McCree visits
Jan. 22nd, 2013 09:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonshadows"Ana! looking lovely as ever," McCree says, sweeping her a hatless bow. "I didn't know you had a dog."
Tia Ana looks down at the doberman dozing with his head on her knee, where he'd been getting lazy scritches. "He arrived with Sombra," she says evasively. "Perhaps you would like to pet him?"
The dog in question opens one eye and starts growling.
"Uh...I don't think that's such a good idea," McCree says, backing away.
The doberman gets to his feet, ready to follow, still growling.
I close my screens. "Papi!"
He pauses briefly, glancing my way, but then goes back to growling at McCree.
"In the can," I order as Ana opens her mouth to chide him. "Now!"
Again he looks at me, clearly weighing how serious I am against how badly he wants to terrorize his former friend. Turns his head back to the cowboy-
"If I have to threaten you," I tell him sternly, "you gonna regret it. Get in the can, now."
Reaper hesitates another few seconds before dissolving into smoke and flowing into the can. I reach over and close the lid, giving him a dose of endorphins as I do. When I look up, Ana looks grimly pleased and McCree looks like he just narrowly escaped death. I flash him an apologetic smile.
"Sorry about that, amigo. We still working on housebreaking him." I shoot the can a look. "Papi, get your face out here and use your words."
The screen that serves as eyes and face opens to show a representation of Reaper's heavily-wisping head. "You shot me."
McCree looks uncertainly at me. I gesture him forward.
"It's okay, he stuck in there until I let him out. Come on, sit and talk. I'll be right here," I add soothingly, although which one I'm trying to soothe is up for grabs.
Gingerly, the trash cowboy sits on the floor in front of the can, and I join him.
"Not going to deny it?" Reaper snarls.
McCree shrugs. "Can't deny a fact. I did shoot you."
Time to cut the usual song and dance short before it starts. "We been over this, Papi. You know he was not trying to kill you. Why you so angry?"
He seethes at that for a minute before spitting out, "You shot me, and you didn't even hesitate."
Okay, now we're getting somewhere. "He's upset that you displayed no indecision, and is assuming that means you had no conflicting emotions about shooting him, or felt no remorse for it," I translate. Reaper wisps heavily at having his thoughts unpacked like that.
"You charged at me in Houston and would have killed me if I hadn't beat it," McCree protests. "What'm I supposed to think about that? Your d- your Sombra here told me that it was okay to shoot you because you don't die, and I do still enjoy livin', so when I was afraid that you wouldn't hesitate to kill me, I shot you!"
More wisping. "You tried to take her to a movie." The emphasis makes it clear he's talking about the polite fiction between whore and customer.
"I did," he admits. "Because I thought she was the kind of girl that fellas like me take to movies. And I ain't judgin', but if that came as a surprise to you, then I hate t'be the one to break it to you, but your girl here's done that routine before and it ain't fair to blame me for being set up like that."
Reaper just growls.
"With everything that happened," McCree says, "if you'd been me and seen what you turned into..." The sentence trails off and when he speaks again, it's in a quieter voice the bleeds hurt confusion. "I thought you wanted me dead. Sombra here told me you don't, and she probably saved my life when she shut you down, but t'be honest, when you started growling at me, I was sure you were gonna rip my throat out right there in front of Ana. All we been through, and I got no confidence you won't kill me if she's not there to stop you. How'm I supposed to feel about that?"
The silence stretches, with Reaper wisping more and more heavily and McCree looking more and more dejected. Knowing how much it was tearing Reaper apart when I shut him down, how tangled his emotions are after betrayal and years of poisoned words, this has got to be a horrible kick in the gut and I can't hide that I'm wincing.
Finally, Reaper growls, "Trust Sombra," and the face screen closes.
"What's that supposed to mean?" McCree protests. "Hey - you - I think you owe me more of an explanation than that!"
His outrage quiets when I put my hand on his arm - not the mechanical one - and shake my head. Another hit of endorphins for Reaper, and I gesture my trash cowboy brother to the far side of the room.
"He don't want you dead," I start quietly once we're far enough away from the can. "Talon twisted him all up inside, but he don't want you dead and he gonna be kicking himself for a while that he fucked things up so badly with you. We did a lot of talking," I add dryly. "He still hurt over the things that happened, and he gonna have a hard time letting the walls down to actually talk about how he feels, so don't hold your breath waiting, but when he said to trust me? What he means is he wants to build that burned-down bridge again but he don't trust himself to not mess it up so if you want to build it again, too..."
McCree groans and rubs his face with his non-metal hand. "I do. Lord help me, but I do."
"...then trust me to keep him from setting it on fire until he's in a better place and he can actually open up. I tell you what I told Winston and Jack: I'm fighting to get him to a place where he can be Gabriel again, but he thinks no one wants him to be Gabriel again. Ana treating him like he never stopped being Gabriel. I'm treating him like he still worthy of all the things Gabriel had, even if he still Reaper. Up to you how you want to do things."
He's silent for a moment, eyes on Reaper's can. "Why does he let you call him Papi?"
I bite back a laugh. "To be honest? Because after Houston, he knows I can claim I mean gang boss if anyone asks. He won't let himself be a part of anything that might make him soft like admitting he cares about the annoying Latina that calls herself his daughter, but as long as there's a way for him to pretend he's not..." I make a 'what can you do?' gesture. "I know he cares. He knows I care. We cover it up with pretending to be annoying and pretending to be annoyed, but he knows I won't hurt him and he took bullets for me."
"He never took bullets for me," McCree grumbles under his breath.
"He did, actually." That has his attention. "In Serbia. There was a sniper aiming at you. Reaper blocked the shot and took three rounds before Widow took the sniper out." I open a screen to show a heavily-wisping, snarling Reaper rock back from the impact as another slug catches him in the shoulder, McCree barely visible behind him crouched behind some crates, having a shoot-out with the sniper's friends. When the third shot catches him in the chest, he holds himself together for a few seconds and then dissolves into smoke and flows away, and I close the screen. "He ate three guards to recover, although I think that was more frustration that he couldn't eat the sniper. Told himself, told me it was because he wanted to kill you himself, but he was lying and we both knew it."
McCree stares at me for a long minute. "He ate three guys because their buddy took a shot at me? Huh. I don't know whether to feel flattered, or just plain creeped out."
I shrug. "It's okay to feel both. Until I started poking things, he thought he had to eat people to survive and after the fight with Winston, there were days when he'd finish a mission limping and bleeding smoke with some bullshit about how he couldn't catch anyone, but I think those days, he was feeling like a person enough that the thought of eating people to heal didn't sound good."
"Well, there goes my appetite." He tries to play it like a joke, but his eyes are on the can again. "I think I'm just gonna mosey on over to the local tavern and have a drink or three to settle my stomach. Uh...don't wait up on my account," he says in Ana's direction.
Then he tips his hat and half-bows to both of us, gives the can another long look, and slips out of the room.
===
Reaper is silent the rest of the evening. The only word he speaks is "no" when I tell him I'm going to bed and ask if he's coming with me. His mass is too simple, too damaged in his usual form to allow true sleep, but as a dog, he can not only sleep but dream as well, and with the things that happened in the last decade...
Well, he has a significant backlog of nightmare fuel for his subconscious to process, and in the week or so since we introduced the form, I haven't had a single night yet where he didn't come to me for scritches and comfort.
"Okay," I tell him, opening the lid. "Just remember, you need to come to me, just do it. You don't need permission. I not gonna tell you no."
=
I'm not sure what time it is when I register unspecified weight on my legs and feet and wake up at least halfway. There's no shape to the weight, which lets me know that there's a cloud of Reaper on the foot of my bed.
"I told you, you don't need permission..."
I don't bother finishing the sentence, I just throw the blanket back and half-watch as the puddle of black mist flows onto the floor and then solidifies into the doberman that climbs into bed with me and huddles, shaking, under the blanket as I toss it back over him.
After a drowsy handful of minutes hugging him and scratching behind his ears, I murmur, "Need to talk?"
The answer I get is just a low whine, deep in his throat, and a doggie nose burrowing half under my head.
"Okay. Wake me if you need to talk," I tell him, and drift back to sleep with my arms full of trembling doberman.
=
"I fucked up," growls a familiar voice right next to my ear. "He probably hates me."
"He doesn't hate you," I reply, moving my hand from his side to his ears without opening my eyes. "He wants to rebuild. Not gonna say you didn't fuck up, but you didn't fuck up completely."
"He thinks I would have killed him, and he's probably right."
The way he goes rigid in my arms makes me think he's biting back the rest of that spiraling train of thought. "You did a lot of bad things, and a lot of bad things were done to you. Gonna take time to sort it all out and figure out how you actually feel. You gonna need to talk things over with him, apologize for some things and let him apologize if he needs to, and most of all remember that he wants to rebuild, and you want to rebuild, so you both on the same side even if things go slow."
There's several minutes of quiet petting after that, enough time for me to wake up and orient myself in time. Eight-thirty. "Why didn't you just crawl under the blanket?" I ask quietly, disrupting whatever spiral he's worked himself into. "Why did you wait for me to wake up?"
"I couldn't," he growls quietly.
"Oh, Papi, no...nightmares too bad to even hold dog shape?"
A deep whine is all the answer I get, and I hug him tighter.
"How about we spend the day in the park today? Chase some sticks if you're feeling up to it, nap in the sun or under a tree if you're not?"
"That...sounds good," he says reluctantly, like it's an effort to admit he might enjoy something.
"Maybe get you a hot dog or some ice cream while we're out, hmm?"
His tail starts wagging slightly. I've got him there.
"I won't say no," he concedes dryly.
I pat his shoulder and sit up. "Okay. I go get you some breakfast and your collar and leash, and I be right back."
Reaper nods and sticks his head under the pillow. I cover him with the blanket again before heading out to the kitchen for a bottle of Liquid Reaper Food. The latest formula, designed specifically to be ingested by his dog shape, incorporates some complex proteins and enzymes that do better stored at lower that room temperature, so there's about a dozen servings in half-liter bottles taking up a good chunk of the top shelf in the fridge. And, as I enter the kitchen, a very hung-over Jesse McCree closes the fridge and stands up with one in his hand.
"You can't drink that," I blurt as he starts to twist the cap off.
He hesitates. "Why not?"
"It's Reaper's."
"Ah, he's got like a dozen of them. He won't miss this one." McCree finishes twisting the cap off.
"That's not it."
Pause. "What, he'll be angry over one little drink?"
Quickly, before he can drink any, I say, "It's specially formulated to assist his nanite swarm in rebuilding mass in the case of injury or extended casual degradation. The liquid contains complex proteins and enzymes-" fuck, he's lifting it to his mouth. "-and dormant nanites pre-programmed for his structure!"
Jesse lowers the bottle and gives me a confused look. "Okay, missy, too many big words for this cowboy this early in the morning. What are you saying?"
Simplify it? I can do that. "Well...I'm not saying you will turn into Reaper..." I try to hide the grin, but fail. I may not be trying very hard. "...but you might turn into Reaper."
Frantically, McCree twists the cap back on and thrusts the bottle at me before hurrying from the kitchen with a distinctly pale cast to his face. I grab a bowl from the cabinet and go back to my room where I set the bowl on the floor and pour about half the bottle of LRF into it. Reaper's still under the blanket. Return the rest of the bottle to the fridge and hit the coat closet and I think we'll go with the red collar that says BIG DOG today, and not the one that's black with spikes and says REAPER.
Papi's up and lapping at his breakfast when I get back to my room, his back turned to the closet, and I quickly change out of pajamas and into jeans and a long-sleeve shirt with a wide neck, red like his collar, which I fasten around his neck as he's licking the last bits out of the bowl. The leash clips on, and I pick up the bowl. Reaper follows me calmly through the safehouse as I put the bowl in the dishwasher and fetch my shoes, and then we're just a girl and her dog, walking down the street in the early-morning sun.
===
After a morning spent chasing sticks and vigorously chewing on them, Reaper's feeling much better about things and when I suggest breaking for lunch, he's all for the idea. There's a well-placed hot dog cart at the edge of the park, by the cluster of tables, and an ice cream truck that parks at the other end of the cluster. They both have lines, and most of the tables have people sitting at them, eating.
"I want a chili dog," Reaper says as the the lunch pavilion comes into view.
I scratch behind his ears. "You got it. You see any free tables?"
He scans the area. "One - never mind," he growls.
McCree's hat is easy to spot as he sits at the table. I start walking in his direction, Reaper following reluctantly when I tug at his leash. "Morning, cowboy," I call out as we get close, so we're not just abushing him.
His loaded hot dog is halfway to is mouth, but he sets it back down. "I think it's afternoon now," he says cautiously, eyeing the hostile dog at my side. "What brings you two here?"
"Same as you," I tell him. "Watch Papi for me while I get his lunch?"
"He gonna behave himself?"
I put a hand on Reaper's shoulder to get his attention. "I make you a deal. You sit here with McCree, no biting, no growling, no picking a fight, and you get two chili dogs."
Reaper's tail starts wagging. "Deal," he says grudgingly.
"That's good enough for me," says the cowboy.
"Okay. Remember, be good. No killing anyone." I loop his leash around back of the chair next to McCree and go take my place in line at the hot dog cart.
As I'm waiting, an American tourist sitting at a nearby table eyes me appreciatively. "Well, hello," he says in my direction. He looks mid-20s, maybe early 30s, exactly the sort I used to fleece in Dorado: rich enough to be vain but dumb enough to flash their cash.
I ignore him.
He stands up and takes a step or two closer to me. "I love your hair. So exotic. What's your name?"
"A secret," I tell him without actually looking in his direction.
"Aw, come on, cutie. Don't be like that. I'm Derek."
The lady in front of me collects her hot dogs and moves; the cart vendor looks at me. "What'll it be?"
"Two chili dogs, please."
Derek leans closer, like he's smelling the perfume I'm not wearing. "I like a lady with an appetite."
I don't dignify that with a response, and moments later my lunch transaction is complete.
"You know," Derek says as he follows me away from the cart, "I could take you somewhere fancy for dinner. Lobster, champagne, dancing, the whole works. How does that sound?"
"Not interested," I say curtly.
Reaper is sitting on the chair, looking dangerously alert. McCree's just sprawled insolently in his.
"Maybe someplace more intimate," he continues. "Like your place."
Before I can say anything, McCree sits up. "Excuse me, sir, but I believe the lady told you she wasn't interested," he says in a vaguely-warning tone of voice. "Now, before her dog rips your throat out, I want you to consider something reeeeeal carefully."
"What's that?" Derek asks in wary confusion.
McCree stands up and leans in like he's going to tell the other man a secret. "You got a real purty mouth, but I think it'd look purtier wrapped around my lil' deputy, here." A gesture at his crotch makes it unnecessarily clear what he means.
The other American recoils. "Hey! I'm not interested, what the hell?"
Reaper and I watch, fascinated, as McCree leans back slightly and gives him a 'your loss' sort of gesture. "Oh, I thought since y'all ignored my lil' sister saying she ain't interested, y'all wouldn't mind being hit on even though y'all ain't interested."
"You thought wrong," Derek spits.
"Then git outta here before I let the dog do what he really wants to do," McCree says, like he's the sherrif in a Western running the bad guy out of town. "Since I doubt you're interested in that. And maybe next time, have a little consideration when a lady tells you she ain't interested."
Derek beats a hasty retreat. McCree sits down again, and I put the hot dogs down in front of Reaper before sitting across from the cowboy.
"Hope y'all don't mind that I stepped in like that," he says while Reaper starts licking at chili and cheese. "Didn't think it would go over too well if your Papi broke his leash getting at that guy's throat."
Reaper looks up from his lunch, looks at me, looks at McCree, looks back at me with his tail wagging just slightly, and goes back to trying to eat hot dogs out of paper bowls.
"I don't mind at all," I tell my pseudo-brother, "and I think you scored brownie points with Papi."
He looks surprised and gratified by that. "Is that so? Am I forgiven for trying to take you to a movie? Not that I actually...want to take you to a movie," he hurries on with an alarmed look at Reaper.
Papi looks up and licks his chops. "Are you saying you don't find my daughter attractive?" he growls.
It's a trap, and McCree knows it to judge by the way he takes his hat off and fans himself with it. "She's a gorgeous woman, of course," he says after a minute, "but that's because she clearly gets it from you. I may be a depraved degenerate, but I ain't the type to hit on my own sister." He gives it a beat before adding, "Dad."
Reaper snorts, but his tail is wagging. "Good answer."
"Then I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead and mosey on out," McCree says, placing his hat back on his head. "I'll see you two later."
He walks away, and once he's out of earshot, I scratch behind Reaper's ears. "You did very well," I tell him. What do you say to a little siesta in the shade, and then ice cream before we head back?"
"I say you spoil me, hija," he says, leaning into the physical attention.
"I'm bribing you into good behavior," I tease.
"I'm still angry at him," he growls unconvincingly.
I keep scratching. "You want to make him suffer, I know. You can do that by being a little shit to him, make him suffer without making him hurt."
He pulls his head away to look at me. "Are you condoning my bullshit, Sombra?"
"You a bad influence, Papi," I tell him blandly. "My childhood innocence is forever tainted."
"Bad," he asks, tail wagging, "or best?"
"I can't answer that. You already corrupted me."
Reaper laughs.
I pat his neck. "Finish your lunch, and we can go relax and talk about how to make McCree sorry he ever walked away."
For just a second, faster than a normal person would be able to register, he gives me a soulful look and I'm reminded that he wants me to be able to enjoy every aspect of life, too. Then he's back to licking chili out of cardboard containers.
Tia Ana looks down at the doberman dozing with his head on her knee, where he'd been getting lazy scritches. "He arrived with Sombra," she says evasively. "Perhaps you would like to pet him?"
The dog in question opens one eye and starts growling.
"Uh...I don't think that's such a good idea," McCree says, backing away.
The doberman gets to his feet, ready to follow, still growling.
I close my screens. "Papi!"
He pauses briefly, glancing my way, but then goes back to growling at McCree.
"In the can," I order as Ana opens her mouth to chide him. "Now!"
Again he looks at me, clearly weighing how serious I am against how badly he wants to terrorize his former friend. Turns his head back to the cowboy-
"If I have to threaten you," I tell him sternly, "you gonna regret it. Get in the can, now."
Reaper hesitates another few seconds before dissolving into smoke and flowing into the can. I reach over and close the lid, giving him a dose of endorphins as I do. When I look up, Ana looks grimly pleased and McCree looks like he just narrowly escaped death. I flash him an apologetic smile.
"Sorry about that, amigo. We still working on housebreaking him." I shoot the can a look. "Papi, get your face out here and use your words."
The screen that serves as eyes and face opens to show a representation of Reaper's heavily-wisping head. "You shot me."
McCree looks uncertainly at me. I gesture him forward.
"It's okay, he stuck in there until I let him out. Come on, sit and talk. I'll be right here," I add soothingly, although which one I'm trying to soothe is up for grabs.
Gingerly, the trash cowboy sits on the floor in front of the can, and I join him.
"Not going to deny it?" Reaper snarls.
McCree shrugs. "Can't deny a fact. I did shoot you."
Time to cut the usual song and dance short before it starts. "We been over this, Papi. You know he was not trying to kill you. Why you so angry?"
He seethes at that for a minute before spitting out, "You shot me, and you didn't even hesitate."
Okay, now we're getting somewhere. "He's upset that you displayed no indecision, and is assuming that means you had no conflicting emotions about shooting him, or felt no remorse for it," I translate. Reaper wisps heavily at having his thoughts unpacked like that.
"You charged at me in Houston and would have killed me if I hadn't beat it," McCree protests. "What'm I supposed to think about that? Your d- your Sombra here told me that it was okay to shoot you because you don't die, and I do still enjoy livin', so when I was afraid that you wouldn't hesitate to kill me, I shot you!"
More wisping. "You tried to take her to a movie." The emphasis makes it clear he's talking about the polite fiction between whore and customer.
"I did," he admits. "Because I thought she was the kind of girl that fellas like me take to movies. And I ain't judgin', but if that came as a surprise to you, then I hate t'be the one to break it to you, but your girl here's done that routine before and it ain't fair to blame me for being set up like that."
Reaper just growls.
"With everything that happened," McCree says, "if you'd been me and seen what you turned into..." The sentence trails off and when he speaks again, it's in a quieter voice the bleeds hurt confusion. "I thought you wanted me dead. Sombra here told me you don't, and she probably saved my life when she shut you down, but t'be honest, when you started growling at me, I was sure you were gonna rip my throat out right there in front of Ana. All we been through, and I got no confidence you won't kill me if she's not there to stop you. How'm I supposed to feel about that?"
The silence stretches, with Reaper wisping more and more heavily and McCree looking more and more dejected. Knowing how much it was tearing Reaper apart when I shut him down, how tangled his emotions are after betrayal and years of poisoned words, this has got to be a horrible kick in the gut and I can't hide that I'm wincing.
Finally, Reaper growls, "Trust Sombra," and the face screen closes.
"What's that supposed to mean?" McCree protests. "Hey - you - I think you owe me more of an explanation than that!"
His outrage quiets when I put my hand on his arm - not the mechanical one - and shake my head. Another hit of endorphins for Reaper, and I gesture my trash cowboy brother to the far side of the room.
"He don't want you dead," I start quietly once we're far enough away from the can. "Talon twisted him all up inside, but he don't want you dead and he gonna be kicking himself for a while that he fucked things up so badly with you. We did a lot of talking," I add dryly. "He still hurt over the things that happened, and he gonna have a hard time letting the walls down to actually talk about how he feels, so don't hold your breath waiting, but when he said to trust me? What he means is he wants to build that burned-down bridge again but he don't trust himself to not mess it up so if you want to build it again, too..."
McCree groans and rubs his face with his non-metal hand. "I do. Lord help me, but I do."
"...then trust me to keep him from setting it on fire until he's in a better place and he can actually open up. I tell you what I told Winston and Jack: I'm fighting to get him to a place where he can be Gabriel again, but he thinks no one wants him to be Gabriel again. Ana treating him like he never stopped being Gabriel. I'm treating him like he still worthy of all the things Gabriel had, even if he still Reaper. Up to you how you want to do things."
He's silent for a moment, eyes on Reaper's can. "Why does he let you call him Papi?"
I bite back a laugh. "To be honest? Because after Houston, he knows I can claim I mean gang boss if anyone asks. He won't let himself be a part of anything that might make him soft like admitting he cares about the annoying Latina that calls herself his daughter, but as long as there's a way for him to pretend he's not..." I make a 'what can you do?' gesture. "I know he cares. He knows I care. We cover it up with pretending to be annoying and pretending to be annoyed, but he knows I won't hurt him and he took bullets for me."
"He never took bullets for me," McCree grumbles under his breath.
"He did, actually." That has his attention. "In Serbia. There was a sniper aiming at you. Reaper blocked the shot and took three rounds before Widow took the sniper out." I open a screen to show a heavily-wisping, snarling Reaper rock back from the impact as another slug catches him in the shoulder, McCree barely visible behind him crouched behind some crates, having a shoot-out with the sniper's friends. When the third shot catches him in the chest, he holds himself together for a few seconds and then dissolves into smoke and flows away, and I close the screen. "He ate three guards to recover, although I think that was more frustration that he couldn't eat the sniper. Told himself, told me it was because he wanted to kill you himself, but he was lying and we both knew it."
McCree stares at me for a long minute. "He ate three guys because their buddy took a shot at me? Huh. I don't know whether to feel flattered, or just plain creeped out."
I shrug. "It's okay to feel both. Until I started poking things, he thought he had to eat people to survive and after the fight with Winston, there were days when he'd finish a mission limping and bleeding smoke with some bullshit about how he couldn't catch anyone, but I think those days, he was feeling like a person enough that the thought of eating people to heal didn't sound good."
"Well, there goes my appetite." He tries to play it like a joke, but his eyes are on the can again. "I think I'm just gonna mosey on over to the local tavern and have a drink or three to settle my stomach. Uh...don't wait up on my account," he says in Ana's direction.
Then he tips his hat and half-bows to both of us, gives the can another long look, and slips out of the room.
===
Reaper is silent the rest of the evening. The only word he speaks is "no" when I tell him I'm going to bed and ask if he's coming with me. His mass is too simple, too damaged in his usual form to allow true sleep, but as a dog, he can not only sleep but dream as well, and with the things that happened in the last decade...
Well, he has a significant backlog of nightmare fuel for his subconscious to process, and in the week or so since we introduced the form, I haven't had a single night yet where he didn't come to me for scritches and comfort.
"Okay," I tell him, opening the lid. "Just remember, you need to come to me, just do it. You don't need permission. I not gonna tell you no."
=
I'm not sure what time it is when I register unspecified weight on my legs and feet and wake up at least halfway. There's no shape to the weight, which lets me know that there's a cloud of Reaper on the foot of my bed.
"I told you, you don't need permission..."
I don't bother finishing the sentence, I just throw the blanket back and half-watch as the puddle of black mist flows onto the floor and then solidifies into the doberman that climbs into bed with me and huddles, shaking, under the blanket as I toss it back over him.
After a drowsy handful of minutes hugging him and scratching behind his ears, I murmur, "Need to talk?"
The answer I get is just a low whine, deep in his throat, and a doggie nose burrowing half under my head.
"Okay. Wake me if you need to talk," I tell him, and drift back to sleep with my arms full of trembling doberman.
=
"I fucked up," growls a familiar voice right next to my ear. "He probably hates me."
"He doesn't hate you," I reply, moving my hand from his side to his ears without opening my eyes. "He wants to rebuild. Not gonna say you didn't fuck up, but you didn't fuck up completely."
"He thinks I would have killed him, and he's probably right."
The way he goes rigid in my arms makes me think he's biting back the rest of that spiraling train of thought. "You did a lot of bad things, and a lot of bad things were done to you. Gonna take time to sort it all out and figure out how you actually feel. You gonna need to talk things over with him, apologize for some things and let him apologize if he needs to, and most of all remember that he wants to rebuild, and you want to rebuild, so you both on the same side even if things go slow."
There's several minutes of quiet petting after that, enough time for me to wake up and orient myself in time. Eight-thirty. "Why didn't you just crawl under the blanket?" I ask quietly, disrupting whatever spiral he's worked himself into. "Why did you wait for me to wake up?"
"I couldn't," he growls quietly.
"Oh, Papi, no...nightmares too bad to even hold dog shape?"
A deep whine is all the answer I get, and I hug him tighter.
"How about we spend the day in the park today? Chase some sticks if you're feeling up to it, nap in the sun or under a tree if you're not?"
"That...sounds good," he says reluctantly, like it's an effort to admit he might enjoy something.
"Maybe get you a hot dog or some ice cream while we're out, hmm?"
His tail starts wagging slightly. I've got him there.
"I won't say no," he concedes dryly.
I pat his shoulder and sit up. "Okay. I go get you some breakfast and your collar and leash, and I be right back."
Reaper nods and sticks his head under the pillow. I cover him with the blanket again before heading out to the kitchen for a bottle of Liquid Reaper Food. The latest formula, designed specifically to be ingested by his dog shape, incorporates some complex proteins and enzymes that do better stored at lower that room temperature, so there's about a dozen servings in half-liter bottles taking up a good chunk of the top shelf in the fridge. And, as I enter the kitchen, a very hung-over Jesse McCree closes the fridge and stands up with one in his hand.
"You can't drink that," I blurt as he starts to twist the cap off.
He hesitates. "Why not?"
"It's Reaper's."
"Ah, he's got like a dozen of them. He won't miss this one." McCree finishes twisting the cap off.
"That's not it."
Pause. "What, he'll be angry over one little drink?"
Quickly, before he can drink any, I say, "It's specially formulated to assist his nanite swarm in rebuilding mass in the case of injury or extended casual degradation. The liquid contains complex proteins and enzymes-" fuck, he's lifting it to his mouth. "-and dormant nanites pre-programmed for his structure!"
Jesse lowers the bottle and gives me a confused look. "Okay, missy, too many big words for this cowboy this early in the morning. What are you saying?"
Simplify it? I can do that. "Well...I'm not saying you will turn into Reaper..." I try to hide the grin, but fail. I may not be trying very hard. "...but you might turn into Reaper."
Frantically, McCree twists the cap back on and thrusts the bottle at me before hurrying from the kitchen with a distinctly pale cast to his face. I grab a bowl from the cabinet and go back to my room where I set the bowl on the floor and pour about half the bottle of LRF into it. Reaper's still under the blanket. Return the rest of the bottle to the fridge and hit the coat closet and I think we'll go with the red collar that says BIG DOG today, and not the one that's black with spikes and says REAPER.
Papi's up and lapping at his breakfast when I get back to my room, his back turned to the closet, and I quickly change out of pajamas and into jeans and a long-sleeve shirt with a wide neck, red like his collar, which I fasten around his neck as he's licking the last bits out of the bowl. The leash clips on, and I pick up the bowl. Reaper follows me calmly through the safehouse as I put the bowl in the dishwasher and fetch my shoes, and then we're just a girl and her dog, walking down the street in the early-morning sun.
===
After a morning spent chasing sticks and vigorously chewing on them, Reaper's feeling much better about things and when I suggest breaking for lunch, he's all for the idea. There's a well-placed hot dog cart at the edge of the park, by the cluster of tables, and an ice cream truck that parks at the other end of the cluster. They both have lines, and most of the tables have people sitting at them, eating.
"I want a chili dog," Reaper says as the the lunch pavilion comes into view.
I scratch behind his ears. "You got it. You see any free tables?"
He scans the area. "One - never mind," he growls.
McCree's hat is easy to spot as he sits at the table. I start walking in his direction, Reaper following reluctantly when I tug at his leash. "Morning, cowboy," I call out as we get close, so we're not just abushing him.
His loaded hot dog is halfway to is mouth, but he sets it back down. "I think it's afternoon now," he says cautiously, eyeing the hostile dog at my side. "What brings you two here?"
"Same as you," I tell him. "Watch Papi for me while I get his lunch?"
"He gonna behave himself?"
I put a hand on Reaper's shoulder to get his attention. "I make you a deal. You sit here with McCree, no biting, no growling, no picking a fight, and you get two chili dogs."
Reaper's tail starts wagging. "Deal," he says grudgingly.
"That's good enough for me," says the cowboy.
"Okay. Remember, be good. No killing anyone." I loop his leash around back of the chair next to McCree and go take my place in line at the hot dog cart.
As I'm waiting, an American tourist sitting at a nearby table eyes me appreciatively. "Well, hello," he says in my direction. He looks mid-20s, maybe early 30s, exactly the sort I used to fleece in Dorado: rich enough to be vain but dumb enough to flash their cash.
I ignore him.
He stands up and takes a step or two closer to me. "I love your hair. So exotic. What's your name?"
"A secret," I tell him without actually looking in his direction.
"Aw, come on, cutie. Don't be like that. I'm Derek."
The lady in front of me collects her hot dogs and moves; the cart vendor looks at me. "What'll it be?"
"Two chili dogs, please."
Derek leans closer, like he's smelling the perfume I'm not wearing. "I like a lady with an appetite."
I don't dignify that with a response, and moments later my lunch transaction is complete.
"You know," Derek says as he follows me away from the cart, "I could take you somewhere fancy for dinner. Lobster, champagne, dancing, the whole works. How does that sound?"
"Not interested," I say curtly.
Reaper is sitting on the chair, looking dangerously alert. McCree's just sprawled insolently in his.
"Maybe someplace more intimate," he continues. "Like your place."
Before I can say anything, McCree sits up. "Excuse me, sir, but I believe the lady told you she wasn't interested," he says in a vaguely-warning tone of voice. "Now, before her dog rips your throat out, I want you to consider something reeeeeal carefully."
"What's that?" Derek asks in wary confusion.
McCree stands up and leans in like he's going to tell the other man a secret. "You got a real purty mouth, but I think it'd look purtier wrapped around my lil' deputy, here." A gesture at his crotch makes it unnecessarily clear what he means.
The other American recoils. "Hey! I'm not interested, what the hell?"
Reaper and I watch, fascinated, as McCree leans back slightly and gives him a 'your loss' sort of gesture. "Oh, I thought since y'all ignored my lil' sister saying she ain't interested, y'all wouldn't mind being hit on even though y'all ain't interested."
"You thought wrong," Derek spits.
"Then git outta here before I let the dog do what he really wants to do," McCree says, like he's the sherrif in a Western running the bad guy out of town. "Since I doubt you're interested in that. And maybe next time, have a little consideration when a lady tells you she ain't interested."
Derek beats a hasty retreat. McCree sits down again, and I put the hot dogs down in front of Reaper before sitting across from the cowboy.
"Hope y'all don't mind that I stepped in like that," he says while Reaper starts licking at chili and cheese. "Didn't think it would go over too well if your Papi broke his leash getting at that guy's throat."
Reaper looks up from his lunch, looks at me, looks at McCree, looks back at me with his tail wagging just slightly, and goes back to trying to eat hot dogs out of paper bowls.
"I don't mind at all," I tell my pseudo-brother, "and I think you scored brownie points with Papi."
He looks surprised and gratified by that. "Is that so? Am I forgiven for trying to take you to a movie? Not that I actually...want to take you to a movie," he hurries on with an alarmed look at Reaper.
Papi looks up and licks his chops. "Are you saying you don't find my daughter attractive?" he growls.
It's a trap, and McCree knows it to judge by the way he takes his hat off and fans himself with it. "She's a gorgeous woman, of course," he says after a minute, "but that's because she clearly gets it from you. I may be a depraved degenerate, but I ain't the type to hit on my own sister." He gives it a beat before adding, "Dad."
Reaper snorts, but his tail is wagging. "Good answer."
"Then I'm gonna quit while I'm ahead and mosey on out," McCree says, placing his hat back on his head. "I'll see you two later."
He walks away, and once he's out of earshot, I scratch behind Reaper's ears. "You did very well," I tell him. What do you say to a little siesta in the shade, and then ice cream before we head back?"
"I say you spoil me, hija," he says, leaning into the physical attention.
"I'm bribing you into good behavior," I tease.
"I'm still angry at him," he growls unconvincingly.
I keep scratching. "You want to make him suffer, I know. You can do that by being a little shit to him, make him suffer without making him hurt."
He pulls his head away to look at me. "Are you condoning my bullshit, Sombra?"
"You a bad influence, Papi," I tell him blandly. "My childhood innocence is forever tainted."
"Bad," he asks, tail wagging, "or best?"
"I can't answer that. You already corrupted me."
Reaper laughs.
I pat his neck. "Finish your lunch, and we can go relax and talk about how to make McCree sorry he ever walked away."
For just a second, faster than a normal person would be able to register, he gives me a soulful look and I'm reminded that he wants me to be able to enjoy every aspect of life, too. Then he's back to licking chili out of cardboard containers.