Apparently, there's something about being back at work that makes me want to screw off during the day and write.
Ah, well. There are worse things, right?
FYI, I wrote a little 500 word thing last week (I think it was last week anyway) and put it up on Tumblr. I'm just starry19 there, too. Also, if you're super bored, you can follow me on Twitter starrynineteen. Sometimes I even tweet things related to The Mentalist, though I have to admit that I ramble a lot.
Existence and Endings
It had been two weeks since The End.
Two weeks that had seen his life change in such a dramatic fashion that he wasn't entirely sure what was going on, and instead, he simply was trying to hold onto something solid.
That something turned out to be Lisbon.
That first night, after it was all over, he had found himself outside of her door without any idea of how he had gotten there.
Concern written all over her face, she had let him inside, noting his cold skin and shaking hands. He hadn't noticed until then, but once she pointed it out, he felt he could hardly stand.
Like she had always done, she stood steady at his side, a little surprised at his abrupt movement, but willing to bear his weight as he leaned heavily against her, forehead pressed to her shoulder. His dimmed senses registered her scent - vanilla and cinnamon and everything good in his life.
Tentatively, her fingers brushed the curls at the nape of his neck.
"It's okay," she murmured, voice soothing. "It's going to be okay."
He wasn't entirely sure of that, which was stupid since he had spent almost a quarter of his life working toward this point. More than anyone else, he should be the one that was convinced of the rightness of what had happened.
No, that wasn't completely it. What had happened was right. Justice had been done. The monster that had ruined his life and so many others was gone, wiped off the face of the earth, exorcised like the demon from hell he truly was.
But then, what about himself? What did he do now? When he had allowed himself to think about the future, after his quest had been completed, there had always been some vague sense of satisfaction, of being content with life.
All he felt now was a touch of bewilderment, like he was adrift in the ocean during a storm. Thunder and lightning raging above him, and crashing waves tossing him in whatever direction they chose.
But the arms around him were safety, a harbor where everything was still and he felt he had a chance of reaching the shore alive.
He turned his face into her neck, lips barely skimming the thrumming pulse he found there. Slowly, he breathed in and out, attention focused on where their bodies were touching.
Lisbon shifted a step, not pulling away, but rather, widening her stance to hold his weight better. His hands rested against her slim sides, fingers gripping the loose fabric of her shirt.
They spent the night that way, tangled up on the couch, his head against her heart, drawing solace from its steady beat.
She dozed for a few hours, but he stared into the darkness with open eyes, simultaneously thinking and not thinking.
In the morning, just as the gray light of dawn was starting to peek in the windows, he was struck with the idea that she was safe now. He didn't have to be afraid of her getting too close, of getting hurt directly because of her association with him.
It was an unexpected burden to be relieved of, and it propelled him forward.
Her lashes opened under his touch, green eyes deep and sleepy and so full of affection that his breath stopped.
Golden rays of sunshine turned each inch of her skin that he exposed a rosy pink, matching the blush of passion he was stirring.
Later, she curled into his chest, her dark hair spilling over both of them. Some long-forgotten modesty had caused him to pull a throw blanket over their entangled forms. It was stupid, really, but it seemed the thing to do.
When she casually remarked that it was time for them to get ready for work, he laughed out loud. Could it be possible that the world was still spinning? That they still had professional obligations, people expecting them to show up in the office and do all of the normal things that they did after a closed case?
Apparently, Lisbon certainly thought so, for she wriggled off of him, snatching the blanket up in the process. A minute later, he heard the rush of the shower.
He laid back against the couch cushions, arms folded behind his head.
Clearly, life was going on. Again.
Once, a decade ago, he had been shocked at the prospect that people dared get out of bed when grief had robbed him of the ability to do a single thing. Didn't they all realize what had happened, what evil had taken place?
He had learned that, indeed, most of the population was ignorant of his suffering, focused instead on their own lives.
It appeared that the same thing was happening now, only there was no sorrow, just a sense of something being profoundly different. He wasn't a superstitious or spiritual man, not by any means, but it seemed strange that the normal people in this world couldn't feel that there was now so much less evil walking among them.
With a mental and physical shrug, he brushed the notion aside and stood. He needed to go back to his hotel room and get some different clothes. The pieces of his suit were tossed negligently on the floor, wrinkled from where they had rested and stained from what had happened before he'd arrived.
He wrinkled his nose at the prospect of putting them back on, but there was no help for it.
Still, that didn't mean he could get himself clean first.
With a faint smile, he padded his way up the stairs, now focused on finding the only pair of arms in the world he wanted.
That had been the first twenty four hours. Day One.
He had spent every night with her since. She knew he wasn't alright, not completely, but being with her made him feel better, like he could get on with his life, and so he held onto her with both hands.
They went out to dinner one night, just at a casual place not far from her apartment. He wore jeans and left his wedding ring on her dresser.
The next morning, he had hesitated as she was in the bathroom getting ready, fingers running absently around the gold circlet. The mirror above the dresser told him he looked utterly torn, so he pulled his eyes away from his image. He could see the reflection of the rumpled bed behind his still form, remembered how her skin felt against his, found it infinitely preferable to the cold metal in his hand.
Abruptly, he put the ring in her small jewelry box and shut the lid.
To his surprise, although he had been startled several times throughout the day when he went to habitually touch the band, it didn't feel wrong, just different.
On the sixth day after The End, there was a funeral service held for the man who had been Red John. He felt compelled to go, not to pay his respects, but to assure himself again that he was really dead.
It was not an open casket affair. He understood the reasons for that, given how the man's life had ended, but it would have made him feel better to see the lifeless face once more, just to be sure.
He drove to Malibu after, alone, emotions tangled again, toying with the empty spot on his ring finger.
The house, like always, was empty. But there were few memories to be found now. He didn't even go up the stairs. It seemed, for the first time in a very long time, like a pointless exercise. He would never forget what he had lost, never, but he no longer needed to be reminded of the horrors that had happened within these walls.
Instead, he sat on the beach, ignoring the sand that was getting in his shoes.
He wasn't sure what he was waiting for - some sense of freedom, perhaps, of absolution. Hell, maybe he expected to hear Angela's voice in his ear, telling him that she knew he had done the best he could and that she was releasing him.
Eventually, he started to realize that nothing of the sort was going to happen, regardless of the thought that it should. There was no such thing as should, after all. There was just what happened and what you did.
Then the question was: what did he want to do?
It felt shameful to admit it, but he wanted to leave. Wanted to drive nonstop back to Sacramento and watch terrible reality shows with Lisbon, her small formed tucked into his side. He wanted to worry about how much she ate and how much coffee she drank and if she slept for more than five hours a night.
His heart was unexpectedly pounding when he got back in the Citroen. Hastily, he tapped out a message to Lisbon.
Be home around ten. Don't worry.
He had gone barely a mile when she replied.
I'll be waiting.
And wasn't that the story of her life? Of their entire relationship?
It was far past the time when she should have to keep putting her life on hold because of him. He was selfish and secretive and controlling, and she was an angel.
In the outskirts of Sacramento, he stopped for a peace offering - two pounds of gourmet coffee, the type that had way too much caffeine and a new travel mug, size extra large.
Realistically, he knew she would never say anything about where he had been, didn't feel like it was her right, but the truth was, he wanted it to be. He wanted her to call him out about these trips, to tell him that it was time to get on with his life.
Yes, she had said all of these things before, but as his friend, as his co-worker. Now he wanted to hear them from his...lover? Girlfriend? The words sounded woefully inadequate in his own head, a paltry way to describe what they had. However, they would have to do. For now.
She had drifted off on the couch, arms wrapped around a pillow, HGTV on quietly in the background. He set the key he had taken without permission on the counter, then, decidedly, attached it to his keychain instead.
He carried her to bed, reveling in the way she instinctively curled into him. Not bothering to undress, he slid under the covers next to her, wondering absently if she would object if he bought 800-thread count sheets.
His lips twitched against her hair, and her warm weight pulled him under.
On Day Ten, they were assigned another case. Though he wouldn't have believed it possible, he rather enjoyed it. Although he had figured the killer out within the first six hours or so, there were a few twists that he had to work out, and the mental exercise made him feel much more like his old self.
That night, they walked in her apartment door discussing the case. The conversation continued as they made dinner, tossed ID badges on tabletops, shrugged out of jackets. It was so domestic that it made him pause.
"Are you okay?" she asked, halfway through slicing a pepper. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek.
Abruptly, he crossed the room and kissed her. "Yes," he said quietly when they had pulled back. "Yes, I'm great."
He meant it.
There was an idea that had started to take form in his mind, and he played with until he was quite certain he had come to the right conclusion.
It had not been The End, despite what he had thought.
It had been The Beginning.
He just hadn't known it.