still dancing on my own

Gobsmacked, Isla can do little more than shake her head at him. He can have the last words. He can have the you're so cruels and the who have you becomes and the I did all this for yous. She hopes it makes him feel better, or feel justified to hold those 72 hours as if they were knives to purposefully throw rather than the blur of work and confusion that Isla's three days had been. How dare she not prioritise their sort-of-not-relationship over infection and illness, over missing notes and files and medicines reduced to ash. So as he turns to leave, Isla ducks into the infirmary properly to begin her checks to see what is salvageable. Nothing will be - it's been thoroughly razed through - but it's better than the alternative, of going back out to face another battering from Remi. And that's that, she supposes. ~FINohnosadrobot Isla the flesh is weak