Title: Game, Set, Match
Author: tromana
Rating: T
Characters: Jane/Lisbon, Team
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: She's the bridge between his past and present and he's not sure what to think of that.
Spoilers: Up to 2x10 A Price Above Rubies
Notes: written for the Jello Forever February Challenge. Prompt: Love Songs.

Game, Set, Match

Oh Shirley, oh Deborah, oh Julie, oh Jane
I wrote so many songs about you
I forget your name (I forget your name)
Jennifer, Alison, Philippa, Sue, Deborah, Annabel too
I forget your name
Jennifer, Alison, Philippa, Sue, Deborah, Annabel too
I forget your name…
-Song For Whoever, The Beautiful South

Part One

He got lonely on those tours.

So many pleading faces of middle-aged (or older) women, all slowly merging into one. They were like broken records, their sob stories all sounding the same. It was all about the husband cheating, children dying or trying to garner forgiveness from some dead relative. The way they moaned and whined and grabbed at him… All of it sounded like nails down a chalk board to him, but it was what he's grown up doing, all he's ever known. Even if he had the desire to change careers, he wouldn't even have the first clue to know what to move into. The skills he has honed over the years, he didn't know what else they'd be of any use for.

Even the police thing just came about by chance.

The director of the CBI, a Virgil Minelli, had seen one of his shows with his wife and had insisted upon a private meeting. After he'd sufficiently impressed him with his 'skills', the man had asked him to consult on a few of the higher profile case. The Sacto Pedophile, Red John, Jewel Lady and the like. He'd even brought down a couple of them, something which had increased his profile no end. But still, he didn't understand how the agents he worked with on those few occasions grew used to seeing dead bodies time and time again. First time he'd walked up there tentatively, behind the rookie, who was an Asian man and the blond, muscular senior agent. Once he saw the sorry sight of the deceased woman, practically hacked to pieces, he'd nearly puked up the entire contents of his stomach. It was only after he'd managed to control his guts that he could tell them anything of any use.

The grabbing menopausal women and crime scene after crime scene, it all made his skin crawl.

With his wife growing ever distant, partially out of resentment for being stuck at home looking after their little girl and partially because of his success, he needed to find his comfort elsewhere. So regardless of whether he was living out of a suitcase or simply avoiding going home, he indulged his senses with a long line of young, nubile women, all of whom made him feel human again. Besides, who was he, Patrick Jane, to say no to them? They practically threw themselves at him. He couldn't risk damaging their self-confidence when building confidence was pretty much written into his job description. And they were all very beautiful and it wouldn't be gentlemanly to deprive them of his company.

What his wife didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Their names and faces were beginning to blur now, but he distinctly remembered Annalise, Annabel, Anna-something. A blonde, British bombshell, very flexible in more ways than one and as eager to please as a hyperactive golden retriever. That had been a good night. She'd been more than happy to try anything he suggested and when he left her in the hotel room, sated, she was more than a little disappointed when it became clear that there wouldn't be a repeat performance.

Caitlin, from the Deep South too. Loud, a little brash, but unlike dear, sweet Anna, made it perfectly clear that she expected one night and one night only. Probably using him to cheat on that husband she hadn't wanted him to know about. But who was he to judge? It wasn't as if he was an innocent party in their deeds. Far from it, in fact. Besides, they had fun. They both got to try out things that their spouses would never have been willing to dare to do.

His main problem with them, however, was that they all threw themselves at him just as much as the older women. Jessica, Sue, Amy, all of them. So many names that he'd tried to actively forget them by morning. They didn't care as much about his 'psychic' abilities as his clients did, but they still fell for the blond curls, the muscled body and boyish grin instead. Patrick couldn't deny that they were fun, but still, they provided him with little to no challenge. And tonight, in this seedy San Francisco bar, that was just what he wanted.

The woman sitting beside him, sipping at a vodka and coke, was practically telling him her life story. He doesn't even know whether her name is Maria or Mandy and really, he doesn't even care. But like so many women he met on this kind of occasion, he just… attracted her somehow. Instead of absorbing the information readily, he just nodded in all the right places while scouring the bar for his next target.

There.

One of the tables furthest away from him, sipping something that looked like an orange juice but probably had some kind of shot to liven it up.

Cute brown bob. Cute little nose. Pouty lips. Probably a cute ass too, but it was hard to tell as she was sitting down.

But there was something in her eyes that stated she was the hard-to-get type. The one who didn't care for men because they got in the way of her precious career. At least the way she waved away company and stared back into the depths of her glass every so often said as much. Maybe she had been dealt a rough hand in life, but that didn't really matter right now. Maybe she was just having a bad time of it right now.

Whatever. It didn't matter. She was going to be his before the night was through.

Running a hand through his slicked-back curls, he bid Miss Chatty farewell and wove through the crowds, expertly balancing a glass of water and the Malibu and orange he'd just ordered. It had been painfully easy extracting the information required from the bartender and now he could only hope that his conquest would be a challenge, otherwise it really won't be worth his while. As he approached her, she didn't disappoint. Patrick immediately noted the flash of anger which suddenly appeared in her eyes the moment she was aware that he intended to impose his company on her.

"What?" she snapped before he even had a chance to put the drinks on the table. "Is it physically impossible to have a drink in peace and quiet today, or something?"

"Tell me about it," he replied with a wink. "I didn't come here to be told people's life stories."

She arched an eyebrow and Patrick knew that she had noticed his efforts to try and deflect her attention from the fact he was talking to her at all. Promptly ignoring it, he placed the drink down in front of her and took a seat beside her.

"I don't accept drinks from strangers."

"But it's what you're drinking."

"And you could quite easily have spiked it," she retorted derisively, "thanks, but no thanks."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Do I really need to list the reasons?" she questioned, the eyebrow shooting back up for a second time. "I recognize you."

"I'd certainly remember if I'd met you before."

"No, no. From a poster or something," she mused. "Hang on, you're not that godawful psychic fleecing vulnerable people for all they're worth, are you?"

"Well that's phrasing it a little harshly," Patrick sniffed.

"I thought it rather accurate."

"So you know who I am, but what's your name?"

"I might as well be the Queen of Sheba, for all the difference it'll make."

"Funny."

"I try."

"So what is it really?"

"You're the psychic, work it out."

"And if I do?"

"You'll have the pleasure of knowing you're right?" she answered hopefully.

"Well that's hardly fair. There has to be some kind of wager."

"If you're wrong, you'll leave me alone?"

"And if I'm right, you'll accept the drink."

"Fine."

She sat back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, looking forward to finally getting rid of him. A smirk danced across her face as Patrick stared at her appraisingly, seeming to try and work out a name that would suit her. Eventually, her impatience got the better of her and she found herself unfolding her arms and drumming her fingers against the table top, waiting for the irritating blond to give her some sort of a response so she could get on with her evening in peace.

"Teresa," he suddenly blurted out and she stared at him, aghast.

"How did you?"

"Oh come on, it's obvious."

"How so?"

"It helps that you have your badge on the table and it's slightly open," he admitted. "You gave yourself away."

"That's cheating."

"So," he continued while pushing forward the drink, which she accepted irritably. "How long have you been an officer of the law?"

"I thought you didn't care about people's life stories?"

"Have you always been so guarded?"

"Have you always been so nosy?"

"Yes."

"You're not going to leave me alone until I tell you, are you?"

"No."

With a sigh, she quickly told him the shortened version of her career choices to date. She left out significant details such as thinking she might be just a little in love with her boss, who was getting married in a month and the main reason that she was here at all was because a case was bothering her. Teresa wasn't sure whether or not she believed the man imposing himself on her was a psychic, but she had a feeling that he'd be able to work out certain details that she'd much rather keep private anyway. Patrick lapped it all up and was relieved when she didn't flinch as he placed his palm across her thigh. It was only a matter of time before talking turned to kissing and kissing turned to leaving the bar to find his hotel room. And finding his hotel room lead to the inevitable…

He would have liked to call it to making love, but really, it was anything but. Fast, rough, animalistic. She gave back as good as she got, just as he'd hoped and refused to bend to any of the whims he had. Even when he drove her right to the edge and back again, she maintained as much self-control as physically possible, merely whimpering when it was growing too much. And instead of him leaving her in the middle of the night, as was normal whenever he seduced a pretty young thing, it was her who left, muttering something about work. It was strange, being the one left alone in the hotel bed, having had his bedfellow disappear as quick as lightening. Rather disconcerting, too. It was for the best though, he had a plane to catch soon. A façade to put back in place before he saw his wife and child once more.

Still, it had been a nice break from reality. Rather like a particularly sweet love song. They always came to an end sooner rather than later and even if you stuck it on repeat, it would never be as enjoyable as that first encounter. It was a fun game and he was just relieved that his wife would never find out.

It wasn't until that evening, when he returned home, that he realized how definite it was that she wouldn't.

They say you don't know what you've got until it's gone and Patrick never really appreciated that until he saw his family, slaughtered, on the floor of the master bedroom.

After that…

Falling.

Drowning.

Struggling to breathe.

Pointing the finger.

Blaming.

Guilt.

Anger.

Obsessing.

Going insane.

Being sectioned.

Sophie Miller.

Self-harm.

More guilt.

Appearing to recover.

Finding a reason to live.

Revenge.

Reconnecting with a certain Virgil Minelli. His link to Red John. He knew that if he could get back on that case, worm his way back into the CBI, then he would be on his way. As soon as he was there, he could start cultivating his plans. Dreaming of butchering Red John would be less of a dream. More of a reality. Minelli was as easy to manipulate as ever. Of course he'd known more about Red John murdering his family than most and he'd also heard of Patrick's stint in the mental institution.

But that, strangely enough, wasn't enough to stop him from working with the CBI. Apparently, his gifts were enough to negate that.

When Minelli said the senior agent he'd be working underneath was on their way upstairs to meet him, he never expected her to be the next person to walk in the room. Sure, she'd changed a little, blossomed into a confident professional rather than hiding underneath the mask of sarcasm as she had been before. Probably hadn't quite shaken the sarcasm habit yet, though…

Teresa dropped her bottle of water in surprise and it rolled away underneath Minelli's desk.

"You?"

"You."

TBC…