Jesus--it was all really catching up to him today. The second trip through the fountain must have knocked something loose, if the world is melting red at the edges. He's lived with it long enough, he doesn't recoil from her eyes: he just feels tired. He can't even do something this simple, this necessary, without what he sees folding in on itself.

Sometimes a crying, puking girl is just that, and he wished his senses would agree.

Taking the space of a breath and a steady nod to tell himself it's not real, Jude squeezed her shoulder under his hand. "Alright, no one's gonna make you go." Jude least of all, even if he did his best to keep his own troubles invisible and shrugged off.

Medical attention vetoed, all he can do is dig in his pockets, coming up with a rag that might have once been a sheet or towel. "Here." Even if he told himself it wasn't real, it was unsettling to see blood welling up in anyone's eyes.