Gail stays with you that night, after the shootings and the kiss and the hospital waiting room. Sam Swarek will live, Chloe Price is still unconscious, and Oliver, Gail's Oliver, is a little confused but will be just fine in a day or two. It has been a long, terrifying day, and from what Sergeant Best says, the officers only have a few hours until they have to be back at the 15. So you tug a quiet Gail toward your car, knowing that if you don't get her out of there now, she'll end up staying all night and going straight to the station in the morning.

You've just pulled out of the parking lot when Gail lays a hand on your arm.

"Holly," she says, and you can hear threads of today's fear and worry woven through the sound of her voice, "can I just ... can we ..."

You stop at a red light and turn your head to look at her.

She looks small, like the events of the past two days have broken away parts of her, cut her down.

She's always so brave, Gail is. You can't imagine the strength it takes to go out into the streets, knowing that someone is hunting down the people you care about, knowing that you might find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun. But Gail does it because that's just who she is. Dedicated, honorable, loyal. Words that can't even begin to describe the woman sitting next to you.

It says something about her, you think, that she's stumbling now, that she doesn't seem to know how to ask for what she wants.

You decide to cross the line for her, to help her across the bridge.

"Hey," you say, looking into her eyes, "do you want to stay over tonight? It's just, it's been a long and scary day, and I really don't want to be alone yet."

Relief flashes across her face immediately, and she smiles.

"That, nerd," she says, "sounds like a good idea."

At your apartment, you dig up some pajamas for her-just sweatpants and a sinfully soft old t-shirt from college-and then leave her to change in the bedroom while you putter around in the kitchen. When you return, two cups of cocoa in your hands, the sight of her in your clothes makes your belly do a pleasant little flop. But you shove down your reaction and hand over one of the mugs.

There's a self-consciousness, a delicate awkwardness vibrating in the space between you two. And while there's nothing you'd rather do than wrap her up in your arms, and continue the delicate exchange of kisses she'd started earlier in the interrogation room, or at the very least, talk it over, you know that there are more pressing needs to attend to right now.

You let her finish her drink before you take the mug from her hands and put it on your dresser, right next to yours, and then sit back down next to her on the corner of your bed.

"So," you start, "there are some things we should talk about. But," you say, watching a range of emotions streak across her tired features, "we're not going to do that now. We're both exhausted. So we're going to sleep. Because tomorrow morning is going to come way too soon, and you're going to have to go to work and not get shot at. But when you get off, if you're ready, we can talk then. And if you're not ready to talk, then we'll wait until you are. Okay?"

Gail looks at you gratefully, and gives you the gentle smile you're starting to realize is reserved just for you.

"Okay," she says, and squeezes your hand.

You rise and pull back the covers of your bed, motioning for her to lay down. And while she gets settled, you turn off the lights and set the alarm for a time that is definitely going to come too soon. And then you get in on your side, pulling the comforter up over your tired body. The last thing you remember before slipping into unconsciousness is the feel of Gail reaching for your hand, threading her fingers between your own.

A perfect fit.