Gaze firmly settled on the ceiling, Belva doesn’t notice the way that her sister watches her, doesn’t see the expression fixed on the other woman’s face. The blonde makes a small noise of consideration, the brunette undoubtedly having a point. Irma wasn’t exactly known for being peaceful, but still…even if the most logical assumption would have been that Irma had been the one to start the fight, everything going on made her a bit on edge when it came to her family’s safety. Blue eyes flicker to her sister’s face, firmly above the blood and minor carnage, perhaps even more shocked by the dazzling smile. It’s an expression she’s altogether unfamiliar with when it comes to the woman in front of her. “So you…fought the garage?” she asks, perplexed, although the injuries certainly make more sense. Perhaps a person would have some trouble taking Irma in a fight, but an inanimate object? A building, no less? Even fiery Irma was no match.
Irma’s a flurry of movement, and it seems that their interaction is to be made up primarily of Belva blinking in confusion and concern. It isn’t until her sister stills that she thinks she realizes what the other woman has done, her comment confirming the blonde’s thoughts. “Oh. Oh, that’s good,” she nods, the blood on the shirt still slightly unsettling, but not making her feel ill. “You should probably put some, like, medicine and band aids on your cuts.” Whenever she was younger, that was always the first course of action, an unspoken rule that scars were not acceptable and to be prevented at any cost.
Irma can’t help but snicker at the way Belva words it, but is surprised by how relaxed the laugh sounds as it comes out of her mouth. Maybe it’s that she’s finally getting more used to interacting with Belva, all the misplaced anger and competition and drive that Dad always incited in her, that unstoppable need that would intermingle with the Fire always burning inside her, telling her she needed to do, and act and be more... and that always meant feeling envious of her siblings, their triumphs, their positive qualities. Now that Dad is gone and she’s back here without that pressure, maybe she’s finally ready to... well, not open up, but at least get to know her siblings. Or maybe she’s just happy she got to punch the wall and whoever’s car she ran into for an hour straight. “Something like that. And trust me, it wasn’t pretty for the garage either.”
Irma let’s her eyes linger in her long, thin fingers. Pianist’s fingers, that’s how the woman she used to call mother in her other life called them. And yet, their covers in little cuts and bruises, small scars, even some bumps. The physical memories of a life filled with aggression. She’s not too worried about what will happen to them now, they’ve been through worse. But if there’s one thing Irma detests, it’s pus. Or any other symptom of infection. So she agrees with Belva, she should clean them and cover them just in case. “Right. That’s kind of what I tried to do earlier, but I failed miserably.” The brunette explains, gesturing in the general direction of the garbage can, where she threw the messy bandages. She finally find a first aid kit and gets to work on them. “Maybe I can pour some whiskey in them, that’ll clean them up, right?” She half jokes, half asks.
