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This time, Jesse finds Genji.
He's stuck spending the night in the medbay, after he got himself covered in his own blood with an arm reduced to scrap metal.
Jesse's used to sneaking around where he shouldn't. He's got quiet feet, even when he's not really trying, and no one catches a glimpse of him as he steps lightly through the halls.
He finds the door with the label Shimada and he raps his knuckles against it, hesitating a long moment in the silent hall, and there's no answer.
That sends a little pang of.. something in his chest, not quite worry, but not quite surprise.
He pushes the door open slowly.
The stark white light in the hall stretches over the lump of blankets on the bed, reflects off the wall of medical equipment behind him, and his glowing red eyes are the only sign that he might be awake. Otherwise, he's just reclining on the bed in the near dark, perfectly relaxed and bandaged up. The bed’s set so that he can sit back, and Jesse’s sure he's gotten no sleep.
Genji shifts, sits up straighter, tilts his head. Blinks once, slowly, like a disinterested cat. “What are you doing here, McCree?”
Jesse slips inside, eases the door shut behind him with a soft click, and the only light is coming from the moonlight seeping in from the window. He leans against the wall, debating just how to answer—just how much affection is warranted here.
“Missed my shadow,” he replies, and offers a smile.
Genji tips his head back and scoffs, eyes lifting up to the ceiling, and Jesse thinks there just might be a smile there, but it's too dim to tell.
“Doin’ okay?” He asks, and there's a tinge of worry in his tone, undercutting the nonchalance he’d hoped for.
He shrugs. “I have been worse.”
Jesse’s eyes wander over the room, taking in the complete lack of personalization. A generic still life painting stuck onto bare white walls, the standard toolkit of medical equipment not bothering to hide, the stiff-looking pair of chairs set by the window. Looks exactly like every other hospital room he's ever seen.
He's seen more than a few. Other than the mandated check ups, he’s had two or four bad scrapes that left him sitting in a bed like the one Genji’s in right now, with Reyes asking just what the hell he was thinking.
“I wanted to thank you,” he says, breaking the silence.
Genji’s eyes are burning through him, and Jesse’s never been able to keep from being unsettled by that gaze—from the idea that Genji sees straight through him, knows every lie he spins and sees him for what he really is.
“For?” Genji settles back against the bed, still staring, and just the look of him lounging like that makes Jesse’s face go hot with embarrassment.
What's he even doing here? He had some semblance of control over this when it was Genji following him around, but now, seeking him out, it feels like he’s given up some of that leverage. That he's let on that maybe he's kinda fond of him, as terrifying as that concept is.
“Well,” he says, and settles himself in a chair, kicking his feet up on the edge of the bed. “You did save my ass.”
“Did I,” he says, an amused smile hiding behind his words.
He tears his eyes away from Genji’s, grateful that it's dim in here. The red light coming off his chest paints the white sheets pink, and it's a nice, deep color.
He used to hate that red. It was bright, and angry—hatred condensed into one single color that practically poured off him. But now, he thinks, it's warm. Like a campfire in the middle of peaceful nowhere.
There's a curious little black strip of fabric around his wrist, Jesse notices. He squints at it in the dim light, then looks back up at Genji’s face.
He's got a little scowl when he sees what he's looking at.
“What's that about?” Jesse asks, not without a hint of caution.
Genji lifts his only hand to show off the Velcro cuff around his wrist. The strip, no more than a foot long, is connected to the side of the bed, and gives him barely any slack to move around. “I have..” He clicks his tongue, making a face. “ ‘Unruly tendencies’ , is how it was phrased.”
That.. yeah. That makes sense. Considering the way Genji acts when they're out on ops, he’s not at all surprised that it would carry over into his medical care, though just looking at that cuff makes something in his chest tighten painfully, and he's sure he's making a face at it.
“I broke a nurse’s finger,” he adds, matter-of-factly.
Jesse snorts. “Why'd you go an’ do somethin’ stupid like that?”
Genji’s eyes flick over to the IV stand beside the bed. He gives it a good long glare, then looks down at the needle taped to the inside of his arm. “He missed the vein.”
He arches a brow. “Were you playin’ nice?”
“Why would I ever do that?” There's a touch of bitterness underneath his sarcastic smile, and he does a good job of hiding it, but Jesse’s gotten better at reading him.
After a moment of internal debate, Jesse sits up straight and leans forward, reaching for his wrist.
Genji snatches it away, though he's not got a lot of room to maneuver; the strip of Velcro is pulled taut as he holds his hand as far as he can get it from Jesse’s grasp.
He stares at him with blatant suspicion. Eyes narrowed. Brows furrowed together. The heart monitor behind him is beeping a little more frantically, and there's that red gleam in his eyes as he leans away, just daring him to try something.
Jesse, frozen in the middle of what he’d thought was a kind gesture, realizes that Genji’s tied down to a bed with one arm and nowhere to go, and at this moment, he's a very big threat, even without Peacekeeper on his belt.
“Sorry,” he finally manages.
Genji looks like he's hardly breathing, though he's not sure if that's just his supernatural ability to stay absolutely still, or if he's genuinely terrified of him.
Christ, he's a dumbass.
“If I get that thing off,” he says slowly, nodding to the Velcro cuff, “You promise not to break my fingers?”
Genji considers it. Which is just a little unnerving, but, considering the spot he's in, Jesse’s willing to cut him some slack.
Ask first, he decides. Then be a gentleman.
“I will not break your fingers,” Genji promises, begrudgingly.
Jesse doesn't let himself consider how many other things he might break and instead reaches for his hand again, much slower this time around.
Genji lets him. His fingers are clenched into a fist, like he's worried about his own being broken, and those shining eyes are zeroed on in his hands as he carefully, cautiously pulls the cuff apart.
He's careful not to touch his skin. Something about that feels too intimate, like even fingertips brushing against his wrist would make him recoil, and that’s the last thing he wants.
By the time he's finished—it feels like it lasts much longer than it really does—nothing’s been broken. So that's a victory, at least.
It takes a moment for Genji to speak. “Thank you,” he says awkwardly.
“Not a problem,” Jesse answers, enunciating each syllable, sounding just as awkward.
They sit in silence long enough for it to feel weird, then longer still, and Jesse turns his attention to the window, where the starless dark sky is waiting.
It's been awhile since he's gone far enough away from everything to see any stars, with all the light pollution in the cities and on base, and he’d be lying if he said that didn't bother him, but he'd have no idea how to say it in the first place, let alone how to ask Reyes if they could take a trip out to the middle of nowhere just to see the sky.
Maybe next op.
“You don't like hospitals much, do you?” He says it abruptly, careful to keep the sympathy out of his tone. He's sure he won't like it.
Genji throws another scowl at the IV, then settles back, rolling his wrist. He's quiet, then says, deadpan, “No, I love being tied down and at the mercy of every doctor or nurse or cowboy that happens to come by.”
Jesse laughs under his breath, despite himself, and looks back up at him. “They don’t tie you down if you don’t break their fingers, y’know.”
“They could tie me down whether I deserved it or not, couldn’t they?” His tone doesn’t falter—he’s set in this fact, unswayed. Jesse understands. Sort of. “Inject me with whatever they please and tell me it’s for my own good, and I wouldn’t know the difference between saline and strychnine.”
So now it’s strychnine. And murderous doctors.
“Is that a concern of yours?” Jesse asks, raising an eyebrow. “Your doctors?” If any of them are actually suspect, he’d be the first to look into it, but Genji’s already made his paranoia clear.
“The most likely occupation for a serial killer is in the medical field,” Genji says, as if it’s rock solid proof. “The third most likely is military.”
Jesse raises an eyebrow and leans back in his seat, suddenly itching for a cigarette, for something to do with his hands, to feel less awkward, but Angie would tan his hide if she caught him smoking in here. Maybe all this talk of murder is getting to him. “Some might consider you and me serial killers.”
Genji shrugs. “We are.”
They’re soldiers, really, but what’s the difference? Jesse can’t bring himself to disagree with Genji, not when they’re working in the shadows to pull strings this way and that and make sure everything works out just fine, quietly assassinating and kidnapping and torturing their way to keeping the peace.
And Jesse was killing long before he joined Blackwatch, anyhow.
“They ain’t out to hurt you,” Jesse finally says, pulling the topic back to Genji’s original problem. “Just tryin’ to do their job. Now, if they actually pull some shit, you let me know, and—”
Genji’s face sours, and he looks away, shaking his head as if berating himself. “Forget what I said. You wouldn't—”
“No, hey, listen—” Jesse pushes himself up to sit straight, eyes fixed on him. He purses his lips. Sighs softly. “I get it. I really do. I get the, the.. paranoia—”
Genji’s glare snaps back to him. “It is not paranoia,” he hisses. He leans forward, his hand on the sidebar, eyes narrowed. The heart monitor kicks up behind him.
Jesse doesn't flinch. He matches his gaze, but not his malice, and doesn't budge.
A few years ago, he might've. Might've gotten in his face, dared him to try something, glowered right back at him and grabbed for the gun on his hip. Might've made a real big show of just how tough he was, might've even drawn some blood, ‘cause he'd be spitting mad, just like Genji is now.
He doesn't have a hair trigger temper anymore. For the most part.
He's glad about that, at least.
“It is..” Genji makes an irritated noise. “Caution. Vigilance . Not paranoia, not a delusion, not—” He sets his jaw, not once tearing his hateful eyes off him. “It is a fact that he wants me dead.”
Jesse nods once, watching him intently, willing him to understand that he's not gonna fight him on this, because it's already an uphill battle, he knows fuck all about about whoever’s got him spooked, and he might be right. So he says, real quietly, “I believe you. I really do. But there's a difference between sayin’ that he wants to finish the job and that your doctor wants you dead.”
“Any one of them could be on his payroll,” he says, then jerks his head towards the door. “You just walked right in, who else might? He could have gotten to any of them, to all of them, with bribery, or blackmail, or worse, and I would be dead before I ever realized.”
Genji doesn't ever yell, he notices. His voice only gets lower, colder, and he states his fears like simple facts that everyone should know by now. But he rambles.
Jesse's not ever sure if Genji’s giving away more than he wants to, but he never gives him enough.
And as if to rub in that fact, Genji says, with an awful sort of pleading desperation, “You do not know him. You do not know what he is capable of, what he has done, what he will do—”
“So tell me.”
He doesn't have to raise his voice for Genji to cut himself off, his mouth half open, frozen for the moment.
The only sound in the room is that heart monitor, doing its very best to keep up with Genji, though it seems like it's baring his soul for Jesse’s sake.
It's easy to see the calculations in his eyes. The weighing of pros and cons in his tight grip of the bed, the internal debate in how he presses his lips into a thin line, the subtle way his anger unravels and reveals something else entirely that he can't quite put a name to.
“You're right,” Jesse admits. “Whoever he is, I don't know nothin’ about him. But if he's got you scared enough that you're stayin’ up all night to watch the door, I wanna know what I’m up against.”
Genji swings his feet off the bed, setting them flat on the floor, and his legs aren't as bad as he’d expected, the metal plating pulled off to reveal the skeleton frame and the wires running through it. If they were ever damaged, they must've been patched up quick.
He stares, for a good long while. “What you are up against?”
Jesse ignores the much smaller distance between them now, even though it's worming its way through his chest, not.. entirely unpleasantly. Now’s not the time. “We’re workin’ together, now. We watch each other's backs, on and off the battlefield, and that means your problems are gonna be my problems.”
Genji’s brows furrow together and he gives him a good once over, scrutinizing every square inch of him. “And what of your problems?”
It feels a little bit like he's under a magnifying glass. In the back of his mind, Jesse wonders if, technically, he is —he wouldn't be shocked if those fancy cybernetic eyes had more than a few enhancements.
“Don't got any,” he says smoothly, and flashes a smile. “Though, if I ever need an alibi, that’d be appreciated.”
Genji snorts. It's not quite a laugh, but he's sure it'll be the closest he’ll get to one for a while.
“So?” Jesse leans back and lifts a single eyebrow. “Who is he?”
A beat passes. Several, actually, because the only sound in the dark room is that heart monitor beeping softly, settled back into a not quite calm, but not so violent rhythm.
“My brother.”
His words linger in the air.
His brother.
His brother was the one to tear him up so bad, leave him on death’s door, and not even bother to give him a clean death. His brother was the one he was spending all night agonizing over. The one that was terrorizing him from a thousand miles away, who might not even know he was alive, or even had the faintest idea of the pain he caused.
Jesse didn't stay in contact with the many foster siblings he had over the years. The longest he ever had before being shuffled around again was a good seven or eight months, and while that was long enough for him to get into fights for all their sakes, he was a bratty rebel who was always looking for a cause, and new kids to look after was a particularly effective one. He never quite made any long lasting connections, not before he ran off, and now that he's in Blackwatch, reaching out to any of them is out of the question.
That being said, even he knows that you don't murder your fucking brother.
“Jesus,” he says.
Genji tilts his head back with a shuddery sigh. The moonlight bounces off his metal throat, washes over the scars crisscrossing his chest, the burns seared into him, and Jesse finds himself imagining just what would've caused all that, in much gorier detail than he actually wants to think about.
Imagining what he might've looked like right before all that metal. If he even had clean cuts for his arm and legs, or if they were just so horribly mangled they had to go, because Angie could do some miraculous stuff, but even she couldn't bring Genji back without making him mostly metal.
His fucking brother.
He continues, with a disconcertingly matter-of-fact tone, “Our father was kumichō . When he died, we had to take his place. Him, more than I, and I was..” He grimaces. “Happy to leave him to it. But it was the family business, so that was unacceptable, and one thing lead to another, and the next thing I know, he had murdered me. You know. As brothers are wont to do.”
The instant his tone twists into sarcasm, sharp and caustic, Jesse can tell that he's having trouble keeping it together. Talking faster, making light of it. And he’s leaving something out, too—one thing lead to another—but he won’t push for details.
Genji shakes his head, laughs under his breath. Falls quiet.
“So you've got the yakuza on your ass.” He’ll go along with it, for now, keep the conversation as light as it can be. Offer no sympathy. Use the same banter they keep up on ops, because he's got a feeling that if it looks like he pities him, there's gonna be another outburst.
“I have an entire empire ‘on my ass’ ,” he corrects, and it sounds like he cut off abruptly. But he says nothing else. His hand, shaky, wanders up to the conspicuous lack of a shoulder, and he rubs his thumb over the strip of red and raw skin nestled against the metal.
He must've fucked up the port, too. Probably not an easy repair job, but he’d bet that Torbjörn’s already putting the finishing touches on it, testing out new upgrades he hasn't had the chance to while they were off halfway across the world.
“You think he's gonna do it himself?” He leans back in his seat, cocks his head to the side, waits for him to find his voice.
Genji finally looks back at him. His eyes narrow, and he's caught his careful interest, like he's afraid Jesse might just be humoring him. “It did not work well for him the first time.”
“So he’ll send someone?” Jesse arches a brow.
Genji takes his time considering it, drumming his fingers on the thin sheets beneath him, his face unreadable. “He values honor. In himself, and in his enemies. If it were still about honor, he would take care of it himself.”
The tone he takes rubs him the wrong way. That same unemotional, matter-of-fact way he talks when it comes to things like this, like he's speaking a universal truth, as if he doesn't even need to worry about being challenged on it.
“Oh, sounds real honorable, killin’ your kin,” Jesse challenges, voice dripping with sarcasm.
That gets his tone to change, to mirror his own venom. “Oh, no, you see, when your kin is dishonorable, it's your honorable duty to help him regain his honorability, even if you have to honorably give him an honorable death to do so.”
And that gets a little laugh out of him, despite himself. “Gotcha. Makes perfect sense.”
Genji rolls his eyes.
Jesse catches a hint of a smile, and he returns it, pointedly ignoring the way his stomach is tripping over itself, because there's no goddamn way he's gonna let himself get all wrapped up in this absolute mess of an idea.
“Is honorability a word?”
Jesse pauses. “I got no idea.”
“It does not sound like one.” Genji leans back, his hand sliding over the sheets, slowly stretching. “Honorability.”
“Honorability,” Jesse repeats, stretching out each syllable and exaggerating his drawl, and Genji snorts.
Genji repeats it—“awn-er-ah-bil-ih-tay”— and sounds astronomically worse, though he manages to keep a straight face until the last syllable.
“You makin’ fun’a me?” He’s trying hard not to laugh and he flashes a crooked grin, thoroughly enjoying Genji’s poor attempt to keep his poker face.
His eyes flick over him. From his scuffed up boots, to his ancient leather jacket, to the well-worn hat in his lap, he studies every inch of him, and Jesse's just a little bit caught off guard by how that makes the tips of his ears burn.
“Do you really need anyone to do that for you?”
“Aw, that—” He’s almost speechless for a moment, with those eyes trained on him, and real glad that it's just dim enough for him to miss how red his face must be. “That just ain't honorable.”
“Oops,” Genji says, with an oddly self-satisfied smile. “Guess you'll have to kill me.”
Jesse pulls the same stunt Genji did a moment ago, letting his eyes roam over him, lingering on his face. “Naw.”
His smile slips, and a brand new, unreadable look slides over it, eyes widening a fraction of an inch, body going still, a certain tension in him. “‘Naw’?”
“Wouldn't wanna ruin a pretty face,” he answers honestly.
Genji stares.
After a moment, he blinks a few times, he opens his mouth and takes a breath as if to speak, and his brows knit together, and he shuts his mouth.
If he didn't know any better, Jesse would think he was confused.
“You haven't gotten any sleep tonight, have you?” He switches up the topic. Gives him a chance to shrug off the moment. Saves his own ass from saying something stupid.
Genji runs his hand through his hair, just barely growing in after getting buzzed off, and Jesse doesn't miss the way his fingers curl back at first, recoiling from the feeling, and then he just shrugs. He's trying to pull off a nonchalant attitude, but his heart’s not in it.
“You should get on that.”
“Can't,” he admits.
“How come?” Jesse doesn't let his emotions get the better of him, here: his tone stays calm, but he still challenges him, keeping any trace of dangerous pity out of his voice.
Genji gestures vaguely towards the door. Shrugs, again.
And it's a very, very impulsive thought, but just this once, he lets it loose.
“You want company?”
Red eyes flick back up to him. His eyebrows raise.
Jesse, again, watches his tone. He's hyper-aware of it by now, with how often someone’ll assume he's being a condescending fuckhead when he's genuinely trying to give pointers, and with Genji, he's sure he’ll get more than an irritated look. “You can't sleep, ‘cause you're watchin’ the door. If we were on an op, we’d be takin’ turns to keep watch, so no one gets stuck up all night. And if you don't sleep, you're gonna be stuck in here longer, and training’s gonna be hell. So.” He lifts his hands and shrugs. “You want company?”
Genji’s body is still but for the soft breath he takes, a faint rise and fall of his carbon fiber chest as he stares him down. “Why would I trust you?”
“I haven't.. shot you. Haven't poisoned you. Haven’t hurt you. Ain't even threatened you.” He counts it off on his fingers, keeping his eyes on him, praying that he's not looking like a smarmy asshole. “And you saved my life today, so you trust me, just a bit.”
You follow me around like you’re beggin’ for attention but don't know how to ask.
Jesse swallows that one.
He doesn't seem like the type to appreciate it. More like the type to make a sour face and forget they ever talked, because getting called on what you thought was subtle is nothing less than mortifying.
And he likes their midnight talks. He's not quite sure what he'd do if they just.. stopped.
“Fine.” Genji sits back, rocking slightly, looking like he still hasn't made up his mind despite his answer. “But you have to stay awake.”
“Already got my nap, don't worry.”
“You have to wake me up if you leave.”
“Understood.” He gives a little smile, and the realization that he's got no idea what he's in for doesn't shake it off his face, despite the twisting in his stomach.
Genji doesn't move.
“You're gonna have to lay down to sleep, you know.” He nods towards the head of the bed, still folded into an upright position.
After hesitating for a long moment, slightly rocking side to side, Genji pulls his legs back onto the bed and leans back, fumbles for the controls on the side to recline, all the while looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“You good?”
“Fine,” he mutters. The bed creaks as Genji shifts his weight, yanks at the blanket, first trying to lay with his back to Jesse, but he finds that untenable and rolls back over, settling in with his arm as a pillow.
The blanket has a warm red glow, the faintest outline of his chest beneath it.
Jesse waits a good minute or two before he pulls out his phone. Keeps the light low, glances up towards the door, ‘cause he keeps his word, and back to his phone. One, two, three glances at the door.
One, two, three glances at Genji. “Go to sleep.”
“I am trying,” he answers flatly.
“Your eyes are open.”
A beat passes.
His red eyes go dark as he grumbles quietly.
Jesse shakes his head, huffs out a little laugh, and gets back to doing his research.
It's funny, how yakuza get to be celebrities. That they're so unafraid of retaliation that they'll happily let you know who's with them, who's leading their charge, who they're dealing with, and that the government will turn a blind eye to it.
Way different from Deadlock, considering they had Overwatch on their asses.
It’s easy enough to find Genji’s story, though tabloids are gossipy and vague on any real details—but it seems to be an open secret that the man got offed by his own family. He finds numerous articles speculating how it was done, who pulled the trigger, what the last thing running through Genji Shimada’s mind was before his throat was slit—it’s all borderline tragedy porn. It makes him feel sick.
The heart monitor lets Jesse know that Genji’s at least calmed down, though he doesn't know enough about it to tell whether or not he's asleep. At least his eyes are closed.
His brother is named Hanzo, he finds.
There's a lot of publicity around him, all in a shockingly fascinated tone, like it's a rare glance into the passing of a torch in the yakuza, normally shrouded in smoke.
Three glances at Genji.
There's a family resemblance, but just barely.
He wonders if his face being so torn up was on purpose.
There's footsteps in the hall, and Jesse sits up, leans forward, listens intently, and his own heart kicks up faster, his own paranoia roused from having the face of a murderer glare up at him from the screen.
It's only after the footsteps pass and he catches his own breath that he realizes the heart monitor sped up as well.
“It's okay,” he says, voice low. “Just someone passin’ by.”
Genji blows out a breath. Doesn't answer. His heart doesn't slow, and his eyes are open again, painting the pillow red.
Jesse stops himself from getting up, going over to do.. something. He doesn't know what, but just something, probably something stupid, but at least it’d be better than nothing.
Though, his earlier attempt to help hadn't gone as well as he’d hoped.
“I’m right here.” He sits on the edge of the chair, his leg bouncing, resisting the urge to leap out of his seat. He can't decide if he should look at the door, barely visible in the dark, or at Genji, a tightly wound wire. “No one’s gonna get you while I’m here, alright? I won't let anythin’ happen to you.”
“You do not have your gun,” he answers, sounding like he's got his vocal cords wrapped around his throat.
“No,” Jesse allows. “But you got a panic button and a meat shield.”
A pause.
Genji shifts, getting a better look at the red button in the wall just above the bed, labeled with CALL FOR ASSISTANCE .
“You're okay.” Jesse finally pulls his eyes off Genji, to the scowling murderer on his screen, and to the door, and he’s got a pretty good idea of just what he might do to his brother, given the opportunity. “I promise. Close your eyes, take a breath. You're okay.”
Genji takes a soft, shuddering, electric breath. “Distract me.”
“Sorry?”
“I can't sleep if I keep thinking about it,” he snaps, without any malice. “It's too quiet. So distract me. Talk.”
He forces his leg to stop bouncing, kicks his ankle up onto his knee and leans back, chewing over just what he was supposed to talk about. “What d’you wanna hear?”
“Anything.” The restless energy practically radiates off him as he rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “You do not talk about yourself. Why?”
Now he regrets asking. Not just launching into a random anecdote that'd make him laugh.
“Ain't a lot to say,” he lies. And he lies well, this time and every other time, but Genji’s already caught onto him.
“Deadlock.”
Jesse looks away, holding back a nervous little chuckle. “Yeah, alright, fair enough.”
It takes him a good long moment to sort through the mess in his head, skimming for an easy way to start, tipping his head back, shoving the split-second panic down. “I, uh—it was me and this girl I knew. Ashe. You might’ve seen her on the news, they were all obsessed with her, some rich kid case of affluenza, you know. We.. we worked well together.”
It’s hard to figure out where he’s even going with this—he’s not about to pour his heart out about Ashe, no matter how much Genji tries to pry into it. That shit is sacred, and he would never betray her by spilling about it. A little late for that, really.
“Turned out we had a real knack for robbin’ people,” he says, and there’s humor in his tone, though when he thinks back on those years, it’s hard to tell if he misses them or not. “Made a bit of a name for ourselves, stealin’ military hardware, reselling it to a few.. friends.”
Genji makes an amused sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff, but doesn’t add anything else.
“Used a real biker gang as a cover, the, uh, Deadlock Rebels. Stole some jackets and ripped off some tattoos and we could blend in with the rest of ‘em, no problem. Cops would look at them, instead of us.”
“And you kept the look,” Genji says dryly. His eyes are open and he's watching him, not bothering to hide his interest this time, especially noting the leather jacket he’s got on.
He looks down, smile getting a touch bigger as he shakes his head. Even now, he's still dressing like he's back there. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But it looks good, don't it?”
Genji hums thoughtfully. “Debatable.”
Jesse scoffs at him, waves his hand dismissively. “Close your eyes, you're supposed to be tryin’ to sleep.”
The blanket shifts as he finds a new position, and he lays flat on his stomach for about half a second before abandoning it to curl up on his side, still facing Jesse, eyes very much not closed.
Jesse shoots him a look, and Genji rolls his eyes and shuts them again.
“So,” he says, with the tone of someone not planning to sleep any time soon, “You saw pretty bikes and signed up immediately.”
“Well, not.. exactly.” Jesse purses his lips and wonders just how much he’s gonna get dragged into telling him, considering that he's already tripping over himself to try to help him. Considering that now he's gotten to thinking about it, to talking about it, he's not sure he wants to stop.
“I was a foster kid. And I wasn't a real nice one, so, I ended up bouncin’ around for a long while, and when you're..” He rubs his face, not quite able to get a handle on the words, the right way to say what he wants.
Talking about it was still off, even now, ‘cause the only time he'd ever actually spilled his guts about it was sitting on the couch in Reyes’s office after losing his temper for no good reason, almost a year into being part of Blackwatch and still sure he was gonna get kicked to the curb.
“You're used to shit not stickin’. Nothin’ stays the same, ‘cause by the end of the month you're gonna have a new house, new parents, new school, new everythin’. Could be better, could be worse. And there ain't a thing you can do about it. But, uh..” Jesse trails off, lets out a breath, drums his fingers on his knee to give himself something else to focus on.
“Deadlock was good for me, ‘cause it was somethin’ I did for myself. Wasn't an obligation. And I enjoyed it, despite how it ended.”
Jesse picks up his hat. Fiddles with the brim of it, runs his fingers over the soft leather. He's gotta keep himself steady, not get pulled off into space, control the words tumbling out of his mouth, before he says too much and freaks him out.
Genji’s not watching him, at least. Maybe he's asleep.
His tattoo is just barely visible in the moonlight pouring through the blinds, and he lifts it, tracing over the ink with his fingertips, the skull glaring back up at him as he does.
He frowns at it, then glances up at Genji. “You awake?”
“No,” he mumbles, voice weighed down by sleep. “Keep talking.”
“This is just keepin’ you up, ain't it?”
“No, no—” Genji shifts, squinting as he pushes himself up on his elbow, and he almost looks cute like that, just pulled out of his doze, his face so much more relaxed than he's seen it in the past months. “Keep.. keep talking. I like your voice.”
The fact that the room is still dark and Genji’s half-asleep is an absolute blessing. After Jesse’s gone absolutely still, the tips of his ears burning something fierce, he remembers to thank whoever’s up there for it.
“Well, alright then,” he manages.
That satisfies him, and he lays back again, pulling the blanket tight.
Jesse’s leg starts bouncing of its own accord, all that concentrated nervous energy eating away at him, and he's got no idea what to say.
Had a buncha feral cats—
Killed a foster dad—
Stole my very first gun—
Juvy was the biggest horseshit—
“The commander’s the one who caught me,” he says suddenly, plucking one thing out of the words bouncing off the walls of his skull. “The one who arrested me, I mean. I nearly shot him before he did, though. Probably woulda landed myself in prison if I did.”
That was always hanging over his head—there’s so very little keeping him from a cell. To his mind, anyway, though Reyes insists he wouldn’t send him away. That whole first year he was certain someone would figure him out, that they’d realize he wasn’t as good as they thought he was, and it’d be off to some maximum security prison where even his mother wouldn’t visit him.
And he didn’t even get to go into the real Blackwatch training until he was 18. That whole first year, it was getting his GED and going through basic.
He remembers, vividly, sitting on the couch in Reyes’s office after he’d found out he wasn't turning in homework, trying to figure out how to graph a stupid parabola and reading the textbook over and over, trying to cram it into his head in a way that made any damn sense, the helplessness that felt like it was choking him until he finally just threw the pencil down and accepted he was a dumbass.
Reyes had a particular way of coming to attention, a slow, calm, calculated way. First, he'd pause in what he was doing, pen hovering over the paper beneath it, then his eyes would flick up to him, one eyebrow raised, and he’d finally lift his head and ask, “Everything alright?”
“This is stupid.” He’d slammed the textbook shut, and it sounded far louder than he’d wanted, but he wasn't about to apologize. “It don't make a goddamn lick of sense, and I ain't ever gonna use it after today, so why the hell do I need it?”
“Language,” he’d said mildly, and set his pen down.
The chair didn't squeak when he scooted back, and the desk didn't groan when he set his hands on it to stand up, and his boots didn't stomp when he walked over to the couch.
Jesse had half-expected to get the shit beat out of him.
Instead, he’d sat down next to him and moved the graph paper towards them, studied the lines Jesse had erased and redrawn a million times. “What are you doing now? Parabolas?”
“Yeah,” he’d muttered, sinking into the back of the couch.
Reyes had glanced back at him, then nodded towards the textbook on the coffee table. “Mind finding the page for me?”
Begrudgingly, he'd leaned forward and taken his time finding the page, since he'd completely forgotten what number it was after he’d accidentally washed off the pen on his hand.
“So.” Reyes had tilted it towards him. “What’s messing you up?”
“I don't know,” he'd admitted.
“Reasonable.” Oddly enough, he hadn't heard an ounce of sarcasm in it as Reyes squinted down at the textbook’s tiny print.
“You didn't answer my question,” he'd said abruptly, a lot meaner than he meant it.
Reyes hadn't looked up, flipping back a page to read through the same paragraphs Jesse had been struggling over for what felt like hours. “What was your question?”
“Why do I need this?” Each word stretched out, perfectly enunciated, in the most condescending manner he could muster. “Am I gonna be drawin’ graphs out in the field? Carryin’ pens and paper and takin’ notes?”
He’d looked up at him then, with a thoughtful expression. “Have you used a sniper rifle before?”
He'd held one, plenty of times, but never actually fired it. “‘Course,” he had lied.
“Then you know that at longer ranges, it gets harder to hit a shot.” Reyes had tapped the ugly graph Jesse hadn't used a ruler to make. “First, you've got to calculate how far your target is, you've got the wind speed and direction to worry about, not to mention bullet drop off—” he’d traced his finger over the half erased line on the paper— “And once you hit about a thousand yards, you have to calculate how the turning of the Earth is going to factor into your shot. In the Northern Hemisphere, all your shots are going to drift to the right; in the Southern, they'll be to the left. Elevation, humidity, temperature, almost anything you can think of is going to affect your shot. You need to know how to deal with it.”
Jesse had just stared at him, blinking.
Reyes had raised an eyebrow. “Should I go on?”
He'd known, right then and there, that he was going to get kicked out sooner or later for being a dumbass, but he’d stretch it out as long as he could. “Think I got the idea.”
“So.” Reyes had pulled a new sheet of paper out, set it on top of Jesse’s last attempt, and started to draw an annoyingly neat graph without a ruler. “What did your instructor say?”
“Uh..” Nothing he could remember. “Good question.”
“You don't know?”
“I wasn't payin’ attention,” he'd muttered, rubbing the back of his neck and hating the way his throat tightened up.
Every goddamn time he was in a class, no matter where he went, even if he actually liked the teacher—which was, admittedly, rare—he wouldn't catch himself spacing out until right at the end of a lecture, and he'd struggle for the rest of the day on whatever they were working on.
“I can see why that might be a problem,” he'd said lightly, without the disappointment or the anger Jesse had expected.
Reyes’s handwriting was perfect: every letter was uniform, like it'd been printed off, and he’d marked off the graph with those stupid perfect numbers as he’d talked. “I’m going to show you how to do this first one, then it's your turn, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Jesse did his best to pay attention, he really did, and he heard the words, but they wouldn't quite click into place, and god damn it, he was doing it again.
He'd stumbled through the next problem. Scowling at his shaky lines next to Reyes’s, he’d hesitated before doing anything, held the pencil over the paper and kept glancing at his face for a guess at how he was doing. Reyes had gently corrected him each time he’d fucked up, tapping where the line should be.
“I can't do this,” he’d kept muttering, when the damn problems kept tricking him into thinking they were easier than they were.
Reyes had just tapped a finger on the ever-growing page of finished, and hopefully correct, work. “You're doing just fine, Jesse.”
After they'd finally, finally, finished the very last problem, Reyes had clapped his hands together once, smiling wide in a way that almost looked—well, he hesitated to say proud, but—
He'd also handed him a five dollar bill and set him loose on the vending machines in the hall, so that was pretty neat.
Reyes had not elected to tell him at the time that when he was stuck in a sniper’s nest, he’d have cheat sheets stuck on the scope and state of the art tech to help him calculate his shots. But he'd gotten him to give a shit about his schoolwork, so, Jesse could forgive that omission.
And he wasn't wrong . On the rare occasion that they were hit with an EMP, he had to calculate a good chunk of it himself.
Jesse wonders, as he slowly becomes aware of the hospital room once again, if Genji’s ever had to learn all the irritating math that goes into a shot.
Shuriken might be complex, but he doubts he's gotta figure the turning of the Earth into it.
He's been conspicuously quiet for who knows how long, but Genji hasn't complained yet. Asleep?
As if to answer his thought, Genji stirs, somehow curling up even tighter.
And now Jesse's got something to talk about that won't send him off into space again.
So he starts talking, voice low, going on about all the math he had to memorize, and he won't admit that it's kinda interesting now, and that he's a little proud of himself for being able to keep it in his head after struggling over it for so long.
By the time he's got nothing left to say, Genji’s definitely asleep.
Jesse stays until morning, and he doesn't fall asleep, keeping himself distracted from the lingering thoughts by messing around on his phone.
He doesn't mind. Sleep wouldn't come even if he tried, and he's perfectly happy to give Genji a distraction, considering that's all they've been doing for each other since they started working together.
It's nice to feel needed.
When the sun peeks through the blinds, casting a warm yellow glow into the room, Jesse slowly pushes himself to his feet, stretches his arms over his head, and makes his way over to Genji. He raps his knuckles against the sidebar.
Genji’s eyes open slowly, then widen, before there’s the faint sound of a lens shifting and whirring and he focuses on Jesse, staring up at him and blinking.
“Mornin’,” he says quietly, with a small smile. “I gotta head out, you gonna be okay from here?”
Genji looks around the room, then nods once, pushing himself up on his elbow. He almost seems confused. With a little shake of his head, he meets Jesse’s eyes again, and there’s a long moment where they study each other, not saying a word.
“Thank you,” Genji says at last.
Jesse nods, flicks the brim of his hat up, and leaves. He’s got to force himself not to look back, even though he can feel Genji’s eyes following him out, up until he eases the door shut behind himself. Lingering by the door, Jesse takes a moment to gather himself, blowing out a breath and refusing to let himself consider the tightness in his chest.
With that, he straightens up, rubs his face, and sets off in search of a coffee, figuring Reyes won’t mind if he shows up a couple minutes late for the meeting. Won’t be the first time, and it’ll hardly be the last.
Especially if Genji sticks around.