A/N: Just a little bit of fluff to start off the weekend. Enjoy!

Those first few steps inside the door are all she needs to tell her what type of day it's been. There's no chattering or pounding little feet or excited shouts of Mama! Mama! Just a few familiar chords, some swelling string music, and then vocals she's almost ashamed to admit she can sing along with at this point.

Disney music.

And not just any Disney music, but something of the more princess variety.

Of course, Maura's made sure they don't enforce any sort of gender stereotypes on their child—their house is filled with nearly as many dolls as toy cars. But boys will be boys, and with the Rizzoli genes at play, they always knew they were in for more of a wild child, no matter the gender. Samuel Rizzoli-Isles can rough-and-tumble with the best of them (nearly drove his Uncles Frost and Frankie to exhaustion during a doomed babysitting venture), but the moment he's sleepy or sick or cranky, his soft side shows through, and all he wants is Tangled and Cinderella and Beauty and the Beast.

Jane finds herself humming along to the music as she sheds her extra layers on the way to the kitchen—boots lined up next to tiny Converse (and two plastic dinosaurs), coat neatly placed on its hook, badge and gun safely locked out of reach.

Some might say she's gotten soft, but she prefers to think of it as having gained a new set of skills. She can interrogate the living daylights out of a guilty suspect with one breath and soothe her tearful son with a song, the very next. (It's an unnerving contrast she's found handy on more than one occasion.)

In the kitchen, Maura's back is to her. She's plainly dressed in worn jeans and a t-shirt, hair falling softly out of a loose ponytail. Jane's seen this sight more times than she can count, but it never fails to make her smile.

'Hey, babe,' she calls softly as she crosses the kitchen. 'I missed you today.'

Maura startles, but relaxes quickly. 'I didn't hear you come in.'

'Well, Flynn Ryder and Rapunzel are really belting it out there.' Jane caresses her wife gently, one arm around her waist, nuzzling into her neck before kissing her just where it always makes Maura's breath catch. 'That kind of day?'

'It was fine, really. Just long.'

'Long enough that you're not making him eat his crusts?' Jane asks, nodding toward the grilled-cheese sandwich Maura had been cutting into neat crust-less triangles.

'Exactly that long. And this is supposed to be for you, actually. Samuel already ate. Though to say that is somewhat generous.' She gestures toward a mangled sandwich on a plate by the sink—only a few bits missing, but the thing still ripped to shreds.

Jane holds up her hands in mock surrender. 'In that case, I'll eat my crusts without any argument.'

Maura just laughs, turning to kiss Jane on the lips and hand her the plate, crusts and all. 'It's been a pick your battles kind of day. I didn't have the energy after trying to get him to swallow the last dose of Children's Tylenol.'

'How's he doing?' Jane asks, digging in to her dinner.

'Much better. His fever broke this afternoon.' Maura peers towards the couch, lowering her voice. 'Now he's just….'

'A delight?' A raised eyebrow and a mouthful of grilled cheese, quickly swallowed.

A small smile answers her. 'Something like that, yes.'

'Ma's off tomorrow. She said she can stay with him if he's still too sick for day-care.'

Maura stops short of Thank God but Jane can tell she's grateful—the morgue probably a welcome respite after two days chasing after a sick and cranky child. 'We'll have to see how he does tonight and I'll call her tomorrow morning.'

'And how are you doing?' Wiping the crumbs off her fingers, Jane puts a hand on Maura's hip, thumb tracing gentle circles on her stomach.

'Fine.'

There must be some truth to it—the woman can't even lie about Santa Claus without finding some half-truth to cling to—but still… 'Maura.'

'Tired. But really, Jane, I'm—'

'Fine—I know. I'll take care of bedtime. And the dishes. You relax.' She gives Maura one last squeeze before turning her attention to the living room, where it's still oddly quiet. 'Hey, Sam the Man! Where's my hug?'

There's no response.

Then a rustling.

And a small Red Sox cap and shock of orange fluff appear over the back of the sofa—the wide Muppet grin of a stuffed Wally the Green Monster. Followed by the slow and methodical appearance of wild brown hair (never sitting flat no matter how many times it's straightened) and a pair of hazel eyes narrowed into a dark look—all three-year-old crankiness, with probably a good bit still leftover from the terrible twos. Her son rises just enough to scowl at her, then flops back down without a word.

Three seconds later, Wally comes hurtling over the back of the sofa and lands at her feet, still smiling.

Maura moves to take charge of the situation, but Jane stops her with a squeeze of her hand. 'Sam, you know what happens when you throw your toys.'

Wally is imprisoned to the far-reaches of a bookshelf, but there's not a word of apology or protest.

Just silence. And Disney music.

It's oddly foreboding.

'You're sure you don't want some help, Jane?'

Jane grits her teeth. If she can tackle a 200-pound murderer with a gun and an attitude problem, surely she can handle 25 pounds of sick and crabby toddler (even if the kid has a streak or Rizzoli stubbornness a mile wide). 'Thanks, babe, but I've got this.'

An hour later, Jane found herself wishing the silence (and even the Disney music) had stayed.

Now, on an average night in the Rizzoli-Isles household, Jane was something of a bedtime rock star. Whether exhausted from a day as a princess-robot-dinosaur or bruised and slightly battered from chasing down a suspect, she could almost always corral their rambunctious little monkey under the covers in record time. She could turn bathing and teeth-brushing into a mini-Olympics, knew just what pyjamas a superhero would wear on any given day, and could read a story with twelve different accents for twelve different characters and keep all of them straight.

But tonight. Tonight was far from average.

44 shouts (and eerily calm whispers) of No.
16 defiant (and pleading) Mamas!
3 wordless shrieks.
7 silent shakes of the head.
And 2 full-blown tantrums.

All within 47 minutes.

Bath time consisted of mostly angry splashes and tears—with water everywhere and soap in both their eyes. There wasn't a single pair of pyjamas within the entire drawer that was deemed appropriate bedtime attire (the compromise was one of her old BPD t-shirts and a pair of Monsters, Inc. underwear). She didn't use the correct voices for Max or the Wild Things. She didn't pull the covers up at the right angle, sing the goodnight song in just the right way, or bring the proper sippy-cup for the bedtime glass of water. And to top it all off, her goodnight kiss was apparently much too sloppy and had to be wiped away.

(And yet as the little monster put her through all this with tired eyes and crossed arms, he alternated his demands with cuddles and hugs and small fingers playing absently with hers, refusing to let her leave until she had checked twice to make sure Randall wasn't hiding in his closet.)

By the time he finally dropped off to sleep, fighting it every step of the way, and Jane made her way back to the living room, the Sox were already in the third inning, and Maura was lying back on the couch with a book.

'If that's what you had to put up with all day, I don't know how you're still awake.'

'It's close. By the third tantrum you almost get used to it,' Maura replies with a smile, setting her book down and reaching out for Jane, nodding to the TV almost as an afterthought. 'They're up by three.'

Jane lifts Maura's legs and sits down, settling them back on top of her. 'You know I love that boy more than anything, but sometimes… I just want to drop him off with my mother and leave him there for a month. Does that make me a terrible mother?'

'I think that just makes you a mother. He should be more like himself tomorrow.'

'God, I hope so.' Sneaking a hand under Maura's shirt, Jane caresses the soft skin there, the bump just starting to show. 'Are you sure you want another one?'

'It's a little late for that.'

'Yeah.' She runs her thumb in circles over Maura's skin, smiling wide. 'He's pretty great, isn't he?'

'He takes after his mother.'

'Both his mothers.'

Maura tugs at her, and Jane repositions, lifting her legs onto the cushions and lying back in the space beside Maura, wrapping herself around her. It's the first chance she's had to properly greet her wife since walking in the door, and they spend a few moments just breathing each other in (the familiar and indescribable scent that's so uniquely Maura is mixed with grilled cheese and Samuel and bubble-gum Tylenol, and it's an oddly beautiful combination).

Jane kisses her, slow and sweet and lazy—something like hello, love and thank you (for this, for taking care of our cranky little boy and his soon-to-be sibling, for everything). But she knows it won't last for long. Maura's been insatiable lately, exhausted but wanting, and her tongue flits against Jane's lips, revelling once it's granted access.

'We should go to bed,' Jane manages—where there's more room to be sure, but more importantly, the safety of a closed door.

But Maura's murmuring, 'Not yet,' against her, with a fist clutched strong and desperate in her shirt, and Jane is powerless (even as she knows that not yet probably means never).

There's a soft sigh from one of them (they've almost perfected near-silence), and Maura reaches for the hand still under her shirt, trying to push it upwards. Jane's barely touched her, and already her wife is warm and open and practically begging.

Which is why, just when she's about to press a palm to the apex of Maura's jeans, the sudden pitter-patter of what can only be tiny feet and the pudgy little hand on her arm nearly make Jane jump out of her skin.

'Mama?'

Jane's red-faced and scrambling like a caught-out teenager. 'What are you doing out of bed, little man?'

Her mini double is all accusation and crossed arms and a pouting bottom lip. 'You and Mommy's playing a game without me.'

In a manner of speaking. But there's no way in hell she's going to elaborate. Give him even a hint of something new and fun and exciting, and in three seconds he'll be demanding the rules of game-play and how to become the winner and asking when he can teach Nana and his uncles to play.

Evasive manoeuvres. Immediately.

It's 100% without a doubt an easier tactic than explaining love and lust (and pointedly where babies don't come from) to a three-year-old. 'You're supposed to be asleep.'

'You need to rest so you can feel better, Samuel,' Maura adds, carefully feeling his forehead and rosy cheeks with the back of her hand. 'Remember?'

Samuel leans his head against Maura and looks mournfully up at Jane. 'I have a sad inside me.'

'Do you know why?'

He only offers her miserable and emphatic shake of the head, hiding his face in Maura's shirt.

'Well, let's see if I can find it and get it out of there.' Jane hovers a hand over the little boy, dropping it on top of his head and ruffling his hair. 'Is it here?'

'No.'

She squeezes his elbow. 'Here?'

'No.'

She reaches down, just able to grab one of his feet, tickling it lightly. 'How about here?'

'Mama! Noooo!' A small fit of giggles and a desperate attempt to hide them.

'There's only one more spot then, isn't there, Mommy? And I think we need a doctor for this one.'

'I'm afraid so,' Maura answers gravely. 'Now, stand very still….'

Samuel's eyes widen as he watches her reach so agonisingly slowly before landing her fingertips on his belly and tickling wildly. His too-big BPD t-shirt offers little protection, and he erupts in infectious little-boy laughter, dancing in place before scrambling away. Once safely out of the tickle monster's clutches, he frowns darkly, hands on his hips, but it quickly turns to a wide grin with triumphantly outstretched arms as he barrels back towards them and buries his head in Maura's stomach.

'It worked!'

'Careful of Mommy's belly, Sammy,' Jane murmurs with a grin, reaching out and lifting him carefully onto them both. 'Feeling better?'

The answer to that is apparent as he ignores the question in favour of the TV, where his beloved Red Sox have just scored and his slightly more beloved Green Monster mascot is doing a funny little dance. 'I can watch?'

He's hopeful, flashing a smile he's learned from Maura, the twinkle in his eye all Jane.

'You can listen,' Jane answers, dashing his hopes, but not completely. 'But only for a few minutes. You have to close your eyes and try to sleep.'

'How many is few?' He turns to Maura, the answerer of all tricky questions.

'A small number.' She pauses and Jane can practically see her translating her Google-speak into something more tangible as she holds up ten fingers where Samuel can see them. 'Less than two hands.'

'For right now, it's until Mama finds a good break in the game,' Jane adds. 'Eyes closed, little monster.'

Samuel obeys, scrunching his eyes tightly shut, then seeming to think better of it as he opens one just enough so he can lean forward, planting a kiss on Maura's cheek and a matching one on Jane's. Eyes closed again, he settles, and with the soft murmur of the game and Jane rubbing his back, it's not long until his breathing becomes deep and even.

Jane moves carefully, attempting to get up without waking him—Maura's forever quoting studies about children sleeping in their own beds. She's stopped by a warm palm to her arm. Maura is soft and sleepy—familiar words, a different meaning. 'Not just yet, Jane.'