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“We’ll meet at Moppel’s barn.” Hange’s words were razor-sharp and full of something he understood well but could not force any string of words to match. It was the beginning of revenge for their fallen comrades.
He nodded as the sun that streamed in through the window glinted off of the frames of her glasses; it was an agreement, he supposed, to more than her instruction: to the feeling behind her words, too, to the hurt and the confusion and the anger that still burned like hot coals in his gut. He turned on his heel to head toward the door, head bowed and shoulders heavy. Revenge? No. It was no act of justice; it was what needed to be done, but he knew it wouldn’t make anything better—and so did she. But it was something, wasn’t it? And actions were easier than words, sometimes.
He didn’t see Hange reach out for him, but she must have because her fingers suddenly gripped his forearm hard enough that he felt compelled to turn around, expecting to be issued further instructions. But her expression had shifted, eyes softer behind her glasses than they had been only moments before when she had been giving him instructions on what needed to be done. She had been thinking about the others, then.
“Are you all right?” she asked, fingers slipping and then unhooking from around the curve of his wrist.
She was thinking of him, now—the only one left in her charge to think of.
The smile that crossed his face was empty, but he didn’t feel it was worth the effort to fill it in, not when both of them were feeling this way. His answer came easier than he wanted it to, uncomplicated and unhindered.
“Yes,” he said, as if another option existed—as if he could allow himself to be anything less.