This story is maybe a little rambling, maybe a little weird. Just little vignettes that center around Jane and his couch. There's some Jane/Lisbon in there, as well as some Van Pelt/Rigsby, because I love them all.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Mentalist because I am a poor college student.

When it came down to it, it was the couch. It had always been the couch.

The thing that Jane made a beeline for every morning. The place he came to think. The place he came to converse with the Elvis-stain in the ceiling. The one place he'd been able to block out the echoes of an evil laugh and a grinning, bloody face and the screams of a little girl.

It had always been the couch.

* * *

Activity and moving folders and coffee and lots and lots of government-paid police officers. That was the first impression that Patrick Jane received of the California Bureau of Investigation when he got off the elevator. He stared around, grinning like he always did—the grin that was on the outside but nowhere deeper.

He'd always liked being surrounded by energy and activity, as long as he wasn't required to be a part of it. That island of calm and observation in the sea of chaos—that was pure Patrick Jane. Always had been. Sure, he'd worked with the police before. Such collaborations had always been a way to attract more private customers, not to mention the fact that it had made his wife proud of him, made her feel less guilty and uncertain about the dubious moral decisions that were an integral part of her husband's career path. But those jobs before had always been superficial. He'd come in, he'd said a few words, he'd left. On rare occasions, he watched an interrogation or two from behind the glass.

Not this time. This Agent Lisbon and her team had the Red John case. And there was nothing superficial about the Red John case, at least not to Jane. So. Island of calm and observation it was. In his experience, people had a damned difficult time in telling an island what to do.

The couch was perfect. It was love at first sight. He spotted it across the crowded bull-pen and it was as though angels had begun singing from the heavens, heralding the dawning of the new age: the Age of the Couch. Gleaming, soft, worn, warm leather drew him in, and he drifted across the room towards it, ignoring confused agents, walking as though in a dream, the grin on his face becoming, for a moment at least, slightly more genuine.

He'd only had a few seconds to cement this newly formed bond—to sink into the glorious depths of the cushions—before he'd been cruelly disturbed by a CBI agent.

"Can I help you with anything?" The agent was a brawny Asian guy with a stony expression and half a cup of lukewarm coffee. Jane lounged back, stretching his arms along the back of the sofa.

"No, I'm good," he said, flashing his brilliant smile once again. He was impressed to see no flicker of confusion in the other man's face—this was not a man who was ever at a loss for words, probably because he used them sparingly.

"That's nice," the agent said. "What are you doing here?"

Jane laughed. "Direct. I like it." He sighed. "I'm here to see Special Agent Teresa Lisbon."

There it was—the first change in the agent's expression. His eyes flicked towards a nearby office. Jane followed the direction of the man's look and saw a closed door and Venetian blinds. A plaque by the door was emblazoned with the name "TERESA LISBON." Through the gaps in the blinds he could see a petite woman with dark hair pacing about the room with surprising energy, arguing with someone on the phone. The phrases, "...don't need a consultant, we close enough cases..." and "...what makes you think I can keep him on a leash?" filtered through to Jane's ears.

He smiled again.

"That her?"

The agent shrugged and moved away without saying anything, sitting at a desk that was, compared to the desks of most police officers Jane had worked with, remarkably free of clutter. He began filling out some kind of report, working slowly and methodically. Jane ran his hands over the leather of the couch's cushions, admiring their softness and smoothness. He kicked up his feet onto the sofa and lay back, tucking his hands under his head and staring up at the ceiling. The agent made no comment on his unorthodox behavior, not looking up from the paperwork.

"Worked here long?" Jane asked, wanting to test this man's patience. The agent didn't respond, so Jane continued on his own. "Probably about five or six months, I'd guess. One of the oldest members of the team. Not that there—there isn't much of a 'team,' is there? This Lisbon, she's a bit of a rising star, but young. And a woman. And the CBI is a boys' club, so there's probably not a lot of people who are keen on working under her."

Still no response from the agent. On the other side of the office door, Agent Lisbon was getting more and more angry. Jane watched as she slammed her fist down onto a stack of files next to her computer's keyboard.

"And you look like a capable guy so you must have—what?" he continued. "Some kind of spotty track record? Not with the Bureau, but...before. People aren't sure whether they can depend on you just yet, so they stuck you with Lisbon to prove yourself." Jane shot a sidelong glance across the room and spotted the nameplate on the agent's desk. "Agent Kimball Cho."

"And you're Patrick Jane," the agent replied, still not looking up. "Professed psychic, police consultant and Red John survivor. Nice to meet you."

"There are no Red John survivors," Jane said sharply. Cho glanced at him for the first time since sitting down at his desk. "And there's no such thing as psychics," he continued in a lighter tone. Cho snorted and nodded his head. Jane looked back up at the ceiling. "Nice to meet you, too, Agent Cho," he said. "Hey...did you know there's a stain up there that looks like Elvis?"

Keep reading for more!

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