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Maura stares at the ceiling, last night coming back to her like weights piling up on her chest.
Jane is in the guest room down the hall. Maura wonders if she is having the same experience as she comes to consciousness.
It started at the Robber, as many of their Friday nights do. There was some alcohol involved, as there often is. They came back to Maura's house together when they'd had enough. So far, so typical.
But then they started talking. That's not unheard of but it is a bit unusual. Generally by that point in the evening they would be getting ready for bed and parting ways in the hallway until morning. Instead, they talked a bit about their latest case, an apparent poisoning that they both have their doubts is as simple as it looks. But then conversation veered—mostly led by Jane, Maura realizes now—to focus on how well they work together, how they so often and so easily seem to get on the same wavelength, at least when it really matters. Maura remembers feeling something shift in her chest as she started to pick up on the fact that Jane was trying to get at something... else. She remembers that it felt very delicate, fragile even, and that she instinctually centered herself and steadied her breathing the way she does when she's about to perform a particularly tricky cut during an autopsy—as if one wrong move could knock over the thing Jane was building; building up to.
She sighs out a breath then, because the next thing she remembers is the hope. She remembers the glittering potential of the moment, how it flowed warm and bright through her veins, spreading through her body with every word Jane uttered until it suffused her. She was filled completely with a sense of possibility that maybe, finally, with the night and the conversation (and the beer) Jane was at last going to find whatever it took to say or do something about the feelings between them.
They were standing in the kitchen, Maura against the wall sipping from a glass of water, Jane refilling her own glass at the sink, when it happened: Jane looked at her with the whole world in her eyes and Maura must have revealed something because then Jane was taking a step toward her, and then another, putting her glass down on the counter, closer and closer until the inches between them could be counted on the hand Jane half-reached out with. Maura put her own glass down but otherwise didn't move.
A flicker of something passed over Jane's face at Maura's choice to stay still, but then she took one final step forward. She looked down at Maura almost curiously, uncertainly, as if asking a question.
Maura still didn't move, but her eyes fell shut.
She remembers feeling Jane's breath on her lips as she waited, nails digging into her palms to stop herself reaching for her and ruining it.
And then, instead of moving her mouth across that last miniscule amount of space separating them, Jane pushed their hips together while still holding a quarter of a breath back.
Maura opened her eyes then, confused, Tantalus-dread tickling at her ribs; Jane made a choked noise of anguish and dropped her head against the wall next to Maura's head. Maura's eyes closed again momentarily, this time in dismay. When Jane pulled back she looked heartbreakingly terrified. They exchanged tight, rushed goodnights, Maura's coming out in one exhausted breath, and Jane disappeared up the stairs to the guest room like a hunted rabbit.
Maura slept fitfully, of course, and she can already feel the faint-but-sharpening edges of a headache pressing at her temples. She pushes down the covers and swings her feet over the side of the bed, resolving to at least get up and see Jane before she lets herself truly fall into a funk.
They meet in the hall, Jane almost walking into the banister as she rubs her eyes.
"Mornin'," she rasps, after about a second's pause.
It takes a lot not to throw in the towel right then. "Good morning, Jane." That pause was enough to let Maura know that Jane remembers something happening last night, and the fact that she didn't immediately either ask what or try to apologize means that she remembers exactly what and she wants to either ignore or forget it.
Really, all prior experience could have led Maura to that set of conclusions before the evidence was even presented; but Maura doesn't guess. That's what she tells herself.
(It wouldn't have been a guess, though. It would at the very barest least have been a perfectly reasonable, well-supported hypothesis.)
Maura goes down the stairs first so that Jane can't see her face and starts to prepare coffee for them both. The methodical precision of the task as she likes to do it is comforting.
Jane sidles up next to her like a child in trouble. "You sleep okay?" she asks, her voice tentative, one she only ever uses with Maura.
Maura knows this is Jane checking in, to see where they stand in the light of day. She is too tired to placate. "Not particularly, no."
To anyone else standing in the kitchen at that moment it would look like Jane hardly reacted, if she did at all. Maura, however, sees the minute tightening and release of her masseter muscles, the stilling of her fingers where they had been silently tapping against the countertop, and reads the signals clearly: Jane did not expect that answer, even though she knows it's the truth. She expected the kind of feelings-sparing obfuscation Maura has made an art of, but Maura is not feeling terribly artistic at the moment.
"I'm sorry to hear it," Jane rumbles, contrite. I'm sorry I did that to you.
There's an argument to be made that she shouldn't, but Maura decides to extend an olive branch. "How about you?" I know the answer but I want you to know that I'm not upset enough that I won't ask. She is upset, though. That comes across in other signs.
Jane takes a breath. "Not very well either." We're in this together, whatever it is.
That makes Maura want to roll her eyes. Instead, she turns them toward Jane, and she can feel the way the profound sadness in them dries down after a moment into hollowed out, empty disappointment.
And for some reason—Maura will have to dissect the exact conditions later—it works. Jane's expression shows in a few moments that she reels, panics, and resolves.
"I'm a coward."
That could be startling if Maura weren't prepared to hear anything but the thing she most wishes Jane would say. "Yes."
Jane's chuckle is dry, and it isn't just because of the lack of coffee. "Okay yeah, I deserve that."
Jane's smirk invites Maura to let her off the hook, but she does not. Maura fixes her gaze on Jane, intent.
The smirk fades. "I'm so scared," admits Jane in a voice Maura has never heard before. There are versions of Jane's voice she has heard that it is similar to but it's never quite been like this.
"Of what?"
"Of talking about it. we've never talked about it before, Maura. Not once."
"There are many things we'd never done before that we did for the first time together."
Jane's expression clouds over. "Yeah. I don't think it's gonna be like that. I didn't really think you'd understand."
The coffee is ready to pour but Maura is going to let it sit. She flexes her hands against her own arms, where they're crossed, feeling more keyed up than anyone else has ever succeeded in making her. "Maybe I don't understand why this is so hard for you, Jane," she says, clipped. "I certainly won't if you don't explain. But I'm scared too."
Jane recoils, as though that statement pushes up against some central notion of her reality. "No, you're not."
Maura feels the picosecond at which the taut band of her composure snaps. "Would you shut up?" she hisses. It's uncharacteristic and she's beyond caring that it is. "I'm scared, Jane, that you're going to do what you're doing right now—that you're going to evade and run and hide from this forever." She steps to the side, out of Jane's shadow and breathes, eyes focused on the speckles in the granite of her kitchen countertop. She considers how many times she hasn't said the next thing she is going to say. Then, she continues, voice low but audible.
"This thing I feel for you, Jane, it's like a living, moving animal inside me. It keeps getting bigger and stronger and I don't think my body can contain it anymore. If I can let it out into the open and we can face it together, maybe we'll have a chance. But if I can't do that, it's going to tear me apart."
That hangs in the air a moment before settling like the first real snow of winter; like a change of season. Jane turns to face Maura again but doesn't step in front of her, into her field of vision. Body positioning relative to a suspect/witness, Maura thinks, in the tones of the robotic voice from the online field training module she'd been given access to, on the basis that she chooses to do her job in a way that puts her closer to people involved in an active investigation than most MEs. Closer to the detectives, too.
Jane opens her mouth a moment before words start coming out of it, as though she was editing the sentence right until she voiced it. "I know I fucked up last night."
I'm glad, thinks Maura. She swallows, and Jane reads it for the minor opening it is, stepping around and in front of Maura again but a bit further back, not blocking her exit. After a moment, she reaches across the remaining space between them and lays her hand on Maura's cheek, eyes straying down to her mouth.
Maura smacks the hand away. "No. I need you to use your words. I know, Jane. I already know what you're not saying. But you need to say it," she demands. She does not let the longing in Jane's wide brown eyes disarm her; on the contrary, she puts steel into her tone, imagining she can feel it cool and harden. "Do not kiss me. I am not going to let you lead with your actions on this and if you do I will be irreparably upset. Use. Your. Words."
Jane does that unbearable, helpless pout she so often uses in the face of emotion. "Maur, you know me. You know how hard it is for me to—"
"I don't care," interrupts Maura, bulldozing Jane's pity party. She doesn't want to be mean but sometimes it seems like that's the only thing Jane responds to.
Just the same, she softens her voice. "You think it's easy for me?" She tries her best to invite reflection with her tone rather than just whining. "I need you to show me you can face this, Jane. Speak to me."
Jane just stares for several moments, her face flicking through emotions at speed: disbelief, fear, yearning, frustration.
"God," she snarls at last, "I was so scared of doing something stupid and hurting you that I decided I had to stay away for us both, even if you didn't understand." This is news to Maura but she fights to keep her expression steady. Not that Jane is looking at her.
Jane continues after a moment, her tone brittle: "But I ended up hurting you anyway so what's the fuckin' point, huh? Might as well have this one thing since apparently it can't be fuckin' helped."
Maura falls backward a couple of steps at the force of Jane's words, at their sharply bitter taste, and Jane scrambles to correct course.
"That's not—that's nothing to do with you. That's my own... shit." She sighs.
"I think you should work through that 'shit'. Preferably with a trained professional," Maura bites back. She doesn't want to lash out but Jane is doing what she always does (despite the tiniest sliver of light her last declaration may have hinted at letting in, something Maura doesn't feel like she can believe in yet), and Maura is finding she simply cannot take it. She makes the suggestion to sting, knowing how much Jane always hates it.
Instead, Jane folds. "Yeah. I should," she agrees, gaze falling to the floor tiles. "I thought I knew what I was doin' but I don't. If I wanna not fuck this up any more than I already have, I'm gonna need help."
Maura lets out a sigh, feeling the escaping air carry the fight out of her. Has it always been stored in her lungs? "I'm glad to hear you say that," she murmurs. Still, there are assurances she needs; and she needs them without equivocation. She looks up, training her eyes on Jane's with enough intent to erase everything else around them. "What is 'this', Jane?"
Jane returns her gaze evenly—not aggressively, not pleadingly, just directly from level ground—squares her shoulders, sets her jaw. "I have feelings for you. I don't know if they're romantic, exactly, but they're not... they're more than best friend feelings. They've been more than that for a while."
Maura sees the change in Jane's face as soon as she's said it; something like peace coming over her the way the sun comes over clouds. Jane looks as though she feels the difference as well: there is surprise on her face, accompanied by a very new serenity. And expectancy.
Jane has finally said it. Maura feels the way every line in her being that has been pulled tight, the intricate system of pulleys and tackles and knots that has been holding everything in suspension for the last few years, slackens at once.
She isn't overly familiar with the feeling of freefall, but this is the very best version of it she's sure she will ever experience. Her voice is small but clear when she speaks.
"My feelings mirror yours, and have, for a while."
"Thank fuck," exhales Jane at once. "I mean, I was pretty sure, but it's still real good to hear you say it."
A smile tries to creep across Maura's face, and she's relieved to feel like she doesn't need to stop it. "I can imagine."
Jane's answering smile is crooked and charming. "Yeah. Uh. Can I—" she closes her eyes, takes a breath, opens them again to reveal fresh certainty in their shine, "can I try kissin' you again?"
Maura feels a full-body shiver at that. "Please," she whispers.
It seems Jane can't help but draw it out, despite the raw need in Maura's voice. She tilts Maura's head up with the tips of her fingers and moves in slowly, as if she still can't quite believe she isn't dreaming and doesn't want to jolt herself awake. Maura keeps her eyes on the advance, part of her not wanting to miss it this time and another part needing visual confirmation that Jane is actually following through.
She is. She lowers her lips to Maura's, the pressure solid and real and exactly what it needs to be. Maura kisses her back with purpose and now, finally, it feels not just like tension burning off but like the opening of a door, like stepping into something new. She has to think a little bit about letting it just be a kiss, while knowing very well that it is also the kiss—it seems unwise to unleash all of the buildup from years of quiet pining and vexation into this one moment; like it might result in some sort of gravitational singularity.
They pull apart and the wonder painted on Jane's face makes Maura's breath catch all over again.
"So that's what it's supposed to feel like," Jane croaks, blinking.
Maura doesn't exactly mean to, but she laughs. Luckily Jane laughs with her, pulling Maura into her chest in their pure, unburdened joy. Maura raises her head to request another kiss and Jane obliges, their smiles meeting before lips part and Jane's tongue slips into her mouth, causing Maura to let out a sybaritic moan.
They disengage from that one a bit more flushed, Maura's hair misbehaving where Jane's fingers have mussed it, Jane's sleep shirt wrinkled where Maura's hands were gripping it.
Jane clears her throat, "You got any, like, plans, for tonight?" she asks, husky and deep as always and Maura feels as if she could melt like spun sugar.
"Not really, no." She may have, but she doesn't anymore.
"Cool, cool. So could I maybe, uh... take you out, later?"
Maura squeezes Jane's biceps and goes for one last playful jab. "I was really beginning to think you'd never ask."
Jane chuckles, wry and relieved. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry." She brushes a strand of hair out of Maura's face. "I'm askin' though. Seven? I'll pick you up."
The smile that forms on Maura's face feels at that moment like the brightest thing she has ever made. "Yes. I would like that very much."