There was a time he believed he could rush into that warm living room and shake off the mist like he had just been caught in a long, heavy rain. That Maria and his son still needed him.
But happiness isn't found in the dead, and he couldnβt remember what it was like to be alive.
Except for the brief moments flashes of red and blue took him back to a time where devotion felt good. A stark reminder of those who never left the dream. It used to irritate him to a comical point and that same boyish feeling returns every time their paths crossed. Jack would preach against everything Reyes strived for, then his shotguns would reap the seeds he sowed all those years ago in Blackwatch that fateful night he decided good wasnβt good enough.
But days go by like a slumbering fog. His voice groans out in a pitch he didnβt recognise, from a face he couldnβt make out in the mirror, with a searing ache inside as the only reminder that he was still, regrettably, here.
Fresh faced recruits with easygoing demeanours disappointed him the most. The way they excavate old wounds that those who run the world fought to bury for centuries. As if their cold dead grasps werenβt made of the same hatred that kept the Reaper in business.
Talon was the only place that felt like purpose. But now with a new head on the hydra? It felt like he was back in the lab scraping up bits of himself pouring out into the open.
Jack. Bright eyed, with a knowing that he craved, and an uncanny ability to accept. Working crumbs down to the bone. Savouring every sharp-taloned grip he pushed onto him. It was almost endearing if he didnβt know that he was trying to exorcise his own demons too. What better way than to fight death with death?
He wondered if his unshakeable stench reminded Jack of those he used to love.
He would glare at him with those eyes. Disdained. But he knew it meant nothing as soon as his tip punched the ceiling of his insides. And the way Jack said his name felt like oasis, the way he squeezed around him like warm water lapping at his feet. Sometimes it was nice to believe more existed for him, until the stinging pain reminds him of his place. His hips stutter and he hoped Jack didnβt notice the way he decays when he doesnβt look at him.
Jack thinks heβs allowed to just be; adored for being soft and complacent while Gabriel fought tooth and nail for a fraction of the atonement they granted those who do nothing but bite their tongue. It was almost as baffling as it was devastating to awaken to the possibility that he had been grovelling at the feet of a mirage.
The confusion they caused when they tugged on his leash every time he bared his teeth in their protection. They would never have come around to him the way he did for them. The sooner he accepted it, the quicker he got to shore. He was done fancying himself a drooling dog for hollow bones thrown in the name of white-teethed diplomacy.
If there was one he needed to be good at, it was knowing when to be honest with himself. And he put it to practice watching the sun rise through pale strands. Holding the golden boy in hazy afterglow was the first time he felt clean. Absolute. It sickened him to watch himself slip back so easily into that same dance. The way Jackβs slow breaths seemed to mock the kindling of an old hope within every strayβ comfort in the shape of pronged collars.
Jackβs heavy arm around his waist yelled over the winds of his certainty. Coaxing him to stop dragging the past across the ocean floor while he lamented how Jack had the uncanny ability to tip the currents in his head to the clouds with one finger and an easy smile.
He always took things too far for others. His leadership redacted. Black market heroism. The little boy in him whispering of masked vigilantes.
He had dreams of his hands reaching out for Jackβs in Giza and molecules failing before the feeling had a chance to register. They warped into cold talons tearing into flesh, screams of terror that sounded like his own.
Clean the gun. Infil. Recon. Exfil. Clean the gun.
