Authors Note: I'd just like to remind everyone that this was rated for darkness as well as the more mature scenes. Just a reminder.
Disclaimer: I really don't even think they'd let me borrow them at this point.
He refused to drink tonight. Tonight she had gone on a date. It was a sign that the world was moving forward, that he hadn't scarred her for life – like he could have done that. He wanted to drink, but he wouldn't. He'd taken to keeping a bottle of whiskey in the drawer of his desk. He was the only one who ever sat at it, and that was even rare, so it wasn't likely to be discovered. He knew he could have just kept it with the other bottles that were left over from parties and wakes; but this was his personal stash.
He'd been doing well all things considered, he didn't drink when they were out of town on a case, not until he, or they, had solved it. But when they were in town, when the case load was light he found the pull of the drink that much more alluring. He found it the only think that could block out the memories that haunted his dreams and followed him into the waking hours. Dreams of her.
He knew that she'd been seeing this guy casually for the past few weeks. That was saying something. Not that he was paying attention; but her relationships didn't usually last past the second date. He knew that it was because most men couldn't handle her fierce sprit and the thought that at five-three she could easily take any of them. This new guy must have been different.
He decided not to stoop so low as to follow her, to see this mystery man that had her preening at work. He'd never seen her preen for any man. Tonight he needed a different distraction. He wanted to remember this weekend, so that on Monday when she came in with that delicious after glow that a good night of sex and loving will give a person he could remember why it was such a bad idea for him to be with her.
The drive to Malibu was long, but he was familiar with it and didn't let it bother him. He didn't pay attention to the scenery that he passed, didn't notice the coast when it came near. He drove on autopilot, until he found himself parked in front of his house. He sighed. It had been almost a month since he's been back here. He tended to avoid it when he wasn't on a Red John case, finding the constant memory of what happened almost too much to bear; but tonight, this weekend, he needed it – he needed to sleep under that smiley face on his wall painted in blood, needed to remember the pain and horror.
It was pushing 3:00 AM when he fell onto that ragged mattress on the floor of his spacious master bedroom. Knowing that sleep wouldn't come easy, he found the bottle of pills that he had left sitting next to his makeshift bed and swallowed one, hoping that a dreamless sleep would follow.
He knew he was dreaming; the same dream he always had in that room. Walking up the stairs, seeing that note and being unable to stop opening the door, his wife and child on the bed, blood everywhere, the things Red John had done to their bodies… but something was wrong. His wife had been blond when she died, and even when she'd died her hair darker, it was never this dark. This hair, falling in the face of Red John's victim was brunette, and her body was petite, smaller than his wife's but larger than his daughter. Who was… No, there was no way that it could be Lisbon; Lisbon was alive. She wasn't here, in this room, with the blood dripping onto the floor, staring up with unseeing eyes, her soul lost too soon.
He had to wake up, this was a worse dream than he had thought, he turned trying to run, but was being chased by that horrid face on his wall, all the incarnations of it he'd seen, studied over the years. He couldn't get away.
He flew up, staring at the wall, scrambling out of the bed, knocking over the small bottle of pills on his way to the other side of the room, staring at the face that was mocking him in its cheerfulness.
There was light filtering through the cracks in the tightly closed blinds. It must be morning. He needed to get out of the house; he needed to put distance between him and this symbol of his failure. He'd failed to protect his wife and child then, and he was failing at his job now, failing in protecting Lisbon by not catching the bastard who was still haunting the state of California.
He needed to go back to Sacramento, he needed to find out what was missing, needed to figure out how to catch this monster who was ruling his life. Then, then he could move on, then he could be with her, or at least, he could open up about why he'd pushed her way.
The drive back to Sacramento took longer than the drive to Malibu; it was always longer when driving in the afternoon. A half hour outside Sacramento his cell phone began to ring in his pocket, he'd almost forgotten about it. He welcomed the distraction while silently cursing it. He'd been on a mission and now, he was being distracted from that.
"Jane," he said answering the phone. He knew it was Lisbon from the caller ID, but he hadn't been in the mood to be cheerful – not after his dreams of his wife and daughter had been interrupted by dreams of her; she wasn't supposed to be haunting that dream too.
"We've got a case." Simple as that, no preamble, just the facts, just like she always was. But still, underneath there was an undercurrent of anger at her weekend being interrupted.
"Upset that it's running your weekend, Lisbon?" Banter, act like nothing had changed and she'd never suspect.
"My weekend plans are none of your business, Jane. Are you going to meet us at the CBI or at the scene?"
"Oo, testy. I'll meet you there." She curtly gave him the address and he hung up. As much as he'd hoped that his pitiful attempts at banter would restore some of the normal – restore their relationship to the way it had been before he'd ruined it, before he'd told the best thing that had happened to him in over six years that it was a mistake, that he'd made a mistake in sleeping with he – it hadn't. If anything, his less-than-subtle inquiries into her private life and gentle barbs served only as a reminder of what he'd held in his hands so briefly and then lost.