A/N: Next installment! This one is Jane/Lisbon focused, and the case discussed is one that I made up, it's not from an actual episode. Hope you enjoy! :)

"I need your grace

to remind me

to find my own."

Jane sat with his head tilted back and let Lisbon's office chair spin him in circles and watched the bland cream colored ceiling swirl above him, a pale and blessedly blank canvas. Sometimes his eyes played tricks on him, showed him walls marred with blood red smiles, though in reality they had never been stained. But not today, today had been a good day, overall. Today they had rescued a little girl and her mother before her father's rage had destroyed them. Lisbon was with them now—what remained of the Salter family—Carol and little Sarah.

He wouldn't admit it, but he'd struggled with this case. The thought that a father could become so twisted that he could want to destroy his family… It made him angry that he could not discern whether the man reminded him of himself, or if nothing could be further from the truth. Just like Don Salter, he'd destroyed his family…but the thought of his own two hands being the ones to cause the destruction…it made him sick. This man had tried to get rid of the one thing in the world Jane yearned for more than anything, his wife and child. And for what? To hide the evidence of his murderous ways?

Lisbon's team had burst into the Salter's apartment that afternoon, and Jane knew that the mental snapshot of that moment was going to linger in his mind for a while—Carol kneeling on the ground, clutching her sobbing daughter to her chest, her husband standing behind her with his gun pressed to her head. Don Salter had turned to look at the agents crowding around him, simply looked at them. No tears, no fear, no remorse, no nothing—just cool, hard resolve.

"I have to." That's what he'd said, "I have to." As far as Jane was concerned, that man deserved the bullet Rigsby had put in him.

He heard the distinctive steps of Lisbon approaching her office and continued to spin, staring up at the ceiling, preparing himself for her wrath—she hated it when he adjusted her chair. He heard the door open, felt her eyes following him as he spun in the chair she'd ordered him to stay out of, waited for her reprimand.

"You're not him, you know."

His feet descended to halt his circuitous motion and his head came up from the back of the chair. She stood behind him in the doorway, but he didn't turn to face her. It wasn't often she managed to surprise him this way. She was almost exactly echoing his own thoughts, thoughts he had thought he'd been concealing quite well—apparently not from her though.

"Who?" He wouldn't cave that easily; perhaps she'd drop it once she realized he wouldn't engage in the discussion.

"Don Salter." He heard her step closer. "I know you were struggling with this case. I know that you feel like the two of you are similar, in that you are both responsible for the destruction of your families. But you're not similar. You are nothing like that man."

He still wouldn't face her, he was unsure of what emotions she might find exposed in his eyes.

"Ahh, well, this is an interesting attempt at insight into my mind, Lisbon."

"I heard what you said, to Salter. I heard what you said when he was being loaded into the ambulance."

Jane realized that his fingers were aching and looked down to find them curled into fists on his lap. He hadn't meant for anyone to hear those words—a confession of sorts—and to think that she had heard them…

"You said, 'How could you be so selfish? You've lost your family, are you happy now? You are going to live with your failure for the rest of your worthless life. You—'"

"Alright, Lisbon, enough. You heard every word I said, I get it." He couldn't stand to hear her repeating the last four words he'd spoken to Don Salter, 'You should hate yourself.' It had been a reminder to himself, a mantra he'd carried with him since the night his arrogance had cost him his family. He knew he should hate himself, knew he deserved his family's hatred for failing to protect them…but Lisbon…he didn't think he could stand to hear her tell him that. Not her.

Her fingers encircled his arm; she spun the chair, and him with it, to bring them face-to-face. He lifted his eyes to hers slowly, careful to temper the emotion in them.

"You are a good man, Jane." He quirked an eyebrow at her. "Deeply flawed, perhaps, but you are good. And no matter what you think, Red John killed your family. Not you."

Her hand on his arm was warm, and her eyes were honest. He may never agree that the blame for his family's death wasn't his, but hearing these words, from her, on this day, he felt an absolution settle over him. Instinctively his brain tried to shy away from it, but he was tethered to the feeling by her small hand on his arm. Abruptly he was absurdly grateful for her presence, for her words, her support, for her constant defense of him—even against himself. He stood and gripped her elbow, used it to pull her against his body. He felt her stiffen, the way she leaned away from his unusually close contact, but she didn't pull away. She stood in the circle of his arms radiating confusion.

"Lisbon, I have to." The words that had seemed so abhorrent to him earlier, Salter's words, felt perfectly appropriate now. He had to. He had to hug her, had to thank her, had to show her that her words meant something to him. He felt her soften against him, felt her arms snake around his waist, felt the tug of her fists on the back of his jacket. She tipped her head to rest her forehead on his chest, and he let his face press into her hair. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd embraced anyone this way. "Thank you, Lisbon."