FIC: all but means nothing (3/6); The Mentalist
Title: all but means nothing
Disclaimer: If I owned the show, episodes would feature penguins. ;) I also don't own The Tale-Tale Heart (Edgar Allan Poe) or The Poison Tree (William Blake). Artwork belongs to kielamyis!
Rating: T, for violence.
Summary: Even if the killer heard the maddening timbre of his own bleeding heart. Team!fic.
“Forensics couldn’t find any fingerprints, boss.”
Wayne Rigsby sat behind his desk, while he listened to Grace update Lisbon from her own desk. It had only been two days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes since Cho’s disappearance and now, without a doubt, they all knew that Red John had been involved. They had all been working on only a few hours of sleep and enough caffeine to keep a small child up for days, but they weren’t any closer to finding Cho or making a break in the case.
He frowned at the thought that his best friend was being held at Red John’s cruel mercy. Cho had done absolutely nothing to deserve being targeted-aside from putting up with Jane’s antics-and although it was a terrible thing to even contemplate, he wished Red John would have taken Jane instead of Cho.
Jane-the consultant, who remained on his couch and continued to sleep the day away-could handle it. Red John didn’t want him dead, after all.
Jane-the consultant, who he wanted to haul off and punch in the face-could get out. Red John, without out a doubt, saw Jane as an helpful ally and if Jane agreed, just to buy himself more time, Red John would let him live.
Cho-his best friend, who was missing-probably wouldn’t survive the week. Red John would see no point in keeping anybody around, who did not have knowledge of Jane’s most inner thoughts.
Cho-his best friend, who hadn’t done anything to the serial killer-probably wouldn’t ever be found alive. Red John undoubtedly knew how to meticulously hack up each and every body part, so what exactly would stop the serial killer from pulling a move worthy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tale-Tale Heart?
You fancy me mad, he silently quoted the work, Madmen know nothing.
His heart skipped a beat and his stomach dropped at the quote; The Tale-Tale Heart, he remembered well, was when the narrator had hacked up human remains and hid all of the dismembered body parts under the wooden floorboards, only to be driven to confess to the murder, due to the deafening beating of a heart.
Of course, Red John would never confess-even if the killer heard the maddening timbre of his own bleeding heart.
Red John would taunt and taunt them all; decomposing body parts by mail, bleeding red letters, pictures of Cho’s final moments uploaded into Grace’s computer and they would be helpless to it all.
In his opinion, nearly everybody within the CBI cared whether they found Cho, with the exception of Jane. Jane only cared about himself and his ever-so important quest for vengeance, which had gotten Cho taken in the first place.
And if it weren’t for the fact Cho needed them all to keep their heads to find him, he would have driven his fist into Jane’s face and nose, many times. The imagined sound of the man’s anguished cries, the imagined sight of the man’s nose spurting blood, dripping and staining nearly everything red, and the imagined condition of his own hands, sore and splotched scarlet, partially from the impact upon Jane’s face and partially from Jane’s inability not to bleed everywhere, would have made him feel better. The imagined sights and sensations would have served to damper down the sick tendrils of guilt that had settled within his stomach, because Cho hadn’t meant to be there.
Lisbon could have told him no. Lisbon could have ignored his request to go home early.
But she hadn’t, and he had gone ahead home.
Benjamin had been running a fever, Sarah had needed some rest, and Lisbon had given him the permission to leave early to take care of his ailing son. Cho had taken his place for the stake-out and now, they were all paying due to one minor digression in the schedule.
“Any leads on the wording, Rigsby?” Lisbon’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he hurried glanced down at the photocopied image of the note attached to the SUV.
“It’s a poem from William Blake.” Jane interjected from his couch and everybody turned to stare at the consultant; the man hadn’t been helpful at all and a small part of him wondered why Jane would say anything at all now. “A Poison Tree. Good poetry, but not nearly as tasteful as The Tyger, don’t you think?” The blonde haired consultant wore a smile-not like his usual I’m right one, as this one didn’t quite reach his eyes-and he wondered what, if anything, the consultant had been thinking.
It’s probably about how relieved he is that it’s Cho, instead of Lisbon being gone, his thoughts quietly nagged.
And he couldn’t hate the consultant for that line of thinking, because he had just thought the same thing about Jane. It just made him blind with pure fury, as he knew he was entirely useless to what his best friend was going through.
He clenched his fists together, as Jane’s soft voice faded from his ears. If Red John had come after Cho, what prevented the serial killer from coming after any of them? Or any of their family members? He felt a tightening in his chest; what if the serial killer targeted either Sarah or Benjamin? Sarah and he didn’t always get along, but he couldn’t stomach the idea that Red John would come after the mother of his child. Or, that Red John would come after his little bundle of pure joy, like Red John had come after Jane’s daughter, years ago.
“We’ll find him.” Grace offered, optimistically and he blinked. When had Grace approached him? He could feel the redheaded agent’s hand on his upper arm-warm and bringing a small slither of comfort, which he most certainly didn’t deserve-and he recoiled slightly.
He didn’t want their false promises or false hopes or whatever else they could currently give him, he just wanted his best friend back, alive.
And if they couldn’t give him that, then, he wanted absolutely nothing from them at all.
Disclaimer: If I owned the show, episodes would feature penguins. ;) I also don't own The Tale-Tale Heart (Edgar Allan Poe) or The Poison Tree (William Blake). Artwork belongs to kielamyis!
Rating: T, for violence.
Summary: Even if the killer heard the maddening timbre of his own bleeding heart. Team!fic.
“Forensics couldn’t find any fingerprints, boss.”
Wayne Rigsby sat behind his desk, while he listened to Grace update Lisbon from her own desk. It had only been two days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes since Cho’s disappearance and now, without a doubt, they all knew that Red John had been involved. They had all been working on only a few hours of sleep and enough caffeine to keep a small child up for days, but they weren’t any closer to finding Cho or making a break in the case.
He frowned at the thought that his best friend was being held at Red John’s cruel mercy. Cho had done absolutely nothing to deserve being targeted-aside from putting up with Jane’s antics-and although it was a terrible thing to even contemplate, he wished Red John would have taken Jane instead of Cho.
Jane-the consultant, who remained on his couch and continued to sleep the day away-could handle it. Red John didn’t want him dead, after all.
Jane-the consultant, who he wanted to haul off and punch in the face-could get out. Red John, without out a doubt, saw Jane as an helpful ally and if Jane agreed, just to buy himself more time, Red John would let him live.
Cho-his best friend, who was missing-probably wouldn’t survive the week. Red John would see no point in keeping anybody around, who did not have knowledge of Jane’s most inner thoughts.
Cho-his best friend, who hadn’t done anything to the serial killer-probably wouldn’t ever be found alive. Red John undoubtedly knew how to meticulously hack up each and every body part, so what exactly would stop the serial killer from pulling a move worthy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Tale-Tale Heart?
You fancy me mad, he silently quoted the work, Madmen know nothing.
His heart skipped a beat and his stomach dropped at the quote; The Tale-Tale Heart, he remembered well, was when the narrator had hacked up human remains and hid all of the dismembered body parts under the wooden floorboards, only to be driven to confess to the murder, due to the deafening beating of a heart.
Of course, Red John would never confess-even if the killer heard the maddening timbre of his own bleeding heart.
Red John would taunt and taunt them all; decomposing body parts by mail, bleeding red letters, pictures of Cho’s final moments uploaded into Grace’s computer and they would be helpless to it all.
In his opinion, nearly everybody within the CBI cared whether they found Cho, with the exception of Jane. Jane only cared about himself and his ever-so important quest for vengeance, which had gotten Cho taken in the first place.
And if it weren’t for the fact Cho needed them all to keep their heads to find him, he would have driven his fist into Jane’s face and nose, many times. The imagined sound of the man’s anguished cries, the imagined sight of the man’s nose spurting blood, dripping and staining nearly everything red, and the imagined condition of his own hands, sore and splotched scarlet, partially from the impact upon Jane’s face and partially from Jane’s inability not to bleed everywhere, would have made him feel better. The imagined sights and sensations would have served to damper down the sick tendrils of guilt that had settled within his stomach, because Cho hadn’t meant to be there.
Lisbon could have told him no. Lisbon could have ignored his request to go home early.
But she hadn’t, and he had gone ahead home.
Benjamin had been running a fever, Sarah had needed some rest, and Lisbon had given him the permission to leave early to take care of his ailing son. Cho had taken his place for the stake-out and now, they were all paying due to one minor digression in the schedule.
“Any leads on the wording, Rigsby?” Lisbon’s voice interrupted his thoughts and he hurried glanced down at the photocopied image of the note attached to the SUV.
“It’s a poem from William Blake.” Jane interjected from his couch and everybody turned to stare at the consultant; the man hadn’t been helpful at all and a small part of him wondered why Jane would say anything at all now. “A Poison Tree. Good poetry, but not nearly as tasteful as The Tyger, don’t you think?” The blonde haired consultant wore a smile-not like his usual I’m right one, as this one didn’t quite reach his eyes-and he wondered what, if anything, the consultant had been thinking.
It’s probably about how relieved he is that it’s Cho, instead of Lisbon being gone, his thoughts quietly nagged.
And he couldn’t hate the consultant for that line of thinking, because he had just thought the same thing about Jane. It just made him blind with pure fury, as he knew he was entirely useless to what his best friend was going through.
He clenched his fists together, as Jane’s soft voice faded from his ears. If Red John had come after Cho, what prevented the serial killer from coming after any of them? Or any of their family members? He felt a tightening in his chest; what if the serial killer targeted either Sarah or Benjamin? Sarah and he didn’t always get along, but he couldn’t stomach the idea that Red John would come after the mother of his child. Or, that Red John would come after his little bundle of pure joy, like Red John had come after Jane’s daughter, years ago.
“We’ll find him.” Grace offered, optimistically and he blinked. When had Grace approached him? He could feel the redheaded agent’s hand on his upper arm-warm and bringing a small slither of comfort, which he most certainly didn’t deserve-and he recoiled slightly.
He didn’t want their false promises or false hopes or whatever else they could currently give him, he just wanted his best friend back, alive.
And if they couldn’t give him that, then, he wanted absolutely nothing from them at all.