Archive of Our Own

Teresa waited until they were out of the building and a good twenty feet away before she asked Jane, “Why do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Special Agent Fischer has enough to handle without having to put up with your constant teasing as well.”

They stopped in the car park; the lone tree she had made sure to park under that morning was now giving its shade, inexplicably, to the asphalt instead of her car. Jane opened the passenger side door and leaned against it, flashing her a grin. “What’s the matter, Lisbon. Jealous?”

“What if I was?” she dared to ask. “What then, huh?”

Patrick Jane had always been off-limits. Fraternisation between coworkers was a complication that she had never had to deal with, nor did she want to: watching Van Pelt and Rigsby go through that had been bad enough.

Keeping their relationship platonic had been simple when Red John was alive. Despite Jane’s chipper behaviour and clever words, she’d never allowed herself to forget that his sole aim—his desire above all else—was to kill the man who had taken away his wife and daughter; and if she did forget, even for a minute, Jane had often reminded her of it himself.

In spite of all that—because of it, maybe, a tiny part of her mind liked to taunt—she had become attached. He’d started as a consultant, eccentric and charming, with the enviable ability to read people and close cases with ease. Somehow, they had become friends. And then…

She had becomed attached to Patrick Jane. Not just attached: they were tangled up in each other’s lives, or in the small pieces that had been safe enough to share, at least. She trusted him with her life and she knew that he trusted her completely.

Red John was dead. It had been two years. Maybe things were different—could be different.

And now he was looking at her as though she were a new puzzle to be solved. “You’re serious,” he said, his grin fading to a flicker.

“No.”

But Jane knew how to read her; he only believed her lies when it suited him.

“So you’re not jealous?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Three, Lisbon,” he said, holding out his hands as if to show there was nothing up his sleeves. “Three’s a magic number, or so people like to believe. Last chance.”

She couldn’t. So for the third time, she told him, “No. Now get in the car, unless you want to walk to the crime scene.”

He shrugged, smiling, and hopped in, closing the door behind him. By the time she’d walked around to the driver’s side, the prickling in her veins had subsided, taking the mild panic with it. Jane put on his seatbelt with a click and before she could even pull out of the car park he was babbling on about something that she felt no guilt in blocking out.

Just another day at the office.

“Cho, can you—”

“No.” His eyes didn’t even leave the computer screen.

“You don’t even know what I—”

“You want me to babysit Jane this afternoon so you don’t have to drop him at the hotel. The answer’s still no.”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth that reminded her of what she already knew: she wasn’t his boss anymore.

“Yeah, laugh it up,” she said, already walking away in defeat. “If I wasn’t here you’d be on permanent babysitting duty, how about that.”

“Doubt it.”

She fought down the strange flutter that seemed to arise whenever she considered that particular what if; Jane had made it clear from the beginning that he wouldn’t cooperate with the FBI unless she was offered a job.

“Payback’s a bitch,” she told Cho, “just remember that.”

There was no one else she could hand him off to. She wouldn’t even have to waste her time if he’d just get a new car already, but Jane was resistant to suggestion. Deliberately so.

“There’s no shame in admitting that you drew the short straw,” he was saying as the passing headlights flashed against the windscreen.

“I hardly think it counts when no one else will even take a straw,” she retorted.

She’d survived Jane’s company for years, though, so half an hour wasn’t really much, in context. When she pulled up to the hotel, its pathetic sign on the fritz again and the shadows of night painting everything lonely and cold, she almost felt a little guilty. Jane unbuckled his seatbelt. They sat for a moment, listening to the engine tick.

“I don’t believe that stuff, magic numbers,” he said. “Applying any sort of mystical value to abstract objects is kind of a stretch, if you ask me. Horoscopes are the same.”

“Is there a point to this? Because if you just want to ramble I’d suggest sending Cho a voicemail.” Or multiple voicemails.

He turned to face her in the mottled darkness, one hand resting on the dash. “The point is, you don’t need to be jealous.”

She opened her mouth to argue but his other hand moved to her shoulder and she couldn’t think of the words. Then he was leaning in—slow enough not to startle her, to give her an out, she realised—the moonlight carving across the planes of his face.

When she felt the warmth of his breath, the measured pace unravelled her patience; she closed the gap, lips parting against his. For a few sweet seconds, she let herself get lost in the kiss, in the way his hand slipped from her shoulder to the back of her head, the burning in her chest spreading faster than her skin could contain it.

They must have stopped, finally, because Jane was looking at her and the question might as well have been written across his face. A wicked part of her wanted to drop him off and drive away—one more night should be nothing, compared to how long it had taken to get to this moment—but she would only be torturing herself. With this new knowledge, the memory of Jane finally touching her, looking at her that way, one more night would be too long.

She took the keys from the ignition and opened her door. A look of surprise crossing his face, he got out and met her at the front of the car.

“You know, I was actually thinking your place,” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. “No bedbugs, hot water that actually stays that way…”

She stopped him with a look, stepping close enough that he swayed towards her as if magnetic. “It’s half an hour, Jane.”

He paused. “Lead on.”

Before she had taken two steps, though, he pulled her against him and they were kissing again. Wrapped together, Teresa kissed him back; half an hour was much too long to wait, but now they had all the time in the world.