AN: You can't have CBI Ron without CBI Karl, so two for the price of one here. Just one to go. Reviews greatly appreciated.
"Alright Karl, speak to you soon", he says, drawing the call to a close. "Thanks for calling. Try and stay out of trouble then, eh?"
"Cheers, Ron," the other voice says. "Regards to Suzanne and we'll arrange that then. Speak soon," the other voice says, and is gone.
Karl is good for staying in touch, better than he is. Maybe it's because Karl has already moved on, he's more secure, more confident in getting back to old connections because that's what they are – old, gone, in the past.
Ron hasn't moved on at all.
It's been six months since Dennis Abbott walked into the CBI bullpen and too casually, too easily dismantled the organisation Ron had been working for close to eight years.
He'd felt sorry for himself without a job, felt sorry for Karl interviewing for local state police. It was then he'd heard Lisbon had taken a job as a small town sheriff and with shame and with humility he had come to realise it really was all over. Lisbon, one of the finest he's ever seen, overseeing domestic spats and drunken brawls in some anonymous distant town? A waste, was what it was, anyone could see.
He'd heard rumours and half-stories before that, whispers of Rigsby and Van Pelt headed for San Fran, and Cho to the FBI. Karl had started over with local police, he knew, but he himself just couldn't resign himself to his reality until then. It was easier for them, he supposed.
The way it had all gone down means the team haven't received their due credit. The fallout from the existence and actions of the Blake Association has tainted the takedown of Red John, and the splitting up of the team prior to Red John's capture hadn't helped. The FBI have been granted full credit by some media coverage, and the CBI demonised by others. It has been easier, in some ways, and devastating because of it in others, now that they have been split up. They are able to go their separate ways, some of them.
Lisbon, to Washington; Cho to Virginia, Rigsby and Van Pelt to San Francisco and Jane to God knows where.
It was different for them, easier in a way. They were younger, independent. They were able to go. Not him. Not Karl. They were too young to retire, too old to start again. The disbandment of the CBI had cut the ties of the others, but his ties have kept him grounded in this turmoil of change. His wife. Their two children. They've been a blessing, and yet, the pressure has been mounting to find new employment.
The others had moved on, moved away, from pain and memories, but he couldn't.
He sometimes catches himself, thinking back. It hasn't been that long, but already it feels distant, dreamlike. Lisbon, in her office; Rigsby, Van Pelt, Cho all tapping away at their keyboards; Jane, horizontal on the couch; he and Karl fitting in and around the rest.
It had been a strange one, for the two of them, he knew. There, and not there; both part of the team and not. He had enjoyed it, been frustrated by it, had been terrified by it and enthralled. It had been a good run, he knew, unlike anything else he had known, but all gone now.
Being both within and without has given him a surreal knowledge of it all. He has been witness to many exchanges, seen more than he's let on. Has seen Rigsby shed a tear, seen Van Pelt fall and rise again. He's been witness to Cho's occasional smirks and seen Jane sneak frequently 'unseen' into Lisbon's office.
He is unseen now.
Those couple of days had been the oddest of his life. The disbandment of the Bureau, the abandonment of duties. The questioning. The endless questioning, both answered and asked. Worst of all, the distance. Watching years' work unfold on the television without him, from his living room, sent home by the FBI. Receiving the news of Red John's demise via text from Karl, the follow-up call. Calling Lisbon, the next day, seeking confirmation. More questions, fewer answers. Jane, gone; disappeared in the night, having gotten what he came for.
They had shared a floor for years, and yet- Jane was nothing more than an acquaintance. His circle was kept very small. Lisbon. Then Cho. Rigsby, Van Pelt. Then them. It didn't sound distant, but it had felt it. And yet, for small spaces of time, he was part of the team. Karl had been too.
It felt odd to miss something now so mistrusted, something everyone on the outside now had an opinion on, blared across the papers and news broadcasts. But let them at it, Karl had said. They didn't know. They never would. Ron wouldn't either, in fairness. Why had the CBI, their bureau, to pay the price for the Blake Association's indiscretions? Hadn't its members come from all walks of life and law enforcement? It seemed too cruel that the CBI was to play the sacrificial lamb, and yet there was no one left to stand up for it. They were all long gone, all the rest, all scattered.
Except him.
And Karl.
He would ring him back tomorrow. And they, in a week's time, would meet for a meal with their wives, exchange pleasantries and update each other on stories from time passed. And, an hour or two in, when Suzanne and Helen were engrossed in a conversation in full flow, Karl would lift a glass and Ron would follow, and mostly unnoticed by the world around them, as they always had been, both in the CBI and in its downfall, they would raise a glass, unspoken to unattainable times, long gone.