He doesn't answer, not either of them. His eyes break off to sweep the deck plating, its surface smooth, half-remembered. He shuts his eyes with a sharp intake of breath, slamming back the inevitable spiking of pressure, the low and humming ache. Not yet. This is a rare opportunity. It may very well be his only opportunity. Not yet.

“They don’t let me sleep,” he says, shaking his head, vague and businesslike. “We must be between sessions.”

It is a clear window. It is not sufficient. He will make it sufficient. He can fashion a workaround, he can, and this is the door that has been opened to him.

Rush has always been rather good, he thinks, darkly amused, at workarounds.

With more effort than is generally typical for him, he pulls himself back to them, to here. To this subjective, ephemeral here.

"That's hardly salient," he says, relieved to hear a note of his more characteristic annoyance entering his tone. "Nor is it an executable solution."