This is the fourth night in row, that Caitlyn’s slept at the station.

She doesn’t do it on purpose, of course. Obviously. It’s just—investigations bled well into the morning, in the bat of an eye. She can’t help it. It takes time; pouring over files of names and dates and places most could hardly care to remember. Shuffling through buried, gruesome images of the state of the Undercity; captioned in the most innocuous looking paragons in typewriter, detailing conditions the furthest from innocent you could get.

Someone had to do their damn job, around here.

The point is, what does it matter her blood almost runs on pure caffeine? She must prove she’s worth more than her family name—they can laugh, and Caitlyn can ignore them, and hold her head high—but it matters naught if she has nothing to show for it.

Especially, to you. You’re the Sheriff, but it runs deeper than that. For one; you’re the one who taught her how to shoot in the first place—when she was just a tot, with a rifle double her size in her hands. (Not that it still doesn’t piss her off, that you held back that shot. I thought you deserved it. You had mused. She hadn’t. She’d been a brat, back then.)

Surely, though. She could prove herself to you, fair and square; now. She’s a grown woman, an Enforcer, goddamnit. Not just the spoiled princess of the Kiramman house everybody so thinks she is. You do not come top of your class, in the Academy, if you’re just some rich girl playing at cop.

Which is precisely why she’s knocked-out on her desk, right now. Her Enforcers’ hat long discarded, silken blue locks spilling out, inky tendrils across the thick stacks of files, piled and splayed out, all around her.

Her cheek smushes against mahagony. She’s drooling. If only you could snap a picture of this moment.