i'm sorry / two words i always think after you're gone

- feist, "so sorry"

Things I Know For Certain:

Paddy Doyle is my father.

Paddy Doyle is dead.

Jane shot Paddy Doyle.

Maura's hands are shaking. She reads the list over twice, three times, before putting her pen down and tracing her trembling lips with a single finger. She has made lists all through her childhood and adolescence - ligaments, cell structures, the names of girls who told her she was "strange" - but what used to bring her comfort now makes her stomach shudder and her hands curl into fists. Should she cross out the "is" and change it to "was"? Can you still say that someone is your father when they're no longer living, or when they were barely present in your life at all? But there were pictures, she tells herself. He was there, even when you weren't watching. He wanted to be there. He was still your father, even when he couldn't be.

She knows the list is unfinished. Looking at it now, she knows that there must be a number four, but she can barely bring herself to pick up the pen. She knows what comes next.

Jane killed my father.

No, she won't write it down. She can't. If she has to keep it tucked away, if it has to become another one of her secrets, she can do that. She has to do that.

Maura has a few vices she's acquired over the years. She is an occasional and very secret smoker, allowing herself a cigarette once every few weeks and only in what she would consider the worst possible circumstances, which is why she is now crouched at her windowsill and blowing smoke into the early afternoon air, her free hand fidgeting. She is aware of the damage each inhale incurs upon her lungs and nasal passages, but there's something about the way it stings her nostrils that feels satisfying, necessary. She knows Jane would probably scold her if she found out. A part of her wishes she would.

She picked the habit up when she was fifteen, and Evangeline, the tall blonde down the hall, had taught her to french inhale.

"N'est-ce pas?" Evangeline's lips had shone even in the darkness behind the dormitory. She cupped a second cigarette and the spark of the lighter made her green eyes gleam brighter. Maura had been silent, mesmerized. She nodded quickly and let Evangeline light her cigarette for her. She remembers how her whole body had shuddered when Evangeline's long fingers had brushed her own, and the older girl had laughed and walked back inside.

She tries it now, opening her mouth slightly, and inhaling deeply. Something about it feels silly, and the smoke catches in her throat, choking her. She coughs and puts the cigarette out in one of the houseplants, stumbles to the sink for a drink.

There is a message on her phone, and she knows it's there because she's seen it flash on the screen multiple times, and she knows who it's from, and she knows what it says, but she's been too afraid to press "delete."

If you don't want me at the funeral, I understand. Just tell me ahead of time because I'm planning on being there...just in case you need me. J.

Maura stares at the pack of Marlboros on the counter. They were the first thing she saw behind the cashier's head, and her heart had ached a little for the red packs of Gauloises Blondes that she'd smoked that night with Evangeline. Or perhaps her heart was aching for the innocence that had come with those cigarettes, the feeling of unquenchable hope that had floated above them that night on the steps to the dormitory. Her heart had fluttered a little that night, the same way it sometimes did when she caught Jane's eye across a room, the same way it did when she watched Jane sleeping on the pillow next to her, her clothes still on, her hands folded like a child's under her face, her breath warm and familiar when Maura moved closer and -

4. Jane killed my father.

She pulls another cigarette from the pack, goes back to the window. They're burying my father tomorrow, she thinks, and takes a deep breath as she brings the lighter to her face.

R and I R and I R and I R and I

It should not take her this long to get dressed. What the hell else do you wear to a funeral? Black shirt, black jacket, black slacks. Black shoes? Does she have black shoes? Of course she has black shoes. Jesus Christ, Jane, you are losing your fucking mind here.

Angela appears in the doorway, lets out a noise of disapproval when she finds her daughter in nothing but her underwear.

"Jane, we're going to be late! How are you still undressed? We need to be there early, we need to be there in case she needs anything. I don't even want to think what that poor girl's doing this morning, all by herself-"

"Constance is with her, Ma."

At Maura's request, Angela had moved back in with her daughter after Paddy's death. Angela had not protested, but once home with Jane she'd had a few things to say about the matter.

"No one should be left alone in their time of need, you know what I mean? That's not natural, not at all."

"She wants some space, Ma. That's natural, too."

Angela points to the clock on Jane's nightstand. "You keepin' track of the time?" Jane rolls her eyes in response. "Yeah, that's what I thought. How hard is it to put on clothes, Jane? You're not twelve anymore, we're not trying to wrestle you into a dress for Christmas pictures."

Jane ignores her mother, pulls on the slacks she's worn so many times before, a black tank. She tries not to think about how many times she's worn them on the job, or out to the bar afterwards, or in Maura's bed when they've accidentally fallen asleep. She tries not to think about how she takes a few days to wash those clothes sometimes, wanting to smell like Maura a little longer. It's a comfort thing, that's all, she tells herself. It's about friendship or whatever.

Angela lets out a sigh and sits down on the bed. "You know, I'm not the one to blame for that little tomboy. I did my best - I got your ears pierced when you were four, and what did you do? Took them out so they'd close back up. Remember your First Communion dress?"

"Not really." Jane finds a jacket, shrugs into it. By habit, her hand goes to her waist to check for her gun. Her hand is shaking when it comes away empty.

"That's because we had to burn the thing. You got into a fight at the ceremony, dragged the Fillipelli boy into a mud puddle deeper than your knees, tore the sleeves off, and right in front of Father Peter you said "Tony, I'm gonna kick your ass!" Seven years old and you were swearing like a sailor, right in front of the priest! I thought I was going to die, I swear to you. Going to die."

"Tony Fillipelli? He probably deserved it. Grew up to be a real grabass." She pulls her shoes on, takes a deep breath. "Okay, I'm ready."

The reflection Jane catches in her mirror stares back in exhaustion. She studies the shadows under her eyes, the slight frown that pulls her features together. This is not the woman she usually sees, or wants to see. This is some stranger wearing her clothes, going to the funeral of Maura's father. This is the stranger who killed Maura's father.

Behind her, there's a sudden hiccup, and Angela lets out a sob. She grabs Jane from behind and smothers her in a hug, Jane awkwardly bending to support the embrace.

"Jesus, Ma. What is it? We're not even at the funeral yet."

"You...you were such a good kid," Angela cries, hiccups shaking her body. "We always knew you'd do great things. I'm just so proud of you, I can't imagine being without you, and when I think about the things that could happen to you on the job, I just...I just can't do it."

"Ma, I'm fine. Look, all in one piece, I swear." Jane sighs, letting her mother envelope her in a vice grip.

"Don't let anything happen to you, you hear me? And don't let anything happen to Maura. You two need to watch out for each other."

Jane lets out a skeptical laugh. "Yeah, sure, if she'll let me."

Angela's tears come to a sudden halt. She looks up at Jane with one eyebrow raised. Jane has yet to tell her mother the logistics of Paddy's death, how it was her bullet that took him down, how she can't sleep without seeing Maura's face over her father's body, hear the venom in her voice when she spat back at Jane.

"Don't wisetalk me. I don't see why you're not there now, honestly. Doesn't seem right for two girls as close as you to stay away from each other at a time like this."

"She said she wanted space, Ma. I told you."

"That's not like Maura. She knows you'd be there for her in a second."

"Well, Maura has her quirks, and right now she wants some space, so I'm giving her space."

Angela lets go but her face remains in the classic Rizzoli staredown. Jane realizes where she and her brothers get their interrogation glares from, even if Tommy's still trying to master it. "I'm just saying, Jane. It still doesn't seem right."

"Okay, Ma. I get it. I'm just trying to respect her wishes."

Even if she never wants to speak to me again, I'll respect her wishes.

The phone buzzes on her bed. Angela checks the caller ID and nods respectfully.

"It's your girl," she says, and moves the door. Before she leaves, she raises an eyebrow at Jane. "Didn't I tell ya?"

Jane shakes her head, shoos her mother out. Her hand is shaking as she presses "answer," her free hand balling around itself until her fingers are stroking the raised line of her scar.

"Hello?"

"Jane."

"Maura, hey. Are you...are you okay?"

"I-I...I don't want you to come to the funeral today. I've decided it would be better if you weren't in attendance. And...I've also decided..."

Jane can hear her heartbeat through her ears. She is overly aware of the sweat suddenly forming on her brow. Shit, shit, shit.

"Jane, I'm going to leave town after this. I don't know when I'll be back, and I...I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to go after me."

"Maura, I...go after you?"

"Or contact me. I just mean...well, I'd prefer if you stayed away for a while. I'm not sure I'm ready to maintain any kind of connection with you, including a professional one."

Jane feels her knees bending, her chest throbbing. She stumbles into the bedpost, grabs the mattress for support.

"Maura."

"I'm sorry, Jane. I just...I'm sorry. Goodbye."

R and I R and I R and I R and I

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