a/n: so, after years of writing nothing, a character that is on screen for under 10 minutes pushes me back into ficland. who woulda thunkit? not me. :) this won't be too long, maybe a few chapters, unless for some reason i get caught up in it and surprise myself. i have been hot/cold about the mentalist this season, but found cho's response to summer, and especially their intense encounter at the bar to be really intriguing. hopefully you did, too. xoxo mia

The first time he calls her, it is just after the New Year. She's still wet from the shower, slightly shivering, but she answers the phone anyway, recognizing the ring tone she's programmed just for him, so she'll know. Wrapping a towel around herself, she clutches it together with her fist as she slips the phone between her shoulder and ear.

"Hello, Kimball."

He gives her a time and a place. Jotting it down quickly on the inside of her arm, she can't help but say, "Sorry I almost didn't pick up. I was in the shower."

He's silent on the other end for a moment, but in the end, he doesn't acknowledge anything, and it really doesn't surprise her. He just repeats the time and place, and hangs up.

o ~ 0 ~ o

She wears her most outrageous outfit on purpose, just to be obnoxious. He's chosen a normal bar, but she comes in with a skirt so short it even makes her feel a bit ridiculous, and a shirt that might actually have trouble winning that classification. Tall leather boots. In contrast, her hair is swept back in a fairly elegant chignon, and her makeup is simple, her perfume expensive.

He looks at her legs immediately, but has no other obvious reaction, which is a bit disappointing. She swings herself gracefully up onto the tall bar stool and crosses them, her skirt riding even further up her thigh as she swivels toward him.

"You going to buy me a drink first?"

He nods at the bartender, and she orders the nicest glass of champagne on the menu, but he doesn't even blink. He simply slides a picture across the bar toward her, sipping at his seltzer water. "You know this guy?"

She gives it a cursory glance, enjoying the bubbles on her tongue. "Mmm hmm."

"What about this one?"

She leans in a bit closer to look at it. "Yeah. That's Billy. He hangs out at Mix." She shrugs. "He's not big time, you know. What'd they do this time?"

"They're dead."

She tries to hide her surprise, does a decent job. "Well, that's too bad. Billy was kind of a creep, though."

"You know who would want them dead?"

She smiles slightly, scooting just a bit closer. "Most of the women in Sacramento, probably."

"I'm serious, Summer."

He is serious. She puts down her glass, sighing. "You have your little doodle pad and a pen?"

She watches him as he jots down the names she mentions, the locations. His broad shoulders are tensed – his back is still bothering him. She'd teased him about it, just to get him worked up, but she's good with body language, especially men. In her line of work, it helps to know what someone needs before they do.

She wonders how he hurt it, if it was on the job. It's hard to imagine someone hurting him – he seems so solid and self-assured. It seems strange to imagine someone getting the drop on Kimball Cho.

He flips the notepad closed, and reaches in his pocket for some cash, sliding it toward her. It's usually her favorite part of the evening – when the cash comes out, and she's done. She used to ask for cash up front, but realized that if they really didn't want her to keep it they could usually take it back anyway, and that she often got more than she asked for after the fact.

She realizes she doesn't want him to leave. "That's it?" she asks smoothly, not giving anything away. "I've barely had a sip of my drink."

He barely glances at her as he tucks his notes away in the pocket of his suit jacket. "That's it."

He starts to step away, and she struggles to hide her disappointment. "Cho."

He turns to look at her, only a step away, and again, his gaze flickers over her body for the briefest of moments before settling on her face, his own eyes serious. He just waits – for her to get to the point.

She's not sure why she likes him. He's fairly rude, but maybe it's that he's fun to tease. That stoicism is fun to mess with, but he's also a challenge. This isn't a man who's ever going to pay for it. Everyone else she plays this game with, the outcome is already decided, which is tiring and boring and just a little bit sad, like a hunter chasing prey that's already dead. It's been awhile since she really felt frustrated, and it feels good. Like a wrapped package at Christmas without a clue as to what's in it.

"Nothing," she sighs, swiveling her stool back around, facing the bartender. "Thanks for the bubbly."

o ~ 0 ~ o

By April, they have a fairly established pattern. He switches up the bars occasionally, but he calls every few weeks. Most of the time she can help him, sometimes not. But she always comes, she's always on time and picks up the phone after only a few rings.

He sweeps his eyes across the darkened room, searching for her, and he sees the sheen of her white blonde hair. The pink streak is gone now, and she has it swept back, her narrow frame perched on a stool, a straw at her lips as she smiles at the man next to her.

This time, she's called him.

He slips in to stand against the bar on her right, opposite the guy, and even though she has her back to him, he hears her smoky voice tell the man next to her that she's sorry, and would he please excuse her?

She turns toward him, and this time her eyes are serious, which makes his stomach flip a bit. Off duty, he nods at the bartender, ordering an IPA. "How did you know I was here?"

Her lips quirk up a bit on the left side, an almost smile, and her eyes soften for a moment. "I smelled you."

He frowns, shaking his head. "That's ridiculous."

She tilts her head a bit, holding on to her drink, giving him a practiced look, one that pays her bills. "It's true."

He realizes he has to stop himself from asking her what he smells like, that he wonders if she likes it. He doesn't wear cologne, but he shaves, wears deodorant, does his laundry.

He takes a sip of his beer, resting his elbows on the cherry wood of the bar, staring ahead. There is a mirror behind the bottles of liquor, and he can see her reflection next to his own. The short and low-cut dress is absent from where the mirror ends, and he can only see her face, which, if he admits it to himself, is beautiful.

"What do you want, Summer?"

She sets down her glass, turning towards him, and he shifts his weight to one side, also turning toward her, which is a mistake. He finds himself looking at the long, pale column of her throat and the exposed skin of her collarbone. She's milky white and her shoulders are delicately sloped.

"I need your help."

He nods. "I gathered as much."

She hesitates, biting her lower lip. "There's a guy – I need him off the streets."

He doesn't say anything, just waits for her to continue, but she doesn't, and he finally breaks the silence first. "Why?"

"He's… rough."

He swallows, his jaw tightening, but he keeps his eyes neutral. "What did he do to you?"

She shakes her head. "No, not me. A friend of mine. Beat her up pretty badly, actually," she says.

She's trying to sound cool about it, but she's trembling a bit, he can see it, and he clenches his jaw even tighter. He hates men who beat on women, which he figures most do, but he finds it's a particular brand of asshole who will beat on a hooker – a woman who already has to sell herself in the first place.

He clears his throat. "Will she testify to the assault?"

She shakes her head. "No, she's scared shitless. But that's not what you're going to bust him on. I have something better."

He listens, gets the details from her, watches as she discusses her friend, as her eyes shimmer. She never cries, though, her eyes never welling and threatening to spill.

He always feels like such an asshole when he watches her, the guilt rising up and mixing with his body's natural response. She's young – too young for him to be looking at like that, despite what she says and does. Her voice is sensual and melodic, and in contrast to the cheap, tight clothes she slips into, she always smells exotic and fresh, her teeth pearly white and straight when she smiles.

She sighs as she finishes the story, turning toward the bartender to signal him for another round, and a sparkly earring sways and shimmers against the delicate line of her jaw. He protests the second beer, but the bartender leaves it anyway. And when Summer turns back toward him, she drops her hand onto his arm and he flinches.

He can see the hurt flicker in her eyes briefly at his response to her touch, but she recovers quickly, leaving her hand there because she's bratty like that, and likes to see him squirm. Her seriousness is gone, having gotten her story off her chest, and she smiles at him again, but it seems slightly forced.

She thinks he's disgusted with her, probably, because of who she is and what she does, but truth is, he's disgusted with himself. For his response to her, for even thinking about her when she's clearly so troubled or misguided to think this is the best way she can earn a living.

"How's the back?" she teases, leaning in closer, her eyes twinkling.

"Fine."

"I could make it better than fine," she says coyly, winking at him.

He just stares at her, unblinking, because it's what he does best, and he's suddenly scared, scared to death that if he says something, if he admonishes her or pulls away or reacts in any way, she'll know just how much he's thought about her, about her naked, her touching him, about it being about something besides business, because then he could just pretend it was a pretty girl looking his way, flirting with him, and not what she really is.

But Summer is a hooker, and Summer is young, and he's arrested too many women, too many girls, caught too many of them in the act to want anything to do with this. And so he stares her down, and she takes a good long while to back off, finally easing back fully onto her stool and sipping at her drink coolly, taking his obvious rejection in stride. Maybe she thinks if she talks him into bed she'll have a cop in her pocket. Or maybe she just likes messing with him, messing with men in general, as payback for what she gets from them when they're alone. Maybe it's what makes it bearable for her.

Or maybe she's just a messed up girl and a pain in the ass.

"Your friend," he asks quietly, reaching for the beer she's ordered him, despite the fact that he shouldn't. "Is she alright?"

She looks at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly, sizing him up, trying to determine if he's being genuine. Apparently he passes the test. "She's still in the hospital," she murmurs, sipping on her straw, her lips hugging the plastic. "I'm gonna visit her again tomorrow. He busted a bunch of her ribs, her jaw. She can't talk, so I tell her funny stories." She drums her long, slender fingers against he bar. "I'll bring her some flowers. She likes carnations, those fake colored ones, like the blue and green and pink." She grins suddenly, wrinkling her nose. "Do you know anyone who actually likes those?"

"No."

"Me either. Me, I like those big lilies. They smell so good, you know? Sometimes I splurge and bring them home and my place smells amazing for days. I'm always sad to throw them out."

He pictures her, in those tight clothes, bringing home a big bouquet of flowers, of doing something simple like grocery shopping. He wonders if she owns anything that makes her look her real age, or is comfortable.

"What's your favorite flower, big guy?" she teases, bumping her shoulder into his, nudging him. "Huh?"

He can't help it, and it happens again, as it so often does with her – he smiles. Just a small one, but he feels the tug of his lips.

"I have to go, Summer."

She sighs. "Yeah, ok."

He pulls some money out of his pocket, peeling off a few bills to leave for the drinks, and slides another small stack towards her. She surprises him by shoving it back.

"You're doing me a favor."

"I'm doing my job," he tells her. "It just happens to benefit you this time."

She shakes her head, and he wants to make her take it. Foolishly, for some reason, he thinks any amount of money he gives her for information is one less creep she has to get off.

But she's still shaking her head.

"Summer, take the money. It was good information. It isn't a favor."

But she puts her hand back on him, on his upper arm, and he feels her warmth through the starched cotton of his shirt he'd worn to work, now rolled halfway up his arms. "But you're doing it because I asked, " she whispers. "And I appreciate it."

When he walks away from her, she turns back to the man at the bar next to her, who had waited it out, waited his turn.

o ~ 0 ~ o

In early May, she succeeds in getting him to her apartment. When he calls, she says she can't meet him at the bar he suggests, and she hears in his voice that he's desperate enough for what she can tell him that he'll do it. She'd seen him just two days ago, and he needs more.

She's decided to see how far she can push him this time. The more she sees him, the more she gets to know of him, the less easy it is to tease him, rile him up. She doesn't feel in control anymore, and she doesn't like it. She likes him, sure, but he's a cop, she's… well, she is who she is, and she needs an upper hand somehow. Especially after the help he'd given her last month. She feels like she still owes him. If he hadn't stepped in, chances are Carmen would be dead, and she would have had a real hard time with that one.

She puts on a flimsy robe, silky and nearly see-through. Her makeup is fresh, no lipstick. She's dialed the trampiness down a bit, knowing it bothers him just as much as it gets him hot, so it doesn't work in her favor. Still, the underwear she has on would make even a priest sweat.

When she opens the door for him, the robe is loosely tied, leaving a deep v between her breasts open and exposing her skin. The look on his face when he sees her is full of frustration – he's annoyed with her, both for making him come here, and for being dressed as she is.

But there's heat there, too.

"Sorry," she murmurs, pretending she's just getting up, yawning. "I didn't have time to get dressed."

"I called you more than forty minutes ago."

"I fell back asleep, okay?"

He waits in the doorway, and she tugs him in, shutting the door behind her. "Someone's not a morning person."

"It's nearly two o' clock, Summer."

She sees him pause, taking in her apartment. It's not a particularly nice one, definitely not in the nicest part of town, but she's made it her own, with colorful furniture and potted plants and books. She doesn't bring customers here. Ever.

"Do you want some coffee?" she asks, wandering off towards the kitchen.

"I want information," he says, frustrated, following her. "This is important."

"Yes, I know," she says, playing bored, pulling a bag of beans from the counter and shaking them into her grinder. "It's always important."

He's so impatient, it's everywhere, from his body language to his voice. He's dying to get out of her apartment. "Just tell me what I want to know," he demands.

"I haven't had my coffee yet," she says petulantly. "Give me a few minutes."

Well, that pisses him off, because he suddenly walks towards her, grabbing her elbow and spinning her none too elegantly around to face him, tugging the coffee bean bag from her hands and slapping it on the counter. "Quit jerking me around."

Her heart is pounding, but she plays it cool, quirking her mouth up in another smile. "Trust me, this isn't me jerking you around."

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

He practically growls at her, but she isn't scared, she's excited. His hands are now on the counter on either side of her, and her robe has come open even further, and she sees his gaze slip down, his jaw tightening further. She knew he would look.

She slides her hand inside his suit jacket, along the hard muscle of his stomach and around toward his hip, but he takes a step back, grabbing her wrist firmly but gently. "Summer, knock it off."

Tilting her chin up defiantly, she looks him in the eye. "Why?"

His breathing is different – he's trying to stay calm, but she can see it, see his adam's apple working. "Because," he says clearly, carefully, "I don't pay for sex."

It's out of her mouth before she can even think. "I'm not asking you to."

His nostrils flare at that, and he tries to take a step back, but she holds onto him, pressing her body against his, making him acknowledge her. He doesn't get to be a coward about this, she thinks.

But he surprises her, putting his hands on her waist and picking her up bodily, moving her to the side and out of his way so he can step around the counter, putting it between them, and she's left flushed, her own heart beating as fast as his had been against her.

Frustrated, she tugs the belt on her robe open, shrugging it off, standing there in her panties and bra. "Do you think I'm beautiful or not?"

He swallows, looking her in the eye. "Yes."

She starts around the counter, but he backs up a step. "Tell me what I need to know, or I'm leaving."

Her eyes narrow. "Don't you mean, 'tell me what I need to know and I'm leaving?'"

He just stares at her, and she picks up her robe off the floor, pulling it back around herself. "Nathan Gaines. He lives above the auto shop on C street. He's the one who has it. At least, according to the guy I saw last night."

Frustrated and embarrassed, she turns back to hit the button on her coffee grinder, refusing to turn and look at him, and by the time the coffee machine is bubbling and hissing and she finally looks over her shoulder, he's gone, and there's a stack of bills on the counter. She sweeps at them angrily with her hand, and they float quietly to the floor.

o ~ 0 ~ o

She hasn't responded to his calls in over thirty-six hours. True, it's been weeks since he's talked to her, but she's always answered.

"Summer!" he shouts, pounding on her door. "Open up!"

The guy she helped him put away months ago knows who she is, and he's back on the street due to a fuck-up by an assistant DA and an idiot cop. And even though she might just be mad at him, or avoiding him, he realizes he's scared something's happened to her.

"Summer!"

She doesn't open the door, but he hears something from inside, and he takes a step back, kicking the door hard. It splinters at the hinge, but holds. He winds up his foot to kick again, and she suddenly wrenches the door open, her eyes blazing.

"What the fuck, Kimball?"

What the fuck indeed. His chest heaving, he takes in her black eye, her split lip, and the enormous welt forming across her cheekbone, heading towards a bruise. "Jesus," he breathes.

She shrinks back, but he follows, grabbing her chin, forcing her to hold still while he examines her face, turning it slightly. The lobe of one ear is ripped, as if she had her earring tugged from it, and her throat is bruised. She's a mess.

Her eyes well up, and she jerks back. "Cut it out."

"Was it Brenner?" he asks sharply, shutting the door firmly behind him and following her as she escapes down the short hall.

"What?" she asks, surprised. "No. He's in jail."

"Didn't you get my messages?" he snaps, frustrated. But as she turns and looks at him blankly, he realizes that not only does she not know this creep is back out there, but it was some other asshole who beat the shit out of her.

He takes another step toward her and again, she steps back quickly, and he realizes instantly that she's scared of him. Maybe not that he'd ever hurt her physically, but something's changed. She's scared he'll embarrass her, or of what he's thinking, seeing her like this. And he came in here, shouting at her, manhandling her.

He steps around her quietly, tugging open the freezer and pulling out a bag of frozen corn, breaking it up with his fingers and turning to hand it to her. She just stares at it, as if he's handing her a chocolate cake or a magazine.

Moving toward her more slowly, he reaches for her chin again, gently this time, and gingerly presses the corn against her face. She winces, her eyes dropping away from his, and he realizes she's humiliated.

"What happened?" he asks quietly, his voice strained.

She shrugs, taking the corn from him and dropping into one of the mismatched chairs at her small kitchen table. "Hazards of the job, you know? Except I can't sue for worker's comp."

"You can sue for something else," he mutters, crossing his arms across his chest.

She looks up at him, her eyes flashing. "Quit acting angry with me. You come in here, you almost kick down my door, yelling, and now you're glaring at me."

"Summer," he says through gritted teeth, "tell me what happened."

"No."

And just like that, she gets up and walks away, toward the opposite end of her apartment.

He watches her walk away, and realizes she's limping. She's wearing a different robe this time, cotton, and slippers are on her feet. Her hair is in a ponytail, her damaged face scrubbed bare of makeup, her eyes red from crying. She has long underwear on underneath the robe, despite the fact that it's nearly 80 outside, the air conditioning clearly on high from the window unit.

She looks up at him from where she sits at the end of the bed, the frozen corn still pressed to her face. Hesitantly, he walks to her, sitting down. "I'm sorry."

She sniffs, not crying, but looking as if she might, and as if she has already today, maybe even several times. "Yeah, well, apology not accepted."

"Summer –"

"You gonna fix my door?"

He gets off the bed and squats in front of her, looking up into her face this time. "Summer."

She chews on her lip, looking everywhere but at him for a moment before finally settling on his eyes. "What?"

"I'm sorry."

She looks like she's considering his words for a minute, and then she sighs, dropping the bag of frozen veggies into her lap. "Are you going to make a big deal out of this?"

He nods.

She rolls her eyes. "Great. Poor, beat-up Summer. That's what you get for making your living on your back, right? Sometimes some asshole gets too rough?"

He nods again, but he touches her knee hesitantly. "Did he hurt you anywhere else?"

The look on her face is challenging, and he realizes just how tough this girl is. She's bruised up, probably just been raped, and she's worried about his judgment. He feels like an asshole.

She shrugs off her robe, and he can see the welts on her wrists, what look to be teeth marks along the edge of her tank top.

"Shit," he mutters. He stands up, trying to tug her to her feet. "Come on, you're going to the hospital."

"What? No."

Ignoring her, he shoves an arm under he knees, wraps the other around her back, and picks her up, and her eyes widen in alarm. "Put me down," she says, her voice wobbling.

But he ignores her, heading toward the door he'd almost kicked in, the crack running along the cheap wood, and he feels the muscles in her body start to relax, and she finally drops her head onto his shoulder as he steps out into the sun.

o ~ 0 ~ o

She's startled when he pulls back the curtain in the exam room, not realizing he hasn't left. She is in the middle of an argument with the doctor. The woman clearly doesn't want to prescribe painkillers for what is apparently a broken rib, slightly sprained ankle, and a number of other bruises. Summer doesn't care if she gets the drugs or not, other than the fact that she resents the implication that because this doctor has guessed she's a call girl, she's probably an addict.

"Give her the prescription," he says flatly.

The doctor looks annoyed. "Sir –"

"She's not an addict."

The woman's eyes narrow. "Oh? So you think you're an expert on addicts?"

He wins, flashing his badge. "I'd say I've had some experience, yes. Now give her the drugs."

He has the piece of paper in his hand seconds later, and he hands it to her. She stares at it for a minute, not reaching for it, and he sighs, pocketing the script.

"Come on," he says, reaching for her, moving his arm around her back. "Let's get you to the pharmacy."

She stiffens. "I want to go home."

o ~ 0 ~ o

It's not until she's in his sedan that he breaks the news to her. "You can't go home."

She just stares at him, and he sighs. "Summer, Brenner is out. And he might put two and two together, and now…"

"Now what?"

He glances at her. "Now your door is broken."

"Oh, perfect," she mutters. "That's just great. So now where do I go?"

"I'm taking you to a hotel."

She feels a rush of panic. "No."

Her vehemence catches him off guard. "I'm not taking you to some shithole. It'll be nice, I promise. Just overnight, until the door is fixed."

"No."

He huffs. "What's the problem?"

"I work at hotels, I don't sleep at them. Get it?"

She can see he does, surprisingly, but he doesn't back down. "You can't go home."

"Then take me home with you."

He looks horrified. "Not happening."

"Gee, thanks. Act a little more disgusted at the idea."

He pulls the wheel to the right, jerking the car over to the shoulder, turning to look at her. "You're my CI. You work for me. It's not appropriate. Not even a little bit."

She purses her lips. "That's not why you said no and know you know it, Kimball."

He drops his head onto the backs of his hands on the steering wheel, taking deep breaths, trying to keep his cool. It's surprising to see him so out of control. "Summer…"

"If you drop me at the hotel, I'll just leave."

"You're not staying at my house," he repeats.

o ~ 0 ~ o

"You can have the bed," he murmurs, tossing his jacket on the back of his sofa. "I'll take the couch."

"I can sleep on the couch," she says, looking around his place, hopping through the door on her crutches.

He sets her bag down in his bedroom, moving to strip off the sheets, but she's already behind him, her crutches tucked under her armpits. "Leave them, it's fine."

Shaking his head, he goes to pull back the corner, but she moves to sit on the end of the bed, halting his progress. "Really, leave them," she says quietly. "I want you to leave them. I'll… feel safer."

She means his scent, he realizes, and it makes him freeze for a moment, looking at the back of her head, her ponytail drooping and half pulled out of it's tie. She's tired, he realizes, and in pain, and probably just wants to be home. The idea that she wants to sleep in his sheets freaks him out, though, and he feels a surge of both discomfort and desire.

Clearing his throat, he drops the blankets, walking past her toward the kitchen. "You hungry?"

"Not really."

He has her prescription in his pocket, and he knows she needs to take them with food. "I'm just going to grab you something to take with the painkillers."

He brings her toast, and she takes a few bites to satisfy him, the butter leaving a sheen on her lips that makes his mouth feel dry. He hands her water, and she takes the pill he presses into her palm.

When he drops down on the balls of his feet to remove her slippers for her, and the Velcro brace on her ankle, she finally speaks. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Taking care of me."

There is a challenge in her voice, but it wavers a bit, and she blinks, looking away from him, rubbing her eyes as if she's tired. The socks on her feet are old, there is a hole in the big toe, and for some reason it makes his breath hitch in his chest.

He clears his throat, trying to come up with something that at least resembles the truth. "Because you're hurt."

She looks back at him, just staring, her left eye shining in the center of the darkening bruise around it. Reaching out for her, he puts his hands under her armpits and scoots her back a bit, as if she's a little kid, gently swinging her legs up onto the bed, pulling the covers over her. "What you just took is going to make you drowsy pretty fast. You should rest."

She tucks under the blanket, wincing as she turns onto her side with her cracked rib, and when he leaves the room, she's got her back to him.