Charlie tossed his pack near the foot of the bed as she walked away. He toed his boots off, took off his socks and tucked them inside. He unbuttoned the flannel shirt he'd gotten from one of the farmers who'd hidden him on his way into Paris, and slowly began to slide it off his shoulders. It had been a few days since he crashed, but his body was still feeling it, and being on the run hadn't helped much either. His muscles ached with a fatigue vaguely reminiscent of summers on farms.
The shirt slid off his hands, and he folded it, laying it on top of his boots. He hooked his fingers under the hem of his shirt and began drawing it up his body. Slowly, carefully, he worked it up to around his shoulders and pulled it off his head.
He'd been so exhausted on the run, he hadn't really taken stock of his injuries. There were bruises over his shoulders and chest in the X-shape of his seat harness, and small cuts on his hands and forearms from flying shrapnel. He pressed lightly on each rib to check for fractures, and was satisfied to learn they weren't even bruised - his muscles had taken the brunt of the force from the harness, and they would heal easier than bone.