La Bohème

Promt: Opera

Giacomo Antonio Domenico Michele Secondo Maria Puccini. Sometimes she thinks a name can make a man, but this is something else. Sometimes she tries to grab hold of this floating feeling, only to realize that some things are untouchable.

She saw La Bohème when she was just 8 years old. Her grandmother said it's important for a girl to know at least some classic music. At this point she still didn't understand. That was until later.

That was the only time she let herself feel like a girl. Dressed up in red satin and black Mary Jane shoes, she seemed like the lady she just wasn't supposed to become. While she was sitting right next to this old, fragile woman she promised herself that this was the only place for her to let go.

Jane Rizzoli is surprised when her best friend gives her tickets for Madame Butterfly for Christmas. It's like Maura knows, just knows, that there is something indifferent about her friend she'll never be able to grasp. It won't be the same like La Bohème but just thinking about Un bel di vedremo is sending goose bumps all across her skin.

"So, are you going to join me, Dr. Isles?"

Maura's smile is warm, soft and caring. It's not hard to figure out that this woman is able to break your heart just looking at you. It's like some kind of cruel, twisted reminder; Jane can never get this out of her head.

"Of course, Detective…"

There are quite a few things Jane knows for sure. Like the fact that life was never supposed to be easy or that chart houses always crumble under somebody else's gaze because nothing's ever meant to be perfect. But this… the brief touch the doctor is granting her is too confusing, too consuming. It's like drowning and in this moment it's not about a safe place. It's about letting go and falling… sweet torture and the possibility of an eternity.

What she can't understand is why she was able to fall in love with a woman like her. Maura is everything she's not and that scares the hell out of her. It's like trying to live up to another person's expectations without realizing perfection has never been in the picture.

But it's Puccini and she should feel like drowning next to him anyway.

It's a Friday night so she is drinking half a glass of Pinot Noir and Jane can't help herself, grinning like a fool while she's imagining Maura's reaction if she knew, just knew what she kept hidden from her all this time. Her gaze settles on the clock and anxiety is already pouring into her palms, set against the keys. They're her keys. She remembers what's supposed to be done tonight, not tomorrow, and quit is already set into marching on the mouth of her day.

They meet in front of the opera because otherwise you might mistake it for a date. The golden glow of the ME's hair is making Jane nervous while she's trying to get a damn wrinkle out of her black dress. It's barely there but Maura will notice… of course she will.

"Hey… Sorry to keep you waiting…"

Maura is beaming – figuratively. "I haven't been here for ages. I've never actually seen anything from Puccini."

Jane is raising an eyebrow but she stays still while her best friend is telling her everything about arias, duets, trios, choruses. She's not really listening but is trying to nod at appropriate occasions. They find their seats at the balcony and the detective is about to suffer a stroke when the view hits her with all its flawlessness. Her hand is trembling and long lost memories infiltrate her peripheral vision.

Nanna. Mimi. Rodolfo.

"Mozzafiato…"

"You speak Italian?"

The voice startles her because she just forgot that her friend is still sitting next to her. Just now she sees that Maura is studying her curious. Like she is one of the few puzzles she's just never going to solve.

"Occasionally…"

"I like it. It's like seeing you with your guard down."

This, she thinks, is what she was worried about. She never wanted to be caught like this. It makes her too vulnerable and it's the first time she comes to the conclusion that this mess might've been her biggest mistake. It's not normal, she thinks, the way she is looking at me. It's almost as if Maura's about to crawl under her skin.

"I…"

There are no words and the lights are starting to dim. How or why this started really doesn't matter, the smell of spring on her dress is reminding Jan that she should've know full well that coming here with her, had to end like this.

Jane forgets to swallow when Maura's fingers press into her cheeks, spreading calmly over her skin. She's sure the doctor can feel her flush and already, her vulnerability is halfway into display. She wants to tell her that it's easier to be angry with her, that she needs to let Maura be angry with her.

But she feels her fingers pull into her hair, tangle briefly and then tuck it behind her ear. The pressure around her eyes stills and she loses to something between curiosity and easy familiarity – too familiar. The ME's thumb brushes along her jaw too, over her chin, and then settles across her mouth. The detective's heart starts to skip faster, crawling against her breast and walking into her throat. She can count – one, two, three, four – but loses to the way Maura's looking at her, waiting for her to do something.

And then her best friend kisses her.

She kisses her, but doesn't kiss her. Maura's mouth is still over hers, her thumb drawing away as her lips part only slightly. Jane sighs against her lips, chapped and coarse and almost tastes her, waiting for herself to let it register. The hand starts over her hip, drops and flattens, and she's losing her awareness of the weight of her purse. There's awareness then, slipping forward; it doesn't become a spectacle, merely an assertion. Maura is kissing her. The tingling sensation, her toes are curling and it's the first time she thinks screw Puccini, let's get out of here.

That's when the first note sets in. A short orchestral prelude.

Maura is letting her go. The craving is almost too much to bear. More kissing. More touching. More…

For the moment she's drowning in music. At home she's going to drown in something else entirely.

The End

A/N: A request from a friend. So here it is. It's short and senseless. I hope you like it anyway.