Chaos Theory (1/1)
Title: Chaos Theory
Author: tromana
Rating: T
Characters: Jane/Lisbon
Summary: Death, destruction, love, lust and a mystery in an enigma. Just a normal day for Patrick Jane, really.
Disclaimer: Very much not mine. Just playing in the sandbox...
Warnings: DARK. My angst bunnies really went to town with this one.
Notes: Written for the Paint It Red May 2012 Monthly Challenge. Prompt: I'd rather be causing the chaos, Than living at the sharp end of this knife (Gabrielle Aplin - Home)
Chaos Theory
The blood is still wet on the wall.
Lisbon is staring at it intently; it's almost as if she's taken a personal offense to the face painted there. You don't blame her; the Red John case has been in her possession for years and she's still no closer to catching the bastard responsible. She's the most honorable person you know and the years of chasing this one specific murderer are taking their toll on her.
Just as they have on you.
She mutters something incoherently as she pulls on a pair of latex gloves. You stare at the wall as she drags her gaze away from it. Red John is only human, he makes mistakes, she swears blind. That means it's entirely possible for there to be some sort of evidence, some tantalizing hint or clue as to the identity of this mysterious figure.
And you… smile? Just like the face staring straight back at you on the wall.
You catch yourself briefly. This is a moment when you shouldn't be smiling, when you cannot stop and admire your handiwork. No, this is the moment when you have to play the mourning widower, wreaked with a desire for bloodthirsty revenge. You've gotten used to playing this role; if anything, you relish in it. But still, even you find it hard to play the part one hundred percent of the time. Everyone makes mistakes.
The only reason you've survived so long is because you've learned how to mask them up quickly. The people around you have slowly, but surely started to write off any idiosyncrasies as a part of your charm.
"Jane?" she asks quietly as she leafs through the victim's blood-spattered diary. "You okay?"
You nod and take a step closer to her.
There's the slightest of catches in her voice; only people who know her well - like you do - are capable of noticing it. Though she'd fiercely deny it, the stress, the magnitude of the situation is clearly getting to her already. She hates Red John almost as much as you supposedly do. You've told her time and time again that Red John is yours and yours only, only she never seems to notice the duality of your words.
After all, Red John is your construct. You can choose if - or when - you stop playing these cat and mouse games. Only thing is, they're far too interesting to stop any time soon.
The only difficulty is coming with the number of knots that you're tying yourself into.
However, where would the fun be if you didn't mess around with things? It'd be far too simple to keep things straightforward, to not contradict yourself. And besides, if you'd made things too easy, you wouldn't have survived for as long as you have done so.
Sometimes, the target painted clearly on your back feels more obvious than others.
And you've had enough of being here. Though there's a certain charm to watching the professionals go over the crime scene of your construction with a fine tooth comb, it's only serving to remind you just how dissatisfying the murder of this young girl actually was. There was no build up, no suspense. She'd just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What you crave is the pay-off. And this time, there was none.
The only amusement you can get from this situation is that you know just how much you're toying with Teresa Lisbon's emotions.
"She was only seventeen," Lisbon murmurs eventually and with a pained sigh, she stands up. "You done here?"
"Yes, I'm done," you answer back, ensuring that there's just the right amount of sadness tingeing your words.
Later, after expressing platitudes to the mourning parents and a brief questioning with them, you return to the office. Lisbon is straight to work, busy poring over case notes and you lounge out on the soft white couch in her office. You bought her it because it reminded you of her; with skin as white as snow… She's sent Rigsby and Van Pelt to do some of the leg work, talking to the girl's school teachers and the like, sincerely doubting that this will bring up any useful evidence. You know it won't; why would Red John bother with adults when there's so much fresh meat around?
However, what Lisbon doesn't know is that there are going to be some issues for the pair at the school. A young boy who you've been grooming for a considerable time now might just fly off the handle. After all, this girl you've just killed, was his girlfriend. But you needed to; she was proving to be too much of a distraction for him.
And besides, this is his test. Can he escape from the authorities when they are so close to home? You know the scene of the crime inside out, naturally. You know there's plenty of evidence to implicate him for murder. The question is whether or not he can wriggle out of this tight spot, prove himself worth of your attention?
He's a potential young ally; you have more than enough enemies.
You just happen to keep them closer than most.
The hours drain slowly by and you hear not a whisper from the dynamic duo out in the field. Lisbon has taken to watching her cell phone with one eye, her hand twitching to it occasionally, but she resists the desire to call for an update. Cho has found neither hide nor hair from the girl's and her family's credentials. You knew that already; you researched her thoroughly before cornering her in her own home.
It's the attention to detail which makes you thrive; you know every small detail about every single one of your victims. You don't need to keep it in case files or on risky bits of paper; your mind is a mighty fortress. The small reminders, the mementoes, from each case, you carry along with you. They are all locked away, safe and sound, where nobody can dare take a look. At least, not without your permission first. And you're not about to grant anyone the knowledge of the inner sanctum of your mind.
Eventually, at precisely 8.03pm, Lisbon slams both of her hands down on the table. The sudden movement is enough to jolt you from your restful position on the couch.
"I've had enough of this," she grumbles as she gathers together her belongings hastily. "You coming?"
"Of course, my dear," you say.
She allows a wan smile - the very first one of the day - to trace across her features. Somewhat bizarrely, you feel lightness, a warmth creep over you. There's something about the way she smiles which just lights up her features and makes you feel almost at peace. It's unexpected, but not entirely unwarranted. And complicated too; you know that one day, this will all end.
Lisbon doesn't slip her hand into yours until you're well out of eyeshot of the CBI headquarters. She denies herself the need to touch you until you're halfway up the road, in her state-issue SUV. It's a complex of hers; she knows that she has to keep your new relationship under wraps. Dating you is totally against company protocol, and yet you couldn't resist.
On the way home - or to her home, at least - you stop off for Indian takeout. You're not much in the mood for food; no, your mind lies elsewhere entirely, but she's insistent you both eat. Still, once you're through the doors of her modest townhouse, you're glad. It doesn't quell the thoughts of knives and blood and Lisbon lying prone on the floor, but at least you can start to relax, if only a little.
You place a hand gently around one of her wrists. Her handcuffs are just there; it'd be too easy to slide them out of their holder and around her limbs. But you must resist; she's not ready, not yet. There's still so much more work you need to do on her, before you really break her. As much as you've been using this anniversary as an excuse to test your young protégé, you're testing Teresa Lisbon day in, day out.
And you're saving her for a very special occasion. You'll know when you're both ready for it.
Gently, she rolls up onto her tiptoes and places a chaste kiss on your lips, the drama of the day almost forgotten. Or, more likely, using you as a distraction from the sorrow she feels at the fact that Red John has claimed yet another victim. With your right hand, you gently stroke her cheek before placing your lips back on hers. She's immediately receptive to your touch; in just the same ways as you always expect her to do so.
The food, naturally, goes completely unnoticed.
It's only a matter of seconds before your hands encircle around her porcelain throat. It's partially in order to deepen the kiss and she groans appreciatively in response, her fingers raking furiously up and down your back. You shudder too and she thinks it's in response to her ministrations and you can feel her smiling slightly. However, this is all for your imagination, to quell the bloodthirsty monster inside. You can practically see a knife in your hand, the fragile skin just above her collarbone slowly splitting in two and pearls of blood escaping through the cut. Then, you'd slowly, carefully, take it that little bit deeper and the blood would come gushing up in spurts as she chokes, dying.
And before that, oh before that delicious moment, there will be the one where she realizes who you truly are. The look of horror that you can imagine fleeting before her eyes as she slowly comprehends just how naïve she's been all these years. The way she finally clicks that you've pulled her into your trap, woven a spider's web around her and lured her in…
Won't you come into the parlor said the spider to the fly?
When you part, breathless, there's a slight look in Lisbon's honest green eyes. For just half a second, your blood runs cold. Is it comprehension, understanding. Has she caught up those few paces you always intend to remain in front of her?
No, it's not that.
It's sorrow, pity. She's finally remembered all the implications of today.
It's the day when your wife and daughter met their untimely demise. What she doesn't know is that, unfortunately, that was entirely your fault. There's a reason you killed in the very early hours of this morning. It's nice to mark the anniversary of your daughter's death with murder. You hold the lives of each of your victims in your hands, in much the same way as you currently clasp hold of Teresa Lisbon's.
"Oh, Patrick, I'm sorry. I should have remembered-"
"Teresa, love, you have nothing to be sorry for."
You try to kiss her again, but she shakes her head; she doesn't understand just how much you mean those words.
Instead, she lives to see another day. It's a gift that only you can grant her.
All you can do is wish - and hope - that when her end finally comes, it'll be worth this tortuous waiting.
For now, when she's peacefully sleeping, you make do with drawing your calling card on her bare skin with your fingertips. You smile, along with the smiley faces you're mentally marking on her right now.
One day, it'll be the real thing.
end
Author: tromana
Rating: T
Characters: Jane/Lisbon
Summary: Death, destruction, love, lust and a mystery in an enigma. Just a normal day for Patrick Jane, really.
Disclaimer: Very much not mine. Just playing in the sandbox...
Warnings: DARK. My angst bunnies really went to town with this one.
Notes: Written for the Paint It Red May 2012 Monthly Challenge. Prompt: I'd rather be causing the chaos, Than living at the sharp end of this knife (Gabrielle Aplin - Home)
Chaos Theory
The blood is still wet on the wall.
Lisbon is staring at it intently; it's almost as if she's taken a personal offense to the face painted there. You don't blame her; the Red John case has been in her possession for years and she's still no closer to catching the bastard responsible. She's the most honorable person you know and the years of chasing this one specific murderer are taking their toll on her.
Just as they have on you.
She mutters something incoherently as she pulls on a pair of latex gloves. You stare at the wall as she drags her gaze away from it. Red John is only human, he makes mistakes, she swears blind. That means it's entirely possible for there to be some sort of evidence, some tantalizing hint or clue as to the identity of this mysterious figure.
And you… smile? Just like the face staring straight back at you on the wall.
You catch yourself briefly. This is a moment when you shouldn't be smiling, when you cannot stop and admire your handiwork. No, this is the moment when you have to play the mourning widower, wreaked with a desire for bloodthirsty revenge. You've gotten used to playing this role; if anything, you relish in it. But still, even you find it hard to play the part one hundred percent of the time. Everyone makes mistakes.
The only reason you've survived so long is because you've learned how to mask them up quickly. The people around you have slowly, but surely started to write off any idiosyncrasies as a part of your charm.
"Jane?" she asks quietly as she leafs through the victim's blood-spattered diary. "You okay?"
You nod and take a step closer to her.
There's the slightest of catches in her voice; only people who know her well - like you do - are capable of noticing it. Though she'd fiercely deny it, the stress, the magnitude of the situation is clearly getting to her already. She hates Red John almost as much as you supposedly do. You've told her time and time again that Red John is yours and yours only, only she never seems to notice the duality of your words.
After all, Red John is your construct. You can choose if - or when - you stop playing these cat and mouse games. Only thing is, they're far too interesting to stop any time soon.
The only difficulty is coming with the number of knots that you're tying yourself into.
However, where would the fun be if you didn't mess around with things? It'd be far too simple to keep things straightforward, to not contradict yourself. And besides, if you'd made things too easy, you wouldn't have survived for as long as you have done so.
Sometimes, the target painted clearly on your back feels more obvious than others.
And you've had enough of being here. Though there's a certain charm to watching the professionals go over the crime scene of your construction with a fine tooth comb, it's only serving to remind you just how dissatisfying the murder of this young girl actually was. There was no build up, no suspense. She'd just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
What you crave is the pay-off. And this time, there was none.
The only amusement you can get from this situation is that you know just how much you're toying with Teresa Lisbon's emotions.
"She was only seventeen," Lisbon murmurs eventually and with a pained sigh, she stands up. "You done here?"
"Yes, I'm done," you answer back, ensuring that there's just the right amount of sadness tingeing your words.
Later, after expressing platitudes to the mourning parents and a brief questioning with them, you return to the office. Lisbon is straight to work, busy poring over case notes and you lounge out on the soft white couch in her office. You bought her it because it reminded you of her; with skin as white as snow… She's sent Rigsby and Van Pelt to do some of the leg work, talking to the girl's school teachers and the like, sincerely doubting that this will bring up any useful evidence. You know it won't; why would Red John bother with adults when there's so much fresh meat around?
However, what Lisbon doesn't know is that there are going to be some issues for the pair at the school. A young boy who you've been grooming for a considerable time now might just fly off the handle. After all, this girl you've just killed, was his girlfriend. But you needed to; she was proving to be too much of a distraction for him.
And besides, this is his test. Can he escape from the authorities when they are so close to home? You know the scene of the crime inside out, naturally. You know there's plenty of evidence to implicate him for murder. The question is whether or not he can wriggle out of this tight spot, prove himself worth of your attention?
He's a potential young ally; you have more than enough enemies.
You just happen to keep them closer than most.
The hours drain slowly by and you hear not a whisper from the dynamic duo out in the field. Lisbon has taken to watching her cell phone with one eye, her hand twitching to it occasionally, but she resists the desire to call for an update. Cho has found neither hide nor hair from the girl's and her family's credentials. You knew that already; you researched her thoroughly before cornering her in her own home.
It's the attention to detail which makes you thrive; you know every small detail about every single one of your victims. You don't need to keep it in case files or on risky bits of paper; your mind is a mighty fortress. The small reminders, the mementoes, from each case, you carry along with you. They are all locked away, safe and sound, where nobody can dare take a look. At least, not without your permission first. And you're not about to grant anyone the knowledge of the inner sanctum of your mind.
Eventually, at precisely 8.03pm, Lisbon slams both of her hands down on the table. The sudden movement is enough to jolt you from your restful position on the couch.
"I've had enough of this," she grumbles as she gathers together her belongings hastily. "You coming?"
"Of course, my dear," you say.
She allows a wan smile - the very first one of the day - to trace across her features. Somewhat bizarrely, you feel lightness, a warmth creep over you. There's something about the way she smiles which just lights up her features and makes you feel almost at peace. It's unexpected, but not entirely unwarranted. And complicated too; you know that one day, this will all end.
Lisbon doesn't slip her hand into yours until you're well out of eyeshot of the CBI headquarters. She denies herself the need to touch you until you're halfway up the road, in her state-issue SUV. It's a complex of hers; she knows that she has to keep your new relationship under wraps. Dating you is totally against company protocol, and yet you couldn't resist.
On the way home - or to her home, at least - you stop off for Indian takeout. You're not much in the mood for food; no, your mind lies elsewhere entirely, but she's insistent you both eat. Still, once you're through the doors of her modest townhouse, you're glad. It doesn't quell the thoughts of knives and blood and Lisbon lying prone on the floor, but at least you can start to relax, if only a little.
You place a hand gently around one of her wrists. Her handcuffs are just there; it'd be too easy to slide them out of their holder and around her limbs. But you must resist; she's not ready, not yet. There's still so much more work you need to do on her, before you really break her. As much as you've been using this anniversary as an excuse to test your young protégé, you're testing Teresa Lisbon day in, day out.
And you're saving her for a very special occasion. You'll know when you're both ready for it.
Gently, she rolls up onto her tiptoes and places a chaste kiss on your lips, the drama of the day almost forgotten. Or, more likely, using you as a distraction from the sorrow she feels at the fact that Red John has claimed yet another victim. With your right hand, you gently stroke her cheek before placing your lips back on hers. She's immediately receptive to your touch; in just the same ways as you always expect her to do so.
The food, naturally, goes completely unnoticed.
It's only a matter of seconds before your hands encircle around her porcelain throat. It's partially in order to deepen the kiss and she groans appreciatively in response, her fingers raking furiously up and down your back. You shudder too and she thinks it's in response to her ministrations and you can feel her smiling slightly. However, this is all for your imagination, to quell the bloodthirsty monster inside. You can practically see a knife in your hand, the fragile skin just above her collarbone slowly splitting in two and pearls of blood escaping through the cut. Then, you'd slowly, carefully, take it that little bit deeper and the blood would come gushing up in spurts as she chokes, dying.
And before that, oh before that delicious moment, there will be the one where she realizes who you truly are. The look of horror that you can imagine fleeting before her eyes as she slowly comprehends just how naïve she's been all these years. The way she finally clicks that you've pulled her into your trap, woven a spider's web around her and lured her in…
Won't you come into the parlor said the spider to the fly?
When you part, breathless, there's a slight look in Lisbon's honest green eyes. For just half a second, your blood runs cold. Is it comprehension, understanding. Has she caught up those few paces you always intend to remain in front of her?
No, it's not that.
It's sorrow, pity. She's finally remembered all the implications of today.
It's the day when your wife and daughter met their untimely demise. What she doesn't know is that, unfortunately, that was entirely your fault. There's a reason you killed in the very early hours of this morning. It's nice to mark the anniversary of your daughter's death with murder. You hold the lives of each of your victims in your hands, in much the same way as you currently clasp hold of Teresa Lisbon's.
"Oh, Patrick, I'm sorry. I should have remembered-"
"Teresa, love, you have nothing to be sorry for."
You try to kiss her again, but she shakes her head; she doesn't understand just how much you mean those words.
Instead, she lives to see another day. It's a gift that only you can grant her.
All you can do is wish - and hope - that when her end finally comes, it'll be worth this tortuous waiting.
For now, when she's peacefully sleeping, you make do with drawing your calling card on her bare skin with your fingertips. You smile, along with the smiley faces you're mentally marking on her right now.
One day, it'll be the real thing.
end