Chapter 1
The bell that signals another customer coming through the door at this god forsaken hour chimes, and you automatically tense, always on guard during moments like these. Customers after midnight are rarely docile, and you've had this shitty job long enough to know when to be wary. With a heavy sigh, you put down the box of snacks you had been working on restocking and push to your feet, swaying a bit from exhaustion. You’re determined to scowl at whoever it is that decided 4am was the best time to go shopping because, really ?
Despite being paid extra– barely –to work the overnight shift, you've never understood why it was even necessary to stay open. Your regulars, other late shift workers, usually stopped by either before or after their shifts and were the shop’s main source of revenue. You would know, seeing as how your boss left all the accounting and inventory tasks in your (very underpaid) hands. But the operating hours? No, those , the bastard deemed unchangeable, despite never working a night shift himself.
Figures.
It left the time between 11pm and 6am your problem, forcing you to keep the store open to other, less savory customers. Typically men, who most often either tried to buy or steal liquor, or who came in to try and harass you.
Sometimes both, unfortunately.
You’ve never been a pushover, but this job has forced you to become a tougher version of yourself in order to handle it, and it’s not necessarily something you appreciate. If anything, it’s made you a bit paranoid and resentful, as you’re constantly on guard and always suspicious of others. You hope that one day, you’ll be able to laugh at all the crazy stories from your night job, but right now, all you want is to be able to sleep until the sun is up. But, you need the money, the extra shifts, so you find yourself here, behind the perpetually grimey counter, night after night, putting up with it all. Sighing heavily, you mentally prepare yourself for whatever bullshit the next few minutes will inevitably bring. Because you know it’s going to be something .
It always is.
You square your shoulders, retreating to the relative safety found behind the counter and ready your best, most ‘dont-fuck-with-me’ glare. It’s one you think you’ve finally perfected after a particular headache of a night involving a group of drunk lads and shattered bottles. You grimace at the memory, hoping your newest customer will be easier at least, but when you turn, you find the storefront empty. Puzzled, you scan the entrance, peeking through the first few aisles but–nothing. Only the faint buzzing of that flickering light in the corner of the store that your boss refuses to fix, the fluorescent drone a constant companion during your shifts.
A chill creeps down your spine. You could have sworn you heard the bell, so why is the store empty?
I can't be tired enough to start hallucinating…right?
You’re becoming increasingly more unsure.
Despite the futile nature of it, whenever you’re not busy working, you devote the rest of your time to studying, leaving an admittedly small amount of time for sleeping. You think that maybe it’s finally catching up with you.
I definitely heard it. Well…at least I think I heard it …
Belatedly, you recall from lessons that auditory hallucinations are most common with severe sleep deprivation.
God I need a break.
You scrub a tired hand over your eyes, letting your head fall onto the counter with a heavy thump. Just a few minutes wouldn't hurt…
A rustle of fabric, the telltale sound of someone’s inhalation right before they speak, and you don't hear the rest before a scream rips its way out of your throat, your body jerking upright. The sudden movement has your head swimming, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
“Please let me be hallucinating.” You whisper to yourself, hoping the next time you open your eyes, the body splattered with blood across the counter will be gone.
Just another figment of my sleep deprived mind , you tell yourself.
A slight cough and then, "Just looking for some bandages darling, nothing to scream on about." Says the body, with…an Irish brogue?
An odd choice for a hallucination.
You open your eyes hesitantly, surprised to see a girl about the same age standing before you. Her baggy clothes, height, and bloody appearance had deceived you at first, thinking it was some crazy murderous man come to slit your throat for a bag of crisps and a drink. It wouldn't be the first time something so outrageous had happened, and you're suddenly embarrassed about your reaction. You’ve handled worse than this.
You cough, embarrassed, edging around the counter but still keeping your distance.
She had startled you, is all. At least, that's what you tell yourself, trying to ignore the way your face heats up as she raises a brow at you. “Bandages?” She repeats, her tone already exasperated.
“Where did you come from?” You ask instead, trying hard to hide the gasping quality of your voice as you get over the initial fright. You try to slow your heart rate, but as she continues to look at you, you find the task to be quite difficult. “I heard the bell but I didn't see anyone…” You trail off. Just because she's a girl… okay fine, a really hot, attractive girl, doesn't mean that she's harmless. She's still covered in blood, sneaking around your store at four in the morning. She’s probably trouble. She appraises you with a cool glance and you get the distinct feeling of being a little bug in front of a cat, wondering if it should play with its food.
Scratch that–she's definitely trouble.
You eye her warily. “Why were you sneaking around?” You force yourself to adopt a false confidence you don't feel, knowing that the best way to deal with unstable customers is if you seem in control of the situation. Your ear-piercing scream probably didn't help matters much but, whatever.
The girl just shrugs. “Maybe you weren't looking hard enough. It’s hardly my problem. Bandages?” She urges.
You purse your lips, not buying that answer for a second, but if she’s in a hurry to leave then all the better for you. “Fifth aisle.” You say, leading her towards it. Usually, you’d just point, but the first aid supplies aren't often sought after, and you figure that she’ll probably be able to find what she needs faster if you help. You try to discreetly breathe through your mouth as you pass her, avoiding the sharp smell of blood. With how much of it is covering her, you reach up to the thickest packs of gauze and bandages on the top shelf. Typically, you would need to get the step ladder, but to go back and drag it out now would take too long, not to mention how embarrassing it would be. So you just stand on your toes, wiggling your fingers and hoping you’ll be able to snag one.
You hear her scoff, before she easily reaches over you, momentarily sandwiching you between the shelves and her body, as she grabs some of the packets you had been reaching for. The zipper from her jumper presses into your cheek, the metal cool against your flushed skin, and you know your face is probably bright red right now. You can't help it.
You realize you don't want her to move. There’s something digging into your back, and you know she’s probably getting blood on your clothes, but right now, all you can focus on is the sharp line of her jaw, the white silvery lines of old scars along her neck, and then, the piercing blue of her eyes as she glances down at you.
Fuck.
It’s only because you’re so close to her that you notice her slight wince as she steps back, your attention zeroing in on it.
“You're hurt." You say, then regret it immediately. She is covered in blood, splattered across her clothes and the backs of her hands. Your observation seems painfully unhelpful given that she's probably very aware of her situation, but she just shrugs again. "Eh, just leaking a bit is all. I'm fine. Ring this all up for me, would ya?" She dumps several of the packets into your arms before scanning the rest of the first aid supplies, tossing a roll of medical tape onto the pile as well.
You stare at the spreading bloodstain on her side that she's got a hand clenched over, the treacherously homosexual part of your mind briefly noting the rings across her long fingers as she turns away.
Girl, get a grip. You shake your head at yourself and follow after her, concerned.
“You reckon a plaster or two is enough to fix that ?” You ask, incredulous, but she just ignores you, browsing the selection of… “Dried fruit? Seriously? You need to be at a hospital right now, not a corner shop picking out snacks.”
She finally turns towards you, and you try to hide the bolt of fear you feel at the sight of her face beneath the bright fluorescents, bruised and bloodied. It's her eyes, though, shadowed and cold, that make you feel truly uneasy. Despite her current battered state, you get the feeling she’s not entirely a victim, and the weight of her heavy gaze on you makes you fidget, nervously playing with the hem of your uniform top.
Who did that to you? Why?
….and what did you do to them for it?
You’re not entirely sure you want answers to any of those questions, but you can't help thinking them as she looks at you.
“I’ll need a treat after I stitch myself up, and these are so good.” She says flatly, holding out your favorite brand of dried pineapple like she hasn't left streaks of blood on the plastic packaging.
“Yeah…they are…” Your voice wavers as you stare at the package.
Deep breath.
You force your eyes back up to her face. “But that's not the point. You need help, like–professional medical help.” You stress, quite concerned. All of the blood on her hasn't even fully dried yet, meaning it’s fresh.
She shoots you a sly look, brow raised. “Thanks for your concern, love, but where do you think all this blood came from?” Her voice is both alluring and frightening, and it sends shivers down your body. You can’t deny that she’s incredibly attractive, but neither can you deny the fact that she scares the shit out of you. It’s a strange position to be in, and it makes you feel unbalanced, especially when you're trying to not notice the blood.
“It's not mine…well not most of it, anyway.” She turns away, scanning the shelves and grabbing a bottle of vodka next. “I can't go to a hospital and you're not going to suggest it again, yeah? You’ve got everything I need here.”
She makes her way towards the counter, expression relaxed, but you don't miss the way one of her hands stays pressed against her side. Despite what she said, the amount of blood on her makes you think she's much more hurt than she'd like to let on.
What happened to you?
You stare after her helplessly. You had been prepared for drunks or lecherous men not…hot, mysteriously bleeding girls. Eyeing the deep red stain on her hoodie, an idea begins to form in your mind. It might be the lateness of the night, or your savior complex that makes you think you can help everyone in need, or maybe it’s just the unexpectedness of the situation, but you're suddenly feeling a bit bold and reckless.
You jog to catch up, slipping behind the counter as she leans her hip against it, setting the rest of her things down. You don't bother telling her that she’s leaving a trail of crimson along the edge of it. It’s already filthy enough, and you doubt your boss would even notice any new stains anyway.
“If you’re fine…” You start, busying yourself with scanning her items and avoiding her gaze. Hopefully she really does need help and isn't batshit crazy. Otherwise, what you plan to say next might have you on the morning news in a few hours. You decide to risk it anyway. “...then let me do that for you.”
“Mhhm?” She tears off the seal on the bottle with her teeth, flicks off the cap with her thumb and downs a swig of the liquor with a grimace. “Fucking disgusting, that is.” She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, glancing over at you questioningly. “What'd ya mean?”
“I am– was in nursing school.” You start, biting your lip, embarrassed you're even telling her this.
You’ve only ever told your best friends, but something about this girl has you spilling your most shameful secrets to her.
“I wanted to be a trauma nurse. I still do .” You insist, more to yourself than to her. “But…” You fidget, nothing left for you to scan or bag but you still can’t look her in the face despite the fact that she's a perfect stranger. Your shame runs too deep. “I never passed my clinicals because I would panic at the sight of blood.” You say in a rush, barreling on before you lose your nerve. “I still do–panic. I don't know what it is, but I see blood and then it’s just like my brain stops working. I–I kept fainting .” It still sounds so ridiculous to you, no matter how many times it’s happened. “I lost my scholarship because of it, and I’ve been working here since, trying to make enough to pay my way back.” You feel your cheeks heat at hearing the words aloud.
The star student, the promising graduate that your parents and their friends, your professors had all expected. Except when it came time to do the actual nursing, outside of the classroom, you fainted the moment you saw blood. To be fair, there had been quite a bit of it, spurting from an incision under the hands of a practiced surgeon, but still.
You couldn't even laugh it off, because it happened again, and again and again. Every rotation, you’d do great right up until there was blood. If it was nice and tidy in a vial? Fine. Perfectly fine. Great, even. Anything more than that would send you dropping straight to the floor, like clockwork. It got to the point where one of your instructors had to pull you aside and told you you wouldn't be able to graduate unless you got your shit together. A week later, and your advisor had informed you that your scholarship had been revoked due to your plummeting grades from clinicals. It had been the worst week of your life, all of your hard work suddenly gone, just like that. The continuous grind of studying, classes, and exams and then….nothing. Just long hours staring at a flickering light, stocking snacks, and trying to let the rude comments from customers slide off you. An old and stained uniform polo instead of scrubs has become your new normal.
You’ve still been studying, a textbook and notebook always beneath the counter, trying to keep up so that when you can pay back your scholarship, you won't be too far behind. But it’s been more of a wishful task than anything. You still haven't managed to get over your fear of blood, the main obstacle in your path, and without overcoming that, you know you’ll never get to be a nurse, never get to help people the way you dreamed of.
It’s so frustrating, but you’re nothing if not determined. And you know better than to look a gifted horse in the mouth.
This could be your chance. She could be your chance.
You take a deep breath and raise your head to look at the girl. “I could use the practice,” You say, hoping this isn't a terrible idea, “and since you obviously have a high pain tolerance...let me bind that for you and I’ll let you have the liquor for free. I may not have gotten my license, but I still know what to do.” Mostly . You hold your breath. You know it's an odd request, but you can't help hoping she’ll say yes.
“It’s not worth a damn anyways.” The girl says immediately, looking down in disgust at the bottle before sliding her gaze over to yours. There's a strange look in her eyes but it's gone in an instant as she shrugs. “Ah, fuck it.” She says. “Sure, why not? Never been too good at it myself.”
You stare at her in disbelief, thinking it would have taken much more convincing. After all, who wants a failed nursing student poking around their bleeding wound, much less one who's admitted to being afraid of blood? Maybe she is crazy after all.
“Well?” She prompts, raising her eyebrow at you as you continue to gape at her in silence.
“R–right! Uh, okay cool, why don't you take this stuff to the break room, it's just through there.” You say, handing her the plastic bags of supplies and jerking your thumb towards the doorway. You don't wait for an answer, practically sprinting out from behind the counter to the front of the shop to flip the sign to ‘closed’ and quickly lock the door. It’s well past time for your break anyway, and if you allow yourself too much time to think about what you're about to do, you might back out.
You’ve got this. You try to reassure yourself, turning around to head to the break room as well. You’re surprised to see the girl back in the snack aisle. She looks completely at ease, browsing through the shelves before ultimately settling on another bag of pineapple.
Not a bad choice , you muse, before remembering that she’s probably badly injured. But maybe now is not the time for that.
“The fuck you looking at me for?” She asks, affronted, when she notices you staring. “You're practicing on me for free, aren't you? I should get a snack for being your lab rat.” She considers her own words for a moment before snagging another.
“I'm bandaging you for free.” You counter, even though she's not really wrong. After a second, you shrug. “But sure, whatever. You can still have a snack. Or two, I guess.” The truth is you don't want to find out what she’d do if you said no.
Her mouth twists up at the corner, and it’s not quite a smile but you feel your heart flutter a bit at the sight of it all the same. “You’re nervous.” She says, and then you feel your heart flutter a lot when she slings her arm across your shoulders, tucking you into her side conspiratorially. “Don't be. This’ll be easy.”
You open your mouth to stammer out a thank you for her reassurance, but then she leans down to whisper in your ear and you freeze. “But if I die here, know there’s going to be some very angry people who will come after you.”
Could she possibly be in a gang? What the hell am I getting myself into?
“I’m kidding!” She says brightly, straightening up. “Mostly. But you’re a pro right? So you’ll be fine.”
Her voice is cheery, but you frown as you notice how much she’s beginning to lean on you. She’s heavy , and you try to shift your weight to support her better, but unsure of where exactly her injury is, you're afraid to grab her too tightly. Even if you might want to, for your own selfish reasons.
She's tall. And warm. And even if she is bleeding onto your ugly work shirt, well, can't make it look any worse, right? The truth is, it feels so nice to have her close, even if she is a stranger and (possibly?) threatening you. She’s pretty. And tall. And also hot. Really, who could blame you?
God, I seriously gotta get out more.
It's been too long since you've done anything but work and study, and the feeling of her pressed up against you is making you realize how touch starved you are.
The girl stumbles a bit and you force yourself to focus, gripping her jacket tighter. She’s lost a lot of blood, regardless of what she’d like you to believe.
“I thought you said it wasn't that bad?” You say, trying for a joking tone, but it comes out more shakily than you would have liked as you do your best to ignore the wet feeling on your hands.
She doesn't respond, and for a second you’re worried she might have lost consciousness, but when you turn to look at her, she’s staring right back at you with an intensity that shocks you.
Your face flushes, worried that she might have somehow seen your earlier thoughts on your face, and you turn away quickly, pushing through the door to the breakroom. Gesturing towards the big table in the center of the room, you begin to spread out and organize the supplies she had bought on the counter. “Sit up there.” You say to the wall, needing to collect yourself before you face her again.
You hear her chuckle behind you. “Yes, nurse.” She says drily, but when you turn around, she’s seated on the table like you asked, the picture of nonchalance. You don't miss the way her face has paled significantly though.
"You don't have to put on a tough act with me." You say, coming to stand besides her with the supplies laid out on a Styrofoam tray. It's not quite the same, or as sterile, as what you had been taught in school, but given the circumstances you'll try to make do. "I may not have been able to graduate as a nurse, but I have seen a lot and I know that it's best not to hide what you're feeling so that I can properly help you. Lots of people try to act tough but it doesn't actually get you anything in the end."
She huffs out a laugh and gives you a little half smile. "I'm not acting, love. I told you, I'm fine. I've been shot before, you know. I know bad, and this isn't it."
You almost drop the paper bowl of warm water you had been moving off the tray. " Shot?! What do you mean shot ?" You had assumed she had been cut or stabbed, the more common injuries for this area. Hell, you've never even seen a gun besides with an officer. "Are you running from the police?!" You start to back away, worried you might be harboring a fugitive but she grabs your wrists and well- that's enough to stop you from moving further away, whether you're willing to admit it or not.
"Fuck those pigs, but no. The bastards that shot me are worse than them. Just stitch me up and you can go right back to feeling sorry for yourself."
“I’m not–” You begin to protest, but then she's peeling off her bloodied hoodie, the shirt beneath soaked and dripping with blood as well.
You swallow. This was always the part where you started getting shaky in clinicals. When you can see the soaked and darkened fabric, knowing that beneath lies even more. And you have zero experience with gunshot wounds, so you’re truly unprepared for whatever comes next. Your head starts feeling all light and little black stars dot the edges of your vision as your breaths come shallowly.
Shit.
You can't afford to screw up this time.
Focus on something else. Quickly.
She peels off the shirt next and you try to avoid directly looking at the bloodied mess of flesh on her abdomen. Instead, you notice the sharp planes of her stomach, flexed in pain, both her sports bra and the waistband of her boxers lined with more blood.
Your heart begins to palpate for entirely different reasons.
You fucking fruitcake.
You can't decide if it's the best distraction you could have hoped for, or if you’ll accidently kiss her in your nervous, jittery state.
She looks terrible. She also looks terribly good .
You press a hand to your forehead.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another.
"You don't look too peaky, love." She says, slightly amused. “Never seen a gunshot wound before? Thought you said you wanted to work in trauma.”
You swallow. “Never made it that far, I’m afraid. Student’s typically aren't allowed in the OR. I’ve only seen a few minor surgeries, and I couldn't even handle those.” You take a deep breath, feeling your body shudder with the tension of keeping your rising panic at bay. You let your professional mask slip over, tugging on some gloves and moving to stand in front of her. You can feel her staring down at you, studying your face and hope you look at least slightly more confident than you feel.
She sees right through you. “Yeah, I can see why they kicked you out. Cant have a nurse whose about to lose her dinner in the operating room, huh?”
You glare up at her, even though she has a point. “They didn't kick me out.”
“Right, because you quit before they could?”
Your silence answers her question and she lets out an amused breath. “Well if you’re going to quit again, I’m still taking my snacks.”
You recognize it for the escape route it is, and while surprised and grateful for the option, you shake your head. “We had a deal. I can do this.” You take a deep breath, determined to make that statement true. “Do you know what kind of bullet it was?”
She rattles off some numbers and letter sequences that go over your head.
"Right. Uh. Don’t know why I bothered to ask, I have no idea what that means.”
She huffs out a laugh. “You’ll find out soon enough. It’s still buried in there. Small, metal, you can’t miss it.” She laughs again when your eyes unfocus, staring at her but not really seeing.
I can do this.
You nod, placing a hand on her waist, building up the courage for what you have to do next. “This might hurt.” You tell her, glancing up to gauge her expression. You remind yourself that as scared as you are, this experience is most likely going to be worse for her.
The girl leans back on her hands, her jaw flexing but otherwise appearing unbothered about the imminent pain. “S’fine. I’m used to it. It’s not too deep.”
You glance down, surprised to see she's right, the dull glint of metal peeking through the muddle of blood and flesh. “How many times have you been shot?” You ask, delicately skirting around the why's and how's of the question.
You try not to notice the way blood keeps spurting out of the wound, in time with her heartbeat.
That's not good.
You feel your breathing becoming shallow again. There's just so much of it.
You glance up at her, her eyes watching you. “You really weren't kidding, hmm?” She says, sounding genuinely surprised. “You are afraid of blood. I thought maybe you might be a weirdo wanting to see some gorey shit or something."
“If you thought that then why the hell did you say yes?”
She shrugs. “Because I really am bad at stitching myself up. And because if you hadn't been telling the truth, or tried anything, I’d have made you pay for it. Wasn't really a huge deal. Besides, a nurse afraid of blood? Sounded like a good story.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t fuck up though. I’d hate for something bad to happen.” There’s a hint of warning in her playful tone and it makes you go rigid, hand halfway outstretched.
You fucking idiot, she's dangerous.
You curse your weakness against hot women, because seriously, she’s had trouble written all over her from the start, but did you pay attention to any of the warning signs?
Of course not.
You had been all too eager to have her around for just a while longer, despite how much she frightens you. Your mind keeps returning unbidden to the memory of her reaching over you, the feel of her body pressed against yours. It had only lasted a few seconds, but the moment feels like it’s been seared into your brain and you hate the effect it has on you.
You’re reminded of the show you had watched with your friend once, about a beautiful Russian assassin named Villanelle who had completed so many of her missions because people only saw a beautiful blonde woman when they looked at her, not the skilled and ruthless killer she was. And like all those people, you too had been fooled by a pretty face. This girl had already threatened you once, what more would it take for you to have some survival instincts? She was certainly not normal, nor was she safe, you knew that. Despite it, you can’t make yourself move away from her.
You try to hide the slight tremor in your hands and realize she never answered your question about being shot. "Hah-right." You reply, trying to laugh it off.
She jerks her chin towards you. “Hurry up though, I really can't stick around.” She says seriously, eyeing the clock on the wall behind you.
When you don't make a move, she rolls her eyes. “Relax, I’m not going to actually kill you.” A sly glance at you and then, “It’d be a waste to. Fit girls like you are for kissing, not killing.” She even winks, but when you stay frozen she softens her voice slightly. “Hey–I promise. I’m not going to hurt you.”
And fuck– You’ve got to be the biggest idiot in the world because instead of running in the opposite direction, you believe her, bending your head back to the task at hand and picking up some gauze and a pair of tweezers from the tray.
Wait–does that mean she would kiss me?
“Are you feeling faint at all?” You ask, still concerned about the amount of blood she’s lost, focused on trying to help her, instead of your gay panic–alongside your regular panic. You’re not a surgeon, hell you're not even an actual nurse , but even you know that by now she should probably be at least mildly sedated and receiving a blood transfusion. She’s either in shock, or as strong as a horse.
“Not as faint as you, I’d reckon.” She smirks at you. “But as for whether it's over me, or the blood, is anyone's guess.”
You bite your lip, embarrassed because the answer is both, and you hear her laugh at your reaction.
She knows .
Looking for a distraction, you're perhaps a bit rougher than necessary with the tweezers, but she doesn't even make a sound as you dig them into the wound. You're overly aware of how close she is, her head bent just above yours, but you try to focus on finding the bullet-and not on the fact that if you shifted just a bit you'd be in the perfect position to kiss her.
One hand steadied against her waist, the other gripping the tweezers as you continued to dig through the soft and disturbingly squishy feeling of her wound, you’re rewarded when you feel the tweezers clink against something hard.
There.
Metal on metal, you carefully clamp onto the bullet, trying to extract it slowly. It feels embedded in her flesh, and you carefully tug, trying to loosen it without widening the wound. When it slips free, blood coating your empty tweezers, you curse in frustration and pull back.
“You’ll never get it like that.” She says mildly. “Don’t worry about trying to be so gentle. Just get it out.”
You level her with a stare, holding out the tweezers to her. You’ve heard of a backseat driver, but a backseat surgeon is a new one. “Be my guest then.”
She raises her hands, palms up. “You’re the pro here right? Do what you gotta do. Just stop worrying about hurting me. I can handle it.”
You let out a shaky breath and nod, trying to not think about how hot that is. “Okay. Here goes…”
This time, when the tweezers close around the bullet, you shimmy it out, rotating your wrist so that it pulls free, the metal glinting beneath a ruby film of blood.
“Fuck .” She groans.
Her hands are clenched on the edge of the table, her pain clearly visible, but you feel strangely distant from the panic that has always plagued you around blood. It allows you a clear-headedness you've never experienced before.
“You still need a surgeon.” You tell her, eyeing the wound with a new perspective.
“I said no hospital. Just stitch me up.” She says, panting a bit. It’s the most strained she's sounded so far, but when she catches you looking, her expression falls flat again.
I told you, you don't have to pretend, you want to whisper, but before you can respond, there’s a banging from the storefront.
You roll your eyes, about to tell her it's probably just one of the local drunks upset that you've closed the shop, but when you turn back towards her, she's already standing, gun in hand, gaze fixed on the doorway.
"Probably best for you to clock out early, yeah?" She replies casually, any lingering signs of pain wiped from her face.