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Gabriel isn’t watching McCree.
Well, technically, he is—but it’s not like he’s staring. It’s his job to oversee McCree, and his hand-to-hand. McCree isn’t typical Overwatch—he’s one of Gabe’s elite—and Gabe needs his team in tip-top shape. That means coaching his agents through combat training. He’s allowed this. Besides, Gabriel isn’t the only one watching. McCree, ever the showman, has pulled in quite the crowd.
Of the six Blackwatch agents scattered across the training floor, Soldano is the only one actually training. The remaining five have abandoned their sparring, and instead are watching McCree’s ongoing match. Gabe should say something. As their CO, he should tell them to quit wasting time and return to their training, but he doesn’t. Instead, he watches—just as captivated as the rest of them.
McCree dodges right, and out of the way of Garcia’s oncoming fist. Unfortunately for McCree, he miscalculates his trajectory. Gabe lets out a low whistle; he knows what comes next. Judging by the crowd reaction, so do they. In that moment, Gabe is immensely proud; he has trained his team well. As McCree rights himself, Garcia catches the back of his head with her recoil, and sends McCree scrambling toward the mat. He lands, ass slapping the mat with a crack. The training room erupts into a chorus of juvenile snickers. It’s all in good fun— Gabe knows this. He’s not the only one in Blackwatch with a soft spot for Jesse McCree; half of the division is charmed by McCree’s clumsy drawl and quick wit.
Really, Gabe never stood a chance.
McCree, just coming to terms with his defeat, groans. Instead of returning to his spar, he sinks further into the mat. Folding her arms across her chest, Garcia crosses over to address a supine McCree. “What’s the matter, Jess? All tuckered out?” She grins, but does not offer him a hand. Instead, she waits patiently for McCree to return to his feet. It’s the very way Gabriel himself does it—the same way he trained Garcia to. “Get up. That is…If we’re not done here?”
McCree stands up, but not before taking a moment to regain his balance. “A’ight already,” McCree says, pulling his hands up over his head in surrender. As he does so, McCree’s PT uniform rides up. Underneath the black expanse of Spandex, Gabriel notices a sliver of McCree’s torso. There’s a tear in his PT uniform. It isn’t wide, an inch and a half at most, but it gives Gabriel pause. Gabe knows from experience, tears like that only grow. Especially with all the twisting and turning that goes into hand-to-hand. “I give. You got one on me, that’s ‘fer sure—nice going there, Alvra.”
McCree lowers his arms, and, in an attempt at flirtation, tips his hat at Garcia—or he would have, if McCree had been wearing it. Cowboy or no, the hat isn’t conductive to training. Actually, it isn’t conductive to most things, more of a hindrance than a help. McCree wears it exclusively on base, as Gabe has outlawed it on missions. Not even for travel, lest they run into a firefight during the commute. But, for reasons Gabriel cannot fathom, McCree is quite fond of it. And, if anyone at Overwatch major has a problem with it, they sure as hell haven’t brought their concerns to Gabe. And for that, despite how ridiculous the hat is, Gabe is glad. Nobody gets a say over Gabriel’s agents— especially not Jesse McCree.
And that, right there, is the problem.
“McCree,” Gabe says, interrupting his own line of thought, and motioning for his agent. McCree shifts his attention from Garcia, and the good natured jabs of the remaining procrastinating agents, towards Gabriel. At the sound of his name, McCree’s flirty smirk drops. In its place, McCree’s lips twist into a bashful smile—which aggravates Gabriel to no end. Really, it isn’t McCree’s fault. Gabe is frustrated with himself. Gabriel Reyes isn’t some pre-pubescent school boy. At his age, his heart shouldn’t go haywire over a thoughtless look.
McCree paddles over, clearly in no rush to obey Gabriel’s summon. As he does so, the rest of his team rejoins Soldano in the hope of completing their daily PT. Good. McCree might be a showman, but Gabe is more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy. It’s, Gabe supposes, why he is the CO of his own covert ops division. “Di’chu see that takedown, Boss?” McCree asks, ducking his head to mask his embarrassment. “Alvra’s got a wicked left hook. Shouldd’a seen that one coming, I suppose—”
“McCree,” Gabe interrupts. “Hands up.”
McCree stares it him for a moment; confused, as though he may have misheard Gabriel. “My whatnow?” McCree asks, but complies to Gabriel’s request anyway. He raises both arms high over his head. “I ain’t being arrested or ‘nuthing, right? I’ve got cards with Fareeha later tonight, and she said she’d skin me if I stood her up again.” Despite his words, McCree speaks with an air of nonchalance—of trust. Gabe wouldn’t haul him away, and they both know it. Not like this— not without warning.
That’s when he does it. Gabe, despite himself, reaches forward to place a hand on McCree. Before he makes contact, McCree freezes in place, as if unsure how to react. Initially, Gabe had planned to splay his palm across the rip in McCree’s PT uniform, but he abandoned the notion mid-reach. It was too intimate. Instead, he pinched at McCree’s side, funneling his skin through the tear. Overcoming the initial shock, McCree leans into the touch. He follows Gabriel’s gaze downward, and jolts—as if just noticing the hint of flesh peaking through his side.
McCree blushes, and Gabriel has the sense to release his hold. As he does so, McCree lets go a shaky breath. “M’sorry, didn’t even realize. I don’t want you sore, or nuthin’ at me. I’ll fix it.” The bashfulness from before is gone. Now, McCree is looking at Gabe with a guarded frown. Gabriel knows that look; he’s seen it before. McCree is looking at Gabriel as though he is being chewed-out. Which, he isn’t—not this time.
Shit. Gabe really needs to work on his teasing. He’s too intense. Too serious. He has failed, miserably, at this interaction. At this point, it might be easier to go along with the ruse of anger. But, that would be sending mixed messages. And, really, Gabe isn’t angry with McCree. If anything, he wants to help him. “When I stop by Fareeha’s tonight, I’ll ask Ana if she can get it patched up.” McCree continues, unaware of Gabriel’s inner monologue. “Might not be done ‘fer tomorrow. But, It’ll be done by week’s end—that’d be alright?”
“Amari?” Gabe asks, ignoring McCree’s question. “Amari can’t sew.” And, it’s the truth—she really can’t. This, Gabe knows. Ana Amari exudes danger and unwonted authority. But, underneath all that, she does have a domestic side. She is an excellent cook—Gabe is always prepared to accept an invitation to join her for homemade hawawshi and oven-fresh baladi bread. And a rather motherly mentor—if McCree and her relationship is anything to go by. Even so, sewing is not among her list of domestic skills. Gabe, however, is quite skilled in that area. It wouldn’t take much effort to fix a little tear. No effort at all, really. “Forget Amari. I’ll do it. I don’t mind.”
McCree gapes at him.
“I didn’t know you could sew.” McCree says; his eyes wide and full of quiet curiosity. With McCree looking at him like that, it is Gabe’s turn to blush. “You didn’t say ‘nuthing about it before. What other talents are you hidin’ on me?”
The words alone are as innocent as can be, but paired with McCree’s slow drawl and devilish smirk, the phrase has taken on a whole new meaning. McCree, who had delivered the line with such confidence, does not back down. This is how it is with McCree—alternating between tentative and brazen, with nothing in between. Gabe, once again caught utterly off guard, tries his best to not react. He isn't flustered—no. But, he is tempted. Gabe takes a moment to compose a response. “I’m not hiding anything, McCree. You just have to know how to ask.”
“I don’t know, Boss. I’m not meaning to eat into yer time.” McCree says, still smiling. “Well, no more than usual. It’s just—I know how full that plate of ‘yers really is. I don’t wanna be askin’ too much from you.” He lowers his voice and clears his throat. “Especially not since you and I—”
“It’s just a shirt, McCree,” Gabe says, interrupting him. They are no longer talking about McCree’s PT uniform, but Gabe keeps up the ruse. “Hand it over to me. I’ll fix it up.”
McCree does not need to be asked twice. He snakes a hand behind his back, and yanks the collar in an upward motion. The shirt, which is Spandex and skin tight, takes some finagling to remove. But, after a minute, McCree has successfully separated himself from the garment. Gabe’s agent, now shirtless, holds on to it, unsure. “Uh—I’ma a bit sweaty; Alvra wasn’t goin’ easy. Im’a giv’er a wash first, and if you still wanna stitch ‘er up, I’ll find you after.”
Gabe rolls his eyes, and pulls the PT uniform from McCree’s grasp.”It’s fine. Like I said, I don’t mind.”
--
Jesse McCree is en route to his quarters, just havin’ finished a few rounds of cards with Fareeha. Jesse thinks himself good at hustlin’, but he ain’t nothing compared to the youngest Amari. The girl’s got game, Jesse’ll give her that. He’s certain that Fareeha cheats more than Jesse, but it’s always his sorry ass getting’ caught. It doesn’t help none that Commander Amari is always there: barkin’ playful orders at Jesse and sidein’ with her daughter at every contention. Perks of bein’ the CO’s daughter, Jesse supposes. Really, he ought not to complain. On the field, Commander Amari always has his back. She can be a real hard ass at times, but Jesse ain’t going to hold it against her none. ‘Sides, she’s nothing compared to Commander Reyes—
PING
Jesse reaches into his pocket, and pulls out his data pad. The name GABRIEL REYES flashes across Jesse’s screen and Jesse taps in his security code. Reyes’ message, like always, is brief. It’s jus’ four words: ‘My office. It’s done.’, but Jesse reads it twice anyway. Afterward, he grins down at his screen, runnin’ a thumb over the letters. He hadn’t expected Reyes to fix his PTs in the first place, and he certainly didn’t expect Reyes to do it ‘inna day. But there it is: written confirmation that Gabriel Reyes had. And now, Reyes wants Jesse in his office. It aint’ so strange, Jesse’s been there lots. ‘Specially in his early days, the days when Jesse was gettin’ into a whole mess of trouble. But it’s half past nine, and Jesse ain’t ever been after hours. Not ‘fer anything personal, anyhow. The thought sends a pleasant shiver up his spine.
Stoppin’ in his treads, Jesse turns a full 180. He’s almost at his quarters, but Reyes’ office is the other way. Jesse backtracks, swagger in his gait and nerves pooling in his gut. After a few, Jesse finds himself in front of Reyes’ door. He knocks twice, knuckles sliding tentatively across metal before Jesse hears a muffled ‘come in’ from inside. He steps into the office, instilled with confidence, as the automatic doors shut behind him. As expected, Commander Reyes is inside—goin’ over a pile of paperwork at his desk. Jesse’s mighty grateful he’s more help in-field than in-office, ‘cause if the look on Reyes’ face is anything to go by, paperwork is a bother.
Catching sight of Jesse, Reyes gets to his feet and moves ‘round to the front of his desk. He’s holding a small package— Jesse reckons it’s his PT shirt. “Is that ’fer little old me?” Jesse asks, batting his eyelids. Reyes rolls his eyes, but Jesse swears he sees a hint of a smile. So, Jesse continues. “Really, you aughtn’t have, Boss. I didn’t even get you nothing.” Reyes, apparently feigning annoyance, shakes the bag at Jesse. The intention is clear: ‘get your ass over here, McCree’. Complying with Reyes' unspoken command, Jesse strolls over to his CO’s desk. He reaches for the bag, and leans into Reyes’ space. “Thank you kindly, darlin’”.
Jesse, inches from Reyes, freezes in place. He’s uncertain how to proceed—uncertain of what’s even allowed. This thing he had goin’ with Reyes is new. ‘Bout a month, by Jesse’s calculations—and so far, it’s been all kinds of awkward.
Jesse has been crushin’ on Reyes since the beginning. At first, the flirtin’ was just playful. Reyes is an attractive man, and Jesse wanted to see how far he could push his CO. But, now, it ain’t just a silly crush. His affections ain’t a joke. Not to Jesse—and not to Reyes. Reyes stopped laughin’ at his flirtations a long time ago. At a certain point, he started takin’ them serious. And, Jesse took that as a sign. They danced around each other for another year before Jesse, tired of waitin’ around fer confirmation or rejection of his affection, had kissed Reyes. For a moment, his biggest fears had been confirmed. But, to Jesse’s glee, Reyes had kissed him back. They’d kissed a few times since then—nothing more. And every time since the first, Jesse had been the one to initiate it.
They never talk ‘bout it, but Jesse wants to. He wants to know what they are—where they are headed, if anywhere. But, Jesse’s too chicken-shit to say anything. So, instead, he makes a gamble, not for the first time that evenin’. He leans closer into Reyes, and presses his lips against the corner of Reyes’ mouth.
It’s hardly a kiss; chaste and sweet. Reyes’ makes a surprised sound, but does not react otherwise. Jesse’s lips linger on Reyes’ but for a moment longer before pulling back. He doesn’t give Reyes a chance to reciprocate his kiss; it is safer this way Jesse supposes. “I really do mean it. You didn’t haf’ta, but you did. Thank you fer’ doin’ this ‘fer me.”
Reyes, still lock-jawed and wide-eyed, stares at Jesse. Reigning in his composure, Reyes gestures silently to the parcel. “You haven’t even seen it, McCree. For all you know, I botched it. If I were you, I’d check it first before—erm—thanking me.” Jesse grins up at Reyes, waiting for the punchline. When none comes, Jesse hums thoughtfully. He seriously doubts that Reyes is that incompetent, especially after his earlier claims at PT, but Jesse opens and inspects the package regardless.
Jesse’s seen patchwork before, hell, he’s done it ‘fer himself when in a pinch. Back in Deadlock, he didn’t have nobody doing his laundry ‘fer him. And it’s not like Jesse ‘coulda got a shiny new pair o’ pants every time he got into a little skirmish. But, lookin’ at it now, Reyes’ work is different. It’s not slapped shoddily together like the patchwork Jesse’s used to. It’s intentional—sewn with a purpose. Jesse isn’t able to stop himself—he blurts out, “You reckon’ you could show me, Boss?” Reyes frowns, seemingly taken aback. Jesse amends his statement. “So you wouldn't haf’ta do it ‘fer me no more.”
“You want me to—no. It’s alright, McCree. As I’ve already said, I don’t really mind.” Reyes says, and pauses. He smiles again, soft and kind. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to. And I wanted to do this for you.”
Jesse does his best to look innocent—he wouldn’t call it puppy-dog eyes or nothin’, but ‘sumthing along that line. “And now, I wanna learn how. But, only if you wanna teach it to me.” Jesse doesn’t say nothin’ as a follow-up, he casts Reyes a wide-open expression.
At Jesse’s display, Reyes snorts good-naturedly. “Jesus, alright already— you don’t have to give me that look.” Reyes swipes his arm in an arc, and pushes past Jesse. “If you really want to learn, I have no problem teaching you.” As he passes, he squeezes Jesse’s shoulder—a rather abrupt return to the awkwardness, but still, it’s ‘sumthing.
“Er, you don’t mean now? Do ya?” Jesse asks, unsure. Commander Reyes, already halfway to the door just waits. “Alrighy then, doll. No need to be so testy— I’ma comin’—hold yer horses.” Jesse grins, and funnels out past Reyes. He gets by with only a minor slap from his CO.
--
Gabriel can’t speak; he hasn’t said a single word to McCree—not since his office. It’s been far too long, and at this point, McCree has likely caught on. But, even if he has, McCree hasn’t said. Gabriel appreciates it. This way, Gabriel can panic in silence. Well, not in complete silence. McCree hasn't stopped speaking—gesturing vaguely and occasionally laughing to himself. Gabe isn’t really listening—aforementioned panic capturing the majority of his attention.
McCree is seated atop Gabriel’s bed; which is a ridiculous sight. Gabriel doesn’t allow anyone in his private quarters, let alone his bed. It is against the rules, the very same rules that Gabriel himself had put in place half a decade prior. Back then, he had just wanted reprieve from a youthful and flirtatious Jesse McCree. But now, Gabriel wonders if he hadn’t subconsciously done it to thwart exactly this—whatever this is. Gabe isn’t Morrison—he isn’t a stickler for the rules. In Blackwatch, he is highly celebrated for his disregard for them. But, even Gabe can see that this isn’t a minor infringement. This is big, and absolutely isn’t allowed. Gabe isn’t sure what he is doing, but despite it all, he doesn’t want it to end.
Gabriel has been in love with McCree for longer than he’s willing to admit. At first, he was ashamed. Gabe was an experienced CO with a crush on his 21-year-old recruit. He’d had himself convinced—the McCree thing was only temporary. But, the more time Gabe spent with McCree, the harder it became to pretend. He stopped going to bars. He stopped meeting other men. He focused on work. He distanced himself from McCree. But, despite that, McCree still found his way in. McCree is no longer 21—no longer the boy with the obvious crush that had both flattered and annoyed Gabriel. McCree is one of his best agents. He is his friend.
But— McCree doesn’t love Gabriel. Not the way Gabe loves McCree. Gabe is convenient, he knows this. And McCree is flirty. And Gabe should have never allowed it—but it’s hard to say no to McCree. So, here they are.
“Not that I’m complainin’ or nothing,” McCree says, eyes-lidded and flippant. “But I thought you was going to show me to sew.” He pauses, but Gabe does not respond. McCree, already low, reduces his volume to simmer. “If not, I’m sure you and me can think up ‘sumthing. ‘S not like yer not the only one with hidden talents. And I’m already here and all— in yer bed.”
McCree grins, absolutely wicked. As if on instinct, Gabe shuts it down. “No. I don’t—that’s not—” Gabe sighs, recomposing himself. “I am going to teach you, just like you asked me to. Uhh— I need to grab a few things.” Gabe turns his back on McCree, and retreats to his nightstand. When prompted, he absentmindedly relays the code. The metal door slides open, and Gabe bends down to retrieve his supplies: a strip of red fabric, a needle, and a spool of complementary-colored thread. He turns back around, and Gabe’s heart catches in his chest. McCree is staring at him, open and earnest. The mood in the room is different than before, and Gabe hates it.
“I reckoned this woulda’ve been easy— ‘you just gotta know how to ask’, right?” After quoting Gabriel, McCree lowers his gaze to his lap. “But it really ain’t. It ain’t, and I’m still here. And I’m still askin’. And I don’t wanna stop askin’—but, sometimes I wonder.” He pauses, eyes returning to Gabriel. “You’d tell me, right? If I was askin’ too much?”
It’s rhetorical— or at least Gabe thinks it is. He replies, regardless. “You’re not.” It’s all he can offer. “You’re not asking too much. Okay?”
There is silence; too much silence. Gabe is worried that his minimal assurance isn't enough. Perhaps, McCree was expecting more? Frantically, Gabe probes his brain for something—anything—more he could say. Luckily, McCree beats him to it.
“Okay.” McCree agrees, and smiles at Gabe. His smile—trusting and soft— breaks the somber mood. Gabe, relieved, takes advantage of the change in atmosphere. He places his supplies on the bed, and McCree, being McCree, immediately picks them up. He examines the needle; a small pout on his face. “This ain’t a criticism, but I wouldda thought you had fancier stuff. Y’know, being the expert and all.”
Gabe scoffs, and rolls his eyes. “What exactly were you expecting, McCree? A needle, equipped with advanced laser capabilities? A spool of golden thread, laced with subtle hints of arsenic?”
“Not on yer salary, Boss,” McCree interrupts, wrapping the thread around his index finger. “I’ve seen them expense reports. And, trust me, you can’t afford it.” He scratches, in imitation of deep-thought, at his stubble. “Maybe on Morrison’s.”
“Good—problem solved.” Gabe teases, and returns to his nightstand. He crouches down, and firmly grasps either side. “You can ask Morrison to teach you. I can’t imagine the Strike Commander has anything more important to do with his time then to teach a 25-year-old grown man how to stitch up his trousers.” Lifting with his back, Gabe brings the nightstand over to McCree. It’s at a good height in alignment with the bed— it would make a nice makeshift desk. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”
Gabe expects another quip from McCree, but receives none. McCree isn’t paying Gabe any attention, and instead is staring at the empty spot where the nightstand had just been. Except, it wasn’t empty—Gabe notices with a jolt. “The hell is that?” McCree asks, and springs up from the bed. He weaves around Gabriel and the nightstand. “Oh! Naw. That can’t be what I think it is? Can it?” He holds out a small box, sans lid, for Gabriel’s review. Inside, there are at least two dozen small bean bags, dressed in all black and adorned with skeletal owl-masks. “It is! There’s no way—you can’t deny it! I can’t hardly believe—and here I thought you were this hardass 24/7, but this whole time you’ve been hoarding Beanie Babies!”
Gabe can’t stop himself. Blushing ear to ear, he makes a swipe at McCree. Training instincts kicking in, McCree dodges effortlessly out of the way. After his defeat, Gabriel tenses. “They’re not Beanie Babies, McCree. They’re Reaper Beans.” Gabriel says hotly, regretting the words the second they leave his mouth. With any luck, the annoyance in his voice is working to mask the flush Gabriel feels beating across either side of his face.
McCree surveys Gabe, and after a moment of serious consideration, breaks out in a fit of juvenile giggles. “You’re not foolin’? Shoot, you’re serious.” McCree gasps loudly, exuding a smug sort of excitement. “Is this—like—a fetish?”
"No, it absolutely is not.” Gabe says firmly, feeling tendrils of anger lick at his temples. He pauses, not wanting to lash his aggravation and embarrassment out on McCree. Although Gabe was prompted, McCree really didn’t deserve the fallout. Gabe takes a deep breath, and then speaks. “I used to make them for my sister, Alejandra, when we were kids. And, when she died, I got a whole box of the fuckers shipped my way. I—I don’t have much use for them now. I keep them with my sewing supplies— they’re out of the way. A concept, might I add, that despite my many attempts at teaching, you’ve never seemed to quite grasp.”
“Keep on teasin’ me, if you‘d like. But remember this,” McCree says, and grins up at Gabriel. His smile is sharp; all teeth and charm. “I ain’t the one hidin’ a small militia of Beanie Babies.”
“Shut up or I’m not teaching you a goddamn thing.” Gabe grunts. Just then, his data pad alerts him with a musical HUM. “Hold that thought. I might get my wish, regardless.” Gabriel, annoyance building that someone would try to contact him at 22 hundred, retrieves it from his pocket. The call is from Jack Morrison, which is just great. The message under his name reads: LAOS SECURITY BREACH, and it is flagged as ‘urgent’. Dammit! “I have to take this.” McCree’s eyes flash to the blinking clock on Gabriel’s night stand. The question is unspoken, but apparent none-the-less: ‘who the hell’s calling you this late?’. “It’s Morrison.”
Gabe pushes past McCree, and makes his way toward the small private bathroom attached to his quarters. Really, he should just kick McCree out. Or, at the very least, make him wait in the bathroom. But, Gabe doesn’t. This call is private. And he cannot take it when McCree is in earshot; Gabriel is still a professional, after all. But McCree shouldn’t be exiled to a bathroom because of Jack freaking Morrison’s disregard for Gabriel’s personal time. So, Gabe retreats to the bathroom, closeing the door behind him and making certain the bathroom fan is set to OFF. Once he is situated against the sink, Gabe presses ACCEPT CALL and selects the AUDIO ONLY option.
In a matter of seconds, Gabe is patched in to a conference call with Jack, Ana, and the Prime Minister of Laos. The prime minister opens with a ‘good morning’, and Gabe is swept into a mundane conversation about security system upkeep in their sectors abroad. He’s only in the call for 6 or 7 minutes, but Gabriel is absolutely fuming by the time the call is over. He makes a mental note to bring up the call to Jack in the morning; damn bastard knew exactly what he was doing. Gabriel didn’t need to comply with Jack’s unscheduled whims—he had more important things—like Jesse McCree, presumably still waiting for him on the other side of the bathroom door. Gabe reaches for the handle, and pulls it open.
Back in the main bedroom, McCree is sprawled out on his stomach. Although he is still atop the blankets, the bed looks to have absorbed him. Much to Gabriel’s bafflement, McCree is cradling his entire collection of Reaper Beans to his chest. “And there’s Morrison—yeah, the blond fella. I dunno, they’re like old war buddies or ‘sumthing. Really chum-like, but not so much anymore, see?” Gabe freezes; he should say something and make his presence known. But, something about this scene felt private, intimate almost. For the second time that evening, Gabe can't speak. He just stands in the doorway, listening to McCree’s muttering. “But I can’t help but wonder if they ever...? I know it ain’t none of my business, but I can’t help it. He’s says I’m not askin’ too much. But, I still don’t really know what the hell we even are.” McCree snorts, and snuggles a Reaper Bean right up against his nose. His words come out muffled, but still audible. “I reckon’ I know what I am: the idiot who didn’t know no better than to fall in love with his boss.”
Wait. What? Had Gabe just heard—? Did McCree think Gabe had dated Jack Morrison!? No. That isn't the point. McCree had said he loved him? But, that isn't possible. Jesse McCree doesn't love him. He couldn’t have said—but he did. Jesse McCree had said he loved Gabe. And, it had sounded like he meant it.
Gabriel’s brain goes into overdrive, playing and re-playing the words over and over. Eventually, Gabriel has heard enough. Tonight has been a lot to handle; Gabe needs a moment to himself. It isn't that he doesn't want McCree’s company, but he needs to think.
Tightening his grip on the door handle, he makes a show of swinging it the rest of the way open. The door hits the wall with and audible CRACK, and McCree freezes atop the bed. He is on his feet in seconds, sending Reaper Beans flying in every direction. “I’m sorry McCree.” By the time Gabe feigns notice, McCree is halfway across the room. “We’re going to have to call this a night.” He offers no further explanation—knows that McCree won’t ask for one.
Gabe, already situated close to the main exit, gestures to the door. McCree, taking the hint, slinks over to the doorway. He reaches Gabe, and places a hand on the wall pad, but does not swipe right to open the door. The two are in close proximity now, no further than a foot apart. “G’night, Boss.” McCree says, obviously waiting for something— Gabe thinks he has a pretty good idea of what. But, he can’t. Not right now, so instead, Gabe places a hand atop McCree’s, and interlaces their fingers. He guides McCree’s hand to the right, and the door slides open, exposing them to the hallway outside.
“Goodnight, McCree.” Gabe mirrors, and without any farther preamble, turns back into the room.
--
Jesse’s lyin’ in bed, palming lazily at his junk. He’s mighty tired—up at four for PT, and spent the rest o’ the day in mission briefing—but Jesse’s not itchin’ to sleep. ‘Sides, it’s not like he can, anyway. He’s got Commander Reyes on the line, and Jesse’s not one to give his CO the cold shoulder. He’d been textin’ Reyes about the upcomin’ mission, but that had quickly derailed into light flirtin’. It’s been over an hour, and it ain’t showing any sign of stoppin’. Last he checked, Reyes was sharin’ his plans for his upcomin’ day off base—a day that Jesse had also been assigned. If Jesse has to wager, the coincidence isn't so coincidental. But, in fear of spookin’ the Commander, Jesse hasn't mentioned it. It doesn’t really matter none; if Reyes’s last text is anythin’ to go by, Jesse’s about to be invited along.
‘I’ve got something for you’.
It’s been like this for an hour— all teasin’ and no follow-through. Jesse responds with: ‘I’m sure you do, darling. You gonna give it to me ;)?’
Jesse chucks his data pas to the side— it always takes Reyes a few minutes to respond. And, for now, Jesse is preoccupied with touching himself.
‘Where are you?’
Jesse stops groping himself, and re-reads the text. It’s fast, and it isn’t what Jesse is expectin’; he feels that excitement go straight to his dick. Is Reyes being serious? Does he really want to—? Jesse is quick to respond, not wantin’ Reyes to take it all back: ‘My room.’
‘On my way.’
And, just like that, Jesse is sent into a scramble. He pushes himself up off the bed and rushes over to his bedside mirror. Runnin’ his fingers through his hair, Jesse combs back his bangs. His hair ain’t greasy or nothing, but after his shower, it dried all funny-like. Afterward, Jesse shucks off his ratty nighttime shirt. From his dresser, he picks a new one—one with significantly fewer holes. With any luck, this new shirt will end up on the floor. But, right now, Jesse has to be put together—for the Commander. If the incident with his PT uniform was anythin’ to go by, Reyes doesn’t like a disheveled Jesse McCree. Or—wait. Jesse re-considers it. Maybe he does? As Jesse recalls, three days ago at PT, the Commander was awfully distracted while watchin’ Jesse's match. Jesse grins to himself, absolutely elated with his discovery. Tonight, if Jesse gets his way, Reyes will be plenty distracted.
There is a knock at his door. Jesse, pattin’ down his excitement, calls out. His room, unlike Reyes’, don’t have fancy security. His door is reinforced steel, and although it ain’t easy to break in, it also ain’t equipped with a top-of-the-line Athena system. Not that Jesse needs one; he doesn’t really have nothing important. Really, everything he has, he’s gotten from Reyes, or the team. There really ain’t nothin’ he needs, ‘sides his gun and hat.
Reyes enters Jesse’s quarters, eyes restin’ immediately on Jesse. He takes a step forward, but only far enough to clear the doorway. Reyes releases the door handle; the weight of the door causing it to swing shut. Jesse gives Reyes the once-over. The Commander is still wearin’ what he wore to the briefing earlier that day. Next to Jesse, Reyes is overdressed. It ain’t no sweat, Jesse knows how to fix that. “You comin’ over, Boss?” Jesse asks, slow and indulgent. Reyes makes no attempt to move closer, and Jesse takes that as his answer. “Well, shoot. I’d have never guessed—but that’s fine by me.” He winks. “I don’t mind doin’ a little extra work.” True to his word, Jesse pounces.
At first, Reyes is startled. He balks at Jesse’s eagerness; unresponsive to the press of Jesse’s lips against his own. Jesse considers breakin’ away, but stays his course. It pays off—after a mo’ of nothing, Reyes is returnin’ Jesse’s kisses with elevated rigor. Taking it as a sign, Jesse places both hands on Reyes’ collarbone. He pushes Reyes backward; Reyes colliding with the metal door. There is a loud CRACK, and Reyes snarls into Jesse’s mouth. Jesse freezes, afraid, but is quickly calmed. Reyes does not pull away, but instead, re-claims his mouth, bitin’ down on Jesse’s bottom lip. Jesse, having never got this far, is brimming with pent-up excitement. He wants to see how far he can push this—how far Reyes will allow this to go.
Hooking both thumbs into the collar of Reyes' jacket, Jesse tugs experimentally. Reyes, understandin’ Jesse’s unspoken question, raises either arm. Jesse, given the go-ahead, tugs off Reyes’ jacket. It drops to the floor and Jesse smiles against Reyes' lips. Jesse opens his eyes, and meets Reyes’. His commander isn’t smiling—chest heaving and eyes wild. Reyes raises a hand, and latches on to the back of Jesse’s head. He grabs a fistful of hair, and yanks down—causing Jesse’s chin to instinctively jut upward. In a matter of seconds, Reyes' lips are on his neck. He is sucking, but it is not enough to break skin. Reyes, sucking on Jesse’s pulse, begins planting rough kisses along the line of Jesse’s jaw. At once, it is both soft and demanding. Reyes is kissing McCree in a way he hadn’t bothered before.
“You have somethin’ to give?” Jesse asks, breathless and pantin’. He hovers over Reyes' waistline, waiting for a confirmation. He’s eager to feel this new Reyes—feel him ways he had only before fantasized about. But, he wasn’t goin’ to steamroll him. “I’m ready for it.”
Gabriel pulls away—momentary confusion flashing across his features. “It can wait.” Reyes says, and returns his lips to Jesse’s throat. Jesse doesn’t have a chance to question it before he is being tugged in the direction of the bed. With everythin’ goin’ on, Jesse let’s himself indulge. He allows Reyes to pin him to the bed, and he clears his mind to enjoy every second of what’s to come.
--
Jesse McCree, as it turns out, enjoys pillow talk. It’s hardly been ten minutes, and McCree, in typical fashion, is talking rather animatedly. McCree doesn’t take the time to bathe in the afterglow. Instead, he is telling a story of his youth: a dastardly attempt to pilfer a number of chickens from his late father. Really, Gabe isn’t opposed to this; he just isn’t used to it. He’s no stranger to intimacy—Gabriel’s had relationships before. But, that was before SEP. And, that was before McCree.
“I didn’t get to see those chick’ns none after that. Pa kept ‘em out of my reach.” McCree smiles. He is seated upright—a full two feet away. Gabriel wants McCree to be closer, but he isn’t sure how to ask. “Wish I wouldda napped just one, though. Wouldn’t have gotten much for ‘em. But, I would have liked to see it—Pa’s face when I came ‘round with twice as many. Just like I promised.” It is the end of the story. And, before McCree can start the next, Gabe reaches forward. He tugs McCree into his lap, McCree going willingly. As McCree settles in, the smile does not fall from his face. “I didn’t take you for a cuddler, Boss.” He teases, tone light. “It’s a good thing.” He pauses, thoughtful, yet relaxed. “You gotta tell me something, Reyes. Well, you don’t gotta. I was jus' curious. What brought this on? The kissin’, I mean. And the sex.”
Gabriel is absolutely baffled by the question. McCree had been the one who ‘brought it on’, so to speak. Before, Gabriel never allowed anything else. Now, Gabe supposes, it is different— McCree loves him. It was why they are here— naked— in Gabriel’s bed. “I was going to ask you the same thing. You’re not the one who got shoved backward into a door.” Gabe clears his throat. “Not that I’m complaining.”
McCree pushes himself upright, but doesn’t pull away from Gabe entirely. “You can’t pull that bullshit on me, Reyes. I got text evidence.” He pulls out his data pad, and begins reading from their earlier conversation. “Right there: ‘I’ve got something for you’. I mean, come on. That’s pretty obvious. ‘Specially comin’ from you.”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
Gabriel feels his stomach pool with worry. He didn’t, in fact, mean it like that. Gabe does have something for McCree, and not in the metaphorical sense. Gabe pulls away from McCree—who hums unhappily at his sudden exit. He gets out of his bed, and paddles over to the door. There, at his feet, Gabe finds a small brown package. It is the same one he’d accidently discarded when McCree had pushed him up against the door. He picks it up, bringing the package back toward the bed and an impatient Jesse McCree. McCree catches sight of the box, and he visibly pales.
Gabe opens the box. Inside, there is a Reaper Bean. Kind of. It’s the same size as the others, but instead of black cloth, it is made out of burlap. The bean is dressed in red velvet— a stuffed cigarillo hanging from its absent lips. On top of the Bean, there is a miniature cowboy hat. All in all, the project had taken Gabe over 7 hours. He’d made it the very next day after— when Gabriel discovered that McCree loved him back. But, Gabriel was out of practice. It had been ages since he’d sewn a Bean, and Gabriel had needed to find a whole new pattern for the hat. But, despite it all, Gabe is proud of the final product. Now, he can only hope McCree will like it too.
“What the hell!” McCree exclaims. He looks between Gabe and the box, and back again, in utter and absolute shock. “That’s why you’re here—and not ‘cause of…” He breaks off. “I thought you said this wasn’t a fetish thing?!”
“It’s not!” Gabe says with an eye roll. This isn’t going how he expected. So far, they’ve done this backwards. Gabe was supposed to give Jesse the gift, confess, and—if McCree wanted to—have wonderful and unparalleled sex. He needs to fix this. “I just—just listen, alright? I care about you, McCr—Jesse. And, I wanted you to have something from me. It’s for when I am away—or you are—or whatever.” Gabe sighs. His tone is too defensive. He’s not saying what he needs to—what he means. “I’m shit at showing it. I know. But, I’m serious about this—about us. And I wanted you to know that.” He presses the Cowboy Bean into Jesse’s hands. “I love you too.”
“You love me? Too?” Jesse asks, awestruck. He mouths the words a few more times, trying them out on his tongue. After a few repetitions, Jesse smiles. “You love me. Too.” He repeats, louder this time. His face is the epitome of innocent, but Gabe knows Jesse. He’s been his boss for a number of years. He recognizes it—this look. “And, you’re goin’ to prove it…. by givin’ me one of yer fetish Beans?”
“Goddammit! I’m being serious, you ingrate!” Gabe exclaims, and Jesse breaks out into a cacophony of snickers. Gabe tries to swat at Jesse’s arm, but Jesse rolls out of the way. He rolls a bit far, and ends up halfway off the edge of the bed. Jesse, one of Blackwatch’s finest, is able to stop himself mid-tumble. “I made us a matching set. It’s a romantic gesture!” Jesse continues to laugh, now more at his predicament than anything, still clutching his sides. “You don’t have to keep it. I’ll take it back.”
“No. I’m goin’ to be keepin’ it forever. And you can fuck right off.” Jesse says, and reaches for the Bean he had discarded in his escape attempt. He clutches the Bean tightly to his chest, and places a kiss atop its brimmed hat. “It’s mighty weird ‘an all, but it don’t mean I don’t like it. Thanks Gabe. I love it. Really.” His last words are earnest, much too open for typical flirty McCree. It's the same look Jesse had given him at PT, all those days ago. Gabe really likes this side of Jesse. He hopes to see more of it. “But, I feel bad. I don’t have nothin’ to give you. Again.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Gabriel says, coy, as he scoots across the bed towards Jesse. He plucks the Bean from Jesse, and tosses it gently over his shoulder. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.” And, reaching forward, for the first time, Gabe kisses Jesse.