She follows the other woman's gesture, stopping in the kitchen doorway. Stella's mostly dry now after the fountain earlier, but on close inspection it's clear bits of her hair are still a little damp, and that might suggest something even before she speaks.

"I went home," she says, before the words can catch in her throat. And then she shakes her head a little, because that's not strictly right. "Almost. Back to Belfast, to the investigation."

She leans against the doorframe, a little heavily. Swallows an apology because, fuck, this isn't her fault. She catches Peggy looking at her face. "It's not as bad as it looks," she says, and that's a lie because it is absolutely as bad as it looks. She's got a fractured cheekbone underneath the line of bruising from temple to jaw, and Doctor O'Donnell at Belfast General only just took the stitches out of the laceration over her eyebrow.

Jesus, she's so tired. Not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, as if all of the stress of working so hard to bring Spector to justice only to have him slip through her hands has caught up with her at once.