Besca didn’t know if Quinn’s resolve—brittle though it seemed—made her happy, or simply deepened that apprehensive pit inside her waiting for something to go wrong. It ought to be the first, she knew, but her own omission of the truth had guaranteed that whatever happened now, she would have to deal with the consequences eventually. So she wasn’t happy, but, she could be sad and loathsome and still be proud. 

With a small smile, just about all she could muster, she rested her head against Quinn’s for a moment. “[color=gray]‘Atta girl,[/color]” she said. “[color=gray]No quitters here. If you keep goin’, I’ll keep goin’ too. Drag each other if we have to.[/color]”

There’d be a lot of that coming, she guessed. But that was okay. She’d lost count of the people who’d dragged her, who she’d dragged, and screamed at, and lost hope in and wished would disappear and now she wished they were still around to torment her. To hate her. To be alive, at least. Time had taught her these days were numbered, some shorter than others, all shorter than most. Pilots didn’t get the luxury of cherry-picking the good from the bad, they just took what they got. Ten years from now, twenty, if she lived that long, Besca would look back on her time with Quinn, and most of the memories she’d have of the girl would be of her in misery, crying, afraid, wishing she was anyone else but who she was. But they would be memories, and she would hold them close, and she would do all she could to make sure they made as many as possible, before…

Sighing, she set her tablet aside, and got up to bring her bowl to the sink. “[color=gray]Guess we both ought to start our days, then,[/color]” she said. “[color=gray]Otherwise we’d hide in here forever, and that’d be a waste, hm?[/color]”