Fic: The Active, Springing From Energy (The Mentalist: Patrick Jane, Red John)

[grenegome]

Title: The Active, Springing From Energy.
Fandom: The Mentalist
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing: Patrick Jane, Red John
Genre: Creepy Gen
Warnings: Red John. Themes of obsession. Depiction of canonical deaths. Misuse of Blake. Unbeta'd, as it's fairly short.
Spoilers: 2:23 Red Sky in the Morning
Disclaimer:  The characters of the Mentalist in no way belong to me.
Summary:  Red John's thoughts on the events of Red Sky in the Morning.
Notes: This one is totally ladyofpride's fault. She set me off thinking about the season finale.
Concrit: Very welcome.
Word Count: 726

Guns are clumsy. Guns are crude. They are instruments of power, and death, and whilst he has a certain fondness for both, they are not instruments of art. They cannot reveal the true things lurking beneath the skin in the way a knife can, because these things are delicate, and they must be teased out.

So he does not concern himself with guns. Usually. But as ever, Patrick Jane has no respect for John’s sensibilities. Patrick Jane demands that he is pragmatic, and responsive.

John has honed certain methods for his craft. They are his, and his alone, and they are as close to perfection as can be expected in an imperfect world. Periodically, he is forced to abandon them for Jane. Delightful, wilful Jane, who should not be permitted to wander this world without a keeper.

Usually, the CBI are sufficient for his safety. He endangers his life with startling frequency, and in some truly surprising ways, but that team of his are protective and reassuringly competent. They have brought him home safely from any danger that Jane’s own powers have been unable to quell.

Tonight they are absent, Jane’s skills are not sufficient, and John holds a gun.

He had expected acolytes. They were his due. But the juvenile parasites with the video camera do not please him. Their souls are dull, their brains are heavy, and they ape their betters clumsily.

They have Patrick Jane, restrained, and a stooge with a knife before him. They would waste the most promising canvas they could hope for, under the blade of a terrified youth spewing cliched lines from his fearful mouth. Amateurs that they are, they have not even adapted these lines to exploit Jane’s relationship with John.

It could be anybody, wrapped up in that chair.

The wrapping displeases him also. It does too much to hide Jane, when he is so adept at hiding already.

He works it out, of course. John smiles his heartfelt admiration into his mask as Jane calls them forth, the ghouls with their camera. Jane’s own words are more beautiful, more artful than anything these fools could hope to compose.

But the stooge lacks courage, and Jane cannot quite tempt him to rebellion. A pity, but a heroic attempt nonetheless.

John is forced to use the gun. He sighs as he shoots, and the three of them are thrown to the floor.

Jane, in a panic, manages to throw himself down also in that monstrous chair. John mutes his own amusement as he extinguishes the ghouls. He takes the opportunity to wet his knife, but he knows this is not art. It is a necessity. He will not be signing his work.

Jane trembles on the floor, making wild noises. He has not seen John yet, but John knows he understands. Jane would not gift this terror to another.

He should leave now. He should leave Jane lying on the floor, secure in his bonds and his ignorance.

But John wants proof. John wants to see Jane truly does understand, that he knows why he has been rescued.

John is not above the occasional harmless indulgence. A brief touch will not betray him, a word or two will not loose his secrets.

The poetry surprises him. It is fitting, he supposes, because Jane’s grace is worth more than prose. And Blake...Blake is an old favourite, like Jane. Blake was not blinkered in his vision, he was not too frightened to see.

That the Tyger comes to mind...well. Jane is certainly feline in his grace. He is particular about his person, forever layered in suits. He is independent in his affections, occasionally demanding the attention of his team and occasionally slinking off on solitary pursuits. His tendency to curl up and sleep in the middle of the day, without seeking permission...yes. Feline.

He doesn’t indulge himself with the whole poem, but it resonates inside his head as he strides away. He has answers for Blake that he has never had before.

What the hand dare seize the fire? His. His hand, clenched in the inferno of Patrick Jane's wrathful intellect. His shoulder, and his art, twisting at the sinews of Jane’s heart, once and always.

Did he smile his work to see? Oh yes. Gladly.

He leaves with his answers. He leaves Jane with none.