I knew that, and deep down, you know that too. So why are you so angry?”

“Because you kept it from me,” he says immediately, eyes locked on hers. 

“I did that so you wouldn’t blame yourself.”

He pauses, then he sinks deeper into the couch, bringing her with him. She’s reminded of the two of them, on his cot in the detention suite, conspiring against the FBI. She wonders if he’s about to tilt her world on its axis once more. With one hand, he holds hers to his face. The other passes over his eyes: a gesture of exhaustion. “Of course. Because you’ll always save me, is that it?”

She scrapes her fingers through his stubble to gentle her response. “If I can,” she admits. 

“Why, Teresa?” 

She stays silent, and he sighs. 

“No, you’re right. You don’t owe me an explanation. You owe me nothing, and I… I owe you everything.” 

“That’s not true,” she protests. 

“It is. I told you that I’d always be there to save you,” he says quietly. “I’m a liar.” 

She can’t help but smile. “So, nothing new, huh?” 

But he won’t let her pivot. Everything makes sense, now that he knows the truth. She had been through hell, alone, and his offer of love and trust had been hollow while he was unaware of the truth. She’s handed him the axe to cut down the wall separating them, and there’s no question that he will use it. The only question is how. 

“But you didn’t like Washington,” he says, and she starts in surprise. This is not the segue she had anticipated. 

For that reason, her smile drops. “This again?”

“You like it better here, with me,” he pushes. 

He’s relentless. She both loves and hates him for it. “It’s complicated.” He waits. “You don’t understand. There were parts of my life I enjoyed up there.” 

“If you prefer Washington, the quiet life… We can go back,” he says quietly.

She shakes her head. “No, we can’t. You’re basically an indentured servant, and I sold my house…”

“That’s not entirely true.” 

Her fingers stop their movements. She ignores his quiet noise of displeasure. “What?” She prompts, but her mind is putting the pieces together. Somehow, she already knows. 

“I’ve created loopholes in my deal with the FBI,” he tells her. No surprise there. “I’m sure you’ve guessed that well enough; you were part of those hypothetical conversations with Cho. And, well… you might have sold your house, but I bought it.” 

“... What?” She repeats. 

He sighs. “I didn’t want you to give everything up for me. I wanted you to have a way out.” 

“A way out… with you.” 

“Is that so bad?” His eyes are wet, and without her express permission, her thumb brushes down his cheek. “That I want to spend the rest of my life with you? There’s something you don’t understand too, Lisbon. My life was over. I was a husk of a man, a shell without a heart. But you… you refused to let me die. To be only a vehicle for revenge. From the moment we met, I wanted to be at your side. It was the only place that the world made sense. I’ve had a lot of time to think over the past few years. Saying those things,” he chokes, “bringing McAllister down on Angela and Charlotte. I will live with my arrogance for the rest of my life. But at least the hurting wasn’t conscious.” He fixes pleading eyes on her. “But the things I did to catch them… those things did damage to you. Your life. Your career. And I did them knowingly, even if some of the consequences were unforeseeable. Hurting you to accomplish my goals is perhaps the worst thing I’ve ever done.” 

The magnitude of his words is staggering. It’s so much that she barely registers his deliberate naming of Red John, but she does. “Jane-”

He wipes at his eyes, careful not to dislodge her hand. She brings it down to his neck, wrapping around his nape, dragging herself just a little closer. “Just—just wait. I would do anything to see you safe and happy and give you anything your heart desires. I demanded you as a condition of my return to keep you close. I bought your house in Washington so we could go there if you so wished. I got you a job with the FBI so that you could do what you loved. I confessed because I thought it might make you happy.” 

He breathes out, and she’s shocked how shaky he sounds. “But maybe that was all selfish. Part of it certainly was, of course. You make me happier than anything has in you know how long. Maybe it was more about me than you, how I can’t imagine life without you. But if my absence would bring you happiness… safety… I will do it, Teresa. I will go. Because the truth is you mean more to me than my own life.”

“Patrick…”

“But,” he says, bringing his own hand to her neck, mirroring her on the opposite side, “if I do make you happy, if I am a fraction of the balm on your soul that you are on mine… stay with me. Be mine—my partner. My wife. Whatever label your beautiful mind comes up with. Anything at all, if you would only keep me.” 

It’s all too much, too perfect, too much. She throws herself off the couch and to her feet, facing away from him. While she gathers her thoughts, she hears him stand himself.

“I can go,” he says, his heart breaking in his voice, and that’s it. She knows herself, knows that she will do almost anything to alleviate this man’s sadness. At the first sign that he is truly and deeply hurt by her actions, she will fling herself on the pyre.  

She spins, tugging him down to her eye-level. “You don’t have to promise me any more than yourself,” she says, her heart racing. “For the most brilliant man I’ve ever met, you can be such an idiot.” 

His eyes go wide, and the look on his face—oh God. It’s something she’s never seen before. Something new and strange and so beautiful that she wants to cry. “Teresa-”

“I love you,” she says, and nothing breaks. Nothing is ruined. It’s not like Greg or Woody or any other man that has taught her she’s not meant for love. One look at his shining eyes, at his open expression, readable to only her and free from pain, and she feels like she could fly. 

“Say it again,” he begs, swaying on his feet as she holds him up with her grip on his arms. The words are filled with untamed longing. Utter famine. She understands now. In this instant, she is everything he wants, that he needs, seconds away from being realized. 

“You can be such an idiot?” She teases, laughing, but she immediately folds like a misshapen house of cards. Partly because he’s fingering the hem of her shirt like he’s afraid to really touch her, and she wants to put any doubt of his claim on her to rest. “I love you,” she swears, laughter still in her voice. It’s not mocking; it’s a release.  

He leans down to kiss her, but she ducks away, still giggling like a little girl. It’s been so long. In fact, she doesn’t recognize the sounds coming out of her own mouth. 

She gets about three inches of rotation in her neck before he cups her chin in one hand, the other fisting in the hem of her shirt with the raw need to be closer. She’s allowed one more happy sound out before his mouth is gently pressed to hers. It’s soft and chaste. A first. A taste.

She slips away after a few moments, tugging her shirt out of his grasp. His moan of discontent quickly goes away when she reaches down to lift her shirt. 

In an instant, he is in front of her again. “Look at me,” he says, his voice low and dark with something that makes her squirm with a feeling that he has long elicited in her, but never satisfied. Her eyes snap to his, gleaming with anticipation. As commanding as he seems, the desperation and longing heavy in each word is far more palpable. He is a man hanging by a very, very thin thread. “Are you sure?”

She tilts her chin up, contemplating how best to assent. “Please,” she tries, and judging by the way his pupils swallow his irises in seconds, she has made the right choice. 

His hands press into her waist, trailing upwards, almost with a dragging motion, until he can feel the underwire of her bra through her shirt. She whimpers. “If you say please,” he breathes, “you should know; there is not much I can deny you.” 

“I want you,” Lisbon says, which is a far easier truth than ‘I love you.’ The agony of need spreads from her head to her toes. She senses him even in her spine, his touch so overpowering that every part of her body is begging. “Don’t deny me, Patrick.” She glances up at him through her lashes, milking the look with everything she’s got. “Please.” 

He swears under his breath, leaning in, when—

Ring! Ring! 

“Don’t you dare,” he orders, a real command this time, but it’s the ringtone for work, and suddenly, she remembers she’s just told Jane something that could very much affect that work. 

So, her mind whirling, she slips away and grabs the phone before he can say another word. “Lisbon,” she says firmly. Abbott’s voice immediately comes through the line.

“We’ve caught a case. Bring Jane. Team meeting in twenty.” 

“Yes, sir,” she says, not even up for questioning why Abbott knows Jane’s with her. Something had driven him over here to confront her. Abbott is a very likely contender for that something. 

“We have a case,” she throws over her shoulder, not looking back. If she looks at Jane, his mouth swollen from her kisses, she will never leave this house. She picks up her bag and puts on her shoes, still avoiding him. She can fix her hair and makeup in the car.  

“This conversation isn’t over,” he warns, rumbling from behind her. His hand whispers over her waist to steady her when she bends down to help her heel into her shoe, and why won’t he just reach for her in earnest, bend her over and press himself against her and convince her with his body to drop this case before it starts— 

“No it’s not,” she agrees, though the tremble in her voice surely betrays her. “Namely, we’re in a good place with Abbott…” 

Jane is silent, so she chances it once she has the door open, Mrs. Miller out of her lawn watering her garden. That will stop Jane. She turns to him. He is smiling, but there's a familiar hardness in his eyes that promises the approach of a storm. “Oh no, dearest, that is one thing you can’t ask of me.” 

Completely undeterred by the presence of Mrs. Miller, he reaches for her waist, tugging her into him. “At least don’t do anything without talking to me first,” she tries, smoothing her hands down his chest. She gets to smooth her hands down his chest. She can touch him as she pleases. Just the thought makes her want to smile again, despite her boss’ impending doom.

“Teresa, you were hurt,” he says coldly, but his tight grip on her betrays him. 

“It’s in the past,” she says, but there’s too much question in her tone to inspire confidence.

Jane clearly agrees. Abruptly, he releases her, dropping to his knees. In front of Mrs. Miller, he rucks up her shirt, searching. With a knowing sigh, she shimmies her jeans down just a bit, twisting her torso so he can see the small scar on her lower hip. She feels Jane’s forehead hit the spot, then his lips. His fingers dig into the skin over her lower back. After a moment, she runs her fingers through her hair and realizes he’s been holding his breath this entire time as he lets out a shuddering, distraught noise instead of an exhale.

“You were hurt,” he mouths against her hip, the words muffled, but audible.

Mrs. Miller has fully stopped pretending to water her hydrangeas. 

Okay, she’ll have to fold a little further. Stupid stab wound. “Don’t do anything that will cost him his job or seriously injure his reputation or personal life without talking to me first,” she amends, thinking over her own words to make sure she hasn’t left him any obvious loopholes. “Please, Jane?” She asks, adding just a smidge of the tone he seemed to like so much earlier. 

Jane presses little kisses to her hip as he thinks, and she can’t keep her hands out of his hair. Mrs. Miller has gone inside, probably to call Mrs. Gulch from down the street and get her opinion on her FBI agent neighbor’s new beau. Honestly, with the frequency Jane is over at her place, she wouldn’t be surprised if Mrs. Miller already thought them together. 

“Deal,” he says finally, before he climbs to his feet. Then, he smirks at her. “You’re going to use your wiles to make work a lot less fun, aren’t you?”

“You bet,” she replies brightly, before climbing into her car. He follows her, and she thinks she catches him wink at Mrs. Miller as she peers out her window. Figures. 

She’s driving them to work, his hand firm on her thigh, when it hits her. That new and strange and beautiful look. Something on Jane’s face that is both unfamiliar and completely known to her, because she feels it too, welling up in her gut until she feels like she’s about to spill over. With some distance, she can name it with ease.

She looks over at him, and to her absolute joy, she sees it again. Happiness. 

Patrick Jane is happy. 

— 

Wylie waves to them as they walk into the lobby. 

“Hey guys!” He exclaims, as cheerfully and oblivious as always. “I’ll be right up; just grabbing something out of my car. It’s an interesting one. The art squad is bringing us in. Abbott projects this will be a long case, but all hands are on deck until it’s over.”

Ignoring Jane’s audible and unmistakable groan of frustration, Lisbon smiles at Wylie. “We’re ready to go,” she says, though an undeniable large part of her is also thinking about her bed. Jane’s bed. Any bed, at this point. Are they too old for a wall?

“See you up there!” Wylie says, as they make for the elevator. 

“It’s just another case,” Lisbon says when he’s out of earshot. Jane’s posture is uncharacteristically rigid, and she’s a bit concerned. “Art stuff is rarely dangerous, even.” The elevator door opens with a ding, and they get on alone. “I can’t imagine why they need our-”

In a swift motion, he slams the emergency button. 

“Jane, what-”

“You love me,” he cuts off, eyes a little wild, like it’s all hit him at once. In the elevator. Maybe twenty feet from their colleagues. 

She softens. “I do.” 

“And we’re together now,” he prompts. 

“We are. If you just wait-”

But he doesn’t. He can’t. 

Jane makes a shattered noise, like a man being tortured, and slides an arm around her waist and a hand in her hair, manhandling her back against the wall. The handrail digs into her back, but she can’t muster up the strength to care.. He kisses her greedily, like he wants to consume her in this elevator, feet away from all of their colleagues. She’s helpless against the wave of him, sudden and devastating and powerful, only able to grip his suit jacket in return as he devours her. For months, she’s put this off, afraid of being eaten alive by his love and need for her. She’s seen it in his eyes, her demise. But she’s pushed him too far, and he’s broken in her arms, and she can’t deny him any longer. 

He breaks away, but his mouth is still against hers. They’re sharing air. When he breathes in, she breathes out. His presence is more essential than oxygen. “No more waiting—no more fair play,” he whispers into her mouth. “That’s over, Teresa. Yes?” 

Lisbon looks at him with wide eyes. “We have a case,” she breathlessly protests, eyes darting to the emergency button. They have seconds before maintenance asks them if something’s wrong.

He doesn’t play along. Instead, he hitches her leg up on his waist, long fingers gripping bruises into her pale skin beneath her pantsuit. Her head drops back a little, and he follows her, keeping them pressed together. “I don’t think you understand,” he says, rolling his hips into hers, low and arrogant as he watches his effect on her. “I. Don’t. Care.” 

Her head knocks hard against the wall, and she brings up a hand to cover the obscene moans that are coming out of her mouth. Jane is too fast, though. He removes his hand from her hair and wrenches her hand back against the wall. He pushes into her again, deliberate this time, and the whimpers that escape her mouth are now unmuffled. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue up her neck before his lips find her pulse point. He sucks at the skin for a minute, before his mouth trails down the chain of her necklace, his lips touching her cross and his ring and oh he’s going to be weird about that, isn’t he? “Let me hear you.” 

His voice is doing too much to her, so she has to shut him up. She tugs his mouth up to hers, kissing him messily, thoroughly, the same way she’s wanted to for years. He allows it, his tongue tangling with hers, his hand like a brand on her thigh, opening her up to him as much as possible. They’re both still fully clothed. 

It doesn’t matter. 

Several moments pass where there is nothing in her head but his mouth and his hands and his body holding hers up against the wall. Then, slowly, reality returns. She pushes him back gently, her heart thumping hard when his mouth automatically tries to find hers again before his mind catches up. Then, chest heaving, he lets her have some space. 

“I’ll give this case two days,” he says, gravelly and low, dark eyes fixed on her now-exposed necklace before darting up to meet hers. “Tops.” 

“We solve the case,” she counters, but she wonders how convincing she is, gripping the railing like she might fall without it.  He smirks as he fixes her hair and her blouse, brushing his thumb across his own mouth to scrub away her lipstick. “Who said anything about not solving the case?” He asks, winking as he restarts the elevator. 

“The case takes as long as it takes,” she argues, but she gentles her words with her own fixing. His shirt retucked. His curls rearranged. His jacket straightened. 

“The case takes as long as I want it to,” he tells her as the doors open. There’s the team, sans Wylie, waiting for them, along with two younger men that must be from the art squad. They look deep in conversation. With a bit of self-consciousness, Lisbon tucks her hair behind her ear. She hopes they can’t tell Jane and her were just making out like teenagers in the elevator. 

Jane clearly has no similar qualms. He rubs a proprietary hand down her back, out of view of the others, before he guides her forward into the bullpen. “Watch and learn, my love,” he says, a sly grin curling across his lips. 

“Rude!” She accuses, but it’s meant teasingly as she thumps him gently on the shoulder. Her playful recrimination causes his grin to widen as he confidently moves them deeper into the room. 

Lisbon takes a deep breath and prays for a smooth, easy, by-the-book case. 

But when has she ever gotten what she wants?

She looks up at Jane's profile, strong chin, mask in place, ready to get them through this case so they can go home and not return for at least a week. The man she loves, who loves her back. 

Okay, she thinks, feeling that new, already familiar burst of happiness. At least once.