AUTHOR'S NOETZ: Uhhhh... Dunno exactly where I'm going with this, but I thought I'd post up anyway. Just a plot bunny I had to get out there to the masses. Don't know how this will be received, but thought I'd just go for it. Just to tell you a little about it though: just a fluffy/drama/humor/angst/slice-of-life kind of thing between an OC of mine and John "Jack" Morrison/Soldier: 76. If you are looking for that fast-paced explosive action and adventure pew pew shoot em up kaboom type stuff, ya might be a little disappointed, unfortunately... But that's okay, right? Anyway, I'm running my mouth too much. I hope you enjoy this little project, if not that's fine, I still appreciate you taking the time to click on it to see what it's about. KTHNXBAI
Oh and... Disclaimer: I don't even know why we have to do this dumb shit lol. If I owned Overwatch, Blizzard Entertainment, or anything like that, do you think I'd spend all day in my room writing fanfics? No, I'd spend all day on a Fijian island sipping mojitos and eating coconut shrimp while writing fanfics, because the commas in my bank account would permit such a thing. But no, I don't own anything other than my OC.
When John thinks of Emelita, he always thinks of her voice. The timber, the tone, the lush femininity of it. The very first time he heard her voice, it was to reproach someone, of all things. Even then, as she snapped at the crabby Starbucks cashier, telling her that "I paid for a goddamn coffee, not a goddamn attitude," John still thought about whether or not she had a good singing voice. As he would grow to know her, he'd learn that she did. She had spent her childhood and adolescence singing in church choir. Every time she spoke to him, it sounded like she was singing, like music to his ears.
He'd know her voice anywhere.
And the ideas her voice carried, John thought of that too. A conduit for what her mind holds. Her brain, and all of those bundled nerves, shifted and churned through those neurons like a broiling witch's cauldron. John imagined himself a brain surgeon, opening her head, searching through it, trying to catch hold of her thoughts. What's on your mind, Emelita? The question he'd asked most often during their time together, regardless if it was aloud, regardless of if he'd get an answer. These questions would forever crackle like a summer storm over their relationship. What's on your mind? How are you feeling? Why are you such a beautiful creature? What have you done to me? What would I do without you?
John was suddenly aware that he was awake, and didn't feel the warmth that he had held onto, hoping to still hold onto when his eyes opened. And when he did, the space next to him was vacant. He was alone. For a moment or so, he lay there between the high thread count sheets, gazing through the sheer curtains as the morning sun glared over the skyline of upper-middle class, new-construction suburbia. Sol and her life-giving rays, reflecting across the pond across the street from Emelita's corner lot house, a long, accusing finger pointed at him through the bedroom curtains: I see you, John.
Turning away from the angry Sun god, John rolled over and reached across to the bedside table for his phone. He woke up the screen: 8:02 a.m. Setting it down, he rolled onto his back, spread eagle, staring at the rotating ceiling fan which hung from the vaulted roof. This was Emelita's house, and his house, though she bought it late last year, and he'd only officially moved in a month ago when his own lease expired. It's the kind of house that screamed the aforementioned upper-middle class suburbia that he'd always aspired to as a kid from his hard-working, simple life as a farmer's son life. It's the kind of house that is immediately familiar. Generically attractive, unassuming, with little meaningful individuality, a new, new, new home that everyone wanted, and yet covertly detested all the same.
Houses like this were known to steal one's soul. But John knew he had no soul to speak of, and Emelita had soul for days, so there was likely no need to worry. Emelita figured buying a home in the development employing her would be a good move, since phase two of the community had started, there would be eight more, securing her employment for another several years. It was one of those fangled "New Urbanism" developments, ticky-tacky tract housing packed together like sardines—or a crowded bus during rush hour—and obscenely overpriced, in John's opinion. Emelita didn't see it that way, not in the least. To Em, it was the pinnacle of her aspirations, homeownership, and while expensive, the fact that she was able to afford it was a comfort to her and an occasional bragging right.
John didn't blame Emelita (or people like her) for the jaded lens through which he sees the world, and the rose-colored one she (and people like her) see the world through. He blames the Omnic Crisis. He blames bad luck. He blames his parents, her parents, he blames human arrogance.
He blames himself for wanting to protect people like her from ugly truths.
Before he enlisted at eighteen to combat the Omnic Crisis, John had wanted to be a writer who wrote about fantasy, adventure, make-believe. He wanted to write books, scripts for movies, and television shows, back when all people really did have to worry about was what to watch on their premium TVoIP package. Back in the glory days, but no one knew it back then. The world was packed with kids who wanted to grow up to be doctors, lawyers, engineers, writers. Still the case now, but not as much.
John enlisted, giving up his own dreams so that others would be able to pursue their own, before 'dreams' became some kind of exotic pet kept in the corner of existence—throw a few treats at it, watch it dance on its little leash, oh how adorable, it definitely won't murder us in the night. Just think of it: a time when kids worried about applying for their Ivy League college of choice, instead of where to hide from explosions and killer robots as they walked to their car after a grocery run.
John had a purpose for eleven years and then, for a time, he didn't. It was very sudden. One moment, he was ready to deploy to fight, the next, he was signing his discharge papers after a medical evaluation deemed him as having a service-connected disability. Sure, he'd get full benefits for the rest of his life, college would be paid for, and a list of other advantages, but… He'd lost his purpose. He was cut loose and (felt) discarded. For month's he'd spent time as a jobless grown-up, wandering in his boxers around his old apartment in need of a renovation, ignoring the future, tossing unopened mail across the furniture, eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch at two in the afternoon, staying up late to catch up on shows on the numerous streaming subscription platforms, and sleeping until noon and only getting up when he had to pee.
Some time ago, when he was first discharged, John's phone rang. It was Vincent, his ex-boyfriend on the other end. Just as John was going through the discharge process, Vincent had received orders for a new duty station. Good ol' Vincent, calling from the hustling and bustling Seoul, Korea, to check up on poor ol' John Morrison.
He remembered Vincent's face, remembering when he first met him, that he could always see what he looked like as a little boy when he smiled. When he listened to his voice on the phone call, John saw a mental picture of a ten-year-old Vincent, with a mop of dark hair, his polo and khaki shorts, sitting on the dock out back of his childhood home, his body slouched over casually as his legs dangled into the water to let the river to wash over his feet. John had never imagined a more self-possessed child.
Vincent's voice was warm and sweet (though still masculine) like a hug. He talked about his progressing career, how he'd been promoted in rank, how he'd cross-trained into Army medicine to be a registered nurse, how his life was taking off, inadvertently reminding John of how his life fell apart. Before that, though, Vincent had written John a letter, and when he read his crisp handwriting, double-story lowercase A's and I's dotted with little circles, bringing John to tears (though grown men don't cry) for the first time in his entire adult life as Vincent told him how much he loved and missed him.
"I want to send you a ticket to come visit me," Vincent said in the phone call.
For some reason, John didn't believe him. Or maybe that was the emotional dam he had put up, to believe that Vincent was lying rather than deal with his own ideologies pertaining to his own inadequacies. Vincent could still hear John breathing on the line.
"I'm serious, John. I even want you to stay with me."
A long exhale. "Why?"
John felt that Vincent didn't take long enough to consider his proposition. That John would simply bundle up his life and problems, fly across the globe, and spend the rest of his life slowing down someone who was lightyears ahead of him, and all would be fine. He didn't understand how foolish, how optimistic, how these rose-colored glasses would lead to eventual misery if he wasn't careful.
"Because I love you, John. I want the best for you. I want you to be happy."
This was the part where Vincent should have realized that he could be happy without John. He already made big strides since John's discharge. And to be honest, he didn't know why Vincent even put up with him in the first place, as John was well aware of what an asshole he could be. John was so self aware that everyone else's lack thereof aggravated him, how because someone simply wanted things to work out, that it would on that mere principle alone. He's watched too many screw-ups and had some of his own to know or think otherwise.
John's morning breath warmed the pillow, and he changed the subject on his mind. Today was not the day for second guesses or regret. Today was a day for the here and now. Outside the bedroom door, he could hear a light commotion, a cacophony of now ever-familiar sounds: Emelita making breakfast. Banging of the wooden cupboards, rattling glass vessels against silverware, shuffling and sorting of copper-bottomed cookware. A culinary orchestra, with Emelita as the conductor. John figured that something impressive was being created, likely because it was a special day, and Emelita would want to cook something special.
It was their one-year anniversary.
Throwing the sheets aside, John climbed out of bed, reaching down to the floor to collect his boxer briefs. Slipping them on, he walked barefoot across the plush wall-to-wall carpeting that he detested on mere principle and stood behind the bedroom door, contemplating whether or not he was ready to join his partner. He could hear her high heels clacking on the ceramic tile as she stepped around the cooking space. He could hear her humming, vocalizing something upbeat, familiar… A pop song? A love ballad? And then he realized it was the song she sang when he realized he was in love with her, when he learned first hand that she could sing, that she didn't care what anyone thought.
They'd been friends-with-benefits for a couple of months, having been able to match and complement each others energies, even if the premise at the point was just casual sex. Emelita wanted to go out for breakfast one morning after one of their rendezvous. She was kind of annoying back then, still is, though it's okay, and was even back then. But it was and is okay because he liked her flippant and candid nature for some reason. And her propensity to constantly sachet around in such impractical footwear, as if she knew she was attractive, that she was worth it, and didn't need anyone else's approval or validation. Another of his favorite things about her was her gait. No matter what she was doing she walked with a sense of purpose, as if she literally liked the rhythmic sound of her shoes clacking on hard surfaces.
That morning a year ago, he'd adorned the graphic tee and jeans he'd come in the night before (he didn't bring a fresh change of clothes, so he had to do the walk of shame). Emelita herself had exited her bedroom in form-fitting black jeans and a pair of silver red-bottoms covered in metal studs. The yellow blouse was unzipped halfway from the top to purposefully let her hot pink fashion bra peek out. When she walked past him, he wanted to touch her hair, bury his face in her thick, curly mane so she could mark her territory with her scent of fructifying oils and fruity-smelling hair creams. The prior week, she'd decided to "go natural," taking out her hair extensions and letting her hair breathe. And the result, he thought, was breath-taking. She literally looked like one of those exotic island beauties (though he knew calling her "exotic" was almost as bad as a racial slur) in one of those cheesy romance dramas that women like to eat up (and he ate it up too because he was the male lead in one, it seemed).
She stood next to the kitchen island, and he observed her, especially her small mannerisms. The way she'd bite her bottom lip, painted with matte red crayon, scrunching her cheeks so he could see her dimples. She stared at her phone while her thumbs went to work. Her posture, how she stanced herself, feet wide apart hips tilted as she shifted weight to one leg. And even the way she cut her eyes at him when she looked up to meet his own. If he wasn't a foot taller and eighty pounds heavier, he'd be afraid of the way she'd looked at him in that moment, light grey eyes standing out against her skin—the complexion of an exotic blend of dark roast coffee.
John thought she was judging him, like she was angry, like she was going to accost him for some offence he was not aware he'd committed.
She'd parted her lips, causing him to internally reel back.
"Where do you wanna eat?" she asked.
John was relieved.
He shrugged and said, "IHOP, maybe?"
"Gurl, eugh!" she said, sounding like a teenage queen bee as she expressed her disapproval, despite the fact that she was turning to walk towards the back door to go to the garage. "IHOP nasty as hell."
"Well, you can pick." John followed behind her.
"Ehh, IHOP's fine."
"But you just said you don't like IHOP."
"I don't."
He followed her across the patio to the garage. As she unlocked the door, he waited for her to elaborate. When she didn't he said. "But if you don't like IHOP, why do you wanna go there?"
"I'unno," she said, shrugging as she pushed the door open and turned on the light to illuminate the three-stall garage, the only vehicle parked inside being a red Taos SEL. She pressed one of the wall mounted buttons to raise the door to the stall as either person walked around to their respective sides of the vehicle to climb into the leather interior. As John slid inside, he pondered on this woman's enigmatic nature, how wishy-washy she was, and how, oddly, he had no problem with it. Had it been anyone else, even Vincent, he'd have long since lost his patience.
They'd driven through the development for a few minutes. The woman's rolling stops, tendency to speed, and talent of flying around corners at almost thirty miles per hour irked John. It wasn't until they pulled up to the stop sign to exit the neighborhood that she picked up her phone to select a song from the streaming app. The song itself wasn't special. Not that it was bad, it just wasn't something he normally listened to. Dropping the phone into the cupholder, a chord progression of violins emanated through the car's eight-speaker sound system as Emelita checked traffic. The percussive beat began as she darted across the lanes, through the break in the median, and onto the thoroughfare. The car ride was silent all but for the beats pumping from the stereo. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Emelita mouthing the lyrics to the song as the artist started singing about her indignance at an unfaithful lover, her disapproval at the woman said lover left her for, how he had her "thinking 'bout callin' that bitch that night and let her know where she can come and meet me." All the while, Emelita looked left and right, checking the rear-view and wing mirrors and rear glass to make sure she wasn't side-swiping anyone as she weaved the compact SUV through traffic.
He turned to look at the woman driving, hearing her start to sing along at the pre-chorus, just as the slowed down upon approaching a red light. The pre-chorus ended as the car inched up to the stop line, and that chord progression of violins began again. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Something was about to happen.
"AND IIIIIII-II-IIII-II-IIII CAN'T STAAAAYYYY HEEERE! IF THEEE-EE-EEERE'S NO LOVE."
She unabashedly belted out the chorus, not caring in the least who saw or heard.
"YEAH, IIIIIII-II-IIII-II-IIII CAN'T STAAAAYYYY HEEERE. 'CAUSE I'VE HAAAA-AAA-AAA-AAD ENOUGH… ENOUGH OF NO LOVE."
That's when he decided that this woman was absolutely incredible.
This morning on their anniversary, she sang that R&B song again, not unlike she had a year ago, at the top of her lungs like she was Mariah Carey auditioning for America's Got Talent or something, mind you. An old, old R&B song, "Enough of No Love", by an artist named Keyshia Cole. John decided to open the door and join her.
He hovered at the meeting point between the living room and kitchen, a few feet from the breakfast bar, and watched her. Her jet-black 4-C curls down to her back, which was turned to him, bounced lightly as she seemingly danced around the kitchen. The honey-colored light from the wrought-iron fixture reflected off of her red satin house robe. Kiesha, their classic Siamese rescue, had leapt onto the counter, prompting Emelita to mutter something or other about Kiesha's "hairy ass" and contaminating food before sweeping her off the surface. She'd turned around to the kitchen basin to wash her hand and resume cooking, but froze when her eyes landed on him. She stared at him for a few moments, long enough for him to realize for the fifty-leventh time—and definitely not the last—the enchanting quality to her gaze. He knew he liked this girl, he really liked her, this girl… Happiness tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Mornin', sleepy head!" Emelita said, her beautiful face cracking into a smile.
MOR AUTHOR'S NOETZ: Oh and I wanna give a shout-out to Superdale33 for reading, commenting, and beta-ing my work - Miss Thing, you are FUCKING LEGEND. Don't let the haters tell you different. I also want to thank WTFJC for giving input too; it was greatly appreciated, definitely got my ass together. Now, for you readers, if you've made it this far, I appreciate your interest, you effing rock. Stay tuned, there is more to come!
~Naza