Chapter Text
The first time Reaper gets the new intel he thinks it's a fake. Jack fucking Morrison, living in some subdivision in fucking Mexico, of all places, sounds like something that Sombra would make up to mess with him. Like that time in Nicaragua.
So, surprise surprise when he picks his way through back alleys and subway lines to a nice neighborhood on the outskirts of the big city, a street with flowering vines overflowing the fences and an inordinate amount of gum on the sidewalks, only to find the asshole kneeling in the dirt planting carrots.
It makes his blood boil, and his flesh writhe, the injustice of it. He leaves the stink of ash where he steps and looks as though he were dug out of the fucking ground, and pretty boy Morrison gets to live the American fucking Dream.
Ain't that fucking typical.
From his vantage point in the attic of the house next door he could kill him.
The attic doesn't even have a window, just a broken vent with a lazily spinning fan, like something out an old horror film. It would be the easiest thing in the world to flow down from his perch and choke him to death.
Nothing personal, nothing violent. Just smoke in the air, all around him. In his lungs.
Scratch that 'nothing personal'. There is no death more personal than that, and imagining it feels good .
But.
He doesn't move.
It's too easy, obviously some Overwatch ploy to draw him out. The man's been making a name for himself as a mercenary these past years and showed no sign of slowing down. The small two story with the too small front yard and bright blue siding don't fit the profile. Even if he did kill Morrison, no doubt there are a dozen soldiers inside, just waiting to put rounds through him. He'd get his revenge, sure, but he wouldn't even live long enough to see the look on Morrison's corpse.
He watches the shadow slide across the room, slats of light catching on the brass buckles of an old steamer trunk, as the fan rhythmically sliced across the beams. The coolness of the evening was gusting in from outside, even as the humidity of the day still lingered in the attic, damp and heavy in his lungs. He wouldn't kill Morrison today. He would wait. And watch. There was definitely something else going on.
The first time Reaper comes, he's trying to remember which one is a carrot and which one is a weed. It's not going too well.
He doesn't even know why he is growing carrots. He hates carrots.
He's made vague plans of what he's going to do with this hypothetical crop of carrots when he hears the intimidating click of a shotgun safety being turned off.
Or. well. It would be intimidating. Really, no kidding, it probably sounds really scary. To someone else.
But it's been a real long time since he was afraid of dying.
He feels the sunwarmed metal rest lightly at his nape. Jack frowns but doesn't move. He really doesn't have a choice to move at this point. "Alright. You got me. Now what."
He still can't figure out which one is the dammed carrot.
His pulse rifle is in the front closet. Too far to reach. His pulse is slow and steady in his ears, a comforting throb. His trowel is dull and short. It might help him. he just sighs and pulls the plant that looks slightly less lacy in the greens.
He swears. It was a carrot.
“Well, well Morrison, on your knees in the dirt. Did you finally figure out your pla-” “Hey, hand me that spade.” “What”
Jack twists to look at him, resting his weight on one knee, the dampness of the earth soaking into his pants. He raises one brow. “Spade. Trowel. That thing we used to dig latrines with.” He waves a free hand over to the porch. He can see it, partially hidden by the shotgun barrel in his face, but still sitting on the horrible puke green boards. He wiggles the half grown carrot. It looks pretty sad.
“I need to replant this.”
For a long minute they just stare at each other. Reaper doesn’t say anything. His body language is unreadable, but if Jack had to make guesses he’d say something about wounded pride, or simple rage. It seems like the sort of thing he’d feel these days.
Something in the air seems to snap as he whips the shotgun up from where it had drooped, and presses the cold metal against his head.
The clink of metal against metal as it digs his visor into his skin seems almost deafening. Reaper's trigger finger twitches and he still doesn’t say a word he closes his eyes and prepares to die in the middle of weeding his fucking garden.
"Now, Morrison. You die on your knees like a fucking dog." Jack isn't even fucking worried. There is no adrenaline. He is just so fucking done. A voice interrupts them before Jack can say 'I'm a cat person actually.' and he should probably be really grateful for that.
A woman on the street with dark bushy hair was leaning on his mailbox, a crooked smile on her face, but eyebrows furrowed together.
She wasn't quite swinging the totally not worried look.
She was gripping her backpack strap too tightly and with the enhanced vision of his visor he can pick out the individual drops of sweat beading on her temple. He recognizes her. She brought him a willow cutting from her trip back home. She lives across the street with three other girls and still makes fun of him because of the time he sunburned when working out front. He'd offer her a smile. But. Reyes is ready to put a round of buckshot in his second cervical vertebrae, and probably bits of his occipital lobe.
Maybe now's not a good time. His neighbors were supposed to stay out of it. Apparently big city rules are different.
She smiles at him though, fake only in the corners of her eyes and when she speaks her voice is steady. He should give her the carrots as a thank you. You know. If he got out of this.
“Oi, Blanquito!” He felt more than saw Reaper’s attention snap to the woman leaning over his gate. Jack tensed.
He saw her flinch back at what she saw under the hood, and she reached up to grip the strap of her backpack. She visibly hesitated before continuing brazenly, brows furrowing.
“You got a safe word to go with all that leather, Abuelo?” She gestured up and down Reaper. She cracked a wavering smile, her eyes not moving from Reaper. “Usually people work that out before bringing out the big guns.” He almost laughs at the pun. He can't remember how many times Lena used that one. He stays very still.
“Kid, we worked that one out years ago.”
The shotgun barrel presses hard against his temple. And then. Well. He's gone. An incredibly cold rush of black vapor surrounds him before spiralling up and away, leaving only the lingering smell of old ash in his nose.
Out of the corner of your vision you see Romana sag against your fence, making it creak alarmingly. Flakes of old green paint fall into the grass. Idly he hopes they don't have lead in them. Bad for the environment.
“Oh dios. The fuck was that, old man?”
He stands on legs stiff from kneeling, winces at the pins and needles as blood rushes back into his legs. He moves over to her, running a hand through thinning hair with a sigh.
“You shouldn't have gotten involved. He's dangerous.” She gives him a wry smile.
“The fuckin’ guns certainly didn't give that away.” she looks at the ground, shaken, before looking back up at the house across the street. “Jolie will never believe this.” She spreads her hands out like she's framing a picture in front of her. “I can see it now, Blanquito. My life flashed before my eyes, and I could see exactly what tomorrow's newspapers would have read! Volcanologist PhD student killed by weird looking porn star!” She laughs and starts to make for her house across the street before turning back to look at him. “I think the papers would eat that up.”
Jack chuckles. “Where do I fit in, in that hypothetical situation?”
“Page six.” She shoots back at him with a wink and a hair flip.
Part of him dismays the fact that he knows there's a term for what she does with her hair, but the rest of him looks down the street to where Reaper disappeared.
He sighs heavily, looks at the carrot in his hand, and goes to get his fucking trowel.