Work Text:
Encouragement
“Go on...shoot.”
McCree fidgeted. His gun shook in his hand just slightly, eyes darting between his commander and the sight of his revolver. After a moment, he lowered his arm. “Reyes-” he tried helplessly.
“Come on,” Reyes sneered in response. “You scared?”
“If I’m bein’ truthful?” McCree said earnestly, “I’m plum terrified. No offense, boss, but this is a terrible idea.”
“Thought you were my best shot,” Reyes returned easily, folding his arms. He had two apples in his hands, and another rested on top of his head.
McCree pouted. “That ain’t fair, Reyes.”
“You’re always bragging,” Reyes said, challenging. “Fastest draw, best shot. Prove it.”
“I might kill ya,” McCree warned. This was all off the books; no shooting range, no other agents to watch, just the two of them outside, away from the base. McCree figured Reyes was up to something, dragging him out here, but he didn’t expect to be shooting apples off his boss’s head.
“You won’t,” Reyes replied confidently. McCree hated how smug he looked, like a bulletproof man, a man with an air of immortality, who could treat the possibility of his own death as a game.
“I damn well could,” McCree insisted. “I know so. Thousand things could go wrong. I could skin the top of your head.”
Reyes reached up and pulled the curl that hung over his forehead. “You better not. I just grew these out.”
“Re-yes,” McCree whined.
“Come on, Liebre,” Reyes grinned.
“This is all sorts of dangerous,” McCree grumbled. He holstered his gun, took off his hat, ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t wanna do this.”
Reyes waited. McCree didn’t draw his gun again. Reyes said, “I’ve seen you pull off harder trick shots.”
“When the enemy’s on the other end of my barrel,” McCree agreed.
“Do I make you that nervous?”
McCree balked. “Aimin’ at you makes me that nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Reyes said thoughtfully.
“You’re a psychopath.”
“A high functioning psychopath,” Reyes said, mocking. “Thank you kindly.”
McCree scowled. “Suicidal ain’t high functionin’. Reyes, this is a-“
“I trust you,” Reyes interrupted.
McCree stilled.
“You’re my best marksman,” Reyes said again, still confident, but now with tones of sincerity. “You can make harder shots than this. I’ve seen it.”
“You’re crazy,” McCree breathed. He almost brought up Amari, changed his mind at the last second. “I could just shoot you right b‘tween the eyes and get the hell outta dodge.”
“I trust you.”
“God only knows why,” McCree said, near pleading. “I ain’t gotta practice Deadeye that bad.”
“What’ll you do if a teammate’s in your line of sight?” Reyes asked.
McCree opened his mouth. He wanted to say he didn’t care about teammates (he didn’t), wanted to say that some nameless bastard wouldn’t ever be on his list of necessities (they wouldn’t). Let me aim at apples on somebody else’s head, he almost begged. He’d hit it easy, he knew; it wasn’t a difficult shot by any measure. Reyes should’ve got that, he thought, should’ve got that McCree didn’t like him being the one underneath the target.
He shut his mouth.
“You’re not going to hit me,” Reyes told him.
“Reyes,” McCree murmured.
There was a pause; Reyes shifted his weight. The apple on his head barely moved. “Your eye starts bleeding,” he said, almost gentle. “Whenever you use Deadeye. Especially for hard shots.”
McCree chewed his lip.
“You’re my best,” Reyes said again. “You’re not going to stay my best if you go blind. Start slow.” He straightened. “I trust you.”
McCree ran his hand through his hair again, then put his hat back on. He exhaled, drew his gun, took aim.
His right eye twitched.
Reassurance
The cabin wasn’t what he expected, but then, he hadn’t exactly known what to expect in the first place. The idea of Jesse McCree with any type of permanent home was nothing short of ridiculous.
“It’s kinda small,” Jesse said apologetically. “Wasn’t uh...wasn’t thinkin’ for two when I built it.”
Gabriel stopped in the middle of the living room, looking it over. Small, yes. Cozy, he thought. “You built this?” he murmured.
Jesse shrugged. “Built it, had it built, whatever you wanna call it.”
“Under whose name?”
“A Mr. Joel Sylvia, if I’m rememberin’ right,” Jesse chuckled. He shut the door, locking it out of habit. “Ain’t like people sign many papers in person, nowadays.”
Gabriel dropped his bag on the floor (light, almost weighed nothing; he hardly owned a thing) and stepped to the fireplace, running calloused fingers over the mantle. “Where’d you get money for it?”
Jesse flashed him a sheepish grin. “Mighta cashed in on my own bounty once.”
Gabriel glanced at the cowboy over his shoulder, brow raised. “Shimada?”
“Genji mighta had a li’l somethin’ to do with it, yeah.”
“What’d you get for it?”
“Oh, I dunno, what was it then...forty-five million, I think?”
Gabriel hummed. When he moved, he floated out of habit, smoke curling around his legs. Jesse stared. Gabriel watched his face and dropped back to the floor, poking his head into the kitchen. Small, little counter space, table only suitable for two thanks to its position in the corner. Quaint.
“Bathroom’s that way,” Jesse went on. He paused, then said, “I uh...I got a guest room, if y’want it. Mine’s at the end of the hall there.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel murmured.
It all seemed surreal, like a dream. Jesse McCree with a house in the mountains. Jesse McCree with a quaint little kitchen. Jesse McCree with a guest bedroom. Jesse McCree.
“You alright?” Jesse asked.
He wasn’t. “I’m fine,” Gabriel said quietly.
“Well now,” Jesse said. He fidgeted, took off his hat and hung it by the door. “Y’know…s’all yours. What’s mine, I mean.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said again, soft.
There was a long pause. Jesse said, “I trust you, y’know...you can stop lookin’ at me like that. This ain’t a joke.”
Gabriel opened his mouth. It was a joke, he wanted to say. Had to be. Didn’t make any sense, he thought, for Jesse to let him into a space so private. It was dangerous too; there wasn’t a soul around for miles, no way to get help if Jesse somehow survived a ‘spontaneous’ mortal wound.
No way to get help if the Reaper came back.
“Thanks,” he managed.
“No problem, angel,” Jesse said, gentle.
Gabriel almost flinched at the name, picked up his bag, and disappeared into the guest room. He skipped dinner and came out to shower, though the only real indication of his presence was the sound of running water and the soft click of the door.
Around two in the morning, Jesse awoke to cool air, to covers drawn back, to a body easing into his bed.