- Chapter 1 -

In ten minutes, the world would shatter. Again.

Jane Rizzoli knew the explosion was coming instinctively. Her body knew the time of its arrival like fan-girls knew the show runner down to the caterer of their favorite television shows. It always started with the random twitch of her feet in her sleep until the signal slowly rose up to her sleep-addled brain, alerting the detective to the end of the world as she knew it. There was no use fighting it. It was inevitable; he was inevitable. The blow-up would present itself at the same time, every time, much like USPS. The child was not inconsistent.

Next to her, bravely feigning sleep, Maura Isles shifted in the thick bed covers by clutching her wife's lean body even firmer, if that was even possible. Maura was always clingy in the privacy of their bedroom, stemming from her childhood lack of adequate physical contact from loved ones. Jane giggled at her wife's obvious attempt to ignore the explosion that would come in their foreseeable future.

"Don't laugh," Maura whispered against her lover's warm neck. "He can hear everything, you know."

"It's a Rizzoli trait, nosiness."

"Well, I know that now, living with the Duke of Nosiness himself."

Jane smiled, trying to keep her eyes closed. "Should have used you, honey. I mean, he got my looks, but he also got all of the mental instability that those benefits bring. Frost's DNA did not offset those underlying problems."

"Really."

"Really. The Rizzoli clan is just too fucking inbred for him to have any real impact in subduing the Rizzoli crazy gene. This pain and misery could have been avoided."

"Well, it's a good thing I like a little crazy since I'm married to the craziest of the clan. Gives me a lot of experience in dealing with the Rizzoli crazy gene." The playful game of witty banter over, a small sound of playful annoyance signaled Maura's eye roll before the blonde rolled to her back, throwing her hands over her eyes in exhaustion. Jane shook her head at the rare display of frustration, knowing they had only a short time of blissful intimacy left before all hell broke loose.

"Maybe he won't do it this morning?" Maura groaned.

They went through this "will-he-won't-he" game every morning since their son, Bart, had turned eight months. Like a hurricane, the little guy would break out in a screaming fit every morning (at exactly 7:00 am, regardless of holidays or his mothers' lack of sleep) and alert the house, the neighbors, and sometimes even the guy opening up the Boston Joe's down the street that sleep time was over for another fourteen hours. The little guy seemed to take a sick pleasure out of seeing his mothers stumble into his room with blank stares in response to his bursts of pique.

At first, Jane and Maura had justified Bart's behavior with legitimate excuses – he's just a baby; hell, we did the same thing when we were his age…I guess; it's a growing stage of independence that is necessary for proper child development – but after the first thirty days of waking up at the crack of dawn and getting passive-aggressive letters and phone calls from anyone and everyone who lived within two blocks of their house, the justifications were getting increasingly more argumentative and acquiescent – hey, don't look at us, he's just damn happy to be waking up, you'd be too if you weren't such an asshole about a little bit of noise; maybe if you stop listening to him, he'll stop waking everyone up, so think positive, bitch; you're the only one who has a problem with it because you've never experienced the seemingly never-ending pain of children, so how about having a kid and getting back to me at a later date.

Maura was legitimately concerned that they were going to be forced to move if complaints continued, but Jane was increasingly less perturbed. The house was paid for in full and had been for a while. Constance had bought it for her daughter as a medical school graduation gift so she wouldn't have to worry about living arrangements when and if she decided to come back to Boston. Following her stint in Africa working with Doctors without Borders, Maura had been glad to have the townhouse available while she worked at the morgue as a temporary addition. She had decided to stay and, therefore, remained entrenched in the Beacon Hill townhouse throughout the years. The neighbors could bitch all they wanted, but Jane and Maura weren't leaving unless they decided to. Simple as that.

Jane yawned as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, stretching out the muscle aches of sleep. "Ten seconds til' show time. You really want to make that bet, Maura?"

"I studied game theory as it applies to biology in college."

"And I have no idea what game theory is or how it applies to biology."

"So, no, I will not make that bet."

"Good for you, sweetheart," Jane half-smiled as she rummaged around for a shirt that didn't already show the signs of childcare on it in the form of stains that were unexplainable or rips that weren't there last time she had worn it. "Five seconds left on the clock. Any last comments to make to your wife before St. Terror wakes up?"

"Will this ever end?"

Jane shrugged, closing her eyes in wait. "Somewhere around his eighteenth birthday and us packing him away to begin his life as an adult."

Before Maura could reply to Jane's typical smartass comment, the squealing sound of Bart's voice began to echo around the house. The waves of sound bounced off the walls, broke through the flimsy physical barriers keeping them contained, and summarily hit the ears of numerous neighbors who were probably also waiting for the explosion to come from the Isles-Rizzoli home. If Jane listened hard enough, she was sure she could hear the mutual sigh of frustration released by everyone in the vicinity of Bart's banshee scream.

"I wonder if I screamed back at him, do you think he would scream back?"

Maura shook her head as she began their morning ritual. "Please don't. Enough screaming for one morning. Can you get him ready? I've got to be at the morgue early today. Back-up you wouldn't believe. You're scheduled to come in around twelve again, right?"

Jane nodded, looking for her watch on the bedside table cluttered with all kinds of nonsensical items associated with her profession as a homicide detective. The badge, watch, empty holster – gun kept downstairs, in the safe, Maura's idea. Her golden badge fell unceremoniously to the floor just as she picked up the plain watch that had graced her wrist for umpteen years. She cursed in response, the early morning scream and the reminder of her work schedule at Boston Police Department causing a sudden wave of anger to rise unexpectedly.

Noticing her mood, Maura rose up from the bed with a worried expression. "You sure?"

"About what?"

"Korsak's promotion to lieutenant is made official today. He's not going to be in Homicide anymore. You'll be the acting sergeant instead of playing second-fiddle like you have been since the honeymoon."

Jane turned to face her concerned wife just as Bart's wails subsided into self-amused giggles that carried down the hallway.

"Maura, newsflash, I've been a sergeant for a while now. Remember, we celebrated with sex and everything. Was my performance really that bad that you forgot?"

"No, I know that, but I mean now Cavanaugh is going to be relying on you. That's a lot of pressure and authority for a woman who's not accustomed to the demands of power." Maura raised an eyebrow, silently questioning Jane's confident demeanor. "Can you handle this?"

Jane rolled her eyes. "Well, I guess we'll see, won't we? Now, you gonna let me focus on getting St. Terrible cleaned up and presentable for his date with the nanny?"

"Jane…"

"Maura, please."

Maura made a face of confusion. "Please what, Jane?"

"Let's just tackle one thing at a time. Bart's needs come first then work, okay?"