There are days when she wishes she could drown herself in the shower.

Today's thirty hour shift was one awful thing after another, it had seemed. One perp executed his hostage before they could close on his location. Another had escaped as if nothing but a ghost right when Anderson had sworn they had him cornered. Two civilians injured in another shoot-out. Sometimes she has to remind herself that they can't save all of them, but it doesn't take the sting of recent failure away.

The water is hot (too hot, but she forces herself to stand in it), scalding her scalp and back as if it could wash all of her thoughts away. She's not sure how long she stood in the stream… minutes, hours. It all feels the same. By the time she steps out and bundles herself in a towel it's dark outside, if that's any indication. A sigh escapes her lips; she has reports to write and Dredd had mysteriously disappeared as soon as she had mentioned them earlier.

Ten minutes pass and she's finally settling on her couch in sweatpants and a plain t-shirt, a datapad in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She should sleep first, but putting off the report for later means she'll make more and more excuses before getting it done. The cup touches the table just as a knock sounds at her door. She pauses, but rises to answer it.

It slides open and Dredd's standing there in worn jeans and a t-shirt, helmet under one arm and a takeout bag of what smells suspiciously like curry in the other hand. Anderson stares at him for a moment, confused, but steps aside and allows the other Judge to enter.

"Wasn't aware we were doing date night," she grumbles, and although it's a joke Dredd grunts in response.

"Those reports have to get done somehow." He replies. He's discarded his helmet on her table and is rummaging through the bag, procuring two containers. One is pushed into her hands as he plops unceremoniously onto her couch, scooping up what she's written so far and reading it over. Anderson sighs, defeated, and settles next to him. If he's offering to help with the report she's certainly not going to send him out the door. As she pulls the lid off her container and reaches for a fork a familiar smell hits her nose; it's her favorite flavor from the noodle shop down the street from the Hall of Justice.

"Chin up, Anderson." His voice is quiet, almost a half purr in her ear. She pauses with the fork halfway to her mouth to shoot him a sidelong glance. "We can't save them all. Best we can do is try again next patrol."

"Yeah." He's right of course. Despite his usual comments about her futile desire to make a difference, his voice feels genuine. He feels genuine. A brush against his mind confirms that for her, and finally she slumps her shoulders and leans back. She can't let a bad day get her down.

He gives her a soft nudge with his elbow, and she cranes her head to look at him. His hair is sticking out in odd places (it's kind of endearing, she thinks) and his expression is not the hard one he wears on the streets. He's quiet for a moment, eyes on hers before he reaches for his own takeout container.

"Now, let's get that report done."