FIC: This Too Shall Pass (1/1); The Mentalist.
Title: This Too Shall Pass
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: M
Pairing(s): Van Pelt/Jane, Van Pelt/O’Laughlin
Summary: “Whatever we’re feeling now will eventually fade away, ergo, this too shall pass.” J/VP. Post S3.
Warnings: Self-harm, character death, sexual themes.
Notes: AU season 3 finale; also used to fill h/c bingo prompt: self-harm, as I am still working on my card.
[the au details]
O'Laughlin dies, Timothy Carter is actually Red John and Lisbon doesn't survive her gunshot.
Almost reluctantly, Patrick Jane rapped his knuckles on Grace Van Pelt’s apartment door and waited. He could hear hurried movements behind the peeling white door, labeled with the rusted number 333, while he smoothed down his black vest and tried to muster up enough strength to offer a genuine smile. However, as the door slowly opened and Grace Van Pelt stood before him with her bloodshot eyes, all of his strength faded, his smile instantly deflated and his words failed him.
Aside from her pale flesh and lank red hair, the only other color about her was black. Black heels, black calf-length dress, black shawl and black hair tie. He didn’t need to ask her where she was going or what she was doing in such dreary colors, as he already knew; she was choosing an outfit, fit for a funeral.
“Jane?” Grace asked, quietly. “What are you doing here?” He watched her cross her arms against her chest and wince slightly, as if the action pained her. Jane said nothing, simply glancing beyond her to eye her apartment interior. The living room of her apartment was empty, aside from the glimmering of glass, which littered the hardwood floor. Grace shifted again, blocking his view and he offered her a smile.
“I was in the neighborhood.” The lie rolled of his tongue quite easily. “I thought I would come and see how you’re doing; it’s been awhile.” He waited for her to roll her eyes or offer some half-hearted rebuke to his comment, but nothing came. “I also thought I’d trouble you for a cup of tea, if you don’t mind.”
nbsp; The brief flash of panic in her brown eyes told him everything he needed to know. Grace was far from all right; and if the shattered shards of glass in her living room floor indicated anything, Jane knew he needed to approach the subjects of Craig O’Laughlin, Red John and Teresa Lisbon carefully. “I have no tea here, Jane. Please, go home.” He watched her turn and before the door could slam shut in his face, he caught it with his foot, made his way inside and shut the door behind him. “I told you to go home, Jane.”
nbsp; “When have I ever listened, Grace?” Jane asked her, as he stepped into her living room and stood behind her. Grace stilled and he glanced around the interior of her apartment; shattered glass picture frames baring smiling people, dents in the light lilac-colored walls, lopsided books within her oak bookcases, and a foot-sized hole through her television screen, which had toppled off its stand and into the floor. “Redecorating?”
nbsp; “Shut up, Jane.” Grace muttered and he smiled, before he took another gander around her small apartment. The kitchen was dark, flimsy blinds covered her windows and the door to her bedroom was bolted shut, as if she were trying to hide something. Without permission, he took off in the direction of her bedroom door. “Jane! No!”
He heeded her words briefly, before he opened her door and stepped inside her lone bedroom. The yellow light from Grace’s bathroom illuminated the level of “redecorating” that the young woman had tried; her single white window curtain hung drawn and tattered, shards of glass littered the floor and her “bed” was nothing more than a few blankets and an old t-shirt that was stained with red. His eyes automatically went to the white wall above her bed, almost expecting to see a faded symbol drawn in blood, but it was bare. “You have no permission being in here!” Jane ignored her, as he started toward her bathroom, when he felt her hand on his shoulder. “Please, don’t.”
nbsp; Jane turned to face Grace. “What don’t you want me to see, Grace?” He watched her bite her bottom lip and he glanced down at her cradled arm, a frown on his face. “If you’re worried that I’ll report this to the CBI, I won’t. You have absolutely nothing to fear, I promise.” Jane could see the hesitation in her expression and he gingerly brushed his fingers against her favored arm with a smile. “I think your mental health is the least of their concerns right now, Grace.” Grace remained silent, as he stepped past her and stepped into her well-lit bathroom, only to find his reflected image disfigured and her white sink, discolored with fresh droplets of red.
nbsp; “I just wanted to feel again.” Grace softly said, as he turned to face her. Jane watched her shrug off her black shawl with a brief flinch, before he allowed his eyes to settle on a white bandage tinged with pink that wrapped around her right upper arm. “Craig is gone. Boss…she’s…” Jane tenderly swallowed. “I needed to know that guilt wasn’t my only option, Patrick.”
nbsp; “And?” Grace said nothing and although he was curious, he didn’t push any further. Instead, he stepped back into her bathroom and hooked his fingers around her first-aid kit’s handle, before he returned to her with a small smile. He maneuvered them both into the floor, careful not to sit on any of the glass shards. “I’m going to take your bandage off, Grace.” She made no movement, as he removed the bandage around her upper arm and stared at the raw and crisscrossed flesh. “You’re going to be left with...”
nbsp; “Scars.” Grace finished, meekly and Jane nodded. “I know.” He glanced down at her first-aid kit and collected a few antiseptic wipes, which he tore open with ease and dragged them against each of her injuries. Grace remained quiet, until after he had finished redressing her wound. “Thank you.” Her head met his shoulder and he smiled gently, as he let her rest against him. “How are you doing?”
nbsp;
nbsp; He shook her head, a small smile on his lips. “I’m here about you, Grace. We’re not here about me.” Jane had focused purely on his own issues for the past eight years and his selfishness (added with his need for revenge) had gotten one of his best friends killed, and another one of his friends emotionally wounded.
nbsp; “Jane.” Grace said, slowly. “How are you doing?” He opened his mouth to lie to her, when she continued to speak. “And don’t you lie to me. We both know you weren’t just in the neighborhood.” She brought her head from his shoulder to stare at him with her brown eyes. “We’re friends, aren’t we?” The small note of distraught in her voice was enough to make him backtrack.
nbsp; “Of course, we’re friends.” Jane reassured her with a small smile. Grace eyed him. “You don’t believe me?”
nbsp; She shook her head. “I’m responsible for…”
nbsp; “You aren’t.” Jane interrupted, hastily. “You aren’t responsible for his death. You aren’t responsible for hers.” The words, I am, remained unspoken between them both. If he hadn’t dragged them all into his little hunt for Red John, Lisbon would still be alive and Red John would have never needed to use O’Laughlin to get closer to Grace.
nbsp; “I’m sorry.”
nbsp; “You have nothing to apologize for.” He felt her shift against him again, before her head found his shoulder again.
nbsp; In silence, they both sat.
(Jane felt a sense of hopelessness settle in. He wondered if Sophie Miller had felt the same way after he had blamed himself for his family’s death.
If she had, he was truly sorry for his words and actions.)
nbsp; Somehow, Jane’s hand had found Grace’s during Craig O’Laughlin’s funeral. Dressed in the same black attire from days prior, Grace stood next to him in the shadows of the church pews and listened to eulogies for a good man gone wrong. He didn’t need to glance at her to know that she felt as if she didn’t belong amongst the mourners, as if Craig’s “love” for her had gotten him killed.
nbsp; Mrs. Claire O’Laughlin, a graying brown-haired woman in her late sixties, tearfully prattled on about how her only son was “gone too soon” and how she was going to figure out who had killed her baby and bring them to justice. Jane’s fingers brushed lightly down Grace’s bare wrist, which hung limply at her side, reminding her he was still there.
nbsp; “Do you want to leave, Grace?” Jane softly asked her. He watched her shake her head and he frowned. If anybody else (but him) had taken Grace to Craig’s funeral, she would have left hours ago; regardless of whatever her wishes were. But he understood closure and he understood her need to say goodbye. Craig had been a part of her life that she couldn’t just sweep under the rug, no matter how many times she probably wished that she could or no matter how many times the CBI had told her that she should have seen it coming.
nbsp; Nobody had known about Dumar Hardy. Nobody had known about Rebecca. Nobody had known about Todd Johnson. So, why was Craig O’Laughlin any different? Sure, Grace was naïve-but almost everybody was. If he hadn’t seen it, how in the world was Grace supposed to have? He was supposed to be the “leading expert” on Red John and yet, he couldn’t even pick out the right mole in the CBI?
nbsp; Blood, according to the CBI and the FBI, was on both of their hands. Grace had killed Craig O’Laughlin, and he had “killed” Teresa Lisbon; it didn’t matter if he had pulled the trigger or not, as Gale Bertram was looking for someone to blame. It was only a matter of time, Jane knew, before both law enforcement agencies played their hands; and he wasn’t about to wait for the other shoe to drop.
nbsp; Of course, he hadn’t waited for the other shoe to drop after Red John had killed his wife or child either. He had driven himself insane in his search for Red John, before being forced into a psychiatric hospital to regain his footing again. Grace had no idea about the scars on his wrists, but because of Red John, they were now one in the same. He just wondered how long it would be before Grace would find herself in a psychiatric hospital, especially if she continued to burden herself with the guilt of two deaths.
nbsp; “I’m ready to leave.” Grace muttered, eventually. Jane didn’t challenge her decision of not wanting to gaze upon her ex-fiancé one last time. He merely took her hand in his and stepped outside the church doors, breathing in the lingering smell of rain, sweat and coppery blood.
nbsp; Grace’s off-handed comment about seven years of bad luck makes him laugh, as they stand side-by-side at Lisbon’s funeral. Rigsby eyes them wearily, but Jane doesn’t care. It’s the first time Grace has really spoken since Craig’s funeral and he can’t be more amused that her first words in almost two weeks-a superstition, no less-are the last words she’ll say to her boss. If Lisbon could have heard Grace’s comment, he knew she’d be rolling her eyes at how Jane-like it was.
nbsp; He also knew that if Lisbon saw their entwined hands, she’d be raising her eyebrows and making some adamant comment about how co-workers weren’t supposed to date. But they weren’t dating; they were just good friends, who needed one another. With Grace suspended from the SCU (pending a long investigation into her actions) and her apartment in shambles, he hadn’t hesitated in offering his apartment to her. Grace had said yes and because neither of them had wanted to sleep on the floor, they slept in his bed together.
nbsp; His presence cut down on her nightmares. Her presence cut down on his insomnia. They could both sleep for eight to ten hours a night; something, he hadn’t been able to do since the death of his family and something; she hadn’t been able to do since before the deaths of Craig and Lisbon. And to him, it didn’t matter if her legs were tangled with his. And to her, it didn’t matter if his arms were wrapped around her waist. It only mattered that they were both still alive.
nbsp; “I wish he’d stop staring at us.” Grace muttered to him, as she finished off his plate of food. “It’s unnerving.”
nbsp; “Just ignore him.” Jane said. “He’ll eventually find something better to gaze at.” He watched Grace glance back down at her plate, before he turned his head to stare at Rigsby, who had his dark eyebrows furrowed in their direction. Jane merely smiled and waved his free hand. Rigsby made no notion of returning the kind gesture. “Or I hope he will, anyway. We’re just sitting here, enjoying the weather.”
nbsp; “Lisbon would have liked this.” Grace replied, quietly and Jane shrugged. He didn’t think anybody would have liked their own funeral, even if the weather were finally decent. “How are you doing?”
nbsp; Jane chuckled. “And we’re back to this same question, are we?” Grace sheepishly smiled and he found himself amused by her gumption. “Whatever I’m feeling will pass. I’ve gone through enough funerals to know the old saying…”
nbsp; “This too shall pass?” Grace asked, as Jane nodded. “I’m surprised you know the saying, to be honest.” He watched her sip at her tea, another Jane-like habit, which made him even more amused.
nbsp; “Angela enjoyed proverbs.” Jane explained, stealing something off her plate. “I generally dislike them, but Charlotte seemed to enjoy it.” He wistfully smiled at the memory of Angela reading this too shall pass to Charlotte, who had parroted the phrase around the house for days. “Besides that, this too shall pass is a common enough saying; it means all material conditions, positive or negative, are temporary.” He paused to sip at his tea. “Whatever we’re feeling now will eventually fade away, ergo, this too shall pass.”
nbsp; “I’d like to think there’s a little bit more optimism to it.” Grace argued and he smiled.
nbsp; “Suit yourself.” Jane answered, still smiling. “But don’t pull out the Bible and quote to me in scripture. I still haven’t forgiven you for your Kingdom of God crack years ago.” He winked in her direction and she smiled.
nbsp; “This too shall pass.”
nbsp; Jane nodded. “Yes, it will. Whatever you’re feeling now will pass. Whatever I’m feeling now will pass.”
nbsp; “And us?”
nbsp; Jane squeezed her hand. “Never.” After all of the wrongs in his life, the bright smile on Grace’s face told him that he had finally done something right.
nbsp; “Guilt wasn’t my only option.” Grace quietly stated, one evening, as she slipped under their shared covers and Jane wrapped his arms around her. “I could have felt anger. I could have felt sadness. I could have felt pity. Instead, I chose to feel…”
nbsp; “Guilty.” Jane finished for her, he watched Grace nod. “You could have also felt glee, devious, aroused…” He waited for her to turn around in his arms, which she did, to give him a grimace. “But you didn’t. You felt a natural human emotion and you tried to cope with it.” He paused to smile at her. “Given, your coping method isn’t something I’d recommend to anyone, but hey; it worked.”
nbsp; Grace’s brown eyes went to his wrist with a frown. “What did you feel?”
nbsp; “At the death of my wife and child?” Grace nodded again and his mouth went dry. “Devastated, angry, pained, hateful; the list of my conjecture emotions goes on and on.” Grace said nothing. “I wanted to find Red John and kill him, and only afterwards, would I have killed myself.”
nbsp; “You don’t plan anything halfway, do you?” Grace’s comment brought a smile to his lips and she stared at him. “It really isn’t funny. Suicide isn’t…”
nbsp; “Save the scripture, dear.” Jane reminded her, lightly. Grace continued to stare. “I never said I was proud of my actions, but they made me feel again. It also brought a little bit of color back into my world, especially after seeing only white for so long.” He kept smiling, even at one of his darkest memories. “After that, Dr. Miller brought me finger paints; something about them being less detrimental to my health.”
nbsp; Grace chuckled lightly. “I suppose you painted the white walls red?”
nbsp; “You’re horrible.”
nbsp; “I spend too much time around you.” Jane couldn’t help but agree with her statement, as he tightened his hold on her. “I’ve been thinking about going to the cemetery tomorrow. I want to bring flowers.” Jane bit his tongue, as he didn’t want to upset Grace. No matter how nice the sediment of decorating graves with live things seemed, he doubted the dead really cared. “I wanted to know if you’d come with me. It’ll be a year tomorrow.”
nbsp; “I didn’t forget, Grace.” Jane replied, softly. “I just hoped you wouldn’t decorate their graves tomorrow.” Grace said nothing again. “It has nothing to do with my being against this silly tradition. I just know others might have this idea in mind, and I don’t want you being around Mrs. O’Laughlin.” He watched Grace frown.
nbsp; “Maybe…”
nbsp; “Grace, no. Mrs. O’Laughlin is not going to have a change of heart; she’s a bully and an alcoholic.” Jane remembered Cho’s call to him, after Mrs. O’Laughlin had been escorted off the CBI premises by Rigsby. It had taken the three of them to coax Grace from the men’s bathroom, because of the callous words that Mrs. O’Laughlin had screamed at her. “Her son’s headstone might become a weapon if she touches you.” He watched Grace roll her eyes.
nbsp; “You wouldn’t do anything. You’d have Cho or Rigsby push her.”
nbsp; “Self-defense.” Jane argued, still smiling. “If Lisbon was here, I think she’d approve of my idea.”
nbsp; “Right after she cussed you out and threatened you with her gun, of course.”
nbsp; “Of course.” Jane parroted and Grace sighed, a frown marring her features. He stared at her a little longer, trying to figure out his best course of action. “I’ll come with you tomorrow, on two conditions.”
nbsp; “Okay?”
nbsp; Jane eyed her. “One, I’m not laying down flowers. I don’t care if Cho or Rigsby are doing it. I refuse, because it goes against my personal morals.” He heard Grace snort. “What?”
nbsp; “You? Morals?” It was his turn to roll his eyes. “I wasn’t asking you to help me lay down the flowers; I was simply wondering if you’d go.”
nbsp; “And, as I recall, I believe I said I would go on two conditions.”
nbsp; “Well, I’m still waiting for you to tell me.”
nbsp; “The second condition,” Jane continued, “is that you don’t quote bible scripture where I can hear it.”
nbsp; “Does it count if I write them down?” Jane stared at her, and she burst out laughing. “Sorry, sorry! I couldn’t help it; you walked yourself into that one.” Jane chuckled along with her.
nbsp; “You’re incorrigible.”
nbsp; Grace smirked, as she inched her mouth closer to his. “So, I hear.” Before he could say anything in response, she had her lips pressed against his. He allowed her lips to capture his, as he slid his tongue in between her parted lips and circled her mouth; his tongue briefly brushed across hers, while her soft hands ran down his bare chest.
nbsp; She broke the kiss with a happy sigh and he stripped her; her white-lace nightgown hit the floor and he stared at her body, a wide smile on his face. “I’m surprised, Ms. Van Pelt.” He stared at her black lingerie, waiting to hook his fingers into the elastic and tug it from her body.
nbsp; “You shouldn’t be too surprised, Mr. Jane.” Grace played along, as she pressed her lips against his neck. His hands palmed her breasts, before he chose to tease both nipples with his fingers until they hardened. “You’re a tease.” Grace whispered, breathlessly. He said nothing, as he lowered his mouth to her breast and teased her nipple between his teeth. Grace, he heard, moaned. Jane pressed his tongue to her other nipple and whisked it with his tongue, causing the red haired woman to moan again.
nbsp; Jane, eventually, moved from her breasts to hook his fingers into her black lingerie, drag the tantalizing piece of clothing down her long legs, and place his lips between her soft thighs. His tongue entered her, licking at her clit, as her body writhed in pleasure; her small little moans enticed him enough to increase his steady rhythm, as he allowed his entire mouth to taste her. Jane felt her hands in his hair and he continued his rhythm again, before he pulled his lips from her moist center.
nbsp; He turned to his bedside table and grabbed a condom, slipping in on over his erected penis, before he mounted himself atop of her. Grace said nothing, as he eased himself just barely into her; she matched his fluid movements, until he felt her body arch to take him further. In compliance, he buried himself deep inside of her and felt her sharp nails scraping against his back. Jane heard her deep, shuddering gasps, as he increased the tempo between the both of them and eventually, he climaxed within her. With her name still on his lips and in the air, he almost didn’t hear her crying scream, moments later.
nbsp; With a lazy smile, he pulled himself from her and collapsed atop their shared bed. Grace merely turned toward him and smiled, biting her bottom lip. “Yes?”
nbsp; “This too shall pass?” She repeated her question from a year back to him, before he smiled and wrapped his arm around her bare torso.
nbsp; “I don’t think so.” Jane replied, grinning. “I’ve grown quite found of you, Miss Van Pelt. It would be a shame to delude ourselves into thinking this too shall pass.” He watched Grace roll her eyes.
nbsp; “Good.”
nbsp; “Unless…” He wasn’t allowed to finish his sentence, as her lips found his again.