Thanks to everyone reviewing/reading! Glad everyone seems to be enjoying it so far. Now, in this chapter I've written my own personal spin on a Hoyt flashback. I'm not sure it works in canon, but it makes for a nice anecdote to strengthen Jane's direction of thoughts. It may be a duller chapter for some of you, and that's okay. Plenty more fun to come in the future.
Be sure to drop me a line and tell me what you think!
Maura looks at Bass, and Bass looks back.
She is bursting with feeling, her mind racing almost as fast as her pulse. Although she knows that it is impossible, her skin could well be in flames. Pure heat courses through her. Hot enough to melt steel. Her blood feels thick in her veins, heady and scathing.
She feels need, desire. The hunger for a lover to take her to bed. For the pair of them not to emerge from the damp, sweat slicked covers. Not until they are both achingly satisfied.
Her left eye twitches. Her hand curls around the morning mug of coffee it holds in a white knuckled grip.
It is a mirage of sensations that she has not felt in a long time. Not, she notes, since she had been with Ian. It is all because of the dream that she had the night before. The one that cannot recede from her mind even though she has been awake for two hours, and-
She glances at the corner of the news banner on the muted television-
Forty three minutes. She is up early; too early. Maura Isles is no late sleeper but she was awake and in her kitchen making coffee three hours before her alarm was programmed to go off. The cup in her hand is her third attempt but it may as well be her first. The two before it went cold because she became do entangled in her dream from the night before.
Yes, she recorded it. Every detail of the tastes, sounds and sensations that she experienced. The phantom hands even now settle on her skin for a moment.
Maura thinks back to the frenzied nature of the love making that she and Ian participated in when volunteering in Africa. They were frequently in life or death situations. All kinds of perilous militias and diseases crawled along the plains of Africa with them. Any day could be their last and they knew it.
Retrospectively, Maura realises that this may not have been the smartest decision. Yet she can't deny that those nights that they shared in material tents, their bodies slick with perspiration even as the temperature in the desert lands plummeted, she felt truly alive.
They held each other so close afterwards. Inside they knew that the only thing each of them really had was each other.
It makes her curious as to why she would suddenly dream about that form of sexual release once more. Especially since she has been so comfortable with her sexual exploits thus far on her return to Boston.
Safe, albeit passionless.
Maura searches every nook and cranny of her headspace. What has brought on the crackling of hunger? It makes her shiver every time her conscious remembers her dream. She cannot find an answer. She sips her coffee, but it has a bitter taste as it slides down the back of her throat.
She doesn't know what she is feeling at the moment. Her blood pressure has barely lowered since the last time she dug two fingertips into her jugular. That was almost ten minutes ago. She isn't sure how she feels about that.
Maura is still looking at Bass, and Bass is looking back.
Jane's eyes dart up to the rearview mirror again. She sees the frustrated crimson face of the driver in the car behind her. The woman's brow glistens with sweat as she huffs out exasperated gasps. Occasionally, she barks at her two bawling children in the backseat.
Jane has never been more grateful for the well-ventilated air condition system in her car.
Pushing her sunglasses a little further up the bridge of her nose, Jane blows out a breath. She drums her fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.
Just a little longer, she thinks.
After counting to ten for the fourth time, the traffic lights eventually turn green. With a relieved sigh, she guns the car across the junction.
There is a little guilt at taking such a liberty with the police technology in order to pursue today's objective. Mostly she is a bag of nerves. Of course, she isn't quite sure about the root source of her anxiety. However, she is almost certain that it is connected to the fact she'll be meeting someone with the same name as her.
Turning off to her right, the tall buildings recede. Hectic traffic gives way to a quieter section of Boston. Ducking her head below her sun visor, Jane scans the street names as they pass. She continues following the route that her SatNav is dictating to her. Finally, the desired store front appears. Jane pulls in, neatly parks the car and kills the engine.
The sudden silence and stillness in the car delivers her some frightening clarity. Doubts and uncertainty fly about her head, as real and agitated as a hive of bees. She shakes her head and pushes it all away, forcing it all from her even as it attempts to creep back.
"Here goes nothing," she breathes. She throws open the door and steps out of her car.
Janine Ann-Marie Rizzoli owns a charity shop, buried deep into suburban Boston territory. Relying on public donations, it endeavours to support and rehabilitate soldiers who return from combat. Those with wounds both physically and psychological. It helps them receive the help they need, subsidizing the cost of their healthcare.
It isn't exactly the name Jane Rizzoli, but it was close enough for the detective.
Jane shrugs off her jacket, slinging it over her shoulder. Once exposed to the full glare of the sun, everything feels clammy and sticky. The sunglasses remain on her face as she appraises the shop front. Poised, headless mannequins and various scattered items stare right back at her.
She notices a stray thread on her T-shirt. Glancing left and right, she swiftly swipes it away, hoping no one noticed. Deeming herself at least presentable, she eases herself through the door into the shop.
Rails of clothes are there to greet her. The walls are lined with bookshelves of mismatched wood colouring and different shapes. Above her, a ceiling fan whirs. Jane shifts, and a floorboard creaks. In the dead silent store, it is like bad horror movie sound effect.
"Hello?" Jane croaks, her voice unexpectedly dry. She clears it, ready to call again when a head pops up from underneath the counter at the rear of the shop. Jane is so startled that muscle memory tells her hand to reach for her gun. But it isn't even strapped to her side. She left it in the cruiser. The idea of carrying seemed like a bad one when she was visiting an establishment which helped soldiers with PTSD.
Easy, Rizzoli.
A blonde haired woman with a smirk and narrowed eyes stands up, leaning across the counter. "Can I help you?"
Jane licks her lips. "Umm, yeah actually, I was wondering if you knew someone called-"
"Can you read?" the woman interrupts.
Jane shuffles her feet, confused by such a rude intrusion. And yet the woman is now grinning slyly. Subconsciously, Jane runs a hair through her hair and skims it over her hip. She tries to find something that the woman found so humorous. "Excuse me?"
The woman gestures past Jane's head. The detective blinks, slowly turning her head. There is a sign on the door which says OPEN. Which means that on the side facing the street it says...
"Oh shoot!" Jane hisses, turning back to face the blonde woman. "I'm sorry I didn't..."
The woman chuckles, waving a hand through the air. Jane relaxes a little, rocking back from the balls of her feet. "It's okay, honey. I was just about to reopen after lunch."
"Anyway, how can I help you?" she asks.
"I'm looking for Janine Rizzoli?" Jane responds. The name feels clumpy and thick on her tongue, as if she is trying to eat badly made custard rather than speak. The thought of saying her own name and referring to someone other than herself is something she never prepared for. Nor thought she had to prepare for. And yet, here she is.
"You're looking at her," Janine replies. She braces her elbows on her counter as she flicks a strand on her hair away from her face.
The two women stand there staring at each other for a minute. A minute which stretches to the point of discomfort. The ceiling fan continues to whirl unbridled above their heads. A car's muted horn is heard somewhere outside.
"So," Janine segues, making Jane shift her position as she presses her thumb into one of the scars on her hand. "Can I help you with something specific?"
"I'm here to make a donation actually," Jane says uneasily.
When did I become a nervous teenager? No, untrue. She was a brazen teenager who played sports with the boys and stood up for her brothers. She was more likely to get into playground scraps than into a frilly dress. So why now does the onslaught shyness paralyse her?
The store-owner grins again. Jane has no idea why it simultaneously makes her smile weakly back and feel sick to her stomach.
"That's exactly what I like to hear," the blonde woman approves. She waves Jane over closer to the counter, dipping down underneath it and rooting around to find something. Jane approaches the counter with the fear that her knees are going to buckle inwards before she gets there.
Janine doesn't even notice. She fiddles with something unseen on her desk, scowling at it in frustration. Finally she discards it with a grunt.
Jane's hands grip the wooden counter top as she regains her equilibrium. She ponders how she can stare serial killers and brutal rapists in the face and be secure and level-headed. Yet now she can barely speak to a charity shop owner with badly bleached roots.
"If I could just take your name and address?" Janine prompts, not raising her eyes as she reaches for a pen.
Jane's jaw locks. The attempt at speech sounds as if she is being strangled. Janine clicks her pen impatiently, before looking up through eyelashes thick with black mascara.
"Come on now. I don't bite...much," the woman teases, her eyes sparkling with humour.
Jane tries to clear her throat, but it is far too dry. Inwardly, she curses the heat and the nerves. What would Maura do?
"That is kinda the thing," Jane breathes, rubbing her sweaty palms together. It was as if she was staring off of a cliff, watching the white waves crash mercilessly against jagged rocks.
Gotta jump now that you've made it this far. "My name is Jane Rizzoli."
The woman's head jerks upwards. Jane prepares herself for the torrent to come spewing forth. The Is this a joke? And the Just who the hell do you think you are?
Janine's eyes narrow to a squint.
But the incredulous tide never comes.
Instead Janine bobs down below the counter, disappearing from the detective's line of sight. Jane jumps as a newspaper is slapped down in front of her. Licking her thumb and forefinger, the blonde woman skims through the pages. A fingernail taps a large colour photo of a grinning, rookie Jane Rizzoli, her peaked police cap taming the dark curls of her hair. Her teeth gleaming in a prideful smile.
"Jane Rizzoli, hero cop, right?" Janine asks, her eyes following the words of the article. "I knew I recognised you."
A familiar sense of discomfort overcomes Jane. Her fingers flex in and out of fists as she swallows and considers her response. Over and over she has had this same argument with Maura, Frost, Korsak, her mother and her brother. Jane does not see herself as a hero. If anything, it was Maura who saved Frankie's life, and that is what matters to her the most.
"Interesting," Janine muses, unfazed by her customer's dilemma. She closes the paper and leans on it with her elbows, her chin on her hand as she took in Jane with new eyes. "So what can I do for ya, Detective Rizzoli?"
Instinctively, Jane's hand palms her hip, feeling for the weight of her gun and badge. A flush of panic runs through her again when she finds them both absent. Forcing herself back to the safe surroundings of the charity shop, Jane fakes a wide smile.
"Well, Janine-"
"Oh please," the shop-owner dismisses, "Call me Jam."
Jane blinks, raising her eyebrow precariously. "Jam?"
"Janine Ann-Marie," Jam explains. "Catholic mother, you know how it is."
This fills Jane with hearty laughter. The kind that makes her heart feel like it is beating in her skull and her stomach feels like empty space. It is a glorious turning point.
"Oh believe me, I do."
The women talk freely after that, smiling and nodding and feeling absolutely at ease. They discuss Jane's donation. Momentarily, they are interrupted at intervals by customers and fellow donators who are eager to leave in items.
It is when a man and his young son carry in four large cardboard boxes filled to the brim with books that Jane gets an idea. She remembers how one of the points on her bucket list is a random act of kindness.
Killing two birds with one stone.
"This is gonna take me at least two hours to inventory," Jam sighs despondently, her hands on her hips.
"Uh, I'll help if you want," Jane suggests, peering at the titles in the box closest to her.
Jam turns to her. "Aren't you supposed to be off solving murders or chasing bad guys or...whatever it is you cops do with taxpayers' money."
Jane smirks, gesturing to her civilian clothes. "Got the late shift tonight."
Jam returns the smirk, gratitude radiating from her expression.
And that was that. Twelve minutes later and they were both grappling with book piles, categorising genres and frantically scribbling down authors' names.
"So Jane," Jam segues, squinting at a little black novel. "What made you want to be a cop?"
Jane drums her pen against her thigh for a minute. She runs the alphabet over in her head before rearranging four books in a row. "I was no good at math," she replies dryly, reaching for the next in her box.
Jam splutters in response, nodding at the detective. "Good one. You're funny."
Jane rolls her eyes, but smiles nonetheless. There is something to be said for helping someone with an unpleasant task. The camaraderie which rapidly forms in unlike anything else in the world. Strong and random and brilliant.
Jane vaguely recalls Maura telling her something about human interaction and human endurance. But as she reaches for the memory it eludes her. It leaves only the recollection of a dazzling smile, golden hair and soul-searching eyes.
"What made you want to start a charity for returning soldiers?" Jane asks, frowning as she reads the cover of a strangely bound book. Opening the book in the middle and flicking through, she realises it is in a different language. Eyes widening, Jane carefully sets it back down. Glancing over at Jam, she sees that the other woman has stopped completely. She is staring in melancholy at a patch of ground near her feet.
Idiot Rizzoli. Frickin' idiot.
"I-I'm sorry? Did I say something...?" Jane chokes quickly.
Jam's face grows nostalgic. Bittersweet memories flooding warmth through her cheeks and into her smile. Even when her eyes glisten with emotion. Jane feels like she is being witness to something almost religious. She feels inadequate, like she doesn't deserve to be here as she sees such an intimate moment pass over this stranger's face.
"My husband died in the Iraq war. Marcus Rizzoli," Jam begins finally, her eyes shooting from the floor to the ceiling. Jane's hands itch at her sides. "Actually, saying I lost him to the war is more accurate."
Jane can't help herself; "What do you mean?"
Jam runs her fingertips over the box that she had been working with. Yet her eyes indicate that she is far away from the charity shop on a hot Boston afternoon. She is somewhere that Jane cannot see, or hear, or touch. "Marcus died the day he boarded a plane bound for the Middle East. He didn't come back the same man."
Jane lowers her head. She knows what that feels like. To begin as a young, energetic and able fighter, and to return lost to the ghosts that live behind your eyes.
Hoyt. Marino. And those from her drug unit days...
Poor Yolanda.
I'll never forgive myself or Martinez.
Jam's fingers continue to drift across the box's edge. "He lasted a year back home. And then he took his own life," she says. The words are so faint that Jane struggles to decide whether or not what she thought she heard was what she really heard. "He was my life, and I lost him to enemies that only he could see."
Jam looks up at Jane then, fully back in the room. She has the pleading eyes of one about to teach an important life lesson. The desperation lingering that someone will learn from terrible mistakes.
"You look like a pretty brave woman, Jane. Independent, strong, sacrificing. Jeez, you even got your picture in the paper." The detective smiles grimly at this. "But you gotta know that sometimes in life, we outta let people be brave for us."
Jane looks away for a moment, too shy to accept the compliment that she is a courageous cop. She lets the message sink in for a moment. She remembers the hospital after Hoyt, her hands being bandaged. A lot of it is still repressed memory. But she remembers that she didn't allow anyone to see her immediately afterwards.
Except for...
Jane hears a jingle of flat metal, and when she looks up she sees a hand outstretched towards her. Jam is looking at her soberly, her hand clasped around something which she has offered to Jane. When Jane doesn't immediately take the gift, Jam shakes her fist in insistence. Jane takes the offering.
It rattles into Jane's cupped palms. Dogtags.
They are scratched and worn, but they are almost readable.
"Those were Marcus'," Jam explains. Jane handles them with the utmost respect, as if the dogtags were made of porcelain instead of metal. This is precious.
This is more than memorabilia. This is a symbol of a lover.
"I want you to have them."
Jane's head snaps up so sharply that the back of her neck cracks. "No way! I couldn't!" she protests, but she sees Jam smiling again. The shop owner shakes her head. Jane insists, "But these are so personal!"
"They belong to a hero. I couldn't think of anyone else that would deserve it more," Jam persists. "You were meant to be here today."
And Detective Jane Rizzoli believes her. She believes her with the quickened beating of her heart and the swelling of pride in her chest. She slips the dogtags over her head. They clink together as they come to rest underneath her folded sunglasses. Then she bows reverently to the shop owner.
"Thanks, Jam," she says hoarsely, like a whispered prayer.
Jam nods her head. They scoop their hands back into the boxes. But then Jam pauses.
"And if you don't like them, I'm sure you'll find someone else worthy of them. Anyone in your life like that?"
Instantly, Jane knows that there is.
The late afternoon sun casts slightly longer shadows now. Jane slides back behind the wheel of her cruiser, and is just grateful that the day has finally cooled off a bit.
She produces the dogtags. Sees how the numbers have been almost shorn off with the deep scratches gauged into the metal. There is a story behind the uneven markings. One she is sure she will always seek the answer to but never will have.
An eternal mystery.
This is an extremely personal artefact. Upon realising this she is inches away from hopping out of the parked car, striding right back into the shop and handing them back into Janine Ann-Marie Rizzoli's possession.
It would be fruitless though.
Disrespectful.
Jane runs an index fingertip over the numbers, the ones still visible and readable. Maybe she was related to this Marcus Rizzoli. A far off cousin, a third-time removed something or other. Her hand falls to the bulleted scar on her side.
Maybe chaotic bravery runs in Rizzoli blood.
She hangs the dogtags over the rear-view mirror, where they jangle and sway. She slides her sunglasses out from the collar of her shirt and puts them on. Her hands grip the wheel of the unmoving car.
She is aware that she has no idea where she's going.
She could go back to her apartment. But it is still early. Even after an hour of stacking and cataloguing books she feels restless. She doesn't have to go into work until 9. She could go and bug her brother or her mother. Then again, with her parent's pending divorce, she isn't prepared to deal with an evening of family drama.
It hits her that where she instinctively wants to go is see Maura. To excitedly share her experience and findings after her visit to the charity shop. After all, they did make a pact to complete their bucket lists with each other.
Jane turns on the engine when a tap comes to her window, startling her. Jam stands there, smiling apologetically. Jane puts down her window.
"Hey. You left this," Jam explains, holding up Jane's mobile. The detective blinks, and takes the phone. "Someone called Cavanaugh called but I didn't answer."
Jane groans and collapses forward, pressing her forehead to the steering wheel. Hearing Jam's short bark of laughter, she turns her head so that she can look up at the other woman.
"There goes my paperwork free afternoon, no doubt," Jane says dryly, sitting back in her seat and fixing her sunglasses.
"Nasty, slave-driving boss?" Jam suggests.
"You got it," the detective replies. Then gratitude fills the frustrated vacuum of ruined afternoon plans. "Thanks, by the way."
"You're always welcome here, Rizzoli," the other woman says, waving her away.
Pulling the cruiser back out onto the Boston streets, Jane puts the radio on. It isn't something she does often. Either she has her mother talking her ear off or she is listening to her own music.
A harsh British accent and driving guitar melodies assault her. It makes her twitch, but she keeps it on. She remembers this song. It makes her nostalgic for the summer that she entered her final year of the police academy. One of her flatmates played the album on repeat for months.
Involuntarily, she nods her head to the beat as she swings the cruiser around a corner.
She can't count how many emergency stops she has to make because of unattended children running out in front of her. Enjoying the hot summer's day means that safety isn't a priority.
Still, Jane can't get Jam's words out of her head.
"But you gotta know that sometimes in life, we outta let people be brave for us."
She feels the top of her sunglasses starting to stick to her forehead. She clicks on the noisy air conditioning. It drowns out the song from her youth. Surprisingly, this irritates her, so Jane twirls the volume dial. The song reverberate around the car.
She grins manically.
Perfect.
Yet her head doesn't stop reminding her of those words. Like a broken record, they skip and repeat and zip and crackle only to repeat all over again.
She clenches her jaw.
Meditate; that's what Maura would do. But she is just too geared up and this song is just too good to turn down and concentrate.
Jane settles for riding out the song on the radio. The last verse holds just as much power over her as the first.
Above her, the dogtags clink, reminding her of their presence again.
"But you gotta know that sometimes in life, we outta let people be brave for us."
Jane thinks of Maura; for who else would it be?
Not once, but twice Maura Isles had been there when Jane Rizzoli crumbled. There to pick up the pieces and meticulously put her back together until she was all better again.
The second time her shooting. But the first time, it was Hoyt. Maura was, for a long time after the initial rescue, the only person Jane allowed near her hands.
Yes, Korsak had seen her injuries. Jane grits her teeth as she remembers the photograph her friend and former partner insists on keeping in his desk. It is a captured moment of the time of her greatest weakness, now immortalised.
Lasting forever in a single frame.
But once the initial blood chilling shock had worn off, Jane vehemently refused to let the EMTs attend to her. More lucid, she saw her entrapment as a humiliation, not an act of valour...
There are holes in your hands.
Not that you can see them. Your hands look like you dipped them straight into a bucket of thick, dark red paint.
But you can feel them.
You hear a whimper. You're sure it's you.
BPD and FBI boots are hammering up and down the rickety wooden staircase of the basement you know you'll be seeing every night for a long time. Every night in your nightmares. No way to escape the horror behind your eyelids.
You're trembling all over like a baby lamb without its ewe.
Maybe Hoyt should have just finished the job.
You won't let anyone near you. Even through the fog of existence, you know you've whimpered and curled further in on yourself at any attempt anyone has made thus far to approach you. You're slumped against the wall.
Numb.
High heeled clicks break through the boots which thump up and down the stairs. A voice floats down to you through the fog. A voice you trust and adore.
"She's not letting anyone near her, Vince?"
And through the numbness comes a stirring of affection. Like how a tender purr vibrates a cat's body.
"'Fraid not, Doctor Isles. I don't know what to do...the paramedics are urging me to get her out because they don't want any more damage done to her hands but any one gets near her and she gets real agitated."
"I thought this may be the case. I don't doubt there are some long days ahead of us, Vince..." A heartbeat, and then a deep breath. "Make sure no one is paying attention. This may be highly unethical, but I've prepared for this situation since she was found an hour ago."
"What are you ...?"
"Something that, according to all strict medical practise, I shouldn't."
And then-
"But for her I will."
Heels appear in front of you, but your head is hung low and you don't raise it.
You're not good enough to raise it.
The good doctor kneels.
"Jane, do you trust me?" she murmurs, so low that no one else in the echoing basement can hear but you.
Do you? Of course you do.
You think you nod subtly. Because she breathes out in relief.
"Heaven knows, I should not be doing this." A pause, heady and tense. A battle of wills takes place in someone else's head.
"Okay. Okay I...I think this should be alright." Another pause, and a softer tone, directed back to you.
"Trust me now, okay? I'll take care of this. I'll take care of you. Close your eyes."
You do.
You feel lips graze your forehead, and then a sharp prick in the side of your neck. You're falling but she catches you and you're gone...
Jane, bleary eyed and drugged to the hilt, awoke to find a bashful, blushing Dr Isles at her bedside. She found out how Maura, anticipating Jane's agitation, had administered a sedative. When Jane was taken to hospital, Maura was pulled to the side by the paramedics. She was rebuked about ethical practises and administering drugs without proper permission. However, they eventually resigned themselves to the fact the call had been a good one.
Jane could well have caused far more damage to her hands in her protests and fear.
Jane slams her hands against the steering wheel. She hates the vulnerability that she inhibited at that time. Still, Maura was gracious then, as she is now, and has never mentioned it. Jane's heart aches. She should shower Maura with thanks and praise more often.
With the tension in her body draining, it is that thought that stays with Jane. It gets her plotting the whole way to the station.
