(no subject)
Iella turns the key and opens the door to their rooms, slipping inside and closing the door behind her. She leans against it in the darkness a moment, closing her eyes, winter hat in one hand and several icepacks numbing the other, and then she says, "Lights." One, and thankfully for her head, only one, comes up, and she slowly opens her eyes. The small set of rooms is clean, immaculate, and exactly as they left them the last time that they were here. There's no sign of Wedge. She wonders where he is, what he's doing; sends up a silent, wordless prayer for his safety. Then she locks the door and starts unwinding her scarf from around her neck.
The very first thing Iella does is brush her teeth, remembering Thyne's hand between her teeth.
After rinsing her mouth out, she stands in front of the mirror in the tiny 'fresher, barefoot and wearing the trousers and scoopnecked tunic that she had on under her coat. The sight isn't pretty; one side of her face is swelling up in a spectacularly ugly bruise, and the red mark on the other cheek is proving slow to fade. She has a fat lip and with her scarf and coat removed, it's easy to see the bruises lining her throat. She looks pale to herself, angry and worried, now that there is no one to put a brave face on for. She pulls her hair back out of her way and glances down at the blaster resting on the sink, at her hands that still feel like ice. Her blaster-hand is hurting from that kick; her wrist encircled in a faint ring of bruises in the shape of Zekka Thyne's hand. Those, at least, will fade quickly. Her whole body hurts. She can't remember the last time someone got the best of her so thoroughly.
She can't think of the last time someone got the jump on her like this, either. Shavit.
All this and all she got in was a bite and an elbow to the gut. Nice work, Iella, she thinks, turning her face in the mirror and touching the ice to the worst of the bruising with a wince. Really. She can't leave, looking like this. Showing up battered like she'd been in a bar brawl would blow her cover for sure.
"You're getting too old for this, Wessiri," she says suddenly. Her words don't hold back the silence long. She bites the inside of the cheek that she hasn't already bitten through today, staring at the countertop a moment. She leans in and carefully touches her lip with a cold, gauging finger.
And if there is a stream of angry, muttered swearing, well, it's clearly only in the most ladylike manner.
The very first thing Iella does is brush her teeth, remembering Thyne's hand between her teeth.
After rinsing her mouth out, she stands in front of the mirror in the tiny 'fresher, barefoot and wearing the trousers and scoopnecked tunic that she had on under her coat. The sight isn't pretty; one side of her face is swelling up in a spectacularly ugly bruise, and the red mark on the other cheek is proving slow to fade. She has a fat lip and with her scarf and coat removed, it's easy to see the bruises lining her throat. She looks pale to herself, angry and worried, now that there is no one to put a brave face on for. She pulls her hair back out of her way and glances down at the blaster resting on the sink, at her hands that still feel like ice. Her blaster-hand is hurting from that kick; her wrist encircled in a faint ring of bruises in the shape of Zekka Thyne's hand. Those, at least, will fade quickly. Her whole body hurts. She can't remember the last time someone got the best of her so thoroughly.
She can't think of the last time someone got the jump on her like this, either. Shavit.
All this and all she got in was a bite and an elbow to the gut. Nice work, Iella, she thinks, turning her face in the mirror and touching the ice to the worst of the bruising with a wince. Really. She can't leave, looking like this. Showing up battered like she'd been in a bar brawl would blow her cover for sure.
"You're getting too old for this, Wessiri," she says suddenly. Her words don't hold back the silence long. She bites the inside of the cheek that she hasn't already bitten through today, staring at the countertop a moment. She leans in and carefully touches her lip with a cold, gauging finger.
And if there is a stream of angry, muttered swearing, well, it's clearly only in the most ladylike manner.