[ It's a soft enough warning, one that says you need to tell me because he's glossing over a proper answer and she knows it, just like she knew, now, how many things she's missed. How many hints she'd caught and brushed off as foolish hopes, how many other points she should've seen. Like this, she's pressed flush against those scars and the soft linen of her scrubs offers little in the way of a barrier to insulate her warmth, so it's shared instead. But he's always beem warm— warmer than she is, in any case, though his blood loss has lowered his core temperature enough to be noticeable.
What matters is that he isn't falling apart despite it all. All the damage done and he's still in one piece, weathered though he may be, and if anything frays to her touch it's only tension. (She hopes.) He isn't made ugly by the twists of knotted tissue and marred flesh. And when she prompts and they finally pull apart, it's not without gentle fingertips tracing over some patch or another careening off his shoulder, down over his chest to press her palm to his sternum. To feel his heart beat one last time before she turns out of his lap, reluctant to let go. As if she won't be able to convince him to allow her so close again once she's left his reach.
But that's silly. (...Right?)
Her work is quick when she bustles about for a couple fluid bags to hang up on an IV pole, two for blood and one for saline with trace amounts of other minerals and vitamins, to help rehydrate and boost his system. Then two further syringes of the same because his metabolism would eat it right up. First, though, is the line in his arm, a cold swab of alcohol to clean the area and a practiced hand to slip the needle sheathed in a flexible catheter into his arm, withdrawing the needle and taping down the line hooked up to the first bag. The sterile fluid is sucked out via syringe, then the blood is pushed to get it going, and she ties the other bags into the machine to automatically switch over once one empties.
All while he utters those few words in reply, laying back onto the table with a conspicuous spot left open at his side that twists something in her chest for a change, and once she's finished arranging the lines, she doesn't hesitate to find her place beside him again. ]
We all grow old sooner or later, no? [ Yeah, she knows. It's spoken with the same tone she's used saying I'm glad you're here, I'm glad you're all right. And with that initial acknowledgment laid down, so too will she. Weight pivoting off the twist of her hip where she'd sat beside him, fitting herself against his injured side and under his arm, head resting at his bicep. It's inappropriate, sure, but just this once. They're not Overwatch agents anymore. Now, they're just two people who have known each other for twenty years. Old colleagues turned friends. ] There was no one left to fight, Jack. But we tried. We really did. Winston was up all hours preparing his speeches and researching alongside Athena, and Lena practiced every day before the mirror.
Jesse was gone. Genji had left, and Reinhardt...
[ Now the weariness is in her voice, turning her face into his arm for a mild hint that she's shaking her head, blond hair skimming along the bend of his elbow. One hand snakes up across his chest in a careful hold, slender fingers fitting along the curve of his neck as her other rests up across her stomach, curling into the material of her top as a barrier between them, laying on her side. ]
no subject
[ It's a soft enough warning, one that says you need to tell me because he's glossing over a proper answer and she knows it, just like she knew, now, how many things she's missed. How many hints she'd caught and brushed off as foolish hopes, how many other points she should've seen. Like this, she's pressed flush against those scars and the soft linen of her scrubs offers little in the way of a barrier to insulate her warmth, so it's shared instead. But he's always beem warm— warmer than she is, in any case, though his blood loss has lowered his core temperature enough to be noticeable.
What matters is that he isn't falling apart despite it all. All the damage done and he's still in one piece, weathered though he may be, and if anything frays to her touch it's only tension. (She hopes.) He isn't made ugly by the twists of knotted tissue and marred flesh. And when she prompts and they finally pull apart, it's not without gentle fingertips tracing over some patch or another careening off his shoulder, down over his chest to press her palm to his sternum. To feel his heart beat one last time before she turns out of his lap, reluctant to let go. As if she won't be able to convince him to allow her so close again once she's left his reach.
But that's silly. (...Right?)
Her work is quick when she bustles about for a couple fluid bags to hang up on an IV pole, two for blood and one for saline with trace amounts of other minerals and vitamins, to help rehydrate and boost his system. Then two further syringes of the same because his metabolism would eat it right up. First, though, is the line in his arm, a cold swab of alcohol to clean the area and a practiced hand to slip the needle sheathed in a flexible catheter into his arm, withdrawing the needle and taping down the line hooked up to the first bag. The sterile fluid is sucked out via syringe, then the blood is pushed to get it going, and she ties the other bags into the machine to automatically switch over once one empties.
All while he utters those few words in reply, laying back onto the table with a conspicuous spot left open at his side that twists something in her chest for a change, and once she's finished arranging the lines, she doesn't hesitate to find her place beside him again. ]
We all grow old sooner or later, no? [ Yeah, she knows. It's spoken with the same tone she's used saying I'm glad you're here, I'm glad you're all right. And with that initial acknowledgment laid down, so too will she. Weight pivoting off the twist of her hip where she'd sat beside him, fitting herself against his injured side and under his arm, head resting at his bicep. It's inappropriate, sure, but just this once. They're not Overwatch agents anymore. Now, they're just two people who have known each other for twenty years. Old colleagues turned friends. ] There was no one left to fight, Jack. But we tried. We really did. Winston was up all hours preparing his speeches and researching alongside Athena, and Lena practiced every day before the mirror.
Jesse was gone. Genji had left, and Reinhardt...
[ Now the weariness is in her voice, turning her face into his arm for a mild hint that she's shaking her head, blond hair skimming along the bend of his elbow. One hand snakes up across his chest in a careful hold, slender fingers fitting along the curve of his neck as her other rests up across her stomach, curling into the material of her top as a barrier between them, laying on her side. ]