I've had this on a back burner for two months, and I've been tossed between lack of commitment, lack of direction, fake nonchalance and fear that all of the time I've put into puttering with it will amount to nothing. I've been putting off finishing it because events in the show are moving so quickly and seemingly randomly. Today I realized that I need to finish this or jump ship. So, I decided to just start posting the thing and see what happens—like a lunatic without a 'chute. I'm pathetic. No wonder I don't own any part of The Mentalist. And I think the title is more about my state of mind than the actual story. And that's all I'll say about that.

LOST AT SEA

1. THE CALM

"You're wearing a skirt!"

He blurted it without thinking. There was a time it would have bothered him to give away something so small as his awareness of her attire, but they were beyond that after working together for seven years. He was fine with her knowing he paid attention to her, even to the smallest detail. And, he was fine with the whole blurting thing—some of their most interesting conversations had started that way.

Lisbon had been in depositions nearly all morning. Nothing was happening, his own off-the-book investigations were temporarily stalled, and Jane had been bored, waiting for her to get in. He had heard the elevator ping while he was making his tea and had just known it was her. Grace's "Hey, Boss" had confirmed it, and he had felt the light-heartedness that usually accompanied her arrival. He was fine with that, too. Lisbon's arrival always brought so many varying opportunities.

"Good morning to you, too, Jane."

She didn't look up from the form she was filling out. There was no case, and it was eleven thirty. She had known that it wouldn't be long. In her peripheral vision she saw him move toward the couch—that silly couch—he had bought for her office. He said he had gotten it for her, but she knew that could only be partly true. He seemed to sit on the thing as much as she did and lie on it even more. It really was a beautiful couch, perfect with the pillows and chenille throw he had picked out, and she was just getting to the place where she had come to appreciate the comfort of it, especially now that they practically had it broken in. The first time they had sat on it together for a chat she had noticed there were two long seat cushions instead of three shorter ones. It was made for two.

He sat down and, raising the cup to his lips, looked at her over the rim. She had crossed her legs and from this angle, he could just see the toe of the shoe that seemed to peek around the corner of her desk suspended in mid-air. Pumps with a slight platform with, he would guess, about three, three-and-a-half inch heels.

"Those shoes aren't exactly made for runnin'," he quipped.

"Not intending to do any."

"What if we get a case?"

"I'll make you run. It'll be good for you."

He snorted at her in response. She still hadn't looked up. Her hair was different, too. It was up but not in the government-issue-by-the-book bun. She had sort of swept it up as if she didn't care, and it had . . . things of hair sticking out with light tendrils hanging down to frame her face. Messy but nice. Feminine.

"Your hair looks good today. Very Austenian."

She did look up then and smiled brightly at him. "Thanks." Back to the form.

"So, who were the deposing attorneys?" As if he didn't already know.

Her writing barely hitched, not even a pause really, like she just knew what was coming.

"Defense was Forrest, and prosecuting was . . . Sam Burton." She couldn't help the small smile that nearly formed at her lips. And she just barely, slightly, only the tiniest bit, dipped her head.

"Ah, Forrest. Old guy. Thinks he's Matlock. And . . . Burton, did you say? Tall, dark and handsome? Looks a bit like Rigsby only without the mad crush and confused expression?"

She looked up at him again, her attempt at chastisement ruined by the smile. "Oh, stop."

"Stop what, my dear? I don't follow."

It was all right, calling her "my dear". It didn't really mean anything. It was part of how they did things. He invaded her space, she barged in on him in the attic, he sat on the couch and watched her work, she tried not to look pleased with him when he was behaving well or amused by him when he wasn't, and he plied her with meaningless but semi-sincere endearments and sipped his tea. It was all very benign and genteel and shallow.

"You shouldn't say stuff like that about Rigsby. He's still having a hard time giving up Van Pelt. And I prefer to think of that expression as inquisitive."

"You wouldn't cut him the slack if he weren't tall, dark and handsome—"

"Jane." There was the warning—he wouldn't go too far. This time.

"—and didn't remind you of your brothers."

Her brow nearly creased into a frown, but she inhaled deep, and her face relaxed. Her head tilted into the slight half-shrug as if to say, "Okay, you got me there."

He sighed and dropped the subject of Sam Burton. He really didn't like the man, pompous ass. He knew Lisbon didn't really like him either. It was just a game they played sometimes. He couldn't help chuckling to himself. She didn't look up at him, didn't ask why he'd laughed. He knew sometimes she just didn't want to get anything started. Did she really think he would do something so immature as try to draw her in with a feigned laugh or a forced sigh? He smiled into his cup. "Okay, you got me there."

She dropped her pen into her pencil cup and stuffed the paper into the waiting file folder then rose from her desk and walked to the file cabinet that stood by where he sat in the corner of the couch made for two. Nudging his legs to get him to move them out of her way, she opened the drawer and put the folder away. She walked back to her desk, but not to sit down. He watched her pick up her phone and keys and drop them into her bag as she lifted her jacket from where she'd slung it over one corner of the back of her chair.

"Where are you going?"

"Lunch," she replied as if it were obvious.

"Just let me get rid of my cup."

"Not you lunch, us lunch. Me lunch. As in you're not going."

She was bemused by his expression, a spark of curiosity mingled with disappointment. It was really kind of touching.

"Be back in an hour!" she sang over her departing shoulder to no one in particular. The spark of curiosity went away.

He lay back on the couch, tea cold and forgotten, closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest, thinking over events of the past few weeks. Hightower had been framed for two murders, putting her directly in the crosshairs of LaRoche's sketchy investigation and his own suspicion as Red John's CBI mole. In the wake of her escape—eluding the authorities, he thought with a self-satisfied smile at his engineering her flight and managing to keep the Red John connection hidden from everyone involved—LaRoche had been assigned to take over her duties, resulting in Lisbon's temporary demotion as head of the unit. He smiled, remembering the fire in her eyes and the edge to her husky voice when LaRoche had approached her at a recent crime scene, a driving range frequented by the newly-dead Dr. Newton. The new boss had handled the whole thing in a terribly ham-handed way. He had broached the subject of Hightower, asking if Lisbon had heard from her and wanting to know about the escaped felon's children. Lisbon still stung over how the whole thing had fallen out, and Jane was sure that even now she harbored serious doubts as to her former boss's—and newly-minted friend's—guilt in the matter of the murders of Todd Johnson and Manuel Montero. It wasn't surprising that Lisbon had left him standing there, gaping after her. To his credit, the big man had tried valiantly to regain his lost footing.

"I wasn't finished, Agent Lisbon."

"Agent LaRoche, this is a crime scene. I'm busy," she had said, as if that would finally dismiss him. But the man simply would not be put off.

"Curious. Your disinterest in finding Hightower."

"Are you for real? We've had to endure your surprise visits for months. You named your killer. She's on the run. Why do you keep showing up at my crime scenes?"

"Because this morning I—"

"I don't even want to hear it! The second Hightower's replacement is announced, I'm going to put in a formal request to keep you away from me!"

And that's when LaRoche had dropped the bomb. He was calling the shots, she was out and Cho was in.

Jane had known what had transpired that morning, of course—had watched undetected as LaRoche set up shop in Hightower's office. He now realized waiting for the perfect time to let Lisbon in on the change of command had been a grave miscalculation on his part. As LaRoche approached, he had seen the clouds forming on Lisbon's brow, but like all other forces of nature and acts of God, he had been unable to stop it. Part of him hadn't even wanted to. He got a real thrill out of watching Lisbon verbally peel the skin off of someone else. It would've raised goose pimples on his flesh if he had not been woefully past that sort of thing. It hadn't surprised him when LaRoche retaliated, although the punishment had been a bit of a sting. But what had surprised him was the duration. For what Lisbon had done and said, a man like LaRoche would have wanted more than a pound of flesh and not been completely wrong for it. But his requirement amounted to a few ounces of discomfort at most. Lisbon had been reinstated only hours later. With a commendation, no less.

He wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong idea. He was glad she'd been put back in her proper place so quickly. He had loved having the day to himself, working his schemes—and there had been plenty of them—knowing Lisbon was practically only a thought away if he needed her. Twice she had rushed in; once to save his neck and once to arrest the murderer just in time. Now who's the psychic?

But he had missed her, even though she hadn't really gone anywhere. Missed her arguing, her assured needling, her fatalistic sigh when she went along with his plan even when she didn't know what the plan was, the widening of her eyes when she caught on, her pleasure at figuring out what he was thinking. Yes, he had been glad to get her back.

But something was different. And it was LaRoche. The new boss liked Lisbon. Right off the bat. Before the pitch, even. Jane knew there wasn't anything unprofessional or inappropriate about it—LaRoche was as close to asexual as a man could get. But there was no denying he understood Lisbon and held her in high regard. She was smart, true and honest, and Jane knew that while those were only three of the qualities he most prized in her, they were the three that would matter to LaRoche.

And Lisbon liked him back. He was firm but fair—qualities she liked in a boss, looked for even. Jane wondered if those were qualities she had admired in Bosco. A frown marred his deceptively peaceful features. No, in Bosco she had admired the cop—tough and fearless, his unrequited affection for her easy to deny except for her nearly overwhelming repugnance at the idea of disappointing or hurting him. Because of Jane, she had managed to do both. But again, the time-out had been very short lived.

Seems none of the men in her life could do without her for long.

But her relationship with LaRoche was nothing like her relationship with Bosco had been. For one thing, LaRoche would never curse in front of a lady. And even though Lisbon's language was often salty enough for the entirety of the bureau, LaRoche would never curse in front of Lisbon.

Jane smiled to himself again. LaRoche was more fatherly toward her—guiding her, discerning when she knew to take the lead and letting her, listening to her and respecting her. They were actually a lot alike, or their thinking was, at any rate. They both wanted the truth, wanted to exhaust all lines of questioning, wanted to catch the bad guy. There was, however, one fundamental difference in which LaRoche was more similar to Jane himself. He was prepared to stoop much lower than Lisbon to reach his goal. He hoped Lisbon realized that. Maybe it wouldn't hurt for him to very subtly look out for her on that point. For the most part, LaRoche and Lisbon worked together so well because their thoughts were, more often than not, in sync. LaRoche trusted Lisbon, and she trusted him.

The frown was back. He had never seemed to reach that elusive objective: acquiring Lisbon's complete and unqualified trust. It would have been useful, but he could afford to be honest with himself on the point that it just would have been nice. Even though they seemed more familiar with one another now, he knew the apparent closeness they projected was only an illusion. He had only come to realize in recent months that this was as true on Lisbon's part as his own, for all her preaching on being a family. For her there could be friendship, even affection without trust but there could be no real . . . He supposed intimacy was the word he was searching for.

The frown deepened. That was not a situation in which he could afford to find himself with anyone, especially . . . He was off track. If he had to think like Lisbon before she trusted him so completely, he was a lot further from his objective than he had believed. If in fact that were the case, it was a goal he may never reach. In light of his own many deceptions over the past year, it may by now be a very moot point, dead in the water. His lips pressed into a firm line, and he realized that if anyone were watching him, they would at least wonder at his train of thought. He schooled his features into a look of complete repose.

Yes, LaRoche was like the father Lisbon may have needed, even though the man could never have physically or psychologically produced a daughter like her. And that was fine with Jane. Goodness knows he had no intention of playing daddy to her little girl. Lisbon would have an aneurism if he even tried. No, he liked things exactly the way they were. Something niggled at the back of his mind at that, but he ignored it. Nigglings concerning Lisbon were best treated that way.

Something had crossed Jane's mind that now distant morning, watching LaRoche awkwardly trying to take the place that maybe deep inside he wasn't sure he should be occupying, and he hadn't thought about it since. Now it brought another smile to his lips.

He would tell Lisbon about the Hummel figurines he had seen on LaRoche's end table just inside the man's front door the night he had helped Madeleine escape under the guise of taking J.J. a bottle of Scotch. She would ask why he was there, of course, and not be completely satisfied with his explanation. Her suspicion would nearly get the better of her, but she would realize the futility of asking him questions he had no intention of answering and give it up, allowing her desire to just let something be easy and her penchant for deniability to sweep it under that now rather lumpy rug she kept in her psyche just for him.

He couldn't wait to see the sparkle in her eyes over their shared, mischievous, almost dirty little secret about the big boss's love of Hummels. But he would. Maybe not right here on their couch, but he would wait.