Summary: The news that Jane has an 'evil twin' is spreading like wildfire throughout the building. Last she heard, some people are taking it as a sign that the apocalypse is imminent and have fled the city already. [Jane/Lisbon. Slightly crazy (and by that I of course mean 100% insane)]

Disclaimer: Don't own The Mentalist, blah blah blah

Author's Notes: Okay… so I'm not entirely clear how I started writing this. It was just a piece of silliness that was never meant to see the light of day (and I may yet regret unleashing it here), but the more I've written, the more I've had a selfish wish to see what you guys think. So, yes, I know it's utterly crack-ish but I hope I've managed to keep everybody in character as much as possible.

One further note – there'll be no Red John in this, but it is set during the CBI era, so I guess that technically makes it AU.

It figures, she thinks, as he stalks her around her own living room.

Figures that of all the weird and crazy things that have ever, ever happened to her, this would be the most bizarre, the most unbelievable, and the most traumatising… and that for once, it hasn't been instigated by Patrick Jane.

Of course, she considers with a wry smile, he deserves some credit.

After all, the man pursuing her with a rather lethal smirk on his face shares his DNA.

Every last handsome, seductive, relentless drop of it.

She gulps as he finally traps her against the wall. Some days, she really does hate her life.

It starts when they catch a case all the way down in San Diego. Jane hasn't been on the crime scene more than five minutes when he's tackled – rather roughly, in Lisbon's opinion – by three of the SDPD's finest.

Three hours later, she's argued herself hoarse but secured his freedom. (Mainly by calling in pretty much every favour she's ever been owed and guaranteeing herself as his alibi and his keeper forever and ever, til death do they part, yadda yadda.)

Not that he cares, oh no, the rat bastard.

No, he's far more interested in the fact that he has a doppelganger. If she's honest, she's interested, too. The police sketch that's been floating around the SDPD offices for the better part of eight months is astonishingly accurate – it's no wonder those officers took one look at him and pegged him for their man. If Lisbon hadn't insisted on going over the charges levelled against him with a fine-toothed comb and used her own calendar to verify Jane's presence elsewhere at the time of each and every incident, she'd have had her own suspicions.

So either someone's had some of the best plastic surgery on offer, or Jane has a relative.

He refuses to call his father – or anyone from his old world, for that matter – and she knows she's unlikely to get anywhere with carnie folk by herself, so she doesn't do anything crazy like run off to the circus.

Instead, she utilises the skills from her own 'world', and e-mails the sketch to every contact she has in California, plus a few in other states.

Then she sits back and waits.

This part would be a lot easier if Jane weren't slouching throughout the building looking pensive and worried. The news that he has an 'evil twin' is spreading like wildfire throughout the building. Last she heard, some people are taking it as a sign that the apocalypse is imminent and have fled the city already.

She glances at her copy of the sketch again. It's fast becoming a guilty pleasure, and she knows she ought to stop, but she can't seem to help herself. It's weird, the way his eyes seem to bore into hers from the paper, but then, it's a damned detailed image. The artist has used charcoal and – according to the SDPD –put together the final picture by collating grainy glimpses of the man's face from CCTV with the details from many, many witness statements.

Given that the artist has captured something of the personality and mood of the doppelganger, it isn't hard to spot the differences between this man and Jane.

The jawline, for example, appears much harder than Jane's, and is peppered with a few days' worth of stubble. His hair appears not dissimilar in colour – as near as she can tell from a charcoal drawing, anyway – but is styled differently; she thinks it's been slightly gelled but not slicked back… she can still see the volume and shape of the curls. Jane would never use gel, she thinks. Some days he barely brushes his hair, depending on his mood.

The doppelganger's eyebrows are slightly drawn together and his forehead is clearly lined; his expression appears to be a curious mix of hostility and slight interest. His mouth is thin, with noticeable sharp lines at each corner.

She isn't a fool.

She knows she sees these differences because she's known Jane for ten years. Objectively, she realises that most people would easily mistake one for the other.

She wonders if they'll ever find him.

Or if Jane even wants to.

Nearly a week later, somebody finally gets back to her about the Jane Double running around out there.

Tom Holtz is an ex-boyfriend of hers from San Francisco; he works in Phoenix, Arizona now (and has been known to call her while drunk every so often, but that's another story) having passed the sketch around his station.

As it turns out, the Fraud squad has encountered this guy very recently – two weeks ago, to be precise. He gave them the slip just as they were about to arrest him, and so they alerted police departments in the surroundings states. Holtz has been holding off calling her because the situation is still developing… in fact, it's developed its way right back into California.

She hammers on the attic door relentlessly until she hears the clicking of the locks on the other side.

Jane frowns at her through the gap, looking tired and a little annoyed.

She doesn't care. "Needles," she says, triumphantly.

He blinks at her. "What?"

"Needles, California." She hands him the faxed copies of his arrest record, keeping them flat so that Jane is forced to open the door wider to take them properly. "They've got him in custody there for petty theft, but there are warrants for his arrest in nine counties here in California, as well as Utah and Arizona. It's mostly theft, but he's quite the con-artist, it seems. He's committed forgery as well as three types of fraud – mostly intellectual property scams in which he claims to be a software developer for a variety of well-known companies in Silicon Valley."

Jane is staring at the sheet on top, which includes a mug-shot of his doppelganger. "Paul Cohen."

"We don't know if that's his real name," she says softly. "He's used dozens of aliases for his previous crimes."

"He looks…" Jane shakes his head, words failing him for a moment.

"Come on," she says, stepping back. "We need to leave now if we're going to get there before close of business today."

His head jerks up too fast, and she almost hears his neck crick. "Get… where?"

She gestures to the papers. "Needles, of course. Time to meet this guy in person, don't you think?"

"He looks just like me," Jane says, for the third time. "It's… it's too much, Lisbon. Too many similarities."

"I know," she says. No doubt he isn't listening to her. He's been mostly talking to himself for the duration of the journey.

"Do you know what this means?" he says, reaching forward and putting the photo on the dashboard. "It means we aren't just related. We can't be."

She takes her eyes off the road for longer than it's safe to do so in order to stare at him. "Are you saying… what? That he's your… twin?" Saying the word feels wrong, but of course she's considered this very possibility. She just never gave voice to it until now.

"I never knew my mother," Jane tells her, so quietly she can barely hear him. "She left not long after I was born – just dumped me with my dad. He never talked about her and I never asked. So…" he sighs heavily. "If I had a twin, I guess I wouldn't know about it."

This is crazy, she realises. So crazy it ought to be a dream. Suddenly, she isn't so sure she wants to meet whoever is in a holding cell less than fifty miles away now, holy crap…

But then, she's the one who dragged Jane out of his attic, so doing a U-turn right now would probably send something of a mixed message. "Probably should have asked this earlier," she admits sheepishly, "but do you want to see this guy?"

He glances at her. "I'm not sure," he murmurs. "But if I don't meet him, and he keeps running around out there… who knows what trouble he'll cause. For me, I mean," he clarified. "One wrongful arrest is quite enough, I think."

A strange shiver runs down her spine – someone walking over my grave, she thinks – and exhales slowly. "This is so weird," she muses aloud. "A twin. An identical twin. I wonder what he's like…"

"You're not going to like him," Jane says immediately. Flatly. He meets her eyes briefly. "Mug shots can be rather telling," he elaborates. "This one says he's cold, and careless, and he doesn't care who he hurts. He's… the old me, I'd guess. Me if I hadn't met my wife."

"Ah," she says softly, and lapses into silence. If he's right, then no, she's not going to like Paul Cohen, or whatever the hell his name is. Forty-eight hours of 'Old Jane' was enough for her; she's not anxious to relive that experience any time soon.

That said, she can't help but wonder what it'll be like to see the two of them interacting.

A small smile tugs at her lips, but she suppresses it quickly. She stopped lying to herself long ago – she's attracted to Jane. Very attracted. Naturally, the thought of two identical Janes holds a degree of physical appeal. (Providing, of course, that Bad Jane doesn't ruin it for her.)

She'll even have the luxury of being behind a two-way mirror.

She steps on the gas just a fraction more.

Needles is a small town, and as such some of its law enforcement provision is contracted out from San Bernardino County PD. The actual Needles Police Department offices are housed within the (small) fire department building, and there is only one Deputy Sherriff behind the desk when they arrive. He's tall and thin, with a pair of rimless glasses perched on his nose as he stares intently at his book. At their footsteps, he carefully folds a corner of a page and closes the book before glancing up.

He does a double take when he sees Jane. "Well, I'll be," he breathes. "She wasn't kidding."

Lisbon clears her throat, and he blinks at her. "Oh, the she is you! I mean…" he clears his throat. "I'm sorry, let me start again. You're Agent Lisbon."

"That's right, Deputy… Morrow?"

He gets to his feet, ambling across to shake her hand. "Certainly am. And this here must be your associate, Mr, uh…?"

"Patrick Jane." Lisbon can tell by the lines of tension on his face that Jane isn't really interested in making small talk. He's psyched himself up for this, so he's ready to get in there and meet the man with his face.

"Well," the deputy murmurs, apparently lost for words. "That really… I mean, it's uncanny…"

"Yes," Lisbon says politely. "Mr Cohen is still here, isn't he?"

"Oh, of course, of course." Morrow reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out a small set of keys on a chain attached to his belt loop. "Here, come with me, won't you?"

She was wrong to hope for a two-way mirror. There are two cells, and one interview room without an observation area, Morrow tells them. "Most go to San Bernardino, you know, since the courthouse is there. This here fella will stay with us a little longer, though, seeing as how everybody wants a piece of him." He laughs lightly as he unlocks the interview room door. "You two make yourselves comfy in here and I'll go get him."

'Comfy' is optimistic, Lisbon finds, as she settles into a hard plastic chair. Next to her, Jane is digging his nails into his palms and looking rather nauseous. Glancing at the open door, she quickly covers one of his hands with hers. "Hey," she says quietly, "we don't have to do this. We can go, right now if you want. Just say the word."

Unexpectedly, he squeezes her hand. "I'm okay," he says, meeting her eyes. "Really, Lisbon. I just -"

"Holy fucking fuck."

Their heads are in sync as they turn to look at the doorway. 'Paul Cohen' stands there, staring open-mouthed at Jane. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he declares. "This moron was telling the truth?"

She has to fight to keep her jaw dropping to the floor. Seeing the photos was one thing – staring at a face with which she has ten years of second-hand familiarity from only a few feet away is an entirely different kettle of fish.

From behind him, the deputy speaks, sounding annoyed. "Shut your cakehole, Cohen, and watch the language." Lisbon doesn't see what he does, but Cohen stumbles forward into the room with an 'oof' of surprise. He casts a nasty look over his shoulder, but moves to sit in the chair opposite them. The deputy pulls the door closed, but they hear him clearly when he says, "You folks just knock when you're ready."

Lisbon gives a weak smile, and turns back to her companions at the table. "Guess you're related to me, or whatever," Cohen is saying gruffly.

The differences are as plain to see here as they were in the photos. Jane smiles frequently, though sometimes insincerely, and it lifts his face. This man's mouth appears fixed in a flat, hard line. He and Jane have similar signs of age – lines and wrinkles in all the expected places – but Cohen's are deeper, more enduring. Whatever his life has been, he hasn't enjoyed it, it seems.

His hair is slightly scruffier than she'd expected – the result of a night in a cell, most likely – and his clothes are plain – a long-sleeved navy t-shirt and khaki slacks. The sleeves are rolled up to reveal toned forearms which, along with his calloused hands, suggest a history of physical labour.

Of course, these are only her observations. She wonders what extensive detail Jane is extracting from the man in front of him without even opening his mouth.

Speaking of which…

"Guess I am," Jane replies after a long pause. His tone is carefully neutral, but Lisbon sees the tension in his frame. "Our mother took you, then?"

Cohen scoffs, shaking his head. "Why, I don't fucking know. Who'd she dump you with?"

Jane blinks. "Our father."

Cohen looks taken aback; she sees his Adam's apple bob as he looks away. "Hilarious," he says eventually, eyes fixed on the table. "Just… hilarious."

Lisbon watches Jane's face; she recognises the telltale signs of him picking up speed with his reading, getting slightly more comfortable as he interprets all the little signals she has no hope of spotting. "What did she tell you?" he asks. "That you didn't have a father?"

Cohen sneers at him. "Well I knew I had one, obviously," he snaps. "I didn't grow out of the fucking ground, did I?"

He sits back in his chair, and his eyes catch hers for the first time. Something flickers in them – she doesn't know what – and then it's gone as he turns back to Jane. She fights to ignore the fact that her heart rate had spiked for those brief few seconds.

"She told me he was dead," Cohen resumes. "And she never said anything about you, either. She left me with the O'Keefes one day and never came back."

Jane's eyes narrow. "O'Keefe? As in Barb and Archie?" His intake of breath seems to catch in his throat. "I met them when I was fifteen, in Palo Verde. I never saw you," he adds, a trace of accusation in his voice.

A smirk tugs at Cohen's lips. "Probably because I got the hell out of there as soon as I figured out what a credit card was. Why the hell would anyone stick around that carny circuit who didn't have to?" His eyes drop to Jane's neat suit. "Not that I need to tell you, clearly."

They regard each other silently for a moment. Then, to her surprise, Jane pushes himself to his feet. "Well, this has been fun," he says, glancing at her. "Shall we, Lisbon?"

She frowns at him, puzzled, even as she's getting up from her seat. "Uh… sure, Jane." She's not sure what's going through his mind – whether something specific has set him off, or it's all too much and he just wants to get out of there.

She makes to follow him to the door, but without warning Jane's empty chair scoots out from the table and blocks her path, propelled by two Converse-clad feet. She narrowly manages not to stumble, her hand landing flat on the tabletop. She turns to scowl at Cohen, and finds him watching her with interest. "So who are you?" he asks, almost conversationally. "Not his girlfriend, obviously. Unless Lisbon is your first name, or something."

She raises a single eyebrow as, without looking, she shoves the chair unceremoniously back underneath the table. "Seeing as this about wraps up our first and only meeting, I think we should just say goodbye and leave it at that."

His lips curl ever so slightly, and his eyes drop first to the gentle swell of her breasts underneath her blouse, and then to her hips. She has the unnerving certainty that it would have been a full-length appraisal if the table hadn't blocked his view of her legs. "Lady cop," he muses, almost to himself. "Never understood the fantasy before, but I guess there's a first time for everyth –"

Two things happen then.

The first is that Jane pounds on the door so loud she thinks the glass will break. The second is that he strides back over to the table and physically gets between herself and Cohen. She can't see his expression, but she hears the barely-controlled fury in his voice when he leans down to look Cohen in the eye. "Let me give you some brotherly advice," he says. "You stay out of my way, and I'll stay out of yours. I don't care about your life of crime, but I don't ever want to see you again, is that clear?"

Cohen sounds bored when he replies, "You came looking for me, remember?" He cocks his head and affects a quizzical look. "Why was that, again?"

There's a heavy thunk as Morrow unlocks the door from the outside and pushes it open. "You folks alright in here?" he asks, frowning at the sight of Jane squaring off against a rather disinterested Cohen.

"Fine," Jane says tightly. "Come on, Lisbon."

As he turns away from the table, Cohen's eyes meet hers again, and he tosses her a wink. "We could have a private visit anytime," he murmurs. "You know where I am."

She has barely any time to acknowledge the strange sensation of wanting to slam his very familiar face into the table, and then Jane's hand closes over her wrist and she's being propelled out of the room.

Author's Notes: What on earth do you mean, I only wrote this story to fulfil some kind of weird fantasy? What a horrid accusation, I would never…

Well, I probably would, but it won't be this story, folks! So if any of you were worrying that this might take a weird sexual turn somewhere along the way, this is me promising never to do that. Which is not to say that Paul won't revisit those overtures towards Lisbon at some stage, but I solemnly swear that this a Jane/Lisbon story.

Now I've cleared that up, I'd love to hear what you thought of the first chapter, so please drop me a line below!