Maura waits for Tommy, and with every growing minute she feels guiltier.
She's attracted to him. How could she not be? He's attractive. Long-boned, dark-haired, blue-eyed, with perfect teeth. He's in shape and he's always been sweet to her. But she's not going to sleep with him because he's attractive. As attractive as he is, she really doesn't have much interest in him- or in the other man she's slept with since Jane left, who was also very attractive. The sex wasn't even that good.
No, if she's going to sleep with Tommy Rizzoli- and she's still not quite sure she's going to- then she's doing it because he's the closest she can get to Jane. And that's why she feels guilty. It's not as if she's unaccustomed to using someone for their body- she has done it hundreds of times, probably, but it has always been part of a mutual agreement between two parties, and even if Tommy consents she knows she'll be thinking of Jane. Because in the long run, Jane has ruined her for anyone else. Maura no longer aches for completion- she aches for absolution. For the kind of contentedness that only being in love can bring. For the detective who is more than likely sitting somewhere alone with a beer thinking of their case and not of their failed attempt at a long-term relationship.
So she waits, paralyzed with guilt, and she doesn't call him to tell him not to come.
.,.
Jane's in the car within a minute. Her knuckles start to swell about five minutes into the fifteen-minute drive. Tommy's blood dries on the back of her hand and she has to pull over to wipe it off and fight the urge to vomit. But then she remembers the text, remembers as if it was yesterday what Maura felt like sprawled out below her panting and sweating, and she puts the car in drive and doesn't look back.
.,.
Eventually she can hide from it no longer. A knock comes at the door, but it surprises her- it's sharp and rapid, as if whoever is knocking is annoyed or frantic. She supposes that Tommy might be excited, though that's not a thought she likes to entertain, and she gets up to answer it, tugging self-consciously at the hem of her tank top (it used to be Jane's, actually, which adds yet another level of awkwardness to the whole situation). She doesn't check in the peephole because she's expecting Tommy.
When she opens the door she almost chokes on a sharp inhale.
.,.
One of Jane's hands goes right to the back of Maura's neck to pull her in for a bruising kiss, and the other pushes Maura forward by the hip so that they're fully inside by the time her heel comes back against the door and slams it shut. Maura doesn't react immediately, but her mouth falls open- in shock, probably- and Jane takes advantage without even thinking about it. She presses her tongue against Maura's until the ME finally responds, winding her arms around Jane's neck and closing the distance between their bodies.
The rage from earlier, which Jane had expected this kiss to placate, only grows with each second, each twist of Maura's tongue against her own. Because if she hadn't checked Tommy's phone it might have been him with his hands under Maura's top. And that is just not fucking okay with her. Maura is hers and hers alone. She knows this because she knows that the way Maura's whimpering is just for her, because when she pulls back enough to breathe and Maura says "I wasn't expecting that," what she's really saying is "I love you". Jane's not ready to let go of her anger yet.
"I know," she replies, tugging the elastic out of Maura's hair and letting it tumble over her shoulders in messy waves. "You were expecting my brother."
Maura opens her mouth to reply but Jane kisses her before she can form any words. "Don't," she says, her hands tight on Maura's hips. "Don't."
.,.
So Maura stops trying to explain and lets Jane take control. This is, after all, a better outcome than any she could have hoped for. She tries to remember how it had felt to do this with a man- to be met with a veritable wall of muscle- but all she remembers is sour breath and hands that were far, far too large. This is perfect. Jane is perfect- perfect for her. They fit together exactly as if they were made to hold each other like this.
She knows Jane is angry with her. Honestly, she knows she shouldn't feel too bad- given that Jane was the one who left her- but she feels so cripplingly guilty that she has to stop thinking about the situation and instead clings to Jane, who rapidly backs them through the apartment. Maura has moved some furniture around in a vain attempt to 'start over'. Jane doesn't seem to notice until her foot catches on the cord to the lamp Maura moved to the opposite side of the living room- Maura starts to speak, but Jane yanks her foot forward and the lamp crashes into the wall and before there's time to even think about it, they've moved on. Not that this surprises Maura.
Her tank top- or Jane's, really- is long gone by the time they hit the doorway to the bedroom. For her part she has managed to tug Jane's t-shirt up over her head, but her fingers catch on the clasp of Jane's bra and she can't get any purchase before she finds herself falling.
As if she weighs nothing- and she knows she weighs more than nothing (almost exactly 116 pounds) - Jane tosses her onto the bed and descends upon her with predatory focus. It seems as though undressing Jane is a lost cause. This is not about touch anymore. This is something much more primal, much less innocent, and entirely her fault.
.,.
Jane strips Maura of her sweatpants and panties in one swift unbroken move, tosses them over her shoulder, and latches onto the smooth, inviting column of Maura's neck. She settles with one arm holding her up so that she can feel Maura pressed up against her but isn't going to suffocate her and tries to commit each breathless moan to memory. Maura is writhing beneath her, clutching at the belt loops of her jeans.
"Would you have slept with him?" Jane rasps against the curve of Maura's ear, rocking her hips down against Maura's just for the whimper she gets in reply. "Would you have let him touch you," she runs a hand up the inside of Maura's leg to her thigh, to where Maura is so, so ready for her, "like this?"
Maura gasps and it takes Jane a full ten seconds to realize that gasp was a sob. Her lips move from Maura's ear to the corner of her mouth. "Well, he'll never get the chance," she continues, finding the rhythm she had known she'd never forget, as her lips trail across Maura's throat. She tastes Maura's skin, curling her free hand protectively around her lover's waist. "He'll never get the chance, because I'm never going to let you forget again that you belong to me."
.,.
Maura wishes she could find the words to tell Jane that she never forgot. All she can say is Jane's name, in a broken sob that is quickly muffled by a tender kiss that feels more out of place than called-for. She would have let him touch her. She would have slept with him. All because she knows, has always known, that she is nothing without Jane. And even for a second of connection she would give up all respect she has ever had for herself. She doesn't need it. All she needs is Jane. And having Jane back so suddenly is overwhelming enough that when she finally comes apart she realizes that she's crying into Jane's neck and she doesn't care.
She's home.
.,.
Jane peels off her jeans and kicks them away before she curls herself around Maura, who is still crying.
"I'm sorry," she says, kissing the top of Maura's head. "I'm sorry. Please stop- just stop crying."
Maura says something about her lacrymal gland and Jane can't help but smile a little, the vindictiveness seeping out of her with every brush of Maura's fingers across her back. "I never should have left."
"No," Maura agrees, sniffling, smiling. "You shouldn't have."
"But I'm here now."
"Yes. And I'm not letting you leave again."
Her smiles grows until Maura pulls away to look up at her, clearly puzzled. "Why is that funny?" she asks, and Jane kisses her breathless before bothering to answer.
"I wouldn't even bother to try."