A/N: I know, I know. More angst. Hey, I can't help it! After watching Blood Money, I'm still in a funk. Rigsby dating some chick named Tiffany, who calls his work and asks Cho to tell him he's a bad boy? He and Grace telling each other they've 'moved on'?

Dude, pants on fire.

I own nothing.

Black and Blue Sweetheart

I was the only one.

That's what he said, right? I didn't mishear him the hundreds of times he gasped and whispered and laughed and stated and flat-out roared those words, did I? I was the only one.

Like when he told me I was the perfect height. He didn't have to bend down to reach me. Or when he breathed quietly that my skin was too soft to be real. He'd pet me for hours, just like he would a kitten. And I'd purr for him. His touch was the electrifying opposite of soft.

Or?

Or when he'd rest his chin on my stomach after he'd made me come with his tongue, smiling happily at me. That's mine. All of it. His tongue. That smile. Just like that small dip in the cradle of my hips is just for him. His chin belongs right there. Nowhere else on earth.

His voice. His voice is different when he talks to me now. The gruffness is gone. The low pitch is still there, but the gravel has been paved over. It's now always smooth, professional. I hate it. I want that gravel back. It always meant I was in for a ride that required four-wheel drive. Now it's gone. Rerouted. To some bitch named Tiffany. 'Baby' and 'fuck' and 'love you' are now gravel she'll get to ride through.

Or is it Tiphanie? With a 'ph'?

Our joke, our silly ex-girlfriend's stupid name joke, isn't funny anymore. I bet Tiphanie isn't funny either. I bet she doesn't make him laugh. It should be physically impossible. His laugh belongs to me, too. I caught it in a butterfly net. It's mine.

Just like the notch at the base of his throat. No one's allowed to touch it but me. I teased him about it once. Lying in his arms, I once swirled my tongue in that perfect hollow and told him that it was my favorite part of him. It was so inexplicably erotic, a chink of vulnerability in the armor of his body. He chuckled underneath me. "It's yours, then. It's only fitting that my biggest weakness own my littlest one."

So, see? It's mine. He gave it to me. Now some trespasser was running her fingers over it, not appreciating its delicate beauty, speeding over it on the way to his more impressive parts.

I seethe at the thought.

She's fawning at his obvious qualities and I hate her laziness. Anyone can see he's beautiful. Everyone knows that. But his preternatural beauty can't be seen. Not like that. It has to be read. Like Braille. Slowly. Tactilely. It takes time to learn all the ridges and bumps and tease his story from them.

So much time needed. I spent ages deciphering him and still barely got through the first few paragraphs. Each nick has a tale. He'd tell me shyly. I'd kiss it better. The thought of her lips over those same nicks, the ones I stamped with aching tenderness, she'll simply coo at and ask, "How'd you get this one, baby?" Wanting the excitement of near-death cop drama, not bothering to read the flickering pain in his eyes if the scar wasn't from the job. Rather from a parent.

I died a little each time I touched those. He flinched the first time my fingers found them, and after that he never flinched again. I was allowed to read them. He let me. Would he let her?

My teeth clench.

Oh, and I hear everyone around the office, too. Apparently she's been by to pick him up a few times. People have seen her. Pretty, petite, blonde.

Blonde, huh?

I snort with proud distain.

Do his fingers filter through your hair as he's watching tv, Tiphanie? Does he murmur that he's never seen a more beautiful color in his entire life? Does he check your whole body for freckles, chuckling that there has to be at least one? Does he burrow his nose into it and demand to know why you always smell exactly like strawberries?

Does he treat you like a lady?

Does he fuck you like a whore?

Does he tell you that you own him, right down to the indigo flecks in his eyes?

Do you answer that he owns you too, right down to the last drop of AB Negative blood pumping through your heart?

Does he laugh when you say that and say that nothing, not even your blood, could possibly be negative inside you?

Do you melt at his sweetness in those soft moments? Do you thrill at his savage kindness in the harder ones?

Do you secretly want his children? And pray they will share the black and blue of his hair and eyes? Do you see them sometimes? Little black and blue sweethearts running through sprinklers and eating their weight in Cheerios?

You shouldn't, because they're mine. Even the promise of them is mine. Just like the father.

My black and blue sweetheart.

My fists curl in rage at the situation of my own making.

I hate the name Tiphanie.