VERY IMPORTANT :
When I first saw See One Teach One Do One I thought they made it open to interpretation the first time Hoyt captured Jane, that he might have raped her. For the background of this story, suppose he did. I'm telling you that here because I don't want to write about it, this isn't 'a rape story', but still trigger warning for eventual ptsd/ Hoyt/ sexual assault related trauma in later chapter(s).
"Hey, Doc. You seen Rizzoli?"
The bald head of Detective Crowe has appeared in your morgue doorway.
Your neck prickles while you consider the question.
You don't know any of the homicide detectives personally, but have now observed their interactions at eleven crime scenes.
Detective Rizzoli's demeanor toward Detective Crowe is harsh, competitive, strictly business. Her voice is always hard. When he's not present, she calls him a dick or an asswipe. She doesn't like him.
You don't either.
His behavior is similar, only laced with the faintest flavor of sexual harassment that some men manage to perfect; designed to get under her skin, but get her ridiculed for oversensitivity if she were to report it. When she's not present, he calls her a bitch or deliberately mispronounces her name 'Lizzoli'. Disrespec- or... Or. No, he's saying Lezzoli. Like lesbian.
You just got that.
The man's head is still in your doorway, only now his brows are raised impatiently, and you fear they have been for some time.
"Yes," you nod. "She was here checking on the autopsy a few minutes ago. I'm not sure where she intended to go after that."
With an annoyed grunt, he disappears.
Relief floods your chest, although you aren't sure exactly why you felt any obligation to venture towards the far edge of honesty. Perhaps you felt you should support one of very few other women in your workplace. Perhaps a feeling that, after the horrors this woman has been through in her recent past, she could use a little break.
Next door to the morgue is your office, and in your office is your couch, and on your couch sits the missing detective, who is asleep.
Pleasantries excepted, this was the fourth time you'd ever spoken. You'd been explaining the significance of the ulnar fractures you discovered in yesterday's autopsy when you noticed her eyes were closed. After a moment of puzzling, you'd elected to close all the blinds in the room and vacate it, allowing her the rest she apparently needed.
Twenty minutes later, Detective Korsak appears and asks the same question.
Korsak and Rizzoli's interactions are mutually relaxed and familiar. They sometimes joke or smile. Similar to the way she is with Detective Frost, only Korsak's age seems to earn a fatherly nuance.
He has a kind face. He will know how to deal with this without embarrassing her.
You point gently toward your office.
You've been collecting facts about your newest friend like you're going to write a report about her, just for fun. Like the time your teacher assigned you Mercury, so you did Mercury and turned that in but also did Venus just for yourself, because you were interested.
It's not like you haven't had friends before. You had a best friend, but best like by process of elimination, not Best like how other people say it.
Even though you can't quite put your finger on anything she's done yet to merit the title, Jane might be what a Best is, or will be if things keep going how they're going.
Jane is intelligent, beautiful, funny, confident, cool, and effortlessly social, the way you only wish you could be. She is the leader of any pack, whether composed of family or colleagues. She projects strength. She is excellent at her job.
Jane is under-rested and underweight, and can be waspish when stressed. She doesn't like it if you touch her hands without her seeing you coming first, or if you acknowledge that she flinched. Sometimes she holds and rubs them like they hurt. She doesn't seem to like when you acknowledge that either.
She doesn't explain the scars to you, because the evening news already told everyone everything over three years ago, which you are sure she resents judging by how her lip curls when she sees reporters at her crime scenes. And in fact it makes you feel a little guilty, like you personally violated her privacy and are one of millions of voyeurs to the worst moment of her life, and you wish you could give her the dignity of saying you didn't already know and letting her decide whether to tell you about it.
She told you directly that she doesn't care if you look at her scars, but forbade you to tell her you're sorry, or that she is brave. It's a good thing she warned you, because those are both things you would've said.
And she asks you things, but not things you expect. Not real things. Not like who is your favorite artist or what are your goals for the next ten years. But stupid things, and yet she presses you for real answers. Like would you rather fight a zombie or a vampire (you lack extensive knowledge on the supposed qualities of either, but if a zombie is basically an ambulatory corpse, you'd be well equipped to handle that), or do you dare her to drink that entire bottle of Tabasco (no?).
First, you frankly think that's a little silly and avoidant and that she must not care enough about you to ask real things. But after a while you realize that part of this woman's job is questioning people and finding out things about them that they don't want to tell, and that maybe these are not just pointless topics to fill time, but little personality tests. That maybe this way she learns more about what you're like, without you realizing it, than if she requested facts and measurements for a report like you do.
This Jane Rizzoli is a clever woman, and you've never felt so special to be asked such stupid questions.