AN: So this fic is a result of inspiration which struck while scrolling through Thay's blog over on tumblr. She has a fantastic gifset featuring Jane x Lisbon AUs, and she was kind enough to let me borrow her idea and translate it into fic form. This story takes place in the present day (meaning 2016), but I've changed Jane and Lisbon's ages to align more so with Thay's original vision. Also, I've altered some things from canon concerning Lisbon's past to better fit the story. Anyway, I hope you like it!
For those wondering, the title is a reference to a book by Carl Jung, a famous psychologist.
Also, trigger warnings for mentions of alcoholism and abuse.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.
Teresa Lisbon takes a shaky breath and attempts to piece herself together.
She'd been doing entirely too much of this in the past month, she realizes. Although, really, she believes she's coping admirably well with the shitstorm that life decided to throw at her. Any other twenty-one year old might have lost it by now.
Despite this, her grief and anger are still an almost physical ache in her chest, and Teresa feels her eyes well up. She wills herself not to cry—not here, not in public, not in the middle of campus where everyone can see—and quickly changes course for the library, shifting the weight of the backpack on her shoulders.
Once inside, she grabs the first elevator and heads to the fifth floor, knowing the dark stacks of books will be relatively empty considering the semester has only just begun. The elevator dings, and its doors open; sure enough, a cursory glance around the floor reveals not another soul in sight.
Teresa heads for the back of the floor, weaving in and out of bookshelves in the dim light. She feels a tear slide down her face, and she wipes it away quickly. A second later, she reaches her destination and lets herself drop to the floor between the shelves. Then she pulls her knees to her chest and allows the tears to fall freely.
She wonders vaguely if she'll be able to pull herself together in time to make it to class in forty-five minutes.
Then she shakes herself. Not going to class is not an option. Missing the first day will remove her from the class list, allowing someone on the waitlist to add the course. And she needs this class to graduate next semester.
"Are you all right?" It's only a whisper, but Teresa jumps regardless.
Damn. She'd thought she'd done a better job of keeping quiet.
She looks up at the young man standing in front of her and wipes her eyes self-consciously. The man gives her a worried look and reaches into his pocket to grab something.
Her brow furrows when he holds out a handkerchief, kneeling down to her level.
She studies him for a few seconds, taking in his sharp, sea-green gaze and surfer-like blond hair. He's older than she is, at least twenty-six or so, and she wonders if he's a grad or professional student. Grad student, she decides, judging by his dress shirt and suit vest. Something in his expression causes her to lower her guard, and she reaches for the handkerchief, leaning back against the stack of books as she dabs at her eyes.
The man is still staring at her. "Is it okay if I sit with you?"
She immediately nods, though she's not sure why, and the man sits next to her feet so that they face each other. He leans against the bookshelf behind him.
He is silent for a few minutes before speaking again. "My fiancée died three years ago," he says quietly, and Teresa looks over at him sharply.
Her heart breaks for this nameless man. "I'm so sorry," she says.
He nods tightly, gesturing to the stacks around them. "This is where I go to get away from everybody when I need to grieve in private."
He doesn't ask the reason for her tears, but Teresa thinks he knows anyway. And suddenly, she feels an eerie connection to the stranger sitting next to her.
"What happened to her?" Teresa asks.
He looks at her with dark eyes. "We were mugged walking home one night—both of us ended up in the hospital. Only I walked out."
Teresa swallows. She breathes in deeply. "My mom died last month," she whispers, and as she holds his gaze, his image becomes blurry. She lifts the handkerchief to her eyes again. "Drunk driver," she adds. "My dad's been a wreck ever since. I can't remember the last time he was sober. My brothers and I…we don't know what to do. We're just trying to make it through one day at a time."
The man sucks in a sharp breath. "That's a lot for you to take on," he tells her. "Especially with school starting up again."
She shrugs. "I might have to drop some classes. We'll see how it goes."
His fingers twitch at his side, as though he wants to reach over and take her hand but thinks better of it. Silence descends upon them again.
A few minutes later, the man checks his watch. "I have to get to class," he says, his tone a bit reluctant. He glances at her, clearly debating. Eventually he speaks. "Can I see your phone?" he asks.
"Why?" She is wary, and she can tell he reads this on her.
He gives her a soft smile. "I want to put my number in your contacts. So you can call me if you ever need to talk to someone."
Teresa's heart melts a little at this. Usually, men ask for her number. But for this guy to give her his contact information without requesting hers at all—it's an unheard of occurrence. He seems genuinely concerned for her wellbeing.
She hands her phone over without a second thought.
He punches in a few keystrokes and then hands the cell back to her. "Good luck with your semester," he says. "And really—call if you need anything, okay?"
He stands up, and she reaches out to return the handkerchief. "I'm sorry," she says, knowing the handkerchief is now far from clean. But he just gives her another small smile and waves her off.
"It's all right," he says. "Keep it."
And then he disappears around the corner of the bookshelves.
Teresa stands up, feeling slightly like a human being again, and looks down at her phone. Curious, she glances through her contacts to find the new entry.
Patrick Jane.
For the first time in a month, she feels herself smile.
Teresa walks through the enormous social sciences building, passing by the anthropology department and its collections of primate skeletons lining the halls. She heads for the psychology wing, checking the room numbers as she walks until she finds her class at the end of the hall.
Though class isn't set to start for five minutes, the small lecture hall is already full. Teresa has time to scan the room once, checking for empty seats, before she encounters a very familiar set of sea-green eyes.
Patrick looks at her blankly for a second before smiling. "Hey," he says, recovering from his surprise quickly.
A beat passes before she realizes that he is standing in front of the lecture hall next to the lectern. And it finally clicks.
He's the instructor.
"Hi," says Teresa, feeling herself blush intensely, but Patrick only smiles wider at this. Teresa shakes herself then remembers she needs to act professional. Especially if this man will be handing out her grade this semester. She extends her hand. "I didn't give you my name before," she says as he reaches forward to shake hands with her. "I'm Teresa."
Patrick nods. "Enchanted," he says, looking like he actually means it. She blushes further. "I hope you're looking forward to the course."
"I have been for a while," she says honestly. "I've wanted to take Forensic Psychology since I was a freshman."
"I hope it lives up to expectations, then," says Patrick. He drops his voice. "It's my first time teaching a senior seminar," he admits. "It's a little nerve-racking."
Teresa gives him an encouraging smile. She can't imagine what it would be like to be a graduate student, teaching students who are only a couple of years her junior. "I'll make sure to jump in if the discussion ever drags," she says lightly.
He grins. "You say that like it's a joke," he says, "but you have no idea how much instructors appreciate students like you."
She smiles again and gestures with her head to the back of the room. "I need to find my seat," she says. "I don't want to be the reason you start your class late."
And she walks away, smiling to herself as she squeezes down an aisle of desks. She has a strange feeling that multiple sets of eyes are on her—and sure enough, when she sits down she notices several women her age eying her with…jealousy? Teresa quickly looks away. What the hell would they be jealous over? She rolls her eyes and reaches into her backpack to grab a notebook and pen.
Then Patrick begins to talk, and she understands.
She hadn't realized it before, but the man is gorgeous.
Teresa blinks. It's not just the bronzed glaze of his skin, the muscles she can make out underneath the dress shirt he's wearing. He moves across the room with a confidence that she's seldom seen in lecturers before. She marvels at how put together he seems despite his relatively young age.
No wonder she'd been getting jealous looks for the attention Patrick had given her. Teresa wouldn't be surprised if half the class signed up for the course because they'd heard through the grapevine that the instructor was hot.
Suddenly, Teresa realizes she's missed his first few sentences, and she reminds herself to pay attention.
"Before we jump into today's topic, I want to tell you a bit about my background," Patrick says, leaning against the lectern, the picture-perfect image of calm and collected. "Before coming to Chicago for my PhD, I received my undergrad degree from Stanford and completed my master's at UC-Davis. I'm currently wrapping up my dissertation, which involves profiling techniques that I hope will prove of use to law enforcement."
One of the young women in the front row shoots her hand into the air but asks her question before Patrick can even acknowledge her. "Do you, like, work on cases with the FBI?"
Her tone is a little frightening—something like intense adoration, and Teresa immediately feels second hand embarrassment. Patrick seems uncomfortable as well.
"I have consulted on some casework," he admits, "though I'm afraid I can't really give any details."
This intrigues Teresa, though she tries to keep her expression neutral.
She'll have to ask him about his research later. Maybe he'll have some advice for her capstone project she needs to complete this year for her criminal justice major.
"You've helped catch killers?" continues the admirer in the front row.
Teresa rolls her eyes again. She would bet anything that the woman is making major heart eyes at the instructor right now.
Teresa glances at Patrick, who seems flustered at the attention, and she takes pity on him. "Why did you transfer to Chicago for your doctorate?" she asks.
Patrick looks over at her gratefully and gives her a small smile. "I wanted to work with Dr. Smith," he says. "He's a legend in the world of profiling and has some great connections with federal agencies. I strongly encourage you all to take some of his courses if you haven't already." He claps his hands together and walks behind the lectern, reaching for the computer to bring up a powerpoint. "Speaking of courses, let's begin ours," he says. "Though most of this course will be discussion-based, I wanted to start off by lecturing a bit to make sure we all have sufficient background for the first few assigned readings…"
And he dives into a case study.
Teresa is immediately hooked, and she looks up after what only feels like several minutes to realize she's already written several pages of notes. Patrick glances at the clock and dismisses class.
Amazed that fifty minutes have already passed, Teresa drops her pen and notebook into her backpack and makes to follow the rest of the students out of the room. She chuckles softly when she notices that Patrick already has a crowd of female admirers surrounding him, one of whom includes the young woman who'd put him on the spot at the beginning of class. He looks uncomfortable, but endearingly so, with the attention.
As Teresa approaches the front of the classroom, she can overhear the conversation, which she discovers is anything but related to academics. With a wry smile, she moves around the women to appear at Patrick's side. "Professor," she says. "I was wondering if I could ask some questions about the reading due on Wednesday."
One of the women groans under her breath, and the group of them shuffles out the door, clearly disappointed.
Patrick turns to Teresa and leans into her slightly. "You are brilliant," he whispers in her ear.
She smiles at him. "Your office hours are going to be hell if your admirers decide to show up every week."
He rolls his eyes. "The same thing happened last semester when I taught one of the intro to psych classes. They figure out soon enough that I'm only interested in answering their questions about the content of the course. Then they stop showing up." He looks at her. "I wouldn't mind if you stopped by, though."
Teresa feels her insides twist not unpleasantly.
Patrick's tone becomes more serious. "I meant what I said in the library," he says, his voice intense. "If you ever need to talk—really, stop by my office or text me. I'll always make time for you. I promise."
"Thank you," Teresa whispers. "I…" she trails off, giving him a searching look, then decides it's best not to continue. "Thank you," she says again instead. She pauses awkwardly. "By the way, I really enjoyed your lecture today. It definitely lived up to expectations."
"Glad to hear it," he says, clearly making an effort to match her lighthearted tone. They walk over to the door together, and Patrick flips off the light switch. He gives her his radiant smile. "See you on Wednesday," he says.
"See you then."
She cannot admit to herself how much she's looking forward to it.
After the first week of class, Teresa knows her course with Patrick will be her favorite of the semester.
After the second week, she freely admits that his course is one of a handful of things she looks forward to in her life—a life that seems to be unraveling faster than she can stitch it back up.
He finds her in the library again late one Friday afternoon, hiding out amongst the stacks of books where they'd first met.
"Fancy running into you here," he says, sitting down next to her and dropping his leather bag on the ground.
She makes an effort to smile at him.
"What is it?"
Teresa shakes her head. "Nothing," she says.
Patrick touches her arm gently. "I'm a profiler, remember? I always know when you're lying, Teresa."
She meets his eyes. "I don't want to go home," she admits.
He holds her gaze. "What happened?"
She hands him her phone so he can see for himself. "I got a text from my brother Jimmy. He said that Dad's been drinking again."
"Is it safe for you to go home?" Patrick asks, concerned.
She shrugs. "Jimmy says it is."
Patrick's eyes widen. "So there are times when it isn't?"
She hurries to reassure him. "Rarely," she says.
His eyes turn angry. "'Rarely' is too often," he manages to get out, his jaw tight. He grabs her hand, his touch lighter than mist. "Will you promise to call me if something happens? Even if it's three in the morning, I'll head over to get you and your brothers out of there."
Teresa twines her fingers with his. She is caught off-guard by the urgency in his tone, especially since this man is still somewhat of a stranger to her.
But as she looks at him, she knows she doesn't really believe that. Even before they met, they were never strangers. "I'll call you," she says.
Patrick nods. "Good," he says, his tone lighter. "I need to protect my star student."
She giggles. "Please," she says, rolling her eyes.
"It's true!" he says, resting their clasped hands on his thigh. "You haven't lost a point yet—on anything. I'm beginning to wonder how you do it."
Teresa smiles. "Maybe the instructor has a soft spot for me," she says.
Though her words had been teasing, he immediately drops her hand. She looks at him curiously.
"I'm sorry," he says. "But it just occurred to me—we've got to be careful. You're technically my student, and I don't want to cross any lines."
She nods. "Of course. I wouldn't want to get you into trouble."
He gives her a thoughtful look. "You're not planning on enrolling in the class I teach next semester, are you?"
"No," she says, confused. "I don't need any more psychology electives."
"Excellent," he says, winking at her.
She finally understands where he's going with this and feels her skin heat up. "Oh," she says.
He just grins.
The Monday after that, she heads to their spot in the library again and finds him already sitting there. His back is hunched over, his head in his hands, and she kneels down beside him.
She lays a tentative hand on his shoulder, and he jumps, clearly not expecting her. "Hey," he croaks, looking over at her, and she swallows.
He looks miserable.
"I'd ask if you were okay, but..." she trails off, giving him a small smile. "That seems like a stupid question."
"There are no stupid questions," he says immediately, every bit the teacher even outside the classroom. She chuckles softly.
"Well, then," she says. "What's wrong?"
Patrick looks down. "It's the anniversary," he murmurs.
She doesn't have to be a profiler to figure out he means the anniversary of his fiancée's death rather than the anniversary of when they got together.
Teresa takes a deep breath. "Sometimes," she says, "when I'm missing my mom, it helps to talk about her." She leans her shoulder against his lightly. "If you want to talk, I'll listen."
Patrick's eyes glaze over. "I'm not sure I know how," he admits.
Teresa picks a nonexistent piece of lint from her jeans, needing something to do with her hands. "What was her name?" she asks softly.
Patrick gives her a half smile. "Angela," he says. "Her name was Angela."
She knocks on the door to his office a couple weeks later. "Professor?"
Patrick looks up from his computer, and when he sees that it's her, he smiles broadly. "Hey, Teresa, come on in." He turns away from his computer and gestures to the chair that sits by his desk.
Teresa glances around the office, not at all surprised to see his bookshelves nearly overflowing. There are also a couple case files open on the other side of his desk, but she determinedly doesn't look at these, knowing he can't discuss active cases.
She's still trying to deal with the cognitive dissonance of knowing him as both Patrick and Professor. Any average week, they spend a few hours together outside of class in the library, giving him a chance to escape the hell that is his looming dissertation defense and allowing her to escape the hell that is life.
But she is also his top student. It is a fine line to walk.
She sits down and drops her backpack by her feet. "Next semester, I'm going to complete my volunteer capstone project for my criminal justice degree," she begins.
He already knows about her major, about her desire to become a cop.
In fact, there is very little he does not know about her.
She continues. "Which means this semester I need to develop that project. I was wondering if you had any suggestions about places to start."
Patrick leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling as he thinks this over. He's silent for a few seconds before snapping his fingers together. "As a matter of fact," he says, "I do. I've been working with the Chicago field office of the FBI on a recent case. The SAC keeps complaining that they need more help with office stuff—you know, paperwork, running errands, stuff like that. It probably wouldn't be glamorous, but it'd be a great place to network, and I'm sure you'd pick up a lot of stuff about running cases. How about I contact the SAC to see what he thinks?"
Teresa feels her jaw drop slightly. "Wow," she says. She might get to volunteer at the FBI. She knows a stupid grin is spreading across her face. "That…that would be fantastic. Thank you."
Patrick nods. "Of course," he says. He snaps his fingers again as something occurs to him. "Oh, and I wanted to congratulate you—you received the top score on the exam yesterday. You write extremely well; I'm wondering if I should try to convince you to apply for grad school rather than Quantico."
Teresa looks away, pleased. She pulls herself together enough to glance at him. "Such high praise," she says softly.
"I only give it when it's deserved," he says, matching her tone.
His gaze is mesmerizing somehow, and she knows she has to leave now before she gets pulled under. "Thank you," she says, standing up. She slings her bag over her arm, the movement causing her sleeve to ride up.
Patrick's eyes immediately are drawn to her forearm.
"Teresa," he says as he stands up, his voice almost shrill. "What the hell?"
He reaches out to grab her arm. Teresa looks away again, knowing what he sees there.
Dark purple bruises.
Patrick looks at the door. She knows he wants to talk with her privately, but closing the door might raise questions among the other grad students and staff who know his office hours are currently being held.
Teresa sighs. "I'll explain," she says. "Library? After your office hours?"
He nods tightly, his expression pained. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
She glances at him once more and then flees.
The autumn days are becoming shorter, and darkness has already fallen by the time he sits down next to her forty-five minutes later. Without saying a word, he reaches for both her hands and raises her sleeves up, almost hissing when he sees that the bruises are not confined to one arm.
"You're not hiding any more of them, are you?" he asks.
"No," she says honestly.
"Why didn't you call me?"
She is very aware that he is still holding her forearms, and the contact of their skin makes it difficult for her to string together coherent sentences.
"I don't want to get you in trouble," she admits. "You're not supposed to see your students away from campus."
"You're not my student right now, Teresa—you're my friend. Your life is far more important than my job." His eyes are urgent. "Next time—please, call me."
"I will," she says, and this time, she means it.
Patrick contacts the SAC, and Teresa begins an unpaid internship at the FBI the following week.
Thanks to Patrick, she has one more thing to look forward to in her life.
Two months pass without incident.
Special Agent Minelli, Teresa's new supervisor at the FBI, is impressed by her work ethic and allows her to look at several cold case files. She notices something off in one of them, and it turns out to give them a lead which allows the case to be reopened.
She can't give the full details to Patrick, of course, now that the investigation is open again, but she can tell him enough, and his eyes light up.
They're sitting in the darkened library again on a Friday evening. She knows she has to leave soon—it's her turn to make dinner for her brothers—but she doesn't want to surrender any of her time with Patrick.
She lets herself enjoy the companionable silence for a few minutes longer before she stands up. "I have to go," she says.
He lifts an arm as if to reach for her but thinks better of it. There are still lines they cannot cross.
"See you next week," he says softly, and she smiles at him over her shoulder as she walks silently away.
"Hello?"
He sounds half-asleep when he answers. Of course he does, she thinks. It is 2:30 in the morning.
"Patrick?" she whispers. "You said I could call if I needed help."
Suddenly his voice sounds wide awake. "Teresa?"
"I need you."
His headlights make the wet streets glisten as he pulls up to the apartment complex where she and her family live. She doesn't even wait for his car to come to a complete stop before reaching for the passenger side door.
She climbs in quickly. Patrick turns toward her. "Are you all right?"
It's dark, and he can't see her, can't see the blood on her right cheek, so she lies a little. Or a lot. "I'm fine."
"Where are your brothers?"
"They headed to some friends' houses. They're safe."
He pulls the car back onto the road, turning around to head back toward the university.
"Your father?"
"Passed out in the living room."
"Teresa," Patrick says, his voice breaking. "You can't keep living like this."
"I know," she breathes, and a tear slips down her cheek.
He wraps an arm around her shoulders as he leads her into the graduate student apartment complex. The florescent lighting reveals what she'd been hiding, but he tactfully doesn't say anything until they've made it inside his small apartment.
Patrick pulls her into the bathroom and lifts her onto the sink. He rifles through the cupboards for a few minutes before locating his first aid kit, and he wets a washcloth before dabbing at the blood oozing out of the gash on her cheek.
"What happened?" he asks.
She reaches out to grab his elbows, steadying herself.
"He was drinking. Something Tommy did upset him, and he went after Tommy. I couldn't let that happen."
He's silent for a while. "We have to report this," he eventually whispers.
More tears fall from her eyes, and he wipes these away, too.
When the blood is gone, he dabs antibiotic cream onto the wound and puts gauze over it, his fingers gentle yet strong. She watches him move the whole time, and she wonders if she's in shock.
He leaves her for a minute and returns with an oversized t-shirt, which he hands to her. "I'll be just outside," he says, shutting the door to the bathroom behind him.
She changes quickly, not liking the feeling of being separated from him, and opens the door once more. He leads her over to his bedroom, his hand at the small of her back. She looks at him when he pulls back the covers, and she realizes she's shaking.
He tucks her in and ducks into the bathroom to change into his own sleepwear. She's still shivering as he flips off the light and climbs into bed beside her.
At first, he doesn't reach for her. But after a few seconds, he pulls her against him, and she settles into his arms with a sigh.
"It's alright," he whispers, cradling her head in his hand. "It's alright."
They both know it isn't, but with him, it almost feels like it could be.
Teresa wakes up the next morning with his arms wrapped around her waist, her back to his chest. She blinks several times, confused. His arms tighten around her.
"How are you feeling?" he whispers.
She plays with his fingers. "I'm not sure," she says, hesitating. "Scared," she admits. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."
He turns her in his arms so that she is facing him. "You are supposed to be right here," he says firmly. He rubs a strong hand up and down her back, the motion soothing. "I'm going to call Special Agent Minelli, okay? We'll see what advice he has for us."
"I don't want to be the reason my dad is thrown in jail," Teresa whispers.
Patrick shakes his head. "No," he says. "Don't you dare think of it that way. Your father's actions are the reason he will be punished. Not you. Never you."
She ducks her head into the crook of his neck, and she knows he can feel the tears that drip onto his skin.
He murmurs to her, drawing the blankets up over her shoulders and pulling her close.
She doesn't hear from her father again.
Special Agent Minelli comes through for her, calling in a favor with a CPD friend of his. The case is not difficult to make.
Teresa and her brothers spend a day getting rid of their father's belongings, tidying up his room so that it once again resembles the way their mother left it. It's therapeutic, in a way. It's also terrifying—Teresa is only twenty-one and now has full custody of her three brothers. But they have enough of their parents' savings to live off of for a while, not to mention the life insurance from their mother, and Teresa knows that even if the future seems somewhat unmanageable now, they will make it through.
And they do, day by day.
Before she knows it, snow has covered the city in its wintery embrace. Teresa steps out of her last final exam and breathes in the chilly air, making her way to the library. She sits down in her usual spot between the dimly lit bookshelves and leans back slightly, closing her eyes. Her brothers won't be out of school for a few hours at least. And she could really use the time to pull herself together.
"Hey."
Teresa opens her eyes, smiling as she remembers Patrick finding her here all those months ago.
"Hi," she says, reaching up to pull him down beside her.
She doesn't know if she could have gotten through this semester without him by her side.
Secretly, she hopes he will continue to remain there.
He leans in to whisper conspiratorially in her ear. "Guess what?" he asks.
"Hmm?"
"I just submitted the final grades for my class. You got top marks, of course."
She gives him a look, knowing full well there is some other point he wants to make with this. "And?"
He grins. "And," he says, "you are officially no longer my student."
Her throat goes dry. "Yeah?" she says.
Patrick nods. "Yeah," he echoes, leaning toward her.
He moves slowly, giving her ample time to refuse him. Instead, she meets him halfway.
His fingers tuck under her chin, guiding her mouth to his, and she is lost. She sighs against his lips as his tongue touches the roof of her mouth. He pulls away too soon, but he leans his forehead against hers.
He's breathing heavily, and for some reason this makes her inordinately pleased.
"So," he asks as he catches his breath. "Did I live up to expectations?"
Teresa is reminded of the conversation they had the day they met. She smiles.
"The class—yes, of course," she says. "As for the kissing…" She smirks at him. "Well," she says, "I guess it's my turn to say you've earned top marks."
He laughs out loud, the sound echoing around the deserted library, and pulls her against him once more.