"What do you want our wedding to be like?" Jane asks.

"When I was a little girl I had my dream wedding all planned out. I had a whole scrapbook." You can still picture it. The covers were padded, maroon with a silver border. "My mother helped me with the planning. I knew the venue. I knew what flowers I wanted for the centerpieces and what flavor of frosting for the cake. I sketched out the table arrangements. I even planned what lingerie to wear for the honeymoon, and -"

Her face goes odd. "You picked out lingerie as a kid? With your mom?"

"That was a solo revision," you laugh. "Later in my teen years."

Home from BCU one summer, Garrett still fresh in your mind, you discovered that old book in your closet and made your final revision: you bitterly stuffed it into your wastebasket, hard enough to hear the binding crack.

"I had every detail of a great big, quasi-royal wedding worked out. Every piece of the puzzle except the only important one. And now that I have that..." you shake your head. "I don't care about any of it."

"Well you'd better not leave it entirely up to me, because I'd drive us to city hall as soon as my shift's over."

Although your answer to that is no, you shock yourself by actually considering it.

"I would like a little beyond that."

She smiles. "Okay. What's it look like?"

You take a long time to come up with "Intimate," shaking your head. "All I can think of is walking down the aisle and seeing you there smiling at me."

She grins, and you run your fingers along her cheek, resting your thumb on her dimple. "Yes, like that."


You sit at the little table in the little yellow kitchen, sideways in the chair, leaning against the wall. Chewing slowly on one of the cold raw carrot slices Angela saved you from dinner while you listen to her talk about anything and everything.

Her brood is playing basketball on the driveway. You can hear the occasional muffled thud from outside, and an assortment of groans and whoops. The air vent over the doorway whistles and the TV is on low in the other room with nobody watching it.

Maybe this is a little bit how it's like to grow up in a loud little house with siblings and a mom who you can watch cook dinner.

"What was your maiden name?" you ask, surprised you don't already know this piece of trivia.

"Angela Maria Mazzeone." She crushes a garlic clove with the side of her knife, peeling the skin. "As a girl I said I couldn't wait to get married so my signature wouldn't have two z's in a row. I could never get two z's to look nice. Wouldn't you know I'd get stuck with another two z's?"

You grin, resting your chin in your hand. "I like the z's... Rizzoli is much more fun to write than Isles. I've been doodling it on my papers like a teenager. Maura Rizzoli-Isles, Maura Rizzoli-Isles."

A capital R has so much more personality than a capital I. The o-l-i is like a little roller coaster and there's such wonderful finality about dotting an i.

"I filled up a whole yellow pad sheet practicing. Halfway down the page... I stopped writing the Isles." You wanted her reaction, but there is none, and she's facing the stove anyway. "Do you think I... does the sound... can I be a Rizzoli?" You were asking for her opinion on how it sounds, on whether you could pull it off, but it sounds more like you're asking her permission. Maybe it's both.

Her smile is warm. "You'd give this name some class."

"This is going to sound terrible, but... Isles isn't my name. Legally, it is. It's the only one I've ever had, and yet.." you shake your head. "I've always felt a little bit like it was just... the name assigned to me. And it's not that I'm ungrateful.. I realize that name has given me privileges I might not have had with a different one. I've just always wanted so badly to know my birth name. Maybe I never will. I always thought that maybe someday I would just hear it somewhere, and I would just stop in my tracks and know that was the name I belonged to. That's how I've come to feel about Rizzoli... I've never felt that way about Isles."

You haven't shared the full version of this thought with Jane. You need a mother's perspective.

"Constance shouldn't be hurt," she smiles. She has Jane's way of scooting past what you said and getting to what you meant. "Course, you don't have to tell her all that."

"But taking Rizzoli instead of hyphenating... is that... as a parent, does that feel like a rejection?"

"For thirty-something years I expected Jane to take a different name when she got married, and wouldn't have thought twice," she says, her knife blade waving thoughtfully. "Would your parents be insulted if you took a man's name?"

"I suppose not."

"Then," Angela shrugs.

You fidget with the edge of a placemat.

"Did you ever want to go back to your old name? After you got divorced?"

She pulls in her bottom lip in thought, shaking her head. "I lived my best years as Angela Rizzoli. Even if the guy we got the name from turned out no good, it's not his name, it's ours. It's my kids name. We did good with that name." She peers out the window over the sink. "I see three good people out there with the same name as me and it makes me proud. And I'd be prouder still to have a fourth."

You smile.

"Maybe I could keep using my name professionally," you wonder. "But when I'm just me, at home... I want to be Maura Rizzoli."

When Jane comes in, she passes by and steals a carrot, which you know she'll keep in her teeth like a cigar for half an hour instead of just eating it. You follow her to the bathroom where she's going to wash up.

"Hey." you poke her back. You wrap your arms around her waist, rising on your toes to put your chin on her shoulder so you can lock eyes in the mirror. She bends her knees a little, sinking a couple of inches to make it easier for you.

"We're the thing with two heads."

She's sweaty. You smirk at her carrot cigar. "I want your name."

"Yeah?"

"Call me Maura Rizzoli. Let me hear it in your voice so I'm sure it sounds right."

"Maura Rizzoli," she says, in a voice deep just for you, and grins at the way you light up. She pulls you closer, tucking her head over yours. "I love you, Maura Rizzoli."

Her wet hands warm you where they soak into your blouse a little bit, but you feel the same wonderful radiating warmth right behind your sternum, which makes you squirm happily.

That sounds like the name you belong to.

"You know when I want you to call me that."

Foreheads touching, you share a secret grin. She knows exactly.

"Oh," Frankie's voice suddenly says from the doorway. "Can you guys at least close the door?"

"We weren't-"

"I'll wash upstairs," he calls out.

"We weren't doing anything," you insist.

"No, use the upstairs one," you hear Frankie tell Tommy. "There's stuff happening in here."

"What kinda stuff?"

"THERE'S NO STUFF," Jane steps into the hall.


A strong kiss presses you against the tile, her mouth trailing from yours to your jaw, to under your ear. You slide your hand out blindly until you find the handle, and push it.

She pauses. "Why'd you do that?"

"To conserve water."

She looks confused, from you to the dripping shower head and back. "The water's what's sexy about this."

Your brows rise. "Is it."

She slicks her hair back. "Without the water this is just a slippery marble box that's gonna get cold in ten seconds."

"The heat is on."

She pulls the handle. You shut it off again.

"I prefer it on, too, but it's wasteful. We'll be in here for an extended period of time, and with a rate of water use averaging something like two gallons per minute, we-"

"- might as well be in bed."

"Okay. Look," you pull the handle, but only a little bit, letting a thin stream of water come out, spattering onto her shoulder. "How about that?"

"That's depressing," Jane scowls, leaning out from under it. "Is it time to admit shower sex is better in theory?"

"I fear you're correct," you agree, disappointed. Not because you're close, but because you kind of want to finish as soon as possible, so she'll go to sleep, so you can sneak downstairs and see whether she cleaned the oven well enough, so you don't have to stay up too late cleaning it more if necessary.

Mother arrives tomorrow.

"How 'bout we just make out outside next time it's raining?"

You half smile. "Bed?"

Somehow it's like the bed is wetter than the shower. Wet hair seems to be everywhere, dangling on your skin and soaking into the pillows to a degree you don't approve of, but you aren't going to stop this again. The prospects for your own climax are dwindling, but it's so rare for her to be more in the mood than you are, so you're just watching with a distracted affection as Jane works herself against you.

You'll need to get to the grocery store early in the morning because there won't be enough time after work. Allowing an extra twenty minutes at least would be wise in case there's any problem with the florist. Your phone is in reach, but Jane would probably be offended if she caught you setting an alarm right now.

"Hey." She smiles gently, kissing your collarbone.

"Hey?"

She's stopped, and you missed the reason. You smile apologetically.

"I'm.. sorry, I,"

She shakes her head, unbothered. "Your mom?"

You nod.

Your favorite person is on top of you - gorgeous, naked, breathing heavily - and with her need still pressed against your leg, she offers, "Cup of tea?" and she means it, and you're astounded to find yourself relieved.

She kisses your wet head before you can reply. "C'mon," and rolls out of bed.

"Wait?" you reach for her wrist too late. "It doesn't have to be right this second. You can -"

She opens the dresser and tosses some yoga pants that land on your head. "Chamomile?"

Watching her get dressed, you find yourself on the other side of that sorry-but-touched expression she's shown you on so many nights. "Please."

.

"Is it wrong to let my mother attend our wedding without understanding it?"

You accept the teacup. Jane doesn't like tea and acts flummoxed by the entire concept when offered any, yet whenever you want it, she is mysteriously able to prepare it just the way you like.

"What doesn't she understand?" she asks, sinking into the cushion beside you. "I thought you said she was okay about it?"

"She is, it's just... we've never been in the habit of discussing emotional things, so I've never volunteered much about us. For all I know, she thinks we were friends who had some wine one night and fell into bed together." You sigh.

Jane's fingertips play on your knee. "Would we love each other less if that was how we started?"

You ponder that for three separate sips. "That's impossible to answer."

She smiles. "If it bothers you what she might think, then I guess you might wanna tell her what you do want her to think."

"Is it wrong that I don't really want to do that either?" You know just how it would be. Besides the fact that it would be difficult to explain how your relationship began, you don't want to hand over private, treasured things to your mother for no result.

"Of course not. It's exactly what we talked about."

Jane has seen you through a few tearful nights on the subject of your mother, listening and helping you plan. From now on, you decided, you're going to quit ruining what you do have by always wishing it was something more. You've spent enough years believing that if you were only good enough, if you only reached out in the right way, your mother would take a real interest in you.

"I know it's your nature to always want to improve everything, but it's okay to just let this be what it is. I can't stand to see you keep getting your heart broken. It's okay to quit handing it over to her," Jane said, pulling out another tissue for you. "Why don't you demote her."

"Demote her?" you sniffed.

"In your head, yeah. She sucks in the role of 'Mom', but maybe she'd be pretty good as 'Old Friend You See Occasionally'."

"Can I... do that?"

She smiled. "You can do whatever you want."

"I don't just mean for her sake. I mean.." you sigh. "This will be my first real opportunity to put that into practice, and it just so happens that the topic I'll be declining to open up to her about is my most important one ever. Is that insulting to the topic itself? To us? Is it wrong by you?"

Jane examines you for a moment before smiling softly, lifting her arms. "C'mere."

You love when she says that. It sounds like she's about to fix everything.

She brings you close, and you settle your head on her shoulder.

"Our wedding isn't a deadline. There's nothing wrong with letting her come, thinking we're just a couple of squares who love each other. Because honey, that's what every marriage is to everybody who's not in it. Nobody knows everything about us. And I don't know how we'd even put it if we wanted to explain how we got here, but they wouldn't understand if we did. Some of what we are.. is just for us.

"You don't owe it to her, or me, to explain anything you don't feel like. Now if she comes to her senses later on and actually wants to be present in your life, and you want her to know, then I'll sit down with you and give her a play-by-play. But right now, all I need your mom to know is that you're loved. Okay?"

You exhale. "Okay."


"I've brought something for you."

You tilt your head curiously. Your mother has never been one for surprise gifts.

She brings her bag over to sit with you on your couch, where a slice of late afternoon sun falls over it, making it glow like your curiosity.

"I worried, at the time, that this was an invasion of privacy. But I kept it with the hope that when this day arrived, you might be grateful for the overstep."

She opens her bag and takes out a maroon binder which you recognize viscerally.

You frown in surprise. "How.. how do you have this?"

"I noticed it in the wastebasket one day. I hated to see you discard it after all the time you spent on it." Here you accidentally employ one of your fiancee's interrogation tactics, which is to remain silent for long enough that the other person keeps talking. "We spent." She smooths a palm down its front cover.

You had appealed to your mother's artistic senses for bridal gowns and themes and color schemes, and she would bring home magazines and the two of you would sit and look through them for ideas. It was one of very few things you really bonded over.

"We did spend some time on it, didn't we," you smile, accepting the book onto your lap. "It occurs to me now that that's why I was so invested in the project."

You look at her just long enough to be sure that you're sharing an actual moment, and then turn so that you can both look at the book together. Your shoulders brush and you are sucked right back into adolescence.

"Hm," you tilt your head. "I'm ready to admit you were right about Princess Diana's wedding gown."

Your mother gives her head a shake as if she has tasted some dreadful medicine, and you chuckle.

"In my defense, it was still the eighties and I was a child. But it's a testament to your classic tastes that most of this has aged quite well," you remark, turning more pages.

"And yours. Lady Di was not your only contribution."

You smile nostalgically through the pages, full of glossy cut out rectangles slightly rippled from glue.

"We seem to have been torn between Paris, Greece, and the Swiss Alps," she points out, looking to you.

"All lovely choices," you nod, turning the page.

Upon reaching the last pages of the book, you shut it quickly.

"I don't recall-"

"I, yes, well," you pat its back cover. "I was a teenager, at one point, and anticipating... the future."

She smirks with you.

"I'm so delighted that you brought this. In fact, I was just telling Jane about it the other day."

"About how you want the wedding to be?"

You nod slowly. "And about how much of this I don't want."

Icy blue eyes regard you with what you wonder is disappointment.

"Of course your tastes would have changed since adolescence. But, there might be some elements to consider?"

"It's..." you shake your head noncommittally. "Elements, I suppose, yes. Mocha buttercream is fine. Silk charmeuse is fine... but a twenty-foot train might be excessive. I just don't want a huge wedding anymore. And Jane would hate it."

She doesn't blink, and the rise of her brow is nearly imperceptible.

"Are you giving up what you've always wanted for Jane?"

The question is about wedding details, but it casts a longer shadow.

"Jane is what I've always wanted," you smile.

"This," you pat the book. "This was something I enjoyed making with you. But it was fantasy... a placeholder. Conflating the real meaning of marriage with all the spectacle of its ceremony."

You add another smile, wanting the mood to be light.

Your mother's muscles want to frown but she doesn't allow it.

"Real love and grand weddings are not mutually exclusive, Maura."

"Of course not." You hadn't meant to impugn the grandeur of your parents' wedding.

"Is the cost a factor?"

You have what this wedding would cost. You haven't told her that you've agreed to share the expenses with Jane, who does not. But that really isn't it anyway.

"No. I'm honestly just so happy with Jane that the rest doesn't matter like it once did."

Her face eventually lands on a genuine smile. "Well. I'm very glad of that."

She opens the book back up to the page with the picture of the Eiffel tower and the cliffs of Santorini.

"Does a honeymoon abroad still appeal to you?" You sense that she very much wants you to say yes.

"It does. We haven't decided where."

"Do decide." She pats your hand. "Discuss it with Jane, darling, and inform me of your decision as soon as possible. It's to be my gift to you."

.

"How'd it go with your old pal?" Jane asks, clearing up the kitchen. She looks happy to be back in her house clothes, tired from being on good behavior all day.

"It was a nice visit, really. We talked over wedding plans -"

"Please let me tell her we're gonna get married by a fat Elvis in a drive-through chapel."

You roll your eyes. "Guess what? She told me what she wants her wedding gift to be. She wants to send us on our honeymoon."

"Wow," Jane turns, brows high. "Wait, send us where?"

You shrug. "Anywhere we say."

"Holy cow. That's really generous." She studies you, and you know she's considering whether there's any reason not to accept. Often she fiercely resists a gift that she deems too generous, but this time she seems to be deferring to you.

Opening her pocketbook is perhaps the main way your mother has always shown her love. You see no reason to refuse.

"It really is." You come closer and slip your arm around her waist. "And she said to tell you not to worry, that your chivalrous behavior tonight didn't escape her notice."

She smirks. "I wasn't trying to make a thing out of it."

"Mm. I hope you tipped well, after the way you nearly knocked the waiter out of the way so you could pull out my chair."

"If only I got paid that much every time somebody tried to knock me down," she says wistfully, rinsing a plate.

"I explained that you treat me well all the time, but that it's important to you to make sure she sees that you love me. Do you know what she said?"

"What?"

You imitate your mother's face, both dismissive and amused, along with the flick of her hand.

"She said, that has been entirely obvious since our first meeting."


I struggled through a whole Constance / s2 finale hit and run subplot, then I got rid of it, because no one cares. Both of Maura's moms must canonically think they're a couple tho.

It's been a crazy few months. We all may be old and gray by then but I WILL get these dorks hitched.