It's been it's been two days since she slept and God, she's tired. Hell, she can't actually remember the last time she was this tired. Her muscles are sore and her bones ache and the bags under her eyes are so heavy that they might as well have luggage tags on them. But sleep has become the enemy. Who could blame anyone for thinking that, considering everything that's happened over the past few days? What was to say that the moment that sleep took hold again, the same thing wouldn't happen? That she wouldn't be trapped in that God awful warehouse again, forced to watch the people she cares about die over and over, to being made to choose her own fears over them? It's petty but it's easier to just keep pressing forward.

It's no surprise that she's been off her A-Game all day. She's spent the whole thing in a fog, going through the motions: Take a shower, brush teeth, feed the cat, go to work, pretend to be busy, pretend to not be frustrated at the sight of her own code, at the incessant blinking of the cursor on the screen or the tapping of nails on keyboards or the fucking ticking of the clocks on the wall or the sound of someone's voice. By the end of the day, she was so beyond done that she was ready to shoot anyone who looked at her the wrong way.

She doesn't actually remember getting home, all she knows is that she's just relieved to be there, with her cat, with her projects, her books and her gadgets. There has to be something, anything to keep her busy, to quiet the noise inside her head. But despite her best efforts, she can't focus on anything; the words on the pages start to blur together, the yarn tangles, the smell of the solder stings her nostrils and Ulbie is being particularly needy. She's so out of it that when her phone chimes and blinks to life, she jumps, accidentally jams the fabric in her sewing machine and curses loudly as she knocks the phone off the table.

Just seeing the name on the screen is enough to put a small ghost of a smile on her face and for the first time today, she doesn't feel like she wants to scream. Instead, she sits back in her chair, kicks her feet up on the sewing table and quickly replies. The exchange is easy, casual, a nice reprieve from... well, pretty much everything. She doesn't waste much time when he invites her over and in fact, she doesn't even bother with putting her contacts back in or changing out of her stupid battlestar galactica leggings and oversized, ancient cat sweater. She just ties her messy hair back into a knot and has a serious conversation with the cat about how she's cheating on him with a human... but he just stares at her like she's grown a second head until she rolls her eyes and dumps a significant amount of food into his bowl. (He's too busy stuffing his stupid fat face to even notice or care that she's walked out the front door.)

Thank God for Uber, because she's pretty sure that driving would be the least conducive thing to staying alive right now. The driver isn't the overly chatty type, he's just there to get someone from Point-A to Point-B and she's glad for that. (But not so much for the fact that the car smells like day old Taco Bell.)

She waves goodbye to the stinkmobile as it pulls away in a manner that closely resembles the tail end of the opening credits to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, except she adds an exaggerated gagging face as she hikes up the stairs to the brownstone.

As promised, there's and pizza and beer and curling up in an unsurprisingly comfortable bed with the intention of watching hours of mindless television. They're halfway through the first episode of Attack on Titan when she finally lets out a deep yawn. She makes a face and shakes her head, all too aware that the dreaded sleep monster is looming over her like a fucking dark cloud and she knows it's only a matter of time before it sinks it's teeth into her, that sooner or later, she's going to close her eyes and the Sandman will win. But she won't give up without a fight. She sets her piece of pizza back down on the plate and rests her head against his chest, willing her eyes to stay open.

But she's out cold by the end of the episode.

And she doesn't dream of anything. Or at least she doesn't think she does. It's a blissful, wonderful nothing.

Her eyes flutter open when he stirs awake. She blindly reaches up a hand and gingerly runs her palm across the stubble on his face because despite her quiet sleep, she needs to know he's real. When he apologizes for waking her, she just extends a finger and places it against his lips, silently shushing him before nuzzling her face into his chest. She inhales deeply and shuts her eyes, drifting off again.

It's well past eleven in the morning when the ray of sunlight peeking through the curtains finally wakes her. She blinks twice, yawns softly and reaches up to wipe the sleep from her eyes. Her bleary gazes moves from his hand and travels up his arm to his face. A lazy smile makes it's way across her features. He looks peaceful. She leans up and places a soft kiss against his chin.

There's a part of her, a big part, that wants to just burrow further under the blankets and to just enjoy the warmth of it, because he wasn't lying–it was a really freaking nice bed. But that fucking ray of sunshine is still blinding her. And for a split second, she thinks about being mad at him for making her have feelings, she even scrunches her nose up and sticks her tongue out, but she dismisses it quickly. (Because that's dumb.) Instead, she turns her scowl to the beam of light slowly making it’s way across the room and mentally curses Mother Nature because how dare it be nice out? before begrudgingly working her way out from under his arm, careful not to wake him.

Another yawn slips by her as she pads lightly across the floor, rubbing her eye with one hand and stretching the other over her head. Still mad at the sun, she pulls the curtains closed, a little matter of factly for them being inanimate and heads for the bathroom.

It's the normal boring morning stuff. Going pee while reading the news on her half-dead cell phone, being suddenly thankful for the travel toothbrush she keeps on her bag, snooping in the medicine cabinet, peeking behind the shower curtain and hoping he doesn't mind that she used his toothpaste.

Before long, she finds herself in the kitchen, staring at the coffee pot and trying to will it to work itself. When that doesn't play out like she hoped, she huffs and loads it like it's second nature. (Though not without cursing at the coffee grinder for what she considers unnecessary noise that she doesn't realize until it's too late could probably wake him up. Woops?) The fridge is mostly an array of take out containers, a half eaten red velvet cake from her birthday and various beers. If she didn't know better, she'd think it was hers and she laughs at the thought. But there's eggs and cheese in the door and peppers, onions asparagus and spinach in the crisper. Either he actually went grocery shopping or they were leftover from when she made dinner for him a week ago. Whatever the case, she's famished and it all looks edible, so she shrugs and sets them on the counter.

She yawns again, hikes up the sleeves of her dumb cat sweater and sets to work making the world's ugliest frittata, because a good night's sleep deserves a good breakfast... brunch? Whatever.