Back in the Saddle, Again.
What to Know: This Fanfiction story has a unique format. Chapters will be presented from the perspectives of Angela Ziegler and Jesse McCree in alternating chapters.
There will be more information in the Authors note bellow if you are interested. Thanks for reading, and enjoy.
Chapter One: Midnight Downpour
Jesse McCree stumbled out of the chopper, legs wobbling as they grew used to solid ground again. It was past midnight, and raining at Watchpoint Gibraltar.
Gibraltar was hell for a man like McCree. Only accessible via sea or air, and with very little open space not taken up by Overwatch facilities. The seacraft made him seasick, and the aircraft made him nauseous as they bounced about in the coastal winds.
McCree missed the wide open spaces of Santa Fe. The great wide horizon stretching out far as the eye could see. The smell of the wet sand after a desert storm. The tumbleweeds that crinkled as they blew across the country. The great western sun setting over the mountains.
Better here than prison... He reminded himself.
The Overwatch base was his home now, and he had to make the best of his situation. McCree trudged toward his bunk, holding his hat down as the Mediterranean downpour tried to wash it away.
McCree made it to the barracks, and found his locker. He wiped the rain from his hat, unbuckled his gun belt, and unfastened his red bandana. He carefully bundled his Peacemaker revolver in his bandana, and tied his gun belt around it. He put his bundle in his locker, and perched his wide brim hat over it.
As tired as he was, McCree loved his revolver and hat more than anything in the world. He would never allow the damp sea spray of Gibraltar to tarnish his precious gear.
McCree continued past the locker room over to the Blackwatch housing unit. He nodded at the door guard and crept over to his room. Feeling in the dark, McCree found the doorknob and let himself into his bunk room.
Exhausted from his mission, and the nauseating helicopter ride, McCree found his bunk and flopped down, not bothering with the lights.
He winced he heard something crunch under his back. Kicking off his boots, McCree sat up and pulled a crumpled piece of paper off his back.
Mandatory Medical Examination: Report to MedBay-3 at 700 HOURS
Do not eat before appointment!
Please arrive on time!
Check boxes if you have a history of...
[] fainting
[] breathing problems
[]…
McCree flung the paper away and groaned.
A goddamn early morning appointment right after a 17 hour stakeout! Who does that! Overwatch! What a goddamn collection of morons...
McCree turned his head and checked the digital clock on his desk.
3:00 AM the clock read.
Just a quick nap... McCree told himself. I'll have a chat with those scheduling bastards then...
McCree shut his eyes, flopped back down, and fell asleep.
McCree grimaced in his sleep. Flashbacks. Unwelcome memories that haunted him in his sleep. Traumatic Stress Disorder the eggheads called it.
McCree himself didn't believe it at first. He always assumed that those mental disorders happened to old soldiers. Too many fights and a man got his brain addled. But then again, all things addled the mind in excess. He wasn't worried about it back then.
A dark Mojave highway blockaded with sandbags and scrap metal. The rumble of an idling engine. The bright beams of the headlights illuminating the road. Thunderous gunfire. Muzzle flashes that blinded the eyes. Shattering glass. Ringing ears. The metallic smell of blood in the air.
McCree couldn't remember the name of his employer now, but he remembered the way he slouched over the wheel, brains splattered over the cab. The semi truck's horn blared into the desert, shrill voices shouted over its din. Bits of brain and tissue spattered the inside of the truck, dripping off the roof of the cabin onto his face. He tried to spit out the blood in his mouth, but he couldn't move. His ears rang, and he was vaguely aware of evil men knocking the doors in with crowbars...
He was in a steel cage. The dusty Mojave air parched his throat. The western sun heated the rusty metal and burned his skin. A train lumbered on through the desert, uncaring to his suffocated pleas for water and shade...
Killers. Hard eyes that examined his withered body. His head rolled on his neck, limbs unresponsive to the hard hands that prodded them. An argument. A gunshot. A bag thrown over his limp head.
Water. Water. Water that brought him back to life... He could see them clearly now. Memories clear as Colorado springwater.
Camille Salazar. Jason Goldwater. Doc Mourthal. Rosita Rose. Enemies and captors then, but friends and allies in better times. Deadeyes. Killers. Outlaws. Deadlocks...
McCree awoke in a daze. Daylight cascaded into the bunkroom through a porthole window in the ceiling. Groaning, McCree fought the impulse to doze off again, rolling onto his side. His damp clothes had crusted onto his skin, and he found himself wishing that he had changed out of his dirty outfit before he had called it a night.
McCree sat up in his bed, feeling a familiar ache on the back of his shoulder. Black and blue bruises had materialized overnight, unhealed through a restless night.
Reaching to find his boots, McCree's hand found a crumpled appointment notice.
Shit!
Almost hating himself for it, McCree forced himself to look at the clock. 10:00.
Roaring in frustration, McCree stomped on his boots and got up, hitting his head against the upper shelf of his bunk.
Dammit dammit dammit! McCree cursed, this just gets better and better.
Down the hall and into the locker room he stormed. Belt, gun, hat, and bandana equipped, McCree set out to find Medbay 3 like a man possessed.
Stomping into the medical building, McCree demanded to know where Medbay 3 was. Directed down the hall, he almost kicked the door down when he saw an empty waiting room lobby.
A plumpish older looking woman sat behind a front desk, separated by a labyrinth of waiting room chairs. Sporting a hideous pair of purple horned glasses and some tacky librarian looking garb, the woman frowned across the room.
"I'm here for an appointment. Jesse McCree." he informed the secretary.
"Jessy...?" the secretary replied blankly. "I don't see your name in our system. Who sent ya?"
"Who sent me!? Some damned medical egghead assume! Who the hell schedules this kind of bull shit right after a mission!"
The secretary looked at him crossly. She turned her head back to her computer monitor and ignored him.
McCree briefly imagined a gruesomely pleasing scene where he pulled out his revolver and emptied six bullets into the stupid woman's face. He missed being a hot headed outlaw sometimes.
Admitting defeat, McCree found his crumpled appointment notice. Failing to control his temper, he slammed the document onto the counter, making the secretary jump.
The woman avoided eye contact, and slid the paper closer for inspection. She silently studied the document, and then slid it back over to him.
"Tardy. Just typical for you operative agent types. Too good for the rules." She spoke slowly and lifted her head to make eye contact through her stupid glasses.
McCree felt his seething rage grow, and it took everything in him not to reach for his revolver. He gritted his teeth and stared the woman down, leaning over her desk menacingly.
"Watch yourself woman." he threatened darkly.
The secretary didn't back down. She met his gaze unapologetically. Several moments passed, and she began to speak.
"We will get you the next available appointment. Take a seat and I'll tell you when we're ready."
McCree hated that. The way she acted like nothing had happened. He absolutely positively loathed the fact that some uppity secretary in some shitty clinic could call his bluff, and that there was nothing he could do about it.
Back in the West, you could settle things this way. Have a stare down. Draw a gun. Kill or be killed in a fit of passion. McCree liked that. He had a tremendous rage, great aim, and a great gun.
Feeling strangely self-conscious, he raised his head and backed off, noticing movement in the corner of his eye. A bright blue eye spied at him through a cracked door, disappearing a moment after he found it.
McCree pretended not to notice, and turned away from the counter. He took a seat in one of the saggy waiting room chairs and stared at the wall.
He couldn't explain what had just happened. These volatile outbursts just occurred from time to time. He couldn't control his anger when it started rolling through him. He just didn't want to. It felt good to have his heart pound in his chest. To feel the red hot rage, to tremble in anticipation of a fight.
McCree couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place right then. He needed some fresh air, and there was no way he could emotionally beat himself without some cigar smoke on his tongue.
McCree reached into his vest pocket and found a crumbling cigar stub. Acknowledging the dirty look from the secretary, McCree got up and strolled out of the waiting room.
Outside, the sun was still high in the sky. Seagulls squawked in the clear blue sky, and waves crashed down on the dark stones of Gibraltar. McCree breathed in the damp sea air and lit up his cigar. The salty Mediterranean air filtered nicely through his Cuban cigar, and McCree felt at peace for the first time that morning.
Nicotine withdrawal often made him irritable. Combined with his lack of sleep and food, it was no wonder he felt so itchy for a fight.
McCree tried to push his angry thoughts from his mind, but couldn't shake his emotions.
"Why do I keep doin' this to myself" He wondered out loud. He wasn't always this way. He had just spent too much time around the wrong people. Or that was what he told himself.
Deadlock Gorge off Route 66. He had been with the gang for a full year then. Finally trusted enough to carry a gun without a dozen barrels pointed at his back, and finally respected enough to not be beaten every other day.
The Deadlocks were all about survival of the fittest. Any upstart wannabe gunslinger could join the gang, but they never lasted long.
"In the gorge, a man is entitled to what he owns" Goldwater had said. "Nothing more and nothing less."
That was easy for him to say. He was the best killer in the gang. A quickdraw faster than a racing roadrunner. Eyes as dark and sharp as obsidian. No one tried to make Goldwater's loot their own. Everyone knew that was a death penalty. Rumor had it that Doc. Mourthal had stopped attending quickdraws with Goldwater involved. There wasn't any use in stitching up a man cut in half by six rounds of five-hundred magnum.
In the gorge, men had to be strong. Being part of the gang wouldn't protect you from being robbed blind or shot in your sleep. Men had to sleep lightly, make friends with the right people, and create a terrible reputation for themselves. If you couldn't protect yourself, body, mind, and possession could all be lost in the blink of an eye.
Gazing out into the sea McCree finished his cigar slowly, puffing away slowly to avoid charring the dry tobacco. He finished his cigar after what seemed like an eternity, dropping the remaining stub from his lips, crushing it under his spurred boot.
Looking up, McCree realized that he had been lost in thought for longer than he had realized.
High noon... McCree scowled.
Authors notes:
Quality and Editing: I plan to make this THE definitive Mercy x McCree (or McMercy) FanFiction for many years to come. I will be constantly editing all chapters for grammar / spelling / better wording until the story is completed. The story will be slow at times, but it will be full of depth, detail, and good believable lore. McMercy isn't a popular ship, but its a very unique ship. It deserves something to call its own.
Chapter release: I'm planning on releasing two chapters every weekend for the rest of 2016. You should get one chapter on Saturday (usually a McCree chapter) and another on Sunday (Usually a Angela Z. chapter), each chapter having a unique character POV as always.
Context for the Story (No spoilers): This FanFiction work takes place over several years, shorty after Jesse McCree and Dr. Ziegler are recruited by Overwatch. The story may seem: Overly contextual at times, too metaphorical, or just slow. All of this is on purpose. I'm not here to inflate word counts, be assured that anything you see as extra fluff is there for a reason.
Completion: If you've taken a peak at my profile, you may have noticed that I have a bad habit of not completing my Fanfiction Stories. Rest easy readers. I've been working on this project for about two months now in my off time, and I have about eight finished chapters as of 11/5/2016. This story will be completed, and you will NOT be left with a half finished story. So I swear.
"Stendarr's mercy be upon you, for the vigil has none to spare." - Vigil of Stendarr, 2011