Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Rizzoli and Isles or the characters that have been so brilliantly crafted. They all belong to TNT, Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro, Jan Nash, etc.
Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who took the time to read and review the previous chapter! Hope everyone is feeling up for a slow burn this afternoon. As before, feedback is always welcome!
Feast or Famine
Apart from the steady clump of heel against cobblestone, the tree-lined street is entirely silent, the evening's weather having driven its residents indoors. Tall, ivy-strewn brownstones of Beacon Hill are picturesque under a light dusting of snow, dark brick and the mossy layer of fallen foliage contrasting with brilliant white. At mid-October, the flurries are considered an early appearance for the New England city, and the gentle squalls of flakes incite a dull buzz of panic even in those accustomed to heavy winter blanketing. Jane, in particular, is not ready for winter. Winter is slow and forceful in its ways, curbing Jane's hurricane of activity with slippery sidewalks, downed powerlines, and heavy winter coats. And though she can appreciate pond hockey and the way your lungs feel alive with crisp December air, winter is, above all else, boring.
"Violent crime rates rise and fall in accordance with the temperature. Some studies have shown more than a two percent spike in crime during summer months. Winter isn't boring, Jane, there are simply fewer murders," Maura's voice appears in her head, sing-song in its recital of facts, and Jane wonders if these are statistics she has heard from the medical examiner, or if she simply recalls all tedious information to the tune of the blonde's intonation.
Sighing, she catalogues a mental retort before trudging on, tongue outstretched in an attempt to catch a snowflake—she could make winter fun. It isn't long before lean legs have propelled her to Maura's doorstep. She adjusts the heavy paper bag to rest in the crook of one arm before reaching for the handle, breaching the barrier with a flurry of stomped boots and a shake of raven locks. She watches as Maura startles briefly before tense features melt into a welcoming smile.
"You know what? I wouldn't scare you like that if you'd just lock your door," she says with a cocked eyebrow. Her tone is serious, but Maura cannot help but chuckle as the detective struggles to remove snow dampened boots, long limbs fighting to regain stability as she balances on a single foot.
"I knew you'd be back shortly," she replies, moving to relieve the brunette of the grocery bag that threatens to tip from lithe arms. A gentle hand steadies Jane at the elbow, and the detective is momentarily slowed by the way Maura's thumb rubs absent-minded circles through the fabric of her sweater.
"Would've been a lot shorter if you didn't insist on that butcher. This better be the best damn lamb I've ever had," she's muttering, "trudged halfway to North End just to get this grass-fed crap you and Tommy were going on about at dinner."
This time, Jane knows she is recalling a conversation when she imagines Maura's words. "He's right, Jane. Grass-fed lamb has proven to be a leaner, more marbled cut of meat than similar grain-fed counterparts. Not to mention it contains nearly twice the density of Omega-3s. The variance in diet does lead to a less consistent flavor profile, however." Jane forcefully closes an eye, willing the memory to stop before Angela's shrill voice scolds her again for failing to include her own mother in this conquest to master the culinary arts.
With a look of puzzlement this Maura interrupts the internal dialogue. "Thank you, Jane," she says sincerely as she returns to the counter.
"You're welcome. This recipe better give me an edge against Tommy," she grumbles in response, then, more gently, "I'm sorry you got roped into this." Eager eyes contradict her words, however, and she moves to unpack the spoils of her expedition with no hesitation.
"Don't be silly," Maura admonishes, "you know I'm happy to help you," then, after a beat, "always." Jane smiles, she knows this to be true—in feast or famine.
/~~~~~~~:~~~~~~~~/
Jane swirls the remnants of her wine glass haphazardly, eyes studying the snow-covered sidewalk outside of Maura's window. While they have uncorked a hearty red and recounted the day's events, outside, the early Autumn dusting has transformed into a full-fledged Nor'easter. New England through the mid-Atlantic will sleep soundly under a carpet of wet, heavy snow tonight, and Jane is thankful to have had the forethought to bring Jo Friday to the medical examiner's home. In the background she can hear a newscaster— a local, judging by the accent—discuss what this storm means for salt reserves with a fervor Jane deems entirely too impassioned for the topic. The detective finds she cares very little about winter preparedness. In fact, she cares very little about anything outside these sturdy walls, at the moment.
Not usually one for wine, Jane is secretly grateful her friend had insisted on opening a bottle born from the delectable Sangiovese grape variety (there is her voice again). Maura had promised the detective that it would warm her from the inside out, and true to her word, Jane had felt the first sip radiate from the tips of her toes to settle comfortably behind her ears. It was the perfect companion to the unusually early chill, and she was enjoying the way the alcohol slowed her movements and steadied her thoughts. Now, gaze fixed firmly outdoors, Jane wonders if she had perhaps enjoyed slightly too much.
"Are you ready to begin?" Maura asks cheerfully, interrupting the brunette's thoughts.
"Mmm?" Jane turns to face the doctor, eyes taking a second longer to focus than is the norm. Jane notes the blue floral apron the blonde has draped loosely over her chest, ties hanging slack along her shoulders entwined with loose ringlets of hair. More specifically, she notes how the neckline eclipses the low cut of Maura's dress, and how her wine-addled brain moves quickly to imagine that said dress ceases to exist.
Maura speaks slowly, noting the dazed look on her friend's features. "The lamb has finished marinating, are you ready to begin cooking?" Jane only nods. She is ready to do whatever Maura asks, whatever will prolong this moment of domestic bliss. "Good. A little help, then?" Maura requests, rounding the edge of the counter and presenting her back to Jane.
They stand in silence for a moment, neither breathing, until finally Jane breaks. A gentle hand brushes honey locks to the side, the backs of lean fingers grazing from nape of neck to shoulder blade, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Slowly, deliberately, she ties the strings of the apron, hot breath raising tiny hairs on the back of Maura's neck. "There," she whispers, forcing herself to take a step back from the blonde.
"And the bottom?" Maura asks with a glance over her shoulder that drifts from Jane down to the loose ties that hang at her own waist.
With a clear of her throat Jane closes the distance between them once more, grasping the course fabric between finger and thumb. She is half-way to a knot when she pauses, hands paralyzed. She knows that Maura is far from incapable. Knows that yoga-toned arms could easily reach behind tender hips, that dexterous fingers could fashion an impeccable bow. Suddenly, before she even realizes it, Jane is imagining what else those nimble fingers could be doing, where else her own touch could be better put to use. A gentle sway of blonde hair brings Jane out of her reverie and she hastens to complete her work. Her lips move to speak, but can only muster a short breath. She does not want to signal the completion, does not want to relinquish the closeness of their bodies just yet.
Maura turns at the feeling of inactivity and the way the apron no longer tugs against her chest. Dark eyes immediately meet her own as she stands to face the brunette. Her arms press closely to her sides, afraid that any contact will elicit a shock with the way the air between them feels positively charged. "I'm ready now," she breathes, and Jane's eyes flit restlessly between a piercing hazel gaze and the gentle parting of soft lips.
Ready. Ready for so many things.
With a clear of her throat Jane steps away, battling the feeling of her soul tearing at the seams, as though a million magnets draw her back towards the other woman. Her voice is an octave lower when she speaks, "Good, let's get started."
Maura smiles in return, a puff of air forced through her nose: a sigh contained. Jane moves to stand behind the cutting board, fighting to forget the flash of disappointment that had settled on the doctor's brow when she had placed distance between them. Afraid that the wine has her seeing things that were never there.
/~~~~~~~:~~~~~~~~/
Empty plates lay forgotten on the table, but the second bottle of wine is well attended at the counter. The two women sit knee to knee, Jane recounting a tale of her early days with Korsak with an invigorated animation. Maura is captivated, less by the narrative and more so by the way the detective's abdomen grows rigid with breathy laughter and the lean hand that reaches towards Maura's thigh, inviting her into the story. Spurred by the halted awkwardness of the apron encounter, Jane had consumed her fair share of the wine over the course of dinner and its preparation, and her wild gesticulations reflect accordingly. Maura, having objectively noted the glossy sheen to her friend's eyes and the loss of fine motor coordination, had quietly brought a glass of water to Jane's seat, hoping to encourage rehydration. The gesture had gone unnoticed and now Maura watches as Jane's arm dances dangerously near the vessel. The medical examiner barely flinches as she observes the glass tip. Jane, however, reacts instantly—razor sharp reflexes are dulled slightly and her attempt to halt the fall leads to an overcorrection, the clear contents now rushing towards the seated pair. Both stand quickly, moving phones and stray papers out of the path of the small river. Maura laughs as she watches Jane run a hair through tangled locks, dark eyes showing genuine confusion at how she has created such a mess.
"You seem a little flustered, Detective Rizzoli," Maura's attempt at a tone fit for an interrogation is stymied by the deep smirk that dimples her cheeks.
Jane walks to grab the hand towels that are homed along the handle of the oven, tossing one to Maura from across the island. Jane meets her eyes, they are laughing and kind. A grin. Jane knows this game, and her voice is low and sultry when she replies, "Is this making you feel flustered, Dr. Isles? Something you care to tell me?" Jane moves to rejoin her at the counter, letting one leg linger slightly behind the shorter woman, pressing it flush against the blonde as Jane reaches to mop up stagnant liquid.
Maura cannot move. There are a million things the medical examiner wishes to tell her friend, several that she is beginning to feel she needs to share with the detective, and no way for her to lie. Instead, she stands in silence, the heat of untruth rising up her neck and tickling the base of her ears. She does not realize how heavily her hips are pressed against the counter until she notices a spreading dampness along her abdomen, the spilled water having seeped along the silky billows of her dress. "I'm wet," Maura states, head cocked at the realization.
Jane takes a sudden side step, head swiveling to meet Maura's eyes and brows knitted in confusion. These are not the rules by which they usually play. She is afraid to ask for clarification, but she is not sure what answer it is that she fears.
"Uhm," Maura swallows forcefully, recognizing her misstep, "what I meant to say," a clear of her throat, "what I meant to say is that my dress—my dress is wet." She steps back and gestures towards the darkening circle along her middle, and Jane cannot help the bark of a laugh that escapes her lips.
Later that night, in the darkness of the guestroom with quiet snowfall outside, the detective would replay the conversation in her mind. In all of the scenarios that she imagines, it is never Maura's dress that is wet.