She stands in the small stall, finally alone, letting the heat and quiet sounds soothe the day out of her. Ressler, shouting orders; the pounding boots of the tac team; the hammering of gunfire in her ears; all slowly draining away. Her muscles aching from running, crouching, freezing in place, running again, rinse, repeat. The bruises and scrapes from her one-on-one battle with this week's blacklister. She feels like her head is still spinning from the heady rush of constant movement — she isn't fully adjusted to the whirl of violence that envelops her days.

This small hotel room may look cheap, even a bit sleazy, but it's kept clean and is relatively secure — a cozy bolt hole that cushions the harsh corners of her life. Definitely not without limitations, she thinks, sighing as the heat starts to fade. She turns off the taps before the water morphs all the way to cold, and steps out to dry off, stretching out the last of her soreness. She feels tired enough tonight that sleep might actually come easy, might even stay dream-free — what she wouldn't give for a night free of all the images she can't shake loose. Waking alone in a cold sweat has been harder to get used to than she could have imagined. She misses the warmth, the solidity of a friendly body to sleep next to, to reaffirm reality out of dream, to provide a touchstone to chase away the fear.

She wanders out of the bathroom, towel-clad, thinking she'll climb straight into her sleep shirt and curl up with a book. It's dark in the main room now, but she leaves the light off — the darkness soothes, keeps the softer feeling she has after the shower in place a little longer. The room is small and familiar enough for her to find her way around in the dark, and holds no real fear for her, on its own.

Then she hears the sound of her name floating out of the dark, and rediscovers what it means to have your heart leap into your throat, and your system freeze in fear.

He knew before he left the safe house that it was a bad idea; that the more time he spent with her, the more he would need. But he couldn't stand the company of his own thoughts anymore — he is drowning in memory, in aching loss, the nagging pain of his most recent scars, a bottle of scotch. A little verbal sparring to shake off the black mood, he told himself, and besides, she's not answering her phone. I should make sure she's all right after today. He talked himself into it, even as his instincts fought against it.

Her room is dark when he arrives, curtains drawn against the night. She's getting something to eat, he thinks, he'll sit and wait for her in the quiet — her dark, at least, is different than his own. As he settles into the sole miserable armchair, he hears her puttering in the bathroom and sighs, pleased — he doesn't really like to wait, after all.

But then she opens the door and comes into the room, outlined by the glow of the bathroom light, skin still glistening from the shower, barely covered by the skimpy motel towel. She's so absolutely beautiful he can't quite breathe, has forgotten the way a first glimpse of an object of desire can kick in the chest, can punch into the throat. As she moves across to the dresser, he comes back to himself enough to say her name, on a breath, like a talisman in the dark, before it's too late and the sight of her steals away all he has.

"Lizzie," he says, his voice hoarse and rusty and strange, "Wait…"

In the glow from the bathroom he sees her move again, and "Wait," he says, "Don't turn on the light."

She knows his voice, even in its tight strangeness, and the cramping fear eases. She breathes out, clutches, grasps at her composure.

"I can barely see you," she reasons, "Why are you here, like this? Did something happen? Are you hurt? Am I…"

"No, nothing, don't worry," he rushes, then hesitates, "Just… I don't… I wanted…"

He stops trying, wonders what has happened to him; all his bravado gone, façade cracked.

She crosses the room to him, mindful (oh, so very careful) of her towel. She reaches out to him, takes his hat, tries to see into his eyes, his troubled mind.

"What is it that you want, Red," she asks, trying to be gentle, "It's late, and I'm tired."

"It's her birthday today." He says it in a rush, needs to get it out, but not weak, not vulnerable. "Jennifer. My daughter. I just… couldn't be alone in my head anymore. I thought… It was…" He gives up again, the stumbling excuses more humiliating than silence.

She takes a deep breath, then another. He's been crying, she thinks, almost amazed, that's why he sounds so strange. "Okay, Red," she says, quietly. She reaches out, rests her free hand gently on the soft prickle of his head. "Okay."

He breathes in, out, once more. Her soft, warm hand on him a gift, a benediction, precious.

Then, daring just a little, still breathing, he drops his head forward, just enough, to rest against the towel-rough warmth of her. Just to feel, for once, for a moment, safe.