Chapter Text
Jane sat in her car outside Maura’s house for the second night in a row, trying to compose herself before facing the Italian Inquisition. She could see her mother standing at the kitchen island rolling out ropes of gnocchi dough, Constance at the stove behind her, Maura seated at the island, a glass of wine in her hand. Angela was talking animatedly, Constance turning around to respond, whatever she said making all three of them laugh.
Her heart thudded in her chest, not because she was dreading whatever awkward discussion her mother would surely, eagerly moderate—okay, not only that—but because the scene through the window looked so . . .
Perfect.
She took a deep breath, grabbed the duffel bag she’d packed at her apartment. She’d brought enough stuff for a couple nights, really hoped she wouldn’t need to stay that long.
For the case, you mean. You’d stay here forever if Maura wanted you to.
Shut up.
She walked in without knocking, resisting the urge to chastise Maura about keeping the door locked, engaging the deadbolt herself as she shut it behind her.
“Janie!” Angela shouted. “About time, you missed all the fun!”
“An hour of kneading pasta dough isn’t exactly my idea of fun, Ma,” she sighed, dropping her bag by the island. She’d hoped to wait until later to tell everyone about her plan to babysit, but Angela spotted it instantly.
“What, you planning on getting too tipsy to drive home? Or . . .” she glanced at Constance, not quickly enough to escape Jane’s notice. She wondered, cringingly, about what they’d discussed at lunch. Had a pretty good idea that she didn’t even want to touch right now. Or maybe ever.
She sighed again. “Hello, Ma,” she said pointedly. “Hi, Constance.”
“Hello, dear,” Constance said warmly, her cheeks slightly pink, and Jane wondered just how early they’d broken out the pinot grigio. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
“Angela was just telling us about the time Lonny Rondazzo tried to ask you to a dance by challenging you to a basketball competition,” Maura chimed in, pulling out the other chair, patting the seat.
“It was a game of horse, and he ended up having to take his cousin Stacey to Homecoming,” Jane smirked as she slid next to Maura. “Poor Bracey Stacey.”
Constance and Maura looked at her quizzically. “She wore headgear in ninth grade,” Jane shrugged.
Angela swatted a dish towel at her from across the island. “Don’t be mean,” she chided.
“What? It’s not like I gave her the nickname. And besides, you know what they called me.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she blushed and grimaced at the same time.
“Roly-Poly Rizzoli!” her mother cackled. “Awwww, my little bambina paffutella.” She leaned over, tried to pinch Jane’s cheek, Jane dodging her with a whine.
“It’s hard to believe you were ever anything but slim, Jane,” Constance said, the wine apparently letting a bit more frankness into her voice than she ordinarily would have allowed.
Even though Jane hated being the center of attention, especially about her body, there was something kind of cozy about the loose, festive mood that made her more willing to overlook her annoyance and embarrassment.
“Yeah, well, growing eight inches in a year really helps redistribute the mass,” she muttered. “How’s that gnocchi coming, Ma?”
“Almost ready, don’t be impatient. Connie, is the water boiling?”
“It is,” Constance said, picking up a slotted spoon from its trivet.
“Salted?”
“Salted.”
“Angela’s been teaching us her secret technique,” Maura murmured. “Though salting the water doesn’t actually—“
“Yeah, it’s all just superstition,” Jane said, hushing her, “but she’ll kill you if you question her methods. Or worse, she’ll never feed you again.”
“Ritualized food preparation processes are common to every culture on Earth,” Maura said. “Did you know that there’s a tribe in the Micronesian Islands that insists on preparing taro using only implements carved from a specific—“
“Sounds fascinating,” Jane deadpanned. “Is there beer for me?”
Maura sighed. “Jane. Is there ever not beer for you?”
Jane saw their mothers exchange another tiny look.
Fuck.
She hadn’t given a whole lot of thought to what this increasingly-obvious confederation between her mother and Constance implied. She’d gone out of her way to not give it a lot of thought. But here they were, their silent conversation so loud Jane could hear every word.
She already knew Constance didn’t seem to have a problem with her daughter being with a woman, but her ma? Her burning-incense-in-the-home, Jesus-suffering-on-the-cross-hung-over-the-toilet Italian Catholic ma? The woman who’d said some deeply embarrassing and occasionally offensive things about people who didn’t have a life just like hers for decades?
Though, she conceded, it had been a long time since Angela had said something that made Jane burn with secondhand embarrassment and, if she was being honest, more than a little confused guilt. Years, even. Angela’s hairstylist was gay and she adored him, brought him cannoli from Mike’s Bakery every time he refreshed her highlights, gossiped about his love life, had even tried to set him up with one of the civilian employees at the precinct. Sure, she’d been shocked when she’d learned Jane’s second cousin Mariella was getting married to a woman, had refused to attend the wedding, but afterward had confessed she’d wished she’d gone, had sent a belated gift, had commented on how handsome Mariella’s wife looked in her wedding suit.
“She doesn’t even look like a man,” Angela had marveled, and Jane had wanted to sink into the floor.
And there had been that time a few months ago when she’d come whirling into the cafe, roaring like a Sicilian lioness with a thorn in her paw after intervening in an altercation between a young trans kid and a group of boys who were harassing her in the street. Angela had sent the boys running with a cascade of maternal disappointment and a well-timed reference to one of their mothers, had bundled the girl in her cardigan, insisting she buy her a cup of cocoa, a sandwich, did she have somewhere safe to stay, did she need a ride, did she want Angela to call that Bobby Russo’s mother, it would be her pleasure.
“I just don’t understand it, Janie,” she’d spat through furious tears. “How people can be so small-minded and cruel.”
Like you were the whole time I was growing up? Jane had wanted to snap, but had held her tongue in honor of her mother’s newfound personal growth, something she suspected had to do with the abrupt departure of her deadbeat, meathead husband.
But still. Jane couldn’t quite believe Angela would be so eager to give up a church wedding and a long white veil for her only daughter. Even if she did seem . . . not opposed to whatever narrative she’d been cooking up with Constance.
She always did want a doctor in the family.
Shut UP.
“Jane?” Maura asked softly, and Jane was grateful their mothers were busy stirring the pot. At least it was literally this time.
“I’m fine,” she said nonchalantly, though Maura gave her a curious look. “Just gonna grab a beer.”
“Get me some more butter while you’re in there,” Angela called without looking up. Jane saw Constance flinch, wondered when the last time she’d had a meal prepared by a nosy Italian mother could possibly have been.
“There’s a reason I became a cop,” Jane joked, handing her mother the paper-wrapped loaf of butter. “Chasing bad guys helps burn off the calories.”
She grabbed her beer, popping the cap off with the top of the corkscrew on the counter.
“Orange slices in the fruit drawer,” Maura said, and this time Angela let out an audible snort.
“I wish Frank had been half as good to me as you are to my Jane,” she said, still facing the stove. Gave Constance a little bump with her hip. “Instead of me always having to do everything for that figlio di puttana.” She mimed spitting on the ground.
Constance barked out a laugh.
“Apologies for my language, Connie, I always forget you lived in Italy.” Her tone was admiring. Angela was fiercely proud of her heritage, but had only been to Sicily once, before Jane had been born.
“We must go,” Constance said instantly. “There’s a lovely little pensione in Palermu that I know you’d simply adore.”
“I’ve always wanted to go back,” Angela sighed dreamily. “Maybe we should all go together,” she said meaningfully, eyeing their two daughters. “It could be like a celebration.”
“A celebration of what, Ma?” Jane groused, knowing exactly what her mother was hinting at.
Jane did not need her mother planning her wedding again. Especially not to someone Jane couldn’t even imagine kissing on the cheek without wanting to dissolve into a fine mist of awkward shame and terror.
Why is everyone cooler with this than you? What the fuck is going on?
“Oh, I’d love to go back to Sicily!” Maura said excitedly. She had missed the subtext, and Jane was torn between being glad Maura’s not-entirely-solid grasp of social cues meant she wouldn’t have to deal with this weirdness from all sides—
Or maybe you’re the one being weird—
—and being a little upset at not having anyone to commiserate with. But then again, commiserating with Maura about this particular irritation would inevitably lead to having to talk about . . .
“Dinner!” Angela announced, tapping her spoon against the sauce pot. “Constance, you and Maura go sit, Janie and I will dish up. Anybody want more wine?”
Three hours later Jane was stuffed, exhausted, and entirely ready to say goodnight to her ma, who had sat next to Constance and whispered and giggled so much Jane felt a flash of pity for her tenth-grade math teacher.
“I’m gonna head home,” Angela said once the countertops were sufficiently spotless. “Janie, are you staying, or should I wrap you up some gnocchi to take back to your apartment?”
Her voice was all syrupy innocence. Jane wanted to throttle her, but settled for foiling whatever insane scheme she’d been brewing.
“Actually, I’m, uh, gonna be staying here for a few days.”
“Why?” Angela demanded instantly. Her eyes narrowed. “Is something going on?”
Constance’s mouth was set in a thin line. Angela frowned.
“Connie, are you okay? Jane—“
“It’s fine, Ma!” Jane cried. “It’s just a precaution!”
“Jane Clementine Rizzoli, if you’ve gotten us into another crazy situation—“
“Ma!”
Her mother fell silent, but folded her arms across her chest and glowered at her.
“Like I said,” Jane sighed. “This investigation involves some pretty powerful people, so I thought it was best to . . . hang out, I guess. While Constance is here, anyway.”
“I swear to God, Jane,” Angela growled, swiftly crossing herself. “If one of you is in danger again—“
Jane signed. “Everything’s fine, Ma. I swear. Just being extra-cautious. You know how I am. I learned it from you, anyway.”
“Well I’m calling your brothers. If you need to be here, maybe they do too.”
“No, Ma,” she said firmly. “You know I’m tougher than both of them anyway. And it’s just a couple days, until I catch these guys.”
They both froze, suddenly aware that there were other people in the room, both of whom looked bewildered and slightly anxious.
“Sorry,” Angela said, patting Constance on the shoulder. “If my Janie says it’s okay, it’s okay. She’ll take care of you.”
Constance nodded, then took a deep breath and smiled. “Your middle name is Clementine?” she said. “How darling.”
“Like the song! That’s what I thought!” Angela cried. Jane rolled her eyes. Angela swatted at her.
“So where are you sleeping, Janie? You can come stay on my pullout—“
“It kinda defeats the purpose of me being here if I’m in the guest house,” Jane said. “Besides, Maura’s couch is nicer than my bed.”
Angela gave a dissatisfied little hmmph.
“It’s fine, Ma.”
Maura was doing that little frown thing that meant she was about to point out something Jane would inevitably prefer remain un-pointed out.
“Yes, Doctor Isles?”
“It’s just that while the couch is very comfortable when used as intended, I’m concerned that the tufting may cause uneven sleep quality, leading to body aches, tiredness, and irritability tomorrow.”
“Achy, tired, and irritable is basically my whole . . . modem operator,” Jane shrugged with a crooked little grin, choosing to gloss over the brush with a neck crick she’d had on this very couch the night before, but that was less about the tufting and more about—
“Modus operandi, Jane,” Maura tutted. “You have to know that one, as it’s commonly referred to as ‘an M.O.’”
Jane winked at her. Hoped neither mother noticed. Hell, she kind of hoped Maura hadn’t noticed, but it was late, she was tired, she was carb-drunk, and she really, really wanted her mother to go back to her own damn house so she could get a little peace.
“I’ll be fine, everyone, okay? Thank you for your concern, I’m very touched, now, can we all please go to bed?”
Angela huffed again, but acquiesced, hugging Constance, then Maura, with an added exaggerated kiss on the cheek. “Sleep well, ladies,” she said, before eyeing Jane. “You too, Miss Contrarian. You better hope you don’t wake up with a stiff neck.”
“I’m starting to hope I just don’t wake up,” Jane muttered. Angela ignored her, wrapping her daughter in a suffocating hug.
“I love you, Jane, and you better not die. Or let Maura die. Or Constance.”
“Or you,” Jane pointed out.
“Eh, me dying I could live with,” Angela shrugged, and Constance let out a musical little giggle, one that sounded almost exactly like Maura’s. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”
“Night, Ma.”
Angela succeeded in pinching Jane’s cheek this time, then darted out into the yard, cackling gleefully.
Once she left, it was as though the abrupt quiet was another person in the room with them. They all stood for a moment, slightly dazed, then Constance softly cleared her throat.
“I’ll be off too, my dears. Maura, thank you again for hosting me so unexpectedly.”
“You’re always welcome here, Mother,” Maura said, and Jane’s heart broke just a little at how tentative they both sounded. Her ma drove her crazy every single day, but the idea of not yelling and laughing and getting mad about how to properly salt the pasta water made her a little bit sad.
She’s got Ma too. In fact, she’s got Ma more than you do at this point.
Yeah, but—
“Goodnight, Mother,” Maura said, seemingly unsure about giving Constance a hug. Jane fake-coughed, nudged her forward, Maura blinking before offering an embrace, which Constance immediately accepted.
“Goodnight, Maura darling,” Constance said, also giving Maura a kiss on the cheek, albeit way more fashionably Continental than Angela’s sloppy mwah.
Jane had never really thought about it, but she definitely preferred the kind that left her wiping at her cheek with her sleeve. Though she’d never, ever, ever admit it.
Constance gave her a little nod. “Goodnight, Jane, and thank you for serving as our able protector, in addition to all the other debts I owe you.”
“Uh, yeah, of course. And it’s no problem at all, don’t worry about it. Goodnight, Constance.”
Constance turned and gracefully ascended the stairs, disappearing around the corner. Jane waited for a few seconds, then flopped onto the couch, groaning loudly.
“We made it,” she croaked.
“I had a lovely time,” Maura said brightly, perching next to her on the sofa. “I find it so fascinating that my mother and yours have developed such an . . . idiosyncratic relationship.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Jane muttered, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “But it’s way better than them hating each other, that’s for sure.” She yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “You got any pillows?”
“Jane,” Maura said, her face doing that thing again. “I really think you should—”
“I’m sleeping on the couch, Maur,” Jane said firmly.
“But your back—”
“—will be fine for a night or two. I’ve slept in my patrol car; I can handle a ten-thousand-dollar couch.”
Obviously she couldn’t tell Maura the real reason. Obviously.
“Are you concerned about what Mother will think?” Maura asked guilelessly. “I can’t imagine why she’d possibly—”
“No,” Jane said, just a little too quickly. “It’s not that, okay? It’s . . . uh . . . okay, if something did happen, wouldn’t it be best if I was down here where I can see everything?”
Maura eyed her skeptically. “All right,” she said, shrugging. “I’ll get your toothbrush.”
“I brought mine. From my apartment, I mean.” Jane winced as Maura’s face fell slightly.
Great job, Rizzoli. Way to go.
“Ah.”
“I’m . . .” Jane drifted off. What was she? “I dunno,” she sighed. “I’m tired, I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, Jane,” Maura said, but it was in that artificially bright tone that meant Jane did have to apologize, if only she knew for what. She knew it was something. But she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. And it sucked.
You could just tell her you love her.
Shut up
“I’ll get you some bedding,” Maura said, turning swiftly toward the linen closet.
“What the fuck,” Jane breathed once Maura had vanished down the hall. She rubbed at her temples. “What the fuck am I even doing?”
You’re not fucking up the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
So am I supposed to tell her I love her or not?
How should I know?
Jane was contemplating the easiest way to fake her own death to start a new life in Manitoba when Maura came back in, nearly obscured behind a mountain of blankets.
“I can help you put the sheets on.”
“It’s a couch, Maura, it doesn’t need sheets.”
Maura frowned at her again.
Drowning in a river’s a pretty easy one to work. They’ll just never find your body, happens all the time.
“I mean, thank you, Maura, for this wonderful bedding.”
Maura crossed her arms over her chest.
Jane sighed, held out her hands for the pile of blankets, grabbed the thick pillow from Maura’s hand. “Wanna sit?”
Maura’s face softened. “I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable tonight,” she said, perching on the arm of the sofa. “Our mothers are quite . . . formidable together.”
“It’s okay. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Yeah, the mom thing is a lot. There’s only so much I like talking about myself, and it’s not at all, so . . .”
“You did an admirable job,” Maura smiled, the kind that made Jane get all wobbly. Sweet and genuine and kind.
Loving.
Please stop it. Just for one minute.
“Thanks,” Jane said, really, really wanting to follow her up the stairs, to climb into her big, warm bed, to fall asleep to the sound of her soft breathing.
“I’m going to go upstairs,” Maura declared a moment later. “I anticipate I’ll be asleep in approximately twenty-six minutes.”
“Gotcha,” Jane said, not entirely getting her.
“If you change your mind before then.”
Jane’s mouth was dry. Her head was swimming, but suddenly her mouth was the Sahara.
“Thanks,” she managed. Maura smiled again, slid off the arm of the couch, crossed to her.
Gave her a hug without needing a push.
“Goodnight, Jane,” she murmured, then pulled back, paused for just a moment before pressing her lips softly, briefly to Jane’s cheek.
Turned and went up the stairs without looking back.