Title: Black Rock Bound

Author: Avelynn Tame/ficcingwitch

Disclaimer: It pains me to say it, but I don't own anything to do with The Mentalist. If I did, I'd ensure that Lisbon had plenty more kickass moments, not to mention hot love interests.

Summary: Walter Mashburn has a knack for getting himself in trouble. Luckily for him, Teresa Lisbon happens to have a knack for saving the day. So when an enforced period of exile starts to drive him crazy, which of his former lovers is called upon to deal with him? That's right – the one with the gun.

Author's Notes: First – thank you to everybody who has reviewed! You guys make me deliriously happy (in fact I tend to make little strangled excited noises when I get a new review in my inbox. Other people think I'm choking). Second – a big, massive shout-out to B, C and my latest partner in crime, L. You are pure awesome in human form. One day I shall capture you, bottle you and sell you.

Happy reading!

Walter had watched Teresa Lisbon walk out of his life three times. The first time, it had been with a sly smile that came from a satisfying night together. Whether she realised it or not, he'd always intended to pursue her when he came back from Europe – so really, he hadn't counted it as 'goodbye', but instead, 'see you soon'.

The second time, he'd known she intended it to be permanent. He hadn't fought her. Hadn't argued or questioned her. Had just accepted her decision, because he didn't know how to counter what she'd said. It had been as amicable as he could have hoped, but he knew she wouldn't change her mind.

This time… she'd turned her back on him in anger.

He couldn't accept that. No way was she going to walk out of here still carrying all those assumptions she'd been making for six months. No way was she going to leave thinking he was in the wrong, thinking she was in the right…

He wouldn't accept that. No way.

He clambered awkwardly to his feet, following the path she'd taken through the house. He flung the front door open. "Teresa, wait –"

The taillights of her car were just disappearing from view where his driveway curved out of sight.

He swore violently. He wouldn't catch up to her even if he were an Olympic sprinter, and she sure as hell wasn't going to come back.

Back inside the house, the sight of the machined kits waiting for him in the living room failed to inspire the same excitement as before. On the contrary, they created an uncomfortable churning sensation in his stomach.

Damn it, he did not feel guilty. "I do not feel guilty," he whispered to himself as he walked out of the room.

He glanced at his watch – it was too early for dinner, and he didn't feel hungry anyway. Standing in the hallway, he had a perfect view of the courtyard and its reflecting pool – and the rain, getting progressively heavier.

He had a sudden urge to sit and be morose. Hell, it wasn't like anyone was around to stop him.

So he made his way to the study, where the sliding doors were still open. He picked up the blanket he kept in a desk drawer for this specific purpose, and laid it out flat on the stone walkway. Despite the rain, the air was warm, and he was sheltered by the eaves of the house; he settled quite comfortably on his back and closed his eyes. The gentle sound of the rain pattering against the roof and splashing into the reflection pool was soothing.

Teresa crept back into his thoughts by stealth. He sighed, stretching an arm out behind his head. He'd said some stupid things… things he ought to apologise for. As soon as Heckman gave him the all-clear, he'd head straight for Sacramento to make peace.

The act of making this resolution calmed some of the churning in his stomach. As for the rest…

A small grin tugged at his lips.

God, that woman was fearsomely beautiful. Her dark hair flying around her face, those green eyes full of strength and fury…. The colour that blossomed across her cheeks when she was embarrassed – such as when she'd stumbled across him totally naked in the forest.

He was not ashamed to admit that she'd awoken the libido he'd been trying to calm for days. He was ashamed to say that he was having a lot of trouble getting it to go back to sleep again.

Yet another reason to lie down quietly for a while.

He stayed there for a long time – more than an hour, at least – occasionally drifting off into a light doze. The rain continued to fall; eventually a faint chill began to seep through to his bones. He shivered, sleepily folding his arms across his chest.

Someone cleared their throat quietly.

Panic gripped his heart. His eyes snapped open, and his breath caught in his throat.

For a few seconds, he thought he was hallucinating. But no matter how hard he blinked, the picture remained the same. Standing in front of him, soaking wet, water dripping from her hair and fingertips, was Teresa Lisbon.

Her problems had started about two miles along the main road. (Actually, if she were honest, her problems had truly begun about eighteen months ago when an unfortunate young woman had been found dead in the trunk of a car in Marin County.)

The rain was getting progressively heavier. Her wipers were on full speed, but visibility was poor and she was practically crawling along the road. Now was the time to be grateful for how isolated she was out here – the last thing she felt like dealing with was some asshole tailgating her all the way back to the freeway.

Without warning, there was a loud bang from underneath her; she jerked in her seat, gripping the wheel, but the car felt unsteady and out of control.

Damn it all to hell.

She pulled over, flipping on the hazards. Even as she was getting out of the car, it was obvious where the problem lay – her front left tire had blown.

"Crap," she muttered. Her hair was already damp, water trickling down the back of her neck, soaking into her jeans. She felt in her pocket for her phone to call AAA… and found nothing. "Crap," she repeated urgently, diving back into the car and rifling through the glove box, groping around on the floor.

No phone.

Where the hell - ?

Oh.

She smacked the heel of her hand against her forehead. "You idiot," she grumbled to herself.

Her phone was, of course, exactly where she'd left it – in Walter Mashburn's house. He had taken it so neatly from her, but she hadn't remembered to reclaim it before she stormed out.

She shook her head as she recalled what he'd wanted to use it for. He was probably having the time of his life surfing the net – maybe even e-mailing whichever girlfriend he'd been forced to abandon. Hell, for all she knew, he'd summoned Miss USA 2011 to get her tiny backside and perky boobs over to Chez Mashburn for some –

"Oh, get over it," she told herself scornfully. Who cared if he had? Not her!

She trudged around the car to the trunk, but she already knew what she'd find inside – a spare, yes. But no tools to actually change the tire. She'd used this car before, and each time had submitted a Fault Report to complain about the lack of kit. Nobody had listened, and now – now of all times – she was paying the price.

She considered her situation – stranded by the roadside. No phone to call for help. No chance of passing traffic. And no way of knowing whether there was another house or office or anything within the next few miles.

She heaved a painful sigh, already resigned to the most sensible course of action. She slammed her car door shut and locked it; the rain continued to fall, slowly but surely soaking her to the bone as she began the long and humiliating trek back to Walter's house.

This was probably the closest he could get, Walter realised, to saving a damsel in distress. The rest of the time he seemed to be playing the part of the damsel, which was a little disturbing, not to mention demeaning.

Still, he knew where his strengths lay, and fending off villains was not one of them. (At least, not unless the villains were his corporate enemies – in which case, bring it on.)

Teresa was in his bathroom, taking a shower.

She hadn't said much after arriving – just mumbled something about a tire blowout and him being a thieving scumbag. Then she'd peeled her sopping wet jacket off, and he'd immediately had to avert his eyes and hold his hands firmly at his sides.

He'd seen a few wet t-shirt contests in his lifetime. As an eligible bachelor living in California, he was often asked to judge that kind of thing – usually by some young hopefuls who thought they could mesmerise him with their breasts alone.

And at the moment, he was feeling pretty mesmerised alright. 'Struck dumb' might have been a more accurate term. Turned out Teresa Lisbon could have shown those young hopefuls a thing or two about wet t-shirt contests.

Actually, right now he'd settle for her just showing him a thing or two…

Sending her off to the bathroom had been more of an act of self-preservation, if he were truthful. Still, she'd seemed grateful, and it gave him some time to gather his thoughts and choose carefully the words he wanted to say.

He wasn't going to waste this opportunity. She most likely intended to collect her phone, wait until the rain had stopped, and leave – but not if he could help it. In any case, it was nearly six, so he was pretty sure he could talk her into staying for dinner. He had a decent chicken kiev recipe he'd been working on…

He was halfway through chopping the garlic cloves with a slightly unsuitable knife when he heard a noise in the kitchen doorway. He looked up – and nearly sliced his own finger down the middle.

His shirt was far too large on her petite frame; it hung to mid-thigh, and the collar was wide open, exposing the soft, pale skin he remembered so well. She'd rolled the sleeves up, but they dwarfed the slender arms that were folded across her chest. Her dark hair clung to her damp skin, and her startling green eyes stood out clearly against her freshly-scrubbed face.

He swallowed roughly, and returned his gaze to the chopping board. "Uh… shower was good? I mean – did you have a good shower?"

"Yeah, I did," she said quietly, coming further into the kitchen and sitting down at the table. "Thanks. Do you, uh, want any help over there?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, it's nearly ready to go in the oven." That was a lie, but he didn't want her standing any closer to him than necessary. "Uh, your phone's on the table," he told her. "Never did go on the internet in the end; maybe it's better if I don't know what I'm missing."

To his surprise, she held it out to him. "For what it's worth, I don't think you've missed much in one week. But you can still check, if you like." She gave him a sympathetic look. "Pretty sure Miss USA will still be waiting for you, if that's what's on your mind."

He clicked his tongue audibly with annoyance. "Do you realise you've given Miss USA more thought than I have recently? Look, I – it was one date, and that date happened to be the People's Choice Awards, so of course they blasted it all over the tabloids like it was a big deal. But you're acting like I'm in love with her or something."

"No, I'm not," she protested indignantly. "But – Look, I want you to be happy, Walter, is that so hard to understand?"

He took a deep breath. Hadn't he wanted to discuss this himself? To apologise and put things right?

He returned his attention to the food. His hands had carried on mixing the ingredients while he was distracted, so he picked up a chicken breast and began stuffing it.

He could do this. He could have a serious conversation about relationships.

Except – he'd compulsively avoided that kind of thing for the last six years. Even his failed marriages – he couldn't remember once talking to his ex-wives about whatever the hell was going wrong. So much easier to file for divorce and have these silly arguments through his legal staff.

Even Teresa. Even that day she'd sat down with him with that solemn, regretful look on her face and said the words he hadn't expected or wanted to hear. His impulse had been to get out of there – to do whatever was necessary to avoid the kind of serious discussion he knew was coming.

He remembered his own response with a faint sense of nausea. "If that's what you want," he'd said.

He closed his eyes briefly, his fingers clenching around the chicken. What a colossally stupid thing to have said.

Even worse, however, was what he now remembered with almost supernatural clarity – her lack of response. She had been quiet for a few moments. He hadn't even made eye contact. Then she'd sighed, and said, "Right. I see. Okay, well… that's it, I guess."

He remembered the way his stomach had plummeted to the floor. But even then – even then! – he hadn't spoken up. She had left. And seriously, what did he expect?

He rolled the chicken in the flour, haphazardly dipped it into the egg, and attempted to cover it in breadcrumbs. Some didn't stick. He didn't really care anymore – just tossed them in the dish and put it in the oven.

When he turned around after washing his hands in the sink, aware that he'd been silent for too long, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

She was standing right in front of him, leaning against the kitchen counter. She chewed on her lower lip, looking deeply uncomfortable. "Walter," she began hesitantly. "I… There were some things I shouldn't have said before. About –" she coloured abruptly, "about your love life. And I – I'm sorry for that."

He blinked, startled. That was probably one of the last things he'd expected her to say. Maybe this whole 'serious relationship talk' concept wasn't so bad after all.

"I was being an idiot before," he said, the words spilling easily from his mouth. "What I said – I didn't really mean it. And I'm sorry."

She smiled briefly. "It's okay. You know what, I am in a sexless marriage with my job. And you're not exactly the first person to point that out, so…" She shrugged. "I don't know. That's just the way my life is." She cleared her throat loudly. "Okay, different subject. So – your beard."

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, here we go…" He was grateful that she'd changed the subject, but the beard was a slightly sensitive issue for him.

"What?"

"I knew this would come up. What, I can't have a beard? I have to be clean-shaven at all times? It's not like anybody can see me, and I've got other things on my mind right now, so just… let me have my beard, okay?"

Her shoulders sagged, and she stared at him. Exasperation sharpened her words. "Walter, I wasn't going to attack you for it. I like the beard, it's just… surprising, that's all."

He paused to absorb this. His voice was cautious when he replied, "You like the beard?"

To his surprise, she stepped closer, and reached out a hand to trace her fingers over the stubble. His skin tingled underneath her fingertips, and he felt a shiver slide down his spine. She touched the hairs on his upper lip; he inhaled the scent of the body wash she'd used in the shower. His body wash.

She gave him a wistful smile. "Yeah, I like the beard."

She started to pull her hand away. Without thinking, he grabbed her firmly by the wrist.

Patrick had taught him this little trick; he could feel her pulse drumming hard and fast against her skin. So, she was either scared or aroused.

Given that this was Teresa Lisbon, who faced dangerous criminals every week and could drop-kick him all the way back to Sacramento even if blindfolded and injured, 'fear' didn't seem all that likely.

As if to push him even further along this train of thought, her eyes dipped to his mouth and then snapped back up again.

Well, well, well… He filed that information away for later.

"Any chance I can have my hand back soon, Walter?" she asked coolly.

He let go of her wrist with a casual smile. "Sorry," he said, rubbing the back of his neck and aiming for vaguely self-conscious body language. "I don't know what I was thinking…"

She was already putting space between them, eyeing him warily. "Okay… Listen, I need to get going. If you can just point me in the direction of wherever you put my clothes –"

"Oh, I put them in the washer-dryer," he said innocently. "They won't be done for another hour at least. So you might as well stay for dinner."

She grunted, annoyed. "Walter, it's going to take me hours to get home –"

"That is true." He nodded, as though pondering this very problem. "It would actually make a lot more sense for you to stay the night."

She glared at him. "Right, so instead of getting home at midnight tonight, I get home at midday tomorrow? And then have to explain – somehow – that my seminar lasted throughout the night?"

He shrugged. "Just phone Heckman. I'm sure he can come up with something for you. Although, if you want my honest opinion, I think you shouldn't have lied in the first place."

A muscle twitched in her jaw. "Walter," she said slowly, "where is my gun?"

He grinned, turning it up to full wattage. "A safe place."

She was going to kill him.

Specifically, she was thinking about drowning him in that stupid tranquil reflecting pool of his.

Damn him, damn his smile, and damn his beard.

Oh, and the chicken kiev that smelled so good – damn that, too.

She had taken her phone out to the courtyard to call Heckman; the rain was still pitter-pattering softly against the roof, but the air was surprisingly warm against her bare skin. Surreptitiously, she had turned her head to smell Walter's shirt – fresh and clean and male, as she'd expected.

Heckman had actually sounded relieved on the phone. "I should have put an agent in that house with him from the beginning," he confessed. "I let him talk me out of it. But you being there, even if it's just for one night – it's a real help, Lisbon. I'm all kinds of grateful. And listen, the field office in Fresno is aware of the situation, so if you run into trouble…"

"Gotcha," she'd said. "About the SCU…"

Heckman snorted. "Your guy Jane was in my office earlier, digging for information. He's not buying this seminar thing, Lisbon. He thinks I've sent you off on some dangerous mission."

She grinned suddenly. "You know what? Let him keep thinking that. It's good for him to be wrong once in a while. But, uh, tell Cho, will you? Someone needs to be in the loop."

"No problem, Lisbon. See you tomorrow."

A combination of her beautiful surroundings and the act of making the phone call had calmed her down a bit. She was almost tempted to sit down on Walter's vacated blanket and do exactly what she'd wanted to do when she'd first arrived – dangle her toes into the reflecting pool.

"Teresa! Grub's up!"

As if on cue, her stomach growled loudly; she reluctantly left the reflecting pool behind and padded back to the kitchen in socks she'd stolen from Walter's bedroom. They were too big for her, but she didn't care.

In the kitchen, Walter eyed the socks but said nothing. He'd boiled some plain vegetables to have with the chicken, and served it up with a glass of water. "Not exactly haute cuisine," he said, sitting down across from her at the table, "but I think you'll like it."

Oh, she did. "This is – mmm," she mumbled, her mouth full, "delicious." Garlic butter slid down her chin; she swiped at it with her hand, embarrassed. She stuck her index finger in her mouth to remove the large blob she'd caught with it.

When she looked up again, Walter was brutally hacking up his chicken into little bits. "Geez, Walter. You worried it's not quite dead or something?" She grinned.

He didn't quite meet her eyes when he said, "Not exactly."

They made small-talk over dinner. She didn't want to dangle the carrot of the outside world in front of him, but he clearly wanted to hear what had been going on. "Did the Kings slaughter the Suns on Tuesday or not? Who is the new Prime Minister in Canada? Did the BKS-MBC merger go ahead? Did the redhead from your office get back together with the other guy yet?"

And so on.

Luckily, she was more than aware of current affairs, and Walter had taught her how to decipher the business section of the newspaper on those few lazy mornings they'd spent in bed together. She still read it regularly, to her own chagrin.

Against his protests, she washed the dishes and stacked them on the drainer to dry. Occasionally, she had the feeling that Walter was staring at her, but every time she looked up, he was engrossed in the instructions for the mill engine.

The mill engine that she ultimately ended up helping him construct.

"No, no, no," he said, several hours later as they were sprawled on the living room floor. "Hold it right there. Yep, that's it."

"This is really uncomfortable," she murmured in his ear. "Do you have to be so – ow!"

He'd elbowed her in the stomach while using the wrench. "Sorry," he muttered. "Look, it's really small, I can't help it if we're in close quarters. Why?" He sent her a sly grin. "Does lying on your belly watching me use tools and be all manly turn you on?"

She smacked him across the back of the head.

Somewhere after midnight, they put the half-done engine to one side, too tired to continue.

"Thanks for your help," he said genuinely, as they were standing outside the guest room. "Sorry it was more hazardous than expected."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, this whole trip has been more hazardous than expected." She caught sight of his slightly stung expression and continued hastily, "But… it's been good seeing you. I'm glad we had a chance to talk." Instinctively she lifted her arm and, realising that she had no idea what she'd been about to do with it, she patted him lamely on the shoulder. "I'm glad you're okay."

"I'm glad you're okay, too," he said, slightly urgently. "I mean, you have a dangerous job. Your… safety has crossed my mind since we split up."

"Yeah, well…" she grinned. "I'm a whole lot safer now I've got my gun back."

He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I wasn't holding it hostage."

"So you've said."

"Because it's true."

"Okay, Walter."

"Well… goodnight, I guess." He was hovering awkwardly.

She felt like she was on the most bizarre date ever – deposited at the door to the guest room by a man who would be sleeping a few rooms away. "Goodnight, Walter." She wasn't sure if she should kiss him on the cheek or something. In the end, she settled for another shoulder pat, and slipped inside the room.

To her surprise, she slept relatively well.

The house was wonderfully cool overnight; she didn't even need to crack a window. There was no sound outside except for the wind whistling through the trees and the occasional rush of light rain against the roof and windows. Secretly, as she was climbing into bed she hoped for a storm, knowing that this would be the perfect place to witness it – tall trees in dramatic silhouette against the lightning-white sky, deafening thunder right overhead.

Instead, it was disappointingly quiet. Better luck next time, she mused, and abruptly crushed that thought before it could go any further. Ridiculous to think of a 'next time' – she and Walter were not suddenly going to be friends. She would not be coming to this house again.

Once or twice throughout the night, she woke for no apparent reason, and took these opportunities to do a quick lap of the house as a security precaution.

On one such lap, she finally had her chance to dangle her feet in the reflecting pool. It wasn't as satisfying as it might have been on a very hot day, but she liked it nonetheless – the pads of her toes skimming the cold surface, creating silent, gentle ripples.

On another 'security lap', she ran into Walter right outside his room.

She'd forgotten about his habit of sleeping only in his boxers.

Walter obviously hadn't expected to encounter anybody, and leapt backwards with a strangled yelp. His hand grasped for some kind of weapon and found only the wall.

"Walter, it's okay!" She caught his arm before he could hurt himself. "It's okay, it's just me."

"Holy crap, Teresa, don't do that to me."

She couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips. "It's kind of flattering that I can make a grown man scream." She cast her eyes over him; he looked somewhat helpless standing there, unarmed, in his designer boxers. "You can't sleep?"

He glanced away, and she thought she saw a guilty look pass across his face. "No, I… I was sleeping just fine. Got up to use the toilet, and I thought I'd come and check you were okay." He eyed her with concern. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She started slouching towards her bedroom, taking small, slow steps. He fell in line next to her. "Just… wandering. What the hell kind of security system do you call this, anyway?" She gestured around the hallway. "I've been walking around your house and I haven't seen a single alarm – that's bad, Walter."

"Oh, they exist." He sounded defensive. "I just didn't set it in case you needed to get up."

Oh. "That was nice of you," she told him patiently, as though speaking to a small child, "but kind of stupid. What if someone had broken in? Like, oh, I don't know… this guy who's trying to kill you."

He pressed his lips together and frowned down at her. For a moment, she thought they were going to get into another argument, but then he grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Good point. Maybe you should come and protect me. My bed's pretty big, and you already know I don't kick…"

She shot him a stern look. "Keep going, and it'll be me you need protecting from."

"Feisty," he murmured, stepping closer to her. "I think I'm up to the challenge."

"Okay, now I know Heckman was wrong to send you out here." She folded her arms and stared up at him, doing her best to ignore her racing pulse and the sudden sense that she was too warm. "Clearly a week without supermodels has made you crazy and desperate. Maybe you should take a cold shower or something…"

He looked conflicted for a moment, and she wondered if she'd offended him. Then he smirked briefly and stepped away. "I know I seem like a daunting prospect, but I'm well worth the effort, I promise. Well… I guess you're familiar with my abilities."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Goodnight, Walter."

As she got back into her own bed, she considered his more recent flirtatious behaviour. It was familiar ground, and she preferred it to arguing with him, but she was starting to wonder why. Perhaps she had missed something…

She smiled tiredly, thinking of his dark eyes and the way they burned into her sometimes. Her last thought before sleep washed over her was that he didn't deserve to be stuck out here alone.

She woke the next morning to the smell of something cooking.

On the way to the kitchen, she collected her clean clothes from the washer-dryer and dressed quickly; it wasn't a good idea for her to stay much longer. She'd had some pretty vivid dreams last night after running into Walter in the hall, and as far as she was concerned, they were just the latest sign that she ought to be on her way.

Walter being flirtatious wasn't something to take seriously, she reminded herself. To him, it was natural behaviour. And even though she was certain that he'd been propositioning her the previous night, she was equally certain that he didn't have any intention of re-starting their former relationship. In any case, casual sex between them was no longer an option – of that, she was 100% positive.

Gun, phone, money, keys. She patted each item as she ran through her mantra. Travelling light was something she did quite well.

The kitchen was sunny and bright, and Walter Mashburn was once again slaving over a hot stove. He looked up as she entered and smiled. "Morning."

Oh – echoes of that very first morning-after.

She returned the smile, leaning over the kitchen counter to peer into the pan. "Eggs," she observed cheerfully. "And… other smells."

"Burnt toast," he informed her. "It's in the trash. You gonna help me out or what?"

"Just tell me what to do, Chef." She rolled up her sleeves and went to join him on his side of the counter. "Am I chopping, frying, broiling…?"

He handed her some plain bread. "You're toasting. This is really not a fancy breakfast."

Halfway through eating, her phone chirped. "Heckman," she announced. "Wants to know if we're still alive."

She texted him back one-handed, awkwardly scooping up eggs and tomatoes with her fork. " 'Have killed… Walter…'" she murmured as she typed. " 'About to fire… up… BBQ… now. Join me…. Bring fava beans… and beer.'"

He grinned at her. "You like me too much to kill me."

"Waa-ah ehht?" she said, her words muffled by toast.

"If that was supposed to be 'wanna bet', then… no. Not gonna argue with an armed woman."

"Smart choice."

Even after breakfast, she realised she was lingering, and cursed herself. Get over it, she ordered. You didn't even want to come here in the first place, now you won't leave?

She did a final loop of the house, checked each room carefully, and paused at the reflecting pool one last time. The air outside was still; the roof still glistened with last night's rainfall, and the grass was damp and dewy. The sunlight had a piercing, strained quality that heralded a really hot day. She hoped for Walter's sake that there would be a breeze, or he would go crazy.

"Okay," she said, at the front door. "Stay safe. If you change your mind about the safe house, or having an agent stay with you, call us. I'm serious, Walter."

"Oh, I know you're serious." He was frowning. He'd been practically petulant since she'd announced she was leaving, and even at the door he was being standoffish, keeping his distance. "Who's going to help me with the mill engine now?"

She ducked her head and smiled. Sometimes – just sometimes – he could be so very sweet.

"Walter, you're more than capable of doing it by yourself." Taking a chance, she closed the distance between them, stretched up and kissed him on the cheek. His beard was prickly against her lips and skin, and she patted it where she'd kissed it. "Take care of your beard, and yourself."

Unexpectedly, she found his arms sliding around her waist and pulling her tight against him. She had nothing else to do but put her arms around his neck. She let her eyes drift shut – just for a few moments, she promised herself. He squeezed her tight, and she squeezed back. "Be careful," he said, the words rumbling in his chest. "I'll see you soon. When this is over."

"Yeah," she whispered. Deep down, she didn't really believe it. He would go back to his life, and she would go back to hers – it was what they'd done before, after all.

She pulled away and smiled at him. "Goodbye, Walter."

The driveway was just a dirt track, and it was still slippery from last night's rain. She took her time, treading carefully, but every time she turned around, Walter was still standing in the doorway, watching her. When the driveway eventually curved out of sight, she gave herself a good smack on the back of the head. "Get a grip," she told herself.

To distract herself, she thought about work – about the team, and their last case. About the A.G., and how it seemed like years since she'd had that meeting with him. Somehow, having her job threatened didn't seem like such a big deal after the last twenty-four hours.

Unfortunately, thoughts of Walter continued to intrude, and no matter how much she tried to occupy her mind, there was always a nagging sensation that she needed to go back.

It was a shame she'd never had a chance to swim in the pond, or hike through the forest, or even try out that enormous jacuzzi she'd caught a glimpse of in one of the other bathrooms.

He had a little gym in one room, with the most beautiful view of the National Park beyond Walter's patch of land. She could imagine working out there – alone, of course. If Walter were there, she knew they'd just distract each other. He would be too busy trying to balance showing off with leering at her, and she would try to puncture his ego while ogling him surreptitiously. The exercise benefit would be minimal.

She laughed to herself, and almost skidded on the track. It was her own fault, she decided, for being so self-indulgent with these little fantasies. But still that nagging sensation persisted…. She was almost at the road now; she dug around in her pocket for her phone, ready to call AAA. With any luck, they'd be quick about it at this time of the morning, and then she could be on her way back to Sacramento, leaving behind all thoughts of beautiful woodland houses with courtyards and reflecting pools and –

She stopped dead in the middle of the track.

The sliding doors – she had left them open. But when she'd hugged Walter, she'd had a clear view of that end of the house.

The doors had been shut.

Walter couldn't have shut them – he'd followed her straight to the door from the kitchen.

That left only one possibility…

Panic gripped her heart; she turned and started to run.

Author's Notes: Loved it? Hated it? Want to order a Mash of your very own? Then please review!*

*NB: I am in no way capable of sending you any of the following: Mash clones/Mash robots/kidnapped men who have undergone cosmetic surgery to make them look like Mash/Currie Graham.