A/N: It has only taken me 10 years to finish this story. Geez. I know I started this before the beginning of season 6, and probably stopped because it no longer fit. Well, I decided to finish it anyway. So, to anyone that is out there reading this, thanks for taking the chance on it. If anyone out there sees the update that asked for one years ago, you are amazing, and I hope this finds you well. Be warned, there is definitely fluff. `

Disclaimer: I do not own anything pertaining to The Mentalist. This is all for fun.

Healing

She sits at her desk for longer than she would have months ago. The feeling of him, the sight of, the smell (when did she start realizing he smelled good?), sets her senses on fire. He is seated on her couch, a full 10 seconds into a panic attack before she moves. She stands, her chair rolling forcefully backwards.

"Jane?" she says his name softly, encouraging him to at least look at her. He doesn't respond to his name, to her voice, or to the noise her chair makes as it collides with the hard surface behind her desk. Making a decision that will cause office gossip to increase exponentially, she begins the process of shutting all the blinds in her office. He doesn't move to help her, another sign that he isn't paying attention to world around him. That thought frightens her down to her bones causing her to move faster, leaving some of the blinds only partially closed and at odd angles. Something that is abnormal for her and will be noticeable to anyone that walks by her office.

Once her task is complete, she moves a chair to face him. She keeps her movements slow as she studies him. He is dressed as she is used to seeing him, but there is an unkempt quality to his look that reminds her of the first time she met him. The suit is nice, but the man in it is shattered, broken, missing a piece of himself. It is a look she had not thought she would see again.

"Jane, look at me," she says more forcefully this time, adding in some of the authority she carries daily. He finally, finally, looks up at her. His eyes are glassy and unfocused, his breathing coming in shallow gasps. She can make out a slight tremor in his hands. Her heart stutters for a moment and she is frozen in place, unsure how to proceed in a situation where he does not have control. It does not help that they are on uneven ground since they have been apart so long. It's him, because in this moment it needs to be him, who offers an olive branch and reaches for her.

She unclasps her hands and sits up straight, unconsciously offering her hand palm up to him. Instinctively she must know what he needs. His fingers find her wrist and his eyes flutter closed. She focuses on her breathing to keep her heartbeat steady for him. It is easy to fall back into their old habits. Him reaching for her, and her knowing what he needs. It's as if she has put on an old jacket, warm and comfortable and safe.

She's about to talk to him again when his clear, inquisitive gaze meets hers for the second time since he walked back into her office. His shoulders begin to relax, followed by the rest of his body. She can feel the moment his hand, now wrapped around her wrist, stops his tremors. He shifts back slightly to get more comfortable within the confines of her couch, but does not release his grip on her wrist, effectively pulling her, and her chair, toward him. He even begins to slowly move his fingers along the inside of her wrist, along the pulse-point she offered to him. The motion is more soothing to her than she wants to admit.

"Lisbon, it's good to see you," he murmurs to her. Neither of them has chosen to break the contact established. "You wanted privacy I see," he chuckles as he looks around. She knows the blinds are a mess. She frowns at him in response.

"Feeling better?" she finally asks him. It takes a conscious effort for her to remove her arm from his grasp. There's a sadness she glimpses in his features at the loss of her touch. She looks down at her hands folded in her lap and gets up without looking at him. Now that he is calm, she straightens the blinds, giving her mind time to settle after his intense, inscrutable look. She can feel him watching her until she comes back to her original position across from him. He studies her, and her heartrate increases minutely.

"I'd like to come back," he admits, "in some capacity." Her head moves up sharply to assess his honesty. She has not forgotten how to read him. She isn't willing to hope for anything if there is not sincerity in eyes. He owns more of her heart than she ever planned to let anyone carry. Allowing him back in, only to have to watch him leave again, would be too much to take.

"In what capacity?" she clarifies, giving him an out if he wants to take it. He is suddenly animated, rubbing the back of his neck, looking around, crossing, and uncrossing his legs, all while refusing to meet her gaze. He makes a few noncommittal noises that she recognizes as his nervous sounds. She takes a chance and places two fingers on his knee.

"To what, Jane?" she asks again, softer this time, when his eyes stare at the spot her fingers rest. Her eyes stay steady on his face, waiting for him to meet her gaze.

Finally, after time stopped making sense within the waiting, his gaze meets hers. What she sees there cleanses the torment her soul has been suffering these past months. There's devotion in his eyes.

"To you, Teresa, to you," he admits in a shuttering breath. His eyes close as he says it. The intensity of his emotion is palpable. She makes sure he can see her smile when he opens his eyes again. His matching smile, full of happiness and hope, starts the process of healing for them both.