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Bright light flooded the Reaper’s vision, his multiple crimson eyes staring out from behind his cracked, broken mask as he lay on the damp cobblestone. Blank, luminescent optics stared at him as they trained their plasma ballistics at him. It wouldn’t necessarily kill him, he wasn’t certain anything could, but…
His form was dissipating rapidly. He could feel his cells struggling to pull themselves together, the streams between the brick practically sweeping away the dark wisps as the rain poured down in sheets. It would take him ages to actually gather himself into something recognizably humanoid. And there was no doubt it would hurt. A lot.
The stares were unrelenting. The Reaper closed his eyes.
This was a mistake. He should have brought backup.
The whine of rifles charging up to fire pierced his ears.
He opened his eyes once more.
And a warm, yellow light filled his vision. The light permeated the cold in his form, not like a fire, but like a warm drink spreading across his deteriorating form.
A pair of boots had situated themselves between himself and the omnics. His eyes trailed up, past the large 76 emblazoned in red and yellow to the snowy top of a too-familiar figure. The fool turned his head to train his masked gaze to the Reaper. And behind that visor, he could see Jack. And Jack looked back and he knew he could see him. See Gabriel.
"Just like old times..."
Gabriel is watching intently. His office is in desperate need of cleaning, but his focus is trained on his desktop screen, the light illuminating his face in the dimly lighted room. On the screen, his lifelong companion addresses a tittering press, cameras and mics poised to tear into the clearly haggard man. His voice is gruff but certain in its cadence.
“…nothing but respect for Commander Reyes. He is an exemplary soldier and an excellent commander. I have faith in his judgement. That’s all, thank you for your time.”
The clamor of the reporters for more answers are cut off abruptly by the news anchor covering the story. Gabriel shuts off the feed. His reflection in the glass stares back at him with a tired glare.
“Same answer, different words.” Gabriel mutters into a loose fist.
“Would you rather I’d told them you went in and killed ten men?”
Gabriel doesn’t even bother to swivel his chair to face Jack as the man enters, uninvited. But he hasn’t needed one in a long time, not with Gabriel.
“But you wouldn’t,” Gabriel says easily, leaning his head back. His eyes slide closed. He feels more than hears Jack approach, leaning against his desk, pushing at some of the papers piled there. Overdue reports needing to be signed and sent ASAP. Later.
“Don’t push your luck. Maybe next time, I’ll want to send PR into a complete shitstorm.” The man’s words are coy but his voice just sounds–exhausted. Like he hasn’t slept in three days. Maybe he hadn’t; it certainly wouldn't be the first time.
Gabriel opens his eyes, but keeps his eyes on the empty desktop, refusing to look at Jack. “You sound tired.” Of defending me, he doesn’t say.
Jack catches it anyway and Gabriel feels Jack leaning in slightly to rest a hand on his arm. “Gabe, if I don't have your back, you can’t be at mine. We’re a team.”
Finally, Gabriel turns his gaze to face Jack. The lines in his face underscore his weariness, but past those blue eyes, Gabriel finds the same burning intensity of a promise Jack had made a lifetime ago in a much different place than the quiet of Gabriel's office. Made during a time when nothing was certain, in a place where they would more than likely die, together or apart.
And not much has changed.
“We’re in this together," he promises again. "I’ve got your back.”
The masked vigilante tilted his head. “Right, Reyes?”
Even over the din of the pouring rain, the soldier’s voice rang clear. And the Reaper smiled, rows of sharpened teeth bared coyly, speaking with a playful affirmation:
“Just like old times."