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Jane sits cross-legged on an autopsy table after her shift. It's so cold that she holds her blazer closed over her chest, her hands tucked into her pockets. Maura's told her a thousand times that she can go home and sleep, that she doesn't need to wait around, especially when she's so tired she barely has words, but Jane just won't. She wants to go home with Maura, but she doesn't want to ask. She just wants to walk through the door with Maura like the Beacon Hill home is theirs, together, and curl up with her in bed and let that be all. But that's not something she knows how to ask for.
But Maura's on her fourth autopsy of the day, her work hours already halfway over by the time she'd gotten the call about the likely double homicide. And well, the job is in her. Justice moves her. And those bodies had been visibly brutalized. Jane takes another peek at Maura's face as she finishes the last body. Jane can detect the minute signs of weariness on her beyond her polished appearance; it's something under her eyes despite the makeup or in her shoulders, something just a little fallen. Jane fights an urge to take care of her like Maura had done for her when she'd shot herself on the BPD staircase and bled in a moment of impulsive protectiveness, heroism according to the brass, but really just... well, just like her, always in over her head and acting on impulse and paying the price in the end—the puckered scars on her hands prove it. Jane closes in those hands and watches Maura close the last body, snapping off gloves after a row of stitches and washing her hands in the deep sink before slipping out of the room to go change.
Jane sits, slumped, barely noticing when Maura comes back in, wearing her more usual dress and heels, purse hanging from an extended forearm.
"You didn't have to wait for me," Maura insists yet again. "You look so tired."
"So let me crash on your couch as thanks," Jane jokes. She slides off the autopsy and pats at her trouser pockets until the jangle of metal reassures her she's remembered her keys.
Maura raises an eyebrow at her, and yeah, they both know Jane won't be crashing on any couch. But Maura's expression softens instead of turning to teasing.
"You're welcome to stay over," she says, a little hint of shyness in her tone and a pink so slight on her cheeks that Jane doesn't even know if she can deem it a blush.
Jane places a hand on Maura's arm, just below where the leather strap of her purse hangs. "Thanks, Maur."
She'd had a series of hard nights after the explosion at the Salute to Heroes banquet honouring her and Private Abby Sherman. But Maura's arms had created for her a sanctuary, even sitting there on a cold curb with crumbly gravel under her palms, as Maura cradled her to her chest and tutted against her hair. Her skin was always warm, always so soft, and smelling softly of sweetness just like she always emanated in her treatment of others, something milky sweet in the bend of her neck when Jane's nose would bury itself there, something under her perfume. Jane had spent as many nights as she could unobtrusively find her way into Maura's home curled up with her in the woman's bedroom.
Not the guest room, like the first few nights she spent in that home, but in Maura's room, which immediately surprised her in its decor. It was all dark wood, which somehow Jane hadn't expected with the brightness of Maura's energy, let alone the whites and beiges of the lower level. Her bedroom instead featured a high, large bed against an exposed brick wall with a walk-in closet the size of Jane's own bedroom. Maura'd let Jane in on some sacred space, some heaven of high thread count sheets and borrowed silk pyjamas that ended so far above her ankles that Maura had fallen into soft giggles at the sight of her until Jane tossed her a soft glare and she'd put her hand over her mouth to stifle them.
But they'd slept so close, Maura's arms protectively slung around Jane without her ever needing to ask, ever needing to make herself vulnerable. And it had fixed something in her. Something that would fracture all over again every night she slept in her own apartment, every time she couldn't find an excuse to be in Maura's space.
But now they drive to Maura's house separately, and Jane pauses for a moment in her car as she waits for Maura to pull up. Maura drives much more carefully and actually heeds traffic law and never gets anywhere first. So Jane waits, her foot tapping the half-scrunched carpet beneath her boots and her fingers against the steering wheel, wondering what Maura gets out of her intrusion into that space. The holding, maybe, some comfort in company. Or maybe Maura's just far too kind to tell her she's imposing.
Jane scrubs a hand over her face. She's become almost addicted to the comfort of their nights together. But she holds herself back. Every night they step into Maura's home together, Jane fights the part of her that wants to assume too much familiarity, take on a tone too close to partner by helping Maura out of her jacket and smoothing her hands over her back, stepping too close and working too much like a unit, like a couple. But Jane doesn't ever want to be too much, to push her away. But maybe those things would be what made it equal, what would make Maura feel as loved and protected as she did.
Jane steps out of the car as Maura pulls up, going over to grab Maura's medical bag and carry it up the walk for her, putting it in its prime station by the door for late nights on-call and putting her gun in the little safe Maura had installed in her dining room desk. For Jane. No matter what she might say.
"Do you want me to do your tea thingie while you shower?" Jane asks.
Maura smirks. "Do you know how?"
"Of course," Jane says, but her smile is all doubt. "I'm trying to do something nice for you."
Maura softens at that, the quality in her eyes mind-altering, leaving Jane brainless as she nods softly. "Please," Maura says. "I'd appreciate it."
So Jane finagles with a kettle as Maura's footsteps disappear upstairs and then finds the little net thing and puts a scoop of loose leaf in it. She's sure to choose Maura's favourite mug and try to follow the process she's watched Maura engage in for herself most nights. She's halfway out of the kitchen with the brewed mug before stopping and turning back. Nope, Maura's bedside tables were too fine a grain of wood to tarnish. If wood could be tarnished. Expensive tables needed coasters, end of story. Finding a set in a drawer and freeing one, Jane carts it upstairs and sets it up on Maura's bedside table.
Maura's room is comforting, her carefully crafted serenity in the perfectly clean furniture, clearly dusted within the last century unlike Jane's room, and the aromatherapy she's got going in the corner, some sleepy blend of lavender and something unidentifiable. Jane pulls her own pyjamas out of the bottom drawer of the armoire, the two perfectly folded sets a reminder of the security of their new routine.
Maura emerges from the shower tinged pink from warm water, bare-faced with her hair pulled back and protected from the water spray in a loose high bun that flops adorably to one side as it threatens to unravel. She's already donned pyjamas, and her little pink toes emerge from under pale blue silk adorably. Her home vulnerable look makes Jane's heartbeat a little faster.
Jane gestures at the tea as she struggles to her feet, lifting up her clothes to her chest. "Just a quick rinse," she tells Maura, who grins, one dimple poking into her cheek.
"It's not an inconvenience. Take as long a shower as you'd like to."
Jane rushes, using the single bar of dove soap she knows is for her comfort. Maura's scented up in her fancy French-titled unreadable shower gel in a tiny little package that probably cost more than a whole two dozen dove bars. Lait au something. Whatever that meant. She'd have to look it up later to put a name to the delicious scent of her friend, who she probably wasn't supposed to be thinking about as delicious.
When Jane emerges, Maura pats the bed beside her, and Jane climbs up to sit with her against the headboard.
"Long day, huh?" Jane says unhelpfully.
"Yes," Maura says. She sips from the mug in her hands, nearly drained, and Jane notices her hands are still pink, in little patches by her knuckles, between her fingers.
"Uh," Jane says, then wonders if it's rude to say anything at all, but it's all prepped on her tongue and comes out without her really thinking. "Your hands are all... scaly. Should we put something on them?"
Maura, thankfully, doesn't look offended, just once again raises that one incredulous eyebrow, something teasing on her face. "We?" She asks.
Jane rolls her eyes, knowing at once she's being called a hypocrite in all uppercase and probably an underline to really punctuate the thing. But the thing is, she was only ever so annoyed when Bryon would use the royal we as her doctor because it was just her injury, just her healing—stupid and hers alone. And she was doing fine, thank you very much. It was ucky. Hence, Ucky Slucky. Or maybe she just didn't like that Byron was allowed entry in this room before she ever had been, had been allowed to share this bed with her Maura and touch her without being absolutely terrified of fucking everything up. Especially with his name that belonged in the middle ages or something.
Jane turns to watch as Maura props open her bedside drawer and produces a bright green tube of some kind of hand lotion. Jane grabs it instinctively, reading O'Keefe's Working Hands and popping it open to take a sniff. When it isn't nice, like Maura usually chooses to smell, Jane shoots her a questioning glance.
"The lotion I keep in my office helps some but sometimes we need something a little more... utilitarian."
Jane grins at the little bit of teasing in the emphasized "we" from Maura's mouth.
"So you enlist the big guns instead of the delicate fancy European stuff," Jane says. "Doesn't smell as nice."
"You like the smell? I'll purchase a few tubes for you next time," Maura tries.
"Mm mm." Jane says, shaking her head. "Not my style. I'm Dove, not Chanel."
Maura nods. "It's not Chanel, but I understand your point."
Jane nods, too, and then grasps one of Maura's hands in hers. She carefully squeezes out the product and spreads it across all the raw spots on Maura's hand, rubbing it in softly so as not to disturb stressed skin. Maura lets her, lets her switch hands and follow suit with the other one, watching Jane's face with some mixture of confusion, shock, and something softer, something that might be admiration. Jane pretends her skin doesn't burn under the softest parts of Maura's gaze, as she works fingers softly over soft skin and hopes she isn't overstepping. Maura's done things like this for her: scrapes and, well, gunshot wounds. So what's a little chapped skin between friends?
"There," Jane says, letting Maura's hand drop to twist the cap back on and hand it to Maura.
"Thank you. That was sweet. You didn't have to do that," Maura says, squeezing Jane's hand in hers for a moment. Then she digs her finger into a point of Jane's palm, providing enough counter-tension to relieve the acute muscle pain she hadn't realized she was carrying today, nullifying her hand pain to a level of comfort beyond what she knew in her day-to-day life. Only fitting, it's what Maura does for her in every way. Jane moans deeply at the relief of it, her head falling into Maura's shoulder.
"If that's how you thank me, I'll lotion your hands every day. I'll lotion your hands three times a day, god, that's good."
Maura laughs and gives the other one the same treatment, drawing that same sound out and Jane turns her head further into Maura's shoulder to hide her face, wondering if it's her pulse that's racing or Maura's where they meet.
"Actually, I.." Jane hesitates. "I owe you a lot more than hand massages for what you did for me, what you're still doing."
"Jane," Maura tuts. "Friendship is not transactional, you know."
The word guts her; she's glad she's not looking the woman in the face. Friendship, right. Not whatever this… more is that they both seem too afraid to breach, too afraid to risk ruin to even try.
"You saved my brother," Jane says. "I made you do surgery on him even though you weren't comfortable. I guilted you. I should be grovelling for your forgiveness instead of all this taking from you."
"What is it that you think you're taking?"
"Your space? Your attention. All of your time and... affection. You ruined your dress holding my guts in on the steps of our workplace and I don't think I earn enough to ever be able to buy that back."
"It was a spring '08 design anyway. I only continued to wear it because I didn't want it in a landfill. I try not to participate in fast fashion, but secretly, you did me a favour." Maura shrugs it off.
"No, really," Jane says. "I can't thank you. But I'm trying, okay? And if you want me out of your bedroom, you just gotta say. Okay?"
"Jane, I want you here," Maura admits, placing her fingers over her mouth as if she's heard the way it might sound, the layers of innuendo when it comes to bedrooms. "I did say you were welcome."
"What can I do?" Jane asks. "To make it up?"
Maura tugs her to lay down properly and, this time, wraps Jane's arms around her. Jane presses closer into her back, feeling Maura's heartbeat and the bumps of her ribcage against her chest, nuzzling her nose into the tiny damp curl at Maura's nape, smelling beautiful and soft. She can hold her good and soft and protective. It's really the least she can do.
Their intimacy waxes and wanes in the seasons of their friendship. After Hoyt, they spend every night squeezed tightly together in Maura's bed, nothing between them but thin layers of clothing and the fear of losing each other, and maybe silently, also the fear of losing themselves entirely in each other, in how they feel about each other. But no matter what pulls them apart, they always end up coming back to each other like magnets in the sanctuary of Maura's bedroom or the refuge of Jane's, their belongings migrating and dispersing until they're asking each other where their things are in hushed, private tones in the morgue or bullpen.
They get brave because they have to, learning to ask to share space, breaching the abyss between them after Jane shoots Paddy Doyle, after Jane lets Agent Dean in, and then Casey.
In the end, it's the ring that does it, that leaves Maura sounding scraped out and hollow when she points out the rock on Jane's finger, that makes her look crestfallen and crushed and all the other words for broken-hearted. Casey had asked and she was only thinking about it, only sitting with the idea, and Maura could take one look at that ring and splinter, "what am I going to do without my best friend?"
She wipes her eye, insisting there's some foreign body in there, and walks away swiftly with her hand on her chest. Jane's heart splinters after her.
She'd watched Maura try and fail to be happy for her. She'd been supportive, when Casey wasn't asking Jane to give up Boston, give up being a cop. But now, care for her could drive Maura not to want to see her go. It doesn't have to be the thing that makes her chest tight and her lungs heavy. No, Maura had said that Jane wasn't her type. It's not the kind of thing Jane forgets. Not when it had such an unexpected sting.
And, anyway, Maura dated arrogant surgeons who demeaned her and criminal doctors and rich murderous bastards who abandoned her and artistic serial killers who wanted to cast her perfect body in sculpture. People who could keep up with her before they tried to hurt her. People nothing like Jane.
But Casey keeps coming back and he's a safety, someone who is equal to Jane on every level, living on a modest salary and married to the job first and foremost. It's comfortable to not ever feel inadequate, to almost wonder if she's too good for Casey, who comes in and out of the picture and still tries to make himself permanent, because she's loyal to the bone. But maybe she hasn't been entirely loyal to Maura.
Jane hesitates, wanting to follow Maura and the tears she was holding back, wanting to explain herself, her choices. If she'd known she was hurting Maura, she'd have let go of Casey ages ago. She probably should have when all he offered was army bases and rearranging her kitchen. She wants to tell Maura that she's her choice. But Maura needs to process her emotions alone and wouldn't appreciate the interruption just yet, would feel affronted and say things she didn't mean.
Jane sighs and instead calms her queasy stomach in the cafe, twisting the ring around and around her finger and staring at her scarred hands, the scarred hands Maura would so carefully massage any time she was still long enough in their joined solitude. The hands Maura'd hold against her ribs while they spooned in her bed. Only that hadn't been happening while Casey was around. And what a lousy switch, someone whose hands she'd bat off of herself every morning, waking in a brief bit of panic instead of... the measured bliss of Maura's hands that knew just right how to touch her, how to make her feel safe. She'd, well, she'd abandoned Maura too. And god, was she sensitive to feeling unwanted. Jane can't even blame her.
She's been stupid. So stupid. She yanks the ring off her finger. It's too fancy for her, anyway, with the work she does and too dainty for her tastes. She hates the way it makes her strong hands look so large with its delicacy. Maura would've chosen better, would've known her tastes better. And that's, well, that's a thought. A ring from Maura instead of…
It's with the half smile that thought brings that Angela comes out of the back room and spots her.
"Jane Clementine Rizzoli, what is that in your hand?" Angela demands. "Oh Jane, let me see it. My first daughter."
Jane whisks it away into her pocket.
"It's nothing, Ma," Jane says. "And I'm your only daughter."
"My God," Angela says. "Might as well kill me now. My only daughter has an engagement ring and doesn't even have the gall to tell her mother. Janie, why do you do this to me? Why don't you share things with me so I can celebrate with you?"
"Don't rent out a float just yet. I didn't even say yes," she says in a small voice, bending awkwardly over the counter.
Angela places a muffin in front of her that Jane starts to pick at, shoulders rising in defence as her mother starts in on her.
"For heaven's sake, why not? Charles is a lovely man. And he's been good to you, hasn't he? What are you waiting for, a perfect man to drop out of the sky into your lap? It doesn't work like that, Janie. You've got a good thing!"
"No," Jane says. She turns the muffin in a lopsided circle across the plate instead of eating it. "You should've seen Maura's face, Ma."
"Maura?" Angela says. "Oh Janie, you can't let her reaction stop you. But you probably should've dropped the news gently, I know how you can be."
"How can I be?"
"Clueless," Angela says, pinching her cheek. "You don't know? That poor girl's practically in love with you. Least you can do is let her down easy."
"What do you mean in love with me?" Jane says. "She doesn't... she's not."
"No one who wasn't in love with you would stay through half the drama you put her through. She loves you."
"Oh," Jane says. "She..."
"She what?"
"Nevermind," Jane says. "I have to go."
She finds her way to Maura as soon as she has a free moment. In the closed privacy of Maura's office, Jane is able to ask, "Can I... can I come by tonight?"
"Because Casey's left?" Maura asks, voice cutting and only undercut by the softness of her eyes.
"Because I need to say some things to you."
Maura's mouth twists, like she's trying to avoid letting out a sound like a wounded animal. Stricken, she reaches one hand out until she can grasp Jane's fingers.
"I'm sorry," Maura says. "For earlier. I'm really happy for you. I want you to be happy."
Jane is kind enough not to point out the start of a flush on her chest that would turn to hives in moments.
"You're not, but thanks for trying," Jane says.
"I... Jane, I would never do anything to interrupt your happiness." Maura says. "But if you leave me to go be some army wife. If you leave me alone..."
Jane grabs both of Maura's hands fully in hers, stroking their delicate softness.
"Our relationship has never been transactional, Jane, but you asked me once what you could do to make it up to me when you asked me to cut Frankie open for you and the only thing I want from you is for you to stay. If you leave, I don't know what..." Maura stops. "I don't know what to do without you."
Maura shakes her head. Tears are falling that she tries to hide, but Jane sees anyway.
"If you love Casey, really, really love him, then ignore me. I'm being incredibly selfish. I'm asking something I shouldn't," Maura says. "I need you. I need you."
Jane brings one of those hands to her mouth, kisses knuckles, and listens to Maura's increase of breath. "I need you, too."
"In... what do you need from me? What do I do?"
"Let me come over. Let me sleep in your bed tonight."
It's in her eyes and she sees that Maura understands her. Then she nods. And Jane takes her home. And to bed. And she doesn't wear the ring anymore, mailing it back to Casey to make space for the better offer that she shares a bed with.
Jane should have known it wasn't just about that baby. It was never just about the baby, not even when it was hers, growing, and hope growing with it as she stayed with Maura, for Maura. As soon as Casey said he didn't want it, it was a relief. It was perfect. It was the two of them, Maura and Jane, family in a new way. But this baby, as Maura starts working at the clinic is so loved that the family prays with her, prays in hopes that Maura can help her and Maura is stressed, is upset, is late home and probably locked up in her office somewhere because she simply can't believe in a prayer, not like Jane can. She just, instead, feels pressure. And it's strange, at first, to Jane that something only meant to instill hope can unsettle her so much. But then again, it's never just about the baby.
Thankful she hasn't gotten comfortable, Jane heads back out to the morgue she'd left Maura with a goodnight cheek kiss in hours later. She finds her still hunched over her desk and staring at papers in her hands with wrinkled brows, not even noticing Jane's presence at the threshold. Jane knocks lightly on the open door and Maura startles, looking up at her first with surprise, then softness, then, internally, scorn. Jane watches the face journey as Maura puts down her manilla folder and stands, making her way over to Jane slowly and taking her hands in hers.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I couldn't keep track of time."
"You're alright," Jane says. "Is it still that baby?"
Maura sighs and looks at Jane with these wide sad eyes. "I just don't know if there's anything I can do for her. I ordered more tests. But, I won't get results until morning."
"Okay, so stop stressing yourself out before then. You have no evidence either way."
"I have plenty of case studies that suggest an unfavourable outcome for that family. And they're putting all their trust in me."
"I know you'll do everything that you can. That's all they could reasonably expect of you. And if they want more, that's on them."
"Jane," Maura says.
"You have to sleep or you're not going to be able to read those lab results tomorrow morning."
"Okay," Maura agrees, letting Jane collect her things and force her out of the door.
After night routines are completed, Maura tucked up into bed already when Jane steps out of the bathroom, Jane sits her butt in the space between Maura's crossed legs and hugs her, wrapping her ankles in the tight space between the headboard and Maura's back. "Alright?"
"I'm alright," Maura says, laughing at all the gangly limbs wrapping around hers, like a large dog insisting on curling up in its owner's lap.
Jane takes Maura's hands and presses them to the warmth of her chest. They get so tired and so cold, stiff in a way that indicates their growing ages, the repetitive stress of jobs well done. Jane's own trigger finger acts up sometimes, Maura softly stretching it for her at night so it smoothly slides into its sheath or something like that, something that had Jane laughing through Maura's explanation, thinking of coffee machines and Roman orgies and motorcycles. Maura sighs as her fingers regain movement, slides her hands around to creep under the bottom hem of Jane's t-shirt and warm her back before pressing and kneading into the spinal column that causes her so much pain. They're silent in these moments, speaking only in mutual touches geared towards easing pain, bringing comfort.
"It's not about the baby," Jane says softly. Maura's hands stutter on her back, then find their rhythm again. "What is it, honey?"
Maura turns half away. And Jane takes her hands from her back to tuck 'em up against her breastbone.
"You still love me, right?" Jane half jokes, glad that Maura's not looking at her.
"What?" Maura says, wide eyes and horrified expression. "Of course I love you. I just… I don't know what I'm supposed to do without you."
"What do you mean now?" Jane says. "Are you talking about death?"
"No," Maura says. "You're going to start training agents instead of working with me. You're going to leave."
"I'll miss you," Jane offers.
"You're going to… I…"
"What, honey? Say it," Jane says.
"I've never had anyone like you before. What if it doesn't work because we needed to… we worked together when this all started up, would have no reason to be even friends before. We have very little in common. What if that's what's sustaining us?"
"I don't think it is," Jane says. "I love you. That's what sustains it on my end."
Maura hums.
"It's a little bit about the baby," Maura admits after a while. "I don't want to disappoint this family that seems to put so much hope in me."
"You could never disappoint, Maura. You never have."
Maura rolls her eyes and shoves Jane. "Liar."
And then Maura curls them up into their sleeping position. Maura, like always, wraps Jane's arms around her and pulls her scarred hand up to her chest between both of Maura's, warm and comforting for the both of them.
That next night at The Robber, Jane watches Maura as their family and friends bustle around them at dinner. Maura doesn't follow the conversation, doesn't engage, a distressed expression on her face even though the baby is doing well and all of her fears should be assuaged. But there'd been more to it, Jane knows that, pats the chest pocket of her jumpsuit and then gets Maura's attention and inclines her head towards the door. Maura sighs but follows Jane out the door and to a little wrought iron bench, where they sit side by side. Jane rubs a hand along Maura's back in a comforting gesture and Maura leans into her, her head against her shoulder.
"I know I should just be glad that the baby's okay," Maura says. "Her unexpected improvement should be a good thing. But I'm not going to say it was a miracle."
Jane gives a sympathetic half smile, knowing that what Maura is feeling is unsettled. They had always seen the world differently. They had always needed different things. Jane could take a good thing as a good thing and just fight to hold it. Maura needed to explain it, to scientifically guarantee its continuance. Jane could take that the two of them had something inexplicable, that they were linked in a forever way with no evidence. No guarantee. She could feel that invisible string tying them together.
"Sometimes I like to play what if it didn't happen. For example, what if you never said anything about Casey?"
"Then you wouldn't be in Boston at all, you'd be an army wife on some base far away from me."
"Exactly. And I'd probably be miserable."
"I like this." Maura claps in glee. "Do another one."
Jane chuckles at the implication that Maura likes her misery. She continues anyway, knows that's not what she meant.
"What if Hoyt never got to us?"
"Then you never would've killed him and you'd still be… that scared."
"Yeah," Jane says, squeezing Maura's hand.
"So, everything happens for a reason?" Maura asks.
"Whether you can explain it or not. We're all part of a bigger plan."
"A very unscientific explanation," Maura says. "You think that life has some sort of predesigned plan? Some destiny?"
"I believe my destiny is you."
"Jane," Maura says in that half-adoring, half-chastising tone that always came up in response to Jane saying something ridiclously sappy
"Hey, it helps me get through things."
"Well, I'm still not saying it was a miracle."
"Doesn't mean that it wasn't."
Jane reaches for one of Maura's hands before she can cross them over her chest, playing with her fingers. "You really don't believe in miracles?" She asks, voice a little shy.
"Well, no, Jane," Maura says.
Jane slips something over Maura's finger.
"You sure?"
"You are not proposing to me like that," Maura says indignantly.
"No, of course not. Just testing the reception," Jane says. "Give it back then."
Maura pulls her hand out of reach, looking at the ring thoughtfully. "Are you insinuating that you're a miracle?"
"No," Jane says. She reaches over Maura, temporarily pinning her back to cold iron as she grasps her hand and pulls it back towards her. "It'd be a miracle if you'd marry me. You're so…"
"What?"
"You're the best person I know, alright?" Jane says, taking the ring back and slipping it into her pocket. "But let me tell you when I attempt to give this back to you, when I try to convince you to take one more chance on me."
The lines of distress are already fading from Maura's face with this promise of security, even if it's not immediate.
"You wanted to know the reception, Jane? I used to dream of being proposed to in a gondola on the water."
"You really like Italian, huh?"
Maura rolls her eyes but smiles. "A real miracle for you, right?"
"Funny," Jane says, poking her in the side.
And Maura pokes back, sharply between the ribs, and Jane knows she's broken through that bad mood. So she kisses her, soft but with promise, her hands coming up to hold her neck, rubbing fingertips gently over that scar that she has in duplicate, that Maura likes to press her mouth to before they fall asleep curled together. Jane bends from Maura's mouth to kiss that tiny scar as a promise. Of protection. Of affection. Of forever.