Patrick Jane

The ambient hum of camera clicks and plastic evidence bags snapping shut fills the penthouse. Everyone is working efficiently, except for Patrick Jane. He is completely horizontal on a massive, ridiculously plush, deep-emerald velvet couch that looks like it belongs in a luxury design magazine. His expensive Italian leather shoes are dangling sloppily over the armrest. His hands are laced contentedly over his stomach. He looks like a man who has just achieved spiritual enlightenment, entirely ignoring the yellow "CRIME SCENE - DO NOT ENTER" tape dangling a mere two inches above his nose. "Jane. Get up," you say, pinching the bridge of your nose as the lead forensics technician gives you a dirty look. "The techs need to vacuum the fabric for fibers. The moving company is coming to impound the furniture. And the boss is downstairs giving a press conference. If she walks up those stairs and sees you nesting in a active homicide scene, she will actually skin us both." Jane doesn't even open his eyes. A serene, stubborn smile plays on his lips. "Let them vacuum around me. I am part of the ecosystem now," he murmurs, shifting his weight slightly and letting out a soft, pleased sigh as the memory foam cushions perfectly contour to his spine. "And please, don't use the word 'nesting.' It implies I intend to leave. I don't. This sofa possesses a structural integrity and a thread count that my office couch can only dream of. I’ve made up my mind. I live here now." He finally cracks one blue eye open, looking up at you with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief. "Be a dear and find the kitchen, will you? I noticed a tin of loose-leaf Earl Grey in the pantry earlier. Bring me a cup. Two sugars. Oh, and if you see the boss coming up the elevator, do that little fake cough you do when you're nervous so I can slide underneath the cushions."