Sunday

Jane spent the morning going over her cases, an old game on the tv in the background. Sunday dinner should be better this week. Jane's hands felt better, since Doctor Isles had taught her that trick, the spot to release the tightness.

Angela was insistent that Jane invite Doctor Isles for dinner next week, and Detective Frost, but Jane just groaned. Jane went home with her Tupperware, then pulled out her laptop. She watched a few autopsies, knowing she was putting off the one she wanted to see. The one from Monday. The one where Doctor Isles had been human for a moment. Jane wanted to see the expression on her face when she'd looked at Jane; she hadn't been able to read it herself in real-time. She wanted to watch the playback so she could pause and study the other woman.

Jane's own blush was embarrassing on video. Nothing inappropriate had been said, but Jane was glad she hadn't elaborated in the morgue, since it was available to most of homicide. The way Doctor Isles had said 'secret admirer' had her blushing again. It had probably been intended to sound droll, but it had a hint of flirtation to it, enough to have Jane rewinding the video again, remembering how gentle Doctor Isles had been with her hands a few days later, how it juxtaposed with the treatment Jane had received from her before. When Jane had helped Doctor Isles to her feet, the hand in hers had been so warm, so gentle, as though she'd been afraid of the contact. She hadn't been repulsed by the scar, or reluctant to take Jane's hand; Jane had enough experience with people who had to be able to tell the difference. Jane wondered how often Doctor Isles had been touched, and then blushed again. Doctor Isles was very attractive, even Jane had to admit that. So it stood to reason that she had an active dating life, that someone took her home on occasion. That she had someone that held her hands. That she was no stranger to being touched with affection, with something Jane couldn't offer her. There was no ring, but Doctor Isles had to be in her thirties. Surely someone as gorgeous as Doctor Isles had at least a regular booty call, if not a string of admirers to use and discard - she didn't seem like someone who would date for the social aspects. She was clearly affluent, and her job was certainly more than enough to cover her fashion addiction. There had to be someone in her life, someone that Doctor Isles was involved with. But when Jane had offered her hand the look on Doctor Isles' face had been confusing, followed by her storming away. She'd looked like she was going to cry - and at what, a simple gesture to help her to her feet on unsteady terrain? Was she really so cold and isolated that no one else on her crime scenes offered to help her when she would clearly struggle otherwise?

And then, the next day Jane had let her hands wander the plane of those delicious biceps, down to her hands, and Doctor Isles, although watching Jane carefully, didn't seem to think that was unusual. She'd borne Jane's hands on her skin as though it was the most normal thing that had ever happened. Jane wondered if that was why she'd been at the gym while it was empty; if other people, people like Jane, were anxious to correct her form. But unlike her, were just looking for an excuse to touch the lycra-clad woman. But Doctor Isles had shared her gym schedule with Jane, so she must not have minded. And Jane had kept it brief and appropriate, she'd only been trying to help out those poor wrists, it wasn't like she'd wrapped herself around the doctor from behind under the guise of showing her a stance. Yet Jane had still reveled in seeing those tiny hairs on Doctor Isles' arms rise as her hand passed them, leaving goosebumps in her wake, had reveled in the smug satisfaction of having that warm, golden skin under her hands.

And then, on Friday. She'd been so professional with the broken weight of Jane's hands in hers, been so compassionate at the crime scene that Jane, already close to tears, had wanted to cry when she'd taken the camera from her heavy hands without a single comment on her weakness.

Jane rewound it again, back to 'secret admirer'. Perhaps that was why she could watch Doctor Isles' autopsies. Perhaps what drew her to the other woman was attraction, and that's why Jane could see her hold a knife. Perhaps they'd bonded somehow.

Jane sighed and switched to Friday's recording. The genitals remained covered, thankfully, Doctor Isles working around the sheet in each case. Jane was getting used to watching herself from above now, but she saw how she flinched when Doctor Isles picked up an instrument; subdued but she saw it. But what she hadn't noticed on Friday was Doctor Isles, the way she reacted to those tiny movements, the way she deescalated, no judgement on her face as she set her tools down. Jane had been watching her long enough to know how she liked to work, and she could see how deliberately calm and smooth her movements were, how her voice stayed low and soothing, how every time Jane wanted to step back, to walk away she paused and pulled the scalpel out of sight. Jane felt bad; if she hadn't been there, Doctor Isles could have done her job a lot faster, but she'd also had the sense that Doctor Isles hadn't minded for once, that she hadn't wanted to do this one alone. When Doctor Isles extracted the bullet, she'd handed it into Jane's gloved palms, and Jane had taken it to the lab. Doctor Isles had worked quickly and efficiently while Jane was out of the morgue, her pace and movements noticeably slowing as Jane came back in.

"She knows," Jane breathed. Of course she did; the woman had the IQ of a genius and she knew how Jane had come to be so scarred. It was a sensible leap of logic to assume that Jane had a fear of scalpels. But when Jane was in the morgue with her, she didn't let on for a moment that she was accommodating Jane in any way. It was only watching back that she could see the amount of restraint and delicacy and compassion there was in the way Doctor Isles performed an autopsy with Jane in the room. Jane would have never asked Doctor Isles for help - she was too stubborn, too scared of being seen as weak. And here Doctor Isles was, offering it so unobtrusively that Jane hadn't noticed until she'd seen it captured on film.

Jane swiped at her leaking eyes, pausing the video. No one had ever extended such a kindness to her - and Doctor Isles didn't even like her, yet she didn't point out that knives made Jane jumpy, never judged her for watching from a distance. She'd let Jane pretend that everything was fine, even though she clearly knew it wasn't. Jane shut her laptop and headed to bed, pulling a pillow to her chest to sob into.

Notes:

I had to manually write on paper this week and it really emphasised how bad my hands have disintegrated. Unrelated to chapter, but I say 'fight me' too much for someone who cannot make a fist.