She's taking this case hard.
They all are, really. How often does one get a case like this? It should be open and shut, they have security camera footage (grimy, albeit and face barely visible) of the person who walked into building with a baseball bat – confirmed weapon of death – and bludgeoned a woman to death. The victim is a successful, high profile criminal lawyer so they have photos, fingerprints, histories of multiple possible suspects, mostly losing defendants. They got this.
Except they don't. The murder was too messy to have been a professional. The victim is blonde, pretty and lives alone so the news networks have been having a field day preying on the fears of Bostonians. And they are getting nowhere closer to the identity of the killer.
So she has reason to take this case hard.
But somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice is telling her that she's taking this unnecessarily hard. Sometimes it sounds like her mother: Jane, did you eat lunch? Weren't you wearing that shirt yesterday? Do you need your laundry done? Sometimes it sounds like Korsak, calm, quiet: you're taking this too personally, Jane. That woman wasn't Maura.
Granted, these are all things that have been said to her of late.
But the last couple of days, it has sounded like Cavanaugh because it has been Cavanaugh. All official with deadlines and shit. After today – Friday – it will be officially considered a cold case, we're all going to take it easy over the weekend and come back Monday, recharged and ready to fight crime. She snorts as she remembers this failed pep talk.
Regardless. It is 12:15 am on Friday night – Saturday technically – and she is still nowhere. The frustration that was fueling her earlier has been replaced with an odd sense of resignation. She is missing something, something glaringly obvious, something that will lead her directly to the killer but there is now an impassable chasm between her and this knowledge. She has failed and it is over.
She ends up where she finds herself generally ends up on days like this. Parked in front of the house of her best friend, her one source of sublime comfort, debating whether or not to disturb her. Maura had left work pretty late too – around 9 pm or so, after her gentle arguments coaxing Jane to leave with her had failed. She'd be in bed by now, probably asleep, if the darkness of her room was any indication. But when Jane texts her from her car, she gets an immediate response.
Are you up?
Yes, where are you?
It is almost as if Maura knows.
Outside. Can I come in?
Of course. Come upstairs to my bedroom.
She drags herself out of her car, her body slow and unresponsive, the fatigue finally catching up to her. Fumbles with her key in the dark of the street, finally gets the door open and punches in the code to reset the burglar alarm before making her way up the stairs. Somehow holds it together by sheer force of will until she's inside Maura's bedroom and then.
Then she is sliding down with her back to the door, crumpling, and tears are threatening out of the corners of her eyes and she looks skyward, pleading with them to not fall and when she finally has it all under control barely somewhat, when she turns towards the bed. Where Maura is sitting up, aglow in the soft moonlight, a space cleared beside her and arms open and beckoning. That is when Jane starts to cry. Pulls herself up off the floor and falls forward, collapsing into waiting arms. Loud sobs wracking her slight frame, sobs that she would be embarrassed of had it been anyone else in the world, had it been daylight, had Maura not had a barely visible expression of sympathy and understanding on her face.
Maura, for her part, silently envelops her. Heaves her onto the bed, boots and jacket and all, holds her, gently strokes her hair, until the sobs subside and a dull exhaustion diffuses through her body.
"Jane, I'm going to take your shoes off, ok?"
She is too numb to refuse and soon enough deft fingers are untying her laces and gently easing her out of her boots and socks, rubbing her cold feet till there's blood pumping through them.
"And your jacket."
Maura's soft hands are at her shoulders now, shrugging off her sleeves, lifting her slightly so that her jacket can come off. But then they start unbuttoning her shirt and, mostly out of surprise, she goes stiff.
Maura notices, she always notices. "I just want you to be comfortable. Do you want me to get you pajamas?"
She shakes her head.
"Do you want to sleep in your tank top and underwear?"
She nods.
The unbuttoning continues, more swiftly now. She is eased out of her shirt, and warm hands slip under her tank to unclasp her bra. A few tugs of her arms in various directions, completely under wordless control, and her bra is magically, effortless removed out of tank. Before she knows what is happening, her belt is unbuckled and her pants are sliding down her legs over her feet and all she can feel is Maura's warm skin on her skin as their bodies entwine.
She breathes out, unaware that she had been holding her breath.
"Comfortable?"
"Yes," she rasps, her voice small and tired against Maura's neck where her mouth seems to have settled. "Very."
"Good. We need to talk. But that can wait till the morning."
Now is not the time for I told you so's and you can't let yourself get burnt out's, but she knows they're coming. Knows it because it's true, she needs to hear them from time to time and the only person she trusts to believe is currently wrapped around her, protecting her from breaking into a million little pieces.
"Maura?"
"Hm."
"You told me so."
She can't see it, but she knows Maura smiles.