Title: Once

Rating: K+ (who knows, I guessed.)

Summary: Even the best can feel they're failing sometimes - One Shot

Author's Note: I know, I know, I'm in the middle of two other fics but this idea grabbed my by the heart and wouldn't let go. It's short at least :)

You stare out at the fading light over the water. The stones are hard and cold against your skin, the air kicking up in a slight breeze from the north... cool in your nostrils, mixed with salt and diesel. You try to picture this place, a hundred years ago, idly wondering what a person sitting exactly where you are right now would see. You wonder what might have brought them here, a hundred years ago, and what they might be reflecting on.

Once upon a time…

Once upon a time, you remember being good at your job.

How you threw around the word 'gut' like it was the easiest decision making power in the world. You crowed over your innate ability to be always right…. And you were. A bulldog's approach to cases – with a bloodhound's nose. Every move you made, whether calculated or not, seemed to naturally bring you closer to resolution, absolution. You couldn't step a foot wrong. Or if you did, it was because everyone else was wrong and you were the only one fucking right. And they would figure that out in the end, when the case was closed and your name was emblazoned on it.

It was exhilarating.

But the last three cases have been one fucking screw-up after another, a giant mashed-up example of all the worst case scenarios and mistakes. And between the victim's families, your partner and Cavanaugh, you've heard just about enough of all the things you didn't get right.

You didn't ask the right questions

You didn't get the right evidence

"What the fuck, Rizzoli?"

You didn't save her.

She's dead.

"Could this case be possiblyscrewed up any more?!"

They're dead.

It's your fault.

You understand the anger, you understand the need for it. Three cases. Three cases in a row right royally fucked because of one blunder after another. Not always yours, but always on your watch. And that watch is long, because regardless of the outcome you are still working your ass off, every damn night. But it isn't enough. Even Maura… your best friend, steadfast advocate and protector and supporter, is forced to admit to Cavanaugh you'd made a mistake. It hurts you more than any scalpel could. More than any gunshot wound. And you know she knows it from the way those eyes darken with regret and apology.

But you understand.

You leave before any more words can be spoken. You get in your car and you drive until your anger and frustration and shame clouds your eyes with hot tears.

It's too much. It burns at you, strikes at the core of your being like a corrosive acid… the possibility that they could be right, that you're past it, that you're bone-fucking-tired but no matter what you do, the shine on your detective's badge has dulled to a point it might as well be tossed out with the rest of the tin scraps.

And everything you had been so sure of for so long, all of the brazen gut instinct and fearlessness and confidence and tenacity that came so perfectly together to make you so fucking good at your job, they just cower in their own separate corners. All your moves, all of it seems clumsy, ill-planned. Like a child's.

You're messing it all up.

You feel like you're failing

You feel like you're falling.

You swirl the bottle between your knees by the neck, pulling it back up to your lips, and the taste of warm beer flows into your mouth and down your throat like a bitter pill. Unsatisfactory, like every fucking decision you've made in the last month.

You toss it down to the small gap between the rocks where only an inch of sand is showing.

Where the other six bottles are.

You reach for an eighth, ignoring the opener in your pocket and instead, deftly cracking the top of the beer open against the side of the rock you are sitting on. You relish the sound of the tiny hiss and the clink of the bottle cap dropping somewhere beneath your feet. It feels like the only success you you've had all fucking month.

And you had to be fucking drunk to do it right.

Behind you, you hear the sound of tyres scraping against gravel, and you growl to yourself, glaring at the ground. Some asshole is going to come and tell you off for littering, or for loitering, or being drunk in public. And you know what? You're not even going to tell them you're a detective. That old piece of tin at your hip isn't going to get you out of this one any more than it solved those cases.

"Jane!"

Your brow furrows, and the hairs on your neck stand on end – you think you'd know the voice a mile away in a blizzard, but you're just not sure any more, whether you're right. You don't turn around, you just hunch your shoulders over, hang the bottle between your knees, and bow your head, hiding behind the hair that has fallen over your face.

"Jane-" You hear the voice again, and three weeks ago you might have said it was frantic, rushed, but now, you're not entirely sure. Now, you question everything. You hear the crunching of impossible heels against the stones you are sitting amongst, and the picture becomes clearer.

Maura.

"Jane-" She's close by you now, you can see her shadow cast in the rocks to your right. It's the closest thing you have to irrefutable evidence, and if that is wrong, well, you're really fucked, aren't you?

You don't turn around.

But you feel the touch on your shoulder – warm, in contrast to the night and the rocks you are sitting on. Fingers press down as an anchor, as she moves the few more steps around to be able to face you. You and your makeshift beer fridge, minus the fridge.

"Jane?" the fingers have swivelled as she now faces you, and they glide easily over your shoulder to the base of your neck. You supress a shiver at the feel of a thumb brushing over your collarbone… but you don't look up.

"How-?" You croak out instead, your voice more gravelly than normal thanks to the beer and the cold and the crying episode nobody will speak of.

"You were right, Jane." The words come rushed, like the current in the river expanded in front of you. "I'm so sorry I didn't see it sooner… but- you were right. As soon as Cavanaugh came to see me, right after he left he- I-" She pauses, and you think that it might be nervousness you hear in her voice, "I went back through my autopsy because… I knew you wouldn't make those sorts of comments if you… if your gut didn't believe in them. Jane-" The fingers are now curled around your neck, the thumb pushing at your jaw, pushing it up, trying to get you to look at her. "Please, Look at me."

You set your jaw, the muscles working too hard for the amount of beer you've consumed. It makes you inexplicably tired.

You look up.

And even in the fading light, you can see those eyes, honest and apologetic and sincere. You hope with every fibre of your being that you've read them correctly, that this once you are right, because if not, it will break you.

"You were right." She whispers, her hand moving to your cheek, your forehead, your hair, under your eyes. "And Cavanaugh and Korsak, they were ready to send out a search party to tell you. But I asked them to let me find you instead." She leans closer and touches her lips to the side of your mouth. Your fists clench at your sides, a painful lump forcing its way from your stomach all the way to your throat.

Her hands cover yours, fingers weaving into the fists you are making, forcing them free. She pulls them together onto your lap, and she is in front of you now, between you and the setting sun.

"Jane…" She says again, leaning forward so her forehead touches yours, and the cold that has seeped into your body starts to ebb away. "Detective..." She adds, as she tilts her head and captures your lips in a tender kiss, reminding you first and foremost, that whether you're right or wrong in your job, loving her means your gut is still right about something in life.

"Come home with me."