Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Angela Jane knows she is going to die. 

The unbearable part of it is not her own death, of course, but that this masked man has her tied helplessly to the rocking chair she uses every night to put her daughter to sleep, and her daughter, her Charlotte, is in the man’s arms with a knife to her neck. He doesn’t need to speak to tell her what’s going to happen. She will watch her daughter die, then she will die, and then her husband’s heart will break beyond repair. 

What this masked man also knows, what probably gives him even more glee, is that another heart will break upon her death. Ten minutes ago, when he woke her with a knife at her neck, he had torn open her shirt and found her second set of words. He had drawn his knife across them slowly, achingly, with a crazed, euphoric grin. Her second soulmate, hers and Patrick’s, will never know her. Will never be with her. And she knows deep down that Patrick will be too broken by the death of his first soulmate and child to love them as he should. 

She sends a silent prayer, then, to someone. Let him survive. Let him find them years from now. Let him have time to recover. Let him be happy again. 

Angela doesn’t dare close her eyes, which are locked on her child, desperately trying to reassure her crying baby that she’s here. Even in death, she will be here. She doesn’t believe in God, but she believes they will be together. 

That is the only reason she doesn’t see the small, dark haired figure behind the killer, creeping quietly through the open door… 

—

Patrick Jane is not a violent person. In fact, he actively avoids physical confrontation, especially given his line of work. It wouldn’t do to be too close to a person that one is actively cheating. He’s had plenty of practice dodging punches and slaps. He’s the best at what he does, of course, but his type of con is still a guessing game, and no one is perfect. 

His avoidance of violence doesn’t stop him, however, from nailing a stoic-faced, Asian man — Cho is the name on his vest, even now he sees everything in great detail — in the stomach with his elbow when he tries to hold him back from the crime scene.

The crime scene. 

The crime scene where his soulmate and child had just been set upon by someone who intended to kill them. 

Twenty-five minutes ago, he had received a call from his wife, blubbering and frantic, telling him of the dead man that had attacked them. She told him they were alive. She told him that they had been saved, that she could hear the sirens of the police cars coming up the driveway to the house.

Then the cell signal cut out, and so ensued the worst twenty-five minutes of his overall unhappy life. Not unhappy since Angela, since Charlotte, but en masse, it’s mostly been a drag. 

He’s stronger than he looks, so he breaks free from Cho with ease, sprinting through the empty space where his front door used to be, the remains of it hanging by a busted hinge. The living room looks relatively untouched, but he sees the signs of what must have occurred: muddy footprints on the carpet, an empty bucket and paintbrush on the first step of the staircase. It looks like the inside has been rusted red. He looks around, ignoring the officers that are perched throughout the downstairs. “Angela!” He yells, terrified. 

“Paddy!” 

Heart thumping out of his chest with relief, he turns just in time to see his wife take the last two steps of the stairs in one go, propelling herself forward with the momentum of her leap and throwing herself into his arms. Those same arms are wrapped in red-tinged gauze. She has cuts on her neck and chest that he can see from the way her blouse gapes open, but she is blessedly, blessedly alive. 

“Ang,” he sighs, burying his face into her neck, ignoring the shouts of the cops around him. Something about her clothes, something about evidence. He doesn’t care. He has his soulmate in his arms, and he’s terrified that if he lets her go, she will disappear. 

“Sir, this is an active crime scene…” He turns to see Cho, who still looks stoic, but also slightly like he’s sizing Jane up and doesn’t like what he sees. What the hell? 

“Where’s Charlotte?” He demands of his wife, lowering her so that her bare feet touch the ground again. He sees the remains of rope burn on her ankles, and he’s filled with sudden, furious rage. 

Angela smiles, tremulous, taking his face in her shaking hands. “She’s fine, Paddy, she’s with Teresa. She hasn’t let go of her since… since…” She can’t seem to force the words out as she begins to cry again. 

Teresa, he thinks, nonsensically, as he hums soothingly to comfort his wife, who is Teresa? 

Just then, as if summoned by his thoughts, he hears careful steps and murmurs from the staircase. A young, dark-haired woman becomes visible as she makes her way down the stairs. Another woman, redheaded, trails behind her with her arm around the brunette’s waist, propping her up while gingerly carrying a long, bloody knife in a bag marked evidence. 

His very first reaction, the one that occurs within the imperceptible details of a second, is that the dark-haired woman is the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. Equal to his wife, though their appearances couldn’t be more different. Angela is blonde, tall, broad. This woman is short, though clearly strong, heavily favoring her left leg. He can see a gun tucked into her waistband, and her bright green eyes alight on him for a split second before she returns her gaze to the charge in her arms. His daughter.

In the second half of the second, he sees all the blood.  

More than the scars on his wife. The woman has three thin lines across her neck, blood smudged on her cheek and matted in her beautiful hair. His daughter is in her least favorite set of light blue pajamas, her left hand still finding its way through the fabric of the sleeve. Her clothes are blessedly free of red, but she has a butterfly bandage on her cheek. And her cheek is the only thing visible of her face because the rest of it is buried in the woman’s shoulder, her blonde hair darkening red as she rubs against the open cut on the woman’s neck. Somehow, the woman keeps herself from wincing, and he can tell that they’re having a whispered conversation despite her injuries.

“None of the blood is your daughter’s, Sir,” Agent Cho says, having followed him inside, but Jane isn’t listening. He’s had enough seconds. 

He lets go of his wife and stalks up to the woman. “Give me my child,” he demands, eyes flicking over her now with intent. She’s law enforcement. Confident. But she’s staring at him like he’s not real. A fan? He doesn’t have time for that now. “Give me my child,” he repeats, “and I won’t have your badge.” 

“Daddy!” Charlotte cries, but she doesn’t even look up or let go of the woman. Instead, she reaches out blindly for his hand. When he grasps it, though, she pulls him into her and the woman as if wanting to be enclosed on all sides. Then, he pulls free to put his hands on her waist, attempting now to lift her away, and she starts screaming. “No, ‘Reese, I wanna stay with ‘Reese, Daddy hold us!” 

The woman says nothing to him, but hitches Charlotte against her again, murmuring lowly to her. Her face is turning pale, likely from blood loss, but he doesn’t care. The redhead is close by. She can treat the woman once she lets go of his family.

“Patrick Jane, you don’t know what you’re-” his wife begins angrily from behind him, but he ignores her. 

He’s too far gone, angry now as this woman soothes his child like she could ever understand what the past thirty minutes have been like for him. “You are young for your position,” he says, cold and brutal. The young woman ignores him, still rocking his child, who settles a little in her embrace. His arms itch. “It’s because you are competent at your job, but it’s also because you have no boyfriend, children, or friends. You bury yourself in work to hide from the failure of your personal life, and because you are afraid that your father was right about you… and he was.” 

He can feel the absolute horror coming from his wife, but he doesn’t care. He’s assuming that this woman helped his family, and he’ll thank her once she lets go of Charlotte. He needs Charlotte, who he keeps imagining bloody on her bedroom floor, pale and lifeless. “Patrick,” Angela snaps, “shut your-”

“Give me my child,” he repeats, holding out his arms.  

The woman concedes without further ado, prying Charlotte off of her as she screams. “No he’s going to come back, he’s going to hurt Mommy and me and Daddy, you have to stay!” 

“Charlotte, he’s never going to hurt you again. I promise,” the woman whispers. “Let your Daddy take you, hm? Get you cleaned up some more? I have to go to work now, but I promise everything will be okay.” 

Charlotte doesn’t listen, but she’s finally in his arms, and he can breathe in her faint scent of strawberries and cream. He lets the smell wash over him, slowing the thump of his heart, bringing color back into his skin. When he’s self-possessed again, he looks up. Not to apologize of course, but to be gracious to the policewoman who helped his family when he couldn’t. However, the woman and the redhead are gone, and Agent Cho stands in their place. 

“You should find a hotel to stay in, Sir. We will need a few days to process this scene.”

“What happened?” He demands, interested now that he can feel the only two people he cares about against his body. 

“It was Red John,” his wife says, voice shaking. “He heard about your show. He - he -” 

“Ang,” he says, horrified. It was as he suspected, but hearing the words is much, much worse.

“I can’t do this right now,” his wife says, stepping away from his immediate vicinity. He shifts Charlotte to one arm and grabs her by the shoulder to stop her. “I need to go after Teresa,” she says, “she’s hurt, and she’s alone. We need to-”

“I’m sure the police can handle their own,” he interrupts her. “Let’s go.” 

But Angela digs in her heels. “You stupid, stupid man,” she half-yells. “She saved me. She saved Charlotte! She said - she said… And now she’s gone.” 

“What are you talking about?” he asks, though he doesn’t really care about the answer, pulling her in again. “God, Annie, I’m so relieved-”

But Angela shakes her head, yanking down her shirt to reveal her words, the ones that didn’t come from his lips seven years ago. They’ve been slashed across, wet with half-dried blood, but the words are still readable. 

I’ve got her, I’ve got you, he’s dead.

The room drops several degrees, and the world suddenly seems to go quiet. Despite his usual excellent control over his body, Jane sways on his feet. Seconds ago, he had been content with his family in his arms. Now, there’s a dawning sense of horror as the second set of words on his body, dormant for so long, begin to heat. He realizes abruptly that they’ve been burning since he arrived at the house, but with his panic, it had taken Angela pointing out his terrible, terrible mistake to notice.  

What has he done? 

—

Agent Teresa Lisbon — he had begged her full name out of Agent Cho —  is gone by the time he regains his equilibrium. Still, he runs out of the house after her, Charlotte in his arms. 

“Where is she?” He demands of Cho, who has followed him. Cho looks at him coolly, his chin lifted but his face an expressionless mask. And perhaps Jane deserves this disdain, but he doesn’t care. Only the fact that he can tell this is someone Teresa cares about keeps him from doing something drastic. Teresa wouldn’t like that. 

The thought stuns him for a moment. He has to start thinking about what a fourth person likes now. The idea should suffuse him with joy, but his house has been invaded by police after a serial killer tried to murder his family, and he’s driven away the soulmate that he and his wife have been awaiting for almost a decade now. 

Well, at least it’s safe to say this is the worst night of his entire life. It can’t possibly get any worse. 

“That’s none of your concern,” Cho is saying, and Jane has to give it to him; his expression gives almost nothing away. “Agent Van Pelt has packed a bag for your wife and child. Is there anything you need from the house before we seal it off?”

Jane steps closer, hoping the crying child in his arms inspires some sympathy. “Yes, I need to know where Teresa is,” he repeats, hunching over, trying to convey the posture of a repentant man. Because he is. Terribly repentant. “Is she okay? She was hurt.” 

Cho just shakes his head, walking off. 

When Jane makes to follow, to push harder, Angela grabs his arm, anchoring him back. “He wouldn’t keep us from her if her injuries were serious,” she says, though there’s an unfamiliar note of uncertainty to her voice. 

“He wouldn’t,” Jane confirms. He can tell these things. 

Angela sighs. “Then let’s go to the hotel. We can sort this out tomorrow.” 

He spins around, still rocking Charlotte, taking Angela’s hand in his. “She’s hurt, Angie,” he pleads, squeezing her hand, requesting permission to make the lives of everyone miserable until they are led to Teresa. “And I - I -” 

But she denies him. “I know,” she says, simple and sad, and Jane, as he only does for his wife, bends in submission.

—

They don’t sort it out tomorrow. In fact, it takes them several hours of calling hospitals and different departments at the CBI, which they hadn’t realized was a thing that existed, to trick an update out of someone about Lisbon. When they do, they are told that she checked herself out of West Valley against medical advice and drove back up to Sacramento alone. 

Before Angela can say anything, Jane presses a kiss to her head, then Charlotte’s, racing out of the hotel room and to the valet. He knows he has to be fast; it won’t take long for Angela to realize he’s lifted her car keys from the valet as well, and then not long for her to find a rental car and follow him. 

But this is his fault. He needs to find Teresa and fix it. He’ll talk her into taking some personal time and drive them back to Malibu tomorrow morning. Maybe they can even leave tonight and stop to take in the sunset. The bright oranges and pinks of a Californian sunset would set the perfect scene for a first kiss, after all. 

Six hours of speeding later, he pulls into the CBI offices. It’s the work of nothing to con his way into the building, then the third floor, and then he ducks Cho to slip into Lisbon’s office. He eyes the empty space in the corner. Hm. Perfect for a couch, he muses. 

As it is, he sits in one of the two chairs on the other side of her desk. They’re not comfortable, but he doesn’t want to upset her by sitting in her chair. No, he’ll be a perfect gentleman. The furious, panicked man she first met is now in the past. She’ll forget about that version of him soon enough. 

It takes twelve minutes for her to arrive. He’s halfway through the top file on her desk. It makes good reading; her notes and thoughts are much more coherent and helpful than those he read when he was consulting with the LAPD. It makes sense, of course. His girl has to be smart and capable. From what he saw of her yesterday, she is successful and particular and intense, just like him. He wouldn’t be paired with someone who isn’t those things. 

She bursts into the room in a rush, calling to someone named Rigsby over her shoulder. His eyes scan her from top to bottom, taking advantage of her distraction. She still looks pale, but he’s starting to think that’s her natural state. Uncommon for a California girl, but it works for her. She’s Irish, he’s nearly sure, almost fae-like in her beauty. Her dark hair is slightly mussed, and she has deep purple shadows under her eyes. Her bandages are clean. She has a slight limp still, but he’s relieved because it doesn’t seem as serious as it had been last night. 

He’s most of the way through his perusal of her body when she spots him, nearly jumping ten feet in the hair. He sees her hand dart to her holster on instinct, and he winces. 

“Hey - hey, I’m sorry I scared you,” he soothes, getting to his feet slowly. Once she releases her gun, he changes tactics, moving quickly before she can stop him. He closes the door behind her and puts a proprietary hand on her waist. Nothing inappropriate, just guiding. She’s soft; he can tell even through the layers of her blouse and jacket. “Here, sit down,” he says, eyes darting across her face, trying to find a way in. This is no surface reading; this is the most important reading of his life. “You shouldn’t have left Malibu; we were worried sick.” 

Despite his kind, gentle words, nothing in return leaves those pouty lips of hers. Instead, she silently grasps him by the wrist, squeezing until he lets go of her waist. Then, she turns for the door. 

“Wait - wait…” He tries, though he doesn’t touch her again. “Reese-” He begins. 

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, breaking her obvious resolution not to speak to him, to keep her words from him, and the very, very faint doubt that maybe Angela got it wrong, that this woman wouldn’t pull at his heartstrings, disappears at the recitation of the words written across his chest. 

“Fine,” he capitulates, trying to set aside the now frantic pounding of his heart, though he lays a careful hand on the door to keep it closed. “Teresa-”

“Agent Lisbon,” she corrects, meeting his gaze head on, and oh, she’s a strong one. He wonders if her heart is beating as hard as his. He feels almost dizzy. “Listen, Mr. Jane. I was very happy to stop Red John from harming your family. I’m relieved they’re okay, that you’re okay. That’s my job. You don’t need to thank me for doing my job, so you can just leave.” She wrestles the door open, taking him by the elbow and pulling him into the hallway. 

Is she hoping he won’t make a scene in public? He supposes he won’t gain much traction by laughing at her smug expression, but he wants to smirk at her belief that she’s won something.

“I want to apologize-” He begins, pitching his voice a little louder than needed. 

He enjoys the way her eyes go wide. She looks around, then back at him with an obviously fake smile pasted on her face. He hates it. He prefers the smugness. “Accepted,” she agrees quickly, “it was a very tense time for you. Now, the elevator is right over there, I have to get back to work.” She drops his elbow, though she looks surprised that she was still holding onto it in the first place. 

He takes a step after her. “Don’t walk away from me,” he says, injecting a bit of a command into his tone just to see how she’ll react. He reaches for her again, but for her arm this time; he has a feeling that if he goes for her waist in public, she’ll have him in a full nelson in no time. 

Arm or waist, it’s the wrong move. She spins, mouth already open to yell at him, and he can tell suddenly that this is the real Teresa Lisbon. “What, or you’ll read my mind? Hypnotize me? Trick me?” Her eyes are burning in anger; it’s written in the tiny wrinkles forming in her forehead. All he can think about is crossing the short distance between them and kissing her.

Angela and he are cool, temperate, both born to see the rest of the world as marks. With a sudden flash, he sees the passion in their future when he successfully woos Teresa. The way Angela will tease her, the way he’ll wind her up until the three of them are burning, the relief they’ll feel when they give in and fall apart in each other’s arms. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he lies, setting aside his fantasies. The lie slips out easily, like water. He doesn’t want to trick her, of course. He certainly won’t hypnotize her — unless he has her consent. He intends her no malice. But there are a lot of ways to get someone to do something you want. Pleasurable ways. Perfect for adorable, good-samaritan soulmates with fire in their eyes. 

Those fiery eyes narrow at him, and he feels a bolt of heat strike him right in the stomach. God, but she’s glorious. “You’re a conman,” she spits out, and he wonders if she’s realized all of her coworkers have stopped to watch the fireworks. “You’re a cheat. And you and your wife are very happy with a child. We have nothing to discuss.” She spins on her heel, heading into the bullpen. The worker bees start up again with false rigor, and he can tell she sees through it, though she says nothing. Observant, too. Not as observant as him, obviously, but he likes that. 

“This is not over, darling,” he calls after her, amused. “I’ll see you soon!” 

—

Jane rents a suite for his family at the Citizen, blocks away from Lisbon’s workplace. Sure enough, Angela and Charlotte show up hours later. He endures Angela’s tirade while holding his daughter, but he can’t help the smile that flickers at the corners of his mouth. All his loves are in the same city, after all. The rest is just semantics. 

Over the next few days, while Jane plans, Angela and Charlotte go out on the town. One afternoon, they both come back with wide smiles. Charlotte throws herself into his arms, chattering furiously about her ‘Reese and the swingset and the pink bunny that Lisbon had bought her to replace her old bunny. Thankfully, she does not bring up the fact that her old bunny was the collateral damage of a stabbing that occurred right next to her. Jane hates therapists, but he resolves to talk to Angela and Teresa to see if that’s something they should do for Charlotte. 

Charlotte falls asleep on his lap a few hours later, and once she’s well and truly out, Jane looks up at his wife with a frown. “You had lunch with her,” he accuses. 

“A play date,” Angela corrects, but she looks smug. 

His eyes narrow in consideration, looking down at his angelic, sleeping daughter. “You used Char,” he observes. “Clever.”

“Don’t you dare,” Angela says, pointing her finger at him. “I just promised her I wouldn’t let you use Charlotte against her.”

“You promised what?” He exclaims, freezing when Charlotte shifts. When she settles, he refocuses his glare on his wife. “She was one of my aces, and you know that!” He yell-whispers. 

Angela shrugs. “She asked me to promise, and I couldn’t deny her.” 

It’s a frustrating development, to be sure. Jane sees the longing, hot looks he gets from women when he’s out with Charlotte. He wonders if he can take this as a concession that Lisbon would be weak seeing him around children. There must be a way to work this in his favor. 

“You’re a cruel woman,” he groans, mind already spinning. If he can’t use Charlotte, perhaps Lisbon has children in her family. Maybe he’ll send them free tickets to a show or two. She’d feel obliged to come, to look after the little ones, and she’d see him with Lisbon-children in his arms. He’s sure Lisbon-children are very adorable. 

Hm. It bears further thought. “And a smart one,” he compliments idly. “But we both know I’m smarter.”

“If you try to outsmart her, you’ll lose her,” Angela warns, but he waves her off. 

Patrick Jane doesn’t lose. 

—

He catches Lisbon outside her favorite coffee shop the next morning. He puts her order in her hands as he steers her away from the door, guiding her slowly in the direction of her work. 

“It’s a lovely day,” he says cheerfully, smirking at her. “Do you perhaps want to make a detour through the park? If your boss asks, you can tell him that you were talking to the man whose entire life you saved two days ago. Surely, he’ll make some allowances for the women who took down California’s most notorious serial killer.” 

Lisbon lets herself be guided for a moment so she can take a long drink of her chosen beverage. Then, she double-steps to escape his hand, which has splayed itself across the small of her back. He lets her go, but he quickens to stay in step with her. “How do you know my coffee order?” She deflects, and he grins. He knew that compliments were likely not the way to her heart, at least not this early on, but he can’t help himself. 

“Becky the barista is quite a romantic,” he admits easily, “and I can be very persuasive.”

She gives him a disbelieving look, unwilling to believe he’s gotten to Becky, who has warded off many a man asking for her phone number. “You mean you conned her into giving out personal details about me,” she deadpans. 

“That’s the second time you’ve called me a conman, darling,” he says, tilting his head. “Do you have something against a few harmless tricks? What if I treat you in the end?” He adds, gesturing to her coffee. 

After taking another long drink of coffee, she stops in her tracks, and he follows suit, turning so he comes to a stop in front of her. Her lips are pursed, but she meets his gaze with her own. The rest of the pedestrians go around them as if magnetically repulsed. “You go on T.V. and tell people that you speak to dead people,” she accuses him, stabbing a finger into his chest. 

He can’t deny that, but he can spin it. “Well-” he begins, preparing his skeptic-spiel. 

“Don’t lie to me,” she orders, cutting him off at the pass. 

He’s offended; does she think that he thinks she’s stupid? He wouldn’t lie to her about his abilities, not his soulmate. Is it wrong for him to simply want her to see his job in the best light possible? “I would never lie about such a thing, my dear,” he replies, and he watches her eyes flicker with some unnamed emotion. Surprise? Guilt? Distrust? He’s not sure, and that unsettles him. “Psychics aren’t real, of course. But this is all I know, and it’s enough to support us for the rest of our lives in style.” 

He takes her hand and spins her around, leaning over her until her back is almost touching his chest, gesturing vaguely as if painting a picture for her. “Are you not tempted?” He whispers in her ear. “A house in Malibu, all the shopping sprees you and Ang can dream of, Charlotte and our future little ones wanting for nothing… an Alaskan king bed to snuggle up in every night…” His voice is low, seductive. Not hypnotic of course. But he can’t be begrudged a little innocent suggestion, can he?

Apparently he can.

“I have a job; it supports me just fine,” she snaps, spinning back to face him. She doesn’t realize how close he is until she’s moved, however, so she stumbles back a few steps. He lets her, noting her face growing more and more red. Not the time to push their physical boundaries, he thinks, however much he wants to. “I won’t live on money made off of the misery of others.”

Her outburst is not really surprising, from what he’s seen from her so far, but it is demoralizing. His soulmate is a spitfire, but she’s also, unfortunately, apparently a saint. Not one of the girls who wears a cross hanging around her neck merely for a decoration. Fine. If money isn’t enough, he can give her a moral truth to cling to. “I give them hope-” He begins, eyes wide and earnest. 

But she doesn’t bite. “You sell them lies, and you’re smart enough to know it,” she interrupts. “What if it was Charlotte, giving her money away to speak to you beyond the grave?” 

He stops, and she smirks. It’s not a new insult, but coming from his soulmate, he has to admit it hits. “That’s what I thought,” she says, 

“It’s what I know,” he repeats. He doesn’t say that he also knows her. She’s a child that had to grow up too fast, a workaholic that throws herself into the job for lack of something to come home to. But now she has something to come home to. She has them, if she’d just forgive him his harsh words and let them into her heart. “I’ve done well for us. We’ve been waiting for you, and I wanted you to want for nothing,” he tries, but he feels himself losing ground. He never loses. 

“You’re brilliant,” she says, and though it’s the first compliment she’s paid him, it feels like an insult. “Figure out something else to know.” 

She gives him one last look, then, dumping her empty coffee cup into a nearby trash can, she leaves him there. 

—

Patrick Jane thinks. He thinks, and thinks some more. These days, everything that he does brings thoughts of Lisbon, and how to win her. 

It doesn’t take him long to focus on her career. Perhaps the job is more than an enjoyance of the physicality, which he had suspected given Lisbon’s upbringing in Chicago with three brothers. After all, she’s good at what she does. He understands that. She probably doesn’t want to give it up easily. He’ll need to convince her, and he’ll need time. 

His backup plan involves a cushy desk job. If she doesn’t want to leave law enforcement right away, he thinks this would be an excellent compromise. She’ll be safe from the front lines, she’ll have solid hours, and he can spend quiet months seducing her into unemployment. 

Two days later, he’s in the State House in Sacramento, whispering in the ears of senators and governors. He calls Angela and tells her to call the movers, asks her if she wants to go house shopping. She laughs and asks for a nearby fax number. He gives it over and receives a printed out listing for a five bedroom, four bath in Land Park. He smiles. She might be right that she’s smarter than him. Sometimes. 

He cancels his network contract. The penalty is a pittance against his wealth. If he wants to return to the gig, the network will be desperate for him. He’s the best psychic in the business, and he knows it. 

There is a creeping feeling in his spine that there’s another reason he wants to get off T.V. for the time being. Angela has tried to talk to him about Red John, but he’s been waving her off, too focused on bringing Teresa into the family to think about the man his badass cop stabbed to death in his child’s bedroom. He’s dead. He’s dead, and he can’t hurt them, and Jane has learned his lesson about letting his loved ones near anyone with a weapon. 

So he takes that creeping feeling, and he shoves it down just in time for his meeting with the governor. 

His meeting is a success, as if it could be anything but. One week later, ID in hand, he enters the CBI with his mission accomplished. He makes sure to be friendly with the security guards, leaves a secretary swooning on the ground floor. He pulls out his wallet picture of Charlotte for the ladies on the elevator.

He hears his future before he sees her. 

“Sir, I’m sure we don’t need a consultant on the team,” she is saying, her back to him as she speaks to an older man. Agent Minelli, he presumes. He can tell from the man’s expression and posture that he has deep, fatherly feelings for Lisbon and adds him to his mental list of marks. “We have the highest close rate in the entire organization, and with Red John gone-”

“Just give him a chance,” Minelli says, so focused on convincing Lisbon that he doesn’t catch Jane in his periphery. “The governor wants us to give him a shot. My hands are tied, Lisbon.” 

Lisbon huffs. “Who is it, even? Another author? Please don’t tell me he’s press…” 

“Oh no, my dear,” he interjects, greatly enjoying the way his soulmate slowly turns to face him, the expression on her face one that he has not seen out of a horror flick. Even after all this time, there’s nothing quite like a grand reveal. “Simply a grateful citizen. Conning the public is so passé, don’t you think? Conning criminals… now, that’s where I think my future lies.” 

“You must be Mr. Jane,” Minelli says, a welcoming mask in place as he walks around Lisbon to shake Jane’s hand. “I’m Virgil Minelli. It’s great to meet you. The governor spoke very highly of your abilities.” 

“Thank you, Sir, but I’m afraid I must admit: I’m not a psychic. Simply observant. I’m hoping to reset the cosmic balance a bit, as it were.” Letting Minelli in on his secret is a calculated risk. It will endear him to Lisbon, and being in on the joke will naturally lead Minelli to trust him more as well. When he goes back to his old gig, he’s certain this man is not the type to actively call him out for lying to the innocent public.

Minelli looks confused, but he rallies, and Jane can’t help but admire him for it. “Well, you helped find killers in LA, so I’m sure you’ll be equally as useful to us here at the CBI,” he blusters, and Jane smiles at him. “Now, let me officially introduce the Agent in Charge of your unit, Teresa Lisbon, though I’m sure she introduced herself in Malibu-”

“We’ve met,” she grinds out, and Minelli’s smile slips a little. Ah. She hadn’t told him yet, Jane thinks gleefully. She must be even more embarrassed of him than he thought. “What are you doing here, Jane?” 

He approaches her, reaching for her hand and bringing it to his lips for a courtly kiss. He’s unbothered when she tears her hand away from him like it’s on fire. “Why, I’m your new consultant, of course! Trying out the straight and narrow, as it were.”

She stares at him for a moment with an open mouth, then turns to Minelli. “Sir, please-”

“I’ll let you settle in,” Minelli says quickly, reading the writing on the wall, before he escapes the way that Jane came. 

“Sir!” Lisbon calls after him, before deflating. She doesn’t look over at him at all, still staring after her retreating boss. 

“Well?” Jane prompts, leaning over to capture her attention. “You might not like me, but you can certainly use me,” he purrs, holding out his arm. “Shall we, darling?” 

She ignores his arm, huffs, and stomps off in the direction of her office. 

Jane grins, watching her walk away for a moment before sauntering after her. 

Let the games begin. 

Chapter Text

Lisbon grins as two familiar blondes come toward her, one at a run, one at a more sedate pace. She drops to her knees to receive the runner, curling her arms around Charlotte once she’s close enough. 

“Reese!” Charlotte says excitedly, before pulling back and thrusting her fist at Lisbon. “Look, we got you a present!”

“A present?” Lisbon exclaims, smiling at Angela as she comes to a stop at their side. “That’s so nice of you!”

“It’s from me, Mommy, and Daddy, but Daddy went to go get it,” Charlotte announces, before spreading her fingers wide. In her palm sits a gleaming silver key, and Lisbon’s heart drops to her stomach. 

“How nice,” she says, taking the key and pulling Charlotte into an embrace. Once the girl’s head is buried in her shoulder, she glares up at Angela, who looks sheepish. “Why don’t you run along to the slide? Your mom and I are right behind you.” 

Charlotte goes, happy to have completed her task. Lisbon climbs to her feet, brushing her knees of dirt. “Don’t make me guess,” she grumbles. 

“Hi, honey,” Angela says airily, though she makes no move to bestow her usual kiss on Lisbon’s cheek. She does produce a single pink rose, which Lisbon accepts with a blush. “Patrick bought a house.” 

“And you, with all of your powers of persuasion, could not convince him that giving me a key is inappropriate?” 

Angela shrugs. “It took all my powers of persuasion to convince him to let Charlotte give it to you without him here. He wanted to do it at your office.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Lisbon mutters. 

Angela links their hands together, thrilled when Lisbon doesn’t pull away. They follow Charlotte’s path to the playground. “Yes, well, I imagine it will take both of us to successfully restrain him in the future. It’s nearly impossible to dissuade our man from anything once he’s put his mind to it.” 

“Your man,” Lisbon interrupts, looking away. 

Angela sighs. “I have to admit, on this, I agreed with him. It’s far from inappropriate for you to have a key to our home. We want it to be very clear that it’s your home too, should you so choose.”

“Ang-”

“And you should have a place to go. Someplace safe. Please, will you just accept it?” 

Without further argument, Lisbon slides it on her keyring. It gleams next to her old apartment and mail keys. “This doesn’t mean anything,” she warns. “I- I really like you. And Charlotte is amazing. But I can’t be a part of your family. I’m sorry.” 

They sit on a bench, and Angela watches Lisbon. Patrick hasn’t realized it yet, but they are lucky to have met their third the way they did. Her husband is sickeningly good at coercion, at masks, at bending people to his will. Teresa is strong, but Angela is paradoxically glad she saw the worst in them that first night. Lisbon is an excellent detective; she would’ve seen them for who they really are eventually. Now, she is forced to walk in with her eyes wide open. 

She thinks about telling Lisbon this, but she doesn’t want to work against Patrick’s efforts. Her other two soulmates should realize on their own that this twisted situation might be their best chance for long term happiness.  

“I can’t understand your position, but given that Patrick is probably driving you nuts, I’ll respect it for now,” she says instead, smiling. “I just want to spend time with you. Is that so bad?”

Lisbon blushes. “No, no it’s not,” she admits. 

Holding her breath, Angela carefully weaves their arms together, pressing her head against Lisbon’s. 

They stay like that for a long time. 

—

On his first official day as a CBI consultant, Jane tells Lisbon’s team the truth about his fake-psychic gig.  He reads them as similar to Minelli, though Grace is a little bit of a bleeding heart. He’ll have to make her like him, so when he does play the psychic again, she’ll like him enough to keep quiet. 

He tells them because he doesn’t want to force Lisbon to keep secrets from her team; it would breed resentment, and he wants her to think of him as a crime-solving force that she can’t get rid of, no matter how much he irritates her. He doesn’t plan on stopping his little irritations — too much fun — but he can get some big ones out of the way. 

He uses the first case to get the lay of the land. By the second, he’s ready to impress. 

He ditches the team with ease, confident about the identity of the killer after meeting the parents of the dead teenager. He knows that Lisbon has her personal issues. 

A few hours later, he laughs as the killer desperately yells out his confessions from the top of a flagpole. 

He hears the screeching of tires, the pounding of feet on the pavement as his new team hastens over to him. “Jane!” Lisbon hisses from his side after ordering Rigsby, who is trying not to laugh, to help the man. “We do not coerce confessions out of people!” 

He scoffs at her. “This man murdered his child. The death of a child is any sane person’s worst nightmare. If he doesn’t have to feel that pain, he can feel the pain of acrophobia. It is far less than he deserves.” 

“Until he goes free on a technicality because we didn’t get the evidence we needed before you went straight for a confession under duress!” She whisper-yells at him. Her eyes are like daggers. “Look, I don’t care what you have on the governor. One more move like this, and you’re off the team. You can go help Organized Crime, or something. I don’t care.” 

“You said that already,” he points out, before he ducks down to meet her eyes. “Look, Lisbon, I’m sorry.”

She studies him, and he gets the sense that she’s seeing more than he wants her to. “No,” she says, but the anger is gone. Disappointment takes its place, and damn, it does get to him. “No, you’re not.” 

She walks away, and he shrugs to himself. Oh well. There’s always another show. 

—

Three weeks into Jane’s new job, his failures to impress his soulmate piling up like dirty laundry, Angela comes home with a kiss-swollen smile. 

A strange mix of arousal, jealousy, and resolve curls in the pit of his stomach. He strides across the room, taking her by the shoulders and kissing the smile off her lips. He’s a man who likes to start slow, to build, but this time is different. He wastes no time pushing his tongue into her mouth, searching, desperate and hungry. He groans in frustration and disappointment when he cannot taste Teresa, though he does catch a faint whiff of cinnamon shampoo. 

He lets Angela go, mouth set now in a frown. 

“I’ve never seen you not get what you want,” Angela teases, breathless. “It’s a good look on you.” 

“Early days, my dear,” he promises her darkly, glaring at her when she starts to laugh. 

“It’s not funny,” he pouts. 

“The great Patrick Jane,” she says, “taken down by a short, brunette cop.” She pauses, a mischievous look in her eyes. “She’s an excellent kisser,” she adds. 

“Of course she is,” he groans. “You get to go on dates, and I have to go look at dead people.” 

“Serves you right after pretending to talk to so many of them.” 

Jane rolls his eyes, tapping her with his forefinger right over her heart. “You have no moral high ground, sweetheart. I know you didn’t care about that.” He’s not sure Angela could bear actively conning people herself, and she makes her feelings known semi-regularly that she doesn’t like what he does, but she doesn’t push. She was raised in relative wealth, and he knows that she likes it. Enough not to make a fuss where it's coming from, though he suspects Lisbon’s goodness will start impacting her sooner or later. “But you’ve fooled our dear Lisbon into thinking you’re the good one and knocked me down the ladder for good measure.” 

“It’s not a game,” she corrects him, and he’s been married to her long enough to hear the serious note to her voice. Angela’s masks are as good as his, and she’s always ready with a joke or a laugh. She is rarely intense the way he is, the way their Lisbon is. When she genuinely levels with him, it captures his attention. 

“I’m well-aware,” he grumbles. “If it were, I would’ve won by now.” 

She leans forward to kiss him, light and quick. “Because you cheat,” she retorts, his teasing wife back. 

“Meh,” is his only response.

—

He wooed his wife by breaking her free of a life she hated. He woos marks with his mask of charm and bag of tricks. Surely, he can find something to make Lisbon smile. 

He has his first success with a paper frog. He hears her giggle when it leaps, and he has to all but throw himself into the elevator to stop himself from sprinting back and kissing the laughter right out of her. 

He still annoys her with elaborate cons, but despite her eye rolls, he can tell that she likes being his audience as long as no one gets hurt. He presents her with freshly confessed murderers like a normal man might present his woman with freshly cut flowers. 

Of course, he gives her flowers too. He wants to appeal to her personality, but he can’t help but satisfy his own needs as well. And he needs to see his roses, daffodils, and gardenias on her desk. He needs everybody else to see them as well. 

Sometimes, he brings her in on his schemes, and he thinks she loves that best. He would do it all the time, but he likes her expression of surprised delight far too much. She likes to watch him with children, and he loves being around them, so he presents himself in that light as much as possible. He thinks if she saw him with Charlotte, she’d acquiesce, but his wife remains firm on that point. 

It is slow progress. She holds back. For every inch he gains, she tries to retreat by a mile. He hungers for her, yearns, and it seems impossible some days that she doesn’t feel the same. Sometimes, he sits on the couch he bought for her office and watches her hands for hours, knowing that she won’t kick him out if he stays quiet. The sight of her fingers gripping her pen as she signs documents begins to seriously affect him. She has one strand of unruly hair that he itches to smooth back. The way she bites her lip when she’s focused has more power over him as a grown man than those half-naked posters on his trailer wall had when he was a teenager. 

Angela suffers the worst of his hunger, he thinks as he pulls her into their bedroom to let off some steam, but even sex between them is less satisfying. He can tell she feels the same. There’s an empty space in their bed, and only one person who can fill it. 

He knows he could guide Lisbon to her rightful place through more trickery. He could manufacture a situation where every choice leads to him. Angela and Charlotte have already won her over; he’s her only hold out. It would be easy and clean, and he could have her. 

He rolls off Angela, and they breathe together in the silence of their bedroom. 

“What’s she like?” He asks. He knows that she knows he means like this, sweaty and gasping in bed. He’s pictured it a thousand times, but he knows that his imagination does not do her justice. 

“I don’t know,” Angela admits. “She won’t be with me. It’s all I can do to get her to kiss me sometimes. She thinks we’re better off without her.” Angela looks over at him, a furrow between her beautiful eyebrows, and he remembers swearing on their wedding day that she would never have to worry again because he would take care of her. It feels now like he’s breaking that promise. “Paddy, I know I’ve been… flippant. But she needs us almost as much as we need her. I can’t advocate for you without losing her trust, so you have to figure it out.” 

“What if I fail?” He whispers, vulnerable only here, with the soulmate he met first. They’ve built a life with their third in mind; it’s devastating that she’s digging in her heels, even if he deserves it. 

Angela sighs. “She kept that frog,” she says finally. “It’s in her pocket. She showed it to Charlotte when I was in the bathroom, but I saw it.” 

You won’t fail, she’s saying. You can’t. 

—

Lisbon finds him at the close of a case where he made it through without committing any acts for which anyone but the perpetrator yells at her. In fact, she gets a complimentary call from the DA. 

She usually sits with him after these cases, sharing a cup of tea, and he knows she’s trying to condition him into better behavior. Little does she realize that he knows she likes it when he gets in trouble sometimes; she enjoys scolding him, and he’s happy to stand there with a wide grin and take it. 

She sits on the couch next to him, handing him a steaming cup of tea. He takes a sip of the hot liquid, expertly prepared by his future wife’s hand, hiding a smirk behind the rim at the way she keeps at least a foot of space between them. The bullpen is near empty, and his eyes flit over to her, waiting for her to speak. 

“Thanks for saying what you said to Van Pelt,” she says finally. “She’s new to the team, and she did good work on this case.” 

He shrugs, taking another sip of tea. “Happy to,” he says, and he’s telling the truth. He likes Grace; she’s innocent and kind, and to hurt her would feel like kicking a puppy. He tilts his head back, looking over at Lisbon. “That tech stuff is beyond me,” he admits.

Lisbon nods, mirroring his posture. “I don’t like it much, either,” she confesses, but then she smiles. “Though you and a keyboard are mortal enemies in a way that I’ll never understand.” 

He laughs, laying an arm along the back of the couch between them. “I never learned to type,” he tells her, leaning in conspiratorially.

“You didn’t have to take a typing class?” She gasps, scooting a little closer to him. He doesn’t think she’s aware of her own movement. 

“Didn’t go to high school,” he admits. 

Her mouth drops open. “What about Ang?”

“She did,” he says with a nod. “Her folks were carnie royalty. Not scraping by, day to day.” He knows she knows something about that. When she melts a little bit with sympathy, he takes his chance. Reaching out with the back of his hand, he brushes his knuckles lightly across her hair. “I told Ang she would never have to live the way I did,” he whispers. “You both deserve a life of leisure.” 

She just watches him for a long moment, letting him pet her hair. He rewards her allowances by keeping his touch light and restrained. “Angela told me that you don’t want me working here,” she says. 

He occupies himself with a single strand of hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “Is this going to be the rest of my life?” He says, gentle and adoring. “The two of you, gaining up on me?”

“You make it so easy,” she teases, but she looks surprised at herself for her own playfulness. Then she shakes her head, dislodging his hand. He returns it to the couch. “I mean,” she continues, her expression now reset, “I’m not going to give up my job. Not for anything. It gives me purpose. Can’t you understand that?”

He doesn’t understand it, has never done work with a higher purpose in mind, and he tells her so. “Like I said, my gig was a means to an end.” 

She just looks at him, her eyebrows arched high. “Yeah right. The fans? The adoration? The power? I know you. You must’ve been all over it.” 

“It was… heady,” he admits. “But this work is challenging. Rewarding. I see why you enjoy it, despite its dangers. And if you’re going to keep doing it, I’m certainly going to be at your side.” 

A pleased smile flits across her face before she refocuses, but his sharp eyes miss nothing. “Just because I like working with you,” she warns, “doesn’t mean anything is going to happen between us.” 

“No, why would it?” He says sardonically, but secretly, he’s happy. She admits that she likes working with him, spending time with him. He desperately wants to tease her about it, but he doesn’t want her self-consciousness to get in their way. 

She clutches her mug to her chest in mock-horror. “You said sarcasm is the lowest form of wit!” She accuses, sitting up. 

He mirrors her, grinning. He reaches over before she can stop him, tapping her gently on the cheek. “It is, Lisbon, don’t you see how twisted up inside you’ve made me? I’m no longer properly witty!” 

She giggles, and paradoxically, his smile fades. “What is it?” She asks. 

“You really love this work, don’t you,” he says, resigned, asking a question that is not at all a question. “You wouldn’t let me talk you out of it one day? What you do is dangerous, Teresa. After… after Malibu…”

“Hey,” Lisbon says, compassion overflowing, and he’s struck with the uncomfortable realization that he could forswear all cons and schemes for the rest of his life and not deserve this woman. None of his grand gestures are enough. His money isn’t enough, his wit isn’t enough, the work of his hands isn’t enough. This woman will demand his heart and soul belong only to her and Angela, and she’ll tilt the world that he has created for them on his axis. It won’t be his world anymore. It will be theirs. 

It’s terrifying to think he might be warming to the concept, if only he can have her at his side. 

She’s saying something, confused now, and he tunes back in. “Sorry, I was lost in thought. Tell me again?”

She shrugs, awkward now. “It’s just — I’m here if you need to talk. That’s all.” 

“Just talk?” He teases, refinding his equilibrium. “I’m feeling a little overcome, after all. I could use a hug.” 

She scoffs at him, getting to her feet, and he’s pretty sure his eyes are gazing openly adoringly at her. How embarrassing, and he doesn’t even care. “In your dreams.” 

He stands as well, advancing on her slowly. “Oh no, darling, my dreams are far more salacious. Why, just last night, I dreamt that Annie was on her knees before us, and your legs were around my waist-” 

“See you tomorrow!” She interrupts, blushing furiously as she practically flees for the elevator. 

He lets her go, laughs at her antics, but he has to admit he needs a minute to himself before he leaves as well. 

—

In the end, his wife is right; she was right from the beginning. He doesn't win Lisbon by doing something smart. In fact, he does it by doing something very, very stupid.

“Shoot it out! Shoot it out with your gun!” He begs Lisbon as he pounds on the glass window. He can hear the unknown man screaming from beneath his gag, can hear the tick-tick of the countdown on the bomb in his head, a mental stopgap to tell how much time he has left. 

Not much. 

He returns to the back of the van, staring into the man’s eyes, horror and terror staring back at him. Pleading for him to do something. There’s nothing he can do. 

Lisbon has him by the shirt now, tugging, yelling at him. It is her desperation, her panic, that wakes him from this nightmare. 

He runs. But not far enough. 

The blast takes him off his feet. He shuts his eyes tightly against the heat of the explosion. He doesn’t open them again until he feels Lisbon’s hands searching his body for injury, her voice begging him to say something, calling his name raggedly. The world is black, and he shuts his eyes again, bringing up a hand to rub them. He must have something in his eyes.

“I’m okay,” he tells her, his tone open and forthright as he attempts to reassure her. Her arms are around his waist as she pulls him to his feet, and he realizes suddenly that she had run back toward the blast to be at his side. 

Unfortunately, this tells him nothing about her feelings for him. His Lisbon is depressingly selfless. She would’ve probably run back to help a convicted murderer. 

He thinks she asks for clarification, so he keeps assuring her, keeps rubbing his eyes so he can look at her beautiful face again. The world stays black, but he’s okay. He’s tethered to the ground by Lisbon’s hand on his elbow. 

—

The verdict is… unpleasant. He gripes at the doctor until she leaves them alone, then he feels Lisbon at his side. After a beat, two familiar fingers pinch his wrist. Hard. 

“Ow!” He exclaims. 

“I’ll do worse if you don’t stop mouthing off to people who are trying to help you,” Lisbon hisses, but her fingers remain on his wrist. The pad of her forefinger brushes its way down the back of his hand, and he suddenly sees her game. She wants to touch him, and she has artlessly employed artifice to do so. 

“Did you call Angela?” He asks, listening carefully. 

Sure enough, her breath hitches, and her hand leaves his wrist to smooth over the bandages around his eyes. “Yes. She’s expecting your call. She didn’t speak to Charlotte yet. I… I didn’t know what to tell them. Until now, I thought maybe this was - that you would…” She trails off, her voice a little thready. Unnoticeable by most. Clear to him. 

His wife and daughter are visiting her cousins in South Carolina, which is just as well, because he’s already figured that he’s a target in this case. Best that they’re out of the way so Teresa and he can take care of things on the homefront.

Jane reaches up to take the hand that cups his cheek, pressing gentle kisses to her fingers. She allows him his ministrations, and his heart leaps. “Darling,” he says, affectionate. They are not bonded, but he can feel her worry, and it suffuses him with hope. “Don’t fret. I’m perfectly alright.” 

“You shouldn’t be alone,” she laments, taking her hand from his mouth despite his noises of protest. “Maybe Rigsby…” 

He refuses to let this opportunity go to waste. “Lisbon,” he says, appealing to her sensibility, “Rigsby has nothing in his kitchen but junk. Cho doesn’t like me enough to agree to take me, and it would be far too awkward to stay with Grace.” He’s stretching the truth a little; Cho doesn’t like him, though he cares enough about Lisbon to take him in to avoid Lisbon’s discomfort. Unless she comes to that conclusion independently, however, he feels no need to enlighten her. “I can’t imagine a better caretaker than you,” he finishes, careful to leave off any endearments that would give her hesitation. 

He’s prepared to trick, to cheat, to weasel his way into her protection. But Lisbon, his selfless savior, waves her white flag. “Until Ang and Charlotte get home,” she agrees. 

He calls his wife while Lisbon is in the room, so he keeps it innocent and brief. He tells her to stay in South Carolina. When he hangs up, he immediately pulls up their text chain. 

Take your time, he messages her. 

Good luck, she texts back. 

—

At first, the case is interesting despite his blindness. He likes the challenge of using his other senses to suss out people’s intentions. He makes Lisbon smile twice, and he even gets to hold her face in his hands under the guise of furthering his knowledge of said smile. It’s thin, but she allows it, which makes him near giddy. He takes it too far by complimenting her delicious scent, but he’s unbothered. You win some; you lose some. 

Then, they find the watch, and suddenly what little interest he had in the case is overtaken by the realization that someone is after him because of his psychic gig. It’s an annoying realization, because he’s spent so much time trying to figure out how to get Lisbon away from her profession. Only now, this is the second time that someone in his family has been hurt recently because of his prior employment as a charlatan. 

Even worse is the faint paign he feels, remembering what he told Carol Gentry. Remembering her suicide. That feeling, he doesn’t allow himself to examine at all. 

Lisbon takes him home that night despite her desire to return him to the hospital after his blackout. Her apartment smells clean. Sterile. He runs his hands along the tables and bookshelves, noting the lack of personal items. He hits his foot on a cardboard box. Half-emptied. 

“Still moving in,” she responds sheepishly to his unanswered question. He permits this vague response because he already knows that she’s lived here for nearly two years. He’s done his research, which of course means that he has gotten Rigsby drunk a few times and weaseled all sorts of things out of him. 

She settles him on the couch after he vehemently denies her bed. As much as he wants to roll around in her sheets, he wants her to be in them with him. To lay in her bed alone would be torture, and he can admit he needs rest. 

“Can I ask you a question?” She asks once she has ordered them Chinese takeout, joining him on the couch. 

He turns his head in her direction. “Sure, if I can ask you one in return,” he says. 

She huffs out a laugh. “Okay, fair enough. Mine’s… not easy,” she admits, sighing when he gestures for him to continue. “What happened to Carol Gentry?” When he says nothing, she pushes. “You were — you seemed upset.” 

When he reaches out blindly, she takes his hand. He smiles briefly before allowing it to fade. “Teresa,” he says solemnly, “I don’t want to answer this question.” 

“Why?” She replies, squeezing his hand. “Afraid I’ll tell you that your job was no good?”

He appreciates her trying to lighten the mood, but he’s acknowledged by now that he’s gotten nowhere with her by flirting and teasing. She needs to hear something real, so he intends to give it to her. In small, appreciable doses. “No,” he sighs. “I’m afraid you’ll tell me that I’m no good.”

Lisbon’s other hand reaches for his, the one she already holds, and he permits her to take them both. “I’ve already seen what you can do,” she says, and he flinches at the reminder of their first meeting. “Her name… it bothered you. I mean, it genuinely seemed to hurt you.” 

Jane feels a faint twinge in his chest. “You like seeing me hurt?” He says, careful to keep his voice even. 

“I like seeing you ,” she admits. “I don’t want you to hide pieces of yourself from me.”  

He kicks out his foot until he feels it knock lightly against hers. He can’t see it but he knows that the movement makes her happy. “Because we’re soulmates,” he states. 

“Because we’re partners. At work,” she corrects, and he can tell she’s blushing. 

He exhales. She's not going to let this go, and she can easily infer herself what happened if he gives her time. Better that she hears the story from him. “I did a reading on her,” he says finally, and he can feel her sit up straight at his explanation. “I told her that her mother forgave her. It wasn’t the right thing to say.” He pauses. “She killed herself a few weeks later.”

Lisbon, bless her, immediately protests. “Then it wasn’t because-”

“It was,” he nods firmly, cutting off any absolution she wants to give him. “I don’t mess up often, but I do. My words drove her mad, and she couldn’t live with it.” 

“You can’t know that, Jane,” Lisbon says fiercely, scooting over to him until she’s inches from being pressed against his side. He can feel the heat of her body, and he shivers. “I’m not condoning what you did, but this woman sounds like she had other problems. You can’t hold yourself solely responsible for her mental state.” 

“You’re sweet,” he says finally, wondering briefly if she’ll pull away if he puts his head on her shoulder. He’s both surprised and unsurprised to admit that he wants her comfort. 

“And you’re not doing it anymore,” she points out. “You’re doing good things now.” 

Jane pushes down the sudden, overwhelming wave of guilt. She doesn't know about his plans to go back to conning people if he can talk her into a safer position. “Time for my question,” he announces, and she graciously lets him pivot. “I never asked how you knew,” he says, and though he can’t see, he can hear her questioning silence. “About Red John,” he elaborates. 

He can tell he has surprised her with his line of questioning. “We had only had the case for a few weeks,” she admits, gearing up for a long story. He tilts his head back, closing his sightless eyes. He wants to take advantage of the rare opportunity to listen to her voice unaided by his vision. “It was just lucky that we were in Malibu for a different one. Van Pelt likes your daytime show; she was watching your appearance on the news that day. When you said those things… I just had a feeling. Red John struck me as the kind of person who would take offense. I looked up your address and staked it out that night, just in case.” 

Jane is thoughtful; she’s holding something back. “But he entered from the woods,” he realizes. “You wouldn’t have seen the car.” 

A brief hesitation, then: “I felt it. When he… when he cut Ang. Our words. It could have been anyone, I suppose, but…”

“Your gut told you to check on them,” he says knowingly. This time, he squeezes her hands.

Lisbon hums in response. “When I saw them… he was holding Charlotte. My heart stopped. I - I’m glad I didn’t know for certain who they were. To me. I think I would’ve frozen up. When Ang said the words after, I couldn’t believe it. It was like I was moving through a dream.” 

“And then I opened up my big mouth, and suddenly it was a nightmare,” he says wryly. 

“No, Jane. You helped me see how tight a unit you were. You three were meant to be a family.” She pauses for a split second, then her words speed up in earnest. “You were right about me,” she confesses, slipping her hands from his. “I’m bad at commitment — at family. My brothers hate me. I would only hurt you in the end, and it would be worse than if we just parted ways now. You might’ve ruined the dream, but you did us all a favor.” 

He wishes he could see her. He reaches for her again, but she's moved away from him, and he’s grasping at air. “You’re wrong,” he insists. “We need you. I need you.” 

“You just think you need me,” she denies. “I know your type. I’m a challenge, and you don’t like to lose. I couldn’t- if we did this, and it failed, it would… it would…”

He can barely breathe, it hurts so much. “Teresa,” he whispers, and it’s agonizing. 

“Good night, Patrick,” she breathes, and she is gone. The doorbell rings, probably the takeout, but he can’t bring himself to stand.

All night, he stares sightlessly at the ceiling. 

—

The next morning, he lets her pretend they never spoke. He needs to think, and he’d also like to solve the case. He doesn’t like the feeling of being hunted. 

Two mornings later, the case having been solved the night before after Lisbon heroically came to his and Grace’s rescue, he wakes on her couch to the twittering of Sunday birds. He lies there, relaxed, until he hears her begin to putter around in her bedroom. Then, with a deep breath, he slowly and carefully makes his way up the stairs. 

Despite his lack of vision, it’s not as hard as he thought. He shuffles until he finds her bed, sitting heavily on the unmade surface, and waits for her to exit the bathroom. 

When the sink turns off, he begins to pick at the bandages covering his eyes. 

He hears her come into the room as he’s peeling off the second bandage. Instead of yelling at him for climbing the stairs or invading her privacy or touching his bandages, she stays quiet. He can tell she’s watching him. 

Slowly, he opens his eyes. 

Lisbon’s face comes into focus. 

He can’t help the wide smile that spreads across his face, and apparently it’s infectious, because she smiles too, walking over to stand in front of him. 

“Oh,” he breathes, “you have no notion how good it is to see your face.” 

“You too,” she says, and the warmth coming from her expression is palpable. He can feel it in the air. He hates to ruin it, he thinks to himself, still in awe of her beauty.  

But he has to. He drops the smile, giving her a sympathetic look when her brows furrow in confusion. “Now,” he says, trying to stay as far away from ominous as possible, “we need to talk. About the other night.” 

Her eyes widen, but before she can dance out of reach, his arms shoot out, pulling her to sit next to him. One hand is on her upper arm, the other presses her thigh into the comforter. “You know you can’t hold me here,” she warns. 

“I know,” he agrees. She’s much better at hand to hand combat than him. She could be gone in a few seconds if she so wished. “But if you hear me out now, I’ll leave it alone forever,” he lies. Of course he won’t, he thinks, but she doesn’t need to know that. He just needs her to sit still. 

It works, luckily, but he doesn’t take his hands away. Not before he says what he’s about to say. 

“I didn’t know it at the time, but I was telling the truth when I said that your father was right about you,” he tells her, even and gentle, as if he’s not dropping a bomb over their nice relationship dynamic. He’s been too nice, he thinks. He’s been wooing her, but Lisbon doesn't respond to seduction. Maybe she’ll respond to the truth. 

If she does, it’ll be under protest. She’s already trying to squirm out of his hold. He leans into her, tightening his grip. “No — no, wait,” he says. “Hold on a second. Hear me out.” 

“Jane,” she whines, shaking her head, as she does everything she can not to meet his eyes. She’s genuinely distressed, but in for a penny —

“No,” he repeats, firm. “You need to hear this. Your father was a drunk. He abused you. He forced you to grow up before you should have.” 

“Jane,” she begs, “it’s not-” 

“It is,” he cuts her off. “I see you, Teresa. I know you. Your father, he knew you too.” 

“Patrick,” she breaks, tears in her eyes, “please.” 

The sound of his given name on her tongue nearly shatters him. He flinches, but he pushes on. “I know he knew who you are because no one could miss it, no matter how stupid or blind they are. You are the brightest star in the sky. You’re so good, so precious, and he was a weak, broken man who couldn’t bear the reminder.” 

She lets out a noise of discontent, but he continues, tilting his head so he can rest his forehead against her hair. “If you permit me the opportunity, I would like to ensure that you know how precious you are for the rest of your life,” he continues urgently. “I would like to take care of you, and let you take care of me. I would like to hold you, and I would like to catch killers with you, because I truly enjoy being at your side when you take down criminals.” 

“Jane-” She begs again, but he’s almost done, and he has to finish. 

“I can be cruel,” he says, releasing her. He is relieved beyond measure when she stays next to him. She’s unmoving, but he can see the tears spilling down her cheeks. Cruel is right. He set out to break something in her in the desperate hope that he can reset it so it can heal right this time. He sits up straighter, unbuttoning his vest, pausing briefly to nudge her face toward him with his forefinger. She doesn’t meet his eyes, but that’s alright. She’s facing him at least, watching his hands with wide eyes, speechless. “I’ve hurt people,” he explains, shedding his vest and starting on his shirt. “But you’ve shown me a new way to exercise my considerable talents. And you, my love… I’d be so good to you.”

“I know you would,” she admits, and he silently rejoices at this small success. “That’s not what I’m worried about.” 

“Then what, dearest?” He prompts, pausing on his buttons. 

She lets out a shaky breath. “What if I’m not good for you two?”

He shakes his head. “What else?” He says softly.

“You’re — what you did to people was wrong,” she insists. “I don’t want to ask you to change...” 

“I already have,” he interrupts. “If that’s a promise you need me to make, I’ll make it. We can fight criminals until you wish to retire, and then we’ll become members of the idle rich,” he adds, a faint, teasing smile curling at the corners of his mouth. 

“And the first thing?” She asks, hesitant, but there’s something else. Something different. She looks up at him, finally, and what he sees in her eyes gives him hope. She looks lighter, softer, like she’s already made up her mind, and they’re going through the motions. 

The warm sunlight breaking through the windows of her bedroom feels like a herald of what’s to come. He finishes unbuttoning his shirt, drawing her gaze to the words there. 

“Angela’s words are on my hands,” he says, holding them out to her, admiring the gentle cursive. “Everytime I use them, I’m reminded of why I need to be successful — to protect our family. No matter how many people I need to trick or cheat.” He leans in, then, taking her hand and pressing it against his chest. The blaze that burns through him at the sensation of her hand on her words makes him dizzy with devotion. “Your words are on my heart, darling. You are good, challenging, and more lovely than words. You were meant to make me a better man.”

Then, he waits. He holds her hand to his heart, and he waits. 

Lisbon shuts her eyes tightly for a moment, then he is pierced with pools of green so open and deep that he falls all over again. “You’re saying that if I give in, the streets of California would be safer.” She says with a little huff, but he can see the smile on her face. “That feels like blackmail.”

He smiles. His saintly soulmate. How lucky he is. “As you like,” he replies, full of affection.

She moves her hands from his heart to his shoulders, taking a deep breath. “Okay. I mean, let’s — maybe a trial period? For the state of California.” 

In a smooth, easy movement, he twists his torso, takes her by the waist, and lifts her light body into his lap. He drops one hand to her thigh, grasping it and easing it over his legs so that she straddles him. “Uh uh, darling,” he murmurs, relishing in her blush. She’s tough and unyielding, though; she doesn’t pull away, instead leaning in and draping her forearms around his neck. “For the state of California, I want you in my bed tonight.” 

Jane leans in, intent on her lips, but she directs him down to her jaw. “Should we — should we wait for Ang?” She gasps as he mouths at her skin. He’s never tasted anything so sweet in his life. 

“Oh no, dear one,” he breathes, burying his head in her neck, grasping her hips and pulling her deeper into him. She whimpers, and he fights the urge to make this whole event much quicker than she deserves. “Not after all the work I’ve put in. Angela received your precious first kisses.” He kisses down her neck to her chest, open-mouthed, licking and sucking as he goes. “I want to devour you,” he moans. 

In a move he doesn’t expect, she takes him by the shoulders and shoves him down until he’s lying back on the bed, beneath her. He pants, gazing up at the goddess on his lap. He’s not a religious man, but he suddenly wants to start praying. “How do you know I won’t devour you first?” She asks, smirking, reaching for the hem of her t-shirt. 

“You’re a lioness, Lisbon,” he says, guiding the rhythm of her hips as he intently watches the strip-tease happening above him. “Show me your claws, then.”

—

They spend the rest of the weekend in bed, only freeing themselves for food and other necessary bodily functions. After two blissful days, he gets the notification that Angela and Charlotte are enroute from the airport as he’s getting ready to coerce Lisbon out of her office for the day. 

Their combined excitement is palpable as she drives them home. Lisbon barely steps into the house before Charlotte is running at her. Lisbon bends for her, swinging her into her arms. 

Jane is feet behind, Lisbon’s purse in his hands. “Daddy, hold us!” Charlotte demands when she sees him over Lisbon’s shoulder. 

And it’s like a do over from that horrible night. One he doesn’t intend to waste. He beckons a beaming Angela over as well before turning to his two shorter girls, clasping Lisbon by the waist and lifting them both into his arms. They both squeal, and he can hear Lisbon’s quiet giggle when he runs a familiar, proprietary hand up her flank. 

Angela comes up next to them, ducking under his left arm and wrapping an arm around Lisbon’s waist and an arm around his shoulders. Jane inhales deeply, relieved to have everyone he loves within his arms. He’s so far away from his childhood, and he’s so incredibly happy that Lisbon is far away from hers. 

“Cuddles?” Charlotte asks, locked in the middle of the three of them. 

“Of course, sweetheart,” Jane says, pressing kisses to her cheeks until she laughs. “But it is bedtime.” 

“I want to stay up,” she whines, “I wanna say bye to Reese.” 

Jane grins. “No need. Teresa will be here in the morning.” 

“Jane! We didn’t discuss-”

“You will, Reese?” 

Lisbon sighs. She’s been beaten. “Yeah, of course.” Then, she grins. “Maybe you want to have a slumber party? We can sleep in the guest room together—”

Jane looks on in horror as his evening plans hang by a thread. “Absolutely not—”

They both look at Angela, who shrugs. “Let’s do a slumber party on Friday, Char,” she says, ignoring Lisbon’s groans and the smugness emanating from her husband. Angela ducks low, her lips on Lisbon’s ear as Jane distracts their daughter. 

Jane doesn’t catch the conversation, but he catches their conspiratorial looks. His brow furrows, but it clears when Lisbon worms out of his embrace, pressing a gentle kiss to Charlotte’s cheek, then, peering up at him with wide, innocent eyes, presses her lips to his in a chaste kiss. 

Jane lets out a shuddering sigh. It will be years before that look is anything less than hypnotic to him. “I don’t care what you two are up to,” he says to Angela, smirking, “as long as we all know where it ends.” Then, he turns to the precious girl in his arms. “Okay. Bedtime for you!” 

Charlotte whines, but Jane turns for the stairs, spinning on his heel to face his soulmates at the last minute. “You’re next,” he mouths silently, and he nearly stops breathing when he watches Lisbon pull Angela into her arms, kissing her deeply. 

He starts to jog up the stairs. “I’ll read you ten stories tomorrow if you do no stories tonight,” he begs his daughter, who looks up at him with the signature Jane twinkle in her eye. 

“Fifteen,” she bargains.

“Done,” he agrees.

—

Hours later, Teresa lays between her two soulmates, utterly worn out and fast asleep. 

“You had a contingency plan, didn’t you?” Angela whispers, tracing her finger down his arm to where it meets Lisbon’s back, continuing. “If she didn’t buy the good man act.”

“Meh,” he offers. “Calling it an act is a bit harsh, don’t you think?” He hasn’t told her yet what he promised the woman between them, thinks that it would be best if they were all awake for that conversation.

Angela ignores him, though he sees a considering look in her eyes. Before Lisbon, they had fought about the way he used people; he knows she has been worried about the example he is setting for Charlotte. But he couldn’t change, then; he knew Angela would never leave him, no matter his actions. So Lisbon had to be the catalyst. He needed the wake up call. “What were you going to do?” She asks instead. 

His mind flits through half-formed plans, plans that bear no thinking about given that he has what he wants. They all taste sour after all, and he suspects that the three of them wouldn’t be happy if they had arrived at this point as a result of his less pure schemes. He deliberately doesn’t consider whether together is more important than happy; it’s a useless endeavor because they’re both together and happy. No need for dramatics. 

“Lisbon has made me a better man,” he admits freely, “but I would be lying to you if I said that I’m not a work in progress, and I promised her that I would attempt to stop lying to you two.”

“We’ll see how that goes,” Angela teases, before she settles deeper into the bed, wrapping a loose arm around Lisbon’s waist. “Goodnight, Paddy. Love you.”

Jane smiles softly at the sight of his two women before inhaling deeply, closing his own eyes.

“Love you, Ang.”

—

Teresa Lisbon lies awake, listening to this whispered exchange. 

She thinks of how Jane is with her, with Angela and Charlotte. But more, how he teases their team, plays with children, gleefully arrests criminals, taunts evil masterminds. 

She disagrees with him, though their relationship is new enough that she’s not ready to call him on it. If she can help him find his conscience, she doesn’t mind, but she knows it’s not her job to make him a better man. She admits to herself that he’s already good. Maybe it’s just her job to make him believe it.

When she’s sure they’re asleep, she turns, backing herself into his arms and pulling Angela to her front. His arms reflexively close around her, Angela’s hair fanned across her bare chest, and Lisbon smiles.

Then she falls asleep in their arms.

+ bonus

The next morning, Lisbon wakes to an empty bed. 

Her heart thumps once in panic before she stills it and closes her eyes. Instead, she extends her other senses. 

She can hear the giggling and murmuring of Charlotte and Angela down the hall, the latter getting the former ready for school. It’s quiet and soft until Charlotte lets out a shriek of laughter, though Angela quickly shushes her daughter, likely for Lisbon’s own benefit. 

She inhales deeply, smelling coffee and bacon. Turkey bacon, she amends with a wrinkled nose. Her soulmates are LA levels of health conscious. Jane doesn’t even shop at a normal grocery store. There are three different sources of milk in their refrigerator. It’s obscene. 

Hesitantly, then, she reaches out with her new sixth sense. She feels the silver beam of Angela, mere feet away, and the golden glow of Jane, only a little further but… now closer somehow…

She brings up her hands to cover her face, a deeply felt instinct, hiding the smile that threatens to shine. It is only then that her eye catches on a new adornment on her finger. 

A diamond ring. It is glittering in the glow of dawn emanating from the bay-style windows. The diamond is not massive, but the stone is cut very well, and she can tell that diamond alone is worth more than any piece of jewelry she’s ever worn. That’s not even counting the countless tiny stones set around it, nor the gleaming gold band. 

There’s only one person who could be responsible. 

“Jane!” She calls out angrily, pushing up so she’s seated in the bed. Jane hadn’t been lying to her all those weeks ago, when he had called it massive. They could fit another ten people in here if they wanted.

The man in question appears in the doorway. He’s already dressed in his customary three-piece suit, dove grey today. He looks good enough to eat, and from his satisfied smirk, he knows it. “Yes, my love?” He says, eyes glittering as he examines her disheveled appearance in their bed. She can feel him locking the image away, and warmth begins to gather in her stomach. “I’ve brought your coffee,” he adds, a steaming cup appearing between his hands as if by magic. “Ang is waking Charlotte. Would you like breakfast in bed?”

She looks at the ring, then at the coffee, then back at the ring. Jane, uncharacteristically, remains quiet as he watches her process. 

She thinks about the battles she’s going to have to fight with him this week. The case they have involves a US Senator, who Jane will absolutely taunt. Charlotte has a dance recital on Friday, and one of the moms has been rude to Angie which means that she has to both take her own revenge and stop Jane from taking excessive action. He’s about to make her eat turkey bacon. Now that she thinks about it, her new ring, even with its expectations and implications, is somehow not even in the top fifteen issues she is going to have this week. Starting a fight over it is probably not worth her time and energy. 

Plus, she worked up an appetite last night. And she’s sore. And she really wants regular bacon sometimes. 

“Can we put normal bacon into the rotation?” She asks him, and his eyes widen at the unexpected segue. Then, they dart to her hand, then back to her face, questioning. 

She gives him a faint nod, and the smile she gets in return is blinding. 

“Of course, my little darling,” he coos, and okay, he’s really pushing it. 

Lisbon throws a pillow at him, making sure to hit his face and not the coffee. He lets her, laughing. “Watch it,” she grumbles in warning. There's not enough caffeine in the world to deal with morning-after Patrick Jane. “I’ll take breakfast now, please,” she says primly. 

He’s still beaming about her lack of argument regarding the ring, darting over to place the coffee in her hands. “I love you,” he breathes, ducking to press a kiss to her cheek. “You and Ang are my soul.” 

She sips at the perfectly-prepared coffee; even great sex is not going to turn her into a morning person. “Your soul is hungry,” she reminds him. 

With a playful eye roll, he straightens, though he takes her left hand in his and presses a kiss over the ring before he departs. She allows it; he wouldn’t be her soulmate if he didn’t push and claw for every inch and then rub his winnings in her face. 

Once he’s gone, Angela and Charlotte enter, cuddling up with her. Angela presses her own kiss over the ring. “You’re lucky I talked him out of his first choice,” she laughs. “Your wrist would’ve gotten sore from holding that thing up.” 

“I love you,” Lisbon says seriously. She doesn’t expound on it, not with Charlotte between them, but Angela tears up. 

“Do you love me?” Charlotte asks. 

“You are your father’s daughter,” Lisbon tells her, smiling. “Yes, Char. I love you too.” 

“And daddy?”

She looks up, meeting Jane’s eyes as he reenters the room with her breakfast tray. He’s acting casual, but she can see the tensing of his shoulders, the faint dulling of their bond. 

And, with happiness welling in her heart in a way that it hasn’t since the early days of her childhood, it’s the easiest thing in the world to set his fears to rest.