A/N: Chapter Two; I originally imagined this all as a very long one-shot, but I felt like the natural break of action would be best served with a break in chapters...of course, now it's looking like three chapters instead. Also, now that I know that people are reading...I'm a little nervous. What do you think is going to happen? I don't want to disappoint...
Disclaimer: If I owned R&I, Angela would have started an Italian bakery in the very first episode known to food critics far and wide as "The Rizzoli Cannoli" [why, yes, that is a joke, please feel free to humor me (get it?) with a chuckle].
The fog grew heavier as the alcohol settled quite comfortably into the various lobes and cortices of Isles's brain, but sleep (quite frustratingly) eluded her. She ended up turned on her side with her back to the door and was just starting to feel relaxed enough to drift off to sleep when her door creaked open.
Isles went rigid, trying to keep her heart from thudding even louder than it already was. Although it was highly doubtful that the intruder was a bloodthirsty murderer intent on killing her, the thought refused to leave her already entangled mind, and she tried to think, think, damnit, of possible options for action.
Run? Not likely. She probably wouldn't get two feet before falling on her face, or the stranger might very well just shoot her where she stood. No, all logic - even the small amount that remained with her - convinced her that remaining stationary was the only responsible choice.
Her fears were assuaged immediately when the respective quiet thuds of phone, gun, and finally badge resounded from the nightstand behind her, and Rizzoli climbed into bed. There was a moment of silence, and then-
"Hey. Hey, Maura. Hey. You awake?" Rizzoli whispered, which sounded like something between a hyena snoring and a cat hissing. It occurred to Isles at that moment that Bostonian-Italians were not used to whispering, and only replied in an attempt to make her stop.
"Mm."
"Gimme some of the blanket. Your couch is almost worse than mine."
At that, Isles flipped over to face her, and if she'd been less intoxicated the proximity sensors in her head would be blaring.
"My couch is brilliant." Isles hissed back adamantly. "In fact, my couch could ace the MCATs, the LSATs, and prepare an elegant eleven course meal in the time it would take your couch to..."
There was a strange look on Rizzoli's face that made Isles lose her train of thought...something like admiration? That didn't seem right, unless her point was going across better than she thought. She desperately tried to pick it back up, adding, "...to just sit there and..." before trailing off again. They lay there in total silence for a moment, until-
"Jane?"
"Yeah, Maura?"
"You're staring at me."
"Huh?" Rizzoli let the words process, and just before she launched forward into the beginning of an explanation, Isles thought she saw a flush tint her cheeks in the dim light that seeped in from the half open door. "I think I just zoned out, 'cause I was thinking about, you know, those ancient guys and their-"
Isles jolted when the detective stopped abruptly and lifted her head off of her pillow.
"Ah, fuck it," Rizzoli muttered, and, with that same unnatural accuracy that Isles had complimented a mere hour earlier, swooped forward and closed the space between them.
The kiss only lasted a few moments, before Rizzoli pulled back. Isles resisted the urge to check her pulse and record what she was sure was a record high.
"I am not entirely sure why you did that." Isles said slowly. It wasn't a complete lie, but it was enough of one that Rizzoli pounced on it immediately.
"Oh, come on, like you weren't looking at me like that earlier. And don't even try to deny it, we both know you're a terrible liar."
In any other state, Isles would have been more than capable of finding a way of extracting herself from the situation cleanly and efficiently, but the kiss had send a jolt of electricity to her brain, igniting a veritable Molotov cocktail with the alcohol that lie in wait there...and it made her not want to. Instead, she did what she knew, logically, was both inevitable and unexpected: she returned the favor, taking Rizzoli by surprise, but not enough to keep her from reciprocating.
When they finally broke for air, Isles took a stab at stating the obvious.
"We must be really drunk,"
"I know," Rizzoli replied with a dazed smile. God, that smile.
"So...that makes this okay?"
"Does it have to?"
"I don't...I don't know...no?" Isles thought for a second. "I've confused myself."
Rizzoli laughed, brushing a thumb against the corner of Isles's mouth. "Obviously."