Define Trust (1/1)
Title: Define Trust
Author: tromana
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jane/Lisbon
Summary: [AU] Jane, in the mental institution, getting the kick he needs to move into action.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: If you've seen the pilot, you're good.
Notes: Written for 15genres1prompt. Genre: supernatural. Can I finish Time Travel tonight? I sure hope so! Just for my own sake.
Define Trust
“Hello, Mr. Jane.”
Jane opened one eye and peeked out of it slightly. As per usual, there was nothing of interest to see there. Just as he had expected. For the past three months, he had been greeted with nothing but stark whiteness. Being detained in a mental institution was depressing and lonely. As far as he was concerned, he was of sound mind and yet, his doctor, Sophie Miller, insisted he was not.
“Hello?” the voice repeated, light, feminine. “I know you can hear me, so please stop ignoring me.”
He remained stubbornly silent. Jane was never one to be told exactly what to do, even if it was by a gentle voice. Even his wife had grown frustrated with his stubbornness on occasion. She had even gone so far as to say that it was one of his worst traits, and that included the fact he barely he had moral backbone. So, while it was nice to have somebody who wasn’t insistent that he was going mad talking to him, he still wasn’t willing to give into her demands immediately. Especially so, considering he didn’t even recognize the voice.
“Fine, ignore me. See if I care,” she eventually said, in an irritated tone.
“You do realize you just contradicted yourself, don’t you?”
“So you’re not as stubborn and bull-headed as you appear then. Good,” she said, almost triumphantly.
Closing his eyes again, he pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was impending, most likely as a side-effect of the drugs that Sophie insisted upon pumping into his system. Jane loathed them with every fiber of his being; he was certain they were beginning to mess with his cognitive abilities, but his doctor said otherwise. Of course, her status didn’t mean she was necessarily right, but that was beside the point. At any rate, that wasn’t his concern at this specific moment in time. His concern was who was speaking to him and where from. Part of him had a shrinking suspicion that the drugs were addling with his mind even further. After all, it wasn’t normal to be hearing voices in his head. Jane knew that better than most.
“Who are you?” he asked dubiously, intrigue finally getting the better of him.
“Teresa Lisbon,” she answered quickly.
“And you are where? Behind the one way mirror?” he suggested, almost hopefully.
“It's hard to describe.”
“Try me. I haven't got anything better to do these days.”
When she did, he laughed hollowly. Just as he’d suspected. The supposed treatment he was receiving had sent him off of the deep end. It was now obvious that his mind was playing tricks on him, wanting to believe there was a ghost in the room with him. And that ghost appeared to have concocted a rather impressive story about the astral plane that she apparently currently resided in.
“So, who were you, when you were alive?”
“I told you that already,” she answered back quickly.
Jane smirked; he could almost imagine the pout.
“I meant what did you do, how did you live your life?”
“I was an agent with the CBI. Why?”
“Which branch?” he asked slowly.
For a while, he had offered his abilities as a psychic to the San Francisco branch. There had been no Teresa Lisbon there; Jane would have recognized her name in an instant had there been. However, much of the head office, in Sacramento, remained a mystery to him. He was only vaguely acquainted with Virgil Minelli, the senior special agent in charge at Sacramento. The people below him, however… Well. It was entirely plausible that there was an Agent Lisbon. And even if there was, he had no way of proving it to himself one way or another. What he needed was a computer, or something. But of course, computers were too dangerous or something. Sophie was probably convinced that had he gotten access to one, he’d try to strangle himself on the wires or electrocute himself or something. Then again, that was probably a fair judgment. Cutting himself wasn’t exactly conducive to people believing he was sane. Others didn’t understand that he deserved the pain, after what he’d done to his family. It was his fault they’d died; if he hadn’t done that damn talk show…
“Sacramento,” she answered politely.
Jane nodded. Of course it was going to be Sacramento. His psyche wouldn’t have let it be anything else, otherwise then he would have known he was losing it. Jane remained silent, half hoping that the voice would die down, that it would stop talking to him if he didn’t acknowledge her. The rest feared what else she would have to say. There had to be a reason why she was so vivid in his mind. And why now? He had a shrinking suspicion about what it would be and he really, really didn’t want to hear it.
“I was first responder to your family’s murder,” she said, almost out of the blue. “That’s how - why - he killed me. I caught him in the act too soon.”
“I still don’t believe you’re anything more than a figment of my imagination,” he answered back. She had gone straight for the jugular. “Of course, I know what the crime scene looked like. I was there; there was no sign of anyone else’s deaths, other than my family’s.”
“You weren’t there before me,” she said sharply, almost angry at his lack of trust in her. “He didn’t kill me there. He kidnapped and…”
“I don’t really want to know,” Jane interrupted.
As much as he wanted to believe that this was all a part of his particularly lively imagination, there were some thoughts that he didn’t want to allow himself to think. The concept of Red John torturing an agent of the CBI, a female agent, probably quite striking, if on the petite side, or so he believed, was a little too much for him. It reminded him too much of the fact that Red John had tortured his wife and daughter before killing them too.
“The question is do you trust me, Mr. Jane?”
“Or is that do I trust myself?” he mused out loud.
“Whichever. Because if you do, I know how to get you out of here,” she stated firmly, desperate to convince him to work with her instead of against her. “And then, you can help me continue my work. To find Red John and bring him to justice.”
“That was my plan, anyway.”
“Yes, but do you have inside knowledge of how to run an investigation? Or of the workings of the Red John case?” she asked, as persistent as beforehand. “Because I do.”
Jane sat up. Even if Lisbon was only a part of his imagination, she (it?) was inspiring him more than anything else had done so in months. And if he could get out of here, then he could find the man who actually sliced his innocent little girl open. He could kill the bastard who murdered his wife. That sounded like a far better plan than Lisbon’s relatively mundane suggestion of bringing Red John to justice.
“So, my little conscience,” Jane said with a grin. “What do we do?”
“One,” she started.
“Yes?” he interrupted, almost excited by the prospect of being in action again.
“Don’t you ever call me your ‘little conscience’ again,” she snapped with a growl.
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“And what’s next?”
“Well…”
Author: tromana
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Jane/Lisbon
Summary: [AU] Jane, in the mental institution, getting the kick he needs to move into action.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: If you've seen the pilot, you're good.
Notes: Written for 15genres1prompt. Genre: supernatural. Can I finish Time Travel tonight? I sure hope so! Just for my own sake.
Define Trust
“Hello, Mr. Jane.”
Jane opened one eye and peeked out of it slightly. As per usual, there was nothing of interest to see there. Just as he had expected. For the past three months, he had been greeted with nothing but stark whiteness. Being detained in a mental institution was depressing and lonely. As far as he was concerned, he was of sound mind and yet, his doctor, Sophie Miller, insisted he was not.
“Hello?” the voice repeated, light, feminine. “I know you can hear me, so please stop ignoring me.”
He remained stubbornly silent. Jane was never one to be told exactly what to do, even if it was by a gentle voice. Even his wife had grown frustrated with his stubbornness on occasion. She had even gone so far as to say that it was one of his worst traits, and that included the fact he barely he had moral backbone. So, while it was nice to have somebody who wasn’t insistent that he was going mad talking to him, he still wasn’t willing to give into her demands immediately. Especially so, considering he didn’t even recognize the voice.
“Fine, ignore me. See if I care,” she eventually said, in an irritated tone.
“You do realize you just contradicted yourself, don’t you?”
“So you’re not as stubborn and bull-headed as you appear then. Good,” she said, almost triumphantly.
Closing his eyes again, he pinched the bridge of his nose. A headache was impending, most likely as a side-effect of the drugs that Sophie insisted upon pumping into his system. Jane loathed them with every fiber of his being; he was certain they were beginning to mess with his cognitive abilities, but his doctor said otherwise. Of course, her status didn’t mean she was necessarily right, but that was beside the point. At any rate, that wasn’t his concern at this specific moment in time. His concern was who was speaking to him and where from. Part of him had a shrinking suspicion that the drugs were addling with his mind even further. After all, it wasn’t normal to be hearing voices in his head. Jane knew that better than most.
“Who are you?” he asked dubiously, intrigue finally getting the better of him.
“Teresa Lisbon,” she answered quickly.
“And you are where? Behind the one way mirror?” he suggested, almost hopefully.
“It's hard to describe.”
“Try me. I haven't got anything better to do these days.”
When she did, he laughed hollowly. Just as he’d suspected. The supposed treatment he was receiving had sent him off of the deep end. It was now obvious that his mind was playing tricks on him, wanting to believe there was a ghost in the room with him. And that ghost appeared to have concocted a rather impressive story about the astral plane that she apparently currently resided in.
“So, who were you, when you were alive?”
“I told you that already,” she answered back quickly.
Jane smirked; he could almost imagine the pout.
“I meant what did you do, how did you live your life?”
“I was an agent with the CBI. Why?”
“Which branch?” he asked slowly.
For a while, he had offered his abilities as a psychic to the San Francisco branch. There had been no Teresa Lisbon there; Jane would have recognized her name in an instant had there been. However, much of the head office, in Sacramento, remained a mystery to him. He was only vaguely acquainted with Virgil Minelli, the senior special agent in charge at Sacramento. The people below him, however… Well. It was entirely plausible that there was an Agent Lisbon. And even if there was, he had no way of proving it to himself one way or another. What he needed was a computer, or something. But of course, computers were too dangerous or something. Sophie was probably convinced that had he gotten access to one, he’d try to strangle himself on the wires or electrocute himself or something. Then again, that was probably a fair judgment. Cutting himself wasn’t exactly conducive to people believing he was sane. Others didn’t understand that he deserved the pain, after what he’d done to his family. It was his fault they’d died; if he hadn’t done that damn talk show…
“Sacramento,” she answered politely.
Jane nodded. Of course it was going to be Sacramento. His psyche wouldn’t have let it be anything else, otherwise then he would have known he was losing it. Jane remained silent, half hoping that the voice would die down, that it would stop talking to him if he didn’t acknowledge her. The rest feared what else she would have to say. There had to be a reason why she was so vivid in his mind. And why now? He had a shrinking suspicion about what it would be and he really, really didn’t want to hear it.
“I was first responder to your family’s murder,” she said, almost out of the blue. “That’s how - why - he killed me. I caught him in the act too soon.”
“I still don’t believe you’re anything more than a figment of my imagination,” he answered back. She had gone straight for the jugular. “Of course, I know what the crime scene looked like. I was there; there was no sign of anyone else’s deaths, other than my family’s.”
“You weren’t there before me,” she said sharply, almost angry at his lack of trust in her. “He didn’t kill me there. He kidnapped and…”
“I don’t really want to know,” Jane interrupted.
As much as he wanted to believe that this was all a part of his particularly lively imagination, there were some thoughts that he didn’t want to allow himself to think. The concept of Red John torturing an agent of the CBI, a female agent, probably quite striking, if on the petite side, or so he believed, was a little too much for him. It reminded him too much of the fact that Red John had tortured his wife and daughter before killing them too.
“The question is do you trust me, Mr. Jane?”
“Or is that do I trust myself?” he mused out loud.
“Whichever. Because if you do, I know how to get you out of here,” she stated firmly, desperate to convince him to work with her instead of against her. “And then, you can help me continue my work. To find Red John and bring him to justice.”
“That was my plan, anyway.”
“Yes, but do you have inside knowledge of how to run an investigation? Or of the workings of the Red John case?” she asked, as persistent as beforehand. “Because I do.”
Jane sat up. Even if Lisbon was only a part of his imagination, she (it?) was inspiring him more than anything else had done so in months. And if he could get out of here, then he could find the man who actually sliced his innocent little girl open. He could kill the bastard who murdered his wife. That sounded like a far better plan than Lisbon’s relatively mundane suggestion of bringing Red John to justice.
“So, my little conscience,” Jane said with a grin. “What do we do?”
“One,” she started.
“Yes?” he interrupted, almost excited by the prospect of being in action again.
“Don’t you ever call me your ‘little conscience’ again,” she snapped with a growl.
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“And what’s next?”
“Well…”