He wakes just as the sun peeks above the horizon, casting the bedroom in rose gold light.

Teresa lies on her stomach, still asleep, rumpled sheets at her waist, revealing the rest of the galaxy of freckles he'd started mapping eons ago. She's facing toward him with a hand extended; he's not at all surprised to find his palm beneath hers.

He brings her fingers to his lips.

She smiles before she opens her eyes.

"Good morning," he murmurs.

She hums in response. Her eyelids flutter, and she wakes.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

She laces her fingers with his and tucks his hand beneath her bare chest. The sunlight glows in her eyes, and she smiles again softly. He strokes the top of one breast with the pad of his thumb.

"I am so happy," she says, her voice raw from the previous night.

He uses his free hand to wipe a precariously perched tear from the corner of his eye. "You are?" he says in awe, in reverence.

She gives him a small nod. "I am," she confirms, and his soul practically sings.

He knocks on the door to her office two hours later.

"Teresa?" he asks tentatively.

She looks up, her expression brightening, and he can't help but smile in return as the door falls shut behind him. "Hey, you," she says, her voice quietly flirtatious, and she sets down her pen.

His fingers drum a nervous rhythm against his thigh. He blurts out, "This isn't going to cause problems for you with Minelli, will it?"

Teresa stands, walking around the side of her desk to lean back against it and face him.

"Of course not," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "Why would you think so?"

He breathes out roughly, the air causing the breezy fabric of her blouse to flutter. "When you stormed out of his office that day, he asked me if something was going on between you and I. He said that fraternization between CBI employees isn't allowed."

"It's not," Teresa confirms, nodding.

"Then I need to turn in my ID," says Patrick. "If this hurts your career - I can't be responsible for that - you're more important - "

He's rambling.

And for some reason, this just makes Teresa smile.

"Patrick," she says, laying a hand on his chest.

He shuts up.

"You're not an employee, are you?" Teresa points out, her smile sly.

He can't breathe. "No," he whispers.

Teresa shrugs then walks back around her desk. "Then I don't see the problem," she says as she sits and resumes her paperwork.

It takes a few seconds for him to catch up. When he does, he says "Right," and he exits her office only to immediately run into Cho in the bullpen.

Cho takes one look at him from his place at his desk and says, "So. Not going to Vegas?"

"Nope," Patrick confirms, glancing back to Teresa's office.

Cho follows his gaze. "Remember the first thing I said to you?"

You mess with her, I'll make sure you regret it.

Patrick nods. "Every word." He catches Rigsby smirk.

"Okay," says Cho, and he returns to his file.

Teresa turns to Patrick in the elevator the next day. "What do you want this to be?" she asks him suddenly, as though she can't wait a second longer.

Patrick considers for several seconds before he answers. "Something strong," he says. "I want us to be strong together."

She brushes a finger against his hand. "I want that, too," she murmurs.

"Do you think we need to have a plan? To have it all mapped out?"

She's shaking her head before he's even finished. "No," she says. "I think we know what feels right, and I think we should let that guide us." She smiles. "It's worked out well so far."

He ducks his head, grinning, and he laughs. "That it has."

That night, Teresa finds him staring into space after she puts Lizzie to bed. She joins him on the couch, sitting next to him so that their bodies touch from shoulder to hip to thigh.

"I'm no mind-reader, you know," she says.

He blinks and turns to her, focusing on her jade eyes. "I'm not Catholic," he says.

"I know."

"Godparents of children to be raised in the Catholic Church have to be Catholic."

Teresa sighs, and he hears the trees creak outside.

Eventually, she murmurs, "My church believes Lizzie was born out of an act of sin I committed. How could any act that creates something so precious be sinful?" She rests her palm on Patrick's back. "When you and I make love - they also consider that a sin. But wouldn't you agree that there are few things in life as pure as the moment when we become one? How can that be a sin?"

Her hand moves up to play with his hair.

"My point is that religion has its faults. All religions do. But religion can also do a lot of good." She kisses the angle of his jaw. "That being said, I don't particularly want to stand up in front of a couple hundred people I don't know who will judge me for having a child out of wedlock. Not when my daughter is being baptized."

"But you want her to be baptized Catholic."

She breathes out deeply, clearly picking her words with care.

"Years ago, I solved a case in San Francisco - attempted murder of a priest. I still keep in contact with him." Teresa smiles. "He's agreed to perform a private baptism for Lizzie, and he's more than happy to make you her godfather as long as you agree to raise her Catholic should anything happen to me."

"It won't," he immediately says, and she rolls her eyes.

"Well, I'm counting on that," Teresa says. "But if it does, will you do your best?"

He nods. "I'll raise her Catholic," he promises.

Teresa gives him a sad smile. "Thank you." Then she leans into him. "Lizzie's very lucky."

His heart lightens. "Really?"

Teresa nods. "Really."

He can't help but squint his eyes at the force of his grin. "When will the baptism take place?" he manages eventually.

Teresa smiles. "What are you doing next weekend?"

The next week flies by in a flurry of open and closed cases: a homicide on the south side of town that they solve before the day is done, a suspected serial killer the day after, and a suspicious death on Thursday that ultimately proves to be a suicide. By the end of the week, the team doesn't even have fumes to run on, and Teresa sends them home an hour early.

"Good work, guys," she says in the bullpen. "Get some rest, okay?"

Patrick follows her to her office and grabs her jacket while she reaches for her purse. He holds it out for her, she slips her arms in, and he lifts her hair from under the collar.

"Can I spend the night?" he whispers after looking around to make sure no one is within earshot.

She gives him an exasperated look. "Patrick, I thought we were past the point where you had to ask."

"We are," he says, his voice low. "But sometimes I just - "

Her expression softens. "You're awfully insecure under that bravado you project to the world," she says, the exact same words she'd said to him in the hospital after she'd offered to bring him to Sacramento. She moves past him, her shoulder brushing his, but then she turns back. "Tell you what," she continues. "Why don't you bring a few suits over to my place tonight. I think I can scrounge up some spare hangers and closet space; you shouldn't have to live out of that overnight bag." She grins at his shock. "See you soon."

He just stands there, speechless, as she exits, and she doesn't see him lean against her desk for support as he composes himself.

On Sunday morning, he's sitting on a bench overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge when she calls.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," she breathes. He can hear Lizzie babbling in the background. "I'm about to leave my condo - are you ready for me to pick you up?"

"About that," he says with a grin.

He meets her at a small, red brick church on the outskirts of San Francisco. As Mass has long since finished for the day, the parking lot is empty apart from his Citroen and her mustang; the priest isn't scheduled to arrive for another half hour.

Patricks greets Teresa with a kiss and walks around the car to grab Lizzie, who reaches for his hair as soon as she's in his arms.

"So," says Teresa, locking her car and joining him. "You had business in the city?"

"Yep," he says, all innocence.

She just stares him down. "What kind of business?"

He flashes her another smile. "You'll see."

The inside of the church is paradoxically lit, with numerous hanging light fixtures that don't do much to illuminate the main worship space. Rather, most of the light streams through stained glass windows - but even this is rather dark as the glass is mostly colored in blues and reds.

The room is near silent; Patrick is too aware of the sound of his scuffed shoes against the tile below. Teresa dips her hand in the holy water and crosses herself. Patrick swallows, and Teresa squeezes his elbow.

They move forward.

Teresa crosses herself once more as they reach the front of the church, half kneeling before slipping into the first row of pews. Patrick sits next to her, trying to relax the tension that seems to have spread into every muscle of his body. Lizzie smiles at him, and this helps.

He's silent for a few minutes as Teresa prays. Eventually, however, when she raises her eyes and looks over at him, he says, "I've never been in a church before."

"I'm glad you're here now," she murmurs.

"Me, too."

They sit in companionable silence for several more minutes before Teresa reaches into her blazer and withdraws a small object. When she opens her palm, he catches a glimpse of silver and realizes it's a patron saint medal.

"Eric and I actually met here," Teresa says, looking up at the front of the worship area. "At this church. He'd served in the Gulf War and was just starting out at technical college. He finished his associate's degree the same year I finished my bachelor's, and we decided to apply to the academy together. One of our first cases as SFPD uniforms was protecting Father Christopher when the threat to his life was made."

She looks down and turns over the medal.

"A father had lost his child. He was angry at God, and he wanted to take it out on Father Christopher. He almost did, too, but Eric and I got to him first." She holds up the medal. "Eric gave me this that night." She glances over at Patrick. "It's a St. Jude medal. He's the Patron Saint of the Chicago Police Department." She smiles fondly, wistfully. "And of lost causes. Eric thought it was appropriate."

Patrick swallows tightly.

"I've carried this medal around with me for a very long time," says Teresa, her voice thick. "It was in my pocket when I first met you - and for pretty much every moment we've spent together. It's deeply tied to my past - " She trails off and wipes her eyes. She takes a deep breath and soldiers on. "But now it also represents meeting you."

He inhales, deep and sharp.

"If I didn't have this medal," Teresa says, and another tear slides down her cheek, "I would never have met you." She smiles at this. "So, really, it doesn't just represent my past; it also represents my future." Her voice becomes rushed, as he's noticed it tends to do when she's nervous. "I don't expect you to carry it, but it is something I want to share with you - so it can represent us, and our future." She finally meets his eyes. "You, me, and Lizzie - our family."

He holds her gaze but can't manage any words, so he nods and bows his head, and she slips the chain around his neck. She tucks the medal beneath his shirt.

It comes to rest on his heart.

Teresa reaches up to brush a tear from his cheek.

"I, uh…" Patrick chuckles. "I kind of adore that you chose now to give me this because I...I also have something for you." He shifts Lizzie. "Can you reach into the left pocket of my jacket?"

Teresa's brow furrows, but she acquiesces, and she pulls out a gold cross necklace.

She freezes.

"I told you I had business in San Francisco," says Patrick. "Now you know what it was."

Hesitantly, Teresa begins to trace the outline of the cross with something akin to reverence. Then she flips it over, revealing the initials inscribed there decades ago.

TL

One of her hands automatically reaches for her heart. He sees it shake.

Her lips part in awe; her eyes are overcome. "How?"

"I looked through some old crime scene photos you were in, found the last time when the necklace appeared. I got information on the case, tracked your movements across San Francisco, and contacted pawn shops near the scene. Once you flash your CBI ID at people, they tend to give you whatever information you want, so the owner of the nearest pawn shop got me a name." He shrugs. "Pretty straightforward, as far as cases go."

Her hand tightens around the cross, and she closes her eyes and bows her head.

"Teresa?"

She looks over at him. "I'm okay," she says. "It's just - I remember praying for a miracle not long before I met you. Since you came into my life, I realized my prayers were answered in more ways than one."

He gestures for them to trade, and he hands over Lizzie so he can take the necklace. "I got the clasp fixed this morning," he says, and he brushes Teresa's hair aside, laying a hand on her neck. "This is my promise," he murmurs. "Just like this necklace, I'll always return to you."

Then he fastens the chain - and binds fast the promise.

He stays late at work that Monday tying up loose ends on a case and arrives at Teresa's well after the sun has died. He lets himself in with the key she'd given him that morning, not even bothering to take off his shoes before going in search of his family.

He moves an infant carrier out of the way as he walks to the stairs and smiles softly. He climbs them with an eagerness he'd never expected to feel.

The door at the end of the hallway is closed, and he heads toward it, navigating his way in the semi-darkness. He turns the handle and pushes open the door.

The window is open, and a slight breeze flutters in. Lizzie is already asleep in her crib, her mother in the reclining chair next to her. He watches them both inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Then he moves across the room and sits on the floor, his back against the base of the chair, and he rests his arm and his head on Teresa's lap. Her hand seems to move unconsciously to the nape of his neck.

The sound of Teresa's even breathing is hypnotic, and Patrick Jane lets himself succumb to its lullaby.

He closes his eyes.

More stories to come.