A/N: So I wrote this a long time ago, for the Five Times Baby Bang over on LiveJournal. It's a crossover with Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, but only features Death from those books. I will move this over to the Crossovers section where it belongs after I've finished posting, but essentially, it's more Mentalist driven anyway.

x tromana

Title: Brushes With Death
Author: tromana
Rating: T
Pairings/Characters: Rigsby, Van Pelt, Cho, Lisbon, Jane, Death
Warnings: Violence, close calls?
Notes: Thank you to Miss Peg for betaing and actively encouraging me to sign up with this piece.
Summary: Five times Death met a member of the CBI's Serious Crimes Unit.

Brushes With Death

Part One - Rigsby

"Mom…" he whined as she opened the door to the car.

"No, Wayne, I promised I'd pick you up, so I have."

Rigsby glanced nervously over his shoulder, where his friends had congregated. No doubt, they were snickering over his mom's purple car and the fact it was probably far too old to be considered safe for the road. But she loved the little vehicle and wasn't going to give up on it anytime soon. Just like she insisted that she wasn't going to give up on his dad, because for some unfathomable reason, he was apparently worth it. Whatever 'it' was.

Unlike many fourteen year olds, Wayne Rigsby did not dote upon his father. That was partially because he had a wise head on young shoulders and partially because he had an exceptionally good judgment of character. Considering the kind of people that his father dragged home (or scum, in Rigsby's eyes), he'd had to be. Otherwise, he would have landed up in the wrong crowds and would probably have already broken the law on several occasions despite the fact he had only just begun to hit puberty.

But his mom, he thought the world of her. However, because of their family set-up, she was just as protective of him as he was of her. That meant she often embarrassed him in front of his friends and just clung onto him that little bit too tightly. Sometimes, he wished that she would learn to let go and leave him to it. He was growing older and she knew he was a good kid and that he hadn't really taken after his father at all. The problem was not that she didn't trust him, but because she didn't trust other people around him. She was so scared that he would drift off of the straight and narrow and end up just like his dad.

"Fine," he agreed reluctantly as he sat beside her.

He wasn't ashamed to be seen with her, but it didn't mean he liked the teasing he got from his friends which came whenever he climbed into her purple car. It was all meant in jest, he knew that. However, it didn't mean the callous words didn't hurt on occasion. He tried to think of it as character building, something to learn from. However, he couldn't help but resent the fact others teased him based on the scant knowledge they had of his upbringing. He hated that so many people had preconceptions of him. Rigsby also silently hoped that, one day, he'd inherit his grandfather's height. At least then, it would give them one less thing to tease him about.

The journey home was quiet. She asked him how training had gone and he'd informed her as thoroughly as he could. His mom liked to pay an interest in his progress; he would never have gotten away with telling her that it had merely gone 'okay'. That just wouldn't have been enough information for her. Rigsby had long since learned that if he didn't talk willingly, then she would remain persistent until she got what she wanted. Besides, he actually liked talking to his mom. He felt safe with her, which was more than could be said for his dad.

"Wayne, honey, can you get the bags out of the trunk for me? I need to go…"

She trailed off and Rigsby nodded. He knew exactly what she meant, but she was too polite to specify. With a grin, he unlocked the trunk and allowed it to swing open. Whistling to himself, he grabbed as many bags as possible from it. Just before she'd picked him up, his mom had quite obviously done the big monthly shop. That was a good thing; he knew they were running low on certain groceries. She always blamed him for that; said that as he was a growing boy, he was now eating her out of house and home. Hollow legs, she called him and it always made him laugh, even if, as far as he was concerned, he was showing no sign of this supposed growth spurt. Instead, he smirked at the thought and went to carry the food inside.

He'd barely made it two steps inside when he heard an almighty scream.

It was one that was all too familiar and it made his blood run cold. His mom was in danger.

Rigsby dropped the bags and without a second thought, went running into the house. There, he saw his mother, lying bruised and battered on the floor. There was a crack to her skull, which she was bleeding profusely from. Over her broken body, Rigsby's father stood, wielding a baseball bat. At that moment, Rigsby saw red and lunged at him.

What happened next was a blur, but the next thing he remembered was being in the back of an ambulance, clutching hold of his mom's hand tightly.

He didn't even realize he had company.

Next to him, was sitting a figure swathed in black and clutching hold of a scythe. There was a slight sparkle in his deep, black eyes and his grin was fixed. This man was skeletal, literally. All there was to him was just bone. He also happened to be the anthropomorphic personification of Death. That meant he had very few qualms about his appearance. It also meant that his job affected him less than it probably should have done so.

Because Death's job was death.

It was his responsibility to encourage reluctant souls onto the other side. He was there when any creature died (except for rats, of course. Most people had a small section of their soul that they didn't like. Death was luckier than most in the sense that he been able to successfully expunge himself of his least favorable characteristic. Besides, the Death of Rats at least seemed fairly happy with his lot. And he acted as a useful messenger from time to time, too.)

Out of all the species Death worked with, he had a particular interest in two: humans and cats. He found he related to cats on some level and almost envied their lifestyle choices. It was half the reason, much to Susan's dismay, that he had chosen to bring more cats than most people deemed entirely necessary to his domain. And as for humans, for some reason, he found them fascinating. It was why he had adopted Ysabell, for one.

But it wasn't just his adoptive family he felt something for. There were, on rare occasions, other humans which intrigued him.

And for some reason, Wayne Rigsby was one of them.

Death watched, almost amused as the young man whispered urgently to his mother. His left leg was twitching repeatedly, probably some kind of nervous reaction to the situation in hand. In fact, his whole body shook a little. He was in shock; that much was obvious. The boy's day had probably started off entirely normally and he was most likely looking forward to spending the afternoon with his mom, but his father had ruined those plans.

His mother's hourglass had forewarned Death that her demise was imminent. Rigsby, however, didn't have that sort of foreknowledge to hand. Instead, Rigsby could never predict when his dad would decide to waltz back into their lives and turn everything upside down once more. The attack on his mom was probably even more surprising. Rigsby hadn't been present when they had bumped into each other on the street a couple of weeks ago and had a blazing argument. It was probably for the best, because the topic of the argument had been him. If he knew that, then Rigsby would most likely have blamed himself for what was due to happen to her as soon as they arrived at the hospital.

Death had seen Rigsby attack his dad, he'd been there to carry out the duty. He had been as punctual as ever, had appeared on the Roundworld five minutes before Rigsby and his mom arrived home. It didn't matter that it would be an hour or so before the woman was actually due to pass away; Death hated to be late. If he was, then it always meant he ended up having to work late and caused problems later in the day. Still, the boy had done an admirable job at trying to protect the woman who had brought him up. He always admired it when people had the strength of character to do such things, even if it meant hurting family as a consequence. This young man obviously had a strong sense of what was right and what was wrong and understood that his father was no good. He had learned quickly, clearly.

It was just a shame that he was a little too late to save his mom.