Work Text:
Surely, you feel frustrated, pitiful,
And you’re crying.
I’m here.
I’ll hold the door open.
Neo-Aspect
Oh, God.
You got shot. Twice, maybe. You’re not sure.
It’s not like it’s never happened before - you’re in Overwatch, at least you are now, and have been around since before it got shut down. Unsurprisingly, getting shot at happens a lot in this line of work. But you didn’t have anything then. Blackwatch wasn’t really a family unless you were high up in the rankings, close with Gabe, close with anyone. Lower agents like you were didn’t really get the legendary camaraderie. So you didn’t feel like there was anything for you to survive for (There always is. There always was).
Blackwatch did become a home after you met McCree at a end of year party. He was scruffy, young, scared . But still was sweet to you, at least in army standards. And god, he was hot . Like effortlessly cool and suave and just so damn attractive. So it was easy to get along with him. Being around him boosted your confidence, and you felt like you could do anything.
And then Overwatch, and subsequently Blackwatch, shut down. The last time you saw Jesse was on the roads of Gibraltar, warm sunset casting long shadows. You’d both just got news about the Swiss base, and you’d been given a days notice to skedaddle - and you both had nothing to stay for. Genji had already left months before, and Jesse wouldn’t let you come with him. You both cried when you said your goodbyes. You’d had no idea if you were going to see him again.
Despite all this, you’d never been scared of death. It seemed inevitable - you were Blackwatch fodder, expendable - a stray shot to your head wouldn’t make the headlines like it would Mercy, or Ana, or Reinhardt.
But now, you’ve never felt more terrified. Because now, in the newly reformed (illegal) Overwatch, back with people that felt like home, back with Jesse, the love of your life, you have something to live for. You were an essential part of the new operation.
You’re petrified - that’s blood, a lot, and what about your friends, and what about Jesse, and is this going to kill you . You hope nothing important got hit but the shock and the pain and the panic is making you scared.
You had so much left to do. Jesse wanted to get a dog. Once you’d both finished working with Overwatch, with enough money to live comfortably in a smallish home, in a sunny (but not too hot!) place, bright and white and breezy and comfortable, not like the hastily thrown together barracks in the old Blackwatch base in Italy. Jesse wanted a big dog, maybe a German Shepherd or a Labrador or something - and you were excited for it.
In real life, in the world that’s not your inner thoughts, your knees hit the dirt. Your bare hand splays across your side, red seeping from the gaps in your fingers. It hurts, really bad - the sort of hurt that makes your head spin, the sort that makes you want to be home with your parents, being looked after like a sick kid. I guess now, you’d want to be home at the base with Ana and Jesse, the closest things you have to family.
Your ears are ringing. You’re looking down at your hand, mouth agape in shock and pain, eyes huge in your head.
When Jesse looks over at you, his world stops. There’s a hint of confusion in your features, but you’re mostly scared, and pained, and Jesse is scrambling over to you in an instant.
You look up at him with wide, huge eyes, glassy and wet and sad. Slowly, you pull your shaking hand away.
It is coated in red. It drips down your palm, down your forearm, and your breathing quickens.
He instantly calls for Ana. He pushes your hand back onto your wound, his larger - human - hand on top, holding it down with the pressure you really need. He’s crouched in front of you, shaky but undaunted; he’s checking you over for other shots. He’s got this tense look of concentration on his face and you can’t help but chuckle, softly, and he still hears it. He’s never this serious.
He’s never this serious.
You gulp. You hurt. It’s a lot.
Dying here would break promises. Promises to the team, to Ana, to Jesse, to yourself. It can’t happen. Your head spins. You find your forehead leaning on his shoulder, finding comfort in the soft red fabric.
“Hey, sweetheart,” there’s a shake to his voice that you hate, because that’s your Jesse, your brave, beautiful Jesse, and he’s crumbling beneath you. “You gotta stick around, okay? Ana is on her way. Mercy too, probably. You gotta stick around.” You hum, not finding the energy to talk. “I need you to stay awake with me, okay?” Minutely, you move your head into him in a vague nod.
He talks to you the whole time, and you focus on the side of his face to the best of your ability. You can feel yourself trying to slip to sleep but you try your damn hardest. For Jesse, of course.
You only vaguely hear movement and voices, and things are too blurry to make out, but you assume it’s the support. There’s a low tone, and you relax; even half conscious you know when Ana is around. A familiar warm feeling flows through you, and your shoulders relax. There’s hands on you, rough but kind, filled with urgency. You’re laid on your back, head in Jesse’s lap, his metal hand cool on your forehead. There’s a lot of pressure on your side - the pressure of someone who’s trained for this. You promptly pass out, too tired to keep your eyes open.
When you come to in the Venice base, there’s a lot of pain, and you ache, and your head swims, and though you feel the pressure on your hand you go back to sleep. It doesn’t really make a difference - you’d already woken up from the rest, and you just dozed, the sort that makes you more tired than before. There’s a soft brushing on your hand, and you know it’s Jesse. He always does it when you’re sleeping - he holds your hand gently like you’re a princess, and runs his thumb over the top.
You crack open an eye, just a little, and it hurts. But it’s open now, so you guessed you’d keep it that way. You look over to Jesse, hatless, tired, old university hoodie (not his, probably Rein’s or Hanzo’s or something) too big on his frame. He looked so sad. You couldn’t bare it.
You grasp his hand as tightly as you can manage in your current state, and his big puppy eyes look over to you, unexpectant. So when he sees your slightly opened eyes and small tired smile, his face drops into disbelief.
“You’re - you’re awake!” He all but whispers, unwilling to break the sterile silence of the medical wing. “How are you feeling? Do you need me to get Mercy, or do you need anything?”
You hoped the minor way you shook your head registered as a ‘no’. Jesse just looked at you - exhausted eyes, but they were filled with love, and you felt yourself start to cry. You loved him, incredibly, and he was here with you. In this awful medical ward, with you looking so awful and feeling so weak. He was here, and he loved you. That felt like you’d won, despite getting shot.
He leaned over, slowly, softly - and leaves the gentlest kiss on your forehead. He stops, close to your face, noses almost touching, and he breathes in, eyes wider than you’d expected.
“I love you.” It was soft, so soft, and you’d almost missed it, and you eyes were glued to his, beautiful brown and filled with this adoration you couldn’t comprehend was for you.
“I love you, too.” Your voice rasped, and you felt like you were going to cough, but you didn’t want to break the atmosphere.
Gently kissing him was easy. Falling asleep again was easier.
The next time you woke, you felt less like you were dying. It was dark, the curtains drawn closed, gentle moonlight seeping through the obviously-not-blackout fabric. Jesse was asleep, head resting on your bed and hand still in yours. You reach over, ignoring the way your body tiredly protested and placed your hand gently on his hair. It was soft, so comforting, and you slowly ran your fingers through it.
You hoped he slept well.