Title: Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
Title: Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
Author: kaitlia777
Author's e-mail/website: kaitlia777@yahoo.com
Fandom: The Mentalist
Summary: Picks up at the end of Fugues in Red
Main characters: Patrick Jane. Teresa Lisbon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers up through 4x10 possible.
Spoilers: If it’s aired in the US, then it’s fair game!
Beta: N/A
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of the recognizable character, just taking them out to play!
As Jane stood in the doorway, one hand clutching at the frame so hard Teresa could see his knuckles turning white, his memories returned. The pain, loss and grief he felt were palpable and he rocked back slightly, body jerking as though he were fighting against collapse.
She'd missed the Jane she knew, but if Teresa hadn't known Jane would never, never want to forget Angela and Charlotte, she might have let him go. Red John, still out in the world, might leave Jane alone, as he seemed to want everyone to think him dead. That's what she told herself. Jane had insisted he was happy (though she knew the difference between happy and shallow) and, had she not seen the echoes of familiar sadness in him, she would have forced herself to allow him to leave with Tamara.
But she'd seen through his bluster and that was how they found themselves standing in his empty, haunting house.
Watching him absorb the loss of his wife and child again, Teresa swiped a tear from her cheek, heart aching for him. After what seemed like an eternity (but was actually more like a minute), Jane fell back against the door, sliding to the floor, legs folding in an inelegant sprawl.
His trembling hand lay on the hardwood, opening and closing as though grasping for something that wasn't there.
That sight made her take a tentative step forward. She knew he had a breakdown before, no one would call Jane emotionally well-adjusted and the way he was staring, shaking and silent, was…not good.
Still, she didn't know what to say. Out of other ideas, Teresa sank to her knees beside him. For a moment she hesitated, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but withdrawing to grab his hand between both of hers instead.
Jane was closed off, not one to seek comfort or except it. Teresa was certain he believed himself undeserving of such things but she wasn't about to let him experience the loss of his family anew without offering some form of support. He'd been alone all those years ago, the first time he'd seen that horrible smiley face on his wall.
She wouldn't let that happen again.
“I'm sorry,” she managed to choke out, hoping the shock hadn't broken him…well, not more so than usual.
His silence continued to worry her, then, with surprising suddenness and strength, his hand clamped down on hers. “I forgot,” he whispered, keeping his face turned away from her, though she heard the suppressed sobs in his voice. “How could I forget them?”
Of course he was blaming himself.
“You were hurt,” she said softly, knowing there was really nothing she could say to dissuade him. He was the most stubborn man….
But she could be here for him. Teresa didn't know how long they sat there, cold floor leeching their warmth from, making her muscles stiffen and ache. Jane sat beside her, shuddering and silent, save for his ragged breathing.
Eventually, even those gasps stopped.
When he failed to react in any way for over ten minutes, Teresa couldn't help but worry that bringing him here had done far more damage than good. On a good day, Jane and mental health weren't on the best of terms and maybe this had just been too much for him.
Her right hand was numb, still locked in his grip, so she gave his arm a shake, hoping for reaction, any reaction.
She got none.
“Jane,” she said his name in a slightly louder tone that she been using and it seemed echo in the empty house. “C’mon, Jane. Just say…anything….”
It sounded like the plea it was, but he remained unmoved, face turned from her, head bowed under the weight of grief. The nape of his neck was bared to her, skin lightly tanned below golden curls, and, on impulse, Teresa raised her left hand, covering the small expanse of bare skin. Her palm and fingers cupped the space between collar and curls, thumbs stroking behind his ear.
Though it was an action meant to provide comfort, the gentle touch made him jump and stiffen. Jane turned slightly, not dislodging her hand, but enough for her to see his blotchy, tear streaked face and puffy, red eyes. For a moment he regarded her with wild eyes, not really seeing her. Then he blinked and she felt the tension drain from his spine.
When he opened his eyes, she saw the Patrick Jane she knew looking back at her. A man broken, raw with grief and rage, masking that with a sunny smile and clever tricks. But under all that, someone whose life had shaped him into a person who wanted to do good. Full of flaws…but, really, who wasn't?
“Thank you,” he breathed hoarsely, giving her hand another squeeze before loosening the circulation stopping grip. “Thank you for knowing I wouldn't want to forget them.”
Teresa nodded, not really trusting herself to speak and rubbed his neck gently. They normally didn't touch like this, but here, in the almost suffocating darkness and pain, she felt it was an acceptable breach of their well-established interpersonal contact rules.
He sighed, shifting toward her slightly, to emotionally beaten down to deny himself the comfort she offered.
They sat there like that for hours and, as dawn began to creep in through the windows, Jane spoke again, startling her (she may have nodded off briefly, leaning against the wall and Jane).
“Do you think I'm a psychopath?”
“What?” The non sequitur was a bit much for her sleep heavy brain. “No. Why?”
He didn't speak for a minute, didn't look at her when he eventually said, “I was told that, according to generally accepted criteria, I present as psychopath.”
It didn't take James deductive abilities to figure out who would drop that little gem on him. “Wainwright's twelve, what does he know.”
Jane didn't quite smile, but his eyes crinkled a bit. “You make a valid point.”
“Of course I do,” she replied, imbuing her words with conviction. She honestly thought Wainwright was way off base with that accusation.
He met her gaze before musing, “Highly functioning sociopath is probably closer to the truth…”
“Hush,” she said sharply, hand flying up to cover his mouth. “You know that’s not true.”
“I said closer to the truth,” he said, voice muffled against her palm. When she removed her fingers, he cocked his head to the side. “The past few days are a bit…muddled. If I said or did anything untoward….”
He wiggled the fingers that had helped themselves to a handful of her bottom the other night and she flushed. “Considering the fact that you were in a dissociative state, you get a pass. Just this once.”
With a nod, Jane stretched out a hand and pushed on the door, levering it closed and cutting off their view of Red John’s calling card. Out of sight but no longer out of mind.
Comments, pretty please?
Author: kaitlia777
Author's e-mail/website: kaitlia777@yahoo.com
Fandom: The Mentalist
Summary: Picks up at the end of Fugues in Red
Main characters: Patrick Jane. Teresa Lisbon
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers up through 4x10 possible.
Spoilers: If it’s aired in the US, then it’s fair game!
Beta: N/A
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of the recognizable character, just taking them out to play!
As Jane stood in the doorway, one hand clutching at the frame so hard Teresa could see his knuckles turning white, his memories returned. The pain, loss and grief he felt were palpable and he rocked back slightly, body jerking as though he were fighting against collapse.
She'd missed the Jane she knew, but if Teresa hadn't known Jane would never, never want to forget Angela and Charlotte, she might have let him go. Red John, still out in the world, might leave Jane alone, as he seemed to want everyone to think him dead. That's what she told herself. Jane had insisted he was happy (though she knew the difference between happy and shallow) and, had she not seen the echoes of familiar sadness in him, she would have forced herself to allow him to leave with Tamara.
But she'd seen through his bluster and that was how they found themselves standing in his empty, haunting house.
Watching him absorb the loss of his wife and child again, Teresa swiped a tear from her cheek, heart aching for him. After what seemed like an eternity (but was actually more like a minute), Jane fell back against the door, sliding to the floor, legs folding in an inelegant sprawl.
His trembling hand lay on the hardwood, opening and closing as though grasping for something that wasn't there.
That sight made her take a tentative step forward. She knew he had a breakdown before, no one would call Jane emotionally well-adjusted and the way he was staring, shaking and silent, was…not good.
Still, she didn't know what to say. Out of other ideas, Teresa sank to her knees beside him. For a moment she hesitated, reaching out to touch his shoulder, but withdrawing to grab his hand between both of hers instead.
Jane was closed off, not one to seek comfort or except it. Teresa was certain he believed himself undeserving of such things but she wasn't about to let him experience the loss of his family anew without offering some form of support. He'd been alone all those years ago, the first time he'd seen that horrible smiley face on his wall.
She wouldn't let that happen again.
“I'm sorry,” she managed to choke out, hoping the shock hadn't broken him…well, not more so than usual.
His silence continued to worry her, then, with surprising suddenness and strength, his hand clamped down on hers. “I forgot,” he whispered, keeping his face turned away from her, though she heard the suppressed sobs in his voice. “How could I forget them?”
Of course he was blaming himself.
“You were hurt,” she said softly, knowing there was really nothing she could say to dissuade him. He was the most stubborn man….
But she could be here for him. Teresa didn't know how long they sat there, cold floor leeching their warmth from, making her muscles stiffen and ache. Jane sat beside her, shuddering and silent, save for his ragged breathing.
Eventually, even those gasps stopped.
When he failed to react in any way for over ten minutes, Teresa couldn't help but worry that bringing him here had done far more damage than good. On a good day, Jane and mental health weren't on the best of terms and maybe this had just been too much for him.
Her right hand was numb, still locked in his grip, so she gave his arm a shake, hoping for reaction, any reaction.
She got none.
“Jane,” she said his name in a slightly louder tone that she been using and it seemed echo in the empty house. “C’mon, Jane. Just say…anything….”
It sounded like the plea it was, but he remained unmoved, face turned from her, head bowed under the weight of grief. The nape of his neck was bared to her, skin lightly tanned below golden curls, and, on impulse, Teresa raised her left hand, covering the small expanse of bare skin. Her palm and fingers cupped the space between collar and curls, thumbs stroking behind his ear.
Though it was an action meant to provide comfort, the gentle touch made him jump and stiffen. Jane turned slightly, not dislodging her hand, but enough for her to see his blotchy, tear streaked face and puffy, red eyes. For a moment he regarded her with wild eyes, not really seeing her. Then he blinked and she felt the tension drain from his spine.
When he opened his eyes, she saw the Patrick Jane she knew looking back at her. A man broken, raw with grief and rage, masking that with a sunny smile and clever tricks. But under all that, someone whose life had shaped him into a person who wanted to do good. Full of flaws…but, really, who wasn't?
“Thank you,” he breathed hoarsely, giving her hand another squeeze before loosening the circulation stopping grip. “Thank you for knowing I wouldn't want to forget them.”
Teresa nodded, not really trusting herself to speak and rubbed his neck gently. They normally didn't touch like this, but here, in the almost suffocating darkness and pain, she felt it was an acceptable breach of their well-established interpersonal contact rules.
He sighed, shifting toward her slightly, to emotionally beaten down to deny himself the comfort she offered.
They sat there like that for hours and, as dawn began to creep in through the windows, Jane spoke again, startling her (she may have nodded off briefly, leaning against the wall and Jane).
“Do you think I'm a psychopath?”
“What?” The non sequitur was a bit much for her sleep heavy brain. “No. Why?”
He didn't speak for a minute, didn't look at her when he eventually said, “I was told that, according to generally accepted criteria, I present as psychopath.”
It didn't take James deductive abilities to figure out who would drop that little gem on him. “Wainwright's twelve, what does he know.”
Jane didn't quite smile, but his eyes crinkled a bit. “You make a valid point.”
“Of course I do,” she replied, imbuing her words with conviction. She honestly thought Wainwright was way off base with that accusation.
He met her gaze before musing, “Highly functioning sociopath is probably closer to the truth…”
“Hush,” she said sharply, hand flying up to cover his mouth. “You know that’s not true.”
“I said closer to the truth,” he said, voice muffled against her palm. When she removed her fingers, he cocked his head to the side. “The past few days are a bit…muddled. If I said or did anything untoward….”
He wiggled the fingers that had helped themselves to a handful of her bottom the other night and she flushed. “Considering the fact that you were in a dissociative state, you get a pass. Just this once.”
With a nod, Jane stretched out a hand and pushed on the door, levering it closed and cutting off their view of Red John’s calling card. Out of sight but no longer out of mind.
Comments, pretty please?