Phonetics

There is an entire language within language that you've been trying to translate for years.

It hides in normal words and everyday phrases, subtle and pervasive, coloring them into new connotations. Until you're no longer sure if what you hear and what you hear are the same thing at all.

You don't remember when you first noticed. When heys and what's ups and reallys transformed in her voice without your conscious consent. You've hypothesized anything from a slow transition (thus unnoticeable amongst the permutations that are everyday life) to oblivious ignorance to active subconscious repression. Maybe a bit of all three.

Inflection never was your strong suit. It fades into that grey area of human interaction that has always eluded your grasp. Hence the reason sarcasm continues to confound, despite attempted training of your ear to detect those subtleties.

Here in your office, you have space to breath, to untuck those thoughts left in the darkness and the margins of everyday existence. You twirl your pen absently as your mind wanders, watching fingers rise and fall as the pen spins – defying apparent reason and gravity – only to return to its original pose.

You feel like that pen right now.

Tracing concepts and ideas to origins is rarely a fruitful endeavor. But for this, you try. Because the beginning is all you have. There is no end in this matter, no chance of physical manifestation, and no evidence to suggest there ever will be.

Perhaps it started when "Hey, Maur" shuffled through its many iterations and adopted that subtle shift into compassion and concern. But that's been there for years. Hasn't it? Your pen pauses over the paper, hovering midair as your mind turns inward, rifling through warm memories carefully tucked away.

Hey, Maur. Warm brown eyes, the comfort of touch. Reacquaintance.

Hey. Maur. Cautious, worried. Furrowed brows angled up that say I'm here.

Hey, Maur! Dancing eyes, filled with laughter. Crinkled nose.

Hey…Maur. Low, intimate. Asking for permission if you want to talk. Willing to let it slide if you don't.

Yes, you decide. It was there well before all this started. Or a version of it, at least.

But then there is that other inflection. This one is newer. Lengthening of the a, and the dip in the hey that hints at unspoken promises. Utterly inappropriate over an autopsy table, but that doesn't explain why it makes your pulse jump. Why your ear picks up details your mind can't pick apart. At least not on a conscious level. But your body seems to understand just fine, replying in goose bumps and stuttered heartbeats.

Then there is the way her tongue lingers over your name. Maura. Just the barest elongation, as though reluctant to let it go. If vowels could caress, you'd swear her mouth was making love to—

You blush at this comparison, at the implied imagery that runs unchecked through your mind. Your grip tightens on the pen and you stiffen, surprised. You, so composed and compartmentalized, are unused to losing control of your thoughts like that. But you can't seem to stop, and if you're honest with yourself, right now – alone in your office – you don't want to.

You want to know what this means.

A sudden rush of boldness flares in your chest, and you feel reckless, liberated. Your eyes dart to the door, ensuring it's mostly closed – as though your thoughts, given a willing entryway, will spring out, loud and open for any lurking listener.

Ridiculous. You scoff at yourself and re-settle in your chair.

So. The pen twirls again. Where were you?

Ah, yes.

The voice.

You could spend a lifetime inventing adjectives and none would capture the essence of her voice. The way her tone dips and swerves over common phrases of her choosing, twisting them into shapes your mind struggles to comprehend. Sometimes when you least expect, and you're unsure if you heard correctly.

Hi with that breathy up-curve makes a greeting more of a shy question. Oh, really? is a roller coaster, and your stomach soars and plunges with every rise and dip.

They are not suggestive, per se. Just…possess the potential. She somehow manages to skirt the rim of propriety, leaving you floundering, wondering, flustered. Until you reach a point you just want to grab her by the shoulders and ask what does she mean? What does it mean when her voice hits that register and plays ping-pong with your heart?

You would be lying if you said you hadn't considered the possibilities…

The blush burns your cheeks, but its heat flushes other parts of your body and your breath hitches at the sensation.

This…this is new.

If you are honest with yourself, you must admit you don't dislike it. You bask in the discovery for a blissful moment, this haze of possibility and newness and unknown that somehow soothes rather than agitates.

Then your brain kicks in with its indubitable logic.

Perhaps this is all in your mind, and you're projecting unvoiced desires into the innocent tonal inflections of your friend and colleague. (You're so upset with this logic that you can't even appreciate the fact you just made a witty pun.)

Or perhaps she is just teasing. It's banter, no more no less. Very friendly banter.

You sigh. The latter is a distinct possibility, you realize, even as your chest constricts with something dangerously close to disappointment. The thought has crossed your mind more than once, and you've come to the cautious conclusion that were all your hypothesizing correct and you actually admit these potential new feelings aloud, then you may just ruin the best thing – best person – that's ever happened to you.

Therein lies the rub. (A lit reference! You're on fire today. Maybe brooding brings out your muse.)

But there is another option. One you only allow yourself to consider in those small spaces of free thought between tasks at work. Like now, for instance. Safe. Controlled. Because then distraction, just a mouse click or door knock away, can so easily pull you from that dangerous path should the need arise.

Your eyes flick to the partially open door, as though the thought alone will summon your senior criminalist whose impeccably bad (good?) timing borders on telepathic. You wait a beat before continuing.

No, this is not food for thought during solitary nights on the couch, with nothing but a wandering Bass, your latest DVRed discovery channel program, or perhaps a new peer-reviewed article from NEJM for company. Spaces feel larger there, more open. Your mind has a disturbing tendency to shake off the confines of decorum and tread unchecked down dangerous paths. Paths that lead to scenarios that require words like passion, joy, longing, ecstasy, tenderness, love to define them. You try to avoid those paths when you want to be functional the next day.

Speaking of which…how did you get here? Mentally, that is. You shake your head. Back to the matter at hand. It all boils down to this:

They say 60% of communication is done nonverbally. Is that the percentage? You can't recall the exact statistic. (This should disturb you.) But if that's the case, then at least another 29% should be allocated to inflection.

Inflection is a double-edged sword. So much depends on the listener as much as the speaker. Too much left to interpretation.

You sigh and lean back in your chair, letting your pen drop to the forgotten form before you give yourself carpal tunnel.

You are hopeless.

You need to get out of your own head.

Your fingers tap a rhythm on the dark wood of your desk. If only you could dissect phonemes like the many bodies on your table. Yet the smallest units of sound that mean lack any further division. They are not atoms to be divided into their subatomic particles and quarks.

You snap your fingers. That reminds you. You meant to ask Jane about attending that exhibit on physicists and their contributions to technological advancements in the 20th century. You make a mental note to do this.

You're too distracted. You have become so adept at discernment, so focused on becoming fluent in Jane-ese that you suspect you will find your name next to obsession n. in the dictionary.

By now, you have convinced yourself you are going quietly insane.

But you will do it in style.

You twist back to your computer. A flick of the wrist, and you add to your virtual cart that pair of Jimmy Choos you've been wavering over for the past hour and a half. Retail therapy. (Jane's diagnosis, not yours. Though you can appreciate the irony.) You would admit you had a problem, but now is not the time to quit when there are bigger issues on the table.

Issues like Jane's invitation to the Robber tonight. It held that extra something you've noticed recently.

You close your eyes, imagining. Trying to reconstruct vowels and consonants into vocal seduction. (Okay, even you recognize that's melodramatic. But that doesn't stop you.)

Hey, Maur.

Yes. Just like that. Flawless.

Maur?

You've heard it so much you could distinguish it in a line up, recreate it in your sleep. (You have.) Yet you never tire of it. You squeeze your eyes tighter.

"Maura?"

Your eyes snap open and you look up to see the object of so much contention leaning against the doorframe of your office. Very much alive and present. Dark curls past her shoulders, still defying gravity despite the late hour. Dark eyes, crinkled at the corner. Your own eyes drop lower, taking in her casually slumped posture. The deep purple scoop-neck blouse complements her skin tone. The grey slacks hug her hips, accentuate long legs, and hang just above the tops of her boots.

You realize your pen is clenched in your teeth, and you've been silent too long. You flush, dropping your hand.

"What's up?" Her tone indicates this isn't the first time she's asked. She pushes away from the door and you wonder again at the presence she brings to a room. How it can make your office both larger and smaller at the same time.

She comes to a stop next to your desk. You finally notice the concern, her furrowed eyebrows. You haven't replied yet.

"Maura?"

There it is again. The longer au, the up-curl into compassion. Hoarse yet sincere. Your hand twitches and you reach for the pen again to ground yourself.

Deep breaths. (You still haven't replied. You should probably do something about that.) You drag yourself to the present and push the distraction away, eyes finally focusing on her face.

"Yes?" You're surprised how normal you sound.

She watches you and tries a half-smile, and you can feel her gauging your mood. It is moments like this when you have to remind yourself to breathe.

The half-smile blossoms into a tentative grin. Her lips are asking yours to answer. You swallow when you realize they want to. In more ways than one.

"Wanted to know if you were okay." She says it slowly, each word precise. As though afraid you won't hear her. (You want to laugh at this notion.)

She slips her hands into her pockets, thumbs hooked over the edge. Your eyes trace the movement before snapping back up to hers.

Her smile has graduated into a smirk. "You looked like you were composing Beethoven's 10th symphony there for a minute."

She's doing it again. Walking that line between humorous and suggestive. Sure, the words are innocent enough. But the way she says them…

Stop it. You lean back in your chair, hands clasped in your lap.

"No. I'm sorry." You take a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. Rub a temple with two fingers. "I've just been feeling…distracted lately."

"Distracted?" All trace of humor is gone. There is only sincere concern. She sits in the uncomfortable red chair (Jane's words, not yours) without a hint of complaint, elbows on desk, and gives you her full attention. "Anything I can help with?"

After the initial instinct to laugh, you hesitate and consider your options. Looking into patient brown eyes as they jump between yours, it is so tempting to let a word slip. To hint at those questions every tonal dip and shoulder hitch have branded into your subconscious. To imagine surprised pleasure rather than appalled confusion.

You open your mouth, but the words clog your throat. In the end, self-preservation prevails. Such a difficult instinct to kill.

"No." Small and quiet, it slips past the lump of bravery in your throat.

"You sure?" She reaches across your desk and takes your hand in her own. Easy, discrete. As though that small contact doesn't mean the world. A thumb brushes across your skin, slow and careful. Reassuring. This woman… The tenderness in the gesture brings tears to your eyes. Tears of frustration and confusion. And something else that squirms in your chest, begging for release.

"Maura." Raspy and hushed. Perhaps your favorite version of your name.

"Hey." Her eyebrows draw up in the middle and she ducks her head, searching for your eyes. Her hand tightens. "You're starting to scare me."

That makes two of us. You watch the point of contact, a scarred hand, warm and rough, cradling your own. It represents everything you've come to cherish, everything you've come to…love. The realization, small yet powerful, settles in your mind like sun-melted snow – warm and invisible.

You gather composure about yourself like a cloak. Enough. Taking a breath, you draw your hand away and try a small smile.

"Yes. I'm sure."

There's a moment of silence, in which you become aware of the low hum of the air conditioner, the murmured conversation of lab techs, and then:

"Oh."

Surely you imagine the mingled hurt and disappointment in that small exclamation. But you glance up, just to be sure. You cannot read her expression, but her posture is stiff.

"Well." Her tone is brisk. Her movements assured. She refuses to meet your eyes. As though embarrassed, she runs a hand through her hair, pushing it over her shoulder. "I just wanted to confirm about the Robber tonight. But if you don't feel up to it, that's fine."

Distance. You're unsure when she had leaned forward, but now she's pulling away – in more ways than one – as she begins to rise. Your moment is ending.

Before you even realized it was your moment.

Panic shoots through you, as though you are about to lose something precious. Something invaluable.

"Phonetics." It pops out before you can censor yourself.

She blinks down at you. "Come again?"

"Phonetics and phonemes."

"Ballistics and laser beams," she counters. She cocks a hip and you stifle the urge to shift in your chair. Her eyes dance with interest even as her voice hints at annoyance. "Are we playing word association or something?"

"Phonetics," you repeat, as though trying it out. You pick up your pen and twirl it once before aligning it with your keyboard. "It's a branch of linguistics that studies the sounds of a language."

She shakes her head, the movement shifting the curls around her shoulders. "You give a whole new meaning to the phrase 'penny for your thoughts.'"

The smile playing at the corners of her mouth softens her words. It makes you bold. Reckless. You stand and straighten a stack of papers, the action hiding the tremor in your fingers.

"You wanted to know what I was thinking. I was…" You glance away, then resolutely meet her gaze. "…analyzing vocal intonation."

Something flickers in her eyes. An awareness. It is gone before you can interpret it. But not before your heart lurches.

A dark eyebrow rises. Her chin dips. "Vocal intonation, huh?"

That voice. Right there. Low, almost playful. It zooms through you, leaving a now familiar burn in its wake. It's as though she shifts smoothly into sixth gear, and you're left spinning in a five speed.

Perhaps it's time you traded up, so you can match horsepower with horsepower.

Determination flares, hot and addicting, in your chest. You gather assurance and courage about yourself like your Gucci dresses – snug, tasteful. Powerful. A deep breath for steadiness, and you take the plunge.

"Yes, Jane." You tap a finger on the edge of your desk. "Tone and emphasis provide the backbone for verbal communication." You keep your voice soft, watch for any hint that Jane understands, hears the words behind your words.

"That so?" Casual. This time it is her eyes that say more than her tone.

Encouraged, you nod and step closer. "It can be used to convey more than the words themselves." You pause tellingly, willing her to hear you. "Much more."

She, too, places her hand on your desk—to appear casual, or for balance?—and her searching gaze dances across your face. "Like what?" Low, earnest.

You blink, pull your head back. Is she going to make you say it? Playing innocent? When she's the one who's been sending these mixed signals that have been driving you mad? For a moment you are affronted, annoyed. But then something in her shifts, just for a moment, and you notice her rapt attention. The edge of uncertainty lurking behind the usual playful bravado.

She is not playing with you now.

Words spill out of their own accord in your rush to catch the ball now in your court. "Like when people joke with one another." Your mind races for examples, translating them into laymen's terms. "Or playfulness. Flirtation." You startle yourself with the last word, but Jane interjects before it can choke the delicate air you've built between the two of you.

"Sarcasm." She gives you a proud, knowing smile, which you return. It breaks the bubble of tension in the air, and for a moment you are just Jane and Maura, sharing an inside joke.

"Yes," you agree with a chuckle. "A perfect example. Words that say one thing, while inflection conveys the exact opposite."

"Sounds familiar," she allows with a shrug of her shoulders. She props her hip against your desk. The action draws your eyes down before they slowly ascend again.

"Indeed." You try to shake yourself from your distraction. "It reaffirms bonds," you hear yourself saying. "Familial. Friendship… Romantic."

Dark brown eyes snap to yours. Alert. Curious. The connection is like a pulse across your skin. And for one glorious second, you are sure you're speaking the same language. At last you are on the same page. You had read all the signs correctly. And here, now, she will confess everything. Or you will. Anticipation swirls in your chest.

"So what made you think of it?" she finally asks, running a hand through her hair. Averted eyes accompany the gesture, and the loss of connection is almost physically painful.

It plants a seed of doubt. Unbalanced, you walk to the ornamental couch and sit, smoothing your pants and clasping your hands in your lap. Jane follows, and you imagine the tether is not so completely severed, for she sits close, elbows propped on spread knees.

"I've been studying it," you admit. "For quite a while."

Jane leans back, relaxing against a cushion. She appears at ease, which is so at odds with how you feel, so tightly strung with tension, that you wonder how you're even having the same conversation.

"So…what exactly did you find out? Any results?" She leans towards you, appears interested.

You take a breath to just say it. To open your mouth and say how you can't stop thinking about the curve of her waist, the swing of her arms as long strides cross your floor. The voice that turns words into caresses. Rich brown eyes that capture you in their depths, steal your breath, and turn you into a bad poet—like right now. You tilt forward in your eagerness, open your mouth. Yes, now—

She leans away. The action is so small, so infinitesimal, that an onlooker might not have noticed the movement. But to you, it is monumental. A slap in the face.

Your shoulders deflate and you lose your words. All that is left is, "Inconclusive."

It sounds so lost, so small, that even Jane can hear it. Her head turns and you can feel her scrutiny on the side of your face. But you can't manage to meet her gaze. You are too busy trying to pull the pieces of your scattered mind into some semblance of composure.

You thought you could do this. You run a hand over the back of your neck, across your collarbone, and sigh. It drops to the couch beside you, listless.

After a moment, a warm palm covers your hand, fingers curling around to cradle it. Jane squeezes, and you can feel the faint press of scar tissue against your skin. You can feel that warmth all the way to your toes. Why does it affect you so? Every. Single. Time.

"Maybe we can collaborate," she says softly. "Figure it out together."

You were resigned to your fate. But then that tone… You glance up, wondering if she's just trying to console you, or if she truly understands. At the same time you curse that tenacious little flicker of hope that never seems to want to die no matter how many times it's trampled.

Her eyes are soft, affectionate. Your resolve wavers.

"Jane, I—"

Her eyebrows raise, expectant.

You sigh, eyes dropping to the hand cradling yours. You lift it to your lips and press a kiss to the small star of scar tissue.

"I'd like that," you say quietly, hoping the volume hides the tears in your voice.

You rise and head into the morgue, intent on distancing yourself from all things Jane. You need time to regroup and recharge in solitude. The last five minutes have drained you of all energy and sanity.

Her voice chases after you.

"Maura."

You keep walking.

"Wait!"

You close your eyes.

"Hey, Maur."

Like a bullet to your heart. It's everything you love and hate about her. Your stomach dips and your steps almost falter.

A hand wraps around your bicep and turns you around. Jane is slow to stop, and the result leaves you both standing inches apart, breathing each other's air.

"C'mon." Her voice is urgent now, grabbing your attention. The hand around your bicep does not loosen. Another comes to rest on your shoulder. "What were you going to say?" Her eyes dance between yours, asking. Open.

The tightness in your chest abruptly loosens. There is a time for words. A time for phonemes, consonants, and vowels. Now is not one of those times.

You lean up on your toes, close your eyes, and press your lips to hers. In the slow two seconds of the kiss, you think that at least now, for this short span of time, she can't use that voice against you.

You pull away and let out the breath you were holding.

"I think that sums it up nicely." You're proud of how evenly you deliver the line.

Jane is speechless. She stares, mouth parted, arms limp at her sides.

Ironic. The disappointment shouldn't surprise you, but it does anyway. You start to turn away again before regret can render you immobile.

This time, her hands are urgent. One encircles your waist and the other cradles your neck. You barely have time to blink before she is pulling you against her.

"Stop doing that," she murmurs, and then she kisses you and you forget what words are. There is only the warm movement of Jane's lips against yours. The swipe of her thumb along the edge of your jaw as her fingers slip into place behind your head. The unsteady hitch in her breathing when you finally kiss her back. The fitting of angles and edges with contours and curves. Heat. Heat everywhere, and you press into it until you are unsure where you end and she begins. You lose time then, and the kiss deepens, but never moves past soft and slow.

When she pulls away, she rests her forehead against yours. You keep your eyes closed and take the time to steady your breathing. You mind threatens to take over, but for once it is easy to push thoughts aside.

"Okay?" Jane whispers, and you feel the breath of her question against your lips. You nod, the action moving Jane's head in turn.

Jane lets out a light chuckle, and her fingers tighten around the back of your neck. "So, this is your idea of collaboration, huh?"

Her voice is that tantalizing mixture of hoarse and deep, and you don't try to hide your resultant shiver. The arm around your waist tightens.

"It's certainly something I'd like to try again in the future."

"Yeah?" Jane leans back, catching your eyes.

You gaze back into those eyes, so open and expressive, and for once, you don't need clarity of language.

You feel the smile tug at your ears.

"Yeah."

...

A/N: Did I include a brief teaser for my other recent fic in here? Why, yes. Yes I did.

I've been sitting on this fic for months because I thought it rambled too much and the ending wouldn't come to me. Felt forced. I finally decided to let it go and just post. Hope it was worth a read.

An update for Just a Dream is coming. I just got a little side tracked with this one. What can I say? The muse is a fickle mistress.