AN: This is just a little pet project of mine. Originally, I wasn't even going to post it. Before we start, YES I KNOW this didn't happen. Based on….many various things (Jimmy effing Gadd, mainly), I am well aware they haven't ever been together. At this point in S5, I don't even want this story to have happened.

But let's pretend for a while, shall we? I'm taking some creative license here.

There is angst ahead. Because they are both broken people. And this story is messy and not polished AT ALL. Four or five chapters in total, I think.

Set immediately post Fugue in Red. This first part is sort of on the M side.

Clinging to Broken Glass

Chapter One

He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, gripping the frame as though it was a lifeline. Maybe it was.

There was something pounding through his blood, some nameless grief, crushing in its intensity, rising up to strangle him.

And then he knew.

With herculean effort, he pushed the black wall of anguish down and turned.

Lisbon was at the top of the stairs, looking both bitterly sorry and determined. In the darkness of the hall, her white skin stood out like moonlight.

He frowned. Something wasn't right. Something was scratching at the back of his mind, something important.

"Lisbon," he said, and her expression relaxed a shade. "Why are we here?" He had no idea. The last thing he could recall was… was going into the woods, looking for the murder weapon. No, that wasn't right…something else had happened after that…

She took a small step towards him. "You don't know?" she asked, and the tone of her voice told her a great deal had happened during his apparent memory lapse.

"No," he said slowly, straining his mind. "Did I take a blow to the head or something?"

Her eyes fluttered shut, and he saw her swallow. "Not exactly."

This time, he was the one that took a step towards her. "Tell me," he murmured, but then looked around. "Not here, though." For unexplainable reasons, he didn't want Lisbon here. This part of his life, he kept close to his heart. Lisbon knew more about it than anyone, but he wasn't ready to deal with her seeing what he'd lost in such a personal manner.

He touched her shoulder as he walked by, urging her to follow him down the stairs. The dust in the house suddenly seemed oppressive, as did the darkness and the demons that lurked in the corners, taunting him.

As he pushed the sliding doors in the kitchen open, he noticed his hands were shaking.

The night air in Malibu was cool, bracing. He waited for Lisbon to step onto the deck before shutting the door behind them. They were still too close to his memories, though, so he headed down the wooden stairs that led to the beach, Lisbon following silently.

He stopped a few feet in front of the darkly crashing waves, letting the ocean breeze whip through his hair, clearing his mind. He felt strange, so very strange, like he was on the edge of a cliff.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Lisbon stand beside him, her eyes on the distant, almost imperceptible horizon. "You almost died," she whispered, words barely audible over the ocean's steady thrum.

The anguish was evident in her tone. Carefully, he reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were thin, soft, and very cold. Her grip was tight, however. "The murderer was hiding in the woods," she went on. "He attacked, dragged you into the pond. Held you underwater."

He brushed his thumb over her knuckles.

"You weren't breathing when I found you." There was a sharp pause, and he knew she was reliving her terror. "The paramedics brought you back, but when you woke up, you didn't know who you were."

He took a moment to work through what she'd said. "Like temporary amnesia?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Sort of. The doctor called it a fugue. All of your emotional memories were gone, and you reverted back into a conman."

Unexpectedly, his lips turned up. "A conman? Sham investments conman or fake psychic conman?"

Despite herself, she smiled at his tone. "Oh, fake psychic, of course. You asked me if we were sleeping together, and proceeded to do a cold reading on me."

His jaw dropped for a moment. "I asked you what?"

Her grin widened at his evident horror. "You said you couldn't imagine why else a cop would be at your beside, unless we were sleeping together."

If he would have had both of his hands free, he would have cradled his head in them. As it was, he blinked rapidly, wondering what the hell else had happened.

"Why can't I remember any of it?" he asked.

She sighed. "The doctor said it's typical for someone in a fugue state not to remember what they did. Sometimes the memories come back, but more often they don't."

He turned towards her fully. "So why am I here? In Malibu, I mean."

She wouldn't meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, but I didn't know how else to bring you back."

Not understanding what she meant, he shook his head, and she took a deep breath.

"You were starting to get your memories back," she said. "But you were fighting against it. You knew there were things you didn't want to remember, and you were trying to avoid them."

Slowly, it was starting to make sense.

"You decided to leave the CBI," she continued. "I couldn't make you stay, obviously, but then I realized what I was about to unleash on the world." She gestured helplessly at the silent house above them. "This was my last resort."

"Well," he said, distantly, "it worked."

There was a pain in his chest, something gnawing. He'd forgotten his life. Well, apparently not all of his life, just the redeeming bits. Angela and Charlotte. His work at the CBI. Lisbon. And, going by what he'd just heard, he had tried very hard to not remember.

All things considered, though, it was difficult to blame his mind for trying to protect itself.

Still, he felt almost fragile. What sort of man was he, that he could forget the most important things that had ever been in his life?

"Thank you," he told Lisbon, almost faintly. "I'm glad you didn't just let me wander off."

She read his expression for a moment, then squeezed his hand lightly. "Let's go home," she said. "It's a long drive. And don't even try to tell me you're staying here because you're not."

Her tone was laced with iron, and he took another moment to appreciate her. She was the one person he had left that truly cared about what happened to him, that sometimes lost sleep over him, that he could tell anything to without fear of losing her loyalty.

And he'd forgotten her.

And his wife.

And his daughter.

It felt like his soul was threatening to crumble.

"Alright," he said. "Let's go."

This time, she was the one that led him around to the front of the house. They were an emotionally messed up pair, the two of them. He knew the past few days had been harder on her than they had on him, but tonight, now, he was balancing on the precipice.

"Damn," she said, almost at her vehicle. "I need to lock your house."

She took off for the front door as he leaned against the driver's side door. How did she have his keys, anyway?

He followed her progress with his eyes. There really was no point in locking the place – there was nothing there worth stealing. Just his memories.

They were all he had left, and he'd lost them.

He was so cold now, literally cold, and exhausted. All he wanted was some place warm to rest. Some place where he wouldn't feel like an absolute failure of a man for what had happened.

Lisbon turned back towards him, expression relieved that they were going to be on their way. He knew she hated it when he was here.

Then, suddenly, he realized she was his warm place, somewhere to seek shelter and comfort. It never crossed his mind that she would push him away.

He waited until she was directly in front of him, waiting for him to move, and then he slid his arms around her.

She didn't resist his embrace; instead, she slipped her arms beneath his jacket and locked her fingers against the small of his back. He realized this was the hug she should have been able to give him after he had woken up in the hospital.

He could feel the tension in her petite frame, the barely controlled emotion. It mirrored his own.

The woman had just spent the last God-knows-how-long dealing with him behaving probably appallingly badly. The way he was before Angela. His showman personality. This was after she had seen him nearly dead.

He'd been able to offer her no comfort then. Strange thought – that she should need reassurance when he was the one who had stopped breathing. But there was no question that Lisbon cared more about his life than he himself did. It meant something to her.

She sighed very softly, turning her face into his neck. He could feel her breath against his skin, her lips just a whisper away from his rapidly thundering pulse.

Without thinking, just feeling, he lowered his head and captured her mouth. The force of her reaction surprised him. After the first, sweet seconds, she flung her arms around his neck, fingers weaving into his hair.

Almost roughly, he pushed her against the vehicle, hands on her hips, demanding she part her lips. She gave him whatever he wanted, body flush against his.

He could feel the heat from her skin starting to seep into his numb limbs. But he needed to get closer, needed more.

He had been so alone, so very alone, for so long.

Sliding one hand around her waist, he reached behind her and fumbled for the door handle. There was no time to question if he was being presumptuous; as soon as the space was opened up at her back, Lisbon was pulling him forward.

When the door shut, he took a stupid moment to wonder if this was the right thing to do. But then, she was on top of him, undoing buttons until her hands were sliding over the planes of his chest. He could have no more pushed her away in that moment than he could have stopped his heart beating.

Small, nimble hands unfastened his belt, lowered his zipper.

Eyes closed, he groaned as she reached for him, fingers wrapping around his length. She seemed very intent on her exploration, and he allowed her perhaps a minute of unrestricted access. Any more than that, and he knew he would start to come apart in her hands.

With difficulty, he reversed their positions, trembling hands pulling buttons through holes, fingers skimming over her newly exposed skin. If this was a movie, she would have had on a convenient front-closure bra, but this was real life, and there was an awkward, clumsy moment as he reached beneath her.

But then, he stopped caring. She was bared to him, all white skin and soft breasts, tipped with dusky pink. He dragged his lips down to one, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

At the same time, he found her belt, hurriedly undoing it. This part was going to be more difficult, but he managed to slide the rest of her clothing off.

Desperate now, he took her face in one hand. This was the last chance she was going to have to walk away from this. He searched her eyes for hesitation, but all he found was need. This was an affirmation for her, he suddenly thought, a reassurance that he was still alive. She had been denied him, the real him, for days now, and she wasn't backing out.

He had thought about this moment many times over the years, the first time they would be together. It always involved a bed and usually candles and never once were they in Malibu, wedged into the backseat of an SUV. He had dreamed of teasing her until she cried out, and then doing it again, of being able to leisurely explore her.

Instead, the only foreplay he was able to offer her was a few gentle slides of his hand between her thighs, mouth still at her breast. He was gratified when his name fell from her lips all the same. His body cried out for release, and he knew that need, this time, was going to trump romance.

He flicked his thumb across her, once, twice, again.

"Patrick," she breathed, and he gave in.

Removing his hand, he kissed her again, shifting carefully. With one forceful thrust, he buried himself in her, overwhelmed by the pleasure he found there.

This was not an occasion for prolonging the inevitable.

God, he needed her. He was very nearly rough with her, but her quiet moans and nails raking down his back told him that this was exactly what she wanted. It was desperate and intense and overwhelming. The first time in nine years, the first time since Angela.

He wanted to weep. He wanted this to never end. He wanted to laugh crazily.

She met him thrust for thrust, and he felt drunk, stupid with pleasure.

Her muscles tightened around him. "Open your eyes," he whispered.

Her lashes parted, and her eyes were bright, hot. In another few seconds, they glossed, her mouth opening in ecstasy. Still, she held his gaze as she convulsed, and she said his name again.

It sent him over the edge, and he bowed his head onto her bare shoulder, teeth grazing her skin lightly.

He didn't know how long they stayed like that, his ear pressed against her heart. One of her arms was wrapped around his shoulders, her other hand stroking his hair.

Now that the need had subsided, he became slowly aware of their surroundings.

Dear God. He had just made love to Teresa Lisbon for the very first time in the backseat of a not particularly large SUV that was parked in the driveway of the house where his wife and daughter were murdered.

There were so many things wrong with the situation that it was almost comical.

He pushed himself up to peer into her face. Her expression was open, soft, but slightly wary, as though she wasn't sure of what to expect from him.

That was fair enough – he wasn't sure what to expect of himself, either.

He brushed his thumb over her slightly swollen lips.

"Are you alright?" he murmured.

She smiled a little. "That's an interesting question to ask at a time like this."

He couldn't help it – he grinned back. "I suppose you have a point." He took a breath. "Actually, I have no idea what to say right now."

"Me neither," she admitted, and he noticed the goosebumps rising on her arms.

They both needed to get dressed. It was a shame no one had thought to start the vehicle before they climbed in the back.

Now that was a stupid thought if he'd ever had one.

His mind wasn't working right at all. Perhaps he was in a little bit of shock.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. "Do you regret it?" he asked softly, seriously.

Almost instantly, she shook her head. "No." She swallowed. "Do you?"

"No," he said, then kissed her very lightly. "And I won't, no matter what happens next."

She chewed on her bottom lip. "What is going to happen next?" she almost whispered.

"I don't know," he replied. "I don't have a clue."

She laughed, and it had a tiny, helpless edge to it. "I guess that makes two of us." There was a pause. "Let's go home."

Like teenagers, they wriggled back into their clothes. He was fighting the urge to break into laughter at the absurdity of it. In a few minutes, Lisbon had climbed into the front seat, ramming the keys into the ignition.

They were silent for a few miles. What sort of topic of conversation could he introduce?

Eventually, he reached across the center console and took her hand.

They stopped for coffee (and tea) three times on the way back. By the time they'd reached the outskirts of Sacramento, they were both tired enough to dispel the lingering awkwardness.

"Where do you want me to take you?" she asked, stopped at a red light. "CBI?"

He shrugged. "How about your apartment?" he replied. He found he no desire to be alone for what remained of the night.

"Okay," she said, nodding slowly, eyebrows furrowing slightly. He read her body language. She was surprised at his request, happy that he would be with her, but utterly unsure of how this was all going to work out.

He figured he felt pretty much the exact same way.

There wasn't much to say when they reached her place. She stumbled sleepily into the bathroom to change, and he crawled into her bed after shedding his shoes, jacket, and vest. He wondered if he was being presumptive again, but she seemed to take his presence as expected, only glancing his way before flipping the lights off.

He felt the mattress depress under her slight weight, and he reached out for her. She curled into his chest, one of her knees hooking over his legs.

She smelled like cinnamon.

Distantly, he realized he was about to sleep with someone for the first time in nine years. Literally fall asleep next to someone in an actual bed.

He felt like it was a moment he should do something to memorialize.

Titling her chin up, he kissed her warmly. He had no idea what she made of what had happened earlier in the night, but he knew he didn't want her thinking that this didn't mean anything to him.

"Good night," he whispered.

She smiled. "Good night," she breathed back, resettling herself.

He closed his eyes, and, surprisingly, drifted off almost immediately.

That was the first night of what would become their unofficial relationship.

XxXxXxXxXxX

AN: Please please please let me know what you thought about chapter one! I don't think I've ever been less sure of a story I've posted, and, quite honestly, I need some validation. Don't make me cry!