Title: A Meeting of Minds

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist or House or anything associated with them. This story idea, however, is mine.

Note: Takes place during the pilot episode of The Mentalist.

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The one thing to be thankful for in all this was he had booked an early flight. Even with the delay, he should still be able to meet up with Lisbon and the others before they got too far into the investigation. The investigation Cho had been kind enough to tell him about, that is. But things such as suspensions and office politics were inconsequential at the moment. They were also better pondered with a cup of tea. Squaring his shoulders and straightening his vest, Patrick Jane used his carry-on bag to help him gently maneuver through the small crowd of disgruntled travelers, his suit jacket folded neatly over his arm.

Scanning for a nearby coffee shop of some sort, Jane had just zeroed in on a brightly-colored coffee kiosk when he stumbled over something, nearly dropping his bag and jacket. He recovered with a couple of hops, casting a grin at the couple who were looking disapprovingly at something behind him. Righting himself completely Jane followed their respective gazes, his eyes falling on the tall and somewhat rumpled man stretched out at a small table on what was meant to be a patio (but they were indoors – silly, really) by a diner-themed restaurant. An abandoned Reuben and lukewarm coffee were in front of the man, a backpack and wooden cane at his feet.

Jane said nothing, just lifting his hand in a small wave with an equally small grin before deciding his present location would make a better stop as he waited for updates on his flight. Seeing a "Please wait to be seated" sign (again, odd for a diner) he instead made his way to an empty table for two, setting down his things as a waitress, in what was becoming the customary serving outfit of all black, stopped by his table.

"Sir --"

"Yes, hello," he said, looking up at her with a full smile. "I'd like a cup of tea, please, with a splash of milk added to the cup first – before the tea is steeped – and a ham sandwich. What brand of mustard do you use here?" Jane clasped his hands together on the tabletop, his eyes never leaving her face as the woman groped briefly for something to say, gave up, and then muttered about checking on the mustard before turning on her heel to go. She was stopped by the man who had tripped Jane speaking up.

"Thanks for the lack of service. I will not be asking for a piece of overpriced pie." The waitress glared at each of them in turn before resuming her trip to the back.

"She's going to take her break now," Jane said, not looking at the other man.

"Why? Because we upset her?" Jane heard the man spin his coffee cup a few times followed by the sound of a bottle of pills being pulled out of a coat pocket.

"No, because she looked at the clock over the lunch counter when I sat down and sighed before coming here. But now," Jane looked over at the stranger, "she has justified to her manager the need for an earlier break by our seemingly boorish behavior."

"Ah, yes, of course." Popping off the bottle cap with a flick of his thumb, the man shook out two oblong white pills which he promptly threw back and swallowed dry.

Interesting.

Jane ducked his head down, his gaze lazily taking in the restaurant's other patrons, the travelers hurrying by them, the small girl skipping alongside her mother with a bright red balloon bobbing up and down above her head. He was nonplussed when his musings were interrupted by another waitress plunking down a cup, a bowl of creamers, and a small stainless steel teapot with a tea bag nestled beside it on his table. Heh. Jane politely gave his thanks before busying himself with preparing his tea.

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Greg House leaned back in his seat, pushing his half-eaten Reuben away from him. Absently rubbing his right thigh, he watched the people streaming past him. It really was time to push for a 'no conference' clause in his contract. Such things were really more Foreman's thing anyway – all the schmoozing and pointless chitchat. Never mind the layovers it took to get to the destination. Somehow he ended up stuck in Sacramento on his way to Palm Springs. He blamed Cuddy's latest penny-pinching spree for landing him on a second-rate airline. Looking up at the ceiling he debated ditching the whole stupid conference (along with the lame diner-themed restaurant he was killing time at). He stretched out his legs thinking California was much better suited for a cold beer, a sandy beach and a certain dean of medicine wearing – something, but some klutz had tripped over his outstretched legs and derailed what could have been a great fantasy.

House pantomimed someone throwing back a few too many drinks for the benefit of the couple who thought he had tripped the guy on purpose. He made no move to pull his legs in. The couple passed by with matching glares of disapproval. The man he had tripped looked back at him, smiled, and waved before plopping himself down at a nearby table. He looked like the kind of guy Cameron would go for, actually, with his suit and blond hair. He was a less floppy version of Chase. Except for the beat-up shoes. A waitress hurried over to mini-Chase's table, ready to scold him for ignoring the prominent "Please wait to be seated" sign, but the man jumped right into his order with a charming smile. The waitress wasn't impressed and the man didn't seem to mind in the least.

House smiled before letting the woman know he wouldn't have ordered an overpriced piece of pie even if she had asked.

"She's going to take her break now," mini-Chase said, fiddling briefly with the salt shaker.

"Why?" House rolled his eyes. "Because we upset her?" He turned his half-full coffee cup around a few times before deciding he really did need a couple of Vicodin. He fished around for the bottle in his coat pocket as the man continued speaking.

"No, because she looked at the clock over the lunch counter when I sat down and sighed before coming here. But now she has justified to her manager the need for an earlier break by our seemingly boorish behavior."

"Ah yes, of course," House replied. The man watched as he then dry-swallowed a couple of pills, seeming to catalog the action before turning his attention to the people streaming past them. Something between wistfulness and grief flashed across his face when a young girl went by with her mother, one of his hands clenching briefly into a fist.

Interesting.

House cast a disdainful look at his Reuben – he'd have to get Wilson to take him out for a real one when he got back. Pushing his chair back he grabbed his stuff and made his way to the cash register. If this was going to be his last conference, he was expensing the living daylights out of it.