Ben didn't try to start a conversation as they drove. He must have known that she wasn't feeling up to it and so he didn't try to push her, which she loved him for. A few minutes into the drive Laurel did reach over to his free hand and interlock her fingers with his, and she felt him clutch back. This was what she needed right now. She didn't need to talk about it, not yet at least. His silent support was enough for now.

What about tomorrow, though? Or the next day? Was it going to be enough then? The uncertainty of her immediate future was something that she didn't want to think about but she also couldn't not think about it. What was going to happen? What was she going to do? It terrified her.

The trip from the hospital to her home was far too short. She suddenly became aware that he was pulling the car over and she recognized the building in which she lived. It had been a warehouse once upon a time but in more recent years it was re-purposed to house a variety of loft apartments. Laurel was gazing out of the window at the building for a moment, suddenly very reluctant to leave and be alone.

"Want me to come up with you?" Ben asked, almost as though he could read her mind. "I could stay for a while, if you want me to."

Her immediate urge was to respond yes, but she forced herself to shake her head. She needed to be alone. "Not tonight. I'll call you tomorrow after I find out what's happening, alright?" He nodded and they looked at each other in silence for a moment before Laurel leaned in and they kissed. It was soft but lingering, and she gently held to the back of his neck to prolong it. He held her cheek and for those few moments Laurel thought she might be actually be alright when this was all over. Then those moments ended when they pulled back.

"Thanks for coming to get me."

"Always."

Reluctantly Laurel got out of her boyfriends car and headed toward her building. Ben didn't drive away until she was inside and she watched his car disappear through the glass, regret filling her as the tail lights blended with the rest of them. She took the stairs slowly, almost wandering her way to her door. She fumbled with the key in the lock more than usual but managed to get the door open and slipped inside. Laurel closed the door and turned the lock and found herself properly alone for the first time that night. Her very first instinct was to let out all of the grief and tears she'd been bottling up for hours. There wasn't anyone around to see it and she felt as if she would simply burst if she didn't. Instead she braced herself against the door, leaning her head back against it as she breathed deeply through he nose and squeezed her eyes shut, composing herself before moving the rest of the way into her little studio loft.

She placed her items down on the counter top. Among them was the bag of clothing that she had been wearing and had gotten soaked with James Weller's blood. The hospital have given her the ill fitting scrubs she was wearing now since they couldn't have a woman covered in blood sitting in the waiting room. The slacks and shirt were probably ruined, as was the scarf her sister had gotten her for her birthday a couple of years ago. Her jacket had miraculously been spared though. She pulled her badge from the coat pocket and set it on the counter, and then laid her gun next to it. Laurel looked down at the two items for several moments, emotions flitting across her face before she finally turned away from them. 

Sleeping was not going to happen right now and she had no appetite. Still she felt like she had to busy herself with something, so she started making a pot of coffee. Laurel started a routine she'd done so many times before, but after a while her hand slipped and the old coffee grounds in the used filter she wanted to throw away fell to the wood floor, making a disgusting mess, and then she spilled the water she was trying to put into the coffee maker.

"Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit!" Banging her fist against the counter top a few times in frustration, Laurel snatched up a sponge and rag and hunkered down to the clean up her mess. But partway through wiping up the water and cleaning up the grounds it all became too much for her. There was too much bottled inside and just screwing up making a pot of coffee was the last straw. 

Laurel broke. She laid back against the door of one of the cabinets under the counter and sink, curling her knees to her chest so she was as small as she could possibly be, and started crying. Who was she crying for though? Herself? Or James Weller? Or maybe she was crying for the both of them.