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It’s only Jesse’s 3rd year with Overwatch when Jack Morrison shows up to the annual Halloween party dressed as a cowboy.
Jesse is standing near the punch bowl eyeing the beverages mournfully, wondering if he can get away with sneaking a drink this year. It’s just typical that they’ll let him fight and kill for them, but he still can’t have an adult beverage. Last year had been embarrassing - Reyes taking the cup right out of his hand and drinking it while Reinhardt laughed and Angela covered her mouth politely.
This year he’ll be smarter, he vows. He’ll wait til Reyes is out of the room, won’t risk it.
Although, last year he’d thought that too.
He’s scanning the room, analyzing the situation just like he’s been taught, when he sees the Strike Commander walk through the door.
For one instant, all thoughts of drinking leave his mind, then come slamming back as he’s suddenly very, very thirsty.
Goddamn, he thinks, and he doesn’t know if he wants to be that or be in that.
Jack Morrison is wearing blue jeans, tight as can be. His shirt is flawless black, ironed flat, collar pressed and snugged up against his neck, a bolo tie with silver tips and clasp. Jesse drags his gaze all the way down Morrison’s muscular legs and notes the matching black boots, brand new.
He’s got a hat, of course.
He’s not wearing it, though, he’s got it pinched by the top in one hand lazily at his side, and Jesse knows why - his hair. It’s always styled perfectly - shaped into soft peaks, never stiff or over gelled. Tonight is no exception, the golden crown atop his head.
Jesse pushes away the thought of getting alcohol and sidles his way over to that long, tall, cool drink of water.
“Commander,” he drawls.
Morrison looks over at him with a startled smile. “Jesse," he says. "Didn't hear you come up. Having a good time?”
“Not yet,” Jesse says with a slow grin. “But it’s early.”
Morrison’s smile grows uncertain as he picks up on Jesse’s suggestive tone. He doesn’t call him out - doesn't say anything - but it’s clear he noticed. Maybe he thinks he’s mistaken. That’s all right. Jesse knows he’s planted the seed, put the thought in his head. If Morrison isn’t taking him seriously yet, he’s got time.
“You look real nice tonight,” he says, laying it on heavy. “I feel real flattered.”
Morrison chuckles. “Don't get ahead of yourself, kid.”
“How about a drink?” Jesse says brightly.
“Just soda, please,” Morrison says, now searching the room. “Reyes here yet?”
Reyes.
Jesse manages not to sulk at the name, but it’s a near thing. Morrison’s bosom buddy, best friend. They're inseparable.
Jesse gets it. He does. They’ve been friends for years. And it’s not like he isn’t grateful to Reyes, after all he did for Jesse.
But damn does the guy make it difficult to get on with Morrison. Must’ve been 10 times Jesse thought about making a move only to be foiled.
“Haven’t seen the commander,” he says politely. "I’ll get ya that drink." He’s moving away when Morrison calls after him.
“McCree!”
Jesse turns, looking back.
“You look real nice, yourself. I like your costume.”
And doesn’t that just put a kick in Jesse’s step.
-
He’s fishing two cold cans from from a cooler when he hears the swish of fabric behind. When he turns, he’s not expecting the Grim Reaper.
He’s scared shitless by the figure looming over him, yelping high pitched and grabbing at his chest in fear. “Goddamn jeezus h-”
A rolling chuckle emanates from the folds of fabric, a pleased rumble that would give away their identity if Jesse hadn't already caught on.
There’s only one man around here who takes Halloween seriously enough to show up in something this over the top.
Reyes pushes back his hood.
“You seem nervous, Jesse.”
“Ain’t gotta sneak up on me like that,” Jesse shakes his head, disgruntled. “Ain't no call for that.”
He squints, taking in the full scope of the costume. It's impressive. “You look taller, boss. You got heels on under there?”
“Boots.” Reyes shifts a leg under the cloak, making a heavy clunk. “You thirsty, Jesse?” He nods to the two cans Jesse is clutching.
“Oh, uh, one is for the commander, I mean, the Strike Commander, sorry.”
Reyes laughs. “Jack have you running errands now?”
“No, I offered,” Jesse says, regretting his words an instant later.
“Did you,” Reyes says coolly. It’s not a question. “Better take the edge off that thirst.”
Jesse swallows hard. “I’m, I’m working on it.” He has no idea if it’s the right thing say. He knows Reyes is displeased.
Asking why is a harder question. It’s not, bad, right? Offering to get the Commander a drink. It’s nice. Courteous.
Idiot.
Reyes has to know he’s up to something. He always does. Jesse’s the worst at lying to him. That's gotta be why he's mad.
Not like he’s jealous or anythin. Couldn’t be. It’s cause Jesse is hiding something. Reyes doesn't know what.
“Just tryin to be friendly.”
The moment breaks. Reyes smiles and Jesse breathes. “Well, try not to be a bother,” he says and it’s so dismissive that Jesse burns.
He hasn’t worked out a response when Reyes continues. “Hey, you cleaned up tonight! Look at you. Looks good. Vampire, right?”
Then the motherfucker leans over and ruffles his fucking hair.
Like he’s a goddamn kid. And walks off with a smile.
Jesse is steaming mad and sputtering but the guy’s already gone, strolled off like he didn’t destroy Jesse’s image in two seconds flat.
Jesse takes a moment to drag his hands through his hair, smoothing it down again and simultaneously trying to coddle his bruised ego.
He doesn't feel much better after, but he picks up the cans again and searches the room for Jack Morrison. He’s not giving up. Not tonight.
He finally locates his target in the rec room off the main hall which has been converted to party space. He’s with Reinhardt.
Jesse sighs. It was too much to hope he’d find Jack alone, but he’ll be harder to pry away than if it were a stranger he were with.
Jesse is observant. And he’s been watching for some time. He knows Morrison is an introvert. It’s kinda cute, actually. For a guy like him, in a job like his.
Doesn’t make Jesse’s plans any easier though.
Inspiration strikes him, and he wonders if he’s dumb enough to do it.
He is.
“Commander!” he calls out, waving a drink. Morrison looks up and smiles as he approaches.
“Hey, McCree. You made it back.”
“Sure did,” he hands over a can. “Lieutenant,” he adds politely, and Reinhardt claps him on the back painfully. Jesse coughs.
“Oh, commander,” he says, innocently. “I found Commander Reyes in the other room. He was lookin for you.”
“Is he?” Morrison looks eager.
“I'm sure we could find him again,” Jesse wants to hold his breath but he’s still selling it. “He kinda stands out, you'll see.”
He can’t believe it when Morrison stands and says offers a “see you later” to Reinhardt, then looks expectantly at Jesse to lead the way.
Jesse has to think very quickly about the risk to reward ratio of his plan and he knows the odds are very, very long. It doesn’t stop him.
“He was headed back there,” Jesse motions to the corner of the room that had been decorated as a surprisingly complex haunted forest.
It’s quite dark there, with several niches of fake moss draped branches that could put one (or two) out of the sight of most eyes.
For an observant man, Jesse has never stopped to consider why Overwatch throws such a massive Halloween party every year. It seems like such a frivolous use of funds for Morrison to sign off on, and he doesn’t even like parties, as far as Jesse can tell.
There’s something about it that strikes him now, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. He pushes the thought away for the moment.
“Gabe’s in the forest?” Morrison laughs. "Lurking, right? What’s his costume?”
“Uhhh well, reckon you’ll have to see for yourself.”
“You’re right, don’t ruin the surprise,” Morrison agrees easily.
This isn’t going exactly like Jesse planned it.
He stops on the far side of a recycled paper tree and takes a deep breath. “Commander, I’ve been meanin to ask you somethin.”
“Jack,” he starts, clearing his throat and keeping his back straight.
Morrison’s eyes go wide, looking right at Jesse. It’s paralyzing, the crystal blue of his gaze piercing and direct.
He’s on the verge of opening his mouth, he’s ready to make his move, whatever it is, when the hand touches his shoulder from behind.
Jesse dies on the spot.
He’s sure that he does, because he knows his heart stops. Fear clenches in his chest, and his tongue shrivels up.
“Jesse.”
Jesse closes his eyes. “Commander,” he says, again, but differently.
“Thanks for finding Jack for me. Sure do appreciate it. Didn’t expect you to go out of your way like that.”
Jesse doesn't know if he's grimacing or smiling. Maybe both. “Sure do like helpin.”
“Gabe!” Morrison's smile has lit up his face. “That is you in there, right?”
“Can’t think who else it might be,” Jesse says recklessly.
The hand on his shoulder clamps down a little tighter. A lot tighter.
“Jesse found me earlier and I got him good. Didn’t I, kid?”
Jesse has resorted to looking a ceiling, having run out of other places to direct his gaze. “I seem to remember it.”
The one bright side is that Morrison seems oblivious to his struggle.
One of the many down sides is that it’s because he’s staring at Reyes.
“I think this is your best one yet,” he raves. “It’s better than last year’s. How long did it take you?"
"Few hours.”
Reyes’ modesty is false, he can hear and he’s sure Morrison can too, the boast behind his words, the satisfaction his effort was noticed.
"What kind of fabric is that? You made the mask too?"
"It’s a mix. Come feel it."
Jesse thinks he’s a good man, but this must be hell. All he can think about is getting away. It’s all right, he tells himself. Sometimes when you gamble, you lose. It could have been worse.
He edges slowly out of the forest, trying to go unnoticed as Morrison chatters on enthusiastically, dripping with praise.
Let them keep Reyes’ stupid fancy hand-sewn costume and Morrison can shove his over the top Halloween party, they go together perfectly.
The penny drops, and Jesse almost screams.
Morrison’s fucking party.
Reyes’ loves for the holiday.
He looks back at the pair.
They’re standing within an acceptable social distance but Reyes has taken his hood off & Morrison is reaching forward and touching his chest. Prolongedly. Jesse might go so far as to call it stroking.
He’s known both these men for years but he’s never seen them act like this. It’s new behavior. It has to be. Whatever’s happening, it’s developing rapidly tonight.
Jesse's SO glad he got to be a part of it.
-
Two hours later, Jesse is nursing a drink and his wounded pride together outside the party. A small victory in the face of massive defeat.
Wherever Reyes and Morrison had fucked off to together, neither had been around to stop him when he raided the bar.
He tips the bottle back again and gets a good swallow. Stupid they won’t let him drink anyway. It’s legal in this country.
Not like he wasn’t dead drunk when Reyes dragged him out of New Mexico to begin with.
Lot’s changed since then but not Jesse.
Still the same dumbass kid. Still not worth a good goddamn or time of day.
He knows it’s the whiskey got him feeling this way, mostly.
He knows that’s why he doesn’t drink much anymore, mostly. Liquor ain’t hard to get off base.
He doesn’t resent Reyes, he can’t blame him. After all, didn’t Jesse sign away his life and soul the first time he saw Jack Morrison?
He’d looked up and seen that strong jaw set and blue eyes glinting hard back at him. Morrison said four words, and Jesse picked up the pen.
A week Reyes had spent trying to convince him he didn’t want to go to prison, and Jesse had refused out of sheer stubbornness, but he’d caved immediately when Morrison looked down at him and growled “sign the papers, kid.”
Overwatch saved him.
Makes sense Morrison will never see him another way, Jesse thinks. Hot and tired, he tugs at his shirt and loosens the top three buttons.
A noise at the door makes him look up, and it’s the last person he expects. He shuffles awkwardly and tries to hold the bottle behind him.
“Commander,” he says politely, wondering if he can shove the bottle behind his chair without being noticed.
“Not Jack anymore?”
He knows he's being teased, but Morrison’s jest is playful, not unkind.
Jesse doesn’t try to hide his groan, head falling back with a thunk.
“Heard that, huh,” he says.
“Bottle,” Morrison says, extending a hand, and Jesse surrenders it without complaint.
Morrison takes a drink, then to Jesse’s disbelief, hands it back to him. “Feel like maybe you were trying to tell me something earlier.”
Jesse takes the bottle warily and shakes his head before drinking. “It doesn't matter," he says. “You an’ Commander Reyes, I got eyes.”
Morrison nods slowly a couple times. “Well, that’s a thing, that may be a thing. But.” He moves closer, rounding to stand in front of Jesse.
Jesse looks up at him, all the way up him, from the tips of his boots to those blue eyes, dark in the dim light. He’s still got the hat, got it slung around his neck to hang on his back, but his hair is mussed, like someone’s been messing it. Jesse knows who.
“When you look at me like that...” Morrison murmurs, pushes Jesse’s legs wide with one boot nudging his feet. He steps in the space between.
Jesse doesn't move even an inch as Morrison leans in and braces his arms on either side of Jesse, hands curled on the arms of his chair.
“I hear you're an expert marksman,” he says low and smoky. “So take your shot, cowboy.”
Jesse only hesitates a second.
He’s not a coward, he’s got an invitation, and he’s just drunk enough not to care that this can’t be going anywhere. He takes the shot.
He pushes up from the chair, moves into Morrison’s space quickly, slides his hand in the gaps between the buttons of his shirt.
He gets a handful of starched cloth and feels the back of his knuckles brush bare skin, Morrison isn’t wearing an undershirt.
They move together, Jesse pushing him back into the far wall, and god, finally - fucking years of waiting, years - he lays one on him.
Morrison’s lips are surprisingly soft but he tastes sweet and bitter, sweet like himself, bitter like whiskey, and he lets Jesse lead.
Jesse tries not to let it get to him, but he can’t stop the moan that gets out, and it’s electrifying to feel Morrison gasp into his mouth.
He’s not stopping, he’s taking every second he can get, licking into Jack’s mouth and his whole forearm pressing Jack against the wall.
He doesn’t know what he’s allowed, so he tests his limits, dragging his mouth along Jack’s jaw and finding the soft spots under his chin.
“Jesse,” he hears Jack whisper, and to Jesse, his name means go, not stop, so he doesn’t, nosing at Jack’s neck and nibbling red spots there.
He’s not expecting Jack’s hands on his waist, pulling their hips together, and he thinks he could cry at the mere suggestion of more.
Finally he has to breathe, so he pulls his head back for just a moment, fearing and mourning it’s all he gets, one shot, once, and done.
He lifts his free hand, the one that isn’t pinning Jack in place, and touches Jack’s neck, a bare brush over his pulse to find it racing.
When he finally looks up, Jack’s eyes are thin rings of dark blue around pits of black, pupils wide, and there’s color on his cheeks.
“How’s my aim, boss?” he asks, real quiet and steady - he’s shaking on the inside but he’s not afraid, he’s sure he could fly right now.
“Tried and true,” Morrison says, hoarse, with a shaky laugh, trying not to let on how much Jesse got to him. “You’re dangerous.”
“I’m even better with my hips than my lips,” Jesse says, doing the mental equivalent of a reload, target still in his sights.
Morrison’s eyes go wide. “You’re fearless, aren’t you?”
“Fear’s for people who got somethin to lose,” Jesse says, feeling wild, unstoppable.
“Smart,” Morrison says. He lifts a hand and places it on Jesse’s chest, fingers splayed and palm open, to push him back gently.
The tips of his two middle fingers brush Jesse’s bare skin, tickle the hair on his chest where he unbuttoned his shirt. Jesse aches for more.
He knows he won’t get it, and he can’t stop himself from asking. “Is it because of him, or is it just me?”
Morrison smiles a little sadly.
Up close, Jesse can see the crinkle of two fine lines starting at the corners of his eyes. He’s not old, but he’s inching there before Jesse.
“It’s both,” he says.
Jesse tries to smile back, can’t quite make it. It’s painful. “Thanks for lettin me down gentle,” he says.
Morrison makes a noise somewhere between a hum and a huff. “You're a good kid. Good man,” he amends. “Chin up.”
Jesse does as he's told.
He's not expecting when he does, for Morrison to lean in and kiss him one last time, and his eyes drift closed as he savors it.