A/N: Hey, this is my first Mentalist fic. It probably isn't any good, but please read on anyway. Tell me whatcha think, if there are any mistakes, tips, leave a review. Hope ya like it. It's supposed to be a on-shot but if you have any ideas, maybe I would continue? Thanks, Allie =D
Disclaimer: No matter how much I hope, I will never own The Mentalist :[
"Didn't he tell you that we were lovers?" They were lovers. But he told me he loved me. He must not have meant it. He doesn't want you, Teresa. He never wanted you. He wants the young ones, the pretty ones. He pulled your heart into him without noticing, you can't blame him. It's not his fault that he's gorgeous and talented. He shred your heart to pieces without noticing. But she misses him. And you can't miss something you never had, he used to tell you that, remember? I bet he doesn't remember. He told you he loved you, but it was just the cover. Because he doesn't remember.
She was silent as she walked out of interrogation. She made her way to her office. Grace tried to be nice and tell her that she looked good today, but she knew she didn't. And Grace knew that when she got that look from her not to say anything. Lisbon locked her door and pulled down he blinds. She wasn't in the mood to be talked to. And she was sure Cho was capable of finishing the interrogation of Lorelei without her.
She sat in her chair, bored. She had finished all of her paperwork hours ago. Patrick Jane was not stupid enough to pick the lock on her door to come and bother her. She was glad he was back, though. She could stare at his golden blonde curls when she thought he wouldn't notice. But of course, he did, and she knew it. She would notice that when he smiles and laughs truly that his eyes crinkle, and his dimples show. He hadn't done that recently.
She heard a light rapping on the door. "I'm working," She tried to say strongly, but her voice cracked. She tried hard not to cry, she doesn't cry. But she did, every night that he was away. Every night she would hold her phone close, hoping he would call, saying he was good and he was coming back. He never did. But it's not his fault. He didn't know that she cared, she never told him.
"Lisbon, Teresa, please open the door." Was the whisper, pleading with her. She knew she couldn't say no, she knew she would open the door eventually. She got up from her chair slowly, hesitantly. Her hand reached the metal doorknob and she swallowed. She imagined him there, holding on to the same knob as she, worry across his face. She wished he was worried about her. But he wasn't, and it wasn't his fault. He had no reason to worry about her. She swallowed and turned the handle. She turned, not wanting to look at him, and sat back down in her chair, staring at the screen of her laptop, pretending to be doing work.
Jane sat down on her couch, watching her intently. He wondered how she was. She thought Lorelei was his lover-that he loved Lorelei. But he didn't love her. How was he supposed to explain that to her? He had slept with Lorelei, but didn't love her. He wanted to scream it at Lisbon, but she wouldn't believe him. And she shouldn't. He hadn't been very reliable to her, he regretted that. But he sure as hell wouldn't be able to fix that anytime soon. She wasn't even angry at him, he could tell. He wanted to yell at her, to tell her that she should hit him, shoot him, say angry words to him, but he couldn't. He wanted her to love him, hold him, and tell him everything was going to be alright. But he couldn't. He would just make a fool of himself. She would laugh at him and tell him that he was just her employee, or just her connection to Red John. No, no she wouldn't do that. She was his saint, his savior. She would deny him just being her Red John connection, so he would feel better. He could always count on her to do that.
She was getting angry at him now, the silence was deafening. Why wouldn't he just say something already, anything! She wanted to hear his fighting words, just to make sure that he felt something. Anything.
"What do you want, Jane?" She asked tiredly.
"Why aren't you mad?"
"Why should I be mad? Why do you want me to be mad?" She inquired.
"Because you can't just sit there, sit there and feel nothing at all."
"I am not the one that doesn't feel anything!" She shouted at him. "You're the one that goes around and makes everyone fall in love with you, and piss everyone off! How the hell did you manage to piss off every single politician in the area, AND a freaking serial killer, Jane? How do you make everyone go after you and expect me to have your back every single time? I can't do it anymore, Jane! I can't pretend that whenever you get hurt or whenever any other woman flirts with you that I don't feel anything. I should just quit,"
He stood up, and slowly walked over to her desk. "Jane, I," She swallowed, "I didn't mean that,"
"Don't you ever tell me you love me, and then say you don't mean it." He said, with his face only centimeters from hers. His blue orbs searched her green ones for any hint that she really did mean what she said.
"Why does it matter, when you don't love me back?" She whispered. "If it hurt your ego, I'm sorry," Her voice cracked again. She slowly stood up, his face following hers. As she was about to move away, Jane snatched her wrist.
"Don't you ever think for a second that I don't care about you, that I don't love you. When I say things, I mean them."
"You're lying to me. You could never love me, I don't know how I ever thought that you could."
Tears were forming in her eyes again. "Tell the team I said goodbye, and hand this to the new boss." She snapped, handing his a manila folder.
"What is this?"
"My resignation." She grabbed her jacket and jogged to the elevator, not looking back. She heard him shout her name, but continued on. The walk to her car was blurry, she couldn't get over the fact that she was crying over Patrick Jane. But it doesn't matter, because he doesn't love her. He never would.