A/N: Yes, I know I'm still in the middle of my other fic, "Teresa" with waterbaby134. But this idea captured me and I felt compelled to write it and share it with you. It is set sometime in season 5, with minor spoilers from season 4 as well. It will mostly be comedy and romance, as indicated, with only minor angst and drama interspersed throughout.

Thanks for taking a chance on another of my stories. Or, if you're new to my writing, welcome!

The Rocket's Red Glare

Chapter 1

"Someone out there is trying to kill me," announced Jane to Lisbon. She was sitting at her desk in her CBI office, so intent on finishing her report that she didn't even look up at Jane's arrival in her doorway.

"Someone in here is going to kill you if you don't let me finish this—"

"Lisbon," he interrupted softly. Something in his tone made her look up then. He appeared totally disheveled—even more so than usual—his jacket torn and dusty, a bleeding scrape across his cheek.

She got to her feet, her brows knit in concern. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I told you—"

"Someone's trying to kill you. I got that. Can you be a bit more specific?" She grabbed a tissue from her desk and went round to him, and before he knew what she was about, began dabbing at his cheek. He hissed in sudden pain and his hand came up to her wrist to stop her movements.

"Damn! That stings!"

"You're bleeding," she said, showing him the evidence on the tissue.

"Huh," he said in surprise, his hand gingerly touching his face. "It felt numb before you started touching it," he complained petulantly.

She actually spit into the tissue and was about to apply it to his injured cheek, but he cringed and backed up a few steps, hands up defensively. "Thank you, but I'll visit the men's room in a minute."

She hid her smile as she turned and tossed the offending tissue into the wastebasket. Her little brothers had always hated when she did that too. It usually made them man up fairly quickly, however.

"So," she said in faint amusement, "what makes you think someone is trying to kill you?"

"Someone tried to run me off the sidewalk on the way to the office just now."

"What?"

"Yeah. I was walking to work—"

"Why were you walking to work?" she interrupted.

"I'll tell you that part of the story in a minute," he replied in annoyance. His level of agitation and general loss of his usual good humor made her hesitate in teasing him further.

"Sorry," she said. "Go on."

"Anyway, a car came out of nowhere, swerving onto the sidewalk. It's a good thing I have the reflexes of a cat, for I was able to successfully jump out of the way to relative safety. I suppose I got this scrape when I first hit the sidewalk before I rolled into the grass and hid behind a tree. It happened so fast that when I got up, the car had already sped away with a squeal of its tires."

"Reflexes of a cat, eh?" She just couldn't let that one go by.

"Well, yes, Lisbon. Scoff all you like, but my ability to respond instinctively to danger likely saved my life this morning."

She smirked, but tried to nod in understanding, as she was trained to do with distraught witnesses.

"What kind of car was it?"

"A 1969 Mustang Shelby GT 500 Convertible, British racing green, with original wheels and gas cap."

She raised an eyebrow at that.

"What? I know my classic cars, Lisbon."

"Did you get a license plate number?"

"No," he said glumly. "It was already too far away when I got up."

"Maybe it was an accident," she reasoned, sitting on the edge of her desk. "And they were afraid of getting into trouble so they drove away."

He shrugged, then grabbed his shoulder in pain at the sudden movement.

"Why don't you sit down before you fall down," she suggested, inclining her head toward her couch. He complied, limping a little before he settled down slowly onto the overstuffed cushions. He let go a relieved sigh as he rested against the back of the couch.

"The driver seemed pretty intent on running into me," he said in answer to her hypothesis. "I don't think it was an accident."

"Did you see the driver?"

"No. The side windows were tinted and I never saw the car head on since it sideswiped me. But I'm betting it was a man by the masterful way he drove."

"Well, that's a very sexist thing to say."

The first hint of a smile returned to his lips. "It is what it is."

"We'll have Van Pelt run the type of car, see how many are registered within the area. Then we'll pull up any traffic cams to see if they caught anything on surveillance video. In the meantime, you should probably get to a doctor and get looked at. You might have broken or dislocated something."

"No thanks. I can locate every ache and pain, believe me; I don't need a doctor to do it. I just need to rest. You got any aspirin? And a cup of tea would be nice."

She contemplated him a moment as he closed his eyes, his golden head resting against the white fabric of her couch. She hoped he didn't get blood on it from his cheek.

"You didn't tell me why you were walking to work in the first place."

"Oh, yeah," he said opening his eyes again. "I was nearly killed when my brakes went out yesterday. I couldn't stop at a stoplight—couldn't stop at all until I turned into a curb. Dented my right fender, tore up my tire. I had it towed to a repair shop. They're supposed to call me when they find out what happened to the brakes. Dollars to doughnuts someone cut them."

"Come on, Jane. That could easily be a coincidence. That car is so old and undependable, the brakes were probably due to go out anytime. You're lucky that damn thing hadn't gotten you killed long before now."

"The brakes were operating perfectly yesterday morning. I think I would have noticed if they were on their way to wearing out. No, someone is going to a lot of trouble to make my death look like an accident."

"Paranoid much?"

"No such thing as coincidences, Lisbon."

"Well, I suppose you might be right," she conceded. "I have a filing cabinet full of people who'd like to kill you. I mean, you were kidnapped once because of an old client, and since you've been working here, there are many perps in prison because of you. I wouldn't even know where to begin to figure out who might have it in for you today."

"Well, you sure know how to reassure a person," said Jane wryly.

"It is what it is," she said with a grin. "Tell you what. After Van Pelt does her thing, if we find out your brakes were tampered with, I'll assign you a bodyguard until we figure out who's doing this."

"Bodyguard? No thanks."

"Cho. You like Cho. He probably wouldn't mind psychic-sitting for a few days if you behave yourself."

He gave her a dirty look. "Cute. I'll take my chances."

"I wouldn't worry so much," she prompted.

He looked at her intently. "You're not worried. You're just placating me here. You just wait—"

Jane's cell phone rang and he reached for his inside pocket.

"Patrick Jane," he answered. "Yeah. Yeah. Oh, really? And how could that happen? Uh-huh. Yeah. Well, I certainly will be reporting that to the police. Thank you." He caught Lisbon's eye triumphantly, then continued: "Well, please don't fix anything until they get over there to check it out. Yeah. Thanks again. Bye."

He sat up and leaned forward. "What did I tell you? Believe me now?"

Her face now held the appropriate concern. "Okay, well, we'll stick to the plan. I want someone on you twenty-four seven."

He raised an eyebrow suggestively, and, much to her surprise, found herself blushing. "Cho it is. And that's an order. This could involve the CBI, so you'll take the protection and you'll like it."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, his full smile appearing before he could stop it, along with the pain it caused in his cheek.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cho and Rigsby returned from the repair shop, having looked at Jane's brakes along with one of the CBI's mechanical experts. On her way back from the break room, coffee mug in hand, Lisbon saw the two men had returned, and she joined her team in the bullpen.

"The brake lines were definitely cut," reported Cho. "Somebody wants Jane dead."

"That's a long list to narrow," quipped Rigsby.

"Gee, thanks, guys," replied the injured party from his place on the couch.

His wound now dressed with a light bandage, a change of suit, aspirin, and two cups of tea later, Jane was ready to look at the situation more dispassionately. Someone was trying to kill him. He and Lisbon had filled everyone in on the events of the last two days, and Van Pelt was hard at work on her computer trying to find out what she could on the origins of the vehicle and possible video evidence.

"There are twenty such Mustangs in the Sacramento area; eighteen owned by men," announced Van Pelt from her desk.

Lisbon gave Jane a look of supreme annoyance, then instructed Van Pelt: "Don't listen to Jane on this one. It could have been a man or a woman. He didn't actually see the driver, after all."

"Just using my instincts, Grace. Isn't that what I was hired to do?"

"You are personally involved in this," replied Lisbon before Van Pelt could comment. "So forgive me if I don't totally trust your instincts. Let's stick to actual facts, for now, shall we?"

When she turned away, Jane mimicked her silently behind her back. Rigsby stifled a laugh with an unconvincing cough.

"Let me know when you pull up the video surveillance," Lisbon said to Van Pelt. Cho, Rigbsy—start checking out those car owners. I'll be in my office."

"Yes, Boss," came the chorus from her subordinates. Well, except for Jane.

"I wish you and Mom would quit fighting," said Rigsby.

Jane grinned. "She's just worried about me."

"That's sweet," Cho said dryly.

"Isn't it?" commented Jane. He rose slowly and followed her, leaving the rest of the team to shoot worried glances his way. Someone was trying to kill their friend and colleague, but they were actually more frightened of what could happen to him in Lisbon's office.

"I hope he's wearing a cup," muttered Cho.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jane didn't even bother to knock, but pushed open Lisbon's office door-the better to take her off guard. He was surprised at what he saw, however. Instead of slamming things around her desk or cussing under her breath, she was sitting on the couch, elbows on her knees, face in her hands. She looked up at the sound of Jane's sudden entrance, and he caught a glimpse of watery eyes and a stricken expression.

"Hey," Jane said. "You okay?"

She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands. "I'm fine."

"At the risk of getting into another argument with you today, I beg to differ." He sat down beside her on the couch.

She shook her head at him and laughed humorously. Then, she began to spill her thoughts, unable to stop once she'd begun.

"You know something, Jane? The past couple years, you've been kidnapped, nearly drowned, poisoned, and missing for months. I don't know how much more stress I can take over you. Sometimes I feel like the parent of a troubled teen, expecting a knock at the door some night from a cop with some very bad news. I thought I'd gotten away from that when my brothers finally grew up."

For the first time in awhile, Jane was truly shocked. He knew she was concerned when things happened to him—they were friends as well as colleagues, after all. But he realized in that moment there was more than just friendly apprehension behind her knitted brows; his past mishaps had taken a toll on her. Whereas two years ago, attempts on his life would have been met with a tinge of humor, once she'd realized he wasn't simply being paranoid this time around, she'd been thrown into full mother hen mode. It wasn't like her to get so emotional about a case, even if it involved one of her own.

"You know, most of those things weren't my fault," he said tentatively. She gave him a sidelong look. "Okay, all of those things were my fault in some way. I anger the wrong people, take risks I shouldn't, and fail to think of the feelings of others."

"Are you trying to cheer me up?" she asked, but a small smile had briefly hovered about her lips.

He reached out a hand and touched her back consolingly. "You know, along with the reflexes of a cat, I also have its nine lives. I still have things to do in this life. So, you needn't worry, Teresa; look at all I've survived already. Some idiot with a Mustang is no match for me."

She was quiet for a moment, contemplating his words. "What life do you suppose you're on now, Morris?"

He pretended to count on his fingers. "By my count, I have at least two more to go."

"Two!"

He shrugged, pleased to find the pain had lessened in his shoulder. "We only met nine years ago, Lisbon. I had a rather…eventful existence even before we met." His smile was indulgent, and it coaxed an answering one from her.

"That still leaves me with one more than the rest of you mere mortals have," he continued. "When I'm down to my last, I promise to treat it with kid gloves."

"I'd feel a lot better if you got a head start on that and quit making enemies. You may have two more lives, but I still have only the one, and you're slowly draining that life out of me."

His hand had begun making soothing circles in the middle of her back, and she had to admit that his humor as well as his touch had gone a long way toward calming her. But there was still someone out there plotting his demise, and she knew in that moment that she wouldn't be totally comfortable unless she was there to watch over him.

"I've changed my mind about Cho," she said suddenly.

"Good. Because I really don't need a—"

"I'm going to do it," she interrupted. "Until we bust this guy, consider me your shadow. No arguments."

"Fine," he replied easily. Too easily, to Lisbon's mind.

"Really?" she said skeptically.

"Yep. For one thing, you're much prettier than Cho. But don't tell him I said that."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That evening, with still no new leads, Lisbon drove Jane back to his motel room. She followed him up the outside stairs to his door, and he took out a key.

"An actual key," she said, looking around at the dodgy place. "How quaint."

He stopped and turned to her. "No need to get mean, Lisbon. You didn't have to escort me to my room, you know. For one thing, you didn't even buy me dinner first," he chided with a mischievous smirk.

To his amusement, Lisbon blushed. He put the key in the lock and was about to open the door, when Lisbon's cop instincts kicked in, and she reached down to cover his hand over the doorknob.

"Wait," she whispered, drawing her gun out with her other hand. "Let me go in first."

Even though she had the gun and the training, Jane always felt slightly emasculated in situations like this. Despite their role reversal, he still felt extremely protective of her, and not for the first time wished he were a better man. He reluctantly released the doorknob and stepped back, allowing her to turn it and push the door slowly open. She flipped on the light and he watched as she entered, a gun-wielding goddess, sweeping the room with her alert gaze and her ready weapon. She checked the bathroom and closet, then turned back to him, lowering her gun.

"Clear," she said in that endearing CBI agent way of hers.

He smiled. "Thanks, Agent Lisbon. I think I'll be okay now. Unless you'd like to stay for tea and Chinese delivery."

She looked tempted. "That's okay. I bought a sandwich from the vending machine at work. I'll watch from the car."

"Come on, Lisbon. You wouldn't be intruding. Look, I've got a TV. It's even in color. I'm pretty sure we've got the Military Channel too."

She grinned, but shook her head. "You get some rest. I'll be all right."

His coaxing smile slipped from his face, replaced with clear annoyance. "It's ridiculous that you should wait in the car, when it's perfectly comfortable inside. How about this—why don't you rent the adjoining room? I'm pretty sure it's empty. I'll even foot the bill so you don't have to try to wrangle reimbursement from the State of California. Come on, I feel responsible here."

He paused. She seemed genuinely conflicted now.

"Okay. I'll go rent the room next door. But I'll pay my own way."

Jane rolled his eyes. "Fine. Whatever you say, Miss Independence."

She ignored him and turned to leave. "Stay inside and lock the door behind me. I'll be right back."

She shut the door and actually waited on the other side to hear him draw the chain and turn the deadbolt—he knew this because he watched her through the peephole. He shook his head in amusement and went to the phone to order their dinner, whether she wanted it or not.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Fifteen minutes later, a knock came on the adjoining interior door.

"Jane, it's me. Open up."

"Well, howdy, neighbor. Hey, your room is just like mine."

"Uh, yeah. Now, leave the door unlocked." She moved to shut it between them again.

"Hey, plenty of egg foo yung for two here," he said, just as she caught a whiff. He swept his hand toward the kitchenette table, where four white boxes awaited them. "There's that lovely brown gravy you like to go with it…"

She hesitated as if they had never shared a meal before. In a motel room. Alone. They had actually, on several occasions. So why did things suddenly seem different now? Was it because Jane was the case? Was she instinctively falling back on professional distance to protect herself?

What the hell's wrong with you, Teresa? She asked herself. It's just Jane.

She made her face and form relax, and she followed him into his room. She forced a smile that she was certain he would see right through.

"Sure. Okay. It does smell good."

And so they ate together, the conversation becoming as easy as usual, but then it turned to possible suspects for whomever was trying to do him in.

"Any thoughts occur to you lately?" She asked over a chopstick full of chow mein.

"No."

"Well, none of the car owners had any direct relationship to our past cases, and only two even had rap sheets, nothing CBI worthy. Either we're missing something with them or this is totally a dead end."

Jane munched away on his egg foo yung (one of his favorite ways to eat eggs).

"I'm at a loss, Lisbon. None of those names of Mustang drivers rang any bells. I really don't want to walk down memory lane again to delve into my old fake psychic cases. I guess it feels like it's more recent than that, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Just a feeling."

"Your feelings are usually on the money though."

Jane paused, eyebrows shooting up, egg-laden chopsticks halfway to his mouth.

"What's this? You're actually putting stock in my feelings?"

She blushed a little. "You know I always do, but as an officer of the law I have to cover every base. I can't go to a prosecutor and say, 'Hey, I've got no proof, no evidence, but my ex-fake psychic consultant has a feeling about this.' It's also my duty to show my team's done everything thing they could. The State wants a solid case, and even though you are right ninety-nine percent of the time, nothing says airtight like having some actual evidence."

Of course, there was one thing in that speech he pounced upon.

"Only ninety-nine percent?"

"Nobody's perfect, Jane."

The both grinned and continued their meal in companionable silence.

After they'd cleared the table and stowed the leftovers in Jane's mini-fridge, Jane settled on the bed while Lisbon sat in the recliner watching an old Cary Grant movie. He'd been wrong about The Military Channel. Jane had finished his tea and when she heard him yawn for the third time, she clicked the TV off with the remote control.

"I'll let you get some sleep," she said.

"I don't know what's come over me," he said around another yawn.

"Don't worry about it. I'm going next door. Holler if you need anything."

"Okay. And Lisbon…"

"Hmm?" She paused at the door to her room. She tried not to notice the inviting sight of a casual Jane in stocking feet, vest unbuttoned, hair tousled, eyes heavy, lying on a bed. Then he grinned sleepily and the sensual picture was complete. He was truly a beautiful man, and she'd noticed it from the beginning, of course. But in the last few months—well, since he'd blurted out that he loved her—she'd been noticing it more and more. He was still Jane. But now he was Jane Who'd Said He Loved Her. It was very disconcerting at times, especially times like this, when he was so…relaxed.

"Thanks for staying with me. Cho wouldn't have been nearly as fun."

She sniffed a little. "Oh, don't give me that. It would have been like a men's slumber party in here. Beer, poker, pay-per-view." She shivered dramatically. "Sorry you missed out on that."

His eyes had drifted close as she spoke so that by the time she'd finished her short speech he was breathing deeply, out like a light. He must not have been sleeping much lately. She smiled and walked over to the bed, pulling the spare blanket up around him from where it had been folded at the foot of the bed.

As she tucked the blanket around him, she gave into temptation and leaned in closer, a deep feeling of gratitude welling up in her eyes. He was lucky to be alive, had cheated death once again, despite his cavalier attitude and all the nine lives crap. Van Pelt had gotten access to video from a traffic light camera and they'd all watched in horror as the car had nearly hit him, and how he'd dove out of the way just in time. It still made her heart skip a beat just thinking about it. No new leads on either car or driver, however. Like much that surrounded Patrick Jane, it was a mystery to her.

She listened to his breathing for a moment, noted the long lashes resting against his cheekbones. Then, hesitantly at first, she reached out a hand and smoothed back a lock of hair that had fallen on his forehead.

"Good night, Jane," she whispered.

"Good night, Lisbon," he replied, a grin ghosting over his lips when she jostled his bed in startle. Combined with her surprise was keen mortification that he'd caught her acting so tenderly toward him, tucking him in like a child. Eyes still closed, he curled onto his side and snuggled into the blanket with a soft moan of contentment.

Lisbon nearly ran to the adjoining door, leaving Jane to chuckle into his pillow before promptly drifting into a dreamless sleep.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Something made her wake up with a start. Lisbon had tried to stay awake, had sat upon her bed with the TV softly playing. She'd even made herself horrible coffee with the room's complimentary brewer and coffee packets. She must have been too emotionally drained to stay awake. The door to Jane's room was open a crack, and she'd listened to his deep breathing—almost, but not to the point of snoring. She must have drifted off. But now, as she became instantly awake as she'd learned to do as a cop, she realized that it hadn't been a noise, but a smell that had awakened her. Smoke. Something was burning.

Her eyes flew to the coffee maker, but the power light was off. Then, in the soft glow of the lamp, she saw smoky tendrils drifting through the crack in Jane's door.

"Jane!" she cried, rushing for his room. She pushed it open and was met with the horrifying sight of his room ablaze. The fire had apparently started around the door to the outside and was quickly spreading to the curtains at the window. Jane still lay on the bed, unmoving. Panic slammed into her, and for a moment she froze, hypnotized by the flickering glare of the flames.

Then she coughed as acrid smoke filled her lungs, and her training kicked in at the same moment. She launched into action, going to the bed and shaking Jane's arm, while her hand went to her cell phone and she dialed 911.

"Jane! Get up! There's a fire."

He wasn't responding.

"Jane!"

A/N: Yes, evil cliffie! Hope you come back for the next chapter! In the meantime, please let me know what you think so far.