Alec was mildly surprised no one had offered their name after he'd given his. It was going to become a real pain to have to keep going,<em>"Hey, you! No, not you, the other one..."</em>whenever they wanted each other's attention.<br/><br/>He was watching the soldier, weighing the value of trying to talk to her. He knew all too well the sort of grief she was feeling. And how he'd feel in her place if some civilian (ex-mil or not) tried to tell him that they 'understood' and that 'he'd done everything expected of him'. As if to prove his point, she told the Tackled One to shove it.<br/><br/>He stooped and collected the fallen magazine and unspent cartridge from the floor, clicking the latter into the top of the former. "So what do I call you people?" he asked, straightening. His chest was sore, and he was sure his breath would be tight in the morning, but he was alive. A couple of minutes ago he wouldn't have been so sure of this outcome. Largely, he ignored the cold. After all, he'd been born in North Wales - sharp wind was a given. He used to joke that he'd been eight years old before he figured out that you could take a raincoat<em>off</em>.<br/><br/>He moved over to the guard while the airlock cycled, and bumped her hip with the magazine. "Here," he murmured, trying to catch her eye with a Look. The, 'been-there-it's-shit-and-don't-worry-I-won't-try-and-talk-to-you-about-it' look.<br/><br/>"Is everyone okay? Cuts and scrapes not too bad?" Alec added, to the airlock at large.