Soldier: 76 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mylawn) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2017-02-08 01:30 am
mylawn) wrote in thisavrou_log2017-02-08 01:30 am
a buddy of mine said that he saw jack morrison take his shirt off in the shower
Who: Angela Ziegler, Soldier: 76, special guest Solid Snake, extra special guests Reinhardt and Reaper and Mei
When: Early February
Where: The Ingress entrance to Eosoros and then some other places maybe
What: Basically the part of Undercover Boss where the boss stops being undercover, except with fewer monetary gifts
Warnings: Blood, medical business, an angry old man
[76 arrives on Thisavrou very, very angry.
He’s usually angry, but generally speaking, he manages to keep said anger to a low simmer if only to function on a day-to-day basis. Arriving on this new planet after the ordeal at the Midway Hub, finding that all he can really do is sit and wait for his number to be called means that anger gets the better of him, even as he attempts to settle in (but 'settling in' is for other people). 76 takes one of the security gigs on Eosoros in a bid to do something productive, and that's sort of when things come to a head.
He’s angry, and he screws up.
It’s not really his fault, he thinks. It’s easy to blame the client (too reckless, an idiot, doesn’t listen to him, gets them both in a bad situation), but probably 76 could have handled this better. He should have bailed when things started to go south or ditched the client entirely or not taken the job in the first place—the money for a security detail wasn’t worth any of that, but he’s still boiling over with ire about the whole situation and that’s enough to make him do very stupid things, like throwing himself down in order to save both their asses when the client proves too incompetent to make it through the stupid torture gauntlet.
Hindsight, however, is twenty-twenty, and he’s not exactly coherent as he drags them both back through the Ingress and is immediately sidelined for medical attention. 76, too angry to care about decorum or not making a scene, immediately makes a scene. Someone is trying to hold him down, if only to keep him from getting blood everywhere before a medic arrives. The Savrii, however, are hard-pressed to subdue an enhanced human like him, especially when he’s in absolutely no mood to listen to reason.
Under duress, 76 becomes all but feral, hissing and spitting and doing everything in his power to get out and away, even if that means ignoring the fact that he's wounded and throwing all his self preservation out the window (said like he had any to begin with). It’s only the nature of his injury that keeps him from making an effective escape, though that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try.]
When: Early February
Where: The Ingress entrance to Eosoros and then some other places maybe
What: Basically the part of Undercover Boss where the boss stops being undercover, except with fewer monetary gifts
Warnings: Blood, medical business, an angry old man
[76 arrives on Thisavrou very, very angry.
He’s usually angry, but generally speaking, he manages to keep said anger to a low simmer if only to function on a day-to-day basis. Arriving on this new planet after the ordeal at the Midway Hub, finding that all he can really do is sit and wait for his number to be called means that anger gets the better of him, even as he attempts to settle in (but 'settling in' is for other people). 76 takes one of the security gigs on Eosoros in a bid to do something productive, and that's sort of when things come to a head.
He’s angry, and he screws up.
It’s not really his fault, he thinks. It’s easy to blame the client (too reckless, an idiot, doesn’t listen to him, gets them both in a bad situation), but probably 76 could have handled this better. He should have bailed when things started to go south or ditched the client entirely or not taken the job in the first place—the money for a security detail wasn’t worth any of that, but he’s still boiling over with ire about the whole situation and that’s enough to make him do very stupid things, like throwing himself down in order to save both their asses when the client proves too incompetent to make it through the stupid torture gauntlet.
Hindsight, however, is twenty-twenty, and he’s not exactly coherent as he drags them both back through the Ingress and is immediately sidelined for medical attention. 76, too angry to care about decorum or not making a scene, immediately makes a scene. Someone is trying to hold him down, if only to keep him from getting blood everywhere before a medic arrives. The Savrii, however, are hard-pressed to subdue an enhanced human like him, especially when he’s in absolutely no mood to listen to reason.
Under duress, 76 becomes all but feral, hissing and spitting and doing everything in his power to get out and away, even if that means ignoring the fact that he's wounded and throwing all his self preservation out the window (said like he had any to begin with). It’s only the nature of his injury that keeps him from making an effective escape, though that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try.]
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[He snaps back at her without thinking, voice a snarl this time. Of course she figured it out--how could she not have? 76 can convince himself all he wants, that he's irrevocably changed, unrecognizable, but it's never really been enough, has it? Old habits die too hard.
76 denies it but he can't offer any real conviction beyond the anger that's burning off too quickly, the strain of carrying himself on an injury suddenly too much. His weight is on the exam table as she lowers it and he can't bring himself to fight back as she finally closes the distance and slides a hand up his shoulder, offering support.]
I ain't him.
[He says it more to convince himself than anything else.]
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The man's anger is a smouldering fire and soon even the wisps of smoke thin out to nothing, running out of fuel to burn no matter how hot his fury— there's nothing to keep him going, and the fight is seeping out of him faster than his blood. For that she's thankful, and she wastes no time with this pseudo-compliance to drag the zipper of his coat down behind the arm across his stomach to tug apart at the ends, no shame in reaching into his space or his lap to do so. ]
You don't sound very convinced.
[ But she doesn't want to anger him when he's running out of energy. She doesn't insist, she doesn't harass; her only interest is in getting his coat off his free arm without jostling him overmuch, quick enough to make use of this downswing lest he try to fight once more. Before she focuses on it too terribly much and begins to fall apart herself. ]
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This is not how he wanted this to go. He studies her face with what attention he can spare, trying to discern he reaction that seems more mixed than anything. 76 thinks he'd almost prefer it if she was angry, but in true Angela fashion, she swallows it all down and gets to work.
Seeing that hurts more than he thought it would, that she has to set all this aside because he got himself shanked on some stupid torture gauntlet that certainly did not pay enough to justify the situation he's in now.]
Just make it quick.
[Peeling the jacket away reveals body armor that she's seen before, and the skintight undershirt he wears beneath it, torn through in the front where he's bleeding from a deep gouge in his stomach. His hand is pressed tight against it, but as soon as she moves to inspect the wound, he'll peel it away, wincing.]
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Really, she should have known so much sooner, but the denial had weighed so heavily on her she hadn't dared hope. Her nose is nearly in his hair this close and he smells like Jack, even down to the way he's moved in action and out, in the consideration he's paid her. What else could have prompted a man threatened with bodily torture to build someone a shelter in an alien jungle? She feels a fool for blinding herself to the truth all these months, and the most sincere trace he'll pick up in her expression is the sorrow in her eyes and the terse dimple of one cheek with how tight she presses her lips together as she frees him from his body armor, splitting the halves apart.
It's the faintest touch of fingertips to gloved hand that indicates he can move the press of his palm away, making quick work of shedding his jacket and working the armor off of him to move back out of his space to collect bandage scissors. Do away with that shirt— though it doesn't stop her attention from falling on one bared arm, fingertips trailing carefully down the length of some gash or another, and it seals the deal. She knows her own handiwork when she sees it, and she's only going to reveal more as she sets about cutting the sleeve open on his injured side, flat, cold metal traveling over the shape of his bicep and up over his shoulder, to the neck so it can split open nicely. Then another down the back of his arm and down his side, pulling the back out and off his good arm before carefully peeling it away from around a half-congealed wound, not missing that wince. ]
Have I ever made you suffer needlessly?
[ Yeah, there's no getting around it now. He couldn't convince her he's anyone else if the fate of the world depended on it. She won't budge; too many pieces of him have filtered through her hands, pulling him back together time and again and remembering every perfect suture mark, every carefully tended scar that was barely there. Her knuckles go white where she's fisted the blooded black fabric of his shirt up, tension easing from her in the littlest of ways. ]
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The mask is still on, but he feels her stare pierce right through it, trying to imagine his face with six years and an collapsed building on, wondering what he might be thinking or feeling just as much as he is with her.
Something overt would be easier to deal with. He wants her to hate him because it all feeds into his self-imposed narrative, the one that reminds him of how thoroughly he failed and continues to fail.]
How long have you known?
[Because it's clear now that she's harbored suspicions, at least. 76 has always figured she and the others were trying not to hope, too smart to actually confront him about it. Now all the cards are out on the table, and there's no point hiding anymore.
Do the others know?
She peels his shirt off and discards it, and he watches her hands because it's easier than watching her face. His own hands settle uncomfortably at his sides, clenching the edge of the exam table. No, she's never made him suffer needlessly, but this time he almost wishes she would.]
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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.
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It's good to have it affirmed that he wasn't overt, perhaps--that she only harbored suspicion with no real confirmation until now, but he can't help but inquire further.]
The others?
[76 will imagine that there will be time to explain himself later, when he's not in immediate danger. He has no right to ask anything of her, at this point, but if all the other ex-Overwatch agents are about to reach the same conclusion, he thinks he might want to know.
Ultimately, it's easier to focus on the pain in his side, if only because it's a good distraction from the situation at large. He sucks in air sharply when she starts toweling him off, hands as gentle as ever. He tenses underneath her, more reflex than anything else. When she asks about his mask, that thing in his chest twists all over again.
He has to take a few deep breaths to ground himself before he can even think about unfastening it and pulling it off, but he supposes he owes her that much. 76 can't hide the way his hands shake when he brings them up to either side of the mount, fingers fumbling at the clasps until they're undone, but it seems he doesn't quite have the conviction to pull away.]
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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.) ]
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Angela is still very clearly keeping all her feelings in check, even as he verges on panic, unable to even lower the mask without her help. He's relied on it so long that the thought of facing her without something in between them is almost unbearable. Still, once she's bearing the weight of it, he manages to start undoing the fastenings on the mount, setting them aside carefully as she pulls the mask off his face.
He can already tell she's crying in spite of herself and he can't meet her eyes. He keeps them trained on the floor, cold air stinging his face, a sharp contrast to the heat pooling around the wound in his stomach.]
Wasn't how this was supposed to go.
[76 mumbles it to himself, even as he knows he should be offering her some kind of apology or explanation or comfort--anything but his own selfish lamenting that he couldn't pull off the charade.]
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His hands steady from their shaking but he'll feel the finest tremors in hers, this close, pressed atop his for so long— they come in waves, with every exhale that wants to sing between her teeth, instead slowed as she breathes through her nose. She wishes she could offer him more. That he's panicking, in her presence, when he should rightfully know better, upsets her the most. She wishes he could trust her. That she could keep herself in check a little longer so those hot tears weren't staining his pants, falling right into his lap as they make a concerted effort to ease the mask away from his face.
Her eyes trace the ragged scar bisecting his brow, over his nose and down one cheek, and as soon as its revealed his entire face, white whiskers and scarred mouth and all, there's one soft hiccup out of her as her chest tightens violently when he won't meet her eyes, forcing the air from her lungs. She presses her brow to his, feeling the twist of scar tissue against her skin, and the mask is lowered to his lap, fingers twisting in his.
Then it's set aside completely and she's reaching to unlatch the mount to unwind from about his neck, where it covers his ears— it's warmth and protection is replaced with her hands instead, pressed to his cheeks and fingers slender where they brush over his ears, nails skimming through his hair. For all the colors swirling in the maelstrom within her, she would never greet someone coming back into this world with fury or disappointment, and though she's hurt, she's also achingly glad to see him. Have him here between her hands, where she can feel out the person he's become after all these years and simply appreciate his presence. He isn't dead. That's all that matters. ]
You say that as though you'd been planning on telling me eventually.
[ Jack doesn't need to lie. She knows that likely hadn't been in the cards. But she's not chastising him, and her voice is steady despite the tears already slowing. A little splash to keep from overflowing, some pressure released so she wasn't on the verge of bursting. ]
Come on, let's get you patched up. Lie on back for me.
[ She'll keep a hand at the nape of his neck to ease him down gently, head resting back on the pillow while the other slips away to nudge his legs up onto the table. She can't keep being selfish with his time, not when he's hurt this badly. ]
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[76 won't lie about that, because that had been the goal all along--to get back home without anyone finding out the truth, so that they could all get on with their lives and no one's safety would be compromised when they were thrust back into the political reality of their world. If they knew, they'd come look for him as soon as they returned. He needs to keep them away from him.
Of course, he's done a very poor job, and his attempts to articulate the simple fact that everything he's done, he's done for them--are even worse.
He still can't meet her eyes. The soft choked noises she makes and the little wet stains on his fatigues tell him all he needs to know. Listening to her try and keep herself together is almost unbearable, but he's not sure what to do about human contact anymore. He knows he should be trying to comfort her, but his hands fall back against his sides, completely limp. Breathing is hard enough--he can't quite bring himself to touch her in return.
But he lets her guide him onto his back, chest still heaving a little with exertion and panic, still tight with the prospect of what she must think of him now that she has his shirt off and his mask off and his life is in her hands once again.]
It's to keep you safe, Angela.
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[ The laugh that near-immediate answer gets out of her is almost, almost a bitter note, sharp in a way that says the honesty was unnecessary, that it cut deep and so clean it had yet to start bleeding, but eventually the body would catch up to the trauma suffered. She's reeled herself back in, at least, and he's trying so hard to remain steady— to her touch as well as because of it, and a day should never have come that he would dread her hands.
Because yes, he has done a poor job distancing himself from her and likely the others, but that also meant he remembered them all. Wished to protect them all, forcing them away to keep his identity hidden and... Well, she doesn't need to chase that rabbit just yet. She imagines they'll get around to it, just as easily as she imagines she'll get over the throb of her heart when he doesn't respond to her touch or her grief, when he won't even raise his eyes and look at her properly.
It's made easier by the fact that his shoulders slump with shame rather than ire, that he isn't rejecting her; accepting it because he has no energy otherwise and he's tired. How long has it been since he's offered anyone comfort? Been offered comfort? Since he's touched or been touched? If she thinks on it too long she'll bring herself back down, so she has to compartmentalize and set it aside.
There's a soft little sniffle and she's retracting a hand just long enough to swipe at her eyes, and her composure has returned. She supports him with an arm across his shoulders and neck cradled as she bears his weight, murmuring soft reassurances as his chest heaves and she can't tell if it's pain or panic or both, and her hand settles against the white hair along his sternum to ground him, feel his breathing and his heart rate likely skyrocketing. ]
Count your breaths for me, Jack, and try to relax. We'll talk after.
[ Angela doesn't think much of anything of him, as he may be now. Try as he might, no matter what he's done or how he's behaved since their arrival, he's still an important man in her life and he's cemented himself with the highest of accolades, and it would take far more than a few non-lethal break-ins and some thrown punches to drag him down. A clinical eye can nearly pick apart his diet and lifestyle changes, but her heart isn't nearly so harsh. Her thumb brushes over his skin to the time of his breathing and she very clearly has no issue touching him, thinking nothing of it. There's no hesitation now that he's complying, no negative reaction from him resulting in any from her. It's just that simple. She'll at least try to wait until he's calmed further to get started, but she can't entirely wait him out on this. ]
I'm going to get started now, all right? Keep counting.
[ She re-sanitizes her hands via gel and pulls on her gloves, turning away only for a moment before she's back and peeling away the gauze at the gouge in his stomach, tucking towels in place to pour in a wash and flush the wound, stinging as it eats at bacteria and works out ash and debris, fabric fibers— then she flushes that with water, and she pulls the lamp closer for inspection. There's the tell-tale sheen of nanites rich in his system, and even if she'd had her staff on hand, it wouldn't do her any good. They've done as much as they could for him already and repaired most of his organ damage, but there's still some bleeding. It's slow-going, but healing, and she'll help it along with a few supportive meshes she places carefully, stoppering what little trickle still seeped through the perforations.
Angela is as quick as ever, because there's no sedating or anesthetizing him on short notice without properly preparing the right doses— and that would take her hours. They didn't have it, so he'll just have to grit his teeth and know she's doing her best to be gentle and not cause him pain as she works. It's still there, still agonizing— but she eases as much as she can. ]
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[She might be able to guess that simply based on the fact that he's relenting and allowing someone to administer medical care. The yellow canisters still strapped to his equipment harness have been long-spent, and a few of them are missing entirely.
This is not the first time he's received invasive wound care without any kind of anesthetic, and he knows it won't be the last. He's a medical nightmare, and knows full well that Angela trying to find the right combination of drugs will take time they don't have. It's going to hurt, but he's been through much worse, and his tolerance for pain is much greater than that of a normal human's.
Still, that doesn't mean it's going to be pleasant. He twists to give her better access to the wound, then does his best to keep as still as possible. He hisses and tenses beneath her, but tries to disguise it, inhaling and exhaling and counting both to himself. The last thing he wants to do is talk, but how else is he going to distract himself from the sting of antiseptic and the sharp pain of her probing the wound?]
Got sloppy.
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[ It was quite obvious, yes, but the conversation kept him distracted even through the task of counting off as she offers the occasional murmured encouragement— voice soft, calm, "you're doing wonderful", "almost finished in here", and he's always been a trooper, hasn't he? Now that she knows, she'll have to prepare a stock to keep aside; the next time, if even there is a next time, she'll be ready for him. He won't have to stay conscious and aware of her every move fishing around his organs, prying open muscle to shine a light inside of him. The human body wasn't meant to be opened, much less while someone was aware of it. Could even tip his head down and likely snatch a glance, but he's learned his lesson against such actions long ago.
God. It really is him, isn't it? She's still reeling. Likely will be for days, no matter how this shakes out after.
Disguising it doesn't do him any favors and she only shoots him an exasperated glance once, as if to silently ask "why bother?"— she knows it hurts. She remembers their first encounters, on the field when they hadn't been as prepared. At least he hadn't held the interest in watching as Ahab had, admiring how slender fingers manipulated her tools and the needle through his flesh to draw the puncture in his leg back together. One the meshes are in place and the last of the nanites seem to take to them as the edges slowly seem to fuse down, she'll do one last cursory sweep for any bleeding and retract the tools to draw muscle back together, replacing one glove with a clean one before preparing her suture equipment. Thankfully enough, this is the part that goes quickest. She's had plenty of practice, after all. Intramuscular first. ]
You've always been reckless when it came to others. [ She can do the talking to distract him, but give her a few moments as she pieces through what she should and shouldn't speak of. ] I can imagine you were running security detail. Many preferred that to braving Eosoros on their own, but it is a cruel planet nonetheless.
I believe, however, the colony was my least favorite. [ The slavery had been one thing, but the experiments on top of it... Yet that reminds her of their jaunt down through the sewers, when he'd asked her along to help others who'd been injured. Slaves, escaping. He'd gone rather out of his way for that. ] Even when you try to avoid others, you always end up helping, don't you?
[ And she can't help but smile at that, offhand and easy, lopsided. One length of dissolvable sutures down, and she goes to thread the needle with another to finish the other half of muscle, mattressing them deep to anchor any possible pull. The surface sutures will be tidier, healing up with barely a scratch left. ]
You're going to have to be down a few days for this, at the very least. Do you have somewhere to stay? [ The implication is closer to "lay low" than physically rest, at least. ] Because I have a quiet place in the farmlands, already. I've only had time to bring in some basic furnishings, but there's a second room.
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[Helping. Sure. 76 chooses not to address her assertion his character.
He's good at staying still, at least. The government wasn't entirely certain of what they were getting into when they decided their supersoldiers should have enhanced metabolisms on top of everything else, rendering most substances useless in amounts that work on normal humans. It's affected everything from his ability to get drunk to the way he processes everything from caffiene to painkillers to sedatives. Learning how to treat their supersoldiers-slash-medical nightmares had been a process of trial and error.
Suffice to say, this is not the first time he's been under a knife without anything to take the edge off. He bears it, but not without a thin sheen of sweat across his forehead. He imagines Angela's encouragement would help more if he felt he deserved it.
Right. A place to stay. He already knows that he's going to have to rest. Even with accelerated healing, a wound like this needs some time on its own.]
With Ana.
[Because of course Ana knows, and of course he's staying with her. She's going to kick his ass for this, he's sure, but that honestly sounds fairly welcome, at this point. He can feel Angela getting to the sutures, and he knows that he isn't going to be able to avoid explaining himself for much longer.
So far, however, Angela hasn't so much as pried. He should have expected this, but 76 still has no idea how she can hold it all in--especially when he's barely keeping it together himself, trying to steady his breathing and counting the inhales and exhales.]
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Jack's personal resistance, however, was far greater than that of his body. That sheen of sweat at his brow gives way to the pain he's in and she can nearly see his pulse pounding at his temple, along the taut line of his his neck from the clench of his jaw. Her very presence seems to set him on edge when before it would have been a relief, but he takes her treatment when given no other choice and he does so with familiarity and patience. She can't ask him for much else. (Not yet.)
He mentions Ana, and were he watching her, there's steel in her eyes for just a fraction of a second, the slightest twitch down of her brow to furrow, but... it made sense. Of course it did. Another wedge between them, her and the prior SIC. They had been off to a civil start on their first conversation and that was where they had stalled. Civil, keeping their distance from one another, and now it made sense. Of course she knew. Of course she didn't share such pertinent information.
She'll bite her tongue on the matter. Jack has lost a lot of blood and the pain of the wound and subsequent surgery were only worsening, and his panic has scarcely abated. (Of course she isn't prying.) He's not stable and worse, he's not ok. That went deeper than the physical. Yes, he's Jack Morrison— but in many ways, now, that may not hold so true. He's changed in these years and the toll has been heavy on him. She doesn't have full scope of just how much of a broken man he may be, but she is already seeing those cracks in him, hairline fissures grating against one another with his every step, eroding like tectonic plates. ]
I'll run you a transfusion after this, both for blood and rehydration. [ They're not going to talk about Ana. That's only another thorn to puncture her, and she's well-perforated as it is. ] When you were still throwing fixtures and orderlies around, I asked them to wait for my go-ahead and reserved the room for a while. You'll have a few hours to rest after this. I can likely pull something together for the pain, even if only to take the edge off until I get the chance for something more.
[ Just keep talking business, Angela; perhaps that sharp ache will stay at bay a little while longer. She ties up the last intramuscular thread and then she's switching needles and thread type, and then she begins the finer work of sewing his skin back up. Perfect rungs in now-imperfect flesh marred by scar after scar, and she wonders how many of these he'd had to do himself when they were clearly not her work. No, hers were scarcely visible, now, even without proper aftercare on his part— accelerated healing and her own handiwork left him nigh on flawless given a year's time for the tissue to heal and the scars to fade, blending right in save the slightest sliver if you looked for them.
These go quicker, thread replaced twice, but soon she's tying him off with finality and the tools are set aside in a tin to be cleaned later, dunked into an antiseptic before she dots an antibacterial gel along the length and dresses the wound with paper tape to allow it to breathe and keep the suture thread from catching, then a protective pad of gauze taped down securely on top, and she'll have to have him sit up before she wraps him properly. Her gloves are shed and the silence is heavy before she bustles back to his side, resting a hand on his shoulder. ]
All done. Take a few moments, but then I'll need you to sit up. Slowly, as I expect you'll be lightheaded from blood loss. I'll finish dressing your stomach and then I'll get that line in your arm.
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[He catches the minute change in Angela's demeanor, and is quick to absolve Ana of the blame, even though he knows full well that he really didn't even need to ask. It's not fair, exactly, but trying to save face for her is a knee-jerk reaction. Angela isn't going to buy it, but that doesn't mean he isn't going to try, especially not when he's about to ask her to do the very same thing.
Soon. Not when she's still stitching him up. Her work is immaculate as ever, and once she closes up the worst of it, the sutures through his skin are negligible. He's still sweaty and pale, but already seems to be in better shape than he was moments ago.
Doesn't change the fact that Angela's still been all business--and he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. She instructs him to sit up and he can't do it without her, gripping her arm and hissing in pain as he uses her to pull himself into a seated position.]
You don't have to act so professional, Angela.
[He says it because he knows it's how she's coping, but this isn't what he wants. He needs to know what she's really feeling.]
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The least she can do, really; a touch of tenderness before he's gripping her arm to haul himself upright and she gets an arm behind his shoulders once more to help keep him from straining his stitches, and from there it's all too easy to give into his words and his proximity and take it one step further— drawing her touch up about his neck while the other hand still braces his arm, leaning awkwardly over his lap as he swivels and his legs swing off the edge of the table.
She's the one exacerbating his nerves, she realizes, bulldozing over her emotions with professionalism and leaving him tense, and then he's scolding her and it's her name, again— her expression pinches, now hidden over his shoulder, and her voice wavers when she speaks. Quiet, scarcely a whisper. ]
How else should I act?
[ Nevermind coping— if she weren't being professional, she would scarcely be able to function, and right now, Jack needed her skills to come swift and sure. To save him from the excess of pain suffered needlessly by anyone else's hand, to treat him lest he really and truly bleeds out. She had no choice but to be professional, and now he dares tell her she doesn't have to.
He just has to take her embrace and the fine trembling from the effort of holding everything else back, then. The slight tremor as slender fingers curl at his nape, nails brushing through white hair and stilling there.
He's been gone for so long. Then to find out he's been at her side for seven months; it's cruel. ]
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[Which he does know is often extremely professional. She'll understand his meaning, however, and 76 finally allows himself to look at her, trying with tall his conviction not to tear his gaze away. That thing in his chest that he wishes wasn't still there twists again, and his limbs itch to reach out to her, only kept at his sides by a reminder to himself that he doesn't deserve this.
It's been so long since he's allowed himself physical affection from anyone but Ana--and he even shies away from her, most of the time. Angela's gentle hands curling around him and pulling him close tells him all that he needs to know, though he still can't help but wish she'd just be angry with him.
Probably she is--just knows better than to show it, even if he asked her to.
Slowly, his own hands lift from their place at his sides, wrapping around her more than a little tentatively. A palm lays flat between her shoulder blades, the ghost of a touch he's not sure he remembers how to give.]
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It goes to follow that it's far easier to wrap her arms about him and try not to squeeze too tight rather than talk about it, and Jack doesn't even try to pry her off. When he moves to reciprocate, even uncertainly, her nose is in his hair and those are definitely tears splashing on his shoulder and rolling down to her sleeve, and her weight lowers to his lap as she grips him a little tighter, nudges a little closer.
Even tentative, his hands are warm where they rest against her and whatever he gives her is plenty. He's not pushing her away.
Her voice is too soft and muffled this close, but whatever she murmurs is something along the lines of "you're here". ]
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He's tried to bury all of these feelings alongside the man he used to be, but with her so close, finally knowing the truth, it's hard not to admit just how much he missed her. The fact that he can feel her crying makes it even worse. She doesn't deserve this. None of them do.]
I'm sorry.
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He's pulled her in against him and nearly enveloping her in the curl of his body, impossibly broad shoulders folding around her as she tries to brace him upright despite the strong arms wrapping about her. Eventually the hold of her spine gives to his grip and she'll allow herself to bend with him, calming just as he does. She can't even remember a time they've hugged like this— ever professional, save the brief handful she'd managed to sneak from him, even in the privacy of her office when she'd enticed him away for coffee and quiet.
It shouldn't be possible to go an entire decade without holding someone so dear to you this close, for this long. And they have time to make up for. She won't be letting go of him any time soon; even once she's reined herself back in and the tremor fades from her every breath, she's just as dogged, head tipping to dry one cheek on her sleeve with a soft sniffle before she's resting her head atop his. And then she settles into stroking his back with the same easy rhythm she runs her nails through his hair— plenty invitation to stay right where he is, sweaty or no.
Except his apology comes as a murmur into her scrubs, and she turns just enough to press a kiss to his temple, twisting a little further to leave another against his brow. He's forgiven, at least for now. ]
I'm sure we both have plenty to apologize for, but now's not the time. Let's just catch up.
[ A little teasing yet still just as soft in tone. When she doesn't follow up with any questions or demands, or even any words of her own in offering, it's clear that she means just like this. As if they could convey their hurts to one another over the years through the ferocity of an embrace, through the unprofessional press of kisses to his skin, fond and friendly and entirely thankful. For now, let her just welcome him back with her warmth. He's fought so hard, alone, for too many years. Even before Overwatch had fallen.
Don't worry, Jack, you're not the only one wrapped up with guilt and tied with a bow. ]
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Jack has always been something of a stoic, a sort of military professionalism ingrained in his very being, to say nothing of the detachd air he kept between himself and his subordinates, Angela included. That's not to say he didn't break protocol here and there, but overt displays of affection were few and far between, making them all the more meaningful when they did happen.
He doesn't pull away until she does, but even then, they're still so close. If there's relief to be found in finally being here as himself, he doesn't feel it yet--nerves still riding high and skin tensing almost imperceptibly under her touch.]
I'm not sure where to start.
[It's been a long six years, and he's not even sure he has suitable explanations. He spends so much time justifying all this to himself, but faced with the human cost of his actions, it all gets jumbled up. Becomes incoherent. How can he possibly explain any of this?]
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Where Jack is stoic, Angela is unconventional. Most doctors didn't curl up on their patients' cots with them in the middle of the desert, nor did they insist on others not waking up alone. They don't make up false infirmary appointments and let their commanders get some rest on the sofa in their office instead, and they certainly don't give out kisses with the seriousness of a prescription. Still, the loss of those around them was never easy on any of them, and they've all had plenty enough reason to make a couple exceptions.
Yet almost imperceptibly means it's still perceptible, and she's never been anything if not observant. A surgeon's hands were the most delicate of all, so even though she eases up on him, she's not straying far. Her head is still leaning against his and she soothes him stubbornly, but she's no longer crushed against him. ]
Shall I ask questions, then?
[ It could almost sound like she's teasing with the lightness she tries to add to her voice, even just above a whisper, but if it would help... She could at least start him on the simpler ones. Angela has fit herself in his lap too comfortably to move, legs drawing up and renewing her hold, continuing whatever this conversation could even be called with her temple against his. ]
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He breathes--in, out. He's not totally calm, but he's trying, and he knows she'll feel that, especially when they're this close.
She can certainly ask questions, and Jack imagines that she has a great deal of them, but as he swallows down panic and reminds himself that he's never been safer under her care, he starts to formulate his explanations. It's difficult not to make them sound like excuses, but telling her something is better than choking on his own words or staying silent. He owes her that much, and he shakes his head to indicate that he's going to try.]
Wasn't thinking straight, when I crawled out of there.
[Because that's what he did--crawl, injured and bewildered and thoroughly betrayed, more like a wounded animal than an actual person. He hadn't known much at the time, but what he did know was that he needed to get out and away as fast as possible.
So he did.]
Had a network of safehouses in place, for something like that. Holed up across the border.
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