`The Illusion of Control

A Mentalist Fanfic

Author's Note: This is my first time publishing fanfiction. I have been reading a lot here lately, and have not seen anything quite like this, so I don't know what to call it. It isn't an episode tag, it's just some different characters in off-screen scenes to explore their personalities and points of view. I welcome constructive feedback, and I feel like posting here I have a lot to live up to. Let's just say some of the authors in this fandom have inspired me, and I hope that I can refine my writing skills while working on something I enjoy with others who enjoy it too. But of course:

Mandatory Disclaimer:
I do not own The Mentalist or any of its characters, much as I enjoy them.
If I thought I could make money from just my writing, I'd make up my own characters with which to do it, rather than using someone else's intellectual property.

Chapter one: Whose guy?

Dennis Abbott had trouble keeping his eyes on the paperwork on his desk that morning. Not that it was dull. It was full of very interesting and unusual requests for the materials that Patrick Jane considered necessary for catching murderous art thieves. Things like a fancy house in which to hold a party, and art on loan from the art theft department.

He was having to exercise some of his considerable creativity to make the case for acquiring these supplies, but while his face maintained its usual calm and professional demeanor, Abbott's head was buzzing. His eyes kept returning to the drawer in his office where he kept his Voltron action figure. He was itching to get his hands into something physical, to help him process this sudden turn of events. Pens on paper was not nearly active enough for him, at the moment.

A tap on his door drew his eyes upward, to where Searles from the art squad was standing with a strained, apologetic expression. Abbott was relieved for the excuse to get out of his chair.

"Abbott, do you have a moment? I'm trying to handle the paperwork on my end and could use a bit of… a consult."

"Of course, Searles, come in." He gestured towards a chair. "Quite a change-around, isn't it? All you needed was a place to meet, and suddenly you have more help than you bargained for."

"And we're grateful, of course, I hope you know how we appreciate the offer of assistance here," Searles hurried to say as he dropped into the chair, his brows knitted and his hands fidgety. "Your man Jane was so eager to be helpful, I just didn't have the heart to tell him how much red tape would be generated by this level of inter-departmental cooperation."

Abbot smiled, sitting on his desk. "He was eager to help because as a consultant he doesn't do reports. Well, he dictates them to one of the office administrators, and she cleans them up to sound almost professional."

Searles peered up at him as he perched on the edge of his desk, a lopsided, nervous glance. "He's quite a character, isn't he? Pike's been telling me about his plan, such as it is, and it's…unorthodox, to say the least."

A chuckle. "That he is. But somehow it works for him. Since we took him on as consultant, we have closed every case that he worked on. And faster, more efficiently than I have ever seen it done. I have every confidence that this plan will succeed in catching the perpetrators."

"Then, you trust him?" Searles' eyes fixed keenly on Abbott's. "I mean, he wouldn't, for example, run off with the stolen art or something, would he?" He gave a weak laugh, and Abbott realized that it was no joke to Searles. The senior agent was putting his reputation on the line, and he was afraid that accepting this arrangement might in fact get him in trouble.

Abbott stood, closed the door, and took a chair next to the one where Searles was sitting. He leaned in. "Tom, how long have we known each other? About 15 years? You know I take my job very seriously."

"Of course I know that, Dennis, you're one of the very best. I'd bet my career on your instincts. But this consultant… I've heard stories about his background… and he really isn't one of us, he has no clue how the Bureau operates. The man's a con man from way back, and a killer. Twice. Fugitive from justice. For two years. And he wants us to throw a party for him at an old drug house, and set him up with some stolen art. How are you going to sell that to the higher-ups? How am I?" Searles waved his copies of the request forms that Abbott had been tied up with for the last far-too-long, with a familiar expression of frustrated bewilderment. Like Fischer often wore these days.

Abbott leaned back, trying to maintain his composure. His hands itched to get at his Voltron. Or better yet, to punch something himself. Tom Searles had just put his finger on some of the very things that most vexed him in this situation. Why was Jane so interested in this case? Was he aware of the position that he had put Abbott in by "volunteering" the team for this project? Did he really believe that he could catch a gang that the pros had been hunting for years without success?

With a deep sigh, Abbott said, "I know Jane's history. It was my team that cleaned up the mess he left in Sacramento. And the hoops I had to jump to get him on my team… well, let's just say if I wasn't quite sure he could deliver, I would never have gone to all that trouble."

"Yes, but can he be trusted? Are you absolutely certain he doesn't have some hidden agenda here? It's not his competence that I'm concerned about, it's his character."

"I'll vouch for his character, too." Abbott said mildly, though he could feel his gut beginning to churn. "He doesn't seem to be motivated by wealth or power, from what I can see."

A skeptical silence was his only reply.

"Look, when I went to offer Jane a deal, he didn't ask for a high salary or a prestigious position. His demands were peculiar, I'll admit, but not the sort of things most people would even think to ask for." Searles leaned forward, now looking curious, but Abbott did not want to get too specific. "There's a sort of humility in the things he wanted. Like that couch, and the tea. He likes comfort, familiarity. A man like that doesn't run off for a dangerous life as an art thief."

Searles eyed him shrewdly, fingering his files. "The work we do is dangerous, too. And not nearly as glamorous. How are you so sure?"

Abbott mulled over his response. Teresa Lisbon came immediately to mind, but he still wasn't entirely sure how she and Jane were connected, and her influence wasn't a thing he could articulate, even to himself. "Let's just say that I have some leverage." He reached for Searles' stack of papers. "Now let's put our heads together and see if we can get our t's crossed and our I's dotted here…"

When Tom Searles left Abbott's office, their paperwork had been completed, but Abbott's tension had only increased. He closed his door again, and made straight for the Voltron toy which had been his gift from Patrick Jane. He ran his hands over it, delighted with the smooth perfection of the thing. How he could make it do just what he wanted it to do.

If only Patrick Jane were nearly as easy to control.

In the bureau, it is necessary to appear confident, professional, and ready to handle anything at any time. With an old friend like Tom, one could be a bit less impersonal, as long as one was discreet. But to air his doubts, even around Searles, to allow any other agent to see him second guessing himself… well, it was unthinkable.

So while they had tossed around the wording of their justifications, and bandied about rationales, Abbott had carefully concealed his rising unease about the whole situation. And the unease had spiked when Searles had said, casually, towards the end of their discussion, "You know, when he came in and talked to Mrs. Hennigan, Pike knew who he was right away. He said, 'oh, you're Abbott's guy?' and Jane said 'well, he's my guy.' Just like that! Can you believe that?"

No. Abbott would never have believed that anyone could be that cocky, and that tactless, to say something so brazenly insubordinate at the FBI. But Tom Searles wasn't the type to lie just to stir things up. And character assassination, while not unheard of at the bureau, was nothing to be trifled with, either.

Abbott had not ground his jaw at the time, knowing it would not do to be caught flat-footed. Instead, he had laughed and said "Well, I guess he has to convince himself that he's in control, right? And I don't mind letting him kid himself. I know what's really going on."

Searles was as good a friend as Abbott had ever had at the bureau, but it was not a complete surprise that another jab was forthcoming, subtle as it was. "So then he'll have given you all the details of the plan, then?"

It was mischief more than malice, Abbott reassured himself. Not everybody at the FBI was obsessed with jockeying for position and prestige. Certainly Tom wouldn't intentionally try to make him look foolish. "I know everything he thinks I need to know. And a bit more than that." Abbott raised his eyebrows with a knowing look, intending to convey that he was actually a step or two ahead of his consultant. When in fact he was fighting his own irritation at the reminder of just how much he was being kept in the dark. Jane had told him no more about the details of his big plan than he had told Pike and the rest, and Abbott found his vagueness more than a bit frustrating. But Searles did not need to know that.

The other agent's smile faltered. "See that you do, Dennis. Even if he's not into power and money, he could make your job impossible if he forgets who's in charge. Just… a word to the wise."

And Abbott had fallen silent, remembering that Searles had been up for a promotion before Pike's predecessor had essentially taken credit for Tom's work and cut Tom out. Abbott felt guilty, for a moment, for harboring the slightest suspicion that his friend would undercut him. But he also knew that their situations were not really comparable.

The agent that had backstabbed Searles was not nearly as clever as Patrick Jane.

Abbot came back to the present with a jolt as he watched his own supervisor walk by his office, glance at the big plastic robot toy in his hands, and do a double take before walking on with a bemused grimace. Abbot quickly set Voltron down on his desk, slightly embarrassed. Yes, it was cool, he had always thought so, how these distinct elements came together to make something bigger, stronger, more powerful. Voltron was about teamwork in a good cause. But a grown man should not be seen in his office playing with toys. Was Jane really making an effort to fit in my giving him this gift, or was he out to make Abbott look foolish? Once again the agent found himself wondering if he was taking foolish risks with his reputation-with his team- in this case.

Why, why had he risked letting Jane run this operation, Abbott asked himself. He remembered the smug smile that the consultant had worn when he sent Fischer off to get briefed by Pike, the measuring look, as if he could read Abbott's rationalizations scrolling down his forehead.

Yes, Jane had gone over his head, promising the team's support without clearing it with his superiors. But he had done it in the name of inter-bureau cooperation, and wasn't that something Abbott should encourage?

Yes, Jane had admitted to having no experience regarding the theft of fine art. But when had he ever failed to rise to a challenge? His confidence was contagious, and his sense of fun... well, intriguing.

Yes, if Jane failed, it would make Abbott look bad. But then, one failure would also perhaps put Jane in his place, humble him a little bit. And if Jane succeeded, it would be another feather in Abbot's cap, because Abbott had sought and procured Jane's services, and had encouraged his initiative. A bold risk. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Wouldn't the superheroes that Abbott idolized as a boy have jumped at a chance like this?

So Abbott had jumped. Now, looking out the glass walls of his office, he had to acknowledge that the choice had been made already, and he would lose face if he backed out after setting his seal of approval on the deal. Jane had already started making plans, buzzing about, but not actually telling Abbot what the plans were or giving him anything constructive to do. Other than the paperwork.

He was good at paperwork, and in many ways found it very satisfying. He remembered his father telling him once "You learn to use words and you can get pay for what you can think of, not just what you can lift." His Dad had been right, too. Abbot's skill with writing had helped him get to his current position. But it sometimes lacked the satisfaction of seeing an immediate result, feeling the world shift because of how you moved or pushed or hit.

He looked at his Voltron wistfully before stashing it away in its hiding place. He wished he had armor that could protect him from the bad guys, and from friendly fire in a world of supposed good guys, and even from the weaknesses that he struggled with in himself. He wished he could make things work the way they should, so that innocents could be safe, and justice would always be served. But his Gran had told him many times that in this world there would always be trouble. There was a God, he had always been told, and he himself felt certain of it. But Abbott wasn't him.

He took a deep breath, closing the drawer on the plastic robot, still feeling a bit edgy. It had been a while since his last work-out. Maybe a little time with a punching bag in the exercise room would help him deal with his frustrations.

So that's the first chapter. I don't know how long it will take me to do the next, but since we all know the plot of Violets I don't think anyone will be in great suspense waiting for the next chapter to come. In fact, I'm dreading that nobody will be as interested as I am in exploring the inner worlds of these other characters. But I'll gamble that people who appreciate Patrick Jane will care about how other people think.