Title:Another world
Author:Little_firestar84
Rating: T (to be on the safe side)
Characters: Patrick Jane, Teresa Lisbon
Summary: They call it the butterfly effect. Just one small, random adjustment, and all changes. And here there is, another world. A world where his daughter has never been, his late wife is an ex and he is still a psych. And yet, few things just can't change. Some things are written in the stars, just like love at first sight.
Disclaimer: Uhm. well, my father is called Bruno, but since it's Negro and not Heller, I'd say tha t I don't own the rights to the Mentalist.
Notes: Extented version of "In this life", published around mid-September.

Thanks to everyone who òeft a review for last chapter and favorited or alerted!

8

"You know, as intriguing the mystery can be, I hope that there's not a murder at any school reunion." He grinned, amused, as Rigsby drove the killer away in the back of the SUV and they watched the whole thing from one of huge windows of the usually conference room of the high school.

"You've never been to one?" she asked, a bit surprised, but not even too much, if she had to be completely honest. She knew his... education hadn't been that "normal" and that he had escaped the carnie at 18, but maybe... she knew that often carnies went to school in the cities where they stopped, but listening to Jane...

(Beside, she couldn't believe that none of his "flames" had used him at reunions to get back to school mates and exes. She would have been more than happy to show him around, were he her boyfriend. Which, he was, in a contorted kind of way.)

"Uhm, well, let's say that for daddy it was better that I stayed at home - also known as our trailer - and make money with stunts than having me going to school. The majority of what I know, I learnt it by myself." he grimaced, and she almost was angry, both with the man who had cut the wings of such a promising, bright, smart and intelligent creature, with a huge potential, and herself, because of how she had gotten to know about his family. Few months ago, he had confessed her of his... relationship with his father. Thomas Jane was a man who had hurt sometimes his son on a physical level (never too much though, Jane swore. Apparently, he needed his son to appear at his best, during his fake psych-boy wonder number). Unfortunately, he had often taken delight into abusing on a mental level, and exploiting, his only son. From his stories, she could understand why he had turned into the cynical man he had been for so long, void of faith and love and affection. For years, Thomas told his boy that it was his fault his mother wasn't there any longer, and all Patrick could do to repay the favor, so to say, was making his father happy. By using his talents to con people, so that the old man could get more money to waste with drinks, women and gambling.

The last straw had been when Thomas ordered his son to tell a dying girl that, with an amulet, she would be soon better. He should have told her that the future, and the spirit world, said so. Patrick didn't like it, but, still, he did it, but less than two days later, he was gone, bringing Angela along with him.

He had never forgotten that poor little girl- a brunette, just a child, he told her once - and had never forgiven both himself and his father, getting to hate, in his darkest moments, even her family, who had dared to believe in such a thing. The fact that she was dying nevertheless wasn't of any help. Once the talisman had been in her hands, she had stopped treatments, and had died just few weeks after, he had discovered from a newspaper. After the fact, he hadn't stopped playing the psych- it was, after all, the only thing he was able to do- but everything he had done, it had been quite (just quite) harmless. He had never played with people's health, assuring them that with the powers of his hands he could save them (he only did so once, while on a case with Lisbon, and the suspect just believed to be sick. Like he believed that he had a mysterious, hidden cancer because of a team of alien scientists that keep taking him once a week), nor he promised sure results through particular items. Mostly, as Lisbon had put it, he helped people out on a mental level. He gave them peace, closure and hope. Besides, she did believe that her mother was still looking after her from afar, and that her father was to stay in hell because of what his children endured and his final act of betrayal and cowardice. She wasn't going to judge, not at all. Not any longer, at least. (Just the way he had done it, though).

Maybe Teresa was right, and he wasn't such a bastard (yes, that was the general idea he had of himself. The same thought she shared when they first met).

"You know, maybe I should envy you. You avoided a lot of drama and teenage angst. Like the prom. I hated prom." She laughed of that laugh that he knew was for him and him alone, it was the kind of laugh that Lisbon used to make it better, to...she used it whenever he felt bad, just to dismiss a bit whatever their problem was.

Of course, this time there was a tiny fragment of truth, as he was quite sure that she hadn't been thrilled about high school years in general, and not just prom.

"The only reason you say so it's because high school has been terrible for you. You didn't have any female guidance, and was scared of dealing with your peers. Also, adults knew of your situation, and you were disgusted by the pity in their eyes, because you knew that it covered their hypocrisy. They said they cared, and yet nobody was there to help you out when you needed it."

She shook her head, and looked again at the group of people, just in their middle-late twenties. Just few hours before, they had been trapped into a nightmare, each one of them a potential victim or a vengeful killer, and here they were now. They kept saying they wanted to celebrate their fallen friends and life, But Lisbon guessed it had more to do with the fact that these guys and chicks had never left high school. They were the as they had been ten years prior, only now they were mean with subordinates and coworkers instead of school mates.

She was almost considering leaving Jane there- although it was all too true, he had been rude, and he had to understand that sometimes he was supposed to apply a filter to his mouth and keep it quiet, because, just like right now, his words could hurt more than a bullet, could re-open old wounds never truly scarred over - when she suddenly... she was glowing, blushing, smiling of a smile he had never seen on her, playful and joyful.

"Your pupils aren't dilated so it's not about a stud you're so happy about. " he told her with a look that seemed to let her believe that he was supposed to be the stud always in her mind and dreams. "Tell me, is this maybe the favorite song from badass cop Teresa Lisbon?"

She simply shouted him up with an elbow, blushing furiously. The man had the power to embarrass the hell out of her. Maybe it was because they were in that limbo of a relationship, but every look, every word, was charged with sexual energy. And they hadn't kissed yet. They were keeping things very low-key, slow and platonic (well, actually, she was the one doing it. She could say Jane wasn't so against taking few other steps) and when, and not if, they would have finally consumed their story, she could already see the fireworks up in the sky and before her eyes.

"Dating" a mentalist had to have few pros, right?

"I think, my dear, that this was the song you had wished to dance to at your prom, last year of high school, with...a quarterback, right? A handsome, mean boy you just looked to from afar." he offered her hand, smiling, almost radiant. Men, Lisbon thought, weren't supposed to glow. "You can pretend I'm him".

She made a face, like to say, no, we can't, we are on a case, but he silently insisted. In silence, just keeping offering her his hand, without saying a word.

At the end, she accepted, pretending, though, of doing so just because she knew he was going to annoy her.

They moved to the dance floor, smiling at each other like silly teenagers, the kind of people both of them had never been. He took her in his arms, his (somehow) muscular arms around her waist, her strong ones around his neck, on his shoulders, her fingertips gazing his back and sending shivers through his whole being. They slowly moved to the music, maybe not a perfect dance but yet with purpose, and marvelous in their eyes. She put her head in the crock of his neck, and closed her eyes, smiling, blushing, relaxed, sighing content. He inspired her scent, nuzzling her hair with tears in his eyes for the perfection of such a moment, and he tightened his hold on her.

He didn't want to let it go, never, ever.

The music ended, and they stopped. They finally found the strength to look at each other, and what they saw in their irises was just the most beautiful, perfect feeling of them all, love.

They moved in sync, at the same time, and their lips were almost touching, they were breathing in each other's air when they heard a voice calling for them at their back.

Rigsby.

They parted abruptly, blushing like teenagers caught making out in their car or on the couch by a parent, and they listened to their coworker. The murderers had been sent to a local prison for booking, it was too late to drive back to Sacramento, not with such a strong rain probably arriving there in few hours' time.

She nodded, and went to leave, when she remembered that he had drove her there- inside that can of worms, that trap on wheels, like she affectionately referred to his Citroen (despite loving it with a passion). She stopped, already at the door, and turned, just to see Jane already at her side, grinning satisfied.

She hated his cat got the canary grin. She hated it with a passion. And yet, it was one of the reasons she loved him so much.

He put an hand on the small of her back, and they went through the corridors. At the main gate, they found out that Rigsby and the sheriff had been wrong: rain wasn't few hours away, it was already there.

Smiling like a child, he offered her once again his hand: she looked quizzically at the offer, but then she took it. They interlaced their fingers, and grabbing her, he ran toward the car, laughing, tasting the drops and dancing yet again with her, this time while the sky was crying, like it was blessing them, witnessing something unique, marvelous. He kept kissing her, but never on the lips. Butterflies kisses on her chin, brow, cheeks, the corner of her lips, her eyes. Everywhere but her lips, and yet, it was full of love and affection nevertheless.

Love, affection and fun. He was behaving like a child, she thought, joining in the fun, the shadow of a childhood he never had. He was making up for lost time, and he had chosen her for this, to be his companion. Her heart clenched at the idea, but it wasn't with dread as in the past (when Greg proposed and she escaped to California to break up with him over the phone).

Her heart was filled with joy and anticipation.

One last kiss, on the point of her nose- and they finally parted. They were soaking wet when they entered the car- his baby, as he called her - and, as much as he had always treasured that car (It was the first car he had brought when he was 16, fresh of driving license, it belonged to an old guy who treated it like trash, he had felt like he was killing that piece of art. He had paid more to bring her back to her old condition than to actually buying it, for his father's horror) , he couldn't care any less for once.

He drove her back to their motel (in silence, but a comfortable, intimate one), and walked her to the door. It was still raining, and even if she was wet to the core, he didn't want to aggravate things (yes, he feared she could blame a cold on him). So, he protected her with his jacket, not Armani, but still tailored. He hoped she could understand what a sacrifice he was making: he was sacrificing few of the dearest things he had for her.

He left her at her door, retreating like a dog with the tail between his legs. He was starting to feel embarrassed, and tired, that nothing was going on between them (besides platonically sleeping into each other's arms, Jane with boxer and undershirt, Lisbon with panties and a jersey. Football, with her surname on, and the number 19. Probably James'. He always left the bed in the early morning, before she could wake up. He had to resist temptation, to show her he could be a gentleman, that he cared and not just wanted her.) but he wasn't going to pressure her. Lisbon was to decide to progress with their relationship, or whatever it was, on her own.

Then, he heard her calling him. Tentatively, almost scared. He was imagining her biting her lips-she probably wasn't sure about her actions, still was unsure about how he could react. Didn't she know that he was the happiest man alive when he was in her arms, when he hold her at night?

Slowly, he went back to her, and then he stood right before her. Eyes in the eyes, he kept, very casually, but smirking, his hands in his pockets, like what was about to happen was everyday occurrence to him.

She went on tiptoes, and gave him a peck on the lips. He didn't answer, so she retreated, feeling ashamed and enraged-it had probably been all a game to him, maybe she didn't know him as well as she had assumed, maybe he was still the same man she had met so long before, almost a lifetime before.

Then, he smiled, and pressed her against the door, caging her with his body, lithe and yet strong and muscular.

His lips were urging and insistent, his tongue was probing her mouth, parting her lips. After a second of hesitation, she catch up with him, her arms around his neck, her fingers in his curls. His hands were everywhere, mapping her, discovering Teresa the woman and not Lisbon the cop, with no fear nor hesitation, but still slow, and sensual, so, so sensual she was losing her mind.

Smiling in the kiss, he took her in his arms, bridal style, and then, they found themselves inside. They didn't even know how they reached the bed, but one moment they were kissing outside the door, the next one they were on the bed (naked) exploring each other without clothes getting in the way.

He had never had sex like this. Maybe because, finally, he understood what making love was all about.

With Angela, they had been young. They had been each other's first, teenagers under the influence of hormones. It had been all about burning desire and hectic couplings. The release was all that it mattered, getting as much pleasure as possible. Then, he had divorced. He would never lie to her if Teresa would ask: he had been with many women in the years in between, but they were all one night stands, faceless women he got pleasure from and left in the morning when they were still asleep. He didn't know how many of them he had had, and he didn't remember any them, they were just a blur.

This was different. He explored her body, he worshipped it. She was his goddess, the high priest of some exotic and lost church, and he was her faithful worshipper, a true believer. It was all about her. And he had never liked it as much as in that moment. It was like he had been a virgin discovering sex for the very first time. He had never felt that fire, that burning desire and need, to own and being owned.

And then, he knew. The fire he felt, just there, on the tip of his tongue, ready to consummate him from within, was her fire, the same passion he had fallen in love with.

Afterwards, he looked at her sleeping at his side (smiling, glowing) and he silently vow to make everything possible to never lose her. He kissed her hair, tenderly, and wondered how long he was supposed to wait to propose. He could see matching rings in their future, he knew it without being a psych, but, as much as he wanted to, he wasn't going to scare her away by asking her to marry him after just one night together.

(Besides, technically, they hadn't shared any confession of everlasting love yet).

He could wait, though.

After all, in this life they had nothing to be scared of, no one that could get between them, endangering her life or the one of the people close to him because of him and his past mistakes.

But it was just in this one, and it was all so perfect, that sometimes he wondered if it wasn't all just a dream.

FIN