A/N: I should first give thanks to Amorfati1013, and herquote which inspired this fic: 'There was nothing worse she thought to herself, than birthday cards. These days a card cost over five dollars only to contain the most trite and useless statements. Their purpose was to prove the receiver wasn't forgotten in this world and that, she thought to herself, was horribly depressing. She'd rather be forgotten then reminded that the only time people did remember her was her birthday. The only cards she ever got were from people who did so out of obligation.'
Hmm, said I, Patrick Jane might have an idea on how to fix that. And today was Hurt/Comfort and the Mentalist, so here it is.
Lisbon was having a terrible day. First there was a particularly grisly murder for an even worse than usual reason—the murderer killed a woman because she wore the wrong shade of lipstick with her shoes. But that wasn't the end of her day. Second, the team only found the murderer in record time because he'd decided to go after her, and she'd had to shoot him. So she'd had to deal with all that and the huge amount of paperwork that followed, and then the coffee machine had broke, and then the donut stand outside the CBI had closed for no discernible reason, then Rigsby and Van Pelt had a lover's quarrel that ended up with both of them screaming at each other, then Bertram scolded them for not behaving as befit officers of the law, and Cho had gone off to practice at the shooting range, and Jane had disappeared, and she'd been flooded with more reports and paperwork that had apparently somehow slipped by her until just this precise day, and then as she was finally going home after the longest and worst day she'd ever had, she'd stepped in dog poo.
Given all of this, it was entirely understandable that she'd yanked both shoes off, thrown them across the yard, stormed inside, and stayed there for the entire following day. (After calling in sick, of course) Then she'd stayed the next day. And the next. For a grand total of four days, she ensconced herself inside and consumed every piece of chocolate and drank every wine and finished every carton of ice cream she owned. She'd always wonder if she only went back to work because she ran out of ice cream.
And the worst thing?
The worst thing was that when she went back to work the next week, no one acted as though anything had been missing. No one said anything other than "glad you're not sick, Boss" and they all went back to their lives. On the one hand, she was grateful that they didn't make a big fuss, but on the other hand, she wished they had made a big fuss. It was a small part, though, easily squashed under other parts like Reason and Practicality.
She opened her office door and immediately spotted the envelope on her desk. Well. At least they'd kind of made a fuss.
Not that Welcome Back cards really meant much.
She sighed, though, because it was from Rigsby and Van Pelt and Cho and they meant well, and she set it up on the filing cabinet in the corner. She wondered why Jane hadn't signed it, but figured he had probably been too busy napping.
Then she heard the unmistakable sound of someone stepping through her doorway, without the accompanying sound of knocking. She sighed. "You know, Jane, there are doors for a reason," she said, adjusting the card.
"And yours was open," he replied. She turned to see him slightly bouncing on his feet, eyes alight.
"What are you up to?" she demanded.
He grinned. "I only wanted to give you this," he said, and brought out a card from behind his back.
She frowned at it. The plain soft pink envelope did not match the excitement in his eyes. Slowly, as though it might jump out at her—because it could, this was Patrick Jane—she opened the envelope and withdrew the card. She smiled. Jane had painstakingly crossed out the words 'get' and 'soon' and replaced them with the words 'be' and 'always'.
"I thought it fit better, since you're better, so there was no reason to give you a 'Get Well Soon' card," Jane explained. "Also, this fit what I wanted to say too."
She opened it to find that it had been one of those blank cards that could be filled in, and Jane had indeed filled it in—with the words 'Really. Just be well, Lisbon.' And then he'd drawn childish flowers and hearts around the words.
She was really smiling now. "Thank you, Jane," she said sincerely. "This is really nice."
He beamed. "You're welcome."
—
She didn't think too much of it—in fact, she was waiting for him to spring some terrible plan on her—so she was surprised when he came in to her office the next day with another card.
Thinking of You—Just a note to say warm thoughts are being sent your way—Sincerely, Jane.
She looked up at him, frowning. "Why?' she asked, unable to find another way to phrase it.
He looked mildly put out. "Because I wanted to. Also, it's true."
"But…normally, you send a card like this to someone who's far away or when you're on vacation or something."
He shrugged. "Meh. Not too big on the whole 'normal' thing," he said, and walked back out.
—
The next day, after she'd ended a stand off in a grocery store, Jane disappeared for a few moments and then reappeared with a card. He handed it to her wordlessly and then continued on his way.
Congratulations.
—
Jane gave her a card every day for the next four days. She wondered what he was doing, and why, but she had to admit that she liked it. Then he started giving her handmade cards, and after reprimanding him for using the back of his tax form to write it on, she received one every day for the next week.
Finally, fourteen days after the first card, she confronted him about it.
"Why are you doing this, Jane?"
He pointed to the card on her desk with a raised eyebrow. On a card filled with drawings of chocolate and dessert, he'd written To the Sweetest Woman I Know. The inside read in large colorful capital letters, Don't forget to brush your teeth!
"I'd think that explains itself," he said.
"But why?" she repeated. "Every day?"
"Yes," he said, as if that explained it.
"People don't give cards every day," she said wearily, tired of trying to figure this out.
"People," Jane said, and she looked up sharply at the serious note in his voice, "don't give cards every day because they're selfish arrogant pricks who can't be bothered to think about others unless it's their birthday or they're sick or have claimed to be sick because they had a terrible day."
Lisbon shifted uncomfortably in her seat, remembering the day a couple weeks ago. "How did you…"
"I know you, and you weren't sick," he said, leaning on her desk. "And I wanted to show you that people—at least I—think about you. Often."
She was angrily trying to blink back tears that had absolutely no business rising in front of someone else. "Rigsby doesn't give me a card every day, and he isn't selfish," she muttered.
Jane drew back slightly. "I was generalizing."
"I just…" she sighed.
He had the nerve to smile. "You're just going to have to get used to it," he said, and turned on his heel and strode out.
She could only stare after him, and accept the smile that had grown on her face without her realizing it.
—
Jane gave her a card every day.
Every day, for years.
When he ran away, she found out that he'd set up a system with one of his friends. Apparently, he'd been stockpiling them ever since that first day. Any time he saw one that reminded him of her, he bought it. He could only give her one, of course, but he'd saved the rest. It was enough for his friend to mail her one every day for two years, and she hoarded each one only slightly less jealously than the letters he sent her.
When he came back—and promptly got placed in protective custody—the cards from his friend stopped, and he sent her handmade paper ones from his cell every day for the few months until she finally got him up and working on a case. When he finally got Abbot to work with him and they both ended up working for the FBI, he again started delivering them by hand.
After he'd given her an ironic Congratulations on defeating the bad guy card after she'd taken down a murderer, she stopped him with a laugh and a card of her own.
Thank You—I'm used to it now, so I figured you should be too.
His smile was truly radiant. "I'd like that."