Disclaimer: These characters are the creation of Tess Gerritsen and the TNT Network. I am only borrowing them because, hey, I mean... can't expect them to spend 24/7 writing all the stories, right?
A/N: This is one possible post-finale scenario/one-shot. I don't think I have a clear direction in my head yet so I might do a couple of these. In general, the show has muddied the waters for me in the last handful of episodes so the characters' voices are sadly not as precise in my mind. Perhaps writing will crystallise them again. Except the voices drive the writing...
Thank you so much to Meghan for her help in correcting, shaping and fine tuning this. Our first collaboration proves that she can discern the sanity within the craziness. Or is it the other way round? Either way, I am sure there is a special place in heaven for all my betas. Seeing as down 'ere they have to venture into hell... ;-)
There is a fine line between bravery and lunacy.
Loosely holding the limp hand in her firm cool grip, Maura absentmindedly traces random geometric patterns on its back, crisscrossing the veins which continue to pump much needed blood to vital organs. So far neither math nor science have stopped her mind from shutting down, trapped as it is in the maze of Jane Rizzoli.
"I'm sorry, are you the next of kin?"
In her exhausted, emotionally-spent state, the reflex snap to Dr Isles: Chief Medical Examiner causes almost dizzying vertigo.
"Woah," her arm is steadied gently as she sways on her too-tall heels, the barely there smile and the lined grooves on the other woman's face speaking of a shift that put the doctors at a similar energy level. "Take it easy. I guess that answers the question."
"Uh, no, actually I am—was—I attended to the patient after the incident."
"Dr Isles? Dr Johnson." Hand cautiously removing itself from Maura's elbow, Dr Johnson gauges Maura's balance, and then, seemingly satisfied, steps back only to proffer her hand.
"Hello." Ingrained habit has Maura reach out hers.
The pleasantries are inappropriately mundane, taking place as they do against a backdrop of steadily beeping machines and yet somehow also tomblike suffocating silence. Maura's never found silence disquieting before but after today she fears it may be only one of many changes.
"Bet you don't get many live ones down at the Medical Examiner's office." The humour should feel just as out of place but curiously doesn't. Years of working with the Boston Police Department and a lifetime of solitary observation have taught her that this is one of many human shields.
Too bad tonight she can't find it within herself to re-enforce her own.
"Anyway," the doctor hurries on, "I just wanted to stop by for a final check. My shift is over." Without a question that would never be forthcoming, she volunteers, "My father was a cop. Caught a bullet back in '95. Just went in for a pack of gum and…" Maura sees the skin on the doctor's knuckles tighten as it grips the chart, "so… you know… this one's a little close to home."
"Is he going to get the chance to be a father?"
A shadow passes over Dr Johnson's face and a mask similar to Maura's own slips over her features with practiced ease. "I am sorry, I didn't know. Is he—I mean are you two… when are you due?"
It is Maura's turn to frown blankly. "Due…?"
"Oh, you aren't…?" As if uncertain of how to phrase it, Dr Johnson grimaces and settles for some hand motions which finally get the meaning across.
"Frankie Jr? Jane's Frankie?" For the first time since this afternoon, she feels something other than the heavy press of responsibility, a burst of something hot bubbling up within her.
She doesn't let it escape, of course. Not around a stranger. Not when she can't tell for certain what would actually emerge.
"Okay." Dr Johnson's posture loses its rigidity, settles back into the relaxed stance of one professional talking to another. "Well, the surgery was successful as you know. No negative reaction so far but it's far too early for a concrete prognosis. We had to clean up a hell of a lot of damage… but you did a good job, Dr Isles. Trust me when I say there wouldn't have been any need for surgery without you."
The insubstantial praise solidifies by the time it reaches Maura, its mass an imperceptible addition to her multitude of burdens. "I am glad I could help."
Dr Johnson sees through the bland politeness, her own mask slipping for a second, sympathy softening her gaze. "Don't blame yourself, Dr Isles. You did what you could with what you had. You gave him a chance." Brushing her hand along Maura's elbow, she squeezes momentarily, "Don't lose sight of that."
The fleeting touch feels like a blow, hammering through Maura's already precarious resistance. The molten feeling leaps and claws inside her stomach, stretching a little higher than before, just lapping at the edges of her sternum. Her brain helpfully supplies that this is a mere fraction of how Frankie felt as he lay gasping on the metal gurney, that this is a flimsy facsimile of what robbed him ofhis breath.
"Well, visiting hours are almost over. I am just heading down to see Jane Rizzoli for a second. Two kids in one night. I can't even imagine how their parents are."
"Please let them know they are welcome at my house tonight. It's closer to the hospital." Even to her own ears the words are hollow and robotic, likely to fool no-one. It's why she's been avoiding Jane's parents, only had a handful of courteous words for Vince and Barry.
"Ah, you are welcome to walk along with me to see them. I promise I don't bite."
"No, thank you. I am fine here. There should be someone with him at all times."
"Okay, well, see you tomorrow, no doubt. You know you should really—" straightening her scrubs, Dr Johnson tugs at her badge and chuckles sheepishly, "Ah, sorry, force of habit, I guess. Goodnight, Dr Isles."
And in a flash it's like she's never been here: there's only Maura, Frankie, the hushed whoosh of the ventilator, steady rhythmic beeping… and the same debilitating silence.
She switches to listing prime numbers as her feet measure the distance to the window, her fingertips taking up a quiet staccato beat on the windowsill as soon as she reaches its uncomfortable darkness. All too quickly she loses count as the numbers seem to chase each other, crashing viciously on impact… and it seems an insurmountable chore to have to start again. Allowing her mind to reach beyond the glass, she vacantly absorbs the landscape, her gaze eventually drawn to the bright dots of the street lights. But tonight the light is not its rote comfort, concealing more than it illuminates: each shadow throwing up a nightmare mirage of dripping blood, defiant scalpels, dancing Glocks… and the stark intensity of a 9mm round ripping through a ribcage.
"Maura."
The out of place figure, as much as the voice, forces her to swiftly blink until she is no longer in the morgue, hands quietly shaking; no longer kneeling on the pavement, blood sopping through her fingers; until she understands that shadows are just shadows… at least the ones outside the window. Those on the inside happen to be very real, preying on her as they do, lining every faded wrinkle on the weathered face of Frank Rizzoli.
Her clinical side, the logic, provides the explanation of why it's Frank, not Angela: a mother—this mother—won't leave her only daughter's side, she knows that Frankie is in good hands… except—except that's plainly not the case. If it wasn't for Maura, Frankie wouldn't be here, or at the very least he would be laughing as everybody teased him about being the first Rizzoli that managed to get shot without even leaving the precinct. Of course he would shrug it off by joking that at least he was first at something.
She shouldn't have switched courses in that third semester; she should have taken that extra credit during the summer; she—
"Don't."
Somehow his single word holds more control than her internal litany, cutting a path through guilt, allowing needed but unsought relief.
"Mr Rizzoli, I—I…" am sorry… I should have done more… been more… I failed when you needed me the most. Each admission burns a wave of acid through her throat until it's nigh impossible to choke any of them out.
"You should go be with her."
"In an unconscious state the body isn't aware of its peripheral surroundings." The scientific facts slide from her lips with ease, divested as they've always been of her emotions.
Their gazes collide within the dimness of the window, his piercing hers, probing for truths which she cannot—will not—no longer has the privilege to share.
"You are her…" Frank's voice hitches, his hands mashing the cap he's turning over and over in his fingers, "her family. You are our family, Maura. And after today… after today she needs for you to be there…"
"She doesn't need me, Mr Rizzoli. She has Vince, Barry… you. Half the squad room has been by this evening to see Frankie. I am certain that they did not skip Jane."
"None of them are you." The deeper gruffness transmits acceptance, affection, absolution; each sentiment battering her brittle shell to pieces. "Janey needs her friend."
The hoarse word – the cherished mantle she has only recently assumed – just barely allowed herself to think is real, steals past her crumbling defences in a flash, unleashing desolation from within. "No, she needed a friend. Earlier. When her brother lay there dying on that table; when he needed surgery before he bled out; when she needed someone to step up so that she wouldn't have to bleed at all. That's when she needed a friend, Mr Rizzoli. Except, I didn't do any of those things and instead—instead I cowered under the table. I couldn't fix Frankie; I couldn't stop her from getting hurt. No, Jane had to fix it all herself. She might as well have been alone. So you tell me, as her father… you look me in the eye, Mr Rizzoli, and tell me honestly… that after today I - I am the friend that Jane needs…"
The rain suddenly streaks rivulets along the glass, blissfully blurring Maura's sight, dissolving Frank's reflection. Until his hazy shape looms closer still, his image sharper—unavoidable, until she blinks and understands the rain is just her tears. His tentative first stroke stiffens, her shoulders snapping to rigidity drummed into her in boarding school. He has already seen enough today, felt too much, and even if on some level she were actually deserving, she has no right to—
The protocol is clear in her mind even twenty five odd years later.
Step one: deep breath.
Step two: tighten the diaphragm.
Step three: repeat you can't be hurt if nothing touches you. Nothing will touch you. You are—
"She got into a load of scrapes when she was a kid. Used to come home bruised and bleeding, but she took her cues from Tommy. And Tommy didn't cry. So I had to sit her down and tell her," all the while Frank moves slowly, gently, forward; his patting finally becoming an awkward one-armed embrace, "I had to tell her it's okay to cry."
The silent shaking of his solid frame involuntarily trembles her slender substance. There's always been the fortitude for one, tonight perhaps just barely, but she's not strong enough for two, at least not them. "I am sorry… I am so sorry." At last the words spill out of her, along with them her carefully bottled agony. "She trusted me and I let her down. I let you down. She… she would have never…"
"You kept him alive. You got him here. They are both still breathing, Maura. You think Angela and I would have known better? You think Jane or Frankie would have wanted you in their place? You make the best of the hand that's dealt to you, I always taught them that. They ended up with you. In my book, that makes them either very smart or damn lucky. And the Rizzolis aren't exactly known for their wit…"
"Wits."
Maura's instinctive correction elicits a watery chuckle, Frank painfully tightening his grip for a just a moment before he moves back, surreptitiously running a hand over his face. "I'll give you a moment to… you know. Be right outside. And then we'll go down and sit with her." He is already a sufficient distance away that he cannot discern the slightest shudder but, almost as if he knows, he throws in a final reassurance, "Together."
"Thank you, Frank."
"No problem, any time." Space once again between them, he shuffles out of the door, Maura closing her eyes, lowering her head to rest against the glass.
Forcing herself to drift once more into the vision of this afternoon, instead of weakness she allows herself to dwell on courage; where there was only blood, she imprints family ties. For the first time since those first few shots rung out, she manages to draw in proper breath, shuddering with the weight of her decision. The path ahead will be extremely strenuous, its toll much greater than the one of separation. Yet that same course suggests a shared burden, comprises of a future where she doesn't fear how to ask.
Persistently her thoughts swing to the riddle that is Jane, madness and heroics. She lets her mind run all the permeations one last time. The closing validation is as much conjecture as the others…
…perhaps the only thing dividing bravery and lunacy is love.