Chapter Text
Jesse McCree had always had worse.
Being holded up in a cell, handcuffed to the table, bruised and battered and bleeding while being interrogated wasn’t even in his top 5. Or top 10. Might have been top 20; Jesse had had a lot of bad moments.
The people doing the interrogating? That was a whole other story.
One of them was bright and baby-faced, even though Jesse was sure he had been born a decade prior. His coat was too pastel, blue like the skies over Deadlock Gorge, blue like the calm seas. Jesse recognised him, he’d been plastered all over posters and newsreels. It was a comforting shade of blue, holding a rifle that looked like it had never seen a war, smiling a smile that screamed of glory and reassurance to a war-ravaged people.
Jesse hated him.
Sometimes, Pastel Blue would be swapped by a lady with a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue. Jesse couldn’t keep up with her; she was also mid-twenties at least , eyes lined with kohl, a tattoo curling under one eye. She had a duller, more sombre blue beret on, one that had seen bloodshed and strife like Jesse had. Despite his reticence, he trusted her immediately.
The third man was a constant during the interrogation, and he was easily the most terrifying person Jesse had ever met. Where Poster Boy was cheer and valour and “for the greater good”, this man was dark and all angles, arms crossed so tightly that Jesse swore you could cut yourself on the edge of his elbows, frowning so forcibly that Jesse was sure this man had no other expression.
Take one; they wanted information. Jesse told them to eat a dick.
Take one point five; Jesse learned that the sharp man had an even sharper temper.
Take two; they wanted information. Jesse told them to eat a bag of dicks.
“Enough,” the woman said, to the sharp man. She shifted, a curtain of jet black hair obscuring her face, but Jesse swore she was grinning. “Let the boy be.”
“He has information , Ana,” the man growled. He caught Jesse staring and started, and Jesse almost jumped out of his chair.
“Oh, sure he does,” the woman, Ana, said, evenly. “A seventeen year old has more information than the Deadlock leader we have rotting in the other cell.”
The sharp man paused. “When you put it like that …”
“Give the kid a break, Gabe,” She clapped him on the shoulder. “Get some food.” Then, louder. “You hungry? Want something? I can take a look at your arm, and that nasty bruise on your face.”
Jesse was sure his left elbow had been broken in the fight. Overwatch had given him a splint and the barest minimum in terms of pain relief. He almost bit through his bottom lip trying not to cry out when the sharp man - Gabe - struck him.
“With all due respect, ma’am,” Jesse started to tip his hat, and remembered he didn’t have it. Fuck Overwatch. “I’d rather sit on a cactus.”
“That can be arranged-”
“ Gabe ,” Ana rolled her eyes. She motioned to the door and Gabe, scowling, stormed out.
Ana made sure the door had been shut behind Gabe. “You don’t need to act tough, child. I’m a medic, as well.”
“Your good cop/bad cop routine is great,” Jesse sank deeper into his chair, barely biting back a gasp of pain that shot up his arm when he moved. “Reminds me of the old shows my ma used to watch.”
“Thank you,” Ana gave him a mock bow. “I’ve been working on my routine.”
Nevertheless, she clapped him on the shoulder. Jesse felt something sharp prick at his skin; a needle?
“You’ll thank me later,” Ana said cheerfully.
Jesse gawked at her for all of two minutes before his head hit the table.
“What do you think, Overwatch material?”
The three of them stood, arms crossed, eyeing their charge in the interrogation room. Gabe picked up a file, stamped JESSE MCCREE in bold, red letters - courtesy of Athena, watching their moves, immediately creating records of how their enemies fight. McCree had a surprisingly good aim, despite only having a shotgun, and then a tiny little pistol scavenged off a fallen ally, while his arm was broken. He also had the gusto of Reinhardt, storming into battle, running right up to his enemies to pepper them with bullets.
However, Reinhardt was a seven foot tall beast clad in armour and a shield that could withstand anything other than a nuke. Jesse McCree had a hat.
“He has potential,” Gabe muttered. “Attitude, though.”
“What do you expect?” Ana lit a cigarette. “Boy’s terrified. We murdered most of his friends, he’s hurt, you’re there,”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gabe scowled.
“No smoking in here,” Jack scowled, at the same time.
Ana gave them both a pointed look, before taking a long drag. “I like him,” she said. “He could be good. Not to mention, Deadlock bigshots will probably have his head the moment he leaves. You know how paranoid these gangs get. Kid’s got it rough right now.” She turned on her heel. “I’ll leave that decision up to you boys, though.” Gabe watched her go, leaving a trail of cigarette smoke and the swish of her coat behind her.
Gabe and Jack turned to face their charge again. The kid had slumped into his chair before Ana knocked him out, and now all Gabe could see was a mess of dirty brown hair lying flat against the table. His left arm had been injured, the boy had damn near screamed them all deaf when they were putting cuffs on him, but Ana had sneakily added a healing dart alongside the other one. While they had to save what little med supplies remained for their own troops, Gabe had managed to grab the bare minimum in painkillers, before the rest of them were shuffled off to the agents with bullet holes.
The boy shackled to the table had managed to grievously injure half his squad, but Gabe wasn’t a heartless monster.
He was starting to stir. Gabe watched him shift, then groan, then pull himself upright. He leaned back into the chair, head lolling back, stayed like that for a moment, before leaning forward.
McCree looked at the glass and spat something in Spanish. He swayed slightly in his chair.
“Well, that sounded pleasant,” Jack said dryly.
“Delightfully pleasant,” Gabe rolled his eyes, silently noting down the phrase for future use.
McCree sunk back into his chair, like he was trying to retreat. The handcuffs chimed, the cuffs around his ankles harmonised, and the whimper the boy let out when he knocked his arm against the chair floated through the air. Gabe bit his lip, wondering if Ana was still around. She’d probably left for that very reason, that she might guilt a quick decision out of both of them.
Gabe and Jack agreed to disagree. Ana looked like she’d rather jump into the welcoming arms of a saguaro when she realised she had to help interrogate.
What Gabe didn’t expect was the sniffle that followed the whimper.
Both of them snapped up, stepped closer to the glass. Jesse McCree, smooth cheeked and babyfaced, bruised and battered, hunched up his shoulders until his neck disappeared. His mouth had curled into an almost cartoonish pout, but there was no mistaking the overbright eyes, the secondary sniffle.
Ana’s voice floated back to him, reproachful. A seventeen year old, Gabriel.
Gabe bit his lip. Seventeen.
“We’re taking him,” Gabe said suddenly.
“Are you sure?” Jack sounded apprehensive. “We’ve barely talked to him-”
Gabe watched a tear fall down the boy’s face.
“Get me the paperwork, Morrison,” He clicked his fingers and pointed to the door.
Jack had perfected the balance between shock and sheer irritation at being ordered around. “Well excuse me , Mister Gabriel fucking Reyes, but I’m pretty sure you own a pair of perfectly functioning legs. Asshole.”
“Listen, I’ll make up for it later, just get me my damn paperwork, if you please?”
Jack glowered at him before acquiescing, coat swishing as he half stormed out of the room.
Gabe watched McCree rub a grimy hand against his cheek, before his eyes squeezed shut in pain.
“Ana?” he called, over the coms. “We’re taking him.”
“Good,” he could hear the satisfaction in her voice.
“He needs healing, though. Painkillers, at the very least.”
“Painkillers I can do. Tell you what, though,” Ana paused. “Get him to Ziegler. If he’s Overwatch now, he deserves a bit more mercy.”