14AN: What can I say? This will be my last tag for The Mentalist while it's still an airing show, however I will still continue to write after the last episode airs. I'd like to take this opportunity to thank everyone involved in the show in any way for a wonderful seven seasons, and to you all for reading and reviewing these little stories I've thoroughly enjoyed throwing together; you'll never know how much I've appreciated your kind words. It's been an absolute joy, and this one is for you all. I still have a few little tags and threads tucked away in the back of my mind, and despite real life getting in the way, I hope to get them onto paper soon. All that's left to say is enjoy the last episodes, enjoy these words, and hope to speak to you all soon ❤
She is dead but the phones still ring at his desk, out-of-focus people still come and go at the elevator where he watches from where he sits. She is dead but her handbag is still slung over the back of her chair from where she'd tossed it after whirling into the office this morning, and his heart had started beating that little bit faster. It has not yet returned to normal. He wonders vaguely if ever it will again. She is dead. She is dead, so how could anything ever be normal again?
Lisbon comes then, and puts her arms around him, and he feels as though he might cry again, but he is numbing inside. When he'd heard the news, the terrible, unbelievable news, he hadn't realised at first he was crying. And for just a second, he'd felt silly, like a little boy dressed up in a man's clothes. It was then it had hit him why he was crying, and he'd forgotten everything else.
She was dead.
Lisbon says something then, something kind he's sure, but try as he might he doesn't really hear the words. He looks back at her, and she is looking into his face, his eyes, searchingly, but he cannot help her, for she will find no answers here.
She nods then, leaves, leaves him alone with this one unbearable, relentless truth.
He tries very hard to remember the last thing she'd said to him. The last thing he'd said to her. He didn't suppose it mattered all that much. It doesn't stop him trying. They'd talked about Houston. She'd seemed happy. Then Cho had come and she'd snapped back to being Agent Vega. They'd talked about the case, what they'd do and where're they'd go. Cho had given him those locations to find and he'd done it. They'd left then, and he hadn't watched her go. He'd been busy, completing Cho's task, finding those cell phone locations, sending her to her death. Sending her to her death.
He knows it's stupid. It was nothing to do with him, or Cho or anyone else. The only one responsible for her not being here anymore was the hand that pulled the trigger. He can't even think about it, the taste of bile rises in his throat even now.
But if he hadn't sent that list.
Something occurs to him then, and he knows as he thinks of it that it's morbid. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't stop himself. It was this that got her killed, and it will be this that makes him feel the pain, in the most twisted way, in the language he understands best.
He needs to. He needs to see this so that he understands, in the only way he can: in facts; in cold, hard figures. A few keystrokes, a click, and he is mapping Michelle Vega's last moments through the signal of her cell phone, the same way he'd done only hours ago for those damned, damned robbers. He waits, breath baited, although he doesn't know why. It won't make any difference. She is dead, and that won't change.
The data comes, and it doesn't change. She's still dead, but this gives him something to do and it's a link to her, so he powers through and reads the results, follows her last journey away from the F.B.I.. He follows the timestamps and coordinates, tracks their route towards that damned café, towards the end. He follows the route he'd set out for them, from one location to another. He thinks of them, imagines them sitting in their car. He wonders what they talked about. His heart beats in his throat the more he thinks about it. He'd been so looking forward to their date, the drive to Houston, the hours of relaxed comfortable quiet between them. He feels the loss. He wishes he'd been there today, in that car, to have had those few extra moments with her. But he couldn't have watched her die, and he feels for Cho, what he must have seen, how he must have felt. It's hard at the best of times to decipher what Cho's thinking. It's utterly unimaginable today.
He looks at the timestamps. Forces himself to scrutinise each one. Follows their path from the first location to the second. The third. The fourth. The hospital: the end; where the trail stops. It should have gone on much, much longer. Years longer. But here it stops, and here it stays. And here he will stay, for he is the one left behind.
And he'd thought he was numbed but he must have been wrong because the tears are streaming down his face like never before. The office has become a stinging blur before his eyes. Because this is what he does – numbers, decimal points, maps and facts and figures, this is cold hard evidence of what happened to Vega, and this is the truth, and seeing it in his language has made it real. And this is the reality he never saw coming. This was never the plan. Get a date with Vega was the plan, not to spend the rest of his life wondering what might have been if not for those self same figures he'd gathered and sent on. Sending her to her death.
He hears himself sob and tries to repress his sorrow. He glances around and sees the pitiful glances from well-meaning colleagues. He stands suddenly, for he cannot stay here anymore.
Lisbon is looking at him from across the room, surely devastated but somehow still strong. She was good to Michelle like she was good to him. A good person. She looks sad now, and he has a notion spring to mind that this particular sorrow he sees on her face right now is not for Vega, but is for him, and perhaps more specifically, for how he is beyond her help. She always does her best to help. She must know his grief is beyond her help, and that only furthers her own sorrow.
He leaves the office, becomes one of the people waiting on the elevator. And then, not fully sure of how he got here, he's sitting outside, on the edge of the uniform outdoor seat.
He's not sure how long he sits there before he hears the voice, sees the figure.
"Wylie. I'm sorry."
Jane.
He nods, stands to greet him. They shake hands, and again Wylie is reminded of being the child in his father's clothing. He is too young, too young to be consoled about the death of a colleague, a comrade, especially by someone like Jane. He crams his hands in his pockets which only reinforces the feeling and sits back down. He wonders vaguely why Jane's bothering. He's always found it very difficult to know when Jane is being sincere. With Lisbon, mostly. With Cho. But now, just the two of them, Jane is sincere. Wylie can tell. There is real sorrow in his face, fear in his eyes. He looks older than he did this morning. Wylie wonders if he does too. He certainly feels older. Perhaps honest truth and real sincerity has to be earned from Jane. This feels sincere. He finds himself wondering if this is the first time Jane's ever been so with him.
Jane sits down beside him.
"Lisbon asked you to talk to me."
"Yes."
"But there's nothing to say."
"No, there's not. It's a terrible thing."
Silence falls.
"I know," Jane says. "I know what you expect me to say. To try and comfort you. That she was too young, that it's unfair. That life must go on. All true, of course, but it won't do much good to dwell on those thoughts now." Jane clears his throat, as though biding time to find the strength to power through and finish what he's come here to say.
"They won't bring her back. And people who say those things, they only want to help. I've heard it all. Not sure what all good it does, that talk, but Lisbon's worried about you."
He nods. "I know. I could see it, in her face. You know, she's sad herself but more worried about me. She's kind." He shrugs, the hint of a smile appears. "You know."
"I do," Jane says. "A good woman."
He feels his eyes brim with tears once more at the thought of one more good woman.
"She said yes." He says. "This morning. She finally said she'd go out with me."
Jane closes his eyes briefly, a long blink.
"I'm sorry," he says softly.
"All that stuff you said just now, about her not coming back. You've been here. How I feel now. You've been in this position."
Jane looks at him. He panics, his breath caught in his throat, afraid he has gone too far.
"Not that Vega - Michelle - was my wife, I mean; I'm not compar-" he breaks off, embarrassed.
"That's okay," Jane says.
Wylie shrugs. "It's silly. We hadn't even gone out on one date yet. It's not fair to act like-" he kicks the ground at his toe, "-like we were married or anything. We were basically-" - he shrugs – "-just friends."
Jane purses his lips. "Ah. You never know, Wylie. For all we know, you could have wound up married."
He pauses, then goes on quietly.
"All the rest of your lives." He trails off once more. "Years, and still, years."
Wylie gives a sad laugh, giving into the dream now gone, elbows Jane lightly, tears brimming in his eyes.
Jane seems to have sobered, caught in his thoughts. Wylie looks at him, pauses.
"Jane?"
Jane startles, looks quickly up at Wylie, almost as though he is checking to see if he caught his moment lost in thought. He jumps to attention with a wave of his hand, back to the moment.
"Of course you could have ended up hating each other."
Wylie scoffs.
"What?" Jane smiles, sadly. "Maybe that's all it'd have been; an awkward couple of dates, maybe you'd fizzle out; or maybe you'd still have been together in 52 years remembering the good old days."
"We'll never know," Wylie says.
"No, we won't." Jane leans back slightly, his face softening, and touches his shoulder. "Tell you what, though, Wylie. You two would have been fine. No matter what; you and Vega."
Wylie scoffs again, shrugs, unwilling but wanting. "How do you know?"
"Because Vega was hard working. Always gave 100 percent. Didn't give up. If she said yes to your date, Wylie, she wouldn't have given up on you either." Jane shrugs. "So there you go. You'll always have that. Good memories."
Wylie nods, slowly. "Good memories. Do you have good memories, Jane?"
They are both aware they're no longer talking about Vega.
Jane looks at him.
"Yes. Very fond memories."
He isn't sure what to say, so he nods.
They sit again in silence.
"Did it take long?" he finally asks.
"It did."
"Thought so."
"You know, Wylie, Robert Frost once said he could sum up life in just three words."
He nods. "It goes on."
Jane tilts his head, smiles at Wylie's knowledge.
"That's it. It goes on. Life goes on."
Wylie nods.
"But not today." Jane stands.
Wylie looks at him. "No?"
"No. Today we've lost Vega. Life can wait."
He nods firmly.
"Jason," Jane says then. "Let me know. You know, if there's anything."
"You know what. Please."
Jane nods. "I know. We'll get them. We will."
He turns then and goes. Wylie watches him go, and only then sees Lisbon, from where she'd been standing a long way off, at the building's main door, watching them, allowing their private exchange. He watches Jane make his way across the lot to her, watches her take him into her arms, even from this distance the difference clear from when she'd done the same to him earlier. Wylie breaks his gaze from her hand at his neck, feeling as though he is witnessing some great act of intimacy. He looks down and once more kicks at the ground at his shoe. The dry dust rises and settles. Rises and settles.
He'd heard some stories about Jane, about the long decade spent hung up on Red John. He looks at him now, hand in hand with Lisbon, someone with whom he now shared the good days, the bad. He had moved on. Wylie supposed he was right. Life went on.
But not today.
