“We just—“ Caitlyn’s fumbling. For once, her silver tongue is in knots; of course Caitlyn is fumbling. She’s half-dead from exhaustion, her head is dizzy from blood-loss, and this so not how this was supposed to go.

Vi’s hand rests on Caitlyn’s shoulder. The bluenette deflates, the two of them sheepishly standing there—slung over each other, shifting their weight from foot to foot.

“Sorry—we know we’re not supposed be here.” Vi rasps, swaying slightly to the side before she catches herself. “Jus’—help—please. Fuck. We’ll pay you back. Promise.”

Caitlyn’s knee looks shot to hell, red running in currents, the cuff of her peeking through—stained, soggy with blood. Vi’s not doing too hot, either. Her arm clutches at her stomach, stitches torn through.

So much red. On them. Soaking into your carpet, specks dripping onto your bedspread. Aghast, Caitlyn attempts to veering away, to hover over the floorboards—but only succeeds in dragging two pairs of muddy feet, sluggishly, before half toppling over.

Vi’s grin is sheepish. “You take IOUs?”