Chapter Text
The whole fucked up disaster in Manhattan was technically over, thank god for that. No more uncontrollably present viral hell and Wiseman team was getting the fuck out on the double for good reason. Cross was still with them, which was good. It was great. Ortega had to say that without him they'd probably fall apart.
And on the other hand, she had never felt worse for Jackson, the naturally twitchy man almost to the point of crying in discomfort and absolute fucking terror as he was sandwiched between Cross and Alex fucking Mercer. It was already bad enough that they were all tense as hell from having Cross explain they were smuggling him out under Blackwatch's nose, the whole team more or less on edge and trigger happy should he try anything. The only one who hadn't readily pulled a gun on Mercer had been Jackson, probaby because he'd been stuck processing just what the hell was going on when Mercer ended up sitting right next to him as the "safe" option. Right about now the kid was most likely actually crying under his helmet which is why he was refusing to take it off, objecting as much as possible while Cross kept casting him sideways glances after having made the suggestion he should. In Jackson's defense, Ortega wouldn't have wanted to see death incarnate clearly if it were sitting right next to her. Especially since it was right next to him. He, she reminded herself, Mercer was a he. By no means was Jackson unable to keep it together in the field; He could be a right terror but the kid really couldn't handle anything off it most nights. The constant twitch to his hands and the rapid jerking of his eyes made for a mess most times. There were things he couldn’t handle easily on a social standpoint; He had a stutter that got worse the longer anyone stared at him and was oftentimes bad with cues. He reminded Ortega of her younger brother which is probably why she tried to keep him close to her.
Jennings thought it was hilarious until she'd broken his nose. Then followed him down. Then had to be pulled off him by Cross. It was worth slumming it through shit patrol later to see the pale man apologize through a fat lip and blackened eye.
Still, back to the current issue. Mercer. He kept casting sideways glances at Jackson, causing him to tense every time and it was like it was like watching a feedback loop; Mercer looked at Jackson, Jackson would tense, Mercer would tense. Even Cross seemed aware that the nerves of one were bouncing off the other, ready to intercept. They were winding each other up and the last thing Ortega wanted was to be in a carrier with a skittish, twitchy, wound up virus and a skittish, twitchy, wound up teammate. Looking around, she could see Perez and Smith watching as subtly as they could as they attempted to play cards, Moore completely uninterested in all goings on as usual from her seat next to them while helping Perez cheat over Smith's shoulder. Lee and Flemming were too busy sleeping, leaning on each other in a way that was bound to have them yelling about the drool they were both getting on each other later. Great, it figured she'd have to-
"Jackson," jolting at the barking voice next to her and sudden movement, Ortega blinked in surprise as Jennings stood up, "Swap seats with me before you make Mercer lose his shit."
There was a brief moment when the younger looked over at Cross, almost as if asking permission. The older man simply nodded at him and with the go ahead he was up like a shot, stumbling over and almost colliding with Jennings' significantly larger form. A large hand on his shoulder stopped him, Jennings leaning over and muttering something that had the kid nodding feverishly. A rough pat to the shoulder and he was free to take the man's spot next to her on the bench. Jennings had no problem sauntering over and throwing himself next to a confused Mercer, grinning at him and loosing an overconfident 'Sup' that got him a look of skepticism and a quiet, suspicious nod in greeting back. As soon as he was settled, Jackson seemed to relax a bit, leg twitching every now and then while playing with the fidget cube he usually kept in one of his side pockets.
With that, everything seemed to seep back to a more than willing silence. Ortega looked over to meet Cross's own look, raising his eyebrow as if to say 'what can you do'. What could she do indeed.