A/N: As usual, I'm just borrowing these guys. Thanks so much for reading, everyone!

Ah, the humble medical examiner in her natural habitat. A strange environment to many, enveloped by the stench of chemicals and decay, surrounded by dead bodies—but the ME seems more at home here than anywhere, taking great pride and enjoyment in the meticulous nature of her work. She carefully bends her head, her neck sloping gracefully, and gently sniffs the basin she's holding—the stomach contents of a recently deceased 53-year-old man. Ignoring the work done by mastication and digestion, she finds fresh apple, peanut butter, a hint of grape jelly. She's so engrossed in her work that the sudden rustling in the doorway goes completely unnoticed.

The detective appears, not at all quietly, her wild mane flowing with the soft breeze from the closing door. She regularly frequents the area, though it should be far outside her regular hunting ground. Sometimes she's after information—more often than not, it's the medical examiner herself that draws her.

Lacking brightly-coloured feathers or impressive antlers, the detective must settle for less showy displays of affection, but she has no problem making her intentions clear. The dance between the two is outwardly one of friendship, only those well-versed in morgue etiquette understanding the important differences. Small glances. Gentle taps on hips and shoulders that serve no other purpose. It's almost as if—

'Jesus, that Rizzoli just needs to get laid already, huh?' the new guy says to no one in particular, shaking you from your reverie as he nudges your elbow—a dangerous gesture given the beaker of acid you're holding. 'You think the Queen of the Dead can help with that problem or is she the type who only goes after stuff created in a lab?'

The hush is deafening.

Your core group of lab rats have been as well trained as you are. Sure, Dr. Isles is sometimes called the Queen of the Dead. Upstairs, New Guy's joke would be a hit with the cops who don't understand the cold and quiet ways of the lab. But downstairs, you own the nickname, using it only with the utmost respect. This is Dr. Isles' domain, and you are all her loyal subjects. You bow down to the Queen of the Dead.

Obviously, New Guy has touched a nerve. A roomful of them.

'Respect,' you spit out. The word itself would probably do it, but you swing the lab door open, propping it for good measure. 'You don't say anything in here that you wouldn't say in front of Dr. Isles. Understood?'

New Guy looks around helplessly for the camaraderie of his fellow underlings, shrugging when he doesn't find it. 'Yeah.'

'You better.'

You like to think you run a tight ship. Do not speak unless spoken to or you have something damn useful to say. Fool around with the lab equipment and face certain death. And above all else, do not take Dr. Isles' name in vain.

It's a simple enough set of rules. Succinct. To the point. Absolutely necessary.

And has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you're starting to ship your boss and her detective in a sorta strange all-encompassing, soul-shattering kind of way. (Honest.) Of course, it would help if they didn't make it so damn easy—and if they weren't being so secretive about the fact that they're very obviously getting it on.

They're interesting (and fucking beautiful, and you just so want your two heroes to be happy that you could explode). So you found yourself watching them like a Netflix binge—constantly promising yourself that this would be the last time and you'd look away.

(It's never that easy.)

You're not usually such a voyeur. The close observation really had started as an attempt at further learning. In order to get as much out of your experience in Dr. Isles' office as you could, you'd have to hear and see and learn as much as possible. It made sense at the time.

Success was achieved when you reached right-hand-woman (or at least Senior Criminalist) status.

Somewhere along the way—it's impossible to say when—the morgue had turned into a soap opera.

(And you'd be lying if you didn't admit you were dangerously close to writing fanfiction.)

You don't know when exactly it dawned on you. One day everything was squeaky-clean professional, and the next, it was so clear they were fucking each other that you would bet your job on it. But you're pretty sure it had something to do with the way Dr. Isles suddenly had of stretching the detective's name so it seemed to contain eighteen a's and a subtle tongue-fucking.

'Jane?'

There it is now.

(Or at least a version. She's made a language of it. The 'I'm so happy to see you' Jane—usually first thing in the morning after a night obviously not spent together. The 'you're frustratingly endearing' Jane that has a bit of an edge to it. The 'I want to take you right here on the morgue slab' Jane, which… well, you always leave the room after that one. As a sign of respect.)

Will they? Won't they? Are they really? You're beginning to feel like you're watching a romantic comedy. Some days, popcorn is so tempting. And it's not like your dead counterparts would mind if a little extra salt was accidentally rubbed into their wounds. But all it took was one accidental mouthful of formaldehyde-flavoured kernels, and snacking was out of the question.

Cheese or caramel, yes. You even ate those fried caterpillars that Dr. Isles had declared delicious (and actually they weren't that bad). But there has to be a line somewhere, and you draw it at formaldehyde.

So now, you just wait with the lab door cracked. And usually, you're not disappointed.

For a secret romance, they're pretty fucking obvious.

'What are you doing? I thought you said you were done here.' Detective Rizzoli stomps around, half-whining—all six-year-old squirminess, surliness, and bravery encapsulated in a (what even you have to admit) is an incredibly sexy body.

It's easy to see what Dr. Isles sees in her. (You're not blind.)

'Five minutes.'

'Five minutes? Maura, you said that fi—'

Someone starts the centrifuge whirring, and with a furtive glance at you, New Guy gets up and closes the door, mumbling something about keeping the noise down for Dr. Isles.

You allow it.

Because it's not the conversation that matters.

It's the way the detective rests a palm on the doctor's hip—ever possessive and incapable of keeping her hands off her. And how Dr. Isles smiles as she leans into the gesture, her entire face beaming. (It's the way they're so obviously in love that you honestly can't understand how they aren't married already.)

You really should look away.

But maybe just one more minute. Or two. Or seventeen.

(And maybe just a bit of popcorn.)

It doesn't take long for Dr. Isles and Det. Rizzoli to become Maura and Jane.

(It seems only fitting—anyone who's seen what you have should be well on first-name basis.)

You're staring.

(Of course you are. You're a human. With eyes and a libido—and right now, a mouth like a codfish.)

Oh my God, you're staring.

You know it. She knows it. And still, a pack of zombies couldn't tear your eyes away even if they physically removed them from your head.

Because there's Dr. Isles.

And there are her boobs.

Both of them. Just hanging there—with a slight jiggle as she turns to face you. Out and about and so unexpected.

Who wouldn't stare? Honestly? (And anybody who raises their hand is a goddamn liar. Those things transcend the bounds of reality and anatomy and sexual orientation.) It's half shock—not exactly what you expected when she answered your knock on her office door (you'd swear on your grandmother's grave that she did)—and half daaaaaay-ummm.

Somehow you manage to avert your eyes—hoping it's quick enough, seriously doubting it is. There's the sound of running water, which you think must be the blood rushing in your ears, but then the office's bathroom door opens and you don't need to look up to know who's there.

Jane Rizzoli. Breathing fire.

(But also fully clothed, and that's so fucking important it's like breathing.)

You're pretty sure if you look directly at her, you'll die a slow and painful death—crumpled in a heap on the office floor, clutching those stupid fucking lab results, and trying to spit useless excuses between gasped breaths and coughed-up blood.

'What the hell?' That low voice is infinitely lower—like depths of hell and its seven circles—and so so dangerous.

'An accident of timing and unlocked doors,' the doctor answers, offering you a reassuring smile.

Your mouth feels like it's filled with cotton candy, words melting just as quickly. 'I can go and… uh, bring these back… later.'

She was changing out of her scrubs. Obviously. That's it. It makes sense, right? If you don't think too long and hard about it. (Because you can think of no scenario whatsoever in which she'd have to remove her bra, but….)

'No need. This will only take a moment.'

Is that an order? A request? A mistake? You're trapped (and it's not half bad).

She has no shame whatsoever, standing there beside her desk in nothing but her slacks, as if she holds meetings topless every day. It's unnerving and confident and so damn sexy, and you wish you could fucking move because you're pretty sure if Detective Rizzoli could unhinge her jaw, she'd swallow you whole. Or at least she would if she weren't as hypnotised as you seem to be.

The Rack of God has mystical powers. All must kneel before it.

(You swear you hear chanting, seem blinded by a white light that brightens, beckoning, and—)

'Jane?' Maura has folded her arms across her chest, seemingly more for your and Jane's benefit than her own. Her smile is soft and amused as she nods at her… (c'mon, yes, it's her girlfriend). 'Would you mind?'

The detective snaps to action, taking off her own blazer and jumping protectively in front of the half-naked doctor. Now, any other person you know would be grateful for the cover and duck into a potato sack if it meant hiding their assets. Maura Isles pulls a face at the blazer held out to her, refusing to take it. (You've seen the suits she has in her closet, the jackets hanging on backs of chairs—know the quality of the material she's just been handed probably equals what's usually in those garments' tags.)

'Oh my God, Maura. Would you just put it on?' Jane is practically begging, her motions awkward and jerky as she struggles to follow Maura back to the closet, blocking her the entire way.

'It'll take just as much time to put my actual clothes back on, Jane. Less actually, since I won't have to change again later.'

Of course it will. She's shrugging into a simple black bra as Jane rolls her eyes (and you're having a hard time remembering how to breathe or swallow or remembering if your heartbeat is one of those processes you're supposed to try to control).

'Really? Cuz I think you could've been covered by my jacket by now.'

The look. The withering one. 'Sometimes you can be a bit too impatient.'

'Right now you're a bit too… naked.'

Stating the obvious. Though you're not entirely sure if Jane's main gripe here stems from the fact that her pseudo-wife has her rack out in front of someone else, or that it's impossible for the detective to bury her face and hands in said rack with an audience present.

(And if you're being perfectly honest, you'd buy all the tickets to that show.)

'You need to relax. I'm booking us in for massages.'

'I don't need a massage, Maura. I need you to—'

(The possibilities for the end of that sentence are endless. Your brain fizzles.)

'Happy now?'

Dr. Maura Isles, twirling like a five-year-old ballerina showing off a sparkly new tutu. She's replaced her blouse, her shoes, even her jewellery in those few seemingly endless seconds—looks more like she's stepped out of a fashion magazine than been caught with her top off.

(Though the mental image of the doctor in the detective's blazer is one you wish you had on file.)

'Yes,' Jane answers, in a way that makes clear she both is and isn't. 'You would've looked good in my jacket though.'

'I wouldn't have just looked like I was wearing your clothes?'

The doctor is teasing, her voice lilting magically. The detective's eyes darken.

Jesus Christ, they've forgotten you're even in the room.

'Well, yeah, but….' A shrug. A shrug that says things like I love you and you're so damn sexy and a few words that are just for the two of them that you can't quite understand.

You've forgotten why you're here. Yes, you're holding a folder, and you halfway remember something about needing signatures, but it suddenly seems as unimportant as an email forward from your mother (and you can't very well hand Dr. Isles a file that might contain seventeen pictures of cats). The important thing is to leave. As soon and as quietly as possible.

You don't know why this instinct couldn't have kicked in two minutes ago. It might have something to do with the fact that your bones feel a little bit like jell-o, and you're surprised you don't have to slither out of the office

The door squeaks on your way out—barely audible, but it sounds like a jet engine.

You think you hear someone call your name, but there's no turning back.

Three hours later, a vase of flowers is plonked on your workstation by a courier wanting nothing more than to leave the morgue as soon as possible. They're from Dr. Isles, an apology for, as she put it, their 'earlier awkward situation.'

Flowers.

As though she's forgotten your birthday, and not proffered you some kind of goddamn life-changing religious experience. (You're now the sole and founding member of Our Lady of the Rack. A certain detective may technically have first dibs, but you doubt she's put thought into the proper paperwork—or at the very least a gushing and cryptic Tumblr post.)

The folder of so-called very important papers sits beside it. Still unsigned.

You take to announcing your presence everywhere. The other lab techs (and your cat) find it unnerving.

But even that strange habit can't solve everything.

It's doing nothing to increase your productivity. (In her Jane-less moments, Dr. Isles has begun to express concern about your sudden change in work ethic.)

It's certainly not helping your current social situation.

And it most definitely does nothing to stop you from innocently entering the empty morgue and hearing a very distinctive, 'Jaaaaane….'

If you had to describe it, you'd call it mewling. A hitch in the middle and an ellipse at the end, because it trails on for-goddamn-ever and still never seems to stop. It's followed by a low murmur—a voice you'd recognise anywhere—and laughter that's so light and airy that if it weren't for the fact that both of those women probably knew at least sixteen ways to kill you, you'd call it a giggle.

The door to Dr. Isles' office is closed. The blinds drawn. Perfectly fine to all appearances, but appearances mean jack squat when no one put any thought into sound-proofing.

More laughter. A crash. Something that sounds like a moan.

(This job might be the death of you. You couldn't love it any more if you tried.)

Okay.

It's fine.

And probably all very innocent. (Right?) There are plenty of valid explanations.

Maybe they're just discussing the case in an uncharacteristically light manner.

Maybe they're re-hashing last night's episode of Real Housewives.

Maybe they're having a tickle fight. Or playing Twister. Naked. And without the brightly-coloured mat or spinner, because who needs right-hand-red, when you could have right-hand-breast, and left….

The blinds twitch, caught by something and vibrating in the aftermath.

Fuck.

And that does it.

Your imagination jumps—flashing bits of filmstrips you really shouldn't be seeing (you're like kid—hands dutifully covering your eyes, but you're damn well peeking between your fingers).

Because the scenarios. Jesus Christ, the scenarios.

Down on that wildly uncomfortable sofa, the blinds caught by a flailing hand.

Up against the wall (the doctor on tiptoes, the detective's palms cupping her ass).

On top of the desk, a quick swipe of an arm to clear it sending everything flying.

A sound behind you shatters the image. The creak of a door, snippets of conversation. Not all the lab techs are gone for the day—you have approximately three seconds for your fight or flight response to kick in, three seconds to decide whether the sounds from within the doctor's office are too loud or barely audible, three seconds to protect a reputation you value more than your own.

The decision's made when your ears pick up another breathy sound that's a bit too sexual for comfort, so you grab at the nearest and loudest piece of equipment you can find.

The bonesaw rattles to life and you wield it like a sword, ready to defend your hero's honour. Except… now that you're holding the damn thing, you're not quite sure how long you're supposed to keep it on, or what exactly to do with it. Cutting willy-nilly into the cadaver on the slab in front of you would surely be frowned upon, and you can only wave the thing in the air for so long before the lack of that teeth-clenching saw-to-bone grinding becomes apparent.

So you count to 100. Slowly. And make a show of pretending to inspect the machine, from all sides (somehow managing to not lose a finger), until—holding your breath—you switch it off again.

There's the clang of metal-on-metal, the instruments on the table rattle as you return the saw to its place. And then it's quiet. Almost too quiet.

'Was that you using the sternal saw, Susie?'

You jump probably about fifteen feet in the air (no exaggeration). Only someone with years of ninja training should be able to sneak up beside you so silently in Prada heels. Dr. Isles pats your shoulder as she apologises for startling you. She looks… well, as fucking perfect as usual. If something more… naked was happening behind those closed blinds, neither her appearance nor her demeanour betray it.

You manage to mumble something about inventorying the equipment and checking for defects (you think). The doctor is excitedly appreciative, banging on about your initiative as she flits about the room checking your 'progress.' You've accidentally added to your duties (but also scored some brownie points, so it all evens out in the end).

The detective enters the room with more of a bang—and clomping boots—so at least this time you're halfway ready to face her.

'Susie.' Short and with a nod. It's almost a greeting (but seems more like a warning).

'Jane.' You say it without thinking, eyes wide as you quickly amend. 'Detective.'

It's when you're trying not to look directly into her eyes that you see the seams and rough edges. Not just a figment of your imagination, because you blink hard and they're still there.

Dammit.

Too bad you don't still have that sternal saw going—it might be just about strong enough to cut through the awkward tension. Because the detective is by no means usually as well put together as the doctor. A few stray hairs and extra wrinkles would not at all seem out of place (they're almost part of her wardrobe)—but an inside-out t-shirt, on the other hand….

You have to say something. It's female code (since she's not your frenemy). Easier said than done when she's piercing you with that hands off my woman detective-y stare, but finally you get out a few syllables and wave a hand. 'You've uh….'

Frowning further, Jane looks down. 'Oh. Shit. Thanks.'

She quickly retreats into the doctor's office to fix it, returning much too soon for your liking. Dr. Isles is still making her final rounds of the morgue, so it's just you and Jane.

You hold her stare like a champ.

She knows you know. And you know she knows you know. You wonder if this moment will culminate in an easy talking-to or something much more threatening. You think you know the answer when you see storm-clouds brewing in the detective's furrowed brow. (A little bit you're dying inside to tell her just how amazing you think this all is, how you'll hold their secret forever, act as a lookout, whatever it takes.)

'Jane?' It's a little bit breathy and speaks of springtime and smiles, as the doctor returns to the detective's side, all but nuzzling into her.

Even the tough-as-nails Jane Rizzoli isn't immune. She smiles—and it's a little bit dazzling the way that frown melts to it so suddenly. 'Ready?'

It sounds a bit clipped—a babe or a hon or even a soft Maur not just trying to tack onto it, but actually belonging at the end. (You know it'll appear there soon enough, like it was never missing in the first place.)

Maura hums her assent.

Maybe it's that sound (you can barely fucking resist it and you've only half seen that woman naked).

Maybe it's want finally winning out over logic.

Or maybe she just wants to be able to lay claim to her woman without giving a damn who notices.

But Jane takes Maura's hand, their fingers slipping together so easily that it's clearly a practiced motion. The kiss that follows is blink-and-you'll-miss-it (and you almost do)—quick and soft on the lips, and it's a beautiful thing in its simplicity.

'Susie,' Jane repeats, a goodbye in it this time.

'Jane.'

The detective nods like you've earned it, and you're doing mental cartwheels as you and Dr. Isles exchange your goodbyes. You watch them pause at the door, Maura glancing up at Jane in a silent (and different) version of an earlier question.

Ready?

They leave the morgue hand in hand.