A/N: Yes, another AU, mainly because the current show is so enthralling that I want to wait to see how it unfolds before I write something more in canon. I seem to be obsessed with a younger version of Jane and Lisbon, and I've never written Lisbon as the mother figure she had to have been growing up without her parents. This first chapter starts out calmly enough, but don't look for that to last for long. There is no Angela or Red John in this universe, but you will find Jane's past still has had a profound impact on the man he has become.

The Psychic Next Door

Chapter 1

Chicago, 1994

"Wait—your backpack!"

"I'm gonna be late, Reese," groaned a petulant Michael.

Teresa Lisbon trotted back up the steps of her Chicago brownstone and retrieved her little brother's school bag from the foyer table, while the chestnut haired boy waited impatiently on his bike.

"I don't want another note home from Mrs. Bronstein saying that you forgot your homework again," she said breathlessly, helping him slip the straps over his small shoulders.

"Eat the sandwich I packed you, Michael. No trading for Mallowmars again."

"I'm sick of peanut butter and jelly," he whined.

"Well, next week you can have bologna, okay?"

He looked heavenward, but knew better than to push his luck. Teresa suppressed a smile, then, love suffusing her, she grabbed him and kissed him very much against his will on top of his damp curls.

He blanched, and then she did laugh. "Now, get going. And be careful!"

"Whatever," he said.

She watched him ride off on his bright red Schwinn—the fourth one to have owned it—toward the elementary school two blocks away. His older brothers used to walk him to school, but now they both attended the high school in the opposite direction, and Michael was adamant that he didn't need his big sister walking him to school. The bike was a compromise, but every time Teresa watched him ride away, she felt a thrill of worry. He was only ten, after all. And although their older neighborhood was relatively quiet, there was a lot that could happen to a small boy in the big city. She sighed and kept him in view until a grove of oak trees blocked her sight.

At that moment, an old baby blue convertible pulled up to the curb, carrying two blonde girls. The driver honked in a very unladylike manner, in Teresa's opinion, and the other girl's laughter jangled on her nerves. The door at the top of the steps swung open, and her other two brothers bounded down toward the street, no books to speak of, familiar brown hair catching the morning light.

"Bye, Reese," said Tommy, not even glancing at his older sister.

"Bye," echoed the younger James.

"You have hockey practice after school?" she asked them. They didn't bother with the car doors but slid over the window sills and into the arms of their girlfriends.

"Yeah," called Tommy.

"Well, don't mess around getting home. I have to work late at the diner."

She didn't want Michael to be home alone more than an hour or two. She hated that he had to be a latchkey kid at all, but if she were to continue to put food on the table, it was a necessary sacrifice. She had morning classes at the local junior college, then a ten-hour waitressing shift at Monty's. She counted on the older two to watch out for Michael, but sometimes their sports and social life interfered.

"Whatever, Mom," said James sarcastically, complete with eye roll, no doubt for the girls' benefit.

Teresa's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before she could yell out a few choice words, the convertible had sped off amidst more of the girls' tinkling laughter.

Teresa closed her eyes, touched the cross at her neck, said a silent prayer that they'd be safe, then turned back to the steps to retrieve her things. A movement in the window of the house next door caught her eye and she paused on the third step. Since old Mrs. Scott had passed away six months before, the house had remained empty. As far as she knew, no one had purchased it, and the old woman's lawyer was waiting for relatives out west to come and claim it.

She stared at the white lace curtains a few minutes more, but saw nothing. Maybe it had been her imagination, but she couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone had been watching her. With a slight shiver, she went back inside her house.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Teresa hung up the pay phone at 3:30 that afternoon. Michael had made it home, and insisted he was safely double-bolted inside. He knew the diner's number by heart and Teresa had taught him about calling 911, so she tried to push her worries away and focus on finishing her shift. She tightened the elastic band around her ponytail and smoothed down her short, orange uniform skirt, grateful she was wearing tennis shoes to get her through the next five and a half hours.

The cheery tinkling of the bells on the door drew her eyes to the new customer who'd entered the diner. He wasn't the normal kind they got in here, especially not during the slow hours after the lunch rush. Sure, they got business diners, but this guy was on a totally different level. He was impeccably dressed in a dove gray, three-piece suit and turquoise tie, his blonde, wavy hair brushed back, showing a face some would call beautiful—Statue of David beautiful. He was slim and of average height, but he moved with a grace Cary Grant would have envied. He waited by the cash register, as the sign there instructed, and Teresa snapped out of her daze to move quickly to greet him.

"Welcome to Monty's. Would you prefer a booth or the counter?"

He grinned while his pale green eyes assessed her in one sweeping, disconcerting glance from head to toe. She felt her entire body tingle with awareness.

"Hello, Teresa," he said softly, and she felt her heart skip a beat at her name on his lips. He spoke to her as if he knew her, but then she remembered foolishly that she wore a nametag over her right breast. "A booth would be lovely," he told her. She felt as if he knew some amusing secret about her, and she felt her face flush a delicate shade of rose.

"Certainly," she replied with a shy smile, and she turned away to grab a menu in an attempt to cover her uncharacteristic embarrassment. "This way."

She walked self-consciously down the single aisle to a corner booth overlooking the busy Chicago street. She wondered vaguely if he was looking at her behind in the same appreciative way his gaze had swept over her breasts.

He removed his expensive suit coat and laid it carefully on the orange bench seat, then slid in beside it. She handed him a menu and he looked up at her expectantly.

"What can I get you to drink?" she asked.

"Hot tea. Milk in the cup first," he instructed. "Please make sure the water is boiling hot."

She raised an eyebrow before she could help it, and he caught the gesture. His smile widened. "I'm particular about my tea."

"Aw," she said diplomatically. "I'll get that for you—"

"I already know what else I want," he interrupted. He hadn't even looked at the menu. As a matter of fact, she realized, his eyes hadn't left hers.

With a small smirk, Teresa took her order pad from her front pocket and pulled her pen from behind her ear.

"Okay. What can I get you?"

His eyes were fairly sparkling at her now. What the hell is going on? she thought. Why do I feel like we are mainly communicating in subtext?

"It says on the window you serve breakfast twenty-four-seven," he said, a challenge in his voice.

"That's right. Hungry for breakfast then?"

He nodded. "Two eggs, loosely scrambled. Rye toast. One strip of bacon and a link sausage. Glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed if you have it."

She really had to work hard to hide her disappointment. One of those.

"Yes," he said, as if responding directly to her thoughts, "I'm persnickety about my breakfast too."

She was nonplussed a moment, but made a valiant attempt to hide it. "We aim to please here at Monty's. I'll uh, have that right out for you, sir."

"Thank you, Teresa."

Ten minutes later, Teresa nervously set down the man's plate. She stood back as if he she were the one who had cooked it. She'd made his tea earlier, and she'd been inordinately pleased when he'd taken a sip and nodded at her in satisfaction. She kept telling herself it was because she was after a good tip, but there was something about this man—maybe she just wanted to keep seeing that amazing smile of his.

Now, she awaited the verdict on his eggs.

He unrolled his silverware from the napkin and, after spreading the white paper dutifully in his lap, scooped up a large forkful of egg. He cocked his head, then closed his eyes as he chewed. After a moment, he looked up at her and smiled.

"Not bad," he said. She felt an odd wave of relief.

"Good. Please let me know if I can get you anything else."

"When's your break?" he asked without hesitation.

"What?"

"Your coffee break? I'd love for you to join me." He gestured with his fork to the opposite seat.

She looked around surreptitiously, fearful someone might have heard him. Monty definitely frowned upon fraternizing with customers.

"That's very nice of you, but I'm not due for a break for another hour," she was able to reply honestly.

He met her eyes, once again evaluating her, apparently liking what he saw.

"Too bad. Another time, perhaps?"

She didn't want to encourage him, so she made a slight humming sound and left him to his meal.

Her heart, however, was pounding rapidly within her breast.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Later that night, Teresa happily patted the pocket of her uniform. The blonde man had left her a twenty-dollar tip! In total, she'd made nearly a hundred dollars in tips-it had been a very good night. After walking the three blocks from the bus stop, she tiredly climbed the steps to her house, dreaming of a hot bath and a good book. She happened to glance up at the neighbor's house again, only to find a light on now behind the curtains.

She frowned, then continued up the steps and unlocked the double bolt on her front door.

Tommy and James were watching some cop show from their place on the couch, and Michael was sound asleep on the floor.

"Hey, Reese," said Tommy softly, eyes still on the TV.

"Hi. Why isn't Michael in bed? It's almost ten o'clock."

"He passed out on the floor before we could even tell him to take a bath."

She sighed. "He hasn't even taken a bath yet? Hasn't brushed his teeth?"

"Come on, Teresa," said James. "One night won't hurt."

She supposed not, and frankly, she was too tired to care. "Well, one of you put him in his bed, then you two do the same. It's a school night."

"This is almost over," said Tommy. "Ten minutes."

Teresa shook her head. It had been very difficult after their parents had died for her to assume a parenting role. Most of the time they did what she said, but all in their own time, and not without at least a little bit of back talk. It was frustrating, but after a day like today, she wasn't in the mood to make a federal case of it, and they both knew it.

"By the way," she said, a thought occurring to her. "Did someone move into the house next door?"

"Looks that way," said James. "Haven't seen anyone though."

"Me neither," added Tommy. "Hey, maybe there will be a good-looking girl."

James snorted. "What good will that do you?"

Tommy slugged his brother good-naturedly, and Teresa closed her eyes in annoyance.

"Well, good night, boys. Ten minutes, all right?"

"Night," came the chorus from the living room. They hadn't acknowledged her directive, of course.

As she lay up to her neck in hot water, feeling the aches of being on her feet all day begin to fade, she kept thinking of the man in the three-piece suit from the diner. It had been odd to say the least, feeling so instantly attracted to a man. And he was definitely a man, not the college boys she was used to hitting on her. He was a man who was obviously way out of her league, however, and a few years older than her twenty-one years. He must really be slumming to have eaten an afternoon breakfast in a greasy spoon like Monty's. He was so handsome as to seem almost unreal, charm exuding from every pore, his eyes enticingly filled with mischief. That man was trouble for sure.

Oh well, she sighed, closing her eyes. I'll probably never see him again.

The next morning was very similar to the last, except that it was Thursday, and Teresa had no college classes. She was wonderfully free until her lunchtime shift began at eleven, so, after the boys left for school, she took her coffee and the newspaper and sat on her stoop in the sunshine. Her old neighborhood was liveliest in the morning, with people hurrying off to work, or out walking their dogs. Joggers and cyclists got in their daily exercise, and elderly couples took walks together, holding hands. It was early September, so the Chicago mornings were turning cooler, the afternoons warm and pleasant. It was Teresa's favorite time of year.

She'd been thoroughly absorbed by an article about rising crime on the South Side, when a navy blue BMW pulled up in front of the house next door. From out of the driver's side stepped a beautiful, middle-aged woman in business attire, her hair expertly coiffed. She hesitated a moment, looking up at the modest house, then, after checking the number against the one written down on the back of a small card, she shrugged and climbed the stairs.

At her timid knock, the red door was opened for her, and a masculine voice greeted her, ushering her quickly inside. From her position at the top of her own stairs, Teresa couldn't see the identity of her new neighbor, but the voice sounded vaguely familiar. Her eyes returned curiously to the expensive car. There was a lot of old money in this neighborhood, but few people flaunted it by driving expensive cars or wearing designer clothing. If this was any indication of their new neighbor's identity, he was going to have a difficult time fitting in around here.

As Teresa was leaving for work later, another fancy car—this time a Cadillac—replaced the BMW, and yet another stylishly dressed woman made her way up the steps next door, disappearing inside like the other one.

They were too old to be call girls, she thought in amusement, and Teresa had to admit she was intrigued. She decided then it was her duty to officially welcome him to the neighborhood. After all, it was the neighborly thing to do.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

At seven-thirty that night, a whole apple pie from the diner in hand, Teresa found herself outside the red door of her neighbor's house. She knocked three times in rapid succession, then stood back to wait. She heard a faint stirring within, then footsteps, then a sharp turn of the bolt.

When she saw the house's occupant, she nearly dropped her pie. The handsome man from the diner the day before was apparently her new neighbor.

"What?" she managed dully.

"Teresa!" he said with a wide grin. "How nice of you to welcome me to the block!" He took the pie from her numb hands and pulled her gently inside to stand in the foyer, in an utter state of shock. The man didn't seem surprised at all to see her.

"Will you join me for a piece?" he asked jovially, taking her pie into the kitchen.

"Uh…"

"Come on. I'll make tea."

She realized with a start that she was in a stranger's house—not exactly the wisest move for a small young woman…alone.

"I'm sorry, but I really only stopped to drop off the pie. I've got to get home to my brothers—"

"Yes, they sure have grown up! I don't remember the littlest one though."

"What?"

She was really starting to sound like an imbecile. She found herself following him into the kitchen, one that she remembered when Mrs. Scott, who had been British, had served her high tea from time to time and told her all about England. Nothing had been changed in the room from what she could see, and he put the familiar tea kettle on to boil.

He turned from the old gas stove to look at her, humor lighting his face.

"You don't remember me, do you? I thought as much."

She nodded. "Of course. You were at the diner yesterday."

"Yes, but we met way before that, you and I. A very long time ago."

"Were you related to Mrs. Scott?" she asked, comprehension dawning.

"She was my grandmother," he told her. "The first time I saw you, fifteen years ago, you pushed me off your bike when you claimed I stole it. You must have been what—eight or nine years old?" He chuckled at the memory. "I still have the scar where my elbow hit the pavement."

Teresa's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God! That was you?" She squinted at him, trying to recall the summer when Mrs. Scott's grandson came for a visit.

"Paddy?"

A brief shadow crossed his features, but he covered it quickly. "I mainly go by Patrick these days," he said softly.

The years fell away, and she recalled a young boy of about twelve, with hair bleached white by the California sun, his curls reminding her of the dandelions her father was always trying to eradicate from the front lawn. She remembered he'd been mouthy and too big for his britches and had annoyed the holy hell out of her. But she'd been the only kid on the block even close to his age, and they'd played cops and robbers in his grandmother's backyard and waited together on the curb for the ice cream truck every day at two.

But despite his somewhat irritating personality, Paddy knew magic tricks and more stories than were in her big book of fairy tales, and she remembered him sitting on their stoop, regaling her and her little brothers like Scheherazade in Arabian Nights.

Over the years, she'd wondered about the boy who'd bragged about his adventures with the carnival, but over time he'd slipped into the attic of her memory, and she realized she hadn't thought of him in a decade.

"Wow," she repeated. "Patrick Jane. The boy with the girl's last name."

He nodded and grinned. "Teresa Lisbon. My, have you grown up."

She flushed as his gaze took in her shapely legs below her skirt before making the familiar trek upward, past her curvy hips to her perfect breasts. When he finally met her eyes again, she knew she was blushing to her hair. Little Paddy had turned into quite the flirt—and damned if he wasn't the most sensual man she'd ever seen.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were in the diner?" she said, her voice suddenly accusatory.

He shrugged, and she could tell he wasn't sorry. "I wanted to see if you'd remember me on your own."

"Well, you've changed too," she pointed out. Then her face grew solemn. "I'm sorry about your grandmother. She was a lovely lady."

"Yes, she was," he agreed. "I was sorry I hadn't seen her in so long. It was sort of out of my control growing up."

"The carnival," she said, remembering.

"Yes. And after my mother died, my father didn't have the heart to bring me back to her home here in Chicago. I couldn't believe her lawyer tracked me down in California, when Grandma died," he told her. "I guess I was her only surviving heir."

"There's no one left, even in England?"

"Not that I know of."

He took a knife from his grandmother's drawer and cut two pieces of pie, placing them gently on familiar Blue Willow china plates. He gave her a fork, and the two of them stood in the old kitchen, eating pie as the water began to boil.

"So, are you thinking of staying here?" she asked. She tried to sound politely curious, but inside, she felt an exhilarating spark of…anticipation.

Was it her imagination, or was he reading her thoughts? He smiled knowingly around a bite of fruit, his eyes compelling. "Now that's an intriguing proposition," he said softly. "Perhaps."

The teakettle whistled and Patrick turned off the burner, then busily prepared their tea, just like he'd instructed her in the diner.

"Please," he said, nodding toward the small fifties era kitchen table with its two vinyl chairs. "Sit."

She picked up their plates and went to sit down.

"Did you follow me to the diner yesterday?" she asked him, feeling a strange jolt at the idea that he'd been stalking her. She'd known he'd been watching her from his window, after all…

"No, that was a happy coincidence. I was in the mood for eggs, and Monty's is the closest greasy spoon…"

"Oh." She wondered why she felt disappointed by his simple explanation.

As she made herself comfortable, Teresa gave a brief thought to her little brothers, but knew they were safe next door, so for once she pushed them out of her mind and focused on the man who was bringing two cups and saucers of hot tea to the table. He sat across from her and smiled.

"So, Teresa, what are you up to these days? I see you are raising your brothers. Your parents are both gone, I assume."

Her eyes widened in surprise that he knew so much. Had his grandmother shared information about their lives over the years?

"Yes. My mother, when I was sixteen. Dad, three years ago."

"It must not have been very easy."

She sipped cautiously at her tea. She added sugar from the bowl on the table. "That's an understatement," she managed.

"And you're going to college."

"Yes—"

"Don't tell me; let me guess: Criminal Justice major, right?"

"Well, yeah. How did you know?"

"It's logical that you would. Your mother was a nurse if I recall. Your dad, a fireman. You'd want to help people somehow, like they did, but not exactly like they did. So…cop."

"I'd like to be a police detective some day," she clarified.

"Aw."

Teresa shook her head in wonder. Even if his grandmother had told him she was attending college, no way Mrs. Scott could have known her major. She'd only declared it herself last month.

"That's amazing," she said, because it was.

He smiled mysteriously into his tea.

"Speaking of mysterious," she said aloud.

He raised an eyebrow. "Were we?"

She flushed.

"Uh, sorry. I mean, I noticed you've had a few visitors lately. Friends of the family?"

His lips quirked. They both knew damn well those wealthy women weren't friends.

"Clients," he supplied.

He watched in amusement the play of emotions over her highly expressive face. The precise moment she thought of the word gigolo, he coincidentally chuckled out loud.

"Definitely not what you're thinking," he said. "Although, I must say, I'm very flattered."

She gulped a sip of scalding tea, burning her tongue.

"Well, what do you do with them, then?"

"I'm their psychic," he said.

Teresa promptly began to choke as a bite of apple pie became stuck in her throat.

A/N: Okay, that's the set up. What do you think? I promise the intrigue and excitement will increase next chapter. I hope you join me.

Also, be on the lookout for an update to my fic with waterbaby, "Eyes Like the Sea." No, we haven't forgotten about it!