Stella is startled out of her reverie by a sharp knock on the door of her hotel room. She tenses, her hand flying to the gun on her bedside table before she registers the knock for what it is. A killer wouldn’t knock, she thinks wryly, and a flash of anger at her own paranoia passes through her as she swings her legs out of bed.
It’s Reed, of course, and Stella lets herself linger at the peephole a moment longer than necessary before pulling back the bolt. Professor Reed Smith is studying the hallway’s patterned carpet, hands shoved in the pockets of her tight jeans. Her dark hair falls over one eye like a curtain, and her shoulders are hunched beneath the fitted leather jacket.
Her head jerks up when Stella swings the door open, and she smiles in her hesitant way.
“I came to apologize,” Reed says when she has stepped into the room. She nervously fingers one of the zippers on her jacket. “For…for Croydon.”
Stella’s back is to Reed as she pours red wine into two glasses, but she is careful to let the smile show in her tone. “That’s a big undertaking. Apologizing on behalf of an entire city.”
They both know it isn’t what was meant at all, but Reed is smiling now too as she accepts a glass from Stella. “Well, I thought someone should.”
They sip in silence for a moment, Stella perched on the arm of a chair, Reed standing stiffly near the door, both hands wrapped tightly around her wine glass as though she worries it might break without her holding it together. Even when she’s nervous, Stella thinks, Reed Smith has a kind of self-assurance that most people can only wish for.
“Sit down,” Stella murmurs, at the same time Reed clears her throat to say, “It’s late.”
Their eyes meet. Reed rubs her thumb against the wine glass, the movement solemn and practiced. “I should—”
“Stay,” Stella interrupts coolly. “You should stay.”
And she does. Laying her leather jacket over the back of one of the velvet chairs, Reed accepts the sleeveless shirt and light pajama bottoms Stella is holding out to her. Stella, already wrapped luxuriously in one of her pale silk robes, settles herself on the bed while Reed goes into the bathroom to change.
It occurs to her, quite suddenly, that she is unsure whether to slide under the duvet or lay herself out on top of it the way she would for someone like James Olson. Men are easy for Stella to read, and she finds little thrill in their shameless desire for her, all that unchecked wanting that makes her feel cold in comparison.
With Reed, reading feelings is more difficult. It isn’t just that she is a woman— Stella has seen women look at her with the same sort of hunger that so often darkens the faces of men. No, Reed is new somehow, the kind of mystery that requires careful handling. And time. The thing Stella never seems to have enough of.
Still, for Reed she finds that she wants to make time. Because— and if she were being completely honest with herself, she would have to admit she is surprised by this— Reed came back. And that, Stella thinks, is what intrigues her about this woman.
By the time the bathroom door creaks open and Reed emerges, makeup-less and tired-looking, Stella is sitting cross-legged against the pillows with the duvet folded back in front of her. She has elected not to look sexy for Reed tonight (well, she thinks wryly, not intentionally sexy, at least).
It’s the right decision, she thinks, as Reed crosses to the other side of the bed and lifts her own corner of the duvet. She doesn’t think Reed has come here for sex.
There’s a moment of rustling while Reed gets comfortable on her side of the bed and Stella takes another sip of her wine, trying to pretend she isn’t watching Reed out of the corner of her eye.
Then, “What do you suppose he’s doing right now?”
Stella turns to look at Reed, letting surprise arch her eyebrows. “Spector?” she murmurs mildly, even though she knows it’s who Reed meant.
A nod. Reed is looking down again, twisting a loose thread between her fingers. Is she worried, Stella wonders, about her family? Her daughters? How many other people does Reed love, does she think about in times like these? More than she, Stella, has to think of, that’s certain.
“I don’t know,” she says finally. There’s nothing she can say to make either of them forget that Spector is out there somewhere, so she doesn’t try.
“Doesn’t it bother you?” Reed asks, and Stella meets her eyes. “Knowing he could be killing again right now and there’s nothing we can do about it?”
Stella is quiet for a long time. She wants to say, No. No, I have no use for guilt and worry, such thoughts would only stand in the way of my work…But she would be lying.
“Yes,” she says instead, simply, baldly. “It bothers me every second of every day.”
Reed nods slowly, eyes following the movements of her own fingers against the blanket. She looks as if she means to say something, Stella thinks, but when she opens her mouth it is only to murmur a gentle “Goodnight.” Then she rolls over and lays her head on the too-plump hotel pillow, so that all Stella can see is the strands of dark hair falling across one hunched shoulder.
Most of the time, Stella doesn’t like it when people stay the night. The feel of another body too close to hers, sharing the same sheets, the smell of sweat and sex…it leaves her restless, unable to stop remembering.
With Reed, it feels different. Maybe it’s because they are only sleeping, or maybe it’s that Reed doesn’t try to occupy the whole bed the way men sometimes do. Reed’s presence here feels natural somehow, not like an intruder. Not someone who makes Stella wake at strange hours with a sudden need to be alone.
“Goodnight,” she whispers, belatedly, and clicks the light off. It isn’t long before her breathing matches the even rhythm on the other side of the bed.
Hours later, Stella jolts awake, gasping. She feels like there’s something stuck in her throat and struggles to take a deep breath, trying desperately to make herself impervious to the waves of panic crashing over her. She must be drowning, she thinks, but no, there is no water, only air…and yet the air is like poison to her, incompatible, somehow, with her nose, with her mouth. A noise escapes her, somewhere between a cough and a whimper, and the dam is broken, air rushing into her lungs.
Stella’s hand strikes out confusedly into the darkness, groping for the leather-bound journal on her bedside table. Instead, her fingers connect with a shoulder, Reed’s, and she remembers, quite suddenly, that she is not alone here in the hotel bed.
Beside her, Reed stirs, her eyelids fluttering open. She has moved closer during the night and Stella realizes that she, too, must have turned over— they are facing each other now.
Reed’s forehead is creased with worry, her eyes alert even this soon out of sleep. She reaches out, disentangling herself from the coverlet, and her hand comes to rest on top of Stella’s, quieting the scrabbling fingers as she grips them firmly in her own.
“Tell me,” Reed murmurs. And to Stella’s surprise, she does.
Later, when she falls asleep again, it’s with Reed’s steady fingers laced through her own, and the dream journal lies unopened on the table beside her. Tonight, at least, it is not needed.