After their subdued breakfast, Maura was busy putting things away in the fridge, when she realized that Jane was no longer washing dishes. She kept moving so that her friend would not be alerted to the fact that she was being watched.
The tall brunette's body was rigid, her hands shaking, skin gone pale, and a slight sweat had broken out across her exposed skin. She shook; the half-washed bowl slipped from her wet fingers and back into the sink. Jane turned to stare at the closed cabinet door where she kept her whiskey, visibly using every ounce of self-control she had left not to open it, to stop the tremors. Just one shot would be all it took, but as one hand twitched in that direction, haunted eyes flicked towards Maura, and she froze on the spot.
Not wanting to let Jane know she had been watching as closely as she had, Maura asked in what she hoped was a light tone of voice, "Jane? Where's the other bowl? Did you leave it on the table?" When there was no response, worried hazel eyes fixed upon the taller woman's face, then at the cabinet behind Jane's head.
A sudden surge of something entirely unpleasant took hold of Maura. She thought it might be hatred, this rush of destructive desire. She wanted to yank open the cabinet door, throw everything but the whiskey out of her way, and then smash every bottle on the countertop, the floor, the wall, any hard surface she could find, until there was nothing left that could poison the friend she loved so dearly. Outwardly, she permitted one hand to tighten its grip on the object she still held, just for a moment, and then relax as she uttered the one thing that she knew could calm her. "Jane." Before the name had even passed Maura's lips, she had abandoned the butter bell and stepped towards her friend's side. There was no question of whether Jane was okay; she clearly wasn't. "What can I do to help you right now?"
"I honestly don't know. I don't… I can't," Jane closed her eyes, hands clenching at her sides. "I'm going to do this, Maura. I am, but," opening her eyes, she backed away slowly reaching behind her as her eyes remained on the door. As her hand came into contact with a chair, she slowly sat down. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she gave a harsh whisper of a demand. "Pour them out."
Immediately Maura turned to do Jane's bidding, moving swiftly and efficiently, yet without apparent distress or hurry in any part of her but her face. Soft hands opened the wooden cabinet door and removed three full bottles and one partial. Maura winced at the quantity. She opened the first and poured it out, amber liquid so beautiful in color, rich in fragrance.
The soft purk purk purk purkas it gurgled out of the narrow bottle neck, the initial impact of whiskey with stainless steel sink, and the gurgle as it wasted away down the drain – it was heartbreaking, such a waste, or would have been if it hadn't been the cheapest, least appealing brand on the market. As it was, it was still a monetary waste, despite the fact that Jane had apparently become accustomed to economizing in order to be able to afford more of this bad medicine.
Three more times, Maura broke seals and wasted the contents, then rinsed each bottle with hot water to remove the scent from the house. When it was all gone from the cabinet, she turned around and asked, "Where's the rest?"
Jane wiped at her mouth with the back of a shaking hand. "Maura," she began to deny it, but the smaller woman stood right in front of her, afraid for her, concerned for her, not permitting the lie.
Maura watched as something heroic happened, something that she could only see because of who she was. Right at that moment, Maura was grateful to have spent her life so socially awkward and isolated, so incapable of understanding those around her, because that was what had led to her intensive study of facial expression and microexpression. It was what let her see that her hero from before the shooting was still there, still able to defeat the mightiest foe she would ever face.
Her best friend could not lie to her effectively, not when Maura was paying attention, but she sometimes tried. She was not trying right now. Right now, Jane had the will to admit to herself she had a problem. Right now, she was strong enough to admit where all her hiding places were. She could do this right now, and she should while she was still strong enough to do so. She closed her eyes and recited the list of hiding places. Maura breathed a sigh of relief.
One brow lifting in silent question, until she was certain that there were no more secret stashes left for Jane to disclose, then went to each one and rid the house of whiskey entirely, picking up bottles, filling her arms with them, and bringing them to the kitchen to pour out. As she was on her way to the last stop, she thought, It smells good. Well, no, it smells cheap, but I could have something better later on. I've got a gorgeous little cabernet that's been waiting for me— The thought stopped abruptly, and the vehemence of the mental halt actually veered her steps off course. She was halfway to her purse before she had the conscious thought as to why she wanted her cell phone.
She dialed the second number on her speed dial, one simply marked as Peter, with a nervous, fumbling hand, and when the cheerful voice answered, skipped every single pleasantry in which she was accustomed to engage when speaking with the delightful man at the other end of the call. "Peter, how soon could I sell the contents of my wine cellar?" she asked, standing in Jane's bedroom, tapping the fingers of her other hand against her thigh.
The response had a bit too much detail. Normally she wanted to hear those things, but the moment felt too urgent. "I don't want to interrupt, Peter, but right now time is precious. Let me be more precise. How soon can every last bottle be out of my home? Even if it has to sit in a warehouse, or be poured out into the toilet, I will be rid of it. This is about the health of someone I… need to be healthy." While speaking, Maura fetched a box to stand upon while rummaging on the top closet shelf, fingers searching blindly until finding that last bottle of whiskey.
Used to Dr. Isles's particular treatment of the excellent vintages in her cellar, Peter started to talk about the optimum temperature and humidity levels for preserving the flavor, color, clarity, and bouquet of each one. Maura broke in, one more time. "Listen, Peter. Listen. I don't ever want to see it again. In fact, if every bottle isn't out of my house by the end of this week, I may pour it all down the toilet on Sunday morning. I don't care how it leaves my house; I care that it leaves my house."
Once she had put the box back in place, Maura left the bedroom with the final drop of whiskey Jane possessed and headed back into the kitchen. "I want to be rid of all of it. Every last bit, Peter. Contact every oenophile and auction house you can find, discreetly, and see what you can do. Celerity is more important than revenue. All right, thank you. Just get it to an expert's care as soon as possible. Try Maurice Quigley; I believe he's in the country right now. Thank you, Peter."
She opened the bottle and poured, then turned towards the refrigerator, trying for the moment to ignore Jane so that she would not see the look on her face. There was still the beer in the fridge, as well as two bottles of her own wine that she'd left here over a month ago, the last time she'd been welcomed. Without an instant of mercy or regret, she went after every bit of it, pulling it out and uncapping or uncorking every bottle, then enriching the life of the drain pipe with grape, with hop and barley.
When the entire apartment was free, she moved back to Jane's side and stood by her chair, placing one hand atop her friend's morning-mussy hair. "Still present?"
"More or less," Jane cleared her throat. "What was that phone call about?" She reached up to pull the hand on her head down. Threading her fingers through Maura's, she looked up, waiting. Her eyes said she needed the distraction even as her hands trembled and her body twitched.
"I found one more stash," Maura replied easily, and since the one hand had been taken possession of, the other took its turn in petting and stroking Jane's hair, head to neck to spine. "Mine."
"You didn't have to do that. I know how you feel about your wine, Maura. I can't ask you to turn your life upside down just because I've let mine go all to hell." As she spoke, Jane leaned in, resting her head against the doctor's lean frame. She sighed heavily, "Thank you."
Maura's eyes closed as she wrapped her arm around Jane's head and shoulders, pulling her closer into her body, still clad in her nightgown and robe, protecting and comforting. It took several seconds longer than usual for her to speak, though she had the words. You are my life, she tried to say, but the sound would not come. She cleared her throat, suddenly glad to have been given that opportunity to reword herself. Dr. Sorin had warned her of her codependency. Now was not the time to burden Jane. "Sweetheart," she replied, voice thick and heavy, as her fingers idly stroked Jane's cheek and jawline, "you may know how I feel about wine, but you clearly don't know how I feel about you if you think you're not far more important to me."
"Maybe not," came the muffled answer.
For a time, they remained that way before Jane pulled out. "I feel bad, Maura. I feel really bad, and cold and hot and shaky, and… it's hard for me to think, and… honestly, if you weren't here, I'd probably be licking the empty bottles right now. I think… can we go lay down, away from… I can still smell it, and I need," she shook her head. "I have a problem. I need help, but do you think I can do this without rehab? My job, my reputation… God, I've fucked it all up." Her eyes flicked back to the cabinet door, a reflex.
Rather than giving direct verbal assent, Maura simply let her hands give Jane a gentle tug towards standing height, stepped back just enough to allow Jane to rise without bumping into her on the way up. "Go lie down, Jane. I'll clean out the sink so you can't smell it anymore. I do know a therapist who will treat you outside the rubric of the BPD, so they won't be able to ask questions about your issues or your fitness to serve. I'll call her a little later if you want. Right now, get back into pajamas. A fresh pair. I'll meet you in there and we'll talk about your options."