A/N:
This is just a piece I dreamed up while working today. Trying to test out my skills writing a shorter piece, and hey first true one shot so that's cool! This is written in Jane's POV, so sit back and relax! Much Love- E.
P.S. - Let me know how it was and if you would like to see something like this again! They are definitely something I can manage if a chapter on a longer fic is going to run late. I tried to keep this one at around a thousand words and in a perspective that I don't typically write in so criticism is very much welcome.
A Painting in Paris
The vibrancy that is Veronese's Wedding Feast at Cana would on any other day, be the brightest sight in the overly packed room at the Louvre.
However, I find it dimming in comparison to her daring smile.
The painting's flurry of activity has nothing on the way she takes in every detail with her brilliantly quick mind. Her movement is carefree and relaxed in a way I've not seen before this trip. Her ordinary but polished outfit blended seamlessly into the culture around her, embracing her as if she had always been there. Her light honey-tinged eyes were holding more joy than I had seen in years.
They held me captive on the smooth stone bench, taunting my already weak will.
I had been writing in a small journal as she made her way through the throngs of people to revisit some of her favorite pieces. While my thoughts had been freely flowing from the ink, now it seemed even my pen was afraid to move in the chance that it break this moment.
I can see her shorter but nimble frame pushing past tourists and children, she's making her way to me and that smile hasn't dropped an inch.
I wonder if she can tell how nervous I am right now. My hands haven't left the notebook, but I can feel the slight crumple of the page as my grip tightens around it. My pen falls to the floor as she comes to a stop next to me.
Like a clap of thunder, it startles me back into reality.
Without thinking, I find myself reaching down to pick it up. My hand falls short as her quicker one darts out to grab it first. I look up to see Maura moving quickly to sit next to me on the remaining bench seat.
Her hand comes to rest behind me, drawing me slightly into her side. She leans over to hand me the pen and I can smell the perfume she had put on earlier that day. It's fresh and clean and just enough to have me closing my eyes in contentment.
"You about ready?"
Her low voice is right at my ear. I can feel chills pulling me from my reverie as I nod slightly. I don't trust my voice to work just yet.
She runs her hand down my arm as we stand to leave, and I find myself pulling in a quick breath. I don't think I've ever noticed how much smaller her hand feels in mine until now. Her fingers hooking around mine and pulling me through the crowds have my stomach doing flips.
It's not like we've never been the touchy-feely type of friends before, but this is different. After nearly a month together in the gorgeous but modestly smaller apartment in Paris, I was having a hard time finding the already grey line between us. There are times when I feel like she sees it too. The quickly vanishing physical boundaries and unspoken routines were in full force, now that we were out of the watchful gaze of our families and friends.
She was talking animatedly about each piece that we passed, and some of her favorites that weren't on display at the moment. Her voice had been carrying me through the gallery, each portrait coming to life with her words. I didn't even realize that I'd let her hand go to wrap an arm fully around her, until we hit the exit line.
We pause for a moment as the line slows, people milling around without a care in the world. She'd pulled tight against me and I'm pretty sure she can feel my heart pounding its way out of my chest. If she does, she thankfully doesn't say anything about it. Instead, she's simply settled into my hold, her head falling on my shoulder.
I can make out the bold pinks and oranges of the fiery sunset settling behind the square as we exit. The evening is cooler than it has been lately, and I can feel Maura shiver closer to me. It's not a far walk to the apartment, but I step back anyway. Before she can utter her word of protest, I've got my light jacket swung around her shoulders.
I wait for her to slip her arms through the sleeve before zipping it up enough to keep her warm from the breeze. Her teasing glance matches my smirk as she settles in.
My heart has completely stopped beating.
The sun had made its lap down over the building sending a dusting of golden light around us.
Maura looked more like a goddess than any statue or painting the Greats could fathom.
She pulled me close for a tight hug, words of thanks lost on my reeling mind. Her lips were soft and cool as they brushed against my cheek, her hand anchoring against the other.
It's over far too soon, but I return it with my own as she settles back under my arm.
I think I finally understand what Leonardo was thinking when he said, "Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt."
Maura is a work of poetry lined in the most vibrant colors and darkest shadows. Emanating the stories of loss and triumph, hope and despair all in one. The horrors that she had seen and been subjected to, leaving only a mark behind on the ever-expanding canvas.
I am left watching in fascination every day as the colors change bringing with it, a deeper understanding of what it means to love this woman.
Maura is happily pointing out various buildings and their history as we stroll. Her hands tighten around my waist as something particular piques her interest, Google mouth in full swing. I do find it annoying at work, but seeing her ramble on about her favorite things does put me in a better mood.
I can't help but wonder if this is the start of our own masterpiece as we make our way down the quiet streets, locked together in a time of utter joy.