Some well-integrated part of his training allowed him, through his haze, to note her action with the weapons. And mirror her: shrugging out of his jacket and setting the blaster (not his, damn them, the one he'd requisitioned off them) he'd stuck into his belt on the table beside hers. Ah, they'd left him his vibroblade, which he also deposited there.
(Whether he left his smaller, ankle holstered secondary blaster where it was because he was too tired to remember, too queasy to lean over, or because he really couldn't trust that much just yet…
Sort it out when he could think.)
He winced, in perhaps sympathetic pain. Simultaneous with the (pride? don't be ridiculous—) admiration in his eyes and voice when he agreed, "Yeah. You did at that. —But thinking you definitely should rest, too." He set the flask down at last, among the weapons, and swung his legs up onto the mattress—but paused and gestured down at it, to her. "Which side is yours?"
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(Whether he left his smaller, ankle holstered secondary blaster where it was because he was too tired to remember, too queasy to lean over, or because he really couldn't trust that much just yet…
Sort it out when he could think.)
He winced, in perhaps sympathetic pain. Simultaneous with the (pride? don't be ridiculous—) admiration in his eyes and voice when he agreed, "Yeah. You did at that. —But thinking you definitely should rest, too." He set the flask down at last, among the weapons, and swung his legs up onto the mattress—but paused and gestured down at it, to her. "Which side is yours?"