Disclaimer: I want to own it muchly. If only wishing made it so.
A/N: For Tiva4evaxxx, since she has written the most INCREDIBLE post Strawberries and Cream oneshot, which one line of inspired this. It's called Feeling, btw, and you should read it.
It was time. Teresa Lisbon poked her head round the door of Tommy's bedroom, confirming that the third brother was sleeping as soundly as the first two. She walked down the stairs as softly as she could, paranoid of waking them. In the living room her father was on the couch, unconscious. The room that had been the setting for so many happy family memories had now become one that the children avoided, disliking the smell of beer that had soaked into the furniture, even on the rare occasion that their father wasn't in there, drinking. Nothing had been right since her mother died. It was all his fault.
The last time Teresa had seen her dad sober and not hung over was that day in court. The day that a technicality, some stupid cop's mistake, had robbed them of justice, and the drunk driver who had ruined her life walked free. She shoved on her trainers, already loosely tied, and then kneeled to re-tie them for the first time in months. She was stalling. As her fingers moved deftly through the laces, the skin across her hand moved and stretched, pulling at a deep gash across her hand. The scab tore open a little, beads of scarlet blood rushing to the surface, but the pain focused her and strengthened her resolve. If her mother hadn't been killed, she wouldn't have the wounds of trying to force a broken bottle from the intoxicated hands of her father – nor the healing bruise on her right eye, or the fresh one on her left.
She finished the knot and walked down the hall to the cupboard. Opening it, she stretched up to the shelf at the very top, pulling down a locked box. She pulled a key from her pocket, clicking open the box, and slowly cracked open the lid. The gun rested snugly inside. She'd shot it before, at beer cans, when her father and she had been friends, when he'd been proud of his feisty, tomboyish daughter. But she'd never been scared of it, the way she was tonight. Used to not showing her fear, she picked it up and shoved it inside the waistband of her jeans. She expected it to be uncomfortable, but it fit just right. The house was quiet, and the front door seemed to creak unnaturally loudly as she slipped out into the night.
No one had driven the car in months. They avoided it, pretended it wasn't there, and even tried not to look directly at it. It wasn't the car of course, the car she'd been in when the crash happened, that had only been fit for the scrap yard. But still, automobiles had become deeply distrusted by the Lisbon family. Not to mention that Teresa had stolen the keys from her dad as soon as it was apparent he was going to spend most of his time drunk. She wouldn't let him be like the bastard who'd destroyed everything. Tonight, Teresa needed to finally confront her terror. She slid into the drivers seat, turned the key in the ignition, and slid into reverse. Slowly, gently, she eased out onto the road. She knew where she was going – she'd been planning this since their case was kicked out of court. She knew exactly where to find him.
The drive went smoothly, but she wasn't sure if that was a good thing, as it meant she was soon sitting outside his house. She pulled the gun from her waistband, clicking the safety off. Cradling it in her lap, she sat in the dark car, her rasping breaths the only sound. She tried to force herself to be calm.
After all, she wanted this.
She kissed the golden cross around her neck, and whispered, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death." It seemed appropriate.
Teresa Lisbon stepped out of the car. She walked toward the house, the gun in her hand and her hand by her side. She envisioned ringing the doorbell, he would answer and she would shoot him, one, two, maybe three times just to make sure. She had to do this. She'd never forgive herself otherwise.
A light in a ground floor window caught her eye for the first time, she had been so intently staring at the door. She glanced over, and that was when she saw him.
In court, he had looked up at her, from the dock to the gallery, and she had seen the face of a monster, not a man. But now he lifted his young son up into the air easily, laughing. It made her think of her childhood, her adoring, alive parents.
The boy would hate her.
He would hate her as she hated his father.
Maybe he would come for her.
Maybe she would deserve it.
She would ruin his childhood.
Like her brothers' were ruined.
Like hers was ruined.
But it was worth it. He couldn't get away with it, it was his fault that everything had gone wrong, he deserved to die. The driver, as she thought of him, the killer, smiled with pure happiness at his son, and his son smiled with pure happiness back. He didn't deserve happiness.
But his son did.
She turned and ran back to the car. Hands shaking, she turned it on again and left. She didn't see the driver's head turn at the sound of a car engine, the way that his face briefly fell.
...
"It won't make you feel better, Jane," she said, knowing that she was fighting a losing battle.
"Red John will suffer for what he did," Jane replied, resolute. "He will feel pain, and then he will die."
"And you won't feel any different. You'll still hurt like hell."
Jane smiled at her – not the smile she loved, a twisted smile that shouldn't belong to him.
"How would you know, Lisbon?" he asked, pained and amused and angry all at once, yet with his usual casual tone only slightly strained.
Without waiting for an answer, he slipped out of her office, tired of the same old fight. Lisbon sighed, and thought of that night so many years ago, and how the forbidden fruit of vengeance had tempted her, and how she'd so longed to taste it, but backed away in fear.
"I wouldn't," she whispered to the closed door.
I hope you liked it. Obviously being hit by a drunk driver isn't quite the same as brutally murdered by a sadistic serial killer, but I like the idea of Lisbon having had her own dabble with vengeance.