Author's Note: Someone challenged me to write a fic that focuses on Maura and explains why she often is a bit somber in my other stories (I prefer Season 1 Maura and usually use that as reference). And I do indeed write from Jane's perspective most of the time, so I thought that was a great suggestion. Thanks for the idea, mholder!
Technically, the fic stands on its own, but you can also treat it as a sequel that happens a few months after the events of either "Monday, Monday" or "Killing Me Softly" (if you've read those).
The fic's title refers to a Cloud Cult song — fabulous band and currently one of my acoustic inspirations. (The "Unplug" version of "Breakfast With My Shadow" from 2014 is best.)
As usual, the characters belong to Tess Gerritsen/TNT, the rest does not. :-P
Given the challenge, there are some somber undertones again, but I promise there's a happy ending. Like last time, the story is complete and only split into three chapters for easier readability. So, here's my attempt at walking in Maura's shoes. Figuratively speaking. Because, really, I'd look like a drunken giraffe if I tried to walk in her actual shoes…
(PART I)
...
It usually takes her brain less than sixty seconds to switch from its state of curbed activity by night to its preferred mode of full operation by day. Less than sixty seconds to rouse her prefrontal cortex, to jump-start her working memory, to cache a multitude of facts and figures waiting to be released. And less than sixty seconds to let her body follow suit and to slide out of bed, ready and eager to face the challenges of the new day.
But not on this hot and humid August morning.
At 6:55 a.m., Maura Isles is still wrapped into the cool silken sheets of her queen-sized bed, lying prone with her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, and lacking any enthusiasm to follow her normal wake-up routine. Maybe it is because of the already simmering heat. Maybe it is because of the particular nature of this day. Or maybe — and most likely — it is because she has been forced to sleep alone for the third night in a row.
Well, almost alone. Her drowsiness still clouding her vision, Maura squints at the furry Yorkshire terrier snoozing between two pillows in the other half of the bed. But despite the puppy's undeniable adorableness, she would very much prefer to find the usual occupant of those pillows by her side. Unfortunately, the presence of Jane Rizzoli is currently required approximately 190 miles away at a management seminar for law enforcement officers in New York.
On the one hand, Maura certainly approves of Jane's recent exploration of her future career options, which has resulted in her attending courses all over the country to help her climb up the ladder and become the lead liaison for the FBI's Boston Violent Crimes Task Force — a position as challenging as her duties as a BPD detective but with a considerably lower risk of being gunned down in the street. And Maura also approves of the fact that it was Jane herself who wished to reduce the level of danger in her life, driven by the desire to spend more of that life in the medical examiner's Beacon Hill home.
But on the other hand, Maura certainly does not approve of the current consequences of Jane's career ambitions — the unused sheets next to her own, the return of the long forgotten silence in her house, the missing touch of lean fingers gently reaching over and wiping a strand of hair from her face before tickling her cheeks and traveling down her arm…
As if the yearning of her senses has somehow reached a certain detective in New York, Maura's cell phone suddenly buzzes under her pillow. Sleepily, she fumbles for the device while trying to remember how long exactly she and Jane talked the night before. Concluding that she must have fallen asleep at some point in the middle of their chat, she opens Jane's text message on her phone's display.
please tell me i'm not up before you… that would be so wrong…
A spontaneous smile filling her face, Maura ponders her response when she notices Jo Friday peeking at her suspiciously, as if the little dog is sensing that it was her owner who sent that text. Reassuringly, the blonde pats the sheet beside her to lure the terrier closer, waits until the grunting ball of fur has curled up under her arm, then snaps a picture of them both with her phone and attaches it to her reply to Jane.
Does it look like we're up…?
Absentmindedly running her fingers through Jo Friday's wavy fur, Maura waits until her phone finally buzzes with another message.
looks like jo friday is a damn lucky dog right now… and fyi, the coffee at this place still tastes like dishwater! :-(
Unable to hide her amusement at the thought of a sleep- and coffee-deprived Jane, Maura lets her fingers glide over her phone's screen to enter her response.
I'm sure the green tea tastes much better. You should try it…
She barely has enough time for some stretching and a stifled yawn before her phone buzzes once more.
it's amazing how you manage to sneak in some naggin even in a short text…
Without giving Maura any chance to respond, the device quickly alerts her of another message, a brief addendum to the previous complaint.
but i love you anyway :-)
Not surprisingly, the warm smile gracing Maura's lips instantly triggers Jo Friday's jealousy. With a loud bark, the terrier hops off the bed and expectantly glares at the blonde as she is sending off another text.
I think Jo Friday wants to go for a walk. Are you sure you don't need a ride from the airport tonight?
Suppressing another yawn, Maura rolls out of bed, her lightly tanned skin barely covered by a cream-colored negligee. She pulls open the window curtains, then hurries back to her buzzing phone.
yup, already made arrangements… i'll see you as soon as i get back. can't wait. xoxo
Her heart pounding in anticipation, Maura pads to the bathroom, reaches for a washcloth, but then pauses in front of the mirror and studies her reflection for a while. Wondering… remembering… all those days on which she forced a smile on her face in order to stimulate the associated physical response… to convince herself and her body that she was happy with the way things were… even though she was not…
But today, her smile appears voluntarily and grows even brighter at the thought of the little drawings and secret messages that so often mysteriously manifest themselves on her steamy bathroom mirror, courtesy of the detective now frequently spending the night at her house.
Just as she closes her eyes, trying to invoke the feeling of Jane's gentle touch, a bark from Jo Friday sitting in the door frame rips her from her reverie. "Sorry, just give me ten minutes," she pleads apologetically before slipping out of her negligee and into the shower.
…
Shortly after 7:30 a.m., Maura and Jo Friday return from a quick stroll through their still awakening affluent neighborhood. Lightly clad in a sleeveless summer dress and matching peep-toe heels, the blonde finally settles into a rhythm for her long day ahead and sashays to her kitchen in search for a suitable morning snack.
She doesn't have to search for long. In the middle of the granite counter, not to be missed, waits a plate of peeled and chopped fruits, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a greeting card filled with the curved handwriting of the elder Rizzoli woman still inhabiting the guest house next door.
Thankfully scanning Angela's message, Maura takes a sip of the fruity juice and lets a slice of peach disappear in her mouth before brewing herself a cup of steaming coffee.
And for a moment, as she stands in the silence of the great room and slowly stirs the fine blend in her cup, it almost feels like one of those myriad mornings she so often spent alone in her house… those countless breakfasts with her shadow… the solitude sometimes shared with her tortoise… the reptile's serene demeanor only accentuating the quiet of her home… and all those times she wondered whether things would one day change… if she truly believed in it… would she finally wake up to something different?
And then one day, that change came, and it was neither quiet nor gradual but boisterous and sudden, personified as a vivacious detective who invaded her home and her heart. And after a while, that change became permanent. Silence was replaced by hearty laughter. Loneliness gave way to love.
And even though she is once again alone now, the presence of said detective is felt in every corner of the house — by the not-so-secret stash of instant coffee and chocolate chip cookies in her cupboard; by the chessboard on the dinner table with their unfinished match waiting to be resumed; by the wrinkled Red Sox shirt that ended up between the couch cushions during their last intimate rendezvous before Jane's departure for New York.
Letting a smile grace her lips at the prospect of their reunification at the end of the day, Maura finishes her coffee and gathers her belongings to leave for work.
After a quick stop in the back of her house to say goodbye to her tortoise nibbling some leaves and to Jane's terrier contently chewing her treats, Maura returns just in time to hear a tired knock on the front door.
Curious about her unexpected visitor's identity, she opens the door and is greeted by a college-aged boy, who manages to look even sleepier than Jane on her worst days. His eyelids hanging low, he hands her a colorful bouquet of flowers and a small package with her favorite organic bakery's logo imprinted on its wrapping.
"Are you Maura Isles?" the kid asks, his question merging into a drowsy yawn.
"Yes…," Maura nods and waits for him to fish a pen out of his shirt's pocket, then signs the receipt and accepts her delivery.
He tips his baseball cap and mumbles a few words barely resembling a "have a nice day," then trudges off towards his van.
Shaking her head as she watches him drive away, Maura unknots the gift ribbon of the box in her hands, then carefully removes its wrapping and peeks inside — and involuntarily hums in delight at the sight of the two muffins she finds. Upon taking a closer look, however, she scrunches her nose and doubtfully scrutinizes the darker of the two muffins, whose chocolate dough filled with extra chocolate chunks stands in stark contrast to the much healthier appearance of its lighter companion. Before daring to take a bite, Maura checks the card attached to the flowers, recognizes Jane's squiggly handwriting.
Alright, here's the deal: I got you your organic tofu muffin-wannabe, but you'll also have to try the other one. Tonight I'm gonna ask you which one you liked better. And I swear, if you pick that pseudo muffin of yours without breaking into hives, I'll have to reconsider this relationship! Just sayin…
Love ya.
Jane
Her enamored smile mixing with a shade of panic caused by the impending investigation of her dietary preferences, Maura hurries back to her kitchen, places the flowers in a vase, then grabs the muffins in their box as well as her bag and leaves her Beacon Hill home.
Once in her car, she glances at the muffins on the passenger seat, reaches for her cell phone, and enters a quick text. After a moment of hesitation, she sends it to Jane.
In case you'd like to reconsider this relationship tonight, I might have to elope with this hot deliveryman who just knocked on my door. Just saying…
As her dark Prius merges with the morning rush-hour traffic, her phone immediately buzzes with a response.
not funny!
Seconds later, while she is waiting at a traffic light, another message pops up.
so which one is better?
With the untouched muffins still sitting in their box on the other seat, Maura ponders Jane's message, hesitates again, but then decides that today she is certainly allowed to be a little feisty. The corners of her mouth twitching with amusement, she enters her response.
The deliveryman or you? I haven't decided yet…
This time, her cell phone remains quiet, as if the device has joined the recipient of her text for a momentary period of pouting. But eventually, it buzzes again.
:-/
Before Maura gets a chance to respond, the traffic light turns green and she focuses her attention on the solid line of cars slowly crawling down the street. Apparently sensing her distraction, her phone buzzes impatiently.
:'-(
Quietly chuckling to herself, Maura lets her fingers slide over her phone's virtual keyboard once more.
While I find your pictographic responses fascinating, I'm almost at BPD and have to stop. But for your information, the deliveryman is long gone and wasn't half as cute as you are.
Her confession is rewarded with an instant response.
:-D
Without even trying to hide the bright smile on her own face, Maura parks her Prius in a side street next to BPD Headquarters, grabs her bag and the muffins, and heads for the building's main entrance.
And she almost makes it to the elevators down to the Crime Lab and to the Chief Medical Examiner's premises. Almost.
"Maura?!" a determined voice calls out from the Division One Café.
Before the woman of said name has any chance to escape, Angela Rizzoli storms out of the café and wraps her into her arms. "I'm sorry I had to leave so early this morning…"
"It's okay… but thank you… for the little surprise," Maura squeezes out, trying to squirm away. When she doesn't succeed, she gives up her resistance and accepts the elder Rizzoli's embrace as a temporary substitute for a hug from the younger version still stuck in New York. "But I'm actually in a hurry. I have to—"
"Whatever you have to do can certainly wait a few more minutes," Angela insists and finally lets her out of her arms.
"Actually, no," Maura objects. "An unidentified woman was brought in late last night and I'd like to get started as soon as possible."
"That woman isn't going anywhere, is she?" Faced with the blonde's look of indignation, Angela shrugs apologetically. "Well, I've been instructed to sit you down for breakfast, and I had to promise I wouldn't take no for an answer…"
Taking the subtle hint at the mastermind behind this breakfast plot, Maura smiles thankfully and attempts once more to get away. "I won't tell Jane."
But Angela still holds her back. "Honey, when was the last time you have successfully kept something secret from Jane?"
"Well, I…," Maura starts confidently and pauses abruptly, grasping for an answer.
"Believe me, I find your inability to lie adorable… but not if it gets me into trouble with Jane." With a sympathetic smile, Angela puts her arm around Maura's shoulder and gently pushes her into the café. "So, how about some pancakes?"
Heaving a sigh, Maura slides onto a stool at the counter. "Can you at least make them to go?"
And even though the Rizzoli matriarch sternly raises her eyebrows at first, she eventually nods before scurrying into the kitchen.
Waiting for her to return, Maura absentmindedly lets her eyes wander over the busy café, nods politely to the cop sitting next to her, tries to blend in the way she so often does. Her uneasiness when around people may have subsided over the years. And the whispers behind her back about the Queen of the Dead may have faded as well. But somewhere deep inside, she knows that she is still the outsider, tolerated by the group only due to her nearness to one of their leaders. She is the one who wears Alexander McQueen when everybody else dresses in uniforms and clothes off the rack. She is the one who feels sympathy with her mobster father when everybody else can't wait for his final conviction. She is the one who is fascinated by death when everybody else strives to help victims survive. She is the one who doesn't belong.
And on this particular day, this realization is even harder to shake.
Before her thoughts can drift off any further, Angela returns with a styrofoam cup of green tea and a small plastic container filled with bunny pancakes. She places both items on the counter and admonishingly eyes the blonde. "Will I at least see you for lunch?"
"I'll try, but I have a really full schedule," Maura concedes and reaches for her breakfast.
"Even today?" Disappointment resonates in the elder woman's voice.
"It's a day like any other," Maura points out quietly. Forestalling any potential protest, she takes her food with a thankful smile, and hurries out of the café.
"No, it's not," Angela murmurs to herself as she watches the medical examiner disappear towards the elevators down to her office.
…
Fifteen minutes later, Maura is dressed in her scrubs and stands at one of the morgue slabs in the autopsy room next to her office and silently studies the body that was brought in the night before. Partly covered by a bare white cloth, the corpse has already been prepared, stripped off its clothes, measured and weighted, photographed and tagged. And even though the distinctive features of the dark-haired woman are striking even in death, the inevitable demise of her naked body has long begun. With the rigidity of rigor mortis already dissipated and the lifeless remains as cold as the sterile lab, patches of epidermis are slowly slipping off, and the woman's skin is marbling and gradually turning black. Accelerated by this August's humidity and heat, the body's putrefaction is almost complete, and the bloating of its abdomen and extremities will soon subside. And in an ironic natural twist, right there in the midst of decay and death, new life begins. One after another, blowfly eggs embedded in the body's moist openings and wounds hatch into maggots and voraciously feast on the woman's organs and flesh.
And there are plenty of wounds on the woman's body. Bruises that are still discernible on her prominent cheekbones. Scratches that cover her wrists and her hands. And those gunshot wounds that tell the gruesome story of her death.
Wondering what may have caused the woman to be attacked with so much rage, Maura closely examines the five entrance wounds. The first two on her kneecaps — visual reminders of those bullets that prevented her from running away. The next two on her shoulders — from bullets that were meant to shatter her clavicle and render her arms immobile, or to simply inflict pain. And the final point of entry on her forehead. Dead center. Sealing her fate.
After her initial assessment, Maura takes a step back and skims the document detailing the discovery of the body by a hapless dog walker, who stumbled upon it between the trash in a quiet alley near Dorchester Avenue. Since the woman did not carry any ID nor match any missing person reports, all attempts to determine her identity right at the scene were doomed to fail. And thus, at least for now, she is just another Jane Doe.
Another Jane.
Feeling her stomach tense up at the thought, Maura quickly resumes her work. To give that woman a name. To fight her own lingering fears. To push back her worries that some day the woman on her table might really be Jane.
Carefully, she removes the plastic bags still protecting the woman's blood-smeared hands, then checks each of her fingers for one that might yield a usable print. After several unsuccessful attempts, the mobile scanning device finally captures the ridges, deltas, and grooves required for any meaningful further analysis.
Just as Maura has verified the proper storage of all information on the device, Susie enters the lab.
"Doctor Isles! Ha—"
"Susie! Perfect timing," Maura cuts her off with a collegial smile. "Would you please get these prints to Detective Randall? We need an ID for this woman as soon as possible."
"Yes, sure," Susie confirms but then hesitates, wondering about the proper protocol.
Sensing the senior criminalist's indecision, Maura sets the tone. Business as usual. "And do we have the lab results for Detective Vogler's case already?"
"Uh, no, but they're expected to come in this afternoon." Susie straightens herself, filled with the desire to do at least something special for her superior today. "I can call them again and ask them to prioritize the tox screen if you want…"
"No, this won't be necessary. Thank you," Maura declines politely and points at the fingerprint scanning device. "But these prints are rather urgent."
"Oh, yes, of course," Susie nods. And after one last awkward pause, she finally hurries out of the lab.
Remaining behind with the still nameless victim's body, Maura continues her external examination. With meticulous precision, she documents every scratch, every wound, every scar on the decaying corpse before securing the fibers caught under the woman's dirty fingernails and retrieving one of the bullets lodged in her shoulder.
After taking samples of the woman's urine and blood, Maura quietly proceeds with the step she always dreads most. Suppressing a sigh, she lifts the cloth covering the woman's genitalia and thoroughly checks for any signs of rape or assault.
Minutes later, she concludes with relief that, at least in this regard, the woman has been spared.
…