A/N: Hey guys. Don't know where this came from. I was eating an orange yesterday, and…this happened. Not literally, of course. But the idea. It's not my usual cup of tea, but I figured: eh, why not? I wasn't sure how to rate this, so I'll leave it at T for…um, suggestive themes? But it has a deeper purpose.

Orange Awakening

There is something about the way Jane Rizzoli eats an orange.

The way she sits, elbows on table, fingers spread as she examines the waiting fruit, rolls it from hand to hand, all casual contemplation and focused concentration. The way she rubs the rind, testing, the rough-smooth texture rasping beneath her fingerpads. The way she stops, settles on a spot. High, and to the left.

The way a short nail pierces the spongy skin, cuts down in an arc to make an opening, and long fingers work their way under to coax the rind from the fruit. Careful. It parts reluctantly, the under albedo showing white like a wound. Her fingers flex, levering upwards, and the first tear happens slowly, asymmetrical as it circles around, and she relaxes before it completes the break. She repositions, in the crook of the tear base.

The next pull is more confident, a quick peel that widens the opening, and you glimpse the deceptively dull orange of the waiting flesh inside like a promise as the tear comes full circle, and she lets the piece fall to the table.

Citrus spritzes the air, and you can taste the zest on your tongue. Just a teasing touch of tang and tart.

She peels faster, yet steady, strong fingers working round edges, an odd combination of efficient and haphazard. White pith succumbs in stringy strands or spongy clumps, joining the growing pile on the smooth finish of the table.

You wonder how she makes messy look so enticing. Patience has never been her strong suit, yet here you find her meticulous attention, so casual and confident, almost…addicting. Curious.

The pulpy segments slowly become clear as the flesh is revealed. Her fingers pause their peeling once the skin is just over half off. And it is not a job half done, but an offering, the rest of the rind left to cradle the heavy fruit, the carpels that may not be eaten.

Another inspection, turned this way and that, the fruit looking oddly vulnerable in its half-dressed state, yet secure in the palm of her hand.

Delicate now, her fingers gather on top, at that peak where each segment meets, round and poised, as though begging for release. She wiggles the tip of each finger between, just enough, then pulls, tendons and biceps flexing.

The flesh parts with a quiet shrick, halved.

Brushing dark curls from her face, she separates a segment, perfect and whole despite its parting, and brings it to her lips. Bitten. Halved.

She chews, jaw muscles working, and you watch the elegant length of her throat as she swallows. She pops the other half in her mouth, and juice escapes, glistens on her lips, down her chin. She leans forward to catch the dribble with a hasty napkin and a muttered curse.

You almost smile.

But an errant drop runs down a digit, and her tongue traces the path over her knuckle and into the fold between fingers.

Quick. Innocent.

You can't breathe.

She leans back, and it is like release from a spell. You blink and realize your lips have parted, just slightly. You close them.

The café is full, the chatter and clang of forks and dishes loud as the noise filters back into your awareness. Servers pass, the man seated one table over guffaws at some joke. The everyday rush of life and routine feels normal and incongruous at the same time. You are still tucked into your moment, and you are reluctant to let it go.

You look across from you again.

Jane reclines in her seat, eyes on the street through the wall-length window. The sunlight reflects in her eyes, emphasizes the feminine angles of her features, her slightly slouched posture, her pensive gaze as she eats. The remnants of her fruit-eating efforts lie on the table before you.

You feel yourself captured once again. But this time your mind rushes out, widens.

You think of fruit, and their symbolic use in literature throughout the ages. Your mind runs through myths, novels, culture. Religion. Even the early pages of Christianity. Perhaps…especially there.

You watch as Jane guides another orange segment to her mouth, takes a bite.

Wisdom, sin, forbidden knowledge.

New beginnings, potential, bounty.

Spring. Life.

Rebirth.

Never before have literature and reality melded so seamlessly. Never have you felt the weight of meaning so heavy. You would not consider yourself a poet, but now…now possibility has a scent. It is citrus.

A patch of off-white catches your eyes. Your gaze traces the scars on her hands. So supple, a world of contradictions: strong and delicate. Hands once nailed. Skin marred and healed.

Your chest tightens.

Brown eyes meet yours, dark and deep. There's a question there, if only you would think to ask. Another segment disappears past waiting lips, the white of scarred skin chasing its consumption.

Sin and redemption, the fall and forgiveness, all wrapped into one.

Your mind snaps like elastic with the rush of realization. You feel dizzy. Your head is full, expanded. The air seems to have left your lungs.

"Muar."

You realize she's been calling your name, and you look up to find her offering a slice.

Her eyebrow quirks in confusion, but she holds the plump carpel out, gives it a slight shake. "You want one?"

Snakes and stakes. Origins.

You swallow as you realize your answer.

"Yes." Your eyes rise to meet hers. "I think I do."

You wonder how your throat managed to make coherent sounds.

As you take the offering, your fingers brush hers, and you try to contain their tremor. Your eyes dart away to the neutrality of the street, pulse pounding, as you bring the fruit to your mouth. A brief pause. As though to savor the taste of anticipation. As though to consider the consequences. As though you could delay inevitability with a slice of orange pressed to your lips. The brink before the fall. Banishment is but a bite away.

But temptation is a word you now understand.

You meet Jane's eyes. Then the juice is strong as you break the pulp on your tongue, the perfect blend of sweet and tart.

Jane leans back, one elbow on the chair back and the other on the table. The familiar confidence is reassuring, settling, as is the half-smirk that plays across her lips. Her dark curls shift and resettle about her shoulders. The angle of the sun slants across her features, casts her face in half-light, half-shadow. This look is good on her.

She watches you chew for a few moments, contemplative. Curious.

"You okay?"

The sudden sound of her voice, raspy and deep, startles you.

Her eyes narrow, the twitch of her lips hinting at a smile. She gestures vaguely. "'Cause you've got this weird look on your face."

She is half teasing, but there is genuine concern behind the inquiry.

Thank God for your well-practiced social poker face.

"I'm fine." This is true, in a manner of speaking. You glance down, and the plain glass of water in front of you is somehow unappealing.

You reach for her orange and tear off the last slice.

"Hey!"

You dodge her grasping hands and pop the piece into your mouth with a growing sense of satisfaction. The action hides the tremble in your bones.

Jane huffs, pretending offence, but you ignore the posturing. The familiar interaction helps smooth the unsteady hitch in your breathing.

She looks at you like she expected a chiding, and now has been granted reprieve. She is relaxed and open, her face softening to contain that hint of gentle affection you've come to love. To need. Eyelash shadows caress her cheeks as she blinks, the brown of her eyes now warmed to rich caramel in the slanting rays.

This. This is Jane. And you look at her as though you've never seen her before.

"Friends share, Jane," you hear yourself saying with a smile and a shoulder twitch. You marvel at how you can act so normal, when inside you are breaking apart…and reshaping into something new.

She laughs, rolls her eyes, and brushes her hands off. Then she makes a face, touching fingers to thumbs repeatedly.

"Hands're sticky." She wiggles her fingers. "Gotta wash 'em."

She rises and turns away, missing the way you go still.

"See ya tonight?" she calls over her shoulder. The brief smile she shoots your way makes your heart pound.

"Yes," you manage, studying her back as she disappears through the crowd to the back of the café.

Tonight. A chaotic rumble hums low in your chest, and you acknowledge it. Terrifying. Exhilarating. Trouble.

You sigh.

As you wipe your hands on a napkin and gather your purse, you realize you have a new appreciation for citrus fruit.

Your eyes dart to the discarded rind on the table.

And many new soul-searching questions to keep you awake at night.

You scoop the pieces into your palm and deposit them into the trash. As the door closes behind you, you inhale the crisp spring air and stop for a moment to appreciate the day, the bustle and vigor of city life. The world feels different, somehow. New.

Possible.

The chill of the air burns your lungs, and you welcome the sensation, for it means you are alive. You start to walk, strides brisk and sure, and a hint of citrus – barely there – teases your taste buds. You smile.

…

A/N: Leave me a message if you now love oranges. I know I do. ;) And if you don't, well, I'm sorry. To each her own. After all, oranges are not the only fruit. Ba-dum-shh. ;) (If you don't get the joke…I'm a literature nerd and prone to such random references. Cut me some slack, eh?)

An update for Just a Dream is coming, y'all. Promise. Thanks for your patience.