Whumptober, Day 31 - Gabriel Reyes

Prompt:Hurt and Comfort (disaster zone, trauma, prisoner)
Fandom:Overwatch
Character:Gabriel Reyes (Reaper)
Rating:T
Words:720
Notes:Welcome to the world of head canons, please take a seat and enjoy

———-

The concrete prison cell didn’t provide much by way of entertainment, so Gabriel studied his surroundings. He hated the familiarity of the tiny room, the feeling that he’d failed yet again. At least he wasn’t in the holding cell any longer. He’d spent almost twenty-four hours there surrounded by drug addicts, dunks, and gang members. Laughing, he combed through his hair and realized that he was technically one of the latter.

Gabriel had been picked up for armed robbery, a relatively minor offense as far as inner city crime went. The cops had taken his gun too, so he’d be charged with illegal possession of a firearm, again. This was his third time. He wouldn’t get off with a slap on the wrist and a warning; he’d have to serve part of his sentence. The idea didn’t bother him as much as it should have. Miguel might manage to rustle up the bond money, but Gabriel wasn’t holding his breath.

“Wake up,” growled a caustic voice from the other side of the bars. Gabriel turned his stare to the policeman dangling a pair of handcuffs from one finger. “Up against the wall, hands behind your back. You’ve got a visitor.”

Frowning, Gabriel moved to comply. His face scrubbed the rough concrete when the cop was rougher than necessary to secure his wrists, but that didn’t bother him either. He knew what to expect. Gabriel held his silence and let himself be led toward the visitation room. He’d anticipated the phone through glass nonsense that he’d had before, but the guard led him to an actual room. A stranger in a cheap suit sat behind a steel table.

Gabriel’s frown deepened as his handcuffs were clicked into place on the table. “I don’t know you.”

“Not yet,” the man answered, arranging his documents around him like a teacher. “But, I’ve come to make you an offer. Mr. Reyes.”

Laughter erupted from Gabriel’s lips before he could stop it. “Damn, Mr. Reyes, is it? You’ve got me confused with—”

“Gabriel Alejandro Reyes, eighteen, initiate of XCS. Brother to Miguel Reyes, founder.” Gabriel’s jaw clenched, tightening at how accurate the file was. The man tipped his head to the side, studying Gabriel through green eyes. “You had surprisingly high marks in school until a year ago, then you dropped out. You’re involved with a Emila Martine—”

“You’ve done your research,” Gabriel drawled, fighting to keep the panic from reaching his face. “So?”

The man chuckled, dark and sharp. “So, this ends one of three ways. You end up taking a fall, you wind up dead in a back alley somewhere, or you get out.”

Gabriel ran his tongue across his lips without answering. Fear swam in the pit of his stomach. He’d always know that getting involved with Miguel would lead back Emilia, but he hadn’t thought it would be this soon. And, what choice did he have? “You don’t know shit,” he spat.

“I know what it’s like to hide a part of yourself because it’ll get you killed. I know the compromises you make to do so.” Ice flooded through Gaberiel’s veins where the blood should have run. A familiar fear swelled and threatened to swallow him whole. He looked away, fighting down the shame and confusion that opened in chest. The room spun, and the man continued. “Times have changed, but not fast enough. Have they?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gabriel lied. He knew, had known for years. But, this stranger had to be guessing. “Who are you?”

A thin white card slid across the table. Tomas Pardo, U.S. Army Recruiter.

Before Gabriel could think of a response, the man folded his hands together. “I’ve been there, kid. This is your ticket out of it, all of it. You can break the gang ties, give your girl a comfortable life, then be whoever you want to be, no judgement.”

Be whoever you want to be, no judgement. Gabriel considered the words, wondered if it was possible. Things had changed, the army wasn’t some backward “don’t ask, don’t tell’’ organization anymore. Tomas must have seen the nibble of interest. “Sign the documents, and I’ll argue your case before the judge. You’ll be in basic by the end of the month.”

Gabriel grinned. “Did you bring a pen?”

Whumptober, Day 30 - Vincent (and Jack Morrison)

Prompt:Digging your grave (major character death, left for dead, ghosts)
Fandom:Overwatch
Characters:Vincent (and by extension Jack Morrison)
Rating:T
Words:1969
———-

The warm scent of coffee filtered through the air, pulling Vincent from the cocoon of blankets that he’d wrapped around himself. Sunlight poured into the room. He lifted his head to watch a stray breeze stirring the gauzy white curtains that hung over the glass doors. Groaning, Vincent pushed onto one elbow and scrubbed through his hair. The remnants of the previous night’s champagne coated his tongue, leaving his thoughts hazed. He licked his lips, trying to bring some moisture back before sitting up the rest of the way.

The crisp, white sheets of the bed were tangled around Vincent; the other side of the bed was empty. He exhaled slowly and popped his neck, letting his gaze drift to the open doors again. The gentle rolling sound of the ocean greeted him now that his ears weren’t buried in the pillows. Tang of salt filled the air as he pushed the blankets away and padded across the room to find his robe.

A mug of coffee sat on the edge of the dresser, mixed just the way that Vincent liked it. He chuckled softly under his breath before pulling on a pair of boxers and closing the robe over his otherwise bare skin. The silky fabric felt luxurious when he tied the knot loosely around his waist. Catching the coffee cup in one hand, Vincent walked through the open doors and the balcony.

Brilliant sunshine poured down from a nearly cloudless sky, an impossible shade of blue. Aqua waves lapped hungrily at the white sand below. Vincent took a moment to enjoy the view and absorb the warmth and peace that the tropical paradise provided. Then, his eyes slid to the man sitting at the table with a spread of breakfast before him. Steve smiled. “Good morning sleepyhead.”

Vincent returned the gesture and raised the glass. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“I thought you might need it,” Steve laughed, arranging fruit and yogurt onto a plate that he pushed in Vincent’s direction. “It’ll take a couple of days to get used to the time difference. Then, the same when we head back.”

“Yeah,” Vincent agreed, uncomfortably familiar with the rigors of jet lag through the years. At least this one was for a good reason. He offered a half smile of his own. “So, what you’re saying is we’ll have approximately three days to enjoy Fiji before it’s back to reality?”

Steve hummed in agreement as he popped a slice of orange in his mouth. “Something like that. Was there anything special you wanted to do today?”

Spending some time at the beach or getting a massage were high on Vincent’s list, but he knew those weren’t the right answers. They were supposed to be enjoying their honeymoon after all, and he could think of a very comfortable bed that would help them do just that. He grinned at the thought. “I wouldn’t mind giving the bed another try, or maybe experimenting with that jacuzzi tub I saw in the bathroom.”

“Oh really?” Steve asked conversationally, tipping his head to the side to give Vincent the most innocent look he’d ever seen. Vincent didn’t buy it for one minute. A soft twinkle of excitement sparkled in the man’s eyes, not quite the pure blue of the sky but a mixed blue-green that tended more toward the latter. “Tell me more.”

Steve hooked an arm around Vincent’s waist and half pulled him into the chair. Vincent just managed to set his coffee on the table before he was swept up in the moment. Steve’s arms circled his waist easily, tugging him closer. Vincent ran his fingers through the sandy blond hair that just missed being golden and dipped his head to brush his lips against Steve’s. Fingers trailed softly down the exposed skin of his chest, drawing out a quiet sigh.

“You make a convincing argument,” Steve murmured against Vincent’s shoulder, breath warmer than the tropical air around them.

“I didn’t make any arguments yet.” Vincent laughed, batting lightly at the hands around his waist. “Besides, you’re the one who woke up with the sun this morning. We could have still been in bed except for that.”

Steve dipped his in agreement. “I couldn’t sleep anymore, even though it’s the middle of night back home. I wanted to check a few things before you got up, but you’ve got my undivided attention for the rest of the day.”

Despite himself, a warm blush pushed onto Vincent’s cheeks. He wasn’t accustomed to being the center of someone’s world, but he thought he might be able to get used to it. To cover his embarrassment, he reached for Steve’s phone. “No urgent calls from the office?”

Vincent unlocked the screen with his thumbprint, relishing in the fact that he had that level of trust with someone. There were no parts of Steve’s life that he was locked out, nothing compartmentalized for security. Idly he scrolled through the news stream that Steve kept on the screen.

Steve murmured an answer, but Vincent didn’t hear it. The fourth story from the top jumped off the page in bold red letters. Explosion Levels Overwatch Swiss Headquarters.

Images and memories slammed into Vincent so quickly that he thought he might be sick. The low thrum of the planes in the hangar. Snow and ice blowing against his cheeks as he stood on the balcony overlooking the vast nothingness but mountains below. The feel of Jack’s hand on his face, and the pleading in his voice. Jack.

Scrambling off Steve’s lap, Vincent hurried back into the room. He heard the startled gasp, the questions about what was wrong, but he couldn’t put the concerns into words. Vincent couldn’t force himself to accept his thoughts yet. He dove across the bed, reaching for the control on Steve’s side and flipped the television on. It took a small eternity to find a news station, but as Vincent had expected, they were covering the explosion.

Carnage filled the screen. Smoking blocks of concrete and twisted metal reaching for the open sky above. Blue uniforms moved among the wreckage, undoubtedly pulling survivors from the rubble. He saw a familiar blond head bob by the camera, white lab coat smeared with dust and blood.

The reporter called out. “Dr. Ziegler, a moment please!”

Angela turned, wiping dust and tears from her cheeks which only made the mess smear across her pale skin. Her eyes looked haunted as she stared at the camera. The reporter didn’t know her well enough to see the hurt. Vincent barely did. The woman in her crisp suit pushed forward. “Can you give us an update on what’s happening? Do you know who was behind the attack?”

Angela stared at the camera long enough for her gaze to become uncomfortable, then shook herself. “I don’t have time for this. There are still agents missing. The wounded need me.”

A hand fell on Vincent’s shoulder and he startled, realizing that Steve stood beside him. “Hey, what’s up? You ran off like you’d seen a ghost.” The man’s eyes followed Vincent’s gaze to the television. “Oh shit, another attack? It isn’t close enough to affect us here–”

Vincent shushed Steve as the reporter began speaking. “We’re getting reports now,” the woman pushed her finger into the bead in her ear, nodding as she went. “Eighteen confirmed casualties now, five still missing. Stay with us. We’ll get you the information as soon as it becomes available.”

“Hey, talk to me,” Steve begged, sitting down in front of Vincent with a hand on either shoulder. The man’s eyes were filled with worry as his fingers came up. It was only when he wiped the tears away that Vincent realized he was crying. “What’s going on?”

Drawing a shaky breath, Vincent shook his head. Accepting the refusal as normal, Steve drew him into a tight hug. The pain in the center of Vincent’s chest spiraled out of control, coming out in soft sobs that ran down Steve’s shoulder. He didn’t ask, didn’t push Vincent to speak as the tears spent themselves.

Pulling back, Vincent scrubbed at his eyes. “I’m sorry, I just–it’s just a lot to take in.”

“Talk to me,” Steve encouraged, holding Vincent’s hands in his laps, worry creasing his brow. “What is it?”

“You know my ex is a soldier?” Vincent ventured, unsure why he’d never told Steve more about Jack than the basics. That was another life for him, one that he never wanted to revisit. He glanced at the smoking wreckage that returned to the screen as Steve nodded. “He’s an Overwatch agent, stationed in Switzerland the last I heard.”

It took Steve only a moment to make the leap, clearly having read the headline earlier. “Oh babe, I’m sorry. Do you know if he’s still there?”

Vincent shook his head numbly, emotions having hit him too quickly to categorize. Logic returned slowly. “You’re right, I don’t know that he was there.” Jack constantly moved around, just because he’d seemed to make that place his home base didn’t mean he was always there. “He’s tough enough to live through anything.”

The screen panned to an earlier image, a huge and familiar form throwing blocks of rubble aside. Reinhardt looked even older for the dust peppering his hair white. Steve murmured something, but Vincent couldn’t focus on the words. The reporter came back on, face ashen. “We’ve received the final report, nearly six hours after the explosion they’ve suspended rescue operations.”

Vincent pushed away from the safety of Steve’s arms to watch the screen. The woman nodded sharply to something off camera. “There are now twenty-two confirmed casualties in today’s explosion, believed to have been orchestrated by the terrorist group Talon.” The woman glanced down at a paper someone shoved into her hand, then she looked at someone off camera before nodding sharply. “The explosion claimed the lives of two of Overwatch’s founding members. Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes and Strike Commander Jack Morrison were killed in the blast.”

The world darkened at the edges, pain arcing through Vincent’s chest like lightning. He must have made some sound, some wordless cry of agony, because Steve wrapped him in a tight hug that fought to block out the rest of the world. It failed, images of Gabriel and Jack plastering the screen behind him. Their smiles were exactly as Vincent remembered, the genuine one that belonged to Jack and Gabriel’s self-assured smirk.

Oh God, Vincent wailed, unable to voice the pain ripping through him. He thought about how he’d left things with both men, the angry words and the empty threats. And now, he could never fix it. Had Jack thought about Vincent in his last moments? Had he wondered if Vincent still cared? Had he known that no matter how far away Vincent went, Jack would always hold a part of him? Or, had he assumed Vincent no longer cared once he cut Jack out of his life? Oh, Jack. You were my everything.

There were so many things that Vincent should have said, should have owned up to, but now it was all too late. Wiping angrily at the tears that wouldn’t stop running down his cheeks, Vincent pulled away from Steve and offered a curt nod. “I have to go home, back to Indiana.”

“Vince, we just got here–”

Vincent pushed away from the bed, head spinning as he tried to think of the things that Jack would want buried with him. Most of them were probably still in Vincent’s guest room–he paused in his preparations to look at the cheap imitation of Jack that he’d married, heart aching. “I’ll go. You should stay and enjoy yourself.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Steve offered, kissing Vincent’s forehead. “I’ll make the arrangements, and we’ll be on the next flight out. Together.”

Whumptober, Day 29 - Jack Morrison

Prompt:All work and no play (“You’re still not dead”, too weak to move, overworked)
Fandom:Overwatch
Characters:Jack Morrison (Soldier 76) and Angela Ziegler (Mercy)
Rating:G
Words:741
Notes:Requested by anonymous

——–

An insistent buzzing pulled Jack away from the hazy depths of unconsciousness. He blinked in confusion at the dark surface beneath one cheek and the bright lights overhead. It took him longer than it should have to realize that he was sitting at his desk. A report lay scattered across the surface, pages in disarray. His personal datapad lay to the right, live mission status blinking on the screen. It hadn’t updated since the last time he looked, but that wasn’t surprising; these things took time.

Jack thumbed the device closed as the buzzing came a second time. He glanced at the clock on the edge of his desk. The floating blue letters displayed 8:05. Shit.He’d meant to go back to his quarters and steal a few hours of sleep, but apparently he’d lost track of time. Jack eyed the wavy, damp spot on one page of the report and sighed before palming the control to open the office door.

Angela Zeigler stood outside, lips pulled into a frown. The woman already wore a lab coat over her black shirt and brown pants, clearly having been up for hours. Jack stifled a yawn. “Good morning, Dr. Zeigler.” His voice crackled from lack of sleep and he coughed to clear his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“We were supposed to be going over the new recruits’ medical evaluations and training programs this morning.” Angela stepped into the office and frowned. “Did you forget?”

Jack rubbed the sleep grit from his eyes and tried to remember what the meeting was supposed to cover and whether it was important. He wanted to dig into the details on the Blackwatch missions, but he couldn’t do that without raising red flags, especially with Angela looking over his shoulder. Jack didn’t want to draw any attention to the connection that he’d be better off ignoring. He offered a grin. “It’s possible.”

“You’re a bit pale, are you feeling alright?” Angela moved like she would reach across the desk for Jack’s face, then dropped her hand back to her side. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

All too keen blue eyes watched Jack, waiting for the lie, but he only dipped his head. “Of course.”

The woman hummed, tapping her fingers along her thigh. Jack knew that Angela was working herself up to confront him, but it wouldn’t take long. Part of the reason that he’d been so insistent in recruiting her to Overwatch was that she wouldn’t back down from what she thought was right, not even to a superior. “You slept here last night, didn’t you?”

“I had a lot of work to catch up on, and there are several time-sensitive missions that I had to follow,” Jack offered in his defense. It wasn’t much of an excuse, but it was the truth. He sighed. “Yeah.”

“You’re overworking yourself, again.” Angela moved across the office to the coffee maker. “You’re no good to anyone if you kill youself trying to do everything.”

Within moments, the warm scent of coffee filled the air. The mere thought of caffeine made Jack salivate. It would stave off the headache that was trying to form behind his eyes, and give him the energy to make through another round of reports. Angela approached the desk, two paper cups of coffee in hand. “We should get moving if you’re going to view all the evaluations,” she observed, sitting one of the cups on the desk.

Fighting back another yawn, Jack stood and stretched his back. Angela winced at the pops and cracks that his bones made, but she held her tongue. He wrapped his hand around the cup and nodded toward the door. “After you.”

Jack glanced at the cup in his hand and wondered how the woman knew how he took his coffee. He raised it to the lips and took a tentative sip of the hot liquid. The bitter taste of the bean was balanced by something that tasted a whole lot like bourbon. Jack’s raised eyebrow made the woman laugh. “Old medical school trick. It’ll perk you up and calm some of the caffeine jitters to get you through the day.”

“You never cease to amaze me.” Jack took another drink of the liquid and sighed happily as the dual warmth settled in his stomach.

Angela rolled her eyes. “Just don’t make a habit of it. Nothing beats actual sleep.”

Jack laughed. “You’ve got it, Doc.”

Whumptober, Day 22 - Jack Morrison

Prompt:They Made Me Do It (cursed, demon, obsession)
Fandom:Overwatch
Characters:Jack Morrison
Rating:T
Words:636
Notes:This one stretches the prompt but it was an exercise in a scene without dialogue. Also, it’s present tense . . that just kind of happened?

——-

The burn of whiskey gives Jack something to look forward to each night. He pours a second measure and sinks into his chair, wincing at his still tender ribs. Once upon a time, his armor would have made that a mere annoyance, injecting him with pain killers at just the right dose to keep him functioning. Now, he swallows a handful of something that might ibuprofen or might be something stronger.

Blowing out a breath, Jack picks up the burner datapad that he bought two hours ago. News feeds scroll across the screen, pulling at keywords he asked it to find. In another life, dozens of intelligence techs would have written programs to do what he wanted. Now, he fumbles through as best as he can. Jack has learned a lot in the past six year, but it isn’t enough. He’s always coming up empty handed.

Lifting the whiskey to his lips, Jack drains the glass and dabs at the sweat on his forehead. It’s too hot for October, even at night. There should be trees bursting into color, bonfires, and lazy football weekends. Like everything else, those are a thing of the past. Jack gave them up when he put on the mask, or maybe even when he put on the Strike Commander uniform for the first time. If he’d known, Jack would have done everything different. But, he didn’t so now he has to end things.

Jack drags out the notebook that he carries everywhere he goes. He doesn’t keep the datapads longer than a day at the most. If nothing else, Overwatch taught him how to avoid capture. His fingers walk over the familiar pages, noting the splotches from alcohol or coffee depending on the hour. His chaotic notes are in disarray, making no sense to anyone but him. He pauses on a page of a rough pencil sketch of the man who tried to kill him.

Reaper looks nothing like the man Jack remembers, but he supposes that’s fair enough. He doesn’t look like the golden boy of Overwatch anymore either. He hasn’t since the explosion. If Jack closes his eyes, he can physically feel the heat and fear coursing through him. He sees the smoke curling around Reaper as the building starts to crumble, hears the familiar cry of his name tangled in the assassin’s throat.

Jack wants answers to what happened. None of the news reports convinced him that Gabe died in the explosion, but he’s been damn near impossible to track since. Scraps of stories are pasted into the notebook, questions and threads running across the page looking for something in common that will lead him to Reaper. Overwatch might be gone, but Jack still has a job to do. He’s going to find out why Gabe betrayed them, then he’s going to kill him. Jack might be able to rest once the object of his obsession is destroyed. Might.

Familiar practice leads Jack to clean the stolen pulse rifle beside him, movement steadying his nerves. His hands stop trembling as he reassembles each part. He could do this in his sleep if he needed to. Exhaustion and alcohol have done their work, lulling Jack toward the exhaustion that passes for rest these days. He’s putting everything away when the datapad pings. Jack picks it up and skims the article.

Hakim is getting reckless with his operations in Cairo, revealing himself more and more over the past month. But, this one is different. Jack followed Reaper’s trail here. Nursing the rest of his drink, he considers the information at hand. Hakim changes things just when Reaper supposedly enters the country. It’s a coincidence that Jack can’t ignore. Knocking back the rest of his whiskey, he turns off the datapad. Tomorrow, one way or another, Jack will have an answer.

Whumptober, Day 18 - Jack Morrison and Reaper

Prompt:The Doctor is In (“now, smile for the camera”, doctor’s visit, cpr)
Fandom:Overwatch
Characters:Jack Morrison and Reaper
Rating:T
Words:789
Notes:Requested by Anonymous!

——————-

Bright light burned through Jack’s eyelids, dragging him back to consciousness. Someone pulled him upright by the hair sending tendrils of pain spiraling downward from his scalp. He blinked, trying to clear the blood haze from his vision. The grip in his hair tightened, forcing his neck to bend backward. Tensed for a blow, Jack let out a soft gasp when cool water wiped across his cheek and brow. He winced as it tugged and pulled at cuts he didn’t remember receiving.

“Boss ain’t gonna be happy about that,” whispered a voice that sounded just a few days past puberty. “Didn’t want him roughed up.”

A man answered from the other side of the room. “Well, he put up a fucking fight. What did he expect?”

Jack tried to recall the memories, to figure out where he was here, but nothing surfaced from the probable concussion that left his right temple throbbing. Water sloshed into Jack’s hair, dripping from his ears to a towel that the boy held ready. Unfamiliar fingers raked through the wet strands, and Jack coughed out a laugh. “Not sure getting my hair done counts as torture,” the words came out in a hoarse croak.

“Fuck off,” the older jailor answered. Jack turned to the sound and caught sight of the man. Arms and legs like tree trunks sheathed in black and grey armor. Jack didn’t need the insignia on the sleeve to recognize a Talon member. “When they’re done with you, I’ll show you what real torture is.”

Tipping his head to the side, Jack affected a grin that made his lips ache. “Your boss won’t let you,” he taunted. “You aren’t even allowed to make your own decisions. He wouldn’t let a lackey like you near—”

The man surged forward, fist cocked back to throw a punch, but the second guard stepped between them. “Don’t,” the boy squeaked, balling one hand into a ifst. “He’s been in a pissy mood lately. Don’t give him a reason to hate you.”

“What’s going on here,” growled a third voice. Black mist coalesced behind the pair. The sudden silence accentuated the crack of knuckles.

Both guards’ paled as they scampered apart with excuses, but Jack didn’t hear them. He knew the man in front of him. A low snarl started in the back of his throat. “Reaper,” he spat.

The skull-like mask turned toward Jack with a tip of its head. “Strike Commander,” it taunted, modulated voice almost familiar. “How nice of you to join us.”

Jack squared his shoulder and looked up at one of the most wanted men in the world. “You can’t break me. I’ve been through worse torture than you can imagine.”

Reaper waved his hand dismissively and the guards stepped back. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood my aim. I’m not trying to break you.” The man leaned closer. “You’re just a figurehead, a pretty face on the cancer that is Overwatch. So, you’re going to help me dismantle it.”

Laughter made Jack’s ribs ache beneath his uniform. “Why would I do that?”

Though the mask didn’t move, Jack could feel Reaper’s smile in the chill that filled the air. The man gestured toward one side of the room where a curtain was being drawn away. “Because if you don’t,’ Reaper whispered. “I’m going to kill him.”

Jack’s heart lurched, missing several beats then thundering to make up for them. A one way mirror peered into a similar room to the one where Jack was. Vincent stood in the middle, arms bound above his head. The brutal position had probably dislocated one, if not both of his shoulders by now. Welts and bruises covered the man’s bare torso, but his face had taken the brunt of the damage. His right eye was swollen shut, surrounded by angry red skin that would turn into one hell of a bruise by morning. Vincent’s lower lip stuck out in a cracked pout, streaks of dried blood flecking his chin.

“I’ll kill you,” Jack growled, jerking his arms hard enough that the chair groaned under the strain.

Reaper chuckled, a low sound on the edge of insanity. “No, you’ll start revealing all of Overwatch’s dirty little secrets or I’ll cut off his fingers while you watch.”

Vincent’s head lolled forward on his neck, unaware that his fate hung in the balance. It had been years since Jack saw him, but the hollow place in the center of his chest felt the same. He sighed. “And if I cooperate?”

“I’m not a monster. Talk, and I’ll let him go.” Reaper squeezed Jack’s shoulder with a familiarity that made Jacks’ skin crawl. Then, he nodded toward the older guard and chuckled. “Now, smile for the camera and start talking.”

Whumptober, Day 15 - Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison

Prompt:Feed a cold, starve a fever (delirium, fever dreams, bees)
Fandom:Overwatch
Characters:Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison
Rating:T (Reaper always has bad language, sorry lol)
Words:514
Notes:Sorry, I’ve been sick so I’m behind on these!

A loud noise dragged Jack from the safety of sleep. He blinked a couple of times, trying to make sense of where he was. The dim lighting of the barracks provided just enough detail for him to recognize it. The sound came again, a low growl that echoed through the space around him. Rolling to the side, Jack thumped his feet onto the floor and stumbled toward the other side of the room.

Six months ago, when Jack had first joined the Soldier Enhancement Program, there had been six men in the room. Now, there were only two. SEP had no room for weakness; it had winnowed the candidates down to a handful. Jack didn’t know if his former roommates had died or failed. He’d stopped asking what happened to them when the second didn’t return from his injections, and he tried not to think about what that meant.

“Get the fuck away from me.” A voice growled from the darkness. Jack’s remaining roommate twisted beneath his thin blanket, swatting at nothing.

Sweat stood on Reyes’s brow, running down his cheeks to soak the pillow and sheet beneath him. He’d dragged his shirt off at some point during the night to try and get cooler, but it hadn’t worked. Jack sighed. Reyes had taken his fourth dose of SEP serum today, so the reaction wasn’t totally unexpected. The medication affected everyone differently.

“It’s just a nightmare,” Jack yawned, trying to shake the last remnant of sleep away so he could focus. “Wake up.”

Brown eyes flashed open without seeing. Gabe clutched Jack’s shirt. “Did you see the bees? Little bastards are aggressive. They’ve gotten me a dozen times.”

As if to accentuate the words, Reyes scrubbed at his right shoulder. Jack noted the hives forming around the injection site. That wasn’t a good sign. He brushed a hand over Reyes’s forehead and felt the flush of fever. It would dissipate by morning, or it would rise higher and kill him overnight. Jack wasn’t a doctor, so he had no idea which it would be. The doctors probably didn’t even know.

A bottle of half empty water sat on the floor by the bed. Jack unscrewed the lid and held it to Reyes’s lips. Most of it splashed down the side, but he swallowed some of it. “Are you allergic,” Jack asked, lowering himself to the floor. He would undergo another injection tomorrow, his third,and he needed whatever sleep he could get. Jack leaned against the edge of the bunk and closed his eyes.

“Allergic to what?” Reyes’s voice didn’t sound quite as confused as it had, and his frantic movements had slowed.

Snorting under his breath, Jack frown at the man. “The bees.”

“Have you been drinking?” Reyes arched one eyebrow and pushed up onto his elbow. The man shook his head, then glanced around him with a groan. “Why is it so fucking hot in here?”

“Definitely the bees,” Jack deadpanned as he pushed back to his feet. He didn’t bother explaining. Reyes wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning, anyway.

Whumptober, Day 13 - Hanzo, McCree

Prompt:That’s going to leave a mark (“this is going to suck”, burns, cauterization)
Fandom:Overwatch
Charcters:Hanzo and McCree
Rating:T (language)
Words:540
Notes:Don’t ask me to make this canon or to fit in any kind of time line XD

“This is a punishment,” Hanzo exhaled, gritting his teeth against the pain in his thigh. “Judgement for my crimes.”

“Or, you’ve just got shit luck to get caught in the crossfire,” the man who called himself McCree suggested. He focused on the wound, applying more pressure on the gaping space to stem the flow of blood. “I don’t suppose you have any bandages?”

Hanzo tipped his head to the side, studying the stranger. A distant part of his mind knew that he’d been asked a question, but he couldn’t dredge up an answer. He’d lost a lot of blood already; Hanzo felt it pooling beneath his hip. McCree sucked a breath through his teeth, then sighed. Ruddy light reflected off the wall when McCree took out a light. Hanzo barely registered the sudden bloom of color. McCree unhooked something from his belt. “What were you doing here anyway? You’re not Talon.”

“My business is my own,” Hanzo answered, struggling to hold onto the vestiges of consciousness.

McCree chuckled in the back of his throat, and continued whatever he was doing. Hanzo focused on drawing each breath. McCree nodded to himself, then toward the quiver beside Hanzo’s hip. “Mind if I borrow an arrow, darlin’?”

Before Hanzo could answer, then man lifted one free and pressed it against Hanzo’s lips. Hanzo spat at the taste, at the implication, and opened his mouth to growl a warning. Then, the world exploded in pain so hot and sudden that his teeth clamped down whether he wanted them to or not. Wood would have snapped under the pressure, but the composite material held. The room swam in and out of focus as the scent of burning flesh filled his nostrils. His entire leg felt like it was on fire when darkness closed over him.

Hanzo regained consciousness to the sound of shouting. “You can’t just play white knight for every stray you find,” someone growled, voice low and threatening. “What am I supposed to do with him?”

“I don’t know,” came the heated but familiar tones of McCree. “It wasn’t like I could leave him there to die.”

Something heavy slammed down with a thunk, like a fist hitting a table. “That’s exactly what you do.. When are you going to grow up?”

“I didn’t sign up to kill civilians on a whim. That’s not how Blackwatch, how Overwatch, does things.” McCree’s tone was less sure of itself now, but iron hid behind the words. Hanzo managed to peek one eye open. Mcree stood to his left, arms crossed over his chest as he argued with a taller, older man.

The man’s lips pulled into a tight frown. “You do whatever the hell I tell you to do.” With an annoyed huff, he glanced at Hanzo then turned away. “If he turns out to be a spy, your head is going to roll. I won’t protect you.”

McCree’s lips quirked toward a grin. “Does that mean—”

“Get him stabilized for transit,” the stranger grumbled, already moving out of Hanzo’s line of view. “They can debrief him at HQ. Until then, stay the fuck out of my sight.”

A warm hand squeezed Hanzo’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, his bark is a lot worse than his bite.”

Whumptober, Day 8 - Gabriel Reyes, Jack Morrison

Prompt:Coughing up a lung (pneumothorax, exotic illness, “definitely just a cold”)

Fandom:Overwatch

Characters:Gabriel Reyes (Reaper) and Jack Morrison (Soldier: 76)

Rating:T

Words:828

Notes:Requested by Anonymous! Hope you see this and enjoy! Mild Language warning

Brilliant light pierced through Gabe’s skull when someone thumbed his eye open. Voices spoke above his head, but he couldn’t make sense of them. Alarms rang somewhere in the distance, or maybe they were close at hand. His body didn’t seem able to distinguish the two. It took him longer than it should have to realize that he couldn’t understand the language washing over him. Panic rippled through his body as he tried to make the scattered pieces fit together.

Consciousness came in waves. Flashes of light, urgent voices, and pain. Gabe opened his mouth to tell the hand running over his stomach to fuck off, but pain shot through his ribs when he drew a breath. Something heavy sat on his chest, compressing it. He couldn’t get enough air despite his desperate gasp. Agony radiated through his left shoulder, sharp and sudden.

I’m having a heart attack, Gabe recognized with a macabre amusement. I’m dying.

The thought was chased by annoyance that the nanites that SEP had pumped Gabe full of wouldn’t prevent such a mundane death. He coughed and couldn’t draw enough oxygen to keep the spots from his vision. He gagged on the lack of air, clawing at his throat. A sidearm cocked beside his head made Gabe shy away. The sound was loud enough to rupture an eardrum, as were the screams that followed. Then, a familiar voice swam through the cacophony. “Do something, or I swear you’re next.”

Jack, Gabe recognized the voice with a start and pieces began to snap back together. They’d been on a mission—he couldn’t summon the memory, only that it was top secret. He’d caught something he thought was just a run of the mill cold, what, two days ago? Three? The timeline dissolved in fever delirium. Heavily accented, broken English washed over Gabe without comprehension, but he clung to Jack’s unwavering voice. “If he dies, you die. Do you understand?”

Gabe never heard an answer, something sharp and hot sent a wave of agony through his chest. It felt like his lung was being suctioned through a tiny hole in his ribs. HIs breathing had been shallow before, now it was impossible. Darkness swallowed the world.

When Gabe opened his eyes again, his first thought was that the afterlife looked a lot like a shoddy hut with the sound of heavy, tropical rain pounding against the thatched roof. A second blink cleared the blurriness to reveal Jack leaning against a wall, gun resting across one thigh. When Gabe painfully cleared his throat, the blond sat bolt upright and trained his weapon on the doorway.

“Jack?” Gabe’s voice came out as a dry croak.

Turning, Jack laid the gun on the mat beside him and held a bottle of something to Gabe’s mouth. Water splashed into Gabe’s throat and ran down the sides of his face to dampen the pillow. Jack brushed a hand over Gabe’s forehead and sighed. “The fever broke. About damn time.”

“What happened,” Gabe asked, trying to push into a sitting position. The room spun, then steadied. He pressed a hand against a prick of pain in his chest that hadn’t been there before. Memories came back. “We were in a hospital. You blew our cover.”

“You were dying,” Jack answered, shaking his head like he could push the memory to the corners of his mind. “And it was a clinic not a hospital. Barely more than a witch doctor really.”

As Gabe digested the words, the memory of a gunshot echoed in his mind. He glanced at the weapon that Jack tucked back into the holster against the left side of his ribcage. Jack blew out a breath and shook his head. “Your little cold turned into an infection that nearly killed you, probably would have if not for the chemicals they pumped us full of. It managed to collapse your lung.” The man paused, then sighed. “I think, anyway. They didn’t speak much English.”

Despite the words, giddy nervousness washed through Gabe. He’d come that close to death and beaten it again. A laughter bubbled through his lips, building into a full laugh that sent pain spiking through his side. He coughed and tried to stop the amusement. Jack glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. “Probably a bad idea. I’m not sure how long that’ll take to heal, but at least another day or two.”

“Yeah,” Gabe answered, making his breath shallower so as not to put any more pressure on the injury. He tipped his head to watch Jack, wondering at the impassive blue eyes. “Thanks.”

Jack nodded, a short, sharp movement of his neck. “You should rest, we’ll have to move soon.”

Gabe watched Jack stand, head nearly brushing the top of their shelter and move toward the door. He considered the emotional cost of the past few days, but didn’t ask about it as Jack stepped into the rain. There would be time for that soon enough.