AN: Fair warning - I moved this week, so I don't know where my socks are, let alone my mind. This is what happens when I sit in front of a blank document for too long.

Happiness and Hopelessness

It wasn't like she had signed up for this, she kept thinking. No, she had signed up to be a cop, to put bad guys away and make a difference in the world.

Instead, it seemed like all she did lately was trail along in Jane's wake, hoping he didn't get himself killed or get into a situation where she wouldn't be able to save him.

However, it was looking more and more likely that one of those two scenarios was going to come to pass.

It chilled her to the bone.

Jane was in deep, deeper than he'd ever been, so close to Red John that she had started to see the serial killer's shadow around every corner. He was hovering around them like some sort of malignant specter.

Her stress levels were too high. She didn't even want to know what her blood pressure was these days. Originally, when Lorelei Martins had been founded butchered in an alley, she thought some of her triggers would dissipate, for a few reasons she was willing to admit, and even more that she wasn't.

As it turned out, that was total nonsense.

If Lorelei, someone who knew Red John theoretically better than anyone, had been unable to hide from him, unable to escape his particular brand of vengeance, what was going to happen to Jane when he got too close or when Red John decided he was tired of the game?

The scenarios that played out in her mind kept her up at night, made her toss and turn and sweat and pray and hope to God Almighty that she would be able to do enough to save him.

The fact that Jane now had some inkling of her feelings for him seemed unimportant most of the time. She had slipped up, let her inner thoughts show for a second too long, and there was nothing she could do about it now. What mattered was making sure that Jane was protected.

In some of her more whimsical moments, she supposed it was only fair that Jane knew how she felt. After all, he had blurted out a confession to her almost a year ago, gun held tightly in his hands, eyes as crazy as she had ever seen them.

Even if he pretended to not remember. Of course, that was a huge give away to her that he hadn't meant those words in some silly platonic sort of manner. Otherwise, he would have had no issue in discussing them with her.

Lisbon, of course I love you. You're like family to me. I just wanted to make sure you knew that in case this whole operation went south.

End of conversation.

Instead, he had flatly lied to her. Patrick Jane didn't forget anything.

She wondered what that made them - what strange sort of couple they were. They both knew how the other felt, at least partly. Wasn't that the stupidest thing in the world? Two single people in love, no real barriers between them, and yet, they were still alone.

The thought, once formed in her mind, refused to leave her alone, haunting her at night, when there was a lull in the action, and at about every other inconvenient time she could possibly imagine.

With all of these things, her stress, her worry about Jane, and knowledge (but not acknowledgment) of the feelings between them, perhaps it wasn't so very surprising when one night after a particularly brutal case, she crossed the lines she had put in place for the safety of her own heart.

She had nearly been shot, the bullet coming close enough to tear a hole in the fabric of her jacket. Another few millimeters and she would be sporting a second bullet wound to match her first.

Regardless, she had come close to a serious injury. Any time she faced down a bullet, there was always adrenaline, always the idea that her life could have been abruptly truncated in a matter of heartbeats...that there was so much she had planned on doing, so much she had been waiting on in her life.

That night, back in her office, she had watched, almost with an air of detached interest as Jane had stood, intending to walk her out to the elevator. He had given her some sort of flip remark earlier, telling her that it was good she had avoided injury since Cho had threatened to lock him in a closet the next time he was in charge of the unit. Apparently, the last trick Jane pulled with Cho as the boss hadn't gone over well. His eyes, however, had showed her how very relieved he actually was.

She had waited until he was directly in front of him, her hand still curled indecisively around the doorknob.

Then, she turned the protesting, rational part of her mind off. Stretching up onto her toes, she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

Instinctively, he gasped slightly in surprise, and she took advantage, noting by his slack arms that he was still caught wildly off guard.

For just a moment, she thought he would push her away.

And then one hand curved around the back of her skull, the other pressing firmly into the small of her back.

When he decided he wanted to take control of the kiss, she willingly surrendered, giving him everything he demanded. He was insistent, alternating between something that approached forcefulness and such exquisite gentleness that she felt her knees buckle once. Of course he would be an extraordinary kisser, she thought absently.

He was warm, steady, heart beating rapidly beneath her palm. When his eyes opened, lips just a breath away from her own, they were bright, clear. And she thought she saw surrender in them.

"Let's go," he whispered, and the jubilation that swept through her was such that she thought she might shatter.

Later, as he slept heavily, utterly spent, half draped across her still, she wondered if this was better or worse than before.

There were parts that were better - the scent of his cologne on her skin, the red abrasions his stubble had left on her breasts, the feel of his curls against her cheek.

But there were parts that were worse - had she thought she had a lot to lose before? Now he was hers, in almost every sense of the word. If something happened to him now, there would be no recovery for her. Of course, she wasn't sure there would have been before.

In her darker moments, she had imagined life without Jane in some sort of darkly romanticized way, walks on the beach at night, pilgrimages to his grave, the freedom to bitterly stew in regret for the rest of her life.

And now...now it would be simply unimaginable.

They never really discussed what had happened between them. Due to one circumstance or another, work became so hectic the next week that the only time she managed to go home was to shower and change. Too many people dying on state land, or having connections to politicians.

She wondered what Jane was thinking. Did he regret it? Even if he didn't regret it, was it a one-time thing, an indulgence after far too many years of self-denial?

Needless to say, she was surprised when he showed up at her door one night with a bag of what appeared to be groceries held up like a peace offering.

"Hi," he said, smiling cheerfully. "Hungry?"

Still slightly dazed, she stepped back to let him in, and then proceeded to watch with rapt interest as he tooled around her kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, pausing occasionally to lament the lack of variety he found.

There really was no defense for her kitchen - she worked ungodly hours, and spending time making a homemade meal when she got home wasn't something that appealed to her at all. Besides, she had spent most of her teenage years cooking for a a family of five, and she figured if she wanted to eat frozen pizza every night, she was damn well entitled to do so.

But this was a Patrick Jane she was fascinated by, one untroubled and un-scheming, a domesticated and carefree soul who happened to make sinfully good chicken parmesan.

She was over the strangeness of situation enough by now to tease him lightly. "I thought your culinary skills were limited to tea and sandwiches."

He laughed. "I am a man of many talents, my dear. You should know that by now."

He let her help clean the kitchen, then demonstrated another one of the plethora of skills he had - the ability to make her practically scream his name. She tried to give back as good as she got, and was rewarded with several shuddering groans and a whispered Terezzza as he bowed his head on to her shoulder and shivered.

Like the first night, she lay awake long after he had fallen asleep, wondering if there was anyway at all they could both make it out of this alive.

The next Red John victim had her horribly on edge. Lorelei hadn't been dead for all that long - normally, the serial killer tended to space his victims out a bit more, unless there was a specific reason not to.

She didn't personally know their victim, but judging by the set of his mouth and his closed off posture, Jane might have. He didn't tell her one way or the other, but that night she learned how his lovemaking was different when he was searching for comfort. She was happy to offer it, even as she wondered what they could be defined as.

They weren't just friends who happened to be sleeping together - she was the one person Jane trusted implicitly, and for him to be willing to have this sort of physical relationship with her spoke volumes. However, his wedding ring remained firmly on his hand, and she was too much of a coward to ask him about it.

There were times she forgot to care about any of that though, times when he was nuzzling into her neck or watching the ten o'clock news with his head in her lap, that she was just so blissfully happy she thought she might die of it.

But then the worry would start again, and she would wonder when this would all come crashing down on them and puncture the safe bubble they had managed to create.

Every day that passed, it seemed like she was more and more anxious.

Something needed to happen, needed to move. She was just so terribly anxious, and it expressed itself in strange ways.

When she saw that Jane had left a bottle of shampoo in her shower, ostensibly so he wouldn't smell like coconuts anymore, she'd had to fight tears. The discovery of his laundry in her hamper, just like it belonged there, was enough to turn her into an emotional wreck. Jane was giving more and more of himself to her, and she was terrified she wouldn't be able to keep him.

He knew there was something wrong, of course, but also knew that if she really wanted to discuss it, she would. He tried to be there for her in other ways, tried to comfort her without truly knowing what the problem was.

She figured he suspected, however, especially when he started making a point of generally letting her know where he was going.

It wasn't much, but there were moments when it did help some.

She stopped sleeping properly at all, trying to cover it up with massive amounts of coffee. It made her sloppier, she knew, but there were only a few minutes every day when she felt like she could truly relax, and she was usually thoroughly occupied by Jane in those moments.

After, as exhausted as she was, she should have been able to drift off. But she stayed awake, feeling as though the only course of action she could take was to watch over him when he was so very vulnerable.

She almost shrieked in horror one day in the office when she realized that Red John had more than likely figured out that she and Jane were in some sort of relationship, that he was probably watching her, too.

One night, ensconced in the dark and quiet, Jane's lips almost against the back of her neck, he finally brought the subject up. "One of these days, I'm going to drug you," he said, arm around her waist.

Distractedly, she toyed with his fingers. "I thought you were sleeping." She paused. "It's no big deal," she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Sure," he replied. "We'll just pretend like this is perfectly normal."

She sighed. "I just can't sleep, Jane. It happens, as I'm sure you know."

He shrugged around her. "Fair enough, but you've never dealt with insomnia like this before. I would have noticed."

By the tone of his voice, she knew he wasn't going to be willing to give up on the conversation easily.

"I'm a little worried, that's all," she finally said, throat feeling tight.

"About what, precisely?" he wanted to know, tone gentler now.

Blindly, she clutched at his hand. "You."

He gently twined their fingers together. "What about me?"

"That...this..." she trailed off, searching for words. "I'm just scared something is going to happen to you. We're getting so close to catching him, and I..."

His arms tightened around her. "And you're worried about trying to protect me." It wasn't a question, and she didn't deny it.

After a moment, she felt his lips touch her hair.

"I'm not worried about me," he said eventually. "Like I've said before, Lisbon, if he wants me, he knows where to find me."

"I know he knows where you are," she whispered, hating the trembling in her voice.

"Mmm," he murmured, almost directly into her ear. "Is that part of it, too? You're concerned because you're probably directly on his radar, too?"

"Maybe," she admitted, "though that's not a big part of it."

"It is for me," he told her. "It's why we've just now gotten to this point."

She rolled to face him, eyes unreadable in the dim light of her bedroom. "Do you mean that?"

He offered her a half smile. "I do. How could I not? Tell me you don't possibly think I've been staying away from you for ten years because I didn't want you, didn't care about you."

Expression a touch sheepish, she bowed her head down, but Jane settled a finger under her chin, forced her to meet his eyes.

"For being a very smart woman, you can be alarmingly oblivious, do you know that?" he teased, leaning down slightly to kiss her.

His words, though very welcome and long-awaited, didn't eradicate her fear, however, and he could tell that.

"Teresa," he said quietly, "I know it's your immediate instinct to protect me and to worry about me, and you have no idea what that means to me. But killing yourself off because you're worried and not sleeping isn't going to do you a bit of good. Being afraid, being anxious, isn't going to help you."

"I know that," she said, helplessly gesturing with her hands, "but I can't seem to help it."

"What can I do make you feel better?" he asked, and the concern in his voice made tears prick in her eyes.

"I don't have any answers," she whispered. "I don't know what to do anymore."

He trailed the tips of his fingers over her cheekbone. "Close your eyes," he told her, and she did. "Focus on all of that worry, all of that desperation you're feeling."

Although she knew what he was doing, she tuned his words out, choosing instead to simply listen to the soothing tone of his voice. As the cadences wrapped around her, the knot of tension in her back loosened slightly.

Carefully, she tightened her arms around Jane's waist. She had a lot to fight for, and until her last breath, she would continue to do so.

In the logical part of her mind, she knew Jane was absolutely correct. No amount of worrying in the world would save them from what was coming.

All she could do was be ready when it did.

And she would be.