Diane
The warning doesn't come register quick enough, and it takes three seconds of blank staring at the smattering of yellow-tinged bruises and blood splayed across her skin before it fully hits. 

Thoughts wrought with concern and worry for the still-injured girl are quickly overridden by deep, intense mortification. 

Their ears tinge pink in embarrassment, and a sharp jolt of shock jerks their shoulders upwards. They crane their head 180 degrees away from Margo. If anyone could see their face, they would be greeted with an intense, dazed expression, normally pallid grey eyes hyper focused onto the corner of the wall. 

"You're— yes, I'll get the supplies, just, uh, give me a second." Uriel rummages through their cabinets, producing a surprisingly well-stocked medical collection for someone who avoided conflict like the plague. 

They stand in the middle of the room, hands glued to the sides of the medkit. 

"Do you need any help...? You're bleeding quite a lot, and I wouldn't want your condition to worsen by exerting yourself— ah, but, er, if you just want me to slide it over..." 

Another deep breath, and Uriel curses themselves. The desire to help conflicted with the deep seeded fear of accidentally infuriating Margo, or meddling where they weren't wanted, or being misinterpreted, or... 

"I'll, um, get some towels." They quickly muttered, gathering pillows and towels and anything that would be useful for aiding in Margo's recovery. 

They'd have to clean the couch, it seemed— when she was asleep seemed to be the easiest time, and Uriel had no problem with using disinfectant and elbow grease to rub out pesky blood stains.
Jeannie
◇ And as Uri busied themself with gathering the medical supplies, Margo began to do what she could with her own kit.

□ At first this effort was mostly focused on the big wounds: her broken nose, rope-burned neck, anything that posed real issues. She tended to these as if she'd done it a hundred times before, with the confidence of a well-seasoned medic, occasionally looking up at her roommate as they flitted about the inside of the room. Afterwards, though, she began to look herself over again, making sure she hadn't missed any worrying spots of blood or busted skin, and once she was satisfied that she'd covered all her bases she looked back up.

▪︎ And she looked up with the kind of expression that only someone who barely knew what the hell was going on would have.

◆ "I'm fine, Uri. I'm not beat too bad, actually. She didn't really hit me that much, just... Every punch she did land hit way harder than someone her size should be able to. She hits above her weight class, really." Margo grumbled, reaching out for the tube of A535 and beginning to rub it down on her shoulder, the point she was most concerned about. "But thanks for asking, man. Anyways, yeah, get towels and some dish soap, it's pretty easy to get blood off of a couch. Now. D'ya know anything about why the administration laid that stricter curfew on us? I know we went to talk to them – which, by the way, I got to meet their leader, I think? She looked like she led them." Margo shrugged. "But then how do they know we went out to visit? Do they even know? Just, man. What the fuck is happening?"
Diane
Uriel sighs inwardly at Margo's words, and approaches the couch with towel and soap in hand. They kneel down next to Margo, the girl only able to really see the top of their head, and begin to blot the wine-colored spots dotting the old fabric. 

It was almost therapeutic. Uriel's hands were surprisingly firm, with years of knitting and weaving strengthening their rather sinewy digits and palm. Smooth, marble-like skin rippled as they twisted the blood-soaked towel, a far contrast to the rest of their weak and limp body. Working hands. Capable hands. 

"You— you met their leader?" Their head tilts up to look at Margo, and the surprise makes them momentarily hesitate from their task. It only takes a few moments before they return to their dutiful obedience, kneading the couch's fabric with a quiet resolve.

"Please, tell me all about what happened— they didn't try and convert you, or stick a halo somewhere? I'm thankful you made it out in one piece, but... How?" 

White strands of thick, wispy hair fall on their face. A deft stroke of their red-tinted hands tucks the meddlesome strings behind their ear, but not before leaving splotches of sticky, crimson blood against their cheek.

"It's not surprising they know about what happened. Far more people showed up than I expected them to— even if they don't know anything now, they will eventually. To be honest, I'm surprised they haven't contacted me and questioned me about my involvement. This whole ordeal seems past any of our paygrades as students, and I'd like to have this all sorted out by the school as soon as it can."

Uriel's voice is low and smooth, and they let out a small sigh upon recollecting the past couple of weeks. They were tired, terribly so, and they didn't want to be involved any more than they already were. The quiet, pervasive sense of dread that had been haunting them seemed to eat away at their heart.

*Please, just secure my classmates' safety,* They softly pled.