.

.

I don't own anything about The Mentalist. Dang it. No copyright infringement is intended.

AN: I have worked harder and longer on this piece than anything I've ever written for TM. That doesn't mean I'm particularly pleased with the result, or that I think people will necessarily enjoy it. I've always found Lisbon much harder to write in first person than Jane, and this is a prime example.

In the end, I wrote this for selfish reasons – to try and figure out for myself where Lisbon's head was during the last few episodes of Season 7. The timeline was confusing and we weren't given a huge number of clues. This is my attempt to figure her out. It fills in at different places during each of the last five episodes. I hope you find it worth reading.

Copper Bullet

Who could have predicted that Abbott's suggestion that we all meet for a beer at the festival would lead to such a great night? I hesitate to use the word perfect – bad luck – but everything seems so right with the world. Abbott's wife got her appointment, and he'll be moving to DC in a couple of months. Thanks to our team, our boss never has to worry about the skeletons in his closet again, and I'm happy for him.

Vega and Wylie have mysteriously disappeared somewhere together, only to end up on the dance floor. Jane and I agree he has a huge crush on her, and they are cute together, but I could give them a lot of frank advice about interoffice romance.

Abbott delivers some great news to Cho – turns out he will be our new boss. It's well deserved, and he's someone I will be happy to work for. It makes me smile that he celebrates the biggest event of his professional life by getting another taco. Go wild, Kimball, go wild.

So now it's just me and Jane, sitting at the picnic table. The warm evening air smells like BBQ and soft pretzels, and he gives me a smile. It's the first private and unstructured moment we've had alone in ages. Since this seems to be a night for getting things settled, I figure I should go ahead and get things straight with him about my job.

"You know we never finished our conversation," I begin.

"No, it got busy."

I'm annoyed by his constant fretting over the risks of my job. It seems so unproductive. "Life throws you curve balls."

"Are we talking about baseball now?" he grumps.

"I'm serious, I want us to be strong together." We need to be on the same page about this.

"We are, aren't we?"

Not fair, Jane, not fair, turning it back on me. "I love you, and I also love what I do. You can't be jealous of that." I shouldn't have to give up the job I love to do what he wants, and he needs to get over that.

"It's not that."

He seems sincere. "What is it? What?" He's watched me do this work for years – why is it different now?

"I don't want to lose you. I don't know how I would react."

Now he's just being ridiculous. "You're not going to lose me."

"You don't know that."

I know I need to be patient with his fears. He's just spooked because of that sniper case. Sparkman's injury has temporarily increased his anxiety about my safety, and that should fade with time. It's bigger than that, though. Jane has to come to terms with the fact that we can't see the future. He of all people should understand there's no such thing as psychics.

"Nobody knows what's going to happen," I remind him. "You could die tomorrow or I could. We need to focus on what's going on right now. It's good. It's very, very good." I want him to accept the fact that worrying is a waste of time.

"Yeah. Okay," he nods halfheartedly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

Well, that wasn't very convincing. He denies it, but I can tell it bothers him that I want to keep our relationship on the down low at work. And I get that, I guess. I was so open about Marcus at the office, and now here I am, hiding a much deeper relationship. Maybe it's time we weren't so secretive. Maybe that would cheer him up. Besides, as Jane would say, it'll be fun.

"Do you wanna dance?" I ask.

"Right here, in front of everybody?" He's definitely surprised, and he picks up on the significance immediately. I give him a suggestive grin.

"Okay, one dance," he agrees, taking a sip of his beer.

"No, two." I do need to make a statement here.

"Everything is a negotiation with you."

We bicker good-naturedly all the way to the dance floor, but there's no doubt that he is pleased. He's a fantastic dancer (of course) and he twirls me around and around to the upbeat music. Then the band slows it down, and Jane gathers me into his arms. I press my hips against him as we sway with the music.

"Okay, maybe three dances," he concedes, his voice husky in my ear. I don't complain as he takes my cue, sliding his lips down my cheek in a whispery kiss. His hand travels down to the small of my back, pressing our bodies even closer. I feel a flash of heat, and raw want stirs inside me. I wasn't kidding when I said things were very good, and now all I want to do is get this man back to the Airstream so I can abandon any notion of propriety.

"Airstream," I whisper urgently. "Now."

He replies with a barely audible, "Umhum," and breaks our embrace, nonchalantly leading me from the dance floor with a polite grasp of my hand.

The second the door to the Airstream is closed, our bodies crash together, greedy for each other. Our lovemaking is primal and hungry, over in a rush. Then we begin again, this time with a slow, deliberate intensity. We are so in tune, so focused, so hyperaware of every sensation and every touch, that it borders on surreal.

It's not like I've never had great sex before, but I had no idea it could be…like this. 'Very, very good' turns out to be a serious understatement. It occurs to me that we aren't using any kind of protection, but I'm pushing forty, so I figure that's not a big deal. That thought evaporates quickly as he trails a languid kiss from the angle of my jaw down to my breast.

Sometime later, sated and content, we fall asleep tangled together.

.

.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

A mere few days later, Jane has me at my wits' end in a very different way.

I thought things were bad back when Jane sent me off my post on that wild goose chase to "protect me" on the sniper case. Little did I know, things would only get worse when the unthinkable happens - we lose Vega. Her death has served to intensify his fear and make him desperate. So much so, that he plunged headlong into a house of hostages in a fit of panic, just so I wouldn't go in with the team. He can't keep doing this.

Things have been so busy there's never been a good time to talk, but finally, after the funeral, I spot him at the periphery of the graveyard, crouched under a tree. I know this is hard for him. But he's going to get himself killed trying to save me. This has to stop. I need to lay down the law.

And then "boom," he turns things upside down and says he's leaving – that I can go or stay. I'm dumbfounded and scared, and yes, hurt. He kisses me sweetly on the cheek, and the son of a bitch just walks away.

I go home and curl up in a ball on my bed and cry for thirty minutes. Maybe it's for Vega. Maybe it's because the man I love ran just away from me again. Or maybe it's just my PMS. I'm a couple of days late – not unusual given the amount of stress I've been under the last few days. That has to be the culprit. These stupid hormones are making me blubbery, and I need to get a grip.

Byzantium

A week later, Jane isn't anywhere to be found, and he's not responding to my phone calls. At first, that simply adds to my anger and frustration with him. After a few more attempts, I add worry to my churned up emotional state. He could be dead and I wouldn't know.

The team catches a new case that reeks of serial killer, and it's frankly embarrassing to admit to both Cho and then Abbott that Jane won't answer my calls. I note that Abbott is onto us, too. I guess I shouldn't be surprised, after that dancing. I tell him I'm handling it. To add to my concern, my boobs are sore as hell and I still haven't started. My God, could it be? Could I be? I doubt it, but damn Patrick Jane's sorry hide, he doesn't get to run away. Not this time.

I look across the bullpen, watching Wylie type madly at his keyboard, and I make a decision. "Wylie, Jane isn't answering my calls. Would you ping his phone for me?"

His eyebrows come up, but after thinking a moment he says, "Sure." Ten minutes later, I know that Jane is in Arizona. Or at least his phone is.

I check the directory and punch a number into my phone. "This is Special Agent Teresa Lisbon from Austin FBI. I need for you all to pick someone up for us, please. Name's Patrick Jane. Shouldn't be hard to spot. He's driving a silver Airstream motor home, Texas plates WDV 375. He's not armed or violent, but we need him brought in right away."

They are happy to comply, but ask what the charge is. My smile is evil. "Failure to appear." Your ass is mine, Patrick Jane. Your ass is mine.

XXXXX

A new fake psychic pops up right before they drag the old one in. Great. I am surprised by the lack of cynicism regarding Gabriel from both Abbott and Wylie. At least Cho has the experience to know better.

Soon Jane is sitting in the interrogation room, sipping steaming tea out of the turquoise cup I saved for him. When I join him, our conversation is icy. He seems sincere when he says he's sorry that he worried me, but I don't give an inch. I'm still mad, and I surely don't want him suspecting what I suspect. I don't know for sure, after all.

He says he's working through things. I don't pretend to understand his warped little mind, but there may be a new, important reason he needs to get his head straight. "What can I do to help you figure things out?" I ask. That's civil. That's helpful. Right?

Time. Time I can give him. Some, anyway. But he has to take my calls.

He agrees. He'd better. I go back to work, and out of the corner of my eye I see Abbott go into the room with him. Good. Maybe he can get Jane interested in the case. They disappear into the elevator. Before long, Abbott returns alone, and I approach him. "Did you get Jane's take on Gabriel?"

"Yes, I did. He's suspicious. And the kid has some nerve – he even read Jane."

"Really? Did he get it right?" I bite my tongue to keep from guessing 'self absorbed asshole?'

"He said something was eating at Jane and his cure would come with the number three," Abbott says with a wry smile.

I laugh. "That's nearly as good as saying it will be near a body of water."

He dips his head in acknowledgement of that truth, but adds, "Jane says we should keep an eye on him."

It doesn't take psychic powers to know that, either.

On the way home I stop by Walgreens and buy a pregnancy test. I need to know one way or another. The stress of not knowing is making me tired. Or something is. I still think it's unlikely, but it's been over a week and I need to settle my nerves.

XXXXX

Oh my God. I hyperventilate, staring at the little plus on the stick. It's not ambiguous at all. Oh my God. I pick up the phone to call Jane – not to tell him – just to make sure he takes my call. It goes to voice mail, and my finger fairly assaults the "end" button to punch out of the call. Bastard.

Even in light of my situation, it dawns on me that deep down, I'm happy. I'm excited. And more than a little frightened at the thought I might be raising a child. I know Jane. If I tell him this news, he will be happy, and he will stay for the child. But that's not how I want things to go, and I resolve to wait and see what happens. This will remain my secret for now.

Oh my God.

XXXXX

It's a new day, and this case is taking nasty turns. I do my best to convince poor distraught Wylie that Gabriel isn't actually a psychic. He's hurting about Vega, and wants so desperately to believe. Lo and behold, the kid's "clue" about the red clay pans out. Forensics is digging away when I see the Airstream drive up and Jane hurries up the hill to meet me, apologizing as he walks. He didn't mean to miss my call, he says.

"I'm back."

Well whoop-ti-do. "What does that mean, 'you're back'?"

He says he's figuring things out. He seems sincere – and different somehow. More tuned in. "It's good to see you," he says with a sweet little smile, and I return the smile in spite of everything. It is good to see him. But then there's this case.

By nightfall, our young fake psychic is dead. Left hanging like a side of beef, drained of some blood and minus a nail. This is not good.

.

.

.

Brown Shag Carpet

The next day we make very little progress on the case, but after work Jane says he wants to show me something. We take a short drive out of town in the Airstream and then he covers my eyes and walks me through the countryside. "Have you gotten me another horse?" I quip, almost serious.

Land? A pond? A shack? He wants to buy this property and fix up the little house, he says. For us. That's all well and good, but it's time to get some straight answers out of him. I need to know I'm not alone in this. Citing his plan as evidence, he responds to my concerns by assuring me he isn't leaving again. (He tells me this while wearing a wedding ring from his previous marriage). I want to know if there's hope that he will ever truly go forward with me. I need to know. I suck it up and ask about the ring.

"I'm just used to it," he explains, but his reaction to my question only serves to make my point. Of course, my phone rings.

XXXXX

Another disturbing dead body later, the only thing we're sure of is that Gabriel is not the killer. We're shorthanded without Vega, and reinforcement comes in the form of Rick Tork. I haven't seen him in ages, and right away he reminds me why I haven't missed him.

He promptly proposes that Jane should pretend to be a psychic, to draw out the killer, and the room tenses at his callous suggestion. I watch Jane slump under the weight of his regret and guilt as he beats a hasty retreat to the break room.

I feel my own pangs of guilt as well. I shouldn't have pressured him about his ring. He's professed his love for me and assured me he isn't leaving again. He's putting down roots in the form of a house for the first time since his family was killed. That ring is the only memento he has left of his former life – surely I can allow him that one thing. I follow him into the break room, and begin by telling him about Gabriel's autopsy.

"Poor kid."

Jane's right. The organic nature of Gabriel's imagined "gift" makes the whole thing sadder somehow.

"I shouldn't have said anything about the ring," I tell him. "I'm sorry. Really. You do what you need to. I'm okay, I swear." I mean it. He protests, but we're interrupted yet again. Wylie says the killer has been shot? Maybe our hunt is over.

When we get to the scene, the situation isn't resolved. Instead, it's become more tragic and urgent. An innocent man has been killed by a frightened resident. Over the wails of the dead man's inconsolable widow, the local cop emphasizes that the city is in a panic, and she's right. Abbott is frustrated – he doesn't even have a plan.

"Okay, well..uh…do we try Tork's idea?" Jane offers.

"NO!" I cannot believe my ears. "Boss!" Abbott is manipulating Jane into agreeing to this, and that makes me furious. "Do you want him to do to Jane what he did to Gabriel?!"

"Now you know we won't let that happen."

"You can't promise that." Jane must be amused to hear me make the same argument he has made to me so often. At the moment, I don't care.

Much to my dismay, Jane calls me off. "I'll do it."

Anything I can think of to say about why he shouldn't take this risk will ring hollow given how many times the tables have been turned. Is this Jane giving me a taste of my own medicine? No, I think he genuinely wants to help.

I don't have to be happy about it.

XXXXX

We're quiet in the car the next day on the way to the TV station, and as Jane prepares to go on, I plead with him one more time. "You don't have to do this."

He approaches the podium anyway.

When the program starts, he looks out of sorts for a moment. I'm starting to think he's upset when he nails the newscaster's personal history, and I realize it's all part of Jane's remarkable act. I have to smile with something approaching pride at just how good he is at this. Later in the day, he has the afternoon talk show hosts eating out of his hand just as easily.

The news shows serve to dangle the bait, and now it's time for the radio talk show. It's a late night program, and it's been a long day, so when Tork shows up to relieve me, I accept his offer. I do get a scare when I find the Airstream door unlocked, but it turns out to be nothing. I can't start jumping at shadows now. I assure Jane I'm on my way back to the FBI.

There's no one in the bullpen when I arrive, and I am exhausted. While I'm waiting for them to get back, I take my jacket off and stretch out on Jane's couch. I remember Karen complaining about how tired she felt in her first trimester, but I had no idea it was like this. I'm asleep as soon as I close my eyes.

The Airstream is enveloped in fog as I approach and open the door. I creep inside, gun at the ready. I find Jane lying face down on the bed, crumpled as only a dead body can be crumpled. No! I want to shout, but I can't.

His arm hangs over the edge of the bed, revealing his left hand. It is pasty white except for a patch of blood where a fingernail is missing. It's his ring finger. The number three has been drawn on the wall behind him in glittery white paint.

I try to call out for help, but I feel like I'm drowning in the fog. Then I hear a voice. It's calling me. It sounds like Cho.

"Lisbon."

Yes, it's Cho.

Then louder, "Lisbon!"

My eyes snap open with a start and the leather under my cheek orients me right away. I'm on Jane's couch at work. I must have fallen asleep. Thank God, it was a only a bad dream.

"Lisbon," Cho repeats. He is standing in front of the couch, looking down on me.

I sit up in a flash. "Sorry, I dropped off," I explain, blinking until Cho comes into focus. There's worry on his normally impassive face, and I know immediately that something has happened. Wylie stops typing and glances back at me, anticipating my reaction.

"What's wrong?" I demand.

"The killer crashed a car into Tork and Jane's car outside the radio station."

My heart leaps to my throat.

"Tork's hurt – on his way to the hospital but he looks like he'll be okay."

God, no. I swallow hard, terrified of what will come next.

"Jane was gone from the site, and we assume the suspect took him. We don't know where. Abbott's calling in a huge crew to help us on this and there's a briefing here in the bullpen in ten minutes."

I force a stiff nod, and I'm thankful I'm already sitting down. Mercifully, Cho turns to join Abbott in his office and Wylie goes back to his keyboard. I manage to stand and head for the ladies room, disciplining myself to walk at a normal pace. When I get there, though I'm alone in the restroom, I go into a stall and smack the latch closed. I turn and lean back against the door, relieved to be safe from anyone's prying eyes.

A single sob escapes my lips before I can regain control.

I've been frightened for Jane's safety many times over the last twelve years, but tonight I feel a deeper, more primal fear. Is it because we're more intimate now? Or because I'm pregnant with his child? It occurs to me that if he's killed, he will never know about being a father again.

My fears spiral wildly. What if I miscarry? What if I lose Jane and the child? That would be more than I could… The irony of my dread hits me like ice water. Jane has already been through just that. Only now am I truly beginning to understand.

I take several deep breaths and try to calm myself. What have I told Jane so many times? We don't know what's going to happen. Worrying is nonproductive. I stand up straight and gather my wits. I've been in here awhile, and I need to get back out with the team. Attend the briefing. When I emerge from the restroom, the bullpen is already full so I stand in the back, and soon Abbott starts to address the group. The first thing he shows us is Jane's car being rammed. Jesus, he could be seriously hurt just from that impact. Deep breaths, Teresa, deep breaths. Hold it together.

Abbott comes back to apologize, but I can't bring myself to absolve him. I hope and pray he's right about Jane exploiting the situation. Cho's handing out assignments and eventually he looks straight at me.

"Lisbon?"

He wants to know if I'm up for this. I nod.

"You run down the abandoned truck registration and plates, and see if you can come up with some leads. They haven't found much blood in it at the scene, so hopefully Jane isn't badly injured."

It's a small comfort, but better than the alternative. I remind myself that I'm not going to accomplish anything if I'm paralyzed with worry, and I need to get busy doing something that might help. I have to steel my nerves and focus on what can be done. We have to find Jane. We have to. As soon as possible. And for now, that's all I need to think about.

XXXXXXX

Wylie's descriptions of all these internet weirdo's has only reinforced my need to find Jane quickly. I don't hesitate to go off on this kinky professor, and he believes me because I'm telling the truth. In a moment of absolute clarity, I understand that getting Jane back to me safe and sound easily trumps everything else in my life.

The names I get out of him give us some leads, and I feed on the hope of progress as I drive out to the address Wylie gave me. The moment I arrive, the house explodes, and as I sprint inside, a horrible feeling of déjà vu comes over me. I call out for him, and then I hear that cough. He's not only alive, he's conscious, and I carefully gather him up and help him out of the house.

"Don't you ever do this to me again," I scold. I mean it.

.

.

XXXXX

I say a little prayer of thanks when I finally have Jane safely tucked into bed in the Airstream. He looks a bit worse for wear, and I plant a kiss softly on his forehead. I got him to the ER while he was still too woozy to protest, and the doctor said he would have a massive headache and some ringing in his ears, but there would be no permanent damage.

His weary smile lets me know he appreciates the fuss, and I have to fight back the urge to tell him our important news right this minute. Reason prevails. There is no doubt in my mind he will be happy about this, and I should wait until he feels well enough to fully enjoy the moment.

.

.

White Orchids

The next morning I'm nearly ready to leave for work, when he awakens with a groan.

"Tylenol?" I ask.

He nods. "What day is it?"

"Thursday," I answer, handing him a couple of pills and a glass of water.

He rises on one elbow, immediately alert. "I sign on the property today. At nine."

"It's only seven thirty. Maybe you should just rest today? Want me to come back at lunch and check on you?"

"No, I'm fine," he says, swallowing the pills. "I want to get started." He eases himself back down with a sigh. "I'll get up in a few minutes."

Later in the morning, he calls me and asks me to bring food out to the cabin when I get a break. Cho gives me the afternoon off, and I consider this might the right time to tell Jane, if he's feeling better. I abandon that plan when I am floored by his beautiful proposal, though I suppose I should have expected nothing less from Patrick Jane. We quickly agree that there is no reason to wait, and plan to marry quietly in a couple of days – as soon as we can make the arrangements.

I decide to hold onto my news a little while longer, and give him a wedding present that is equally unexpected and wonderful. I can't wait to see the look on his face.

.

.

XXXXX

In the end, I don't even have to say it. Patrick absorbs the news of my pregnancy with equal measures of shock and joy. He holds me tight and rocks me gently, as the sounds of our family and friends' celebration drift across the little pond.

Eventually, we break our embrace and stare at each other. "Teresa…I…" He's genuinely at a loss for words and I give myself points for rendering Patrick Jane speechless.

"Now that we're married, will you just accept the fact that I can keep secrets from you if I want?" Touche. I grin, and attempt to scramble to my feet. Wedding dresses aren't made with ease of movement in mind. "C'mon, we should probably make an exit from the party."

He takes my hand to assist me. "Yes, of course."

"You know," I say as we make our way around the pond toward the party, "I think Gabriel was right."

"How's that?"

"Your cure came with the number three."

He chuckles. "Abbott told you about that?"

"Yup."

"He should have guessed 'near a body of water' as well," he teases, tilting his head toward the pond.

"Wait!" I stop, squinting my eyes as though I'm receiving a message from the heavens. "Mints. I see mints in my future. On something soft. A pillow? And the letter 'A'."

"Yes, Lisbon," he confirms patiently. "Our reservations are for the Alahambra."

Then he smiles and closes his own eyes, holding out his hand as if reaching up for something. "I'm sensing something as well." He frowns. "I hear a voice. A female voice. 'Oh God,' she's shouting. 'God, YES! YES!'"

"Hush," I say, smacking his shoulder.

Later that evening…

The Alahambra is nice, I muse, as we lie in bed together, relaxed and drowsy, basking in the glow. We certainly gave these high thread count sheets a spin, I snicker to myself. I glance over at my new husband, who is lying there smirking.

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head 'no.'"

"C'mon. No secrets," I admonish him good-naturedly.

"Okay," he says, giving me that 'you'll be sorry you asked' look. "I called it, Lisbon," he grins. "I called it!"

God help me. What in the world have I signed on for?

.

.

.

AN: Thanks for reading, and I'd love to know if you think I got anywhere close to Lisbon's mindset.