I love the few reviews I have recieved so far. They are encouraging and make me smile. I know it has been dark so far, and it should be, but I want my readers to know that the longevity of the dark chapters and the longevity of how one with depression can suffer are absolutely paralleled. But know that in this story, just as in life, the light will eventually come. Eventually.
I don't own the Mentalist.
In isolation she sat hunched over a blank report, seemingly focused on the words she would soon put onto the crisp white sheet, but actually contemplating her next move. It depended on Jane. Doesn't it always? She wanted him to forget he ever knew, to go on like they always had with him getting into trouble and her saving his ass.
But at the same time, she wanted it to go away. Lisbon knew that if nobody ever confronted her with the issue, she would continue on like she had for the past twenty years. She didn't like that it had to be Patrick Jane to find out, but she knew that she need the pain—all of it, physical and unreal…or real—to go away.
Her mind wondered where he was now. Does it matter? Yes. He was on the couch, unsleeping, perhaps counting the ways he could expose her to the rest of the team. What if he was re-evaluating how he viewed her and she was no longer worthy of his attention? That's not true. How do you know? Maybe he hated her, she didn't hate him.
Cautiously, she approached the vacant chair that rested beside his brown leather couch. She meant to say his name forever ago, but somehow seeing his peaceful face made the nature of this moment seem even more precarious, "Jane."
He acted surprised to see her, squeezing the groggy fog out of his eyes. He yawned, and expectantly looked, "Yes?"
Her elbows dug into her knees and she tried not to let him see her face, burrowing her chin to her chest. Look at him. I can't. Weak. Their eyes met, "About what happened earlier…" That was meant to be an invitation for him to say something comforting or damning, but he didn't take the bait, "I…I just wanted—what are you going to do?"
A deep breath and a new speck on the ceiling he could stare at captured her expectations. It took an eternity for him to finally speak, "What do you want me to do, Lisbon?"
She stood and nervously walked around the dimly lit office, settling for a nice view of the stars from the window just behind Rigsby's unattended desk. Nobody but the preoccupied janitor was near and Lisbon doubted he could hear their conversation above the deafeningly loud iPod he always carried, "I thought you were the genius," a pause, "I don't know what you should do."
"I didn't ask what I should do; I asked what you wanted me to do. There's a difference," he corrected.
If she were the type, she would be crying. But she's not. "I don't know, Jane."
"Yes you do," he knew how he got answers out of her before and he wasn't afraid of employing that method again, "Seriously? You don't even know what you want? If you don't know what you want, than what do you know?" No answer. "What do you know, Lisbon? Anything? Do you know how to—"
"Jane, stop it," the only thing she wanted at that moment was to suffocate. She wanted the hands she was burying her face in to never move and she just wanted to die. Anything but confronting him about this of all things.
"Stop it. You want me to 'stop it'. Man, Lisbon, before today I could have sworn you were the toughest woman I know, but now I'm not so sure."
Nevermind. Just nevermind. She almost ran to her office, bumping into the corner of a desk and the edge of a wall to get there fast enough. Click of the lock, ignore the footsteps heading toward the door. Back uncomfortably sliding down the glass door and knees coming to meet her chest for protection. Head slammed onto her arms, "Lisbon!" Ignore. He's not there. Yes he is; he's there judging you.
oasidsedfahnoiefn. Review.
