I made an Archive skin using a color pallet based on some prison-based screencaps. The result is a theme that is a little grittier than your average AO3 reskin, which is what I was looking for.
Itâs a re-shade/recolor/remix of the Glowy Dark Mode skin by @ao3commentoftheday , so the code isnât mine. I just tweaked it to make it fit the theme I was going for.
Here are some pictures of what it should look like:
You can find the link to the Google Doc copy-and-paste version HERE or just copy and paste the code down below.
background: url("https://64.media.tumblr.com/3c89981f933f9f57157d6dcec6fd85a7/94c6737c6db9ad60-e5/s1280x1920/f7557e617a5439c506721bd326580a0cb4c1f8d8.png") left center no-repeat;
color: #D4D0C5 !important;
font-weight: bold;
}
.filters .expanded .expander {
background: url("https://64.media.tumblr.com/dab095a2fd9387bc1e0c57747ba6b13f/94c6737c6db9ad60-ad/s1280x1920/c1a4e14e0565cdcac5d3e20bebac3ab440f2d607.png") left center no-repeat;
A tutorial for a workskin that allows you to make text messages that look similar to IOS messages!
I made this tutorial in January but it only recently occurred to me to post it here on tumblr. It basically looks like IOS messages and you can scroll through the messages like youâre scrolling on a phone. It works with LADS emojis as well.
As you can see from the GIF, the emojis are animated, not still images. The skin can also display still images if youâd like.
I hope this skin can be helpful to anyone whoâs writing text fics!
AO3 Skin based on @reignpage jjk fanfic "Crash Landing On That D!ck!" MDNI
A '(Guest)' pfp! I tried to put an image for account without pfp too but it broke my coding lmao
â°â†thank you nan11 they had been helping me throughout the last touch working on this skin, if not then i don't think the skin would be as polished as this(they spend approximately 2 days patiently guide me).
â°â†Disclaimers : This is my first AO3 skin so the coding are unorganized, first time attempted coding too, kinda nervous. I don't take request. pngs & icons are from Pinterest and Tumblr, no AI used on this skin. All fics mentioned does not belong to me, nor the beautiful dividers that i used on this post, credit to @andromeda-graphics for the dividers. I made this skin on mobile, so if other versions(iPad, laptop, etc.) are messed up, i can't help you with thatđ i'm broke. I followed this css in the beginning of my coding.
ă»âż i include all 5 love interests main colors, most are more hidden, except To-Ji his color is green the same as the masterlist aesthetic so he automatically more prominent than others. There's a few easter eggs thrown around in this skin that CLOTD readers might notice.
my ao3 skins masterlist
Tutorial how to activate the skin + the code :
Copy the code i provided in this GitHub, there is a copy button at the top right(âąâąâą) of the code box. And here if you prefer Google doc.
Sign to your AO3 account, after that go to "Dashboard".
On your "Dashboard", tap on a section called "Skins".
On the "Skins" page, tap on the button labelled "Create Site Skin".
Give your site skin a unique title, i usually use 2-4 word for the skins that i saved, for example i named this CLOTD skin "EdenX Pheromones"(don't askđč). IF YOUR SKIN NAME IS NOT UNIQUE, YOU CAN'T SAVE THE SKIN.
Paste the codes you copied from my GitHub into the "CSS" box.
When you're done, scroll to the bottom of the page and click a button labelled "Submit". This will save your site skin and take you to a new page where you can see the title of your skin as well as all of the code.
Click "My Site Skin" and you can see the skin are added, press "Use" to activate it.
Chapters 1 & 2: There is a psychic in the offices of the California Bureau of Investigation. Itâs not Patrick Jane.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived in a little yellow house with her mother, her father, and three little brothers who arrived one by one.
They were not a well-off family, and sometimes the parents argued that the little yellow houseâs mortgage and repairs were more a drain than a respite. But the little girl would stroke the houseâs walls and whisper that she loved it, that it was her home, and the house would stop creaking sadly and stand up a little straighter and its yellow paint would shine a little brighter.Â
The girl could hear a lot of thingsâher crayons would tell her which of her brothers had taken them, and whether they were currently being eaten or broken. Her motherâs sewing machine would bid goodbye and click excitedly to be home from the pawn shop again like a beloved aunt. Her fatherâs beer bottles tried to hide in the back of the fridge and get harder to open the more heâd had, at her request.
She didnât really realize that what she was doing was anything special until after her mother died and her little yellow house turned from a home to a prison.
She learned to be quiet with her requests to avoid her fatherâs heavy hands afterâŠwell, after. To ask the floorboards and stairs not to creak when she and her brothers tiptoed in after school. To ask the washer to cooperate and the iron to not burn her as she cleaned everyoneâs clothes and ironed her and her brothersâ uniforms. To ask those same uniforms to adjust themselves as they were handed down from Stan to Jimmy to Tommy, shrinking or growing as needed. To ask doors to close and muffle when her father was drunkenly raging at just her, but to open wide along with the windows when he tried to catch her little brothers unawares.
She didnât know what exactly it was she was doing. The closest her research could turn up was psychics and their abilities, but even they didnât seem to exactly match what she could do. It also didnât help that, by the time sheâd come around to the idea to reach out to this one or that one to ask, theyâd been exposed as con artists and frauds.
When her father died, everything in the little yellow house breathed a sigh of relief even as the girl and her brothers mourned.
So it was little surprise that the girl fled the little yellow house in Chicago for university, then for California, where she would eventually Special Agent Teresa Lisbon of the CBI.
Contrary to popular belief, a hidden psychic/supernatural/whatever the hell gift is much less helpful for a law enforcement job than one might think.
Lisbon had learned over the years that strange objects did not like talking to or obeying anyone who wasnât their owner. Even in rare cases where she could gain information from a victimâs clothing or personal affects (a watch gifted by a grandfather, a bracelet from a best friend, a jacket from a lover), she couldnât just come out and say what sheâd learnedâsheâd be thrown out of the bureau for making accusations of murder based on what she claimed an object had told her. Evidence still needed gathering, suspects still needed interviewing, cases still needed presenting.Â
(But if doors open for her and close on fleeing criminals, if she never needs to touch her gun to turn the safety off or on, if she can coax her car to go a few extra miles on a nearly empty tank, well. She canât deny itâs convenient.)
And then Patrick Jane comes stumbling into the CBI bullpen and onto crime scenes, and starts strutting as a consultant for her team and turns everything she thought she knew about police work and psychics upside down.
(A part of herâsmall, childish, forever with the taste of soap and copper in her mouthâis disappointed when Jane tells them all he isnât actually psychic, that he actively disdains the practice. Itâs irrational and stupid and yes, childish, and nearly all of her is much gladder heâd told them all the truth from the outset, but.
But, for the briefest moment when they were introduced, when she was told who heâd used to be.
Sheâd thought, âMaybe Iâm not alone.â)
The emeralds are snooty.
She knew Jane had bought something expensiveâeven without whatever it was inside the bag having a muffled argument about worth, nothing bought from a casino is ever cheap.
Still, it does undercut the awe a little to pull the lid off the box and have the stunning earrings and necklace declare her not the highest quality wearer, but at least sheâs pretty. Yes, we can enhance this!
She feels her eyebrow twitch with a mixture of amusement and exasperation that only Jane and his gifts seem capable of bringing out of her.
(Though perhaps that qualifier is a little unfair. The origami frog heâd given her is cute if a little excitable, telling her at every spare moment Iâm a frog! Iâm a frog! Make me jump!)
âYou donât like it?â Jane asks. When she looks up his grin is as broad as ever, but she must be imagining things because he seems a little. Worried?
âNo, no, theyâre. These are lovely.â She glances back down at them ruefully, because they are and they know it. âBut we canât keep this stuff.â
WHY??? shriek the emerald earrings and necklace while Van Peltâs rubies back her disappointed âWe canât?â with wails of protest.
âItâs against regulations.â She argues, trying to ignore the emotional meltdowns from two sets of jewelry.
âNo itâs not,â Janeâs demeanor is back to being charmingly roguish, like the blip sheâd thought sheâd seen was merely a trick of the light. âWhy would it be? I won the money fair and square, and I spent it fair and square. Where do the regulations come into it?â
Lisbon rolls her eyes as she tries to mentally soothe the emeralds with an admittedly half-hearted itâs not you, itâs me. Just like on real life people, this does very little to make it better.
And then the watches come out for Rigsby and Cho, and she honestly feels kind of guilty for the way all of these shiny accessories have gone sad and shaken, all their certainty about their role in life ripped away, so she lets everyone wear them out for dinner, lets Jane tell her that the emeralds make her eyes look beautiful before she finally puts her foot down and returns them. She isnât afraid to admit sheâs proud of Van Pelt for doing the same, but pretends not to notice the gaudy flash on Cho or Rigsbyâs wrists.
The blown glass studs that she finds hidden in her bag two weeks later (forest green with small flecks of silver and gold shot through) are much more personable and practical. And, since she doesnât actually know who or where they came from, she supposes itâs not entirely against regulations to keep them. She resolutely ignores Janeâs triumphant grin the first time she wears them into the office.
And again when he realizes sheâs worn them often enough that theyâve become her favorite pair.
Lisbon feels sheâs perfected the art of hiding the extra awareness she has of the world, mimicking the normal behaviors of everyone around her. Sheâs had to, if she didnât want to be sent to a psychiatric facility or worse.
Of course, given that her consultant is a paranoid, near supernaturally-observant expert in human behavior and tells, her masking skills are undergoing the most rigorous testing sheâs ever experienced.
Heâs already reminded her to check her safety on two separate occasions, when her gun did it for her out of habitâshe canât let anything else slip.
Case in pointâthe widow of a rich sponsor of the Attorney General has had some heirloom jewels stolen. CBI wouldnât normally be called in, except a cleaner whose brotherâs in-laws have gang ties was found dead in the widowâs basement.
Theyâre currently interviewing the widow, who insists on only seeing them in her overly extravagant bedroom with the most annoying dressing table in fucking existence.
WOE it wails gratingly, WOE IS ME, THAT MY BEST POLISHER IS DEAD!! OH, WHO WILL MAKE ME SHIMMER AND SHINE LIKE I SO RICHLY DESERVE?! OOH, WHO WILL CARE FOR ME NOW?!?
Itâs enough to set her teeth on edge.
âSo, Ms. Milverton, what time did you say you noticed your jewels missing again?â She asks, mentally pleading with the table to shut up.
âAs Iâve told you before, Detectiveââ Ms. Milverton starts. And the stupid table, with its stupid gilded edges and inset mirror with stupid floral molding just. Gets. Louder. OH! OH, I SHALL DIE! I SHALL DIE OF WOODWORM AND ROT AND NOBODY CARES!! NOBODY CARES!! I AM THE VICTIM AND NOBODY CARES!!!
âLisbon, you all right?â Janeâs voice snaps her back in the worst way, and she looks up to see both him and Mrs. Milverton staring at her.
âF-fine, fine.â She pinches the bridge of her nose. âMy apologies, Mrs. Milverton, you were saying?â
âWell, Miss Lisbon, I donât know why should I have to repeatââ Mrs. Milverton huffs but Jane interrupts. âWhy wonât you look at the dressing table?â
âWhat?â She asks reflexively. âI-Iâm not.â
âNo, youâre not.â Jane scoots closer to her, holding up a hand to forestall Milvertonâs purpling indignation. âWeâve never been here before, but for some reason, you wonât even glance in the direction of the wall the tableâs set against. Youâre normally attentive, but right now you will not look away from Charlene or your notes, to the point of creepiness. Why is that?â
She rubs her eyes to try to give herself time to think. She has to be careful, needs to be, but the tableâs melodramatics are pushing her over the edge.
âWell maybe Iâm trying not to look because itâs so hideous it hurts to look at.â She snaps.
The dressing table screams.
âHow DARE you?!â Ms. Milverton squawks. âYou IMPERTINENT little CHIT! That dressing table is VINTAGE! It is from THE NINETEENTH CENTURY!! One of CHIPPENDALEâS ORIGINAL PIECES!!!â
Lisbonâs ears are ringing so much from the high-pitched screeching that it takes her a moment to realize.
The dressing table has suddenly gone weirdly quiet.
Jane is staring at it with a look of dawning realization. âCharlene, forgive my curiosity, but who told you the tableâs provenance?â
Ms. Milverton looks caught off guard by the question, before she sniffs. âI had appraisers from the Met and the British Museum brought in. Everyone said it was genuine.â
âAnd their names?â Jane fires back.
Milverton splutters. âWuh-well how should I know?! I pay those pencil-pushers, I donât need to know their life stories!â
Jane grins.
The case ends with him employing a flock of geese, an art history adjunct from Yale, and Cho pretending to be a gang enforcer. Lisbon books Charlene Augusta Milverton for insurance fraud, blackmail, and the murder of Eberado Gonzalo-Fuentes.
And thanks her lucky stars that in all the excitement and bemoaning a goose bite to his shin, Jane seems to have forgotten to ask her about her odd behavior.
Occasionally she does play along when Jane wants to demonstrate an old skill from his fake psychic days. Sheâs by no means his main assistant/victim/demonstratee, that dubious honor is held by Rigsby and Van Pelt who canât seem to help challenging Jane whenever he claims he can do something impossible. But, when she has the time for it, she does try to see them for herself. For one, itâs useful experience that she can take into the field, an understanding of the psychology and tricks a smart criminal could be using to bamboozle law enforcement. For anotherâŠ
âI was thinking of an octagon inside of a rectangle.â She cheerfully replies, and gets to enjoy the rare sight of Jane caught off guard and perplexed before he quips, âLiar.â
She laughs, hands raised in surrender. âAll right, all right, you got me.â
âPretty good, huh? He got me and Rigsby the same way.â Van Pelt volunteers with a grin, inadvertently proving Lisbonâs point to herself. She turns back to Jane. âHowâd you do that?â
âOh thatâs nothing. That's just a calibration key to real mind reading.â He boasts, gesturing to her head. âNow I have access to all your innermost thoughts.â
She rolls her eyes. âYeah, right.â
âNo, Iâm serious!â He protests. She challenges, âOkay, so what am I thinking right now?â
Jane stares at her, blue eyes piercing enough to send a shiver down her spine.
âYou're thinking, âI'm so glad Jane is joking around and he can't actually read my mindâ."
âNo.â And then she says, because apparently her common sense has decided to take the day off, âWell, actually yes, but not for the reasons you think.â
Jane looks delighted by this lapse in judgement. âWhat reasons do I think?â
By some miracle, she does not blurt âI donât know because Iâm more concerned with you working out that I can hear your clothes trying to convince everyone youâre a harmless peacock and that the pen Rigsby leant Van Pelt begins composing sonnets every time she uses itâ, instead snapping, âNever you mind.â
âYouâre blushing.â Rigsby sing-songs as he walks by, the jerk. His flashy watch is snickering.
âYou are blushing.â Jane echoes, pleased fascination clear in his tone, which of course sends more blood to her treacherous cheeks.
Sheâs never been more grateful when Cho comes bearing news of a murder/arson case.
The weeks after Dumar Tannerâs death are rough on all of them.
Lisbon is forced to attend session after session after session of pointless trauma counseling with Dr. Carmen, and sheâs aware that the grating frustration makes her throw herself into her work even harder as a result. Cho and Rigsby have been sent to so many corners of the state to investigate anything even tangentially related to Red John that the soles of Rigsbyâs shoes are wearing thin, while Choâs shirts are beginning to complain about seatbelt-shaped fraying. Van Peltâs been pulling so much overtime chasing down digital ghosts that her computer has began whispering longingly of the chance to shut down.
Which is probably why Lisbonâs interrupted mid-paperwork by a panicked call from Rigsby. âBoss! We need backâ!!â
A gunshot and the line goes dead.
Lisbonâs pretty sure her SUV breaks every speed limit known to man on the way over. Cho and Van Pelt are prepping themselves in the passenger and backseats, strapping on bulletproof vests and checking their pistols. Her mind is racing over the intel she has on this caseâat the AGâs request, she had sent Rigsby and Jane to investigate the death of a criminal witness for a prominent trial. White collar crime, investment fraud, so who the fuck is shooting at her boys?!
When she pulls up and they get past the police perimeter, they find Rigsby crouched behind a car and bleeding from a gash above his left eyebrow.
âRigsby!â Van Pelt almost launches herself at him. âAre youâthey didnât get you, did they?â
âNah, just a graze.â His suit shirt is sighing wearily about another bloodstain removal as he turns to her. âBoss, the fuckers took Jane.â
âWho.â She demands as she straps herself into her vest.
âBounty hunter, boss. Eric Sohdars.â Rigsby says. âWorks for Providence Bail. Jane said that he killed Luke Gray during a failed extortion attemptâheâs point man in forcing Providenceâs clients to pay extra on top of their bonds, give up valuables, but Gray wasnât the kinda guy to take that lying down. Fought back, got killed.â
âAnd Jane announced this in front of Sohdars, didnât he.â Cho is too professional to pinch the bridge of his nose, but dearly looks like he wants to.
âThe entire damn bail companyâs in on it,â Rigsby growls. âSohdars knocked out Jane while the rest drew on me. No oneâs seen hide nor hair of em since.â
Van Pelt turns back from talking quickly with a young cop. âBoss, local law enforcement says theyâre about to breach the building. Weâre in, right?â
âOf course.â She finishes adjusting her vest as it mutters we can do this, protect and serve, weâll rescue our own. âLetâs go make these bastards regret being born.â
Inside the Providence bail offices is all noise, gunfire and yelling that gets cut off as arrests are made. She manages to chase Sohdars the bounty hunter to the back, running him down when he short-shucks his shotgun and tackling him off of a desk to the floor.
âYou have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney,â She rattles off, eager to get through the procedure so she can actually get to the questions she needs answered. âAnything you say can and will be usedââ
ââŠsbonâŠâ
She pauses for a second, mid-cuff.
ââŠLisbonâŠâ
Itâs so soft. A faint, feminine voice thatâs not the leather jacket being mutinously silent.
She locks the cuffs and digs her knee in harder into the sonuvabitchâs back and begins yanking at the jacket, ignoring the protests under her. Not, not in the pockets, itâs too muffled, so the liningâ!
Thereâs a secret pocket with a small opening near the seam she rips wide open, sending small jewelry and brick-a-brack flying.
There, amongst the detritus, sits Janeâs wedding ring.
Lisbon, the ring sighs as she picks it up, gentle and beautiful. I knew youâd come for us. I knew it, Lisbon.
If her heart wasnât breaking to see the ring off Janeâs finger in the first place, it would be now. She turns on the thug below her with a snarl. âIâm gonna give you to the count of three to tell me where Jane is before I start making you wish youâd never been born. One, twoâ!â
Thereâs a loud clattering that has her looking up.
Jane bursts out of a closet, wild-eyed and frantic. His right hand is gripping his left, thereâs a vicious-looking lump on his forehead, and heâs scanning the ground desperately before his head lifts and he sees her.
Itâs hard to balance keeping the still-squirming bounty hunter pinned below her and holding out the ring to Jane, but she manages. âJane. Here.â
He stumbles, fingers slipping over hers as he grabs it, hands trembling as he slides it back on. His eyes are wet when he glances between the ring, her, and the bounty hunter with his torn jacket. His mouth opens soundlessly.
âGo. Tell Rigsby or Van Pelt to call you a paramedic,â She orders. âYou look rough. Iâll be right behind you. Promise.â
Janeâs mouth shuts and he nods, jerkily. She watches him stumble out of the room, leaning against the wall for support, his wedding ring murmuring reassurances only she can hear.
âFuck this.â Eric Sohdars spits. âIâm not going down to some fucking whoreâ!â
She feels no remorse when her boot jams into his ribs.
While sheâs glad that Janeâs feeling himself enough to resume his other psychic playacting and gamesâhiding dollar bills under cups for him to find and guessing nicknames that somehow followed her from high school into the SFPDâsheâs never allowed him to hypnotize her. Swore that she never would, too.
Sheâs seen suspects, both criminal and not, swear with a gun to their heads that theyâll never spill their secrets, spitting defiance at anyone unlucky enough to interrogate them. And then Jane swans in, murmuring low and soft, tapping arms, shoulders, even knees on occasion, and suddenly confessions are falling into his hands like overripe fruit.
And thatâs even before the incident where a hypnotized Rigsby almost hurled Jane off a building.
Is it any wonder that sheâs twitchy as all hell about it? She covers it well enough, she thinks, claiming itâs because sheâs sick of defense attorneys riding her ass over âinduced confessionsâ, but.
But she doesnât want Jane in her head. Doesnât want to know what heâll do with what he finds there.
(Given how heâs reacted to other so-called psychics in the past, she has a pretty good idea.)
Except William McTeer is dead, and even though nothing in the alleyway recognized her, none of the dumpsters or the door or even the poster mentioned seeing her there before, she still canât remember what the fuck she was doing on Tuesday night.
Sheâs been barred from returning to the crime scene as a potential suspect. She canât even interrogate the gun to see if it recognizes her, if sheâd ever touched it before, because that would be seen as evidence tampering on top of the failed polygraph.
She has to remember. Her word and her work are in jeopardy until she remembers, sheâs useless until she remembers.
So when Jane says he wonât after all of his badgering, after following her into her home where all of her possessions are now gossiping amongst themselves about the first man sheâs brought since a one night stand two years ago, sheâs about ready to start screaming and never stop.
And then he starts talking, soft and soothing, about how it would be impossible, how heâd need to make all of her stress go away, how itâs not happening so she can relax, she can let goâŠ
Her mind has never felt so quiet. So safe. So hers.
âHow are you feeling?â Jane asks her, and she says âGood,â because itâs true.
âGood. Youâre gonna remain in this relaxed trance state while we think about Tuesday night. But firstâŠâ Thereâs a beat. An odd pause.
Something in her stirs unhappily, tenses, begins wake to defend herselfâ!
ââŠsometimes you dance to that Spice Girls CD, donât you?â Thereâs amusement in his voice. It makes her smile and relax, a small sleepy âYeah,â escaping as the strains of her favorite songs fill her head.
From there she begins reviewing her day, like a movie, like Jane says. She fills out Form 41s (something holds her back from saying how chatty they are in contrast to their dour contents) sees the new guy in the mailroom and thinks heâs hot (his clothes know it and try to enhance it while he doesnât, itâs a little endearing), skips lunch, (the money in her wallet nags her about not being spent), leaves the office and Van Pelt working late (her computerâs trying to adjust its light levels to be easier on Van Peltâs eyes) andâŠandâŠ!
Itâs blank.
Itâs blank. (Wrong)
Itâs blank. (Unnatural) Thereâs nothing (Monstrous) there. Nothing (Obviously demonic) but an abyss (How could you do this) where her memory (Your mother would be ashamed) should (Open your mouth, Teresa!) beâ!
Warmth and pressure on her forehead and she opens her eyes to see Jane staring at her, brow furrrowed.
Sheâs grateful that he leaves when she asks, gives her the privacy to tug her favorite blanket around herself and listen to it and her sofa whisper reassurance, youâre not a monster, you arenât, we promise, we love you, to try to ignore the siren call of the Jack Daniels bottle hidden in the back of her cupboard for emergencies.
Less grateful when Jane pops back in ten minutes later with coffee, a theory about her being drugged by her psychiatristâs shitty coffee, and a harebrained scheme for her to stage a public breakdown at work to catch him.
She has to apologize to her window for breaking it, and to her glock (itâs insulted that she called its trigger safety stupid), but punching out Roy Carmen makes it all worth it.
Of all the things she can hear, Lisbonâs pretty sure she despises bombs the most.
Knives areâŠcomplicated. Very few are designed for the purpose she sees them used for in an assault or homicide, and if they will speak to her, theyâre usually too traumatized to be coherent. The same goes for any number of improvised weapons sheâs come across over the years.
Guns are less emotive, but more consistent than most murder weapons. They know their only role is to kill, so to them itâs inconsequential whether the thing they kill is an animal or a human being. Theyâll panic if they themselves are threatened with disassembly, but thatâs about it.
Bombs, though? A bomb knows from the moment of its creation that its only role in life is to be destroyed in a quote-on-quote âblaze of gloryâ.
And it wants to take as many people as it can with it when it does.
The one in the Harrington household is insidious.
She wastes twenty seconds after she sends Xander away trying to interrogate the furniture for its location, pleading for them to think of the family they serve, only to be met with haughty silence.
Then she calls Jane.
âIf they called it the Grand Salon, then obviously theyâre insiders.â She can hear his couch shift under his weight and begs her cell to keep the signal strong as she asks, âGood point, leading us where?â
âUh, letâs see, if I was familiar with that room, I would plant a bombâŠâ A few anxious seconds pass as her phone whispers its terror. âTry under the sofaâno, no, no, cupboard by the Dutch forgery.â
She barely registers questioning how he could possibly know that as the forgery lets out a scandalized gasp, he looked at that painting for maybe thirty seconds when he was here lastâ
Found me, the bomb in the cupboard sing-songs as its counter flashes from 01:07 to 01:06. Stay here with me pretty lady. Weâll go out with a bang.
âAh, Jane, the bomb, itâs here, you found it. One minute left,â She reports back.
âGood, itâs time to leave, get out of there,â Thereâs none of his usual humor as he quips rapid-fire. âLisbon, if you think Iâm even gonna engage in this game of which wire to pull, Iâm not, Iâm not interested, I donât wanna play that game, run, get out of there!â
Heâs right, she knows he is, thereâs no way she can get it out safely with so little time so she straightens upâ!
Oh, hello little one. The bomb coos. Lisbonâs blood runs cold as it continues, wonât you come play?
Ashley Harrington is standing by the sofa when she whirls around, staring up at her warily.
âWhereâs Mommy?â The little girl asks, distrust clear in her tone.
âAshley,â It takes everything she has to keep her voice even. âAshely, we have to leave now.â
âNo!â And before she can cross the room, Ashley Harrington darts under the sofa, clinging to one of its feet. It is a genuine challenge to not begin swearing aloud as she dashes across the room, crouching to try and grab the girl from her hiding spot.
âAshley, come out of there,â She coaxes against the childâs shrieking protests, against the sofaâs overprotective rumbles of Go Away, Not Wanted. âSweetie, please listen to me, we have to go, now! Ashley, come out of there now, thatâs an order!!â
That never worked on her brothers. It still doesnât here.
The sofa is trying to shrink its gap so she canât reach Ashley, as if that will protect her from the blast. Ashley is screaming for her mother, little legs kicking desperately against Lisbonâs futile attempts to grab her. She can barely hear Jane yelling for her to take Ashley and get out.
The bomb behind her gleefully counts 15âŠ14âŠ13âŠ12âŠ11âŠ10âŠ9âŠ8âŠ7â!
SHUT UP SHUT UP STOP IT RIGHT NOW!!
It chokes under her glare, red numbers freezing on 00:07 and taking all her concentration to hold them there. It wants to continue. It needs to continue. She isnât sure she can hold itâ!
âScrew it!!â Lisbon snarls, yanking out its wires.
The bomb lets out a garbled shriek that pierces her brain as it dies, its counter falling blank and useless. She doesnât trust it, glaring hard in case it suddenly returns to life.
âLisbon?! Lisbon!!â Janeâs tinny voice over her speakers makes her jump and turn around.
Ashleyâs finally (finally!) crawled out from under the sofa and is staring guiltily at her. âAre. Are you okay? Your nose is bleeding.â
She blinks, sniffs, swipes a knuckle under her nose to find red glistening back at her. She feels very tired all of a sudden.
âYou.â Lisbon tells Ashley seriously. âAre a very bad girl.â
âYouâre a bad girl.â Janeâs tinny voice returns weakly over the line.
As proved by the semi-disastrous collaboration with Boscoâs team on the Westlake kidnapping and the weeks of growing pains after Hightower took the role of Special Agent In Charge, itâs always an adjustment when Lisbonâs team has someone else added to their crime-solving orbit.
Itâs no oneâs fault, not really. She likes to think itâs more a sign of how she and her team work like a well-oiled engine. Probably to a chainsaw, given Janeâs predilections for mayhem and trying to induce heart attacks in Internal Affairs, but well-oiled nonetheless.
With all that said, sheâs still not quite sure what to make of Kristina Frye.
The woman is principled, for a certain yardstick of probably con artist principles, and sticks to them and Lisbon can respect that even when it impedes their first investigation and makes her look guilty as sin.
Sheâs also beautiful, charming, and unflappable no matter what horrors the cases sheâs helped with bring up. It makes sense why Hightower would push Jane towards her, why Jane himself is interested.
Lisbon justâŠstill isnât totally sure how she feels about that.
She wants Jane to be happy, of course she does. Anything he can have in his life that gives him something to live for aside from finding Red John receives a huge green check mark in her books. Itâs why she makes sure that the CBI cupboards are plentifully stocked with a wide array of teas despite the majority preference for coffee, why she haggled with Minelli for a solid week to get the couch in her office and in the bullpen. Sheâs more than prepared to welcome Kristina with open arms on that pretext alone.
Except, sheâs not entirely sure Kristina Frye does make him happy. Van Pelt told her about finding Jane crying in a dark interrogation room after Frye left it. He still hates the notion that Frye could be anything more than a skilled conwoman and needles anyone who says otherwise. And sheâs never seen him so furious as when Frye insisted that she could appeal to Red Johnâs better nature, that she could succeed where Jane failed, that him lying was more to blame for his wife and daughterâs deaths than the serial killer who murdered them.
Or as shaken as when Frye vanished out from the watch of Van Pelt and 40 armed officers.
A large part of her wants to believe that the psychic escaped unharmed, that she ran away under her own steam, that her powers were real and could protect her from Red John, or at least buy her some time for the CBI to find and rescue her. She wants to.
(But, for all her insistence on veracity, on the legitimacy of her profession, the truth that remains is this:
Kristina Frye has only ever recognized Patrick Jane as a fellow psychic.
She hasnât acknowledged Lisbon once.)
So Lisbon throws herself into information gathering and issuing missing person notices to the entire state, plus some border counties in Nevada, Oregon, and Arizona, as though this will somehow make up for failing to thwart Red John again. For Janeâs haunted silences, for Kristina Freyâs disappearance.
And when Rigsby tells her that Napaâs reported an outage in their computer systems which means they canât receive the BOLO, Lisbon thinks nothing of volunteering to drive down there herself to ensure it gets delivered.
