#karatecaazteca

Premise is pretty much the same as the other timeline where bagel!medic die. 

After taking the shot for Jesse, bagel!medic doesn’t die, but ends up in a coma. Cliche as fuck, I know, but I like the trope. 

Jesse obviously blames himself for the whole thing and gets more and more reckless during his missions and refuses medical help. He’s even against another healer joining them–and let’s face it, most of the medics in Overwatch (according to the premise of this whole…bagel!medic saga) is that they all stay the hell away from Blackwatch. And that suits Jesse just fine but it pisses Reyes off to no end, but Reyes can’t really do anything to make the medics risk their lives voluntarily (except the crazy ones). 

You also have to realize that because bagel!medic’s been helping Blackwatch, other medics had slowly warmed up to the idea of working with them. But after seeing what happened, they’ve begun to shy away again. 

Anyway, the reader doesn’t wake up for a very, very long time. We’re talking sleeping from pre-fall to post-fall. We’re talking about sleeping through Jesse losing his arm. 

So imagine waking up and being insanely disorientated in a hospital you don’t recognize. 

Turns out you got moved to a hospital somewhere (I never decided where).  

There’s a Joel Morricone who apparently has been paying your bills. You don’t recognize the name, but you don’t think too hard about it. Instead, you’re more concerned about how long you’ve been asleep. 

Before you get too far into finding out about Overwatch and Blackwatch and what happened to them, you’re told Joel Morricone is here to visit. Apparently he came as soon as he heard that you were awake.

You don’t know what to expect, but then who walks through the door except:

“Hey sunshine,” he says softly, gently as he kneels down beside you, “how y’ doin’? Brought you a gift.” 

You don’t look away from the man’s face even as he brings a brown bag in front of you and sets it down on your counter. He continues, either unaware or unaffected by your gaze, “Fresh outta the oven, though seein’ as how you woke up not too long ago, ‘m guessin’ you’re not up to it. Not a problem, I’ll bring y’ one everyday if you want. Though, I don’t really know what sorta bagel y’ like–you always seemed to eat whatever.”

The man rambles and rambles, never quite meeting your eyes directly, fidgeting with small things here and there. 

“McJesse,” you say, breathless and much weaker than you had intended, but that gets his attention. The man–Jesse McCree–goes still and his chest rises for a long time before it deflates. He closes his eyes and turns toward you and finally, finally meets your eyes and he smiles so wide it nearly steals your breath out of your lungs. 

“Yeah. It’s McJesse.” Boldly, he grips your hand. “That’s…that’s the name.”

And then I don’t know what happens. Maybe you go back to Overwatch, maybe you live out the rest of your life on the countryside or something and McCree visits you often with other members of Overwatch, acting as a an underground doctor or just another drop-point. Who knows? Regardless, HAPPY ENDING FOR EVERYONE. 

This is actually some snippet of what I had written out before I decided to ditch it for the death route: 

It was a mistake.

A horrible, horrible mistake.

The steady beeping in the room almost drowns out the all-too-loud murmurs outside the door from your fellow colleagues. Angela sat in the chair beside you, her head in her hands as she finally gave herself the time to process everything that has happened in the past twenty-odd hours. Gabriel stood beside her, a silent pillar of support. Normally, these things wouldn’t affect her so badly, but…

He cast a glance at your prone form: head heavily bandaged, wires hanging out from all directions, more lifeless than he’s ever seen you. You were not the first person he personally knew to suffer such casualties, but he had always prided himself on keeping his men safe (as well as those who kept his men safe). It was a heavy blow in more ways than one.

Worst of all was the bagel that sat on the folding table, untouched; an offering and apology going to waste. It was a constant reminder of his duties and the people he had an obligation to.

“I have to go take care of my men. Will you be okay here, Angela?”

It took her several moments to respond, and Gabriel almost didn’t want to leave when she turned her haunted blue eyes–rims bearing the slightest hint of reddish-purple–to look at him.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I will be all right. This is my duty, after all.”

He politely ignored the harsh intake of breath she took when she turned her gaze back to you. A reminder that life was so very fragile (or, like the cross and writing on his skin always said: ‘memento mori’).

--

Gabriel was certain that you would not blame Jesse for what happened on the mission–what happened to you.

The words, ‘It’s not your fault,’ or ‘Don’t beat yourself about it,’ make it to the forefront of his mind, but those words, no matter how kind they were, would only bring more destruction.  

If he didn’t know Jesse was suffering so much, he’d reach out to slap him. However, proper protocol demands a heavy hand and a scolding. Experience has taught him that there was no better way than this:

“Are you finished moping?”

Jesse threw him a watery glare that Gabriel had no issue shrugging off. “Ain’t mopin’.”

“You owe it to the good doctor.”

--

“You’re taken off all missions until further notice.”

“WHAT.“

“It’s for your own health.” Gabriel fixed him with a glare, much sharper and much heavier than the one Jesse had given moments before. “I know you intend on getting even, but I do not feel like losing another one of mine to the same attackers twice. That’s just bad tactics.”

--

This was the exact situation he was trying to avoid.

Gabriel had to stifle the urge to scream at the top of his lungs, and instead channeled his frustrations through his feet, stomping through the base hard enough for any non-bolted objects to rattle.

--

Jesse’s only vaguely conscious of his missing arm and the soundless ringing that rattled his bones, and only focused on the fact that several meters away, in a room not too far from his, you’re lying there in bed, still comatose and probably would’ve prevented this whole situation in the first place.

“I don’ wan’ no one but that dang bagel-eatin’, name-callin’–guh!”