A/N: Hi, guys! I've got a new story for you all. This one has been in the works for quite some time. Hopefully this bridges the ever-closing gap between the new R&I season for you, because I don't know about you guys, but I'm totally ready for a new season already. One where these two fools actually get together.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy! I would love to hear your comments about the direction you think I'm heading with this. As always, it's definitely Rizzles endgame.
"JANE!" the words ripped out of her throat with raw agony as she stood clutching the cold metal of the bridge railing. She squinted down into the dark water to try to perceive any sort of movement, any bob of the dark curly mane she so desperately wanted to see.
Why did she have to jump? Why did she have to go in? She jumped in feet first, which hopefully dispelled the impact and protected her vital organs from rupturing. If that were the case, of course, she would probably sustain some broken bones or fractures, but that was much preferable to…
The dark thought slithered slowly around her metaphorical heart, leaving a dark, sticky trail of fear.
The inky blackness obscured everything—if only she could hear something…
She peered farther over the railing. A strong wave of vertigo swirled around her body, threatening to pull her in after the impulsive detective.
Her body impossibly lurched forward as the immutable railing gave way. Her limbs were in that weightless limbo between sky and ground; her stomach and intestines felt as if they were floating up into her chest cavity as blood quickly left them. She was falling.
Her stomach swirled and churned like the opaque waters below as she struggled against the strange gravitational pull.
Her grip, however, stayed strong and the rails dutifully remained intact. She was not falling. In fact, she was not moving at all. There was the concrete of the bridge sidewalk below her and the long cables of the bridge structure above her.
But the water was so still. She could only hear the soft plodding of the water in whatever direction it was going.
She paused in her anxiety to think.
THE CHARLES RIVER ran west to east, and she was currently facing east. Jane would obviously be pulled downstream and thus would likely surface underneath the bridge or on the other side. The noise of traffic would likely block any sound made under the bridge or on the other side of it. She started running.
"Jane's gone in. Call 9-11 and get the Fire Department over here immediately," Maura said authoritatively over her cellphone to Korsak. Her shaking hands belied her calm, impersonal voice.
Jane is okay. Jane is okay. Jane is okay.
She clicked the phone off when she heard Korsak's hurried, "Of course," and deftly dodged an oncoming semi truck.
Maura Isles only stopped when her body made harsh contact with the railing on the other side. She peered over the edge again, this time to a soft splashing sound.
"JANE!" Maura called again, running down the bridge toward the sound of the splashing water. She could see a figure slowly making its way toward the north bank. As she made it down to the end of the bridge, she quickly clambered down the rocky slope down to the riverbank. Her shoes slipped and slid on the loose gravel, which fell down the steep decline ahead of her like so many little guides.
"Jane!" Maura shouted a third time, this time slightly softer and more relieved. The figure was swimming—with some difficulty—toward her on the shore.
"Call an ambulance!" the figure shouted to her from some distance away, "She's not moving!"
In the soft orange light of the bridge streetlamps, Dr. Maura Isles clinically surveyed the scene. This was her domain. This is what she knew: a crime scene.
She watched as police officers cordoned off one lane on each side of the bridge. Two officers were assigned traffic duty, one was assigned the task of taping the scene. Paul Westcourt had given his version of the events to the police, but the potential for foul play was real. They took him in handcuffs to the station, where they would hold him under suspicion of pushing Jane in. The police never left any stone unturned when it came to one of their own.
Maura gave her own statement as well. She couldn't offer much, of course, because she had been standing some distance away and had both been unable to hear Jane's conversation with Paul and also unable to see what happened when both went into the water. The only defense Paul had was that he was the one to pull Jane to safety—but that could have just been a ploy to make himself look good to a jury or the authorities.
Nobody would really know until Jane woke up.
If she woke up.
Thus Dr. Isles stood, hands clasped behind her back, and watched her kingdom unfold before her. There was no body for her to autopsy—yet. She could be on her way to the hospital right now, but there was no point. She would only be stymied by the hospital staff, who might pity her enough—or respect her badge enough—to give her such unhelpful information as, "She's doing okay."
And she was of course unable to ride in the ambulance with Jane. She did not belong to Jane in the eyes of the State of Massachusetts: she was neither her relative nor her wife. The thought made her heart feel as dark and churning as the waters below her under the bridge.
She would never be Jane's relative. Blood would never bind them, nor would—perish the thought—marriage. The Rizzoli brothers had certainly tried their best, but the thought of having just a crumb while the rest of the cake remained untouched was simply too much.
"Two broken legs and severe internal bleeding," the EMT had said upon first examination of Jane. Her dark curly hair was wet and plastered to the harsh angles of her face. Maura gently peeled the strands away from Jane's eyes, nose and mouth. Her hand must have lingered too long on Jane's face, because she raised her eyes to see a knowing look in the EMT's eyes. Another EMT was assessing Jane's vitals and possible injuries. In one part of her consciousness, Dr. Isles was easily keeping up and agreeing with all clinical assessments he made about Jane.
The other part of her consciousness remained fixated wholly on Jane the individual. Her Jane, the one who made the ice melt away from the frigid heart of Dr. Death. The one who somehow managed to listen to—and even reiterate—all of the boring studies, statistics and facts that helped shape the M.E.'s very clinical worldview.
"She your girl?" he asked.
"No," she answered softly, "She's not mine." The words were so quiet they barely vibrated the tympanic membrane of the EMT, but they nonetheless reverberated through the Doctor's entire being.
Every time she was forced to say it aloud it hurt so badly it left her breathless. It happened at bars, in the grocery store, at yoga class, and not at few times at a crime scene.
Maura Isles was not a possessive woman; growing up with money and poor social skills had solidified that for her. Consequently, any material item she had could always be replaced; any relationship she had could always—and usually did—fall apart. She was dismissive of the former and utterly grateful for the latter. Never was there any room for possessiveness.
That is, before Jane. Jane was something she couldn't possess—like some beautiful wild horse that refused to be tamed, but that had nonetheless laid claim to your imagination. Yes, Jane wholly possessed her, but Maura could never even get close enough for her lasso to reach.
She sighed harshly. This never got any easier. And the metaphors just kept getting worse.
Please be okay, was her silent plea as they wheeled her up into the ambulance and shut the door in her face.
The condensation on the outside of the water glass on the desk of Chief Medical Examiner of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts slowly accrued. When the droplets became too heavy, they would slowly descend down the glass, picking up speed as they absorbed other droplets and their velocity increased.
Maura's intense concentration was broken by the sound of her cellular ringing. She quickly rifled through her purse to find it.
"Dr. Isles," said the M.E. into her phone without looking.
"Maura?" Angela Rizzoli's coarse voice asked over the phone.
"Hi, Angela," Maura said, the cool voice of the M.E. dropping into a tone laced with concern, "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just another day in the Rizzoli household, as you well know. They should engrave my name into this seat for how often I sit here!"
Maura broke her tirade with a soft, "I know."
"Anyway, the doctor just came to talk to me and said the usual doctor mumbo-jumbo and I don't understand a word of it. I told him to talk to you when you come down here. Are you on your way? I thought you would already be here by now. You know, cause it's Jane."
Ah, the Angela guilt trip.
"You know I'd love to be there right now, Angela, but I'm currently working..." Maura let Angela fill in the blanks, hoping the matriarch wouldn't push for more. The thought of truly lying was already making her tongue feel heavy inside her mouth.
"O-kay," Angela said skeptically, "I'll call you with any news."
Maura could swear she heard Angela mutter, "Not that I would understand it if I got it," into the phone as she hung up.
She let loose another world-weary sigh and reopened her last browsing session. The latest Emanuel Ungaro collection popped up on her screen. She clicked on the blue cowl-neck dress and let loose a softer sigh. Momentarily, a profound feeling of awe obscured the darker, more tumultuous feelings inside her. This dress was simply a work of art.
As she was entering in her address and card information, Maura heard the distinct noise of shoes on the hard morgue floor. Looking up, she saw Cavanaugh carefully picking his way to her office door.
She stood up automatically to meet him.
"Lieutenant," she said in greeting to him.
"Dr. Isles," he responded back. He shifted slightly where he was standing and looked awkwardly around the room. He never came down here. In fact, the last time he had, she and Jane were almost at each other's throats in what was rather chauvinistically termed a "catfight."
"Would you like a seat?" the M.E. motioned to the two uncomfortable chairs in front of her desk.
Cavanaugh eyed them suspiciously, "No, I'll just be a minute. I just wanted to tell you that you can take off as much time as you need, you know, to help out Detective Rizzoli." He shook his head when he saw that the M.E. was about to object, "I know we have an open case right now, but the best thing that you could do right now is get our best detective back in the game."
The M.E. opened her mouth to object again, but Cavanaugh continued, "I'm not telling you to take time off, but just know that you can if you want to."
Dr. Isles gave Cavanaugh what she hoped looked like a grateful smile, "I will take that into consideration, Lieutenant. Thank you." The words came out sounding more terse than she had meant them to be, but before she could even rectify them, the stiff man was already out the door.
The doctor sat angrily back down in her office chair. She had all but been told to take time off to care for Jane. The feminist in her was shaking her fists and raging inside, while another part still was reveling in the thought of again having Jane all to herself for an indefinite period of time.
Jane would be grouchy and utterly intractable as Maura tended to her. She imagined Jane's characteristic look of consternation as Maura gently suggested a bath or tried to help her with her various physical therapy exercises. The thought of the brunette's tendency to eventually capitulate to all of her demands brought a slow and warming smile to her face.
She closed out of her Emanuel Ungaro tab and slipped her phone into her purse. She was off to Massachusetts General Hospital.
It was less than thirty minutes before Dr. Isles was pacing outside the elevator on the fourth floor. Her short, quick strides brought her from the wall opposite the first elevator to the edge of the wall opposite the second elevator. When she reached the end of the pastel green wall, she turned on one edge of her small horseshoe-shaped stiletto heel and went back again.
The steady clack, clack, clack of her heels helped the doctor think. Why was she so nervous? What was stopping her from sitting next to the warm, supportive Rizzoli matriarch and waiting to see when Jane would awaken?
If Jane awakens, the dark voice in her usual mental cacophony piped up. Yes, that must be it. She was simply scared that she would never look into the brunette's strong, steady chocolate eyes again.
"Oh, Maura! Lovely to see you, I was just going to get some coffee. Would you like some—or I can get you a tea…?" the distinctive voice of Colonel Casey Jones stopped the blonde in her tracks.
Maura hoped her smile seemed sincere, "No, I am not thirsty at the moment. Is she awake?"
Casey smiled gratefully at her concern, as if she were doing him a favor, "Yes, I was glad to be here for that. She's in 412. I thought you would be working hard on that case you two still have open," he mused. "Jane certainly would be," he chuckled good naturedly to cover up the insinuation belying his words. Casey gave a nod toward the elevator and stepped in as it opened, giving a small wave before the metal doors slid closed and took him away.
The agitated Dr. Isles deflated, leaving a slumped Maura against a sickeningly mint green and cold hospital wall. First she has a man telling her not to work, and now she has a man telling her she best be working. The patriarchy was certainly fickle in its prescriptions for what a woman need be doing.
"Bass is probably hungry," Maura mumbled to herself, and punched the down button for the elevator.
She tore the hospital visitor badge from her shirt as she exited the building, discarding it in the trash bin right outside the sliding glass doors. She planned upon giving Bass an extra few British strawberries and opening a particularly expensive bottle of wine.
Nothing like finding out the love of your life is once again seeing the man she was engaged to marry.
A/N: So I've invented a new character to be introduced in the next chapter. Heh heh. Can't wait for you to meet her :)