pene
in
bordellinos
48-hour fic!
Prompt: "she was unwilling to substitute fascination for trust, or beauty for sincerity" from Carl Steadman's 99 Secrets via intl_princess
This is The Mentalist. Lisbon and Jane working. Jane pov (which is fun because he knows everything).
Note: There will likely be flaws in my canon as I've watched (and loved) about 7 episodes and did not have time for detailed research. Turns out I am a bit in love with Teresa Lisbon. Also Patrick Jane.
Still the guilty cannot sleep
The Mentalist
There are police cars blocking the Bay Bridge, early morning traffic piling up in both directions. Inside their cars, commuters itch with irritation. It's raining steadily. Jane opens his umbrella and stops himself from counting cars.
It's been a long time between cases.
The dead man's body is lashed between the bridge's cables. The air, the road, his skin - everything is gray save the police car lights which play blue and red in the puddles and on the man's limp face.
Lisbon approaches the body. She stands perfectly still and slight against the span of the bridge. Rainwater drips from the man's body and falls from Lisbon's hair and clothes; mixes together and pools at her feet.
As always, Jane is looking for a new puzzle to tease from this. He moves to stand beside Lisbon. There's a kind of silence despite the cars and rain and wind. Details tick over in his mind, form patterns like touching keys with clever fingers. The body is face up. It's naked, strapped with duct tape in long plain strips. The tape sags awkwardly under the weight of death.
Next to him, Lisbon is holding two truths in her mind. This was once simply a man. This is now simply a job.
She straightens her spine to distance herself. "He's all yours," she says to the waiting Medical Examiner. This early in the morning everyone works together silently, only moving at Lisbon's word. Jane finds it reassuring.
Lisbon turns away but waits, folding her arms ineffectually against the weather.
"I wonder why he didn't pick the Golden Gate," Jane says. "It's more aesthetically pleasing."
"It's a long way from home for the victim," Lisbon says. Then, "Let's go."
Jane eyes her from under his umbrella. Water drips from her nose. "You should think about keeping an umbrella in your car," he says.
It's too dark to see her eyes, but Jane catches the eye roll anyway. He follows her to the car.
There's something comforting in sitting in the passenger seat as Lisbon drives. She's preparing her mind. Her hands shift competently on the wheel.
Everything Lisbon has is hard won. She's worked harder and longer and smarter; she's proud of her achievements. Everything the dead man had is gone. Still, Jane senses Lisbon's relief in opening a case. This is where she excels. As far as he can tell, Lisbon doesn't fool herself that her relief somehow killed this guy, but the feeling makes her sick to the stomach anyway.
To Jane, too, opening a new case feels like a reprieve. There are new patterns to consider, new people to maneuver.
Alone, when they're not on a case, Jane counts bricks, touches light switches and power poles. He plays flash games on his laptop for twelve hours running - shooting colored bubbles, level after level. When he takes a break his mind keeps categorising everything by color as though he can make the world disappear.
He isn't sure if the games give him clarity, but it's better than listing ways people die over and over in his head.
Jane's mind constantly constructs lists. Many of the lists are useful, which is fortunate as he can't exactly control them. From first meeting he lists all the things he knows about a person. He knows Van Pelt has an old ankle injury she can't think about; he knows Cho superstitiously selects his clothing in careful pattern; he knows Rigsby is uncomfortable being the tallest in the room.
He knows Lisbon used to bite her nails to the quick. He knows she longs for and avoids her parents' home. He knows she moves and thinks economically, wasting as little space and time as possible. He knows she is both fascinated by and fearful of his knowledge. He knows she is both fascinated by and fearful of him. He thinks she also likes him.
"What do you do in the down time?" he asks.
"I just-" her eyes flicker towards him, testing. "I mind myself. Get things sorted."
"No," he says slowly. "I think there's a secret you're keeping."
"I can't keep much when you're around," she says wearily.
He thinks it through. Boyfriend or girlfriend? Probably not. She doesn't come back with that glow. Nieces and nephews? No. A close group of friends? Maybe. Maybe some kind of sporting team or- another kind of team. Volunteering. Some kind of practical volunteering. But not something she's really effective at. Maybe a soup kitchen or somewhere she feels a personal call.
He smiles but says nothing.
"What?" she asks reluctantly.
"I admit I haven't quite figured you out," he says. It's not true, exactly, but it is kind. He doesn't intend to watch her skin tighten as he invades her privacy.
He could probably make her trust him. He could use that fascination and quietly seduce her mind. Years ago he convinced himself it's not manipulative to change people's thinking. He convinced himself that if you have the skill it's your responsibility. As it turns out, people like having the choice. Sometimes it's more fun that way.
"There's this shelter," she says, turning to him. "They always need volunteers." She turns back to the road.
He smiles.
"I think we're looking for an ex-lover," he says. "Someone who works out but isn't quite as strong as they think they are. Someone corporate."
"Okay," she says consideringly. "Tell me more."
***
(I think there's probably more to this story but I'm at hour 47.5 and I need to make a call. Gosh Americans spell manoeuvre weirdly.)
This is The Mentalist. Lisbon and Jane working. Jane pov (which is fun because he knows everything).
Note: There will likely be flaws in my canon as I've watched (and loved) about 7 episodes and did not have time for detailed research. Turns out I am a bit in love with Teresa Lisbon. Also Patrick Jane.
Still the guilty cannot sleep
The Mentalist
There are police cars blocking the Bay Bridge, early morning traffic piling up in both directions. Inside their cars, commuters itch with irritation. It's raining steadily. Jane opens his umbrella and stops himself from counting cars.
It's been a long time between cases.
The dead man's body is lashed between the bridge's cables. The air, the road, his skin - everything is gray save the police car lights which play blue and red in the puddles and on the man's limp face.
Lisbon approaches the body. She stands perfectly still and slight against the span of the bridge. Rainwater drips from the man's body and falls from Lisbon's hair and clothes; mixes together and pools at her feet.
As always, Jane is looking for a new puzzle to tease from this. He moves to stand beside Lisbon. There's a kind of silence despite the cars and rain and wind. Details tick over in his mind, form patterns like touching keys with clever fingers. The body is face up. It's naked, strapped with duct tape in long plain strips. The tape sags awkwardly under the weight of death.
Next to him, Lisbon is holding two truths in her mind. This was once simply a man. This is now simply a job.
She straightens her spine to distance herself. "He's all yours," she says to the waiting Medical Examiner. This early in the morning everyone works together silently, only moving at Lisbon's word. Jane finds it reassuring.
Lisbon turns away but waits, folding her arms ineffectually against the weather.
"I wonder why he didn't pick the Golden Gate," Jane says. "It's more aesthetically pleasing."
"It's a long way from home for the victim," Lisbon says. Then, "Let's go."
Jane eyes her from under his umbrella. Water drips from her nose. "You should think about keeping an umbrella in your car," he says.
It's too dark to see her eyes, but Jane catches the eye roll anyway. He follows her to the car.
There's something comforting in sitting in the passenger seat as Lisbon drives. She's preparing her mind. Her hands shift competently on the wheel.
Everything Lisbon has is hard won. She's worked harder and longer and smarter; she's proud of her achievements. Everything the dead man had is gone. Still, Jane senses Lisbon's relief in opening a case. This is where she excels. As far as he can tell, Lisbon doesn't fool herself that her relief somehow killed this guy, but the feeling makes her sick to the stomach anyway.
To Jane, too, opening a new case feels like a reprieve. There are new patterns to consider, new people to maneuver.
Alone, when they're not on a case, Jane counts bricks, touches light switches and power poles. He plays flash games on his laptop for twelve hours running - shooting colored bubbles, level after level. When he takes a break his mind keeps categorising everything by color as though he can make the world disappear.
He isn't sure if the games give him clarity, but it's better than listing ways people die over and over in his head.
Jane's mind constantly constructs lists. Many of the lists are useful, which is fortunate as he can't exactly control them. From first meeting he lists all the things he knows about a person. He knows Van Pelt has an old ankle injury she can't think about; he knows Cho superstitiously selects his clothing in careful pattern; he knows Rigsby is uncomfortable being the tallest in the room.
He knows Lisbon used to bite her nails to the quick. He knows she longs for and avoids her parents' home. He knows she moves and thinks economically, wasting as little space and time as possible. He knows she is both fascinated by and fearful of his knowledge. He knows she is both fascinated by and fearful of him. He thinks she also likes him.
"What do you do in the down time?" he asks.
"I just-" her eyes flicker towards him, testing. "I mind myself. Get things sorted."
"No," he says slowly. "I think there's a secret you're keeping."
"I can't keep much when you're around," she says wearily.
He thinks it through. Boyfriend or girlfriend? Probably not. She doesn't come back with that glow. Nieces and nephews? No. A close group of friends? Maybe. Maybe some kind of sporting team or- another kind of team. Volunteering. Some kind of practical volunteering. But not something she's really effective at. Maybe a soup kitchen or somewhere she feels a personal call.
He smiles but says nothing.
"What?" she asks reluctantly.
"I admit I haven't quite figured you out," he says. It's not true, exactly, but it is kind. He doesn't intend to watch her skin tighten as he invades her privacy.
He could probably make her trust him. He could use that fascination and quietly seduce her mind. Years ago he convinced himself it's not manipulative to change people's thinking. He convinced himself that if you have the skill it's your responsibility. As it turns out, people like having the choice. Sometimes it's more fun that way.
"There's this shelter," she says, turning to him. "They always need volunteers." She turns back to the road.
He smiles.
"I think we're looking for an ex-lover," he says. "Someone who works out but isn't quite as strong as they think they are. Someone corporate."
"Okay," she says consideringly. "Tell me more."
***
(I think there's probably more to this story but I'm at hour 47.5 and I need to make a call. Gosh Americans spell manoeuvre weirdly.)