Title: Liar 2/?

Beta: lady_of_scarlet

Summary: Rigsby found him.

Warnings: Non-con

Disclaimer: I do not own them, and I play with them only as a brief respite from my life.

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: .#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. ^.^"

Rigsby found him.

Jane was ghostly pale, faded streaks of red blood coating him, dripping down his wrists, his stomach, between his thighs, falling in thick and nearly dry rivers over his ankles. Lines were etched into his skin, abstract works of art, macabre patterns that left Rigsby chilled in grief, in regret, and in pity. As deaths went, Jane's must have been horrible.

Rigsby checked the corners of the room before edging inside and holstering his gun. He turned on his radio. The sparking sound of static filled the air. "I found Jane," he said, voice cracking before he cleared his throat. "He's dead."

Lisbon was quiet for a moment, and then confirmed where he was before switching to her phone to call it in. She was half way through calling for the CSU when Jane started swaying slowly, his chains creaking like Jacob Marley's.

"Boss—" Rigsby said, interrupting Lisbon. "I—" Jane's eyes opened, looking at him blankly. "Shit. Lisbon, you need to call an ambulance. He's not dead," Rigsby told her.

"He's what?" Lisbon interrupted herself, before snapping, "Get here." Rigsby heard her phone snap shut. "What's his condition?"

"Bad," Rigsby replied. "He's looking at me… okay, he's not looking at me. He's looking at the flashlight. Pretty sure he's in shock. And he's covered in blood, I think. It looks like something diluted it." He sniffed the air before adding, "Probably bleach."

"Shit." Lisbon said. "Is he responding at all?"

Rigsby considered the question. "Not yet?" he answered hesitantly. "I'm going to try to get him down. His hands… they don't look good." They looked bone white at the tips of his fingers and a swollen purple closer to his palms.

"You sure you can move him?"

"Yeah. I think it's mostly exposure and blood loss. He should be safe to move." Rigsby flicked his flashlight off and hooked it onto his belt. The guttering candles provided enough light.

"Exposure? What the hell happened to him, Rigsby?" her voice rose too high, making the radio shriek.

Rigsby paused before he answered, taking in the bite marks on Jane's shoulders, the cuts on his chest, and the blood that coursed down Jane's legs. "I don't think I should speculate," he finally said. "The ambulance is on its way?"

"Yeah, Cho called it in." Lisbon confirmed.

"Good. I'm going to get him down. Signal me when you get close." Rigsby turned the radio to standby.

Jane looked through him. "Hey Jane," Rigsby said, walking around the muddy boot tracks in the centre of the floor. "You okay?" he asked, keeping his voice low and quiet. It echoed softly off the brickwork.

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 know who he was. "Yeah, it's going to be okay," he told Jane. Tremors shook Jane, a faint squeal of metal on metal coming from the chain that held him up.

He reached out carefully to touch Jane's wrists, trying to see if the handcuffs were police issue. Jane flinched away, the cuffs cutting into his wrists, a fresh 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 the rapid beat of Jane's heart through his ribs.

"It's going to be okay," he repeated softly. "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 escape Rigsby's grasp, twisting weakly under the weight of his arm.

The handcuff unlocked and released Jane slowly, the metal tacky with drying blood. Finally it gave, the chain sliding rapidly over the metal pipe, freeing Jane. His arms fell loosely, the sudden change in position provoking a sharp noise of protest from Jane. He slid down Rigsby's chest, still conscious if his weak struggles were any indication.

"Come on Patrick," he muttered awkwardly, stumbling over Jane's first name. Jane looked crumpled and broken and very much not himself. Rigsby unlocked the second cuff and pried it from Jane's wrist.

Jane had never seemed fragile before.

Rigsby lifted Jane carefully, and walked towards the gaping hole in the masonry where the bricks around the rotten door had crumbled into red mud. He carried the blood covered handcuffs with him, held gingerly between his fingers, as far away from Jane as he could manage and still carry both.

In the dim light of the tunnel outside, Rigsby settled to the ground, holding Jane in his lap, dropping the cuffs on the ground beside him. He ignored the blood seeping through his pants. "Everything's going to be okay," Rigsby said, the words losing their meaning and becoming a mantra against the misfortune that already occurred.

The gag looked too tight, thin strips of black leather cutting into the corners of Jane's mouth and drawing his lips back into a pained grimace. Rigsby searched for a fastening at the back, and found what felt a set of brass snaps. He pulled them apart. Jane shivered, but didn't otherwise react. Rigsby pulled gently on the gag, drawing a blank look from Jane. The emptiness of his eyes was disconcerting.

The gag was stuck behind 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 next to the handcuffs, noticing the deep indentations from Jane's teeth. Jane relaxed with the gag gone, his shoulder pressing into Rigsby's chest.

"Fuck, 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 draped it over Jane, ignoring the soft, pained noises Jane made when he had to move his arms. The jacket was huge on him.

Rigsby shifted the Jane so that he rested on Rigsby's chest, holding him mostly upright. Jane was pretty damn limp now, though still conscious through some cruel trick of fate. Rigsby grabbed the radio and opened the channel again. "Boss?"

"Rigsby?" Lisbon's voice was 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 and keep him from sliding onto the floor. "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?"

Jane was watching him talk, his eyes half-lidded. Rigsby ran his free hand through Jane's hair and then regretted it when Jane pulled away from his touch. "Shhhh," he murmured softly, "Help is coming, you're going to be okay."

"What?" Lisbon asked, confused.

"I'm talking to Jane," Rigsby told her, "If you are close to them, can you get a blanket or something?" he asked. "He's way too 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. Jane 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 said, and turned off her radio. A soft droning hum echoed from the handset, and Rigsby flicked it to standby.

Rigsby captured Jane's hands in his own, warming them. Jane watched dully, and Rigsby wondered if Jane could even feel his hands—he'd spent god knows how long hanging from his wrists. Rigsby pinched the back of Jane's hand, drawing a dull look from him. Rigsby frowned.

Jane shifted. "Wayne?"

Rigsby jolted and then looked down. Jane stared at the far wall, avoiding eye contact for the first time Rigsby could remember. "Yeah Jane?" he responded, running his hand over Jane's back in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Jane leaned into him, blinking rapidly for a moment, ragged breath hitching.

"Red John—he—" Jane's teeth chattered. He took a shuddering breath and continued. "He has blue 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 shivered and pressed his face against Rigsby's chest. Rigsby pulled Jane a little closer, trying to share body heat. He thought, briefly, of telling Jane that he didn't have to do this now. "What was the tattoo of?" he said instead.

"It was a snake. Red, white and black." Jane swallowed hard and continued. "He was taller than she said. Probably over six feet rather than under. He had crooked front teeth."

Rigsby waited, but Jane didn't continue. "Anything else you can remember?"

"He said…" Jane muttered. His eyes were unfocused again, staring down the hallway.

Rigsby let it go. He could hear footsteps in the distance. The radio crackled.

"We're approaching your location," Lisbon said. Rigsby lifted his hand off of his gun, and rearranged Jane so his coat covered as much of him as possible. Jane's legs stuck out awkwardly, long, pale, and blatantly naked.

Two flashlights lit the end of the hallway, tracking steady patterns along the brick walls.

"Rigsby?" Lisbon called, her voice echoing in the tunnel. Jane stiffened in his arms and then went limp, faking unconsciousness.

"Yeah, I'm over here," Rigsby said. "You have a blanket?" he asked them, watching Jane. He was still shivering, eyes open in the barest of slits.

"Yes," Cho said, walking forward, holding a thin thermal blanket. It crinkled when he unfolded it. Cho paused, looking at Jane. "Is he…?"

"Yeah," Rigsby replied, not particularly caring what the question was. He slid one arm under Jane's knees and lifted him 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, encasing Jane in the gleaming silver sheet. She looked like she might cry. Or hit someone.

Rigsby adjusted the blanket until Jane was wrapped from his neck to his toes and then sat back down, balancing Jane across his knees. 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, face and voice fighting for neutrality. He sounded angry, under the forced calm. "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 toward 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 muffled sound of Cho and Lisbon talking. Jane's shivering was slowing and his eyes were open again, watching the shadows.

Another flashlight shone from the end of the hall. Rigsby saw the paramedics wheeling the stretcher down the hallway, one carrying a massive first aid kit, the other holding a flashlight. "Finally," he muttered, waving them 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 pressed 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 bleeding in his arms. Jane was pretending to be unconscious again. Rigsby didn't blame him. "He was cuffed to the ceiling and took his full weight on his wrists for a few hours. He was cut up, primarily on the chest and groin, and he lost a lot of blood. There was a gag," Rigsby nodded at the discarded rubber ball, "which was still in place when he was found. 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. He grabbed Jane's shoulders, prepared to lift him onto the white stretcher.

Jane bucked violently, pulling away from his hand. "Whoa Jane," Rigsby said, holding him down. "It's okay, they're here to help you." Jane stared at the ceiling, his cold hands twisting Rigsby's shirt. "Would you mind if I lift him for you?" he asked the paramedics, not looking away from Jane.

"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 lifeline. Rigsby settled him on the stretcher and dropped another blanket over him. He smoothed the wrinkles out of the blanket and stepped back. Jane let go of him reluctantly, fingers losing their grip on his shirt, his arms buried under layers of blankets.

"Mind if we borrow your arm?" the paramedic asked, holding a blood pressure gauge up. Jane pulled his arm up a few inches before wincing and letting it go limp. "Right. Mind if I grab your arm?" the paramedic continued, unfazed.

"No," Jane said.

"I'm going to talk to Lisbon and Cho," Rigsby told Jane. "Will you be okay out here?" he asked. "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. Cho was behind her, equally professional.

"Yeah," Rigsby said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at the black pipe, a thin line of metal shining where the handcuffs had worn off the rust. The scars gleamed in the faltering candle light. "Did you find anything?" he asked quietly.

"No, nothing he didn't want us to find," Lisbon said. "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. Lisbon looked like he had just killed a kitten and Cho looked away. "But he's alive, and the paramedics don't seem too worried," he added in half-hearted attempt at optimism.

"Did Jane…" Cho trailed off before continuing. "Did he see anything?"

"Caucasian male, blue eyes, maybe brown hair, a little over six feet, crooked front teeth and a tattoo of a snake on his back."

Rigsby hated the vagueness of the description. In many respects, it was no better than Rosalind Harker's.

Cho looked at Rigsby, a little surprised, because it was Jane they were talking about.

Rigsby replied with an awkward shrug. "He wore a mask. And Jane wasn't… He'll probably remember more later."

Lisbon sighed. "I'll have it added to the file anyway."

Rigsby nodded. One of the paramedics came to the door and told him that they were ready.

"I told Jane that I would ride to the hospital with him," Rigsby explained, making his way out, leaving Cho and Lisbon behind.

"We'll meet you there," Lisbon replied, looking over the crime scene again. "After the forensic team arrives," she added, as though she needed to explain her absence. Rigsby nodded and left.

Jane was strapped down and asleep, an IV line taped to his upper arm. One of the paramedics held a clear bag over him, allowing it to drain into his veins. Jane looked like death, ghostly pale with purplish mottled skin.

"We gave him a sedative," the paramedic holding the bag said. "He fell asleep right after."

Rigsby nodded, unaccountably relieved. "That's good," he said, and then took the lead.