Spoilers/Timeline: None/Set in the future

A/N: The idea for this fic started when I initially heard Blake Shelton's Who Are You When I'm Not Looking. Something about it just floored me and I knew I wanted to use it as some sort of inspiration. Many moons and entirely different fandom later, it's finished and, I can't lie, I'm really happy with the finished piece. Anyhow, if you've read all that thanks, gold star for you and enjoy! Lots of to bloodwrites for putting up with my many questions and general hysteria.

Disclaimer: The Mentalist doesn't belong to me; Title from the aformentioned Blake Shelton song.

Groaning, he kicked the covers off, pushing up on his elbows and leaning against the headboard. His stomach churned a little, then settled, as he breathed in.

It was the weekend, he should be sprawled out on his couch at the CBI, listening to Lisbon complain that no amount of coffee could get her through their latest case. Taking her out for a late dinner and then pestering her until they stopped for ice cream. Waking up early for their Saturday morning run.

(If you'd have told him two years ago that he'd actually look forward to that, he would've looked at you like you'd told him Cho was staring in The Nutcracker.)

Somehow, blessedly, they didn't have a case though and he'd spent the past four days trying to rid himself of the horrid flu bug dear Rigsby was kind enough to share. This basically consisted of bugging Lisbon for tea and tissues every three hours and sleeping ninety percent of the time.

He swung his legs out of bed and, stretching, slowly stood. He actually felt better, like he could really breathe without coughing for the first time in days.

Grinning, he pulled on a shirt and started down the hall to find her. He'd only taken a couple steps when he heard it: the steady beat of music and her soft humming.

No—he laughed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep her from hearing—soft singing.

"...Mia, here I go again. My, my, how can I resist you? Mamma Mia..."

She was in the living room, her back to him, hair loosely pulled up, her body swaying as she worked.

That was his Lisbon, all right.

She'd already completed what little paperwork she had to wrap up from their last case and he know that, as much as she loved being able to catch up on books and articles she'd fallen behind on, she could only read for so long. She needed to be up.

Accomplishing something.

Which was why he wasn't surprised to see not one, but two new bookshelves flanking her moderate entertainment center.

She leaned forward, tightening the last screw, before stepping back and spinning in triumph. He was about to open his mouth, to teasingly ask if he was in the right apartment, when she dropped the tools she was still holding on one of the newly completed shelves and, laughing, purposely slid across the floor in her socks.

He felt his breath hitch slightly, his heart pounding wildly in his chest as a wave of heat having nothing to do with illness coursed through his body.

Even after cohabitating with her for over a year (of knowing her much longer), she still surprised him in the best ways.

Turning to slide once more in the opposite direction, she caught sight of him and hastily grabbed the back of the couch, skidding to a stop inches in front of him.

Her eyes sparkled, dimple appearing as their gazes met and she took in the warm smile that he only had around her.

"What...how... how long..." She crossed her arms over her chest, brow furrowing as a light blush colored her cheeks. "Wait, what are you doing out of bed? You haven't even had tea or your coug—"

"Meh, feeling better."

"Just like that? Miraculously cured?"

"Just like that." He sneezed. "Well, not completely, but I'm much better than I was and that..." Eyebrow lifting, he gestured to where she'd slid on the wood moments before. "That was, quite frankly, unbelievably endea—"

"Oh, shut up." Shoving his shoulder, she stepped closer, looking him up and down as if to decipher whether he was exaggerating.

He wasn't.

She was one of the few that could tell.

"Now, now, we both know that's not going to happen. I mean, really, ABBA?" He laughed, catching her hand and pulling her to the front of the couch where the both collapsed. "I'll admit, I knew about the Spice Girls and suspected Katy Perry, but this..."

Rolling her eyes, she tucked her feet up under her as she turned towards him. "Because your taste is so perfect. Do I need to remind you who picked last night's movie, Jane?"

"What? It was a perfectly intriguing docum—"

"You're the sick one and I was almost asleep first out of sheer boredom." Sighing, she rubbed the back of her neck. "Not to mention that I've been carting an electric blanket around everywhere you've gone the past few days, found multiple cough crops in the pocket of my blazers and sweatshirt even though I didn't put them there..."

Put up with his relentless pleading.

The exasperated sighs and endless sniffles.

She was amazed she could think straight at all.

"You really should go back to bed; I don't want you relapsing like—"

"Nonsense, I'm much heartier than that." He grinned over at her and, looping his arms around her waist, laid down, pulling her with him.

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh, you know it." He winked, fingers drawing circles over the nape of her neck.

"I suppose I do have some... first hand... proof of that"

"Mmmhmm. You know, Lisbon..." His lips brushed across hers, eyes dancing as she leaned further into his embrace. The back of her hand pressed to his forehead for a moment before she relaxed, head resting against his chest. "You really are the best medicine... even better than the Codeine cough syrup..."