AN: Okay, folks. Fair warning: this chapter is M(ish). I went for vague (some of the time…er…occasionally) and tried to keep it tasteful, but I refuse to write entirely in euphemisms, so if this isn't your cup of tea, I would suggest skipping the last part of the chapter, after the point of view shifts. You've been warned.

For the rest of you: please read the first part of the chapter, too, instead of skipping ahead to the sexytime parts. Ahem. Which, you know, is something I would never do. Ever. Yeah.

I'm estimating two more chapters until we're done, or maybe one more with an epilogue. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed; you guys rock.

Burnt Offerings

Chapter Twelve

She'd had every intention of staying awake until Jane got back. After all, she reasoned, how was he going to get in? But as the hours passed, she found herself moving from the couch to her bed.

She was wrapped in her blankets before she realized she had automatically left the other side of the bed open. Although he had only slept there twice, in her mind, it was already his side. It was a dangerous thought.

It had been a very long day. At the outside, she had expected to be by herself for at least sixteen hours. There were a very limited number of activities she was up to doing, additionally.

She had slept. She had dutifully eaten. She had watched several movies, and kept a schedule of when she was due for pain medication.

By five-thirty, she was ready to climb the walls, figuratively if not literally.

Jane wasn't returning any of her calls or messages. Petulantly, she thought about his earlier words – "call me if you need me." It was a good thing she hadn't had an emergency.

She realized she was being petty and selfish and tried to stop. Truthfully, she was worried about him. She had no idea what he was doing in Malibu, but the image she had of him in her head, standing helplessly in the middle of a pile of ashes, broke her heart.

Only the knowledge that she would be totally useless to help him was holding her in Sacramento. Well, that and the fact she was on some pretty heavy duty painkillers.

She had taken a peek at her wrists earlier in the day. Although they were healing, they still looked like a nightmare. Stitches and torn flesh, an ugly memento of her time spent as Red John's captive.

At least she knew she would never forget. Scars were excellent permanent reminders, a roadmap that traced actions and decisions. Every time she saw these particular marks, she would remember what she had been willing to give up.

They weren't the first scars she had gotten trying to save Patrick Jane, and she doubted they would be the last. That definitely said something about her lifestyle, and she was sure it was nothing good.

Absently, she checked the clock on her nightstand. There were still three hours to go before she could even begin to expect him.

She should have told him to stay in Malibu. Judging by his voice, he had been in a tenuous emotional state. Getting a hotel would have been smarter than driving halfway up the damn coast. But it was Jane – since when did he do the smart thing or listen to her advice?

Besides, she would be lying to herself if she said she wasn't just a little thrilled that he had asked if he could come to her place. Honestly, she had basically assumed he would, but that had been presumptuous. He didn't live there, he wasn't her boyfriend. He was under no obligation to check in with her.

She frowned. No, he wasn't her boyfriend, but he was something more than just a friend, especially lately.

Grace told her that Jane had refused to leave her side when she was unconscious in the hospital, and that he had hardly slept the whole time she had been abducted. The other woman had also confessed to lacing his tea with high potency sleeping pills because she had been so concerned for him.

Lisbon had been both grateful and amused. Grateful that someone had been looking out for Jane when she wasn't able to, and amused at the route Grace had taken. Jane tended to hyper focus on a problem, especially when it was close to his heart. He usually needed to take a step back, but it wasn't easy to make him. Maybe she would emulate Grace the next time Jane got too involved.

Sighing, she tugged the covers further over herself. No, she wouldn't resort to drugging Jane, no matter how much she sometimes might want to.

She contemplated turning off the lamp on her bedside table, but decided against it. Childishly, she kept coming back to the nightmare she'd had earlier.

Naturally, she had found herself back in the warehouse, handcuffed to the unyielding pipe, the chill of the concrete seeping into her bones.

In her dream, she had given into the fear and panic that she had fought so hard against. The hysteria was overwhelming.

The footsteps had approached her once more, but this time, instead of a masked Red John, it was Jane making his way down the corridor.

"I'm sorry," he had whispered, kneeling beside her.

He had kissed her then, but his lips and been cold, and she had tasted blood. She felt the familiar pain in her wrists again, but now the shard of glass was held between Jane's fingers.

She imagined the real pain of Jane's actual grasp had woken her at that point.

In a second of confused fear, she had pushed herself up, away from him. The second wave of throbbing agony had brought her back to her senses. Leaning into Jane's warm embrace, she had tried to focus her breathing, not realizing she was crying until the tears actually fell.

It was her worst fear incarnate, that Jane would fall under Red John's spell, that he would sunk into the glamour of evil deeply enough that he would betray her.

In another, detached part of her brain, she wondered if the dream didn't mean that she subconsciously blamed Jane for what had happened to her. Now that was an outrageous thought. She was the one who had held the glass to her wrists. She was the one who had gritted her teeth against the pain until her grisly task was as complete as she could make it.

Did this make her suicidal? Was that how people would classify her?

The thought horrified her. Under normal circumstances, she would have never even considered the path she had chosen. Her religion forbade it, as did her conscious.

But for Jane, whom she loved more than faith, there were no roads she wouldn't travel.

Still, no one felt guilt like a Catholic, especially a Catholic who had flaunted canon law so dramatically. It was eating at her, like a cancer, weighing heavily upon her heart.

She could go to confession, but she doubted there were any number of Hail Marys that would ease her mind, especially considering the last time she'd said that particular prayer, she had literally believed it was "at the hour of her death, amen."

Maybe, with time, she could learn to live with it.

She drifted off into an uneasy sleep, fitful and waking often.

The alarm clock told her it was two-thirty in the morning when she heard footsteps on the stairs.

In a moment, Jane appeared in the doorway, looking more than a little worn out. His jacket was gone, vest hanging open. In the glare from the lamp, the shadows under his eyes were very pronounced.

When he saw she was awake, however, he still smiled warmly. "Still awake? I'm surprised."

"You must've woken me up," she told him, groggily. "How'd you get in? I know I locked the door."

He perched on the edge of her bed. "Do you really think a builder grade deadbolt would keep me out?" Almost tenderly, he pushed a lock of hair away from her face. He smelled like ash and the sea.

"I'm glad you made it back safely," she whispered sleepily.

He kissed her forehead and she gave into the impulse to wrap her arms around him. Jane returned her embrace, cheek resting on top of her hair.

"I'm glad too," he breathed.

"How was Malibu?" she asked, eyes closed.

Gently he eased her back. "How about I tell you after I shower? I feel like I've been rolling in soot. And sand, for that matter," he added.

"Sure," she said, releasing her hold on him.

After he left, she relaxed back against the pillows, heart lighter than it had been all day. Tranquil now, she drifted off well before Jane was out of the shower.

She woke again to him sliding under the covers, his arms pulling her flush against his body, the room in total darkness now. He was restful for a few minutes, one hand gently running through her hair. Then, abruptly, he pushed himself up, peering over her shoulder at the luminous numbers of the alarm clock.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, robbed of his warmth.

He chuckled, then lowered himself back to the mattress. "When I left Malibu," he told her, "I said that I wanted to be right here," he tightened his arms briefly, "in just over seven hours."

She hid her broad smile in his chest. "Did you make it?"

"Seven hours and twenty one minutes," he said. "Not bad."

"You were actually here earlier," she told him, arm around his waist. "You just took a shower."

She could feel his smile. "I wanted to be in this bed, Teresa. Not just sitting on it."

She didn't have a good reply to such a statement, so she kept silent, content to dwell on the joy his words were bringing her.

"Tell me about your house," she finally said, and Jane captured her hand. Very carefully, he ran his thumb along the outer edge of her bandage.

"It's a disaster," he said, voice flat. "I'm having it torn down. When that's done, I'll sell the property."

She froze. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure," he said. "I have no desire to go back there again."

"Just like that?" she couldn't help but ask.

He laugh quietly, and she felt the sound echo in his chest. "No, not just like that. It's been a long time coming. There's just nothing left there to hold me."

She pondered his words. He'd spent the day letting go, she realized, making as much peace with his past as he could. For wont of any other gesture to make, she placed a kiss over his heart through the thin material of his shirt.

"That's a good thing," he murmured.

"It is, isn't it?" He laced their fingers together, lips touching his temple. "Let's go to sleep," he suggested. "I almost passed out twelve times on my way back here." He drug the comforter over them.

"Are you sure you're alright?" she was compelled to ask.

He sighed. "I will be," he said. "It was a rough day. But it was necessary. It was good. And I get to end it by sleeping next to you, which I've recently discovered is one of my very favorite things."

His words were meant to assuage her concern, and maybe to convince himself a little, too, she thought.

But she gave in, snuggling as close as she could get to him.

She fell asleep counting his heartbeats.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Unsurprisingly, he was up just before dawn. Old habits died hard, he thought ruefully.

Lisbon was pressed against him, one leg thrown over his, almost like she was holding him in place. It was a very unnecessary precaution – Hell freezing might get him to move, but not much else would do the trick.

He closed his eyes and tried to doze, but his mind was fully awake. Yesterday had been emotionally exhaustive, and by all rights he should be entitled to another stretch of dreamless sleep.

At least Lisbon was resting.

Her dark hair had drifted over both of them, her arm wrapped tightly around him, even in sleep. He adored the expression of absolute tranquility on her face.

The intimacy they had shared recently was almost staggering, considering where they had been just a few short weeks ago. They had been doing a slow, circular dance for a very long time now, and they had both abruptly moved forward. It was the idea of losing her that had finally done it, the thought that he might have to live his life without her.

In a moment of complete irony, he realized Red John, in some odd fashion, was responsible for where he was in this moment. Of course, if not for Red John, there would be a different woman in his arms right now.

Emphatically, he stopped that train of thought. It was painful, confusing, and it made him feel a little ill.

Instead, he turned his focus back to Lisbon's warm weight, letting her softness chase his demons away.

Really, as petite as she was, she had no business being a police officer. She should have been a lawyer, or gone into some other profession where she could help the greater good without putting herself directly in the line of fire.

She shifted against him, letting out a quiet breath, and his eyes were drawn to her lips. With a start, he realized he had yet to kiss her properly.

He had kissed her forehead and her hair. He had touched his lips to her temples and her unresponsive hands while she lay unconscious. But he still didn't know what it was like to feel her sigh against his mouth, to taste her.

It was something he needed to remedy.

Without really deciding to, he brought his hand to the side of her face, brushing his thumb across her cheekbone until he saw her lashes start to flutter.

Sleepy green eyes opened, confused by the sudden interruption of slumber. She propped herself halfway up on her elbow.

"Jane?" she murmured. "What's wrong?"

He ran the tip of one finger across her lips. "Are you ever going to call me Patrick?" he asked.

And then he kissed her.

For a moment, she didn't respond, surprised by his unexpected action. He knew the exact instinct her brain figured out what was going on; her lips moved on his slowly at first, wonderingly, and then she pressed herself against him earnestly, hands sliding into his hair.

There was no question of doing this in half measures.

He coaxed her into opening her mouth fully, and the first real taste of her made him groan. When she pulled back, gasping, he moved his attention to her jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses down to her collarbone.

She tugged on his hair, bringing his lips back to hers. He gave her what she wanted, hands sliding under her shirt to trace patterns on her bare back. She shivered restlessly.

Sliding his hand forward, he traced the underside of one breast, and she moaned, instinctively trying to push herself further into his touch. After nine years, he was in no position to deny her anything.

With a few quick movements, he tugged her shirt off, breaking the connection their lips had made for the first time, hands cupping her fully.

"Oh, God," she whispered, leaning down and kissing him again. He indulged her briefly before slipping his hands down to her waist, pulling her forward until he could take the hardened peak of one breast into his mouth.

She trembled, hands in his hair again.

Wrapping his arms around her, he rolled them, coming out on top. As soon as they had stopped moving, she grasped the edge of his shirt, pulling it over his head.

The first contact of skin to skin took both their breaths away. Her heart was pounding wildly under his hand, and as he traced his fingers down her bare arm, he noticed they were trembling.

He kissed her neck, taking a deep breath before carefully slipping his hand beneath the waistband of her pajama pants. When he touched her, when he felt how ready she was, he groaned.

She grasped at his hips. "Patrick," she breathed, in between frantic kisses, "we can do slow later." Her small fingers wrapped around him, and he bit down on his back teeth, fumbling for control.

"Yes, dear," he breathed, his thumb doing something that caused her to cry out sharply.

With frantic movements, the rest of their clothing was shed. Kneeling between her legs, he paused to kiss her again.

"I love you," he whispered. It was a cliché time to tell her, but he couldn't help it.

She smiled, and he knew in that moment the past decade of his life had been leading him to this moment. "I love you," she murmured back, hand resting on his face. He kissed her palm.

Time ceased to exist for an indefinite period. There was nothing outside of them, outside of deep kisses and taut muscles and stuttering heartbeats.

Her short nails raked his back, her hips rising to meet his. Their heavy breathing sounded loud in the quiet of her room.

"Patrick," she gasped, voice rising. "Patrick!"

She convulsed beneath him, and he stayed with her, almost panting, the pressure building until he buried his face in her neck, groan muffled against her skin.

Later, he laid in her arms, his head pillowed on her chest. One of her arms was around him, and he was distractedly playing with her other hand.

Several times, she had traced her thumb over the indentation where his ring used to be, but had made no comment.

As dawn broke, she drifted off, and he switched their positions, cradling her head against his chest. It was the most peaceful sunrise he had seen in what felt like forever.

They would make it, he promised himself. Whatever they had walked through to get to where they were in that moment…it had been worth it.

He lightly kissed the top of her head, drawing the sheets further over her bare shoulders. With a deep, contented sigh, he leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes.

He slept for the next ten hours, dreamlessly, peacefully, perfectly.