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The springs in the old couch dug into Jane’s shoulder blades, it felt like he was trying to grow wings out of his flesh. Persistent dull aches. Or perhaps it was his age. He was gaining more crinkles by each day (and Lisbon’s stares were getting a bit more starry with each crinkles).
In his hand was a bottle of sleeping pills.
A handful of the pills would take him to wherever Charlotte and Angela were. He imagined them in their matching night-gowns, playing silly songs on a piano or giggling about how stupid he was in so many ways.
It was mildly amusing, how this was all impulsive.
The day had actually been satisfactory. Fun, even.
There were no new cases. Cho was reading ‘Sense and Sensibility’. Van Pelt was stealing glances at Rigsby, making the man struggle not to grin back.
And Jane had been on the couch, wishing he had a camera to capture the sun-kissed idiots. Golden light shimmered through the open windows, making all of them look lively. Even Cho looked like he was hiding a smile (Jane could tell it was probably the romance in the book).
But such a photo would miss out on Jane’s real muse.
Lisbon.
She had been cooped up in her office with paperwork. She had looked especially radiant, with her hair in a messy bun because of the summer heat.
When he had crossed by her room, he had caught a glimpse of her munching on a powdered donut.
Jane had paused, staring.
The dusting had gotten on the tip of her nose, making her look cuter than she had any right to be. It must also be the freckles, and the soft lips pouted due to concentration.
Jane had realized he was capable of getting jealous of a stupid donut of all things.
But that was it. He had memorized that exact moment of her in the back of his head and moved on. Like a polaroid burnt in his retina.
Now, his hand was trembling with the bottle. The Team had left, waving goodbyes and whispering quips here and there. Lisbon had been the last to go, giving him a soft smile before leaving.
There was no trigger at all.
The day had been good.
Too fucking good.
So, why was he here? Trying so hard to breath through his constricted lungs while holding a suicide plan in his palm? Where did this random wave of exhaustion come from?
Would he even go to where his family was? But then, logically, they were simply gone. They simply ceased to exist after that day.
Van Pelt’s insistence on heaven was soothing and agonising to think about.
Because, if at all there was a heaven, it was no place for him. He could never truly meet them ever again. What was Angela’s eye colour? How did Charlotte giggle? Despite being a mentalist, there were things he did not dare look back on.
He remembered them in a certain way, but how accurate was it, truly? And now, even if he were to kill himself, he would never really meet them again.
A sob was startled out of him. A keening, desperate, shameful noise.
It was a great day.
Jane sat up, numb to the way his muscles ached in protest. He opened the lid and carefully spilled the pills in his palm. He did not want to count. Counting would trigger the analytical part of him.
He was quite sick of it.
He moved the palm to his mouth and opened his lips.
Something vibrated in his chest pocket.
He knew who it was. Jane grinned, sniffing out the last of the sobs and sadness. He pulled out the phone and connected the call.
“Jane.”
“Lisbon.”
“Why-” she seemed to be chugging down something. “Why were you staring at me like that-”
Beer.
He huffed. “Like what?”
“Come on, don’t- ugh- don't play coy with me!”
“Well, you looked ridiculous with that donut.”
“Ridiculous?” She scoffed (Jane could feel her offended eye-roll through the phone).
“Ridiculously charming. Cute as a button.”
“Sheep dip.”
“Are you blushing, Teresa?”
She definitely was. There was a sudden urge in Jane to gaze at her and trace how the pink would spread from her cheeks to the tips of her ears.
“Fuck off, Jane.”
As giddy as a cat high on catnip, Jane closed the bottle and laughed softly.
“Yeah, laugh all you want!”
He could tell she was grinning too. And just like that, Jane lived yet another day.