In the weeks following, Jane noticed a definite cessation in Lisbon's campaign to draw him out. There were no more free lunches; she stopped trying to divert him when she saw him heading for the stairs to the attic. She started taking Van Pelt with her every time she went out into the field ("She's a young agent, Jane, she needs to gain experience").

She started bringing Cho coffee in the morning. Of all people. Once Jane caught them discussing books in the bullpen, and when he tried to join in, she excused himself, leaving him and Cho to discuss Philip Roth without her. Great male narcissists, indeed.

There were other signs, too.

When Mashburn sent her a plane ticket to Paris, she didn't throw it straight in the garbage like she usually would (Jane knew, because he occasionally went through her trash). He happened to accidentally overhear her on the phone in her office, telling Walter she would think about it.

Think about it?

He learned, from reading her emails after she'd left for the day, that she'd been staying in touch with Alan Meyers, the distraught father who almost shot her a week ago. He was out of the hospital, with no apparent brain damage, but no memory of what had happened the day he was injured.

Lisbon was just checking in with him, asking how he and his wife were doing, promising to enroll them in victim's services. She suggested a couple of support groups, some online, some that met in person, for grieving parents.

Jane didn't want to know who she had originally done that research for.

He still didn't understand why she had covered up what happened; why was she protecting him, a man who had made an attempt on her life? Why would she still care about him, even weeks later?

It didn't make sense.

"Looks like we've got to go re-interview the brother on the Rodriguez case," she'd say, hanging up the phone. And when Jane automatically rose to accompany her – "Rigsby, you're with Jane. Try to keep an eye on him."

Rigsby? Now that was just insulting. Purely for revenge, Jane lost him six times in the first half-hour.

Now she was avoiding the breakroom. Previously he could count on a good twenty minutes of quality Lisbon time, while they both laughed at their latest debacle on a case, but suddenly she was always ducking out to the coffee shop down the street, taking her smart phone, using the time for paperwork. The coffee shop was rapidly becoming her own Fortress of Solitude.

She was pulling away from him, he realized.

He hated it.

"You're not even going to come out for case-closed pizza on the Rodriguez case? Be honest, Lisbon, is this some form of depression? Post-traumatic stress?" From his position in her doorway, Jane could make out a winking shard of porcelain trapped in the carpet under her desk. He scowled at it.

"What are you on about now?"

" The pizza. Out there. You. In here."

"What do you want me to say, Jane," said Lisbon, "I've got a desk full of reports to file. Maybe if you stopped getting in so much trouble …" she broke off in the middle of a familiar tirade, shrugged, and then finished more mildly; "Go on and eat, let me know how it is."

He had been waiting impatiently for her to give up on him – hell, he had asked her to give up on him, begged her, even - but now that it appeared that she actually had, it felt … strange. Wrong.

Lisbon stared blankly at the cup of coffee in front of her, watching the swirling steam rise off of it. Jane was still outside the door somewhere, lurking like a creeper, and she got the feeling he'd been breaking into her office after hours again. Great.

She'd been trying for so long to help him, believing that if he could just manage to trust her and the team, he'd turn away from his mad plans for Red John. That he would chose right.

But she'd believed that of Alan Meyers as well – that she could talk him through it, through his grief and his fury, and he would come out the other side. And instead he'd gotten increasingly unpredictable and she'd almost killed him.

That would be Jane, someday. The desperation would be so much sharper, when it was his chest she was pounding on, his lungs that forced air into. His sticky blood on her face.

Just like Meyers, she couldn't let him go his own way. And he would never stop on his own. So she had to make sure she could stop him, if she had to. That meant avoiding the whole charming-Jane-trap and trying to keep her head on straight - no more intimate lunches, no more trips into the field, and definitely no more motherly nagging.

A knock on her door had her glancing up the next moment; it was Alan Meyers, and for a second she was physically paralyzed, glancing helplessly to her gun in the top desk drawer. She'd never reach it on time, and with his back to the door a bullet could pass through him and hit someone in the hall, not good, not good.

"Lisbon?" It was Jane, standing in the doorway, his face tense. "I hope you don't mind, I asked Alan to come in this afternoon."

Great. Jane really was trying to kill her – she'd always suspected but never had it confirmed. She cleared her throat. "Of course," she said, rising up out of her chair. "Mr. Meyers, what can I do for you?"

"Could you give us a minute?" Meyers asked Jane, politely. "I'd like to talk to Agent Lisbon alone."

"Uh, maybe that's not a good idea," Jane started, but Lisbon waved him off.

"It's fine," she said, hoping it was true. Still Jane hesitated, shifting on the balls of his feet; then something in Meyer's expression seemed to reassure him, and he nodded, stepping wordlessly out, pulling the door closed behind him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Meyers, Jane can be a little …."

"It's understandable," said the graying man, softly. "He's right to be concerned, given our history."

Lisbon froze in the middle of retaking her seat; he remembered?

"Interesting fellow," Meyers said, looking at the hallway where Jane was no doubt hanging about. "He came to visit me in the hospital, and by the time we were done talking it was like all my memories were just - unlocked. I think I didn't want to remember," he added, his voice soft, "but when I did I realized I had to come talk to you."

She took a deep breath. "Mr. Meyers – "

"I can't explain to you, what it was like," said Meyers slowly. "I – think I was insane for a little while. It was like every dark thought I ever had, every moment of anger, of fear, of grief … like they all just welled up in me and took over." He closed his eyes.

"I … don't feel that way anymore," he added, after a moment. "I just wanted to let you know, that I – I know what you did, and I know you've been covering for me." He shook his head. "I don't understand why you did it, but I wanted to thank you."

Lisbon got the feeling he'd been practicing this speech on the way over. She smiled gently back at him, feeling her body relax in the chair.

"I wanted to shake your hand. Thank you for catching the person that did this to my little boy. And – I'm sorry. I don't think I can express how sorry I am."

"Mr. Meyers, it's alright," she said. "I don't hold anything against you. I don't think it's possible for me to put myself in your shoes, and I wouldn't want to try. I'm just glad that you're alright."

Solemnly, he extended his hand across the table, and Lisbon received it and shook it.

"That's all I wanted to say," he said, turning to go.

"Wait," Lisbon dared, in the instant before he left. "Can I ask you a question?"

He looked surprised, but turned back. "Sure."

"I could have killed you," said Lisbon. "You weren't breathing, I thought you were dead. Are you – still glad, that I stopped you?" She closed her eyes and pushed forward with the question she really wanted to know; "What if it had been him, the man who killed your son? Would you still be glad that I stopped you?" She found that she could not meet his eyes as she waited for his answer.

Meyers was quiet for a long spell. "Not at the time," he said. "I wanted – well, I don't know what I wanted. I was … in a very dark place. But now that it's over…" He took a deep breath. "Yes, I'm glad that you stopped me, from throwing the rest of my life away." He seemed suddenly peaceful, calm. "Thank you, Agent Lisbon."

"You're welcome," she whispered, and then watched him walk away.

"Jane, if I catch you sneaking off to talk to the Senator again, I'm gonna whoop you upside that curly head," Lisbon threatened, her expression thunderous. "Why can't you behave like a sensible human being for two lousy minutes? Just fake it! And for goodness sake, put your seatbelt on!"

They pulled away from the crime scene in a shower of gravel.

"Calm down, Lisbon," said Jane mildly, pulling the belt down over his lap. "This level of stress can't be good for your blood pressure."

"My blood pressure," Lisbon snorted, making a rather perilous left-turn across traffic. "You know what would help my blood pressure? If you'd stop confronting suspects behind my back! I get one more call from the Chief of Staff and I swear, I'm benching your ass for the rest of the month. You can sit back at the CBI and inventory office supplies."

Jane huffed and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly, starting out the window at the perfect blue sky. Apparently his plan with Meyers had worked like a charm; Lisbon was harassing him more than ever these past few days. He wasn't completely sure what they'd talked about, but it had certainly flipped the switch.

She'd already threatened him twice that morning, and bullied him into eating an apple on the drive out. You look like crap, Jane, are you sleeping at all?

Evidentially she was back in full-on mother bear mode. It was extremely tiresome and it seemed to be getting worse.

Jane leaned back and closed his eyes.

He loved every minute of it.

.

.

FIN