Snowdrop

## Meta

**Timing:** ~June 2020; Blossom's got her 'Marcie Carlisle' identity set and's about to start work at the Sydney Shatterdome to be closer to Bubbles, who's just starting as a Ranger there.

**Setting:** Blossom's flat

## Text

Blossom sorts her new paperwork into neat piles. She fingers her hair, freshly dyed a more natural black, sighs.

Something taps her window.

She sweeps the papers into an envelope, leaves the couch, peeks through the blinds.

Correction: Some/**one**.

Logan crouches on the fire escape, smiles weakly, waves.

Blossom raises the blinds, unlocks and pushes open the window.

"'ey. Wanna take that offer of a couch."

She sighs, tilts her head, 'come in.'

Logan eases himself through, muffs the landing, flails—

Blossom grabs his arm, steadies him.

He yanks himself free, wobbles a moment, collapses on the couch.

Blossom looks down at him, eyebrow quirked, arms crossed.

Logan pulls up the right sleeve of his coat, brandishes a wrist wrapped--

A strip of blood-soaked green t-shirt slithers from mangled skin to the floor.

"Jesus, Jones!" Blossom grabs a handful of tissues, presses them to his arm. She takes his other hand, curls it around the wad. "Do /**not** move."

Logan keeps frowning at his arm.

Blossom darts for the bathroom, comes back with rubber gloves and a first-aid kit, kneels beside the couch. "Who did this?"

"Fuck'n' window," Logan slurs. Preens. "Patched i' myself."

"I can tell." She eases away Logan's hand. "Why aren't you at Ha's?"

"Pro'ly nabbed."

Some of the tissues. "Your family's?"

"Too far."

More of the tissues. "Emergency?"

"/**Lotsa** cops."

The final few. "What'd you do?"

"Nuthin'. Party crashers. Slipped on th' way out."

A gash, razor-edged and deep, straight up the side of his arm.

"/**Jesus.**" Fumbles open an alcohol wipe. "You're lucky you haven't bled to death."

"Yea. Good thin' you were close." Eyes flutter closed.

Blossom jabs him—

Logan snorts, blinks rapidly.

"Don't you /**dare** pass out."

"Not passin' out. Sleeeepy," huffs Logan.

"I can/**not** deal with you dying on my couch."

Frowns, glares. "/**Not** dyin'."

Blossom sighs. "Just ... just stay awake. Please?"

Logan grunts.

Blossom drags the disinfectant along the cut.

Angry, pained hiss.

"Sorry, Buttercup, but I gotta get this clean." Chews her lip, dabs more gently.

Grumbles, "Stings."

Blossom drops the cloth onto the kit with a wet /*plop*, opens another. "I know, sweetie—"

"Not yer sweetie."

"—and I'm sorry, but I hafta do it."

More grumbling.

Another wipe joins its fellow.

Blossom sucks air through her teeth. "You're still bleeding."

Logan huffs, closes his eyes.

Blossom prods his head.

Forces his eyes open.

"Stay. Awake."

Fails at an evil eye. "'m."

"Whatever you say, Buttercup." Globs on antibiotic cream.

"Cold."

"Whine, whine, whine."

"'m not whining," whines Logan.

Blossom rolls her eyes, opens a roll of gauze, winds it snugly around Logan's arm.

"Thaaanks." Hooks his knees over the couch's arm.

She dumps the bloodied wipes, cloth, and gloves in the bin, sets the first-aid kit aside, rocks back on her heels. "Lift your head a moment."

"Wha?" But he does.

Blossom wiggles under him, settles his head in her lap. "We're staying up and watching /*Adventure Time*." Works the remote.

Logan frowns. "'s a kid's show."

"I don't care. It's good."

Pouts, "Kid's show."

Blossom huffs. "You're in no shape to complain; you're so pale, I want to start calling you 'Snowdrop'."

A sleepy scowl.

Pokes his forehead. "No. Sleeping."

Wordless grumble.

"Not for five episodes, at least."

"Fiiiiiine."

Blossom smiles, presses 'Play'.