Being alone. It cuts both ways. So it means, when Leonard decides to spring himself on her, they're alone and there aren't any distractions. It, also, means, when he freezes up, slips up, they're still all alone and there aren't any other noises, other voices, in the space to drown it out.

The way Sara's eyes narrow at the you. The screech of pause after it is alarmingly loud, echoding, and Sara's weight holds mostly on nee foot while she stares at him, trying to figure out what it is he isn't saying. About her. Even as he shifts to a them, that implies the team, she already isn't listening to that. He's asking her. Her, only. Why she made the decision. Why she said yes when he asked. Why she's moving him in.

There's something a little abrasive about it, that Sara can't lay her finger on. Or she can. Or it's all about the thing that has always most separated her from everyone on the Waverider. Even Leonard and Mick. Maybe the part where Leonard rolled straight through that stammer cover without a point at it, or maybe the part where he doesn't even look up until the end, until the very last second, like it's something he can't escape at the end.

Sara's mouth is definitely closer to a line, and there's a growing setness to her shoulders, and maybe there's a little-edged bluntness to the answer that comes out. "Because Bucky can't get the help he needs from a couple boy scouts and a day drinking playboy, no matter how much his team might want to help him, and he knows it, and they know it."