A/N: I am so happy that people are still interested in this pairing! Thank you for reading, I'll do my best to update as often as possible. Just to warn you, posting each day is something I won't be able to keep up much longer, but I definitely have this story outlined pretty well by now.

Chapter 3: Back Home

Maura's POV

Jane is the one to pick you up from the hospital on Thursday. You assume she has taken an extended lunch break to drive you home; you are beyond grateful that you don't have to organize someone else to take you home. You know that her mother, Angela, would do it for you in a heartbeat, and her brothers wouldn't hesitate, either – but it's bad enough that you'd have to ask them instead of your actual family, consisting of a mother and a father who both currently reside in Europe where your mother has one of her important art installations. Calling them and informing them about your current state would only put an unfair amount of pressure on them, you tell yourself. It's not like you are a child anymore, after all. You couldn't expect them to rush to Charles de Gaulle airport just to – do what, exactly?

A snort escapes your throat when you try to picture your mother in one of her impeccable pantsuits, letting you sob into the sinfully expensive fabric.

Jane's head snaps in your direction but she somehow understands that you are not in a talkative mood right now and her eyes focus on the road once again.

She carries your bag with the few personal belongings she herself brought you to the hospital inside for you while you follow her slowly, blinking into the midday sun.

Inside, she reaches for your arm to gently lead you to the couch; you tell her it's not necessary, that you don't need any support walking, but she only seems appeased after you've sat down and she's rushed to put one of your pillows between your back and the sofa's backrest.

"Can I get you something?", she asks. "Tea, maybe?"

You look up at her in mild surprise at her seemingly unhurried state. "No, thank you, Jane, I'll be fine here. Don't you have to get back to Boston PD?", you ask, thinking you are doing her a favor by being the one to bring up her job so she'll feel less guilty about leaving you here.

Her mouth falls open. "Maura, no, of course not! I've taken today off – and I can also stay here tomorrow, if you need me to."

You can barely hide how touched you are. You know that Jane rarely takes time off, not even for her own birthday. Before you know it, a strangled sob escapes your throat and the next thing you know is that Jane is sitting next to you, one arm thrown over your shoulders, gently pulling you into a comforting hug.

You cry for a long time, sitting like this, your head buried somewhere between her shoulder-blade and her chest. She mumbles quiet reassurances into your ear and you know deep down that she's the only person you'd even want by your side right now. She is the only person in the world you trust to see you like this without judging you, without deeming you weak.

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Later, she gently coaxes you to eat, and although you don't have an appetite at all, you force yourself to swallow a few spoonfuls of the pea soup her mother has prepared for your arrival back home. You can't even remember your own mother preparing chicken soup for you when you were small and running a fever. She probably just ordered the housekeeper to cook you something, already halfway out the door headed to her next meeting.

Jane makes sure you stay hydrated, and you realize that you've never before seen her act so... naturally care-taking. This is, after all, your bad-ass cop friend, someone who'll literally cringe when things get too "touchy feely" for her liking.

But today, she is different, and naturally so, not because she feels like it's her responsibility due to the role she has in your life, not as a favor she's paying back, no, but simply because this also is part of who she is, her softer side normally lying dormant somewhere beneath her tough-as-nails exterior.

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When you announce that you want to take a shower, her brow creases in worry. "You sure you feel up for that?"

You can only lift your shoulder in the faintest shrug in the history of humankind. "I don't know, but I have not properly showered since-" There is no need for you to finish the sentence, and she nods in understanding, announcing that she'll help you up the stairs, which she does, shooing Joe Friday, her terrier crossbreed, out of the way as the dog is scurrying around the two pairs of human legs in quite a risky manner.

While she gets you comfy clothes for after your shower from your bedroom, you enter the bathroom self-consciously. You did not have the miscarriage in here, but in the ground floor bathroom, yet it still feels a little unsettling to be back here, as the last shower you took in here did occur during the pregnancy that now... just isn't anymore.

Jane knocks on the bathroom door to make sure she's not invading your privacy. She finds you sitting on the edge of the bathtub, head lowered, your blonde-reddish hair essentially a curtain to hide your face behind.

"Hey – you feeling sick?", she asks, alarmed, kneeling down next to you, placing her outspread hands, palms down, on your pant-covered thighs.

You sniffle in what your mother would call a "less than ladylike" noise. "I don't know", you shake your head pathetically, "it's just – it's all too much and I smell all wrong, the hospital staff would only let me use these awful bars of soap and I could only do a short wash because you know how much I dislike washcloths, they are such a breeding ground for bacteria, anyway I think I might have forgotten how to take a shower", you babble away like an idiot, unsuccessfully yanking at your blouse in an ill-fated attempt to somehow take it off, the high-quality material you normally find so soothing suddenly feeling scratchy and stifling, too tight around your neck.

"Oh, it's fine, sweetie", Jane soothes, "it's okay – we'll just take our time, alright?"

You only understand that she is attempting to help you undress when she already gently coaxes you into lifting your arms so she can pull the blouse over your head. You want to protest but words fail you and you mutely obey although you should probably feel ashamed for being this needy and incapable. Instead, you start to pull at your pants blindly. You do not succeed and she is the one to actually unbutton the garment and unzip it and then you both tear it down your legs together.

She has seen you in underwear before but never in quite so vulnerable a state. She helped you achieve a similar state of undress once when you were drunk, but back then, you fell asleep in your bra and your panties whereas a shower demands utter nudity in order to make sense.

"I'll manage", you try to assure her in a very small voice that does not even seem to belong to you.

She has never before seen you naked and – no, this is the wrong time for thoughts like this because this whole situation could not be farther from your most secret fantasies and self-indulgent desires.

"Sweetie – no offense, but I don't think you will", she almost whispers and she is right. Of course she is, you don't even know how to get up from your current position, so you just meet her gaze, utterly at a loss.

"Okay, minor change of plans", she announces with a confidence you feel so incredibly grateful for, "I think it's easier for you to just get into the bathtub – if you are allowed to, that is?" Her eyes meet yours in a silent question and you nod ever so slightly, an equally wordless Yes the doctors did clear me for that, and she bobs her head in acknowledgment and helps you sit down on the lid of the toilet so she can turn on the bathtub faucet to actually draw you a bath. She reaches for a towel and hands it to you. "So, maybe you can try to wrap this around your body, so I can, y'know", she says kindly and it is obvious from the slight tremor in her voice that she is getting a little self-conscious and you feel so sorry for putting her through this but at the same time, your throat painfully constricts at the thought of her leaving the bathroom.

Somehow, you are able to wrap the towel around your body and you fight with your bra with arms that feel like jelly and won't do what you will them to do while she is tending to your bath, squeezing bath foam into the water. She turns back to you, immediately recognizing your struggle, and in a very swift motion that seems to be the easiest thing in the world for her, she frees you from the offending piece of garment without exposing your breasts.

"I'm still wearing-", you start, your head swimming a little. You hope your twitching finger points to your towel-covered lap so she can understand.

"Oh, yeah, sure", she replies and her hands casually find her way to your legs, gently nudging them apart a little. You are too caught up in your emotions to even blush and her barely whispered "Umm – may I?" almost does not reach your ears (why are they ringing; what have your ears got to do with all of this?); but you finally manage to grant her permission with a grunt and then you can feel her hands moving upward under the towel, grasping at the thin fabric of your last remaining piece of clothing, and you somehow manage to lift your hips the tiniest bit so she can pull it down your legs and over your ankles, quickly stuffing it into the washing machine without even looking.

"Thank you", you mumble and she replies something you do not catch but it does not seem to require an answer and then she gently helps you get up and leads you to the bathtub, averting her gaze when you finally have to let the towel drop to the floor. You cling to her shoulder to steady yourself while getting into the tub; all the same, you nearly slip and she promptly grabs your arm and throws one hand around your naked midsection to prevent a fall, her reflexes as trained as you know they have to be in a Homicide Detective, and only when the warm bathwater already swallows your body, you figure out that she must have seen you naked now, well at least some parts of you.

"Maura", she hastily addresses you as if able to read your mind, "I'm sorry – look, I didn't really see anything...", she apologizes, making sure to take a step backwards to emphasize her point although your body is already completely covered by the foam she so generously poured into the bathwater.

You feel bad for her. After all, you are the one requiring her assistance, and she was only helping you out in your zombie-like emotional state.

"It doesn't matter", you reply and make sure to establish eye contact to make her see it really doesn't. After years of close friendship, of regularly falling asleep next to each other, why should it make the slightest difference that she has now also caught a glimpse of your breasts? She was the one who came barging into the downstairs bathroom when you had your latest miscarriage, she saw your blood-soaked mess of a slip and the whole toilet bowl full of what could have been the shape of your future turned into a bloody, disgusting, unrecognizable something.

She lets her gaze linger on your facial features for an extended moment before she speaks again: "Well, whatever, I think I should give you some privacy now, right?"

You have only ever allowed a certain level of vulnerability in your friendship with her because you've never wanted to make her uncomfortable. You already are the over-sharer of the two of you, the one who is more likely to cross invisible boundaries because you suck at handling social situations. There is an abundance of utterly useless information stuck deep inside your brain yet you still have to sometimes rehearse conversations in your mind so you do not accidentally say or do something horribly inappropriate.

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"Can you - stay here, with me?" Your request is barely more than a whisper because you are so not used to showing this level of naked vulnerability. You hide between your mask of professionalism at work, and in your personal life, you try your hardest to be what people expect you to be - unfailingly polite, disciplined, charming, sophisticated, and, most of all, you try to not be a burden on anyone, but self-sufficient, an analytical mind trapped in a human body. At this very moment, you feel utterly human, though. Your fear of being alone outweighs your anxiety of coming across as too needy, too much to handle.

A smile grazes Jane's exquisite features. Have you ever told her how beautiful she is? How weird for such a thought to bubble up to the surface just now, but belonging to the human species seems to be an overall weird experience.

"Of course I'll stay here if you want me to", she says, warmly, and she crouches down on the bathroom floor in front of the tub, so that you can rest your fingertips on the bathtub's ceramic edge and she can place her hand overs yours in a comforting gesture. While your love language definitely is physical touch, you've never been quite sure whether the same was true for Jane. You watched for clues whenever she was seeing someone; but she oftentimes seemed bothered by "handsy" boyfriends; you noticed her shrugging off their hands when they tried to hold her close, or make a disapproving clicking sound with her tongue when they brushed a wayward strand of raven hair from her face or moved to place a kiss on her cheek. You didn't know back then whether this was only her reaction to public shows of affection; but ever the scientist, you started to experiment a little, initiating harmless physical touches to find out more about her likes and dislikes.

You soon learned that she would in some social situations show reluctance to initiate or even react to physical contact, but mainly because she doesn't seem to want to give people the wrong impression about the two of you. At least that's what you've concluded from the evidence she unknowingly provided. She is less shy about comforting, reassuring touches behind closed doors, and lately you've noticed that she is even becoming more comfortable with touching you or letting you touch her in those harmless little ways that, with her, are somehow second nature to you.

Her current gentle touch, the weight of her fingers over your own, feels grounding, your anchor to a reality you are not certain you could face without her by your side.

You soak in the bathwater for a long time, until it gets cold, as Jane states, concerned, when she dips her finger into the tub for a check of temperature.

She helps you to get out of the tub and while you perfunctorily try to shield the most intimate areas of your naked bod, you are, in reality, now almost completely unperturbed by her seeing you. Maybe her staying with you here proved something you didn't even know you had been looking for.

Together, you both wrap a clean towel around your naked form, before she asks you if she should get your bathrobe from your wardrobe or if the clothing she has chosen for you earlier is okay.

"Okay", you assure and, once you feel a little steadier on your legs, you tell her that you already feel a little better and that you'll be able to get dressed without her assistance. The look she gives you is indiscernible for you - you seem to sense relief about your statement that you are doing better but is there also - a trace of disappointment flashing across her face? No, it can't be, you must be imagining things.

She waits for you outside of the bathroom and you call out to her after a few minutes to let her know you haven't fainted or something else that would give her a fright.

You step outside, dressed in your favorite set of silken PJ's, and she sends you to bed and tells you that she'll be with you in a minute. It does take her a few minutes longer, but she enters your bedroom carrying a tray that holds a kettle of your beloved herbal tea to make up for it. She's also brought some crackers as a snack.

"Scoot over", she commands with a wink to indicate she's not actually telling you that you take up too much space of the bed; she gets into it next to you, too and you remember your very first sleepovers when you were both craving company, but feeling too shy and self-conscious in the other's presence to actually fall asleep. The first time, you both just lay there, stiff as boards, desperately trying not to touch each other at all, keeping a reasonable distance. So much has changed since then. You now feel comfortable sharing a bed, you know each others nighttime routines, you recognize her tells for having a nightmare and put up with the tossing that goes along with the bad dreams that still torment her sometimes; and she does never get mad at you for not sleeping in with her, but getting up even if you have both have a day off, and starting your day earlier than she does, doing yoga or preparing a healthy breakfast that she'll devour although she never fails to complain about "getting a vitamin overdose" every single time.

It's too early to fall asleep right now, though. You listen to her regular breathing next to you; your eyes are turned upward, resting on the ceiling you had painted a very light blue that is supposed to have a calming, soporific effect. When you told Jane that, she raised an eyebrow and asked you to "express yourself in English, please"; and you laughed, never offended by her glib retorts, and explained to her that soporific means sleep-inducing.

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You only start talking after a long while of silence but you can tell she's hanging on to every word you're saying. You tell her that you'd never had come so far in a pregnancy before; that the first time, pregnancy basically came and went in a blink and that the second time left you thinking that "all good things come in threes" but this time, the third loss, feels different because you'd actually started to believe in this child not just as a vague possibility but an actual being growing inside your belly and that you can't get rid of that feeling of having done something wrong; you know that there are myriads of reasons for miscarriages but it doesn't dull the pain and you really don't know how often you can undergo this whole emotionally taxing roller-coaster anymore- the doctors have examined you thoroughly during your hospital stay and you'll get the results early next week but won't the only thing they can advise you to do is to keep trying as long as there still is some time left? Sometimes you hear an invisible clock ticking seconds and minutes away loudly; each passing moment a painful reminder of menopause nearing, taking your biggest and most desperate dream with it forever.

She listens, intently, compassionate, without interrupting you. When you're done talking, she does not say anything; then, she closes the distance that's still between you, essentially wrapping you in her arms, pulling you close; her chin resting at the top of your head, your ear able to take in her heartbeat in this new position. She hasn't cradled you like this before; and you would have never expected her to but it does feel right, there's nothing about it that suggests more than just amicable snuggles in the throes of disaster.

You both fall asleep like this, and are only stirred awake a few hours later, when Joe Friday jumps on the bed and scratches at your arm insistently to let you know she has to go outside.

Jane disentangles herself from you with a somewhat disoriented sigh. "It's okay, I'll walk her-"

You wake up when she crawls under the covers again a while later (she has changed into an old BPD tee and sweatpants to walk Joe Friday and is wearing the things to bed, now), her body bringing with it the coolness of an early summer night. In your state of only half-wakefulness, you immediately let yourself be drawn to her, one of your arms coming to a rest around her waist while you bury your face in the area of her neck. You do it without even thinking because rational, independent Maura is not available today and even less so tonight. She does not push you away and strands of her long, jet-black mane tickle at your chin and cheeks a little until you're both settled comfortably for a few more hours of uninterrupted slumber.