A/N: I believe the name of Stahl's son is Justin.
He feels something cold on his face and startles awake. Woz's wife takes her hand away from his forehead and he sees something a bit foreign to him in her eyes. Kindness, perhaps? He turns his head slightly and sees Cristina staring at him from the windowsill. The light punctures his eyeballs and he lets his lids fall shut. Slowly, his brain tries to inspect the events of last night but is as successful as a boat in molasses. He feels he deserves this.
"Justin?" he asks hoarsely.
"He is safe, they are bringing him home".
Safe...A sigh of relief escapes him.
They file through the door irritated and hungry, moving through to the kitchen. Tufo shoots daggers at him. She walks in behind him, then-is he seeing this right?-Woz carries his kid. Justin looks tired but his face lights up, "Dad!" He squirms and is let down and next second he is around Stahl's neck. What the hell was I thinking, not seeing you for days on end? as certain clarity strikes him. Justin's heart is like a bird hammering against his chest. And they just sit there for a while, safe and content.
The voices and laughter escape from the kitchen and he grows uncomfortable. This is not his. He pulls out his phone and dials a cab.
"What are you doing?", her voice asks him from the doorway.
"What does it look like?" He is pissed and does not look at her.
"Do you even have food at your house?" Silence answers her question.
"I thought so. You both need something to eat, then shower and sleep".
He wants to refuse but that would be stupid.
They eat dinner in silence. What is there to say? Justin gets the first turn in the shower and comes out, lost in Cristina's old pajamas, wet hair plastered to his forehead.
"Come on", Harlee gestures at Stahl, "you can have my bed, I will stay with Cristina". Justin finishes his cookie and milk and runs up with her daughter. Soon he is ensconced in a mound of pillows and is out in minutes.
Stahl heads to the shower. He closes and locks the door then starts to peel off his clothes. Whoever removed his sweater, to them he is grateful. The shirt on him is so sweaty and wrinkled that he frowns. He unbuttons it slowly then gets annoyed and pulls it over his head. He divests himself of everything else and sudden dizziness hits him so hard beads of sweat break out on his forehead. He has to slide down the wall so that his head doesn't meet the tiles. His stomach is flipping and he sits there quietly waiting for nausea to subside. There is a knock on the door, he knows who that is. He opens the lock and cracks the door open. A silent feminine hand sticks through and makes swift grabbing motions. Right now all he feels is hatred but he gathers his clothes nonetheless and shoves them out the door. This and whatever remains of her "gift" she bestowed on him earlier loosen something in him and he is horrified to feel treasonous moisture. He does not remember the last time he cried, he almost forgot what it feels like. He pulls up his knees and rakes his hands through his hair.
Harlee bends down to grab his clothes and stills as she hears him clear his throat. Is he ...? She is so wracked with guilt she wants to come in but she doubts that's what he would have wanted. Instead, she puts her palm to the wall and slowly drags her fingertips on the paint.
The water is pleasantly warm and the towels are fluffy. His body relaxes and he studies the cracks in the ceiling. All sorts of thoughts, all sorts of feelings start swirling in this space of relief. And it hits him: there is no one to hunt if that's what he chooses. This is so foreign, unnerving to him.
He finally shivers and gets out. As he is putting a towel around his hips, his gaze lands on a folded gray robe and he raises his eyebrows. "Who cares...", he pulls it on, pads down the hall and quietly lays on the bed.