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Beau groans, massaging her temples. It’s been three days since arriving in Rexxentrum, two days of research at the Cobalt Soul Archives, and no steps forward on tracking down the missing Beacon. She’s loathe to admit it, but - she’s hit a wall. Frustration bubbles up inside Beau as she collects her research.
She’d spent the night before paging through her notes, trying to find something useful. No luck. The hazy sunrise peeking through the Archives' windows practically mocks her. All night gone, and nothing to show for it? Pathetic.
Fuck it. After all, she's just saved the Empire from an eldritch demigod. She's earned a bit of downtime. She takes a moment to flag down an archival attendant, put in a last request for a few texts, before packing up. Blinking back a yawn, Beau begins a her walk back to the Kamaruth Cottage, her temporary defeat hanging around her like a cloud.
It doesn’t really matter how it started. A couple drinks, an imagined offense - maybe he bumped her? A snide remark, a disagreement that Beau is more than willing to escalate.
What matters now is the way the man looks her up and down, words practically dripping with contempt. “I didn’t realize,” and gods his voice is annoying , “that the Kamaruth Cottage allowed such… interesting patrons.”
( he doesn’t respect you - why should he - all you are is a simpering little whelp - a weak child)
“Shut up ,” Beau growls, shoving him roughly. She’s unsure if she’s talking to the pompous asshole or to herself.
She isn’t distracted by the thought much longer, because two figures - hired muscle, probably , s hit, is this guy important? - step up to flank Beau. She eyes over the trio, quickly inspecting.
One, a blonde human built like a brick shithouse, gestures at her. “Would you like any assistance, sir?” he asks the Pompous Asshole. A Zemnian accent colors his speech. Pompous Asshole shakes his head, flicking his hand to shoo away the second figure, a surprisingly jacked elven woman.
Big Blondie’s built for strength - not agility. Easy to hit, dangerous in a wrestling match. Longsword, basic, no ornamentation. Hot Elf’s got two daggers on her hips. Leather sheaths - worn but not ragged - she’s got experience but money to keep her equipment maintained. Both wear similar cloaks, definitely hired from guild or organized group. No visible weapons on Pompous Fuckin’ Asshole, and nothing bulky hiding under the cloak. Magic user? Probably not, no focus or components pouch. Dressed to the nines, hair coiffed - like he’s expecting someone. Maybe a business trip? Drink is barely sipped, so he’s mostly sober - no advantage there. Rich. Too rich. Gaudy embroidered cloak, too many rings, stinks with too much pricey perfume. Ego like new money, hired muscle for an out-of town business trip to show he’s real hot shit.
Asshole.
“No, thank you,” begins his reply to Big Blondie, still so smug, and Beau wants nothing more than to wipe the slimy smirk off his stupid face, so -
It’s a solid hit. Over the rush of blood in her ears, Beau hears one of the dwarven kids yelp and scramble to go get help.
“Come on, you piece of shit! You think you’re so tough?” Come on, hit me, you know you want to.
The Pompous Fuckin’ Asshole (P.F.A. for short) spits blood onto the varnished wooden floor, chuckling like a villain from one of Jester’s melodramas.
WHAM! His fist strikes Beau’s nose with an audible crack, and she stumbles for a moment, blinking back a few rebellious tears. She laughs even as blood trickles down her face, de-fucking-lighted that she’s gotten such a rise out of this guy.
With a surge of adrenaline, Beau springs into action - the first strike catching P.F.A. square across his jaw, the next driving deep into his solar plexus. She takes a beat, deciding - sure, why not? - and then a centering breath, before releasing a flurry of blows. Both of which miss.
As her last attack swings wide, he grabs her hand and bends it, twists it around with a relentless grip. There’s pressure and a popping and a flash of shooting pain in her elbow and she howls with the agony of it.
He releases her, but the angle of her arm is all wrong and shit, that’s one fist out of the game .
Before she can swing with her good hand, one of the cronies shoves her. She cries out as her bad arm is slammed against the floor in her fall. At least it’s back in place. I think.
All thought, all breath rushes out of her as he kicks her swiftly in the ribs. There’s a pause as he smooths his robes. Fucking rich assholes, with their fancy fucking robes. For a moment, there is an electric silence, and it seems that the fight may be over.
As Beau struggles to rise from the ground, P.F.A. hmph s dismissively and turns, his embroidered cloak sweeping past her.
“F- fuck - you -,” Beau wheezes, mouth half turned to the floor.
In a flash, he’s back, grabbing her by the hair, lifting her halfway off the ground. She scrabbles at his grip with her good hand, ineffectually clawing. “What did you say?” he asks, eyes wild with anger.
Beau, despite the pain screaming through her body, grins triumphantly. “I said,” she slurs, mouth a garbled mess of blood, “Fuck. You.”
She spits a glob of blood into his face, and he stills, stony-faced, before his free hand swings around and slaps her. The sheer force of the impact sends her into a whiteout, ears ringing. She can feel where the skin of her cheek has split beneath his jeweled rings. A moment or a minute could have passed, as she slumps sideways, the world a blur.
In a stupor, she feels hands at her back, lifting her to her feet. Beau gives a token resistance until she catches sight of pale skin, dark hair, two-tone eyes that glare, not at her, but across the room towards the Asshole.
Not the cronies - it’s okay - it’s friends - it’s okay. Fjord is speaking urgently with the Asshole, the kid with him. Something’s off in his voice, almost like he’s trying out a new accent.
“ Ja , I understand. I apologize for my companion’s actions. I assure you, this behavior will not continue.”
With Yasha’s help, Beau stumbles towards the corridor. After a deferential nod to the Asshole, Fjord moves to meet the two. The way he’s moving is familiar but not his own, too hesitant and hunched, like he’s trying to be as small as possible.
Beau is cataloguing the incongruities as Yasha passes Beau’s weight over, bringing up the rear of the trio. As her arm clutches at Fjord’s shoulder, she notices his thin frame. Even Fjord’s not that scrawny . This close, she can just barely make out the distortion of a disguise spell.
With an arm over the Faux-Fjord - Faux-jord, if you will - Beau staggers down the corridor, away from the dining hall.
“That was incredibly foolish, Beauregard. That man is not some back-alley drunk, these people have connections . Do you want to be even further in ill graces with the Prime Arbiter?”
Something traitorous inside her wants to soften, to listen, but it is overpowered by the fight still pumping in her veins.
“Don’t - don’t fuckin’ lie to me, Caleb. You can manipulate everyone else,” she interrupts, stabbing her finger through the illusory disguise, “but don’t you dare lie to me.”
“Perhaps if I didn’t think you were such a loose cannon as to need some manipulation, I wouldn’t have to,” Caleb hisses, dropping the Faux-jord almost as an afterthought. “But as you have demonstrated, Beauregard, that is not the case. In addition, I do not intend to look myself as often as possible in this city. I do not - I wish to avoid unwanted attention. Something you seem to have no intention of doing.”
Anger at the insult surges up and pours out of Beau before she can even think of stopping it.
“Yeah? Maybe if I didn’t feel so fuckin’ trapped and hunted in this goddamned city,” and she’s too loud, too close, but she can’t reel it in now, “I wouldn’t need to blow off some steam, would I? Maybe if you didn’t make us all into prey !”
She’s shouting now, mere inches from Caleb’s face. She wobbles as a wave of dizziness hits, but pushes through. Stares into Caleb’s eyes. Hisses out,
“Don’t forget - you’re the one who put us here, Bren .”
She’s close enough that she can see something break in Caleb’s expression, but there’s no fire, no rage.
“Yasha, please, take care of her,” he spits out, hurt evident on his face. “I’ll go - clean up her mess.” It’s all wrong , Beau realizes, why doesn’t it feel good to make him hurt?
Caleb brushes past the two women, pausing at the threshold and cutting his eyes back at Beau. “Beauregard, I expect better than this .”
And he’s gone. Beau ignores how her heart drops with his words, trying to retreat into the mind-numbing physical pain instead.
A few moments pass of silence between Beau and Yasha, each second of shame and anger settling on Beau’s shoulders like a weight as she leans heavily against the wall. The fight is seeping away, washing out like a low tide. Her whole form is rigid and tense when Yasha finally breaks the quiet.
“Beau”, she says.
Beau , so quiet, so gentle. Something in Beau’s gut twists with it, because she doesn’t want gentle, not now. Her mind, half drunk with the pain seeping from her ribs, pictures herself lashing out with her one good fist. Keeping the fight going.
Pop-pop .
And Yasha’s strong, fierce, a tank, she’d be so bruising and it would be perfect - if she wasn’t being so infuriatingly gentle with Beau right now.
“Pop-pop.” Beau mutters, almost delirious. Her mouth pulls with the vowels, her split lower lip agitated, and she can feel the ooze of fresh blood once more.
Yasha’s eyes soften (Beau nearly screams in frustration) and with a quiet huff of breath, she is lifted and cradled delicately by the barbarian. Yasha moves resolutely towards the stairs leading up to the girls room.
“Let’s put you to bed. You can rest until Jester gets back.”
“No, wait - fuck - no - ’M fine ,” Beau protests, hissing when her arm is jolted, “Not a fuckin’ child .” She struggles pointlessly - shit! Yasha’s strong, huh? - and feels like she’s tearing in half. The pull, the want, the yearning to just give up, lean into Yasha’s pseudo-embrace, pitted against the itch, the scalding burn of defeat and accepting the comfort. The wrestling match of the century, playing out in Beau’s skull.
She’s so tired, but she doesn’t want to give in. She’s not done fighting yet - it's not enough, just a little more.
By now, Yasha’s hulking form has navigated the two of them through the narrow doorway, and Beau finds herself lowered carefully onto her bed. Yeah, as if . The moment Yasha withdraws, Beau’s already trying to slide off the mattress. Yasha makes a noise of disapproval and moves to block her, and while Beau’s very dextrous, she’s also very tired. Her eyes dart to Yasha’s, calculating her odds. Yasha’s face is stern, bordering on a glare. She gives Beau an almost imperceptible shake of the head - don’t even try it - and presses her shoulder until Beau surrenders, flopping back to the bed in defeat.
“C’mon, Yasha, I’m fine .”
“You really aren’t. I don’t think your nose went in that direction this morning.” Yasha tilts her head, brow furrowed. “Why are you so eager to go back out there?”
Beau’s offhand lie comes as easily as breathing. “I promised that kid I’d talk to him about monk shit. You know, Cobalt Soul business.” When Yasha doesn’t respond, Beau swings her feet off the bed. Before she can stand, Yasha speaks up.
“If you don’t sit still, I will have to break your legs.” Yasha states gravely. Her eyes are determined and devoid of any humor or warmth.
Beau makes a choking sound, eyes wide at the threat. What the fuck? “Yash - the fuck?”
Yasha’s steady gaze falters for a moment. Her eyes crinkle apologetically. “It - I was - It was a joke, Beau.” Her voice is quiet, not-shy but not- not -shy.
Beau huffs some approximation of a laugh, wincing with the consequence of movement. Asshole had a strong left hook. Underneath the pain, the knowledge of the bruises she’s earned sings with satisfaction. Beau’s head lolls back, casting her eyes to the ceiling above. “What’dya think? The broken nose suit me?” Her voice is stuffy, the words still garbled and gravelly. She peeks out her tongue to test her swollen lip, sliding her gaze back down to Yasha when no reply comes.
Yasha’s eyes - one blue, one purple - are downcast, guarded, but flit up to meet Beau’s.
Beau tries for a winning smile. Shit, that hurts . “That was a joke too.”
No response. Yasha drags a chair up next to the bed to sit, the screech against the hardwood making Beau wince. Tough crowd . “C’mon, Yasha - I’m pretty banged up. Couldya spare a pity laugh?”
It’s just a joke, but the vulnerable truth lurks underneath, like a cheap disguise, like the world’s worst stealth. Please, she wants to scream, please, don’t I deserve some kindness? Look how much I’m hurt - haven’t I earned a little yet? The warning bells in Beau’s head threaten to give her a migraine, chiming too close, too close .
Apparently, Beau isn’t the only one who’s uncomfortable with the joke.
“Here, let me -” and before Beau can protest or bat her away, Yasha’s tugged off a glove and placed her hand carefully against Beau’s cheek.
It’s not warmth, exactly, and it’s not cold either. Jester’s healing feels like a jolt of energy, a quickened heartbeat, like a splash of cold water to rouse you. Cad’s feels slower, like the empty spaces of Beau’s lungs are being filled up by sunlight, blooming outward.
But Yasha - her hand on Beau’s cheek, radiating a soft glow - Yasha’s healing feels different .
A cleric’s healing is distinctly pleasant, with a nice sort of afterglow of divinity left behind. Yasha’s healing is like someone is going across Beau’s battered face with a pushbroom, clearing away the wreckage.
It doesn’t hurt, not really, but it's almost methodical, clinical, in the steady, slow way that her nose is guided back into place. There’s no divine radiance to take the edge off as the cut on her cheekbone stitches itself back together.
After a moment, Yasha moves her hand away. Beau tests the waters, tonguing at her lip again, and finds it almost completely healed. Her nose barely even hurts, and she’s almost certain the shiner she’d earned will be all but gone come morning.
“I, uh, I’m sorry I don’t have any more -” Yasha begins, but Beau isn’t listening.
Loss thrums deep in her chest, and a wave of anger nearly topples her. Distantly, she’s reminded of the night, back when they still scrounged for scraps, that Nott stole the last of Beau’s leftovers. She had been so furious, screaming, bordering on a tantrum.
I was saving that!
( just a child - you’re acting like a spoiled brat - so entitled - so disappointing - loose cannon - immature - careless - selfish - Beauregard, I expect better than this )
The wave crests, and all at once she’s left with only bitterness and bone-deep exhaustion. Beau closes her eyes against the surge of emotion. A traitorous sob claws its way up her throat.
“Oh, no, did - ah, Beau? Did - it hurt?”
“I wish.”
Beau cracks open an eye to peer up at Yasha, finding a stunned silence. Fuck, I’ve really done it now.
Shame and embarrassment prickle across Beau’s neck. She breaks away from Yasha’s mismatched gaze, bringing her arms up, burying her (freshly healed) face into the pillow. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me, right? With the healing, the hazy high of adrenaline and pain drops away gradually - like a dispersing morning fog - and the reality of what she’s said and done fills its absence.
( a liability - a real piece of shit - monster - freak - fuck-up - disaster - )
“Beau.” Hand on her own, gentle , insistent.
“No, it’s nothing -” Beau attempts, muffled by the pillow. Yasha’s persistent, extracting the pillow from her hands away so she can look Beau in the face.
“Honestly, Yasha, don’t worry about it. I’m just -” Beau flounders - how the fuck do I dig my way out of this - “It’s nothing. Thanks for the heal, I’ll sit tight. Don’t want you to spend your day babysitting.”
Yasha just looks at her. Sometimes Beau can’t help but wonder who did more changing in Yasha’s absence. If she was hard to read before, the sixty days of distance have made Yasha’s eyes an enigma. Under other circumstances, Beau would be intrigued by that - she’s always been a codebreaker, an investigator, a truth-seeker - but not now, not when she’s the one under the magnifying glass.
So Beau doesn’t respond. Doesn’t do anything, just stares back, frozen. The moment stretches. Muffled sounds of the city fill the silence, but don’t do anything to assuage the tension.
( too close, too close )
Beau can’t stand it anymore. “What, are we just gonna have a staring match now? What do you want from me, I’m beat to hell, I’m tired, I’m probably delirious -”
“I want to know why you fought.”
“Yasha, please just drop it.” The please is out of Beau’s mouth before she can reel it back, swap out the parts, trade her desperation for something flippant. Yasha’s impassive. If Beau’s halfway plea has any effect on her, it doesn’t show.
Another long beat passes. Beau prays - to Ioun, to Kord, to the fuckin’ Luxon - if she stays quiet, Yasha will give up on her, leave her alone. No such luck. Beau makes a mental note to let Jester do some pranks at the archives, as a special fuck-you to Ioun.
“I’m just -” Beau starts, voice pitched low and quiet. “I don’t know, Yasha, he just - he pissed me off. I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again. Is that what you want?”
Yasha studies her.
“I don’t believe that, Beau.” There’s no accusation in the words, just quiet persistence.
( too close)
“Tell me the truth.”
Whatever’s left of Beau’s facade cracks, shatters, explodes.
“What? What do you want? Do you want to know how I’m a loose cannon, a liability? How I pick fights for fun? I mean, fuck , Yasha, it’s not a fucking mystery!” She expects pushback, a retort, something . She does not expect Yasha to lean forward, elbows braced on her knees, head bowed contemplatively.
“That’s not - Beau, I don’t think that’s true either. You aren’t a liability.” Yasha looks up at Beau before rephrasing her question, each word chosen carefully. “Why did you want to fight?”
“I don’t know, Yasha.” Beau smiles bitterly. “I don’t know, I’m just - I’m just so angry I, I want to just explode sometimes.”
Yasha lets out a huff of air, the corners of her mouth just barely quirked up. Beau realizes it’s a laugh, and is so startled that she lets out one of her own. “What?”
“Nothing, you just - I can understand that.” That’s right, she probably can, Beau thinks. She thinks of Yasha, eyes flashing with rage, Yasha, blade singing through the air, Yasha, shadowed wings extending like a vengeful angel. Maybe she can understand that. A tenuous peace settles over the two of them.
“And… Why do you -” Yasha breaks off, considering Beau again. Both of them know they’re dancing on the edge of something, know they need to be careful. “What about the - the pain?”
( too close, too close )
Beau flushes. “I don’t know what you're talking about.”
Yasha gives her a look.
Oh, you know - just your garden-variety self-destruction. Nothing fancy, just your average, run-of-the-mill, bone-deep need to hurt, so maybe you can have something to show for the bullshit of Life, like a shitty souvenir, you know! Just your typical, cliche cry for attention-
Yeah, like I’m gonna say that . That’ll go over great. She tries another path, starts talking before she can follow its trajectory too far.
“I, uh - this city blows, you know? It feels like we’re caged in here, and being watched all the time, it’s suffocating. And it just feels like we - the Nein, the Empire and the Dynasty, and fuckin’ Tharizdun, just, everything - we’re all just racing towards some sort of endgame-finale-conclusion and it’s just -”
Please, please understand , Beau pleads, I’m not avoiding this time, please understand . Yasha doesn’t give any sign that she sees the way Beau is weaving around her answer, but she makes no move to interrupt her, so Beau surges ahead.
“- it feels like everyone can feel it, and we’re all so tense and busy, you know? We’re all together, but everyone feels like they’re drifting, or isolated, or busy with their thing, which is fine! I’m glad we’re getting to figure out everyone’s shit. But I’m just -” (TOO CLOSE)
Okay, different path. “I’m just really fuckin’ tired. I keep coming up short at the library, trying to find intel that’ll be useful, and hitting all these dead ends. And it’s - I dont know -”
You do know. Say it. Say it.
She gives a wry grin. She knows it doesn’t reach her eyes, but Yasha doesn’t call her on it. “I guess it just made me feel like I couldn’t do anything. So I wanted to prove I was still good at something. You know, kicking ass.” Yasha’s eyes dart to the dried blood adorning Beau’s face. “Okay, yeah, or getting my ass kicked. Either way.”
She holds her breath once she’s done speaking, directing her attention inward. The warning bells are still thunderous, but otherwise she’s okay.
Yasha nods, once, more to herself than anything. “I - I can understand that, I think.” She peers up at Beau, eyes squinted. “I, uh… I don’t know how much help I would be but, if you need someone to - assist you? At the library?”
“No, I can do it,” Beau snaps, reflexively, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it under control.”
“Beau.” There it is again, quiet, insistent. Yasha shifts, catches Beau’s gaze in her own. “You don’t have to do this alone. We’re a team, the Nein. Right?”
Beau starts to protest, but Yasha continues.
“We don’t think any less of you because you need help. You’re capable and talented. But sometimes - sometimes we aren’t strong enough to do everything alone.” There’s a weight behind Yasha’s words that stills Beau.
Then something in Yasha’s eyes clicks in comprehension, and Beau knows what’s coming. “Is that - is that why you didn’t want…” She gestures towards her ungloved hand.
( TOO CLOSE, TOO CLOSE)
Fuck it.
“It’s - kind of? I just,” and fuck, this is hard to explain , especially when every part of her is screaming to stop talking, to close off and shut down, “I just wanted it to… last.”
Yasha’s eyes are guarded, back to the enigma. She leans back in her chair, head cocked like she’s waiting for Beau to continue. Beau sighs, and tries.
“When I was a kid - back in Kamordah - I was a real shithead. I’d sneak out and get into whatever trouble I could. I got my ass kicked, a lot. When I came home, my mom would fuss over me and make a huge production out of getting ice and bandages, and threatening to call the doctor if I didn’t sit still and let her take care of me.”
One of Yasha’s brows lifts in recognition, but she doesn’t interrupt.
“That - coming home, beat to hell - that was one of the only times Mom would pay any attention to me. She would always be busy doing, I don't know, upper class lady-of-the-house shit, and I’d be with my tutors, but when I came home bloody - she’d always insist that she would be the one to take care of me.
“So, I kept doing it. Which was shitty of me, because she kept telling me not to and I know she hated seeing me like that but it was - I kept doing it, because every time I got a new bruise - it was like - like I knew Mom would give a shit about me for a while. Like I’d earned her attention.”
The last words are muttered, more to the bedspread than in Yasha’s direction. For a moment Beau thinks that Yasha didn’t hear or listen, but when she glances out of the corner of her eye, Yasha’s staring back at her, rapt.
“I don’t - that’s a lot of bullshit information you didn’t ask for, but - yeah. I just, I guess I just like being. Sore. Don’t - don’t tell the others, okay? It’s not - I mean, I know it kind of affected the team today but it won’t happen again, just don’t -” She cuts herself off. Don’t what? Don’t look at me different, now that you have this insight into my whole psyche, don’t treat me like a freak, a disaster, now that you know that I absolutely am? Just don’t what?
She chances a look at Yasha, trying to gauge the damage. Her eyes are still hard to read, but she looks like she’s wrestling with a decision. Beau’s curiosity wins out. “What?”
Yasha almost looks startled. “I just, ah.” She chews on her lip, before seeming to make up her mind. “I think I understand what you’re saying.”
Oh. “Oh. Oh?”
Yasha nods, slowly. “I don’t - not the same, but - there’s something freeing about the pain? Or at least - it’s like you’re taking hold of your misery. Like you’re controlling it, instead of the other way.”
Beau is stock still, afraid that if she speaks or moves it will shatter whatever strange moment is allowing them to confide in each other.
“There are a lot of things I regret. And it can, ah, get a little loud in here,” she taps her head. “So it can, help, sometimes, to fight. To not be in here as much.” She frowns, eyes tracing the floorboards. “That probably, that’s probably not a lot of sense, sorry -”
“No, I think I understand.”
Yasha nods, cautiously, like she’s still settling into the idea of being understood. Beau recognizes it well. “Okay. Good.” Another beat passes, but it doesn’t carry the tension, the electricity, the need to skirt around what’s on their minds.
Yasha is the one who speaks up, eventually. “I don't know if - I understand if it’s - if you wouldn’t feel comfortable, but - if you wanted to spar, sometime? I just - I know I’ve been distant, since I’ve been back. And, I’m sorry for that. I don’t know, I just thought - maybe, if you would like to - but it’s okay, I understand if - because of the -” She cuts herself off, gesturing in the direction of Beau’s stomach. There’s not much of a scar left, thanks to Cad’s healing, but Beau catches her meaning.
“Yeah, that’d be good, I think.” Yasha looks surprised. “I mean, yeah. That’s a good idea.” Try again . “I’d really appreciate that.” Better . “Maybe not right now, though, unless you’re really itching for a fight? I mean, I could probably go for a few rounds -” She feigns movement towards the door, hoping her joke will lighten the mood.
Yasha allows a small smile. “No, I think I can wait. You should rest, you look like shit.” She gets quiet, tentative. “Do you mind if I stay in here? I need to get some reading done. I, ah, I can go downstairs if you would prefer to be alone, though.”
“Yeah, sure, that's - that's fine.” Please stay. “Heads up, though, I snore, so I hope that won’t distract you.”
Yasha smiles, shakes her head no, and Beau knows they understand each other.
They spend the rest of the afternoon, Yasha’s feet propped up on Beau’s bed as she reads, Beau combing through her notebooks, taking breaks to splay out like a starfish, snoring. They don’t talk, but it’s comfortable.
That evening, Beau is jolted awake by the familiar sound of Jester racing down the hall. The door is flung open, and Jester rushes in.
“ Beau! What happened , you look like shit! Oh my gods, we’re going to find the guy who did this and murder him - maybe I can Send a message to King Dwendal and he can put a bounty on his head! How was your day, though? Apart from… you know.”
Beau heaves herself upright, bleary-eyed, and sees Yasha, still there, blinking away her own grogginess.
“Could have been a lot worse, Jes. How was yours?”