Isla
"Neither was I," Isla admits with a gentle smile, her fingers brushing across his cheek even as she feels the tension ripple through his jaw. "And you don't need to apologise to me. Medic, remember? Let's fix you up, and then we'll deal with the rest together." Luckily the wound is already starting to fix itself, and so after a few moments of pressure with the dressing, Isla peeks beneath it and shifts to patch it up properly. When she's done, she moves to take his hand in her own, metal on flesh.
"We can't always be perfect," she reminds him, shifting to sit down beside the couch where he's laying, so she isn't leaning over him so much. "So is this... you? From the last war?" she asks, gesturing at the garb he's wearing, at the mask on the coffee table. "What made you need to practice all of this again?"
"We can't always be perfect," she reminds him, shifting to sit down beside the couch where he's laying, so she isn't leaning over him so much. "So is this... you? From the last war?" she asks, gesturing at the garb he's wearing, at the mask on the coffee table. "What made you need to practice all of this again?"
sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything
and try forgetting everything
