Disclaimer: Do not own The Mentalist, or The Angel's Game.
A/N: Seem to have a thing for depressing Mentalist oneshots at the moment, sorry 'bout that. If you need cheering up, go read Just Y'Know. :P
'Do you know the best thing about broken hearts?' the librarian asked.
I shook my head.
'They can only really break once. The rest is just scratches.'
(The Angel's Game, Carlos Ruiz Zafon)
Before that day, Teresa Lisbon would have said her heart had been broken five times. Firstly by her mother, then her father, then her brother, her father again, and then, as with everyone, by the first person she'd truly loved. It seemed a reasonable number, even a fair one. More than some people's had been, and less than others. Her share of suffering, and a share that after years of anger, she'd decided she was willing to accept.
She didn't like the dress. It was summer and the black wool itched and made her sweaty. The boys didn't seem much more comfortable, in their miniature suits and ties, but they could shuffle and moan and pull at their clothing and they were too young for anyone to care they were being disrespectful. She no longer had that luxury. Silent and still, she listened to the speeches, the readings, the hymns.
Funerals, Teri, are people's way of proving that they loved someone. I never loved my great aunt, and you never knew her, so I see no good reason for us to be here, she remembered her mother saying at a distant relative's wake. At the time she'd laughed, and been overjoyed when the two of them had cut out on the ceremony early and gone to eat ice cream. For the second time now, she didn't feel as though there were any good reason for her to be at a funeral. I love you, mom, she thought to herself. I don't need to prove that.
Eventually the priest closed the ceremony, and a velvet purple curtain closed slowly in front of the coffin. Suddenly, Lisbon, who had been oddly emotionless the whole time, felt a jolt in her throat. Suddenly she wanted to scream and kick and chase after the wooden box in the realisation this would be the last time she saw her mother. And it was when the box had been fully covered, and her father was pulling gently at her shoulder to get her to leave, that she felt it. A haunting, empty kind of pain filled her, and she mutely followed.
Heartbreak, she'd always been of the opinion, came in many different forms. That was the first – a simple loss. She had lost her mom and a part of herself on the day of the funeral, and had known she'd never get it back.
The light in the guy's room finally clicked off. Lisbon sighed with relief. They were good boys, but impossible to control, and if she'd presumed that job would fall to her father… well, he was just another boy she needed to put to bed. With that sobering thought, she walked into the living room and turned the light on. The shock woke her dad for all of a second, as he made a groaning sound and jolted, before snoring again. She tugged the empty beer can from his hand, and picked up a few others from the floor. One was still half empty and a little spilt over her sleeve. She shuddered in disgust, carrying them as far from her as possible until she could dump them in the bin, and then soaking the cuff of her dressing gown in the sink until she couldn't smell it anymore. Then she returned to her dad. Gently, she pushed his shoulder until he started awake, and whispered that he needed to go to bed.
"No…" he moaned. "M'fine… go to bed, Teresa."
"You first," she hissed. "You're not fine, you're drunk."
"Don't talk to me like that," he told her. "I'm your father."
"You're still drunk," she said, trying to find a way to support him up.
An uncoordinated hand flew up and the open palm smacked her across the cheek. She recoiled in pain and horror.
The slap was painful, but that wasn't really what hurt. She couldn't believe her own father would do that to her. Casting him one last look, she left him to roll over back to sleep.
The second type of heartbreak – betrayal. She was old enough to know it didn't work that way – dad's didn't hit their children, it wasn't right. But she didn't realise that was what she'd be stuck with until she left home. The second broken heart came on day she became an abused child.
Tommy's music blasted through the house, Lisbon wanted to tell him to turn it down but she didn't have the energy in her to care. She didn't hear the knocking at the door, or then the doorbell until it's fifth ring, when she sprinted to open it. Standing there were two police officers.
"Oh, sorry," she said, confused. "Can I help you?"
"Are your parents in?"
"My dad is, I'll just find him," she said politely, then turned up the stairs and yelled at Tommy to turn his music down. Nothing happened.
"Tommy?" asked one of the men.
"Yeah, my brother," she said, rolling her eyes.
"Thomas Lisbon?"
"Ye-es…"
"Miss, we have your brother in custody," they explained.
She uttered an expletive that she never thought she'd say in front of any authority figure, and rushed up to his room to check. Sure enough it was empty. She pulled out the plug of the CD player, and relished the silence before returning to worrying.
Lisbon stormed into her father's room and woke him by splashing water from the glass she'd put by his bedside. He started to object, but she cut him off.
"Don't care. The police are downstairs, they have Tommy in custody for something and they're going to want to talk to his father. So make yourself decent."
She pulled his t-shirt over his head and caught a whiff off alcohol. Nearly retching, she shoved him into his en suite.
"Shower. Now. Quickly."
Still in a half awake state, he followed his daughter's orders. She found him a t-shirt and jeans and laid them out for him, then ran back downstairs to the cops.
"My dad was having a lie in, he's getting ready now, should be really quick," she explained, with an apologetic smile. "Can you please tell me what Tommy's done?"
They exchanged an uncomfortable look. Lisbon knew they shouldn't really tell her, but she didn't feel bad for putting the officer's in that position. If she could get them to tell her, she would.
"Can we search Tommy's room?"
She folded her arms. "Do you have a warrant?"
They fixed her with identical stern looks. She just raised her eyebrows.
Eventually the older of the two broke eye contact and massaged the bridge of his nose.
"Cop shows should be banned," he muttered. "No, no warrant. How about you let us, to help your brother?"
"How about I don't?" she said, knowing anything found in Tommy's room would probably not help in the slightest.
"Look, honey…"
"I won't go as far as to insist on Miss Lisbon, but do me the courtesy of calling me Teresa."
"Teresa. We'll just get a warrant and come back."
She shrugged. "Do that then."
Before they could reply, her dad finally arrived in the room. He looked semi-decent, had even shaved, although there was a nick bleeding in his chin from that attempt. A strong cologne masked the drink. He looked almost expectantly at Lisbon.
She gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval, and received a small smile in return.
"Good morning…" he stumbled, looking at the clock, "afternoon, even. Will you please take me and Teresa to Thomas now?"
"Can we look in your son's room?"
He seemed startled, and about to allow them, when Lisbon interrupted.
"I told them they could only do that with a warrant, but I guess it's up to you, Dad."
He looked relieved that she was taking charge.
"Yes, Teri's right of course. Only with a warrant."
She got the evil eye from the police, and smirked, tilting her head to the side in a faux innocent image of – 'what?'.
Reluctantly, the officers took Lisbon and her dad to the police station. They explained that Tommy had been found taking drugs and selling them to his friends. As soon as she heard it, Lisbon's stomach jolted in fear. She glanced at her Dad, and saw the typical warning signs building.
They were allowed into the cell to see Tommy. As soon as they'd been left alone, her father slapped Tommy, and drew his fist back.
"Stop," Lisbon said, stepping in front of him. The blow glanced off the side of her own head, but she barely flinched. "We're in a building full of cops and if you hit Tommy again here, I'll tell one of them everything."
He tensed for a moment, then relaxed. Lisbon turned to face her brother.
Tommy was shivering, face drawn, eyes wide, skin pale, obviously coming down from a high.
Lisbon felt a tear slide down her cheek.
Thirdly – the heart breaking for someone else's sake. The image of Tommy in that state would never leave Lisbon, just as he would never remember it. He may have been too high to care, but she cared for him. It was unfair, and unavoidable.
Lisbon had known since her mom's death that her father was a destructive man, violent and volatile. She had never even considered the possibility of what might happen if one day, he just got too drunk.
She wandered through the house on a Saturday morning in too-long pyjama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt, eventually plodding into the kitchen to see if she could make herself anything for breakfast. That was when she saw him, standing over the oven.
"Good morning," she tried, wondering what state he was in.
He heard her, and turned. "I'm sorry," he said.
Turning on the dials, gas began to spread out from the top of the oven. He clutched a lighter in his hand for dear life, waiting to spark it.
She didn't like her chances in a direct fight with a determined drunk, so did the only thing she could think off. Kicking off her slippers, she sprinted through the house up to Tommy's bedroom, yelling at him to run outside. The other two boys got the same treatment, her rushing out after them pressing her hands against their backs. Tommy was standing out in the street in his boxers and t-shirt, rubbing his eyes. Lisbon pushed him further down the road, forcing all three of her brothers to keep running until they heard the explosion behind them.
"What?" asked the youngest.
"Dad tried to kill us," Tommy said darkly.
Teresa glared at him.
"Dad killed himself, guys. It was never about us."
"So now what?" Tommy asked.
"Fuck knows," was her candid reply. The boys stared at her in shock.
The worst thing about that moment was how happy she was.
A complicated loss – Lisbon had lost her home with her father, the only thing keeping her family out of foster care. But she had also lost the nights of hiding in her bedroom, terrified of his rages. The mornings of picking him up off the floor. The lies at A&E when one of them would turn up beaten to a pulp. Yes, she was happy he was dead, but that just made her guilty. And she didn't know what to do.
At twenty-four, Lisbon finally fell in love. During her teenage years, she was a little too preoccupied, but now, an adult at last, she had met a guy at the gym, chatted to him, talked to him, gone out to coffee with him, and the next thing she knew there was an engagement ring sitting on a cushion in front of her, and there he was, waiting for an answer.
"I work at SFPD," she said slowly. "And you're about to move to New York to become a hot-shot lawyer. You don't see that causing any problems?"
He shook his head. "I'm willing to compromise. Plenty opportunities here."
"But you want New York," she said calmly. "I know you do, you haven't shut up about it for four years."
"I want you more," he insisted. "Just say yes, Teresa."
She slowly shook her head. "You don't want me more. You think you do, because you're in love, and it's fresh, and exciting, and it is for me too and I would love to say yes to you, but I won't."
"What if I didn't go anyway?" he asked rashly. "Whether you say yes or no, I'll stick right here."
Lisbon laughed. "No you won't, you're far too ambitious for that."
Standing, she looked around his apartment one final time, kissed his lips softly and whispered, "Goodbye."
She made it all the way to her car without shedding a single tear.
Doing the wrong thing for the right reasons – she always knew that she might have been happier had she just said yes. But she loved him too much to be the reason he gave up on his dream. And too much, she admitted, if only to herself, to marry him and watch their marriage fail, as it seemed inevitable these things did.
Five perfect, painful, categorised heartbreaks, defined and filed in her organised brain. But the sixth, the sixth was indescribable.
Nothing got to Lisbon more than paedophiles or their sick murders. Patrick Jane knew as much, and had watched her struggle endlessly with their case, trying to keep her emotions below the surface where she was so determined they belonged. Now they were fairly sure they'd found the house of their culprit, and were going to storm in and arrest the bastard, probably finding somewhere trophies and mountains of child porn. If that was there, Jane hoped Lisbon would be okay. They sat in the car together as the rest of the team spread out around the building.
"We'll get him, you know," Jane said pointedly.
She gave a distracted smile. "I know."
Jane reached out and stroked a finger down her jaw.
"We'll get him," he repeated, slower.
Now she turned to look at him, and said, "Thank you."
"Not even the great Saint Teresa can catch a criminal before he's committed a crime," he told her.
"Or the great Patrick Jane," Lisbon replied, trying to ignore that he still had his hand under her chin.
"Exactly," smiled Jane.
He leaned forward and put his lips gently on hers. The shock stopped her for a second, and, blindly, unthinkingly, she responded. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed him fiercely for just a second, then he pulled away.
"We have a bad guy to catch," he reminded her, eyes twinkling.
He had only meant to… well, shock her certainly, maybe make her yell at him, maybe render her speechless for a second or two… he definitely hadn't expected her response, and didn't know how to deal with it, but he knew for a fact that if it weren't for the issue of the team waiting for them, he wouldn't be arguing.
Lisbon knew that later, they would have to talk about it. But later seemed a fluid concept. Now she felt as though she'd been set alight, and was shocked to find herself grinning. Later, she would have to deal with whatever they'd just done. For now, she was going to find a way to seriously hurt a very twisted man while taking him in, and make it look like an accident.
With a renewed confidence, she stepped out of the car.
Lisbon radioed the go-ahead to the team, who entered from different points of the house. Jane stayed in the garden, as was his role in such operations. He expected them to soon emerge with the guy, and so nonchalantly picked a flower from the hedge and began plucking off it's petals.
"She loves me, she loves me not," he murmured to himself, laughing.
Then he felt a cold blade on his throat.
"Don't move!" yelled a voice behind him. "Move and he dies."
Like time had been stopped, nothing but heavy breathing filled the air. The murderer began to slowly back away, still holding Jane.
"Now, y'see, there appears to be a slight misconception, I'm not actually a federal agent," Jane tried to explain as though it would make a difference.
"Do I care? You stopped the feds easy enough."
"Yes, well, we have an understanding. I solve their cases and they try to keep me alive while I do it, as well as giving me access to information I need."
"So you are a fed?"
"No, really, listen."
The murderer stopped suddenly, feeling the barrel of a gun pressing into his back.
The team watched, immobile, as an armed civilian threatened their murderer, and prayed that he would let Jane go.
He didn't seem to be thinking along the same lines. Almost too quickly to see, he slashed the knife across Jane's throat, and the civilian lost his nerves and fired. Two bodies collapsed to the ground.
Lisbon only cared about one of them.
She thought she'd suffered heartbreak five times, but it was only in that instant of holding his cooling hand and watching his dulling eyes, when agony ripped through every fibre of her body - it was only in that moment that Teresa Lisbon finally understood what they meant by a broken heart.
After writing that last bit in italics, I'm beginning to think it likely that at some point Jane's going to kiss Lisbon just to see how she reacts... now that would be fun.