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.
[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.
[Of course he's not the only one, and of course he knows her much better than that, but he's always been one to try and shoulder it all himself. There's so much he wants to explain--so much she deserves to hear--but he doesn't know where to start. It makes sense in his head, sort of (or he's spent the last six years justifying his disappearing act to himself). Articulating it is another matter.]
Angela--
[It's almost a protest, but he barely gets her name in edgewise and she's right that he owes her, and doing as she requests is easier than talking, but he still has visible trouble even starting to remove the visor. After a moment, he seems to resolve himself, bending a little so that he can bring his hands to the side of his headgear and release the buckles. There's a little hiss as the tubes on either side of his face disconnect, and he unfastens the mount so he can pull the whole arrangement off his head in two pieces once the mask is off.
Finally, he sets the equipment aside and looks up, meeting her eyes for the first time without the visor in between. He can only imagine how disheveled and exhausted and aged he looks. 76 feels exposed and scrutinized and uncomfortably vulnerable almost instantly, but he tells himself that if he can't offer her words, he can give her this.]
[Don't argue with her, Jack. Not this time. She watches him struggle with it, but she's willing to be as patient as he needs if it means he'll do as she asks. It can't be easy, and when he finally reaches up to start working the equipment off, she finds herself holding her breath. She knows better than to expect the man she remembers- the scars and the white hair speak easily enough for the changes that time has wrought, but it hardly matters. This is what she wants; it's what she's been wanting for six years.
Then he looks up at her and another omnic could have come crashing through their building and she doesn't think she would have noticed or cared. Her breath leaves her along with a small, wordless little noise and she presses a hand to her mouth if only to keep the rest of the sob contained. There are as many emotional lines carved into his face as scars and he no longer strikes the clean-cut image as he once had, but the strong jaw is still the same and not even the dark circles under them can dull the brilliant blue of his eyes.
When she lowers her hand, she's smiling for what feels like the first time in forever.]
Mein Gott, I've missed you...
[She's not sure she even realizes that she's said it out loud, reaching out across the space between them for his fingers. Nothing else seems to matter in the wake of this, the swell of her heart for him leaving no room for anything else other than the undiluted happiness at just seeing his face again. It's a fact she won't deny that things... hadn't worked out between them in the past for an incredibly foolish list of reasons, but it never meant that she had ever stopped caring. Even now, when he had driven her nearly to tears and she was ready to throw his jacket back in his face, all it takes is that simple raw look in his eyes.
It won't last forever, but right now she doesn't care.]
now that i have exhausted my one visorless icon...
[The coffin in Arlington might be physically empty, but there's plenty buried in it, as far as he's concerned. The way she looks at him and nearly sobs digs it all back up, because as much as he convinces himself otherwise for the sake of his ultimate goal, he's missed her, too. He has far too many regrets to properly catalogue them all, but never exactly figuring out how to make things work with her so many years ago is most certainly one of them.]
I'm not who you knew. I ain't the same.
[It sounds a little silly to say, because obviously none of them are the same, not after Overwatch went down, but on some level, he considers himself irreparably broken. Some fundamental part of him crumbled with HQ, and he'll never be able to get it back. She needs to know that, before she thinks otherwise and gets hurt, and he needs to remind himself, too, before he gets caught up in the past. 76 has come to terms with what he's become (even if what he's become is little more than a rage-fueled revenge machine), but he wants to keep that away from her if at all possible.
She slips from anger to something much softer too easily, and when she smiles, of all things, reaching out to take his hands, he almost wishes she'd just hate him.]
[A part of her knows it's probably not healthy what he does to her, but she's never really gotten over it and she's taken enough of an emotional thrashing today that she doesn't have the will left to fight it. It's a delirious sort of feeling, detached from everything else and thrust upon her without much more than a token objection, a smothering happiness that she's willing to let wash over her for now. Like all things bright and fierce, she knows eventually it will burn itself out.]
I know.
[She tangles her fingers with his because he's not stopping her, desperate for the contact, regardless of how small it is, just to stave off the disappointment a little while longer. She's not sure if she'll ever really forgive him for what he's done, or what he continues to do in the name of whatever cause he's chained himself to now, but dear god, just let her set it aside for now and pretend the world isn't as awful as it is. Let her lose herself one last time in what it feels like to look at him and remember the good times.
He tries to apologize and she just shakes her head. She's not really sure he means it and it's pointless if she's not going to believe it. She knows she's never getting back the old Jack and whatever his reservations about that are now, he's made it clear that regret isn't going to change anything. She can feel that little flame of happiness in her chest starting to gutter, the dark creeping back in, and the cruelty of it finally forces out the tears she's been holding back along with a short, broken laugh.]
You've still got that cowlick, though.
[Don't go. Don't go please don't go- just stay with her a little while longer. She tugs on his hands, as if having him closer could somehow keep all the awful things at bay when she knows it's only inviting them in.]
[As soon as Angela mentions his hair, he instinctively scrubs a hand through it, as if trying to tame the offending strands. He's generally a little scruffy, nowadays--it comes with the territory when you're internationally wanted and don't have consistent access to shampoo. There's a noise in the back of his throat that might be a laugh, but it's not a very nice sound, almost like he's forgotten how it's supposed to go.
She starts crying and he's at a loss, but what else had he expected, really? He finds himself wishing again for her to be angry. Anger, at least, is something he knows how to deal with.]
No, no. Hey. C'mere.
[76 unlaces his fingers and opens his arms to her, letting her get closer if she likes. He doesn't exactly know what else to do.
This isn't good for either of them, and he knows he shouldn't be letting himself do this (because it is extremely temporary, and he is going to disappear again sooner rather than later), but he can't stand to see her this way, especially when he's responsible for it. Maybe that's selfish, but at least it's selfishness of a different kind.
It's been a very, very long time since he's allowed himself this close to someone, and this, like everything else, is hard.]
[She's fairly certain that the only way he's going to be getting rid of that unruly bit of hair is when it finally falls out. Which is wistful thinking, no doubt; does he even expect to live that long? Not likely, but it's still a small, familiar comfort watching him fuss over it.
She doesn't expect him to be the one that offers when he releases her hands to let her in, but it's all he has to do and she's answering with barely any hesitation. Her headpiece is unclipped and set on the table as she curls into his lap, legs crosswise to his over the side of the chair and her face pressed into the crook of his neck. She lets him fill her senses until she could almost pretend that they're not in a borrowed house in the middle of some remote, war-torn village, that he doesn't have at least a dozen stitches in his side and she's not counting down the hours until the UN comes looking. It might have been a convincing illusion, but she can still smell the blood and sweat; feel the way his injured rib changes the rhythm of his breathing in the rise and fall of his chest under her shoulders. But it's enough to make a difference.
She lets his shirt soak up her tears, clenching her fingers into the fabric and hanging on. He'd told her that it wasn't safe- that he wasn't safe, but there's never been any place that she's felt more secure than in his arms and that hasn't changed. He's just a little rougher around the edges now, literally and figuratively.
Stubble scratches her palm when she cups his jaw and lifts her head, the last of her tears left on his shoulder. She'd cried for him at the memorial, as had many others, but since then she hadn't allowed herself anything more. She likes to imagine that their commander wouldn't have wanted them to be paralyzed by grief.
There's a hollow sort of ache that settles in to replace the sadness and the panic, a knowledge that in a few hours this is all going to be over and they'll be alone again. Is it wrong to want more before their time comes to an end? After so long and everything he's been through, would he even still want her? Would it be a comfort to him? Her fingertips draw a line down the edge of his jaw to his chin and she tilts her face closer to his, her breath on his lips and nose nudging against his. When she speaks, her voice is little better than a whisper.]
[She sinks into him, and for a moment his arms hover over her, like he isn't quite sure where he's supposed to put them, but he remembers in time, slowly pulling into her as she does the same. He's tentative at first, moving as though he's worried about doing the wrong thing, but after a moment all of the tenseness in his chest and shoulders seems to dissipate as he wraps his arms around her. She fits in his embrace too well, and all of the memories that he tried to bury with the man he used to be come back all at once. He lets his forehead fall against her shoulder, most definitely in spite of himself.
The thing that's been twisting his insides pulls back and punches straight through once he realizes how well they still fit together, her face buried in his shirt. When he feels her crying he wraps his arms tighter around her, trying to provide some modicum of comfort in a situation where there can't possibly be any. He tries to focus on the sound of her breathing against him, punctuated with sobs and shudders as it is. He wishes there was more he could do--holding her will have to be enough.
It's not until he feels her hand against his face that he looks up and realizes she's asking him to stay.]
2200?
[That's the time she'd given her UN contact, and presumably, how long they'd hypothetically have. The fact that they're holed up in an abandoned house will buy them some time, unless she has some kind of GPS or tracking on her.
Her face is so close that it seems almost pointless to act like he's not even considering taking the air out from between them.]
[The strength of his embrace is more than she could have asked for, more than she expected when he'd been so resistant before. It doesn't solve anything, but it doesn't need to. Nothing was going to fix what's happened, all they can do is make the most of it.]
2200.
[Her hand slides down from his shoulder, tracing out the shape of his bicep where it's pressed to her side. Even if time had swallowed the finer details, she still remembers how it had felt to be in his arms, safe and cared for. It's not the same now and it never will be, but there are still echoes of what was, scraps left over that they put to use.
She kisses the corner of his mouth, just a lingering press of lips at first, then the barest touch of her tongue before the next kiss that drags over his lower lip. Inviting, quietly, with the words murmured against his skin.]
[Kind of an understatement. It's hard to tell whether or not he means that as a joke, but there's some self-depreciation in it. 76 has spent a lot of time completely on his own in recent years, to the point where he's not sure how good he is at dealing with people anymore--to say nothing of actual intimacy.
He has to remind himself that she's not going to care if he's rusty. She's just happy (happy?) enough that he's here and alive and not running out the door and off to god knows where. With that thought in mind, it's easier to meet her. Tentatively, at first, and maybe a little unpracticed from lack of use, but he seems to remember what to do after she tells him to make it count. That much he's good at.
His hand slides from her shoulder to the small of her back as he starts to kiss her in return, an ache in his chest all at once becoming overwhelming as he realizes how much he missed this.]
let me know if I should change anything here, I just sorta ran with it.
[Definitely happy, if the way she smiles against his mouth before he finds his bearings is any indication. It seems like it's been forever and god he feels good right now, rusty or not; just the sheer physical presence of him that soothes the old wound made all those years ago. She's willing to stumble through this together with him if it means he stays- if she can kiss and hold him- remind the both of them of how it had felt to move together as one and not worry about anything else beyond what their bodies wanted.
He presses his hand against her back and she leans up into him with a short little sound in the back of her throat, fingers abandoning his chin to card back through his hair. It doesn't matter that they're both out of practice, she doesn't need some grand, earth-shattering clash of mouths, just his lips pressed to hers to know that he's willing to try.
When she does finally pull back, it's reluctantly, and she peppers little kisses down his chin and jaw, delighting in the rough feeling of his stubble. She wants more, but she's still locked in her suit, a necessity in the middle of a battlefield, but far less convenient for much else.]
No complaints so far.
[She nips at his chin before sliding from his lap, her hands pressed to his chest to keep him where he is. She's never been very good at this, even when they were together, but with any luck he's forgotten about that and she'll be off the hook. On the other hand, what she has gotten good at is dealing with the intricacies of the suit on her own.
The harness holding the wings unclips from her shoulders along with the high collar and she can't help the small sigh of relief when it comes free and she can set it aside. Having it gone means the entire top part of the suit can come apart down the center and she honestly does her best to make something of it, fingers hooking into the top collar and sliding down slowly through the seam, between her breasts--her back arching subtly to give them a little lift--and over her stomach, exposing the black bodysuit underneath. She's actually quite proud of herself, looking down at him with hooded eyes, her lower lip held between her teeth.
She has every intent of finishing up and letting the whole thing fall away (it's all quite the sensual display in her head) which means that she manages to completely forget about the last two hidden buckles at the very bottom. Her fingers catch, the suit doesn't move, and the whole show comes to a brilliant halt. Typical. It leaves her fumbling, yanking at the clasps and cursing under her breath. By the time she manages it, she's so frustrated with herself and the suit that she just unceremoniously pulls it off her shoulders and tosses it aside.]
...I imagined that going a little differently.
no it's so good i was totally thinking about how he would not be able to get her out of that
[It's so easy to all but melt into her, almost disturbing in how effortless it is. All the barriers he'd put in place seem to mean absolutely nothing now, and it's abundantly clear in a singular instant that it doesn't matter how deep he buried Jack Morrison. Years of effort suddenly seem entirely futile and he parts his lips for her, deepening the kiss into something more desperate, hot and open-mouthed as she tangles fingers in his hair.
76 feels like he's only just started when she pulls away and slips off his lap, leaving him hanging almost comically as he keeps his arms open with nothing in them. He lowers them after a moment but his eyebrows are pinched together, wondering if this was maybe something he did, until he realizes that she's just getting rid of her gear.
He's still a little bewildered about how this went from tearful reunion to suggestive dis-armoring, but once he figures out what she's doing, he can't take his eyes off her. 76 might be a little out of practice when it comes to actual interaction with other people, but it's hard not to pick up on the subtle way she curves her body as she unfastens the wings and the chest piece.
Or tries to. Confusion gives way to the realization that she's forgotten some buckles, and he makes the noise that might be a laugh again. It sounds a little better this time--more genuine, like he's remembering how to do it.]
I wouldn't have been able to get you outta that.
[So it's a good thing she's taking care of it, even if it's not as graceful as she perhaps intended. He can't even bring himself to care because that's not what matters, and maybe this is his attempt at a joke, albeit said very dryly. 76 stands, closing the distance between them with one stride and slides his hands down her sides before settling them on her hips.]
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bakerstreet2016-06-16 03:59 pm
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.]
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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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Angela--
[It's almost a protest, but he barely gets her name in edgewise and she's right that he owes her, and doing as she requests is easier than talking, but he still has visible trouble even starting to remove the visor. After a moment, he seems to resolve himself, bending a little so that he can bring his hands to the side of his headgear and release the buckles. There's a little hiss as the tubes on either side of his face disconnect, and he unfastens the mount so he can pull the whole arrangement off his head in two pieces once the mask is off.
Finally, he sets the equipment aside and looks up, meeting her eyes for the first time without the visor in between. He can only imagine how disheveled and exhausted and aged he looks. 76 feels exposed and scrutinized and uncomfortably vulnerable almost instantly, but he tells himself that if he can't offer her words, he can give her this.]
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Then he looks up at her and another omnic could have come crashing through their building and she doesn't think she would have noticed or cared. Her breath leaves her along with a small, wordless little noise and she presses a hand to her mouth if only to keep the rest of the sob contained. There are as many emotional lines carved into his face as scars and he no longer strikes the clean-cut image as he once had, but the strong jaw is still the same and not even the dark circles under them can dull the brilliant blue of his eyes.
When she lowers her hand, she's smiling for what feels like the first time in forever.]
Mein Gott, I've missed you...
[She's not sure she even realizes that she's said it out loud, reaching out across the space between them for his fingers. Nothing else seems to matter in the wake of this, the swell of her heart for him leaving no room for anything else other than the undiluted happiness at just seeing his face again. It's a fact she won't deny that things... hadn't worked out between them in the past for an incredibly foolish list of reasons, but it never meant that she had ever stopped caring. Even now, when he had driven her nearly to tears and she was ready to throw his jacket back in his face, all it takes is that simple raw look in his eyes.
It won't last forever, but right now she doesn't care.]
now that i have exhausted my one visorless icon...
I'm not who you knew. I ain't the same.
[It sounds a little silly to say, because obviously none of them are the same, not after Overwatch went down, but on some level, he considers himself irreparably broken. Some fundamental part of him crumbled with HQ, and he'll never be able to get it back. She needs to know that, before she thinks otherwise and gets hurt, and he needs to remind himself, too, before he gets caught up in the past. 76 has come to terms with what he's become (even if what he's become is little more than a rage-fueled revenge machine), but he wants to keep that away from her if at all possible.
She slips from anger to something much softer too easily, and when she smiles, of all things, reaching out to take his hands, he almost wishes she'd just hate him.]
I'm sorry.
the visor IS his face...
I know.
[She tangles her fingers with his because he's not stopping her, desperate for the contact, regardless of how small it is, just to stave off the disappointment a little while longer. She's not sure if she'll ever really forgive him for what he's done, or what he continues to do in the name of whatever cause he's chained himself to now, but dear god, just let her set it aside for now and pretend the world isn't as awful as it is. Let her lose herself one last time in what it feels like to look at him and remember the good times.
He tries to apologize and she just shakes her head. She's not really sure he means it and it's pointless if she's not going to believe it. She knows she's never getting back the old Jack and whatever his reservations about that are now, he's made it clear that regret isn't going to change anything. She can feel that little flame of happiness in her chest starting to gutter, the dark creeping back in, and the cruelty of it finally forces out the tears she's been holding back along with a short, broken laugh.]
You've still got that cowlick, though.
[Don't go. Don't go please don't go- just stay with her a little while longer. She tugs on his hands, as if having him closer could somehow keep all the awful things at bay when she knows it's only inviting them in.]
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She starts crying and he's at a loss, but what else had he expected, really? He finds himself wishing again for her to be angry. Anger, at least, is something he knows how to deal with.]
No, no. Hey. C'mere.
[76 unlaces his fingers and opens his arms to her, letting her get closer if she likes. He doesn't exactly know what else to do.
This isn't good for either of them, and he knows he shouldn't be letting himself do this (because it is extremely temporary, and he is going to disappear again sooner rather than later), but he can't stand to see her this way, especially when he's responsible for it. Maybe that's selfish, but at least it's selfishness of a different kind.
It's been a very, very long time since he's allowed himself this close to someone, and this, like everything else, is hard.]
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She doesn't expect him to be the one that offers when he releases her hands to let her in, but it's all he has to do and she's answering with barely any hesitation. Her headpiece is unclipped and set on the table as she curls into his lap, legs crosswise to his over the side of the chair and her face pressed into the crook of his neck. She lets him fill her senses until she could almost pretend that they're not in a borrowed house in the middle of some remote, war-torn village, that he doesn't have at least a dozen stitches in his side and she's not counting down the hours until the UN comes looking. It might have been a convincing illusion, but she can still smell the blood and sweat; feel the way his injured rib changes the rhythm of his breathing in the rise and fall of his chest under her shoulders. But it's enough to make a difference.
She lets his shirt soak up her tears, clenching her fingers into the fabric and hanging on. He'd told her that it wasn't safe- that he wasn't safe, but there's never been any place that she's felt more secure than in his arms and that hasn't changed. He's just a little rougher around the edges now, literally and figuratively.
Stubble scratches her palm when she cups his jaw and lifts her head, the last of her tears left on his shoulder. She'd cried for him at the memorial, as had many others, but since then she hadn't allowed herself anything more. She likes to imagine that their commander wouldn't have wanted them to be paralyzed by grief.
There's a hollow sort of ache that settles in to replace the sadness and the panic, a knowledge that in a few hours this is all going to be over and they'll be alone again. Is it wrong to want more before their time comes to an end? After so long and everything he's been through, would he even still want her? Would it be a comfort to him? Her fingertips draw a line down the edge of his jaw to his chin and she tilts her face closer to his, her breath on his lips and nose nudging against his. When she speaks, her voice is little better than a whisper.]
Stay. Just for a few hours.
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The thing that's been twisting his insides pulls back and punches straight through once he realizes how well they still fit together, her face buried in his shirt. When he feels her crying he wraps his arms tighter around her, trying to provide some modicum of comfort in a situation where there can't possibly be any. He tries to focus on the sound of her breathing against him, punctuated with sobs and shudders as it is. He wishes there was more he could do--holding her will have to be enough.
It's not until he feels her hand against his face that he looks up and realizes she's asking him to stay.]
2200?
[That's the time she'd given her UN contact, and presumably, how long they'd hypothetically have. The fact that they're holed up in an abandoned house will buy them some time, unless she has some kind of GPS or tracking on her.
Her face is so close that it seems almost pointless to act like he's not even considering taking the air out from between them.]
Until they come looking.
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2200.
[Her hand slides down from his shoulder, tracing out the shape of his bicep where it's pressed to her side. Even if time had swallowed the finer details, she still remembers how it had felt to be in his arms, safe and cared for. It's not the same now and it never will be, but there are still echoes of what was, scraps left over that they put to use.
She kisses the corner of his mouth, just a lingering press of lips at first, then the barest touch of her tongue before the next kiss that drags over his lower lip. Inviting, quietly, with the words murmured against his skin.]
Make it count, soldier.
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[Kind of an understatement. It's hard to tell whether or not he means that as a joke, but there's some self-depreciation in it. 76 has spent a lot of time completely on his own in recent years, to the point where he's not sure how good he is at dealing with people anymore--to say nothing of actual intimacy.
He has to remind himself that she's not going to care if he's rusty. She's just happy (happy?) enough that he's here and alive and not running out the door and off to god knows where. With that thought in mind, it's easier to meet her. Tentatively, at first, and maybe a little unpracticed from lack of use, but he seems to remember what to do after she tells him to make it count. That much he's good at.
His hand slides from her shoulder to the small of her back as he starts to kiss her in return, an ache in his chest all at once becoming overwhelming as he realizes how much he missed this.]
let me know if I should change anything here, I just sorta ran with it.
He presses his hand against her back and she leans up into him with a short little sound in the back of her throat, fingers abandoning his chin to card back through his hair. It doesn't matter that they're both out of practice, she doesn't need some grand, earth-shattering clash of mouths, just his lips pressed to hers to know that he's willing to try.
When she does finally pull back, it's reluctantly, and she peppers little kisses down his chin and jaw, delighting in the rough feeling of his stubble. She wants more, but she's still locked in her suit, a necessity in the middle of a battlefield, but far less convenient for much else.]
No complaints so far.
[She nips at his chin before sliding from his lap, her hands pressed to his chest to keep him where he is. She's never been very good at this, even when they were together, but with any luck he's forgotten about that and she'll be off the hook. On the other hand, what she has gotten good at is dealing with the intricacies of the suit on her own.
The harness holding the wings unclips from her shoulders along with the high collar and she can't help the small sigh of relief when it comes free and she can set it aside. Having it gone means the entire top part of the suit can come apart down the center and she honestly does her best to make something of it, fingers hooking into the top collar and sliding down slowly through the seam, between her breasts--her back arching subtly to give them a little lift--and over her stomach, exposing the black bodysuit underneath. She's actually quite proud of herself, looking down at him with hooded eyes, her lower lip held between her teeth.
She has every intent of finishing up and letting the whole thing fall away (it's all quite the sensual display in her head) which means that she manages to completely forget about the last two hidden buckles at the very bottom. Her fingers catch, the suit doesn't move, and the whole show comes to a brilliant halt. Typical. It leaves her fumbling, yanking at the clasps and cursing under her breath. By the time she manages it, she's so frustrated with herself and the suit that she just unceremoniously pulls it off her shoulders and tosses it aside.]
...I imagined that going a little differently.
no it's so good i was totally thinking about how he would not be able to get her out of that
76 feels like he's only just started when she pulls away and slips off his lap, leaving him hanging almost comically as he keeps his arms open with nothing in them. He lowers them after a moment but his eyebrows are pinched together, wondering if this was maybe something he did, until he realizes that she's just getting rid of her gear.
He's still a little bewildered about how this went from tearful reunion to suggestive dis-armoring, but once he figures out what she's doing, he can't take his eyes off her. 76 might be a little out of practice when it comes to actual interaction with other people, but it's hard not to pick up on the subtle way she curves her body as she unfastens the wings and the chest piece.
Or tries to. Confusion gives way to the realization that she's forgotten some buckles, and he makes the noise that might be a laugh again. It sounds a little better this time--more genuine, like he's remembering how to do it.]
I wouldn't have been able to get you outta that.
[So it's a good thing she's taking care of it, even if it's not as graceful as she perhaps intended. He can't even bring himself to care because that's not what matters, and maybe this is his attempt at a joke, albeit said very dryly. 76 stands, closing the distance between them with one stride and slides his hands down her sides before settling them on her hips.]
Just as well.
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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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