"You have got to be fucking kidding me." Jane looks up from the paper in her hand, her jaw falling to the floor. "Is this a joke?"

"Sorry, Rizzoli. No joke. That's your new assignment." Her captain's face is dead serious.

"Bodyguard duty. My new assignment is bodyguard duty?" Incredulous.

"There's been a credible threat."

"Put patrol on it! Station an officer outside his door! What could you possibly need me for?" Italian hands, flying around the air in anger and frustration.

"We need a detective, Rizzoli. Someone who they'll trust, who can go behind the scenes. A patrol officer won't be able to get the level of access we need here."

"Okay, fine. But why me? I'm Narcotics!"

"We need a young woman. You're the best young female detective we've got."

A dark look, a resentful mutter. "I'm the only young female detective you've got."

"Then we're lucky that you're good." His façade cracks a little. "And so cooperative, too."

"Okay, fine. So it's undercover. Who am I undercoverly bodyguarding?"

He hands her a second piece of paper.

"Um, what the fuck is this?" At his raised eyebrow, she adds a hasty "Sir!"

"Your assignment, Rizzoli."

A long pause. "I'm sorry, I just – is this a joke?"

A groan. "God damn it, Rizzoli. No, it's not a god damned joke."

"Sorry, sir, I just…is this the right paper? Because this is an ad for The Bachelor, which seems like maybe you picked up on your personal time, or something, and isn't related to our…" He shakes his head. "Oh, fuck." He nods. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I'm going undercover on THE BACHELOR? What is this, fucking Miss Congeniality? Do I look like Sandra fucking Bullock to you?"

"No, Rizzoli, you're not going under as a contestant. You'll be the production assistant to the ladies. The producers got a lot of threats about violence against the female contestants. You'll be protecting them."

Jane drops her head into her hands for a moment before pulling up and looking him in the eye. "Not to gloss over the fact that you intimately know the plot of Miss Congeniality, but this sounds like the most convoluted and stupid way to prevent violence against a TV show that I've ever heard."

A long sigh. "I don't disagree with you, Rizzoli, but one of the producers is tight with the Commissioner, and these are the orders that were handed down. Now get out of here, go home, and pack your bags. You'll report to the set tomorrow."

Jane looks down at the paper in her hands for a long moment. "And you're sure this isn't a joke?"

"Good luck, Rizzoli."

"Fuck, sir."

This is the most motherfucking stupid thing she has ever done. She didn't have a lot of choice in the matter, of course, orders being orders, but still. The most motherfucking stupid thing.

She's wearing all black, which, apparently, will be her uniform for the next ten weeks. Her mane is pulled back into a slick ponytail and her practical shoes made the costumer nearly faint with horror. She's got a Michael Jackson headset and microphone attached to her face, which honestly makes her feel more like a McDonalds employee than a pop star. And certainly nothing like the respected detective she's worked her entire life to become. Six fucking months with the shield, and this is how she's rewarded. Babysitting a bunch of spoiled, stupid, overly made-up girls with nothing better to do than throw themselves at a heavily muscled douchebag on network TV.

Tonight is the first night of the show. Tonight, the douche will meet the ladies for the first time as each emerges from a limo and does her best to shock, seduce, and titillate him within five seconds. Jane was introduced to him a few moments ago, and he was exactly what she expected: from his douchey name (Brockton McTavish, are you fucking kidding me) to his douchey hair and smarmy smile, to the way he blatantly checked her out – absolutely no surprises there. Why anyone would choose to talk to him, not to mention choose to spend weeks fighting other girls for him, is completely beyond Jane.

The first limo pulls up, and the women start climbing out. They all look exactly the same. Blonde, thin as hell, very tan, vapid looking. As soon as they leave Brockton (seriously, Brockton? Vomit) and enter the house, Jane walks over and introduces herself. Her task tonight is to memorize each woman's name and face, so she can start matching the physical realities to the files she has at home. As soon as the fifth one comes in, Jane realizes this will be much harder than she imagines. She's always prided herself on her good memory, but the horrifying sameness of each of these women begins to totally baffle her.

Wave after wave of women arrive, carrying with them the cloying scent of too much perfume and a grating high pitched titter of nervous excitement. Natural blonde, dyed blonde, natural blonde dyed brunette to be edgy, obligatory person of color, dyed blonde, dyed blonde with obvious fake boobs, natural blonde – the parade seems endless. Tempting as it is to remember them by their dresses (black backless, black backless sparkles, red backless sparkles!), tomorrow the dresses will be different but the threat will be just as real. With a sigh, Jane forces her brain to remember and tries to still the horrible flashbacks of trying to memorize the periodic table high school chemistry.

Finally, after about 20 girls have flirted with Brockton and entered the house, someone different comes in. Jane notices her immediately. The air in the house seems to change. The air around this girl is different. Jane hangs back for a moment, watching her watch the other women. She doesn't approach them, instead she holds herself just slightly apart – not quite hovering, but nearly. She's gorgeous, and to the untrained eye she might seem like the rest – honey blonde, beautiful, kicking body. But while they look sexy or gaudy or opulent, she just looks classy. While their make-up and hair look like they took hours, somehow hers, while just as flawless looking, just seems natural. While they're sizing each other up and fighting for positions already, she merely stands there, watching, with her head slightly cocked to the side.

She's different.

Just as Jane is about to walk up to her, the producer signals Jane to pull back. Brockton is about to enter the house, and Jane has to remain off-camera. She'll meet the final few girls, including this fascinating enigma in a moment.

For the rest of the evening, Jane pays special attention to this woman. Jane notices when she finally begins to engage with the other girls. Jane notices that it doesn't seem to go very well: every time the woman approaches someone new, they extricate themselves quickly. The woman's face is impressively neutral, a perfect poker face. Half of her cop brain is telling Jane to investigate this woman as a threat – what the hell other reason would this impassive woman have for being surrounded by woo girls for the next ten weeks?

But the other half is just drawn to her.

Finally, the cameras leave the group of women to focus on Brockton and his one-on-one time with some of the girls, and Jane gets the chance to introduce herself.

She finds the woman standing outside on the balcony overlooking the lights of Boston. She's slightly bent over, leaning with her forearms against the railing, one heeled foot gently crossed over the other. As Jane approaches, she gently drops her head into her arms. Jane feels the movement deep in her chest.

"Not really hitting it off with the other girls, huh?"

The woman tenses, then takes a beat before lifting her head. She turns her face to Jane, her impassive mask seamless, leaving her body square to the night.

"No, I suppose not."

"Why do you think that is?"

The woman cocks her head, scrutinizing Jane. It's all Jane can do not to squirm. It goes on for far too long before the woman finally turns back to the view, leaving Jane to stare at her profile. "I suppose we don't have much in common."

Jane leans her right hip against the railing, squaring her body toward the woman. "What do you mean?"

"One of them is a babysitter. One is trying to be an actress, another a model. One sells cosmetics."

Jane waits for the rest of the sentence, but it never seems to come. Finally, she prompts. "So?"

"I'm a forensic pathologist. I cut open dead bodies for a living. I spent two years in Africa identifying victims of plagues and genocides."

Softly. "Oh."

The woman looks wryly over at Jane. "Yeah. Oh."

The sorrow in her eyes shoots down into Jane's body and lodges somewhere underneath her ribs. It feels like a blue shard of ice, embedding itself into her body and drawing her into this woman. She's never felt someone else's sorrow so deeply. She's never wanted to make someone smile more than she does now. But that's weird, it's strange, it's scary. It scares her in a new and visceral way. She drops her gaze to her feet. "So, um, why'd you sign up for this? I mean, what's the appeal for someone…like you?"

Without turning to Jane, the woman expels a breath that sits on the line between a laugh and a sob. "I'm not sure I know anymore."

The shard twists inside Jane.

A few beats. "Are you okay?"

The woman studies her hands, clasped out in front of her, hanging out into the night. She seems to be actually considering the question. Finally, she responds. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay." She unclasps her hands, and straightens all the way up, floating her hands down to the railing. She looks at Jane. "Are you okay?"

Jane is struck by the question. She was expecting "what's your name" or "why are you here" or "what's your job." But instead, this woman cut right to the chase. Is she okay?

Jane smiles. "Yeah, I'm okay."

A long beat. The woman turns her head away again, looking out at the night.

Softly. "I'm Maura."

"Jane."

A/N: I don't know why this is happening, but it is.