A/N: First-time Mentalist fic writer here! Trying things out with these two, and finding them rather delicious.
Because I have zero self-restraint, I wrote and am posting this without having quite finished S2 yet. So I'm praying I didn't 1. Include something that canon has since disproved, 2. Commit character assassination or 3. Touch on all the fic clichés I don't know about that the fandom makes fun of. If I did any of those things, I'm so very sorry for my impatience.
I also apologize to those who are/were hoping for an update on one of my Bones stories; I just have to go where the inspiration takes me.
No amount of time put in at the gym ever quite prepared her for the aftermath of grappling with a suspect; even a simple tackle would make her realize a few hours later that the muscles you use to subdue a 200-pound, tattooed steroid-addict are simply muscles that don't get used all that often. Thank God for that. The amount she did use them was already too much.
It was part of the job, and she didn't hesitate to do it, but right now when her body was screaming with every movement, she had a few thoughts about why she didn't just become a lawyer like her high school career counselor said she should.
The truth was, as passionate about her work as she was, it tired her in more than one way, and she wasn't immune to doubts. She knew it was all worth all the anxiety, worth every blow she took. But also knowing that they were never really any closer to a world without murder and crime, that no matter how many bad guys they put away, there was always another one to take their place—it sat uneasily in the back of her mind, teasing that no matter how much this job consumed her, she would never consume it.
Thinking about it depressed her. She'd traded her life for a job that literally made her ache.
Correction, the little voice in her mind piped up at the thought. You escaped your life, for the job. In the job.
That was even more depressing. She was too young for a mid-life crisis, and these thoughts were wholly unwelcome.
Not that much too young, her masochistic side pointed out.
A deeply ingrained part of her immediately wished for another enormous suspect to chase; because existential concerns never entered her mind when she was running at break-neck speed, trying to catch a criminal.
Masochism, matched with masochism.
There was a knock at her door. It was inevitable, really; there was no time to be self-pitying in this place, no space to nurse your wounds. Jane's face appeared in the window, accompanied by a smile and a tiny wave.
Just what she needed. Another reminder of how frustrating her job could be.
With a sigh, she motioned him in. "What can I do for you?"
In typical Jane fashion, he ignored the question.
"You, Lisbon, could have a shot in any major league football team I've ever seen play. That was magnificent."
She raised her eyebrow at him, still never quite sure when he was making fun of her, or was genuinely admiring. Sometimes she suspected that it was always a little bit of both. But he'd seen her take down suspects before, so she could reasonably assume that he was here now because they were now officially between cases, and he was bored. "Thanks." It was short, clipped, and didn't invite further conversation.
"Why are you grumpy? It's a good day. You caught the bad guy."
She moved files around on her desk in an attempt to look like she'd been doing something very important before he'd interrupted. "All I said was thanks, Jane. You get 'grumpy' out of that?"
"I do. Because you are." He flashed a smile. "Come on out. I have a celebratory cup of tea with your name on it."
She was conditioned to be annoyed by him, maybe; it was a nice gesture, but her instinct was that he could see perfectly that she wasn't in the mood for socializing, and was pushing her to do it anyway. Maybe she was just going to be annoyed by anything and everyone today. "No thanks."
"Liiiisbon. Teeaaa." He drew out the words, waggling his eyebrows suggestively in an attempt to be persuasive, but it just pissed her off.
"Tea," she muttered morosely. "Why can't you drink coffee like a man?"
"Ouch. Insulting my masculinity? You are grumpy, woman."
She hated when he called her that. It made her feel like he was one step away from ordering her to make a sandwich—probably, if she were honest, the reason for her attack on his tea-drinking ways. She bit back another snarky comment.
"I'm just tired. Rough day, you know."
"Yes, I do." He cocked his head, scanning her up and down. Then… "You're hurting."
"It's not so bad." She made sure to sit stock-still when she said it, because any movement would bring a tell-tale grimace.
Of course, her efforts were in vain, because this was Patrick Jane. "Liar. Why would you lie about that? Men twice your size would be in pain after that throw-down. The fact that you're hurting certainly isn't any indication of weakness."
The fact was, she didn't know why she'd lie about it; maybe just because "I'm fine" came second nature to her, especially within the walls of this building. She gave a long-suffering smile. "I appreciate your concern. I'll take a long, hot bath tonight and be as good as new tomorrow, okay?"
"You don't even have to wait that long. I'll fix it."
"Oh, I must have missed your graduation from medical school!"
He held up his hands palms-forward, flexing his fingers several times for dramatic effect. "I'm better than a doctor, or your money back."
She eyed him incredulously. A backrub? He was suggesting a backrub, in much the same way as he introduced a particularly new and exciting magic trick. "Not necessary. But thank you."
"Nonsense. What kind of friend would I be if I simply allowed you to finish your day in this state, when I have the power to make you feel better?" He brushed off her rejection as if it were an annoying insect, walking to the desk and taking her hand. His pull was gentle, designed to make the pull-ee feel like it was her idea to make the move. She knew his tricks, yet still found herself halfway across the office to her couch before she even knew it what she was doing.
She groaned, thigh muscles protesting as he helped her ease down onto the sofa. "Jane, I really don't need…"
"Shh." He held a finger up with a smile, and moved away from her as she watched questioningly. Pulling the cord by her office windows, he turned all the blinds shut. "There. Now you don't have to worry about people getting the wrong idea."
"I'm not worried about that," she muttered, hating the implication. The people she worked with knew her; at least, they knew that her job was paramount, and that boundary issues with her colleagues were not a problem. The mere suggestion was laughable, especially when the colleague in question was Jane.
Still, with the blinds closed, her desire to deny his offer was considerably dampened.
"Nonetheless." He came in beside her on the couch, urging her jacket off her shoulders and her body into a sideways position, facing away from him. "You will soon feel ultimate relaxation."
She rolled her eyes, even as she gave up the pretenses of resistance and gathered her hair up and out of the way, giving him complete access to her shoulders. "Try to hypnotize me and I'll shoot you," she muttered.
"There will hardly be any need for that," he scoffed gently, squeezing for the first time.
She had to repress a groan, the pleasure/pain of long-tense and battered muscles being coaxed into relaxation almost unbearably intense.
"There, there," he said softly. "Don't fight it. Relax into the touch."
"You sound like this creepy boyfriend I had in high school," she forced out, this time unsuccessful at holding in a moan.
"Quiet. And I hope your taste has improved since then." He rubbed, firmly, rhythmically.
Her eyes fell shut. "Let's not go there."
"Which is why I shushed."
That was fair enough, and she did her best for a few moments to be lulled by the skillful kneading and rubbing of her shoulders. That Jane had amazing hands was no surprise to her; they were an important part of his show, used for manipulating, hiding, deflecting, and he certainly used them well. Also, she had no doubt that he wouldn't have offered this service, if he hadn't thought it would impress her. But that those hands felt as masculine as they did clever—it was unexpected.
Despite his shushing, it was he who spoke next. "I know that some of the tackling of rogue suspects can't be helped, but… your situation here would likely be improved if stopped lounging on your left side to watch those cooking shows at night— it's a useless endeavor anyway since you don't cook. It's creating alignment problems that are contributing to this." To punctuate, he pressed this thumbs to either side of her spine, the more intense soreness there telling her that he'd hit his mark.
"I…" As usual, her first instinct was to deny it all, despite its veracity; just once, she wanted the smug bastard to be wrong, just for once. But she'd been told enough times that she was a bad liar. She sighed, and cut to the chase by asking the inevitable question. "How did you know that?"
"Oh, the lounging on your left side thing?" He asked it casually, as if he hadn't anticipated and hoped for another chance to show off his observational prowess. "By the patterns of your responses, the feel of the muscles, and the fact that this elbow…" He caressed it, for emphasis. "…Is rougher than the other. You prop it on the armrest of the sofa."
"And the cooking shows?"
"You seem the type."
She scowled, and she could hear his quiet chuckle.
"Okay, okay. I noticed the number on your cable box both times I was at your apartment. It was a reasonable assumption. An educated guess."
She harrumphed softly. "I can cook. I just don't have enough time for it."
"Of course you don't. You are a very busy woman."
If she weren't feeling ever-more loose and practically tranquilized, she'd want to punch his patronizing face, no matter how much admiration lay under his teasing.
Instead, her chin dropped down while his fingers returned to the back of her neck. The first time he was in her apartment was to hypnotize her when she was suspected (suspected herself) of murder; the second time was for maybe thirty seconds when she had been driving with him and forgot something at home she needed for a case. The fact that in either circumstance, he'd find the number on her cable box an important piece of information to collect, was baffling. God only knew what other tidbits he picked up about her while he was in her personal space. "Doesn't it ever get old?" she mused, already fairly certain of the answer. "Just… knowing everything?"
He paused for a fraction of a second. "Why would it? It helps me make more informed decisions. Prepares me for what's coming."
Lifting her shoulders a bit to encourage him not to stop, she responded. "But there are never any surprises."
"Ironic you'd use that to make your point, since you hate surprises."
"That's a generalization. I like nice surprises."
"Hmm." He said it in a vaguely disbelieving tone, as if he thought she were either bullshitting him, or herself.
She ignored it. "My brother does that thing, you know, where you give him a gift and he tries to guess it before he opens it. It's annoying as hell. You spend all that time trying to pick out something nice, and something personal, and he takes the fun out of it by guessing."
"Because he's usually right, yes? You don't get annoyed that he guesses. You get annoyed that he's accurate."
"Whatever. He could at least pretend to be surprised."
"You'd rather he lie? Tsk, tsk, Lisbon. That's not like you."
"I'd rather he didn't try, and just… go with it."
"Ah. And that's what you want me to do. Just go with it."
"Please." She said it, knowing it was a lost cause.
He chuckled softly. "I'll try. Perhaps you should take your own advice, as well."
"Mmm. I'll try, too." Her voice was devoid of optimism.
"Lie down, on your stomach."
"Huh?" The request pulled her a bit from her massage-driven catatonia. "I don't think so."
"Come on. Don't fight me. I'll be able to work the muscles on your lower back a little better." His hands pressed on her gently, and hell if she hadn't lost all will to give more than a token protest. There had never been any doubt that the man was convincing; although she prided herself on being at least a little less susceptible to his persuasive ways than the average bear, he was making her feel good right now and turning him down felt like it would be only a punishment to herself.
She sighed as she eased down, pressing the side of her face into one of the cushions and not really alarmed at all when he immediately climbed astride her thighs. Whatever. As long as she was being unprofessional, she might as well go for broke.
Still, she said, voice muffled by the pillows, "I don't know why I'm letting you do this."
"Probably because it's been so long since you let a man touch you like this." He said it as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. "Has it been a very long time… is that part of why you're so tense?"
Was he seriously asking her about her sex life? That was a new level of inappropriateness, even for Jane. She should really just push him off of her and tell him to get back to work; to let her get back to work. "That's none of your business. And you just said you wouldn't do that."
"I said I'd try not to tell you things about yourself, not that I wouldn't ask questions."
"You're telling me things about myself and phrasing it as a question. I'm not stupid, Jane."
"Of course you're not." He paused, fists rotating on two particularly tight knots right beneath her shoulder blades, his voice carrying what might have been a genuine hint of apology. "You'll have to forgive me. I notice things, in between the lines of normal interaction and behavior; it's my job, and who I've become. Sometimes I'd like to turn it off, but… I can't."
The admission felt strangely intimate, and despite the fact that she was practically jelly now under his talented fingers, she shifted a little uncomfortably beneath him and tried to ignore the warm feeling of the insides of his thighs on the outsides of hers. "You could just shut your mouth about it, though. God knows you're good at keeping pertinent info about cases to yourself, so I know you're capable."
He continued regardless, in that quiet, seductive tone. "I don't think less of you, you know. For not wanting me to stop touching you. It's a basic human need, to touch, and be touched."
A twinge of anger went through her, seeming to only amplify the strange sensual energy that hummed through her body. "Why do you have to be such an ass, Jane?"
His hands were languid now, honey-slow, and he ignored her attempted insult. "I feel it too, sometimes. Even people like us get lonely."
What was he doing? These were boundaries that they'd barely come close to skirting, and now he was pushing them? It made little sense; maybe it was the physical touching that did it. She should have listened to the niggling voice inside her before this started, instead of talking herself out of the discomfort, reasoning with herself that a simple backrub couldn't possibly be some sort of Pandora's box… why should it be, when it was from Jane? "We have nothing in common. There're no 'people like us'," she protested.
"Of course there are." A casual observer might have mistook his tone for breezy, but she knew him just well enough to know better. "People who go through the motions of work day in and day out, trying to fill some emptiness inside of them, waiting for that day when everything they do is paid off, when they feel at peace again, when they can rest again. The ones who feel like other people are mostly in the way, but sometimes, in weak moments, they just want what seems to come so easily to everyone else. Just to be close, and to connect. To feel the warmth of another person and just… go with it."
The movement of his hands on her had practically stopped, and she'd almost been lulled by the hypnotic timbre during his speech, when she felt it: the hot, hard press of masculine arousal, right against the softness of her ass.
It barely computed at first. It had been awhile; not so long that she forgot what it felt like, but this was Jane. And Jane was charming, and attractive, and hell if he didn't fill out a three-piece suit unlike anybody else; but part of her had perhaps assumed that his sexual interest had been killed at the same time as his family, his spirit, and his innocence.
Maybe it had been safer for her to believe that.
But this… this undeniable physical evidence of desire… felt taunting against her. He didn't try to move away. His hands still rested lightly on her shoulders, and she could hear his breathing above her. Rhythmic. Maybe just a little quicker than usual.
The heat that had been slowly building in her body suddenly took a rapid turn southward. It took her a mere moment to make the shift; every Jane-related fantasy that she had repressed or denied or discounted as ridiculous because he was him and she was her and as much as she sometimes respected him and maybe even cared for him (maybe), it was just never going to happen… they played through her mind at a rapidfire pace, and strangely enough did not repulse her sensibilities, or scare her. Instead, they made her feel…
Reckless.
Teresa Lisbon never felt reckless.
For a second she wondered if he really had put her in a trance, performed some trickery that unleashed this insanity inside her. She discounted the thought in the next second, because as crazy as she felt, she also felt shockingly clear. Whether she wanted to or not.
Now she half-turned, making him slowly raise off of her so she could flip the whole way around. Amazingly, the movement caused her hardly any pain; he was better than a doctor, infuriatingly good at every fucking thing he tried to do.
But so was she.
Resting on her elbows, she met his eyes with what was likely a predatory look. She might not be scared at that moment, but maybe she'd scare him a little.
She wanted to scare him. He deserved it, for all the shit he'd put her through since the very beginning. For making her feel these unwanted things right now.
"So," she said, the husky sound of her own voice surprising her. "'People like us.'" She accented every syllable of his quote. "What do you propose they do about it?"
She was gratified by his hesitation. While he'd certainly and obviously anticipated her arousal, she'd hoped that being confronted by it would set him off-balance, disorient him just a little. With his own so conspicuous, he didn't have the one-up in this situation. Not anymore. Match-point, Mr. Jane. Now joke it off, and run away, and this round goes to Lisbon.
It was possible she'd be embarrassed about it later, but right now she could practically taste the victory of his retreat.
Maybe it was even the thought of putting him in his place, that was turning her on so much.
His light eyes shone. He blinked, once. He held out his hand.
"Let's go."
Shit.