A/N: Totally out of character, but the first few lines popped into my head and I couldn't resist. Sometimes my muse gets the best of me.
Disclaimer: I own nothing pertaining to The Mentalist
Hands
There are many moments in life that he has considered all of the different jobs that his hands must do. He has learned to control his movements better than most could dream of doing. His ability to put something into a person's pocket (as well as relieve another of a similar object) astounded many, and annoyed one. His hands weren't rough or weather worn, no his hands were that of a man that spent most of his time inside. He loved his suits and more often than not his hands were in the pockets of his jacket waiting to commit some nefarious scheme he had concocted just for the occasion (whatever that occasion might be).
He next considers the petite hands of his partner. She has never considered learning to use her hands for anything other than dealing justice. How that justice was dealt varied depending on the act the criminal had committed, or whom the criminal was threatening. More often than not her hands came to his rescue in some form. Whether she is tackling a man running from the law, arresting the one he has just proven guilty in most people's minds, or firing the weapon he has never favored. He sees the use of the pistol she carries, but watching her wield it always makes his heart beat a little faster. Shooting at an armed enemy usually results in the enemy shooting back.
It's the tiny hands reaching for him from the floor that have caught his attention on this day. He never thought he would have the opportunity to live the life he had cherished so much before Red John. Life after Red John had never really crossed his mind. Once the monster was gone there was nothing left for him. His world crashed all over again. Pieces scattered never to be fully complete again. It's true, there are pieces of him that will never be recovered, but he has recovered more than he ever thought he could. It's mostly thanks to her, but he doesn't ignore how much the small hands in front of him took away the pain (and continue to do so to this day).
He reaches out to the child in front of him. Tiny hands meet his with more trust than he could imagine. He hasn't known the child long, 4 months and 12 days to be exact, but every moment since he met the precious bundle (and her brother) has been more fulfilling than ending Red John. He smiles and is rewarded with a small attempt at a smile in return. His heart warms slightly at the sight.
A soft sound escapes the lips of the child on the floor and he obliges her discontent by picking her up and wrapping his arms around her. She wriggles a bit to find a more comfortable position and drifts off to sleep. He doesn't put her back down at his feet. No, right now he wants to hang on to the child as long as he can. He thinks back to the first time he held a child, scared to death, but deeply in love with the bundle the doctor placed in his nervous arms. Now his grip is strong and sure, enveloping as much as he can and protecting her from as much of the world as he can. He won't survive if he loses this one.
Petite strong hands appear on his shoulder. Her presence is not unwelcome, but the moment is lost. He pulls himself back to the present and tilts his head back to meet the slightly concerned gaze of the woman he never imagined he would find at his side every day. It hadn't been a quick process, but eventually he had decided to cherish his memories from the past and attempt to build some semblance of a life. It was this life he treasured because they could be lost at any moment, or he could wake up from the best dream of his life.
"I just put Chris down for the night," she whispers to him, as to not wake the sleeping child in his arms. He nods, but doesn't move. "She has to sleep in her crib sometimes, Patrick," she says with more than a hint of concern lacing her voice. The girl shifts in her sleep the woman behind him tenses. She is a wonderful mother, but it is much more difficult for her to put a child to sleep after it has been asleep for a time. That will come with practice, which she gets more than her share of sometimes.
"I know, Teresa," he whispers toward the child. He gets up from his position on the couch and makes his way toward the room painted a pale purple for the girl in his arms. Christopher's room is a royal blue, a common color for a boy, but it matches the blue in the boy's eyes almost perfectly. He approaches the crib, a foul invention at the moment, and stands by it for longer than he needs to. He has always had a difficult time putting the child in his arms down to sleep, or even letting her out of his sight for that matter.
At first, Teresa had understood, but lately she was pushing just enough to let him know that she didn't think his clinging was healthy. He had to admit that she was probably right, but not out loud. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he believed her opinion to be true. Finally, after a few agonizing minutes he managed to find the courage to place the girl in her crib and lock it. Leaving the room took another five minutes.
"Good night, Ashlyn" he whispered as he turned on the small nightlight in the room. A quick stop in Christopher's room to kiss the boy goodnight was required before he walked back downstairs to find his wife waiting for him on the couch. He tossed a smile her way that he knew she didn't wholly believe. There were times that they knew each other much too well.
"He's gone, Patrick. He can't touch her," she told him softly. He nodded and sat beside her.
"I know," he admitted, "I'm getting there, Teresa. I just need more time," he admitted. She nodded and picked up a book from the coffee table in front of her. Content to read she leaned back into the cushions and gave a small sigh to better relax. He watched her for long enough that she huffed and put her book down.
"What is it, Patrick?" he asked annoyance heavy in her tone. He chuckled to himself and took her hands in his own studying the ring he had given her a little over a year ago. She gave him time to consider all possible angles before pulling her hand away and setting it in her lap, but leaving the ring gleaming in the light. He placed his hand with the matching band on top of hers.
In a lifetime hands change right along with the person they belong to. He had changed much, but his hands had stayed relatively the same. The only difference was the color of the band wrapped around the ring finger of this left hand. Gold had changed to silver.