Notes: takes place mid-to-late season 1.
Warnings: some (quickly rectified) bisexual erasure.
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They're in the middle of a case; a dead guy who also had the misfortune of being a jackass. It would probably, Wayne thinks grumpily as he scans over what feels like the thousandth piece of hate mail, be easier to find people who didn't want to kill him.
"It's not the ex," says Grace as she drapes her jacket over the back of her chair. Wayne glances up, and across from him, Cho twists in his seat to listen. Jane, on the couch, eyes closed, book laying open spine-up on his chest, doesn't even twitch. "I just left her apartment. She lives with another woman now."
"So?" says Cho. Grace shoots him a bemused look, and Wayne jumps in.
"So she's a lesbian, dude. She was never really into our guy in the first place."
"Why not both? Could be into guys and girls."
"That's not a real thing."
Jane is quite suddenly awake. He swings his legs off the couch, tugs his vest into order, and says,
"Sure it is. It is for me."
Wayne gapes. Somewhere in the back of his mind he's aware that Cho looks distinctly unsurprised, but then, he usually does. Grace is the first to find her voice.
"But you – I mean – you were married."
She doesn't say, "and you loved her so completely it's still destroying you," but Jane, being Jane, hears it anyway. He smiles like a coat of whitewash over a ruined masterpiece.
"Yes," he agrees. "And I love my wife very much. That hardly means I've never been attracted to anyone else, or that they've all been women."
"Huh," says Wayne, and Cho gives him that slightly different stoic look that means he thinks he's being an idiot, and Grace gives him that befuddled headshake that means she doesn't understand either, and Jane gives him that frosted glass hint of a smile that could mean anything at all.
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"Hey Cho. Which of us do you think Jane would date? If he had to choose."
Cho doesn't even glance up from his book. It's been a long stakeout.
"Neither."
"Why not?"
"He still wears his wedding ring."
"Yeah, but." Wayne frowns. He can't tell if Cho is being intentionally difficult or if he's just being Cho. "You know what I mean."
"You mean if he weren't obsessive and guilt-ridden? He'd date me."
"How come?" Wayne asks, a little more stung than he can account for. If Cho notices, he doesn't acknowledge it.
"Jane likes people who stand up to him. You don't."
"Neither do you!"
"You said he had to choose. I just go along with his BS because it usually works; you act like he's Harry Potter or something."
"I do not," Wayne protests. Cho glances at him sideways. Wayne doesn't know why he's pressing the issue. He gets the uncomfortable feeling that Cho does.
"Sure," says Cho, and turns back to his book.
"I don't," Wayne repeats, because it's true. It's not Jane he's in awe of; really it isn't. It's just – moments. A magic trick, a turn of phrase, a rare sparkle of devilish delight, an even rarer flash of sincerity. Jane's a mess, a murder waiting to happen; tragic and terrifying and sometimes pretty terrible; but those moments –
"He's on the move," Cho says, sliding the car into gear, and Wayne never finishes his thought.
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The sulky teenage son of their victim is picking at a thread on his black hoodie behind the two-way glass. Wayne wonders absently what the kids call that pale-skin-dark-eyeliner look these days. Goth? Emo? Who knows. He didn't understand it even when he was a kid.
He jumps when the door clicks shut. He hadn't noticed it opening.
"You've been avoiding me." Jane has a way of sounding amused and accusatory at the same time. Wayne has never quite been able to figure it out. Right at this moment, he just wishes he would stop it.
"No I haven't."
He sounds unconvincing to his own ears. He's not at all surprised by Jane's winter moon of a smile, or the fool's gold glitter in his eyes.
"Liar."
"It's not – I mean –" This is going to come out all wrong, and Wayne has never been more grateful for Jane's ability to practically read his mind, or more embarrassed by it. "I don't have a problem with it, or anything. The – the liking guys thing. It's not – I'm not –"
"I know."
"I mean, my roommate in college was gay; it was never a big deal or anything; I just always figured – I mean, you –"
"Rigsby."
"Yeah?"
Wayne finally meets Jane's eyes, and finds him much closer than anticipated. He's struck by how short Jane is; how small. Jane doesn't handle physical threats well; he's a cheat and a trickster and he always dances just out of arm's reach; but here he is, close enough to touch, close enough to feel the heat of his breath.
Wayne doesn't move away, not when Jane closes the small space between them, not when a cold hand finds the back of his neck and guides his face down, not even when Jane presses his lips to his.
It's dry and warm and more gentle than Wayne would have ever thought Patrick Jane could be capable of, and Wayne knows that, 1. This is not how Jane kisses. And, 2. This is the only way Jane will ever kiss him.
And Jane pulls away. And Wayne breathes. And Jane says,
"Now you can stop wondering."
And Wayne knows that they both know it's a lie, and Wayne knows that it's the best Jane has to offer.
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It's over.
Lisbon is dragging the killer away in cuffs, and Wayne is staring out at the landscape for the first time. They're just west of Fresno, and parched yellow hills roll out for as far as he can see. In the distance, the sun glitters off the blue of a reservoir. Wayne can see the line the water used to rise to, the dry paths where streams used to flow. It makes his chest ache, and the pain is oddly familiar.
Jane steps up beside him, and smiles, and the sun glitters off the blue of his eyes.