She doesn't ignore Mick. They both have enough very recent experience to know what that looks like, or specifically doesn't look like. Sara doesn't ignore him. Not even if she doesn't specifically raise her gaze to meet his until he's dropped into a nearby chair. Not certain what she's looking for there. Not certain what she wants to find.
Not certain if she wants to cling to the thoughts and feelings and person she found herself being all night, the one who skipped breakfast but not training and came here, rather than anywhere, or specifically to anyone else (not that that saved her on either count now, had it?).
Not certain if she just wants to be the person who pushes up from this chair, and lets her drink fall wherever it is and just doesn't stop until she push her head or her forehead somewhere against him and he swallows her (— and he’d let her, she knows that even not having done it, not even being something she predictably might choose, and doesn’t that just wrap it into the first, too).
Not certain whether she just goes on being what she just said, not too long ago, she could be.
Was. Good. Good enough. Fine. Okay. Capable. Sara Lance. Captain. Strong enough.
She doesn't move. Not her head from its angle against the side of the chair. Not her fingers from the rim of her glass, or the glass from where it's resting on the chair, between her legs. Nothing more really than steady focus of her blue, blur eyes on Mick, with the occasional blink, before mirroring, right back. "Hey."
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Not certain if she wants to cling to the thoughts and feelings and person she found herself being all night, the one who skipped breakfast but not training and came here, rather than anywhere, or specifically to anyone else (not that that saved her on either count now, had it?).
Not certain if she just wants to be the person who pushes up from this chair, and lets her drink fall wherever it is and just doesn't stop until she push her head or her forehead somewhere against him and he swallows her (— and he’d let her, she knows that even not having done it, not even being something she predictably might choose, and doesn’t that just wrap it into the first, too).
Not certain whether she just goes on being what she just said, not too long ago, she could be.
Was. Good. Good enough. Fine. Okay. Capable.
Sara Lance. Captain. Strong enough.
She doesn't move. Not her head from its angle against the side of the chair. Not her fingers from the rim of her glass, or the glass from where it's resting on the chair, between her legs. Nothing more really than steady focus of her blue, blur eyes on Mick, with the occasional blink, before mirroring, right back. "Hey."