Restoring Faith

Disclaimer: Rizzoli & Isles and all of its parts belong to Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro, and TNT.

A/N: Just a short take on the days after "Burning Down the House". If there's interest, I can continue. I realize there are a ton of these types of fics floating around, but wanted this angst out of my head.

Strawberries. How long had she been standing in front of her refrigerator looking for strawberries? Judging by the distance that Bass had managed to cover across her kitchen floor, and the goose bumps that dotted her bare arms, she had been standing in place for quite awhile.

She had become numb to time over the past five days: hours spent at the hospital with her mother, hours spent reading during sleepless nights, hours spent in the lab surrounded by bodies. She particularly enjoyed the quiet that descended upon her office after all her techs had left, and the lights dimmed to a mere glimmer in the hallways. It was then that she poured over her daily reports, isolating herself with the simple, logical processes of death, as if reminding herself that the death of her own biological father was simply an act of cause and effect, chance and probability.

The facts, however, drained quickly into a pit of nothingness. It was a place that she knew didn't physiologically exist, but yet she felt it all the same. It kept her from eating, it kept her from returning phone calls, and most painfully, it kept her from seeking comfort from the one person that knew her better than anyone else.

The doorbell startled her out of her trance, and she stared blankly over at Bass, as if he somehow was responsible for the sudden interruption. She glanced down at her watch. It was late. She wondered if she could bypass the front door and sneak upstairs and bury herself under her comforter, at least until insomnia prompted her to open one of the academic journals scattered at the foot of her bed.

But one look out the window of her front door took care of that decision for her. She had no desire to talk to the woman on her stoop, but she knew she would have to display the appropriate social cues: open her door, smile, nod, and tell her that she was fine.

She unlatched the door and pulled it open slowly, comforting herself with the thought that her anxiety was caused by a higher level of cortisol rather than the woman that stood in front of her. "Angela," she said, forcing a smile on her face that she was sure came out as a half-frown. "At the front door. How formal." Her tone was meant to invoke levity, as Jane's mother, after taking up residence in Maura's guest house, was more prone to sliding in the back door whenever she had the urge to organize or to make use of the medical examiner's plasma television rather than relying on the courtesy of the door bell. Angela's gaze, however, was not jovial, but grounded someplace deeper, and Maura thought she detected pity. She didn't need pity.

Angela held up a Tupperware container. "I brought over some spaghetti for you. I even made it with wheat pasta." Her lips turned up into a half-smile that seemed to mirror Maura's own, and the doctor stepped back, gesturing the older woman inside.

"Thank you," Maura said. "I really appreciate the gesture." She reached her hand out for the container, but Angela was already stalking towards the kitchen, her off-brand tennis shoes flapping against the hardwood floors. Maura watched her go, a bit confused as to her sudden presence in her home. She hadn't spoken to Jane since the night of the shooting, and it seemed Mrs. Rizzoli was keeping just as much of a distance as her daughter. Maura couldn't blame them. She couldn't remember much from that night, but she did recall jerking violently away from Jane's touch at the hospital and holing up in her mother's private room, waiting for a trauma surgeon to tell her that her biological father had been pronounced dead. She hadn't even bothered to question him about specifics, or to lose herself in the technical details. She'd just laid her head on her sleeping mother's lap and cried.

Angela spoke, startling her out of her thoughts. "Bass, you're looking fit as a... turtle."

Maura followed the sound of the older woman's voice. "Tortoise," she corrected, automatically supplying the response she'd so often reserved for Jane.

"Well, I'm certainly glad I came…" Angela trailed off as she looked disapprovingly into the empty, cavernous refrigerator. "How does a woman your size need a fridge this big?"

Maura smiled, as if to offer a quipped answer, but realized her gesture was futile. She had nothing to say. Instead, her eyes looked vacantly towards the counter, and she took a seat, no longer relying on her legs to hold her steady.

"Jane didn't send me," Angela asserted quietly as she retrieved a plate from a nearby cabinet. "I'm not on any reconnaissance mission or anything. I just wanted to check in on you." She heaped a large portion of spaghetti onto the dish, and, after glancing over at Maura's slightly sunken cheeks and slumped form, dashed another spoonful onto it.

"How is Jane?" the medical examiner asked softly. Her friend had been on her mind constantly since that night, but Maura had managed to silo her into a space reserved solely for anger, confusion, and resignation. Now, being in the same room with her mother, she felt that emotion blossom into worry.

"Oh you know, Jane," Angela replied with a sarcastic sweep of her hand. "Always such an open book. Tells me everything, exactly what she's feeling." She let out a small smirk, enough to get Maura to mirror it. "I took her a plate tonight, too. She's well enough to yell and send me on my merry way."

The blonde saw the worry in the older woman's eyes, and it was enough to let her know that her friend was doing just as poorly. She relished the sudden guilt she felt, taking pleasure in feeling anything after such the past few debilitating days.

"How is your mother?" Angela asked, settling the plate into the microwave. Maura was secretly glad for the extra layer of noise it created, as if her muddled thoughts were being physically broadcasted through the room.

"Better," she replied, automatically slipping back into her medical world, which at least made some sense to her. "Still some slight swelling in the frontal lobe, but it's decreasing. She's mostly still sleeping, which is best."

Angela nodded. "Is your father with her now?" Her face reddened as she registered her mistake, and she quickly backtracked. "I meant your – "

Maura's face reddened, but she nodded politely. Her adoptive father – her real father, she reminded herself – had flown back from Tanzania several days ago, and had been more than supportive, and she had trouble even getting him to leave her mother's room. "He's at her side constantly," she said with a glimmer of a smile.

"That's good," Angela replied, pausing for a moment, her eyes darting nervously across the counter. "I was thinking of taking another place, and freeing up your guest house for when your mother gets out of the hospital. She needs to be close to you."

Maura looked up at her, and once again felt the same emptiness threaten to engulf her. Closeness was what normal families had towards each other. Her family had only lies and half-truths. "No, that's not necessary. My mother and father will be going to New York." He had discussed it with her over a stale croissant one morning at the hospital. He would be better equipped to look out for her mother at the apartment that they kept in the Upper West Side. Maura had only registered the fact that he hadn't once looked her in the eye, but had been focused on his flat, tasteless breakfast. She had only nodded.

Angela raised her eyebrows, and Maura detected the concerned judgment that came along with her surprise. "Well, New York isn't far," she said, unconvincingly.

Maura shook her head. "No. It's for the best."

The microwave beeped, and both women seemed glad for the interruption. Angela busied herself with gathering silverware while Maura occupied herself with a new habit, fidgeting with her ring finger. She sighed, recognizing the biological source of it, and shoved her hands in her lap with a grimace.

Angela settled the plate in front of her, along with a small glass of water. She darted a glance towards an open bottle of red wine that sat on the counter and poured a glass of it as well.

"Alcohol is a depressant, you know," Maura said, taking the glass and taking a long sip.

"So is life, sometimes," Angela replied.

"Pour yourself a glass," Maura offered, suddenly realizing that she had completely abdicated her hosting abilities. It had been more than a week since she'd had anyone in her home, and her face reddened at her rudeness. "Let me warm you up a plate as well," she said quickly, rising from her chair.

"No, no, don't bother," Angela said, with a shake of her head.

"No, I'm sorry, I should have offered," Maura said, her mind glad to have a task to focus on. "Can I get you some tea?" She darted a glance towards Angela, whose sympathetic eyes slowed her frenzy, reminding her of its fruitfulness. The blonde abandoned the tea kettle, setting it back on the stove and placing a hand against her temple.

"Maura, you can tell me I'm prying," Angela said gently. "Jane says it all the time." Her voice was light, but her eyes were serious. "Have you talked with your father about everything that's happened?"

Maura almost invoked the lifeline Angela had given her, thanking the woman for her concern and kindly asking her to leave, but for some reason she didn't. For the past week, she had tortured herself relentlessly about her biological father and his mysterious connection to her mother, which she hadn't been able to figure out. Paddy Doyle's last words had echoed in her mind, and the word 'hope' had tormented her for the past week. But after hearing her real father deny any knowledge about Doyle, she wasn't sure he was the person who would clear things up for her. That responsibility, she realized, would lie solely upon her mother.

"I'm waiting for the right time," she replied lamely, hearing how weak she sounded. She wanted to go back to being the little girl that found fulfillment in science, distraction in the external world, but instead she was swirling through a mess of frail, feeble emotions that she wasn't sure she could process.

"They're burying him tomorrow," Maura said quietly, the words slipping unintentionally from her lips as she slumped back into her chair. Why was he always on her mind?

The admission prompted Angela to raise a pair of questioning eyebrows, until realization dawned in her eyes. She started to offer some condolence, but Maura cut her off. "I'm not going. There's no reason for me to go." She shook her head, and focused her attention back on her food, shoving a mouthful down her throat so as to swallow the lump that she felt forming there.

"Maybe that's for the best," Angela said with a sympathetic nod as she leaned onto the counter, searching the doctor's eyes, but finding only exhaustion. "But you have to decide what's going to help you put this all behind you."

Maura met her gaze. She had felt something burning inside her, something like guilt, as if she should want to be there for her biological father's burial, but why? She had never known him, never even known of his existence before a year ago. But he knew her. He had always known her.

"Sweetheart, have you talked to anyone about this?" Angela asked.

The thought had crossed her mind, many a sleepless night as she had consumed psychology journal articles, searching for answers to her own anxiety, but she had yet to make an appointment. Making an appointment would seem to give credence to the fact that Paddy Doyle was in some ways still with her. "I haven't found the right therapist, yet."

"I meant more like a friend or a priest, but paid help works, too," Angela replied. She glanced down at Bass. "Or a tortoise, I guess." She gauged Maura's response, relieved to see a small smile, and she took advantage of it, reaching for her hand. "Sweetheart, you're not my daughter, but you're the closest thing to it outside of my own kids, and I'm sorry you're going through so much pain. Anything you need, you say the word, you got it?"

Maura didn't look up right away, the lump in her throat suddenly three times as large. Just before the nightmare had started, her own mother had offered similar, comforting words, and Maura had craved the same sort of attention ever since. She wasn't sure if they would ever be in that state again, and she felt a hot, wet tear roll down her cheek.

Angela, using the instinct that had brought her over to Maura's in the first place, was around the counter in a second, wrapping her arms around the blonde's shoulders and allowing her to slump into her chest. Maura sunk into the embrace for a few moments, but pulled quickly away, wiping her face with a self-conscious hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just tired."

Angela nodded, recognizing that whatever solace she was able to offer, Maura had at least taken it. "I'm going to go next door," she said, letting a comforting hand rub against the medical examiner's back. "You need anything at all, you call me right away, you got it?"

Maura nodded up at her with wet eyes and gave her a small smile. She watched as Angela walked away, giving her a comforting smile as she exited through the back door, heading towards the guest house. It was the first sign of normality that Maura had seen in over a week.

Angela hung her head as she walked towards the guest house, her worry not necessarily placated by her visit to the doctor's home. She stopped short at the figure on her stoop, and squinted into the moonlight. "Janey, what are you doing here?" she asked, surprised.

Jane held out her hands, which held a small, greasy box, emblazoned with the logo of Angela's favorite bakery. "A peace offering," the brunette said. "I'm sorry for blowing up on you like that earlier. I know you were just trying to help."

Angela reached out for the box. "I was just trying to be a mother. I'm not sure if that's a help." She took a seat beside her daughter.

Jane smiled, resting her elbows on her knees. "It is." She nodded her head toward the medical examiner's house. "You went to visit Maura or were you just feeding Bass?"

"Are you kidding? I don't have a clue what that turtle eats." She shrugged. "Of course, I'm not exactly sure what Dr. Isles eats, either, but comfort food is comfort food, no matter where you were raised."

"It's a tortoise," Jane corrected, and felt a slight pang in her gut as she repeated the word that had so often slipped from her best friend's lips. "How's she doing?" The words were painful, and she regretted even having to ask, but after Maura had vehemently shoved her away at the hospital, she was adamant about giving the woman her space, no matter how much it hurt.

Angela pressed a hand to her daughter's knee, and refrained from making a comment about how bony it felt under her fingers. "She's just as good at hiding her real emotions as you are," she said with a sigh. "But she looks like she hasn't slept in days."

"She hasn't." Jane may not have spoken to her friend, but she had snuck down to the basement of the precinct each night, and had seen Maura's office light on way past regular office hours. But something had always stopped her from going inside. Whether it was guilt, disgust, or confusion at her own actions and emotions, she didn't know. All she did know was that each day she felt more and more like a coward.

"Tomorrow they're burying Paddy Doyle," Angela said. "You didn't tell me that."

Jane put her head in her hands. Dean had held up any formal proceedings until the FBI had made their final determination that the man Jane had shot was indeed the wanted criminal. The last contact he had with her was to let her know about the funeral arrangements. "I don't know what to do, Ma," she whispered. "I feel like I destroyed something."

Her mother's hands rubbed her back, repeating the gesture that she had just made with the doctor. "You were trying to protect her," Angela said. "How many times have I done that to you and you ended up hating me?"

Jane laughed, but it edged quickly into a sigh. "This is completely different, Ma."

"I know. Jane, you did what you had to do. You're a trained cop. Maura knows this, you just have to give her time. She's processing all of this as best she can."

Jane knew Angela was right. Maura had been through a lot even before Paddy's death, and the two hadn't exactly been communicating even through Constance's injuries. The detective sighed. She just wanted to go back in time.

"What do I do?" she asked helplessly. "How am I supposed to fix it?"

Angela nodded towards the house. "You're already halfway there," she said. "Talk to her, Jane." She handed the cannoli box back to her daughter. "But be polite. At least take over some dessert."

Her mother stood, giving Jane's shoulder a soothing squeeze before heading inside her guest house, shutting the door gently behind her. With few other options, Jane stood. She swallowed as she made her way towards the back door, taking a deep breath as she gave a hard knock against the wood. She heard the doctor's slow pace towards the door, and felt her heart drop into her stomach as the door finally swung open.

"Angela, I'm eating, I promise - " Maura began tiredly, but her words cut off quickly, as if her vocal cords had been severed. Her eyes widened, deepening the bags underneath them, and her lips parted, although nothing came out but a staggered breath.

"I wasn't spying, I promise," Jane said quickly, preempting her friend's words. "I blew up at my mother earlier and came over to apologize, and brought her some canolli, which I know you don't eat, but I thought I'd bring it over anyway, since I was already here, and I'm worried, and..." she trailed off, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, Maura, I never ever meant to hurt you - "

"Jane, please don't do this here," Maura said, finally finding her voice, shaky as it was.

The detective's face fell, and she took a deep breath, attempting to gain control of the emotion she felt welling behind eyes. "I'm sorry, " she said. "I shouldn't be here." She turned, ashamed of the selfishness of her actions, her inability to give her friend the time and space she needed.

Maura reached a hand out, firmly gripping the detective's wrist. "No, I meant, don't do this out here," she said. "Come inside at least."

The surprise on Jane's face, followed by the hopefulness in her brown eyes struck a match inside Maura, as if reminding her of the thing that she loved about her friend: sheer, unbridled sincerity. "Really?" Jane asked quietly, as if making sure the medical examiner didn't regret her invitation.

Maura nodded, a sudden welling of relief spilling inside her chest. "Yes," she breathed. She glanced over Jane's shoulder, squinting her eyes. "And I think your mother is watching us through her kitchen window."

Jane turned her head quickly, noticing the telltale quiver of Angela's kitchen curtain, and she cursed lightly under her breath. Typical Angela Rizzoli. In one moment incredibly helpful, in the next moment incredibly overbearing.

Maura tugged lightly on the brunette's wrist, suddenly recognizing a need that she had kept hidden for the past week, but feeling it course rapidly through her. Just as quickly, however, she let go, hating her weakness.

The indecisive touch wasn't lost on Jane. "I don't expect anything," she assured the medical examiner. "I just want to help. I can leave at any time, no pressure, Maur."

The blonde shook her head, tears finally welling up in her eyes, a physical manifestation of her own confusion and exhaustion. "I don't want you to leave. Just come inside."

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