It had been a surprisingly busy night for Rose; there had been more than the usual numbers of guest injuries to treat - nothing more serious than small cuts and bruises, which she'd treated quickly and easily - and a few more of the cirque employees, but it meant that she'd spent longer than usual cleaning the place up for the night. It never really closed, the Bandaid Station, but she did leave to sleep after the last of the employees had come through. The quiet after her last patient was a time for cleaning up used supplies, prepping things for the morning, and paperwork, which was a habit from decades of human hospitals that she hadn't kicked. Hadn't wanted to kick, either; having histories for her regulars was important, as well as documenting what happened when. Repeat injuries would mean either safety standards weren't being upheld or that a performer needed to adjust their routine, and she was good at seeing the patterns.
But she was finally free to go her own way, and knowing there was little in her trailer in the way of food - she'd been slipping on doing her usual shopping - she decided a detour through the dining hall to find something quick and portable wouldn't hurt. She usually forgot to eat while she was working, focused on the job in a way that left everything else in the background, but once she stopped to breathe the growling in her stomach came back fiercely.
Until, that is, she saw what was inside the dining hall, sitting quietly on a table in the dark. Her hunger disappeared - not from revulsion; Rose was long past the point where body horror or trauma could turn her stomach, but from an instant clinical fascination. She could think of only one person who had spoken of being filled with honey and no organs, and so while she kept a safe distance from the quietly droning bees, she did ask, "Marisol?" Her voice was pitched low, calm and inquisitive and nonthreatening.