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From the doorway, Grace looks peaceful.
Stratt could believe it if she wanted to; she could turn away now, and let that be that last image she ever has of him. She should, maybe.
But she knows that she can’t.
It feels like it takes an age to gather the courage to approach. She stops just short of the bed, hesitant, as if he's going to wake up and she’ll have to defend herself against his righteous anger. He doesn’t, of course, but this close it's harder to convince herself that this is anything other than wrong.
It hasn't been long since they put him under, and they haven't cleaned him up yet. Soon they’ll scrub the dirt from his fingernails; replace his grass-stained clothing; fix the crooked arm of his glasses from where his head was shoved down into the earth. Any indicator of betrayal will be gone, and it'll be more than a decade before he even has the chance to remember it.
Selfishly, Stratt hopes that he never does.
There isn't anything to say, and Stratt doesn't think she could get any words out even if she wanted to. Guilt sits sourly in her mouth and pools in her stomach. Her hand shakes as it reaches out, the pad of her thumb gently brushing away a half-dried track of tears on Grace’s flushed cheeks.
There’s only one thing she’s sure of. She might feel guilty as hell, but isn’t sorry. She can’t be sorry, not with the stakes so high. Though it might not be right, this is their only chance to save the world. He’ll understand in time.
And even if he doesn’t, there’s no way back.
She takes a sharp, deep, breath. A headache has started to pound behind her temples. It has been a long day already, and it's going to be even longer. There’s a few loose ends — Grace wasn’t prepared to go on the trip; someone needs to sort through his belongings, figure out what goes to space with him and what doesn't. It'll fall on her, she already knows, and it'll be easier to do it now while this is all fresh.
There’s a noise in the doorway behind her. She turns on her heel, moving off to the side as a few people filter into the room. They don’t say anything, but they get to work erasing the evidence of Grace’s struggle to stay on Earth. She doesn’t know why she stays.
When they wheel in the bed with the sleeping pod and transfer him over, Stratt steps forward again. They've zipped it up so that his face is covered, and it’s easier now that she can't see him.
“Hold on, please,” she says, the words strained. They do, and she fishes a Sharpie from the pocket of her jacket.
Good luck!! She signs onto the neon yellow. And she hopes that, even if only for a brief moment after he wakes up, the sentiment is a comfort. It feels better than a goodbye; focusing forward on what he can do rather than something he never got to say.
He’ll hate her eventually, she’s sure, but she has many years to convince herself that it doesn't matter. Not in the wake of saving the world.