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The absolutely worst part, Cole decides, midway though being thrown against a wall, is that Gabriel smells the same.
He could try to deny the insane waist-to-hip ratio that Morrison always kept on about. He could shut his eyes to the overdramatic black coat and the twin shotguns. Since most of it keeps happening out of his sight, he could even ignore the way Soldier 76 dogs the Reaper’s steps like it’s his goddamn job.
But that fucking whisper of woodsmoke, layered under gunpowder and leather-– that’s the same, and it does horrible things to his hindbrain.
Safe , it hums, family, pack –-
Not anymore , Cole tells it, and has to breathe through the pain. Then he hits the wall, and has something new to worry about.
He staggers to his feet, gropes for his gun. “So,” he manages, “stopped running from me, huh?”
“You and Morrison,” the phantom growls, pacing back and forth like a tiger in a cage. “If it’s not one, it’s the other.”
Cole’s got a purple-striped advantage over ol’ 76, but he’s not about to sell her out. Especially since she’s the only reason he and his fledgling Overwatch keep foiling the Reaper’s plans. “Y’know me,” he wheezes--are those cracked ribs? “Nose like a bloodhound, ‘n’ just as tenacious.”
“Those big words don’t suit you,” the Reaper sneers, as if he wasn’t the same man who kept shoving books at Cole until he found one that stuck. As if he didn’t pay for a GED and then a certificate of journalism.
Cole manages to heave himself upright. “Beauty and brains, that’s me.”
“Estupido,” the Reaper hisses. The sound is inhuman. It should raise the hairs on the back of Cole’s neck, but part of him is still rolling in the scent of home .
It’s been so long.
“You call Morrison such nasty things, too?” Cole asks, to distract himself from the memories. His gun feels too heavy, but he raises it anyway, points not at center mass but at the head. It’ll be a hell of a tricky shot, but he’s managed worse.
Doesn’t pull the trigger. Finds himself waiting, instead, watching the Reaper pace and pace and pace. This, too, is familiar; Gabriel hid it well, but Cole remembers evenings watching him wear a groove on the floor of his office. The sound of Gabriel’s anxious murmuring would keep Cole awake on the couch, watching from under his eyelashes until finally, finally, Morrison would show up at the door to soothe his mate into stillness.
No Morrison now, and certainly no soothing. Just Cole and the caged tiger.
“Why’d you do it?” he can’t help but ask.
Growled, “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
Cole’s own growl rises in his chest. “Bullshit.” He points emphatically with his free hand. “Bull-fucking-shit! You owe me!” And Genji, hidden somewhere in the rubble around them, but he’s not tipping that hand just yet. Letting the hurt bubble into his voice, he continues, “Lie to Morrison all you want, but I know you-–there’s always a goddamn reason, and I deserve to find out what it is.”
The Reaper shakes his head, finally stills. “You don’t need to know.”
“Bullshit,” Cole repeats. His voice breaks in the middle of the word. “You left me. I deserve-–” He swallows. “I deserve some thing.”
“Ingrate,” the Reaper says, and it’s softer than it should be.
Cole snarls, “Don’t call me that,” and feels like he’s seventeen again.
The sigh that the Reaper heaves is just another thing to add to the pile of “too familiar.” “You won’t give up, will you?”
“You taught me better’n that,” Cole says, and hopes the words sting.
Gabriel looks at him, long and hard. “I did.”
“So?” Cole demands.
The Reaper steps back, dissolves into nothing.
The distant sounds of battle seep back in. Someone yells. Probably Reinhardt. Cole stares at the afterimage in the air. Blinks. Fights the urge to scream. Loses, a little, letting loose a torrent of curses, and kicks at the nearest rock.
Genji slips up beside him, rests a warm and whirring hand on his back. “Bastard,” he mutters.
“Yeah,” Cole agrees, and leans into the touch. Genji reaches up, thumbs gently under his eyes and comes away with wet fingers. Cole leans their foreheads together. Murmurs, “You think he left ‘cause we wouldn’t like the answer?”
Genji hums, absently tapping the hilt of his dagger. “Honestly? I don’t know what I think.”
“You’re supposed to be the enlightened one.”
“That’s Master Zenyatta, not me.” Genji huffs out a sigh, tangles their fingers together. “Here, I’m just… lost.”
Cole closes his eyes against the ache. “We’re two for two now.”
“Hm?”
“Families.” He manages to dredge up a lopsided smile. “Well. Maybe one for two, in your case. Y’got Hanzo back.”
“It still hurts.”
“Yeah.” Cole squeezes Genji’s hand tighter. “Yeah.”
“This is a bad place for sadness.” Tipping his head towards the sounds of battle, Genji adds, “They’ll need our help.”
“Pack it up, huh?” Cole exhales heavily.
“Only for a little bit.” Genji gently bumps his faceplate against Cole’s face. “It’s not healthy to hold your mourning in too long.”
Huffing a strained laugh, Cole asks, “Sure you aren’t the enlightened one?” He scrubs a hand down his face. Genji waits patiently while he pulls himself together–-giving himself a shake, checking his gun, pulling his hair back out of his eyes. Allows Cole to pull him back towards the battle. “Alright, darling. Let’s go.”
Woodsmoke hangs heavy in the air.