Chapter Text
Jane stood across the autopsy table, chewing on her lip, showing unusual patience as Maura worked the Tuffier retractor, inch by inch revealing the interior of the chest wall.
“Initial impressions upon retraction,” Maura began, voice composed for the recorder, though her eyes flicked up to Jane; Jane was not watching her, but the work, and she moved on. “Trauma to the heart and lung, correlating physically with trauma to the anterior chest wall.”
“That’s generally what happens when you get shot twice in the chest, yeah,” Jane interjected, a touch of what Maura could finally easily recognize as sarcasm in her voice.
Maura sent her a reproving look and continued, “Damage to the left ventricle is noted, primarily by way of a hole measuring—“ Maura brought a tool to rest against the heart, adjusting— “precisely one centimeter in diameter.”
“So a 9 millimeter,” Jane noted, leaning over to get a closer look. Even though the scent of decomp was in the air, Maura could smell her grocery store shampoo. She tapped the recorder and tried to look irritated at the interruption, though somewhere along the way, Jane’s interjections had stopped being a nuisance.
“Or an instrument approximately one centimeter in diameter, forcefully applied,” Maura corrected. “I cannot speculate at this time.”
Jane snorted, though notably she backed away from the corpse before she did it, mindful of the evidence. “Maur, can we hurry this up? I got Cavanaugh breathing down my neck. The mayor is furious someone dumped this guy in the Commons and he’s making it everyone’s problem.”
“I cannot speculate at this time,” Maura repeated in her most composed voice, the voice itself a lie wrapped in a truth. It didn’t burn her, that way. The nickname— her True Name, as it turned out— rang like a distant church bell in her being. Maura had always thought of True Names as predetermined, popping into existence when their owner did. Now she knew: A True Name was a gift. That was why it had power.
“God, you’re always the same,” Jane complained, though she smiled a little when she said it. “You’ll need what, a few more hours on this guy?”
Maura nodded, relief seeping in so strongly that she didn’t trust her voice. Jane was leaving. Maura would be able to work in peace, shuffle the echoes of that call to the back of her mind as she worked. But she wouldn’t be able to feel Jane’s gaze, smell the cop shop coffee she’d spilled on her jacket, sense the innate vitality Jane carried with her like a flame. A double edged sword.
“Okay, I’ll be back after lunch.” Jane exited without any other preamble, leaving Maura to the autopsy, her thoughts, and her problem.
Maura knew what they all called her, behind her back. Queen of the Dead. Ice Queen. A few things less appropriate. Maura knew she was distant, knew she didn’t quite meet expectations of just how a woman with her beauty and education should act. She knew it, and accepted it. That was, after all, a Changeling’s curse. Normally, she leaned in, and to compensate, she wore the finest clothes. She was precise in her speech. Her home was impeccably clean, tastefully decorated.. and empty.
Or, it had been.
Somewhere in the last few years, she’d collected the Rizzolis. She hadn’t meant to. Jane’s mother, though, with the impending divorce and sale of the house imminent, had needed somewhere to land. And, without thinking, Maura had presented Angela with her guest house as a solution.
It had been a gift, and risky for that. One didn’t give gifts lightly. One didn’t disrupt the balance; not without consequences. But something had pushed Maura to do it, to extend that binding. She’d hidden it well, in the moment, but as the words left her mouth, she knew and hated what would follow. Angela would be indebted to her. Would be compelled, if Maura wished, to do as Maura asked in return. With the size of the obligation, it would take many years before Angela could be seen as restoring the balance. Maura had resolved to leave the scale tipped, to abide the discomfort it gave her like stone grinding stone in her stomach, to never ask Angela for anything. She couldn’t have said why she wanted that, this time, but it felt… right.
But the discomfort didn’t stay. Because though Maura would not have asked it of her, Angela gave in return. Leftovers appeared in Maura’s fridge, stacked and labeled and ready to be taken to work the next day. Bass’s favorite treats never ran out. Angela could somehow sense when Maura was tired, and cleaned the kitchen behind her cooking without a single word needing to pass between them.
Within a few short months, Maura felt the binding ease, felt the scales fall even. And for a time, it was alright. But slowly, they began to tip again— the other way. Angela, though her debt was paid, still cooked, still cleaned, still hugged Maura when she was unsure. She still gave her free coffee under Stanley’s nose. She sent cannoli down to the morgue. She fed Bass without needing to be asked. Angela was a giver, and Maura felt the impact of that like quicksand closing over her nose and mouth.
As Maura gently lifted organs, weighed them, inspected them, she acknowledged the weight on her own lungs. It sat, heavier by the week, uncomfortable and unsettled, restricting easy breath. You owe, it said, in time with the lub-dub of her heart, a debt.
At this point, repaying Angela was not a possibility. Angela responded to gifts with gifts of her own: the gift of time spent on a task; the gift of a listening ear; and, most bafflingly, the gift of affection. It was abundantly clear that she wouldn’t stop. She didn’t know how.
So, Maura decided, with a stranger’s blood on her hands and an unfamiliar weight on her heart, she would repay in other ways. She would. She had to.