Red Shadow
Author: miss_peg
Artist: king_stitch (on livejournal)
Word Count: 6938
Rating: T (violence)
Summary: The only thing a father wants is for his child to be happy, even if that means making him unhappy first.
Disclaimer: The Mentalist doesn't belong to me, none of these characters are mine, I just play with them in a sandbox in my mind.
Notes: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 4 FINALE. I'm not sure what I think of this story, I like the idea but I'm less sure about the tense/person I've written it in. All the same, it is what it is and I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to king_stitch for the awesome art which inspired this work (link will soon be available in my profile).
Thanks to tromana, Lothlorien Aeterna, Iloveplotbunnies and SteeleSimz for their reviews.
Part Two
Did others know what it was like to watch a child grow up without his father? To be on the outside of his life, waiting for the moment when things would change? John didn't know if he'd ever get the chance to step into the light, to reveal who he was. He wanted to be there, though, for every moment. To sit Patrick on his lap and tell him stories of his childhood, of the wars his father had fought and of the things he'd seen or the women he'd dated; the rite of passage, as a father, to pass down knowledge and understanding through mechanical tasks and basketball.
Patrick couldn't ever know, he knew that deep down. For he was the saviour and John was the devil, two ends of the same pole. His own son was the person born to persecute him. Related by their connection and separated for eternity. They would always be in each other's presence, John promised that much, but that didn't mean they would truly know who the other was.
The pregnancy wasn't kept a secret, he knew from the beginning. When she discovered that she was carrying his child, she went to him. But one thing was clear, he wasn't the father. Biologically, maybe, but not physically. He would never be there on parent's day at school, he wouldn't teach the child to play baseball or to dance badly; he would never give his child a condom in an embarrassing conversation about safe sex. He would always be a stranger to him, as much of a stranger as the man on the television who read the news.
It wasn't an insult; in fact he found it rather flattering. After all, the man who read the news was rather dashing. That was another reason he was to be a stranger, or so she said. John's taste in humans was rather obscene, according to her. She didn't want to expose her child to a man who dared look at other men in the same way he also looked at women. Not her child. It didn't matter that he was also John's, a boy made up of both of their genes, fused together to form the little boy growing inside of her.
In the weeks and months that followed, he thought of him often. Regardless of how little contact he was going to have with his son, John still considered his role important. She'd cut him off, sent him packing and though he did as he was told, he stayed close by. What she didn't realise was how good he was at watching people, a ghost in the background of the lives of those he cared about. It was how he grew up, never speaking, never being spoken to, merely watching those he loved and responding to the odd beating. He loved and hated them, and the situation, in the same breath. The negative influences damaged him in more ways than he cared to imagine.
A world he didn't want to create for his child, a life where he was treated differently because of something that made him an individual. No, his son would have it better than he ever did.
The God fearing, Bible bashing lunatics that brought him into the world must have seen it early on, the gay gene they called it, even as he grew into a man and discovered exactly who he was. They tried to send him away, successfully after several fights and the occasional run away attempt. They hoped, wrongly so, that a Pastor could rid him of the demons fighting with his conscience. What they didn't realise was that the only demons in his life, were the people who gave themselves the title of his parents.
The baby was born on the 30th July, a healthy baby boy, six pounds three ounces, with a full head of dark hair. He lost it within days. Nobody knew that John had been there when he was born. Nobody expected him to be at the hospital, watching, waiting for the moment when his son arrived into the world. It helped that John had a friend working as a cleaner at the hospital; he called in some favours and took a basic job for a couple of weeks. It gave him the proximity he needed to watch his son in the hours after his birth. Nobody suspected the cleaner sweeping the halls when a child came, all eyes on his beautiful bright blue eyes. The essence of perfection and for the first time in John's life, he was proud of everything he'd ever achieved. It was there, in a little crib at the hospital, in that little boy.
Within days his 'father' was carrying him out of the hospital spouting the name Paddy. A typical Irish nickname, one that John loathed with every fibre of his being. His son would never be Paddy.
Nobody cared to ask him what he thought of the name because as far as they were concerned, he didn't exist.
But he did exist. He had always existed and he always would. They just didn't see him, standing on the edge. Either that or they chose not to notice. Who wanted to believe that there was a man watching their son, waiting for the moment when he could join the party?
They took Patrick home on a Wednesday; John remembered it well because it was the day the carnival left town. Patrick's tiny body resting peacefully in his mother's arms. Sleeping; pacified by the tip of her pinky finger and her bulging nipples. The man by her side, the so called father, was none the wiser. John's frustration boiled up like a storm trapped inside the head of a needle, no outlet for the raging danger building quickly.
He took another cleaning job at City Hall, made sure to be there on the day that the baby was registered; Patrick Alexander Jane. Son of Alexander Jane and his wife, Mairead Jane nee Flynn.
Lies. It was all lies and John wanted nothing more than to shout and scream the building down until the forms were changed and his name was submitted as the father.
From that day on he promised that he would seek revenge. His role in that boy's life would not be as a stranger, but a friend. He would know who John was, whether he liked it or not. He would not share him with anyone.
That was where the plans began to form, John's mind worked overtime as he considered his options. He could murder them both in their sleep. But what would become of the boy? He had no experience of looking after a child, let alone an infant. Perhaps he could wait a while. It didn't have to be forever, just a few years until he was old enough to stand up and use the toilet.
x
So he watched him, sitting on the edge of his life, carefully analysing every person that ever crossed his path. When he attended a day school for toddlers, John found himself working again as a cleaner, anything to get access to the boy. His boy.
'Hello there, Patrick.'
He stared up with sparkling blue eyes and a large grin, several teeth haphazardly placed around his mouth. He said hello, something that sounded more like ayo than a word that John recognised.
It didn't matter that Patrick didn't know who he was; it wouldn't be long before he did. John watched him for a few weeks, listened to him learn numbers and how to count on his hands. He watched him sing songs with the other children and listen patiently to stories of dragons and knights. He wondered if Patrick would ever see him as the knight that he was, the person who would save him from the life he was never meant to lead.
On the evening of his third birthday, John watched from the window, darkness cloaking the street as his supposed parents wished him a happy birthday and gave him candles to blow out.
Patrick knew who he was now, so much so that when they put him to bed and turned out his light, John climbed through his bedroom window and hugged him tightly.
'Happy Birthday, Patrick.'
What the little boy didn't know was that his birthday present would be his worst nightmare and by the morning he would be alone in the world, except for him. His father, his real father, he would be there to pick up the pieces and hold him whilst he cried.
The fear of fatherhood was gone, John was poised, ready to take him in his arms when he fell over or soothed his head, when he cried in pain. He would be the only parent Patrick ever needed and one day, he would see that.
For now he would have to withstand the horror that he was about to face.
John kissed his little boy goodnight, tiptoed out of the bedroom and through the van towards the place where Alex and Mairead slept. They were busy talking, Alex apologised for something he had done earlier that day; John hid in the bathroom until Alex left their home. The boy was asleep; he made sure of that before he left him, anything to keep him safe.
Then without so much as a thought, he entered Mairead's room and before she could scream, he pulled a blade across her neck, hacking her up until she lay dying in a pool of her own blood. The side of John's mouth curled at the corners as she took her final breath, a look of recognition and intense fear spread across her frozen features.
'Maybe you shouldn't have taken him from me,' he said, kissing her on the lips, something that he'd wanted to do for years. Despite hating what she had done, John would always love her dearly. After all, she brought their child into existence. He didn't really want to have to kill her; he simply had little choice in the matter.
When he pulled away he noticed Patrick stood in the doorway behind him, his eyes wide and his face ashen. He looked about ready to scream. The knife shook in John's gloved hand and there was little else he could do but beg the child to leave. The only other option was to kill him but he couldn't do that. Not when all of this was for him. John couldn't watch the life dissipate from his little face. A face so full of hope and possibility.
'She's sleeping right now, we're playing a game and she's winning. Do you want to win too?'
He looked worried and yet when John reached out his arms, Patrick rushed into them, desperate to feel the love and comfort that only a parent could bring.
On the outside he knew that what he was about to do seemed perverse, obscene, monstrous and for the most part he wondered if the assumption was realistic. He was about to draw a smiley face with the boy's hand, soaked in his mother's blood. How much more deranged can one person get? He wasn't crazy though, merely clever. Nobody would suspect that he had had anything to do with the crime if a three year old child was found covered in his mother's blood, the only witness to a crime that he was too young to really, truly remember.
