oroburos69 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oroburos69) wrote2010-09-10 08:15 am
oroburos69) wrote2010-09-10 08:15 am
Entry tags:
Blue Sky 2
Title: Blue Sky 2
Summary: Waking up failed to fix things.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~800
Warnings:None.
Disclaimer: I do not own there characters, and I do not profit from this work.
A/N: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
enmuse's prompt in the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic community. The Mentalist, Jane (/or& Cho?), The face that was not a face haunts him nightly (Post S2 finale)
It was just a dream. Nothing but a dream.
Cho does his best to convince himself that nothing had happened in the dilapidated hotel room beyond the him passing out (mysteriously) and hallucinating a particularity vivid dream inhabited by Jane.
Cho isn't any good at lying to himself.
Lisbon puts them both in the backseat, and Cho can't look at Jane, too filled with gnawing uncertainty to do anything but stare out the window. He keeps worrying, fighting off the urge to fidget. Cho doesn't know why he's upset.
Jane left as soon as they got back to the office, waving off Lisbon's threats with an amused smile, and disappears out the door. Cho settles almost immediately, the swirling, storming thoughts and fears running through his head calming, dwindling, and pulling away like the tide.
He rolls his keys between his fingers as he jogs up the stairs, accompanying the echoing sound of his steps with the metallic jangle of shaken keys. Cho glances at the shadows of the stairwell, then ignores them, frowning slightly. He feels restless. Unsettled. He drops his keys when he tries the door, his hands shaking. He stares at them for a second, taking in the contrast of gleaming metal against dark carpet, then snatches them from the floor and unlocks the door.
Cho turns the dead bolt, locking himself inside his apartment. His shoulders crawl with the sense that he's not alone, and despite the nagging, logical voice that insists that his apartment is empty, except for himself, Cho searches all four rooms with his hand braced and ready on his holster. He finds no one, and nothing out of the ordinary.
The blinds rattle, shaken by a train's passing, and Cho jerks at the string until they all fall shut, covering his windows. It still doesn't seem like enough. Cho twists the plastic pole at the side until the night is completely blocked out, replaced by brushed aluminum slats. He steps back, staring at the windows like they'll explode into a mass of glass and metal if he take his eyes off them.
The edges of his vision blur, and fade to black, but he can't bring himself to close his eyes. He holds his breath against senseless fear, frozen like a deer in headlights. His sight darkens further, wisps of black fog taking away his vision, but he can't blink, too fixated on the windows, the vulnerable, easily broken windows.
Cho drops to his knees, his balance deserting him, a haunting cry of voices and hounds rising from the corners of the kitchen, his vision dimming to rust brown dotted by spots of black. He can't breath, can't blink, can't do anything but fall.
The sky is blue.
Cho gasps, feeling a rolling tumble in his chest that might be his heart fighting it's way to life.
"You're back again?" It's Jane's voice, but he's speaking with considerably less enthusiasm than he usually shows. He looks as wilted as he sounds, jacket lost, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He runs his hands through his hair as he slumps to the ground beside Cho. "How am I supposed to be rid of you?"
Cho blinks. His eyelids hurt.
"Feel free to chime in anytime," Jane says, poking Cho in the ribs. "I'm open to ideas."
"Where are we?" Cho says after a moment. He licks his lips. The air here smells like dust and smoke.
"You already know," Jane answers cryptically. He braces his elbows on his knees and shoves his hands into his hair again. The wind spins around him, briefly, the edges of his vest fluttering away from his shirt. "Damn it."
"Jane?" Cho asks after a few seconds. The dead grass sways beside him, brushing thread-like against his cheek.
Jane laughs in great, unsteady gulps of air. "Call me Patrick. I'm sick to death of being Jane." He checks his watch, then looks at the sky.
Cho sits up, every bone in his body aching. "Patrick? You alright?" He considers reaching out, but dismisses the notion.
"Why are you in his body?" he pauses, then continues like that made sense, "Wait, I have a better question. Why are we here of all places? Why didn't you just conjure up a nice park with bright shiny grass, tall trees, and a sun?" The trees rattle angrily, the wind growing stronger.
"...Jane?" Cho asks, laying his hand of Jane's shoulder.
"Look, sub-conscious, I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Just... go away. Stop doing this to me. I really, truly don't hate myself this much."
"Good." Cho says, even though he isn't certain what Jane's talking about. The sky starts to grow dark. The grass under his hands turns to sand. The trees flame up, then crumble to coals. An all consuming sense of grief, of loss slides neatly inside Cho, curling up like it belongs there.
"I don't want to see him die too," Jane--Patrick tells Cho. "Why not be someone else?" His smile is more like a grimace. He grabs Cho's hand off his shoulder, and holds it, his nails digging into Cho's skin.
"Patrick, what's going on?" The ground rumbles underneath him, the sand shivering from the vibrations. "Patrick?"
"I'm sorry, Cho."
Rain begins to fall, droplets the size of dimes. Jane's hands turn red, starting at the fingertips and working down toward his wrists. It glistens in the dim light, and feels tacky against Cho's skin.
"I'm so sorry."
He barely feels the first blow. The dull thud of impact, then blood, hot and wet, seeping down his stomach. Jane smiles like he's damned, all white teeth and dark eyes. Cho's blood splatters across Jane's face as the knife is torn out.
Cho wakes up.
He stares at the popcorn ceiling of his kitchen.
The tiles are warm against his back.
Summary: Waking up failed to fix things.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~800
Warnings:None.
Disclaimer: I do not own there characters, and I do not profit from this work.
A/N: This was written for
enmuse's prompt in the comment_fic community. The Mentalist, Jane (/or& Cho?), The face that was not a face haunts him nightly (Post S2 finale)It was just a dream. Nothing but a dream.
Cho does his best to convince himself that nothing had happened in the dilapidated hotel room beyond the him passing out (mysteriously) and hallucinating a particularity vivid dream inhabited by Jane.
Cho isn't any good at lying to himself.
Lisbon puts them both in the backseat, and Cho can't look at Jane, too filled with gnawing uncertainty to do anything but stare out the window. He keeps worrying, fighting off the urge to fidget. Cho doesn't know why he's upset.
Jane left as soon as they got back to the office, waving off Lisbon's threats with an amused smile, and disappears out the door. Cho settles almost immediately, the swirling, storming thoughts and fears running through his head calming, dwindling, and pulling away like the tide.
He rolls his keys between his fingers as he jogs up the stairs, accompanying the echoing sound of his steps with the metallic jangle of shaken keys. Cho glances at the shadows of the stairwell, then ignores them, frowning slightly. He feels restless. Unsettled. He drops his keys when he tries the door, his hands shaking. He stares at them for a second, taking in the contrast of gleaming metal against dark carpet, then snatches them from the floor and unlocks the door.
Cho turns the dead bolt, locking himself inside his apartment. His shoulders crawl with the sense that he's not alone, and despite the nagging, logical voice that insists that his apartment is empty, except for himself, Cho searches all four rooms with his hand braced and ready on his holster. He finds no one, and nothing out of the ordinary.
The blinds rattle, shaken by a train's passing, and Cho jerks at the string until they all fall shut, covering his windows. It still doesn't seem like enough. Cho twists the plastic pole at the side until the night is completely blocked out, replaced by brushed aluminum slats. He steps back, staring at the windows like they'll explode into a mass of glass and metal if he take his eyes off them.
The edges of his vision blur, and fade to black, but he can't bring himself to close his eyes. He holds his breath against senseless fear, frozen like a deer in headlights. His sight darkens further, wisps of black fog taking away his vision, but he can't blink, too fixated on the windows, the vulnerable, easily broken windows.
Cho drops to his knees, his balance deserting him, a haunting cry of voices and hounds rising from the corners of the kitchen, his vision dimming to rust brown dotted by spots of black. He can't breath, can't blink, can't do anything but fall.
The sky is blue.
Cho gasps, feeling a rolling tumble in his chest that might be his heart fighting it's way to life.
"You're back again?" It's Jane's voice, but he's speaking with considerably less enthusiasm than he usually shows. He looks as wilted as he sounds, jacket lost, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. He runs his hands through his hair as he slumps to the ground beside Cho. "How am I supposed to be rid of you?"
Cho blinks. His eyelids hurt.
"Feel free to chime in anytime," Jane says, poking Cho in the ribs. "I'm open to ideas."
"Where are we?" Cho says after a moment. He licks his lips. The air here smells like dust and smoke.
"You already know," Jane answers cryptically. He braces his elbows on his knees and shoves his hands into his hair again. The wind spins around him, briefly, the edges of his vest fluttering away from his shirt. "Damn it."
"Jane?" Cho asks after a few seconds. The dead grass sways beside him, brushing thread-like against his cheek.
Jane laughs in great, unsteady gulps of air. "Call me Patrick. I'm sick to death of being Jane." He checks his watch, then looks at the sky.
Cho sits up, every bone in his body aching. "Patrick? You alright?" He considers reaching out, but dismisses the notion.
"Why are you in his body?" he pauses, then continues like that made sense, "Wait, I have a better question. Why are we here of all places? Why didn't you just conjure up a nice park with bright shiny grass, tall trees, and a sun?" The trees rattle angrily, the wind growing stronger.
"...Jane?" Cho asks, laying his hand of Jane's shoulder.
"Look, sub-conscious, I think you're barking up the wrong tree. Just... go away. Stop doing this to me. I really, truly don't hate myself this much."
"Good." Cho says, even though he isn't certain what Jane's talking about. The sky starts to grow dark. The grass under his hands turns to sand. The trees flame up, then crumble to coals. An all consuming sense of grief, of loss slides neatly inside Cho, curling up like it belongs there.
"I don't want to see him die too," Jane--Patrick tells Cho. "Why not be someone else?" His smile is more like a grimace. He grabs Cho's hand off his shoulder, and holds it, his nails digging into Cho's skin.
"Patrick, what's going on?" The ground rumbles underneath him, the sand shivering from the vibrations. "Patrick?"
"I'm sorry, Cho."
Rain begins to fall, droplets the size of dimes. Jane's hands turn red, starting at the fingertips and working down toward his wrists. It glistens in the dim light, and feels tacky against Cho's skin.
"I'm so sorry."
He barely feels the first blow. The dull thud of impact, then blood, hot and wet, seeping down his stomach. Jane smiles like he's damned, all white teeth and dark eyes. Cho's blood splatters across Jane's face as the knife is torn out.
Cho wakes up.
He stares at the popcorn ceiling of his kitchen.
The tiles are warm against his back.