A/N: This was once a one-shot, but I've decided to continue it. It takes place right after "Jolly Red Elf," and will continue in the Christmas timeframe. I know it is nice to contemplate that in the heat of August! Chapter 1 is the original one-shot I wrote back in December, with a few minor corrections, so chapter 2 begins the next phase of the story. You might want to go ahead and re-read this though to remind yourself what happened. And one other thing-this was written before we knew that Jane sometimes lives in motel rooms, but I'm keeping the apartment details I wrote; hope you don't mind. Call it poetic license. Anyway, it's nice to revisit this time before everything went to hell in the finale.

Episode Tag: Jolly Red Elf 3x10

Chapter 1: Red Nose

"I'm not very home," said the intoxicated Patrick Jane, "could you take me drunk?"

Teresa Lisbon had never seen Jane take more than a polite sip of champagne, or of any other alcoholic beverage ever offered him. So, seeing him now, drunk off his ass after putting himself through alcohol aversion therapy, was a totally new experience for her, and she witnessed his uncharacteristic lack of control with some amusement.

She helped him walk down the hall of the Wilder Alcohol Treatment Facility, allowing him to drape an arm around her shoulders so he could stay upright.

"You, know, Lisbon," he slurred into her left ear, "Shakespeare said drinking is a great provoker of three things."

"Oh really? Besides provoking annoyance in those who have to clean up the vomit the next morning?"

"You're funny. Anyone ever tell you you're funny? Well, I'm telling you now. Lisbon. You. Are. Funny." And he poked her shoulder after each word for emphasis.

She sighed, guiding him awkwardly out the clinic door and into the cool December night. He took a deep breath and stumbled a little, comically wide-eyed, and they both weaved to the right under his uncontrolled, heavy movements.

"Thank you, Jane," she grunted beneath his weight. "I find you to be pretty darn hilarious yourself right now."

He grinned, appreciating her sarcasm even while drunk.

"Anyway, what was I sayin'? Oh yeah, yeah—three things: a red nose, sleep, and urine."

"Nice. Is this your way of telling me you need to use the bathroom? Because there are nice bathrooms inside the clinic." Lisbon said, lips quirking.

"There you go again with that rapier wit of yours." He stopped abruptly, nearly causing them both to keel forward. "You know what, though, I would like to use the little boy's room, if you don't mind."

She sighed again and turned them back toward the door. Unfortunately, it had locked behind them, likely on some sort of timer, this being the middle of the night and all. Rigsby and Van Pelt were still inside gathering evidence, while Cho had taken their nurse suspect back to CBI Headquarters. Lisbon pounded on the door, but no one came. And she'd left her cell phone in the surveillance van.

"Go behind those bushes, Jane. You are not peeing in the car."

"Huh? Isn't that illegal? Exdescent inposure or something?"

"I'm not going to arrest you. I'll look the other way this time—literally. Now, go!" She disentangled his arm from her shoulders and gave him a little push toward the foliage. He stumbled again, this time falling to his hands and knees.

"Oopsie daisy!" He giggled a little and she ran to help him to his feet.

"Come on, you're not that drunk. How much could you have had?"

"I lost count after five shots. But I haven't had more than a mouthful of liquor at a time in eight years."

Well, gee, no wonder, thought Lisbon in understanding. Back on his feet, he wandered into the bushes and proceeded to do his business. She heard him struggling with his clothing, muttering to himself, then crying out, "Ouch!"

"What? Are you okay in there?"She moved hesitantly toward the bushes, not wanting to see anything she shouldn't, yet ready to help if he got into trouble.

"Cactus," he called. "Be careful of the cactus!"

She muffled her laughter with her hand. A few seconds later, and she heard him give a long moan of relief. She rolled her eyes and tapped her foot, wanting this day to be over for so many reasons. The death of Santa Claus did not get one in the holiday spirit.

Jane joined her a minute later, looking much…lighter.

"So, that takes care of the urine part of the drunken trinity," Lisbon said dryly. "Okay, let's get you home so you can sleep this off."

They had almost made it to the parking lot when they were waylaid by J.J. La Roche, the old pit-bull.

Against her better judgment, she let Jane stay and talk with the investigator. Jane's overconfident "I've got this" wasn't that reassuring, but she didn't want to be accused of obstructing an investigation, so she reluctantly left them. She realized as she stood waiting by the company SUV that maybe she should have stayed with him. Normally, Jane was the Fort Knox of secrets and hidden emotions, but from what she'd seen so far of drunk Jane, he just might feel relaxed enough to accidentally implicate himself somehow. So, she'd give them ten minutes, then she'd sneak back to see if he needed rescuing.

Five minutes later, La Roche passed by her with a cool nod on his way to his own car. Lisbon practically ran back to the picnic table where' she'd left him, wanting to yell at La Roche for leaving Jane alone in his condition.

He was slumped over on the table, head on his folded arms, out cold. She shook his shoulder.

"Jane! Wake up! You're too big for me to carry!"

"What? Oh. Lisbon. Sorry. I must have dozed off," he said groggily, looking up at her through bloodshot eyes.

Well, there's the sleep Shakespeare had suggested.

She helped him up again and they made it to the black SUV. He climbed slowly in through the passenger side, and she buckled him in when he had trouble finding the end of the seatbelt.

"What did La Roche say," she asked casually, pulling out into light traffic.

"He wanted to know what secret information Todd Johnson wanted to give me before he died. I could only offer him conjec—conjec—a good guess."

"Really," she replied, unconvinced. Jane had been hiding things from her lately, and she didn't know exactly what, but she had felt him pulling into himself for months now. She felt a little guilty for trying to take advantage of his loose-lipped inebriation, but she knew Jane wasn't above hypnotizing others to get to the truth; how was this much different?

"So, what did Johnson want? I won't tell La Roche, that's for sure; he seems like he's gunning for you. That man creeps me out a little."
"You too? He is sort of a ghoul, don't you think? There was nothing to tell, Lisbon. You saw the guy after the fire. Burnt to a crisp."

"Fine. If you don't want to trust me—"

"I don't. I mean, I do trust you, Lisbon. It's just, in this case, I don't have anything to entrust you with."

She didn't believe him for a minute, and she was surprised at the twinge of pain she felt that he was lying to her. It grew silent inside the darkened SUV as Lisbon stewed in her hurt feelings. Eventually, she heard Jane's deep breathing; he was out again.

At his apartment complex, Lisbon went around the vehicle to open his door. She shook him awake again.

"Are we there already?" He blinked several times in rapid succession. He was able to unbuckle himself and stepped out of the vehicle without falling, though his progress was infuriatingly slow.

She knew where he lived, of course, having picked him up or dropped him off after work on many occasions. She had never actually been inside, though. She knew he still held on to his other house, the one where his wife and child had been murdered, but she never questioned him about it. Knowing him, she was sure he kept it as some sort of penance, or a symbol for his need for revenge, along with the wedding band he still wore.

"Where are your keys, Jane?" She asked, stopping in front of the lower level apartment. He began checking all his pockets, starting with his suit coat, then his back pockets. He pulled them out of his right front pocket in triumph dangling them in front of her. He fumbled with them a minute until he found the right key, then tried in vain three times to fit it into the lock. Lisbon watched the performance with growing impatience.

"Here, let me," she said, taking the keys from his hand.

"I'm not incompetentated, Lisbon—"

"No, you're drunk. Manual dexterity is one of the first things to go."

"They teach that in cop school?"

"Yes. Drunken Consultants, 101."

He chuckled, then laughed and laughed, well out of proportion to her wry little quip. She opened his door and he leaned against the doorframe, laughing helplessly until tears were running down his cheeks.

"Ohhhh…Lisbon…you make me laugh,"he breathed, wiping his face with his hands.

"I can hear that. Come on inside before the rest of the block can hear it too." She propelled him forward into the apartment.

Jane's place was just as she'd imagined it—Spartan and functional. In the small living area, there was a beige couch, a lamp table with a beige lamp, and a small television on a stand by the window. No curtains, just beige window blinds that likely came with the place. There were no pictures or personal items anywhere. The streamlined kitchen had the basics—refrigerator, stove, sink, counter, cupboards. In the dish drainer by the sink was one cup, one saucer, one bowl and one spoon. A small wooden dining table just big enough for two, but with only one chair, sat in the breakfast nook.

"This is very…clean," she commented. "Would you like me to make you some tea?"

"No, I just want to go to bed. I'm awfully tired, and I'm suddenly feeling…a little… sick."One hand went to his stomach, the other to his head.

"Well, get to the bathroom before you throw up. You were lying to Wilder about not having eaten today, weren't you?"

"Yes," he said, covering his mouth and bolting for what she assumed was the facilities.

Wanting to escape the sickening sounds of his heaving in the bathroom, she wandered to the last room of Jane's home. His bedroom was just as simple as the rest of the apartment. A full-sized bed with no headboard, neatly made with a tan down comforter lay next to one wall. A bedside table held a small lamp and a stack of books. She looked more closely and saw they were all poetry books, specifically by William Blake. A desk overtook another wall, with a closed laptop computer, printer, and desk lamp. The closet door was open to reveal a neat row of suits, many of them encased in clear dry-cleaning bags.

The detective in her itched to snoop some more, to rifle through drawers and open cabinets for some clue as to what made Patrick Jane tick. She'd like to think there was more to him than his desire for revenge. Given his obsession with Red John, she'd half-expected to find his walls covered with newspaper clippings and crime scene photos, but there was nothing to indicate that he was anything more than a simple man living in a simple apartment. Lisbon knew better than that, but she respected his privacy so she restrained herself and went out of his bedroom to stand outside the bathroom door.

"Are you alright in there? How about that tea now?"

"No—no tea. Oh, God. I forgot what this feels like. Do you have your gun on you? Shoot me," he moaned. "Shoot me now."

She smiled, remembering that feeling well from her college days.

She heard the toilet flushing, water running, then the sound of him gargling and brushing his teeth. The door finally opened and Jane emerged, sobered up some but looking like death warmed over.

"Let me help you to bed," she said softly. He'd stopped finding things so amusing now and made no suggestive comment, as she'd expected he would the minute she'd opened her mouth. On the contrary, he was suddenly very quiet. He leaned on her in gratitude, and she lowered him to sit on the bed, then clicked on the bedside lamp. He toed off his shoes and began unbuttoning his vest and shirt with trembling fingers. Lisbon pulled back the comforter and fluffed his pillow before turning back to a half-naked Patrick Jane. Her eyes were drawn to his smooth, well-shaped chest, and she felt herself blushing in spite of herself.

"Come on Undercover Man, let's get you under these covers so you can sleep it off." She smiled gently at him, realizing just how much he must be suffering now in order to have nailed Nurse Bloom with murder.

Not bothering with removing his pants, he lay back with a sigh and slipped his legs beneath the sheets and comforter, then Lisbon pulled up the cover and tucked him in. She met his blue eyes, sparkling suddenly with humor.

"Thanks for taking care of me, Lisbon. This is really above and beyond…"

"Well, you really took one for the team, this time. Least I could do was make sure you didn't pass out on a street corner somewhere." She moved to take her leave, but he grabbed her hand to stop her. She started at the unfamiliar contact, and he smirked a little at her reaction.

He reached up with the other hand and took a lock of her silky hair between his fingers, then brought his glassy eyes to hers. Lisbon felt her heartbeat increase, and increase again when she realized he could likely feel her pulse beneath their clasped hands. She hoped he was too drunk to notice. But she couldn't move away with the way he was looking at her, his beautiful eyes so deep and soulful. He smiled at her, and the effect was complete.

"You'll make someone a good wife some day," he murmured, then pulled her down for a kiss.

What am I doing? Lisbon asked herself, on the verge of panic. He's drunk. He certainly doesn't know what he's doing right now.

But his lips were soft and she had wondered about their softness for so long, that curiosity blended with excitement, and she let him tease her with his mouth. He pulled a little more on her hand, and before she knew it, she was lying on top of him, the comforter between them. Their breathing increased and Jane's hands began to wander. Their mouths opened and their tongues touched, swallowing each other's moans of pleasure. Lisbon wasn't so far gone, however, to not notice the progress of his hand. He slowly lowered it from her hair, to her throat, following the line of her collarbone just above her scoop-necked t-shirt. His finger traced her crucifix reverently, then lightly moved lower to touch the fabric above her breasts, while Lisbon's own hands fulfilled her fantasy of running through those wild blonde curls of his.

At the same time that he deepened the kiss even more, his hand snuck inside her top to cup her left breast through her bra. It was like someone had turned on his lust switch, for he went from gentle to frantic in one quick leap, and Lisbon suddenly wasn't having fun anymore. This was too much, too fast, and she turned her face away from him before he could do something they would both regret.

"Jane," she breathed. "Stop!"

"Oh, Lisbon," he groaned into her neck, not seeming to hear her, "you're so warm, and you smell so good." His hand tightened around her breast and she struggled to disentangle from his hold without hurting him or herself. In the process, she reared up, but he pulled her down again, and her elbow slipped and landed squarely on his nose.

"Damn!" he exclaimed in surprise, his hands forgetting about Lisbon in the face of the pain she'd inflicted. "What was that for?"

"I'm sorry. It was an accident." She got up from the bed and made sure she was standing just out of his reach, panting and shivering in aftershock.

Fortunately, his nose wasn't bleeding, but it was obviously throbbing beneath his hands.

"I'll go get you some ice. And some aspirin," she said as an afterthought. She beat a hasty retreat, feeling frazzled and embarrassed by what she had let him do. His drinking explained why he'd succumbed, but for the life of her, she couldn't think of a logical explanation why she'd allowed it to happen. She was supposed to be the sober one, the friend that didn't let the friend drive drunk or do anything else stupid while intoxicated. Some friend she was.

Opening a drawer in the kitchen, she found a dish towel and filled it with ice from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, then twisted the top to make an ice pack. Moving to the bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of aspirin. Another trip to the kitchen for a glass of water, and she felt she'd calmed down enough to face what she had done. She took a deep breath, then made her way back to Jane's bedroom.

Jane was right where she'd left him, sitting up against the wall, but he was passed out completely, his snoring muffled by the hand still clutching his nose. She set down the items she'd brought and surveyed her sexy consultant. She smiled, reaching gingerly to remove his hand, then settling his head back down to the pillow so he wouldn't awaken with a crick in his neck. He was gorgeous, and this wasn't the first time she'd noticed. But now she knew how those full lips felt, how warm his hands were, how even through the covers between them she somehow knew how well they'd fit together. She shivered anew just thinking about it. They were friends, of course, but this brief interlude opened the door to the possibility of them being so much more. It was scary, and it was against regulations, but God help her, she wanted to explore it when they were both sober. She only hoped she felt the same way come Monday.

His nose was bright red and seemed to be pulsing, and she grinned, thinking Shakespeare had it right, after all. Red nose, sleep, and urine. If she remembered high school English correctly, that speech from MacBeth also mentioned desire and lechery. Well, the Bard's words certainly summed up this entire crazy night for them. She leaned down to peck him lightly on the nose, then touched her lips to his in a goodnight kiss. He smacked his lips together in sleep, reaching up to brush at his nose in agitation. She smiled again, turned off the lamp, and picked up the ice pack to empty in the kitchen sink. She left the aspirin there for the morning when she was sure he was going to need it.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane awoke the next morning, hung over and disoriented.

"Why is the bed spinning?" he said aloud, his eyes still closed.

His alarm must have been buzzing for at least an hour, and he finally reached over to slam it off. At first he thought he was late for work-not really a big deal to him, but he knew it mattered to Lisbon and Hightower. Then he remembered that it was Saturday, and that he had set up a lunch appointment with May Nelson and Virgil Minelli. He couldn't miss that. Virgil might have La Roche's suspect list, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to play matchmaker for two such nice, lonely people.

The last thing he remembered from the night before was getting into Lisbon's car. After that, everything was a blank. Well, he was obviously home, and he grinned, then flinched as the movement hurt his head. It must have been quite a show, her trying to wrangle him into his apartment and into bed. He felt his chest, realizing she'd likely helped him take off his shirt. He wished he could have remembered the feel of her hands on his bare skin; the thought of it did weird things to his already shaky insides. He hoped he hadn't done anything to embarrass himself or to piss her off.

"I'll certainly be hearing about it Monday if I did." His eyes went blearily to the clock—half past ten—then to the aspirin and glass of water Lisbon had helpfully left for him. "Good ol' Lisbon," he said, sitting up a little to take his medicine. The water hitting his system made him feel a little drunk again, so he lay back down on the bed with a moan.

"A shower. That's what I need. A shower, and some tea and toast. Nothing a good cup of tea can't cure."

As he got up, more slowly this time, he thought he caught the faint scent of Lisbon's perfume on his comforter. He picked it up and inhaled, but the smell eluded him. He shrugged. Probably just my imagination. Or wishful thinking.

A few minutes later, as the hot water poured down over his pounding head, he ruminated over why he never drank anymore. The blackouts. He had always been especially prone to blackouts. Had to keep his wits these days, but also, he knew that if he started drinking again, it would be so tempting to climb into a bottle and never climb back out.

The doctor's aversion therapy definitely works, though, Jane thought ironically. I never want to taste another drop of whiskey as long as I live.