Maura looked out at the rain pouring down just past the overhang on the stoop. She didn't have an umbrella, an uncharacteristic oversight, and she debated her options.
Going back inside was out of the question.
But the longer she remained on the porch, the higher the risk became that she would encounter someone, and she was in no state to chat. Tapping a few buttons on her phone, Maura requested a car to pick her up and tried to stay dry.
Minutes later, and to her relief, before Maura had to try to make small talk, the car rolled up. She dashed out and climbed in, drenched despite the minimal time spent exposed to the deluge.
As the car rolled out onto the street, Maura sat silently in the back, wondering what the hell had happened to her life.
She'd just left the precinct, still buzzing despite the late Friday night hour. In the privacy of her office, she and Jane had fought. Well, fought was putting it diplomatically.
They disintegrated.
Jane had been aloof lately, curt at times, and Maura was fed up. The Maura of old would have put up with it, withdrawn or maybe even cut ties completely. Post-Jane Maura, however, didn't balk so easily. She had become accustomed to Jane's anger, determination, commitment, and emotionally stunted behavior. She knew that the trauma they both carried took a toll, and that sometimes the price was Jane being distant and rude.
This was more than that, though. This was days, weeks even, of curt answers and snide remarks. Of making plans and then bailing at the last minute. Of looking at Maura like she was a stranger. And other times looking right through her, as if she weren't there at all.
Maura was fed up.
So she waited until the end of the week, summoned Jane to her office, and tried to suggest they get a drink so they could talk. Jane deflected, citing mountains of paperwork, but Maura didn't back down.
It escalated faster than Maura could have imagined, especially considering their sobriety. Somehow they devolved from an invitation to drinks to a shouting match in Maura's office in only moments.
Nothing of substance was resolved, and Maura found herself storming out dismissively after twenty minutes.
Which is how she had ended up bewildered on the stoop of the precinct, without her umbrella, and unable to turn back for the emergency one she kept stashed in her office.
The car slowed to a stop and the driver turned expectantly to Maura when she didn't notice.
"Ma'am?" the driver intoned.
"Sorry!" Maura forced a smile. "Lost in thought. Thank you."
She slid out and dashed to her front door, unlocking it and only breathing fully when the door was shut behind her, the world kept at bay at least for a while.
Uncharacteristically, Maura took her heels off and tossed them casually aside without regard for where they fell, unzipping her dress as she made her way to the bathroom. She needed a hot shower and a glass of wine and…
She paused.
Normally when she felt this way, she would want her best friend's company. She'd want Jane.
Maura cursed that even now, angry and hurt at the other woman, she still wanted Jane to comfort her. To talk to her. She wanted to hear the low rumble of Jane's soft voice as they shared secrets in the dark. She wanted the comforting touch of Jane's scarred palms, no matter how fleeting those touches always were.
Instead, Maura turned the temperature to just below scalding and stepped into the shower. Almost as soon as the water hit her, tears she didn't know she'd been holding back flowed freely.
The hot water beat down on her back as she sobbed, not entirely sure what she was crying about.
All she knew for sure that something was happening, and it felt like she was losing Jane. Like she was losing herself.
But how could that be?
Sure, Jane had been a little more moody lately. A little more distant. A little less affectionate.
Friends had ups and downs too, didn't they?
Maura cursed her lack of knowledge. In the recesses of her mind, she decided to look up some authoritative resources on the nature of friendships. Perhaps that would help.
Letting out a last shuddering breath, Maura turned to cleaning herself. Finally she stepped out of the shower into the steam filled bathroom, wrapping a silk robe around her lithe frame before heading back out in search of something to eat. Too tired to even pour a glass of wine she wanted to eat something and then sleep for weeks.
Maybe when she woke up Jane would be herself again.
As Maura ate, some of her spirit returned, and she added a cup of tea to the mix. Being a lonely, solitary child had equipped Maura with a full arsenal of self-soothing techniques and she called on those in times like this.
Halfway through her second cup of tea, Maura's attempts at self-composure were interrupted by a knock on the door. She debated not answering, but her mother's voice in her head drowned out the desire.
When she looked through the peephole, Maura returned to the debate.
It was Jane.
She was simultaneously shocked and not at all surprised. She rubbed a hand against her temple where a throbbing headache was already starting to form.
Jane knocked again, louder and more pronounced. The rain pounding against the roof tipped the scales in Maura's mind. She swung open the door just as Jane prepared to knock again.
Jane's hand hung limply between them, fist curled to knock, when Maura opened the door. Jane's mouth fell open and her brow furrowed.
Exhaustion curled into Maura's bones.
"Yes?" she asked.
Jane was clearly taken aback by the curt greeting, the failure to invite her inside.
"Can I come in?" Jane asked, the formality another brick in the wall Jane was building between them.
"You can," Maura responded, wincing against the juvenile retort. "I'm sorry, I'm exhausted. Do you need something?"
"I uh," Jane shoved her hands deep into her pockets. "I wanted to talk to you."
"I see," Maura clutched her robe tighter against the cool wind, ignoring the rain droplets that tickled her bare legs. "Can it wait until another time, please?"
Jane appraised Maura for a long moment. Maura was too tired to flinch, to look away, to back down. She tilted her chin up slightly in defiance and held Jane's gaze until the other woman looked away at their feet.
It emboldened Maura, to make Jane back down. Jane often used physicality in her job, and it occasionally leaked into her personal life. Maura loved the boldness, the certainty, that Jane moved through the world with. But she had decided to stop being cowed by it.
If Jane wanted to avoid emotional topics, trying to intimidate Maura into backing off wasn't going to work anymore.
"It's important," Jane rasped, and Maura knew she was a goner. She swung the door wide and let a slightly damp Jane into the foyer.
"Yes?" Maura turned after closing the door. "What is it?"
Again Jane looked taken aback. Maura usually gave her a lot of leeway when she was trying to say something difficult. This unforgiving Maura made it so tough to read her, and Jane thought about all the times that Maura had gently coaxed her into being human, into acknowledging her humanity, into sharing her truths.
"I'm sorry," Jane blurted. "I… I'm an ass."
"Yes," Maura agreed humorlessly. "You are at times."
"I'm not trying to be," Jane shrugged. "It just… comes out."
"Well," Maura challenged softly. "Have you thought about trying to stop it from coming out?"
Jane scrubbed her hands over her face in frustration.
"Of course!" she exclaimed. "But it never seems to work. I just open my mouth and the wrong thing always comes out!"
"Perhaps choosing silence occasionally might serve you well," Maura suggested.
Jane looked at Maura once more, brow furrowed.
"Are you ok?" Jane asked eventually, confusion and concern vying for first position.
It was Maura's turn to be taken aback.
Jane didn't ask how she was feeling. Jane didn't ask what she was thinking.
Sure, Maura freely shared what she was thinking and feeling in her personal life with Jane on a nearly constant basis. And Jane reluctantly, and infrequently, shared something back.
But Jane never opened that door. She never crossed that threshold on her own.
It was startling.
"I'm," Maura opened her mouth to lie but the fib just wouldn't come out. "It's been a very long day," she deferred instead.
"Because I'm an ass," Jane finished for Maura.
"That's not really helping," Maura pointed out curtly. "You can't just barge in here and apologize and make a few self-deprecating jokes and then think that everyone will be ok!"
"Ok," Jane's voice was soft. "You're right. I'm sorry- I really am."
"But you're not going to tell me why you've been pushing me away," Maura dared.
Jane shifted awkwardly, a small puddle forming around her boots. Maura thought about the ridiculousness of the situation.
The ridiculousness of standing in her robe in the foyer to her home as a storm raged outside while she talked in circles with the woman she loved more than she'd ever loved anyone or anything in her life.
Of just resigning herself to being in love with this, this force of nature, because she didn't know much about friendships but she was pretty sure declaring your undying love didn't fall on the natural trajectory.
Of pouring over books about love and sexuality, and then giving up when she watched a documentary about how some wild horses can never be tamed. About how they break free from their corrals and jump fences and buck riders until the day they die.
Maura was socially awkward but she wasn't totally inept, and she wasn't self-destructive. She knew the price for trying to tame a wild animal- Ian had thrown her more than once.
Trying to hold onto something that can't be held only results in heartbreak.
Maura realized that a minute had passed and Jane hadn't spoken up.
"I'm going to head to bed," Maura sighed, reaching for the door handle.
"I can't tell you," Jane implored, her voice low and gravelly.
It caught Maura's attention immediately and she turned to face Jane again.
"What?" Maura asked.
"I, uh," Jane licked her lips nervously. "I can't tell you."
There's an edge to her voice, something desperate and pleading, but Maura isn't swayed. She and Jane have played this game many times before.
Jane's secrets are burdens. Things she could tell the world but carries on her shoulders instead, too proud or too afraid to let others see that she is human.
Things like, I'm scared.
Like, Sometimes I want to quit my job and do something easier.
Like, I'm angry at my father.
Like, I'm sorry I killed yours.
Those are the heavy burdens that Jane shoulders, and that she occasionally gets drunk and spills out into the dark between them.
So Maura, too tired to play savior, didn't ask any questions.
"I didn't know we had any secrets," she said simply.
"Doesn't everyone?" Jane challenged.
Maura was exhausted. She wished that Jane could just say what she came to say. That Jane could just get over being so emotionally stunted and blurt it out already.
The irony didn't evade Maura; Maura was supposed to be the stunted one, the emotionally awkward one, the socially inept member of their little group. Often though, she recognized that she was the most well-adjusted.
She might not understand pop culture references or grasp why people were so committed to their athletics teams, but Maura was considerate of others' thoughts and feelings, she spoke her mind, minded her manners, and tried to be the best possible version of herself. She had sex when she wanted, dressed in a way that made her comfortable, and had a job she loved.
Times like these reminded her that everyone was different. And Jane did not possess those same self-assured communication skills. Maura was trying to be patient, but it was tough.
"I suppose they do," Maura nodded. "Are you going to tell me yours or should I wait until another day when it's not quite so late?"
"I tell you all my secrets," Jane shrugged, her words trailing off.
"All of them?" Maura pressed, her voice quiet but firm. "I don't think that's true."
"Do you tell me all of yours?" Jane challenged.
Maura met Jane's gaze head-on.
"No," she shook her head. "I don't."
"Don't best friends tell each other everything?" Jane asked.
Maura shrugged, just the slightest raise and fall of her shoulders.
"I don't know," she replied. "You know you're the only best friend I've ever had."
Jane deflated at that, and Maura watched the last of Jane's bravado pool next to the raindrops on her floor.
"Right," Jane nodded. "You're my best friend. I love you."
Maura softened. She knew Jane loved her, cared about her, but the other woman rarely voiced it in such explicit terms.
"I love you too," Maura replied, digging deep for the strength, if not to smile, to turn the corners of her lips up just slightly. She focused the majority of her energy on communicating the depth of her love through her eyes, finding Jane's eyes and holding them.
Eventually, Jane bowed her head.
She looked defeated, and Maura was instantly transported to the times when Jane had rescued her from danger but blamed herself for not arriving sooner.
Hoyt. Paddy Doyle. Fracking.
Hundreds of incidents flashed through Maura's mind, both large and small, of when Jane had rescued her. From handsy drunks at a bar to serial killers, Jane had stuck by her and watched out for her like no other person in the world had even come close to.
"I'll always love you," Maura added in a whisper.
Her voice was jarring in the silence, and Jane flinched slightly.
"I'll always love you too," Jane echoed, finally looking up. She paused for a minute. "Well, sorry- I should let you get to bed."
Maura was surprised at the shift, but not at the way it allowed Jane to sidestep the alleged reason she had come- to share a secret.
She knew that Jane didn't tell her everything. That there were things Maura might never know about the other woman.
Maura had secrets too, after all.
Still, she couldn't bring herself to open the door. To push Jane back out into the world without speaking her piece.
So they stood there in silence and Maura's mind drifted.
Drifted to how it would feel to pull Jane close and promise that everything would be ok.
Drifted to what it would be like to just tilt Jane's face up and kiss her softly on the lips, just once, for comfort.
Drifted to what would happen if she just laid herself bare, and trusted Jane to, once again, come to her rescue.
But panic and history overrode that thought pretty quickly.
The privilege of being Jane Rizzoli's best friend and trusted ally was far too sacred to risk on her own beating heart.
"You're welcome to stay," Maura offered. "The guest room is made up and you must be exhausted."
In truth, Maura had selfish reasons too.
She liked having Jane close. Liked the way the other woman's scent would linger for a few days.
Jane's face clearly showed the debate playing in her mind.
The wind howled outside, rain splattering against the window.
"I can't," Jane plastered a fake smile on, fooling neither of them, no further excuse offered. "But thanks."
A year ago, it wouldn't have even been a question. She would have stayed without invitation, the guest room drawers littered with her clothes.
Neither of them had brought up the slow disappearance of Jane's clothes from Maura's house. The last time Maura had done laundry, she realized that only a lone Red Sox t-shirt remained. She would never admit it, but Maura had made a habit of sleeping in the shirt when Jane was distant, just to feel her close again.
The already well-worn t-shirt was nearly disintegrating now.