Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with either version of The Mentalist and am making no money from this.

Author's Note: This is for the guest reviewer of Impressions who suggested that Lisbon's new fireplace made her couch the perfect make-out spot. The image stuck in my head, and this is what I did with it.

He'd imagined countless scenarios over the past two years where he would have the opportunity to make a move on Lisbon. Harmless daydreams, really, he'd thought. It was natural to think about someone when you missed them, when almost everything you did had some reminder of them, some association in your memory palace. And his isolation in an otherwise romantic setting made it inevitable that some of those daydreams were going to be sensual. Erotic, even.

But of course dreams and reality were never the same. And now that they were working together again, it had been easy to fall back into old patterns, tucking his daydreams away in the back of his mind.

Until she lit the fire in her fireplace.

He'd been obnoxious about wanting to accompany her home, he knew. She'd only come back to pack a few things, not having been prepared for a long stay when Abbott summoned her to Texas. She hadn't yet reached the point where she wanted to resign her "real" job, but she needed more clothes. He hadn't needed to come with her, as Abbott and Fischer had pointed out both separately and together.

But he was tired of being without her. He didn't want to miss her again, even for a weekend. So he'd made enough of a fuss that Lisbon had cut a deal with Abbott to make it possible. Since Jane had no intention of going anywhere else, it didn't bother him when Abbott tried not to smile as he issued the threat of prison for Lisbon if she let his sorry-ass parolee self escape. Much.

He just hadn't anticipated that she would have made a real home here. It was lightyears away from her spartan digs back in Sacramento. It was warm, homey, decorated with attention to comfort. A place she liked to spend time. In some ways it reminded him of her office at CBI, full of little touches and a nice beige couch. And a fireplace.

Bonfires on the beach had frequently played a large role in his daydreams. The crackle of the wood and the scent of the smoke brought them back vividly, and he struggled to pay attention as he finished throwing together the dinner he'd promised as payment for his room and board. He drank a little too much wine over dinner, caught up in anticipating how the firelight would flicker over the curves of her face. And then finally they moved to the couch and he got his chance to see it for real.

He encouraged her to tell stories of her time here, ravenously curious about her life without him. Besides, he'd rather look at her than talk. He still hadn't had his fill of observing her, filing away the tiny changes that the years had left. And he was still starved for her voice, the various tones and notes in it that he'd missed so much.

He was vaguely aware that she had refilled their glasses several times, but it didn't occur to him that she was feeling the effects until she paused in her observations about the upcoming winter and he looked over to find her leaning her head against her hand, elbow propped on the back of the couch as she faced him, her eyes sleepy and half-closed. When she saw him looking at her, she opened them and smiled, looking at him as if she was as desperate to re-learn his features as he was hers. Her eyes glowed in the warm, dancing light, which also highlighted the sheen of red wine on her lower lip. She was absolutely irresistible, more alluring than even than his best dreams had conjured up.

He set his glass on the coffee table, then slowly reached for hers, sliding it gently out of her grasp and setting it beside his. She didn't protest, simply watching him. He returned her gaze for a few seconds, trying to discern her state of mind. His own was fragile enough that a rebuff would be unbearable.

But he found only welcome in her eyes and in the little smile that curved her lips just slightly, probably without her permission. So he leaned forward slowly, cataloging every change in her expression as he got closer, and pressed his lips lightly against hers.

They were pillow soft and tasted of cabernet sauvignon, warm and alive as she returned the kiss. She smelled like home and hope and all the reasons he had chosen to go on living, and he wrapped his arms around her and tilted his head to change the angle slightly, keeping his kisses soft and loving. This had been a long time coming, after all. He wanted it to be perfect. He didn't want her to feel pressured—

His train of thought nearly derailed as she slipped her tongue between his lips, teasing him for a moment before sliding inside to caress his own. He pulled her closer and began a very enjoyable game of dueling tongues, in which he was delighted to find she gave as good as she got. Her mouth was hot and wet and put him in imminent danger of overheating. He desperately needed a distraction, so he slid one hand under her sweater, stroking over the smooth, soft skin of her back.

That was probably not the best distraction in the world, he realized, because it only made him want more. The angel on his shoulder reminded him that she deserved better than to go from a first kiss to a quick tumble on the couch in one night—hell, in one hour. The devil on his other shoulder pointed out that she could stop him any time she liked. Instead, she was sliding her hand under his shirt, nails scraping gently along his spine in a move guaranteed to drive him crazy.

He pulled her into his lap, his left hand joining his right in exploring her tiny waist—and the next thing he knew, he was grasping at empty air while Lisbon fled the room.

What the hell had just happened? He blinked at the fireplace, completely confused, and tried to calm his clamoring body so he could think. "Lisbon?" he called, finally feeling steady enough to attempt to stand. The clink of silverware against a plate told him she was in the kitchen, so he went in that direction, his stride stabilizing after a few steps.

She was standing at the sink, rinsing dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. Her back was to him, so he couldn't see her expression, but the tension in her shoulders was a warning sign. He decided to start simple. "Lisbon? What's the matter?"

"Nothing. We've had too much to drink. You should probably head for bed; the guest room is all made up." Her voice shook a little, but otherwise she achieved a creditably calm tone.

"I'm not sleepy," he said. "Here, let me help you clean up."

"No, I got it."

She still hadn't looked at him. He leaned against the counter for a moment, mulling her over, then went back to the living room and got their wine glasses and the empty bottle. The recycling bin was conveniently placed near the back door on her other side, so he set the glasses on the counter above the dishwasher and then squeezed past her to deposit the bottle, making sure to brush against her both coming and going. She twitched a little like she was suppressing the urge to shove him away. Not a good sign.

He started to review the events leading up to her abrupt change of heart. Had he stumbled onto a sensitive spot, some kind of trigger to a traumatic event from her past? He didn't think so. He'd felt no scar tissue, and she hadn't tensed up beforehand. "I need a little help here, Lisbon," he finally said. "What did I do wrong?"

He had no expectation that she would tell him, but her evasion would give him a clue, he hoped.

She let out a half-muffled snort, putting the final plate in the dishwasher. At last she turned to face him. "I'm not blaming you. I should have stopped you. You've had way too much to drink."

All true, he realized. "As you're aware, alcohol lowers inhibitions. It doesn't create desires that weren't there before."

She was already adorably flushed from the wine and from bending over the dishwasher, but she dropped her eyes in embarrassment. Then she took a breath and looked at him again, straightening her posture in a signal that she was about to go on the attack. "Well, now your curiosity is satisfied, so you can go to bed a happy man."

"At the moment, I'm a very unhappy man," he pointed out. His body had responded to hers with a ferocity he was having trouble shaking. "And it wasn't curiosity."

"Oh?" She folded her arms and did her best to glare at him.

"Well, not only curiosity," he amended. Then he remembered that backing down to Lisbon was no way to engage her, so he said, "I've been thinking about kissing you for the better part of two years. The only thing I was curious about was if reality would hold up to fantasy. And it did."

Her eyes widened in shock. "You thought about kissing me?" She was going for disbelief but only managed incredulity, he thought.

"Pretty much every day." He said it matter-of-factly, because for him, it was. For her, it was like hearing he was an alien from outer space, though. In some ways, he really was an alien being, someone neither of them recognized. It was why he needed her so much, because she had always known who he was at the core of himself. She could guide him back to that if he let her.

To head off the inevitable accusation of lying, he continued, "Why do you think I spent so much time writing to you about things I thought you'd enjoy? I'd have sent you a postcard saying 'wish you were here' if I could have found one. Every time I mailed a letter I hoped it would be the one that would convince you to come find me."

She was staring at him with her mouth open now. "I was supposed to come find you?" Then she frowned at him. "A little more help would have been nice, then! I didn't even know what country to start with!"

"I gave Pete access to one of my offshore accounts and told him if you ever asked where I was, he should buy you a plane ticket." Which would have outed him to the FBI for sure, but he hadn't been worried about that.

Lisbon stared at him for a moment more, until her stunned expression turned sad. "I never asked."

"I know." He was a little hurt by that, actually. Every time he'd asked if someone was looking for him, he'd hoped so desperately to hear that yes, a pretty lady with dark hair had asked about him.

"I thought it would be better not to know," she tried to explain. "They were watching me. I didn't want to lead them to you. Abbott even stopped by right before—" She broke off in horror. "They did find you through me, didn't they? How?"

"They traced the letters somehow. It doesn't matter, Lisbon. I made it my business to stay up to date on extradition laws. They couldn't touch me. I came back because I chose to, not because I had to. Because I missed you." And because he was afraid of what he'd become if he kept leading his solitary life, but that would take too long to explain. "Finally I decided if you wouldn't come to me, I'd have to come to you."

"You could have just invited me in one of your letters," she pointed out.

True. But he'd wanted it to be her idea. He'd wanted her to miss him so much she couldn't stand it anymore. But that didn't seem like a thing he could say, so he defaulted to, "What fun would that be?"

She sighed, still looking sad. Was she envisioning the two of them sitting on the beach in front of a bonfire, grinning at each other like idiots because they were just so glad to be together again? He wished now he'd hinted harder, but he hadn't wanted to manipulate her. Or maybe he'd just been afraid she'd say no.

"So we've established that the kissing was not some kind of wine-induced insanity," he prodded. "Besides, if that was really what you thought, you would have just told me to knock it off instead of deciding that the dishes couldn't wait a single second longer. What was it really?"

She looked at him, her sadness dissolving into irritation. "I don't make out with men wearing wedding rings."

Well, he'd asked for it. It still felt like a punch to the gut. And Lisbon hit hard, always.

He looked down at his left hand, remembering how he'd touched her with it right before she jumped up like she'd been burned. She'd felt the metal against her skin and instantly concluded that this was somehow wrong. He remembered his conversation with Kim about the ring, how he kept it on because he still didn't know how to talk about his wife and what had happened. But he didn't need to talk about that with Lisbon, who knew the whole story as well as anyone could. He hadn't even thought about the fact that he was still wearing the ring.

"You're not ready," Lisbon continued.

Her expression was back to sad, and he could see what she was thinking: if he hadn't come to terms with his loss in two years with nothing to do but think, he was never going to. He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped, realizing he had no convincing argument to make.

Lisbon took pity on him. "It's not something you can rush, Jane. You will either be ready someday, or you won't. It's not a failing. It's...it's sweet that you loved her that much. She was lucky."

He shook his head violently. "I was the lucky one."

"I think both of you were. Anybody who has the chance to be part of a love like that is lucky." She sounded wistful, like it was something she could never have.

But she could have it, he thought fiercely. He could love her like that. He did love her like that. He just...had a bunch of crap in the way.

Suddenly he was struck with the truth of his situation: his past wasn't just holding him captive. It had also imprisoned Lisbon, dooming her to a wait for something she was losing hope would ever happen. And now he didn't have the excuse of his revenge, or of putting her in danger. What the hell was he waiting for?

Angela would have beaten him over the head with the nearest blunt object for this level of stupidity. He could hear her voice in his mind, as clear as if it had been yesterday: "For the love of God, Paddy, when you do stupid, you really go all the way, don't you? Couldn't you at least be mediocre at being an idiot?"

Taking a deep breath, he tugged the ring off his finger and looked around a little blindly. "Do you have a safe place to put this?"

"No, Jane. I don't want you to do this because you think it's what I want. You have to—"

"I'm never going to be more ready to take it off than I am today. I will get used to not wearing it. I just have to start. I want to keep it safe, though." He discarded the kitchen as a place to keep things safe and went back into the living room, looking around. The bookshelf was promising—aha! That box would be perfect, depending on what else was in it. He picked it up and reached for the lid.

"No, not in there!" Lisbon said breathlessly from behind him.

He removed the lid and stared down at the collection of letters inside. He recognized the thin air-mail paper immediately, and he saw that she'd kept every single one. The older ones were much handled, a little worn and crumpled as if she'd read them over and over again.

He was touched. With no way to receive a response and knowing she was probably under some kind of surveillance, he'd assumed she'd destroyed them after reading them. That was why he'd sent her the shell, so she'd have something harmless to remember him by. He'd never imagined this cache of letters, obviously treasured.

Looking at her, he realized she was expecting him to tease her. But he was too choked up to try. Instead, he dropped his ring in the box, dismissing the idea that it might be inappropriate to put his wedding ring in a box of letters he'd written to another woman to entice her to abandon her life and come be with him. It was all part of the past. They were all things to be fondly remembered and occasionally looked at, but not dwelled on. It was fitting.

He put the lid back on and carefully set the box back in its place, then turned to face Lisbon. She swallowed hard, her eyes wide with surprise and longing. But when she spoke, it wasn't about what she wanted. It was, as usual, concern for him. "I don't think you're ready for that."

"Maybe not. Time will tell." He at least had to try.

"Okay." She looked at the box. "I was going to take it with me anyway. It'll be nearby if you need it."

He frowned. "Why would you take old letters with you when you can just talk to me anytime you want to?"

"Because," she said with a little smile, "I figure the next time you piss me off, I might need them to remember that somewhere under all that troublemaking is someone worth sticking around for."

He grabbed her up in a hug and held on tightly, his throat closing. She was so much better than he deserved.

She slid her arms around his ribs and squeezed. "It's all right, Jane," she said softly. "You don't have to rush anything. Okay?"

"But I'm so tired of waiting," he whispered. "I'm tired of waiting for some overwhelming epiphany that will suddenly make everything okay. It's not going to be like that. I have to try for the things I want, and then if I fail, keep trying."

"Yeah," she sighed. "Yeah, you're right."

He held onto her, savoring the way she smelled, the way her heart thumped along like a startled rabbit, and how soft and warm and right she felt in his arms. He didn't let go until she started to move away.

"It's good we had this talk," she murmured. "We should get some sleep. And I still have to pack."

He was nowhere near ready to let her out of arm's reach again so soon. "The fire's not out. You really shouldn't go to sleep with it still burning. Let's go sit down until it's finished."

She gave him a look that said she knew he was up to something. It was one of his favorites. He grinned as he ushered her back to the couch.

"No funny stuff," she muttered as they sat down.

He suppressed a chuckle. "I guarantee you won't be laughing."

Now her look was downright suspicious.

"We've agreed I have to try for the things I want, right? So let me tell you a few of them."

"Won't that ruin the surprise?" she snarked.

"But you hate surprises," he countered. "Anyway, the first thing I want is to make love to you in front of this fireplace."

Her blush was even more lovely by firelight, he decided.

"Didn't we just establish that you're not ready for that?" she asked after a moment.

"No. We established that you think I'm not ready for that, and that you don't canoodle with men who wear wedding rings. A policy of which I highly approve, by the way, now that I'm not wearing one anymore. Though I do hope you'll change it if you happen to give me one someday."

She got that stunned look on her face again, then grinned. "Canoodle? Seriously?"

"A perfectly good word," he said in mock offense. "Feel free to shut me up with your luscious lips at any point, by the way."

"Hm." She pretended to consider. "Is that guaranteed to work?"

He grinned. "Actually, if memory serves, I do tend to be pretty verbal in bed. So maybe not."

"Well if it's only going to encourage you to keep talking, I'm not seeing what's in that for me."

"Oh, Teresa." He dropped his voice into a lower register and was gratified at how her pupils dilated. "What's in it for you is to discover what it's like to be with someone who can read your every thought and desire before you've even finished having it."

She swallowed hard but, true to form, had a feisty retort ready. "Unfortunately that discovery comes with a long-term side effect of being stuck with you."

"I'm sorry, but you're already afflicted with that curse. You'll never be rid of me, you know. Even if you decide we have to be just friends, I'm not going anywhere."

"What if I decide I want to keep my job here instead of putting up with the FBI?"

"Then I will enjoy watching Abbott squirm when he realizes he has to come up here and offer you any terms you'll take in order to get you to come work with me." He knew she was bluffing. "But I'm aware it's in all our interests for me to keep you happy so you'll stay. So tell me, Teresa, what would make you happy?"

She looked taken aback, as if no one had ever asked her that before. Maybe it had been so long since anyone had, she wasn't used to thinking in those terms. He of all people knew that her happiness was not her guiding principle, after all.

"Happy," she murmured, as if it were a new word she was hearing for the first time.

"When was the last time you were happy, Teresa?" he asked gently, his heart aching a little for her.

"I was happy when I got to hold Wayne and Grace's baby girl," she said.

He smiled, picturing it. "Until you had to give her back. When was the last time you were really, sustainably happy?"

"I was happy when things were going well at CBI," she said after a long time. "When you were letting me in a little, before Red John started up again. When we were just catching bad guys and I wasn't thinking about how it was all going to end."

He reached out and stroked her cheek gently. "We don't need to say his name anymore. And this, now, doesn't have to end. It can be like the good times all the time. Just us catching bad guys and talking late into the night, except instead of you doing paperwork, we can be on a comfortable couch or even in bed."

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. He realized how sleepy she was, and part of him wanted to carry her to bed and tuck her in and leave her to get a good night's sleep. But the larger part of him wanted to climb into that bed with her.

No, he realized. They were both a little drunk, and she was tired. She wasn't used to keeping up with him anymore, after all. And he really wanted to make their first time memorable.

"I'll put out the fire," he said. "You go on to bed. I'll see you at breakfast."

She opened her eyes, looking a little puzzled. "I thought you wanted to have sex on the couch."

"On further reflection, I'd prefer to wait until my head is clear."

She pouted at him, and he immediately reconsidered what he'd just said. "I thought you were tired of waiting."

"I am. I'm sick of it." He'd never spoken truer words. "But I think I can manage a day. We're here one more night. Tomorrow we'll skip the wine and I'll hold you prisoner in bed for at least twelve hours."

Her eyes darkened, and he made a mental note that she might be open to certain role-playing scenarios. "I think you're forgetting who has the handcuffs."

"Fine. You can hold me prisoner and have your wicked way with me," he said with exaggerated patience. "Tomorrow."

"You are really high maintenance," she yawned. "You know that?"

He got up, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet. "Yes, sweetheart," he said softly, smiling at her. "I know that. But you love me anyway."

She stifled a snort, then glanced at him. The fact that she didn't deny it warmed his heart. "And because I'm high maintenance, I'm going to wait to tell you I love you until you can't accuse me of being drunk at the time," he replied.

The joy that lit her face made him beam right back at her. He walked her to her bedroom door and kissed her forehead. "Sweet dreams."

"You too. Don't stay up and go through all my stuff!" she warned, but she completely failed to look even a little stern.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he grinned.

"Yeah, right." She couldn't quite get the sarcasm right while smiling so broadly, but he appreciated the attempt.

When she'd closed her door, he wandered back to the living room to enjoy the fire. Sprawled on a Lisbon-scented couch, he began to feel sleepy, and it was a struggle to hold his eyes open until the fire burned itself out. Then he let himself drift off, feeling like he'd finally come home.

A/N: Next up, Lisbon's turn!