So, if you've seen the promo for tomorrow's episode, you know that Mashburn, from Redline, is coming back. And chasing after our favorite senior agent. While J/L will always be my favorite pairing, the opportunity to write about Lisbon and Mashburne sparring was too enticing to pass up. Especially with the rebirth of Fiesty Lisbon that we've gotten in season three. So. Here we go.

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Walter Mashburn is not a man built for introspection.

He does not question himself; he does not question his impulses. This trait has the tendency to either bring him mountains of success, or it makes him crash and burn. There is seldom any middle ground.

This is something Jane told him, once, and he briefly thinks back on it now—that he never questions why he wants anything—he simply decides that it's worth having, and then pursues it.

It is a little after nine in the evening, and Jane has left in search of a decent cup of tea. The Asian guy and the agent who looks like his body guard are apparently staking out in a van just outside. Redhead is in another room, tapping away at her laptop. Beside him, waiting for Mashburn to decide he's ready for his ride home, Lisbon impatiently taps her foot.

"So, Agent Lisbon… alone at last."

She shakes her head at him, with the briefest shadow of a bemused smile. Today, she is wearing jeans and a sweater, with her slick black leather jacket still on. Her dark hair has grown longer than it was when he first met her, and her skin, which was paler before, is more tanned now—she looks far less wearied.

He sees her consider whether or not to respond to him, before deciding not to.

"It's a good thing, too," he continues, undeterred, "Because it gives us time to decide where we'll be eating dinner on Friday night."

She gives a little 'tut' of disbelief. "I will be having dinner in my apartment," she says firmly.

"Am I invited?" He gives her a little impish pout, and she lets out a quick bark of laughter before shaking her head.

"Why would you want to come to my apartment? My TV is nowhere near the size of a billboard, and there is no stripper pole in my Living Room. I wouldn't think you'd be interested in a place like that." Lisbon's wit is quick, she fires back easily. She has a way of keeping him on his toes.

"I'm interested in you," he says. Putting it right out there. He has never been shy—he has always been someone who is unapologetic about what he wants, and the lengths he is willing to go through to get it.

"You're actually interested in a woman," she deadpans. "A novel concept."

"But true. You have a fascinating quality about you, Teresa."

One of her dark eyebrows quirks at his usage of her first name, but doesn't remark on it. She says, "Right, right. My 'damaged intensity.' How could I forget?"

"Clearly, you haven't," he replies, pleased in spite of himself. "Apparently you think enough of my words to remember them verbatim."

"Don't flatter yourself." She turns away, intent on ending this little skirmish.

Only he isn't willing to let it go yet. He likes to argue with her—or, more accurately, he likes it when she argues with him. She has this fierce spark in her—the kind of spark that only comes from a beautiful woman who has little intention of being beautiful in the first place. She is dedicated, smart, incredibly tough. She doesn't need him, and she would never tell him even if she did.

He says, "Give me one good reason you wouldn't want to see me."

Teresa rolls her eyes. "Because my quota for arrogant, egotistical, childish men who fail to see the consequences of living in the real world, has already been filled." She fetchingly tilts her head to one side. "But thanks for playing."

Mashburn lets out a low, appreciative whistle, and takes a step closer to her—the toes of his shoes against the toes of hers. "Well said," he replies. "Clearly, you think that if you're mean enough to me, I'll back off." He looks down at her, and briefly shakes his head. "Only, you didn't account for something."

"And that is?"

He moves closer still, his lips beside her ear. He can smell a cinnamon scent in her hair, the cocoa butter rubbed against her skin.

"I don't give up that easy," he whispers. "In fact—" here, he pulls back a few inches so that he can look into her face, "I don't give up at all."

"Everyone says that," she murmurs, "But not everyone lives it. There's an art to knowing when to quit."

"That's not the kind of art I appreciate."

She bites her lip. "Are you Catholic?" She suddenly asks.

"I have a passing familiarity with it. Why?"

A little gurgle of laughter. "I was wondering if you pray to Saint Jude. He's the patron saint of-"

"—lost causes. I know." He shrugs his shoulders. "But how do you think I made my money, Agent Lisbon? I decided I wanted something, and I pursued it—I decided I had to have it, and I chased it, and obsessed over it, and willed it into being mine." He smiles at her impishly. "A person like that doesn't give up."

Lisbon turns away again. It is ingrained in her, it seems—making someone come after her. He can see the gentle curve of the back of her neck, and the sheen in her dark hair. He feels a familiar excitement of pursuit humming through his bloodstream, buzzing in his limbs. Except, he usually only feels this way when he is chasing after a business deal, or a priceless piece of art—almost never with a woman. Not since he was a young man.

"You don't let yourself have much fun, Teresa, do you?"

"And what makes me think I'd want to have fun with you?"

"Who wouldn't?" he returns.

She rounds on him, green eyes snapping. "See, that's it. That, right there. You're in love with yourself. I'd always be a third wheel-"

"Well, where there's room for two, there's room for three," he replies, playfully.

"—and I'm not your type."

"What do you think my type is?"

"Ten years younger, and four cups bigger," she quips.

"You underestimate me. We could just have fun—I know how to show someone a good time. We could go wherever you wanted, do whatever you wanted."

"Is that your way of saying we could just be friends?" There is heavy sarcasm on the last word.

"Ah, between men and women, there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity-"

"—worship, love, but no friendship." She wryly raises her eyebrows at his surprised face. "Shocking, but cops can read Oscar Wilde, too."

"Patrick did say I shouldn't underestimate you."

She does a double take, as he had assumed she would. "You talked to Jane about me?"

"At some length. I'm very thorough."

"And after that, did you polish each other's toenails and chit-chat about the latest episode of Project Runway?"

"Nah. I have terrible trouble painting inside the lines."

Lisbon releases a breath, and tugs on her lip. Her eyes look suddenly shaded, she seems to be going through some diatribe of thought in her head. "You're really not going to give up, are you?" She suddenly says.

Mashburn laughs at her sudden, seemingly shocking, revelation. "When is the last time you were pursued, Teresa? And I don't mean a half-hearted come-on in a bar. Chased after. When is the last time you were the singular object of all of someone's focus an effort?"

"And when is the last time you didn't get something you wanted? You can't remember, can you?" It is her who steps closer this time—there is a charge in her eyes, and he knows she understands the power she has. "You think I'm supposed to fall all over you," she says, he voice barely above a whisper. She doesn't need to speak louder—he is focusing on every word. "And why? Because you've made a little money? Because you have a jet? You think you're entitled." She stands on tiptoe, and whispers in his ear. "You're not."

"It's not entitlement," he murmurs, his voice low, as well. "Because I work for what I want. Always have." He gives his words a moment to land, and is satisfied, for the moment, that she can't seem to think of a response.

Smiling, he takes her left hand in his, lifts it, and gently presses his lips to her fingers. He winks at her once, before turning to gather his briefcase. "I'll take that ride home now," he says.

"Cho and Rigsby can take you," she replies.

"Not you?" He pouts.

"Not me."

"And how can you be sure I won't tell them everything we just discussed?"

She spins around gracefully to face him again. "Because if you did, they'd never find your body." She shoots him a wicked, playful smile. "Goodnight, Walter."

He doesn't know, still doesn't know, exactly why he's decided he wants this so much. But he does—he loves the chase, he loves the gamesmanship, and he is not a man to stop short of reaching his goals.

And he thinks he's making progress.