A/N:Set in a 'Casey's in town' time frame like the episode where Jane threatens Maura with a fork(?) (Most of season three blurs in my mind, and that's the only thing I can remember, that, and Maura's sweet jacket.) Wrote this trying to force myself out of writer's block.

Disclaimer: Don't own. No money (seriously, I am a Broke college student). ETC.


She talks about him and everything hurts. You hear the words she's saying. You listen to her face. She loves him. She mourns him. She misses him. She forgets him. She's moved on. She hasn't. It's complicated and it only further proves your theory that love is complicated. Because if love can make her – the bravest, dumbest, strongest, steadiest woman – get so mixed up you know it's not just a you thing. Strangely it's not as comforting as it ought to be.

It's the opposite.

You come over after he leaves and pick up the pieces of her. Because you love her. And she loves him. And you love her. And she loves him. It's a cycle in your head repeating over and over trying to stick in your mind. Because it's easy to forget that he exists, as cruel as that sounds. It's easy to be fooled by the wolf in sheep's clothing.

When he's gone, when he's not destroying her, you and she act like lovers. Lovers whose love doesn't translate to touching and grabbing and hungry mouths but to a love that is deeper as you connect emotionally over and over again. And that's what you do when she's around, when she's giving you slivers of herself that he doesn't get. When she's eating peanuts on your couch and yelling at the game, when her eyes narrow at something she doesn't believe, when her body jolts at a sudden realization breaking the case wide open, when she's melancholy over Chinese takeout. And you love her. You love her wringing hands, her lip biting, her beer, her old boots, her painted toes, her wild hair. You love her.

And you have to constantly remind yourself that she isn't yours. You have no claim. But it feels like you do and you wish you could go back. It's torture. It's heaven. It works and it doesn't. You feel like dying, but you're reborn. You've never kissed. It's strange you feel so much and you've never shared a simple kiss. But love is complicated.

She talks about him and you wonder what he has that you don't. What can he offer her that you can't? It's the demon that keeps you up at night. It's the cause of the bags under your eyes that she doesn't notice because she's absorbed in him.

She's in love with him and you die a little inside. Love is complicated because now you're thinking about her in similes and metaphors and oxymoron's and hyperboles and all the things you learned in English and literature rather than the things learned in a lab in a white coat and safety goggles.

She needs a warning label on her forehead, a handle with care sticker and directions that tell you to use rubber gloves, a mask, and a fume hood. Because she's infectious and you've been handling her without gloves and a mask and now you've caught her, she's inside of you.

You weren't prepared. But how could you have been? This snuck up on you. It took you by surprise, caught you in a vulnerable moment after hospital visits and gunfire and hostage situations and under cover assignments. You're not even a cop and you've taken part in all of it. You're not a cop but she is and you need to be with her, always. Even if it gets you killed.

Because you love her.

And sometimes you think she feels the same. You know she will risk everything for you. You know she cares about you. She goes shopping with you when the Red Sox are playing. She runs with you and goes to yoga. She is with you almost every night eating pizza and ice cream and drinking coffee in the morning. She is your rock. And he is taking her away.

She talks about him and everything hurts.