"I've lived this long, I suppose I'm doing something right." He can't quite bring himself to laugh about it, because there's the faintest fluttering of black wings in the corner of his vision, the sense of something that is laughing, as it watches.

But it's fleeting, gone in a heartbeat, and Jaeger can't be sure that it was even there at all.

Jaeger hesitates briefly at going into a closed room, instinct warring with fatigue and growing confusion. But then he lets himself be led through the door, to the quiet inside, and the click of the lock engaging is reassuring enough.

The beds might not be luxury, but Jaeger's bones ache with weariness, and the too-small cot might as well be Heaven's own clouds to his exhausted body.

"An hour," he echoes faintly, trying to make sense of that particular time measurement. An hour. It's not long, but he can close his eyes for that long, at least?

And, she has a knife, which is more comforting than it should be. Somehow in the vague logic of dreams it makes sense.