Author's Note: Thanks again for all of the reviews/follows/faves!
Jamie: You have hit on my one real complaint with the show. I love the lighter moments, but they rely on them way too often, when they have a stellar cast that could easily handle taking on the deeper and darker themes that get brushed over in favor of a neatly wrapped ending.
See chapter 1 for the disclaimer.
"Dammit, Frankie, I swear if either of you call Ma, I'll kick both your asses!"
Cavanaugh glanced sideways at Maura with a wry smile. "Sounds normal enough to me."
"Maybe," she replied. Couldn't he hear the agitation underlying the angry words? The fear?
"Great!" Frankie exclaimed. "And if we don't tell Ma, she kills us – oww! Lemeggo!"
Exchanging a wide-eyed look with Korsak and Frost, Maura quickened her steps, entering the treatment room to find Jane with her younger brother in a headlock, while Tommy was standing well away from the bed, eyes wide.
"I can hurt you now, Frankie," she growled in his ear. "Think about it."
"Let him go, Jane." Maura kept her voice calm. Irritability and aggression were occasional side effects of concussions, and even without a concussion, Jane was not known for her gentle temperament. "He's just worried about you."
Dark eyes lifted at her voice, and Maura couldn't help a gasp. Beneath the edges of the bandages that hid the bullet wounds and much of the left side of Jane's head, the skin had bruised an ugly blue-black across the forehead, along the cheek and beneath that eye, which was sporting a sizable starburst hemorrhage on the lateral sclera. It looked worse than it was; Maura tried to tell herself that, but it looked terrifying.
Jane released her hold on her brother and shoved him away roughly, pain creasing her features at the movement and anger flashing in her eyes as her gaze swept from Maura to Cavanaugh to Vince and Barry before settling on Dr. Paulson. "What're you selling tickets?" she demanded angrily. "I don't remember asking for visitors."
"Your colleagues were worried about you, Detective Rizzoli," the doctor replied, unruffled by her patient's hostility. "I also hoped that one of them might be able to convince you that an overnight stay would be in your best interests."
"My best interests are in getting the fuck out of here!" Jane snapped, her gaze locking on Frost and Korsak. "What happened to Hightower?"
"The suspect was pronounced dead at the scene," Korsak reported, his tone deliberately detached, professional.
"I killed him, Jane," Barry added as Jane sank back against her pillow, her eyes shifting from anger to ebony pools of despair. "After he shot you."
"Which I will remind you is the reverse order in which I prefer that these incidents occur, Detective." Cavanaugh's voice was gently chiding, but firm.
Jane didn't acknowledge him. "Just at least tell me he did it," she muttered, staring down at her hands.
"Prints were a match, the shoes he was wearing still had the dead kid's name written on the soles, and the gun he was carrying has been tied to shootings at two armed robberies in the last two weeks," Korsak replied. "It was a clean shoot, Jane."
"Tell that to his family," Jane replied wearily, drawing her legs up, wrapping her arms around them and resting her head on her knees, the tumble of dark curls obscuring her face. Maura felt her heart clench in her chest. She had done this: put the thought of faces, families, behind the reality of the criminals that Jane faced each day. In war, soldiers were taught to dehumanize their opponents for a brutal but practical necessity; individuals who found themselves kidnapped were encouraged to try to form a connection with their captors for the same reason. Seeing someone as another person, a fellow human being with feelings and a family, made it that much harder to kill them. Jane had always had an incredible capacity for compassion, reaching out instinctively to comfort victims and survivors, but she had always been able to put it aside when confronted with a life and death situation.
Before she shot Patrick Doyle. Before Maura had made her doubt herself.
The detective's head came up, her eyes too bright, her face set in stubborn resolve. "Just get me whatever I need to sign," she ordered the physician. "I'm checking out. Now."
"Detective, I urge you to reconsider," Dr. Paulson told her seriously. "The first twelve to twenty-four hours after a concussion are a critical time to observe for signs of swelling or bleeding in the brain, and such things can occur very quickly."
"Well, just tell me what to look for, Doc, and I'll give you a call if I start having symptoms," Jane replied, swinging into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Where are my clothes?"
"They've got blood all over them, Jane," Frankie informed her, clearly not pleased with his sister's decision.
"So go to my place and get me some clean ones," she growled.
"Detective, the patient frequently is unable to recognize the symptoms of cerebral damage." Either Dr. Paulson had the patience of a saint, or she had worked with cops before. "Confusion and disorientation are often the first manifestations, and they could prevent you from realizing that your condition is worsening. At the very least, someone should stay with you to monitor your condition. You should be woken up every hour or so while you are sleeping to determine your level of responsiveness."
"Really?" Jane's voice was loaded with sarcasm. "That should be incredibly restful. One of these two can do that." She waved a hand at her brothers.
Frankie met Maura's eyes, a swift mutual agreement passing between them before he shook his head. "Jane, I gotta get back to work. The department is beefing up street presence in case there's any fallout from the shooting."
Jane scowled at him, shifting her gaze to her youngest brother. "Tommy?"
He held up his hands nervously. "I ain't no doctor, Jane. What if I screw it up and something happens to you? Maura's a doc!" He pointed at her eagerly. "She'd know what to do!"
As openings went, it lacked anything remotely resembling subtlety, but it would have to do. "I'll do it," she offered at once.
"No." Jane's response was immediate, as was the indignant look she directed at Dr. Paulson, bypassing Maura completely. "She works on dead people!"
"I have treated live patients any number of times," Maura reminded her. "Including you, Jane Rizzoli."
"What about Frost, Korsak?" Jane wasn't giving up, but Lieutenant Cavanaugh spoke up before either of them could respond.
"They've got incident reports to fill out, Rizzoli," he said matter-of-factly. "And as your commanding officer, I'm ordering you: either you stay here in the hospital until they release you, or you have someone stay with you, and the only one here who's qualified is Dr. Isles. Is that understood?"
Rebellion flashed in dark eyes, but Jane knew when it was time to give up a fight. "Yes, sir," she muttered, her eyes on the floor, teeth worrying at her lower lip as she weighed her options.
Maura said nothing. It was a heartbreaking indication of how deep the rift between them had become that Jane even had to think about it. She hated hospitals with a passion; to her, they represented helplessness, defeat, weakness. She'd been like a caged animal by the time she'd been released after the shooting last year, and it had taken every ounce of influence that Maura had over her to keep her to the prescribed medical regimens then.
"All right, bring me the forms," she said at last, her eyes cutting briefly to Maura, then away just as quickly, though not before the M.E. saw something beneath the stubborn anger.
Fear. Badass Jane Rizzoli was afraid...of her.
It wasn't the most heartening of realizations, but it was perhaps better than the hate she'd dreaded seeing, or worse, indifference. Maybe it would be possible to mend the breach. Maybe. "I just need to get my car," she said, remembering that she hadn't driven here.
Cavanaugh nodded. "Officer Rizzoli, bring Detective Rizzoli some clean clothes, and then report back to duty. I'll take Dr. Isles back to HQ to get her car." He fixed Jane with an unwavering stare. "And you will be here when she gets back."
Jane nodded, rolling back onto the bed and closing her eyes. "Yes, sir."
Maura looked worriedly to Vince and Barry. Maybe this wasn't the best time to be trying this; if Cavanaugh simply ordered Jane to remain in the hospital overnight, she would do it.
"The ball's in your court now, Doc," Korsak said softly as they stepped into the hall. Left unspoken was the second half of the statement: Don't screw it up.
She nodded. "I know."
"Good luck, Dr. Isles," Dr. Paulson offered as she returned with a clipboard and pen, giving the M.E. a wry smile in passing. "I suspect you're going to need it."
If she only knew how true her words were! "Yes, I will," she said softly. "Thank you."
Despite Jane's agreement, Maura would not have been surprised to return to the hospital to discover that the detective had taken a cab home, but she was there, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt and carrying a bag of wound care supplies.
The ride home was a silent one, broken only when Jane glanced up and frowned as she took note of their surroundings. "Why are we going to your place?"
"Because I have medical supplies there," Maura replied, as reasonably as she could. "If complications arise, I can administer steroids or epinephrine quickly while waiting for the ambulance to arrive."
She more than half expected Jane to demand that they go to her apartment instead, but she simply muttered, "Whatever," and returned to her brooding silence.
"Frankie is keeping Jo Friday for a couple of days," she offered, before Jane could think of that as an excuse. Jane nodded without speaking, and Maura felt the anxiety constricting her chest, as unyielding as iron bands. She hadn't needed Korsak to tell her that the next few hours were likely going to determine the fate of their friendship, and she was suddenly terrified that she would discover that there was no friendship left to save.
Jane followed her inside, toeing her sneakers off in the entry hall with the absentminded ease of long habit. "I'm guessing that a beer is out of the question," she said as she made her way into the living room, fingers already probing gingerly at the edge of the bandage.
Ignoring the impulse to give her whatever she wanted, Maura shook her head. "Alcohol's depressant effects are contraindicated in the case of concussions, as are narcotic painkillers. Dr. Paulson did say that you could take either naproxen or acetominophen."
Jane snorted her disdain, her features set in stone, even when she winced from the movement. "Might as well piss on a bonfire," she muttered. "I'm just gonna go to bed, then. Or did you throw out my spare clothes?"
The dull, disinterested note of the query hurt worse than the sharper barbs they'd exchanged over the past two weeks. "No, they're still in the dresser in your room." She'd stopped thinking of it as the guest room long ago. It was Jane's room, and she could no more have discarded the clothes that the detective had left there, the toothbrush and hairbrush stashed in the downstairs bathroom, than she would have marched into Jane's apartment and started throwing things out.
"Thanks." The single word was flat, devoid of effect, and Jane hadn't looked directly at her since they'd come in. She started toward the bedroom, and Maura felt a renewed prickling of fear. She had to say something, had to make it right.
"Jane, wait. I -"
"I tried, Maura." Jane had stopped, her head down and her shoulders drooping in defeat, hands curled into fists at her sides. "I swear, I tried." No longer emotionless, her voice cracked and wavered on the edge of control. "I didn't want to kill that kid. I don't...go out looking for people to shoot. He had a gun, and I just...I tried."
Maura felt her heart breaking. The words, the tone of ragged despair, the defeated posture: Jane was blaming herself for the suspect's death. Worse, she clearly thought that Maura would blame her, as well.
I don't play judge and jury and kill people!
Words could wound; she'd had firsthand experience with that in her own life, and still she had hurled those spiteful words, knowing they would hurt Jane, wanting her to hurt as badly as Maura was hurting at that moment, wanting to punish her. Had she been so stupid as to have actually believed what she'd said, after seeing firsthand what police officers faced every day? Did it matter, when Jane obviously thought that she did believe it? Those words had nearly gotten her best friend killed today, and they were still hurting her, even now.
She'd been mentally rehearsing for days just what she would say: to explain, to apologize, to ask for forgiveness, but the words were locked up in her throat, tangled up in emotions no less tumultuous than they had been the day Doyle was shot, and she was terrified that she would fumble, say the wrong thing again, and that would be the end of it. "Jane, please, I didn't-"
"I'm tired." Jane cut her off again, her voice once more flat and devoid of effect, the door slamming shut as suddenly as it had opened. "I need to sleep."
She went into her room and closed the door without looking back.