This one-shot was written as a reaction to the new spoilers we've received yesterday about the show after RJ (and the lingering shock from Fire And Brimstone" as well). I had to work through my troubled emotions and the most therapeutic approach seemed to be a creative one. This story contains heavy spoilers for episodes 6.09 and 6.10.
I wrote this in the space of a few hours today, so it's probably full of mistakes and rough around the edges. But I felt like posting it in this state, because it kind of reflects my own feelings at the moment.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist - if I did, I swear, Jisbon would've happened by now... And while Heller naturally always knows best, I'm a bit grumpy with him right now. But after writing this fic, I'm ready to embrace the new developments - somewhat.
)T(M)4(E)V(E)R(
The Way Back Home
)T(M)4(E)V(E)R(
He opened his tired eyes for the tenth time that day. Still no sign of rain visible through the dirty little window in the wall across from his resting place - a thin mattress on the floor.
He sighed.
He forced himself into a sitting position but after a few seconds and a bout of dizziness he lay his head back down on the threadbare pillow and closed his eyes again.
The last days had been bad ones. Sleep had become even more of stranger lately and barely ever visited him in his ramshackle hut. But that was okay. He was used to that. It was part of what he called his life. Worse was the lead that had taken residence in his limbs. It was pressing him down to his mattress and barely even allowed him visits to his outhouse. He knew what it was, knew the medical term for his state was depression. But he didn't care for fancy words these days. To him it felt like lead.
His stomach growled and reminded him of his body's needs. He wasn't sure when last he'd eaten or what and for a moment he considered searching for the answer in his memory palace, but in the end he decided that it wasn't worth the effort.
He'd just found a more or less comfortable position when that terrible itch started again in a spot at the back of his head. Resigned he scratched himself and mused that it might be a good idea to wash his hair and soon.
Still no sign of rain outside. The heaven remained to be irritatingly blue as it was most of the time in these quarters of the world. If he couldn't bring himself to water his little garden today he'd have to say goodbye to his tomatoes and though the carrots might survive a bit longer without his care, they'd surely share the same fate with a few days delay.
He sighed again.
A soft knock on the door awoke him from a light doze. Before he could even make himself open his eyes, let alone answer, he could hear the soft creaking the old wood produced when the door was moved and light feet entered his room.
"Hello, Mr. Trick," the rather high-pitched voice emanating from the small boy crouching beside him said gently. "I've got some bread for you. I was worried. I haven't seen you outside in days. Are you sick?"
"Hi, Roque," Patrick Jane answered, his voice husky from lack of use. "I'm just tired."
The seven year old boy took in the sight in front of him with a keen expression. "You don't look so good. Your eyes are even sadder today than usual. Do you miss your home again?"
Jane sighed. "I've told you before, Rocky, I don't have a home. I lost it. Many years ago. For a while I'd thought I'd found a new one, but I lost it again." He waved his hands around and indicated the circa 100 sq ft this hut consisted of, furnished with the mattress he was currently resting on, a small shabby table and two chairs, two cardboard boxes, a camping stove placed on a stool with a kettle on top and a small fridge. "This is home now."
The small child shook his head vehemently. "This isn't a home, silly. My mum says that a home has a heart and a soul." His deep brown eyes, looking wise far beyond his age, searched out Jane's. With a sad expression he stated, "This one is empty, Mr. Trick."
"You're right," the man answered with a nod.
Roque got up and went over to the window, opened it to let out the almost suffocating, stale air. He stepped over to the stove, lit it, filled the kettle with water from a bottle he found on the table and turned to the door. "I'll be outside watering the plants. They don't look so well. Mum says, it's a wonder you always seem to have the biggest and nicest tomatoes of the whole village though you can't even be bothered to care for your plants properly."
"Maybe that's the whole trick. Your mum's just too fussy. She makes the poor things too nervous to grow," Jane replied with a chuckle.
The boy cast him a bright smile. "That's what you said when I complained that the other kids in school are bigger than me."
Patrick sat up and grinned. "Yeah. Tomato, toma-h-to, Rocky. It's basically the same."
"Not funny," the child whined, but never lost his big smile.
Their conversation was interrupted by the kettle whistling merrily on the stove. "You better get up and make your tea now, Mr. Trick. You know, I never get it right."
"I'll do that. And Roque?" The boy, who'd almost been through the door, turned around to look at Jane who'd successfully forced himself onto his feet. "Thank you."
"No problem. You gonna show me some magic when I'm done with your garden?" The small child asked with big, hopeful eyes.
The blond man felt a surge of warmth running through his veins, liquefying the lead in his limbs enough for him to move over to the stove and give an honest little smile to his young visitor. "It would be my pleasure, Rock," he replied warmly, his hands busy preparing a cup of tea. "I'll be out in a few and help with the plants. Just give me a moment. The bucket is too heavy for you anyway."
Jane took a sip from his tea, closed his eyes in a sense of well-being and sighed happily.
"Hah!" the boy uttered, indignation on his little face. "I'm strong enough to handle your well and you know it. You gonna turn as fussy as mum now?"
After another sip, Jane turned amused eyes on his small friend. "Me? Fussy like your mum? I don't think I've ever been insulted so much before."
"You better hope, I won't tell her you said that, Mr. Trick." Roque sported a devious grin now and winked before he left the hut and went over to the well.
Jane shook his head. His hair did funny things in the process. It reminded him that he really needed to wash it. Had it been fourteen days already since the last time? He wasn't sure. And maybe he should even cut it… Nah.
With a sigh he set down the empty cup and took the one step necessary to reach the boxes that served as both his cupboards and closet. He found a nearly empty bottle of shampoo and a towel that looked relatively clean. He left the hut.
The glittering sunshine was hurting his tired eyes. He found Roque by the well. The boy was busy getting the full bucket out and Jane gave him a hand. They filled the two rusty water cans. The boy took one and went over to the tomato plants. The man took the other and trudged over to the carrots and squash plants.
On his better days he loved to tend to his little garden. He enjoyed the smell of the soil, took pride in every little evidence of new green he found, and savored the feeling of life growing under the care of his hands. On bad days he could hardly make himself bother with anything, let alone a bed full of needy plants that craved his attention. Today had started out as a really bad one but was on the verge of turning into a better one thanks to his little visitor.
Roque and Patrick repeated this procedure until they were done with all the plants. Jane went back to the well afterwards and hauled out another bucket full of water. "I wanna wash my hair, Rocky. You up to helping me?"
"Sure, Mr. Trick. What do you want me to do?"
"Pour water over my head to get out the shampoo. You can use one of the cans. It's a bit awkward to do it alone."
They proceeded with their plan. It took three washes before Patrick's hair finally felt clean again and he decided that it might be a good idea not to leave it for that long in the future.
He was rubbing his hair dry with a towel when his small companion suddenly hit his own forehead with his flat hand and pursed his lips. "Oh no! I nearly forgot! I was supposed to tell you that some lady has been asking about you in the village. But don't worry. No one's said anything. She's quite hot too, or so my brother Marco says. He saw her at the pub. Is she a friend of yours?"
Jane shook his head, his now clean, long, and unruly curls flying in every which way. "I don't have friends, Rock. You're the only one."
"I'm sure, there's still someone else out there who likes you just fine," the small boy said earnestly.
"Maybe, maybe not. I wouldn't know. How about that trick I promised you?"
He got an eager nod in answer. Jane went inside and came back with a deck of cards. The two sat down on the ground, their backs propped up by the masoned edge of the well and in a matter of seconds the older male had enchanted the younger one completely. One card trick was followed by another, coins and stones and little twigs vanished and re-appeared in the strangest places. The small boy laughed, his happy little face glowing with excitement, the middle aged man couldn't help but delight in his little friend's joy.
Well over an hour went by that way. The two were so engrossed in each other that they didn't notice two women approaching until they'd almost reached them. One of them was Julia Cordero, Roques mother, the other was brunette, slender, in her late thirties, and shouted law enforcement to Jane's observant mind immediately. "Mum!" the boy cried out angrily. "I thought, we wouldn't tell her about Mr. Trick."
"Senora Cordero," Jane acknowledged the child's mother and wife of the village chief with a friendly nod, ignoring the other woman. "I hope, I didn't hold up your son for too long."
The Hispanic looking, very resolute woman shook her head. "I knew, he would be a while. He told me he'd visit you and for some reason he seems to enjoy your company. Frankly, I don't really understand why but he has a mind of his own, that one. Always been contrary," she ranted. She indicated her companion. "This is Miss Fischer. She's looking for you. It's none of my business but she has a letter from the province governor asking for our cooperation. We don't want any trouble, so I brought her here." She made a movement with her head in the direction of her son. "Roque? We're leaving now. Say goodbye to him."
The small boy got up with a lot of hesitation. He cast a worried look at his older friend, his eyes full of fear. "I'll be fine, Rocky," Patrick reassured him. "I'm sure, Miss Fisher here just wants to talk with me. Don't worry." He ruffled the boy's dark hair and gave him an encouraging nod.
"I'll come by tomorrow," the child said with certainty. "We still need to get rid of all the weeds in your garden, Mr. Trick."
Patrick smiled. "You do that." He got up from the ground and addressed Roque's mother, "Have a nice day, Senora, and give my regards to your husband. He still owes me 50 bucks from our last poker game."
Julia looked down her nose at him and eyed him disdainfully. "I bet, you cheated. You always win. That's just not normal."
Jane snorted. "That's hardly necessary. I can assure you, Ricardo wouldn't know how to bluff even if his life depended on it. I bet, you know at once when your husband lies to you as well. So stop accusing me. Cheating? Me? Please."
The angry woman blew him a raspberry, took her son's hand and dragged him down the gravel path, muttering under her breath, eliciting a small chuckle from Jane. Then his expression turned grave. "What do you want, Miss FBI?" he addressed the brunette woman in front of him in a neutral tone. She hadn't uttered a single word yet and had watched the exchange between Jane and the two locals with great interest instead.
"How do you know, I'm FBI?" she asked, brows raised, body tensing.
He cast her a scornful look. "Oh, please. You practically reek of LE."
Her face grew dark. "Well, I wished I could say the same about you. But frankly, you reek of unwashed male."
His face was an unreadable mask when he stepped a bit closer to the woman, obviously trying to intimidate her. "Well, I didn't expect any visitors. And while I usually prefer candidness, I'd like you to keep your opinions about my personal hygiene to yourself and get to the point. I have better things to do than stand here and getting insulted."
Agent Fischer stood her ground and took in his appearance with a critical look. His hair at least seemed clean enough, though it looked unkempt, to put it mildly. It had obviously seen neither comb nor scissors in a while and a riot of unruly curls framed a bearded face. His eyes looked sad and carried hardly any spark, though she'd seen a bit of it while he'd interacted with the boy. He looked a bit haggard, his previously white but now dirty and crumpled shirt hang a bit loose around his frame. He was wearing some kind of skirt like arrangement, a cloth wrapped around his hips. The closest she could come to naming it was a sarong. He wore old brown leather shoes she was sure had been very expensive once upon the time, but nowadays he couldn't even be bothered to fit them with new laces. The current ones had obviously been torn so many times that there was only enough left of them to put through the top holes. All in all he looked like a hobo in her opinion, and he smelled like one too.
"Someone should," she finally replied. "Remind you to take a shower once in a while, I mean. Because you're obviously not able to do so yourself, Mr. Jane."
"None of your business," he said grumpily.
"On the contrary," agent Fischer answered, wrinkling her nose. "As I have the misfortune of being in your close vicinity right now, I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't be all that smelly."
He snorted. "What? You don't enjoy having a stinky prisoner for company? Too bad."
"I'm not here to arrest you, Jane. I couldn't even if I wanted to. This is not the US after all. But as a matter of fact I don't want to."
Patrick walked over to the door of his ramshackle hut. "You want a cup of tea, Miss FBI?"
"Your English roots shining through, Mr. Jane? No civilized conversation without a cuppa, right?" agent Fischer teased him.
He snorted. "If that's how you want to look at it, be my guest. Incidentally I just want some myself and wanted to show a bit of basic courtesy."
"I'll take a cup, thanks. If you have anything close to a clean cup inside that lair of yours, that is."
"I'll even offer you the house's best porcelain, Miss FBI. Tea's no joking matter to me, so no need to worry."
He disappeared inside the hut and agent Fisher decided to follow him and get a better picture of the man and his current state. What she'd seen so far wasn't very reassuring and she cursed agent Kimball Cho for sending her on what looked more and more like a fool's errand. The place was dull and small and utterly depressing. With other words a rather fitting reflection of its owner, though to her astonishment it didn't look all that dirty.
"Why don't you come in?" he asked the woman standing in the middle of his abode with sarcasm. "Make yourself at home. The chairs aren't as brittle as they look." He had already filled the kettle and got a second cup and a pack of Earl Grey from one of the cardboard boxes. He had placed everything on the table. When the water started to boil, he opened the fridge, got out some milk, sniffed on it, deemed it still usable, put a little into each cup, added tea bags and finally poured hot water into both of them. He dipped the tea bags into the cups the exact number of times necessary to create the perfect flavor, took them out and threw them into the garbage bag that was placed strategically beside the camping stove.
He shoved a tasteful looking, steaming cup made of the finest porcelain over to his guest who'd taken a seat on one of the chairs. She looked at the beverage, took the handle careful, sniffed and sipped with honest appreciation. "You really know how to make a good cup of tea, Mr. Jane. I have to grant you this."
"Glad to be of service, Miss FBI."
"Could you stop calling me that? My name's Agent Fischer," she said with some indignation.
Jane looked pleased at having rattled her a bit. He raised his brows in a provocative way and returned his attention back to the most important matter at hand: his tea.
The woman in his company sighed. "You're not exactly making this easy, Mr. Jane."
He shrugged. "Why would I? You obviously want something from me and I guess you didn't come all the way here just to get a decent cup of tea."
With another deep sigh agent Fischer sat up straighter. "Very well. I'm here because I want to ask for your help," she said carefully, watching him for any reaction. She saw next to none.
She didn't seem to be willing to supply further information and he decided to ignore her for the time being and concentrate on his hot beverage instead. The FBI, help from him, a wanted fugitive? Honestly, he thought. What an utterly absurd notion. If she wanted to trick him back onto US American soil so she could arrest him, she'd have to come up with a cleverer plan than that.
Kim Fischer was by nature a rather patient woman but her many years of police work and countless interrogations had taught her when to cut her losses and to spot a hopeless case when she saw one. She wouldn't get anywhere with that man today. So she got up from her chair when her cup was empty and went over to the door. "This was obviously a mistake. I'm sorry for the disturbance, Mr. Jane. Goodbye."
The former CBI consultant was slightly puzzled by this sudden development but as he couldn't care less he just shrugged again, got up and opened the door for her, his gentlemanly manners still deeply ingrained. "You should take the time and follow the path at the back. There's a spot with a breathtakingly beautiful view over the valley about a mile from here. That way your trip here won't be entirely wasted," he offered with the most friendly smile she'd seen from him so far. "If you hurry a bit, you'll be there when the sun's in the best position to enjoy the view."
He'd obviously taken her by surprise and after a moment's hesitation she decided that she needed to clear her head anyway and maybe make a phone call home to her colleague, one agent Cho. Why not take up Jane's suggestion? She was sufficiently sure the way wouldn't lead her into a deathly trap and stretching her legs sounded like a good idea.
With a nod she walked through the small, but relatively well kept garden at the back of the hut and found the path he'd indicated easily enough. She could feel his eyes at her back until a bend removed her from his sight. When she finally felt like she was on her own, she started to ponder the events of the last hours thoroughly. She went over everything, from the small bits and pieces she'd gotten from the locals in the village to her encounter with the man who'd killed Red John, the serial killer that hadn't only left the women of California in fear, but had with his broad network brought almost the whole law enforcement system in the state to its knees.
She didn't really know what to make of Patrick Jane. Cho had described him as quirky, difficult, contrary and frustrating. But he'd also characterized him as brilliant, extremely observant and perceptive, creative, deeply loyal (at least as long as there wasn't a certain serial killer around) with a keen ability to think outside the box and with an indestructible zest for life.
It had especially been the last part that had raised her interest, because the offer she'd originally planned to make him depended on his willingness to get back into the swing of things. After she'd seen the man in real life, she wasn't so sure about the indestructible part of Cho's description anymore. Okay, he'd seemed to interact just fine with the little boy and he seemed to take at least some measure of pride in and pleasure from a decent cup of tea. But what she'd mostly found was a shell of a man, broken beyond repair in the deep throes of depression and self-loathing, who didn't seem to care about himself and life around him one wit anymore.
That impression changed the moment the path led her around another bend and she'd obviously reached her final destination. The view that greeted her really took her breath away. She watched in awe as the sun appeared from behind some huge trees and shed its light on the stream that parted the valley in the middle. Shadows of the surrounding mountain tops were reflected on the blue, rippling surface and transformed the whole sight in front of her into a picture that could've been painted by one of the Impressionist master painters.
And that's when she knew. That's when she realized with total clarity that the unwashed, spiritless man in that god-awful hut a mile down the way was still alive inside. And she wanted to see him sparkle again.
She waited another half an hour to thoroughly enjoy the view and then she went back with a newfound resolution in her steps.
Agent Fischer reached the Jane abode twenty minutes later. Its only occupant couldn't be seen anywhere outside so she knocked on the door. A tired "Door's open" greeted her. She stepped inside and found the blond man stretched out on the mattress that obviously served as his bed. He opened one eye and groaned when he saw who his visitor was. "Miss FBI again," he muttered.
"Get up, Jane," she ordered, completely unfazed by his grumbling.
He opened his eyes fully and raised his brows at her change in tone, but didn't show any other sign of following her command.
"I said, get up, Jane," she demanded in a no nonsense voice. "You stink and you'll go and clean yourself up now. Then we'll eat something, have more tea and talk. Got that?"
"Nah," was his tired reply. "Too taxing. I'll rather rest some more if you don't mind. You know your way out." He closed his eyes again.
His total lack of willingness to meet her request infuriated her, and she was barely able to contain the urge to kick the man lying in front of her.
"Oh, don't hold off for my sake," Jane muttered. "Just make sure, you don't hit any vital parts."
That didn't do what he might have intended for it to do. Instead of further exasperating her, she had to laugh out loud at having been caught red-handed by him. Oh, yes. There was obviously more to that man than met the eye.
"Nice try, Patrick," she said merrily. "Come on, get up now or I'll help you. And as a friendly warning: I'm a lot stronger than I look."
He sighed heavily and sat up. "You won't stop nagging, will you? You're the type that will just go on and on, aren't you? All feisty and bossy. It's written all over your stubborn face."
She nodded sternly and held out her hand for him to take. After a moment of hesitation he grabbed it and with her help he heaved himself into a standing position. He felt a bit dizzy, which reminded him that he hadn't eaten anything yet and had probably neither done so the day before. Agent Fischer didn't need to be privy to that he decided and made sure not show any outward sign of discomfort. On relatively steady legs he went to his boxes, bent over in order to find some soap and clean clothes.
This turned out to be a miscalculation on his part. The change of position brought on a sudden dizzy spell and he sank helplessly down to his knees, feeling an urge to empty his stomach. But as it didn't contain anything apart from some tea, he dry heaved instead.
His guest was by his side immediately but he waved her off. "Geez, Jane! When was the last time you had anything to eat?" she inquired, half-worried, half-frustrated. "Are you okay now?"
He nodded carefully, avoiding big movements with his still slightly dizzy head. "I'm fine. Just got up too fast is all."
Agent Fischer snorted. "Yeah, sure." She saw a fresh loaf of bread and a knife on the table, cut a slice off for him and handed it over. "Here. Chew thoroughly, small bites only," she ordered and to her astonishment he obeyed this time.
Fifteen minutes and two slices later he felt a lot better. "Thanks," he said quietly. He retrieved the necessary items to clean up and left the hut without another word.
She left him to his own devices and started the kettle to prepare some tea. A glance in the fridge revealed nothing much in the way of food apart from some butter and eggs. She shook her head but decided to look for a pan in his boxes so she could make an omelet. Something light would be best anyway after his fasting.
When the tea was ready she took his cup and went to the door. Before she opened it, she shouted, "Are you decent?"
"More or less," he replied grumpily.
Encouraged she stepped outside. He hadn't lied. His torso was still bare, but he wore a pair of pants that had seen better days. He was way too thin for her liking, but she was glad to notice that he was still rather toned. That told her, his state of depression and listlessness couldn't have possibly been a permanent one and he obviously still had phases of activity.
"Did I pass inspection, Miss FBI?" he asked with some amusement.
Slightly flustered at having been caught giving him the once over she covered the last steps that brought her close enough to hand him the cup. "Just brought you some tea, Mr. Jane. And as long as you walk around with that riot on your head, you'll never pass any kind of inspection. Do you have a pair of scissor?" Before he could protest or answer she crossed the small distance back to the door. "Never mind. I'm sure I'll find it easily enough. It's not like there are that many places it could be."
Jane shook his head and went on scrubbing his arms after a he'd taken a sip from the tea and raised his brows in appreciation. Not bad, not bad at all.
Kim Fischer returned with scissors and one of the chairs a few minutes later. "Take a seat," she requested. "I'll try to tame those utter shambles on your head a bit."
He stepped closer and eyed her skeptically. "Do you even know how to handle that weapon in your hand, Miss FBI?"
Cheerfully she motioned with her head for him to take a seat. "Don't worry. I have a dog at home with just about the same hairstyle, Mr. Jane. A poodle." She chuckled.
"Very reassuring," he grumbled, but sat down anyway. She got to work at once. Even if it was totally unkempt she had no choice but to call his hair probably the most beautiful she'd ever encountered on a man. It was strong and soft and had a mind of its own – just like its owner.
When she was satisfied with her trim, she saw that a lot of the cut curls had piled up on his still bare shoulders. She put the scissors down on the ground. Her hands now free, she proceeded to touch his shoulders gently in order to sweep off the cut-off hair. He flinched violently and then visibly stiffened under her touch.
The FBI agent stepped around to face him. He looked almost scared, his eyes wet with unshed tears. "It's been a long time since anyone has touched you, Patrick, isn't it?" she more stated than asked, her voice kind and quiet.
She had no idea how it happened but suddenly she found herself with an armful of sobbing male. Though this had certainly not been on her agenda when she'd sallied out on her trip into the middle of nowhere, she realized, she didn't mind that much. Something about this man tore at her heart and he obviously was in dire need of some comfort.
From what she knew about his past, mostly supplied by her laconic colleague Kimball Cho and his personnel record, the only constants in Jane's life after the murder of his family had been his hunt for revenge and the CBI team he'd been working with for almost a decade. Reluctantly Cho had admitted that it had mostly been their boss, Agent Lisbon, now Chief Lisbon if she remembered correctly, who Jane had been close to. After he'd exacted his personal version of justice he'd had to run, leaving behind his only source of support. Considering what she'd seen today, he'd spent the last two years with barely any human contact, no outward stimulation, hovering between deep depression and a state of being reasonably okay, existing on the absolute minimum.
His sobbing stopped as abruptly as it had started. He freed himself from her hug and forced himself back on his feet. Without a word he stumbled over to the well and washed his face diligently with the cold water. Afterwards he started to wash off the remaining cut-off hair from his torso. He dried himself and put on a clean, but crumpled shirt.
When he finally faced her again she was astonished at the new sight. With his hair in an acceptable state the stubble on his face actually suited him rather well. The shirt and pants did their bit to make him look almost ready for human company again.
"Well, hello, Mr. Jane! Nice to meet you at long last!" she exclaimed.
His answering smile was a bit tentative, but it was there and made him look at least ten years younger. "We should go back inside," he suggested. "I'm hungry and I bet you're too. I'll make us some scrambled eggs."
"Alright, good idea. Let's pretend it's a brand-new morning with many possibilities," she replied merrily, following him inside, chair and scissors in hand.
"Only an ignorant, unrefined cop such as you could claim that eggs are only breakfast food," he teased her.
She gave him a mock glare. "Every diner menu will tell you, I'm right."
"Diners – what do they know," he replied snootily and went to work at his little stove.
A few minutes later they sat down together and shared the eggs and bread and yet another cup of tea in companionable silence.
She was the one who broke it. "We should really talk now," she said. "You know, what I told you earlier is actually the truth. I'm not here to lure you into a trap or anything. I want to ask for your help."
"You know, what I've done, Agent Fischer. I'm a wanted man and besides: Look at me! How could I possibly be of any help to anyone?"
"A lot has changed since you left, Patrick. I know, you haven't been in contact with anyone back home, so you wouldn't know. But California's law enforcement system is in ruins. You uncovered one of the biggest conspiracies in the history of the US. Are you fully aware of that?"
He nodded reluctantly, not at all comfortable with the direction the conversation had taken and astonished at the new facts he'd just learnt.
"Some parts have been re-erected already, but there's still a lot to be done. The FBI is covering for the state agency at the moment. That's were I fit into the picture." She cleared her throat and took a sip from her tea. "Anyway. The most important part is that the DA's office responsible for your case is willing to drop the charges against you." She looked up and saw that she had his full attention now. "Considering that at the time there wasn't any part of the justice system you could've really entrusted with an arrested serial killer who'd been the head of a network that had been undermining that very system for years, they've pleaded extenuating circumstances on your behalf. They've ruled it justified manslaughter and are fully prepared to forego further prosecution."
He eyed her warily, not sure what to make of her explanation. "I sense a big 'but' in there somewhere."
"Well, yes. I don't know how big though. Personally, I think, it's a great opportunity actually. We want you to help rebuilding the state agency and to tackle the immense case load we have in serious crimes. From what I've learnt, you're the best case closer in the history of the CBI. I've heard a lot about your special abilities and skills and your help would be invaluable right now. To be frank, Mr. Jane: you're sorely needed back home."
He shook his head. "I'm not that man anymore."
"I think you still are. Somewhere underneath that shabby hobo façade," she said gently.
He shook his head again. "I doubt it. I haven't done a proper reading ever since... And I'm not sure I have what it takes anymore."
"Give it a try then, Patrick. Do a reading on me - whatever that means. Is that when you tell me about all my darkest secrets? I'd love to be your test person," she encouraged him.
With a long-suffering sigh he took a half-hearted hold of her wrist and started, "I need to hold your hand so I can keep track of your pulse. It helps me to read your reactions to what I'm saying. Alright?" She nodded. "Okay, well, let's get started. So, you're married and have one, no, two kids, and…"
She interrupted him. "No, I'm not, and no, I don't."
He shrugged, relinquished her hand and said,"See? I told you so. Can't do it anymore." He got up and refilled the kettle.
Fischer watched him with disappointment. Had he really lost his spark so completely? And why had he given up so easily? After a hiatus of two years, surely he'd just need a bit of time to get back into things? And then it suddenly dawned on her. The bastard had played her! He'd misread her on purpose to get her off his case. Because he didn't trust her.
"Nice try," she told him with new resolve. "Can you do it properly now so we can move past this whole nonsense?" she asked sternly.
He turned around and faced her. "Not bad, Miss FBI. And the answer is no. How do I know that you're even telling the truth? My life here might not be what you'd call fulfilled but it's a lot better than a federal prison cell."
"Not by much," the agent replied with a snicker. Then she found her cell phone and initiated a call. "Yes, he's here with me right now," she answered the question of the person at the other end. "You're right. He's not making things easy and yes, I know that you warned me. Wait a sec and tell him personally."
She handed her phone over to Patrick.
"Hi Jane," Kimball Cho greeted his old friend.
"Cho!" he exclaimed. "It's good to hear your voice."
"Ditto. How are you doing?"
"Never been better."
Cho snorted. "That bad."
"It's been a long time without a friendly face around."
"Then get your ass back here and talk to her."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Cho snorted again. "Agent Fischer has told you about the deal, hasn't she?" he inquired.
"So it's really legit?" Jane asked curiously.
"It is, Jane. You have my word. You can trust Fischer. And you're free to come back in exchange for a job in law enforcement."
"I'll think about it."
"You do that. But Jane? Don't think too long, okay? There are people here who care about you. Just thought you should know."
"Thanks, Cho," he replied, his voice full of raw emotion.
He handed the phone back to the brunette agent and completed his tea ritual deep in thought, ignoring the ongoing conversation Fisher had on the phone. He felt something bubble in his stomach. A feeling he'd almost forgotten existed, and with astonishment he realized that it was a spark of hope.
He sipped his tea in a state of almost trance and was only pulled from it when the woman in his company touched his arm lightly. He flinched and almost dropped his cup. "Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I didn't mean to scare you like that."
He snorted. "You didn't scare me, woman. I was just elsewhere with my mind." He sat down and placed the tea in front of him. "I think, I'm ready to do that reading now, Miss FBI. Sit down and give me your hand."
Fischer raised her brows but did as he demanded. He took her wrist, his keen gaze taking in her every emotion. "You're an only child. Your mother was demanding, dominant. Maybe even a bit abusive. Ah, yes, she was. She died not that long ago, maybe a year or two. Your father is caring and you've always been closer to him than your mum. He's the one who made you want to join the police. You were very idealistic once, had that illusion that you could really make a difference. You still believe that to a certain degree but the urge to save others has mellowed somewhat over the years. You're intuitive but you prefer to do things by the book – which is a pity, by the way. You've a slightly twisted concept of femininity and masculinity due to your upbringing. You're a good leader but you are afraid to turn into your mother, though you have inherited more of the caring nature of your father, which you consider a weakness at times. You're not strictly a homosexual but I'd pin you down as bi-sexual. You prefer women as romantic partners though. Very feminine women, motherly ones. And you want to be the dominant partner in a relationship. But strong manly men attract you as well, something that scares you, hence why you never act on those attractions. Strange how our childhood experiences influence us in such contrary ways, Miss Fischer, isn't it?"
She'd listen attentively until this point, but freed her wrist now. "That's creepy, Jane," she stated, her face showing a strange mixture of awe and shame at being dissected so thoroughly. "It's not a nice feeling to be so exposed," she admitted. "And some of these things I didn't even fully realize until you mentioned them."
Jane shrugged with nonchalance and showed no regret. "Remember? You were the one who wanted me to reveal your dark secrets, Agent. Now you have to deal with it."
Fischer took a moment to regain her poise. When she'd come to terms with the other man knowing so much about her, she managed a smile. "Well, one thing's for sure: you, Mr. Jane, haven't lost your abilities. What about my offer?"
"There's the thing, Agent Fischer. There's only ever been one person I've been comfortable with working together. My partner. You being a cop and all that will know, what I mean. I never wanted to work in LE again after Red John. And should I ever even consider it, it couldn't be without my partner." His face had been more open during that explanation than she'd grown used to see on him during their short acquaintance.
"You miss her, don't you?" she asked gently. "Very much so."
He shrugged off her concern. "It's a moot point. She won't want to see me anyway. So I can't accept your offer, as tempting as it is. I'm better off here. Thanks for coming though. It was nice meeting you."
"Hold your horses, Mr. Jane. How can you be so sure? It's been two years. That's a long time. How can you know, she won't hear you out without trying? Are you such a coward that you can't even face her? That's not how a partnership works, Jane. You screw up, you talk it out, you move on."
"I broke her trust, Agent Fischer. In the worst way possible. And she doesn't give trust easily, believe me. What I did is unforgivable. I know that. I've hurt her enough. Staying away is the best thing I can do for her." His expression was a study in sadness and she could almost see the dark clouds re-emerging with full speed and swallowing him.
She approached him slowly, heedful of his reaction, remembering how he'd responded the first time she'd touched him. Carefully she put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "I don't believe that," she said calmly. "You went through a tough time together. Worked under extreme conditions. I can't imagine the strain and pressure this put on all of you. Cho has told me a bit about it, you know. And though I share Agent Lisbon's views on vigilante justice, it's not my place to judge. And neither is it hers. I'm sure, she knows that."
He'd flinched at the mention of his partner's name and the tension in his whole stance was almost palpable. Fischer decided to keep pushing. "From what I've heard, you never made a secret of your plans. She might be disappointed, she might have wished you'd make a different decision in the end. But I'm just as certain that she'll be able to forgive you when all is said and done. From what Cho's told me, she has a lot of practice when it comes to that."
Jane wiped away a silent tear that had escaped his eye. She watched him intently and continued, "That's your deepest wish, isn't it? To see her again. And you're so afraid of her rejection that you'd rather hide yourself away in this hick town in the middle of nowhere than take a risk. Because you know, you couldn't take her rejection."
He pushed her away. Not violently, but with clear intent. "Stop analyzing me. That's my job," he huffed. "You know nothing about me, Agent Fischer, nothing. It's best if you leave now."
He turned his back to her. "I think, you're angry because you know that I'm right, Patrick. I'll stay at the guestroom above the pub until tomorrow afternoon. I'll leave at exactly three pm. If you have managed to grow a pair by that time, meet me there and I'll take you back to the States with me. Have a nice evening, Mr. Jane, and sweet dreams."
At half past two the next day a lone man with a backpack could be seen approaching the village square that was flanked on its left side by the pub and on the right by the chief's office. A small boy ran up to him from the right when he'd reached the middle. "Mr. Trick, Mr. Trick!" he shouted. "I was just about to come up to your place. Are you leaving?" he asked, slightly out of breath. "You are leaving with that lady, aren't you?" he asked again with sad eyes.
The man crouched down so he was level with the child. "Yes, Rocky. It's time for me to go home again."
"Home?" the little boy inquired, a tear running down his cheek. "For real?"
The blond man nodded. "I hope so." He had to clear a lump from his throat. "Thank you for being my friend, Rocky. I don't know what I would've done without you."
The child threw his arms around the man's shoulder and hugged him. "I'll miss you. But I'm happy for you, Mr. Trick. Maybe you can be whole again now."
The man returned the embrace and ruffled the boy's hair. "You are the smartest boy I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, Roque Cordero. I hope, we'll meet again. I'll call, I promise. Here—," he stuck his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a deck of cards, "—they're for you. Magic cards."
Boy and man shared a grin, then the older male stood up again and closed the last distance to the pub.
)T(M)4(E)V(E)R(
The End
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