It's impractical and stupid as far as decisions go, but she indulges him, returns the favor by curling her fingers against the back seam of his trousers till she hits his pockets. Feels him up like a bloody teenager in a shopping mall rather than a war-torn mess of rotted wood and open walls.

And where he breaks the kiss, she keeps her lips close-- keeps his breath on her skin-- rides out the moment for a few seconds longer while he teases and she laughs. Because once they've turned in for the day Nate can pack up in some hole in the wall and forget, because the atrocities the news coughs up in memory of everything Lazarevic has done is exactly what she heads back to watch from the sidelines.

He gets to run off; she only gets time outs.

"Please, you do that all on your own, Nathan "walking disaster" Drake. I've seen your work."