[ It's a relief when he settles, not quite relaxing so much as exhausted and letting it weigh on him now that he doesn't have to actively keep her away, and she's never cursed her composure more than now. It would be so easy to wrap her arms around him and hug him to her, let a tight grip convey all of her anger and grief and how glad she is to have him here, that he's been here for her, regardless, confusion that he's kept it from them all.
God, but he's gone completely white in these few years— wrinkles deeper where his brow is visible, voice gruffer than ever, and she remembers the explosion at Swiss HQ and his question draws forth the slightest trembling in her hands, eyes threatening to well up.
Of course his voice is different. How long had he been in the wreckage of that building, breathing in super-heated air and smoke? What sort of injuries had he sustained? As she bares his torso there's a smattering of new scars she doesn't recognize, ragged and sloppy and twisted with hypertrophic scarring, fresher. How had he gotten free and escaped without anyone finding him? How badly had he been injured...? It's only a brief couple moments of her thoughts catching hold of her, but she's back to work and answering with a twitch of her fingers. ]
I've... suspected for some months, now. I kept writing it off as being hopelessly propitious, looking for shapes in shadows I wished to see, I suppose. It's been six years, Jack.
[ Her words hold a thousand other expectations and meanings, most prominent of which— why didn't you contact us? why didn't you come to me? Had he held no faith even in her? Reinhardt? Did he believe they'd had something to do with the explosion? Was he angry they hadn't tried harder to find him?
His knuckles are white when exposed, where he grips the edge of the exam table and she bumps her brow down to the top of his head, for lack of any other contact or desire to fray, just for a moment while she finishes removing his shirt and takes his gloves with it, hopelessly bloodied and staining his hands. While her thoughts centered around his possible ire at his other agents, she also knows how he likes to take blame for himself as the commander, and if he isn't upset with her, perhaps he'll allow the little point of contact to be a reassurance.
But she has to move away without much time to dwell on this and she's getting a damp cloth to wipe him down, not getting too close to the wound lest she smear blood but generally needing a clean work area to start with, so her hand traces over his front, his sides, up to his shoulders— and she rinses it clean before handing it back and motioning for him to take over, wiping down his arms and his hands so she can plaster a hemostatic gauze pad over his wound in the meanwhile, then bustle off to scrub up— she returns with a gown on and pink hands held up to dry before she can pull her gloves on, offering him a tiny enough smile. Largely apologetic, but warm. She won't say the words, not just yet, but she's glad he's here all the time. That he's all right. ]
no subject
God, but he's gone completely white in these few years— wrinkles deeper where his brow is visible, voice gruffer than ever, and she remembers the explosion at Swiss HQ and his question draws forth the slightest trembling in her hands, eyes threatening to well up.
Of course his voice is different. How long had he been in the wreckage of that building, breathing in super-heated air and smoke? What sort of injuries had he sustained? As she bares his torso there's a smattering of new scars she doesn't recognize, ragged and sloppy and twisted with hypertrophic scarring, fresher. How had he gotten free and escaped without anyone finding him? How badly had he been injured...? It's only a brief couple moments of her thoughts catching hold of her, but she's back to work and answering with a twitch of her fingers. ]
I've... suspected for some months, now. I kept writing it off as being hopelessly propitious, looking for shapes in shadows I wished to see, I suppose. It's been six years, Jack.
[ Her words hold a thousand other expectations and meanings, most prominent of which— why didn't you contact us? why didn't you come to me? Had he held no faith even in her? Reinhardt? Did he believe they'd had something to do with the explosion? Was he angry they hadn't tried harder to find him?
His knuckles are white when exposed, where he grips the edge of the exam table and she bumps her brow down to the top of his head, for lack of any other contact or desire to fray, just for a moment while she finishes removing his shirt and takes his gloves with it, hopelessly bloodied and staining his hands. While her thoughts centered around his possible ire at his other agents, she also knows how he likes to take blame for himself as the commander, and if he isn't upset with her, perhaps he'll allow the little point of contact to be a reassurance.
But she has to move away without much time to dwell on this and she's getting a damp cloth to wipe him down, not getting too close to the wound lest she smear blood but generally needing a clean work area to start with, so her hand traces over his front, his sides, up to his shoulders— and she rinses it clean before handing it back and motioning for him to take over, wiping down his arms and his hands so she can plaster a hemostatic gauze pad over his wound in the meanwhile, then bustle off to scrub up— she returns with a gown on and pink hands held up to dry before she can pull her gloves on, offering him a tiny enough smile. Largely apologetic, but warm. She won't say the words, not just yet, but she's glad he's here all the time. That he's all right. ]
Your mask...? Before I ask you to lie down.