Work Text:
Jane. Jane. Jane. Maura tossed and turned on her 300 thread count sheets. She couldn’t sleep, although she had done months of research before selecting this bed as scientifically proven to be the best. The moonlight was shining in on her face in sheaths through the blinds. She would look into curtains in the morning. She had been trying her deep-breathing yoga exercises, but nothing worked. It was 3am. In 2 hours she needed to wake up, and start her morning exercise routine. Then a balanced breakfast, and to work. She would see Jane. Jane. Jane. Yes, she would see Jane. It was true. Maura was uncertain as to why her colleague kept popping into her mind.
As tired as she was, she remembered that time she had fallen asleep on Jane’s bed. She had been the most rested of her life, despite the bed being of significantly lesser quality, and the thread count of the sheets appalling. She had even slept in her clothes, which was generally an indicator of poor sleep, as opposed to an unusually good one. It was odd. Maura didn’t know what to make of it.
She sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to sleep tonight. She had been laying there for hours. There wasn’t enough time for proper REM rest anyway - any small amount of sleep she did get would only serve to make her more groggy and her reactions more sluggish than they already would be. She rolled out of bed and turned the light on, and wandered around her large, spotless room. It was beautiful. She had organized it that way.
But for some reason it felt a tad cold, in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. She remembered Jane’s disorderly, messy, uncouth room. It was ugly, that was certain. The polar opposite to her own. But as it was the polar opposite, there was a warmth which her own lacked. A ‘lived-in’ quality that daily dusting and cleaning warded off. An accumulation of evidence over days, weeks, maybe months of throwing things willy-nilly about the room and not paying any attention to it’s appearance. Not that anyone saw Maura’s room. Well, except Jane that one night. Jane. Yes, Jane. Why did the name seem to stick in her mind that way? It was a very common name, although it was becoming less so in subsequent generations, possibly because of it’s connotation as common. But ‘Rizzoli’ was not a common name. No, Jane’s last name had character.
Maura opened her closet as she thought these things, running her hands along her clothes. Each peice was specifically selected for it’s craftsmanship, it’s beauty, it’s quality, and of course, how it accentuated her sexual characteristics without being overtly revealing. However, as her hand grazed the matte pink dress (a Valentino) that she had traded with Jane, her mind called forth the picture of Jane in it. Maura had to note that Jane had looked much better in it than she had, even though Maura had spent months working out the algorithms for geometric shapes that would best suit her figure and make it most appealing to the opposite sex. Jane had put it on, her figure quite different from Maura’s own, although about the same size, and looked absolutely radiant.
Maura’s eyes skipped across to a few other wearable artistic masterpieces, and selected out a simple deep-blue Chanel that she knew would set off Jane’s dark hair and pale skin due to the 45 degree rule of clash colours. She crouched down and ran her hands along her shoes, all set at the same degree. She owned nothing without purpose. Beauty, quality, and artistry were the highest forms of purpose she knew. Every so often she recalled the speech she had made to Jane about how much she cared about these things with a small twinge of hurt. She had so hoped her best friend - best friend - yes Jane was her best friend, what was with her mind tonight? Maura put it to lack of sleep. She had hoped her best friend would understand or at least respect how she cared for this beauty, instead of joining the others in mockery of her. But clearly her hope was misplaced.
Maura’s hands caught a pair of black Prada kitten-heels with a closed toe and faux belt buckle. The small bit of metal seemed to reflect Jane’s tougher side, and the strong colours of royal blue and black would make her beauty glow in its best light. Maura blinked as a twinge went through her heart. Emotions came from the brain, she knew, but cardiovascular responses were symptoms of such chemical shifts in the neurons of the amygdala. Beauty often affected her in this way, but she found it more pleasurable to think of Jane dressed in her clothes, more than herself. She desperately wanted Jane to wear these things, all of a sudden. She wanted it more than anything, even though she knew Jane wouldn’t appreciate their beauty nor treat them with the reverence they deserved.
She imagined the heels being tossed aside for their frivolity as Jane chased down some criminal barefoot along the streets, dress ripped for better leg movement, a cut seeping blood into the neck hem (not serious, of course).
This image made her smile, which puzzled her even more. To think of such beautiful things being destroyed, disregarded - usually it made her sad. But with Jane it made her smile. Maura knew she was overtired. Her mental state was not to be completely relied on. But she sat heavily on the floor by her shoes in order of colour gradation, then alphabetically by designer, cradling the left black heel in her hand, stroking it absentmindedly as she frowned over the conundrum before her.
Maura had to note that she had been giving her colleague significantly more space in her mind than she would theoretically be allotted, as a colleague and sometimes close friend. Maura knew they were not true, real friends because they mostly did things to do with work. Jane’s work was her life, as was Maura’s, but from the experts on human social behaviour, a great indicator of true friendship was doing things outside of work, non-work-related, that were beneficial for both parties, often with other, non-work friends. They did none of that, hence, not true friends.
Maura trusted facts, she trusted what could be calculated or inferred from evidence. But her heart again twinged at this rational thought, and her amygdala rebelled, claiming they must be friends at least. They must be. They were best friends.
But then she pulled herself back - no, she was not a good judge of these things. Human social behaviour was not her specialty. She must leave those definitions to the experts. And according to the experts, they were not friends. Simply work colleagues. But she dearly wished they were.
As tired as she was, Maura couldn’t blame her next act wholly on a lack of proper REM sleep. She bent her head and kissed the heel in her hand, as she had been holding it to her chest until now. And she knew she wanted to be kissing Jane. And she knew if Jane knew that she would no longer have the label work-acquaintance and sometimes-friend, with no new label in its place. And her heart again responded to electric signals as travelled through her neurons signaling a chemical change in her brain. Jane. Jane.
Maura’s alarm went off. 5am. She carefully wiped the shoe, then rose gingerly from the position she had been sitting in on the floor for two hours that had felt barely 20 minutes, and dressed into her exercise gear. 20 sit ups, 30 minutes of treadmill, and 15 minutes of yoga stretches later Jane’s face had finally stopped plaguing her. But soon she would see Jane, and she could forget about all of these strange emotional responses to her and just be with her. And that made Maura the happiest she ever could be.