"Ye're Spoon's woman, right?" Gibbs hasn't seen Spoon in ages, but he remembers the strange lifelike art in miniature that Spoon carries. "No offense, but you look awful."
"Well, he's not the most reasonable of men," he says with a nervous smile. That giggling is just a wee bit unnerving. "And compared to him, you look great."
"Pulzhalstya," Olga repeats, stubbing out her cigarette. She slides the full-to-the-brim shot glass across with two fingers. "Sit for awhile."
She's still wearing her long grey coat, and she fishes a mangled pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket, topping it with her lighter. She slides it within easy reach of the newcomer.
She shoots the stranger a wry grin - people are always trying to feed her. Clearly she must look underfed or something, though there's precious little she can do about it.
"Not recently. Been a touch busy." The cigarettes are ignored, but the shot is downed with a quick flick of the wrist. She never drinks to get drunk anymore (thanks, Eddie), not that it would be easy to do anyway, but she has gotten better at the actual practice of it.
The man in the gray suit doesn't live full-time at the House of Wells these days, but he's still on good enough terms with them to recognize Ace when he sees her. He gets to her side just slow enough to be visible en route. "Ye gods, Mrs Witherspoon, who or what happened to you?"
It's good he slowed down - any faster, and she wouldn't have had time to process.
And she's rather in a violent frame of mind.
"Time War." She says, instead of going for the few weapons she was able to scrounge on the battlefield. "At least, I think so. Daleks and Gallifreyans, fits the pattern."
"...Time War? I think this is the first you've mentioned that. If I'd realized you were that fresh from the battlefield, I'd've balanced it properly against my concern, say sorry. So, Skaro went all-in? Or will go?" Or wioll haven go, or willan on-go?
"I'll need more alcohol before those last two make sense." Says the gal who took Temporal Grammar ... twice. "So far as I know, none of the above, yet. Think of it as a wide-ranging scatter-shot."
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And then she breaks out into giggles - not quite hysterical, but definitely exhausted.
"No offense taken. I've been tryin' t'tell Spoon that f'ages now."
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"What has he done to himself this time?" Because she's not dead, and if he looks worse... must've been a doozy.
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The sight of a woman healing fast enough to watch? Isn't even remotely the strangest.
She does recognise the look though.
"Bar, another shot glass please. Puzhalstya."
She's half way into a bottle of Grey Goose, and as soon as she's caught the other woman's eye, she's pouring her a shot.
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Or perhaps it was just the violent horror of the day. Days. Whatever.
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She's still wearing her long grey coat, and she fishes a mangled pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket, topping it with her lighter. She slides it within easy reach of the newcomer.
"Have you eaten?"
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"Not recently. Been a touch busy." The cigarettes are ignored, but the shot is downed with a quick flick of the wrist. She never drinks to get drunk anymore (thanks, Eddie), not that it would be easy to do anyway, but she has gotten better at the actual practice of it.
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And she's rather in a violent frame of mind.
"Time War." She says, instead of going for the few weapons she was able to scrounge on the battlefield. "At least, I think so. Daleks and Gallifreyans, fits the pattern."
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"I'll need more alcohol before those last two make sense." Says the gal who took Temporal Grammar ... twice. "So far as I know, none of the above, yet. Think of it as a wide-ranging scatter-shot."
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