Ellie's hands are bloody but rock steady, her heard still pounding with the adrenaline of it. Abby falters in her arms, but she's got her. She holds the both of them up by holding her.

"Me either," she confesses -- and she'll remember later, with a sick sort of self-recrimination that she had. She'd heard two sets of footsteps. She'd been clumsy, hadn't looked for the second one.

But in the moment, she doesn't, and she looses a shaky exhale. Abby smells like rot and her hands are sticky with blood. They're a goddamn mess. And for once, despite their vulnerability, it's blessedly quiet.

Blood trickles thickly down her arm in rivulets, and she glances down at it with vague, shell-shocked disgust. Feeling comes sliding back in in fits and starts, but most prominent is the relief.

Abby is safe. And for once she doesn't feel all fucked up about it. Doesn't feel bad for being relieved, or glad that she's okay.

The pain starts trickling in, which is also a relief. The longer the delay, the worse the injury tends to be.