Title: Wicked Games
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine, just messing around.
A/N: This is gonna be a long, dark ride. An AU version of Jane and Maura, where they've gone down very different paths than the characters we know. You might not like this Jane, especially in the beginning, but that's ok. She hates herself too. Jane/Maura after a fashion, but not without a lot of bumps along the way. It's going to be messy, dirty, and very adult. Oh, and did I mention DARK? The broader plot lines come from Le Liaisons Dangereuses, but it's hardly a faithful adaptation. On with the show.
I really fucking hate this building. A meth addict could come up with a better design. The J. Edgar Hoover building, good old JEH to those of us stuck inside it, is a smack in the ass to common sense. From the outside it's just ugly as shit, a block of crumbling concrete taking up a city block. Inside it's a mess of windowless corridors that shoot out at odd angles, some running parallel, some leading only to dead ends, all looking exactly the fucking same. I've worked here for over three years now and I still rely on the mental crib sheet I made back in my first weeks – find elevator bank 4. Turn right. If you need to find somewhere else in the building, ignore it or make someone else do it.
No one expects me to make much of an effort, so it works out. I ended up here – excuse me, got "promoted" here – to keep me away from everyone else in the first place. Turns out when you're a hero cop who makes herself a hero by first being a dumbass and nearly getting herself killed, you get about two months leeway to be a crazy person before they find somewhere to shelve you. If I looked at my hands, which I don't, not ever, I'd see the marks on me that took my life, as sure as if he'd drawn the blade across my throat. My own Rizzoli stigmata, a martyr to my own fucked up feelings. Or the feelings I refuse to "process," according to the BPD shrink. One good thing about getting shipped off to FBI day camp is that I don't have to listen to that shit anymore.
I wear my gun and badge here because I can and because I feel strange without them, but they're basically fashion accessories. I sit at a desk with a wall I've made out of a giant white board to keep the other idiots caged up in 3D129 out of my face and write my reports like a good little girl. It fucking blows, but if they'd left me in Boston I'd probably have blown my brains out by now. Too many reminders. Too many people worrying over me, expecting things from me.
The only one here I really bother to talk to is Dean, and he knows exactly what to expect from me. He knows I could give a flying fuck about truth, justice and the American way and he doesn't disagree. Dean uses his job like a pick-ax, climbing up and over - not to get anywhere in particular, but because he likes shoving people out of the way. I get that.
Dean walks over to me, resting his arms on my whiteboard wall. "New coat of paint, Rizzoli? I like it," he says, gesturing down at the board. I've drawn a big fat X in black dry erase marker from one side of the 5-foot board to the other. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.
"Yeah, I used up a whole marker on it. Got a nice little high off the fumes, too." Not bad for a morning's work, if I do say so myself.
Dean smirks. "That's what I like to hear from my fellow fighters in the war on drugs."
I pantomime shoving coke up my nose, taking an exaggerated sniff. "Takes one to catch one." His eyes spark dangerously back at mine, enjoying the game. I know he indulges in misplaced evidence, and he knows I know. Just like he knows that I fuck chicks, and I know that he knows. One shouldn't weigh as heavily as the other, it's 2012 and lesbian cops are a dime a dozen, but I'm a fucked up closet case so we have our mutually assured destruction all worked out.
Besides, I'm not even sure if I like chicks or if I just like taking, using. The women I fuck let me fuck them, let me do whatever I want with them. I get a sick little thrill when they surrender completely, when they become mine. I don't ask for anything in return, and I sure as hell don't let them touch me. It doesn't make me an upstanding citizen but it gets me off in my own way, keeps me from making real trouble. The only complaints I get are when I shove them off on their merry way. A couple of the crazier, needier ones have gotten attached and tried to hang onto me. Can't blame 'em, I guess, I can be quite the charmer. I'll say what I need to say, be who I need to be, until I get what I want. What I need. Then I'm just an asshole again.
If I could do that to a man, if I could find one that'd let me stick my dick in him and own him for a few hours, I'd do it. But it's just so goddamn easy to find women who beg for it. I don't feel sorry for fucking them over when they wear their hearts on their sleeves, dangling their vulnerability out for me to grab.
That's why Dean and I never fuck. He'd like to, of course, but we both want the same things and neither of us could ever give it up, submit to the other. We're not friends, Dean and I. But we're not enemies, either. Kindred spirits, maybe.
Dean leans in closer, angling his body up and over the whiteboard to stare down on me. "Word is the Baltimore field office has a takedown scheduled for this afternoon. Obviously, someone from the headquarters drug team should be there to oversee. Want to tag along?"
I lean back as far as my crappy ass desk chair will let me and prop my boots up on the edge of my desk. "You know that ain't my style Dean. Besides, if you go, it's your paperwork. You fucked me over with that trick once, you won't get me again." His eyes are stroking down the length of my legs and I stretch back just a bit further. It's like dangling a fucking string in front of a cat.
He whispers down at me, his voice low and dark. "Fine, Rizzoli, your loss. The new agent on the Baltimore task force sounds perfect for you. Young and stupid, with a huge set of jugs. "
I let out a snort of annoyance. "Like I need to shit where I eat, Dean. There's plenty just like her out on the open market."
"Just looking out for you, buddy. If you don't want to keep her warm at night, I will." He's backing away slowly, our conversation not explicitly concluded before he smoothly moves onto the desk across from mine, schmoozing with Agent Killjoy or whoever it is that sits there. I'm pretty sure I'm the only one here who knows what a sick fuck Dean really is, he's a master at laying it on thick with everyone else.
He's right about my type, though. Dumb, stupid, and stacked up to heaven. A dime a dozen, and after eleven on the weekends they're tipsy and even dumber. Of course, today is Tuesday, which makes hunting a little bit harder. I might have to exert a little effort if I want to get laid tonight, strike up a conversation, act like I give a shit for an hour or so. Or I could just watch TV in my apartment. Some team somewhere must be playing some kind of sport involving a ball.
My computer, with my lame-ass half finished sit rep, has locked itself. Fuck this. No one cares if I write this shit or not. I bet someone has 'make up crap for Jane to do so she thinks she has a job here' as part of their job description. I grab my gym bag from under my desk and head to the third floor basement, where the bureau has what passes for a gym. The equipment is at least as old as I am but weights are weights, there's really not a lot to it. As usual, I'm the only woman in the 'big boy' room with the free weights, but I'm here often enough that no one is surprised to see a vagina walk in. I bench as much as most of them and they know by now that I don't want a fucking spotter. I don't need someone to stand by waiting to save me while they try to look between my gym shorts.
I pull myself up over the chin-up bar, feeling my crossed legs hang below me and watching the smooth muscles in my arms bulge. I pull up again, and again, until the sweat begins to form on my forehead, my back, under my breasts. I don't count, I never count. I pull up until my vision starts to blur and whirl and then I let myself drop. This, this works. This makes me feel whole. Bent over at the waist to catch my breath, I see a dusty pair of Saucony's directly behind me.
"Hello Jane." His voice has a lilt to it I've never been able to place – England? Australia? Whatever.
"Hey Ian." I straighten back up and turn to look him in the eye. "Shouldn't you be putting the bad guys in jail instead of staring at my ass?" Ian is an FBI lawyer, and the world's biggest bleeding heart. I've heard him say that he went to law school to save lives and make the world a better place. And he really believes that shit.
He shrugs, either unaware of my sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. I've never figured out which. "Slow case load this week. And I've got to stay in shape, I'm not as young as I used to be." Ian's wearing what looks like a British schoolboy's gym clothes. I look like I belong in the big boy gym way more than this fucker does.
"Treadmills and sissy weights are in the next room, Faulkner. You here to lift or talk?" He raises an eyebrow at me, bemused.
"Can't one do both?"
I'm already halfway to the weight rack. "Not with me, no." I rack 200 pounds and step into dead lift stance, my muscles clenching preemptively.
He must realize he's been dismissed because I see his Saucony's walking out the door as I lift the bar over my head. My muscles sing in sweet agony. I lift until my arms and legs are shaking and my eyes are stinging from my sweat. And I can finally feel nothing. My favorite of all the feelings.
I wipe my dripping face off and step out of JEH into blistering DC heat. It's only fucking May and this damn town is already a sauna. Oh joy. The humid air presses down on me harder than the dumbbell I had on my shoulders minutes ago, and I tuck my head down and push my way along the sidewalk. The metro is crowded with assholes like always, and since it's officially tourist season there's hoards of school kids travelling clustered in packs. Even though the train car is stuffed my gym sweat stench gets me an extra few inches of personal space. Fifteen minutes of teenagers yelling to each other and an old lady glaring at me for polluting her airspace and I'm across the river.
The lock tumbles into place with a click and the cool air-conditioned breeze welcomes me home. Thank fuck. I don't so much drop my bag as let it fall off me. I let myself collapse onto the one real piece of furniture in this place, the couch I brought with me from Boston. It's old and starting to rip but it's leather, and no fucking way was I giving it to one of my loser brothers. Well, Frankie's not a loser, he's just annoying. But still. My fucking couch.
I left the rest of my shit back in Boston. Pictures, plates, all of it. My place here is white walls and gray carpet, just the way I want it. I don't even have a real bed, just a mattress on the floor, but that's fine 'cause I don't fuck people here. No way I want those skanks to know where I live.
The couch creaks below me and I slip down into it further, closing my eyes for a moment. The air conditioner hums and I can hear the faint electronic pulse of the ceiling lights, but otherwise all is silence.
My hand moves down between my legs. The liner of my gym shorts is damp with sweat, and when I push against myself it's wet there too. I brush the back of my knuckles hard against myself, the calloused roughness sharp against my clit. My breath comes shorter as I grind my hips and oh, it's so close, I can feel my release so close. I'm muttering out loud to myself and pushing harder, desperate to just come apart. It feels like fucking ages of climbing up a hill that keeps rising ahead of me, trying in vain to throw myself over. Fuck. I pull my hand out and slump forward in frustration; I'm not getting off tonight. I'm sweat and failure and boredom, and I'm alone.
A/N: I did say it was dark, twice. You were warned! In the next chapter, Jane meets Maura.
A million thanks to Conoro28 for the beta. All mistakes are mine.