By the door Jane leaves her toolbox. Gently, slowly, carefully, she rests on top of her toolbox, her toolbelt. The soft leather belt a coil on top of her trade box, left by the door, ignored. At Maura's insistence, she takes off both her shoes and socks. Her soles tread quietly across hardwood floors. She wants to make a good impression. She wants to be known as her and Maura had gone to put on the kettle. She explores the house that's yet to become a home. Did she really just purchase this place this morning? Can there already be furniture?

Maura left Jane by the door to catch her breath and contemplate her actions, her choice, and the consequences that will unfold. She's glad that she's earlier done a little shop. A simple kettle, a mug, a spare, and some herbal tea. Some towels. A sofa on the plane ordered and the bed with customized mattress is Chang's impeccable diligence. She makes a note to thank her and offer her a bonus. She makes a note to bring her out for dinner. They were friends first. Is that what Chang also wanted? Maura drains a glass of water. She had last night's drinking to curb, to accommodate, to from also recuperate and heal. Her toe trails up her ankle in nervousness, her hands now wrapped around a mug she's washed. The first guest she's had over, the first guest she's ever had over. She's nervous.

Jane wanders to the toilet. Does a cursory inspection. She checks the cistern. Tests the flush. Washes her hands, twice over. A plumber's habit and she's gone protective over this woman. Jane to herself chuckles as she does a good lather. Careful to do her nails, careful to do her fingers, careful with ears out listening to the flow of water. There are no clogs she hears. She breathes deeply over soapy water making swirls. Lavender-scented hand soap. Warmness engulfs. The softness of the woman. How can she be a part of the Doyle residence? Does she know about the murders? Do you think bad guys wash their hands with whiskey and lemon? Jane stares at her reflection. Will I put my brothers in danger?

Maura watches the kettle. Watching the slow wisps of steam emerging and thinking about what has now become her life, her work. She fiddles with her earrings. Ornaments her father had given her for graduating with honours. They had been his gift to her mother. One she hadn't accepted. She tucks her hair behind her ears. Hope. Would Hope be proud of her? For stepping up for her father. She looks to her watch. Half an hour ago Korsak and his men must have regained control of the pier. The women and children of their rivals sent away to another country altogether. A holiday, first class. She made sure. She had made certain that no one was to be hurt. She had made it of crucial importance that this was to be made an example – abide or depart from this area. She wanted clearance and an assertion of power without an act of violence. Displacement, in another essence.

Jane looks at herself in the mirror. Tidies a little her unruly mane. Does a quick rinse, a hopeful thorough gargle and she looks at herself intently in the mirror. It's been a while since she's been with a woman. It's been a while since she's been with any person. She clears her throat. She's nearer prudish than confident but she's not without experience and Maura isn't, a one-time experience. She hopes not anyway. Jane washes again her hands. She's always felt her hands grimy and unclean from the bolts and the wrenches, the unclogging and the being a plumber. She's ashamed at being of her occupation ashamed. Hadn't her Pops kept them fed and through school with the work he done. Hadn't her Pops did them all right even when it was his time. Jane shuts her eyes. Would her parents have minded Maura? Did the woman come into her life at just the right time? Because you downed a six pack from loneliness? She is not proud of her own intention.

Chang would inform her if there were casualties. Chang would understand why it was important she knew the details of the takeover. Maura mused as the kettle does a shrill. She sets a timer.

Jane returns to the kitchen. Maura hands her a mug. Plain, unornamented. She wonders if Maura would be the sort to appreciate bumper stickers. Jane wonders about why she's interested. She tells herself firmly that she won't fall in love.

Maura puts the teabags away, seeped to the timer's order. Constance had taught her the art of tea-making. It had been Hope's way, a tea before bed, a tea before breakfast. Ladies learn to appreciate. She had gotten herself in rebellion a coffeemaker instead.

Jane initiates.

Her hand reaches across and frames the side of Maura's face. Mugs of tea, the only audience. A steamy visual.

She is careful to be gentle. A thumb leaving a careful print on a lower lip so supple. Maura kisses the tip of the fingertip that caressed her. Gentle. That's how Jane wants to love.

Treat others as you want treated. Ma had taught her manners, Ma had taught her respect for feelings and others even if gossiping isn't always not her nature; and Pops had taught her to put a cap on and power through. Head down and do what is good and needed. The Sun shines either way until the Moon. We don't need warriors. Ma had cried when she had received her acceptance letter into the academy. Trust your instincts Rizzoli, is her only concede. Well you didn't lose me did you Ma?

Her other hand reaches to trace away tear tracts, invisible. She can feel hurt. She can feel loneliness. She can feel, similar.

Maura trembles.

Her own hand lost in Jane's unruly curls and yet they come away – those frizzes, these tangles – as easily as water when her fingers through them passes. Are you appropriating problems? Are you projecting solutions? A saviour complex Miss Isles? Her therapist had questioned her. She's brought back into the moment. Overwhelmed by the scent of lavender and the impression of tenderness, the experience of adoration? Affection? Of simple. Of earnest. Of burning touches.

Her lips part in anticipation. Her eyes look away in hesitation.

"Maura?"

"Yes, Jane?"

Voices caught in throats, words whispered, and hands wanting closer.

"May I buy you dinner first?"

Maura laughs aloud. Surprised by the unexpected innocence of the question. Taken away and back by this marvel of a woman-gentle-person. Comforted by her assertion. Jane is not afraid of her. Lovers before had never challenged.

"Of course you can," Maura tips on toes to leave a faint kiss on the forehead of the woman in front of her. Tall and well-mannered, elegant, and yet boisterous. She had seen her pacing the hallway anxious and eager and yet confident. She had seen that mega-watt smile flashing at her. As if her presence to her mattered.

Jane smiles. Relieved that honour and chivalry can be delivered. A woman like Maura, no, Maura, deserves all the grandness and patience. Understanding and kindness. A strong but gentle and most definitely a passionate appreciation. She blushes from the kiss offered. Her tenderness. A weakness.

"Best burger that Boston has to offer?"

Maura smiles and laughs aloud. Imagine.

Like honey on pancakes for breakfast. Jane describes the luxurious laughter. She has to see her. To keep her cheer.

"Imagine me, having a burger."

"With curly fries."

"And a beer?"

"You must be the perfect woman."

Maura smiles, licks her lower lip in embarrassment. How can I be when you're here. She thinks. She's fascinated by what this woman is doing to her. She's losing all her collected and yet she feels, perfectly proper.

Jane dares to kiss at where a dimple might be if there were one. She's genetic perfection. Jane yearns. Close but not yet closer. She wants the distance and not just, the incredible.

"I'll come back." She checks the situation.

Maura nods. At a loss for words at the turning of tables and yet glad. Glad. That for the first time in her life someone would return to her for her.

With a burger. Maura laughs to herself in the quiet of the house. Jane's already making this abode homier.

To Hope, she sips at her tea and thanks her mother.

A/N: Between you and me, and thus essentially the world or whomever's reading and interested, I think I'm by default low-energy and low-key, medium way, highly exhaustively incapable of separating characters with the author. So…I wouldn't mind some curly fries and maybe, a vegeburger because as we know, nature's taking her time to heal and if we continue to plunder…there might no longer be honey for breakfast. And I had skipped dinner. / I didn't expect handwashing to slip in as it did so, hey hey, the consciousness of the current reality and situation. / I am slightly appalled by my preachiness (if so) but my heart's beau is vegan and what can I say. One picks up (hopefully) the habits of the ones one loves and I am in deep admiration of writers capable of long-form-chapters. / I do like eggs though. /

I nearly wrote your name instead, a few chapters back by mistake. By folly I must seem to be: doomed by love unrequited and an imagination (not that I am at all conflicted thus by sadness). Thank you for the time, and patience 😊 [my author notes read like mini-side-irrelevant chapters]