A/N: Because I've yet to catch up on each episode of The Mentalist, it's entirely possible that Lisbon has/will go through something like this. I know nothing of it and am making this up off the cuff. Also, if you notice anything the characters do/say contradicts with something they've done/said in the show, I claim complete fault. Lisbon may seem a tad AU with the angst, but angst is great food for plot bunnies, haha. Anyway! Read and enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I owned The Mentalist, oh the things I'd do…!

Rating: M for language, sexual content, adult themes, etc.

PROFESSIONAL

Murder.

It stank. The smell soaked the air and hung thick above the driveway of a suburban home no less than thirty miles from Sacramento. The blue and red police lights reflected off the muddy puddles on the ground and made colored refractions in the hazy drizzle that desperately wanted to pour. Both CBI agents and the local police were clustered around the drive like sardines packed into a tin can. Jamison Kent, a man who had fled after killing his wife and the CBI had been keeping tabs on for the past several months, had bought a plane ticket back to Sacramento earlier that day. It'd been a race for law enforcement to reach his family's home before him.

They were too late.

Kent's mother had taken custody of the children – she was currently inside, her pale, wrinkled face glowed eerily through the kitchen window. She had rosary beads clasped in her arthritic grasp. She seemed not to be taking in the chorus of shouts from outside; agents and officers ordering though the rain for her to stay inside and for Kent to drop his weapon. He was standing in the drive, his hair dripping wet, while holding a hunting knife to his fourteen year-old son's throat. The boy was sobbing, petrified, and was gripping his father's thick wrist.

"She was a fucking slut!" Kent screamed. "She told me this bastard was mine!" He was speaking of his late wife, whom he'd killed three months ago. He'd come back for his children. Kent wound his fingers through his son's hair and yanked, exposing his smooth neck.

"Drop your weapon!" senior agent Teresa Lisbon roared, her voice having the subtlety of sandpaper after fifteen minutes of yelling. Several agents repeated her words, but it was in vain. She clutched her service weapon tightly, leaning over the hood of the CBI's SUV. Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho had their guns aimed at the same target as she: Kent. She had no idea where in the hell Jane was.

The boy was pleading with his father, crying hysterically. Lisbon was sure that he was only making matters worse, and the shouts and orders from the officers were making Kent more incensed. Then, without warning, Kent brought the knife smoothly over the boy's throat.

Before he crumpled to the ground, dozens of shots rang though air, riddling Kent with holes. He'd died instantly, and officers flooded the scene. Lisbon arrived to the boy first. She fell to her knees and clamped her cold, wet hands over the wound on his throat. His jugular had been slashed; hope for his survival was little. Sirens from the paramedics, who were on call a couple hundred yards down the street, started to sound, and Lisbon wanted to staunch the blood flow as much as possible before their arrival. His eyes had snapped back in his head, and he was making this horrific gurgling noise. Lisbon's heart was slamming against her ribcage, and she was screaming for the "fucking paramedics" to hurry. She was losing him. To the best of her ability, her frantic fingers sought through the slick and blood for the source of the gushing. She knew if she could clamp the vein shut, there may be a hope. Maybe.

When medical attention finally arrived, it was too late. The boy's head had lolled to the side, his eyes gaunt, dull and expressionless. She felt Rigsby's hand on her shoulder as the EMTs loaded the victim's dead body onto a stretcher after it had been pronounced dead on the scene. "Lisbon. There was nothing anybody could do," he said quietly.

She shrank from his touch and said nothing.

He left with Cho and Van Pelt to sort out the mess with Kent. Lisbon stayed in the same spot, her knees aching and soaked with the boy's blood. Jane, who'd been wise to stay out of the line of fire, approached his boss and stood before her in his rain jacket, hands slipped into his pockets.

"Get up, Lisbon," he said firmly. Silently, she refused until he reached down and wound his fingers around her arm and lifted her into a standing position. It was if she'd lost all ambition to move of her volition. He pulled her towards him, into his chest, forcing her into an embrace. Numb, she complied. Jane knew that she needed warmth. Life. They stayed just so until the local chief of police said they had to move; they were standing in the middle of a crime scene.

Patrick Jane, as per usual, feigned sleep on his couch until Van Pelt and Rigsby, the last two to leave aside for Lisbon, cleared out, chattering away about a Thai restaurant that wanted to go to for dinner. They invited Lisbon, but she declined. He laid still, his eyes closed and fingers knitted together behind his head, basking in the silence. Periodically, he'd hear a sigh, swear or grumble of frustration from Lisbon's side of the room. It'd been a week since the murder of Jamison Kent and his late wife's bastard son, and Jane had noticed how exponentially longer Lisbon had been staying at the office. He heard the coffee machine going a few minutes before midnight, and it was this that provoked him to rise.

Lisbon sat behind her desk, staring at the LED screen of her laptop. She was typing away furiously and would pause for a brief moment to rifle through the ream of papers that was scattered about.

"I'm going to wait a few more minutes," Jane said, taking up a chair, "so I can accurately wish you a good morning."

"Go home," she said. She didn't even look up from her work.

"I will leave if you leave."

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. "I wasn't giving you an ultimatum."

"You need to sleep, Lisbon."

"I will," she lied smoothly. "Later."

She went back to her work and proceeded to ignore him. While he listened to her type, Jane crossed one of his legs over the other and steepled his fingers beneath his chin, his elbows resting on his knees. He stared at her until she visibly became uncomfortable and flatly told him to go shove a stick up his ass.

"You know that the death of the Kent boy was not your fault."

Lisbon stiffened. She pursed her lips, as if telling herself to refrain from saying something. "What happened has happened. I need to concentrate on getting these files in before the end of tomorrow, so if you'll excuse me – "

"You have all of tomorrow to do them. You need to sleep," he repeated.

"I'm fine, Jane. Stop worrying about me. Now, I'd suggest leaving and doing something productive with yourself."

He wasn't ruffled by her comment. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Yesterday."

"For how long?"

"Long enough," she snapped, having quickly become irritated.

"You're lying to me."

Her lips thinned. "Go. Home."

"Your pleas are futile," he said, shrugging. He leaned back in his chair and stretched out. "As a matter of fact, I have no problem at with sitting here and watching you work until dawn."

Lisbon slammed her laptop shut and shoved all the papers into an already full folder. She zipped her things into her bag and slung it over her shoulder. "Then I'm leaving," she said coldly, brushing by him without as much as a glance in his direction or a good-bye.

Without missing a beat, Jane shot up from his seat and blocked the exit. He leaned against the door frame, knowing that she was being this distance because of the Kent boy. That had to be it. "Lisbon," he said. "Talk to me."

"Move. Please."

"Again, there was nothing you could have done for that kid."

Her eyes were starting to get glossy, and she clutched the strap of her bag tightly. "It's not that."

"Then, what is it?"

"I...he, I just...h-he – " She struggled for words, looking at a loss.

"He died in your arms. Gasping. Struggling to breathe while your fingers were in his neck. And you can't sleep because you keep replaying the scene over and over again in your head – "

The heated anger that emanated from her after he spoke signaled to him that he'd gotten it right. "Fuck you, Jane," she hissed furiously, shoving past him.

She stormed down the hall, and Jane ran after her. "Lisbon!" he shouted. "Wait!"

After a few paces, he stopped. She needed time. He let her go, realizing that no amount of his badgering would get her to open up to him. She'd have to do it on her own.

The following night, Lisbon stayed just as late at the office. Jane gleaned that both Van Pelt and Rigsby were concerned about how many hours she'd been pulling. Cho betrayed nothing. He was, after all, Cho. Jane left at a reasonable hour, ordered a pizza with a plethora of toppings and took up sitting in the hall outside Lisbon's apartment, waiting for her to come home.

He sat on the floor, stretched out his legs and settled the pizza on top of his lip, completely prepared to stay until morning. He'd already been still or an hour, and his phone showed him that it was creeping upon midnight. He contemplated calling her just when the elevator pinged and Teresa Lisbon stepped out, her bag over her shoulder. She saw Jane and said nothing. He looked at her knees while she unlocked her door. She entered and slammed it behind her.

After a moment, he rose and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again.

"Jane. Go home." Her voice was muffled and close. This particular phrase had quickly become her trademark in regards to the CBI's consultant.

"I'm not going to grill or question you, Teresa," he said.

When was the last time you went out with friends? Had a few drinks and let go? Your job is consuming you, Jane thought, noting that the pizza was now cold in his hands. It's hurting you.

Then, she slowly opened the door. She still had on her jacket and her bag was on her shoulder. She'd been leaning against the door, wondering whether to let him in, when Jane thought she'd completely neglected to acknowledge his presence.

"Pizza," Jane said simply, offering it to her and still standing in the hall, "with everything. I didn't know what you liked."

She accepted it, slightly wary. "Thanks." Lisbon set her bag on the floor and hung up her jacket. She told him to come in and slid the pizza onto the counter. "I'm going to make a gamble and say that I've got bottled water in the fridge. Otherwise, there's ketchup and batteries."

After slinging his jacket over a chair, Jane rolled up his sleeves and opened the box adorned with "Little Italy" on the lid. He rubbed his hands together, grinning. "I'll have you know, dearest Lisbon, that I've smelled this for over an hour."

"You brought it upon yourself," she quipped. "I'm going to take a shower. I feel like shit. Don't touch the toaster, though. I don't know what's wrong with it."

He cast a glance towards the electric contraption. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Perhaps this was her passive way of asking him to fix it. After he heard the squeak of her shower in the other room, Jane cleared away two slices of pizza and, just to see what was wrong with it, stuck a piece of bread in the toaster. At the time one would expect it to pop, a small tendril of black smoke started to float up from the orange coils. His browns knitted. It's hard to eat something if it's on fire. Suddenly: Bang! The toaster effused a noxious cloud of black fumes. Flames started to lick the top and, alarmed, Jane filled up a glass of water from the sink and dumped it on the heathen source of flame and fire. It fizzled, zapped and hissed like a cat having been just dropped in a tub of water. He winced. Lisbon was not going to be pleased. Before she got out of the shower, he wanted to clean up the mess. He avoided the puddle of water he'd created until he pulled the plug out of the toaster. He sopped it up with a few napkins and jiggled the piece of toast out of the slot. As if nothing at all had happened, he shoved the toaster back where it belonged and munched on another slice of pizza.

Lisbon padded back into the kitchen in a tank and sweats, her hair wet and combed, hanging down her back. She went towards the box, then her eyes floated up towards Jane. "You messed with the toaster, didn't you?" she asked him slowly.

He crossed his arms and looked at her sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

She blinked, mumbled something about him being a moron brought the box to the couch. "Look," she said, "thanks for the food, but you're under no obligation to stay here, Jane. I don't want you to feel like you have to."

Lisbon curled up on one side of the sofa, tucking her legs underneath her. Jane sat on the opposite end after pulling up the legs of his pants. "I do not feel under obligation."

"Good."

She glanced at the television set and turned it on. After a half hour of watching re-runs of a stereotypical cop show, she twisted her whole body so she was looking at him. "Jane?"

He gave her a pseudo-serious look. "Lisbon."

"It's two in the morning."

"I know it is."

"You don't look tired."

"You do." Terribly so. The senior agent had bags under her eyes, and she'd been drinking coffee lately like it was ambrosia of the gods. He knew he wasn't supposed to ask, but it'd been eating at him – he was sure that she wasn't going to come around. It'd be like wrangling a bone from a dog. "When was the last time you slept?"

Silence.

"It's not important."

"It is, Teresa," he pressed. "It is. You may need help or medicine – "

"I'm not fucking insane," she snapped, "or some crazy shit."

"You need sleep."

In her lap, she twisted her hands. When she spoke, it revealed how her mood had softened. Her eyes were vulnerable, which caused him to notice how she looked at his forehead instead of his gaze. "I can't. All I see is that kid choking in his own blood. D-dying. It was such a mess." She pressed her hands to her temples and squeezed her eyes shut. He laid a hand on her knee, but she took it off. He was looking into pools of watery green. Lisbon never cried. She didn't, though. She held it in and took a deep, shaky breath. Jane thought if she continued to box everything up like that, she'd end up blowing a blood vessel.

"If you want," he said, treading cautiously, "I'll stay here, so you at least know that somebody else is around."

She shook her head and got up off the couch, carting the empty pizza box with her. "No. I can't have you do that."

"It's completely of my own will."

Lisbon sighed. "You know what, Jane, do what you want."

He beamed. "Ah, the freedom!"

"You sleep there," she said, pointing to the couch, then at him. "Stay away from my room."

"Absolutely."

"Lock the door before you pass out."

"Affirmative."

"Don't make me breakfast when you get up. That's awkward, and I don't like breakfast."

His frown faltered. "Can I make me breakfast?"

"All that you wish with ketchup and a broken toaster."

"I'm looking forward to it."

"I'm glad. Good night, Jane."

"Good night, Lisbon."

About an hour later, Jane heard footsteps treading softly on the carpet. He lay on the couch like he was at the CBI office, having only taken off his shoes. He stared at the ceiling, eerily awake. The apartment was soaked in warm, comfortable darkness, save for a green light emitting from the display on the microwave. He was still as Lisbon walked towards the kitchen. A little light above the stove went on, and he heard her open a cabinet and, consequently, a pill bottle. The only thing Jane registered was how odd it was that she kept her medicine in the kitchen.

The light snapped off, and then he felt a hand on his shoulder. She hadn't known that he was awake. "Jane," she whispered.

He looked up at her, blinking. "Lisbon," he stage-whispered, mocking her.

"Sleep with me."

"While I appreciate your forwardness, I don't think that now is an appropriate time to engage in sexual activities – "

"Fine. Forget it, jackass."

He knew what she'd meant. Following her to her bedroom, he thought about how much it had to have taken for her to come to him like that. Lisbon was prideful to a fault; she would admit nothing. The room was encased in darkness. Vaguely, he could make out her form taking off her sweatpants. A simple, white pair of cotton panties glowed in the blackness. Jane sat on the edge of the bed, took off his vest, unbuttoned his shirt and started to tug his belt out of the loops when Lisbon spoke.

"You're taking off your pants?"

"You took yours off. That's not fair."

She was at a loss for words. "Stay on your side, then."

"Why?"

"Because you're you."

"That can be misconstrued as being offensive."

"It was supposed to be."

In order to appease her, he kept on his t-shirt, and got under the covers, staying at the very edge of the bed. It was warm. Dark. The pillows and blankets smelled like her, which was very fucking good. She turned her back to him, her perfumy-scented hair spilling around her. They exchanged goodnights for a second time, and Jane had to tell himself to close his eyes so he could perhaps get some sleep. He was unsuccessful, just as, apparently, Lisbon was. The both of them tossed and turned on their respective sides as the clock crept towards half past three in the morning. Even if they did manage to fall asleep, it would be futile because they were both expected at work in three hours.

Then, Jane turned towards her. Silently, he reached forward and touched her shoulder.

"What?" she growled.

"In all honesty, I have a question for you."

"It can't wait?"

"It can, but we might as well converse with each other until sleep comes."

Grumbling, Lisbon rifled the blanket and sheets as she turned towards him, too. He could barely make out her face. She had the blinds drawn, so if any moon was out, he was certainly seeing none of it. The heat was effusing from her. "I'm...tired, Jane..." she mumbled finally, her words tumbling together in the darkness. "It's been like...six days. I think. Something crazy."

He swallowed, his lips dry. "Well, you answered my question."

"I can't get Kent's kid out of my head."

"C'mere."

"No."

"Why?"

"Just...no." Her voice cracked.

To him, this seemed like a futile answer. Jane reached for her under the covers. His arms wrapped around her middle, and she scooted towards him. Her legs, bare and smooth, tangled with his. She rested her head on his chest, and he held her tight in his grasp, hugging her. Lisbon's hot breath was concentrated on a patch next to his left nipple, and he noticed the pacing. Uneven. Patchy. Still, she was trying to keep in her emotions. He completely encased her in his warm embrace. He didn't often hold women like this – ever, really; not since several years ago. His wife. His daughter. The corners of his eyes started to burn. He whispered that it was all right. It would be okay.

It wouldn't. Her shoulders shook. Jane let her cry. She clutched his shirt, holding the fabric tight in her fist. She gasped, and he could feel her tears wetting his shirt. After several minutes, her quiet sobs faded into more even breathing. Her grip on his shirt loosened. The contours of her body softened and melted into his. Sleepily, he held her close.

"It's okay," he breathed again.

Whether it was an hour or five minutes, he did not know. At some point, he'd fallen asleep, and when he woke, their position had changed slightly. The top of Lisbon's thigh was pressing between his legs, and her crotch, separated from his bare skin by only her thin underwear and the material of his boxer shorts, was plum against his hip. With her breathing and heart-rate having been consistent with one being asleep, Jane didn't want to wake her. She felt good in his arms, against his body, fitting with him. Slowly – softly, he ran his thumb across a small patch of exposed skin between the hem of her tank and her panties. He didn't know what made him do it in the first place, but he did again. On his chest, her head moved. She mumbled something faint in her sleep that he couldn't hear, but her thighs tightened around his leg.

He stopped. This wasn't right.

Still, in the dark, he felt his fingers dance across her hip, wander across her warm ribcage and settle on the flat of her stomach. She moved again in her sleep. He had to stop touching her; it was important that she slept. After commanding his hand to stay still, Lisbon breathed his name into his chest. "Jane..."

Her fingers, once still, clenched, her hands stuffed between them. She made a small sound in her sleep. Her moving became more frequent. "Jane." This time, her voice was stronger. She was waking. He cursed himself. She lifted her head off his chest.

"Go back to sleep," he coaxed.

Sleepily, she sat up. Her hair was in disarray, and she seemed – if anything – dumbfounded. Lisbon quickly extricated herself from the she was in, noticing how intimately their legs had been tangled. "Shit," she swore. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry – shit!"

In a new, awakened fury, she flung the blankets and sheets off of them and maneuvered herself away from the bed, and away from Jane. He got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Not only had her sleep been disturbed, she was pissed. Righteously so. He said nothing while she, in her ire, roughly pulled her sweats back on. She stormed out of the bedroom and commanded him not to follow her. Completely disregarding her wishes, he reached for his own pants and didn't bother with the zipper before chasing after her. Jane caught up with her on the stairs.

"Teresa," he pleaded, rounding in front of her so she couldn't get down them, "listen to me. You're making a mountain out of a molehill right now." He held up his hands, palms out.

She stopped, infuriated. Her eyes were glowing with something dangerous. "Get out of my way," she glowered. "And zip up your damn fly." Lisbon shoved past him.

"You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" she whirled around. "Am I, truly? This is completely unprofessional!"

"And what, stewing by yourself, not getting any sleep to speak of, and letting your job suck the life right out of you is?"

She scoffed, barreling down into the kitchen. "Like you would know! You, Mr. Patrick Jane, are the total fucking opposite of professional!"

Her words split the air. Silence. Lisbon stood in the middle of her kitchen, breathing more heavily than standard homeostasis required; she was a mess. Jane looked down, pulled up his zipper, and he thought about how silly this was. She didn't want emotional attachment, and she especially didn't want it from him.

When he spoke, it was slowly and cautiously. "While we're being 'unprofessional,' I see very little harm in continuing to sally forth."

For a brief moment, she looked flummoxed about what she was or was not going to do. Jane decided for her. He smoothly closed the gap between them, used his hand to angle up her head, and pressed his mouth against hers – hard, before she had any time to react. She struggled against him at first and tried to pull away, but he brought his other hand down to her hip to keep her still, his thumb brutishly digging into the soft flesh. Lisbon made a small noise, one caught between the mixture of sudden, sharp pain and surprise, in the back of her throat before bending to the will of his tongue, which pushed between her teeth and into the hot, wet mess that'd just been casting swears and other forms of degradation at him not moments ago. There was nothing particularly nice, sweet or romantic about the kiss. No mass epiphanies crashed upon either of them, and Jane held firm until her struggle, both mental and physical, broke down. He backed her up against the counter and felt her fingers at the back of his head, pulling at his hair and digging into his scalp. She returned the kiss with fervor, her teeth nicking his bottom lip and tugging at it – biting it, kissing it. With their mouths locked and conjoined, and with one hungry kiss sliding effortlessly into another, he pinned her to the cold counter. Her back arched, and she titled up her head to get a better leverage, which did nothing for any position of power that she may have wanted because he moved the center of from her mouth, down to her jawline. Lisbon's hand moved down his shoulders and clutched at the blade, her short nails scraping the bone and massaging the muscles.

She gasped when he sucked her pulse point, and he felt the beat quicken under his tongue when his erection started to grow hard and hot and pushed against her stomach.

With a final, lingering and animalistic kiss on her mouth, he pulled back from her. Their lips stuck together before breaking apart. Her eyes, dark and furious bore into his head. Tentatively, she reached up and touched her bruised, red lips. She swallowed. Jane smirked. He took a step away from her, a minor and unconcerned bulge pushing against his zipper, causing his pants to tent slightly.

Two beats later, she brought her hand back and smacked him across the face.

He wasn't surprised.

"Never," she hissed, "again."

He watched her walk with wobbly legs and askew hair back up the stairs, using the railing for support. His left cheek was burning. Needless to say, Jane did not hear Lisbon egress from her room at any other point during the night. He assumed that she'd slept well.

The following morning, he was sure not to be there when she woke. At the CBI office, he handed her a coffee like nothing at all had happened. She went back to poking fun at him and started returning home at a feasible and regular hour, looking well-rested the following days. The team, though noticing her change back to normalcy, did not question her about it.

Jane was waiting, though, for her to come around. Maybe she would eventually. Whether it would take a few weeks, months, years – or whether she never would - he did not know, but there was no rushing Teresa Lisbon when it came to her happiness. She always put the job first. She was the job. He knew that she wanted to fall for him, be with him and eat breakfast in the morning with him, despite how much she didn't like that particular meal. She wanted these things, but she would not claim them.

And that's the way it would always be.

A/N: Ah, the optomism! It just sort of wrote itself this way. I tried for a fairy-tale ending. There was an effort. :D