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Soldier 76 makes a point of eating alone.
The new members of Overwatch learn not to ask why when he quietly dips out of the mess hall with little more than a polite nod. Some of the older ones might exchange knowing glances, but otherwise no one comments on his absence. Most chalk it up to him disliking the rowdiness of his younger teammates.
He scuttles away from the boisterous chatter to his own quarters. He passes no one along the way. Down a quiet hall, tucked away from prying eyes his room has become a solace. It is one of few places he allows himself small weaknesses.
He keeps it tidy enough, desk clear, rifle and cleaning kit against the wall next to an unmade bed. Two pairs of boots are fastidiously placed heels-to-edge on the only trunk in the room, opposite a closed door to (what a luxury) a private bath. There are no personal effects on the walls and the shelf over his bed is dusty but clear.
76 sets his tray down on the desk as the automatic door hisses closed behind him. He settles into the hard metal chair with a sigh, able to relax after a long day of training. Inhaling long and slow, 76 removes his gloves then his jacket, letting it hang haphazardly on the back of the chair.
Bare hands reach up to his visor, brushing the edges where the bulk of it separates from its mounting. He snaps it clear of his face and places it aside. Once he thought the brace was uncomfortable, too much like a hand wrapped around his head and jaw. Now the pressure against his skin is comforting and familiar.
He manages a few mouthfuls of dinner -some kind of curry, warm and full of vegetables- before trouble finds him. The change is subtle, air behind him stirring as the hair on his neck stands at attention. He flies into motion at once.
76 is only halfway to his feet, knocking back his chair as he turns toward his rifle. His fingertips graze the surface of his visor when the cold hard end of a weapon presses against his skull.
76 freezes.
"Too slow old man."
The voice is inhumanly deep, filling the room like the roll of thunder. He knows it.
"What do you want Reaper?" Soldier 76 does his best to sound in command, chin lifted and voice measured. Strength in the face of adversity has been hard drilled into him. The pressure of Reaper's gun on the back of his head disappears even as 76 considers trying to disarm him. 76 stands upright instead, moving slow as he speaks, "You're alone behind enemy lines. Think about your next move carefully."
"Ha!" Reaper's laugh is a short, startled bark that cracks like lightening. "Still acting like the boss when you have no right to."
Jack's fingers curl on the visor, dragging it against the desk with enough noise to snap Reaper back to business.
"Hands up," He chides, sneer evident in his voice, "Back towards me."
76 reluctantly leaves his gear and steps backward, empty hands lifted besides his head. Clumsy steps make 76 bump his knees against the toppled chair while backing into the center of the room. This is okay though; he's closer to his rifle than he was.
"Stop there."
He does. His room isn't that big, but 76 can't pinpoint Reaper in it. He's in that vague place of "back there somewhere" and that bothers him enough to crease his face into a frown.
"Turn around. Keep your hands up." The commands are short, clinical.
76 realizes it's the only sound Reaper makes. There is no creaking of boots on the floor, no fibers shifting, not even the sound of Reaper's breathing. It is an unnatural sort of quiet and makes his skin crawl. He complies with the demands though, taking short steps until he's done a complete 180.
"If it isn't the late Commander Morrison." Reaper doesn't sound amused. He might even sound...bitter?
76 has half a moment to ponder that before Reaper grabs his face in one hand, turning it from one side to the other. It's a struggle to remain still. Every instinct screams to fight, attack, do anything. Reaper smells like blood and leather and death which only makes him want to fight more. This is not a man he wants this close. But instinct is the death of training and it doesn't take a sniper to hit an unarmed solider at this range. He practically shakes with the effort to remain still. His life might depend on holding until the right moment.
Reaper's grip tightens, sharp talons leaving pinpricks on 76's face before he releasing him.
"Of course you walk away in one piece." There's no need to elaborate; Reaper can only mean the explosion at the Swiss base. But he definitely sounds bitter and that perplexing thought is enough to make 76 balk.
"I didn't." He sounds petulant, but the ground in the conversation feels unsteady and 76 isn't sure how to regain control.
It's the wrong thing to say. Reaper's gauntlet closes on his throat with an unforgiving amount of speed. 76 can't stop from gasping (waste of oxygen) as he's hoisted off his feet. One hand claws uselessly at Reaper's sleeve. That is instinct. Training has him draw the other hand back to snap Reaper's elbow, force him to release the choke hold.
"Oh fuck you Jack!"
The air vanishes from the room: 76 knows that voice. The way his name rolls so familiarly from behind the mask makes 76 stop struggling. All thoughts of fighting flee. His hands fall to his sides as the pieces snap into place.
"Gabe," He chokes out the name, unsure what his face is doing and helpless to school it into something neutral. He feels his pulse in his ears, his head spinning from oxygen deprivation more than shock at this point.
Reaper considers him a moment longer and finally lets 76 go.
The old soldier doubles at the waist immediately, sucking down grateful breaths. He's still panting when he stands upright again. The room is silent save for his labored breathing. The silence carries until it becomes awkward. He blinks, unsure what Reaper's waiting for.
"Nothing to say, Jack?"
Reaper's voice is crisp, still hauntingly deep but clear and so familiar. Memories surface in the rise and fall of its cadence and his intonation calls to feelings long buried. His mask is off; the realization makes 76 grimace, a strange yawning sensation in his chest.
Just like that they're not Soldier 76 and Reaper. They're not professional killers or calculating fighters. They're not too old for regrets and too experienced for nostalgia. Without the masks, they're just Jack and Gabriel, two men who should be dead. Two men that had fallen apart over the course of many years and taken everyone else down with them. Two weak men putting aside superhuman personas.
"Gabe-" Jack's mouth is cotton dry and his brain is stuck on the name.
"Don't you talk like you know me," Gabriel's snarl is as sharp as jagged glass, "You won't even look at what you've done."
Jack realizes he's staring somewhere off in the distance. He can't help it. This is Gabriel. Dead Gabe, whom he loved and hated and lost and mourned and swore by (swore by all the caskets, empty and not). And he knows Gabe's anger is real, also knows it's a well worn mask for any real hurt he's feeling. So little has changed about Gabe when everything else has changed entirely. It makes the ache in Jack's chest that much more acute.
"Can't look at anything anymore Ga- Reyes." He stops short of saying it again.
"Your eyes are-"
"It's a brain thing, not an eye thing." Jack already knows where he's going; Gabriel is looking for cloudy eyes and sees instead clear, bright blues. He's not the first. A building was dropped on his head, he lost his sight among other things. There's technical terms to explain but he's pretty sure that's not important right now.
"Oh."
They fall into silence and Jack's brain works overtime filling in the void of his vision. Gabriel is without a doubt studying him, making up his mind. His brows would be knit tight together, mouth pulled tight to one side, and eyes narrow. He probably would take in the room as well. Dark eyes would see the way everything was pushed to the wall, orderly out of necessity and absolutely unlike the mess they shared as roommates.
Jack feels air fanned across the bridge of his nose.
"....are you waving a hand in front of my face right now?"
Reaper is silent, but the fanning stops and Jack can't help but laugh. It's bubbly in a panic-stricken sort of way. He'd laughed the same way when they promoted him.
"Dios mío, Jack. Blind." Reaper sounds exhausted and maybe angry. And for the first time Jack hears him move, back bumping against the wall as he sighs.
Jack turns toward the sound, taking a cautious step. "Why are you here?"
There's a quiet sound, maybe Gabriel shifting his weight, but no answer. Jack presses his luck, taking a step forward and another, reaching until his fingers brush against leather. Gabriel's coat.
This is stupid and dumb and he should be vaulting back to get his rifle but he's tired of fighting right now. He just wants to be near Gabriel. Gabriel that should be dead. Gabriel who owes him so many apologies and is owed at least that many back. Gabriel who's here now and alive. Gabriel that is his enemy once more.
Jack is a weak man. Even more so when it comes to Gabriel goddamn Reyes.
His fingers skirt over the jacket, stop to rest on Gabe's forearm. It feels like a victory when Gabriel doesn't pull away. Maybe he just wants to be close too.
"Saw you on the vids. Wanted to be sure." Jack can't tell if Gabriel's looking at him or his hand or something else entirely.
"And now you are. So what's next?"
Gabe says nothing but a cold gloved hand brushes against Jack's own. Something warm blooms in his chest, excited and so sickly nostalgic it hurts. They both lapse into silence. There's so much to say and ask but none of it is quite as important as that singular point of shared contact.
"You wanted me to see you," Jack speaks slowly after what feels like ages. He makes an abortive movement with his head in the direction of his abandoned visor, "I can still-"
He doesn't finish, feeling Gabriel's arm tense underneath his hand. And like that the strange bubble that exists between them pops. Gabe's hand falls away as he pushes off the wall to stand.
"No," Gabriel sounds nervous, reaching for something even as Jack takes a step backward. He's unsure what to expect.
"No," He repeats and Jack feels his face fall. The muffled rumble returns and Gabe disappears under the mask, "This was a mistake."
"Gabe, don't-" He knows it's too late even as he reaches forward. Cold washes over his fingertips where Gabe should be. His hair rises as the sensation floats over him like a passing wave.
"Gabriel?" His voice sounds small in the room. Shuffling back to the desk, Jack grabs his visor. It reconnects with a buzz that scrambles Jack's head before the world comes back into orange-tinted focus. Looking now only confirms what he already knows- Gabriel's gone without a trace.