Disclaimer: The Mentalist still doesn't belong to me.
A/N: Post-ep to 5x02: "The Devil's Cherry." Because that episode just broke my heart for Jane all over again.
There was a knock on his attic door.
Even if he hadn't heard her distinctive tread on the stairs, Jane still would have known who it was. Only one person ever ventured up here.
"Come in," Jane said, still staring blankly out the window into the evening dusk.
"Hey, you doing OK?" Teresa asked, walking over towards him. "I mean… it hasn't been an easy day."
Jane gave her a slight, wry smile and agreed, "No, it hasn't."
He took another fortifying sip of tea from his cup and leaned forward in his chair.
A frown creased Teresa's forehead as she glanced from his brown bag of loose tea to his cup.
"Jane," she said quietly, eyes intense with worry. "Patrick. You didn't – that isn't –"
Jane smiled bitterly. "It's raspberry hibiscus, Teresa. No need to worry. I'm not yet so far gone that I'll poison myself just to see a version of my daughter that I created in my head."
Teresa let out a small breath of relief and said, "Thank God. I just… I'm worried about you. The way you talked today…"
"I miss my family," Jane said. "But poisoning myself won't bring them back."
Teresa gave him a small, sad smile, and sat down on the edge of the desk.
Reaching out her hand to pat his, she said, "Just… remember that. We're your family too, and you scared me today, Jane. In the hospital…" She visibly shrugged that thought away and added, "We're here for you. I'm here for you."
"I know," Jane said.
And he did.
He really didn't deserve any of the team's support, let alone that of the incredible woman currently perched on his desk. But they gave it to him anyway.
He took a deep breath, then said, almost without meaning to, "She was different than I expected."
Teresa eyed him with quiet encouragement.
"She was so grown-up. And cheeky. Really cheeky."
"Can't imagine where she'd get that from," Teresa muttered quietly. Fondly.
"She said something similar," Jane said with a sad smile.
Teresa returned his smile and remained silent.
"…she liked you, you know," Jane added.
"She did?" Teresa asked, sounding touched.
"Yeah," Jane said, blinking his eyes fiercely against a sudden burning sensation.
That amazing girl – no, young woman – never had the chance to exist because of him. Charlotte would never meet Teresa became she was dead. Dead at Red John's hands.
Charlotte's words about Red John drifted back into his head: Well, to be honest, Dad, your obsession is a little creepy and weird, you know? I hate to be the one to break this to you, but there's nothing you can do for us. We don't give a damn what happens to Red John. I mean, we're dead. Gone. You need to start dealing with that.
I deal with it every day, he'd replied, stung.
She'd answered, Maybe that's the problem.
Hearing her say those things – as much as they had hurt – had crystallized certain thoughts that had been percolating in the back of his mind over the past few years. Which made sense, of course, since Charlotte wasn't really Charlotte at all, but a hallucinated product from the belladonna and his own subconscious mind.
"You want to tell me about her?" Teresa asked gently.
What? Oh. Right. Charlotte.
Did he?
…Huh. He did.
Taking a deep breath, he began to speak: "When Charlotte was three, she told us that she was going to be the world's first firefighter-fairy princess…"
