AN: Thanks for the kind words regarding the first chapter of Shiver. I had originally intended for it to be a oneshot, but then inspiration took over. And I began to wonder...what would Lisbon's thoughts be during this moment? What if she wasn't really asleep? Anyway, this should be the last chapter to this short little fic, unless I change my mind again! Hope you all enjoy it.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.

Shiver

The words on the file I'm reading come in and out of focus. Trying to keep myself awake, I ask Jane a question, focusing on his warmth and steadiness beside me as we sit side by side on the couch in my office. Maybe I'll just close my eyes. Take a short break.

I barely hear Jane answer me. I'm already in the twisted limbo between consciousness and sleep.

Words come out of my mouth, but I can't be sure what I'm saying. I'm a sleep-talker—my brothers always made fun of me for it when we were little.

My whole body feels sluggish, like slowly oozing honey, and I can't control my muscles as sleep threatens to pull me under.

Suddenly, the file I'm holding disappears from my hands, as does the warmth from my side. My muddled brain puts two and two together and makes four—Jane has taken the file from my grip and leaned over to put it on my desk.

Jane.

Jane.

I'm uncomfortable without him at my side, and I can't stop myself from reaching for him. A second later, his warmth returns, and I lean into him. The muscles in my neck relax, and I can't keep my head up any longer: it comes to rest on his shoulder.

Jane.

He hasn't been sleeping well recently. I mean, he never sleeps well—but his insomnia has gotten worse. And I worry about him when I'm not with him. I know he sits in his attic for hours on end, mentally going over the Red John files. Sometimes I worry so much that I debate calling him at night just to check in. Sometimes I even think about driving halfway across the city at two in the morning to make sure he's alright.

Sometimes I wonder if he'd sleep better if he were beside me.

Though Jane can be obnoxious when he wants to be—and even when he doesn't want to be—his presence beside me is soothing. I trust him implicitly. Between the two of us, there's no situation we haven't thought through. Our meticulous brains have thought about every possible scenario and prepared for every possible outcome. I always feel like I'm missing something when we're apart—like our souls are complimentary and can't function without the other.

A different kind of soulmate, if you will.

Because I'm under no delusions that his romantic soulmate—at least as far as he's concerned—will always be Angela.

I allow myself a few seconds to be deluded, however. Under this delusion, Red John has disappeared, and Jane and I are able to move on with our lives.

Together.

The most intense vision passes before my eyes: I look down, and in my arms is a baby girl, perhaps a few months old, with dark curls and green eyes. I look up, and Jane is smiling brilliantly at me.

Real-life Jane tenses beside me, and suddenly I'm very much awake. I try to keep my breathing even, however. He's so warm besides me. If I wake up, I'll shatter the illusion—the delusion, I remind myself—and for the sake of professionalism I'll have to move away from him.

So I feign sleep a little longer, shifting and mumbling his name again for added effect, and allow the delusion to continue.

How completely ridiculous is this vision I have? How far-fetched is it, really? Is it so difficult to imagine that—if Red John were gone—Jane and I could build a life together?

I don't like the answer to those questions, but I continue along the line of thought regardless of the pain it will cause me. It's so easy to pretend that everything will work out in the end. It's so easy to admit that I'm head over heels in love with Jane.

Unfortunate, really, that he's still head over heels in love with his wife.

I have no doubt that Jane loves me as well—I've seen it in the way he looks at me, in the way he tries to protect me.

It's too easy to pretend that that kind of love will be enough for me.

But it has to be—because for me, there's no one else but Jane. And that's all he can give.

Jane shivers next to me, and for the first time, I wonder what's going through his mind at the moment. Surely his thoughts can't parallel my own? I wish I could read him as well as he can read me.

He shivers again, and I am nearly startled out of my feigned unconsciousness when he puts an arm around me and pulls me closer to him.

Jane is not demonstrative. That's something we seem to share. We hardly ever touch each other; displays of affection are almost taboo. His arms around me feel strange and familiar all at once. He must be worried about me. I lean into him, still faking sleep, to set him at ease.

And then, so light I'm barely sure it really happened, I feel it—the lightest of kisses pressed into my hair.

I can't stop the hope that begins to build.

Without thinking about it, I move my arm so that my hand comes to rest over his heart. His heartbeat is strong and reassuring, if a bit fast. I file that thought away to dissect later.

I half-expect Jane to push me away at this point. We're too close. Much too close. We don't do this. It's not who we are. Instead, I'm floored when his arms tighten around me, and he pulls my body across his so that I lay on his chest.

Finally, we will both get a good night's sleep.

He kisses my hair once more, and I cannot pretend any longer.

I shiver against him.