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Old men don't cry, they bleed. Their blood transparent, filled with salt and hollow wisdom, ramblings and old photographs, taken through their fading, now clouded lenses. Cataracts, an unattainable fate for an enhanced soldier, he had believed, but even equipped with the perfect eyesight of a six year old boy, he managed to go blind anyway. Pathetic, failing to honour the experiences he had made, bleeding all kinds of blood, thick, red, bad, dirty, poisoned, and in silence, safe from prying eyes, even transparent.
Because tears was a fucked up word too close to the rupture inside of his heart.
Jack grabbed the bottle and let the amber coloured booze envelop his senses, the burn numbing his tongue, then his throat. The pain stung, he closed his eyes, away from the square shaped photo in his hand, away from the shrapnel it shot at him. Definitely felt like shrapnel. Just like in Yekaterinburg. Whose idea had it been to run an op in the middle of Russia on a January morning anyway? That could have only been the Strike Commander's. Yeah, whose else. One last swig escaped the bottle before he put it back next to a small box on the storage crate serving as table. What had been the purpose of that ass freezing op in the first place? Jack didn't remember, but he would have punched the idiot in hindsight. However, self-harm wasn't his thing, not now, not back then.
Except for looking at these damn polaroids. Yeah, polaroids.
"You're a hippie in a stick-up-your-ass rule slaving shell, Jack," he had said. They had fought over it, as always. They had left their offices separate, at different times, as always. They had avoided each other for the whole evening, as always. Jack snorted bitterly. They had shared the same bed at night, as always.
Well not as always, but that particular night they had.
The smile on his face bore anger and repressed pain. So what if nobody had known who he really was behind all the lie ridden press conferences and handsome bullshit posters? Somebody needed to keep the show running, tell the world it would all be fine, smile for the cameras. Something he had been too passionate for. Blessed be his passion.
"They put you in the chair for the pretty-boy-genes," he had said, had the audacity to say while painting the smuggest smile south and north of the equator onto his marbled chin. Jack’s interpretation of being in charge had not been to look good and skimp on work. In fact, his hard work actually made him look bad in the end, bad to the public, as bad as the damn pimples appearing on his ass these days, talk about pretty-boy-genes now, asshole. He couldn’t care less about any of those, reputation or pimples. Jack had looked bad to him, and had not been able see it, not until it was too late.
Mexico City, Gibraltar, Zürich.
Oh, and now Cairo. Cairo had opened old wounds, which he didn't know had existed in the first place. No, he knew they existed, but had repressed the memory like a good soldier. The face, his face, distorted smoke, but absolutely his face, it got under his skin, under all of the crusted scars he had refused to think about.
Now they were bleeding again.
"Don't let it go to your head, but I've made too much tea and it would be a shame if it got cold," a voice slammed him out of his thoughts. Hastily, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, making it look like he was rubbing his eyes from a nap.
Like an old man.
"I'd prefer coffee," he said.
"And I said 'don't let it go to your head'."
Jack turned around in his seat, another storage box, hiding the polaroid in his fist where it crumpled, deserving, but a pity nonetheless. Ana's look was glued on the fist in question. He closed his eyes, she had never fallen for his attempts to hide anything. Surrendering, he took the photograph in both hands, straightened it, and put it into the little box next to the bottle of booze where a handful of other printed images waited. Memories of good times in bad times.
"You're thinking of him again," Ana said plainly.
Jack sighed. "What can I say, a man's first love..."
"Not who I meant," Ana rolled her eye, "and you're not a sappy romantic, so quit playing the act," She lifted the teapot she held, mild impatience in the implied question. Jack smiled in defeat and nodded, grabbing a metal mug next to him. He blew into it once. Dust scattered in all directions, making him squint. Yeah, Cairo wasn't kind to him on any front. Ana smirked, shaking her head in amused disbelief, but still closed the distance. "He was one though," she said, pouring Jack's fill.
Steam escaped and fogged the brushed metal. "Yeah, Vincent was..."
"If you keep playing dumb I will actually believe you are dumb, Jack," Ana’s gaze pierced him, irritated, disgruntled, "You know exactly what I'm trying to say."
The eyepatch judged him as much as the real eye. There was no way he could win this fight, so he did what a cornered commander would do when left with any sense in his brain. That sense he had lacked. That lack which had made him feel responsible for all the mess...
Oh for fuck's sake.
"Yes, Ana, I miss Gabriel and his goofy antics. Now could you leave an old man in peace?"
Ana laughed. "You calling yourself an 'old man' makes it sound like terrible comedy," she winked, "Mr. Pretty-boy-genes."
Jack set the mug down, groaning and covered his eyes with the other hand, rubbing his eyes with two fingers. "You've been in the same room when he said that, right?" he asked.
"He wasn't wrong," Ana's grin wasn't gone when he opened his eyes again, "how long have you been believed to be in your twenties? I have known people who would have killed for your shade of blonde."
"So that's what made your guys so horrifyingly effective," Jack reaped a conceding grunt for the effort. One small victory, so the rest of the night would be covered in defeat, if experience could be trusted. It was his former second in command he was facing here after all. He probed the tea. It was hot, but not scorching. Ana knew her craft, there was no question. He would have preferred it piled with sugar, but she had always been intimidating to him, keeping him on the proper path. He didn't have the guts to ruin the gift in front of her eyes, nor did he have any sugar at the ready.
Had he only listened to her when it all had been coming down.
"Killing didn't make them much blonder, only more weary," Ana said after a short silence, her voice trailing off.
Like a still image they simply existed there for a while. Only gentle breathing stirred up the illusion of time coming to a standstill completely. Like a photograph without a lens to capture it, a marble balancing on the summit of a smooth mountain, one shake to send it moving, the feat soon forgotten.
"Do you think he regrets as much as I do?" Jack asked, pressured by the almost crystallised air around him. He frowned, surprised by his own openness.
"I don't know, I have never been the empath in our little group," she answered, honesty stamped into her words.
"Yeah, me neither," Jack grunted, earning a small snort from his companion, "This whole thing is making me older than I really am."
"You mean as old as you actually are," Ana teased, but Jack knew she was right.
He took the mug and downed the rest of the beverage in one swoop. Gabriel would have had some flowery words for the taste and smell of it. Were his senses able to point him towards subtleties and nuances like they used to? Or had the smoke he had disappeared into bent his perception into the cloud it created? He looked at Ana, who had been observing him patiently, expectantly, yet without a defined question.
"Now don't you let it go to your head," Jack said, making Ana snort. He winked, knowing the rarity of a second victory against her, smiling awkwardly. "But thank you." Ana's head perked up. He ignored the doubt protruding from the creases on her frown. "I don't think I'm ready to give up on him yet."
Ana's face relaxed into a laugh. It was contagious enough to squeeze a light snicker out of Jack. "It wouldn't be your type anyway. He was special to you..."
"Is," he interrupted, "And he is a bastard. Can't deny I still hate him"
"Yeah, you do," she said, "you both have hated each other's guts so much, you ended up under the same roof after work. Over and over again."
"What is it with you and reading me like a book?" Jack asked, mixed with equal parts sarcasm and equal parts annoyed curiosity.
"Raise a child yourself, and you'll find out," she stated bluntly. Jack wanted to protest the implication, but she stood up. "Now, before you drag me down as well, have a good night, Jack."
He laughed, as Ana walked away. She stopped by the entrance briefly, as if to say something, but walked away instead, shaking her head.
The mug turned in his hand, trying to reflect the face of an old man in its brushed metal walls, failing. He put it down, grabbing the box next to it and pulled the crumpled photograph out, watching it intently. This time, he was able to smile.
"Gabe, you stupid asshole. I miss you."