Over the next few weeks, Patrick steals time with Teresa. They fall into a routine of meeting at their spot in the park on Saturday afternoons, where they continue his self defense lessons. Sometimes, though, they just lie together in the grass under the old trees and she shows him pictures of Lizzie. He tapes them to his refrigerator, a bittersweet reminder of all that he's missing.
Patrick lifts Teresa's wallet on more than one occasion to sneak her some extra cash to pay for these babysitting hours. It seems only fair, he thinks, considering they wouldn't be necessary if not for him anyway. He'd taken the liberty of inquiring about the CBI's maternity leave policy - as he'd expected, it is atrocious. He knows Teresa isn't planning on returning to work until three months have passed since Lizzie was born. And by law, Teresa is able to take twelve weeks off, though the CBI is not obligated to pay her for her leave unless she uses sick days or vacation days. He does the math, realizing she can't have been employed by the CBI long enough to have accumulated enough days to cover twelve weeks. And even then, Teresa will be at a disadvantage when she returns to work in the case she needs to take time off for other health-related issues.
He sets up a college fund for Lizzie that same day, deciding to only share this information with his sponsor, Michael, for the time being.
"How old is she?" asks Michael one day as they are standing in line to order drinks - coffee for Michael, tea for Patrick - after a weekend meeting. Michael is a retired Navy SEAL who'd served two tours abroad. He stands about half a foot taller than Patrick, though his muscle mass puts him at likely a hundred pounds heavier. Besides Teresa, he's the only person Patrick feels intimidated by.
Patrick reaches for his wallet and produces a slightly wrinkled picture of Lizzie, fast asleep and clutching the stuffed dinosaur she'd received as a gift from Cho and Rigsby.
"Eight weeks," says Patrick, and he can't help but smile at the picture. "She's grown so much since I saw her last."
They pay for their drinks and stand off to the side as they barista prepares them. Michael nods. "She's good for you," he says. "As is her mother. Sometimes, it's hard to find the strength to keep fighting for ourselves, but we can always find that strength for the people we care about."
Patrick hums in agreement, and they grab their drinks and sit down.
"How are things with you?" asks Patrick.
Michael shrugs. "There are good days and bad days. For whatever reason, the PTSD has been worse this week."
Patrick leans back in his chair, tapping a finger against the table.
Michael hadn't survived war by being unobservant. "What are you thinking?" he asks.
Patrick takes a breath. "Have you tried hypnotherapy?" he says.
His sponsor laughs deeply. "I've heard it's a load of shit," says Michael.
Patrick has to laugh at this, too. "It can be," he acknowledges. "Unless you have the right hypnotist."
"You recommending someone?"
Patrick gestures to himself.
Michael narrows his eyes. "You hypnotize people into believing you were psychic?"
"Not quite," says Patrick. "Some of my clients saw me for addiction-related problems. I helped a few quit smoking. Others I saw because of phobias or other psychological issues." He leans forward again. "It might be worth a shot."
"Why haven't you tried it?"
"When I was first learning the trade, I trained myself to be less susceptible to hypnosis. At the time, it was a way to protect myself, to make sure no one could get inside my head. It was a point of pride for me, to be un-hypnotizable, so to speak." He smiles wryly. "Obviously, my being more or less immune to hypnosis isn't ideal now."
Michael nods and takes a deep drink from his coffee. "Let me think about it," he says finally.
As it turns out, Patrick's sponsor doesn't need long to consider his offer: he hears from Michael the next day asking if he'd still be willing to try it. They make plans to meet up after the next meeting.
They borrow one of the annex rooms in the community center where group meetings are held and get to work. Despite Michael's initial hesitation, he proves fairly easy to take under, and Patrick asks him some questions, leading him in what he hopes is the right direction. He's helped clients with addiction before, of course, but never with PTSD. He knows enough, however, to understand the general approach he needs to use.
Once he's fairly confident they've made at least some progress, he wakes Michael up. His sponsor blinks, dazed, and says, "Did it work?"
Patrick scrubs a hand over his mouth and chin. "I guess we'll see," he responds. "Let me know how you feel this week. If it seems to make things better, we can keep working on it."
Things do, in fact, seem to improve for Michael, so much so that within the next month everyone at the meetings suddenly knows who Patrick is, and his skill as a hypnotist becomes common knowledge. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to have heads turn in his direction when he walked into a room, what it felt like to have curious eyes following his movements. He'd thought he could leave that behind with his fake psychic business in Malibu - he'd never much liked being a celebrity.
Patrick brings himself back to the present. The members of the current meeting take their seats, and Patrick unintentionally makes eye contact with a woman who he knows is also struggling with cocaine addiction.
An idea occurs to him.
Later that week, Patrick arrives early at the park. He throws a blanket on the ground and lies down under their tree, closing his eyes and lacing his fingers together over his chest. Birds sing overhead. He listens to their lullaby, feeling it lull him toward unconsciousness.
Suddenly he catches a waft of cinnamon, and he's wide awake, his eyes wide open. Teresa approaches and sits next to him, laying down and propping herself up on an elbow. She peers down at him.
"Cho told me you were key to cracking the Glenshaw murder," she says, playful and proud. "Nicely done."
He can't help but smile bashfully. "The killer was practically begging to be caught."
Teresa laughs. "Not really," she says. "That case has been open for months." She leans over slightly, and her hair tickles his neck. "Just take the compliment, Patrick."
He holds her gaze, all seriousness. "Okay," he says. "Thank you."
She nudges him. "You're welcome." With a satisfied sigh, she rests her head next to his, and her hand finds his own. Their fingers intertwine. He grins, ecstatic, tilting his head so he can see her face.
She's smiling, too.
"How was your week?" he asks.
"I'm ready to get back to work," Teresa says without hesitation. "I'm going stir crazy. I love Lizzie more than anything in this world, but I miss my job. And I miss seeing you all the time."
"Good thing you go back on Monday." He smiles.
"Thank goodness," Teresa responds. She looks over at him. "Listen," she says. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you." She looks suddenly shy, and Patrick props his head up on his hand. "Every year the CBI has a big formal fundraiser. All the bigwigs who donate are invited, and the agents go to schmooze and try to encourage them to donate more."
Teresa looks down at their hands. Her thumb brushes back and forth against his palm.
"Would you like to go with me?"
He forgets to breathe for several seconds.
"Yes," he says finally and a little too loudly. "Yes, I would very much like to go with you." He squeezes her hand in delight at her answering grin. "It's formal, you said?"
"Black tie attire," she confirms.
"Will there be dancing?" he asks eagerly.
"Yes."
"Will you dance with me?"
"Will you behave yourself?"
"For you, my dear, I'll do anything."
She pretends to consider this. "All right, then."
They banter and flirt for another couple hours, shifting closer to each other in the process, and eventually her head is on his chest. Reluctantly, he looks at his watch and shifts her in his arms. "We should get going if we want to have time to stop by my place before you go back home," he whispers.
Teresa sighs, placing her arm over his torso and gripping him tightly. "I miss you," she murmurs.
He kisses her temple and pulls her to her feet. "Let's go."
He follows her in his car back to the parking lot of his building, and they walk inside together in silence. Patrick takes off his shoes and socks, and Teresa leaves hers on, bringing her eyes a little closer to the height of his own. They move to the bathroom, and Patrick's phone rings. He moves to silence it, but Teresa shakes her head. "It's okay," she says.
Patrick checks the caller ID. "Hi Michael," he says after flipping open the phone. "Still meeting tomorrow?"
"Yes," says Michael. "Hey, Patrick, I know you're swamped with work and volunteer work, but I have an Navy friend who's interested in trying hypnosis. He saw how much good it's done for me. Could I trouble you - "
"No trouble at all," says Patrick. "I'm staying after the meeting tomorrow to help someone else anyway, so just bring your friend along."
"Thanks, Patrick. I really can't thank you enough."
"Least I can do, Michael. Take care."
"Say hello to Teresa for me."
Patrick flushes. Teresa notices. "Will do." And he ends the call.
Teresa raises an eyebrow.
"That was Michael," says Patrick, placing the phone down on the bathroom counter. "He says hi."
Teresa grins. "How much have you told him about me?" she asks, lifting her hands to the crook of his neck and brushing the skin there. She slides her hands underneath his suit jacket and pushes it from his shoulders.
She's taking her time on the buttons of his vest when he answers. "I may have told him a bit about you." Her hands brush his pectorals, and even through his shirt, the contact makes him feel feverish and frenzied. "I may have told him a lot about you."
She sets the vest to the side. "I've always liked these vests," she says. When his breath catches, she begins divesting him of his shirt. His belt and slacks follow quickly. As she removes them, her fingers brush his center, whether on purpose or not, he's not sure. "What did he want?" Teresa asks a few seconds later.
"I'm doing some volunteering in my spare time," says Patrick, hoping concentrating on the words will control body parts that threaten to betray him.
With one hand on his left hip and the other at the crook of his right elbow, she stills. "What kind of volunteering?" she asks.
He looks into her eyes. "Remember when you met Agostino? How I mentioned I used hypnosis to get him to quit smoking?"
She nods.
"It works with other addictions, too. I'm helping out a few people at my meetings. It's not foolproof, of course, and some people can't be taken under at all, but…it's a start."
Before he can realize what's happening, Teresa has folded him into her arms. He's intensely aware of every pinprick of contact between them.
Then, without a word, she steps back, beginning her examination of every surface of sinew.
He's been stripped bare before her a dozen times now but never quite like this. Her lips follow her fingertips across his skin, and she devotes extra attention to the crooks of his elbows, kissing the scars there. He nearly loses it when she turns him around to examine his back, trailing open-mouthed kisses across every inch.
"Teresa," he says in a strangled voice.
He thinks he feels her smile against his skin.
Then she guides him to sit on the counter. She gives the same attention to his thighs, his calves, his knees. He leans his head back against the cool mirror. "Are you rewarding me for good behavior or something?" he asks.
Another smile, this one at his hip as she stands back up. "Rewarding both of us," she corrects, and he closes his eyes in agony.
A second later he can feel her breath on his lips. He doesn't dare to look at her.
He's not entirely sure if her lips actually touch his. He thinks he feels something - a feather-light, phantom something - but he can't be certain. A second later, he hears her sharp intake of breath, feels the air shift -
Then he hears the front door fall shut behind her.
Patrick doesn't move for several minutes. His mind is racing, whirling, overanalyzing - and nothing quite makes sense.
What did I do wrong?
But he can't come up with an answer.
He searches his memory palace. Is it possible he hit on some kind of trigger? He tries to remember every conversation they've ever had.
Then he understands.
I was engaged, once, back home in Chicago.
What happened?
Everything. So I ran away.
You weren't ready.
He immediately draws the parallel to his conservation with Teresa in the fun house hall of mirrors.
What is this to you? What am I to you?
Everything.
Patrick curses loudly. He'd moved too fast. Too much, too soon. It's been less than a year since her partner had died - what the hell was he thinking?
He slides off the counter, shivering, and he turns on the faucet to splash water on his face. Is it best to reach out to her? Or to give her distance? He wishes he knew.
He decides on a compromise.
Grabbing his phone, he types out two words: I'm sorry. He sends the text. And then he waits. He's putting the ball in her court. If she needs space, if she needs distance, she can take it. He won't begrudge her that.
He gathers his discarded clothes and puts them back on.
Then he wraps himself in a blanket and lays prone on the couch, trying unsuccessfully to fight off the cold.
Patrick falls into an uneasy sleep, only waking to the sound of his phone buzzing against his chest. It's Teresa's ringtone.
He answers the call and sits up, dazed. Night has already fallen, and he's unsure exactly how much time he's been asleep.
"I'm so sorry - " he begins.
He cuts himself off when he hears her say the same words. Then they are both silent, listening to each other breathe deeply.
"You don't need to apologize," says Patrick.
"Yes, I do," Teresa protests. "How I acted wasn't fair."
"It's okay," he says. "I understand."
She doesn't respond right away. "Are you home?"
He feels his brows knit together. "Yes," he says.
"I'll be right up."
And she disconnects the call.
Disconcerted, Patrick stands and tosses the blanket over the back of the couch haphazardly. He paces for a minute before finally hearing a soft knock at the door, and he rushes forward to answer.
His jaw drops.
Teresa stands before him in pajamas and a leather jacket. She's carrying Lizzie in her detachable car seat. The infant is sound asleep.
"Hi," Patrick breathes.
He's been counting the days since he saw Lizzie last, knows it's been just under three months since he held her. If it's possible, she's grown infinitely more adorable in that time - which is saying something, he thinks, considering Lizzie was already precious the moment she was born.
Patrick's knees buckle.
He steps aside and ushers them in. Teresa sets the carrier down as he shuts the door, and she reaches for Lizzie gingerly, careful not to wake her. "You want to hold her?" she asks.
He can only nod, and Teresa sets Lizzie in his waiting arms.
She snuggles into his warmth, and he sits on the couch, careful not to jostle her. Teresa sits beside him.
"I reached out to Michael today," she whispers. "I trust you, of course, but given your past…"
He'd hoped she would want to discuss what had happened earlier today, but her body language makes it clear she doesn't. Patrick internally sighs. Then he reminds himself that she is here, next to him - and better yet, she has brought Lizzie with her - and that is something.
"You'd be remiss if you didn't look into it. I understand," he says.
"Right," she says. "He said you've been spending nearly all your free time at the community center, offering to help anyone who wants to try hypnosis. He even gave me the number of the meeting coordinator, Caroline, who was astounded by your work. People are calling her from other areas of Sacramento asking for your services." She looks at him in awe. "Patrick, I'm so proud. So incredibly proud. And honored - honored that I get to call you my friend and my partner." She folds her hands in her lap. "I've said this before, but I want you to hear it again: you're a good man, Patrick Jane."
Patrick brushes a finger through Lizzie's hair, which is far darker and longer than he'd last seen it. He leans down to kiss the baby's temple, breathing in her sweet smell.
"I want you in Lizzie's life. I want her to have a positive male role model to look up to."
He watches Lizzie yawn, and his heart almost bursts. He checks his watch; it's after eleven.
"Stay here tonight," he whispers. "Take the guest bedroom. It's late, and you need to sleep."
She kisses his check. "Okay," she murmurs.
He has a minor heart attack when the doorknob to his room twists at three in the morning; he calms considerably when he realizes it's only Teresa opening the door.
"Teresa?" he whispers through the dark.
She approaches him, the baby monitor in one hand, and he scoots over, pulling back the comforter. She sets the monitor down on the bedside table and slides in beside him.
"I want…" she begins, and he can see how distressed she is by the sliver of moonlight sneaking in through a slit in the blinds. She sighs. "So badly. But I...I can't. I...I don't know how." Tortured lines appear on her forehead, and he lifts a hand to smooth them away. "I don't know how."
"I know," he murmurs. "It's okay - I know."
He kisses chilled skin then wraps her in his warmth, pulling her flesh against his.