#simon baker

"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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