Author's Note: As of the amazing season finale, this story became officially an alternate universe. Why? Because my Cho, as depicted in chapter 3, knows that there is something romantic-ish going on between Jane and Lisbon, even if he doesn't really want to think or talk about the details. The canon Cho was apparently utterly oblivious to this. I had to laugh, because while they left some hints to this effect as far back as White as the Driven Snow, the writers completely blindsided all of us Jisbon shippers. We all assumed Cho would know so much more about what was going on.
I was trying so hard to stick to canon, but now the certainty that I can't make my vision fit perfectly to the TV show gives me the freedom to explore a little more boldly, and maybe even make changes to how some events turn out. This is very exciting, a bit scary, and much more challenging than I expected, but I'm going to roll with it. I know, to some of you alternate realities are old hat, but I'm still getting used to what it means to change the whole story line. It means that I can fabricate backstory shamelessly, and maybe even end in a place that would have completely changed the last part of season 6, had the writers dared, or even been willing, to go in that direction. The one thing I want to be careful with is the main characters. Not that they won't change, that's a given in well-written fiction. But I want to take care to make the changes believable. Feedback, as always, is welcome.
So here is Teresa Lisbon's first person account of the untelevised events around the Party House.
Mandatory Disclaimer: Just because I have decided to mold these characters to the shape of my vision doesn't mean they're mine. I have nothing to gain from messing with the story line of the Mentalist but my own entertainment, and hopefully yours, too.
Chapter 4: Driven
Lisbon's POV
I don't let just anyone drive.
Preparing for tonight's ordeal has made me emotional and stressed. Still, I find it easier than I expected to hand over the keys. Not just because I'm hungry and the food smells good. Not even because I have butterflies like nothing I ever remember in the very worst of Jane's schemes. Mostly because I feel like I can trust Kim Fischer. I understand how seriously she takes her job. And tonight she proved that she takes me seriously, too.
She doesn't know what it means, though. My letting her drive. She does it all the time during working hours. With the FBI vehicles. She's my boss, after all. But *my* car is something else again.
Jane knew. The first time I offered to let Jane drive, he pointed out how holding the keys makes me feel more in control. It irritated me so much that I withdrew the offer. But he was right. As usual.
Jane is one of a very few people that I have ever allowed to drive. It happened more and more over the years of our partnership. It was a bigger challenge than any trust fall, and he knew it. I told him once that it was my job not to trust him, that he was untrustworthy. But somehow the more I understood him, the more I let him set our course, terrifying as it often was. Not that I ever forgot how easily, how willingly, he deceived people. I knew his flaws, his weaknesses, better than anyone. But I also came to know that, at heart, his intentions were good. And he would have done almost anything for our team. For me.
My hands shake a bit as I buckle my seatbelt, but if Fischer notices it, she doesn't let on. She holds my coffee and hamburger as I get settled, showing no sign of irritation over my earlier outburst. If anything, she acts apologetic, as if she was the one who had snapped at the lead field agent and had an emotional melt-down on the job. She is a more compassionate, patient leader than I was in my CBI days. If Grace VanPelt had subjected me to nostalgic reminiscences for half an hour and then jumped down my throat when I ventured an opinion, I would not have been nearly as understanding.Actually, if I remember right, the first time Grace tried to talk to me about personal matters, I shut her down. Kim doesn't do that. She was more than willing to talk about whatever topic I chose, at least until I freaked out. Now she's pulling back.
Clearly, Fischer knows that she touched a nerve.
"So, we're supposed to be art thieves?" She steers us back to the business at hand. That suits me just fine.
"I guess. Jane had Searles and Dunn from the art squad coach me through the details of our cover story. Apparently we're in town because of the Manet exhibit. Planning to steal a famous painting from that collection. Violets. We have a buyer lined up, now we're just planning our next move. And Pulaski is supposed to catch us out and get his boss in for a piece of the action."
"Well, that's more than I was told. All I know is that I get to show Pulaski the bedroom. Which is where that one VanGogh piece will catch his eye, if I understand correctly."
"At least you have a specific job, you know why you're there. I still don't get why Jane needs an 'inside woman'." Making air quotes with my hand full is awkward. I put the coffee in a cup holder, then take a big bite of burger. Then I have to talk through it in answer to Fischer's puzzled expression. "He's the smooth talker, the idea man. Usually, I just stand by with a gun to make sure that whoever he's psychologically manipulating doesn't hurt him too badly. But the whole place is full of agents tonight, so what's one more?" I swallow. "It's not like I'm ready for action in this get-up."
Fischer smiles, her eyes on the road. "Depends what kind of action, I guess. Perhaps we're both there to distract Pulaski's attention from Jane's slight-of hand. I've done worse in the line of duty."
"Really?" Now I'm intrigued. "You seem pretty certain that you can manage Pulaski. Is this another of your hidden talents?" It's delivered as a joke, but I can't help wondering if Fischer has experience to back her confidence.
"Men are not too hard to figure out. They like to be in control, they like to make the moves and see a response. They just need to see the signs that their advances will be received favorably. Master that, and you have them eating out of your hand." She barely manages to avoid sounding smug.
I find myself wishing it was that simple. Maybe men like Pulaski respond predictably. If only Jane was that easy to manage. Fischer glances sideways at me, guesses what I'm thinking, and corrects herself. "Most men, anyway."
I continue eating as the GPS issues more and more directions. Kim continues talking about the job at hand, but I'm still too worked up to focus. My shop talk responses are on autopilot as I try to pull my head back together. I had been riding the buzz of a major morale boost, until Fischer stumbled on one of my weak spots. Even Cho's compliments and encouragements couldn't keep me from getting my back up when she put down a member of my CBI team. It's like with my brothers. They may bug the hell out of me, and I know better than anyone how difficult they can be. But they're my family. Mess with them, and we have a problem.
I know that Agent Fischer didn't mean to offend. Losing control like that is embarrassing, so the confidence I felt after Cho's reassurances is waning as I consider how little I have to add to this venture. I don't know art. I'm not the team leader. I'm hardly the brains behind the plan. In fact, I understand the plan even less than usual. Security is covered. And Fischer is plenty of distraction. What is the purpose of throwing me into the middle of this scam?
This line of thought is all too familiar, lately. As eager as my colleagues at the FBI are to make me feel welcome, I still feel at loose ends. Like I don't know what my purpose is anymore. Back at the CBI, I knew who I was, knew where I fit. I was a good leader, not like Fischer but in my own way. My team respected me, and I kept them safe and helped them do their best work. Our purpose was to see justice done. We did it better than anyone else. Mostly because of Jane. He started out helping us because he wanted justice for his wife and daughter. Our road to justice overlapped with his, so we travelled it together. But I knew from the start that it might ultimately cost me my job. Even my life. By the end, justice to me was about keeping my job and my influence long enough to get Jane through his quest with his soul intact.
The waiting, the hunting, the scheming, with Jane, on Jane's behalf.
It changed me. But I don't regret any of it.
When I took the job in Washington, I told myself that I didn't mind the setback or the slower pace. I had done my time with high profile law enforcement. I had made solid, meaningful contributions to the public good. And Jane had made it through alive. Seemed happy, even, if his letters were to be believed. The wistful tone, the affectionate words, even the frequency of the letters satisfied me that he had valued me and my efforts to bring him closure, peace. I had long since stopped hoping that he would come back to me. I told myself it was for the best.
And now here I am back in the middle of high stakes investigations, trying to keep up with younger agents, trying to understand why Jane insisted on including me in his list of demands. Jane doesn't need me to protect him from the powers that be, that's plain enough. He brokered his deal with the FBI without any input from me. Fischer and Abbott don't really need me to explain or control Jane. I never could, anyway. I don't really believe anyone could. So when they ask my opinion on his behavior, I feel like a fraud.
And somehow my faith in justice as a driving factor seems hollow now, after where I've been, what I've seen, what I've done. What does justice mean, anyway, if my passionate, hardworking, good-hearted CBI team lost everything because they sacrificed it all to help bring down a serial killer? If the man who finally ended Red John's violent career had to run for his life and then signed away five years of that life to keep himself out of jail?
What is justice if my years of loyal effort and sacrifice were really just tools he used to execute his vengeance, and my presence in his life now is a bargaining chip to demonstrate his power?
I know that isn't fair. And it probably isn't true. At least, that's what I want to believe.
God, I have to stop brooding like this. It isn't healthy. I have a good job, I like the people I work with, I make a difference in the world. Why am I so unhappy? Why don't I know what I want?
I do know what I want. I want Patrick Jane to be in love with me. But that isn't exactly a reasonable career goal for a mature woman.
I can't do a damn thing to influence Jane. I can't keep him from lying and manipulating and disregarding the needs, the wishes, and the feelings of others. I can't make him be honest about his feelings or anything else. I certainly can't make him love me. I don't know what sort of signals would draw his interest. Doesn't he know that any advance he makes in our personal relationship would be received favorably? As perceptive he is, how can he not know this?
By now I should have learned not to fix my happiness on other people. I used to fix it on God, but I've gotten off track in so many ways. Sometimes he seems so distant, like my prayers are just bouncing off the ceiling. Of course, it isn't like I've been terribly faithful myself, lately. I need to find a local church, but I've just been so busy. And somehow being here seems unreal, not something to get used to. It doesn't feel like home. I feel… off-center.
I have to find a center that doesn't depend on winning the affection of an emotionally unavailable man. I've spent too much of my life trying to undo the pain of my father's suicide, and the emotional neglect that preceded it. I can't get the love and affection I need from a man like my father, like Bosco, or Jane. I have to stop thinking that I can save damaged people from themselves, no matter how much I care about them.
"Here we are," says Fischer over the sound of her GPS announcing our arrival. I shake off my reverie and look out the window.
The house is stunning, with huge windows filled with light. I can see the party-goers in silhouette, looking for all the world as if they were having the time of their lives. I feel the anxiety that has jangled my nerves all day return in force. It reminds me of the first and only unchaperoned party that I attended when I was in high school…
No, it's not helpful to think of that. I need to keep my mind on my work.
"Wow," Fischer takes the keys from the ignition and just gapes at the building for a moment. "Jane has outdone himself this time." She hands the keys back to me, and I stow them in a handbag.
"Actually, I think Agent Pike, from the Art Squad, found the place." I hear music as we get out of the car. I grab the food from the back seat. "You get the doors, okay?"
Fischer smirks. "You just want to take credit for my cooking."
"Damn straight," I agree. She closes the car doors.
I feel unsteady on my heels again, so I watch my feet and place them carefully as we navigate up the steps towards the door. Fischer rings the bell, and it opens swiftly. Clearly, we have been eagerly expected.
"Kim! You look great, come on in…" the familiar voice rings with enthusiasm, and then fades, and I look up and meet Patrick Jane's eyes.
Backlit from the brightly lit room behind him, the sight of him makes me catch my breath. He is wearing a typical Jane suit, with a whimsical scarf that somehow seems to give a wild glamor to his unruly curls and scruffy whiskers. But the look in his eyes is what really sets my heart beating. They are fixed on me with that peculiar intensity that always leaves me speechless. His usual brilliant smile has fallen from his face, leaving a blank mask to barely conceal something like surprise or wonder.
The look reminds me of the day he walked in on me while I was trying that God-awful bridesmaid dress for Grace. He appeared stunned, started jabbering something about an angry princess who lost her tiara, or something ridiculous like that. But his eyes were glued to my body. I went from feeling frustrated to feeling like a million bucks in seconds flat. Because Jane obviously liked what he saw. I kept complaining about the dress, but I found I couldn't really be upset anymore. Not even when Jane let slip that he had told Grace to make me a bridesmaid, claiming that I secretly wanted to be just that.
Until that moment, I would have sworn up and down that it wasn't so. But the way he looked at me made it true.
It is just like that in this moment as he stands in the doorway with his well-tailored suit and his scarf. I see him slowly look me up and down. He swallows. I feel every inch of my height, and I think I must be growing taller. My legs seem to get longer as his eyes measure them. The curves which have obviously caught his attention must have gotten curvier. When he drags his eyes up to my face, I know I am positively glowing and his slow smile almost knocks me off my feet. But this dizzy, weightless sensation holds me upright.
"Teresa… you look even better than I imagined." His voice is hushed, hesitant, almost reverent. The look in his eyes heats me from the inside out. I can't think what to say in response, but he seems content to hold my gaze while the moment lengthens. Seems like a good idea to me, too.
The spell is broken when Fischer clears her throat. "I thought you were inviting us in, Jane?" I have honestly forgotten that she was there. My colleague—no, my boss—has just seen me staring at Patrick Jane, dumb-struck, for who knows how long, like a school girl at her first crush. I look over at Fischer in alarm, but she simply smiles and winks. I look back at Jane and see that his eyes have not left my face, and his smile has only grown wider and warmer. He takes a deep breath, and I breathe with him, relaxing into the moment.
"For tonight, call me Patrick." His voice is firm, as he takes the containers of food from my arms and hands them to Kim. My skin feels electrified where his hands brushed me. "We're all on a first name basis tonight, as thick as thieves. But do remember, Kim, that I'm the team leader for the purposes of this venture. You and Dennis work for us." He is standing very close to me, and one arm wraps around my shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze. "That smells delicious, by the way," he informs her. "I'll show you where the rest of the food is," he continues, as he opens the door a bit wider and guides me in with a hand at the small of my back. His touch makes my skin tingle right through the fabric.
"So you get to be the boss?" I hear her chuckle as she follows us in. "I shouldn't be surprised."
"It shouldn't be hard to get in character," he shrugs, crossing the floor of a spacious, brightly lit room full of Agents dressed in formal wear. "After all, who usually decides how we catch the bad guys?"
Kim navigates the crowd in our wake, speaking just over the soft music and gentle party chatter. "As long as we *do* catch them, I won't complain. Much."
Jane looks at me and raises his eyebrows at Fischer's sardonic tone. "Keep an eye on Kim, darling, she's getting a bit lippy."
I look back at her and roll my eyes. Kim and I have talked over Patrick's arrogance on more than one occasion. I don't want her to think that I am enjoying the way he included me in the role reversal of this con.
Although maybe I do enjoy it, just a little.
"Patrick, we need to keep the team happy," I croon, in a bored, pretentious drawl. I am trying to talk like some glamorous femme fatale from the old movies I used to watch sometimes. "We each play a valuable part in this operation, right?"
His eyes light up with pleasure. I don't often play along so enthusiastically. Especially when costumes and props are involved. The slightest pressure from his hand brings me in close to him, our faces inches apart. "Whatever you say, my dear Teresa." His other hand catches mine and lifts it to his lips.
I smile in return, feeling like I might float away. If this is his response to his partner in crime, then I am ready to make trouble. "Whatever *you* say, Patrick. I'm just along for the ride." I lower my voice and raise my eyebrows suggestively, and chuckle when his eyes open wide with surprise.
Kim laughs outright. "You two are good! Do they hand out S.A.G. cards to law enforcement in California?"
"They probably should," Patrick muses. "I think I did more acting as a CBI consultant than I had in my previous career."
"Not to mention all the Blake Association members," I add. "They all deserve Oscars to go with their prison terms. It's a good thing I had a good director, or the competition would have blown me away."
Jane's eyes tighten, but the smile grows broader as if to compensate. "Not a chance, Teresa," he murmurs, "You always outshone every other contender."
"Now I see why you didn't bite when I met you on the island," Kim says to him. "A partnership like this would be impossible to top."
Immediately, she has my full attention. Patrick tenses, and I feel rather than see his eyes dart between Kim's face and mine. Kim probably sees my shock, because she explains quickly. "Abbott thought that Jane—I mean Patrick—might be willing to partner with me when he came back to the states. You know, in case you had decided to stay in Washington? Fortunately, Patrick refused to work without you, and you finally gave in and joined us." Again, that apologetic look in her eyes. But is she regretting what she said for my sake, or for Jane's?
I have wondered more than once what happened between Kim and Patrick. Before Patrick knew that Kim was also Agent Fischer. I really can't imagine any romantic dalliance, but something makes them both uncomfortable about their previous encounter.
"Yes, well, Teresa is the very best, and I knew the team needed her." Patrick's response is a bit too quick, his voice a bit too casual. He's hiding something. My surge of confidence ebbs, just a little.
"So where do I put these down, again?" Kim deftly changes the subject, and I decide to let it drop. But it still nags in the back of my mind as Patrick shows her a table laden with hors d'oevres.
Once she sets down her food, Patrick insists on giving us the grand tour of the place. I let him place my hand in the crook of his arm and Kim follows behind as he points out the locations of hidden cameras, jauntily waving as if he expects Wiley to be watching for his greetings. He points out each piece of art, describing its origin in loving detail, and seems absurdly pleased when I express surprise about how much he knows. He shows us the restrooms, the kitchen, and the long sweeping stairway that leads to the master bedroom.
My jaw drops when we get to the bedroom. It is beautiful, luxurious, and there is something just a bit exciting about knowing that the walls are lined with priceless art. Jane shows me where the art will be locked later on, and demonstrates how the dressers are filled with good quality clothing of the sort that wealthy art crooks might wear. "You get the bedroom tonight, of course," he tells me. "You can pick what to wear for tomorrow's adventure from the clothes in there."
Then he turns me to face him, looking unusually nervous. "By the way, I'm sorry about tonight's dress. I know it isn't your usual style. I was afraid you might be a bit angry, in fact, but I didn't see any way around it. A vain, flamboyant art thief couldn't have a woman like you without wanting to show you off. Besides that, there are some security advantages." He ducks his head as though embarrassed. "And you do look utterly breathtaking, besides all that. I hope you don't mind?"
I find, with some surprise, that I don't, anymore. But what I say is, "Maybe I'll forgive you. This once." His smile at my mild flirtation reminds me of days at the CBI when we used to tease each other more easily. It seems like ages since we engaged in the playful banter that so often lifted my spirits on stressful days. In fact, I reflect with some surprise, we have hardly interacted at all since I joined the FBI, beyond the necessary. I missed it far more than I realized.
He squeezes my hand. Then Patrick turns to Kim with a serious expression. "When you come up here with Pulaski, I will be right behind you. I know that you can handle yourself, but you shouldn't have to. I intend to make sure that you *don't* have to. In order to get you out of the room safely but without blowing cover, I may say some things that are less than flattering. I want you to know that no real disrespect is intended." He seems anxious to be understood here, and suddenly I feel irritated.
Kim regards him thoughtfully. "All this goes without saying, Patrick. This ain't my first rodeo."
"All the same," he glances furtively towards me, and then back to her. "I know that I don't always communicate the way I should. I don't want anyone on the team to feel like I am disregarding their feelings. I'd rather say something that doesn't need saying than neglect saying something that…" his cell phone interrupted him, and he checked the caller ID before excusing himself. "Excuse me, Wiley will be giving us our countdown." He ducks into the hall, answering the phone in a low tone.
"Well. That was a surprise." Kim's eyes follow him, a puzzled expression wrinkling her forehead.
"You don't know the half of it," I respond, still feeling nettled. "Patrick hardly ever apologizes. In fact, the way he talked you through things and apologized in advance for how it might feel? He never, ever did that for me." I realize that I am actually feeling something painfully like jealousy. Not because I suspect a personal connection. Because he just showed Kim a professional regard that I have always wanted from him, and had despaired of getting. So often his tactics leave me feeling like a tool, as if it has never entered his head that the way he conducted himself might have some emotional impact on me. Or maybe he does know, and just doesn't care.
"Are you sure that he's *not* doing it for you?" The tentative tone and the emphasis in her phrasing confuse me, but before I have time to process it, Patrick returns with an expression of focused excitement.
"Wiley says the first phase went without a hitch. Dennis and Pulaski should be here within 15 minutes." He flicks off the bedroom light, directing us down the steps while quickly running through the pertinent information. "Kim, stay out of sight until the mark is *very* comfortable. Teresa, our first job is to *make* him comfortable. You get to answer the door. A beautiful hostess is less threatening than a rich, arrogant host, and you have a way of putting people at ease. Be especially friendly with Dennis. Since Pulaski already trusts him, our relationship with his new friend will help him trust us, too. And don't be visibly on guard. Remember this is our house, and we trust everyone inside, and we have little reason to feel threatened by anyone outside."
"Even a violent ex-con," I note wryly.
"We don't know that he's a violent ex-con," Patrick reminds me. "We're just art thieves, enjoying the fruit of our labor. And you, my dear, have much less to fear from him than I do. He won't even see your face, I expect, with that dress…"
"Hold on," I pull up short at the bottom of the stairs, so that Kim almost runs into me. "What do you mean, he won't see my face?" I feel like someone just hit me, and the room swims around me.
Patrick blanches, and back-pedals. "He won't be giving any extra thought to who you are, what you look like…"
"…with this dress?" I interrupt, my jaw clenched. "Are these the 'security advantages' you mentioned?" I indicate my breasts, color rising to my cheeks. "Did you select a dress with cleavage because you wanted Pulaski to be looking me in the chest, not in the eyes?"
"Teresa…" A look of panic spreads across Patrick's face. I can see that he is kicking himself, but the sting of my fury and humiliation is too raw to let him off the hook. I cut him off.
"I'm not afraid of Pulaski, and you have no excuse for treating me like a piece of meat. He'll see my face, alright, I'll make sure of it!" I turn away, swearing and fighting back unexpected tears.
His hand clutches my arm before I can make an escape, and I hear desperation in his voice. "No…please wait…I didn't mean…"
I turn on him coldly, wishing I could hit him, but all too aware of Kim's watching eyes. "Jane, you drive me crazy. Just when I think you might finally be seeing me as a person and not a…a convenience, you pull something like this. Are all people play-things to you, or is it just me?"
It is rare that Patrick Jane is struck speechless. His eyes cloud over and a desolate, wounded expression overtakes his face. I have evidently hit him where it hurts most, and he shakes his head helplessly, not even speaking a word in his own defense. I feel a twinge of pity and guilt is that is quickly overwhelmed by my own pain and anger.
He drops my hand, shame etched on his features. I hasten to the lavish downstairs restroom, knowing that I'll need to touch up my make-up for the second time tonight. At least I can be sure that he won't follow me.
I start some water running and stare into my own watery eyes in the bathroom mirror. A sense of déjà vu washes over me. My misery reminds me forcefully of that one party when I was in high school. Then, too, I had allowed myself to be drawn in emotionally, resulting in bitter disillusionment. I splash water on my face, cursing myself for wearing my heart on my sleeve.
What must Kim think of me? She has better reason than I do to complain of being treated like a piece of meat, but she hasn't made an issue of it. Why does it bother me so much? Why should I care that Jane sees me as a distraction, a prop, not a partner? Why do I keep expecting more from him than he can give?
It's time to grow up, I tell the devastated girl in the mirror. Stop pretending that someday he'll wake up and appreciate you. Find someone who can value you for who you are, someone who doesn't know every button to push and every weakness to exploit to get whatever he wants from you. Stop pretending that flirtation and infatuation can fill that gaping void with the love you crave.
As I re-apply my make-up, preparing to give the performance of my life, I promise myself not to let Patrick Jane drive my life ever again.
AN: Whew! I have gone over and over this one, and it still feels like I could polish more here, or flesh it out there, but I have to let it go sometime.
Next up, I have Abbot's chapter of Need Not to Know to write, and then back here for Wiley's chapter. Working Title: Signs.