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A lot of the people never got their Marks. Most got only one Mark. If two Marks appeared on one’s skin, it was considered the luckiest outcome in a way, because they were sure to meet their soulmate.
Then there was Jack Morrison, fifteen going on sixteen.
It happened one day, in a shower, when he felt a sting on the inside of his arm. Both symbols were the same.
“For fuck’s sake!” Came the agitated scream. And a crash when his fist made a contact with tiles. It all summed up in a visit to the hospital, five broken bones and a hole in the wall.
*
For Gabriel Reyes, it came as no surprise, considering how the rest of his life was turning out. He just took a look at his shin, raised his eyebrows and took another sip of coffee. Maybe the fact had something to do with how he just decided subconsciously he was going to join the military after graduating.
“Figures,” he muttered under his breath, returning to his homework.
*
Their romance was every bit as volatile as one could suspect. Or a smoking keg of repressed issues. Or ‘the monster in the closet that was going to bust out one day and fuck everything up’, as Ana used to say.
Neither man ever considered showing his Mark to the other, and they were okay with that. Besides, the Marks were considered something extremely private, and with how they were, giving up on finding a soulmate wasn’t that bad of an idea.
Not to mention, with their chosen career path, a bond would complicate everything.
*
Out of people that knew both Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes the best, no one was surprised it all culminated in an explosion that left the two of them very dead.
*
Somehow it turned natural that every time the vigilante known as Soldier 76 and the mercenary called Reaper turned up on the same field of battle, they both singled out each other.
No one questioned it. They had some kind of personal vendetta going on, and at least kept each other occupied, both to Talon’s and the new Overwatch’s relief.
*
It often got very personal, with both Soldier and Reaper coming to physical confrontation rather than trading shots over the distance.
When Soldier’s jacket got torn and Reaper lost his glove in the scuffle, exposed fingers moved over the Mark. They froze in shock with the electric feeling of the both bonds settling in place.
Reaper stared stunned and didn’t notice the right hook that sent him reeling back. He didn’t give a chase after.
*
Next time they met Reaper was very aware of the fact that the vigilante was leading him away from the fight, his position easy to pinpoint with the bond. He was positively sure he would fuck this little shit this time and then blow his brains out. Both literally. No matter the fucking consequences.
He wasn’t surprised when he rounded the corner and came face to face with a barrel of the rifle.
“My, my, aren’t you a feisty one,” Reaper observed mockingly.
“The mask, take it off,” Soldier was not amused.
“You first.”
“Rockets are loaded and my finger is a bit twitchy right now.”
“You’re going to blow yourself up too.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” With a sigh, Reaper complied. He wasn’t prepared for a string of screamed curses that came after he slid his mask off.
“Fuck! I should’ve seen this fucking coming, you fucking arsehole! I’ll fucking fuck you up, you…” As it continued, something clicked.
“…Jackie?” Reaper asked with his voice strangely hitching and breaking.
Later, he conceded that, in fact, he did fuck that little shit and blew his brains out, although the second one definitely figuratively.
*
Tentatively, they did agree, somehow, in-between trying their damnedest to kill each other from a distance (no, neither of them was trying to avoid coming too close to another, perish the thought), to meet in a very public place to at least attempt talking the clusterfuck over. Or attempt attempting.
Gabriel certainly didn’t rent a room in a close by the hotel. He might have reserved it for personal use, though.
“The fuck you looking at?” Jack moved the chair as away from the table as the wall let him. The bottle of vodka was still within his reach and he decided apparently to forego using a glass as he chugged straight from it.
“A fucking boy scout,” Gabriel relished the feral growl that made Jack’s throat vibrate so fucking sexy… Not thinking about that, no, not at all.
“Says the fucking traitor,” the blonde smiled, his teeth bared, and Gabriel thanked the gods for the restraint that didn’t let him jump over the table and strangle the little shit sitting in front of him, no matter how much he wanted to.
“You have no idea…”
“Working for Talon?” A fair point then, not just Jack being difficult, as he usually was. Which didn’t change the fact he was such a fucking shit about that and should already know what Gabriel was doing because that was their plan before it all went to shit.
“Like you are one to say, Jackie,” Gabriel sneered, his fingers almost splintering the wood of the table. “You fucking little…”
“Um,” the waitress that was standing there for the last five minutes finally decided to speak up. “Can I take your order now? Please?” She added in a small voice.
“Another bottle of this,” Jack waved to the vodka. “I’m going to need it to deal with this bloody traitorous arsehole and his fucking shit.”
“I will take the special. And something you scrap from the back of the fridge for him because I’m not getting embarrassed by this little fucking shit when he throws up on himself because he decided it’s a fucking great idea to drink himself into the stupor with an empty stomach, again, little fucking ingrate.” Gabriel recited in one breath.
“Oh, okay,” the waitress eyed them warily and fled.
“For fuck’s sake, it happened only once, you fucker!”
“This time I’m leaving you in your own pool of vomit.”
They spent next ten minutes silently glaring at each other.
*
Next day, Gabriel made sure to leave a very generous tip, to make up for all the furniture they, no, scratch that, the little shit broke.
The fact that Jack tried to strangle him with the curtain cord only once during the whole ordeal brought a beginning of a fond smile to his lips. He squashed this feeling with extreme prejudice.
*
“Dude, isn’t it, like, a bit, you know, extreme?” Lucio eyed Jack as he hefted a pretty big rocket launcher onto his shoulder.
“Nope, not at all,” the man drawled pleasantly, taking the aim carefully. Though, one could say that with the yield, aiming wasn’t really that much of an issue, as long as you tried to point away from your own position. “Bastard had it fucking coming for a fucking long time now.”
Ensuing explosion took out a half of the building, but the preemptive victory cheer of ‘fuck yeah’ proved to be for nothing as Reaper repositioned to a roof adjacent to them. And then, slowly, taking his sweet time, presented exactly one taloned middle finger. The tip of the claw gleamed dangerously in the sunlight.
“Fuck,” Soldier threw away the launcher.
“Like, dude, are you two, like, having a hate quarrel?”
The vigilante didn’t even spare him a glance as he reloaded his rifle and jumped down to the street, accompanied shortly after by Reaper. More explosions followed.
*
“Wot happened to you?” Tracer stood with her mouth agape at the sight. Soldier just shrugged, the jacket falling off his left shoulder where the sleeve was missing – simply torn off. “You look like ye got yerself mauled by a bear… Wait, are those love bites?”
“Fucking certainly not,” came the hissed reply as he passed her on the way to the transport.
*
Widowmaker lined the shot, waiting patiently.
“76 is on the ground,” she noticed. Reaper growled, his attention switching immediately to the matter at hand.
“Shoot him.”
“But the target…”
“I’m not fucking repeating myself, you fucking French tart, shoot him, that’s a fucking order!” Widowmaker rolled her eyes and shifted the focus. She pulled the trigger. “He’s still fucking standing!” Another shot. “Still not fucking dead! You are supposed to never miss a stationary target!”
“I didn’t miss! The bullet, it disappeared!” Amelie sneered at him. Ah. Reaper saw that wisp of black. Treacherous fucking nanites. “And now the window for our primary target is closed!”
“Right, because the prima ballerina can’t shoot the stationary target, I have to do everything by myself,” Reaper snarled, disappearing.
*
“Reaper.”
The mercenary stiffened under Widowmaker’s scrutiny.
“What?”
“Your sex life is even more complicated than mine, it seems.” She gestured with her head to a stain on his coat. One he apparently missed somehow.
“Target was eliminated. Not a fucking word.”
*
They had tried to address the issue again a week later. Reaper had to admit that it definitely was not his most shining moment, not when he stood brandishing a table lamp and trying to threaten Jack with it. Of course, the little shit found it funny enough and just doubled over laughing hysterically, but he was being completely serious.
Which is how he could now claim the title of a person that knocked someone out with a fucking table lamp. But then, it gave him a satisfaction of leaving the little shit tied up for the room service to find later. He just hoped the headboard was capable of withstanding super soldier strength. It kind of did earlier.
*
“Gabe,” Sombra half-whined over the communicator during one of his private endeavors.
“I told you to stop calling me that,” Reaper grunted while sidestepping a swing from the automated mech.
“But your friend is here.”
“I don’t have friends.” She was planning something, he could tell.
“Oh, sorry, Gabe, your ‘boyfriend’ is here.” In retrospection, snapping at her was not the brightest idea he ever had.
“He is not my boy…” Because taking your attention off a very big mech you were trying to disable was never a good idea, and his ribs happily agreed. More so, if it was to try and focus on checking if you actually could feel the little shit in the vicinity.
“Tch. I might end up having to call him, Gabe.”
“Don’t you fucking dare,” he grunted, trying to get up with the mech looming closer.
“Oops, my finger slipped,” Sombra gleefully laughed.
“You fucking little…” The explosion made him snap back to the mech that now wobbled on its legs. It almost looked like a chicken dance.
“Mierda. In my defense, Gabe, uh, I swear that I really didn’t call him, he just was here.”
“What?”
“I was bluffing.” The mech fell forward with a terrible screech of metal bending. “Like, Gabe, you gotta believe me.”
“What?”
“I mean, your ‘boyfriend’ really must be good to actually pull off stalking you.” Great. His goofy sidekick was making a very bad joke that turned out to be true. The universe still hated him. At least that one thing was a constant in his life.
“Fuck off,” Reaper narrowed his eyes, and really, really wasn’t sure to whom he was addressing the words now. His dislike was now divided between Sombra, and Jack standing over him. “Both of you.”
The little shit just plopped down by his side, back to the wall, and placed a biotic emitter between them.
“This doesn’t change a thing,” Jack growled unclasping his mask so he could glare, in person, at him. “I still fucking hate your guts, you fucking arsehole.”
“The feeling’s mutual, you little shit.”
“So I’m not letting any fucking Helix goon fucking shoot you up before I kill you.” Jack leaned closer, showing teeth in a hateful grimace, which was not doing his face any favors. “And I’m definitely not fucking helping you infiltrate their motherfucking base.”
“Oh, perish the thought.” Reaper slid off his own mask, so the eye roll was visible. “Like you were ever the helpful one.”
“Said the arsehole that blew me right sky-high.”
“And the little shit obviously deserved it.”
And no, they did not start making out like two horny teenagers. Definitely not.
“I don’t want to ruin the mood, but they are coming to check up why the mech went off the grid, los amantes.”
Right. There was that other thing too. They did try to avoid the eye contact for the time being.
*
It was only during the next Talon assignment he took only because of the price tag attached that Reaper – with considerable defiance – did decide that his priorities did, in fact, need a full overhaul. Because the sudden frantic panic that seized him out of the blue had no explanation, at least not until Widowmaker broke the radio silence.
“76 in on the ground again. Wounded him. Relaying coordinates.”
Right. As usual, it was all the little shit’s fault. The fact that he was on the verge of going into full blown hysterics with an undercurrent of glee. What the actual fuck?
“On target,” Reaper ground out, trying very hard not to sound too eager. Or fucking panicked. Which he without a doubt was at the moment. And a little bit happy. This fucking bond thing was confusing more than ever now.
“Sombra, cut the communications,” he barked into the coded channel when he found the blood trail.
“Worried about the boyfriend, Gabe?” She quipped over the clicking keys. Yes, he fucking was, Reaper admitted, but at the same time suspiciously elated. Everything aside, they really had to sort out this whole fucking mess.
“Abso-fucking-lutely not,” Reaper growled, ghosting between the metal cargo crates and following the track of decidedly too much blood for his liking.
“Not even a…”
“Shut it.”
Of course, the little shit spat blood on him and rasped out ‘fuck off’ before fainting.
*
And the next day they (yes, he was using the plural now) broke the bed in the little flat Reaper kept off the grid. The little shit made pancakes for lunch. Then they broke the table and put a hole in the ceiling.
Later Reaper got a frying pan to the face after he had voiced his disapproval of the fact they were having pancakes again. That small detail that the pancake mix and milk were the only things he had stocked was inconsequential.
*
When it was the fourth time that the pancakes loomed over the horizon they went out for the groceries and had a screaming match in the produce aisle. Reaper nailed the little shit with a well-thrown zucchini.
*
Three days in, the apartment was just beyond the point of being recoverable without a full renovation.
“Fuck off,” Jack almost kicked his teeth in – not entirely on purpose this time – while curling between the blankets on the floor. “I’m tired. Your fucking turn to cook.”
“Right,” Gabriel yawned and stretched. “Pasta?”
“Garlic sauce.”
“Are there any tomatoes left?”
“Fridge.”
“Right.”
*
“Dios mio,” Sombra muttered when she got an eyeful after breaking in. “How are you both still alive? It stinks here like a cathouse! And who the fuck managed to rip off the sink? And why is it stuck in the ceiling?”
“So many questions, so little answers,” Jack shrugged.
*
A week off took a little explaining. What made it better was the knowledge the little shit got it worse.
But then, a month later, Reaper decided that he finally had his priorities straight. Whatever Jack thought about that, was his own fucking business.
“We’re switching to the other team.”
“Came to your senses, Gabe?” Sombra giggled. “Missing the boyfriend’s polla that much?” He did not dignify that with an answer. “Hope you’re all packed up, running the Talon protocol.”
*
The Talon protocol apparently involved calling the motherfucking Jack who still packed a mean punch even without the frying pan. The kiss made it bearable.
“Took you long enough, you fucking arsehole.”
“Well, Jackie, not everyone is a regular psychopath just like you.”
“Los amantes, we are on the schedule here,” Sombra tapped her wrist. Jack shut the door in her face. “Soulmates! Who needs them! We’ve got fifteen minutes to spare!” She shouted at them through the wood.
Twelve was enough. Exactly three minutes later Talon agents converged on their position. First, the whole building went up in flames. Then the continuous fire from fusion cannons took out most of the stragglers and the rest fell under well-aimed pulse shots.
“Since when did you both have this planned out?” Gabriel shook his head. Not even that surprised.
“Oh, I don’t know, Gabe, about…” Sombra looked to Jack.
“A month,” Jack finished for her while beckoning the pink mech closer.
“You crazy son of a bitch.”
“And you love me exactly because of that,” Jack rolled up his sleeve to show that there was now only one Mark in red. Gabriel chuckled.
“That I do, Jackie, but that’s in spite of, not because of.”
“Whatever makes you sleep better at night, babe.”