Now it's time for Keeler's eyes to go owlish. Part shock, part wonder, and wholly disbelief, as he tries and fails to grasp the opportunity that's been presented. Because leaving the Sleipnir was never an option that entered into the equation for him. The Sleipnir is where he's stationed, and it's where he'll stay; never mind the very real possibility that leaving this assignment meant abandoning Encke, and that -- above all else -- is something he's utterly unwilling to do.
But it carries a different weight for Encke. It's not as simple as duty, or the frankly suicidal belief that location doesn't matter when death is imminent. He's putting himself on the cross for Keeler's sake, in a play for rank and the privilege that went along with it. Perhaps lieutenant doesn't warrant a new heart, but commander? Captain? Admiral? Perhaps that does. For all his staggering intelligence, Keeler hasn't considered the possibility that his rank could mean the difference between impossible and probable.
And that Encke is willing to march into almost-certain death, that he claims it's for Keeler's benefit-- It's hard enough wrapping his head around the scenario without considering the implications of that.
Hope is painful, and Keeler hasn't allowed himself to feel it in so long. Because there's only ever been disappointment, gentle let-downs that always felt like the end of the world; because even with a neurosurgeon for a mother and more battle accolades under his belt than most of their veteran military, Keeler still hasn't earned himself that distinguished place and that sacred promise. That the medical community will try for him, because he's worth it, rather than simply allowing him to waste away into nothingness and obscurity and a nerve-wracking painful death. A life of fear, of near-constant anxiety--
Could there really be a future without that worry?
"I never figured that leaving the Sleipnir was an option," Keeler muses despite Encke's warning, and a smile tugs at one corner of his lips as he casts eyes downward. "There's nothing to think over, Soldier. My place is at your side, and we have a duty to the warmachine."
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But it carries a different weight for Encke. It's not as simple as duty, or the frankly suicidal belief that location doesn't matter when death is imminent. He's putting himself on the cross for Keeler's sake, in a play for rank and the privilege that went along with it. Perhaps lieutenant doesn't warrant a new heart, but commander? Captain? Admiral? Perhaps that does. For all his staggering intelligence, Keeler hasn't considered the possibility that his rank could mean the difference between impossible and probable.
And that Encke is willing to march into almost-certain death, that he claims it's for Keeler's benefit-- It's hard enough wrapping his head around the scenario without considering the implications of that.
Hope is painful, and Keeler hasn't allowed himself to feel it in so long. Because there's only ever been disappointment, gentle let-downs that always felt like the end of the world; because even with a neurosurgeon for a mother and more battle accolades under his belt than most of their veteran military, Keeler still hasn't earned himself that distinguished place and that sacred promise. That the medical community will try for him, because he's worth it, rather than simply allowing him to waste away into nothingness and obscurity and a nerve-wracking painful death. A life of fear, of near-constant anxiety--
Could there really be a future without that worry?
"I never figured that leaving the Sleipnir was an option," Keeler muses despite Encke's warning, and a smile tugs at one corner of his lips as he casts eyes downward. "There's nothing to think over, Soldier. My place is at your side, and we have a duty to the warmachine."