"He really needed, for some reason he couldn't even begin to explain, to hear her admit that she had slept with Mashburn. Without having to ask directly, of course. And he wouldn't lose a battle to her; he never had."
This story is my take on what might have gone through Jane's mind when he noticed Lisbon was hiding in Mashburn's room, and what he might have done after that. Hope you enjoy, share your thoughts with me!
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist, though I always ask Santa Claus to give it to me.
RED ENVY
Patrick Jane identified himself at the entrance of the Westminster-Haywood Hotel's parking lot. He said he was visiting a friend, then said the man's name, and the guard automatically smiled at him, probably remembering him as someone who drove a very expensive car and who gave large tips. Before letting him pass, though, the man mentioned that another visitor had just arrived, a woman, maybe Jane knew her, but he didn't remember her name. Her car was over there, though, and Jane didn't even need to approach to recognize the grey Chevrolet Traverse.
"Thank you so much," he smiled at the guard, and drove towards the car, surprised at how weird he suddenly felt.
He parked his car next to the grey SUV, and when he got out of his Citröen, he took a better look through the window. The pattern on the upholstery of the seats was exactly the same. The dashboard, the radio system, the steering wheel where he would watch her lay her tiny hands upon, day after day. But then, that was a very common car, it could belong to anybody and they could have chosen the same kind of accessories. Why was he making excuses? What if it was the car? Hadn't he encouraged her to do this? And then yes, he concluded it was the car; between the front seats lay her thermos, which she carried around with strong, hot coffee. He guessed Teresa Lisbon wouldn't be needing her thermos upstairs.
Jane walked out of the parking lot and into the main entrance of the hotel, which looked like a castle, feeling his brow furrowed and unable to un-furrow it. He approached the receptionist, who kindly smiled at him and asked him how she could help him.
"I'm here to see Mr. Walter Mashburn, please," he said, strangely unable to smile kindly back. "My name is Patrick Jane."
The young woman smiled again and took her phone off the hook to announce him. He wished she wouldn't do that, because he felt like surprising the lovebirds; he would enjoy seeing Lisbon's embarrassed face, going crimson red, and then forever mocking her about it, just to make her uncomfortable, until she regretted having considered the thought of visiting Mashburn in his hotel room. He shook his head. What was he thinking about? What was that going to be any good for? Hadn't he told the woman she should surrender to the billionaire's attempts, have some fun, do something else rather than working or staying home to watch old movies and eat ice cream?
The receptionist nodded, saying Mashburn would be waiting for him upstairs; he thanked her and walked towards the elevator, feeling glad she had announced him, because he would rather not see Lisbon there, it would be… awkward. He had taken note of the fact that she had left early, right after catching Yuri Bajoran, leaving to Rigsby the task of driving the criminal back to Sacramento and the closed-case paperwork for the next morning, which was something she never did. But then, he had told himself she was probably tired and eager to get home and find her ice cream and movies.
As he pushed the button and watched the elevator doors closing, he thought again about how weird it was to be feeling like this – and he couldn't even define what this was – when he had been the one to encourage her to go out with Mashburn, but then he realized he had never expected her to actually take his advice; he had expected her to blush, smile embarrassedly and then go home to ice cream and movies. But why did it make him feel so bad that she had come to Mashburn's hotel room?
The doors opened again and he walked out of the elevator, taking slow steps towards the room in question. He stopped at the door and found himself hesitating before knocking, which was weird. He imagined Lisbon standing right where he was now, and wondered if she had hesitated as well. If she had considered leaving. He just raised his hand, impatient with himself, and knocked. He wondered if Mashburn had kissed her when he had opened the door, and what exactly had been interrupted when the receptionist had called to announce him. He wished he had heard Mashburn's voice on the phone, to check if he was out of breath. The door opened.
"Patrick," Mashburn said, smiling widely, and Jane found himself relieved at the fact that he was fully dressed. "Come on in."
"Hello, Walter," he responded, not with his usual grin, making his way into the room.
He immediately took a look around, and even though there was nobody in there, that was just an entrance hall to the room, not the actual bedroom, which was probably where she would be. He tried to forget about that, but then he noticed a bottle of champagne inside an ice bucket, with two glasses next to it. He suddenly felt nauseated, and hated himself for it.
"So, everything ended just fine, huh," Mashburn was saying, walking towards him and turning to face him, sort of body-blocking him so he wouldn't go any further into the room. Jane found that somewhat irritating.
"Yes, just fine," he agreed, forcing a smile and thinking about the other meanings of everything ending just fine in Mashburn's head.
"So how did you know it was Yuri?" Mashburn looked really curious.
The case suddenly felt like it had happened years ago in Jane's mind; he found it difficult to remember what he was supposed to answer.
"I figured it was him when I went to his house and saw his toupees missing."
"Yuri's toupees?" Mashburn asked.
"Yes, in his bedroom," Jane explained, "he had five heads and only two toupees. Fine, he was wearing one. That leaves still two missing, and only one person would have, uh…" he took a step forward, realizing it was possible to see inside the bedroom through some sort of fabric between the spaces, and it was difficult to maintain his train of thought. "… such a need for…" Mashburn took a step to his right, signaling for him not to move, not to look. She was there. Why would he try to hide her from him? "… such a personal object," he finished, with a quiet chuckle, when all he could think about was that question.
"Yuri took them?" said Mashburn, ignoring what he knew was happening here.
"Yeah," Jane answered, still trying to look through the fabric; he could see the light of a lamp, and the faint outline of the bed. "Yeah, I guess you find a good rug, you, uh, get very connected to it." He wondered if she could hear his voice from where she was.
There was definitely something very weird between the two men at that moment. Jane decided he wanted to leave as fast as he could. He held out his hand for Mashburn to shake.
"Thank you for your help in catching him."
"Oh, not at all. It was fun."
"Hmm yeah," Jane said, touching his nose where Mashburn had punched him as part of the plan.
"Sorry," Mashburn said. "Though I still can't believe Marie wanted me dead."
Remembering Lisbon might be in the very next room, Jane figured it wouldn't be so hard to fathom someone wanting Mashburn dead. Where had that come from, though?
"You have a knack for picking them," he answered simply, remembering that lunatic model ex-girlfriend of Mashburn's who had tried to kill Lisbon.
"Well…" Mashburn said, looking away, and maybe he was going to say something, but Jane didn't really want to hear it.
"Almost forgot," he said, "your credit card." He returned him the card he had borrowed, which had been the reason why he had come here, anyway.
"Thank you."
Jane turned around, anxious to get the hell out of there, but then Mashburn called his name.
"Patrick, hang on. One question."
Jane turned around impatiently, trying to control his brow into not furrowing.
"Do you think Teresa believed it, that I was a killer?"
He looked away; why the hell didn't he ask her? Why ask him? And besides, hearing him call her by her first name unnerved him terribly.
"Yeah, she did," he answered, honestly, "for a minute there. But I wouldn't think anything of it," he added, pretending he didn't know she was already there.
He left, walking hurriedly down the hallway, and sighing in relief that it was over. By now, Mashburn was probably pouring champagne into those glasses and taking them into the bedroom. He wondered if she was also still fully dressed, then tried to shrug the thought away. That was none of his business anyway; Lisbon was only his boss, why would he care so much about who she slept with? The thought of her name and Mashburn's in the same sentence with sleep made him feel nauseated again. He wished the elevator moved faster.
It was a long drive from the hotel, in San Francisco, back to the CBI HQs, in Sacramento, and all Jane could think of, even though he would constantly try to push it away from his mind, was what Lisbon and Mashburn might be doing in that hotel suite. He thought about how he had never seen Lisbon interacting closely with anyone, and tried to imagine her with Mashburn, what kind of things they would talk about over champagne, how she would signal for him to initiate his approach, how she would kiss him back when he kissed her, how she would touch him, and let him touch her, how she would moan when he found the spots where she liked to be kissed. Stop! He had to stop! Why the hell couldn't he find something else to think about?
The one hour and a half on the road was spent thinking about that and trying not to think about that. He tried turning on the radio, but when he did, the song playing was "More Than Words," by Extreme, and he instantly remembered that he and Lisbon had danced to that song once, and for some reason he couldn't bear to listen to it. When he arrived, he went somewhere to buy some dinner which he took to his attic, in the CBI, and ate in silence, reading the Red John material he collected in order to take his mind off Lisbon and Mashburn.
As he went to sleep, though, his mind went back to the fancy castle-like hotel and what the two of them might be doing while he lay there, trying to get some sleep. They certainly weren't getting much either, but for very different reasons. The worst was when his mind started to wonder why he couldn't stop thinking about it, or why he felt bad knowing Lisbon was sleeping with another man at that same moment. Another man. Those thoughts would lead to conclusions he did not want to reach, so he struggled to avoid those questions in his mind. It took him a long while to fall asleep, which at least he did, probably due to the tiredness trying not to think about Lisbon had caused him.
When he woke up in the morning, he instantly remembered what he had been thinking about until he had fallen asleep, and remembered also that he would have to see Lisbon and he wouldn't be able to avoid noticing the small or big details in her demeanor indicating what had happened in that hotel room last night. That was going to be a long, insufferable day.
He went down the stairs and into the kitchen, verifying that he was still alone in the office. He made himself a cup of tea and walked to his couch, where he sat, drinking from his beverage. He watched as the others arrived, as noise took over silence, as they arrested Marie Bajoran, and Lisbon was a no-show. In all the years that Jane had worked in the CBI, there never had been a day when Lisbon had arrived late. And the worst part was that Jane knew the reason.
After Marie Bajoran had already been dealt with, Cho received a call about a new case, and Lisbon still hadn't arrived. Jane had only sat on his couch, ever since he had come down from the attic, waiting for her to show up. He noticed, not long afterwards, when Cho managed to reach her on her cell phone. Apparently, she gave him instructions, because he promptly stood up and took his jacket. Then he spoke to Van Pelt and Rigsby and they were all ready to follow. He turned in Jane's direction.
"Are you coming?"
"Nah," he said, "I'll just be here for a while, I'll catch you later. I'm not feeling so good." He took a hand to his abdomen, feigning a case of stomachache.
Cho just shrugged and left, following Rigsby and Van Pelt. Not long after that, the elevator doors opened and revealed Lisbon, walking fast towards her office, probably not expecting to meet anybody. Well, she was wrong about that, because Jane was suddenly very eager to confront her. He just put his tea – the third cup that morning – aside and stood up, pacing quickly on his way to his destination. She hadn't even closed the door.
"Hey, Lisbon," he said, impatiently.
She turned around, surprised, and he couldn't help but notice how good she looked, with a different light in her eyes, wearing a blouse that showed more of her cleavage than she would normally display. He could even see a little of her bra underneath it. He swallowed.
"Why aren't you on the field?" she asked.
"I was waiting for you," he answered, truthfully, lacking a better reason.
"Well, here I am."
He was a little surprised that she was acting like nothing had happened.
"So where were you?"
She cocked her head to the side, with an incredulous expression.
"What?"
"Where were you," he repeated, unaffected, "why are you late?"
"Excuse me?" she said, hands on her waist. "How is it any of your business?"
"It isn't," he grinned, "I'm just nosy."
"Good that you know that," she remarked, not looking at him, dealing with some things on her desk.
"You're not going to tell me?"
She looked up at him again and rolled her eyes like he was some kind of retard who couldn't take a hint. "Nope."
"Well, what if I tell you I know where you were?" he asked, smiling challengingly.
She looked like she couldn't find what to say for a while – he had finally made her embarrassed. Maybe she had heard his voice from the other side of Mashburn's room.
"Well then we don't have to waste any more time talking about this," she said, finally, surprising him once again.
"Oh wait, now that we're getting where I wanted to get?" he said, trying not to let her change the subject.
She sighed loudly. "What the hell do you want, Jane?"
Looking at her right now, he didn't know the exact answer to her question. What did he want? Why was he pressuring her to talk about her night with Mashburn? He didn't want to let her see his confusion, though.
"I just want to know," he said, improvising.
"Didn't you just say you already know?"
"I wanted to hear it from you."
"What part exactly?"
Now she was challenging him to talk about it, to show her what he wanted to know, what his interest was. He was surprised again.
"What about the part in which you hid from me?"
She smiled mischievously. "Hid from you? What the hell are you talking about?"
He shook his head, with a half smile. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."
Now she shook her head, chuckling. "I don't know, Jane. Maybe you dreamed of me or something. All I know is that we should have been at that crime scene a long time ago." She passed him by, her arm brushing lightly against his arm, and he felt how her hair smelled of a different shampoo.
"Are you coming?" she asked.
During the rest of the day, as Jane tried to talk about it again, she would always find a way around it, making it look like he was insane or talking nonsense. That was simply driving him crazy; not so much the fact that she wouldn't talk, but the fact that he couldn't make her talk. He could usually so easily manipulate her into talking about the things she refused to talk to him about, or even agree with things she normally wouldn't agree, what was the matter with him now? Besides, he really needed, for some reason he couldn't even begin to explain, to hear her admit that she had slept with Mashburn. Without having to ask directly, of course. And he wouldn't lose a battle to her; he never had.
So, when mostly everyone had already left the HQs that night, but she was still in her office, filling out some forms, he decided to go talk to her. He knocked at the open door and, when she looked up at him, he entered and closed it behind him.
"What do you want, Jane?" she asked, looking a little tired now.
"Just talk a little," he replied innocently.
"About?"
"About last night."
She sighed, impatiently.
"Seriously, Jane? This again? Why don't you just say what you want to say and we get this over with?"
He considered that for a moment.
"I don't want to say something," he explained, "I want to hear something."
Now she dropped her pen, with her mouth open, incredulity in her features.
"Jane, come on… I don't even know what you're talking about anymore."
She stood up and started arranging her stuff as though she was going to leave, but he wouldn't let her leave without admitting. He approached her and held her arm.
"I think you do."
She turned around to face him; he didn't let go of her arm.
"What do you want?" she looked confused now.
Jane didn't understand why, but he took her other arm with his other hand, and pushed her against her desk; she leaned there so as not to lose her balance.
"I want you to admit it," he said, his voice coming out hoarse.
"Admit what?"
His face was now only inches from hers.
"That you slept with Mashburn," he was almost whispering now.
She looked surprised, but also pleased with herself. She had, after all, made him say it.
"I did," she said, lifting her chin up challengingly.
"Oh did you?" he said, approaching her even more.
"But I must confess that we didn't really get much sleep."
That triggered something inside Jane, and when he was able to make sense of his actions, he had already covered her lips with his, and cupped her head with his hands, and felt the sweet taste of her lips in his mouth. She resisted at first, probably surprised, but then she responded in kind, clutching at his suit, then at his back, and parting her lips, an invitation he accepted, still not sure what was responsible for his actions at the moment, as he bit her lip then switched to kissing her neck. Then he felt her hand on his chest, pushing him.
"Why do you care?" she asked, breathless.
He didn't have an answer. Not a verbal one, anyway. He just kissed her full on the mouth again, pushing her harder against her desk, squeezing her hips against his and her waist with his arms. As he explored her mouth with his tongue, making her moan ever so softly, he thought of something he could say.
"I don't like it," he said, pulling away only long enough to say the words.
"Oh, you don't?" she murmured against his mouth, then pulled away. "And why is that?"
Facing her, looking at her lips, swollen from his, he couldn't say why; he hadn't even been able to admit to himself why. All he knew was that the idea of anyone else having their lips on her seemed unbearable to him. He shook his head.
"I just don't like it," he said.
"You don't like what?" she asked, and she was staring at him with a confused expression.
They were standing in her office; he was at the door and she was not too far from him. Sunlight came into the room from the bullpen.
"You come in here and say I just don't like it, without even so much as good morning, what do you mean?" she repeated.
"Did I say that?" he asked, confused.
"Yes, you did. Are you all right?" She asked, looking concerned.
She came closer, and laid a hand on his forehead. "No fever," she announced, and he felt how her hair smelled of a different shampoo. "Why aren't you in the field, anyway? I told Cho to go to the crime scene and take everyone."
Jane realized it was still morning, and she had just arrived. He had come to her office, unable to stop himself at the sight of her coming out of the elevator.
"I was waiting for you," he answered, simply.
"Well, here I am, so come on. Let's go to that crime scene."
And she smiled, with a different light in her eyes, and it hurt Jane inside, because he knew exactly what the reason for her unusual good mood in the morning was. And, for some reason he couldn't explain, he wanted to hear it from her that she had slept with Mashburn, but he would never ask. So he just followed her, pretending that he didn't know anything and that he didn't feel that weird and inexplicable pain in his heart, and they drove to the crime scene, like this was just any other ordinary day, and like last night had just been any other ordinary night.