This fic has 4 already written chapters, so for once in my life, that means quick updates! (I shit you not)

I know the topic itself is a bit OOC, I just thought it would be fun to write. Also, I chose to post the chapters in chronological order, but they're all separate stories.

I. Red Dawn

Jane

On the night after you've solved your first official case with the team, you're studying the Red John files again from what you could see becoming your couch in the bullpen. You're not one to take these things seriously, but that Elivs-shaped stain on the ceiling might be a sign.

Tonight was the first time you were a part of the case-closed pizza ritual Rigsby is so obviously attached to, and you have to admit it was fun. A bit awkward, and you're not surprised that both male agents still see you as some victims' family, but Lisbon ddidn't seem to mind – in fact, she's the one who came to get you when the pizza arrived.

That woman has picked your interest from the moment you met her. Well, not exactly. It's really the lack of pity in her voice when she suggested you "clean up, you're a mess" after only knowing you for a few hours, that intrigued you. Not everyone would have the nerve to talk that way to a broken man, and still sound caring doing so.

It's been a year and a half since you've opened that door and your world crumbled, but these last few days have helped bringing you back to life – a real life, not the psych ward's odd and dull routine.

You're not sure you should jump right in though. You need to get your revenge, of course, and working here i the closest you'll ever get to the case, but fighting crime after the life you've lead, after robbing and conning as many people as you did? That's a change of career so brutal, for the first time in forever you wonder if you'll be able pull it off.

Although you could probably get used to Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon bossing you around – trying to, anyway. And she definitely has more than just a nice name.

You shake your head at that thought and try to focus back on the file open on your knees, when you suddenly hear a loud noise from that barely concealed place you wouldn't call an office.

Lisbon

You wake up completely alert and remembering every detail.

That stupid phone call to Jimmy. His answering drunk, that you assumed was only due to his birthday celebration and not a hereditary bad habit… but as he said, what the hell would you know? You never call unless you have to, right?

You, hanging up, trying not to cry in the office and instead throwing your stapler across the room – anger is easier to express anyway. And no one was going to hear you at this ridiculous hour, no one ever stayed that late in the bullpen.

Until now.

He didn't comment on what he obviously saw or heard, he simply said that you looked tired. When you grumpily replied that at least you didn't have his own hobo vibe, he laughed.

He offered to walk you to your car and once there, you offered to drive him home. But he doesn't have a home, said the heavy silence following your question.

Ironically, you thought you could use a beer. He agreed it couldn't hurt.

You both drank more than that, and with each empty glass came a funny trick of his, a rare honest laughter from you, and that grin on his face that got brighter and brighter as the hours went by.

Then it was getting late and you suggested he sleep at your place. After all, drinking was your idea, and you didn't know what kind of a creepy motel he would end up in in his state. He accepted and followed you out to call a cab, since your keys stayed with the barman – you were drunk, not amnesic.

It's only when he came with you to your room so that you could give him the pillow and blanket he would need, that the atmosphere changed.

He was just standing a little too close to you. Or maybe it was the swaying of his legs that barely supported his weight, and the hand you put on his chest to help steady him – or was it yourself? you weren't really doing much better.

He said something, maybe a joke, about couches and Elvis. You didn't really listen, you were too busy staring at his lips.

You wondered what they tasted like, and it didn't feel as wrong as it should have, seconds later, when you found out. So you let your inebriated self take the lead and crush both your bodies onto the mattress.

The alarm brings you back to reality, and there's no one in the way when your arm reaches out across the bed to turn it off.

You get ready for work and find your car keys on the kitchen counter. No note, nothing.

When you get to the CBI, of course, a request has been made for the Red John case to be affected to another team. Minelli confirms who asked for that favor, and after the tensed first interaction Mr Jane has had with the CBI, knowing the case isn't going anywhere… maybe starting from scratch with a new agent would be a good idea, what do you think?

You shrug and agree, and if he didn't expect such collaboration from you, your boss doesn't show it. You were truly stuck on that one, after all, and now you've managed to make yourself personally involved in it, too.

The old brown couch is taken to another floor that night, and you never see Jane again in person.

For years after that day, you hear tales of how insufferable Agent Miller's consultant is, about his unique interrogation techniques and the many, many lawsuits he somehow always gets rid of with nothing more than a zillionth warning.

You don't want to care, but you can't help the tiny spark of shame and something else you'd rather not identify, that you feel every time people mention him.

Still, there are murders to be solved and federal promotions to accept.

So eventually, you move on.