Mentalist Fanfic: Yet (2/2)
Title: Yet
Rating: T
Warnings: Violence and subtle sexual situations
Disclaimer: I definitely do not own The Mentalist. I'm quite satisfied with the job Bruno Heller is doing this season, so I wouldn't want to anyway.
Summary: "Yet... if he is truly concerned, why doesn't he just tell her? Explain away her fears? Soothe her worries out of existence with his words? Ease her battered conscience and relieve his own?"
Author's Note: Part two of what was originally a one-shot. Essentially the same story as part one, but from Jane's POV - again, this occurs directly during/after 2x19 in my mind. Also written as an entry for the Jello-Forever November Challenge. Thanks to the awezing sirenofodysseus for the wonderful beta job!
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She doesn't understand why.
Yet...
But that's the problem. That simple word haunts his thoughts, taunting him with the very real possibility that it may never come to fruition. That she may never understand, and he can't blame her. After all, what does he ever do but cause her more trouble?
Yet...
If he is truly concerned, why doesn't he just tell her? Explain away her fears? Soothe her worries out of existence with his words? Ease her battered conscience, and relieve his own?
Yet...
He knows he never will. He's not sure he can even explain his own reckless actions to himself, let alone to her. He knows she deserves to be treated better. He can see the hurt in her eyes as he continues to let her down, and it's slowly killing him on the inside.
Yet...
He can't seem to stop; the lies, the deception-they come naturally, the perfect cover for the pain he really feels. He's been warned that her job, her future, her whole life, is at stake due to his actions, a suspension no longer the largest of her concerns. She comes to him on more than one occasion, pleading with him to proceed cautiously and listen to reason. The pain in her eyes only serves as a reminder of his own strife, and he sees that often enough in the form of a crimson smile on his bedroom wall. He refuses to break, easily slipping on an emotional mask with a charming smile and assurances that everything will work out, brushing aside her worries as empty threats to be disregarded.
Yet...
For once, it appears as though he was wrong. It is entirely his fault that she has lost her beloved and hard-earned position with the bureau, and he can see that she doesn't believe his heartfelt apologies. He has let her down once again, adding just another brick to the wall around her heart. He can feel his own defenses beginning to crumble as she exits the building for the last time, offering him a blameless goodbye as a silent tear marks its path along her cheek.
Yet...
He doesn't run after her. He simply stands there, completely dumbfounded. He had been so sure that he was right, apparently thinking himself above the human tendency to err. He's even deceived himself this time around and, no amount of defending her or insisting on her innocence could sway the final decision, and now she's gone. He might never see her again; he doesn't deserve to see her again, not after the way he treated her.
Yet…
He had only ever desired to keep her safe, and that included keeping her safe from himself- not that his motives were entirely selfless. No, he certainly had kept himself in mind as well. As long as he continued to keep her at arm's length, he could pretend that he was perfectly fine, shoving the pain inside while fighting off the demons by helping to put others' to rest.
Yet...
He had never stopped to consider that she had some of her own demons to face. He wrestles with his thoughts over the next month, closing himself off from the rest of the team and barely even acknowledging the existence of the new boss (no one can replace his Lisbon, so why bother?). He's still there to close cases, but it's not the same without her; no witty banter to look forward to and no adorable pout to try to coax out of hiding. Sometimes, he wonders why he shows up to work at all.
Yet...
He quickly remembers why he was there in the first place, when the unthinkable happens: Red John makes a mistake, and he is lucky enough to be the only one to notice; the break he's been waiting for, dreaming of for the past decade is finally right in front of his face, and he wastes no time in seizing the opportunity. He finds it delightfully easy to trick Van Pelt into digging up some information for him, and revenge is so close that he can almost taste it.
Yet...
It takes another week before he's able to slip away completely unnoticed, and his body hums with adrenaline and anticipation as he nears his destination. It's obvious from the look of surprise on Red John's face that this visit was wholly unexpected, but the serial killer only smiles when he feels the silver blade pressed against his neck. Jane relishes this moment, and he draws it out as long as possible, slowly gliding the blade across Red John's throat before his emotions catch up with him; all of the anger and hurt he's held back over the years are unleashed as he slashes haphazardly at the cackling man in front of him, slicing skin and marring flesh until all that is left is an undistinguishable heap of flesh and blood. He stands there; clothes splattered with crimson, hair sticky with blood, every breath labored and sporadic. He waits expectantly to feel the sense of fulfillment he so deeply craves.
Yet...
It never comes. He feels desolate, guilty, and disgusted. Relief in revenge was a lie all along. He barely registers his own movements as the knife clatters to the floor. His feet move toward the door and on to his car of their own accord; he drives and drives and drives, unsure of where exactly he is going or if he's even going anywhere at all.
Yet...
He ends up outside of Lisbon's apartment; walks to her door, knocks and then, waits. If she's surprised to see him like this, she doesn't show it. She doesn't utter a single sound as she ushers him into her shower. He lets the scalding water run over him, willing it to wash away more than just the blood caked on his skin. He stands there until the water runs cold, barely drying off before stepping into the clothes she put out for him. He collapses onto the couch, a single tear breaking the surface as she sits beside him and strokes his back. The soft touch triggers his breakdown, and he's not sure how much time passes while he desperately clings to her and sobs, mumbling incoherent apologies into her ear, running his fingers through her hair. He begins to gently press his lips to her skin, once again using her as a means to deflect from his true emotions. Hesitant kisses turn passionate, and he needs more. Lips connect, clothes fly, limbs entangle. He drowns the hurt in her touch, convinces himself of the lie that this will make everything better.
Yet...
He finds that this time, the pain is the only truth he'll ever know.
THE END