A/N: It's so nice to have the inspiration (thanks to Hope over on Twitter) to return to my favorite fandom. Some personal projects have fallen through, I've visited other fandoms, and life has certainly happened, but here I am back again, and I hope you will indulge me with this rewrite of the events of 4x24, "The Crimson Hat." I know it must have been Lisbon's hurt and stubbornness that kept her from tracking down Jane when he faked his breakdown and left for Las Vegas for six months, but how might things have been different if she'd really tried to find him? This fic attempts to answer that question. It begins about two weeks before the events of 4x24, then goes AU after that. The title, by the way, is from a poem by Stephen Crane.

Red Devils

Chapter 1

It had taken Teresa Lisbon five and a half months to track down Patrick Jane. She'd called in favors and imposed on friendships in California, in the states immediately surrounding, and beyond. She knew through her federal contacts that he hadn't left the country, and she also knew his antique monstrosity of a car couldn't have made it very far anyway. But he had hidden his tracks well, and he might have even been able to hide effectively in California. But apparently he'd made it as far as Las Vegas.

In the first months after he left, she'd been angry. When that had led to denial and sadness, she'd known she was well into the stages of grief. She had lost her best friend, for want of a better description of their crazy relationship. She was also in love with him, but that was beside the point. He obviously didn't feel the same way, given how he'd left without really saying goodbye.

He hadn't answered any of his texts or messages, and a surreptitious check of his phone and credit card accounts yielded nothing. He'd simply turned off his phone, stopped using his cards, and cleaned out his bank accounts before he left-at least those that she'd known of. But an off-duty police officer who moonlighted as a casino security guard had recognized Jane and called Lisbon. She'd met the guy at a law enforcement conference in Vegas years before, and after one tequila induced night together, they'd remained friends. So now she knew that Jane had been working the Vegas scene, gambling a lot and dabbling once more into the fake psychic game.

Two days later, Lisbon had secured two weeks of vacation (much to the surprise of her team and Wainright) bought her ticket to Vegas, and rented a car for as soon as she arrived. They weren't in the middle of any cases, so she didn't feel that guilty about leaving the CBI in the lurch, but she did feel guilty when she didn't share the news of Jane's whereabouts with her trusted friends. This, she thought, was between her and Jane alone.

She couldn't meet Cho's eyes when she informed the team, but she saw his raised, knowing eyebrow. He was her second in command, and she knew she left the position in more than competent hands.

"Tell Jane hi," muttered Cho, that last day of work before she left. He'd poured his coffee in the break room and left her staring after him, slack-jawed. She shook her head and grinned, then took her own coffee back to her desk.

The first thing she did upon arrival at the McCarran International Airport in Vegas was to stop in the restroom and remove a nondescript, pale blonde wig and big sunglasses from her carryon bag. Before she approached Jane, she needed to know the lay of the land. Was he in trouble? Would he be unhappy to see her? She'd disguise herself and observe him for a day or two before she confronted him and unleashed all her anger and frustration with her hardest right-hook. Just the thought of that drew her mouth into a straight, determined line.

"You are so gonna get it, buster," she muttered, stuffing her dark hair beneath the wig. She thought she looked completely unrecognizable when the sunglasses came on, and she'd purposefully worn a sundress—a radical departure from her usual slacks and serviceable blouse. With a satisfied nod at her unfamiliar reflection, she pulled her small, wheeled bag behind her on the way to the car rental counter.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane held the locket of Oscar's mother in his hand like a talisman. Of the myriad reasons to hate being on the lam, faking psychic powers again was probably the second worst part about his ruse to fool Red John—third would be the daily hangovers. He tried to comfort himself with the notion that Oscar was no doubt a mobster of some kind, but it still left a bad taste that was even worse than morning cotton mouth. He sat at the edge of the white leather couch in Oscar's penthouse suite and closed his eyes.

"I'm here, Oskie," said Jane, pretending to speak for his late mother. "You know I love you. I never would have left you if I could have helped it. But I'm proud of you, Oskie. I have been watching over you all your life. I love you, my beautiful boy…"

Ten minutes later, Oscar paid him the agreed upon ten thousand dollars and Jane left the man with tears in his eyes. As he rode down in the elevator, he braved a look at himself in the mirrored walls. Bloodshot eyes stared blearily back at him. His hair was long and scraggly, his face gaunt and dark with three days' worth of stubble. He knew he must stink of cheap whiskey and sweat, but he was flush now, and could continue his show of personal destruction by gambling it all away at the blackjack tables.

It sickened Jane how easy it had been to fall back into the conman role again. But he had to seem desperate for cash, for liquor, desperate in every way if he were to convince Red John that he had given up on everything good in his life, given up on vengeance. Given up Lisbon.

The thought of her made his heart squeeze a little in his chest. That was the very worst part about vengeance: it took you away from everything else you cared about. Every one. He averted his eyes from his own abhorrent reflection and watched the digital countdown of the rapidly passing floors.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane walked across the street to his favorite casino, cashed in five thousand dollars for chips, and settled himself at a promising blackjack table. He would win a few hands, as usual, then gradually make his luck seem to run out, drinking steadily until he'd lost everything. That last bit would ensure the security cameras would either miss or ignore his cheating; they weren't going to make an issue of it when he'd just lost five grand to the House.

A passing waitress stopped at the table to take his drink order. He looked up at her, giving his most charming grin to the beautiful brunette with the enticing cleavage directly in his seated line of sight. Staying in character, he didn't hide his appreciative appraisal, but when he looked more closely at her face he was momentarily taken aback, his smile frozen for the briefest of moments. Something about her reminded him of Lisbon. The waitress didn't have Lisbon's stunning green eyes, but the two women shared a similar fey quality, and her dark hair added to the momentary illusion.

Shaken, he ordered a scotch. "And keep 'em coming, sweetheart," he added, tossing in a few chips to the pot after he peaked at his latest hand.

"Sure thing," she said, amusement in her tone. Her voice was throaty in a way that would ensure the biggest tips from the men. Well, along with the sexy red and black waitress outfit she wore.

She returned soon with his drink, and by then he had composed himself again.

"Thank you," he said, downing half the glass immediately.

"I'm Lorelei, if you need anything else," she said with a beautiful smile of her own.

"I'm sure I will," he replied wryly, toasting her a little before she chuckled softly and left him.

That laugh of hers made the hairs on the back of his neck stand in awareness, and he found himself paying half of his attention to her as she moved smoothly about the floor, taking and bringing drink orders at the other tables and at the nearby slot machines. His sixth sense had kicked in, and his heart picked up speed in speculation.

Could she be a minion of Red John? The similarity to Lisbon would be a nice touch, he thought, and what better way for the serial killer to make initial contact than through a beautiful woman, especially in what Jane hoped appeared his most vulnerable state. Lorelei must have felt his gaze upon her, for she looked up from her current customer and met his eyes a table away. He hid his fascination by holding up his glass so she could see it was empty.

She would bear watching, this one, and of course he would need more than gut instinct this time. It hadn't been long ago that he'd shot the wrong Red John, and because of that, he'd lost a little faith in his instincts where the killer was concerned.

Play it cool, Jane, he said to himself.

He nodded to the dealer to hit him with another card, even though he had a king showing and a ten of hearts face down on the table. He made a great show of annoyance when he was dealt a queen, but he forced a sheepish grin and slid another chip toward the dealer.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Lisbon watched all that transpired at the blackjack table from a bank of nickel slots several yards behind Jane. Her heart raced at the sight of him, here, in the very casino where her Vegas PD friend had told her he'd seen him. If he was trying to hide, he wasn't doing a very good job of it. That alone made her brow knit in suspicion.

She put nickel after nickel into the machine without paying attention, automatically putting all her meager winnings back into the slot as they accumulated. She watched him closely through her sunglasses, and in an hour counted four drinks he'd ordered from the trashy looking waitress in the low cut uniform. She'd never known him to drink that much, and it worried her even more than his scruffy appearance. She saw him lose hand after hand, but he didn't give up, betting wildly and throwing away hundreds of dollars in chips. Obviously, he wasn't cheating, or he'd have a pile of chips in front of him. Either he'd lost his touch or he just didn't care anymore, she thought, and she didn't know which was worse.

When she ran out of nickels, she strolled over to the bar, careful to stay out of Jane's sight but where she could keep eyes on him. She sipped a white wine and tried not to scratch beneath her itchy wig.

Well, I've found him, she thought. Now what?

It no longer occurred to her how good it would feel to punch the bastard in the nose. All she felt now was sadness and pity, with even more questions than she'd had before. He'd clearly gone even further off the rails than when he'd gotten himself fired from the CBI, for now he was acting completely out of character from the calm and controlled Patrick Jane she knew. Ogling waitresses? Drinking like a fish? Losing at cards? She couldn't even fathom what had gotten into him.

He'd said before he left Sacramento that he was giving up on Red John. Was this how he looked when he no longer had a reason for living? He reminded her vaguely of how he'd looked when she'd first met him, a year after the murders of his wife and daughter. As before, her first instinct was to run over to him, shake him senseless, then take him into her arms and save him from himself, but back then she'd stopped herself because he'd been a stranger to her. Now the urge was nearly overwhelming, and she was ready to do just that when he threw his final losing hand down on the table and slid the last of his chips toward the dealer.

"Easy come, easy go," she heard him say, a bit too loudly. He stumbled from the blackjack table and made his way through the maze of tables and people toward the main entrance of the casino. Lisbon slapped a ten down on the bar and followed him.

She was just in time to see him hail a cab, and she memorized the number on the door before getting into a taxi of her own.

"Follow that cab," she said, and the driver raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"Are we in a car chase or somethin'?"

Lisbon flashed him her badge in the rearview mirror. "Yeah," she said. "Don't lose him, but don't be obvious about it. It's number 511."

"Yes, ma'am."

The driver moved deftly through the traffic, stopping frequently for jaywalking crowds and stop lights. It took nearly thirty minutes to get a mile down the road, away from the excitement of the main strip. Jane's cab turned a corner and pulled into one of his usual extended stay fleabag motels, complete with underchlorinated swimming pool and No Vacancy sign. She was almost comforted by the fact that his choice of accommodations hadn't changed.

"Hang back," she said to the driver, and she ducked down in the back seat just as Jane nearly tripped on his way out of his own cab. He fumbled in his pockets for the key and let himself into a first floor room.

She was tempted to get out and pound on his door, but she resisted.

"Take me back to where you picked me up," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am."

Lisbon returned later in her nondescript, white compact rental car, and parked unobtrusively in the shade of a palm tree where she could watch his door. It was early evening, and the sun was going down, though it was still quite warm in the desert for mid-November. She rolled down her windows and sipped from a bottled water, then unwrapped the convenience store sandwich she'd picked up on the corner. As much as she longed to go to him, she stuck to her plan of observing first before announcing herself. She held out hope that what she'd seen in the casino was just an anomaly, that maybe he was having a bad day. Perhaps he would be more like himself in the morning.

With a sigh, she turned the car radio on low to an eighties pop station and reclined her seat. She was prepared to wait all night if she had to.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Not sure I'm digging the blonde do," said Patrick Jane near her ear. Lisbon was startled awake, disoriented as she found that it was pitch dark now except for the bright neon lights of the Pair-A-Dice Motel. Pulse racing, she reached automatically for the gun on the seat beside her.

Jane was in the back.

"Jesus!"

"Nope, it's just me. Don't shoot!" he whispered, and she saw his dim form in her rearview mirror. She pulled off her sunglasses and met his eyes. He grinned, then ducked down again while her heart flipped over in her chest.

"What the hell, Jane? I could have shot you."

"I took the chance. You shouldn't be here, Lisbon." His voice was suddenly strained now, and deadly serious.

"No, 'it's good to see you, Lisbon'? No, 'I'm sorry for worrying you, Lisbon'?" He didn't even bother to ask how she'd found him.

"Go home," he said, ignoring her questions. "Please."

"Not until I get an explanation of why you dropped off the radar for almost six months. I think you owe me that much, at least."

"I told you, I'm done with the CBI. Done with the whole Red John obsession. I'm trying to make a new life here. Seeing you again—well, it's just a reminder of all that I've chosen to move past. I wish you would respect that."

She tried to control her fury. "Well, I would, if you didn't look like a homeless person and smell like a still," she replied, wrinkling her nose. "If this is your idea of a new life, I'm not impressed."

"Then go home," he said. "I'm sorry, Teresa, but I've left California behind."

Of course, California meant her as well.

She sat there a moment, listening to his quiet breathing in the car, audible even over George Michael begging her to wake him up before she go-goed. Then, a thought occurred to her, and she turned around in her seat to look at him directly. He was sitting on the floor, his legs in what must be an awkward, uncomfortable position.

"Why are you hiding?"

"Huh?"

"You heard me. If your new life is so wonderful, why are you hiding in my backseat instead of sitting up front like a normal person?"

"Lisbon—"

"Is someone after you? Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No."

"You're lying. Tell me what's going on and maybe I can help you. If you recall, I've had some experience bailing your ass out." They both nearly smiled at that.

But he didn't answer her, and when she heard him reach for the door latch, she pressed the child lock, effectively confining him.

He swore under his breath, something she had rarely heard him do in all the years she had known him.

"Come on, Lisbon, let me go," he said wearily. His eyes glittered in the light of the hotel sign, his expression grim. She felt her own eyes water with frustrated tears, and she angrily blinked them away.

"Give me something I can believe, Jane, that will allow me to leave you behind. Then I'll go, and never try to find you again. But I can't leave now when I know you're in trouble."

"Dammit, Lisbon," he swore again, and she felt a surge of hope.

"If you don't tell me, you know I will hound you till you do," she said ominously.

"Yeah," he admitted, and then she caught a glimpse of the whiteness of his smile. "And you used to say I had trouble letting go."

"Maybe you finally wore off on me."

Her pulse thrummed with the exhilaration of their old familiar banter. She nearly cried again, just because she'd missed it so much.

"Red John could be watching us right now," he said quietly.

She swallowed hard. "Red John followed you here?"

"That's what I hope."

She met his eyes in horror. "You hope? Good God, Jane; this was all a ruse, wasn't it? Getting fired, moving here and becoming a—a—"

"Bum?" he supplied.

"I was gonna say loser."

He shrugged "You say tomato…"

"So, now let me get this straight. You faked your breakdown, put me through hell for nearly six months, just on the off chance Red John might believe you'd given up on him and he'd follow you here. This is by far the worst idea you've ever had, and that's saying a lot."

"So now you know my secret. You need to go home and forget about it."

"Just like that?" she said, nonplussed.

"Yes. It's for your own safety, and mine too, by the way. So if you really care—"

"You've gotta be kidding me. Don't even think about using that 'I'm trying to protect you' BS. No way in hell can I go home and forget that you're here, putting yourself in danger when I might be able to help."

"Lisbon, if they see you're here—nice disguise, by the way—this whole six months of sacrifice will be for nothing. And because I fooled him, he might find some way to…retaliate." He looked up at her meaningfully. They both knew full well what Red John was capable of.

They were both lost in thought for a moment, and at the sound of a corny hair-band ballad, she flipped the radio off in disgust.

"Tell me something. How do you even know Red John is watching you? Has he made any overtures?"

"Overtures?" he repeated with an amused smirk. "Not yet. But I have a feeling about this waitress I met today."

"Oh, you mean Miss Cleavage? Yeah, I saw her too. Very flirty. But I'm sure you get that a lot; I don't see how that means anything."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the personal observation. "Well, not so much lately. Women tend to shy away from stinking drunks."

"Is that part of your new persona?" she asked with a frown of disapproval.

He nodded. "All for the sake of the long con, Lisbon. Believe me, I'm really not too crazy about the dry heaves, but since that waitress might be working for Red John, it's probably a good way to establish contact. Come to think of it, it's probably why he recruited her for the job." He didn't dare mention Lorelei's resemblance to Lisbon.

"You still have no proof; you may just be wishful thinking. Seeing things through drunken goggles. Come home with me, Jane. We can convince Wainwright to give you your old job back. Our case closure rate has plummeted since you've been gone. If you apologized to him, I bet he'd take you back in a heartbeat. Don't you think this con job has gone on long enough? Wouldn't Red John have made his move by now?"

"I think he wants to be good and sure of me. But I'll tell you what. Give me two more months, and I'll come crawling back on my hands and knees, begging Little Big Man to forgive me. But I can't close the deal having to worry about you."

"And what do you plan to do if this waitress is one of Red John's friends? Bring a gun with you for your first meet and greet? Sounds pretty foolhardy to me. Then, what happens to you? You go to jail? Flee the country? Get yourself killed by a vengeful follower? Any of those scenarios guarantees I don't see you again. Is that—is that what you want?" She swallowed over the hard lump in her throat, willing herself not to become a pathetic waterworks over this man. At least not in his presence.

He reached over the seat for her hand, holding it in his cold, dry one. He was nervous, she realized, for she'd always known Patrick Jane's hands had to be reliably warm.

"You know that's not what I want," he said solemnly. "But I still have hope it won't play out in any of those ways. Yes, I'm going to kill the bastard, but I'm not going to be stupid about it. No one will be able to trace his death back to me. Or maybe I'll just make him disappear. I used to be a pretty good magician…"

His attempt at humor fell on frightened ears, but she held onto his hand now with both of hers.

"I'm not leaving," she said. "So include me in this plan of yours, or I'll have you arrested, and expedited back to California."

"On what charge?" he said, taken aback.

"I'm sure the statute of limitations hasn't run out on some iffy thing you did while working for the CBI."

"So you're blackmailing me now?"

"Damn straight. How do you like them apples?" It was one of her charming Midwestern expressions, and it made him chuckle softly to hear it after so long.

"I've missed you, Lisbon," he said, squeezing her hand and gazing into her eyes with such blatant affection that she felt her face flush. She was grateful for the relative darkness.

He sighed dramatically. "All right. You win. I'll come back with you, okay? Just let me out of here so I can go pack up my stuff."

"Yeah, right. I don't trust you, Jane."

"Well then what's the point of us ever being partners again?"

"Good question. But you know I'm not leaving, and I know you're not either, now that you think that waitress is Red John's girl. So I guess this is what you'd call an impasse. Where do you want to meet tomorrow to work out our plan?"

She could tell by his expression that he knew she had him where she wanted him, and it took all her willpower not to shout her victory to the heavens for putting one over on Patrick Jane.

"Where are you staying?" he asked finally, his tone reflecting his resignation.

"At that casino where I found you. Room 1108."

"I'll be there at nine a.m. Now don't come back here again, promise me. I'm not kidding about likely being watched."

"No, I get it."

"And keep up with the disguise, just in case. What was the point of that, anyway?"

"I wasn't sure I wanted you to know I was here. I wanted to see if you were okay first. When I saw you clearly weren't…"

"My disguise was pretty good too, eh?" he said, his familiar cocky grin warming her heart. "So, are you letting me out, or am I resigning myself to a sore back along with my morning hangover?"

He heard the faint click of the door lock releasing.

"Thanks." He grunted a little as he maneuvered out of his awkward position on the floor. He muttered something about being too old for this shit, and Lisbon smiled. He sat in the seat and she felt the faint caress of his fingers against her cheek as he lifted a lock of her wig. She twisted in her seat again to meet his eyes.

"You'll never be able to hide from me, Lisbon," he whispered, and he playfully tickled her nose with the tip of the fake blonde hair.

And then he was gone, hunkering down on the dark side of the car. She watched his shadow move around the perimeter of the motel, until he emerged at last near the outdoor ice machine at the darkest end of the paved walkway. Then, straightening his suit coat, he went into his room and shut the door behind him.

That man was so damn infuriating, she thought. So arrogant, so reckless.

God, it was good to see him.

A/N: Okay, so here we go! The car scene is obviously a sort of replacement for the church scene in 4x24 (though that was still one of my all-time favorite scenes from the show), but I had to have some private place for them to be reunited. Thanks for reading. I would love to hear your thoughts. More very soon.