[ Nor would she rescind it; don't they know enough of one another? What more could he possibly say to convince her otherwise? She knows enough to decide that he's a good man and he has fought hard for what he feels are the right reasons, even if that may not have always been the case. No one in any world is truly perfect or good. All a person can hope for is that their trust and time aren't misplaced along the way once handed over, but she trusts Snake to carry hers with the utmost care. It's less of a risk and a shorter leap for her than it is for him, she's certain, but all she can do is her best by him and hope it's satisfactory in her own attempts. Angela already trusts him with a good deal more than his discretion, even when it boiled down to Jack's identity. That isn't precisely her call to make, yet she would've been seeking Snake out either way just to share the experience and the feelings she dare not express to Jack to someone else removed from the situation. It's a done deal now that he's stumbled upon him regardless.
And Gabriel had made his decision months back; her trust is not so easily given over again, once lost. He certainly won't be welcome in the quaint little cottage; Snake would be right to assume as much in that regard. Who she invites into her home is one thing, but who she shares it with is another, and Snake has been invited to share. So far he's alone in that, which should go to show exactly how highly he's placed in her life, to someone who values her privacy as much as her friendships and company. He's free to intrude on a whim, without prior notice or request no matter what may have happened of late. That should speak volumes. He could be privy to her every moment of downtime, walk in on any emotion or level of exhaustion otherwise hidden from others, or for that matter, any company. He has free reign.
It's a scary thing, isn't it? That sort of trust in your hands.
A few months here is a drop in the bucket to the fifteen odd years she'd known him, before he'd officially been killed. And that was personally; everyone knew of Jack Morrison and the other five heroes of Overwatch. The tales were told to all children, and they'd been all over the news even when she was young. She'd been seven when she lost her parents to the war Overwatch had won, and from that point forward they were everywhere. Even having worked alongside him to know exactly how normal a man he often was, it's difficult to shake that long-standing regard held for someone who has been one of your heroes for so long. (And to be further lied to by those heroes you can never quite put on the level of 'normal', even knowing better? Being a grown woman. That is far more difficult, perhaps.)
The sliver of pain in that smile still runs miles deep, brief though it may be, and Snake's deep exhale draws her attention back up from the froth in her coffee to the man listening to her, all the minute ways his anger comes through in the tension at his shoulders, in his hands at his sides, the alert curve of his spine and his attention on her nigh on predatory, watching for the slightest sign of weakness, though not to pounce. Whatever had bothered him about her statements or demeanor, she doesn't want it to continue and she almost looks apologetic, but he's still rooted to his post as he splits his attention between herself and her commander. (Don't be mad on her behalf for extenuating circumstances!) It's something that will pass for her, given time; as of now she's only into the second day or somewhere near enough. Their time resting has been a series of naps and she's losing track. ]
For that I'm glad. When we had all first arrived, you know, I'm certain he threw punches at just about everyone he encountered. The initial panic, I imagine. He'd never been that way before— so quick to lash out. When had you worked together?
[ What starts with a touch of that familiar amusement turns softer and contemplative. Which goes to show that, yes, once she'd began sifting through his behaviors and all her interactions with him, she could find the hints peppered generously as to his identity— but also all the ways he's changed. What the world had taken from him, what he had tried to hide from them all. What he's likely still hiding. She knows he's still a good man from those very examples of deep-running morals and more, but it's difficult to frame with mere words. It's all a mess and she hadn't ever wished to drag Snake into it, yet here he is.
She isn't too worried about him physically (because anything that may slip past his abilities is something she can likely heal up without issue, should they go at each other beyond a few licks) so much as the core of the matter. If they've had hostile encounters thus far, it wouldn't be the best idea to have Snake around when Jack wakes, at the very least. It's conveyed in her certainty turned towards him, picking up his shift in her peripheral and feeling his eyes on her to glance up as well, meeting them.
There's a faint scrape of porcelain on granite as her cup shifts, unlacing one hand from the other to hold out to him. Her palms are flushed from the heat of the cup, but the tip of her head gives way to it being a request rather than an offer, the almost apologetic furrow of her brow that says she knows she's being a nuisance, but she'll still push on and be a little selfish. Come and sit with her, where she can twine her fingertips with his to pass over her head and draw him to the other stool beside her, wrap her fingers in his sleeve and brush her shoulder to his once he's sat down. Where he can smell the soft honey of her shampoo in damp hair and the lotion fragrant beneath clean clothes, and she can take comfort in the familiar touch of leather and the faintest notes of ash and tobacco.
At first all he gets is a hum to acknowledge, thinking on how best to answer. Should she start from the beginning? No, that would be silly; he's already heard about Overwatch and the Omnic War and her comrades, loose though the last had been. They hadn't had a terrible amount of time to waste on pictures and names and positions, and she begins with a slow breath. ]
I won't pretend to know everything that's happened, for him. But he's regarded as a hero and has been for thirty years. He poured blood and sweat into making Overwatch what it had been, into a force of good alongside those who believed the same. And then it was systematically ripped back apart with poor media coverage, slander, all the while agents were being taken out in the field and otherwise. He lost his Second in Command. His long-standing friendship with Gabriel deteriorated. And at the height of it there was an explosion— they were both presumed to be dead beneath the building that crashed down on them. We buried more empty caskets. [ She's twisting her mug back and forth in the hold of caged fingers, lifted a scant millimeter from the counter so as not to scratch the countertop. ] Overwatch was disbanded near-immediately. It was over just like that, and six years went by without a word. Instead there were the occasional news stories about a man breaking into the old bases and stealing weapons and supplies, others about a serial killer that left their victims completely exsanguinated. Even looking right at them you wouldn't have known who they used to be, Snake.
I can't even imagine watching that sort of life I'd built and believed in so doggedly crumbling to ash around me. The paranoia that anyone I'd recruited and trained, personally, could have had a hand in the downfall. Anxiety and trauma of the explosion itself and whatever injuries resulted— depression. Beating yourself up over everything you could've done differently, alone, with no one there to tell you otherwise. [ The more she speaks, the lower her voice drops, slowing. Her voice grows a little thicker, because imagining had been bad enough. Putting those theoreticals (which are likely not so theoretical in the first place) into words hurts. As if the act of saying it aloud brought those very options to pass, as if she's set them in stone now. It takes her a moment and a long, trembling breath to continue on, brief though it may be: ] I'm sure they were good reasons.
no subject
And Gabriel had made his decision months back; her trust is not so easily given over again, once lost. He certainly won't be welcome in the quaint little cottage; Snake would be right to assume as much in that regard. Who she invites into her home is one thing, but who she shares it with is another, and Snake has been invited to share. So far he's alone in that, which should go to show exactly how highly he's placed in her life, to someone who values her privacy as much as her friendships and company. He's free to intrude on a whim, without prior notice or request no matter what may have happened of late. That should speak volumes. He could be privy to her every moment of downtime, walk in on any emotion or level of exhaustion otherwise hidden from others, or for that matter, any company. He has free reign.
It's a scary thing, isn't it? That sort of trust in your hands.
A few months here is a drop in the bucket to the fifteen odd years she'd known him, before he'd officially been killed. And that was personally; everyone knew of Jack Morrison and the other five heroes of Overwatch. The tales were told to all children, and they'd been all over the news even when she was young. She'd been seven when she lost her parents to the war Overwatch had won, and from that point forward they were everywhere. Even having worked alongside him to know exactly how normal a man he often was, it's difficult to shake that long-standing regard held for someone who has been one of your heroes for so long. (And to be further lied to by those heroes you can never quite put on the level of 'normal', even knowing better? Being a grown woman. That is far more difficult, perhaps.)
The sliver of pain in that smile still runs miles deep, brief though it may be, and Snake's deep exhale draws her attention back up from the froth in her coffee to the man listening to her, all the minute ways his anger comes through in the tension at his shoulders, in his hands at his sides, the alert curve of his spine and his attention on her nigh on predatory, watching for the slightest sign of weakness, though not to pounce. Whatever had bothered him about her statements or demeanor, she doesn't want it to continue and she almost looks apologetic, but he's still rooted to his post as he splits his attention between herself and her commander. (Don't be mad on her behalf for extenuating circumstances!) It's something that will pass for her, given time; as of now she's only into the second day or somewhere near enough. Their time resting has been a series of naps and she's losing track. ]
For that I'm glad. When we had all first arrived, you know, I'm certain he threw punches at just about everyone he encountered. The initial panic, I imagine. He'd never been that way before— so quick to lash out. When had you worked together?
[ What starts with a touch of that familiar amusement turns softer and contemplative. Which goes to show that, yes, once she'd began sifting through his behaviors and all her interactions with him, she could find the hints peppered generously as to his identity— but also all the ways he's changed. What the world had taken from him, what he had tried to hide from them all. What he's likely still hiding. She knows he's still a good man from those very examples of deep-running morals and more, but it's difficult to frame with mere words. It's all a mess and she hadn't ever wished to drag Snake into it, yet here he is.
She isn't too worried about him physically (because anything that may slip past his abilities is something she can likely heal up without issue, should they go at each other beyond a few licks) so much as the core of the matter. If they've had hostile encounters thus far, it wouldn't be the best idea to have Snake around when Jack wakes, at the very least. It's conveyed in her certainty turned towards him, picking up his shift in her peripheral and feeling his eyes on her to glance up as well, meeting them.
There's a faint scrape of porcelain on granite as her cup shifts, unlacing one hand from the other to hold out to him. Her palms are flushed from the heat of the cup, but the tip of her head gives way to it being a request rather than an offer, the almost apologetic furrow of her brow that says she knows she's being a nuisance, but she'll still push on and be a little selfish. Come and sit with her, where she can twine her fingertips with his to pass over her head and draw him to the other stool beside her, wrap her fingers in his sleeve and brush her shoulder to his once he's sat down. Where he can smell the soft honey of her shampoo in damp hair and the lotion fragrant beneath clean clothes, and she can take comfort in the familiar touch of leather and the faintest notes of ash and tobacco.
At first all he gets is a hum to acknowledge, thinking on how best to answer. Should she start from the beginning? No, that would be silly; he's already heard about Overwatch and the Omnic War and her comrades, loose though the last had been. They hadn't had a terrible amount of time to waste on pictures and names and positions, and she begins with a slow breath. ]
I won't pretend to know everything that's happened, for him. But he's regarded as a hero and has been for thirty years. He poured blood and sweat into making Overwatch what it had been, into a force of good alongside those who believed the same. And then it was systematically ripped back apart with poor media coverage, slander, all the while agents were being taken out in the field and otherwise. He lost his Second in Command. His long-standing friendship with Gabriel deteriorated. And at the height of it there was an explosion— they were both presumed to be dead beneath the building that crashed down on them. We buried more empty caskets. [ She's twisting her mug back and forth in the hold of caged fingers, lifted a scant millimeter from the counter so as not to scratch the countertop. ] Overwatch was disbanded near-immediately. It was over just like that, and six years went by without a word. Instead there were the occasional news stories about a man breaking into the old bases and stealing weapons and supplies, others about a serial killer that left their victims completely exsanguinated. Even looking right at them you wouldn't have known who they used to be, Snake.
I can't even imagine watching that sort of life I'd built and believed in so doggedly crumbling to ash around me. The paranoia that anyone I'd recruited and trained, personally, could have had a hand in the downfall. Anxiety and trauma of the explosion itself and whatever injuries resulted— depression. Beating yourself up over everything you could've done differently, alone, with no one there to tell you otherwise. [ The more she speaks, the lower her voice drops, slowing. Her voice grows a little thicker, because imagining had been bad enough. Putting those theoreticals (which are likely not so theoretical in the first place) into words hurts. As if the act of saying it aloud brought those very options to pass, as if she's set them in stone now. It takes her a moment and a long, trembling breath to continue on, brief though it may be: ] I'm sure they were good reasons.
[ It's barely a whisper. ]