Fanfiction: ... and hold out hope (The Mentalist)
Title: "... and hold out hope"
Artist: shadownashira
Art Masterpost: here
Status: Complete
Word Count: 1,307
Fandom: The Mentalist
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Patrick Jane/Walter Mashburn; Teresa Lisbon
Disclaimer: The Mentalist belongs to Bruno Heller and CBS. No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: T
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, established relationship, (mild) slash, H/C, angst
Warnings: nonlinear narrative
Summary: Hindsight is a curious thing. It had taken the horror of a bloody smile to make Patrick realize what a lucky man he was, but by then it had been too late. No one was more surprised than him that he got a second chance at happiness...
Note: Written for the mentalist_bb 2012. A simple 'thank you' doesn't seem to be quite enough, but it goes to shadownashira for the beautiful artwork, her help and encouragement as my beta and in general, and for roping me into participating in the first place!
… and hold out hope
“I don't suppose the muffin trick will work twice, but I brought you one anyway.”
Patrick took the brown paper bag from Lisbon and peered inside. The aroma of sweet dough and the sight of red cranberry bits in a flattened cake greeted him.
“Sadly, Charles' daughter has a hamster.”
“I'm sure you deduced that from all the tiny hairs on his uniform.” She settled down at the table across from him, a wry smile on her thin lips. “What about a spider? A really big one?”
Her fingers mimed a tarantula for illustration, while Patrick's own got the muffin out even though he didn't feel particularly hungry.
Their banter was familiar to fall back on, lighting up the friendly-colored visiting area that was monitored by three officers and as many security cameras. It was as strained a facade as Lisbon's cheerfulness that did nothing to hide the dark circles underneath her eyes.
“Nah, the prison authorities seem to have a new standard for hiring guards - no phobias for me to exploit.”
“So I see that at least something good came from your last prison break.”
“Now really, Lisbon, sarcasm doesn't become you.”
Patrick braced himself, sensing that the mood would change. He loathed his bright blue prison garb for an irrational moment; it made him stick out like a sore thumb. There was nowhere to hide anyway.
Tired, he was just tired.
“Jane... there is nothing I can do for you. We went over the evidence, we - “
“No,” Patrick interrupted her firmly and gave the signal that he wanted to end the visit. “No, Lisbon, there is nothing you should do for me. You and the team need to stay out of this.”
“But -”
“I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me and put up with over the years. But I won't drag any of you down with me.”
Charles, the rodent-resistant guard, came closer. “Ma'am, I have to ask that you leave now.”
Lisbon stood, her expression blank though in reality, he knew that she was caught between the contradictory urges to either throttle or hug him. Patrick knew this hurt them both, but he didn't care to cut his own losses, it was his team he was concerned about. He would have time to make amends, later. Maybe. He had never really planned for after.
She settled on a hug, awkward because he was still sitting and the edge of the table dug into her stomach, but stubbornly, until Patrick had to reciprocate.
“We will visit you. Don't you think for a moment we'll leave you hanging.”
“Ma'am - “
“Yes, I know,” Lisbon stepped back, struggling for a word of farewell that wouldn't ring with the finality of the last nail in the coffin. She left the room with a helpless shrug and a nod.
Patrick watched her go, then noticed the sweet smell. The tabletop was full of a muffin torn to pieces and his fingertips sticky.
Lisbon had made no comment. He felt absurdly grateful.
XXX
Patrick woke up tangled in the finest silk money could buy, smelling stale sweat, musk and aftershave. His heart racing, he counted the muffled snores coming from his left; since he had grown used to them, they never failed to soothe him.
That had been a bad one, but they were rare now, one year after.
Patrick slipped out of the bed, careful not to disturb his partner. He knew Walter would follow as soon as his reaching hand failed to find warm skin; came up short with cool sheets.
He had never presumed that he would get a second chance like this. Life was good, almost gone the nightmares, the passing shadows of doubt, the expectation to look up and see the plastic falseness of a doll house.
It was... warmth. A home. Something real.
XXX
“Of course not! You know I love you for your mind.”
Patrick had no need to look, they both knew the words had come out too rushed to be anything but dead serious; he could imagine the flush spreading over Walter's cheeks, because a playboy like him had no business for such a cheesy (true) line.
He had to make light of it, to take the edge off, “No wonder, it comes in a fine package.”
Lying naked together did wonders to illustrate his point, yet nothing to mask his honest reaction. Above him Walter just grinned, then bent down to press a kiss on lips that Patrick opened with the ease of newfound familiarity.
“Of course it does.”
XXX
His finger still twitched. There was murder in his hands.
XXX
“Hello? Hello? Listen, whoever you are, I'm a busy man, and if you won't tell me -”
“Walter?”
“... Patrick?” The sound of a door closing. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Walter, I need your help.”
XXX
The sound of the shot bounced around between the high reaching walls, echoing and distorting, swallowing the wet gasps that fell silent soon after.
This had to be either shock or triumph; Patrick suspected both tasted bitter with the ending of something, the fulfillment of purpose and thus its loss.
Warm blood had spattered his face. He felt it cooling on his cheek and Patrick barely stopped himself from licking a drop away that had landed on his lips. He didn't hear the police sirens approaching, Lisbon and his team, too late, too distracted by his ploys, just as intended. They would have stopped him and he could not have had that.
He used his last minute of freedom to commit Red John's corpse to his memory, a still picture he would place just before the dead end, where his mind palace crumbled.
Revenge left some empty and others relieved, while some turned into monsters. Patrick would not be told how to cope with this.
There would be no therapy.
XXX
The sun was shining down from a summer blue sky, highlighting flowers in full bloom. Patrick heard children playing, splashing around with water and laughing, yet the heart of every shadow was teeming with red and each breath brought something rotten to mind.
People always said that as soon as you realized that it was a dream, you could wake yourself up.
'People' meant well, but knew nothing.
Patrick moved up the stairs, feeling the icy breath of nothing-there on his neck, as everything behind him faded away in a gray mist with the shifting of his eyes. Gravity dragged him one step at a time, up and up; forcing heavy feet closer.
Grief and guilt of something not yet remembered licked at his senses, casting the looming door at the stairs' end into sharp relief with rising terror. He had done something, thoughtless, like ripping out a butterfly's wings, but there was no childlike innocence left in him.
The door swung inwards to reveal a smile painted in blood red and below -
XXX
When Walter found him ten minutes later, the dream had already faded, leaving Patrick feeling composed and in control again.
Their eyes met in the dark reflection of the window pane, and Walter's lips brushed the nape of Patrick's neck, making him shiver and laugh and think of things besides sleep.
“Come back to bed, Patrick.”
“Yes.”
XXX
Patrick woke up tangled in fine silk and Walter's arms, wrapped securely around him. He closed his eyes to shut out the brightness of summer, stealing another moment for himself before they had to get up.
Shadows are things that will pass; Patrick knew that now.
The End
[Bide your time and hold out hope. ~ The Count of Monte Cristo]
Artist: shadownashira
Art Masterpost: here
Status: Complete
Word Count: 1,307
Fandom: The Mentalist
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Patrick Jane/Walter Mashburn; Teresa Lisbon
Disclaimer: The Mentalist belongs to Bruno Heller and CBS. No copyright infringement intended.
Rating: T
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, established relationship, (mild) slash, H/C, angst
Warnings: nonlinear narrative
Summary: Hindsight is a curious thing. It had taken the horror of a bloody smile to make Patrick realize what a lucky man he was, but by then it had been too late. No one was more surprised than him that he got a second chance at happiness...
Note: Written for the mentalist_bb 2012. A simple 'thank you' doesn't seem to be quite enough, but it goes to shadownashira for the beautiful artwork, her help and encouragement as my beta and in general, and for roping me into participating in the first place!
… and hold out hope
“I don't suppose the muffin trick will work twice, but I brought you one anyway.”
Patrick took the brown paper bag from Lisbon and peered inside. The aroma of sweet dough and the sight of red cranberry bits in a flattened cake greeted him.
“Sadly, Charles' daughter has a hamster.”
“I'm sure you deduced that from all the tiny hairs on his uniform.” She settled down at the table across from him, a wry smile on her thin lips. “What about a spider? A really big one?”
Her fingers mimed a tarantula for illustration, while Patrick's own got the muffin out even though he didn't feel particularly hungry.
Their banter was familiar to fall back on, lighting up the friendly-colored visiting area that was monitored by three officers and as many security cameras. It was as strained a facade as Lisbon's cheerfulness that did nothing to hide the dark circles underneath her eyes.
“Nah, the prison authorities seem to have a new standard for hiring guards - no phobias for me to exploit.”
“So I see that at least something good came from your last prison break.”
“Now really, Lisbon, sarcasm doesn't become you.”
Patrick braced himself, sensing that the mood would change. He loathed his bright blue prison garb for an irrational moment; it made him stick out like a sore thumb. There was nowhere to hide anyway.
Tired, he was just tired.
“Jane... there is nothing I can do for you. We went over the evidence, we - “
“No,” Patrick interrupted her firmly and gave the signal that he wanted to end the visit. “No, Lisbon, there is nothing you should do for me. You and the team need to stay out of this.”
“But -”
“I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me and put up with over the years. But I won't drag any of you down with me.”
Charles, the rodent-resistant guard, came closer. “Ma'am, I have to ask that you leave now.”
Lisbon stood, her expression blank though in reality, he knew that she was caught between the contradictory urges to either throttle or hug him. Patrick knew this hurt them both, but he didn't care to cut his own losses, it was his team he was concerned about. He would have time to make amends, later. Maybe. He had never really planned for after.
She settled on a hug, awkward because he was still sitting and the edge of the table dug into her stomach, but stubbornly, until Patrick had to reciprocate.
“We will visit you. Don't you think for a moment we'll leave you hanging.”
“Ma'am - “
“Yes, I know,” Lisbon stepped back, struggling for a word of farewell that wouldn't ring with the finality of the last nail in the coffin. She left the room with a helpless shrug and a nod.
Patrick watched her go, then noticed the sweet smell. The tabletop was full of a muffin torn to pieces and his fingertips sticky.
Lisbon had made no comment. He felt absurdly grateful.
XXX
Patrick woke up tangled in the finest silk money could buy, smelling stale sweat, musk and aftershave. His heart racing, he counted the muffled snores coming from his left; since he had grown used to them, they never failed to soothe him.
That had been a bad one, but they were rare now, one year after.
Patrick slipped out of the bed, careful not to disturb his partner. He knew Walter would follow as soon as his reaching hand failed to find warm skin; came up short with cool sheets.
He had never presumed that he would get a second chance like this. Life was good, almost gone the nightmares, the passing shadows of doubt, the expectation to look up and see the plastic falseness of a doll house.
It was... warmth. A home. Something real.
XXX
“Of course not! You know I love you for your mind.”
Patrick had no need to look, they both knew the words had come out too rushed to be anything but dead serious; he could imagine the flush spreading over Walter's cheeks, because a playboy like him had no business for such a cheesy (true) line.
He had to make light of it, to take the edge off, “No wonder, it comes in a fine package.”
Lying naked together did wonders to illustrate his point, yet nothing to mask his honest reaction. Above him Walter just grinned, then bent down to press a kiss on lips that Patrick opened with the ease of newfound familiarity.
“Of course it does.”
XXX
His finger still twitched. There was murder in his hands.
XXX
“Hello? Hello? Listen, whoever you are, I'm a busy man, and if you won't tell me -”
“Walter?”
“... Patrick?” The sound of a door closing. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Walter, I need your help.”
XXX
The sound of the shot bounced around between the high reaching walls, echoing and distorting, swallowing the wet gasps that fell silent soon after.
This had to be either shock or triumph; Patrick suspected both tasted bitter with the ending of something, the fulfillment of purpose and thus its loss.
Warm blood had spattered his face. He felt it cooling on his cheek and Patrick barely stopped himself from licking a drop away that had landed on his lips. He didn't hear the police sirens approaching, Lisbon and his team, too late, too distracted by his ploys, just as intended. They would have stopped him and he could not have had that.
He used his last minute of freedom to commit Red John's corpse to his memory, a still picture he would place just before the dead end, where his mind palace crumbled.
Revenge left some empty and others relieved, while some turned into monsters. Patrick would not be told how to cope with this.
There would be no therapy.
XXX
The sun was shining down from a summer blue sky, highlighting flowers in full bloom. Patrick heard children playing, splashing around with water and laughing, yet the heart of every shadow was teeming with red and each breath brought something rotten to mind.
People always said that as soon as you realized that it was a dream, you could wake yourself up.
'People' meant well, but knew nothing.
Patrick moved up the stairs, feeling the icy breath of nothing-there on his neck, as everything behind him faded away in a gray mist with the shifting of his eyes. Gravity dragged him one step at a time, up and up; forcing heavy feet closer.
Grief and guilt of something not yet remembered licked at his senses, casting the looming door at the stairs' end into sharp relief with rising terror. He had done something, thoughtless, like ripping out a butterfly's wings, but there was no childlike innocence left in him.
The door swung inwards to reveal a smile painted in blood red and below -
XXX
When Walter found him ten minutes later, the dream had already faded, leaving Patrick feeling composed and in control again.
Their eyes met in the dark reflection of the window pane, and Walter's lips brushed the nape of Patrick's neck, making him shiver and laugh and think of things besides sleep.
“Come back to bed, Patrick.”
“Yes.”
XXX
Patrick woke up tangled in fine silk and Walter's arms, wrapped securely around him. He closed his eyes to shut out the brightness of summer, stealing another moment for himself before they had to get up.
Shadows are things that will pass; Patrick knew that now.
The End
[Bide your time and hold out hope. ~ The Count of Monte Cristo]