Friends Will Be Friends meme (for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
venturous)
Fandom: The Mentalist
Characters: Red John
Gen, c. 670 words
Happy Anniversary
I created you. I wonder, sometimes, if you properly appreciate that. You were a different man entirely in the old days. Conceited. Arrogant. Oblivious to the feelings of others, except where you could twist them to your own advantage. Truth be told, I made you a better man. Cut away the ruins of the old; built the new in slices of sharp steel, and splashes of joyous red.
You made me too, though. Oh, I began before you; more years before than you'll probably ever appreciate. I made my first forays into my art long before we were destined to meet. But you still made me. You made me stronger, made me sharper. More cunning, more careful. Where once I was opportunistic, I have become so much more of an artist, delighting all the greater in my work. I have to be worthy of you, Patrick; able to stay ahead, able to make our game into all that it deserves to be. I have to choose each victim for the maximum effect, and take care that each stroke is placed just so; just to be sure that you can see the effort that went into it. I value that. Even when I was proud of my work, in the old days, I see now that I was not yet all that I could be. I have you to thank for honing my craft, sharpening my skills and my senses for me, as often as I sharpen my knife.
We've come so close to each other at times, haven't we. My agents have ensnared you more than once; tried to bring you to me. You've tried to come yourself as well; a fox dressed as a sacrificial lamb, plotting my death as you feigned your own defeat. And more than once we've been so close that we could hear each other breathe. I remember standing over you, on one, special night. You bound to that chair, presented to me so unwittingly by a mutual foe. Such a perfect, helpless victim. So often I could have killed you, the way that you long to kill me. I can't help but wonder how that will end. I have no intention of falling victim to any man, no matter how worthy the opponent; and that includes you. I made you. You'll not bring my reign to a close. And yet the day is sure to come when there will be only one way to stop you, and I shall have to end this game for good. I shall be sorry when that day comes. You truly have made me better, although I know just how much you'll despise that simple truth. Oh, you won't show it; you see how well I know you? As you read this, your face won't change its expression in the slightest, least of all if one of your police friends is with you. Lisbon, perhaps, standing close by, and watching you with that proprietary concern of hers. She'll never see how your heart and mind are twisting and burning, how your rage and hatred are threatening to boil you up from the inside. It's all true, though, every bit of it, no matter how much you may wish that it weren't. All of the memories, the bodies you've seen. All those gifts that I've left for you over the years. You were an architect to every one of them; a factor in their choosing, and in the luxury of each drawn out death. A party to each ecstacy of suffering. Remember that, and carry the truth of it close to your heart. We've made each other better, you and I. We are better for having known each other. And although, one day, this game of ours will come to its inevitable end, in the meantime, I should hate to be without you. I am grateful for the fate that has brought you into my life.
So it is that I remain, that eternal, blood-stained hand upon your shoulder,
Respectfully,
Red John
venturous)Fandom: The Mentalist
Characters: Red John
Gen, c. 670 words
I created you. I wonder, sometimes, if you properly appreciate that. You were a different man entirely in the old days. Conceited. Arrogant. Oblivious to the feelings of others, except where you could twist them to your own advantage. Truth be told, I made you a better man. Cut away the ruins of the old; built the new in slices of sharp steel, and splashes of joyous red.
You made me too, though. Oh, I began before you; more years before than you'll probably ever appreciate. I made my first forays into my art long before we were destined to meet. But you still made me. You made me stronger, made me sharper. More cunning, more careful. Where once I was opportunistic, I have become so much more of an artist, delighting all the greater in my work. I have to be worthy of you, Patrick; able to stay ahead, able to make our game into all that it deserves to be. I have to choose each victim for the maximum effect, and take care that each stroke is placed just so; just to be sure that you can see the effort that went into it. I value that. Even when I was proud of my work, in the old days, I see now that I was not yet all that I could be. I have you to thank for honing my craft, sharpening my skills and my senses for me, as often as I sharpen my knife.
We've come so close to each other at times, haven't we. My agents have ensnared you more than once; tried to bring you to me. You've tried to come yourself as well; a fox dressed as a sacrificial lamb, plotting my death as you feigned your own defeat. And more than once we've been so close that we could hear each other breathe. I remember standing over you, on one, special night. You bound to that chair, presented to me so unwittingly by a mutual foe. Such a perfect, helpless victim. So often I could have killed you, the way that you long to kill me. I can't help but wonder how that will end. I have no intention of falling victim to any man, no matter how worthy the opponent; and that includes you. I made you. You'll not bring my reign to a close. And yet the day is sure to come when there will be only one way to stop you, and I shall have to end this game for good. I shall be sorry when that day comes. You truly have made me better, although I know just how much you'll despise that simple truth. Oh, you won't show it; you see how well I know you? As you read this, your face won't change its expression in the slightest, least of all if one of your police friends is with you. Lisbon, perhaps, standing close by, and watching you with that proprietary concern of hers. She'll never see how your heart and mind are twisting and burning, how your rage and hatred are threatening to boil you up from the inside. It's all true, though, every bit of it, no matter how much you may wish that it weren't. All of the memories, the bodies you've seen. All those gifts that I've left for you over the years. You were an architect to every one of them; a factor in their choosing, and in the luxury of each drawn out death. A party to each ecstacy of suffering. Remember that, and carry the truth of it close to your heart. We've made each other better, you and I. We are better for having known each other. And although, one day, this game of ours will come to its inevitable end, in the meantime, I should hate to be without you. I am grateful for the fate that has brought you into my life.
So it is that I remain, that eternal, blood-stained hand upon your shoulder,
Respectfully,
Red John
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