I know where in my mind this came from, but I'm too tired to explain. It's partially a prediction, partially just my brain coming up with a potential pattern scenario. Anyway.

Something happening once could be an anomaly.

So when they scream at each other that night in the garage, neither thinks it will be the last time they see each other. Neither thinks they'll never have a chance to make a better ending.

And then he's teetering on the edge of disaster, his chances of survival slimming with every passing moment, she is racing against time and traffic to get to him, she doesn't know if she'll make it in time and he doesn't know if she's coming at all and they're both consumed by what ifs, playing out situations in their heads that the other doesn't even know about.

Wishing that they'd get another chance.

And then they do, but it's too real now, there's too much risk, they're both not strong enough or ready enough and they continue to press on as before, allowing themselves to feel safe, teaching themselves to ignore the feeling because it's better this way. And they get comfortable again.

So when they storm away from each other in the parking lot outside her apartment, they both expect to see each other at work the following morning. They both expect to have one of their trademark brief but honest conversations and move on, pressing on as before.

And then she's flat on her back near the door to her building, hearing the confrontation happening outside, flinching every time a shot rings out even though none hit her and Ralph is at school, out of harm's way, and he's physically restrained by Cabe and another agent because he's irrational and can't think straight and she can't just run into his arms this time.

And then, like magic, the situation dissipates, the shooters are downed, the danger is over, she finds her phone twenty feet away where it skidded when she heard the shots and hit the floor, she answers his ninth call with "I'm okay."

She returns to work that night, with Ralph at her side, asking if they can stay there just until they feel safe again.

They both stay up that night, watching Ralph sleep, her head on his shoulder because it's late, she's tired, and they both just want to be close to each other after what happened that day. Their second close call since things started to get real.

In the morning, despite the seemingly permanent raised eyebrows of the behaviorist, they go on as if nothing happened. As if they almost, once again, didn't get to make things right.

When a case gets too real, too personal, too close to what they are, and they both react badly, verbally at each other's throats once again, it's in the back of both of their minds that every time they have a blowup, something happens that makes them almost immediately regret it. Not because they regret their stance, no, they don't have gigantic fights over petty things, but because they always – always – leave things unsaid. They risk everything but their hearts. They always leave something to regret.

And then they're both on a burning boat, out of sight of the shore, not having any way of knowing if their team was coming and fearful that this might be the time their luck runs out.

A burning piece of...something, it's impossible to tell at this point, comes crashing down from somewhere above, separating them even though they stand less than five feet apart. He shouts her name, terrified at the lack of a response, closing his eyes briefly in relief when he finally hears her answer. She calls, asking if he has clarity enough to jump, and then they're both in the water, getting as far away as possible from the wreckage. They tread water, looking up at the sky for any sign of help.

"Paige-"

"Walter-"

They look at each other, both fully intending to speak but expecting the other to speak first, and then in the distance is a sound – a familiar, comforting sound.

"Rescue helicopter," he says.

Within twenty minutes, both are wrapped in blankets, heading home. Saved by the bell, once again. Saved in time to pretend, to put things off, to wait because despite it all, they both still believe that they have time. She knows he notices she's looking at him, wanting to start again what she had begun in the water, and he knows she notices he's doing that thing with his hand that he does when he has something important on his mind.

"Crazy day," he says to her that night, as she's putting her coat on to go home.

She looks at him for a long time. "Yeah."

If others observed them at this moment, they would say there was a long silence. They don't notice. They understand neither of them are talking. They don't know how long this persists for. They're both struggling, both wondering, both thinking of all the regret they've already felt, that they've been able to push back because it has all worked out so well thus far.

But why, they wonder, must there be this cycle? This mess of "we're fine," and "oh god, what if this is it?" Insanity, it was said, is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. This is no longer an anomaly. This is a pattern.

"I don't want to do this anymore," rushes through lips.

The response is equal parts surprised and hopeful. "What?"

"I don't want to pretend that I only want to tell you how I feel when one of us is about to die and I might never get the chance."

There's another silence of unverified length. Then a small nod. "Me either."

Hope you guys liked this. Wanted to leave it up to the reader who initiates the final conversation, and let the reader decide exactly how the rest of the conversation goes. Also, I'm very tired.