She runs, and runs, and runs, and then she reaches and abandoned alley somewhere away from the restaurant, and then she twists and flies.

Devon is not yet home when Freya reaches their dorm room. It's a good thing, too, because they probably would have had a minor heart attack, had they seen Freya appearing outside their window and clinging to the wall with bare fingertips.

It takes a bit of maneuvering, not the least bit helped by how her hands still shake, until she manages to get the window open from the outside, and then she tumbles into the room.

Fuck.

There's a reason she usually takes care to only turn into a bat when she's recently fed, and has another meal in the making. It takes too much out of her otherwise, and doing this when already on the verge of starvation has been really very stupid.

Oh well. She'll just have to find a trashy street corner sooner rather than later, and stock up on coconut water in the meantime. Not that she'll ever be able to drink it again without thinking of this night, of course.

Seriously, fuck.

She lies splayed on the floor where she landed, and tries to decide which option appeals to her more: hysteric laughter or crying.

Both seem very valid choices, just now.

So of course it's this exact moment that footsteps approach outside in the hall, and despite Freya's prayers to the contrary, they stop in front of her door, and keys rattle.

It's pure luck that she remembers to change her appearance back to the Freya Devon actually knows instead of the Asian badass, which in turn has the unfortunate side effect that her dress doesn't really fit her anymore. Which in turn leads to a hasty flight across the room and into her bed, yanking the covers over her, combat boots and all. She grimaces to herself and turns to face the wall, then quickly try to imitate sleep when the door creaks open and the overhead lights switch on.

"Oh," Devon says, and then, "sorry," they whisper.

"S'alright," Freya slurs, hoping to make it sound more sleep-drunk rather than drunk-drunk so as to not ruin her reputation with the other student on the first night here, and yet still discourage them from any and all conversation.

"Still. I'll be quick," they promise, and then proceed to be just that.

Freya uses the hour it takes until they're deeply asleep to think of nothing at all. Then drags herself out of bed and out of her dress (after shrinking down her waistline again), makes use of the facilities, and goes back to bed.

She doesn't need to sleep, but at least then she doesn't have to think, so.

She sleeps, and forgets for a while.

///

University has changed a lot since Freya last attended some ten or so years ago. It's mostly for the better.

The courses vary a lot more, now, and they're so interesting. It makes it easier to banish that first night from her thoughts as the courses all start up in earnest.

Work helps, too. (The downside of a fake resumé: if you don't actually know what you said you did it takes a lot of learning on the job, and that shit is exhausting.)

And there's something else to look forward to: her favorite artist, the very same one whose painting hangs above her desk, is coming to town soon. She'd be lying if she said that knowing they were from the area around here didn't help in deciding on a uni.

So, she valiantly muddles through, and very carefully does not think about history catching up with her, or her whole world turning on her head, or how the dead just won't stay dead, and how glad she is about that fact even as she curses it.

Yeah. Better to just keep busy.

///

Devon tags along to the art show. They've become something like friends in the recents months. Or maybe more than "something like". It's hard to tell, Freya hasn't had real friends in so long.

"I mean, the painting that you've got is beautiful, no question about that, but they actually paint historically accurate pictures. Why haven't you told me about them so much sooner?" Devon has said some variation of this for the sixth time now.

"I didn't know they were historically accurate," Freya replies, also for the sixth time. It'd be an easier argument if she could just claim that she didn't know Devon was interested in history at all, but no one who spends more than five minutes in their presence can remain ignorant to that fact. "They've never been, before. It's just the theme of the new collection, I think."

Devon makes an inarticulate noise when they finally reach the gallery, catching Freya by the hand and pretty much just towing her inside. "I'm so excited," they say, excited.

Freya grins a bit and squeezes their hand. "Me too," she says, in a more reasonable tone of voice.

They start mingling, then, try to figure out if there's a certain way you should go around the gallery to get the best experience.

There is.

And already the first picture stops Freya in her tracks.

Her gaze darts ahead to the next one, and the one after that.

Breathing suddenly gets a lot harder.

She lets go of Devon's hand, clenches her own into a fist and digs her nails into her palms. She doesn't really feel the pain.

"You go ahead," she croaks out, somehow, when she becomes aware of Devon saying something to her. "I think I need to take a moment."

"Okay..." Devon's hesitance is obvious, even through the fog that blurs Freya's thoughts. She waves them ahead, a bit more insistently.

"Go ahead. I'll be fine." The attempt at a reassuring smile probably looks more like a grimace than anything else, but at least Devon doesn't protest again. A touch to her shoulder, and then they go ahead.

Freya drags in a heavy breath around her clenching heart, and really looks at that first painting, again.

Historically accurate, you could say that.