That Night
Out of the forest of desire springs danger.
— The Buddha
Widowmaker greets him with her usual frown, though today the divot between her eyebrows seems deeper than usual. Reaper breezes past her, uninterested. She's quick to follow, stalking behind him with her long, arachnid gait.
"You came back empty-handed," she says, the flatness of her voice eliminating any inflection of inquiry.
"I learned enough."
"You memorized a list of agents, then. One that should be hundreds of names long."
"I have a good starting point."
"Angela Ziegler was your starting point. You killed her too quickly, then. The rest of the council won't be happy about this."
"Ziegler is still alive."
Widowmaker stops then, and he, begrudgedly, turns.
"What?" she says, icily.
"She's more valuable to us alive."
"That flitting nursemaid?"
"Trust me. We'll collect her in time. As for our next target, I expect to be led right to him."
Widowmaker shakes her head. "I hope you know what you're doing."
"Wait and see."
She frowns again, turns, and is gone, her ponytail a whipcrack of emphasis in her wake.
#
Reaper strips off the black hooded coat and drops it on the floor of his temporary quarters. He lines up belts of ammo along the workbench, leaves his boots and gauntlets by the door. He sheds the heavy black body armor next, checking it for damage. The mask he removes last, running a hand over his face, through the colorless follicles of his beard, cold on cold, feeling nothing.
Sleep is possible, even in his altered state, but he does not prefer it, and he sets to work cleaning one of his shotguns. He engages with the gun methodically, unloading and disassembling with expertise, working debris from the barrel, applying solvent in even-handed strokes.
Widowmaker's irritation does not faze him. Let the spider think what she wants — he knows that she will not be satisfied with any of his explanations. Mercy's warmth returns to him now, mere hints of it, intoxicating. He pauses, briefly, trying to recapture it, this feeling.
When she passed out in his arms he withdrew from her, unwilling to exploit her unconscious body. How horrifically he burned as he stepped away, luxuriating in remnants of her heat, a desire unfulfilled. He left her before his craving had any chance to overcome his judgment, though he couldn't help but pluck the box of Shambali tea, a breadcrumb for her to follow right back to him.
Try as he might, he can feel only echoes of her. So much is lost in the shadows of his resurrected body. A gift from the lovely Doctor Ziegler, in a way.
He watched her work for years, this brilliant young scientist, the dabblings in biotic weaponry, advanced neuroprosthetics, the genetic modification that would later serve as the basis for his own rebirth. How could this sweet, girlish face conceal a brain of such genius? He tended to avoid her, baffled by so much that he did not understand. It was only when Genji Shimada was admitted to her care on the condition of joining Blackwatch that Reaper spent any extended amount of time with her.
And then there was that Christmas, the first since Genji's arrival, the party, her approaching him alone that night.
Reaper sets down his bore brush and sits back. That flicker of warmth has returned, deep in his guts. It knots in a molten line down, down, into a slow, nodding erection.
He grips it, his white fingers bunching black fabric.
He sits this way for a long time, unmoving, undiminished.
When his arousal does not leave he gives in. Cold flesh on flesh. He feels nothing, numb to his own touch. He stops in frustration, stirred again by the thought of her, rosy breasts and their sweet taste, the gentle resistance of flesh between his teeth. He tries again, renewed: but without her, without the heat of another, any attempt is useless.
He stops, zips up, hefts a second gun onto the table and gets to work. He focuses on action, on solutions. He focuses on a little monastery in Nepal.
#
It was over ten years ago when Genji Shimada first crossed the threshold of Mercy's lab. She remembers flesh in tatters, pain-induced delirium, vital signs nowhere near stable. She ordered amputation after amputation, watching as the old Genji was cut away piece by piece. It took weeks for a full cyberization to be deemed necessary. She'd tried so badly to save what she could. In the end, cybernetics were required to replace over seventy percent of his body.
His induction into Blackwatch was marked by a series of combat upgrades that whittled his humanity even further. Mercy looked on, helplessly, at the weaponization of the man she tried to save.
By that first Christmas, Genji no longer left his quarters except to train or report to Gabriel Reyes for missions. His fellow Blackwatch agents, daunted by his anger, did their best to stay out of his way.
It was Christmas Eve that she made one last attempt to get through to him, knocking on his door with a tray of hot chocolate in hand. She knew that solid foods were still difficult for him, but a little bit of cocoa would be just fine. She waited, listened, knocked again. When there came no answer she left the tray with a card, hoping he would find it before it cooled. She'd barely gone ten feet from the door when it opened, and she turned quickly to see him standing there, glaring.
With his recent upgrades, Genji's body had been embellished in full Blackwatch regalia, gunmetal gray, carbon fiber, a searing vermillion that reached his eyes. His eyes gleamed at her now, furious above the set of his mechanical jaw. He kicked the tray away, and she jumped as the mug of cocoa shattered against the wall.
"What are you doing here?" he snapped.
"I just wanted to tell you Merry Christmas," she stammered. "There's a party in the hangar —"
"It sickens me to look at you," he spat, and he slammed the door, vanishing back into his quarters.
She picked up the slivers of broken ceramic with trembling fingers. It'd been a foolish thing to try. Foolish to keep pestering him like this, over and over, in the hopes that he would forgive her. She resigned herself to what she knew, had always known, was best: he must be given his space. He must do this on his own.
She returned to her room and dressed for the party, unhappily.
The hangar was kitted out in lush garland and silver tinsel. Everything, from the walls to Torbjorn's beard to the hull of the OSS-7 Aurora, was festooned in bright red bows. Torb and Reinhardt downed mugs of hot buttered rum and guffawed over old war stories. The rest of them stuck to eggnog, ladling out modest cupfuls that were becoming suspiciously easier to drink as time went on. Tracer flickered back and forth between a two-story Christmas tree and various party-goers, distributing chocolate and candy canes. Winston was trying to coax the snow machine into action — it was still twenty degrees in Gibraltar and this was their best chance for a white Christmas. Even Strike Commander Morrison was there, chatting with Ana Amari and her daughter.
Mercy wandered from group to group, sipping her own cup of eggnog. It had an unusual bite that she chalked up to quirks in Torbjorn's recipe. She was surprised to spot Gabriel Reyes in the corner, awkwardly accepting a candy cane from Tracer. Ever since Commander Morrison had accepted his new title, Reyes had been increasingly scarce around the base, appearing only to attend to Blackwatch matters, including the supervision of Genji's rehabilitation.
She'd felt intimidated the first time he joined her in the operating theater. She was overseeing the installation of Genji's first round of upgrades, having just received the order to equip him for Blackwatch training. Twenty years older and a head taller, Reyes had towered over her, exhibiting a presence as dark as a thunderhead blocking the sun. He watched the operation with great scrutiny, saying nothing, and her voice trembled as she walked the cyberneticists through each surgical step. When all was finished he clapped her on the back (contact so sudden that she jumped) and said, "Impressive. Well done."
For weeks now she'd been sending reports briefing him on Genji's progress, and he continued to accompany her in the operating theater, consulting on the combat requirements of each upgrade. Their meetings other than these were terse, businesslike. She had no idea what he thought of her, though he didn't glower at her the way he did Morrison, so it must be better than that, at least.
It was Reyes who caught McCree tipping whiskey into the eggnog that night. He'd glanced up from his silent vigil in the corner and charged at McCree immediately, who, already several glasses deep, surrendered at once and was ejected from the party. As for the rest of them, it was too late: they tottered around the hangar (Winston covered in fake snow), giggling and dancing and drunk, far, far too drunk.
Mercy, even in her stupor, was lucid enough to declare the party over once Torbjorn came after her with a sprig of mistletoe and a sloppy kiss at the ready. She drunkenly ordered everyone to ingest some fluids (prompting a snicker from McCree, slumped just outside the door) and they all staggered away to sleep through Christmas morning.
Only Reyes remained as she started to clean, watching as she took down decorations and boxed up leftovers. He joined her, taking a garbage bag from her hand as she attempted, with great effort, to stuff it with fake snow.
"Stop it," he said, amused.
"Stop what?"
"You're mothering."
She swayed, reaching for the garbage bag. "No, I'm not. Someone's gotta clean up."
"We have janitors."
"But it's Christmas."
He sighed. "Come on."
He took her by the arm and guided her away, and the Santa hat that had somehow found its way onto her head slipped down over her eyes. He paused to fix it, and when the hat lifted from her eyes she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
"Whoa." He immediately took her by the shoulders and drew her back. "What was that?"
She stared up at him, her face growing hot. Suddenly she felt herself tremble, and then, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears. His look of confusion softened as she began to cry.
"Genji hates me," she sobbed, pressing her face into Reyes's hard chest. He awkwardly patted her shoulder. "He hates me so much. I tried my best. I tried to save all I could. We just had to keep cutting and cutting. Oh, Gabriel."
"Angie."
"I failed him. I couldn't do enough. And he'll never forgive me for it."
"Hey." He touched her chin, tipping it back so she would look at him. "I've seen your work. If he'd been in anyone else's hands, he'd have died on the table."
She sniffed hard, and then rubbed her eyes vigorously. "I'm sorry. Goodness. I don't normally get like this."
He handed her a green napkin printed with poinsettias, and she quietly blew her nose. "Sounds like a lot's on your mind. Also, you're completely sloshed."
"I'm so embarrassed."
"Listen. Don't be." He threaded his arm through hers — warm and muscular — and led her out of the hangar. "Let's get you back to your room. You'll feel better once you sleep this off."
She followed him out into the dark hallway, trying to keep up with his long stride. They passed McCree, who was snoring in a heap on the floor. The base was silent as they wound their way to the bunks: the others, in their revelry, seemed to have all crashed for the night. Mercy shyly glanced up at Reyes from beneath her hat. His expression was unreadable.
"Thank you," she murmured. She squeezed his hand.
"For what?"
"For being so kind. I have to admit, I always thought you were a little . . . scary."
This prompted a laugh. "I guess that's part of my job. So, good."
"Is it really true, the rumors about Blackwatch? Assassinations, kidnapping . . . murder?"
His smile disappeared. "You know I can't tell you about what we do. All of our operations are covert."
The whiskey has emboldened her. "You've kidnapped people? Murdered them?"
"I've done a lot of things. All under orders."
"You are scary."
"It takes practice."
They reached the door to her quarters, and he checked her pockets. "Where's your key?"
She leaned against the doorjamb, thinking hard. Her head lolled. "Uhm."
He sighed. "You locked them in, didn't you."
He reached into her pocket again and she buoyed up on her toes, pecking him on the lips. He pushed her back against the door.
"Stop that," he said.
"Gabriel." She hooked her fingers through his belt loops and pulled him close, pressing her hips to his. His hands tightened at her shoulders. "Gabriel," she said again, whispering it.
His voice was low. "We can't."
"I need this."
"You're drunk, Angie."
"So are you."
He was not, but she did not realize this and he did not correct her.
She took his hands and lowered them, slipping them down over her chest. She sensed his sharp intake of breath. His hands did not move, perched on her breasts as though they were frightened.
"It's okay," she whispered.
She felt him stir, the beginnings of an erection nudging at her pubis.
He rolled his hips forward, pushing her against the door. His hands went up under her sweater, kneading, teasing. His mouth crushed hers and she breathed him in.
"Christ," he whispered when her little hand slipped between them, encouraging him.
She closed her eyes, lost in him. Her heart was running wild — he must surely be able to feel it through her chest, through her tongue in his mouth. She felt a sense of safety, enclosed in the doorway by his height, the breadth of his shoulders.
She eased up her skirt and stood on her toes, grinding gently against him. He moaned, a surprising hint of vulnerability. She touched his zipper, began to take it down.
"We can't do this here," he said suddenly, backing off. His chest was pumping, and he stared at her with something like disbelief.
"My key," she said, unhappily.
He took her hand at once and led her away, moving with a sense of urgency. She followed along, her heart lifting. Neither of them saw McCree peer out at them from around a corner as they disappeared into Reyes's quarters.
#
It had been a long time since Mercy had slept with anyone. A long time. For years her work had preoccupied her, and boyfriends were hard to come by in an isolated place like Gibraltar. And on the battlefield, all were her patients. Many wounded, in such suffering. Many dead.
Genji, hateful, suffering so.
In Reyes's embrace, she forgot it all. His dark skin was pocked here and there with old bullet wounds, unidentifiable scars. His beard tickled her wherever he pressed his mouth, trailing from her breasts to her stomach, to her thighs. His callused hands working.
He was taut despite his age, heavily-muscled, though he handled her with great gentleness, as though her Alpine slenderness might break beneath him, delicate as glass.
He nibbled at her throat, sucking at the flesh behind her ear. She wanted to be devoured, absorbed, broken down, formed again.
When he entered her at last, tears leapt to her eyes. He paused, concerned, and she urged him on, rocking her hips. He kissed her softly. It was a relief, such relief, she wanted to say, but she could say nothing, could only utter a small cry as he fucked her, gently at first, and then harder, bearing down.
Without her knowing, tears were gushing from her eyes.
"Am I hurting you?" he whispered, his voice thick, drunk-sounding.
She shook her head, tried to give a convincing smile. She did not know how to articulate what she was feeling.
He lifted her slightly by the hips, and her thighs squeezed him, hard, harder. When she came she choked on her own orgasm and sank back into the pillows. He hesitated, rocking slower, and when she pulled him back down into a kiss he reentered her so fiercely that the headboard smacked into the wall.
His orgasm came mere moments later, plying at his face with a distant look of wonder, and she gasped at the same time, could only guess what he was thinking.
She showered next, crying softly to herself with gratitude. He joined her, kissing the tears away. She did not tell him that she had sobered up halfway through, might have wanted him to stop, and had also not wanted him to stop, and had done nothing, thinking of Genji alone in his room, her very appearance making him sick, making him furious.
Reyes left her to towel off alone, and when she returned to him he merely watched her from the bed. Her face pinkened, suddenly embarrassed by his nakedness, by her own. She picked at her clothes, saying softly, "This was a mistake."
His expression in the dark was indecipherable.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"A mistake."
"We can't — do this again."
He pulled the covers aside, indicating the spot next to him.
She shook her head. "We're colleagues. We can't —"
"Come here," he said.
She went to him. He cradled her blonde head, and she kissed him until he was hard again, and she took him into her mouth, sucking until she swallowed the oblivion of his orgasm like so many of her troubled thoughts.
#
Now, ten years later, Mercy frets. She packs supplies, her suit, the Caduceus Staff in its locking case. The Shambali monastery has no Internet access and no working telephone. A letter will not reach them in time. She calls in favors, charters a flight to Nepal. She can contact no one from the old days, so scattered and piecemeal they've become. She will have to do this on her own.
From a distance, a black shadow watches her, predicting what she will do, tracking her every move. He is her silent companion to the snow-capped Himalayas, breathing in their crisp redolence, crushing white autumn poppies beneath heavy black boots.
###