Spoilers/Timeline: None/Set in the future

A/N: This is one of those 'inspired by a smidge of real life' fics; if anyone wants to buy me a clock please message for my contact info ;)

Disclaimer: The Mentalist doesn't belong to me; Title from Jim Croce's Time in a Bottle

Twisting in the sheets, he inhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes.

It was useless.

Counting sheep, listening to a nature CD... hell, he'd even tried to lull himself into a trance. None of it worked.

Sleep was as elusive as ever.

And not for the usual, tortured reasons. No, those were rapidly fading.

It was the damn clock.

The one flashing three twenty-six at him and ticking louder than was strictly necessary.

He was certain he'd still be able to hear it if it was on her side of the bed, shoved behind her pile of books, the tissue box, and the economy sized bottle of lotion teetering on the edge of the nightstand.

And it wasn't—he rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling—that he had trouble relaxing here. Quite the opposite actually. Even though her bed was softer than he generally liked, having her curled into him, her leg draped over his hip (and really, who knew Lisbon was such a snuggler?), always helped.

Their last case had been nightmarish though. Not that most of them weren't in their own ways, but there was something particularly horrifying about discovering tortured young mothers spread through the county, each victim found holding a picture of their child as their lifeless eyes stared on. The third woman, whose photo of her blond-haired twins could barely be pried from her hands, had hit him with peculiar force.

The following two weeks and subsequent victims had left the entire team shocked and struggling until Cho shook a viable suspect and alibis began to unravel.

Three nights later images of torment and betrayal, breaches of trust, surveillance shots wallpapering the stock room of a drug store, continued to haunt him.

No wonder he couldn't relax.

Sighing, he turned towards the middle of the bed, his gaze sweeping over her form curled up on the other side of the mattress.

It was a hot night and she'd kicked the sheets off, her long tee riding high on her thigh, dark hair fann—

*TICK*

*TICK*

*TICK*

He groaned, tossing a glare over his shoulder at the offending object; that blasted clock was making rest impossible.

"What's... Why..." She yawned, propping herself up on her elbow as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room. "Why are you awake?"

"Would you believe I had too much caffeine? Too many fervid dreams about you, dear Lisbon?"

"Jane..."

Warning and amusement fought for dominance in her tone and he grinned at the warmth it sent through him.

"Fine, it's that annoying clock. It would wak—" He paused, raising an eyebrow at her as she began to laugh. "What?"

"Why do you think it's on that side of the bed?" Scooting toward him, she squinted at the time. It was late, he should have been passed out hours ago despite the... She sighed, taking in his fingers skimming over the top sheet, the hard set of his jaw... No, this wasn't just about an admittedly obnoxious clock.

It had been an exhausting—mentally and physically—couple of weeks.

She knew.

"...just a new one. Then again, you're much too practical for that."

"You say that was if it's a bad thing."

"Well, it can be a liability from time to time."

"Oh? Such as?"

She was certain he was going to cite the four months it took him to convince her that this was—they were—worth a shot, her rarely missed an opportunity to tease her about it. Poke fun at the fact that, as much as he loved her logic and thoroughness, she should know by now that employing it in reference to him rarely, if ever, worked.

Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest, made a show of thinking it over, before...

"Tea kettle."

"What?"

"It explains why you haven't purchased a new kettle of headquarters yet. The handle is going to have to come off completely before you—"

"You're the only person who uses it! I can't justify utilizing Bureau money only to—"

"Ah, but it's vital to my investigative process, dear. Surely it benefits—"

"Mmhmm, next thing I know you're going to try to get me to reimburse your gas mileage."

"Is that an option?"

"No." Rolling her eyes, she reached across him, grabbed the clock, and wrenched the batteries from the back. "There, problem solved."

"Quite practically, too." He laughed as she shoved his shoulder, the wind from the open window above them blowing her hair out in several directions, and laid down next to him.

A warm silence surrounded them and he contented himself with watching—feeling—the steady rise and fall over her chest until she stirred next to him, pushing herself up on her elbow once more.

"You're the reason those women are at peace, why the families can start to move on. Pratogos is looking at a long time in jail because of one of your harebrain—"

"Hey, it was a perfectly formulated plan."

"Jane, we were almost literally up a creek without a paddle."

"Fair enough." He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close.

"Still, the fact is you..." She sucked in a breath as their eyes met and she saw relief (comfort and love, trust) there, knew he knew.

Leaning forward, she kissed him softly before curling her body into his, her hand splaying across his chest. His arms tightened around her as he pressed her lips to her forehead and, smiling, closed his eyes.