Author's note: This is a spinoff from my Jealousy fic. It is entirely focused on my original character Christine "Chris" Kelly. It is not a Rizzles fic. I am stating this upfront. Maura and Jane will play a very small and secondary role in this story. This fic will follow Chris' recovery from the shooting at the end of Jealousy as she struggles to come to terms with where the events of her life have led her. I am posting this on FFN because Maura and Jane and the Rizzoli & Isles universe will be referenced and because many readers were interested in seeing an original Chris piece.

Tilting At Windmills

CH 1: Footfalls' Echo

There was something about the first big blizzard of the season, when everything was pristine and unadulterated white. In a few hours the plows would come and clear the street, scraping the snow into mounds at the corner of the block that would, as the season wore on, turn into icy stalagmite-esque sculptures at the entrance of the neighborhood. Her father would get home from his shift, he was on the evening rotation, and complain that the city had intentionally plowed the goddamn driveway in again. She giggled as she pictured his face, wind burned and red from exertion as he shoveled, a string of curse words spilling out of his mouth. She wasn't allowed to say the words out loud; she had once by accident…

Cael! Stop it! Her arm swung wildly at her brother, missing him completely but making a solid connection with her glass of milk, sending it flying across the table and floor in a white-wash mess. Dammit! It just slipped out. Porcelain cheeks flushed crimson with horror and she gasped, blue eyes widening as she looked up at her father. What did you say? His fingers more than easily wrapped completely around her upper arm, squeezing tightly she began to cry before his other hand even made contact with her backside in a series of swift and serious whacks. The dull and stinging thud he meted out echoed through the otherwise silent room. I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I won't say it again. Damn right you won't.

She pressed her nose against the frosty glass of the window and waited. The winter doesn't seem so cold when you're a child, when there are snowmen to build and snow angels to make and snowball fights with an older brother to be won.

Christine…red hair, blue eyes, like hers, the older woman squatted down next to the chair as she slid down from her perch. Gloves, baby, you always forget your gloves. Hot pink mittens with snowflakes on them and little puff balls that hung from a string at the wrist were slid onto her outstretched hands. She could remember exactly what the mittens looked like. But her mother's face…there was only red hair and blue eyes.

Cael was never any good at snowball fights, even though he was two years older she beat him every time. Giggles and overly dramatic screeches filled the crisp neighborhood air as she launched projectile after projectile at him until thoroughly exhausted they both collapsed into a drift next to the driveway.

You almost hit me in the eye with that last one, Chrissie, he giggled and swatted a loose dusting of snow at her.

She turned her head and watched as a light breeze caused some of her brother's strawberry blonde locks to flutter. Your hair's sticking up. Mommy told you to wear a hat. The cold seeped in through her snow pants and coat, but she didn't care; it felt good. Exhilarating. Besides, it was a lot easier for Santa to get there if there was snow. Santa. She smiled; Christmas was just around the corner.

Cael, Christine…her mother's voice called from the porch. An airy alto, with a smooth cadence, she loved the sound of her mother's voice, particularly when she sang. The slight holdover of an accent from her childhood spent in Galway faded in and out as she spoke but always disappeared in song; it fascinated Chris.

The two siblings sat up as the plow trudged by, crinkling their noses in tandem at the grating sound of the metal on pavement as it swept the crystalline precipitation away.

Hot chocolate won't be hot if you two stay out here much longer…

More marshmallows? Chris nodded with a toothy grin as elegant fingers dropped three more tiny white treats into her mug. The gelatinous, spongy cylinders bobbed in the piping hot creamy liquid, soaking in the moisture and expanding past their natural shape. A curious finger poked at them, submerged them under chocolatey waves; Chris giggled as they floated back up and breached the surface.

Drink it, don't play with it, her mother chastised, setting down a plate with toast and jam in front of her.

The front door rattled and slammed and the familiar slew of post-blizzard curse words rumbled down the hall from the living room. Is that bacon? His hunger overruled his anger at the snowplow. Christine! Don't you give that dog a piece of bacon! Too late. The gargantuan black and tan point German Shepherd had trotted into the kitchen and gingerly closed his teeth around the strip of offered meat, carefully removing it from between tiny fingers. She ducked her head down under the table and smiled mischievously as a long tongue washed her face. Chris pressed her finger to slightly cold chapped lips; Shhh, Zeke, don't tell.

A large hand came to rest on the top of her hand. Did you give that dog bacon? She pursed her lips, trying to hide the smirk and shook her head no. Mmhmm. Her father took the plate of offered food and leaned against the counter as he ate. Chris watched as his pinky finger purposefully thumped a strip of bacon to the floor. Oops, he said with a wink as the dog scrambled to take care of the mess.

You're late; the roads must be bad. How did she even remember this conversation?

First big snow, the plows are just a little disorganized. Lot of wrecks…morons that tried to drive through the storm.

I have errands to run, maybe I should wait?

Chris looked up from her breakfast and smiled. Stay home, we can build a snow Zeke.

A snow Zeke? Clara Kelly laughed, a gentle laugh that rolled like honey across her cheek as she leaned down to kiss her daughter. Not a snowman?

Everyone builds snowmen. I wanna build a snow Zeke.

The plows are all out now; roads should be fine. He tossed his plate in the sink, time for shut-eye. Zeke, hier.

Daddy. Daddy! Her whisper grew with the frustration of trying to shake her father awake, tiny hands digging harder and harder into his shoulder as she pushed. Daddy! Wake up!

Goddammit! Christine! His body jerked up from the mattress, sending her stumbling backwards to the floor. What have I told you about waking me up after work, he growled.

She sniffled, mouth hanging open as she panted for air from the fright. There are policemen here.

The rest was mostly a blur, hands under her arms hoisting her onto his hip. Her arms looping around his neck as her cheek fell to his shoulder. He never picked her up.

Joe…the officer's voice quaked as he spoke; he had tears in his eyes. Chris looked away, let her tangled copper locks fall in front of her eyes as she buried her face into her father's heated neck. There's been an accident…Clara…

Wake up. Wake up. It wasn't real; it couldn't be real. The ticking sound like a hectic metronome grew louder and louder, bubbling up from her chest and filling her ears with only its rhythm and the sound of crying.

"Wake up, Chris, wake up," Cael patted her lightly on the cheek.

The thumping turned to ticking turned to blips as Chris' eyes fought to open, tears and crust trying with all their might to keep them closed. She swallowed, looked up at her brother and then to the flashing lights and erratic blips of the hospital monitor, which began to calm from her subconscious anxiety.

"You were having a dream…looked like a bad one," he stilled the straw from the water thermos and held it to her lips.

"I was dreaming about mom…do you remember that morning?" Cael nodded. "I can't see her face anymore, when I close my eyes. I haven't been able to for a long time. I have to look at pictures."

"You were young…we were young," he pulled the chair up closer to the bed and sat down.

Chris sighed, closing her eyes as she struggled to conjure up the image, to fill in the blur. Come back to me. Come back to me. "I can remember everything about that fucking day, everything….everything but her face."

"You look like her," Cael reached out and dabbed at her tears with a tissue.

Don't say that. She turned her head. "Do you think things would be different, if she hadn't died? Do you think we would be different?"

He thought for a minute. She was always doing this. It was her modus operandi, to question, to analyze, to dredge up the past, to fight battles. And if there were no real battles, no real bullets, no trenches, she'd create them; there were an infinite number of monsters in her memory to fight. But, memories were invincible; they couldn't be beaten. They always won, because they existed.

"You mean, like, would I not be an accountant?" Cael gave her a playful swat on the arm.

"I'm serious."

He huffed, shaking his head, "I don't know. I honestly don't. What does it matter? She did die. We are who we are, because of it or not."

"I think we would be. I think I would. I think I wouldn't have been so angry for so long. I think I wouldn't have spent my whole life trying to please Dad and make him notice me. I think you and I never would have grown apart. I think we wouldn't have spent most of our lives being afraid to love someone. I'm not even sure I would have joined the army and become a cop…" Chris took a deep a breath and chuckled through a new barrage of tears, "…maybe you'd still be an accountant."

Hi hands gathered up her hand in a firm clasp, "I miss her too."

It was a curious realization. It seemed wrong. But as her brother tried to commiserate, she knew they weren't in the same place. She didn't miss her mother. She'd barely known her; there were maybe a handful of memories, mostly overshadowed by that day: that day, when the evening white out covered the city in a glassy beauty. But, beauty wasn't harmless; it could be cold and brutal.

Chris let her head roll to the side away from her brother, "I miss…the idea of her."

Mommy. Her fingers gripped and release the edge of the bed as she waited, whispering again, Mommy. Hmm? I can't sleep.

Loving arms gathered her up in the darkness and carried her. Red hair. Her sleepy eyes focused on the strands of her mother's hair as she twirled her fingers through errant strands, until being softly laid back in her bed forced her to let go. The touch was comforting, the gentle caress of her mother's fingers dragging lightly up and down her arm as she curled up behind her.

Sleep my baby. She pulled the covers up around them and continued her calming strokes.

Sing to me.

Warm lips pressed lightly to her temple and though she couldn't see it, she could feel the smile behind the kiss. Her velvety voice rippled through the pitch-black room; it encircled her, each word, every note a part of her embrace.

Summertime,

And the livin' is easy

Fish are jumpin'

And the cotton is high

Oh, your daddy's rich

And your mamma's good lookin'

So hush little baby

Don't you cry.

"Summertime" by George Gershwin from Porgy and Bess.