Traditional disclaimer: The Mentalist is only one of many things that I do not own.
Crap. Crap, crap, crap.
That was the only thought making its frantic way through the mind of Special Agent Teresa Lisbon as she stared into the rearview mirror, brushing at her hair. The driver in the car behind her leanded on his horn—the traffic light had turned from red to green without her realizing it. She gave an apologetic wave to the irritated man and started the car with a lurch.
It was the dress. No, it wasn't the dress. It was a mixture of things, the dress included. Dress, makeup, hair, shoes—pressure. Society functions had never been something that she looked forward to (not that she'd ever really been invited to them). The temptation for sarcastic comments was always overwhelming, and the repercussions for such remarks were often over-the-top and incredibly severe.
And I don't have a Lisbon to step in and fix any Jane-level faux-pas, she thought, quirking a smile. Saint Teresa indeed. I deserve a freaking Nobel Peace Prize.
It wasn't as though she never got dressed up, either. She'd been on her share of hot dates. Admittedly, she hadn't been on them recently...but she'd been on them, and the heels and dresses in her closet were proof of that. She didn't feel like an awkward mannequin or anything, she just felt nervous.
And her damn bangs refused to lie flat because she hadn't had enough time to deal with her hair after coming back from the station, and she was convinced that they were sticking up in a way that made her look like a surprised porcupine and damn, damn, damn she was here...
Teresa pulled her car into the parking lot and reluctantly stepped out onto the sidewalk so that the valet could park it. With a shaky breath, she smoothed the black satin of her gown with palms that were a little moister than she would have liked.
Once her steps brought her closer to the entrance of the building, she could see a man standing by the doorway. Overhead lights made his hair flare in an angelic golden halo, and if that wasn't enough to indicate his identity, then the way he was tossing his cell phone from hand to hand sure as hell was. Teresa rolled her eyes as she approached him.
"How long have you been standing here?" she demanded of Patrick Jane.
He was so startled that he nearly missed the catch and fumbled his phone. "A couple minutes," he said, once he was assured that his phone wasn't going to hit the ground.
She arched an eyebrow. "A couple?"
Jane chuckled. "Don't do that people-reading thing on me," he said. "That's my schtick. I invented that schtick. But since you ask..." He pocketed the phone and glanced at his wristwatch. "About twenty minutes." He flashed her a bright grin. "I have a thing for being fashionably late."
"You have a thing for being inconvenient," Teresa retored. "Come on. Inside time."
She didn't miss the longing look that he cast over his shoulder at the freedom of the open night air as she escorted him into the party, but she chose to ignore it. "If you make a fool of the Bureau tonight, Jane, I will shoot you," she hissed out of the corner of her mouth.
"Can't," he teased, snagging a mini-quiche from a passing water with an open tray of appetizers. "Nowhere in that dress for you to keep your gun." He paused with the quiche halfway to his mouth, fixing her with a curious sidelong look. "By the way, you look...different."
Teresa snorted. "Different-good, or different-bad?"
Jane shrugged and stuffed the quiche into his mouth. "You always look good," he said blandly around the mouthful of food. "This is just a different kind of good."
She wasn't certain of how to respond to that, so she chose instead to ignore him and scan the room. In the far corner, she spotted Rigsby and Van Pent standing far closer than any mere friends would. She could see the young woman giggle at something the big agent said, and Teresa suppressed a smile.
"Where's Cho?" she asked her companion, who was scanning the room himself with piercing blue eyes. He pointed to the bar. Following the path he'd indicated, she saw Cho standing stoic under the flirtatious onslaughts of an older woman. The sight of the agent's expressionless face was enough to send Teresa into a silent fit of laughter. Jane joined in as well, uttering a loud, short bark of laughter that sprayed quiche crumbs everywhere.
As people around them turned to glare, Jane only flashed them that dazzling grin of his. With the smile still turned on, he leaned over and muttered, "God, I hate these things."
"Me, too," she said, brushing the last of the quiche crumbs off the front of her dress.
"Only one thing to do then," he said with that mischevious look she'd come to dread.
"What's that?"
"Dance!" He grabbed her hand and tried to lead her onto the floor, but she resisted, pulling back.
"Oh, no. No, no, no," she said. Jane released her and crossed his arms over his chest. "I don't dance."
"You dance to the Spice Girls," Jane pointed out with the air of someone laying forth an absolutely iron-clad argument.
"Does this sound like 'Wannabe' to you?" Teresa demanded.
"No..." Jane cocked his head to the side, listening to the music. "It sounds like a piece from Faust, although I'm not sure of the title." He paused, listening more intently. "The violinist is being more hesitant than he should be. Nerves, I think. Poor guy."
Teresa glanced across the room to where the musicians were sitting, and sure enough, the violinist—a boy of about 18—was white as a sheet, gripping his bow fiercly as he played.
"Oh, come on," Jane urged. When she hesitated, he grabbed her hand again and hauled her out onto the floor by force.
"Jane, seriously, you don't want to dance with me," she protested. "I can't. I'm awful. I'm—"
"Relax," he said in that soothing voice he used whenever he was trying to coax a confession out of someone. Teresa glared at him. He smiled again—at least until they both stumbled and she nearly fell. "Woman! Would you let me lead?"
"I told you I couldn't dance," she muttered resentfully. He shook his head, but she allowed him to take the lead.
For the first few long moments, all Teresa could do was concentrate on not stepping on her partner's feet, tripping over her skirt, or twisting an ankle in her heels. Once she got the rhythm down, she hazarded a glance up at Jane.
He was staring at her with an intensity that confounded her. His eyes were like azure lasers slicing straight through her. She quickly looked away. Seeing this, he chuckled and spun her out to arm's length.
"See?" he said. When Teresa looked back at him, the intensity had been toned down considerably. "You're dancing!"
She tripped over her skirt as he pulled her back in. "Not well," she said.
"You're doing just fine," he said. She laughed and smiled up at him.
"Now I can tell that you're lying."
It was a mistake, meeting his eyes. They'd always had a mesmerizing effect on her, and she frequently wondered whether he was doing that on purpose. But he seemed to be having as much trouble looking away as she was, and so, blue gaze locked on green, they swayed together as though they were alone on the dance floor.
When she'd first met Patrick Jane, she'd found him attractive. That feeling had only grown as the months passed, despite the fact that he was the single most obnoxious presence in her life. Now she was overwhelmed by it—by the music, by his eyes, by the mischevious smile...
She would never make a move, though. No matter how perfect the moment, no matter how much she wanted to, she would never make a move. It wasn't that she was shy—far from it. It was the fact that she could never, ever forget that this man, this laughing, charming man, was a total facade. She'd seen behind the mask before. She'd seen that darkness. And until that darkness was gone, Patrick Jane was out of her reach.
The music slowed to a stop, and the dancing couple did the same. As the room erupted into applause for the musicians (including the very, very relieved violinist), Teresa thought she heard Jane mutter something like, "No accounting for taste..."
"What?" she asked.
"You'd better go rescue Cho," he said, totally ignoring her question. Glancing across the room, she could see the CBI agent still entrapped by the older woman. She nodded.
"And you'd better get ready to put on a show," she told him. "And remember—if you make a fool of the Bureau—"
"You'll shoot me. Got it, got it." He squeezed her hand. "Thanks for the dance, Lisbon."
She nodded again and watched him fade into the crowd of people.
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