Work Text:
It’s been thirty years since Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes have been on the same team together. That’s thirty years of petty bickering the two have to get through.
Ana doesn’t know what she was expecting. Obviously the two of them want to do what’s best for their mission, but if there’s one thing she knows from their original team, it’s that Gabe and Jack are each other’s biggest distractions.
Like now. As Ana sits at the debriefing table on the ship looking over her notes, Gabe is standing behind Jack, who’s fiddling with the digital map projection. He’s staring at his back intently and Ana can tell that Jack is watching Gabe out of his peripheral vision. Gabe begins circling behind Jack slowly, keeping eye contact with his back. Suddenly, Gabe plucks Jack’s arm up from it’s place on the table and turns his forearm up.
“Did you stitch this yourself?”, he asks, turning Jack’s arm over in his hand and pointing to his jacket seam. Jack pulls his arm back, gripping his sleeve as he does. When he removes his visor, his face is twisted into a frown.
“Maybe”, he grumbles, placing his visor on the table and turning his eyes away from the other man’s gaze, a telltale sign that yes, he did stitch it himself.
“You did stitch this yourself”, Gabe says and Ana can hear him smirking under his mask.
“Children”, Ana chimes, trying to ease the situation before it begins. “Behave”. But they both ignore her. Typical.
“So what?”, Jack says.
“So your stitches are too loose”, Gabe responds, his tone harsh with critique. “This piece of fabric hasn’t even been sown at the correct angle. I’m surprised you haven’t had to restitch this every time you turn too fast”. Ana rolls her eyes. That’s Reyes for you; always offering blunt, unsolicited comments.
“I’m a soldier, not a seamstress”, Jack retorts.
“And I’m a wanted terrorist, but this is just sloppy”.
“This jacket took a grenade protecting a child from the Los Muertos gang”.
“That doesn’t mean it has to look like it”. Ana watches as Gabe reaches into his cloak pocket and retrieves a small silver case. He pops the clasp and it opens to reveal a small sewing kit tucked inside. Gabe sets it on the table. He always did carry one of those around. “Take off your jacket, let me see what I can do”.
“It’s fine”, Jack glares.
“I can’t be seen with you if your jacket is going to look like that”, Gabe retaliates.
“Don’t be dramatic”, Ana says.
“I’m not, I have a reputation to uphold”, he responds, plucking a needle and a black spool of thread out of the case.
“As the most dramatic member of Talon”, Jack mumbles.
“As the best dressed member of Talon”, Gabe corrects him as he threads the needle.
“Don’t let Amélie overhear you say that”, Ana mutters.
“She would agree, I designed her outfit myself”, he replies. “Now let me see your jacket”.
“No”, Jack huffs. Gabe reaches for Jack’s sleeve, but he jerks his arm away.
“Stop being difficult”, he says, reaching for it again.
“Fuck off”, Jack says, stepping out of his reach.
“You fuck off, but give me your jacket first”. Gabe tries to grab for his collar, but Jack smacks his hands away, wheeling around to face him.
“I swear if you try to touch me again--”
“You’ll do what? Blow up the Swiss headquarters and leave me for dead?”.
"You left me for dead”.
“Can you blame me? Look at your stupid jacket”.
“You’re always so difficult”.
"I'm difficult??”, Gabe growls. “You’re the one who won’t just let me see your jacket”. He reaches for it again, but Jack shoves him back. Gabe grabs Jack’s wrist, holding it in place, as he tries to slip his hand through the front opening, but Jack pulls back and Gabe’s fingers brush the worn leather. Ana is dumbfounded by the sheer childishness she is witnessing.
“Give it to me, Morrison”, he says, still holding his wrist, going in for another grab, but Jack catches his hand.
“You’ll have to pry it off of my body, Reyes”, Jack taunts, shoving him into the table. This is Hakim’s Compound all over again. Jack lets go of Gabe’s hand, but Gabe is still gripping his wrist and it gives him the leverage to push Jack to the ground. Unfortunately for Gabe, as Jack crashes to the floor, he grabs a handful of his cloak’s sleeve, bringing Gabe down with him. Now they’re rolling on the floor, fists and elbows flying.
“I’m trying to help you”, Gabe sneers, throwing a right hook that Jack dodges.
“I don’t need your help!”, Jack yells, trying to restrain him on the ground with his arms around his back. But it’s a basic move that everyone knows Gabe can escape from, and sure enough he does, turning the tides and wrestling Jack to the ground with him. He grabs for the opening again, catching a fistful in his hand, and tugs.
“Give me your stupid fucking jacket!”.
“It’s my stupid fucking jacket!”.
“And you look fucking stupid! Let me fix it!”.
“NO!!”, Jack shouts before punching him in the face.
“You’re such an asshole!”
“I hate you!!”
“I HATE YOU TOO--”
“BOYS”, Ana shrieks, finally losing her patience with the two of them, slamming her hands down on the table. They both stop, wide-eyed, and look up at her from the floor. Jack’s cheek is swollen and bruised and Gabe’s mask is cracked. Silently, she rejoices in the fact that even after thirty years, they still freeze when she raises her voice. She stands from her seat at the table and takes a deep breath. “We do not have the time or the luxury to sit quietly while you two work through thirty years of your unresolved sexual tension”. Jack’s mouth drops open and a blush creeps into his cheeks. Gabe drops the fistful of Jack’s shirt that’s in his hand.
“We don’t have sexual tension”, Gabe mumbles.
“Keep telling yourself that”, Ana bites back, glaring and the venom in her voice is enough to silence Gabe. “Jack go work in your room. Gabe, stay here. I’m going to check on both of you in an hour and you better have something done”. She slams her log binder closed and lifts it into her arms. She wheels around and exits the debriefing room, leaving them tangled on the floor together.
She heads towards the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, the only thing she thinks will keep her calm in the coming weeks with them.