A/N: Title is from "When I Come To You" by Jonny Lang. First time writing these characters, so I apologize for anyone being out of character.
Like everything else he does, he catches her off guard when he suddenly pulls her toward him. She thinks he's just going to do something silly, like twirl her around in a mock dance, and indeed he does just that when he lifts her hand up and gently tugs her so she moves. She rolls her eyes and goes with it, and lets him lead her back out again. Her other hand flies out to balance herself and in the split-second that she pauses, she sees his expression of delight. Before her mind can fully process it, however, her body's memory has her spinning around and into his arms, and then she knows nothing else except his mouth against hers.
He's in her office doorway, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets and grinning as always; the cat that got the canary, she thinks, or perhaps the cat that outsmarted the canary and can't resist the delight of sticking a few feathers in its cap to prove it. He's as relaxed as she ever sees him, his jacket probably draped over a chair or the couch, his sleeves rolled up and vest unbuttoned. She can't help but give a resigned smile in return. His grin is irresistible on an average day, but in the hours after they-- or more often, he-- have solved a case, it's pure charisma and satisfaction, and she has never been that good at resisting that kind of temptation.
"Everyone is going for drinks," he says. "Coming?"
"Some of us have only paperwork to look forward to tonight," she tells him.
It's an old game. He'll wheedle her until she drags him out of her office and then turn around and lock herself in (which only has happened once, and then he stood outside and shouted the most ridiculous knock-knock jokes through the door until she sighed and went with him) or she gives in after a token resistance and lets herself be taken to whichever bar the team has chosen for the night.
It's not that she never wants to go, but that her idea of celebrating and unwinding after a closed case usually involves no pressing paperwork, a long hot bath with candles and a classic rock station on the radio, and then the indulgence of sleeping in. She usually only stays for a round of drinks or two, before heading home to do her own ritual. She worries that it makes her appear too aloof, but no one seems to notice or care besides Jane, of course.
She's imagined it before, of course. She may have denied her attraction to his face, but she's never denied it to herself. She never could; it just wasn't her style. It's nothing like she imagined, though, and yet it remains entirely unsurprising to her.
He's gentle. His arm is around her and he still has her hand in his, lightly, as if it is frail and might break if he holds it too tightly; too scared to grasp it close and too afraid to let it go entirely. She decides for him, her hand enclosing firmly around his. Her other hand drifts up to his face and then behind his head where it weaves into his curls. She's not letting him go.
He responds by wrapping his other arm around her and pulling her even closer; he breaks the kiss only to nip at her bottom lip, causing her mouth to open in response. She can feel his knowing smile when he kisses her again, but she finds herself too delightfully distracted to care.
"Surely you have more than that to look forward to," he says, giving her the first hint that this time is different. It's not in his tone or his stance, or even in his face, although his eyes are more open and candid than she has seen in awhile. Normally she associates that with sadness and pain, but his smile feels genuine to her, even knowing.
"Perhaps," she says, trying to gauge his mood, "but that's waiting for me at home and not in a bar."
"But you're alone at home," he murmurs, his face now mostly blank. She still can't tell where he's going with this, so she tries again.
"Best company I keep."
He snorts and steps further into the room, eventually sitting on the edge of her desk. "Please, arrogance doesn't suit you," he tells her, "and you can certainly do better than that."
So he has caught her, but she finds that she expected him to anyway. She's getting better, picking up more from him than she'll ever admit, but she can't fool him if he doesn't want to be fooled. She is still left wondering what his game is this time. His gaze is directed absently at the wall, so she looks him over for any tell-tale signs. Something about him is bothering her, but she can't pinpoint--
Oh.
She lets herself feel stupid for a moment. She had noted his relaxed appearance, but hadn't noted the significance of it. If he had intended to join the others for drinks, for her to join them, then he would have been ready to go-- vest and sleeves buttoned, jacket either on or in hand. She had been expecting the pattern to go as it always had, and so acted out the motions through memory. When something that wasn't part of the pattern came up, she hadn't really noticed.
"You're getting better," he says, still not facing her.
"Steep learning curve," she grumbles. He's right, she is getting better, but it still hurts when she fails to see things. He doesn't answer that, just stares at the wall, so she asks, "What is it, Jane?"
"Have you ever thought of calling me Patrick, Teresa?" he asks suddenly, turning around and looking at her directly in the eye. She's not forgotten how startling his eyes can be, but it still takes her a moment to answer.
"I suppose so, but it's not very professional."
"And if you started calling me that, then you would have to call Van Pelt 'Grace,' and Rigsby 'Wayne,' and Cho, well... I suppose Minelli would start to ask questions."
"Jane?"
He's silent, just looking at her, the corners of his mouth struggling to stay down. She sighs.
"Patrick?"
"Yes, Teresa?"
"What do you want?"
He resists it no longer, and instead smiles warmly at her.
"I have a question for you."
He's warm. They're pressed together as close as they can be, bodies touching every inch that's possible. He's warm against her hand, her body, her mouth. She feels almost as if she's bathing in his warmth as if she would the sun, only she knows that he would never burn her like the sun did; he would only turn her face red with a well-placed remark and the charisma that could seduce a nunnery.
He explores her mouth slowly, deeply, and she returns it whole-heartedly, trying to give him everything she has always wanted to but has had no words to say or no actions to express. From the day she has first glimpsed the man beneath the smile, she has wanted nothing more than to find some way to comfort him even if she has known there was no comfort that could ever take away his pain. Her eyes are closed, have been since the beginning, and she dares not open them now lest she lose the courage to continue. She's planning this as she goes, and so instead focuses on simply touching him, hoping it tells him everything he needs to know.
"And that is...?"
"Have you ever once done something without planning what you were going to do?"
She wants to feel exasperated. All of this was just to tease her about her supposed control issues? He tells her otherwise, though, and even if she is no where near the body language expert that he is and can't explain why, she knows that his is sending the message loud and clear. He's serious, behind all his mirth, and he's allowing her to see. So rarely does he let her in, that she can't deny him this.
"It's been a long time," she answers. "Probably not since before my mother died."
"How old were you?"
"Ten."
"Siblings to raise?"
"Yes."
"Ah."
She knows he's filing the information away to bring up at one inappropriate time or another in the future, assuming he hasn't already guessed and this wasn't merely confirmation.
"Why do you ask?"
"Let me show you," he says, standing. He holds out his hand to her. She's wary, and unable to help it. She doesn't mind going along with his usual mischief, but this whole exchange tells her that this will be nothing like before. She stands, and then hesitates again. "Don't think," he orders, his voice steady and soft, "just do."
She takes his hand.
They break, finally, for much need air. Her eyes remain closed, but then they flutter open when she feels him softly kiss her forehead and then rest his own against it. She can't think for a moment, still lost in the rush, but slowly thoughts begin to return.
"You planned that," she accuses, focusing on him. His eyes are closed now, and his expression reveals nothing.
"No, I didn't," he says, eyes still shut. "I thought about it, but I didn't plan it."
"Liar."
He grins in response to that.
"Maybe."
"Why did you do that?"
It's what she should have asked in the first place, she thinks; it's the obvious question, but it's only occurring to her now that maybe this was just another prank or experiment of his. She doesn't think he would do that, or at least not by taking it to this level, but she can't help the shiver of fear that goes through her. Don't play me, Jane, she thinks, don't you dare.
When his eyes finally open and meet hers, however, she knows that he hasn't.
"I needed to," he says so quietly that she can barely hear it. "I needed to."
He's trying to reveal himself to her, letting her in as much as he is able, and for a moment she can't breathe. His eyes are damp, but there are no tears. There won't be. She takes a deep breath and blinks, wondering if hers are damp, too, and then she simply forgets thinking and kisses him, this time with as much love and affection as she can give. It doesn't last long, but they break breathless.
"Why'd you do that?" he echoes. She brushes his lips with her own, gently, before she replies.
"I wanted to."
This time she has no trouble matching his smile.