Author's Notes: It really bugged me that Jane would not at least realize during Brown Eyed Girls that something very serious was up with Lisbon. She isn't good at hiding her emotional responses when something bothers her, and Jane is intensely concerned with her well-being. But on reflection, it occurred to me that there were some very good reasons why he would actively avoid reading her at this point. So I started this story. Still working on this weekend's installment of Illusion of Control, which will be from Fischer's POV and involve the party house in Violets. But if people are interested in yet more Jisbon, I might see how far this story takes me, too.

Disclaimer: the Mentalist is the brainchild of some very talented minds, none of whom are me. But I'm glad none of them are stopping me from getting amusement (and no money) from exploring their world in my stories.

Need Not to Know

He tried to repel the image from his mind. Lisbon leaning in, laughing, smiling with delight over the take-out food from her favorite Thai restaurant. Pike, confident, drinking in the vision of her pleasure, clearly expecting that it would ultimately lead to more. Just seeing the speculative look in Pike's eyes heightened Jane's feelings of urgency to go, get out of this building, find whatever was necessary to bring peace to the poor girl who had died right in front of him. He didn't want to see the silent questions flitting across the other agent's face. How soon can I be alone with her again? What will it take to convince her to…

Jane averted his eyes slightly, raised his mask once again, and willed his breathing and heartbeat to slow. He delivered his message quickly, trying to sound genuinely sorry that he had interrupt them, trying to sound as if it didn't matter to him that Lisbon was finally, finally coming with him in the Airstream to solve a case. Then he retreated quickly, not wanting to see just how sorry Teresa was to leave with him.

He knew that he had no business feeling irritated that Pike got credit for knowing that Lisbon appreciated some spice when he himself had known it for years. He had no right to feel uncomfortable about their subtle but very public displays of affection. At work. (Since when had Lisbon become so laid back about professional distance?) The most he could allow himself to feel was impatience that Lisbon would be here, dallying with her new beau, when there were crimes that needed solving. Would she ever have let such a thing distract her in the old days at the CBI?

But that was the old Lisbon, the one he had known intimately—not sexually, but at the very heart of her character, her hopes, dreams, passions... everything that had made her uniquely herself. This new Lisbon was a stranger to him. Partly her choice, she had avoided being alone with him for months, finding excuses every time he sought her out. Partly because Abbott and Fischer had been shy of assigning them to the same tasks since that first time that he ran away—and why had that only changed after Pike demonstrated his interest in Teresa?

But mostly, he had to admit, because it was painful for him to see how she had changed, how high her walls towards him had been built, in the two years that he was absent. Walls of suspicion, guilt, anger, grief, doubt.

Pain.

That had been the hardest to see. On that one fateful plane ride, when she had set him straight about whose life he had been manipulating and rearranging, he had been unable at first to read her, to understand why she was not as warm to him as he had hoped and expected. And then she had let loose. He had seen the full spectrum of her anger on a variety of occasions over the years, but this was something else again. The subtext of her (otherwise relatively subdued) tirade was loud and clear. He had hurt her. Badly. Not carelessly and from neglect, but deliberately and with full knowledge of the probable damage. It was only her considerable strength and courage that had pulled her back from a shattered heart and life and enabled her to rebound and rebuild.

Seeing this wasn't nearly as bad as finding her bled out on his bed, but it was painful enough. It felt far too familiar.

As he walked towards the elevator, Abbott called his name. Chafing, Jane turned to face him. "Have you spoken to Lisbon?" Abbott asked, him.

"Yes, I think she can tear herself away from Agent Pike to join us. Cho's already gone down to the Airstream."

Abbott's eyes were searching, but if he thought the hint of irritation in Jane's voice was unusual, he gave no sign. "Go easy on her, Jane. She cares about this case, too. She just has other things on her mind."

Jane bit his tongue to hold back back from several less than civil replies. The one that finally passed his internal censor was spoken with a mocking smile, mildly enough that even Lisbon might not have heard the bitterness. "Up until now she has never been this distractible. You would think that she has never had attention from a man before. Don't worry, she'll get used to it, eventually."

Jane saw Abbott's eyebrows rise, and wondered why the senior agent was so taken aback by this reply. Saying things calculated to shock and offend was Jane's stock in trade, but this comment was meant to sound offhand. Had he miscalculated his delivery?

He scanned for meaning in Abbott's nonverbal signals. The boss knew something. Something he had thought that Jane would already know. But something in Jane's words or mannerisms made him wonder… Abbott glanced towards the break room, and then back at Jane. There was the merest trace of pity in Abbott's eyes.

I don't want to know.

Jane excused himself hastily, striding past the elevator and opening the stairwell door, knowing that he needed to get rid of some frustration if he was going to be calm and pleasant and rational on this ride. He knew that this case had gotten under his skin. The girl might have been Charlotte's age, light hair, terrified by the approach of death… and once again he had been too late.

He took the steps quickly, a patter like the rhythmic drumming of distracted fingers on a table. It wasn't Lisbon's fault that the girl had died. A few minutes earlier would still have been too late. Who else but Teresa would have come so quickly, on so little information? Who else trusted him that much? At least when it came to professional hunches. And yet… what had she been doing with Pike when he called? What would make leaving their date such a hardship for her, to the point that once again she was suspicious of his motives in calling her? Her voice had sounded breathless on the phone, but the background noises suggested somewhere out in the open. He had tried not to listen for more clues, not to read her face when she arrived. He had found, since Pike and Lisbon had been dating, that his imagination went into overdrive on a hair-trigger when it came to their personal activities. Not my business not my business not my business was his mantra, keeping pace with his echoing footsteps, winding back and forth, spiraling downward.

And out at the ground floor, heading for the exit just short of a run, Jane tried not to remember the times he had forgotten how much he really did not want to know the details of Teresa's new relationship. Including that first night, after the art con had successfully ended, and he had surprised them on their way out.

Where are we going?

Teresa's flushed, excited face, glowing from well-deserved admiration, falling slightly. Guilt? Disappointment? Uncertain how to answer, but Jane had read her face too well, and it almost broke him. Not now, Jane, I've been looking forward to this…

And Pike's awkward embarrassment. Is she going to tell him he's not invited? Should I?

Fortunately, Jane had regained his composure quickly. Before Pike had done what he figured Lisbon wanted him to do, inviting Jane along as a third wheel, he had sent them on their way, mask firmly in place, trying not to wonder what their plans were, or how this had developed so quickly. Was there more to this than the brief moment of flirting that he had witnessed in the art squad's private museum? How serious was Pike? How serious was Lisbon? Did she intend to make him jealous? Was he, in fact, jealous?

Deep down, he knew the answers to all those questions. But he couldn't bear to examine them.

Stopping at the door and looking back, Jane saw an elevator door opening, and paused, just in case he had the opportunity to walk Lisbon out to the Airstream. No such luck. She was making a long goodbye, no doubt. As she must have done the morning that they had investigated the explosion at the bus stop, and she had arrived late. In a cab. Lying blithely about her car not starting. Of course, he could almost always tell when she was lying. And he really hoped he was reading her cues wrong. No high voice, maybe she was really having car trouble.

He had not asked her about it later. He was afraid that she might get that confused look she sometimes got. If he had to remind her that she was having car trouble, it meant that the car was not the issue.

Jane strode out the front doors briskly, berating himself. It shouldn't matter what level of intimacy Lisbon and Pike had reached. But he knew full well why his chest tightened and his throat constricted when he caught glimpses of their private glances or overheard snatches of teasing conversations. He had failed to overcome his own desires and emotions with regard to Teresa. Even knowing how he had hurt her, even with every renewed evidence of his inability to be the good man that she needed, even watching time and time again as her face went from happy and excited to guilty and uncomfortable when she saw him… he couldn't forget. He couldn't stop wanting what he did not deserve, and could never have.

Sometimes he would have liked to burn the whole memory palace to the ground, rather than keep seeing what he had done to her, and feeling the aching gash of his longing for her that seemed to bleed him dry.

But for now, he had a chance to be near her while they did the one thing that most satisfied her. And some part of him couldn't help but hope that sharing this piece of his past might make her see him better, even remember what she had once loved about him back in Sacramento. But that was a fool's dream. It was enough that she seemed happy with the work, and sometimes, if he didn't look too closely, or think too deeply, he could pretend that her smiles were his doing. Whatever their real source, he didn't need to know.