Work Text:
Jesse hasn’t had a good meal in a long time.
That’s not to say that he hasn’t eaten well or enough. Overwatch feeds him three times a day, and the food is good enough to put fat on his ribs and keep his stomach from grumbling. He has access to coffee every morning, vegetables and fruit at all three meals, and seasonal foods around holidays. And, unlike what he remembers from grade school, Overwatch’s cafeteria actually has varied meals and often several choices of what to eat on any given day. He doesn’t get tired of the same meal every week, and pizza day, when they get it, doesn’t involve disgusting greasy slop that you have to pat down with an entire roll of paper towels before it’s anywhere near edible.
But the food in Zurich is a far cry from the food in Texas where he grew up. He misses beans, and tortilla chips with queso, chili and cornbread, good barbecue, and food with actual spice in it. He’d just about kill for seven-layer bean dip with real corn tortilla chips, and he’d pay a stupid amount of money for a bottle of chili powder. Overwatch has kept him well fed, but he hasn’t been able to cook for himself, and he sure hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in years. He misses homemade food.
So when Reyes invites him over on a Friday night for dinner at his place, Jesse jumps at the chance. He has no idea if Reyes is a good cook or not, or what he’s making, or if other people will be there, but he thinks it’ll be worth it for a good meal and a chance to unwind alongside somebody other than the soldiers in the mess hall for once. Reyes is more than a little intimidating, sure, being a literal super soldier who takes absolutely no shit, but Jesse likes him. Respects him, even, and that’s not something he ever thought he’d say about a CO or anyone in the military at all.
Reyes has a home near base, just far enough away from the main buildings to be away from the noise, but well within Overwatch’s first layer of security gates. It’s tucked away between several other cookie-cutter houses that make up the neighborhood for the agents with families. Jesse doesn’t have anyone he’d live in an actual house with, but he appreciates the fact that agents from all over the world can move their families to the base and live their lives as normally as possible. It reminds him that Overwatch gives a damn about their agents.
Now, Jesse hadn’t really put much thought into why Reyes would have a house near base until they’re standing in front of one of those cookie-cutter beige houses, with broad windows and a white fence, and all sorts of flowering plants in pots along the walkway and on either side of the door. It hits him all at once that Reyes probably has a family, or at the very least a significant other. A ridiculous image of a pretty little housewife steps into Jesse’s head without his permission, and he imagines her watering the flowers and pruning the hedges. The idea is so outlandishly beyond the type of life Reyes seems inclined towards that it almost startles a laugh out of him. Instead of laughing, he wipes his boots on the welcome mat on the porch and toes them off before following Reyes inside, ducking down to snag his shoes to hide his smile.
The smell of food is the first thing Jesse notices, and he takes a long and appreciative whiff before closing the front door behind him. He can’t tell exactly what it smells like, but he thinks he can smell baking bread, and celery, and whatever else is cooking smells rich and delicious. His mouth waters. Reyes dresses down slightly, taking off his beanie, jacket, and the kevlar vest underneath, loading them onto a sturdy looking coat rack on the wall in the entryway, so Jesse does the same, all the while taking in his surroundings.
The two of them stand in a little entry hall. The coatrack and a row of shoes are on the left, and Jesse plops his combat boots next to Reyes’ and another pair. Two pairs of worn running shoes sit closer to the door, one blue and one red. There’s a little clamshell bowl with a few sets of keys on a small table on the other side of the entryway, along with what looks like a grocery list and a pencil. The entry hall opens up into a dining room on one side, with a large wooden table and cushioned wooden chairs, and a living room on the other side. Jesse only gets a little peek into both, but the table is set for three, and the living room has two large couches, a glass coffee table, and a holo-tv on the far wall.
Reyes leads him towards the dining room. There is a sort of half-wall separating the kitchen and the dining room, but aside from the two support columns on either side, the wall is open like a window to the kitchen with a countertop and storage space forming the half-wall. Several stools are set on the dining room side of the counter. The far wall of the kitchen has the fridge, oven, stove, and sink.
Jesse’s gaze lands on the sole figure in the kitchen and his feet stop short beside one of the stools just as Reyes rounds the half-wall and enters the kitchen. The lingering image of a housewife vanishes entirely as a guy turns to greet Reyes. The man is tall, with an inch or two on Reyes, and has a head of slightly unruly blond hair. He’s dressed in standard overwatch slate-grey pants and a black compression shirt, with a blue-black-and-white plaid flannel shirt over the top, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The flannel does nothing to hide how muscular the guy is, and that more than anything is what gets the gears in Jesse’s brain spinning into overdrive to try to figure out who this guy is, because very few people look as tall, big, or strong as Reyes.
The man grins slightly crookedly, blue eyes widening and then crinkling in delight, and then he says, “Gabe!”
Jesse’s first instinct is to point and laugh at his CO, who hates being called that nickname with a burning passion. That instinct is quickly drowned out by the gears in his brain grinding horribly to a halt as he recognizes that deep voice as Strike Commander Morrison’s voice.
Holy shit.
Commander Morrison abandons the pot on the stove to wrap Reyes in a bear hug, grinning all the while. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” he says, pulling away and nudging Reyes in the chest lightly with his elbow. He turns back to the pot and stirs. “Training went long?”
“Mm,” Reyes nods, leaning against the counter and watching Morrison stir. “That and I waited around the showers so I could convince Eastwood to join us.”
The gears in Jesse’s brain haven’t really caught back up to speed yet, but he knows a jab in his direction when he hears one. “Hey now,” he protests mildly, frowning in Reyes’ direction.
Morrison spins around with a grin on his face. “Oh, you’re here!” he says, the most cheerful Jesse has ever heard him. “I’ve been trying to get Gabe to invite you for dinner for weeks.” Morrison waggles his wooden stirring spoon at Reyes menacingly. “Glad you got that stick out of your ass and finally asked him.”
Reyes throws his hands out, indignant. “Pendejo spends forever in the shower after the last training of the day!” he argues. “I waited around several times but you texted me that dinner was ready, so I gave up!”
“You’re telling me I missed out on whatever that is,” Jesses says, jerking his chin towards the pot on the stove, “because you couldn’t just ask me?”
Morrison bursts out laughing at the same time Reyes throws his head back and makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat. “Well fuck you, too, McCree,” Reyes says.
Morrison pats him on the shoulder placatingly, still chuckling. “Be a dear and offer him something to drink while I put these in serving bowls.” Reyes heads over to the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of water and a store-bought jug of lemonade. He also grabs a little plastic container with part of a stick of butter in it, which he slides over the counter to Jesse with a gesture towards the table. Jesse takes it and adds it to the table while Reyes and Morrison bring the food and drinks.
“It smells like heaven,” Jesse says once Morrison brings his two serving bowls out. One has long noodles, the other has an orangey-red sauce in it.
Morrison smiles warmly. “I’m glad! It’s Gabriel’s abuelita’s spaghetti recipe, although with less spice so I can survive the experience.” He looks a little sheepish, a light flush dusting his cheeks. “But I hope it’s still good.”
“It’s always good,” Reyes says, returning from the kitchen with a basket of bread from the oven. “And while I like spicier food, I like a living husband more.” Morrison snorts. Reyes sets the bread on the table and motions to Jesse. “Go ahead, kid, eat as much as you want.”
Jesse quickly takes a portion of noodles and the sauce. It’s for sure not a normal Italian spaghetti sauce; it’s more orange, with carrots and celery and bits of a mild pepper and garlic mixed in with ground beef, but it tastes like heaven. Mildly spicy heaven. Reyes is right; it would have been good with more spice, but it’s still tasty, and it doesn’t seem to bother Morrison more than giving him the sniffles. Jesse chases it with soft bread and butter and washes it all down with lemonade, a treat he hasn’t had in years, and he takes seconds when Morrison prompts him to. It’s good. It’s so good, Jesse never wants to stop eating, but he doesn’t want to be a total glutton so he declines having thirds.
Reyes does not; the man eats until he looks like he’s in pain, much to Morrison’s amusement.
“Save room, Gabe,” Morrison pleads, not for the first time this dinner. “You can have the leftovers tomorrow!”
Reyes turns a mournful look at him. “But it’s so good,” he says, pouting theatrically.
Morrison rolls his eyes. “It’ll be just as good tomorrow,” he says, unaffected by Reyes’ display. “And you’ll miss out on what I’m making for dessert.”
That gets Reyes to stop pouting. He narrows his eyes, and then glances over his shoulder into the kitchen. “What’s for dessert?” He asks, suspicion dripping from his voice.
Morrison smiles slightly. “Oh, nothing.” He looks the very picture of innocence.
Reyes continues to survey the kitchen, eyes roving back and forth, until they alight on something. Jesse assumes it’s the bag of apples on the far counter, but he can’t be sure. Reyes practically knocks over his chair in excitement, slamming a fist on the table and turning to Morrison so fast that Jesse’s pretty sure he’s got whiplash. “You’re making pie?!” Reyes demands, at full volume. “After I ate all that spaghetti?”
Morrison grins. “You shouldn’t have gone for thirds,” he says simply. “I guess Jesse will just have to eat your share.” He shrugs, as if to say, what can you do? Jesse struggles not to laugh.
Reyes goes right back to pouting. “You’re the worst,” he says, frowning deeply.
“Yeah, yeah,” Jack flaps his hand dismissively. “I’m well aware. Now get your ass up and moving before I get too tired to make any pie at all.”
Jesse does his best to help clear the table despite both men waving him off. He winds up sitting on one of the stools by the kitchen counter while Reyes loads the dishwasher and Morrison lays out things for baking on the counter where Jesse is. Jesse, for his part, watches with rapt attention as Morrison mixes flour and salt, and then butter, and then water. There is no recipe in a book or on a holo-screen anywhere nearby, so Jesse can only assume that Morrison has done this many, many times before, because he’s clearly able to tell how much water to add just by the consistency of the dough. He then rolls it out and stores it in the fridge.
Next he works on the apples. He peels and slices eight small apples, and then adds an assortment of things; Jesse recognizes sugar, flour, and cinnamon, but a handful of other sweet-smelling things go in too. Once all of the apple slices are coated in the mixture, Morrison swaps the apples for the dough, which he cuts in half and rolls out. Reyes has begun cleaning the rest of the kitchen by this point, wiping down counters, sweeping the floor where a handful of vegetable pieces wound up, and wiping away the spatter on the stove. Morrison does a neat thing with the pie dough; he rolls it up along the rolling pin and then neatly unrolls it into a waiting pie tin, carefully tucking it into the tin and trimming the extra. The filling is removed from the fridge and added to the tin, and then he makes absurdly quick work of a lattice for the top, weaving the dough as if it were no effort at all.
Reyes catches Jesse watching and grins. Morrison continues on, oblivious, and then whisks the pie away and into the oven. Reyes shoos him away from the mess on the counter as soon as he turns back to it.
“You made dinner and dessert,” he says. “Go sit down, Jack. I’ll clean up and set the time. Fifty minutes?”
“Fifty minutes,” Morrison confirms. “C’mon, McCree, let’s go sit down.”
Jesse worries for about thirty seconds that sitting alone in a room with Strike Commander Morrison would be awkward or uncomfortable. Morrison never gives him the opportunity to be uncomfortable; they sit down on the couches, which are angled slightly to keep both the other couch and the holo-tv in view, and Morrison immediately strikes up a conversation. Jesse sees, now, why he’s the politician and Reyes is not; Morrison has this natural charm and quick wit. He’s good at both filling silences and keeping other people talking. He gets Jesse telling stories from Texas, and then shares his own anecdotes from Indiana. They were both raised on farms, Morrison points out, and they spend a good deal of time griping fondly of their childhoods before Reyes joins them, flopping down on the couch with Jack.
“A little over thirty minutes on the timer,” he informs Morrison, who nods. Jesse is a little startled to realize they’ve been chatting for nearly twenty minutes already. With Reyes joining them, the conversation gets even livelier; he and Morrison share anecdotes from the Crisis, pulling more laughs out of Jesse than he can count. It’s fascinating to see this side of his CO. Reyes is loose, relaxed, happy in a way Jesse has never seen him before. Morrison looks much the same.
“This is probably a silly, question,” Morrison says at one point, the corners of his lips lifting upwards in a tiny little smile, “but have you made any friends on the base yet, Jesse?”
“Eh,” Jesse flops his hands in a so-so gesture. “Not really. Qing and I partner up in training most of the time, but we ain’t exactly close enough to spend time other than that. Oh, and I suppose Summers and I eat most meals together, although Summers don’t exactly talk much.”
Reyes rolls his eyes. “That’s an understatement,” he says. “Summers is practically mute.” He eyes Jesse critically. “Are you serious that you spend most of your time with the one guy who doesn’t talk?”
Jesse does his best not to squirm right there on the couch. Morrison saves him, though. “Friends will come in time,” he says, patting at Reyes’ shoulder. “Someone as entertaining as Jesse will have no problem talking with people, at least when he wants to.” He smiles kindly at Jesse.
“But he doesn’t want to,” Reyes grumbles, “or he would have already.”
Morrison’s expression goes from kind to shrewd in an instant. “Oh, because you know so much about socializing and making friends,” he says, his voice absolutely dripping with sarcasm. Before Reyes can get a word in edgewise, Morrison looks Jesse dead in the eyes. “Do you know what this idiot was like in the early days? He had two facial expressions: blank, and scowling. He never spoke to anyone at mealtimes or after hours. He got into spats with his roommate all the time. He got into fights and made enemies instead of friends.”
Jesse looks at Reyes, who scratches his beard idly and smiles a little. “And then this little shit came along.”
Morrison laughs. “I took one look at everyone trying and failing to get into this guy’s good graces and thought, my turn. I pestered him day and night, just being as nice as I could be. Oh, sure, he grumbled and groaned about it, but not once did he kick my ass. What was originally a challenge turned into something enjoyable. Like, he genuinely thought he was such an asshole that little things—like baking pie in the kitchen after-hours and handing him a slice, or saving him a cup of coffee if he got to the mess late—were completely out of his reach. He was gobsmacked every time.”
Reyes wipes a hand over his face, eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance. “McCree, I don’t know if you know this, but Jack Morrison is a ray of fucking sunshine. An aggressive ray of sunshine.”
Morrison grins. “I won that war,” he says smugly.
Jesse snorts out a laugh. “Hell of a story,” he says. “Neither of you are the type to be conventional, are you?”
“Absolutely not,” Reyes says, shaking his head. “My abuelita believed in sappy romance stuff. She’d tell me, look for someone who lights up your life. Once I started calling Jack sunshine, that all came back to me like a goddamn freight train.”
“That’s because you first called me sunshine after getting blasted by a bastion,” Morrison deadpans. Jesse can’t help laughing; Morrison has the exact dry wit that Jesse has always strived to attain. All this time he’s been practically taking notes from Reyes and his constant humor and relevant references, but now Jesse wants to figure out how Morrison does humor, too. He sincerely hopes he gets invited to more dinners, and not just for the food. Besides, seeing Reyes’ soft side—and Morrison’s—is downright fascinating. Jesse doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it.
Reyes looks like he might argue, but gets interrupted by the oven timer beeping. Morrison jumps up and makes a beeline to the kitchen, the conversation completely forgotten. Reyes chuckles fondly. “C’mon back to the kitchen counter, kid. I hope you have room for pie and ice cream.”
“I’ll make room,” Jesse says gravely. He hasn’t had pie in god knows how long. Years, for sure. Maybe actual decades.
Morrison has the pie set on a cooling rack and is pulling plates and utensils from the cabinets. Reyes pulls a container of vanilla ice cream out from the freezer and sets it on the counter along with an actual ice cream scooper. Jesse thought those things only existed in ice cream shops and movies. Morrison gets Reyes talking about Los Angeles, which Jesse listens to with rapt attention, while they wait for the pie to cool. Once Morrison deems it ready, he pulls out three fat slices of pie and adds a generous scoop of ice cream to the top of each.
“Dig in,” he says with a smile. “I hope it’s good.”
“It’s always good,” Reyes says, only it’s through a mouthful of pie and ice cream so it sounds like If ahwayf goob. Jesse nods emphatically and gives Morrison a thumbs up, opting to not talk with his mouth full. Morrison beams, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Jesse winds up eating another slice of pie, sans ice cream, and partly regrets it. His stomach is fit to burst, but he’s so happy to have real pie that he doesn’t give a damn what his traitorously small stomach says.
Morrison wraps a sheet of tinfoil very carefully over the remainder of the pie. “Here, Jesse,” he says, and he sets the pie tin on the counter in front of him. “Go ahead and take this with you. Just bring back the pie tin when you’re done.”
Jesse looks up, wide-eyed. “I—are you sure?”
Morrison smiles. “Of course. Pies aren’t a rarity in our house, although I’ve been a bit busy to make them lately. Enjoy!”
He turns around to clean up the remainder of the dishes, and Jesse turns his wide-eyed gaze on Reyes, just to check and see if his CO is annoyed at the loss of pie. They can split it tomorrow, he thinks. But Reyes doesn’t look mad, just oddly pleased, his lips set in a satisfied little smile. It’s enough to set Jesse at ease.
Reyes has certainly won Jesse’s respect. Again, Jesse never thought he’d say it, but he truly respects his CO and hopes to do him proud. He admires Reyes’ strength in the field and his quick mind for tactics. He appreciates his care for their team and adores his sense of humor. Jesse hopes to one day be half as good as Reyes at all of the above.
It's different with Morrison, he thinks, as he walks back to the barracks with his pie cradled carefully in his arms. He’s spent his entire time with Overwatch scared stiff of the Strike Commander. Hell, even Reyes stands to attention when Morrison enters the room. Everyone addresses the man with absolute respect and all the dignity they can muster, dropping back into place with relieved sighs once he’s left the room. Not to mention, Morrison was a cold and angry presence when Jesse first arrived in Zurich in handcuffs. He stood in the back of the interrogation room with his arms crossed, face stony, clearly displeased with the proceedings. And when Reyes suggested they take Jesse in, Morrison argued loudly against it.
But the Morrison from tonight was a different person entirely. He’d sat so closely with Reyes on the couch. He baked the most delicious apple pie in the world with the recipe clearly memorized. He gave Jesse the rest of the pie. And, if his story is to be believed, he—aggressively—charmed Reyes into friendship, and maybe even romance, too. That image of Morrison hardly fits with the one he’d seen before today. He supposes that most people have work personas. Morrison’s is just extreme.
Jesse resolves to observe more, if he can. Reyes extended an ongoing invitation to dinner, as long as he lets them know beforehand that he intends to join them, and by golly, Jesse plans to take him up on the offer. Morrison’s food was to-die for, and Reyes mentioned that if Morrison is ever away on a mission, the two of them could make spicy food for dinner. Jesse’s stomach would growl at either option if it wasn’t so disgustingly full of pie. He feels full, full and satisfied in a way he hasn’t been for years. He’s already looking forward to next time, but he’s content for now. He needed this; the food, the companionship, the pie.
Definitely the pie.
Jesse hasn’t had pie in a long, long time.
Okay—he’s had shitty pie. Store-bought pie, and the crummy pie from the Panorama Diner on Route 66. That’s not real pie.
Real pie is Jack Morrison’s pie, and Jesse hasn’t had his adoptive father’s pie in literal decades. Not since before Zurich—hell, before shit hit the fan in Rialto and Blackwatch fell apart. And when Blackwatch fell apart, so too did Jack and Gabriel, although Jesse knows they’d started to fall apart for years before that. It’s downright depressing, when he thinks of it; so he doesn’t. On Jack and Gabriel’s anniversary, and on their birthdays, he drinks to forget. On holidays, he drinks to forget the cheer of their house, the food, his family. He resolutely does not think of Gabe’s knitted sweaters, or Jack’s Christmas cookies, or anything of the sort. When he’s far enough down in a bottle, he toasts their names and hopes that, somewhere in heaven, they’ve made their peace and have the joy and happiness they deserve. They sure as hell never found such a thing in life.
To say he’s surprised when Soldier: 76 and Bastet join the new Overwatch is an understatement. Angela had warned the fledgling Overwatch not to get mixed up with the vigilantes hunting Reaper, even if their goals seem aligned. The two masked vigilantes certainly seemed dubious to Jesse, often leaving high kill counts and collateral damage behind them, but he’s one to talk considering the sixty-something-million bounty on his own head, so he keeps his mouth shut. When the two show up in the middle of a fight against Talon, he’s grateful and then concerned. Grateful, because they make quick work of the grunts, and concerned, because if they’re here, it’s likely Reaper is, too. And while normally Jesse would love to see his Pops again, he has no desire to be on the receiving end of those hellfire shotguns, no thank you.
But Reaper never appears, and Bastet approaches the group with a relaxed set to their shoulders. Fareeha’s spine straightens, and Jesse gets just enough time to wonder about it before Bastet takes off their—her—mask. Jesse almost cries. He does cry, later, when Soldier: 76 takes off his own mask back at the base. A steady stream of tears roll down his cheeks while Jack hugs him tightly, and they don’t stop when Reinhardt squeezes the life out of Jack, nor when Torbjorn kicks his shins, despite the comical pained noises Jack makes at the rough treatment.
Jesse slips away before the debrief to take a breather. He takes the bulk of his gear off and leaves it in his room, but he doesn’t stay, content to wander the base for a while and get lost in his head. He winds up on a little ledge down a ways from the officers’ quarters, smoking and enjoying the ocean breeze. Hanzo finds him there.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
Jesse squints at him, and then goes back to looking out at the ocean. “No,” he says, after a time.
Hanzo sits down next to him. “I’ve never seen you startled like that before,” he says quietly. “You were at a loss for words.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Jesse drawls.
“I hope not to,” Hanzo says sincerely. “Is he really your father?”
Jesse grimaces. When Jack had taken off his mask, he’d frozen like a deer in headlights. “Dad?” He’d blurted, right in front of everyone. “Not technically,” he says at last. “But Jack ‘n Gabe were the best parents I ever had. Jack—when I was new to Overwatch, I was pretty quiet and lost. He just up and decided one day that such a thing wouldn’t stand. Gabe called him an aggressive ray of sunshine, and it’s the best description I’ve ever heard of him.”
Hanzo considers this. “You were close with Reyes, too?”
“Mm,” Jesse nods. “More than Jack, to be honest. I worked directly with Gabe, and saw the most of him. But I loved Jack, too.”
Hanzo bumps their shoulders together. “The way he hugged you, I think the feeling is mutual.”
Jesse sincerely hopes it is.
He waves Hanzo off after another hour or so, as soon as the sun sets and the other man starts to get a chill. His serape keeps the worst of the chill at bay, so he opts to stay out and watch the stars wink into existence. Eventually his stomach reminds him that he’s neglected it, though, so he heads back into the base, to the kitchen. Jesse isn’t surprised to see the little cafeteria empty and the food put away; dinner is usually pretty promptly at five o’clock, and Jesse’s missed it by several hours.
He is surprised, however, to see a light on in the kitchen, and to hear someone moving around.
Jesse intends to grab a bowl of instant noodles from the pantry and heat up some water real quick and then get out of the way, but he stops dead in the entrance to the kitchen, because Jack is there, bent over a lump of dough.
“Ah,” Jesse manages, realizing very belatedly that he probably shouldn’t startle the man. Jack whips around, rolling pin in hand like a weapon. Jesse winces. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle ya.”
Jack deflates and leans back against the counter. “I thought you wore spurs,” he grumbles. “I figured I’d hear you coming a mile off.”
Jesse smiles apologetically. He’d taken them off with his gear after landing. “Sorry,” he says again. Then, he looks at the dough. “What’re you making?”
Jack glances at the dough. “Oh—nothing special,” he says, looking as apologetic as Jesse. “It’s—it’s made out of beans.” He turns back to the dough and continues kneading it into the right consistency.
“Beans,” Jesse echoes. He waits. Jack doesn’t deliver a punchline. “Beans,” he says again.
The corners of Jack’s lips twitch upwards in an achingly familiar little smile. “You heard me,” he says. “It’s ridiculous. It shouldn’t be as good as it is.”
Jesse manages to unstick himself from the doorway and drops into a chair nearby to where Jack is working on dough. “Is it a dinner pie?” he asks dubiously.
“Surprisingly, no,” Jack says. “I promise the only weird ingredients are the beans and evaporated milk,” he wrinkles his nose at the last bit. “And it works. Somehow, it works.”
Jesse settles in to watch Jack work his magic on the pie. He finishes kneading the pie dough and then leaves it in the fridge to chill. Then, he drains a pot filled with what must be an entire bag of beans and mixes them in a blender with the evaporated milk, butter, eggs, flour, sugar, and an assortment of sweet spices. The blender groans in protest, but it blessedly chugs through the stuff with no issue, and soon produces a worryingly liquid mixture.
Jack pulls the pie dough out of the fridge and rolls it out. Decades of experience let him eyeball the dough to know the right thickness and length for it to fit in the pie tin with minimal dough wasted. He crimps the edges of the shell neatly, and then pours the bean mixture into it. Jesse can’t help the way his lip curls up in disgust.
“I know,” Jack laughs, “It looks awful now. I promise it gets better.” He very carefully sets the pie in the oven and sets a timer, and then puts his hands on his hips and looks at Jesse critically. “Have you eaten dinner?”
Busted. Jesse rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
Jack sighs and turns back to the fridge. He stares at the contents just as critically as he did Jesse, and then sighs again and pulls out eggs, a brick of cheese, and a package of sausage. “There isn’t much in there,” he says.
“Most of our food is dried, or stays in the pantry,” Jesse explains.
Jack hums. “We’re having breakfast for dinner,” he says, and he sets to making the filling for breakfast burritos. Jesse cooks the sausages while Jack grates cheese and then gets started on the eggs. Then, while Jack mixes everything together, he pulls the now-empty sausage pan off the burner and lightly toasts two tortillas from his own stash in the back of the fridge. When the timer for the pie goes off, Jack quickly sets a longer timer and lowers the temperature considerably.
Jesse grabs two plates, sets the tortillas on them, and divides the filling between them. He gives a little more to Jack out of habit—supersoldiers eat more than your standard soldier—only to have Jack lightly smack his shoulder.
“I’ve already eaten,” he says. “Just save room for pie.”
“I’ll make room,” Jesse says stubbornly.
Jack turns to him, then, with that beaming smile and crinkled eyes, and suddenly it’s too much for Jesse. To hell with dinner, or breakfast, or whatever it is—Jesse throws his arms around Jack and holds on tight.
Jack holds him just as tightly. “I’m glad to see you, son,” he says in Jesse’s ear, his voice low and almost hoarse. Jesse squeezes his eyes closed and tears stream down his cheeks all over again. He never, ever, not in a million years, thought he’d have this again. “And I’m proud of you,” Jack continues. “Holy shit, Jesse, I’m so proud of you I could burst.”
Jesse laughs wetly. “I’m just glad you’re not dead,” he says through the tightness in his throat. “And I’m ‘specially glad you came back to us.”
“I hated staying away,” Jack admits. “I missed you. All of you. I was adamant that returning to Overwatch would be a bad idea, that I’d only drag it down, but Ana wore me down eventually.”
“I’m glad,” Jesse whispers. “I’m real glad.”
Jack holds him tightly for another few minutes, occasionally brushing a hand through Jesse’s hair or rubbing a hand up and down his back, before pulling away. “Food’s cold,” he says, “but you should eat before you have sugar.”
Jesse obediently sits down and wraps his tortilla into a burrito with the filling inside. And yeah, it’s gone partly cold, but it’s Jack’s cooking, so it’s still good. He and Jack eat with the most zombified, blank expressions ever. It makes Jesse laugh at one point.
“We were fine after the fight,” he says, “but a couple emotions turned us into instant zombies.”
Jack grins, pulling his focus from the middle distance back to Jesse’s face. “Emotions are exhausting,” he says. “I’m glad I made comfort food.”
“You made pie with beans,” Jesse deadpans. “That ain’t comfort food.”
Jack has the gall to look offended. “You take that back,” he says, shaking a stern finger at Jesse, “or you won’t get any pie at all!”
Jesse shoves the last bite of his breakfast burrito into his mouth, into his cheek, and flops on the table with his arms out. “I’m sorry!” He mumbles around his mouthful. “Please don’t withhold pie.”
Jack snorts, but he ruffles Jesse’s hair. “Mmm, alright. Since you asked nicely.” Jesse sits back up, but they sit in subdued silence while waiting for the pie to finish cooking. Jack gets up and checks it a couple times, but otherwise they sit there and wait. It’s not awkward, not really; both are just too tired to strike up a conversation. Besides, what is there to say? Hey, by the way, Pops is a terrifying serial killer capable of turning into smoke and reforming at will. But you probably already knew that. Or, Hey, my bounty’s almost as high as yours! Or, What have you been up to since our base got bombed and you supposedly died in the rubble?
Nope. Not happening.
The timer finally goes off, making both men jump slightly. Jack takes the pie out and lets it cool, and then whips enough cream for the both of them. By the time the cream is done, the pie is cool enough to eat, and Jesse is pleased to note that it doesn’t look nearly as awful when it’s cooked. It looks similar to a pumpkin pie, only less orange and more light brown. Jack serves him a small slice to try, tops it with whipped cream, and sets it on the table in front of him.
“Well?” He asks, one brow raised.
Jesse takes a bite, considers, and frowns. “Now that’s just not right,” he says, squinting at it. “A bag of beans ain’t supposed to taste good, ‘specially not in a damn pie.”
Jack laughs and serves Jesse another slice with whipped cream, even though he hasn’t finished the first one. He then takes a good-sized slice for himself and sits opposite to Jesse. “I’m glad you’ve seen the light,” he jokes.
Jesse takes a generous bite of the pie and savors it for a moment. “Do I wanna know how you found out that beans make a good pie?” he asks.
“Eh,” Jack shrugs, chewing and swallowing his mouthful before continuing. “It’s not really that interesting. It took me a while to be fighting fit after—” He breaks off, motioning vaguely to his face. Jesse takes that to mean after Zurich. Or, you know, something along the lines of after our base got bombed and I had most of a building fall on me. “I was bored,” Jack plows on a little too quickly, clearly eager to avoid the subject of Zurich. “I started looking up recipes with the food supplies I found in the safehouse I was staying in. That’s how I found the bean pie—navy bean pie, by the way—but one thing led to another and I wound up trying out a bunch of bizarre recipes even after I’d recovered.”
Jesse snorts. Sounds like Jack alright. The story is so in-character it makes his heart hurt a little bit. “Like what?”
“Hm,” Jack takes a few bites of pie, thinking. “I found a recipe for bread that can last over five years, and it isn’t terrible. I’ve been making that for when Ana and I travel. I also found recipes for a handful of cakes and pies that you can make with wartime rations, although those aren’t particularly tasty. Oh!” Jack grins mischievously and looks Jesse dead in the eyes. “Tomato soup cake.”
“I’m sorry,” Jesse says, wheezing around a bite of pie that didn’t go down his pipe quite right. “Did you just say tomato soup and cake in a sentence?”
Jack throws his head back and laughs. “I was dubious about it too, but I had to try it. I made Ana try it, too, and she liked it.”
“She must’ve got worse brain damage than I thought,” Jesse says warily. “Jack, I was jokin’ about the zombie thing. Don’t tell me you’ve lost your brain for real.”
Jack just laughs harder, curling in on himself a little with the force of it. “It’s good!” He gasps through his laughter, “I swear! You—the beans—you thought the beans were a terrible idea, too!”
“That’s fair,” Jesse relents, “but I ain’t eating a tomato soup cake. I might have been raised in a barn, but I have standards.”
It pulls another bright and bursting laugh out of Jack, much to Jesse’s satisfaction. Back before, it felt like he could barely keep up with Jack and Gabriel’s back-and-forth bantering. He strived to attain even a fraction of the dry and deadpan humor both men favored. There’s just something deeply satisfying about rendering Jack helpless with laughter, especially after all the shit they’ve survived.
Jesse knows it’s one thing to survive, and another thing entirely to live. Surviving is easy for the likes of them; eat, move, shoot, sleep, shower, eat, rinse and repeat. Surviving is keeping your head down in a city and keeping your chin up when the going gets tough. Surviving is getting enough food, whether from the store or the trash or food banks. Surviving is finding somewhere safe enough to sleep and getting the energy to keep going for another day. Surviving is instinct. Surviving is something you do without paying much attention to it.
Living, though. Living is hard.
Living is smiling and laughing, even on the edge of the apocalypse. Living is leaning on your friends and family, taking care of them in turn, and loving the people that love you back. Living is baking in the dead hours of night, making food to share with another. Living ain’t easy, especially after spending so long surviving on your own.
But here, in the dated Gibraltar kitchen, Jesse and Jack are miraculously, joyously, wonderfully alive. The years of lost time yawn between them like a gaping chasm, sure, but Jesse’s glad they have time now. He sure as hell ain’t letting go of his dad now that he’s here, threats of tomato soup cake or no.
Jesse feels full, and not just from his stomach. His heart is full of joy—his dad is here. That thought will never get old. While Jack’s hair is no longer golden, he remains an aggressive ray of sunshine, taking one look at Jesse and figuring out exactly what he needed and when he needed it. Food, and hugs, and pie. And like always, there was just no arguing with Jack. Jesse hadn’t even bothered to try. In this family, pie is inevitable.
Yep. It’s definitely the pie keeping a smile on Jesse’s face, and nothing else. Not the way Jack laughs enough for two, or the way he’d hugged Jesse just tight enough, or the dry humor he and Jesse now share.
Definitely just the pie.
Jesse takes another bite and uses it to swallow his smile.