A/N: I have been working on this story for a long time now. A good six to seven months, at least. I am liking where it's going, so I thought I'd post it to see what you guys think. I should be working on The Girl With the Red Scarf but I have a feeling this story will be well-liked within the Mentalist fandom, Jisbon and all ;)

Speaking of those two, that season finale killed me. Lisbon's face during that indirect confession. Agh. That's all I have to say.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Lisbon's POV

Okay, breathe. Breathe.

I recite these words over and over to myself in my head as I stare down at the little stick in my hands, the stick that sends me a message that will forever change my life.

For the good? That is the question.

I am convinced that there must be some sort of mistake, that this can't be happening.

I am proven wrong. Five separate times.

I let the pregnancy test to fall from my hands and clatter to the tile floor. My eyes flutter shut. Breathe. Breathe, I command myself as I bring my hands to cover my face. You can get through this. You will get through this. You are strong enough to get through this. You have to get through this.

Somehow, my internal pep talk only terrifies me more.

I drop my hands and stand up from my seat on the edge of the tub, swallowing hard as I look into the mirror.

A stranger stares back at me.

She has dark, messy hair and a crazy look in her eyes.

Lost.

I look away from the stranger, shaking my head and groaning.

This is really happening.

X

I didn't think much of it when I was just a couple days late. It happens. No biggie.

It wasn't until I began to eat more than Rigsby that I grew a bit suspicious.

Then I was a week late, and I began to panic.

I thought back to that one night that fills me with regret each time I allow it to flow back to my mind.

I went out and bought a package of home pregnancy tests, just to be sure.

Five different tests came back positive.

Oh God.

X

I drag my feet into work on Monday morning, my eyes drooping from lack of sleep over the weekend. I know that I am a mess. My hair is pulled up into a messy bun on the top of my head, my makeup hurriedly put on after sleeping in much too late. My team is already here, in their usual positions. Cho is settled in his chair, a book in his hands. Rigsby is tossing a ball up in the air, cracking jokes, smiling over at Grace. The redheaded agent herself is arguing with Jane, who of course is on his couch, a cup of tea in hand, charmingly explaining why he's right and Grace is wrong. As I enter the bullpen, they all stop what they are doing and glance up at me. I cannot tell if I am touched by the way they all attempt to hide their startled expressions or downright annoyed.

"Morning Boss," Grace murmurs softly, taking in my appearance.

"Sorry I'm late," I apologize; even though I know they don't expect me to. "I overslept."

"You look awful," Jane comments bluntly.

I can't say I am surprised.

Rigsby shoots Jane a glare and glances back at me. "You look fine, Boss," he reassures me, smiling. The big teddy bear.

"Thank you, Rigsby." I know that he is bluffing, but I don't call him on it. I don't even glower at Jane, because I know that he is right. "Anything yet?"

"Not yet," Cho replies.

I try not to huff with relief as I turn and head toward my office without another word. At least we don't have a case first thing this morning.

I had noticed Jane watching me, analyzing me in that frustrating way that he does. I try to ignore the fact that he will be bothering me in just a matter of minutes.

It isn't even a minute. It is only about thirty seconds after getting settled into my office that he appears in my doorway.

"Good morning, Lisbon," he greets me with a smile.

"Morning Jane."

"Nice day today."

"Mm-hmm," I grumble.

"And you seem to be in a particularly pleasant mood."

I glower in response.

"Your eyes are lovely when you're annoyed."

"Would you just get out?"

Of course, he does the exact opposite. He takes a step inside my office and shuts the door behind him, striding over toward my desk and taking a seat across from me. "So, are you going to tell me what's bothering you this morning, or shall I figure it out myself?"

I snort. "I dare you," I retort without thinking.

As soon as I say it, I instantly regret it. The look on Jane's face clearly states, I will take that challenge.

"I take it back," I say quickly.

Too late. "You didn't get enough sleep this weekend. That much is obvious," Jane begins, gesturing with his hands as he speaks. "Your face is slightly pale. Your hands keep twitching. You keep sighing deeply, the way you always do when you are stressed out and…" He claps his hands together. "Ladies and gentlemen, Teresa Lisbon doesn't even have her morning coffee in hand."

"Great observations, Jane," I sneer sarcastically. "Not so great explanation."

"You're ill."

"You know, you're probably right."

"Fine. Don't tell me. I'll figure it out eventually."

I pick up my pen and turn a majority of my attention back to my work in front of me, attempting to ignore the blond man in front of me. "I'm sure you will."

Cho pokes his head into my office. "Boss, we have a case."

It takes every ounce of strength I have to suppress the irritated groan I am dying to unleash. I push my chair away from my desk and stand up, grabbing my coat. "Fill me in," I request.

"A man was shot in a downtown alley. The alley next to that new department store that just opened up."

"Yeah, I know the place. I'll meet you and the others there."

Cho nods in response and turns to go tell his colleagues.

When I head toward the door, Jane stands from the couch. "Are you coming with me?" I ask him.

He looks amused as he opens the door for me. "Don't I always?"

I smirk at him and walk through the doorway, fishing my keys from my jacket pocket and heading toward the elevator. Jane is right on my heels as I walk, as he always is. I press the button next to the elevators and try to stifle a yawn. Jane is not fooled. "Maybe you should have stayed home today," he suggests. His voice is not condescending but genuinely concerned.

"I'm just tired. I'm always tired," I remind him.

"But today is different," he counters.

"How so? Just because I look like crap?"

The elevator doors open with a ding and we both step inside. I press the button that will take us to the parking garage.

"No," Jane says, scanning me again. "You don't look like crap, Lisbon."

"You are the one who told me I did!"

"I didn't mean it." He smiles. "You look nice every day, Lisbon, including today. But today, you just look different. Not just the fact that you are wearing less makeup – which, by the way, isn't unflattering by any means – but you just seem… off."

"Off?" I repeat. "I'm not off. I'm fine." The elevator doors open and I start to walk away when Jane reaches for my arm. I try to shake him off, but he doesn't let go.

"You know that you can talk to me about anything, don't you?" His voice is suddenly serious, blue eyes intense. It catches me slightly off guard and I take a moment to collect my thoughts.

I swallow and nod. "I know," I say, because he expects me to say this. But I can't talk to Jane about this. Not yet, anyway. I can hardly look him in the eye.

Jane releases my arm and the smile returns. "Good," he chirps. He extends his arm in a lead the way fashion. "Shall we?"

I smile back and walk toward my car with Jane by my side the entire time. As we each slide into our respective seats, I catch myself looking over at him, wishing I could talk to him about this now. But it's too soon, and I don't want to spook him with the story of what really happened that night.

X

The victim's name is Gregory Smith. Twenty-five, recently married. He was a popular chef at the restaurant next to the alley where he was killed. He was walking to his car after a long day at work when someone ambushed him and shot him twice in the chest. His wallet and keys are not missing, nor is his wedding ring, so it couldn't have been a robbery gone wrong.

When Jane and I pull up to Smith's home, we both sigh. We hate this part, breaking the news to the victim's loved ones. I look over to Jane. "You can stay in here, if you want," I tell him. "There will probably be a lot of tears."

"How thoughtful of you, Lisbon," he praises as he unbuckles his seatbelt. "But I think I'll come with you."

I raise my brows. "Really? You usually ditch me when I make you come with me."

"People can change," he says with a wink and I almost laugh. Both of us know that isn't true. "Shall we?" he asks for the second time that day as he opens the car door.

I sigh, opening my own door and following him up to the front porch of the little house. I knock on the door and reach for my badge, ready to flash it to the victim's wife. I see the doorknob twist and the front door opens. The young woman who answers the door is very pretty. Soft blond curls, hazel eyes and freckles. Seemingly happy and emotionally unscarred. And here I am to ruin everything for her. "Hello," she greets us tentatively. "Can I help you?

I raise my badge and offer a small smile. "Mrs. Smith?"

"Yes?"

"We are from the California Bureau of Investigation. May we come in?"

The young woman pales, but nods, stepping aside to let us in. The house is charming. Vintage knick-knacks cover the shelves that border the walls, as well as photos of the victim and his wife. "What is this about?" she asks with caution as she leads us to the living room. She takes a seat in one of the chairs, and Jane plops down on the couch. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I sit down next to him. "Is everything okay? Is it my brother? Is he in trouble again?"

I shake my head. "No ma'am, it isn't your brother." I swallow. "Mrs. Smith, I'm sorry. Your husband was found dead this morning in the alley behind his restaurant."

I watch helplessly as several emotions cross her face. Confusion and anger and finally, grief. Her features crinkle and moisture begins to fall from her eyes. She bows her head and places them in her hands as her shoulders shake and I have to look away. I catch Jane's eye and he grimaces as Mrs. Smith begins to make noise while she sobs.

"Mrs. Smith, I am terribly sorry for your loss," I finally say as I stand up and motion for Jane to do the same. "We can come back later."

"How?" she blubbers as she lifts her face from her hands. Her cheeks are streaked with tears and dark eye mascara. "How did he die?"

"He was shot," Jane answers her. I think he did it so I wouldn't have to, for which I was grateful.

"Shot?" she croaks. "Murdered?"

I nod stiffly. "I'm afraid so."

"Who did this to him?" she demands.

"We're trying to figure that out," I say softly. "And you could help us by answering some questions, but we don't need to do that now. We can come back."

She shakes her head intently. "No," she barks in a watery voice. "I'll answer them now. Anything to help."

I swallow, nodding, and open my mouth to begin the questioning when my consultant speaks up. "We only have one question," he begins, and I allow my eyes to flutter shut. I have no idea what he is about to say and I don't even try to fight him. I simply sit back down again. I hear the woman sniffle in response. Jane finally asks his question. "If your husband were an animal, what animal would he be?"

I suppress a groan and shake my head, keeping my eyes shut. Not this again.

I can tell by the silence that the widow is baffled. I don't blame her. "H-how is this relevant?" she asks Jane.

"Everything is relevant," he responds simply.

My eyes open and I glance up to him. He is wearing a small smile, and I realize he isn't looking at Mrs. Smith. He is staring at me, as if he is waiting for a reaction. I just roll my eyes at him and glance back at the widow again. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Smith. He is a consultant, and-"

To my utter shock, Mrs. Smith ignores me completely and proceeds to answer Jane's ridiculous question. "Greg would be a dog, a puppy to be more specific," she says. "Free-spirited and always optimistic. He was always smiling, always at my side." I can see tears beginning to well up in her eyes again and an unexpected wave of emotion takes over my body. Who would kill a puppy? I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.

Then it hits me. Hormones.

The sudden realization leaves me speechless and incoherent, and I am not even aware that Jane has bid our victim's wife goodbye. I am pulled back to reality by Jane's warm hand gently shaking my shoulder. "Lisbon," he whispers. "Time to go."

"Right." I hop up from my place on the couch almost immediately and regret it, for a wave of nausea overcomes my senses and I moan. Jane's hands instantly shoot out to steady me as I stumble backwards, nearly falling onto the couch again. "Whoa. Sorry," I mumble to Jane. Then, I turn to Mrs. Smith. "I'm very sorry for your loss," I tell her softly before making my way toward the door.

When I notice that Jane is not following me, I look over my shoulder. He and Mrs. Smith are both staring at me. "What?" I ask them.

"Agent, are you alright?" Mrs. Smith wonders aloud.

"Of course," I reply. "I just stood up too fast." I throw a desperate glance at Jane. "Let's go."

He nods and follows me out the front door and down the steps leading to my car. I am just beginning to fish my keys out of my jacket pocket when he lays a hand on my wrist to stop me. I raise my eyes to glance at him curiously. "What are you doing?" I ask him.

"Maybe you should let me drive," he suggests gently.

I scoff and shake his hand away. "No chance." I grasp my keys and pull them out of my pocket, walking around the car to the driver's side.

But Jane doesn't back down. He grabs my shoulders and spins me around. "You aren't yourself today. You should let me drive," he says again.

"Jane, I'm fine," I insist, turning to face him.

"Teresa." He drags out my name and I sigh. I hate when he plays the first name card. I try not to let it affect me but more often than not, it does, not that I will ever admit this to him. I look up at him again and notice the look of genuine concern in his eyes. I curse under my breath and hand him the keys, walking over to the passenger side of the car.

"Thank you," he breathes once we are in the car.

I don't reply. I simply stare out the window like a pouty teenager avoiding conversation from her parent.

"Are you hungry?" he asks as he pulls away from Gregory Smith's home.

I suddenly realize that I am famished. "Yes," I admit.

"Where would you like to eat lunch?"

"I don't care."

"Okay."

I swallow and continue to look out the window. While I am glad that Jane doesn't continue to push me to tell him what has been bothering me all day, I know it isn't a good sign.

It means he already knows.

X

"What are you having?" Jane asks me from behind his menu.

"A salad, probably," I reply as I take another long sip of my water.

"So predictable." He sets his menu down and smiles at me. "I'm having their famous sandwich."

"What's on it?"

He shrugs. "I have no idea."

I roll my eyes and sigh as I look around the restaurant. It was a cute little place with waiters and waitresses that wore red aprons that matched the booths. The radio was faint, soothing background noise, along with the low hum of customer conversation.

"Lisbon, are you sure you're alright?" Jane asks.

I nod automatically. "Yes. I'm fine."

"Why are you keeping this from me?" He seems amused, not curious, and suddenly I am exasperated.

I sigh again and meet his eyes. "Why?" I snap. "It's not like you don't already know."

"I have my theories, but I am not a hundred percent sure," he confesses.

"Well, that's a first." I take another sip of water. "However, I am interested in your theories. Care to share them?"

"Only if you tell me if one of them is correct."

I smile triumphantly, knowing that there is no way he will ever guess. "Okay, deal."

"Really?" he asks, surprised.

I nod.

He straightens up in response, his face lighting up like an excited little boy. "Okay. Theory number one: your brother cancelled his plans to come visit you this week."

My jaw drops and I point an accusing finger at him. "How did you know James was coming?"

"You smelled like cleaning supplies all last week, meaning you must have been trying to make your apartment look especially nice for a guest. I heard you asking Van Pelt for a recipe, which means you must be planning a dinner for somebody. You have been biting your nails lately, something that you absolutely never do unless you are nervous." He winks. "You and I both know how much you hate when people bite their nails."

My face flushes, remembering our conversation about a guy I used to date. "For all you know, I was spring cleaning and am stressed about work."

"But you just confessed to James coming."

"Well, yes, but he didn't cancel. He will be here Thursday."

"Can I meet him?"

I blink at the sudden change of subject. "You want to meet James?"

Jane flashes me his charming smile. "I would like that very much."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Answering my question with another question is childish," I point out.

He shrugs. "Why does it matter why I want to meet him?" he asks. "I want to meet your brother, Lisbon. Is that so hard to believe?"

"It's just random, that's all."

"Anyway." Jane grins, diving back into the previous subject. "So it isn't your brother cancelling plans."

"No," I sigh, wanting this conversation to end. I briefly consider giving in and telling him my news but immediately decide against it. I also consider lying to him but I know I would be caught.

"Okay." He taps his finger to his chin and glances up to the ceiling, and I almost smile. I have seen him like this a thousand times before, but usually when he is in this position, he is being a smartass and trying to piss someone off. Now, he looks like he is genuinely puzzled, and wanting to know the answer. "Theory number two," he continues. "You are honestly ill and you just hate admitting it."

"Why wouldn't I admit if I were sick?"

"Because when you are sick, you feel weak and powerless, and you hate feeling weak and powerless."

I laugh. "That is pathetic. And incorrect."

"What's incorrect?" he wonders in amusement. "The theory, or the fact that you feel weak and powerless when you are ill?"

I roll my eyes. "Both."

"Maybe the theory is wrong," he allows, "but you and I both know you hate being sick."

"Everybody does, Jane!"

He eventually gives up on that argument and asks, "So the theory is wrong?"

"Yes," I huff, exasperated. "Jane, can you please just stop? Please?"

"Not until you tell me what's up, Lisbon."

"Jane, it's nothing!" I argue. I become acutely aware that I have raised my voice and I soften my tone. "It's nothing," I repeat. "And you shouldn't worry about it."

"If you think," he says slowly, "that I am going to just let it go you are crazy." He leans forward onto the table and stares at me, making me slightly uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. "I can see that there is something bothering you, and I mean really bothering you. I just want to help. Why won't you let me help?"

"Because I don't need help," I snap. I lower my eyes. "Not yet, anyway."

I can feel him staring at me but I don't give in. I don't look up. I don't say anything. I just stare at his hands, which I begin to notice are scooting closer and closer to mine, but I don't move. I still don't say anything.

"Alright." I can hear the pain in his voice, and instantly I feel guilty. "I'll leave it alone. For now."

I nod, still not completely satisfied, but I will take what I can get.

TBC