Disclaimer: I own no rights to The Mentalist and make no money from fanfiction. Rest assured if I figure out how to monetize it I will start giving seminars on how to do so immediately!

Author's Note: I'm sure a lot of us wanted an extension of that last scene. Here's my version!

I learned a long time ago not to stand too close when Lisbon is angry. So I make sure I keep out of reach at the elevator, though once we're inside I'll be within punching distance. She drove this morning, so I have no choice, though I'd prefer to let her stew on her own. My presence will only be an irritant to her until she's calmed down.

I'm in for a lonely night.

Maybe I deserve it. She's right; my interfering with her job is a big problem, not just for FBI reasons, but because she sees it as me reverting to my secretive, controlling ways she hated so much. I knew it would be a problem before I did it. But I did it anyway, because when the moment came I wasn't thinking about her job or my job or how angry she would be.

All I could see was that bullet hole in her sleeve and Spackman bleeding on the floor. And worse, what might have happened if he'd sent Lisbon around back instead of going himself.

Terrified doesn't begin to describe the sheer, white-out panic that washed through me. Good thing Wylie was too caught up in the action to notice.

Does she understand that I had no choice? That it wasn't some crafty plot, just a desperate improvisation? Maybe when she calms down.

There's no one in the elevator when we board, but Lisbon is too lost in her thoughts to be interested in punching me, which is both a relief and nerve-wracking. It takes all my self-control to refrain from wisecracks to relieve the tension or treating her to my own rendition of "Living on a Prayer." I need to show her I respect her anger, that I know it's justified, not make light of it or try to avoid it. But it goes against every instinct I have.

We don't say a word on the drive to the Airstream. I need to let her work through her feelings, and she's having our argument in her head just like I am. It's not a new one, after all: it's the same issue we've always had. She wants to follow the rules; I'll break every single one of them in pursuit of my personal goals. And Lisbon is just as uncomfortable with my goal of ensuring her safety as she was with my goal of vengeance, strange as that might sound. It clashes with her self image as the protector and makes her think about things cops try not to think about.

I comfort myself that this is a work problem with a work solution. She's not going to leave me over it, probably. And I doubt Abbott will agree to separate us at work, because he knows me too well.

Lisbon parks but doesn't turn off the engine, which isn't surprising but costs me a pang nonetheless. I can't leave her in silence, so I clear my throat and say, "I know you feel like I took something away from you, removing you from the action. You're hurt and angry and you have every right to be. I can't say I'm sorry for what I did, and I know you understand the reasons. But I am sorry I've made you unhappy. I'm always sorry for that."

"But it never stops you," she grumbles.

No. And it never will. But I don't want or need to say that, so I just say, "Good night" and get out of the car.

The Airstream feels empty and unwelcoming as I enter, but I'm vaguely comforted that Lisbon doesn't pull away, watching to make sure I'm safely inside. This is only a temporary separation, probably no longer than this one night. We've both gotten used to sharing a bed, and she probably won't sleep any better than I will. The thought makes me even sadder.

I put the kettle on and sit on the sofa, sighing. I'd almost forgotten my least favorite part of being in a couple: fighting over intractable issues. Angela and I had our fair share, and we never did resolve the biggest one of all. If she'd lived, I wonder how we would have settled it? When Charlotte got old enough to understand what I did and compare it to what her friends' parents did, would that have swayed me? I like to think so, but I was a different man then. Maybe I would have lied to my little girl, pretending I was a psychic even to her. Maybe I would have destroyed my family even without that disastrous TV interview, just over a longer timeframe.

I realize I'm twisting my ring on my finger and stare at it. Guilt is the main reason I wear it, if I'm being honest. I was a crappy husband, but I was faithful. After she was gone, I held onto that. I know if Angela were aware of the situation, she would tell me to stop being an idiot and take it off, but since she can't, I'm using my self-punishment for being a bad husband to compound my problems by being a bad boyfriend. How screwed up is that? It's a wonder Lisbon puts up with me.

Maybe not for much longer. I can't say I'd blame her.

I'm startled out of my deepening funk by the door being flung open. Lisbon marches in and gives me an exasperated look. "We're not done talking."

I gape at her for a second. "I didn't think we were," I finally manage to say.

"I'm not staying here tonight. Get your stuff and let's go."

I know better than to argue.

mmm

Lisbon doesn't like to fight while she's driving, though sometimes she can't help it. So I have time to think on the drive. While I'm pleased she didn't leave me to suffer alone, I'm well aware that it's not a good sign she wants to be on her turf while we talk.

On the other hand, her bed is bigger, so there's a chance I might get to sleep in it instead of on the couch.

The other thing that worries me is how jittery she is. Lisbon hates to talk about her feelings, and she is obviously revving herself up to do just that. Is my silence unnerving her? She keeps darting little glances my way as if expecting me to speak.

"We will, you know," I say. "Work it out."

"How?" Her tone is part annoyed, part anguished. "Don't you realize the impossible position you've put me in? Next time we're in the middle of something and you give me a direction, how am I supposed to know whether you're really trying to get the bad guy, or get me out of the way?"

Ah, our trust issues are back with a vengeance. "Teresa, I have always—always—structured my plans with your safety in mind. The only thing that's different is this time you knew I was anxious and you spotted it." A nasty thought occurs. "Is that why you didn't answer me at first? You figured it out and decided to make me sweat?"

She hunches down in her seat slightly. "Not...on purpose."

That's a yes. "I'd like to point out that keeping you out of the line of fire in no way kept us from getting the bad guy and keeping Lilly safe."

"Oh, no, of course not," she huffs. "The great Patrick Jane plans for every contingency. We're just your little puppets, following your script."

"A script I wrote with your help, and that you, Abbott, and Cho signed off on. If I recall correctly, you even called it a good plan."

She snorts, unable to refute the argument. Fortunately we're pulling up to her house by then, and I follow her inside, dropping my bag by the door. "Hungry?" I ask.

"No." She won't be calm enough to eat until she can see a way forward that isn't too painful.

"Okay." I sit on the couch so she can look down while she yells at me. Now I just need to get her started. "So. You caught a look behind the curtain and didn't like what you saw."

"You interfered with me doing my job, Jane. This isn't just about you manipulating me. God knows I should be used to that by now," she says bitterly.

Ouch. But I'm not going to rehash our history. "It wasn't an ideal situation. If I had my way, you wouldn't have been anywhere near that hotel. Why don't you tell me what ideal would look like for you."

"I would have stayed with the team. Most of whom didn't get hurt!"

"Except for the one who got knocked out," I point out.

Lisbon folds her arms and glares at me. "That's the risk we all take, Jane. Taking me out increased the risk for the others. What if one of them had gotten killed? I'd always wonder if I could have stopped it. How could you do that to me, make me walk around with that guilt for the rest of my life?"

"At least you'd be alive. And I could breathe," I sigh.

She rubs at her forehead, pacing a few steps. I keep silent until I can't bear it anymore. "Teresa, nothing has changed in how I approach these things. I've always gone to great lengths to protect you, even when I knew it was going to make you furious with me." A sunset hug comes to mind. "You just never attributed it to affection before. But that was always a huge part of it for me."

"If you love someone, you don't try to control them!"

And our second biggest issue makes an appearance. "Control is a strong word," I say. "You could have decided to stay with the team and send Cho."

"Not without looking like a coward," she grumbles.

"Teresa, you know me," I remind her. "I'm not some nice normal guy who works in law enforcement and if you died on the job would take comfort in the fact that you were doing your duty as a great cop. I'm a man who's already lived his worst nightmare once and can't face it again. There's nothing that will ever make me okay with you being at risk, and nothing I wouldn't sacrifice to ensure your safety. Even your love, if necessary. Because I can't survive looking at the bloody corpse of another woman I love."

Lisbon lets out a long, heavy sigh. "Jane, I'm a cop. It's who I am."

"No, it's not. It's what you do. Who you are is a kind, loving woman who protects the people she cares about and wants to leave a positive legacy in this world. There are several other things you could do and still be true to yourself."

"Beekeeping? Sailing around the world?" she scoffs.

"Guardian ad litem for children in the system. Foster parent, even."

"Are you asking me to quit the FBI? Why did you insist on getting me this job in the first place, then?"

"I'd never ask you to quit your job, though I confess I'd prefer it if you took a promotion out of the field," I say carefully. "And I wanted Abbott to hire you so we could work together. I...had forgotten how my heart stops every time someone fires a gun in your vicinity. Working together was something we both enjoyed, and I thought that was all I was ever going to be able to offer you. But it's different now."

"Yeah, it is." Lisbon comes to sit beside me, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Jane, it's not like I don't get it. I'm scared every time somebody comes at you too. And I don't know what I'd do if...if someday I'm too late."

"But that's the difference, Teresa. You don't know. I do. I know that dark, dark place. And I know I'd never crawl out again. I can't...I don't have the words to describe what it was like. Please...please don't ask me to face it again." I swallow hard, trying to get my voice back under control.

Lisbon puts her arms around me and lays her head against mine. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just...some reasonable accommodation," I say. "I will try to reserve pulling you out of harm's way for when there's real danger I can't bear, and you try not to punish me for it."

She sighs again. "I'll try. But if that ever ends up getting someone hurt or letting a criminal get away, we're revisiting this deal. Got it?"

"Got it."

"And," she adds, rubbing my back, "every time I catch you brooding, I'm allowed to sing you a lullaby. Obligated, even."

I slide my arms around her. "I promise to listen to you warble cheesy 80s rock songs as my penance. Even when I'm old and deaf. Especially when I'm old and deaf."

"Ha, ha." She gives me a playful punch, then kisses my cheek. "I do understand, Patrick," she whispers in my ear.

She doesn't, but I know she's trying. It's enough.

"Now how about some dinner? You can apologize for being presumptuous by cooking."

"I'd love to," I smile.

"And then we can get a good night's sleep."

"No lullaby necessary," I agree.

But as I work in the kitchen, I hear her start to sing again. "Living on a Prayer" isn't one of my favorite songs, but I suppose it's inspirational in its way. I can live with it.

Who knows? In 50 years or so, I might even learn to love it.