FIC: Chasing Fault Lines; The Mentalist (1/1)
Title: Chasing Fault Lines
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.
Rating: T
Summary: If homesickness were the worst he could face, he would gladly accept the ultimate price.
Glancing down at his cheap burner phone, Patrick Jane resisted his urge to call the CBI. 555-1048 remained on the screen and with a tilt of his head; he downed the rest of his scotch in one setting. His eyes watered at the intense burning in his throat, as he lifted his hand and waved over another one. The bartender, a burly green-eyed fellow, eyed him in wayward sympathy before he set down another glass of scotch without a single word.
Once upon a time, Jane had hated alcohol; he loathed the sweet smell, the bitter taste, and the way it diminished his full mental capacity. However, alcohol had finally proved useful in quieting the thoughts within his head for the past two months. The bartender no longer tried to cut him off after six drinks, the single cabdriver nearby knew where he lived, and the hangovers only lasted three hours. In the Crimson Hat, drunkenness and the groping of scantily clad women was normal and Jane, undercover, was only trying to blend in when his hand (attached to his drunken body) had ghosted Lorelei Martin’s backside earlier in the week.
The continuous excuse of drinking just to blend in only extended so far, though. He had pulled the same drunken stunt with the CBI months ago by setting fire to the Red John files on the roof in a drunken haze, before sending a criminal into a coffin with a shovel. Back then, he had been trying to get closer to catching Red John (and I’m still trying to get closer to him, Jane bitterly thought with another swig of scotch) but for now, the amber-colored liquid was being used as an emotional tourniquet.
With the scotch still burning in his throat and a pull of the face, he cleared the number from his phone screen with a single finger. No matter how much he missed them and “home”, Jane knew he couldn’t call; contacting any of them, just for a brief moment of comfort, would ruin his entire undercover operation and getting closer to Red John would become impossible.
His stomach rolled slightly and instead of pushing the alcohol away, he merely took another sip and closed his eyes at the empty bar. Jane had tried to suggest his bouts of nausea away with deep breathing, but apparently, one couldn’t wish the symptoms of homesickness away.
Eyes open again and nausea averted, Jane stared deeply into his scotch. He had last seen his friends three months ago and yet, the pain of leaving them all never got easier. A million questions kept burning in the back of his brain: How were Rigsby and Ben doing? How was Cho doing after his breakup with Summer? How was Grace faring for the one-year anniversary of her fiancé’s death? Lastly, he inhaled sharply, how was Lisbon faring with his sudden disappearance?
If anyone had told him years ago that he would come to care about the individuals of the Serious Crimes Unit, he would have laughed in disbelief. Back then, Jane had only wanted Red John dead. Now though, he had people who he cared about (and who actually cared about him) other than just his need for revenge.
“Let me help you.”
He almost groaned. Had the binge drinking not been enough to take Teresa Lisbon’s last words to him away?
Jane downed his glass of scotch again, wishing he could undo his mistakes. He would only ever admit it to himself, but he knew he was in way over his head and he wished he had just accepted Lisbon’s offer to help him. The slender brunette woman had never judged him and where she wouldn’t or couldn’t go, the rest of the Serious Crimes Unit would.
They need to stay safe though, he reminded himself with the appearance of another scotch, Red John knows that I care and I can’t lose them either.
And whether anyone at the graveyard had realized it or not, the message Red John had Haley relay to him with her hand and mouth had been a warning. If he didn’t give up or back down, Red John would kill all of them.
Although people often called him a cold bastard, he refused to let his nightmares become a cold reality. None of them would ever believe him, but he had already lost enough sleep over his decision to leave them all without a single goodbye. However, he knew he couldn’t risk losing any more sleep over his fear of what Red John could do to them, especially if he came back.
For he, Patrick Jane, would gladly accept the continuing nausea, the burning of alcohol sliding down his throat, the effects of drugs within his system and the lingering emotions of depression to keep them all safe. If homesickness (if one could call what he was experiencing a form of homesickness) were the worst he could face, he would gladly accept the ultimate price.
After all, no one said being the “hero” and wanting revenge was easy.
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.
Rating: T
Summary: If homesickness were the worst he could face, he would gladly accept the ultimate price.
Glancing down at his cheap burner phone, Patrick Jane resisted his urge to call the CBI. 555-1048 remained on the screen and with a tilt of his head; he downed the rest of his scotch in one setting. His eyes watered at the intense burning in his throat, as he lifted his hand and waved over another one. The bartender, a burly green-eyed fellow, eyed him in wayward sympathy before he set down another glass of scotch without a single word.
Once upon a time, Jane had hated alcohol; he loathed the sweet smell, the bitter taste, and the way it diminished his full mental capacity. However, alcohol had finally proved useful in quieting the thoughts within his head for the past two months. The bartender no longer tried to cut him off after six drinks, the single cabdriver nearby knew where he lived, and the hangovers only lasted three hours. In the Crimson Hat, drunkenness and the groping of scantily clad women was normal and Jane, undercover, was only trying to blend in when his hand (attached to his drunken body) had ghosted Lorelei Martin’s backside earlier in the week.
The continuous excuse of drinking just to blend in only extended so far, though. He had pulled the same drunken stunt with the CBI months ago by setting fire to the Red John files on the roof in a drunken haze, before sending a criminal into a coffin with a shovel. Back then, he had been trying to get closer to catching Red John (and I’m still trying to get closer to him, Jane bitterly thought with another swig of scotch) but for now, the amber-colored liquid was being used as an emotional tourniquet.
With the scotch still burning in his throat and a pull of the face, he cleared the number from his phone screen with a single finger. No matter how much he missed them and “home”, Jane knew he couldn’t call; contacting any of them, just for a brief moment of comfort, would ruin his entire undercover operation and getting closer to Red John would become impossible.
His stomach rolled slightly and instead of pushing the alcohol away, he merely took another sip and closed his eyes at the empty bar. Jane had tried to suggest his bouts of nausea away with deep breathing, but apparently, one couldn’t wish the symptoms of homesickness away.
Eyes open again and nausea averted, Jane stared deeply into his scotch. He had last seen his friends three months ago and yet, the pain of leaving them all never got easier. A million questions kept burning in the back of his brain: How were Rigsby and Ben doing? How was Cho doing after his breakup with Summer? How was Grace faring for the one-year anniversary of her fiancé’s death? Lastly, he inhaled sharply, how was Lisbon faring with his sudden disappearance?
If anyone had told him years ago that he would come to care about the individuals of the Serious Crimes Unit, he would have laughed in disbelief. Back then, Jane had only wanted Red John dead. Now though, he had people who he cared about (and who actually cared about him) other than just his need for revenge.
“Let me help you.”
He almost groaned. Had the binge drinking not been enough to take Teresa Lisbon’s last words to him away?
Jane downed his glass of scotch again, wishing he could undo his mistakes. He would only ever admit it to himself, but he knew he was in way over his head and he wished he had just accepted Lisbon’s offer to help him. The slender brunette woman had never judged him and where she wouldn’t or couldn’t go, the rest of the Serious Crimes Unit would.
They need to stay safe though, he reminded himself with the appearance of another scotch, Red John knows that I care and I can’t lose them either.
And whether anyone at the graveyard had realized it or not, the message Red John had Haley relay to him with her hand and mouth had been a warning. If he didn’t give up or back down, Red John would kill all of them.
Although people often called him a cold bastard, he refused to let his nightmares become a cold reality. None of them would ever believe him, but he had already lost enough sleep over his decision to leave them all without a single goodbye. However, he knew he couldn’t risk losing any more sleep over his fear of what Red John could do to them, especially if he came back.
For he, Patrick Jane, would gladly accept the continuing nausea, the burning of alcohol sliding down his throat, the effects of drugs within his system and the lingering emotions of depression to keep them all safe. If homesickness (if one could call what he was experiencing a form of homesickness) were the worst he could face, he would gladly accept the ultimate price.
After all, no one said being the “hero” and wanting revenge was easy.