Author's Note: This is for all the lovely reviewers who asked for a sequel. It didn't turn out quite as I planned, but I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Patrick Jane woke with a nagging headache, which was fairly unusual, on an unfamiliar couch, which was shockingly rare. Even as he struggled to focus his gritty eyes, his nose reported back that there was no immediate cause for alarm: the blanket tucked snugly around him smelled strongly of Lisbon. A glance around told him he was on the couch in her living room and, furthermore, that she'd left him a big glass of water and two pills.

He was getting old. When he was younger he'd never have suffered even a mild hangover from wine, even most of a bottle's worth. At least he hadn't gotten truly drunk. With the stress he was under and his increasing anxiety about Lisbon's safety, there's no telling what he might have done.

As it was, he'd only gotten tipsy and talked some nonsense, which was fine because Lisbon wouldn't hold it against him. She'd been trained at a young age to ignore drunken ramblings, and she'd rather scale the Empire State Building than have a conversation about feelings. He was confident she would pretend it never happened, so he could too.

Reviewing their conversation in the car, he winced a little. He hadn't rambled; he'd babbled. About weddings. No, about her wedding. And she'd let him.

At least she had no idea he'd assigned himself the role of the groom in that little fantasy. It was bad enough that she'd encouraged him. He thought about that as he swallowed the pills and drank the water. She usually tried to ground his flights of fancy, so what had induced her to participate in this one?

Two answers presented themselves: 1. She was distracting him from something else and 2. She liked what she was hearing. They weren't, he acknowledged, mutually exclusive.

It wasn't the second reason, at least not on its own, he decided. Teresa Lisbon wasn't the type to take advantage of someone whose judgment might be impaired, and she had no use for fairy tales.

Damn, he couldn't believe he'd told her she'd get married by an Elvis impersonator. Well, at least that should have prevented her from taking any of the rest of it seriously. He bet that if she ever did marry, it would be under the auspices of a priest.

Besides, he wanted her stone cold sober when she promised to love and cherish him.

He shook his head, then instantly regretted it. He needed to stop daydreaming and focus. He had a mountain of new information about McAllister to sort through and other suspects to check out. And time was of the essence, because Red John wasn't going to sit back and wait for him to get his act together. He'd already marked Lisbon and killed Sophie; Jane shuddered to think what he'd do next.

"Morning, Sunshine," Lisbon called out as she came down the stairs fully dressed. He was disappointed that she'd pulled her hair back today, but maybe it was for the best. He was fast developing a fetish about her hair, and having strands of it temptingly in reach wouldn't help him focus.

"Good morning," he responded, forcing cheer into his voice. "Thanks for the couch."

"Well, the last time you combined alcohol and the office, you nearly burned the place down," she said. "I figured this was safer. How're you feeling?"

"Right as rain. It takes much more than a bottle of high-end wine to impair my faculties," he said breezily. "I don't suppose you have any eggs for me to work with?"

"There might be," she shrugged. "Check the date on the carton, though." She headed for the coffeemaker to refill her mug.

He managed to get up without betraying any stiffness—really, she had terrible taste in couches—and went to investigate his breakfast options. The lone, forlorn egg sat in a carton with a sell-by date from last year, and he looked sadly at it before deciding that, while he might risk it for himself, he was not willing to subject himself to a cranky Lisbon with food poisoning. Her freezer was completely empty except for some ice trays, which led him to peek at the trash after she left the room. Yes, the bag of stir fry vegetables was there, resting on some meat that was too badly freezer burned to be easily identifiable. He grinned.

"Allow me to escort you to my favorite diner," he said, joining her back in the living room. Bringing her groceries would be an excellent idea next time he wanted an excuse to check on her, he noted.

"On one condition," she said.

"Which is?"

"You tell me what you're thinking about McAllister."

"I assure you that as soon as I draw any conclusions, you will be the first to know." He gave her his cheekiest grin, the one guaranteed to annoy her.

She folded her arms and gave him a glare. It made him realize it was the first time she'd actually looked him in the eye since she came downstairs, which set his internal alarms ringing. Had he said something he didn't remember? Or was she just worried he was going to tease her about wedding plans again?

"Tell me what you're thinking," she insisted.

I'm thinking you're beautiful when you're angry, he managed not to say. "I'm thinking I'm starving and you are woefully unprepared to host overnight guests. Do you even have a tea bag in this place?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. But you don't get it until I get some answers."

He couldn't resist whining a little. "But Lisbon, I need tea to think properly."

"Then you should be highly motivated to tell me whatever thoughts you managed to have before marinating your brain in red wine yesterday," she replied tartly.

He loved it when she was snarky, but right now he really needed tea. He quickly reviewed his options. He could stop pretending to be chipper and make her aware he was in pain; that would soften her. He could resume teasing her, which would fluster and distract her. He could take her face in his hands and kiss her breathless, but that would probably get him punched. Or otherwise spiral out of his control.

Focus, Paddy, he told himself sternly. He'd throw her a bone, and he'd make sure to wince enough that she'd feel bad about badgering him. "He's got the stomach for killing, and he's stealthy and devious. I'm not counting him out."

"Great," she sighed.

"Tea, Lisbon?" he prompted hopefully.

"Fine." She went back into the kitchen, and he grimaced as he heard the microwave start. Either she didn't own a tea kettle, or she was torturing him.

The cup of tea she brought him was drinkable, but only just. He swallowed it anyway, hoping it would clear his head. "I'd still like to buy you breakfast," he said. "It seems the least I can do."

"Okay," she said, doing her best to seem indifferent. It didn't fool him, though; there was a certain speculation in her gaze, which meant she was trying to figure something out. It couldn't be case related, or she'd just ask him. It was only the personal topics that made her start giving him sidelong glances when she thought he wasn't looking.

Hm. Maybe Rigsby and Van Pelt's wedding had made her give more thought to her own daydreams. That could only be a good thing. He'd never met anyone more selfless than Saint Teresa, and it was high time she devoted some thought to herself.

They were silent on the drive to his favorite diner, to which he was strangely touched to realize she didn't need directions. They settled in his favorite booth, and he waved away the menus the waitress tried to give them and ordered his favorite meal, then the meal Lisbon secretly wanted but wouldn't let herself have.

"I wanted a muffin," she grumbled as the waitress moved off.

"No, you didn't. You wanted bacon and home fries, because you never fix them at home. Ditto for the omelette. I guarantee you'll love it."

She abandoned the argument. "Tell me why you think McAllister has the stomach for killing."

"He's a hunter who skins his kills. But please, let's not talk about that over breakfast. How much time off did you give the happy couple?"

"Not enough to go to Bali," she replied, surprising him. Then she absolutely stunned him by adding, "Not that they wanted to, any more than I do. They spent last night in Napa and are coming home today. They'll be back in the office tomorrow."

"You don't want to go to Bali?" He couldn't help himself; he had to know why she'd brought it up.

"No. I don't know how it escaped your notice, keen observer that you claim to be, but I'm far too fair-skinned to tan. I can't go to the beach without gallons of sunscreen, and I don't like swimming with sea creatures. I prefer to do my swimming in a pool."

He grinned. "Of course you do. Because you swim laps for exercise rather than splashing around for fun. I should have known. Let me guess: the honeymoon destination you've always dreamed of is about as far from a deserted beach as it gets. You'd want things to do to fill your time, because you wouldn't want to stay in bed all day no matter how fantastic the sex is. That would be far too decadent for someone as industrious as you. It would be someplace you've never been, someplace that caught your imagination as a child. Ah! The Old Country, of course. Ireland. A series of bed and breakfasts while you drive around the island."

"Hah. Wrong." Her eyes lit with triumph at having stymied him.

"I was close, though. Definitely Ireland. Ah! A castle." This dream was from her girlhood, after all, before she'd been forced to grow up too fast. He bet she'd stopped dreaming about castles and weddings after her mother died.

He could see the denial on her lips, but fortunately the waitress intervened, bringing his tea and her coffee, so he didn't have to call her out for lying to him.

Lisbon took a sip of her coffee, closed her eyes in bliss, and then said, "Have you been to Bali?"

"Alas, no. I hear it's beautiful though."

He watched in fascination as she decided not to ask a question, then said, "And there is no way in hell I am ever getting married by an Elvis impersonator. I'm not fond of Las Vegas, either."

"Neither am I," he murmured. "But perhaps your groom is. Maybe he's a huge Elvis fan and you decided to indulge him."

She smirked. "No, he's not."

"How do you know if you haven't met him yet?" He was careful not to let his puzzlement show.

"Because I have met him," she replied. "Obviously."

"Oh?"

"Sure. I only know one man who would be willing to devote his Sunday morning to menu planning. You were a little obvious there," she said, shrugging.

He frantically replayed that part of his rambling in his mind. Oh, shit. He'd gotten sloppy with his pronouns. But...why had she brought it up? She should be ignoring it, or at least blushing.

She took another sip of coffee and continued, "If you're determined to marry me off to Kendall Walker, I guess I should just get used to the idea. You have a way of getting what you want. And he's not bad looking. I assume you can hypnotize him to lose that slight facial tic."

He was glad he hadn't attempted to sip his tea, or he'd have sprayed it all over the table. "Walker from Organized Crime? He cooks?"

"Oh, yes. He's been taking classes. It's all he talks about." She frowned, obviously acting. "What, you didn't mean him after all? Then who on earth were you talking about?"

Oh, the little minx. She'd set him up, either in revenge for his teasing her, or in hopes of making him talk about the Red John suspects in a desperate attempt to change the subject. He was tempted, oh so tempted, to admit the truth, if only to call her bluff.

But she was talking again, apparently worried he might do just that. "I hate to tell you this, but it can't be Ron. Rank issues, you know. I'm not opposed to you doing the ceremony if you insist, but I hope you study a little beforehand so Grace doesn't have to feed you your lines."

Ah. His mock threat to marry her off had prompted this, not his babbling about the wedding. "I think I would prefer not to. We both know you'd rather be married by a priest."

"Yes. But I don't want a church wedding."

"A church wedding doesn't have to be big."

"Yes, but I'd like you to be there, and I'm always afraid you're going to be struck by lightning when we're in a church."

He chuckled. "The odds of that happening inside are vanishingly small."

"Not if you're being struck down by a fed-up deity," she grinned.

"Oh please. I'm sure your prayers have bought me some leniency." He was delighted when she blushed and dropped her eyes, as if she thought it was a secret she prayed for him.

Their food arrived, and he dug into his eggs with relish. Lisbon pushed her food around for a moment before succumbing to the smell of the bacon. He watched her surreptitiously, enjoying the way she relished the meal. She could use some feeding up. Maybe, when he brought her groceries, he would cook something for her. That would give him an excuse to spend an entire evening watching over her. If he drank something, he could even wrangle his way onto her couch for the night again.

Hm. Maybe he should by her a new couch first. The logistics of that would present a nice challenge. He could lift her key and copy it—

No. He had to stop being distracted by all the things he wanted to do with Lisbon. He had to kill Red John first, and soon, because she was in danger. That was what he needed to focus on.

'You haven't told me what you thought of McAllister," he remarked.

She looked surprised. "He had kind of a creepy vibe, but he's not my first pick for deranged serial killer. I can't really see him seducing Lorelei, for one thing. Unless he's very different in private."

"Hm. Good point. Of course, it's almost certain we never see the side of Red John that his followers do," he mused.

"How can we hope to find him if he's such a good actor then? What are we looking for?" She sounded anxious again, like she had in the hospital. He wished he could touch her to calm her.

Her phone rang, and his heart sank as she answered it. It was immediately obvious they were up, so he waved the waitress over and asked for the check.

"Red John?" he asked quietly.

"No, thank God. Shooting," she replied in the same tone.

The waitress handed him the check, and he pulled out his wallet and handed her cash, telling her to keep the change. Her smile of thanks as she calculated her generous tip contained relief, and he wondered if her son was sick again. He'd come back tomorrow and find out.

Lisbon was already sliding out of the booth, so he took another quick bite of eggs and sip of tea, then did the same, gesturing for her to precede him. But instead, she stepped close, laying a hand on his upper arm and looking up at him with her beautiful, honest eyes. "Jane?"

He swallowed hard. He couldn't imagine anything he'd deny her if she asked in that soft, sweet voice. "Yes?"

"If I get married, you'll be there, won't you?" She seemed to actually be in doubt.

"Of course, Lisbon. I wouldn't miss it for the world," he assured her. He intended to be getting married as well, because there was no way he would ever let anyone else steal her heart. He might not be able to claim it yet, but it was his, and they both knew it even if they couldn't say the words.

As they walked to the car, he pondered the look in her eyes and wondered if she needed more reassurance than the flip answer he'd given. He had resolved to be less secretive and controlling, hadn't he?

"So," he said when they were settled in the car and she was distracted by maneuvering out of the parking lot, "this wedding of yours. How did it come about? What's the proposal story?"

"You'd have to ask Kendall," she replied, trying to be serious. But he knew she was teasing him. Well, he wasn't going to waste his jealousy on Kendall Walker, who was far too average for his fierce Lisbon.

"Walker would do the jumbotron. Too pedestrian," he said.

"Hey, at least that means he took me to a game," she replied. "And don't you dare tell him some preposterous story about how he needs to rent a yacht or something. You know I hate boats."

He chuckled. "No boats, I promise."

"Good. And no helicopters or singing telegrams or anything that's going to make me want to kill you."

"Very well. If he asks me, I'll advise him to take you for a walk in the park at sunset where you can watch people playing frisbee with their dogs, then go to a little jazz club with dim lighting where he can play with your hair while you snuggle up to him. Then you'll go for a stroll down one of those streets with the little white lights in the trees, and he'll find a quiet corner to kiss you and tell you how beautiful you are. Then he'll get down on one knee, because it's traditional, and hold up a ring and smile when your eyes go big and round." He felt something squeeze at his heart as he pictured it.

Lisbon said breathlessly, "And what will he say?" She had stopped the car, even though there was no traffic preventing her from pulling onto the street, and was looking at him with huge eyes.

He swallowed. "He'll say: You are all the beauty in my life, and I want to spend every moment making you as happy as possible. Teresa Lisbon, will you do me the tremendous honor of marrying me?"

She stared at him, not even breathing, until someone behind them honked. Lisbon jumped, sending the car lurching forward, and swore under her breath as she tried to get her mind back on driving.

Jane forced himself to relax as she drove, waiting until they were safely stopped at a red light before asking gently, "And what do you say?"

"What?" she asked, not looking at him.

"To the proposal. What do you say?" He thought it was even odds she'd make a sarcastic remark or refuse to play along any further. But he had to try. He hoped she understood.

She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. "Yes," she whispered, so softly he barely heard her.

He turned to look out his window before letting the smile take over his face. Some good had come of his babbling after all. She could no longer doubt his intentions, however long they had to wait before he was free to act on them.

And she'd said yes.