oroburos69 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oroburos69) wrote2009-11-14 10:39 pm
oroburos69) wrote2009-11-14 10:39 pm
Entry tags:
Liar
Liar
Rated: FRAO
Pairings: Red John/Jane
Warnings: Non-Con, Hurt-Comfort,
Beta:![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
lady_of_scarlet
Prompt: "Red John/Jane. Possessiveness/jealousy. ^.^" frommneiai in the Mentalist Kink Meme
Summary: Red John is upset. Jane finds out.
Author's Note: I blame violent video games and BDSM porn. That having been said, please review.
“Hush, Mister Jane,” he whispered, purring. “Hush.”
The room was too small. The walls were too close. The ceiling was too low.
“No need to talk now,” he whispered, tracing Jane’s lips, pulled taunt over the ball gag. “No need.” He brushed his hand through Jane’s hair, nails scraping over his scalp, hard enough to sting.
He couldn’t see his face. It was too dark, he was wearing a mask, there wasn’t enough light, and Jane couldn’t see his goddamn face. His vision kept blurring, weaving, shifting. He blinked to clear his eyes, but it only worked for a moment.
“Oh yes, Mister Jane, none of your words now,” he growled, biting deep into Jane’s shoulder, the flesh shifting under his teeth, skin sliding, dipping, ripping under his teeth. He released the meat, tongue delving into the brilliant red holes in that perfect gold skin. Jane tasted so warm.
Jane’s head lolled limply to the side, his muscular control sporadic and weak. He stared blindly in the candle flames burning relentlessly in front of wet brick. Jane shivered, trying to pull away from the invading tongue. Hands stopped him, pushing him hard against the wall, rough mortar grinding into his bare skin. The other man’s body followed, his jeans grinding against Jane’s legs, chest pressed against his hard enough that Jane could feel his heart beat.
“So romantic,” he chuckled, savoring the feel of Jane’s skin, pressed hard against him. “Just you and me, in the candlelight. Alone.” He grinned and raked his nails down Jane’s ribs, leaving beautiful red lines in the narrow valleys and hills. “You’ve gotten so skinny, my dear,” he crooned, licking under Jane’s ear, pressing their necks together, throat to throat. He could feel Jane’s pulse, his proof of life. He bit down again, this time on Jane’s earlobe. Not too hard, he wanted it to stay attached.
Jane’s tongue pushed helplessly against the heavy black rubber of the gag. He tried to deny, to say no. The gag pressed against his teeth from the inside, heavy and muting. He knows what words mean, how important they are. He needs to talk. To stop this. The rubber is flavored with vanilla and the taste is cloying. It squeaks quietly against his teeth.
He hummed aimless little songs, bright and jaunty, as he ran his hands over Jane, claiming him. The skin was so smooth and soft, such a lovely canvas for his work. He slid his thumbs into the waist band of Jane’s boxers, dipping into the hollows of his hipbones, slipping over soft golden hairs, pressing into the tender, vulnerable flesh. He leaned into Jane, thumbs driving their nails into thin skin.
Jane mumbled softly into the gag, trying to back away from the pain, but he was pinned. He couldn’t see. He tried to look, to see his face, but his head only rolled limply over to rest on the other man’s shoulder. Jane’s cheek pressed into the smooth knit of a nylon ski mask. He swallowed around the weight of the gag. It felt like it was rolling into his throat, sliding into that too tight tunnel, the thick layers of cartilage and muscle ripping apart under its weight. He pushed it against his teeth, holding it there.
He rubbed his face against Jane’s, the gesture unaccountably gentle. “Yes, my dear,” he said, breathing into Jane’s ear. “Tonight is ours.” He lapped at Jane’s shoulder, cleaning the welling blood again. He knelt in front of Jane, hand twisting to lay flat over Jane’s hips, thumbs pulling the elastic down, thin cotton clinging to the lines of blood from the marks of his nails. He admired them, the bright blood and white cloth beautiful in the candlelight. “No children to interrupt us this time,” he whispered against Jane’s skin. Jane shivered from the caress of his breath. He soothed the shiver, licking a thick line from the edge of the cotton to his belly button. “No, no interruptions at all,” he said with a dark chuckle, drawing Jane’s boxers down and off.
Jane’s gasp was muffled by the gag. Errant tears dripped down his face, gleaming gold in the candlelight. He tried to move away, but just set himself swaying, the handcuffs cutting deeper into his almost numb wrists. He thought they might be bleeding. A warm liquid trickled down his arms and pooled in the hollow of his clavicle. He couldn’t see it. Jane couldn’t see anything, but the other man could see everything. Jane was losing.
“Oh my pretty,” he said roughly, trailing his fingers over Jane’s soft cock, cupping his balls in his palm. “You have no idea how I dream of you.” He fumbled, clumsy as an overeager teenager, reaching for his knives. He pulled one free and admired it quietly, the gleaming steel in candlelight, shining shadows as much as light. He pressed the thin blade to the base of Jane’s cock. The blade dipped into the soft skin, drawing blood up from beneath it. He drew it up, patterning the perfect empty skin in abstract designs. “Your skin, your blood. There is no other,” he whispered, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses against the decorated flesh. “Only you,” he breathed onto shallow, curving rivers. His other hand pressed hard under the first cut, encouraging blood flow and gathering the glorious red fluid.
Jane blinked, watching the slow blurred dance of gleaming steel revealing the red blood inside. The pain was remote and distant, coming seconds and hours after each cut, a delayed burn. The sensations crawled inside of him, clawing their way to his throat to join the gag. He saw the cuts and touches before he felt them. They violated and demeaned, sickening him with false affection. His vision grew patchy and dark again and he swallowed painfully around the gag. The knife trailed over his skin and the other hand touched him, invading. He could feel it, slick with his blood, tracing light patterns over his cock, sliding under and behind, wrapping around his balls and squeezing too tightly.
“You haven’t been as faithful as I, Mister Jane,” he said, face pressed up against Jane’s belly, tongue flickering into his bleeding belly button. “I’ve been watching you, with those people you insist on associating with,” he said, voice suddenly colder. He bit into the tender skin over Jane’s inner thigh, hard enough to draw blood and a muffled moan from Jane. Jane’s balls brushed against his brow, drawing a snarl from him. “Oh no, my sweet, you haven’t been faithful,” he murmured to himself, sliding his bloody hands through Jane’s thighs. He laid the knife behind Jane’s balls, blade cutting lightly into the sensitive skin. His other hand spread wide behind it, slick fingers rubbing blood into Jane.
Jane swallowed thickly, holding down vomit. He was inside of him, his mad brown eyes glaring up at him, suddenly achingly clear. Jane could see his blood seeping out over the other man’s teeth, staining the enamel pink. He tried to move away, but his muscles were limp and soft, leaving him at the mercy of this man. Jane could feel it, the press and prod of his hands working their way inside, the painful burn of violation as his fingers opened. The too tight feeling, like he was at his limits, but more and more being forced into his body. He couldn’t see his face.
“You’ve been chasing others,” he murmured, a violent twitch running through him. “You swore that you’d chase me to the ends of the earth, Mister Jane. Were you lying?” He slid the knife back to join his fingers, cutting little scratches into the tightly stretched skin. Jane jerked back, the handcuffs creaking over the rusted piping. “I went to the ends of the earth and you weren’t there, no you weren’t.”
Jane closed his eyes. His breath was coming too fast, he couldn’t breathe. The gag was blocking his air, he couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes but his vision was blurry again. The other man lifted Jane’s leg to rest on his shoulder, looking for a better angle. The motion made Jane’s head roll back, shifting his gaze to the arched wet ceiling. It allowed Jane more air, the whistling panting slowing to a gentle wheeze. Some of the pressure inside him left. Jane blinked at the ceiling. It held no answers.
“Were you?” he purred, allowing two fingers to slide out. The sudden slack pleased him. “Were you lying to me?” he asked, sliding the knife in with his other two fingers.
Jane’s back arched and twisted, trying to pull him away from the knife. A muffled shriek tried to escape the gag. The man’s hand didn’t move at all, the knife slicing deeper from Jane’s movement. Jane choked on the gag, tongue desperately trying to push the intrusion out, body seizing into hacking coughs. He swung wildly on the chains, new cuts and bruises forming on his wrists.
He yanked his hand out of Jane. “I don’t know what to think, Mister Jane.” He said, standing up, Jane’s leg still hooked over his shoulder. He leaned in and nuzzled the bite marks from the beginning of their tryst. “I just don’t know.” Warm blood stained the front of his jeans from where Jane pressed against him. Jane’s head rolled forward again, his blue eyes staring blankly into his. He licked Jane’s stretched out lips, sliding his tongue between the sensitive insides and the ball gag.
Jane focused as well as he could, searching for identifying marks on the other man’s face. There was nothing unique about it. Just a man’s face. Jane felt him unzipping his blue jeans and shoving them open. He dropped the knife and pulled out a square packet from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth. Jane closed his eyes, feeling the panic coming again. He panted harshly around the gag, mouth fuller than it had any right to be.
He smiled gently at Jane. “You can tell me,” he said, rubbing his thumb over Jane’s chin. “It’s okay,” he whispered, thrusting into him. Jane screamed and writhed, much to his pleasure. He felt hot blood around him, wet, warm and delightfully sexy. He let out a soft, shuddering breath into Jane’s shoulder, and lifted the other leg to curl around his waist, sliding even deeper. “My darling,” he said, as he began to pound into Jane, the struggling man’s weak thrashing only adding to his pleasure, “You can tell me anything.”
Jane drifted, world reduced to the burning pain lighting up his spine, the constant drip drop of water into the shallow puddles on the floor, the rough sway as he was rocked back and forth on his chains. He shuddered and twisted in pain almost automatically, mind far away from here. He was vaguely aware when the other man pulled him closer and bit into his shoulder again, sucking at it violently. Jane felt the other man’s hips jerk against his own in short quick thrusts, before eventually slowing.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, dropping a soft kiss on Jane’s cheek. He let Jane’s legs slide off of him, setting him swinging again. Jane’s face was a lovely pale shade, like white gold. His blue eyes were blank and empty, but tears still coursed down his face, dripping to mix with the lovely patterns of blood striped across his torso. “Just beautiful,” he sighed, stripping off the condom and packing it away in his work bag. He stripped out of his bloody clothes and changed into clean ones he pulled from the same bag. “I’m afraid our time is short, Mister Jane,” he said regretfully, dragging a bottle of bleach out from behind the crates that held the candles. He sloshed it experimentally and then smiled widely. “I must get rid of all that pesky evidence,” he said gaily, talking to the nearly unconscious Jane.
Jane blinked slow and uncomprehending. He knew he was supposed to be doing something important. Just what, was eluding him. The pervasive stench of bleach permeated the underground chamber. He tried to lift his head, but failed.
He dumped the bleach (diluted, he didn’t particularly want to kill Jane) over Jane, the caustic cleanser provoking another lovely struggle against implacable bonds. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and dug through Jane’s belongings until he found a cell phone. He turned it on. “Do you think they’ll find you in time?” he asked quietly, suddenly solemn. “I’m willing to leave it up to fate this time.”
Jane lost his fight with unconsciousness.
“I think you were lying,” Red John said. He dipped his hand in Jane’s blood and smeared an approximation of a smiling face on Jane’s bared belly.
**********
They found Jane two hours later. He had only been gone for four hours, total. It had taken them three of those hours to figure out that he was missing and not playing hooky. An anonymous tip led them to the abandoned section of the underground where he was chained to the piping.
Rigsby was the one who found him.
Jane was painted in his own blood. It leaked down his wrists, his stomach, and between his thighs, ending in thick, almost dry rivers over his ankles. The air smelled like bleach and the heady tang of blood.
At first, Rigsby thought Jane was dead. There was too much blood for there to be any other explanation. He turned on his radio, the sparking sound of static filling the air. “I found him,” he said, voice heavy with grief. “I think—I think he’s dead,” he told Lisbon.
She was quiet, and then confirmed where he was before switching to her phone to call it in. She was half way through calling for the CSIs when Rigsby saw Jane move. He swayed gently as if in the breeze, but they were underground. The air was chilled and still.
“Lisbon—” Rigsby said, interrupting her. “I—” Jane’s eyes opened, looking at him blindly. “Holy Hell, Lisbon, you need to call an ambulance. He’s not dead,” Rigsby told her. He ignored her questions and put the radio down carefully by the wall.
Jane looked through him. “Hey Jane,” Rigsby murmured, walking forward through puddles of blood and bleach, trying to leave the scene undisturbed. “You okay?” he asked him.
Jane’s eyes were trying to follow Rigsby. They kept sliding away, rolling unconsciously. Rigsby smiled as reassuringly as he could. He doubted Jane could see him clearly enough to even know who he was. “Yeah, it’s going to be okay,” he told Jane.
He reached out carefully to touch Jane’s wrists, trying to see if the handcuffs were standard model. Jane flinched away like a frightened animal, making the cuffs cut into his wrists again, another trail of blood running down his stained arms. Rigsby swore quietly and laid a hand on Jane’s side to steady him. He could feel Jane’s heart beating too fast. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeated softly. Rigsby snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, trying to ignore how Jane whimpered at the sound. “Everything’s fine,” he lied.
He pulled Jane against his chest to steady him, and reached up to the handcuffs with his key. Jane tried to get away from Rigsby, twisting weakly under the weight of his arm. The handcuffs were standard. They unlocked and released Jane slowly, tacky with drying blood. The cuffs finally gave, letting Jane free. His arms fell loosely, the sudden change in position provoking a sharp gasp from Jane. He slid down Rigsby’s chest, limp, but still horribly conscious.
“Come on Patrick,” he muttered awkwardly, stumbling over Jane’s first name. Jane looked crumpled and broken, and Rigsby wanted to take the gag out so that Jane could talk, but they couldn’t contaminate the crime scene further. Rigsby lifted Jane into his arms easily, and walked him towards the entrance, holding him gently. Jane had never seemed so small before.
In the dim light of the tunnel outside, Rigsby settled to the ground, holding Jane in his lap. He ignored the blood seeping through his pants. “Everything’s going to be okay,” Rigsby said, the words losing their meaning and just a mantra against misfortune.
He unsnapped the closures at the back of the gag, pulling out a few hairs. Jane shivered, but didn’t otherwise react. Rigsby pulled gently on the gag, drawing a blank look from Jane. The empty blue eyes were disconcerting. The gag was stuck between Jane’s teeth. “Can you open your mouth?” Rigsby asked quietly, hoping Jane could understand.
Jane looked confused, but his jaw relaxed enough for Rigsby to pull the gag out. He dropped it to the side, noticing the deep indentations from Jane’s teeth. Jane relaxed with the gag gone, leaning into Rigsby’s chest and beginning to shiver.
“I bet you’re cold,” Rigsby said, taking Jane’s temperature with the back of his hand. Jane was colder than the room he noted anxiously, wondering where the rest of the team was, where the paramedics were. Rigsby shifted out of his suit jacket and put it on Jane, ignoring the soft noises Jane made when he had to move his arms. The jacket was huge on Jane.
“Where are those paramedics?” Rigsby asked himself quietly, gently shifting the other man so that he rested on Rigsby’s chest. Jane was pretty damn limp now, though still conscious through some cruel trick of fate. Rigsby grabbed the radio and opened the channel again.
“Agent Lisbon?”
“Rigsby?” Lisbon asked, her voice tight with worry. “Is Jane okay?” she questioned him.
“He’s alive,” Rigsby responded, wrapping his arm around Jane a little more tightly, trying to warm him. “Where are the paramedics?” he asked her, watching the entrances to the tunnel.
“Working their way toward you,” Lisbon responded. “Cho and I are coming in ahead of them. We should be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Are you close to the paramedics at all?” Rigsby questioned her. Jane was watching him talk. Rigsby ran his free hand through Jane’s hair, and then regretted it when Jane seemed to pale even further. “Shhhh,” he murmured softly, “Help is coming, you’re going to be okay.”
“What?” Lisbon asked him, confused.
“I’m talking to Jane,” Rigsby told her, “If you are close to them, can you get a blanket or something?” he asked, “Jane’s really cold.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Lisbon spoke to someone on the outer limits of the radio’s range. It sounded like Cho. “Is Jane talking?” she asked hopefully.
“No, not yet,” Rigsby responded, watching Jane carefully. He didn’t seem to be listening, and his eyes were almost closed. Hopefully he was falling asleep.
“Oh,” Lisbon paused and for awhile the only sound was soft sputtering static. “We’ve got a blanket,” she eventually said, and then turned off the radio.
“Rigsby?”
Rigsby jolted and then looked down. Jane was staring at the far wall, avoiding eye contact for the first time Rigsby could remember. “Yeah Jane?” he responded, smoothing his jacket over Jane’s back in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.
“Red John—he—” Jane’s voice broke. He took a shuddering breath and continued. “He has brown eyes and white skin. I think his hair is some variation on brunette. He wore a mask, but I saw his back. He has a tattoo.” Jane trembled and pressed his cheek against Rigsby’s chest.
“What was the tattoo of?” Rigsby asked, his arms and hands curling protectively around Jane.
“It was a snake,” Jane whispered. “Red and black.” Jane swallowed hard and continued. “He was taller than she said. Probably over six feet rather than under. He has crooked front teeth.”
Rigsby waited, but Jane didn’t continue. “Anything else you can remember?” he asked Jane.
“He smells like smoke,” Jane muttered. His eyes were unfocused again, staring deep into the dark.
Rigsby let it go. He could hear footsteps in the distance. The radio crackled again.
“We’re getting close to your location,” Lisbon said, all business again. Rigsby lifted his hand off of his gun, and rearranged Jane so his coat covered as much of him as possible. He could see their flashlights now.
“Rigsby?” Lisbon called her voice echoing in the tunnel. Jane went stiff in his arms and then limp, faking unconsciousness.
“Yeah, I’m over here,” Rigsby said. “You have a blanket?” he asked them, watching Jane. He was still shivering.
“Yes,” Cho said, walking forward, holding a thin thermal blanket. It crinkled when he unfolded it. Cho paused, looking at Jane. “Is he…?” He sounded more uncertain than Rigsby had ever heard him.
“Yeah,” Rigsby replied, not particularly caring what the question was. He slid one arm under Jane’s knees and lifted them both up. “Come on,” he said, gesturing impatiently, “get the blanket on him.”
Cho nodded and draped the blanket over Jane from his neck down. Lisbon moved in beside him and helped tuck the edges up and under, covering Jane in the shiny material. She looked like she might cry.
Rigsby adjusted them until Jane was completely wrapped up and then sat back down, cradling him again. He thought he saw Jane looking out from under his eyelashes, but decided not to call him on it. If Jane didn’t want to deal with it, he didn’t have to.
“The paramedics will be here soon,” Cho said, his face and voice as neutral as always. “They were having issues getting the gurney over the rubble.”
“Do you know who?” Lisbon asked, the broken look on her face fading quickly, replaced with cold fury.
“Red John,” Rigsby replied. He nodded at the room he had found Jane in. “He was in there,” he told her. Lisbon looked at Jane for a moment, and then went into the room. Cho followed her.
It was quiet except for the sound of Cho and Lisbon talking. Jane’s shivering was slowing down.
Rigsby saw the paramedics wheeling the gurney down the hallway, one carrying a massive first aid kit. “Finally,” he muttered, flagging the paramedics down.
“That’s him?” the one with the first aid kit asked briskly, opening up the red crate.
Rigsby nodded. He could feel Jane growing tense. He was pretty sure that Jane was hanging onto his shirt through the blanket, but he didn’t say anything about it.
“Can you describe how he was injured?” the one pushing the gurney asked. He hit a leaver on the stretcher and it collapsed down to ground level.
“It looks like he was tortured,” Rigsby said, reporting like it was a crime scene and not Jane. “He was cuffed to the ceiling and took his full weight on his wrists for a few hours. It looks like he was cut up, primarily on the chest and groin, he lost a lot of blood. There was a gag,” Rigsby nodded at the discarded hunk of rubber, “which was still in place when he was found.” Rigsby rubbed Jane’s shoulder, trying to make him relax. “He’s too cold.”
The paramedics nodded and pulled the gurney closer to them. “Alright,” one said, “We’re going to take him now.” He looked at his partner and signaled him. They grabbed Jane’s ankles and shoulders, prepared to lift him onto the cushioned white stretcher.
Jane bucked violently, pulling away from their touch. “Whoa Jane,” Rigsby said, holding him tighter. “It’s okay, they’re going to help you.” Jane stared into Rigsby’s eyes like he was looking through them, his cold hands holding tightly to Rigsby’s shirt. “Would you mind if I lift him for you?” he asked the paramedics, not looking away from Jane. Jane relaxed minutely.
“Yeah, sure.” One of the paramedics shrugged. “Just don’t drop him,” he said, turning to dig through the first aid kit. “Do you know his blood type?”
“O positive,” Jane muttered, clinging to Rigsby like he was a life line. Rigsby settled him on the stretcher and dropped another blanket over him. He smoothed the wrinkles of the blanket and stepped back. Jane let go of him reluctantly.
“Mind if we borrow your arm?” the paramedic asked, holding a blood pressure gauge up. Jane pulled his arm out of the nest of blankets, the arm of Rigsby’s suit coat sliding back to reveal the deep gouges on his wrist. Blood still seeped out of them and bruises were forming.
“I’m going to talk to Lisbon and Cho,” Rigsby told Jane, “Will you be okay out here?” he asked, hushed. “I’ll ride with you to the hospital, but I need to speak with them first.”
Jane nodded distractedly, watching the paramedic take his blood pressure. His pupils were huge, making the thin rim of blue look downright unnatural. Rigsby patted him on the shoulder and walked back into the candlelit room. The scent of bleach hit him again.
“Is he awake?” Lisbon asked, her face blank and harsh. Cho was behind her, equally professional. They stood well away from the interconnected puddles stained with the red of blood and the scent of bleach.
“Yeah,” Rigsby said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the rusted pipe, gore crusted handcuffs still draped over it. They seemed to glow an unnatural red. “Did you find anything?” he asked quietly.
“No, nothing he didn’t want us to find,” Lisbon said in frustration. “This place has been abandoned for nearly a century, he dumped bleach over everything, and we’re left with no evidence again.” She looked away from him, and glared at the floor, blinking rapidly. “Is Jane okay?”
Rigsby shrugged. Okay was a word too vague to determine, but even so he thought the answer was no. “He’s hurt, I think he’s in shock, and he looks dead,” he said. The words fell like rotten apples from his lips and he was powerless to stop them. Lisbon looked like he had just killed a kitten and Cho looked away from him. “But he’s alive, and the paramedics don’t seem too worried,” he added in half-hearted apology.
“Did Jane…” Cho trailed off before continuing. “Did he see anything?”
“Caucasian male, brown eyes, maybe brown hair, a little over six feet, crooked front teeth and a tattoo of a snake on his back,” Rigsby said, hating the vagueness of the description. In many respects, it was no better than Rosalind Harker’s. “He wore a mask.”
Lisbon sighed. “I’ll have it added to the file.”
Rigsby nodded. One of the paramedics came to the door and told him that they were leaving soon. “I told Jane that I would ride to the hospital with him,” Rigsby explained.
“We’ll meet you there,” Lisbon replied, looking over the crime scene again. “After the CSIs come,” she added, looking at him like she needed to explain her absence. Not for the first time, Rigsby wondered what it was about Jane that made her so uncertain. He just nodded and left.
Jane was strapped down and asleep, a catheter taped to his upper arm. One of the paramedics was holding a clear bag over him, allowing it to drain into his veins. Jane looked liked death, ghostly pale with purplish mottled skin.
“We gave him a sedative,” the paramedic with the bag said. “He fell asleep right after.”
“Good,” Rigsby said. He took a deep breath and continued, wishing that he didn’t have to. “He’ll need a rape kit,” his voice was cold and empty, the emotions locked away. He would think about it later. “It would probably be best if he was asleep for that too.”
The paramedics hesitated and then nodded. The one handed the IV bag to Rigsby. “Hold that for us, would you?” They began the long walk to the surface, pushing the gurney over the rough brick floor.
Rated: FRAO
Pairings: Red John/Jane
Warnings: Non-Con, Hurt-Comfort,
Beta:
lady_of_scarletPrompt: "Red John/Jane. Possessiveness/jealousy. ^.^" from
mneiai in the Mentalist Kink MemeSummary: Red John is upset. Jane finds out.
Author's Note: I blame violent video games and BDSM porn. That having been said, please review.
“Hush, Mister Jane,” he whispered, purring. “Hush.”
The room was too small. The walls were too close. The ceiling was too low.
“No need to talk now,” he whispered, tracing Jane’s lips, pulled taunt over the ball gag. “No need.” He brushed his hand through Jane’s hair, nails scraping over his scalp, hard enough to sting.
He couldn’t see his face. It was too dark, he was wearing a mask, there wasn’t enough light, and Jane couldn’t see his goddamn face. His vision kept blurring, weaving, shifting. He blinked to clear his eyes, but it only worked for a moment.
“Oh yes, Mister Jane, none of your words now,” he growled, biting deep into Jane’s shoulder, the flesh shifting under his teeth, skin sliding, dipping, ripping under his teeth. He released the meat, tongue delving into the brilliant red holes in that perfect gold skin. Jane tasted so warm.
Jane’s head lolled limply to the side, his muscular control sporadic and weak. He stared blindly in the candle flames burning relentlessly in front of wet brick. Jane shivered, trying to pull away from the invading tongue. Hands stopped him, pushing him hard against the wall, rough mortar grinding into his bare skin. The other man’s body followed, his jeans grinding against Jane’s legs, chest pressed against his hard enough that Jane could feel his heart beat.
“So romantic,” he chuckled, savoring the feel of Jane’s skin, pressed hard against him. “Just you and me, in the candlelight. Alone.” He grinned and raked his nails down Jane’s ribs, leaving beautiful red lines in the narrow valleys and hills. “You’ve gotten so skinny, my dear,” he crooned, licking under Jane’s ear, pressing their necks together, throat to throat. He could feel Jane’s pulse, his proof of life. He bit down again, this time on Jane’s earlobe. Not too hard, he wanted it to stay attached.
Jane’s tongue pushed helplessly against the heavy black rubber of the gag. He tried to deny, to say no. The gag pressed against his teeth from the inside, heavy and muting. He knows what words mean, how important they are. He needs to talk. To stop this. The rubber is flavored with vanilla and the taste is cloying. It squeaks quietly against his teeth.
He hummed aimless little songs, bright and jaunty, as he ran his hands over Jane, claiming him. The skin was so smooth and soft, such a lovely canvas for his work. He slid his thumbs into the waist band of Jane’s boxers, dipping into the hollows of his hipbones, slipping over soft golden hairs, pressing into the tender, vulnerable flesh. He leaned into Jane, thumbs driving their nails into thin skin.
Jane mumbled softly into the gag, trying to back away from the pain, but he was pinned. He couldn’t see. He tried to look, to see his face, but his head only rolled limply over to rest on the other man’s shoulder. Jane’s cheek pressed into the smooth knit of a nylon ski mask. He swallowed around the weight of the gag. It felt like it was rolling into his throat, sliding into that too tight tunnel, the thick layers of cartilage and muscle ripping apart under its weight. He pushed it against his teeth, holding it there.
He rubbed his face against Jane’s, the gesture unaccountably gentle. “Yes, my dear,” he said, breathing into Jane’s ear. “Tonight is ours.” He lapped at Jane’s shoulder, cleaning the welling blood again. He knelt in front of Jane, hand twisting to lay flat over Jane’s hips, thumbs pulling the elastic down, thin cotton clinging to the lines of blood from the marks of his nails. He admired them, the bright blood and white cloth beautiful in the candlelight. “No children to interrupt us this time,” he whispered against Jane’s skin. Jane shivered from the caress of his breath. He soothed the shiver, licking a thick line from the edge of the cotton to his belly button. “No, no interruptions at all,” he said with a dark chuckle, drawing Jane’s boxers down and off.
Jane’s gasp was muffled by the gag. Errant tears dripped down his face, gleaming gold in the candlelight. He tried to move away, but just set himself swaying, the handcuffs cutting deeper into his almost numb wrists. He thought they might be bleeding. A warm liquid trickled down his arms and pooled in the hollow of his clavicle. He couldn’t see it. Jane couldn’t see anything, but the other man could see everything. Jane was losing.
“Oh my pretty,” he said roughly, trailing his fingers over Jane’s soft cock, cupping his balls in his palm. “You have no idea how I dream of you.” He fumbled, clumsy as an overeager teenager, reaching for his knives. He pulled one free and admired it quietly, the gleaming steel in candlelight, shining shadows as much as light. He pressed the thin blade to the base of Jane’s cock. The blade dipped into the soft skin, drawing blood up from beneath it. He drew it up, patterning the perfect empty skin in abstract designs. “Your skin, your blood. There is no other,” he whispered, pressing soft, open mouthed kisses against the decorated flesh. “Only you,” he breathed onto shallow, curving rivers. His other hand pressed hard under the first cut, encouraging blood flow and gathering the glorious red fluid.
Jane blinked, watching the slow blurred dance of gleaming steel revealing the red blood inside. The pain was remote and distant, coming seconds and hours after each cut, a delayed burn. The sensations crawled inside of him, clawing their way to his throat to join the gag. He saw the cuts and touches before he felt them. They violated and demeaned, sickening him with false affection. His vision grew patchy and dark again and he swallowed painfully around the gag. The knife trailed over his skin and the other hand touched him, invading. He could feel it, slick with his blood, tracing light patterns over his cock, sliding under and behind, wrapping around his balls and squeezing too tightly.
“You haven’t been as faithful as I, Mister Jane,” he said, face pressed up against Jane’s belly, tongue flickering into his bleeding belly button. “I’ve been watching you, with those people you insist on associating with,” he said, voice suddenly colder. He bit into the tender skin over Jane’s inner thigh, hard enough to draw blood and a muffled moan from Jane. Jane’s balls brushed against his brow, drawing a snarl from him. “Oh no, my sweet, you haven’t been faithful,” he murmured to himself, sliding his bloody hands through Jane’s thighs. He laid the knife behind Jane’s balls, blade cutting lightly into the sensitive skin. His other hand spread wide behind it, slick fingers rubbing blood into Jane.
Jane swallowed thickly, holding down vomit. He was inside of him, his mad brown eyes glaring up at him, suddenly achingly clear. Jane could see his blood seeping out over the other man’s teeth, staining the enamel pink. He tried to move away, but his muscles were limp and soft, leaving him at the mercy of this man. Jane could feel it, the press and prod of his hands working their way inside, the painful burn of violation as his fingers opened. The too tight feeling, like he was at his limits, but more and more being forced into his body. He couldn’t see his face.
“You’ve been chasing others,” he murmured, a violent twitch running through him. “You swore that you’d chase me to the ends of the earth, Mister Jane. Were you lying?” He slid the knife back to join his fingers, cutting little scratches into the tightly stretched skin. Jane jerked back, the handcuffs creaking over the rusted piping. “I went to the ends of the earth and you weren’t there, no you weren’t.”
Jane closed his eyes. His breath was coming too fast, he couldn’t breathe. The gag was blocking his air, he couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes but his vision was blurry again. The other man lifted Jane’s leg to rest on his shoulder, looking for a better angle. The motion made Jane’s head roll back, shifting his gaze to the arched wet ceiling. It allowed Jane more air, the whistling panting slowing to a gentle wheeze. Some of the pressure inside him left. Jane blinked at the ceiling. It held no answers.
“Were you?” he purred, allowing two fingers to slide out. The sudden slack pleased him. “Were you lying to me?” he asked, sliding the knife in with his other two fingers.
Jane’s back arched and twisted, trying to pull him away from the knife. A muffled shriek tried to escape the gag. The man’s hand didn’t move at all, the knife slicing deeper from Jane’s movement. Jane choked on the gag, tongue desperately trying to push the intrusion out, body seizing into hacking coughs. He swung wildly on the chains, new cuts and bruises forming on his wrists.
He yanked his hand out of Jane. “I don’t know what to think, Mister Jane.” He said, standing up, Jane’s leg still hooked over his shoulder. He leaned in and nuzzled the bite marks from the beginning of their tryst. “I just don’t know.” Warm blood stained the front of his jeans from where Jane pressed against him. Jane’s head rolled forward again, his blue eyes staring blankly into his. He licked Jane’s stretched out lips, sliding his tongue between the sensitive insides and the ball gag.
Jane focused as well as he could, searching for identifying marks on the other man’s face. There was nothing unique about it. Just a man’s face. Jane felt him unzipping his blue jeans and shoving them open. He dropped the knife and pulled out a square packet from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth. Jane closed his eyes, feeling the panic coming again. He panted harshly around the gag, mouth fuller than it had any right to be.
He smiled gently at Jane. “You can tell me,” he said, rubbing his thumb over Jane’s chin. “It’s okay,” he whispered, thrusting into him. Jane screamed and writhed, much to his pleasure. He felt hot blood around him, wet, warm and delightfully sexy. He let out a soft, shuddering breath into Jane’s shoulder, and lifted the other leg to curl around his waist, sliding even deeper. “My darling,” he said, as he began to pound into Jane, the struggling man’s weak thrashing only adding to his pleasure, “You can tell me anything.”
Jane drifted, world reduced to the burning pain lighting up his spine, the constant drip drop of water into the shallow puddles on the floor, the rough sway as he was rocked back and forth on his chains. He shuddered and twisted in pain almost automatically, mind far away from here. He was vaguely aware when the other man pulled him closer and bit into his shoulder again, sucking at it violently. Jane felt the other man’s hips jerk against his own in short quick thrusts, before eventually slowing.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, dropping a soft kiss on Jane’s cheek. He let Jane’s legs slide off of him, setting him swinging again. Jane’s face was a lovely pale shade, like white gold. His blue eyes were blank and empty, but tears still coursed down his face, dripping to mix with the lovely patterns of blood striped across his torso. “Just beautiful,” he sighed, stripping off the condom and packing it away in his work bag. He stripped out of his bloody clothes and changed into clean ones he pulled from the same bag. “I’m afraid our time is short, Mister Jane,” he said regretfully, dragging a bottle of bleach out from behind the crates that held the candles. He sloshed it experimentally and then smiled widely. “I must get rid of all that pesky evidence,” he said gaily, talking to the nearly unconscious Jane.
Jane blinked slow and uncomprehending. He knew he was supposed to be doing something important. Just what, was eluding him. The pervasive stench of bleach permeated the underground chamber. He tried to lift his head, but failed.
He dumped the bleach (diluted, he didn’t particularly want to kill Jane) over Jane, the caustic cleanser provoking another lovely struggle against implacable bonds. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and dug through Jane’s belongings until he found a cell phone. He turned it on. “Do you think they’ll find you in time?” he asked quietly, suddenly solemn. “I’m willing to leave it up to fate this time.”
Jane lost his fight with unconsciousness.
“I think you were lying,” Red John said. He dipped his hand in Jane’s blood and smeared an approximation of a smiling face on Jane’s bared belly.
**********
They found Jane two hours later. He had only been gone for four hours, total. It had taken them three of those hours to figure out that he was missing and not playing hooky. An anonymous tip led them to the abandoned section of the underground where he was chained to the piping.
Rigsby was the one who found him.
Jane was painted in his own blood. It leaked down his wrists, his stomach, and between his thighs, ending in thick, almost dry rivers over his ankles. The air smelled like bleach and the heady tang of blood.
At first, Rigsby thought Jane was dead. There was too much blood for there to be any other explanation. He turned on his radio, the sparking sound of static filling the air. “I found him,” he said, voice heavy with grief. “I think—I think he’s dead,” he told Lisbon.
She was quiet, and then confirmed where he was before switching to her phone to call it in. She was half way through calling for the CSIs when Rigsby saw Jane move. He swayed gently as if in the breeze, but they were underground. The air was chilled and still.
“Lisbon—” Rigsby said, interrupting her. “I—” Jane’s eyes opened, looking at him blindly. “Holy Hell, Lisbon, you need to call an ambulance. He’s not dead,” Rigsby told her. He ignored her questions and put the radio down carefully by the wall.
Jane looked through him. “Hey Jane,” Rigsby murmured, walking forward through puddles of blood and bleach, trying to leave the scene undisturbed. “You okay?” he asked him.
Jane’s eyes were trying to follow Rigsby. They kept sliding away, rolling unconsciously. Rigsby smiled as reassuringly as he could. He doubted Jane could see him clearly enough to even know who he was. “Yeah, it’s going to be okay,” he told Jane.
He reached out carefully to touch Jane’s wrists, trying to see if the handcuffs were standard model. Jane flinched away like a frightened animal, making the cuffs cut into his wrists again, another trail of blood running down his stained arms. Rigsby swore quietly and laid a hand on Jane’s side to steady him. He could feel Jane’s heart beating too fast. “It’s going to be okay,” he repeated softly. Rigsby snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, trying to ignore how Jane whimpered at the sound. “Everything’s fine,” he lied.
He pulled Jane against his chest to steady him, and reached up to the handcuffs with his key. Jane tried to get away from Rigsby, twisting weakly under the weight of his arm. The handcuffs were standard. They unlocked and released Jane slowly, tacky with drying blood. The cuffs finally gave, letting Jane free. His arms fell loosely, the sudden change in position provoking a sharp gasp from Jane. He slid down Rigsby’s chest, limp, but still horribly conscious.
“Come on Patrick,” he muttered awkwardly, stumbling over Jane’s first name. Jane looked crumpled and broken, and Rigsby wanted to take the gag out so that Jane could talk, but they couldn’t contaminate the crime scene further. Rigsby lifted Jane into his arms easily, and walked him towards the entrance, holding him gently. Jane had never seemed so small before.
In the dim light of the tunnel outside, Rigsby settled to the ground, holding Jane in his lap. He ignored the blood seeping through his pants. “Everything’s going to be okay,” Rigsby said, the words losing their meaning and just a mantra against misfortune.
He unsnapped the closures at the back of the gag, pulling out a few hairs. Jane shivered, but didn’t otherwise react. Rigsby pulled gently on the gag, drawing a blank look from Jane. The empty blue eyes were disconcerting. The gag was stuck between Jane’s teeth. “Can you open your mouth?” Rigsby asked quietly, hoping Jane could understand.
Jane looked confused, but his jaw relaxed enough for Rigsby to pull the gag out. He dropped it to the side, noticing the deep indentations from Jane’s teeth. Jane relaxed with the gag gone, leaning into Rigsby’s chest and beginning to shiver.
“I bet you’re cold,” Rigsby said, taking Jane’s temperature with the back of his hand. Jane was colder than the room he noted anxiously, wondering where the rest of the team was, where the paramedics were. Rigsby shifted out of his suit jacket and put it on Jane, ignoring the soft noises Jane made when he had to move his arms. The jacket was huge on Jane.
“Where are those paramedics?” Rigsby asked himself quietly, gently shifting the other man so that he rested on Rigsby’s chest. Jane was pretty damn limp now, though still conscious through some cruel trick of fate. Rigsby grabbed the radio and opened the channel again.
“Agent Lisbon?”
“Rigsby?” Lisbon asked, her voice tight with worry. “Is Jane okay?” she questioned him.
“He’s alive,” Rigsby responded, wrapping his arm around Jane a little more tightly, trying to warm him. “Where are the paramedics?” he asked her, watching the entrances to the tunnel.
“Working their way toward you,” Lisbon responded. “Cho and I are coming in ahead of them. We should be there in a couple of minutes.”
“Are you close to the paramedics at all?” Rigsby questioned her. Jane was watching him talk. Rigsby ran his free hand through Jane’s hair, and then regretted it when Jane seemed to pale even further. “Shhhh,” he murmured softly, “Help is coming, you’re going to be okay.”
“What?” Lisbon asked him, confused.
“I’m talking to Jane,” Rigsby told her, “If you are close to them, can you get a blanket or something?” he asked, “Jane’s really cold.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Lisbon spoke to someone on the outer limits of the radio’s range. It sounded like Cho. “Is Jane talking?” she asked hopefully.
“No, not yet,” Rigsby responded, watching Jane carefully. He didn’t seem to be listening, and his eyes were almost closed. Hopefully he was falling asleep.
“Oh,” Lisbon paused and for awhile the only sound was soft sputtering static. “We’ve got a blanket,” she eventually said, and then turned off the radio.
“Rigsby?”
Rigsby jolted and then looked down. Jane was staring at the far wall, avoiding eye contact for the first time Rigsby could remember. “Yeah Jane?” he responded, smoothing his jacket over Jane’s back in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.
“Red John—he—” Jane’s voice broke. He took a shuddering breath and continued. “He has brown eyes and white skin. I think his hair is some variation on brunette. He wore a mask, but I saw his back. He has a tattoo.” Jane trembled and pressed his cheek against Rigsby’s chest.
“What was the tattoo of?” Rigsby asked, his arms and hands curling protectively around Jane.
“It was a snake,” Jane whispered. “Red and black.” Jane swallowed hard and continued. “He was taller than she said. Probably over six feet rather than under. He has crooked front teeth.”
Rigsby waited, but Jane didn’t continue. “Anything else you can remember?” he asked Jane.
“He smells like smoke,” Jane muttered. His eyes were unfocused again, staring deep into the dark.
Rigsby let it go. He could hear footsteps in the distance. The radio crackled again.
“We’re getting close to your location,” Lisbon said, all business again. Rigsby lifted his hand off of his gun, and rearranged Jane so his coat covered as much of him as possible. He could see their flashlights now.
“Rigsby?” Lisbon called her voice echoing in the tunnel. Jane went stiff in his arms and then limp, faking unconsciousness.
“Yeah, I’m over here,” Rigsby said. “You have a blanket?” he asked them, watching Jane. He was still shivering.
“Yes,” Cho said, walking forward, holding a thin thermal blanket. It crinkled when he unfolded it. Cho paused, looking at Jane. “Is he…?” He sounded more uncertain than Rigsby had ever heard him.
“Yeah,” Rigsby replied, not particularly caring what the question was. He slid one arm under Jane’s knees and lifted them both up. “Come on,” he said, gesturing impatiently, “get the blanket on him.”
Cho nodded and draped the blanket over Jane from his neck down. Lisbon moved in beside him and helped tuck the edges up and under, covering Jane in the shiny material. She looked like she might cry.
Rigsby adjusted them until Jane was completely wrapped up and then sat back down, cradling him again. He thought he saw Jane looking out from under his eyelashes, but decided not to call him on it. If Jane didn’t want to deal with it, he didn’t have to.
“The paramedics will be here soon,” Cho said, his face and voice as neutral as always. “They were having issues getting the gurney over the rubble.”
“Do you know who?” Lisbon asked, the broken look on her face fading quickly, replaced with cold fury.
“Red John,” Rigsby replied. He nodded at the room he had found Jane in. “He was in there,” he told her. Lisbon looked at Jane for a moment, and then went into the room. Cho followed her.
It was quiet except for the sound of Cho and Lisbon talking. Jane’s shivering was slowing down.
Rigsby saw the paramedics wheeling the gurney down the hallway, one carrying a massive first aid kit. “Finally,” he muttered, flagging the paramedics down.
“That’s him?” the one with the first aid kit asked briskly, opening up the red crate.
Rigsby nodded. He could feel Jane growing tense. He was pretty sure that Jane was hanging onto his shirt through the blanket, but he didn’t say anything about it.
“Can you describe how he was injured?” the one pushing the gurney asked. He hit a leaver on the stretcher and it collapsed down to ground level.
“It looks like he was tortured,” Rigsby said, reporting like it was a crime scene and not Jane. “He was cuffed to the ceiling and took his full weight on his wrists for a few hours. It looks like he was cut up, primarily on the chest and groin, he lost a lot of blood. There was a gag,” Rigsby nodded at the discarded hunk of rubber, “which was still in place when he was found.” Rigsby rubbed Jane’s shoulder, trying to make him relax. “He’s too cold.”
The paramedics nodded and pulled the gurney closer to them. “Alright,” one said, “We’re going to take him now.” He looked at his partner and signaled him. They grabbed Jane’s ankles and shoulders, prepared to lift him onto the cushioned white stretcher.
Jane bucked violently, pulling away from their touch. “Whoa Jane,” Rigsby said, holding him tighter. “It’s okay, they’re going to help you.” Jane stared into Rigsby’s eyes like he was looking through them, his cold hands holding tightly to Rigsby’s shirt. “Would you mind if I lift him for you?” he asked the paramedics, not looking away from Jane. Jane relaxed minutely.
“Yeah, sure.” One of the paramedics shrugged. “Just don’t drop him,” he said, turning to dig through the first aid kit. “Do you know his blood type?”
“O positive,” Jane muttered, clinging to Rigsby like he was a life line. Rigsby settled him on the stretcher and dropped another blanket over him. He smoothed the wrinkles of the blanket and stepped back. Jane let go of him reluctantly.
“Mind if we borrow your arm?” the paramedic asked, holding a blood pressure gauge up. Jane pulled his arm out of the nest of blankets, the arm of Rigsby’s suit coat sliding back to reveal the deep gouges on his wrist. Blood still seeped out of them and bruises were forming.
“I’m going to talk to Lisbon and Cho,” Rigsby told Jane, “Will you be okay out here?” he asked, hushed. “I’ll ride with you to the hospital, but I need to speak with them first.”
Jane nodded distractedly, watching the paramedic take his blood pressure. His pupils were huge, making the thin rim of blue look downright unnatural. Rigsby patted him on the shoulder and walked back into the candlelit room. The scent of bleach hit him again.
“Is he awake?” Lisbon asked, her face blank and harsh. Cho was behind her, equally professional. They stood well away from the interconnected puddles stained with the red of blood and the scent of bleach.
“Yeah,” Rigsby said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the rusted pipe, gore crusted handcuffs still draped over it. They seemed to glow an unnatural red. “Did you find anything?” he asked quietly.
“No, nothing he didn’t want us to find,” Lisbon said in frustration. “This place has been abandoned for nearly a century, he dumped bleach over everything, and we’re left with no evidence again.” She looked away from him, and glared at the floor, blinking rapidly. “Is Jane okay?”
Rigsby shrugged. Okay was a word too vague to determine, but even so he thought the answer was no. “He’s hurt, I think he’s in shock, and he looks dead,” he said. The words fell like rotten apples from his lips and he was powerless to stop them. Lisbon looked like he had just killed a kitten and Cho looked away from him. “But he’s alive, and the paramedics don’t seem too worried,” he added in half-hearted apology.
“Did Jane…” Cho trailed off before continuing. “Did he see anything?”
“Caucasian male, brown eyes, maybe brown hair, a little over six feet, crooked front teeth and a tattoo of a snake on his back,” Rigsby said, hating the vagueness of the description. In many respects, it was no better than Rosalind Harker’s. “He wore a mask.”
Lisbon sighed. “I’ll have it added to the file.”
Rigsby nodded. One of the paramedics came to the door and told him that they were leaving soon. “I told Jane that I would ride to the hospital with him,” Rigsby explained.
“We’ll meet you there,” Lisbon replied, looking over the crime scene again. “After the CSIs come,” she added, looking at him like she needed to explain her absence. Not for the first time, Rigsby wondered what it was about Jane that made her so uncertain. He just nodded and left.
Jane was strapped down and asleep, a catheter taped to his upper arm. One of the paramedics was holding a clear bag over him, allowing it to drain into his veins. Jane looked liked death, ghostly pale with purplish mottled skin.
“We gave him a sedative,” the paramedic with the bag said. “He fell asleep right after.”
“Good,” Rigsby said. He took a deep breath and continued, wishing that he didn’t have to. “He’ll need a rape kit,” his voice was cold and empty, the emotions locked away. He would think about it later. “It would probably be best if he was asleep for that too.”
The paramedics hesitated and then nodded. The one handed the IV bag to Rigsby. “Hold that for us, would you?” They began the long walk to the surface, pushing the gurney over the rough brick floor.