A/N: This is the product of finally joining Tumblr and looking at waaaaay too many gifs of Maura in various outfits.
As usual, these guys aren't mine. And thanks so much for reading!

It goes a little something like this:

Girl meets girl.
They solve crime.
Kick ass.
Take names.
Girl realises other girl has fan-fucking-tastic boobs.
And voilà.

But that's a bit anti-climactic, isn't it?

Well, you could say the story began with a pretend prostitute and an over-zealous philanthropist. (In effect, maybe it did.) But the turning point wasn't until much later.

Every soldier needs a call to arms.

Jane needed three.

1. A long winter. Navy blue. An umbrella.

It's one of those sneezy spring days that seems a little too warm after the deep-freeze of winter. The air feels a bit too heavy, the breeze intrusive, even the damn birds are chirping a bit too loudly for this early in the morning.

And that's not even the half of it.

You smack yourself in the face with the crime scene tape, flailing like you're caught in a spider-web. (You're lucky you don't fall flat on your ass.)

'You all right, Detective?'

You ignore the question, and only partially because the uniform is trying so hard not to laugh that he looks halfway through a sneeze (he'll blame the pollen—you'll try to kill him with your glare). Because there's Maura Isles, bent over your latest victim, the picture of diligence and concentration—a picture you've encountered a thousand times (and almost always manage to convince yourself that the way your pulse jumps means nothing).

Except this time….

It's back.

(You're going to see nothing but that exact shade of navy when you close your eyes for the next week-and-a-half.)

Holy fuck, it's back, and you feel a little unprepared and a whole-lot light-headed.

(Well, maybe not exactly nothing, but….)

This. This is the beginning of spring. You've waited for this day like other people have waited for the equinox. It marks a rite of passage—the shedding of coats, the showing of legs. It's been ticked on your mental calendar with a vague sense of soon but no exact date. And still you don't feel mentally prepared. Your guard's dropped over winter—you lulled yourself into a false sense of security (or is it heterosexuality?) with buttoned-up blouses and turtlenecks. There should have been some sort of build-up. Something that would've formed a bridge between yesterday's high collar and this.

'Detective Rizzoli?'

'Yeah, yeah, don't worry about it.' The wave of a hand—you think you hit the young cop in the chest, your eyes refusing to move.

Maura Isles is undoubtedly a beautiful woman, and just as much (if not more) of that has to do with her brain as it does her body. But right now—caught off guard and with your usual she's just my best friend defences around your ankles—you can't help but reduce her to legs and hair and cleavage. (You're a little bit afraid you're like that Looney Tunes wolf. Tongue lolling, jaw on the floor, eyes bulging as you stamp your foot and howl.)

You don't know what it is about it—she has innumerable outfits that show far more skin (this particular one has a three-quarter-length sleeve for God's sake). But it doesn't seem to be the amount of material that matters, because you do know one thing. That fucking blue dress must be painted on her. You're half-sure that if you touch it, you'll feel nothing but skin. (You want to give it a try, just to see what happens, but you're not sure you can pass it off as something casual this time.)

You've dreamed of that dress (and convinced yourself it had no meaning).

You've mentally explored every inch of it (your map unfortunately ending with a swirl of sea serpents and a reluctant 'here be dragons'—a warning for the uncharted territories underneath).

But now that it's back, you're not quite sure how to behave around it.

Ignoring it hardly seems polite. (You don't want to risk its wrath or the chance of never seeing it again.) Talking to it seems flat-out crazy. (Yes, hello, sexy outfit—how are you on this fine day?)

But then again, it's not really about the dress at all. It's about the woman inside it.

Smart and sexy and Jesus Christ, she's bending back over that body and her cleavage looks to be plotting its escape. You're not the only one who's noticed, either. Half the men present (and at least one other woman) seem to be suddenly transfixed on the scene and you're 1000% sure it has very little to do with the murder.

Your nostrils flare.

After all that initial hesitation, it takes all of half-a-second to clomp over to Maura, careful to avoid the pool of blood as you stand so your shadow falls over her. (And you can't ignore the way everything about you suddenly screams mine.)

'Can't you put something on over that?' Your own voice sounds rough and foreign, and you frown, clearing your throat.

'Hello to you too, Jane.' Maura doesn't look up.

'Or under it?'

'Under what?'

'That.'

You reach out—almost touch it, but don't. Very deliberately. (Because you don't think you'd be able to move your hand away.) Instead you trace a v over your own chest, while trying not to stare at hers.

Maura glances down, frowning. 'Absolutely not. It would be criminal.'

'Your boobs are criminal,' you mutter, just under your breath. Middle school insults now—you're not quite sure what's come over you.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

Maura removes her gloves with a snap, holding out a hand to you to help her up. You accept, because there's really no other option, and she rises like royalty, standing tall and strong before you and folding her arms.

Soooomebody's in troooooouble….

'Listen, Jane.' (You're all ears—and eyes and libido and Jesus, you want to touch her.) 'I'm not cold enough to require extra clothing, I'm comfortable with my own body and my fashion choices, and this is perfectly suitable workplace attire for someone in my position.'

Ooooh, buuuuuuurn. (You swear you hear it from the patrolmen around you—none of them have said a word.)

'You're right. I'm sorry.'

Maura's eyes widen, your quick apology unexpected. 'Thank you.' Her grin is gorgeous (all bright and silly and grateful), the way she brushes a hand against your bicep even better. 'You're always so surly in the mornings. There's no need for it.'

'Yeah, yeah, the birds are singing and it's a beautiful day and all that jazz.' You have to leave the warmth at Maura's side to at least pretend you still know how to do your job, and squat beside the bruised and broken body (counting slowly to ten and trying to remember how to breathe).

'Birdsong and music have nothing to do with it. Besides, it's going to rain.'

You stare up at the sky while she talks about weather patterns. A blue so clear and bright it looks imaginary. And not a cloud in sight.

Twenty minutes later, the wind shifts and blue fades to grey. Everyone scrambles to cover the body and preserve the crime scene. Maura steps lightly over to you, holding up a brightly coloured umbrella and drawing you underneath just as the sky rips open, the downpour deafening.

You love/hate that she's always right.

(You can't find the words to tell her.)

2. Leather. A lost compliment. And a helpful suggestion.

'Nice jacket.'

Understatement of the century. But it takes a monumental amount of effort to get even that out, because your mouth feels like it's filled with sand (and the string of endless narration in your head is half expletives and half dying whale noises).

Nice jacket is what you say to a fellow Sox fan or your mother showing off her latest purchase.

Nice is an incredibly stupid word that means absolutely nothing (and there are so many things you've already failed to say to this woman—you don't have time for nices and nothings).

Somehow, though, you don't think fuck-me-sideways-you're-so-damn-sexy-and-i-want-to-tear-you-out-of-that-fucking jacket would really be appropriate.

But Jesus Christ it's a nice jacket. Even nicer is the woman inside it, an edge to her usual fashion sense that you've always found oddly alluring. (No… interesting. You always convinced yourself it was interesting.)

She doesn't know what she does to you in leather. You didn't know what she does to you in leather until she spun around, that high ponytail swinging and the edges of her jacket continuing the motion all the way downward.

(You want to swing her over the back of the motorcycle you don't own, feel her thighs tighten around your hips, her hands grabbing at your waist and maybe, just maybe, inching a bit higher.)

(You want to turn your head to her, so close your words breathe straight into her mouth as you rev the engine and tell her to hang on for the ride of her life.)

(You want to see what she looks like rosy and windswept and panting with excitement.)

Your breathing's gone funny. You wonder if she notices (know that of course she does, because she's Maura Fucking Isles, and nothing escapes her). But she's frowning, shoulders bristling as she sighs.

'It's a bit early for sarcasm, Jane.'

You suspect that the time of day has a lot less to do with it than the fact that you've barely said anything to her lately that hasn't been mocking. Because instead of being an actual adult who talks about feelings and admits to emotions, it's been easier to chase after her like a naughty schoolkid, all teasing and hair-pulling and catch-me-if-you-can (and-even-if-you-don't-know-we're-playing).

She's obviously tired of it—and you have to admit, you are too.

'I wasn't being sarcastic.' Gently, gently—there are so many things you want to tell her, just pick one. 'It looks….'

… good on you.

… great with those jeans.

… amazing.

Fucking anything, really, but not:

'… expensive?'

Maura shrugs, staring at the floor.

'No, I mean, you look….' Your shoulders slump and you kick at nothing in exasperation—because there should be a thousand and one words and you can't think of a single one that isn't wrong. 'Never mind.'

She watches you carefully (you're trying so hard not to scowl that it hurts), and something suddenly shifts in her demeanour. Her furrowed forehead smoothing, a held-in breath releasing in an inaudible oh. It's not a smile, exactly, but more like understanding—a knowing without knowing what or why. She reaches out.

(If she touches you, you think you'll melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.)

'Do you want to try it on?'

You try to play it cool, shrug like a badass. Inwardly, you're dancing—and it's something with no rhythm, the Macarena or the shopping cart, but that hardly matters when she's starting to peel back leather in a perfectly innocent (fucking amazing) strip-tease. 'Yeah.'

But it's not the jacket you care about anymore. It's the scent that follows it, the warmth that envelops you which has nothing to do with leather and everything to do with Maura.

It's the way she grins at you, an unfamiliar flash in her eyes that you desperately want to recognise.

It's the way the muscles of her sleeveless arms flex as she puts her hands on her hips (and hell yes, the lady will have two tickets to the gun show), the shirt she's now wearing just sheer enough to rev up your imagination.

And most importantly—it's the way she sidles closer, flicking a quick hand out to adjust a corner of the jacket and practically purring, 'Looks good on you.'

God, the woman's smooth as silk. You want to take lessons. (Or kneel at her altar.)

'Dr. Isles?' Susie's in the goddamn doorway, looking a little too fucking amused for your liking. 'The tox screen's back. All negative.'

'Strange. Did we test the vitreous fluid?'

Maura crosses her office to conference with Susie and you find yourself suddenly all left feet and thumbs, struggling to get out of the jacket. Finally it gives, a sleeve inside-out—and you right it quickly, inspecting for damage. Finding none—this particular article of clothing possessing the ability to withstand even a Rizzoli—you drape it carefully over the back of Maura's chair, fussing and readjusting, because it needs to be perfect and you don't know why.

When you look up, Maura's gone and Susie's watching you, her expression impossible to read (or maybe it's that you don't want to—it's annoyingly close to pity and you can't have that). You stomp towards and past her, and just as you're nearly to the safety of out-of-the-room, you hear a soft sentence behind you.

'She likes lilies, I think,' Susie says to the medical file, pausing and turning just enough to gauge that you're still there. 'And fudge clusters. If it helps.'

You continue out of the morgue without a word, face red and jaw clenched.

You should have known both of those things already.

3. Stupid fucking flowers. Jane Rizzoli, human disaster. Gin.

You're still deciding whether to just barge in or ring the bell (or retreat full-on, leaving nothing but a trail of petals behind you), when the door swings open.

'You've been standing there for three minutes.' Maura says it with a smile as she leans against the frame, a hand in her pocket—but you hear a question (or three). Why, Jane? Are you okay, Jane? What's your fucking problem, Jane?

Four minutes and fifty-seven seconds, actually. You've felt every fucking one of them—sweat, indecision, the sudden heady scent of flowers.

Flowers. Right.

(And there should be fudge clusters—if you hadn't nervously binged on most of them on the way over.)

The flowers alone will have to do.

Your cheeks are flaming. If you can't manage something like I think I like like you, then at the very least there should be a perfectly serviceable (and true) I'm sorry I'm such an ass sometimes that you can pull out of your back pocket and wave around.

But what do you end up with?

'These are for Ma.'

The words are out before you can stop them, and you bat the bouquet aside. Nearly half an hour spent with the gentle, quiet florist—who had sized you up immediately, patiently taking the time to explain each flower and its meaning, making sure not to scare you away. (He'd ignored the shifting of your feet, your muttered sarcasm, the way you balked at words like love – and somehow, with his translation, you'd created Maura out of irises and roses and lilies.)

It's all for nothing now.

'I don't think she's home at the moment, but we could put those in a vase, if you'd like.'

You can only nod, dumb and defeated as Maura takes the bouquet from you and whisks it into the kitchen. She's happy and casual tonight—black cotton pants, a soft white Henley (the first two buttons undone), hair pulled back but a few wisps escaping. She's mesmerising. And it has nothing to do with the way certain clothes highlight parts of her body. It's just Maura—that beautiful, baffling brain; her blinding smile; the way she has of tilting her head with a question.

'Jane? A vase?'

'Yeah, sure.' You jump to action—pretty sure she's asked you six times already, you just haven't properly heard any of them. 'Where?'

'In there.' Maura nods to a cabinet. 'Choose whichever one you like.'

It takes two tries to find a cabinet full of vases—upwards of a dozen in all shapes, sizes, and colours (you wouldn't have expected anything less). Sticking your hand in, you grab the first thing it makes contact with—something intricately crystal and delicate that looks like it might be the right size. You wave it in the air and Maura approves with a nod. She's got the faucet running, is snipping stems under the running water. It all seems like too much effort for something that's no longer hers.

'Don't bother. Just stick them in the vase and Ma can—'

'They'll last longer this way. Cutting the stems underwater ensures that the capillary action continues to function properly without being blocked by air bubbles.'

Of course it does.

'Okay, but at least let me….'

You're reaching and water's flying—either the work of some comical devil or one of those flukes of physics where a small stream of water somehow becomes Niagara Falls when deflected at just the right angle. It's your mistake—so naturally, Maura takes the brunt of it, dropping the flowers and pulling back from the sink, gasping.

Your brain reverts to Tarzan-mode, only works in two-word sentences.

Water—off.

Jane—idiot.

Maura…. Jesus.

The droplets wink on her skin like a flirtation, and you make the mistake of following one on its torturously slow journey down her neck, her chest, and just to the collar of her shirt. A safe enough destination, usually, but right now that shirt is soaking, sticking to her body like a second skin, and… you're not entirely sure she's wearing a bra. Or if she is, it's flimsy enough to be invisible. Because there's… everything.

Yes, everything. Holy Mary, Mother of God.

You have to tell her. Oh my God, you have to tell her. Because it's different this time—not an emergency strip-down or a quick glance while changing at the gym—and you can't quite put your finger on it, but….

(You lick your lips and that's the answer.)

Your brain fizzles, spitting out a few last sparks and a quick puff of smoke.

'I can see your….'

Melons? Cantaloupes? For the love of God, think of something that is not a fruit.

'… chest… area?'

Nice one, genius.

'Oh. So?'

Yes. So.

The so makes the difference.

The so is everything.

The so is the part where you can see the outline of her nipple and you really want to lick it. Not just touch it, but full on lick it. Through the damp fabric… straight to skin… fucking anything as long as you can feel the shape of it with your tongue.

Pull it together.

Pretend like everything's normal.

And fucking say something because her eyes on you are a bit too much, and….

'I…. here.' You pull your sweatshirt over your head. (See problem—cover problem-try to forget problem. It's always been easier.) Your t-shirt catches, pulling with it, and you wonder just how far up Maura's seen—and if you remembered to put on a halfway decent bra this morning.

But if Maura sees anything, she doesn't let on, accepting your offer of cover gratefully—even if she still seems somewhat amused. There's a pause, a handful of seconds where she studies you, before rolling up her sleeves and returning to the forgotten flowers, cutting the ends of stems and arranging them artfully in the vase as though nothing has happened.

You watch silently—the way her hand hovers over each stem before choosing the right one; how she fingers the petals, so so gently; the tap of her fingertips to her lips as she stands deep in thought, no doubt working out a pattern of colour and shape and flower type—and you try not to hyperventilate.

'There!' Maura announces with a final flourish, standing back to admire her handiwork. Her shoulder brushes against you, accidental at first but she leans in—only for an instant, enough to say, Just let me be close to you, just for this second. 'They're beautiful, Jane.'

You nod (really want to lean against her, cheek to shoulder, her curls falling over your forehead), fixated on white and pink and violet petals, your heart doing jumping jacks. 'They're not for Ma.'

The admission is either idiotic or the best (in)decision you've ever made.

Maura presses into you again, this time staying close. 'I know.'

You can't breathe. Yet you must be—your chest rising and falling, your mouth forming words and pushing them out, and though they sound slightly strangled, they hold in the air. 'I think I'm going crazy.'

'You're not.'

She seems so sure, her voice soft and absolute, and you don't know how she can be when your brain is all fizz and bubbles—hollow half-thoughts, briefly beautiful and incandescent, then bursting. (What if we – I think I – Do you…? Please…) You're still grasping at them—sentences that snap-crackle-pop and fizzle into nonsense—when Maura takes your hand, pressing palms together, threading fingers and holding fast.

(Maybe, actually, you don't need words at all.)

You kiss her, one hand still in hers and the other at her waist, fluttering.

You kiss her, and it's soft and split-second—or at least it's meant to be—but she won't let you pull away.

She has a hand in your hair, tangling, and her lips are insistent (almost daring), her tongue smooth and sudden against yours, with a small gasp that sounds of nothing and finally at the same time. God, she tastes incredible, and she feels… yes. Fuck, yes. There's something so soft and gentle about this woman, every flick of tongue and fingers asking permission (you press yeses into her lips, trace them onto her hip, your fingertips trailing—breathe them into her mouth with something like a squeak), yet demanding at the same time.

(You wonder how long she's been waiting for you, patiently and without a word.)

'You're not,' she repeats, and you don't like this, her being so far away when you know what close is now.

'I think we both are.' But you squeeze her hand, pull her flush against you, so she can't misinterpret the words.

The flash of a grin. 'Maybe.'

And it's then that you know—even though everything's changed, nothing has. In a few minutes she'll ask if you've eaten, you'll argue over takeout options, and she'll tenderly bully you into choosing something with more greens than you'd like. Except now you can punctuate all of it with kisses and gentle touches and answering the eternal question of just how soft her skin is there (and there and there).

(Why the hell did you fight this for so long?)

You feel taller and stronger and yourself again (but better)—Jane Rizzoli, resident bad-ass, kicking ass and taking names, and doing it all with a drop-dead gorgeous (amazingly brilliant and sweet and funny and how the hell did you get so fucking lucky?) doctor by your side.

You could get used to this. (You think you are already.)

'So….' You nudge Maura, waggling your eyebrows. 'How about I get you out of those wet clothes and into a dry martini?'

She wrinkles her nose, head tilting. 'I'm not sure I have any gin. I can check if you—'

You kiss her again—laughing—because you can (and because you've wasted more than enough time).

And so it is as it was already:

Girl meets girl.
They solve crime.
Kick ass.
Take names.
(All with an electric kind of chemistry and while accidentally falling a little bit completely in love.)
Girl fucks everything up royally, but still manages it in the end.
And… voilà.

It's the same simple story started years ago by that pretend prostitute and her over-zealous philanthropist (except now with added kissing—and thank God for that).

But the long version is always better.