For once, she's not completely concerned about the state he's seeing her in, both the expression on her face and the clothes on her body - all things considered, this is probably the least-dressed he's ever seen her, and she doesn't have a ton of makeup applied with tender care by Lanie or a coiffed hairstyle to hide her fatigue behind. She leans back against the couch, almost curling in on herself, resting her arms against her front and cradling the glass in her hand close to her face.

Beckett's almost grateful when he suggests not talking. The silence that sets in, apart from the clanking of the radiator, isn't uncomfortable, but she's not about to be left to the thoughts running through her head, alone or otherwise. Company helps. Alcohol helps. But barely. She lifts the glass to her lips, grimacing slightly at the momentary burn that follows her sip, but it's not enough to stop her from taking another.

"How's your head?" she asks. It's partly out of concern, but also partly from the need to distract herself from the temptation to mentally re-enact the past few hours.