Disclaimer: Alas, The Mentalist isn't mine either.

A/N: I love these two. They're one of my favorite TV pairings/friendships. Anyway. This story will be told in three parts. I've included "supernatural" as a genre, but that's really up to one's opinion. Please enjoy, and tell me what you think. I've loitered in this fandom for a while, but this is the first time I've written for it. And . . . I think the line breaks look messy. Just saying. But my other formatting techniques were not showing up right.

I. THE GIRL'S ALIVE

Patrick Jane would always rescue her, whether she wanted him to or not.

This is what Teresa Lisbon remembers, as she knocks about restlessly at the edge of consciousness, a bullet buried in her abdomen and three locked doors between her and safety.

At this moment, he wishes he was anything but human. He wishes he was something stronger, something smarter – something more monstrous. Something that could tear answers from the throat of the scumbag sitting on the other side of the glass. Anything to help him find her, because he knows that she's out there somewhere, somewhere dark and godforsaken, and she's bleeding.

And she's waiting for him.

It's been too many years.

Jane is part of her subconscious, but then, the man can pretty much worm his way in anywhere. She's still passed out, and she knows it, but there's a frighteningly, comfortingly real figment of her imagination standing in the corner, and it wears a waistcoat and runs its hand through blond curls. It doesn't face her – looks instead, pensively, through the cracks between the boards on the window.

"I forgive you, okay?" she croaks, and she thinks her throat shouldn't hurt so much if she's asleep.

He glances over at her, uneasy. "What's that, Lisbon?"

"If I die before you get here. It wasn't your fault. You're only human, Jane. I know you'll figure out where I am, in that infuriating way of yours – but if you figure it out too late, it's okay." She sighs. "I don't know why I'm telling you. You're in my head."

"Funny, isn't it?" He looks cheerful now, practically beaming. "Me in your head, I mean. Not you being shot. That's horrible. But I'm terribly realistic, don't you think? You've been spending far too much time with me."

"Shut up, Jane," she says, because he is terribly realistic, and something about that pains her.

Because it's not real. It's not him. You might never see him again.

Still, as she closes her eyes (goes to sleep in her dream, which doesn't seem safe, if she'd stop to think about it), Dream Jane manifests beside her and strokes her cheek, and murmurs something affectionate that nearly makes her smile.

He can see her, every time he closes his eyes. It's really horrible how vivid his imagination is. His mind paints for him a ghastly picture of her blood draining out onto cold, dusty concrete. She drifts in and out of consciousness. Her eyes squeeze shut against the pain. She speaks, but he can't hear what she's saying.

He is stricken with the thought of never hearing her scold him again.

Can you remember the last time you were this terrified?

And he grabs that fear, and he strangles it. Feeds on it. Turns it in on itself until it has become a seething anger, then a cold, detached hatred. Sitting silently in her office, where no one else dares to tread, he strips away layers of Patrick Jane. That person isn't strong enough for this. And he's found that it is so much easier to be someone else when you can mentally give yourself away. It's easier if you can compartmentalize.

He gives his humanity to Teresa for safe-keeping – it has been hers for a long time, he thinks – and then he goes to find Cho.

She wakes. Or, she thinks she does, but then she sees Dream Jane sitting nearby, rolling a gold coin over his knuckles and looking carefully forlorn.

He notices her watching. "Ah, Lisbon. You're up – do you want to see a coin trick?"

"No, Jane. I do not want to see a coin trick."

He clucks at her, shaking his head.

"Still so irritable. I guess that's a good sign." With a snap of his fingers, the coin vanishes. She can't decide if it's sleight of hand or the dream talking. Dream Jane shrugs. "But it's your fault, you know. I wouldn't be around here if it weren't for you, and there's nothing around here to do. Thus, I'm bored."

"Oh, well, heaven forbid you get a little bored once in a while. And I'm not irritable. You're just an incorrigible little child."

She blinks, and he's right beside her. It would be nice if he stopped doing that – Jane with teleportation abilities is scarier a notion than she feels like entertaining.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, absently straightening the collar of her shirt.

". . . Okay, actually. It really doesn't hurt that much anymore."

He frowns. "That isn't good, Lisbon."

"It's not good that I've been shot, either. Or that I'm apparently unconscious."

"You're not unconscious. I'm a hallucination – which yes, also isn't good, but, anyway, at least I'm here to keep you awake. As you've told me countless times, I can be a bit of a nuisance."

"Ha-hallucination . . . ? Oh god."

There's no escaping him.

And she closes her eyes out of exasperation, but a moment later another wave of exhaustion hits her. The tension in her shoulders gives out.

"Lisbon? Lisbon, it isn't nap time."

"You're not real," she moans. Somehow, on the verge of sleep, it sounds like a valid argument. Was it just her, or was Dream Jane – Hallucination Jane? – more frustrating than the original?

Or maybe, in these circumstances, just more desperate.

Not that she cares to think about that now, when she feels so much better. She can hardly feel the concrete floor. The dust doesn't irritate her nose. With little difficulty, she can nearly feel herself back in her bed at home, as if everything had been part of a dream. The case, the call, the ambush, all of it. And she could wake up, in a little while, and she would go to work. Greet Cho in the hallway. Find Jane, having broken into her office, asleep on the couch . . .

The sound of glass shattering ruptures her thoughts – the sharp knife of light that crashes across her face jolts her awake.

"JANE!" She surprises herself by bringing up a hand to shield her eyes. She'd been too sluggish to move earlier.

"Awake yet?" he asks, tone just slightly taunting.

"If you wanted me to open my eyes, that's not the way to do it." She's squinting even now; the sudden contrast in the room's light is so stark. Peering around her hand, she sees that he's torn a board off one of the windows and used it to break the fogged-over glass. He's still holding the board.

Well, isn't that something. He looks almost sorry.

"It was more to get your attention, than anything."

He is beside her, then, the board left behind on the floor. And for a hallucination, he's startlingly good at keeping the light out of her eyes. If there even is any light. She doesn't feel like trying to pick apart fantasy and reality.

Her eyes are still adjusting. She can't quite make out his features.

"You're the only one who can save me, you know," he says, so quietly, and she can look at nothing but him. Because his voice is soft now, unvarnished. There is a tenderness in his eyes that she doesn't often witness. "The only one I would let save me."

For a second, she forgets he isn't real. And she sees all those cracks – the ones that his smiles, his jests, his cons, try to hide.

"Jane, don't talk like that."

He shakes his head, and he taps his temple. "I'm in your subconscious, remember? I only know what you know."

Her hand grips his knee. "Or maybe I only know that you believe that. And it isn't true. Your life is what youchoose to make of it now. It's up to you whether your past consumes you. Believing that you're not strong enough on your own – believing that you need me – is only holding you back."

The smile he gives her is the sort you might use when humoring a small child. "What if I need to be held back, Lisbon?"

The chill of the concrete stabs into her spine.

"What are you talking about?"

And he looks scared then. He takes her hand up into his and looks across the room, up the stairs, and toward the door.

He speaks.

"I think I might be capable of horrible things."

Chapter Two's on its way. Reviews are helpful! ;)