"Jane. Patrick." He paused, deciding how to structure his sentence. "Losing your wife and child isn't like losing a pair of shoes at the gym. You aren't going to forget in a few weeks' time, once you have gotten new ones. Years will pass, and you will still remember how the carpet felt beneath your feet as you walked to the bedroom door. You will remember the remaining scent of the previous night's dinner as you walked through the hallway. You will remember. You will always remember." His voice grew fainter and his eyes wondered to Jane's. Quickly, they fell to the floor.
Patrick picked up his tea stained mug from the coffee table and lifted it cautiously to his lips. It was not often that Patrick Jane felt smaller than any other man, but Luther Wainwright reduced him to a nervous, hesitant, ordinary person. They sat in a mutual silence, Wainwright on a large chair behind his desk, and Jane on a low backed, low budget chair almost opposite.
After placing his cup back on the table, Jane parted his lips as if he was about to say something, but soon closed them, twisting them into a weak smile. With two fingers, he unconsciously twisted the silver wedding ring on his left hand. A single button on his waistcoat had come undone, revealing more of the pale blue, ironed shirt he wore underneath. It tucked neatly into his dark trousers, and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Releasing a breath he didn't realise he was holding, Jane leant back in his seat, loosening the tight posture he had been keeping. Wainwright followed, lifting his right leg up to rest on his left.
"I know just as well as you do that you aren't going to accept help from anyone. If you do, you'll waste everyone's time and make up stories, because you're so incredibly more hilarious and intelligent than whoever else is in the room –"
"And whoever else isn't in the room,"
"- and whoever else isn't in the room. I'm not going to demand you go and talk to one of our councillors. If you thought that would be a good idea, you would have gone yourself. Plus, I know it will end in disaster."
"You're probably right."
"Instead," Wainwright faltered. Jane resumed his strict posture, unsure of what was being suggested. "I thought that, perhaps, you could talk to me. I know I haven't been here long, but I was hoping that you can trust me. It is my responsibility to make sure you are well, as your boss and your friend."
Patrick ran his tongue across his teeth, contemplating the man's offer.
"I'm sure you've heard this speech from Lisbon, the rest of the team, and previous bosses. Please, at least consider it."
Again, a silence fell between the men, but this time, it was tense, almost uncomfortable. Fiddling with his cuffs that were now pulled down to his wrists, Jane sat forward in his seat. He regularly spoke of his relationship with Red John, and what had happened to his family, but that was usually to help get information for a case. Unless they gain something from it, people are rarely interested in another's troubles. However, although he barely knew Wainwright, he recognised a certain trust between them. He knew that although Luther was young – especially for a CBI agent – he was intelligent. It wasn't often that Patrick met intelligent people that weren't psychos or "psychics".
"Well –", Jane started.
"Have you seen Ja-? Oh, sorry, I'll just..."
"No, come in Lisbon. Patrick's been with me. There's no need to worry; he's not gone chasing the suspect in a case we haven't even looked at yet. For once."
"I've just had a call from a local PD. A young girl that had been missing for two days has been found dead in a park. The family are still there now. It's about half an hour's drive and apparently it's raining, so you'd better grab a coat. Cho, Van Pelt and Rigsby are coming too. We'll meet you by the car in two minutes", she said before disappearing from the office.
This left Jane and Wainwright stood facing each other.
"I'd better get going then."
"Think about my offer. Please."
Jane replied with a smile. Luther returned it. Cautiously, he reached out his hand to touch Patrick's. The brush of skin was gentle, soft, and only brief, but it was comforting. Pulling his arm back to his side, he smiled again and locked eyes with the opposite man, before lowering his.
Jane turned, crossed the room, opened the door, and left.
Sighing, Luther retreated to his desk and began working through a pile of official complaint forms. One name was frequently among them: Patrick Jane.
