AN: Tell me your thoughts friend. I would love to have suggestions, positives, negatives. This is a very safe environment, don't be afraid to share. Because i love input, and I know you love output.
Watching her is like watching autumn slowly rot into winter. Beautiful and chilling. The world in transition. Your world in transition. You've seen what she can do with her hands. You've watched her break apart life and rebuild it in her image, quiet and cold and breathtakingly stunning.
You've watched her, for the months she's been a part of the department, you've watched her. Heady and awe-stricken. A girl with a crush.
No that doesn't fit you. Not Jane Rizzoli. Jane Rizzoli is a detective…with a case. And maybe she's some smoking gun disguised as a goddess. You swear you're not a romantic. You swear it even as you find any excuse to visit her, any excuse to peer over her shoulder.
When do you think the results will be ready?
What's that bruise on the forehead? Cause of death?
She greets you indifferently, politely. Pleasantly dismissive. She treats you just as she treats Korsak and Frost and even Crowe. You start to think maybe she sees all of you the same, just muscles with guns. Wise-cracking brutes with hero complexes. You're not a romantic you tell yourself. But when you hear the sound of her heels clicking steadily behind you, you imagine the sweet sway of her hips. You slow down, turn to the side and quickly open the door for her.
You're not a romantic…but you swear your heart stops when a fleeting smile graces her lips as she thanks you.
The first time you notice her ring is on a Saturday. She is sitting at a booth in Tom's Diner. Even adorned in jeans and sandals, she stands out. The object that does not belong. Her eyes flitting helplessly about as her hands sit still in her lap. Maura Isles, queen of the dead, was no longer in her kingdom. There were no cadavers to redirect attention, no Susie Chang bustling in with results, no Frost keeled over the trashcan. You were going to walk up to her. No, you were going to swagger up to her, Rizzoli charm and all. You were going to be funny and kind and interesting, and she was going to look at you and smile. And all that time, all of the months you've been growing steadily infatuated with this woman would be worth it. You needlessly adjust your t-shirt (you should start dressing better) and saunter over to her, smiling excitedly.
" Dr. Isles, are you lost?"
You mean it to be funny, but she furrows her brow and shakes her head.
"It's just you don't strike me as the type to hang around this side of Boston."
"I don't?"
"No, not really," you smile in as friendly a way as you can muster with your heart beating wildly in your chest, "are you here all by yourself? I could join you if you want."
You're trying to make eye contact with her. You always try to make eye contact with her. It's not like she's never looked at your face before; for god's sake, the two of you work together all the time, but she never really looks at you. Normal people make eye contact during conversations, and they hold it there. She kind of glances around your face; sometimes even above your head. Like right now, you're standing directly in front of her and she's glancing around you. Oddly enough she's smiling. You turn your head a little to see what has captured her attention, the attention you can never seem to hold. You see this tall, beautiful man walking toward you, toward Maura. His eyes smiling brightly as he finally sits in the doctor's booth across from her. The place you'd already declared yours. He looks up at you curiously as if you're some invader, some foreigner in their world. Maybe you are. Maura introduces you to him, Ian Faulkner, her fiancé. And there it is, on her hand, you catch it as she is gesticulating fondling toward the beautiful man in her booth. You see the band of silver and the generous glitter of diamonds atop. She introduces you as a coworker. Detective Rizzoli she smiles. You smile politely back, exchanging introductions with Ian before finally making your escape. The sky is huge this morning, and your world is so very small.
Ian is a shock.
But the engagement…the engagement is an electrocution. She never wears her ring to work, and maybe it's because she's elbow deep in carcasses most of the time, but still, it isn't fair. It isn't fair that he just materialized from thin air. He'd never appeared with her at any department event; he'd never visited her at work. She'd never mentioned him,( given she'd never mentioned any part of her personal life to anyone). Still, it isn't fair. She's been practically holding your mind hostage for 8 months. 8 months of longing, of watching, of hoping. You're an idiot; she doesn't owe you anything, you know that. But a part of you resents her. A part of you is ashamed of this one-sided affection; you wonder if she's noticed your attempts to interact with her. If she laughs at the pathetic lovestruck detective. Ian and she must be so happily amused; they probably laughed as you fled from the diner, tail between your legs.
From that Saturday on, with your self-made hatred deeply planted in your heart, you pulled yourself away from her. You stopped visiting the morgue unnecessarily. You stopped making conversation with her. Sometimes you'd even participate in the mocking of her. And this continue for about a month until Korsak pulled you to the side and asked you what was going on. You'd never been one to disrespect the doctor before; in fact, you'd always been her main defender. You had used some excuse about girls sticking together, but in all honesty, you had just wanted to protect her. After that hostile conversation with Korsak though, you resented Dr. Isles even more. Soon enough you started actively irritating her. You'd question her results, crack jokes about her wardrobe, doubt her qualifications. She'd wave you off, each time more dismissively than the last until finally while leaning over a 23 year-old gunshot victim she turned around and cracked.
"I graduated top of my class from Boston Cambridge University. One of the many universities to which I received full scholarships; Others including John Hopkins, Stanford-"
You, angry that the blonde was basically bragging about how much better she is than you, simply huff, "I don't need your resumé, Dr. Isles." If it were possible for smoke to come out of the blonde's ears, you're certain it would have.
"I have won the Hubbard Award," she continues despite your interruption, "the Milton Helpern Laureate Award, and been nominated for many others in relation to my field. Detective, I am a certified genius. Do not question my competence again."
With that controlled, angry speech, the blonde doctor turns back to the victim, taking slow methodical care. You stand there slack-jawed, and all the detectives within earshot are snickering behind your back.
"Rizzoli just got told," you hear Crowe laugh obnoxiously beside you. She has embarrassed you. Again. If you resented her before, you hate her now.
The next time you're alone with her it's later that day in an elevator. When she sees you inside, you can see her hesitate before joining you. She dislikes your presence so much she considers walking down a flight of stairs in 4-inch heels. 8 months of pining, of friendliness. Only to make her hate you in 2 months tops. Good work, Detective.
Part of you is hurt by that fact; part of you is proud. You turn to her, the familiar urge to irritate her pulling at your tongue.
"Am I that bad?" you say, poking fun of her hesitation. She doesn't even look your way, as always. She just sighs in response. "Aw, come on Dr. Isles, I'd figure you at least apologize to me after being so rude at the crime scene. Very unprofessional." You snip at the one thing you know will set her off.
"Unprofessional? I have been nothing but professional toward you," she raises her voice slightly before calming herself down, "Honestly what is your vendetta against me? Why must you dislike me so fervently?"
"I don't," You shrug. You're still somewhat nervous around her. This is the most non-work related conversation you've ever had with her. And she's wearing this pencil shirt and this blouse that shows just enough cleavage to hint at what's beneath. You still admire her, but now you do it angrily.
She turns toward you, moving toward the elevator buttons and then quickly pushing the emergency stop. You lurch forward at the sudden stop, knocking into her slightly.
"What the hel-"
"Answer my question. Why do you dislike me so much?"
Your ears are ringing; you're hyper-aware of the fact that it's just you and Dr. Isles, beautiful Dr. Isles, in this small elevator. You're aware of the fact that she's looking at you, really looking at you. Her eyes are gorgeous.
And you hate her for it.
She must know. She must have caught onto your puppy-dog eyes all those months ago. She had to have known. You were sure the whole diner heard your heart break when she introduced you to Ian; you were sure of it.
This elevator is too small, and she's standing like a guard dog in front of the controls. You try to reach around her, hoping the staggering height difference will shrink her into submission, but she stays there. Blocking the emergency stop button. Why is she making this so hard for you?
"You can leave when you answer my question. Why do you constantly harass-"
"Harass?" you say it curiously, still trying to push your hand behind her back. The word sounds so harsh.
"Yes, harass, torment, bully-" she lets out a disgruntled uumph as you finally wedge your hand in between her and the controls finally hitting the emergency stop button. But before you can move away she's pushing back on your hand, trapping you in her personal space. You look down at her, her bright hazel eyes angrily staring into yours. God, she's so adorable with her pout and her burning aversion toward you. You wonder what her mouth would look like moaning your name. It's only taken a couple of minutes and you're back to a lovesick puppy. You need to get away from her before you do something stupid and embarrassing and brave, but you can't stop yourself from drawing closer. She never looks at you, and now she's looking at you. Staring at you.
And then your hands without your permission are sliding to her lower back, kneading the flesh through her pretty red blouse.
"Detective!" her voice is shocked and breathy, and she lets out a sexy little grunt as your pull her to your chest.
You can almost hear the cogs in her brain turning furiously and then you glance down, your nose bumping hers. Hazel eyes widen, staring curiously into yours before her mouth forms a little "O" like she's just had an epiphany. You feel her palms pressing harshly against your chest, but you can't help yourself. All you want is one kiss; one touch of the lips you've been fantasizing about forever. She's so close to you. But just as your lips connect with her, that magically soft, passionate connection, she shoves your chest hard, sending you stumbling to the other side of the elevator. Finally the doors ding open, and you just about run out. You look back once to find her staring after you, fingers to her lips, eyes wide in shock.