Firstly; listen to the song which inspired this fic; Hourglass by Catfish and the Bottlemen. I've always thought that when Maura is stripped of her professionalism and manners, the lyrics represent her raw emotion and feelings for Jane. Secondly, go follow my tumblr! I'd love to talk to you all. And lastly; this is dedicated to some pretty fabulous people out know who you are, Squad.
Enjoy.
You're driving through the rain at 1:17am on an early Wednesday morning and the roads are clear but your heart isn't.
Your heart is full and heavy. But not in a bad way. In an I'm in love way.
And you should probably be exhausted. But you don't care. Because your heart has been seizing ever since noon, when you had insisted she sit on the couch and rest her swollen feet as you made her lunch.
And she grumbled that you were patronizing her and she was pregnant - not useless.
And when you heard the smash of the glass of water onto your tiled floor your thought you felt your skeleton burst out from your skin in shock but it was nothing compared to the feeling of seeing her face pale, her hands clutching your marble island, her eyes clenched in agony.
I, uh, think my water just broke...
But it was too early. Not early enough that survival was at stake, but early enough to make your brain flash warning statistics even as you rushed about to put together a night bag for the hospital for her.
And you bundled her into your car, afraid you were going to break all kinds of speed and road safety regulations because you knew as soon as you saw the excitement and anxiety in her eyes, your main priority was getting her to the hospital.
The rain battering the car almost lulls you into a trance; the darting white line and blurry city lights will do that. But you can't afford to fall asleep at the wheel and go plunging into a head on collision. You've always been comfortable with the idea of your own mortality.
But not tonight.
Tonight you have to get back to her,
To them.
You reach over and click on the radio. Cocky presenters make obnoxious jokes for cheap laughs. You roll your eyes and make a right turn. Once you've had enough of their fake laughter, you click onto a different channel and hope for better results. The female voice announces a new song. Soft acoustics fill your car.
You're shaken slightly at the unexpected profanity in the song. Distracting from such a quaint melody, but at this time of the morning you aren't really surprised. The only people awake now are drunks, teenagers and medical staff.
You pull up at a red light and nibble your bottom lip. Her labour was long and hard. Difficult. A complication-riddled delivery. Something that you had wished she wouldn't have to go through, but had to stand back helpless as she did.
Yet no matter how she squeezed your hand until you doubted your ability to ever perform a delicate autopsy again, you held on. You wiped her forehead with a damp cloth. You kissed her temple and whispered encouragements into her dark hair, damp with the sweat of her exertion.
And when the doctor and nurse exchanged stony glances, you didn't allow yourself to panic. The statistics weren't as polished as you would have hoped, not for a woman of her age and nature, but she has proven time and time again that she is resilient and strong and you believed in her. Even when her back bowed and at one point she curled slightly inwards towards you and breathed that she didn't think she could do this anymore. That it hurt too bad.
You growled that she had shot herself and came through without this much complaining. You said it for humour. You said it to bait her. You said it because you thought it would get a rise out of her and it was exactly the kind of thing she would say to you if your roles were reversed.
She had argued, in a strained voice between pants of air, that she had been unconscious for most of that experience.
At one point her eyes rolled back and her arm went limp, and you had to restrain yourself from checking her pulse, but it was just the toll of each agonising contraction. Because as soon as the next one hit she was animated back to life, her teeth bared as she arched off of the hospital bed.
The signs for the hospital are up ahead now. Or at least you know that somewhere through the water sloshing down your windscreen they are. Following your instinct rather than the disfigured images of signs, you return to the hospital.
You had been bullied away because the doctors said you should go and get some sleep. But though you had stayed long enough to hold your goddaughter and see Jane off to sleep, you didn't last a full two hours at home. Once you bathed, you redressed and began the journey back.
You aren't sure you'll be able to see her. You aren't even sure you'll be able to lie your way in to see her, but the stirring in your gut and the pounding in your chest makes you want to try.
And when the baby's wailing cry had first hit the air, piercing the anticipation, you thought that you would cry. But you didn't. You laughed. Jolly and deep and rumbling in a way you don't think you've ever laughed before. Because this was pure joy. Pure glee. And relief. Undiluted.
You had spent more nights as an anxious insomniac than you'd like to mention to Jane. Dark hours spent hunched up with your laptop on your knees, caffeinated to the eyeballs while you researched anything and everything that could possibly go wrong. And Jane would call you into your guest room (because there was no way you were going to permit her to suffer this process in her isolated apartment, so many flights above the street), and ask you timidly if you would mind going to a 24 store for her.
You went every time.
This is the dedication you were prepared to show to your best friend.
Except you aren't really best friends anymore. Not really.
The back and forth of your friendship grounded to a halt, and something else took its place; something fluid. Something which meant that you were much closer and shared something more than a mere friendship.
You were intimate, not perhaps in the way that you'd like, but you know that the foundations have been laid that if Jane was willing, you might just take that step together in the future.
But no, where the intimacy crept in was in the small things. The way you would spend your evenings rubbing her sore feet. Would allow her to excitedly take your hands in hers and press your palms against her rounded stomach to feel her child kicking. How she would crawl into bed beside you in the dead of night with tears soaking her cheeks, complaining about how she hates her hormonal upheaval and how emotional she is now and ask so quietly if it would be weird to ask you to hold her.
And it's Casey Jone's child; but it has always felt like yours.
The song plays on the radio, mystifying you. How it fits. How its sharp crudeness is you. Always. Beneath the professionalism and polite exterior; this is you. You do dream about being her lover, you do dream about being part of her family, you have let her come in and change your perception of everything from beer to baseball and love and marriage and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You knew there was something brewing between you. But the moment you knew you realised you may truly be in love with her is one night when, despite your smaller frame, she lay across you on the couch, her head pillowed on your chest. And you lay on your back, one arm under your head and free hand stroking her messy curls.
And it was dark, only the flickering images of the long ignored movie lighting your way. But the TV was muted because you wanted her to have the opportunity to sleep. She had been weary with the pregnancy, unsurprisingly.
But she wasn't sleeping. She snuggled closer to you. And you kissed the crown of her head. And she began to whisper her deepest fears and insecurities into your shirt. Like the words would get trapped in the fabric and never bother her again.
How she didn't think she was going to be a good mother.
How she thought her demons would make her home broken and dark, how she didn't want to raise a child in that environment.
How she now worried that she was going to be judged differently at work after spending years of building respect through hard graft.
How she didn't want to give her heart to this precious thing growing inside of her just to die in a police raid and leave it motherless.
And when the tears started to wet your shirt, you smoothed your hands down her back, trying to soothe her. You kissed her head again and whispered that she shouldn't worry about that. Not tonight. Leave worries in the future. Tonight they should rest.
You would keep them safe, her and the little one.
You park in the hospital, as close to the entrance as you can manage, because you don't want to spend the night at her side smelling of damp night rain. You're grateful of your coat as you lock your car and hurry your way through the puddles to the haven of the bright hospital doors. They slide open for you, and you wipe your feet thoroughly on the mat.
A drunk is slumped in a chair. A nurse on her break is sipping coffee and keeping a wary eye on him from her spot near a supporting pillar. The sterile smell and green linoleum always makes you think you're still doing your residency; you feel awkward without scrubs on.
You totter to the receptionist's desk. She is typing furiously, eyes skimming pages in front of them as she copies them onto the computer. You don't want to be rude, but the faster you are back at Jane's side, the better you will feel.
Eventually her eyeline raises and she notices you standing there. She jumps slightly in surprise, clasping her heart and smiling self-deprecatingly.
"Sorry, honey. I'm elbow deep in paperwork and the middle of the night seems the best time to do it. Quieter, you know? Get more done." she says.
You smile back. "I'm here to see Jane Rizzoli in the Neonatal unit. I know it's late and visiting times are over but..."
"Ah, you must be her partner," the receptionist says, elongating the words as she types something in and presses enter. "Yup. Her ward moved. Room 231 now. Although…" She clicks a few more times at her mouse. "You're probably wanting to see your baby as well, yes?"
Your eyebrows rise in surprise and amusement. You aren't sure how this error has occurred, or how it has been passed along to this receptionist, but you don't correct her. False assumptions are an easier path than lying.
"Cool. I'm sure if you ask the nurses upstairs they'll give you some scrubs and stuff to wear. Sanitary area and all that," the receptionist explains, nodding you towards the elevator.
You thank her, and then begin to make your way through the dead lobby. The drunk has stirred, and is now slurring to himself. The nurse huffs and checks her watch impatiently. You reach the elevator doors and click the button, checking inside your bag for the two items you swore you'd remember to bring.
And they're nestled safely inside there. It makes you smile.
You've been smiling a lot today.
You step forward into the empty elevator as the doors slide open, clicking the designated floor without even thinking about it. It was the button you watched the nurse desperately hit as they wheeled in the bed with Jane's writhing body. It was almost comical.
But it was also beautiful.
You cough slightly, your throat dry. Always prepared, you reach into your bag and produce a bottle of water. You take a few generous sips before fusing the cap back on and slipping it into your bag. The door opens on the floor, a crisp Boston voice announcing the ward over an intercom. You stride out.
The lights have been dimmed to allow the new mothers to sleep off their hours of agony. You contemplate making your way to Jane first, but your heart strings are tugging you in a different direction. And you've always trusted your head more than your heart; your logic more than your emotions.
But this time you're willing to make an exception.
Following the signs on the walls you adjust your path to your new destination. On your way, you think about this evening. Or yesterday evening. Being awake and functioning at this time always throws you off.
But you think about how you took your constant position as the observer. You watched the warmth of the Rizzoli clan engulf the room. Two brothers, a mother, a partner and some friends. And you, always there but on the fringes. Because you don't possess the Italian intensity and are more than happy to sit out sometimes.
But then Angela, the beaming grandmother who had been cooing down at her granddaughter, turned to you and offered you the child. And your eyes had widened. And suddenly all attention was on you.
And ever so gently, more cautiously than you've ever done anything in your life, you took the fussing baby. More gingerly than any scalpel incision, more attentive than any time you've spent arranging your closet.
You stared down into a little face, and you knew you'd truly lost your heart to the Rizzolis. She was so small in your arms.
Jane was beginning to drift off, even with all the commotion around her, and once the nurse came in to shoo the family out, you gave the baby back to her and made your way to the door also, but a soft call of your name drew you back to the bed.
With her remaining strength, Jane pushed herself up on her pillows, asking the nurse to bring her daughter back for two more minutes. The nurse was wary; they were eager now to get the infant to the unit because of her slight prematurity. Still, she abated, warning you to keep it as short as possible.
And she waved you closer before the nurse delivered the baby into her waiting arms.
You wanna know her name?
Jane had been bombarded with the same question multiple times that evening, and had many more suggestions given to her. But she had appeared uninterested, saying that a name would come to her.
I know I said I didn't…
She had yawned, deflating slightly as a husky, hoarse chuckle broke her voice.
Sorry. Worn out, I guess. I know I said I didn't know what to call her. But that was a lie I just...didn't want anyone to know before you.
Unable to speak, afraid that something had cut the tongue out of your mouth, you just nodded for her to continue.
Marietta Dorthea Rizzoli. Middle name after her godmother. It's a Rizzoli tradition.
And, remaining speechless, you had kissed her forehead and slung an arm around her shoulder. You've never been so sloppy and comfortable with your affection, but she leaned closer to you and little Marietta had gurgled.
It was perfect.
And then the baby was coaxed away and you made sure that she was comfortable before she slept. And with her eyes drooping she still gestured you close and whispered in a sleep-laden voice.
Couldn't not name her something Italian. Ma woulda crucified me. So I named her Marietta cause it's the Italian version of Maura...
Finally regaining your voice, you whispered thank you into her hairline.
When you round the nurse's station, you're relieved to find that the nurse on duty is one who witnessed your presence at Jane's side during her labour. It makes it easier to falsify your position in her life.
The nurse grins at the sight of you, leaning back in her chair and tilting her head. "So eager to come back?" You can only shrug a shoulder and smile widely back. She stands. "That's okay. New parents are like that. Your partner had a difficult labour, didn't she?"
You press your lips into a thin line. "I'm afraid so."
The nurse moves to a cupboard, producing blue scrubs. She hands them to you. "Here you go. There's a little bathroom just across the hall. You can change in there and then I'll get you sorted with the hygiene rules."
Once you are changed, she takes your folded clothes and your bag and lets you keep them safe in the nurse's station. But first you retrieve the two items from your bag. She spots them and smiles knowingly.
You lather your hands in sanitizer and cover your feet and head with the appropriate plastic covering. Then she's leading you past the rows of glass incubators to the most important one.
"I'll leave you two alone. I would give you a rundown of the rules, but it's quiet and I think you know that most of them are common sense. No having a party or anything."
You humour her. "I'll try not to."
She nods and leaves.
Your gaze must be so loving, you think your eyes may just roll out of your skull. This child has already followed in her mother's footsteps and stolen your heart right out of your chest.
"Marietta," you whisper. "You little angel. I have something for you."
And you hold one item in each hand. A symbol of your indecision.
Because a few weeks ago you had read accounts of new parents in an online forum. How they discussed bringing stuffed toys to set in the units with their children. And almost immediately you had set out for the perfect stuffed animal at the closest toy store.
And found two.
You are naturally a quick decision maker. And a good one. But you spent twenty minutes pacing up and down a toy aisle in front of a rack of stuffed animals. You must have looked like an agitated, prowling lioness. You think, with a slight pang of embarrassment and regret, that you scared a little boy away from making a selection.
In the end you bought them both. It wasn't as if an extra toy would put you out of pocket.
And now you bring your offerings to Jane Rizzoli's little baby girl.
"I'm afraid I wasn't able to chose. I hope you don't mind settling in with two toys."
The first is as close to a Yorkshire terrier as you could manage, and the second is what you actually presume is a turtle instead of a tortoise. But there isn't enough detail on the stuffed animal to make an accurate conclusion.
"A little Bass and Jo Friday for you, little one," you say meekly, lowering them carefully into the unit and tucking them to the sides. They seem so big compared to the baby.
"Marietta, you are so loved," you promise. "I love you and your mother very, very much."
You wiggle your fingertip into her fist, and she holds it, whether when she stirs or in her sleep. The tiny fist bunches around your finger. Strong, like a Rizzoli.
Like her mother.
"I'll tell you a story, I think." You bite your lower lip, considering the merits. "When I was a young girl, my parents used to own a luxurious flat in London. And perhaps they still do. But that isn't important..."
What is important to you is how you can fit your thumb along her foot. You brush the pad back and forth. "And I have never been a particularly religious person, nor have I had a strong spiritual belief above the benefits of yoga. Yet when we spent a few summers in that flat, every Sunday morning I would open up my window and listen to the bells ring out across the city, calling people to church."
Marietta twitches and squirms in her slumber. Your smile is about to split your face. Your jaw aches. You aren't even sure that you can continue speaking because your face feels so tight. So tingly. So alive.
At quarter to two in the middle of the night preceding a weekday, you should be tucked into expensive sheets listening to the patter of heavy rain on your window. But you aren't.
You're somewhere even better.
"You aren't even a few hours old, so you aren't nearly old enough to know what I do for a living quite yet. May not be for a while. But one summer's day, when I passed an English church, I stopped to stare at a funeral procession."
Self-consciously, you glance behind you to make sure the nurse isn't eavesdropping. You've never been someone with an effective social filter, and so to the outsider, talking to a newborn about death and your personal link with it may seem strange.
"They took the coffin in through the church doors. And it seemed so dark inside, out of the sunshine. With a heavy heart, I experienced a wave of compassion for the mourners. But then a rapturous thing happened. The congregation began to sing. And the sound reverberated out into the summer's air with me. An old English hymn; Jerusalem. And it sounded magnificent. Full and bright and hopeful. Almost patriotic."
Your breath catches in your throat. You remember standing there, barely 14 years old. Shielding your eyes from the sun as you sensed the melancholy. And yet the minute the first note surged into the air, you were forced to sit in shock; collapsing into a dumbstruck position onto the low stone wall opposite the church. Knocked back by, what you thought at the time, was divinity itself.
"I believed that, if it were true and possible, I had glimpsed heaven. And I also believed that I would never see or hear heaven like that again," you confess. You smooth the backs of your knuckles along Marietta's little arm. Your body feels like it is filled with pure light.
"But it was a lie, little one. Because I have seen heaven right here," you whisper.
You want to kiss your fingertips and place them on her forehead, but you know enough about bacteria to be assured that this is not the healthiest idea. You settle for rubbing your fingertip over her forehead instead, in awe at the life that has lived inside your best friend for close to 9 months and is now living, breathing flesh.
A tiny human.
A tiny person.
"All my life, I've had whatever I wanted. Or at least, had I ever asked for anything, it would have been mine. Because I come from a privileged background, you see. And then I met your mother and realised that she is the only thing that I'll ever truly want. But I couldn't have her, and it hurt me deeply." You pause, tracing her nose, barely the size of your fingertip. And her little ears, the tops hidden by a cotton hat.
"But now perhaps it's different. We've changed. You've helped somewhat, that is clear. I love her dearly and, now, I think she may just be ready to love me too. And if she does, I'm promising you now, Marietta, I'll be good to her. I swear to you, I'll be good."
Once more you allow her to grasp your finger joint in her fist. She squeezes, like she's answering you. Like she's giving you her blessing. Which you know is ridiculous, because how could an infant, born mere hours ago, know the longing in your heart. Understand what it is you're trying to express.
Yet already you have established a connection with this child. Jane's child. You will do everything within your power to ensure that her passage through this rocky life is filled with love and laughter. And safety.
"I'm going to go and look after your mother, now, Marietta. She's very tired, and if she wakes up now she'll be very lonely. So I'm going to go and keep her company."
You stare a little longer. You feel like you should be going through the stereotypical motions that any new parents or relatives feel when they meet their child for the first time. Imagining them growing up, who they will be, what they will look like. But you can't.
Because your whole life you've prided yourself in being prepared. In thinking ahead. Being ambitious and having the foresight to know and be ready for whatever is coming next. For once you're content to live in this sole moment and block out the world around you.
2am, or close to it, on a Wednesday morning, and you're letting Marietta Dorthea Rizzoli clench her tiny fist around your finger. And the only sound is the humming of monitors around you. And the pulse in your ears.
Slow and relaxed.
At peace.
And you're alive.
And you're in love.
"Goodnight, little one. I love you. Eternally. And I promise I'll be back soon."
Your exhaustion is finally getting to you. As you leave the neonatal unit and retrieve your folded clothes, it crashes over you in an intense wave. You carelessly stuff your folded clothes into your bag, not caring for any cordiality or neatness tonight. Because you have bigger concerns.
You smile wanly at the nurse and bid her goodnight, and then you shuffle your way to Room 231. You must be quite a disheveled sight, not even smoothing your hair down after wearing your hair net, barely any make up on your face because reaching the hospital and seeing your goddaughter was much more important than painting on your daily Dr Isles appearance.
You giggle lightly, like a madwoman in the deserted corridor, as you think about those zombie movies that Jane has coerced you to endure. You must fit right in amongst a typical cast now.
Her door is open. You wonder if she asked for that or if it is hospital policy.
And she lies there, chest rising and falling in graceful waves as she sleeps. You enter on the balls of your feet, not wishing to alarm her or wake her. You lower your bag to the side of the chair, and then pull it forward, closer to the bedside. You sit.
At first you let your eyes wander over her. She looks encased in bliss. Worn out, weary, but wearing the ethereal glow that overcomes most new mothers even in their slumber.
You reach for her hand, taking care not to irritate the IV. With the pad of your thumb, you brush against the soft flesh on the inside of her wrist, just below her plastic hospital bracelet.
And though your stomach cramps with the fear of the future, you know that your lives are wrecked with terror. The jaws of death and danger will snap at you. Chaos will attempt to pry apart these two time and time again. But Jane will be a pillar of strength, the ultimate protector. You have already experienced her fierce loyalty, the lengths she is willing to go to save your life.
It will be no different for her child.
Like a wolf and her pup.
When peril growls, she will growl back.
You yawn, and then you yawn again. And it strikes you that perhaps you should settle in and make yourself as comfortable as is possible. You shuffle in your chair. You wonder if it could have been used as a torture device. In doing so, you accidentally cause Jane to waken.
"Maura?" Her voice is gravelly. You bring her hand to you mouth and kiss it.
"I'm sorry," you mutter, holding the back of her palm against your cheek. "I didn't mean to wake you."
"S'ok," she sighs, eyes still closed. She shifts. She turns her head towards you. Sleepy brown coloured eyes open and you know for sure that you're home. It doesn't matter if you're sitting in a sterile hospital, the smell of disease masked with chemicals wafting from every surface. Perched in a fading chair, stiff and creaking and far beyond its usefulness.
This is home.
She pulls her hand away, and rejection throbs in the back of your throat, but she only cups your jaw with it. Her thumb tickles your cheekbone. You hold her stare. Even when your eyes want to drift shut in simple pleasure. Her eyes are soft, still so weary, but full of affection. Her mouth twitches into a slow smile.
"You know that I love you, right?"
The room is dimmed. The only lights from the machines around you. They cast her face in a bluish hue. Her hand is warm against your face. Comforting.
Even as you feel like your world is tumbling away.
"I love you, too, Jane," you answer easily. It isn't like this is the first time you've said it.
"You know that's not what I mean," she says, lower.
Shy.
Your eyes dart to a monitor and back. 2:04am. And maybe this is the perfect time for confessions. The hours between dusk and dawn.
The quietest hours.
The hours where she would ask you to go to the store even while apologising for her body's urges, the cravings she couldn't control. Or, even better, when she would ask you to hold her close. And you would. Her watcher. Her protector. Her friend.
You hold her hand steady against your cheek. Her thumb still drifting against your skin.
"I know," you admit. "But my answer remains constant."
She smiles wider, triumphant, and then yawns. And you take her hand and kiss her knuckles before laying it back onto the sheets. "Sleep, Jane."
"No," she complains, voice no more than a rasping growl. "No, c'mon. We're finally getting somewhere. At last…"
You laugh breathily. "There will be time for that, I promise. But first you have to rest."
She looks dubious. And you would be offended if you didn't love her so much. "I'll be here when you wake up."
This satisfies her. Her eyes close. She is restless for a moment, situating herself differently, and then she sinks back into the pillows.
"Where were you anyway? You should be at home. It's late," she drawls, sleep calling her away from you.
"I was visiting your daughter. She's doing fine, in case you were worried."
"Our daughter. She's ours, Maura. We're gonna raise her. And we're gonna do good."
You don't ask about Casey. You don't want to. You don't even flinch at the thought of the conception that one day he may turn up at your door demanding to see his daughter.
Because you're smiling again. You haven't ever smiled this much in 24 hours in your life. But this is the beginning of something that even you could never have rationally hoped for.
And you're excited in such an all-encompassing way that you've never been before. Like full body pins and needles. And you're experiencing butterflies and hummingbirds and all kinds of metaphors that you've read in fiction over and over but could never relate you in your life.
You had fretted when your loneliness prevented you from experiencing the normal range of emotion other people had in their lives.
You aren't fretting now.
You're still grinning as her breathing evens out and her hands fall open and limp. You stand and move to the window, looking out at the dark Boston skyline.
You could vouch for being the luckiest, happiest woman in Boston.
Perhaps the United States. Or the world.
And before you yourself allow yourself slumber, you press your lips to her forehead and whisper that she did so well during such an excruciating birth, that you love her for always, and she's going to make an excellent mother. And you whisper that you're so proud of her.
And the future knocks at the door and tries to get you to entertain it. All of the fears, the anxieties and worries. The things which keep you up at night. But you drag the stiff chair right up the bedside, and you lace your hand in Jane's. And when you settle down and sigh, you know that you won't be worrying about anything tonight.
Because you love Jane.
And Marietta.
And you have a family now, one of your own.
And Jane has always sought to keep you safe and happy. Be there at your side through thick and thin and the grey areas in between. Keep you from harm's way. And so tonight, as she sleeps, you intend to do the same.
You will drive each other up the walls. There will be fights and arguments and you'll be too imposing and she will be too stubborn, but you will soothe each other. She'll be working a case and forget her phone at her desk and you'll be frantic. Or something will scare you and instead of opening up you'll let it fester until you break. But you'll forgive her. And she'll piece you back together.
And you'll mend.
Jane's warm hand in yours is a promise. The one you've been more than impatient for your whole existence. That quest humans are born with to find their soulmate and live a fulfilling life. And you've wasted so many days already, but you're more than willing to make up time. To share showers, to steal kisses before work, to learn how to be a good parent and to rebuild your home into one fit for your family.
You can't wait until she's your lover.
Your eyes crack open one last time, checking the monitor; 2:13 am.
The love of your life is asleep. And healthy.
So is your child. And so are you.
And you're sure that you're grinning as you drift away to join them.