[ His biceps are bigger, too. His good arm in general is thick with corded muscle, much like the rest of him; his body takes its licks from liquor and cigars, but other aspects of his hard living keep him fit, make him tough. Warmth, both figurative and actual, radiates from him. He's a cowboy now, through and through: simple, sentimental, and cocksure.

(Well, maybe not so simple. But the last two for sure.)

He chuckles at her declaration of protection. He'd insist on it being the other way around--his old-fashioned sense of courtesy pushes him to do so--but his modern sense of their actual relationship stops him. It's a mutual thing. ]

I've got your back, too, doc. Whenever you need it.

[ As for Jack ... he doesn't go on til they're in the beautifully lit (and marvelously empty) mess hall. Hmm. He pauses, standing before the stained glass windows, momentarily stunned. Thinking of church as a child. ]

Plenty folks ready to arrest the both of us, Overwatch or no. Trouble is, I ain't sure if his rap sheet comes down to good intentions like mine. Though it did seem to, from what I read up on.

[ His eyes are on the stained glass, fixed on the intricate patterns. He feels the interplay of light on his face, and an old prayer runs through his mind. Guilt follows. A few seconds pass, and he adds, his easy drawl a murmur-- ]

Sorry about not keepin' in touch.

[ He could make all kinds of excuses about life on the run, about the need to stay incognito, but, ultimately, that's what they were. Excuses. So he'll just settle for the apology. ]