Author's Note
So sorry about the long wait! It took so much for me to get back into writing. I was so unsure about what I was doing with this that I... needed up being too scared to write. But I did it anyways! Please let me know what you think.
Thank you for sticking around!
Patrick Jane helps you through your sobbing the only way you believe he knows how to. For a few minutes, he lets you cry. Vent, really. When the tea begins to cool beyond Peak Consumption Temperature, he begins to talk.
And, really, doesn't stop.
He talks about how the older woman you saw was the original killer. Explains to you what you already know about her motives. You aren't sure how Mr Jane could possibly know this, too, but he does. He says that she was targeting young women because she believed them closer to the truest human nature. She killed those who looked down on her and belittled her. And eventually she found someone worth keeping around.
It was a murderous cult was what it was. In the end, it was someone who had gone off the deep end and took their passion too far. You don't have it in you to argue. He isn't completely wrong, but you can't find the words (or the air in your lungs) to explain what exactly it was. Not that Jane would believe you even if you did.
By this point in the conversation, despite yourself, you drink. Camomille probably. You can feel it calm you. You stare down into the cup while he speaks. You don't dissociate. Not really. But you blank out for a few seconds long enough for it to be noticeable. Slack jaw. Slumped shoulder. Vacant expression. You tense when you see a hand approach you before realizing Mr Jane is just taking the cup and saucer away from you.
"I can help you with that," he says, calmly and quietly. You find yourself nodding without thinking. Frown into your empty hands.
"Help me with what?" You don't look up. You know what he'll say and how he looks at you.
"That depends on what you want," is Mr Jane's typical non-answer. "I can make you forget. It's temporary, but it works. For a while. Or," he leans forward, leaning his elbows on his knees and threading his hands in front of him. "I can teach you."
The tone of his voice is serious. No kidding, no joke. He wants to teach you something. Now you look up. The intensity in his eyes almost makes you sweat.
"Teach me what?"
A grin fit for the devil spreads across Jane's face, white teeth showing.
"How to sharpen that fear into a knife."
Your tears are still drying on your face. But slowly, quietly, you can feel something hungry expand in your chest.
The first exercise is in a bar. A dive bar. Sleazy, questionably sanitary and filled with even more questionable characters. The beer's not even that good. You drink it anyways. It makes it easier to talk. Removes your bias.
That's what Jane says, anyways. Part of you can believe it. The other part believes in ulterior motives.
It takes the time of a beer and a half before he wanders off. Orders you to watch closely what happens, to try and memorize every movement he makes. No matter how small it may seem, you are asked to track everything. The small rub of his thumb when he shakes a woman's hand. The lack of any nervous tics altogether. Slow, deliberate blinking. Leaning in for conversation. Everything about Jane's posture screams "I'm paying attention to you and only you".
The woman excuses herself and grabs her jacket. Jane makes his way back towards you with a martini he didn't have before. As the woman thread an arm through a sleeve, she pauses, shoulders the rest of the jacket, and reaches into the left pocket. You already know what's in there, but the surprise on her face shows that she had no idea. She looks around to find a familiar dirty blonde head, but gives up after a few seconds.
She exits the bar with a smile on her face and her phone in her hands.
"That was smooth," you comment, eyes glued to the door shutting behind the woman. "She seemed pissed that you even came up to her until you shook her hand." You turn to Mr Jane. His face is plastered with a look of pride and satisfaction. "Is this witchcraft?"
He lets out a quiet bark of laughter. "No, my dear, that is just the simplicity of the human mind." Places a hand on your shoulder and queezes. "It's easy to make anyone like you as long as you push the right buttons."
You're too distracted by the warmth of his hand to mention that his phone hasn't gone off yet.
You can't put words to it yet, but there's an idea slowly sprouting somewhere in the back of your mind.
"So, tell me," the hand disappears from your shoulder. Jane sits back on his stool and sips at his martini. "What did you see?"
You look down for a few seconds, gather your thoughts. You saw a lot of things. Thought honestly, you can dismiss about half of them. Grab your beer and take a swig straight from the bottle before you can speak.
"You were always turned towards her, that's the first thing I noticed," you begin, eyes still unfocused, aimed somewhere at the floor. "Your feet were always pointed towards her, which I think is one of those subconsciously-read body language things about attentiveness. You kept your arms open and wide apart. That would look inviting I guess. And you hunched your shoulders a little bit when you first walked over. Probably because you didn't want to look like one of those cocksure self-important assholes?"
A quiet snort and a hint of a grin. Alright, not bad, you're on the right track. Straighten yourself on your stool and grab your beer with both hands. Look up directly at Jane.
"The handshake; you did that thing where you rub with your thumb. She looked weirded out by that, but seemed to relax when she realized you didn't look nervous. You put yourself between her and the rest of the crowd, but in a way that I think gave the illusion of privacy? You didn't impose yourself so much that it looked like you were boxing her in. She had the option to walk away any time she wanted."
You're about to continue when two things happen: Jane looks above and beyond your right shoulder and you can feel more than see the shadow that someone is casting down on you. Already hate the vibe. And the smell. Can't fathom why anyone would want to bathe in anything related to Axe. You cast a withering look at Jane; though he looks some measure of upset, you know that look. It's a challenge.
Alright. Sure. You've done significantly worse over the past several days. Turning down an arrogant idiot should be a piece of cake.
Turn around on your stool to greet the intruder. He has already made the mistake of being far too close to you. Your face is level with one of his pectorals. Jock #1 is "casually" leaning against a bar. Does his best impression of someone who is failing to look uninterested. He looks at you like he's just noticed you. Or, at least, you figure that's the look he's going for. It isn't working.
You keep your expression flat. He's clearly expecting you to ask something. Who he is, what he wants. You keep quiet. The man looks more and more uncomfortable until he finally breaks the silence.
"I, uh. Hi." He at least has the decency to cringe.
"I was shot in the leg a few days ago, I was targeted by a serial killer and her equally psychotic sidekick, had brain matter splatter on my face no sooner than a few hours ago, and I really just want to get shitfaced and forget about it in pleasant, intelligible company. You feel like you can have a five minute conversation with me that won't bore me to death? Give it a shot. Otherwise I'm going to stay here, have another shitty beer in this shitty bar and lament my shitty life with the only not shitty thing to have been in it in the past five days."
Stare intently at the man. He is completely slacked-jawed. Mutters a quick apology, grabs his half-empty beer back from the counter and walks away much faster than he arrived. You breathe out a sigh of relief. Turn back to Jane to find him looking deep in contemplation. Quickly look away and down the rest of your bottle of beer. It stings in your throat and tears. Ask for another one. Three beers is probably too much, but whatever. Jane offered to pay. You aren't one to squander an opportunity to get drunk on someone else's dollar.
Jane waits until you've dragged a third of your beer. "Your turn."
You almost sputter, but don't. You knew what this was about. Grab your beer and stand and do your best impression of someone who isn't you.
"Alright, sure. Who?," you ask, looking around the bar. Not much to pick from. You catch the obnoxious Axe man from before shooting you furtive looks. You hope he doesn't think he's being subtle.
"That one," Jane says, pulling your attention in the direction he nods his head.
It's an older man, sitting alone under a window. He's got at least a decade and a half on you. Something in you bristles at it; you wouldn't have dared approach him sober. But drunk you can acknowledge that man is absolutely your type.
You don't ask anything. Jane's probably done the preliminary background check in his head already. You aren't too worried. Take a deep breath. Another. Turn around an stride on forward.
You exit the Citroen more gracefully than you'd have thought possible. And also far more dramatically. Jane brought you back to the CBI office. Not sure why. You don't question it; you don't feel like going home anyways. You were hunted down before, you could be again. Feels like everyone is painting a bull's eye on you.
Swat away Jane's hand when he offers to help you walk to the door. Mutter something about not being a goddamn child. You bump shoulder as you walk. More accurate, your should bumps his bicep.
"You almost had him, you know," Jane says airily. Trails off like he wants to say something else, but you know he won't. All it does is burn your pride even more.
Shove him with your elbow. He barely moves. "Shut up. Okay? Shut—just, shut up." Wait patiently to be let into the building. Someone from security nods at Jane. You try to remember to ask him if he actually lives here later.
You fall asleep on a leather couch covered by a knit blanket.
You wake up with the suggestion of a headache. The lights are too bright. Despite their deliberately hushed tones, you can hear Jane argue with someone. Sounds like Agent Lisbon. You pretend to still be sleeping. It isn't hard. There's a pause when Jane speaks that makes you think he noticed, thought.
"You can't keep taking her back here, Jane!," you hear Lisbon whisper. She doesn't sound pleased. "This is the CBI, not your personal hotel!"
Shame crawls under your skin and feels like ice in your veins. You weren't sober enough last night to realize that crashing at the CBI, in plain sight, probably wasn't a good idea.
Jane's muttering is too quiet for you to understand anything he says. Sounds like he's getting further away; taking Lisbon away from you? You appreciate the distraction. You aim to get up slowly, but you're greeted with a glass of water and what you expect are aspirin. Practically kilo out of your skin at the sight of someone holding them out to you.
You take the offered water and pills with a quiet thank you. Down them and chug the rest of the water. Hand the glass back, but don't let go of it right away. You look at the man expectantly.
"...fine. I'm Agent Cho," he concedes. You let go of the glass.
"Benraft," you answer shortly. The look he gives you is confusing. You ultimately settle for feeling proud. Agent Cho gives you a nod before standing and going off somewhere out of sight.
A quick look around reveals that no one is at their desk. Good. You take the chance to escape. Make your way as best you can to the stairway that leads to Mr Jane's hideout. You don't expect the sliding steel door to be unlocked. And it isn't; you tug a few times. No give.
You let yourself slide down against the door, sit on the ground in a huff. There isn't much for you to do. You wait five minutes. Ten. Thirty. And no Jane to be found. You're reluctant to use your phone battery more than necessary. It takes some debating, but ultimately a trip to any kind of store is probably preferable to waiting like a lost puppy.
You almost don't get lost getting to and out the front door.