A/N: So, of COURSE, I must write an homage to Taylor Swift's song, "Red"…because I have inspiration coming out my ears…[and this interlude gives me a moment to come up with the rest of We're painting The Roses Red….] This is kind of a different writing style for me, as I usually appreciate dialogue and detail. This is probably the angsty-ist thing I'll have written to date…
Darling, Burning, Red
Losing him was blue like I'd never known
Missing him was dark grey all alone
Forgetting him was like trying to know somebody you've never met
But loving him was red
Loving him was red…
XOX
When had she become this?
When had she become so reliant on him, on his witty sarcasm, his forgiving flirting, his obscene, morbid sense of humor…his unrequited love…
She knew her answer. It screamed its anger at her for being such a helpless little girl. Sometimes that's what she wished she could be though. Helpless.
Because he seemed to flock to it like a siren call.
He flocked to Kristina Frye, sighting her err in judgment about taunting Red John as publicly as he, as the reason he'd rushed to save her.
And he'd lost her.
He flocked to Erica Flynn, the murderess, who'd killed her husband without disgrace; he'd found her particularly fascinating, like him, manipulative, shameless, and she'd fled, shredding his ego and still, still, he seemed just a little bit in love with her.
He flocked to Lorelei Martins, knowing her allegiance, knowing what he could get from her, and he'd used her as such. Her, he had honestly developed some sort of strong, misguided feelings for. One did not give up ten years of dedication to wipe it all away in one go.
But like the rest, she, too, had been spirited away by unseen forces.
Not her though. Not Teresa Lisbon. She was neither helpless, a killer, a con woman, or any sort that would entrust her soul to be saved by him. She did the saving; it was her job, her livelihood, her crutch.
But it didn't mean she didn't crave it.
Want it so fiercely, so absolute.
She was so in love with a man who was so untouchable.
It was quite funny, actually.
And he would never know. For all his skill, she'd misled him well. She'd be his friend forever, his boss, his confidant. But his lover? Never.
Loyal to a fault, loyal to her own heart and her own feelings, she knew she'd never be able to love someone as much as she loved him. His damaged soul would live with her, haunting her, forever. It angered her, her inability to move past such a toxic man. He burned everything he touched. An all-consuming fire.
She could not escape.
Or rather, she chose to burn.
XOX
Touching him is like realizing all you ever wanted was right there
in front of you
Memorizing him was as easy as knowing all the words to your
old favorite song
Fighting with him is like trying to solve a crossword and realizing
there's no right answer
Regretting him was like wishing you never found out love could be that strong…
XOX
He did not like fighting, contrary to popular belief. Teasing, sarcasm, cruel, biting wit? Certainly. But not this.
And fighting with her? He hated that even more.
The words were meant to cut deep, sink in like Red John's knife only months back.
It was there, and then it was gone. And so was he. So was his revenge.
She took it, and she could not give it back.
He'd been an arrogant child. Angry at her for stealing his favorite toy.
His rage had surfaced, and so had hers, and in fits and spite, everything was laid bare in her living room, where their words slashed and sliced and murdered each other until nothing but two empty shells were left, devoid of life and emotion and soul.
They stared at the other, lifeless eyes and tarnished hearts open, gaping like festering wounds.
Breathless and aching and wrong; like a lung had been taken from each.
Maybe it had? So connected were they, perhaps they needed each other to breathe, to inflate each others lungs with air and life and hope.
And then, in his fury and her mercy, they'd simply stopped inflating. They unwound, unraveling their last strings that bound them.
No longer tied together, they floated away like untethered balloons.
She went one way.
He drifted another.
XOX
Remembering him comes in flashbacks and echoes
Tell myself it's time now, gotta let go
But moving on from him is impossible
When I still see it all in my head…
XOX
It was a long year until the balloons fell heavy back to Earth.
They crashed, the last of their sustaining air gone, weighed down by the strings still loosed around their necks.
Their meeting was false, made possible by what she called coincidence and he called fate.
They were to be nothing more than strangers passing in a crowded airport. That they were nothing, nothing more than the rubber shells of deflated balloons, of people they used to know.
They'd lay claim to letting each other's strings go, freeing them finally, on that night so long back.
But it was truly difficult, breathing, each, with one lung.
And it was magnetic, the pull to take it back. To inflate the balloons they'd been before. To tie the strings in neat little bows and hold on for dear life.
They could no longer live the way they were. Pretending in the dark that they were nothing to the other, that they didn't need each other's help rising, breathing, living.
It was hard to say who moved first.
Was it her.
Was it him.
Perhaps the gravitational pull so long dormant had simply burst forth.
Perhaps it was interference on high.
Regardless, it became a force that, like before, so long ago, drove them together in its extraordinary power.
Their stares were no longer of fury, mercy, rage. Their words were null, forgotten in their haste to reclaim what was lost in the atmosphere, floating along alone.
She was beautiful, raven locks longer than last seen, eyes still sparkling gems that glittered enticingly before him.
He was sorry but brilliant, handsome, free in image and renewed spirit that shown through like a bright north star.
No words left their lips.
Words hurt, tore, thrashed and escaped without thought for their bearing.
No words.
Not one.
Instead there were actions, long hindered by aimless wondering.
The onlookers thought of them as long lost lovers, reunited by time and fate and coincidence, and the interference on high.
The onlookers knew them both. Knew the time had come to return back to Earth, apologize for what was lost, and regain what was still there.
This time the all-consuming fire was neither toxic, nor did it burn.
He was no longer untouchable.
She was no longer to blame.
There was no going back now.
Their violent delights had long consumed their souls.
They were truly ruined, now, for anyone else but the other.
XOX
Loving him was red
Burning red…
XOX
"These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume"
-William Shakespeare