Liar 3/?

[oroburos69]

Title: Liar 3/?
Beta: lady_of_scarlet
Summary: Nothing is okay. No one is happy.
Warnings: Non-con
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.
A/N: I rewrote the first section of Liar, and although I feel that this version is much improved, I have left the original version available here: http://oroburos69.livejournal.com/847.html#cutid1
For those on FF, the original version can be found by clicking on ‘homepage’ in my profile.
The prompt is from the Mentalist Kink Meme on LiveJournal. “Red John/Jane. Possessiveness/jealousy. ^.^”

First Chapter

“You aren’t interviewing him,” Cho informed Bosco. He leaned against the wall next to Jane’s room, clearly standing guard.

“We need the information for the case file,” Bosco replied. Behind him, Hicks shifted restlessly, looking through the window into the hospital room, lip curled in obvious disgust.

“True, but you aren’t interviewing him,” Cho repeated, his voice flat. He sent a sharp glare at Hicks.

“Look,” Rigsby told them, moving so he was between Cho and Bosco, and coincidentally, Bosco and the door. “Jane—Patrick isn’t feeling well. It’s your case, and we aren’t trying to step on any toes, but it’s really best if you leave him alone right now. If you absolutely can’t wait until tomorrow, Cho, Lisbon or I will do the interview,” he told them.

“Why can’t we do it?” Hicks asked, a trifle nervously. He glanced between Cho and the window in a slow cycle, his eyes twitching. “Dr. Asperity said he’s recovered from the anesthetic well, and he’s coherent. If he can be interviewed, then we ought to do it. Regulations demand that—”

“Fuck regulations,” Cho swore calmly, his tone mild. “Jane hates you and you hate him. You aren’t going in there without his consent.”

“What Cho means to say is—” Rigsby began before sighing in relief as Lisbon walked into the hallway. He waved her down. “Boss.”

“Rigsby,” she acknowledged, coming to stand by his side. She set her feet shoulder width apart, and tilted her head to look Bosco in the eye. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Your men are preventing me from interviewing Patrick Jane,” Bosco told her. He wavered visibly, looking at her. “He’s awake, and his doctor recommended that, if we want to talk to him, we do it in the next hour.”

“Alright, we’ll do the interview and get it back to you,” Lisbon said. She looked through the window, meeting Jane’s eyes. He looked away immediately, and she frowned.

“It’s our case,” Hicks insisted. He pointed at Jane through the glass. “We need to interview him while it’s fresh in his mind.”

“He needs to be interviewed,” Bosco said carefully, watching Cho.  “If you record it, and hand it over to us in the morning, that would be perfectly acceptable. The samples are on their way to the lab?” he asked for confirmation, trying to defuse the sudden tension in the room.

“They are,” Cho confirmed. He uncrossed his arms and hooked his thumbs over his belt, a moderately less aggressive posture.

“Right,” Bosco said, looking at the three of them, his gaze lingering on Lisbon. “I’ll expect the record in the morning.” He turned to leave, nudging Hicks with his elbow as he did so.  Hicks looked confused, but followed his lead.

Rigsby relaxed slightly, returning to Cho’s side. Lisbon faced them, her hands shoved deep into her pockets and shoulders curving in protectively. She was looking past them, into the room. Neither of them mentioned it. “So who’s going to do it?” he asked.

Lisbon shook herself, her eyes returning to them. “I don’t think he’ll be able to tell me the truth,” she replied quietly. Her face was set in stone. Rigsby wondered if Jane had been looking back at her. He doubted it.

He coughed uncomfortably. “I don’t…”  He looked at the door from the corner of his eye. “I’m not comfortable… asking him,” Rigsby admitted. “If you can’t, then I can, but Jane—he’ll pick up on it,” he said to Cho.

“And read it wrong,” Cho added, his frown deepening at the corners. “I can do the interview,” he decided. He looked in and hesitated. “Give me a minute first,” he requested, walking to the vending machine. Cho paid with quarters and selected a bottle of water. The noise filled the empty hallway.

Rigsby went to the cheap plastic seating across from the door. He watched as Lisbon took a shuddering breath, and opened the door. She closed it softly behind her.

 

***

“Jane,” Lisbon said quietly, calling his attention away from the walls. She waited a few seconds, but he didn’t respond, just kept staring through her.

“You…” she began awkwardly, unsure. “We’re going to have to interview you now,” she continued. “Cho will do it, and it will be recorded so that you only have to do it once.”

Jane nodded slowly, seeming dazed. Lisbon wondered if it was really the best time for this. “If you want to delay and do this at some other time, that’s fine—”

“No,” he cut her off, his eyes meeting hers for a second before darting away. “You need the information as soon as possible.” He twisted the sheets between his fingers. “Who knows?” he laughed breathily, “I might forget things.”

The thin blue sheets slipped down his chest, gathering at his waist.  He looked far too thin and small with the patient gown draping over his body. Lisbon knew it was a side effect of the circumstances and her mind was playing tricks on her, but she resolved to feed him when he got out of the hospital. 

Lisbon frowned. “An agent will be stationed with you at all times while you’re in the hospital. The team has volunteered to take the majority of the shifts.” She glared fiercely at the wall. “If you need anything—” she broke off, hoping he would understand that he could just ask her and she would do any fucking thing he wanted.

Her nails dug into her palms, clawing herself discretely. They had known—Jane wasn’t just the department’s pet psychic, he was fucking bait. The subtle truth no one said anything about, but everyone, including Jane, knew.

“Stop blaming yourself, Teresa,” Jane murmured quietly, the weight of command behind his voice.

She ignored it, because she always ignored it.

“You couldn’t have stopped him. And if these unfortunate events lead to his capture then I do not regret them.” His face twitched into a grimace for a fleeting second before he admitted softly, “I’d walk back into his arms if it would end this.”

His eyes met hers and they were impossibly dark. Lisbon wanted to scream at him until he understood that people cared about him, and he didn’t need to die to justify living. Instead she sighed and set up the recorder on his bedside table. “This will be used in the case file, unless you have any objections.”

“No, none,” he said, pulling at the IV line gingerly.

“Jane, stop playing with that,” Lisbon reprimanded him, not looking up from the video camera. He stopped and she could tell he was amused. She adjusted the tripod legs again and aimed the lens at Jane. She turned it on for a second, testing it.

Jane began to speak, but restrained himself when he saw that the camera was on. Lisbon looked at him in concern, turning the camera off.

A soft knock rattled the blinds on the door, drawing both their attentions. Cho walked in, two water bottles dangling from his hands. He nodded in acknowledgement. “You ready for me in here?”

“Yeah,” Lisbon confirmed. She leaned over to pull the sheets up, tucking him in. “I’ll be back afterward. I have first shift,” she explained.

“Okay,” Jane replied. He was smiling when she looked back.

 

 

Cho arranged the water bottles on the table, sliding one forward for Jane.  It took him a few moments to meet Jane’s eyes. He shifted in the uncomfortable chair.

 Jane reached for the water bottle, moving his arms as little as possible. He didn’t grab it, instead dragging it toward him until it fell onto the bed covers. His hands were shaking as he twisted the lid off, taking a quick drink before putting the cap back on and dropping it onto the sheets.

“You don’t have to do this right now,” Cho said. It’s an offer more than it’s a statement.

Drops of condensation from the bottle darkened the sheets, similar to the thin lines on the top pillow. Jane’s hair was drying in fluffy curls, a fuzzy halo around his head.  Jane must use some kind of hair products for his usual style; the untidy mop of blond curls he sported right now was much softer looking.

“It needs to be done,” Jane replied.

“Eventually,” Cho told him. “If you want to delay, that’s fine.”

“We interview people as close to the incident as possible, so that they don’t forget things,” Jane said, watching him intently. “You told me that.”

“That’s true,” Cho admitted.

“Yet both you and Lisbon have told me that it’s perfectly okay to wait,” Jane said. He drank from the bottle, and then set it back onto the sheets.

Cho could see the wheels turning in his head.

 “Are you trying to protect me, yourself, or Red John?” Jane asked him, his eyes unfocused. He ran his fingers along the bandages on his wrists.

Cho hesitated. “You and myself,” he acknowledged. “You want to do this now, then?”

“Yes,” Jane said.

Cho nodded once and turned on the video camera. “Interview of Patrick Jane, regarding the Red John case, September 18, 2009,” Cho began, grabbing his water bottle and taking a drink.

Jane looked at the camera and Cho wondered if it made him uncomfortable.

“What did he look like?” Cho asked.

“He was at least six feet, probably over.” Jane licked his lips. “White skin, dark hair. His teeth were crooked, the front tooth on his left looked like it was pushed in. He had a tattoo of a snake on his back—red, white and black. It was small, and curled up in his lower back.” He shifted restlessly, a faint expression of discomfort crossing his face. “He was wearing a ski mask.”

“Anything else you remember? Age? Weight?” Cho prompted Jane, keeping his body language purposely relaxed.

“I think…” Jane muttered distractedly, “I think he’s older than me. Maybe thirty-five, forty-five at the most. He was normal weight, not really fit, not fat. He had a tan, and a break in the tan on his ring finger.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“One on his left hip. A mole. There might have been another on the back of his neck.”

“Okay, that’s good. Do you remember anything else about his appearance?”

“His hands were rough, he had bony knuckles and clammy hands. Thin lips, deep set eyes. He’s probably fairly attractive. Under the mask he had a rectangular face, square jaw. Probably a strong brow.” Jane took a drink, looking away from Cho.

“He—I think…” he trailed off, sending a quick glance at Cho. “He had scars. On his back, and on his stomach. A light one that crossed the right side of his upper lip.”

“What kind of scars?” Cho asked. “Burns? Knife?”

“They were straight—long, went across his back.”

“Whip or cane?” Cho suggested.

“Maybe.” Jane shrugged. He winced, the collar of the patient gown slipping to show taped-on bandages over his shoulder.

“Okay,” Cho mumbled, tapping his fingers against the armrest. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped. “Did you notice anything about his speech?”

“He was irritated. Enjoying himself, but less than he’d anticipated, I think,” Jane muttered quietly, a pale flush rising on his cheeks. “He jumped from topic to topic a lot. He was either American, or faking the accent well. He spoke clearly, no slur, or stutter.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“Not about his voice,” Jane replied, a flash of a smile crossing his face. It fell away as quickly as it came.

“All right.” Cho took a sip of water. “Did you have any indication that Red John was following you in the days preceding the event?”

“Ah…” Jane paled abruptly, looking at Cho with wide eyes. “Do you think he was?” he asked anxiously, before shaking his head. “No, of course he must have been,” he corrected himself brusquely, a dark frown creasing his face.

“He might not have been,” Cho offered him. “It may have been an attack of opportunity.”

“No—I’m fairly certain that he was,” Jane countered grimly. “I thought I was imagining things—”

Cho heard the cut off ‘again’ as clearly as if Jane had actually said it.

“—But things in my kitchen were changing positions.” Jane looked at the camera from the corner of his eye. He calmed. “The salt is on the left and the pepper is on the right, I always leave them like that. Yesterday they were reversed. One of my apples was missing. I thought I had eaten it and forgotten. Little things like that.”

“Did you see anyone following you at any point?” Cho asked, making a note to send someone over to Jane’s house to check for evidence. Red John might have left some trace of himself in his stalking, if not in his attack.

“If he did, it was very discrete. But why would he need to? I’m either at the office, my home, or somewhere on a case,” Jane pointed out.

 “Fair enough,” Cho acknowledged. “Where were you when Red John abducted you?”

Jane froze for a moment. Cho wondered, belatedly, if he should have eased into it more. “I was in the living room—I didn’t… I didn’t see or hear anything. Suddenly there was a man behind me holding a cloth over my face. I became dizzy and then passed out.”

“The man was Red John?”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “Our acquaintance was fleeting, but there were no indications that he wasn’t.”

Cho nodded, and drank from the water bottle. Jane mimicked him, his hands shaking, sloshing the water against the sides of the bottle. “Did you see his vehicle?”

“No. I didn’t wake up until I was chained to the pipes in that room.” Jane ran his thumb over the ridges on the bottle cap. On the end of each swipe, his nail rasped over the last few lines.

“Do you know what time he took you?” Cho flushed faintly at Jane’s faintly incredulous expression, cursing the vagueness of his wording. He felt like he was in a minefield, waiting for Jane to explode.

“Probably eight in the morning, or there about,” Jane said with a faint smile at Cho’s discomfort. “I was almost out the door.”

“Okay. Once you woke up in the basement, what happened?”

Jane paused, looking at the camera uneasily. “He—” Jane stopped and swallowed.

Cho waited, giving Jane a silence to fill.

“He put the gag in my mouth,” Jane began. “He bit me. Then he finished stripping me.” Jane grew pale as he spoke, looking past Cho to the wall. “I couldn’t—he cut me.”

Cho let out a long breath, quelling the anger that threatened to rise. Jane mimicked him, meeting his eyes for a moment as he did so.

“He—ah,” Jane interrupted himself. He paused, breathing slowly. “He put the knife inside me,” Jane continued, his voice empty. “His fingers, too.”

Cho desperately wanted to end the interview, mostly for his own sake. The knowledge crawled in his mind, a shambling horror that consumed whatever thoughts wandered near it. He resisted the urge to stop Jane, allowing him to finish.

“He raped me,” Jane said, his emotionless mask shaking on the word ‘rape’ before reforming like solid glass. “And then he poured bleach on me.” He opened the bottle of water and took a sip. “I passed out and then woke up some time later. At that point, Red John had left.”

The silence stretched. Jane didn’t appear to have anything to add.

“Did Red John say anything to you?”

“Yes,” Jane murmured, his body taking on a certain lassitude. The drugs must have begun to work, Cho decided. “He said—” Jane swallowed and stopped, tension rising again.

“He said?” Cho repeated back, prompting Jane.

“He—” Jane cut off again, looking away. He ran his hand over his face, rubbing at the corners of his mouth. He grimaced, and licked his lips quickly. “Cho,” he said pleadingly.

 Cho nodded, glancing at the camera before changing the subject. “Was there anyone else in the room?”

“No.” Jane answered quickly

“How long were you awake before Agent Rigsby found you?”

“Thirty, forty minutes?” Jane suggested, obviously uncertain. “I’m not sure.”

“How long was Red John with you?”

“Less than an hour.”

Cho nodded an answer, taking a drink. “What kind of knife did he use?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Did he leave at any point?”

“No, not until the end.”

Jane leaned back, eyes drifting shut. He looked exhausted, and Cho mentally revised the list of questions he had left.

“Jane, was there any indication that he would try this again?” Cho asked, making eye contact.

Jane blinked slowly. “Maybe.” Jane seemed horribly calm at the idea and Cho made a mental note to never let Jane go unsupervised again.

Cho turned the camera off. “Jane, has this ever happened before?”

Jane trembled for a second, the heart rate monitor accelerating. “I’m not sure,” he replied uncertainly. “He—I’m not sure.”

Lisbon tapped on the window, and Cho held up his hand, asking her to wait a second. “Have you ever been assaulted before?”

“No—there was one time, but it wasn’t him,” Jane muttered. His lips twisted into a grimace of a smile, “It wasn’t like this,” he reassured Cho, which didn’t do a thing to reassure him. “It was a husband who was angry because I told his wife he was cheating on her.”

“What was his name?” Cho asked, because slim leads were better than none.

 “He was six foot eight, black, and a former football player for the San Diego Chargers. He’s also dead.” Jane hid a wince as he settled into the sheets. “He wasn’t Red John.”

“Then what did you mean when you said you weren’t sure?” Cho asked, rescuing Jane’s water bottle from falling off the bed.

Jane frowned, gears in his head churning. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I feel a certain déjà vu, but I can’t remember why.”

Cho nodded, writing a quick note about it in his notebook. “Is there anything else?” he asked Jane over the sound of Lisbon knocking.

“No. Not that I can think of.” Jane shifted restlessly, sparing a smile for Lisbon as she came in.

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