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“With my face, I figured it would’ve been something like Zachariah.” The statement is a strange turn for a conversation they are definitely not having.
“Jonathan,” Reaper answers without looking up from the tablet.
“God. It’s even worse. You’re serious? Can I go back to Zachariah?” He can almost swear there is a note of plea in Soldier’s voice.
“I was joking.”
“Thank Christ. But that’s a rare one,” Soldier chuckles, his fingers doing automatic maintenance on the rifle, muscle memory not lost through years at its best, fast and effective, meticulous even. “Or Bartholomew.”
“You are bored. Find something worthwhile to do.”
“I did. I’m talking with you, Reaper.”There it is, the cursed bull-headedness, and the only way this discourse is coming to an end is if he either absconds with his straining sanity intact now (usually there would have been a retribution later, subtle, but substantial) or just humors the man with useless banter. Reaper sighs, eyelids dropping down for a moment.
“Do you want me to tell you?” A pause, the fingers stopping in their movement for a fleeting second, then Soldier lapses back into the routine.
“Might as well.”
“Jack. It’s Jack.” Reaper observes the vigilante as he mulls it over, stumbling once or twice in the motions. “Should I call you that now, Soldier?”
“Nah,” the man responds with a sudden lopsided grin. “Ain’t that one anymore, am I?”
“No,” he can’t distinguish if he is grateful now, or is it regret stinging in the back of his throat.
“Besides, you don’t seem like you liked him much, what’s with the greeting.” Soldier picks up suede cloth and works on the oil residue.
“Opinions may vary,” Reaper puts away the datapad, the tension in the room too perceptible to idle.
“I think you hated his guts,” blue eyes search him for an answer to a question he is not sure was even voiced between them.
“Only sometimes. He was annoying.”
“You’re full of shit, Reaper,” Soldier shrugs, dropping the subject, but the set of his lips and jaws tells another story. He is about to share something, anything, when a notification pops up on the tablet. Reaper stands up, his coat enveloping him in black wisps, but a lingering touch on his forearm stops him on the way out. “Stay safe out there.”
‘Stay safe out there, Gabe,’ a ghost whispers. He curtly nods.
After all, there is comfort in memories and shades.