A/N: This is what happens when I have severe writers block while trying to write Marchin On! Don't forget to review! By the way, Rosalie is Beckett's character in The Blue Butterfly. I didn't think a name had been released for her yet, so I chose that one! Chapter 1 is 1947, Chapter 2 may or may not come, but if it does, will be present time.
It really is a tragic story, really.
It wasn't preventable, either. Unless, of course, he'd never met her. But he'd rather have those four days with her and endure the pain of loss the rest of his life instead of never having known her at all.
Joe always knew he would have to tell her. He couldn't keep running around pretending to be an enforcer for the mob anymore. He was a PI, and she was still a suspect. A suspect snuggled up against him, sleeping in his bed, unaware that he is awake.
No matter how he tried, he couldn't get Rosalie out of his mind. Her red lips and shoulder-length, curled hair. Green, intelligent eyes unafraid to look into his. Her slender frame and the elegant aura. A charming and confident young woman, perfectly capable of making her way through this world, yet still maintaining some child-like innocence.
He looks down at her, careful not to move her. Tan, weathered skin shines in the moonlight, and messy ringlets of hair are scattered around her face. Her face is completely peaceful and at ease. He hates to ruin that, but she has to know the truth.
And so, with great difficulty, Joe leans down and kisses her on the lips. Soft and gentle, with no need to rush. She moans and burries her face further into his shoulder.
"Rose?" He asks gently.
"Mmm?" She responds groggily.
He says nothing, instead listening to the comforting rumbling of a train passing by. He's always loved the sound, and so, when it came to finding an apartment, he chose one by the railroad tracks. Once the train is gone, he knows he cannot postpone this any longer. He looks down at her yet again, expecting her to be asleep, but instead, she is looking up at him, staring at him intently.
A look of shame passes over his face. She sees this, and sensing his discomfort, props herself up on one elbow to confront him.
"Hey." She smiles, trying to lighten the mood. He sees dread clouding the corners of her eyes.
"Hey." He whispers back. His voice is quieter than hers, less confident. After all, he's the one with something to hide.
"Is everything all right?" She asks tentatively. Joe tries to find the kindest way to break it to her. He lies there, contemplating, and she waits. Always trusting.
"I'm not a gangster." He replies solemnly, bracing himself.
"I know." She repeats calmly, tracing the veins along the inside of his arm. This takes him by surprise, but he quickly accepts it. She seems calm, but he knows she won't be for long. He's never been part of a gang, but he knows what they do to law enforcement. And he knows they do even worse to those who let a spying PI walk away alive. Furthermore, he knows that they do even worse than that to someone who deserts, especially if it's to run away with a known spying PI.
"I'm a private investigator." He feels her freeze. Whatever she expected, this was not it. Before he can offer a further explanation, she has jumped off the bed and is digging in her shoe. He knows what she is looking for, but makes no move to protect himself, but instead sits up and leans against the headboard of the bed.
She pulls out the gun, pointing it at him, her hand trembling.
"You're a PI?" She asks, disbelief and betrayal infiltrating her voice.
"Yes." He whispers. He can't look at her.
"How could you?" Her voice is weak. He says nothing. "Do you know what I have to do to you?" Her voice as increased in volume dramatically, to the point where she is shrieking at him.
"Yes." He admits. This time it's her turn to be surprised. She continues to point the gun at him, not saying anything. For the first time since they started this conversation, he looks at her. Tears are sliding down her face, and he can see the battle raging behind those deep eyes. He has just admitted to being an undercover PI in her gang. It's her duty to execute him.
It's her duty to execute the man that she declared her love to only hours before.
Carefully, she places her finger on the trigger. Her finger tenses, and he waits, expecting the shot, but it never comes. Instead, with shaking hands, she sets the gun down carefully on the nightstand and begins pulling her clothes back on. When she's completely dressed again in her maroon, strapless dress, she reaches for her purse and the gun.
"I can't." She chokes out.
"You have to. They'll kill you if they find out." His voice is calm. He's willing to die for her, the woman he met only days ago.
He is willing to be shot and killed by the woman he declared his love to only hours before.
"I..If they f-find out about w-what?" She chokes out yet again. "N-Nothing happened."
Her words course through him, freezing his blood. Nothing happened. Everything is back to normal. But it never will be, for either of them. He knows this.
"Good bye, Rosalie." He whispers, his voice raw with emotion. She steps once towards the door, but then turns and walks to him, kissing him once on the cheek. He brings one hand to her cheek, his thumb massaging the side of her neck.
"Bye, Joe." She whispers. He watches as she pulls away, turns, and walks to the door. With one last glance over her shoulder, she opens the door and leaves.
That night, he cries. He mourns the loss of their relationship, yet treasures the preservation of their love. A forbidden love. It's a tragedy.
He gives up the case and refunds the money to his client. He leaves New York, never to return. He gives up his job as a PI, instead performing small jobs when he needs the money, but spends the rest of his days drinking into nothingness at some old bar.
He never sees her again.