Jane dreams of the piano.
She dreams of her fingers, long and fluid on the keyboard, her feet on the pedals. The mathematical timing. She dreams of the stretch in her palm, the span of her hand. The smooth, cool keys against the pads of her fingers. The piano bench, firm and unsupportive. She dreams of the sounds she used to make with her hands. Dreams of all the songs she never made the piano sing.
She used to be good. If she'd worked at it, she could have been famous. And she'd loved it, but she'd wanted more from life than touring cities she never really got to see, listening to music she didn't make. It'd have been different, if she could compose, but she was never satisfied with her own work. It always felt flat and unfinished to her.
She always woke up, alone, face wet with tears, the sting in her hands, the rain starting to fall outside. She hadn't lost a lot; not really. But it felt like a lot when it rained, when the pain in her hands reminded her of what she'd lost in stark clarity.
But today she hadn't woken up alone. Maura had fallen asleep in Jane's bed again. For someone so polite, she had no trouble inviting herself over and helping herself to Jane's bed - and chest, where her head currently rested. The first time Jane had gone to Maura for shelter, for protection - from her family, rather than Hoyt - and Maura had laid beside her on the bed, Jane had mentioned a sleepover and Maura had lit up, as though it was an offer. She was a strange woman, stiff and formal at times, goofy and childish at others, like she'd never had a chance to enjoy her childhood and was taking time to enjoy childish things with Jane, now that she felt safe. And Jane, who usually minded when someone else was in her space, never really noticed Maura was there until they woke up. She was unobtrusive, somehow. She slipped in under Jane's skin and Jane hadn't even noticed because she'd been welcome. Even in her sleep, she'd have noticed someone else touching her, but Maura had managed to slide a hand around Jane's waist and her head onto Jane's chest, over her heart, and she felt it clench with something she couldn't quite name.
Jane hadn't dated since Hoyt; it made Angela anxious that she was wasting her best years being single, but the thought of waking like this with someone else with her was abhorrent. Somehow it didn't matter when it was Maura. Not that they were dating, they only went out to dinner or drinks now and then, and Maura only came over once a week or something, Jane only went home with Maura to make sure she got home safely. Either way, this was what she'd been avoiding; letting someone else see what Hoyt had done to her.
The sobs woke Maura, even though Jane had tried to be quiet. Maura sat up and left the lamp off, knowing somehow that Jane didn't want to be seen like this.
And for someone so stiff and uncertain, for someone who had wept the first time Jane had hugged her, Maura had no trouble pulling Jane upright and wrapping her arms around Jane, rocking her, making hushed little noises of comfort, rubbing her back and arms, cradling the back of her neck as Jane leaned into Maura and sobbed with the loss, with the pain, with the fear, pressed against Maura shaking. Maura was soft and smelled nice - like vanilla cookies, like sandalwood. Like coming home to a lit fire in winter. Jane's head was resting against Maura's chest now, Maura's hand cupping Jane's head against her as the other slid over Jane's back in an easy way, and Jane was aware that her tears were sliding away into the gap of Maura's shirt, falling on the breast against her cheek, Maura's chin tucked over her head, shielding her from the outside world. Every time it rained it was like being in that basement again, pinned to the filthy floor while Hoyt...
But Maura had run out of words and was humming quietly now. Ode to Joy, the first song Jane had learned to play, and Jane's fingers loosened their tense grip on Maura's ribs to slowly span out, pressing against Maura's soft flesh in order, her brain seeing the black and white keys, her younger, undamaged hands pressing them, the pride in her for doing something difficult correctly for the first time, the pride her parents had in her. Jane calmed slowly. What was damaged couldn't be undone, but perhaps it was time to get a keyboard - just a small one, just to see.
"I didn't know you could play," Maura said softly. She'd obviously recognised the pattern of Jane's fingers on her torso. Recognised that Jane's breathing had finally turned from wrenching sobs to little hiccupy breaths that signified that she was calming down. She didn't release Jane, or stop humming. Her hands ran over Jane without a rhythm, leaving warm tingles in their wake. With anyone else, Jane would feel embarrassed or ashamed of herself for her outburst, but Maura was... Maura was just there, the way Jo Friday was. She was a part of Jane's life, a part of Jane, and Jane didn't need to hide this from her. Maura knew Jane was scared, and she thought Jane was brave anyway.
"I could," Jane affirmed, taking a shaky breath. "Maybe I can again."
"I'd love to hear you," Maura added, smoothing Jane's hair back from her face. She leaned forward as though she was going to press a kiss to Jane's newly exposed temple but she rested her chin there instead, pulling Jane close again.
But for now, the simple tap of finger to covered flesh was enough to remind her. To bring her hope. When the flow of Jane's tears against her skin finally stopped, when Jane's breathing finally returned to normal, Maura let go of Jane with an awkward laugh, as though she wasn't quite sure what had come over her, as though nurturing wasn't in her nature, as though she was aware that embracing Jane like this in her bed was too intimate for whatever they were to each other - colleagues, friends, maybe something else. But Jane didn't let go or pull away, her fingers still tapping on Maura's ribs, her breath warm on Maura's throat as the rain continued to patter down outside.
"I should go," Maura said nervously, realising she'd fallen asleep in Jane's bed again, that she hadn't been invited, not sure if Jane wanted her here, uncertain that she was welcome.
"No," Jane murmured. "You should stay." Jane lay back down, tugging Maura with her, bringing Maura's head back to where it had rested on her chest when she'd woken, since it had been comfortable enough for them both to remain asleep like that. Maura's jaw moved against Jane's ribs as she sought softer ground, her cheek finding the breast she'd used before and stilling, and when Jane started the finger movements for clair de lune on Maura's back, she heard Maura hum along in her arms.
Jane dreams of the piano.
She dreams of the little keyboard that showed up at the precinct and came home with her, she dreams of Maura's face smiling down at her in encouragement as she rests her fingers on the keys, she dreams of Maura's voice joining the melody. She dreams of the softness of Maura's chest, her hard ribs like ivory. Her dreams are smaller than they used to be, more based in reality, but she doesn't always wake up crying anymore, and she never wakes up alone.
She dreams of Ode to Joy and the way her heart clenches when Maura's head rests above it.