blue eyes meet a green gaze & brows lift slightly in acknowledgement. he
studies features SO familiar to him -- only marred by the cut above his eye, a
bruise on his cheek -- as he considers, searches for an answer.
in short? “i don’t know.” head turns again, cerulean gaze peering up through
he darkness. the longer version’s complicated & hits too close to home. his
thoughts immediately jump to an application & an offer, made in secret: vice
admiralty, yorktown. for a moment, he’s concerned. tense. bones can’t know.
there’s no way. it’s a conversation he’s not prepared for, definitely not now with
the offer pigeonholed. & perhaps it'll remain that way, unopened & unexplored
-- a fleeting thought, a what if. the crew’s got to be rescued first &, assuming
that goes off without a hitch, then what? do they roll over & accept defeat?
remain here, STUCK on altamid with krall for the rest of their days? surely not.
but it was possible. a no-win scenario if there ever was one.
he shakes his head ( small movements ), as if to clear it. NONE of that matters
now. he can’t think about it -- not escape, not a pending decision to leave, to
wash his hands clean of cheating death, not whether or not he’ll be better off for
doing so. he WON’T let himself. the most important thing is protecting his
people, now & always. then they’ll take it in stride, one step at a time. “we gotta
get the crew back.” // @medicusxcaeli.