Just so you know, I am a bit sorry for that 2nd chapter.

III. Rose-Colored Glasses

Jane

When the Extreme song ends, it takes you a while to realize it.

You hear Lisbon clear her throat and say something about how you need to get back to headquarters, and from the half-amused, half-concerned tone she's using, she's had to repeat herself.

You take a tiny step back so you're not hugging her so close anymore, your hand refusing to completely let go of hers, and don't bother to hide your emotion.

The familiar banter, over what instrument she used to play this time, the lyrics to that song, and the simple fact that she accepted your invitation to dance when it was just a joke – or more accurately, your last attempt to try and make her feel a little better – were enough to make you a little misty-eyed.

Cautious and caring as she always is whenever she fears your answer, she asks if you're okay. And pushed by an instinct that's not your smartass self but genuine courage that you're daring to say it, you tell her that you should be the one asking that question.

Immediately, you see it. She wants to build up her damn walls again, to pretend she doesn't know what you're talking about. Or maybe yell at you, because she's still mad that you know she needs to be cheered up, when she tries so hard to act like she's fine every day at work.

Either way, this time you don't let her. She's not even done rolling her eyes that you're already repeating the question back to her, your thumb instinctively drawing circles on the back of her hand.

You two are alone right now – as alone as you can be in the middle of a flack of thirty-something strangers reliving their high school years – and you already know the answer. So she has to know this isn't about you wanting to be right, or making fun of her in front of her coworkers.

It's about her, about how ready she is to admit that she might need help these days, about how willing or not she is to tell you the truth.

She swallows hard, staring somewhere between the goosebumps your fingers are leaving on hers, and the floor; you wait.

When she almost imperceptibly shakes her head that no, she's not okay, you can feel your whole body selfishly relax.

Of course you're not enjoying her being in pain, and as much as you couldn't stand the man yourself, you understand what Bosco meant to her both professionally as a mentor, and personally as a friend. Not to mention, you know exactly what it's like to lose someone you're close to in the exact same way she just lost him.

You just can't help but feel relieved that Teresa Lisbon did, that she does trust you. After she's seen how crazy a certain case can make you, after all you know she's been through in her life, and after you told yourself for years that you'd never deserve such a deep connection to another human being ever again, Lisbon trusts you enough to admit that she's having a hard time.

You tilt her chin up, and though you don't smile – you're relatively sure not even you could pity-smile at Teresa Lisbon and live to tell about it – you slowly bring her back in your embrace for another slow song. She lets you, in fact, she brings her body as close to yours as possible, and you're almost positive it's not just to hide the few tears she lets escape.

That one dance turns into five, just like that night that you spend at her place somehow turns into many more.

Lisbon

You don't know what it is, exactly, this thing between you and Jane.

Way too soon for your liking, it stops being a secret – the team's shared look that first time you two arrive exactly 5 minutes apart in the bullpen and Jane's I-told-you-it-wouldn't-work smirk efficiently shatter that illusion – but amazingly, Jane behaves professionaly enough that you don't have to make it official either.

You actually manage to keep your work and private lives separated so well that, even if the need to define this relationship does gnaw at your brain the few times a week his healing insomnia isn't there to fight your less and less frequent nightmares, you're mostly okay with the uncertainty.

Until Kristina Frye comes along again.

You remember how sweaty Jane's hand had gotten in yours on that day, about a year ago, when she'd performed a "séance" to trick the killer into confessing.

His anxiety at the time hadn't been because she was a psychic – there's no such thing as psychics – but because a few hours prior to that, Van Pelt had pushed too hard when voicing her opinions of Jane's beliefs and his family, and the young agent had been so afraid to have done some serious damage that she'd felt the need to confess to you.

So the minute you hear Hightower asking aloud if Jane would be interested in dating Frye, it's not possessiveness that overcomes you. It's worry.

Because back then, Van Pelt had also told you about the tears she'd witnessed on the last night you worked with the eccentric woman, and even if Jane pretends to be all right most of the time, you fear most of it is just that: pretend.

When he declines the rather inappropriate offer politely – and shyly, which would be cute if you didn't know what horrible memories he now links to Kristina – you can't help it, you have to ask if he's okay. He smiles it off and jokes about you being jealous. And it only amuses him more when you deny it in front of the whole team and, of course, no one believes you.

You let it slide for now, silently praying that he's not about to freak out and run away, or do something equally Jane-like so he doesn't have to deal with the situation at hand.

And to your surprise, he doesn't. Instead, he unexpectedly shows up at your door that evening, and after a few hours of pretending it's just an ordinary night he's spending at your place, he almost solemnly thanks you for your concern.

You reply that it's nothing really, it's your job is to look out for him after all.

Neither of you say it, but the mocking smile he has trouble keeping off his face makes you cringe: you both know it's not exactly in your contract to invite him over more often than not and share your bed with him.

He still thanks you again, and you can't tear your eyes away from his as he tells you that he really is, right now, fine. That he hasn't been this close to truly okay, now that he's with you – his words, not yours – in a very long time, and that he would even go as far as to say he's happy.

Kristina Frye doesn't insist on consulting on this case, mentioning some negative energies between her and the consultant – what do you know, she might be psychic after all – and, that simply, her life is saved.

Following that moment, every day Jane spends being with you, every day you spend being with him, comforts you in the idea that you're both slowly but surely getting over your traumatic pasts.

On the day you finally find out Red John's real identity – a mere week after Jane has officially moved in – that assumption turns out even more correct than you'd dared to hope.

Because instead of babbling on about revenge and what kind of a treatment the man deserves, Jane tells you in an unusually low, but firm voice, that maybe you're right. That as hard as it's going to be to follow the rules in this case, bringing the serial killer to justice might just be a better idea than bringing him home to haunt your lives.

So, that's what you do. Together.