She shook her head.
“Then yeah, we’re on our own.”
Her shoulders fell, and she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Hey—” He took her hand back to force her to look at him again. “You can do this, Rake. If anyone can, it’s you. I know we’ve lost a lot, but there’s still soldiers out there depending on you. You make the call, and they’ll follow you, you know that. But hundreds of their comrades have died in the last day. They need to see you steadfast. Not questioning yourself, not sitting around waiting for orders that might never come. And not wallowing in guilt.”
She bit her lip. “So, what you’re saying is, get the fuck over it?”
He smiled. “Basically.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“Anytime.”
Griffith wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into the crook of his neck. “Don’t stress, Quin,” he said into the top of her head. “We’ll get back to Kharon, regroup, then figure out what’s going on. Kill some Drudgers, maybe some Viators, save the fucking universe…” She sniffed a laugh, and he continued. “Then we’ll retire to Myrdin, build a house on the beach, and everyone will leave us the fuck alone.”
She scrunched up her nose. “Myrdin?”
“Wherever you want, name it.”
“I was thinking Sobrius-II. Slightly more temperate.”
“Sobrius-II it is.”
She smiled. “Happily ever after.”
“Fucking happily ever after,” he agreed, then his tone softened. “Just a hiccup first, Mo’acair.”
“This is quite the hiccup.”
Griffith’s breath hitched, and he held a firm hand to the bottom of his rib cage as he tried to hide a scowl.
“Okay, no more retirement planning,” she said, tone firm. “Time to do this scan.”
To her relief, he didn’t argue, simply nodded with lips set in a tight, grim line, pain furrowing his sweat-drenched brow.
Adequin picked through the crates left around the room, collecting a handful of supplies that might be useful, then moved on to the cupboards where she unearthed a never-before-used disinfectant atomizer. She used it to clear the dried blood off the padded exam table, then summoned her Imprints to help Griffith get up onto it. She laid him back onto the reclined surface, then began a full internal scan with a biotool.
His headache quickly escalated into a full migraine, and when he started to dry heave into Warner’s discarded EVA helmet, she grabbed a second biotool and injected him with the only above-average useful thing she’d found in the entire medbay: a multipurpose “hangover” syringe that would help with pain, nausea, and dehydration.
When the scan completed, it confirmed most of what they’d already known. The damage had been restricted to Griffith’s torso, and outside of a few bruised ribs, added nothing serious to his docket of injuries. At least nothing the biotool could diagnose.
When he started to doze off, Adequin couldn’t bring herself to leave him alone in the shitty room, to leave him lying where Ivana had been just minutes ago. So she called Jackin on her nexus to check in, then dragged a stool beside the table and laid her head onto Griffith’s chest.
He groggily lifted a hand and ran his fingers through her hair, dragging them gently across her scalp. After a few minutes, his hand drifted to a rest and his breaths came slow and deep, synchronizing with hers.
Despite the sense of relief that sank in, her chest remained heavy with guilt. She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Griff.”
“For what?” he rumbled.