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too-many-baes · 1 year

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The Man That Stole Christmas

So this is my contribution to #tmsecretsanta2022 and I am gifting to @lizzybennets so a very Merry (belated) Christmas to you❤️ I wrote what came to mind so I hope you like it (even though it is on the angsty side)🎄

December 23rd, two days before Christmas. Most people were already at home with their families. Some might be making eggnog with a grin on their faces. Others might desperately be trying to keep the children away from the gifts under the tree for two more nights.

For the CIA it was just a regular night. Crime didn’t stop just because it was Christmas, so neither did they.

“So.” Jane said from his position staring up at the ceiling from the couch, using the word as if it were a complete sentence in and of itself. “Who’s getting coal in their stocking?” Although not particularly unfunny of a statement it still failed to pull any laughs from the group as their heads remained on their work.

“Well”, eventually split the silence, the crew one by one turning their heads to look at the source of the sound, “no coal. The opposite really. Craig is spending Christmas with me and my family this year.”

“That’s nice.”

“That’s quick.” Agents Cho and Rigby’s answers, while in unison, could not have been any more different in tone. Choosing to focus on the positivity Grace responded to Kimball as if he had been the only one to answer.

“It is. My parents can’t wait to have him over.”

“They’ve met then?” Grace nodded at Kimballs question.

“Just the once.” A not uncomfortable silence filled the room as one by one heads turned back to their desks.

“That’s quick.” Rigby’s repetition came too late to sound natural and completely lacked the nonchalance and ease he had intended. He sounded jealous and bitter, and he hated that his tone had so easily betrayed how he felt.

It was no secret to his team now that he hadn’t exactly had a happy childhood growing up. Having a father involved with a gang sounded exactly as unpleasant on a growing boy as it was, and as much as he usually tried to be chipper and happy, he had no problems admitting he was a complete and total grinch.

Christmas had never been made a big deal of in his household, it was like any other day where Wayne wished that his father would stay out as long as possible so he and his mother could enjoy the calm he left behind while they could. There was no tree, no gifts, no cookies baking in an oven while a hallmark movie played in the next room. Christmas was miserable. Until Wayne met Grace.

The first year she had joined the team and Christmas had rolled around he had been ready and prepared to be his usual self, no holiday cheer, no participating in office secret santas, and definitely no Christmas parties. Grace had had enough excitement and joy for the both of them and he couldn’t help it. For the first time ever he had joined in on secret santa, getting a new mug for Jane and receiving a tie from Cho. He smiled when he heard Grace humming along to Michael Buble and eagerly listened as she told him how she would be going to midnight mass with her family, as she always did, before having a sleep in and doing presents when everybody woke up.

The second year Grace was on the team they had not long started dating, so it was too soon to spend a Christmas with the Van Pelt’s, however much he had wanted to say yes when Grace had invited him. It would be too much, too soon. Next year, he had thought to himself. Next year maybe he’ll finally have a happy Christmas and he could hang up the grinch outfit he wore like a shield for once.

Well, this was year three, and it couldn’t have turned out any more different than what he had imagined. Instead of complimenting Mrs. Van Pelt on her ham while he and Mr. Van Pelt shared a whiskey he was having to sit in his office with his co-workers and listen to the love of his life excitedly share her Christmas plans as if she didn’t realise that it was supposed to be with him, not somebody else. It felt wrong, and it hurt Wayne more than a little that it seemed Grace hadn’t batted an eyelash that she was giving his Christmas to another man.

“I guess it is a bit quick.” Grace relented, nervously tucking a strand of hair behind her ear that Wayne wished he could fish back out and twirl around his finger like he used to.

“No,” Wayne started to backstep, guilty that he had brought her mood down, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes you did.” She responded without missing a beat. Because of course he had meant it like that, how else could you mean it. “But it’s okay.” He opened his mouth to apologise but a knock at the doorway had him snapping his mouth shut.

“Craig.” Grace beamed, jumping out of her seat and hustling to him so she could be wrapped in the embrace he immediately offered. “You’re early.”

“I know,” he punctuated with a kiss to her forehead that had Wayne’s nose wrinkling involuntarily, “but I figured I’d see what the chances would be of you sneaking off early.” She murmured that she’d check before she scurried off and knocked on Lisbon’s door, quickly entering when she was given the okay.

The group all exchanged merry Christmas’s back and forth, the pleasantries stopping when it was clearly Wayne’s turn. Try as he might to swallow his pride and utter the easy two words everybody else had said he couldn’t bring himself. How was he was supposed to wish joy to the man who’d stolen his Christmas? He offered a tight-lipped smile and a curt nod and was let off the hook from anything more as Grace hurried back over, excitedly exclaiming that she could go. With every item Grace packed away he could feel his blood running hotter until he swore the tips of his ears were burning as Grace shrugged on her jacket.

“Merry Christmas everybody, I’ll see you all in a few days.” She said genuinely with a bright smile and twinkle in her eye that Wayne couldn’t believe hadn’t dimmed at all with all the things she’d seen since starting this job.

“Merry Christmas.” His choked out version of the wish had been lost on everyone in the room, the volume of the chorus cancelling his voice out, but Grace had heard him as clearly as if he had yelled it in a silent room. Her eyes snapped to his as she lowered her waving hand back down to her side. Craig’s arm looped around hers had her body moving out of the room, but just before she turned to follow she offered up a small, genuine smile. It had been just for him, his eyes only, and he knew it, his heart skipping a beat at the action.

As the minutes trickled on, one by one agents started packing up for the night, until he was in the unique position of being the last one remaining in the office with Jane. As Rigsby knew he would more than likely be sleeping in the office he decided to cut his losses and pack up for the night.

“Wayne.” The assumed sleeping man had spoken just as Wayne was about to exit the room. He turned around to find the blonde man peeking at him out of one eye.

“Yeah?” He slowly opened his other eye, examining the mans face as if debating whether or not he should say what he had stopped him to say.

“You know it hurts her as much as it hurts you right?” He finally asked after taking in a large breath.

“I doubt it.” Wayne responded snidely, not caring any more at the immaturity that had leached into his voice.

“You shouldn’t.” Jane responded, his tone lower and softer in response to the bite in Wayne’s voice. “It’s as obvious as the nose on her face.” Wayne thought it over, knowing that Jane was seldom wrong on matters such as this and wanting nothing more than to believe him as he usually did.

“Goodnight Jane.” He stated with a dejected slap of his palm upon the doorway. He was met with a disappointed sigh but opted not to hang around and hear the lecture that might follow, instead making his way downstairs and into his car as fast as possible.

The car radio started as he pulled out of the CIA car lot, the sound of Bublé’s ‘White Christmas’ drifting though the speakers. He tsked to himself, reaching to change the station but stopping just short of the button.

He didn’t know what compelled him to do it but he let his hand drift back to the steering wheel, allowing himself to relive the memory of Grace’s humming those few years ago. He felt a prickling in his eyes and tightening in his throat, making his knuckles turn slightly whiter against the steering wheel.

As he continued to listen he kept thinking about Grace and the Christmas they could have, no, should have had. As the song came to a finish, the last notes dancing in his ears he promised himself one thing.

Even if it meant letting another man have his Christmas’s for however many years that it may take, he promised he himself he would never ruin a Christmas for Grace. No more snide comments, no more jealousy, no more Wayne ‘The Grinch’ Rigsby. Just because his Christmas had been stolen didn’t mean he would let himself steal Grace’s.

#tmsecretsanta2022 #tmsource #the mentalist #the mentalist fanfiction #the mentalist fanfic #the mentalist imagine #the mentalist one shot #rigsby x van pelt #wayne x grace #wayne rigsby x grace van pelt #angst #christmas #writing #me #mine

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cambria-writes · 2 years

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hello!

totally forgot to update here last week. woops!

word count: 2,607 rating: T, each chapter rated individually warnings: swearing, afab original character, second person pov, i don’t think there’s anything but please lmk! previousnext

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕾𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓: 𝔖𝔲𝔩𝔭𝔥𝔲𝔯

You wake up too early. Grab your phone, heart jumps in your throat. There's a message from Patrick Jane. Almost forget to check the time. No one who got shot should be up at seven in the morning. Resign yourself to your fate; probably wouldn't be able to go back to sleep if you wanted to.

Getting up and opening the curtains is a harder task than it has any right to be. Your left thigh smarts something awful. Your arms are still covered in red and purpling marks. Peekaboo's claws, though pretty blunt, still packed a small punch.

Showering this morning means wiping yourself down with a soapy rag and washing your hair in the sink. Despite everything, you don't actually look like too much shit. Wash your face. Pick some baggy sweatpants and an old band shirt.

Look at the time on the microwave. Almost eight. Time for coffee, then.

You make a point to avoid your phone.

You sink into your couch with a mug of coffee. (Black, two spoonfuls of sugar.) Pull your laptop back into your lap, turn the TV on for background noise. Some morning show or whatever.

You spend the better part of your morning googling the CBI agents you saw yesterday for lack of anything better to do.

Jane's enjoying a cup of tea on his Couch when his phone rings in his pocket. Bemused, he answers without looking at the caller ID.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Benraft?"

Lisbon looks at him like he's grown a second head. 'Skye?', she mouths. He nods patiently.

"Really? ...I see. No, nothing to worry about. I was just curious, you know how that goes." Weaves a coin through his fingers. "Well, I'm not at liberty to say right now. Have you tried reading your cards for it yet?"

Lisbon's expression is that of defeat. Throws her arms up and declares that she has better things to do than wait around for him to schedule a date. Or whatever the hell it is he's actually doing. She walks out with a huff.

Jane places his teacup and saucer on his desk and slowly gets up.

"Listen, I need you to do something for me. Can you go check your mail?"

You count your blessings when the elevator actually works. You would probably have cried if you had to walk down the stairs to the apartment lobby. Collect your mail when you get there, but don't look at it right there. As instructed. Limp back to the elevator, back to your apartment. Lock, chain and bolt it shut.

Your hands shake. This is ridiculous. You were asked to go get and check your mail for anything odd or out of place. Commonplace shit. No reason to get all up in arms about it. No reason for your pulse to be as fluttery as it is.

Jesus, you might be becoming an adrenaline junkie. Bad news.

Shake your head, go back to the couch. Most of the mail is spam. Adverts for local eateries, something about a chimney sweep. (Whose bright idea was it to leave a pamphlet for a chimney sweeper in an apartment complex?) A phone bill, a letter without a return address, a delivery slip from the nearest post office, and a letter from a friend in North Carolina.

Honestly, nothing much out of the ordinary there. More paper than you usually get on a Saturday (or is it Sunday? Does it matter?) but otherwise perfectly normal. Until you get to the letter with no return address. You discover it's sealed with yellow washi tape at the back. For some reason, it puts ice in your veins.

Your Millennial Instincts dictate that you should take pictures of the front and back and send them to Mr Jane. The message takes a while to send, but when it does you toss your phone on the couch to your right. What the hell. You throw the letter on the coffee table in front of you. Burry it under newspapers, flyers, opened and unopened mail. Do your best to forget about the nasty feeling it leaves you with.

Doesn't take five minute for your phone to vibrate with a message. Another five and you're dressed and clambering into a dusty blue Citroen.

You can't catch a break. Little less than two hours later and you're back at the CBI. Brought the strange letter with you, handed it off to Agent Lisbon. Hands it off to a lab tech to see if they can get prints off it.

You are very acutely aware that literally everyone is playing this down. Keep hearing that It's No Big Deal and It's Probably Nothing and Just A Prank. You believe exactly none of it. Mr Jane's countenance is enough to set you off. Everyone else's expressions are just confirmation.

Wow, they're all really shitty liars. Makes you feel a little better, maybe.

Agent Van Pelt takes you to one of the interrogation rooms. Reassures you, says it's just for some privacy. Not that you care, really. It's all whatever at this point.

"Jane mentioned he found yellow tape on the back of your shoulder yesterday. Do you remember anything about that?" Silently thank whatever deity for Van Pelt's soft spoken voice. Doesn't do much, but calms your nerves a little bit. Takes the edge off.

Play with your fingernails on the table. You frown at your hands. Try to remember. "I mean, not really? It might have been one of the EMTs, or maybe the nurse at the hospital. Those are the only people I can remember touching me at all. But that's..."

You trail off. Don't need to say it; Grace's expression tells you what you need to know. You clear your throat, scoot closer to the table to lean on it.

"Look, I know this isn't a super good situation I'm in, but no one's telling me shit about it. I'm assuming I'm like, a target or something? Right?"

Van Pelt frowns. Hit the nail on the head, then. You sigh. Your breathing is shakier than you'd like it to be.

"Why though? I mean, this is just. This is unreal!" You toss your hands out, leans back into the chair. "Just yesterday I was /shot at/ because I happened to recognize a kidnapped dog, and now I'm being target by, like. By what? Another serial killer?"

"We don't have any confirmed murders yet," Grace offers quietly. But that just seals it; you are effectively being targeted by another crazy person.

Cross your arms and run your hand through your hair. Not sure if you feel like screaming or just not breathing. You heart feels like it's thumping away in your throat. Wait, no, you definitely feel like crying.

"You're going to be fine, Skye," agent Van Pelt offers, extending her hand to you, palm on the table. "We'll find who's doing this and we'll keep you safe."

Scoff. "Yeah? What about the other people this creep's been after? What are they even doing?"

Silence. Great. Perfect. It's not murder, but it's something that no one seems to be comfortable saying out loud. Just great. Lean forward, elbows on the table and face in your hands.

You hear the door open, blinds rattling. Agent Van Pelt puts a warm hand on your shoulder before getting up and leaving. Someone else takes her place. Take a deep breath and look up. A mug of steaming tea in placed in front of you.

You don't stop yourself from crying.

"You're wondering why you." It's not a question, but Jane lets you nod before continuing. Gallant. He takes a moment before answering. You stared through the mug. "Most likely to taunt the CBI," he shrugs a shoulder.

You want so badly to be angry at his nonchalance. Just don't have it in you. Take a sip of the tea. It's nearly scalding, but drinkable. Chamomile; figures. What a jerk.

"What..." Deep breath. Compose yourself to try and avoid sobbing. "What exactly has this person been doing?"

Again, thick discomfort. Not so much in Mr Jane's expression as it just hangs in how tense you both are. You expect the answer when he says it.

"Kidnapper and rapist." Choke on a... something. Not quite a sob, not quite a scream. His voice is quiet when he continues. "She keeps them in a remote location. We found one of her escaped victims a few weeks ago. By the time we went to investigate she'd already emptied the place and moved on. The victim had signs of being tortured."

"Oh my god." You repeat yourself. Again. And again. Your hands shake horribly. Tea spills onto your fingers. Breath quickens. You know this is a panic attack; you know your thoughts are spiralling and repeating themselves but.

But the release of it feels like something you need.

You promptly lose consciousness to Jane trying to calm you down.

You're on a beach.

You have no memory of getting there. And you honestly have no idea which beach it is. You don't remember ever seeing something like it. The shore runs for miles on either side of you. Cliffs behind you. A small cabin on the edge, just behind you. Steps carved into the stone of the cliffside.

Your feet dig into the sand as you make your way to the first stone step. The ascension is steep and tedious. You're winded by the time you make it to the top. The view is... Strange. You can see the curvature of the earth, but it's too pronounced.

Take out the phone in your back pocket. Check the time. 11:28AM. Look at the horizon. Back at the time. It's completely illegible.

Alright. You're dreaming. Good to know.

The cabin is entirely made of logs and looks nearly perfectly square. The front door has a small circular window in it. A small lantern with a lit flame hangs up to the right. It casts a strange gleam on the brass doorknob.

Take a deep breath. This is just a dream.

Probably.

Knock three times. No answer. Knock again and call out. No answer. Find the door unlock when you turn the knob. Open the door as you normally would.

Thirteen women stare at you, eyes white and mouths agape. Let go of the doorknob, spin on your heels to run.

A woman stands directly in front of you. A yellow bandana covers most of her face. All you can see are her near-black eyes. She grabs you by the shoulders. Fingers dig into the flesh of your biceps.

You can't scream.

You wake up digging your heels into a mattress and shoving yourself backwards. Straight off a table and into someone's chest. Scream and try to fight arms away, end up landing (painfully) on the floor.

The arms won't leave. Feels like there are too many hands grabbing at your. Too many to fight off and there's just—

Ice cold water in your face. Down your neck, your back, covering your scalp. Gasp for air, sit up, try and wipe the water off your face. Comb through your hair to get it out of your face. Finally take in your surroundings.

"I-I'm sorry I didn't know what else to do." Mr Jane take a knee next to you. Hovers uncertainly, arms out to help without knowing how.

"It's fine, Jesus, I'm sorry, did I hurt you? Oh. Fuck, shit." Reach a hand to his left cheek. Red, already swelling a little. "Oh god I'm so sorry, you need ice on that--"

Motion to get up, but a hand on your shoulder keeps you sitting on the wooden floor. Jane stares at you intently. Alright, then; uncertainty out the window, it seems.

"I'm fine, Skye. Are you okay?" The genuine concern confuses you. Frown, but nod.

"I mean my lungs feel like they're about to fuckin'. Combust. But wait nevermind I dreamt about something doyouhavepaperandapencil?"

The words spill out of your mouth all at once and you trip over yourself at least twice. A paper and pen are provided to you.

Unfocus your eyes, hunch over the paper and start sketching. The cabin, the cliffside, the steps. The sandy shore. And, as best you can, try to draw the woman's eyes. The small knick in her left brow. The crows' feet. The bandana. Scrawl the numbers 1128 somewhere in a corner.

Mr Jane stays quiet the entire time. You can almost feel him frowning at you. Straighten your back when you're done. After a second, add an arrow pointing to the bandana and quickly write 'yellow'.

Mr Jane stands so quickly it nearly makes you jump out of your skin.

"That's what you dreamt of?" Points at the face; what little you could draw of it.

"Yeah, it was. There was a cabin and I walked in and there were so many women? There weren't dead but they kind of. They felt dead? And when I turned around and this is who was there are she grabbed my upper arms—"

You grab a spot high on your bicep and wince. Freeze for a moment, pull your collar down to see. You don't need to see the four other bruises to know they're also there.

There's a neat, thumb-sized bruise just near the inside of your arm.

You stay upstairs with Jane for a while. Gets you a bottle of water rather than tea. You appreciate it; the cold water is much more satisfying. Lets you calm your nerves before going down to see Lisbon with your rough sketch.

It's not spoken but it's understood between the lot of you. On the spot, dreaming of a wanted criminal is strange. Extremely out of the ordinary. But once you start thinking about it as you slowly walk down the stairs to the main office space for the CBI, you can see the logic and reason behind it.

You met the woman yesterday. That much is certain. And she most likely directly mailed the letter to you as well. (Which, unfortunately, didn't seem to have any trace of a print or DNA whatsoever.) Maybe your subconscious mind figured out which EMT or nurse it was. If they had a face mask on you /would/ only remember the eyes. Might have even recognized her as a threat without consciously registering it.

Which would then explain why you dreamt of her.

Still, it's uncanny how you dreamt of the exact amount of women who were taken. Try not to think too hard about that.

Sit down at the far left end of the old leather couch. Nurse your water bottle slowly. Try not to pay too much attention to what agent Lisbon is talking about, or the odd glances you get from agents Rigsby and Cho.

Toe off your shoes and pull your feet up on the couch. Hug your knees. When you moved out to Cali this is not the life you thought you'd signed up for. Sigh and play with the bottle cap.

Mr Jane sits net to you, blue teacup and saucer in hand.

"Did you ever visit that log cabin?" Doesn't look at you when he asks.

Shake your head. "I've only ever been to public beaches." You look at Jane's wrist for the time. Nearly 4PM. How long were you out?

Jane hums. You can almost see where this is going.

"Lisbon!" Puts his cup on his desk. "Call me if you need us." Extends his hand to you.

You pray you won't spend hours on the road again, but take it regardless.

𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

@fucklife-or-me @yearningforsappho

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