Well, I started this one long ago in January, but couldn't ever seem to finish it. Part 2 will be easier to write, but equally angst. I do not own Rizzoli and/or Isles because if I did… I'd be on a world tour and writing sequels and making much more money than I do. If you enjoy, please leave a review—they're sort of like candy in my Easter basket.
"Don't touch him! Don't you dare touch him!"
Jane jerks away, scathed by the words and stunned by what has happened. It's cliche, what she hears from hundreds of witnesses, but it's true: it wasn't supposed to happen like this.
They had a surprisingly simple plan, and while Jane hated the idea of using Maura as bait in any way, shape, or form, she had (reluctantly) agreed that it was the safest way to end this. With both herself and Frost inside and Korsak and Frankie outside... she hadn't planned on Doyle. She hadn't planned on Dean to arrive, either, and she now regrets that she didn't make the connection sooner- that Dean's presence would have meant Doyle's presence.
All that had mattered to her was that they ended it. They had their arsonist, with enough of a confession to make the charges stick. And then the gun had appeared. Jane had been prepared to take the shot. She had the angle, and she had kept the adrenaline manageable enough to focus. Because this mattered, more than any other take down. Because her best friend was on the line.
The entire building still reeked of smoke, little eddies of soot and charred God-only-knew-what were wafting at the slightest breeze. She felt confident- this was going to be okay. No, it shouldn't be Maura out there, seemingly alone, but they had back up. Good back up.
To her left, movement caught her eye, and she almost blew their cover right then and there. She almost sent a round through Agent Dean. He was definitely Agent Dean right now, and the only thing she can think to ask is 'did you follow me?'
Dean denied it, and she pushed it aside. There would be time to be pissed later. Once Maura was okay.
She peeked through the debris, carefully shifting so as not to make noise or give them away. Her finger curled around the trigger of her gun, and she was a few pounds of pressure from squeezing when the first shot rang out. Her honed senses caught the movement above, and she cursed inwardly that she had missed the catwalk. Some instinct kept her from firing immediately upward, and she was shocked to realize who had fired. Doyle.
Jane, Korsak, Frankie, Frost and Maura had spent the time talking this out. They worked contingency plans, and they all agreed this wasn't going beyond their tight knit group. There would be no mention to anyone else, in the department or otherwise, because no one was willing to risk word getting out, especially if word got around to the fire station before they closed this.
Irish mob fathers on the catwalk had not been factored into their plans. Ever.
Just the other night she got the call from her best friend, the one where Maura had barely managed to get words out. They were at the hospital, her mother was in emergency surgery, it was critical. Despite the late night hour, relatively clear roads, and speeding the entire way… it still took an eternity to reach her best friend. Time dragged endlessly, and every stop light was suddenly red.
It took an eternity for Doyle's body to fall. More than once in the long stretch of moments, Jane wondered (recklessly, irrationally) if she could catch him. Somehow soften the blow. She knew it would be bad. She'd seen the shot—God, she hoped it wasn't from her gun.
Doyle's body had buckled almost instantly, the weight dragging it over the railing. Everyone tensed when it landed with a solid, sickening thud. There was such a finality to that noise.
Jane knew the bullet (bullets?) were going to be hollow points. The wounds would be ugly, through and through. Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill you. The words suddenly seem inappropriate, and this is the farthest cry from Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid. This is more than a knife fight, and there are no rules in a gun fight for sure.
Cop or not, Jane Rizzoli likes to fix things. She knows it's useless, but something ingrained in her makes her move forward, reaching for Maura and for Doyle. The mobster deserves jail and more, but he has to be alive first. He's not—she knew it long ago—but Jane refuses to do nothing when Maura looks so helplessly lost.
Her hands reach for him, but the sharp, painfully harsh words from Maura Isles, M.D. stops her in an instant. There is something so raw and brittle in the syllables that makes Jane's blood run cold. "Don't you dare touch him!"
Jane's frozen, completely at sea here. Her best friend was on the line. But so was their friendship. When heartbroken red-rimmed eyes glared into hers, Jane finally realized: she may have just lost both.