Counterfeit Love

"It's okay, angel," I assured her, shifting her body a bit, arms going down, hauling her up into my arms, then walking us out of that shed, kicking the doors closed again.

I wanted to take the picture of Chris. I wanted to destroy it for her. I wanted to do the same with the footage.

But there was no guarantee of time when you were committing crimes. We couldn't risk it.

And the evidence would be there.

For the cops to find.

For them to see that justice had already been served.

I deposited Chris into the passenger side, moved around to my side, turned over the engine, and drove us out of there.

She'd told me before that the plan for after was to drive around town randomly, then to stop on a dead-end road, get out, deal with the fake plates, take off the hats and gloves, then make the way back toward the hotel.

I did most of these things.

With a nearly catatonic Chris in the passenger seat, offering no resistance while I did so.

Worry was a fist in my stomach as I parked the car, looking at her profile, unsure how the hell I was supposed to get her back into the hotel when she was so out of it.

Deciding carrying was the only way, I carefully tucked her head into my neck to do so, walking in the front doors, shaking my head at the desk clerks, offering them a wry smile. "She thinks she handles her liquor a helluva lot better than she does," I told them, watching as they chuckled. I moved us into an elevator where a couple guys joined. "If your girl ever says she can handle a third shot of tequila, remember this is the outcome," I told them, getting more chuckles before I got off on our floor, carrying her into our suite, carefully placing her on the bed, pulling off her shoes.

Kicking off my own, I climbed in with her, pulling her over my chest, wrapping her up, running my fingers through her hair, down her back.

"It's gonna be alright," I assured her, even if I had absolutely no idea if it was true or not.

She'd told me she lost it sometimes. That when things got to be too much, she would shut down.

I imagined it was a defense mechanism she'd developed when she'd been held against her will all those years ago. And it was just something that stuck. I hoped that it meant she could come back out of it given a little time, that I wasn't going to have to call in reinforcements.

Because I knew she didn't want them.

Because she wanted it to be her choice when and how to tell her loved ones about this mission of hers.

So I just held her, hoping maybe sleep could act as a hard reset, that it could shake loose whatever this was that had a grip on her.

Eventually, sleep claimed me as well."Finch!" Chris's voice pulled me out of a dream I had no business having given the fact that she'd been crying in my arms just a few hours before, one that involved nakedness and sweat.

I shot up in bed, disoriented, finding Chris sitting against on the headboard, awake, eyes huge, frantic, but not in the same way they'd been the day before.

"Angel, are you al--"

"What is the matter with you?" she hissed, raking a hand through her hair, then scrambling off the side of the bed. "For God's sake," she added, reaching up to rip the shirt off her body, leaving her in a black tank underneath.

"Whoa, okay. I don't know what's going on here, love," I admitted, climbing off the bed.

"Oh, Jesus. The shoes too?" she ranted, scooping down to grab them, wrapping them in the sweatshirt before shoving both into the trash bin beside the bed before reaching down to rip off her pants. "What were you thinking?"

"Alright, Chris, sweetheart, I am going to need you to explain this little freak out to me," I told her as she shoved the pants into the bin too.

"The clothes, Finch. The clothes."

"Yeah. I see that they're some kind of problem."

"Take off your clothes," she demanded.

I'd fantasized about those words coming out of her mouth. Of course, in those fantasies, she didn't sound completely disgusted in me while she did it.

"Chris," I tried, voice a little firmer, grabbing her attention.

"You brought evidence back into the hotel room!" she nearly shouted at me. "Take off your clothes. Shove them into the garbage, then go take a shower," she demanded, stalking into the bathroom, slamming the door, the water turning on.

Alright then.

At least she was back.

Even if she was a bit, ah, crazy at the moment.

I could handle crazy.

But, apparently, I couldn't handle it until I showered.

I whipped off my clothes, shoved them in the bin like she'd demanded, then went to do just that.