Silent Night

Disclaimer: I do not own Rizzoli and Isles, including the book and the TNT show; Jane Rizzoli belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Angie Harmon, and Maura Isles belongs to Tess Gerritsen and Sasha Alexander. The plot for this story is my own, but that is all I could or would stake claim to. Leave feedback if you'd like; I adore your words of encouragement and your eager questions because they keep my muse happy and my heart light. Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback on "Ask Me"!

Synopsis: "And you've played the piano. Do they still work?" (1x01) Hoyt stole many things from Jane, though she hates to admit it. Now that he's dead, can Maura help her take the most important thing back? Rated T for language use and snogging only. The last five episodes of Season 2 do not exist.

Darkness had spread through the cavernous building like an old quilt, rich with the feeling of safety, and warm in a way that darkness usually wasn't. Around her, she could almost feel the heat of a thousand tiny candles as they flickered, casting moving shadows against quarried stone and colored glass. She did not notice the congregation of hundreds or the movement of children in the aisles, holding pillared candles and trying not to fidget. She didn't notice the flapping of vestments or the smell of spiced cologne as the man in charge of the lights moved past her, returning to his own family. She felt, more than heard, the lowered lights, the ethereal hush which washed over the room, and the gentle glitter of snow as it blanketed the roof far above her. In contrast to her everyday persona, her focus narrowed completely to the ivory keys in front of her.

Her hands felt numb, which was never a good sign. She'd made it through several instrumental introductory pieces—classical music with a touch of Christmas that she'd known almost by heart for seventeen years—and the processional. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing! had never felt as lively as it had tonight as she realized that she was doing it, her hands were doing it, her fingers were doing it. Now, her play count was up to eleven. One more song, then two pieces to lead out, and she could say that she'd done it.

But could she do it?

On her lap lay a heating pad, doing more to warm her thighs than her wrists as she played song after song in quick succession. The gospel had been long, which was good. It gave her a chance to wrap her wrists, praying to a God she felt more close to at Christmas time, in this age-old church, then at any other time, that the heat would somehow find its way to the inside of her body where slim tendons were pulsing against one another for freedom and peace. But it was over now, and the moment had come before any of the pain could ease.

Her fingertips brushed across the tops of the keys and then she moved her body into the song, opening with the end of the line in a gentle lullaby and pushing through to the verse.

Silent night. Holy night. All is calm; all is bright. 'Round yon virgin: mother and child. Holy infant, so tender and mild, sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep, in heavenly peace.

Somewhere beyond the realm of conscious thought, Jane felt someone slide onto the bench beside her. Her body knew the added warmth and the sweetness which pervaded the air, but her eyes and thoughts saw only black lines across yellowed pages and black blocks between yellowed keys. Stretch, she thought feverishly. Get there. Stretch again. Smooth. Stay smooth.

No. There are tears on her cheeks but she doesn't recall blinking them away from blurring the pages before her. But she isn't really looking at the pages any longer, which might be why she hasn't noticed. Her world has narrowed to keys and pain. Tight pain that blossoms with the swell of voices.

And then, there is another hand with hers and it replaces the top line. Sure fingers move deftly over the surface of the piano keys and then another hand moves over her wrist and into her scarred palm. Heat. Trembling.

Silent night. Holy night. Shepherds quake at the sight. Glory streams from heaven, afar. Heavenly hosts sing, Hallelujah! Christ the Savior is born.

Maura is with her.

Maura is next to her on the piano bench, playing the top line as effortlessly as Jane could have known she would if she had stopped at all in the last three weeks to wonder if Maura played the piano. Her shaking right hand feels as if it is no longer attached to her body, only she can still feel the pain radiating up to her shoulder, so she knows it must be. Maura's skin is cool against her inflamed palm, and the weight of the smaller hand pressing her upturned arm down onto her thigh feels like heaven.

Jane is still crying, but she's breathing and seeing the music in front of her again, and the song is almost over.

Silent night. Holy night. Son of God: love's pure light. Radiance streams from thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace. Jesus, Lord, at thy birth! Jesus, Lord, at they birth.

Her left hand is still tense, still trembling across the top of the keys, but it is stronger than her right hand and it can find the last chords. Maura's hand slows through the end of the piece in synch with hers perfectly, which is the third thing that doesn't surprise Jane (though she absentmindedly thinks that it should).

In the silence which follows the song, Jane hears Father Zach begin a closing prayed, and feels the congregation as it joins him, several hundred voices falling into an intonation together which is centuries old and feels like coming home. Maura's right hand finds Jane's right hand and she rubs nimble fingers into the tendons of her wrist slowly.

The brunette turns to her best friend, unsure of what to say. Her eyes are dark with pain, but Maura can see gratitude and peace, and hope in them. She smiles a little bit and slides her hand down to intertwine with Jane's their fingers curling together.

"Let me do the next one?" The prayer is coming to a close. Father Zach will send them out with a benediction and a celebratory cry of "Merry Christmas!" The choir will stand as one massive group in their brightly colored vestments. Jane nods.

"I love you," she whispers. Maura's smile widens into a grin, even as her hands find the piano keys. Jane shifts down the bench slightly, but doesn't leave the warmth of Maura's side.

Joy to the world! The Lord has come! Let earth receive her king. Let every heart prepare him room, and heaven and nature sing—and heaven and nature sing! And heaven—and heaven—and nature sing!

Jane wraps her wrists in heat so she can get through the final recessional. She watches Maura's fingers on the piano keys and she thinks about Christmas dinner, holding hands, her little brothers, Maura's present, missing her dad, and kissing Maura to sleep that night. She lets herself get lost in the giddy happiness of this, her favorite song, and decides that Maura and she are going to last forever.

And wonders—wonders!—of His love!

The end!

Thank you all for a wonderful ride. A couple of you have asked that this keep going but I think we're done here, for now at least. I have a couple of one shots to write, and then one massively long piece that will follow either this piece or Ask Me, so keep your eye out. You are wonderful readers! Your reviews keep me going more than you can know.