A/N: I said weekly updates. I am an overachiever.

When I outlined this story, chapter two was something totally different. Additionally, I deleted and re-wrote it about three times. Lisbon's voice is more difficult for me to get right, and I'm kind of a stickler for authenticity. I'm still not sure about it, but I think it's about as good as it's going to get.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed and/or followed Chapter One. You make me smile in a vaguely psychotic manner!

Disclaimer: Still not mine. But we do have play dates every now and then.

Burnt Offerings

Chapter Two

It had been a long time since she had let a case get under her skin like their current one had. Archie Bloom had pulled at her heart, but it had been years since she had almost broken down at an actual crime scene.

She'd had to fight the urge to turn fully into Jane's embrace, to give up and let him support her weight. She knew he was willing to carry her for as long as she needed.

Instead, she'd had to be strong enough for all of them. For one brief moment, she had surrendered to her fragility, Jane's hand at her waist. That was all she got. She was the boss, and she needed to be untouchable.

Her resolve had further been tested in the interrogation room. Listening to a serial murderer of children confess his crimes had been one of the most horrific things she had heard. The look in Carl Sanderson's eyes as he described his acts, the pleasure, the satisfaction...she wanted to run from the room and be physically ill. Sanderson knew what he was doing to her, of course. The man's eyes never left hers, carefully ignoring Jane sitting stoically at her side.

Homicidal eyes, Jane had once said. Full of violence and malevolence.

And so she had a point to prove. She personally walked Sanderson to processing, using the triumphant, sarcastic tone she always adopted when they had nabbed a particularly elusive suspect.

She was the law, and he was evil, and he needed to know that she wasn't about to back down.

Once she was back in the elevator, Sanderson safely ensconced with the prisoner transport from county, she had taken a few moments and attempted to settle her nerves.

She wanted a shower. It was almost like Sanderson's contemptible spirit had marked her physically. Clinically, she noted her shaking hands. She was going to need to find a way to get herself under control before she drove home.

Jane was waiting in her office, sprawled across the couch. She could feel his eyes on her as she moved around the room, efficiently closing the blinds.

It would be easy enough to have a breakdown. Jane would keep it to himself. It had taken nearly a decade to get to this point, but she finally knew that he wouldn't use her weaknesses against her.

Strange, how he seemed to come to that conclusion about her years before.

He had been wrong, though. Desperately needing his help to solve a case, she had lied to him about meeting the victim's family, knowing the sight of a fourteen-year-old without a father would bring Jane on board.

She was a horrible person, but that couldn't be helped at this point in her life. Still, she touched the crucifix around her neck gently, an old habit when she thought something particularly sinful.

Sighing loudly, she sat down. Almost immediately, she realized she wanted to be closer to Jane. Though she couldn't throw herself in his arms the way she sometimes wanted to, she could definitely sit close enough to feel his body heat, smell his cologne.

She had grabbed the tequila then, stopping just short of pouring the shot down Jane's throat. He humored her, and she relaxed slightly as she flopped down next to him.

Eventually, no matter how much she wanted to stay right where she was, she needed to go home. Jane walked her out, the gesture oddly protective.

"Let me know when you get home, alright?" he'd whispered, and though his explanation was light, the look in his eyes was weighty.

No one could do weighty like Patrick Jane.

Deciding to go with his suggestion of getting drunk all the way, she stopped by the grocery store. She had started the night with tequila; might as well finish it off that way, too.

Once she walked in the doors to the supermarket, however, she realized she was out of just about everything in her apartment, not just hard liquor. Sighing, understanding she was about to commit the cardinal sin of grocery shopping while hungry, she grabbed a cart.

Jane would be proud, she thought at the checkout. There was actual food, and some of it wasn't even processed. Since she skipped meals so often, she figured that maybe the ones she had should count.

It was later than she anticipated by the time she stowed the groceries in her trunk. She was looking forward to making it home, making a drink, and catching the end of a Vincent Price marathon on TCM.

When she spotted the flashing lights in her parking lot, her heart sank. Even though it wasn't her problem, she knew she wouldn't be able to relax without seeing if there was anything she could do to help out with whatever was going on in the building. She hoped her neighbor, old Mrs. DeLarson, hadn't gotten sick or fallen.

It wasn't until she parked her car that she noticed the CBI vehicles. Jane's Citroen was there as well. She frowned, a bad feeling washing over her. The hair on the back of her neck stood up when she noticed all the lights were on in her apartment.

Moving quickly now, she jumped out of the car, slamming the door. Flashing her badge at the locals, she ducked under the crime scene tape and made her way to the building, heart pounding in her ears.

The first thing she saw was Jane, standing with his back to her, staring at the wall behind the couch. And then she saw what he was staring at.

"Oh, my God," she said, horror lacing her tone.

At the sound of her voice, Jane turned, eyes going wide. In three steps, he had crossed the room and wrapped her in a fiercely tight embrace. She could feel the tension radiating from his body. As quickly as he had hugged her, he let go.

His expression became suddenly livid. "Where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

"Getting groceries," she said, automatically defensive.

"Answer your damn phone!" His eyes were snapping now.

Too late, she realized she had turned her phone on silent before she had gone into the interrogation room with Sanderson earlier in the day. Pulling it out of her pocket, she saw she had twenty-three missed calls. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Christ, woman," he said, and she knew he had already forgiven her, "you should be sorry."

"Jane," she said, looking back at the hideous red face marring her living room, "what's going on?"

He frowned. "After you left, I got a picture message. I just assumed it was from you and didn't even look at the sender's name." He handed her the device. "This is what I saw."

Her breath caught as she peered at the small screen.

"And then," he went on, voice dangerous again, "you wouldn't—answer – your—phone."

Despite the very real horror she was feeling, she took a moment to be captivated by what she saw in Jane's eyes. He had just spent the past hour and a half thinking that he had lost someone else to Red John.

"I'm sorry," she breathed again.

He pulled her into his arms once more, his face pressed against her hair.

"Oh, my God! Boss!" Grace's voice came down the stairs, and she untangled herself from Jane. It was time to be Agent Lisbon again. It didn't matter if the threat was against her personally tonight.

Grace hugged her, too, Cho and Rigsby at her elbow. Regardless of the situation, it was nice to know she was cared about. But that was moot right now.

"Okay, guys, I'm just fine. Let's work the scene." Immediately, the team snapped into business mode.

"It'd be a good idea for you to go through the place," Cho said. "You can tell us if anything is missing or not where it should be."

She nodded her assent and began combing through her apartment, almost clinically detached. Jane kept close to her side. She wasn't sure what good he thought he was going to do; he had only been to her place a few times, not enough to know if something was off.

The rest of the downstairs was just as she had left it. Abandoning the hubbub surrounding the smiling face, she began to climb the stairs.

"I wonder whose blood is on my wall," she said, quietly.

"I'm just thankful it isn't yours," Jane said, just as softly.

As soon as she walked into her bedroom, she knew there was something wrong. It was nothing blatant, just a sense she was getting. "Someone's been here," she whispered.

She felt Jane tense at her back.

The note was stuck under her pillow, folded in half. There was another smiling face on the outside, as though it was a greeting card. She flipped it open.

Good thing you weren't here, it read, because I was.

Wordlessly, she handed it to Jane. He swore loudly.

Discovering her legs were shaking, Lisbon sat on the edge of her bed. Jane sat a few feet away, Red John's note still held loosely in his hand. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized that Patrick Jane was on her bed. Be careful what you wish for, she thought.

"Why let me know he was here?" she wondered. "Why not just come back later?"

Jane shook his head. "I'm not sure. Obviously, he's sending a message."

"Why is he sending one to me? I'm not smart enough to play games with him."

He smiled dryly. "Oh, it's not a message for you. It's a message for me."

Before she could ask what he meant, Cho entered the room. "Find anything?"

She sighed. "Unfortunately, yes."

With an expression of immense distaste, Jane reread the note once more before surrendering it to Cho. "I'm sure you'll want to take it to forensics, regardless of that fact that you're not going to find anything."

"Yeah. That's what you do with evidence." Cho turned to his boss. "I think the techs are about done downstairs. I'll let them know they need to sweep the bedroom."

"Great," she said flatly. "Thanks."

She didn't have her apartment back until well after midnight. It was a lost cause, she knew, but she couldn't very well tell the crime scene folks to not do their job.

At some point, she had gone to sit on the couch, the only place in the living room where she couldn't see the brutal hallmark. Jane had rummaged around in her kitchen for a few minutes, returning with two tumblers full of scotch.

"I couldn't find the tequila," he said. Dimly, she remembered she had a trunk full of groceries. It seemed vastly unimportant.

They didn't talk much, both working through what had happened. Things weren't adding up in her brain, but she wanted to wait until they were well and truly alone. It didn't cross her mind that Jane would leave.

As soon as the last blue-jacketed man walked out the door, they began the task of shutting off unused lights and closing the blinds. She had sent the team home hours ago, assuring them that she would be fine. No one looked as though they believed her, but they had gone anyway.

Truth be told, she wouldn't be surprised if they were watching her apartment in shifts, despite her insistence that it was totally unnecessary.

"I'm going to shower," she announced, heading for the stairs again.

Jane nodded. "I'll be here when you're through." He sounded like he was answering a question, and maybe he was. She hadn't said the words, but it was probably all over her face.

She had meant to shower quickly, but the hot water felt too good to race away from. It seemed to wash away a little of the numbness she had been operating in since she walked in her front door that evening. When it was gone, she was forced to come to the unhappy conclusion that she was terrified.

Her home had been invaded. By a fucking serial killer.

It was not the sort of thing that was able to be brushed aside.

She stayed under the spray, letting it hide a few errant tears, until the hot water was gone. Despite the steam in the bathroom, she was chilled as she dried off, and she dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and running pants.

True to his word, Jane was still in the living room, head bowed in a thoughtful pose. Both of their empty glasses were gone, and his jacket was off. He didn't look up until she was sitting beside him.

It was time for them to talk, away from other people, with no fear that what they said would be overheard. The less others knew, the safer they were. Or, in her team's case, the less they would have to lie to authorities.

To her surprise, the first words out of Jane's mouth were concern for her. "How are you doing? You've had one hell of a day."

She curled her legs underneath her. "I suppose it could be worse," she allowed, echoing his words from earlier in the day. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

He laughed, though he didn't sound very amused. "Yes, I suppose it could." His expression lost its levity. "Do you want to talk? Or do you just want to go to bed and worry about this in the morning?"

As he spoke, she realized how utterly and completely exhausted she was. Getting off the couch suddenly seemed a herculean task.

Jane smiled gently. "Bed it is. Are you sure you want to stay here?"

She nodded. "I'll be fine." There was more certainty in her tone than she actually felt.

"Whatever you say," he said, obviously not buying. He read the expression on her face closely. "Oh, you thought I was going somewhere? Not a chance, Lisbon."

She felt obligated to argue with him, no matter that she actually wanted him there. "Really, Jane. I don't need a babysitter."

"Of course you don't." He rolled his eyes. "It's best for both of us if I stay, though. If I'm not here, I'm not going to be able to sleep because I'll be worried. If I'm worried, I'm going to call you every ten minutes to make sure you're alright, and then no one will get any sleep."

"Whatever," she said, pushing herself up. "Do whatever you want. I know you will anyway."

He grinned. "See? It's much easier when you take that attitude."

She started up the stairs, then turned back to him. "Thank you," she said, very quietly.

"Anytime," he said.

As much as she occasionally hated it, Jane's ability to understand much more than she said in words could be a good thing.

With a sigh, she crawled into bed. A small, devious voice reminded her that Red John had touched her pillow, and she sat bolt upright, goosebumps covering every inch of skin. She shoved the offending item off her bed as quickly as though it was a poisonous snake.

He had been in her bedroom. The monster responsible for the deaths of almost thirty people, the heartless, manipulating bastard that had ruined so many lives, had been in her bedroom.

What if she had come straight home from work? What would she have found then? Would there be a body to go with the smirking face that was currently watching Jane downstairs?

She hated to think of him sleeping beneath another reminder of what Red John had taken from him. Every time she knew he was in Malibu, her heart broke a little more. She couldn't imagine how alone he felt sometimes.

But he wasn't alone, not tonight, and neither was she. It feel odd to know there was someone downstairs.

At least it was someone she wanted to be there.

Good thing you weren't here, he had written. Because I was.

A thrill of terror slid down her spine.

She didn't stop to think. "Jane!" she called.

Less than ten seconds later, he was standing in her doorway, eyes wide. "What's wrong?"

Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "Nothing, sorry. I think I freaked out for a second."

He came all the way into her room. "Why?" he wanted to know, eyes scanning his surroundings. They fell on the pillow that was currently lying discarded on the floor.

She attempted a smile, but it came out all wrong. "Thinking too hard," she whispered.

The corners of his mouth turned down. "Talk to me." His voice held nothing but concern.

She shook her head again. "I'm just being stupid."

Still frowning, he reached for her pillow, then sat beside her on the bed. "Do you always sleep without one of these?" he asked, arms around the bag of feathers.

Evasiveness was the immediate course of action she came up with, but decided against it. Jane could always tell when she was lying or concealing. "Red John was the last person to touch it," she said, quietly, almost ashamed of herself.

A muscle tightened in Jane's jaw for an instant. Then he handed the pillow out to her. "Well, now I was the last person to touch it, and I hope you don't object terribly to that."

She hesitated still.

Jane sighed, exasperation mixed with affection, then surprised her by laying down on top of the covers, pillow beneath his own head. It seemed like he was proving a point; if he could rest on her pillow, she certainly could.

Slowly, she laid back down, turning on her side so that she was facing Jane.

"You know I'm alive because he wants me to be, right?"

His green eyes were unreadable. "The thought crossed my mind, yes."

She frowned. "Why though? Why does he want me alive?"

He sighed. "Teresa, I don't know. And I don't care at this particular moment. All that matters to me is that you are, and that I'm going to keep you that way."

Her expression didn't clear. "What you said earlier...that this was a message for you. What did you mean?"

He took a moment to debate whether or not to tell her; she could see it in his face. "You...are at the very top the extremely short list of people I care about." Beneath the chill of fear, she felt warmth blossom in her heart. "Red John knows that. He's proving to me that he can take away what I care about the most."

"Why?" she asked again, unable to look away from the emotion in his eyes.

"I don't know," he whispered. "And I'm afraid to find out."

They didn't talk after that, merely existed in the same place, listening to the sounds of even breathing.

Although she didn't think it was possible, she drifted off. When she woke abruptly a few hours later, it was to find that she had instinctively curled into the warmth of Jane's body. He was still on top of the covers, but had draped one arm over her.

She wondered if he was pretending to be asleep, then decided it didn't matter. For that moment, he was hers. Everything else would wait until the morning.

AN: No cliffhangers here! But rest assured, we're gearing up for a wild ride. This was just the calm before the storm. Red John has plans, people.