Wonder ~ Patrick Jane "the Mentalist" One-Shots

In a Mood

Summary: After narrowly missing Red John and being forced to kill one of his friends, Jane is in an awful mood that slowly tears your friendship apart.

Warnings: Mild language, angst (but ends with fluff , I promise!)

A/N: Wow I haven't updated this book in forever! I know a lot of y'all have wanted me back writing Jane content, and I might be more motivated to now that we're rewatching the Mentalist. It was hard to find his character voice when I wasn't as exposed to him so with us going through all seven seasons a second time I'll probably have more inspiration. I'm not necessarily taking requests, as in, if you leave a request I won't promise to write it, but if you have ideas feel free to comment them anyways or message me. It might be something that gets my mind rolling and who knows! If I ever accept a request I'll make sure to tag you! Thanks for the support y'all, I hope you like this one-shot!

Words: 8048

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Jane is in a mood. Has been, in fact. 'Course nobody's confronted his behavior, though the stress lines forming between Lisbon's brows wager she'll be the first to snap. Since becoming comfortable with the team, their routine, and the atmosphere of homicide, Jane has always been a wild card. There's nothing to be done about it. The trauma Jane's experienced puts life into a rather silly perspective. A thirst for revenge scraps any respect for the law, and his unhealthy lack of a will to live sets Jane up to live each day like it's his last. He takes no one's bullshit and bullshits no one. The victims he's gentle with, the villains he harasses. Jane is an absolute catastrophe half the time, screwing with things he ought not to, causing a Hell of a mess for Lisbon and Manelli to clean up, and yet for all the collateral, he closes cases — and worms his way into the hearts of the team, utterly uninvited. What flaws Jane possesses, he makes up for with his charm, compassion, and humor. Whether he's realized it or not, Jane's a part of this team. He's family, to all you. And usually he has the human decency to be mostly nice to you.

Well, that started to change a week ago.

Ever since the failure to apprehend one of Red John's cohorts, a turn-coat small-town cop, Jane's been a real dick.

Yep, you said it.

You hate to be so blunt. It really really sucks that Roy Tagliaferro or Dumar or whatever his name had to be put down before you could get him to talk. In the days following his death, a paralysis haunted you. A cold, gripping emptiness. The unpleasant aftertaste of the disappointment that impaled you as you watched the life drain from Dumar's eyes. Jane was there beside you. Head inches from your trembling knees. Somewhere behind, Lisbon stood, in utter shock, guarding the kidnapped girl you'd rescued with only her body. Three seconds before, you were certain Lisbon would get shot, maybe even die. Right there...in front of you. It all happened so fast. Standing next to Jane, you gently reassured him that missing Red John wasn't a set back. Rosalind's story was a step in the right direction. Jane seemed to listen, nodding, though the dimness of his eyes told you he was exhausted and let down, two things which only time and rest could remedy. So you spared him a sad smile, and took his hand, knowing physical contact was one of his love languages.

And Jane looked up at you.

That look...

He hasn't ever looked at you like that before.

Knocked the air straight from your lungs.

A little twinge in your heart had you moving a step closer when a two gunshots startled you into grabbing for your gun. That was when both you and Jane noticed Dumar on his feet, a pistol in his hands, two dead officers at his feet and a smoking barrel aimed for Lisbon's head. You hovered a hand over your weapon, wanting to fire, afraid to lose your boss. Jane grabbed you the minute he realized what was at stake. A strangled cry hung at the back of your throat as Jane guided you behind him, bending down slowly for the shotgun taken off Dumar in the basement, half an hour earlier. Your heart leapt in your throat as Lisbon raised a steadying hand, urging Dumar to come to his senses. He refused. He smiled. Sick bastard, you remember thinking, and then his finger was on the trigger, and you were screaming because it fired — or..or you thought – you could've sworn it fired but Jane. It was Patrick Jane, with the shotgun, on the side of the road. The moment Dumar was down, Jane dropped the firearm and hurried to his only lead. A dying, stubborn lead that gave no valuable information, even as he wretched a final time. You walked as a ghost, utterly drained, adrenaline still frying your circuits. Jane's chin fell to his chest and his hands dug into Dumar's clothes, like they couldn't let go, not when he was so close. The tears were pouring down your face before you knew it, and you set a wary hand on Jane's shoulder, not sure what else you could do. Turns out it was just enough. Jane slumped to the side, resting the side of his face against your leg, a vulnerable gesture you hadn't expected from him.