[ "The others", and she can't help the soft huff— exasperated as much as amused, weighted with a solemn touch of disappointment and a shake of the head as she gets to work, feeling him tense beneath her what that sharp breath— he's aged in this way, as well, and she can't help but wonder if she's hurt him. She can only imagine how he's been faring, what he's been eating— a dead man prowling the streets, getting whatever he can. There's a layer of padding now over carved muscle, and even the heroic Strike Commander has begun to show his age more than just some white streaks at his temples or deeper frown lines settling in— he feels different beneath her hands yet utterly the same, the shape of Jack Morrison beneath the scars and receding hairline, beneath the fading physique, a familiar scent in his hair.
Being able to touch him and just see him— it's a balm as much as a burn on her soul, and her answer doesn't come easily to her lips. ]
I'm afraid I couldn't say. We scarcely ever cross paths. I've not spoken of my suspicions, though, and I've not heard anything from anyone else, either— for whatever that may be worth.
[ Without their commander, they've been lost. Trying to stick together has not worked well in their favor, and as of late it's been made more difficult by the distance between them. Angela had given up attempting nearby housing here because everyone had scattered to the four corners, and the farmland was fairly central. The truth of the matter is, it breaks her heart that they've been unable to coalesce once more. That putting their heads together on the topic of Gabriel was a lesson in herding cats, and she's never been skilled with animals.
Those deep breaths could have fooled her any other day into managing pain, but knowing who this is, that this is the man she's spent a decade tending to and learning all his quirks and shortcomings, all her years working with soldiers in the field— there's no denying they're steadying an onset of panic even as strong fingers flex once he releases the table and he's reaching up, but once there, he falters.
His hands shake. Trembling as he works loose the clasps holding it in place, and he doesn't move from there. With the gauze over his stomach and clean hands yet to be gloved, Angela reaches up to fit slender fingers between his own, steadying them with a cool touch and the worried pinch of her brows, arms pressed right along his.
If he'll let her, she'll carefully guide the mask away from his face— a few millimeters at first, letting fresh air in and giving him the space of a few breaths before she eases it further away, down. Her line of sight pierces right through red glass, searching even if she can't see through it— her heart is pounding, chest constricting, and surely, this must be a fever dream. She's back in her bed, kicking at the duvet in her malcontent, and Eiger must be nudging against her face, nose pressing beneath one closed eye.
Ah, but dog noses are cold, aren't they? Not hot. (Those are tears, dear. Before she's even revealed his brows.) ]
no subject
Being able to touch him and just see him— it's a balm as much as a burn on her soul, and her answer doesn't come easily to her lips. ]
I'm afraid I couldn't say. We scarcely ever cross paths. I've not spoken of my suspicions, though, and I've not heard anything from anyone else, either— for whatever that may be worth.
[ Without their commander, they've been lost. Trying to stick together has not worked well in their favor, and as of late it's been made more difficult by the distance between them. Angela had given up attempting nearby housing here because everyone had scattered to the four corners, and the farmland was fairly central. The truth of the matter is, it breaks her heart that they've been unable to coalesce once more. That putting their heads together on the topic of Gabriel was a lesson in herding cats, and she's never been skilled with animals.
Those deep breaths could have fooled her any other day into managing pain, but knowing who this is, that this is the man she's spent a decade tending to and learning all his quirks and shortcomings, all her years working with soldiers in the field— there's no denying they're steadying an onset of panic even as strong fingers flex once he releases the table and he's reaching up, but once there, he falters.
His hands shake. Trembling as he works loose the clasps holding it in place, and he doesn't move from there. With the gauze over his stomach and clean hands yet to be gloved, Angela reaches up to fit slender fingers between his own, steadying them with a cool touch and the worried pinch of her brows, arms pressed right along his.
If he'll let her, she'll carefully guide the mask away from his face— a few millimeters at first, letting fresh air in and giving him the space of a few breaths before she eases it further away, down. Her line of sight pierces right through red glass, searching even if she can't see through it— her heart is pounding, chest constricting, and surely, this must be a fever dream. She's back in her bed, kicking at the duvet in her malcontent, and Eiger must be nudging against her face, nose pressing beneath one closed eye.
Ah, but dog noses are cold, aren't they? Not hot. (Those are tears, dear. Before she's even revealed his brows.) ]