Title: Yet

Rating: T

Warnings: References to violence and sexual situations

Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist; not by a long shot.

Summary: "Yet... What does that mean really? Is she purposefully prolonging the inevitable? avoiding the imminent consequences? shutting out that which must eventually come to pass? Or, is she just desperately hoping that it might not come to that after all?"

Author's Note:
Originally written as a one-shot in July, newly updated as a two-part story in November. Part one is un-beta'd and such, so keep that in mind.


It hasn't happened.

Yet...

Ah, but that's just the problem. That simple word, only 3 letters, is so small, but it is that very word that produces the sense of dread niggling in the pit of her stomach.

Yet...

What does that mean really? Is she purposefully prolonging the inevitable? avoiding the imminent consequences? shutting out that which must eventually come to pass? Or, is she just desperately hoping that it might not come to that after all?

Yet...

Maybe there is hope! Maybe, just maybe, she can change his mind; prove to him that there really are consequences for his reckless actions; get it through his thick skull that the world does not, in fact, revolve around him; show him that his decisions affect other people as well, regardless of his self-centered train of thought. Maybe.

Yet...

Despite her consistent efforts to get through to him, snap him into reality if you will, it proves to be a fruitless quest. What was once just a fleeting thought of what might possibly happen is now looming over her constantly, threatening to jump out and squelch the life from her at any second. One false move; one thoughtless comment; one last strike, and it's all over for her. All through no fault of her own.

Yet...

He acts as though nothing is wrong, continuing to use her merely as a means to an end. He pays little attention, if any at all, to her pleas. She has never been one to beg, but this is important, so she finds herself almost on her knees, pleading with him to just think for once. He brushes off her concerns, assuring her that she has nothing to worry about, but she knows better. Still, she finds herself hoping, praying, that he'll be right, just like he always is.

Yet...

She feels a significant piece of her carefully-erected defenses crumbling as she turns in her gun and badge for the last time. She was not surprised when he let her down that first time. The suspension had been expected, if not anticipated. But this is the second time, and fate has dealt her a more permanent hand. He once again tries to defend her, insisting it wasn't her fault. He even apologizes, multiple times, but she is more than doubtful that he really means it. He has tugged on her heart strings many times over the past few years, sometimes none too gently, and the prospect of never seeing him again leaves her with an unwanted pain.

Yet...

It seems as though that is simply not meant to be, although she sincerely wishes the circumstances of their meeting were different. Less than a month has passed since she saw him last, and he stands on her door step, blood splattered on his clothes and caked into his hair. The blood is not his own, of that much she is certain, and her stomach drops. There is only one man whose blood he could have shed. She ushers him in quickly and quietly, and the rest of her poorly held up defenses shatter as she helps him to the shower; finds him some fresh clothing to wear; burns the condemning apparel in her fireplace; boils him a cup of tea, preparing it just the way she knows he likes it. All the while, not a single tear slips past the facade she must maintain, though she's drowning in guilt and failure on the inside. He has done the unthinkable, committing murder in cold blood and revenge, letting her down for the third time in so many months. But she shoulders some of the blame herself, for once feeling incompetent and incapable at having not turned him around before it was too late. Despite all previous intents of being sure to arrest him if he ever went too far, she is no longer an officer of the law and circumstances have changed all too quickly. Instead, she lets him hold her through the night; stroking her hair gently as his tears fall; whispering apologies in her ear as he tries to ease the burden that seems to only have doubled upon exacting his revenge; brushing his lips to her skin tenderly, raising goosebumps on her arms; kissing her intensely and passionately as he becomes desperate to feel something, anything, besides the encompassing guilt that refuses to leave him alone. She eagerly reciprocates his actions, and they pour out all of their tangled emotions into a tangling of bodies. They come together again and again until there is simply nothing left to feel, and she is certain no emotion could ever be more painful.

Yet...

She finds that this time, the pain never goes away.