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Sumary: It was supposed to be a boring desk job, but between Jane’s cryptic tests and his paper-folding habits, she’s starting to realize that "babysitting" is just a fancy word for joining the circus.
Word Count: 1.9 k
Warnings: None, just fluff, fluff, and more fluff... and really, really bad jokes. Based on that one scene of the Elvis stain. Third person narrator but she doesn't have a name (it could be you, my love). A/N and taglist at the end!
<<<The 'Patrick Jane' Materlist
“Wow. There’s a stain on the ceiling that looks like Elvis, but today it looks more like a... basset hound.”
Patrick Jane had a small, persistent habit of thinking out loud—mostly when he assumed he was alone, or when no one was actually listening. Sometimes, he simply pointed things out because a detail struck him, regardless of whether it was appropriate or even relevant. It was all part of his 'charm.'
He was currently sprawled across the camel-colored leather sofa in the bullpen, a piece of furniture he’d claimed as his sovereign territory since his first day at the CBI. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone—except for the new agent tucked away at a desk she was forced to share with Van Pelt until a proper space opened up.
By default, she had been tasked with 'Jane-duty.' Her job was to ensure he didn’t pull any stunts while the rest of the team was in the field, spring a trap for a prime suspect in their current case.
She let out a long, jagged sigh. It was the third time this week she’d been benched to watch him. And while she didn't exactly hate the man, she wanted to be out there, in the heat of the action, not buried under a mountain of paperwork with a man who, despite her silent prayers, seemingly didn't know how to shut up.
"And?" she asked, not even bothering to look up. Her voice was flat, draped in boredom.
Jane turned to her, looking genuinely offended as he propped himself up on one elbow. "And? What do you mean, 'and'? You can't treat such a delicate matter with a simple 'and'."
She exhaled. Here we go again.
"It’s just a stain, Jane. I don't see the problem."
"The problem is that it isn't just a stain; we’re talking about the King of Rock and Roll here," he said, falling back onto the sofa. He studied the no-longer-Elvis shape with intense concentration before adding, "Besides, it’s not just that he’s gone—it’s about what his departure signifies."
She frowned, finally turning to face him. "I don’t follow."
Patrick offered a satisfied smile, his eyes sparkling now that he’d successfully baited her into the conversation. He watched her from the comfort of his perch on the sofa.
"Well, you see... it’s not just about the change in appearance. It’s a personality test. If you see Elvis, it means you have a messiah complex and a secret addiction to sequins. If you see a basset hound... well, then you’re emotionally constipated."
She tried to make sense of the consultant’s words, finding herself significantly more confused than she had been five seconds ago.
"Let me see if I’ve got this straight," she began. "You’re telling me that because you see a dog today instead of Elvis... it means you’re practically dead inside?"
Patrick’s smile widened, clearly entertained by the agent’s confusion.
"Ah! The rookie is a quick study. But no—it means you are practically dead inside."
She faltered, completely lost. She opened her mouth as if to ask something, then snapped it shut in resignation, realizing her best bet was to avoid falling into the mental traps of the man on the sofa.
Suddenly, Jane sat up, breaking the silence. "Come now, you’re a state agent! You should be paying more attention. You know as well as I do that the devil is in the details."
She let out a scoff. "I’m a state agent, exactly—not a psychic." She glanced up at the ceiling where the supposed Elvis-stain lived—a ketchup smudge that, to this day, remained a bureaucratic mystery—, then back at the sofa where Jane sat. An idea flickered in her mind. "Besides, hasn't it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, someone might have moved your couch?"
"Moved my couch?!" Patrick exclaimed, looking at her with a horrified expression, as if she’d just grown a third head. "I’ll have you know this couch has been in the exact same spot for two years. In fact, I named her: Betsy."
She fought back a smile. "Well, I think Betsy is cheating on you. Why don’t you move her about three inches to the left? I bet you’ll have your Elvis back before you can even say... 'Presley.'"
She met his gaze with a defiant, confident smirk. Jane arched his brows, suppressing a smile that threatened to break through, secretly impressed by the girl's quick wit.
He wasn't going to say it out loud, of course.
"So, you think you're quite clever, don't you, rookie?" He narrowed his eyes at her. "I hate to disappoint you, but Betsy has been faithful to me all this time. And you doubt her because of... what? Three inches?"
She rolled her eyes. "Just listen to me. I know what I’m talking about."
It was his turn to falter. She looked so certain that he found himself doubting his own argument—and Jane never doubted himself. "And you’re sure this will bring him back?" he asked, purely skeptical.
She propped an elbow on her desk, resting her chin in her hand. "Humor me, will you? Just move Betsy."
Resigned, Patrick stood up and shifted the sofa exactly three inches in the direction she’d pointed out.
"There. Now what?"
She let out a mock scoff. "Now what? Lie down, genius. Elvis has entered the building."
He settled back onto the leather, squinting at his favorite spot on the ceiling once more. "Oh! Well, look at that. The King has returned." The smile suddenly vanished, replaced by a frown as he lifted his head just enough to catch her eye. "Wait. How did you know the sofa needed moving?"
She was already buried back in her paperwork when she answered, "It’s all about perspective. Besides, you said it yourself: the devil is in the details."
Patrick fell silent for a moment, thoughtful. It was rare to meet someone so observant. Not on his level, of course—no one was, in his mind—but someone who noticed things others missed. Like the fact that Betsy needed to move three inches.
He studied the young agent’s face: the way she moved with a slow, heavy exhaustion, the spark in her eyes, and how the midday sun streaming into the bullpen forced her to squint.
"Huh..." he drifted off, turning fully toward her, his gaze never wavering. "But you see, the problem with Elvis is that I’m no longer sure I even like him."
The agent let her head drop onto the desk with a little thud at Jane's indecisiveness, her forehead hitting the cold wood with a guttural groan of irritation.
God, this man's more stubborn than a mule.
"Would you be so kind to remind me again why I’m stuck here with you instead of out there with the team?"
"Because you’re the rookie, and Lisbon operates under the tragic delusion that I require a babysitter." Patrick shrugged nonchalantly. "Personally, I prefer to think of you as my protégée." He sat up abruptly, rising to his feet and drifting toward her desk. He plucked a stray piece of paper from the floor and began to fold it. "Besides, someone has to fetch my tea and marvel at my… eccentricities, after all"
She sighed again, the sound muffled by the wood of the desk. "Great. I went from state agent to babysitter and waitress. Fantastic..." she muttered sarcastically. She was exhausted, and truth be told, she felt pushed aside. She got along with the others, sure, but she was still the 'new girl,' the 'rookie,' the 'beginner.'
She knew integration wouldn't be easy, but it had been two months and she felt like she’d contributed nothing to the cases beyond case rehearsals and analyzing dusty files from the dark ages that even her boss's boss would never bother to read. She knew she could do more—that she’d be more useful out in the field than rotting behind a desk. She was beyond frustrated.
Then, she felt a light tap on her hair.
She lifted her head, finding herself face-to-face with a small, delicately folded origami swan. She took it between her fingers with a tentative touch, as if it were made of glass, tracing the tiny beak with her index finger. A small smile, nearly imperceptible, flickered across her face, cracking the facade of irritation she’d been wearing.
Patrick noticed. Because he never missed a thing. Not a single detail.
He caught that tiny slip of a smile on her weary face. He saw the way her gaze softened at the sight of the little bird. He noted how, somehow, that one small gesture had caused her shoulders to finally drop.
He had to summon every ounce of self-control to keep from pointing out the shift in her posture. He simply smiled, watching as she placed the swan on her desk next to a pipe-cleaner flower—another of his creations from his idle moments between cases.
He’d realized she kept everything he gave her. It started with the first thing: an anonymous beaded bracelet, a chaotic mess of colors and shapes that she’d hung from her backpack zipper like a lucky charm, wearing a smile very much like the one on her face right now.
Since that day, making her smile like that had become his personal mission.
Which brings us back to the paper swan.
"Looks like I managed to make the grump smile," he said with a smirk, looking a bit smug and deeply satisfied with himself for having accomplished his mission for the day.
"I’m not a grump," she protested. "I just detest being the new hire." She let out a long breath before adding under her breath, "I’d be much more useful out there than in here."
A lightbulb seemed to go off in Patrick’s head as he practically jumped to his feet.
"Well then, what are we waiting for?" he exclaimed, his tone far too upbeat and his smile far too wide—and attractive—for her liking. He began striding toward the office exit.
"Wait, what? No!" She stood up so fast she sent her chair toppling over, racing to stand in front of him with her arms stretched and block the door. "No, no, no. We are not going anywhere. The boss told me—"
"Yes, yes, I know, but I don't care. You said it yourself: you’re more useful out there. So, let's go." He sidestepped her, heading straight for the elevator. When he realized she wasn't following, he called back, "Are you coming or what?"
She watched him go, half-incredulous and half-terrified of what the consultant was about to do. Because with him, you never truly knew.
At that moment, she felt she only had two choices:
Option one, call Lisbon to warn her that the devil was off his leash and wash her hands of the whole mess.
Or option two, follow the very charming but very impulsive mentalist to try to minimize the blast radius of the walking nuclear bomb that he is.
I don’t think I need to tell you which one she picked.
"Dammit, Jane..." she muttered to the empty air before anxiously rushing after him. This man is going to get me fired one of these days.
Jane couldn't help the private smile that touched his lips when he heard her hurried footsteps behind him. He knew she was worried; he knew she thought her job was on the line. But he also knew he’d be the one taking the fall later, happily claiming all the blame. He didn't mind. It was worth it.
Anything to keep her happy.
But that’s something the great Patrick Jane would never, ever, admit.
A/N: Damn, I'm on fire, haha. I've noticed there are not a lot of fics for Patrick Jane, so I decided to write one. This is my first time writing any type of comedy (if you can call it that way), so bear with me... please? As always, this was originally written in spanish so I just translated it. Let me know what you think and also if you want to be on the taglist. I hope you enjoyed it.
No sofas were harmed (or cheated on) in the making of this fic.
Peace out, bitches! 8)
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patrick jane truly is a character of all time. he's arrogant. he's broken. he's haunted. he's funny. he's genuinely delighted by small pleasures. he likes breaking and entering. he's a tea snob. he's tortured frequently on screen. he flinches every time a gun goes off. he hides behind his female colleagues when he gets scared. he's a sociopath. he's a liar. he does magic tricks. he has basically no moral compass and will do anything to catch the guy who killed his wife and child, including lie to and use everyone he cares about. he sleeps on a mattress on the floor in the room his family was murdered in, with the calling card of their killer still on the wall. he loves children. he's very empathetic. he's the reason his family is dead. he loves setting traps and catching people in lies. he hates rich people and doesn't care when they get murdered. he's a card shark. he always knows what everyone is thinking. when people piss him off he makes their lives miserable. he hypnotises people all the time. he's a con man. he's the most honest guy you'll ever meet. like literally where else do you find a freak like that.
𓂃⋆.˚ the biggest surprise is definitely that, for once, dazai is unusually quiet. after spending the entire day making everyone laugh, teasing kunikida during the reception and somehow convincing chuuya to dance just to annoy him, the moment the hotel room door closes behind the two of you, all of that energy seems to melt away. he just stands there for a second, looking at you with an expression you’ve only seen a handful of times before: completely genuine, without a single joke to hide behind.
𓂃⋆.˚ he smiles the second he notices you still wearing your wedding ring, gently taking your hand in his and absentmindedly turning it so the light catches the band. “you’re stuck with me now,” he murmurs with a tiny laugh, but the joke sounds softer than usual, almost like he’s trying to convince himself that this is actually real.
𓂃⋆.˚ i think he’d ask if you’re tired before anything else. weddings are exhausting, and dazai is surprisingly attentive when it comes to noticing when you’re pushing yourself too hard. he’ll quietly help you take off your shoes and hanayome ishou, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear and telling you there’s absolutely no rush for anything tonight. after everything he’s lived through, simply ending the day together already feels like more than he ever expected to have.
𓂃⋆.˚ he’ll probably spend the next hour just talking with you while the room is finally quiet. reminiscing about little moments from the day, laughing about whoever caught the bouquet, joking about how he almost cried during your vows before immediately insisting it was “just dust in his eye.” it’s one of those conversations that wanders aimlessly because neither of you really wants the day to end.
𓂃⋆.˚ would he make love to you? yes, but not in the casual and detached way people often reduce him to. dazai is flirtatious, he jokes about women constantly, and he has a reputation as a womanizer, but beneath all of that, he’s also someone who struggles immensely with intimacy, vulnerability and believing that he’ll ever truly be understood due to past traumas.
he’d approach that intimacy as an expression of trust more than passion alone. for someone who spends so much of his life hiding behind masks, choosing to be completely emotionally open with the person he married would probably be one of the most vulnerable things he’d ever do.
he would talk you and guide you all the way through, keeping a slow and arousing pace but without taking it too far. he’d pay meticulous attention to every reaction, whimper, sound or touch that could make you uncomfortable, even the slightest.
he wound definitely worship you.
i also imagine there would be a quiet moment afterward where he’s lying beside you, a bit sweaty and tired, absentmindedly turning your wedding ring between his fingers. he’d probably smile to himself and say something half-joking like, “you know… it’s a little late to change your mind now.”
when you laugh and tell him you’re not going anywhere, he’d relax in a way that’s almost imperceptible, but real real. for someone who has spent so much of his life believing he didn’t quite belong anywhere, ending the day with the certainty that he gets to wake up beside the person he loves every morning would mean far more to him than any grand romantic gesture ever could.
𓂃⋆.˚ at some point, when the excitement has settled, he’ll become noticeably more affectionate than usual. not dramatically so, just quieter. he’ll hold your hand a little longer, rest his forehead against yours while you’re both smiling, steal slow kisses in the middle of conversations simply because “we’re married now. i get to call you my spouse, can you believe it??”
𓂃⋆.˚ he’d become unexpectedly sentimental once he thinks you’ve fallen asleep. he’ll brush his thumb over your wedding ring, study your face for a long moment and whisper something embarrassingly honest that he’d never admit while you’re awake, something like, “thank you for choosing me.” by the time you quietly smile and squeeze his hand to let him know you heard him, he’ll immediately groan into the pillow because now you’ll tease him about it for the rest of your lives.
𓂃⋆.˚ years later, whenever people ask him what his favorite part of the wedding was, everyone expects him to mention the reception, the cake or one of his ridiculous pranks. instead, he’ll glance at you with that tiny smile that only you recognize and answer, “finally getting to go home together.”
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When Amy gets good news and Jake tells everyone to stand back and Amy does her dork dance and Jake is like oh yeah that's my wife are you jealous?? Yeah that's my jam
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