Nick's day had been long, and so had his night, and now he was looking forward to half a bottle of Jack and a solid eight hours so long as the world didn't fucking explode or something first. He moved around his apartment, pouring and downing the glass of whiskey, feeding the cat, flipping through his mail. After a few minutes of t.v. he finally headed for the bedroom, already half undressed by the time he got there and looking forward to sleeping like the dead. Instead, he found an intruder in his bed. "God dammit, Val," Nick groaned and shook his head and then asked, "You here for intel, murder, or a fuck?" They had to stop doing this.