Gabriel's never been good at mornings.
Bleary eyed, he stumbles down to the collective kitchen adjacent to the sleep quarters at 6:30, still dressed in his sleep robes. There, he boils the kettle, sets some oil in the pan to warm slowly while he checks the net for the news.
When the pan and kettle are hot, he makes himself a coffee–long black–and a generous amount of scrambled eggs mixed with whatever herbs and spices he can find in the cupboards. He leans against the counter staring off into space as he sips at his drink and gobbles down his eggs.
He changes in the locker room attached to the large training room at 7:00, pulling on his gear with practised movements. It's the hollow silence of the expansive room that finally jars him properly awake as he laps it effortlessly, shaking the sleep from his muscles.
He's content to train in silence, alone, until 8:00, which is when their briefings start, becoming ever-more frequent as the Omnic Crisis grows in severity.
Gabriel's never been good at mornings (and is confident his view will never be challenged).
He eats, changes and ducks into the training hall. He gets into his tenth lap when a man in shiny new gear saunters through the doorway. He's seem him around a few times, perhaps, in corridors and large meetings, but never like this.
"Good morning," he says, his voice a mixture of charisma and pure seduction, which is only complemented by his wide grin when Gabriel stops his lap.
"Don't see what's so good about it," he answers as he catches his breath.
"Well, mate, it wasn't me who got you outta bed." The grin sobers a little as the new guy looks him up and down, and then offers him his hand. "Name's Jack, by the way."
Gabriel clasps it, surprised by the hard grip. "Gabriel." He looks Jack up and down, too, in his newly ironed slacks. "And I got myself out of bed."
The amused smile on Jack's face accompanies Gabriel to his early morning workout for the next few weeks, and he's surprised how easily Jack replaces the silence.
Gabriel's never been good at mornings (but he's getting better).
Bleary eyed, he blinks at the arm curled around his waist. Fingers are tracing light circles on his side, which press harder as the alarm blares again.
"Turn it off," Jack whines against his back.
"It's six thirty," he replies, matter-of-factly.
"Exactly," Jack murmurs. "It's six fucking thirty. Turn it off, Reyes, please..." He extends out the last syllable, puffing air against the back of Gabriel's neck. "Pleaseeee..."
Gabriel sighs, and thumbs off the alarm next to the bed. It now reads 6:31. He settles back into the bunk, shifting onto his back, and Jack quickly moves to rest his head on Gabriel's shoulder.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
"You're fucking welcome," Gabriel mutters in return, letting his eyes fall closed again.
"You hate mornings," Jack takes the moment to point out. "So, hate mornings, Gabriel, right now. For me. Stay in bed."
"I can't believe you've ruined all of my morals," Gabriel shoots back. "I'm going to be yawning myself awake all through Winston's briefing and it'll be your fault."
To shut him up, Jack peppers light kisses across the bottom of Gabriel's jaw. When he tips his head down, moaning slightly, Jack moves lazily to meet Gabriel's mouth, their lips meeting sloppily.
"Can't even... mmm... kiss half-asleep, can I?" Gabriel hums when Jack breaks away for a moment, to ensure he entangles their legs just right.
"I forgive you," Jack breathes before kissing him again, long and slow.
They escape the confines of Gabriel's bunk at 7:30, faces flushed. The kitchen's slowly starting to bustle with activity; Jack stays to put on a pot of coffee, and Gabriel goes to change.
In the change room, Jack's locker finally has a proper name inscribed onto it, and the sight of the plain MORRISON, J. scratched into his lover's locker brings a smile to his face. He's forgotten what it's like to wake up to silence.
Gabriel's never been good at mornings (but he thinks he's made a right improvement).
His alarm goes off at 7:30, but he doesn't need it, as he usually wakes to a mouth pressed to his, or a hand on his cock, or on some occasions, a tongue.
"Good morning," Jack says, smiling that sweet smile of his all of the war vids melt over, and they make love, slowly, until they are both quietly panting each other's names.
"Definitely a good morning," Gabriel agrees.
Gabriel's never been good at mornings (and of this he is certain).
Blackwatch's facilities are smaller than Overwatch's, being a smaller cell, and the cramped training room doesn't give him the right rush of crisp morning air to shake all of the sleep from his limbs. The silence tends to get deafening after a while.
Gabriel's never been good at mornings (he never has been).
Not that morning stakes a claim to him anymore, being that he spends most of his hours awake, never asleep. He doesn't remember the last time he had a proper night's sleep, without the dreams, or the pain, or the plain feeling of wrong when something already dead tries to shut down again.
The last time he slept properly, his thoughts cruelly remind him, was when the world hadn't quite gone to shit just yet, which was a long time ago – when Jack Morrison was at his side, in fact.
But Jack Morrison dead, and so is he.