fic: governed with the head
Title: governed with the head
Author: dreamingwriter
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Characters: Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane
Disclaimer: I just tune in weekly.
Summary: The admittance of danger isn't enough to change anything.
A/N: Thanks to afteriwake for agreeing to be my beta.
Things to remember: this is not a dance, it's the glimmer of alligator teeth as he waits, jaws wide, for something to land in his trap, and only those deftly avoiding the sharp close and who still choose to rest on his dangerous back can understand that.
She suspects that he pretends more than they know, but has no proof to support the hunch because that act never stops. Or maybe it shimmers and wavers in intensity, but he’s always three steps ahead of the moment, so it can’t really count.
Watching him parade around, smiling, always drawing in the unthinking, exhausts her, so she leaves him alone when he closes his eyes on the couch for a week after that, then kicks him out to get everyone coffee. He gets up with a smile meant for manipulating that she turns away from.
(She pretends, too, though, and he's well aware of it. He grins when the team listens without question as she delivers the careful avoidances. The almost falsehoods send shivers of glee down his spine, and, when she meets his eyes, it's all he can do to keep from giving himself away.)
He fetches drinks for two weeks without prompting.
One cheating husband dead and the angry brother put behind bars after another confession lured out by near perfect features arranged into a forgery of sympathy. He turns to her, not bothering to conceal his savage joy at the job well done, but three complaints lie on her desk from this case alone, so she's less willing than usual to return the look.
Signing the last formal apology hours after the case broke, she stretches glad to be done for the day. The sun is finishing its circle, and only hints of orange can be seen through the maze of buildings outside. She wants to be home before dark, but it’s another item on a list that’s not getting any shorter with time.
Jane’s watching from the doorway, and she wishes she didn't let her guard down quite so easily in the office, already knowing the basic format of his apology, and sensing how hopeless it'll be to resist, though she will try.
She frowns.
He murmurs I'm sorry, pulling his best baby animal look, the one that makes her sigh, half in acceptance and half reluctance. He darts closer in the second it takes for her to blink, and pushes into her personal space, for once bigger than he intends, one arm draped across the back of her chair, the other resting squarely on her desk, boxing her in.
Snap, go the great jaws, closing on her as she sucks in a lungful of air and shudders at the feeling of his breath on her skin.
He's gone in a second, and maybe she imagines a chuckle, with everything he needs to make her life miserable, or at least uncomfortable, for the next two weeks, and he'll probably stretch it to three.
Any ammunition in his hands is deadly, and the worst part of it is knowing that most of this is practice. That he's one step closer to ripping Red John to pieces, and thinks he'll end up with the satisfying crunch of an answer in his teeth.
In the bigger picture she sees with sharp clarity, he ends up dead, or on the run, or shattered so badly no one can fix him, alone, really alone, again. He's fragile already, and she can't be the only one to see it. Maybe it’s why no one will stay within the careful lines of the job anymore; because to see him as more than the scarily perceptive ass forces a truth, the truth, whatever his truth is.
She spends more time worrying about this than she cares to admit.
The alligator smiles, confident in his trap for the day, and Teresa Lisbon can only hope she won’t march blindly into it.
Author: dreamingwriter
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Characters: Teresa Lisbon, Patrick Jane
Disclaimer: I just tune in weekly.
Summary: The admittance of danger isn't enough to change anything.
A/N: Thanks to afteriwake for agreeing to be my beta.
Things to remember: this is not a dance, it's the glimmer of alligator teeth as he waits, jaws wide, for something to land in his trap, and only those deftly avoiding the sharp close and who still choose to rest on his dangerous back can understand that.
She suspects that he pretends more than they know, but has no proof to support the hunch because that act never stops. Or maybe it shimmers and wavers in intensity, but he’s always three steps ahead of the moment, so it can’t really count.
Watching him parade around, smiling, always drawing in the unthinking, exhausts her, so she leaves him alone when he closes his eyes on the couch for a week after that, then kicks him out to get everyone coffee. He gets up with a smile meant for manipulating that she turns away from.
(She pretends, too, though, and he's well aware of it. He grins when the team listens without question as she delivers the careful avoidances. The almost falsehoods send shivers of glee down his spine, and, when she meets his eyes, it's all he can do to keep from giving himself away.)
He fetches drinks for two weeks without prompting.
One cheating husband dead and the angry brother put behind bars after another confession lured out by near perfect features arranged into a forgery of sympathy. He turns to her, not bothering to conceal his savage joy at the job well done, but three complaints lie on her desk from this case alone, so she's less willing than usual to return the look.
Signing the last formal apology hours after the case broke, she stretches glad to be done for the day. The sun is finishing its circle, and only hints of orange can be seen through the maze of buildings outside. She wants to be home before dark, but it’s another item on a list that’s not getting any shorter with time.
Jane’s watching from the doorway, and she wishes she didn't let her guard down quite so easily in the office, already knowing the basic format of his apology, and sensing how hopeless it'll be to resist, though she will try.
She frowns.
He murmurs I'm sorry, pulling his best baby animal look, the one that makes her sigh, half in acceptance and half reluctance. He darts closer in the second it takes for her to blink, and pushes into her personal space, for once bigger than he intends, one arm draped across the back of her chair, the other resting squarely on her desk, boxing her in.
Snap, go the great jaws, closing on her as she sucks in a lungful of air and shudders at the feeling of his breath on her skin.
He's gone in a second, and maybe she imagines a chuckle, with everything he needs to make her life miserable, or at least uncomfortable, for the next two weeks, and he'll probably stretch it to three.
Any ammunition in his hands is deadly, and the worst part of it is knowing that most of this is practice. That he's one step closer to ripping Red John to pieces, and thinks he'll end up with the satisfying crunch of an answer in his teeth.
In the bigger picture she sees with sharp clarity, he ends up dead, or on the run, or shattered so badly no one can fix him, alone, really alone, again. He's fragile already, and she can't be the only one to see it. Maybe it’s why no one will stay within the careful lines of the job anymore; because to see him as more than the scarily perceptive ass forces a truth, the truth, whatever his truth is.
She spends more time worrying about this than she cares to admit.
The alligator smiles, confident in his trap for the day, and Teresa Lisbon can only hope she won’t march blindly into it.