Mind Games
Summary: Jane is enjoying this far too much. (She has never managed to become a part of his world.) OneShot- Lisbon, Jane. Post 06x17.
Warning: ended up being angsty, which wasn't my intention. Oh well.
Set: Post season 6 episode 17 – Silver Wings of Time.
Disclaimer: Standards apply.
i.
"Look at you," Jane says as Teresa limps into the CBI's bullpen. His not-so-subtle grin says more than a thousand words. It is a lot, even for Jane.
"Don't start."
Teresa shoots him a nasty look and marches straight past him. Her hair feels like it weights a ton, as do her clothes. Wet is no expression. In fact, wet is the understatement of the year. She hasn't felt this cold and clammy since forever. Or maybe since she broke through the ice of the lake, when she was thirteen, and was pulled out by her brothers. She still doesn't know who was more scared that day: them or her.
"No, I mean it. You look horrible."
Jane's smile would fool anyone who doesn't know him better. The traces of bitterness at their edges cut at her heart. Determinedly, Teresa pushes the thought back into the recesses of her mind – there are boxes there, she's nothing if not a good student – and concentrates on not losing her shoes. Water drips down her hair and into her blazer. With every step, she leaves a trail of water, mud and dirt behind. Her car will need a complete cleaning- A sound of a hastily pushed-back chair, and suddenly Grace is next to her.
"God, Boss, what happened? Come on, you have to get out of those wet clothes-"
And her worry warms Teresa from the inside.
"Yes, Lisbon, what happened?"
Jane blocks her path, for once not getting closer. He's forever intruding on her personal space but today, she guesses, she's too wet and cold for even Patrick Jane. Which is stark, seeing as, as usual, it was his scheme that had her look like this.
"Forest in winter," she grinds out between her chattering teeth. "The next time you send a supposed murderer running into the woods give me a notice before so I can set up something."
"The killer-"
Teresa rolls her eyes and lifts one hand, not able to deal with him just there. "We got him. Now, Jane, if you excuse me. It's getting chilly."
Her chattering teeth prove her point. Grace leads her away and Teresa doesn't look back, but she catches a glimpse at Jane and maybe, maybe, he looks a tiny bit guilty. She could be imagining things, though.
ii.
"Look at you," Jane says as Teresa glides into the CBI's bullpen. His brows wander up his forehead as he takes in her attire. He looks amused, and she wants to smack him.
"Don't start."
She drops her keys onto her desk – no pocket in these kinds of dresses – and puts the clutch next to it. The velvety, midnight-blue material feels soft. Those things usually are nothing for her. Functional is best when running around, catching murderers and criminals. But Teresa is a woman. And she likes pretty things. And sometimes, only sometimes, she likes dressing up a bit. Her dress matches her clutch. The heels aren't bothering her yet, and Grace did her hair in that way of hers that makes Teresa look slightly taller than she actually is. She caught a glimpse at herself in the mirror before and she doesn't know what to think, but she feels beautiful.
"No, I mean it. You look stunning."
Jane's flattery comes with the same practiced ease as his knife-edged analysis of a murderer's psyche. Maybe that is what puts her off just a tiny bit: she never knows whether he means it or not. Or rather: she knows he means it – but she does not know what to do with it.
"You going like that?" She nods at him: Jane in his usual, worn three-piece suit, pants with creases in the wrong place and his tattered shoes. "I didn't think they'd let you appear like this tonight."
"Oh, don't you worry, Lisbon," he says and flashes her a devious grin. "I have been made to understand that a lot is precariously balanced on tonight's performance of Yours truly. You will find me at my most charming and good-looking tonight."
Absently, she wonders what he's like when he's even more charming than usual. And why in the name of everything that is holy she has agreed to this.
"Are you coming or not?"
"Give me twenty minutes."
He's back in seventeen, dressed in a white dress shirt and a tux, his hair even combed for once. The entire evening, he charms the hell out of the sponsors. In all its years of existence, CBI never raised as much funds as it did with Patrick Jane participating on behalf of it. Why the bosses didn't come up with the idea earlier, Teresa wonders, and then realizes she's not the only one bound to be troubled by the idea of setting Patrick Jane loose on the world.
He's enjoying this far too much, she thinks, and carefully watches her consultant. Through a flock of glitter and laughter, he catches her glance and smiles at her, and Teresa can't help but smile back.
iii.
"Look at you," Jane says as Teresa rushes into the FBI's bullpen. She only sees him when she's right in front of him: a lean figure on his battered, old leather couch. His eyes are serious. And, for once, without any undercurrent of anything.
"Don't start."
How long, she wonders, have they been playing this game now? It doesn't matter. Jane always was like that: like the ocean, like a shell, like the wind, nothing to grasp and nothing to hold on to. Nothing inside except for the small secrets he keeps all to himself, those things he tells nobody and hides behind a practiced smile and a jovial demeanor. There is nothing she can hold on to with him and Teresa has long given up on asking more from him than he is already willing to give. This is merely one of those things.
Socks can only convey so much.
"No, I mean it. You are beautiful."
The honesty in his voice makes her stop. He's told her many things over the years – he's told her she was a bad liar, that she looked horrible, that she looked dressed-up, that she was stunning and naïve and a control freak. He has told her that she looked like so many things so many times. He's never before told her she is beautiful, and somehow this feels like an end.
"I hope he takes you someplace nice."
Teresa nods. Small talk, useless information, her lips move on instinct because the only thing she can think of is the look in his eyes. It feels like he is looking at her. Not past her, seeing just a detective and a puppet in his mind games. Not through her, trying to gauge her reactions, trying to read her mind. Jane is looking at her and it is unpleasant and painful and unbearably, unbearably sad and Teresa has no idea why.
"Good Night, Jane," she says softly and turns around to leave. Her hills click on the ground loudly and unfamiliarly.
She thinks she hears his voice – soft and curiously lost in the vastness of an empty FBI bullpen. Good Night, Teresa. But she could be imagining things, and besides, he rarely calls her by her first name. She's always been Lisbon to him.
Teresa catches herself searching for a sign of life behind the lit windows from outside when she leaves the garage in her car. From the outside, the building seems like a grey shadow in the growing darkness: the lit windows a portal to another world.
She imagines Jane on his couch: sipping a cup of tea and staring into nothingness. Lost in his own thoughts.
Jane in his own world.
Even after ten years, it doesn't feel like she has become a part of it.