Disclaimer: I am not the owner of either NCIS or Mentalist.
Author's Notes: I have always wanted to cross over these two shows ever since the Mentalist first appeared. Jane vs. Gibbs is something that should definitely happen, and not just in my story. Intimate knowledge of the Mentalist is not required, but I will give you a quick rundown of it below.
Patrick Jane used to work as a TV psychic until his narcisstic streak led to him taunting a serial killer named Red John on live TV. This precipitated a chain of event in which his wife and daughter killed, he had a subsequent nervous breakdown, and Jane emerged from the end broken, slightly humbled and a thirst for revenge. Jane now uses his immense talents of observation and knowledge of human behavior to solve crimes for the CBI (California Bureau of Investigation) as a consult. He is joined by Teresa Lisbon, Kimball Cho, Wayne Rigsby, and Grace Van Pelt.
In NCIS world, this takes place before season 7.
Vacations are a foreign word to Patrick Jane.
He hasn't taken one in six years.
The word has painful connotations that he doesn't like to consider anymore. Elaborate trips to anywhere and everywhere, because they were the type of family that enjoyed frequent outings. He had wanted to give his daughter a full breadth of experiences—almost as if he had foreseen her fate at a young age.
Vacations are something one should do with family. They should be enjoyed.
No, Patrick Jane doesn't take vacations anymore.
He does, however, take trips.
Lisbon's voice is insistent and he chooses to ignore her, keeping up his façade of sleeping, an arm slung over his eyes.
He's not sleeping, of course, he never sleeps and they both know this.
She viciously pokes him in the side, pointer finger digging in between his ribs.
"I'm up," he says, sliding across the couch to get away from her.
"I need to talk to you."
"Yes?" He smiles innocently up at her.
"Did you know you have two week's leave accumulated?"
Jane widens his eyes. "Really?"
"You didn't know," Lisbon says skeptically.
"No, dear Teresa, I did not." Jane considers adding a brief witty comment about his lack of psychic powers, but figures the joke has been made far too many times before. He settles for the name gimmick—always a crowd pleaser.
"Don't call me that," Lisbon snaps, and he grins because he's gotten a rise out of her. "What are you going to do about the leave, Jane?"
He lets his body do his talking for himself for once and shrugs.
It's painful enough wracking his brain on the weekends to figure out how not to spend his time there; planning out fourteen days just seems like cruel and unusual punishment that he doesn't want to experience any time soon.
Cho, a little tanner and recently back from his own trip, perks up. His face switches from his usual stoic expression and flickers briefly to eagerness. "You don't want it, Jane?"
"I'll give it to Lisbon," Jane declares with a magnanimous smile. Cho deflates and turns back to his computer, defeated. "She looks like she could use some R & R. How long has it been?"
Lisbon's lips tighten. You don't want to play this game, her expression seems to say. "You should really take the leave."
Her tone is an interesting mix of gentleness and subtle threats.
"What am I going to do?" Lightly, without the undercurrent of panic that he can feel himself fighting to reveal. Smooth smile, ease on the even smoother charm. "I'll get bored."
"Practice surfing," Lisbon replies with a deadpanned expression that has Cho smirking into his keyboard.
You're doing this even if you don't want to.
She's stubborn and he's too tired to successfully maneuver his way out of this situation. He could of course, there's nothing that he can't do (except save his wife and child), but the two hours of sleep that he's gotten over the past two days just hasn't done anything for quick mental processing.
"Fine," Jane agrees, holding up his hands in defeat.
Lisbon isn't a graceful winner and doesn't bother to hide her triumphant smirk.
His leave goes into effect on Thursday, and Jane spends all of twenty minutes on Wednesday night bobbing around in his…house…to realize that fourteen days of oppressive silence is enough to drive him insane.
Impulsivity drives him, as it often does, and he seeks out noise like Risgby seeks out peanut M&Ms. He's pulling into the parking lot and jets roar overhead before he's fully able to realize that he has just driven himself to the airport.
"What am I doing?" he asks himself, clutching the steering wheel.
I need to get out of here.
This realization overwhelms him, and his throat is choked up and he's gagging on memories and the past, and god, he needs to get the hell out of here.
It takes two seconds and he makes up his mind.
Closes the door and escapes the car.
Takes the first available flight out of California.
And if said flight is to Washington, D.C. halfway across the country, then so be it.
Jane needs a vacation.
"Hey, Probie, pass the soy sauce, would you?" Tony DiNozzo demands.
Without looking, Timothy McGee lobs two packets across the room, hitting Tony square in the side of the head and falling to the floor.
"Nice shot, McGee," Ziva David compliments, twirling lo mein noodles around her chopsticks.
McGee gives a little smug smile.
"Ha ha ha," Tony says sarcastically. "You know, there's no sympathy for the injured these days. How am I supposed to get that?"
He points to his injured leg, propped up on his desk. "I got shot, you know."
Ziva rolls her eyes, exasperated. "Just give him his soy sauce, McGee or he will be whining all night."
McGee trudges over, unhappily. As he is about to bend down, Tony takes the opportunity to give him a slap on the back of the head.
McGee quickly retaliates, but not before throwing the packets onto Tony's desk. "There's your damn sauce."
"You know, McGee, the doc said one more hit to the old noggin—"
"—and you might have brain damage, Tony. Yes, we all heard him," Ziva says, exasperated.
"I doubt soy sauce is going to do anything serious," McGee says.
"Well, you're not a doctor, are you, McDreamy?" Tony says, then snickers to himself.
McGee rolls his eyes and maintains his deadpan expression. "You've been waiting a long time to use that one, haven't you?"
"Four years," Tony confirms. "Hey, can someone get me a drink? I'd get it myself, but—"
"If you say 'I was shot' one more time, Tony, I will give you something to complain about!" Ziva snaps.
She tosses her empty carton into the trash with more force than necessary.
McGee sighed. "Yeah, Tony, I'll get your damn soda. Do you have any money?"
Tony pats himself down. "Left it in my other crutches."
"Of course you don't," replies McGee over Ziva's growl of irritation. "Fine."
He opens up the lower drawer of his desk and pulls out a leathery bag, with both Tony and Ziva eye with interest.
"What is that, McGee?"
"It is a purse, Tony," says Ziva immediately. "Surely that is obvious."
"It is not a purse, Ziva," McGee says defensively. "It's a satchel."
"Satchel?" Tony guffaws. "What, is that McGeek speak for man purse?"
"A satchel," McGee begins in a dignified tone, "is a rectangular bag, usually made of leather or cloth and provided with a shoulder strap. Its origin is 14th Century; from Old French 'sachel' meaning 'a little bag.'"
"You got that off the Internet," says Tony.
"Yeah? So what if I did?" McGee lifts his chin defiantly.
"Means you know just how ridiculous it is for you to be wearing that thing."
"Look, my mom got it for me as a gift, okay?"
"So why didn't you just throw it out as soon as you got it?"
"I'd feel bad," McGee says.
"Yeah, I feel bad for you too," Tony chuckles.
"Besides, my mom would know if I wasn't wearing it."
"Lie, Ziva?" Tony asks, looking at the Mossad officer.
"Oh, yes, Tony," Ziva confirms, smirking. "McGee is not telling us the truth."
"Fine," McGee snaps, seconds after Ziva finishes her sentence. Certainly not the best man to hold up under questioning. "I like it, okay? It's sturdy, it holds everything that I need, and it's fashionable. I know that's a foreign concept for you to grasp, Tony."
"Hey, I'm a good dresser!" Tony replies immediately. "I look nice, right, Ziva?"
Ziva just smiles.
"Aw, come on…you said you liked this suit!" Tony says, struggling to his feet with some difficulty. "My ass looks good in this, right?"
He picks up his crutches and turns around, wiggling his butt as much as he could with a cast on his leg.
There is a suspicious lack of commentary from either Ziva or McGee, and Tony closes his eyes.
"Boss is right behind me, isn't he?"
"Oh, yeah, DiNozzo, I am."
Tony faces Gibbs, a cheery smile on his face. "Hi boss, miss me?"
Gibbs walks to his desk without a comment.
"Right," Tony sinks back into his chair, and lifts his leg to rest on top of his desk. "Probie, are you gonna get my drink anytime soon?"
McGee's succinct response is to ding Tony in the head with a dollar seventy-five in quarters.
"Thanks," Tony says, teeth gritted. "Appreciate it."
"McGee, stop throwing things at DiNozzo. He's no good to me unconscious," comes Gibbs' reprimand.
"He's no good to you awake, either," McGee mutters under his breath.
"I heard that." Tony makes a face at McGee.
"Gear up!" Gibbs' usual curt order comes on the heels of Tony's sentence, and the sudden command drives all joking out the window.
Arms folded, Tony watches forlornly as Ziva tugs her baseball cap over her head and McGee slings his satchel over his shoulder. When they are done, both stand in front of his desk and look down at him with something that Tony hopes is sympathy and not pity.
"It is a shame you cannot come with us, Tony," Ziva says.
"Yeah," Tony agrees.
"Oh, he's coming with us," Gibbs says.
Tony's face alights with eagerness. "I am?"
The look Gibbs shoots him would stop a grizzly in his tracks, but it makes Tony's grin widen. "Yeah, DiNozzo, ya are. Or do your ears need to be checked out?"
"No, no, ears are fine," he says hurriedly, clambering to his feet in a pellmell of fiberglass cast and metal crutches. "Where's the fire, boss? Is there any special reason?"
"Dead sailor, DiNozzo. Do I need another reason?"
"Of course not, Boss! Lead the way!"