Title: Good Witches and White Lies
Author: mswyrr
Rating: T
Spoilers: 2x23
Summary: One-shot. Missing scene from 2x23. What happened after Red John left?
Author's Notes: Thanks to pensive1 for the FANTASTIC meta and for keeping me honest with this one, to iloveplotbunnies for finding my grammar!fail and helping me get the ending right, to erinya for writing srsly awesome J/L fic and helping me get a clue on my characterization here, and to tablesaw for his thinky-thoughts on TM as a celebration of dub!con.
Only bad witches are ugly.
-Glinda the Good, The Wizard of Oz
Jane could hear the sound of Wesley Blankfein crying. It broke the silence of the room, though he seemed to be trying to be quiet about it.
Boys don't cry. It was a tribute to social programming-and what Jane supposed were years of relentless bullying-that even now young Wesley tried to choke back his tears. As if anyone could condemn him.
Earlier the young man had struggled on the floor for a few vain, agonizing minutes, trying to stop his bleeding. It hadn't worked.
He was lying on his side now, his only movement the shuddering rise and fall of his chest as tears ran down his face. His eyes were downcast.
Jane tensed his muscles and made another failing attempt to get free. He really didn't blame the kid for trying to murder him. Not enough to want to see this, certainly. If it had been Jane in the same position, there was nothing he wouldn't have done to save his family.
By the time Jane gave up trying to break free of the irritatingly comfortable chair, Wesley had gotten himself under control.
"Is he going to hurt my mom?" Wesley asked, looking up to meet Jane's eyes. "For what I did."
From what Jane knew of Dylan and Ruth, Wesley's mother was already dead.
"No," Jane said. It wasn't a lie.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure." Jane watched Wesley's eyes as he started speaking again, trying to find just the right tone of voice, the right rhythm. "He's long, long gone away now, Wesley. Somewhere far away. Somewhere, anywhere." Jane thought for a moment about whether Wesley was a forest or beach sort of person, then took a risk. "If I were going away, I'd go to an island somewhere," he said. "I'd go somewhere with warm sand and cool ocean breezes. I'd listen to the palm trees rustle in the breeze and listen to the ocean waves." Wesley's eyelids were drooping. "Just listen to the ocean, Wesley. Lay on the beach and listen as the waves come in and go out. Come and go. Come and go. Always coming and always going but never ending. Rushing in and then away, back and forth, back and forth. Warm in the sunlight with the sound of the waves."
Wesley's eyes were closed. He breathed peacefully for a while, lost in the trance.
After a while, Jane saw him stop breathing.
He let himself drift after that, waiting in the silence, running every stanza he could remember of a special poem through his brain.
After a while he heard the CBI break down the door. They burst in, their flashlight beams cutting across the room. He heard Rigsby shout "Clear!" The team spread out, checking for survivors.
Lisbon came up and bent over him. "Paramedics are on the way. Where are you hurt?" she said, giving him a worried visual scan. She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.
He flinched.
She withdrew her hand. "Jane..."
"I'm not," he said. "Just get me out of this."
"Okay. All right. Where can I..." she looked around the room for something to release him with. Cops didn't carry knives. Lisbon had to pull on a rubber glove and get him free using the large knife Wesley was supposed to gut him with.
Once he was free, Jane nearly over-balanced in his haste to get out of the chair, out of that room.
Lisbon hooked her arm around his waist and helped keep him steady.
Having realized that there was no one else to help, Grace, Rigsby and Cho had nothing to do but stare at their retreat.
On the way out, he saw a genuine Red John smile drawn on the wall.
xx
Police and paramedics were pulling up as they got outside. Emergency lights seemed to come from everywhere, bathing the street in throbbing red, blue and white.
Lisbon walked him over to the paramedics and insisted he get checked out.
She left him there with a young EMT whose name he learned was Karen Hernandez. Karen was efficient without being brusque. She wore jasmine perfume and a locket with a picture of her little niece Marta.
Karen told him that he had a concussion and that he was showing signs of emotional shock. She offered him a ride to the hospital. He declined. She offered him a blanket and information about how not to fall asleep and never wake up again while concussed. He took both with a polite "thank you, dear," and made his way over to Lisbon's SUV. He got into the passenger seat. It was nice and warm inside.
His part of the day's events were over. All that was left to be done was to secure the scene and collect the evidence neatly. Fiddly little technical things. Nothing for him to do.
He leaned the passenger seat back and settled in for a nap.
An hour later Rigsby came by on Karen's orders and woke him up.
He grumbled at Rigsby resentfully and went back to sleep.
xx
The next thing he knew, they were back at the CBI and Lisbon was steering him half-awake out of the SUV.
He yawned and stretched, looking up at the large, cool moon. He followed her through the parking lot and into the red brick building, his blanket still around his shoulders. When he got upstairs to his couch, he sunk into it with a sense of relief. Grace was nice enough to bring him a cup of tea. Twice, because she didn't make the first cup right. He drank it and then lay down to continue his nap.
xx
He woke to the sound of voices. He kept his eyes closed, listening.
"We just pulled him out of a massacre, ma'am." Lisbon's voice was tight.
"Yes," he heard Hightower respond calmly. "He's the only living eye witness to a Red John attack. And now that he's rested, he can answer a few questions."
"It's only been a couple hours."
"You have to wake him anyway. An important lead could be going cold," Hightower replied. "Now, I think he'll feel better talking to you, but if you want me to ask someone else..."
"No," Lisbon said. "I'll do it."
"Good. Take him to one of the interview rooms and record it."
"Yes, ma'am."
Jane heard the click of Hightower's heels as she left the room. And then Lisbon approaching in her characteristic loafers.
"Jane?" she said, reaching out to touch his hand. "Time to wake up."
Jane feigned coming around, blinking up at her with a sleepy smile. "Hello," he said.
She gave him a weak smile in return. "Hi. Feeling better?"
"Uh-huh. Have we found Wesley's mother yet?"
She blinked, sidetracked. "Uh, no. We're tracking down all the abandoned buildings the copycats may have had access to. Do you have any ideas?"
Jane shook his head as he sat up on the couch. "No," he said. "But there's no hurry."
Lisbon frowned. "Why do you say that?"
"I'm almost certain she's dead," he told her.
"Oh." She sighed. "Nobody got out of this one alive," she muttered sadly.
"Except me," Jane said.
Lisbon got a haunted look. "Yeah," she said. "About that. We're going to need to know what happened."
"Okay." Jane stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"Interview room two should be empty," he said. "Aren't you supposed to record this?" he asked innocently.
Her eyes widened. "You were eavesdropping?"
"Awake, asleep, or in a coma, it's never wise to talk about someone behind their back while they're in the room," he said sagely.
"Uh, yeah. Actually, I was thinking we could talk here first," she said. "Off the record." She shifted on her feet. She gestured at his mug. "Do you want some more tea?"
He didn't feel like going along with prettying up what was essentially an interrogation. "I'd rather get this over with and return to my nap." He made a gallant 'ladies first' gesture, "If you would?"
"Okay."
xx
Jane brought his blanket with him. It smelled like Karen Hernandez's lovely jasmine perfume and it made him look vulnerable. It amused him to make Lisbon get information out of him while he did his best impression of a tired little boy.
How far exactly would she go in putting Hightower's orders over his comfort?
While Lisbon was setting up the recording, Jane took a seat on the wrong side of the table, leaving Lisbon the suspect's spot facing the one way glass.
She sat down, looking uncomfortable. "Can you tell me what happened from the beginning? Please."
"Sure," he said. "First I disobeyed a direct order to stay put. Am I in trouble for that, by the way?" He leaned forward. "Should I pencil in a psych evaluation for later?"
She looked guilty. "No. Of course not."
"You consider witnessing a 'massacre' punishment enough then?" he asked lightly. "Or are you just afraid I won't pass?"
She looked stung. And appalled. She put her hand over the microphone. "Will you please stop this?" she asked quietly. "If you want to do this tomorrow, I can have Cho drive you back to your hotel."
"Hightower won't be happy," he said, meeting her eyes. Make a choice.
Lisbon turned off the recorder. Looked at him quietly for a moment. "When I saw his signature on the wall," she said, "and when I saw the bodies everywhere, I thought..." She looked down at the table top, and then forced her eyes up. She didn't have to say the rest; he knew what it was like to see that symbol again after losing someone you love to it. "Is that punishment enough?"
It was Jane's turn to feel a twinge of guilt. "I'm fine," he said.
She nodded. The tense look didn't leave her face.
He tilted his head. "You don't feel better."
"I'm supposed to?" she asked. "Because you said," here she dropped her voice in imitation of his, "'I'm fine'? Really?"
"I see." He pursed his lips. "All right. We'll try something else. There's this ancient technique I know..."
A hunted look came into her eyes. "Oh, no," she said, warding him off with a wave of her hand. "Hold it. Please. You don't need to baby me with some mumbo-jumbo." She scowled. "Don't make a big deal out of this."
"I'm not making a big deal, Lisbon. It's a venerable tradition the world over. People do it whenever they're sad or afraid. And it always works."
"Always?" she said. "Nothing always works."
"This does," he said.
She still looked dubious.
He pulled out the big guns. "Trust me?"
Her shoulders drooped a little. "Okay. All right. What do I have to do?"
He placed his hand, palm out, on the table and wiggled his fingers.
She stared at it. "What now?"
Jane rolled his eyes. He reached over to her hand where it lay on the table and clasped it with his own.
She drew in a breath, surprised. "Jane. Uh..." Her fingers twitched nervously in his grip. "Your hand's cold," she said finally.
"I expect that's from the shock," he said, stroking her thumb. "Or the concussion." He shrugged. "Maybe both."
"Both," she repeated numbly. She sucked in a shuddering breath. "People die from that. You're sitting here and you could still..." she shook her head. She reached up with her other hand and clasped his between hers tightly.
She fought tears, blinking rapidly.
Tomboys don't cry.
xx
Cho took Jane home and in his soothing, matter of fact way hung out reading and waking Jane every hour. When he went home, Rigsby came by to take over watch. Around 4am it was Grace's turn.
xx
The next day Jane made Grace take him by a used book store before work. He bought a lovely leather-bound copy of Songs of Innocence and Experience by William Blake.
When they got into work, Lisbon had set her office up for a nice, easygoing interview. There was a small digital audio recorder, a cranberry muffin, and a cup of tea on her desk waiting for him.
He wished he could have been a fly on the wall during the conversation she'd had with Hightower over this.
Lisbon asked her questions.
Jane was honest about everything up to a point. After that he just lied and kept on lying.