grenegome

Title: Aftermath (3/6)

Rating: NC-17 (Deals with non-con)

Warnings: Non-con, slight violence, swearing. If you have any questions about the nature of the fic before deciding to read it, I'm happy to answer them.

Pairing: Red John/Jane, team gen.

Notes: This is a sequel to the Red John/Jane fic I posted at the Mentalist kink meme here. That fic also deals with non-con. This will make more sense if you read that first. Also, if anyone has suggestions for a decent title, hit me. I suck at titles.

Summary: After Red John's holiday is over, Jane and his team pick up the pieces.

Previous Parts: One Two

When he knocks on the open door of Bosco’s office, the man looks up, surprised.

“Hi,” Jane says, and waves. “Peace offering.”

Bosco blinks.

“You bought me flowers?”

“No. Red John bought me flowers, which I’m turning over to you without any yelling, panic attacks, or fits of violence. Look, he even sent a card.”

He drops it in front of Bosco. It is only a small card, but it is covered with an impressive amount of detail regarding exactly what Red John would like to do to Jane’s person.

As expected, Bosco begins to colour and look horribly uncomfortable. Jane presses his advantage.

“And as I’ve been so cooperative, I’d appreciate it if you could pass me the report when its been analysed.”

Bosco’s eyes seem to be stuck half way down the card, where it reads and find other uses for your clever mouth. Stricken, he nods.

“Good,” Jane says, and sits in the chair opposite Bosco. “Is there anything else you’d care to discuss whilst I’m here?”

Bosco looks up, surprised again. “You aren’t going to freak out?”

“Stay on your side of the desk and I’m sure we’ll do fine.”

Bosco looks embarrassed. “Alright. Did you know he wanted any of this?”

“Not until he forced it on me, no.”

“It’s breaking pattern.”

“Breaking pattern for me is a pattern of its own by now. He’s likely to try again.”

“You should start carrying a gun.”

Jane laughs. “Not you as well.”

There’s another knock on the door. Lisbon is staring at the two of them.

Bosco raises both hands. “We’re just talking. Civilly.”

“With…flowers.” She adds, helplessly.

“From Red John.” They chorus.

“Oh.” She comes over and reads the card. “Well, that’s disturbing.”

“Incredibly.” Jane nods.

“Here.” She pulls his ring out of her pocket, and slips it on his finger, as if this is something they do every day. “Forensics have finished with your home, but you can’t go back yet. We’re getting a security firm to do their thing.”

“Ohh, do I get a panic room? Secret passages?”

She shrugs. “And I wanted you to know, my sofa’s still at your disposal.” She doesn’t hesitate, or express embarrassment, when she says sofa, and Jane is proud of her. He considers how difficult it is for Lisbon to allow anyone inside her defences, and how courageously graceful she had been, waking up with him in her bed and suppressing her first instinct, which must have been to force him away.

He knows he can be demanding, exhausting, and difficult. He knows Lisbon values her space outside the office.

“Thanks. I was planning to pester Cho actually.”

“Cho?”

“I haven’t seen his apartment yet. I bet he has a nice couch.”

Cho does have a nice couch. He also has a nice spare room that he insists Jane should at least try sleeping in. Jane is toying with the idea when Cho absents himself to wash the dishes. He is very full of the rather nice steak Cho had cooked, and does feel a little sleepy.

The phone rings. Jane picks it up, mostly out of mischief.

“Kimball Cho’s residence. Patrick Jane speaking.”

“Patrick Jane? You’re that psychic Kim works with?”

Older female, and from the tone, probably Cho’s mother.

“I work with him ma’am, but I was only ever pretending to be psychic.”

“Are the two of you working now? Am I interrupting?”

“No ma’am. There was an incident at my house, and Kimball was kind enough to let me sleep on his sofa.”

There is an ominous silence, in which Jane has time to realise he misspoke.

“Sofa? And what exactly is wrong with his spare room? Is he incapable of tidying for guests? He has better manners than that!”

“Ah-”

And then the receiver is pulled out of his hand.

“Mom. I already told him he can’t sleep on the couch. No, no I did. Yes. I’ve fed him. Steak. I used the pepper.”

Jane wanders into the kitchen and helps himself to a cookie. The dishes are half done in the sink. He rolls up his sleeves and finishes them. Cho walks back in, looking a little harried.

“Never do that to me again. You’re sleeping in the spare room.”

“Cho, she won’t actually know.”

“Yes, she will, because she’ll ask me. She knows when I lie.”

“Then she’s a very perceptive women. You’ve told her about me.” It isn’t exactly a question, but Cho answers anyway.

“I tell her heavily edited versions of the stunts you pull. She thinks they’re funny.”

“She’s a wise woman.” And she may have been, to raise Kimball Cho.

He wakes up screaming, and he wonders if all of his nightmares will be like this now. Before, they had all been a silent bloody red, and he hadn’t cried out. It shames him that something done solely to his person could displace the loss of his family in his unconscious.

That doesn’t change the taste of desperation in his mouth, and he is wary enough to note the floorboards creaking on the other side of the bed. There is a solid black shape moving through the dark.

“Jane.”

It is Cho. Sweet, unflappable Cho, who will be looking down at him without comment or condemnation.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah. You want me to?” And Cho points to the empty half of the bed. Jane is embarrassed, but he does. Cho would not offer unless he was sincere, and Jane nods his head into the dark.

“Ok. Don’t steal the covers.”

He doesn’t, because he is awake for most of the night, but it is easier than his usual wakefulness. The rage and grief that usually presses in on him through the night is somehow muted by the warm presence by his side. He drifts, huddled in a ball on the bed, idly marking the passing of the night.

With a bit of assistance from Cho, he’d managed to set the alarm on his phone. He isn’t entirely sure how to stop it beeping, so when day breaks he passes it over to a Cho who seems to have moved from fast asleep to wide awake without any of the transitional yawning, puzzlement or stretching that Jane is used to witnessing.

Cho passes the phone back and slides out of bed. “Towels are in the wicker hamper in the bathroom, if you want a shower. You like pancakes?”

Jane does.

He is uncharacteristically well rested and well fed for their next case, which makes his usual manic smile less sharp, and his whirling words less wild. He catches looks from Lisbon which alternate between relief and worry.

But, as the case stretches out across the week, and the security firm are finished with his house, he is forced to abandon the human security blanket of his team members, and their beds. He cannot afford to alienate them with his neediness, and he can ration their charity until he has greater need of it.

Settling back into his house convinces the CBI shrink that she doesn’t need to suspend him. It is a necessary concession, but going back is not easy. John had taken care to master Jane in every room he habitually used.

He finds himself, of a weekend, hiding from the rest of the house in his spare room, and feeling ridiculous. He wants to call Lisbon. He doesn’t. She’d hidden it well from the rest of the team, but she has a date tonight. It would be entertaining for Jane to get his claws into him, but unfair. Sometimes he can be fair.

Instead, he stares at the case notes he snuck home with him.

Under his own care, he regains his sharp edges and uncensored speech, as sensible sleeping patterns and regular meals escape him.

He draws on it for their case, which is murder, again. Among the high and the mighty. His team have clearly been instructed by Lisbon to run interference, which is irritating, because he knows the son is as guilty as sin. His arrogance and entitlement have convinced him that a life is one of the many things he is entitled to take. It’s written in every line of his body.

Apparently, body language won’t stand up in court, and his team keep finding compelling reasons for him to be places Harrison King Junior isn’t. Jane, I need a second pair of eyes on this, Jane can you sit in on my interview.

Usually, he would dodge around them, throw out a little misdirection, and then be off, closing the case and awaiting the cavalry when it got down to the tedious business of actually arresting people.

But, even as he’s locked up tight in his Fort Knox house of an evening alone, he is struggling to part company with his team during the day.

They don’t seem to mind, though Lisbon does roll her eyes at him when he follows her into the ladies' room to continue an argument.

The two other women in the restroom don’t express surprise as he continues to argue with Lisbon through the cubicle walls. He thinks this may say something rather unflattering about his reputation in the CBI.

It isn’t as bad as when Rigsby goes dumpster diving, and Jane has to quash the urge to climb in after him, because he feels alone in the dingy alleyway.

“Got anything?”

“Maybe. I need helping lifting it out for a look.”

“Uhh. I’m not a manual lifting person, Rigsby. Maybe we should call Van Pelt and Cho.”

They’re supposed to check in five minutes from now anyway. Lisbon is disguising an overly protective urge to know where Jane is at all times by insisting she knows where everybody is at hourly intervals.

“Get in here Jane.”

He finds himself complying without much thought. He is pitiful, climbing into refuse in order to stand next to one of the four people in the world that actually make him feel safe.

His day gets worse from there, when King’s associates unexpectedly reappear from the warehouse doorway beside their dumpster. They aren’t happy to see Rigsby and Jane hauling their evidence out from its hiding place.

There is a lot of yelling of “CBI!” and gun waving on Rigsby’s part, but there are five men who all have bigger guns, staring at them unimpressed.

Eventually, Rigsby sets his down and climbs out of the dumpster as instructed. When Jane, whose upper body strength leaves a lot to be desired, can’t actually comply with the order, they haul him out by the collar of his suit jacket.

“Hey, easy!” Rigsby looks as if he’s going to start punching people in the face again, guns be damned.

“Rigsby. They haven’t hurt me.”

Rigsby looks uncertain. “They’ve ripped your suit. It’s ruined.”

“Yes, and that’s fine. I can get another.” The thugs are looking at them as if they’re crazy. Jane smiles at them brightly.

“Well, is Mr King around? We have an appointment.” He shouldn’t have to stall for long, they’re about to miss their check in.

He doesn’t have to. Backup descends on them absurdly quickly, and it’s not just his team. It’s a ridiculous number of uniformed policemen as well.

“Uh, boss?” Rigsby asks Lisbon as she strides towards them. He points at the police. “Is this going to happen every time someone misses a check in?”

“No.” She looks oddly stern. “We had a tip off.”

“Who?’

“He didn’t leave his name.”

She doesn’t look at Jane when she speaks, and cuts off the question he’s about to ask.

“Everyone in the car.”

The drive back is odd. Between the five thuggish potential plea bargains, the evidence in the dumpster, and the miraculous rescue, his team have a solid, court worthy case, built on traditional detective work rather than Jane’s usual showmanship. It’s the kind of thing Minelli likes to see sometimes. Jane’s team should be happier, they should be teasing him. They aren’t.

When they reach the office, he confirms this unusual lack of levity is because they have the same suspicion he does regarding the tip off. There is no other reason for everyone to automatically gravitate towards Jane’s desk, and be unsurprised by the parcel that is resting there.

Jane cuts through the string to open it, ignoring a couple of token protests about contaminating evidence. There is never any evidence.

It’s a suit. A finely cut, expensive suit that looks exactly Jane’s size.

Standing in the clothes that he ruined only an hour ago, he shivers a little.

“He’s been watching us.” Rigsby says, slowly. “He stopped us getting shot.”

Then Rigsby catches sight of the card. “Shit.”

Whilst your choice of profession has had its place in our relationship, Patrick, I am displeased by current trends. You put yourself in the hands of dangerous people rather promiscuously. It is tiresome to see your attentions turned elsewhere. Perhaps I need to be more direct in securing them. Enjoy the suit. I think I’d like you to model it next time I have you.

“Is Bosco in?” He asks, blankly. Have you. Next time.

“Yes, but-”

And he scoops everything up and is off. If he walks fast enough, he might be able to outpace his thoughts.

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