Warner Bros. Television and Bruno Heller own all characters and The Mentalist. I just own my sick, twisted imagination.
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As the world stopped spinning, Van Pelt's momentary change of perspective inspired her.
"Rigsby? Wayne? Are you okay?"
A lack of response and feeling his frame expand as he took in breaths told her that he was still with her. Unconscious, but that could change. For what she needed though an unconscious Rigsby might just be the better option.
Wriggling herself away from him in the dust, she extended her arms behind her, pulling his wrists further behind him as she moved. This wasn't going to be comfortable for either of them but as the yoga-practising agent she had a distinct advantage. She breathed a quick prayer that he stayed out of it for the next few minutes.
Whispering a soft 'sorry' to him, she continued to move until he lay on his back, shoulders raised slightly off the floor and head lolling back. His arms were pulled tight behind him, raised further towards his shoulder blades than they had been since his early fitness training for the force.
Breathing gently, she took her weight on her cuffed hands and her left foot as she lifted her right leg back into the Anjaneyasana pose, a low lunge position. Her foot brushed his raised shoulders and he moved slightly but when she checked, his eyes were still closed and his breaths steady. Her right foot found a place on the floor between his knees and she transferred her weight to it, preparing for the next move.
Her left foot raised past his shoulders again and she rested in the Downward Dog position, face inches from his, hands still planted firmly next to his.
It was as this point that he chose to wake, eyes opening to find his angel's lips hovering above him. Out of instinct and disorientation he reached up to kiss them only to be stopped by the pain in his shoulders as he moved. "Shit!"
She glanced down and realised that she would have to lay along his body for him to bring his hands down. "Sorry again," she smiled ruefully and placed her head on his chest. His part-open shirt distracted her from her purpose for a moment as his normally hidden chest hair tickled her ear, and only his laboured breathing reminded her. She drew their hands down, releasing the pressure on Rigsby's shoulders, until they rested at their waists.
Rigsby was in heaven; the woman of his dreams had woken him with a promise of a kiss and was now resting on him, her weight balanced carefully in the centre. He could smell her hair, a soft and slightly floral scent over the dirt in the barn. He grimaced, realising that if he didn't stop thinking about her she would soon have growing evidence of his interest, as if she needed any more. He closed his eyes and turned his head to the side.
Opening them suddenly, he remembered the reason for his alarm.
The timer read 00:48:04.
