A/N: This was started well before all the plot twists in the latter half of season 5. So there are references to the earlier episodes of that season, but it is relatively AU and may not fit well with what we know now. This is an exploration of characters; I hope this doesn't actually happen on the show. Also, I live in Australia – season 6 hasn't aired yet, so if something doesn't fit, I'm sorry. Just take the story as it is.
moonless
There's a barn, and a shotgun involved.
She shouldn't have, really.
(You should have waited. We agreed on that.
…He would have led you straight to Red John.)
But then it changes. (Because it's her, and she's caught – like deer-in-the-headlights caught – with bright red and blue flashing lights splattered across her face). And impulse takes over.
He doesn't feel the weight of the cool metal, doesn't register the look on her expressive face. It's a blank and he doesn't think.
(I'll do whatever it takes. I will have you framed for murder. I will torture you, I will kill you myself if I have to.)
Bang.
/what did you do? drop it. move move now go go go. don't think about her now. red john red john red john. he's dead dead dead dead/
She's shaken, understandably, and she realises the sacrifice he's made. She can't help but think of earlier words in a heated argument.
/do you feel guilty? i think you'd choose life. her life?/
And he stands by the orange tree, watching a reunion he will never have, with the air bright but heavy, and it infuses in him a sense of what could have been.
(Can't you see there's people who care about you?)
She keeps the hydrangeas.
There's a few petals sandwiched between her manual of Leadership and Management 101. In the chapter titled 'Working With Consultants'.
She has nightmares every other night, but no one knows because they're hidden behind copious amounts of coffee in the morning.
But sometimes, even coffee can't hide his body or Red John's, and he's lying there in an endless puddle of blood, and it's too red (stark against his shirt, but dull against his vest), and her shoe is sticky so she can't lift it off the ground, so she can't move, and the copper tang is everywhere, and she can feel the bile rising, and she can't breathe…
And there's another one, except this time he's standing over Red John's body with a dripping knife in his hand and a stunned, but accomplished gleam in his eye.
So she wakes at three in the morning, wanting to grab her phone next to her and dial as reassurance. Except she doesn't because she's the goddamn team leader, and it's only a nightmare, and she's in control.
It won't turn out that way.
The next time she kicks his couch, he realises that he shouldn't take these light-hearted moments between them for granted. Because he very well doesn't deserve friendship, especially hers, and especially considering what his only life goal is.
But even the rest of her team has wormed their way in. Van Pelt with her flaming red hair and sweet naïvety; Rigsby with his insatiable appetite and easy nature; and Cho with his stoic, rogue bravado.
He finds he cares.
She knows he's lurking around in the god-forsaken attic, probably staring out the dusty windows or scribbling in that journal or piloting that remote-controlled helicopter.
She hopes her mind is playing tricks on her (just like he does sometimes) when she sees the pot of tea in front of the slumped figure; the suspiciously dull green leaves conjuring memories of their just-closed case. She thinks she knows why and panic bubbles frantically in her.
/what are you going to do? how do you save him?/
She stays. But instead of confronting him when he wakes, she leaves him with a pot of his regular tea, a blueberry muffin and a note.
If you ever want to talk.
The whole team absolutely loathes the cases with children involved.
Twelve hours isn't enough to save little Zoë Engles. But it is enough to remind the team that they deal with sick bastards every single day and that they can't win everything.
Later, as she snaps the cuffs on Daniel Worthington, she bitterly admits to herself that, at the very least, she's put another one away for good. Ensconced in her office, safe behind her desk (it's like a wall), her hand unconsciously gravitates towards the bottom desk drawer, towards the tequila she keeps there. (She won't drink herself to oblivion – she knows better – but she wants to know, to feel that there are good people out there).
Only to find it empty save for a single note.
If you ever want to talk.
The metal cuffs clang heavily against the old and scratched wooden bench separating the two of them. She can see too many swear words and obscenities crudely carved in with fingernails and she thinks that these words are an exact reflection of how she feels right now.
He glances over at her and he can see the shadows on her face that mimic the ones on his own. Her green eyes are not yet lifeless and dull (and he is thankful) – there is still a spark of fire and anger and spirit in them.
She whispers and he almost misses it.
"Do you regret it?"
/it? what do you mean, it? which one?/
She hopes with every fibre of her being that the answer is yes to one, and no to the other.
And not the other way around.
There was this one case that wasn't too hard and wasn't too gruesome, and she finds herself laughing in the car on the way back with him, the animal shadows dancing on the roof of the SUV illuminated by the clear star-filled sky.
He's making up a story to go with the animals he's created, and she has a sobering moment in which she wonders (no, she is almost certain) whether he was like this with Charlotte. It saddens her and weighs heavily, but she can't dismiss the absolute joy that is on his face, and she lightens up considerably after that.
(The thought of darker moments is tucked away in a neat little box at the back of her mind).
But she also can't dismiss the idea that this is possibly just a façade for her benefit.
He sometimes plays games of 'what if…?'.
What if she hadn't been the one to take over the Red John case?
What if Rigsby didn't eat for a day?
What if he had refused to listen to Erica Flynn?
What if he replaced the coffee pot in the break room with tea?
What if she had answered on the first ring on the ranch up in the mountains with Hightower?
What if Cho read all the books in the world?
What if, for one day, he listened to her, and behaved himself?
What if Van Pelt found someone that wasn't out to kill him, but wasn't Rigsby either?
What if he wasn't raised in a travelling carnival?
What if Lorelei had cut off his fingers?
What if his father had a higher moral standing?
What if he hadn't said what he had said right before he shot her?
What if Kristina Frye had never reached out, and never went on that show?
What if he hadn't had such a desire to boost his ego, and never went on that show?
What if Red John had never existed?
(Sometimes, the questions just lead him around and around and around until he can't think.
And sometimes, he wishes the answers were true).
It's Van Pelt who fields the call that marks the beginning of the end.
The long chain of events that follow (it lasts for months) starts with the somewhat dubious emergence of Carter Peak's body, to be followed by too many conspiracy theories and moles and corrupt law enforcement officers, and finishes with a decision.
And she's scared because he is manic and has that crazy gleam in his eye and she somehow knows (but at the same time doesn't want to) the myriad of thoughts flying around in his head.
/he's made a mistake. he's made a mistake. this is it. he's made a mistake/
For eight long months, the Serious Crimes Unit chases down every possible lead between their usual cases. Between too many take-out meals and pots of coffee. Between one day of work and another.
And it is supposed to culminate in one address (she is thankful it is not a warehouse), her team (plus him), and two SWAT teams at five in the morning, on a June morning.
She also plays games of 'what if…?'.
What if she wasn't a senior agent in a state law enforcement agency, and he wasn't an unruly consultant?
What if they were just another man and woman who just met in line at a coffee shop?
(But she isn't sure she wants her life to be this easy).
It's nine o'clock on the night before when her doorbell rings, and without having to check, she knows who it is. She can't honestly say that she would prefer him to stay at that extended-stay motel, tonight of all nights.
The extent of the haunted face in front of her unsettles her (she thinks she should be used to this by now) and she wordlessly pulls him by the hand into her apartment, gesturing him to the couch and moving to offer him a cup of tea from the pot on the table (she was drinking it herself).
The past eight months have shifted the dynamic between them. She is as honest as she ever was with him, but he has started to share theories and ideas, albeit in the privacy of the old attic.
(She hopes this is a big step forward).
/no, you know/
So, she doesn't feel uncomfortable anymore in grasping his hand in hers and tugging him along. She doesn't feel uncomfortable when, after long days, she lays her head on his shoulder. She doesn't feel uncomfortable when he sometimes starts lightly stroking her arm, almost a hypnotic gesture to reassure.
But now, he doesn't move. And from the light streaming into her apartment (the light from the streetlight, because she can't see the moon anywhere tonight), she sees the indecision and fear and guilt and shame and pent-up frustration and desire flickering rapidly across his face. She is three steps too far away, and in decisive strides, he bridges the distance between them.
(A distance much more than three physical steps).
"I'm sorry."
/for what? which one?/
She huffs in annoyance and derision at the man in the bright orange suit in front of her.
(The suit is unnervingly different to his usual.
She imagines it in her nightmares now, what dark red blood would look like against orange).
He looks at her with sad, sad jade green eyes. She wills herself not to break now, because she shouldn't, she can't.
Because he chose them, not her, and she's known this all along, and she was desperately clinging on to the (unreasonable?) hope that she could fix him completely.
/saint teresa, indeed/
It starts out like it always does between them; a battle for dominance and control.
Lips meet and tongues clash and his elegant fingers start reaching for the buttons on her blouse, nimble fingers dancing lightly across the skin of her abdomen. Slight pants and heady moans fill the too-quiet apartment, and she can taste the pent-up frustration from the past eight months (decade?) mingled on his lips. He roughly grabs and spins her, the wall being the most convenient flat surface and they can both feel the anticipation that has lingered between them for far too long. Looping her arms around his neck and pulling him closer, she desperately seeks out his mouth again, all rules (self-imposed or otherwise) forgotten, and she breathes and grabs his hand to lead him upstairs.
The trail of clothes is the only visible evidence that anything happened.
She wakes and it is immediately apparent that he has not been in bed for the last three hours. Nor can she hear (sense?) him in her apartment at all. Glancing at the glowing digits on her clock, she learns that it is just past two in the morning.
Her mind races through all the possibilities. He could be at the office on the worn brown couch, or in the attic, or at the cemetery. Not Malibu, because that is too far and he would miss the five o'clock showdown.
Showdown.
Dread seeps through her veins. She refuses to believe it.
/he has changed, hasn't he?/
Bolting upright out of bed, she scrambles to get her clothes (strewn everywhere) and presses the speed-dial for Cho. Because deep in her subconscious, she knows exactly where he is, what he's done, and she is potentially too late to fix it (him) this time.
He leaves.
The air is warm outside, and he can feel this moment beckoning to him.
(He knows the moment has been beckoning to him for the past decade).
Quietly pulling on his immaculate three-piece suit, he glances sorrowfully at the woman he's just left behind, knowing that it is because of another woman (women) that he is doing this.
/i'm so sorry. so so sorry./
/are you?/
The decade-long mantra and obsession pushes him forward to his final goal, to forget comfortable couches and long stakeouts and origami frogs and take-out meals and that blue teacup and his friends on the team, and to forget her.
The silence between them is tangible; its state suspended somewhere between uncomfortable and icy hostility.
Like so many of their early interactions.
He breaks first, as she knew he would, a slight tilt of the head giving away his unspoken question.
What would you like me to say?
And tumultuous thoughts flood her mind.
/i should have listened. i'm sorry. i tried warning you. i'm sorry. angela. charlotte. i meant it. i'm sorry. i'm your friend. i had to. i didn't regret that night/
And she, in return, lifts her gaze from the cold table to meet his eyes. Unflinching, she stares back, her head held high, not an ounce of humiliation and betrayal is perceivable. She acknowledges his unspoken question and knows that he (and it has only ever been him) has read her unreadable face, this intimate mode of communication only inflicting more pain on her behalf.
After too many long minutes, she gives.
It's okay, she reflects back at him, I understand.
/no, it's really not/
You did it and I have to start accepting that.
But she does feel that her strict moral codes have come slightly undone after working with him for so many years. She has developed her own obsessional streak, smirked slightly at his occasional cheap and low stunts (the harmless ones, of course), and defended him one too many times.
And then the rational side of her argues back. It's not just a professional betrayal; it's a personal one too.
Since working out their final plan, she has always suspected that her partner knew more than he was letting on – that he knew that her team had been a step behind from the beginning.
(Making that two steps behind in total).
But her conviction in him, and the almost-naïve trust she has, pushed those dark thoughts away.
Only for those thoughts to resurface when her team pulls up at the small decrepit house, having located him through tracking his cell. She has called for backup, but she knows that they'll be too late. She has her team, and she now realises with astounding clarity, that she's always had her team.
And the wind whistles through the old house as she and Cho clear the front rooms, the kitchen, and start to ascend the dark mouldy staircase. Every creak is audible and her heart is hammering far too loud and fast. And painfully, if he were right beside her now, he would have said something completely inappropriate just to calm her down.
There is a small corridor, and instinct tells her that it must be the room on the end. The too dark hallway with a sliver of light through the crack underneath the door draws her in, almost like a trance.
And she dreads opening that door.
He sighs deeply.
This is the first time she's come to visit. (Although, technicality would insist it was the second – but not much communication occurs with one person unconscious).
The silent exchange is exhausting. He sees her expression soften, and he breaks on the inside. He knows he did this to her, but he also knows that he has enough conviction left in him to prevent her from seeing his guilt and shame.
He is so so tired.
And he sits across from her, and he can see the same tiredness. She too, has been through this for too long as well.
It is ending.
She is not a cold-hearted bitch. Despite his betrayals and secrets and upsets and grievances and everything, he is, above all, her friend.
/and you are too far fallen/
She is surprised to learn that she doesn't care who Red John is anymore. For a long decade, he has always been that faceless puppeteer, wreaking havoc on everyone close to her. Ending him in the most legal way possible is all that matters.
So the shock of the familiar face barely registers. All she can see is the figure of her partner clothed in blood (is that dripping from his left side?), left arm snaked around the neck of his tormentor, with his right arm holding a dripping knife, poised to strike.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.
"Agent," he gasps. "Look at him."
And that one imperative, coupled with his maniacal countenance, tips her over the edge. She has probably always known that he would not give up on his perceived right for revenge. But it has affected all of them; this blind determination to get the damn monster, to lure him out of the shadows right underneath them.
And then suddenly there is too much blood, because a knife to the carotid artery will have a high arterial spray, and this figure they've been chasing for too many years collapses, and all she can think is it's over and his last words were look at him and so she does and her heart stops.
He is drained and cold and blank.
She is standing in front of him, and she has to do her job.
He does not hear the soft metal click.
She does not know anymore.
The guard comes in behind him and indicates with worn hands that her time is nearly up, and it is only out of the corner of her eye that she sees this. She will not give up her staring contest with him, because this is all she has left (and all she ever had). A constant push and pull, give and take, always redrawing lines to be crossed.
And she will desperately cling to it.
"You'll visit?"
She laughs bitterly, because it is so typical of him to keep demanding more, and expecting her to give.
"Yes."
And she will give, because this is as close she can get to feeling, and even if it hurts too goddamn much, she will.
Because there is no them; only him and her.
He smiles and ghosts a whisper.
"Thank you."