#now smile for the camera
https://archiveofourown.org/works/34767715?view_adult=true
Fic Summary: Bucciarati and Abbacchio infiltrate a high-class gala to complete a hit against one of Diavolo’s loyalists. It was already going to be a tricky enough mission, but neither of them figured on Bucciarati’s mother and stepfather tagging along as well.
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!
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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.”
