-Coldplay and Snow Patrol have a lot to answer for...-

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The Lightning Strike

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Emptiness of the couch is like a slap in the face. She is glad she has the refuge of her office. A second day of quiet, angry misery and paperwork.

There is another meeting with Bosco, both of them freezingly polite. He does not comment on the absence of Jane, and they rake over the latest case file.

The forensics people are already in Hattiesburg. Hates the idea of violating that woman's home, her sanctuary, but someone has already done that, done worse. Betrayed her love and trust...

With hindsight, she does not believe that Tanner would have given them anything. The man had been a dupe, a pawn. Red John had left him as a sop. Whatever he could have said, it would not have led them anywhere. Finds herself defending her decisions, knows she may have to do so to more than the team one day. Maybe. If he comes back.

Bosco watches them, a close-knit team who take their lead from the small woman. They do not blame her. It's the calm-faced Asian agent, Cho, who merely says,

"Next time, Boss, let us know sooner."

And that seems to be it. They accept that she should endanger herself for that suicidal lunatic. And when he queries it, the large agent shrugs, and says,

"It was a Jane hunch." Like that explains everything.

A call comes in, a case for Serious Crimes, and before he can dismiss them, the team are following her down the room, no place for him. He had been drawn to the feisty detective, when they first met, her fire and ambition. He had persuaded her to transfer to the CBI, and had found his motives mixed from the start. He cannot believe that they let her run such risks.

Takes his concerns to Minelli, who hears him out in silence, eyes hooded. And then backs Lisbon up with a measured, diplomatic calm, that causes Bosco to storm from the office.

Minelli does not like Bosco. The work of the two units has overlapped before, and they have butted heads more than once. He wonders at the idiocy of the man. Teresa Lisbon does not need wrapping in cotton wool; she's probably the toughest Agent in the Unit. And that includes Manny 'Pitbull' Dobras. It's not even the first time someone has pulled a gun on her.

The antagonism towards Jane is understandable. And expected. The man is clearly unstable, and reckless, and frequently a damn nuisance to all and sundry. But he gets results. He makes the Department look good. And it's best to have him inside, where they have some measure of control, than loose in the world.

He does not want to know the history between his best agent and this man, and he will not see his best team disrupted. God knows, Jane might be a maniac, but he's Lisbon's maniac, and he's useful. She didn't see fit to drop him on the next promoted soul, and that has to count for something.

His phone rings. Looks at the call ID. Growls.

"What do you mean, where the hell is everybody? Where the hell are you?...Well, that's because everyone is out in the field. Where you are supposed to be. Sierra del Rojas Hiking Trail...Yes, hiking...I doubt the exercise will kill you, and Lisbon will brief you when you get there."

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"I'll take the upper trail. I've hiked it before, it's maybe three hours tops." Lisbon pores over the map. "And..." Stops, with a look of consternation on her face. A familiar silver-blue car pulling into the lot.

The team look at each other. The idea of Jane walking anywhere causes some grins. Though there's some surprise when their consultant gets out of the car. He does look a little like an ad for outdoor wear – the coat and jeans a little too smart – but the outfit isn't new. Gives them a smirk.

"Even I wouldn't wear a suit for hiking." He inspects a boot. "I do hope these don't rub. I haven't worn them for years."

Jane feels very strange without his suit. It has become a second skin, a place to hide. It had been a painful process, to hunt through those old boxes, but he'd found what he wanted. Last time he'd worn this outfit had been a weekend up at the lodge, pretending to make nice with the in-laws. But - there is no way Lisbon gets to go anywhere without him. If it takes wearing hiking boots, he'll do it.

Someone had pointed a gun at her. He could have lost her.

A whole new raft of nightmares, now.

The little clash of wills between them in their glance. Park rangers, who do not know, stand unconcerned. The team back off. They all worry about him, those of the team who have taken lives in the course of duty, and those who haven't. Perhaps he will be less flippant now, more careful. She doubts it.

Then Lisbon jerks her chin.

"So we're clear what we're looking for? The suspect claims to have disposed of the knife and the bottle of pills somewhere between here and here. Keep your eyes open, and walk slowly."

Cho, who had been about to walk with her, pauses, drops back and affixes himself to the party taking the middle trail. He doesn't want any part of the row that is sure to be brewing there. Lisbon gives him one long look, then nods wearily.

She's partway up the path, before she realizes that the two rangers supposed to be with them aren't.

"Circular trail. It will be faster." Jane gives her a slightly defiant look. She hates the fact that he's right. That he has an equal air of authority.

"I hope you can keep up." She snaps.

"I once hiked the southern part of the A.T." Gestures politely. "Lead on, short-legged one."

Glare.

"Where have you been?"

"With my memories." He shrugs.

It had been so very painful, and it had taken a bottle of scotch, but he had forced himself to go through the boxes, touch things, remember. Reaching back through the pain, trying to find those moments of brightness.

"oh." Tiny, hurt syllable.

"Tell me what we're looking for." Off her look. "I've been head down in packing crates all weekend, I missed the briefing."

He's making an effort. She understands that, appreciates that. She can always take refuge in her work, and so she understands that his refuge is different, darker. Their entire world has been wrenched out of the old familiar patterns, and he needs something to anchor him.

But he's here. He's come back. Hasn't he?

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Lisbon's backside ahead of him on the slope. Bounding ahead of him like a small mountain goat. And she's got a pack.

She can hear him struggling behind her, turns to smirk at him.

"What happened to 'Mr I-hiked-the-Appalachians'?"

"He got older."

He wouldn't have been able to do this even a year ago. Had let his body slide into a cycle of neglect, bad eating habits and worse sleeping patterns.

Now, he welcomes the pull on his muscles, sweat and grit on his skin. No longer in denial of his body, of the fact that he needs food, sleep. Touch. Looks about him.

"If your suspect came by car from the north, he probably dumped the evidence over the ridge."

"Then the rangers will find it. Hopefully. If it's there."

"Well, I hope they find it soon. The weather's changing." Can feel it, charge in the air. "Storm's coming."

He's right. The wall of weather hits them at the top of the ridge.

"There's a shelter half a mile up the path, top of the trail."

Jane nods, and they scramble on through a world turned suddenly to water. The shelter is just off the path, and exactly where Lisbon said it would be, a tiny wooden booth, three walls and a roof, a deep porch. The bench inside would command a fine view on good day – now it's a solid vista of grey.

"That probably washes out any evidence." She's disgusted.

"But we had such a lovely walk in the fresh air." Jane is looking far from his usual suave self, as he pushes back his wet hair with both hands.

Looking at each other, and a weight falls away from them. Just themselves, with no-one else around.

"I've missed you." His uncanny echo of her thoughts.

"We work together every day."

"You know what I mean." He's serious, and something prickles down her spine.

She throws him the small camping towel from her pack, and he rubs his head with it. Emerges looking sweetly dishevelled, and she fails to bite back a smile.

"You so need a haircut."

Jane grins back at her. In casual gear, he looks somehow younger, tougher. He looks like someone who could hike a trail, put up a fight. Though with his hair all over the place, he's less fallen angel and more naughty cherub. Her heart twists. She has missed him, that grin, the sheer abrasive charm of the man, and the charged moments of calm.

He can't quite adopt his usual languid drape, the bench isn't long enough, so he sits with his back to the wall. Watches her hang her wet coat on a peg, and ferret in her bag for her dry sweater.

"I'm not sure you've got the script right." He complains. "Aren't you supposed to take your wet clothes off at this point?" Smirks. "Live the cliché."

She shakes her head, mock disgust.

"Unlike you, I don't spend my off-hours watching bad rom-coms."

"Better than teeny horror-movies."

"So, at some point, we'll discover a cam-corder with Van Pelt weeping snottily into it about ghosts in the woods?"

"Either that, or Cho turns into a werewolf."

She laughs. The first carefree noise he's heard from her this last little while.

"I hope they found the shelter on the lower path."

Jane looks around the small space, meaningfully.

"If it has Van Pelt and Rigsby in it, that might solve all their problems."

"Jane."

"Well, Rigsby lacks initiative. It's why he's not been promoted yet. If I were him, I'd have found a way round those pesky regulations." Grins up at her. "That thing you two do on Tuesdays..."

"Ashtanga..."

"Gesundheit...Maybe I should take him swimming with me. We could all meet up for coffee."

He tries to broker happy endings for others. Meddles, basically. His own conception of how the world should be, and damn all else. She just wishes the two younger agents would figure it all out for themselves, before Jane wades in with his usual lack of tact, and wrecks it all in a welter of embarrassment.

"It isn't appropriate." (Inner voice yells at her hypocrisy.) Jane gives a soft little snort. She clarifies. "I can't know about it."

"Ah." He appreciates the distinction. "I knew you weren't just being bitter and unreasonable."

"I'd like them to be happy. But she can't be expected to give up her career over it."

"So you'd be in favour of a clandestine office romance?" He's still grinning. "I can see how the rules apply in certain situations. You wouldn't want senior agents abusing their power..."

Sees her shoulders pinch. She blinks hard, before she turns around, and even she does not know whether the brightness in her eyes is anger or tears. Jane swears to himself.

"Lisbon...I'm sorry, that wasn't what I meant..."

"He said he wasn't happy, and I was young and stupid and flattered. It was a mistake."

"You are a lovely and compassionate person, and you want to help people. Care about them." Swallows. "That doesn't mean that they actually deserve it."

Double meaning stalks between them. She can deal with him on other levels, but Patrick the man is entirely different. This new version, quieter, tougher, is no longer hiding behind a mask. At his most dangerous, when he's being honest. The only weapon she has is an equal honesty.

"My job, my career... it's who I am. I couldn't just give it all up because..." She's unable to say it, unsure of who it's aimed at.

"He wanted you to go to L.A. Play second fiddle." Jane is too damn perceptive in some ways, but it can be useful. She nods.

So many things are so much clearer to him now. Not just his own feelings.

"The man's an asshole." It comes out hard and vicious. She stares at him. He stares back. "Well, he is. Expecting you to give up everything for him, while he tried to have it all."

She wonders if he ever listens to himself. And her face betrays her thought. Jane sets his jaw.

"I'm not him."

"No." She considers. "You annoy me, you challenge me, you're rude and obnoxious, but you don't," bites her lip, "belittle me."

"Never." He ventures a smile back. "You're short enough, woman." Catches the fist she pokes at him, folds his hand around hers. "You're the only one tough enough to put up with me and my crap. Every other agent at the CBI ditched me."

"You're not a natural team player, are you?" Retrieves her hand.

"No. Ten schools in twelve years, you don't get much of a chance." His sidelong glance. "You were right about me not ever having a proper job, either."

"It shows."

"Hey, I'm trying..."

"...Very..."

"...Lisbon. I do respect you. Your dedication to the law. I just...find it difficult to share it."

"You can't be a vigilante. I won't let you."

"I know. I was being...stupid." A breath. "I get mean when I get scared."

"You are going to have to choose. Whether you stay and work with him."

She can see the tension in his shoulders.

"He doesn't want to work with me."

"No." She takes a breath. "We had a...discussion about that. I told him that you were part of my team. Non-negotiable. Don't make me a liar."

His face, surprise and something else.

"You fought for me."

"And you ran away." She can't help but accuse, the strain of her lost weekend.

"I had some things to think through." Lonely man with a handful of photographs. Scotch and tears and some hard decisions. She has thought him so tied to the past that he couldn't even see the now. She needs to know that he does. "Lisbon..."

She looks up, and his eyes are upon her. Dark and troubled.

The last time he looked at her with that naked pain on his face, he had told her that he couldn't be fixed. And she'd told him...

She knows that she changed the rules first. But she'd been tired and frightened and so very worried that he was going to some place so dark that she couldn't ever bring him back. She'd let slip something that she never meant to, and he'd slapped her back. And now...

This is wrong. Unprofessional. Dangerous. Inappropriate.

They cannot do this. Cannot have this conversation.

She opens her mouth to tell him so.

And can't.

To deny the situation is to admit to its very existence. And she can't lie to him, because he knows her too well.

And, suddenly, between one breath and another, they both know that there is no way to ever pretend that this is remotely platonic any more.

More than just pain in his face, storm in his eyes. Her own breath catching, and she knows that she cannot hide. There is nowhere to hide. Not from him. Not from herself.

Two people, fully clothed, the width of the room between them. It doesn't matter. Shockingly clear memory of every bit of skin they have ever seen, ever touched, stalking between them like lightning, the air charged with it.

Things will not be the same between them, but things have been changing for the longest time now, and nothing in the world will alter that.

They have watched the rain together before. Revenge is for fools and madmen. Perhaps he is both. But he thinks that falling in love with this woman is the sanest thing he has ever done, and he's been a fool to fight it. She's brave and strong and honest, all the things he's not. He doesn't think he can be fixed, doesn't think he deserves to have her even try. But he's tired of fighting it, tired of being lonely and lost. That one terrifying moment of illumination, the knife-edge choice between loss and desolation. He's not strong enough any more.

She told him that she cared, that she needed him. He needs her, so much more.

"What –" Finding himself unsure, lost for words, "if...some things are...too badly broken?"

"At least you could try to fix them."

"Would you?" he asks, quietly. "Because – I don't know where to start without you."

And all of her arguments fall to pieces. He sits there before her, the reason why she hasn't had a proper date in two years, because it would feel like cheating. The man who crept into her fantasies, and then started to invade her dreams. With all his pain and his flaws and his lovely face so sad and serious. Arrogant, damaged. All the things she shouldn't want, and the only man she does.

"Patrick..." His name slips out, and betrays her.

He looks at her beautiful eyes, so very wide, and gives a shaken little laugh.

"Do I frighten you that much?"

"Yes." Her voice cracks.

"Good. Because you terrify me, woman."

She knows with a sudden clear certainty that she has a power over him equal to any he has over her. That she could touch him, drive him down any road she chose. That he could do the same. Two equally scared people. They have no illusions. Aware they could hurt each other? Certainly. They are both adults. Afraid to take the risk? More than a little.

Then she smiles at him, wry and tender.

"This is...crazy."

He smiles back, a crooked little-boy smile with no guile in it, oddly shy.

Because there is going to be a 'this'.

Awkward. Terrifying. Difficult. Wonderful.

Nothing has truly been resolved; this is just the confirmation of a further complication in their lives. What they have isn't easy or simple or even entirely comfortable. But it exists.

For now, it's just Patrick and Teresa, and the beginnings of...something.

There is a step, a shout. Two slicker-clad park deputies toiling up the track, one holding an evidence bag.

She draws in a ragged breath, more than part relief.

"We...need to get back to work."

Brief spark of rebellion in his eyes, but he looks at her face, nods. Puts his hands out to help her up. She hesitates, takes them. For an instant, her hands rest in his.

"I'm not trying to hide behind my badge, whatever you think...but my job is important to me."

"I understand." Looks at her. "I want to be important to you, too."

Takes her breath away, the simplicity of it.

"You are."

The world doesn't stop. Walls remain standing, and time moves on. It's just a kiss, two mouths meeting, a little hesitant, quick and sweet. Necessary.

Then she steps back, sliding her fingers away from his, out into the world, becomes Lisbon, back at work, organizing and discussing.

And Jane follows after, oddly quiet but not uncomfortable, watching her.

Once, he'd promised to love and cherish.

"...I want you to know that I will always be there for you..."

Vows to a god he didn't believe in, but the vows were not empty.

"I'm going to cut him open, and watch him die slowly..."

Thumb turns the ring on his finger, and he smiles wryly.

Sometimes, truly, he does still feel married.

Whenever he remembers how it feels to watch a certain smile, a walk, the turn of her head. That little surge of aggressive, protective pride that says 'mine'.

"I'm sorry." He says, softly. "But I need this. Her."

And he knows, finally and forever, that he speaks to the empty air.

He has made a fragile peace with the idea. He still loves his dead wife, his dead child. He still wants to carve Red John into bloody steaklets. But he also loves Teresa Lisbon. Whatever else his life, his future brings, for good or ill, she is in it.

She deserves somebody heart-whole, honest. He doesn't know if he can even begin to be that man. But he can't not try.