With even a little bit down his throat, Charlie feels the intense tightness in her own chest ease just a little, the stress of the last several weeks float away in those several seconds. If he's strong enough to do just that, he's going to be fine. He's going to pissed at her, possibly, but he'll be alive to do it. The thought of him laying there, attempting anger and rage, brings a small smile to her lips and she feels not an ounce of remorse for barging her way into his camp. Nor does she feel a bit sorry for what he's going to do to anyone else in retaliation for his injuries once he's better.

Thinking for a moment, she braids her hair down her back and ties it because there's work to do. She stands and, setting the cup back down, clears her throat and, with a singular purpose, steps back outside the tent.

"No one goes in there but the surgeon, Captain Baker, Miles, or myself," she tells the guards. Not the medic, not his friends, no well wishers, no one. She says it and moves back toward the tent where she hopes that Jeremy and Miles haven't snapped each others necks off. When she sees her own guard, she gives him an order - clean water, clean cloths, soap if he can find it, and food. Also? He's to make sure he has some for himself. What would General Monroe say if he knew he'd taken care of her only to neglect himself?

Then she goes into the tent and looks at Jeremy. "I got him to drink some water and I told them to get water so I can give him a bath. He's filthy."