AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is pure silliness fostered by a brain seriously impeded by the thesis that has to be completed in a month. But hopefully it'll provide an amusing read.

Oh, and this story is inspired by a JaneRizzoli tweet: "How many detectives does it take to change a light bulb? 1 plus the ME sitting on her shoulders."

I wouldn't have noticed the tweet if not for ColumbiaRose's fic, so I owe her some credit as well:)

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AND A LIGHT BULB WENT ON

I arrive at Maura's a little out of breath and nervously run my left hand through my undoubtedly messy hair as I wait for her to open the front door. The text simply said "minor emergency", and I ran the remaining distance from my car, which I had to leave a couple of blocks away because some jackass on diplomatic plates had parked his limo so it took up two spaces instead of one in front of Maura's house. Goddamn rich people.

Well, except for Maura, that is.

I glance down and realise my shirt's hanging out. I was about to change out of my work clothes when I got the message and abandoned the task midway to attend to my best friend instead. Emergency or not, it's the kind of thing that'll set Maura's borderline OCD off, and so I quickly tug the hem in and look up just as the door is being opened and Maura greets me.

"Why didn't you use your key?" Aside from a confused crease across her forehead, Maura seems to be okay. No bruises, no runny mascara. In fact, to me she looks like something out of Vogue, just like she always does. Though I'm sure she'd object, insisting that the tailored black slacks and light cashmere sweater she's currently wearing are her comfy clothes. Her idea of relaxed and mine are literally worlds apart.

"I hurried to get here and forgot it on the kitchen table," I explain as I follow her inside where my detective senses find absolutely nothing out of order. There are no signs of burglars. No smoke from any fire. No bleeding Bass on the floor. "So what's this emergency?" I ask.

"One of my light bulbs went out and I need help changing it," she says easily as she leads me into the spacious living room. It's a bit dim, sure, but aided by street lamps just outside and the glow from the kitchen not to mention the ridiculous amount of candles Maura keeps around it is by no means dark.

I stop in my tracks and know I'm going to sound exasperated even before I open my mouth. "Your light bulb died? That's your emergency!"

I am exasperated. Here I feared I'd find her tied to a chair with a message from one of Paddy Doyle's charming associates pinned to her forehead. My heart's been racing accordingly, and I'm probably going to get a ticket from dumping my car too close to a corner. And then it turns out she just likes her house bright.

"Chanel is introducing a new line of elegant evening wear so I need to clear out some closet space. Therefore I'm sorting through my dressing gowns deciding which ones to keep and which ones to give away and I cannot make an informed decision without proper illumination." She points to the light bulb in question; one discretely integrated into the living room ceiling. "I would change it myself, but it's out of my reach."

Again, her voice bears no trace of irony, nor the slightest hint of embarrassment at what's she's just put me through. To Maura, this is a clothes crisis and therefore automatically qualifies as an emergency. There's no point in me trying to tell her any different, but I'm not letting her off the hook that easily.

"Why don't you just stand on a chair like everybody else?"

She turns, eyebrows practically reaching her hairline, as if I just suggested she show up at work naked. No, scratch that. She'd probably look less crestfallen if I'd suggested that.

"These are vintage chairs, Jane!" She indicates the entire living room with a semicircular wave of her hand, and her indignation almost, almost makes me break into a smile, except she then ventures into her Google mode. "And I just had all my furniture tended to by this very talented Polish gentleman, who is a specialist in the-"

I cut her off. "Then don't you own a step-ladder?"

She nods enthusiastically. God, this woman is the personification of cheer. Admitted, I mostly find it endearing. Which is strange, really, because in anyone else the kind of crap she sometimes pulls at me would infuriate me, but with Maura it mostly just makes me love her even more. This is not one of those times, however.

"I did own one, but I lent it to Tommy when he needed to paint his new apartment, and, well…"

I sigh and deflate somewhat as my irritation is partially transferred to my currently absent screw-up brother. "Alright, I get the picture. But I still don't get exactly what you need me here for. Sure, I'm taller than you, but I'm no Sabonis." I jump and reach for the light bulb as if it were a basketball hoop and Maura understands what I'm getting at even if the sports reference flies right past her.

"I thought you could give me a boot up," she says with a smile and one of her little shoulder wiggles.

"Its 'a boost up', Maur, and do you even know what that means?"

"It's the act of lifting someone, usually by the means of using ones joined hands as an improvised step." The words fall automatically from her mouth as if she's quoting a dictionary. Hell, she probably is. The amount of redundant information – though, to be fair, bits and pieces of it often come in handy – she's able to store in that big brain of hers never seizes to amaze me.

But that's beside the point right now, and so I'm not going to let my awe of what this deceptively girly looking woman is capable of show. "Thank you, Maura, for that very useful definition."

She tilts her head, possibly for once picking up on some of the sarcasm dripping from my lips.

I plough on. "But you give someone a boost up when they're climbing a fence or a tree and need to reach its lowest branch. The operative word here being 'climbing'."

The lost look in her eyes makes me regret my tone, and so I turn the sarcasm down a notch as I drive my point home: "You need something to climb or hold onto when someone gives you a boost up, Maur." I shrug and hold out my hands, indicating the wide open space that is her living room. "And there's nothing like that here. Even if you took ballet lessons I doubt you could balance on my hands for that long."

A smile spreads across her face and her forehead relaxes as she straightens up. "Oh, I didn't expect you to use your hands, Jane. Don't worry!" She shakes her head eagerly. Her hair – unlike mine – immediately returns to its proper style afterwards. "But I thought perhaps I could sit on your shoulders."

And then she does that thing she does.

Is it her smile? Her unrestrained enthusiasm? Her vast vocabulary or her endless, and often paradoxically illogical use of, logic? Hell if I know. After all this time I still haven't figured her technique out and that's probably why it never fails. It's how she gets me to attend yoga classes when I could be spending another half-hour blissfully asleep. It's how she got me to sign up for a goddamn marathon and wear the most ridiculous running outfit I ever laid eyes on. And it's undoubtedly the reason I, a few minutes later, find myself substituting for Maura's beloved furniture.

At the moment Boston PD's chief medical examiner is perching on my shoulders and boy, is she taking her time.

With a sigh, I shift slightly under her. Her legs are wrapped securely around me, thighs in the crooks of my neck and ankles crossed in a properly lady-like fashion in front of me, but I am holding on to her calves just in case. My hands instantly freeze as I realize I have been absently caressing her with my thumbs.

At least she's wearing pants today and not one of those obscenely short skirts that make her legs seem to go on forever. If that had been the case, then my fingers would be grazing her naked skin right now; skin that's probably smooth and lotion-scented and not sporting the random cuts and bruises I always seem to collect. Had the skirt been skimpy enough – well, her posture would force it to ride up regardless – then I would also feel her thighs directly against my jaw. I know she's toned from running, but I imagine they'd be soft. And warm. Actually I'm beginning to feel a little heated myself.

I grunt audibly. "For Christ's sake, how long can it take you to change one bulb?"

She's not heavy at all. I'm mostly complaining out of habit and because, after once again giving in to one of Maura's whims, I need to signal that I'm not completely wrapped around her finger. And that I'm not in fact enjoying our physical closeness a little more than I ought to. Even if my words amount to nothing more than a lame attempt at convincing myself, I have to give it a try.

"This is very delicate bulb, Jane." Her voice is light. Either she didn't notice my grumpiness or she is deliberately ignoring it. With Maura, I can never quite tell. "Touching its surface in the wrong places leaves tiny grease specks that lead to an uneven distribution of heat, which can cause the glass to fracture."

She leans forward slightly in effect pressing her lower abdomen against the back of my head. I swallow and try hard to not consider the proximity of her crotch to the soft, sensitive skin of my neck. It's an uninvited thought, an inappropriate one, and I need to rid myself of it as quickly as possible, which means ridding myself of my current burden.

"Whatever, could you please just hurry," I hiss, hoping my airy tone with cover up the fact that I'm feeling a little out of breath. This time I can't blame it on running.

"Someone is impatient today…" I can hear the smile in her voice and she is giving me the leg-equivalent of an affectionate squeeze, which frankly does not aid my attempts at getting my body back to normal.

"My head's between your thighs, what d'you expect?" I whine.

"Your neck," she says simply and seemingly completely out of context.

"What?" I know I sound childish, but I am not in the mood to play translate-Maura's-thoughts-into-English.

"Your neck is between my thighs," she explains easily. Of course she would get hung up on incorrect anatomy. I would have shaken my head at her, but given the additional contact it would cause I suppress the impulse.

"Had it been your head between my thighs, then I certainly hope you would be in less of a hurry," she adds, and for a moment I wonder if my hearing is failing me or if her thighs have somehow cut off the blood supply to my brain.

She cannot be referring to what I think she's referring.

Being familiar with Maura's lack of filter I guess it's stupid of me to doubt my ears. She has dropped off-handed innuendos before, seemingly clueless to the effect they have on me. Possibly because her flirtation is unintended; probably because, to her, none of it means anything.

Unfortunately I cannot claim the same unaffectedness for myself as she insists on elaborating in the same relaxed tone as before: "Although I do consider myself quite responsive, and of course there's the factor of oral skills. However, barring any additional stimulation, less than five minutes could hardly suffice."

Cut off or not, my blood is definitely not reaching my head right now, because all of it is rushing downwards, making me shift and then freeze when I realize the resulting friction at the juncture of my thighs is only going to make matters worse. I need to dissolve this situation right now, but I can't even come up with one of my automated complaints. My pulse is distractingly loud and fast, I'm feeling lightheaded, and I have to spend what little concentration I have left on not picturing what Maura has just been describing to me.

I fail, obviously. Tell someone to not think of an elephant and that's exactly what they'll think of. Well, I'm thinking it alright and my treacherous body is responding accordingly.

Fortunately I am saved by Maura's "There! Done" in that very moment. I put her down as quickly as I can without actually dropping her, then I turn away and mumble something unintelligible about needing the bathroom and head off before she has a chance to notice how flushed I am. Maura might suck at picking up on verbal cues, but she is an expert at reading the human anatomy.

When I return some minutes later the now bright living room is empty, aside from the heaps of colourful dresses that would undoubtedly make me look like a scarecrow, even if they were designed to give their owners an air of elegance. With Maura it's the other way round. Her elegance is an inseparable part of her and she could make even a towel seem classy.

Okay, wrong image. Again. I realise this as I hear her humming from the kitchen. A few splashes of cold water and some breathing exercises – guess yoga proved useful for something, after all – have made my skin regain its usual hue, but I still don't feel like myself.

Or technically, I feel exactly like myself right now. The problem is there are parts of me I really need to not be in touch with when around Maura. Right now those parts are making me self-conscious and unable to fall into our usual, good-natured banter. Any words leaving my mouth will have to be carefully weighed beforehand and therefore end up sounding stilted. Even if it's quite likely Maura wouldn't pick up on it, I'm not willing to take the risk.

She has taken out a beer for me and placed it next to a glass on the kitchen counter, with a coaster of course. The coaster I may have adopted, but she'll never get me to stop drinking directly from the bottle. I pick it up and take a few gulps, grateful for the obvious excuse to not speak.

Urgent clothes crisis apparently forgotten, Maura has poured herself a glass of red wine and is arranging neatly cut pieces of cheese on a platter. I watch her hands as they skillfully handle the knife, but avert my eyes when she briefly glances over her shoulder and sends me a gentle smile before she launches into a small lecture on the history of Rochefort, Emmentaler, and Gorgonzola, and I can't even come up with anything to tease her with. I just stand here, delightfully entranced by her voice and the melodic lull in her speech, yet at the same time increasingly annoyed with it. Well, with my reaction to it. And my lack of reaction to it, because I'm not actually doing anything. Just like I have been not doing anything for months and it makes me feel spineless. Until I remember that there's nothing I can do that would lead to anything other than disaster; then I just feel rejected.

"I'm sorry."

The unexpected apology pulls me out of my dark thoughts. I am so surprised I momentarily forget my self-imposed silence. "What for?"

She's standing on the other side of the counter, leaning back against the stove, and she twirls the wineglass between thumb and index finger as she hesitantly replies. "I'm not really sure… But you seem upset, and it has to have something to do with me." Instead of taking a sip, she puts the glass down and starts speculating in her usual logical way. "You were a little agitated when you arrived, and you complained a lot, but that's not unusual. Since you've returned from the bathroom, on the other hand, you've been quiet and avoiding eye-contact, which leads me to believe that I said or did something to offend you."

"You think?" My sarcastic outburst sounds harsher than I intended. I know Maura is not trying to irritate me on purpose; none of the things she does to me are intentional. She's not to blame for this mess; my own body is, and so I shouldn't lash out at her.

Maura hunches her shoulders and her head ever so slightly. In any average person this wouldn't be alarming, but Maura's posture is always flawless, perfected through ballet, fencing and what not. Clearly she did catch on to my tone this time. I'm officially an ass.

She is fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. "Well, yes. And since nothing else has transpired between us since your arrival I gather it is related to the light bulb." She casts a brief glance up at me, through her lashes, before she adds: "I'm just not sure exactly how I offended you." She takes a deep breath, lets go of the hem and straightens up. "I'd really to know, Jane, so I don't repeat the mistake."

She's looking me straight in the eye now. She is being completely serious and sincere; she really wants to understand, wants to clear the air between us and make things go back to normal. At least to what she thinks is normal. And I do want to give her something, not just leave her hanging like this, but I'm not sure how to say anything without revealing too much.

"Was I was exhausting you physically by taking too long?" she suggests, a worried line creasing her forehead.

"No, of course not." I put my beer bottle down on the counter and pick at the label. The corner is torn. "Gosh, Maura, you really don't know?" I ask in a much gentler tone than I've used all evening.

"No," she says with a small shrug. "But if I didn't exhaust you, then it must have something to do with what I said." She tilts her head in thought, then holds out her left hand, ticking off possibilities one finger at the time with her right. "It could be related to the rules of friendship. It could be one of those instances of me not properly grasping the concept of… what is you say … that there are times and places for things. Or it could be the idea of having your head between my legs that offended you. Even if, technically, you brought it up first."

The heat from before has returned even before she finishes her last sentence. And this time it's not a gradual onset, it's more like a switch being flipped, and I actually have to lean my elbows on the counter to steady myself. I am so obvious I might as well be offering myself to her naked, but Maura fortunately seems to mistake my reaction for exasperation.

"I'm sorry, Jane, I know I'm not good at understanding social protocols. Please, help me out." She takes a step forward, and even though the counter still separates us and my eyes are on my hands I am very much aware of her increasing proximity. I clench and unclench my hands a few times, trying to focus solely on them and not the rest of the body attached to it.

"Maura, seriously, you don't need social protocols for this." I let out a long, slow breath trying to repress my default defence mechanism; sarcasm. "Just… try putting yourself in my place. It's called 'empathy'." So much for avoiding sarcasm.

"But I don't think I'd be able to carry you on my shoulders," Maura says seriously, and in spite of everything I burst out laughing. I look up and find her tilting her head perplexedly. If there weren't a table between us, and if my body weren't completely untrustworthy, I'd hug her.

"Just… Just humour me for a second, alright?" I'm smiling at her now.

Maura nods. And looks at me expectantly, apparently awaiting further instructions.

Elbows still on the counter, I rest my chin in the palms of my hands, feeling slightly less tense than a minute ago. Something about laughter releasing entrophy. Or serodolphin? Maura would know.

"So I'm on your shoulders, Maur, changing the light bulb, and I say…" My voice trails off. No need to revive unbidden imagery. "What you said," I add vaguely. "Now, in which way does that make you feel uncomfortable?"

Maura tilts her head again and looks towards the ceiling. She is clearly trying really hard to follow my line of thoughts and figure out the reason for my odd behaviour. I'm not too worried, though. There are plenty of incorrect, yet very plausible alternative explanations to the real one and if she picks one of them, then I'm home free. I'm counting on her lack of social skills to get me there.

Finally she shakes her head, clearly annoyed with herself. "No, I'm still not sure why you're upset."

"Really? Reversing the roles doesn't help?" I know this sort of thing is not her strongest suit, but I'm surprised she can't come up with anything at all.

"No." She shakes her head again. "I realise I'm less than well-versed in the rules of close friendships. I have too little experience to draw from."

She shrugs at what is in effect an admission of years of loneliness as if it were nothing but a trivial fact. It's something I'll never be able to wrap my head around; how so many people, including her own goddamn parents, could fail to notice what a wonderful person Maura is. Idiots.

"But," she adds, "we've talked about sex before, so I don't think that's the issue, even if your Catholic upbringing has installed a great deal of shame in you that I find hard to understand."

What? I jerk my head up and am about to object. Even if her observations are absolutely correct there's no way I'll let her pin that on me. But before I get to say anything, she continues listing and dismissing possible explanations.

"Then there's the thing about there being times and places for things… My sense of situations can be off at times," she admits sheepishly, "but I believe a main factor is whether there are unwanted witnesses, and you and I are alone. I also realise our conversation may have been distracting, but if the roles were reversed and I weren't the one changing the bulb it wouldn't matter to me. And I certainly wouldn't be offended by the idea of having my head between your legs, so that can't be the issue, either."

This time the heat being released within me is accompanied by a rush of wetness where she just casually mentioned burying her face. Her mouth. Her… Shit, I'm really losing my control over this situation, if I ever had any.

Certainly.

The word echoes through my head, and it only increases my arousal. I have to stop this. It's Maura, for God's sake. Her words do not necessarily mean what they sound like. Assuming otherwise is foolish.

"I'm sorry, but I can't come up with anything else," she says, and I don't want her to feel sorry.

So I manage to mutter "Never mind, Maur," before reaching for my beer, thankful it's still cool against my flushed skin. I claw at it frantically, hoping to absorb some of the chill.

"Won't you tell me, Jane?" She's leaning over the counter now, reaching out. I can see the shadow from her arm ghosting across the surface, closing in on me. I involuntarily jerk back, afraid of what will happen if she actually touches me.

"Jane, I-" There's a bit of hurt, but mostly confusion in her voice. Her hand is still suspended mid-air. Then she suddenly lets it fall to her side. "Oh," she says simply, as if something is dawning on her. A beat, and then she adds: "Are you?"

"Am I what?" I have no idea what she's talking about.

"Offended by the idea of me making love to you."

Her choice of words takes me as much by surprise as her soft, almost tender tone. This is not Maura trying to scientifically analyze and organise human emotions. In fact, it didn't even sound like she was posing a question. Then what was she doing? What is she doing? Except standing so close I can smell her hair and feel her breath on my forehead.

I have no idea, and so I can't take any chances. I should change the topic, hell, I could even fabricate something, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out. I can't lie to Maura. I can't even concentrate with her this up-close. I know she is currently busy registering the movements of each of my facial muscles, trying to read me, and even if she fails to, she'll certainly see right through me when I look up at her with undoubtedly dilated pupils.

Because I will have to look up eventually. I can't stand like this, bent over Maura's kitchen counter, clinging to a bottle, forever. It seems I've finally gotten myself into a situation that can only be defused via the simple, one syllable truth: "No."

I half expect the roof to fall or Maura to faint, but nothing happens. Not so much as a sigh escapes her, and eventually my curiosity gets the better of me and I dare to lift my head.

And there she is, wearing the most ridiculously goofy smile I have has ever seen. It's the kind of smile I would normally have to tease her about, but after my admission I don't think there are any words left in me. So I simply stand here, frozen, as Maura once again reaches for me, this time successfully. I feel her fingertips against the soft skin of my neck before they thread into my hair and pull me towards her, across the counter, with surprising strength. And before I know it, she is, quite literally, rubbing her goofy smile off on me.

"Jane," she gasps against my lips after a few, very enjoyable moments, and I find myself being pushed away.

At the serious look on her face my heart sinks. For a second I really allowed myself to believe there could be a happy ending for us.

"Jane," she says again, this time with a frown and slightly less out of breath. "Would I be using the slang correctly if I said we just had a light bulb moment?"

For the second time tonight I burst into laughter. And just as she seems to be about to demand a proper and elaborate answer to her question, I kiss her again. I guess it technically qualifies as shushing, which would normally infuriate her, but judging by the way she is melting into me – even with the table between us – I'd say that this time she doesn't mind one bit.

THE END.