Part One: The Involuntary Emotional Masochist

Teresa Lisbon sat up, squared her shoulders, and made every attempt to refocus her mind on the file that lay on her desk before her. Unfortunately, her instinct reverted her vision to the window of her office, through which she could see Patrick Jane and Kim Fischer chatting amicably, standing closer together than was strictly necessary. If she was honest with herself, she'd have to admit there was practically steam pouring out of her ears every time she had to see those two seemingly flirting around the FBI offices. She'd admit that she felt anger, jealously, disappointment, and a churning, almost nauseous sensation that swept over her from head to toe.

But instead of indulging in some mental pity party, Lisbon opted for the only form of retaliation she knew: she called her new boyfriend and arranged a dinner date for that evening. Once again, seemingly for the millionth time, Lisbon prayed that going through the motions of moving on from her feelings for Jane would result in actually moving on at some point in the near future. As Fischer giggled - actually giggled - and blushed predictably at Jane's latest witty remark, like some hapless schoolgirl (how many times had she been guilty of the same crime against womanly pride?), Lisbon replaced the phone in its cradle and felt only slightly better.

Then her mind relapsed into a familiar slideshow of memories that stoked the flames of repressed love and frustrated devotion within her, a deluge of feeling she was just a little too addicted to. She knew now, with a startling clarity that had only dawned on her since Jane's return from Mexico, that she had been in love with him since their first meeting. For several years after that, she'd managed to cloak her feelings, even from herself, with the constant reminder of everything that stood between them. They worked together. He'd been through the most horrific ordeal a human could endure, and it would be completely understandable if he never loved again. On top of that, he was so often insubordinate and even cruelly manipulative that the idea of a relationship with such a disrespectful and reckless man seemed absurd as well as impossible. These were, of course, insuperable barriers to any romance between Jane and Lisbon. And her powerful pride and sense of her own self-worth as a professional and as a person had helped her keep those walls intact.

But everything had changed in those last two years of the search for Red John. Lisbon sensed, in retrospect, that this was when Jane had let her in, more and more every day, finally treating her as a trusted and respected equal in his investigation. He shared with her elements of his investigation that no one else knew existed. How many years had she spent craving that level of trust from him? From this change on his side resulted a new intimacy between them that she knew he must have felt. It was an intense chemistry that seemed to sizzle between them more strongly every day that they worked side by side. Did Jane tell himself that this closeness was just the bond of friendship? Was that actually all he felt? Given the sparks she knew were real between them, it was hard to believe that her feelings were unreciprocated.

Sure, he hadn't let her in 100%. There were even those times that he'd lied to her again and twisted circumstances to leave her stranded while he charged into danger alone. Sometimes, when she thought about that day he'd hugged her tightly and then abandoned her on that beach, she felt like she'd been standing there still ever since. Waiting for him to return, to say it was all a mistake, that he loved her, needed her, couldn't be who he was without her. Even in that state of mind, she also knew he'd tricked her to protect her, cheating her of the ability to protect him, as usual.

Similarly, she often flashed back to the day he'd "shot her" in her office, the level honesty in Jane's voice when he had said "love you," despite his shaking nervousness. And she still felt as if she was rooted to the floor, shot to the gut with an overwhelming longing that consumed her. Maybe he hadn't meant that he loved her in that way. Maybe he had. Jane was an uncrackable code. Yet, there was no one - and this was still true, she knew - whom Jane trusted as much as he did her.

All those little signs that he felt the same...when he took her hand on the side of the road on that terrible day when Luther Wainwright was killed...even the vulnerable, warm way he'd held her on the dance-floor at that ridiculous school dance an investigation had dropped them into. What would Jane say if he could see into Lisbon's Memory Palace? After all these years, she still felt the painful tug-of-war within her heart and mind...did he love her back? Or did he just see her as his closest friend in the world? Why did the latter possibility have to hurt so badly? Lisbon wished she could just accept the incredible gift of that friendship and trust, let that be enough, and fall in love with the wonderful man she'd been on so many lovely dates with lately.

Sadly - and she knew it was sad, and embarrassing - she'd rather have been at home with a glass of red wine and the box of Jane's letters from Mexico on all of those nights she'd been out with her new chance at a normal love life. Lisbon knew she'd never be pathetic, but sometimes she felt she was teetering treacherously along the edge of it. In her calmest moments, which were rare, she just leaned back into the embrace of her love for Jane and let the warmth of those feelings wash over her, a sensation she always felt when she saw his eyes flick over her in a moment of interested analysis he tried to conceal. There was something unspoken in those glances he perhaps unconsciously gifted her with...even in her lowest ebbs of doubt he cared, she knew those looks meant something serious.

A knock at the door. She raised her own eyes to see Cho standing there, comfortingly standard in his nonplussed gait. "Hey Boss. Caught a new case," he announced, nodding over at Abbott, who stood across the room with a phone cradled between his cheek and shoulder. Lisbon fought the urge to leap up, so relieved at this new distraction.

"I want you, Jane, Fischer, and Cho in Dallas five minutes ago," Abbott ordered with his trademark bluntness. Lisbon knew the drill. Another dead body, more justice to be sought for the poor soul whose life must have been entangled in a saga that crossed borders and enmeshed many other lives as well, or it wouldn't be federal and Abbott wouldn't be so worked up. She hated that someone had most likely been murdered. But she needed this case right now, despite the fraught company she'd have to solve it with.

"You'd look great in a Stetson," Jane murmured in her ear. She wanted to jump ten feet in the air, she was so startled by his sudden, infuriatingly sensual presence, his hot breath brushing her skin and raising goosebumps all over her body. However, she drew on the abilities she'd honed over the years and stood her ground, nonchalant and cool as ever.

"I know," she replied with an easy smile. She watched the crinkle lines around his grin increase at her acquiescence in the humorous moment, saw that familiar, yet still exciting habit of his recur - the way he gave her a once-over as if he was looking at her for the very first time. Why did he still look at her that way, and then with such a self-conscious, almost self-reproaching demeanor, look away? The mystery still seduced her, to her dual aggravation and happiness, everyday. Somehow, his mystery gave her life more meaning than anything else. It was crazy.

She loved and hated Jane's new, post-Red John, post-Mexico look with a passion. The way he looked so thrown together all the time, when she knew he meticulously planned every aspect of his appearance, was annoying. The irritatingly sexy stubble he kept almost growing into a beard, for example, clashed noticeably with his perfectly coifed hair. He wore his hair slightly slicked back now in a way that complimented his absurdly handsome face, features marked irreparably by the pain he'd gone through during Red John's reign. Jane looked exhausted and energized at the same time, just as he always had. There was no new skip in his step now that he'd killed Red John. Lisbon had called that one. Somehow, she'd sensed that taking the life of that evil son of a bitch would do next to nothing to alleviate the agony of losing Angela and Charlotte. She feared nothing could, not even her own love, had he loved her back. This fear chilled her to the core.

"Fischer, have you ever worn a cowgirl hat?" Jane asked Kim, leaving Lisbon's side and striding over to the other woman. Lisbon again suppressed the urge to scream. What in God's name was wrong with this man, and where did he get off with these childish antics, playing Fischer and herself off of one another like pawns? It pissed her off so much that she'd forced herself to befriend Fischer to spite Jane, despite the resentment she felt towards her - resentment that was, of course, not Fischer's fault. None of it was Fischer's fault, she reminded herself. She had no idea how Lisbon felt, Teresa reasoned. Moreover, what woman, lonely and sensitive as Kim clearly was, could possibly resist the dazzling charms of Jane turned up to level ten on a daily basis? It couldn't be done.

"Jane, have you ever tried just doing your job?" Lisbon quipped, leading the gaggle of agents out of the office and towards the elevators.

"Don't tempt me to go back to my couch, Lisbon," Jane retorted, and Fischer rolled her eyes as if she was part of all this somehow. Was she? How had this stranger become embroiled in the repartee that had flown between Lisbon and Jane for more than a decade? As bizarre as her life since meeting Jane had become at various intervals, this newest development, Kim's strange presence, the way she stood cluelessly between them somehow, was the most remarkably and hurtfully strange.

Jane was a habit, Lisbon realized, a crutch as irrefutably all-encompassing and destructive as any addiction to drugs, alcohol, gambling, or whatever could possibly be. Like some maniac who magically concealed her mania, Lisbon kept on stumbling forward, hiding her inner conflict with an ease that disturbed her. She was an involuntary emotional masochist, and if this was an addiction, she feared she'd never earn the proverbial "days clean" chip for her love for Jane.

Once they arrived at the crime scene, Lisbon flinched as she always did at the sight of the corpse, worn away by days of exposure. She listened as Jane made a series of casual, self-congratulatory assessments about the murdered man that illuminated the scenario considerably - of course. Lisbon fell confidently back into their well broken-in rhythms: Jane made his Holmesian observations and played his little games so perfectly. Lisbon interwove his shenanigans with real-world considerations and played the cop, taking action based on their collaborative detective work. It was a satisfying, successful, well-oiled machine, their partnership. It was clear as Fischer stood awkwardly to one side, watching Jane and Lisbon work, that the agent was not happy to do her own thing at such moments, as Cho was (Kimball was off interviewing some witnesses). Kim was unable to mask her insatiable curiosity about Jane and her desire to involve herself in his games for the thrill it gave her. She was unlike Lisbon in that inability, and in practically every other way except the only one that mattered, Teresa realized, torn somewhere between sympathy and that newly old hat, rueful dislike she harbored towards the woman.

"I'm going to talk to the victim's family," Lisbon announced to Jane. "You coming with?" She steeled herself, as always, against the likelihood she was about to be ditched by this gorgeous, recklessly hurtful man. She shouldn't need him by her side to do her job or live her life. Teresa knew she was strong, independent, beautiful, smart, worthy and capable of love. Best of all, she could act like she knew it, too. Worst of all, she couldn't feel like she knew it.

"Sure," Jane said in an intriguingly curtailed way, trailing her across the field where Marshall's body had been found. Hmm. Interesting. As always. Somehow, a million possibilities seemed to live inside that one word, "sure," falling from his lips. Everything about him seduced her into a half-dazed state that she was just barely able to balance with her ever-present professionalism and on-task-ness. It wasn't a disguise, that cop attitude of hers. It was just as truthful and real as her infatuated reverie. It was odd that he managed to pervade her mind-space so entirely, yet somehow his presence enhanced her abilities as an investigator too.

They were almost back to the car when she turned back to look at him again. "I'm driving," she teased, locking eyes with him, smoothly and instinctively covering the way he hypnotized her. Was she really that distracted by Patrick Jane after all of this time? Shouldn't this all be not only routine, but actually quite boring by now? Shouldn't she be sick of this inscrutable push and pull between them? Whatever the case should be, clearly he held her quite in thrall still. Because when the car barrelled into her, violently smashing her body and hurtling her into the air, Lisbon couldn't have been more completely off-guard.