(no subject)

It's not fair that she's still so wound up when she makes her way down the stairs and into the bar.  She makes for the door without looking around, pushing away the thought that there are people here who must have seen her go upstairs with Michael who are now watching her leave alone.

Well, who cares?  It's not like she really knows anyone here all that well.  They're adults.  There's nothing wrong with wanting a little company after a rough day.

(It's a little harder to convince herself everything's fine when she feels like turning around and heading straight back into that room to finish what they started, but she's adept at shoving those thoughts away and though they cling, fuzzily, to her mind, they don't keep her from walking straight out that front door.)

The apartment is dim and quiet, soothing, and she heads to her room to strip off her jacket and top, inspecting it for damage done by the dirt and grime of the day.  There's a large dark blotch on the side, and she throws on a worn button-down before picking the blue top up and heading, a little gracelessly, down the kitchen.

She probably ought to know better.  She's never been good at fixing things, like stains on silk, and she's scrubbing at the damn thing with a wet washcloth but when she holds it up, heart sinking, it's clear that all she's done is made it worse, and now her stupid shirt is ruined.  Temper flaring, she balls up the cloth and throws it at the sink, bats the shirt away, and slumps over the counter with her head pounding and her hand rubbing over her eyes.

What a freaking disaster.

(no subject)

When she wakes up, mouth fuzzy and head aching, and stumbles past the linen closet on her way to the shower, she can't help pausing as she grabs a towel.

She could say the words, grab a cup of coffee and something greasy at the bar, wait out this hangover, head to work once her head's cleared a little.  It would be easy.  No one would miss her.

She stares at the closed closet door, then heads to the bathroom without opening it again.






That all just means that she's a little surly when she gets to the office.  Graham's as affable as ever, and if he notices the redness of her eyes or the way she digs into a breakfast burrito at her desk or the fact that she keeps refilling her coffee, he doesn't mention it.

He does tell her that she's on her own for lunch -- her turn to man the phonelines, but she waves him away -- after a day like yesterday, after a night like last night, she's more than happy to just hang out here and not think about a single damn thing.