"Fee?" One thing spies learn is you don't ask stupid questions, because you're not sure how many chances you're actually going to get to speak. Still the desire to ask her if she's okay is almost overwhelming. He sits beside her on the bed, wincing as she groans, and brushes back a strand of hair, only the loose, flyaway ends not caked with blood. "You're really going to owe me a new set of sheets."

"Don't, Michael." Her voice is soft, and it sounds nearly as broken as she looks. "It hurts to laugh."

"Is there anything it doesn't hurt to do?"

"No."

"I'll stop making you laugh then, but only if you promise to keep breathing."

"Haven't stopped yet." It sounds like she should, so he just concentrates on turning her over slowly, getting a good look at her injuries. She's a mass of burgeoning bruises, her flesh mottled with purple and blue and black. "What do you think of my new look?"

"Don't go changin' just to please me." He pushes more hair back and traces the structure of her face, trying to feel for fractures and swelling. "Did you hit on somebody else's boyfriend, Fee?"

"I only hit on the people you tell me to, Michael." She winces as his fingers graze along her jaw, but he doubts anyone who wasn't touching her would have noticed. "I got away."

"I see that." He gets up and flinches as she makes a small whimpering sound. He tells himself it's due to the shifting of the mattress, not to him leaving, because he thinks it might be the only way he can live with himself right now. He goes into the kitchen and fills a pan with warm water and grabs a sponge and a bottle of really good whiskey. "IRA?"

"You remember the part we talked about where I'm still breathing?" Her eyes are closed and he can hear her breathing, raspy and raw, as he walks back over. He sits on the edge again and offers her the bottle, holding it to her lips. She takes a deep swallow and holds it before letting it slide down her throat, and he figures the shudder has to hurt, but in the way that ends up making things feel better. "Guns."

"You girls and your accessories." He takes a swig himself and gets the sponge wet, squeezing off the excess and slowly beginning to wipe blood and dirt off her skin. Her face is raw and scratched and he's careful to free any small gravel and debris with slight pressure before he wipes the sponge over her skin. "Tell me the truth. There was a sale at the mall."

"Yeah." She closes her eyes and exhales a shaky breath. "You should see the clerk who wouldn't give me a discount on the Gucci."

Michael laughs and cleans her up, his own breathing coming easier as he realizes that she's hurt, but she's not injured. Her shoulder is dislocated, but that's easily fixed, and her jaw is fractured, but time will heal that. "You want some aspirin?"

"I want some more of that whiskey."

Michael nods and helps her sit up, holding the bottle for her. The blood in her hair is from a surface cut where she was either hit or fell, the bump on the back of her head tender to his touch. "You okay?"

"Of course I am, Michael. Don't I look okay?"

He nods and leans in, kissing her softly. "You look great, Fee."