Disclaimer: I do not own the Mentalist or NCIS.
A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who put this story on their favorites and/or reviewed! This is just a short update to whet your appetite.
Jane finds the plane ride to D.C. really more amusing than he should.
It is a red-eye flight, which means that many of his fellow passengers are either seasoned travelers or have somewhere urgent to be. They slump in their seats as they wait for the boarding call, beaten and battered by the long lines at security, simply glad to be heading to their destination. There is only one child—and the girl bears no resemblance to his own daughter, which Jane is thoroughly glad of.
He is in coach despite his best attempts at charming the young woman at the ticket counter into giving him a seat in first class. Lisbon would call it a blow to his ego (Losing your touch, Jane?), but he prefers to think of it as an opportunity to observe a greater sampling of people.
His seat number is called, and Jane stretches, languidly getting in line behind a tall black man chewing a toothpick.
Seven people stand between him and the lady inspecting boarding passes, and Jane eyes them with routine interest.
The verdict: two adulterers, a closeted businessman, an alcoholic, a newly wedded couple and a cop.
Jane flips his pass with agile fingers as he waits, mindlessly performing the sleight of hand he had perfected as a child. Appear…disappear…
"You're cleared to carry a firearm aboard, Director Vance," the lady says to the cop in front of him. "Enjoy your flight."
"Thank you," Vance replies, and walks down the boarding ramp.
Director, Jane muses, handing over his pass with a small bit of regret at losing his last bit of entertainment. Like Morrow. Don't those guys have private planes?
"Enjoy your flight," the lady says, smiling blandly.
"Oh, I will." Jane smiles.
He can feel the plane's engines humming underneath him as he walks closer, and he's surprised at the pit of excitement starting to uncurl in his stomach. Yes, he has always found planes to be an adventure of sorts, but this whole affair is really more of a coping mechanism than anything. Jane's all about running away from his problems; in fact, he finds it to be a fine way of dealing with things, no matter what the shrinks say.
It was a happy sort of excitement, Jane analyzes critically, giving the captain a little nod as he passed. Or maybe it was just a sense of satisfaction at having a new environment—the CBI was used to his presence now, and their reactions were predictable, which meant boring.
Perhaps Lisbon was right, Jane thinks, making his way down the crowded aisle of the plane with new boyish enthusiasm.
Well, in any case, he wouldn't be saying that to her face anytime soon. The amount of crow that would be eaten would be enough to sustain Rigsby for a week.
If she wants to know, I had a miserable time, and I won't be doing this again.
But then that would probably make her eyes soften in pity, and okay, crow would be infinitesimally preferable to Lisbon pitying him.
Jane stops at 17A, and is mildly astonished to find Director Vance sitting in his seat.
The man looks up, still chewing the same toothpick from before. "I took the window seat; I hope you don't mind."
His tone is not in the least bit apologetic and greatly resembles: if you do mind, tough luck.
Awfully presumptuous, Jane thinks wryly. He's briefly tempted to say 'yes', just to see what happens, but the memory of the gun deters him and he shakes his head in the negative.
Jane buckles himself in, then proceeds to examine Vance from his peripherals, guessing that the other man would not welcome outright observation.
Dark suit, good material, with a rather whimsical tie that didn't seem to match. From the wedding ring on his finger, Jane assumed a wife or child had picked it out. This man seemed like the type to have color coordinated socks. He exuded confidence and toughness—maybe a former athlete if the healed broken nose was anything to go by. Boxer, Jane decided, taking in Vance's coiled hands, which rested lightly on his armrest. Ex-smoker—an easy deduction from the toothpick habit.
AType-A personality, someone who wanted to control every situation and other people.
Fun.
Devoid of his usual forms of entertainment, and too restless to feign sleep, Jane decides to initiate conversation.
"So, what's your name?" he asks over the purring of the engine.
Vance, who has been watching the clouds pass by for the last thirty minutes, looks over with an irritated expression.
"Just because we're going to be sharing a plane ride doesn't make us pals," he replies.
Hostile.
"Oh, I'm just making conversation," says Jane lightly.
"Don't," Vance says, folding his arms. His mustache twitches.
"See, this is where you say, 'My name is'…"
Vance's lips tighten around his toothpick. "Sir, this will be a very long plane ride for you if you continue to speak to me. I'm not interested in making your acquaintance."
"That's a shame."
Vance turns back to the window.
"Do you fly to D.C. often?"
Jane receives the glare with a grin.
By the time he's done with Vance, the man will be ready to kill him six ways to Sunday.
He keeps up a nice, steady stream of chatter in which he reveals nothing personal—either about Vance or himself. Jane suspects that any pointed comments about the director's life would have been met with threats of handcuffs. And since Lisbon is not here to liberate him from the tiring policies of other law enforcement agencies—or give her usual spiel: 'I'm sorry. Yes, he's an ass. No, we can't get him a muzzle; it's against PETA regulations.'—Jane employs his rarely used mind filter, and focuses on being annoying without being probing. He wonders, idly, as he waxes poetically about the relationship of the couple in the seats in front of them, just how much he can push Vance's buttons.
He plays this game with Lisbon every day.
It's fun.
He likes seeing the frustration build on her face, and watch her squint suspiciously as she attempts to figure out his latest theory. It is a good routine, but not much of a challenge anymore. Jane has figured out the little quirks of her personality and most of her tells; it is almost like watching a favorite movie over again. Entertaining, certainly, but when you already know the ending, there's no point of sitting through it. Sometimes he suspects Lisbon of simply going through the motions of arguing with him, which is hardly satisfactory for his frequently bored mind. Jane wants a sparring partner, someone who understands just how much a battle of words can exhilarate, and thrill.
He wants to push someone to the breaking point, and to have that person push back at him, no holds barred.
To his disappointment, Vance does not prove to be his special someone.
He had wistfully pictured the ride concluding with a thrilling spectacle in which Vance's hands close around his throat for a good throttle, but the Director of A Federal Agency apparently possessed greater self-control than Jane had originally thought. Other than a magnificent scowl when he exits the plane, Vance shows no outward sign of a seething bad temper.
Let down by his social experiment, Jane steps out into the early D.C. dawn and begins the unenviable process of flagging down a taxi.
The hotel that the driver recommends to him is not fancy, but it suits his purposes. He checks in, yawning discretely as he rides the elevator to the 7th floor.
His room is clean enough, and he carefully sets down his suitcase on the floor before heading into the bathroom to splash water on his face. It does nothing to head off his impending sleepiness, and Jane is forced to confront the fact that he will have to sleep. It is, after all, three in the morning California time. He hadn't slept at all the night before. But Jane is still unhappy as he lays down on the mattress, hands clasped behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling.
That watermark looks like a poinsettia. Lisbon likes poinsettias, doesn't she? I learned how to make an origami poinsettia...maybe I should make one for her. She liked that frog I made her...but everyone likes frogs. Well, Van Pelt probably doesn't like frogs. No, she probably likes those little cartoon frogs. Why am I thinking like so much? Enjoy. That's a better word. I like that word, enjoy...
Jane is awakened hours later by a sharp knock on his door.
"NCIS! Open up!"