Strike Commander. Hero. Not any longer.
Morrison trudged his weary body through the streets of Dorado, heaving a sigh. The city was now bathed in a light that was fast dying, like its very name. Dorado. Golden, in Spanish. Morrison could almost hear his voice now, the very clicking of his tongue as he guffawed at Morrison's lame attempts to speak Spanish. They had been here multiple times on training missions, weekends off, spending time remembering the place, and remembering the planes of each other like the very land itself. Gabriel often mentioned how Dorado was like him, glittering with carnivals, now all but a heap of rust, like the last few Omnics in the city. The sea breeze felt like a stinging slap to his side now, badly grazed as it was. He had faced worse. This was nothing.
If I can let the memory heal
I will remember you with me on that field
This time, it was him clicking the tongue at himself, heaving his pulse rifle up and sitting in a small enclave by the waterside, where ships would dock. Would. Dorado's heyday was over, like Venice, sunken deep into the history books. Nobody remembered how the Omnic Crisis played out here, people only remembered the gaieties of the days post la Medianoche. The Midnight. Now referring to a festival more so than the horrific apocalyptic event it was, Morrison picked up another discarded piñata, lobbing it's empty husk into the sea. Five years since his perplexing last encounter with Reyes. Reyes' words still rung in his ears, he wasn't behind all of Blackwatch's misdeeds? Morrison had been so busy with the government's expectations of his running Overwatch that at times, he had been forced to admit, he had all but forgotten Gabriel Reyes.
Years had gone past with neither man craving the other's company, unlike the days of youth where they had been practically inseparable, to a point where Angela Ziegler had started to make remarks under her breath about wedding bells whenever she walked past. Gabriel's anger and loneliness festered, and he let Blackwatch, formerly but a mere covert ops organization with morals, fall to ruin and all but closed his weary eyes to the sins of the men under him. Whatever got the job done. Their meetings grew more and more tense, shorter and shorter, until there was not a single meeting that wouldn't end in both men at each other's throats, to a point where Morrison had began to call in proxies to deliver messages to the hot headed Blackwatch chief. Both men could see how tired the other was, and it was Morrison who decided to end any romantic notions after one night on Gabriel's birthday, he had crept to man's quarters to surprise him, only to find him in an extremely foul mood from the mission that day, which had failed miserably. The door slammed in his face and sporting a black eye, Morrison turned heel against his lover and friend with an uncharacteristic wad of spit delivered to the doorstep instead of the good tidings he had come with. If only, he had listened to Reyes himself. Then maybe the world would have been in less disorder, and they would go back to the days earlier on, on the frontline, clandestine kisses exchanged under the frosty desert sky in the night, and dizzy from sexual highs to a point where he couldn't tell where Reyes ended and he began, two hearts syncopated in their rhythm.
Turn the page I need to see something new
For now my innocence is torn
We cannot linger on this stunted view
Like rabid dogs of war It doesn't matter.
Reyes is dead anyway, like the how he himself should have been. He remembers Reinhardt's eulogy, it was broadcasted everywhere. He remembers sitting in a dingy shed, one of the safe houses he and Reyes had set up together during the Omnic Crisis, deep in murky forests. Half blind from the blast, it's subsequent treatment and the stress that running Overwatch had placed on his weary body, Morrison can only hear the emotion of every single person present at the funeral. His ears hear every single word whispered, all the lies about him that the government has fed the public. Everyone mourns, except for the men who died. Of course they mourn. They never knew him like Reyes did. Nobody would anyway. A silent apology slips from his lips like water, and he realizes that he needs sustenance. His whole self feels weak, hungry and his lips are parched. Enough resting, he tells himself, hefting his pulse rifle onto his shoulders and slinging it over. He takes the long route back to prevent being spotted. It doesn't matter if Dorado was a haven for underground activity. There were enough SWAT teams swarming in the area looking for him. He gets groceries delivered to a proxy mailbox, nobody is any the wiser. For the time being, stopping Los Muertos, he has been camped here for a few weeks, living on rations and whatever he can procure. It isn't comfortable, but at least it makes for something. After all, only a heavy heart is all he's got left. It feels almost impossible, but he's all but forgiven Reyes, in the wake of the very man's death.
Something feels off the minute he steps into the tiny little shack, for one, the air feels heavy like an ominous threat. Part of it smells like rotting flesh, and the other spicy like perol. Perol. Funny, he's hadn't had that in a very, very long time, not since Overwatch, where Reyes used to cook spreads of Spanish food for them during the lulls of fighting. He wanders into the kitchen, where it is suspiciously lit. The stove is situated behind a wall, and he can't tell if anyone is there, so with pulse rifle at the loaded and the safety popped, he creeps slowly toward the stove.
"Hello, Jack." Morrison jumps five feet into the air, as a smoky like figure comes into view, a single pistol pressed to his forehead. The smoke solidifies into someone, something, dressed head to toe in black. He can almost feel a confident smirk radiating from underneath the skull mask that faces him along with the barrel of the gun. He scrambles backward, remembering the mercenary of legend, Reaper.
"You," he spits out in a low growl. "You're the one they burn at the stake because of your acts. Killing all the ex Overwatch agents. I see how it is," he continues, pulse rifle at the ready. Reaper cocks his head almost comically, before his hand swiftly moves to fire at the wall beside Morrison's head, exactly in the middle of his head and rifle. The bullet but whistles past his head, stunning him. Reaper's aim is all but scarily accurate as a second bullet whizzes past him and lands but a hair's width below the first bullet, almost as if he was taunting him. Petty bastard, Morrison finally manages, but not before two more bullets are placed into the wall. Reaper silently crosses the gap between them, his taloned hands reaching out slowly towards Morrison's face, but Morrison slaps them harshly away, jamming the butt of his gun into Reaper's gut. He could swear he saw Reaper's face fall as the hands are slapped away. What in blazes? he thinks to himself, before he hears a shuffling of feet as Reaper slowly backs off, hands in the air.
"My, is that how you treat an old friend?" Reaper's voice is scrambled, almost hollow within the mask, and Morrison can only but vaguely imagine how muffled and old he himself sounds, but the ghastly voice that speaks to him by far takes the cake. He tries to place the voice, unfamiliar as it is, to a face. Something underlying it all felt like home, like the smell of perol wafting through the house. Perol, like the way Reyes smelt cooking dinner for them. Perol, like the way Reyes' lips tasted, the way he smelt in the heat of sex, spicy yet with a soft side, broken like grains of rice finely chopped in the food, yet not without redemption. That was then, the blanket forts he had built in his house when Reyes came to visit, the way that Reyes' hand felt in his when they went shopping, yet also bringing about memories of his dad's heavy hand on his cheek when he had come out to them, or the way that Reyes' abuela had embraced the both of them coming out in Reyes' family. The times spent together, now that was home. Not this dingy shed.
With no-one wearing their real face
It's a whiteout of emotion
And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
Two faces in masks, and one red visored half blind old man staring into what he can only assume is the face of death. A little clinking sound is heard, and he raises his head in curiosity as two little dog tags come into view at the very end of Reaper's belt, only visible to a very keen eye. No. It cannot be. His mind forms connections, little neurons in his head connecting like a widespread map. But it couldn't be! Reyes was dead, he saw him die in that dastardly explosion! Yet here he was, whole yet…almost entirely different. He stumbles backward and further up the wall, pulse rifle trained onto Reaper's chest. For once, he's glad that nobody can see his eyes behind the visor. "What did they do to you?" It's not even a question. It's not even a statement. It's nothing but emptiness and sorrow hanging in thin air, and Jack looks wildly at the mask hanging before his very own, blaming himself inside, with his heartbeat steadying from the initial scare. Gabriel still smells like home, even if home was tainted with a dark cloud of death, like rotting flesh mixed with the smell of perol, capsicums fished out and placed on the side of Gabriel's plate, with the Latino poking fun at the country boy for not eating his greens, as he himself wolfs down mouthful after mouthful of his own cooking. Poor conditions had forced them to be extremely grateful for every morsel of food they had, while Jack had never grown hungry, what with the abundance of good food Indiana had, fresh free range chickens, steak, greens and fruits. Home smells like two emotionless, broken old men rekindling something they had lost, five years enough to begin to heal. The scars of yesteryear begin to close, like flesh reforming over sinew and bone. The silence is, as usual shattered by Gabriel. He could never ever shut up when they were together, anyway.
"You've figured out, I assume," he breathes out throatily, head leaning against Morrison as well as he can with gun pressing into his gut. "Well then, I suppose this is how it goes," he says, pausing only as if for effect, "I was a fool, forgive me, believe in me once more." The sharp angles and bone white of his mask, the Kevlar, feel like walls up against him, hiding Reyes' true intent and conscious from him. Morrison feels almost confused and lost, he hasn't heard such words from Reyes in about twenty years since Overwatch began to fall apart. He heart rails against logic, a familiar fluttering building up in his body. He could never resist that sultry, deep voice of his lover, never ever, until the bitter end. He feels Reyes stirring, and a clattering sound and warm lips on the nape of his neck tells him that the other man had removed his mask. Slowly, his hands lower the pulse rifle, almost as if of their own accord as he leans into the minuscule ministrations that Reyes is peppering on his neck, biting, teasing, pulling at the soft skin. He lets out an involuntary moan behind the mask, head shaking in denial as he tries to push Reyes off him. Suddenly, Reyes as if sensing 76's wants, or perhaps remembering something else, pushes himself off the older man, silently drifting into the other section of the kitchen. A loud exclamation of "Mierda!" and a long string of angry Spanish curses ensue, and Morrison can only guess that Reyes had found a way into the house and was cooking, thus explaining the smell of perol wafting through the house. Another string of angry curse words, this time in English, as he hears the scraping of a pan, walking to the stove to find Reyes half murdering the pan as he tries to get the grains of rice off the bottom of the pan.
"I thought this was fucking non-stick, damn it!" Morrison snorts in response to his lover's antics, and the dramatic, over the top garb that Reyes still sports, what with claws and gauntlets and all. He's wondering how anyone, let alone Reyes can even cook in that getup, and he swallows deeply as the black hooded figure slowly turns, his face scarred and eyes sunken, scowling furiously at him. His hand still holds the pan, as if ready to fling it at Morrison at a moment's notice. It's the first time Morrison has clapped eyes even onto Reyes after the whole incident, "No te rías de mí, Morrison," he says, sulkily. "I just wanted the rice at the bottom because it tastes better." He holds out one of the plates sitting beside the hob and waves the pan animatedly as he continues. "I was following you and heard everything you said, so I came over to see what you'd say." Morrison takes the plate hesitatingly, eyes focused on Reyes. There had to be something wrong, Reyes had never let down his guard like this in so long. There had to be something up, and he knew it. Forgiveness never comes easy to a person hurt many times over, and even if Morrison was a pampered young child, his own ghosts haunted him. His mother leaving the family. His father the damn workaholic. And a family torn in two, him the perfect child who enlisted in the military, became the face of Overwatch, and died in the line of duty. Dark clouds covered the sunshine in him, and he would never take Reyes' words at face value ever again. He glares at the Talon mercenary, who is still at the pan, scraping it and damaging it even further. He grumbles something under his breath, before finally addressing Gabriel properly.
"Spill, Gabriel Reyes, you've got something up your sleeve. What is it you want?" he spits out bitterly, eyes trained on the man holding a pan and a plate. The sight of it all is almost comical, 76 still has his pulse rifle slung across his back, plate of perol in his hand and all the renowned, fearsome assassin Reaper is armed with is a porcelain plate filled with perol and a grimy pan with rice and chicken stuck on its base. If the two of them were any younger, one might assume they would be about to engage in a childish food fight. Reyes' eyes blink from pan to food, food to man, and man to pan, shrugging comically as he sets down his plate of perol at the table, tossing the beaten up pan into the sink. He heaves a sigh, eyes focusing on Morrison's red visor.
"Oh, por favor," he mutters. "I spend five months tracking you and this is what you bloody give me, Morrison. Bueno saberlo, why do I bother," he snaps irritably, sinking into the chair right beside Morrison. He smells like home, their home, burning like the way Morrison watched the Swiss base burn as he escapes, shrapnel pricking at his eyelids. He smells like the past, and a dangerous future. He's also like solid smoke, an oxymoronic devil that stands in front of him, with garb that screams to look at him, yet blending into the shadows of the night. Jack wants to fight the emotions welling up in him, to let go of the past. Had he not forgiven Reyes? So why was it so hard to say the damn words? The silence hangs so thick, one would need a chainsaw to cut through it, finally broken by Gabriel's voice, a quiet snarl that sends shivers down Jack's spine.
"Did you know, of the people who I held dear?" His head is tilted back, as if trying to will tears to flow back into his eyes, a pair of luminous golden brown orbs. Jack longs deeply for the chocolate brown that they used to be, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, like candy paper wrapping the sugared delights in a piñata, and the way they used to look into his soul and consume him whole, just by one sultry glance. Reyes continues, leaning against the other man, whispering in soft strings of Spanish, until Morrison shakes him roughly.
"English, English, dammit," he commands, his voice snappy. It's been years, but he never ever picked up Spanish, for each time he's tried, he's ended up in a tearful mess, his heart aching for something he lost.
"My family, my papi, hung himself. Isabella and Camilia are with Los Muertos. Only my abuela remained, they killed her. Burned her at the stake, at the last Medianoche," he whispered, eyes haunted from remembering. A dull ache thuds in both their hearts, as Reyes looks dully toward the horizon, his eyes scanning the plate of perol with deep intensity. Morrison bows his head reverently, pressing the catch to release his visor and mask, as he leans over to pull a very broken man into his arms. Said man's gauntlets are soon discarded in messy kisses that comfort and slowly chip at the walls that Reyes set up, and a familiar tango returns to their limbs, splayed over each other, comforting and loving. A strong, hardened army veteran and mass murderer Reyes may have been, but even a grown man cries when his family dies. Chaste, comforting snuggles and kisses slowly grow more and more urgent as forgiveness and understanding slowly like an undercurrent flows into their actions, and lust takes over the anger they both harbored for long. Morrison squirms against the numerous belts that Reyes has around his waist, as their want begins to show through their clothing, tenting it. Gabriel nips at his lover's throat, letting out a throaty purr of delight as he grinds his hips into Morrison.
"Tú es mi último esperanza, como el sol, " he breathes heavily against Morrison's neck, biting it again. "Tú eres mío, Morrison."
Reyes was in fact, a possessive person, who didn't let go of things easily. Positions, accolades, belongings, especially people. His gauntlets removed, but he gloves remained, he shows no mercy at all to the wrappings that Morrison is decked in, choosing to shred them to ribbons and leave scars, some almost bone deep. But as grey blue eyes half lidded and clouded with lust look into golden ones, Reyes knows that at that moment, nobody gives a fuck, for the scars of the past they have imprinted into each other hurt more than anything of the flesh.
"Hurry, you oversized, overdressed owl," Morrison growls needily into Gabriel, as both fumble with the numerous buckles on Gabriel's oufit, to which Gabriel continues nibbling at Morrison's earlobe until the man moans loudly. "There isn't any lube," he adds, almost as an afterthought. Gabriel chuckles darkly as he lazily licks the hollow of Jack's ear, nuzzling into it. "Then you fuck me," he murmurs. He's not too sure if the brittle old bones of Morrison can take the full course without generous lube, and he doesn't care to find out just yet. Gabriel leans in as if to emphasize his need, the cold smoke tentacles that crawl over Morrison as his need grows a strange display of the warmth of sexual need he craves. Morrison kicks off his boots, nailing Reyes in the perky ass of his in the process, earning a violent grunt from the man himself as he himself undoes the complicated mess that is his own boots. Gabriel's insistence and need grows as he whines and claws at Morrison, leaving two more scars on the already mottled, pale skin.
"You really enjoy the pain do you, you fucking masochist," Gabriel groans, rolling his hips against the body pinned under him, igniting a spark of delicious friction. He is met with sultry moans from the other every time their hardened cocks so long as brush against each other, clamping his lips onto Morrison's nipple and sucking on it roughly. He bites it particularly roughly once, earning a loud shout of pleasure from his lover. In a heated tangle of limbs, both find themselves removing pieces of jet black clothing from Gabriel, way too many of them, leaving a hot and bothered Morrison to snarkily remark as to why the fuck Gabe can you not just wraith form the fuck out of that shit, earning another deliciously rough bite on his neck, with the intent of punishing him. Devoid of a single scrap of clothing, Morrison's mostly in shreds and Gabe's tossed messily on the floor, both regard each other's naked forms with a carnal gaze that could only be described as filled with unspeakable lust and longing for each other. This time, Morrison breaks the silence. With a silent command of "up," Gabe rolls over obediently, letting Morrison pin him down this time. Bare hands meet gloved ones as Reyes, impatient and overly eager, thrusts his hips up and allows his lover to plunge the full length of his member into his now bare ass, groaning as his body quickly adapts in memory to the thick cock inside him. He lets out a slow hiss to signify that the other could begin to move, and Morrison builds up a slow pace, driving his shaft repeatedly into the the tight hole of his lover. Gabriel presses his lips against Morrison's, trailing saliva and blood as he bites down hard on Morrison's lips as they kiss, their lips and tongues a tango to the slow, corporeal movement of their bodies together.
"Fuck, Gabe, you bloody slut," he groans, feeling Reyes clench with each single stroke. It's almost as if Reyes' entire asshole was his prostrate, as he feels the muscles clench rhythmically around his length. He doesn't know if it's hatred, love, or relief that he feels, all he knows is the tightness that is Gabriel motherfucking Reyes. Frenzied kisses and skin shredded to ribbons, saliva and spit exchanged between two orifices, honest to their true feelings in a sinful coupling. Reyes grips his own engorged member in a talon gloved hand, pumping it to the pace of Morrison's thrusts into his slutty anus. His pants are all but gone, and the Kevlar long discarded. One could almost describe the Latino as an oxymoron of sorts, his whole body with perfect planes sculpted like Michelangelo's David, yet with scars and cuts crisscrossing the whole of it, like a sullying map across his otherwise perfect, bronze skin. And soldiers are fantastic at following maps, it seems, as Morrison kisses as sensual trail down the numerous scars that mar his lover's body, picking up the pace of his lovemaking. He can feel it, the want, as it pearls at the tip of their cocks, salty want making the head glisten, even in the poor light.
"Fuck, Morrison, can't you go any faster, you fucking old man–!" Gabriel yells under Jack, as Jack lands a particularly hard thrust against his prostrate, the sweet, delicious friction that is their skin slapping against each other driving him crazy. "Fucking slutty dog," he growls into Gabriel's ear, as he pulls out and slams his length in, and repeating the motion until the other man howls with pleasure. "You like that don't you? On your knees," he commands, pushing Reyes off. The dark haired man complies duly, shrugging out of the obstructing coat in one swift movement, kneeling against the couch, playfully letting out a little bark as Morrison grabs hold of his hair and slams his hardened member into him over and over again, while his own craves human contact. He bucks furiously against the air, letting out low, raspy, needy barks and grunts, wanting to feel his lover's hands on his length. "Morrison you dick, touch me, ah!" he shouts, feeling the other's hand grip his neglected member, the calluses on the hand pumping it steadily sending shockwaves of intense pleasure to his clouded mind.
All he can hear is own voice, screaming to be pounded harder, his legs shamelessly wide apart and displaying his sex. With a loud grunt, he feels the knot in his stomach uncoiling as he finds his release, feeling a jet of familiar warmth fill him up as well, repeating Morrison's name over and over again. Jack pulls out too fast, and he can feel as the thick white sin covers the back of his thighs, creamy yet flowing tantalizingly over his well defined curves. He lets out a long, breathy sigh as he leans against the couch, not because he's spent, but because that felt too bloody good. He can still feel the way Morrison's body heat feels pressed against skin and sinew, it doesn't matter anymore if they're sinning against all the damn religions, because two old ghosts have no place to follow any damn worldly rules. And he curls up with his whole self trembling, tears falling, he's so damn afraid he'll lose himself again, feeling the Morrison's hand on his back, the one point keeping him connected to the world.
Gabriel is like a cat, still so tightly wound up from the activity that one single movement from Morrison and he can feel Gabriel's whole body as it reacts to the slight touches, each stretch to meet his hands strong and commandeering, like a stallion. He notices the way Gabriel hunches, and the way that scars trail from his back, with holes where his spine should have been. The rest of him is brawn and muscle, heavy, rich and caramel colored skin covered in a sheen of sweat that catches the dim light as his body moves to shake off the excess energy coming down from his high. They sit in the silence, Morrison eventually moving to massage Gabriel's back, running his hands over the monstrous holes that mar his back. He wonders at himself how he never noticed such a gruesome display earlier in the heat of their coupling, as his hands run over the septic holes, which smell like rotting flesh. Jack would never admit to it, but the feral, animalistic feel of Reyes' scars and wounds all but seemed to ignite a strange want in him, as his fingers glisten with pus. His skillful hands slide down the length of Gabriel's back, tackling the knots systematically.
"Just how I like it, sunshine," Gabriel purrs, a deep melodious sound ringing in Morrison's ears and it's richness sending a flush to Morrison's cheeks.
"Sunshine," the word is foreign on Gabriel's lips, like an entirely foreign language. Years of living in the squalor and darkness of Blackwatch, then as a dark mercenary alienated him had from light and sunshine. Morrison kneads Reyes' strong back, releasing the knots in it with his strong, familiar grip. "I'll be damned, Jack Morrison. You're the only sunshine that could make a sinner believe in God," he mumbles, leaning back into Morrison's lap. With the amount of self gratuitous post coital cuddling they engage in, sleep comes easily to the one still fully human, curled up against the pillar of warmth that was Gabriel Reyes.
Gabriel watches silently as Morrison, curled up on his lap, stretches, curls up, then yawns as he reaches out his arms to encircle Gabriel's waist. Gabriel stretches out to reciprocate. Maybe he can afford the sleep, he thinks. But even after all that activity and a long day, he can't fall asleep. Just like in the days of Overwatch, his active mind blinks through twenty different scenarios as he remembers a time long past, and his hand reaches to the holes in his back, running his finger tips over the crusted edges and the pus that oozes ever so slightly from within. He's a monster, he thinks to himself. Monsters don't sleep, they're cursed to wander the realm of darkness forever. He doesn't deserve Morrison, he quietly muses, as his cells dissolve into smoke like particles, splitting him from the skin down to the bone. It's not a pretty sight, him becoming the wraith form, as bone and sinew and it's raw, gory display shudders and reforms back with all his clothes replicated and intact, as he steals out the window with a plate of perol.
"Estoy enamorado de ti, Morrison, eres tan hermosa, como el sol. Otro dia."
Originally my Reapsy was more human, then Cranity happened, LOL. Also, the lyrics and title of this work is taken from War by Poets of the Fall! Have a listen, its great! Cross published from my Tumblr: the-child-of-night-and-day .
TRANSLATIONS:
abuela-grandmother
mierda-shit
No te rías de mí-Don't laugh at me
por favor-please
Bueno saberlo-nice to know (he's being sarcastic here, more like cool beans, mofo,,, my spanish is bad.)
Tú es mi último esperanza, como el sol-You are my last hope, like the sun.
Tú eres mío-You are mine
Estoy enamorado de ti-I'm in love with you
eres tan hermosa-you're so beautiful
otro dia-I hope to see you soon.