Disclaimer: As you probably guessed by now, this show and its characters aren't mine.

A/N: This conclusion to the Red Badge arc has been a long time coming (parts of this chapter were written early July 2017, believe it or not). Thank you for your patience, hopefully this makes up for the horrific wait.

It's September 23! Happy 10th Anniversary, fellow Mentalist fans! We organised a Creative Fest this year on Twitter but since I got hit by a terrible bout of writer's block these past 6 months, I hope you don't mind me cheating a little and using this chapter as my contribution.

The prompt I chose to include was #134: "The plan was just a night home on the couch." Whoever gave it, I hope you'll enjoy its inclusion as some sort of Easter egg.

Warnings: Canon themes of suicide (talking about it, character faking distress that is implied to lead to suicide). If this triggers you, please stay safe.

Spoilers: Some dialogues are taken directly from 2.03 "Red Badge".

Kindred
Interlude: Red Badge III

"Have you lost all common sense?!"

"What? It's a natural progression!"

"Breaking a window in my office is a natural progression?!"

"Well, look at the bright side. Direct communication with the team without having to get up from your desk – at least until they replace the glass."

"Funny. What about Bosco? I can't just pick up a fight with him like that!"

"Why not?"

"It may come as a surprise to you, but I kind of expect to keep a good working relationship with my colleagues after this!"

"Meh, don't worry about Bosco. He'll forgive you – he's always asking for a fight anyway, you'll just give him what he wants."

She growls. He grins up at her from the couch. The urge to swat his feet off the armrest is strong – but she reigns it in out of habit and keeps storing random knick-knacks in a cardboard box.

Clearing her office.

Well, not her office anymore, she amends to herself – doing her best to ignore the pang in her chest. Thankfully, Jane's infernal cheer provides her with the perfect distraction.

"You're having way too much fun planning this."

"Don't tell me you didn't have fun messing with your shrink for an hour," he says, giving her a pointed look.

She rolls her eyes, but cannot completely hide her smile.

"I was in there less than 20 minutes. That's hardly an hour."

"Meh. Semantics. You enjoyed yourself! There's no shame in that."

She hesitates.

"Alright. I kinda did," she admits reluctantly. "Some parts, at least."

"See?"

"But that's not the point!"

"Of course it's the point," he chuckles. "Pretending you're depressed enough to think about killing yourself, pretending you're angry enough to break a window – it's the same thing, only different in scale."

She crosses her arms, unconvinced. Jane sits up with a sigh, hands on his thighs.

"Shouldn't we be past this already? You have to sell it, Lisbon. People see you getting angry with me all the time, do you really think a little bit of yelling is gonna cut it?"

Then he grins.

"Besides, it'll be loads of fun. Think of all the stress you'll exorcise!"

Nothing Jane suggests should ever be that tempting.

"Maybe. But there's a huge difference between being sad and throwing things at everybody's head! It's my career at stakes, Jane. How much time do you think it'll take me to undo the fallouts of an hysterical breakdown in the middle of the bullpen?"

"It's an act, Lisbon, there won't be any fallouts. You'll be cleared by tonight!"

She wants to argue further, explain her concerns – try to make him understand that the stigma attached to that kind of act will never completely die down, even after they establish it was a con. That the only way to survive in a traditionally male career like law enforcement is to be above reproach at all time – because a woman's tears are forgivable but a woman's anger isn't, and how does he actually expect people to act normally around her after bearing witness to that kind of scene?

How does he expect her to act normally around them, when everything is over?

But a knock on the door interrupts them just as she opens her mouth – and she glares at Jane as if he was responsible for it, because what else can she do?

Damn the man and his infuriating schemes.

"Boss," says Cho, poking his head in. "We have a lead."

Rigsby and Van Pelt are standing behind him, the same focussed expression painted over all three of their faces. She bites her lip.

"Come in."

They do, closing the door behind them. Jane stands up, suddenly all business and no play – and she leans her hip against the desk, arms crossed over her chest, trying to keep up the game of desperation and vulnerability.

They've been doing this for less than a week. She's already so tired of pretending.

"My guy in Pelican Bay came through," starts Rigsby. "A few years ago, McTier was cell mate with a guy named David Charles."

"The same David Charles who turns out to be the brother of McTier's girlfriend," adds Van Pelt.

"Rigsby and I went to see him. Found out he's been paid ten grand to lure McTier in the alley," finishes Cho.

"Ten grand?" she says, blinking – completely dropping the act in her surprise.

"We think it was a hit from someone with a lot of cash lying around. That's not anyone on government pay."

"We just need to track down the money, find out where it came from. I can do the computer work!"

"That way we'd find who the real killer is. Clear up your name, get you back at the head of the unit. Cho's doing a good job, but – no offence, Cho – he's not you."

"Wait," she says. "Hang on. Bosco's the one in charge, why did you come to me? I'm on suspension, I'm not even supposed to – and why the hell are you even working the case? We were given express orders to drop it!"

Van Pelt glances at Jane. Cho and Rigsby exchange a look. She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Because that's the meaning of a team, Lisbon," says Jane. "We don't bail on one of our own."

"Yeah."

"What he said."

"And we figured you're the only one who can convince Jane to stop being cryptic and just tell us where to look," adds Van Pelt. "That way we'll stop losing our time on leads that won't pan out and clear your name as quickly as possible."

She frowns. Jane is smiling sheepishly, exactly like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and a terrible suspicion swells in her mind.

"What did you tell them?" she asks, anger, panic, and betrayal slowly rising inside.

"Nothing they didn't already figure out."

"Jane, I told you – "

"You're being framed, right?" interrupts Cho. "That's all we know. Frankly, boss, it wasn't that hard to guess – even if you did kill a guy, you'd never be stupid enough to call in an anonymous tip to your own unit."

"Or to drop the murder weapon in a trash can near the crime scene, especially with your fingerprints still on it," adds Van Pelt.

"You're not a murderer, boss. You'd never kill in cold blood, we all know that," says Rigsby.

Jane just stands behind them, quietly smiling, rocking lightly on his feet. But the intensity in his gaze gives credence to their words – acting as the binding agent holding them together, or maybe the springboard propelling them forward.

They're taking a stand.

The realisation nearly takes her breath away. It's not the first time they do – she saw them hold their ground on several occasions in the past year. But every time they did, she was right there beside them, banding together to help Jane.

Not her.

Minelli's reaction to her failing the polygraph stung – made her feel isolated and undeserving, discarded on a flimsy excuse despite years of hard work. But she isn't without allies, after all. And suddenly finding herself the recipient of that kind of loyalty is –

– overwhelming.

Her team – hers! – looks uneasy as she clears her voice, blinks too many times. For a second she wonders just how much to tell them. There's no doubt she needs to tell them something – Rigsby's earnest eyes, Van Pelt's determined expression, and Cho's worried frown take the decision out of her hands – but must she really go over all the embarrassing parts?

A glance towards Jane shows him to be amused. Of course he'd read her hesitation and guess what it's about. Damn him. She glares. He raises his eyebrows.

It'll all come out in court anyway, he told her just a few days ago.

"Okay," she says, clearing her voice a second time. "Okay, fine."

They stay quiet as she and Jane take turns explaining about the drugs, about the hypnosis session, about Carmen being behind the whole thing. Jane tries to start on their current plan in motion, but she silences him with a glare before he gives any details. She isn't ready to implicate them into something that may cost them their jobs.

As they talk, she catches Cho glancing sharply at Jane once or twice. She refuses to let her thoughts linger about why – though she knows, of course she does. Cho was always the most likely to notice the holes in their story – the things they gloss over, the things neither of them explain.

How Jane figured out she was in trouble.

How he spent a whole night guarding her, a gun on his lap, when she was incapacitated by the drugs.

Why at first they both thought it might be Red John.

Those things she considered as they happened, wondered about, but now refuses to ponder longer than necessary.

Now is not the time.

It takes less than fifteen minutes to come to the end of what she feels comfortable disclosing. Silence falls on the office. For a moment her team members look at each other, assessing the situation as if they were debriefing one of their regular cases. They think so loudly she can nearly hear them, though she wouldn't chance a guess as to what they're thinking.

"So – how can we help?" asks Rigsby, breaking the standstill.

"As Jane said, we have a plan," she admits. "But I cannot allow you three in. If this gets out before we have enough proof or worse, if it doesn't work – "

"Of course it'll work!" interrupts Jane, offended.

" – if it doesn't work and you're found helping us, you'll all get in trouble."

"What about you?" asks Van Pelt.

"I'm already on suspension. You three need to keep your heads down until we sort out this mess."

"Or at least don't get caught," adds Jane, grinning.

"Jane!"

He shrugs, chuckling quietly.

"Come on, Lisbon. You don't really expect them to just stand there and wait, right?"

"That's exactly what I'm expecting."

"That's not happening," says Cho. "We're already in trouble with Bosco. Might as well keep pushing. Nobody's going to go as hard on this case as us."

"Yeah, and whatever we do now, it won't get any worse for us. Not after the visit we paid to David Charles, anyway."

"So – you say it's Dr. Carmen who gave you the drugs? Maybe I could check out his financials to – "

"No," she interrupts with a glare. "We don't have a warrant. If you check his financial records illegally and find something, we won't be able to use it in court. It could get the whole case thrown out."

They glance at each other again, and she knows that expression – the stubborn, headstrong look of the cops who won't let go now that there's a trail to follow. If she doesn't give them something to do, they'll rush in and do more harm than good. She takes a deep breath.

"But," she adds reluctantly. "Now at least we know Carmen didn't order the hit himself. The CBI doesn't pay him enough to waste ten grands on that kind of scheme. So that means someone hired him – someone with resources."

"Someone who's desperate to get Lisbon out of the way," adds Jane, catching on. "And who thinks like a criminal – enough to order a hit."

"You mean a suspect from an open case," says Cho after a small beat.

"Maybe. We don't know. But we already have warrants and subpoenas for most of those cases, so – I mean, if you three wanted to do a little digging that way, in your free time of course, I couldn't stop you."

Van Pelt's grin is full of teeth. Cho and Rigsby look determined – ready for action. And for a small second she thinks maybe it'll be enough. Maybe they can solve this with good police work. No need to trick anybody – just follow the evidence, find the killer, arrest everyone with a connection to the case.

But then she meets Jane's gaze. He must see the hope on her face, because he shakes his head slowly – and he's right. Those are nothing but pipe dreams. If she lets her guard down, Carmen will act faster than they can.

Damn it.

They have no choice but to see this con to its end.

"But first," she interjects before they can think of leaving the room. "We go to Bosco about David Charles."

"What?!"

"But – "

"Boss!"

"No discussion! Bosco is in charge of the case, not us. He's a great detective, his team does good work. We shouldn't keep that kind of lead from him."

She takes a deep breath.

"Van Pelt, start digging. Cho, Rigsby, you're the ones who talked to Charles – come with me. Jane – "

His grin is infuriating.

" – stay away from Bosco," she growls.

No need to make things worse. It'll be hard enough coming back from this, once it's all over.

"Boss," says Cho quietly, as they follow her upstairs. "Isn't Bosco the kind of man who resents other cops intruding on his jurisdiction?"

"Yeah," adds Rigsby. "He won't like that we're the ones to come up with a lead."

Their eyes are boring a hole on the back of her neck. She pinches her lips, but doesn't answer.

I know. That's what I'm counting on.

When Lisbon's voice echoes loudly through the bullpen, he chews on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud.

She's doing it. She really is!

For a moment there, he almost expected her to change her mind.

He puts on a convincing mask of surprise then walks to the bullpen where most of his co-workers are standing stunned, like rabbits in the headlights. He tries but is unable to completely hide the slight hint of a bounce in his steps.

We're doing this!

"What was that, Lisbon?"

"She's freaking out," says Bosco, eyebrows etched into a worried frown.

"Oh, come on. It's just Lisbon."

"She's a little stressed," says Cho.

The man's expression is impassive as he glances back and forth between him and Lisbon's office, where she paces like an angry lion. He bites back a grin. Rigsby and Bosco may be clueless, but Cho –

– Cho certainly isn't.

"What is going on?" asks Van Pelt, coming from behind him.

Her question finds an answer when a chair crashes through the window. Activity stop in the bullpen and for a second, the only noise left is the one coming from small pieces of shattered glass falling on the ground. He nearly rolls his eyes at the small, shy 'sorry!' she mumbles under her breath – and he runs to her, closely followed by Bosco, before she can give up the act.

"Why is this happening to me?"

Despite the hesitation in her voice, her body language is impressive – if he didn't know better, he probably wouldn't catch it right away. Her shoulders are hunched but not too much, just enough to make her appear confused and vulnerable, and her expression is heartbreaking.

She looks – small.

Completely unlike the strong, fierce persona they know so well. Nothing remains of the headstrong team leader. Tonight, she's young, and defenceless, and vulnerable.

The perfect combo to attract sharks.

Or shrinks.

"It's alright," he says, soothing. "Let's – let's go."

They need to get out of here as quickly as possible – the day is falling already. But Bosco interposes himself between them and the door.

"I'll take her," he says.

Uh-oh. We didn't plan for that.

Lisbon freezes, glances at him, then at Bosco. He can see the conflict on her features – probably not wanting to alienate Bosco further by leaving with him, he guesses. He catches her gaze, then glances at Cho. A tiny blink, and she falls back into the act.

"No," she says, voice choked up. "Leave me alone."

She walks out, follows Cho to the elevator. He stays behind, watching until they turn the corner, and lets out a small sigh of relief.

She didn't drop the ball.

Good girl.

When he glances behind him, intent on making sure Bosco isn't going to throw sand in their wheels again, he's taken aback by the man's forlorn expression. He expected misdirected anger perhaps, recriminations, accusations – something aggressive, or at least passive-aggressive, just like all of their previous interactions. But instead of anger, the line of his shoulders scream protectiveness, the hand laid on his gun speaks of helplessness and worry, and a hint of wistfulness shadows his eyes.

What is that?

Then the man notices him watching. His expression darkens and – ah. There's the anger.

"I hope you intend to find who killed McTier before Lisbon gets worse," he says before Bosco can speak, taking the offensive. "Do a little police work."

Because she might have told him to stay away from him, but the look on his face made it clear the man wasn't heading back to his office. And keeping him from interfering, keeping him away from Lisbon's apartment tonight is crucial for the success of their plans.

Annoying him is just bonus.

"Oh, that's pretty rich. It's not as if someone like you would know anything about that."

"Seems pretty clear to me you don't know either."

Bosco looks about to implode. He hides his grins. This is too easy.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just a few minutes ago you were served a lead on a silver platter," he points out. "Instead of taking it gracefully, you antagonised Lisbon and pushed her over the edge. Do you really think she needed this from you? On top of everything else?"

Bosco takes two quick steps towards him, and for a split second he's genuinely frightened – the man's veins are bulging on each side of his neck, his fists spasming with barely contained violence, and his face is purple with rage. But then the moment passes – the agent reigns himself in, swallowing convulsively until his expression turns cold again.

"Don't you dare say this is my fault, Jane. Just because you're her – "

Bosco interrupts himself, clenches his teeth – then pokes his chest with two fingers. Hard.

"Ow!"

" – her consultant, doesn't mean you know what she needs better than everyone else. Or at all."

He licks his lips, chest hurting, mouth unbearably dry.

There is no doubt consultant isn't what the man intended to say.

"You are the one who messes with her head on a regular basis," Bosco adds. "For all I know, you're the one behind all of this."

Caught up in a whirl of spinning thoughts, he nearly misses the accusation.

Wait. What is he saying?

"You think I kill McTier?" he says, then chuckles. "That's ridiculous."

"Yeah? We'll see about that. Don't expect the same kind of free pass you get from Lisbon. If you're guilty, I'll catch you even if it's the last thing I do."

Bosco pushes him out of his way, charging towards the other end of the hallway like a bull. He waits a few seconds – when the elevator doors open with the usual screech, he runs to make sure the man is going in the right direction.

Up to his office. Good.

He leans against the wall a moment, rubbing his chest – though he already knows Bosco's love tap will bruise, it's nothing compared to what he could have done. Nothing compared to what he obviously wanted to do.

And what he nearly said –

– no. Stop. There will be time to think about that later.

Right now, he has a job to do.

Pawns to move into the right position.

One down. Two to go.

The last rays of sunlight disappear as they exit the building. She keeps in character until Cho starts the car, then lets her head fall against the window, a long sigh of relief escaping from her lungs. Her team member stays silent, but she can feel the weight of the glances he throws her way – halfway between confusion and dark amusement.

She doesn't know how much he understood of what is going on – not too much, she hopes. Deniability will be his best defence if what they're planning tonight doesn't work. But she doesn't kid herself – it's Cho. Surely he guessed at least half of it as it was playing out, and now has time to work out the rest.

He doesn't ask, however. And she stays silent, overcome with tiredness.

It's nearly over. One last push, then we'll have Carmen in custody. Just one last act and it's done.

Cho's careful driving doesn't help settle the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She already knew he never takes any risks on the road – but this time she wishes he'd speed up. She longs for the quietness of her apartment. But there is no asking him to break the law just so she can get home faster – so she waits and keeps silent, willing time to hasten its course.

Then he snorts, and she jerks back in alarm.

"Sorry," he says. "Déjà vu."

"How so?"

"Drove Jane home a few weeks ago. That's what he was doing – watching outside, head against the window. Exactly what you're doing now."

"When was that?"

"When you were in Chicago. He got all moody."

"Hey! I'm not moody."

"Not what I said," says Cho, grinning briefly.

She rolls her eyes, chuckles a little to herself. Seems she isn't the only one who learned how to be sneaky these last few years. She still raises her head, feeling self-conscious – doesn't like the idea that her current attitude mimics Jane's when he's in a mood.

"Nice con you're running with Jane. Clever. You're counting on Carmen visiting you later?"

"I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about," she smiles.

His expression is as inscrutable as ever, but there's a sparkle of laughter in his dark eyes.

"Okay. On the off-chance it's a con, your breakdown was pretty convincing. Nearly got me for a minute."

"What gave it away? I mean – hypothetically. If it was a con."

"Jane. He looked way too happy when you started yelling."

She lets out a short laugh. Of all the things he could have pointed out, a critique of Jane's performance is the last thing she expected.

"I've been thinking about who did this," says Cho, abruptly changing the subject. "Maybe it's not an open case."

She frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it's a trial case. One in which the conviction is still pending. You're supposed to testify against Milton Howard this week, right?"

"Yes," she says, rubbing her chin lightly. "Oh. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. We never found the money he stole. Ten thousand dollars to lure the victim would be pocket change for him. Good thinking."

She reaches for her phone, ready to call Rigsby, then comes back to her senses.

Damn it. I'm supposed to be having a breakdown.

"I'll tell them when I get back," offers Cho, accurately interpreting her gestures.

"Yeah," she mutters. "Thanks."

"Don't worry, we'll nail the bastard. We got no choice to clear you, anyway."

There's the hint of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"What do you mean?"

"Who's gonna control Jane if you're not around?"

She snorts.

"Nobody controls Jane."

"You do."

"No I don't."

He glances at her left hand. She tightens it into a fist reflexively.

"Yes. You do. I was in charge when you were in Chicago, remember? Trust me. The only way to get him to behave was threatening him to disturb your off time and report his bad behaviour. So we got no choice but to keep you around, Boss. Otherwise it'll be hell."

She chuckles a little, but averts her eyes.

No matter how hard she thinks about it, there is no right answer.

They drive silently as the night falls, shadows stretching over the city until no natural light remains. Anxiety starts rising as they get closer to her place, the familiar streets reminding her that this last act is the most important one – the only one she absolutely cannot fail.

But we won't fail. I won't fail.

"So, if this was a con, what would you expect me to do now?" asks Cho as he parks in front of her apartment.

She looks at him, bites her lip.

"Rigsby and Van Pelt are digging already," he adds. "I could go back and help, but hypothetically, if you need me on something else – "

"I think that hypothetically, I'd tell you to stay around," she answers, weighing every word. "They took away my badge – any arrest I make could be thrown off in court."

"Yeah. Nobody wants that."

"Call Rigsby and Van Pelt, tell them about Howard," she adds. "Park a little while away – we don't want Carmen to notice you – but stay close by. We'll call you over when it's done."

She pauses, then smiles again.

"I mean, that's what I would tell you. If it was a con."

Cho's teeth flash briefly.

"Got it."

A bicycle flies past them on the side walk. She opens the door, gets out.

"Boss," calls Cho.

The wind makes her shiver. She turns back to him, frowning, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

"Yeah?"

"On the off chance this is a con – good luck."

He can probably read the surprise on her face – but there is no time to talk further. Carmen could drop by any minute now. So she nods, offers the ghost of a smile – one that finds its improbable reflection on Cho's lips – and takes a step back.

He drives away as she gets inside.

After taking a few deep breaths to steady herself, she walks to the middle of the living room, taking in her surroundings as if she was a stranger coming in for the first time. What can she do to make it appear the home of a desperate woman? An image of Tommy passed out on the couch comes to the forefront of her mind, blending in with the same, older picture of their father.

The alcoholic black-outs. That's where she needs to start.

She finds an ancient bottle of Kentucky Whiskey in her cupboard behind a bottle of wine, one she didn't even remember was there. Perfect. She reaches up to take a glass, then stops. Smirks, and picks up a mug instead.

Let him believe she tops her coffee.

She leaves the bottle and mug on the table in her living room. Takes three steps back, and cocks her head.

Won't be enough. What more?

Something buzzes in her pocket. She picks up the phone – Sam picture's greets her. Biting her lip, she lets it ring, climbing up the stairs to her bedroom.

She cannot afford the distraction.

Going upstairs turns out to be a good idea – the football jersey she usually sleeps in is spread out over the pillow. It reminds her of how her father would sleep off the booze in his underwear, uncaring who could see him in this state.

This is what she needs to mimic.

She removes her makeup, then puts the jersey on with a grimace of distaste. The idea that Carmen will be allowed to invade her privacy so completely before she can arrest him makes her skin crawl. In comparison, letting Jane in is tame – even as he put his eyes all over her personal space and his fingers all over her mind.

But she can do it.

Has to do it.

When she's done, she gets back down, bare feet padding on the carpeted floor she so rarely gets to enjoy. Focused, she appraises the place again.

It's not messy enough.

Exposing more of her privacy isn't an option. What could give an impression of chaos without –

– ah.

Yes.

Scattered pills would do nicely.

She goes back upstairs, finds a bottle of vitamins with duotone capsules in her medicine cabinet – visually striking and perfect for her purpose. An old empty prescription pills container completes the picture. A desperate, suicidal cop would definitively keep narcotics around.

This is what Jane meant when he said to create a narrative.

The phone rings again.

Talk about the wolf.

She picks up.

"I'm about to meet with Minelli," he says. "Is everything ready?"

"Think so. Not sure, I could be forgetting something."

"Run it by me."

"Alcohol in a mug, was thinking I'd mix it with coffee. Pills and an old prescription container on the table. My gun. I think that's it."

"Forget about the coffee, just the alcohol is fine – it's about the visuals, not the authenticity. He won't be there long enough to question it, especially not when you point your gun at him. Did you scatter some magazines around? Spare bullets on the coffee table maybe?"

"Good idea. Anything else?"

"Relaxed clothing?"

"Sleepwear, no makeup."

"Recording device?"

She closes her eyes, pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Crap, I forgot it in my desk. Do you think you can pick it on your way out?"

"We'll see. Charge your phone, just in case. And keep the bottle in sight, but cover your gun. I'll be there soon."

"Jane, wait!"

"What is it?"

His quiet confidence is reassuring, and she wants more of it.

"How can – I mean – I feel like I'm about to throw up. Do you have a trick or something to – ?"

He chuckles.

"Dance the jitters away, Lisbon."

"Dance?"

"Sure! Good way to unwind. Get that Spice Girls CD out and move. Gotta go, Minelli's coming. See you soon."

He hangs up and she closes her eyes, rubs the bridge of her nose. Then opens them again and picks up her MP3 player. He may be right – there could be something in there to help her get in the right mood.

Earphones plugged in, she places a wash cloth on her gun, scatters the pills around, and fills her mug with alcohol.

Waits.

And dances.

A crisp, cool wind blows in short bursts, chilling him to the bone as he parks two blocks away from Lisbon's apartment. Coils of tension twist his stomach unpleasantly – but the sensation is well-known, an old friend from his showman days, and he ignores it as he walks the short trip to her street.

He notices Cho's car immediately, of course – offers a grin and a little wave as he passes by, but doesn't stop to chat. There's no time for that.

A deep breath as he climbs the stairs brings the smell of rain to his nose. He smiles, then knocks.

No answer.

He frowns, knocks again – with more insistence, this time.

"Coming! No need to break it!" she grunts, finally opening the door.

She blinks.

He blinks too. Who knew Lisbon was half made of legs?

"Geez, you scared me. I thought Carmen was showing up early. What took you so long?"

He pats his pocket.

"We needed a recorder."

"Right. Well, don't stay on the doorstep. Hurry in!"

She locks the door behind them and disappears into the living room. He follows, takes a look around.

The place is a mess.

A perfect, glorious mess. Books and magazines, pills and bullets scattered on the table, on the couch, on the floor. Everywhere. A dirty mug on the desk, half filled with alcohol, sitting on top of stained sheets of paper. Her laundry basket, still full of unfolded clothes, carelessly left in the way. A bottle of hard liquor – whisky, by the looks of it – forgotten on the coffee table beside a random towel, under which her gun is probably hidden.

Perfect.

Nearly perfect.

"So?" she asks nervously, dropping on the couch.

She crosses her legs at the ankle. He licks his lips, looks away from her calves.

"That bottle is too full. But the rest of it is spot on."

Picking it up, he checks the label.

"Was this a gift?"

"Probably. Didn't even remember I had it."

"So – not one you particularly cared about, then?"

She shrugs.

"Good."

With a swift grin, he takes the bottle to the kitchen and pours half of it down the drain.

"Hey! What are you – are you nuts?! Give me that!"

She grabs his arm to stop him. He chuckles, letting her take the bottle back – it's nearly empty anyway. He can see she struggles not to cradle it to her chest.

"What the hell, Jane?!"

"It was too full. Carmen would never believe you're drunk if the bottle is barely open."

"You could have done that without wasting alcohol!"

"You don't even drink whisky."

"That's not the point!"

She's bristling, hackles raised high, eyes sparkling in anger. His grin widens.

"I'll replace it, don't you worry."

"Still not the point!"

"Ah-ah. Your Irish roots are showing, my dear."

She growls wordlessly. He chuckles. After a few seconds she rolls her eyes, then bites her lips to conceal a smile. His own is wider, teasing her one of his favourite pastimes. And he could keep this up all night, but Carmen will be there soon and they still have a few things to go over. So he shepherds her back to the living room, fingers brushing against the small of her back, and grabs the whisky mug from her desk as they walk past it.

"You should close the blinds," he says, handing her the mug.

"I wanted to see him coming."

"Better not take that chance. He'll see us waiting."

She looks outside a bit longer before pulling on the thread. Taking advantage of her distraction, he examines her as critically as he did the settings. She did an impressive job putting this all together – understandable, as she spent enough time with alcoholics to know exactly how to make those settings convincing.

But she doesn't quite look like someone in the throes of a nervous collapse.

Nor like a drunk woman, for that matter.

Something is missing.

"Hmm."

He walks to her, tilts her chin up, looking left and right as she blinks up at him – then turns around, picks up a washcloth from the laundry basket, comes back to her side, and dips it in the whisky mug she's still holding.

"Uh – what are you doing?"

"Perfecting your disguise," he grins. "Here."

Gently holding her chin up, he dabs her temples and the sides of her face with the damp fabric. She blinks at him, cheeks colouring, but doesn't pull away.

"A bit of sweat should help convince him you drank too much," he says, brushing a few strands of hair away. "Alcohol will leave a sheen on your skin and the smell will follow you around. It's not exactly the same as authentic, drunk sweat – but for our purpose, it's close enough."

"Right. Should have thought of that."

"And – "

She raises an eyebrow.

" – your hairdo is too neat," he grins.

He musses her hair quickly.

"Hey! Get off me!"

She glares, but there is no bite hiding behind the smile quirking up her lips. He still takes a step back cautiously, just in case – he keeps a keen memory of how hard she punches and kicks when tickled or otherwise annoyed.

"Here. Suck on it," he adds, leaving the piece of fabric in her hands.

"I can't drink, even just a taste. Need my head in the game."

"Then just wash your mouth with it and spit it out in the sink. You want him to smell the whisky on your breath."

She growls something about wasting alcohol again, but disappears in the kitchen just the same. He smirks, then climbs up a few stairs, settles behind the half wall and takes out the recorder.

Hopefully he won't need to wait too long. Those steps are harder than they look.

"Jane?"

"Up here."

She sits a few steps down from him. One of her legs bounces restlessly.

"You'll need to stay hidden until he betrays himself," she says. "Otherwise there's a chance he'll see you."

"I know."

"Okay. Uh, and don't forget to start the recording as soon as I open the door."

"I know, Lisbon. Giving me déjà vu on purpose?"

"What do you mean?"

He raises his eyebrows, waiting for her to remember his own bout of concern. She averts her eyes.

"Hmpf."

He can see her biting her lips compulsively, stopping herself from voicing what's on her mind – and it doesn't take much to guess what that is.

"It's going to be fine."

"Yeah right. I still feel like I'm about to throw up."

"Well, you can."

"Throw up?"

"Sure, if it makes you feel better. Would fit right in with your character. Of course, you might want to wait until Carmen shows up, so you can – "

" – aim it at his stupid vests, yeah. I know."

"I was going to say 'so you can convince him you've been on a binge', but I like your idea better," he chuckles.

She shakes her head ruefully, smiling a little – still agitated. But she isn't the only one feeling nervous, and they both jump when the wind picks up, shaking the windows in their frames.

"Rain," he hums.

"Yeah?"

"Not yet, I think. But soon."

She nods. Muffled thunder rumbles outside.

"Oh! Nearly forgot."

She jumps to her feet, disappears down the stairs. He can hear her rummaging in the desk beside the entrance, but from where he sits there's no way to see what she's doing.

"Here," she says, coming back. "I want you to hold onto this."

She's holding a gun – a well-oiled, metallic black killing machine. His hands stay frozen on his knees.

"Take it," she insists.

"Uh, no thanks."

"Jane. I need you to take it."

He licks his lips, mouth unbearably dry – staring at the unassuming firearm, echoes of a shotgun firing through his mind.

"Don't you already have one under that towel right there?"

"Yes. It's unloaded. I need you to hold onto the loaded one."

"And, uh – remind me why I should be the one taking it?" he asks, trying to keep his voice and breathing under control.

"Because we're confronting a suspect and someone needs to be armed."

"Yes. But I'm not a cop, so shouldn't that be you?"

"Normally it would be, yes. But normally you'd also be the one luring him out, and I'd be sitting where you are as your back-up. Not this time."

"But – "

"Jane."

He cringes.

"It's not gonna bite you."

"It's a loaded gun."

"You spent a whole night holding one not even a week ago!"

"Desperate times, Lisbon. You were unconscious."

"The safety is on. You probably won't need to use it."

"What if I have to? I'm not trained. What if Carmen has a weapon of his own and shoots or – or kills someone before I can stop him? I'd feel a lot safer if you were the one to hold onto this."

She rolls her eyes.

"We both know your aim and reflexes are better than most cops I know. This is one thing on which I completely trust you, Jane – is that what you wanted to hear?"

He doesn't answer – cannot answer, and swallows convulsively, nails sinking deep into his palms. She sighs impatiently.

"Listen. If you don't take it, I'll have to use this one as prop and guess what? I'd rather not have to hold a loaded gun to my own head!"

He lets out a shuddering breath.

"You, uh – you make a compelling point."

"So will you take it or not?"

"Okay. Yeah."

He holds out his left hand, soulmark – her name – shining silver in the middle of his palm. She flinches slightly, shooting him a quick glance, then drops the weapon in his waiting hand. In turn, he drops it carefully in his lap. The cold, heavy weight and strong metallic scent churn his stomach.

"You really hate guns, do you?" asks Lisbon softly, frowning.

"Yes. I do."

"They scare you."

"Healthy respect, Lisbon. Anyone in their right mind would be wary of them."

"You mean afraid."

"I mean wary. You know, sometimes I wonder what that says about – about you cops. That you're not. Wary."

He expected an eye roll, her usual reaction to his flippant insults – but she cocks her head instead, trails a careful gaze over him, and he'll have to reconsider that deflection technique if she's already seeing through it.

"One day, you'll have to tell me why you hate them so much," she says.

"You mean what happened back in June isn't enough?"

She gives him a pointed look.

"You hated guns way before that, Jane."

"Ah. I see it now. You want me to tell you about my childhood sob stories."

He grins, sweat beading on the back of his neck.

"I told you about mine, it's only fair," she points out.

The teasing undertones of her voice let him know she won't push – opening up is his choice. Lips painfully stretched over his teeth, he looks down.

"Maybe another time. Carmen is about to show up, we need to stay focused."

She nods, a thin glimmer awfully akin to disappointment in her eyes. He averts his, trying to forget about the weapon in his lap, fingers playing with his wedding band.

It's not that he doesn't trust her, he tries to convince himself. It's just that he's so used to keeping those things to himself. Besides, they really don't have the time to start on that sort of conversation now.

Hypocrite, whispers a voice in his mind – one that sounds painfully like his wife's.

They spend some time in silence, listening for footsteps amidst the sounds of cracking branches and rustling leaves.

"What were you planning to do?" he asks when the quietness threatens to suffocate them.

"Huh?"

She looks startled out of her thoughts – and he knows that faraway look in her eyes. Nothing good comes out of it. Nothing but self-doubt, the kind that leads to failure.

They cannot afford failure.

Not tonight.

"Last Tuesday. What were you going to do, if Carmen didn't dose you up?"

She huffs, but her gaze clears.

Good.

"Nothing special," she answers. "Couch, TV. Just a night at home."

"That's a shame."

"How so?"

It's on the tip of his tongue to remark on the lovely shape of her legs and how she could find activities that would allow her to display them more often – but in doing so he would have to acknowledge looking in the first place, which he has no intention of doing.

"Just a little worried about your social life."

She rolls her eyes.

"My social life is none of your business. Worry about your own."

He shrugs and smiles. Silence falls again, but not an unpleasant one.

They wait.

"Cho guessed it was a con," she adds, moments later.

"Doesn't surprise me. I saw him on my way here."

"Told him to stay around for the arrest."

"Did he say what gave you away?"

"You, actually."

"Me?"

"Said you looked too happy."

"What? That's ridiculous."

They grin at each other – wide, toothy grins full of anxiety and dread – until someone knocks at the door, killing all appearances of laughter and chit-chat. For a second they stay unmoving, frozen to the spot. A hint of panic slips into her enlarged eyes. She can probably read the same emotion mirrored in his own.

This is it.

"You'll do fine," he mouths silently. "Go!"

She nods jerkily, then pads to the door. He presses the recording button and ducks down, holding his breath when the hinges squeak.

"Minelli asked me to drop by. Well – ordered me to drop by, actually. Can we talk?"

"Minelli?"

"He's worried about you. We all are."

Carmen's voice is close – too close, coming up just under his feet. But Lisbon is talking again and he decides to chance a look, counting on the shrink focussing his attention on her, not on potential creaks from upstairs.

Just a quick peek to make sure everything is alright. Just a small, no-more-than-a-split-second glance, then –

But of course, one glimpse and he finds himself entranced, unable to look away.

Despite her performance a few nights before, he wasn't quite sure she would be able to convince Carmen on her own. She's too honest, unable to lie convincingly, and she's doing this for the first time – with the stress from this kind of high stakes, nobody could blame her for slipping up. He was fully prepared to take the matter in his own hands, or call Cho for back-up five minutes in. Or even let Carmen go, then rely on Rigsby and Van Pelt's research to find enough proof for a subpoena, a search warrant, an arrest order – whatever cops need to ensure both the shrink and whoever ordered the hit are out of commission.

Watching Lisbon's tiny, gun-totting, staggering form amble around the living room, he realises they won't need anyone else's help.

She's pulling it off.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, pointing the gun at Carmen. "Don't look at me like that. This is your fault."

"Teresa – "

"You unlocked too many things in my head and now I can't remember! My head is messed up and it's your fault."

The man is terrified. He doesn't need to see his face to know – Carmen tries to keep himself steady, but panic is leaking out of his voice like a waterfall. He smirks.

The weapon she's waving around isn't what he should be afraid of.

Lisbon's wrath is a lot scarier.

He holds his breath, listening intently, watching them like a hawk – ready to act if she falters, but now convinced she won't.

"Teresa – put it down! You need to be calm and put down the gun."

"Calm?"

The intensity in her eyes nearly takes his breath away.

"You were right, doctor. There was something I wanted to tell you."

He cringes when she holds the firearm to her temple. But, despite the striking visuals, his palm isn't burning. And after the first few seconds of unreasonable stress, he manages to calm down, regulate his breathing – enough to focus his attention on them again, and watch.

Watch as she pours her heart out to Carmen, captivating the man and ensnaring him with an irresistible narrative.

Watch as tears stream down her cheeks – so right for the con, but so wrong at the same time – the steely, determined spark in her eyes never faltering.

Watch as she nearly breaks character when she reacts to Carmen's pitiful attempt at hypnosis – but then reasserts herself in a split second and keeps going, fooling him completely.

Watch as she staggers unbalanced on those shapely legs, catching herself at the last moment, and keeps up the act until the very end.

Watch as Carmen betrays himself.

Watch as her lips quirk up, her whole face alight with self-satisfaction – and as his stomach plummets down, weighted with a mix of emotions too complicated to identify, all of them merging into a single thought.

Your name is written on my palm.

He shakes himself almost violently.

"Oh – beautifully done. Lovely work, Lisbon," he says, breaking the standstill.

Because he promised to let her catch the man on her own, but she got him to reveal himself already – that's good enough, isn't it? – and if he doesn't talk, if he doesn't take back control, if he doesn't hide himself behind the showman right now, he'll drown.

So he puts on a mask, and grins, and waves his hands as he explains the trick, and grins again when she punches Carmen's nose because it's so deserved. And keeps grinning as she handcuffs him, as she calls Cho, as Cho takes the shrink away – hiding how the earthquake born amidst gunshots and screams on a warm night six weeks ago finally opened up a chasm under his feet. Hiding how the demons he locked away are escaping now, and all at once converging on him. Hiding how his last defence mechanisms are crumbling to dust, leaving him scraped and raw and scared.

Scared of a tiny little woman in an oversized sports jersey and of the power she isn't even aware she holds over him.

They exchange a few parting words after Cho leaves, the memory of which dissolve as soon as their echo disappear from the room, and the sky breaks over his head as he crosses the threshold, cold rain quickly drenching his clothes.

Fitting.

"At least wait inside until the cab arrives!"

"Why would I do that? I love the rain."

"You'll get sick!"

"Meh. We Janes are made of stern stuff – we don't get sick."

"Are you sure?"

"See you tomorrow, Lisbon."

Her sigh raises the thin hair on the back of his neck.

"Good night, Jane."

She smiles at him, shakes her head indulgently when he twirls on himself, sticking his tongue out – closing his eyes, turning away from her, keeping up this clownish act until she disappears behind the door.

Then he waits for the cab she called, walks back and forth restlessly, welcoming the wet drops on his skin. Hoping they'll somehow put out the fire burning his brain, and at the same time, knowing that they won't.

She's quite extraordinary, that soulmate of yours, whispers Angela in his mind, a teasing lilt to her voice.

"Yes," he whispers back, mouth filled with the taste of ashes. "She is."

She expected relief and exhaustion to knock her out quickly, allowing her to reclaim the rest she hasn't had in weeks. Instead she spends the night tossing and turning, filled with a strange energetic glee – and despite the three short hours of sleep she gets at dawn, she wakes up distressingly ready to bounce her way up to the moon.

This odd ecstatic mood follows her all day, like a drug she's unable to come down from. Nothing helps – no endlessly filling forms to end her suspension, no extensive interrogation by one of Sam's underlings, no waiting hours on an uncomfortable plastic chair to get her badge back. And concealing that restlessness before knocking at Minelli's door is one of the hardest things she's ever done.

"You wanted to see me, boss?"

"Yes. Come in."

Minelli isn't at his desk, as she expected to find him. Instead he's facing the window, hands behind his back, staring at the sunset. He doesn't turn as she closes the door behind her. She stays near the entrance, rocking uneasily on her feet – uncertain how he wants to play this, and unwilling to assume.

"Sit," he says after a whole minute of awkward silence.

He doesn't move from the window as she makes her way slowly to the chair.

"Boss?"

"Sit," he repeats.

She pulls the chair and sits, nonplussed. Not for the first time – and certainly not the last, either – she wishes she could read people as well as Jane.

Minelli finally faces her, a heavy sigh escaping from his lungs. The dark circles under his eyes startle her. She's seen him tired along the years, and worried, and weary. She's never seen him old. But now, his usual might reduced to grey sadness lingering in the slant of his mouth even as he towers over her, arms crossed on his chest – now, he is.

He is, and a small seed of uneasiness settles deep down into her stomach.

"Lisbon – Teresa. I'm having quite the conundrum regarding yours and your team's actions this past week. Maybe you can help me with that."

She blinks her acknowledgement, fists clenching on her knees, and waits. There's a spark of stern amusement in Minelli's eye, but she isn't yet sure how reassuring it's supposed to be.

"You see, I feel myself torn between owing you an apology – " he says, punctuating his hesitation with an impatient hand gesture, " – and my deep annoyance at having been deceived along with your suspect."

"Sir, I – "

She interrupts herself when he looks down at her sharply, and bites her lip. There's an inappropriate laugh bubbling up somewhere inside her – because she's been so often in this exact position with Jane. She does her best to keep it down, but she cannot stop traces of it from showing on her face – and when Minelli smirks and leans against the desk, she knows she failed to conceal her amusement.

"Yes, I believe this is a situation you are familiar with, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yes. You and Jane, you might find this very amusing but I don't enjoy it much myself. Be as it may – "

The smirk slides off his face and he looks old again. Her stomach twists and she shuffles in her seat, deeply uncomfortable.

"Teresa – I need to tell you how deeply sorry I am. I should have treated you better. Should have known better."

And Jane's words are floating somewhere in the back of her mind, something about overreactions and feeling betrayed and family, and Minelli is looking so old, ancient really, and suddenly she doesn't want to hear it.

"It's okay, boss," she says, getting up. "Don't worry about it."

"No, listen. I – I should have given you the benefit of doubt. You've been my best agent for a good long while now, and the way I reacted was – "

"Virgil," she interrupts.

He stops talking. She touches his elbow briefly.

"It's fine. I understand. We tricked you, you reacted, no harm done. I still got my job back, right?" she adds, the corners of her lips quirking up of their own volition.

"Of course you do."

With barely an hesitation, she pats his arm in a gesture she hopes is comforting and not too awkward. His eyes widen, strangely vulnerable, and for a second she wonders if he's about to break down – but then the moment passes. He shakes himself, clears his voice, and gives her a pointed look.

"I couldn't just leave you on suspension, Teresa. Nobody else knows how to handle Jane. Without you here, it's only a question of time before that ticking bomb goes off."

"And that's the only reason I get my job back, of course," she grins.

"What other reason could there be?"

But Minelli is amused now, his eyes are soft despite the gruff frown, and she knows they're okay again.

"I trust next time something like this happens, you will come and see me right away, yes?" he says as she turns to leave.

She nods – and won't remind him that she tried to, the day before. It doesn't matter anymore. And it wouldn't have changed anything, even if she did manage to convince him.

"Before apologies are needed," he adds sternly. "I also expect you to foot the bill for that window you broke."

"Of course, boss," she chuckles.

Minelli tip his head in her direction, eyes sparkling fondly.

"Welcome back, Agent Lisbon."

Two of her fingers briefly find the badge on her belt. She smiles, then leaves.

The door snaps shut behind her.

"Welcome back, boss," says Rigsby, childish gleam of happiness alight in his eyes, as she walks back into the bullpen.

"Thanks," she grins. "Any news?"

"We got a full confession from Carmen. Cho and Van Pelt are still working on Howard, but it doesn't look like he's ready to crack. We have rock solid evidence on the case though, so it doesn't matter. We got him."

"Good."

She pauses, gives a look around. Frowns.

The couch is empty.

"Where's Jane?"

"No idea. Didn't see him since this morning."

Her frown deepens. Rigsby shrugs, unconcerned. Stopping herself from drumming fingers on her arm – or pacing up and down the bullpen, for that matter – is physically painful.

"He said something about closed case doughnuts. Maybe he'll show up later?"

She rolls her eyes, a reluctant, affectionate smile tugging at her lips. That titbit says more about Rigsby's personality than Jane's whereabouts.

"Alright. If he does show up, tell him I'm in my office."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Unusual for Jane not to crowd her after closing a case. Every time, when the only thing left on her mind is to crawl into bed and sleep for a thousand years, he's still bouncing around. Always so eager to share his most random thoughts, make her laugh with a gleeful, manic energy – not unlike her own this very moment, for that matter.

How the tables have turned.

She sighs, then brightens at the sight of the cardboard box left on her desk. Finally an outlet to exhaust her restlessness on.

The next hour is spent tidying her desk, dusting all surfaces, rearranging files and cabinets – too absorbed in her self-appointed task to notice ever-lengthening shadows brushing away the golds and crimsons of dusk. Only when she gets to the bottom of the box – rearranging chess pieces on the board Jane gave her years ago – does she realise the sun disappeared, taking any remnant of agitation with it.

Well, that's a relief.

"I hear Minelli's billing you for the glass," says Sam, leaning against the door sill.

"It's only fair," she smiles.

"You know, for a cop, you make a very convincing lunatic."

The smile on her lips widens into a grin –

"Your soulmate must be proud," he adds, walking in.

– and immediately slips off as soon as he speaks. She bristles, eyes darting around the open space. But the bullpen is empty, thank God. Sam, for all his faults, has always been at least minimally careful.

She clenches her fists, nearly opens her mouth – then stops.

Maybe it's all the time she spent with Jane recently – she never would have noticed how Sam's body language is at odds with his words before. How his voice tones are reproachful, as if designed to irritate her, but his expression is despondent somehow. Nearly supplicant. As if he was deliberately goading her. As if he was always eager for a fight – just as Jane pointed out – but dreading it at the same time.

If she hadn't noticed, she would fly off the handle without a hint of hesitation.

But now that she has – no.

Enough.

It's easier to run away, said Jane that first night. They were talking about an act then – just a way to trick Carmen, nothing that should have made an impact in any other area of her life. But facing Sam now is facing the fact she's been running away from too many things recently. And after a whole week spent lying through her teeth, she craves honesty – no matter how painful airing the truth might be.

"Why did you come here?"

A flash of uncertainty passes over Sam's features, then settle into a frown.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean – sometimes it feels like the only times we talk is when we're yelling at each other," she explains, trying to keep her voice even – trying to keep the anger out of it. "I can't even remember the last time we had lunch together or – or just talked like normal people. Like friends. Can you?"

Sam looks like she just slapped him across the face but she cannot stop, not yet. She takes a deep breath, crosses her arms on her chest, and ignores the guilt churning in her guts.

"It's like we don't know how to connect anymore. And I think you're aware of it. That's why you keep bringing up topics you know I'll get angry about. It's like you believe that's the only way I'll ever talk to you."

The metallic clang of a door slamming shut echoes somewhere far off in the building. Neither of them pay it any attention.

"I'm tired of it, Sam," she adds, holding his gaze. "And I know it's not just your fault. It's mine too. I'm sorry that I couldn't – didn't trust you enough this week to let you in on the plan. But it's like we've been in the middle of a war for weeks now. Can we just stop?"

For a moment, it seems like he won't answer at all. He keeps looking at her with an expression she's unable to read, unmoving except for his throat bobbing up and down. And she's wondering just how long she should wait before breaking this standstill when Jane suddenly slides in, infuriatingly chipper.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"No," says Sam, looking ready to bolt.

"Yes," she snaps at the same time.

Both Sam and Jane freeze, stare at her with identical expressions of surprise. For a second she feels slightly annoyed – and very awkward – under so much scrutiny. But she certainly won't let Sam escape this conversation now, not after she went the extra mile to open up a clear line of communication between them for the first time in what feels like months.

He still owes her an answer.

"Jane, just – give us a minute, will you?"

"Sure. Here," he says, sliding a paper bag her way. "Doughnuts from Marie's."

She nods her thanks, but leaves the bag on her desk.

"I'll be on the couch."

Jane walks out with his back straight, still looking a bit stunned, blonde curls briefly catching the light in the hallway before he disappears in the dark bullpen. She watches him leave then turns back to Sam, catching remnants of his confused expression before he schools his features back into something neutral.

"Well?" she prompts – challenging, but not unkind.

Sam sighs deeply and takes a step forward, places two fingers on the cardboard box sitting on her desk. The invasion of her personal space should bother her, and for a moment she wonders why it doesn't. Just for a moment though. Because his body heat across her arm, the warmth of his gaze makes her feel calm, and safe, and heard – and she remembers feeling like this before, countless moments spent side by side over many years. A deep friendship she valued, then mourned, and now feels more than ready to value again.

"You're right," he says. " You're right. Sometimes it's – when Jane is involved, I don't always react like I should with you. I'm sorry."

She nods.

"Jane makes things hectic around here," she offers – her own olive branch.

"Well that's an understatement."

She chuckles. He smiles, a bit hesitant.

"You should know, if it turned out to be you – " he adds, the end of his sentence floating unvoiced between them.

"I know."

Of course she does.

"Just so you do. Enough said."

She holds his gaze for a second, then smiles.

"Okay then. Does that mean I can expect you for lunch tomorrow?"

He huffs a laugh, averts his eyes – almost bashful.

"Sure. How about Cornaro's?"

"Aren't you supposed to be on a diet?"

"Damn. I was hoping you didn't know about that."

She cannot remember the last time they were so at ease around each other – and as they banter and laugh together, she realises it's been even longer than she first thought. When was the last time they were comfortable enough to tease each other this way? Not for years, at least. Maybe not even since San Francisco.

Maybe not ever.

It doesn't matter. They may not have had this before, but right now they do. And she relishes every second of it.

Sam doesn't linger – five, ten minutes perhaps, no more. They agree to meet the next day, then wish each other good night. A waft of sugar and cinnamon tickles her nose as she finishes putting her things away, unassuming reminder that Jane is waiting for her in the bullpen.

She expected him to be wrapped up in the throw he usually leaves on the backrest, half-asleep already – or at least pretending to be. Instead she finds him sitting in the dark, his neutral expression made eerie by the glow caught in his upturned hand. It takes her a moment to realise it comes from his soulmark.

For anyone else, he would be sitting in complete darkness.

Maybe it's a sign.

Maybe it's time they talk about it.

They've been dancing around the soulmate issue for weeks now, ever since she cleaned Tanner's blood off his hands. She isn't blind to the fact he stopped hiding his palm from her, even going so far as to deliberately shove it under her nose.

And if that isn't a passive-aggressive attempt to get me to bring up the subject so he doesn't have to, I'm ready to eat Cho's tie.

But one look at his tight, blank expression and she finds herself out of truth for the night – his fixed gaze, strangely intimidating, dissolves any courage she had left when she started walking towards him.

"Hey," she greets him instead – feeling slightly awkward.

"Hey, Lisbon."

Keeping her own palm out of sight, she drops the paper bag in his lap, then pulls Van Pelt's chair. He smiles briefly but stays silent, staring at his soulmark again. For a long moment neither of them say a word, mesmerised by the soft shimmer in Jane's palm.

"Thank you," she says after a while.

"What for?"

Helping me when I needed it. Being there every step of the way. Believing in me.

Everything.

"The doughnuts, of course."

He smiles.

"Of course. How did it go with Bosco?"

She shrugs.

"Good. How was your day?"

"Quiet."

She frowns, unable to remember any quiet day around Jane. He shifts slightly under her searching gaze, then leans towards the table and turns on the lamp. Both of them blink in the returned light.

"You know, I didn't see it before."

"What?" she asks, slightly wary.

She recognises the flippant voice tones – the ones he uses when he wants her to pay him attention. He grins.

"Bosco."

"What about him?"

"He's in love with you."

She blinks again, then laughs.

"Don't be silly!"

"I know, hard to fathom. But there's no accounting for taste, is there?"

"Hush!"

She rolls her eyes. For a second she deeply regrets her empty hands – chucking the bag of doughnuts at him, or anything else really, would be so tempting right now. She even eyes the bag, forgotten on the small table beside Jane, but then changes her mind. The exhaustion from this past week – from these past months – is finally catching up to her, slowly seeping into her bones. She's more than ready to put this case behind her and sleep.

"Okay. Enough of this. I'm going home," she says, getting up. "You should do the same," she adds, nudging his knee.

"About that."

Jane's blank face, wild eyes concealed in a sudden, careful study of dispassionate restraint, makes her pause. She didn't notice the way he carried himself earlier – but now that he's standing up, the tension lines all over his body are clear as day.

"Everything okay?"

"I, uh – "

The way he interrupts himself in a stuttering breath, hands rubbing compulsively the fabric of his trousers, sends her blood pressure sky-rocketing.

"I was thinking I'd take a few personal days."

"What's wrong?" she asks, the underlying thought – what did you do? – exposed in her worried voice tones.

He shakes his head, lips curving at the sides, but his restless eyes betray the cover-up. She doesn't let herself be taken in by the appearances of normality, crosses her arms on her chest.

"Nothing is wrong. I just need a few days," says Jane, a bit more convincingly this time. "It's already been arranged with Minelli. I'll be back on Monday."

She bites her lip.

"Are you going anywhere?"

"What is it with the third degree?" he chuckles – but she doesn't miss the hint of tense annoyance.

"It's just – you never take days off."

"I took three weeks last year!"

"You were on suspension," she deadpans.

He raises a finger, suddenly grinning – genuinely this time.

"Mandated leave."

"Are we really having this conversation again?"

Jane rocks lightly on his feet, a self-soothing motion rather than an excited one, but he seems more relaxed already – enough for her to smile back, tone down her own worry a little.

"Okay. Well – I'm leaving. Enjoy your time off."

"Don't worry, Lisbon. I'll be back before you know it. Can't leave you in the lurch with five open cases, can I?"

"What would we ever do without you?" she answers, rolling her eyes.

"I ask myself the same question every day," he teases, following her to the elevator.

She bumps his shoulder. Playful, he bumps back. She isn't surprised when he escorts her to the car, glancing at her now and them with this intensity she should be familiar with, but never quite got used to.

"Try to avoid poisoned coffee while I'm gone, will you?" he says, dangling her key cars on a finger.

"Hey! Give me that!"

"It's entirely too easy to pick your pockets, Lisbon. We'll have to work on that."

"You know, most people are sensible enough to avoid picking a cop's pockets in the first place!"

He grins.

"I'm not most people."

"Yes, you've made that clear. Repeatedly."

"And that's why you like me."

She throws an amused glance around – they're alone in the parking lot.

To hell with it.

"You make it work," she answers with a smirk.

The surprised flutter of his eyelashes is even more satisfying than expected. She takes advantage of his speechlessness to slip into the car.

"See you on Monday, Jane."

He shakes his head, a wry expression on his face.

"Good night, Lisbon."

A smile, then she drives away. She cannot wait to reach her bed.

And one day, one day she'll have to reflect on how, on why insinuations about Jane make her angry while insinuations about Sam just make her laugh.

But not today, she thinks, clenching her left hand into a fist.

Not today.

The rain cloud follows him from Sacramento all the way down to Santa Clarita, droplets rapping on the hood of his car for hours before the night sky clears. The last few miles to Malibu he drives in near complete silence – the engine's quiet rumbling offers calming white noise. Irregular bursts of wind hit the windows now and then, neatly punctuating his erratic thoughts.

He reaches the house a couple hours before dawn and parks in the driveway, but doesn't go near the door – bringing his messy feelings inside would be disrespectful to his slain family. Instead he stretches his back and legs, then walks the little path to the beach and sits in the sand. Eyes on the horizon, following the dancing lights of fishing boats to avoid the silver gleam in his hand, he breathes deeply – or tries to. Every breath catches on the lump in his throat.

It's all too easy to picture Angela sitting by his side – grinning up at him, all teasing smile and amused, tender eyes as he slowly drowns in guilt and shame.

Talk to me, she used to say. It cannot be that bad.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I don't know what to do."

The wind swallows his words, offers no answer, and the name – her name – keeps shimmering softly in the middle of his palm. With a finger, he traces the letters slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Teresa Lisbon.

"I wish – " he says, then stops.

There is no good way to finish that sentence. No matter what he comes up with, he always ends up looking like a fool.

What is there to wish?

That he didn't find out?

But he always knew. As soon as detective Elliott told him her name, all those years ago, he knew. He still remembers the weeks spent sleeping in his office, unable to set foot in his own house as long as he held the name of his soulmate printed on a sheet of paper.

Then what?

That he could still pretend they aren't bonded this way?

Playing pretend is only healthy as long as one is aware of the difference between dreams and reality. It's been a little over five years now – it's way past time to face the music, even though he has no desire to.

Then what?

That they never met?

It would be the worst kind of lie. Lisbon – the whole team, but especially Lisbon – is the best thing that happened to him in the last six years.

He isn't sorry they met at all.

How could he be?

With a sigh, he lets himself fall back on the beach, toes off his shoes and socks, and burrows his feet in cold sand. It would be so easy to close his eyes, pretend to feel the weight of his daughter's head against his shoulder, the heat of his wife's hand on his chest – all three of them sleeping outside on a summer night.

It would be so easy.

"What would you do, Annie?" he whispers, keeping his eyes open, fixated on the stars overhead. "Would you be strong enough to walk away?"

He waits, straining mind and ears for an answer he knows isn't coming – then snorts, gets back up, brushes the sand off his clothes.

"Don't know why I'm asking. You wouldn't even be in this mess to begin with."

The waves roll and retreat, back and forth, and he's grateful for the shadows allowing his mind to keep away from bittersweet memories of sunny, happy days.

"Besides – you did walk away. Didn't you?"

He dips a toe in the water. Freezing.

"I found the newspapers clippings you kept in the attic. You knew who your soulmate was. You could have walked away any time – you didn't have to stay with me."

A small wave climbs up the shore, pushes him away from the ocean.

"But you did."

The siren of a boat echoes in the distance. He walks aimlessly for a while, letting the sounds and smells of the sea wash over his senses. Slowly the dark blue sky lightens to lilac, then a strange tint of muted pink. When he turns back towards the house, he's surprised to see it so far away.

The next wave's retreat leaves a piece of sea-polished glass near his toes – light aqua with softened, rounded edges, a tiny piece of the ocean in solid form. He holds it up to the sky, watches the sun rise slowly through the frosted, translucent shade. Sunlight warms his skin, colours the beach in warm hues, but then the wind turns – and suddenly he feels ridiculous, standing there three properties away from his own.

A stranger on a stranger's beach.

He drops the piece of glass in his pocket, slowly treks back to the house.

"What should I do?" he mutters to himself – to his missing ghosts, as if they could hear.

They can't, of course. He's well aware. No matter that his brain sometimes like to provide him with answers Angela could have come up with herself.

"I could walk away. What would you think of that?"

His socks and shoes are lying in a heap, abandoned in the sand a few feet ahead. He lets himself fall beside them, but doesn't put them back on. Instead he takes out the piece of glass from his pocket, twirls it between his fingers. The fishing ships disappeared in high sea a long time ago.

"I could join the FBI, convince them to take Red John in exchange for solving their cases. Probably wouldn't be that hard."

Chances are it would be a breeze, actually. Just a few minutes thinking about it and he already has half a viable plan – one he could implement as soon as they catch a case with a potential for federal jurisdiction. A couple phone calls, a bit of showing off, they'd get the idea to hire him themselves of course, then he'd have the upper hand to negotiate. It could be wrapped-up in a week. Two, tops.

It would be so easy.

"But I don't think I can," he whispers.

He bites his lip.

"I don't think I want to," he admits.

And it's almost the beginning of a joke, isn't it?

Four cops and a showman settle into a bullpen –

– except there is nothing to laugh at, and everything to be grateful for. They have a good thing going, all five of them. He knows how rare that is. They work well together. They trust each other – enough to have each other's back, every single time. No matter how he looks at it, the idea of leaving the CBI behind is excruciating, and only tangentially because of Lisbon. How could he ever find a better team elsewhere?

Nobody is asking you to leave, Paddy, whispers Angela in his mind. What are you so afraid of?

The answer comes quick and strong, an emotional, overwhelming tidal wave choking his mind and heart rather than his throat.

"I don't want to – move on. Allow myself to move on. From you two. I can't."

Why not?

"You know why not," he growls.

The wind sweeping away the curls sticking on his neck doesn't offer any satisfying answer, nor does the sting of pain where his nails burrow themselves in his thigh.

"What if I forget the sound of your voice?" he whispers. "Or – or Charlotte's laugh?"

Don't you have a Memory Palace to prevent that?

"Memories I don't need access to regularly can get lost."

That's just an excuse, Paddy, and you know it. Be honest with yourself, at least.

He chews on this inside of his cheek. Fine. He can admit this out loud. Once. Only once, and then never again.

"Moving on means forgetting about Red John. Letting go of – revenge. Leaving everything behind, leaving him unpunished. If Lisbon and I – talk – if I move on – "

He interrupts himself, swallows the lump threatening to choke him. Turns the piece of glass around in his hand until the emotional waves of his inner ocean abate.

"Maybe if I believed in Hell, I could find peace somehow – but I don't. Nobody is ever going to punish him. And if I don't catch him, he'll just keep on killing and – and – he'll get away with everything. With what he did to you. To our daughter. I won't allow that, Annie. I can't."

So – what you're saying is, if you stay in close contact with your soulmate, you'll move on with her and eventually give up on catching Red John. Is that it?

He swallows again, unwilling to answer – aloud or otherwise. Angela's laugh rings loud and clear in his mind.

Patrick, she whispers in that fond, exasperated tone he could never forget even if he tried to. Your brain works so fast, you're leaping to conclusions again. Think about this rationally – are you even in love with her?

The cry of a seagull startles him, breaks his focus for a second. Something in his chest comes painfully loose and undone.

"No," he answers, voice unsteady. "I – no."

Not yet?

"No. But – "

But?

"She's my soulmate."

It's not a death sentence.

He snorts.

The small piece of frosted glass rests in the middle of his left palm, hiding his soulmark from sight. He hesitates, then lets it slip in the sand. Uncovered, Lisbon's name shimmers as bright as it always does.

"We're too close already," he whispers.

And something will have to give eventually.

It's a delicate balancing act he's trying to maintain. But all this wilful denial took its toll already. And if he doesn't allow himself relief from at least some of the tension he's been accumulating since he killed Dumar Tanner, his mind will snap, shatter in a thousand shards. Again. And this time, he probably won't be able to put it back together.

The pieces barely fit as they are.

Something has to give. He just isn't sure yet what.

His quest for revenge?

His unwillingness to move on?

Something else, equally as big and life-altering?

Even if you give up on Red John, Paddy, do you really think she will?

He jerks, startled by the sudden thought – tempted to look around for Angela. Because there is a difference between holding an imaginary conversation with his dead wife and letting said conversation take him by surprise.

The beach is empty though, quiet and still, and while his heart thumps a wild, irregular beat in his chest, there is no sign of his family anywhere.

Of course there isn't.

She was right though. Whatever part of his mind came up with the thought, delivered it through his wife's voice, it was right. He remembers the Renfrew case vividly – how he himself fell apart the moment he hit a dead end, but Lisbon never stopped, never let go, and kept him going when he was sinking into despair. How the whole team ended up suspended because they chose to believe in him.

He knows his own worth. He knows he's a tremendous asset to the CBI and, considering Red John's wiles, he's aware Lisbon doesn't have a fighting chance of finding him on her own. He needs her strength and resources, yes. Of course. He'll readily admit to that. But more importantly she needs his insights.

Without him, she'll never catch Red John.

But it doesn't mean she's just going to give up.

Lisbon's determination is such that, from the moment she took on the case, she was ready to hound him to his dying days – or hers.

And do you really think she would just let you give up?

No.

She wouldn't.

Not unless he gave her a very good reason.

Transfixed by the coming and going of the waves, he loses himself for a moment in memories of trust falls, of closed cases pizzas. Of late nights spent on his couch with the team, pouring over reports for a case. Of chatting casually with Van Pelt in the morning, eating lunch with Rigsby, having spirited discussions about Dostoevsky with Cho in the afternoon.

Of thousand of small, precious moments with Lisbon – banter in the middle of interrogations, teasing while discussing a case, playfulness at crime scenes. Shared meals and cups of tea on late working nights. Feeling her unseen smile widening under the tip of his fingers. And the less cheerful ones as well – her pulse jumping frantically under his fingers as she hides her face against his shoulder after Tanner's death, or watching over her as she sleeps off Carmen's drugs.

Leaving isn't an option.

Hasn't been for a very long time.

And moving on –

– he can still hold it off, can he?

As long as possible.

We talked about fate once, whispers Angela again.

"Yes, we did. And I told you I didn't believe in fate," he says, tracing the letters in his palm briefly, then clenching his fist. "I still don't. It doesn't account for the choices we make. Pretending there's some grand plan for each of us – no. It's too easy. Too easy to pretend our successes and – and failures were meant to be, out of our control. Too easy to absolve ourselves from our own personal failings. And you agreed."

Yes, I did. But I also raised one objection. Do you remember?

The memory is buried under so many other moments – sweet and tender, tense and sad – that it takes him a few minutes to recall that specific conversation.

"You said," he starts, slow, hesitant. "You said soulmates always find their way to each other. You said – they belong with each other."

His eyes drop to his palm again.

"I didn't believe that either. Told you it was statistically improbable. And again – too easy. An ideal romance, a perfect life companion just – just handed to you like that? It doesn't make any sense. If you never had time to desire that person in your life, how much is their presence worth? You cannot cherish something that doesn't have any value."

Go on, whispers Angela in his mind.

"You said it wasn't meant to be easy. That your soulmate wasn't there to slip into your life quietly, that – that they were there to challenge you, push you forward until you fix yourself, make you want to deserve them. That what makes them perfect for you isn't how they fit with you as you are, but how you both change yourselves until you strike a perfect balance together. And I – "

He clenches his teeth against the fresh wave of sorrow and guilt tearing his heart apart.

" – I told you I didn't need a soulmate for that. Not when I had you."

Well, I'm not here anymore, Paddy. So maybe it's time for you to start listening to me. Don't you think?

Angela's voice fades as the sun comes up, as the early morning quietness is swept away by the laughter of children out to play. He considers staying on the beach for a while longer, but tiredness is weighing down his limbs already. Ultimately he has no desire to be roasted by sunlight in his slumber.

A stray thought flutters in his mind as he treks back to the main building, climbs up the stairs, and lets himself fall on the bare mattress in the bedroom he used to share with his wife. It starts small, merely a spark, something easy to ignore. But against all odds, it grows – pulls at his heart until he sighs, lets his eyes fall open on the name shimmering in his palm.

Maybe it's just exhaustion talking.

But maybe –

– maybe the part of his mind speaking with Angela's voice is right.

If things are to fall in line without his say so, maybe he doesn't need to be afraid of what lays in wait for him.

Maybe he can just continue as usual.

See what happens.

Why not?

He feels so tired. And if she's right –

– maybe it doesn't have to be so complicated all the time.

Something has to give.

Thank you so much for your continued support.

My circumstances have changed somewhat in the last six months so as usual, I cannot give a set date for the next chapter. But I'm still committed to seeing this story to its end, however long it'll take.

In the meantime, since a few of you asked, yes I still do intend this story to end when we reach Blue Bird. I just hope you don't mind hanging in there for the next few years as we slowly crawl up the next 5 seasons. It'll be a long ride, but hopefully one you'll enjoy as much as I do.

Cheers!