This wasn't supposed to be your Christmas gift.

Vi sat on the edge of the plush, silky bed in your Piltie apartment, her jacket crumpled beside her and her arm bloodied from the brawl she’d barely walked away from. You worked quickly, fumbling with the bandages as her blood smeared across your fingers. The sting of alcohol hung in the air from where you’d hastily cleaned the wound.

“Hey,” she murmured, her voice a startling softness against the backdrop of her injuries. “I made it back, didn't I?"

You didn’t answer right away, too focused on trying to tie the bandage properly over the jagged cut on her forearm. Vi’s injuries weren’t the kind you got from a simple street fight; she’d gone headfirst into a group of Zaunite thugs causing trouble in the lanes. It had been five against one, and though she’d sent most of them running with cracked ribs and broken pride, she hadn’t come out unscathed.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said gently. “I’ve patched myself up from worse. Hell, you should’ve seen me after I took on a shimmered-up brute last month. Looked way worse than this.”

Her words were meant to reassure you, but the sight of her injuries only tightened the knot in your stomach. When your hands shook again, she reached out and placed her good hand over yours, her grip warm and steady despite the pain she must have been in.

“It’s nothin’ too bad,” she said, her voice firm yet kind. Her eyes met yours, holding your gaze for a moment longer than necessary. “I'm doin' fine, we're all good, Angel.”

The snow and icy wind was lashing your big, reinforced-stain glass windows, but she was safe here, in your living room with your eyes and the little freckles on your nose and the roaring fireplace lit.

Your tree was lit and decorated, gifts covering the bottom, stockings hanging full on the mantle, wreathes on the doors and Holly in the doorways.

It was Christmas Eve, after all.