Jane-centric, kind of AU in the beginning. Details Jane's life from childhood in relation to sexuality. You need to grow a little before you're ready for someone who's good for you.
pretty girls, pretty girls
(1)
You begin to think about the mysterious and wild charms of the female body when you're 13, almost 14. Annie Liebowitz is changing next to you. Kids make fun of her typically Jewish nose but half shirt up and giggling next to you, you find no fault in her. The edges of her hair stroke her shoulders. She's blonde and her curls bounce as she laughs and laughs. You smile effortlessly looking at her skin. Something in you makes you want to reach out and press your fingertips into her stomach, touch her cheek with your lips. Something in you also wants to run far away. The contradiction is striking. This new desire, this new fear. The bell for gym class is your fortuitous savior.
Later, when you get home you walk up to your mom. Your two brothers are playing some board game on the floor of the living room. You say,
"Ma, have you noticed how pretty Annie is?"
Angela is cooking and it's home made kitchen music at its finest. Symphonies of pots and forks, of clitter-clatter, of twirling and twists, of slicing and shaking. It calms you down a little although you're shaking. You tell your mother everything and her silence unnerves you.
"Ma—"
"Oh, honey," she says. She looks down at you, and messes with your hair. "We'll buy you some make up, I can show you how to fix your eyebrows…"
The rest of her promises go unheard. You really weren't asking for comparisons or help in becoming something you're not.
"Boys will look at you too," your mother hums, turning back to the kitchen counter. You hear it loud and very clear. It's absolutely nothing that you want.
(2)
At 16, you know the angles of your body, the roughness of your jaw, the way your hipbones jump out, how your shoulders curve and where your elbows are the pointiest. And you know you're not ugly, and you know you're not pretty. You hate your hair in the mornings but not in an angry way, you let the chaos of it amuse you. You really do loathe your face, however, the blemishes and pimples, the way it breaks, how the purple and brown mix in dark circles under your eyes. Your thighs are too floppy, your feet are curved a little bit inwards. Enough to be awkward. You've mostly accepted the fact that you're not what magazine dolls are made of it but what bothers you more isn't how you look. It's the way you feel around all those pretty girls. Specifically, Lily Toms has become the bane of your high school existence. She came with her family from England, all ginger hair and freckles, tall, tall body and bright smiles. She hugs and kisses everyone on the cheeks, she holds hands and lays her head on anyone's shoulder. Apparently it's fairly common for girls to act that way in Europe but you do know that there's nothing ordinary in the way your heart beats when her arms snake around your body. Lily smells like apples, you assume it's her shampoo, she wears blazers and likes her tea black.
When a boy picks at her in the hallway, you're the only one who stands up for her. He's two heads above you and he's got quite the massive body.
"We don't like you foreigners here, talking bout your fish and chips." It's Ben Polluck, a sad kid you've never liked. He sees you and grunts. "Stay out of this Jane, I got no issue with you."
You tell him to leave her alone and you get a blow in the mouth. Ben is taken to the principal as soon as a teacher comes around. Lily walks with you to the nurse and she's holding your hand, fingers laced and pressing tightly into your knuckles. It's reassuring, the way she holds on to you.
"That was very stupid and very nice of you," she tells you.
That evening you ask Frankie to take you to the gym with him. It takes you months and years but your body is toned and strong. At night you roll your fingers down your arms, feeling the tension of the muscles strung under, you think about weights, and lifts and how many times you need to do repeats. You think of which dress your mother will make you wear to dinner and you think of all the things you can't tell her because you can't break her heart. You think of the boys she makes you sit next to on the table and you think of snow and holidays and warmth. You try not to think of Lily and her pretty girl charms.
(3)
You meet Sue, at least she tells you hear name is Sue, at a party. You're too drunk too care. It's the first week of college and you're free from home, free from high school, free from your thoughts. There's just loud music and something in a red solo cup telling you to dance with her. And you try to dance with her, try to make her laugh with your silly moves but she just backs into you and half grinds down on your body. You're going to really, really like college you think. This goddess is shining under the flickering lights, her hair all straight and dark, and she wears a perfume you've never smelled before. She has a tight short orange skirt and a bright blue top. She puts your hand across her stomach and weaves her other on around the base of your neck.
"You can kiss me, you know."
You do.
You kiss for a while and a bit later you tell her to excuse you while you go to the bathroom. She murmurs something like "don't make me wait too long" but you're running through the door and going the first direction your eyes see. You end up in a half empty parking lot in the middle of the night and you're trying to catch you're breathe. You're scared and it feels so wrong, and so right and it's the first time you can't stop yourself, you can't hide or let your mind go elsewhere. You like girls, girls, pretty, pretty girls, their jungle eyes and warm hearts, their soft skin and fluttering lashes, girls, damnit, you like girls.
(4)
Andrew, you first serious boyfriend is more of a last attempt to be normal, to be what your mother would like. Angela adores the boy and Frankie and Tommy like him too. You dad hums in approval once Andy starts talking cars and bikes. He's a bit of a rough thing, a little of a unmannered brute-like softy. In a way he reminds you more of you than of a person you'd like to be with. You date for three months and you tell him you need to focus on your classes more. He shrugs and tells you okay, not too upset about things.
And you do work more in your classes. You listen to Izzie argue with the professor every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Ocassionally you learn something about political theory but mostly it's the sweet inflexion of her voice, how her hazel eyes fire up and the way she clenches to her pen and writes line after line, the way her shoulders raise underneath her leather jacket and how her black army boots hit the desk when she's thinking too hard.
You join the running team, you discover a love for rock climbing and you end your days with late night swimming sessions. You're either going to join the army or the police. You're going to do good things. You'll make your family proud. And maybe next time you won't stare at Izzie for the whole class.
(5)
"What's your name, temptation?"
She's sitting on the street, back against a street lamp. Her lipstick is bloody red and her hair is disheveled. She's only wearing an oversized dark shirt and shorts. It's freezing. You sit next to her. You throw your jacket on her.
"Anything you want it to be," she giggles like a devil's seductress.
"Do you go here?" Your hand motions around the college campus buildings and she raises her eyebrows.
You make small talk to which she says nothing, then she puts her hands around your face and pulls you in. She kisses you until you bleed, until it hurts, until your head is dizzy and –
You've been having this dream a lot. You can't let anything blur your concentration. It's frustrating, so frustrating. To yearn for things you can't have, for people who are so much more than you. You have to practice shooting more and you have a law book to flip through again. That's what you focus on instead. Exams are coming up and hell if you're not going to be the youngest female detective.
(6)
She catches you staring at the bar. The guys leave and you go to take your coat but she intercepts you before you reach the door.
"You should buy me a drink," this attractive stranger tells you. Her hand is on your wrist. You buy two glasses of gin and tonic but she makes you get her a cosmo and you end up downing the gin.
Next thing you know she's shoving you through her apartment door and onto her bed. You've had sex before with boys but this is quite the new thing. She unravels you and lets your atoms float into the ether. When you catch your breath you return the favor. Her lips form a perfectly shaped O and she looks right in your eyes. It's sexy, it's graceful, it's fevor, you're alive.
(7)
You've decided none of this can be had at the workplace. You date some detectives and meander around some FBI agents. Mostly, you're just the toughass Jane who does the boys' job better than them. You love your team and you feel humbled, rewarded and mostly grateful that you can keep your family and the people of Boston safe.
You meet the new medical examiner, Dr. Isles or something like that, on the crime scene early Wednesday morning before the sun is out. Frost is teasing you that the vein just side of your forehead is popping out and that happens when you're really concentrated. You're half-squating over the dead body when you notice a pair of shiny and likely absurdly overpriced heals.
"Male, appears to be Caucasian…"
"He's white, I assure you…?"
"Dr. Isles, Maura Isles, I'm the new medical examiner," She looks past you and it's apparent her mind is at work. "Well, you can never be sure about these things."
Your first impression is set in stone. Maura Isles is a pretty girl, all honey hair and sharp nose but very, very annoying. You've gathered some life experience and now understand it's not all looks. Physical appearance draws you in but you're mature enough to call the games you play on more than that. And besides, surely there's no reason to even ponder Dr. Isles' life. She's aloof and talks a lot. Over time, you get used to her incessant babble, the way she walks through facts with caution and hardly ever makes conclusion off the bat like you're trained to do. You're intuition, she's brains. It takes a while but you learn how and where to push her and how to get what you need from her. It takes you weeks to learn her language but slowly you become an efficient team.
Slowly, slowly, she becomes your friend. She teases the stress out of your shoulder and brings you sandwiches for lunch that cost more than a month of your morning coffee. You weave your lives together and soon she's over for dinner and Angela keeps asking for you to bring her over more often.
She's your best friend, you're confidante. She's there when you shoot yourself through the stomach to kill a dirty cop, she's next to you in car rides, in boat rides, in trains, in haunted houses, when you're running from serial killers and battling the alfredo sauce you're making for dinner.
One night, perched on your couch, after bickering back and forth about something or other, she leaves her wine glass on the table and nests into your side. Your throw a blanket over your bodies by instinct almost, you lower the volume of the TV. Her head is on your shoulder and you tuck on her fingers until you're holding her hand.
Half sleepy, she tells you, "You're very pretty, Jane Rizzoli."
Your turn slightly to see her. Maura's eyes are closed, her breathing evening out, treading past the gates of dreamland.
She's prettier than any girl you've met. You see something in her that no one else has. It dances in her eyes and mixes in her breath and it makes you want to be a better person. It's soft and very gentle, a kindness that makes you whole, that lets you have peace.
You press a light kiss to her lips and she's awake.
"You're beautiful, Maura Isles."