Title: Hey Jealousy
Disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own The Mentalist.
Summary: "You have nothing to be jealous about either," he tells her quietly. L/R
Timeline: Set during the Pilot.
Pairing(s): Teresa Lisbon/Wayne Rigsby and hints of Patrick Jane/Grace Van Pelt
Written for: Devon
I know some of you will read the pairing on this, and be confused. But yes, this is not a Jane/Lisbon piece.
Patrick Jane has never been more wrong, Lisbon muses, as she sips at her drink—bemused at the consultant’s cocky grin aimed toward her, the sputtering agents, and the general assumption that there was a possible attraction between Agents Van Pelt and Rigsby.
His wrongness only makes her question his motives, as Jane has either been ignoring the clues in front of him (which she wouldn’t and couldn’t doubt—Jane, for all his loyalty, operated on collection information to use later on for blackmail, but the way his eyes continued to linger on the newest agent, she knew it wouldn’t be too long before the ball was in her court) or, he just couldn’t see what had been going on behind closed doors for at least three months now.
Lisbon glances at her fellow Agents, as she sits her drink down; Cho is secretly amused, and that doesn’t surprise her. Cho teases Rigsby, and their friendship has been a camaraderie based off Jane’s type of ribbing. Van Pelt, she then notices, is blushing and although the attraction can’t be two-sided, she is still overcome with a burning jealousy.
She glances at Rigsby to find the man glaring at Jane, and hopes his sputtering act was due to the absurdity of Jane’s suggestion.
“…Rigsby is an excellent lover, I’m sure. Tough but fair. Right?”
Lisbon remains silent, because even though Jane had been wrong in his previous assumptions, he couldn’t have been anymore right there. Her toes curl from just thinking about Jane’s words, and the images that occupy her brain at that moment.
“The kingdom of God is a real place, Mr. Jane. And you have an immortal soul.” Van Pelt gave to Jane, who merely tosses back a pained look.
“Oh, I do so hope you’re wrong.”
She snickers under her breath; Jane and Van Pelt were perfect for each other, the skeptic and the believer. Of course, both would doubt that—Jane still harbors the guilt for his deceased wife and child, and Van Pelt doesn’t want any “monkey business” her first week on the job.
“Waitress,” she calls. “I’d like the check, please.”
Rigsby doesn’t glance at her, and team ushers a generic goodbye before she pays and she’s gone from the rest of the table.
She’s already in bed, when somebody knocks at her door.
She wants to ignore whoever it is, but in case its security with a grinning Patrick Jane in tow (like the last time they stayed in a hotel); she knows she needs to answer it. She throws aside the covers and hurries to open the door, clad in an extra-large t-shirt and barefoot.
“Jane, if you’ve…” She unlocks, and throws open the door to find Rigsby, leaning against the opposite wall. “Never mind, you aren’t Jane.”
“Should I worry, be concerned or be jealous?” Rigsby teases and Lisbon rolls her eyes.
“You have nothing to be jealous about,” she informs him. “Now, if you don’t mind I…”
“You have nothing to be jealous about either.” Rigsby quietly tells her, and though the man towers over her, she’s always been able to tell how he feels—and currently, with his hands in his pockets—he’s afraid she might send him away. “He’s wrong.”
She steps back, and opens her door completely.
“Come on then,” she gives. “We don’t have all night.” He leaves the hallway, steps into her room, and she shuts the door behind him before one of his hands cups her chin and the other hand presses against the small of her back, keeping her close. “No sex tonight. If security is called, I would like to be coherent enough to deal with Jane’s stupidity.”
Rigsby nods with a slight smile, and lifts her chin to where he can lean down and capture her lips in a firm yet gentle kiss—his lips are wet, and he never uses his tongue to gain entrance into her mouth, because her mouth parts without much prompting. Her tongue has already taken permission to invade what is rightfully hers, and his tongue begins to stroke her mouth to ecstasy.
She moans, and she can feel his lips form into a grin.
“Still for nothing?” He asks softly, as he breaks the kiss and though he still has her against his chest, she glares up at him.
“I never told you to stop.” She mutters, and he laughs.
“No, you didn’t.” He presses his lips to hers again.