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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[ 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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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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Her choice of words is telling, at least--he's not all right and he's not doing well, so alive is the best he can offer her. He obviously hasn't been taking care of himself, so hyper-focused on his mission as he is. Angela doesn't bring it up but he wishes she would. If being chastised is the closed to anger than he can get, then Jack wants it.
He won't be that lucky. She's as patient as ever, deft fingertips still stroking his hair gently, and Jack finds that whatever story he was going to tell escapes him entirely. There really is nothing for him to say that she can't already guess. He needs to be helped along.]
What is it you wanted to ask?
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Jack isn't far off in his knowledge of her scrutiny. She picks up on all the little things he gives her from the feel of him beneath her hands to his breathing to the wounds and scars he's suffered, all the new marks in his skin she'd never seen. She knows which ones were bullet grazes and which were shrapnel bits he'd dug out and which were knives, and she knows exactly which ones dug deep enough to still ache. Where he's most likely to knot up.
All the things he didn't say as the wind seeps out of his sails and he trails off, finally prompting her questions.
Just how blunt should she be? Where should she ask him to start...? ]
How has your diet been? [ Yet she's asking with a tired amusement to soften her tone, the corner of a little smile at his temple before she shakes her head with a little huff— it was mostly a joke. ] What injuries did you have...? Have you had? Did you ever have any help?
[ Things she likely knows the answers to already, but it's another nudge for him to start at the beginning. From ground zero as it were. She shifts in his lap, a scarce inch closer as she curls, fitting herself against him a little more. ]
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All he can do is keep fighting. That's what he's always done, even if he does it with a lot less regard for his own preservation nowadays. Of course that isn't going to get past Angela. His self-destructiveness is more than evident in every action he takes.]
You don't wanna know.
[About what he's been eating, anyway. Mostly meal replacements. MREs. Whatever he can get that's fast and easy and satisfies his accelerated metabolism (no small feat when he's pushing himself in the field). His injuries are a more concrete answer, but one that's no less difficult for him to give.]
I had some biotech. Healed the worst of it. Enough to get myself back up on my feet.
[But certainly not enough to be considered real medical attention. The fact that he survived had been something of a miracle, all things considered.]
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Shards of glass she likely shouldn't be picking up with her bare hands, but she wants to piece it back together and understand. ]
That bad, hm? Caloriemates and MREs I'm sure.
[ Nailed it in one, but the pass of her hands over his skin aren't judgmental no matter where he may have gone soft, nor does her tone belay anything negative. He survived. That was everything, that he had continued to eat at all and made it to this point. Hopefully nothing spoiled, nothing that'd ever made him ill. So she shifts the subject and listens to his answer, picking apart the spaces between his syllables for a better look at what he doesn't say. ]
No complications...? Lingering aches?
[ His lack of an answer on receiving any help leaves her brows pinching, giving him another little squeeze. It's in the past, now. He has her at the very least. There's not much else she can offer him besides her presence and her patience, the knowledge that he at least has sanctuary with her. She just wants a clear picture of where he stands, now. ]
I need to run some fluids for you. But... tell me a little more about the first few weeks...?
[ In detail, that seems to imply, because he'd skimmed over it so briefly before. She wants to know even if it will hurt, and she can already begin to imagine. ]
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Not really, no.
[It's a lie. You don't live a life like he has and not come out of it with at least a little chronic pain. Jack supposes he has the US government to thank for the fact that it's most certainly not as bad as it could be, but he's getting older and getting blown up hasn't exactly done anything good for the aches and pains that come with aging.
He understands that this is Angela's roundabout way of trying to get more details about the immediate aftermath, and though he's exhausted, he knows he owes her this much. Jack finally pulls out of the hug so that she can get a line in his arm, and then he leans back on the exam table. Despite his size, there's more than enough room for her, if she wishes to join him.]
Spent them holed up in a safehouse. Don't heal as fast as I used to. [She knows that--he'd been almost fifty when HQ went up in flames, and things had already started to slow.]
But I had access to television. Internet. I watched the hearings.
[And his own funeral, for that matter.]
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[ 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. ]
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In another lifetime, he would have found this incredibly unprofessional, doing his best to keep the chain of command intact and not giving anyone any additional reasons to question Overwatch. Now, however, they're different people in different circumstances, and he can allow it. Maybe he needs it more than he thought he did.
She says something about getting old and he wonders again whether or not SEP grads were meant to last this long. There weren't any before him, and there weren't any after him, so getting old means an entirely different thing for him, an experiment. There's no precedent for the kind of enhanced human that he is, and it's a morbid thought to voice, injured as he is, but that's what comes to mind. So much has changed, for both of them, and no amount of laying here on this exam table with her is going to let him pretend. Listing out all his former agents and where they were left in the wake of Overwatch's fall reminds him of that.]
It wouldn't have changed anything. Their minds were made up before the hearings started.
[But he knows they were all trying desperately, even in the face of such futility. A testament to how much Overwatch meant to all of them.]
I know that you tried. I'm sorry that I...didn't.
[Because he abandoned them. There's no getting around that.]
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Jack allows her close and then closer, once more, and she doesn't press her luck or drape on him unnecessarily. This is plenty, right here, and all he had to do was flex his arm to draw her closer if he wanted to. As it is, she's close enough to radiate warmth even if she doesn't press against his side, knee touching the side of his as she closes her eyes. She won't drift off, not for a while yet, but it's less stress on him. To not have her observing him so closely or having to face her. ]
You had your reasons, Jack. I understand. And you were badly hurt. [ Betrayed. And then abandoned, when she wasn't allowed to dig further. Cut off from sticking her nose too far into it, as one of the few agents local. ] Those sorts of injuries take time to come back from, and by then...
[ It would have been too late, just as he'd said. ]
I'm sorry you felt as though you couldn't reach out to anyone. I know you had your reasons for that as well, but... you should never have been alone.
[ No one should have to fight alone. ]
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[He did, technically, but when your choices are 'stay dead' or 'go to prison for the rest of your life' and he knows that foul play was involved, he's going to pick the former. He needs to find out what happened and set things right--then he can go to prison, he guesses. Beyond that, he'd convinced himself that being alone is what he deserves.
Angela will assure him that it isn't true, so he keeps that thought close to his chest.
Now that she's settled, it's easy for him to do so in turn, even though he's far too tense for his own good. He breathes--tries to breathe, counts his breaths. Close his eyes against her and be reminded of how she smells. Fingertips idly brush her hair as he turns to let her curl against him, making sure not to jostle the IV line or his stitches.]
I'm here now. I'm not going anywhere.
[For the time being, at least.]
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[ As much as she may have tried to be the angel on his shoulder and remind him of the ideals and values Overwatch was founded upon, it just hadn't been enough. Cutting through politics and red tape was a messy business and Jack had learned better than any of them to navigate those ribbon mazes. At least he knows what her response would be, that she would try to tell him otherwise— that was half the problem, wasn't it? They couldn't always read one another's minds.
Once she settles and he's working to do the same, she feels his heart still pounding in his chest against her arm, hears the staccato of his breathing and the long counts he tries to utilize. Feels his every inhale as a cool rush in her hair, every exhale warm as calloused fingertips catch her hair and stroke. Even with her eyes closed they still flutter.
When he turns into her, she meets him in it to remain pliant at his side, the rock of her fingers swiping side to side smoothing along the crook of his neck, one-two timing to set his breathing to. One-two in, one-two out. One less task for him to mind, the counting.
His reassurance has her nails curling for a moment, shifting her head up against his nose with a little smile. ]
I'm glad; I won't be going anywhere either. And I hope you know I'll always be here to support you. [ Again, just as before. Honestly, even moreso now. ] You should try to get some rest; no one will be coming in without my go-ahead.
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