Title: Rats' Alley
Author: Perry
Pairing: Fred/Wesley, hints of Lilah/Wesley, Willow-Fred friendship
Rating: R for angst and violence.
Notes: Written for _green_ and miggy's Angstathon. Request by pruegirl17. I hope you enjoy; I know I kind of departed from the original challenge.
Challenge: Fred has cancer.
Spoilers: Up to Smile Time. AU from there, so no Illyria.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, no matter how much I wish. Quotes taken from Five by Five, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, Guise Will Be Guise and Through the Looking Glass. The bear is from Soul Purpose.
The boat rocks gently underneath her, like a child's cradle. The waves slap the sides loudly, but it sounds muted to Fred. She opens her eyes lazily and squints at the perfect blue sky, only interrupted by an occasional wispy cloud.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Fred turns her head to see Wesley on a lounge chair next to her. She giggles at his white skin, almost sickly pale against the bright red and tan stripes. She suddenly wants to go to him, but her limbs feel heavy and she's too tired to walk all the way over there, because suddenly Wesley is miles away, past the tennis court and the pool, and the sky is getting darker with big gray clouds forcing their way past each other. The water is full of sharks, and she has to warn Wesley, but he's just too far away.
* * *
The hallucinations begin the day Fred comes down with cancer. Well, "come down" is sort of a stretch- Wesley can still see Eve pushing a needle into Fred's thin arm, and -he chokes back a hysterical laugh- that has none of the calm, gradual connotations that "come down with" implies.
They had rushed her down to the lab, of course. Wesley waited with shaking hands in the cold, sterile room for any word of her condition, but Angel only gave him pained, sympathetic looks, as if he was an impatient child. Knox arrived after several hours, weary and carrying a manila folder. He thrust it silently at Wesley, who opened it warily to reveal black and white scans of a- no, he corrected- Fred's head.
"Here," Knox had said, and pointed to a dark spot, "It's a..." He swallowed.
"A tumor," Wesley whispered. His throat was tight, as if clamped around the rest of what he wanted to say- or scream- or moan.
"Yeah," Knox nodded solemnly, "We figure whatever Eve injected into her bloodstream caused an accelerated mutation of the cells."
Wesley looked down at the black blob again. Was it bigger than before? He held up his thumb to the scan.
Knox peered at Wesley's finger, covering perhaps ¾ of the tumor, "Really accelerated. Like- whoomph!" He illustrated by shooting his arm upward.
At the callous gesture, Gunn had put a comforting hand on Wesley's back. It felt heavy and uncomfortable, but he hadn't the energy to shrug it off.
Fred is asleep when they finally let him into the hospital room. Wesley pauses by the door and grips it tightly; he suddenly desperately doesn't want to go in. Knees weak, he stumbles over to the pale figure in the bed. The Englishman sinks onto the chair behind him; he catches himself holding his breath, and releases it.
"Fred," he murmurs.
She shifts in her sleep, brow furrowed.
"Oh, Fred," Fear sends a dull ache through his stomach and, doubled over, Wesley buries his face in the sterile white sheets.
* * *
She's sitting at a table. The wooden surface is covered by a miniature model of her lab, with a little animated Angel, lying on what appeared to be his bed. And she, in her comfortable lab coat, was cutting him open. A large, brown bear accepted what she found.
"He's blind, you know."
She looks up to see the bear sitting across from her.
"They all are," he growls.
"I know."
"You have to help them."
"But I'm confused. How can I help them when..." Fred looks down to see her arms and legs tied to the chair with great black straps, "When I'm pinned down like this?"
Suddenly angry, the bear sweeps the model off the table and leans over until his giant muzzle was inches from her face. He roars, "You have to help them!", and then vanishes.
* * *
When his sobs subside, Wesley wipes his face with a tissue from the bedside table and clears his throat. Peering into the dimly lit room for a trash basket, he can make out an outline of a figure. His contacts are itching at his eyes, and he wishes for his glasses.
"Who's there?" His voice is scratchy from tears, and he clears his throat and tries again, "Who are you?"
Eve steps out from the shadows and into the dim light of the lamp. It rests on the table next to Fred, who tosses and turns restlessly in her troubled sleep.
"You," Wesley is furious- beyond furious- but his emotions seem muted. He had cried himself out, his anger, his pain, his fear, and though he knows he needs to take action, the man simply sits and grips Fred's hand tighter. Slipping his other hand into his pocket, Wesley reaches for the pistol that rests there, "What are you doing here?"
"Watching you, and her. It's not easy being a liaison for the Senior Partners, you know," Eve's eyes are wide, hurt. Like a wounded lamb- an innocent. An act.
"Isn't it?" Cocking the pistol, hand still inside his jacket, Wesley waits.
"No-" Eve begins.
"All you need do is follow orders."
"There's more to it, you know. I have important jobs to do. I'm not just some sort of... errand girl."
Wesley chokes back a hysterical laugh, then leans over to kiss Fred's forehead, "She was your errand." Gazing at her for a moment, he pulls out the pistol in one smooth motion and fires it- once, twice.
Eve slides a hand down to her stomach, the blood already leaking through her shirt. She cocks her head, gazing at the red stains. Wesley's hand shakes. It's done. Fred is avenged- at least partly- and Wolfram and Hart can heal her, of course. They have the resources and the doctors and the knowledge. He could hear feet thudding down the corridor. That would be Angel, or Gunn, or some of the hospital staff.
As they near the room, Wesley looks back over to Eve. Something- why is she still standing?
Eve looks back up at him, smiling that stupid smirk, "Proof."
His throat is tight, "Proof?"
For a second, she peers at him with Lilah's eyes, "Of this. Of now." As she fades back into the dim shadows of the room, Wesley vaguely hears the door slam open. He unclenches his left hand to find the tissue still matted in his grip, shredded and damp.
* * *
Her mother smiles at her and says, "Pass the potatoes, Fred dear."
"Yes, Mom," Winifred smiles back. She looks down to pick up the bowl, but it is a pillow, and she is in her childhood bedroom. Abigail is sitting on the bed, tossing Thumper up and catching him, tossing and catching. Up and down.
"Prom's coming up, y'know. You gotta put yourself out there, Fred, or no-one's gonna ask you."
Up, down. Up, down.
"And you already got your dress all picked out," Abby says, sauntering over to the closet, "I'm your best friend, y'know, and I take a little responsibility for you. I just... I just wanna see you be a little more, y'know, friendly." She pulls open the closet door, "So you're going to that dance." Reaching inside, Abby pulls out a dress Fred didn't remember. White and long, low scooping neck. "Some girls would die for this, y'know."
Abigail hands it to Fred, who slowly and methodically undresses and slips in.
"There," Abby stands back with a smile, "Now Bobby Mullins is certain to ask you. Just think of that- Bobby Mullins."
Fred's arms and legs feel heavy, and she turns to face the mirror as if pulled by puppet strings. Her reflection stares back at her with dull eyes, garbed in the tattered rags she had worn for five years in Pylea, "I don't want to go with Bobby. I want to go...
Go home, Fred...
Handsome man saved me from the monsters. Fred watches as Angel comes up behind her. He rests his hand on her shoulder as her gaze stays locked on the mirror.
"I want to go with Wesley."
* * *
The whiskey splashes over the sides of the glass as Wesley pours unsteadily. Slumping back into his armchair, he tosses it back; he welcomes the burning on his throat.
His office has huge windows. One of the many perks of working at Wolfram and Hart. Wesley stands and walks on wobbly legs. He leans his head against the glass and peers out through bleary eyes at L.A. When he works up the energy to move, he rolls over, back against the window, and slides down until he rests on the carpeted floor.
Some distant clock is ringing the hour as Wesley wakens to see Cordelia standing before him.
"Cordy?" His mouth is dry and tastes like alcohol, and it's hard to form the word.
"Wesley, this is crazy," She's smiling at him. He misses that, since she...wait.
"You're dead, Cordeeelia," The whisky makes him slur.
"Will you listen to yourself? You're all insane and drunk and... insane!"
Wesley is only beginning to form a response when Cordelia fades and turns to a brunette with dark eyes and lips that were blunt and sharp, hot and cold. They never got to loud.
"Faith."
"Yeah, Watcher."
"Why... why are you here?"
She smirks at him, licks those lips, "Admit it, Wesley, didn't you always kind of have the hots for me?"
* * *
Fred is lying on a roof, some anonymous roof on an anonymous building in the city of ghosts and guises. The bear snuffs and growls next to her, gnawing away at Abby's arm. She opens her mouth, takes in a big deep breath that takes like whiskey. When she blinks, she's surrounded by huge trees, leafy vines, and animal noises. And a redhead.
The other girl blinks, "Um, hi! Didn't think anyone else would show up."
Fred feels that familiar worry now, and bites her lip, "Was I not supposed to? Cause I think I might maybe be able to leave, if Wesley finds a way."
The redhead looks surprised, then smiles sincerely, "Oh, I remember you! You're Fred! From L.A.!"
Fred wishes for her glasses, which seem to have disappeared.
* * *
Wesley stumbles out his office door and into the bright hallway. Lilah follows, laughing lightly. She hasn't spoken yet, just giggled at him in what seemed to be a very uncharacteristic manner.
His feet pound in a steady pattern as he sprints for the elevator. The noise and the exertion hurt his aching head, but for the love of God he just has to get down to her, because he knows once he reaches Fred everything will just work itself out and those stupid people will stop following him.
That might be the whiskey talking, but still, there's this urge inside him propelling his feet forward and his arms to push the elevator buttons- once twice againagainagain, stabbing at it until the elevator dings and the doors slide open. He rushes in, but his father follows, lecturing him in that horrid Watcher voice of authority; just hearing it makes Wesley bow his head in shame and childlike embarrassment, what has he done wrong now, doesn't he know enough?
His fists clench and unclench around nothing; adrenaline (or alcohol) shoots through his veins and he cannot wait for this goddamn elevator to open already! Wasn't Wolfram and Hart supposed to have the finest, fastest technology on this earth? Finally, finally, they're opening and he pounds through as Buffy mocks him. Sprinting down the hallway, he frantically peers at room numbers. 513, 515, 517, 519... There, 521. He lunges for the doorknob and jerkily yanks it open.
The stillness of the room makes him calm, and slightly ashamed of his erratic behavior. He knows what he has to do- it's all been laid out for him by his visitors, and he doesn't know why he was acting so oddly.
* * *
Willow passes her the map, and Fred turns it around, then replies, "I don't think I'm the one to be helping you with this. I'm confused myself, lately."
The redhead pauses, causing Fred to bump into her. They're trekking through what Willow informs her is the Valdivian temperate forest, in Chile, searching for something Willow won't name. She says, "What about?"
Fred sighs and replies, "I'm dying, I think. I don't really remember much, but I just- know. And there's this bear, and he keeps saying I have to help somebody but I don't know who and I don't understand how I'm supposed to do anything when I keep getting passed from dream to dream and boat to forest to roof and..." Her voice, which has slowly raised in pitch, is shrill and angry.
Pulling the map from her grip, tossing it aside, and enfolding Fred into her arms, Willow stays silent and compassionate as Fred breaks down in great, shuddering gasps.
* * *
She calms him and ignites him. She soothes him and yet, her every touch stirs within him a great passion- a yearning that he had suppressed dully for years. He had- he had just been lifted of that burden, but it had been so quickly replaced by a heavier, more painful one.
Fred was dying in that bed.
"I wish I knew where you were, Fred," Wesley whispers to her from the doorway, "I would find you if I could."
Lilah stands next to him, again. This time, her posture is erect and stiff, and her lips are pursed and silent. She is waiting, and she turns to him with expectant eyes.
"One more minute?" He asks.
She shakes her head, denies him permission. Wesley finds this cruel, and is displeased, but there's nothing he can do. It's out of his hands now.
In his hands- in his hands is the pistol. His thumb slides down, prepares to fire, but he defies Lilah and takes a few steps towards the bed, "Fred." His voice is reverent and slow, "You were always a goddess to me. It always came back to you, Fred."
These are appropriate parting words. Wesley turns back to Lilah for a moment, but she flickers to an unfamiliar young man with long brown hair and angry eyes. Leaning back down to Fred, he kisses her forehead softly.
* * *
Fred's cries grow. Willow holds her and rocks back and forth, offering meager comfort.
* * *
Wesley aims, fires, then walks away. The gun hits the floor with a clank, but Wesley cannot hear it over the loud scratching of the pen as he signs away his soul. Lilah folds the contract, tucks it in her briefcase, then leads him out the door. He shuts it as he leaves.
Author: Perry
Pairing: Fred/Wesley, hints of Lilah/Wesley, Willow-Fred friendship
Rating: R for angst and violence.
Notes: Written for _green_ and miggy's Angstathon. Request by pruegirl17. I hope you enjoy; I know I kind of departed from the original challenge.
Challenge: Fred has cancer.
Spoilers: Up to Smile Time. AU from there, so no Illyria.
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me, no matter how much I wish. Quotes taken from Five by Five, Slouching Towards Bethlehem, Guise Will Be Guise and Through the Looking Glass. The bear is from Soul Purpose.
The boat rocks gently underneath her, like a child's cradle. The waves slap the sides loudly, but it sounds muted to Fred. She opens her eyes lazily and squints at the perfect blue sky, only interrupted by an occasional wispy cloud.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?"
Fred turns her head to see Wesley on a lounge chair next to her. She giggles at his white skin, almost sickly pale against the bright red and tan stripes. She suddenly wants to go to him, but her limbs feel heavy and she's too tired to walk all the way over there, because suddenly Wesley is miles away, past the tennis court and the pool, and the sky is getting darker with big gray clouds forcing their way past each other. The water is full of sharks, and she has to warn Wesley, but he's just too far away.
* * *
The hallucinations begin the day Fred comes down with cancer. Well, "come down" is sort of a stretch- Wesley can still see Eve pushing a needle into Fred's thin arm, and -he chokes back a hysterical laugh- that has none of the calm, gradual connotations that "come down with" implies.
They had rushed her down to the lab, of course. Wesley waited with shaking hands in the cold, sterile room for any word of her condition, but Angel only gave him pained, sympathetic looks, as if he was an impatient child. Knox arrived after several hours, weary and carrying a manila folder. He thrust it silently at Wesley, who opened it warily to reveal black and white scans of a- no, he corrected- Fred's head.
"Here," Knox had said, and pointed to a dark spot, "It's a..." He swallowed.
"A tumor," Wesley whispered. His throat was tight, as if clamped around the rest of what he wanted to say- or scream- or moan.
"Yeah," Knox nodded solemnly, "We figure whatever Eve injected into her bloodstream caused an accelerated mutation of the cells."
Wesley looked down at the black blob again. Was it bigger than before? He held up his thumb to the scan.
Knox peered at Wesley's finger, covering perhaps ¾ of the tumor, "Really accelerated. Like- whoomph!" He illustrated by shooting his arm upward.
At the callous gesture, Gunn had put a comforting hand on Wesley's back. It felt heavy and uncomfortable, but he hadn't the energy to shrug it off.
Fred is asleep when they finally let him into the hospital room. Wesley pauses by the door and grips it tightly; he suddenly desperately doesn't want to go in. Knees weak, he stumbles over to the pale figure in the bed. The Englishman sinks onto the chair behind him; he catches himself holding his breath, and releases it.
"Fred," he murmurs.
She shifts in her sleep, brow furrowed.
"Oh, Fred," Fear sends a dull ache through his stomach and, doubled over, Wesley buries his face in the sterile white sheets.
* * *
She's sitting at a table. The wooden surface is covered by a miniature model of her lab, with a little animated Angel, lying on what appeared to be his bed. And she, in her comfortable lab coat, was cutting him open. A large, brown bear accepted what she found.
"He's blind, you know."
She looks up to see the bear sitting across from her.
"They all are," he growls.
"I know."
"You have to help them."
"But I'm confused. How can I help them when..." Fred looks down to see her arms and legs tied to the chair with great black straps, "When I'm pinned down like this?"
Suddenly angry, the bear sweeps the model off the table and leans over until his giant muzzle was inches from her face. He roars, "You have to help them!", and then vanishes.
* * *
When his sobs subside, Wesley wipes his face with a tissue from the bedside table and clears his throat. Peering into the dimly lit room for a trash basket, he can make out an outline of a figure. His contacts are itching at his eyes, and he wishes for his glasses.
"Who's there?" His voice is scratchy from tears, and he clears his throat and tries again, "Who are you?"
Eve steps out from the shadows and into the dim light of the lamp. It rests on the table next to Fred, who tosses and turns restlessly in her troubled sleep.
"You," Wesley is furious- beyond furious- but his emotions seem muted. He had cried himself out, his anger, his pain, his fear, and though he knows he needs to take action, the man simply sits and grips Fred's hand tighter. Slipping his other hand into his pocket, Wesley reaches for the pistol that rests there, "What are you doing here?"
"Watching you, and her. It's not easy being a liaison for the Senior Partners, you know," Eve's eyes are wide, hurt. Like a wounded lamb- an innocent. An act.
"Isn't it?" Cocking the pistol, hand still inside his jacket, Wesley waits.
"No-" Eve begins.
"All you need do is follow orders."
"There's more to it, you know. I have important jobs to do. I'm not just some sort of... errand girl."
Wesley chokes back a hysterical laugh, then leans over to kiss Fred's forehead, "She was your errand." Gazing at her for a moment, he pulls out the pistol in one smooth motion and fires it- once, twice.
Eve slides a hand down to her stomach, the blood already leaking through her shirt. She cocks her head, gazing at the red stains. Wesley's hand shakes. It's done. Fred is avenged- at least partly- and Wolfram and Hart can heal her, of course. They have the resources and the doctors and the knowledge. He could hear feet thudding down the corridor. That would be Angel, or Gunn, or some of the hospital staff.
As they near the room, Wesley looks back over to Eve. Something- why is she still standing?
Eve looks back up at him, smiling that stupid smirk, "Proof."
His throat is tight, "Proof?"
For a second, she peers at him with Lilah's eyes, "Of this. Of now." As she fades back into the dim shadows of the room, Wesley vaguely hears the door slam open. He unclenches his left hand to find the tissue still matted in his grip, shredded and damp.
* * *
Her mother smiles at her and says, "Pass the potatoes, Fred dear."
"Yes, Mom," Winifred smiles back. She looks down to pick up the bowl, but it is a pillow, and she is in her childhood bedroom. Abigail is sitting on the bed, tossing Thumper up and catching him, tossing and catching. Up and down.
"Prom's coming up, y'know. You gotta put yourself out there, Fred, or no-one's gonna ask you."
Up, down. Up, down.
"And you already got your dress all picked out," Abby says, sauntering over to the closet, "I'm your best friend, y'know, and I take a little responsibility for you. I just... I just wanna see you be a little more, y'know, friendly." She pulls open the closet door, "So you're going to that dance." Reaching inside, Abby pulls out a dress Fred didn't remember. White and long, low scooping neck. "Some girls would die for this, y'know."
Abigail hands it to Fred, who slowly and methodically undresses and slips in.
"There," Abby stands back with a smile, "Now Bobby Mullins is certain to ask you. Just think of that- Bobby Mullins."
Fred's arms and legs feel heavy, and she turns to face the mirror as if pulled by puppet strings. Her reflection stares back at her with dull eyes, garbed in the tattered rags she had worn for five years in Pylea, "I don't want to go with Bobby. I want to go...
Go home, Fred...
Handsome man saved me from the monsters. Fred watches as Angel comes up behind her. He rests his hand on her shoulder as her gaze stays locked on the mirror.
"I want to go with Wesley."
* * *
The whiskey splashes over the sides of the glass as Wesley pours unsteadily. Slumping back into his armchair, he tosses it back; he welcomes the burning on his throat.
His office has huge windows. One of the many perks of working at Wolfram and Hart. Wesley stands and walks on wobbly legs. He leans his head against the glass and peers out through bleary eyes at L.A. When he works up the energy to move, he rolls over, back against the window, and slides down until he rests on the carpeted floor.
Some distant clock is ringing the hour as Wesley wakens to see Cordelia standing before him.
"Cordy?" His mouth is dry and tastes like alcohol, and it's hard to form the word.
"Wesley, this is crazy," She's smiling at him. He misses that, since she...wait.
"You're dead, Cordeeelia," The whisky makes him slur.
"Will you listen to yourself? You're all insane and drunk and... insane!"
Wesley is only beginning to form a response when Cordelia fades and turns to a brunette with dark eyes and lips that were blunt and sharp, hot and cold. They never got to loud.
"Faith."
"Yeah, Watcher."
"Why... why are you here?"
She smirks at him, licks those lips, "Admit it, Wesley, didn't you always kind of have the hots for me?"
* * *
Fred is lying on a roof, some anonymous roof on an anonymous building in the city of ghosts and guises. The bear snuffs and growls next to her, gnawing away at Abby's arm. She opens her mouth, takes in a big deep breath that takes like whiskey. When she blinks, she's surrounded by huge trees, leafy vines, and animal noises. And a redhead.
The other girl blinks, "Um, hi! Didn't think anyone else would show up."
Fred feels that familiar worry now, and bites her lip, "Was I not supposed to? Cause I think I might maybe be able to leave, if Wesley finds a way."
The redhead looks surprised, then smiles sincerely, "Oh, I remember you! You're Fred! From L.A.!"
Fred wishes for her glasses, which seem to have disappeared.
* * *
Wesley stumbles out his office door and into the bright hallway. Lilah follows, laughing lightly. She hasn't spoken yet, just giggled at him in what seemed to be a very uncharacteristic manner.
His feet pound in a steady pattern as he sprints for the elevator. The noise and the exertion hurt his aching head, but for the love of God he just has to get down to her, because he knows once he reaches Fred everything will just work itself out and those stupid people will stop following him.
That might be the whiskey talking, but still, there's this urge inside him propelling his feet forward and his arms to push the elevator buttons- once twice againagainagain, stabbing at it until the elevator dings and the doors slide open. He rushes in, but his father follows, lecturing him in that horrid Watcher voice of authority; just hearing it makes Wesley bow his head in shame and childlike embarrassment, what has he done wrong now, doesn't he know enough?
His fists clench and unclench around nothing; adrenaline (or alcohol) shoots through his veins and he cannot wait for this goddamn elevator to open already! Wasn't Wolfram and Hart supposed to have the finest, fastest technology on this earth? Finally, finally, they're opening and he pounds through as Buffy mocks him. Sprinting down the hallway, he frantically peers at room numbers. 513, 515, 517, 519... There, 521. He lunges for the doorknob and jerkily yanks it open.
The stillness of the room makes him calm, and slightly ashamed of his erratic behavior. He knows what he has to do- it's all been laid out for him by his visitors, and he doesn't know why he was acting so oddly.
* * *
Willow passes her the map, and Fred turns it around, then replies, "I don't think I'm the one to be helping you with this. I'm confused myself, lately."
The redhead pauses, causing Fred to bump into her. They're trekking through what Willow informs her is the Valdivian temperate forest, in Chile, searching for something Willow won't name. She says, "What about?"
Fred sighs and replies, "I'm dying, I think. I don't really remember much, but I just- know. And there's this bear, and he keeps saying I have to help somebody but I don't know who and I don't understand how I'm supposed to do anything when I keep getting passed from dream to dream and boat to forest to roof and..." Her voice, which has slowly raised in pitch, is shrill and angry.
Pulling the map from her grip, tossing it aside, and enfolding Fred into her arms, Willow stays silent and compassionate as Fred breaks down in great, shuddering gasps.
* * *
She calms him and ignites him. She soothes him and yet, her every touch stirs within him a great passion- a yearning that he had suppressed dully for years. He had- he had just been lifted of that burden, but it had been so quickly replaced by a heavier, more painful one.
Fred was dying in that bed.
"I wish I knew where you were, Fred," Wesley whispers to her from the doorway, "I would find you if I could."
Lilah stands next to him, again. This time, her posture is erect and stiff, and her lips are pursed and silent. She is waiting, and she turns to him with expectant eyes.
"One more minute?" He asks.
She shakes her head, denies him permission. Wesley finds this cruel, and is displeased, but there's nothing he can do. It's out of his hands now.
In his hands- in his hands is the pistol. His thumb slides down, prepares to fire, but he defies Lilah and takes a few steps towards the bed, "Fred." His voice is reverent and slow, "You were always a goddess to me. It always came back to you, Fred."
These are appropriate parting words. Wesley turns back to Lilah for a moment, but she flickers to an unfamiliar young man with long brown hair and angry eyes. Leaning back down to Fred, he kisses her forehead softly.
* * *
Fred's cries grow. Willow holds her and rocks back and forth, offering meager comfort.
* * *
Wesley aims, fires, then walks away. The gun hits the floor with a clank, but Wesley cannot hear it over the loud scratching of the pen as he signs away his soul. Lilah folds the contract, tucks it in her briefcase, then leads him out the door. He shuts it as he leaves.