A/N: Alright, I gave into the harassing messages. This is a multi-chapter. For the moment, it's slated for 10 or so chapters, though that may change as I go. I'm shooting for weekly updates, but bear with me.

Disclaimer: If I owned them, do you think I'd be writing fanfiction?

Summary: "The question was: how much was he willing to sacrifice to save her life? If it was a trade, his life for hers, then there would be no hesitation from him. But, as he had learned, there were things much worse than death."

Burnt Offerings

Chapter One

Most days, Patrick Jane was happy to be where he was. Although he would never admit it to anyone, there was something intrinsically satisfying about delivering justice to those who deserved it most. Especially when the killers were so damn confident that they would never be caught.

And then they walked into his trap, arrogant and egotistical. It was sometimes difficult to keep the smirk off his face.

He understood the appreciation of their victims' families. After all, he knew what a lack of justice, of closure, could do to a person. Every time they closed a case, he felt like one more person could go on living. Could get on with their life and not end up like him.

Today, however, he caught himself wishing he was somewhere else. Anywhere else.

When children were brought into their caseload, it was never easy for any of them. He and Rigsby were fathers, but the rest of the team felt the evil almost as deeply.

The psycho they were pursuing was particularly monstrous, the black cloud he left in his wake settling over them. There had been three victims before the CBI took jurisdiction.

No matter what they believed in, every person on the team had taken at least one moment to pray that they would be in time to prevent a fourth, Jane included. It wasn't logical, not at all, but he had directed a brief, silent plea towards whatever God Lisbon worshipped.

Their prayers had not been answered.

Grace broke down in tears at the scene, turning her face into Rigby's shoulder. Cho went the opposite way, his face looking as though it had been carved from stone. Lisbon had bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood, but had continued directing the investigation.

Mercifully, he had managed to detach himself emotionally from the situation. Otherwise, he would have been screaming.

As the crime scene techs scampered over the dead leaves and blood-spattered ground, Lisbon came to stand next to him. Her shoulders were shaking, but there were no tears, not yet. She was holding herself together for the sake of the team, and for the sake of their victim. Crying wouldn't catch a killer.

He reached out tentatively to touch his fingers to her back. It was a light touch, almost insubstantial, but it was a way to let her know that he was there, if she needed him.

And it seemed that she did. For a moment, she leaned into him, and he curled his arm around her waist. He hid his hand under her jacket, knowing she would hate to show weakness in front of anyone but him. To the casual observer, they would just be standing very close, which wasn't unusual.

"It's alright," he whispered, lips brushing her hair. "We'll catch him."

It didn't escape him that this was the conversation they had after every Red John case. This time, he was doing the comforting, something that wasn't normally his role.

"You bet your ass we will," she murmured back, trying to lace her voice with bravado he knew she didn't feel.

Cho approached them, and Jane tightened his arm briefly before releasing her.

"Techs think they have something, boss," Cho said, only the tension in his jaw giving away how uneasy he was.

Lisbon sniffed once, then followed her second in command into the woods surrounding them, Jane close on their heels.

Enjoying the game now, confident of his success and intelligence, the killer had gotten sloppy. He had overlooked a few critical details, one of them being an understanding of how little DNA it took to get a match in the database.

When their suspect walked through the doors of headquarters, flanked by two police officers, Jane wondered how many agents were considering shooting the son of a bitch before he even made it into the interrogation room.

With a sigh, he picked up his slightly rumpled jacket from the back of the couch. Serial killers liked to play games with the police who questioned them. Jane could play games better than anyone, however, and the sooner they got a confession, the sooner the man would pay for his crimes.

For there was no doubt in Jane's mind that they had found their killer.

He watched, almost absently, as Carl Sanderson hung himself with the rope Jane offered. Once he knew he was caught, Sanderson grinned, acknowledging his defeat with a nod to Jane, one master manipulator to another.

Jane's skinned crawled.

Lisbon took down the confession, visibly paling as Sanderson included as many details as he could remember, vindictive in his failure.

When the forms were signed, Jane left the room, holing up in Lisbon's office to wait for her.

It would be easy enough to hand Sanderson off to Cho or Rigsby for official charging and processing. But that wasn't the sort of person Lisbon was. Sanderson had disquieted her immensely, his actions nearly bringing her to tears at a crime scene, and his prolific confession probably almost making her ill. She was going to make sure the man didn't walk away with the impression that he had bested her.

It it were possible, she would walk him all the way to the gates of Hell.

He stretched out on her couch, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes. She was going to be a wreck when she got back. Maybe he could talk her into dinner. It didn't seem likely; he didn't have much of an appetite himself.

Still, he wasn't going to just let her go home. It was his unofficial job to worry about Teresa Lisbon, and this was one responsibility he took seriously. Someone needed to make sure she ate, or didn't consume lethal amounts of caffeine.

Currently, it was looking like the food and coffee situation was going to be beyond his control, so he figured about all he could do was try to make her smile before she left.

He heard her footsteps for about ten seconds before he saw her. She didn't comment on his presence in her office, acknowledging him with the barest of glances before shutting the door and pulling the blinds closed.

She sat at her desk, head in her hands for a moment, before yanking open her desk drawer and rummaging for the tequila he knew was there. Pouring two shots, she rose again, moving to stand in front of him.

"Shut up and drink it," she said flatly, holding out a glass.

He almost smiled. "Cheers."

Jane wasn't a huge fan of tequila on good days, but the burn of the liquor was almost soothing. Lisbon collected his glass and set it next to hers on the desk before flopping gracelessly beside him on the couch.

"Are we back to case-closed liquor instead of pizza?" he asked lightly, poking her.

"Pizza doesn't have the ability to make you forget awful things," she replied, eyes closed. "I hate serial killers," she added.

"Me, too," he said dryly.

"Sorry," she said, instantly contrite. Her lashes fluttered open.

"For what?" he wanted to know. "I don't have a corner on the hating-serial-killers market, Lisbon. And this particular scum is worthy of a whole lot more contempt than you and I have to give, so hate away."

She let out a breath, sinking further back into the couch cushions. Their shoulders were almost touching. "I'd ask if today could be get any worse, but I'm worried God would see that as some sort of personal challenge."

He laughed. "We got the bastard, Lisbon. Our day could have been much worse. Hold on to that."

Jane knew she was beating herself up over not catching Sanderson before he took his fourth victim. She was mentally going through the case files, wondering what she had missed that could have led them in the right direction, could have saved a child's life. What she wouldn't focus on was how many other lives she had managed to protect.

"Look at me," he said softly. She did, both of their heads resting against the back of the couch. "You did a good job today. No one could have done better."

"Not good enough," she whispered, a single tear sliding down one pale cheek.

He brushed it away with his thumb. "Don't you dare blame yourself for this. Sac PD had this case for six months. We had it for three days, and we nailed the guy. Take some comfort from that."

Her expression told him precisely what she thought of his little speech.

"Alright then," he said abruptly, reaching for the tequila again. "Where words fail us, alcohol takes over."

The second shot was more potent than the first, or so he thought.

As he took her shot glass, Lisbon finally smiled. "I hope I don't get pulled over on my way home."

He raised an eyebrow. "Are you drunk? On a mere two shots of tequila? I expected better from you."

She gave an outright laugh, he his lips turned upwards in response. "I'm not even close, Jane. But tequila does have a distinctive aroma to it. One patrol cops are good at detecting."

"Meh," he told her. "You've had two drinks. It's not like you've been bathing in it." He leaned in, nose almost touching her neck. The sudden hitch of her breath made him smile. Very deliberately, he sniffed. Loudly. "I can't smell a thing," he assured her. "Just cinnamon."

Her smile was a little forced this time, and he wondered if he had crossed a line. But the pulse beating in the base of her throat told him she didn't exactly object to his proximity. That was good, because invading her personal space was becoming one of his favorite activities lately.

His gesture had just unnerved her a bit, that was all.

"Well," she finally said, "if Patrick Jane, Super Detective, thinks I'm okay, then I must be."

He gave a long-suffering sigh. "It's about time you learned to trust me, woman."

She stretched her legs, and he knew she was getting ready to leave. It was disappointing, but he had given her no reason to stay.

Sure enough, she rose slowly to her feet, replaced the tequila, and reached for her coat. Her movements screamed exhaustion, and he hoped she would make a point of sleeping in tomorrow.

He stood as well, following her to the door. "I'll walk you to the elevator."

She shrugged. "Do you want me to lock my office, or are you coming back here?" Her calm acceptance of him in her private domain, unsupervised, made him want to grin.

"Do whatever you want," he told her. "It's not like I can't pick the lock in two seconds anyway." Besides, he had stolen a key, years ago. She didn't need to know that, though.

They took the long way to the elevators, Lisbon peering into the bullpen to check that her team had left for the night. Jane knew that she was glad they had headed out; it hadn't been a good day for anyone.

While they waited for the elevator car to reach their floor, Jane shoved his hands in his pockets. "Going to finish getting drunk when you get home?" he asked, nonchalantly.

She frowned thoughtfully. "Not a bad plan," she said. "In fact, I think I will. Thanks for the idea."

"Anytime."

The elevator arrived with a quiet ding. Regretfully, he watched her step inside and push the button for the main floor.

"Have a good night, Lisbon," he said, giving her a small smile.

"You, too. Try to sleep sometime," she replied, eyes serious.

"Yes, dear." He almost rolled his eyes, but repressed the urge. The door started to slide shut, but he stopped it with his hand. "Let me know when you get home, alright?"

She stared.

"Well, you've been drinking. It's my duty as your friend to make sure you arrive safely at your destination." He knew very well she was perfectly fine to drive, but it was just another excuse to hear from her. One more little bit of contact that he would relish.

"Whatever," she said, and he stepped away from the door, knowing she would do what he requested.

He watched until the sliding door covered her completely, then slowly walked back to her office.

Lisbon would be her normal self in the morning, he knew, and she would never bring up what happened again. Hands down, she was the strongest person he had ever met. Strong enough to keep going when all she wanted to do was put her head down on her desk and shut the door.

But that was Lisbon. Devotion to duty, and all of that.

He stretched out on the couch, arms wrapped around one of the throw pillows. A very good purchase, this couch. Part of the time, it even smelled like Lisbon. In fact, if he inhaled now, he could detect a slight touch of cinnamon.

Forty minutes later, his phone vibrated with a message. It taken a little longer than he expected for her to get home, but there was just no predicting Sacramento traffic.

Smiling, he flipped his phone open, eager to see whatever smart-ass remark she had sent him. It was a picture message. A little bemused, he pressed the download button and waited.

Maybe it was a picture of her giving him the finger. That sounded like something she would do.

The picture finished loading.

In the space of a second, the grin slid from his face, replaced with complete and utter horror.

The picture was of Lisbon's living room. He recognized the white furniture and the artwork above her small desk.

On the wall behind the couch, a smiling red face leered at him.

AN: Ahhh! A cliffhanger! Thoughts? Liked it? Hated it? You're coming to take my computer so I stop writing crap like this?