"Between you and me," he said, his voice falling so low it became hard to hear through the glass, "I didn't think he had it in him."
Her face remained carefully neutral, "The mission or the volunteering?"
"No! Not the mission, no. Hell, he might have been more prepared than Martin and Annie. I'm sure you made sure of that." Something sharp slipped through underneath his laugh, but just as quickly it was sheathed and put away. "Very clever man. You always did put a lot of faith in him. Even when he wouldn't do the same himself."
"Modesty never suited him," she said. He hummed in agreement.
"But volunteering..." he whistled, shaking his head. "I mean, we were horribly unlucky. It all happened very fast. Sacrificing yourself with so little time to consider it takes courage. And well, you remember how Dr. Grace was."
He raised his hands defensively, "Now you said it, not me! But... a little, yes. What is that American expression again—"
He drummed his fingers on his knee before lighting up. "Scaredy-cat!" he said, Russian accent wrapping thickly around the vowels. "That's him. Like a skittish cat. A good man—one of our best. But not a brave one. Not the stuff heroes are usually made of."
She pressed her lips together and rested her chin on her hands. "If anything it does him an honour. I hear they're already planning a memorial in San Francisco?"
"Yes. I will be attending," he murmured. He shook his head. "Funerals for the living. That is the world we live in, Ms Stratt."
They grew quiet. He blinked rapidly and grimaced, looking away. Suddenly, he burst into laughter. "Ah, damn him! I wish I could've said goodbye. Is that selfish?"
"Of course not," she said. Another scab fell loose. She pressed her thumb into her palm to stop the bleeding.
"He goes to save us all and I'm mad at him. But he was a friend. I wish the last time I saw his face wasn't while he was looking at me like a cornered animal."
"He was still afraid," she said, looking down at her hands. "Up to the very last moment. That's why he asked us to induce the coma early. Trust me, doctor, you wouldn't have wanted this. Neither of you."
They both gave the other a moment, eyes either shut tightly or resting vacantly somewhere above the other's head. A hand wiping across a face. The picking of a scab under a fingernail. A throat cleared.
"Well. As I said. Scaredy-cat." He wiped at his eyes, attempting a smile. "Cats like to go off to die on their own, I suppose."
Her nails bit into the meat of her palms. She said nothing.
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