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Mornings had long been a favorite part of Patrick Jane’s day. Though in truth, there had been years where he dreaded having to get up when his family’s killer was still on the loose, still at large, his only fuel being his desire for revenge, burning ever brighter, consuming every thought. He hadn’t counted on being able to wake up after the fact, knowing with certainty the killer would never see the light of day. For a moment, he contemplated being certain that, he too, would never wake up again. Few people were intimate with the degree of trauma he had endured, he knew as much, and it would be rough going forward (alone), although it’d hurt those he cared about if he followed through. Not hurt, devastate. Patrick knew that inasmuch as he’d be burdened, it was the less selfish decision to leave the country altogether. Relying on his resourcefulness, he contacted an old carny friend in Mexicali for a passport, used 4,000 grand of what had been stashed away for the two flights.
For two years he’d been able to wake up and choose what it was he wanted to do. Until the FBI came along – but he was granted more leniency than one would expect given the circumstances, and somehow, he was lucky enough that eventually he was waking up alongside the woman he loved. Patrick had never subscribed to the idea mornings begun with a fresh pot of coffee, but a steaming cup of tea really got the blood flowing. The chance to sit on his front porch with a good book in hand, watching as the sun’s rays colored the horizon was one of life’s simpler pleasures. Just the day before, Teresa had been down in Orange investigating a crime that occurred at the Stark Museum of Art and had picked up a thorough study in Western American Art she knew he’d be fascinated by - he was already a quarter of the way through. The urge to wake up and work on the house, or even the yard still sat with him, but there would be time. Teresa had been adamant that if she had to cut back on work, it didn’t mean their all time together would be spent stressing over the lengthy to-do-list, besides, the house was coming along nicely.
She had been laying on her stomach under the covers, responding to his offer for tea by muttering something he couldn’t make out, which suggested he should give it no less than an hour before trying again. They had all day together, anyhow, he was content with a morning spent in silence.
Angela hadn’t been a morning person either. It came as a surprise the first night he’d slept over at her parent’s trailer as a gangly teen who’d just had his growth spurt to find she refused to leave the sofa-bed until almost eleven, while he couldn’t wait to get up and start planning their day. As her parents had been held in high regard for their involvement with the carnival circuit, they had little time for their two children, leaving Danny alone with his sister or another carny. He couldn’t once remember hearing Angela complain, though in retrospect, he now understood why she liked to oversleep, why she had begged him to quit the psychic business. Jane struggled with the second, knowing he’d always carry that weight. It dominated less than it had, though the hurt would never completely dissipate out of existence.
He wished now he’d let her sleep in more. His younger self was intent on seizing every moment, always looking to book a show or have his agent contact a potential client. Trying to prove his worth through the eyes of the producers and marks across the country when instead he should had swallowed his pride. In a way, he’d been given a second chance. One he didn’t deserve but would readily accept. When the sun showed itself in its entirety, he rose to his feet.