The premise of the meme is simple. Two characters, lovers, have been separated for a time. How long is up to you, as is the reason for the separation. Was it unwilling - an imprisonment, a required journey - or because of a choice one of the characters made? The reason may, of course, color the reunion, and somebody may be pretty miffed, with good reason. Still, the theme is the same: intimacy after being apart.
This meme is mostly geared towards being a smut meme, but nobody will judge you for just doing so heavy fluff.
[She supposes it would have been too much to hope that they could have incapacitated the machine and taken it out without resorting to such extreme measures. He lays it out for her and it sends her mind racing, trying to take into account the collateral that such an explosion would cause. It's not comforting.]
You're right, I don't like it!
[They don't exactly have time to argue about this, but she has to at least say something, even if she knows it's just going to get ignored. The situation isn't giving them a lot of viable options.]
The explosion will level everything around it. There could still be people in those buildings. And what about you?
[It's definitely going to get ignored, even though he certainly understands her objections. Right now, however, he's looking to keep the omnic from getting any closer to the town center, and this is the most effective way to accomplish that. The plan is not exactly what Jack Morrison would do, but Jack Morrison is dead and things are different now.
What he has done during this back and forth is lead the machine away as much into the open as he can, away from narrow alleys and still-standing structures.]
You want to argue with me or you want to start running?
[He barks it out, like someone more than accustomed to giving orders under duress. 76 is already leveling his rifle as he takes increasingly quick steps backward--even if she doesn't run, he's runing split-second contingency plans through his head so that he can get them both out of here. That much he'll try, at least.]
[She would actually like to keep arguing, in fact. But their time is up and whatever she was going to do--listen or disobey--had to be done now. Her eyes narrow and she presses her mouth into a hard line, swallowing back any further complaints. It's not an unfamiliar situation.]
Don't get yourself killed.
[Again, is what she wants to add, but she still has no hard proof, despite how much her gut instinct is screaming it at her. She breaks away and bolts for the ruin of an already collapsed building further down a side street. Behind her, the omnic turns, perhaps realizing its been baited, or simply thinking it has an easy shot at an open target. It braces its feet, sparks flying from the open wound as the machinery inside grinds its way through the final motions. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to be in the next few seconds.
She doesn't look back, doesn't stop, focusing on a low foundation wall as her target and trying desperately not to let all the ways this could go wrong stop her. She can already feel the horrible what-ifs knotting up in her chest. She's already failed to save one life at her fingertips today; all she can do is hope that the next moment doesn't make it two.]
[He spares one last glance over his shoulder to make sure she's finding cover before spinning and taking aim. He has no words of encouragement to provide insofar as not getting himself killed is concerned, but he is thinking about how utterly embarrassing it would be if this is how he finally bites it. Rogue omnic, thirty years after the end of the crisis. Figures.
76 tries to flank it, tactical visor locking onto the sparking gap in the automaton's hull just as it readies to fire. He doesn't have time to wait and see if his rockets hit--all he can do is unload them and pray. As soon as he pulls the trigger, he's turning on his heel and running after Angela, trusting that his aimbot visor does the job.
And it does, of course. There's the explosion of his own rockets, and then the chain reaction that follows as the omnic's magazine ignites and tears it apart from the inside out. He has a few seconds to get as far away as he can, pushing himself into as fast a sprint as he can manage.
Eventually, however, the blast catches up with him, shattering building windows and sending him toppling as shrapnel tears through his jacket and into the soft vulnerable spots where his body armor doesn't reach. The explosion flings him into rubble with a force that would most certainly kill a not-augmented individual, and there's an instantaneous stabbing pain in his side that he'd recognize as ribs if he wasn't so busy trying to shield himself from flying debris.
It's all over in an instant, save for the full collapse of an already half-leveled building that spews more smoke into the street. The omnic is all but obliterated, road covered in broken glass, scorch marks on the nearby buildings, and 76 is halfway to cover, skidding to a stop on his side as the dust clears.
After a long, motionless moment moment, he finally gives indication that he's alive, though all he really manages to do is flip himself over in an attempt to bring his knees under him and get back to his feet.]
[There's a second or two after she's reached her cover that she has to glance back, just in time to see the rockets impact the omnic, the fireball blossoming out from its chest, and 76 sprinting down the street away from it. He might make it, she thinks, if he just keeps running... faster, he needs to run faster--
She doesn't even realize that she's been holding her breath until it comes out in a scream as the omnic explodes, an old name tangled up in the cry, although the cacophony swallows it up as soon as it leaves her. The entire street feels like it's going to collapse around her and she ducks back down behind the wall just as the shockwave hits, spraying loose debris like a wave breaking over her shelter. She tucks her head under her arms, shards of glass and metal ricocheting off her suit.
All she can hear in the aftermath is the ringing in her ears and the frantic thudding of her heart, but the instant it's over, she's pushing herself up, scanning the smoke-filled street for any sign of- oh god, no- he's not moving. She shoves herself out of cover, scrambling over the pile of rubble that had jammed itself up against her wall and taking to the air. She refuses to believe that he's dead, that it would take more than just some old omnic to put him down for good.
Her staff is brought to bear the moment she sees him start to move, just as her boots hit the scorched pavement a few yards away. The initial stream of nanites should stop any immediate bleeding in the few seconds it takes for her to close the distance between them.]
Stop moving, let me stabilize you. Tell me where the pain is most severe.
[The fact that he managed to survive the blast out in the open in proof enough that he's not just some man in a fancy jacket with a gun; that this isn't the first time she's dragged him out of the rubble. Hooking her staff into the crook of her elbow, she crouches down and slides her arms around him to keep him from trying to get up, instead trying to guide him into a more neutral position on the ground, or at least to let her take his weight if he's going to be stubborn about it. Her immediate assessment isn't as grave as it could have been at least: there's no large amount of blood around his head, chest, or on the pavement that would indicate an obvious arterial or cranial wound and none of his limbs are visibly broken or dislocated. If he can talk to her and answer questions, she can rule out a concussion.]
Edited (yards... not years. :|) 2016-06-19 23:13 (UTC)
realtalk i was going to link that but then i guess i didn't
[As he pulls himself up onto his hands and knees (or tries to), there is a singular, throat-closing instant where he is in Switzerland, trapped in the collapse, choking on smoke and ash, with no sound except for a ringing in his ears like an alarm, and there's too much blood and he doesn't know if it's his or--
The tinnitus gives way to a heartbeat, thudding in his temples as his vision clears. 76 becomes acutely aware of his breathing against the inside of his mask, and he focuses on that, in and out, trying to slow it and fight down the tightness in his chest. He reminds himself of what just happened--he can move, he's surrounded by rubble but not buried in it, there's blood, but not an unreasonable amount.
Still, he can't help the kneejerk reaction to being touched after getting himself kind of exploded, and he all but tries to fling her off him, a motion that only sends pain lancing up his side. The snarl that escapes him isn't something he's able to bite back.]
Don't--
[He'll regret that in a moment, because on some level he knows that Angela is just doing her job, but that's not at the forefront of his mind. All he can think is that he needs to get up and get out.]
[His arm comes swinging at her and he might have succeeded in throwing her off had it had connected, but he wouldn't be her first combative patient and she sees it coming. A quick duck of her head and his arm is behind her shoulders, which she angles in towards him, preventing his arm from coming back for another round. It puts her in its place for his support and she takes the weight with only a small grunt.
She'll treat this like a battlefield heal if she absolutely needs to, complete with thrashing and growling and keeping her distance, but she would prefer not to. It's not necessary and there's a part of her that hurts for purely selfish reasons at the thought of being pushed away, a thorny knot of grief she's never been able to resolve; only tuck away where it can cause the least amount of damage.
So let her have this, please, she begs silently. On the inside, those thorns rip at her heart, but her voice barely betrays it as she speaks to him, her tone softened for his sake.]
You're injured. I need you to let me help you. Take slow breaths, count to three.
[She presses a hand to his chest, half to help support him, half to feel for his heartbeat, not trusting her luck to try for his neck or wrist. And maybe the contact just makes her feel better, knowing she can feel it under her palm, beating hard, refusing to give up.]
[Fighting down the urge to keep struggling is the most strenuous part of this. He's been under her care countless times, but there's an overwhelming part of him that can't stand the feel of her hands. Not the way he is right now.
76 starts to count to himself, timing inhales and exhales accordingly, the haze of momentary panic starting to lift (though it's not exactly replaced by anything comforting). He already knows he's fine--or, at least, that this isn't anything he can't bounce back from. What's tricky is going to be extricating himself from this situation before the military detail comes looking for Angela or he's straight up compromised simply by being in such close proximity to her. His injuries might not be life-threatening, but he's effectively ruined his chances at a clean exit.]
That was a bad idea.
[When he speaks, it's little more than a groan, head falling back as if he's finally realizing just how stupid a stunt this was. Why did you let him do that!!]
[Honestly, she'd half expected to be headbutted out of desperation, so when he starts listening to directions and she can count the in and out with him, she lets out her own small sigh of relief. That could have gone worse. His heart rate is stabilizing as well and he's acknowledging the situation, lowering the likelihood of a concussion or disassociation. The clinical part of her busies itself with the technicalities, but the rest of her can't help the tired smile that creeps in at the corners of her mouth.]
It was a foolish idea. [She guides him to sit back, off his knees where she can get a better idea of just what she has to work with.] But you're very good at those, commander.
[It's a risk, calling him out like that, but if she doesn't do it now, she has a feeling that he'll be gone as soon as he has the chance and she won't get another opportunity. And she expects that in the next moment he'll do a very thorough job of obliterating the little scrap of hope behind that smile she's attempting, but until then she has it to hold on to.]
[He stiffens and tries to play it off as a painful flinch. 76 has always known, on some level, that she would be the one to piece it together, but it's not something he's going to admit to, if he can help it. He supposes he could just not react, but he's read some of the conspiracy theories that worm their way into the news, and he's sure she has, too. He chooses his words very carefully, but there's really no good way to respond to this insinuation.]
Last I heard, your commander was dead, Doc.
[Dead, and took Overwatch with him. That's loaded, and probably reveals far too much, but it's also challenging, like he's daring her to produce actual, tangible proof beyond hunches and confirmation bias.
It's not out of the question that he (a shady vigilante with a penchant for robbing old Overwatch facilities) would know who she is and who she's referring to and why she'd think he is that person. His expression remains inscrutable through the mask and visor, but the way she's currently moving and carrying herself catches his attention.]
[Well. All things considered, that could've been worse. What stings the most she finds is that he can't be honest with her, which... she's brought it on herself, hasn't she? She's made up her mind at this point and convinced herself that she's right, but that didn't obligate him to anything. She looks up at him, her gaze lingering on his face as if she could somehow see past the visor. She remembers the day he got the scar that juts out from under it: it had been the last day she'd seen him. The angry lines that crease his brow are newer, though.]
You would know, it was your coffin they put in the ground.
[She regrets it the moment she says it, her emotions pressing too close against her better judgement, and she lowers her eyes to focus on her work instead. He still hasn't told her just where he's been injured beyond the obvious, but she can extrapolate based on his position in the street. Likely at least some blunt force damage to the torso if the explosion had knocked him over, so she'll start there. The nanites can't immediately mend bones, but they can start the process.
Then he tells her that she's hurt and she wants it to mean something more that what he intends. This time she knows better.]
[Something that he didn't know was still there twists inside his chest, and he allows himself to wonder what would be so bad, really, about confirming it for her? Plenty, the more rational part of him asserts. It's a safety issue. He's wanted. She's under UN scrutiny simply by existing, and the recall will only make that worse. The last thing an ex-agent needs is to be caught palling around with the likes of him, dead boss or not.
76 can make excuse after excuse, but the reality is that he isn't sure he can come clean after the disappearing act he's pulled. Blaming himself for shell-shocked decisions made in the aftermath of the HQ explosion would be pointless, but when the dust cleared, he'd made the conscious decision to stay dead. He'd left the rest of them to deal with the shutdown of Overwatch and all of the fallout on their own. Though it had seemed the right choice at the time, he knows now that it was unfair. Cowardly. How can he possibly face any of them after everything he put them through? After everything he's done now? He's crossed lines in the name of his mission, he knows that. What can she possibly think about his globe-hopping, bomb-planting escapades, especially when his motives have been mostly inscrutable?]
I ain't him.
[His apology is implied, and there's sympathy in his voice, like he wishes he could give a better answer, or that he's sorry she allowed herself to hope otherwise. On some level, he considers this the truth, because Jack Morrison never made it out of Switzerland. 76 is someone entirely different, and anyone trying to project their old commander onto him--clinging to the memory of a dead man--is making a mistake.
He meets her gaze through the visor, not that she can see it.]
We shouldn't stay in the open. Come on.
[Though he knows she'll try and stop him, he makes an attempt to stand, hand on her arm to pull her with him. The lack of cover has him on edge. Maybe if they get somewhere safer, they can talk.]
[She's not sure how to feel about the apology she hears in his voice, so she says nothing in reply. If he is Morrison, and he's lying whether on purpose or by omission, then honestly she has half a mind to tell him where he can shove his sympathy; if he isn't, then what use is a stranger's pity? She glances back up to find him looking at her--she thinks, anyway. It's difficult to be sure with the visor--and she almost tells him to stop. Here she is with her heart practically on her sleeve and he gets to hide behind that silly mask. It digs at her more than she expects in that moment.
Luckily, before she can say anything else she'll regret, he's demanding they move and trying to stand up, grabbing her arm as if she's not going to argue. Okay, maybe she is going to say something, but she's not so sure she'll regret it this time.]
I'm not done, what are-- [She's cut off by a crackling in her ear that nearly has her jumping out of her skin. She'd completely forgotten about the comms that have been offline since the omnic has first sent her flying. The voice that makes its way through the static is unmistakably the squad leader and she tries to make out what he's saying while at the same time ensuring 76 isn't going to fall over onto his face the moment he gets his feet under him.]
>>--utenant Markow, do you read me Dr. Ziegler?<<
[She braces the end of her staff against the ground and pushes herself up so she's not being dragged (for goodness sake), her arm still around 76's back as both support and insurance that he's not going to try and run off the moment she's distracted. Regardless of their disagreements about who he really is, he's still injured and she has a responsibility.]
I'm here, lieutenant. How is the situation?
>>You had me worried, I've been trying to reach you for the past ten minutes. Situation is handled, no casualties or serious injuries. If they had any major firepower here, we didn't see it.<<
[She glances at what's left of the omnic, which isn't much. A smoking pile of scrap in the middle of a small crater. Right.]
Well, that's good news. Please finalize the evacuations and have a medical tent set up for me. I'll be clearing the east side of the village. You can expect me back by twenty-two hundred.
>>Acknowledged, doctor. I'll send some back up--<<
That won't be necessary, lieutenant, thank you. Ziegler out.
[She pulls the earpiece out and tucks it into a pocket. The interruption had been jarring, but she can't deny that there's a part of her that's thankful for the excuse to shove the painful thorns of the past at least partway behind the walls they should rightfully be behind. How long they'll stay there she can't say for sure, but at least for now she can concentrate on getting them somewhere safer than the middle of the street.]
[Perhaps if she'd told him to stop, he'd tear his gaze away, but he doesn't, not even as he tries to drag her to his feet. He loosens his grip when she doesn't seem as eager to move (not wanting to hurt her more than anything else), but eventually he gets his feet under him. There's a sway in his step, and perhaps he's leaning on her a little bit more than he'd like to, but he's going to stubbornly ignore it. He's become pretty good at that in the last few years.
76 tenses, freezes up when she starts talking to someone who clearly isn't him, and he realizes that she has a comm in her ear. Only hearing half of the conversation is not exactly comforting, but he's more than aware that she could very easily tell her detail who she is with, and she seems to not be doing that. She seems to be making an excuse to go off with him, and whether that's so she can treat his wounds or continue to press him for his real identity isn't exactly clear.
Knowing Angela, it's likely a bit of both. If he were smart, he'd get her back to the UN soldiers and make a discreet exit. She'll be safe with them, and he's weathered much worse by himself, with no medical assistance.
But despite all of the logical, rational arguments for extricating himself from this situation as soon as possible, the man he used to be cannot in good conscience leave her injured. The way her arm slips around his back to support him is all too familiar, and the invisible fingers in his chest twist again, grabbing at something he tried desperately to bury. He doesn't remember the last time they were this close.
So he focuses on her end of the conversation, trying to fill in the blanks. Sounds like everything is fine, more or less, though he could have told her that from the absence of continued gunfire. He can't tell if her pocketing the earpiece is because she didn't like what they were saying, or if that really is the end of the conversation. He's too paranoid to think they'll leave her alone that easily, and he's already scanning the area for a suitable place they can hole up. 76 starts pulling them both towards a side street. Even if they can't find an evacuated or abandoned building, they can at least get out of the open.]
They won't come looking for you?
[He says that more than a little skeptically. 76 is concerned for himself, sure, but he also doesn't want her seen with him, either.]
[She falls into step beside him like it's second nature, transitioning instinctively from the unwanted distractions to helping him walk. He changes direction and she follows, scanning the doors they pass. The buildings this close to the epicenter of the fight would be too structurally unstable to risk going inside, but maybe a block or two down they'll have better luck.]
Markow won't send anyone. I'm their responsibility only so long as there happens to be a live fire threat. [She almost tells him that they trust her, but she knows it'd be more of a lie than she'd be comfortable with; and incredibly petty on top of it. She's better than that. But it's certainly tempting for a split second.] If I'm late, he might consider it so he doesn't have to fill out the paperwork for a misplaced consultant. Until then, he has his superiors to keep him occupied.
[Which is technically what she is. Dr. Angela Ziegler, independent medical consultant to the United Nations. She had staunchly refused to be involved in any official capacity with a military detail and she's fairly certain she had upset more than a few people with that decision, but it's a leash she's not about to start wearing any time soon. The bureaucrats are more than welcome to spend their time wringing their hands about liabilities and the chain of command; she'll be in the field saving lives on her own terms.]
Over here.
[Not far ahead of them, a door hangs open into a building that looks to have taken only a minimal amount of damage. It's her turn to tug him along now, directing them off the street and into what turns out to be someone's home. Abandoned in a hurry if the state of disarray is any indication. She's reluctant to let go of him, her hand lingering on his side for longer than it needs to before she turns to shut the door behind them. The lock as it turns sounds louder than it has any right to be in the quiet of the empty house.]
[They don't go far, but it feels like it. Despite the brave face he's put on in the immediate aftermath of his genius plan, he doesn't bounce back from injury like he used to, and the throbbing pain of broken ribs making its way to the forefront of his attention. Breathing in sends twinges of pain lancing through his chest, and the ebbing of adrenaline just gives it all a sharper edge.
76 isn't sure if he's telling the truth about this Markow guy, but he's committed to getting them both somewhere out of the open, so all he can really do is frown and press on. If UN troops show up, he'll cross that bridge when he gets there, and he offers her something of an affirmative growl as they trudge through the streets.]
Just checking.
[The fact that she shouldn't be spotted with him is sort of implied.
He's silent after that. The house they find seems to be satisfactory, though 76 doesn't think he'll ever be able to fully relax. As soon as she closes the door, however, it's like he has permission to show weakness. Even standing and walking as far as they have had been more taxing than he expected, and it's hard not to find the nearest piece of overturned furniture to lean on.
He'll give into that urge, exhaling audibly, a growl in his throat as he lets himself slump a little against a chair. The gloved hand that he's pressed to his side peels away, revealing some of the dark stains that have been steadily seeping through his jacket.]
....I am apparently lacking in serious face icons.
[She's well aware of the implications, and there's a part of her, tiny and bruised, that wonders if it wouldn't be so bad to finally have an excuse to leave it all behind. She certainly doesn't approve of the carnage reports that follow each of 76's appearances, but at least he's getting something done. There are wounds in the world that are festering, growing worse by the day, and the UN feels little better than a bandaid when what's needed is a full surgical suite. Overwatch had been close, all the tools and the freedom to use them, but clearly they hadn't been ready for what that meant. They'd all been too young, perhaps; high on their own passion.
She just wishes the lessons they'd had to learn hadn't been so cruelly taught.
There's a groan and the scrape of shifting furniture behind her and she whirls to find that 76 has staggered some distance away already. That he's suddenly looking considerably worse for wear is a punch to the chest, her heart leaping into her throat as she hurries to rejoin him, cursing quietly in german. She should have just assumed he was putting on the brave face outside instead of letting herself be placated. Stupid.
She's pressed back up against him in the next moment, sliding under his arm and taking his weight from the overturned chair whether he likes it or not. Judging by the blood on his hand, she thinks he might be near to the point of not having a choice.]
Come on, just make it to the kitchen.
[It's closest she'll be getting to a proper office right now. At least it should have running water and she has enough basic supplies on her person to make it work. Thankfully, it appears whoever had lived here until recently preferred to take their meals nearby, as there's a small table and chairs in an adjoining nook. She eases him into one of the chairs and sets about stripping his jacket from his arms and shoulders, heedless of any objections.]
I asked you before where you were injured and you saw fit to nearly whack me in the head. Should I expect a proper answer if I ask again, or will I have to strip you down?
[Her tone is straightforward, devoid of any subtext that a more casual situation might have offered. There are old, faded memories of different times when she might have meant it that way, private moments that were too few and far between, most darkened by a looming shadow of uncertainty and awkwardness, but happier none the less. She might have let them go at one point, but they're about all she has left of him these days. The heartache, she thinks, it worth it.]
[Panic attack, more like, but he isn't about to voice that (or even admit it to himself). He's much better about being touched this time--having his bearings helps, and so does knowing it's coming and being out of the open, so he lets her lead him into the kitchen and put him in a chair. He winces behind the mask, but settles after a long moment.
Despite his earlier behavior, it seems he knows how to be a good patient, unbuckling his equipment harness and slipping out of it one strap at a time so that she can better get at his jacket. 76 does his best to stay out of her way, though he leans over her a little to set it aside, trying not to think about their sudden closeness and all of the things it reminds him of. He finds himself watching her again, selfishly dragging up memories of all the other times he's sat like this, having her treat him for one cut or bruise or wound or another. He doesn'the remember much about the last time he saw her.
The thing in his chest twists again, and he wants to reach out and brush that errant bang behind her ear but has to stop himself for obvious reasons. It's almost laughable how he has to concentrate on the pain, of all things, to keep himself from doing or saying something stupid. Fighting it all down is easy when he's on his own and doesn't have the presence of old friends (or something more, on the occasions where they bothered to sort themselves out) to remind him of everything he walked away from.
Or, more accurately, what he ran from.
That's what is difficult about willingly subjecting himself to an examination. Few people know him better than she does, in a lot of ways. He's practically asking to have his cover blown, and yet he makes no efforts to stop her, even if he's more than capable of treating himself for worse injuries than this. He helps her fully unzip his jacket and ease him out of it, revealing the tight black high-collared shirt and body armor he wears underneath. 76 gets to work on those buckles and zippers, too.]
Ribs. Took some shrapnel.
[Still, he knows she's sustained injuries of her own, and he's quick to remind her of that. He knows how she can be.]
[She remember each painful detail of that last day, refusing to let the memory fade for fear that she'd lose something vital- something precious- along with it. She remembers the confrontation that nothing in the world could have stopped from coming to a head, the explosion and the ruin that followed; the heat of the fire and stinging smoke. She remembers pulling her commander from the rubble, his face split open, blood everywhere, the panic like a vice around her chest that she was going to let another family slip through her fingers.
She remembers the decision she'd made to turn away after she'd stabilized him to go looking for Gabriel, telling him she'd be back even thought there was no way to know if he'd even heard her. She remembers not being able to find him when she returned, how she had screamed for him over the roar of the fires and the crash of crumbling walls, how in the end all she could do was leave behind a broken promise on that pile of bloody debris. For a long time afterward, after they had lowered an empty coffin into the ground and Reyes had vanished as well like the phantom he was, she'd been convinced that she'd failed them both. There's still a part of her that believes it. Perhaps it's why she holds on so tight to the memories. Or maybe she's never been quite ready to face the pain of letting go all over again.
Either way, it's never stopped haunting her, whether on purpose or not, and she's doing her best to focus on what she needs to do in the moment- right here, right now, for her patient- rather than the way they move around each other like they've done this before. He leans over her and there's the barest tilt of her head towards him before she can catch herself, biting the inside of her cheek and digging her fingers into the bottom buckle of his jacket.
He'd told her out on the street that he wasn't who she thought he was, but she knows the scar on his face and the way his frame fits against hers and now, when they're this close, even though he stinks of smoke and blood and dust, she can't shake the familiarity of sweat and leather. She has a feeling it's not going to get any easier the further they go.
She helps him with the body armor and can't help but notice the beating it's taken, not just from the most recent explosion, but there's older damage there too, patched and repatched under the fresh peppering of shrapnel. No wonder he's bleeding all over the place.]
You need to replace this. [She grouses without thinking about it as she sets it aside and straightens up, thoroughly ignoring his attempts to ask after her own injuries again. Unless there was something else he didn't want to tell her, she was the doctor here, not him.] Shirt up, please.
[She'll let him take care of that while she fetches as many towels as she can find from the sink. As she goes, she starts plucking out the tools she would need from hidden pockets- tweezers, scissors, needle and sutures- pausing for barely half a second when she notices his blood smeared across the white of her suit. Well, she's not about to be getting any cleaner, so no sense in making anything out of it.
She brings a bowl of water back with her as well, setting everything down on the tabletop and dragging over a chair of her own. There isn't much she can do about his ribs--and she can see the ugly bruising starting to form now--except apply a numbing patch; those were bones he would need to let heal on their own. But she can see about the lacerations, mopping up the old blood with a wet cloth as gingerly as she can without being overly delicate, then pressing a dry one to the worst of the wounds to staunch any new bleeding. The blast seems to have taken him mostly on one side, although he certainly didn't get off easy any way one looked at it. Which she is trying to do with as much of a professional filter as she can manage instead of trying to map the scars across his torso like some sort of star chart she's memorized.
Goddammit, Jack.]
I can pull the shrapnel and close the worst of the cuts, but all I can do for the broken rib is give you something for the pain.
[He might not recall the finer details of the day HQ went up in flames, but there are enough broad strokes for him to fill in the blanks. The fallout is much clearer, after he'd hauled himself away from the wreckage to lick his wounds and process how things could have possibly ended the way they did. His relationship with Reyes had been deteriorating for years, he'd been aware of that much, but a betrayal of that magnitude was something he'd never expected. In hindsight, he should have seen it coming, but Jack as he was had been too caught up in a grander vision of world peace to excise (or even acknowledge in the first place) the cancer that tore them apart from the inside.
What he does remember is holing up across the border, in a shitty Italian hotel that took his cash and didn't ask questions. He'd been practically unrecognizable in the immediate aftermath of the collapse (something that happens when you bust your face open in two places and don't exactly seek medical attention), and he used that to his advantage, laying low and planning what would become his recent vigilante crusade. Even then, shell-shocked and barely coherent and feeling more like a wounded animal than a person, he'd known there had been a conspiracy.
He remembers the fleeting glimpses of Angela on television at his memorial service, knowing that it would be the last moment he'd see her and Lena and Winston and Reinhardt and everyone else all together before the onslaught of UN hearings and investigations that would finally put Overwatch to rest. Hell, they'd barely needed to do anything at all--he and Gabriel had already done most of the work. With that in mind, he'd resolved to disappear, if only because of how thoroughly he'd failed. Not only Overwatch, but his friends, and the world, one that maybe didn't need him after all.
Her voice brings him back from his thoughts and he sloughs off the rest of his body armor. 76 only grunts in response to her criticism of it--being an internationally wanted fugitive means he makes do with what he can. The fact that he's even receiving medical attention is a luxury. He heals faster than a baseline human, but that's waned in recent years. Whether it's a testament to his age or the effects of being kind of blown up six years ago, he doesn't know.
Either way, he lifts his shirt and weathers the sting of the wet cloth patiently, trying not to think about her eyes on him.]
It's fine. [Stitches and painkillers will be more than enough.] Lived through worse.
[He says it deliberately, testing the waters. She knows that, doesn't she?]
Edited 2016-06-24 07:47 (UTC)
oh good. just gonna skim thru most of the medical stuffs so we can keep going.
[He stole those fancy rockets from an Overwatch facility, so she has a hard time believing he's not perfectly capable of making off with a chestplate or two. Not that she condones stealing. It's simply an observation based off of an existing precedent.
Her hand hesitates for a moment in the middle of reaching for the tweezers as he answers her, blue eyes darting from her work up to his face. Is he toying with her? Now, of all times, when he's already shot her down in the street? He might as well have just elbowed her in the face and gotten it over with. It would have hurt less. She snatches the tweezers abruptly and looks back down before he can see too much of that pain straining at the edges of her expression. She's far less effective at hiding the waver in her voice.]
Please keep still.
[The initial treatment she'd provided with her staff outside had forced out the worst of the shrapnel, which likely accounted for how much he'd been bleeding once the open wounds were aggravated by the walk here, but the smaller pieces still need to be removed by hand. It doesn't take her long, hands deft and efficient. She's done this countless times before and she probably could have held a conversation while she worked, but not the one she wants to have and it doesn't feel right trying to fill the silence with things that don't mean anything. So she works in silence, collecting a small pile of bloody metal scraps on the table before turning her attention to sewing shut the worst of his lacerations.
By the time she's done, the water in the bowl and most of the towels she'd collected are bloody- but her work, as always, is impeccable. His wounds are clean, stitches marching in neat rows across his sides. The final task is applying the numbing patch across his ribs, as near as she can manage by touch alone to the site of the break. She smooths her hands across it to ensure the adhesive has taken properly, but her touch lingers for a moment or two longer even after she's certain it's going to hold.
When she does finally sit back, her hands clenched in her lap, it's clear that the effort to hold herself together when she knows without a shadow of doubt now who it is sitting across from her has taken its toll. She wants to scream at the injustice of it all.]
So... [Her voice is quiet and she's too tired to fight back the hitch in it, the corners of her mouth twitching in a sad attempt at a smile.] Who do I send my bill to?
[If he's going to put an end to all of this, one way or the other, now was going to be the time.]
[The military has made him very good at sitting very still for medical procedures, and he puts all of that into practice as she gets to work. He's no stranger to unanesthetized field medicine, and her hands are deft and gentle. 76 wouldn't want to be tended to by anyone else, but the fact that he's even here in the first place means he's actively combating all of the survival instincts that have run on overdrive for the past six years.
The sutures are perfect as usual. He wouldn't have expected anything less, and he pulls his shirt back down over his torso when she finally sits back. He keeps studying her face.]
Nowhere to send it.
[But he still hasn't forgotten that she's injured. 76 doesn't have much he can offer in that department, unfortunately, though he does reach for his harness, unclipping one of the yellow canisters and sliding it across the table. It's Overwatch tech, like everything else he's stolen, so she'll know what it is and can take it if she wants to. A biotic field isn't a substitute for an actual sit-down with a doctor (like now), but they've kept him going when he really needs it. It'll take the edge off her the injury, if nothing else.
Angela tries to hide her expression, but just as she sees right through him, he can do the same. Maybe it's not blowing his cover--she knows, of course, and probably always has. Maybe it will hurt less if he just confirms it before he leaves. Maybe he's just finally allowing himself to admit (however momentarily) that he's tired.]
You know why I have to do this.
[Hide, and lie to her face, and likely disappear again when this conversation is over. He says it like it's supposed to be an explanation and an apology all in one. Like she's going to instantly forgive him because she of all people has to understand that despite his methods, he's trying with everything he has left to set the record straight. For him. For all of them. She must know that the events leading up to Overwatch's fall were a conspiracy, and that he's in an unfortunate but perfect position to uncover it all. He'll never be able to step back into the public sphere, but he can, at least, clear everyone else in the history books.
76 hates himself for being unable to offer her a straightforward confession. The hitch in her voice is obvious and he knows that even if he could, it's not going to be that easy. He can couch all this in justice and making things right as much as he wants, but on some level, this has always been about vengeance. There's nothing noble in that, and whatever she says to him next is surely what he deserves.]
[She almost doesn't let him finish before she says it, the emotion finally breaking through all the walls she's been frantically patching just to keep it at bay this whole time. It feels selfish to be so singularly hurt by what he's done and she's fought it for years, trying to come up with a reason why he was right, or that she'd deserved this for not trying harder, and for a time she thought maybe she had finally put it down-- and now she finds herself sitting in front of him, faced with it all over again and wholly unprepared for the assault it mounts against her.]
And don't tell me you thought I didn't know you were alive. I was there! [She can feel her nails digging into her palms through the gloves, her eyes stinging, although she's not sure if the tears that want to fall are from grief or anger. Likely both.] Six years I've carried this secret for you, Jack! Six years knowing you were alive, somewhere, and not once--
[She stops herself short, the words sticking in her throat, choking her with their weight. Part of her wants to rail at him with every ounce of pain that tears at her heart. Something else demands that she throw herself at his feet and apologize for everything she couldn't do for him. And the whole of her is paralyzed in the middle, unable to properly articular what should have been so important.]
I don't understand why you couldn't just tell me.
Edited (oh butts. you forget one little forward slash...) 2016-06-25 02:21 (UTC)
[76 can't even be surprised or hurt by this reaction, because he's had it coming. He owes her a real explanation but can't seem to find one because he knows none of them are satisfactory. He lets her get it out, staring at her from behind the mask and visor, like if he keeps it on, he can pretend that Jack really is dead.
That name doesn't even sound like it belongs to him, anymore.]
It wasn't safe.
[Wasn't, and certainly isn't now, and maybe won't ever be again. 76 knows what kind of path he's on, and it doesn't exactly lead anywhere good. Better him than the rest, is what he tells himself. The mission is what matters, but there are people he doesn't want caught in the crossfire. Angela is one of them, but leaving her to be interrogated by the UN was cruel (especially if she knew what the lack of a body meant). He won't blame her if she wants to hate him for that.
Seeing her like this and knowing that he's responsible is something he tried to prepare himself for. Faced with it, however, he finds himself at a loss.]
I've got a mission.
[Which he'd convinced himself was more important than anything. The human cost of which is easy to bite down when it's not sitting right in front of him.]
[For a moment, she thinks for certain that she's misheard him. That couldn't possibly be his answer, could it? After so long, this is all he has? She refuses to believe he's serious for the simple fact that there's no way he honestly believes she would just accept that answer. He knows her better than that. He has to.]
What does that even mean? Do you think you're the only one??
[There's something wet on her cheek and she swipes at it angrily with her palm. She's imagined seeing him again countless times in the past- what she would say, how she would feel, whether she'd be angry or relieved or if she would just start laughing uncontrollably and not stop. Nothing she could have thought of came close to the reality of it, to finally be in this moment and have nothing to show for it. Just empty, painful excuses and that blasted red visor staring back at her.]
For pity's sake, take the mask off. Let me at least look at you. I think you owe me that much.
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bakerstreet2016-06-16 03:59 pm
no subject
You're right, I don't like it!
[They don't exactly have time to argue about this, but she has to at least say something, even if she knows it's just going to get ignored. The situation isn't giving them a lot of viable options.]
The explosion will level everything around it. There could still be people in those buildings. And what about you?
no subject
What he has done during this back and forth is lead the machine away as much into the open as he can, away from narrow alleys and still-standing structures.]
You want to argue with me or you want to start running?
[He barks it out, like someone more than accustomed to giving orders under duress. 76 is already leveling his rifle as he takes increasingly quick steps backward--even if she doesn't run, he's runing split-second contingency plans through his head so that he can get them both out of here. That much he'll try, at least.]
no subject
Don't get yourself killed.
[Again, is what she wants to add, but she still has no hard proof, despite how much her gut instinct is screaming it at her. She breaks away and bolts for the ruin of an already collapsed building further down a side street. Behind her, the omnic turns, perhaps realizing its been baited, or simply thinking it has an easy shot at an open target. It braces its feet, sparks flying from the open wound as the machinery inside grinds its way through the final motions. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to be in the next few seconds.
She doesn't look back, doesn't stop, focusing on a low foundation wall as her target and trying desperately not to let all the ways this could go wrong stop her. She can already feel the horrible what-ifs knotting up in her chest. She's already failed to save one life at her fingertips today; all she can do is hope that the next moment doesn't make it two.]
no subject
76 tries to flank it, tactical visor locking onto the sparking gap in the automaton's hull just as it readies to fire. He doesn't have time to wait and see if his rockets hit--all he can do is unload them and pray. As soon as he pulls the trigger, he's turning on his heel and running after Angela, trusting that his
aimbotvisor does the job.And it does, of course. There's the explosion of his own rockets, and then the chain reaction that follows as the omnic's magazine ignites and tears it apart from the inside out. He has a few seconds to get as far away as he can, pushing himself into as fast a sprint as he can manage.
Eventually, however, the blast catches up with him, shattering building windows and sending him toppling as shrapnel tears through his jacket and into the soft vulnerable spots where his body armor doesn't reach. The explosion flings him into rubble with a force that would most certainly kill a not-augmented individual, and there's an instantaneous stabbing pain in his side that he'd recognize as ribs if he wasn't so busy trying to shield himself from flying debris.
It's all over in an instant, save for the full collapse of an already half-leveled building that spews more smoke into the street. The omnic is all but obliterated, road covered in broken glass, scorch marks on the nearby buildings, and 76 is halfway to cover, skidding to a stop on his side as the dust clears.
After a long, motionless moment moment, he finally gives indication that he's alive, though all he really manages to do is flip himself over in an attempt to bring his knees under him and get back to his feet.]
#coolguysdon'tlookatexplosions
She doesn't even realize that she's been holding her breath until it comes out in a scream as the omnic explodes, an old name tangled up in the cry, although the cacophony swallows it up as soon as it leaves her. The entire street feels like it's going to collapse around her and she ducks back down behind the wall just as the shockwave hits, spraying loose debris like a wave breaking over her shelter. She tucks her head under her arms, shards of glass and metal ricocheting off her suit.
All she can hear in the aftermath is the ringing in her ears and the frantic thudding of her heart, but the instant it's over, she's pushing herself up, scanning the smoke-filled street for any sign of- oh god, no- he's not moving. She shoves herself out of cover, scrambling over the pile of rubble that had jammed itself up against her wall and taking to the air. She refuses to believe that he's dead, that it would take more than just some old omnic to put him down for good.
Her staff is brought to bear the moment she sees him start to move, just as her boots hit the scorched pavement a few yards away. The initial stream of nanites should stop any immediate bleeding in the few seconds it takes for her to close the distance between them.]
Stop moving, let me stabilize you. Tell me where the pain is most severe.
[The fact that he managed to survive the blast out in the open in proof enough that he's not just some man in a fancy jacket with a gun; that this isn't the first time she's dragged him out of the rubble. Hooking her staff into the crook of her elbow, she crouches down and slides her arms around him to keep him from trying to get up, instead trying to guide him into a more neutral position on the ground, or at least to let her take his weight if he's going to be stubborn about it. Her immediate assessment isn't as grave as it could have been at least: there's no large amount of blood around his head, chest, or on the pavement that would indicate an obvious arterial or cranial wound and none of his limbs are visibly broken or dislocated. If he can talk to her and answer questions, she can rule out a concussion.]
realtalk i was going to link that but then i guess i didn't
The tinnitus gives way to a heartbeat, thudding in his temples as his vision clears. 76 becomes acutely aware of his breathing against the inside of his mask, and he focuses on that, in and out, trying to slow it and fight down the tightness in his chest. He reminds himself of what just happened--he can move, he's surrounded by rubble but not buried in it, there's blood, but not an unreasonable amount.
Still, he can't help the kneejerk reaction to being touched after getting himself kind of exploded, and he all but tries to fling her off him, a motion that only sends pain lancing up his side. The snarl that escapes him isn't something he's able to bite back.]
Don't--
[He'll regret that in a moment, because on some level he knows that Angela is just doing her job, but that's not at the forefront of his mind. All he can think is that he needs to get up and get out.]
I picked up what you were laying down, we're good
She'll treat this like a battlefield heal if she absolutely needs to, complete with thrashing and growling and keeping her distance, but she would prefer not to. It's not necessary and there's a part of her that hurts for purely selfish reasons at the thought of being pushed away, a thorny knot of grief she's never been able to resolve; only tuck away where it can cause the least amount of damage.
So let her have this, please, she begs silently. On the inside, those thorns rip at her heart, but her voice barely betrays it as she speaks to him, her tone softened for his sake.]
You're injured. I need you to let me help you. Take slow breaths, count to three.
[She presses a hand to his chest, half to help support him, half to feel for his heartbeat, not trusting her luck to try for his neck or wrist. And maybe the contact just makes her feel better, knowing she can feel it under her palm, beating hard, refusing to give up.]
no subject
76 starts to count to himself, timing inhales and exhales accordingly, the haze of momentary panic starting to lift (though it's not exactly replaced by anything comforting). He already knows he's fine--or, at least, that this isn't anything he can't bounce back from. What's tricky is going to be extricating himself from this situation before the military detail comes looking for Angela or he's straight up compromised simply by being in such close proximity to her. His injuries might not be life-threatening, but he's effectively ruined his chances at a clean exit.]
That was a bad idea.
[When he speaks, it's little more than a groan, head falling back as if he's finally realizing just how stupid a stunt this was. Why did you let him do that!!]
no subject
It was a foolish idea. [She guides him to sit back, off his knees where she can get a better idea of just what she has to work with.] But you're very good at those, commander.
[It's a risk, calling him out like that, but if she doesn't do it now, she has a feeling that he'll be gone as soon as he has the chance and she won't get another opportunity. And she expects that in the next moment he'll do a very thorough job of obliterating the little scrap of hope behind that smile she's attempting, but until then she has it to hold on to.]
no subject
Last I heard, your commander was dead, Doc.
[Dead, and took Overwatch with him. That's loaded, and probably reveals far too much, but it's also challenging, like he's daring her to produce actual, tangible proof beyond hunches and confirmation bias.
It's not out of the question that he (a shady vigilante with a penchant for robbing old Overwatch facilities) would know who she is and who she's referring to and why she'd think he is that person. His expression remains inscrutable through the mask and visor, but the way she's currently moving and carrying herself catches his attention.]
You're hurt.
no subject
You would know, it was your coffin they put in the ground.
[She regrets it the moment she says it, her emotions pressing too close against her better judgement, and she lowers her eyes to focus on her work instead. He still hasn't told her just where he's been injured beyond the obvious, but she can extrapolate based on his position in the street. Likely at least some blunt force damage to the torso if the explosion had knocked him over, so she'll start there. The nanites can't immediately mend bones, but they can start the process.
Then he tells her that she's hurt and she wants it to mean something more that what he intends. This time she knows better.]
It's minor.
no subject
76 can make excuse after excuse, but the reality is that he isn't sure he can come clean after the disappearing act he's pulled. Blaming himself for shell-shocked decisions made in the aftermath of the HQ explosion would be pointless, but when the dust cleared, he'd made the conscious decision to stay dead. He'd left the rest of them to deal with the shutdown of Overwatch and all of the fallout on their own. Though it had seemed the right choice at the time, he knows now that it was unfair. Cowardly. How can he possibly face any of them after everything he put them through? After everything he's done now? He's crossed lines in the name of his mission, he knows that. What can she possibly think about his globe-hopping, bomb-planting escapades, especially when his motives have been mostly inscrutable?]
I ain't him.
[His apology is implied, and there's sympathy in his voice, like he wishes he could give a better answer, or that he's sorry she allowed herself to hope otherwise. On some level, he considers this the truth, because Jack Morrison never made it out of Switzerland. 76 is someone entirely different, and anyone trying to project their old commander onto him--clinging to the memory of a dead man--is making a mistake.
He meets her gaze through the visor, not that she can see it.]
We shouldn't stay in the open. Come on.
[Though he knows she'll try and stop him, he makes an attempt to stand, hand on her arm to pull her with him. The lack of cover has him on edge. Maybe if they get somewhere safer, they can talk.]
no subject
Luckily, before she can say anything else she'll regret, he's demanding they move and trying to stand up, grabbing her arm as if she's not going to argue. Okay, maybe she is going to say something, but she's not so sure she'll regret it this time.]
I'm not done, what are-- [She's cut off by a crackling in her ear that nearly has her jumping out of her skin. She'd completely forgotten about the comms that have been offline since the omnic has first sent her flying. The voice that makes its way through the static is unmistakably the squad leader and she tries to make out what he's saying while at the same time ensuring 76 isn't going to fall over onto his face the moment he gets his feet under him.]
>>--utenant Markow, do you read me Dr. Ziegler?<<
[She braces the end of her staff against the ground and pushes herself up so she's not being dragged (for goodness sake), her arm still around 76's back as both support and insurance that he's not going to try and run off the moment she's distracted. Regardless of their disagreements about who he really is, he's still injured and she has a responsibility.]
I'm here, lieutenant. How is the situation?
>>You had me worried, I've been trying to reach you for the past ten minutes. Situation is handled, no casualties or serious injuries. If they had any major firepower here, we didn't see it.<<
[She glances at what's left of the omnic, which isn't much. A smoking pile of scrap in the middle of a small crater. Right.]
Well, that's good news. Please finalize the evacuations and have a medical tent set up for me. I'll be clearing the east side of the village. You can expect me back by twenty-two hundred.
>>Acknowledged, doctor. I'll send some back up--<<
That won't be necessary, lieutenant, thank you. Ziegler out.
[She pulls the earpiece out and tucks it into a pocket. The interruption had been jarring, but she can't deny that there's a part of her that's thankful for the excuse to shove the painful thorns of the past at least partway behind the walls they should rightfully be behind. How long they'll stay there she can't say for sure, but at least for now she can concentrate on getting them somewhere safer than the middle of the street.]
no subject
76 tenses, freezes up when she starts talking to someone who clearly isn't him, and he realizes that she has a comm in her ear. Only hearing half of the conversation is not exactly comforting, but he's more than aware that she could very easily tell her detail who she is with, and she seems to not be doing that. She seems to be making an excuse to go off with him, and whether that's so she can treat his wounds or continue to press him for his real identity isn't exactly clear.
Knowing Angela, it's likely a bit of both. If he were smart, he'd get her back to the UN soldiers and make a discreet exit. She'll be safe with them, and he's weathered much worse by himself, with no medical assistance.
But despite all of the logical, rational arguments for extricating himself from this situation as soon as possible, the man he used to be cannot in good conscience leave her injured. The way her arm slips around his back to support him is all too familiar, and the invisible fingers in his chest twist again, grabbing at something he tried desperately to bury. He doesn't remember the last time they were this close.
So he focuses on her end of the conversation, trying to fill in the blanks. Sounds like everything is fine, more or less, though he could have told her that from the absence of continued gunfire. He can't tell if her pocketing the earpiece is because she didn't like what they were saying, or if that really is the end of the conversation. He's too paranoid to think they'll leave her alone that easily, and he's already scanning the area for a suitable place they can hole up. 76 starts pulling them both towards a side street. Even if they can't find an evacuated or abandoned building, they can at least get out of the open.]
They won't come looking for you?
[He says that more than a little skeptically. 76 is concerned for himself, sure, but he also doesn't want her seen with him, either.]
no subject
Markow won't send anyone. I'm their responsibility only so long as there happens to be a live fire threat. [She almost tells him that they trust her, but she knows it'd be more of a lie than she'd be comfortable with; and incredibly petty on top of it. She's better than that. But it's certainly tempting for a split second.] If I'm late, he might consider it so he doesn't have to fill out the paperwork for a misplaced consultant. Until then, he has his superiors to keep him occupied.
[Which is technically what she is. Dr. Angela Ziegler, independent medical consultant to the United Nations. She had staunchly refused to be involved in any official capacity with a military detail and she's fairly certain she had upset more than a few people with that decision, but it's a leash she's not about to start wearing any time soon. The bureaucrats are more than welcome to spend their time wringing their hands about liabilities and the chain of command; she'll be in the field saving lives on her own terms.]
Over here.
[Not far ahead of them, a door hangs open into a building that looks to have taken only a minimal amount of damage. It's her turn to tug him along now, directing them off the street and into what turns out to be someone's home. Abandoned in a hurry if the state of disarray is any indication. She's reluctant to let go of him, her hand lingering on his side for longer than it needs to before she turns to shut the door behind them. The lock as it turns sounds louder than it has any right to be in the quiet of the empty house.]
no subject
76 isn't sure if he's telling the truth about this Markow guy, but he's committed to getting them both somewhere out of the open, so all he can really do is frown and press on. If UN troops show up, he'll cross that bridge when he gets there, and he offers her something of an affirmative growl as they trudge through the streets.]
Just checking.
[The fact that she shouldn't be spotted with him is sort of implied.
He's silent after that. The house they find seems to be satisfactory, though 76 doesn't think he'll ever be able to fully relax. As soon as she closes the door, however, it's like he has permission to show weakness. Even standing and walking as far as they have had been more taxing than he expected, and it's hard not to find the nearest piece of overturned furniture to lean on.
He'll give into that urge, exhaling audibly, a growl in his throat as he lets himself slump a little against a chair. The gloved hand that he's pressed to his side peels away, revealing some of the dark stains that have been steadily seeping through his jacket.]
....I am apparently lacking in serious face icons.
She just wishes the lessons they'd had to learn hadn't been so cruelly taught.
There's a groan and the scrape of shifting furniture behind her and she whirls to find that 76 has staggered some distance away already. That he's suddenly looking considerably worse for wear is a punch to the chest, her heart leaping into her throat as she hurries to rejoin him, cursing quietly in german. She should have just assumed he was putting on the brave face outside instead of letting herself be placated. Stupid.
She's pressed back up against him in the next moment, sliding under his arm and taking his weight from the overturned chair whether he likes it or not. Judging by the blood on his hand, she thinks he might be near to the point of not having a choice.]
Come on, just make it to the kitchen.
[It's closest she'll be getting to a proper office right now. At least it should have running water and she has enough basic supplies on her person to make it work. Thankfully, it appears whoever had lived here until recently preferred to take their meals nearby, as there's a small table and chairs in an adjoining nook. She eases him into one of the chairs and sets about stripping his jacket from his arms and shoulders, heedless of any objections.]
I asked you before where you were injured and you saw fit to nearly whack me in the head. Should I expect a proper answer if I ask again, or will I have to strip you down?
[Her tone is straightforward, devoid of any subtext that a more casual situation might have offered. There are old, faded memories of different times when she might have meant it that way, private moments that were too few and far between, most darkened by a looming shadow of uncertainty and awkwardness, but happier none the less. She might have let them go at one point, but they're about all she has left of him these days. The heartache, she thinks, it worth it.]
It's all good I only have silly visors
[Panic attack, more like, but he isn't about to voice that (or even admit it to himself). He's much better about being touched this time--having his bearings helps, and so does knowing it's coming and being out of the open, so he lets her lead him into the kitchen and put him in a chair. He winces behind the mask, but settles after a long moment.
Despite his earlier behavior, it seems he knows how to be a good patient, unbuckling his equipment harness and slipping out of it one strap at a time so that she can better get at his jacket. 76 does his best to stay out of her way, though he leans over her a little to set it aside, trying not to think about their sudden closeness and all of the things it reminds him of. He finds himself watching her again, selfishly dragging up memories of all the other times he's sat like this, having her treat him for one cut or bruise or wound or another. He doesn'the remember much about the last time he saw her.
The thing in his chest twists again, and he wants to reach out and brush that errant bang behind her ear but has to stop himself for obvious reasons. It's almost laughable how he has to concentrate on the pain, of all things, to keep himself from doing or saying something stupid. Fighting it all down is easy when he's on his own and doesn't have the presence of old friends (or something more, on the occasions where they bothered to sort themselves out) to remind him of everything he walked away from.
Or, more accurately, what he ran from.
That's what is difficult about willingly subjecting himself to an examination. Few people know him better than she does, in a lot of ways. He's practically asking to have his cover blown, and yet he makes no efforts to stop her, even if he's more than capable of treating himself for worse injuries than this. He helps her fully unzip his jacket and ease him out of it, revealing the tight black high-collared shirt and body armor he wears underneath. 76 gets to work on those buckles and zippers, too.]
Ribs. Took some shrapnel.
[Still, he knows she's sustained injuries of her own, and he's quick to remind her of that. He knows how she can be.]
What about you?
I'm sorry I called your aimbot silly :p
She remembers the decision she'd made to turn away after she'd stabilized him to go looking for Gabriel, telling him she'd be back even thought there was no way to know if he'd even heard her. She remembers not being able to find him when she returned, how she had screamed for him over the roar of the fires and the crash of crumbling walls, how in the end all she could do was leave behind a broken promise on that pile of bloody debris. For a long time afterward, after they had lowered an empty coffin into the ground and Reyes had vanished as well like the phantom he was, she'd been convinced that she'd failed them both. There's still a part of her that believes it. Perhaps it's why she holds on so tight to the memories. Or maybe she's never been quite ready to face the pain of letting go all over again.
Either way, it's never stopped haunting her, whether on purpose or not, and she's doing her best to focus on what she needs to do in the moment- right here, right now, for her patient- rather than the way they move around each other like they've done this before. He leans over her and there's the barest tilt of her head towards him before she can catch herself, biting the inside of her cheek and digging her fingers into the bottom buckle of his jacket.
He'd told her out on the street that he wasn't who she thought he was, but she knows the scar on his face and the way his frame fits against hers and now, when they're this close, even though he stinks of smoke and blood and dust, she can't shake the familiarity of sweat and leather. She has a feeling it's not going to get any easier the further they go.
She helps him with the body armor and can't help but notice the beating it's taken, not just from the most recent explosion, but there's older damage there too, patched and repatched under the fresh peppering of shrapnel. No wonder he's bleeding all over the place.]
You need to replace this. [She grouses without thinking about it as she sets it aside and straightens up, thoroughly ignoring his attempts to ask after her own injuries again. Unless there was something else he didn't want to tell her, she was the doctor here, not him.] Shirt up, please.
[She'll let him take care of that while she fetches as many towels as she can find from the sink. As she goes, she starts plucking out the tools she would need from hidden pockets- tweezers, scissors, needle and sutures- pausing for barely half a second when she notices his blood smeared across the white of her suit. Well, she's not about to be getting any cleaner, so no sense in making anything out of it.
She brings a bowl of water back with her as well, setting everything down on the tabletop and dragging over a chair of her own. There isn't much she can do about his ribs--and she can see the ugly bruising starting to form now--except apply a numbing patch; those were bones he would need to let heal on their own. But she can see about the lacerations, mopping up the old blood with a wet cloth as gingerly as she can without being overly delicate, then pressing a dry one to the worst of the wounds to staunch any new bleeding. The blast seems to have taken him mostly on one side, although he certainly didn't get off easy any way one looked at it. Which she is trying to do with as much of a professional filter as she can manage instead of trying to map the scars across his torso like some sort of star chart she's memorized.
Goddammit, Jack.]
I can pull the shrapnel and close the worst of the cuts, but all I can do for the broken rib is give you something for the pain.
all is 4given
What he does remember is holing up across the border, in a shitty Italian hotel that took his cash and didn't ask questions. He'd been practically unrecognizable in the immediate aftermath of the collapse (something that happens when you bust your face open in two places and don't exactly seek medical attention), and he used that to his advantage, laying low and planning what would become his recent vigilante crusade. Even then, shell-shocked and barely coherent and feeling more like a wounded animal than a person, he'd known there had been a conspiracy.
He remembers the fleeting glimpses of Angela on television at his memorial service, knowing that it would be the last moment he'd see her and Lena and Winston and Reinhardt and everyone else all together before the onslaught of UN hearings and investigations that would finally put Overwatch to rest. Hell, they'd barely needed to do anything at all--he and Gabriel had already done most of the work. With that in mind, he'd resolved to disappear, if only because of how thoroughly he'd failed. Not only Overwatch, but his friends, and the world, one that maybe didn't need him after all.
Her voice brings him back from his thoughts and he sloughs off the rest of his body armor. 76 only grunts in response to her criticism of it--being an internationally wanted fugitive means he makes do with what he can. The fact that he's even receiving medical attention is a luxury. He heals faster than a baseline human, but that's waned in recent years. Whether it's a testament to his age or the effects of being kind of blown up six years ago, he doesn't know.
Either way, he lifts his shirt and weathers the sting of the wet cloth patiently, trying not to think about her eyes on him.]
It's fine. [Stitches and painkillers will be more than enough.] Lived through worse.
[He says it deliberately, testing the waters. She knows that, doesn't she?]
oh good. just gonna skim thru most of the medical stuffs so we can keep going.
Her hand hesitates for a moment in the middle of reaching for the tweezers as he answers her, blue eyes darting from her work up to his face. Is he toying with her? Now, of all times, when he's already shot her down in the street? He might as well have just elbowed her in the face and gotten it over with. It would have hurt less. She snatches the tweezers abruptly and looks back down before he can see too much of that pain straining at the edges of her expression. She's far less effective at hiding the waver in her voice.]
Please keep still.
[The initial treatment she'd provided with her staff outside had forced out the worst of the shrapnel, which likely accounted for how much he'd been bleeding once the open wounds were aggravated by the walk here, but the smaller pieces still need to be removed by hand. It doesn't take her long, hands deft and efficient. She's done this countless times before and she probably could have held a conversation while she worked, but not the one she wants to have and it doesn't feel right trying to fill the silence with things that don't mean anything. So she works in silence, collecting a small pile of bloody metal scraps on the table before turning her attention to sewing shut the worst of his lacerations.
By the time she's done, the water in the bowl and most of the towels she'd collected are bloody- but her work, as always, is impeccable. His wounds are clean, stitches marching in neat rows across his sides. The final task is applying the numbing patch across his ribs, as near as she can manage by touch alone to the site of the break. She smooths her hands across it to ensure the adhesive has taken properly, but her touch lingers for a moment or two longer even after she's certain it's going to hold.
When she does finally sit back, her hands clenched in her lap, it's clear that the effort to hold herself together when she knows without a shadow of doubt now who it is sitting across from her has taken its toll. She wants to scream at the injustice of it all.]
So... [Her voice is quiet and she's too tired to fight back the hitch in it, the corners of her mouth twitching in a sad attempt at a smile.] Who do I send my bill to?
[If he's going to put an end to all of this, one way or the other, now was going to be the time.]
https://67.media.tumblr.com/48147f77c21f04f02c8844160c834870/tumblr_o99e8hYpsD1rhchhgo2_r1_1280.png
The sutures are perfect as usual. He wouldn't have expected anything less, and he pulls his shirt back down over his torso when she finally sits back. He keeps studying her face.]
Nowhere to send it.
[But he still hasn't forgotten that she's injured. 76 doesn't have much he can offer in that department, unfortunately, though he does reach for his harness, unclipping one of the yellow canisters and sliding it across the table. It's Overwatch tech, like everything else he's stolen, so she'll know what it is and can take it if she wants to. A biotic field isn't a substitute for an actual sit-down with a doctor (like now), but they've kept him going when he really needs it. It'll take the edge off her the injury, if nothing else.
Angela tries to hide her expression, but just as she sees right through him, he can do the same. Maybe it's not blowing his cover--she knows, of course, and probably always has. Maybe it will hurt less if he just confirms it before he leaves. Maybe he's just finally allowing himself to admit (however momentarily) that he's tired.]
You know why I have to do this.
[Hide, and lie to her face, and likely disappear again when this conversation is over. He says it like it's supposed to be an explanation and an apology all in one. Like she's going to instantly forgive him because she of all people has to understand that despite his methods, he's trying with everything he has left to set the record straight. For him. For all of them. She must know that the events leading up to Overwatch's fall were a conspiracy, and that he's in an unfortunate but perfect position to uncover it all. He'll never be able to step back into the public sphere, but he can, at least, clear everyone else in the history books.
76 hates himself for being unable to offer her a straightforward confession. The hitch in her voice is obvious and he knows that even if he could, it's not going to be that easy. He can couch all this in justice and making things right as much as he wants, but on some level, this has always been about vengeance. There's nothing noble in that, and whatever she says to him next is surely what he deserves.]
....ouch :|
[She almost doesn't let him finish before she says it, the emotion finally breaking through all the walls she's been frantically patching just to keep it at bay this whole time. It feels selfish to be so singularly hurt by what he's done and she's fought it for years, trying to come up with a reason why he was right, or that she'd deserved this for not trying harder, and for a time she thought maybe she had finally put it down-- and now she finds herself sitting in front of him, faced with it all over again and wholly unprepared for the assault it mounts against her.]
And don't tell me you thought I didn't know you were alive. I was there! [She can feel her nails digging into her palms through the gloves, her eyes stinging, although she's not sure if the tears that want to fall are from grief or anger. Likely both.] Six years I've carried this secret for you, Jack! Six years knowing you were alive, somewhere, and not once--
[She stops herself short, the words sticking in her throat, choking her with their weight. Part of her wants to rail at him with every ounce of pain that tears at her heart. Something else demands that she throw herself at his feet and apologize for everything she couldn't do for him. And the whole of her is paralyzed in the middle, unable to properly articular what should have been so important.]
I don't understand why you couldn't just tell me.
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That name doesn't even sound like it belongs to him, anymore.]
It wasn't safe.
[Wasn't, and certainly isn't now, and maybe won't ever be again. 76 knows what kind of path he's on, and it doesn't exactly lead anywhere good. Better him than the rest, is what he tells himself. The mission is what matters, but there are people he doesn't want caught in the crossfire. Angela is one of them, but leaving her to be interrogated by the UN was cruel (especially if she knew what the lack of a body meant). He won't blame her if she wants to hate him for that.
Seeing her like this and knowing that he's responsible is something he tried to prepare himself for. Faced with it, however, he finds himself at a loss.]
I've got a mission.
[Which he'd convinced himself was more important than anything. The human cost of which is easy to bite down when it's not sitting right in front of him.]
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What does that even mean? Do you think you're the only one??
[There's something wet on her cheek and she swipes at it angrily with her palm. She's imagined seeing him again countless times in the past- what she would say, how she would feel, whether she'd be angry or relieved or if she would just start laughing uncontrollably and not stop. Nothing she could have thought of came close to the reality of it, to finally be in this moment and have nothing to show for it. Just empty, painful excuses and that blasted red visor staring back at her.]
For pity's sake, take the mask off. Let me at least look at you. I think you owe me that much.
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now that i have exhausted my one visorless icon...
the visor IS his face...
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let me know if I should change anything here, I just sorta ran with it.
no it's so good i was totally thinking about how he would not be able to get her out of that
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I think i am finally out of the 4th of july weekend hole, sorry for the wait
s'all good. 'MURICA!
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just when things start to get sexy, they gotta make it horrible again ;-;
they are trying very hard
:'(
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one day...work will let up...
I feel ya ;-; *offers condolences*
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sorry, had a long couple of days. I'm still here!
no worries!
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sorry for the tiny tag
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aaaand I'm back!
me too, apparently. welcome back and sorry for the wait!
OK LITERALLY LIKE A *YEAR* LATER
opens arms
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