What We Need To Know

Summary: I just remain quiet though; music often has its own way of telling us what we need to know.

Disclaimer: I still don't own The Mentalist.

Warnings: AU, OOC.

A/N:

It always surprises me that I can find time to write one-shots when I've got a million other things going on, but oh well—I write just to relax, and have some fun. I will say however, Jane doesn't work for the CBI in this one shot and Lisbon does. Enjoy!

The guitar strings hummed under his ink stained fingers, as his damp back reclined against one of the vacant buildings with an open guitar case in front of his feet as faceless people passed by him, some stopping long enough to exchange a soft smile while others paused long enough to exchange a scowl in his direction before hurrying along to do whatever mundane task they had planned for the day. He heard the soft plinks of coins hitting the bottom of the guitar case, and he lifted his eyes to stare at the person who had been kind enough to give him something only to find that the woman with bottle green eyes wasn't softly smiling at him but was staring at him in some unknown emotion which splashed out across her pallid cheeks as the sun poured in from behind her to highlight her ebony tresses that rested against her porcelain skin. He watched her sway to the almost hypnotizing aspect of his music and he felt a soft smile break onto his face which she immediately returned. It was then that he noticed than a man had worked his way up behind the ebony haired woman and had one of his arms around her waist.

"Come on Teresa." And he watched the woman leave, the man trailing next to her with his arm still around her waist as he wondered if he'd ever see her again.

II.

It wasn't the last time he'd see that woman, in fact—she came almost every other week. Sometimes, she'd have a friend or she'd have the guy with her but mostly, she came alone just to listen to his music and both never said anything to each other, it was a routine that she would tip some of her loose change into his guitar case and he'd just keep on playing his tune while he would allow a simple smile for her. It wasn't until one night however; both of them being the last two on the side of the lit street that she said something to him.

"Do you play all the time?" He was taken back, no one had ever actually spoken to him while he played—but instead of letting the dark haired Teresa know that she had caught him off guard he responded with a shy smile.

"Mostly." He offered. "I sometimes sing." She raised her eyebrow and he laughed softly as he shifted his guitar onto his lap. "I just remain quiet though; music often has its own way of telling us what we need to know." Both of them lapsed back into silence until she spoke up again.

"Would you…"

"You want me to sing." It wasn't a question, but she nodded with a soft blush spreading across her pale features. "For you, I will." He cleared his throat and he picked his beloved instrument back up to let his fingers strum the strings before he pushed the guitar aside on the dry concrete below him and she looked down to stare at him in surprise. "I…I can't, I'm…" His shoulders softly shook, and he stared at the dark haired woman only to have her smile in return.

"That's okay." Her response was quiet, as she turned on her heels to leave him and he began to pack up for the night, dragging the change from the bottomless pit of his case as he left his mind to ponder his decision.

III.

The next time the both of them spoke was when blood stained his fingers and his guitar remained smashed and smeared with blood and tagged as evidence, as she stood across from him in one of the interrogation rooms with a much more serious expression on her face, and a bruise marring her features. He had been playing his guitar as usual, when she had shown back up only to have her ass of a boyfriend create a stir and hit her.

"You know why you're in here, Mr. Jane?" She questioned, and he nodded carelessly. "For the benefit of the transcripts, tell me why." He cleared his throat.

"I'm in here, because you brought me in." His lips twitched and she glared at him.

"You're in here because you brought a guitar down on one of the agents…"

"After he hit you." He stated, and she shook her head. "He hit you, and you still sit here and deny it?"

"He did…"

"Oh yes, I can see he didn't hit you." He sarcastically hissed. "I mean after all I wasn't standing right there when he hit you." She stared at him again, and he shook his head. "I'm sorry I did this, but no one should treat a woman like that." He lifted one of his blood strained fingers to ghost in the direction of her bruise.

"That's beside the point."

"Oh? So you were going to let him hit you and get away with it?" He hissed again. "I'm sorry, I couldn't let that happen."

"You smashed his head in with a guitar."

"He's still breathing isn't he?"

"That's not the point either."

"He's alive, he's not missing any major organs and he'll be back to doing whatever he does with you in about a week." He shrugged. "I see that it's a win-win scenario because maybe next time, he'll learn not to lay a finger on you."

"Thank you, but…"

"That's okay." He repeated her early sentiments, with only a heartbroken smile in his wake.

IV.

It was several more months before he could find the courage to head back to the usual spot, and start his music again, and it was several more months until Teresa made her appearance next to him, clutching some spare change and a simple smile for the both of them.