Decent Exposure

Summary: The five times Jane and Maura had "awkward" physical encounters with each other, and the one time they didn't.

Note: As I get settled into creating a romance (which noted in my first story, Reticent, is very hard) let me just over-build the sexual tension between these two. I'd also like to say that the way this story is and will continue to be written is an expansion of thought in said character's mind, that in reality, would only actually last for about five minutes. This is also not very case-centric. Just think of each chapter as a moment between Jane and Maura that makes up for, I don't know, a very small fraction of the show, blown up with full acknowledgment of subtext.

Cleopatra and the Cop

Maura would. Jane sighs into her empty cup, eyes fixated on the stack full of papers in the woman's hands. "Did you know," She slouches further into her chair as Maura approaches, well aware where this is about to go. "that one of the very first vibrators ever recorded in history was used in Ancient Egypt by Cleopatra?"

Her brows furrow into a mixture of disgust and interest, but keeping true to her reputation she grimaces; she can't possibly let Maura know her interest has been "piqued" the slightest. "Happy Halloween to you too." She says instead, plastering on her best sarcasm.

"Technically, Halloween isn't a holiday but in my opinion a rather poor excuse to socialize, dress-up or in most cases these days, not dress at all, and spike your sugar levels." Maura sets the papers down on Jane's desk as she buttons her coat. "You don't get to do all three without any pending guilt during the other "holidays."" Her fingers bracket the last word in the air as she stands proudly with her words.

Jane rises from her chair and grabs her blazer, her movements fluid as she shrugs it on. "Did I say it was a holiday?"

"You implied it."

"You didn't have to go all Google on me, Maura, and you didn't have to Google any of that." Her finger swirls over the papers and then to the woman holding them. "What you need to be Googling is where to find your costume." But just before Maura can respond, she notices the muscle in her neck twitch. Jane's face goes hard as her neck cocks back. "How much did you spend?"

"It's being custom made-"

She cuts the persistent tone off, surprise filling her body out to its edges. "You're paying someone to alter a bedsheet?"

"No!" Maura replies, the volume of her voice matching Jane's, which at this point is near the point of a shriek. Thankful for the majority of empty desks in the precinct and that sun is past set, she begins to compose herself. Maura flips through her papers and hands Jane one she pulls out. "Those costumes you're thinking of are a very altered version of her attire. Theda Bara's portrayal of Cleopatra in the early thirties helped alter it, and so did Elizabeth Taylor's thirty years later. Cleopatra herself was often depicted in paintings as-"

"Topless..." Jane holds the photo farther away from her, inspecting it from every angle and distance to make she sure the lack of clothes isn't just in her mind. "Topless." She repeats.

Maura sighs. "I don't like it when you cut me off, Jane."

"And I don't like it when you pay to get a very unsupporting bra and string skirt made, Maura." She flips the photo over, not really certain if shoving it in her friend's face makes a difference. "I mean, does this even qualifiy as a skirt?"

Maura tears it from the detective's grip, putting it back in its rightful place. "This may not be one of Gérôme's well recognized paintings, but it is certaintly one of my favourites." She ignores any other comments Jane makes as she continues. "Besides, this is only an outline I gave Gerrit. He knows there are dress rules required to get into the event."

"All I asked is for you to come undercover with me to our suspect's Halloween Gallery Night. When I said to make it look like we didn't know each other, I didn't mean to make yourself look like a prostitute." Jane finally lets the concern emerge through all her hastiness, and though she knows that any other person would be offended with her last few words, Maura is not just any other person. She's her best friend.

Maura steps forward and places her hands on Jane's shoulders, squeezing them with reassurance. "Just trust me."

And Jane does.

But later in the week, when their covers are set and they've seperately attended the event, Jane realizes it's the rest of the world she doesn't trust, and really can't ever. She shows up in her uniform as what she is. A cop. Though she wasn't exactly grateful she couldn't interview their suspect earlier in the week, she's much more thankful now that she didn't. Because if she did he would have seen her face, and if he saw her face, she wouldn't be here undercover, and if she wasn't undercover she wouldn't be with Maura, and if she wasn't with Maura, she would have never seen what she's seeing now.

There, standing just a few feet away from the center of the room is Maura, and it's then she thanks Jaret, or Gerrit, or however his name is spelled for putting this costume together. A part of Jane wants to pull the nearest cloth from a table and wrap Maura in it, just so all eyes can stop lingering, but a part of her doesn't. Then the other part of her - the really slow part - doesn't do anything at all. It rules her for the night, and as she tries to shuffle to a corner or at least down the rest of her drink, her eyes level with the coroner's.

There is something so incredibly captivating about Maura Isles; an air so sophisticated that only men with balls of steel would attempt to approach her. And as Jane thinks back to all the times they've done things together, a realization dawns upon her. But before the realization can process through the different depths of her mind, she realizes she's caught Maura's attention.

She watches as Maura excuses herself from their suspect, hand lingering on the lapel of his blazer, her gold bangle lightly clinking with his pin. And just before she dismisses herself completely, she smiles. She smiles with a smile so infectious it seeps into the stoic lines of his face, and he smiles, too. She offers politely to take his glass, which he happily gives with a curt nod. She almost does a pivot on her heel when she redirects herself in Jane's direction. She takes note that her heels are not just heels, but in fact, gold gladiator pumps. They strap around her ankle, and as her eyes trail up, it puzzles Jane how only a sliver of skin can cause more arousal in men than full on nudity.

Of course Maura's beautiful. Anbody who knows her wouldn't deny that fact. But in this moment, as she effortlessly strides her way over to Jane, a new but overused word comes to mind.


Associating this woman with that word is hard for Jane.. especially given the proximity of their friendship. But with the way the gold belt hugs the curve of her hips, the way the satin skirt fits and how high that slit actually goes, it's the only word she can think of. She doesn't even want to think about the top. Because the more Jane thinks about it, the more she realizes it isn't a top. It covers what it should well, and while leaving little to the mind it also creates more for the mind to imagine. Jane shakes are head, face still expressionless as Maura comes to pass her.

Her posture, though regal, is weighed down. Jane comes to understand just how heavy the necklace must be when she sees its thickness. True to the painting she saw earlier in the week, Maura's hair is up with a thin gold band laying over top. Jane's eyes drop to her lips, and in that moment she sees just how faded they are, and how long her night must have been.

Then she feels it. A light brush against her back, and then it's gone. It's then Jane realizes that their suspect still has his eyes set on Maura, and though the little contact may pass as off accidental to others, she knows it's something different.

Jane waits a few minutes, making slight movements around the room as she gradually steps out into the hall. The moment she turns around she's facing Maura. "You dyed your hair." She starts, pushing them a little further out of sight.

Maura's hand instinctively pats at her bun. "Temporarily. To fit the part." She smiles as she hands Jane their suspect's glass. "I'm sure his finger print will suffice for that paternity test you and Korsak wanted. If not that, his saliva is on the rims of this glass, and if not that," Maura sets the glass down on an edge nearby, pulling something out from the side of her hip. "We have this."

She looks at the small vile with a questionable expression. "Please don't tell me you're a vampire." Jane groans, giving into the insanity of art.

"It's from one of his displays. He sculpted a gargoyle and inserted fang-shaped viles in the mouth filled with his very own blood. So, voici." She hands it over to Jane, but becomes disappointed when she doesn't take it. "Come on, Jane."

"No, Maura. That is beyond-" But before she can end her sentence in disgust, she hears a voice approach them calling Maura by a rather professional title. And when Jane sees the slightest panic in her friend's eyes, she grabs the vile along with Maura's wrist. And when the voice finally rounds the corner, she's pressed "Dr. Isles" against the wall.

Her hand - originally supposed to hold down the other woman's head - is considerate of all the effort put into perfecting that bun and grabs at her neck. She knows how to control her tension so while it looks harsh to their suspect, her wrap around Maura's neck is rather soft. Her other hand holds both of her wrists together, and before Jane can use the "cop voice" their suspect has already spoken.

"Dr. Isles, I don't mean to-" He stops quickly in his tracks at the sight of the two women. While Maura looks at him apologetically, Jane pays no attention, muttering an explanation of the current procedure. "I don't mean to interrupt whatever this may be." He says, slower, staying rooted in his spot.

Jane pays a fraction of attention and catches the slight arousal in the man's eyes. "I'm sorry to be doing this during your opening night, Sir, but it's standard procedure." And before Maura can protest in-character, Jane lets her grip go and begins patting her down. She works her way from the bottom up, trying not to glide her hands over those legs that were sculpted but at the same time so smooth. Allowing herself to only go so high, she moves from mid-thigh to Maura's hips, grabbing rougher than intended. Before an apology slips through Jane's lips she hears the woman under her touch exhale a sharp breath.

She continues in her frisk, grabbing at her waist that seems to perfectly fit around her grip, and then up and down the sides of her arms. She doesn't really know why she's patting down bare skin, but in all fairness Maura doesn't really seem to mind. They were just selling the part.

Jane continues until the sight gets boring. Until some woman in striking resemblance to Dita Von Teese passes by their suspect and he's swept away. Until they're alone again. Until Jane makes a rather odd observation, because the moment the rest of the world is gone, she feels a heat emanate from the skin her hands touch.

And before she can fully come to reason, Maura pushes herself off the wall, bumping back into Jane. And before those gladiator heels betray her and allow her to stumble back, Jane's hands are on her hips. And before either of them can really acknowledge the proximixty of their positions, Jane's turned Maura around and steadied her stance. And just before their minds begin to comprehend the situation, shots fire, and Jane and Maura shed their casual identites off, stepping into a potential crime scene as Rizzoli and Isles.

So ends the first chapter of this six-part story. Hopefully those of you reading liked it! This is my second Rizzoli and Isles story, but my first romance, so I'll be taking this one slow. Hope you stick around for more, I'd love to know what you're thinking, and have a lovely day!