Jesse had underestimated his opponents before. It wasn't often, but he occasionally lapsed in judgement. This was one of those times.

He'd been the faster draw, the truer of aim, but that didn't prevent a bullet burying itself in his chest. From the way he'd collapsed, the way he'd fallen and the way he felt, it felt like it's hit something important. A grunted cursed was all the escaped him.

Like most nights, he faded in and out of consciousness staring at the hollow thing that used to be a lover. He'd near given up in his renewed advances-- either being too strong or seemingly pushed aside. Any heart could only take so much.

He was so close, so close, to Jack. It amazed him. He'd spent so many lonely nights wishing for this, telling himself that'd be enough, that it'd be bearable. But this was somehow worse. Had he stretched out his arm, he could grasp even a fold in the other's sleeping bag. But that wouldn't be enough either.

But it'd be something.

But he didn't. He wouldn't. It wouldn't end well. This man insisted Jack was dead. That he was a memory, a lingering will. But even still this was all Jesse had left. And it hurt like a deep ache, a physical weight on his very soul, to not even be able to truly touch him.

He didn't care about the consequences. He didn't care he'd probably have a bullet through his chest before his arms could wrap around his former lover. He had to hold him in his arms just this last time, had to feel the revulsion, the unfamiliarity-- had to know it was true.

He was clumsy, as desperate men always are, wriggling out of his own bag before all but launching himself at Jack. His arms hit the ground, padded a little by the other's sleeping bag, but not much. His weight on Jack as it was, he was forced to settle on clinging to the other's sides through the sleeping bag.

It was only as he suddered with a sob that he realized he was crying. But he didn't try to stop. He pressed himself as close to the other as he could. He cried and shuddered and begged. His pleas were a slur of half formed sentences, but the message was clear enough.

Please don't be gone.

Please don't leave me.

I love you.

But if the other could be believed, he was. Jack was gone. Gabriel was gone. Everything, everything was gone. The security he felt entangled with them. The joy. The warmth. The passion. The love. Gone. How wreched a thing to feel. How empty, how lonely, how sad.

Last Letters // @vis0ractivated - @homeofthevan​ (accepting)

[ for 76 ]

Just out to the nearby town to restock on supplies. You don’t sleep much so I thought I’d leave you to it. Be proud if I can actually slip outta here without waking you. Be back soon.

love you,- Jes

Today was a "worse than normal" pain day. He could also feel his body slipping away, in and out of its natural form. But that wasn't the worst of it. Only parts of him would dematerialize at times, leaving the rest of him to deal with the sudden lack of functional parts.

His joints especially had found this distressing. Sometimes muscles would grow suddenly unstable, weak, all the buckling points crumpling in ways both natural and not. Over time, it began to wear more and more on his body. He'd somewhere in the course of all these things found some days where it felt his joints didn't move as smoothly as they should, like some form of arthritis, but truly something worse.

He could stand. It only sort of hurt when he put pressure on the weaker of his ankles-- the right. All things considered, this wasn't the worst of days. But there was rain. And everything sucked more when it rained. It hadn't even rained yet. The clouds were forming overhead, the air pressure pressing in on him so even his breathing was labored.

Days like these he just wanted to curl up under the blankets, and if he could he so bold, wanted to just be held. Just being warm was enough. He'd throw tight ankle high socks on and pretend it was a proper brace when he laced his boots up. He's put on a brave face and resist every twinge of pain that would run up his legs, all the way up his spine and back down. He'd probably stayed in bed too long already to go unnoticed. But fuck if he didn't just feel like a pile of old crumbly bones.

kinda like FMK except its  hug, point finger guns at, or whack with a frying pan // @cafveinated 

hug: the commander (eyes @vis0ractivated)

finger gun: Orisa bc hes not entirely sure if she actually gonna kill him (eyes @haltandhug huehue)

It took some time, but between what he picked up in Deadlock and a few more tricks he picked up here and there, he'd found a way to splice video/audio feeds. After a bit of poking around transmission files of the commander's doings in his quaters-- all of which had local copies in case they were needed, not an easy thing to get into but not the worst-- he was unsuprised to see a regular pattern to the older man's routine. He smiled. That made it easy.

With that, it was simple enough to compile and stitch together clips to make it likely enough these were new, though similar instances, even if they were just bits of old recording. Final issue was redoing the timestamps. Unfortunately, he'd had to call up a friend to walk him through that-- not a too pretty penny, but not too cheap either. But it was done.

@vis0ractivated

“When are you comfortable with this conversation. This is something that needs to be talked about.” Zenyatta spoke sternly. His voice was strict, but not angry. No, never angry.

“You cannot keep hiding behind a mask and not face the truth, mister Morrison. Life has its ways of finding you, and if we do not discuss this now, you will not be ready for it when it does.”

The omnic lets out a sigh as he regards his conversation partner who was sitting in the chair in front of him. The old soldier had come to him for advice, but now refused to talk about the issue at all. How was he supposed to help then?