It was the first time McCree's duty schedule had him on base at the beginning of November, and for the first time in years, he was finally able to build a proper altar. He had such fond memories from his childhood of helping Mama prepare the altar for Day of the Dead, back when he was too young to work the herd with Papa.
The altar had always been large, bearing images of McCrees going back almost 200 years. Silvery daguerreotypes, faded sepia photos blending into their brown leather frames, formal portraits of men and women in crisp olive green uniforms with fashionable curls, Polaroid snapshots at the rodeo, a brightly front-lit image of smiling people in a dark room with the time and date in bright orange in the corner, carefully framed black-and-white sonogram images that he had been too young to comprehend… There were always more than a few photos of Espinozas scattered throughout as well, and unrelated ranch hands who met tragic ends on the range, many of whom very well might have had every trace of them swallowed up by the vast emptiness of the Llano Estacado, wiped clean from history by the wind and dust; their memories were preserved only in the timeless bastion of spirit that was the McCree Ranch.
Jesse smiled wistfully as he carefully set another holoframe on the top tier of his altar. He didn't have many mementos from the ranch, and all the old photos had burned; all that remained was him and what he could carry in his memory, but maybe that was enough. He could at least find old snapshots of his parents and grandparents on the internet—young and lively and happy. The perfect pictures for an altar.
Mama in her wedding dress, her smile a mile wide as Abuela tucked a flower in her thick black hair. Papa practically laid flat on the back of a lunging, bucking bronco, his hand high and his hat snug and low. Grampa McCree steadying two beaming children sitting high and proud on a calm old chestnut mare. Gramma McCree in her much younger days, a bottle of beer in her hand and a live band on stage over her shoulder. Uncle Javi back from deployment, still in desert camo and still smiling and still with both legs. His abuelos and their pet cat—a recent photo. Jesse was almost positive Abuelo and Abuela weren't dead yet, but Jesse was also certain that his photo would be front and center on their altar, too—young and innocent and smiling.
Maybe he could do a little digging, track them down. He could pay them a visit on his next leave...assuming he wasn't a spirit himself, by then.
He let out a little sigh and lit a votive candle next to Mama's photo, the little tongue of flame making the image of the Virgin Mary on the front glow brightly. He kept the crosses and candles on Mama's end of the altar, however—he and Papa had never been church-folk, and Papa had been visibly upset when Abuela had tried to teach him the Stations of the Cross one spring morning. From what he remembered, Papa put more stock in Native beliefs; he took Jesse to visit a medicine man once, but he'd never stepped foot inside a church with him willingly. But everyone, Catholic, Protestant, Apache, atheist or otherwise, had always come together for Day of the Dead without fuss, and he intended to keep that peace.
He'd practically dropped a whole paycheck on the display, but when it comes to family, money's no object, even if it's being spent on overnighting things like Dr Pepper and boxes of Moon Pies and a crate of sugar skulls to Switzerland. He'd been left with no choice, though; the local Spanish specialty stores were stocked to appeal to Spaniards, with absolutely nothing to meet his homesick Texan needs, and while improvisation was his typical go-to response, he wanted to do this right.
"Delivery for Herr McCree!"
"Oh for God's sake, not another one," Reyes muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he pushed the buzzer for the entrance. Every crate that had come through in the last week had registered on entrance scan as some sort of foodstuff—if McCree had ordered one more box of junk food, he was going to scream. And possibly drag the kid down to the market where normal human beings shopped around here, but either way, screaming was guaranteed.
"Scans register no hazardous material," Athena stated, "Large quantities of vegetable matter detected."
"Veggies, huh...at least he's branching out," Gabriel muttered, heading down to the freight access. As soon as he opened the door to the delivery access hall, he was immediately hit with a strong odor—musky and familiar. He lifted the lid on one of the half-dozen wooden crates, and a little smile came to his lips as everything clicked into place in his mind.
Marigolds.
"Sign here, please," the driver said, holding his breath against the smell.
"Sure, no problem," Gabriel said, his attitude improving immensely as he dashed a quick 'X' off on the signature line and loading the crates onto one of the levi-dollies in the access hall. The door of the cargo bay opened with a loud buzz and he rode farther into the base, seated high atop the wooden crates like they were a powerfully scented palanquin.
"What in the world is that?" Torbjörn asked, covering his nose with a frown. "It smells awful."
"Oh, it's not so bad," Ana replied, leaning against his workbench with a smile.
"It's McCree's latest project," Gabriel replied, fiddling with the control wheel and swinging closer to Torbjörn. "Oops," he smirked.
"Ugh—get that garbage out of here!" he complained, waving his hand in front of his face. "Making poison gas is against the Geneva convention."
"I like it. It smells...masculine, whatever it is," Ana grinned, winking up at Gabriel. Gabriel let out a cackle as he sped off as quickly as the dolly would carry him, the musky scent billowing behind him.
In the much narrower barracks corridors, the scent was almost overpowering—the truck drivers must have been suffering pretty badly. Gabriel chuckled as he parked and hopped down, kicking at the door with a steel-toed boot.
"Special delivery, McCree," Gabriel hollered, his hands shoved in his pockets. The door swung open, McCree's expression bright.
"Oh! …That all fer me?" he asked, a sheepish grin on his face.
"Yup. Six crates of marigolds sound about right?" Gabriel asked, smirking.
"…I-I thought it was countin' flowers individually, so I bought 'bout seventy-five," McCree attempted to explain, his voice dropping away. "…Shit, that's a lotta flowers."
"Hey, it's your money, kid," Gabriel shrugged. "…I've always used silk flowers for my altar, though," he offered, smirking. McCree's expression fell, and he shoved his hands in his pockets.
"…I-I've missed doin' Dia de los Muertos proper fer the last few years," he murmured, "Been in the field every time. Figured I oughta do it right this year. Pull out all the stops, y'know?" Gabriel leaned around the doorway slightly, peeking into McCree's room and giving his massive altar a quick appraisal. He wasn't kidding—it took up an entire wall.
"That's a pretty impressive set-up you've got going there," he remarked, no hint of amusement or jest in his voice as he invited himself in. "You must've been working on this for a while."
"Yessir."
"Go big or go home, huh?" Gabriel replied, raising a brow.
"Yessir."
"Damn, you're making me feel like a bad son the longer I look at it," Gabriel chuckled. McCree sniffed and wiped at his nose quickly, turning away. "Hey, hey, c'mere," Gabriel continued, slinging an arm around McCree's shoulders. "What's wrong, mijo?"
"I-I've been a bad son," McCree whimpered, "I ain't been remembrin' Mama an' Papa like I ought to, an' I've been lettin' people think I'm dead, an-an' I ain't been good t' you an' Ana…"
"Take it easy," Gabriel said, a little smile on his lips. "You've been a pain in my ass from day one, you aren't doing anything different." From everything Gabriel had seen, McCree had always had a good relationship with Ana—Mama's boy, he supposed. "And you're a pain in Jack's ass, too, so, y'know, good job there," he added, chuckling.
The levity didn't seem to affect McCree, who turned into Gabriel's embrace and hid his face in the older man's shoulder.
"Hey, c'mon now, I'm no good with crying people," Gabriel muttered, awkwardly hugging the crying brunet. He frowned slightly—what would Ana say in a situation like this? Or Reinhardt? They were the fuzzy-wuzzy types in the organization… "Look, you came through in the end, didn't you? Hell, look at what you did to make it up to them. Maybe you're not the most punctual. So what? We all know that we can rely on you." He gave McCree a little pat on the head, like he'd seen Ana do when Fareeha was upset. "I can rely on you, can't I?"
"Y-yessir," McCree sniffed.
"Then you're still a good son," Gabriel said, nodding lightly as he did his best to gracefully end the hug. "I'm counting on you, McCree. You've got my back, right?"
McCree simply nodded, trying his best to look up and smile.
Anything for family.