A/N: I've wanted to explore the chemistry between Rizzoli and Isles for a while now, and this is what I've come up with; I think the happy median is somewhere between friendship and true love...a mutual attraction. And it's my opinion that it wouldn't take more than a night with Jack, Sam, or Riesling to bring it to the surface. Also, sorry if my spacing is off; I'm never quite sure what'll look best in the format.
Disclaimer (Venn Diagram style): TNT owns R&I. I do not. However, we both know drama.
It had begun as an argument in the bar.
"You have no idea what you're missing," Maura Isles tsked, withdrawing her wine glass from where it had sat halfway across the table as an offering to her friend. Rizzoli snorted.
"Please. I'm Italian. I've had plenty of wine in my day...it just never impressed me that much."
"But good wine is different! It can take years to learn to truly appreciate the bouquet, the consistency, the coloration-"
"Yeah, I don't think so; s'all the same to me," Rizzoli replied, beginning to peel the label off of her Sam Adams.
When her friend didn't respond, Rizzoli looked up to see that familiar expression: the look of Dr. Isles, Boston PD's prized Medical Examiner, weighing the situation and crafting a reply with a hefty dose of logic.
"Empirically speaking, you haven't even gathered enough data to make a scientific decision on the matter. Perhaps, instead of continuing a probably ill-advised argument, we should simply conduct a scientific experiment with the intention of redirecting your deduction."
Rizzoli tipped her head back and huffed. Ever the pragmatist. The sound of scribbling snapped her head back to the table, where Isles was excitedly writing a list of some sort on a napkin.
"We could even use it as a springboard to teach you all about the scientific method! There's defining the question, of course-"
At that, Rizzoli groaned and tried with all her Mediterranean-derived-might to cut her off.
"Look, Maura, if we're doing some sort of hoity-toity wine tasting that's already going to make me feel like a fish out of water-"
It didn't work. Isles kept right on talking, taking breaks only to order the pen not to stop working.
"-then the gathering of information and resources; no need for that though, I should have everything we need at my place-"
"-then we're sure as hell not going to turn it into some reoccurring nightmare of high school chemistry-"
"-then forming a hypothesis - you're going to hate that part, it has to be very precise - then the experiment, of course, then analysis-"
"Aaaand you're not listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"
"-and lastly interpret, publish, and possibly even retest!" Isles grabbed her jacket from the edge of the table, knocking over what remained of Rizzoli's beer, much to the chagrin of the latter. "Come on! Every second we waste is another possible moment that we could get a homicide call, and I want to get started!"
The only word that Rizzoli could think of to describe Isles's exit strategy was a very un-doctorly one: 'prance'. The blatant joy Isles displayed at using her friend as a scientific guinea pig was the only thing that kept Rizzoli from refusing her outright; she hadn't seen her this excited in a while, as the onslaught of cases that always turned up around Halloween had kept them plenty busy. But that was last week, and Rizzoli had been looking forward to relaxing with a beer or three, a baseball game, and more sleep than she'd know what to do with...not eating cheese and discussing the bouquet of a Whatsit Valley Cabernet.
It didn't take long for them to reach Isles's place, and Rizzoli sank onto the sofa as Isles scoured several corners of the kitchen, retrieving various bottles and glasses and cheeses. Within minutes, she was ready, having lined up six bottles in front of Rizzoli and a wine glass with a gold rim. Rizzoli flicked it and was surprised when it rang out with a clear chime deserving of some romantic comedy wedding scene.
"Breaking out the fancy gear, huh? Mind telling me exactly what this experiment's going to consist of, Professor Isles?"
Isles frowned slightly.
"I am not sure if your replacing of my medical appellation with that of a teaching one is a compliment or a joke."
"Little bit of both." Rizzoli said with a smirk, "But really, I'm all ears."
Isles shrugged, a motion that seemed as un-natural as the thought of Rizzoli in a tutu, but seemed to her like the appropriate response.
"I thought it would be interesting if you tasted each one and tried to guess which vintages were the more expensive ones."
"I thought you hated guessing."
"You're correct in that I don't think that guessing is practical, but incorrect in that I find the guessing of others to be quite amusing."
Rizzoli rolled her eyes. "In other words, you find me being wrong entertaining."
"Yes, exactly," Isles replied brightly. "Shall we get started?"
She poured each of them a glass from the first bottle, and although Rizzoli wrinkled her nose at the yellow-gold liquid, she did lift her glass to toast.
"Did you know that during the 17th century, it was believed that the sound of two glasses clinking would banish the devil," Isles rambled as Rizzoli drained half of the glass, "No, no, you're supposed to sip, slowly and delicately. How else are you going to gather enough data to consider your estimate?"
"Uh, I'm going to ask myself, 'Was that a fifty dollar gulp, or a seventy five dollar gulp?' and take it from there," Rizzoli replied, then added, "And since when has anything I've ever done been 'delicate'?"
"I suppose never...so what are your thoughts?"
Rizzoli pretended to examine the label on the wine bottle. "Eighty dollars?"
Isles cocked her head, and if Rizzoli didn't know better, she'd say the doctor was puzzled. "You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure...well, not sure, but...you know what I mean. How far off am I?"
"I continue to be amazed," Isles began slowly, "with your shocking accuracy at matters where you have little to no knowledge of the material."
Rizzoli processed that, and a broad grin quickly leapt onto her face. "Is that your fancy way of saying I'm right on the money?"
Isles sighed, and nodded. Rizzoli snatched up the bottle and held it aloft.
"Oooh, I'm Doctor Isles, and good wine takes years to truly appreciate," she chortled, then took a hefty swig from the bottle. "Victory!"
"Hey! That's still an eighty dollar bottle, you know!"
And so they continued, drinking glass after glass as Rizzoli attempted to guess and Isles attempted to hold onto sobriety enough to record the guesses and actual prices. By the sixth bottle, her neat, detailed notes had been reduced to sets of Roman numerals.
"Only you," Rizzoli smirked, "Only you would think Roman whatsits are simpler than real numbers."
"Roman numerals are real numbers, Jane, they're just from a dead language."
"That explains why you like them so much!" Rizzoli laughed, and it had to have been the alcohol working on her mind because Isles not only understood the joke, but found herself laughing too. Uncontrollably.
"I think we'd had ought to stop now, as medically safe levels of inebriation has - have been reached," Isles's voice trailed off as she watched Rizzoli take another swig from one of the cheaper bottles, set it back on the table, brush some hair out of her eyes, then look back at her...
"Maura?"
"Yeah, Jane?"
"You're staring at me."
Isles froze, and forced her hazy mind to break free of the fog for just a moment to calculate a logical reply.
"Sorry, I was just thinking and I sort of, you know, the phrase, I can't think of it-"
"Zoned out?"
"Yeah, that. I was just thinking about toasting and toast and how the ancient Romans…how the ancient Romans put burnt toast in their wine glasses to improve flavor, and whoever got the last sip got the toast."
Rizzoli blinked twice, and then laughed. "Is it just me or would that have sounded just as crazy sober?"
Isles laughed with her, relieved to have changed the subject so smoothly, and slowly got to her feet. The focus on standing, however, resulted in her loosening the grip on her notebook, which slid out of her hands and clattered onto the table, knocking over one of the more expensive bottles of white.
"Goddamnit," Isles muttered, and stumbled towards the kitchen for a towel. When she returned, it was Rizzoli's turn to stare at her.
"Did you just swear?"
"What?"
"You definitely just swore! Under your breath, just now. You definitely did." Rizzoli reaffirmed gleefully.
"Well, you don't need to get so excited about it. Words are just the phonetic combination of a limited vowel of sets and consonant sound speech units." Isles huffed, kneeling down in an attempt to salvage the carpet. "Hang on, that didn't come out right. A limited set of vowels...and consonant speech sound units."
Isles grinned triumphantly, and when Rizzoli didn't reply she turned her head to tease her about zoning out...only to find that she had dozed off on the couch, the now empty wine bottle still clutched in her slender fingers. Isles carefully pried it loose and set the bottle back on the table along with the now soaked dishtowel.
"Miss 'Never That Impressed By It'," Isles said with a very Rizzoli-like smirk, and headed on quite unstable footing to her bedroom.