Rizzoli & Isles – I certainly don't own them. I give a lot of credit to the people that do and thank them for letting me mess about with them for a bit. The story and any original characters that might crop up belong to my addled little brain.
Full dedication to Argyle_S who not only is a lovely writer but one of my favorite people to read on tumblr. I put out a call for prompts & this little story came from it. When the story ends I'll make sure I share the prompt and you can all let me know how I did ;)
The intent of this quick 6 shot is to leave you with some moments of laughter... and maybe we'll go "M"...
Jane was fully aware that some of her most bonehead moves were a direct result of her low tolerance level for irritation. At this stage in her life she could usually control it. Her world was hectic on a good day. So that loss of control? It didn't happen often. Because, really who had time for that? Not her. But when it did?
Shit tended to happen.
It was as if her mouth grew a personality all on its own and it spewed crap that she wanted to take back the second it fell from her lips. This 'minor personality quirk', as Maura had affectionately dubbed it, was the reason Jane was standing where she was at this very moment.
Surrounded by a bunch of wannabe jazz hipsters.
In a dress.
With a quick look around backstage all Jane wanted to do was hit the life rewind button and go back to last week. Christ almighty, she didn't belong here. Seriously.
The place smelled like martini mix, bourbon and some unidentified moldy odor. It was like she had landed in some weird support group for frustrated Boston artists. Jane looked over her right shoulder. There was this chick over in the corner that seemed to think that purple velvet in layers was the cat's meow and the frantic sway of her skirt was in time to her reverent mumbles.
Then there was the dude over by the back wall in his leather jacket and sunglasses, arms crossed in the darkened space. Jane couldn't figure out what his deal was. Maybe he was a reject from a reenactment of Grease. Then honestly, what was with the sweaty kid in the needlepoint pullover sweater? He looked constipated, sitting there, randomly twirling a saxophone between his legs. Maybe the sweater was making some sort of statement. Damn if she could figure it out though and she did this sort of thing for a living.
The kid caught her staring and raised his eyebrows like he was going to start talking and Jane quickly looked away and down at her own black dress. She plucked at the fabric. Frankly she figured she didn't make much sense to any of them either, but there was one vital truth separating them from her.
At least, in theory, they wanted to be here.
None of them had been bored last Friday night. None of them had made the poor decision to skillful maneuver their way out a Friday of wine and cheese with an enthusiastic Maura during her MFA patron tour of "Michelangelo: Sacred and Profane, Master Drawings from the Casa Buonarroti."
So no, certainly none of them had given away a perfectly reasonable, adult night of culture with their best friend for the misguided idea that a streetball match up against Southie's Ladder 19 was a good idea.
Damn Frankie. Damn him and his taunting offer of beer, sweat and a reminder of departmental righteousness. Damn him and his skilled assistance with helping her masterful, if slightly underhanded, bait and switch involving her mother and her mother's adoration for all things Italian.
In fact, now that Jane thought about it, this situation was mostly Frankie's fault. So, double damn him, even if it was practically a requirement that Ladder 19 get reminded that the BPD played on top and stayed on top.
A crash of metal on wood startled Jane from her internal tirade and she stared out from the right wing of the stage, watching the band disassemble their instruments so the next group could go on. Her stomach rolled violently. Nope, at this point in her life Jane knew that the better decision was to go with Maura. Always go with Maura. It was just that sometimes she forgot.
Temporarily. And then shit like this happened.
Now, maybe, maybe she was at fault for some of this predicament. But only a little bit. On reflection, Jane willing to admit she shouldn't have let Willy McNally get under her skin. She would even allow that perhaps what followed next was her second poor decision of that night, right after not going out with Maura. After all, Willy was one of the boys she grew up with.
Bastard knew the type of dirt you thought you'd left on the playground. Or in her case the stage in the main auditorium during "Senior Spring Extravaganza", circa 1994. And in her neighborhood the basic assumption was you would either be a cop, a priest or one of the people in desperate need of either. In other words, you grew up knowing how take care of you and yours. Roughly translated, that meant you learned to fight dirty. Came in handy on the job. Also came in handy for Willy.
Asshole had stood in front of her, red hair shining demonically, rubbing his hands. "Oh look who the BPD matched me up with. If it isn't good ol' Chicken Little. Remember how to run little Chicken? Those were good times, right Rizzoli?"
Jane knew she had growled because she was practically vibrating with the effort it was taking to not to respond. She almost made it too, except at times her middle finger had a life of its own. That only made Willy laugh harder.
"That all you got Chicken Little? Not surprised. You never could handle pressure. Explains why you became a cop." Then the cocky bastard winked at her and made the noise of a deranged chicken.
And then everything inside her went a little hazy with anger.
And her temper might have flared. Just a bit.
All of a sudden Jane could still feel what it was like to be up on that asinine stage in high school. Entirely against her will mind you. All thanks to her Ma's requirement that Jane take voice lessons if she wanted to play softball that spring of senior year. It had been weeks of arguing and lectures on becoming well rounded. Well that little idea of her Ma's had worked out really fucking stellar if public humiliation was part of her growth plan.
Watching the house lights dim again, Jane buried her face in her hands. She could still feel that moment when she had gone up on the stage in that ridiculous dress that had hung off her lanky frame. There were lights and there was sweat. Hers. A lot of it. Somebody had started the music but her stomach was rolling and when she opened her mouth, a strangling feeling made it impossible to breathe, never mind sing. But she did a damn fine job of sounding like chicken being murdered. Just like that it was all over for her in the halls of high school.
Some genius had linked 'chicken' for the stage fright with 'little' because she'd been more bones than curves. The clucking had been relentless until she had broken Joey Tirro's nose.
So when she'd been face to face with Willy and the asshole started clucking that stupid chicken cluck that had followed her for weeks during senior year, Jane would perhaps admit her judgment was clouded. There could be no other explanation for why she had taken the first bet.
Pure adrenaline was the only excuse she had for whatever had possessed her to accept the second.