Ghosts - Day 2

[Bogwoppit]

The casualties of war did indeed sadden West; he seemed to feel every death and loss personally, as if a part of him died with them, and it sometimes made him feel older than his years. He walked carefully towards the great door which led back into the depths of Minis Tirith, to gather forces and plan strategy for the next onslaught, for he knew without a doubt that this was merely the first wave, and that worse was still to come before they had earned their right to return to Earth.

"S'ok with you if I go hit up a shower or something sir? I've got alien guts everywhere..."

He glanced sideways at Thrace and nodded shortly, aware that after the strain of battle she needed time, to sort out her head, to calm down, whatever... He just knew she needed time, and he knew that for her to function on the team he needed to concede to this quirk, one of many, all of which were worth the hassle they brought because Thrace was a damn good soldier, one of the best.

The best always seemed to come with some hang-up or other, he thought now - Lake and his fondness, or should that be his need, for the bottle, DJ and his rock fetish, Kawalsky and his monthlies... West smiled to himself as that thought crossed his mind.

"Sure, go ahead Thrace," he said, and allowed his mind to move on even before she was gone to the rest of his men.

A small movement caught his eye, and he turned to see Eledhwen still standing behind him, then over her shoulder he saw the Elf, Haldir, approach. He stepped around the Rohirrim girl to face the tall fair being, and smiled grimly.

"Haldir," he greeted, "I'm guessing that wasn't all they've got huh? What's next?"

He knew enough to realize by now, that even though it was Boromir who seemed to be in charge, Haldir was the one they all looked to for advice, and he was willing to do the same if it meant getting his team home any sooner. As he spoke he noticed Eledhwen stiffen beside him at the approach of the Elf, and he wondered not for the first time at the antagonism she seemed to hold towards him.

[Pinkie]

Kawalsky opened his eyes and looked up at the sky. He was wearing the shredded remains of his combat fatigues and his head hurt. His back ached from the way he had landed when he had been struck by the orc arrow. It still protruded from his left thigh but it was not something Kawalsky had to worry about. With his alien blood, the stuff that turned him into a werewolf, it gave him the advantage of quick healing. Of course he would have traded in that quick healing lark to just be normal, but life never went the way you hoped or expected.
Rising into a sitting position, Kawalsky looked around him, scrambling awkardkly to his feet. The battle field was empty of the enemy. People walked around gathering up the dead orcs, piling them onto barrows with the intention of burning them, Kawalsky supposed. Sighing, he looked down at his thigh and grit his teeth. The arrow had gone all the way through. He'd need West to pull it out for him or something. He wouldn't be able to do it without causing more damage. And it was already beginning to heal, no infection setting in unsurprisingly. For him. For a healer it might be something more than a surprise. The wound should have had him writing in agony.

Kawalsky started back towards the citadel, hobbling slightly. His jacket was completely torn so he discarded it, leaving him wearing a torn green t-shirt and his combat pants which were shredded up the legs in random places. He only had one boot too.
Phasing into a werewolf during the battle had had it's advantages. It had alowed him to distribute the c4 in various hidden places giving them the upper hand, but it also meant that his clothes had to be sacrificed. He only hoped it had been enough.

Entering Minis Tirith again, Kawalsky made no hesitation in heading straight towards the familiar stairs leading to the corridors they had been staying in the night before. He got so far and saw Thrace and West up ahead.

"Major West!" he called out, trotting up the steps behind them. He spotted Eledhwen close by and came up short, looking at her warily, golden eyes swivelling to Thrace and then to his CO - He cleared his throat and made a vague gesture to his thigh. "Can I have a minute of your time when you're ready sir?" Kawalsky asked, feeling minutely embarrassed that Eledhwen would see him in this wounded state. In this unnaturally wounded state. As the words fell from his lips, the werewolf became aware of another person joining them - the Elf. His lip threatened to pull back in a snarl but he held it back, settling with a firm tensing of his jaw.

[Bogwoppit]

Lake was on search and rescue patrol. He hated this bit - the aftermath, when everyone started to discover who was dead and who was injured and who was still hanging onto life but knew damn well they weren't going to make it. If he had his way he would find a quiet corner somewhere and sit there while he drained his flask of whisky, the pitiful drop that was left. But one of the Gondorian captains had nabbed him as he finished off a stubborn Uruk who just wouldn't fucking die, and sent him on this pointless fucking mission to find out who was still alive. Like it wouldn't be pretty fucking obvious soon enough. Someone would start missing the ones who were dead, and then they'd know.

He growled lowly to himself, and sniffed, wiping the back of his sleeve across his mouth to rid himself of the taste of Orc flesh which seemed to hang in the air all round him. His clothes reeked of it, shirt torn and pants filthy; his left arm gouged from elbow to wrist from an Uruk weapon, back bruised from a low blow. But he was in better shape than most. The Gondorian had sent him back into the poncey bit of the castle/tower/whatever the fuck it was, to see if any of the enemy had found its way down here. Lake knew they hadn't, but he was a good enough soldier to know they had to be sure. Couldn't have that fancy piece of work blonde bit getting her knickers in a twist over some flithy Orc wanting a piece of her now could we? Or that weirdo freak nutter steward guy having to actually see one of the bastards, or to have that fucking stench assault his delicate fucking aristocratic nose; that just wouldn't do now would it?

He smirked to himself as he began to push or kick random doors open, peering into the gloom at the emptiness beyond. No one in their right fucking mind would still be anywhere near this part of the city, anyone could see that. Another door, and another, and another, and more empty rooms. He was about to give up when he saw another wing along a corridor leading off the one he was on. The metal of his flask sat enticingly against his chest, calling to him, and he sighed heavily.

"Fuck it," he mumbled to himself, and set off to check it out. "Last bit, then I'm fucking off."

He angled his P90 towards the great wooden door, fancy carving setting it apart from the rest, and kicked it open with a well aimed boot. Swinging his rifle round he squinted into the darkness, and saw a brief movement near the window - a flash of light from outside falling on fair hair, the rustle of rich fabric setting his senses on alert.

"What the fuck are you still doing here you daft mare?" he demanded of Elendur as he raised his gun vertically to shoulder level, effectively rendering it useless.

He strode into the room across to where she cowered and grabbed her by the arm, lifting her to her feet and glaring into eyes as blue as his own.

"You wanna get yourself killed do ya?" he growled, gravelly voice even huskier now with the dust of battle in his throat.

((Heheh! Couldn't resist! ))

[Pinkie]

Gypsy flinched when Mark pulled his arm away from her touch. It wasn't that she expected him to be cool with the casual familiarity of it, it was just that she thought they were beyond pulling back from this kind of thing. Her brown eyes dropped to the ground and she gave a faint, sad smile, her eyebrows lifted. She didn't hold a grudge against Mark for it - not when he had just suffered the forked tongue of Thrace anyways.

Mark said:

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that, You could say we have a history, me and Thrace."

The young airman looked up at Mark and nodded her head sagely at him. Her expression was too empty to be normal, her smile too vacant. Inside she could feel a swirling, unsettling commotion in the pit of her stomach, rising like bile into the back of her throat, but she did her best to not let it show. It was something akin to jealousy, but Gypsy couldn't figure out why she'd be jealous about Mark and Thrace at all. It wasn't like she was interested in Mark like that. She just liked his company - it was easy to be around him.. as he was proving right now.

Mark said:

"Thanks, for watching my back. Could'a' been me down there if you weren't around to protect me. Hey, you're hurt, C'mon, let's get you to the infirmary or whatever passes for one around here. Let me take care of you for a change."

The youngster nodded her head at his initial tanks, pursing her lips as she waited for the tension to wash away from him. And it did. Slowly. The pain in her leg was pulsing but she could ignore it, waiting, hoping. And then it happened. Mark commented on her watching his back and his smile became more genuine. Gypsy felt her own lips pulling outwards in a responsive grin, finally snorting a bemused laugh when he offered his arm to her. She skooched forward, head bowed.

"Thought you'd never bloody notice. You men can be quite oblivious at the most inopportune times, you know that?" Gypsy teased, shrugging in under Mark's protective arm, her tone light and airy to relieve some of the tension that had come between them. And despite her going to extreme efforts mentally, to convince herself that she was just enjoying Mark's company as a friend, the young woman practically melted in against his warm side. She smiled up at him with a twinkle in her brown eyes. It wasn't hard to find the hospital in the large fortress - they just followed the train of wounded. As they went, Gypsy cracked the odd joke, making light of her injury and glorifying her efforts in saving Mark from certain doom. It was all light banter and it lasted up until she saw the houses of healing.

"Whoa..." Gypsy murmured, looking up in awe at the place. Her sweetly surprised face turned to Mark and she urged him forward. "I feel like the Queen or something... "
Once inside a healer came forward, Gypsy turned to Mark with a greatful smile and shrugged sheepishly.
"You eh -- you don't have to hang around if you dont want to. If there's stuff ... you gotta.... sort out...?" Gypsy was, of course, referring to what she had overheard with Thrace earlier. She didn't want to monopolise Mark's time, especially when he had some bad blood to sort out with his ... ex.

[Pinkie]

Faramir had no control over himself at that moment when he fell. He knew it was the wrong thing to do but he was just so relieved that Miriel was ok ... he had been so concerned about her safety that he had been holding on just to find out she was ok. He had been investing all of his strength into getting there and seeing her alive and well that he had left no energy left over to ressurrect himself once he did fall. He was aware of things going on around him but sounds came to his ears in a dull echo. His vision was blurred, giving him a headache so he shut his blue eyes, groaning as his disorientated brain made him tip sideways, paining his injury even more.

And everything went silent and black.

When the world came back down to him it was a world of pain. Faramir groaned, rolling a little on the bed. He twitched, his whole body twitched forward. Something was hurting his back. The steward's youngest son groaned and lurched forward again. His body convulsed and his head lashed backwards, turned to the side to see what was happening. His hazy blue eyes opened and he could see a blurry image of blonde hair. A small frame. A woman. A beautiful woman.
Eowyn?

Faramir's lips lifted in a dazed smile and he lifted his hand up, trying to reach back to his wife.

"I knew you still cared... " he murmured, his voice thick with the pain that he felt. There was coldness against his chest and it took Faramir a while to realise he wasn't wearing a tunic any more. His body twitched away from the pain in his back again and he groaned, shutting his eyes. Smacking his dry lips, the young Ranger tilted forward, away from her touch that hurt so much. "You were the most beautiful thing I ever saw. Your hair was ... like gold. Your skin... was.. satin. Your sadness, Miriel, your sadness cannot hide your true beauty. Inside..." Faramir whispered the words in breathy gasps, his eyes screwed shut tight against the pain, unaware that he had said Miriel instead of Eowyn.

[Bogwoppit]

"Major West! Can I have a minute of your time when you're ready sir?"

West looked around to see Kawalsky limping towards them, and immediately knew what had happened. Nodding briefly in apology to Haldir he turned and took his lieutenant by the arm to lead him away, searching for an empty room in which to speak with him. Finding a door ajar, he pushed it open and followed John inside, closing the two of them inside the small library.

"You ok?" he asked before anything else, standing with his hands folded across his P90 and regarding Kawalsky carefully. "You did a good job out there, sent the bastards packing, for a while at least."

He had great respect for this quiet man who had come through such adversity. It must be harder for him than most, having to live with this terrible affliction, having lost his father to an alien race all those years ago.

[Bogwoppit]

((S'pose we should get on with the whole mission thing really! Dunno about these two...))

"Please don't leave me DJ. He saved my life you know - "

DJ sat beside the narrow bed holding the small, pale hand in his and blushed as she told anyone who would listen that he was her hero. He wanted to protest, to say it was just what anyone would have done, but the healer looked at him with such admiration that he was completely lost for words. Instead he shrugged, and looked down at the bed as she squeezed his hand and begged him to stay with her.

He wanted nothing more than to stay here, to gaze at the delicate features and youthful figure of this beautiful girl. He wasn't sure when he had actually realized he was attracted to her, maybe when he saw her so afraid and alone by the wall, the giant creature towering over her, but he did know it was wrong to feel the way he did. She was so young! And he was not a pervert...

"I should go..." he began, clearing his throat awkwardly as the healer bustled away to get certain herbs and tinctures. "I need to report back to my officer, he'll be wondering where I am..."

He met her dark, worried gaze, and smiled softly, reaching across with his free hand to wipe a smudge of dirt off her cheek with his thumb. As he touched her he felt a great welling up of something inside him - a protective instinct that told him he would never let anything happen to this child-woman, even if he could never allow his feelings to get out of hand. Something in her had touched him, and he knew she would be on his mind for a long time. But he also knew he must practice self-control. It would be easy to take advantage of her gratitude, and the way she was gazing at him now he thought he would probably only have to say the word and she would give herself to him fully, without truly realizing what it was she was giving. He couldn't allow that, however pretty and soft she was, however long it had been since he last held a woman in his arms.

[Bogwoppit]

Eledhwen found herself regarding this foreign commander with a new and not so grudging respect as she followed West inside. The woman, Thrace, she felt bristling beside her, but she would not allow herself to be caught up in any petty quarrels, and she kept her silence, standing close to West's shoulder as he paused.

Haldir's approach caused her to tense, and she once again recalled his earlier question - what was her purpose? Really? To seek childish revenge for something she had no power to prevent? Yes, but now in the face of all this she felt very small and very young. What did it matter when the fate of Middle Earth was at stake, to destroy one Elf female? No! To destroy them all! She seethed with renewed hatred as the tall figure glided closer, and she once more felt the strangest sensation, the urge to gaze at his noble features forever while hating the very sight of him.

Her confused feelings and thoughts must have showed on her tired face, for she was almost fit to drop where she stood, the battle having taken most of her skill and strength to stand and fight. She felt herself sway slightly as West turned to greet Kawalsky, and she looked up at the tall man in sympathy and shock. He looked terrible! Half naked, dirty, wounded... but the fresh arrow wound looked... wrong somehow... too old to be new. And that made no sense. She stepped forward to touch his arm, to say... something... but already the officer was leading him away, and she was suddenly alone once more with her deadly enemy.

[Bogwoppit]

Boromir wasn't injured, he was filled with the euphoria he always felt after a battle. He felt alive, gloriously invincible, god-like, and he strode through the city like a conquering hero, which indeed he was, now as many times before. He acknowledged the greetings and calls of people as they slowly emerged from their hiding places with dignity, a gracious bowing of his noble head, and the feeling of euphoria escalated.

Entering the tower he mentally went through his list of women whom he knew would willingly share in his joy and victory that night, but his mind went back again and again to Katee Thrace, the challenging, feisty, strangely spoken girl from another world. He could not help but want her still, and as though his desire had summoned an image of her he caught sight of her walking just up ahead.

"Katee," he called softly, and jogged to catch her up, smirking down at her as he stopped her in her tracks, one big hand on the wall blocking her path. "An encouraging victory, do you not agree?"

He appraised her as he spoke, taking in the grime which accented the small lines around her eyes, caused by too much frowning and too much laughter. Could there be such a thing as too much laughter? Perhaps... when the cause of the mirth was not funny so much as desperate.

"Will you celebrate with me tonight?" he asked, the meaning in his eyes very clear. "I have a bottle of the finest wine from the Shire waiting in my quarters for just such an occassion."

[Bogwoppit]

The Houses of Healing had much the same effect on Mark as they did on Gypsy, and he stared round, impressed by the architecture and the graciousness of their hosts. The healers worked quickly and efficiently, sparing no effort to make the injured soldiers as comfortable as they could while they attended to their wounds.

"You eh -- you don't have to hang around if you dont want to. If there's stuff ... you gotta.... sort out...?"

Hovering beside Gypsy as the healer motioned for the girl to follow he hesitated. He didn't want to face Katee, he really didn't want to... and he wanted to stay here with Gypsy, to see that she was well tended. But an small part of him was desperate to see the mother of his child, to talk to her, to try once again, and no doubt just as fruitlessly, to make her see that they should be together, bringing up their child side by side. He knew he shouldn't still want that, and mostly he didn't still want it, but he was an old-fashioned kind of guy, and he believed in family, in marriage, in love, in a child having two parents to look up to, not one hopelessly inadequate one. And he still loved her. He knew that, he could admit it now. He had always loved Thrace and right now it looked as though he always would. Despite his bitter comments and anger, all he really wanted was to turn the clock back and be happy together again.

He looked at Gypsy now, so small and so fearless, and he couldn't help but smile. She was so sweet, so uncomplicated, why couldn't Mark have fallen for someone like her? Once again he found himself wondering about her, but his thoughts slid away in his fatigue like eels slipping through a net, slippery and unwilling to be caught.

"If you're sure?" he asked, raising his eyebrows at her in question, and because he was a man and couldn't read her well enough yet to know she would rather have him stay, he went.

Wandering down an empty hallway he let his thoughts drift again, back to happier times, when he and Katee had first gotten together, before he had realized she would never change, before she had began more and more to leave him alone at night to go out with 'friends', leave him to take care of the baby alone, as he had been doing ever since.

Hearing voices up ahead he stopped in his tracks before continuing. Squinting up ahead into the gloom he made out the shape of two people, and froze. Katee, and... that Boromir guy... and the two of them were pretty damn close together...

Mark watched with pain in his eyes for a moment, his heart sinking. Even here she couldn't help herself could she... He should know better of course, he should know by now what she was like, but still that small part of him always hoped, and always would.

[Pinkie]

((ooc: heh - I can't sleep and you posted the link and I had to read and got inspired and ... shaddap God knows when I'll get to post again but really, it does me good to be distracted right now! ))

The pain should have had him blundering with it’s effects. It should have had him immobile or blubbering. Instead the man stood tall and strong still, hobbling slightly but looking more embarrassed than sick with pain. Kawalsky knew that his abnormalities gave his team the upper hand a lot of the time, much like West’s shrewd leadership, Thrace’s gung-ho gun-slinging and Lake’s crafty tactics, but where the rest of his team had ‘natural’ abilities - he knew that he was cursed. Alien, impure blood coursed through him and turned him, changed him. He was as bad as the very things he despised despite being able to use his werewolf traits to the benefit of the team. He would much rather be a normal marksman if it meant he didn’t have this monster inside of him…

As West came towards him Kawalsky was looking over the other man’s head and he saw Eledhwen approach. His gut twisted and he tensed his jaw, resolutely looking away. He felt wrong - so damn wrong for tricking her. Well, it felt like he had tricked her at least. Into thinking that he was normal. Or something.

"You ok? You did a good job out there, sent the bastards packing, for a while at least."

The praise was met with a stiff smile from Kawalsky. He turned around to face West and wiped a grimey hand down the side of his face.

“Thank you Sir. I don’t know what they are but they’re not human, Sir. We have got to get out of here because there are more of them. Lots more. And I don’t think we have enough C4 realistically. Sir.” respectful as always. Kawalsky knew that if the people of this city were in need that West would help out, he knew that and he respected his CO’s kindness in that respect, his humanity. But Kawalsky was living proof of how dangerous it could be to mingle or linger too long on an alien planet with alien creatures attacking.
Swallowing hard, the man flinched and leaned against a wall. He looked down at his wounded thigh and lifted a shredded piece of his pants upwards to reveal the broken arrow protruding from the stiff, swollen muscle of his upper leg.

Blood seeped out around the edges of the wound, dripping down and mingling with the muck from his running. Kawalsky gave an almost apologetic look to his CO, his yellow eyes catching the light eerily as he gave West a smile that showed a lot of sharp and pale teeth.

“Could do with a little help on this one too if you have a minute.” Kawalsky asked gently. Always, ever reluctant to visit the sick-bay.

[Pinkie]

Oh brave Elendur!

The woman known for her strength and charisma, her charm and elegance - how low she had sunk when faced with that which she had been sheltered from for so long. During the war of the Ring she had been sent away. It had been too hard for her to imagine the truth of what had happened the world as the shadow of Mordor had stretched, almost consuming the entirety of Middle-Earth. But this recent fracas with the orcs was enough to terrify her. Of course to her this was much worse than during the War of the Ring, much, much worse - and she was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been before.

As she sat huddled beneath the window, the tears drying on her smooth cheeks, Elendur stared blankly at the ground by her bare feet, the hem of her simple blue gown dusty and torn. How reduced she was… How she would hate for anyone to see her thus.

There was a noise outside. The woman’s heart turned cold and her eyes darted in fear to the door. She flinched backwards, skooching away from the door and plastering herself firm against the wall beneath the window. The door swung open and a man entered, a rough looking man. He had a weapon, she knew it to be a weapon for he had it levelled at her in a weapon-like fashion before lifting it upwards and pointing it at the ceiling. Elendur’s wide eyes shut tight and she gasped a fearful breath. Both her palms were flat against the ground on either side of her body and her cehst heave with a sob.

The man spoke in an odd accent and grabbed her arm, roughly hauling her to her feet. Never before had she been so handled. The woman gave a cry of pain though she was more surprised than pained at his touch. She wavered on her feet with her eyes closed and her shoulders hunched upwards. She looked nothing like the daughter of the Steward as she stood there in her bare feet, her hair loose about her shoulders and tears drying on her face.

"What the fuck are you still doing here you daft mare? You wanna get yourself killed do ya?"

MARE!
Elendur had enough of herself retained to respond indignantly to the manner in which the man spoke to her. She heaved another dry sob and shrugged off his touch, swaying on her feet again as she opened her greyish eyes and peered at him angrily.

“I am not a mare!” he declared, a fresh trickle of tears starting to course down her pretty cheeks. “I am the daughter of the steward and you will not speak to me like that again. I am the daughter…” her strength wavered, her voice trailing off into silence as she looked over her shoulder, out the window at the field of dead orcs, the burning pyres that blazed already. Her hand lifted to her mouth and she turned back to look at the uncouth male who stood before her. Elendur looked down over him and what she saw obviously did not please her. He was grizzly… rough looking.

The blonde’s breath hitched and she smoothed her hands down her hips to fix her dress, trying to arrange her appearance somewhat before speaking haughtily.

“You will take me to my father. Or to my brothers - Boromir and Faramir. Immediately.” she ordered, her haughtiness only lessened slightly by the way her toes curled against the cold ground and her shoulders shook with fear, weariness and insecurity.

[Pinkie]

These had to be the prophesised heroes that would save his people. Haldir had waited so long that it seemed surreal that they now stood before him. All their flaws were laid bare to his perceptions and whilst he could see plenty of them he could think any less of these heroes for their flaws. Even in this minor battle they had proven invaluable, their brutal weaponry making light work of the orcs. The Elf was not predisposed to warfare and destruction, but anything that shortened battle had to be good - no matter how destructive it might be.

The blonde Elf stood with the leader of the heroes when the yellow-eyed male returned. Haldir did not react to the animalistic aura that permeated from the male but rather found it amusing to note that, despite the taller of the two being the more primitive and strong, that the other, West, was still the alpha, and the yellow-eyed one recognised that clearly.

As West left, Haldir looked across at Eledhwen. Oh but the girl was predictable. Her little hackles were raised and her body trembled in his presence. Arrogance did not play a part in Haldir’s perceptions, they never did. He was less tolerant of humans than some of his kin but Haldir knew that his preternatural appearance astounded or disgusted, some were enthralled by him others were reviled. This little human before him tried so hard to be disgusted and to revile him when in actual fact she was the opposite. How Haldir would have enjoyed the time to educate her in how to listen to her own heart - but right now there was no time for such frivolous things as revenge and education.

He took a breath, held it, and slowly released it through his nostrils, not once taking his eyes from the girl;s wide, expressive eyes.

“How has your heart changed since last we spoke? Have your intentions become pure having seen such senseless brutality?” the Elf asked in a mellifluous voice, walking towards Eledhwen, smiling faintly. He paused when he stood before her and blinked once before walking around behind her and standing at her shoulder, close enough that the sweet scent of his intoxicating skin surrounded them, the heat of his presence burned between them, the antiquity and knowledge of his many, many years could not be bridged - it stood like a gulf between them, his dark eyes upon the trembling muscles in her neck.

[Pinkie]

It was an alright place if you liked your place medieval. But Thrace was longing for a shower - a power-fucking-shower. Something to rip the dirt, grime, sweat and blood from her body and hair and leave her feeling raw. But apparently these people didn’t have showers. They had baths. And a bath was just not the same. It would leave her lounging and thinking when the blonde knew her next course of action with Mark was something that was better said from the spur and heat of the moment rather than something thought about. If she thought about it she would fucking hurt the man and whilst he had hurt her by his comment earlier, Thrace really didn’t truly want to hurt him. He was Molly’s dad for God’s sake.

Thrace patted the breast of her jacket and downwards, tapping various pockets until she found the familiar bulge of the cigarette pack. She was about to pull them out when someone called her.

Katee… initially she thought it was Mark and turned around with wide, hazel eyes glaring, her attitude ready for confrontation. But instead of Mark it was Boromir. The prince. Or whatever the fuck he was. He dressed like a prince and acted like one, that was about all Thrace needed to know. He was cute. And as he smiled at her the blonde knew that this man would offer her precisely what she wanted the night before. Meaningless sex. But things had changed since then. She was stone-cold-sober now for a start. She was also hurting from her encounter with Mark. The bastard knew how to pierce her armour too fucking well…

"Katee, An encouraging victory, do you not agree? Will you celebrate with me tonight? I have a bottle of the finest wine from the Shire waiting in my quarters for just such an occassion."

Oh his intentions were crystal clear. The hand on the wall was very west-side-story and made the woman grin, almost rolling her eyes in a playful fashion at the not so subtle subtleties that he bandied around. He was damn good looking up close, the Lieutenant thought to herself, sinking in against the wall, leaning against it with her shoulder.
Thrace gave him a wry smile and was shaking her head, about to tell him that she couldn’t go with him right now when she saw someone out of the corner of her vision. When she looked down the corridor she saw Mark there and felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, her heart started to race and her breathing became heavier.

Stupid, reckless, defensive, stupid. With her pride all prickly, the blonde lifted her chin and her wry grin turned sultry. She draped a hand against Boromir’s chest and stood in closer to him. An act -a full on theatrical performance just for Mark in the front row. It was childish and it was petulant but fuck it. He had no right to say what he had to her earlier.

“Hmm - never heard of The Shire but I know wine and if you tell me it’s good well… I assume you’re a man who knows the finer things in life. You know a good thing when you see it.” she said to him with a smirk, still sidling in closer to him until she stood chest to chest. Her hazel eyes looked beyond his shoulder again, down the corridor towards where Mark was, making sure he was watching, knowing he would be savvy enough to know that this show was just for him and hoping it fucking hurt him too.

[Bogwoppit]

West looked closely into the eerie yellow light reflecting off his 2IC's eyes, not afraid exactly, but ever aware of just what the man could do when he was in his... alternate form. And aware of just how little it took to turn him.

“Could do with a little help on this one too if you have a minute.”

"Oh, sure," West replied, glancing down at the seeping wound before surveying the empty room. "Sit down there."

He gestured towards a high-backed chair, and retrieved his knife from its sheath at his waist. Eyeing the arrow still protruding from Kawalsky's thigh he gritted his teeth.

"This is a tricky one," he spoke almost to himself, then looked up briefly.

Positioning himself beside the chair with his back to the man seated there, his braced his left hand against the blood-covered thigh while with his right he placed the blade at the wound. There was no easy way to do this, and West knew that Kawalsky was more able than most to withstand the pain such an incision would cause, what with the alien blood in his veins, but still he hesitated before cutting. This wasn't the first time he had had to do something like this for one of his team, nor would it be the last, but it didn't make him any less immune to the pain he inflicted.

"Ok, hold tight," he spoke sharply, and dug the sharp point into the flesh where the arrow had entered.

Fresh blood welled to the surface, and West had to force himself to keep cutting until he was sure the arrow head would slide out without causing any more injury. With arrows you could never be sure they were poisoned, or worse, barbed so that they ripped veins and arteries as they were pulled out backwards.

This one however came out cleanly, and as West slid it free it gave a small sucking pop. West wrinkled his nose at the sight of the black flint which tipped the arrow, and studied it briefly before dropping it on the floor. He took out a bandana from one of his many pockets, and pressed it to the wound hard.

"Hold that," he instructed Kawalsky. "You think it will need stitches?"

With anyone else he would have insisted they go to the infirmary and have the wound cleaned and dressed, but he had witnessed first hand the amazing healing abilities of whatever it was that made Kawalsky the way he was, and he trusted the man to tell him honestly if he needed any more intervention.

"I meant what I said, John," he continued, using his first name only because they were alone. "You did a good job out there. I don't think we would have held the city if it wasn't for the C4. We just have to hope we can get that gate crystal back before whoever it is sends more of those... things."