A/N: So. Season Premiere. Officially, there isn't a woman in the world who can't identify with how angry Lisbon is. This is also the first time I've attempted Lisbon's point of view, and I'm not sure how it went. The words just sort of tumbled out. And on a side note: argyle socks. Yes and yesser, Patrick Jane.

Disclaimer: Let me check – yeah, still not mine.

Of Anger and Forgiveness

Someone once said that there was a thin line between love and hate.

Teresa Lisbon was fairly certain she had erased this line, especially where Patrick Jane was concerned.

She loved him. Was in love with him. Horribly, absolutely, and decidedly in love with him.

Conversely, she loathed him. Had happy fantasies about punching him square in the nose or screaming at him until she had finally gotten rid of the sheer rage that had possessed her lately.

Like that's all it would take to dispel her of such a huge amount of emotion. A little yelling.

If she was honest, she was completely out of her depth. Being in love with Jane was something she had been able to deal with. True, sometimes she didn't deal particularly well, like when he disappeared for six months and she wound up looking like something from a bad horror movie. Still, she had managed to cope, managed to keep her life moving in a semi-normal manner.

This whole…mess…with Lorelei was something else entirely.

He had slept with her. Ruined himself with her. And was now fighting so hard to keep her within arm's reach. And when that happened? He kissed her, the very first time in the interview room.

But only after he had literally laughed off any suggestion of being in love with her.

And then, he had punched her in the shoulder. Punched her. In the goddamn shoulder. And attempted to give her a blanket apology without actually apologizing for anything.

All things considered, she felt like the only option she had left was to get absolutely and totally drunk as soon as she got home. Maybe then she would give into this urge to shriek like some sort of wild person, to give a voice to her pain. The outburst of emotion would more than likely make her sick, and then she would have done everything she felt like doing at the moment- drinking, screaming, and throwing up.

Her sense of dark humor was touched. That seemed to be the only sense of humor she had left: the morbid and macabre kind.

To make her day absolutely perfect, Lorelei Martins had escaped, and no one seemed to have any idea how that had happened. Jane was beside himself. She found she didn't give a damn. He certainly didn't want comfort from her, in any case.

Seething with another wave of inarticulate fury, she slammed her things into her bag. The rest of the team was heading out for the night; she had seen them go one by one past her office. Jane was still lurking somewhere in the building, she was sure, but she would not worry about him.

Her office door was on compressed hinges; slamming it was impossible and so her exit was utterly unsatisfying. She stalked down the hallway, heels clicking angrily on the floor.

What a horrible ending to a horrible day.

Had she just thought that? Why on earth would she challenge God in such a manner?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jane coming down the stairs just to the side of the elevator. Almost clinically, she noticed that his hair was doing strange things again. His suit was rumpled, and he was starting to reacquire the air of dishevelment he had picked up during his stint in Vegas.

And he was like this over another woman. Forcefully, she bit down on her back teeth.

"Have you heard anything?" he asked, as soon as he was close enough to speak at a normal volume.

"No," she said succinctly. Normally, she would have expounded on her answer. Tonight, she found she didn't care. He had made it very clear that she was an idiot and that he had absolutely no reciprocation of feelings towards her. So what if he hadn't actually said the words? His actions had spoken volumes.

With effort, she pushed the elevator call button without using a telltale amount of force. Please, God, let it come soon.

Jane ran a hand through his already wild hair, a very uncharacteristic gesture. "I told Bertram this would happen. I told him." His eyes found hers, and she saw a trace of something desperate in them.

She held her base instincts to reassure him in check and said nothing.

He noticed the departure from the norm suddenly: her silence, her generally defensive posturing. Just like he had in the car on the way back from Boone, he gave her a long, searching look. She wasn't sure what he was looking for, both then and now, and she supposed that really, it hardly mattered. She held his eyes without flinching.

Whatever he saw there seemed to disquiet him. His brow furrowed, and his arm reached towards her. Maybe he was going to tap her in the shoulder again.

Blessedly, mercifully, the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival. Reigning in her sigh of relief, she stepped neatly around him and into the car, praying he didn't follow her.

He didn't. And absurdly, she was disappointed.

The downpour of rain, so at odds with the brilliant blue skies of earlier, fit her mood. Unbidden, she had a flashback of Jane in the rain, golden head tossed back, trying to catch raindrops on his tongue. It had been one of the very first times he had let her see the man he was underneath the suits and glib charm.

And now she wondered if even that was real.

As soon as she crossed the threshold into her apartment, the weight of the day crashed on her and she nearly staggered from exhaustion.

This was too much for any one person to bear. Her feelings for Jane, the entanglement with his lover, his total lack of feeling towards her…it was overwhelming.

Teresa Lisbon did not get to be the youngest person to ever head a CBI unit by being easily overwhelmed. The feeling was foreign, alien. And unwelcome.

She snagged a beer from the nearly empty refrigerator and twisted off the top. Sitting on the couch, she closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the full, chilled bottle in her hand. There was some comfort in that gesture, from knowing that peace could be found in the depths of the brown glass.

Well, she mused, maybe not at the bottom of this particular bottle, but perhaps after a few more she could find a little tranquility. She leaned back, pressing her head into the cushions.

What a nightmare she had managed to land herself in.

The beer slid down her throat easily. Something in the back of her mind informed her that alcohol was not the way to cope with her problems. Had she not learned anything from her father?

The hell with him, she thought, with sudden violence. And to hell with the rest of the men in her life.

Especially Patrick Jane.

She had nearly killed herself off over that man. In the past six months, she had stopped sleeping, stopped eating, subsisting only on alcohol, caffeine, and whatever meals the team happened to stop for during investigations.

Professionally speaking, she had most definitely killed her career. This was as far as she was ever going to go. Jane had effectively ruined her chances for advancing. She had called in every favor she had ever manage to accumulate, to exert every iota of influence she had for him.

And he simply expected it now. That she would bend over backwards to help him, without even stopping to think about it. Granted, most of the time she didn't, but it would be nice if he acknowledged the sacrifices she made instead of just accepting it as his due.

Arrogant bastard.

The knock on her door was not entirely unexpected. Truthfully, she was a little happy that he had even bothered to come. Or maybe he was just stopping by to give her the latest update on Lorelei's escape.

With that cheerful thought on her mind, she wrenched the deadbolt with much more force than necessary before pulling the door open.

Jane stood on her step, the crazed energy that had been possessing him since their return from Las Vegas still evident. He had shed his coat since he left the office, and rolled his sleeves up. "Can I come in?" he asked, voice very controlled.

Of course he was controlled. It was easy to keep yourself in check when all you did was lie to people. No sense in messing with real emotions. In that moment, she hated him, from his tousled curls to his argyle socks.

She let him enter, her irritated hand gesture indicating that he should make himself at home. She sat herself back on the couch, trusting the Jane would get around to whatever it was that brought him there soon enough.

He didn't wait long. Perching on the cushion to her right, he looked directly into her eyes. "Do you mind telling me why you've been so vindictively angry the last few days?"

"No," she said shortly.

He frowned. She knew he was annoyed. "It's about Lorelei, yes?"

"Why ever would you think that?" she asked archly, eyes opened wide in faux innocence.

"Why is this such an issue for you?" he asked, anger suddenly bubbling to the surface.

"Because you've made it one!" she retorted. "This isn't the first time we've had a Red John accomplice in custody, Jane! But I certainly don't remember you having this sort of crazed mentality with Rebecca!"

He shook his head, brushing away her accusations. "That was a totally different situation, Lisbon. When we had Rebec-''

"You weren't sleeping with her?" Lisbon supplied helpfully, smiling with all the acid and bitterness she could muster.

Jane stared. "Are we back to that?"

"Did we ever leave?" she responded.

"Lisbon," he said, putting weight behind every word, "Lorelei means nothing to me beyond the information she can provide. What do I need to do to make you understand that?"

Her brain, already winding down dark and twisted paths, wondered if she meant anything to Jane beyond what she could do for him. "Hm," was all she trusted herself to say.

"Lisbon," he said again, reaching out a hand towards her shoulder.

"Don't touch me," she said, voice a harsh whisper.

His hands stilled instantly, midway to her. "Why not?" he asked, bewilderment and something that might have been hurt coloring his tone.

She steeled herself. "Because you've remembered how to manipulate people through touch again. And I don't want to be hurt by you that way." Since that's the only way you haven't hurt me yet, she added in her head. But there were some things she wasn't willing to put out there.

His brows furrowed as he slowly relaxed his hands back into his lap. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Convulsively, she swallowed. "I can't ever take what you're offering at face value again," she said. "I can't ever trust that when you put your hand out to comfort me that you're not just playing some sort of elaborate game. Hell, I don't know if I can even believe anything you've ever told me, Jane!" she shouted, eyes flashing. "As far as I know, it could have all just been hyperbole. God knows you have no qualms about telling people only what they want to hear." In her mind, she could hear his words from earlier about Lorelei. I'd ask her to marry me if I thought she'd give me Red John.

Anger, hot, fierce, and justified roared through her veins, pounded in her temples. Anger, and something that felt suspiciously like betrayal.

For the first time since her rant had started, she dared to peer into Jane's face.

The emotion in his eyes was captivating. He truly looked devastated, like she had wounded him deeply and unexpectedly.

But how on earth would she know if this was real or if he was merely playing on her feelings again? Maybe he knew how exactly he should widen those beautiful eyes of his. Maybe he practiced injecting that degree of pain into his face while looking in the mirror.

A jolt of what felt like sheer heartbreak shot through her, leaving a trail of lead in its wake. Oh, God. She would never know for sure. Every look, every touch that had passed between them might have been a lie.

Her throat caught in shocked hysteria. This…this whole thing was unfathomable, and yet…she just didn't know.

Jane suddenly took her face in his hands, bringing their foreheads together.

"Open your eyes," he commanded.

She hadn't realized they were closed. Hadn't realized that her breath was coming in short, choking pants. Clinically, she realized she was having a panic attack.

"Teresa. Look at me." The tone of his voice didn't allow for argument.

Her lids opened automatically and she was met with Jane's concerned eyes. If she hadn't known him as well as she now knew she did, she would have sworn that there was genuine fear in those striking blues.

"Take a deep breath," he murmured, thumbs brushing away the tears that she never knew had fallen. "Again," he instructed, after she had followed his directions.

He stayed with her the whole time, calm voice and warm hands against her face bringing her back from the edge. But that was Jane, she reasoned. Always good with words. Even if he never meant any of them.

When her breathing had slowed to its regular pace, she tried to pull away from his grasp, but his hands were unexpectedly firm.

"I don't know what to say," he finally whispered, eyes searching hers. "Of all of the things I had expected to say tonight, convincing you that I haven't been lying to you for years wasn't on my agenda."

She was silent.

"God, Teresa," he said, voice shot through with sudden emotion. "Please don't give up on me now. You're the only good and decent thing I have left in my life."

The admission startled her. Her treacherous heart skipped a beat.

He sighed, expression sad now. "There are seven billion people in this world, Lisbon, and you're the only one I trust completely. I am…sorrier than I can express if you don't think you can do the same."

The raw edge in his voice cut through some of her anger. Without thinking, she curled her fingers around his wrists. His lips twitched.

"Stop being afraid," he told her. "Yes, I lie. And manipulate people. And yes, I am doing absolutely everything I can to get Lorelei to crack. I won't apologize for it, and I only regret that it's hurting you."

"How do I know?" she asked. Her voice sounded small, almost childlike. It was pathetic how badly she wanted to believe him, was ready to be reassured by him. Stupid man.

Jane pressed his lips to her forehead. "How do you know that I regret hurting you? Are you out of your mind?"

She had to chuckle softly at his tone. Finally, finally, she admitted to herself that she was behaving like a crazy person. Her shoulders sagged.

Jane gently removed his hands from her face and instead, twined their fingers together. "Please trust me," he whispered, bringing their joined hands to his mouth. "Everything I've told you, I've meant. Every time I've touched you, it was honest. Believe me," he urged, lips moving against the back of one of her hands. "How can I get you trust me again?"

Kiss me was the immediate answer her brain supplied, which was not helpful. She was not Lorelei Martins, and she was not going to play this game. She quelled the thought as quickly as she could, but she wondered if she had been fast enough when she saw Jane smile slightly.

And then she stopped thinking altogether, as Jane leaned forward, nose sliding down her cheekbone softly, one of his hands resting against her face once more. The first brush of his lips was as insubstantial as a butterfly's wing. She still trembled.

When the pressure of his kiss increased, she fought to keep her head. It didn't work. She remembered to close her eyes, however, and after a few seconds she remembered to respond.

His mouth was warm, wet, tasting vaguely of tea and something so intrinsically Jane that her heart stuttered. The world around them seemed to abruptly resolve and reform itself around the place where their lips met.

The kiss was sweet, but brief. When Jane raised his head, he was smiling, expression open. "You know," he remarked casually, "that was not at all how I imagined our first kiss."

The easy way he confessed that he'd thought about kissing before now her melted away almost all of her residual anger. Jane could read that, she was sure.

He brushed his thumb over her lips. "There's nothing for you to be jealous of or worried about. Just stick with me, Teresa, please. Just trust me." His eyes were imploring.

"Okay," she whispered. And suddenly, she knew she did. That she always had.

He slept on her couch that night, wrapped up in a throw blanket. She knew he did it to further reassure her, but it didn't mean she didn't appreciate it.

In the morning, he was long gone, somehow managing to sneak out and relock the deadbolt without waking her.

She found the note underneath her pillow as she was hurriedly throwing the covers back onto her bed before work.

Anytime you feel I'm losing your trust, he wrote, I'll be more than happy to reassure you again.

She smiled, feeling really at peace for the first time since Jane had disappeared almost seven months ago. They would be okay.

She just had to trust him on that.