"Well, Jesus Christ, Dick." Nix gave up on asking or waiting for invitations a long time ago; he drops right into a chair and sprawls out. "Half the battalion thinks you got your foot blown off." He hauls off his helmet and sets it down on the table with a light thunk. His hair is in a sorry state. "This is what you get up to when I'm not around?"
This is all said casually, even easily, but there's a very, very faint you scared the hell out of me undertone.
A man in an aviator jacket sits at his table without invitation. It's possible that Winters will recognize the insignia on it that calls him as a navy captain.
"You look like shit," Johnson says conversationally, and sets about opening up a carton of cigarettes.
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He also looks worried, and then irritated when he realizes what exactly the door just opened on.
"Oh, for cryin' out l--" Mid-sentence, he spots a certain familiar face and he comes up short.
"--Hey." Nix takes a couple steps out of the door and then shoots Dick a funny look. "You really get shot?"
(He doesn't look like he got shot, which does a lot toward easing the attitude that Nix stomped in with.)
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"Technically speaking," he responds, a little reluctantly.
"Ricochet. Heel. I'm supposed to be lettin' it go easy, so."
A shrug.
"Bar it is. For now, at least. Givin' myself a couple of hours before headin' out again."
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This is all said casually, even easily, but there's a very, very faint you scared the hell out of me undertone.
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The smile on Winters' face, slight as it may be, can only be described as fond.
He gestures at the water on the table.
"Sometimes it's juice."
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"You look like shit," Johnson says conversationally, and sets about opening up a carton of cigarettes.
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"Where're you coming in from?"
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"Operation Feral Moon."
No, he's not making that up. But he wishes he was.
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"Haven't heard that one before."
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"Nice trick." He doesn't sound like he really means it.
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"Would the boy rather it be in pieces?" she asks, in a sing-song tone.
With a loud crashing noise, the glass breaks, water hitting the floor as shards of glass hang in the air like some sort of mobile.
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"The boy would rather the psycho bitch fuck off," Jack suggests blandly.
Incidentally, are those purple eyes of his...glowing, faintly?
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Bella's tongue flickers out to lick her dry lips, her wand still pointed at the suspended water and glass.
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Set up at a nearby table of his own, a metal crutch propped against its edge, Gaeta cants his head. "You all right, sir?" he asks.
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"Thank you for askin'."
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"If you do need anything later," and he gestures in the direction of the staff hallway, "they have some good doctors on call here."
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(And, hell, this is one of those points he wishes all of his men could get access here.)
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The reaction is fast and predictable.
"HOLY FUCK!"
Here he's scrambling and stumbling to put as much distance and speed between him and his brother's wife as it is humanly possible to do.
He was so not expecting to see his sister-in-law coming here. This or any night.
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