Fic: Threes, (The Mentalist)

[grenegome]

Title: Threes
Fandom: The Mentalist
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, death (not CBI members), swearing.
Disclaimer: Written for fun, not for profit.
Prompt: Jane, Lisbon and Van Pelt (any combination goes: J/VP/L, J/VP, J/L, or even L/VP) Red John (or whoever) kidnaps Jane and Van Pelt, and when Jane begins to lose it, Van Pelt becomes his 'protector'. Lisbon eventually comes to rescue them both.
Notes: Written for ruuger in the redjohnlovesyou  ficathon. Yay for pensive1 , who did a stellar beta on this
Word Count: 3043



There were meaningful numbers in every culture, numbers that carried mythical or ritual significance. Magical significance, for those that were foolish enough to buy into such idiocy. In Jane’s experience, almost everybody did. It was just the degree and flavor of idiocy that varied.

It was possible that he was being idiotic. He was counting things.

He had been here three days. Three days of cold stone floor, three days of rough brickwork, three days of chains. Three. It was on the count of three that things were done, the third time that things were lucky, the third strike on which you were out. Three people in Jane’s family (husband-wife-and-child), three -

“Jane! Jane. You need to stop.” He could hear Grace trying to push authority into her voice, the badge-and-gun kind, not the other kind she held over him and failed to recognise. Authority, as always, tempered by her compassion. Irritating, because it had been three, three, three days for her too, and Jane knew that some of the things he had meant to think were said instead, that his precise control over his expression and posture had been ground away to dust, he knew that he did not know what his face was telling her, what she was reading in him-

“Jane!” but it was enough, evidently, to panic her. He had gone mad before, he did not want to be mad again, but then, he supposed, it might not matter. There wouldn’t be doctors and drugs and locked doors this time, to keep him alive for long enough for rage to hold him together. There wasn’t going to be an after, this time.

“Patrick,” she called him for the third time, “please.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. Not for discomforting her, but because she was here to be discomforted. Nobody was supposed to be here. He had a wedding ring, momento mori, to remind him. He was chasing death, and death chased him, and he had considered the possibility of this. Of being caught up one night, alone. Of being taken away.

But he was not always alone anymore. He had learned nothing from his losses. His selfishness was breathtaking. The first time that Grace had bent a little from her unquestioning orthodoxy, to something a little less righteous, oh that had been delicious. The subtle smile she gifted him, complicit in their mischief, had woken an appetite he’d thought long dead.

Grace had been with him, in his bed, in his life, tangled up in arguments over his bloody purpose and her relentless faith. Her hope. And, why not the third? Her charity, though not in that sense, not pity, no, because he would not-

There were footsteps.

“He’s coming,” Grace said, needlessly. The footsteps were heavy.

“Another,” Jane said, “a third.”

The door opened, and Red John dragged his burden into the room.

Negligently, Red John released the ankles of the woman he’d been hauling, and abandoned her in the middle of the floor. His eyes sought Jane’s, and then he beamed, like a cat presenting its human with a mouse. A present.

“All for me?” Jane asked. It was probably hysteria that made his voice so bright and pleasant, because there was nothing bright or pleasant here. On the floor, the woman started to stir, making low, pained noises. Clumsily, she rolled onto her side, and Jane could see her wrists taped securely behind her. A canvas sack obscured her face. Her sluggish attempts at movement weren’t coordinated. She was likely drugged, or stunned, as the two before her had been

“Another blonde, Mr Jane. I chose her especially. I can make her beautiful for you.”

He would throw up, if he had eaten. He will still heave when the knife comes out, when there is blood, when the woman tries to scream through her gag. He tried not to look at Grace. She was bound to the wall opposite, so Jane could watch her, watching this, because Red John liked to corrupt, enlighten, wanted Jane to bear witness to this process; and no, he would not, would not give him the satisfaction-

“Jane,” Grace said, and Jane’s mouth snapped shut over whatever had been flooding out of him, whatever words he had lost control of for long enough for Red John to lap up.

Yes, probably mad.

When it began, he didn’t close his eyes. He had, with the first woman, but then Red John had abandoned his work, crossed over to Van Pelt, and talked them through exactly what he could do with his knife, if Jane would prefer a different canvas.

It was no quick work, and he watched, and he heard, as John cut away, and narrated, and every other stroke was a comparison to Jane’s wife, how her screams had differed, how she had moved beneath Red John.

He divorced his thoughts from this woman (from his women), and continued to watch as commanded while taking his mind elsewhere. Jane let the small physical miseries upset him instead.

He was full of blood, but not his own. His pyjamas were finger-painted red, with Red John’s artwork. His wrists were fixed to the wall above his head, in a such a way that he was prevented from standing. He couldn’t feel his hands. He must look ridiculous. The familiar layers of his suit would be no assistance in this situation, but he missed them.

Eventually, Red John finished. He turned away from Jane to mark a third face on the opposite wall. Jane stole a glance at Grace. She had her eyes closed. There was no injunction for her to watch.

“No commentary from the peanut gallery, Mr Jane?” Red John asked, trailing his fingers around the slow arc of a smile.

Jane had no words left.

“No? I must not be trying hard enough.” Red John looked over his shoulder, to the body on the floor, and sighed. Silence fell for a moment, and Red John turned back to mark the eyes on the wall. “Ah! I know, I know what you’d like, Mr Jane. There’s a little girl by the name of Kaylee. She lives on Oakmont lane.” Red John paused for a moment, taking a step back to fully admire his work. “She’ll be four, tomorrow, and she’s just learned how to write her name. Her mommy is very proud.”

Jane flinched, scrabbling after the composure that had deserted him, as he tried to keep his expression disinterested. It made Red John smile, and then he moved, coming to stand over Jane. “She’s got the look of your little girl, Mr Jane. Maybe I should bring Mommy too. Two for one. We can indulge in some nostalgia.”

He buckled. It was rage, or terror, or both, that blanked his mind in a slick red nothing, and he kicked up at Red John wildly. He had no shoes, and no strength, and he lacked the understanding of his body as a physical weapon. The blow would not hurt, but Red John did not let it land anyway. Red John’s face twisted from amiable to angered and the knife was still in his hand, the knife was-

“You’re going to get caught,” Grace interrupted. She hadn’t opened her eyes, and her words were almost serene.

Red John jerked, as if Van Pelt’s presence was a surprise to him, and halted his knife in its downward arc.

He looked down at Jane, brown eyes wide and staring, as a little smile worked its way back onto his features. “Well! She speaks!” he stepped away from Jane, and turned, attention evidently caught by Grace’s calm, deliberate words. “Agent Van Pelt, you’ve decided to join this party?”

Grace looked up, her eyes bright with furious conviction, “Let us go, and I’ll take you into custody. Waiting for the CBI to find you is suicide by cop.” Grace said CBI. Jane heard Lisbon. Such faith must be comforting. It was Grace’s flavor of idiocy. The degree continued to astound him.

“Oh, I doubt they’ll find me. They’ve been trying for such a long time, and I’ve got their brightest little button here, where he can’t work his magic.”

Grace didn’t reply, but she bowed her head, and breathed out, and there was a little crease of concentration between her brows. Her hair was an angry red tangle around her head, and a bruise was blossoming on her cheek. But she wore filth and desperation well. Her terror was not on show. Jane knew it was exactly the kind of reaction Red John could not stand for. He could not tolerate being dismissed.

“Look, Mr Jane!” he snapped, “how weak your playmate is. She cannot look on glory. Your teammates cannot come for you because they are weak, they are not worth of revelation, they cannot stand before-” Van Pelt’s eyes flickered open.

“I’m praying for her immortal soul,” she said, quietly. She was looking at the woman on the floor. It was, of course, well past the point that wishful thinking could do her any good. Red John seemed to think the same. He laughed, high and wild.

“And maybe for yourself?” John smiled, as wide and as gory as the marks on the walls. “Have you tried the old ‘deliver us from evil’ line yet?” He raised his hands high in the air, a mockery of that plea to a higher power. A mockery that usually burst forth from Jane, but he could not, would not, share any thoughts Red John had about Grace.

“Evil?” she said, and that was scorn. Grace looked distinctly unimpressed. Jane was terrified.

“Don’t,” Jane croaked, willing her to stop. He knew it was trained into them, with the badge and the gun, to protect and defend. But he would happily submit to Red John’s attentions to keep her away from all of this.

“That’s what you faithful types label the things you can’t fathom, isn’t it?” Red John ignored him, and addressed Grace as he started cleaning his knife calmly, methodically. He used the shirt he had sliced away from the woman on the floor.

“You’re pretty easy to understand. You spent five years pulling Jane’s pigtails, and now you’re having a temper tantrum.” Grace made a convincing pretence of dismissing three days of butchery with one contemptuous glance around the room. “You can’t even control yourself anymore.” You’re pathetic. Again, it wasn’t voiced, but Jane heard her clearly. Grace had demoted Red John to nothing more than the scum they swept up on a daily basis. He did not define her, or impress her. He did terrible things, but he wasn’t novel, or remarkable. Lisbon would be so proud, Jane thought inanely.

The smile dropped from Red John’s face.

“You know you’re going to die first?” he said, conversationally. “That Mr. Jane’s going to watch you bleed out and beg me for mercy, and nothing either of you can say will stop me?”

“We don’t have to stop you. But somebody else is going to walk through that door and shoot you dead if you don’t stop while you still can.” Grace was utterly sincere. Her tone carried conviction, and more than a little contempt. Jane had only skim-read most of the guidelines he was supposed to be familiar with, but he was willing to bet that contempt wasn’t standard operating procedure. Over the last three days, Grace had attempted the usual negotiation techniques, doubtless drawn from the memory of countless training seminars. They’d bounced off Red John, who’d barely glanced away from the bloody work of undoing Patrick Jane. But now, now she had his attention.

Red John had drifted closer until he stood before Grace, back once more to Jane. Their captor was practically vibrating with rage. Van Pelt watched him silently. She wasn’t bleeding, or screaming, or worshipping. A woman who simply saw him, and didn’t flinch.

She was waiting. For someone other than Red John. For someone better.

“I can kill you, right now,” he pointed out conversationally.

“I’ve made my peace. You won’t get the chance to do the same.”

He leaned forward, with an angry snarl. Van Pelt closed her eyes again.

“Grace!” Jane yelled as the knife came up. She kicked out and upwards, eyes still closed, at Red John’s undefended torso as he stooped over her. The angle was awful, but it was enough. Red John fell back, wheezing. The body of his latest victim was underfoot and Red John toppled to the floor, sprawling gracelessly in the blood.

“Bitch. Fucking bitch,” he snarled and Grace was grinning at him, sharp and joyous. “Try me,” she said, “I’ll make you work for it.”

“Or I can run fifty thousand volts through you, and then get to work,” Red John said. He hauled himself upright and limped out the door. Jane knew he’d be returning with a tazer.

“We don’t have long,” Grace said. Jane stared at her mutely. “He’s snapped,” she said, “he was going to kill you just then, Jane. That was never in his game plan.”

“He’s...lost control,” Jane agreed slowly, because his world was wobbling on its axis. Red John was not supposed to descend into undisciplined butchery. He was supposed to plan, and plot, and wait. He was supposed to be above such messy predictability, a killer no longer able to restrain his compulsion. “He’s going to come back. Grace, please, let me speak to him this time, and don’t say anything, don’t move.”

“No,” she said, easily. “I wish, I wish we’d had longer, Jane. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he tried again, “this isn’t something you can win Grace. You can’t beat him, he’s in control here, he’s too- ”

“He’s nothing, Jane. Red John is nothing. This isn’t the end.” He knew what she wanted to say, the promise of forgiveness and immortality, of boundless love without condition. She knew him well enough not to say it. He would find no comfort there. He debated begging her for her silence, of making some show of prayer that she’d have the sense to preserve her own life-

And then they heard the voice of their third.

“No, it definitely isn’t.”

Teresa Lisbon stood in the doorway. Their third. Patrick-Grace-Teresa, and as always something slid into place in his head, some quiet comfort drawn from the presence of both ladies, her unflinching competence, her ferocity, her care. Lisbon’s gun was drawn, and Jane had no idea how she found them, or where the hell her backup was. She was either the most glorious thing he had ever seen, or the most terrible, because both the people he loved were now within reach of -

“Red John?” Grace asked quickly.

“I don’t know. Are you both alright?”

“Physically, but he’s...he’s been messing with Jane. We need to get him out of here, right now.”

Jane was the subject of two concerned gazes, and his bloodied pride rebelled. “I’m alive. A little bit mad, but what else is new? I’m fine. Hurry.”

He wanted Lisbon to free him. He wanted to find Red John, and tear him to bloody shreds, and if he failed again and was shredded himself, he knew Grace and Lisbon would lay Red John to waste.

He smiled at them. Lisbon froze, watching him carefully. “Out of here, right. Good call, Van Pelt. Keys?”

“Nail in the door frame. He won’t be long.”

He wasn’t. Lisbon took one step back to the doorway, and then there he was again, with that smile and those wide eyes, apparently pleasantly surprised by Lisbon’s arrival.

“And Agent Lisbon! I’ve become so popular recently, I really should- ”

“CBI! Drop your weapons!” Lisbon stood with her feet planted, gun up, aim steady.

“Shoot him, please,” Jane asked. “Shoot him!”

Red John smiled and tapped the stun gun against his thigh. He waved the knife in his other hand in remonstrance. “Let the grown ups talk, Mister Jane. Agent Lisbon, it’s rude to enter without knocking.”

“Drop the weapons or I shoot!”

The smile slid further across Red John’s face, putting the lie to the legend of his evil genius. There was no genius now. He was demented, well and truly divorced from rationality.

“Do you really think death can stop me?” Red John laughed. It was such a cliched piece of melodrama that Jane felt a perverse twinge of disappointment. It was unnatural, to feel let down by his family’s murderer.

“I really do,” Lisbon confirmed. “Last chance. Drop your weapons.”

Red John stepped forward. Lisbon shot him in the heart.





The aftermath seemed to take place in fits and starts. Jane was shivering, and certain things slipped away as soon as they happened. Standing over Red John’s body, that was too much like too many of his dreams to hold onto. Being bundled into blankets by a paramedic, that was too petty a consideration to engage with. What did it matter if he was cold? Red John was dead. He didn’t have to be warm, he didn’t have to be anything, he could just drift along, coldly and quietly, until things started making sense again. Rigsby and Cho made an impression. The weight of their concern, their grim approval of Lisbon's marksmanship, that mattered. They had some inkling of what had been achieved here. But eventually, they were drowned out by the sheer storm of activity around them.

Grace, escaping her medics to lean against him with her own blanket, she mattered.

“I got my wish,”she said. He looked a question at her blankly, and she elaborated, “more time. It wasn’t an end, Patrick.” Grace slipped a hand under his blanket, and tangled their fingers together discreetly. “We get more time.”

He looked over to Lisbon, busy directing people with guns and forensic kits and police tape. He watched as she punctuated every order with a quick glance over to the two of them. A continual check that they hadn’t slipped away.

“More time,” he said, trying to discover what that tasted like. “Yes. We do.”

Grace smiled at him and he smiled back, trying not to let anything terrible bleed through. He had confirmed the degree and flavor of his own idiocy. Patrick-Grace-Tereasa, One, Two, Three.

Comments

[grenegome.livejournal.com]

Uhm?