Bloodless Bonds Chapter Four
Title:Bloodless Bonds Chapter Four
Words: Total fic, about 10,000
Spoilers: All four seasons.
Summary: After Red John is killed, Lisbon must convince Jane that quitting the CBI is not what he should do next. Includes flashbacks to the final confrontation with Red John.
Lisbon opened her eyes to find herself in a dimly lit room, a basement of some sort. No, not a basement; light came in through the cracks in the poorly made walls. She tried to move and found her hands bound behind her back; if the state of her ankles were any consideration, her hands were bound by thick, dirty rope. There was something made of cloth in her mouth, and it tasted bad.
She struggled against the knots, which were fairly loosely tied. But before she could make any progress, she realized that she was not alone.
“Agent Lisbon,” came a voice a moment before the shadow of a man came into her line of vision. The next instant, her head was pulled back and a knife pressed against her throat. “Your precious Patrick Jane has said that he’d let me go to let you live. But will he really, when he is faced with what I’m about to offer him?” She felt breath against her ear. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
“Teresa, Teresa!”
Lisbon was awake for several seconds before she realized that it had been a dream, a flashback, and when she came to this realization, a long, shaky breath escaped her. Before, her memories had been conscious, drawn up by her; this one was involuntary, yet eerily picking up where the old one had left off. It terrified her.
Her nurses were standing above her, one holding her left arm down, and the other re bandaging her right wrist. “You’re still in the hospital. You had a night terror,” said the taller one, finishing the bandage job and stepping back. “It’s your first night without the drugs, it’s not totally unexpected.”
Lisbon realized she must have asked where she was and what happened. “Oh God,” she whispered. “I need to get out of here.”
“In time,” said the shorter nurse. “We’ll give you a small something to help you sleep.”
“Will that happen again?” she asked, not wanting to sound weak, but at the same time she’d do anything to not relive that part of the day. She was thankful that the drugs in this place were kept under close surveillance.
“Possibly,” said the nurse, “but if we help you sleep, you may avoid them until you’re feeling a bit better.”
Lisbon lay still while they hooked her up to the medication. She craved natural sleep, but at this point it was better than suffering through those hours again.
* * *
“That was a useless hour of our lives,” Rigsby complained as they exited the Jane house the following morning.
“Not really,” Van Pelt said. “We know some things. We know he’s not suicidal. He just feels like he needs to take some time off.”
“He said he was going to Europe,” Cho said. “He didn’t say he was taking a vacation.”
“He needs distance from all of this in order to really start over,” Rigsby said. “And it’s not like we really had an argument for him to stay. His sole reason for being here in the first place was to kill Red John.”
“I know,” Van Pelt said quietly. “But I thought we were more important to him than that.”
* * *
“Is this really necessary?” Lisbon asked. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve woken up the past two nights after vivid dreams about your experience in the desert house,” said the therapist, who Lisbon thought she remembered being introduced as Joan. “Doctor says you can leave after you talk to me.”
“Fine,” Lisbon said, adjusting her position on the bed.
“You spent a half an hour tied up and gagged and in Red John’s presence,” Joan said. “Can you talk a little about it? How did you feel?”
She shifted her weight. She never believed in therapy; she was uncomfortable sharing her emotions with anyone, but she knew that if Joan didn’t believe she was being honest, they’d never release her. And she had to find out what was going on with Jane. “I was terrified.”
“That’s understandable,” Joan said. “You had a knife to your throat, yes?”
She nodded. “He did hold a knife to me, yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“Your precious Patrick Jane has said that he’d let me go to let you live. But will he really, when he is faced with what I’m about to offer him?” She felt breath against her ear, and she twitched in disgust. “When he has the real option of killing me? I am Red John.”
“Jane won’t let me die,” Lisbon said before she could help it. Giving Red John an opinion would only add to whatever edge he had. Considering he had the CBI’s best team’s senior agent tied up - albeit rather poorly - with a knife to her throat, Red John certainly did hold the edge without her voicing some blind faith in Jane that she didn’t know if she was smart for having.
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Lisbon’s body was tense with fear; she wasn’t sure she could bend her arms right now if she tried; her body was locked up, and her inability to move meant she was lacking the control over herself that she took pride in. She knew, and she had told Jane, that her job was to be in harm’s way. But this was Red John, a serial killer, the mastermind of the mental torture of Patrick Jane for the past decade.
But she could speak, at least, and she began the “talking down” tactic that had worked for her in the past. She knew Red John would never fall for it. But she didn’t know what else to do. “So you’re the famous Red John.”
“Surprised?” he asked, walking around her and smiling.
“Take off your mask,” Lisbon said, wanting to see what this man looked like in the flesh.
“Are you telling me what to do?” He held the knife out, so the tip rested against her chest.
“No.” Lisbon said.
“We’ll have a few minutes before Mister Jane has finished his own creeping about the house and realizes you’re missing,” Red John said. “Care to say anything to me before he finds us?”
Lisbon felt anger and fear rising up inside of her. She’d never beg for her life, not from this scumbag, and the fact that he wanted her to made her nearly enraged for some reason. But the fact, the slow realization that was almost fully upon her now, that this was indeed the real Red John, the serial killer, who now held her captive, was paralyzing her with fear.
Would he kill her like the others, or would he manage to drag her death out more? Would he kill her in front of Jane? Would he have to watch her die like that psychopath woman had wanted, years before, when she’d tried to set the building they were in on fire? Or would Jane walk into a room, see the smiley face, and be filled with that dread that accompanied the moment before one saw the body, and what would he do when he saw that the woman he’d worked beside all these years was the one who had died at the hands of the same sick man who’d murdered his wife and daughter?
But Lisbon was not his wife or daughter. Would Jane even care?
She shook her head slightly to dislodge that thought. Of course he’d care. He wouldn’t kill for her and risk his own life for her if he didn’t care.
“No,” she said. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well, I suppose that’s all as well,” said Red John. “It appears that our friend is already approaching.”
Chapter Five
Words: Total fic, about 10,000
Spoilers: All four seasons.
Summary: After Red John is killed, Lisbon must convince Jane that quitting the CBI is not what he should do next. Includes flashbacks to the final confrontation with Red John.
Lisbon opened her eyes to find herself in a dimly lit room, a basement of some sort. No, not a basement; light came in through the cracks in the poorly made walls. She tried to move and found her hands bound behind her back; if the state of her ankles were any consideration, her hands were bound by thick, dirty rope. There was something made of cloth in her mouth, and it tasted bad.
She struggled against the knots, which were fairly loosely tied. But before she could make any progress, she realized that she was not alone.
“Agent Lisbon,” came a voice a moment before the shadow of a man came into her line of vision. The next instant, her head was pulled back and a knife pressed against her throat. “Your precious Patrick Jane has said that he’d let me go to let you live. But will he really, when he is faced with what I’m about to offer him?” She felt breath against her ear. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
“Teresa, Teresa!”
Lisbon was awake for several seconds before she realized that it had been a dream, a flashback, and when she came to this realization, a long, shaky breath escaped her. Before, her memories had been conscious, drawn up by her; this one was involuntary, yet eerily picking up where the old one had left off. It terrified her.
Her nurses were standing above her, one holding her left arm down, and the other re bandaging her right wrist. “You’re still in the hospital. You had a night terror,” said the taller one, finishing the bandage job and stepping back. “It’s your first night without the drugs, it’s not totally unexpected.”
Lisbon realized she must have asked where she was and what happened. “Oh God,” she whispered. “I need to get out of here.”
“In time,” said the shorter nurse. “We’ll give you a small something to help you sleep.”
“Will that happen again?” she asked, not wanting to sound weak, but at the same time she’d do anything to not relive that part of the day. She was thankful that the drugs in this place were kept under close surveillance.
“Possibly,” said the nurse, “but if we help you sleep, you may avoid them until you’re feeling a bit better.”
Lisbon lay still while they hooked her up to the medication. She craved natural sleep, but at this point it was better than suffering through those hours again.
* * *
“That was a useless hour of our lives,” Rigsby complained as they exited the Jane house the following morning.
“Not really,” Van Pelt said. “We know some things. We know he’s not suicidal. He just feels like he needs to take some time off.”
“He said he was going to Europe,” Cho said. “He didn’t say he was taking a vacation.”
“He needs distance from all of this in order to really start over,” Rigsby said. “And it’s not like we really had an argument for him to stay. His sole reason for being here in the first place was to kill Red John.”
“I know,” Van Pelt said quietly. “But I thought we were more important to him than that.”
* * *
“Is this really necessary?” Lisbon asked. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve woken up the past two nights after vivid dreams about your experience in the desert house,” said the therapist, who Lisbon thought she remembered being introduced as Joan. “Doctor says you can leave after you talk to me.”
“Fine,” Lisbon said, adjusting her position on the bed.
“You spent a half an hour tied up and gagged and in Red John’s presence,” Joan said. “Can you talk a little about it? How did you feel?”
She shifted her weight. She never believed in therapy; she was uncomfortable sharing her emotions with anyone, but she knew that if Joan didn’t believe she was being honest, they’d never release her. And she had to find out what was going on with Jane. “I was terrified.”
“That’s understandable,” Joan said. “You had a knife to your throat, yes?”
She nodded. “He did hold a knife to me, yes.”
“And what did he say?”
“Your precious Patrick Jane has said that he’d let me go to let you live. But will he really, when he is faced with what I’m about to offer him?” She felt breath against her ear, and she twitched in disgust. “When he has the real option of killing me? I am Red John.”
“Jane won’t let me die,” Lisbon said before she could help it. Giving Red John an opinion would only add to whatever edge he had. Considering he had the CBI’s best team’s senior agent tied up - albeit rather poorly - with a knife to her throat, Red John certainly did hold the edge without her voicing some blind faith in Jane that she didn’t know if she was smart for having.
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
Lisbon’s body was tense with fear; she wasn’t sure she could bend her arms right now if she tried; her body was locked up, and her inability to move meant she was lacking the control over herself that she took pride in. She knew, and she had told Jane, that her job was to be in harm’s way. But this was Red John, a serial killer, the mastermind of the mental torture of Patrick Jane for the past decade.
But she could speak, at least, and she began the “talking down” tactic that had worked for her in the past. She knew Red John would never fall for it. But she didn’t know what else to do. “So you’re the famous Red John.”
“Surprised?” he asked, walking around her and smiling.
“Take off your mask,” Lisbon said, wanting to see what this man looked like in the flesh.
“Are you telling me what to do?” He held the knife out, so the tip rested against her chest.
“No.” Lisbon said.
“We’ll have a few minutes before Mister Jane has finished his own creeping about the house and realizes you’re missing,” Red John said. “Care to say anything to me before he finds us?”
Lisbon felt anger and fear rising up inside of her. She’d never beg for her life, not from this scumbag, and the fact that he wanted her to made her nearly enraged for some reason. But the fact, the slow realization that was almost fully upon her now, that this was indeed the real Red John, the serial killer, who now held her captive, was paralyzing her with fear.
Would he kill her like the others, or would he manage to drag her death out more? Would he kill her in front of Jane? Would he have to watch her die like that psychopath woman had wanted, years before, when she’d tried to set the building they were in on fire? Or would Jane walk into a room, see the smiley face, and be filled with that dread that accompanied the moment before one saw the body, and what would he do when he saw that the woman he’d worked beside all these years was the one who had died at the hands of the same sick man who’d murdered his wife and daughter?
But Lisbon was not his wife or daughter. Would Jane even care?
She shook her head slightly to dislodge that thought. Of course he’d care. He wouldn’t kill for her and risk his own life for her if he didn’t care.
“No,” she said. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“Well, I suppose that’s all as well,” said Red John. “It appears that our friend is already approaching.”
Chapter Five