Title: 'Entwined in Gold'
By: Sei-chan-1999
Summary: It had to be a sign of some sort, a message from a place beyond his own superhuman understanding of the world's working, because no matter how much he polished it and cared for it, the wedding ring still remained dull. He wore it day and night, nonetheless. (Jisbon, despite what it sounds like.)
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of the creators and related persons. 'The Mentalist' is a copyrighted television show. I am doing this for fun, so no rights to me.
Author's Note: I'm an illegal immigrant as I'm visiting from an anime/manga fandom and this is my first Mentalist fanfic, written as a birthday present for my younger sister and best friend, Lovetasmania 98. Reviews are appreciated.
XXX
"Entwined in Gold' by Sei-chan-1999.
It always entered his life at the most awkward of times; when he raised his hand to wipe at his moist temples, when he laid his head down on his arm for a quick snooze, when he shook hands with another suspect, when he tried cracking his knuckles after a long drive and hit metal instead of skin.
His wedding ring.
It was a simple gold band that had made one of the pillars of flesh on his hand its permanent home.
It was never an interruption. It came at times when he was tired, exhausted and sick of life itself and the everlasting smile on his face felt slightly more stretched and rubbery than usual.
He remembered his wife.
Just the mere touch of the cold metal could remind him of better days when life had been so much simpler and he had been uninvolved with the troubles of the world in general; a velvet lined oyster purely with him, his wife and a cute little daughter for them to share within its private depths of familial love and coziness, the calm after a turbulent childhood.
He had never asked for more, never needed it. But that was just the lull before the storm.
People like him were the ones who had everything taken away from them; a reward for not falling to the vices of mankind by demanding what they didn't deserve.
The ring brought back pleasurable memories; soft hands passing over his face, caressing him, faint smiles, joyous laughter and nimble fingers over the keys of a piano.
It was there for him when everything else left him. The ring had gotten him out of a few nasty situations; over-eager females, almost vulgar in their enthusiasm, who tried to get close to him and failed to feel the aura of revulsion that emanated from him when they entered his personal space.
The ring was always there for him.
Just the way a good wife was.
That time, when his finger was about to be cut off, he'd let himself cry out loud without meaning to.
He didn't care about the pain or the complications afterwards, of course.
He was scared that they'd remove the finger with the ring on it. But somehow, he managed to get out of it, mostly unscathed.
God hadn't existed for him, but after that day he wasn't so sure anymore.
The wedding ring was exactly that; a warning to the outside world that despite everything, he was still wedded and considered himself to be so, even if the contemptuous term for people like him was 'widower'.
He hoped she would be happy wherever she was, if she was anything except dust and rotting organs in a pit of soil and coffin, but he knew she wasn't.
Because no matter how much he polished it and cared for it, the ring still remained dull.
He wore it day and night, nonetheless.
XXX
Over a decade of police training had taught her not to miss anything. But then, it was impossible to miss the blond-haired man in an immaculate suit, lounging on a couch and staring into space.
"Jane," Lisbon called from across the room, "Are you in pain?"
As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced internally, hoping Jane would disregard her blunder. No such luck that day.
"Rhymes?" he questioned casually, turning onto his stomach to study her with that elegant smile of his, "Feeling poetic, are we, Teresa?"
She just gave him that look of hers; the one that got suspects to spill names and got her refills of coffee from her coworkers without having to move out of her chair.
It didn't work on Jane.
Instead, he leaned back and raised an arm to the light streaming from the windows, sighing a little as he stared at the white bandages practically mummifying his palm and fingers.
It was barely an injury at all; she had seen much worse during her watch, but for reasons she decided to ignore for the moment, her stomach flipped when she saw it on him yet again.
The man they'd convicted that day for murdering his wealthy, multi-millionaire mistress, had tried to bolt. No one had ever tried it before and through sheer terror, adrenaline and what she suspected was partial insanity, he had made to the door fifteen feet away and almost to freedom.
He hadn't expected to encounter Patrick Jane on the other side.
There had been a mess of course; slamming doors, a shove, a collision, spilled tea (why, oh why, was it always the tea?), broken ceramic and a hand pushed through the door frame to keep it from getting locked and the snap of a bone or two breaking.
It still irked her that all he'd done was stand there like a goldfish in a three-piece suit and it had ended with him, when Cho and Rigsby couldn't stop the man despite chasing him around the bullpen with stun guns.
The suspect had been caught, of course. An embarrassment, but it was an isolated incident and she was sure it wouldn't cause too much harm.
Jane's hand, however, was another story.
The fractures had been fixed quickly enough and the never failing mentalist was more crushed by the loss of his omnipresent blue teacup and saucer more than anything else. Lisbon had spent the rest of the day trying to drown an oncoming migraine with way too much caffeine and writing up the paperwork as he silently offered his company. It was fond and peaceful and she was content with it.
"Are you all right?" she repeated.
When he didn't reply, she walked over to him and was shocked to find his previous smile of mere seconds ago missing, as she looked down. Instead, his face was creased with worry and tension, his expressive eyes more vulnerable than usual. It pulled at her heart-strings to see him in pain like this. He had never asked for it, or volunteered for any of this, after all.
"Let me see," she said gently and he let her take his hand without protest as she inspected it carefully, well aware of the fact that he wouldn't have allowed anyone else to come so close to him at a time like this.
"There doesn't seem to be anything serious here, Jane, and-"
She cut herself off.
Through the bandage, she could make out a sliver of skin that had been left open and uncovered to the world.
The wedding ring was on it.
There was a tiny dent in its lustrous metal, a chink of it gone missing, like it had been carved out with a huge needle, during the incident with the slamming door. Unnoticeable the rest of the population, but to him…
…it meant something very different.
"Jane," she began helplessly, when he didn't even bother to meet her gaze, "I'm so sorry. When your hand gets better, we can do something about it."
Jane looked up and tried to turn up his lips but failed.
"Thanks, Teresa," he said simply, "but I don't think that's going to work out."
He tried to smile again and succeeded this time.
She only realized later that Jane was the only one who could make her react that way; to stand over his couch and babble about goldsmiths and cosmetic repairs and what not, until he gently stopped her.
"It's all right Teresa," he began to assure her, like a parent soothing a hysterical child, but his eyes widened at the sight of the mangled ring on his hand, still caught between Lisbon's own palms. He stopped before he could go on any further.
The metal that had been gouged out was luminous, as the cut bared the uneven but deeper layers of gold that hadn't been worn down by sun, his constant usage and contact with water.
It caught the rays of the late afternoon sun and for the first time in nearly a decade, since the first time he had put it on and sworn his oath…
…it sparkled.
The End.