Work Text:
Homecoming
Besides the mountain of paperwork that awaited him, the only thing on his mind was a shower.
The mission had taken longer than expected and had very nearly been a disaster to boot. Gabriel blamed himself for it; he’d expected what apparently was too much for his team, or rather, he’d expected what he was used to seeing McCree pull off. It was a little concerning how out of step he’d been without McCree as his partner, how used to the cowboy’s outlandish tactics he was.
Regardless, the mission had been a success. Now bruised, bloodied, and aching, Gabriel just wanted a nice, hot shower and a long, well deserved rest.
He pulled off his beanie, mussing his curls as he stepped into the bathroom. He realized then that he would never get any rest because the moment he entered, McCree looked up with a grin and said, “Well hey there, gorgeous. Why, you seem familiar. Come here often?”
Gabriel paused, then grinned back, teasing. “I dunno...Haven’t I killed you somewhere before?” he answered, as always, then clicked his tongue in mock irritation. “Just my luck,” he said, eyeing Jesse’s towel clad form, “Running into you again.”
“Just your luck indeed,” Jesse replied, sliding up to kiss him. “Missed you.”
Gabriel hummed softly, brushing his nose against Jesse’s before giving another chaste kiss. “Missed you,” he murmured. He watched water drop from Jesse’s hair to his shoulders, then met the cowboy’s gaze with glittering eyes. “You showered without me,” he said, pretending to pout.
“Had t’be smellin’ nice when my angel came back.” Jesse laughed, nipped his lip, then added, playful, “I could take another.”
“Think you’d better,” Gabriel teased. “You still smell bad.”
“That’s you!” Jesse exclaimed, wiping a smudge of dirt from Gabriel’s face. “Look at you, sugar. Messy.”
Gabriel tugged at Jesse’s towel, grimacing. “I’m banning you from going on missions without me,” he said.
“What, Gorelli wasn’t good enough for you?” Jesse grinned, plainly pleased by this idea.
“Mission almost went south,” Gabriel grumbled. Jesse was fiddling with the button of his pants, and Gabriel tugged the towel free from the cowboy’s waist. “Dessaul got shot, Vance broke an arm, etcetera, etcetera...”
“Poor baby,” Jesse crooned, backing him into a shower stall. “What on earth wouldja do without me, sugar?”
“I’d still have normal expectations for my agents, for starters,” Gabriel said. Jesse assisted in pulling off his hoodie. “Probably wouldn’t be kissing one of my subordinates, either.”
Jesse snorted. “Now, wouldn’t that be borin’,” he said.
Gabriel started the water. Jesse pulled off Gabriel’s undershirt. Gabriel circled his arms around his waist. Jesse combed fingers through his hair. Gabriel nibbled at his throat while Jesse fretted over fresh bruises, asked if he’d been to the infirmary to disinfect his cuts.
“I’m fine,” Gabriel insisted.
“’Course you are, honey, but that ain’t got anythin’ t’do with your health,” Jesse teased.
“Terrible,” Gabriel tsked. He exhaled. “I missed you.”
“Sweetheart,” Jesse murmured. He pressed close, kissed fondly. Gabriel entertained a brief thought of forever.
Retrieval
The new agent wore strange clothes.
It was an immediate clue that he was important. Average agents - humans, that is, with ordinary talents, not killing machines - dressed in tactical gear, in matching uniforms. This agent looked like something out of an old movie. Reaper wasn’t sure which one, but he thought it must be absolutely ancient.
He wore a dark suit, mostly, though the jacket was replaced with a patterned cloak that fit over one shoulder. Blue and gold adorned his clothes and his hat in small slivers of color. He wore a rather cliche mask over his eyes, and the rest of his face was shrouded in blue silk. On one hand, he wore a glove. The other was a prosthetic.
“Howdy,” the man said - Southern...no, Southwestern - and Reaper swore his eyes glittered.
“Didn’t know we were getting a new agent,” Reaper replied by way of greeting.
“Didn’t know I was gettin’ a partner so quick,” the man returned. His voice implied a smile and a little something else. Awe? Glee? Reaper didn’t know.
“What’s your codename?” Reaper asked.
“Whatever you’d like it t’be, sugar,” the man said. He winked, and Reaper felt slightly flustered for some reason. “Say,” he went on, “you look familiar.”
“Haven’t I killed you somewhere before?” Reaper answered. The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners; Reaper wasn’t sure why he said that.
He decided to call the agent Mystery Man for the time being.
...
It was a week before they were given orders. They had stormed another organization’s territory, wiped out most of the members, and took their supply for Talon. It was startling how well they worked together. It was almost like dancing, like they’d practiced, and Reaper saw immediately why the Mystery Man wasn’t given a standard uniform.
“You ever read The Gunslinger?” Mystery Man asked, sudden.
“No,” Reaper answered, automatic. He thought about it again later, decided to look up the plot, and frowned when he realized that yes, he had read it, many times.
...
Mystery Man’s weapon bothered him. He wasn’t sure why, couldn’t put his finger on it to save his life. What sort of fool used a revolver in this day and age? There was a spur on it, for Christ’s sake. The handle looked like a goddamn boot.
He’d seen it somewhere before, and that bothered him.
“Does he seem familiar to you?” Reaper asked Widowmaker finally, after deciding he didn’t want to owe Sombra any favors.
Widowmaker sniffed. “I have spoken to him all but once, and he conceals his face, and you ask me if I know him.”
He shouldn’t have bothered asking. She wouldn’t remember him, if she had known him.
He felt a prickling uneasiness at the thought and for a moment wondered if something was amiss.
...
It clicked when Mystery Man whistled.
That was another thing that bothered him about his masked partner, how calm he was during conflict, how much he bled confidence with a gun in his hands, like he was born holding it. The tune was slow and soothing, not the type of music you’d expect of a battlefield. It suited idle touches, suited curling up against a lover, suited fingers combing through curls.
That was what he remembered first, and then everything else came back in one fast rush until his head was thumping and his heart was pounding. The memories of the war were clear, the aftermath of it in pieces, unimportant. Memories of Blackwatch came out of order. Memories of Jesse McCree came by order of importance.
Mystery Man saw him stumble on the field, he was sure. Neither of them said anything about it.
...
He waited a few days. He needed to get his thoughts straight.
Some things were still fuzzy. He didn’t remember exactly how he came to work for Talon. The gritty details of the Zurich explosion were almost non-existent. The few months before that were hazy too. There was an ache in his chest as he recalled discovering Jesse’s absence, a deeper ache when he recalled Jesse’s presence.
He thought about Mystery Man, about his partner reassignment, about the spur on the gun and the cloak about his shoulders. McCree. He should’ve realized. Everything about the stranger, now that he thought about it, was reminiscent of McCree.
He remembered reading The Gunslinger, sometimes out loud, sometimes with Jesse’s head in his lap. He almost laughed.
The next time he passed Mystery Man in the hall, he let their hands brush. Mystery Man stopped for a moment, started whistling softly, and went on his way.
...
They met again in the hall at night, after Sombra and Widowmaker had left for a mission. For a moment, it was quiet. Gabriel whispered, “You seem familiar.”
Mystery Man huffed softly, a laugh, and answered, “Ain’t I killed you somewhere before?” He hooked one finger over the edge of his scarf, pulling it down just a smidge. “Hello again, angel.”
No one ever thought anything of agents disappearing into each other’s rooms, so they did exactly that, unhurried so as to not arouse suspicion. Gabriel shushed him upon entering, lights left off. They felt each other’s hands in the dark, signing to communicate without risk, asking questions and answering to the best of their ability. Jesse laid out a plan of escape. Gabriel marveled that he was being rescued.
They stopped for a moment, not moving. Jesse brought Gabriel’s hands up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles, a soft and delicate little thing. Missed you, he signed. I’m sorry.
Gabriel leaned into him, a lump swelling in his throat, mouthed Missed you against Jesse’s jaw.
They embraced for uncounted hours, parted ways only to collect a small bit of belongings. Confrontations were dealt with swiftly; with Sombra and Widowmaker (Amélie, Gabriel recalled abruptly) gone, the only agents left on base wore uniforms.
They stole a hoverbike, abandoned it in Belarus, hitch-hiked on trains across Europe to a small safehouse in Slovenia. They ditched their clothes in favor of civilian attire, burned the old ones just in case. Jesse produced a set of fake IDs and passports. They train hopped again, this time to the coast, then took a plane to the States and landed in South Dakota, where Jesse had a truck stashed. They drove to Montana, country music and old, classic rock drowning out the uncomfortable silence. Gabriel fell asleep against the window two hours in.
When he woke up, they were in the mountains.