IMPORTANT: You must listen to this song before reading this fic: youtube . com /watch?v=dGESwIFmOTA (without the spaces).
Disclaimer: I do not own The Mentalist or anything there within, nor the song In My Veins. All credit to the respective owners.
A/N: The italic (song) parts are where they are ON PURPOSE. There's a section of song before each section of writing, and it's there for a reason. You really don't have to figure it out if you don't want to, but it's a poetic aspect I'm throwing in just for kicks and giggles. Also, if you wanna go ULTRA deep, the song could be from Lisbon to Jane perspective, or it could be RED JOHN to Jane (yes, in a creepy way), in which case it renders it's relation to the story less valid. I don't know, that's just to get you all thinking. Now with no further adieu, enjoy.
Nothing goes as planned
Everything will break
People say goodbye
In their own special way.
Oh all that you rely on
And all that you can fake
Will leave you in the morning
But find you in the day.
"Why are you doing this, Jane?" Lisbon asked, watching him pack up the little amount of belongings he had in her office and at his desk.
"What else should I do? It's over. Red John is dead. What reason do I have to stay?" He asked, shoving a file folder into a brown packing box, with a little excess force.
"I don't know," She replied, fed up, "To solve murders? Where are you going to go, anyway?"
"I don't know, and it doesn't matter," As though in a definitive gesture, he hurled his cell phone into the trash can.
Lisbon ran a hand through her hair and yelled, "I'm sorry, Jane! What was I supposed to do?"
He paused, gripping the edge of his desk so hard his knuckles began turning white. Then he drew in a breath and said, fighting to keep his voice level, "We had a plan, Lisbon. I trusted you to follow it.I trusted you."
"Jane, if I hadn't called for backup, he would have killed you. What is it that didn't happen right, anyway? Isn't this what you wanted? To kill Red John? Well, you got your wish, and you don't even have to go to jail for it!"
He shook his head and continued packing, "You don't get it, Teresa," He laughed, "But then again, you wouldn't."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He didn't reply, just continued cleaning out his desk.
"You know what, screw you!" She spat at him, and with that she turned on her heel and went back into her office. After she was gone, Jane's packing got considerably slower. The room was entirely empty, because it was late enough without everything that had gone on earlier that day. It wasn't everyday that you caught a notoriously elusive serial killer, and Wainwright had let everyone go home early.
Lisbon, however, had stayed, claiming she needed to work on the paperwork surrounding Red John, though Jane knew she was just worried about him. It was true enough that she didn't understand why he was so upset, but it was far more honest to say that he himself didn't understand.
Everything will change
Nothing stays the same
And nobody here's perfect
Oh but everyone's to blame.
All that you rely on
And all that you can save
Will leave you in the morning
And find you in the day.
With a sigh, he sealed the box and set it next to the bottom of the stairs, following them up one last time, entering the attic to pack his life up. Maybe he was just searching for the reason he was upset, and Lisbon was easy to blame. She'd called in backup, and that hadn't been part of the plan. And then Red John had pulled a gun on her, and Jane had shot him. Just like that. Just like he hadn't been the driving force of the past nine years of his life. Perhaps that was what upset him the most, that as Red John had fallen, he felt nothing. No anger, no fear, no pain, no loss, no satisfaction.
He liked to blame it on Lisbon for ruining the plan, putting herself in danger, causing him to have to make such a hasty decision. It had been to save Lisbon, not out of revenge. He liked to think that was why is brought him no satisfaction.
And then, because he'd killed Red John to save her, there was no punishment. No repercussions. Red John and everything he did, would become just another file. That fast. Things would go on as though nothing had happened, but something had. This was supposed to have been the biggest moment he would ever experience, and it had been nothing. Jane had been the cause of his own family's death and he'd get away scotch free.
He entered the attic and looked around it as it was. Is was so familiar, so safe. But it wasn't supposed to. It was supposed to feel different, he was supposed to feel different. Feel something. This was supposed to let him move on, to turn his life around. He sat down on the cot with a cry of anger, resting his heads on his hands. Why hadn't it stopped? Why hadn't it gotten better? Wasn't killing Red John supposed to fix him? Why was he still broken?
Everything is dark
It's more that you can take
But you catch a glimpse of sunlight
Shining, shining down on your face.
He sat for several minutes, unsure whether he was crying or not. But finally, he lifted himself up and began tossing his belongings willy-nilly into the boxes he'd brought up earlier. He cleaned out his file boxes, his cot, under the bed. He went through his desk, clearing out old papers and knickknacks and wayward files.
Some of the things he didn't know he'd even had. An old Seventeen magazine, a copy of Body Double, an archaic, broken cell phone, a Pillow Pet. Nonetheless, he packed up every single thing, useless or not. After he was done, he gave the desk a once-over, and found that he had missed a manila folder he'd shoved into the bottom of one drawer. He pulled it out, and curiosity pushed him to peek inside. It turned out to be the photographs he's taken during a case the year before. He'd won the camera in a bet with Rigsby, but had later accidentally dropped it into a coin fountain. The camera, being digital, was effectively ruined, but Jane had managed to convince a friend from CSU to pull the pictures off for him.
He thumbed through them. Most were unimportant angles of the crime scene and various other case-related locations, taken mainly at inconvenient times, to annoy Lisbon. There were a few of Lisbon posed grumpily in front of various "landmarks", which ranged from old statues to a bus stop sign. There was one of Cho in the driver's seat, reading during a stake-out, and one of a happy-go-lucky Van Pelt in front of the very fountain where Jane had dropped the camera. He smiled at the memory and flipped to the last photograph.
He remembered this one.
It was a shot of Lisbon, sitting at her desk. She was leaning patiently over her work, eyebrows knit ever-so-slightly, hair laying softly over her cheek. She hadn't noticed him take the picture, because she had been so engrossed in her work, and for once, he'd resolved not to bother her. He'd watched her work for a while, but her peaceful presence had eventually lulled him to sleep, in fact, the first real sleep he'd gotten in several days.
Oh, you're in my veins
And I cannot get you out
Oh, you're all I taste
At night inside of my mouth
Oh, you run away
Cause I am not what you found
Oh, you're in my veins
And I cannot get you out.
Quietly, he stowed the photographs back in the desk, replaced all the necessary things he'd taken out, and stood back up, taking a deep breath.
Red John's death wasn't ever going to fix anything. It hadn't brought him closure, like he had thought it would. It hadn't lead to his punishment or end, like he had hoped it might. In truth, it hadn't done anything, and it never really could have. He was the one that had to make the final call. He slipped out of the attic and back downstairs, pausing outside Lisbon's office. He pushed the on the door gently and entered.
Lisbon didn't look up from her desk, but said irritatedly, "What do you want, Jane?"
"I'm not going to leave," He said, closing the door but not sitting down.
She looked up at him in surprise, "What?"
"Uhm, yeah," He said.
She stared at him for a second, and then kept writing. She spoke through clenched teeth, "Maybe you're not welcome here, anymore."
"Then I would be sad," He replied, still not moving.
She slammed the pen down and stood up suddenly, "You don't just get to go flinging yourself in random directions, Jane! There are other people to consider! People who care about you and don't like being jerked around!" She stepped around the desk, standing on the other side, facing him directly.
"I know, Lisbon," He said calmly, "I'm sorry."
"Oh, you're "sorry"," She said hysterically, "That fixes everything."
"I love you," He said, still not moving from his place by the door.
She faltered, "What?"
He didn't respond.
"Jane, what the hell do you mean?" She said, now panicking a little.
"I love you," He repeated, "And I know that I don't deserve you, not by any leap of the the imagination, but I just... I thought you should know. And I hope that maybe someday I'll be good enough for you."
She just stared at him, so he continued.
"You deserve someone great, and kind, and someone who will give you everything that you want. Not someone broken like me."
She regained her composure and tilted her head sadly at him, "We're all broken, Jane," She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her neck, but she didn't dare to kiss him. He closed the gap himself, sealing their lips together, for what could have been a second or a decade.
She breathed softly, "That doesn't mean I love you any less."
And with that, the present seemed to melt away.
And I cannot get you out
No, I cannot get you...
The end was incredibly sappy and fluffy and cheesy, I know. I've been writing for five hours straight, and I really need to get some actual work done. Cut me some slack.
Please tell me what you think of it! All feedback is appreciated and everything constructive will by taken into account.
Un mil gracias!