It's easy to forget exactly how strong Maura is. She's small, and doesn't advertise her strength, muscles forged in the ballet studio, at the riding stables, in the fencing arena, and honed by yoga, running, the odd hour of laps in a pool. And moving dead bodies. It's always a minor shock to see her turn a corpse twice or three times her weight, even though Jane knows exactly what Maura's muscles look like as they move under her skin. She's seen Maura at yoga, in the BPD gym, wearing a sports bra and spandex, shiny with sweat.
It shouldn't be a surprise when Maura quicktimes her to the spare room, demanding in her oh-so-polite way that Jane get some rest. But it is, every time. And every time, Jane gives in. She doesn't really understand why, since she fights everyone else about everything. EVERYTHING. But she never offers Maura more than cursory resistance. She looks forward to Maura's guest bed, soft sheets over a firm mattress, a light floral fragrance, Maura's company and her perfume, which doesn't clash with the scent of the bed linens.
Jane dreams when she is with Maura, but they aren't the terrors that rip her from sleep, gulping down air, looking frantically for the monster that is coming for her. Monsters, she remembers from reading long ago, are supposed to be beautiful. Hers is not. He is not attractive, or charismatic, or special at all except for his obsession with her. Sometimes Jane wishes she killed him when she had the opportunity, and remembers that she didn't because she didn't want to sink to his level. The two times she had no choice but to take a life were to save others'. Knowing that she made the right decisions those times didn't make it any easier to sleep, but that faded as time passed.