AN: Thanks for the lovely reviews – you guys are all kinds of awesome. I appreciate every single one – honestly and truly. This is just a brief little piece but I hope y'all enjoy it.

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It comes to her easier than she'd imagined.

He is all soft and new and she finds herself watching him for hours.

And he is his father's son so she discards the baby books after a week – their advice on routines and calming methods are well meaning but useless with her little boy who seems to prefer anything not in the rule book. She learns quickly to do everything (the laundry, the dishes, drying her hair, eating) with one hand and she survives on less sleep than she ever did as a cop – she is exhausted and fatigued and she loves it.

She had never really considered children apart from in a far-off, distant, maybe-one-day-wouldn't-it-be-nice way; being a mother had been a concept that had never felt right, never felt like it existed until there had been them and it all fell into place – it had suddenly made sense when she lost herself with this challenging, wonderful man who loved her back so fervently that it was almost a physical, tangible force that connected them to each other.

And before long, the notion of having children became real – it became something she thought about in the darkness of night (a protective arm around her, keeping her to him – as if she would want to be anywhere else) and she would never say anything to him – she couldn't because children meant complications and the past and such pain she could hardly imagine – but she couldn't stop thinking.

She half-remembered her early pregnancy doubts (imprecise and vague - the haze of rushing hormones obscuring emotions that had felt so real at the time) and when she looked at her little boy – her son – life without him seemed inconceivable.

Lucas, at just two months old, already had his parents wrapped around his (tiny) little finger – most evenings were spent cuddled on their couch, Lucas snoozing on top of them with his chubby fist usually gripping (with a surprising amount of force) whichever parent's hand was closest. And time seemed to pass without warning – the cabin (their first real, proper home as a family) was finished in practically record time (though Teresa was sure it was because her husband had dangled financial incentives in front of the workmen to complete the work as soon as possible) and before she realised it, they were moving their belongings from one house to their home.

And she'd completely forgotten about the box until their moving day; chaos had reigned - boxes and crates everywhere that she turned – so she'd taken to the garden (Lucas gurgling in her arms and happily playing with her hair) whilst the removal company packed up their lives, ready to start in their new home. She'd felt a surprising level of sadness, knowing that she was leaving her little house – it was where she had finally started living , where she had created a new world for herself - with him by her side – and it was where she had slowly become the wife and mother she now found herself as. It was the place they had conceived their little boy – where they had both admitted (on an old blanket on her rear porch, star-gazing and inventing names of constellations – "that one is The Abbott…and that one over there is The Cho") that they could only see the future with each other; she'd felt such a thrill that night, cuddled under the blanket, his arm snaked around her waist, his casual kisses so warm and comforting and natural like they'd never been anything else.

Lucas started to grumble in her arms (she'd forgotten to bring out his beloved teething giraffe and she tried vainly to remember which of the packing boxes she'd left it on) so she walked back into the rapidly emptying house, smiling a polite greeting to two of the removal men who were moving her dining table. She grabbed Lucas' teething toy and wandered into the front room to find Patrick, shiny wooden box in one hand, a faded and battered letter in the other.

"You kept them." He said, his eyes meeting hers from across the room – his gaze was always so expressive (it said so much to her – of wasted time, of regret)

"I missed you." She replied simply, resting Lucas on her hip and she felt two sets of eyes watching her intently – her son reacted attentively to any change in either of them.

He looked back down at the letter in his hand - she knew his thoughts almost better than him, knew he was feeling remorse and guilt and so many feelings that he couldn't bear to give a name - so she approached him, dodging the half packed boxes and she freed his hands, placing the objects on the closest surface she could find. "Patrick…." She started and he raised his head to meet her eyes – she saw love and shame intertwined and wondered if he would forgive himself for his treatment of her during the darkest of his days. "These letters…they just remind me how we got here, to us..." She pressed her lips against his, feather light and when they parted, his hand moved to stroke Lucas' back – the boy burbled in response and a smile came to both their faces.

"I wasn't a very nice person to you, was I?" His tone was dark and his voice rough – she hated this – it reminded her of days long gone – of pain and hurt and wondering if he would ever be able to live.

She paused before responding, "I fell in love with you, didn't I?" A smirk flickered onto her face before her expression sobered "You did a lot of things that I didn't understand…but I'm starting to." She reflexively held Lucas tighter to her body (his warm little limbs pressed against her and she couldn't imagine the hurt) "You were who you were back then…and maybe I didn't like you a lot of the time, but I loved you because of it all, not in spite of it." She stopped briefly, feeling his hand rest around her waist, pulling them together, closer. "And it all led us to here, to Lucas, to this….."

He nodded, kissing her again (his touch still set tendrils of heat through her, softly warming her and it felt like everything in the world was just them) "I can't believe I ever got this lucky." His voice had a lightness to it and she felt satisfied that she'd managed to reassure him, at least for the moment - she wondered if he'd ever leave the guilt behind; guilt for everything he had done and everything he hadn't. Patrick Jane wore pain so well – she'd managed to break through and make him really (honestly and truly) happy. But there would always be something in him that would never heal but there would always be something in her that would never stop trying.

"I love you Mrs Jane." He grinned at her – the grin that she owned, the one that belonged to her because it was his "Teresa, aren't I sweet/annoying/lovely/exasperating?" smile and she adored it.

"Love you too Mr Jane."

And when they reached the cabin –her favourite flowers in a vase, the best take out menu ready to order from and the coffee that she loved waiting to be brewed – she loved him even more.

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