Playing dead (R76 AU)
Feb. 17th, 2013 03:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonshadowsThe man who had once been Gabriel Reyes was not enjoying his job.
Things had gone sour long before the explosion, he thought as he emptied his shotguns picking off guards, discarding them once empty and letting a portion of his substance flow over the bodies, absorbing materials and nutrients. When he reached for his weapons again they were there, clean and loaded. Life was one big shooting gallery game and he had an infinite number of quarters.
He'd thought his rage would never burn out, that his thirst for vengeance would never be quenched, no matter how much blood he spilled.
Ana's death may not have been the first crack, but it was the first one that went down to the foundation of their...relationship. Him and Jack Morrison. He still wasn't sure how they hadn't killed each other. They disagreed on enough things, movies and music and food (hah, country boy had no appreciation for a little kick in his meals) and what they were to each other. Friends with benefits, Gabe would say if asked. Casual lovers was Jack's answer. Lovers. Jack was always wanting to talk about feelings and do cutesy things together and "bond" but Gabriel was a man, he had little patience for those gestures. He was in it for the ass, and that the ass belonged to his best friend just made it better. But Jack had let Ana get killed. Or worse, Missing In Action because he hadn't even gone back to check for her body.
Gabriel had yelled. Jack had yelled back. They'd gone to bed alone, in separate quarters. Somehow, they never quite made up.
That rift had grown wider. They yelled about more things, dumb things, important things. They still fucked, but they stopped talking. Finally, they stopped fucking. The heads of Overwatch and Blackwatch prowled around each other like snarling lions while their prides - their organizations - stood back waiting for their leaders to give them a signal.
He never did find out who threw the first metaphoric punch. It was late, he was irritated, and suddenly he'd just had it and he was leading a squad into the Overwatch HQ, but Jack was ready for him and it was a firefight.
Maybe someone brought a bomb. Maybe someone shot something they shouldn't have. Whatever the reason, the place had blown up and the last thing he remembered before searing agony became the entirety of his world...was the look of anguish in Jack's eyes, and Jack's lips inaudibly shaping his name.
They never found the body.
When Gabriel woke up, he was in some sort of medical facility, completely intact. Well, intact if you didn't count his heart. Coming face to face with the utter ruin of everything he'd cared about, well...he was surprised that what hurt most was the memory of anguished blue eyes, and the knowledge that he'd never get a chance to make up with Jack.
Maybe there was something to that "feelings" thing after all.
He'd walked out. Broke some poor white-coat's neck, stole his clothes, and was gone before anyone realized he was awake. For a while, he just wandered. Killed rich-looking idiots, left their bodies in alleyways, bought clothes that fit and a hat and a one-way ticket to anywhere else. The hunger didn't come until later. When it struck, it was almost crippling in its intensity. His world became a red haze, with brightly-glowing shapes pulsing with life and he was a ghost, a thought, flowing through that world and descending on one of those shapes.
He'd come to in an alley, with a disintegrating pile of flesh scattered around him, buck naked.
It had taken months to learn to control it, to learn what he could do - even if he didn't know how he was doing it. He could control his body completely - become a mist, change his shape. It was like being a vampire, but without any of the weaknesses. He didn't even need to find clothes, he just changed his body to be wearing them.
No one came looking for him. He thought that was adding insult to injury, that they just swept him under the rug like that. Blamed it all on him and closed the case, assumed he was dead and gave him an empty grave. The rage that smouldered like a coal where his heart should be, burst into flames. He started making it personal - they threw him away, they'd regret their mistake. He took on a more...fitting...appearance and called himself simply, Reaper. Owl-skull mask, black leather. Melodramatic, Jack would have said. Gabriel could imagine all too easily the way he would have crossed his arms, the little frown, the way it creased his forehead.
It made him angrier.
When Talon tracked him down, made their offer, he took it. Didn't even care what they were offering. They provided him with targets, and he took them out. Burn the world, that's what he thought. Fuck 'em all. Serves 'em right. His rage was a fire that would never burn out, his thirst for vengeance would never be quenched, no matter how much blood he spilled. That's what he'd thought.
He was wrong.
Now he was just going through the motions, irritation the only thing he felt as he killed people left and right, ate their bodies and used them to produce new shotguns.
Gabriel turned yet another corner, only to discover someone else had gotten there first. A flicker of rage licked at him. How dare they! These were his targets! He flowed into mist, absorbing pieces of the corpses as he drifted over them, rushing down the hall in search of the shape that glowed brightly, pulsed with life. And there it was, someone else killing his rightful prey. It would be easy, so easy to just envelop this upstart, but Gabriel was tired of mindless killing. He was going to have some fun.
Silently, he formed behind the other intruder and drew his shotguns. "Death comes for you," he growled, but the other man - some white-haired old fool in a dirty blue jacket - dropped and went for a leg sweep.
"I've got you in my sights," the geezer growled back from behind a red targeting visor, aiming even as Gabriel rolled and came up with both shotguns aimed at him.
"Do it," he dared the other man. "Shoot me...if you have the cojones."
"You sound like my ex," the old guy shot back and there was...something...
"Hah. Sounds like my type. She pretty?"
"He," the geezer corrected, firing what had to be a warning shot. Gabriel fired one back and they both took cover. "And he was more goddamn sexy than a melodramatic punk like you could ever be," he shouted back from behind a wooden crate.
Melodramatic. The word echoed in Gabriel's head, bringing the image of a disapproving frown and a forehead crease over blue eyes. It couldn't be. He was dead. But then again...they never found the body.
"Bet your life you're wrong," Gabriel snarled, charging the crate recklessly, deliberately firing wide and wondering, in a little corner of his head, what the ever-loving fuck he was doing.
When the other man stood up and shot him straight through the heart with that pulse rifle he was using, Gabe dropped like a stone and shaped his body into something that didn't breathe or have a heartbeat. He waited as booted feet came cautiously closer, toed him in the ribs, and unceremoniously rolled him onto his back.
A hand reached down, touched the mask, tugged it off. Gabriel couldn't see the geezer's reaction, but there was no mistaking the anguish in that gravely voice as Jack cried out, "Gabriel!"
Something flared in the burned-out husk that was his heart, and it wasn't rage.
Gabriel stayed still and limp as Jack fucking Morrison put the mask back, heaved him up onto one shoulder, and carried him out. Judging from what he could hear, Jack hot-wired a car, dumped him in the backseat, and drove for what felt like hours. When he finally stopped, there were absolutely no sounds of civilization to be heard. Jack grabbed him by the ankles, pulled him out and carried him (in his arms this time) out into the country dusk.
Even with enhanced strength, he couldn't carry two hundred pounds of dead weight forever, and after about twenty minutes Gabriel found himself propped up against the back of a barn while Jack sank to his heels beside a firepit. So, this was his little camp, then. While Jack fiddled with grass and twigs, Gabriel resumed a more human shape under the Reaper disguise and watched in silence, wondering how he was going to end this dumbass deception.
After a minute, he realized that Jack was having no luck with the fire because he was crying.
Gabriel re-absorbed the mask. And the gauntlets.
"...killed him," came the bitter lament, floating through the deepening dusk. "Finally found him, after years of trying to find out what happened to him, and I killed him."
"You're lucky you're so hot," Gabriel sighed.
Jack whipped around, a pocket knife in one hand. "...Gabe?"
"I'm not dead. I don't think I can even die."
"Gabe, what..." Jack trailed off as Gabriel changed into something more casual. "What happened to you?"
"Fuck if I know, Jack. What happened to you?"
Jack stabbed the pocketknife into the packed earth around the firepit and crawled the handful of feet necessary to punch his ex in the arm. "You bastard, making me think you were dead like that! Were you laughing at me from the back seat?"
Gabriel reached out to cup the other man's cheeks and leaned forward to kiss him. "I'm sorry," he breathed as the kiss ended. "I was a dick. Now I'm a monster. I'm sorry. I love you. When I heard you were dead...nothing mattered anymore. I wanted the world to burn."
"And now that you know I'm alive?" Jack asked shakily.
Gabe's lips curved into something trying to be an apologetic smirk. "Make-up sex?"
"You bastard," Jack breathed, going in for another kiss. "Shut up and fuck me."
Things had gone sour long before the explosion, he thought as he emptied his shotguns picking off guards, discarding them once empty and letting a portion of his substance flow over the bodies, absorbing materials and nutrients. When he reached for his weapons again they were there, clean and loaded. Life was one big shooting gallery game and he had an infinite number of quarters.
He'd thought his rage would never burn out, that his thirst for vengeance would never be quenched, no matter how much blood he spilled.
Ana's death may not have been the first crack, but it was the first one that went down to the foundation of their...relationship. Him and Jack Morrison. He still wasn't sure how they hadn't killed each other. They disagreed on enough things, movies and music and food (hah, country boy had no appreciation for a little kick in his meals) and what they were to each other. Friends with benefits, Gabe would say if asked. Casual lovers was Jack's answer. Lovers. Jack was always wanting to talk about feelings and do cutesy things together and "bond" but Gabriel was a man, he had little patience for those gestures. He was in it for the ass, and that the ass belonged to his best friend just made it better. But Jack had let Ana get killed. Or worse, Missing In Action because he hadn't even gone back to check for her body.
Gabriel had yelled. Jack had yelled back. They'd gone to bed alone, in separate quarters. Somehow, they never quite made up.
That rift had grown wider. They yelled about more things, dumb things, important things. They still fucked, but they stopped talking. Finally, they stopped fucking. The heads of Overwatch and Blackwatch prowled around each other like snarling lions while their prides - their organizations - stood back waiting for their leaders to give them a signal.
He never did find out who threw the first metaphoric punch. It was late, he was irritated, and suddenly he'd just had it and he was leading a squad into the Overwatch HQ, but Jack was ready for him and it was a firefight.
Maybe someone brought a bomb. Maybe someone shot something they shouldn't have. Whatever the reason, the place had blown up and the last thing he remembered before searing agony became the entirety of his world...was the look of anguish in Jack's eyes, and Jack's lips inaudibly shaping his name.
They never found the body.
When Gabriel woke up, he was in some sort of medical facility, completely intact. Well, intact if you didn't count his heart. Coming face to face with the utter ruin of everything he'd cared about, well...he was surprised that what hurt most was the memory of anguished blue eyes, and the knowledge that he'd never get a chance to make up with Jack.
Maybe there was something to that "feelings" thing after all.
He'd walked out. Broke some poor white-coat's neck, stole his clothes, and was gone before anyone realized he was awake. For a while, he just wandered. Killed rich-looking idiots, left their bodies in alleyways, bought clothes that fit and a hat and a one-way ticket to anywhere else. The hunger didn't come until later. When it struck, it was almost crippling in its intensity. His world became a red haze, with brightly-glowing shapes pulsing with life and he was a ghost, a thought, flowing through that world and descending on one of those shapes.
He'd come to in an alley, with a disintegrating pile of flesh scattered around him, buck naked.
It had taken months to learn to control it, to learn what he could do - even if he didn't know how he was doing it. He could control his body completely - become a mist, change his shape. It was like being a vampire, but without any of the weaknesses. He didn't even need to find clothes, he just changed his body to be wearing them.
No one came looking for him. He thought that was adding insult to injury, that they just swept him under the rug like that. Blamed it all on him and closed the case, assumed he was dead and gave him an empty grave. The rage that smouldered like a coal where his heart should be, burst into flames. He started making it personal - they threw him away, they'd regret their mistake. He took on a more...fitting...appearance and called himself simply, Reaper. Owl-skull mask, black leather. Melodramatic, Jack would have said. Gabriel could imagine all too easily the way he would have crossed his arms, the little frown, the way it creased his forehead.
It made him angrier.
When Talon tracked him down, made their offer, he took it. Didn't even care what they were offering. They provided him with targets, and he took them out. Burn the world, that's what he thought. Fuck 'em all. Serves 'em right. His rage was a fire that would never burn out, his thirst for vengeance would never be quenched, no matter how much blood he spilled. That's what he'd thought.
He was wrong.
Now he was just going through the motions, irritation the only thing he felt as he killed people left and right, ate their bodies and used them to produce new shotguns.
Gabriel turned yet another corner, only to discover someone else had gotten there first. A flicker of rage licked at him. How dare they! These were his targets! He flowed into mist, absorbing pieces of the corpses as he drifted over them, rushing down the hall in search of the shape that glowed brightly, pulsed with life. And there it was, someone else killing his rightful prey. It would be easy, so easy to just envelop this upstart, but Gabriel was tired of mindless killing. He was going to have some fun.
Silently, he formed behind the other intruder and drew his shotguns. "Death comes for you," he growled, but the other man - some white-haired old fool in a dirty blue jacket - dropped and went for a leg sweep.
"I've got you in my sights," the geezer growled back from behind a red targeting visor, aiming even as Gabriel rolled and came up with both shotguns aimed at him.
"Do it," he dared the other man. "Shoot me...if you have the cojones."
"You sound like my ex," the old guy shot back and there was...something...
"Hah. Sounds like my type. She pretty?"
"He," the geezer corrected, firing what had to be a warning shot. Gabriel fired one back and they both took cover. "And he was more goddamn sexy than a melodramatic punk like you could ever be," he shouted back from behind a wooden crate.
Melodramatic. The word echoed in Gabriel's head, bringing the image of a disapproving frown and a forehead crease over blue eyes. It couldn't be. He was dead. But then again...they never found the body.
"Bet your life you're wrong," Gabriel snarled, charging the crate recklessly, deliberately firing wide and wondering, in a little corner of his head, what the ever-loving fuck he was doing.
When the other man stood up and shot him straight through the heart with that pulse rifle he was using, Gabe dropped like a stone and shaped his body into something that didn't breathe or have a heartbeat. He waited as booted feet came cautiously closer, toed him in the ribs, and unceremoniously rolled him onto his back.
A hand reached down, touched the mask, tugged it off. Gabriel couldn't see the geezer's reaction, but there was no mistaking the anguish in that gravely voice as Jack cried out, "Gabriel!"
Something flared in the burned-out husk that was his heart, and it wasn't rage.
Gabriel stayed still and limp as Jack fucking Morrison put the mask back, heaved him up onto one shoulder, and carried him out. Judging from what he could hear, Jack hot-wired a car, dumped him in the backseat, and drove for what felt like hours. When he finally stopped, there were absolutely no sounds of civilization to be heard. Jack grabbed him by the ankles, pulled him out and carried him (in his arms this time) out into the country dusk.
Even with enhanced strength, he couldn't carry two hundred pounds of dead weight forever, and after about twenty minutes Gabriel found himself propped up against the back of a barn while Jack sank to his heels beside a firepit. So, this was his little camp, then. While Jack fiddled with grass and twigs, Gabriel resumed a more human shape under the Reaper disguise and watched in silence, wondering how he was going to end this dumbass deception.
After a minute, he realized that Jack was having no luck with the fire because he was crying.
Gabriel re-absorbed the mask. And the gauntlets.
"...killed him," came the bitter lament, floating through the deepening dusk. "Finally found him, after years of trying to find out what happened to him, and I killed him."
"You're lucky you're so hot," Gabriel sighed.
Jack whipped around, a pocket knife in one hand. "...Gabe?"
"I'm not dead. I don't think I can even die."
"Gabe, what..." Jack trailed off as Gabriel changed into something more casual. "What happened to you?"
"Fuck if I know, Jack. What happened to you?"
Jack stabbed the pocketknife into the packed earth around the firepit and crawled the handful of feet necessary to punch his ex in the arm. "You bastard, making me think you were dead like that! Were you laughing at me from the back seat?"
Gabriel reached out to cup the other man's cheeks and leaned forward to kiss him. "I'm sorry," he breathed as the kiss ended. "I was a dick. Now I'm a monster. I'm sorry. I love you. When I heard you were dead...nothing mattered anymore. I wanted the world to burn."
"And now that you know I'm alive?" Jack asked shakily.
Gabe's lips curved into something trying to be an apologetic smirk. "Make-up sex?"
"You bastard," Jack breathed, going in for another kiss. "Shut up and fuck me."