Disclaimer: Don't own anything in the movie Collateral, I only own Victoria. And Allen, but he bit it big time. SIGH

Special Note to Warm Mittens: Awwww...don't cry! Here, here's your hug! {{BIG HUG}} You are so sweet, girlfriend. I so didn't mean to make you cry...here, this chapter should make you feel a little bit better. I'm updating just for you. :)

Reasons

She didn't need to bathe. She'd already bathed the day before. She hardly smelled like anything, as she hadn't done anything that day except get dressed and go find her dead ex-husband.

She ran the hot water, filling up the large, deep tub. There wasn't any bubblebath, but there was some bath salt, so she dumped it in, turning the water a milky off-white. When she stepped in, it was steaming like a bowl of soup, and she sank all the way to the bottom without so much as sucking in her breath. She lay back, trying to calm herself. She had the aftereffects of crying stuck in her throat, the hiccupping breaths that took forever to go away. She closed her eyes, tried to focus herself, tried everything she could think of to make herself calm down, but knew, eventually, that there was no way that was going to happen. Her logical doctor mind told her she was grieving. Grieving was a process. Denial, bargaining, anger, acceptance...she couldn't think straight enough to figure them all out. Something else, a fifth one...who the hell cared. She just wanted to lay her head back, sink down, drown. She'd just be another corpse on the mortician's slab that night. The thought was oddly peaceful. She slipped down far enough so that her lips went under water, but her nose stayed above, keeping her supplied with air. She wasn't going to kill herself. But dammit if she would ever be able to smile again.

The water started to cool down. Her back started to ache from resting against the hard basin of the tub. She didn't want to get out yet, so she leaned forward, pulling her knees up to her chest, folding her arms in front of her, burying her face there, just staring into space, trying not to think of anything.

There was a gentle rap at the door. It opened slightly, and a hand came through, holding one of the hotel room's drinking glasses, filled with a few fingers of some kind of alcohol. He shook the glass, making the ice tingle.

Then the rest of him appeared. He had his hand over his eyes, allowing her her modesty, and since she wasn't screaming at him to get out, he was assuming it was safe to come in. He peeked at her though his fingers, saw she was shielding anything she didn't want to be seen, and then dropped his hand. He put the glass on the wide rim of the tub. She looked at it for a moment, then picked it up. He sat down on the sink.

"How to you feel?" he asked. She almost choked on the whiskey, good old Jim Beam, left a burning trail down her throat that hurt more than usual after all the crying she'd been doing. It wasn't the pain that made her choke, it was the simple idiocy of the question. Something a doctor would ask.

She put the glass down, looked over at him. Her throat hurt too much to speak, so she just shifted her shoulders up in a shrug.

He nodded. "I understand. I do. But you have to pull together. We're checking out tomorrow. We're going to go over to the Renaissance."

"Why?" she croaked, surprised.

"Not good to stay in one place too long. Now that...well, things have happened, people are going to start looking for you in particular who aren't criminals. You want them to find you?"

She blinked slowly, her eyes aching with all the tears she'd shed. "I guess not," she murmured. She closed her eyes, rested her head on her arms, feeling so weary. She hadn't meant to become a criminal, let alone a fugitive from the law. It wasn't fair, this awful deal she had been handed in life. Had God totally abandoned her? What was she going to do?

Vincent reached out, pulling one of her wet locks of hair from where it stuck to the side of her face. The back of his fingers stroked her hair, just over her ear. She opened her eyes, looked at him.

"Come on, Vic," he said, his voice so soft, so compassionate. "I'll go, you get out and dry off. I brought you a sleep-shirt, too. One of those silly, cutesy things with a cartoon cat on it, saying he doesn't do mornings."

In spite of herself, she gave him a small smile. "Okay," she whispered. She picked up her glass, finished the whiskey, and handed it to him, as his hand was out and waiting for it. He gave her a last, small smile and left her in peace, as he promised. For her end, she did get out and dry off, letting her hair stay wet, even though it was neatly combed this time. Vincent had put the shirt on the sink and it was just as he'd described it.

When she came out of the bathroom and saw her bed, she realized how tired she was. She didn't feel she had the right to be that tired, as it was only eight o'clock in the evening, and she hadn't done much that day. Unless you counted crying for nearly four hours. It did take a lot out of her. She made her way around her bed, stopped at the foot, sat down.

She didn't care. She didn't care what happened to her. She didn't care about anything. She felt totally numb. She wished she could just shut her eyes, and disappear. She actually tried it, letting her eyelids flutter shut.

"Victoria, I poured you another drink if you want it," came Vincent's gentle, cajoling voice. Opening her eyes, she sighed, stood up and made her way to the table between the beds. There were four fingers of whiskey in the glass now, and she raised it to her lips, taking a very healthy swallow. She let it burn down her throat; let the bitter taste snap at her tongue, relishing the unpleasantness of it. She finished the glass in another swig, opened her eyes, saw Vincent looking up at her, his lips twisted into an expression of admiration.

"You want some more?" he asked. "Although to be honest, alcohol doesn't dull the pain. It's a mood enhancer. If you're depressed, it will only make you more depressed."

"Then why do people drink when they're sad?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Gluttons for punishment. Misery does love company."

She sighed, sitting down. It took her a second to realize she was sitting on his bed, exactly as she had the night before. He was still fully dressed, gray pants, white shirt, now mostly open. She reached up a hand and checked to make sure that the gauze was still clean.

"It's pretty much stopped bleeding," he said. "It's started to itch a little."

"Good sign," she nearly slurred. "Means it's healing."

He nodded, looked at her. "How about you, do you itch? Are you healing?"

She raised her eyes to meet his. It took more effort than she would have liked. Hell, it was only three shots of whiskey. On an empty stomach. After a very difficult day. What was she going to say again? Oh, yeah. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Never," he said, and she could not tell if he was serious. She leaned closer to him.

"Am I drunk?" she asked.

"Probably pretty buzzed." She realized he was flipping idly through a magazine, sitting on his lap. "No body could possibly blame you, though."

She reached out, pulled the magazine off his lap and tossed it onto her bed. "What about you, do you blame me?"

"Not at all," he said, softer, his smile so sweet. She smiled back at him, leaned closer, smelling his aftershave. It wasn't cheap - he must have carried something expensive on him, or bought it downstairs. It was like linen...crisp and fresh.

His lips were so close to hers. She reached up, cradled his face between her hands, her palms tingling with the contact of his rough goatee. She wanted to run the soft insides of her fingers across it, but instead, she leaned in even closer and kissed him.

He kissed her back.

It occurred to her, in the part of her mind that wasn't completely controlled by the combination of alcohol and grief, that he had kissed her first, the other night. So drunk or not, she could have very rightly kissed him, as he seemed to be encouraging some kind of romantic liaison between them. She wanted to ask him if he seduced all his lady hostages, but knew he would be offended by her referring to herself as a hostage, as he claimed he was protecting her. And again, the question of WHY he was protecting her, what was her importance to him, it couldn't just be out of the goodness of his heart, that didn't fit in with him. Or did it?

The part of her brain that was controlled by her grief and alcohol intake told the rest of it to shut up. He had his arms around her now, holding her close as she explored his mouth, massaging his lips with her own, gently and entirely at her own pace. He let her go on so long that she began to think he was just waiting for her to stop, so she did, in a moment of hesitancy. She pulled back.

His arms were firm around her waist, her back. She gazed down at him. Then she set her head down on his chest, wrapping herself around him. He shifted, giving her more room on the bed, the warmth he'd created underneath him filling her up with the movement. He held her there for a bit, silent and gazing out the window, waiting for whatever she was going to do next.

After a time, she began to grow uncomfortable with the closeness, and began to shift in his arms, almost pushing him away. He loosened his grip and she half sat-up, looking away.

"What is it?"

She didn't answer. She couldn't think, there was just too much in her head.

"Victoria?" A hand gently lifted her face to meet his. She gazed into his eyes, those cold, soulless eyes. How could something so beautiful be so empty? She saw nothing more there than she had on the first night she'd met him.

She almost laughed. "This is ridiculous," she said, although it wasn't for his benefit.

He shook his head, pulling her closer. She would have fought him if she'd had the strength, but the thought of completely letting go of him was a bit unbearable at the moment. She would start crying again, and she didn't want that.

"No, it isn't," he assured her. She was beside him now, almost prone next to him. They looked at each other, and she felt utterly foolish.

"Yes it is," she said, again more to herself. "You want to get laid and I'm the only piece of pussy in the room."

To her surprise, he laughed softly. "You shouldn't talk about yourself like that. It isn't true." He pulled her closer, so close she was tempted to kiss him again, just because it made being this close to him less complicated.

"The heartless assassin is trying to make me feel better." Who in the hell was she talking to, anyway? Or worse yet, who was talking through her? "Don't play pretend, Vincent."

"I'm not playing." He stroked her hair, her shoulder, down to her chest. She felt the first caress of his hand beside her breast, wanting to envelop it in his palm, but waiting. "Tell me what you want, Victoria."

"What I want?"

"What you want me to do. Tell me and I'll do it."

It was her turn to almost laugh. "Right."

"Seriously." Gently, his hand cupped her left breast, his thumb working at the nipple through the cotton of her shirt. She felt herself respond. "Tell me. Talk to me."

She was on fire, either from the alcohol or from the images that suddenly flashed into her mind. There was no way in hell she was going to tell him...she'd never even told Allen. It wasn't a big surprise that the two of them hadn't had much of a sex life. Then the thought of Allen made her close her eyes, flinch, turn away.

"No, no, Victoria," Vincent whispered, pulling her back, "stay with me. Tell me." He kissed her, moved his mouth down her chin, down her neck. "Tell me," he whispered against her skin. "Tell me."

Whether she told him or not, for that moment, he seemed to know exactly what to do. Various parts of her began to awaken; her body grew a mind of its own. Her hormones made her mouth open, started pushing out the dark secrets, things she had never told anyone, things she was ashamed to have rolling around inside her head.

And he did them. He did all of them. (A/N: Sorry guys, gotta keep my PG-13 rating!)

She slept for maybe an hour. Four o'clock blazed at her from the digital on the table. Ignoring the ache throughout her entire body, particularly down below, she pulled herself upright.

She was keenly aware, after a few seconds, that Vincent was already awake. She doubted he'd ever gone to sleep. The man didn't seem to sleep much at all. She got up from the bed, walked a bit unsteadily toward the other end of the room. Not the bathroom, but toward the window.

They had a good room. The window was floor to ceiling, the entire west wall of the hotel room. The carpet was in good shape, sinking under her feet as she walked. She wished she knew where he was hiding the rest of the Jim Beam. She considered asking him, but knew she was lucky so far that he hadn't asked her where she was going. It was a stupid question, though. Any idiot could see she was just going across the room.

She found a wide, empty spot on the floor right beside the window, sat down. She curled herself against the window, knees pulled up, legs bare against the cool glass. She rested her shoulder against it, too, so she could look directly down. They weren't that high up. Six or seven floors, she wasn't sure. There were a lot of lights outside, though. They weren't far from the airport at all.

The light spread over her arms, which were wrapped around her knees in front of her. There were various red spots along her wrist - almost hard enough to bruise. He hadn't gone as far as she would have liked, probably still able to be logical enough to realize that visible bruising would lead to suspicions, possibly questions they didn't want to answer. She sighed deeply, her breath frosting up the glass. Idly she began to draw on the fogged spot with her finger. Sure, he was great in bed. But she wasn't stupid enough to think it meant anything to him. No matter how generous he'd been.

He got up so silently that when she saw his reflection above her in the glass she gave a little start. "You okay?" he asked.

"Fine," she said, looking back out the window.

"Liar," he said, sitting down beside her, also against the glass. Part of her was very annoyed that he did this, that he was invading her privacy, that she just wanted him to go away for five minutes so she could think clearly. The other part of her told her to just shut up. Sex changed things. He probably was very well aware of that. As much as she wanted to resent him for being so calculating, she could not simply shove him away and expect it to be okay with him. He probably knew that, too. She wanted to cuss at him, found she lacked the venom, went back to staring out the window again.

"I want to stay here," she said, lifting up her head and resting her cheek, which was still bright pink from exertion, against the glass, letting it cool her face.

"Here, at this hotel?"

"In L.A. I don't leave. I want to stay here and find out who killed Allen, and I want to kill the bastard who did it."

Vincent looked at her very calmly, as if seriously considering her words.

She lifted up her cheek, a silly idea coming to her. Very little point in holding back, she thought. "How much do you charge?"

"I'm sorry?"

"For a hit. How much do you charge? Could I pay you to do it? Find out who killed Allen?"

He shook his head. "It's very expensive, Victoria. I don't think you could afford it."

"I could afford it. I've got a lot more saved than you think."

"Yeah, well, I don't want you blowing it all on me. Besides, that's not who you are. You want revenge, that's human, that's fine. But you'll regret it later. You said so yourself, you give life, you don't take it away. You and I are opposites. You don't try to be me, and I won't try to be you."

His words were spoken in such a way, like a parent trying to reason with an upset child, but not at all patronizing.

"A hit man is telling me not to seek revenge," she muttered.

"An assassin is being reasonable with a potential client," he replied. "You're emotional. If you still feel that way in a few days, ask me again."

She almost stood up in her surprise. "A few days?" As if she'd thought that all of this was going to be over soon...stupid girl, of course, it wasn't, her rational voice said.

He was about to say something else, but someone suddenly blasted the heavy bolt right off their hotel room door with a very loud explosion, and light from the hallway flooded the room.

A/N: And the torture Continues! Ha ha! So sorry, no responses today, I got behind and had a bunch of other stuff to do, so I figured I'd stick with writing the upcoming chapter 7, since that's what everyone is here for, anyway. But keep reviewing, and I'll respond to you as soon as I can! Thanks, kisses and hugs for everyone!