Chapter 1 - In Search Of

She shielded herself from the torrent of rain that slid heavily from the clouds above her, pulling her coat closer to her body and trying to maintain control of the umbrella that was forcing itself inside out from the brutal winds blowing in from the ocean to the north. She sighed deeply as her boots hit deep pockets of rainwater beneath her, the dodging only forcing her through the thick crowd of people slower and messier than she thought it would. She didn't stop until she got to halfway up the block, turning herself to the front of the building and sloping the umbrella on her shoulder as her eyes raked quickly over the bricks and mortar, passing over the glass doors that were the entrance, and to the sign above. Again, she sighed; this sigh was heavier and elongated. The view in the front window did no favors in improving her mood, choosing to press her eyes in a roll and shake her head.

"I really, really need another job," she muttered to herself, starting up the few steps leading to the doors. "Please."

That was a moot point if a moot point ever did exist. She knew there was no other job for her. This was it. She loved this job. If she didn't, she would have split long ago, especially after Jane left. If she had half a brain, she thought, she would have packed up her office, said goodbye to everyone and everything that reminded her of that time in her life, and booked it somewhere peaceful and calm. But no. She couldn't do that. She loved it too much. As many painful memories as she had, there was little else she wanted to do.

She reached for the door handle, turning herself to corral the umbrella before entering the small, crowded area. She hated jam-packed places. Especially ones filled with creepy—albeit, loyal—people. The small studio was not exactly what she was expecting when Abbott had given her the address and told her what he wanted her to do. Somehow, she was expecting a palatial house on the beach, or even a boat somewhere warm and sunny. The fact it was in a small town in humdrum Oregon baffled her. But, wherever Patrick Jane was concerned, nothing really surprised her much anymore. Not even his re-emergence via FBI contract could surprise her. His demands, however, had. It had shaken their relationship to the core, and more importantly, it had separated them; a choice not of her own volition.

She stood in line, which consisted of about twenty people, following the line as it shrunk in size with each minute that passed. When she got to being the fifth person back, she could make out the top of his head. Nothing had changed there in the three years they had been apart since his re-emergence. He still had the blond locks flowing long, combed back from his forehead and set with styling gel to keep it in place. She also could smell that his cologne had not changed, either. It was a mix of sandalwood and menthol. A smell that, if a gun was pointed at her head, she'd say was inebriating.

"Do you have your ticket, ma'am?" a dark-haired, skinny man asked, holding out his palm expectantly for the ticket she didn't have. "I can give you the stub back if you want." He smiled brightly at her, his fake smile giving away how much he hated his job. Lisbon grinned back, reaching into her pocket and producing her FBI badge.

"No, thanks," said Lisbon brightly. "I'm a special guest this evening."

She watched the kid's—she thought he was maybe nineteen or twenty—face blanch at the sight of her badge and nod his head slightly, pointing to a row of seats just four up from the main stage. She thanked him (smiling to herself that as small as she was, the badge always managed to make people do what she wanted), put the badge back into her pocket, and sat down where he had indicated. She had a good view of the stage, and of Jane. Her eyes steadied on him, taking in that his appearance had not changed, either, when it came to his clothing. He still wore the same suits as before, though the island shirt he had come back to the USA in had been ditched in favor of a white cotton t-shirt. He did not wear the vest, still; a fact that disappointed her for some reason. His shoes were new, too. The old, dirty brown ones were nicked in favor of clean, black ones and his jacket matched his trousers. Other than those small changes, everything else looked the same from the last time she had seen him.

She watched him in silence at his animated discussion with a man wearing a microphone, nodding his head and laughing as they looked at a sheet of paper the man, who she guessed was the producer, held in his hand. She wondered if anything in his personal life had changed for him besides his change in profession. Was he seeing anyone? Married? She doubted it, but she couldn't be sure. She was thinking of this possibility, and why it made her feel sullen when a tap on her arm startled her.

"Sorry if I scared you," a woman with short, red hair told her, leaning in to make sure she was heard. "Are you excited to see Mr. Jane? I've been waiting for months! I'm hoping to reconnect with my sister. How about you? Anyone, in particular, you are hoping he puts you in touch with?"

"Reality," she muttered under her breath. "My mother," she lied off the other woman's facial expression.

"Lovely. Have you met him before? You were gazing at him with a look of nostalgia before," she explained.

Lisbon shook her head vehemently. "I thought I did once."

"What happened?" the meddlesome woman asked.

"The inability to forgive," she replied.

The woman nodded slightly, her face contorted in confusion. Lisbon sighed and faced forward in her seat just as the QUIET sign lit brilliant red.

He smiled brilliantly, sweat already gathering on his forehead from the lights raised above him, shining evenly and adding a slight glare of the audience. He swept his bluish-green eyes over the filled seats, silently picking out things on different people that spoke more about them than any words could. He watched them file in and quiet down.

He often reflected on his journey back to the stage. It wasn't exactly wrought with ease. He hadn't come to the decision lightly, only doing it out of logical order of things. It was the only thing he could do to sustain himself. He loved the challenge of it, something that every other job—his old stint at the CBI notwithstanding—could not. He had to figure out how to get people to trust him again, which wasn't too hard to do because there were always believers. There were always people looking for hope. His job now was something from his past he hadn't wanted to jump back into, but he felt an almost compulsion; there were nothing left for him when he came back to work with the FBI, and if he didn't find something else to do with his time, he was sure he'd be homeless, aimless or some variation of the two. The one thing he did have left he let go though it pained him. Letting Lisbon go was the one regret in this second chance of his that the FBI afforded him.

Lisbon. Thinking of her brought an unshakable pain in his chest that rushed through his veins and made his legs weak. He sighed and made his way over to the black seat in the middle of the stage, sitting down and waiting for the producer in front of him to hold up one finger, indicating he could begin this taped session, which was set to air a few weeks from now. He shook his head slightly as if to let the thoughts fall from his mind and focus on the task at hand, which was landing his eyes carefully over the people in the crowd. He told them what they wanted to hear or what was an obvious giveaway by either their body language, words, or something they touched. This time around, however, he was careful with his wording and very careful to distinguish lies from hope. It was a fine line, even in his opinion, but there was little to be done about that. He was only doing what the FBI wanted him to do.

He watched as his producer's fingers showed five, and the camera light went from red to yellow. As soon as all the fingers were down and his producer pointed at him, he stood. His eyes fell to the green on the top of the camera, indicating that was the one he was to be looking at. He cleared his throat and stepped across the stage a few paces, smiling widely at the audience, his eyes scanning generally over them.

"My name is Patrick Jane," he started, pointing a finger at himself. "Most of you already know who I am, but let me refresh your memory. I am a master of the mind. I want you to know that what I do is not psychic abilities. There are no such things as psychics. Instead, I tap into you. Dialing into your soul, if you will. You provide me with the tools I need, and I evaluate them."

The crowd applauded, and Jane lifted his hands up to quiet them down. Once they faded their clapping, his eyes raked over the audience, attempting to pick out someone to read. It was as he was making his second pass, his face scrunched in faux thought, that he saw her. At first, he thought it was a trick of the light. It was only after her green eyes caught his that he knew he wasn't seeing things. What was she doing here? It had been three years! His eyes lingered on hers before quickly moving on, though he felt his heart skip a beat. She looked the same, though her hair had bangs now, and she looked a little thinner than he remembered. His eyes fell to the other side of the room, finally, where he picked out a woman, reading her body language—which consisted of touching a bracelet on her wrist and a fifty-fifty shot that it was her mother she was here to be in touch with—making her stand and reading her with near perfect accuracy, only waning a little on the name of her deceased mother. He bounced around for half an hour, finding people to read.

He intentionally looked over at Lisbon, turning his eyes to the woman beside her in a split second, though his gaze wavered infinitesimally back to her. He had deliberately chosen the woman beside her; it was a move of defiance. It was a move that told her without words that he saw her, and he was unfazed by her appearance here. But that was a lie she could not detect because he was fazed. He was curious as hell if he was being completely honest with himself. He smiled when the lady beside her squealed, causing Lisbon to contort her face in irritation at her cackle. He smiled wider as his eyes found Lisbon's lips and read a curse word flying across them.

"You," said Jane to the woman. "You are here because someone you loved has passed on."

"Yes! Yes!" the woman said, clapping her chubby hands.

His eyes fell to the woman's hand, noting that she held a picture of a younger woman. He figured the woman was wanting to come in contact—air quotes necessary around in contact—someone younger than her; she was quite young herself, so the picture in her hands would need to be a daughter or sister. This was confirmed even more by the red hair both the picture and herself shared. A sister was the logical choice.

"I am getting you had a sister? Possibly younger than you," said Jane. "She died young. An illness or maybe a vehicular accident." It was an old trick of his trade; if it wasn't an illness, it had to be an accident or murder. Statistically speaking, murder was almost always ruled out before the others.

"She died of cancer," the woman replied, her hands rubbing the picture she held. "About ten years ago!"

"And you have regrets about something you did or said before she died." Duh. Everyone had regrets. The shoulda-woulda-coulda's were just a part of the grieving process.

He watched her face perceive shock. "Yes," she whispered. "I do!"

He smiled at her and nodded his head. His eyes fell to Lisbon and he felt himself frown again. "Just know that she was here. Whatever happened in the past is in the past. People don't carry over pain and hurt. She understands." His gaze slid back to the woman. "Thank you."

Jane turned and walked over toward the chair stationed in the middle of the stage, his producer holding up five fingers once again. This time, the fingers counted up, letting Jane know that the end of filming was coming. When the alarm buzzed, indicating that the cameras were off, Jane walked off the stage without looking back, walking down the thin hall and into the small room that they assigned as his dressing area. He shut the door with a click and turned around, pressing his back against the door and wondering how long it would take for Lisbon to find him back here. He was both dreading the reunion and excited for it. It was a combination that only she could give him.

His heart skipped a beat when he heard the familiar rap of her small knuckles on the other side of the door.

She braced herself, choosing to smooth down her coat which was still quite damp from the torrential rains outside. She heard a noise from the other side of the door, followed by the door swinging open, allowing one bluish-green eye to peer out at her. If she wasn't so nervous seeing him for the first time in years, she'd have laughed at his appraising gaze with one eye at her.

"Are you going to let me in, Jane, or are you going to stand there gawking at me?" she asked with a quirk of her lips.

"Uh," he said, clearing his throat, "yeah. Come in, Teresa." He stood back from the door and opened it, allowing her entrance.

Teresa. Her name on his lips made her tremble slightly. She turned around in time to watch him shut the door behind her. "It's nice to see you again, Jane."

He nodded his head in agreement. "You, too, Teresa." He walked past her and sat down on the black leather couch that lined the left wall. He sighed and looked up at her, his expression thoughtful. "What made you look me up?"

She shook her head, walking over and plopping herself beside him on the couch. "No. You don't see me for the first time in three years just to ask me what I want," she told him.

"You did come to see me about something," he told her softly. "And you waited for three years, so I assume it is very important."

"It is," she agreed, "but I would like to hear about how life has been for you, Jane. Last time I saw you, you told me we couldn't be partners, and then asked for a transfer. I thought we could start there."

"You're bitter about that, I understand," Jane replied. "Perhaps we can discuss this later. It would be a long conversation, and I would rather hear about your reasons for being here." He was being honest, but she felt there was a hint of resentment in his voice.

"I'm in town for another two days," said Lisbon with a slight dip of her head. "If you want, we can grab something to eat. Catch up… tell you what I am here for."

He smiled slightly at her. "Dinner? Okay," he said with a curt nod. "I know a nice place. It's a regular of mine." He paused a moment, then, "Tell me, Teresa. Are you in trouble? I can't help but feel your impromptu visit after years of being away is some kind of bearer of bad news kind of thing." He waited, and when she said nothing, he poked again, "Teresa?"

"Yes," she finally gave in.

"Yes, what?"

"I'm in trouble, Jane. A personal matter. I need your help."

A/N: I'm back! My other stories can no longer be found here. I am starting anew, hopefully, with better grammar and a more interesting story for you. They will not be reuploaded, but I hope you find this story equally enjoyable. Thank you so much for sticking with me. I will update this story whenever I have some time. I hope you will enjoy it, and constructive criticism is always welcome! Thank you :) I have a pile of fanfiction updates from other writers, so I might be a little with the update. Until then, thank you in advance.