The drive felt as though it lasted years and ten seconds, simultaneously. Cordelia was experiencing what was quite possibly the worst pain she had ever felt, but it was somehow numbed by her desperation to return to Misty.

Something was seriously wrong with her arm – whatever Hank had done to it back at the gas station, she had made infinitely worse by dragging him into the trunk. There was a visible lump under her skin; she had prodded it once, not entirely convinced she wasn't hallucinating the whole thing, and what felt like lightning travelled up her arm and she had nearly passed out at the wheel. So she didn't do that again.

Multiple times, she found herself speeding, and had to force herself to slow down – the need to get back to Misty trumped her awareness of road laws. It was torture to go the speed limit, but getting pulled over with a body in the back of the car she had stolen from said body didn't sound like a great idea to her. It was a good way to get thrown into prison before she could do anything to help Misty.

She arrived in New Orleans just short of 10am. By then, Misty must have been alone and injured for over eight hours. A lump rose in Cordelia's throat whenever that occurred to her – what if she was too late? But she couldn't think like that, she just couldn't. She needed to believe that Misty was alright, that she'd be fine, that they'd get through this just fine.

Driving through the swamp was chaotic, and she had very nearly driven into a tree or two. Mud was not an easy thing to speed through, which she learnt the hard way after the car nearly skidded off the faint trail formed by Quentin's tyres.

She arrived home in a blur. She could barely remember getting out of the car. She ran – or, stumbled as fast as she could – towards their little cabin.

Misty was lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, as if she had fallen down them after trying to walk. Cordelia rushed to her side, feeling desperately for a pulse, which she found. There was blood caked to the side of Misty's head, matting her blonde hair and almost concealing the egg-sized lump on her forehead. "Misty! Misty, please say something, please wake up," Cordelia begged. "Misty, please."

Her girlfriend's eyes flickered slightly and Cordelia let out a sigh of relief. "Quick, Delia, he's gettin' away."

"Shh," Cordelia said. "It's fine. You're okay. We're fine." She wanted to move Misty inside, but she knew that she wouldn't manage that with her arm unless Misty could at least partially support her weight. "Oh, god, what do I do?"

Misty opened her eyes again. "Water."

"Right. Yes. Of course," Cordelia said. She gently lowered Misty's head to the ground, and rushed into the cabin. Filling a jug with water, she grabbed a clean rag and a mug before going back to Misty. She set the jug on the stairs and filled a glass, bringing Misty's head back into her lap gently. "Okay, honey, I need you to drink this." Misty opened her mouth obediently and Cordelia raised the glass to her lips. She drank greedily and Cordelia then wet the rag and began to clean the blood off her forehead.

She needed, somehow, to get Misty into the car. If she could get them both to Quentin's, she could use his phone to call Myrtle. Myrtle would surely know what to do. "Misty, can you walk?"

Misty groaned. "Delia, it's spinning."

"What is, Mist?"

"The world," Misty said, and groaned. "Delia, you can't take me to a hospital."

"I won't, Mist," Cordelia promised.

"They'll lock me up," she said, and when she opened her eyes they were full of terror. "Don't let em' lock me up."

Cordelia would never let that happen. If it meant killing Hank a million times over, she would do it to keep Misty free. "No-one's locking you up, Mist, I promise. Can you help me? Can you try to stand?"

"Yeah," Misty grunted. Cordelia helped her roll onto her side, and helped her to her feet.

Misty swayed, and grabbed Cordelia's bad arm. A wave of nausea swept through her as the pain hit and Cordelia fought very hard not to pass out. "Woah," she said, biting her lip, choking back a scream. She attempted to manoeuvre Misty to her right side so that she didn't knock her arm again. She doubted she would be able to avoid passing out if she so much as brushed it.

Somehow, the two of them managed to shuffle over to the car, supporting each other's weight. Misty seemed to have livened up a bit after the water, but by the time Cordelia managed to get her into the backseat of the car she was out of it again. Cordelia fastened both the seatbelts in the back over Misty's unconscious form – if the drive to Quentin's was anything like the drive to the cabin, she didn't fully trust that Misty wouldn't roll off the seat and do further damage to herself.

The drive to Quentin's somehow felt even longer than that first drive through the swamp had felt. Maybe because Cordelia was looking over her shoulder every two minutes to check that Misty was still alive in the backseat. She realised, about halfway there, that Hank's corpse was still stuffed in the trunk, but there wasn't much she could do about that yet. She would wait until she talked to Myrtle before deciding what to do with his body.

The car was on the verge of breaking down by the time she got to Quentin's, and she thanked whatever good force in the universe that the car hadn't run out of gas. She didn't even bother closing the door. Sitting Misty up as gently as she could, Cordelia once again threw her girlfriend's arm around her right shoulder, and half-dragged her to Quentin's doorstep. With no free arm to ring the doorbell, she had no choice but to deposit Misty as gently as possible next to the front door. Misty's head lolled, and Cordelia felt sick. Oh, god, I'm about to pass out. Shaking, she forced herself to raise her arm and ring the doorbell. Spots danced in front of her eyes and she felt her knees trembling.

Quentin looked nothing short of horrified to see her. "Miss Goode? What in heaven's name are you doin' here? Oh, lord, you are filthy. Do not get that swamp scum on my carpet."

"Quentin," Cordelia managed to get out, fighting off the faint she felt herself about to slip into. "Misty's hurt. Her head. Call Myrtle."

With that, the dark spots overwhelmed her vision, and she felt herself fall to the ground next to her unconscious girlfriend.

0o0o

Cordelia woke up where Quentin had, apparently, left her. Misty was nowhere in sight, and she began to panic. What if the cops had somehow tracked them down while she was out? What if they'd taken Misty and Cordelia would never see her again?

Hyperventilating, Cordelia used the doorframe to pull herself to her feet. She stumbled inside to see Quentin all but dragging Misty into the living room. "Thank god you're awake," he said, huffing and puffing and red in the face. "Help me get her to the couch."

Cordelia complied, her left arm hanging uselessly by her side. If Quentin noticed, he didn't say anything. "Call Myrtle –" she began to say, but Quentin cut her off with one of the bizarre, disapproving noises he made.

"Miss Goode, what in the name of the lord is going on?"

"Please, Quentin, I'll explain, but it's really important that you call Myrtle – "

"Darling, I am not doing anything until I know exactly why I found the two of you half-dead at my doorstep."

Cordelia paused and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow, and she sighed, knowing full well that he wouldn't co-operate until he got what he wanted. And since he was, right now, the only person in the world who could help them, it was in her best interest to comply. "Fine. My mother sent someone to track me down. This man, Hank, he hurt Misty, kidnapped me, and tried to drive me back home."

"And where is this Hank now?"

Cordelia bit her lip and looked down. "In the trunk of the car."

"Ah!" Quentin said in disgust. "What? That car in my driveway?"

"Yeah."

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose as though she were giving him a migraine. "Oh my. I better be getting' somethin' out of this because darling, I owed Myrtle a favour, not you, and I am not in the business of coverin' up murders."

"Quentin, I promise, if you help us, I'll pay you back. I'm very rich, you know."

"Hm." Quentin looked at her, as though he was contemplating the pros and cons. Cordelia hadn't exactly liked the man before, but right now, she hated him. "Fine. Use my phone and call Myrtle. I'll help Misty but you tell her she better get that red bush of hers down here soon or you girls are on your own."

"Thank you," Cordelia said. She hadn't brought Myrtle's helpful little book of numbers with her, but she had memorised the important ones – Myrtle, Stevie, Quentin. She dialled the numbers without needing to think about them, and by some miracle, Myrtle picked up after two rings.

"This is Myrtle Snow."

Cordelia almost cried at the sound of her voice. "Oh, Myrtle, thank god."

"Delia? Is that your voice I hear?"

"Yes, Myrtle. Oh, you have to help us. Hank found me and he hurt Misty and she's unconscious, and he kidnapped me but I killed him and now he's in the trunk of his own car which I drove to Quentin's and he doesn't want to help him but Misty's really sick and I can't move my arm and I don't know what to do!"

"Cordelia! I need you to take a deep breath, please, dear."

Cordelia did as she was asked. The world seemed to be spinning around her, and she gripped the phone so tight her hand hurt.

"Now. I need you to get Quentin on the phone. He will help you – he's an a vacuous, selfish little man, but he is not evil and he will not just toss you out. Put him on and I will talk some sense into him, my dear."

"All – alright," Cordelia managed to get out. She waved Quentin over, who had been eavesdropping as best he could from the other side of the room. "Myrtle wants to talk to you."

Quentin all but snatched the phone from her hand. "Myrtle Snow you had better explain this better than Miss Goode did or I swear that I will – uh huh. No. Myrtle, my darling, you cannot be serious –"

Cordelia couldn't hear Myrtle's end of the conversation, but from the speed at which Quentin had changed his tone, she knew that Myrtle must be working her conversational magic. She glanced over at Misty, who was still out of it, but before she could walk over, Quentin handed the phone back. "Myrtle?"

"Delia, my dear, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

"Quentin is going to help you. I am going to find a flight and I will be in New Orleans as soon as I can. You will keep Misty inside no matter what – I have a doctor friend whom I will call the moment we stop talking. I need you to then drive that man – what was his name? – Hank's car back to your house and leave it there. Do not move the body. I will deal with it. Do you hear me? Do not call anyone else. Cordelia, do you understand?"

"Yes, Myrtle, I understand."

"My darling, everything will be fine. I have helped more than a few people out of stickier scenarios than this one."

"Thank you, Myrtle. Take care of yourself."

"You too, my dear. I will see you soon." Myrtle hung up.

Let's NOT talk about how long it's been since I've updated.

Chapter title from 'Has Anyone Ever Written Anything for You?' by Nevie Sticks.