A/N: Hey there! :) So the idea for this ficlet came to me a while back, and I've been writing and rewriting this for weeks (months?) now until I've finally driven myself insane with my OCD-like behavior. I want it to be just right, but am afraid I haven't quite gotten there yet, so I'm going to call this a draft ficlet, at least until I modify it again and am satisfied. (It is so much easier to draw for me than it is to write!) I initially intended for this to be a complete AU story standing on its own, but since I am unreliable when it comes to updating, for now it will just be a ficlet.
Caution: it's a tad dark. So please, if you don't feel comfortable with that, don't read this.
Sorry for rambling...
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The mixed stench of humidity, salt and human waste hangs thick in the air, engulfing me like the shadows cast by the cracked walls forming the narrow alley I'm facing.
Down the scarce street, a silhouette is leisurely approaching.
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An orange glow is barely visible from here; the sole, faraway streetlamp's light is suffocated by the midnight blue and dark grey of the sky, dominated by oppressive clouds.
The sound of heavy droplets plummetting to the ground and onto the surface of black water nearby are accompanied by the thump and splash of boots trampling the pavement at a relaxed pace.
A bell sounds occassionally in the distance, along with the harsh wind and waves sloshing and licking the docks, led by the upcoming storm. The saltwater's spatter streaks across my back.
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It reminds me of a flaying whip.
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Beneath me, rough gravel presses insistently against the thin fabric of my clothing in its attempt to breach cloth and break flesh.
The rain soaks and seeps past my hair, the abundant drops trailing through frigid, wildly splayed tresses and along my face and neck like icy fingers reverently caressing raised skin.
The cold air bites my lungs and pierces my cheeks, salt rubbing wounds.
My hands ache from the numbing temperature.
My wrists and ankles burn from the hold of their restraints.
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A single, warm trickle sliding down my cheek reminds me that soon I won't be able to feel anything at all.
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Ding...
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Ding..
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Ding.
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...thud, slap...
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...Thud, slap...
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Thud.
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SLAP!
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"You lied to me."
Gravel finally claws and crawls under my skin. It stings, from the skin over my zygomatic bone to that covering my mandible.
The silhouette lears directly above me; I lift my eyes to meet its own, but the rain blinds me.
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I let her interpret my muteness.
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"You lied to me."
More forceful now, angry, like coal being consumed by fire.
Maybe I'm simply imagining the pain, but the possibility that I'm not urges me to tell her, to defend.
Instead I press my lips together and look from her boots to my hands.
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I swallow my confession and tell myself she fabricated her own truth around my articulate syllables and my silence.
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Then again, I probably am to blame - at least, in part - for her (our) naïveté; I never did lead her to suspect something other than what she believed, never hinted at the whole truth, or even tried to.
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Laconic, I consider, describes it best.
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Yes, I was laconic.
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"I should've known better." She should have, but I don't need to say it.
I don't want to say it. It would mean I would change the past if I could.
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And I regret nothing.
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But now, I lay bare for all to see, Death standing before me.
Lifting my gaze, I try to look at her again, to see her.
I recall she has the loveliest eyes.
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I imagine her signaling to the two men silently standing guard behind me before they grab at my upper arms, pulling me roughly into a pathetic excuse for a standing position. If they would fail to keep a firm grasp, I would surely collapse, my knees giving out. Them removing the coarse ropes from around my extremities does little for my general condition; my hands hang and feet drag along inoperative, weak and wounded.
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A calloused hand reaches out and wraps around my throat, index and thumb circling and pressing harshly into my jaw, causing my head to tilt to the side while its counterpart grips the nape of my neck.
The men let me go and I instinctively reach out and wrap my arms around her waist, clutching her jacket with feeble fists to keep from falling.
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I remember the first time I'd intertwined those fingers with mine, hers slender and rough against my own as I'd led her skin to my lips.
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She leans forward, so close now I can feel her warm breath break against my numbed cheeks. Due to her proximity, the curtain of rain is no longer a barrier between us, and her - indeed, lovely - eyes smother me the way her once loving hands do.
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It's sudden.
Her mouth is livid, hard and smooth against my broken lips. I taste iron, rainwater, salt and her scent.
Jane flattens her tongue against my palate sloppily, curling the tip against the ceiling of my mouth and tickling it before exiting and biting my lower lip viciously.
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It's aggressive but I'll take it if it's all I can get.
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She forces me to open wider when she enters me again, softer this time, almost gently. Her fingers cease to pressure my airway, instead caressing my bruised skin as they trail into my hair, keeping me pressed against her as if I'd ever leave.
A flagrant current passes along my spine.
She gradually retreats, both of us heavily expelling clouds of breath.
She then leaves slow, tender impressions on my swollen lips, the tip of my nose, forehead and the gash on my cheek, smearing the dripping blood there as if she were rain.
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Shivering fiercely from the now larger contrast in temperature, I seek refuge in Jane's arms, holding on with renewed strength. Her chin rests on the crown of my head, the smell of lavender stronger now that I bury my nose into the creases of her neck.
The lyrics of Jane's heart resound inside me, the rhythm a soothing lullaby. I close my eyes, ignoring the cacophony of the bell and water rushing against the bank, concentrating solely on Jane's magical composition. For a moment, I am suspended in a beautiful fermata.
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"Pop did quite the number on you." The threat of tears makes her voice tremble.
My nose runs and my eyes burn as I cry freely.
"He told me: moles belong in the ground, Janie. And he-" I feel Jane take a shaky breath. "He... He told me to put you there."
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My heart slows almost to a stop.
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"But I can't."
Breathe, I remind myself as I kiss the column of her neck reassuringly and linger there, lips hovering over her pulse.
"I... c-can't, Maur." Jane stammers and my chest constricts.
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A deafening sound other than thunder cracks the sky and breaks into our fortress. Jane stiffens. She recognises it.
It's familiar, but it takes my disoriented mind a few seconds longer than usual to register the possible origin. Another similar sharp noise, closer now, pierces my ears. My sore jaw tightens and my eyes widen in realization.
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Gunshots.
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I look around. We're alone. I hadn't even heard the men leave.
"We need to go."
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Dehydration, the cold, and absolute terror cause my muscles to ache, my head to throb and my blood to freeze. I am rooted to the ground.
"Maura," Jane's voice is high-pitched and anxious as she desperately attempts to drag me away. I cannot make myself react. "Maura, we have to go."
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The air is so chilling I'm almost certain ice has begun to form on my bones.
Her grip tightens.
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A pain-filled scream is the last thing I hear before the streetlamp goes out and everything fades to black.
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A/N: Story idea: Jane Rizzoli is of the Italian Boston Mafia, which is led by Francesco Rizzoli Senior.
Maura Isles (Doyle) is of the Irish Boston Mob, the head of which is Patrick Doyle Junior.
Gang wars are occurring for power over the city, in the midst of which two women meet by chance and an (un)expected love story begins to unfold.
What happens when you hide behind a lie? Take a guess, my lovelies!
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PD: Question: how on Earth does one control the spacing between paragraphs on this site? Also, how do you leave a space at the beginning of sentences? The TAB button is useless and so is the INTRO. It is frustrating! If anyone could help me out I would greatly appreciate it :) I love me some spaces.
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PD2: If this sucks I'm sorry. I really need to practice more often...
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Thank you for reading!
