A/N: This is an extended one shot, uploading it in parts. Please enjoy. I have never written in this POV before, so please excuse any mistakes. Thank you. Any other updates will be posted to my other stories this week! They are being edited.

Chapter One – Her

Jane smiles, but it is a sad, broken smile. The wrinkles do not reach his eyes; instead, they seem to falter in the dim light of his family home. He watches her, intently trying to decipher her reasoning. He isn't mad—contrarily, he is thankful. Flashes of memories fill his mind, many are jumbled and disorienting: a piano, a blonde-headed little girl, laughter that haunts his hollow soul even as he stands in the place where those memories linger.

"Are you okay?" she asks, though he barely hears her. He looks at her as though she were transparent until finally he nods. "I'm so sorry, Jane," she adds. Though her voice sounds pitying, he can detect defiance in there, too.

He smiles again, and nods. "It's what I needed," he assures her, though he knows it is a God-awful lie. He pushes out a hand and brushes the top of her shoulder, feeling her chocolate hair on his knuckles. He relishes this for only a moment before he pulls his hand away from her and drops the fake smile. "Thanks for, uh…" he hesitates, trying to form thought in his mind before it seizes and he can no longer hold himself together.

Lisbon understands. He can see that she does. She is an open book to him, only hiding the most important of things within her, closing him off. He can see she is sad; two eyebrows arching up and lips pursing. He wishes he could touch two fingers to her chin and lift it so her eyes search his—reassurance—but he can only stand in silence as the hallway's emptiness adds to the uncomfortable pause between them.

Finally, "You forgot who you were," she says, though she knows she doesn't have to. She needs to say it, because if she doesn't, she's afraid he'll try to make it into an unfunny joke—a mask of deceit.

Surprised by her candor, he feels himself nod. If nothing else, the situation has brought that to his attention. He cannot fathom her reasons other than him forgetting who he was. "It's painful," he admits, closing his eyes for a brief moment, relishing the darkness and the stare of her Irish green eyes. "It's so painful."

She reaches out, and he feels her fingers as they grip his shoulder softly; the touch of her delicate hand makes him open his eyes and stare at her, falling back to his old trick: lifting a smile on his lips that he did not mean. He reaches up—it takes a lot of effort—and removes her hand from him, letting his fingers linger on hers. He will not deny himself that little treat. Finally, he lets go, and it takes an effort not to reach for them again once her warmth vacates.

She hesitates, not wanting to press him, he sees. With a soft tone, she says, "I know." She assures him, and he has no doubt in his mind that she is sincere. "This was the last resort."

Last resort? He takes that in. How easily she could have left him forget the pain and horror that melded his dreams and reality. He finds this bit of information satisfying. She wasn't willing to let him go. At least, not without trying something to jog those awful memories. But, despite the crude awakening she knew he'd receive, it outweighed the price of losing him completely to a world that was not his.

"You're feeling guilty," he says, deciphering her facial expression. "Teresa, you shouldn't feel guilty." And he meant that.

She smiles for the first time, though it is half-hearted. "Stop that," says Lisbon.

He looks away from her face and finds an interesting spot on the floor to look at. It's much easier to talk to her when he doesn't see her lipstick stained lips curl into a pitying smile. "Stop what?" he whispers.

"Reading me," she answers, her voice as even as he's ever heard it.

This makes him look up and meet her eyes with his. He can read what they tell him already, but he inhales sharply and exhales even sharper. "Sorry," he apologizes, though he knows she can tell he doesn't mean it. "It hasn't changed." As soon as he says this, he is overcome with sorrow again. He doesn't know why he is being so open now. He doesn't spend long on questioning himself. Instead, he clears his throat and nods toward the still open door.

The red, fading smiley face that adorns his daughter's old room is still visible. Lisbon reaches around him and pulls on the knob, closing the door on the dreadful reminder. She wants to say something, to tell him that everything is going to be all right, but she knows that will not be enough. It can't be enough. She sighs heavily and reaches out her hand to take hold of his. Immediately, she feels the warmth of his big hand in her small one, and she smiles, unfalteringly.

He does not question where she is leading him; he is too busy focusing on the warmth her hand is currently trailing, up his arm, around his shoulder, and down his spine, making it tingle as she tugs and pulls. They get to the bottom of the stairs before she turns to him, her face illuminated by the windows beside her.

"I want to take you somewhere," she says with a smile. "Let's go do something that scrubs away the sadness. Even if for just a night, Jane."

He's intrigued. "Where?"

"You look like you could do with a drink," she answers, and drops his hand.

He is a little confused. "Drink? Where, at the office?"

She shakes her head. "No. I don't keep Tequila there anymore," she answers, her face growing wistful. "Want to drive with me?"

He laughs. "You're my ride," he reminds her, his eyes shining and his mouth grinning.

"Then, let's go," she urges. She turns to open the door, and he follows her out.

The drive is quiet, reflective. Neither speak until they are outside of her apartment door, and, after a brief struggle, the key turns and they usher inside. Even once inside, there is little conversation as she tells him to sit at the kitchen table while she pours a nice Tequila—the same brand she stows in her drawer at the CBI. She grabs two glasses.

"We could use this," she says as she pours the golden liquid into one glass and hands it to Jane. "Drink up."

In one gulp, he does just that. He watches her through the bottom of the glass as she does the same. She reaches and pours him another.

"I feel better already," he says, though he doesn't know if it is actually true, or if it is the alcohol slowly making its way through his system.

"Me, too," she echoes, and pours herself another, as well. "Me, too."

"How did you know about the…" he trails off.

"…smiley face?" she finishes. She sips her Tequila, then sets it down in front of her. "Brett Partridge," she admits. That creep-o-zoid. "He'd tell anyone who would listen."

He tilts his head at that and gulps the Tequila in his hands. "I didn't know he was a forensics tech back then," he says, because what he would rather say would be rude and not relevant. "You knew it would bring me out of my…" he looks for an appropriate term, then adds, "…stupor."

She ponders answering, but decides better of it and just nods.

"Why?" He knows he is pushing, but if he doesn't get the answer he cannot read on her face, it will drive him insane.

She reaches down and pulls at the cross adorning her neck. "Because we all have that one thing that makes us feel something, Jane. It's the one thing we'd die to keep with us."

Guilt, is what she wanted to tell him. The face represents the guilt he thinks he should endure. She doesn't have to tell him that, though. She knows he understands. She watches as his face turns; he is thinking of something that is loud enough to reflect behind his tired eyes.

Jane cocks his head. He is thinking hard and fast now. Her words are true; he would die to keep that with him. But there is also another thing he would die to keep with him:

Her.

And that very revelation shakes him to the core. Sat in her kitchen drinking Tequila with her, there is a dawning comprehension. It was a feeling he's felt before, but not so strongly and definitely not in the same capacity as friendship. Why didn't he see it before? Why had it taken him so long to understand? Everything was starting to make sense: the sensations that run down his back when she touches him, the way he hangs onto her every word, every sliver of attention she gives him, the reason he hadn't given up and tried to locate Red John all on his own: her.

He loves her.

He loves her, and suddenly he is frightened. He is scared about what this means. He is up from the kitchen chair before she can even understand what is happening. He can hear her calling his name from behind, but his thoughts are too loud; they rattle in his brain like a cement truck. He reaches her apartment door, tears it open and walks down the steps to the parking lot. He knows she is his ride and he is a little drunk, but he cannot turn back. He cannot face her. He cannot allow himself even one moment of happiness. He was not about to invite anyone or anything that could make him feel and think the way Lisbon could.

He can still hear her calling for him, but her voice is drowned out by the thump of his heart and the thoughts in his mind:

I love her, but I can't allow myself to have her.

He doesn't know how long he's walked before he can go no further. His vision is clouded, and he is stumbling a little. He finds a bench in a remote part of a park and curls up.

I can't allow myself to have her.

And he drifts into an inebriated sleep.