Title: The Devil You Know

Author: Mlee Write

Rating: T for now

Disclaimer: I am not affiliated with the Mentalist in any way and am not making a profit.

Summary: Set post Red John. "He just sort of moved in with me," Teresa said. "Like a cat I fed, who won't leave now."

A/N: Fluff! This strays into mild-M territory. Read! Review!


She can see Jane ahead of her, his blond hair reflecting gold in the streetlights. He's headed for the warehouse, the darkened doorway like the gaping maw of a beast.

Red John waits inside that warehouse, his trap carefully laid.

She chases after Jane, her legs feeling slow and heavy. She shouts for him to wait, to stop, but her voice comes out in a little miserable squeak.

She needs to catch him, stop him. He'll die if he goes in there. He doesn't turn back to look at her, doesn't know she's behind him. She tries to hurry, but it's like running through molasses.

He vanishes into the dark doorway, and she sobs, knowing she'll never see him again.


Something stops her, shakes her. She pushes it off.

"Teresa, wake up!"

She sits up, gasping. The fog lifts from her head and she realizes she's in her bed. Jane is sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand on her shoulder. Sweat has pooled between breasts and at the small of her back.

"You were having a bad dream," Jane says, brushing a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

She draws in a deep breath and leans against his chest, inhaling the clean, masculine smell of him. She toys with the collar of his gray tee shirt.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

She wants to say, 'I dreamed you died for your obsession. I dreamed you left me,' but the words won't come out. She shakes her head, presses more tightly against him.

He holds her for a while, saying nothing, but rubbing small, comforting circles on her back.

Finally she pulls back. "How long did I sleep?" she asks hoarsely.

He kisses her forehead. "A few hours. You needed it."

"I need a shower," she observes, feeling sweaty and fetid.

"Do you want help wrapping your arm?" he asks.

She groans, having forgotten about the cast. "I can get it," she insists stubbornly.

In the end he helps tape the plastic bag over her cast. She feels foolish, standing naked on the bathmat while he tends to her. He sits on the toilet while she showers, chatting at her, ignoring the fact that she's being sullen and wants to be alone.

"Do you need help in there?" he asks, watching her intently through the foggy glass shower-door.

"I'm fine," she says.

"Because I can be extremely helpful," he offers seductively.

She shivers despite the hot water. "I'm sure you can," she replies tartly. "But my head and arm are aching and quite honestly, I'm not in the mood."

He sighs. "More tragic words were never spoken."

He waits a moment while she soaps her hair with one hand.

"I went shopping while you slept," he says.

"Oh?" She fumbles with the conditioner, drops it on the shower floor and mutters a mild curse under her breath.

"You're sure you don't need help?" he asks again.

"Yes, Jane," she says irritably. More kindly she asks, "What did you buy?"

"Patrick," he corrects. "Oh, just some things to keep us amused on your leave of absence. You really don't own much in the way of movies of games, Teresa."

"I usually don't have time for that kind of thing," she replies. "Which movies?"

"A whole variety, although I steered away from any cop thrillers. Wouldn't want you to feel the urge to return to work early," he says.

He hands her a towel as she steps out of the shower. Without waiting for her to argue with him, he takes his towel off the hook and helps dry her back and her hair. She peels the wet plastic from her arm and drops into the waste bin.

She feels better after the heat of the shower washed away the muscle tension and sweat from her nightmare. She lets Jane brush her hair, even though she can do it herself. She's never had a lover take these little liberties, little intimacies before. It feels strange to her, but also comfortable and warm. It frightens her because if he does leave, she'll miss these tender touches more than anything.

"Can we watch a movie?" she asks, changing her train of thought before she gets overwhelmed.

"Sure," he says. "Pick one from the pile next to your TV. I'll make some popcorn."

She puts on a robe and heads for the living room. She gasps when she sees the haul Jane bought for them. Probably fifty movies, a dozen board games, a giant shopping bag filled with books and puzzles.

"Jane!" she says. "You didn't have to do this! We'll never finish all of this."

He carries an orange plastic bowl filled with microwave popcorn into the room, sets in on an end table. "Sure we will," he argues. "You're taking an extended leave of absence, remember?"

She nibbles on her lower lip. "Maybe." She hates to think of Van Pelt, Cho and Rigsby without her.

"They'll be fine, Reese," he yells over his shoulder as he returns to the kitchen.

"I hate it when you do that," she mutters, sitting on the floor and sorting through the DVDs. She looks at the packaging. "Jane, I don't have a Blu-ray player."

"Sure you do," he says, returning with two diet sodas. "It's already plugged in."

She sighs. "You really didn't have to do this."

"I wanted to," he says glibly.

"If I wanted a man to buy me stuff, I could have stayed with Mashburn," she mutters, feeling embarrassed. She's always struggled to accept gifts graciously.

"Who says this is all for you, woman?" he asks. "I have to live with you if you're bored."

She rolls her eyes. Jane bought the entire James Bond collection among many other things. She hasn't seen more than a few. She selects a title at random and slides the disc into the player.

She settles on the couch next to him, letting him work the remote since she has no idea how he set her system up. He stretches out on the sofa, and she settles against his chest, resting the popcorn in her lap. His arm falls comfortably around her waist.

A ways into the film she swallows a bite of popcorn and says, "This is so cheesy. The car just turned into a submarine."

"You did pick a film from the Roger Moore era," he says. "He was never my favorite Bond. I was always afraid his hairpiece would fly off in an action sequence."

She laughs, settles more comfortably against him. She's absorbed in the movie once again when she realizes Jane is slowly unknotting her robe with one hand.

"Hmm. What you are doing?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says slyly, kissing her temple. "Watch the movie."

She snorts when Bond tosses a fish from the window. "How did that get there if the car was waterproof—oh."

His hand has found her breast and is massaging it gently, his thumb brushing her nipple.

His lips find her neck, whisper kisses beneath her ear. She shifts on the cushion, feeling the blood pool low in her body.

His teeth tug at her earlobe. She hums in pleasure.

"In the mood yet?" he asks coyly.

She sighs. "No. Not really."

She lets out a squeak and giggle when his fingers prod her side, tickling her.

She turns around in his arms, straddling him. She kisses him. "This really is an awful movie."

"Mmm-hmm," he agrees, kissing her back, parting her lips with his. His tongue is hot and wicked.

She shucks the robe, tugs his pajama pants down.

"Patrick," she whispers, when they are joined.

He grasps her hips in his hands, kisses her worshipfully. "I love you, Teresa."