[Were anyone looking, they'd see the urge to rise in Leander's face, bright as blood, though it amounts to nothing. He's well past the time of adrenaline, when wounded men can do astonishing things; he allowed that momentum to wane under sharp command. He tries to sit up—feels like he's trying, barely moves—and the same hand that slipped free of a wrist now reaches after receding legs a moment too late to catch even a cuff or a heel.
Don't, he mouths, desperately tired. His arm lands gently, lies just there. Through the blur of his own eyelashes he watches Isaac reach the door, watches him secure it, and stay, and he closes his eyes and breathes. Listening.
Occasionally he tries to flex his fingers through their stiff chill, cracks an eye to one glittering slit to check they're actually moving. (They are.)]
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Don't, he mouths, desperately tired. His arm lands gently, lies just there. Through the blur of his own eyelashes he watches Isaac reach the door, watches him secure it, and stay, and he closes his eyes and breathes. Listening.
Occasionally he tries to flex his fingers through their stiff chill, cracks an eye to one glittering slit to check they're actually moving. (They are.)]