Her head hits the frame as she leans against the car window, watching the lavender tinted streaks fade into the sky. She knows that the tiredness that comes from lack of sleep, lots of stress and just general fear is finally hitting her, as she can't even make herself slide her head back.

Her key ring slides neatly between her fingers, as she twists it in time with the bumps they hit in the road. She barely notices the slight sting as the metal pinches her skin, abrading it further.

For the first time, she can say she fears the dark. But not what it hides- what she fears it *won't* hide. Them.

She'd often pictured this scenario in the last few weeks, her and John and the open road. But running for your life sounds so much more simple in thoughts, seems like it packs so less worry and fear and determination.

She can sense him glancing over at her, but can't rouse enough energy to tell him she's okay. Cause she isn't, really, and she knows he hates it when she lies.

She knows they're running low on gas- can see it in the quick, sharp glances he gives at the dashboard every few minutes. They should hit a gas station soon- thankfully, she's found that miles of nothingness often only appear in movies, not in real life.

She knows he wanted to keep going, have them take turns driving. She silently curses herself for not having the grit to make herself take her turn when the time comes. But she can't, and she knows that pushing herself would only lead to even more dangerous risks with her behind the wheel.

She wavers between half sleep until he pulls into something. From the bright fluorescent beams that flood the car, she's guessing it's a gas station.

He murmurs that he's going to fill up the tank before he exits, and she's able to purse her mouth into a smile. 'John, I haven't gone stupid on you. I'm just tired,' she thinks ruefully.

When she hears the pump clink back into its stationary position, she prays he'll think to grab her something caffeinated when he pays inside. At least they'd both had quite nice savings accounts that they'd emptied before they'd left. It made for a slight comfort zone, at least for now.

The door opens again, and he flicks some items in before entering himself. She can see some wrappers and a can of coke in her peripheral view, and this time smiles inwardly. "We're almost there," he says quietly, reaching out a hand.

But it wavers before it reaches her, and hesitantly drops back as though he hopes that if he moves slowly enough, she won't notice it was there at all. But she did notice- if she'd been blind and deaf, she'd have felt the heat that emanated even with it not touching her.

She silently sighed. He was acting as though she was a doll, easily cracked and splintered by a touch. She nearly laughed at that idea.

Dolls were quaint and pretty, and she was haggard and feeling older by the minute. And she knew she'd cracked long ago, back when she'd found a young boy in the woods and watched a father fall apart.

She wonders how he put his cracks back together again. She damn well wishes he'd have shared the glue.

As she feels the car turn, she opens her eyes again and finds they're at a run-of-the-mill hotel. She realizes he's accommodating her, and opens her mouth to protest. But then she glances sideways to see his worn demeanor, and she knows that he's running out of fuel as well.

But he'd keep right on going, pushing himself til he fell over. For once, she doesn't really mind being weaker- though she's not going to make it a habit.

"Almost bedtime, Monica. Don't clock out on me now," he says, and as she forced her head to move she found herself staring at his smile.

Well, damn. If she'd known that all she needed to do was move her head to make him smile like that, she'd have done it sooner, she thought with an inner chuckle.

"Be back," he muttered, then got out of the car. She envied his long-legged stride to the lobby. She looked at the whole of the hotel, eyes widening. The parking lot wasn't big at all, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to get to any place over three feet from the car.

It was like everything had shut down. Her muscles were tired, hell even her brain was tired. Sleep was a refrain that kept playing notes in her head.

She jerks when he knocks on her window, not realizing she'd nearly nodded off again til he jolted her. He's got an apologetic look when he opens her door, but she valiantly struggles to get up.

"Hold still," he orders, pushing her back into the car. She nearly screams at him. Here, she's giving herself a pep talk in her mind to get her from the car to the room, and he wants to stand there?

If they waited much longer, she'd fall out. Not that she'd be unhappy with that, per se. She's spent so much time on the road in her years with the FBI that she thinks that cold pavement would be an upside to the cramped and hard confines of the vehicle.

"I had to get a room for one," he speaks quietly, and she just stares. Her mind is screaming 'shut up and *move*' at him, but she forces it to quiet and waits for him to explain.

Finally reading her expression, he colors slightly and shrugs. "For cover," he says, and again the chorus in her head is unanimous in its decision of having him move now, explain later.

But then she gets it, and she can't help the smile that tugs at her mouth. So, in order to keep them safe, he'd rented the room for 'only him'. Not that it would be much of a slip to their pursuers, who were not that stupid, but if it made him feel better it would work.

But he's still not moving, and she finally just moves herself, shrugging off his hands as she steps out. The cool air hits her, and revives her enough to realize what his problem is.

She nearly snorts. One room. Which means one bed.

As if they haven't shared a bed together before. As if she'll read this as an innuendo of some sort, even as men dream of taking their lives and they struggle to beat them to the chase.

She can't be reassuring when she's this tired, so she settles for a look that clearly conveys that she knows what this is, why this is, and he'd better hurry the hell up. After all, doesn't mean much if you register as one person yet are seen sneaking in another party. Gee, now that won't bring suspicion and undue attention.

He grabs their bags, and locks the doors. They both move quickly across the pavement, coming to the rented room's door. He unlocks it, and she hurriedly slips inside.

Her line of vision immediately lands on the bed. But then the shower seems to beckon, and she's torn.

John must see the inner turmoil racing through her head, and he chuckles a bit. He motions towards the shower, knowing that she'll hate herself for not showering when they race out before dawn.

"If you hear me collapse, just let me sleep," she warns him, but can't stop her grin. "But at least turn off the water," she amended.

The shower wakes her up more, and she relishes the feeling of the mud and dirt sliding off of her. Even if all her troubles won't wash away quite so quickly, it revives her spirit.

Toweling off, she pulls on the gray sweatpants and tee she'd brought along. Wrinkling her nose at her other clothes, she makes herself carefully fold them.

Vacating the bathroom, she tosses her bag near what's designated as 'her side' of the bed. As clearly John's staked out the other half, with his bag already gracing the floor by its side.

He's in the bathroom himself and turning on the shower before she can speak, and she feels a momentary pang in hoping she left enough hot water.

Normally she'd turn on the TV or grab a novel to de-stress. But now, even the starchy roughness of the hotel linens is comforting, and she slides down into the bed.

But she finds, to her chagrin, that she can't rest completely until he's out here with her. Even with him just a few feet away, there's glass, and a door, and just too many inches separating them. He's all she can hold onto in this world anymore, and she's scared she'll lose him.

Finally he exits the bathroom, and she can hear him approach the bed though she's facing away. She feels him hesitate, then move on top of the covers.

She nearly hits her innocent, fluffy pillow in annoyance. They both know he'd never take advantage of her in this situation.

And she knows she's been the pushy one in their slow crawl towards a...well, towards whatever it is that neither of them likes to name. But right now, she's feeling more the 'passive' part in the passive-aggressive nature of their relationship, and she can't even find the energy to turn over.

For once, just once, she'd like to see him not fear his emotions. But he's still on the same surface as her, which will do for now.

Sleep is beckoning, and its curtain falls on her as surely as a play's does after the final act. But just once, she thinks drowsily, I want to be in the audience for this play rather than one of the lead actors.