Title: Red Violin
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, not making any money off them.
Rating: Teen
Genre: AU/Romance
Spoilers: It's an AU, so I'm gonna go with none.
A/N: Dipping my toe into AU waters...
xxx
Patrick Jane shifted in his seat of red velvet and flipped through his program impatiently without attending to the details of its content. He'd arranged to have the theater box to himself so he wouldn't have to deal with mindless chatter, but waiting was still tedious.
He tapped his program against his knee and checked his watch, noting with relief the performance was scheduled to start in five minutes. He'd read quite a bit about the San Francisco Symphony's new solo violinist, and he was anxious to see her in action. All the reviewers raved about her, calling her the most incredible thing to happen to the violin since Jascha Heifetz. He wanted to see if she lived up to the hype.
This was the last performance of the season. He'd gotten here absurdly early, which hadn't helped his general feeling of impatience. But he couldn't help coming early. This was the first event that had piqued his interest in far longer than he cared to remember. He'd tried not to get his hopes up, but he was afraid he'd allowed the glowing reviews to raise his expectations despite his best intentions. As a result, he'd found himself at the theater when the doors opened. He'd been escorted to his private box before the first wave of guests had even picked up their tickets at will call. In short, his current situation was entirely of his own making. He had no one but himself to blame for the fact that he'd been waiting alone in an empty box for the better part of an hour.
It didn't really matter, though. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.
Music was his new thing. He'd tried other methods, of course, to varying degrees of success. Alcohol, drugs, art, sex. Stupid adventure activities designed for adrenaline junkies. None of them had been the solution he'd been looking for. He'd found that while each of them provided temporary relief from the numbness, none could effectively combat it for a prolonged period of time. That was what he was after. Something that could stave off the numbness for longer than a few minutes or a few hours.
Music was his latest defense against the numbness. So far, it was working out okay. At the moment, it ranked somewhere below swimming naked in the Pacific Ocean and above alcohol and sex. The trouble was finding it. Oh, there was certainly a lot of music in the world, no doubt about that. But he'd found that ninety-nine percent of it was soulless drivel. Dreadful stuff manufactured by record companies to appeal to the widest possible audience based on a formula that combined a good looking young man or woman with topical lyrics and a canned melody. He swore those recycled tunes actually had a tinny sound. He couldn't stand the banal nature of this 'song in a can' genre. Honestly, there was enough of it out there that he'd seriously considered giving up the whole enterprise.
But that one percent, though. That one percent made slogging through the rest of the dross worthwhile. Music in that one percent could lift a person up, could give one flight. Even when it was breathtakingly sad, it made one feel less lonely, because the listener shared the sadness with the composer of the song. Even if you listened to it by yourself, music connected a person to humanity through those shared notes. Most importantly, it made one feel.
That was what he needed, above all things. It had been five years since he'd lost Angela and Charlotte. Five years since the numbness had infected him. Five years since he'd lost the ability to feel.
He still remembered every detail of that day with sickening clarity. The silk of his tie sliding through his fingers as he got ready for the show. The taste of Angela's cherry lip gloss when she kissed him goodbye. The hot lights of the studio. The confidence, almost bordering on euphoria, when he hooked the audience, drew them into a reality of his own making. The satisfaction of bringing it all home with a big finish. He remembered the drive back, made in half the time because one of his clients had given him a Maserati as a thank you gift and what did he care about speed limits? He could con or hypnotize himself out of most anything, he was that good.
The house had been quiet when he got home, but it was late and that wasn't unusual. He'd been hoping to make it back before Angela went to bed, but the house was dark and he went upstairs, looking forward to crawling into bed with her.
He remembered the pit of dread that opened up in his stomach when he read the note, when he'd processed its meaning. He seized the handle to the bedroom in a panic, burst into the room, desperate to get to his wife, to assure himself it wasn't true, that this wasn't happening, it wasn't real.
Angela was dead. A man stood over her with a knife, gazing down at her almost lovingly as he wiped the blade clean. He looked up when Patrick entered the room and cocked his head in interest. As though he were not surprised by Patrick's entrance, but merely curious to see his reaction to his evening's work. He wore a mask and hood, but his piercing blue eyes were visible from behind the mask. They tracked Patrick's expressions as the emotions chased across his face, watching him like a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen.
Dumb shock. Disbelief. Pain. Above all, black, visceral, soul-crushing pain. All these flitted across Patrick's face as he stared at the lifeless body of his beautiful wife, who would never kiss him with cherry lip gloss again. The weight of the pain threatened to crush his lungs, to paralyze him in that moment for all of time.
Then he looked at the man with the knife and he turned to pure, blinding rage to escape the pain. He flung himself at the man, unarmed, intent on nothing but savaging this man who had destroyed all that was precious to him.
The man in the mask bolted toward the window in an effort to escape, but Patrick seized him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
The man didn't panic. Almost calmly, he raised his knife and sliced a long gash along Patrick's forearm.
Patrick didn't even feel it, at the time. The pain and rage swirling inside him were too great for any physical pain to register in comparison. He wrapped his fingers around the man's throat and slammed his head against the window.
The window cracked satisfyingly when he hit the man's head against it, so he did it again—once, twice. The window shattered. Glass rained down everywhere.
Fear registered in the blue eyes now. Dimly, it dawned on Patrick that these eyes were not accustomed to fear. The man in the mask was stronger than him, a more accomplished fighter. But Patrick had blind rage on his side and the other man hadn't expected to have to fight tonight. Patrick had surprised him.
Determination overshadowed fear and the man drove his knife into Patrick's shoulder. Patrick roared in rage and swatted the knife away as though it were merely an annoyance at the level of a gnat. Pesky, but not worth his attention.
He flung the man to the ground and was on top of him before the man could scramble away or make another move to defend himself. He knelt on the man's chest to prevent him from escaping and placed his fingers around his throat once again. The man struggled, but Patrick held firm, bearing down with his full weight. He tightened his fingers.
It took a terribly long time for the man to stop breathing. Blood dripped down Patrick's arm, making his fingers both sticky and slick against the man's throat, but he didn't let go. He waited until the deed was done. He waited until he was absolutely certain the man was dead before releasing him.
Some of his senses returned to him, and he rushed to Charlotte's room.
He didn't think any words existed sufficient to describe what he felt when he found Charlotte.
She looked peaceful, like she was sleeping. Only the pool of blood spoiled the illusion. Patrick, crying, picked up her hand and kissed the small chubby fingers. He crawled into the twin bed next to her and cradled her small body to him. He rocked back and forth, sobbing horrible, gut-wrenching sobs until his throat was so raw it might have been flayed from the inside out. His lungs felt as though they were full of his own tears, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
He cried a long time. When he had cried all the tears he had left in his body, he felt light-headed, dizzy. He looked down at himself and saw his own blood had mingled with Charlotte's. Dimly, it registered that he was in danger of dying from blood loss.
Relief swept over him. He was dying. Thank God. He wouldn't have to face this after all.
He kissed Charlotte's forehead and buried his face in her sweet-smelling hair. He clutched her closer to him and closed his eyes, willing the darkness to overtake him. His last thought as he drifted into unconsciousness was that at least he wouldn't have to live without them.
xxx
The trouble was, he hadn't died after all. He woke up in the hospital the next day with bandages on his arms and his life destroyed.
The doctors told him he was lucky. His neighbors had heard the window shatter and called the police right away. The paramedics had found him curled around Charlotte's body fifteen minutes later. They'd rescued him just in time.
He often thought bitterly that if only they'd been a few minutes later, he would have safely escaped the burden of living with this awful weight on his chest, of forcing breath after tedious breath into his lungs every damn day. When things got really bad, he amused himself with thoughts of petty revenge against those well-intentioned neighbors and heroic paramedics. He never went through with any of them, though. It would have been far too much effort to stir himself to exert the energy required to execute any of his schemes. It was easier to pretend to forgive them. To the untrained eye this might have been mistaken for gratitude. He didn't bother to correct anyone on this point. Instead, he turned his face to the wall and didn't speak to anyone for two months.
It wasn't long after that point that the numbness had set in. At the time, he'd greeted the numbness willingly, accepted it eagerly as a welcome respite from the pain. Now, he couldn't get rid of it. It was like a parasite, relentless in its course of destruction. Unless he could find some way to combat it, it was going to destroy its host for good.
xxx
The air crackled and changed as the orchestra tuned itself, distracting him from his reverie. Finally. It was about to start.
The lights dimmed. The crowd hushed. The conductor came out on stage to enthusiastic applause. He was a good looking dark haired man about Patrick's own age, resplendent in white tie and tails. He bowed to the audience, then to the concert mistress, his formality a little too studiously gracious for the affected show of humility to ring true. Patrick sized him up at a glance and repressed the urge to roll his eyes. Arrogant prick. He amused himself by wondering how many of the female orchestra members had succumbed to the dubious charms of this wolf in formal clothing. Three, he decided after some consideration. One flute, one clarinet, and one violin. He studied the three women in question. The flute and the violin, he could understand, given their home lives growing up, but the clarinet really ought to have known better.
The conductor tapped his baton against his music stand, and with a grand flourish, the concert began.
The first number was an ensemble piece Patrick had heard many times before. Mozart. Undoubtedly a talented musician, but not one of his favorites. The orchestra performed the piece faultlessly, but Patrick fidgeted with impatience. The performance was adequate, nothing more. Nothing worth writing home about. He forced himself to pay attention, morosely aware that this performance had no chance whatsoever of distracting him from the numbness.
When the first piece was over, Patrick clapped politely along with the rest of the audience and tried not to let boredom drive him from his seat.
There was an excited rustling in the audience as the orchestra paused to prepare for the next piece. The soloist was slated to appear for the next piece and would be featured prominently for the remainder of the concert. There was another hush, then a clamoring of even more enthusiastic applause as the soloist walked onstage.
Patrick sat forward in his chair, eager to get a look at this supposed virtuoso despite himself.
She was a petite woman, but she moved with confidence and grace. Raven hair, swept back in an elegant knot at the back of her neck, set off perfect ivory skin dusted lightly with freckles. Luminous green eyes sparkled more brightly than the brilliant emerald green of her floor length gown.
In a word, she was beautiful.
Patrick slumped back in his chair, disappointed. He should have known it was too good to be true. He'd experienced this phenomenon before. All her supposed brilliance was undoubtedly hyperbole inspired by her extraordinary physical beauty, displaced. Reviewers were easily swayed by a pretty face. Audiences, too, for that matter. He watched the conductor take her hand and make a show of pressing a gallant kiss to the back of her knuckles when she crossed the stage to meet him in the center. Apparently, conductors weren't immune either, he thought with disgust.
There went his evening. He'd been seduced by the prospect of a superior musical experience, and all he was going to get was a bland replaying of classical masterpieces that deserved better than a pale pretender to greatness. Even if she came in an extremely attractive package. He watched her raise her instrument and balance it against one perfectly formed collarbone, poised to begin playing. Well, he wasn't like these fools, waiting breathlessly to be impressed. He wouldn't be taken in by a pretty face.
Then she touched bow to string and everything changed.
From her first notes, he was lost. This was music at its best. Heart-breaking. Soaring. Transcendent. It was as though she hadn't merely studied Tchaikovsky, Brahms, and Bach, but had studied with them, had received instruction directly from the composers as to how best to bring their greatest works to life. As though she'd known each of these storied men intimately, had experienced every rise and fall of their emotions in concert with them when they were living. As though she might have held their hands through their moments of darkest despair, smiled and celebrated with them in moments of purest happiness.
Her slender fingers flew up and down the strings like a bird tirelessly flitting up and down a tree branch. Her right arm wielded the bow with the authority of Diana wielding her own. This bow, though, was designed not to hunt and kill, but to create, to evoke.
He stared, amazed at how deeply he'd misjudged her. This woman was not just a pretty face. She knew heartbreak and pain. She knew joy and compassion. Her entire body swayed with the music as if she were possessed by it, or perhaps it by her. Above all, this woman knew passion. She knew what it was to feel.
He wanted to weep when she played Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor. He was dumbstruck as she played Paganini's Caprice No. 24. She executed the complicated piece flawlessly, at times with playful teasing, at others with darkest gravity. He listened raptly as she finished with Bach, the pure clear notes striking echoing chords inside him with every stroke of the bow against string.
He didn't want this moment to end. He felt this with a desperation he hadn't experienced in some time. He was distressed when the conductor announced the final piece, anxious when she stepped offstage. Relieved when she reappeared for an encore. When she finished, the audience broke into thunderous applause, surging to their feet in a single unified wave for a standing ovation.
Patrick did not stand. He did not applaud. He just sat there, transfixed.
She smiled shyly, bowed with the rest of the orchestra, and left the stage once again.
The audience broke into delighted chatter. The lights came back on. People started to get up out of their seats, to gather their coats. They filed out of their rows and up the aisles towards the exits until the theater was virtually empty.
Patrick remained, his eyes still fixed on the stage.
He took a deep breath. One thing was certain.
Teresa Lisbon was definitely all she was cracked up to be.
His heart was racing. He touched his fingertips to his chest wonderingly, sliding them beneath his vest to rest against his breastbone, surprised by the unexpected sensation of his heart beating wildly against his ribcage.
That settled it.
He had to meet her.