q u i c k d r a w

   Blue eyes are soft, almost apologetic ( but not pitying – no, there is no pity to be found in him, only sorrow ) as they come to rest upon those rugged features of the man before them. Jack may never know exactly what occurred, but that hardly matters now. What’s done is done. He can only be sorry he wasn’t there to protect the man he’s loved for so many years now, and sorry he is. Jesse has always been able to fend for himself, but it could have saved his arm to have someone like Jack at his side. He should have been there.

   His thumb brushes over the smooth metal before he retracts his hand, having lingered for too long already. He’s certain Jesse isn’t quite comfortable with the touch, so as badly as he wants the closeness, he has to restrain himself. He can be content with the company, he supposes, cold as the air around the gunslinger is. God, he hopes he can bring those walls down before Jesse is gone from him forever.

   It’s not the pain he worries about, though it certainly helps to know it no longer hurts – much, anyway. It’s the trauma that has his stomach sinking like a stone. What Jesse has been through has surely been hellish, and Jack can hardly bear the thought. The man has been through too much already, and he never deserved a moment of it. The world is a cruel thing.

   He offers a minute nod, lips twitching upward for just a quick second. He knows a facade when he sees one, and Jesse’s tone of voice just isn’t sitting quite right in Jack’s mind. He always has been the type to hide beneath layer upon layer of charm. ❝ Yeah. You lived. I’m glad you did. ❞ Jack turns away, eyeing his bottle of whiskey upon the night stand as he moves to take a seat on the worn bed. The alcohol is just the sort of padding he tends to fall back on in such stressful situations, but he refrains for now. He doesn’t need Jesse to see him as a drunk of all things.

   Seated at the edge of the small bed, Jack lifts his gaze once again to his visitor. He doesn’t know what to say or what to think. All he wants is for Jesse to smile at him and mean it, but he’s not sure he’ll ever see such a sight again. There’s nothing he can do to atone for his mistakes, and it still hurts to know that Jesse left him so long ago without a word or a trace. How are they supposed to move on from this?

    He wonders, he wonders. One would think that with years to think of this - with years to consider what if, to dream of a what if, words would come any easier than they do now. He wants to say a lot of things. He never hated Jack, not once - and if he is being entirely honest to the both of them, then it all was his fault just as much. Maybe more. After all, only one of them left, and it hasn't been the man so carefully searching for his eyes, and avoiding them all together.

    They worked, once. Against all the problems the world threw in their way. There wasn't much to off on then - borrowed time, but they made do then. Maybe now again. Maybe.

    He certainly still loves him, even if he doesn't look like it now. He always slipped past facades and masks; funny how he seemed to be in the minority that never actually picked one up. Can the situation be salvaged? It certainly takes more than one talk, one evening.

    That doesn't mean he has to leave just yet.

    (Not a rare occurrence, but he yearns for Ana. She always knew how to handle people - maybe not in a nice way, but in the way they needed to be addressed. She'd likely scorn them both out, but give them whatever tools they needed to fix this, if it was still fixable.)

    (Nonsense, of course it was fixable. Had to be. Otherwise, why did he come?)

    He both feels relief and mourns when Jack retreats, but it might be for the better. They aren't at that point; not yet, at the very least. They are no children that can pretend nothing ever happened. Not because he doesn't want to, because one large part of him - something sitting in his chest that aches for the piece it missed for years, finally within reach again - wants to, wants nearly nothing more. But because they cannot afford to repeat their past mistakes. Not again. Not ever again.

    Shaky breath releasing, he runs a hand through his hair. A tangled mess, but he didn't have much time to get cleaned up lately. Or need to. He desperately craves to smoke and he pretends he doesn't see Jack's eyes resting on the bottle. Ain't his business to judge a man for how he deals with his demons when his method isn't that different.

    Still, his lips twitch. It's not quite a smile - not fully, not trusting himself for it to not look and feel hollow - but something. An offering of peace, were they ever at war.

i.)

usually, the most gorgeous and stunning things in life are also the most dangerous. there’s beauty to be behold in a storm, sweeping over the lands to leave destruction in it’s path. there’s beauty to be behold in the eyes of a fierce animal, just getting ready for the killing blow. there’s beauty to be behold in fire licking up and devouring whatever it reaches.

comparing someone such as jack morrison to these things might seem a little out of place, maybe. especially when it’s the golden strike team all together – amari fits the description of an slender animal just waiting for the right time to rip someone’s throat out better; reyes is fire that burns all that it touches – but jack? jack is calm in the way a storm is. the softness right before it, but you can already see the force of nature coming up.

it’s one thing that makes people underestimate him, maybe. the un for sure – jesse has never been one for politics much, not in that high up and holier-than-thou attitude these people would play, but he can read between lines, and it’s clear they thought that this was their best shot to have someone they could rope into their biding, and they couldn’t have been more wrong. he knows this already three weeks into being on base, and after a total of seeing the man in person four times; combining to less than ten minutes overall. he also knows that, no matter what reyes says, if jack hadn’t liked him in some way, then there wouldn’t have been any deal. sure, his new commanding officer would say different, but it shows in subtle ways, and all the same unmistakable.

(don’t. don’t make things harder on yourself by pretending there is something when there’s not. you’re imagining, and that’s only going to complicate things.)

passing by the office, the door a rare sight by being ajar, he grins at the strike commander and blows a kiss in his direction – something not entirely atypical, but maybe still uncalled for given how unsteady his own position here is at this point still. figures the man won’t notice anyway; if he’s another thing, it’s constantly wrapped up in work.

so the brief smile? not directed at him.

@flcshbangin / ♡ !!

❝ wouldn’t have been caught if the cops hadn’t already been nearby. ❞

the first cigarette after a brief stay in jail is certainly sweeter than any other smoke, and as elizabeth lights the end of hers, she takes a slow drag to savor the taste. she sets the pack down on the cement between herself and jesse where they sit atop the steps to her elegant home, the light near the door illuminating the cool night. she swats away a moth as she exhales smoke.

❝ i almost got outta there fast enough. still don’t regret it, though. it was such a rush – ‘til the cops got me, at least. ❞ light laughter spills from lips wiped clean of color, bare as they only are in the comfort of her own home. jesse is one of the few people allowed to see her without her face on, and she’s not sure he even appreciates the honor. ❝ you oughta come with next time. we could rob someone blind, you and i. we could take whatever we want, and if the cops come for us, we can just get the hell outta dodge, y’know? ❞

it should be a joke. it’s a pipe dream, living the sort of lifestyle only seen in stories, but the smile she stares at her friend with is genuine and lacking in any humor. though she would likely never admit it, elizabeth is a dreamer, and running off on some sort of bonnie and clyde adventure is her recurring dream. she is young and hopeful, and the taste of a life of crime mccree has given her has only fueled that fire. ❝ we’d just have to make a pit stop to grab bob, of course. ❞

     She's showing off, but that comes to no surprise. She's always showing off; one way or another. Part of it no doubt calculated, part of it might be without her even being aware of it. Call for attention, a want to be seen — the same as to why they ended up being friends. Kids like her don't tend to stick with kids like him unless it's for some kinda hunger for thrills; but at the end of the day, they both sleep in different sheets, as it should be.

     Well, or maybe not. He'll be honest, he didn't actually expect her to go through with her little stunt — foolish, in hindsight, considering she was a little princess 'things have to happen how and when I say it' — but still, a princess. It's all fun if there's no real danger behind it.

           "Sure, but I ain't got no daddy who's name alone makes 'em drop any charges, so you better make damn sure you check your escape 'fore next time."

     He'll humor her, for now, but there's not much behind it. Small things — sure, they are easy and fun, but it's barely the life he pictures either of them doing in the long run. She's got an actual life, and as much as she complains, there are doors wide open from it, something not everyone can say. And he, well, he's not delusional to think he's gonna end anywhere good down that path on his own.

     But sure, why not humor his friend? There's no harm in a little bit of it — not much, at least.

random asks

            “Cheesy, commander, I expected better.”

      Still, if he hadn’t been smiling before, he sure does now; the title, serious in public, is now mock-affectionate when it’s only the two of them, and he tips his hat back just so in imitation of his usual playful flirtation. 

   There’s a grimace upon his lips at the words. He can tell well enough that Jesse isn’t speaking bitterly, but even still, it’s enough to worsen the ache in Jack’s chest. He can’t imagine what it must have felt like for Jesse when Jack allegedly died – all he knows is that, were the roles reversed, he would have been rather heartbroken even if they weren’t technically together at the time. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to go back in time and do things a little differently.

   He wishes he could have left with Jesse. It could have been nice, stepping down from his overwhelmingly stressful position to go live a different life with his lover. But the gunslinger hadn’t told him he was leaving, and he’s fairly certain he wouldn’t have agreed to it, anyway. No, it’s easier in hindsight, but at the time… Well, he was a stubborn man trying to make the world a better place. He thought he was where he needed to be. Now, he knows better.

   Still, he yearns for the life he could have had, had circumstances played out in his favor. He could have been a different man. Happy, maybe. He’ll never know for sure.

   He nods. He knows how it feels to be on the run, and it certainly isn’t pleasant. His paranoia has skyrocketed in the last few years. Jesse has always been better equipped for sticking to the shadows, though; Jack manages fine enough, but there have been times when he’s cut it awfully close, namely any time he’s made the news. Jesse, on the other hand, seems to have fared much better in keeping a low profile.

   He’s about to speak when Jesse does again, and he watches the cowboy rise. Upon catching the sight of metal, his heart lurches. ❝ Oh, god, Jesse. ❞ He steps forward, a crease in snowy brows as he reaches out to take the metal hand in both of his – gently, as if it might break. He hates to think of the cowboy going through something so traumatic, likely with no one at his side. He wishes he could have been there. If not to prevent it, then to help him through it. He looks the arm over, then his gaze flicks upward to meet Jesse’s. ❝ What happened? ❞

           "Well, any person Blackwatch ever pissed off? Thought they'd get somethin' outta it's downfall."

     And who else to go after, anyway? With Reyes gone, there's only been a handful of people that'd one could stick the blame to. The Shimada far too slippery to find for anyone, and Moira — hell, he doesn't know where she is, either. He'd like to know, but for different reasons. Genji was a friend and while he knew, logically, that he'd likely be fine, it'd be nice to know. O'Deorain had been an evil that needed to be put out even before she had joined them; something he had been saying from the start and only hoped to be proven wrong, something that never happened.

     He doesn't pull back. He's not sure if he should — it's not like he's feeling much of Jack's touch, anyway. There's something connected to his nerves still, of course, enough to use it properly, but it feels no other than a weight where a careful touch is placed. It's odd; not that he isn't used to it, because he is, but it's been a while since anyone has even attempted to be soft and careful, and not really getting any of it's effect — it makes it both easier and impossibly harder.

     Part of him wants to retreat, but really, it makes no difference at all. It'd also seem useless to point out. Jack's trying, and while this won't make up for anything in the past years; it's a start. If he wasn't willing to try, he wouldn't have come, even if it's buried deep within his chest under everything else. He feels almost as little, emotionally, as of the touch. Almost. It's a horrible situation to be in.

           "Doesn't hurt much anymore, if that's what you're worried 'bout. Jus' figured you'd know now instead of jus' seein' it outta the blue."

     Easy. It's easy to fall back into his casual charm, and it's a defensive mechanism if he ever had one. One he took one after useless aggression, and much more effective. Once, the older man had been able to see behind it. He wonders if he still is.

   He nearly winces at the mention, however indirect, of Amari. There’s another open wound, sore and aching. Ana was always his best friend and his most trusted companion, an advisor when he needed one, a supporter when he thought he had none. He knows now that she’s alive – and perhaps he’ll make sure Jesse knows, too, when the time is a little better – but he still carries the weight of that guilt. He never did get past it.

   He watches Jesse and bites the inside of his lip. He isn’t saying the right things. Why didn’t he just shut the hell up? God, he’s almost never hated himself as much as he does right now. It’s as if there’s simply no way to win this, and maybe there isn’t, but – damn it – he wants to try. Should Jesse leave here to become a stranger, Jack’s heart will break. He can’t stomach the thought. Jesse means more to him than anyone ever has, and his love for him still burns in the pit of his stomach, consumes his lungs with a fire unlike any other. He wants so desperately to be forgiven, to hold Jesse in his arms, to feel like the world isn’t crushing him. However, he’s beginning to think he’ll never feel that again.

   As Jesse speaks his mind, Jack lowers his gaze again. He’s never been particularly good at eye contact when someone is scolding him or even just speaking from the heart, and he can’t seem to bring himself to look at Jesse as he listens closely to his every word. He’s always liked that Jesse never put up with his unsavory behavior. He made Jack a better person that way, but it seems old habits die hard after all. He’s self-deprecating again, as much as he doesn’t mean to, and he almost doesn’t mind being called out on it ( but he does, because he’s embarrassed to be such a piece of shit ) because it puts him back in a better mindset, one where he can keep himself from tirades of self-hatred.

   His words sting. It’s nothing he hadn’t thought of as a possibility, but to hear it all straight from Jesse is simply painful. He wants nothing more than to fix this, but he’s at a complete loss for what to do. However, two simple words give him a little bit of hope. Not yet. So maybe, just maybe, there is some kind of future for them. He just wonders how far off it is.

   Jack’s lips twitch upward at the last word, but the smile is gone as quickly as it had come and likely went unnoticed. He deserved that, and in a way, being called an idiot makes him feel some sense of normalcy in a very unusual and unpleasant situation.

   He brings his gaze back to Jesse and crosses his arms over his chest, his resolve strengthened. No more self-pity. Ana did always tell him that was unattractive. ❝ Alright. We both fucked up. So what do we do now? I don’t… want you to go yet. I know you probably don’t care to hear this, but it’s… really good to see you. I thought I never would again. ❞ He pauses, moving to put his cigarette out in the nearby ashtray. ❝ Would you tell me what you’ve been up to? ❞

     It helped a little, talking a couple things off his chest. It's not good; far from it still, but it's a start and he assumes that's better than where he was heading before. All while being well aware that it hurt, must hurt — it hurt to even form, too, even if likely way less than to hear it. Pain is good, to a degree; hurting could maybe indicate healing. Maybe.

     There's a choice to be made now, he understands that. That question might be the try to get somewhere more lightheaded, might be a try to ease the situation, but this one here? That's the deal breaker. That's where he has to decide if he can stand it, if his heart can, or if he leaves now.

     It shouldn't be a hard decision. It shouldn't be an extremely hard one, not after all this time and effort to actually get here. It shouldn't, and yet seconds tick by where he isn't moving, where he isn't reacting — even indicating he hears him — just contemplating.

     When his posture relaxes, it's subtle at first. Not fully relaxed, either, won't be — not for a long time, even if he would end up walking away. Which, for now, the opportunity for has passed.

           "Didn't think I'd either. Kinda does that when you see someone's grave."

     It's not even meant as another punch, it's just a matter of facts. And it plays a huge part in why he doesn't get up and leave now — because he's given his farewells to this man once, and he can't get himself to do this now again. Part of him wishes he would be; not because he wants to, but because he feels so damn weak and powerless.

           "Hid a lot. As I said, lotsa folks lookin' for me I didn't want lookin' for me. You're not th' only one that got beaten up."

     He stills, contemplating. There's no real use in hiding — it'll show, sooner or later, anyway, and if he's the one pointing out that too many secrets had been hidden, then he'd not really benefit from having such obvious ones, either. It's not like he's going to actually punch the man, so it's no advantage to be gained from here. Might as well try to lighten the mood of this room with air thick enough to be cut.

           " — you know how you used t' have me promise t' come back in one piece? Guess I needed that reminder."

   ❝ I still should have tried. ❞

   He doesn’t know what to make of Jesse’s tone, whether he’s catching a trace of resentment or not. He thinks he must be. ❝ Maybe then we wouldn’t be doing this right now. ❞ This isn’t the kind of reunion he ever would have planned on, but it isn’t exactly a surprise. The rest of the world hates him – why shouldn’t Jesse? It just hurts more than it ever did with the rest of the world.

   The guilt is not dissipating – in fact, it’s growing heavier by the second, as Jack fears he’s only making things worse with each word he says. He doesn’t know what Jesse is looking for, and even if he did, he’s not sure it would work. What’s he supposed to say to alleviate the gunslinger’s anger toward him? What can he say? He’s apologized enough, and any more of that would seem pathetic. He’s quite certain he’s coming across as pathetic already. Time to suck it up, he supposes.

   He turns around to face the cowboy, leans back with his hands at the edge of the counter. He inhales, exhales slowly through his nose. His eyes search Jesse’s features for any sign of forgiveness while he takes in his appearance. He looks so much more mature than he did the last time Jack saw him, and he wears it well. He clearly takes good care of himself, too, because his hair and beard look so touchably soft. He looks handsome as ever, if not more so.

   ❝ I don’t… know what I can say to make anything up to you. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but if there’s anything I can do… you just say the word. I’ve never stopped caring about you, Jesse. I’ve never stopped thinking about you. You’ve always meant more to me than anyone else ever has. I never meant to hurt you or upset you in any way, I just… I don’t know. I know it sounds like I keep making excuses but I just want you to understand that this was hard for me, too, and I guess I thought I was doing what was best for you. ❞

   His gaze lowers to the floor for a moment as he thinks, trying to put his thoughts in order. He’s a mess right now, but at least he’s been able to keep from crying. Slowly, he pieces his composure back together until his eyes aren’t so soft and his shoulders aren’t so slumped. Then, his focus is back on the gunslinger. ❝ Hit me with your best shot, Jesse. Yell at me, scold me, punch me in the goddamn face – whatever helps you feel better. Whatever you need to do. ❞

           "Should've done a lot of things. Smart woman once told me to stop pityin' whatever dumbass shit I did an' focus on doin' less stupid shit."

     Thinking of Ana hurts, too. Not necessarily less than thinking of Jack had; just differently. He had loved her too; not in the fierce, passionate, romantic way he did with the man in front of him. But mourning doesn't help; it's exactly the dumb stupid shit he just mentioned wasn't any use to anyone.

     God, he doesn't have any answers. He wishes he had, for both of their sake. He wishes he had just one, instead of all this buzz filling his head up. Leaning back, he closes his eyes for a moment — focus, check your heart at the door, calm down, think about it with your feelings removed, and get an answer, any answer, out of it.

     Unsurprisingly, it helps little to none, and a low sigh rolls over his lips when he gets to look back at the other man. He feels the exact same as he did half a minute ago. It's miserable, as he's sure it's mutual. God, he just has to look at Jack to feel like he's beating someone already on the ground.

     Shouldn't have come. Should've drowned his concerns and suspects down in booze. Which he'd really like right about now, but it takes no mastermind to know it would be the world's worst idea. This is bad enough as it is — he feels shit enough as it is — he definitely doesn't need to amplify it. And he isn't even sure if he could trust Jack enough to let his guard down this much. Horrible thought, isn't it? One of the few people he actually always could trust?

     Only one way to find out.

           "I ain't doin' your self punishment for you, Jack. I won't take your bullshit, haven't then, won't start now — an' that includes your whole 'i deserve th' worst' attitude you take blame for everythin' with. You're not a punchin' bag, even if I'm pissed at you an' I'll be honest with you, I don't know if there's anythin' salvagable from this, or if I could — " (stand? survive? trust?) " — stay for more than now, not yet, but shit, if you think I came just t' fuck you up, you don't know me."

     There. That's about how much he can open up his heart right now.

           "You're not th' only one that made some shit calls. A lot of 'em, yeah, an' I'm not gonna pretend I'm not pissed, but not all of 'em."

     Pause.

   He’s always worked well under stress. It’s why the UN favored him for the position of Strike Commander; it’s why he did so well in his military days. He’s well-equipped for it. Just not for this kind of stress, the kind that stems from a romance that he fucked up personally. Romance is not something he’s ever been particularly gifted with, and it shows even now, even after all this time. He doesn’t know what to do, and he especially doesn’t know what to say, so he remains at the counter for some time, head in his hands.

   He’s sorry. He’s so, very sorry, but there isn’t a way to appropriately put it into words. Even if he convey how horribly awful he feels, it wouldn’t matter – Jesse doesn’t care to hear it. He won’t believe it. Not now, at least… perhaps later on, should Jack be granted that chance. God, he hopes he is.

   The silence seems to stretch on for hours, though Jack knows it’s hardly been minutes. It’s strange for Jesse to be so quiet, but he supposes a lot of this is strange. Jack straightens but keeps his back toward the gunslinger, taking a long drag of his cigarette. He nods. ❝ Mostly me, ❞ he murmurs, not to be self-deprecating but to be honest. ❝ I should have known better, and I’m sorry. That’s all I can say. I’m sorry. ❞

   His free hand grips hard at the edge of the counter. It’s not comfortable, but in a way, it helps relieve some of his stress. Slowly, he inhales. ❝ Not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought of you, Jesse. I just… thought… Maybe I thought you were better off without me. Maybe I just thought I didn’t deserve you after all. All I know is that there’s a shit ton of things I regret, and not looking for you immediately is at the top of that list. ❞

     It's all wrong. There has been no doubt some expectations from this whole — situation, some he wouldn't know how to convey or put into words or even knew himself what in hell they were, but he had hoped for some kind of relief upon the pain that crawled down his throat years ago and made itself at home around his heart. He wants to be angry, but all he is angry about is himself for not being able to; for not being able to bring up any emotion that's not exhaustion and pain.

     He doesn't want to be the reasonable one. He wants to be disappointed and bring out all that the last years have pulled on him, but it's so goddamn hard when Jack looks and sounds like a kicked puppy. No doubt without any purpose of making him feel bad; never been the type of guy for that.

     Still, he at least retains an upright position again, eyes fixed just on the other's hands for now.

           "T' be fair, wouldn't have had much success with how many folks've been lookin' for me. Wouldn’t have made a difference."

     At least his voice isn't entirely flat anymore; there's a hint that some might catch as bitterness, most as amusement, and that is something else entirely. Not quite a peace offering — he never just accepted Jack's bullshit and he isn't going to start now. Even when shit had been going down and some might have taken pity on the man he hadn't. Maybe he hadn't spoken all that was on his mind; and he definitely stayed longer behind him than had been healthy for anyone, until it was no longer possible for him to stand it in any more way (and hadn't that been too late already?) — so it's not quite a peace offering, but somewhere on the way. Somewhere on the path of maybe.

   Jesse’s words slide effortlessly between ribs to pierce the heart like a finely sharpened blade. That tone, exhausted and lacking any of the affection and forgiveness Jack so desperately craves, pains him like nothing has before – not the gunshot wounds, not the lacerations, not the broken bones. This is the kind of pain only love can bring, and it is in that agony that he realizes he does still love Jesse fiercely, deeply. He’s not sure he ever stopped loving him – only learned to ignore it, just as he ignores any other unpleasant thought or feeling that plagues him.

   He’s sorry for all of it. There’s nothing he can say to excuse his actions, nothing he can do to warrant forgiveness. He knows he hardly deserves to be speaking to the gunslinger as it is. He’s done many things he regrets, but not making more effort to find Jesse sooner is one of the bigger things. There are a thousand excuses ( he assumed the cowboy didn’t want to see him; he didn’t want to drag the younger man into his mission ) but none that he feels the need to speak.

   However, there are some things to be said, things that will hopefully lessen the hostility. ❝ There was never any grand plan to bring you along for, Jesse. I definitely didn’t plan to nearly die in an explosion – and after that, I’ve been playing it by ear… for the most part. I have… shit I want to do, but how was I supposed to bring myself to ask you to take on such a burden with me? I thought… ❞

   Brows crease, and he’s bringing the cigarette back to his lips, inhaling smoke like the oxygen he needs to breathe. ❝ It doesn’t fucking matter. You know it doesn’t. You know nothing I can say is going to make you feel better. ❞

   He can’t seem to swallow the lump forming in his throat, and he hates it. He’s always been so weak for Jesse, and that same effect lingers still despite their time apart. Everything within him aches, blue eyes burning with tears he will not shed, and he hides his increasingly troubled features by turning away, elbows coming down onto the countertop as he buries his face in his hands, cigarette nestled between two fingers. He takes in a deep breath, slowly exhales.

   ❝ I’m not worried about you ruining anything, Jesse. I couldn’t give less of a fuck about my goals right now. I’m worried that you’re going to leave here and I’ll never see you again. ❞

     In fairness — it is barely Jack's legacy that sits on his shoulders and has his life gone to shit in the past couple years; it's not Overwatch's burned down archives and secrets people expect him to have memorized and want to rip from him because he's all that's left — aside from the Shimada, of course, but that one is even harder to catch than he is; not even he would know where to start searching.

     No, Jack isn't to blame for these things; but he's here, a face to pin all that build up anger to, and it's easy to blame him. It shouldn't be. And it isn't even as if he's truly angry — just utterly exhausted. He wants a rest. He wants to let his guard down and trust someone again, but he doesn't think he can do that yet. If ever.  There has been some betrayal after all.

           "Y'didn't? Could've fooled me, with all that's on me already, but yer right — doesn't matter."

     He feels bad. A little bit; seeing the other like this, because there's still an echo that hurts and wants him to get up and to the other man, to comfort him, but he forces himself to stay where he is. He's not ready for forgiveness. If his breath is a little uneasy and there's a light tremble running over his skin, then who's to tell? This situation is a piss poor excuse of a reunion as it is, and will stay such for a while longer.

     At least they aren't trying to kill each other, so that's some kind of start.

     He doesn't know what to say. Which is bad, considering he always knows what to say. It's kind of his deal — his tongue doesn't lack any behind his marksmanship — and to have one Jesse McCree speechless is no easy task, and a rare one too. And he does want to say something — anything — at all. Something a little less bitter, maybe. A little bit of the softness that still sits somewhere deep within his chest.

     He doesn't. Instead, he sighs, good hand running through his hair — getting way too long, but that's hardly a bother right now — not quite leaning himself into it. Mirroring, but not quite.

   If anyone is about to take a bullet, Jack knows it’s him. Skilled as he is, he can’t win a gunfight against Jesse Mccree, especially when the gunslinger has the upper hand. It’s why he clicks the safety back on his pistol, returns it to the holster on his hip. Besides, he’s not about to shoot the man he loves. He’s not entirely sure whether or not Jesse returns that sentiment, but he supposes that if he’s gonna go down, he doesn’t mind going down at the hand of his ex-lover. However, the pistol is lowered, though the cowboy still doesn’t look at him. There’s an ache in his chest at the realization, and he side-eyes his whiskey on the counter, yearning for its effects.

   He takes a step into the house and shuts the door behind himself, a sense of dread rippling through his being. Closing that door, he feels almost trapped – confined in a space where he has no choice but to face his past, the very thing he is so bent on avoiding at all costs. He is afraid of the emotional confrontation; it is always so much more intimidating than physical confrontation. He slinks over to the nearby counter, leather-decorated back to Jesse as he lifts both hands to remove the pieces of his visor. Delicately, he places them on the counter.

   ❝ Have I ever been subtle? ❞ he questions absently, hand twitching toward his alcohol before he thinks better of it. Jesse doesn’t need to see so early on how dependent he’s become on the substance. He might witness it before the night is done, but for now, Jack wants to show some semblance of control over his life.

   The vigilante curls his hands around the counter’s edge, leaning against it and hanging his head with a slow exhale. He can do this. He should have been prepared already, having taken on the challenge of finding Jesse, and perhaps he had rehearsed various speeches in his mind during his search – practicing, trying to piece together something that would not excuse but explain his actions – but it’s all gone now, lost to a whirlwind of guilt and overwhelming heartache.

   If he can’t have whiskey, he’s at least going to have a smoke. He retrieves a worn box of cigarettes from a drawer, draws one from the pack, and places it between scarred lips. With a flick of the lighter, he’s drawing in smoke, gloved fingers holding the cigarette as he pulls it away to exhale. Already, he feels more relaxed. A placebo, maybe, but he won’t complain.

   He turns, blue eyes finding Jesse for the first time without the visor in the way. He’s seen the wanted posters, but they certainly do him no justice. He is a sight for sore eyes, truly, and Jack’s heart flutters ( for a fleeting moment before sinking like a stone ) at the unlikely notion of kissing him again. He doesn’t expect to ever be granted such a permission again, but part of him hopes.

   ❝ I know you must not think much of me, ❞ he begins, taking another drag from his cigarette in his pause. Beneath a calm demeanor, his heart beats wildly behind his ribs. ❝ I don’t think much of me either. I don’t have an excuse. I … ❞ His brows crease; he can’t seem to find the words for how he feels, and any explanation he has seems pointless. Does any of it matter? ❝ I’m sorry, Jesse. ❞

     He doesn't know what he had been expecting. He did expect something for sure — if he didn't know about that fact before, it becomes obvious by his sinking heart at the words offered, and at the way his lips sink a little in disappointment. Whatever it had been, not this. Or maybe it simply wasn't what he had hoped for, because expected the poor excuse of an apology should have been.

     Once upon a time, he had loved Jack. Maybe he still did, but there's a lot of other, different feelings mixed in with it. Bitterness and anger mostly; for being left behind, for being bait, for being left in the thought the man he loved more than life itself was gone forever. (He definitely still loved him, or he wouldn't be here, but he didn't like to admit to it. The gunslinger isn't ready to forgive him just yet — if he will be, later, is a question yet to be answered, lingering in the back of his mind.)

     Peacekeeper rests easy on the table, but it means nothing. If things haven't changed, they both know who's better with a gun, and who up close. As things stand, he'd still have the upper hand until Jack decided to come close, which seemed — unlikely, still. Besides, he's not too worried about dying tonight. No more than he has been ever since the Fall, anyway — a valid concern, but barely worth the energy to waste on it.

           "Oh, y're sorry? What part o' it are you sorry for? Leavin' me behind in yer grand plan? Lettin' me think you're dead? Me findin' out y're not?"

     He's angry, and he has every right to be, but his voice falls flat and sounds rather tired. That's not what he planned for — he had anticipated some sort of fighting, physical or verbal, and not to fail his words at the man actually being here. He didn't plan for his energy to just drain. He didn't plan for him not knowing what to do, what to say, where to go.

     Once, Jack had been an answer to that. But that had stopped long before everything went to shit; had stopped before they stopped using each other for relief, had stopped when he only ever saw the man he wanted to spend his life with during mission debriefs and while they slept with each other, fueled by anger and stress and maybe even hatred.

     When he finally looks at the other man, it's slow. There's a lot of abuse seen that the man likely inflected on himself. He hadn't eaten properly in a while (they both didn't), and there are some badly healed wounds that show from the way he holds himself. Exhaustion. And something else he doesn't know where to place, wants to. (Hope, maybe.)

     The gunslinger shifts, just so, body directed a little more into the other's way. The serape still lays seemingly careless around his shoulders, but it hides glinting metal where flesh should be just fine. Nothing Jack needs to know about. Not yet. Maybe never.

     (It's still Jack. It's never Morrison, or what they call him now. Jack, always Jack.)

   While he had been aware it wouldn’t be easy, he didn’t think it would be outright impossible to locate the gunslinger – yet he’s been travelling for some time now, tracking clues and following a flimsy trail with no luck. In theory, he should have found him by now. He knows how Jesse’s mind works, and he’s definitely found traces of him left behind in various towns. It’s as if he knows someone is actively looking for him … and maybe he even knows it’s Jack.

   They were no longer together at the end, but it was hardly a lack of love for each other that tore them apart. It was the stress and tension that drove them away from each other. Jack, toward the end of it all, was a rubber band stretched to its limit, always ready to snap. He was left mentally and emotionally incapable of caring for someone the way Jesse deserved to be cared for, and on top of that, the gunslinger had problems of his own stemming from Bla.ckwatch and the ever worsening liability that was Gabriel Re.yes. The man was volatile; Jesse couldn’t save him, but he tried. He and Jack both did. In the end, by the time of Jack’s supposed death, he and the love of his life were friends at best.

   He wants to find him, wants to show him that he’s alive, that he’s not well but managing. Unfortunately, it seems as though Jesse doesn’t want to be found. It’s fair enough, really. Jack thinks he deserves this – to forever yearn for closure he won’t receive. After all, wasn’t he himself who figuratively shot their relationship in the head? He still blames himself, and now he’s certain he will never get to atone for his sins. Defeated, he drags himself back to his nearest safehouse, ready to drink and sleep off the looming bout of depression.

   While he finds no outward traces of an intruder, the hairs at the nape of his neck bristle beneath fabric. Something is off. Jack draws the pistol from his hip, having left his pulse rifle behind at the house. The hefty thing isn’t always good for stealth, and he hadn’t anticipated any gunfights, anyway. Readying the firearm, he quietly turns the knob and throws the door open, pistol aimed at a man who already has his own gun trained on Jack. It doesn’t matter, because once he realizes who is sitting in his chair, he lowers his weapon immediately. He wants to remove his visor, but his arms feel like jelly and he can’t seem to make any sort of move.

   ❝ … Jesse. ❞ Lackluster, he knows, but his heart beats heavy in his chest and his gut churns. Part of him expects to hear a gunshot, then nothing more. Is Jesse going to kill him? He deserves it. ❝ I … was looking for you. ❞

( @flcshbangin / plotted ! )

     It has been a long time, and he knows he is getting tired; knows that running will not work out for him forever, even if it had done a great job so far. There are a lot of things to run from, too — ever since the Fall, apparently everyone started to look for him, whether it was for secrets, to have someone to stick the blame to, for the money — or maybe some personal reasons.

     He wasn't there when it happened. He'd likely not be alive, then — and he hadn't been there later, either, when whatever they assumed was the most important man in his life had been bidden farewell. It hurt. It hurt before, when they grew apart because things kept rolling them over and taking matters out of their hands. It hurt got so wrapped up in everything he destroyed himself at an even faster rate; and turned away from him. It hurt when his heart was not enough, when he realized (after months of refusing to do so) that there was nothing he could do to save things. He offered the man his heart and soul on a silver plate and he's taken it to the grave with him.

     Maybe. Maybe not.

     Jesse is good with hiding. He's even better with finding people — it's what he's been doing for more than the past decade. And he's good in luring someone to come to him even more so. To be true; he's merely acting on rumors. Hunting down a vigilante nobody knows anything certain about is bound to end in rather disappointing fashion, but there's just something — from the way people talked to the grainy pictures of the mystery, there is something unmistakably familiar here.

     (Perhaps it's his heart. Perhaps it's the desperate wish for a second shot that makes him discard reason — the man he loved, still loves after all that happened, is gone and he just cannot bring himself to accept it, instead hunting ghosts.)

     But he's tired of running, and there are only so many ways this can go — either he pays for this hunt with his life, or the other does (and he does the public a favor — at least in the same way as himself biting the dust would do) — or there's a very slim chance that it is not in fact desperation pinning attributes to someone they aren't, and he's right.

     He's been playing along, leaving hints and tracks behind. No doubt he would do that, anyway, and if he's actually right, those unintentional might even be enough, but he's been paying close attention; waiting for a detail on this chase that tells him finally some detail that makes it certain that he is in fact only imagining, projecting out of an aching heart and soul.

     Waiting for a sign that doesn't come. And the long he goes, the harder it gets — weeks of trying to figure out anything have led to nothing but frustration and wearing bones, to a heart that burns, and it doesn't help anyone to continue with this play of cat and mouse. (Who's who, anyway?)

     There's no surprise to be found at an empty safehouse; and he knows how to slip into places he's not supposed to without giving any indication he's there. It's what he did for years. It's easy. Going through what little stuff is there to try and find something to convince him to leave again, and leave it for good, is harder — if anything, it's doing the opposite.

     (This is a mistake, and it'll get him killed, only because he cannot stand his heart breaking any more. Always too soft. Always giving too much of yourself to others.)

     But he's tired. And he waits. That's the worst part.

     As hours tick by, Jesse gets more and more nervous. It doesn't show to an outsider, if there was one to watch, except maybe for the contemplation of raiding the other's stack to calm his nerves. He doesn't. He's tired and desperate, not death seeking. So times stretches on — it seems to take an eternity until the door opens, and Peacekeeper is aimed at it before the handle is fully turned. (A reflex. A good one.)

     It's the voice, that goddamn ragged thing, that makes him nearly drop it. (A slight shiver, no more.) It's been so long and yet it tugs right on his very heartstrings — it hurts so much, just to hear the other use his name again.

           "So I've heard, yes."

     Slowly, very slowly, does he lower the gun, but he doesn't look up.

     (what if, what if?)

kisses

13. a blown kiss. 

     He has been dancing around Jack for a while now, but it's quite different now; now that he has him, which to be fair still feels a little bit like a dream and probably will continue to do so for a while. Now it's not little hints dropped in the hopes he catches him (which stopped being hints when nobody was around, anyway — he's subtle, but only when he has to be). Now it's teasing that hopefully brings a light blush to Jack's cheeks, touches when passing, innocent little remarks that mean nothing to anyone else, but have been enough to have the man excuse himself for an apparent coughing fit once.

     (He was almost a little worried, but truth be told, mostly he's been proud of himself.)

     They need to talk about it, at some point — Jesse is aware it's probably not giving a good light on the Strike Commander of Overwatch to flirt openly with one of his subordinates, even less with the age difference (bullshit; he's an adult that can make his own decisions), and it's probably not the worst decision to keep it for themselves, for a bit, but that doesn't mean he can't tease him.

     In fact, the gunslinger would be rather disappointed in himself if he didn't get the man on the brink of being unable to work a couple times a week. He has to make the most of what little time they got, and if others are around, then he'll just have to imply. The good thing is — nobody but Jack thinks anything about it, with all the pet names and jokes he's throwing around. They just think he's giving the poor man a hard time. (Which he absolutely, definitely does, too, but far different than they think.)

     So, leaning in a bit too far back into the room after some kind of unofficial meeting, shit-eating grin wide on his face? Seems not too odd. Not even the remark that he will have to wait a couple more hours for the real thing and has to make do with this now is as he blows a kiss in the other man's direction (and god, he'd much rather prefer to stroll back in and kiss him properly, but that really isn't the time for that.