Fandom(s): Castle/The Mentalist
Summary: Let it be known, Patrick Jane thought as he clutched the check in his hand, the "psychic" truth always hurts. Pre-Series.
In my head, this was before Jane met Lisbon and Castle met Beckett. (In terms of universes, Castle is writing Derrick Storm, and Jane is still on the circuit as a fake psychic.)
Written for miss_peg, as my last holiday fic challenge piece.
Richard Castle rapped his knuckles on the cluttered desk within his study, as he pressed his cellphone to his ear with one shoulder and stared down at the laptop careened atop his legs. The phone continued to ring, and Castle let out an impatient sigh.
He had so much more interesting things he could be doing, but no. He had promised he’d finish his latest Derrick Storm draft for Gina, and the only way he could do that, was by speaking with a psychic; he only hoped that this Patrick Jane from California could help him more than the psychics around, who continued to tell him he was haunted. (Obviously, who wasn’t haunted when your mother lived with you?)
Castle had watched a few interviews and read a few articles about Patrick Jane, and had been immensely impressed at how the psychic had been able to speak with the dead to solve cases—something, he had planned for the pseudo-psychic to do within his own novel, just so the psychic could try to get away with coldblooded murder.
The phone rang once more, before a recorded voice prompted him to leave his name, number, and message for Patrick Jane.
“Hello, Mr. Jane?” Castle spoke into the phone. “My name is Richard Castle…”
Patrick Jane glanced around the study of Richard Castle with veiled interest, as the author busied himself with clearing stray clutter from a chair in front of his desk. Normally, he didn’t travel out of state to do these “psychic” readings, due to his wife and daughter…but, the offer of money was too great to pass up on.
With a sweep of the room, and from the way Castle stood—Jane could tell that the man had a young daughter, wasn’t currently married, his mother lived with him, and he had father issues. Real or fake psychic, Jane knew he would have to touch the latter or he’d be admitting that he was a fraud, and admissions like such should not be made to an author, who had more resources to the media than he did.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Jane?”
“No.” He answered.
Castle pointed at the lone wooden chair, and Jane took a seat.
The author moved to reclaim his seat behind the desk, before he flipped open a page in his notebook. “Have you always been a psychic?”
Jane nodded, though “always” was a stretch, at best. “How does it work?”
“I’m a psychic, Mr. Castle.” Jane drawled. “Not a machine. If I knew how it worked, I could stop seeing deceased animals.”
Castle’s brow furrowed. “You see dead animals?”
“Amongst many other things, yes.” Jane answered, lightly. Castle paused to take notes, and Jane could tell the man was just eating up his lies.
“Can you talk to them also?” Castle questioned, and Jane gave him a stare. “Mr. Mitten’s stole my sock. I’d like to know where it is.”
Jane took a stab in the dark. “I only get meows.”
“Damn.” Castle returned with a frown. “I really liked that sock, too.” The man grew silent, before he pitched his next question. “Do you really work with the police?”
“Have you ever shot somebody?”
Jane blinked. “I’m a psychic consultant; they aren’t about to hand me a gun to fend off vengeful spirits.”
“What about a proton pack?”
Jane blinked again. Was the man actually being serious?
“The CBI doesn’t have that kind of money or the brains to buy something like that.” Castle snorted, and Jane mentally rolled his eyes—people were too easy.
“The California Bureau of Investigation.”
It was Castle’s turn to blink. “You work at the sister to the FBI?” Jane nodded. “How awesome is that?”
Jane waved it off. “If you saw the pay, you wouldn’t be nearly as impressed.” Castle shifted in his seat. “Shall we get started?”
“Of course!” Castle responded, as he closed his notebook and leaned forward—the man, in Jane’s honest opinion, reminded him of his daughter and he almost hated himself for what he was about to do. “Where or how do we start?”
Apparently, Castle was extremely touchy on the subject of his unknown father and Jane hadn’t even had the chance to say three words, before the man wrote him a check for the negotiated amount and kicked him out.
Let it be known, Patrick Jane thought as he clutched the check in his hand, the “psychic” truth always hurts.