Jane pushed open her apartment door and immediately kicked off the boots that had been pinching her feet all day. With a sullen look at her messy apartment, she traipsed over to the couch and sat down. Behind her, Maura peeled her own strappy heels from her feet and set them gently beneath the coat rack that she insisted buying Jane a few months ago. She watched as her best friend lowered herself completely down onto the plush couch, shoving Jo Friday away as she tried to lick excitedly at her hands. A greeting for her beloved master, but a greeting unwanted.
She couldn't remember the last time that there was a funeral for one of her own men. Jane's hand scraped down her face, her eyes squeezed tightly shut hoping that maybe, if she closed them long enough, the entire day – no, the entire month – would vanish behind the darkness. Everything would be okay and when she opened her eyes again, she wouldn't be wearing the stiff uniform that made her look like a man, her hair wouldn't be pulled back in a tight bun and she wouldn't have just come from Barry Frost's funeral. Everything would be different. Everything.
But Jane opened her eyes and the only thing she saw was her water damaged ceiling and a cob web that had been hanging there for weeks. Maura was somewhere in the apartment, Jane knew that, but she was being completely silent. Jo was the only one making noise. Her collar jingled as she darted from one side of the room to the other, clearly excited that someone was finally back at the apartment. Jane sat up and cupped her face again. She felt so numb and hollow. Her eyes were dry, as they had been for days. She couldn't cry.
The warehouse was dark and dank, a bitter fishy smell wafting in the air towards them. Jane nudged open one of the rusting doors and slid inside easily. There were times that she wished she could go back to that self-conscious teenage Jane and tell her that being thin as a pole would come in handy one day. With a quick look back at Frost, Jane moved in more and took the right side of the room. As quietly as she could she kicked open any doors or cabinets. Most of the wood was charred from an old fire. Debris littered the ground. "Clear," Jane called out to Frost.
"Clear." he repeated as he finished his side of the room. Jane took the lead once more and popped the next door open, silently hoping that this would be the one, that inside this room would be the little girl they were so desperately looking for. It had been weeks since contact had been made and, for the entire department, it wasn't looking good. Not often did BPD Homicide take on a child kidnapping, but this was different. Emily was Cavanaugh's goddaughter. There was no mistake on what team would be looking for her. Cavanaugh made that very clear. Jane budged open a cabinet, and then another, and then another. All she found was spiders and the occasional cockroach.
"Dammit." she muttered angrily. Just as she went to stand, a hallow clinking could be heard from somewhere upstairs. There was a pitter patter of feet – was that a rat, or was that a child? A crash reverberated off the walls. Jane sprung up from her crouched position. Frost was already half-way to the next door. He ripped it open and tore up the stairs, Jane following close behind. They slowed when they reached the only door on the landing. Another crash came from inside.
A gruff voice.
A child's sob.
Frost turned to look a Jane, giving a slight nod of the head. "You ready?"
"Let's get that kid."
He nudged open the door just enough to look inside. "Two at 3 o'clock," he said. "At least two more on the other side. We might need back up."
"Where's the kid?"
"Other side."
"She hurt?"
"Can't see her. She's crying." Something crashed and Emily gave a sudden shriek. Jane's stomach danced anxiously. The sharp sound of flesh on flesh hit their ears next and another heart breaking cry from the girl. "We can't wait. They're gonna kill her,"
"Frost, no-"
Frost punched open the door. "Watch your six!" he screamed back at Jane as he fired his gun three times at the first two assailants. The little girl screamed and covered her ears. Frost tagged each of the first two men; one gripped his shoulder while the other fell back into the empty crates, a stream of his own blood weaving down from his chest and onto the floor. Jane fired twice at the other two and moved to the wounded man on her right, kicking his machine gun far enough away that he couldn't reach it. She gave him a swift jab to the jaw and a single right hook to the gut. He fell back atop his bloody friend.
Jane turned back to look at Frost and watched as it happened: only one of the men still stood. He was tall and bulky, his arms like beefy tree trunks and his hair, a wild, raven black, was greasy and stuck to his forehead. His shirt was torn and stained. In one hand he held his gun, his dirty fingers caressing it like it were a cherished lover. What Jane saw was not the gun pointed at Frost, but the gun pointed directly at Emily.
Bang.
Missed.
Bang.
Missed.
Two missed shots was all it took for Frost to make his way in front of the little girl, flinging her back by the arm so she fell behind a stack of useless wooden crates.
Bang.
Hit.
Frost fell back, his eyes closed and his jaw clenched in what Jane could only see was unbearable pain. She pulled her own weapon and fired three, four, five times. The man went down and, nearly at the same time, he and Frost hit the floor, their blood spilling into the cracks of wooden floor. "Frost," Jane breathed, her gun slipping from her hand and clanking against the floor. She knelt beside him and covered the wound. Blood seeped from her fingers. "Frost! Stay with me. Stay with me, Frost." She hit her walkie talkie with her chin and muttered their coordinates. "Keep breathing. It's going to be okay." she whispered down at him. Emily crawled forward, her little hand reaching out to touch Frost's face. She swiped at his eyebrow and bent forward and gave him a small kiss. Jane looked from the girl to her partner, from the living to the dead. "Barry..." Jane croaked.
"Jane?" Jane only grunted in response. She heard Maura's footsteps – closer, and closer, and closer she got – and then she felt Maura's hands wrap around her shoulders, her soft fingers squeezing the tense flesh. "I know this is hard." She massaged Jane's neck and worked her fingers down her shoulders as best she could with the bulky uniform. "Please talk to me. You haven't talked in days."
There were a few moments pause and Jane pulled away from Maura's hands. "If I talk, it is all real. Frost is gone. My partner is gone. My friend. We made so many mistakes. He shouldn't have had to-" she choked on her words and let her head fall down into her heads. Still no tears fell. Jane felt her stomach tighten and her lungs felt airless. She sucked in a deep breath and shuddered it back out, her shoulders shaking. Maura moved from behind Jane to in front of her, still standing, now looking down at her friend with a similar look to the one she had after Jane had been shot. She had never seen her friend so broken and hopeless. She had no fire and no energy. This was not Jane Rizzoli. This was not her best friend. Maura knelt in front of Jane and pulled her hands from her face, forcing Jane to look up at her by guiding her head.
"Barry was a good man." she murmured. "And he is gone. But don't you dare, for one second, blame yourself for his death. Maybe it isn't fair that for another to live someone else has to die, but Jane, don't let Barry die in vain. Don't let his death kill you too. Cry." Jane shook her head from Maura's hands and let it fall once more. "Cry." she whispered.
Jane's voice was low and raspy. "Maura..."
"You need to cry." she said firmly, taking Jane's hand in hers and squeezing. Jane shrugged away once more. "Jane," Maura murmured softly. She took her hand and started pulling the many bobby pins from Jane's hair. The bun was pulled out and stiff waves of hair rolled down Jane's back, the product of too much hair spray and gel. Maura fluffed it out and weaved her fingers through it, pulling the dark haired locks of hair down and out. Her fingers came back and traced Jane's jaw line until her thumb and index finger held Jane's chin.
"What are you doing?" Jane's eyes looked into Maura's.
"I won't let you die." the shorter woman replied. Her lips met the smooth skin of Jane's jaw. She barely let them touch before moving up and up until a trail of soft kisses led to the soft flesh of Jane's earlobe. "Feel something." she whispered. "Let yourself feel something."
Jane shivered. "Maura-"
Maura slid up from her crouched position in front of Jane and perched herself on Jane's lap. "If tomorrow you want to forget all of this, fine." she mumbled as she unbuttoned Jane's top. "We don't have to talk about it right now. I just..." Maura bent back down and captured the detective's lips, shrugging off Jane's top as she went. Beneath her uniform Jane wore one of her classic white tank tops. She let one of her manicured fingers scrap down Jane's toned shoulder, causing the tanned woman to shudder in response. Maura pulled back from the kiss to look at Jane. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were closed. She tucked a strand of Jane's hair behind her ear. "I love you, Jane."
It was like a trigger had been pulled. Jane crumpled into Maura's chest, heavy sobs clawing their way out of the back of her throat. Salty tears stained the top of Maura's dress but she didn't care. She let Jane cry and cry and cry. They fell on their sides and Jane nestled herself into Maura, their arms wrapped around one another, and Maura pecked the top of Jane's head with kisses now and again, her hand soothingly rubbing her back. They laid like that until Jane's cries slowed and her breathing steadied and she was fast asleep and then Maura cried too. She cried because Barry was dead and because Jane was hurting and because she was hurting too. Maura cried because she knew that it could have easily been Jane and Maura cried because she knew that one day it still could be Jane. She cried and cried and cried until her head fell against Jane's and their slow breathing synced.
Together they slept with their sorrow.
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