![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
Fic: The Art of War (and Banana Puree), (The Mentalist: Gen)
Title: The Art of War (and Banana Puree)
Rating: G
Genre: Tense domestic fluff, (lightly sprinkled with crack?).
Characters: Jane, Mrs Jane, Baby Jane.
Warnings: None required.
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not for profit.
Summary: Patrick Jane isn’t the only member of his family to earn a living in a less than ethical fashion. Arguments in the Jane household aren’t quite like those of other families.
Notes: I didn’t mean to write this. At all. I'm blaming this one on
pensive1. It sprung from a throwaway crack theory joke about Mrs Jane’s background.
And I had to name Mrs Jane and Baby Jane, because I couldn’t quite pull off a narrative from the inside of Jane’s head whilst calling them wife and child.
Word Count: 1131
She liked the banana puree. Patrick amused himself by considering his daughter's tells. An adult wouldn't signal delight by diving towards the spoon in what looked like a heartfelt attempt to wear breakfast in her hair. They would be more restrained in their laughter, and there certainly wouldn't be any triumphant waving of plump little fists in the air.
"Adadada gah!" his daughter said, smiling up at him.
"Banaaaaaaanaaaaaaa," he replied, waving a laden spoon in front of her face. Despite her best efforts, Patrick was going to get it in her mouth in the first instance. It might then end up on her face, or the highchair, or even on him, but certainly her mouth first. He wasn't about to be outwitted. Again.
"Anaaaannnaaaaa!" she repeated, and he popped the spoon in her mouth. She slurped the puree down happily.
"Daddy one, Sophia two," his wife said, from the doorway to the kitchen. She looked from the smudge of banana on Sophia's brow to the smear on Patrick's shirt sleeve.
"If Mommy thinks she can do any better, she's welcome to try," Patrick replied, offering the bowl and the spoon. "You should have woken me when you returned."
"I was tempted," she said, with a slow smile which left him in no doubt as to what she wanted to wake him for, "but you're so grouchy when you don't get your eight hours. Toast?"
"Banaaaanaaa," he sang at his little girl again. "Yes, please."
After the usual morning sounds of kitchen clatter, Isabelle deposited a plate of toast on the counter next to Patrick’s stool, and then a kiss on his head and the baby's.
"We may have visitors later," she said lightly.
Patrick didn't let the flare of irritation show on his face or in the tone of his voice. Children were very good at picking up on tension, even before words held any meaning for them. "Banaaaaaaaana," he repeated, smiling fixedly at Isabelle. "Mmmm, would these be the kind of visitors with badges and guns?"
"Why yes they would darling," she said, also beaming at their oblivious daughter. "Now who's a good little girl, eating all that breakfast? Yummy in your tummy!" She reached forward and tickled the baby's ribs with her clever, delicate fingers. Sophia shrieked and flung herself around in the highchair.
"I have a meeting at the studio today," he countered brightly, before puffing out his cheeks and scrunching up his nose at the baby. She giggled again.
"So call in sick, Patrick. Keeping your doting wife out of prison is a much better use of your skills." He didn't tighten his grip on the spoon he still held, or let the tension settle in his shoulders.
"My doting wife would be less likely to get locked up if she could stop stealing things," he said pleasantly. It was a clever tactic, making this demand at breakfast time. Sofia disarmed him completely, and Isabelle (after several blazing rows that completely evaporated when Patrick’s attention was caught by the baby monitor) had taken note of this.
She made a dismissive sound and leaned against the counter beside him. "It’s all I've ever done, Patrick. I do it exceedingly well, and I keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed. If anyone should be considering a career break, it's you."
He did stiffen this time, and he set the spoon and empty bowl down carefully. Things were going well for him. The right kind of people were paying attention, the right kind of questions were being asked. He was making something of himself. Legally.
"And why would I?"
"Because you hate leaving Sofia with the nanny, and then I could stop worrying about the two of you when I leave town on a job. You'd both be much happier."
"She isn't unhappy," Patrick said intently, as he turned to meet his wife’s steady gaze. "Against all logic, we're raising a content, well-balanced little lady."
Isabelle could read him in a way most people could not, unless they were in the profession and particularly acute. He wasn’t used to giving much away, not because he wanted to hide from her, but because habits formed over a lifetime were difficult to break. Whatever she read in his eyes, she took it as a signal for a tactical retreat.
"Yes. She's happy, Patrick." And then, because Isabelle could occasionally retreat but certainly could never concede, she continued, "but we aren't going to raise a normal, socially adjusted little girl. Just to forewarn you."
"Normal?" He returned. "I wouldn't condemn her to normal. She'll be exceptional. Clever, and perceptive, and beautiful. Won't you sweetheart?"
"Yadda!" Sofia agreed.
"Oh good lord," Isabelle mused, "what will she be? A handful, I expect. Like her father."
"I'm a handful? I didn't spend the night rappelling down the side of a museum."
"That was Tuesday, darling. Keep up."
It was a slight worthy of retaliation, but any response he could choose was blunted by Sofia’s presence. Inspired by his little girl, he stuck his tongue out instead. Isabelle smiled.
And then there was a heavy knock at the door.
"Your visitors are early," he said.
"Yes," she replied, and scooped Sofia out of the chair to balance her on one hip. She picked up the abandoned spoon, presenting the image of a harmless mother interrupted in her morning routine.
No, that really was too much.
"You are not using the baby as a prop," he hissed, "put her in her crib." He wasn't subtle enough. Sofia made an uncertain noise, and turned towards him with her bright blue eyes.
"Adagun?" she asked.
Isabelle frowned at him. "They're more likely to believe -"
"I'll deal with it," he snapped, "they'll leave this house convinced we're law-abiding, church-attending bastions of the middle classes, and that no-body in this family would ever consider grand larceny as a hobby. Just keep Sofia out of the way."
Isabelle smiled, serene and victorious.
"That would be my pleasure," she said, and then buried her nose in the baby's hair. "Did you miss me honey? Mommy missed your lovely smile, oh yes she did! Shall we go and play in your room?"
Sofia started up a nonsensical chatter with her mother. Although his anger did not abate, Patrick could not help his smile. They were beautiful, and his. Perhaps other fathers and husbands did not begin their days by deflecting (and potentially hypnotizing) members of the police department. But it was one of his few quiet certainties, that other families were less marvelous than his.
Rating: G
Genre: Tense domestic fluff, (lightly sprinkled with crack?).
Characters: Jane, Mrs Jane, Baby Jane.
Warnings: None required.
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not for profit.
Summary: Patrick Jane isn’t the only member of his family to earn a living in a less than ethical fashion. Arguments in the Jane household aren’t quite like those of other families.
Notes: I didn’t mean to write this. At all. I'm blaming this one on
pensive1. It sprung from a throwaway crack theory joke about Mrs Jane’s background. And I had to name Mrs Jane and Baby Jane, because I couldn’t quite pull off a narrative from the inside of Jane’s head whilst calling them wife and child.
Word Count: 1131
She liked the banana puree. Patrick amused himself by considering his daughter's tells. An adult wouldn't signal delight by diving towards the spoon in what looked like a heartfelt attempt to wear breakfast in her hair. They would be more restrained in their laughter, and there certainly wouldn't be any triumphant waving of plump little fists in the air.
"Adadada gah!" his daughter said, smiling up at him.
"Banaaaaaaanaaaaaaa," he replied, waving a laden spoon in front of her face. Despite her best efforts, Patrick was going to get it in her mouth in the first instance. It might then end up on her face, or the highchair, or even on him, but certainly her mouth first. He wasn't about to be outwitted. Again.
"Anaaaannnaaaaa!" she repeated, and he popped the spoon in her mouth. She slurped the puree down happily.
"Daddy one, Sophia two," his wife said, from the doorway to the kitchen. She looked from the smudge of banana on Sophia's brow to the smear on Patrick's shirt sleeve.
"If Mommy thinks she can do any better, she's welcome to try," Patrick replied, offering the bowl and the spoon. "You should have woken me when you returned."
"I was tempted," she said, with a slow smile which left him in no doubt as to what she wanted to wake him for, "but you're so grouchy when you don't get your eight hours. Toast?"
"Banaaaanaaa," he sang at his little girl again. "Yes, please."
After the usual morning sounds of kitchen clatter, Isabelle deposited a plate of toast on the counter next to Patrick’s stool, and then a kiss on his head and the baby's.
"We may have visitors later," she said lightly.
Patrick didn't let the flare of irritation show on his face or in the tone of his voice. Children were very good at picking up on tension, even before words held any meaning for them. "Banaaaaaaaana," he repeated, smiling fixedly at Isabelle. "Mmmm, would these be the kind of visitors with badges and guns?"
"Why yes they would darling," she said, also beaming at their oblivious daughter. "Now who's a good little girl, eating all that breakfast? Yummy in your tummy!" She reached forward and tickled the baby's ribs with her clever, delicate fingers. Sophia shrieked and flung herself around in the highchair.
"I have a meeting at the studio today," he countered brightly, before puffing out his cheeks and scrunching up his nose at the baby. She giggled again.
"So call in sick, Patrick. Keeping your doting wife out of prison is a much better use of your skills." He didn't tighten his grip on the spoon he still held, or let the tension settle in his shoulders.
"My doting wife would be less likely to get locked up if she could stop stealing things," he said pleasantly. It was a clever tactic, making this demand at breakfast time. Sofia disarmed him completely, and Isabelle (after several blazing rows that completely evaporated when Patrick’s attention was caught by the baby monitor) had taken note of this.
She made a dismissive sound and leaned against the counter beside him. "It’s all I've ever done, Patrick. I do it exceedingly well, and I keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed. If anyone should be considering a career break, it's you."
He did stiffen this time, and he set the spoon and empty bowl down carefully. Things were going well for him. The right kind of people were paying attention, the right kind of questions were being asked. He was making something of himself. Legally.
"And why would I?"
"Because you hate leaving Sofia with the nanny, and then I could stop worrying about the two of you when I leave town on a job. You'd both be much happier."
"She isn't unhappy," Patrick said intently, as he turned to meet his wife’s steady gaze. "Against all logic, we're raising a content, well-balanced little lady."
Isabelle could read him in a way most people could not, unless they were in the profession and particularly acute. He wasn’t used to giving much away, not because he wanted to hide from her, but because habits formed over a lifetime were difficult to break. Whatever she read in his eyes, she took it as a signal for a tactical retreat.
"Yes. She's happy, Patrick." And then, because Isabelle could occasionally retreat but certainly could never concede, she continued, "but we aren't going to raise a normal, socially adjusted little girl. Just to forewarn you."
"Normal?" He returned. "I wouldn't condemn her to normal. She'll be exceptional. Clever, and perceptive, and beautiful. Won't you sweetheart?"
"Yadda!" Sofia agreed.
"Oh good lord," Isabelle mused, "what will she be? A handful, I expect. Like her father."
"I'm a handful? I didn't spend the night rappelling down the side of a museum."
"That was Tuesday, darling. Keep up."
It was a slight worthy of retaliation, but any response he could choose was blunted by Sofia’s presence. Inspired by his little girl, he stuck his tongue out instead. Isabelle smiled.
And then there was a heavy knock at the door.
"Your visitors are early," he said.
"Yes," she replied, and scooped Sofia out of the chair to balance her on one hip. She picked up the abandoned spoon, presenting the image of a harmless mother interrupted in her morning routine.
No, that really was too much.
"You are not using the baby as a prop," he hissed, "put her in her crib." He wasn't subtle enough. Sofia made an uncertain noise, and turned towards him with her bright blue eyes.
"Adagun?" she asked.
Isabelle frowned at him. "They're more likely to believe -"
"I'll deal with it," he snapped, "they'll leave this house convinced we're law-abiding, church-attending bastions of the middle classes, and that no-body in this family would ever consider grand larceny as a hobby. Just keep Sofia out of the way."
Isabelle smiled, serene and victorious.
"That would be my pleasure," she said, and then buried her nose in the baby's hair. "Did you miss me honey? Mommy missed your lovely smile, oh yes she did! Shall we go and play in your room?"
Sofia started up a nonsensical chatter with her mother. Although his anger did not abate, Patrick could not help his smile. They were beautiful, and his. Perhaps other fathers and husbands did not begin their days by deflecting (and potentially hypnotizing) members of the police department. But it was one of his few quiet certainties, that other families were less marvelous than his.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Oh, right.
BANANAS!!!
Hypnotizing cops
no subject
no subject
And then, of course, there's the fact that you took her out of the role of "nameless victim" and made her interesting. Well done! Until we learn otherwise, this is my personal Mrs. Jane canon.
no subject