Maggie doesn't tell Jocelyn where she's been. It probably wouldn't do for a barrister just finding her feet again to know about the town's own private form of justice. In many ways, Maggie knows, she's more a part of this town than Jocelyn is. Even if some still consider her a blow-in. She's made Broadchurch her career.
So instead of talking about her own afternoon, she makes sure the conversation turns firmly towards Jocelyn's work. For once, that's not hard. It's wonderful to see Jocelyn's eyes light up, and to hear her make plans for the future after these years of sulking.
"I have not been sulking!" she insists when Maggie offers her opinion. But her indignation is playful, and Maggie feels no need to apologise. Jocelyn might sulk beautifully. She might brood with a feline pettishness that makes her sulks seem like tragic works of art. But she sulks nonetheless, and they both know it.
There are a lot of things Maggie knows about Jocelyn and some things she still doesn't. She knows how to bully her for her own good. She knows she alone has special privileges when it comes to asking personal questions. She knows where Jocelyn keeps the sticky-tape and how she drinks her coffee. She knows that Jocelyn is in love with her – if she ever questioned her instincts there her doubts are entirely quelled now. She knows that kissing Jocelyn woke feelings in her she thought she was long past.
She doesn't know what Jocelyn wants to happen next, though. Or whether she can trust that Jocelyn has thought that far ahead. She doesn't know where she fits into this renaissance in Jocelyn's career. A career, after all, that helped Jocelyn to keep herself apart from Broadchurch in the years when Maggie was busily burrowing in. And she doesn't know how much Jocelyn wants beyond companionship. Do her lips still burn with the ghost of that kiss too?
She's promised herself that for once she won't ask questions, however. Not yet. As far as Maggie's concerned, the ball's still in Jocelyn's court and she's done enough reaching over the net for now.
Instead she makes herself at home and waits. When the silence begins to stretch between them in the darkening evening, she pulls the curtains and heads to the kitchen to make tea for them both. Bits of The Times are strewn on the countertop. While the kettle boils she corrects a mistake Jocelyn has made in the crossword that's botched up the whole bottom-right corner.
"The clues are small and my eyesight's poor," Jocelyn protests from the doorway.
Maggie's quietly pleased to find that she's followed her.
"Your Shakespeare's worse," she says, offering no quarter and passing the paper over so Jocelyn can see the right answer.
Jocelyn spares it a skimming glance before she puts it aside and keeps watching Maggie instead. Maggie has always known when Jocelyn is watching her – that ice blue stare is almost a tangible force.
"Mmm. Well, don't tell them when they come to give me my OBE will you."
Jocelyn, humble as ever. Tonight she's smiling more than she has in a long time. For now at least she's a million miles from the sad woman Maggie had to buck up with gin after the trial. Adding it all up, Maggie figures that this blithe mood either bodes well for her own hopes or for Sharon bloody Bishop's bloody career.
The kettle billows steam and clicks off demanding her attention.
"Tea or coffee?"
No answer. Maggie turns to see if Jocelyn has left the room and finds that no, she's still leaning on the doorframe in that typical insouciant manner. But the way her eyes jump guiltily back up tells Maggie it wasn't her tea-making skills that have been the subject of Jocelyn's attention. It's almost enough to make Maggie give in and ask Jocelyn to take her to bed this instant.
"Tea or coffee?" she asks again instead, and waves towards the tea urn in case that will help bring Jocelyn back to the matter at hand. "What do you want?"
It's the question she's been bottling up all night, and perhaps that's why it feels oddly pitched and out of context as she asks it.
Or maybe it's because she realises the instant she's said it that Jocelyn's been waiting for just such an opening. If Jocelyn's expression was hungry before, now it's positively predatory.
"What do I want?"
She pushes herself away from the door frame. Maggie watches, tea forgotten, as Jocelyn moves towards her. Her arms are crossed loosely behind her back, her lips pursed – the consummate barrister playing for the jury.
"I want the rain to keep off tomorrow," she says. "I want more women on the bench. I want to be this happy, this hopeful, for as long as I possibly can. And I want to kiss you again, Maggie."
By the last word she's crossed the kitchen and brought them face to face. There's still a trace of that teasing smile on her lips, but her eyes – those eyes like something from a dark fairy tale – are pleading. Maggie waits. Jocelyn raises a cautious hand towards her and once more she feels the brush of a hand against her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed in anticipation of Jocelyn's mouth on hers again.
But the kiss doesn't come. Instead, unexpectedly, Jocelyn whispers a cautious question.
"What about you? What do you want?"
There's something almost chivalrous in the way Jocelyn is holding herself apart, barely touching her with the very tips of her fingers yet apparently not quite able pull away. Maggie thinks briefly about returning like for like and making a teasing little speech of her own. But in truth, there's only one thing she wants to say.
"You. I want you, Jocelyn."
It's a tiny thing – a plain, bare statement for two women who make the world turn on their words every day, she thinks. But Jocelyn reacts as though the words had magic power. Her smile is radiant. Maggie wonders very briefly if being looked at in that way, with that transparent adoration, would always have been enough to make her fall in love too, even if Jocelyn hadn't been beautiful and brilliant and infatuating.
But Jocelyn is beautiful. And Jocelyn is brilliant. And now Jocelyn is kissing her again.
Their first kiss out on the cliffs had been an emphatic beginning to something. They'd lingered together too long, returned to the kiss too often, to deny that. This time, Maggie needs something more. She needs to know if Jocelyn's passion matches her own. Resting her hands on Jocelyn's shoulders she lets her thumbs brush against her neck beneath the collar of her shirt. She feels the hand in her hair splay and grasp in immediate response. Emboldened she pulls closer. Then she parts her lips beneath Jocelyn's mouth and feels her immediately follow suit. The touch of Jocelyn's tongue against her own is almost more than she can bear. She forgets to be cautious. She forgets to worry about who's taking the lead or what that means. She deepens the kiss and dares now to explore how it feels to press her hand to Jocelyn's back, to touch her waist, her hips, to hold her close. Jocelyn matches her move for move, and Maggie has her answer.
Whatever the future has in store, they'll face it as lovers.