Quinn went limp, falling back against the wall but for the grip she had on Besca’s shirt. Besca caught her, lowered her to the floor as gently as she could and didn’t let her go. She was dumbstruck, which, considering how utterly wrecked this girl had been since she’d woken up, was a statement in and of itself. [i]Eyes[/i], [i]eyes[/i], what [i]eyes[/i]? 

“[color=gray]Quinn,[/color]” she said, softening her own voice as Quinn’s withered to a wheeze. “[color=gray]Whatever you saw, it was nothing, it was a dream. You’re awake now, breathe. Breathe.[/color]”

Dahlia returned, roll of towels and small red bag in hand. She knelt down beside them, handed Besca a few swabs and a bottle of strong-smelling liquid, then took Quinn’s hand in hers. “[color=skyblue]You’re okay, you’re okay. Relax. Talk to us.[/color]”

Besca wet the cotton swabs on the bottle, dabbed them lightly on Quinn’s arm, over the shallow gashes. Nothing too deep, thank god, but a whole hand’s worth of nail-work to worry about. It would sting slightly, but she wasn’t sure Quinn would even notice in her state. Blood stained her lip as well—she must have bitten her tongue, or her cheek. 

What in the world [i]was[/i] this?

“[color=gray]What eyes, Quinn?[/color] she asked, low, sincere. “[color=gray]What needs to have its eyes?[/color]”