This story has very little to do with the current events in the show, just a random piece that arrived in my head. I really like the idea of my favourite couple sharing a stolen moment or two, as the madness goes on around them. It is rated T, and set from late season 5, to season 6.

Please enjoy.

He lies with his eyes closed, just listening, taking in the sounds and smells around him, letting the familiarity of it soothe him as much as it can.

The scratching of Cho's pen on paper.

The clicking of keys on Grace's keyboard.

The rattle of the drawer in Rigsby's desk where he keeps his supply of snacks.

He zones in to these comforting sounds, and sees the team in his mind's eye, going about their task.s Knowing they're around him lets him unwind enough to doze a little sometimes, or at the very least empty his mind of Red John and gather his strength for whatever twists and turns still lie ahead.

Soft footsteps pass by, accompanied by the mingled smells of vanilla and freshly brewed coffee.

She makes it her business not to let anything disturb him when she sees him lying here like this. Once or twice, he has heard her shooing people away who have got too close, or encouraging them to talk in whispers, even though he's pretty sure that she's aware that he's not sleeping.

She understands that sometimes he just wants to be left alone. Of course, he has his attic to serve this purpose, but these days he finds himself getting anxious whenever he isn't near her. So he compromises by settling here more often, so at least she is within earshot, just in case.

The day is close to ending. Soon their fellow agents will be heading home. She of course, will stay on for another hour or two, and traditionally he moves to the couch in her office to keep her company until she finally leaves. Most nights, they barely speak to one another, but her mere presence is enough to make his world seem a little brighter.

The office clears out over the course of the next half-hour. He listens to the other agents saying their goodnights and departing, waiting for the elevator doors to close for the last time. There's safety in numbers, he knows, but he cherishes the time he gets to spend alone with her. If there is one thing he has learned through the Red John ordeal, it is to appreciate what small mercies he still has in life. Every day she remains safe by his side counts as another one.

She doesn't look up as he enters her office, nose buried in a ballistics report. She's so tense. She's been that way since the Barlow case, and with all that's happened since then, it seems to be worsening. He can see it when she walks; she holds her body stiffly, always poised to fight. Even now, she's ill at ease, even in the relative sanctuary of her office, her posture is rigid, her shoulders set, and he wouldn't be surprised if her free hand is resting on her gun, like a lethal security blanket.

This is what he's turned her into, he knows. She's always anxious, always paranoid. She never switches off, never lets her guard down, following the example he has set over the last ten years.

"No rest for the wicked, huh?" he says, watching her eyes dart back and forth across the report.

"You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" she retorts, and he grins.

"I'm sure this can wait until morning." She jerks the file out of the way as he tries to take it from her. "You should go and get some sleep."

"Later." He makes another snatch for the paper, which she dodges.

"Come on, now. How am I supposed to get through the day without being shot if my personal bodyguard is falling asleep at her post?" he asks.

At his casual suggestion, he sees her brow crinkle in worry, and immediately feels a little guilty for playing that card. His wellbeing is not something she takes lightly, and he knows she dreads the day he gets himself into something that she can't get him out of.

That day, he feels, is drawing near.

It's clear she has no intention of vacating this office any time soon. There's a half-eaten salad and an empty coffee cup sitting on the desk, so she's fuelled and ready for at least the next few hours.

All this work and all this stress aren't good for her. And if she won't help herself, he's going to have to do it for her.

Engrossed in her report once again, she completely ignores him as he moves around her desk until he's standing behind her.

When his hands find her shoulders, he feels her jolt of surprise, and she seems to tense up all the more as he gently begins to knead out the knots.

"Jane," she says, warningly.

"Lisbon," he replies.

"What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer, but instead applies a slightly stronger pressure to her right shoulder. Her hiss of pain lets him know that it's a sensitive area, just as he suspected.

"Don't do that!" she snaps, trying to pull herself away from him.

"Relax," he implores her, still rubbing slow circles, gradually easing away the pain she's carrying. "Trust me."

"How do I know that you even have any clue what you're doing? I could end up paralysed."

He ignores her complaints. "Just breathe." He didn't spend years of his life studying body language without gaining a thorough knowledge of how the body works. And additionally, he's had ten years to get to know a little something about how her body works. He knows where she aches, and where the stress collects.

She makes a non-committal grunting sound in response. Already, he can feel her muscles becoming more pliant under his fingers, and even through her shirt he can feel that her skin is warm and smooth.

Finally, she begins to relax. He sees her eyes flutter closed; her breaths become deep and long, and whether consciously or not, he finds she's leaning into him now, instead of straining to get away. A small sigh of contentment is all the proof he needs that she's not in any pain, as his fingers travel upwards to the base of her neck. Gently, gently, he caresses her skin, tenderly sweeping her dark hair aside to get optimum access to the trouble spot near the top of her spine. He knows this bothers her because he's seen her rubbing it from time to time, wincing in pain.

"You should make some time to get one of these every few weeks," he says. "It'll do you good."

She smiles. "Sure, I'll just nip out to a beauty spa between Red John cases. I'm sure you'll get along fine without me." He chuckles a little, even though it isn't really that funny. Nothing in his life goes right without her around, and they both know it.

"Besides," she continues. "I don't let just anybody put their hands on me."

The pulse point in her neck jumps a little as she says this, and he knows she's a little surprised at her own forwardness, even though she's not exactly telling him anything he doesn't know already. But they don't talk about tricky things like feelings; it's just not something they do.

As his hands continue to do their work, her feels her heartbeat slow down again, and she lets out more sighs and quiet little moans of pleasure, that awaken things inside him that have been long dormant. Each little gasp hits something in his heart that he almost forgot existed, the simple joy of giving pleasure to someone he cares for.

He moves on the other side of her neck, teasing out the knot he finds there as gently as he can.

"Oh…Patrick," she sighs. Long has he wanted to hear her call his name just like that, in that low, husky tone, because of something he is doing to her. And it doesn't escape his notice that she chooses his given name over his surname, which pleases him.

As she tilts her head slightly, the rest of her hair falls away until her neck is invitingly exposed. It would be so easy just to bend down and kiss her there, and he wants to do it so much he can actually feel himself leaning in a little bit. For so long, he has been resisting her, punishing himself by keeping her at arm's length when all he wants to do is fold her into him and sink into oblivion. Punishing her too because he knows she wants to almost as much as he does.

Once again, she moans his name, and the desire intensifies almost threefold. If she were any other woman he'd probably take her on the couch right now, and damn the consequences, but she is too special, too precious, and he knows that once he does this, there'll be no going back. They've been flirting with the line in the sand for so long that it's practically become a quickstep.

She lets out a small grunt of protest, and suddenly, he notices that his hands have stopped moving, so deep is he in thoughts of what he wishes they could be.

"What's wrong?" she asks.

It's something about her gentle voice, her eyes still closed, utterly trusting, that makes him finally succumb. He places a tender kiss on her neck, and she gasps in surprise. But he doesn't stop there. He plants another next to the first, and then another, and another, a trail of kisses on her beautiful skin. She drops the pen in her hand.

He notices that her skin tastes salty but smells sweet like vanilla. But she has always been a woman of contradictions. A stickler for the rules, but more than willing to break them for his sake. A natural leader, but willing to follow him into any kind of hell without the slightest hesitation.

Slowly, but surely, he kisses his way along her neck, and her jawline, until he's but an inch away from her lips. She hasn't moved, hasn't protested, hasn't even made a sound save for that shocked gasp. Instead she has let him do what he will, like she always does. Her pulse is racing, her breaths now shallow, and when she opens her eyes and meets his gaze, they are shining with long-held, desperate want.

A silent battle ensues, each one willing the other to be the first to give up, and break this charged moment they are sharing. They both know it would be incredibly unwise to embark on a personal relationship now, and yet neither want to be the one that makes the decision to stop it.

"This is so unprofessional. What if somebody sees?" He grins. Trust her to make this situation about work, even though it's dark, and then the building practically empty.

"Do you want me to stop?"

A long, breathless pause. "I didn't say that."

"So you don't want me to stop?"

"You started this," she reminds him. "I just hope you know what you're doing, because if this goes on much longer, I'm not sure I'm going to want to stop."

"And what do you want right now?" he asks.

"I think you know the answer to that." He both loves and hates the way she looks at him, with such tenderness in her eyes. She's in love with him, and he's the luckiest man on earth, but he's afraid, so afraid, that he's going to hurt her.

When he finally touches his lips to hers, he tries to convey all the things he wants to say. How he doesn't deserve her in his life, how she keeps the world making sense. How he loves her so desperately, he doesn't think she'll ever really know just how much.

She responds with enthusiasm, kissing him back with equal passion, winding her arms around him.

It's the kind of first kiss that gets depicted in movies and written in stories, but that nobody ever experiences in real life. But they do, and it's only when the need for air becomes too great that they break apart.

"How does your back feel now?" he asks, and she smiles at him.

"Much better, thank you. You're surprisingly good at that."

"I am a man of many talents, my dear."

He can't keep from staring at her lips now, wanting more than anything to kiss her again and never stop.

"Perhaps I can return the favour someday."

"You already have." The very idea that she owes him anything is beyond farcical. She has given him everything in his life worth having.

"Goodnight Jane." She picks up the pen once more. He knows that they will never speak of what has transpired here until the monster is gone.

"Goodnight."

Until then, they will wait.