#mc76week

McCree only has one picture on his bureau.  One from about 14 years ago.  He’s wedged between Ana, Gabriel, and Jack, all of them smiling brightly (in their own fashions) for the camera.  

This was his own piece of home.  One of the few physical possessions he took with him when he left.

He watches Jack as he walks up to it.  McCree can’t see his face behind the mask, but he notes the way the man hesitates, slowly brings his hand out to trace the faces lovingly.

He lets him have his moment as he removes his boots, the coolness of the metal floor chilling him through his socks.  Every part of him aches, and he winces, hisses a bit, as he undoes his prosthetic.

Soldier turns towards him at the pained sound.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just the regular aches and pains, you know?”  He massages the flesh, smiling wryly.  “It never gets better does it?”

“No.  It doesn’t.”  McCree can hear him, can feel him approach, hand reaching out to hover over his arm.  “Can I-”

He nods.  “Why don’t we make ourselves a li’l more comfy first.  Take off your boots,” he says, gesturing with his head as he cradles his arm, making his way to the bed.  

He climbs in and listens to the sound of the shoes being shed off, soles making contact with the floor.  He pats an empty spot near him.  “Come on.”  

Jack obeys, moving forward on stiff legs and climbing up onto the bed.  McCree feels the way the mattress gives and shifts under the weight of the man’s movement.  He spreads his legs, lets the soldier settle between them.  (Still too rigid, too on guard for his liking.  It reminds him of when they first started, and it reminds him of the process of them falling apart.  Jack’s nerves wrecking havoc for different reasons.)

He closes his eyes as the hand makes contact with the scarred flesh.  He holds back a groan.  The area hurts.  After all this time, the nerves and his brain still mess with him.  It still feels like it’s there.  Like he can still reach out, can still use his left hand to cup Jack’s cheek and tenderly stroke the skin in comfort.  

But he hasn’t been able to do that in years.  His right hand tenses, curls reflexively into a fist as Jack tries to soothe the nerves of his other arm.

“McCree.”  It’s spoken so softly, he barely hears.  He opens his eyes, lazily blinks.

“You can still call me Jesse, you know.”

The hands still for a moment, and then pick up their rhythmic squeezing.  “I’m sorry.”

He’s heard it before.  Same words, similar tone, countless nights.

He reaches out, rubs Jack’s hand lightly.  “It’s fine.  It’s okay, Jack.  There ain’t nothin’ to apologize for.”

Jack doesn’t say anything, just looks down,  continues kneading at the  flesh, and McCree lets him.  But he knows the man too well from the time they spent together.  He knows the man’s doubt, his guilt, his fear.  He wants to absolve him, to ease his worried mind.  He wants to tell him that it wasn’t all his fault, that they still have a chance if Jack is willing to take the risk again.

Before he can stop himself, he’s reaching out, caressing the side of the man’s mask.  “Jack.”  The man stills.

McCree shifts his hand, begins unlatching one of the catches.  

He pauses, gives time for the man to object.  Instead, he sees Jack move his own hand to the other side.  He notices the slight tremble in the fingers as Jack undoes some of the latches.  There’s a slight curve to the corner of McCree’s lips as he finishes the ones on his side and helps remove the mask.

He takes in the sight- the wrinkles, the scars, the brilliant blue eyes that now carry a slight haze.  He truly has changed so much, but he’s still his Jack, of that, McCree’s sure.

He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss  to the man’s forehead.  “It’s okay.”  He strokes Jack’s cheek lovingly, with the same tenderness he used countless times back then.  (God, how he’s missed this.)

Jack’s hand curves around his as the man averts his eyes.  “It’s my fault.  I should have-”  

“Shhh.  You can’t change the past, darlin’, and it ain’t all on you.”  

“But it is.”  Jack’s pulling the hand from his face.   “You don’t know, Jesse.  You don’t know.”

His chest aches.  It’s painful listening to the words dripping despair and regret, and he finds himself torn, half of him wanting to comfort Jack, the other half wanting to question him.  Because damn if they all didn’t deserve answers.  And because he wanted to help him, but, just like back then, he doesn’t know how.  

He decides against asking, at least for now, when he notices the tears welling in Soldier’s eyes.  He pulls the man forward, peppering his face with a succession of quick, sloppy kisses.  Then he suddenly stops his bombardment, moves his head back to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t need to.  I already know you’re a good man, Jack.”

And just like that, the floodgates open, the dam breaks.  

He presses Jack to his chest, lets him bury his head as the tears start flowing, silent sobs running through him.

He remembers the nights he used to do this, allowing him to let go of all his pent-up emotion, drop the façade.  

He holds him close now, like he did then, rubbing his back soothingly and whispering a stream of comfort and reassurance, Spanish and English blurring together, becoming one.

McCree only stops when Jack falls silent, body still against him.  He holds him close, presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“It’s alright, hon.  I got ya.  I’m not going no where.”

The only response he gets is a hand weakly grasping at his serape, fingers curling into the fabric for a few seconds before relaxing, hand dropping back down.

He’s stroking the man’s back again, this time humming a lullaby he vaguely remembers his mother singing to him as a little kid.  Most of the words have faded from his memory by now, but he still remembers the tune.

He keeps humming songs, providing light touches, until he notices Jack has fallen asleep.  

A small smile forms on McCree’s face as he presses another kiss to Jack’s head.  His arm wraps around the man’s back as he closes his eyes, relaxes.

This is a start, at least.  Another beginning.  Another chance at having a home.

Jesse had finally been left to his own devices for the first time since he’d arrived on base, and of course the first thing he’d done was get lost.

He was wandering a hallway in who knew what building anymore, he’d lost track, trying to find the showers that Reyes had mentioned when he’d rattled off the list of amenities before leaving. The last person he had expected to run into in this empty corridor at eleven o’clock at night had been Strike Commander Jack Morrison himself.

“Hey,” Strike Commander Morrison said when he saw Jesse, raising a casual hand in greeting and flashing him a dazzling smile with perfect white teeth.

Holy shit that was Jack Morrison, that was actually Jack Morrison standing there like any other person had any reason to be and not like he was one of the most powerful men on the planet, larger than life and looking at him, at Jesse, with eyes that were far too blue. And if Morrison looked good on TV, he was devastatingly handsome up close—chiseled jaw, tall and broad-chested, with golden hair and the trademark Overwatch coat that draped behind him like a cape.

Jesse realized that he had been staring openly, and that he should probably say something.

“Hi,” Jesse managed to choke, lamely. He tried to tip his hat but missed and only hit the brim with his hand, nearly knocking it off his head and forcing him to seize it by the top and shove it back down over his eyes.

But Morrison was smiling at him anyway.

“Nice hat, kid,” he said.

Nice hat kid nice hat kid nice hat kid—

Jesse realized his face was heating up, and the realization just made it even warmer.

“Th-thanks,” he stammered. “—Sir,” he added hastily. Wow, those eyes were way too blue to be allowed.

“McCree, right?” Morrison asked and did Jack Morrison know his name and when Jesse didn’t answer but didn’t correct him, Morrison went on; “Reyes told me about you. The kid from Deadlock with the cowboy hat and the six shots that never miss?”

Holy shit Strike Commander Jack Morrison knew who he was, Strike Commander Jack Morrison just complimented him—

“Y-yeah—Thanks, sir,” Jesse managed to croak. Oh jeez, his blush was probably incredibly obvious by now. He ducked his head a little, hoping the brim of his hat would hide the worst of it.

“Say,” said Morrison, “you ever seen any of those old westerns?”

“Old westerns, sir?” Jesse repeated in confusion, looking back up.

“You know," Morrison continued, "like ‘A Fistful of Dollars’? ‘The Good the Bad the Ugly’? ‘Pale Rider’? ‘The Outlaw Josey Wales’?”

“No, sir?”

Morrison’s face lit up and he grinned and oh Jesus, if he had looked handsome before, that was nothing compared to now—“Oh, I love them, you really need to—We do a movie night every Saturday, I could have us watch an Eastwood; I can ask Reyes to give you that evening off if you wanted to come?”

Strike Commander Jack Morrison just invited him to watch a movie with his friends, Strike Commander Jack Morrison just invited him to watch a movie with him, Strike Commander Jack Morrison just—

“Yes—“ Jesse blurted out, before trying to control himself as he added, “I mean—Can I? Sir?”

“Of course!” Morrison actually looked excited and holy shit he could blind someone with that grin if he wasn’t careful. “I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

“Thank you! Sir,” Jesse said, not sure this was really happening.

Morrison gave him a clap on the shoulder with one of his big hands. “I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

And just like that Morrison was gone, down the hallway the way Jesse had came, disappearing from view around the corner, and Jesse stared at where he had gone before realizing that he still had no idea where the showers were.

“Don’t.” The gruff, distorted voice snaps then, and for a moment, Jesse takes solace in the fact that the former commander can’t see him flinch. He opens his mouth to question further, but Jack beats him to the punch. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name…”

“Jack Morrison is dead.”

Another silence, and Jesse’s fingers curl into his palm, jaw setting. He’s had enough of this, enough of the ridiculous self-pitying way with which the old soldier carries himself, of the fact that he couldn’t let go; they all had their ghosts, and the two shared more than one in common. To know that someone he’d once held respect for was all too willing to spend his days walking around in defeat, to know someone he had loved felt far too comfortable in the passive role of his own life, it makes the gunslinger’s blood boil. Jack Morrison is dead.

Of course he doesn’t see it coming, the metal fist that whips through the air. The blow lands solid, hard enough to knock the old soldier to the ground, and his visor clean off. Silence. Jesse moves to hover over him, shaggy strands of brown falling from his face as he watches the paled blues that search for him hopelessly. He almost takes pity on the old man – in his position, after everything that happened, Jesse doesn’t know if he’d be able to pick himself up daily and carry himself around with his head held high. He certainly didn’t do so after leaving the watch – too many a night spent in a drunken haze, willing himself to forget the life he’d made in the watch, the life that had been forced upon him by none other than the man stricken down beneath him.

“That’s horseshit, Jack.” Jesse’s voice comes out softer than he means for it to; he doesn’t quite choke up, but there’s a hint of sadness etched into his words. “You ain’t dead – hell you’re more alive than most of us-“ Certainly more alive than Reyes, he almost continues, but thinks better of it. It’s a pain he doesn’t want to relive, and he can only guess it’s a topic still too fresh in the mind of the former commander, despite the years that had passed. “You’re alive, you’re here, corporeal, flesh and blood. Stop living like a ghost; you ain’t one.” Even if he wishes he was.

“I couldn’t admit to it.” Jesse’s caught off guard when Jack finally responds, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Pardon?”

“Not being able to see.” There’s a pause, and Jesse moves to sit on his haunches, still straddling Jack’s lap as he listens. There’s an ache in his voice, the pain of sightlessness a constant pain that’s lessened only by the visor – and even then, it only gives him general, blurry shapes to see, nothing more than shadows casted from light sources he can’t see, won’t ever see again.

“The explosion?” a bitter laugh from below, and Jesse wrinkles his nose uneasily.

“You’d think, right?” A sigh, and gloved fingers run through short, greyed strands, a sad smile ghosting across his lips. “The SEP, probably. Used to get blackouts in my vision after injections – been losing my sight for years, actually.” His fingers twitch, and instinctively pat against the pocket of his pants; god he wants a cigarette. He was never good at talking about this without one. “Finally went dark couple years after Zurich. Thought it was just a bad episode, but I think a few days went by and I still couldn’t see. Wasn’t a fun day when I realized.” Too much alcohol and far too many holes in the wall of the place he’d found shelter; he hadn’t taken the news of his total vision loss well at all.

Jesse’s quiet for several moments, swallowing back a knot in his throat. They had all had their theories about it, the days when he seemed spaced out, not entirely seeing things in front of him; more than once it had nearly cost him his life in battle, the blackouts. He doesn’t realize it right away, until he feels the pressure to his cheek, but Jack has reached up, gloved digits tracing lightly along bearded lines of his face, thumb stroking slow across his bottom lip. He hesitates, before his teeth catch the fabric of the glove, and guides it off. He wants to feel the warmth of Jack’s fingers, he doesn’t want anymore barriers between them.

Jack lets the glove fall to the side, fingers returning to inch across every dip, every crack, every scar along Jesse’s face. At one point, he might have had it memorized, the way his face lit up with each smile. He’s never going to see it again. The knot in his throat is back, fingers trembling slightly against his skin, and he moves to cup all of Jesse’s face between his hands, eyes desperately searching for something they can’t see. He’ll never see Jesse again.

“Hey…” Jesse’s voice pulls him back, if only for a moment, and unseeing eyes move to focus on the whiskey irises that watch him. Jesse’s palm finds his cheek, thumb ghosting along the scar that slices its way down his lip, and Jack’s shoulders relax at the contact. He can’t remember the last time he felt hands caress so gentle, the last time he felt something that wasn’t pain from someone he was this close to. “Remember what I said? You’re alive, you’re here. Don’t go getting’ lost in your head, Commander, it’s not good for you.”