A/N: First of a multi-part story. I'm trying out something in a slightly darker direction than I have previously, but don't worry, there should be a bit of Jane/Maura lightness eventually.
Feedback is always appreciated, and thanks so much for reading!

Blood. The darkness and brightness and itchiness of it. The droplets and streams as it refuses to stop flowing—the crust and flakes as it dries along smears and edges.

Usually it's clues and evidence, DNA and smudged fingerprints. Right now she doesn't care about any of that—and neither does anyone else.

She's never been so fucking grateful for blood in her life.

(It's the sounds that get her more than anything. The ones she's can't stop hearing even though she's never actually heard them. The rustle of sheets against skin—and skin and more skin. The swish of silken hair, the feel of it impossibly audible.)

Pain sparks suddenly and returns to a dull, throbbing heartbeat, but Jane refuses to let it show—she can still control that, at least, and that's something. Cases don't hold her attention anymore, not fully. She's let herself get careless, let sounds and images creep into work and sleep and sports and anything else that should hold as a distraction.

But the blood—the blood helps her stay more focused than she has been in weeks. The too-hard shove from Korsak (or was it Frost?) that landed her headfirst against the brick corner of a building was actually a blessing in disguise. Fantastic, really.

Right now, it's just about all that's keeping her grounded. Almost.

And that's almost enough.

(The soft smack of a palm, out-stretched fingers grasping. Soft breaths riding that fine line between gasps and regular breathing. The quiet popping as rounded lips lose suction—)

But there's the itch of blood as it trickles down her cheek and drips onto her collar. Thank God.

Jane doesn't bother to wipe it away.

Backup had arrived quickly, with bristling authority and flashing lights. Now words like hearing and off her rocker and mandatory leave puff into the cold air on cloudy breaths.

She's surrounded by grim faces—Korsak, Cavanaugh, the parents of those teenagers in the wrong place at the wrong time. Only worse than that are the overly cheerful ones—Frost and Frankie trying to keep a lightness, the paramedics and patrol officers sharing a joke about the quick downward spiral of the great Jane Rizzoli.

(—the sucking pressure as they gain it back again. There's always always a gentle sigh here—so close to a moan she can practically taste it. Like peppermint and coffee, vanilla and lavender, something sticky-sweet like honey, and….)

'Detective?'

Fuck, not again.

The young EMT either has a death wish or deserves a medal for valour. He approaches her for the umpteenth time in the last half hour—though at least now he's learned enough to stay at arm's length. Jane snatches the gauze pad he holds out to her and manages to somehow firmly but kindly snarl that she won't be going to the hospital, thank you very much, and if he comes near her one more time, he'll be the one in need of an ambulance.

That does the trick, and he retreats. He'll complain to his counterparts, of course—probably say something about how it must be that crazy bitch's time of the month and they'll all have a good laugh at her expense. But he won't bother her again, and that's all that matters.

Jane dabs at the wound on her forehead, brushing the blood out of her eyes but doing little else, and when her arm falls to her side and the gauze lands in a puddle on the asphalt, she doesn't bend to retrieve it.

(Worst of all is the escalation—near-hyperventilation as breaths race with heartbeats, and the thousand-and-one variations on oh, oh, ohhhhh….)

The car she's leaning against dips. Jane jumps, momentarily flailing, and mutters a curse.

Frankie moves in close, but is careful not to touch her. 'You know everyone here's giving you like a 10-foot radius, right?'

He's not wrong. Even Frost and Korsak stand at a distance, only venturing the odd glance over. Jane simply shrugs. 'They know what's good for them then.'

'It could be worse.' Her brother gestures to the scene around them. 'You could've actually shot one of those kids instead of just waving your gun around like a madman.'

Her heart feels like it's dropped into her stomach at the thought.

They'd been in the middle of a stakeout, following a tipoff about the possible whereabouts of their latest murderer. And all she'd seen was a pair of impossibly high heels and slightly curling golden hair—the tall, dark figure yanking the woman into the even darker alley—the seemingly metallic glint between them.

Jane had had a split second to make a decision. And that's all it had taken for her to snap.

'Leave it, Frankie.' She keeps her voice low and dangerous. If she doesn't, it will break.

She's tried everything: kept conversations clipped and monosyllabic—strictly based on cases, and confined to texts and emails whenever possible—avoided any kind of eye and body contact. She'd even managed to solve the last two cases while avoiding the morgue entirely.

It's only made everything worse.

'Of course, it doesn't help that both their parents are hot-shot politicians,' Frankie continues, 'or that you completely blew your cover and a suspect got away.'

She doesn't have anything for this. Not a dark look, not a quip or even a gesture. The silence speaks more than any of them.

The glint was nothing more dangerous than a cell phone. The dark figure a 17-year-old boy still in his school uniform, his panicked face boyish and full of acne. The high heels and golden curls belonged to a sparkly-lip-gloss-wearing, gum-snapping 16-year-old, who was more concerned about having her foreplay cut short than she was at the possibility of a gunshot wound.

Not a gun or a knife. Not a serial killer. And distinctly not Maura. Just a couple of teenagers who'd managed to sneak out the back door of the fancy restaurant their parents had dragged them to in favour of more teenager-like pursuits. Like playing hard to get. Making out. Taking pictures.

She's losing it. Or has she lost it already? Either way, she doesn't know what to do.

Frankie's voice is soft, the teasing gone. 'It could happen to anyone, Janie.'

Empty words to fill space. It's what is said in situations like this—when the truth hurts too much and there's a 95% chance Jane will go for the jugular if she hears it.

'Not to me.'

'No one's perfect.'

It's a cue so fucked up it's wonderful.

An overzealous officer accidentally lets loose the squawk of a siren. Instinct kicks in as Jane's eyes flick toward the sound, and Maura appears in the flashing blue of police lights. Jane blinks, and this time the image remains: Maura Isles, calmly surveying the small sea of people crammed into the alley, her forehead creased with worry.

Shit.

This is the last thing Jane needs, makes it too easy for reality and fantasy to intermingle. The only consolation is that at least Mr. Perfect doesn't appear to be hanging onto the doctor's elbow—Maura's latest fashionable accessory that she seems to think goes with everything. Jane tries to satisfy herself with that as she looks away—at wet pavement, at her shoes, her blood-stained hands, anything.

If I can't see you, you can't see me.

The mantra that doesn't hold. Maura's still far enough way that the distance feels safe, and Jane lets her eyes flick back, lingering. It's been awhile since she's done more than glance in the doctor's direction, and Jane has to remind herself to breathe.

In, two, three, four. Out, two, three, you're so fucking hopeless.

It's in this moment that Maura finds her, and the feeling is something like lightning. Not being struck, but the crack and the sizzle, the scent of ozone, and the breathless snap of electricity in the air.

Jesus Christ.

That woman.

It's like she does this on purpose—showing up all perfectly poised and coiffed and fucking beautiful, sending Jane's already shoddy defences crashing.

She spends sleepless nights carefully packing emotion and truth and vulnerability tightly together and constructing a fortress around them. Brick after brick of affirmations and excuses—you don't need this… you don't need her… if she wants to be happy with that fucker, let her… just stop it, Rizzoli—hoping that next time she's forced to face the other woman, everything will hold.

But then she hears or sees or thinks Maura and she might as well have built her barricades out of playing cards, spun sugar, and straw.

Maura huffs and puffs and blows her way through all of them—but with a quiet grace and in heels and just by existing. Thoughts twist until they're yes and do and want and need, and Jane feels as helpless and useless as the lead in a romantic comedy, pining away for someone she doesn't want (or is it can't have?).

She hates it.

Really she does. The more she repeats it, the closer she is to having herself fully convinced.

Across the alley, Maura makes the first move, her wave tentative. Jane doesn't return it.

Frankie follows his sister's gaze, his hesitation palpable as he gears himself up for the million dollar question, finally letting it out in a rush. 'What's going on with you and Maura lately?'

'Nothing.' Jane shakes her head to clear it, wincing at the pain, the flush in her cheeks turning quickly to anger and what gives her the right? 'What the hell is she doing here anyway? No one died.'

'I called her. You two've been so weird lately, I thought if you'd just—'

'You thought wrong.' Quiet careful rage, simmering now, but threatening to bubble over. If everyone would just leave her alone, let her think…. 'And you should learn to mind your own damn business.'

'You're family, Jane. Both of you. How is that not my business?'

'Taking lessons on nosiness from Ma, huh?' The words hurl themselves out before she can stop them.

'Hey, watch it.' Frankie shoots her a dark look—he's more immune to her moods and fire than almost anyone. 'I don't know what's up with you lately, but you've been a real….' He trails off uncertainly, as if his mother is just around the corner waiting to box him on the ears for calling his sister names.

Jane stands slowly, drawing herself to her full height and ignoring the sparks in the corners of her vision as she towers over him and leans in menacingly. 'Go on. I dare you.'

'Jesus, Janie.' Frankie tips back, raising his hands in surrender—Jane only realises her own hands have balled into fists when she sees her brother eye them uneasily. 'I'm just trying to help. Ma too.'

'Well butt out.' Jane loosens her fists, the knuckles white already. 'Me and her?' She jabs a thumb in Maura's general direction. 'We're nothing. Not anymore. And the sooner the two of you can get that into your thick skulls, the better. Got it?'

'Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.'

It's not very convincing, and she intends to push him into something more solid. She has to.

'Please, Frankie?'

Wait, what?

She's pleading now, doesn't want to be, but can't seem to stop the word from repeating, rising an octave and cracking. 'Please. Just… leave it.'

Everything is suddenly prickling with agitation, all the fight gone from her and seeping into flight instead. It's the wrong moment for snippets of Maura's voice to breeze over her. She's gotten as far as Frost and Korsak—their hurried conversation is low, but Jane can still catch her inflection on the vowels: long e's and short o's and that particular stretch of an a that has only ever been part of—

'Jane?' Frankie catches hold of her elbow, but she shakes him off.

She needs to get out of here.

The earlier order of Don't you dare move, Rizzoli is forgotten. Reprimands and consequences can wait. She doesn't care anymore. Can't remember if she ever did. All she knows is that right now she needs to get away from here and her and everyone before she comes completely unravelled.

'Janie?'

Her phone is buzzing. She doesn't look at it, only responding to her brother's concern with an absent, 'Tell Ma to stop calling me,' as she surveys her surroundings. The logistics are unfortunate—there's no way out without passing by either Maura or someone with the authority to sit her in the back of a patrol car so she physically can't leave.

'Jane, wait. Just talk to her and….'

But she's already gone. Grasping at her last big of swagger, she struts across the alley, careful to avoid any sort of contact as she breezes past Maura. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the doctor freeze mid-sentence, but Maura lets her go without a word.

Jane's glad for that, at least. Weeks of the weird push-pull of I can't be near you (because it hurts too fucking much) and please for the love of God fuck me hard and fast against the wall have led her to the only logical conclusion.

She hates Maura Isles. Absolutely hates her.

It's easier to do that than to want what she can't have.