Title: And We Lean In
Rating: PG-13
Category: Jane/Lisbon
Disclaimer: Yeah, right.
Spoilers: Specific references to Red Hair and Silver Tape, Ladies in Red, and Carnelian Inc. In my head, this is set after Miss Red and before Red John's Footsteps.
Summary: "Is that supposed to make me feel special?"
Author's Notes: I was working on something else for The Mentalist, and this came out instead. It's lighter than my usual stuff, but I realized that as I was writing this that I was trying these characters on for size. Title from the Trespassers William song of the same name.

Special thanks to both muzzy-olorea and shutterbug-12 for betaing. Naturally I would need two betas for a piece that isn't even 1500 words.

5/03/10: I apologize for having to update this. FFN took out my old scene breaks, so I had to replace them. :)

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something's in the air tonight
the sky's alive with a burning light
you can mark my words something's about to break
-Mat Kearney, "Nothing Left To Lose"

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He's lying on his couch, body stretched out and supine, when a dull thud interrupts his state of half-consciousness. He pulls his hands out from under his head, shifting himself on the well-worn leather until he pushes himself to a standing position. It doesn't take a has-been fake psychic to discern the source of his disturbance.

He ambles over to her office and leans casually against the door frame. "Our first Saturday off in a month, and you just can't keep away," he proclaims dramatically. "Don't have anything better to do?"

"You're one to talk," she retorts, her back to him. "I just came in to pick up a few of these boxes."

He watches, silent, arms folded across his chest, as she stops shifting cardboard boxes.

"You're doing that thing," she says, her tone slightly irritated. But she turns to lean against her desk, and her eyes belie her tone, amused. "Don't do that thing."

"What thing?" He shrugs, feigning innocence.

"I'm not a suspect, not a client. I'm off duty, and in five minutes, I won't even be here anymore." Her thumb slides against the edge of her Post-It notes, a soft flap as she releases them. "You're not my problem today."

"I don't have to be your problem." He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. "You could let me help you."

"Yeah, right."

He motions one hand over his heart. "What? Don't you trust me? Lisbon, I'm wounded."

"Drama queen," she scoffs. "I think we've already established where I stand on that."

"And I've established that you're wrong."

She exhales, chuckles. "That's your best argument? You're losing your touch, Jane."

"Not if it works." He leans back, adjusting himself against the doorjamb. "You want to trust me; you just won't let yourself. It's always control with you, Lisbon."

She's silent then, gathering the final boxes in her arms, as she passes him in favor of the elevators.

He waits, almost patiently, for her to reach her destination. With about three feet left to go she stops, hair slides against her shoulder, and then --

"You coming?"

xxx

He shifts, stretches, and props himself up on one elbow. He's taken up residence on her living room sofa as she sits cross-legged between boxes and files on the floor.

"Lisbon," he calls out, an almost whine.

She glances up, manila folder still in hand, and quirks an eyebrow. "Is my couch not up to Jane Standards?"

"Oh, no." He swings his legs around and pushes himself up, patting the cushion beside him emphatically. "It could use some more breaking in, but I could get used to this."

She snorts. "Don't get too used to it."

He bounces against the soft fabric in defiance. "I'm hungry," he declares, sighing dramatically. "Let's order in."

She looks up again, raised eyebrow seemingly permanent.

"I'll even let you order from that Thai place Rigsby always vetoes."

She cracks a smile, shakes her head, relents. "The take out menus are --"

"Top drawer under the telephone," he interrupts, halfway to her kitchen.

"Should I even bother trying to order?" she calls out, laughing.

She doesn't see him watching just minutes later, order complete but portable phone still in hand.

xxx

He's sitting on the floor now, legs stretched out before him, back against the couch. She's still cross-legged next to the coffee table, take out boxes intermingled with triplicate forms in what he's sure are supposed to be organized stacks.

"Can you hand me that box over there?" she asks, head still trained downward at the piles before her.

He groans his discomfort as he lugs the offending cardboard to her, placing it down by her feet with a resounding thud. "That's heavy," he says, palms rubbing circles along his lower back.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you to lift from your legs and not your back?"

"Thanks for the warning." He frowns, displeased, as her focus never shifts. "What is in that box?" he demands, mostly joking.

Her attention finally turns, and he finds himself enjoying the playful sparkle in her eyes.

"Oh, that box." Her tone is even, steady, nonchalant. (When did that happen?) "Those are the official complaints filed against you last month."

xxx

"Thanks for dinner," she says, bringing her knees up by her chest. She's moved next to him, leaning back against the couch, fighting the contented smile that's playing against her lips.

"Don't thank me. Cho and Rigsby paid for it."

"Don't tell me. I don't want to know." She tilts her head, bemused. "When are they going to learn not to bet against you." She pauses, pensive, and then, "Have you ever lost? Even once?"

"Sure," he offers, waggling an eyebrow. "I didn't seduce that widow."

"Right. Because you can seduce anyone."

His eyes never leave hers, and he realizes she's finally beginning to think he's right.

"I could," he says, self-assuredly. "But I'm here with you instead."

Her shudder is subtle and involuntary. In fact, only he notices.

"Is that supposed to make me feel special?" she asks.

She isn't expecting an answer, but he gives her one anyway.

xxx

The first thing she notices the next morning as she wakes is that her pillow seemingly lost its softness overnight.

"Mmph," she groans, rolling over. It's only then that she finds him, half sideways, propped up against the headboard.

"Good morning," he greets her cheerfully. His eyes travel, and she feels exposed in spite of the blankets that protect her. "You sleep like the dead," he adds.

"This is not happening," she deadpans, glaring through eyes still heavy with sleep.

His voice, much to her dismay, is decidedly cheeky. "I can assure you that it most certainly did." His gaze wanders again, and there's that emphatic grin. "Twice."

She releases her hold on the comforter long enough to slap him on the chest. "You're insufferable. You know that, Jane?" she mutters, voice still thick with sleep and thinly-veiled embarrassment.

"Someone may have mentioned it before, Teresa."

"I hate you," she says, rubbing her eyes. She narrows her gaze. "Call me 'Teresa' at work, and I will not hesitate to shoot you."

"Meh." He scoffs. "Empty threats. Your bark is worse than your bite."

He dismisses her with a casual wave of his hand, although there's a mark just below his clavicle that begs to differ.

She turns to her side, propping herself up on an elbow. "I seem to remember something about not seducing me over a meal," she challenges, eyes suddenly alert, faint hint of a smile pulling at her lips.

"Turns out it wasn't as sophomoric as I thought," he offers, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. He settles himself against the pillows, looking all too much like he belongs there, and asks, "So, what happens next?"

"You're kidding, right?" She rolls her eyes because she knows he isn't. "You're the psychic. You tell me."

But when he pushes her back against the pillows, she finds herself thinking that control just may be overrated after all.

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fin

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