A/N: Thank you to all my reviewers: Jisbon4ever, dogeatdog, Aquata, springdreaming, Frogster, StealthXHuntress, Anna and the anonymous reviewer whose..name I...obviously...don't...know. :D You guys are the REASON I update this thingy!
Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist...durrr.
Drabble Genre: Romance/Some Humor
Characters: Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane
This was probably the worst idea you have ever had (second to agreeing to work with the irritatingly arrogant, completely annoying...perplexingly beautiful man who is standing in your living room at this very moment).
Really, in this particular day and age, who was left that would casually invite a coworker over to watch a movie (without the ulterior motive of seducing said coworker before the end credits)?
And why, oh why, have you allowed the anticipation to build up within yourself like this (enough to clog your pores, blur your vision, make simple breathing a monumental effort)?
"So...what film did you have in mind? A comedy? No, that's not really your style, is it?" Jane quips, his charming, teasing smile heating up your cheeks. "But I'm sure it's not a drama, because the goal is to surprise me, correct?"
"Why would it be unsurprising for me to choose a drama?" you ask, but you're too busy biting your thumbnail and tapping your foot on the floor to really think anything through.
Jane raises his eyebrow at you.
"Never mind...and I haven't really picked out a movie yet. I thought maybe you'd like to choose."
"Ok. Well, then...you have a very respectable film collection...I believe I've said so before..."
"Yes, you have," you reply, and you're back to square one. This feels like the night of your junior prom, when Teddy Greenwich became the first boy to ever take you anywhere (never mind that you had to arrest him a few years later for violating an unsuspecting farm animal). You're just about to give up on your nonexistent List of Interesting Things to Talk About With Patrick Jane when he sheds his jacket, hangs it by your front door, and practically dives into the DVD collection beside your television.
"How about instead of letting me choose, I employ my uncanny ability to always know what you're thinking and figure out which one of these you really want to watch tonight?" It wasn't a question, you realize, and so you just nod and go along with it. While he's sizing you up, you decide it seems foolish to stand around nervously, and walk the short distance to the kitchen, where he still has a decent view of you.
Then you're opening every cabinet door, trying to figure out what kind of drink to serve. Tea would seem to cater to him too much (and you don't have a kettle). Beer is more your father's style, so you don't keep any in your house. Wine is too sexy, coffee is something you know for a fact that Jane only drinks when he's extremely weary...and now that you've leaned into the very back of your pantry, you realize you have nothing else to offer, and must choose quickly from the meager selection.
"Okay, so I've got it down to two. And the wine would be great, Teresa."
He startles you so much with his sudden closeness that you nearly knock yourself unconscious on the underside of your counter, and you retreat rubbing your head as nonchalantly as possible. He's grinning so widely that you forget the throbbing pain instantly.
"Well...I have an open bottle in the refrigerator. I'll be there in just a minute."
He doesn't leave while you pour the red wine into two glasses, or while you mop up the bit you spilled before it stains your counter. He watches you while you cork the bottle again, replace it in the refrigerator, and turn to face him. His face is unreadable, not smirking, not even making fun of your clumsy wine-pouring capabilities.
You would give your badge to know what he is thinking at this moment (well, maybe not, but you'd take a paid vacation for the first time in five years).
"Jane?" you ask, and your voice sounds so normal, you feel a rush of pride.
"Just waiting."
"For what?"
"There's one more thing I need before I'll know which of these," he said, indicating two DVDs, "we'll be watching tonight. Wait. I'm seeing it..." He steps forward, takes your face in his hands, releases you. "Here," he says, and he hands you your glass of wine, "drink it."
You do as he says, feeling a little childish as his face breaks out into a grin.
"I have it!" he cries triumphantly, and he grabs your hand, his glass of wine, and the movies and pulls you into the living room.
"How did you get anything from me taking a sip of wine?"
"Haven't you learned, dear Teresa, that questioning me never produces a satisfactory answer?"
"Haven't you learned, Jane, that being a smart-ass with me never ends well for your legs?"
Jane cringes away from you in mock-fear, then inserts one of the disks and settles next to you on the comfortable sofa. He does not try to slip an arm around you; as a matter of fact, there's space for an entire person between the two of you, and you can't help but wonder if maybe it's on purpose.
The opening credits begin, and you hear a familiar sound, one you've heard thousands of times in the presence of...your five-year-old niece.
The title appears on the screen, and you can't help yourself; you laugh so freely, you fear wine may come shooting out of your nose.
"The Little Mermaid? Where did you get the idea-?"
"Three things. One, when I came in the door, I noticed a child's raincoat beside the space where I hung my jacket. If someone, say, her father, dropped her off when the forecast called for rain, she would have brought such an article of clothing with her-and as it hasn't rained in quite some time, I assumed it has been a while since you've seen her. And this is her favorite movie, after all, judging by the little red-haired mermaid on the jacket's front. I thought it could help with how much you're missing her."
You're astounded, but because this clue was perhaps a little obvious (for him) you shrug your shoulders and say, "Next." Jane grins at the challenge, and his words come more quickly as he circles the room.
"Two, you asked why it would be unsurprising if you wanted to see a drama-which, automatically, made me think that that's exactly what you had in mind. You're really predictable, Teresa. And it just confirmed my suspicion about your very young relative and her interesting raincoat. I watched this movie with my daughter a few times," he says, and a flicker of pain comes and goes, "and you know, being a sixteen-year-old mermaid going through puberty with no visible means of accessing the man you love-that's definitely a tragedy. So much drama, right?"
Your eyes are bulging out of your head now. His reasoning, if coming from anyone else, would sound utterly fictitious and seem riddled with holes, but the way he tells you these things assures you that he knows exactly what he's talking about.
"What's the last one, then? Does it have to do with-?"
"The wine," he says simply. "The way you drank the wine. Of course, I didn't need to watch you drink anything. I already knew which one to choose. The last one was just for me. "
His expression softens, and he slides a little closer to you on the sofa. Your heart is pumping faster suddenly, like you just realized something important, but you're not sure what it is. The saliva in your mouth turns to dust; you hope your breath smells decent when he kisses you.
(Where, exactly, did that come from?)
"How did I drink it?" you ask, your voice such a quiet whisper that you almost miss your own words.
His smile, the crooked one that you've come to admire so thoroughly, breaks through his smooth demeanor just as the little mermaid sees the man she will love for the first time.
"Like watching television was the last thing on your mind."
(It was.)
He kisses you.
(It's perfect.)
You kiss him back.
(Still perfect.)
His hand cups your cheek; the cold smoothness of something is absent. He's not wearing his wedding band.
(Holy shit.)
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