After the incident, she doesn't touch you again for twenty six days. You don't realize you are counting until the twenty sixth day comes, and you are leaning with her over the body of a dead woman in her mid forties, and she is close enough to you that you can smell her shampoo.

You stand up, and you wobble, your heel sticking into the damp sod, and she reaches out and puts her hand on your upper arm, steadying you. And that part of your brain that calculates and quantifies and pushes and pushes and pushes, it says that is the first time she has touched you in twenty six days.

Then she releases you, looking tense, and that other part of your brain, that secret, serpent part that no one knows about, it says

you were right. You were right.

You were right.

You miss a chance to insert a piece of information into the conversation.

Barry and Jane are bickering over what the murder weapon might be. The wound pattern is confusing at best and baffling at worst. You stare at it for a while, running through other outlines in your head. Trying to match it.

And then Jane says something about golf clubs, and the indent they could make, and Barry replies with something about the amount of force that it would take for someone to make that kind of indent, and he is wrong. He is off my several pounds per square inch, but you miss your chance to tell them both, because when you turn to tell them so, Jane looks back at you with an expression that makes you lose your breath. She grins at you, expectant. She knows you well enough to know that you have a fact or a figure stored and ready to relay. She has anticipated this, and she has turned her attention to you in order to watch you say it. There can be no misinterpreting of this, not even by the serpent that has control over your frontal cortex.

She looks at you and you look away. You say nothing.

If Frost's joke is meant to deliberately cover up the silence, you think that he should receive some kind of award. When you look up again, Jane is laughing at his antics.

You are forgotten.

…

The last time she'd touched you, she'd really touched you. She'd leaned in and kissed you, not too hard, but definitely not softly either. Building in intensity like she'd only dreamed about it and hadn't actually believed it was happening, but it was really happening and oh god, oh god… more please.

And then her hands were scrabbling at your back, and pulling your top out of your waistband and up, up over your head, and then her lips were on your shoulder and your throat, and it was so warm and so distracting that you didn't notice that you were completely topless, braless, until she'd pulled back and looked down at you.

"Oh," she'd said.

A quick intake of breath.

And that had been the beginning of your destruction.

...

"I wanted to talk to you."

She's sitting on the other side of the coffee table, beer half way to her mouth, eyes still on the scrabble board. She doesn't look at you anymore if she can help it.

After the incident, after that night, she'd stopped inviting herself over for a week. You thought she must be regrouping, and when she'd invited herself over for drinks on the eighth night, you'd told yourself that she'd needed time. She hadn't been expecting anything like what she'd encountered.

It was natural to need space.

But now you are nearly back to normal. She comes over to your place and you drink and play scrabble. She beats you twice, and you thrill at her brain.

But she doesn't look at you anymore. Or touch.

Part of you is relieved that she's finally realized what you are, and another part of you is distressed. You wanted her to be different.

"Talk about what?" she says absently, and her eyes flicker from the board to the row of letters in front of her. She has a good word. You can tell from the way her face starts to light and by the way she forcibly deadens it…trying for neutrality.

You want to take her face in your hands and kiss her.

But if you did that, she'd have to kiss you back.

And then she'd know for sure.

"About what happened before..." Breathe. "About what happened between us."

Suddenly she is looking at you, eyes intense and searching.

Suddenly you wish you had just kept playing scrabble.

"I don't want you to-"

But she cuts you off. "I get it," she says quickly, and you set down your wine so that you can focus on her face.

"What do you get?"

She makes that shrugging motion that means she has much more to say that she's actually letting on. She puts her beer on the coaster near the board.

"I get that you don't... like like me that way. And I…" she pauses, trying to find the right words. "I overstepped my bounds."

You are trying to kick start your brain. Every part of it is dead.

Jane Rizzoli, with those puppy dog eyes. She is looking at you and asking for your forgiveness. Your forgiveness.

"I overstepped, Maura, and I'm so sorry. Can we just forget it? Can we just forget it and go back to the way we were before I fuck-"

She catches herself, even though you have never once told her that you don't care for explicit language.

"Before I messed us up."

Her sentence makes you swallow the wrong way, and then cough harshly into your fist. She struggles to stand as you to, coming forward, arms reaching up and then dropping back to her sides.

"Before...you…" You can't get it out. As the adrenaline rushes to your aid, the serpent rears its head. It's not dead. It was only sleeping.

"Before you messed us up?"

She doesn't answer.

Show her, it hisses. Show her showher.

So you close the distance between the two of you and you take her hand and you drag her towards the stairs.

Drag is excessive. She is not physically fighting you.

But when you look back at her face, you can see her eyes are wide and nervous. That her mouth is moving over protestations and questions that you can't hear because your heart is loud in your ears and you are having trouble doing anything but keep your feet moving.

In your room, you pull her in front of your floor length mirror and you drop her hand.

"Look," you say, and you hate yourself for how close you already sound to tears.

She looks at you, not at the mirror, takes in your outfit slowly, and then lets her eyes drift back up to your face.

"What?" she asks. "Why are we in your bedroom?"

"Because it's where the mirror is!" When did you start yelling? "Because obviously you can't see how repulsive I am in the flesh. Because somehow, I fooled you into thinking I was a normal, decent looking, non repugnant-"

She's just staring at you blankly, so you look away from her, back into the mirror and its damning evidence.

"Look," you repeat, wishing she would just tell you she understands, so you didn't have to explain it to her.

She blinks past you at your reflection, and the confusion only seems to grow.

"Maura, I don't…"

So make her see. You pull off the shirt you're wearing. There's a tank top underneath, and for a moment you're going to take that off too. But you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and you can't bring yourself to do it.

"Look," you're pointing at the other you, like she can explain it much better than you can. "Look."

Jane does. Her eyes slide over your shoulders, and then your midsection, down to your legs. She swallows hard, and pulls her eyes back up to yours. They are dark.

"What am I looking at?" she asks roughly.

Like she can't tell. "Me!" You're choking again, but it's on hatred and fear and anger at her for being so god damned chivalrous. For pretending not to know. "You messed it up," you can't keep derision out of your voice. "Like you could ever have messed this up. Like you didn't try so hard to...to.."

Jane is shaking her head. Eyes wide like she's shocked at the words coming out of your mouth. Like she didn't know already.

Liar.

"Liar!"

Jane puts her hands up. "What?"

"I messed it up."

Just tell her. If she's going to pretend she doesn't know, just. tell. her.

"I messed it up because you can't stand to touch me. I don't blame you. I don't f-fucking blame you. Look at me!"

She does. You've never seen her eyes so wide. So shocked.

"Maura. What are you talking about? You're beautiful. You're the most attractive-"

"Don't you dare lie to me, Jane!" You can feel yourself shaking. You can't stop. "I look in this mirror eighty times a day! I know what I look like. I know you tried to…tried to kiss me, and I was repulsive to you. Don't lie!"

"Who is this person?" She is bewildered, blindsided, maybe, but she has not retreated. Your detective doesn't retreat. She shakes her head a little, but she doesn't move. She just stares at you with wide, injured eyes. "Has this been inside of you all the time? Have you always felt this way?"

"This is who I am," you say. You're crying now. "I put on pretty clothes and do my hair, and no one notices how fat, how ugly…how wrong I am. This is who I am, you're just shocked because it's new. I could never expect you to love this. I'm this…No!" you cry out as she pulls you to her, and although she loosens her hold, she doesn't let go. You don't struggle.

She doesn't let go.

"Maura," she says softly, and all the anger seems to have gone. "Maura, you're…"

She doesn't say beautiful. Like she knows it would hurt you.

"God," she says again, under her breath. "Jesus, Maura."

…

The last time you were this close to her, she had her mouth on yours. She'd tasted like beer and garlic, and she'd been insistent, pressing you against the door as it shut, and sliding her hands up under your shirt.

You'd said her name, panicked, as the tips of her long fingers reached the top of your ribcage, and she'd pulled away from you to look down into your eyes.

"I thought you…wanted…" she'd registered your panic and had filed it as unwillingness.

Fine, sure, go with that.

"I don't," you'd said, probably sounding angrier than you had to. "I don't."

But God, it wasn't because you didn't love her.

It was because you didn't know how she could stand to look at you.

…

She steps away from you after a moment. She pulls back and turns around, and she leaves the room.

Something about the way she's walking makes you follow her. Back downstairs. Back through the hall, back into the living room. You watch her as she walks on unsteady legs over to your couch.

"Jane," You don't know what should follow her name. You have never had this much room to talk before. It's always been her, filling the silence between your bones. "I wanted to tell you. God I wanted to tell you so many times. I'm all pretty packaging. All shiny distraction. Underneath all of that, I'm nothing. I'm ugly. I'm disgusting." You shake your head because you've been taught never to reveal this to anyone. You can feel your mother hands on your shoulders, feel her eyes piercing you through your heart to your backbone.

You must stop this. Stop this now. Don't you know you're being watched for propriety at all times?

"I'm sorry," you say, but your voice splinters like an ice pick through a frozen pond. You're not sure if the words make it through.

"I'm so sorry. I am repellant. I should not have pretended other-"

"Stop." Jane doesn't turn back to you, but her voice is solid and hard like an anchor. You look up at her.

Her back is still to you, and she's fiddling in front of her, at her waist. A moment later you realize she's unhooked her belt. She's kicking off her shoes.

Sliding out of her pants.

Panic shakes the room like a snow globe. Lights pop behind your eyelids when you blink. She turns to face you and you back up.

This is not what you were expecting.

"Jane," barely breathing. "Please don't-"

"Maur, open your eyes."

You hadn't realized they were shut.

"C'mon. I'm not gonna hurt you, or force you to do anything you don't want to," Her voice hardens again as though the thought tastes wrong in her mouth.

You love her so much you think it might be preferable to turn to stone. You think even then the love inside might break you apart.

Slowly, you open your eyes.

Jane is sitting on the couch, unbuttoned shirt, and tank top, underwear, and no pants. She's pulled one leg up to her chest. The other swings lazily over the side of the couch.

"Come here," she says gently.

You don't have any choice. Not when she speaks to you that way. When you sit yourself on the edge of the couch farthest from her, she holds out her hand for yours.

"It's okay," she says, but you can't help but close your eyes as she pulls your hand towards her pelvic bone.

This isn't going to help. Feeling her perfect body under your hands. Knowing, really knowing, that being with her would be like being with…

But your eyes snap open as she runs two of your fingers down the inside of her thigh. You look up into her face, but she's looking down at what she's doing. Her expression a mask.

"You have not realized she was counting until you've reached the end, nearly down by the detective's knee.

Forty three.

"You…" you can't finish the rest.

She nods anyway. "I did them. I don't anymore…but I did. For a long time. Some of them are…" she swallows. You want to kiss the place where her throat bobs. "They'll always be with me. I can't take them back now. For a while, after I met you…I really wished I could."

You pull your fingers from her hand and reach up to start again. You linger on the ones that are longer, and the ones that were deeper. You can feel her wound tightly underneath. Holding herself still just for you.

"Why?"

She closes her eyes. "I…I thought that…if we ever," she cracks an eye to look at you, and then shuts it again, blushing. "I thought you'd feel them and…hate me. I thought…How could this perfect, perfect woman want anything to do with me?"

Oh God.

Jane nods, and you know you've said it out loud. "No one's perfect," she says softly. "Maura, I don't want you perfect. I want you, you."

"No," you don't know whether your anger stems from fear or from regret. "You don't know what you're saying. You think self harm that you no longer practice somehow comes equal to this…" You pull away from her so she can get the full picture. So she can really look at you:

Dress pants, tank top, blonde hair, hazel eyes.

Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.

"I am-"

"Amazing," she interjects. Her timing is perfect, her inflection flawless. For a moment you think it has come out of your own mouth.

She moves forward again, and reaches out for you. You don't pull away, but you don't encourage her.

She lies, the serpent hisses. You can feel it curling around your calves, making its way up towards you.

"You're lying to me," you choke it out, and you let her push you back onto the couch. You let her put her knees on either side of your hips and sit back.

The weight of her makes you sigh.

"I can't make you see yourself through my eyes." Her voice is lower and thicker than it usually is.

She is trying not to cry.

You shut your eyes as she leans forward, so you only feel the ghost of her lips against your ear.

"Do you love me?"

Not even the serpent can stop you from nodding this time.

"Are you in love with me?"

"Yes" but…

"You are the most logical, scientific woman I know." The same soft, rough voice. You feel her shift against you, feel her hands come down just above each shoulder. "You are rational…Dr. Isles, almost to a fault."

This is more like it. Your faults sound beautiful in your ears.

"Yes," you are breathless. Expecting more.

But Jane presses your lips together. She kisses you, and kisses you, and she puts one hand into your hair and kisses you again.

And when you pull away, she takes your hand from where it has migrated to her hip, and presses it to her chest, where her heart is pounding

"Open your eyes, Dr. Isles, and tell me what you see. Scientifically."

You open your eyes.

The woman above you is in love.

…

…

When you arrive in the kitchen the next morning, Jane is already there, drinking coffee and paying halfhearted attention to a pan of turkey bacon.

She has her back to you, and her shoulders are muscled and beautiful. There is a twinge inside of you that is not quite as serpentine as it has been before.

She has scars on her sides up near her armpits. When she wrapped her legs around your thigh you could feel some of them on the insides of hers. When she threw her head back against the pillow, you could bend down and kiss that rough place where she tried to sandpaper out her heart, wanting to be rid of the cumbersome thing forever. You did kiss it.

Her moan was delicious.

She has eleven little nicks near her right ankle, from the first time she let Hoyt slip through her fingers and the pressure of her mother made it too hard to sleep.

"I can feel you there," Jane's voice is all smiles, even though her face is hidden.

Maura flushes. "You're still here."

What a childish little confession.

Jane glances over her shoulder, smile fading. "C'mere," she says holding out a free hand.

You do not hesitate this time.

You opened your eyes last night at the top. At the moment. Wrapped up in sheets and her, and bliss, you opened your eyes and you looked up at her above you, expecting her eyes to be closed. But she was looking down at you. She was watching what each of her movements was doing to you. Eyes everywhere, need and love and awe apparent.

When you'd fallen, she swore.

"Shit, that's gorgeous."

And she'd caught you at the bottom like there was nothing to it at all.

"I like you with messy hair and open robe," she says, and you realize she is careful to phrase this as her personal preference. "I like you pretty much any way," she says. "But this feels just for me."

You want to kiss her.

You can.

You do.

"I read the directions to your coffee maker," she says.

What loaded little statement.

"I can work it near to perfect if you give me the better part of an hour."

You laugh and her face breaks open. Relieved and refreshed and tentatively ecstatic. She has you, and she knows it. She sets her coffee down and puts both arms around you. She lifts you onto the counter and steps between your legs and she kisses you again.

You tangle your hands in her hair and when you try to pull her back – just to see if you can – she growls, and snarls, and fights it until you laugh and change your push to pull.

Pull her closer. No. Closer still.

It's your day off. The turkey bacon is burning, and even from your perch, Jane's coffee smells a little burnt. You have not brushed your hair, or looked at yourself in the mirror in nearly 12 hours.

"I want to go to the park," you tell her. "And I want to hold your hand."

Jane looks at you like you are the only girl in the world

for her.