Archive of Our Own ^beta

His mouth is duct taped shut. He can’t swallow, his mouth drawn uncomfortably open, his own saliva choking him. His knees shake as he sobs, his hands duct taped together as he sits in his own house, on his own couch. He hears a footfall. The man is coming. He’s coming back.

His wife isn’t gagged, but she's speechless, only whimpering. There is a teacup and saucer in his shaking lap, on his bare knees. They rattle as he trembles in fear. The man had come in the night. They’d been asleep, in bed, and now this was happening. And he was tied up tighter than a turkey on thanksgiving. There was a gun in the safe; he’d promised to protect her when she’d moved in all those years ago. And here he was, helpless.

A knife is thrown and sticks upright inside the teacup. He’s dropped his weapon which means he’s dropped his guard. If he could grab the knife, if he could wriggle free, he could stab this intruder.

The man has another knife, which he brandishes as the man approaches his wife. It’s no use. His intentions are clear as he closes in on his wife. The man on the couch closes his eyes. He can’t bear to watch what he knows will happen next. He opens them, because if this has to happen to his wife, the least he can do is make sure she knows he’s there for her. There is a tattoo on his arm; military? Maybe, if they survive, if he gets what he wants and leaves, the husband will be able to identify him.

He starts touching her, and they are both yelling, the man and his wife. The teacup falls from his lap and that’s the last thing he knows.

—

Detective Jane Rizzoli is pumped. She nails one straight through the basketball hoop that hangs over her parent's garage. She hasn’t beat her little brother in a game in ages, and this is the first time she’s been able to shoot a hoop without her hands reminding her that she’s not the same person she used to be.

“Oh! Finally,” Jane yells, throwing both arms up in triumph.

“You're still down by 10,” Frankie reminds her, throwing her the ball, and she scowls at him, no menace behind it.

“I will beat you someday,” Jane promises, throwing the ball back at him.

“You beat me in everything. Let me be better at something,” Frankie reasons with her. He knows how hard it’s been for her - her injuries, the long recovery, the inability for someone as independent as her to do anything for herself. Having to move back in with their parents - the indignity of it all. He’s trying to remind her that even if she’s not as good as some things any more, she’s still one of the youngest Detectives with the best arrest and conviction record in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He’s in his BPD workout shirt, but she’s in jeans and a tank top, maroon hoodie over the top. It’s Sunday, and they’re having dinner at home. They did some yard work earlier, but Jane is always restless and Frankie grabbed the ball to work off some energy. Ma always yells when Jane fidgets at the table.

“You ready?” He asks, lunging at her. “Sure? Come on, come on, come on,” he goads her.

He swipes the ball from her easily, keeping her away from it with his body as he pushes her into the picket fence.

“All right, all right. Here it is. Game point. Rizzoli, Rizzoli.” Frankie lines himself up, dribbling casually, keeping the ball away from his big sister, using his bulk to block her out behind him.

“Take the shot,” Jane yells, guarding from behind, their backs to the hoop. He turns and shoots, the ball sailing through perfectly even as Jane goes over from the force of his elbow hitting something.

“Oh! You all right?” Frankie asks, ball forgotten.

“Yeah,” Jane says, clutching at her face. Her hands come away with blood on them, and it’s already dripping down to the front of her white tank top. It says ‘scare yourself every day’ and it seems appropriate in this moment.

“No, no, come on. Let's see it. Oh!” Frankie draws back in surprise when he gets a look at Jane’s nose.

“No, I'm good. What?” Jane asks, annoyed, seeing Frankie’s scared look.

“No. That's bad. Come on,” Frankie grabs Jane and starts leading her to the house.

“It's bad?” Jane asks, bringing her hands back up to her face.

“Yeah, let's get you some ice.” He opens the front door and leads her in. “Hold your head up. Come on. Come on. Come on.

“All right,” Jane says, exasperated over all the fuss. “Just don't touch," she adds, batting his hands away from her face.

“Yeah, that's broken,” Frankie confirms, having seen a few broken noses from his baseball and hockey games as a kid.

“It's broken?”

“Let me see, hey? Okay.” Frankie reaches out and grabs her nose, and she flails at him.

“Ow! God! Why you gotta do that?”

“Get ice on it,” Frankie says briskly, pulling Jane into the kitchen. “Come on.”

“Well, hurry up,” Jane complains, following him.

“Come on. Keep it up. Keep it up.”

“It's up,” Jane whines. “Just get something before Mom comes.”

“All right. Here, here. There you go.” Frankie picks up a towel and holds it over Jane’s face.

“Thank you,” Jane says, but her tone is full of exasperation at the whole production.

“On the good towel,” Angela says as she comes into the kitchen, her mother senses honing in on that rather than the blood splattered down the front of Jane.

“All right,” Frankie says, trying to placate her.

“What?” Jane fronts, already knowing what’s coming.

“Uh, excuse me,” Angela says, pulling the towel away from Jane’s face. Jane is slumped against the sink, already resigned to the yelling that's going to ensue. Frankie breaks her nose, but because she’s older she ‘should know better’ and she’s going to get the brunt of the blame, and the guilt about the towel - that Frankie chose - for the rest of the day, if not the week. Angela pulls the towel away from Jane's face, revealing her blooding mouth and chin.

“Aah! What happened? God!” Angela grabs a paper towel and puts it under the tap, glaring at Jane and Jane glares at Frankie as he chuckles. She raises her hands to slap him but he blocks her and slaps back as she manages to block him. Angela doesn’t notice, too absorbed in rinsing out her towel. Jane gingerly holds her nose as Angela turns to her with the wet paper towel. “How do you always manage to turn Sunday dinner... into a circus every week?”

“Me?” Jane asks, not surprised but still offended.

“Yeah, you,” Angela confirms.

“I did it,” Frankie admits.

“It's his fault,” Jane adds, backing him up.

“Oh, I know you didn't mean to do it,” Angela says sweetly to Frankie.

“So this is my fault?” Jane asks, irate.

“Look, I tell you all the time. ‘Don't roughhouse with him’.’” Jane nods and echoes Angela; she’s heard it before. She’ll hear it again. It’s always her fault. Angela groans and turns back to her towel even as Jane’s phone starts ringing; the Dragnet theme.

“Oh, someone... Uh, Bird? Bird keeps calling you,” Angela says, as though it’s unimportant.

“Detective Crowe?” Jane asks, looking at Angela in disbelief.

“Mm,” Angela hums, disinterested.

“You answered my phone? Why didn't you just tell me?” Jane is indignant now, heading for her phone.

“Because you were having so much fun... having your…”

“Rizzoli,” Jane answers her phone.

“Frost. Bad things in West Roxbury.” Jane’s partner doesn’t mince words, probably sick of not being able to get through to her.

“I'll be right there,” Jane says as patiently as she can, and hangs up.

“Dad and Tommy are gonna be here any minute.” Angela complains as Jane grabs her badge and gun.

“I told you I was on call,” Jane says, wondering when Angela is going to realise that being a homicide detective comes with certain duties - like locking up the sickos that kill people on a beautiful Sunday afternoon like this.

“Here. It won't be attractive if your nose swells up.” Angela hands Jane a baggie of ice. “You never know who you might run into.” It’s a double guilt trip - Jane for having the audacity to get injured, but to also still be single in her thirties.

“Ma!” Frankie admonishes her, knowing this is a sore spot for Jane.

“What?” Angela asks, hurt that Frankie is being so combative when she’s just trying to help.

“Because I meet so many great guys at work. Too bad they're all dead. Ha.” She holds the ice to her nose and flinches. “Ow. Later, jerk.” Jane punches Frankie in the chest, but gently so he knows she’s not mad at him.

“I'm sorry,” Frankie calls out to her as she leaves.

“No, you're not.”

“Okay,” Frankie admits. “Have fun.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

—

A police radio chatters; the sun has set between Jane leaving home and arriving at the crime scene. There’s a low roll of thunder, and Jane rubs her hands and sits in her car for a minute, bracing herself. Police squad cars light up the area in front of the house, along with a news crew with cameras, lights powered from their truck.

A reporter is speaking into a microphone for the local news.

“News of a brutal murder. A doctor in an upscale Bellevue Hill neighbourhood in West Roxbury. Shocked and terrified, this victim…” The reporter spots Doctor Maura Isles, Chief Medical Examiner for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. “It's the coroner. Go, go.” She follows Maura up to the crime scene tape. “Dr. Isles, tell us about the murder.”

“I'll have a statement for you later tonight, Kitty,” Maura says, breezing past. Crowe lifts the police tape for her to duck under.

“Detective,” Maura cooly acknowledges Crowe.

“What's up, doc?” he asks. He cracks himself up sometimes.

“Evening, Dr. Isles,” Casey calls as she approaches. He’s scene coordinator tonight, holding the clipboard.

“Hello, Casey,” Maura greets him, recognising his voice even in the darkness. She walks up and holds out her ID to be ticked off the list of attendees. “Dr. Maura Isles, chief medical examiner.” The reporter and Crowe watch Maura head into the building.

“Come on, it's your lucky day.” Crowe walks over to the reporter. “Can't say this on camera, but we call Dr. Isles ‘Queen of the dead’.” Crowe shows off for the reporters. If he’d gotten into police work for the fame, he chose the wrong field. Jane shakes her head as she comes up to the tape.

“What's that, Crowe?” Jane loudly calls him out.

“Jeez, take a Midol,” he complains, hinting that she’s menstruating. Not the best of his comebacks, but insidious enough that she can’t report him for sexism. She’s had worse anyway, and his record is lacklustre at best. He’s just bitter at being outperformed by a girl. Still, he’s never been lured in by a serial killer; one point in his favour, she supposes.

“Commander cleared you?” she asks, and that’s a deliberate taunt. He rolls his eyes.

“What's it to you?” he asks, tone light.

“It’s my case.”

“Since when? I'm up. I got clearance. Move.” Crowe gestures, but Jane stands between him and the tape, shaking her head.

“Spoke to the commander. It's my case. Where's Frost?” Jane speaks with authority and seniority. She outranks him. He knows this. That’s why he tries not to piss her off too much.

“Losing his lunch. Where else?” Crowe chuckles and points to the bushes where Frost is losing his lunch. Or dinner, at this hour.

“God,” Jane’s nose wrinkles and she flinches.

“He should've stayed in Robbery. Hangnails make him gag. Guy gives us a bad name,” Crowe complains. She knows what Crowe says about her behind her back too. He’s the one talking like this in front of the press, giving them all a bad name.

“Come on. Leave him alone,” Jane says, standing up for her new partner.

“You okay, buddy?” Crowe asks patronisingly.

“Something I ate,” Frost says, trying to save face.

“Where's the crime scene?” Jane asks.

“Follow your nose.” Crowe watches her walk past, smirking. “Might bring back memories,” he taunts.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Jane asks, genuinely confused.

“You'll see. Have fun, Rizzoli,” Crowe taunts her.

“Hands hurt?” Frost asks, noticing how Jane is rubbing them. He’s seen the scars, knows how they got there. Jane doesn’t hide them from him, but she doesn’t talk about them either. She also doesn’t comment on his frequent stomach issues, so he’ll take that on board.

“Yeah. It's gonna rain,” Jane hates that she can tell now; the tendons shorter, the bones aching with the change in barometric pressure. Although the partnership with Frost is new, he knows her tells, knows her well. She knows his lunch order, he knows her coffee order. He’s met her crazy family, and he’s still come over for dinner anyway. Jane announces herself to Casey. “Rizzoli. Homicide Victor 825.” Frost just raises his hand; he’s already signed in.

“Going back for more, Frost?” Casey taunts. Frost pauses and hunches his shoulders, but he gamely follows Jane back into the house.

—

The house is nice - single dwelling, burnished wooden stairs. Chandeliers.

“Ah,” Jane says, surveilling the opulence. “Not in South Boston anymore, Dorothy,” she tells Frost, shoving her feet into protective booties. She looks up as an older man walks towards her, his expression serious. She pauses, then puts her second bootie on. “Korsak? I thought you were on vacation.”

“Cut it short.”

“That bad?” Jane asks. He’s got seniority and banked leave up the wazoo - if he’s here the brass want this dealt with.

“Worse.” Korsak looks away, concedes something Jane isn’t sure of.

“Oh, man,” Frost groans as he looks at the crime scene.

“Ten centimeters,” Maura says, measuring the length of the wound across the victim’s throat. Frost audibly gags.

“Jane, if you got this, I can start processing the rest of the house,” Frost says, the look on his face desperate, his gaze landing everywhere but the body. He looks young; too young to be doing this kind of work. But then, so does Maura, hunched over the body, her hair looking darker in the soft light of the room. She’s wearing black, as she often does. High heels that make what Jane can see of her calves pop.

“Yeah, go ahead,” Jane says, her compassion shining through. Korsak is here; nothing will be lost by Frost wandering off, and he has a good eye for details, especially when it comes to the electronics. Korsak chuckles, and Jane rolls her eyes at him. Sure, Frost is green, but his work so far has been well beyond her expectations.

“Carotid artery and jugular have been transected,” Doctor Isles says, standing over the body. It’s a grizzly scene; Jane can’t blame Frost for being squeamish. Guy is duct taped on his own couch and slaughtered. “What's odd is how precise it is.” Maura looks up, sees Jane and smiles, a moment later frowning as she focuses on Jane’s face. “Hairline fracture of the nasal bone above the lateral nasal cartilage. It's not disfiguring,” she informs Jane.

“Looks pretty disfiguring to me.” Korsak says, unaware that Maura is talking about Jane’s broken nose.

“Can you pop this out for me?” Jane asks, gesturing to her nose.

“Can't you do something safe like yoga?” Maura asks laughingly, her tone gently amused as she stands to face Jane, pulling off her gloves. Jane shrugs, blustering as Maura steps closer, into her personal space. “Might hurt a little,” Maura warns gently, gripping Jane’s chin in her hand..

“Okay,” Jane says, looking down at Maura’s mouth. She trusts this woman. Maura cradles Jane’s face, eyes narrowing as she examines Jane, their faces close. She turns Jane’s head one way, then the other, trying to calculate the amount of pressure and the direction she’ll need to use. Jane doesn’t fight her at all, is completely malleable like putty in her hands. Maura knows the amount of force and torque she would have to use to cause an internal decapitation; she is strong enough, and Jane wouldn’t see it coming. She tilts Jane’s head gently again. Jane’s complete faith in her is unnerving somehow.

“Mm. Okay.” Jane says again, steeling herself as Maura raises her hand and presses a single finger against her nose. There’s a loud noise and a sharp, stinging pain. “Ow! A little?”

“Put some ice on it... for the next 24 hours so you don't look like Mike Tyson.”

“Unh! Ow! Mm.” Jane pulls away and covers her nose so Maura can’t touch it again.

“Victim is Dr. Martin Yeager, 34. Wife, Gail, is missing.” Korsak interjects as Maura pulls fresh gloves on.

“Diamond was too small, so she whacked him and walked out,” Jane supposes out loud, looking at the wedding photo.

“Ha, ha. No. We found signs of forced entry," Korsak adds to the case details. Jane looks around now, feeling the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

“Well-to-do couple. Man is bound and posed. Woman is missing.” Jane spots something under a coffee table, squats to look at it. She sniffs. “And a teacup,” she says, knowing her voice has dropped. Maura meets her eyes in surprise and concern.

Jane remembers the basement, gun drawn, nerves on edge as she stepped down the stairs. Finding Catherine bound and gagged. The blow to the back of the head.

“Is he out?” Jane asks, her voice strained. “Is the Surgeon out?”

“Oh, my God. Korsak?” Maura asks, turning to him.

“He's not out. It's his M.O. That's all.”

“Why didn't you warn us? Warn Jane?” Maura asks, and Jane doesn’t need protecting, doesn’t need anyone taking care of her, but she likes to know someone has her back, that someone is looking out for her and right now Maura is the only one filling that role. Maura’s voice is the most accusatory Jane’s ever heard it, and part of her likes that Maura feels protective. From anyone else it would be condescending; from Maura it’s genuine concern. She doesn’t think less of Jane because of her injuries, because of her former run-ins with a serial killer. She just wants the detective on the case to be focussed.

“I wanted your unbiased assessment. Looks like Hoyt, right?” Korsak asks for confirmation.

“We put that son of a bitch behind bars. Tell me how this is possible.” Jane’s voice is angry now; angry at the mention of Hoyt, angry that this has happened again.

“It's not. I spoke with prison authorities. He's in lockdown,” Korsak reassures her.

Jane moves the victim's head and finds what she’s looking for. “Look. Stun gun marks. Right there. Just like Hoyt's victims.”

“Any sick perp could have done this if he watched TV news and read a paper,” Korsak pointed out. “We got a copycat.”

“Except we didn't release this detail,” Jane said, still looking at the taser burn. “Hoyt's trained an apprentice.” Jane sniffs and presses the back of her hand to her still-smarting nose as she looks in anger and confusion at her colleagues. Wondering how this happened. Wondering how many more bodies there are going to be.

—

Outside, thunder rumbles. The coroner team is bent over the body, which they’ve lowered to the ground. Maura is supervising while checking for any evidence CSU will need to collect.

“Hey, uh, can I get a scanner from you?” Jane asks one of the techs.

“Yeah,” he hands it over easily, Jane taking it.

“Thank you.”

“He's coming out of rigour,” one of the coroner’s team says. “You want us to crack him?”

“No. Put him on his side.” Maura says. It would be better to study him in the position he was found under the bright lights of her morgue, then crack him herself once she’s made sure she’s learned all she can from this position.

“Hoyt's the reason you don't wanna be partners?” Korsak asks, and Jane shifts uncomfortably.

“You know why,” Jane tells him affectionately. “I'm allergic... to those sad and furry little creatures you keep rescuing, Detective Dolittle,” Jane says it softly, trying to joke, trying to spare his feelings. Trying to soften the blow.

“You never sneezed,” Korsak accuses her.

A stranger walks into the scene, and Jane looks up. Suit, no uniform. She doesn’t know him.

“Hello. Special Agent Gabriel Dean.” Dean introduces himself, holding up his FBI ID. Maura turns and shoots Jane a smile. Maura thinks he’s attractive. Jane can’t see it herself; his hair is floppy like a cocker spaniel, and if the feds are here it’s because they want to steal the case. “You must be Detective Rizzoli, and you must be Dr. Maura Isles.” Maura turns back and smiles at him.

“What's the FBI doing here?” Maura turns and gives Jane a little wink. If it’s not her Ma matchmaking, it’s her colleagues. Or maybe Maura is trying to indicate her own interest. Maura’s not good at body language. It’s one of Jane’s favourite things about her.

“Saw the homicide advisory. And possible kidnapping,” Dean says, keeping his information short and brief. “We have an APB out on Gail Yeager,”

“Yeah, so do we.” Jane informs him. “You get a lot of routine advisories. What's special about this one?” Jane comes to stand behind Maura, stuffing her gloved hands in her pockets. She’s aware she’s acting territorial. Aware she’s looming behind Maura. Aware that Maura doesn’t mind, moving back towards Jane a little, away from Dean.

“Hey, you know we're on the same side, right?” Dean asks, picking up on her hostility.

“Are we? Oh, because, you know... you fed boys, you like to show up, take the bat and the ball.” Maura turns and her eyes narrow at Jane again, clearly unimpressed with her attitude. Just because Maura thinks he’s attractive doesn’t mean he deserves any leeway.

“Just here to observe.” He’s trying to deescalate whatever hostility Jane has towards him.

“Right,” Jane says sardonically.

“Jane, I'll be doing the autopsy in the morning,” Maura says. Jane’s noticed that she uses Jane’s first name, but for almost everyone else she uses their last name or title. Makes her feel like she’s won something when she does it at work, in front of people, so their colleagues know they’re not just colleagues.

“Okay,” Jane says, trying to smile back at her.

“Come if you like,” Maura adds to Dean. She walks past him, towards the front door, looks back at Jane with a Cheshire grin. Jane gives her a little glare and then she’s gone.

“Hey, Rizzoli?” Korsak gets her attention. She turns away from staring at the vacant hallway.

“Yeah?”

“Semen.” Jane comes over. Korsak is shining a blue light on the chair, and an obvious stain is positioned in pride of place, exactly opposite where the dead victim had sat prior to being executed.

“So he raped the wife and made the husband watch. Just like Hoyt.” Jane’s voice catches on the name.

—

The prison is loud, inmates yelling, the bells and whistles of security, the beeps of the doors. Jane and Frost are led to an empty lunch room, wait while Hoyt is retrieved from his cell. Hoyt is led in, manacles, hands and feet. Two guards. Jane checks the exits. Swallows. Frost is at her back. She’s told him to hang back, but Hoyt knows how to push people’s buttons.

“Jane. How lovely to see you. Haven't seen you since the trial.”

“Get his ass in the chair,” Jane says casually, as though this visit is merely an inconvenience to her. The guard dutifully shoves him down into a cafeteria bench seat, and Jane sits atop a table across from him, her feet on the seat, her hands between her knees. There are two guards next to him, and he has to stand and round a table before he can get to her. It looks casual, but it’s calculated.

“Ah. I like that scent,” Hoyt says softly in his creepy little voice. Jane licks her lips nervously. She hates his voice. “The smell of lavender and fear.” Jane’s nose twitches, but otherwise she doesn't respond to the taunt.

“See one. Do one. Teach one. That's what they taught you in medical school. Who did you teach, Hoyt?” Frost walks up and stands next to him, barring his exit from the seat. He looms over Hoyt like he wants to smash his head against the table. Jane almost wants to ask him to.

“I dropped out, Jane,” Hoyt says in his singsong voice he uses when he’s playing with her. She hates that she knows this. “I mean, you know that.”

“You were kicked out,” Jane tells him. “For fondling a corpse.” She doesn’t say it with as much contempt as it deserves, but she sees Frost glare. Hoyt’s face drops for a moment, then he chuckles.

“That's very good, Jane. You've learned how to irritate me.” He sounds satisfied rather than irritated. Jane hates coming here; she knows her presence is enough to give him masturbatory fuel for months. His eyes drift down to her lap, where her hands are. “I wanna see them,” Hoyt says, and she knows what he’s asking. “Hands are so useful. Dexterous.” Frost steps behind Hoyt and shakes his head at Jane. She nods at him. "And yours played the piano. Do they still work?” Jane can feel how badly Frost wants to punch Hoyt, but she has to get information.

Jane stands and holds her hands up, turns them back and forth. She walks up and sits across from him, and Frost closes in on Hoyt again, looming, making his presence known. Jane remembers the scalpels skewering her hands, the way Hoyt had brushed the scalpel across her face, almost a caress. She doesn’t let it show. “Good as new,"Jane says with a smirk, as though what he’d done had already been erased. “So, your turn. You trained somebody, didn't you?”

“I love your neck,” Hoyt says, his voice rasping on his every last word. She doesn’t mind the hands so much. That this animal thinks of her revolts her. “It's so beautiful. And your breasts. Very firm.”

Frost reaches over and grabs Hoyt by the back of the neck. “Answer the question,” Frost says, just as firmly. He pulls away as Hoyt stares at him with a dry chuckle, as though Frost is insignificant.

Hoyt chuckles again, turning back to Jane. “Tell me, Jane, what would you like to do to me?”

“I'd like to get my gun...” Jane starts.

“Hmm,” Hoyt indicates that he’s intrigued.

“...and put it in your mouth and pull the trigger.” Jane finishes, dispassionate as she can be when talking about what would amount to murder. He’s incarcerated. It’s not a fair fight. But she does want him dead. Every time it rains, she thinks of him.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Hoyt says patronisingly. “It is so much better slowly, to take your time. You know, all my life I've been meticulous... about finishing what I start. And that bothers me. Because I haven't finished what I started with you.”

“And you won't, you sick scumbag,” Jane says, and she wishes she hadn’t said that. He’s gotten a rise out of her, and he knows it. Frost flinches, and Jane knows he’s a good guy, but he wears his heart on his sleeve. She almost wishes she’d brought Korsak instead.

“Do you dream about me, Jane? Because I dream about you,” Hoyt teases her.

“I don't even think about you,” Jane says, her jaw set. “But I tell you what, I'll visit you every day if you tell me who your friend is. Who killed Dr. Yeager, and where's his wife?”

Hoyt sighs, sounding disappointed. “I see that our time's up.” Hoyt says, and he shuts his mouth, getting to his feet. The guards step in to escort him out and Jane grits her teeth. She has to give him something or this trip is wasted.

“I do dream about you,” Jane says, just to get his attention. She hears him draw to a stop behind her. She tries to make it sound like a lie. Like she’s just doing her job with just another criminal.

“Am I ever your lover?” Hoyt asks lasciviously.

“That's enough, you son of a bitch! That's enough!” Frost advances on him, and, still sitting, Jane puts out a simple, steadying hand, pressing into his elbow just enough. She knew what coming here would cost, and she’d warned him. She can take this. She can take worse than this, as long as they get the name.

“All right, all right, all right,” Jane says, pulling him back. Hoyt sneers, and starts to walk away and Jane rubs her brow with one hand. Hoyt stops and turns back.

“But you're right, Jane. I should play fair.” Jane looks over her shoulder at him. “My friend is out there. Enjoy him. Because he'll enjoy you.”

Hoyt says nothing further, led off back to his cell, where Jane hopes he rots. She jumps when her phone rings, answers it.

“Rizzoli. Yeah, okay. We'll be right there.” Jane hangs up and looks into Frost’s angry face. “They found Gail Yeager.”

—

Jane drives to the scene. She likes to drive. She likes to be in control. As she starts pulling up she sees Agent Dean with Crowe. Frost lets himself out of the car.

“Hey, uh, I'll catch up.” Jane pulls out her lipstick and smears it on carefully before following Frost to the crime scene. There’s a dog there, and Korsak is, of course, patting it.

“Are you wearing lipstick, Rizzoli?” Crowe asks.

“Shut up,” Jane tells him, shoving him hard in the chest. “Dog find her?” she asks Korsak.

“Yeah. Lucky he got loose.” Korsaks is crouched next to the dog; a labrador or a golden retriever, Jane never could tell the difference. The owner, as always, looks distressed. They always do, when they find a body. “We wouldn't have found her till summer. Who's a good boy?” Korsak cooes to the dog, whose tail wags nonstop at Korsak’s attention.

“How did you get here so fast?” Jane asks Dean.

“I was in the area,” Dean says casually. Jane knows it’s bullshit. They approach the body. She’s naked with leaves covering the important parts. She’s lying still. She looks almost peaceful.

“Ooh. Everybody's so lucky today,” Jane says sarcastically. She watches Maura extract fluid from the corpse’s eye.

“Vitreous potassium,” Maura explains. “Helps us determine postmortem interval. Nice and clear.” Maura examines it. “About 36 hours.”

“Look at the body, the way it's laid out. Like she's taking a nap or reading a novel.” Jane says, observing the scene. It would almost be peaceful, if she wasn’t dead.

“It's odd, isn't it?” Maura says, looking at Jane.

“Yeah, why didn't he bury her?” Janes asks, looking around.

“Didn't have time,” Dean says shortly.

“It means something.” Jane muses, looking around.

—

“Where's Frost?” Korsak asks as Jane walks into the morgue. Korsak is watching the autopsy and chowing down on a hotdog.

“Uh, paperwork,” Jane says. She knows Frost hates the morgue.

“Oh. Wiping his face with it after he puked?” Korsak guesses, chuckling.

Dean comes in and doesn’t bother to greet anyone.

“Did you do a wet prep yet?” he asks Maura.

“I hadn't planned to,” Maura informs him.She waits a few beats but he waits longer. “But I can.”

—

Looking through the microscope, Maura was aware of what she was seeing, and the indignity infuriated her. Even in death, Gail hadn't known peace.

“Those little guys really are swimmers,” Korsak said, unaware.

“Quite fresh. Deposited postmortem,” Maura informed the room, as detached as she could be.

“Ugh.” Korsak drew back with a grimace, one which Frost shared.

“How did you know?” Jane accused Dean.

“I didn't,” Dean says. Jane glares at his obvious lie.

“Yes, you did,” Jane insists.

“It's not standard procedure to check for evidence of necrophilia,” Maura has Jane’s back again, and Jane shoots her a little smile which makes Maura flush and look away.

“You wanna tell us why you're really here?” Jane asks, but he ignores her and speaks past her to Maura.

“I'd like a copy of your report. As a courtesy.” And then he’s gone, leaving Maura and Jane staring at each other.

—

In his cell, Hoyt reaches for something between the bunk and the mattress. He slips it into his mouth, waits for the guards footsteps outside to pause at the door before her swallows the small pill. The guards open Hoyt’s cell. He’s lying on his back, clutching his stomach.

“Let's go, Hoyt. You got your one hour on the yard.”

Hoyt just groans. The guards come closer, looking at him, wondering if they need to call medical.

“He's faking. Be careful.” The guards approached him, hefting him upright in a way that was anything but gentle. Hoyt remained unresponsive, only groaning as they lifted him. He fell to his knees, then the floor.

Hoyt groaned again, and they came closer, closer…

—

Maura looked up from her screen in the lab. “I found carpet fiber on Gail Yeager's body.” Jane approached, crackers and tin in hand. It was a habit of theirs on a case like this when lunch breaks would keep them away from their desks for too long. Jane liked to make sure Maura ate; she was sure that if she was left to her own devices she'd skip meals, and she wanted her best ME to be at her best.

“Lab is processing it.”

“Thanks.”

“Hoyt didn't meet his apprentice in prison. Or medical school. All 80 classmates are clean.”

“You guys eating cat food?” Dean asks, looking over at them. A single tin between the two of them. It probably meant something.

“Yeah, you want some?” Jane holds out the tuna can right under Dean’s nose. Maura has complained about mouth bacteria from sharing food before, but she never complains when it’s Jane who’s sharing a meal with her.

“No,” Dean recoils in disgust. Man looks at motile sperm on a corpse without flinching, yet tinned food gets to him.

“Guess it's a chick thing,” Jane chuckles, looking over at Maura.

“What's up?”

“You may wanna sit down,” Dean says carefully.

“No. Tell me,” Jane insists.

“A few hours ago, uh, Charles Hoyt escaped custody.” Dean’s face watches Jane as she leans back against the desk behind her.

“Oh, my God,” Jane says, tuna and momentary win forgotten. If Hoyt’s out, there’s no winning.

—

In the prison infirmary, Hoyt was lying on a table. He slashed out to the doctor on his left with his dominant right hand. He’d grabbed a scalpel from the instrument tray. He went for the one on the right next, then sprang off the table, swinging for the one that had been behind him. The video had audio. It was full of screams.

Jane looked up from the screen they were reviewing the footage on. The security office was small and cramped; the warden, the security guard, Dean and Jane barely fit in there with all the screens and equipment. Already the room was too warm.

“Why wasn't he cuffed?”

“Two doctors assured me he was suffering from appendicitis,” the warden told Jane.

“Two hundred milligrams of Decadron would give him an abnormal white cell count.” Jane paced nervously, impatiently. “It mimics all the symptoms.”

“Doesn't explain how he got out of here,” Dean added, looking back at the screen.

“What's he doing?” the warden asked. He sounded shaken by what had happened on his watch, by what had happened to his people. Jane came over and looked at the screen again. Hoyt had cut a shallow gash into the palm of his left hand and was holding it up to the camera.

“It's a message for me,” she said grimly.

—

Jane’s apartment was full of Fr’s. Frankie, Frost.

“Go stay with Mom and Dad,” Frankie tells Jane.

“No. I am staying in my own home. He's not gonna do this to me again.” Jane walks to the door and opens it. Frankie won’t listen to her, but Frost might. His tie is untied, and it’s the first time Jane has seen him look anything other than picture perfect. He looks about as exhausted as Jane feels. “Frost, go get some sleep.”

“I'm fine," Frost tells her. Jane huffs.

"If I was a guy, you wouldn't be worried.”

“You're not a guy.”

“No, I am a homicide detective. And he is not gonna kill me.”

“Really? He almost did the last time. I mean, look at your hand!” Frankie grabs at Jane. He knew she hates having her hands touches, but he hates feeling like he was going to lose his big sister all over again more.

“Hey, Frankie, come on,” Frost steps in. He knows how Jane feels about her hands too, knows Jane's already annoyed enough without being made to feel vulnerable too. Jane knows he wants to stay, but he also respects Jane’s decisions as an adult. As a detective.

“Please take him,” Jane begs Frost.

Frost bites his lip. “We'll be outside. Come on,” Frost says, putting a hand on Frankie’s worn-in brown leather jacket. Not to push him, but to show he understands. Frost moves to the hall.

“All right. All right, that's the way you want it.” Frankie holds up his hands, absolving himself of anything that happens to his sister. “Fine. But if you have a boyfriend over, we'll know. How's that?”

Jane locks the door behind them. Puts the chain on too, for good measure.

—

Jane always vacuumed when she was stressed. She was doing it now, even though it was long past midnight. There was a knock on the door, and Jane startled, looking at the door in surprise. She turned off the vacuum cleaner and grabbed her gun, checking through the peephole. She sighed with relief and put the gun down when she saw it was her neighbour.

“Hi, Marisa,” Jane says, her voice soft in deference to the hour.

“Hey.”

“Did the vacuum cleaner wake you?” Jane asks, concerned.

“No, no, I was up studying,” Marisa says, brushing her hair back. Jane nods, then looks into the hallway.

“Come in, come in, come in. How's law school?” Jane shuts the door and slides the chain on again. Marisa knows she’s touchy about home security; she’d had Frankie come around and sink 6 inch bolts into the hinges on her door after Hoyt, and they’d done Marisa’s hinges too, since they were there and she was a woman that lived alone.

“Awful. Remind me again why I wanted to be a lawyer?” Marisa asks ironically.

Jane chuckles. “I know, right? Where the hell was I on Career Day?”

“Just making sure you're okay,” Marisa says softly.

“Um… yeah, why would you ask?” Jane asks, rubbing her hands.

“You always vacuum when you have a really tough case,” Marisa points out. She’s lived next to Jane for months. She knew her patterns. Jane shrugs, then jumps at another knock at the door. Marisa reaches for it.

“No!” Jane barks. Marisa steps back and watches Jane retrieve her gun from the shelf, breathing heightened. Marisa's eyes are wide and she steps back. Jane has been trying to keep her calm, appear unconcerned, but tonight any visitor is unwelcome. Jane looks through the peephole, then rolls her eyes, leaning her face against the door as the knock comes again. Reluctantly she unlocks it, giving Marisa an apologetic face.

Angela is there, clutching a pillow.

“Mom.” Jane says flatly. Half the world was awake and in her apartment.

“That lipstick doesn't flatter you. It's too pink, babe,” Angela says helpfully.

“Bye,” Marisa says, slipping past Angela in the doorway.

“Bye,” Jane says as apologetically as she can.

Jane sighs as she shuts the door behind Marisa, locking it again.

“I hope Frankie Jr.'s okay down there,” Angela says, looking out the window down to where Fraankie and Frost are sitting in a squad car, watching the building.

“Hoyt's not after Frankie, Mom,” Jane says.

“Your father's out there also,” Angela adds to the guilt trip.

“My God, did you bring the dog too?” Jane asks, trying to show how ridiculous this is. How fine she is.

“Why would I bring the dog?”

“What, Ma?” Jane asks, resenting the look Angela was giving her. Angela just glares and starts wiping down Jane’s counter. “Aw, come on, it's the middle of the night.

“Who could sleep? Ever since you had this crazy idea... to become a police officer, I haven't stopped worrying. I never know if you're coming home. And your brother, Frankie, wants to do exactly what you do. Everything you do, he follows it.” Jane rolls her eyes. She’s heard all this before.

Jane grabs her bag. “I'm leaving,” she tells Angela, grabbing her keys, holster and badge from the table.

“You're leaving? Where are you going?”

“Someplace where you're not,” Jane says contemptuously.

“Jane. Jane, come on. Be reasonable.” Jane grabs her handbag from the back of the door. “They don't pay you enough money, I mean… they don't pay me at all. Angela’s face is anguished, but Jane’s been through this before over much, much smaller stuff. Her mother knows how to catastrophise to capitalise on guilt. She rolls her eyes and closes the door behind her.

—

Jane parks around the corner from the address she’s been texted. She knows Frankie and Frost followed her, but she doesn’t care. They won’t barge in; not where she’s going. She notices the wind as she rings the doorbell; it’s pulling her hair into disarray, and she uses her left hand to hold it back, leaning the elbow against the doorframe.

The door opens, and Maura's hair whips in the wind. Her casual outfit must have cost more than Jane's last paycheck, and the wind brings a flush to Maura's cheeks that makes her even more attractive. Maura’s eyes take in Jane, propped on the doorframe with an elbow, the other hand in her coat pocket, and Jane can feel the hungry approval, Maura's eyes raking her from face to feet. She knows she’s doing the same thing. It’s almost awkward for a moment.

“Why do you always look like you're about to do a photo shoot?” Jane asks, unable to belay her anxiety with a joke. Maura smiles up at her and pushes the door open wider, closing it behind Jane and leading her into the house. She doesn’t ask why Jane is here, and Jane doesn’t offer the information freely. They both know why she’s here; Maura doesn’t need her to say it. Jane could complain about her family, about everyone knocking on her door all night, but she knows the real reason she’s here. The company at her home - she didn’t choose it. The company here is what she’s chosen for herself. Maura won’t fuss over her, won’t think Jane needs protecting.

Maura’s house smells like vanilla - there is a plate of cookies on the counter looking fresh and gooey and Jane’s mouth waters despite the lateness of the hour.

“Would you like a drink?” Maura offers, always polite. With Jane in her sneakers, and Maura in those - they must be at least four inch - heels, they’re nearly the same height for once.

“Yeah,” Jane says, distracted by the size and quality of the house. “You got a beer?”

“I don’t have beer. I do have wine,” Maura says, heading for her fridge.

“Wine sounds great, right about now,” Jane says. Maura opens a bottle and pours Jane a glass of white wine.

“Thank you,” Jane says, taking the wine thankfully, noting that Maura doesn’t have a glass of her own. It’s the middle of the night, but she’s in a shimmery silver blouse with more ruffles than even a pirate would be comfortable with, and she looks as fresh as if she’s had a full night’s sleep. Her computer is on the counter and she returns to it and a bundle of case files; she must be working into the night. She’d said Jane hadn’t woken her when she’d called from the car, and now Jane believes her. She wonders briefly if Maura got dressed up because Jane was coming over, or if she always looked like this. She doesn’t know which one she hopes is true.

“God! What is that?” Jane asks when she nearly trips over what looks like a small footstool.

“Shh. You'll scare him,” Maura admonishes her.

“He's alive?” Jane looks down again. She’s sorry now that she almost stepped on him - she hadn’t know he was an animal.

“His name is Bass. Geochelone sulcata. African Spurred Tortoise. I've had him since he was like this big,” Maura holds her fingers about an inch apart. “Partial to British strawberries.” Maura picks one up from the bowl on the counter and waves it enticingly in front of her pet, who withdraws further into his shell, obviously spooked by Jane’s loud voice.

“Bass? What, after an old boyfriend?”

“William M. Bass, forensic anthropologist who founded the famous body farm.” Maura looks up, squatting easily even in her heels. She’s wearing heels at home at night. The woman is incredible.

“Right, yeah. That Bass.” Jane says, acting like she knew who Maura was talking about. Even with the explanation she didn’t.

“Here you go. It's okay,” Maura cooes to him, and Jane feels a little bad at scaring him. A little. Between Korsak and Maura, they could have a zoo at BPD.

“Yeah, he's a great pet,” Jane says instead. “Really interactive, I'll bet.”

“Mm-hm,” Maura gives her a look which means she knows Jane’s being sarcastic. She hadn’t known, not when they’d first met. She’d had to learn the language of Jane. But Jane was blunt and frank and honest, and that was refreshing to Maura, who was used to high society and euphemisms and covert body language she never could quite read. Jane was an open book to her, and it had been a relief to find that Jane found her presence as reassuring as Maura did Jane’s.

—

Maura leads her into a spare bedroom; from the size of this Beacon Hill property, Jane assumes she has multiple. There’s an alcove which leads to either a bathroom or a closet; maybe both. Jane knows the ME earned a lot, but even so this seems excessive.

“So how long can a person go without sleeping?” Jane asks. The room is almost larger than her whole apartment.

“Hallucinations begin by day four... followed by slurred speech, short attention span and death.”

“You're better than Wikipedia,” Jane chuckles. It’s a soft chuckle, one that Maura can interpret as affectionate rather than mocking.

“Wikipedia is frequently incorrect,” Maura laughs. “Very little is rigorously peer-reviewed.”

Jane jumps when the doorbell rings. She looks at Maura, and Maura sees for the first time what it looks like when Detective Jane Rizzoli is scared.

“Somebody's just dropping something off,” Maura reassures her, walking past. She closes the bedroom door firmly behind her, and even though Jane is a guest, she is also a detective. She opens the door a crack.

Agent Dean. Maura bars his way into the house and takes a folder from him, looks it over. Dean looks over her shoulder, into her house, obviously impressed. Maura nods curtly, and Dean leaves. Jane closes the door and scarpers across the room, kicking off her shoes and climbing onto the far side of the bed.

Maura knocks. It’s her own house, and she knocks. Jane supposes she could be getting changed or something, and it’s polite, but it’s still weird.

“Go away. I'm asleep,” Jane jokes, hoping Maura hadn’t noticed her spying on her. To her surprise Maura chuckles and comes in anyway. When she sees Jane lying down she walks over and lies down next to her on the bed. Jane’s breath catches and she fidgets with her hands as Maura repositions herself so her arm brushes Jane’s.

“Are we having a sleepover... or is this your way of telling me you're attracted to me?” Jane asks, laughing so Maura knows it’s a joke. Maura chuckles dryly but says nothing, still getting comfortable. Jane doesn’t know why it’s taking her so long; this mattress is like a cloud. It’s the most comfortable thing she’s ever known. Already she is thinking of her bed back home with dread.

“So it was Dean you were expecting,” Jane says. She feels stupid now for assuming Maura would dress like this for her.

“He wanted my opinion on another case.” Maura’s voice is sharp; not clipped, but Jane can tell she’s being careful with what she says.

“What case?”

“I can't say.” Maura lifts one arm under her head.

“Fine. Go sleep in your own room.” Jane tries to make it sound like a joke but it comes out meaner and sterner than she’d intended. It doesn’t fool Maura. Maura knows her too well, knows her tells. Knows she gets defensive when she’s scared.

“Oh, Jane,” Maura says, disregarding Jane’s hostility with ease. She sighs, gets comfortable.

“You ever like the same guy as your best friend?” Jane asks. She’s no idiot. She knows why Dean arranged to drop those files off so late.

“No.” Maura says, without thinking.

“Did you ever have a best friend?” Jane asks next.

“No.” Maura replies, again without hesitation. It’s kind of sad, that Jane, prickly, spiky Jane is her only best friend. It makes Jane feel a little fierce and protective.

“You'd tell me if you were a cyborg, right?” Jane asks.

“No, I don't think I would,” Maura says, just as quickly as she answered the other questions, then she chuckles. Jane joins her.

“I'm not seeing him,” Maura offers as a peacemaker.

“Yet,” Jane adds the part Maura left off.

“Well, somebody should, don't you think?” Maura asks.

“Yup.” Jane’s never competed with Maura before, but she has with other women. Other girls in highschool. And she’d always come out as the loser. The flat-chested, messy-haired, monobrowed loser. And Maura - god, Maura - how could Jane compete with her? Her house, her clothes, her face, her body - Jane wasn’t only not in the same league, she wasn’t even in the same sport.

“Should we draw straws?” Maura offered, as though this was a close call between them.

“Couldn't we just show him our tits and let him decide?” Jane asks, and the idea has its merits, namely getting a glimpse of whatever Maura has inside that silky blouse. Maura laughs and looks over at Jane.

There’s a noise from the hallway, and Jane startles upright. Maura goes up with her, her hand reaching out and gently smoothing over the soft cotton of Jane’s hoodie.

“No, it's okay. It's just Bass.” Maura lies back down, pulling Jane with her. All thoughts of tits aside, Jane is pathetically grateful for Maura’s company. Not only is she saving Jane from a night with her family, she’s offering more comfort than she could ever know.

“Really, it's okay,” Maura says, her hand still rubbing over Jane’s forearm, the back of her knuckles brushing against Jane’s stomach. It had been clenched with fear, now it’s clenched with something else. She’s disappointed when the hand moves back. People have looked at her with concern all day, but from Maura it means something. Jane rubs her hands, remembering how it felt when the scars were fresh.

“I've never been so scared in all my life.”

Maura looks over in concern, and Jane knows she’s just blown any chance she had of sleeping alone. Thing is, she doesn’t mind. Not if it’s Maura.

“Do you mind? If I stay with you?” Maura asks. She can see Jane’s hesitancy. “There’s a serial killer on the loose, and having seen his work first hand, I’m a little nervous.”

“I don’t mind,” Jane says, knowing that Maura had phrased it as a favour Jane would be doing for Maura. To let Jane keep her pride. She kind of loves her for that.

—

Maura ask-tells Jane to shower and has fresh pyjamas for her laid out on the bed. Maura is already under the covers, a sleep mask on her face, so Jane doesn’t feel too weird about getting dressed with her in the room. She looks asleep, anyway. It is late. Jane looks over; her copper hair is bright in the bedside lamp, and her lips look fresh and pink, as though she’s just put on lipstick, or just wiped it off. Jane dresses hurriedly and slips in beside her. Maura doesn't stir.

—

Jane lies awake for a while, and Jane can tell Maura isn’t used to sleeping with people she isn’t sleeping with. Maura rolls onto her side, and her arm reaches out for Jane, finds her and covers Jane’s ribcage, gripping Jane’s side even as her head finds its way onto Jane’s chest. Jane doesn’t move, barely dares to breathe. She should wake Maura up and get her off of her, she should roll away or move Maura. But she doesn’t. She can’t. Because even though she doesn’t deserve this, right now she has it. She’s not alone. She has someone who is genuinely concerned about her without wanting to try to control her. Someone soft and gentle in the way they keep her safe. Jane sleeps lightly, and wakes at every movement, always soothed back to sleep by Maura’s soft, steady breathing.

Jane doesn’t like spending the night with men that much. They’re bony and always in the way, and they usually snore once they’re asleep. But even though Maura has colonised Jane’s chest, she’s soft and light against Jane, not a crushing weight or expectation.

Maura wakes her once. There’s a little whimper from Jane’s chest, and Jane’s eyes shoot open, looking for the threat. This is none, but Maura is whimpering. Jane tries to remember what she used to do for Tommy when Frankie told him too many ghost stories. She lets her hand rest on Maura’s back and rubs gently. Her clothes are so soft. Jane feels strangely protective.

“Anyone that wants to hurt you is going to have to come through me first,” Jane says fiercely, and Maura relaxed, hums into Jane's collarbone, settles back into steady breathing, a peaceful sleep. It lulls Jane into one of her own.

—

In the morning Jane is trapped under Maura. She can’t free herself without waking Maura so she waits for her to wake. She plans to pretend to be asleep, then Maura won’t need to feel embarrassed about how handsy she was in her sleep.

Maura wakes slowly when Jane’s phone alarm goes off. She assesses the situation for a moment, then her hands smooth just once over Jane’s ribs as she sits up and pulls away. Jane had planned on pretending to be asleep, but Maura looks down at her and she feels caught, her eyes open.

“Thank you for staying,” Maura says seriously, and Jane wants to laugh. This woman gives her refuge and safety for a night, and she thanks Jane.

“Thank you for staying,” Jane counters, and Maura’s eyebrows raise before she laughs.

—

“You look like you slept under an overpass.” Crowe tells Jane as she comes in, two coffees, one in each hand. Jane turns.

“How are you still single?” Jane snarks, and he leaves, still smirking.

“You gotta stop this,” Jane tells Korsak.

“Stop what?”

“This stuff with Frost,” Jane elaborates, putting Korsak’s coffee on his desk and perching on the edge.

“Lab identified the carpet we found on the victim. It's called Antron.” Korsak informs her, ignoring what she’d just said. Jane sighs.

“It's not Frost's fault that he was partnered with me,” Jane wheedles.

“Navy blue carpet. From a car.” Jane sighs again, moves his coffee closer. “You wanna hear what I got or not?” Korsak says, trying to get her to focus.

“Yeah. You wanna drink the coffee?” Jane snaps.

“Navy blue's a popular colour. Two million vehicles with this type of carpet fiber.” Korsak looks away from his papers and up at Jane, taking off his glasses.

“Swell,” Jane says, knowing they’ll get nothing off the carpet with those odds.

“It's not my fault it's a popular colour.” Korsak looks at the takeaway coffee mug. “I take three sugar,” Korsak says, determined to remain obstinate in the face of Jane’s charm.

“For Christ's sake, since when?” Jane’s voice is high and surprised.

“Since, I don't know. Since for a while. You'd know if we were still partners.”

“What about the semen we found?” Jane asks, changing the subject this time.

“No hits.”

“How is that possible?”

“Easy. Our UNSUB's not in CODIS. Ran the prints we had too. Nothing. Our UNSUB's a ghost. Pardon me, yours and Frost's UNSUB's a ghost.” Korsak shakes the two packets of sugar and tips them into the coffee.

“Thought you said you take three sugar,” Jane points out. Korsak hesitates.

“The doctor says It's bad for me.”

“Two sugars is bad for you. The creamer is bad for you.”

“Like you care!”

“That's it!” Jane storms off and sighs with frustration. Korsak looks over at Jane, reads the stress and exhaustion on her face. He'd been meaning to give her a hard time, but he'd forgotten she was already having a hard time.

“Hey, about the other day, I should've given you a heads-up.” Jane shakes her packet of creamer, readies herself to pour it. She looks over at Korsak, who looks genuinely remorseful. She hates that look. The one he gives her. The one only he could give her. He was the one who’d found her like that, crucified in a basement. He was the one who’d covered her with his coat and held her forearm until the medics arrived. He was the one who’d seen her at her weakest, and she knew he didn’t trust her. Not after seeing her like that. How could he?

“It's okay,” Jane says softly.

“No. It's not,” Korsak insists. She wonders if it's been harder on him than it has been on her. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm sorry too, Korsak.”

Jane’s phone rang, and she took the call. “Rizzoli. Where? Okay. Page Frost.” Jane hangs up, gets to her feet, heads for the door.

“I gotta go. They found another victim.” Jane tells Korsak.

—

This crime scene looks familiar to Jane too. Opulent house, dead husband, missing wife. Jane snags a wedding photo on her way over to the body, touching Maura’s back gently to let her know she's here, holding out the photo to compare the corpse with the slashed throat to the smiling man in the picture.

“His name's John Ghent,” Maura introduces Jane to their latest corpse. “His wife Karenna's missing.”

“No sign of a teacup,” Jane says, scoping the room. “You know what that means.”

“Yeah. He didn't need a warning device because he had an accomplice.”

“Hoyt.” Jane flexes her hand inside the glove, knows Maura is watching her with some measure of curiosity and understanding.

“Jane?” Frost calls from the stairs. Jane knows he can only see the back of the body’s head from there, but he still swallows and looks away. “You better come see this.” She follows him outside, aware that Maura is following her.

“Hey, all I know is I got a delivery for a Detective, uh, Rizzoli,” the man in the delivery uniform says. Beacon Hill Florist, the bouquet card says.

“That's me.” Jane holds out her hand and takes the flowers. Gloves still on, she pulls out the card from the envelope.

‘Prickly on the outside, succulent on the inside, just like you. Best - Henry Deduboto’

The officers shake down the delivery man, asking to see his ID as Jane reads the card.

“Hoyt,” Jane says, looking the bouquet over. It’s all cactus stuff, all succulents. Not even any aloe vera.

“Then who's Henry Deduboto?” Maura asks, reading over Jane’s shoulder.

—

Jane runs the name through an anagram checker back at the precinct.

“Ted Bundy,” she calls out in triumph.

“That's - five letters too many for that anagram,” Maura contradicts her.

“How do you do that?” Jane asks, looking up at her with narrowed eyes. “Fine, Theodore Bundy. He was fascinated with necrophilia. Just like the apprentice. I bet that's why Gail Yeager's body was laid out like his lover.

“So he could visit,” Maura says, and Jane wonders if she knows how maudlin that sounds.

“Anytime he wanted,” Jane agrees anyway as Maura comes to look at the computer screen over Jane’s shoulder. “But we found her. So he had to kill again. This time with Hoyt. My guess is Karenna Ghent is his new girlfriend.”

The Dragnet theme plays from Jane’s phone, and Jane answers it without looking at it.

“Frost? Where? Keep it off the radio. Take his phone. Hide your car. All right? I'm on my way.” Jane hangs up and sighs, looking up at Maura. “You are not gonna like what we're about to do,” Jane warns Maura.

—

“Only call he made was to 911. Dispatch put it straight through to me,” Frost reassures Jane.

“Good. What was he doing way out here?” Jane asks, looking over at the kid who’d called it in. Teenager, Whatever.

“Looking for Indian arrowheads,” Frost says.

“Native American,” Maura corrects him automatically. “The Wampanoag Tribe was the last to inhabit the area. Also known as the Massachusett.”

“Get him to a uniform. Take him downtown, hold him as long as you can,” Jane says. “Call Korsak. Get him out here. Tell him the plan.”

“I'm on it,” Frost affirms.

“What plan?” Maura asks, suspicious. They approach the body - she’s laid out like the last one.

“We're gonna surveil this body,” Jane says, on edge. She’s already said Maura wouldn’t like it, and from the look on Maura’s face she was right.

“What, you...? You mean, leave her here?” Maura stares at Jane, aghast.

“Yes.” Jane shifts her weight between her feet. “I said you wouldn't like it. Let's go.”

“No. I'm calling my team.”

“Maura, they weren't expecting anyone to find this body. Look where she's hidden.” Jane sighs. “Okay, hear me out. We get the hell out of here. We put both the park entrances under surveillance.”

“What makes you think Hoyt isn't watching you now?” Maura asks, and she regrets it instantly, when she sees the fear in Jane’s eyes.

“He might be. I am willing to take that gamble.” Jane’s voice is strong and true. She lives with this; Maura had forgotten.

“What, by leaving this body here in hopes that they'll return? No.” Maura shakes her head emphatically. “No, every second she stays here, more forensic evidence is lost.”

“Maura, please,” Jane begs. “The faster we get out of here, the better chance of not being discovered.” Jane sighs. “Okay? Because if we don't do this, we got nothing.” Jane’s passionate; she's never raised her voice like this to Maura before. She’s not angry; she understands Maura’s position, the oaths she’s taken. But she needs this opportunity. “If we take this body back now, all we'll find out is: ‘Yup, she's dead,’ and, ‘They killed her’.”

“Please. Do this for me.” Jane begs again; her voice cracks and Maura knows that no one in the world wants Hoyt caught more than Jane does. That Jane wouldn’t risk anything that would let him get away. She looks up at Jane, her eyes uncertain. She follows rules. She tells the truth. She does her job, and she does it very well. She’s top in her field. She swallows.

There’s no one else in the world that Maura would do this for.

—

Jane sniffs; Korsak’s car smells worse than usual. It’s dark in the woods, and Jane is amped up on adrenaline. She’s going to get that son of a bitch. She’s going to make him pay before he goes away too. She can hear a loon, an owl. The rustle of the trees. The radio.

“You still got the north entrance, Frost?” Jane checks in with Frost over the walkie.

“Affirmative,” Frost crackles back from his set.

“If you wanna sit in his car, go ahead,” Korsak pouts.

“Shut up.”

“Excuse me?” Frost asks; Jane had been depressing the button.

“Not you,” Jane tells him. “They're coming at night, so keep your eyes peeled.”

“Roger that,” Frost signs off.

Korsak yawns as Jane puts down the radio. The smell is getting worse.

“What is the smell?” Jane asks, looking around Korsak’s car.

“What smell?” Korsak asks innocently. Jane knows that tone.

“You know ‘what smell’. There's an animal in here.” Jane roots around the back seat, jerks her hand back suddenly, cradling it to her chest. “Ah, something licked me. What is it?”

“Oh, it's just Jo Friday,” Korsak says, pulling the silky terrier from the back seat into his lap. Jo is small but friendly.

“Ew, he's filthy,” Jane says.

“She,” Korsak corrects her.

“Jo?” Jane questions.

“Jo, like Josephine,” Korsak explains. “Found her by the side of the road this morning.” Korsak kisses her little forehead. Dogs love this man, Jane can’t explain it. They love him almost as much as he loves them.

Jane sneezes, and Korsak looks surprised.

“Hey, you sneezed.”

“I told you, I'm allergic,” Jane complains. She wrinkles her still-sore nose. “Korsak, it's either him or me.” Korsak puts the dog on her lap. “What...? Please don't.” The dog starts whining, unfamiliar of Jane. Perhaps not trusting her.

Korsak opens the car door and Jane panics as the dog’s whines continue.

“Hey, what about him?” Jane complains.

“Her,” Korsak corrects her again. “She stays. I gotta pee.”

“You gotta be kidding me,” Jane says, exasperated. The dog crawls into her lap and whines. “Nice doggy,” Jane says condescendingly. She pats her reluctantly, glad the whining has stopped.

“My God, what have you been in? You gotta go. You gotta go.” Jane puts the dog back on Korsak’s seat, wiping her hands on her pants. “Oh. Ugh.”

"’Later that same day…’ Come on,” Jane says impatiently, looking around into the darkness for Korsak. She gets out of the car, leaving the dog inside, and the smell improves immediately. She looks around furtively; she doesn’t want to warn anyone she’s here, but she also doesn’t want to see Korsak peeing.

It’s dark; Jane can only see in the moonlight filtering between the trees. She doesn’t want to say this is creepy, but this is creepy. Somewhere a bird squawks, and there’s a noise coming from somewhere she can’t determine. It could be leaves rustling in the breeze; it could be whispering.

“Korsak?” Jane calls quietly, shining her torch intermittently at the ground so it won’t be seen too far away. “Hey. Korsak?” Jane walks further through the bush. “Korsak? Come on.”

Jane hears a rustle, and she’s off and running before she can even think about it. She sees someone in the dark ahead of her and her adrenaline surges, and she puts on an extra spurt of speed to launch herself at him. She catches him around the shoulders and rides him to the ground. She springs back up and pulls her gun, pointing it at his head.

“Stay down! Stay and put your hands on your head now!” Jane yells as he gets to his feet, hands up.

“It's me.” Agent Dean says, turning to face her.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Jane yells, still pumped on adrenaline, lowering her gun.

“I was chasing Hoyt,” Dean says, lowering his hands now that there’s no longer a gun pointed at his face.

“What do you mean, chasing Hoyt? How'd you even know he was here?” Jane is agitated - not only has she tackled a federal agent, she’s also let Hoyt get away because this idiot was here instead.

“Rizzoli,” Jane hears faintly over the sudden quiet.

“Korsak?” Jane asks, looking around, trying to follow the sound.

“Hello. Little help over here,” Jane follows the sound. She steps into a clearing and Korsak is on the ground, holding his throat. Even in the darkness, Jane can see blood gushing from between his fingers.

“Officer down,” Korsak says weakly into the darkness, not sure if anyone is really there. “Officer down.”

“Korsak” Jane says. dropping to her knees beside him, holds her hand over his to stop the flow of blood.

“Officer…” Korsak tries again.

“Hang on. Hey,” Jane tells him, trying to keep him awake. “Officer down. Officer down,” Jane yells into her radio.

“Give me that,” Dean says, taking the radio so he can update the team on their location, so Jane can try to save Korsak’s life.

“What's your location?” Frost asks Dean over the radio..

“On the other side of the creek,” Dean says, knowing where Frost was set up, having sneaked past him earlier. He gives Frost more precise locations as Jane scoots closer to Korsak.

“He snuck up on me,” Korsak tells Jane.

“Okay. Okay,"Jane says, trying to calm him. “Are they coming?” Jane asks, looking up at Dean.

“Yes, they're coming.” Dean reassures her.

“Okay. Okay. It's gonna be fine,” Jane tells Korsak.

“I'm sorry.” Korsak says, and right now Jane would rather be kneeling here in the mud keeping Korsak’s blood in his body than chasing her own worst nightmare.

“Push the ambulance here. Quick.” Frost yells over the radio, Jane holding Korsak’s hand over his throat, brushing his hair back. She loves this man like a father. It hurts to see him like this. She has a moment, while she hears the ambulance crash through the bush, where she wonders if it had hurt him this much when he’d found her.

—

“Guess where I've been,” Jane says, strolling into the morgue. Her swagger is hindered by the tiny, filthy dog tucked under one arm. Maura’s eyes glance towards it, then up to Jane’s eyes.

“How's Korsak?” Maura asks.

“Fine,” Jane says. “No, he's not fi... he'll be fine.” Jane glares at Maura. “You told Dean where we were, didn't you?”

“I did,” Maura confirms.

“Without telling me?” Jane asks indignantly.

“I'm sorry.” Maura says, but she doesn’t sound very sorry.

“Really? You're sorry? Because I treated a senior federal agent like a perp. I tackled him, Maura. In a creek.”

“Well, that's unfortunate,” Maura says, as though she has nothing to do with it. “But there's a fine line between courage and stupidity.”

“Yeah, a fine, thin blue line.” Jo Friday barks in solidarity and Jane looks down at her. “Thank you.” She looks up at Maura’s dubious face. “What? You have a turtle.”

“Tortoise,” Maura says, making the face she does when Jane says something factually inaccurate

“Whatever,” Jane says flippantly, still mad. Maura eyes the dog with concern, her nose wrinkling.

“Well, at least give her a bath.” Maura gestures towards a trough on the wall, usually reserved for dead people parts. Jane groans and rolls her eyes, but she puts Jo down carefully in the sink. She’s a good girl - stands still, doesn’t whine. It probably feels good to be clean, the poor thing.

“Did you actually tackle him?” Maura asks, standing beside Jane.

“Yes, like a linebacker,” Jane confirms. She looks up, and Maura is smiling. Jane smiles too, despite herself. “Very professional,” Jane points out, turning back to the dog.

“That's... wow.” Maura smiles as though she’s amused, and Jane looks up again and is struck by how little Maura smiles around other people, and how attractive she is when she does. The morgue lights bounce off her hair, making her glow, and Jane has trouble looking away so she doesn't. Maura schools her face into something more neutral. “You've very brave,” she commends Jane.

“No. I'm simply tired of being afraid.”

—

Jane’s apartment was empty tonight, but Frost was downstairs. There was a knock on the door, and Jane wondered if she should grab him a waterbottle or something.

She wasn’t expecting the face at the peephole. She opens the door reluctantly.

“How did you get past Frost?” Jane asks Dean.

“He didn't,” Frost tells her, looming behind Dean, glaring at him.

“Thank you so much,” Jane says sarcastically, and Frost excuses himself without another word.

“If you're looking for an apology…” Jane warns him.

“I would know to look elsewhere,” Dean informs her.

“Fine, okay, I'm sorry.” Jane sighs and rubs her face, stepping out of his way and opening the door wider. “Would you like coffee?”

“Sure. That'd be great.” Jane rolls her eyes as she closes the door behind him. Dean looks around. “Your place is really nice.”

“You sound surprised,” Jane mocks him. Jo Friday barks, already comfortable on the couch. “What? Like I live in a sterile little hovel with my dead plants and my TV dinners?” Jane hands him a coffee; she’d just made a pot. He sits at the counter. She stands to keep the height advantage over him.

“So... question... why did Hoyt come after you?”

“Hoyt's first victim was mine. And in case you hadn't noticed... “ Jane walks away back towards the kitchen counter, “...I seem to be Hoyt's favourite type: female.”

“Oh, yeah, I noticed.” Dean says a little too emphatically. Jane turns and gives him a look. “What happened to your hands?” Dean asks, as though that’s good conversation. She’s not in the mood to play the wounded female to his strong hunter manliness. She folds her arms, carefully tucking her hands out of sight. She’s had lots of practice.

“Why are you so interested in this case?” Jane asks, turning it back on him.

“That's need-to-know,” he says smugly.

“Seriously? You fed guys actually say that?” Jane laughs in disbelief. Dean shrugs and sighs.

“I bet you never even once considered leaving the force, did you?” Dean says in an admiring tone. Jane feels like he would have, if it had happened to him. He was strong and determined, but his sense of self and manliness would have shattered under a rescue like that.

“Sure, I did,” Jane tells him. “When Hoyt had me pinned to the floor and a scalpel to my throat.”

“It's gonna be okay,” Dean tells her, and from him it sounds like bullshit. Like a line. Like he’s promising to protect her so he can be the big hero. Jane can rescue herself. She’s done it before. She’ll do it again.

She remembers again that night in the basement; Korsak breaking open the cellar door, his gun drawn. Remembers being pinned to the ground like a butterfly. Remembers Korsak hauling off his jacket to cover her, the wide, frightened eyes of Catherine watching as he tended to her, Hoyt unconscious and uncuffed, Catherine still bound by duct tape as Korsak called the medics, looking in horror at Jane’s hands. Jane urging him to help Catherine when the medics told Korsak over the radio to leave the scalpels in so they could numb and treat her when they removed them. The look on his face when he did, the way Catherine fell on top of her sobbing, Jane’s hands unable to hold her, Korsak tugging Catherine away gently to hold her instead, to keep her off of Jane, who hadn’t minded, didn’t mind; it had been a moment of kindness in the pain. She remembers Catherine being handed out of the basement first, the medics checking her over. Hoyt next, his prone, cuffed body limp, Korsak telling them not to be too careful with not letting his head hit the cellar door. And then, after hours, day, years, someone finally freeing her hands. The scalpels had hurt as much coming out as they had going in but the relief was unbearable, and like Catherine she curled into a ball against Korsak’s broad chest, sobbing as they flushed the wounds, packing them for transport. Then - not much at all until she woke up in a hospital bed. But almost every night, when it rained, she was back in that basement.

“And now there are two of them,” Jane says sardonically. “Hunting me down like a pack of wolves.” Dean sighs and looks up at her.

“You want me to stay?” Dean asks. Jane looks at him, puzzled.

“Hmm?” She asks, trying to process. “No. No,” she says, twice for emphasis, then becomes aware of how it might sound. “I mean, I don't mean no, I mean, no.” But she has to specify as well. “Like, no,” she says again, making a vague gesture.

“Okay.” Dean says. He’s obviously not used to women telling him no; at least not with such vehemence.

“All right.”

“Well, thank you for the coffee,” Dean says.

“Mm-hm.”

“All right,” Dean gets to his feet.

“Thank you,” Jane says, using a soft voice to lessen the rejection, following him to the door.

“Okay.”

“Good night,” Jane says softly.

Dean closes the door after him and Jane sighs, glad to be alone again. She slides the chain across and puts her gun back on the ledge next to the door.

“‘No’?” Jane questions herself. She knows Maura likes him. Jane could have had him - first, at least. For a little while. But the Hoyt thing is too much - she wouldn’t be able to relax and enjoy herself if he’d stayed-stayed, and if she’d wanted platonic company she’d have let Frankie and Frost stay. They, at least, could hold a conversation. Korsak too. Hell, even Ma, in a pinch.

She carefully doesn’t think about why she doesn’t include Maura on that list.

—

Angela’s ring tone rings out in the squad room, and Jane glares at her phone.

“God, Ma, give it a rest.” Jane grumbles. She looks up; Maura is here with coffee. She’s in workout gear, and yellow looks good on her.

“Oh. Have you been here all day?” Maura asks, sitting down.

“Yeah.” Jane looks over at the cafe takeaway mug Maura has put in front of her. “Oh, good. More caffeine.” Jane doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful but she’s been mainlining it for days now. She’s waiting for the hallucinations. If Maura is a hallucination, she’s the nicest hallucination Jane has ever had. If she’d known hallucinations were this pretty, she’d have started having them sooner.

Angela’s ring tone plays out again, and Jane picks up her phone, frustrated.

“Uh, what's my ringtone?” Maura asks, looking curious. Jane knows Maura has noticed everyone else’s ringtones.

Jane presses a few keys and Maura’s ringtone plays. The funeral march.

“Nice and upbeat,” Maura chuckles. Her face turns serious. “You should talk to your mom,” Maura urges.

“She's mad at me. I won't come home and sleep in my pink canopy bed.”

“Mm, I always wanted a pink canopy,” Maura muses.

“I wanted a horse,” Jane complains. She looks up at Maura in horror as a thought occurs to her. “Please don't tell me that you always wanted to dissect dead people.”

“Okay, I won't.” Jane looks over and Maura has a strained, panicked look on her face, and Jane laughs, not unkindly. She knows Maura was a weird kid, knows she’s a weird adult. It’s one of Jane’s favourite things about her. Maura takes a deep breath.

“I have to go to the forensics lab at Quantico tomorrow.”

“In the middle of this?” Jane asks, gesturing broadly.

“It's connected to this,” Maura says carefully.

“Right. Yeah. Here we go again.” Jane flumps in her seat. “Why are you part of the need-to-know loop, and...? He's trying to kill me.”

“Jane, this case is a lot bigger... and it's far more complicated than we thought.” Maura pauses. “I want to tell you.”

“Great. Fill me in.”

“I've been ordered not to. It involves national security.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Jane. Jane,” Maura says, trying to console her, looking up in panic as Jane leaves. “Jane, where are you going?”

—

“I'm sorry. Am I being a little too loud for you?” Jane asks Dean, in the FBI office in Quantico. Her visitor’s badge was too prominent for her liking; she felt like a hick LEO rather than a lead detective.

“Do you ever relax?” Dean asks, walking away. Jane sets her jaw and follows him.

“No, I don't ever relax. And you know what else? I've had it up to here with your need-to-know bullshit.” She looks up; the office they’d walked into wasn't empty, and the man who stood there was obviously important. “Oh.”

“I've heard bullshit before,” the man says leniently. “Senator Sam Conway, chairman of the Armed Services Committee.”

“Detective Rizzoli.” Jane introduces herself sheepishly.

“Sit down.”

Jane sits and looks at the folder that was handed over. More crime scenes like the ones she left in Boston.

“Where is this?” Jane asks, knowing it’s not the US. The buildings look wrong, somehow.

“Kabul, Afghanistan.”

“It looks like Hoyt's work,” Jane comments.

“A war zone is a serial killer's paradise.”

“Our apprentice is a soldier?” Jane asks.

“When we started investigating these, they looked like war crimes.”

“So...so you withheld crucial information... so you could watch dumb cops run in circles?” Jane asks incredulously.

“You can blame me for that,” The Senator says. “It's a very sensitive investigation.”

“We believe the apprentice finished his tours... came to Boston to find Hoyt.”

“So they could kill together.” Jane reasons.

“That's what it looks like.”

“What...? Wait, no.” Jane thinks this over for a second. “If our apprentice was a soldier, we'd have gotten a hit... on his fingerprints or his DNA in the military database.” Jane pauses. “We didn't get a hit.”

“You ever heard of sheep dipping?” Dean asks.

“No,” Jane says, baffled. She assumes they’re not talking about the farming sort, the big pens and sheepdog kind where the sheep are run through a water tank filled with insecticides to kill off any bugs.

“That's when the CIA borrows a soldier for a black-ops mission. Green Berets were sheep-dipped. Their identities wiped from databases... so they wouldn't be recognized as American military.”

“So you think our apprentice was a Green Beret working for the CIA?” Jane asks, piecing it together.

“Yes.”

Jane sighs with an ironic laugh. “We train our men to be killers, and we're surprised when they are.” Jane sighs again. “I hate that he's a soldier.” She pauses and thinks again. “No, that's it. That's the connection.” She can see it clearly, now that she has all the information. Information Agent Dean had been keeping from her.

“What?”

“It wasn't in the file.” Jane purses her lips, wonders how to phrase it. “Hoyt used an assumed name... to get into a combat medic training program at Fort Stewart. That has to be where they met, right?”

“Yeah, that's worth a shot. Let's fly to Fort Stewart.”

“And cross-reference Hoyt's records. We'll nail both these sons of bitches.”

—

“Uh, did you eat dinner?” Dean asks in the hallway of the FBI office.

“I can't remember,” Jane says honestly. Food feels like a distant memory.

“Well, are you hungry for food?” he tries again.

“Um…” Jane says, trying to figure out if she is or not.

“Agent Dean?” someone steps up to them, and Dean turns to him, then back to Jane.

“Excuse me,” he says gently.

“Yeah,” Jane says, shaking her head.

Her phone rings and she pulls it out, knowing from the dirge that it’s Maura.

“What is it, Maura?” Jane asks, glad to have a distraction. Glad to hear Maura’s voice after all this unsettling news.

“Jane,” Maura says calmly. Too calmly. “I'm in your apartment.”

“Why?”

“Jane, they've been in here.”

“I'll be right there.” She waves goodbye to Agent Dean, still conversing with the person that interrupted them, and heads out the door.

—

Jane’s phone rings. No tone. “Yeah?” Jane answers. She’s pulling up in the street outside her home.

“Jane, you were right,” Dean says. “Called in a favour, got records from Fort Stewart. Our apprentice is Special Forces officer John Stark… ... 32. He did three tours… ...in Afghanistan as part of a direct action force.”

“What unit was he assigned to?” Jane asks.

“Six-one-eight, medical care specialists.”

“Oh, my God, that's the same as Hoyt.” She expected this, but it still hits her like a freight train.

“Stark lives at 400 Chestnut Hill Square. I'm already sending units.”

“Okay, uh, I'll get there as soon as I can.” Jane hangs up and walks toward her apartment block, headed for the police tape.

“Detective Rizzoli.” One of the coroner’s men addressed her as she came home. It was a complete scene - the apartment block cordoned off, police everywhere.

“Yeah?”

“Dr. Isles asked if you'd ID the body.”

“What body?” Jane asks, distracted, looking at her home, knowing it had been violated.

“Sorry, thought you knew. Dr. Isles said it was your neighbour. Young female, 20s.”

“Marisa? Oh, God, no.” Jane follows him to the back of one of the trucks, and the morgue tech opens one of the doors. “No, come on. No, no,” and she drops to her knees to unzip the body bag, not hearing the tech climb in behind her.

“Hello, Jane,” Hoyt says - for it’s Hoyt in the body bag, and he has a stun gun and he hits her in the guts with it. She screams once, then falls limp into the arms of the tech. She’d never seen the apprentice’s ID photo, and that feels like a huge oversight, right now. Not that she can do anything about it, because the black circles are closing in on her vision.

“So nice to see you,” Hoyt says, and then there's nothing.

—

She wakes, bound with duct tape, in the back of the same truck. She moves her arms, trying to see if she can get free, get to her gun.

“You looking for this?” Hoyt asks, brandishing Jane’s service pistol in his left hand. His right holds a scalpel, and Jane knows her eyes hold fear. “You know, your problem…” Hoyt lets his right hand drop, over Jane’s chest, “is that your heart…” he runs it up Jane's bare, exposed throat, “rules your head.”

Hoyt pulls off the duct tape covering her mouth in one quick, cruel sweep.

“Where's your little helper?” Jane asks, the taste of adhesive in her mouth now.

“He's getting ready for our final game. And I'm so happy to finish what we started.”

Jane whimpers as Hoyt draws the scalpel to her throat. She knows what’s going to happen to her - and it won’t stop once she’s dead, now that the apprentice is here. She feels a sudden flash of empathy for the girl she’d left in the woods now - it had been a hard thing to do, but what an awful choice to have to make. If they go free from this, she hopes her body is found quickly, and she doesn’t mind if they leave her there to catch these two. Anything to catch them. She shudders, and Hoyt drags the scalpel lightly over her throat.

The door opens, and the apprentice stands there. Hoyt gets to his feet and looks over at him.

“Take a look,” The apprentice says, sounding like he wants Hoyt’s approval. Maybe Jane can use that. Hoyt climbs out of the van, and Stark leers at Jane as he tucks his pistol into the front of his pants.

Then he slams the door, and Jane uses her last moments of privacy to search the truck. Hands shrill bound, she sits up and pulls open doors, tugs at the window coverings, looking for anything loose. Anything she can grab, Anything she can turn into a weapon. She finds something, tosses it on the floor of the van and goes after it, her bound hands fumbling with the case.

There’s a noise outside. “Oh, Jane,” Hoyt calls. She has moments. Seconds. She lies back down even as the doors open “You miss me?” Hoyt asks. The taser in his hand is powering up - she can hear it. She holds her find close to her chest though, doesn’t flinch.

“What the?” Hoyt asks, stepping forward into the truck to see why there is smoke coming off the prone body of Detective Jane Rizzoli.

Jane rolls onto her back and shoves the flare she set off moments ago into his face. She hopes she gets his eye, but anything will buy her time. He falls back - in surprise - in hurt? Jane thinks she hit him, but her hands are numbing - she can’t tell for sure. He falls all the way out of the truck.

“Dr. Hoyt?” Stark calls. He’s close, and he knows something is wrong. Again, Jane only has moments, and she’s still bound and she’s just pissed one of them off. Hoyt is screaming though, and that gives Jane some satisfaction. She rolls her way out of the truck, landing on the ground with a jarring bump, unable to throw her hands out to steady herself. She has his taser.

Stark is nothing in comparison to Hoyt. Hoyt is the prime directive - she needs to incapacitate him completely. So she hits him with all the juice the taser has, watching his muscles involuntarily contract. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. The taser stops and Jane rolls away, watching the light on it not turn green fast enough.

“Dr. Hoyt?” Stark calls. He sees Hoyt writhing on the ground, and Jane wants to yell that Hoyt never passed his medical boards. Doesn’t deserve the title. But she lies still. She has the taser close to her chest. Maybe it will work a second time. She can hear footsteps coming closer. He has a gun. Jane has no idea where hers is - maybe Hoyt still has it.

“Dr. Hoyt.” Stark calls again, and Jane can’t resist jiggling the stun gun again. He’s close, and behind her somewhere in the dark. “Dr. Hoyt?”

“Come on. Charge, damn it,” Jane coaxed the stun gun. “Charge,” she whispers desperately.

The light turns green, and Jane hits Stark with everything it has. She gets him in the calf, and he falls to the ground. Good, now they’re on even footing. He’s dropped his gun, and he spots it the same moment Jane does, both of them crawling to it on the gravel. Jane has been tied up long enough to know how to move like this, but Stark tries to get to his feet and falls, and Jane has the gun and Stark has two brand new, smoking holes in his chest. He lies still, and that’s good enough for her. Good enough for now. She has business to attend to.

She sits up, panting, swinging her gun between the prone Hoyt and the completely still Stark. She puts the gun down and finally sees the scalpel Hoyt must have dropped when she’d flared him. She reaches for it, gets it, and starts to work herself loose. Behind her, Hoyt’s hand reaches across the gravel for the gun, both hands barely touching it before Jane’s boot squashes his wrists. Like the creeping vermin he is, she thinks briefly, picking up the gun and raising it. She aims twice; first at his burned face, secondly at his chest, where she knows his black heart lives. She pulls the trigger.

“We match.” Jane says, pulling her boot back. She shot him right through his hands. She could have, should have shot him in the chest. But she wants him to suffer, and being back in jail, the burn on his face, the holes in his hands - he’ll suffer. And if she’d killed him - Stark was self defence, but Hoyt was half-blind and incapacitated. If she’d killed him, it’d be murder. Self defence still, and the precinct would cover her in glory for it, but in her heart she’d know it was murder. Even if he didn’t deserve to live. Even if he haunted her for the rest of her days, she was better than him. She was the law.

Hoyt rolls onto his back, chuckling with delight, holding up his hands. Another tie to Jane. She doesn’t flinch. He’ll find out soon enough that it’s nothing to laugh about.

—

Backup came quickly - Jane was never sure how they tracked her down, never thought to ask. She hadn’t spoken to anyone at the crime scene, and the last person she’d spoken to was Dean, saying she’d head to Stark’s home.

And now the police and the ambulances and the morgue team were here, and the area is lit up like daylight from all the lights. Jane sits at on the back bumper of the ambulance, a thin rescue blanket draped around her shoulders. She couldn’t remember who or why, she just stares out into the night, wondering what the police are going to find at the site Stark had been preparing and if she ever wanted to know what they found. She was going with no.

Dean comes over and sits next to her. “Hey. Heard you got second-degree burns.”

“Yeah, flares are h-hot.” Jane says, unable to think of anything else to say to that.

“Huh. Yeah,” Dean concurs, and it’s not so bad. Not so awkward.

“Stark was a decorated soldier. Makes me sick.” Dean says. He hands Jane a printed photo of his platoon. Stark’s next to Hoyt.

“Hoyt kills three people... so Stark can waltz in and hide him in a body bag.” Jane says, her brow furrowed. “Hmm,” she adds, handing back the photo, which Dean carefully tucks back into his manilla folder.

“You gotta be hungry now,” Dean says lightly. Jane chuckles. “So?”

“I just wanna go home,” Jane says. The case is over, the bad guys are mopped up. She’s been on two flights today, and she’s been abducted, tased, bound, gagged, cut, burned and nearly murdered. She’s killed a man. Not a good one, but she killed him nonetheless. She’s filthy from smoke and rolling in the ground. She’s never felt less like going out for a date.

“Yeah,” Dean says. It’s like he understands, about the timing. That he knew it wasn’t the right time but still had to ask.

“Okay.” Jane says, getting to her feet, dropping the blanket back in the ambulance.

“I'll see you,” Jane says, walking away.

“Yeah, see you.” Dean says, still perched on the bumper. Jane turns part way around the ambulance, comes back enough to poke her head around the corner.

“Thank you, though,” Jane says, and she shoots him a genuine smile. Part of it is knowing Hoyt is off the streets again and his little army buddy is dead, but part of it is that he came out here to check on her - not Hoyt, handcuffed and being lifted into another ambulance, not Stark, who is being zipped into a body bag - no more necrophilia for him, unless he gets real unlucky - but her.

“Sure,” he says, and Jane walks over to Frost, who came over with the crew.

“Take me home,” Jane says, exhausted. Frost looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. He just looks at Jane with admiration for one, long, shining moment, and opens the car door for her. It’s going to rain, and the thought makes Jane smile for the first time since she'd met Hoyt.

—

Jane walks through her open door. Trashed was an understatement. She slumps to the floor, back to the door. She’d just wanted to go home, have a hot shower and crawl into bed, knowing that the apprentice was dead and Hoyt was in critical care. Now she’d have to tidy and clean and decide what she wanted to keep after that creep had touched it - she’d have to get all new underwear, that freak had probably rifled through her panties. She rests her forehead in one hand, her burn smarting as she moves, the cut on the other side pulling where the bandage covers it. A small, familiar dog comes running into the apartment, and Jane looks up in surprise, looking up into the also familiar face of Maura.

“Hey.” Maura says, seeming unsurprised to see a puddle of Rizzoli on the floor.

“Hey,” Jane says, wondering what the hell Maura is doing here. She’d told Dean and Frost she just wanted to be left alone, but now that Maura was here, maybe this could be better than alone. Maura squats next to her. She’s holding a fish tank - of course she is, the weird and wonderful woman that she is - and she holds it so Jane can see into it.

“I wanted you to see for yourself what extraordinary creatures these are,” Maura says, and Jane can see a tiny Bass baby in the tank. She doesn’t know what to say to this - generous? - gesture.

“Uh, thanks,” Jane says eloquently. Maura holds it out and Jane takes some of the weight, staring into the tank with unease.

“I thought you might need some help cleaning up,” Maura adds.

“Yeah,” Jane agrees, getting to her feet, still holding the tank. Maura’s hand, no longer encumbered with the tank, grips Jane above her elbow to give her leverage, and then her hands are gone again.

“All right, um… let me get you some work clothes,” Jane says in deference to Maura’s outfit. It’s not fair. You could drape that woman in nothing but overalls and she’d still look like a model.

“These are my work clothes,” Maura says, looking confused. The smile on her face is beatific, and Jane is suddenly glad she’s here instead of having dinner with Dean, looking like she’d been blown up by a bomb.

“Ha, ha,” Jane says, when she figures out Maura is half-joking.

“What? You don't like?” Maura asks, posing, and Jane drags her eyes back to the tank, settling it on a counter.

“Oh. They're kind of cute when they're small.” Jane admits, looking at the little tortoise.

“I told you,” Maura says smugly. There’s nothing Maura likes more than being right, but Jane has to concede this one. “So where do you want me to start?” Maura asks, up in Jane’s personal space, her voice playful, and Jane can think of somewhere she’d like Maura to start - to peel off these burned clothes and help Jane in the shower. Maybe not just help. Maura moves away while Jane thinks, looking over the torn couch, the smashed pictures on the wall, the broken glass, the remnants of her television and microwave. Jane looks around, suddenly depressed.

“Come on,” Jane says, heading for the door.

“What?” Maura asks, confused.

“Let's go get a bloody mary.” Maura looks puzzled so Jane sighs. “We always said that we need to do something outside of a crime scene.” Jane gestures to her trashed apartment. “This is a crime scene. Let's go.”

“Oh. Great. Heh.” Maura peels off the purple gloves she’d pulled on. Then she looks Jane over, up and down and up again, more than feels necessary. “Uh, but... dressed like that?”

Jane didn’t want to go out with Dean dressed like this, but the alternative was to stay here and clean, or sift through whatever clothes those perverts had left her and try to look anywhere near as classy as Doctor Isles, and that wasn’t going to happen, not with Jane’s wardrobe, not even on a good day.

“These are my going-out clothes,” Jane says flippantly, posing similar to how Maura had earlier.

“Oh.” Maura laughs when Jane does, and Jane pulls the door shut behind her. Jo Friday sits alone on the couch, her little doggy head resting on the arm, waiting for her person to come home.

The door opens again, and Jane’s head juts in. “Come on,” Jane tells Jo, as though she should have known she was invited; it is a girls night out, after all. Jo leaps off the couch and trots happily to the door, looking lovingly up at Jane, who points to the hallway. “Keep going. Go on, go on.” They catch up with Maura a moment later.

“Can we stay with you?” Jane asks, giving Maura her most beseeching eyes. “I’m too tired to deal with the mess they left.”

“I offered to help,” Maura points out as she walks down the stoop. She pauses, looks up at Jane, two steps above her, bottom lip jutting out in an adorable pout. She laughs, and Jane smiles. “But yes. Of course you can.”

“Good,” Jane says, rubbing her hands together happily. “And can I borrow something to sleep in?”

“I thought those were your ‘sleeping’ clothes too,” Maura says flippantly, and Jane chuckles and follows her down the street. There’s a place nearby she’s been meaning to go to for a while; The Dirty Robber. Maura’s hair glows under the street lights, and Hoyt is back in jail. She can’t think of any moment greater in her life. Except a moment later, when she catches up with Maura, who smiles up at her and slides her arm though Jane’s, so they’re joined together. Maura and Jane, Rizzoli and Isles.