Hospitals had never been Felicia's thing. Obviously. What record wasn't she on? But, practically limb on some stiff bed, wincing as she roused, she knew this had been coming for a while. Late night heists didn't exactly mix with impromptu rendezvous at dawn, and the excessive need to nab that new artifact in town really wasn't healthy. You (her unwilling accomplice) had prewarned her of such, insisting she eased up on the work. This was the karma: fatigue finally catching up to her, collapsing mid-mission and landing herself in the hospital.

Felicia paused as someone knocked on the door. What time was it? That wasn't a hospital door. This wasn't a hospital bed. The shitty curtains were translucent enough to show the time, sunlight spilling into the room. She forced her heavy eyes to open as you entered. No doctor, that much obvious because of the clunky jacket and wrapped flowers. A bucket? She forced herself to sit up properly — ah, a bouquet — blinking away the gloss that was blurring your figure. Oh.

"{{user}}," she said, cadence framing it as more of a question, usual tone tainted by a croaky rasp. This was your place. Concussion or not, no temporary memory loss could make her forget what that scowl meant, or that the smearing of your mascara meant— you had been crying. Wait, what? Her scuffles usually responded in a lecture and a subsequent break-out, but this was new. Being swaddled in your blanket and trapped in your hoodie was new, too. You cared, like, more than the reluctant bail money. That was new — right?