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grenegomeTitle: Aftermath (5/6)
“Hello John,” he says.
“Patrick.”
He has never punched anyone before, but apparently anger is inspirational, because he spins, fist flailing out and round wildly. He catches Red John a glancing blow on the shoulder. It isn’t enough, and it’s probably only John’s superior reflexes that prevent Jane from slitting his own throat.
And then he catches Jane a sharp blow to the temple with the handle of the knife. He drops to the floor. The room is wobbling, and he fails utterly to prevent John from flipping him over, cuffing his wrists. Then he’s not being touched anymore, and he sits up, quelling a surge of nausea through force of will alone.
John has grabbed Bosco’s chair and hauls him around to the front of the desk, several feet from where Jane is sitting. His hands are cuffed to the arms of the chair, feet bound together with his own belt.
He meets Bosco’s eyes, and Bosco looks as sick as Jane feels.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He has Sarah.”
Jane nods. He had, in fact, reached the conclusion that Bosco was too stubborn to lure him here out of fear for his own life.
He looks up at Red John, and it shouldn’t be possible to convey a smile through a balaclava, but it reaches him clearly.
“Same stakes?” He asks, casually.
John eases a slip of paper out of his pocket, left handed. He leans back against the desk. His right hand rests the knife against Bosco’s throat.
“Oh, I’d say double or nothing, Patrick. Sarah’s location, Sam’s life.”
He hesitates. His hands are cuffed, true, but not to anything. He could run. John had closed the door, and negotiating it would be tricky. Bosco would be dead before he crossed the threshold, and John would be on him, angry, with nothing accomplished. Automatically, he stalls.
“Why Bosco? We aren’t exactly friends.”
“I can’t say I’m too fond of him either.” John slides the knife down across Bosco’s Adam’s apple. “He has imposed himself between us. Presumptuous. But now, he’s drawn you here, straight to me. Don’t you think they’ll give my case back to your pretty little Lisbon now?”
Jane would sooner loose a limb than react to John’s use of Lisbon’s name, so he just sits quietly, as if he is exactly where he wants to be, waiting. It seems John wants him to live through this, again. He hadn’t been sure, between the knife and the gloves.
John continues. “And besides, you gave him my gifts Jane. I was insulted. Speaking of which, here.”
John tucks the paper back into his pocket, and lifts something wrapped in plastic from the desk behind him. He drops it in front of Jane.
It’s the suit, tagged and bagged as evidence.
“I don’t like the colour.” He said, calmly. It’s blue. It’s a lie, he looks good in blue.
Bosco looks strung between fear and complete disbelief that Jane is discussing his sartorial preferences.
“I said I’d have you model it. Put it on, Jane.”
He jangles the cuffs behind himself pointedly.
John laughs, picks up a paperclip from the desk and flips it into Jane’s lap.
Jane looks at it, then back at John.
“You don’t have the keys?”
“Of course I do, but I like to watch you work.”
The paperclip is the only gift from John he is ever likely to appreciate. He plans to keep hold of it.
Kneeling up, he drops the clip onto the floor and then wiggles around so that he can catch it up in his fingers. He looks up at John, because a simple trick like this requires very little of his attention, and he should gather what he can. He’s not sure how many of the details from John’s “vacation” he trusts.
He’s about half a head taller than Jane. The eyes behind the balaclava are dark. The patches of skin he can see are white.
Those dark eyes are watching him intently, with greater fascination than Jane’s wiggling should deserve. But then John would probably use a different word. Undulating. Writhing.
Disgust roils through him, and he has to conscientiously unclench his fists from the now unbent paperclip. Easy.
The cuffs are simple, and then he slips the straightened clip between two fingers, hiding it from John’s view. He mimes tossing it away from himself petulantly, and waits to see if John has caught that particular piece of showmanship. He is sharp, but not, apparently, sharp enough. It is a minor victory, but one Jane takes a moment to revel in. He stands.
“Prettily done Patrick. Let’s see you in my present.”
He starts a countdown from five hundred, slow, at the back of his head. He cannot afford to panic, but he can feel it rising as he shrugs out of his jacket and begins to fold it. Slow, meticulous gestures should see him through.
The vest follows. He’d prefer to do this in stages, rather than stand for a moment in just shirt and underwear, so he opens the evidence bag. He buttons up the new vest, and slides on the jacket. They fit alarmingly well.
He toes off his shoes, and glances up. Bosco’s fists are clenched, white knuckled, but his face is red with rage. Very little of this anger is likely to be on Jane’s behalf, but he takes a little comfort in it anyway. He’d take more comfort in the presence of Cho, or Rigsby, angry and armed.
“Don’t tease, Patrick. Carry on.” The knife scrapes back upwards.
Jane complies swiftly. Buttoning the new slacks, he shifts, realising the fit is not one he is accustomed to. “Too small, I’m afraid. You misjudged.”
Bosco flinches, and glares at Jane. Yes. It is probably unfair to try and solicit an unplanned angered response when he isn’t the one under the knife.
But no rage is forthcoming. “Oh, I don’t think so. Give me a twirl Patrick.”
Twirl. He chokes on the word as he pivots, because it’s the kind of word you’d save for a little girl in her first party frock.
When he has his back to Red John he hears a low note of approval, and flushes with the knowledge of what he is admiring.
“Very nice, Patrick. Now come here.”
He digs in his heels because he cannot help himself. “I want to hear you say it first. I don’t want the agreement implied.”
“Of course. Your obedience, for me not plunging my knife into his neck. And for the lovely Sarah’s location.”
“She’s alive?”
“Yes.”
Jane steps forward, and when he is in arm’s reach, John holds out his left hand to halt him.
“On your knees.” Jane nods, but then leans sideways to grasp Bosco’s hand.
“For what it’s worth Sam, I’m sorry too. And he doesn’t lie to me. She’s alive.”
And before John can wonder, Jane sinks to his knees, as graceful as he can be. Hands clasped behind his back, looking hesitantly upwards through his lashes. It is an unfamiliar kind of manipulation, but he thinks it will appeal to John’s tastes. Jane’s brief grip on Bosco’s hand will go forgotten, as the paperclip had. He hopes Sam knows how to use it. He hopes he’s willing to.
“Very, very nice. I pictured you in that suit, on your knees. I should have brought a camera.”
Jane looks down. It is obvious what John is about to order him to do, and Jane has been struck by the idea that he might actually be bad at it. The thought shouldn’t be funny, but he is a connoisseur of amusement in desperate situations.
“Take me out, Patrick.”
His countdown has reached a hundred, and he falls back on it as he reaches out, unzips his opponent. No underwear. 95.
John is hot and heavy in his hand, but not fully erect. 93. Last time, John had taken his pleasure from Jane’s body. Now Jane has to kindle it himself. He moves his hand, up and down. 90.
“A little enthusiasm won’t kill anyone, Jane.” No. In fact, it was likely to keep people alive. “Take the condom out of my right pocket.”
He does. Cherry flavoured. Wonderful. He’s never going to be able to eat cherries again. John makes a noise of amusement, apparently at the expression on his face.
“I’m sorry Jane, we’ll stick with the regular kind in future.” In future. 80.
He rolls the condom down over John after a moment’s contemplation. He hasn’t had to negotiate prophylactics for a long time.
John’s left hand is in his hair, urging him forward.
“Mouth open, Patrick. Let’s see what you can do.”
The weight is in his mouth, and he is suddenly grateful for the cherry. The ridiculous flavour is outside Jane’s frame of reference for sex. He has a sweet tooth, and perhaps if he closes his eyes he can pretend this is a particularly obscene kind of lollipop.
“You have to suck, Jane. It’s not just about keeping your mouth open.” Suck. Just like a lollipop.
“Mmm. Yes. I think you could be quite good at this, with practice.”
68. What happens next, happens quickly. Bosco’s cuff clicks. John telegraphs his reaction by tightening his grip in Jane’s hair. Jane bites down.
John yells and yanks at his hair. Jane slips his hand into John’s left pocket. Then John’s thumbs are pressing into his eye sockets and Jane lets go, falling backwards to land on his behind.
Bosco has only one hand free, and is struggling to keep the knife from his throat. John has two hands. Jane has to be quick.
He grabs the big evidence bag from where he fell, scrambles up, and pulls it over John’s head. He pushes the plastic against his face, and begins to speak.
“Your air’s all gone, John, there’s nothing left inside you. You’re all used up, and your limbs are heavy. You can’t hold the knife. Sam’s stronger than you are, and the air’s all gone. Used up.” He’s pressed tight against John, trying to be too close for an effective blow.
“Jane!” Bosco roars, and he’s dancing backwards before the knife can touch him. John rips the bag from his face, and Bosco is scrabbling one handed at the belt around his ankles.
John staggers forward, knife outstretched. “Out of my way.”
Jane plants himself in the doorway. Bosco will have the buckle in a moment, and he’ll be mobile, even with one hand still cuffed to the chair. He can damn well hit John with it.
But Jane is not a fighter. The nuances of violence escape him, and he does not know how to turn aside John’s fist as it flies towards his face.
If it were the knife, he’d be dead. As it is, he drops to the floor, and John steps over him.
Next Part
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 Three Four“Hello John,” he says.
“Patrick.”
He has never punched anyone before, but apparently anger is inspirational, because he spins, fist flailing out and round wildly. He catches Red John a glancing blow on the shoulder. It isn’t enough, and it’s probably only John’s superior reflexes that prevent Jane from slitting his own throat.
And then he catches Jane a sharp blow to the temple with the handle of the knife. He drops to the floor. The room is wobbling, and he fails utterly to prevent John from flipping him over, cuffing his wrists. Then he’s not being touched anymore, and he sits up, quelling a surge of nausea through force of will alone.
John has grabbed Bosco’s chair and hauls him around to the front of the desk, several feet from where Jane is sitting. His hands are cuffed to the arms of the chair, feet bound together with his own belt.
He meets Bosco’s eyes, and Bosco looks as sick as Jane feels.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He has Sarah.”
Jane nods. He had, in fact, reached the conclusion that Bosco was too stubborn to lure him here out of fear for his own life.
He looks up at Red John, and it shouldn’t be possible to convey a smile through a balaclava, but it reaches him clearly.
“Same stakes?” He asks, casually.
John eases a slip of paper out of his pocket, left handed. He leans back against the desk. His right hand rests the knife against Bosco’s throat.
“Oh, I’d say double or nothing, Patrick. Sarah’s location, Sam’s life.”
He hesitates. His hands are cuffed, true, but not to anything. He could run. John had closed the door, and negotiating it would be tricky. Bosco would be dead before he crossed the threshold, and John would be on him, angry, with nothing accomplished. Automatically, he stalls.
“Why Bosco? We aren’t exactly friends.”
“I can’t say I’m too fond of him either.” John slides the knife down across Bosco’s Adam’s apple. “He has imposed himself between us. Presumptuous. But now, he’s drawn you here, straight to me. Don’t you think they’ll give my case back to your pretty little Lisbon now?”
Jane would sooner loose a limb than react to John’s use of Lisbon’s name, so he just sits quietly, as if he is exactly where he wants to be, waiting. It seems John wants him to live through this, again. He hadn’t been sure, between the knife and the gloves.
John continues. “And besides, you gave him my gifts Jane. I was insulted. Speaking of which, here.”
John tucks the paper back into his pocket, and lifts something wrapped in plastic from the desk behind him. He drops it in front of Jane.
It’s the suit, tagged and bagged as evidence.
“I don’t like the colour.” He said, calmly. It’s blue. It’s a lie, he looks good in blue.
Bosco looks strung between fear and complete disbelief that Jane is discussing his sartorial preferences.
“I said I’d have you model it. Put it on, Jane.”
He jangles the cuffs behind himself pointedly.
John laughs, picks up a paperclip from the desk and flips it into Jane’s lap.
Jane looks at it, then back at John.
“You don’t have the keys?”
“Of course I do, but I like to watch you work.”
The paperclip is the only gift from John he is ever likely to appreciate. He plans to keep hold of it.
Kneeling up, he drops the clip onto the floor and then wiggles around so that he can catch it up in his fingers. He looks up at John, because a simple trick like this requires very little of his attention, and he should gather what he can. He’s not sure how many of the details from John’s “vacation” he trusts.
He’s about half a head taller than Jane. The eyes behind the balaclava are dark. The patches of skin he can see are white.
Those dark eyes are watching him intently, with greater fascination than Jane’s wiggling should deserve. But then John would probably use a different word. Undulating. Writhing.
Disgust roils through him, and he has to conscientiously unclench his fists from the now unbent paperclip. Easy.
The cuffs are simple, and then he slips the straightened clip between two fingers, hiding it from John’s view. He mimes tossing it away from himself petulantly, and waits to see if John has caught that particular piece of showmanship. He is sharp, but not, apparently, sharp enough. It is a minor victory, but one Jane takes a moment to revel in. He stands.
“Prettily done Patrick. Let’s see you in my present.”
He starts a countdown from five hundred, slow, at the back of his head. He cannot afford to panic, but he can feel it rising as he shrugs out of his jacket and begins to fold it. Slow, meticulous gestures should see him through.
The vest follows. He’d prefer to do this in stages, rather than stand for a moment in just shirt and underwear, so he opens the evidence bag. He buttons up the new vest, and slides on the jacket. They fit alarmingly well.
He toes off his shoes, and glances up. Bosco’s fists are clenched, white knuckled, but his face is red with rage. Very little of this anger is likely to be on Jane’s behalf, but he takes a little comfort in it anyway. He’d take more comfort in the presence of Cho, or Rigsby, angry and armed.
“Don’t tease, Patrick. Carry on.” The knife scrapes back upwards.
Jane complies swiftly. Buttoning the new slacks, he shifts, realising the fit is not one he is accustomed to. “Too small, I’m afraid. You misjudged.”
Bosco flinches, and glares at Jane. Yes. It is probably unfair to try and solicit an unplanned angered response when he isn’t the one under the knife.
But no rage is forthcoming. “Oh, I don’t think so. Give me a twirl Patrick.”
Twirl. He chokes on the word as he pivots, because it’s the kind of word you’d save for a little girl in her first party frock.
When he has his back to Red John he hears a low note of approval, and flushes with the knowledge of what he is admiring.
“Very nice, Patrick. Now come here.”
He digs in his heels because he cannot help himself. “I want to hear you say it first. I don’t want the agreement implied.”
“Of course. Your obedience, for me not plunging my knife into his neck. And for the lovely Sarah’s location.”
“She’s alive?”
“Yes.”
Jane steps forward, and when he is in arm’s reach, John holds out his left hand to halt him.
“On your knees.” Jane nods, but then leans sideways to grasp Bosco’s hand.
“For what it’s worth Sam, I’m sorry too. And he doesn’t lie to me. She’s alive.”
And before John can wonder, Jane sinks to his knees, as graceful as he can be. Hands clasped behind his back, looking hesitantly upwards through his lashes. It is an unfamiliar kind of manipulation, but he thinks it will appeal to John’s tastes. Jane’s brief grip on Bosco’s hand will go forgotten, as the paperclip had. He hopes Sam knows how to use it. He hopes he’s willing to.
“Very, very nice. I pictured you in that suit, on your knees. I should have brought a camera.”
Jane looks down. It is obvious what John is about to order him to do, and Jane has been struck by the idea that he might actually be bad at it. The thought shouldn’t be funny, but he is a connoisseur of amusement in desperate situations.
“Take me out, Patrick.”
His countdown has reached a hundred, and he falls back on it as he reaches out, unzips his opponent. No underwear. 95.
John is hot and heavy in his hand, but not fully erect. 93. Last time, John had taken his pleasure from Jane’s body. Now Jane has to kindle it himself. He moves his hand, up and down. 90.
“A little enthusiasm won’t kill anyone, Jane.” No. In fact, it was likely to keep people alive. “Take the condom out of my right pocket.”
He does. Cherry flavoured. Wonderful. He’s never going to be able to eat cherries again. John makes a noise of amusement, apparently at the expression on his face.
“I’m sorry Jane, we’ll stick with the regular kind in future.” In future. 80.
He rolls the condom down over John after a moment’s contemplation. He hasn’t had to negotiate prophylactics for a long time.
John’s left hand is in his hair, urging him forward.
“Mouth open, Patrick. Let’s see what you can do.”
The weight is in his mouth, and he is suddenly grateful for the cherry. The ridiculous flavour is outside Jane’s frame of reference for sex. He has a sweet tooth, and perhaps if he closes his eyes he can pretend this is a particularly obscene kind of lollipop.
“You have to suck, Jane. It’s not just about keeping your mouth open.” Suck. Just like a lollipop.
“Mmm. Yes. I think you could be quite good at this, with practice.”
68. What happens next, happens quickly. Bosco’s cuff clicks. John telegraphs his reaction by tightening his grip in Jane’s hair. Jane bites down.
John yells and yanks at his hair. Jane slips his hand into John’s left pocket. Then John’s thumbs are pressing into his eye sockets and Jane lets go, falling backwards to land on his behind.
Bosco has only one hand free, and is struggling to keep the knife from his throat. John has two hands. Jane has to be quick.
He grabs the big evidence bag from where he fell, scrambles up, and pulls it over John’s head. He pushes the plastic against his face, and begins to speak.
“Your air’s all gone, John, there’s nothing left inside you. You’re all used up, and your limbs are heavy. You can’t hold the knife. Sam’s stronger than you are, and the air’s all gone. Used up.” He’s pressed tight against John, trying to be too close for an effective blow.
“Jane!” Bosco roars, and he’s dancing backwards before the knife can touch him. John rips the bag from his face, and Bosco is scrabbling one handed at the belt around his ankles.
John staggers forward, knife outstretched. “Out of my way.”
Jane plants himself in the doorway. Bosco will have the buckle in a moment, and he’ll be mobile, even with one hand still cuffed to the chair. He can damn well hit John with it.
But Jane is not a fighter. The nuances of violence escape him, and he does not know how to turn aside John’s fist as it flies towards his face.
If it were the knife, he’d be dead. As it is, he drops to the floor, and John steps over him.
Next Part
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Date: 2010-02-12 10:54 pm (UTC)