argyle_s: (Default)
Title: The Diary of Jane
Author: Argyle_S
Pairing: Jane/Maura
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: NC-17
Length: About 27,000 Words
Genre: Angst, Drama, Romance.
Warnings: Explicit sex. Pregnant Sex. BDSM. Branding. Mentions of sexual assault.
Summary: Three weeks after the incident with Dennis, Maura has to fly to D.C. for the weekend to consult on a case, but she leaves something behind for Jane. Her journal, which contains a series of letters she's written to Jane over the months since the two settled their argument over Doyle's shooting. Letters she's been too afraid to show Jane.

A/N: This Chapter Contains Explicit Content.


I climbed into Maura's bed, holding the journal in my hands. Not too long ago, I would never have walked into Maura's bedroom without her there. That was something else Tony had changed. He'd taken the guest room, and Ma had the guest house, so I'd been sharing Maura's bed ever since the night Lydia dumped him. Never mind the fact that Tony spent have his nights tucked in between us.

Of course, I could have sat on the couch while I read, but it just didn't seem right. The journal was Maura's, and it was obviously something personal. I wanted to be close to her while I read it, which was impossible, but her bedroom made me feel close to her, and that was going to have to be enough.

I held the journal up, studying it the way I'd study any piece of evidence. It was black, leather bound, and surprisingly heavy. Obviously well made, with an elastic strap attached to the back cover that wrapped around to hold it closed, and an attached black satin bookmark. The word 'Moleskin' was embossed on the back. I recognized the brand. It was the same as the field notebooks Maura had given me, Frost and Korsak after she'd seen the ones the department issued fall apart in the middle of a crime scene once too often.

I lifted it up to my face and inhaled. The smell was faint, but I would recognize the rich, warm floral scent anywhere. Chanel Number 5. Maura's favorite perfume. There were hints of other scents as well. The hand sanitizer and the moisturizer Maura used so obsessively, and the slightest hint of the mulberry leaves and cactus pads she fed Bass every night.

I slipped the elastic band off and opened the front cover. The first page contained only a small block of text, a mix of preprinted lettering and Maura's hand writing

In case of loss, please return to:
Dr. Maura D. Isles
23 Chestnut Street
Boston, MA 02108

As a reward: $ 5000.00

The fuck? What could possibly be so important about a diary that Maura would pay that much to get it back. And Christ, if it was that valuable, what the hell was she doing leaving it with me?

Sometimes, I was amazed how much Maura trusted me. I supposed I shouldn't be surprised by it anymore, but it just hit me sometimes.

This was important to Maura, which meant I really needed to take it seriously, but that also made it scary. We worked so hard on being friends again after I shot Paddy Doyle, and we'd been through so much shit the last few months. Casey, Hope and Cailin, the fight with Ma because we didn't tell her who Lydia was. Fucking Bianchi and Dennis.

But it felt like the crazy had decided to give us a break after Tony had been dropped in our laps. We were safe. Happy. I didn't want anything to change

Except, it already had. I didn't know what it was, but something had changed the moment Maura had handed Ma that envelope.

I turned the page of the journal, and couldn't stop myself from smiling when I saw line after line of Maura's perfect handwriting. I ran my fingers over the page, picturing Maura sitting at her desk, brow wrinkled in concentration as she held that ridiculously overpriced porcelain and rhodium Montblanc fountain pen.

I took one last breath, then started to read.

My Beloved Jane,

As I begin this letter, I find myself wondering if I'll ever be brave enough to let you read it. I purchased this journal, telling myself I would do this for me, and just for me. That writing these letters would be a way for me to organize my thoughts, and find peace with my emotions. That this was about me, and not you. Laying here in bed, looking at the bandage wrapped around my leg, I realize how silly such an idea was.

I remember things so vividly. Growing up alone, isolated. The way I clung to lovers so desperately, seeking the affection my parents never gave me. Garrett and Ian were simply the high points you're familiar with. I grew accustomed too it. I was alone for so long that I didn't know how not to be. Then you came into my life, and became so central to it, that sometimes I felt like I was drowning in you.

Somewhere along the line, I became less interested in my dates, than in talking to you about my dates. My job became less about the joy I took in doing my work and doing it well, than about the joy I took in providing you with the tools and answers you needed to do your job. My happiness waxed and waned with your proximity to my life, but somehow, for the first time, I wasn't alone, and I reveled in it.

And then, you were gone. We hurt each other, which had happened before, but this time, we kept on hurting each other. We fought and grappled and pulled on the barbs we'd sunk into each other’s flesh, and I was alone again, and despite a lifetime of experience, I didn't know how to be alone anymore. I didn't know how to be without you.

I was afraid to apologize to you, because I was afraid our friendship was over, that like every relationship I'd ever had before, I'd somehow killed it. I was afraid to apologize to you, or to accept your apology, because I was afraid hating each other was all we had left, and I thought even that would be better than a life of indifferent proximity.

It was then, in the worst moments of our fight, when we were furthest from each other and okay, that I realized how desperately I wanted and needed you. How much I longed for you, and loved you, and desired you.

Now, we're friends again. Three days ago, you saved my life. Had we gone to Western Massachusetts in separate cars, I've no doubt I'd be dead now. Run off the road and shot down like some animal. Three days ago, you saved my leg. Scared and terrified, you, my brave Jane, cut into me, and in doing so, you healed me. Three days ago, you stayed with me. You could have left me there, alone as I had always been, but you didn't. You chose to stay, to risk death with me, and as feverish and delirious as I was, I knew there was more left between us than hate. I could forgive you, because you still loved me.

I know now that you will never leave me. I was and I am safe with you. It's myself I no longer trust. I sat on that couch two days ago, fresh out of the hospital and looked into your eyes, only to realize that all my barriers and defenses had been stripped away. The light of your brilliant smile had burned away the shadows, revealing things I'd been carefully and safely ignoring.

In that moment, I realized that my desire for you had gone past simple longing for friendship and companionship. I wanted to reach out and touch your face, to slowly caress each plane and curve. My heart soared at the idea of leaning forward and claiming your lips with my own. I imagined how they would feel against mine, so infinitely soft, except for the thin lines of chapped skin on the upper and lower lips where they meet when your mouth is closed. I know those lines form because you don't moisturize your lips. I know they are a common occurrence. Yet the contrast of soft and rough seems so right, so very Jane. Soft, delicate, precious femininity, capped with roughness.

Even imagining kissing you arouses me, but that isn't the word I use in my mind when I think about it. With all the lovers I've had over the years, my mind has supplied clinical terms like all the other simple, factual data points I observe through the day. Words like 'arousal' and 'genital engorgement', but with you, those words, clinical and correct, are inaccurate and inadequate to express my physical and emotional responses. For the first time in my life, I understand how colloquial language can be so much more precise than the proper, accepted lexicon.

Because the truth is, imagining kissing you doesn't arouse me. Imagining kissing you makes me so hot and wet that I'm stunned you can't smell it on me every time you're in the room with me. I don't know how you can look at me and not see the naked want, or stand next to me and not feel the fire you ignite my my veins.

I sat on that couch, looking into your eyes, wanting your family to go away so I could climb on top of you. I didn't want to make love to you. Not then. Making love is slow and sweet and tender, and I wanted none of those things. I wanted to mount you, tear your clothes off, and fuck you as if my life depended on it. To rip that filthy tank top in half, shove your bra up, out of the way and close my mouth around one of your nipples and sink my teeth into the soft pink flesh until I heard you moan. To shove my hand down the front of those black pants and inside your panties, until I could curl my fingers up inside your soft, wet folds and bury them inside you. I wanted to feel myself pumping into you, my fingers opening you, claiming you, fucking you until you threw your head back, screaming as you come all over my hand.

And when it was over, I wanted you to roll us over, to pin me to the couch, and to take me with the same abandon. I wanted to hear the sound of broken buttons bouncing off hardwood floors as you ripped my blouse open, too impatient to fumble with them. The crack of breaking plastic as you jerk my bra open, splitting the clasp in two so you care bare my breasts. I wanted to feel your hands kneading them as you kissed me, hard and demanding, as you forced a thigh between my legs, burying it against my sex as you began to pump your hips, riding me. I'd grab the edge of the cushions under me, desperate for anything to hold on to, and I'd cry out with need when your left hand slid down my body, finding its way inside my pants. I'd turn my head, biting down on a throw pillow as three of your fingers entered me. Too much, stretching me, nearly tearing me, but the pain making it that much better as you fucked me with bruising force, marking me, reminding me that I was yours, only yours, forever.

I've had two days to live with the images that flooded through me in that moment, and the need hasn't dimmed in the least. I've always appreciated the human form, but I finally understand what people are talking about when they refer to pure, unadulterated lust. Every time I've seen you in the last two days, I've felt the same raw, primal need to simply take you that I did in that moment. Last night, I could not sleep until I had indulged the fantasy, letting it play out in my head while my fingers played your role between my legs. It brought me a moment's peace, enough to slip into a fitful sleep, though I'm not sure what price I paid, because now I have the memories of physical sensation to match the fantasy.

Oh, Jane. My dear, beloved Jane. I know I should try to get past this. To put these feelings back in whatever mental box I'd hidden them in before. In a way, that's what this letter and this journal were supposed to be about, but instead, I sit here, cursing my inability to lie, even to myself, it seems. Because I don't want to get past this. Because I feel more alive, more gloriously, wonderfully alive laying here dreaming of you and touching myself than I ever have under the hands of even the most skilled and devoted lover.

I wish so desperately, that you felt the same way.

With all my love,

I marked the page and sat the journal on the bedside table, then looked up at the ceiling and just lay there for a while, hands resting just below my breasts, fingers laced together, staring at the ceiling. My mind was blank, the way it got sometimes when I was working a case. I'd just stare at the wall, not thinking about anything, and just like always, I could feel my brain working in the background, putting pieces together.

I knew it was coming, the moment when whatever it was my brain was working on would hit me. An epiphany, even though I'd never admit to Maura I knew what that word meant. At least, not until I could do it in a way that would make her jaw drop. I wanted to avoid it, to go back to the way things were before Ma handed me that damned envelope, but I couldn't.

I could feel it when the questions began to float to the surface.

When did this happen?

Stupid question. I had a good time line based on the signed confession I'd just read.

How did it happen?

I huffed, because really, that was another stupid question. We did everything together. Work, food, movies, shopping, theater, opera, the museum, ball games. We were together all the time. We shared everything. Well, not everything. We didn't share guys, because there was no way I was sharing Maura with some loser.

Sharing Maura? What the hell?

I shook my head, trying to clear it, but it didn't help.

Why did this happen?

I picked up a pillow and held it over my face to muffle the scream of frustration. Why did I only seem to have stupid questions tonight? How and why were practically the same answer. I'd been thinking about it myself, earlier in the night. There wasn't really a Jane or a Maura anymore. We were a unit. Jane and Maura. We spent more time together than most married couples, and got along better too.

I pulled the pillow off my face and took a deep breath, closing my eyes. I knew what I was doing. I was trying to work it like a case. I had a confession, and now I just needed to go through corroboration, because people confessed to things they didn't do, or they recanted before it went to trial.

This wasn't a case. This was Maura telling me she loved me, and I was asking all these questions to avoid asking the only important one, because it was dangerous. Because, once I answered it, things really would be different, one way, or the other.

Maura loved me. Maura was in love with me. The question was, how did I feel?

I thought back to the disaster with Giovanni, and the panic I'd felt when I asked Maura if she wanted to sleep with me. At the time, I'd been terrified she'd say yes, but now that Maura had told me flat out that she did want to sleep with me, I was calm. Off balance, but calm.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

I needed to be careful. This was Maura, and I didn't want to hurt her. I'd done that too many times in the past, and I'd almost lost her because if it. I couldn't let that happen again. Life without Maura was miserable. The next best thing to hell.

I could not do what I usually did, just plow through without thinking.

I couldn't fuck this up. If it hadn't been for Maura, I would have either eaten my gun or died on the job years ago. God knows, after Hoyt, I'd come close enough to taking a .40 caliber pain killer. Except, when I came back from medical leave, Tierney had retired, and since I was on desk duty, I got assigned to bring the new Chief Medical Examiner up to speed. Somehow, conversations over dead bodies and cans of tuna salad in the morgue did what months on the shrink's couch hadn't. I'd started to recover. Eventually, we'd even got to where we could laugh about Maura mistaking me for a hooker while I was in DCU, and she was an assistant ME.

It went beyond that though. Without Maura, me and Frankie would have died in the siege, and Marino would have walked away, celebrated as a hero. Without Maura, Tommy would be doing life for felony murder and Ma would be living with some relative she hated.

I love Maura. No doubt about it. Not just because Maura had made my life so much better than it would have been otherwise. Maura made me feel safe, made me a better person.

But I knew I couldn't give her what she was asking for out of gratitude. It would turn into poison for both of us, destroy our friendship, and our friendship was the most meaningful thing in my life.

Which meant there was only one question left. Was I in love with Maura?

I looked over at the journal, replaying the letter I'd read in my head. I closed my eyes, imagining what it would be like to feel Maura on top of me, kissing me, tearing off my clothes and fucking me.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

I opened my eyes, staring up at the ceiling, barely able to breath. My legs were curled up and I'd started squeezing my thighs together, trying to find some relief. My nipples were so hard they hurt, making visible points through my bra and tank top, and somehow, my left hand had ended up half way down my panties, the fingers tangled in my short hairs while my whole body shook.

I'd had orgasms without getting that turned on.

I swallowed, waiting for the panic, the voice to come screaming that I wasn't gay, that I didn't like women, that I was straight and Catholic and I liked men. I waited so long the ache between my legs faded and I could relax, straighten out my legs, and take my hand out of my panties. I waited until the clock ticked over to midnight.

Nothing. No panic attack. God didn't strike me down. Sister Winifred didn't burst into the room and attack me with a ruler. Ma didn't storm in and disown me.

But that journal called to me. It was like a case file, calling to me, telling me it had one more clue I was missing, if only I could see it.

I needed to see it. I needed to know what else Maura had to say.

I reached for the journal, because Maura asked me to read it, and because I wanted to read it. This was Maura. I loved her, and if she was going to hand me her heart, I sure as hell was going to do everything I could to handle it with care. I would read the entire journal, hear everything she had to say, then I'd make my decision. Not before.

I opened the journal, finding the spot I'd marked, and started reading.

The Diary of Jane Chapter List
Chapter 01
Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04
Chapter 05
Chapter 06
Chapter 07
Chapter 08
Chapter 09
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

Fanfic Master List

Date: 2012-08-21 12:27 am (UTC)From: [identity profile]
What an interesting idea for a fic. You're off to a great start I can't wait to read the rest of the story.

Date: 2012-08-21 05:35 am (UTC)From: [identity profile]
Thanks. I hope you enjoy the whole thing.

Date: 2012-08-25 11:06 am (UTC)From: [identity profile]
Oh Jane, took you long enough to see it. I could so see Jane reading that journal, too, and her eyes just widening as she reads it.

Date: 2012-08-25 06:17 pm (UTC)From: [identity profile]
I adore Jane, but for a Detective, she does occasionally need a good smack with a clue by four ;)

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