She stood in the doorway of her living room, eyes wide like a doe as she stared at the sleeping form of her guest; he was curled up on her couch, his arms crossed firmly as if he was holding himself tightly together, the blanket that had most defiantly covered him completely not even one hour age had slide off his shoulders and was now barely covering his sock-less, size ten and a half feet. As she gaped as him, her feet, moving by no will of her own, carried her towards him, stopping after about five steps, which planted her firmly next to him, so close she could see the stress of divorce and weeks of living in his office at the police station etched in the webbing of the circles under his eyes.
Feeling immensely creepy, she reached up and brushed his worn silver hair with one hand and grasped the tips of her blanket and pulled the tips of it up tucked the tips so it covered his shoulders, but when it covered his shoulders, his sock less, size ten and a half feet stuck out. She groaned; having him live on her sofa was proving harder then she had thought. She stood, removing her hand from his soft, slightly addicting pepper and salt hair (brought on at the age of forty by an overbearing, cheating wife, frustrating job as a detective inspector, and a bad habit of taking care of everyone other than himself), and walked towards her room, grabbing her only blanket and covering him with it, taking care of him because it's time for someone to take care of him for a change, and she's more than happy to be that someone.
Sitting in the chair across from him, she tucks her feet under her body and curls up so tightly that every curve and fold of her body match up with the shape of the chair, cat like in her quiet, watchful form, and settles herself in a position that will surly end with neck aches and back pains in the morning, and falls asleep
He wakes up hours later, his eternal clock yelling at him to get up (fifteen years in the homicide department of the New Scotland Yard will do that to a person), and he blinks, eyes opening, closing, opening, closing , opening as he takes in the sight of his new 'roommate' in her pajamas- nothing more than a tank top and boxer shorts which was something he was not prepared to see at six in the morning- ad the blanket spread over him that was most defiantly not there before. Blushing, he puts the event of what happened that night together as he changes into work clothing and make a cup of coffee, searching through her cupboards, uncomfortable; this isn't his home and he's still getting used to the fact that he's divorced and not sleeping miserably in the office
He walks back to the living room and just stands and stares at her, curled up in the most uncomfortable position he has ever seen a live person in; he can't comprehend why she took him in, inviting him to her flat, to her life in the first place, so this blatant act of kindness throws him off completely – he's not used to being cared for, certainly not used to being care for by someone like her. He is desperate to pay her back, somehow, so he picks her up, cradling her in the most platonic way her possibly can when she's only in a tank top and boxers, and lays her as gently as he possibly can on the couch he previously slept on, covering her with the two blankets she had previously covered him with, and smooths them over her, tucking her in as if she was seven and he was her father – she might as well be seven, the amount of trust and innocence she puts in her eyes is something before he had only seen in kids.
He leaves her sleeping there, a plate of cookie and coffee (which would definitely be cold by the time she wakes up, but hey, it's the thought that counts, right?) sitting on the mahogany table in between piles of books and movies, with a note that simply says thanks and has his initials perched below; he leaves for work, the glow of her caring for him leading him through the day.