i.
She's drunk. She is so drunk she doesn't know what she's saying. Her speech is slurred and her tongue slips on certain sounds, making her words jumbled and almost unintelligible.
She's talking about a board-game, or tree leaves (or maybe both), tripping over words and jumping from one subject to the next, eyes agleam and mouth wide with laughter (wonderful, free, young kind of laughter).
Her intoxicated logic is skewed and something Tasha cannot follow.
"So then it like... it grows, man! And, like - " (Tasha doesn't listen).
Jane is laughing a small sort of laugh, unsure and scared and nothing like Patterson's, her big eyes jumping from the drunk woman to the Uber driver to Tasha, her hand holding Patterson in place, inside the car, pressed to the faux leather sit.
She seems out of place and awkward, back hunched and shoulders square, as if she's scared this all is just a one-time thing and if she keeps herself as small as possoble, the world won't catch up with her. She looks at Tasha with a tiny nervous smile and she is gentle and kind and Tasha feels sorry for her.
(Sorry, and jealous).
(Tasha wants to be the one escorting Patterson home. She wants the glory and the gore and the silly giggles and the drunk groans. She wants the sighs and the laughs and the complains. She wants the sickness and the health. She wants this so much she doesn't allow herself the dream).
"I'll make sure she gets home safe," Jane says. Her voice is raw and low and she is looking at Patterson (who is laughing inside the car) with such tenderness and affection it makes Tasha warm and happy and she feels like she can grow used to having the raven-haired woman on the team.
"She's the smartest person I know..." Jane says quietly, voice choked with emotions and liquor. Tasha knows she means to say (thank you).
"Yes, she really is." She answers and hopes Jane realise she means to say (you are part of us now).
"I like her very much," Jane's eyes are kinda sad but also full of laughter and delight. Full of love. (Patterson is trying to chat up the Uber driver and the man looks strangely at her. He has no idea who he's quirking his eyebrows at). "You guys make me feel normal".
(Tasha gets it. It's very difficult to look at the blonde woman with anything other than this kind of admiration).
(She likes Jane and hates the Uber driver).
"You are many things," She says, soft and easy and a little careful. "Normal isn't one of them".
Jane smiles wide this time, happy and unafraid.
Inside the car, Patterson is calling Tasha's name, waving her hand and laughing a bubbly sorta laugh. The sound is nice and throaty, kinda hoars, kinda makes Tasha feel young and reckless (kinda makes her want to kiss Patterson).
"G'night, Tasha!"
Tasha is drunk too, so she allows herself a quick flirtatious smile that she sends behind Jane's shoulder. In any other situation, she would never have allowed herself this sort of reaction. She is always careful. Always respectful. Always keeps Patterson at arm's length.
(This is the right thing to do. Patterson is her friend. Those types of feelings, like the ones Tasha is nursing lately, are unacceptable).
The surprise in Patterson's face is visible and she shakes her head, makes a move to get out of the car (like something is pulling at her) (like she's trying to get to Tasha), but Jane is already stepping inside the car, pushing gently at Patterson's shoulder to keep the woman steady, and Tasha closes her eyes for a long moment, breathing the cold (painfully cold) New-York air into her lungs, before turning around.
(It's the kind of dream Tasha cannot have, not even in an alcohol-drenched brain. Not even in the dark).
The black car takes off, Patterson is waving at her from the back window and Tasha can breathe again.
ii.
She's angry. She is so angry her eyes sparkle like knives (like stars) and she waves Weller off with uncharacteristical smoothness, brushes past him and slams the old book on the table.
Reade gives a shudder and Weller frowns and the Russian spy has enough presence of mind to lean backwards in her chair, away from the angry girl rushing her way, dangerous and furious and shaking.
Tasha is watching closely. (Beside her, Jane gives a small shiver).
"What's with you?" She asks, distracted.
(Jane's been jumpy since they learned about David’s murder, the other night, and it makes Tasha nervous, knowing that Jane is anything other than in complete control).
"Nothing... Everything".
(She can only imagine how Jane must feel, carrying the tattoos on her skin, dark and twisted and almost dirty).
Tasha has other things to worry about at the moment - namely the hurricane of a woman in the interrogation room, messy-haired and tight lipped and with puffy eyes that spark danger - and she brushes Jane's reply like something unimportant.
Behind the one-way mirror, Patterson is proving to be scary.
“Do you recognize this?” She’s all spitting words and sharp moves and she’s bluffing with the certainty of a well trained lier.
“We found a partial print.” Patterson says and the spy smiles.
Tasha grips the edge of her sit and wills herself to stay in place. She wants nothing more than to punch the grinning woman sitting across from Patterson. Jane grips her arm and Tasha is grateful for the touch.
In the interrogation room, Patterson goes wild. “A man is dead because of you,” she barks and her lip gives a horrible quiver. Weller steps in, a shield of flesh and blood and anger that matches the one boiling inside the sad grieving blonde.
Patterson is shivering with spite, with anger. With pure rage.
(The sort of rage that Patterson carries inside her is familiar to Tasha and she is ready to intervene once it all becomes too much. She knows she doesn’t need to, but she is ready).
(This is all wrong).
Patterson has a kind of goodness about her that makes Tasha nervous and calm all at once. She has a kind of brightness that has nothing to do with happiness and everything to do with soul and Tasha is covered in cold sweat because seeing Patterson so angry (boiling with unspilled rage, shaking with violent desire), makes her skin crawl.
(This is all wrong).
//
Jane tells her to talk to Patterson and Tasha nods. It’s an automatic sort of response because her throat is clogged and she feels like her self control is slipping away from her tight grip every time Patterson's sweet sent reaches her nose.
(What a fucking joke).
In the next couple of days Patterson keeps herself busy; diving nose first into her work, keeping long hours and eating next to nothing and Tasha is so goddamn helpless.
(All she manages to do is offer a small smile in the locker room and avert her eyes).
(For some reason that is beyong Tasha's understanding, Patterson looks even sadder after their small exchanges and Reade punches her hard on the shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise, calling her some stupid name and she has no idea what the hell this is all about).
"Go and talk to her!" Reade is almost yelling. He snaps his towel at her and leaves.
When she finds the right moment, she touches Patterson’s arm, gentle and scared and (she feels like a teenager. It's ridiculous).
“You alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Patterson has the same answer to everybody, quick and ready and a complete lie. Tasha wonders if she even notices that the questions come from different people, or if they all just classified as ‘not-David’ in her mind. “Yeah. Of course!”
And Tasha doesn’t ask again. She just watches and wait and want and want and wants.
//
For the next couple of weeks Patterson's eyes are filled with unspilled tears and Tasha's having trouble standing near her. She wants to touch her hand, to take her in her arms, to smooth her messy hair. She wants to make sure Patterson isn't all alone, sad and angry and stewing in her grief.
Tasha knows there is nothing she can do. Even if she did what she wanted, even if she got close enough to Patterson, she could never give her what she needs. She can’t bring David back. So She doesn't allow herself the kind of closeness she craves. Instead, she keeps her distance and watches from afar.
“The hell is your problem?” Reade tells her one night, when they both are sweaty and spent, bruised and tired and ready to call it a night.
“What?”
“Seriously, Zapata. I punched you too hard in the gym or something?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She says and in that particular moment, her mind is filled with anything but Patterson, and she doesn’t know what Reade is trying to tell her.
“Like hell you don’t”.
"You gonna keep playing the mysterious hermit, or are you going to tell me what are you on about?"
Reade's looking at her for five minuts straight, mouth hangong open, before deciding on a reply.
"Figure it out, loser".
She flips him off and steps into the shower.
//
(The next day she notices Patterson is looking at her with incredible softness, with want and need and everything she ever dreamed of and)
(Tasha pretends she doesn’t see and she hates herself she hates herself she hates herself).
(This is all wrong).
The only thing keeping her from doing something stupid (something reckless) (something unforgivable) is the tables and the shots and the chips and the losing games and the bad cards. She throws herself into games she has no chance winning. She bets on teams she know will lose every time. She digs huge holes for herself and late at night, when her bruises hurt the most, she tells herself this is how it should be.
iii.
She's lost. She's nowhere to be found and a slow, cold fury is beginning to fill Tasha up.
She grips the handle of her service gun like a decision taken and her head is buzzing with rapidly building anger (anger and fright and so much fury) she is ready to unleash hell on earth if it means bringing Patterson back.
Cold dread is settling in the pit of her stomach. She prays and prays and prays as they go through the lab's computers, as they find miserable leads, as they try to make sense of Patterson's brilliant mind.
She prays and prays and prays as the car bounces, as the sirens pierce the air, as they storm the little shop and find nothing but empty basement and abandoned coats and worthless clues.
She prays and prays and prays, tears pricking at the back of her eyes, as they listen to Mayfair's directions, as they storm the mansion, as they bring two men to their knees.
Reade grips her shoulder, fingers digging painfully into her flesh. "Zapata," he says, calm and present and rock-solid, bringing her back from her nightmare soaked brain. "we will find her. It's Patterson we're talking about. She's smarter than all of us combined. She won't let herself be killed. We gonna find her".
Tasha believes him, though she keeps reciting empty prayers to a force she no longer believes in. Reade keeps his arm tight around her as they climb into the car, as they survey the house, as they search through the rooms.
(Last night her loses weren't as painful as they could have been, and up until Weitz found his way to the underground room in Chinatown, and scattered the players with his stupid badge and his stupid smile and his stupid jokes, Tasha felt like she gained back some control over her life. Then the assholes started messing with her head, smug smile and mean intentions and twisted tricks, and she was drowning drowning drowning in crazy accusations and not enough air and the chips and money and cards were all but forgotten).
(Patterson was all but forgotten).
Tasha can barely breathe, her mind is filled with horror and despair. All she can see is Patterson – lost and cold and dead, eyes empty and lips blue and (last night, Patterson was nothing but a small annoyance at the back of her head. Now she can think of nothing else).
They all lucky Weller is quick to regain his wits. He fires rapid commands and Tasha follows, blind with concern and anger, with absolute dread, with burning lungs and stupid mind.
(Her finger is steady on the trigger, ready to shoot).
"A footprint." Weller wears a dark expression on his face and Tasha can't help but be grateful for having him as their leader. He will fins Patterson. He won't let anything happen to her.
Weller makes signs, communicates with his eyes and fists, calls out orders in a hushed tone, and they spread out.
It doesn't take them long to find Patterson. She is cold and frightened and dirty with mud, her face streaked with tears and dirt, her wrists red and raw, her feet bleeding.
In the car, she is sitting at the back, wrapped in Jane's coat, shivering uncontrollably. She mutters something, talking to herself. Tasha sits next to her, her palm rubbing comforting circles at Patterson's back, working up warmth into her.
Tasha wants to yell. She wants to scream and shout and lash out and roar. She wants to cry and laugh and punch something. She wants to know what the hell Patterson was thinking, chasing a tattoo all by herself.
(She wabts to hug her and never let go).
Because she almost loat her today, Tasha allows herself some freedom and she leans closer and wraps a shaking Patterson in a tight hug, crushing her between her arms.
"Please don't ever do that again," she says, small and broken and scared, her chest tight with emotions. "Please".
Patterson lifts her head. liquid blue stares back at Tasha from a muddy face, determined and strong and a little surprised. Tasha smoothes out wild strand of hair, away from Patterson's eyes.
"Okay." Patterson's voice is barely a whisper.
Tasha wants to tell her everything. She wants to say 'stay' and 'I can't lose you' and 'I don't know how to live in this world without you' and 'I hate every place where you aren't'.
She doesn't say anything, but the blue eyes are searching searching searching for something in her face and for a brief moment (that later she will convince herself have never happened), Patterson leans into her, closes the gap between them, and places freezing lips against Tasha's own cold mouth.
iv.
She's happy. She is so damn happy and it makes Tasha feel all weird and funny inside, like at the drop of a rollercoaster ride. (After what Patterson's been through, it's strange to see her this happy again).
Tasha waves the newspaper she's holding in her hand, folded in half, (courtesy of the addict leading her support group), as she marches through the corridor, right into Patterson's lab. (She's still a little shaken from the meeting this morning, the stories and the faces and the bad coffee swim like a building hurricane in her mind).
"Hey, Patterson," she calls, mainly to test her voice. "Wanna play a game?"
Patterson turns from her computer, stiff and surprised and excited, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging low; a nervous sort of smile tugging at her lips.
"I love games!"
Tasha's heart gives a leap and she almost chokes. She feels like if she doesn't at least try to smooth her awkwardness by some lewd comment, try and brush it all off with her usual dry humor and stinging sarcasm, she's going to do something really really (really) inappropriate.
(And they still haven't talked about the kiss they shared in the car, after Patterson's rescue).
"Don't get too excited. It's not one of your wizard and elf games that take forever to finish." And she feels better already, even though she's standing in close proximity to Patterson and she still feels the urge to kiss her (somehow, now that she got a taste, annoyingly stronger than before)
"Well, D&D doesn't ever really finish…" It is as if Patterson is wired to defend her own nerdy ways, and really (it's so easy to rile her up) Tasha can't help but smile a secret little smile to her petty victory.
Patterson beams at her and starts talking, fast and technical and (It does nothing to Tasha's resolution to keep their interactions purely professional so she cuts her off).
It's a steady stream of numbers and it takes Patterson a whole thirty seconds to catch up on what the hell Tasha is talking about. When she does, she springs up and hurries to another computer, dodging members of her team as she rushes through the lab. She slides to a stop, pulls a keyboard from under the table, and starts typing frantically.
Tasha watches her silently.
(Watching Patterson work is like watching a work of art unfolds in front of your eyes. Everything about her is beautiful; the way she moves, the way she mumbles, the way her eyes scan the screen.)
Tasha is mesmerized.
"You're like some kind of wizard!" Patterson exclaims and Tasha is so far gone all she manages to do is fire back some stupid reply that makes Patterson launch into another nerdy rant.
"Let's go tell the team".
//
Pattersn smiles, crooked, and happy and proud and everything like sunshine and Tasha hangs her head low and tries to hide her own smile behind a curtain of long dark hair.
"First and foremost," Patterson announces when they all gather around, (Mayfair with a stern look, Reade with a cup of tea and Weller with his arms folded on his chest) "Tasha unlocked a tattoo." There is a happy ring to her words, the smile she doesn't try to hold anymore is evident in the way she's forming her words (and Tasha tries not to think about the warm feeling spreading inside her chest).
"Well...!"
Tasha blushes (hard) and steps forward. She does her best at ignoring the gleam in the bright blue eyes (eyes that stay fixed on her the entire time, shining and fierce and so fucking proud).
Everybody's watching her but Patterson's gaze is hot and steady, burning holes in her skin as she starts talking, and it doesn't help that the woman doesn't avert her eyes not even once.
(Tasha is talking and she doesn't care the sniggers, the quiet smiles, the taunting jokes. She doesn't care about Jane's small nod or Wellers proud-big-bro smile or Reade's all-knowing elbow in her ribs as she steps away from the screens to allow Patterson to take over).
It's nice, to be useful. It's nice to feel anything but the hollow emptiness and the itching need to lose. (It's nice to feel anything but the urgent need to take Patterson's face between her palms and kiss her until she forgets).
It's nice to see Patterson anything but the sad teary shell she's been for the past couple of weeks. The old lightness is gone (maybe forever) but instead Tasha notices a new kind of happiness. It is not the childish brightness that she learned to associate with Patterson, but a heavier kind of brightness. This one is a knowing kind, the kind of happiness a woman who've known lost carries inside. This is the kind of happiness Tasha is familiar with from her time in the NYPD. The kind that must be decided on (in spite of the loss and the fear and the sleepless nights and the heavy heavy heavy darkness).
It's painful and beautiful and tough and something she never wished on Patterson.
//
She watches closer this time.
Patterson is all long strides and serious stares and steady hands and knowing words. She is also bright smiles and throaty laughs and careful jokes and not enough joy.
As time passes by, Patterson's smiles grow more and more frequent, more and more steady and Tasha can almost breathe again.
Some mornings Patterson welcomes her with a huge "hi!" And a very enthusiastic hug. She presses Tasha to her, breaths in her sent, and Tasha is all gone. Some mornings Patterson is shy and awkward and she hides her eyes behind a curtain of blonde hair. She trips on Tasha's name and laughs and laughs and laughs until Tasha makes some offhanded remark (mainly to save them both the discomfort), which makes Patterson blurt some lame excuse and vanish while blushing bright red.
It's easy and familiar and nothing scary.
(It's tough and strange and everything terrifying).
//
The shooting in the school is dangerous but manageable. It's part of the job and Tasha knows how to handle that. She knows when to draw her gun and when to duck and when to reload. (This part is easy).
She knows how to stroll the streets of New York, how to find the right spot. She knows to pick a lock and to seal a crime scene. She knows how to punch someone without leaving a mark. She knows a lot of things when it comes to duty and badges and protocol.
The meetings are different. They are chaos and destruction and she can barely breathe. They rip her open and she bleeds on the church floor, watched by careful eyes and knowing smiles and good intentions. She talks and cries and lets herself be everything her job prevents her from being. This is a new kind of loss that has nothing to do with gambling and everything to do with healing. A new way to take back control.
(The meetings become a place when she isn't an FBI agent. She isn't a former cop. She doesn't have to pretend or to be strong or to swallow her stupid stupid feelings).
The job is easy and familiar. The meetings are tough and new.
Patterson is a whole different category of uncharted territory with no rights and no wrongs and something Tasha never asked for. Patterson isn't someone for Tasha to analyze or to punch or to befriend. Patterson doesn't require her to be true or open of anything but herself and it's been a really long time since Tasha allowed herself to let go and just be.
(Patterson is looking at her, lovely and blue and open. She sees every struggle inside Tasha and says nothing).
Tasha keeps a close watch while Patterson recovers from her loss and she can't help herself but be drawn to her. She can't (she won't) keep herself from falling into her, dive headfirst into something that feels a lot like a trap – the kind of trap she is willing to step into.
(She feels like an idiot).
(She doesn't stop herself).
(she's in too deep).
v.
She's sad. She hasn't been this sad for a couple of weeks now, and Tasha hates herself with a passion for being the one who brings back this hunted, heavy look into Patterson's eyes.
The FBI New York branch is a mess and Tasha treads carefully. Weitz has been messing with her head for a long time now, but she hasn't really thought about the possibility that this could be Mayfair's end.
(She finds she doesn't want it to be).
"Please, don't give up on me." She says, gripping the phone with sweaty palms and heavy heart and she feels like a fraud, tears prick at her eyes.
Mayfair sounds tired. She says, "I haven't." And Tasha wants to cry.
(She doesn't. There is no time for tears. Not now, when things can still change).
Reade offers a reassuring hug and Tasha melts into his safe embrace. They work and work and work, search and search for hours until they are spent. Tasha doesn't want Patterson involved, but they are out of their depth, and really, who are they kidding?
Patterson's eyes are sad and empty when they tell her the truth, but also angry, burning with fire of rage and betrayal. Reade plays it cool, all apologizing words and tough stares and fisted hands and straight back, but Tasha notices the way Patterson is looking at her (blaming blaming blaming) and nothing like the hot cheeky stares she's been sending her way lately, and (Tasha hates herself she hates herself she hates herself).
"You knew about this too?" Patterson's voice is so young and so broken and so raw (so lost) it makes Tasha want to disappear.
Patterson looking at her with burning eyes and Tasha thinks that being shot would be less painful.
(But she is nothing if not a coward so she says, "If it makes you feel any better, he told me about all this just yesterday." And it's a poor way to shake the blame off of herself but it's all she can do to try and make Patterson stop looking at her like this).
Patterson is going wild. Her voice is choked with tears and the way she says, "I can't take that" makes Tasha yet again want to vanish from the face of the earth and (she thinks she must be used to it by now).
The pain is thorough. The pain is evident. The pain is all-consuming and Patterson is crying. Reade hangs his head low and looks guilty enough for both of them, but Tasha maintains eye contact, for sheer hurt, (for self-punishment) and says, in a voice that is an inch from destruction,
"Understood".
Later, when the office is cleared out (Weller is chasing ghosts and Reade goes home, tired and barely awake), Tasha touches Patterson's shoulder with shaky fingers and hopes against all hope for a miracle.
"I'm sorry," she says in a whisper. As to not frighten the other girl away. "I should have told you".
"Damn right, you should have." Patterson has a weird glint in her eye (something like pain and something like anger and something like excitement) (something like fear) and her voice is so young Tasha's chest hurts
"I - I mean..." and Tasha has no idea how to finish this sentence.
She doesn't have to because the fear in Patterson's face turns into determination and then something similar to anger, or maybe lust (Tasha doesn't have time to analyze what exactly she's looking at).
Patterson's mouth hangs open, just a couple of inches, and she's searching for a moment for something in Tasha's face, before surging forward and crushing into her, mouth hot and panting and sweet.
Tasha is knocked back a step or two, but she manages to maintain balance. Her hands wrap around Patterson as if on their own accord and before she even knows what's happening, she is kissing Patterson back.
+i.
She kisses her. She kisses her once, twice, three times (like she isn't sure if Tasha will kiss her back) before giving in to her desires and Tasha can't help but smiles.
Patterson's kisses are young and sloppy and broken and scared. Her mouth moves like liquid and she tastes of ashes and hopes and alcohol and something forbbiden.
Tasha touches her with unsure hands. Sex isn't complicated to her, but this is Patterson and she cannot but feel like she's about to commit some unforgivable crime.
Then the blonde woman sighs into her mouth and Tasha stops thinking completely.