Chapter Text
Housekeeping first:
I'm dubbing this a season 8 fic. While there isn't any canon for a season that doesn't actually exist, it won't contradict any show canon or head canon from ‘does anyone know who you are?’ (My season 7 “between the lines and after hours” fic).
It will have canon typical violence. Specific triggers (if any) will be noted at the start of a chapter.
This might be considered a “dark fic” especially for this pairing. However, that said, going into this, I'm happy to give you some important assurances. Hand on heart, I won't hurt Baby Lisbon-Jane (I would die for that angel). I don't write r*pe. I don't do major character death(s).
While there might be some small cases woven through the overarching story, I'm not clever or inclined enough to have a new case each chapter, so obviously it will differ from the show layout in that respect.
I write King's English. It's okay, a little 'u' in colour never hurt anyone.
As always, engagement gives me air. I absolute love finding community in the comments.
Also I made a trailer as I continue to be that extra.
Suggest you push play, then pause and let it load before playing if it's not smooth
Xx
kill the man and the myth rises
•Prologue•
Her sweat clings to her skin, a sickly sweetness that warms the back of his throat as he breathes it in.
It’s hard to get enough air in this mask. The hard resin doesn’t shift, pinching his cheeks, making them ache.
Each breath feels too shallow, too tight, but he doesn’t dare remove it.
He needs it.
She needs to see two faces.
Her sobs are heavy now, the kind that hitch in her chest. Snot and tears smear her face, ruining the makeup he had picked for her. Mascara rivulets carving through flushed cheeks, like hiking trails over uneven terrain.
He fucking wishes she’d stop crying. He hasn’t hurt her. He’s been careful, patient even. But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t fucking listen. They never do.
When she begs, her voice grates. It's pathetic and small. Anger stirs inside him, a steady hum building. It feels like his blood is boiling and his skin is blistering. He clenches his fists, jaw tight.
Why can’t they just do what they’re fucking told?
He’s not asking for much
Be what he needs.
She’s babbling about her dog now, her words tumbling over each other. He doesn’t care, but it almost makes him smile behind the pale mask.
That's something she would do – try to make herself more human to him, more real.
She needn't worry.
She's very real to him.
They all are.
He takes a step closer, and her sobbing spikes, louder, more jagged. Her crying face is ugly: features twisted, skin blotchy, eyes swollen and grey.
He wants to tell her to shut the fuck up, but that will only make her cry harder. That will make it worse.
“Ssshhhh.”
He makes the sound as subdued as possible hoping it'll soothe her.
His hand brushes her hair, fingers catching where it’s sticky with blood. He smooths it back, exposing her neck. Her body shudders beneath his touch, trembling. The floral perfume he’d chosen for her is long gone, overwhelmed by the sour tang of sweat and fear.
“Tell me what your name is?”
He whispers it, but he knows she heard him.
Her body goes rigid.
For a moment, he wonders if she’s gone completely blank. Catatonic. The thought amuses him, a flicker of a smile pulling at his lips. Catatonic. He likes words that make him smile.
Does she have words like that too? Words that make her laugh?
“Trisha?”
Her sobs return, louder, harsher.
Jesus Christ. Shut up.
He sighs as he steps back.
He peels off his mask and sets it on the table next to the knife. The long blade gleams under the dim light, its edge slick and waiting.
She squeezes her eyes shut, lashes damp and fanned out. He notices how pretty they are, despite everything.
This one won't do.
•Chapter One•
Everything's Coming Up Roses
“You want to do what?” Teresa laughed, combing her fingers through her damp hair.
“I just think they’ve probably missed us,” Patrick replied, his relaxed body sprawled across the pale yellow quilt, taking up most of the bed.
The bed was smaller than the king-size she was used to, but that was fine. The room – destined to be the guest room once the master was finished – was snug, and a smaller bed gave them enough space to move around without bumping into things.
She glanced at her watch, calculating quickly. “By the time we drive there, it'll be nearly seven.”
“Good.” He slapped his knees, sitting up with an energy that made her smile. “We can have a late dinner. Thai?”
She leaned against the small set of drawers. They each had two, though she'd already commandeered half of his underwear drawer for her PJs and workout gear. Not that he had much to fill his drawers with anyway. His was mostly all closet space.
Eventually, she’d have to move out of her place. Most of the furniture there had come with the rental, so it would stay. As for everything else? That was a problem for later.
“You’ve never been excited to go back to work.”
Her eyes narrowed at him, trying to measure the height and breadth of his smile. But then her focus slipped, caught by his eyes; big, blue, and impossibly soft, fixed on her as though she was the only thing in the room worth noticing.
That look used to feel so…unnerving, too heavy, too intimate for friends. She’d never been oblivious to it but she hadn’t known what to make of it either. It felt so intense, so personal. In the beginning, she’d chalked it up to manipulation. He needed her on side to pull off half the stunts he did. But somewhere along the way – at a damn snail's pace – she realised he didn’t look at anyone else like that.
“I don’t want to go to work, my dear. I want to go to the office. A small but very important difference.”
A small chuckle and a big smile.
Her breath hitched as her gaze dropped to his mouth. She wanted to trace that smile with her tongue and feel the warmth of his body under her. With a slow inhale, she steadied herself. God, she was acting like a nympho.
“Fine.” She pulled on the knot of her robe and shrugged off the fluffy fabric, tossing it onto the bed and leaving her in just a simple bra and panties. “I’ll get dressed.”
She was rummaging through her drawers when his arms snaked around her, tugging her back toward the bed.
The mattress dipped and bounced beneath them and the quilt puffed like a parachute as they landed in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
“We can be a bit late,” he nuzzled into her neck, his breath warm enough to make her shiver.
|||
The building was nearly deserted when they arrived, a brown paper bag of takeout in hand, holding enough food for anyone still lingering on the fifth floor.
Walking through the dimly lit foyer, her fingers laced with Jane's. It felt like an odd mix of surreal and completely natural to be that open as a couple. The quiet synced click of their shoes echoed softly, and in the elevator, she leaned just close enough to catch the faint trace of her perfume on his neck. Every so often, she glanced down, catching the glint of her wedding ring. There was no way she could wear it out in the field, but she could admire it now as much as possible – like the way it seemed to bend the light or the way it fit perfectly on her finger.
The break room buzzed faintly with life; Cho, Tork, Wylie, and a couple of other agents loitered there, surrounded by the warm aroma of pizza and the clinking of beer bottles. It was like an X marking the spot on a casual treasure map.
“It’s Jane and…,” Wylie began, his cheeks noticeably flushed, likely from his share of the pale ales scattered across the counter. He hesitated, glancing at her before blurting, “Agent Jane?”
Her face scrunched instinctively. That wasn’t… that didn't… feel right. She glanced at Jane, finding the same recoil mirrored in his expression.
“Lisbon will be fine at work.”
They hadn’t exactly discussed it, but the gentle squeeze of his hand told her Patrick respected her choice. The rest would be a conversation when they were alone.
“Alright then, Agent Lisbon, case-closed beer and pizza?” Wylie offered her a bottle, the lopsided grin on his face making her smile.
She shook her head, politely declining both. “We didn’t close any cases this week. It’s all yours.”
“Jane did. Without his idea, we wouldn’t have caught the guy,” Tork chimed in, a half-eaten slice of pizza dangling from his hand.
Jane’s grip on her hand tightened as his eyes widened in mild panic.
“Dude!” Wylie hissed, glaring at Tork with more ferocity than she thought him capable of. “We had one rule: don’t tell Lisbon.”
His attempt at a hushed voice failed spectacularly; she heard every word loud and clear.
She turned to Jane, noting the faint throb at his temple. “You were working this week?” she asked, doing her best to look annoyed.
Inside, though, she was laughing. Maybe she should have been angry, but how could she be? He’d been attentive to her every need, and the idea of Patrick Jane – devout work shirker – quietly pitching in while on vacation amused her more than it should have.
“They were desperate,” he said, rambling now, a bead of sweat forming along his hairline. “I just gave a few ideas. Threw them out there like they were nothing. Barely even had to think about it.”
Poor guy. He looked like he might combust.
Before she could overthink it, she leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I don’t care, Jane. I’m glad you were able to help. Eat pizza, drink beer, it seems you earned it.”
His smile bloomed, open and guileless, the tension in his jaw melting away.
“Lisbon, can we talk?” Cho’s voice cut through the room from the corner he’d been lingering in.
“Sure,” she replied with an easy shrug.
He tossed the crust of his slice into the trash as she carefully disentangled her hand from Patrick’s and followed Cho out of the room.
|||
The air in Cho's office felt a little cooler than the rest of the floor, verging on the temperature of a beer chiller in a liquor store. She swore even in Alaska, he'd have the thermostat set down.
“Still married?” Cho asked, his voice as steady and flat as ever, but there was a subtle – blink and you'll miss it – glint in his eye that hinted at amusement, like a tiny crack in that practiced stoicism.
“Still married. Didn’t murder him on the honeymoon” she replied, shoulders lifting in an easy, playful shrug.
Cho leaned against the edge of his desk, and for a moment, she saw the years etched into him, his face carrying lines she hadn't noticed before. They'd both grown since their first meeting, and she couldn't be prouder of the Agent he'd become.
“Your suspension ends Monday,” he said, the words crisp but layered with something heavier. Uncertainty, maybe? It was rare for Cho to look uncomfortable, but today it hung in the way his hands flexed into balls.
“I’m supposed to reprimand you.”
Her instincts to shelter him kicked in. She softened her stance, her hands falling open and loose at her sides. She held his stare, steady but understanding. She wouldn't make it any harder on him than he would make it on himself.
“I understand.” And, she did.
Once, she might’ve been in his position, doling out consequences that hadn't been her call. This wasn’t new territory.
“I’m not going to.”
“Cho, it’s fine, I–”
He raised a hand, silencing her with a tired sigh. His shoulders dipped just enough to show his weariness.
“I saw the tape, Lisbon. You did what you needed to. The guy’s a snake.”
Her weight shifted unconsciously from one foot to the other. It was reassuring to know she wasn't the only one to see it.
“Dodgy, right?” she offered, her voice lighter than she felt.
“No doubt about it. We’ll keep an eye on him from a distance, but for now, we need you out of it.”
She nodded, a sense of inevitability settling in. Any involvement from her would look personal, and the team couldn't afford that kind of scrutiny.
Cho shifted again, arms crossing over his chest.
“He says he wants a personal apology.”
Acid churned in her stomach and her skin prickled at having to give him the satisfaction. A guy like that would get off on it, she was sure.
“I can deny the request, maybe…” Cho’s words trailed off, his hesitance clear.
She shook her head sharply, pushing the unease away. She had stared down men no less disgusting than the Professor. “No. Bring him in. I’ll apologise. It’ll give Jane a chance to get a read on him.”
Cho’s nod was subtle. “I’ll set it up.”
His posture adjusted again, shoulders tightening as his hands disappeared into his pockets. “Speaking of Jane, do you think you can get him here on Monday?”
She shrugged, feeling the request settle on her shoulders like an iron bar. She didn’t doubt she could get Jane to show up if she asked, but the real question was whether she should.
“Why’s that?”
Cho hesitated, his sights sliding toward the bullpen. The empty desks and dim lighting gave the space an eerie stillness. His brow furrowed; clearly something was bothering him.
“We’ve got something from Dallas. They want Jane on it. Specifically asked for him.”
“And by ‘asked,’ you mean they’ll enforce Abbott’s five years of servitude if he says no?”
He didn’t answer, but the crease in his brow deepened, answering for him.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, her voice lowering with resignation. The thought of Jane in a detention cell again made her chest tighten.
“Thanks, Lisbon.” His gratitude was genuine, and she could only hope it wasn’t misplaced.
Convincing Jane was one thing. Convincing him he wasn’t being forced? That was an entirely different beast.
“Hey, do you remember a Christian Caine from CBI?” Cho asked, moving around to his desk.
She frowned, racking her memory. “Name doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”
Cho’s confusion mirrored her own. “He’s an agent Dallas is sending. Apparently, he used to work at CBI.”
She shook her head. “There were a lot of people coming and going back then.”
It felt like a weak excuse, but it wasn’t entirely untrue. The truth ran deeper, though. Their little team of five had always been outliers, operating on the edges of convention. Following Jane’s more unorthodox methods had a way of isolating them, making collaboration with outsiders feel more like a hindrance than a help. In fairness, their record of cases closed had justified it – most of the time.
“Speaking of new people,” she started, a smirk turning her lips, “do I have a desk neighbour yet?”
Cho shuffled papers, his sigh heavy. “What have you heard?”
“You’re eating through them,” she teased, her laughter light enough to draw a reluctant smile from him.
“Well, there’s another one.”
“Just give them a chance. Like Rigsby,” she said, her chuckle earning a muted snort from Cho.
“Tell me that after you meet her.”
As she reached the door, her gaze caught Cho’s new nameplate, black print on polished chrome.
“Hey, Cho?” she called, turning back.
He glanced up.
“This office looks good on you.”
For a moment, his expression softened, a quiet, utterly Cho-like ‘thank-you’.
|||
“Oh, hey, you should meet…” Wylie looked around, turning in a small circle by his desk where Patrick had led him. “Where'd she go?”
Wylie’s expression narrowed as he searched the dimmer areas of the bullpen, as though he expected this mystery person to climb out of the edged.
“Who?” Jane asked, finding himself looking right alongside the younger agent.
“Hart… she was right here?” Seemingly satisfied there was no one stalking the shadows, Wylie shrugged. “Nevermind, you'll meet her tomorrow, or like whenever you're back. She's…” he paused, too long to be for effect, “...interesting.”
Jane smiled, enough to be polite at least. If Wylie was using the word ‘interesting’ he was almost afraid to find out what that meant.
That, however, was the least of Patrick’s concerns.
“Did you find anything further about the dress?”
“Ehhhh.” The sound didn't inspire confidence, but at least it wasn't a flat out no.
“The dress is registered to you, but I can't see when.” He started speaking as he folded himself into his chair and started typing. The words on the screen made little impact on Patrick. The cliffnotes would do in this situation. “But, they only hold the information of the current owner online. So it could have been put in your name as recently as a week ago.”
He ran fingers through his hair, the slight drag of nails on his scalp keeping his mind focused.
“The store itself might have records but because this is off the books, there isn't much more I can do without asking them nicely or getting a warrant.” Wylie seemed genuinely frustrated. Good kid.
“Right. Good.” It was neither of those. “Thanks, Wylie.”
He blinked up like two pale headlights. “Are we still not telling Lisbon?” he whispered.
Patrick sighed. “No, I need to tell her.”
|||
“So, let me just try to understand this…” Teresa leaned forward slightly, the leather couch creaking under her as she straightened her posture. The bullpen was quiet, lit only by a few scattered desk lamps and the mellow glow of Austin’s city lights spilling through the windows. Her tone carried an edge of disbelief. “You think someone bought a dress four years ago for some insane amount of money, held onto it all this time, then registered it in your name and sent it to our villa in Fiji?”
Patrick couldn't appreciate how close she was sitting, her shoulder brushing his. Nor did he let himself get lost in the delicate swirl of her perfume in the still air. His mind was too preoccupied, the gears turning relentlessly, piecing together scenarios that refused to make sense.
“Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” he replied, his finger tapping against his lips as though that might jostle an answer loose.
Teresa raised an eyebrow, her chopsticks hovering mid-air, a piece of chicken dangling precariously as she pointed them at him. “Why?”
He hesitated before finally admitting the truth, “I don’t know.” There was frustration leaking into his tone. He had nothing.
“It’s not exactly the stuff a supervillain would do, though, is it?” He did appreciate the humor lacing her scepticism at least.
Patrick’s attention drifted into the middle distance. His thoughts churned uselessly until a tender touch brought him back, Teresa’s fingers carding gently through his hair.
“Who do we even know that has that kind of money?” she pondered out loud.
Patrick let the question settle, turning it over in his mind like a coin. Then, as if a bolt of lightning, the answer struck, clear and undeniable.
He turned to her at the exact moment she turned to him and their eyes locked.
“Walter!”
They said his name in unison, though Teresa’s version sounded more question than statement.
•••