Jane Rizzoli woke slowly. She was warm and rested and safe, things alien to her for a long time. The cause of those feelings lay almost completely atop her, and Jane's arms circled a small waist to hold her best friend close. She kept her eyes closed, unwilling to do anything to disturb the complete contentment of this moment, or Maura Isles' sleep, which was frequently as infrequent and irregular as Jane's own. Jane ignored the small wash of guilt; Maura's life was small and quiet and safe until Jane decided they should be friends.
She ignored, too, the small voice that suggested they could be so much more. 'This is enough,' she argued with herself, and broke her hold to touch Maura's hair. Her hand moved deliberately from the back of Maura's head, through the silk smooth hair and across silk pajamas. It was comforting, and she did it again, and again. Maura moved slightly, more firmly into Jane's body, but she gave no indication that she was waking.
There was no hurry this morning, no need to turn off the alarm or wake Maura or answer the phones. They were off for three days, ordered to stay out of the office, and they were halfway to Jane's before Maura realized that Jane's boss didn't have the authority to order her to do anything. Jane chuckled, her exhaustion lighter for a moment, and Maura poked her, careful still to stay away from immediate area of Jane's most recent on-the-job injury, and Jane grabbed and held Maura's hand. Serious again, she told Maura, "You did good, you know."
"I do, but thank you. And you did most of the work."
"Couldn't have done it without you. And Frost," she added as an afterthought. "I really should teach him how to kick those doors open before he hurts himself."
"Mmmm, probably. If he dislocates his shoulder, you'll have to break them down." Maura yawned discreetly.
Within an hour, they were in Jane's bed, six respectable inches between them. Now, the only way for them to be physically closer would be if they were nude. Jane sighed unconsciously. She usually didn't dwell on those thoughts, but there was little else on her mind this morning. She didn't care about being called names; they'd been fired at her as long as she could remember, usually in anger. She didn't really care what the church thought, either; she was indifferent at best, despite enforced religious education. Her family had dropped anvil-sized hints over the years that they didn't care who Jane loved as long as she was happy (and, in her mother's case, provided grandchildren to extravagantly spoil).
Past relationships all ended for the same set of reasons: devotion to her job and the concomitant scheduling chaos, unwillingness to share her inner life, and a deep uneasiness at the thought of spending her life with one person. None of those things were true with Maura. They worked the same odd hours; Maura regularly understood her better than Jane knew herself; and Jane's bone deep peace and contentment when surrounded by Maura, the weight of her body and her scent, Maura's hand resting on her shoulder.