For years Maura had feigned falling asleep at Jane's place, woken up to Jane jerking awake with a stifled scream, upright and tense. Maura would sit up and rest her hand on Jane's forearm, gauge her mood. If needed, Maura would go with Jane to the boxing dummy if Jane needed it punch it out. Maura would move things so Jane could vacuum if that was what she needed. She'd make coffee and rub Jane's back as she talked lowly into the night, about what she'd dreamed, about what she'd been through. Maura would take Jane's hands, rubbing them softly with her strong fingers until the memory rubbed away, erased by something less sharp. And lastly, Maura would hold Jane if she cried, which happened more frequently as time wore on, as they grew closer, and Jane realised Maura wasn't judging her, as Jane realised that she didn't need to pretend to be strong around Maura, because Maura knew Jane was strong, knew what Jane had been through, knew why she wept in the night, turning her face into Maura's chest when the sobs died down into stilted breathing and lacrimal fluid flowed freely through Maura's shirt, through to her skin. Those nights Jane would fold into Maura's arms the way an archive box folded into itself, no room between them, as though Maura was her own flesh, yet still careful of Maura's own comfort. The tears would only stop when Maura's hands were tight around Jane, as tight as she could hold her, Jane pressed against her so thoroughly that not even an atom could get between them. Then Jane finally calmed, her breathing evening out, her body heavier on Maura's when she fell back asleep.
Whatever option Maura chose was enough for Jane to remember that she was home and safe.
So when, six years later, Maura woke in the night, dreaming she was still chained to a rusty radiator in an abandoned asylum, all the scared thoughts and predictions she'd made in that situation, wondering if he was going to kill her, if he would rape her first, if he would film it and send it to Jane to prove he'd done it, if Jane would have to see her like that, if she could fight her way out, if she could get a weapon, if Jane knew she was missing, if Jane missed her, if Jane was looking for her, if she was going to be beaten, wondering why she'd been taken, wondering how she'd been taken, wondering how anyone would ever find her, wondering if this stain would ever come out of her dress, wondering if she could hurt him before he could hurt her, wondering how to get out of a building she'd never seen before, so much so that she didn't notice Jane at first, until there was a gentle hand on her shoulder, Jane sitting upright behind her to hold her tight enough to bring her back to reality. Jane's voice strained with panic and fear, clearly trying to calm down so she could help Maura calm down. Jane's arms wrapped around her, tight, so tight, the sensation the only thing real, other than the little kisses Jane pressed into Maura's hair, the gentle words, gentler than Maura had ever had spoken to her, soft terms of endearment flowing from Jane's mouth without end as she tried to placate a sobbing Maura. Jane had found her. Jane had saved her. Maura let herself lean back, tears still falling as Jane hushed and shushed her gently. The nightmare faded into being held, being treasured, protected, loved.
"I've got you," Jane said, reassuringly, and Maura relaxed finally, because Jane did indeed get her, had her, held her. Home was the space against Jane's chest, not her Beacon Hill house, and safety was the space Maura inhabited within Jane's arms.