A/N: Another missing scene because the Mentalist writers are cruel, callous bastards. Set in Bleeding Heart. I have the mental action figure set, but no actual part of the Mentalist is mine.
Illicit
Grace could barely breathe as her trembling finger hit speed dial before she lifted the phone to her ear.
The news had reached HQ. She'd heard. She'd panicked. She'd found a quiet corner at the CBI before taking out her cell and calling Rigsby.
A fire. Another terrifying arson attack that her man was smack-dab in the middle of. The phone rang hollowly for several rings. Please, she begged him silently. Baby, please pick up. I need to hear your voice.
"Rigsby," a gruff voice answered. It was thick from smoke inhalation and distraction. He never said his name when she called. He always checked his caller ID and gave her a warm "Hey" when he saw her name. He clearly hadn't even looked, just answered.
"Wayne," she whispered brokenly. "It's me."
"Hey." The warmth came back. The irritated rasp remained.
"Please tell me you're okay." Grace cast a furtive eye around the quiet hallway she was standing in, not seeing a soul and hoping it stayed that way.
"Yeah," he whispered back. She guessed there were people around. Cho. Firemen. He kept his voice down, like her. "I'm okay. We all got out. I don't have a scratch. Promise."
She gave a shaky, relieved sigh. "You really need to stop doing this to me, sweetie. Arson specialist or not. You get into another fire and I'm going to kick your ass."
He chuckled roughly, the action audibly hurting his throat. "No fiery death. You got it."
She looked down the hall again. Still all clear. "I'm coming over tonight, okay?"
"You going to be my nurse again?" The playfulness in his tone made her smile wanly.
"I'll even bring you ice cream for your throat."
He sighed softly at her words. "Do I sound as awful as I feel?"
"You sound like you're in pain. Finish up at the scene and meet me at your place. I'll be waiting." She was taking too long. She needed to get back to her desk. Lisbon might need her.
"Okay," he gruffed. "See you soon."
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
She plundered the local grocery store for ice cream, cough syrup and throat lozenges before driving rather recklessly to his apartment. She used her key (the blue one that he'd hidden for her at the bottom of a popcorn bowl one night while they watched a movie) and let herself in. She tossed the medicine on the table and threw the ice cream in the freezer before heading back to his bathroom and stopping up the tub. She turned on the tap, using the hottest water possible and adding some of her vanilla bath oil that she'd brought to his place a few weeks ago. Originally, she'd used it in the shower, rubbing the slickness into his skin before rubbing herself across his then-frictionless body. It had driven him crazy. Now, the oil would have a different job entirely.
She heard the door open in the front room and click softly shut again.
She smelled him long before she saw him.
The stinging, acrid scent of smoke filled his house as he moved through it quietly, noting the lights and the grocery bag on the table. He didn't call out to her, another sign she took that his throat was quite painful. Worry tugged at her chest as she turned off the faucet. Her nostrils filled with the smell of burned wood and gasoline as he entered the bathroom. She turned to him, gasping softly at his sooty, disheveled appearance and his red eyes. She took two steps and hugged him as hard as she dared.
"You," she murmured as she buried her face into sweat and ash. "Thank God."
"Hey," he greeted her softly, his grimy, tired arms going around her.
She leaned up and kissed him sternly, pressing her lips firmly against his. He tasted dry and salty. He pulled back. "I'm filthy, baby, I—,"
"Shut up," she interrupted, kissing him harder. He smiled against her mouth. Or maybe winced? She pulled back, having forgotten momentarily that he was hurting. "I'm sorry," she gave him an apologetic shrug. "I just needed that."
Nope, definitely a smile. It beamed at her gently.
She instantly set about her task, unbuttoning his already loosened shirt. He let her, watching as she slipped the fabric off his bare shoulders. "No t-shirt today?" she asked, tracing the perfect line of black soot on his neck that ended at his collar line.
Her finger traced down his sternum to his pants as he answered. "They're all in the laundry. Or at your place."
Both of them were looking down, but both grinned sheepishly.
She undid his pants while he kicked off his shoes and socks. She slid the remaining clothing from his body and he stood naked in front of her. Only his reddened eyes, the line of soot and the scent in the air suggested anything traumatic had happened.
She couldn't help it. She hugged him again. "Sweetheart," she whispered against his smoky skin, feeling her chest tighten with retroactive fear. She was also shocked to feel her body responding to him. Even the smell of fire turned into an aphrodisiac, if he was wearing it.
He ran his hands through her hair, comforting her. "I'm okay," he rasped. "Really, Grace. I'm all right."
"This time," she said petulantly. She was so scared. She'd nearly lost him. Again. And she'd nearly died with panic the first two times she'd seen him hurt. His first burn. Then when Dan attacked him. They hadn't even been a couple when those had happened and she had almost had a heart attack. But now? He was the most precious thing in her life. She refused to think about what his next serious injury would do to her sanity.
She led him to his bathtub instead.
"In you go," she told him. He obeyed without a word, lowering in and lying back until only his knees and upper chest were above the water line. He hissed softly as the hot water bit at the raw skin around his hands. His clothing hadn't protected them from the heat and smoke.
He turned his head to her, his eyes teasing, even with the red circles. "How come I didn't get a bath last time I got burned?"
She smiled as she reached into the water and took his arm, massaging him clean with her oily fingers, knowing that soaps would strip and luffas would scrape. His skin needed as much lubrication and as little friction as possible. She pressed her tips gently into his hand and wrist before moving to his forearm.
"You didn't get dirty last time. Otherwise I would have stripped you naked and rubbed every inch of you."
He chuckled wheezingly. "Like hell you would have."
Still concentrating on his arm, her smile widened. "I guess we'll never know." She finished his bicep. "Lean forward."
He rose up slightly from the water. Leaning awkwardly over the tub, Grace fanned her fingers gently but firmly into his collarbone, following its line, dipping into the notch as the base of his throat. Her fingers moved lower, following the topography of his chest muscles, rinsing the strong scent of fire away with each stroke and replacing it with vanilla. She'd mapped this region of him many times before. Her hands, usually so greedy, had petted and caressed and scratched this impressive expanse nearly every night for the last two months. But they'd never administered treatment before. Not like this. She felt so protective and attentive, wanting to heal instead of excite. Her expression was one of soft concentration as she worked her way back up to his neck, taking extra care to clean the soot away as gently as she could without irritating his chaffed skin.
She was so invested in her work that she didn't see Rigsby watching her. She didn't see his eyes fill with adoration as she soothed him, cared for him, in a way that he'd ached for for so long. Especially after Dan's attack. He'd gone home that night, hurting and lonelier than he'd felt in years. He had been through an emotional train wreck, nearly losing Grace to another man, then letting his guard down and getting bludgeoned, then nearly dying when he found out that Dan had almost shot Grace dead in the parking lot. Yeah, that had been a long day. He'd treated his split head with asprin and tv and wondered where Grace was at that moment. If maybe her guilt and their almost-kiss would bring her to his door, desperate to see if he was okay and eager to continue what the janitor had interrupted. But she didn't come. His doorbell stayed agonizingly silent. He felt wretchedly pitiful.
Headache.
Heartache.
He nursed them both that night.
Now?
He was naked in a tub, being tended by an angel. Never one to pray for injury, Rigsby was surprisingly unconcerned about his brush with death. The woman who fucked him with savage intensity was now rubbing him clean with the same tender consideration she would a piece of priceless china. Being on the receiving end of her nurturing sweetness was worth a little heat.
He sighed tiredly, settled back down and dropped his chin. Rivulets of blackish water ran down his neck and chest, joining the bath and disappearing.
"Close your eyes." Her voice was as soft as her touch.
He did so. Gentle fingers crept up his neck and swept across his jaw. Her hand closed over each ear, her fingers and thumb rubbing into the shell and washing the grit away. She picked up a cup from the sink and filled it in the bathwater before tipping water gently over his head. He grunted softly at the sensation, water snaking through his hair and splitting into a thousand different paths down his face and neck. More soot went with it. More echoes of the fire drowned in the tub. More vanilla replaced it.
"I can't do this anymore, sweetheart."
His eyes opened immediately, wide and instantly alert. He regarded her worriedly.
"Can't do what, Grace?"
Her expression didn't change and her eyes didn't leave her work as she pulled another cup of bathwater and tipped it over the back of his head, just behind his crown so that it wouldn't run into his open eyes.
"This. This…lie. We're a lie, Wayne. A pointless, guilty lie." Her thumbs swept across his cheeks and temples, busy and oblivious to their owner's horrifying words.
"No," he whispered heatedly, his large hands closing over hers at his sideburns. "Don't say that. We're not pointless, Grace."
Her hands stilled and she met his frightened gaze. "We're not pointless, baby. I never said that. But what are we exactly? We're not a couple. We're not dating. I can't call you my boyfriend anywhere but in our apartments. Romantically speaking, we live like vampires. Always afraid of the light. So what does that leave? Colleagues ensnared in an office romance? What did Jane call it? An illicit affair?" Her eyes were suddenly tired and sad. "Illicit, Wayne? Is that what we are?"
"No," he repeated more firmly. He didn't think. He reached over and dragged her to him, fully clothed, into the bath. She had no time to struggle and was locked against him, completely soaked, before she had a chance to react. Surprisingly, she found that she didn't have much energy to be shocked. She really didn't have the energy for anything at all. Her work clothes were now wet and stained with oil. Even knowing that oil is a bitch to get out of fabric, she didn't blink. Who cared about clothes anyway? But Wayne? Wayne was everything. Wet and sprawled on top of him was everything she wanted to be addressing, but it was also the only natural and safe place for her in all the world. Tucked up against him was exacerbating and soothing. Damn these stupid conundrums. She continued to scoop water from the bath in her hand and ladle it onto his chest as she lay on him placidly.
"We are not illicit. Jane can go to hell." Rigsby's voice gained in volume and increased in sandpapery roughness. She ran her palm over his slick skin and made a soft shushing sound, calming him back to a whisper.
Grace gave a broken little sigh. "But it feels so cheap. I can't acknowledge us. I second-guess myself every single time I look at you. Did they see it? Do they know? All that. And I can't even cry when you've been hurt. Fuck, I can't even call to see if you're okay without looking over my shoulder. I just…" She raised her hand in frustration, he long sleeve streaming water as she did so. "I just can't do this anymore."
Rigsby felt his heart crack in his chest. Her weight, her body on top of his, suddenly felt insufficient. He was losing her. He was certain of it. The defeated tone in her voice terrified him. It sounded…gone. Like her body was just a decoy and her mind had already walked out the door. No! He squeezed his eyes shut and drew his arms tightly around her. Not now, not after everything they'd shared. But, thinking frantically, his panicked, selfish mind couldn't think of a single reason why she shouldn't leave him; all rational points were in favor of them separating. She wouldn't be sad anymore. She could keep her job and know that she wasn't lying to Lisbon, whom she admired so much. She could stop losing sleep over their deception. She'd be free. But his panicked, selfish mind could think of a zillion reasons why he'd cease to be a functioning, useful member of society if she ended them. She was the reason he got up in the morning. She was definitely the reason he went to bed at night. She was his missing piece. She was his diamond under the copier; a ridiculously priceless gem that fell into the workspace right across from his by pure luck. She'd been his ultimate goal. Now she was his ultimate gift. She'd been in his heart for so long, but now she was in his blood. To lose her was to crash and bleed out. He had no idea how he'd ever made it so far in life without her, but he knew with absolute conviction that—having been with her, even for two tiny little months—he'd never make it without her now.
She felt him shudder underneath her. His arms tightened harshly around her. "I wouldn't survive it if you left me, Grace."
She lifted instantly from his chest, looking at him with disbelieving eyes. "What?"
The blue of his irises pleaded silently against the bloodshot white. "I'll do whatever you want. I'll hand in my resignation tomorrow. I'll propose to you in front of everyone at the damn Super Bowl. I'll tattoo your name on both arms. I'll take out full page ads in the Bee. We are not illicit, Grace. We're not wrong or inappropriate in any way. And we're not having an office romance or an affair. We have a relationship. And a fucking amazing one at that. Please," he shook her gently against him, the water splashing lightly at their sides. "Don't leave me."
Her eyes had grown wider with every word. Resignation? Propose? Tattoos? What the hell was he talking about?
She shook her head. "I'm not breaking up with you, baby. I'm saying that I want to come clean. At work, I mean."
His eyes fell shut and his head fell back against the tiled wall. "Thank fuck!" he muttered hotly.
"Tattoo my name on both your arms? Why the hell would I want that?" Her head was still arcing back and forth in befuddlement.
"So everyone would know." He lifted his head again. "You're not a dirty little secret, Grace. The day you feel cheap with me is the day I tell the tristate area that I'm madly in love with you, want to marry you, and will chuck any job that says I can't have you. We tried secrecy. It isn't working. I'll ask Lisbon tomorrow for a transfer."
She smiled softly at his gallantry. "Or? We can just come clean. Let Lisbon decide what to do."
"Anything," Rigsby's palms cupped her cheeks. His fervor to see her happy knew no line. "We'll tell her tomorrow."
She closed her eyes, nuzzling his palms with her lips and nose. "It's not just me, is it, Wayne? Are you really okay with this clandestine thing we have going on right now?"
He snorted softly. "You don't understand, honey. Us? In any form? Makes me stupidly ecstatic. Being with you is all I care about. Hiding out in our apartments, hiding our feelings at work, I don't like it, but I'll do it without thinking twice. You are all I want. And if you're unhappy, for any reason, then we'll do whatever it takes to fix it."
"And you think tattoos are the ticket, huh?" She smirked cutely at him.
"Grace. In huge letters. Both arms. With doves and swirls and roses."
She giggled and resumed scooping water on him. "What if I'm more of a skulls and cobras and hearts stabbed with daggers kinda girl?"
"As long as we agree on the central theme? You can go nuts with the cobras and skulls." He felt his heart slowly rising back up from the pit of his stomach and traveling towards its rightful place in his chest. Yes, this is exactly what he wanted. Them teasing, naked, happy, together.
She didn't want to leave him. She wanted to declare him. Declare them. His heart wasn't just in its rightful place anymore, but it was expanding with joy and pride. She looked at her two choices of the job or him and she'd chosen him. He knew how much she loved her job. Did he dare to hope? For all of their intimacy, she had yet to say that she loved him. He hadn't pressed, as bad as he wanted to. He gave her time. But choosing him over the possibility of getting 86'd from the SCU? Surely that meant…
He felt dizzy with happiness.
She lifted from his chest to sit between his legs, pulling her soaked shirt up and off before tossing it on the rim of the tub. She reached back and unhooked her bra and slipped it from her shoulders, adding it to the pile before settling back down against him. Her breasts pressed into his slippery, vanilla-scented chest.
"Yes."
He pulled his thoughts from how wonderfully supple her body felt against him and gazed down at her head. "Yes?" he repeated.
She didn't look up. "To what you're thinking. Yes."
"What am I thinking?" he treaded carefully.
"Yes, I love you more than my job. I love you period."
His breath froze in his lungs. He waited. The other shoe was bound to drop any second. The inevitable 'but' must be on its way. He had to be sure. He said nothing.
She lifted her head and gazed at him calmly. "Well?"
"I'm waiting," he explained.
"For what?" her brow crinkled.
"For your qualifier." There was nothing but honesty in his response. No sarcasm.
"I already gave it," she said. "Period. I love you. Period."
"You love me?" His question was made of paper-thin crystal. A stiff breeze could have shattered it.
"Give the man a cookie."
"No. I mean, you love me like I love you?"
"Yes." Her tired, peaceful expression didn't falter.
"But…" he trailed off, not knowing what to say next.
Grace smiled and dropped her head against his chest again. She knew she'd been miserly with her feelings for too long. Today had clinched it. He deserved to know, deserved to hear it everyday. So she sighed contentedly and let him process this little tidbit; news to him but ancient history to her. She loved him.
Period.