Soon
A/N: AU ahoy! Un-edited.
When Patrick Jane smiles he is showing his face to the audience the same way magicians show a deck of cards before the trick.
"Volunteers?"
Hands shoot up a little faster than normal, but then again, this show is well publicized. It's his 10th successful broadcast.
He strolls down the three steps until he's level with the audience. Directly in front of him is an obese woman with the watery look of someone in mourning. Her father died— no. Judging by the look in her eyes the wound's fresh and if her father had just died she wouldn't be going to a T.V show. Maybe a cat?
Her eyes beg him to pick her with such earnestness Patrick Jane knows he can't. Even the unobservant will notice how easy a mark she is.
Instead, Patrick turns on the heel of his newly polished leather shoe, closes his eyes and points. He leaves his eyes closed for a moment to enhance the effect, although he's eager to open them. He can hear the murmurs of the audience at his choice.
"I didn't volunteer," says a throaty, if feminine voice. Not a smoker, but someone who works long hours.
Jane grins, that same magic-trick grin, shiny as a flipped coin and just as unpredictable, as he opens his eyes. "All the better."
The new mark is objectively pretty with her dark, short hair, and liquid-fire green eyes, but not his type. Not young enough, not needy enough
She crosses her arms, but the motion is practiced. The motion of a mother, but no, she looks too sharp to be a mother. A boss then. She can feel him looking at her, and almost flinches from it. Perhaps—
The screen of the prompter blinks a warning. He's been silent too long. A couple seconds of dead air is equivalent to turning off the jets of an airplane midflight. People have to believe that the trick is effortless.
"I didn't volunteer," she repeats
"If I picked a volunteer whose to say I wouldn't be using an accomplice," Jane counters.
This garners a laugh from the audience. They are all such believers that the thought of Jane being a fraud is humorous. But aren't the best jokes always true?
"I have stage fright."
"Don't worry," he soothes, "it will be easy. Everyone's on your side."
The audience claps, as if this will prove that point.
"All the same." The woman's arms hug her chest tighter, but her lips quiver, about to break into a smile.
Jane crosses his arms hoping that she'll uncross hers in response. It's a move tantamount to physical reverse psychology. When people trust you they mirror you, and when they don't—
Bingo.
The woman uncrosses her arms the moment Jane crosses his. In a flash, he's clasping both of her hands in his. Her's are warm; this fact isn't important, but Jane has found particular affection for unimportant facts when it comes to the reluctant woman, as he's dubbed her.
"You came here, because you wanted to see me." Jane begins, in a low even tone. "You wanted to see me, because you've been curious." His father had made him practice with a metronome when he was little to get his words perfectly measured. "You've been curious so you came here, and now that you're here it really is important for you to take this opportunity."
"I—" she tries to interrupt him. More self aware then most.
"I'm here to help you." Jane presses two of his fingers to her pulse in time with her heartbeat.
"If I go up there," she nods to the stage, "I'll never live it down at work."
Interesting, interesting. "Would it be okay if I did the reading down here then? Unless you're a spy and you don't want me prying into your secrets."
He hand flickers toward her belt, a barely noticeable tick.
"I understand why you'd be reluctant to come up on stage with a psychic," Jane conspires.
"I don't think you do." A smirk kisses the woman's lips with self-satisfaction.
Jane has to reign in a smirk himself. She thinks she can keep a secret from me.
"It wouldn't do for an officer of the law to seen believing in magic."
The woman's eyes widen. "What gave it away?"
"I know things, nothing," his smile turned to a frown of disgust, "gave it away, Miss…"
"Ag—Lisbon."
Again, Jane closes his eyes, remembering to the pre-show briefing where Tanner always showed him the seat-plan. Quickly he scans through his memory palace until he comes to hers.
"Teresa."
Her face is a fireworks display of wonder and suspicion. She's a woman of contrasts all right.
"Don't worry, I'm not going to pry into any of your ongoing investigations, Agent Lisbon. Not an ordinary cop, but not FBI." Too far from Quantico for that.
Teresa's barriers try and reform themselves; she even takes a step back shaking her head. "I'd prefer not to talk about work, Mr. Jane, I'm on vacation."
Her eyes burn brighter. She's lying, but there's no use saying that now.
"Of course, of course. Then you'll come on stage with me, Teresa?"
Her eyes move upward, but don't complete a final roll, yet her lips have loosened and are closer to smiling. "Sure."
Surprising himself, Jane takes her hand, and leads her up to the couch and desk set up in front of the cameras. There's no reason to, he's touched her hand once, he'll gain no more new information from it. But he wants to, so he does.
She's dressed in a pants suit and has no problem getting settled on the couch with a perfunctory crossing of the legs, a move oddly feminine for a cop. Maybe his motherly vibe wasn't too far off.
"So you don't want to talk about work; what would you like to talk about then?"
"I don't know. It's your show, Mr. Jane."
"How about your family?"
She leans backward in her seat, her eyes hardening. Again, her hand flicks to her belt, searching for the comfort of a holster that isn't there.
"No. Not your family, then. But if not your family or your work then it will have to be your love life." His tone is glib, but his eyes are unmoving as they're fixed on hers, checking in to make sure that he hasn't pushed to far.
She doesn't blush, but the slight look to the ground gives away far more. The police-woman indulging the psychic is gone, replaced with the embarrassed, single woman, almost to thirty and with no serious relationship to speak of.
"You're a beautiful woman, Teresa, and that's nothing to be embarrassed of." He leans backward, mirroring her, but it's only after he's made the movement that he realizes what he's done. "Neither is the fact that you prefer to be alone. That you guard yourself."
"Everyone guards themselves, Mr. Jane." Bereft of her gun and badge she wields her professionalism.
"Many people do, but few people know what they're really guarding against." Although Jane can make guesses to what drove her to the police force, he chooses to keep those postulations to himself. She is already on the brink of running.
For all her discomfort, she looks him head on and nods, unabashed. "Yes."
Her forthrightness is contagious. "I am unmarried myself." The reflection of himself in the perpetually blank prompter, reminds him, that fuck he is on T.V and he has to stop getting lost here. So he offers the audience a knowing glance. "For me it's difficult to find the time to have a personal life. And even if I could, in my line of work…"
The art of silence is one of Jane's favorites, and he uses it well, allowing his words to fade away.
She shifts forward, putting her weight on the tips of her black heels.
"To devote all of your time and care to one person. Well, it would be selfish. Romance is different from platonic love. You're worried it would consume you." He cocks his head. "You're worried you'd lose control." And without control you lose people.
"I've loved people," she corrects, and she's not smiling anymore, but she's not frowning either.
"Yes, but you've never been in love. There's a big difference."
He can feel that difference, watching her with her wide eyes.
"I don't know if there is," she says proudly, as if she's won the right to say this.
"Exactly," he can't contain his glee. "You don't know."
She's caught now; she believes. Patrick would feel bad about lying to her, but reading someone hasn't felt this good in a while. Anyway, her posture is so stiff but her eyes are so alive. She needs help.
He leans forward and takes her hand into his own. Her pulse beats fast triplets and her hand's are warmer then before. "But you will know. One day."
Gently, with his thumb he strokes the side of her hand and he is pleased when he sees goose bumps raise in its wake.
"Soon."
And that's when the buzzer rings.