Normally I'm not a fan of the teeny tiny one-shots, but this one popped into my head, and I thought I'd better jot it down. Let me know what y'all think.
Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli and Isles. Not for profit, and whatnot.
"Jane?"
She's standing at the window, one hand pressed to the glass, back to you.
"Jane?" you ask again.
She doesn't move, not even when you wrap your arms around her from behind and press yourself against her. It's raining out. She's watching the drops slide down the windowpane. You can hear the whooshing sound a car makes as it splashes through a puddle on the street below.
You press a kiss to the back of her neck.
She doesn't turn, but finally she shifts so she's leaning back, into you, and you're holding up most of her weight.
"Come to bed," you whisper.
"It's raining," her voice is huskier than usual, deeper. And there's something there you haven't heard in such a long time. Melancholy, you think. Despair.
"Yes."
She turns and looks at you and you can't help the gasp that escapes your lips. There are tear tracks running down her cheeks, matching the path the raindrops are making outside.
You wrap your arms tighter around her waist and kiss her cheek. And suddenly she has spun around and is holding you fiercely. You can feel her heart racing beneath her chest and her breathing is quick, shallow. She has buried her face in your hair. It almost hurts, her grip on you, but you don't pull away. You barely move as she runs her nose down your neck, as she traces the outline of your face with her lips.
She needs this. After today, she needs this, and so do you. You need to know that she is here with you, that she hasn't gotten lost in what might have beens. You almost died today. But she saved you, just like always. She needs to know that she succeeded, that you are not a dream. And so you let her hold you, move her hands searchingly along your back, memorizing the shape of your curves.
It's silent. The only sound is the pitter-patter of the drops against the glass. Without knowing how, you're in her arms, and you've wrapped your legs around her thin waist. The only thing you can feel is Jane. You hear her, sense her, taste her. She is everywhere and everything. Her lips moving against yours in a dance the two of you have perfected over the past year. Perfectly synchronized, but every time just as new, just as wonderful.
"Maura, Maura, Maura," your name drops from her lips like a prayer. A mantra. A lifeline. Her mouth is on yours. Her taste is filling you until there's no room for air, for anything but Jane. You tangle your hands in her curly brown hair, snarled and tangled, but soft, gorgeous.
She carries you over to the bed, your bed, and sets you down uncharacteristically gently, lovingly. She is leaning over you, supporting herself on her forearms, but you haven't released her yet, haven't come up to breathe in what feels like days. And you don't want to. You need her.
So when she slips her long fingered hands under the line of your pajamas, you moan in relief. She doesn't tease, but goes straight to the heat pounding inside of you. She slides her hand gently through your folds, gasping at the wetness awaiting her there. And then she is inside you, and you are sure that you are alive. For the first time since that man had his hands on you, knife to your throat, you know that Jane succeeded. She pulled you back from the edge, and now here you are and she is showering you with love. She is reminding herself and you, that you are alive. You are together.
When it comes, quickly, effortlessly, as it crashes over you, not pulling you down, but lifting you up. Throwing you higher and higher until you are so close to shattering you almost cannot stand it. When she whispers your name one final time and collapses next to you, holding you close, while your body is shaking in release, in relief, that is when the tears come. They are flowing down your cheeks and you don't have the energy to stop them. You are alive and she is here and she is loving you and that is enough. That is perfect.