A/N. Hello! Fist Rizzoli and Isles story, first slash (seriously, the pronouns?), first anything in forever. So... yep. Little rusty. Just couldn't help myself. But please let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: Rizzoli and Isles probably isn't mine. Probably.
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She's expecting the bang, completely misses the whimper.
Maura Isles had been waiting for the combustion, the explosive confrontations she'd been promised. She's ready for the shouting, the wailing. Is prepared to fight, to be fought for.
When it happens, it isn't like that.
It's quieter.
They stop going out for dinner, slowly. There's less noise during sex, less laughter. Then they stop altogether with the laughter. Then the sex. Much more often Maura wakes to an otherwise empty bed, splayed helplessly across the cold expanse. Alone.
It hurts the most when her spare toothbrush finds its way back from Jane's bathroom: Jane can't even hand it over, leaves it instead by Maura's sink. As the door closes behind Jane for what they both know what will be the last time, Maura stands with it, her only company in the house which now feels a little less like home. She grudgingly lets the tears fall, standing alone in a hall so completely silent, so perfectly still.
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They manage four whole days without seeing each other, afterwards. After it's over. After they're done.
They're crouched in a ditch, making eyes at each other across a corpse. Maura suspects this is what they've always needed; cold nights and darkness, with a body between them. They'd managed, before, to turn this basic act – their jobs – into a kind of foreplay. Had found something romantic in it all, carving out a place between the bed and the letter of the law, where they could be playful, where they could be them.
There's no teasing now.
There is no joy in this.
The body is naked, pale, curled in the foetal position. Jane sympathises. They're both leaning over it, so close Jane can smell Maura's perfume above everything else. It's light, airy, a summer's day; a floral scent fading from Jane's sheets. Jane remembers how it feels to press her nose into the crook of that neck, her lips crushed against skin so warm and soft, knows exactly which sound will spring from Maura's throat as teeth scrape gently over sinew. Finds herself longing for it.
Jane lingers, pauses just a moment longer than necessary, and slowly she stands. It isn't easy, being this close.
"What do you think?" She says.
"He was strangled."
Jane lets out a surprised grunt, and Maura looks up sharply. "You're guessing?"
"I'm tired of having to be the one to deny the obvious."
Their eyes meet for a long second. One or the other of them nods, and they look back down at the body.
"It's an awful way to go," Maura continues. "Very personal, someone really wanted him dead."
"I know." Jane looks around. "Sign of a struggle?" she says.
"None. The victim probably knew his killer, probably trusted them."
There's a pause, and the two women look at each other, stood here, feet firmly in the afterwards.
"Are we going to start talking in metaphors now?" Jane says sadly, and Maura smiles.
"I hope not, conversations with you are hard enough to understand as it is." Jane grins.
"Jane."
The voice is Frost's, calling her towards the undergrowth. Jane's view of him is occluded by the bushes, but she follows the noise until she catches a glimpse of the blue booties protruding from the bottom of Frost's suit. Ridiculous. He stands expectantly, holding back the fronds of the bush for her to look.
There, in the dirt, is a perfectly folded pile of clothes.
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The vic is a mailman, of all things. There's no next of kin, nobody to tell. At his house they find a stack of letters addressed to other people; he's been opening mail, removing money. It's theft, through and through and through.
Jane can't help but be repulsed as she pokes through his things, there's something terribly intimate about it, something terribly personal. It feels like such a violation, reading someone's unopened letters and birthday cards.
"You want to go through his underwear drawer?" Frost says. "Make things even?"
Jane laughs for the first time in days.
But it's theft, through and through and through. That's all.
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It's not like Maura doesn't notice, she can't not. Angela isn't sleeping in the guest house, is barely spending evenings there at all. She comes back every other night, leaves with bags of food and clean clothing. In passing Maura finds herself grateful Jane has someone to take care of her. The rest of the time her mind is pervaded with images of Jane in varying stages of distress. Strangely, this brings her no comfort or satisfaction; instead it just makes her sad.
.
But.
She runs more tests on the victim, just to be sure. She sits at her desk, refreshing her emails. Waiting. Desperate for an excuse. When the blood results come back in it takes her exactly 47 seconds to make up her mind. Then she picks up the phone, calls upstairs.
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Jane loiters by the elevator for a full five minutes, seriously considering sending Korsak down to the morgue in her place. Her need to see Maura easily shouts down her self-respect; she punches the down arrow.
She dithers in the elevator, practically runs through the door as it opens.
"How's it going?" She barks.
Maura doesn't look up; perfectly serene amongst the death and the chaos and the Jane. She's hunched over the body, goggles perched on the slightly crooked nose. She deftly finishes a stitch, and stands.
"Is everything OK?" Maura says.
"What do you have?"
"Victim was asphyxiated. No foreign skin or hair particulates beneath the fingernails – "
Jane nods curtly, cuts her off.
"Alcohol or drugs?"
"Atorvastatin."
"What's that?"
"A statin."
Jane drags a hand across her brow, plonks her ass down in a stool.
"On a scale of zero to George Bush, how helpful do you think you're being right now Maura?"
"Junior or Senior?"
"Maura – "
"It's not my fault you don't know what a statin is, Jane. You might be the only person in the Western Hemisphere not to have seen the news in the past five years."
"Did you just exaggerate?" Jane frowns, and Maura caves.
"Victim had high cholesterol."
Jane doesn't even bother shaking her head.
"Is that all you have?" She says. Maura glares at her. "Seriously Maura - "
"Victim had intercourse prior to death."
"Sex?"
"Yes, sex." Maura smirks. "You remember sex, don't you?"
"Vividly." There's a potentially disastrous silence before Maura laughs, a deep throaty chuckle that does something nasty to the pit of Jane's stomach. Something reminiscent of long nights and long limbs, tangled in sheets and each other. Disastrous. She clears her throat. "Could this be a sex thing?"
"You mean death by autoerotic asphyxiation?"
"Sure."
Maura steps back to consider it.
"Victims of autoerotic asphyxiation are typically found with other sexual paraphernalia."
"So not naked in a wood?"
"Not usually no." Jane just nods. "There are no signs of any pre-existing trauma – "
" – apart from being dead – "
"– but I suppose it's possible this was a first attempt gone wrong."
"You're guessing again." Jane says and Maura looks at her, locks on with the steely blues. When she speaks her tone is low, but bold, and for the first time it occurs to Jane that she might well be angry.
"I'm not certain anymore."
Maura stands looking at the body, hair cascading from her shoulder as she tilts her head. It's a terribly curious, terribly familiar gesture. Jane has always wondered at this woman, alone in her fridge, finding almost as much understanding in the face of this man as in cutting him open and inspecting his innards. She can't allow herself this, and Jane drags herself standing, bolts for the door.
"Thank you," she yells back over her shoulder, her voice already thick.
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They track down the girlfriend, need to close down the sex angle. Turns out she's the ex-girlfriend. Very very ex-girlfriend. Jane sympathises. But it seems the sex had been memorable in precisely no way at all, and the girl seems genuinely upset. They check anyway: her new boyfriend is her alibi.
But sex is a lead, it's something to chase down. They work through the night, quite unintentionally. Suddenly Frost is ordering Chinese food and they're pacing the halls, running down similar crimes, victim's romantic history, trawling through his computer before the techs can seize it for good.
Just like every other case this year. Only now Jane has no reason to go home.
This guy had no enemies, no outstanding conflicts of any kind, no family to call his own. He'd been stealing small bills from birthday cards, couldn't even orchestrate an impressive crime. A wholly unremarkable man. They have very little to go on, and there's no forgiving the fact that they don't even know what they're looking for. It's a nightmare. Or it would be, if Jane was getting any kind of sleep.
"Maybe little Jimmy wanted his $5 back," Frost says, grabbing his jacket and standing. He looks at her softly, fondly, and Jane winces. She knows what comes next. "It's time to go home."
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It doesn't add up. There's something missing. The victim has more money than they've accounted for in the stolen cards and letters. There's more money coming from somewhere. He was up to something. Else.
It's Korsak who finds it, presents her with the print out like a cat with a dead bird.
"Jane," he says, pausing for effect. Melodramatic bastard. "We missed something."
And there it is. Recurring instalments of $10,000.
So they do what they do what they do; they follow the money.
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It leads them to a townhouse, the door swings open on high ceilings and ugly art; there's money here. The woman is kind enough though, and she invites them into her kitchen, offers them cake. There's a husband lurking in the background, but he surges forwards as soon as they mention the money.
"What are you talking about?" he says.
"We've found a series of deposits made into a bank account belonging to –" Frost starts. The wife throws down the plate in her hand, smashes it against the counter.
"Oh you didn't," she says, turning to the husband. "You didn't."
"I didn't."
"I can't believe you."
"I didn't!"
The wife advances towards the husband, brandishing a shard of china plate. Jane jerks out of whatever trance she was in and stands.
"Ma'am, put the plate down." Jane says.
"He was cheating on me," the woman shrieks.
"Not this time I wasn't, I swear to you."
The wife advances and Jane takes a step back.
"The money was being sent to a man," Frost says, and they all freeze.
"You're a hypocritical bitch," the husband says.
"Oh, great," the wife mumbles, dropping the plate.
"You cheating little whore."
"Enough." Jane says. She pauses and looks between them. "Where were you three nights ago?"
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They stay just long enough to collect matching alibis, high-tail it out of there before the wife even has time to clean up the broken plate.
"Why do people do that to each other," Frost says as they head for the car.
"Because they think they're in love."
"Those two? That's not love, it's habit," he says. Jane snorts.
"Is there a difference?"
Frost stops short, and Jane turns back to look at him. They stand together by the side of the road, and in the shouting she can hear from the house they just left, Jane distinctly makes out the word 'slut'.
"Yeah Jane," he says, "there's a difference."
Loud and dysfunctional though the couple may have been, they at least seem not-guilty. Taking them right back to square one. Which is a shame. Blackmail would have been so freakin' convenient.
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Jane admits defeat before dawn, the bullpen is empty but for her. There's the hum of her computer, the flicker of a light, a siren; it's almost silent, almost tranquil. Jane reluctantly packs up and makes for the elevator. The doors open with a ping to reveal Maura. Jane smiles bitterly and steps forward, the button for the parking garage already pressed. Great.
"Why are you here so late?" Maura ventures, too tired to fake a smile.
"My case sucks." There's silence, and Jane regrets being sharp. "What's your excuse?"
"I don't want to go home."
"My mother's worried about you," Jane says.
"Mine sends her regards."
The elevator slows, the doors open on the dimmed parking garage. They step out together; theirs are practically the only cars in the lot.
"I heard you broke up a marriage," Maura says.
"Yeah, not my finest moment."
"Oh I don't know, you're becoming quite adept at ending relationships." There's a moment of silence, and then Jane laughs, a marvellous, full-bellied laugh Maura's been starved of for weeks. She fights the overwhelming urge to reach for Jane's hand, to touch fingers she know will be long and soft. She feels herself blush, and Jane's smile fades.
"Maura, I'm glad that after – " Jane exhales " – after everything. Us. That we're still friends. Us."
"Is that what we are?"
"Aren't we?"
"Is that what you want?"
"Isn't it?"
"I don't know why we broke up. Or even when, exactly," Maura's matter of fact tone has never unnerved Jane, but now as she turns to go, Maura is chased by Jane's quiet rasp.
"I couldn't remember why we were together," Jane says.
"Then you should have asked," Maura pauses before speaking again. "Get some rest Jane, you look as bad as they're saying."
And there is nothing for Jane but the sound of Maura's heels on concrete, her breathing heavy across the quiet room.
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It's a burning house that does it, of all things, and a hunch Jane just couldn't shake.
Jane stands on the porch alone, Frost dispatched to crouch in a hedge by the back entrance, poised, grumpy. She knocks on the door. No answer.
"Shit."
She waits, but not for long.
The door splinters as she kicks it in. She's too late, or too early, or something. Catches him standing over his wife's body, gun pressed to his own temple. She tackles him the only way she knows how, leaps on top of him and digs her fingernails into his face. It's not quite procedure, but it's close enough.
"Frost." She yells.
She's smashed against a wall, groans as she takes a fist the stomach. There's nothing after that.
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Their timing has always been perfect; there's never been any doubt. Of course Maura gets there; arrives on the scene just as smoke starts pouring from the windows. Doesn't bother shutting off the engine or closing the car door before running towards the house.
The smoke is thick, the house serving as the perfect kindling. Maura drops to her knees, shouts as she crawls through the rooms.
She brushes a lump with her outstretched arm. She knows that leg. Jane.
She's pale, out cold. Which makes no sense; it's so fucking hot in there. Maura doesn't miss the hair matted with blood, her fingers tremble as she presses them to Jane's neck. She can't feel a pulse, but there's no way Jane's dead. Not one fucking chance.
Maura groans and as she begins to lift Jane mumbles incoherently. Typically eloquent. And so very incredibly wonderfully not dead.
"Come on," Maura says, pulling Jane's arm across her own shoulders and dragging them both upright. Jane groans again, this time in pain. She's a dead weight, Maura struggles against her. "Jane, it wouldn't kill you to cooperate."
Her legs start to move, pushing them forwards. Jane coughs, violently, and they almost fall, yank each other standing.
There's an awful moment when Maura can't remember where the door is, but then the grass is cool against her face.
Flashing lights and slamming doors. There's nothing after that.
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Maura's inhaled more smoke than is advisable. She sits attached to an oxygen mask for a while, lets the ER staff poke and prod her until she revolts, waving them away and shuffling upstairs.
Jane has bitch of a concussion, two broken ribs, lungs filled with smoke, a gimpy ankle from kicking down the door, and what Maura suspects will be quite the chip on her shoulder. They've given the hero cop her own room to keep her under observation. Maura opens the doors with her shoes in her hand, slumps in the chair by the bed, exhausted.
Jane is wired up and plugged in, hooked up to machines. There's heart rate, pO2, systolic and diastolic pressures. Maura's an incredibly intelligent woman, trained by professionals the world over, accomplished in every measurable way. She knows full well how the heart works; cardiac muscle and blood, contraction and relaxation. And yet feels only for the first time that she might understand Jane's heart.
Maura sits with her for a little while. But then she goes home.
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Maura is roused from her bed the next morning by knocking at the front door. She flings on a jacket before peeking through the glass. As she pulls it open neither of them speaks.
"Running into a burning building?" Jane says. "Don't you think that's a little far?"
"Your gratitude is overwhelming."
"Can I come in?"
"What for?"
Jane looks down.
"I was wrong."
"Wrong about what?"
"All of it." Maura says nothing, waits. "I don't want to be your friend."
When Jane meets her eye Maura thinks she feels her bottom lip begin to quiver. Thinks she might finally be ready to collapse in a heap and sob against Jane's leg. Can feel some kind of wail begin to surface from her trachea. Instead she shuts her eyes, and she smiles.
The door closes behind them. They begin again.
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They don't speak for hours, surrender instead to worshipful commitment.
"Next time you leave you can't come back."
"Next time you can't let me leave," Jane says.
"Next time."
Maura whispers the words reverently into Jane's neck, savouring the weighty possibility of them, of the arm flung across her shoulders and the thigh wedged between her own. The renewed opportunity, the second chance, bears down on her. A tear slides down her cheek as Jane loses a kiss in her hair.
"That whole saving me from a burning building thing?"
"Yes?"
"Not bad."
"Thank you Jane."
A brilliant smile flashes in the darkness, its twin frittered on a collarbone. They lie together. Still.