Chapter Text
Reaper finds him on a roof about a block away from the explosion.
Jack isn’t wearing his visor, and he sits with his legs hanging off the side of the building. Even draped in shadows, Reaper can tell he’s had a hell of a night from the jagged tears in his jacket and the dark splotch soaking through at his shoulder. He seems relaxed, though, hunched forward and head tilted to the side. A six-pack of beer sits next to him, and he’s already got one bottle in hand. He raises it to his lips and takes a long swallow; the condensation dripping down the dark glass glows red from the nearby fire that rages.
“Want one?” Jack asks without turning around. “Still cold.”
Reaper stares at the back of his head for a few seconds before he reaches up and hits the release on his mask. The air is humid, and the hot breeze carries the smell of smoke, gunpowder, and burning flesh to his nostrils. Once upon a time it might have invigorated him, but he finds that tonight, it just enhances the weary exhaustion that makes his bones feel like lead. It’s been a long night, a long life, and he’s tired. The fire is eating up the last of his restraints. He should feel happier, should be elated that it’s so close to being over— this nearly seven year hunt for the organization that ruined his life—but instead he feels unhinged and too light, like he could turn to ash and stay that way, unable or maybe just unwilling to coalesce.
It brings him to the million dollar question: what is he supposed to do now?
He must take too long to answer Jack's question, too tangled up in his own, because Jack finally looks over his shoulder. He hasn’t seen the man, not up close, since that night in the safe house, and Jack’s face is enough to pull Reaper from the edge of his own dark thoughts. Dried blood is smeared across his forehead, cheek, and the curve of his nose, the result of another wound which will be another scar added to the many that already line his pale skin. There’s a bruise on his temple, too, and dirt and ash dusted over silver stubble.
“Well?” Jack grabs an unopened bottle of beer with his free hand and wiggles it in the air gently. “It’s fancy beer.”
Something explodes in the fire down the street, a loud boom echoing over the building facades, but Jack doesn’t turn towards it. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on Reaper, and for a moment, the increase in firelight erases the creases on his face and makes Jack look years younger. Reaper itches to touch him, the urge so strong he has to curl his hands into fists.
Jack tilts his head to the side ever so slightly. “It’s watermelon flavored.”
The corners of Reaper’s lips quirk before he can stop himself because Jack remembers his affinity for overpriced beer. He does what he can to school his expression, but not fast enough, apparently; Jack bites at his bottom lip— trying not to smile, the bastard. He eventually just huffs a laugh.
“Time’s running out,” he comments easily and then turns back around. “Drink up while it’s still quiet.”
Jack isn’t wrong. Time is running out, and Reaper thinks he should leave before the newly formed Overwatch agents show up and ruin his night, but he sighs instead and says,“Why the fuck not.” He might not have another chance depending on how things go.
He sits down a few feet from Jack and keeps the six-pack between them, as if something so small and flimsy could keep them apart when death couldn’t, but Reaper finds that he needs it. He needs the separation because right now, right here, otherwise all he can think about is what this means and how much he wants to reach out and touch. He focuses instead on removing his gloves, pulling them off with measured movements.
Jack uncaps the beer and hands it to him when he’s done.
“To Talon’s destruction,” he says. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” Reaper grunts, clinking his bottle to the other man’s.
They both take a drink. The frothy beer is cool and light with just the slightest hint of watermelon and maybe lime. Reaper doesn’t remember the last time he drank anything but cheap, piss-esque beer and hard liquor that burned, but he does remember taking leave with Jack back in the day. They drove to bumfuck nowhere, settled down on top of the car in the middle of clearing with a six-pack of similarly fancy beer, and did nothing except lay in the sun, shoulders and thighs barely touching. He remembers feeling this itch back then, too, remembers finally pinning Jack to the hood of the car on the last night of their trip and staring down into wide, blue eyes. Jack had kissed him first, the tips of his fingers tracing the angles of Gabriel’s face before he leaned up. Jack’s mouth tasted like hops and coriander, and his skin tasted like sweat, and Gabe’s name gasped on his lips sounded like a prayer while Gabe moved inside of him.
“You do realize this isn’t the end of Talon,” he rasps, anything to pull himself back to the present and away from a time he can’t go back to.
Jack shrugs beside him. “I know. But it feels damn good to watch a big chunk of it burn.”
Reaper doesn’t reply. Sirens scream in the distance. Overwatch will be here soon, and he needs to be gone when they show up because he’s still a criminal with a price on his head, and he knows they’ll do whatever they can to bring him in because they don’t know that he’s the one who razed Talon to the ground from the inside. Jack will get the credit, most likely, and that realization burns less than he thought it would.
He can’t help but wonder when and if Winston’s figured it out yet— that the terrorist known as Reaper received the call to arms on a technicality because Reaper kept that stupid fucking phone.
“So what does this mean?”
“What?” Reaper snaps and turns to look at the other man.
Jack stares forward. His face is highlighted golden and his eyebrows are drawn together in some deeply thoughtful expression that makes Reaper’s stomach knot up.
“You and me,” Jack says, more quietly this time. “What does this mean for you and me?”
Reaper tenses. Jack doesn’t spell it out, and he doesn’t have to because it’s the same thought that’s been rattling inside of Reaper’s brain since he set the charges and then hit the go button. What now? It's even more complicated with Jack involved because it isn’t about a vigilante and a terrorist burying the hatchet; this is about two war-torn men with more history than either of them can bear dropping it once and for all and rekindling a fire that obviously hasn’t gone out. Except there’s so much ash cluttering the foundation— ash that literally leaks from Reaper’s body like a fire that refuses to burn but won't die, either— that he doesn’t know if there’s any saving it.
The worst part is, he knows why the fire puts up a fight and won't reignite. He loves Jack and he yearns for Jack, but he hasn’t forgiven Jack. He doesn’t even care about the promotion, not anymore. Once upon a time it turned him bitter, but here and now, he knows it’s water under the bridge. No, the real issue is that he hasn’t forgiven Jack for not believing in him. It stings, and it steels Reaper.
“There is no you and me anymore,” he growls.
“Bullshit,” Jack says immediately, but there’s no anger behind it. He just sounds tired. “There will always be a you and me, Gabriel. The last year’s taught me that.”
Blackness rises from the fingers curled around the beer bottle like steam. He’s not sure what’s boiling inside of him— anger, indignation, fear of having to admit that Jack is right— and he hates all it. “You don’t get to decide that on your own,” he sneers.
“So decide with me.” A pause, and then, his voice rough and hopeful, “Decide to be with me.”
Reaper’s heart skips a beat, and the sudden spike in blood pressure has his fingers phase out enough that the bottle slips. It hits the sidewalk below a few seconds later, and the glass shatters, foam spraying everywhere. The sound is sharp enough that Reaper hears it over the wail of the firetrucks that have finally pulled up in front of the burning building down the block.
It’s the sound of his resolve breaking because yeah, Jack is right. He’s been wrapped up in the other man since the moment they met, and he’s not enough of a boyscout to untangle that kind of knot.
Jack's a boyscout, though. Reaper has no doubt he could untangle the knot and get the fire going in the same breath.
Reaper bows his head and laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs until smoke pours freely out of his mouth because who the hell was he to think he could ever get away from Jack fucking Morrison, the man who came into his life like a goddamned Adonis and broke through the carefully crafted boundaries Gabriel Reyes erected long before he ever met him?
He can’t stop laughing, but he’s still with it enough to offer Jack a sidelong glance. The other man doesn’t move at first, just stares down at the shards of glass below. The more Reaper laughs, the more Jack tenses until he’s like a bow string ready to release. There’s something different about his expression, something hard that reminds Reaper of all those years passing each other in Overwatch’s halls when he mastered shuttering anger, sadness, and whole lot else behind a stony facade just the way Gabriel taught him. Reaper sees the moment he makes some decision by the way his lips tightened into a thin line, and then he drops his own beer bottle.
The resounding crash grates at his nerves even though it doesn't sound any different. Reaper hears it now, the utter finality of the sound, and alarms start going off throughout his body— heart thudding agains this ribcage, mind racing, chest tight, cells vibrating so hard he has to grit his teeth and tense his entire body to keep them together. They all tell him to move, that Jack isn’t reading him right, but he doesn’t, just watches, laughter dying on his tongue, as the other man climbs to his feet and clicks the visor back into place. He rolls his shoulder, the one soaking his jacket with blood, and doesn’t spare Reaper another glance.
“Keep the rest,” Jack says, motioning to the half-empty six pack. “Goodbye, Gabe.”
Something inside of Reaper roars back to life and starts trying to claw its way out. Reaper wishes it was resentment and fury, but he’s pretty sure it’s fear. Cold-blooded fear that Jack is turning his back on him again.
“So you’re just going to leave?” Reaper snaps.
The crunch of boots on rubble stops. He hears a deep exhale, and then, “Excuse me?”
Fire sears through Reaper’s veins and blackness hisses from his skin. He struggles to keep form. “You give me this heartfelt bullshit about how there will always be a you and I, and then you just up and leave because I dropped a goddamned bottle and laughed about it?” Reaper swats none-too-gently at the six pack. It goes over the side of the building just in time for Jack to turn around. “You’re a fucking coward, Morrison.”
“That beer wasn’t cheap,” Jack states, voice cracking slightly.
“Shut up,” Reaper snarls and stands. “Just shut up for once, Morrison, and stop trying to play the goddamned martyr.”
He can all but see Jack’s hackles rising. He squares his shoulders and bows his head, hands fisted at his sides. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. I didn’t reinsert myself back into your life—“
Reaper cuts him off with a harsh laugh that burns his throat. “You sent me messages for years!”
“I thought you were dead when I sent them!”
“I am!” Reaper sneers, and he barely hesitates when he adds, “thanks to you.”
He sees it in the way Jack’s posture changes, how he bends his knees the slightest bit and tightens his core, but Reaper only has about a second and a half to ground himself before the other man charges and tackles him. His body’s immediate reaction is to dematerialize so Jack eats a face full of debris, but he grits his teeth against it and keeps himself whole. The impact pushes the air out of his lungs along with a mouthful of black smoke.
They hit the roof hard enough that even Jack grunts. Reaper ignores the stinging pain of rocks digging into his back through the leathers and bucks up, trying to dislodge Jack, but the other man bears down. Nostalgia hits him almost as hard as Jack, and it’s all he can do not to laugh at the bitter irony of how it’s just like when they were back in training, except more brutal. Jack sits across his thighs and slams his fist straight into Reaper’s nose, once, twice, and an attempt for a third time before Reaper grabs his fist and twists until Jack snarls behind the visor. He manages a punch with his free hand to Reaper’s solar plexus, which stalls the breath trying to leave his lungs, but it leaves Jack open, and Reaper jabs his knuckles straight into Jack’s windpipe.
He splutters, his weight edging backwards. He keeps a hand planted firmly on Reaper’s face to hold him down, leather-clad fingers digging into the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones. Reaper growls, curls his fist, and wails into the Soldier’s side where his kidney should be so hard he can feel it reverberate up his arm. He considers digging his fingers into the wound on the other man’s shoulder, but he can’t quite bring himself to stoop that low.
Jack lifts his head up like he’s palming a basketball and slams it back into the roof top, hard enough that Reaper’s ears ring, black spots dance along his vision, and his hold on his violently vibrating cells weakens.
Fuck this, he thinks, and curls his hand around Jack’s shoulder. He waits until Jack’s finally caught his breath, then he squeezes. Jack roars and grabs his wrist, nearly breaking it in the struggle to pry Reaper off of him.
Jack’s distracted by the pain, so Reaper uses his lack of focus to buck upwards again, forcing Jack far enough back on Reaper’s thighs that he’s able to get a knee between them and push. Jack tries to lunge forward, but they only smash together and end up with Reaper on top of him. Jack throws punches at the sides of Reaper’s head, and a few of them land. Reaper ignores them and the blood dripping down his face, planting a firm hand to Jack’s injured shoulder and pushing down. Jack grabs at his forearm, trying to relieve the pressure, garbled, modulated hisses and groans filtering through the visor.
It hits him, suddenly, how angry he is that Jack is allowed to hind behind his goddamned mask when Reaper’s still sits fifteen feet away. With his lip curling back in a snarl, he grabs at Jack’s face until his fingers find the release. When it hisses open, he all but pries the tech from the other man’s face, tosses it to the side, and looks down.
Jack’s face is contorted into an angry grimace. Fresh blood drips down from his forehead, the head wound reopened by Reaper’s fist. His eyes are so goddamned blue, even in the dim glow of the nearby street light.
He isn’t sure who grabs at whose face first, but the next thing Gabe knows, his hands are curled around Jack’s neck, thumbs dragging over the curve of his jaw, and Jack’s hands are cupping his cheeks, and their lips fit together as perfectly as they ever did. Jack tastes bitter and sweet from the beer, a little bit coppery from whoever’s blood is in their mouths, and Gabe can’t get enough. His pulse beats in his ears like a drum, thrumming through him until he can barely feel his own limbs. His body shudders, and he thinks this might be too much, might be what finally breaks the steadfast hold he’s kept on his body so far.
“Gabriel,” Jack whispers against his lips.
“I know,” Gabe rasps. “I know.”
Except he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he should do now that most of Talon is burning to the ground a few hundred feet from him. He doesn’t know what to do with the man beneath him who is peppering kisses to the corners of his lips like they’re a couple of teenagers and not touch-starved dead men with enough baggage to sink the goddamned Titanic.
He doesn’t know if he can do this to himself again, is what it boils down to. He doesn't know if he can burn up for Jack Morrison a second time because he would. He would burn up for him every goddamned time.
“Bloody hell, luvs,” a voice to their right says, followed by a low whistle. “I expected a bit of a show with the explosion and all, but this takes the cake, innit?”
All the heat coursing through his body is immediately iced by the English lilt. He knows that voice, and it means one thing: Overwatch is here, and they’re about to know exactly who Reaper really is if Jack hasn’t told them already. He would laugh at how ridiculous the entire situation was if he wasn’t too busy planning an immediate escape.
“Uh,” Jack states, tense beneath him. Then he laughs, and the sound is like music to Gabe’s ears even though it also makes him want to punch the other man right in the face.
He needs to get out now, so he starts to pull back, but Jack’s hold on him tightens.
“You got it, didn’t you?” Jack asks him.
Gabe stiffens. “What?”
“The call.” Almost sheepishly, Jack admits, “I know that you did. I may have looked at Winston’s records. He had your old number on file.”
“You sneaky bugger!” Tracer exclaims above them, and Gabriel doesn’t even need to see her to know she’s got her hands on her hips and a pout on her lips. “He’s gonna lay into you, he is. How’d you even get Athena to let you in the mainframe? I’ve been tryin’ to weasel my way in for ages!”
Gabe hisses out a breath and ducks his head further. “This can’t be happening.”
“Gabe,” Jack whispers, breath hot against his ear. His hands tighten in Gabe’s clothing, like he can keep him here by sheer will. “It’s not too late for us to try again and do the right thing this time.”
Do the right thing. The words strike a chord in Gabriel, and it’s not a good one. He’s always tried to do the right thing, and where did it land him? Alone. Burning up. Nearly dead on Angela Ziegler’s table one minute with his body tearing itself apart the next. He doesn’t know what the right thing is now, and he feels pressured— cornered, even—with Tracer standing over them.
“I can’t do this here,” he sneers back.
“Gabe, please—”
Reaper presses a quick kiss to Jack’s temple, and Jack must know what it means because his tight hold turns into a goddamned bear hug, but it doesn't do a damned thing to hold Reaper down once his entire body erupts into smoke.
Jack coughs and climbs to his feet, wincing as he presses a hand to his shoulder. “Gabriel!” he snaps, looking around in a panic. “Don't go! Please!”
Reaper coalesces just long enough to grab his gloves and mask and glance at Jack. Jack looks wrecked, his eyes shining and his face lined with something— grief, fear, disappointment, a healthy mix of all three— and he stands there besides Tracer, who’s staring at him with her lips slightly open and her eyes wide behind her tinted goggles, like she just realized who he was.
So Jack didn’t give him up.
“It’s good to see you,” Tracer says, almost wonderingly, then smiles coyly, cheeks dimpling, and adds, “Gabi.”
Reaper swallows the sudden lump in his throat at the nickname. He makes eye contact with Jack once more-- Jack, who's pleading with his eyes but has this resigned expression softening his features-- and then Reaper dissipates, mingling with the smoke billowing throughout the city until he's far, far away.