[ She tenses at the sight of him, clattering into the room with all the subtlety of a tank. He's imposing with all that armor and that gleaming metal arm. Immediately she's filled with a sense of suspicion, her eyes flicking up and down like she's expecting him to be even more heavily-armed. Something prickles over her skin, an odd crackling that she can't place, and she feels the blanket under her hands crumple under her fingers as she slowly shakes her head. ]
No. But I don't know you.
[ She didn't know anyone. In fact, she didn't know much of anything at all. It's an odd realisation to come to - and suddenly she wonders if he had anything to do with it.
She glances over to the door where the nurse or orderly or whatever they were has retreated, watching them both cautiously. They couldn't be afraid of her — she's aching and exhausted and injured somehow, clearly no threat at all. Whoever these people were, they were afraid of him.
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No. But I don't know you.
[ She didn't know anyone. In fact, she didn't know much of anything at all. It's an odd realisation to come to - and suddenly she wonders if he had anything to do with it.
She glances over to the door where the nurse or orderly or whatever they were has retreated, watching them both cautiously. They couldn't be afraid of her — she's aching and exhausted and injured somehow, clearly no threat at all. Whoever these people were, they were afraid of him.
She looks at him again. ]
Do you always storm into sickrooms armed for war?