old habits

it wasn't the first time reinhardt had seen him without the mask, shattered pieces once framing a portion beneath it. identity revealed and reacquaintance uneasy, the soldier had the demeanor of a feral cat. drawn in by warmth and food, but hostile --- bristling, hissing, and ready to lash out at any given moment. patience was all that could be offered and it was all that he needed, time and understanding. the man who was once jack morrison was not okay, and he never would be if he continued on the selfish path of his. isolating himself as he wallowed in his trauma. he knew he couldn't recover on his own, though the stubborn old fool would be hard pressed to admit it.

but he knew.

soft as they were jack knew the sound of her steps as they carried her into the pathetic excuse of a room. he wasn't asleep, knowing all too well how easily it evaded the both of them. too many things to rattle around inside their skulls and creep along their spines, making a bed no more comfortable than the floor.

it didn't matter what she wanted --- she could want nothing at all --- though the worry of something being WRONG settled in his gut. considering she wasn't yelling for his attention or acting in haste he had to reason to worry, but it didn't stop the way his heart picked up speed and his hands itched for the familiar weight of his pulse rifle. it was close enough, he could grab it, but he'd rather not face the lecture that might come from ana should she enter only to find him curled up on the cot cradling his gun, unshaven, booze still on his breath.

no, that was best avoided.

the water is taken gratefully, majority of its contents tanked in a singular swig that leaves him gasping for air. a battle inside the containment of a metal furnace always left him dehydrated, gratitude expressed in the clasp of his companion’s shoulder, tugging him closer.

❝ after ———— we will rid the world of that evil long before you’re sick of me, ❞ he sang, holding the near-empty bottle back down to jack. he watched the way the other’s eyes skirted across his face, down his jaw. the intent behind those blue irises. the german licked his lips, squeezing the younger’s shoulder.  ❝ perhaps we should be done here, group back with the others and return to clean up. ❞ 

super soldier or no the clasp around him had him grunting, strong enough to support the wight of armor now somewhat resting over his shoulders, but that didn't make it comfortable by any means. a jab to the crusader's side did little aside from make his elbow ache dully.

his face curves with amusement, the low rumble of a laugh. fingertips remain, dancing across the other’s skin as he urges him nearer, pulls to feel the man’s body press against his back. he guides arms around his shoulders, lacing over-top, a massive palm pressed to knuckles as he holds him there. a loose embrace. he twists his head, coaxing for more affection.

❝ it’s just another part of their training ——— weightlifting, ❞ he jests, a curt laugh following his words once more. his smile dissolves into something soft, of gentle jokes and a quiet night. how he always dreamt of something like this, if not quite in this manner. how dedicated he’s always been to his work ——– yet he wouldn’t mind a less formal setting to enjoy his peace and quiet with the man he loved so dearly. soft touches, sparse kisses shared between small conversation he so enjoyed. whether the recesses of their work place or the idealistic notion of a home with him, he cherished every moment of it.

ever one to roll with the punches, easing into jest of his own. drawing their moment out with simplicity, an airy atmosphere. sluggish, almost, in a positive light. time slowing to a crawl as they soaked in the other's presence. cherished the quiet moments they could steal ------ it felt far too few were found these days, no thanks to the soldier himself. cagey and uncertain, a self built defense of isolation and cowardice. too afraid to let another burrow in his chest, but that was where he'd been wrong, assuming the knight would ever relent. jack was thankful for it, now. resting easy even if his back protested gently from the slight awkward tilt to his body.

reinhardt already knows. neither of them return to their quarters for many of the same, and many separate reasons. the two of them have seen too much of the world, and at night, they hear too many of the voices that have passed on. they shut their eyes, and what once was a collection of lost souls turns into a group, into a mass, a town, state. gathering around. towering over. a lingering sensation, like a life lost either by their hands or under their watch or even just a loss is tethered to them. and that’s when they’re vulnerable. when their conscious wasn’t working, shut off, a victim of whatever dreams may carry them. nothing to sit there and actively think about how okay everything is.

but company was a wonderful idea. because in that time after the dread wakes him up, it sits on his chest. it follows him out into the quiet little sitting area where the storm flashes and lights the abandoned walls. it gnaws on his skin ———— but it won’t stay if there’s someone else. it runs off, afraid of another noticing it. 

❝ hopefully not into tomorrow. i promised our young friends to teach them a thing or two about overcoming larger enemies. ❞  who better to teach such a lesson ? he allows the fingers to work into the thick of his muscle for only a short while longer; impatience steals the better of him. he reaches back to urge forth one of the massaging hands into his view, a soft kiss pressed against knuckles, cracked with an assortment of aged, scarring, and cold.

for men of strength they were fragile being, plagued by past and present and future alike. self imposed suffering, perhaps. atonement for whatever crimes they placed onto their own shoulders. chests open wide for ghosts to nest in, birds of a feather ------ they knew each other far too well to sit there and pretend the other was okay. that the night was not bloated with unease, that the rain didn't rattle their bones and make old scars ache. mind is busied by the repetitive motion of kneading muscle, but soon even that distraction is stolen.

sweetly so, though.