A/N: Yay! I can finally check that completed box! A HUGE thank you to socks-lost, rizzleseverywhere, and El for their help and encouragement. you guys!
Sorry it's a bit late, I have a Thanksgiving fic to post once the person I wrote it for knows about it. I had to take a hot second to throw that one together. Again, thank you all so much for your follows and reviews. The views on this little fic make me giddy, and all of your sweet messages really motivated me. I hope you all enjoy this last installment!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The poem Maura recites at the end is borrowed from e.e. cummings. It's a beautiful poem, I recommend looking it up to see it in its entirety.
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It's been three days of uninterrupted sleep but Jane has never been more tired. She thinks it's possible that she might die if she doesn't get to put her hands on Maura's bare skin again. The spasms have responded surprisingly well to stretching and drug therapy (Maura finally caved after a particularly bad morning that almost had Jane sobbing sympathetically with her). The tone between the two of them is markedly different though, now – Jane can feel Maura withdrawing, pulling away from her to prepare for their inevitable separation. The detective goes back to work tomorrow; at least that's when Jane told Cavanaugh she'd initially return. She's got more than ten weeks of PTO time built up, even with this two week stint. She's never taken a vacation and is pretty sure she can count the sick days she's taken on one hand. Since Hoyt, at least. Even when Bianchi took her, she went back to work the next day, despite Maura's protests.
She wishes Maura would protest now.
Jane would be on the phone in a heartbeat, calling in sick for however many days Maura needs, calling in quit if Maura decides she needs Jane forever by her side. Jane Rizzoli might be the job, but she's discovering that Maura is her life.
"Janie?" Angela's calls softly from the hallway. By nature, Angela isn't quiet, so when her Ma manages to sneak up on her, Jane is always surprised. The duffle bag on the bed is surrounded by two weeks of clothes, folded neatly, of course. Part of Maura's therapy is for her to resume daily activities as long as she doesn't over-exert herself. Folding laundry can be done from the couch as long as someone else carries the baskets from the laundry room to wherever they are being folded. Maura has also been loading the wash machine, dryer, and dishwasher by herself. Jane knows she's not really needed anymore; that Maura can have anyone carry baskets or get the teapot from the highest shelf, and she can't stop the pang of loss. Now that she's lost the opportunity to make Maura realize how much she needs Jane, Jane realizes how much she needs Maura.
"What, Ma?" It's a Rice Crispies reply—all snap, crackle, and pop. Thinking about leaving; preparing for leaving makes her hurt in places that she thought were already dead. "Just come in. You'd have barged your way in here already if Casey were here." It's the first time his name has crossed her lips since he left yet again, after the building collapse. She still feels her nose wrinkle on the first syllable.
Her mother cracks open the door and pokes her head in, the worry lines creasing deep between her eyes. "There's something wrong with Maura. She's not come out of her room yet today. No breakfast." The fact that Maura hasn't yet eaten is, of course, her mother's biggest concern.
"I'm sure she's fine. She's probably trying to make up for all the sleep she's been missing the past week and a half. Leaver 'lone." The growl is misplaced, but misery loves company.
"Jane Clementine Rizzoli!" Angela huffs, shoving the rest of her body through the door. "You need to get your head out of your ass and communicate. You've been moping around here like someone stole your best friend. She's right down the hall waiting for you. I don't know why you two are tip-toeing around each other the way you are, but it needs to stop." Angela's arms speak better Italian than her mouth does, and according to the ferocity of their movements, Jane is getting a tongue lashing. "But you have no excuse. We've taught you to speak your mind since you've been able to talk. Go talk to her."
Before Jane can retort, Angela is gone in a whirlwind of indignation and gestures. The brunette kicks around the room, throwing shirts and shorts and socks into her duffle heedless of their careful folding. She's not being as loud as she'd like, what with her bare feet on the plush area rug, so she's surprised by the knock at her door.
"Go away, Ma."
"It's me." Maura pushes the door open and stands meekly in the threshold, eyes looking everywhere but at Jane. "I thought maybe you'd want some help packing, especially since I'm sure you're just tossing everything in there." The blonde pushes past Jane and dumps the duffle onto the bed. "If you would roll up your shirts, they'll stay wrinkle free until you get home," She hesitates a moment, frowning, "and then you won't have to iron them before you wear them."
"Really?" Jane barks before she can stop herself, then her hands fist against her sides and she mentally chastises herself. Thirty-seven is way too old to continue with this ridiculous passive-aggressive dance that they've perfected, but she's not going to fall to the floor on her knees and profess her undying love without some sort of sign that it's reciprocated. "Look, it doesn't matter if they get wrinkled. The only person who would notice is you, and you're not going to be there."
Maura's shoulders sag, but she doesn't stop meticulously rolling Jane's shirts and placing them carefully in the open bag. "That's not true. I mean. It is true that I won't be there, but Barry will notice. He has wonderful fashion sense."
"It's going to be shitty without you, Maur." Jane steps closer, but the ease with which she's been touching Maura is gone and she hovers awkwardly next to the blond. She tries to break the unease with a typical Jane-whine, "I hate having to make nice to Pike for the next two weeks," she stomps her feet for effect, encouraged by the hint of a smile playing along Maura's lips. Jane pushes a little further, hoping the tiny rise at the edges of Maura's lips will push up into that dimple. "It's so much easier to kiss up to someone who deserves it." She waggles her eyebrows and Maura's face lights up when the compliment sinks in.
Jane feels Maura's hand brush against hers and then hook their pinky fingers together. It's the most contact Maura has initiated since the spasms got under control. Jane squeezes gently and flips her fingers around so that they intertwine. She runs her thumb up and down the smooth skin of Maura's hand, squeezes her fingers again and gently pulls away.
"Therapy today for you. Ready to go?"
Maura tries on her best pout and that lower lip is again so tempting that Jane nearly bites through her own as distraction.
"Aw, poor baby. How about while you're lifting those little 2 pound weights, I go run five miles? Will that make you feel better?"
The gleeful grin she gets in response makes her forget that she told Maura she refuses to even put on her gym shoes, much less run, until Maura is able to force her.
They both come back to Maura's, stiff and sore, and retreat to respective bathrooms for showers and a change of clothes. The house is filled with the smell of garlic and basil and Rizzoli childhood, and Jane feels all the tension and distress at returning to her apartment fade. Pasta and her Ma's gravy will always be better than any antidepressant a doctor can prescribe.
Jane pads down the stairs in sock-feet, pausing a moment to catalogue Maura's condition by the way she sits, hunched over, at the island pushing homemade farfalle around her plate. Jane stops at the foot of the stairs to listen to her mother jabber, oblivious to Maura's posture and probable pain. She can hear Angela explaining that she makes the farfalle because it was the only bow she could ever get Jane to put in or on her body. Jane rolls her eyes and steps forward, ready to save Maura from her Ma, but stops when she hears Maura's lowered voice.
"She's not always hard, sharp edges."
"Not with you, piccola." Maura's head jerks up as she realizes she spoke aloud. Jane recognizes Angela's smile and soft eyes – they are reserved for her children, and her children only. Her stomach flutters at the significance. "But with the rest of us, Jane is Jane. With you, she's the sweet, loving girl I always wanted. Only you bring that out in her."
She cannot stand in the shadow of the stairwell all night, so she quietly backs halfway up the stairs then runs back down, careful to be sure to make enough noise so they hear her coming. Maura turns stiffly, the smile on her face not quite masking the pain brought on by the movement.
"I thought I'd cook tonight so you'd have some leftovers to take for lunch tomorrow, Janie." Angela finishes wiping off the counter and drapes the dishrag over the faucet. "I'll leave you girls to dinner." The older woman comes around the counter and turns her cheek to Jane who dutifully kisses it. Then she turns to Maura, squeezes her shoulder gently and leans in to whisper in her ear. Maura offers Angela a sad smile and shake of her head.
"Enough Ma. She hurts!" Jane wants her mother to leave and Maura to ask her not to go to work tomorrow. She pushes Angela out the door and closes it with a flourish, eyeing the plate of pasta sitting at the seat next to Maura. "Bad day today at therapy?"
Maura just nods as she forks the last two pasta bows into her mouth and pushes away from the island to put her plate in the dishwasher. "I'm going to go to bed I think." Maura won't meet Jane's eyes. "Have a good day tomorrow."
"Wait, we aren't going to hang out tonight?" Jane speaks around the forkful of pasta crammed in her mouth, manners forgotten in her shock. "And you're not going to get up and have breakfast with me? Why am I staying here tonight if you don't want me here?"
"If you want to go, I should be fine tonight." Maura backs out of the kitchen and towards the master bedroom. "Your mother is just across the way, I can phone her if the need arises. Goodnight, Jane."
Before Jane can respond again, Maura is gone and the door to her room closes with a click.
"What the hell just happened?" Jane stares at the closed door, appetite gone. She really thought she made progress communicating this morning, but it seems that there was quite a backslide since therapy. Jo whines at her feet as she scrapes the remnants of her dinner into the container her mother labelled with her name. "Should we go home, Jo?" The little dog wags her tail and gives a pointed look at her empty food bowl. "Sheesh, of course. Like you care where we are. Just as long as you get fed."
She dumps some kibble in the bowl and sets her phone to an ungodly hour. Her things are packed, but she's already laid out clothes for tomorrow, Jo's food and dishes aren't packed, and she genuinely doesn't want to go. She has a feeling that if she walks out that door tonight she'll lose any chance she might have.
With a sigh she checks all the windows and doors and arms the alarm system. She stands for a moment in front of Maura's closed bedroom door, but in the end she turns and trudges up the stairs, cracking the bedroom door in case Maura should need her.
She sits up, wide awake, the moment the mattress dips. "What's wrong? Are you alright? What hurts?" The questions are garbled, so when Maura responds Jane thinks the blond misheard.
"My heart."
"What?" She struggles to see Maura's face in the dark, but the blond is sitting with her knees drawn up and her face buried in her arms.
"That void I told you about, that donating my kidney didn't fill? It's right where my heart is."
Of course they are going to have this conversation at 2am, when Jane is woefully unprepared. She regrets not making notecards to keep by her bedside table just in case something like this happened. Eloquent she is not, even less so when she feels like something small and smelly crawled into her mouth and died. But this is it, the chance she's been waiting for, and from Maura's posture and tone she doesn't think she's the only one coming into this unrehearsed.
"For two weeks I've been wanting to talk to you…about feelings and stuff that I've been having—"
Maura turns her head to look at Jane, but she doesn't speak.
"—for a long time. The feelings I mean. Since Hoyt, I've known, but I fought it, you know. I just told myself that I loved you like a sister. Then all that shit with Paddy, and Dennis…fucking Dennis. I was done fighting it then. I didn't know how you felt though; what you wanted from me. I was content with dinners and movies and my left hand after evenings snuggled up on the couch." She winces at how crass the comment seems, but Maura says nothing. "When you promised to do this amazingly selfless thing for some pretty unlikeable people, I might have acted irritated but really I was amazed by your generosity and I just fell for you even more." Jane clears her throat and hesitates a moment, gathering words to try to explain the constant fluttering when Maura is near. "Then, they call me down to recovery and you were there, and the nurse told me all the things you said and I had this hope that maybe you felt for me what I felt for you."
Jane feels Maura turn to face her, her hand sliding along the duvet feeling for Jane's. The brunette feels her hand clasped between both of Maura's, the delicate fingers tracing patterns for a moment before Maura brings the hand to her lips and brushes a kiss against the scarred palm. Then she brings it down and presses it between her breasts against her heart. Jane waits for Maura to find words.
They sit there like that for so long that Jane wonders if the blond has fallen asleep. When she moves to pull her hand away, Maura's grip tightens and she whispers. "I gave away a kidney but I gained a heart. I've had everything I could have wanted my whole life. My parents indulged my eccentricities, Garrett showered me with gifts, Ian gave me stimulating discussion and intellectual challenge. You've given me all those things, plus yourself. No one's ever done that."
Jane gently tugs her hand away and then carefully pulls Maura into the circle of her arms. "I don't want to hurt you." Maura curls against her as Jane leans back into the pillows, completely relaxing for the first time since the surgery.
Just as Jane begins to drift off Maura speaks again, her voice murmuring quietly and reverently as if in prayer. "I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling…" It is lilting and lyrical and she is asleep before the poem is complete, her arms full of Maura and love and a future she never imagined possible.