[ It hadn't been anything earth-shattering but somehow, kissing Elliot had been all the more poignant for it, important, weighty and soft. She'd been both taken aback and expecting it at once, some strange purgatory between, throwing her senses out of whack and her determination faltering. He's so slight in his hoodie, familiar and pulled up over his head, the first time she's seen him in months without a plate of bulletproof plexiglass between them and her plans derail before she can catch herself, stepping off the train after him, slipping her fingers right back into his.

They don't speak on their way back to his apartment. It's pointless now to duck into alleyways and switch taxis, but Angela catches herself doing it anyways, always looking over her shoulder, anxiety itching at her palms, the back of her neck. But Elliot is focused and grimly calm, and it shouldn't settle her at all, and it manages to just the same. His flat is threadbare and scavenged when they finally slip in the door, deadbolting it behind them as if a plank of wood and a delicate metal chain can keep out the FBI, the Dark Army. She hasn't let go of his hand once, stepping quietly past the off kilter table in the center of the room, pulling Elliot carefully with her until the backs of their knees hit the couch, settling down beside each other in tandem. Feeling very small, like the same freckle faced little girl who used to hold Elliot's hand just like this, Angela curls up against his side, wrinkling her expensive suit jacket without a second thought. It doesn't matter anymore. ]

I'll make sure Qwerty's taken care of. [ Soft, against the curve of his shoulder, she tugs their hands up into her lap, her thumb catching over the ridges of his knuckles slowly. ] I'd give you the keys to my apartment, but they're watching me more than you right now.