A/N: I've had this as the start of a fic for the guts of a year and could never seem to find the right second half to it, but seeing as our baby is due in less than two weeks (yikes!), I thought I'd clean it up and post it before I never had the chance to look at it again. Thanks to the wife for putting up with my title agony and for using her love of Orphan Black to think of digging through On the Origin of Species for this one. And thanks to you all for reading.
They flirt over dead bodies.
Not intentionally or obviously—they mean no disrespect—but they do it all the same. It's not like they're spouting cheesy pickup lines or flashing their breasts around. But attraction is attraction—there's as much point in denying it as there is pretending that no, you don't want that second (or third or fourth) bit of chocolate, thank you very much. So for a while it's just there—crackling in the dead space between them—neither venturing near it. But they're both adults, both single, both seem to be into each other, so really what's the fucking point in pretending?
And yes, there should be a line drawn, boldly and indelibly—work and play, professional and private, Police Line Do Not Cross, and all that jazz—and there probably was one at the very first inklings of damn, this chick is hot. But it fades, the strings snapping and straggling—and that police tape has always been far too easy to duck under. They're workaholics, the pair of them, and between detective work and morgue duty, one or both of them is around a dead body for approximately 75% of the day, so the flirting just follows.
It has to happen somewhere.
So it does. Softly at first. A gentle breeze that picks up out of nowhere, ruffling hair and quieting. Once a week maybe. Or twice. Before anyone seems to know it—least of all the two of them—it's become part of the routine. Inspect the victim, catalogue evidence, notice the particular way a pair of ridiculous looking heels accentuates stocking-covered calves, inevitably comment on it instead of keeping your damn mouth shut.
Done and done.
And so they flirt unashamedly—and somehow still managing to catch one another off guard.
The dead bodies don't seem to mind.
(The living are silently cheering them on.)
The North End. An alley behind one of the umpteen Italian restaurants. A twenty-something man whose body is covered in so much leftover pasta and meatballs and marinara sauce that for once Maura's insistence on reddish-brown stains makes sense. They examine the crime scene under buzzing bare bulbs and a lone floodlight squeezed into the space, the prickly summer heat still unbearable at the late hour. Tempers sizzle and usually polite requests are growled as everyone steps on and over each other, so that they're all halfway involved in some complicated feud by the time the investigation concludes.
When Jane finally stands and snaps off her gloves, aiming a scathing glare at a crime scene tech whose shoulder has brushed against her one too many times, she's caught off guard by the sudden chill—Maura's hand brushing her waist, catching a bit of skin just where Jane's shirt has ridden up (for half a millisecond that feels like forever). That's a gorgeous colour on you.
Jane's heart flutters a bit as she balks, recovering with a shrug. It's just red. And stained with sweat and spaghetti, though that part she leaves unsaid. Maura insists it's something called carmine that brings out her eyes and flatters her colouring, and then she's dictating instructions to the morgue techs, and the moment's left to linger.
(When she gets home later, Jane digs through her closet—two more red t-shirts in varying shades, a blouse, a dress that she can't think of a reason to wear. Her wardrobe needs more red.)
The Back Bay. A swanky apartment near Copley Square—and a young au pair lying amongst a scattering of colourful wooden blocks and broken pieces of the upstairs banister, limbs at unnatural angles. Jane accidentally kicks an X while trying to step over a leg and F, L, and G, and tries to place it back in its proper place. Maura comments on the letters, prattling on about the area's alphabet streets, and Jane tries to run through them in her mind, but only makes it as far as Clarendon before forgetting the next letter. It's not entirely her fault—Maura bends in just the right way and a beam of sunlight catches the golds in her hair. It looks nice today, your hair, all down like that.
Maura smiles brightly, hands fluttering as she just remembers not to push a stray strand of hair behind her ear before removing her gloves. Sometimes I think it would make more sense to pull it back for these examinations, but….
I'm glad your vanity won out today, at least, Jane answers—a much smoother line than her original one, the quick wink and grin sealing the deal.
She's almost becoming good at this, she can feel it.
(That afternoon, Jane saunters into the morgue to find both Maura and the au pair patiently awaiting dissection—a bit of Maura's hair falling loose from her ponytail as she begins the incision. Jane waits until the scalpel is safely placed on the table before smoothing the strand behind the doctor's ear. Maura thanks her softly.)
A stretch of subway track near North Station. There's steam and dripping water (they hope) and God knows what combination of elements accounts for that foul odour. Not to mention the brutally mangled older gentleman whose problems seem to be partially some sort of blade and partially the wheels of a nearby Orange Line train. Jane is just thinking that the unholy stench has somehow become a solid—her eyes watering as she tries to distract herself by picking out the finer peculiarities (something sulphurous, a whiff of sewage, a peculiarly specific combination that can only be described as giant's body odour)—when Maura breaks her non-concentration. You've switched brands of shampoo. This one's quite enticing.
Jane doesn't mention that she'd yanked it from a drugstore clearance bin without looking—or say anything about how her breath still feels like it's in her throat with the way Maura has suddenly appeared behind her, practically brushing a cheek into Jane's shoulder.
Instead she babbles—quite rightly—How you can smell anything but that (with a wave of the hand) is beyond me.
Maura just grins, raising an eyebrow. Practice.
(Jane's gait is slightly out of sync as they trek out of the tracks and into the slightly fresher air of the subway station. Maura notices, of course, but Jane chalks it up to tripping over a rail—mostly because that's an easier and more work-appropriate explanation than saying she feels like she's been firmly fucked by that grin and that eyebrow and the way those lips formed around that single word, teasing it out on something like a low growl. Practice.)
And so it goes.
Those small moments seem as though they might carry on to infinity—the longer, more drawn out ones at apartments and houses and the Robber even more so. The line is faint, practically invisible, but they tiptoe up to it and take a step back—and sure are taking their fucking time in stepping across.
But they both seem okay with it. The slow burn suits them.
It wouldn't make for much of a love story—at least not in the Hollywood drama, chick-flick sense.
There's not much will they?/won't they?. There's no obstacles, never any pining or unrequited love. Sure, Jane wakes more than once from some particularly R-rated dreams, but she doesn't linger long over the flash of guilt before settling in to (enthusiastically) solve the problem. There's always a word or a touch or a particular look from the day before to justify it—and (though she tries not to think too much about it) it never really occurs to her that a certain sexy medical examiner isn't doing exactly the same thing.
Sexual tension they have by the bucket-load—that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. And they've followed the proper escalation of compliments, flirtation, and touching to flat-out eyesex—though on a low enough simmer to still keep everything kosher.
Which is why it's not exactly surprising to either of them when one second, they're half-heartedly arguing over the details of their current case in Maura's office—a mangled body fished out of Boston Harbour—and the next, they're making out like two hormone-addled teenagers.
In fact, that's maybe the only part that is surprising. How raw and desperate and needy it all is. Maura had been winning the argument, what with her cool head and facts and logic, and that might explain why Jane finally (fucking finally) gave in to temptation. Maybe. If you squint just right and don't think too hard about the way they really undeniably just fucking want each other, and have since basically the beginning of time.
Because what that doesn't explain is how neither of them can seem to stop now that the dam has burst. Or the way Jane feels her fingers digging into Maura's waist (don'tyoufuckingdareletgo). The way Maura's teeth nip just a bit too hard. Or the lips. The softness and roughness and strength of them, the way they press and slide and fit just so into each other.
It's pretty damn near perfect.
There's a soft pop as they pull away, the move almost synchronised, neither sure who started it. Jane wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. Maura leans back against her desk, hands out on either side of her to steady herself.
'I still can't have those results in any quicker, Jane.' There's a hint of amusement (and a whole lot of finally) in her voice, the glint in her eyes has taken on a certain What now, Detective? quality that's half fucking irresistible and half something sweet as Whatever you want, Jane, I'll follow your lead.
Jane smiles (can't see how I've got the girl beaming it actually is).
'Jeez, what's a girl gotta do for that, then?'
'Invent a method for faster DNA sequencing?' Maura muses with a shrug.
'Sounds kinda complicated….' Jane lets it hang, just for a moment (that's almost too long), firing her next word quickly. 'Dinner?'
She even surprises herself with the way her voice is at a normal pitch—the there'smoretothis emphasis on the one-word question just right as she sidles up to Maura, pressing a palm to her waist and letting her fingers tighten (hardly any pressure—just enough).
She feels… not sated, exactly, doesn't think she'll ever get that with a woman like this (wouldn't want to)… but surprisingly comfortable.
No, it's more than that.
She's ready. Has been since the beginning.
'Yes.' Maura clears her throat—and if it weren't for the slight flush of her cheeks and the way her hands wouldn't quite be steady enough for a scalpel, it would seem as if nothing had changed at all. 'Pizza at my house, wasn't it?'
'No.' At least not anymore. 'Let's go out.'
I'm taking you out, I'm taking you out, I'm taking you out. (A slight riff on it, maybe, but it works all the same.)
She suddenly wants there to be candles and expensive wine and stupid girly things like flowers. She wants there to be everything and she doesn't know why (knows that the why doesn't matter, it's in doing and moving and forging ahead).
'I'd like that.' Maura's taking Jane's hand, tugging her in to sit perch on the desk beside her. It's all so so easy, just simple next steps. It all just fits.
'Good.' Ohmygodyes (mental fist-pump and everything) but also just a quiet okay then, perfect.
They lean together, shoulders touching, Maura's hand coming to rest on Jane's thigh (she can't help the way her leg jumps, the skin tingling at the unexpected contact).
Good.