Animal Magnetism
Chapter 1
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist except for a couple of seasons on disc. Many thanks to the genius of Bruno Heller and the cast (especially the alluring Simon Baker), writers and crew for my latest obsession.
A/N: This is my first fanfiction in a long while, and I will make some errors along the way because I'm "technologically challenged", but I hope to improve with time and experience. Please bear with me. Now, on with the show!
"What a perfect Saturday morning, Teresa," Patrick said, giving her a wide grin.
"Cool temps, nice breeze. Even the little birdies are singing."
"Yep, it's like an old Disney cartoon," replied Teresa, almost laughing, as they walked hand in hand on the path winding around Austin's Town Lake. Cyclists and joggers passed them, and the couple gave them a wide berth. They were enjoying each other's company, but were not so lost in each other that they didn't pay attention to their surroundings, and, besides people, there were canine "land mines" they had to be mindful of as well.
"Glad we have the weekend off."
"For now," Teresa said. "Look, Patrick, we should try that sometime." She pointed to a little group of kayakers paddling lazily on the lake. "Looks like fun."
Patrick looked at the idiots, uh, kayakers, and said casually, "Meh, looks like too much work. Besides, what if we fell in.?"
Teresa rolled her eyes and sighed with a put-upon smile. "That's what the life jackets are for, Patrick. In case you do fall in." And honestly, she thought, would a little exercise kill you?
But Patrick was already planning just such a kayak trip right here on Town Lake for them. Next weekend, maybe. Hmmm… A wistful smile that spread across his face as he thought about those plans was quickly wiped off when Patrick felt and saw something land on his shoulder. Great, bird poop.
Teresa noticed the grimace on Patrick's face, then the offending substance on his shoulder. She hid the smile threatening to break on her face by searching her pocket for a napkin or something to help him get it off.
Secretly, Teresa enjoyed their exchanges, especially since they'd gotten together. She'd come to realize that they'd been flirting for years through their bantering. Well, some of it, anyway. Maybe she could prod Patrick into that lake kayak trip- or something else athletic- by his promise of "a day of doing anything you want." Today they were playing it by ear.
"Ugh," Patrick said and stopped and looked at the sole of his shoe.
"Land mine?" asked Teresa with a chuckle. Poor Patrick. At least it wasn't her shoe.
"Yeah, a soft and squishy one, too," he said as he scraped the stinky muck off on an exposed tree root. "These are new shoes."
"Oh well, by the time we stop for lunch, you'll probably have gotten most of it off."
Patrick looked at his girlfriend, who was trying so hard to keep a straight face.
"That's right, Teresa, laugh at my pain. Wait'll you step in one." He gave her an exaggerated frown and a mock sniffle. First the bird poop, then the dog poop.
She couldn't resist one more jab. "I hope you're not too pooped." This earned her a scowl. "Come along, poor baby, that community garden can't be far. We wanted to pick some vegetables for dinner, remember?"
Patrick put his arm around Teresa's shoulders and replied gallantly, "Of course, love of my life. Lead the way."
"Not far off, my ass," Patrick exaggeratingly panted. "I bet we walked ten miles!"
He spied Teresa's put upon look and said, "Oh come on, you love it when I do that. It's theatre!"
Teresa just smiled brightly at him, the little weasel. He was arrogant, egotistical, grandiose, sweet, loving, and caring. But he was never boring. He was always chall-
enging her, and Teresa had come to realize over the years that she liked a challenge.
"We're here. Why don't we eat lunch, then see what's in the garden? I'm starving."
Since the kayakers, they'd stopped to admire paintings an outdoor art class were making and watched some kite fliers in a nearby field. Plus, they'd almost been run over by a beagle dragging a leash with his nose to the ground, and, a minute later, by a man who'd stopped and asked them if they'd seen a beagle dragging a leash. They'd pointed at the path ahead of them.
Just as Patrick and Teresa entered the garden, they were thanked by the beagle's owner who'd finally caught up with his dog. Patrick had been extra careful where he stepped this time.
Lunch was just sandwiches and water (and coffee for Teresa) but was gone within minutes. They'd worked up a good appetite. They sat, ate, and people watched with Patrick reading most everyone he saw, and he was probably right. And there were a lot of people out. Everyone, it seemed, was enjoying this fine Saturday by being out instead of cooped up inside.
The garden was busy with volunteers watering and weeding, and surprisingly, there were still some produce left. Teresa was afraid there'd be nothing left.
Their hunt had yielded a few tomatoes and a couple of onions when Patrick spotted a couple of fat peppers hanging in the middle of a bush. He was about to stick his arm inside when one of the volunteers warningly said "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Patrick paused briefly before nonchalantly waving away her concerns and said, "I've got this."
Within seconds he yelped (like a little girl, as Teresa would put it later) and pulled out his arm, scratching and swatting at it maniacally. Teresa frantically asked him what was wrong.
"Ants! Damn fire ants!" he said, scratching furiously, then in front of seemingly knowing bystanders, did the fastest disrobing of his shirt that Teresa had ever seen.
Teresa helped him brush off any stray ants, more concerned with his well-being than half his luscious torso laid bare, fine as it was. She then began rubbing a wet towel that someone had thoughtfully given her over everywhere he'd been bitten and stung, and she accepted at the volunteer's urging a small bowl of a dubious looking bubbling white paste. She smelled vinegar.
"Baking soda and vinegar," the woman said. "Spread this everywhere he's been stung. It should help ease the itching."
"Thanks," Teresa said with a grateful smile.
"Sorry," the woman continued, "we've been trying to get rid of the damn things, but they can be stubborn. As for the bites and stings, all you should get are pimples. My grandson calls them "pus blisters".
Then she got a worried look on her face. "Unless you're allergic to fire ant stings?" She directed her worry at Patrick. "Although I suspect you'd have shown a reaction by now," she mused to herself.
"Don't know. Never been stung before." Patrick replied simply with a blissful look on his face as Teresa ministered to his injuries.
Afterwards, Patrick and Teresa sat down at a picnic table in the garden (checking for ants first) and sat back to relax and let the paste dry and work its magic. He looked much better, and she allowed herself to enjoy the view- including the one next to her.
By the time Patrick and Teresa got back to her apartment, they'd collapsed into bed, worn out. "What a day," he said with a tired sigh.
They had spent the rest of the day walking the rest of the length of Town Lake, taking part of the many activities on and near the path. They ended their walk where they started- at the South Congress bridge, where they watched the exit of the many thousands of Mexican freetail bats from under the bridge. At least a hundred other people were there. They'd picked an ant-free site on the hill behind the Austin American-Statesman. Patrick had just hoped he wouldn't get pooped on.
"Call me a party pooper if you want, Teresa," he told her in bed that night. "I've been pooped on, stepped in poop, been attacked by fire ants and mosquitoes-"
"You should've put on bug repellant, like I did."
"-been nearly run over by a wayward beagle and his owner, had that same dog nearly pee on me-"
"Boo hoo."
"-so don't blame me for feeling like everything was out to get me today."
"Don't forget the squirrel. What the hell was that about?" Then a thought occurred to Teresa and she said with a mischievous grin, "Hey, maybe you looked like a nut to him."
Patrick gave Teresa his best sad clown face.
"What a pouter," she happily said. He couldn't believe it- she was enjoying this!
"You're just trying to get sympathy sex, aren't you? I know you enjoyed today, you faker."
"Yes on both counts," he happily admitted and snuggled into her side. "Is it working?"
"You betcha," Teresa said, and she was the last thing to attack Patrick that day. That attack he enjoyed.
