Disclaimer: I want, I want, I want, I want…but I shall never have. The Mentalist belongs to the possibly satanic Bruno Heller.
Author's Note: I noticed today that I have made a grievous oversight in all of my fics to date: where the hell is Jane's tea?! Well, gentle readers, I have found it, and I present it to you now.
People underestimate the value of a good cup of tea.
They're so caught up in trendy coffee shops on every corner; they're infatuated with giving orders to underpaid baristas for what they think is uniqueness in a cup.
They have no appreciation for the fact that every tealeaf is different, that there can be an infinite number of complex flavors exploding on the tongue without the addition of cream and sugar.
They don't know how soothing it is to set water to boil and then steep their tea to perfection. Instead, they rely on some stranger to get it right every time, but then they detonate in over privileged anger when the taste isn't what they expected.
I care about my tea.
I care about every cup I've ever made because each one is as unique as the leaves that went into creating it.
I wouldn't have pegged Lisbon to understand; I thought she loved her cookie-cutter coffee too much for that.
But then she asked me to make her a cup of tea.
I took extra care with her cup that day because I wanted the first cup I made her to be perfect; I wanted her to like it so much that she asked me for another and another.
I chose an extra bitter tea for her. I knew that she would appreciate the bite after the day we'd had.
The death of a child is never an easy thing, in fact, it's enough to drive a parent mad; but the murder of a child…it's unthinkably painful and cruel.
I knew Lisbon would take the loss to heart.
She'd blame herself for not being fast enough, even though she knew, almost better than anyone, that some people were just…wrong. Their wrongness would prevent their actions and motivations from coming to light until it was too late.
After such days, I needed what peace a cup of tea could offer.
I just hadn't thought that Lisbon would let herself indulge.
Lisbon never ceases to surprise me. I love that about her.
So, she came to me and asked, and so I made the most perfect cup of tea for her.
I watched with bated breath, my body tense with anticipation, as she brought the cup to her nose and smelled its warm fragrance before taking a small sip.
She lowered the cup, grasping it to her chest, letting it warm her.
"Thanks, Jane," she says, and she gives me the most heartbreaking smile before continuing, "I really needed this."
"Anytime, Lisbon. You know I would do anything for you."
She has no idea how true those words are, and part of me hopes she never will.
We stood in silence as she sipped her tea.
When she was done, she handed me her cup and gave me another smile. This time, her eyes were lighter, and her shoulders had lost some of their slump.
I hope that she won't wait for the next bad case to ask me again.
My hopes are answered sooner than I thought they would be.
"See you tomorrow, Jane. You'll make me another cup of tea?"
The smile that takes over my expression is probably blinding, "Of course, Lisbon! We'll try a new blend; one with strawberries, perhaps?"
That gets me one more smile before she turns the corner, leaving my sight.
Content with how the day had ended, if not fully at ease with the rest of it, I carefully washed Lisbon's cup and stored it next to mine.
Tomorrow will be a better day, but today had turned out alright.