Welcome to chapter 8 of our post-finale fic. We've been getting many reviews asking when our dynamic duo will finally get it together, to which I say only this….this chapter goes a little 'M.'

Thank you all again for all your feedback. Knowing you're enjoying what we write keeps us inspired.

Chapter 8

Shopping took longer than he'd planned. He always thought the kitchen in Lisbon's apartment was shockingly understocked, but most of the time she'd had something for him to work with, some bread at the very least, but his grandparents' house had been uninhabited for so long, that it truly had been empty.

He wandered through the aisles of the local market, picking up things at random and adding them to the cart. Coffee of course, was a no-brainer, a box of tea, some eggs and bread. He bought a large block of dark chocolate too, which he knew to be one of Lisbon's not-so-secret indulgences in times of stress. He watched a woman pass him by, her cart piled high with groceries, and found himself wondering when Lisbon had last eaten a meal that wasn't from a diner or fast-food chain.

His grandmother had told him once that there was a perfect kind of comfort food for every occasion, True, she'd probably been thinking of things like lost jobs and break-ups as opposed to suffering a psychotic break from possibly killing a man in his own home, but it couldn't do any harm for Lisbon to get something nutritious into her system for once. It might even go a small way to making her feel better.

A quick glance at his cell-phone informed him that he'd been out for nearly an hour and a half. There was every chance that she might be awake right now, and possibly planning another shooting once he got back to her. He banished the thought at once. Though he had his suspicions about what had transpired in Smith's house, he'd promised himself on the drive here that he wouldn't jump to any more conclusions without talking to her first. Even if she had done it, he was sure there would be a good explanation.

Part of him had regretted the handcuffs, even as he'd been attaching them to her slim wrist. Too many negative connotations had come into his mind, arrest, prison, punishment, things he'd never wish on his wonderful Lisbon, but as he'd said in the note, it was for her own protection. He couldn't have her driving herself back to Sacramento to be arrested, or to continue hunting Red John on her own. It was far too dangerous a place for her to be right now, and what they both needed more than anything at the moment was some breathing space until they could figure out their next move.

But first, they would eat.

Lisbon woke again, shaking violently. She'd dreamed about dark shadows and gaping holes, and death everywhere and herself standing in the middle of it all, screaming until her lungs gave out but nobody heard, and nobody came to help her.

She moved her head painfully towards the nightstand, and a glint of steel answered her. Still handcuffed then. She listened hard for sounds of life anywhere near but the house was silent as the grave. She was still alone.

Where on Earth was Jane? Surely it didn't take this long to buy groceries, she thought irritably, if that was what he was really doing. She squinted again at the note he'd left for her. How could she be sure that it even been him that had written it? Red John could have snatched him and left that to lull her into a false sense of security while he tortured Jane and then left him to die.

She inhaled, and then exhaled slowly. Her paranoia was getting the best of her. Jane had said himself that nobody would be able to find them here—wherever 'here' was. And she could practically hear him in every word of that note, as she read it through a third time. "Despite appearances, you have not been kidnapped." She bet he'd smirked a little to himself as he'd written that.

Her arm was starting to lose feeling now as it had been in one position for so long, her head was pounding like a bitch, and her mind was racing. Oh, when he got back here she was going to make him tell her what was going on even if she had to beat it out of him. And if he thought she couldn't do it one-handed, he had an unpleasant surprise coming.

How many houses did Jane own exactly? She'd seen his Malibu mansion, but he'd kept tight-lipped about this place. But even though she was being held against her will, she got the feeling that this had been a warm and loving home once, and couldn't help feeling more at peace here than she had for quite a while.

After a few minute's quiet contemplation, it hit her that she was once again lying in bed, thinking of Patrick. Although he was never very far from her thoughts these days. He'd captured her in every possible sense now. It would have been funny if it weren't so pathetic.

Outside the room, a door opened, and she could hear footsteps across the hardwood floor. They got steadily closer until a head of blond curls poked around the doorframe. He smiled to see her sitting up in bed (as best she could given the handcuffs.)

"You're awake!" he said happily. "Are you feeling any better?"

Her throat was still too dry and sore to permit her to yell at him like she wanted to, so she settled for a laser-beam glare instead.

"You look better, if that's any consolation," he said, stepping into the room, carrying two bulging grocery bags. "Got some of your colour back, at least."

"Anger," she croaked. "Now get these damn things off me." The handcuffs rattled against the headboard.

"Not yet," he said, firmly, now standing beside the bed and looking down at her. His gaze softened as it traced her face, and then glazed over a little as it travelled all the way down the rest of her body. She squirmed uncomfortably at his thorough appraisal of her, and couldn't help wondering if he'd been blatantly checking her out like this while she'd been unconscious. She couldn't say she'd never taken the opportunity to appreciate his physical attractiveness while he'd been sleeping on the couch in her office. It was the only time she'd ever felt safe to really look at him without fear of him finding out how she felt about him.

How she used to dread the thought of somebody coming into her office and catching her as she adored him with her eyes, but now, she'd give anything for that to still be her biggest concern in life.

"Are you hungry?" he asked her, holding up the bag he was carrying. "I thought I'd make us some pasta."

Pasta sounded wonderful. She couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a good meal, and she had a feeling that cooking was another activity on the long list of things that Jane did well. But she didn't want to appear too eager. She was after all, still supposed to be mad at him, so she set her mouth into a firm line and narrowed her eyes at him some more.

"Two things are going to happen before you leave this room. The first thing is that you're going to take these cuffs off me. The second is that I'm going to punch you in the face."

"I do love the way you say that with such authority, my dear, even though we both know that the only way you'll be getting up off this bed is when I decide you will." He waved the keys teasingly in front of her, being careful to hold them just out of her reach. She could do a lot of damage with her one free arm if he let her get close enough.

"You'll feel better once you've eaten something," he said, gesturing to the grocery bag.

"No I won't," she said, obstinately, and he was sure that if she were able to, she'd be crossing her arms in front of her in a show of defiance.

"Yes you will," he said lightly.

"Would you like to know what would make me feel better right now?" she asked him, sweetly. "I'll give you a clue, it involves me thrashing the hell out of you."

Jane winced as a range of wildly inappropriate images flooded his mind. Lisbon half-naked and handcuffed was testing his resolve enough, but in conjunction with that unintended double entendre and that angry glare, his desire for her seemed to grow threefold. He couldn't resist another look at her long, lithe legs resting on top of the comforter, and tried not to think about having them wrapped around him in the throes of passion. With a now familiar feeling of shame in himself, he sternly reminded himself why they were here. Teresa was injured, frightened and possibly being suspected of murder at this very moment. He needed to keep focused on doing the right thing by her, and to stop letting his own frustrations take him over like this. And the first step toward doing that was leaving this room right now, before the last of his common sense got lost in her creamy pale skin and bewitching eyes.

She watched his eyes rove over her body, saw his discomfort growing as they grew bright with lust. Well he could suffer for all she cared. She hadn't asked him to take her clothes off. Let him have a taste of what it was like to see and want and never touch.

"I think it might be safer if I just leave you right here for now," he said, backing out of the room. "I'll bring it in to you when it's ready."

"You can't put it off forever, you know!" she called after him. "You're only delaying the inevitable!"

"Amen, Teresa," he thought, ironically, as he set the bag down on the kitchen counter. "Amen."

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When Reede Smith's wife and children arrived home from practice, found his body and called the police, the news spread through the Capital like wildfire. The slaughter of a cop was always big news in the DOJ. And this was not just any cop. An FBI man, a federal agent, murdered in his own home, presumably in cold blood. It was the kind of incident that that gave every law enforcement worker pause; a sharp reminder that this was what it meant to serve the people, the price they might pay.

From the moment the first responders radioed in the identity of the deceased, it took a mere hour for the news to reach the CBI. Rigsby, Cho and Van Pelt had been watching the TV in the bullpen, when the call came in.

Cho took the call from his desk; in Lisbon's absence he was always the unofficial leader of the team, and when he heard the news, he took down the details calmly and put down the receiver. He exhaled deeply as the phone settled back in its cradle, and Van Pelt and Rigsby exchanged quizzical looks. Cho was famous for his ability to keep his trademark poker face in almost any situation, anything that was able to prompt any response from him at all, had to be big.

"Reede Smith's dead."

Two heads snapped towards him, Van Pelt's hair whipped around in a flash of red.

"What?"

"You're kidding."

"I don't kid."

Rigsby rolled his eyes. "It's a figure of speech, Cho," he said.

"That's really not important right now," said Van Pelt, irritably, and then blew out a sigh. "I don't believe this. He was here in our bullpen less than twelve hours ago, and now he's dead."

"How?" Rigsby asked Cho.

"Shot in the head. Point-blank range. His wife and kids found the body."

"That's awful," said Van Pelt sadly. Rigsby cringed. He would hate for Ben to find him like that if something ever happened to him, and silently resolved to take greater care from now on.

"Someone needs to tell Lisbon," said Van Pelt, inclining her head towards her office. "The FBI will want to talk her about why he came to see her yesterday."

"She's not here."

Cho had arrived back from a sentencing hearing to find the office empty and no sign of their fearless leader. He'd thought nothing of it until now, but her continued absence in light of this news, not to mention the fact that Jane had yet to show his face this afternoon, struck him as odd.

He tried her cell, then Jane's. Both off. The alarm bells in his head started to ring even louder. Jane of course, was notorious for being incommunicado at times, so that wasn't particularly unusual, but Lisbon never turned her phone off. She kept it with her day and night, and never once had she failed to answer when he'd called her in the past.

He leaned back in the chair and thought it over. Lisbon had been understandably distressed over the past few days, since Bob Kirkland's fateful visit. But she'd been acting a little strangely even before then. Ever since they'd closed the Eileen Barlow case, in fact. She'd been a little jumpier than usual, and withdrew into her office more often. And Jane had attached himself to her side even more resolutely than ever since her brother's death. At the time he'd put it down to just another chapter of the never-ending saga that was Jane and Lisbon, but now, the timing of it all seemed highly significant.

Jane had been rattled by Eileen's death, they could all see it, as well as by her killer's suicide in the back of the squad car. Classic minion behaviour, so nobody had really been surprised, but after her body had been shipped off the coroner, Jane had disappeared into the attic and after a while, Lisbon had followed him.

They'd been up there a long time, and when they eventually did come down, they'd barely spoken two words to anyone for the rest of the day, though once or twice he'd caught them exchanging dark looks across the room. Lisbon just hadn't been herself since then, and neither had Jane. And then James's death had just made things worse.

He glanced at his watch. The boss had now been MIA for nearly three hours, and if Jane were here he'd be frantic by now. But seeing as he wasn't here demanding they trace her phone to find her, Cho could only deduce that wherever they were, they must be together.

With a shiver of unease, he thought back to the conversation on the drive back from Oregon. Jane had seemed very on edge when he'd told them about Bret Stiles, and genuinely concerned for Lisbon's safety. She'd come away unscathed from the Stiles incident, but what if the two of them had been getting other ideas about the identity of their elusive enemy? It would be like Jane to cut the rest of them out of it if they were off somewhere tracking the serial killer. And Lisbon, fearing for their safety and blinkered by her love for him, would probably go along with it.

They could be in serious danger right now. And Grace was right, the FBI would want to talk to her about Smith's murder, and if they couldn't find her she'd become the prime suspect. There was only one thing for it. He had to find them first.

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With the bedroom door slightly ajar, Lisbon could hear him moving around in the kitchen; the sizzling of bacon in a frypan, and the chink of cutlery against plates. She'd been so out of it last night that she hadn't realized how hungry she was, but now some of the fog had lifted, she was fully aware of the way her insides seemed to be twisting upon themselves with hunger. When he edged back into the room holding a bowl piled high with spaghetti and a glass of wine, her stomach gave a growl and he smiled.

"What's this?" she asked, as he set it down beside her.

"Spaghetti carbonara," he said. "Haven't cooked it in a while, but it's a specialty of mine."

She wasn't fooled by the casual tone, and in her mind translated 'in a while' into 'since my family died.' She imagined him serving up this same meal to his wife in their grand dining room and yet again felt a deep wave of sympathy wash over her. It must be so awful for him, with reminders of her laced through everything he did. She only hoped that Angela Jane had known how deeply she'd been loved.

"Thank you," she said coolly, still full of indignation at being handcuffed. "Now get these damn things off me so I can eat."

"You've got another hand," he said carelessly.

"Don't be an idiot, this has gone far enough," she told him firmly. "You're going to let me out of these eventually, and the amount of pain I cause you will be dependent on how soon that happens."

The only reason he'd cuffed her in the first place was so she wouldn't go wandering around the house until she'd gotten her strength back. But she seemed a lot better now than when he'd first brought her here. She'd been almost like a zombie before, silent and unresponsive as he'd dragged her out of the car; but now her eyes were getting their animation back, and that scathing sarcasm still appeared to be working fine. She seemed like herself again, which was a relief, though whether the removal of the cuffs would work in his best interests remained to be seen.

Apprehensively, he withdrew the key from his pocket, and unlocked the cuffs from the headboard. She let her arm fall with a sigh of relief, but continued to glare at him as he removed them from around her wrist and placed them on the bedside table, gleaming in the lamplight.

She made a sudden snatching motion, and he winced in anticipation of the coming pain, but her grasping fingers landed on the bowl instead and dragged it towards her. He saw her close her eyes blissfully at the first bite and congratulated himself on his choice of the slightly higher-calorie dish over healthier fare. Creamy pasta and wine were just what she needed. Comfort food. His grandmother would have been proud.

"Don't think you're getting away with this," she said, jabbing a finger at the cuffs. "But if I'm going to beat the living daylights out of you, I'm going to need fuel."

"Of course."

Her bowl was empty within a few minutes, and the glass of wine hadn't even survived that long. She passed them both to him with a long, searching look.

"I didn't think they ran classes in Italian cuisine in the carnival," she said.

"I'm going to take that thinly-veiled insult as appreciation for the delicious meal," he replied, lightly. "And you're welcome."

"I don't recall saying thank you."

"You didn't have to," he said. "Or do you moan like that for every man who makes you a pasta dish?"

She ignored that one. With the exception of Greg, no other man had ever cooked for her like this. In fact, the vast majority had never really made it past the bedroom. And yes, the fact that Jane could cook well put his general level of irresistibility well and truly off the chart. It really wasn't fair that the man had so much going for him; she'd never stood a chance.

As she was considering this, the lamp on the table began to flicker on and off with a low buzzing sound.

"Is there something wrong with the power?" she asked, not exactly looking forward to spending the night in pitch blackness.

He shook his head. "It's probably just the globe. This lamp was always a bit tricky." He rooted around in the drawer and produced a thick candle, which he stood on the table beside her, returned to the kitchen for a box of matches, and ignited it. As the wick caught, a soft, flickering glow radiated from it, casting his face into shadow as he bent over it.

"What is this place?" she asked him. "You seem to know your way around."

"It belonged to my grandparents."

"Really?"

She honestly hadn't meant to sound so surprised, but in the ten years of knowing him, Jane had rarely mentioned any family except Angela and Charlotte. Before Danny Ruskin had turned up a few years ago, she'd always had the idea that his family had begun and ended with them. It was strange to think that someone she knew so well could have had a whole other life; completely separate to the one they shared. His past was a dangerous place, she knew, but she relished every new piece of information about how he'd come to be the man he was.

"They left this place to me," he said. "But I haven't been back here since Charlotte was two years old. Even Red John himself would have some difficulty finding us here."

"They could trace our cell phones," she pointed out. The food and rest seemed to have combined to get her brain working again, and she rejoiced in the fact that she could once again think like a detective.

"Off. And I took out the batteries as an extra precaution. The only way he'll find us is if he had a minion follow us here." He paused, and they both glanced around the dim room as though expecting an axe-wielding maniac to loom out at them. When none did, he pressed on. "We're as safe here as we can ever expect to be with him still at large."

"Jane…" Her voice was soft, as he sat on the bed beside her. "I didn't kill him."

His sharp intake of breath told her that he'd been waiting for her to bring this up.

"What do you remember?"

"Going to Smith's house. Waiting. Talking to him, asking if he was Red John. He laughed at me, Jane," she added, scornfully. "I had a gun to his head, and all he could do was tell me that I needed professional help. He didn't even flinch."

He could picture the scene. Smith, arrogant as ever, and Lisbon, getting ever angrier as he patronized her, refused to take her seriously. Situations like that never ended well even when it didn't involve the grisly death of one of her brothers.

"And then, something hit me over the head," she finished. "And the next thing I knew, I was here. Someone clearly wants it to look like I did it, and no prizes for guessing who." She let out a sigh of frustration. "It's like McTeer all over again."

"No it's not," he batted back to her. "This time, we know who's behind it. That's a start."

"We know Red John is behind it," she countered. "Who could be any one of five men we can't get to, and no matter how far we run, will manage to track us down eventually."

When she put it like that, he couldn't help but appreciate the hopeless circumstances they were in. Red John had them backed into a corner, on the run like frightened animals, and if they were going to have any chance of beating him, they had to get their control back.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," she said morosely, watching the flame of the candle dancing in a slight draught. "I'm just so tired."

"I know," he said, heavily. "I am too. But we're safe here," he added, in cajoling tones. "Come on, let's not talk about this anymore tonight." He touched her arm lightly; her skin felt warm and smooth. "We can plan in the morning."

His touch was like fire on her arm, it tingled, her senses seeming to come alive at his fingertips.

"One day this will all be over," he said, as they both watched his fingers tracing patterns on her skin. "One day we'll be able to stop looking over our shoulders. One way or another, you will get your life back. I promise you that."

"I don't even care about that anymore," she said, with a half-laugh. "All I really want now is you."

His hand stopped tracing, her heartbeat quickened.

"I'm so sick of sharing you with him," she admitted, in a whisper. "And as much as I want to get him for justice and for all those noble reasons, part of me just wants this to be over so I can have you all to myself." He heard a slight tremor in her voice as she asked him, "Does that make me a bad person?"

He didn't answer with yes or no. Instead, he put his lips to hers, and kissed her, softly at first but she took control of the kiss, opening her mouth eagerly, deepening it, refusing to let him cop out. She fell back against the pillows with a soft thud as he matched her kiss for kiss, once again losing himself in the pleasure of her soft lips and the glory of knowing how much she still wanted him, even after all he had put her through.

They broke the kiss after a few minutes, and he glanced down at her to see her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen, and her hair in silky disarray over the pillow. What could a man like him possibly have done to deserve someone so perfect? He must have been gazing at her longer than he realized, because she suddenly frowned.

"What's wrong?" she asked him.

"You don't seriously feel like you have to compete with Red John for my attention, do you?" he asked.

"Not to mention all the other women as well," she said, trying to laugh it off, but he could see the hurt in her eyes as she said it.

"Red John is a big chapter in my life I need to close," he conceded. "But don't you ever say that you're second-best to him in my life, when you're the most important part of it."

He kissed her once again, and felt her arms winding around him, pulling him down on top of her. He moved his focus to her neck, kissing, nuzzling, suckling as her breaths came out in short, sharp gasps, punctuated with quiet moans of pleasure.

"Oh and by the way," he whispered into her ear. "There are no other women. You're the only one I ever saw. I just told myself I didn't deserve you, and I made some mistakes."

"Well here's your chance to make up for it," she said. "He's coming for us anyway, no matter what we do. So please, Patrick. Make love to me."

She was right. In a few days they might both be dead anyway, and more to the point, he didn't have the will to resist her anymore. Unbuttoning his vest was a slow process as his fingers were so desperate to touch her again; they seemed to have a mind of their own. She reached up to tear his shirt from him and to undo his belt buckle. He helped her slide his pants down and they were discarded in a twisted heap at the foot of the bed, as she pulled her top off and flung it away too. Both now down to just their underwear, proceedings came to a halt. She couldn't keep her eyes away from the bulge in his boxers, but knew without looking that he was experiencing the same kind of fascination with her breasts. She could feel it.

They probably could've lain there for a quite a while just drinking in the sight of each other, but Teresa's sex drive gave her an impatient nudge. Finally, finally after all these years of one-night stands, she was going to be satisfied. Everything inside her seemed to clench up in anticipation, and then suddenly, she couldn't keep her hands off him anymore, bringing her mouth to his again with a lot more intensity than she'd expected. She had earned this. She sent home more than one guy over the years who wanted a round two, for the one simple reason that they weren't him. Even when she hadn't gotten laid in months and was frustrated beyond all belief, still she hung in there, waiting for him. And this was going to be worth the wait.

Once again, their tongues met in a furious, passionate dance, and she could feel him, hard and determined against her, and herself almost drowning in desperate, desperate want. His hands had found their way to her bra now, exploring underneath it, brushing over her nipples, fumbling with the clasp at the back until finally it came free. He slid it off over her shoulder and let his mouth fall on each of her breasts in turn, as she squirmed with delight beneath him. She threw back her head and cried out as he teased her with his mouth and his fingers. The sudden sound distracted him momentarily, and she seized her chance.

She rolled them both over, so now she was on top. She straddled him, trapping him between her strong thighs, and lowered herself onto him, their bodies now prevented from joining by two flimsy strips of fabric. His frustrated cry echoed her own thoughts; she wanted him this very minute, but placed discouraging hands on top of the fingers reaching to rip her panties from her. He'd teased her first, so it was only fair. She wriggled herself around on him, feeling his arousal growing with every movement.

"You're evil," he told her, the strain in his voice belying how much he wanted to simply take her now, and she deliberately held his gaze, seeing him using every bit of his restraint, and seeing them glaze over again every time she moved. And she wasn't finished yet. She bent to kiss him again, hard and passionate, at the same time reaching for the cuffs on the bedside table. She did it fast. Long before their lips had parted again, she had him shackled to the headboard with both hands. He wasn't the only one who could take advantage of someone when they were down.

It only took him a moment to realize what she'd done, and as that seductive smile slowly spread over his lips, she felt a heady mixture of triumph and love and animal lust combining within to give her one of the most sensuous feelings she'd ever had in her life. She smiled down at him.

"I told you that you weren't getting away with it," she said, through both of their panting. "Nobody cuffs me to a bed without my consent. Not even you."

She punished him soundly. She started at his head, and kissed him and caressed him all over. She pulled her fingers through those sexy curls, nibbled at his earlobe, kissed his neck, and traced the outline of his face with her fingers, grinning at the slight stubble she found. She moved on to his collarbone, his shoulders, kissed her way down his chest, paying attention to his reactions. A sharp gasp of breath or a buck of his hips told her she'd hit pay dirt, and she concentrated her efforts on that area for an extended period of time. She had Patrick Jane completely at her mercy, free to do whatever delicious things to him that she so desired. And as a bonus, she could see that he was being tortured by his inability to touch her, and end her sensual onslaught. She was in total control.

Slowly, (agonizingly slowly in Jane's mind) her fingers and her mouth wandered down until they met the waistband of his boxers. She slipped her hand inside them and let her fingers wander where they pleased, gentle, and feather-light, and she heard a mixture of groans and sighs and grunts exude from him, and to her pleasure, her own name repeated three times, until finally she tugged the boxers off and he was completely naked before her. And then, she hauled herself off of him completely, and walked around until she stood beside him at the head of the bed. Keeping her gaze fixed on his, she pulled down her panties and stepped out of them, and he gave a moan of longing.

"I'm going to uncuff you now," she told him, in a whisper. "And then we're going to finish this. Because I swear to God if you deny me again, I think I might kill you."

"Well if these damn things keep me from touching you for any longer, you won't have to," he panted.

Silence fell between them, the air practically humming with sexual tension, as she released him from his bonds, and then got astride him once again. One feeling of her, wet and warm against him, was enough for him to roll her beneath him and slide himself into her.

It was quite astonishing how easily they fell into a rhythm, he modulating his pace to match her cries and moans. He could feel her fingernails digging into the back of his neck, encouraging him to go deeper, harder, faster, to which he happily obliged. Beads of sweat began to form on both of them as he moved in and out of her. He listened to her breaths becoming shallower, waiting for her to find her ecstasy, until finally, she did, shuddering and gasping, and he followed soon after.

"Oh God," she sighed, when it was all over, as she attempted to catch her breath.

He nuzzled her neck, with a satisfied smile. "I could die now," he whispered into her skin. "Nothing could ever, ever be better than this."

She scoffed a little. "You mean to tell me that this is all you've got?" she asked him with a tiny giggle. "You've hit your peak already?"

"Not even slightly," he said. And his hand went down under the coverlet, skimming over her body until it found her still wet. He went to work, and within a few minutes he was watching with satisfaction as she arched her back, and screamed his name again, breaking apart under his touch. It took her a little longer to recover from that one, he noted with triumph.

"Still doubting me?" he asked. "Or do I have to show you again?"

She met his eyes defiantly, a teasing sparkle lighting up the green. "How do you know I didn't fake it?" she asked him, innocently. "Just so you wouldn't feel bad. Maybe I'm a better actress then you think."

"Oh, Teresa," he said, tracing one of her nipples with his tongue. "Nobody's that good."

"Are you sure?" she challenged him. "Maybe we ought to find out."

He took that bet. After all, he never had been one to shrink away from a challenge.

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Back at the CBI, the team was beginning to become concerned. Grace had been unable to get a signal from Jane or Lisbon's cell phones, and no amount of digging through traffic cameras had been able to even give them a place to start looking. They'd spotted a Mustang at an intersection, that might have been Lisbon's, but the picture was too grainy to be absolutely sure. And why would they be heading for the Interstate anyway? It didn't make any sense. Sacramento was where the action was, so to speak. It was a shame they hadn't taken Jane's car, which stuck out like a sore thumb and would have been far easier to track.

Although, Grace had pointed out grimly to the other two, perhaps keeping their movements a secret had been the idea.

The FBI had already phoned with a request to speak to Lisbon about her encounter with Smith, but Cho had managed to head them off by telling them brusquely that she was meeting with her remaining brothers to discuss James's will, and was therefore unreachable for the rest of the evening. The agent he'd been speaking to, a Special Agent Broome, had accepted this story for tonight, but urged Cho to have Lisbon call him in the morning as soon as she got in. So he'd bought them a few hours breathing space, but if they kept ducking the FBI like this, it was going to look suspicious.

"OK," Rigsby said, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "Let's run through this again from the beginning. What do we actually know?"

Grace exhaled slowly. "We know that three weeks ago, Red John murdered Eileen Barlow," she said. "And we know that last week, he killed Lisbon's brother in Oregon."

"But why?" asked Rigsby. "Normally there's months between Red John murders, not weeks. And he's never gone for us on such a personal level before."

"Something's changed," said Cho. "So what else do we know?"

"Lisbon left Oregon early," Rigsby continued. "She thought Bret Stiles was Red John and wanted to find out if he'd killed her brother."

Cho shook his head. "That's the story Jane told us," he reminded them both. "We don't know that. That makes a difference."

"You think he was lying to us?" asked Grace.

Cho had been paying close attention during that conversation, and while he'd never known a more accomplished liar than Jane, his gut feeling was that most of what he was saying had been the truth.

"I don't think he was lying," he said, finally. "But I also don't think he was telling us everything." He looked to the other two. " There has to be more to this than what we're seeing. Have you noticed anything different about them in the last few weeks?" he asked, and the other two pondered this.

"Lisbon glances over her shoulder a lot now," said Grace after a while. "It's only now you say it that I've consciously realized it, but every time we've left the building since the Barlow case, she checks all around her, like she thinks there's someone after her."

"And did you see the way they were at the Macintyre crime scene last week?" said Rigsby, thoughtfully. "They couldn't go two minutes being out of each other's sight. You know how Jane normally goes wandering around the house, going through their drawers and stuff? This time he wouldn't leave the room she was in."

"And he barely even glanced at the body at all."

"That's not exactly unusual," argued Cho.

"But she didn't even tell him off," Rigsby pointed out. "You know how pissed off she gets when he doesn't take the job seriously. But she never said a word."

They continued in this vein for some time, all quite surprised and impressed at just how much they'd noticed about their two colleagues without even realising it. Jane must have been rubbing off on them.

"So we're agreed," Cho concluded, a few minutes later. "Something's up with them. And whatever it is, it happened during or just after the Eileen Barlow case."

"Agreed," Rigsby and Van Pelt chorused.

"So we need to get that case file back, and tear through it until we find out what we're missing. Maybe Eileen was connected to Red John in some way. I'll put in a request to get it out of the archives tomorrow. Until then, if anyone hears from them let us know immediately."

It was nearing seven before the team finally broke for the day and went home. It was clear to all three of them that something big was going down that they didn't know about. Jane would not have just up and skipped town in the middle of a Red John case, if it weren't absolutely essential, and for Lisbon to miss a day of work was practically unheard of. Whatever was going on, the team wanted to help, in whatever way they could.

"What if we're wrong about this?" Grace asked Rigsby as they left HQ and headed towards their cars.

It was dark in the parking lot, so she risked a little squeeze of his hand, and smiled to herself when he squeezed back. Keeping their relationship a secret seemed less important this time around. They'd both grown up a lot since the first time, and even though the rules of office relationships hadn't changed, it wasn't a deal-breaker anymore like it had been before. Jane and Cho both knew of course, had guessed it within days, but though officially Lisbon had kept her head in the sand about it, they were sure she knew. Jane told her almost everything, and every now and then Grace had seen her look towards the both of them with a smile.

It had taken a lot for the two of them to find each other again, trips to L.A and babies and homicidal fiancés to name just a few, but she had faith that this time it would work out between them. After all, the fact they could go through so much, and still have feelings for each other had to mean they were onto something real.

"We're doing exactly what we're always telling Jane not to do," she went on. "Jumping to conclusions. There could be a whole bunch of reasons that we're not even considering."

"This is the one that makes the most sense," he said.

"But don' t you think it's a bad sign that our minds immediately jump to Red John whenever anything seems even slightly out of place?" she asked. "I mean, what does that say about us, and our state of mind? How do we know they're not just holed up in a house somewhere making out?"

Rigsby scoffed. "Jane and Lisbon?" he said. "As if."

"Well they could be," she persisted, stubbornly. Anyone who'd seen the way Lisbon looked at him sometimes would know what she was talking about. But Wayne, while a highly skilled investigator, was woefully unobservant to things that happened around him. Most of the time, she found that naiveté endearing, but at moments like this, she just wanted to shake him.

"Trust me, Grace, they're somewhere chasing Red John. Jane probably got himself a hot lead and they took off together. I know he wants to do it all on his own, but I don't see the boss letting him somehow."

"She's so loyal to him," said Grace softly. "Makes me feel like we should be doing more."

He drew her to him briefly, and kissed the top of her head.

"Look, I'm all for finding out what's going on, and for offering Jane our help if he wants it, but I think he's made it pretty clear he doesn't. This is his fight, babe, not ours."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Teresa couldn't remember the last time she'd felt this good. A candle was softly glowing, the bed was soft and comfortable and she had Patrick Jane pinned to it with her body.

"Give up yet?" she asked, with a coy grin, and he grinned back at her.

"All right," he said, putting his hands up in defeat. "You win." He reached for her once more, and gently stroked her hair away from her eyes. "Now come here, and get some sleep. We've got a lot to do in the morning."

Like prove her innocence, she supposed, if she ever wanted to show her face in the Capital again. But she banished the black thought from her mind. Misery could wait until she woke up. For now, she wanted bliss. So she slipped underneath the coverlet and folded herself into his strong arms. Bliss indeed.

Not for nothing, had Jane been an insomniac for ten years, and even making passionate love to Lisbon wasn't quite enough to get him off to sleep right away. So he lay there for a while listening to her slow breathing and counting the freckles on her back. He wouldn't have chosen for this to happen this way, but he was very glad it had.

He thought about that until an orange-reddish glow began to seep through the window and into the room.

As a rule, I don't generally write M stuff. I usually stick to heavy 'T' but this time I thought I'd push my boundaries a little further. I did try to write everything in a tasteful manner.

Please check out Donna's new fic "Amore a Roma" if you haven't yet. If you're reading this fic you already know how awesome she is, and her solo efforts never disappoint.