thisavrou_log | a buddy of mine said that he saw jack morrison take his shirt off in the shower

Entry tags:

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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It's such a simple answer, isn't it? Yet easier said than done, as the saying went, and she meets his eyes with more warmth and appreciation than he likely expects— when it all boils down, there's no denying that she's just glad he's alive. And that he's here, with her, and that she finally knows. The rest can wait. The ire, certainly there yet impotent, can wait.

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". ]

[It gets easier the longer he lets her keep her arms around him, and after another moment he finds muscle memory taking over, pulling her in and squeezing her close. A large part of him still wants to panic, but her touch starts to calm him, and soon enough he's hugging her tightly, letting his forehead drop to her shoulder, burying it in the crook of her neck.

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.

[ Her tears are once again short lived, only allowing the odd flake of her lacquer to crack and chip off, stubbornly holding herself together. He softens to her hold, tightening his own as his head drops to her shoulder and she can feel the warmth of his breath against her collar, beginning to sift slender fingers through his hair.

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. ]

[It doesn't matter how long she does or doesn't cry, knowing that she's shedding more tears for him is almost unbearable. Of course, there's nothing he can really do, so he does his best to hold her, let her get it all out, still wishing the entire time that she would just be angry instead. She doesn't get angry--she holds him tightly and cards hands through his hair and even presses her lips to his temple. It's so much more than he deserves, always.

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?]

[ Angela's not going to get angry. He may get a few sharp sentences out of her and little else, and only if he's really pressing for punishment; when has she ever been the type to kick someone when they're down? He's already made it clear this was inevitable and against his will. If he'd had his druthers she never would known who he was, and she can only imagine where that's left him now. Injured, low on blood, exhaustion bone-deep and biting. She doesn't want to see him this way, and she wants even less to hurt him. He's hurting enough.

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. ]

[He's tired and in pain, but that's hardly an excuse for the way he holds her tightly, refusing to let go. She doesn't help the situation, all but seating herself in his lap, and it's far too easy to just keep her in his arms, forehead pressed against her shoulder as her head falls against him. Jack hadn't realized how badly he needed this until now, even though he knows full well he doesn't deserve it.

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.

[ That's just the thing though, isn't it? He does deserve it. He's deserved it all along, and the fact that it's taken so long to finally get her arms around him and be able to just rest is nearly a personal slight to her character. Excuses aren't necessary for something as human as basking in a bit of touch; it's something everyone craves as basic instinct, and he's been in her life for twenty years and then some, directly or no— she'll justify it however she has to, but the bottom line is it's all right. He has nicked organs and a hole in his stomach, and someone with emotional investment in him knows who he is. It's all right to accept a hug. Further to return it with enough ferocity to know that he still cares, as if building her a shelter and forfeiting his own and the countless other times he's ended up helping her hadn't already proved as much.

She knows he's trying his best, here. It's a further struggle to be upset with him when he's holding her this tightly, breathing scarcely able to keep himself under control, calm. He has her patience to formulate a reply, as he always has, and the eventual shake of his head has her waiting him out, closing her eyes to listen as she continues a soothing touch, fingertips trailing along his spine as far as she can reach, back up to knead the nape of his neck before careening back down.

When he begins, her brows furrow a little deeper and she tries to imagine it, now that she's seen a glimpse of his injuries. Another twinge in her chest, and she doesn't even have the full picture. ]

Jack... [ It comes out swollen, tipping her head down to nudge along his cheek in a brief movement— a pale imitation of a nudge, really. She wants to ask why he didn't contact any of them, why he'd never told her. She's certain she already knows. That picture came all too clearly to her, and it's easy enough to put two and two together with how he and Gabriel had been fighting for months— put them under one roof only for it to come down on them? Yeah, she can imagine. ] I'm just glad you're alive.

[ She won't even say "—that you're all right", because he isn't. "—that you're doing well", because even here he's on the verge of panic, galaxies away from home with only Angela being any wiser. Jack is no longer one full picture of the man she knew. He's bits and pieces, a patchwork of the old incorporated into the new, rummaged through for the largest, least-damaged timber to support a new structure. What she can't put into words she conveys by touch, the brush of her fingers through his hair, the patient fingertips smoothing along his back, the gentlest pressure where she rubs his neck. The soft body warm in his arms, fitting right against him as long as they can manage.

There are many things she could ask, but most she can answer herself. "Have you been taking care of yourself?", not as much if his scars and reflection of poor eating habits had anything to say. "Did you trust anyone to help you?", clearly not, with how he gulps down her affections like a man just out of the desert given water. And he didn't want her asking, so she'll let him speak what he wishes. ]

[The last thing Jack really wants is to be pitied, but he can feel it even if she's trying not to. He imagines she can't really help it--he's a sight for sore eyes, he knows, and to see your former commander injured and backed into a corner and causing a scene in a medical bay isn't the best impression to make. She'll never voice any of that, of course, and for that he's thankful, but he can't help feeling scrutinized.

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?

[ It isn't pity. Angela scarcely even knows how to pity others; it's empathy, understanding, sorrow. Relief and gratitude and a multitude of other emotions, all carefully folded and tucked back down so she doesn't overwhelm him with them.

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. ]

[He almost laughs because of course that's the first question she asks--Jack is still in good physical condition, especially for someone his age, but years catch up to super soldiers eventually. He's not exactly as cut as he used to be, he can't quite go for as long as he used to without breaking a sweat, and there's always the nagging thoughts in the back of his head that makes him wonder whether or not he was even supposed to live this long.

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.]

[ Angela feels it bubble up anyway, that self-deprecating amusement to match her gentle prod, the faintest twitch of his shoulderblades beneath her hand and the contraction of his diaphragm, even if nothing escapes him. Not even a huff of air, bitten back down. His physique is the most obvious to her, the outward hurt visible versus the inner, which she can only read off of him in bits and pieces.

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. ]

[He doesn't have to answer her about the caloriemates because the answer is obvious enough. She can tell just by looking at him, just like she can tell that he didn't seek out medical attention in the aftermath of Switzerland. His newest scars are mostly burns, raised and ugly and twisted, more than indicative of his neglect. The biotech had kept him from bleeding out and getting infected, but didn't do much for him on the cosmetic end of things, not that he'd ever really cared about that. Jack doesn't have much regard for his own self-preservation anymore. Ordinarily, this doesn't bother him, but sitting in front of Angela makes him feel guilty about it.]

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.]

Jack...

[ 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. ]

[He waits patiently for her to find the right concoction to put in his IV bag, then doesn't flinch as she inserts the needle. Jack can't do much besides exhibit his exhaustion in everything from his posture to his expression, adjusting as she needs him to until he's lying down on the exam table again. She's quick to join him this time, now that all the cleanup is done, and Jack shifts his arm slightly to accommodate her.

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.]

[ There's nothing wrong with this. Inappropriate in a working context, perhaps, but laying beside her patients is nothing new for her. He'd know it just as well. She offers herself as warmth and grounding to those in need of it, the easy comfort of another living being beside you when you're hurt. When soldiers were wounded and thousands of miles from home, scared, left to recuperate on their own with nothing but their thoughts to whirl about their heads. She's never enjoyed leaving people like that.

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. ]

I didn't have a choice.

[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.]

I'm not arguing; you've always seen the bigger picture from another angle. I just wish it had been different.

[ 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.

[Of course he wishes things were different--how else can he possibly feel? Jack falls silent, unable to even confirm that assertion, settling into the feeling of having her so close, resisting the urge to succumb to how tired he is. His breathing steadies and slows, until he's finally reached some semblance of calm.

This is still not what he wanted--not how he wanted this to go, but the feeling of having at least one of his people back is a little overwhelming. Some lost piece of him slots back in place, and he realizes just how much he missed this.

It's not long before he does feel himself drifting off, such a rarity for him that he can't dare to complain. Before he goes, however, he offers her one last thing.]

Thanks, Doc.

[ She can feel his every breath in her hair as much as she can in the rise and fall of his chest, the feel of his pulse calming where her hand rests over his neck to brush her fingertips up along his hairline, thumb smoothing the hollow behind his ear when her touch settles a little further.

It's a lot. She knows it's a lot, after all these years on his own and to suddenly have someone pressed against him, but he's too tired to do much more than take it even as he seems to find peace in her presence, and the how of it all doesn't matter anymore.

They'd always had their differences, surely, but he had her utmost respect and she knew that she had held his. Some things never change. His words are muffled against her and all she offers in reply is a smile against his skin and a quiet hum, not wanting to disturb that floating sensation preceding sleep. He deserves to rest, even if it's only a few minutes or a few hours. The hospital has plenty of hands without her.

And despite her promise to keep an eye over him, it lasts a grand total of ten minutes before she, too, gives in. (At least she's a light sleeper.) ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

a buddy of mine said that he saw jack morrison take his shirt off in the shower

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject