AN: How the hell did this become a chapter fic? This is it, however. No more for this story after this. I adore each of you who have reviewed; you make me smile. And write more. Ahem. On that note, please go read "Poison and Wine" – it's a bit more melancholy than my norm, but I'd appreciate feedback.

Special note to the unnamed Guest who leaves me the loveliest reviews. I keep the notification e-mails and read them when I'm having a bad day.

Clearly, thanks to episode two, this has become an AU.

Disclaimer: If I owned them, they would be doing this instead of catching murderers.

Part III: Small Hours and Little Wonders

Since his return, he had slept on Lisbon's couch four times. He knew where everything in her kitchen was stored, what was in her medicine cabinet, and that Lisbon organized her closet by color.

She rarely kept food in her apartment and she slept on her left side.

He didn't know that because he had been brave enough to join her. He knew because he had given into his insatiable curiosity one night and peered into her darkened room.

It had been one of the biggest temptations of his life, seeing her lying there with crisp percale sheets tangled around her legs, hair spread over her pillow. The next step would have been easy.

He would have perched on the edge of her bed. Leaned over her sleeping form, rested his hands on either side of her head. Would have kissed her softly, carefully at first, waiting for her to wake. And then just never stopped.

She would have welcomed it, would have wrapped sleepy arms around him, pulled him into her warmth. He himself was only half dressed; she was wearing less than that. A few quick, sliding motions, hands trailing over soft flesh, and they would have been skin to skin.

Instead, he had gripped the door frame convulsively until his knuckles turned white. Had forced himself to retreat to the couch, where he lay with his arms folded behind his head, taking deep, calming breaths.

Biofeedback was a neat trick, and he had it mastered under normal circumstances. It was more difficult to do when he was drunk, but still nothing more than a slight challenge. Controlling his heart rate and breathing was damn near impossible at the moment. His brain simply refused to listen to the commands he was giving it.

Really, this was getting ridiculous. He needed to stop spending so much time outside of work with Lisbon. At least twice a week, he cajoled her into having dinner with him. He had kissed the corner of her mouth three times now, and each time it became more difficult to not tilt his head those small, crucial millimeters.

He was constantly looking for excuses to put his hands on her, and even he was amazed at some of the things he had come up with. At night, he slept on the couch in her office almost exclusively.

So what was at the root of his hesitation? Why didn't he just cross the last bridge left? Lisbon was willing; he knew that for certain. Sometimes he wished that she would decide to take control of the situation, remove him from the damnable position of having to make the choices.

What would he do, he often wondered, if she decided she was suddenly tired of this endless, circling game they were playing? What if she, apropos of nothing, grabbed his jacket lapels and kissed him in an elevator?

Now there was a fantasy he had entertained once or twice. A day. One of many, at this point.

The thing was, once he took that last, final step, there was no going back. He wasn't the sort to just have casual sex with a friend, and Lisbon really wasn't either. Besides, she wasn't just a friend. She was…not his lover, but his love.

He snorted. His love? Was he living in the 19th century now?

Still, he supposed it was an appropriate term. He wasn't in a relationship with her, in the definitive sense, but he certainly wasn't in one with anybody else. He wanted her. He loved her.

To that end, he had taken a day off, soon after the last time he had slept on her couch. Her voice had sounded concerned, though she had given him the go-ahead for the time away.

It was a picturesque day, sun bright and shining, and he absently wished for a convertible as he drove down the coast towards Malibu. California really was a beautiful place. He rolled down his windows.

The beach house was exactly as he left it – dust gathering on the floors, the solitary tea cup and kettle the only dishes in the kitchen. He passed through the rooms without really looking at them until he reached the sliding doors that lead to the back deck.

From the deck, he followed the path down to the pier overlooking the water. He used to meet clients here, but more than that, he used to watch the sun rise and set here with Angela. It had been her favorite part of the property.

He rested against the rails, staring into the crashing waves in the distance. The sense of peace was remarkable. Usually this place was a reminder of what he had lost, of what he had yet to do. In the past, whenever he had felt like he was losing his focus, he would come here, let the anguish settle on him like a heavy coat. Feeling that pain was a way to sharpen his vision.

His purpose today was different. Holding on to the unexpected tranquility, he slipped his wedding ring off his finger. In his mind, he could see himself tossing the gold band into the ocean, pictured himself watching as the tide carried it away.

In reality, he knew it was too much of a dramatic step for him. Instead, he slid the narrow circlet onto his right hand.

It was time to move on.

At that moment, a sudden gust of wind swept up, stirring his hair. For just an instant, he swore he could smell his wife's perfume.

Patrick Jane didn't believe in such things, of course. But he still whispered softly to the breeze as he turned around, absently brushing at the unexpected moisture on his cheeks.

"Love you, Ang."

He stayed in a hotel that night.

His first instinct was to show up on Lisbon's doorstep again, but he realized tonight had the potential to be rough, from an emotional standpoint, and he didn't want the poor woman to see how damaged he really was.

It was funny – he had worn his wedding ring constantly since the day he got married (excepting the few times he had been incarcerated); over the years, he had stopped giving it much thought. Until he took it off, he had no idea how much he checked for it.

He tended to tap his fingers together, always ending with his thumb sliding across his palm, brushing the metal band. Now all his thumb touched was the indentation left by years of wear, markedly paler than the rest of his hand.

His right hand felt different as well. Heavier. To him, it looked all wrong, though he supposed most casual observers wouldn't think much of it. Many men wore rings on their right hands, including Rigsby.

In a moment of weakness, he considered moving the ring back, but talked himself out of it.

After all, he wasn't a married man anymore. He wasn't acting like one, and he certainly wasn't thinking like one. Besides, it wasn't fair to Lisbon.

Every time they went somewhere, just the two of them, he would notice at least one person's raised eyebrows, someone assuming Lisbon was the other woman. She had noted the behavior, too, though she hadn't reacted much beyond a small, wry smile and a quick glance at his left hand.

He knew she would never mention it to him. She would never ask him why he still wore it, or hint that he should take it off.

It was going to be a hard habit to break.

From his hotel window, he watched the sun rise. He hadn't slept a bit, but that was to be expected.

After showering, he headed to the CBI, trying to not focus on how his left hand still felt naked. He really needed to get himself under control. The goal was to not draw attention to what he had done; if he kept behaving this way, someone was going to notice.

People would make a big deal out of it, he knew that. Well, it sort of was a big deal, but he could do without the pomp and circumstance.

Lisbon managed to find him as he was steeping his first cup of tea. He heard her footsteps pause in the doorway.

"Hey," she said, happy to see him.

"Hey, yourself," he replied without turning around.

"Did you enjoy your day off?" She was clearly fishing for information. He smiled.

"I'm not sure 'enjoyed' is the right word," he said, thoughtfully. "But I accomplished what I set out to do." His words were cryptic enough to set her slightly on edge, and he knew it. No matter what steps he had taken personally, pushing Lisbon's buttons was always going to be one of his favorite activities.

"You know you make me nervous with statements like that, Jane," she said, coming to stand beside him and commandeering the coffee pot.

He smirked in response, and her face scrunched in worry.

"Oh, God, just tell me that whatever you did, I won't have to break any laws to fix it."

"You have no faith in me at all, do you?" he asked, clucking his tongue. "I promise, no fixing or filling out of forms in triplicate will be needed."

She just sighed, reaching above his head for a fresh coffee cup. He could smell her perfume, subtle, but still inviting. Suddenly needing a reason to keep his hands to himself, he grabbed his tea cup with one hand, shoved the other in his pocket, and retreated to his couch in the bullpen.

The morning was quiet. Grace typed a few back-logged reports, Rigsby worked his way through three bags of chips, and Cho surreptitiously read a few chapters of a well-thumbed through novel by Vonnegut.

When the phone on Cho's desk rang, all pairs of eyes turned towards it. Within the first ten seconds, the team started reaching for their jackets. Though Cho was stoic as always, the questions he asked signaled that someone else had been killed.

They split into their usual groups in the parking lot: Cho, Rigsby, and Grace climbed into the Suburban, and he and Lisbon followed them in the smaller Chevy.

It was on their way to the crime scene that Lisbon noticed his ring, or lack thereof. He was reaching across the console, fiddling with the radio, when he noticed her sudden fixation.

Without saying a word, he showed her his right hand. Her nonplussed expression stayed firmly in place, and he worried that she would drive off the road.

"Watch where you're going," he said quietly, and then surprised even himself by curling his hand over hers. After a moment, she turned her palm over, lacing their fingers together.

The next time she looked at him, he winked. Damned if he knew what it meant, but it seemed like the thing to do.

She drove one handed with some difficulty, but she was unwilling to break their connection. Soon, far too soon, he saw the swarm of flashing lights and police vehicles that signaled they had reached their destination.

As Lisbon parked the car, he squeezed her fingers gently before releasing her hand. Their moment was over, at least for now. Still, he kept close to her side for most of their time on scene.

Grace joined them for the ride back to headquarters, Lisbon having requested her computer skills for the investigation.

Around three in the afternoon, he found himself lounging on Lisbon's couch, reading the victim's biography, and waiting for the woman herself to return. She had gone down to the coffee cart to get something foamy and fancy, with twice the caffeine content she needed.

By the time she got back, his brain was almost entirely immersed in the case file, drawing rapid conclusions and suppositions. Lisbon sat on the couch next to him, coffee in one hand, and took a deep breath.

She tapped the ring on his right hand, effectively capturing his attention. He met her eyes. "Are you alright?" she asked.

He smiled, just a little. "I think," he told her.

Her brows furrowed, trying to find the words to ask the question on her mind. "Can I ask…" she began, but trailed off, losing her courage.

"It was time," he said quietly. "I'm not exactly behaving like a married man lately, and it was time to stop presenting myself as one."

There were any number of questions she could have asked, would have been perfectly entitled to ask, but instead, she simply nodded thoughtfully. He supposed she was working through all of the implications his words carried. There were certainly a lot.

He hoped she was alright with the conclusions she was drawing, because he had suddenly realized that he was incredibly close to jumping in all the way. So close, in fact, that it almost took his breath away. She was so close, too, and it was distracting the hell out of him. He needed to add some distance or Lisbon was going to find herself pinned under him, probably with a bunch of spilled coffee everywhere.

Never in his life had he been so happy to see Cho, who had returned from canvassing the scene, ready to give his boss an update.

The case remained in the early, unsolvable stages for the rest of the day, and Lisbon ordered the team to go home at a reasonable time.

Without asking permission, he followed her back to her apartment. The sky had clouded, and rain was threatening. In the distance, lighting was silhouetted against the backdrop of thunderheads.

He could feel his blood start to thrum through his veins. No going back, his mind warned. With laser focus, he watched Lisbon get out of her car and make her way to the door. Why the hell would you want to go back? he answered himself.

With that, he shut the car off and practically jogged to catch up with her.

He was patient enough to wait until she had set her coat and briefcase down before wrapping her in his arms and lowering his mouth to hers.

Her moment of surprised hesitation quickly gave way to compliance, and she wound her arms around his neck.

This kiss was nothing like the one they had shared before, brief and fleeting. He kissed her the way a man should kiss the woman he loved – warmly, urgently, repressed passion making it almost rough.

Her fingers twisted into his hair, effectively holding him in place. Now she was just being ridiculous; where was he going to go?

He slid his hands beneath her jacket, skimming his palms down her sides. When she opened her mouth to sigh, he took advantage, learning fully what she tasted like.

Unconsciously, she had pressed herself flush against him, body aligning with his in a way that made it damn difficult to remember why he shouldn't just take her against the door. He held on to her hips, moving her deliberately until he was rewarded with a soft moan.

That was his cue.

With massive effort, he drug his mouth away from hers. It took her a moment to open her eyes, and when she did, he nearly forgot why he stopped in the first place. They were hot, bright, hazy with passion.

He sucked in a deep breath. "Consider yourself warned. If you don't tell me to go away in the next, oh, five seconds, I'm not going to be responsible for what happens."

It was almost cliché, and yet, he needed to know that she wanted this, too. She held his gaze, but said nothing.

"Five," he whispered.

She smiled, sliding her hands back into his hair.

"Four."

Very slowly, she raised herself onto her toes.

He never got three out.

Somehow, in the tangled mess of limbs and lips and stuttering heartbeats, they wound up in her bedroom. He wasn't entirely sure where half of his clothing went, nor did he remotely care. All he knew was that when his bare chest met hers, his brain promptly shut down.

Beneath the badge and the blazer, Lisbon was all woman. Soft skin, sensuous curves, and places on her body that had gone from warm to flatly scalding. He kissed every inch of her he could reach, something almost holy about what he was doing. Long before he was ready to stop, she was trembling, very nearly sobbing.

Deciding that he would have plenty of time for ample exploration later, he recaptured her mouth. But then it was his turn to tremble as her hands snaked down his chest, leaving blistering trails.

Biofeedback, his impeded brain reminded him. When she touched him, however, all of that went out the proverbial window.

He sucked in a sharp breath, leaning his forehead on her bare shoulder.

"Stop that, woman," he said after a few moments, voice hoarse. "Or we'll both be sorry."

She gave a throaty laugh, hands going from toying to guiding, and he paused at the place his lips and hands had already been.

He took stock of what she looked like, flushed with desire, hair rumpled and lips swollen. Forget bridesmaid dresses; this was a look he wanted to see on her more often.

When he pushed forward, he was unprepared for the overload of pleasure. His eyes crossed, and he bit – literally bit – his hand to stop the whole thing from ending immediately.

Lisbon was not helpful, nails scraping his back, hips roving restlessly beneath him. She was close; he had made sure of that already. Now it was just a matter of bringing her over the edge.

He angled his hips slightly, her suddenly parted lips an unmistakable tell that he had guessed right. Another few minutes of carefully calculated movements and he felt her come apart, muscles clenching, hands grasping his arms convulsively.

And he let himself go, setting his own rhythm, her name falling from his lips just before he followed her into the dark abyss of heaven.

When they had both come down, Jane lay with his head on her chest, listening to the sound of her still rapid heartbeat. With shaking hands, she brushed his now-damp hair from his forehead.

"If you're going to act like this anytime I give you the day off," she said, sounding amused, "then you never have to come back to work."

He chuckled, pressing his lips into her skin. "I'll tell Bertram you said that," he threatened.

"Are you kidding?" she asked, still playing with his hair. "He'd probably be so happy you're gone that he'd promote me."

"Meh." He tugged the sheet over both of them before settling back against her.

They were quiet again, the peace of the room drifting across them. Jane reached for one of her hands, twining their fingers together.

He would have figured that they would have more to say. After all, they had been working towards this moment for a decade or so. But, in their typical fashion, they were apparently just going to adapt as they went. There were some things he needed to get out, though.

"I love you," he whispered, raising himself up enough so that he could see her face.

She smiled tenderly. "Are you going to pretend to not remember saying that again?"

"I'm sorry," he said, mirroring her smile, leaning further in to kiss her lightly. "Can you possibly forgive me for my egregious sin, Saint Teresa?"

She touched his face for an instant. "Love you, too." Her eyes sparkled.

He kissed her again, just as softly, then shifted to pull her across his chest. His fingers traced abstract patterns on her back, as she rested her head against his heart.

The next thing he knew, her warmth was gone, and a shrill ringing had taken its place. He heard a loud crash, then some muffled swearing.

"Lisbon!" she practically shouted, and his brain woke up enough to tell him she was on the phone. "Right," he heard her say. "Text me the address." There was another pause. "Yeah, I'll get a hold of Jane, don't worry. See you soon."

There were no lights on in the apartment, so all he saw was a dark, Lisbon-shaped shadow coming towards him, wrapped in a sheet.

"We're up," she said, sitting down on the mattress. He reached for her, wrapping his hands around her upper arms.

"No," he corrected, "you're up. I am very obviously still in bed. Which is where you should be, too, by the way."

She laughed. "Believe me, I'd love to stay, but our services are required right at the moment."

He sighed. Loudly. "Now? Really?"

Leaning forward, she kissed him quickly, before he had time to pull her closer. "Crime never sleeps, or didn't anyone tell you that?" With that, she was gone, taking the sheet with her again.

He shook his head. Something seemed off about this whole scenario. Really, now, he had just made love to Teresa Lisbon. By anyone's standards, this was A Big Deal. Surely they should have been given more than just a few hours before Teresa's damnable duty called.

But, he supposed, devotion to her job was one of the things he loved best about her. Not even the prospect of night in bed with him was enough to put her off the course. It was almost amusing, when he thought about it.

He was still shaking his head ten minutes later when she emerged from the bathroom fully dressed, nothing but the color in her cheeks giving away her recent activities.

He smiled at her as she holstered her gun. "So," he began, shrugging his jacket back on.

"So," she echoed, reaching for her keys.

"Do we just…go to work?" His tone of voice caused her to look up. "Just like nothing happened?"

"Did you want to put an announcement in the paper?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Well, that idea certainly has its merits," he noted, "but I was thinking on a little bit of a different level. Are we…I mean, are we public?"

She stared, clearly having not thought about this. It didn't take her long to reach a conclusion. "No," she said. "We're just us, the same as we've ever been. At least at work."

"Hm," he frowned. "So I suppose this means no seducing you in the break room?"

Slowly she shook her head. "Not even a little bit. The attic, the couch in my office, and the couch in the bullpen are also out."

He ushered her to the door. "If you insist, my dear." Then he smiled suddenly. "You didn't say a thing about the elevators."

To his great surprise and amusement, she winked.

Elevators it was, then.