Post by handprinted on Sept 8, 2010 21:31:26 GMT -5
Title: The Beast in Me and the Friend beside Me
Author: handprinted
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli & Isles or the Boston Red Sox.
Summary: A 1.09 mid-ep fic in which Maura knows more than she let on.
A/N: The timeline of this episode completely mindf***ed me. This fic assumes that Jane and Maura went with Frankie to the bar to help fix the plumbing, then Jane went to the precinct to listen to the road assistance recording, then went to the morgue to debate the ethics of keeping Maura alive, then they went back to the bar as Frank and Frankie were finishing up, in which we were deprived of the hug shown in the promo photos, and the next morning, they went out on the call for the hitman’s body. Even though they showed the family peanut scene after the dead body scene. This fic takes place after Jane and Maura left the bar, but before they were called into work the next morning.
When the warm joy of Frank’s successful plumbing repair had faded and Frankie had soundly lost the peanut war, Jane insisted I stay the night with her. She cited many perfectly logical reasons—it was very late, her apartment was closer, and if left to my own devices she was afraid I would not keep my word of taking the next day off work—but my acquiesce had very little to do with any of them. I could recall more vividly than I would prefer the overwhelming fear and helplessness I felt when Jane had been kidnapped, stalked, or put in any other sort of extreme danger. If she had felt even a fraction of that, and as evidenced by her “whatever you want, I can get it” when I called her cell I felt it was a reasonable conclusion that she had, I knew she would want to keep me in sight for a little while. (I certainly had wanted the same when Hoyt was hunting her—enough to endure the minor sleep deprivation, wrinkled dress, and sharp tone with which I spoke to Frost and Korsak.) And despite the reprieve granted by observing the Rizzoli family’s antics, I was fidgety, I had noted in myself an increased startle reflex, and my chest felt tight—all classic indicators of anxiety—and couldn’t deny needing somehow to stay close to the sole person in my life who I knew was both capable of and willing to keep me safe.
So, much like the night several weeks earlier, Jane and I retired to her bed. I closed my eyes to attempt to meditate for a few minutes, hoping vainly that it would help calm me. I couldn’t stop my mind from running through the conversation I’d had with Jane in the morgue over and over, but was ultimately distracted by the sound of rustling fabric. Cracking an eye yielded the sight of Jane clad in boxer shorts and an extremely faded red Boston Red Sox tee, and I couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that she had changed into what must pass as sleepwear for her wardrobe.
When she finally settled next to me on the bed, I said quietly, “I know you didn’t take the phone to the crime lab.”
I could feel her entire body tense beside mine.
“I’m not an idiot, Jane,” I continued. “Having a tech trace the phone might lead to my—to Doyle, but it wouldn’t help track down the killer.”
She detected the question underlying my statement. “What are you asking me, Maura?”
‘Did you call him and give him Tommy O’Rourke’s name?’ As badly as I wanted to ask, I was reasonably certain it was the only question I’d ever had that I didn’t want the answer to. If she hadn’t called, then there would still be someone out there hunting me. If she had, then…
The silence stretched on.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “Good night.”
I closed my eyes and feigned sleep until after nearly an hour I finally heard her breathing indicate she had entered a deeper cycle of rest. Slowly, so as not to wake her, I turned over onto my side toward her, and studied her face in the light from the lamp on the nightstand. Even the relaxation of sleep couldn’t wholly erase the markers of the day. Her frontalis muscle drew her eyebrows slightly together and her orbicular oris had tightened. I traced my fingertip gently over her features, hating that her body bore the stress I knew I had caused.
We were roused the next morning (though it was, in actuality, closer to noon) by our simultaneously ringing cell phones. Tommy O’Rourke had been found dead.
Author: handprinted
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli & Isles or the Boston Red Sox.
Summary: A 1.09 mid-ep fic in which Maura knows more than she let on.
A/N: The timeline of this episode completely mindf***ed me. This fic assumes that Jane and Maura went with Frankie to the bar to help fix the plumbing, then Jane went to the precinct to listen to the road assistance recording, then went to the morgue to debate the ethics of keeping Maura alive, then they went back to the bar as Frank and Frankie were finishing up, in which we were deprived of the hug shown in the promo photos, and the next morning, they went out on the call for the hitman’s body. Even though they showed the family peanut scene after the dead body scene. This fic takes place after Jane and Maura left the bar, but before they were called into work the next morning.
When the warm joy of Frank’s successful plumbing repair had faded and Frankie had soundly lost the peanut war, Jane insisted I stay the night with her. She cited many perfectly logical reasons—it was very late, her apartment was closer, and if left to my own devices she was afraid I would not keep my word of taking the next day off work—but my acquiesce had very little to do with any of them. I could recall more vividly than I would prefer the overwhelming fear and helplessness I felt when Jane had been kidnapped, stalked, or put in any other sort of extreme danger. If she had felt even a fraction of that, and as evidenced by her “whatever you want, I can get it” when I called her cell I felt it was a reasonable conclusion that she had, I knew she would want to keep me in sight for a little while. (I certainly had wanted the same when Hoyt was hunting her—enough to endure the minor sleep deprivation, wrinkled dress, and sharp tone with which I spoke to Frost and Korsak.) And despite the reprieve granted by observing the Rizzoli family’s antics, I was fidgety, I had noted in myself an increased startle reflex, and my chest felt tight—all classic indicators of anxiety—and couldn’t deny needing somehow to stay close to the sole person in my life who I knew was both capable of and willing to keep me safe.
So, much like the night several weeks earlier, Jane and I retired to her bed. I closed my eyes to attempt to meditate for a few minutes, hoping vainly that it would help calm me. I couldn’t stop my mind from running through the conversation I’d had with Jane in the morgue over and over, but was ultimately distracted by the sound of rustling fabric. Cracking an eye yielded the sight of Jane clad in boxer shorts and an extremely faded red Boston Red Sox tee, and I couldn’t help but smirk at the fact that she had changed into what must pass as sleepwear for her wardrobe.
When she finally settled next to me on the bed, I said quietly, “I know you didn’t take the phone to the crime lab.”
I could feel her entire body tense beside mine.
“I’m not an idiot, Jane,” I continued. “Having a tech trace the phone might lead to my—to Doyle, but it wouldn’t help track down the killer.”
She detected the question underlying my statement. “What are you asking me, Maura?”
‘Did you call him and give him Tommy O’Rourke’s name?’ As badly as I wanted to ask, I was reasonably certain it was the only question I’d ever had that I didn’t want the answer to. If she hadn’t called, then there would still be someone out there hunting me. If she had, then…
The silence stretched on.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “Good night.”
I closed my eyes and feigned sleep until after nearly an hour I finally heard her breathing indicate she had entered a deeper cycle of rest. Slowly, so as not to wake her, I turned over onto my side toward her, and studied her face in the light from the lamp on the nightstand. Even the relaxation of sleep couldn’t wholly erase the markers of the day. Her frontalis muscle drew her eyebrows slightly together and her orbicular oris had tightened. I traced my fingertip gently over her features, hating that her body bore the stress I knew I had caused.
We were roused the next morning (though it was, in actuality, closer to noon) by our simultaneously ringing cell phones. Tommy O’Rourke had been found dead.
