[ That's just the thing though, isn't it? He does deserve it. He's deserved it all along, and the fact that it's taken so long to finally get her arms around him and be able to just rest is nearly a personal slight to her character. Excuses aren't necessary for something as human as basking in a bit of touch; it's something everyone craves as basic instinct, and he's been in her life for twenty years and then some, directly or no— she'll justify it however she has to, but the bottom line is it's all right. He has nicked organs and a hole in his stomach, and someone with emotional investment in him knows who he is. It's all right to accept a hug. Further to return it with enough ferocity to know that he still cares, as if building her a shelter and forfeiting his own and the countless other times he's ended up helping her hadn't already proved as much.
She knows he's trying his best, here. It's a further struggle to be upset with him when he's holding her this tightly, breathing scarcely able to keep himself under control, calm. He has her patience to formulate a reply, as he always has, and the eventual shake of his head has her waiting him out, closing her eyes to listen as she continues a soothing touch, fingertips trailing along his spine as far as she can reach, back up to knead the nape of his neck before careening back down.
When he begins, her brows furrow a little deeper and she tries to imagine it, now that she's seen a glimpse of his injuries. Another twinge in her chest, and she doesn't even have the full picture. ]
Jack... [ It comes out swollen, tipping her head down to nudge along his cheek in a brief movement— a pale imitation of a nudge, really. She wants to ask why he didn't contact any of them, why he'd never told her. She's certain she already knows. That picture came all too clearly to her, and it's easy enough to put two and two together with how he and Gabriel had been fighting for months— put them under one roof only for it to come down on them? Yeah, she can imagine. ] I'm just glad you're alive.
[ She won't even say "—that you're all right", because he isn't. "—that you're doing well", because even here he's on the verge of panic, galaxies away from home with only Angela being any wiser. Jack is no longer one full picture of the man she knew. He's bits and pieces, a patchwork of the old incorporated into the new, rummaged through for the largest, least-damaged timber to support a new structure. What she can't put into words she conveys by touch, the brush of her fingers through his hair, the patient fingertips smoothing along his back, the gentlest pressure where she rubs his neck. The soft body warm in his arms, fitting right against him as long as they can manage.
There are many things she could ask, but most she can answer herself. "Have you been taking care of yourself?", not as much if his scars and reflection of poor eating habits had anything to say. "Did you trust anyone to help you?", clearly not, with how he gulps down her affections like a man just out of the desert given water. And he didn't want her asking, so she'll let him speak what he wishes. ]
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She knows he's trying his best, here. It's a further struggle to be upset with him when he's holding her this tightly, breathing scarcely able to keep himself under control, calm. He has her patience to formulate a reply, as he always has, and the eventual shake of his head has her waiting him out, closing her eyes to listen as she continues a soothing touch, fingertips trailing along his spine as far as she can reach, back up to knead the nape of his neck before careening back down.
When he begins, her brows furrow a little deeper and she tries to imagine it, now that she's seen a glimpse of his injuries. Another twinge in her chest, and she doesn't even have the full picture. ]
Jack... [ It comes out swollen, tipping her head down to nudge along his cheek in a brief movement— a pale imitation of a nudge, really. She wants to ask why he didn't contact any of them, why he'd never told her. She's certain she already knows. That picture came all too clearly to her, and it's easy enough to put two and two together with how he and Gabriel had been fighting for months— put them under one roof only for it to come down on them? Yeah, she can imagine. ] I'm just glad you're alive.
[ She won't even say "—that you're all right", because he isn't. "—that you're doing well", because even here he's on the verge of panic, galaxies away from home with only Angela being any wiser. Jack is no longer one full picture of the man she knew. He's bits and pieces, a patchwork of the old incorporated into the new, rummaged through for the largest, least-damaged timber to support a new structure. What she can't put into words she conveys by touch, the brush of her fingers through his hair, the patient fingertips smoothing along his back, the gentlest pressure where she rubs his neck. The soft body warm in his arms, fitting right against him as long as they can manage.
There are many things she could ask, but most she can answer herself. "Have you been taking care of yourself?", not as much if his scars and reflection of poor eating habits had anything to say. "Did you trust anyone to help you?", clearly not, with how he gulps down her affections like a man just out of the desert given water. And he didn't want her asking, so she'll let him speak what he wishes. ]