Forty-eight hours.

And what a difference they make.

Not just in heartbeats and breathing and an epic increase in exhaustion (sleepy relaxation and gratefulness and never wanting to let either of them go). If hour one was a harried and broken signature on a surgical consent form, then hour forty-seven was smooth flowing script on discharge papers.

Now, the roads are cleared. The sun shines. The blanket of white over Boston looks homey and inviting—like hot chocolate and wool mittens, nights wrapped in blankets in front of a crackling fire. And Christmas is so close around the corner that everything is sprinkled in an extra bit of happiness and good cheer, the scent of pine needles and sugar cookies on each inhalation.

Forty-eight hours.

And she's almost forgotten the sheer terror that surrounded words like foetal distress and emergency caesarean. The way she'd nearly tripped over her own feet trying to don the flimsy gown while Maura chattered nervous Google, the facts only amplifying her anxiety. How she tried (and failed) to keep her voice from breaking at one of the most frightening sentences any parent can utter: Why isn't she crying?

There was oxygen and hushed voices, a small wail that was magic and quickly escalated to red-faced and pissed-off and screaming—tiny feet and fists hammering. And that right there was the soundtrack to smiles and congratulations, mommies! that felt a bit like Valium after a heart-in-your-throat thirty minutes. Finally given the all-clear, Jane found herself with that delicate little howling thing in her arms—feeling more than a bit helpless and not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Forty-eight hours.

And Ava Rizzoli-Isles is a little spitfire already. Without a doubt. All six pounds and eight ounces of her.

Jane runs a hand down her wife's arm, flicking her eyes over just in time to see a lazy smile—Maura is sleepy and sore and so so happy (they both are). A glance in the rear-view mirror shows their daughter still fast asleep. All the fuss and urgency and a bit of extra just-in-case time in the hospital—and now the little bundle sits snugly swaddled in a newly-knit blanket, nose crinkling with a squeaking yawn.

They pull into the driveway, greeted by an army of snow-creatures of various sizes and species—their family and friends had had their work cut out for them, that much is sure. A familiar face is pressed against the front window—squished nose and fogging glass and fingerprints. He's waving like mad, but disappears before Jane can return the gesture. She grins to herself, helping Maura out of the car and carefully lifting the sleeping baby.

Samuel's shouts and laughter make their way through the closed door, and the second it's opened, he only has eyes for one person. 'Mommy!'

A slight sniffle (probably more from the cold than an actual cold itself) and the looming winter threat of flu season had kept him tearfully away from the maternity ward. Though she had stayed at the hospital, Jane had made a point to visit him for some morning and evening playtime, but he had had nothing but phone calls and video chats with Maura.

The separation was obviously trying. He wants to jump right into his mother's arms, frowns when a chorus of No's and Careful's stops him. Maura removes her coat and takes his hand with a reassuring smile, easing herself onto the couch with a slight pained grimace and patting the cushion beside her. Samuel crawls up, wary now, slow and careful as a small boy could possibly be. 'Did you miss me?'

'Of course I missed you, Samuel. So so much.'

'But I can't hug you?'

'You can hug me, you just need to be very careful.'

'Why?'

A shadow looms suddenly over Jane as she struggles with the straps on the infant carrier, and the rest of the conversation is lost in a flurry of tomato-sauce-and-meatball-scented excitement. 'Let me see my granddaughter!'

'You saw her a few hours ago, Ma. She hasn't changed much.' Jane finally frees the baby and lifts her out of the seat. 'And you probably want to put down that spoon first.'

Flustered, Angela shoves the sauce-covered spoon into her apron pocket. 'Oh, but she's beautiful, Janie. She has your nose.'

'You know that's not possible, right?'

She says it and knows it. But still there's part of her that looks down at the baby in her arms—and if she turns her head just right, there's her own nose, maybe even her chin, with Maura's hazel eyes hidden beneath the closed eyelids and the beginnings of blonde wisps of hair.

'Oh shush. I know my own daughter's nose when I see it. You got it straight from my mother, and now it's right here on little Ava's face, plain as day.'

'You'd think it'd be plain as the nose on her face.'

'You think you're funny, missy.' Angela tries to frown, probably doesn't realise she's still smiling. 'Just because you finally gave me a granddaughter doesn't mean—'

'Okay, okay,' Jane concedes with a quick nod. 'She's got my nose.'

'And Maura's eyes and ears. You two make beautiful babies.'

She might be biased, but that fact is irrefutable.

'Thanks, Ma. Hey, can you hold Ava for a bit while I say hi to Sammy, and then bring her over in a few minutes?'

Angela has the baby in her arms almost before Jane can finish. 'Spend some time with this little angel? Of course.'

The rest of what she has to say devolves into coos and baby talk as Angela cosies up to her newest grandchild, probably already telling her embarrassing stories about her mother. Jane leaves them, crossing the room to where her wife and son are snuggled up on the couch. The conversation there is going about as well as could be expected.

'I promise, Samuel,' Maura soothes—and from the emphasis, it sounds like not for the first time, 'I'm all right.'

'But for sometimes, you were sick.'

'Yes. For a little while.' Of course Maura can't lie here—even when it would be far easier to say that everything is and always will be rosy. 'And Ava too. But we're better now.'

'And now your belly's sick and I can't touch it.' It's in the whining, near-tantrum voice with which they've become intimately familiar. Jane steps around the sofa just in time to see the little boy cross his arms defiantly, eyes narrowed with dark suspicion. 'Did that baby hurt it?'

That baby again. A phrase they've managed to escape for quite a while.

'No, Samuel.' Maura raises her eyebrows to Jane, a clear SOS even without the Morse code.

'They had to take Ava out of Mommy's belly,' Jane adds, sitting beside her son and wrapping her arms around him. 'Hey, little man.'

'Hi Mama.' Samuel turns his face towards her pitifully before hiding in her shoulder. 'Look what that baby did. Mommy's sick.'

It's undeniable that Maura is pale and sore and tired. But it's better to just explain everything away as a quick and vague sick than have to sort out the specifics of surgery—or, when the boy's tiny head makes some kind of sense of the details, implicate the baby any more than necessary.

'Mommy's not sick anymore, buddy. She's just needs to rest. Don't worry—in a few weeks she'll be running after you again.'

'That's forever.'

Of course—a three-year-old's week might as well be a lifetime.

'I think you'll survive that long.' If a subject change doesn't do the trick now, it never will. 'Did you have a good time with Nana and all your uncles? I saw like a million snowmen outside.'

He nods vigorously. 'We made cookies and snowmans and a card. Oh!' Jumping off the sofa, he runs over to the table, grabbing a fistful of papers and returning to climb back onto her lap. 'Here.'

The slightly wrinkled paper is folded at a less-than-perfect angle (which makes it even better). There are three familiar stick figures that hold starring roles in many of his drawings, but he loves to describe them and they love to hear what he has to say.

'There's Mommy.' He jabs a finger at the first figure: a large circular head filled with big greenish eyes and a bright red smile. A wave of yellow along the outside and straight lines of arms and legs of varying lengths.

'I knew it,' Jane says with a smile. 'It looks just as beautiful as Mommy.'

Maura reaches over their son to run her fingers along the back of Jane's neck. They spell out thank you and I love you and you're gorgeous too even though you'll never admit it in nonsensical swirls and circles instead of letters.

'So that pretty lady must be Mama,' Maura nods to the front of the card where one arm of her own replica reaches far enough to touch the stick-arm of the second figure, its eyes and hair dark, the grin a lighter pink.

'Yep!' Samuel is ecstatic at the recognition. 'And you hold hands cuz you're in love.'

'You got that right, buddy.' Jane twists to kiss the soft skin of Maura's inner forearm. 'So that means this big handsome guy has to be….'

'Sammy!'

The third figure looms large—a giant stick-Samuel, towering above both his mothers and making the tiny circle with four little lines just to the right of him look almost like a spider squished onto the page. Jane points to the scribbled speck, already has an inkling of what it will turn out to be.

'What's this?'

Samuel shrugs. 'The baby. Nana said to draw it.'

'Why's she so small?'

He's immediately on the defence. 'Cuz she's tiny. And I'm bigger than her.'

Fair enough.

'It's a lovely picture, Samuel.' Maura smiles at him, taking her hand from Jane's shoulder to squeeze his leg.

'You didn't see the inside. It's a card. Cards have insides.'

'Of course,' Maura says softly. 'Why don't you open it for us?'

He does, with great ceremony. Inside, a giant red heart takes up the entire page—one side much larger, the other just squeezed to fit. Within it, are three large letters: SAM. 'Nana helped. She did the letters on another paper and I did it on this paper.'

'I love it, Sammy.'

'Thank you,' Maura adds.

'You know who else loves her card?' Angela's overly enthusiastic as she swoops in, knows just what's needed here. 'Little Ava! Why don't you say hi to your sister, Sammy? She's so excited to meet you!'

Jane reaches for her daughter and her mother hands her over, somewhat reluctantly. The baby is warm and solid and secure in her arms—it's going to take much more than forty-eight hours to get over those few minutes where they thought they might lose her.

Samuel scrutinises his new sister with a frown, poking at her blanketed body. 'She can't even see me. She's sleeping.'

'New babies need a lot of sleep,' Maura explains. 'You did too after you were born.'

'You can't be asited if you're sleeping.'

'Well… that's true.'

'Does she even know about me?'

Jane decides to field this one. 'We told her all about you. Her big brother Sammy. I'm sorry you couldn't meet her sooner.'

Angela touches Jane's shoulder. 'I'm gonna leave you two mommies with your babies. Dinner is in the kitchen. I'll be back tomorrow.'

Knowing her mother, dinner, in the singular, is probably an understatement—their fridge and freezer more likely than not packed with enough food for the neighbourhood. Jane couldn't be more grateful. Exhaustion is looming, and she hasn't realised how hungry she is until the mention of food.

'Thanks, Ma.' She flashes her mother an appreciative smile. Soon, the front door closes with a soft click, and the baby stirs in Jane's arms, still asleep but only just. 'Do you want to hold her, little man?'

'No.' He pulls his knees up to his chest to make it impossible. 'You sure it's not a boy baby?'

'Sorry, Samuel.' Maura shakes her head, tousling the little boy's hair. 'What's wrong with having a sister?'

'It's a girl,' he responds, glumly stating the obvious. With two mothers, Jo Friday, and now a new sister to contend with, he and Bass are vastly outnumbered.

'Mommy and I are girls,' Jane tries. 'You like us.'

'You're not girls. You're moms.'

Jane tries not to laugh, but that's a battle that's not meant to be won. Maura fares better. For the first few seconds—but then Jane catches her eye, and all bets are off. Jane tries desperately to stop—for the sake of the frowning boy between them and Maura's healing stomach—but it's that crazy, infectious, nonsensical laughter that just hast to run its course.

Samuel, however, is immune. And demanding. 'What's so funny?'

Luckily, they're saved from explanation (and excuses). Ava's eyes have snapped open in the commotion and she lets out a squawk. Samuel's on his knees immediately, bending over his new sister with grave suspicion.

'Look who wants to say hello.' Jane props the baby's head up so the little boy will have a better view.

'She can't talk.'

'No, she can't,' Maura agrees. 'But she can say hello in a different way. Touch your finger to her palm. Carefully.'

Jane can tell he doesn't want to. Tonight, he's all three-year-old stubbornness, and not without reason—he's no longer his parents' main focus, and that's never an easy blow to take. But his hand is twitching—wanting to obey, fighting not to—and curiosity wins out in the end. His finger brushes against the baby's and a tiny fist closes around it.

'Whoa!' The perfect little o of surprise and wonder melts into a smile. 'She's strong for a tiny!'

'It's called a reflex,' Maura explains. 'It's something babies do automatically when they feel or hear something.'

'And cuz she likes me?' He's so hopeful, peering back at Maura with those big hazel eyes so that there can only be one answer, even if it ends in hives.

Maura doesn't disappoint. Ever. 'And because she likes you.'

And that does the trick. (With barely a welt or any redness or itching.)

'You know, Sammy,' Jane starts with a grin, wishing they could stretch out this moment forever, 'it's time for your important big brother job. How about you go pick out your little sister's first bedtime story?'

Reluctance returns, a shadow casting over his face and taking the edge off pure joy. But Samuel hasn't taken his eyes off his sister, and his next question makes all the difference in the world. 'How about if I just say her a story? About Sammy who's Batman and rides a snowplow to the Red Sox.'

He doesn't want to let go of her hand.

'I think that's a great idea.' Jane catches Maura's eye—her wife's sleepy smile radiant. 'Go ahead.'

'Okay. Once upon a time, Sammy and…. Wait.' He stops, frowns, glancing from one mother to the other, his questioning gaze finally landing on his new sister. 'What did we call her again?'

A/N: And that's that. I hope you enjoyed it. Thank you so much to all of you who stuck around for this. You made my day with your follows, favourites, and comments. Thanks again!