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HER SHOULDER COLLIDED WITH THE SOLDIER NEXT TO HER. His glare at her was sharp and angry. She mumbled an apology before turning her gaze across from her. Schofield stares down at his hands. They're shakier than she had ever seen them - even shakier than after the bunker. She wants to say something, anything, to comfort him, but she knows her words are fruitless. After all, she was a stranger he had met mere hours ago; Blake had been his best friend for who knows how long.
His eyes meet hers. He's holding back tears. Her eyes hold nothing but grief and sorrow and maybe a bit of pity for him. There was a thick tension between the two. The horrid words they had shared were now ingrained in their minds and hearts. He wants to apologize but his stubbornness won't allow it.
An arm nudges her. Mags looks over to see a soldier holding out a whiskey bottle. She takes it with a grateful smile and quickly downs a bit. Wincing at the sting, she holds the bottle out in front of her. Her eyes look down at the bottle cork in her hand. "You mind if I keep this?" She asks the soldier next to her. He shrugs in response.
Holding out the bottle to Schofield, she offers a small smile. His eyes dart between her and the bottle. Reaching out, he takes it and mumbles his thanks. He quickly downs a small bit, leaving half of the bottle full. "So, what's your name, pretty lady?" The soldier to her right asks as a suggestive smirk grows on her lips. He leans his elbow on his knee.
"Margaret." She responds. Her hand clenches around the cork in her hand. The ridged and hardened edges dig into her hand.
"Well, Margaret," he chuckles, "let me know what aid station you're posted at so I can request a transfer."
"You try that on all the nurses you talk to?" Her eyebrows furrow as her arms cross over her chest. Maybe if she hadn't just lost a friend, she'd be more in the mood to flirt. If Blake were here, he'd probably tell this guy to fuck off. But he wasn't here. He was back at the farmhouse, rotting by the dead dog.
The men around them all chuckle as a faint blush forms on the man's cheeks. "Only the beautiful ones."
Schofield watches the interaction. He can tell Mags isn't into it. He wants to say something, but he can't find his voice. Once again, her eyes find his. They plea for help. That was all he needed. "Lay off her, mate." He finally speaks.
"Excuse me?" The soldier asks, pushing himself in a more upright position.
"She's clearly not into it."
"And who are you? Her boyfriend?" A few of the men chuckle in response.
"And if I am?"
Mags tenses up at the argument. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the soldier scoff before turning back to her. "Is this lad your boyfriend?"
