A/N: Thanks for all the great suggestions and encouragement to write this tag. The majority vote in my informal poll at the end of my other fic, "Fire With Fire" was for a Lisbon/Jane tag, but many of you also wanted more of Grace and requested that I write either two tags or an extra long one. So, bowing to the desires of you wonderful readers, and since there is no new episode next week, I've decided to write a two-part tag. The first part will be with Rigsby and Van Pelt, the second with Lisbon and Jane. I hope you enjoy them both! Thanks again for submitting your ideas!

Episode Tag: My Bloody Valentine

Part 1: Rigsby and Van Pelt

It was ten o'clock and Van Pelt was weary to her bones. Despite her exhaustion, the events of the last two days wouldn't allow her to sleep, so she was making herself a cup of chamomile (Jane's recommended brand) when a soft knock came at her apartment door. From the drawer of the table nearest the door, she withdrew the Glock she kept there, a habit she'd formed since the death of her fiancé. Or, more accurately, since she'd killed her murderous fiancé months before. He'd worked for Red John after all, and Van Pelt had nightmares sometimes about the serial killer taking his revenge. She kept another gun by her bed.

Thus armed, Van Pelt looked through the peephole, surprised to see Rigsby standing there. He was wearing jeans and a blue hooded CBI sweatshirt that exactly matched his eyes. She returned her weapon to the drawer, unlocked the two deadbolts, pulled back the chain, and faced her former lover, her heart pounding. It must be bad news for him to have needed to speak to her in person.

"Wayne," she said anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, good, you're awake. Sorry, Grace. Can I come in?" He seemed jittery, nervous, making Van Pelt's own anxiety soar.

"Sure. What is it? What's going on?"

She stood aside to let him enter, and his eyes swept the achingly familiar living room—a mixture of country modern and Victorian antiques. She was an old-fashioned girl, his Grace. She's not my Grace anymore, he corrected himself. He ran an agitated hand had through his spiked up hair, and Van Pelt surmised he'd done that many times that evening, for he'd been wearing his hair neatly combed of late.

"I needed to talk to somebody," he said. "And I couldn't talk to Cho. He'd just sit there and shake his head at me like I was an idiot. And he's so right. Jesus, Grace, I've really screwed up now."

She felt herself relax a little. It didn't sound like anyone was hurt or dead, just something in Rigsby's personal life he was too ashamed to discuss with Cho. To be truthful, she really didn't want to know—it hurt too much-but she'd felt like they'd become friends lately, and he'd been really understanding with the Craig situation. She guessed she owed him a shoulder to cry on, especially since he'd saved her life only hours before.

"Come in and sit. I was just making myself some tea. You want some?"

"No," he said, his voice unintentionally sharp, as he made his way to the overstuffed damask sofa. "You have anything stronger?"

"I think I have some wine," she said, moving back toward the kitchen and looking inside the refrigerator. "Some white zin—that's about it." She used to keep beer on hand for him when they were dating, but that seemed like eons ago now.

"That'd be great," he said, his voice slightly muffled. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He listened to the sound of tinkling glassware, the small pop as she removed the cork. His mouth watered. He'd needed a drink for hours, but there'd be no more drinking with Sarah, not for the next six months anyway. Oh God.

He felt rather than saw Grace's presence beside him, smelled the familiar sweetness of her lilac perfume, and he looked up to take the glass she proffered gratefully. She'd abandoned her tea idea and had poured herself a glass. She sat down next to him on the sofa drawing one knee comfortably beneath her, and he noticed that she was wearing snowflake patterned sleep pants and a t-shirt with the familiar CBI logo. Rigsby almost laughed aloud. Their similar attire was a testament to how much they both valued their jobs, even when they were off duty. If they hadn't valued those damn jobs so much, he thought bitterly, neither of them would be in the emotional states they were in right now. They'd likely still be together, and…he shook his head to clear away the remnants of that dead dream and took a sip of the sweet wine.

"Thanks," he said, indicating the wine, forcing himself not to drink it all down in one gulp.

"You're welcome. Now tell me what's up, Wayne. Does it have to do with Sarah? I thought I saw you two leaving together earlier. Did you have a fight or something?"

"Uh, no. Quite the contrary, actually." He looked at her, trying to ignore the usual jolt he got from her beauty, even now. He decided the best way to get this out was to bite the bullet and just tell her straight out. "Sarah's pregnant."

He watched her eyes widen in surprise, the wine glass frozen halfway to her lovely pink mouth. He supposed he must have looked just like this when Sarah had shared the news in an elevator of all places.

"What?" she asked for clarification, echoing his own reaction earlier. He knew she wondered if she'd heard him right.

Rigsby laughed humorlessly. "Yeah. I'm gonna be a dad. Ain't that a kick in the pants." He did gulp his wine then.

"Seriously?" Van Pelt finally managed, setting her own glass on a round coaster on the coffee table. She hated glass rings.

"As a freakin' heart attack," he said, eyes bleak.

Van Pelt's mind was racing. Her second reaction (after shock, of course) was pure, painful jealousy. It should have been me, she thought sadly. I should have been the one dealing with all the ramifications of an unplanned pregnancy, not the consequences of killing someone I thought I loved. I should have chosen Wayne over my job. I was such an idiot.

She looked at this man she would always love, despite all of her mistakes, once again making himself at home on her couch. But this time he was looking to her for some sort of comfort she wasn't sure she could give him. But in honor of the memory of all they'd been to each other once, she owed it to him to at least try. She took a deep breath, exhaling softly.

"I—I don't know what to say, Wayne. I'm sorry? Congratulations? You're obviously freaked out here. Have you and Sarah made any decisions?"

"She's totally excited about this," Rigsby said, not answering any of her questions. "We went out to eat, but everything tasted like sawdust in my mouth. I just sat there numbly, listening to her prattle on and on about baby names and cribs and college funds. She's happy enough for the both of us, I suppose."

"And you're not…happy?" she asked tentatively.

His head fell back in his hands and he closed his eyes. "I don't know what the hell I am," he said honestly. "I mean, this came from about as far in left-field as anything could possibly come. It would be different if I—well, if I loved her." He was embarrassed to admit this to Grace, mortified with himself for creating a child with a woman he didn't love. But therein lay the quandary. If he loved Sarah, this would be a no-brainer. He would do the honorable thing and marry her, despite how old-fashioned that might seem these days. If this had been Grace, however…but he couldn't go there. It wasn't fair to his unborn child. Oh God.

"I'm sorry," Van Pelt was saying. She'd rightfully decided after his admission that this wasn't necessarily a happy occasion. "What are you going to do?"

"Whatever she wants," he said fatalistically. "I mean, she obviously wants this baby. And I could never ask her to—you know—it's my baby. I had such a horrific father, no way I'd do the same to my own."

"You'll be a terrific dad," Van Pelt told him, and she meant that, despite the wave of regret she felt as the words left her mouth.

"You think so?" he asked her, his lost blue eyes seeking hers for reassurance. But when he saw the signs of unshed tears in hers, he felt his own well up with emotions that he'd tamped down for Sarah's sake the last several hours.

"Yes," she whispered. "I do."

Before either of them could think or take another ragged breath, they found themselves in each other's arms. Rigsby let the tears come, let himself feel the fear, the anger, the grief as his body shook with his sobs. Van Pelt clung tightly, realizing how much she too needed to be held, how she'd missed the comfort of human contact for months as she'd dealt with her demons all by herself. Her arms tightened around him even more as the tears slipped silently down her cheeks, dropping heedlessly onto the soft cotton of his sweatshirt.

Minutes passed and, the worst of his weeping subsided, Rigsby pulled away slightly, his hands going to Grace's face to brush away her tears with his thumbs. He saw with wonder the mutual pain reflected in her brown eyes, and before he could stop himself, found her lips with his own. She tasted of bitter tears and sweet wine and he drank her in, feeling as if he were finally home after a long sojourn into the desert. He kissed her with all the frustrated passion in his heart, and she let him for a brief moment feel the longing she too had felt since they'd ended things more than a year before.

But she was the one who finally pulled away, heart pounding, breath coming in trembling gasps.

"Wayne, we can't do this. Sarah—"

It was like she'd thrown cold water on him, and he slid almost violently away from her, his head thrown against the back of the couch, panting with frustration and self-loathing.

"Oh God, Grace. I'm sorry. I-I don't know what I was thinking."

"Neither of us were doing much of that," she said sheepishly, feeling tremendous guilt at her own part in this. "But you certainly don't need any more complications…"

He barked out a self-deprecating laugh. "That's for sure. I should go."

But he made no move to leave, and she gave no words that would encourage it. Instead, she went to the kitchen to retrieve the wine bottle, refilling both glasses to the brim.

"Where's Sarah now," Van Pelt asked, picking up her glass.

Rigsby's eyes flicked guiltily away. "I left her asleep in her bed. You know, her house is just a few blocks from here. I have to pass by your apartment complex every time I go to see her." He blushed slightly at that admission, and Van Pelt didn't know what to say to that.

"She doesn't know you left?" she asked instead, the knife twisting in her heart.

He met her eyes then, dark blue and haunted. "No…I should really go," he repeated solemnly, but at the same time, he reached again for his glass.

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Rigsby awoke to the warmth of a fully clothed woman's body snuggled against his, a soft throw blanket covering them both. They'd talked and drank late into the night, falling asleep on the narrow couch as emotional exhaustion and alcohol overtook them both. He moved his arm to look at his watch, saw that it was six a.m., and gently extricated his long frame from hers. He'd just have time to make it home and shower before work.

Van Pelt shifted in sleep, making sounds of protest at the loss of his warmth, and he was sorely tempted to climb back in and oblige her. But he couldn't. He was a man with new responsibilities. He had a child to think of now, and a girlfriend who didn't deserve what he'd give the world to do with Van Pelt.

He sighed as he moved to a nearby chair and put on the sneakers he'd kicked off sometime in the night, watching Grace as she slept. His heart clenched, but there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing he would do. He'd loved her from afar for a majority of their acquaintance, so he was more than used to that feeling. It would be tough, but he could bear it if she could. For one more selfish moment, however, he allowed himself to feel the sweet pain just looking at her brought him. He would have to endure it though, for his child's sake.

His shoes newly tied, Rigsby stood and moved back to the couch, pulling the blanket up to Van Pelt's chin. He couldn't resist kissing her one last time on her smooth, alabaster cheek, brushing her vibrant hair from her closed eyes.

"I love you, Grace," he whispered. "I'll always love you."

Outside in the chill of the winter morning, Rigsby put his hands into the front pockets of his sweatshirt as he walked back toward his pickup truck. His mouth was dry as cotton, and his head pounded from the alcohol, but he welcomed the pain. It would follow him the rest of the day, along with the illusive fragrance of lilacs.

A/N: A little on the angsty side, I know, but there is so much going on between these two that I didn't know any other way to write such a scene. Now, the show of course will likely (hopefully) have their own version of Rigsby breaking the news to Van Pelt, but I'm pretty sure they won't do the romantic thing that we Rigspelt fans would love.

I promise Part 2 of this tag will be much lighter, with hopefully more humor, focusing as promised on Lisbon and Jane. I hope you come back for more. Thanks for reading!