Archive of Our Own ^beta

They’re arguing out in the hall. Angela is terrified they’re going to come in and argue in here, too.

She shouldn’t be so easily shaken by the sound of it. Lord knows it isn’t novel to hear, but it’s late, and the noise fills the space of the medical wing, and Gabriel Reyes frightens her. Were it anybody else, she would lean out of the door and ask nicely if it were possible to keep the noise down, if only for the sake of the others.

If she is honest with herself, though, as she always tries to be, she lacks the nerve. The last thing she would like is for the shouting match to turn on her.

So, Angela turns back to the sudoku square she’s on, or tries to, bothered immensely by the distraction --and bothered even more when she hears Jack speak. Even with his voice raised, there’s such a dignity to it, and she thinks that nothing terribly bad could ever happen as long as he remains to hand.

It goes on like that for another few minutes, until despair of all despairs, she hears an uncharacteristically gentle tap on her door.

Were it any other night, one of the other staff would be in to handle it, but alas --she has the pleasure of being in to handle things tonight, which seems only fair, given that she didn’t have to do the routine physicals after an operation earlier this afternoon.

Clearly, somebody has a complaint, so she turns in her chair, and tries to sound bright when she says, “Come in.”

The first face to appear in the door is not Gabriel Reyes’, but Jack’s, instead, and Angela feels a warmth she chalks up to relief to see his genial, silent nod as he steps in. It’s downtime for everybody else, and Jack is in plainclothes, the short sleeves of his shirt only accentuating his broadness. He fills the door, yet never intimidates her.

Behind him, looking far more stoic, is Gabriel. He doesn’t look at Angela right away as she rises to greet the, his eyes on the back of Jack’s skull with a sort of gravity that’s always there. He watches the other man take a seat with his arms folded, still standing in the door, and then just --just departs, without fanfare or explanation.

It’s short wonder he always makes her so nervous. Angela doesn’t understand Reyes at all. But Jack, sitting in front of her, now; she feels like she understands him. Or, at least, would like to.

It’s what makes her so perpetually tongue-tied when she folds her hands in her lap and says, “Good evening, Jack.”

Warmly, as if his voice has never been raised in his life, Jack says, “I’m sorry to call on you so late, Miss Ziegler.”

The formality of it feels so familiar. It makes Angela feel even more enfeebled, and then all she can say is, “That’s --I don’t mind at all.” Even to her own ears, it sounds so silly that she swallows, quietly, and brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to sound smarter when she says, “What seems to be the problem?”

Despite her own internal frustrations at herself, Jack doesn’t seem to notice a bit. He looks rather more concerned with taking up the leg of the pants to expose his shin, where his injury lies. Angela doesn’t follow his line of sight right away, looking at his face, at first, and the blonde of his eyelashes when his head dips.

There isn’t too much to see anyway. The expanse of skin (warm, probably) at the front of the leg is interrupted by a short but sudden gash, deep enough to have hit bone. The damage isn’t easy to assess immediately from the way the wound has wept and bled upon itself, but it’s clear to see it would be painful. She leans forward, closer to him, now, looking up at his face as her hands move.

“May I?” She asks. Jack nods, and she grasps the underside of his calf to maneuver the wound into a slightly better light. The edges look inflamed enough, running across at a neat angle at about four inches long, if not longer. It’s certainly not new. Without thinking, she hears herself chastising him, “Why didn’t you have this looked at sooner?”

It sounds so brash to her own ears that she follows up the statement quickly with a meeker tone. “This injury must be a few hours old, at least. You must have been in pain.”

If she had sounded brash, Jack either didn’t notice or forgives her, immediately, and Angela couldn’t muster the will to hold anything against him when he says, simply, “I must have picked it up this morning. I didn’t notice until it felt damp.” At the words, Angela finds herself studying it again. Some of the bone there is surely implicated in the injury. If it were anybody else, needless to say, blood would not be the first giveaway. “I didn’t think it was serious, but Reyes--...”

So that’s what they were arguing about. The acoustics of the hall had obscured the words too much for Angela to eavesdrop, which she had been trying her best not to do anyway. She thinks of Gabriel’s looming, serious presence in the door and is surprised by Jack’s words --to say purely the least of his bravery, too.

“You did the right thing by coming here.” She says, turning away in the chair to access his record on the terminal. “I hesitate to say that Commander Reyes was quite right.”

Jack lets out a short breath that could be laughter, something of pleasure in his eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Of course.” He says, without any malice at all. “You should tell him. He’d love to hear that.”

She finishes the line she’s typing and dips her head, slightly. “Perhaps you should.” She says, staring at the midspace ahead of her and enjoying the intimacy of his presence as one does when divulging anything personal. “To be truthful, I find him very intimidating.”

At that, Jack laughs in earnest and she smiles where he cannot see, immediately gratified. The sound is golden. The moment he stops laughing, she wants to hear it again. “There’s no need to be afraid of him, Angela. You’re the one with the needle.”

It’s a noticeable migration from ‘Miss Ziegler’ and honestly, she could forgo formality entirely if she gets to hear him sound so fond every time he says her name. Angela hears herself laugh, full of pleasure herself. She turns, then to face him, and feels embarrassment take her again slightly when she continues, “You don’t find him a little- you know--”

He laughs, again, and shakes his head. Before he speaks, he lets out a little sigh like he enjoys the concept so very much. “I wouldn’t worry about Gabriel.” Jack says, gently, looking at her as if he really means it. “He’s --you have nothing to worry about.”

His smile leaves her even more tongue-tied, and she wonders, briefly, if she’ll have the executive function to say anything at all before her brain catches up with her and she manages to nod. “Well, I’ll take your word for it.” Flustered once more, she rises and gestures towards the examination bed, sterile but comfortable, with a single pillow at rest on it.

Angela doesn’t need to say anything before Jack rises attentively to it, setting himself down without fuss. To be honest, she’s grateful to be occupied with work before she can make a greater fool of herself. This is her element, she knows, and the practise of the routine is what keeps her hands steady as she prepares her relevant materials.

As she does, she finds herself hesitating over an analgesic. It’s usually the first thing she reaches for. Over her shoulder, she asks him, “Do you want something for the pain?”

He shakes his head gently. “It’s fine.”

Angela turns away again and wonders if he’d ever ask. It’s not as if he’s the first man in the room with her to make a show of bravado, but none of them are quite Jack’s --calibre, for lack of better phrasing. He doesn’t seem like the type for bravado anyway, she thinks. Modesty is just another way to lie, and Jack doesn’t seem to have a dishonest bone in his body.

She inches her chair over to work from sitting, wiping away at the obscuring fluids with a gentle hand. Resistance is all part of the job: being cursed at, hearing hisses of pain and reflexive jolts that can make an apprehensive touch suddenly worse, but there are none to be found there. Jack is at a lazy sort of peace, it seems, and when Angela moves, he moves with her.

As she works, she can feel his gaze upon her. One of her hands comes up, at once point, to his knee to better steady herself, and it thrills her slightly. He feels warm even through the fabric, and Angela wonders how she feels to Jack, briefly. The thoughts worm their way through despite how focused she remains.

After all, they’re professionals, she knows, and every word out of that realm is a collect call at his expense. Angela doesn’t think she could imagine anything worse than preventing his work.

So, she pulls herself to the task at hand. It’s easy given the simplicity of it, and once she’s dealt with the more serious parts of the injury --the deepest parts, the rest is straightforward enough. It takes a little time, and she has to switch now and then between cleaning the wound and working with it. Now and then, she takes glance up to be sure that he’s not in the slightest bit of pain, but he never seems to be. No, if anything, he looks quite comfortable, leaning back and blinking lazily.

She seals it shut with stitches as the yellow field of light does the rest, turning his skin golden, and her hands where they’re touching, so that they match. The thought is so silly that she has to look up at him again, for the first time in about fifteen minutes, wondering if it’s somehow obvious.

But it’s not, and even if it was, it hardly matters. She looks up to find him sleeping, shut-eyed, head at an angle, peace in his features.

The irony doesn’t even register to Angela at first. It’s so --so surprising to her, at first, followed quickly by the hot sensation of embarrassment. She tells herself to look away as a professional courtesy to them both. To spare the awkwardness, but she doesn’t.

There’s nobody else waiting out in the hall, she knows. It’s the quietest time of the late night, and though she should wake him or get back to her sudoku square or do something beyond stewing in her schoolgirl crush, she doesn’t .

No, instead, she allows herself a minute of it --she promises to herself, a minute and nothing more to leave the tools where they are, and leave Jack where he is. It’s a kindness, she justifies it to herself. The day he must have had --goodness, the life . Jack has earned his rest and it would be worse to wake him, wouldn’t it? It would just be needless.

And it’s not like he’s doing her any harm, at rest on the bed, the sound of his breathing as steady as the tide drawing in. It’s not like she’s doing anything wrong at all, letting him be, looking over his form and thinking that he is unlike anything she’s ever seen before. He’s so broad and full, but in a neat, intricate way that could never be interpreted as clumsy. His skin is unmarred, and warm, from the bare of his ankle to his hemingway jaw.

Close as she is, she can smell his skin, the sandalwood soap and clean linen there. She wonders if his hair smells the same way, wheat-blonde, cropped well but mussed in that charming, accidental way.

Angela has to look away, then. For every second she looks at him in longing, she feels shame spike in her, remembering how hard she has worked to get and stay here. Knowing all she wants to achieve --all the good she wants to do. It’s juvenile to get caught up some fantasy. Worse than that: reckless, even, and selfish.

It’s not as if Jack would ever compromise his team and leadership for something so petty as romance. And Angela --she wouldn’t ask him to. Unless...unless he wanted her to.

She looks at him again and wonders desperately what is in his head. If his familiarity with her is something more than his nature. If the way he looks when he smiles at her, or jokes with her, or says her name in that way (softly, intimately) it could mean something. That he remembers their talks, and asks about her --Jack, the Strike Commander, somebody so important. Doesn’t that mean something? Isn’t that--..?

Goodness, even to herself, the circular logic is boring. Angela wishes she could be done with it all. She wishes she could discard the matter as easily as she treated Jack’s injury. It’s not for lack of trying, or wishing desperately to grow out of it.

Yet, here she is, teenage as ever, drawing slightly closer to his sleeping form to look at him better in the light, because his lips are slightly parted and she feels like she’s helpless but to come closer. She wonders how he kisses before she can even help herself --if he’s tender, and loving, and experienced.

By now she’s closer than before, leant right over him, her breath hitching and tremulous, able to feel the warmth of his breath, thereabouts, on her face, and she feels bold enough to lift a hand, shaking as it is.

And that’s as far as she gets, before the door opens, suddenly, and Jesse staggers through the door and says, “Doc, you don’t--...” But gets no further. He doesn’t have to.

Jack wakes, startled. His eyes open as Angela steps back in fright. Her hand comes up to her chest to ease the sudden, knifelike breaths that come out of her, and Jesse surveys the suspense of it all, and the sudden humiliation that colours her red from his place in the door.

Steadying herself, feeling hot and dizzy with shame, Angela brushes her skirt down curtly and clears her throat, trying to pull back some thread of authority that Jesse just pulled from under her feet. Lost, she goes back over to the terminal in order to avoid facing Jack, who for the most part, seems disoriented himself.

In her periphery, she can make out his form as he leans to look at where his wound had been before going to stand. The room is still silent. Nobody seems to have the nerve to make the tension better or worse, and she’s left wondering if Jack knows --or what the intruder in the room has seen.

Jack remains impossible to interpret when he coughs, himself, and says, “Thank-you, Angela.” In a strange, pinched tone, looking too awkward for a man of his stature. He remains in the middle of the room for a second longer than is necessary, perhaps deciding on something he never makes clear, before he says, “I’ll just--...”

He crosses the silent room and the sound of each footstep is enough to pain her. It seems worse, somehow, to leave it like that --to act the part of guilt, so Angela tries to redeem herself by saying, “Don’t hesitate to seek treatment next time.”

No --the moment she says it, she knows that the words make it all the worse. Angela feels so exposed, suddenly, and it’s no grace or help at all that Jesse of all people is there to spectate, holding a lean in the door with this look on his face that’s all quiet with amusement.

He doesn’t even give any mercy to Jack, who passes him in the door, leaving so as not to prolong to agony of it. No, Jesse nods his head to him with a cavalier little smile, and goes out of his way to address the other man, “ Commander. ”

Angela can’t even bear to witness it, and is thankful to look away when she hears an uncharacteristically terse, “McCree.”

That’s the last and worst of it, and then Jack is gone and Angela is leaning hard on the terminal desk, hearing Jesse come in and shut the door but unable to do anything else. He doesn’t press her in the same way, and instead, she hears him sit, sighing as if in sudden comfort, but saying nothing more.

Angela still has a duty of care to fulfill, no matter how she feels, and no matter how compromised she’s sure she seems. Trying to muster her tact, she takes in a breath and swallows, turning back to face Jesse and looking him pointedly between the eyes and not in them when she speaks.

“What you saw--” she begins, ironing out her voice. “The --the Commander was--”

Jesse waves one free hand, still sort of smirking. He talks with a slight shake of the head. “I didn’t see anythin’ untoward.” He says, easily. “Or t’ward , even.”

It sounds as if he’s being merciful, and Angela would be relieved by it if he wasn’t talking out of the side of his smile, like he’s seen it all, and it’s funny to him. Instead, quite mortified, she tries to justify herself in a small, but solid voice, “Most people have courtesy enough to knock.”

To say it makes her feel the slightest bit better. At least Angela isn’t the only one at a loss, here. Though Jesse looks considerably less admonished, it has to be said, leaning back in his chair and lifting his left hand with help from his right. “You mind lookin’ at this, now? I don’t fancy sleepin’ on it.”

He doesn’t say it nastily. Maybe Angela just feels so exposed, already, and so silly that he could say anything and it would injure her. She’s good enough not to let it get to her, pulling her chair back over to sit, and reaching out for the arm he’s offering her.

His wrist is an angry sort of red, with bruising likely to bloom there, soon, swollen compared to the other, but not by an alarming margin. Hurt as she still feels, she’s careful to avoid pressing where the tenderness lies, holding part of his forearm to get a look at the damage from every angle.

“How did this occur?” She asks, quietly, without looking up.

“Horseplay, y’know.” Is all he says, with a shrug. He watches her, instead of her hands, the pleasure on his face having changed, somehow. “You’re shakin’, doc.”

She withdraws, then. No more examination is necessary, anyway, but she wants to avoid Jesse’s condescension, too. Besides, she has to make a record of treatment, moving back towards the terminal to type again. Jesse is right though; she is shaking, and what’s worse than the embarrassment of it is that fact that she can’t even control her physiology even to manage.

Still, Jesse reaches out with his stronger hand, sounding softer when he murmurs, “Hey, now--”

Angela can’t bear the pity, and she gets up if only to outrun her humiliation, going towards one of the small freezers in the corner of the room to remove an icepack. It’s not a serious enough sprain to warrant much more than ise and rest, and maybe a compress. She brings it over, shaking, still, holding it out to him.

Jesse gives her a look, then, taking the ice pack without moving his eyes. “Are y’alright?”

Angela waves him off, swallowing, looking elsewhere when she says, “I suggest you rest the injury for at least two days.”

But Jesse doesn’t seem to understand how fresh her hurt is, incorrigible boy, that smile returning slightly to his open mouth. “You’re lookin’ all shook up. It’s no way to be.” Is he drawing out her misery? Is that what he’s doing. Angela strides back over to the terminal and tries to pay it no mind, but it’s all the worse when Jesse’s voice goes all gentle. “Hey, Angie, I didn’t mean anythin’--”

“That’s quite enough!” She says, abruptly, her voice raised to the terminal, not to Jesse, but the echoes of it filling the room. It’s perhaps the worst thing she could do: relinquishing what left she has of her composure over nothing, and the moment it’s over, she feels like she might well cry.

She expects Jesse to bite, at that. Or to mock her. But instead, she hears his chair creak, and watches his shadow rise in the corner of her eye, until he’s behind her, sounding softer, still; smaller. “Hey, now.” He says, again. “Commander won’t think nothin’ of it.”

It’s surprisingly tactful, and it only makes her feel worse. Angela feels her shoulders fall, and she has to take a moment to breathe before she can face him. “I’ll get you a compress.” She says, as she turns, avoiding his eyes, trying to move past him.

Jesse halts her with a hand, touching the top of her arm lightly, pulling her to stillness. “What’re you shakin’ for?” He asks her, almost whispering. Angela does look at him, then, and can’t even bear it for a second, looking, away, trying to extricate herself from him with some modicum of grace.

“Let go of me.” She says, breathlessly, tears threatening like grey ranks of cloud. But Jesse holds fast, not unkindly, with the arm that isn’t injured. He looks so concerned that it’s unendurable.

“Easy.” She hears him say, almost in warning, but she doesn’t heed it, forcing off his hand with a curt brush --and the again when he move back towards her, until she’s at the end of her tether, walled in between him and the terminal desk, trembling and teary, hissing out.

“Jesse, for goodness sake!--...” And that’s all it takes, really.

She feels the tension in her body die as she falls slack against him, her cheek pressing into the coarse fabric of his shirt, letting out a few ragged breaths, but still not daring to cry. For his part, Jesse’s arm doesn’t come up again to hold her, but he stands there, taking her weight, and saying nothing as he can sense is probably best.

Her instincts flare at the scene, hot with indignation at it all, and how the smallest and most base of her emotions has snowballed to this. But that anger is at war with the shame of it all --this helpless, cold feeling that’s heavy in her stomach. The one that makes her feel like a child. The one powerful enough that she stays there, levelling out her breathing and making room for the mortification that demands to be felt.

“I’m sorry.” She hears herself say, on a voice that has no legs. “I know this isn’t--”

“S’alright.” Jesse hums, quietly, letting her be. “You’re workin’ yourself up -- honest . This ain’t a big deal.” He says it so kindly. So squarely. God knows she isn’t due the clemency of it, or any that he’s offering to her.

Stuttering a small breath, she nods, sniffing, “I know.” She says, tears prickling her eyes, refusing to let them fall. “I --I know, I just--...I feel such a fool. ”

“What for?” The kindest thing of all is that Jesse never forces her to look at him. The last few scraps of her dignity are allowed to remain as he offers her what comfort he can. “He won’t know any better for it.”

Angela lets out another pained, shaky breath, and whimpers, “Of course he will.”

“Don’t say that.” Jesse’s quick to talk. “You’re takin’ it too much t’heart, s’all.” His good hand comes back up then, as if sensing the lack of resistance in her, pressing between her shoulder-blades gently and rubbing in a small, circular motion. “He don’t know how y’feel. He won’t think a thing of it.”

The touch is --nice, of all things. Angela doesn’t know how she would have shouldered this alone, and suddenly can’t think to, feeling Jesse’s warmth, and the familiar smell of tobacco. It still hurts, but goodness; at least it hurts less.

With her eyes closed, she murmurs to him, “Is that better?”

“Hm?”

“His ignorance.” Her voice still trembles, but her body is stiller, and she finds it in her suddenly to look up at him. But Jesse isn’t looking down at her. His eyes are on the far wall, by the snellen chart, unfocused and distant like he’s thinking of something else. “I wonder,” She whispers, swallowing, “if it wouldn’t be better to just tell him.”

His eyes don’t move. He blinks, one eye premature of the other, and his eyes suddenly shine with something more melancholy. “How long?”

Angela laughs, of all things, sharp and painful. She pulls away to drop into her chair, covering her eyes, feeling hot and vulnerable again. Jesse lets her, still stuck on the spot across the room for a few seconds, before coming back to her, taking his own seat slowly, as if he fears any sudden movement will startle her.

It takes a few seconds before she can speak. It all feels so ridiculous, but she’s convinced that if she doesn’t get it out, now, once she’s started, she never will.

So she coughs out, shakily, and swallows, “I --I liked him immediately.”

“Yeah?” It’s the brashest Jesse’s been in the last few minutes, coughing it out a little crueller than probably best.

“Yeah.” She echoes him, quietly. “O-on the second day --during the tour. He, uh--...we met. I knew who he was.” Angela feels the hell of her palm press on her eye like she’s trying to paralyse her optic nerve and never again have to face him. “I’d seen him before --you know, on the --the news.”

She swallows again, and moves her hand, looking up. Jesse looks subdued, now. He’s looking at her in a way she isn’t sure she recognises. She looks away.

“He was so --so important. And mature.” Breathlessly, she smiles. “And I liked that he wanted to help so many people.”

Jesse’s mouth tugs into this sort of smile. It looks almost pained, and Angela mirrors it, smiling despite herself, shaking her head, tears hot in her eyes and turning his image to a wobbling photo of grief.

“He never --never came onto me. He’s always so--” Exhaling, again, she looks at a bleak corner of the room. “So respectful. I feel so tongue-tied around him. I want him --to think I’m smart .”

Her chest hurts, by now, tugging her in this sharp way like it does when she feels especially tense. Like she’s waiting for something to jump out and scare her. Nothing does. Nothing comes, and Jesse is nodding to her, solemnly, looking far too much like he understands. Like he’s heard the words before.

The time occurs to her, then, when she notes the tiredness in his face, so she wipes a hand roughly at her eyes and sniffs. “I’m --it’s silly. I shouldn’t be keeping you like this.”

He still sounds so gentle --but wounded, this time, of all things, when he says, “It ain’t silly.” His eyes find hers, again, and they warm as he musters a small smile for her. “I don’t think it’s silly.”

It does comfort her, but Angela already feels as if she’s made herself far too vulnerable, and her work ethic can only allow so much, so she says, “I’ll just get your compress.” And goes to the drawer closest to the wall to find one, still new, in it’s packaging. He’s icing his wrist as she drags her chair over with her heels, taking his hand to pull the thing over his knuckles and onto the angry-looking injury. “There.” she says. “Leave it to rest, and keep ice on it.”

Jesse nods. For a usually talkative man, she finds him suddenly so quiet.

As she goes to withdraw, she watches one of his fingers trace her hand, almost shyly, and he is barely audible when he says, “S’nice to know somebody else thinks about this nonsense, too.”

Angela feels herself wanting to smile, but as she processes the statement, back at the terminal, she realises what it is he’s saying, and turns back, suddenly, too late as he’s standing, and all she can think to do is murmur, “Oh, Jesse .”

It seems only fair to comfort him, but Jesse isn’t like Jack. She knows that if she goes feeling, blindly, for a wound, she’ll do him more injury than he’ll ever admit. Bravado is all that’s gluing him together, sometimes, she doesn’t doubt, and it’s probably what he’s trying to tell her when he nods, looking suddenly so sure of himself again, a stormy sky suddenly clear.

“Guess I’ll leave you to it.” He says, and the giveaway is the clipped tone of his voice. There’s hurt, there, that he’s doing his best to hide. Angela lets him.

“Let me know if you have any other complaints.” She stands, then, too, short of his stature but content to look up, her face clearing of tears, her own pain feeling suddenly more distant. It would be too unlike her to let him go without some offer of comfort, so she says, “Come by if you need anything else.”

Jesse nods, “I’ll do that.” he says, even though they both know he’s unlikely to. Maybe Angela would chastise him if she had a leg to stand on about pride.

No, she lets him track to the door, opening it with an uncharacteristic gentleness, before she thinks of something to say. She turns, again, and calls out gently, so that the words will only stay between them.

“Is it Reyes?” She asks. Perhaps she’s asking too much, she thinks, as she watches his shoulder drop in the door. Like the words have made impact --have wounded him like a bullet terrified of blood.

Jesse doesn’t speak right away. He keeps a hand on the door-handle and it almost looks as if he’ll keep her in suspense, until his shoulders raise again, slightly, in a shrug.

“Somethin’ like that.” He says, defeatedly, but not unhappily.

It’s what he leaves her with, and then Angela is alone in the room, her cheeks still drying, her breathing still elevated slightly. She looks about helplessly for a few seconds, unsure of what to do, or where to put her hands, until she looks back down at the sudoku square she’d been working on.

A six, she realises, and fills it in with a gentle, steady pencilstroke, looking at the clean line of it on the paper.

It seems so obvious now.