It is exactly as it seems.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Rizzoli and Isles, nor do I own any of these wonderful characters. They all belong to TNT, Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro, Jan Nash, countless show writers, etc. and I use them humbly to tell stories.
Summary: Jane is much better at finding than concealing. Short glimpses into the moments that they all knew Jane was hopelessly in love with Maura. (I know it's been done a million times, consider this a million and one.)
Author's Note: To those who read Too Many Cooks, I promise I haven't abandoned ship. This has just been bouncing around in my head for far too long. It needed to meet paper (or screen, whatevs). This will have five installments, and thanks to two-year grant cycles, I will finally have time to update with some regularity (I hope). Please review! I appreciate all of your support, inspiration, and whatever else you'll send my way. As always, there is room for improvement. I apologize for any errors.
Geodesic - Frost
The first time Frost notices the behavior he deems it a nervous tick, an outlet for the nuclear energy that buzzes through long, tanned limbs. He is tempted to ask her about it, his new partner, but frankly the young detective is still wary of the piercing gaze that rests under her dark brows. Instead he watches. Studies the way her hand forms a loose fist, middle finger bouncing against the base of her palm as if she is keeping beat to an unheard melody.
At first, he struggles to find any discernable pattern. Four taps here, seventeen there, then only two. Occasionally a shake of her wrist and a nearly imperceptible tilt of her head indicates an error, and just as quickly she's begun again. But Barry Frost has always been good at puzzles, and Jane Rizzoli is nothing, if not a jigsaw waiting to be solved.
It takes a double homicide and a poorly ventilated Tudor on the outskirts of the city for Frost to finally piece it all together. They enter to find the first body splayed face down in the foyer. Two shots to the torso have left a thick pool of blood and a heavy iron smell in the air, but a slather of Vick's and minimal gore have resulted in a scene that he can nearly stomach. The second body, unceremoniously draped across the upstairs bathtub in a small, mildew-y room, proves slightly more offensive to his senses. He has barely reached the top landing when one misguided whiff of stagnant air leaves him weak in the knees and eyes watering. Mercifully, Jane turns to him with gentle authority and tells him to process the scene downstairs. She adds a lot of somethings about crowdedness and splitting up for efficiency in a way that is so convincing that even Barry nearly forgets his unfortunate aversion to bodies of the dead variety.
By the time his partner has finished upstairs, the first floor is crowded with crime scene technicians, staff from the morgue, and a good deal of the force's upper brass. A perfunctory glance into the pocket of a displaced overcoat had identified the deceased as a senior member of the City Council, not the home's owner, as it had been presumed. Frost had made a single phone call and before long a swarm of SUVs had descended upon the street, each salt-and-peppered head working to get in front of what was sure to be a media circus. He took the opportunity to slink quietly to a far corner, still green in experience and from nausea, not wanting to take up space. It is the perfect position for observation, and allows him a full view of Jane Rizzoli as she thumps down the wooden stairs. At first her gait is loose, careless. He watches her press a bony elbow into the side of the Chief Medical Examiner. Watches, with curiosity, as the blonde protests in a way that is entirely unconvincing. Then, the detective falters. She catches sight of the scene below and immediately her body stiffens, her steps slowing with a deliberate control of movement. He takes it for professionalism at first, a response to the slew of superiors that now mill about the first floor. But then he sees it—the flash of fear that darkens chocolate eyes. Eyes that search for Maura, briefly, before returning to the task at hand. The pair have just reached the bottom stair when the tapping begins. One, two, three, four. Pause. One, two, three, four, five. Pause. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Jane's focus is drawn to a foot patroller who enters the front door. Her tapping starts at two, but finger hammers into palm as the man moves deeper into the home, until eventually he is out of view. This time, Frost finally understands.
Early winter brings a string of homicides, and with it, opportunity for Frost to confirm his theory. It is the same at every scene. They arrive, and after a sweeping view of the room, Jane begins. Counting. Always counting. Mentally closing the distance between herself and the others in the room—how many steps lay between her position and each of the potential threats? How many taps on scarred palms 'til she feels like she's back in control? Frost imagines it's exhausting, always being on edge. But after a late-night dip into Hoyt's file, Frost feels profoundly impressed with the woman he calls his partner, and supposes her intensity is justified by her trauma.
It is several weeks before the young man finally comments on the behavior. A few inebriated nights at the Dirty Robber and a hearty game of pick-up basketball have left him feeling something like a friend. The fact that Jane shows up to the scene and presses a large coffee to his chest only bolsters him further, and it is nearly without thinking when he calls her attention to a man her eyes had passed over during her initial counts.
"You forgot him," Frost says with a jerk of his head towards the uniform in the far corner. One eye squints in concentration as he imagines himself crossing the room, "Seven," a pause, "I think." He turns to her with a smile, but pales when it is returned by an icy stare. "I'm… I'm sorry…"
She brushes past him with a wave of her hand and a roll of her eyes, "Don't be. Just process the front of the house." Frost gives a nod and feels his stomach sink to the floor.
He manages to avoid her face for the remainder of the morning. The fact that he finds her retreating back whenever he enters a room seems largely intentional, so it surprises him when she slips quietly into the passenger seat of his cruiser as they prepare to head out.
"Came with Maura," she offers with a shrug, throwing a thumb towards the doctor's car, "she has some meeting or something after this." Frost gives a nod and pulls the car out of the drive, hoping to convey a casualness that is starkly in contrast to the sudden clamminess of his palms.
They are nearly back to the precinct when she finally speaks, her gaze fixed out the window. "I didn't always do it, you know." She turns to him as if expecting a response, but something in the way her shoulders tense tells him she would be happiest with silence. She sighs heavily before returning to the passing scenery. "It's only been after Hoyt. I just like to have my bearings." He nods, prompting her to continue. "I mean, I'd been taken off guard before. Caught an elbow to the nose—the usual. But this… I just can't shake the feeling that I'm always missing someone. That someone is going to come up from behind and grab me."
The slight shake in her palm does not escape him as he makes the final turn into the parking lot. "It's silly. A room full of cops. But… it just makes me feel better. I do it for everyone, even Korsak, even though I know he'd die before he hurt me."
Frost refrains from mentioning that he has never seen her count the distance that separates the detective and Dr. Isles, not once. He doesn't dare admit that he'd noticed she counted for him, her partner. Instead, he pulls the car into a spot and throws it into park, leaving fingers to hover over keys for only a second before he pulls his hands into his lap. He knows she has more to say, and that the conversation will die with the ignition. His intuition proves correct, because a sheepish request sounds from the passenger seat as the car idles quietly at rest.
"Don't tell anyone, okay?" It is not the hurt in her voice that surprises him, but the fact that she is letting it show. "Everyone already thinks I'm some kind of time bomb ready to go off or fall apart. Can this just stay between us?" And then, to lighten the mood, "I think I'll actually go crazy if I have to pull anymore desk duty."
"Of course," he promises, killing the engine with a twist of his wrist. He remains silent as she unbuckles and slips out the door, but suddenly his assurance doesn't seem enough. He is desperate to show her he will be more than just loyal, he will be her partner. "Jane," he calls. She ducks her head back in to meet his gaze. "I've got your back."
She gives a small smile and a nod of raven locks, "I know, Frost."
It is four days later when they are called to a scene of a woman's murder in Beacon Hill. Jane, having spent the morning jogging with Maura, arrives separately to the home. The pride that fills his chest when she skips him in her counting leaves him feeling as though he'll float through the ceiling and up into the clouds. To him, it is a more honest testament to his ability than any diploma from the academy or his promotion to detective, and he vows to never to make Jane Rizzoli question that judgement. Weeks pass into months and he begins to notice that her counting has dwindled. Before long, it is only with strangers—mostly suspects—and the habit is rare to appear when Maura or Frost stand resolutely by her side.
And then, without fanfare, her fingers still completely. He sees her continue to mentally case each room, to search for any hidden danger. But apart from the days when low pressure systems hang above the Boston skyline and Jane digs thumbs into pink scar tissue, her hands remain remarkably still. It's been close, on occasion. A particularly shifty witness, or a brusque traffic cop can put her on edge in a way he is still learning to identify. But he's found that a subtle, firm step towards her or a passing glance from Maura calms the energy that he can see gathering in sinewy muscles. The tension dissipates and the tapping never comes.
Until Hoyt.
For what felt like eternity they had been tangled in a game of cat and mouse with the ailing Surgeon. And while Frost respected Vince Korsak more than most, he prickled at the way the older man spoke of times "before you" when Frost would ask a question about the case. It felt suspiciously as though they were in a race, and Jane Rizzoli was the prize. He was so caught up in earning his place beside his partner that he nearly missed the signs. It was with both a sense of pride and soul-crushing fear that he rushed with Korsak to the prison, having matched Mason's prints to the bills. Never in his life had he been so happy at the sight of blood. For this time, the same coppery scent of death that he had grown to abhor meant just that—Charles Hoyt was dead and gone, and Jane Rizzoli might finally be free.
Despite the newfound safety, Frost was certain that the counting would start again. He was positive that the betrayal of a prison guard would trigger a distrust in personnel and leave the woman wary of the unknown—and rightly so. On her first day back in the field, Frost was pleasantly surprised to find that she did not tap for him. He was shocked when his partner's hand remained limp at the sight of two fresh-faced rookies that stood hunched in a doorframe. But Barry Frost was baffled when he finally caught glimpse of the movement he'd be expecting. Jane had stood passive at a room full of armed men, but there, clear as day, fingers curled to fist and the tapping began—but only at the sight of Maura.
Frost was suddenly left wondering what happened in that medical ward that gave Jane a profound distrust of her friend. He wracks his mind for other signifiers of this shift in alliance, but can find no additional support. All he envisions is the way a barely composed Jane had rushed to cup Maura's face in her hands, tilting her chin gently to better assess the thin incision on the doctor's neck. He can call to mind Medical Examiner's recounting of the afternoon—how Jane had sprung to action as Hoyt's scalpel had plunged into the lighter woman, a powerful fury giving her immeasurable strength. It is easy for him to picture the way the blonde squeezes his partner's shoulder when Jane slams a file onto her desk, and the way the detective stills at the contact. All he can see is a hug, a touch of a hand, a lingering gaze as elevator doors close. And then he gets it, he is a detective, after all. Jane is not worried about how close Maura may be, but she is deeply unsettled by any distance between them.
The realization doesn't surprise him, as much as it takes him off guard. It had been mere days on the job before he noticed the near constant push-pull between the two women. A subtle dance fueled by chemistry, desire, and a complete unwillingness to bend. He had mostly ruled it sexual tension, but with this, he was not so sure. Was Jane loyal? Of course. Protective? Like a junkyard dog, the thick chain of the law her only restraint. But this was something else entirely. It was so obvious now; Jane Rizzoli was in love with Maura Isles. He would bet his life on it.
As weeks pass he sees it time and time again. If Maura is left to speak with an officer, Jane counts. When the doctor comes upstairs to assist with a witness, Jane counts. But it is more than just movement of a finger. Frost begins to notice the way Jane's eyes are never lighter than when they are reflecting one of Maura's smiles. He sees how the Medical Examiner relaxes when the detective enters the room. How they seem at rest in each other's presence. It is so endearing that he nearly resigns himself to letting it be, to keeping his big mouth shut.
But then Jane is, well, Jane.
It is a particularly trying Tuesday when he finally snaps. Summer heat has left them cranky, and Jane finds the best release of tension is to tease him relentlessly. Frost never would have leaned in so closely to the barista, had he known his partner stood at the back of the line. But nevertheless, he did, and now Jane chatters endlessly about "Barold's smooth moves" and his "game" to nearly anyone willing to listen.
He is counting down the hours to an ice cold beer at the Robber when they head down to the basement level. Her voice fills the hallways as they walk towards the Medical Examiner's office, a playful recanting of the morning's events bouncing off linoleum.
"It's cute, really," she is concluding as they reach the door. Frost pauses, but Jane shoulders past him, waltzing in without so much as a knock.
"Maur," Jane starts with a smile, "Casanova here wants to know if those tox results on the Sherman case are ready yet. Isn't that right, Frost?"
Maura looks up from her screen with a practiced delay, her eyes meeting Jane's with a look of lighthearted warning. "Hello, detectives." She stands and crosses the room before resting a hand on Frost's upper arm, "Hello, Barold, how are you holding up today?" He touches her hand in acknowledgement before replying with a shrug, both ignoring the bouncing detective at their side.
"He's fine," Jane interjects, "don't you want to know why I called him Casanova?"
Maura sighs and points to the two chairs that face her desk, "Sit, stay. I will be back with the results shortly."
Jane slumps into the nearest seat with a whine of protest, not liking that she's been ignored. Frost's echoes with his own groan upon glancing at his watch. Still four hours 'til that beer.
"Chin up, Frost, I'm sure she likes you too," Jane ribs.
He lets his head loll to face her. "You'll pay for this," he warns.
"Ah, but I don't get crushes."
While Frost knows this to be true, it is too easy of an opening for him to ignore, and before he has fully mapped a game plan in his mind he is blurting it out. "You're doing it again!" he says a bit too quickly.
Jane looks suddenly self-conscious, unsure of what it could possibly be, "Doing what?"
Frost merely raises his palm and taps his middle finger down with exaggerated force, eyebrows cocked in challenge.
"What?" Jane exclaims incredulously, "I am not."
"You are, just not in the way you used to."
"What the hell does that mean?" she asks with a snort.
"You're not counting how close people are, you're counting how far," he draws out the last word, inviting the detective to reach her own conclusions.
"Frost, you're losing it, buddy," Jane's tone remains casual, but he can tell that he's struck a nerve by the way she reaches for a stack of papers, mindlessly organizing the perfectly aligned sheets. "It hasn't happened in months, maybe a year. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Jane," he says pointedly, leaning back in his chair to check that the hallway is clear, "you do it for Maura."
The woman makes a sound of protests, but stills her head just as it begins to shake, her mind clearly having recognized Frost's words as truth.
"Holy shit," she breathes. He expects that to be the last of it, but her eyes go wide and she turns to her friend, "Why?" As if Barry Frost has any clue as to why this woman behaves the way she does. He scoffs. "I mean, I know why. But… what?"
Frost smiles, enjoying how it is now his turn to watch his partner squirm. "It's cute, really." Jane groans as her own words are parroted back, deeply regretting the morning's torment. He continues, "You could save yourself a lot of counting, though, if you just told her how you feel."
Jane's head whips towards his with a look that is all at once dangerous and pleading, "Frost," she warns.
"Really," he adds, pretending not to notice the way she glares at the side of his face, "pretty easy to tell the distance if you're holding hands." They are interrupted by the sharp clack of Maura's heels approaching the doorway. Frost meet's Jane's gaze in a look of surrender, but cannot help adding, "think about it," just as the blonde clears the threshold.
"Think about what?" Doctor Isles asks from behind them, head buried in the file she carries.
"Nothing," Jane grumbles. She shoots Frost a warning glance that he ignores with a toothy grin.
"Oh, just a little discussion of mathematics. Finding the shortest distance between two points, you know, A to B type stuff."
"Ah, a geodesic," the doctor offers, returning to behind her desk and handing Frost a thin folder. She sits down before her gaze meets two blank stares, prompting her to continue. "The shortest possible line between two points?" She waits for acknowledgement, "No? Well, it's merely a term utilized in applied mathematics, typically during the study of the earth. Measurements on a sphere." She gives a shrug, "Were you in need of directions?"
Barry laughs, "Jane might be in need of some direction, you could say that. I think we are set for today, though. Thanks for these," he adds, lifting the folder.
"Yeah, thanks," Jane adds as she snatches the file from Barry's hands, "Well, we're off to find the shortcuts and all." She motions for Frost to follow her back upstairs. He rises slowly, enjoying the rare upper hand he's been awarded in this room.
"Don't cut any corners, Jane," Maura admonishes, calling after two retreating backs.
"Oh, don't worry, Doctor Isles," Frost calls over his shoulder with a laugh, "Jane loves to take the long way." He pauses before adding under his breath, "the long, convoluted way." It earns him a sharp punch to the upper arm, a price he deems entirely worth the look of embarrassment that flashes across his partner's face.
That will be the last time they speak of the habit, and it isn't long before she has lost the instinct entirely. Frost never knows if Jane has told Maura of the behavior, but he doesn't dare spill the secret, and so it is left to rest between them. Years later, it will return, altered once again. Jane Rizzoli always taps twice at the entrance of the precinct. Two quick steps. For where Frost is supposed to be, by her side.
Note: Whew, part one = done! I realize that any understanding of Jane's feelings for Maura go largely unspoken in the series, but that's what fanfiction is for—altering the narrative to make me happier. I like to imagine that Frost gently teased Jane in moments alone. Not to be mean, but to show a casual acceptance of the situation in a way that would have given Jane the confidence to finally make a move. Even if it was just to get Frost to shut up.