Author's note: So, I thought I'd give the Paint it Red June challenge a go. I got 'Like a Redheaded Stepchild' as my episode, one that I hadn't seen in a while. I was fully prepared to write a short fluffy one-shot about Jane and Lisbon and bunny shadow puppets but then, as I watched the episode, my muse decided it wanted to write something about Rigsby and his background. So, here are over 8000 words of what has now become my personal head cannon for Rigsby. Which makes me sad, because I've been pretty mean to good old Wayne in places. I've gone off Owain Yeoman's date of birth to determine Rigsby's age in this story as well, so apologies if I've gone against canon anywhere!

I have to admit, this is probably the hardest thing I've ever written; I love Rigsby as much as the next person, but I find him so damn difficult to write sometimes (even Jane is easier!) I'm not totally happy with this, and I may come back and edit it at a later date, but I wanted to get something done for the challenge and this is what occured!

Warnings: Rated M for plenty of foul language (mainly thanks to Rigsby Snr) as well as details, implied and actual, of mental and physical abuse. I've tried not to be too dark in this, but the nature of Rigsby's backstory meant that it wasn't going to be all flowers and puppies. Apologies if it makes anyone uncomfortable, I hope you can forgive me if that is the case. Some of it seems a little out there too, but I just wrote what I was inspired to!

Anyway, hope you enjoy something a little different from me (I promise I'm working on my WIPs, this one just had a deadline!)

Feedback is, as always, extremely welcome :)

A/N 2.0: I posted this story earlier, but it was removed shortly after for some unknown reason... I've shifted the rating up to M in case it was related to that. Hopefully it won't be taken down again, or I'll look at posting it somewhere else instead.

14th October 1986 – Aged 8

Wayne walked into the hallway of his house, shaking the sweat and October rain from his hair. He had spent the last hour playing outside, seeing how high he could climb up the big oak tree in the front yard. It had started to rain a few minutes ago though, so he had scrambled down and run back to the house. Now he was cold and hungry and he wanted a hot chocolate and maybe a cookie.

He carefully toed off his sneakers after wiping his feet, the mud leaving a slight trail on the pale doormat and he tried to hang his coat up on the rack. He couldn't quite reach though, so he left it on the floor next to his shoes. It didn't really matter that he was making a mess, he would just ask his Mom to help him with it when he found her. She usually lifted him up so he could hook his own coat on the peg; it made him feel grown up.

Wayne could smell something cooking in the kitchen and he was glad it was the weekend. His Mom was always at home at the weekends and she was an amazing cook and normally the two of them would spend their time together laughing and baking and eating really tasty food. From the smell that wafted to his nose from the kitchen, his Mom had been baking muffins today, and Wayne grinned. His Mom always knew just what he wanted to eat. It was why she was the most amazing Mom ever.

The weekends were his favourite time of the week. Apart from the fact that he didn't have school, the weekend meant that his Mom was at home and his Dad was normally away on his bike. He loved his Dad, but Wayne liked to spend more time with his Mom. She was always a lot of fun, and made good food and helped him with his school work. His Dad tended to shout at him to do his work then tell him to leave him alone because he was watching TV or fixing his bike.

Wayne wandered towards the kitchen, following the delicious smell of his mother's baking. He stopped still when he heard his Dad's voice, trying to think of a reason why he was back so early. Wayne had been sure that his Dad had said something about being out all day on important business when he walked past him this morning.

He crept up to the edge of the door, knowing better than to walk in when his Dad was talking to his Mom. Wayne had been told off plenty of times for interrupting, so he knew that he needed to wait until he was invited, or his Dad left to go somewhere else. He brushed his hand through his dark hair, moving his fringe off his face, and waited, loitering just outside the door to the kitchen.

His Mom and Dad were talking. Well, not talking exactly, because their voices were too loud to be talking, but they weren't shouting at least. Wayne knew when they were shouting. His friend Alex told him once that he could hear Wayne's parents when they shouted, and he lived 5 houses away. Still, his Dad's voice was louder than usual and Wayne didn't like the fact that his parents appeared to be arguing again. It was the third time in as many days that they'd had a fight and it made him a bit nervous.

His friend Billy from school had told him earlier that week, as they'd sat on the jungle-gym throwing stones at the girls from their class, that his Mom and Dad had argued all the time too, and then his Dad had left and now Billy lived with his Mom and only saw his Dad during the holidays.

"I've just had enough of all this Steven!" He heard his mother say, and Wayne stayed hidden round the corner of the door, not wanting his father to see him. He could tell that his Mom was angry, she hardly ever raised her voice, even when he did something stupid like try and skateboard with a blindfold on. "You can't just waltz in here and tell me that the police are after you and think that it's not a big deal!"

"I don't care if you've had enough woman, you're my wife and you do what I tell you. And the police aren't a fucking problem. They haven't got anything on me, so stop making an argument out of nothing!" Wayne could hear his Dad marching around the kitchen, and again he wondered when he had arrived. At least he knew why he had come back early. Wayne knew that sometimes his Dad and his friends got into trouble with the police, but usually he was only away for a couple of days if that happened.

"Screw you, I haven't got to do a thing I don't want to; I'm your wife not your slave."

There was a loud sound, and Wayne thought that his Dad had hit his Mom. It made him sad. His Mom normally cried when his Dad did that.

"Too right you're my wife; a slave would actually do something useful around this place."

Wayne wanted to round the corner, shout at his Dad and protect his Mom, but the bruise on his arm from last week was still sore, and he didn't want the teacher at school asking him any more questions. Instead, he stayed around the corner and waited. As soon as his Dad is gone he decided he was going to give his Mom the biggest hug and tell her he loved her. He didn't think he'd ever heard his Dad say it to her, so Wayne thought she deserved to hear as often as she could from him.

Instead, Wayne peered round the corner and saw that his Dad had his Mom pushed up against the fridge, and he can already see the trail of tears running down her cheeks. He heard his Mom scream a little, but then his Dad seemed to realise what he was doing and Wayne saw him take a step back. His Dad had a bottle in his hand, and Wayne watched as the other man threw it almost carelessly. The bottle missed his Mom's head, but it caught the bright blue mug that he had gotten her for her birthday last year. His Mom had looked at the mug that said she was the 'Greatest Mom In The World' and told him it was her favourite present ever, before she had hugged him tight and kissed the top of his head. As he watched it shatter on the floor, the blue pieces scattering across the tiles, Wayne couldn't help but shout out. There was suddenly silence in the kitchen and Wayne realised that his parent's hadn't known he was there until that moment.

He moved quickly and hid back behind the doorframe, hoping that his Dad would ignore him and just leave. He heard another loud noise and his Mom cry in pain, and Wayne was suddenly frozen, unsure of what to do.

He heard his father mutter something to his Mom, but he couldn't make out much more than 'ungrateful bitch' and he looked down at his slightly wet socks as he heard the older man move through the kitchen.

His Dad stalked towards him, big and tall and scary, and Wayne felt himself being shoved against the wall outside the kitchen. His father was bent low, crouched in front of him, and Wayne was so scared that he started shaking. He could see the red in his father's eyes and the smell of something on his breath. He didn't know what it was, but normally his Dad would get really mad when he drank a lot of it. Wayne and his Mom normally sat upstairs in Wayne's room reading stories of knights and dinosaurs and wizards when his father got angry.

"What the fuck are you looking at?"

Wayne knew better than to say anything, but his Dad wasn't happy that he hadn't answered. He felt his strong hand on his arm, clutching the same place where the bruise was. His Dad was clever like that. He managed to make the same places bruise so people didn't know he'd hurt him again.

"I said, you little bastard," he growled, tightening his grip on his arm, "What. The fuck. Are you looking at?"

Wayne looked up and tried not to cry. He knew his Dad was very angry and he hoped that he wouldn't hurt him too badly. He saw his father raise his fist as if to hit him and Wayne shut his eyes. He knew he would be ok, his Mom would look after him if he was hurt; she always did. But the pain didn't come and Wayne slowly opened one eye, under the impression that his Dad was just waiting for him to look at him before punishing him. His Dad sometimes did that. Said it was more respectful to look someone in the eye when they're trying to straighten you out. Wayne thought it was actually because he did liked to see him cry and say sorry a lot.

"You know what; you're not even fucking worth it. Little fuckers shouldn't be eavesdropping on conversations that don't involve them. Go look after your mother, the two of you deserve each other. I've got more important things to do."

He heard the front door slam and a bike rev up in the distance, and soon Wayne couldn't hear anything in the house apart from the crying in the kitchen. He didn't say anything, just walked in and looked for his Mom. She was sitting at the kitchen table, and Wayne could see the tears in her eyes and a red mark on her face. He walked over to her and smiled as she looked up at him and smiled a little at him. When he reached her, Wayne held his arms out and she picked him up and rested him on her knees. He knew that he was a little old to be sat on his Mom's lap, but this was a special occasion and his Mom needed him. He needed to be grown up for her, because she was upset and she always looked after him when he was sad.

He buried his head in her shoulder and hugged her really tight, taking in the smell of the chocolate and blueberries that she'd used for her baking as it clung to her hair. He didn't talk because he knew that she would understand what he wanted to say. Wayne had never really been very good at saying the right thing at the right time. Maybe that was why he was always getting into trouble with his Dad. He felt him Mom press a soft kiss on his forehead and he smiled a little, still fighting not to cry.

Wayne thought that his family was kind of like the cup in the kitchen; shattered and unable to be fixed even with a lot of glue. He wondered how long it will be until his Mom or his Dad left, just like Billy's Dad. He wasn't sure, but he thought it couldn't be long. He hugged his Mom a little tighter and listened as she told him that everything was going to be ok. Just for minute, he really believed her.

31st May 1991 - Aged 13

Wayne gave it another 15 minutes before Child Services appeared to have a talk with him. Judging by the slightly guilty look on Mrs Roberts' face as she glanced up at him from behind her gossip magazine, she'd asked the nurse on duty to give them a call within the first few minutes of their arrival. Wayne didn't mind, he'd spoken to the services enough times to know how it went, and he figured that this time he could probably wrangle himself out of the tricky situation he's got himself into within a few sentences and with a couple of his more charming smiles.

The 3 inch gash on his body might raise a few eyebrows though.

He was usually able to pass off the bruises and minor cuts as results of his own clumsiness, he'd been playing that game with his teachers since the age of 8 after all, but the knife wound on his waist? A bit more difficult to explain away as an accident.

Wayne decided his stay at the hospital was his own fault anyway. If he hadn't have argued with his Dad then he wouldn't be sat here in a cold, sterile hospital room that stank of antiseptic and sick. He should have known better than to answer back to his father after he'd been drinking. Looking back at it, the man had probably still been drunk when he'd wandered into Wayne's room that morning to wake him up for school. It wasn't unusual really, his father would normally let him know if he needed to feed himself or make his own way to the bus stop.

It appeared, however, that his brain hadn't quite connected to his mouth that morning, and so, when he'd answered back in a way that, in all honesty, wasn't at all respectful, the switchblade had come out and his Dad had turned on him in a flash of fury.

It hadn't been the first time his father had pulled the blade on him, although usually he did so around his biker friends, who had become a more frequent fixture in their small house since his mother had moved out 4 years ago. It was, however, the first time that Wayne hadn't reacted sensibly when faced with the shimmering blade. Instead of backing down and moving away, like he should have done, he'd panicked and tried to run past his Dad. However, with his father's reactions dulled by the alcohol and Wayne's vision and senses still blurred with sleep, he had caught the blade in his side as his father followed his movements across the room, and Wayne had yelped in pain as the weapon sliced through his pyjamas and his soft flesh.

Time had stood still then, with his father glaring at him, fury flashing across his eyes. Wayne hadn't seen anger like that since the day his mother had left, and he had known, instinctively, that all hell was about to break loose.

He had frozen, staring up at his Dad's eyes, trying to read the situation. Normally with the beatings they would be over quickly, a swift punch, a solid clip round the head. But this? This was different. An accident yes, but it never would have happened if his Dad hadn't pulled the blade on him in the first place. Wayne had felt the blood seep through his shirt and he had winced. His father, rather casually, had grabbed a dirty shirt off the back of a chair and tossed it at him, flicking the blade back in as he did so. There was no concern in his eyes, no worry etched on his face. In fact, his father had looked almost disappointed that Wayne had managed to injure himself so easily.

"Keep this pressed to it, stop the bleeding. You know where the first aid kit is. Get yourself sorted and go to school. I'm going back to bed."

And with that his Dad had marched out of his room, slamming the door behind him.

Wayne had instinctively pressed the shirt to his side, watching as the red of his own blood slowly leaked through the material. He fought back tears, unsuccessfully, as he made his way to the bathroom across the hall and grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink, opening it carefully with one hand. He didn't want to wake up the man across the hall with the noise after all.

When he'd been younger, his Dad had come home bleeding from his arm. His Mom had dragged his father up the stairs and sat him down on the edge of the bath, muttering something about his him having been shot and that he should have gone to the hospital. Wayne remembered his Dad stubbornly refusing to go anywhere and instead had told his mother to clean up the blood and wrap the wound tightly using the bandages.

His father had treated the scar as a badge of honour ever since.

That morning, Wayne had fumbled through the kit, pulling out the bandages and antiseptic and all the things he vaguely remembered his Mom using all those years ago. After 15 minutes he'd managed to clean the wound as best he could (it wasn't that deep, not really, no wonder his Dad thought he was making a fuss for nothing) and he'd wrapped a lot of bandages and padding around his side.

5 minutes later, because he was already running late, he was out of the house and attempting to head to the bus stop to catch his ride to school.

It had been at that point that Mrs Roberts had emerged from next door, had spotted the blood leaking through his shirt and had declared that he needed to come with her right that instant to the hospital.

The rest, Wayne thought, as he heard someone approach the door, was history. Maybe he'd get to wear his scar like a badge too…

11th June 1994 - Aged 16

"Hey kiddo, your old man in?"

The man stood before him was tall, well-built and was probably, Wayne thought, an enforcer for his Dad. He vaguely recognised him, thought his name was Tucker, but he couldn't have been sure. The number of gang members who wandered in and out of the house was huge, and Wayne rarely bothered to remember their names. More often than not they'd only appear a couple of times before they were let go, shot or arrested. Plus, he had more important things to remember, like Algebra and Chemistry.

Wayne looked the man in the eyes, pleased that he only had to crane his neck a couple of inches. Thank God he'd inherited his Dad's height; it made facing down dangerous criminals a lot less frightening.

"No. He's out there," Wayne replied, pointing a finger over at the small clump of trees to the left of the house, "Said he had some more cooking to do today, muttered something about the San Jose deal?"

Tucker, or Turner, or whoever the hell was stood outside of their door at 3 in the afternoon nodded, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting up, blowing the smoke into Wayne's face seemingly on purpose. Wayne didn't care, didn't find the gesture intimidating in the slightest. A little second hand smoke was nothing compared to a fist, or a foot or a blade.

"Right, guess I should go up there and help."

Wayne shrugged, not particularly giving a rat's ass what his Dad and his 'friends' were up to. He figured his father was either involved in Coke or Crystal Meth, but he'd never ventured up to the gangs workshop on the outer edge of the property to find out. That, and the fact that his Dad had threatened to put him in the hospital for a month if he stuck his nose into gang business, which was, in all honesty, a pretty big deterrent. The scar on his side still ached from time to time, and it was normally enough of an incentive to do as his father asked.

He belatedly realised that the other man hadn't left yet, and Wayne frowned, looking up at him once more.

"You want anything else? I don't know anything about anything…"

"Just wondering if I could borrow your phone kid? Need to make a call back to the others, let them know that I'm helping your old man out today, check in, you know…"

Wayne shrugged again, still not caring. The less he knew the better.

"Sure, phone's just there. Let yourself out when you're done, I've got stuff to do." Normally he wouldn't be so bold with his words in front of others, but he was a Rigsby and with it came a certain reputation in their neighbourhood. His Dad always maintained that he needed to live up to the family name when members of the gang were involved, even if he had nothing to do with them. Actually, his Dad's exact words had been: 'Don't you dare show me up you little fucker. You could be the world's biggest pussy for all I care, but you will not embarrass me or the family name when there are members around. I have a reputation and you need to live up to that or I will beat you so hard you won't even remember your goddamn name!'

So, even though he didn't care what his father did, Wayne maintained a soft sort of arrogance when it came to dealing with the gang members, but mostly tried to stay out of the way. He didn't enjoy his Dad's lifestyle, and so avoided it for the most part.

He heard Tucker (or whoever) mutter in the hall and ignored him, instead wandering into the kitchen. He grabbed himself a soda and some chips, hoping that the snack would stave off the hunger while he finished off his work. He had a sudden craving for a muffin, and his heart clenched slightly as his memories turned to his mother.

He heard the phone being set down and listened as Tucker shut the door behind him.

He wandered back through the hallway and ambled up the stairs, hearing the faint strains of Fleetwood Mac coming from the radio in his room. His Dad didn't like him listening to what he deemed 'pussy music' but his Dad wasn't there and if he wanted to listen to soft rock as opposed to aggressive metal then he would. 'Go Your Own Way' flowed seamlessly into 'Private Dancer' and Wayne smiled, tapping his toes to the rhythm of the music.

His Dad had thrown out his Mom's old Tina Turner CD's just because they were her favourite. Wayne missed the times when he was a kid and he and his Mom used to dance around the living room together when his Dad wasn't there. It had been one of the few times he'd ever seen her happy.

He reached his desk, or what was considered his desk. In fact, it was a plank of wood over a couple of crates that his Dad had stolen from a local bar. It used to contain a lot of whiskey, but his Dad had soon drunk through it and had then presented Wayne with the empty containers as if they were some sort of prize. Still, it was better than nothing, and Wayne knew better than to complain to his father about anything.

Wayne opened his homework for the third time that day. He was usually able to concentrate on his school work but today he just wasn't in the right frame of mind. He hated social studies, and he especially hated career-related homework. He sighed, grabbed a chip from the bag and looked down at the questions again.

What career would you like to pursue in the future?

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

Name one influential person that relates to your chosen career.

He looked idly out of the window as he contemplated what he was going to write and he smiled as he spotted Mrs Roberts planting some kind of flower in her front yard. She had been keeping a closer eye on him since she'd taken him to the hospital a couple of years back, and a week barely went by without her asking his Dad for Wayne's assistance in some menial task. His father thought that the woman next door was making him do chores and hard work, which he thought was an excellent idea, but in reality, she was feeding him cake and providing an ear for his troubles.

The years since his Mom had left had been hard, with his Dad taking a more leading role in the gang and Wayne essentially having to raise himself. He managed to keep up with his homework and his studies, and he had plenty of friends outside of school too. He never brought anyone round though, he couldn't risk them finding out about his Dad's affiliations, or worse, discover his Dad drunk and violent. That was something only Wayne was supposed to see. He couldn't risk anyone else getting hurt. His father had already destroyed his mother, and was well on the way to taking himself out of the equation permanently; Wayne wasn't going to risk anyone else's safety if he could help it.

Mrs Roberts was his constant really, and Wayne had accepted her silent plea for him to treat her as a second mother. She had been kind to him since his Mom had left, and had been at the funeral when he and his Dad had buried her two years later. His Dad had been drunk that day too, so Mrs Roberts had held his hand all the way through the service.

He turned his attention back to his homework and focused on answering the questions. The sooner he finished the work, the sooner he could watch tv.

15 minutes later, Wayne turned down the radio as he heard the distant wail of police sirens. He wondered briefly if they were here for his father; it had been a while since he'd been arrested after all. His promotion up the gang hierarchy had meant that he could delegate the more dangerous tasks to others, leaving him, like a mafia don, with a bit of legal leeway between himself and the consequences of his actions.

Still, it didn't make him infallible and Wayne peered out of the window once more, stopping halfway through a sentence about how he saw himself tracking down a dangerous criminal that no one else could catch in 10 years times (his Mom had always said he'd had a wild imagination…)

Wayne tracked the lights of the police, and suddenly saw that the usual police cruisers were being followed by some pretty big black SUVs. Definitely Government Issue; he'd seen them enough times on the TV after all. He wondered just how much trouble his Dad was going to be in this time.

He grabbed his shoes and pulled them on, and raced down the stairs, heading towards the back door. His curiosity was piqued and he really wanted to see what the government wanted with his Dad. He wondered if there would be a shootout, like something out of Miami Vice or Hawaii 5-0. He ran carefully up towards the edge of the clump of trees, careful to not make too much noise. He'd come up here as a kid, once his Mom had moved out and his Dad had pretty much left him to his own devices. He found it was a great place to escape from his father and the gang. At least, it had been, until his old man had decided that he could build a useful little shack there that couldn't be spotted from the road.

Wayne glimpsed the pale walls of his Dad's workshop, and he hung back carefully, remaining hidden in the bushes surrounding the little clearing. He could see a couple of people make their way through the trees and he figured that they were going to arrest whoever was in the small shack. There was smoke coming out of the top of the workshop and Wayne watched as one man, dressed in what looked like a bullet proof vest and a gun slung over his shoulder, paused and looked up at the roof. His father had left a trailer to the side of the building and he watched as the man grabbed a rag from the back of the trailer, hoisted himself up onto the roof and placed the material over the chimney, blocking any of the smoke from escaping into the atmosphere. Wayne watched as, a few seconds later, his father and a couple of other men slammed open the door and ran out coughing and spluttering. Wayne guessed that the smoke that emanated from the building wasn't particularly healthy.

He held his breath as two heavily armed men, DEA stamped on their jackets, shouted at the men exiting the building to surrender quietly. Wayne watched as his Dad spat something at the men, and was treated to a punch to the jaw as payback. His father was promptly turned around, the snap of the handcuffs around his wrists loud in the clearing. Wayne sighed. He should probably get back to the house. It wouldn't be too long until the police came to check on his home, and it would probably be wise for him to be there. He knew what the next couple of days would entail; a visit to the local Child Services, and interview with the police and then, as soon as his Dad was released, an escort back to the house. It had happened a few times before, although Wayne was pretty sure that this time could be different. The government involvement was certainly new, and practically screamed a more serious offense on his Dad's part.

He trailed back down to the house, wandered through the kitchen, and back up to his room. Wayne carefully closed his homework, and stuffed it into his school bag before grabbing a small suitcase and flung a few things haphazardly into it. He knew the routine and it was always better to have some spare clothes when you didn't know where the hell you were going to be in a couple of days' time.

He sat back on his bed, closed his eyes and listened to the faint strains of music coming from the radio, waiting for the inevitable knock on the door.

26th September 1999 - aged 21

Wayne, or 'Rigsby' as he was now known, gazed up and down the line he was currently stood in. The rows and rows of new trainees were quite daunting, and he wondered just how many of them will finish the training that was due to be the sole focus of his life for the next year.

He had applied for the academy straight out of college. He'd got into Ohio State on a football scholarship, but he found that his interest in science allowed him to study Chemistry whenever his interest in being a jock waned. He wasn't sure whether it was his father's background in drugs or the memory of his mother's meticulous mixing of ingredients in their kitchen at home that had piqued his interest in the more chemical side of the sciences; it wasn't something he liked to dwell on too often. Still, he'd managed to get his head round the intricacies of chemical reactions, and for a guy who, if he as honest looked like a dumb jock, he was pleased to say that he was pretty good at the whole education thing. Sure, he'd not come top of the class, but that didn't matter; he'd worked damned hard to earn the grades he'd needed to apply for the training. He had maintained the fitness routine throughout his studies, the lure of the track (and the girls) too much to stay away, and everything had worked out pretty well for him once he'd realised that he wanted to be a cop and nothing else.

San Diego had accepted him based on his GPA and recommendations from his tutor, and he found that his chemical background would allow him to fast track to the Arson squad if he completed the training and kept his head down. He was quite looking forward to the prospect. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do in the future, but he figured that a good track record in something as specific as arson would really kick start his career. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and his father's reputation as he could; it was time the Rigsby name stood for more than a life as a career criminal.

His mind flashed back to four months ago, when he found out he'd been accepted. He'd driven up to Folsom, wandered into the visitor's area and waited for his Dad's arrival. His father hadn't said much as he'd sat down, merely attempted to stare him down. It hadn't worked, not really, because Rigsby had been out of his father's influence for years and he's just about managed to put his fear and panic at the sight of his old man into a locked box at the back of his mind. (Mostly. He still dreamt about that damn switch-blade…)

After the usual 'pleasantries' that went with any visit to see his father in prison, Wayne had explained what had happened, how he'd been accepted into the training academy, how he was really excited about becoming a cop, how he hoped that he could make him proud one day. (He'd been trying since he was 6, and he'd never got anywhere with it in all honesty.)

He still remembered the flash of emotions he had seen cross the older man's face as he'd sat on the uncomfortable plastic chairs. Anger, disappointment, disgust. It was as if Wayne had chosen the most abhorrent thing possible as a career. When he thought about it, he probably had. What was worse for a career criminal than a son determined to be a cop?

No wonder his Dad had spat at him, called him a 'pig' and walked off, the chains round his wrist and ankles clinking long after he'd disappeared through the security door.

Wayne hadn't returned to Folsom since.

For once in his life, Rigsby had a plan, and in no way did it involve his father. He knew his old man was currently locked up and on a 10 year stretch, but he didn't particularly care; he didn't want to risk his new career because his Dad was an asshole who didn't know when to stop. He'd been charged and convicted of the manslaughter of Tucker Bryce, enforcer to the gang, who had been brave enough (or stupid enough, he thought wryly) to become a snitch on his employers in order to save himself from some serious prison time. His Dad had beaten him to death with a 2x4, but had managed to convince the jury (he was still unsure how) that it was self-defence, resulting in a reduction from murder 1 to manslaughter. Still, it meant his father was finally locked away from more than a couple of years and Rigsby was quite happy to play the 'out of sight, out of mind card'. He had more important things to do.

He watched as a tall man wandered up to a podium in front of the new trainees and began talking about a new beginning, a clean slate for all and how everyone of the trainees in front of him were part of the future of law enforcement.

Rigsby smiled as he listened, knowing that somewhere, wherever her spirit was now, his Mom was proud.

August 2nd 2005 - Age 27

Rigsby slowly made his way through the doors, squinting as the bright lights in the reception area hit his eyes. It was a dreary day in Sacramento, and he briefly pondered whether the weather was a sign. He looked around and spotted a small desk, a security guard lazily leaning back on his chair. Rigsby could see builders and workmen making their way through the corridor, and he figured that the building was still in the renovation stages.

He brought a hand up to his face, stroking the growth around his chin thoughtfully. Susan had said the goatee had made him look handsome, but he'd had the piss ripped out of him by Collins and Jacobson all month. He wondered if he should shave it off. Still, it was a bit late to be thinking about it now.

Rigsby turned, and marched determinedly towards the security guard, who looked up when he coughed slightly.

"Can I help you?"

Rigsby looked down at the man, trying to calm his suddenly frantic heartbeat.

"Uh. Yeah. I'm Wayne Rigsby. I'm looking for Serious Crimes, I've got an interview…"

The guard didn't reply; clearly Rigsby wasn't the first one to have entered the slightly intimidating building that day with the view of getting a job further up the career ladder.

"Through there, turn left, hit the elevators. Fourth floor and you're all set. Good luck."

The expression on the man's face didn't look like he was actually wishing Rigsby anything, but he was quite happy to play along. All he needed to do was get through the next couple of hours, try his best at the interview and keep his fingers crossed. Serious Crime was a massive step up from Arson, but Rigsby felt he was ready. His life had been full of challenges so far and he was really looking forward to taking the next step in his career. And, Rigsby knew, the California Bureau of Investigation was the perfect place to do it.

He made his way through the building, locating the elevator with ease and navigating safely to the fourth floor. No one else joined him on the way up, and Rigsby was quite thankful; it gave him an opportunity to calm himself down before what was likely to be the most important interview of his life.

He exited the elevator and made his way through some double doors, trying to take in all the information as people bustled by him. Despite the building work the CBI headquarters was clearly a busy place. After briefly checking with someone called Roy about the location for the interviews, he made his way down a short corridor.

There was an Asian man standing to his left as he entered a small waiting area, leaning casually against the doorway, arms folded across his chest. He looked almost bored and Wayne figured he was the person in charge of checking over the potential new recruits; sizing them all up to see who was nervous, who was nosy, who would be a good fit and the like. Rigsby smiled at him and took a seat, trying to make himself appear confident, but not cocky. He would potentially have to work with this guy at some point; it wouldn't do to appear to be an asshole straight off the bat.

The Asian man didn't say anything, just gave him a slight nod of acknowledgement, which Rigsby took to be something of an achievement. Well, anything that wasn't throwing up all over the tiled floor from the nerves in his stomach was something of an achievement at the moment.

He glanced around, but there was no one around apart from himself and the other man, who appeared to be studiously ignoring him while remaining in his leaning position against the door. Rigsby sighed and leant back against the chair, resting his arm on the back of the piece of furniture next to him. He closed his eyes briefly, trying to both calm himself and run through the answers to the most likley questions he would be asked. He'd been prepping for 3 weeks; he was ready, he knew it, he just had to make sure he didn't screw up.

There was the sound of a door opening and closing at the end of the adjacent corridor, and Rigsby instinctively sat up straighter, hoping to make a good impression on whoever might appear momentarily around the corner. He subconsciously held his breath, not having felt this nervous since his interview for San Diego.

A few seconds later, a middle aged woman walked round the corner and hurried quickly to the elevator. Rigsby sighed, figuring that she wasn't his potential new boss. He started to sit back again when another sound travelled down the corridor, this time an indistinct shout. The Asian man, who had still not said anything, stood up and made his way to stand in front of Rigsby, who looked up at him, a questioning expression on his face.

"You're up. Good luck." The stranger said, motioning towards the corridor, and taking a step back so that Rigsby could pass.

"Uh, thanks. Any advice?" He asked, trying to instil some humour into the stilted conversation.

"Yeah. Don't act like an idiot, they don't like that."

"Right," Rigsby replied, frowning slightly. "Thanks, uh…"

"Cho." The man replied. "Now move; I don't want to be on babysitting duty all day."

Rigsby didn't reply, merely nodded, and headed down the corridor. He spared a quick glance back before he reached the door and he could have sworn that the stranger, Cho, had a smile on his face. That was a good sign right? He paused slightly at the door, before taking a deep breath and knocking, firmly and distinctly.

There was a muffled "come in," and he entered, head held high and back straight. He remembered some advice his Dad had given him years ago: "Always appear confident son, even when you're shit scared. People know how to deal with confidence, whereas most don't want to deal with pussies."

Rigsby took in the scene in front of him: a long table with three chairs set out behind it. On each chair sat an important looking person, the three of them making up the interview panel. One, a tall man with receding hair and a grandfatherly face, stood and held out a hand.

"Ah, Officer Rigsby I presume?"

Rigsby nodded and shook the man's hand. "Yes sir."

"I'm Virgil Minelli, Director of the CBI. This is Alex Chambers, head of our recruitment department," Minelli gestured to a rather stocky gentleman to his left, who also held out his hand to shake.

"Sir," Rigsby said, nodding in acknowledgment of the other man as he took the outstretched hand.

"And this," Minelli said, signalling to a petite brunette woman on his right, "is Special Agent Teresa Lisbon, Agent in Charge of the unit you are interviewing for."

Agent Lisbon looked him up and down, not putting her hand out immediately. She was obviously sizing him up, trying to determine whether the tall, lanky jock would be a suitable fit in her team. Clearly, she was going to be the one he needed to impress in this interview. Rigsby suddenly felt a wave of panic flow through him; the woman in front of him appeared to be pretty intimidating. He stood confidently and offered his own hand, the gesture seemingly submissive but he felt it was the right thing to do. He relaxed as Lisbon smiled softly at him and took his proffered hand, the touch firm but not aggressively so. Rigsby suddenly felt relaxed and he eased himself into the chair in front of the panel indicated to him by Minelli. He took a deep breath, looked around again and awaited the first question.

"Well Officer Rigsby," Minelli started, looking him straight in the eye. "First things first then; why do you want to work at the CBI?"

It was a standard opening question, one he was prepared for. Rigsby spared a glance at the other two members of the panel, and, spotting Lisbon's smile again and feeling a need to prove himself to her, to make her proud just like his Mom had been once upon a time, began to answer. He had a feeling that everything was going to go his way today.

24th April 2011- Aged 33

Rigsby semi-stumbled into his house, flicking on the light switch as he did so. The bulb flickered, illuminating the hallway. He toed off his shoes and threw his keys and badge onto the table by the door. His head ached from the blow his father had given him, and he was pretty sure he had a bruised rib. Rigsby was thankful he hadn't given his father the satisfaction of showing his pain; shutting himself off was something he'd learnt to do pretty early in his life.

He went to the fridge, pulled out another beer and flopped himself down on his couch, wincing as his side ached.

It was the same old cycle that had played out since he was 8. He was used to it by now. Still, being threatened with a knife wielded by your own father was not something you ever really got used to.

He pulled up his shirt to check out the bruising, and traced the faint scar as it caught his attention. It had been over 20 years, but he could still feel the blade slice into his skin as if it was only that morning. He had really never spoken about it with anyone in detail; it's in the right place that he can pass it off as an appendectomy scar if he needed to. Anyone who studied it too closely, however, would note the slightly jagged edge and the thickness of the pink scarring.

Rigsby pulled down his shirt and sipped at his beer, thinking back over the events that had taken place only a couple of hours before. He wasn't sure why he had broken into his father's home, but it had felt like the right thing to do, felt that it was something that would finally, finally, give his Dad something to be proud of him for.

He had never raised his hands to his father, had never really had the chance, so when he had done so earlier that evening it had taken him by surprise. What had shocked him even more was the look that had flickered across his Dad's face; something that looked like fear, and, for the first time in what felt like eons, pride. Rigsby thought it was a shame that it had taken 25 years and a full on fight for his Dad to show him an emotion that wasn't pity, disgust or hated. Still, at least he had prevented his father from advancing in his illegal cigarette trade, however temporarily, and he was taking that as something positive out of this whole case, even if he hadn't achieved the adulation and love of his father he'd been trying to achieve since the age of 8.

Rigsby took another long pull of his beer and winced as he jolted his side slightly. He continued to go over the events of the evening, trying to process everything that had occurred. He felt pretty foolish for his awkward conversation with Grace in the break room; he really had no idea what had led him there in the first place. Comfort maybe, or the need for a familiar face. He was pretty sure Jane would be able to psychoanalyse an answer out of him just by how he sat at his desk the next morning, but Rigsby didn't really care. He'd need to try and smooth things over with her in the morning, it wasn't fair to Grace that he couldn't put his own feelings aside to go to her wedding.

He wondered briefly what his Dad was doing right now. Was he aching too? Had he finally succeeded in inflicting his father with the same pain he'd felt himself all these years? Rigsby kind of hoped so. It would serve his Dad right to finally understand what he'd put his own son through for a majority of his life. Rigsby knew that if he ever had his own child he would treat them right, would show them what having a proper father was all about.

All of a sudden he felt the exhaustion run through him and he stood up gingerly, resting a hand on his aching side. He wandered into his bathroom and fished out a couple of painkillers, tossing them back with the rest of his beer. He filled a glass of water and headed into his bedroom, intent on falling into a deep sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Rigsby sighed as he pulled back the cool sheets and lay down.

He hoped that he doesn't ache quite so badly in the morning. Tomorrow was another day and he needed to be on top form. He was a cop after all and he had a job to do.