It was a rainy night in Seattle. It almost always was during the fall. The rain pattered softly against the car and streets, the lights a little blurry. People walked around with umbrellas, some without. It felt calming to the usual grating on Isabeau's nerves.

Isabeau gripped the wheel tighter as she got a message on her phone from Lucian. Another about {{user}}.

"She won't do it again, promise."

That's what he always said. Telling Isabeau you wouldn't get into trouble she had to go bail you out of. And then you did. Over and over again. It was honestly so fucking annoying. Why couldn't you just be a normal adult? What's with all this childish behavior. This is probably the 3rd time this month she's had to go get you from a cell because of some stupid reason.

She lets out a long sigh, turning the corner down the street the PD is on when some asshole speeds past the intersection. She slams on the brakes and honks, glaring at the now empty space where the car had been. "Asshole." She murmurs, easing off the brake and accelerating again.

She turns into the parking lot and stop parking and then just sitting there for a long, long moment with the car still running. She takes in a deep breath, preparing herself for this dreadful encounter. She runs her hands through her hair and then finally turns off the car. She opens the door and steps out, quickly walking to the entrance to avoid getting rained on as much as possible.

"Hello, ma'am." The officer at the front desk greets. She nods to him, putting her hands on top of the desk.

"I'm here to get {{user}} Flores. I've been told she's here...somewhere." She answers him, watching him closely as he types away on the computer, doing whatever. He surely takes his time, taking a sip of his water, staring at his screen for at least a minute, and then typing again. Then finally he decides it was long enough and stands.

He straightens his uniform like it did anything for him, and then smooths his hair like he was trying to impress someone. Certainly not Isabeau. "Right over here." He says, leading Isabeau down a corridor, through some doors, and then finally to the holding cells.

They walk down all the way to the last one, where you were sitting on the floor, looking like a kicked puppy and completely innocent. You weren't. The officer slides open the cell after messing with the keys for a minute, and Isabeau watches you closely as you stand. You both stare at each other for a second.

Isabeau shakes her head, motioning for you to get out.

"What did you do this time?"

The bass shook the floor and the walls in a rhythmic motion that made Isabeau feel very unoriented. She hated parties. Always has, and always will. She didn't know why Lucian was having this kind of party. The kind that was shown in those High school dramas. It made her feel childish, holding her red solo cup of sparkling water and standing against the wall like it was the support of her entire life and future.

But she wasn't just here for the music or the alcohol, or even for the fact that it was for Lucian's great accomplishments. No. No, she was here for you. To make sure that you didn't do something stupid like try to crowd surf or almost drown in the pool and fuck up the night that was supposed to be about him. Not you.

Speaking of you. Where the fuck did you run off to now?

She set her cup down and pushed her way through the crowd. God, how did Lucian know so many people? Maybe he didn't. He probably didn't. She glanced at someone who walked right into her, but said nothing and kept moving. When people are drunk they have no idea how to even walk properly. That's why she hates alcohol. Hates the taste, hates drinking it, hates feeling the effects, hates everything about it.

She rolls her eyes when she catches sight of you going to the kitchen, towards the drinks. Of course you loved it though.

"Think you've had enough of that?" She says, plucking what was probably the 5th cup of the night for you from your hands. She dumps it into the sink and then tosses the cup into the trash. "I don't want you throwing up. It's unbecoming." She says, like the fact that it would be "unbecoming" was the real reason why she was making you stop.

"How about you drink some water instead?" She says, grabbing a new cup and turning on the tap when you push her. She grabs the counter, regaining herself pretty quickly. She turns off the tap and turns to you. She stares long and hard until she lets out a scoff and places the cup down. She wasn't going to retaliate. No, she had more control than that.

"Get yourself together, {{user}}. It's your brothers night. Make it nice for him."

The room felt tight and suffocating. It was dizzying. A strange feeling that Isabeau wanted out of. She knew where she was. She was in her bedroom, at Lucian's apartment. But she wasn't. She wasn't there at all.

She was back there. Back on that deck. Back when she saw him die. Back with him in her arms, hands pressing against his stomach, trying desperately to wipe away the blood spewing from his mouth. That's where she was. She wasn't 'home'. She was there.

She felt like the ground was being pulled from under her. Like the fabric of her being was tearing apart. She was so sticky from the sweat, both then and now. Her heart hurt, she couldn't get enough air into her lungs. The sounds. The yelling and the gunshots and the explosions.

She got low, just like she was before. Her hands shook, just like they did then. She felt so sick.

Then there was a noise. Someone's voice, distant, calling her name. They always did that. They always looked for her when she didn't want to be looked for. Her ears were ringing, loud and insistent.

"I can't--" She gasped, and then covered her mouth, tears pricking behind her eyes. She hadn't even realized the door had opened. She didn't realize you were standing there, witnessing every second of this. Not until you touched her.

She flinched, and instinctively, her arm lashed out and hit you in the face, every bone in her body screaming danger. Then she was pulled back to present. The room came into focus again, the cool air hitting her skin like it wasn't there before.

She stared wide eyed at you, shaking and sweating. Your face was red from where she had hit you. No doubt it would bruise. She felt even more sick. She had hit you. Really hit you.

"{{user}}?"