Moderation
Feb. 2nd, 2013 08:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonshadowsThe two weeks in the safehouse have gone pretty smoothly - barring the intentional emotional evisceration I performed to settle the grudge between Reaper and Winston. Papi seems to be getting used to people not being angry at him, and I keep one COWA in the corner of the living room (in case he wants to be around people but doesn't want to interact) and the other in my room (in case he doesn't want to be around people but still wants to be comfortable) to give him places to be safe while he wants to hide. He's adjusted to the doberman being part of his configuration options and gotten comfortable with silently presenting his doggy head for pettings if he wants physical interaction.
That's why, when Ana looks up and asks, "Where is Gabriel?", I know something's wrong.
He's not in the living room can. He's not in the bedroom can. I close my screens and get up, checking the other public areas of the safehouse because things have been going too well and I suspect he's standing in the coat closet or something, like he used to do in the Talon base, out of a need to punish himself. But of course this isn't the base and it's not "his" territory and he wouldn't want any of Ana's people seeing him. He's not in my room. If he's not in his, I'm going to seriously freak out - but no, I open his door and see a familiar pair of legs spilling out of the closet and yeah, I know exactly what is going on.
Of all the configurations Reaper has at his disposal, the one he used for years is the most inefficient and least "comfortable". But he's sitting in his closet in that configuration, and I firmly keep my childhood subdirectories closed before I can access them and trauma-lock myself.
The door closes behind me, and I know that Reaper is silently seething with resentful satisfaction that whoever-it-was went away without trying to cheer him up or tell him that there's no reason to sit in the closet. Ana looks up as I enter the room, and McCree has stumbled out of his. I give him a warning glare, and he holds his hands up in silent protest that whatever it is, he didn't do it.
"Papi's in a very bad place." I throw the words down like a challenge, daring either of them to say anything. Neither of them does. "I'm gonna stay with him until he's feeling better. Don't come looking for us."
The room is stiffly silent as I turn and leave.
Reaper's legs don't move as I enter his room and close the door behind me. Slowly, I cross the room and see exactly what I expected to see: he's sprawled in the closet like someone dumped him there, wisping so heavily that I can't tell where it's coming from. He looks like he's just barely holding himself together. Instead of heading for him, I cross to the further side of the closet and sit with my back to the wall, out of sight except for one hand laid casually on the floor in a visible reminder that I'm there, he's not alone.
He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. The fact that I'm there is enough; when he's ready for comfort and reassurance, he'll let me know. In the meantime, I curl up and lean against the wall because if my experience is anything to go by, this is going to take a while and sleep is a much better option than fighting to keep my past at bay.
=
I come awake to a doberman half-sprawled across my lap, his head resting on my other arm. Slowly, I bring my hand up to his head and start petting gently, my fingertips massaging the skin of his forehead, caressing behind his ears. I make no more acknowledgment of him than that, and he doesn't acknowledge that I'm even doing that much.
Close to half an hour passes like that before I say quietly, "Do you want to talk?"
Nearly an hour of slow, gentle petting later, he sighs, "Yes."
I lean over and hug him briefly to let him know I heard, but wait for him to speak. It takes a few minutes.
"I don't deserve you, hija."
"What, because I won't let you suffer alone?" I keep it light and teasing, and he whine-growls low in his throat. "Papi..." Despite my best efforts, the memory of abraded fingertips intrudes, and my voice shakes. "I know what it's like. No one was there for me. I'm gonna be there for you."
"Alé..." The dog shudders and pushes, writhing into the hoodie configuration I designed for mutual hugging comfort, with the hood pulled up over the mask. For a long minute he just kneels on the floor and hugs me. Then he scoops me up and shifts until he's siting with his back to the wall and I'm held comfortingly on his lap. "Guilt over your mother?" he asks quietly.
"Si."
"Guilt over...things I've done," he says reluctantly.
"It's okay. Not gonna judge."
Soft, bitter chuckles. "Well, whatever else I've done, I've apparently raised one hell of a daughter." A sigh, and then he says, "I don't know that I was such a good role model, though. I know I didn't turn out remotely like what my mother wanted, but fuck what she wanted. I don't know what your mother wanted you to be."
"Alive," I say in a small voice. "That's all I know. She wanted me to be alive." My throat closes up and I turn to bury my face in his shoulder.
Reaper's arms tighten around me in silent reassurance. "You need distraction," he growls firmly, ignoring that he needs distraction, too. "Let's go for a walk."
Deep breath in, shaky laugh out. "You just want to terrorize anyone who tries to hit on me."
This form can't wisp, but I can see in the tilt of his head that he'd be smiling if he had a face. "Maybe."
A few minutes later, I'm leading Papi-dog on his leash and collar with a handful of RF sticks for treats in my pocket. The late-afternoon sun on his fur and the fresh breeze have his tail wagging, and Ana smiled as we crossed the living room with a casual, "We're going out for a bit." The exercise and the treats will be good for making him feel better physically, and threatening whichever hapless idiot tries to pick me up this time will be good for making him feel strong and in control again.
I don't have any illusions that this was a one-time thing. But the next time will be better, because he knows he's not alone.
=
Of course, that late-afternoon sun turns into rain, and I make Papi shake before he enters the safehouse. That doesn't prevent him from deliberately jumping on Uncle Jack with wet paws, of course, but Jack seems happy enough to have even antagonistic interaction with a wagging Reaper-dog. He settles in a chair to do some reading on a pad, I curl up in the chair by the can with half a dozen screens, and Reaper settles in his doggy bed to spend quality time with his squeaky steak.
Then the unthinkable happens. He bites down, and there's no sound.
"What the fuck?" He sits up, staring at the toy in affront before shooting me a hard look. "Sombra, what is this crap?"
Jack chuckles. "That's what you get for playing with it too hard," he says. "You killed it. It's dead. It is an ex-steak."
Reaper growls, "Shut up, Morrison, before I shove it down your throat." Then he turns back to me. "Sombra?"
"He right, Papi," I tell him gently. "You put a hole in it."
Mournfully, he noses at the beloved steak, no longer squeaky. He chews at it once or twice, but apparently it's no fun if it doesn't squeak, and he just curls up into a ball of canine misery instead. Jack looks guilty for having laughed, and I raise one finger to my lips as I close my screens.
Stealth takes me to my room and back without Reaper hearing me, Squeaky Steak the Second held behind my back.
"Papi," I call, "I got a treat for you."
Slowly, he raises his doggy head. "What is it?"
I grin. "Gotta come over here to find out."
Reaper stands and walks over.
"Sit."
He sits.
"Beg."
"Sombra..."
I laugh and touch his nose. "Just kidding, Papi. Boop!" While he huffs at me in quiet pleasure for our ritual of annoyance, I pull the new toy steak out and dangle it above him. Instantly, all his attention is fixed on it. "You sure you don't want to beg?" I tease.
Without a word, he sit up on his haunches, both forepaws tucked up against his chest.
"Say please?"
"Sombra..." he sighs. He wants the squeaky steak more than he hates indignity. "Please."
I let it drop, and he snatches it out of the air to retreat, wagging like crazy, to his doggy bed. The first joyous squeak makes him release the toy long enough to look up at me in gratitude.
"Who loves you best, Papi?" I ask in a teasing tone.
"You do," he growls around chewing on the steak.
Jack shakes his head and laughs.
"Something funny, Morrison?"
"No sir," he replies, still chuckling. "Just never thought I'd see the day you'd give anyone the satisfaction."
Reaper gnaws on his new toy for a minute before saying, "It's different. It's Sombra."
Jack looks like he wants to ask how that makes it different, but just glances inquiringly at me instead. I give him a gesture of false modesty, and with a rueful shake of his head he goes back to his reading.
===
It's not news that McCree likes to drink. That he gets blackout drunk, sometimes as often as three times a week, also isn't a huge surprise. But according to Reaper, he has a fickle stomach when he's hung over. It's not a matter of if he will hurl, but when, and then once he's turned his stomach inside-out, it's just the usual headache and exhaustion. Been like that since before he was legal to drink, Papi said. Well, that explains his reaction the time he tried to drink LRF. I'd thought it was the idea that he could have his body transformed from the inside out, but when I told Reaper about that (and he'd stopped laughing) he'd said that even the smell of bacon cooking could set McCree off.
That's not exactly why I'm cooking bacon, because I would be cooking it for Papi and Uncle Jack anyway, but it's why I deliberately waft the scent in the cowboy's direction with a cheerful greeting of "Morning, McCree!" when he drags himself in looking for coffee.
As his brain registers what he's smelling, his face loses color and he vanishes out of the doorway. I can hear him pound his way through the wing to his room - and his bathroom.
"I'm impressed," I tell Reaper as I add bacon to the plate of fried eggs and cut-up french toast drizzled with maple syrup that I've prepared for him already.
He climbs onto one of the chairs and carefully sticks his tail between the rails so he can wag freely. "Don't be. He's had twenty years to perfect the art of finding the nearest toilet and getting to it in time."
Uncle Jack walks in, eyebrows raised. "We're letting the dog sit at the table now?" A slight smirk tugs at his lips. "He might think he's people."
"Fuck off, Morrison."
I set plates down in front of both of them. "We want him to think he's people, Uncle Jack. Remember?"
Jack looks embarrassed to have been implicated in caring about his old friend and busies himself with his french toast, not looking up to see the very smug doberman wolfing down bacon.
They're both drinking coffee - Jack from a mug, Reaper from a soup plate - when McCree comes back in, looking more alert but still miserable. I hand him a mug of coffee and set a plate of toast and eggs down for him, then pour a tall glass of water and put it on the table in front of him as well.
Reaper looks up from his plate. "You've been drinking, boy," he growls.
McCree gives him a dark look over the edge of the mug. "Ain't no business of yours no more. Y'ain't my boss."
"Jesse," Jack starts, but a raised hand stops him.
"You ain't my boss either, Jack. And don't you even start," he shoots at me as I take the seat across from him.
"Good Morning, Sombra," I say mockingly in an imitation of his drawl. "Thank you for making me breakfast and coffee. I surely appreciate it, seeing as my head feels like an over-ripe melon on account of I tried to drown myself in a whiskey bottle last night."
He freezes, toast in one hand, mouth open. I can almost see the sullen resentment collapse into guilt and shame. "Thanks, Sombra," he mumbles. "I appreciate it."
"You're welcome," I tell him graciously.
Jack leans over and gives me a one-armed hug. "Thank you for breakfast and coffee," he says. "It's very generous of you."
"Aww, you're welcome, Uncle Jack." I'm grinning because I'm having a moment of my childhood self being thrilled that core members of Overwatch like me.
Reaper looks at me, tail wagging slightly. "I'm not going to thank you."
I lean over to scratch behind his ears. "I know, Papi. I promised I would spoil you, and that's what I'm doing."
McCree looks like he's going to protest, but goes back to his eggs and toast instead.
===
"And you're sure he got blackout drunk," Reaper says a few days later, sprawled on my bed next to me as a doberman and watching me make adjustments to a copy of the prototype shape.
"He goes to the same bar every time. I checked their security and the bartender keeps his tab electronically. If he didn't drink all the things he ordered, then he should go into stage magic because he made that shit disappear."
"Alright. I just don't want to waste this."
It's done. I close my screens and rub my hands together. "Showtime, Papi."
Reaper flows off the bed and stands up into himself. I press my hands to his chest and the swarm reconfigures to a one-time shape. It's the Gabriel Reyes prototype, with one minor change: his mouth is open in an unnatural tunnel modeled directly from a sex doll.
"I feel ridiculous," he grumbles as we cross through the living room where Ana nearly chokes on her tea.
"Just remember it won't last if you wisp." McCree's door unlocks itself for me, and I wave Reaper inside before closing and locking it again.
Ana's giving me a look that says if I know what's good for me, I'll explain myself. I sit on the edge of the couch closest to her chair and gesture for her to lean over.
"We gonna try to teach Jesse to not get blackout drunk by making him wonder what he did," I tell her.
She looks unsympathetic and mildly disapproving, but she nods. "Moderation is a good lesson for him to learn."
Just then, from McCree's room, there's an amazingly unmanly scream and the sound of a body hitting the floor, followed by some scrambling. Then Reaper flows out from under his door and forms as himself to sit on the couch next to me, chuckling evilly.
"Gabriel, what did you do?" Ana asks. No accusation, just curiosity.
"Absolutely nothing. I just lay down next to him and didn't move."
Ana tries not to laugh, but moments laughter we're all laughing.
McCree's door opens and the cowboy leans against the frame, pointing at us with one trembling hand, water dripping from his face and hair. "You're all jerks," he tells us with all the emphatic resentment he can muster. Then he slams the door shut and faintly, we can hear the shower come on.
The door to Jack's room opens and he leans out, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms. "What just happened?"
He doesn't get an answer; we're all laughing too hard.
===
Tia Ana raises her eyebrow as I cross the living room in the red dress and black boots I was wearing when McCree first met me.
"He got blackout drunk again," I say calmly as I unlock McCree's door. You'd think the trauma of thinking he'd managed to find a sex doll of his ex-boss and pseudo-father would have kept him vaguely sober for more than four days, but you'd be wrong.
The door doesn't open.
"Problems?" Reaper-dog says from where he's begging pettings from Ana.
I frown at the door. "Yeah. Could you check what he's done? It's unlocked but it's not opening."
Reaper flows under the door. Moments later, he flows back out. "Moved his dresser in front of it. I'm not sure if I'm more impressed that he learned or that he managed to do it while drunk."
"Okay, change of plans. Be right back." It only takes a minute or two to change out of my outfit and into something more casual, and then I'm back in the living room handing Reaper the dress. "Just leave that in bed with him."
He takes it and dissolves into smoke.
Jack comes out and sees us on the couch, Ana in her usual chair, all watching McCree's door. Cautiously, he sits in a chair and asks, "Again?"
"It's for his own good," Reaper says, chuckling darkly.
"What did you do this time?"
"He's got Sombra's dress."
"I don't..." Jack looks confused. "That's it? Just a dress?"
Ana says, "The dress she was wearing when he met Sombra and mistook her for the sort of lady who...sells her time."
"He thought I was a whore," I clarify. "Probably because I was dressed like a whore and came on to him."
"And then I punched him across the street," Reaper adds in satisfaction.
Uncle Jack looks like he's trying to figure out which question he wants to ask first. "You came on to him?"
I wave one hand dismissively. "What, it's not like I was serious. And he's not even that bad to look at. If he'd come through when I was actually doing that, I might have even left him some of his money when I was done."
There's a long silence before Jack says, "I'm not awake enough for this conversation," and starts to stand up.
That amazingly unmanly scream rings out from McCree's room, followed by frantic thumping sounds.
"And you're trying to discourage him from drinking?" Jack asks incredulously.
"Just from getting too drunk to remember what he did," I clarify.
Reaper chuckles. "I'm satisfying my anger and resentment in a way that doesn't involve violence. Aren't you proud of me?"
Jack gives him a long look. "You're being a dick instead of trying to kill him."
"Yuuup."
"I wish I could argue with that," he sighs.
More thumping sounds, as well as some scraping, come from behind McCree's door before it opens enough for my red dress to come flying out. He glares at us like he can't even string words together, he's too angry, and then the door shuts again.
"He will never defeat his own ter-ror," Reaper declares in a good imitation of She-ablo's mocking tones.
Ana looks amused as I collapse into a pile of giggles. Jack looks at me like I'm crazy, but I've just remembered the day Reaper did an impression of the Skeleton King, and that when I asked if he wanted to play with me, he said yes.
I have got to get some copies of that game.
===
Six high-end dedicated gaming pads with overnight shipping aren't cheap, but Talon had a lot of money before I stole it all, redistributed it, and reserved a comfortable percentage for my own use. Six copies of Diablo 3 (50th Anniversary Ultimate Deluxe edition, of course - gotta have all the bells and whistles) barely equal the cost of shipping the pads. I know six units is way more than Reaper and I would need for ourselves, but I have every intention of browbeating McCree and Uncle Jack into some competitive play, and Tia Ana might want to join us, and maybe, when Widow comes back...
Team Talon vs. Team Overwatch. I like that idea.
The fact that it's a miserably cold, dark, rainy day just makes it all the better when the stack of boxes is delivered and I go down to sign for it. I open them all right there in the foyer, Solen breaking down the packing materials and taking them away for me. Each pad hums to life eagerly and Diablo 3 installs in minutes, with patching only taking a few minutes more. They came with padded carrying cases, so I slip the straps of three cases over each arm and head over to the locked office I've turned into my little science lab, where I stash four of them. Then I practically bounce into the living room where...Reaper is a dejected ball of canine misery in his doggy bed.
"Where's Tia Ana?" I ask, dropping to one knee and scratching him behind the ears.
"Meeting," he grumbles.
"Get up," I tell him, standing. "And follow me."
He doesn't move. "Why?"
"Because Justice has fallen on the world of men..." His ears perk, and I with grin I finish, "...and it's time to defeat your own ter-ror."
Slowly, Reaper's head comes up. "Sombra..."
I heft the cases slightly. "Brand new gaming pads, fresh installs, Fiftieth Ultimate Deluxe."
He still doesn't look enthused. "...Sombra."
Doesn't he want to...? My heart plummets. "Unless you didn't mean it when you said you wanted to play together sometime..."
Reaper boils into smoke and re-forms in the hoodie configuration, then promptly crushes me to his chest. "I meant it," he growls, hugging me tighter to show that it's himself he's angry at, not me. When he feels me relax, he says quietly, "I don't deserve you."
"If you want to punish yourself," I tease, "roll a barbarian. Otherwise, tell me where we're playing because we still have to get through campaign before we can do adventure mode, and the less I have to hear Leah whine at me, the better."
"My room," he says with a chuckle, and he gives me one last squeeze before releasing me. "I don't want Morrison interrupting us."
I'm actually going to play Diablo 3 with Papi. Suddenly giddy, I grin up at him, and he leans back in momentary surprise before hugging me gently again and pressing his mask briefly to the top of my head.
"I didn't imagine it," I murmur as he lets go again.
Reaper turns back from heading to his room. "Imagine what?"
I jog a few steps to catch up to and follow him. "The time I yelled at you and waited on the stairs to apologize. I thought I'd imagined you kissing the top of my head, but I didn't, did I?"
His back stiffens slightly. "No," he says after a moment. "You didn't. And you were right. That man is...less dead than I thought he was."
That makes me stop for a moment and hug the gaming pads in glee before hurrying to catch up and follow him into the room. "Does that mean you want your old battle-net account back?"
Reaper turns to look at me in surprise. "That thing still exists? Of course it does," he continues before I can say anything. "No, leave it where it is. Gabriel Reyes is legally dead. We don't need some Blizzard employee banning me for being hacked, or worse, figuring out that Gabriel Reyes is not dead."
"If you trying to hide the names you gave your characters," I tease, "I already saw them."
He sits on his bed and takes the pad I hand him, head tilted in thought. "I don't even remember what they were named."
I sit next to him and turn my own pad on. "I'll have pity on you and not remind you, then." I give it a beat, then add, "Besides, that way I don't have to show you what mine were named."
Reaper laughs.
=
"No hug?" Ana asks in surprise as Reaper flows past, early the next morning.
Guiltily, he comes back and stands up into the hoodie configuration to hug his old friend good morning, then dissolves without a word and flows into the can in the corner. Ana looks at me in confusion.
"We were up late and then he had a rough night," I explain, giving her a hug myself. "He needs to give his mind a rest, and that means sitting in the can for a while."
Ana reclaims her teacup from the side table and gestures for us to sit on the couch. "What were you doing?"
I curl up on the other end of the couch. "Playing Diablo 3, running through campaign mode. I thought it would be a good distraction, and possibly a way to redirect aggression towards Uncle Jack and McCree by turning it into friendly competition."
"A very good idea," she says warmly. "And it certainly sounded like you enjoyed yourselves."
Oh, geez. "You could hear us? I didn't think we were that loud..."
She smiles tolerantly at my embarrassment. "Don't worry about it. It's hardly the first time I have overheard such things. Was it your first time...?"
I shake my head ruefully. "Not by a long shot. But it was our first time doing it together and it felt so good we just kept going, you know?"
"You anticipate doing that with him again, then?"
"Oh, absolutely. Probably as soon as he wakes up..."
The sentence trails off because McCree's door - which, I realize had been ajar for half a minute - has suddenly swung open, but there is no cowboy standing behind it. Instead, the echoes of what was probably a mad scramble for the bathroom spill out, and faintly, I can hear the sounds of retching. Shit.
"Did you know he got drunk last night?" I ask Ana, my eyes wide.
Her eye is wide, as well. "No. I did not expect him to over-indulge again so soon. What caused...?"
"I think he overheard us," I tell her, standing up, "and I don't think he knows we were talking about Reaper and a computer game."
Ana thinks for a moment, then swallows a laugh. "Oh my. Yes, I can see how that might sound different to his ears. Where are you going?" she asks, because I'm crouching by the can.
Reaper's out cold. Before I answer, I close the lid and give him a hit of endorphins. "I'm gonna go explain things."
Carefully, I charge one hand as I venture into the cowboy's room. The bathroom door is wide open, and my feet make no noise as I slip in and discharge the energy, making his hair stand up. It's not really long enough to pull back easily, and he probably doesn't have any clips, but this way I can get it out of danger. He doesn't seem to notice, but then again he's also busy. I perch on the sink and wait for a quiet moment.
"We weren't talking about you," I say when he stops to catch his breath. "I was playing a computer game with Papi."
"That's...not as much of a relief as it could be," he says shortly.
"Jesse...you don't have to worry about me taking advantage of your drunk ass."
He gives me as incredulous a look as he can manage without turning his head too far.
I sigh. "Okay, listen. Any teasing I do, any shit I give you, I promise I will never do anything more than look."
He seems to be finished. I fill the cup his toothbrush was in and hand it to him so he can rinse and spit.
"You promise," he says bitterly. "Well, that's all well 'n good, you won't try nothin' with me. But what if I try somethin' with you?" A glance at me, then he stares into the cup before taking a second mouthful of water and swishing it around. "Against your will," he clarifies quietly after he's spit and flushed.
"Would you?" I ask. "I didn't think you wanted to go there, and not just because of Papi."
"I don't. Especially after hearing you don't want to, either. But get a feller liquored up, and his brain ain't the only part of his body he starts listening to."
...oh. Oh. "Jesse McCree, are you getting shit-faced because you can't get laid?"
He glowers at me. "That ain't the only reason, and I'll thank you to not ask any more questions like that. Now, I'm gonna take a shower, so...d'you mind?"
He's going to take his clothes off. Free show! "Not at all! Go right ahead."
Jesse stands up, smooths his hair down, and gives me a hard stare. "I meant, d'you mind not looking."
"I'd rather look, actually."
My implied appreciation for his unclothed body seems to make him uncomfortable. After a moment, he steps into the shower fully-clothed and closes the door. Now protected by frosted glass, he shucks off his clothes before tossing them over the shower door and onto the floor of the bathroom. I wait until the water's going before I gather them up and go into his room. It only takes a minute to dump the dirty clothes in the laundry assemble a set of fresh ones. I leave them, neatly folded, on the edge of the sink and close the door behind me.
Ana looks extremely interested when I emerge.
"New plan," I tell her as I reclaim my seat. "Next time he goes to get drunk, I'm gonna follow him and see if I can't keep him from drowning himself in cheap whiskey, since obviously trauma isn't working."
"And Gabriel?" she asks.
"I think it would be best for him to stay here."
"Good, we are in agreement." Ana smiles softly. "Perhaps he would like to show me how this 'Diablo 3' is played."
=
It's getting towards evening when Tia Ana looks up with a frown and says, "Where is Gabriel?"
Living room can is empty. Bedroom can is empty. Here we go again. "He's probably in a bad place," I announce, closing my screens. I check his room first, but he's not there. Then I check mine, and see his legs spilling untidily out from my closet. Back to the living room. "Yeah. He's in a bad place. I'm gonna stay with him."
Ana smiles at me. Jack looks confused. I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on my door before I close it behind me.
Reaper's wisping heavily in the corner of my closet. It almost looks like he's covered in very fluid black fuzz. I grab the blanket from my bed and sit beside him, tucking it around both of us before cuddling up to him and hugging his arm, my head resting on his shoulder. By coming into my room, he's saying he wants to be found, he wants to be comforted. And even in this form, he'll still feel warmth wherever my body touches his.
It's almost like when we were with Talon, in the last days when he was falling apart, familiar and comfortable enough that I don't even have to fight to keep my memories in their subdirectories as I nestle down and let myself slip into sleep.
=
I wake up to Reaper lifting me, carrying me, setting me down on my bed and covering me properly with the blanket. Then there's paws on the mattress and a doggy nose pushing its way under my arm as he snuggles up as the doberman. I hug his neck and scratch gently at his ears.
"Do you want to talk?"
A lazy eternity of gentle petting later, he answers, "Yes."
"You do deserve me," I say in as firm a voice as I can manage while half asleep.
"I don't see how," he replies in a dry growl. "I certainly don't think I've done anything good enough to deserve half of what you've done for me."
"What," I grumble. "Is this the year twenty-thirty? Because I thought we stopped blaming the victim way before I was born."
He trembles for a moment before saying, "Well, I was born before that happened, so it doesn't apply to me."
"Papi," I snap.
He laughs. "You can't stop me from blaming myself for things I've actually done," he says, but it's in a teasing tone.
"No, but I can make you think about it. How much of that would you have done if you hadn't had your red-eyed twin telling you lies and feeding you bullshit?"
Reaper goes utterly still for a long moment while I wake up enough to realize what I've just let on that I know, and then he starts shuddering.
"It was all my fault," he growls. "How could they not hate me?"
"It was sabotage," I counter fiercely, "and you know it."
"I should have been stronger."
"Says who?" I demand, but there's no answer because we both know who. "That's bullshit, Papi. No one is that strong. No one is so perfect they account for everything and make no mistakes."
Reaper doesn't say anything, but I know what he wants to say.
"Not even that asshole," I tell him firmly. "You think I wasn't all over Talon's systems from day one? I was passing information to Ana since just after I found that music for you, and warning Genji about things since about the same time. He wanted you to think he was all-powerful, but he didn't even know what this little shadow was up to."
"So you think you're-" he snarls, but cuts himself off.
"Remember why I gave you slippers." I give him a moment to think about that, my fingers still scratching behind his ears. "I fucked up royally. And I still haven't gotten all the kinks out of your swarm."
Reaper shudders again. "If I hadn't...obeyed...he would have made me."
It doesn't take much to infer the threat. "Controlling you through your swarm?"
He nods minutely.
"Papi, that was a big fat lie. Your swarm isn't smart enough for that."
A snort that could have been laughter, then a whine.
"He made other threats?" I ask gently, and he nods again. "If he could have followed through on them, he would have done that instead of trying to get you killed or starve you to death. And if he'd been as all-knowing as he tried to make you think he was, wouldn't he have known I was feeding you and do something to stop me? He didn't even deny my requisitions."
There's a pause before he growls out, "Damn it, hija, stop making sense. You're ruining my brooding."
"Make me, Papi."
He growls, but it's the affectionate mock-angry growl.
"I got more bad news," I tell him, settling back down and pulling him closer. "I may have stolen your kill."
That makes him stop and look at me. "Sombra, what did you do?"
"Set off a data bomb to wipe Talon's systems. If he was dumb, it ate him."
He thinks about that for a minute while sleep tugs at me.
"I'll let it slide this time," he says in an amused growl, "but if he survived, we kill him together."
"As a family," I murmur. "Widow gets a shot, too."
"As a family," he agrees.
===
Uncle Jack is immediately on board with the idea of competitive solo play, so a few nights later he's sitting in one of the living room chairs while Reaper endures me using him as a backrest on the couch, both of them rolling fresh barbarians and racing to see who can get through campaign - because this is Uncle Jack's first character - first. Ana's doing a bit of quiet work from her usual chair, which is good when the program I left in the bar's system alerts me that McCree's ordered his first drink of the night.
"Time out," I announce as I close my screens and sit up. "McCree's gone drinking. I'm gonna see what I can do to keep him from getting too drunk. Papi, I expect you to play nice if Tia Ana goes to bed before I get back because I will be very unhappy with you if you maim or kill Uncle Jack. Got it?"
Reaper starts wisping from the shoulders. "Acknowledged."
I kiss the cheek of his mask. "Good. Have fun, kick his ass, call on the Talon channel if you need me. Time in."
They resume playing under Ana's amused and watchful eye, and I go change into something a bit fancier before heading out.
=
McCree's favorite bar is the closest one, which isn't a surprise when you consider that he'll have to stumble home while too drunk to read the numbers on paper currency. A bit of stealth lets me slip in behind a couple coming out, and I quickly scout the place out. McCree's at the bar, chatting up a brunette in something dark and slinky, so I sit at a table fairly close behind him and flag a waitress down. The screen I open says TWO SHOTS OF TEQUILA, A PITCHER OF WATER, AND SILENCE, and the bill I'm holding up is big enough that she just smiles and gives me a nod. My drinks arrive a minute later, and I flip her a screen that says KEEP THE CHANGE.
McCree's talking about riding horses, and the brunette is clearly amused but uninterested, when he says, "...love to take you for a ride and introduce you to my lil' deputy, Willy the Kid."
The brunette is spared the need to respond politely because I am laughing hysterically from my table.
"Really? Really, amigo?" I choke out as he turns to glower at me and the brunette makes her escape. "That's what you call it? Willy the Kid?"
Furious and embarrassed, he slinks away from the bar and sits across from me. "And what would you call it, then?" he asks.
I slide a shot over in apology and he tosses it back. "The Alamo," I tease, sliding him the second shot. "Unforgettable, but regrettable."
"Hey! There's nothing regrettable about my lil' deputy!" Angrily, he drinks the second shot.
"Easy, amigo. I'm giving you shit." I pour him a glass of water. He's halfway through it before he realizes it's not booze. "I know you got a sixteen-hand-horse in your stable."
McCree chokes, then finishes the glass and gasps, "How-?"
The screen is small, there's no sound, and the file is very old, but it's undeniably him in his early 20s and he's skinny-dipping. His face goes red when he realizes what he's seeing, and he drinks a second glass of water trying to get himself under control while I chuckle wickedly and start looking up famous cowboys.
"You're an evil woman, Sombra," he says darkly as he gestures a waitress over and orders his usual cheap whiskey.
"I know. What about One-Eyed Charley? I'd think that would be the obvious nickname."
McCree shakes his head. "One-Eyed Charley was actually a woman. Doc Hollidick?"
I make a face. "If you just went with James, you'd be Jesse and James...Jesse James?"
"I like the pun, but I'd be explaining the joke all the time," he says regretfully. "Wild Bill Kicock? Hi...cock?"
"Too subtle. You'd want to do something like Wild Dick Hickock."
The whiskey arrives. McCree looks thoughtfully at it, then drinks it straight down. "I'm thinkin' up dick jokes with my sister, and it's my dick we're talkin' about. My sister, who has seen my dick." He sighs. "I ain't drunk enough for this."
"Well, it's gonna be harder to impress the ladies if the horse won't leave the stable," I tell him, refilling the water glass.
He takes it, but he doesn't drink. "Can I ask somethin' personal?"
"It's only fair; I've seen your assets. Ask away."
"Were you the sort of girl that men like me take to movies?" he asks quietly, not looking up from the glass he's holding.
"Si," I answer, just as quietly.
"Does your Papi know?"
"He didn't at the time. He does now. Why?"
McCree glances up at me, then drops his gaze again. "That thing you did with my hair. I'm just wondering what other tricks you can do. What other tricks you have done."
"I've had to wake the horse up a couple of times," I admit. "I can also make it feel like an electric cattle prod."
He flinches. "Well, at least y'all can defend yourself. When you don't have that machine pistol, I mean. You can't exactly slip that into your purse or walk around with it just hanging out."
"Unlike your Colt 45?" I tease.
That gets him looking up at me in confusion. "What? No, I got a Peacekeeper-"
"I meant the one you keep holstered in your pants, cowboy."
For the second time, McCree's face turns red.
"You as good a shot with that?" I ask, grinning. "How fast can you reload?"
McCree pulls out a few bills, throws them onto the table, and starts walking out.
Gleefully, I follow him. "I didn't even make a joke about quick-drawing," I say as the door closes behind us.
"Y'don't have to," he grumbles. "I'm already thinking them up."
I have to laugh at that as I catch up and walk beside him. I'm expecting him to go find another bar, but instead he just goes back to the safehouse.
Reaper's waiting in the living room when we enter, and there's no sign of Jack or Ana. "They went to bed," he growls before I can ask, wisping slightly from under his crossed arms. "You're back early. And sober. Why?"
McCree flushes in embarrassment and turns towards his room. I start giggling. "Willy the Kid," I choke out before collapsing onto the couch to muffle my laughter with a throw pillow.
Jesse makes his escape, while Reaper seems to be in shock. I can practically see him wondering if he wants to know why I'm laughing and deciding it's better not to ask because he's not sure he just learned the nickname of his pseudo-son's penis, but he suspects that's what it was, and "McCree's penis" has got to be close to the top of the list of Things He Does Not Want To Think About.
"Good work," he says finally, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. "You kept him from making a disgrace of himself and made him suffer."
"I'll let you tell Uncle Jack in the morning," I offer, still snickering.
Playful wisps curl out from his biceps. "Apology accepted."
=
"My turn," Reaper growls as we head into the kitchen. "I want pancakes."
I gesture him to the stove. "Be my guest. Tell me what you want me to do."
He stands up into his usual form, with hands, which he rubs together in anticipation. "Eggs," he commands, reaching for the whisk.
At first, his pancakes seem unnecessarily complicated, but then I realize he's making two batches at the same time. Working together, we quickly get two generous stacks of pancakes piled up. The second, smaller stack is buckwheat, and I assume it's for McCree.
"Smells good in here," Jack says from the doorway as I'm dividing bacon among three plates and Reaper's cutting his own pancakes for a change.
"Breakfast is on me," Papi says as he carries his plate to the table. "You're welcome."
"You made pancakes?" Jack looks at me, then back to Reaper, and his expression softens. "Thanks, Gabe."
Reaper starts wisping from the back of his head and shoulders, but also from the chest. "I wanted pancakes," he says before melting into the doberman and climbing into his chair. "By the way - Willy the Kid."
His timing is perfect - McCree's just rounded the corner and now is staring in horror while Jack puts two and two together and realizes what he's just been told. The awkward, embarrassed expressions are almost painful to watch because Uncle Jack doesn't want to think about McCree's penis any more than Reaper did.
Papi, of course, is wagging madly. "There's buckwheat on the stove," he says helpfully, ensuring the cowboy doesn't just flee.
Breakfast is full of awkward looks and uncomfortable silence while Reaper enjoys his pancakes and McCree doesn't meet anyone's eyes. Instead of leaving when he's done, Reaper just sits there and drinks in the tension. Jack's the first to flee with a mumbled excuse about checking in with someone. Once he's gone, McCree takes a deep breath and raises his head to meet Reaper's eyes.
"I don't know if this was meant to be an apology or a trick," he says evenly, "but if you're trying to rebuild that burned bridge between us, this ain't the way to do it. Don't take the things I like and use them as bait. All it does is make me not want to trust you."
Holy shit. When I told McCree to use his words like a big boy, I didn't think he'd actually do it.
Reaper's tail curls downwards and he hunches over a little. "You came back mostly-sober. I was feeling generous."
"So you were using me as a tool to make Jack uncomfortable." He pauses to see if Reaper will try to deny it, but there's only guilty silence. "Real mature, Gabe. You got beef with me, give it to me straight. You got beef with Jack, leave me the fuck out of it. You told me to trust Sombra, and I do. But I ain't rebuilding fifteen years of broken trust with her. You want me to stick around, you follow those two rules or I'm catching the first flight out to someplace warm and dry, and I ain't looking back."
Behind Reaper's back, I flash McCree a thumbs-up. He meets my eyes briefly and then goes back to staring at the highly uncomfortable doberman.
"Up to you," Jesse says when it's clear Reaper isn't going to say anything. "You want to rebuild, you say yes and agree to treat me with at least a little respect. You want to never see me again, you say no and I'll go smoke at your grave and probably cry a little and that's it, the man I was proud to serve under will be dead and you'll never have to look at my ugly mug again." He takes a few breaths to steady his voice before he continues. "One word, Gabe: yes or no?"
Reaper whines low in his throat, looking as miserable as I've ever seen a dog. "Yes," he growls. "Stay."
And then he's a river of black smoke flowing out of the room and the can in my bedroom registers that he's at 100% baseline mass.
"Next time you go drink," I tell McCree, "you let me know. They're all on me."
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "As many as I want?"
"As many as you want. I won't get in your way."
That doesn't seem to reassure him. "And the morning after?"
"I won't fuck with you, and I'll make sure he doesn't, either. You got cojones, cowboy."
"You would know," he deadpans. "You've seen the video."
That cracks me up. After a minute, he allows himself to smile and chuckle quietly.
"I'm gonna go make sure he's not spiraling into depression," I say when the laughter dies down. "Later today, we'll be going outside."
"The park?"
"Just the back yard. Reaper won't want to be around strangers. He'll want to run and physically exhaust himself, and he'll want to be fussed over, and he won't want to risk fucking things up completely with you. So if you were to join us, throw a Frisbee or some tennis balls for him or just sit and give him pettings, he won't argue. He'll just be quietly confused and grateful that you want to spend time with him."
McCree gives me a raised-eyebrow look of appreciation. "You are an evil woman, but you use your powers for good. I'll be there. You've all but given me an engraved invitation, and I'm not a big enough fool to refuse it."
He ambles out of the kitchen, tossing a two-fingered salute to me as he goes, and I head to my room.
The instant the door closes behind me, Reaper boils out of the can and forms into the doberman, tail between his legs, standing beside the bed like he's been told to stay off it. I sit on the floor beside him and hug his neck until he sprawls half over my lap, whining and trembling and trying to bury his nose in my hair.
"I know, Papi," I murmur. "I know. You angry at yourself and you don't think you deserve good things."
"He would have walked away," Reaper says so quietly that it's barely even a whisper. "I fucked things up that badly. Sombra, what am I doing?"
I stroke his neck and scratch behind his ears. "You struggling to put yourself back together after that asshole did his best to break you apart. You hate because you had to hide how much you care, but Jesse, he needs to know you care. You don't have to hate anymore, Papi. You can let it go, and no one gonna mock you for it. They know you been hurt. They not gonna think it's being weak, because they know it's you being strong and fighting against what that asshole made you believe."
He thinks about that for a minute or two. "I wanted him to suffer. He deserved to suffer. But it hurt."
"That because you care about him, Papi. That asshole wanted you to be a monster of hate. He wanted you to kill your friends. And he wanted you to think it was all your idea so you'd hurt yourself while hurting them, because he knew you were too strong for him to take down unless he tricked you into taking yourself down."
"I'm my own worst enemy," he sighs, but the trembling's stopped. "Now what?"
"Don't fight too hard when people want to do nice things for you," I tease. "If you need me to yell at you so you feel like it's okay to not be a dick to them, fine. Just say the word."
"Please?" he asks in a dry voice.
I hug him again. "You got it, Papi. Feeling restless?"
"You know me too well, hija."
"Then let's go outside. Frisbee?"
Reaper scrambles off my lap, tail wagging madly, and noses the red disk out of the bag. He doesn't let it go until we're out in the backyard, and then he's off and running before it's even left my hand.
A few tosses in, McCree ambles up and I grin at him. Reaper comes back with the Frisbee, but stops uncertainly a few feet away. Jesse doesn't hesitate, he reaches for it and Reaper doesn't fight to keep it. Then, without a word, he throws the disk and there's a second of hesitation before Reaper turns and chases it down.
When he comes back this time, he brings it straight to the cowboy and his tail is wagging.
"This is surreal," Jesse says after a few more throws, making sure Reaper's out of hearing range. "But it's a good surreal, y'know?"
I wait while Reaper comes back and runs off again before replying. "Imagine how this has been for me."
He gives me a piercing look. "What do you mean?"
"I'm only seven years younger than you."
Another couple of tosses while he does the math and thinks about that.
"So I'm guessing you grew up idolizing the guy who's currently a dog chasing a Frisbee," he says finally. "And Jack, and Ana, and now you're living with them and helping...the dog...not be the ruthless killer he turned into and reconnect with them instead." A pause while Reaper runs up, hands over the Frisbee, and runs off again. "Yeah, I can see how that's weird for you. Lena used to have moments of just...stopping to be amazed that she was actually part of Overwatch."
"What about you?" I ask.
He scoffs. "I was an ignorant, snot-nosed brat. Barely knew who they were, wasn't impressed in the slightest. Only started to appreciate what they'd done after I got to know them."
Reaper runs up, but detours to the shade of a nearby tree and flops down, panting.
"That's our cue to go sit and pet him," I tell McCree, who laughs.
We sit, one on either side of the doberman, and lean comfortably against the tree. For a while there's just quiet petting.
"Hey," McCree says idly. "Those screens you do. They can play video. Can they do sound?"
"Of course," I tell him. "I just didn't want the whole bar knowing what I was showing you."
"Could you play a movie?"
I tap into the safehouse network. "Sure. What do you want to see?"
"Can you get Rush Hour?"
Papi's tail starts to wag slowly. Jesse and I pretend not to see it.
"Easily."
The screen is big enough for all three of us to watch easily, and half the morning slips comfortably away. The majority of the next hour is spent with Reaper alternately chasing the Frisbee and just running laps, and then we go back inside where he laps up half a liter of LRF.
"That stuff wouldn't actually..." McCree starts, watching Reaper drink.
I try not to grin too broadly. "The nanites activate when they enter a bioelectric field, and they're programmed to rebuild Reaper. I don't know that they would, but I'm sure they would try."
"Well," he deadpans, "that's moderately horrifying."
"If you need distraction, I've got a gaming pad loaded with Diablo 3 just for you," I offer.
He looks uncomfortable while Reaper looks interested. "I've never...your Papi didn't exactly encourage playing games."
Reaper manages to look guilty.
"Plenty of time now, cowboy," I tease. "Come on, we'll show you-"
"No," Reaper says quietly.
"Papi?"
"You show him. I'm going to take a nap."
I lean down to scratch his ears. "Okay. You change your mind, you can join us."
With Papi curled up in his doggy bed, McCree and I settle on the couch for a nice session of teaching my trash cowboy brother how to kill demons. After an hour or two he calls time out for a bathroom break, and I take the opportunity to arrange the sleeping doberman with both bears. Not just because it's adorable - although it is, and I take pictures - but because the plush toys help keep him from having nightmares.
"Why does he have a teddy bear?" McCree asks when he comes back. "Why does he have two teddy bears?"
"One of them is mine. The big one," I clarify as I settle back onto the couch. "It was my Christmas present year before last."
"You never gave me a big ol' teddy bear for Christmas," he grumbles, flopping sullenly onto the other end of the couch.
Reaper opens one eye. "You want a teddy bear?" he asks in a challenging sort of way. "Fine. I'll get you a teddy bear."
Although he tries to hide it, McCree looks genuinely touched.
=
Around six, McCree stretches and says, "Okay, I think that's enough for me today."
Jack looks up from the pad he's been working on. "Make it to seventy?"
"Nah. Close, though. Think I'm gonna mosey on over to the local watering hole." He gives me an inquiring look, one eyebrow raised, asking silently if I'm going to keep my word. I nod, and he nods back before putting his gaming pad in the closet and leaving the room.
"I'm going to follow him, try to keep him from getting completely drunk. Papi, you gonna behave yourself while I'm gone?"
Before Reaper can answer, Jack's walking over to the closet where the gaming pads are kept. "I think I'll see how fast it takes me to get my barbarian to seventy," he says in what's undeniably a challenge.
"You're on, Morrison."
"Okay. Remember, no maiming or killing, or you'll regret it." I make it sound like a threat, but after this morning's conversation, he knows it's a reminder.
Reaper's tail wags briefly before he growls, "Fine."
Jesse McCree is waiting for me outside the gate. He nods as the gate closes behind me, and without a word we start walking.
"He didn't want to play with me," he says quietly after about a block.
"Gonna take time. What he wants is to play against you, express some anger by being better than you."
"That sounds like him," McCree says dryly. "So, we're still on for you payin' for my drinks?"
"As many as you want," I assure him.
There's silence for a minute or two before he says, "I still don't know how I feel about him. What he's done, what he's become. What I should forgive, what I shouldn't. If it's okay to want my old boss back."
"I can't answer those for you, amigo."
"I know. I need to talk to him, but..."
When he doesn't continue, I say, "...but you don't want to risk losing the little bit you've built already?"
He sighs. "Yeah. So here we are. Me to drown my sorrows and think about my life, and you to watch a sad little cowboy whose dad doesn't love him."
We're at the door; bastard timed it so that I can't immediately refute any of what he said. I follow him to the bar and pay for the bottle of bourbon he picks out, then clear his tab while I'm at it. McCree retreats to a corner table to start drinking. I start looking around to see who's watching the cowboy with speculative expressions that sharpen when I don't follow him.
One promising lady makes eye contact with me, her straight, dark hair cut short at her jawline, her almond eyes lined with green. I make my way over to her.
"I saw you watching my brother," I say by way of hello.
"The cowboy?" she asks. Her accent places her - or whoever she learned English from - around Turkey. "I didn't think there were any left."
"He's the last," I confirm.
"Really. And he's your brother?"
I hop up onto the barstool next to her. "Adopted. His family died in the Omnic Crisis."
We chat for a while. I spin her stories that are mostly true, things he did with Overwatch and Blackwatch but with the tell-tale details left out. Finally, she says, "Do you think he would let me...ride his horse?"
"I think if you're really interested, you should go over and ask. The worst he can do is say no, right?"
The almond-eyed woman downs the last of her drink. "I'm going to ask."
Smugly, I watch as she goes over to McCree's table and leans down - giving him a deliberate view of her cleavage - to say something quietly enough that no one else can hear. He looks astonished, points to me and asks a question, then gives the lady a broad smile and tips his hat. She straightens back up and heads for a stairway to the upper floor, while he grabs the half-empty bottle and saunters over to me.
"Help," he murmurs as he hands me the bottle, that broad smile looking stiff up close, his eyes panicked. "The horse is asleep!"
Oh my god. I am so glad I don't blush, but he can see in my expression how awkward this is for both of us. Well, I'm not going to let my effort go to waste. Cringing, I charge the hand not holding the bottle and press it against the front of his jeans before discharging the energy carefully. There's an almost immediate swelling that presses back, a grunt from the cowboy, and then he hurries off while I wish drinking his bourbon would have an effect on me. Any effect on me.
Fifteen minutes later, a shout of "Yee-haw!" echoes down through the ceiling. Several minutes after that, the almond-eyed woman comes back down the stairs, flushed with pleasure and with her hair in distinct disarray. As she makes her way to the door, another woman catches her arm, this one a blonde in a low-cut red top and dark pants that look like they were painted on. The two women have a quiet exchange, and the blonde looks in my direction.
McCree swaggers down the stairs looking extremely pleased with himself and comes over to lean on the bar next to me.
"Got another race in that horse?" I ask in an undertone. "Blonde in the red shirt looks like she wants to find out."
He looks startled. "How...glass of water, please," he says to the bartender, who obliges. "If this is a plot to keep me sober, then I will fall for it gladly." He gulps down half the glass before stopping for breath, eyes somewhere over my head and probably on the blonde. "Awwwyeah, Colt 45 reloaded and ready for action. Howdy," he says as the woman comes up to us. "I couldn't help noticing you noticing me."
"Is it true you are ze last cowboy?" the blonde purrs in a French accent. "I find zat...intoxicating."
McCree puts his glass down and offers her his arm. "I am, and if you're feeling faint, maybe I better take you upstairs where you can...lay down."
She giggles, feeling up his arm under the guise of clinging to it. "And will you show me your gun, monsieur cowboy?"
"It would be my genuine pleasure, miss."
And with a tip of his hat, he leads her upstairs. I have enough time to look up a place nearby that will deliver a steak dinner, place an order, and have the order leave the restaurant before I hear "Yeehaw!" from upstairs. By the time McCree swaggers down, I'm back in his corner table with the bottle of bourbon and the steak dinner waiting for him.
"For me?" he asks, startled. When I nod, he sits and pops open the container. "Sombra, this wasn't part of - you didn't have to buy me dinner."
"I do a lot of things I don't have to," I tell him. "You want to drink the rest of this bottle, you should probably not do it on an empty stomach."
He frowns at me, eyebrows drawing together. "You're still going to let me drink as much as I want?"
"That was the deal."
"You weren't trying to bribe me into staying sober with those ladies?"
I arch an eyebrow at him. "Would it have worked? You said that wasn't the only reason."
"No," he admits, cutting into his steak. "It wouldn't."
McCree eats his dinner, but the bottle remains untouched.
"Let's go back," he says when he's done eating.
"Not going to drown your sorrows?"
He shakes his head. "Not in the mood. Besides, you haven't had anything. I don't feel right making you sit here and watch me make a mess of myself after you bought me dinner and...helped me exercise my horse," he finishes, blushing slightly.
I shrug. "Not hungry. But if you want to call it a night, we'll head back. Just let me know the next time, so I can properly finance your complete debauchery," I tease.
"Fine by me," he says, chuckling.
=
Reaper's lurking in the living room again when we come back. He flows out of the can and stands up into his usual form. "You're still sober," he says, clearly skeptical of this development.
McCree smirks. "Your Sombra found a couple fillies interested in my Colt," he says smugly. "Wouldn't do to disappoint the ladies, Gabe. You taught me that."
For a moment, Reaper looks like he wants to facepalm except he doesn't have a face. "Whatever," he growls, and flows out of the room.
"Thanks, Sombra," McCree says warmly, giving me a hug I didn't expect. "I mean it. I owe you."
"I only take payment in favors," I tease, but he just nods.
"I'll remember that. Good night."
"Sleep well, cowboy."
The smirk comes back. "Already did," he says as he swaggers off to his room. "Already did."
There's a Papi-dog waiting on my bed when I get into my room, chewing idly on the squeaky steak with his back to the closet. He doesn't say anything until I've changed and crawled under the covers.
"You got him laid?"
"Only because he's so bad at picking up women." When Reaper laughs, I take the plastic steak and toss it out of bed. "Did you behave?"
"Seventy and twelve paragon levels before he hit seventy," he growls in satisfaction.
"Good work, Papi." I hug him before snuggling back down. "I'm proud of you."
Surprised and wagging, Reaper lays down beside me with his head on his paws. "Good night, Alé."
"Good night, Papi."
That's why, when Ana looks up and asks, "Where is Gabriel?", I know something's wrong.
He's not in the living room can. He's not in the bedroom can. I close my screens and get up, checking the other public areas of the safehouse because things have been going too well and I suspect he's standing in the coat closet or something, like he used to do in the Talon base, out of a need to punish himself. But of course this isn't the base and it's not "his" territory and he wouldn't want any of Ana's people seeing him. He's not in my room. If he's not in his, I'm going to seriously freak out - but no, I open his door and see a familiar pair of legs spilling out of the closet and yeah, I know exactly what is going on.
Of all the configurations Reaper has at his disposal, the one he used for years is the most inefficient and least "comfortable". But he's sitting in his closet in that configuration, and I firmly keep my childhood subdirectories closed before I can access them and trauma-lock myself.
The door closes behind me, and I know that Reaper is silently seething with resentful satisfaction that whoever-it-was went away without trying to cheer him up or tell him that there's no reason to sit in the closet. Ana looks up as I enter the room, and McCree has stumbled out of his. I give him a warning glare, and he holds his hands up in silent protest that whatever it is, he didn't do it.
"Papi's in a very bad place." I throw the words down like a challenge, daring either of them to say anything. Neither of them does. "I'm gonna stay with him until he's feeling better. Don't come looking for us."
The room is stiffly silent as I turn and leave.
Reaper's legs don't move as I enter his room and close the door behind me. Slowly, I cross the room and see exactly what I expected to see: he's sprawled in the closet like someone dumped him there, wisping so heavily that I can't tell where it's coming from. He looks like he's just barely holding himself together. Instead of heading for him, I cross to the further side of the closet and sit with my back to the wall, out of sight except for one hand laid casually on the floor in a visible reminder that I'm there, he's not alone.
He doesn't say anything. I don't say anything. The fact that I'm there is enough; when he's ready for comfort and reassurance, he'll let me know. In the meantime, I curl up and lean against the wall because if my experience is anything to go by, this is going to take a while and sleep is a much better option than fighting to keep my past at bay.
=
I come awake to a doberman half-sprawled across my lap, his head resting on my other arm. Slowly, I bring my hand up to his head and start petting gently, my fingertips massaging the skin of his forehead, caressing behind his ears. I make no more acknowledgment of him than that, and he doesn't acknowledge that I'm even doing that much.
Close to half an hour passes like that before I say quietly, "Do you want to talk?"
Nearly an hour of slow, gentle petting later, he sighs, "Yes."
I lean over and hug him briefly to let him know I heard, but wait for him to speak. It takes a few minutes.
"I don't deserve you, hija."
"What, because I won't let you suffer alone?" I keep it light and teasing, and he whine-growls low in his throat. "Papi..." Despite my best efforts, the memory of abraded fingertips intrudes, and my voice shakes. "I know what it's like. No one was there for me. I'm gonna be there for you."
"Alé..." The dog shudders and pushes, writhing into the hoodie configuration I designed for mutual hugging comfort, with the hood pulled up over the mask. For a long minute he just kneels on the floor and hugs me. Then he scoops me up and shifts until he's siting with his back to the wall and I'm held comfortingly on his lap. "Guilt over your mother?" he asks quietly.
"Si."
"Guilt over...things I've done," he says reluctantly.
"It's okay. Not gonna judge."
Soft, bitter chuckles. "Well, whatever else I've done, I've apparently raised one hell of a daughter." A sigh, and then he says, "I don't know that I was such a good role model, though. I know I didn't turn out remotely like what my mother wanted, but fuck what she wanted. I don't know what your mother wanted you to be."
"Alive," I say in a small voice. "That's all I know. She wanted me to be alive." My throat closes up and I turn to bury my face in his shoulder.
Reaper's arms tighten around me in silent reassurance. "You need distraction," he growls firmly, ignoring that he needs distraction, too. "Let's go for a walk."
Deep breath in, shaky laugh out. "You just want to terrorize anyone who tries to hit on me."
This form can't wisp, but I can see in the tilt of his head that he'd be smiling if he had a face. "Maybe."
A few minutes later, I'm leading Papi-dog on his leash and collar with a handful of RF sticks for treats in my pocket. The late-afternoon sun on his fur and the fresh breeze have his tail wagging, and Ana smiled as we crossed the living room with a casual, "We're going out for a bit." The exercise and the treats will be good for making him feel better physically, and threatening whichever hapless idiot tries to pick me up this time will be good for making him feel strong and in control again.
I don't have any illusions that this was a one-time thing. But the next time will be better, because he knows he's not alone.
=
Of course, that late-afternoon sun turns into rain, and I make Papi shake before he enters the safehouse. That doesn't prevent him from deliberately jumping on Uncle Jack with wet paws, of course, but Jack seems happy enough to have even antagonistic interaction with a wagging Reaper-dog. He settles in a chair to do some reading on a pad, I curl up in the chair by the can with half a dozen screens, and Reaper settles in his doggy bed to spend quality time with his squeaky steak.
Then the unthinkable happens. He bites down, and there's no sound.
"What the fuck?" He sits up, staring at the toy in affront before shooting me a hard look. "Sombra, what is this crap?"
Jack chuckles. "That's what you get for playing with it too hard," he says. "You killed it. It's dead. It is an ex-steak."
Reaper growls, "Shut up, Morrison, before I shove it down your throat." Then he turns back to me. "Sombra?"
"He right, Papi," I tell him gently. "You put a hole in it."
Mournfully, he noses at the beloved steak, no longer squeaky. He chews at it once or twice, but apparently it's no fun if it doesn't squeak, and he just curls up into a ball of canine misery instead. Jack looks guilty for having laughed, and I raise one finger to my lips as I close my screens.
Stealth takes me to my room and back without Reaper hearing me, Squeaky Steak the Second held behind my back.
"Papi," I call, "I got a treat for you."
Slowly, he raises his doggy head. "What is it?"
I grin. "Gotta come over here to find out."
Reaper stands and walks over.
"Sit."
He sits.
"Beg."
"Sombra..."
I laugh and touch his nose. "Just kidding, Papi. Boop!" While he huffs at me in quiet pleasure for our ritual of annoyance, I pull the new toy steak out and dangle it above him. Instantly, all his attention is fixed on it. "You sure you don't want to beg?" I tease.
Without a word, he sit up on his haunches, both forepaws tucked up against his chest.
"Say please?"
"Sombra..." he sighs. He wants the squeaky steak more than he hates indignity. "Please."
I let it drop, and he snatches it out of the air to retreat, wagging like crazy, to his doggy bed. The first joyous squeak makes him release the toy long enough to look up at me in gratitude.
"Who loves you best, Papi?" I ask in a teasing tone.
"You do," he growls around chewing on the steak.
Jack shakes his head and laughs.
"Something funny, Morrison?"
"No sir," he replies, still chuckling. "Just never thought I'd see the day you'd give anyone the satisfaction."
Reaper gnaws on his new toy for a minute before saying, "It's different. It's Sombra."
Jack looks like he wants to ask how that makes it different, but just glances inquiringly at me instead. I give him a gesture of false modesty, and with a rueful shake of his head he goes back to his reading.
===
It's not news that McCree likes to drink. That he gets blackout drunk, sometimes as often as three times a week, also isn't a huge surprise. But according to Reaper, he has a fickle stomach when he's hung over. It's not a matter of if he will hurl, but when, and then once he's turned his stomach inside-out, it's just the usual headache and exhaustion. Been like that since before he was legal to drink, Papi said. Well, that explains his reaction the time he tried to drink LRF. I'd thought it was the idea that he could have his body transformed from the inside out, but when I told Reaper about that (and he'd stopped laughing) he'd said that even the smell of bacon cooking could set McCree off.
That's not exactly why I'm cooking bacon, because I would be cooking it for Papi and Uncle Jack anyway, but it's why I deliberately waft the scent in the cowboy's direction with a cheerful greeting of "Morning, McCree!" when he drags himself in looking for coffee.
As his brain registers what he's smelling, his face loses color and he vanishes out of the doorway. I can hear him pound his way through the wing to his room - and his bathroom.
"I'm impressed," I tell Reaper as I add bacon to the plate of fried eggs and cut-up french toast drizzled with maple syrup that I've prepared for him already.
He climbs onto one of the chairs and carefully sticks his tail between the rails so he can wag freely. "Don't be. He's had twenty years to perfect the art of finding the nearest toilet and getting to it in time."
Uncle Jack walks in, eyebrows raised. "We're letting the dog sit at the table now?" A slight smirk tugs at his lips. "He might think he's people."
"Fuck off, Morrison."
I set plates down in front of both of them. "We want him to think he's people, Uncle Jack. Remember?"
Jack looks embarrassed to have been implicated in caring about his old friend and busies himself with his french toast, not looking up to see the very smug doberman wolfing down bacon.
They're both drinking coffee - Jack from a mug, Reaper from a soup plate - when McCree comes back in, looking more alert but still miserable. I hand him a mug of coffee and set a plate of toast and eggs down for him, then pour a tall glass of water and put it on the table in front of him as well.
Reaper looks up from his plate. "You've been drinking, boy," he growls.
McCree gives him a dark look over the edge of the mug. "Ain't no business of yours no more. Y'ain't my boss."
"Jesse," Jack starts, but a raised hand stops him.
"You ain't my boss either, Jack. And don't you even start," he shoots at me as I take the seat across from him.
"Good Morning, Sombra," I say mockingly in an imitation of his drawl. "Thank you for making me breakfast and coffee. I surely appreciate it, seeing as my head feels like an over-ripe melon on account of I tried to drown myself in a whiskey bottle last night."
He freezes, toast in one hand, mouth open. I can almost see the sullen resentment collapse into guilt and shame. "Thanks, Sombra," he mumbles. "I appreciate it."
"You're welcome," I tell him graciously.
Jack leans over and gives me a one-armed hug. "Thank you for breakfast and coffee," he says. "It's very generous of you."
"Aww, you're welcome, Uncle Jack." I'm grinning because I'm having a moment of my childhood self being thrilled that core members of Overwatch like me.
Reaper looks at me, tail wagging slightly. "I'm not going to thank you."
I lean over to scratch behind his ears. "I know, Papi. I promised I would spoil you, and that's what I'm doing."
McCree looks like he's going to protest, but goes back to his eggs and toast instead.
===
"And you're sure he got blackout drunk," Reaper says a few days later, sprawled on my bed next to me as a doberman and watching me make adjustments to a copy of the prototype shape.
"He goes to the same bar every time. I checked their security and the bartender keeps his tab electronically. If he didn't drink all the things he ordered, then he should go into stage magic because he made that shit disappear."
"Alright. I just don't want to waste this."
It's done. I close my screens and rub my hands together. "Showtime, Papi."
Reaper flows off the bed and stands up into himself. I press my hands to his chest and the swarm reconfigures to a one-time shape. It's the Gabriel Reyes prototype, with one minor change: his mouth is open in an unnatural tunnel modeled directly from a sex doll.
"I feel ridiculous," he grumbles as we cross through the living room where Ana nearly chokes on her tea.
"Just remember it won't last if you wisp." McCree's door unlocks itself for me, and I wave Reaper inside before closing and locking it again.
Ana's giving me a look that says if I know what's good for me, I'll explain myself. I sit on the edge of the couch closest to her chair and gesture for her to lean over.
"We gonna try to teach Jesse to not get blackout drunk by making him wonder what he did," I tell her.
She looks unsympathetic and mildly disapproving, but she nods. "Moderation is a good lesson for him to learn."
Just then, from McCree's room, there's an amazingly unmanly scream and the sound of a body hitting the floor, followed by some scrambling. Then Reaper flows out from under his door and forms as himself to sit on the couch next to me, chuckling evilly.
"Gabriel, what did you do?" Ana asks. No accusation, just curiosity.
"Absolutely nothing. I just lay down next to him and didn't move."
Ana tries not to laugh, but moments laughter we're all laughing.
McCree's door opens and the cowboy leans against the frame, pointing at us with one trembling hand, water dripping from his face and hair. "You're all jerks," he tells us with all the emphatic resentment he can muster. Then he slams the door shut and faintly, we can hear the shower come on.
The door to Jack's room opens and he leans out, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms. "What just happened?"
He doesn't get an answer; we're all laughing too hard.
===
Tia Ana raises her eyebrow as I cross the living room in the red dress and black boots I was wearing when McCree first met me.
"He got blackout drunk again," I say calmly as I unlock McCree's door. You'd think the trauma of thinking he'd managed to find a sex doll of his ex-boss and pseudo-father would have kept him vaguely sober for more than four days, but you'd be wrong.
The door doesn't open.
"Problems?" Reaper-dog says from where he's begging pettings from Ana.
I frown at the door. "Yeah. Could you check what he's done? It's unlocked but it's not opening."
Reaper flows under the door. Moments later, he flows back out. "Moved his dresser in front of it. I'm not sure if I'm more impressed that he learned or that he managed to do it while drunk."
"Okay, change of plans. Be right back." It only takes a minute or two to change out of my outfit and into something more casual, and then I'm back in the living room handing Reaper the dress. "Just leave that in bed with him."
He takes it and dissolves into smoke.
Jack comes out and sees us on the couch, Ana in her usual chair, all watching McCree's door. Cautiously, he sits in a chair and asks, "Again?"
"It's for his own good," Reaper says, chuckling darkly.
"What did you do this time?"
"He's got Sombra's dress."
"I don't..." Jack looks confused. "That's it? Just a dress?"
Ana says, "The dress she was wearing when he met Sombra and mistook her for the sort of lady who...sells her time."
"He thought I was a whore," I clarify. "Probably because I was dressed like a whore and came on to him."
"And then I punched him across the street," Reaper adds in satisfaction.
Uncle Jack looks like he's trying to figure out which question he wants to ask first. "You came on to him?"
I wave one hand dismissively. "What, it's not like I was serious. And he's not even that bad to look at. If he'd come through when I was actually doing that, I might have even left him some of his money when I was done."
There's a long silence before Jack says, "I'm not awake enough for this conversation," and starts to stand up.
That amazingly unmanly scream rings out from McCree's room, followed by frantic thumping sounds.
"And you're trying to discourage him from drinking?" Jack asks incredulously.
"Just from getting too drunk to remember what he did," I clarify.
Reaper chuckles. "I'm satisfying my anger and resentment in a way that doesn't involve violence. Aren't you proud of me?"
Jack gives him a long look. "You're being a dick instead of trying to kill him."
"Yuuup."
"I wish I could argue with that," he sighs.
More thumping sounds, as well as some scraping, come from behind McCree's door before it opens enough for my red dress to come flying out. He glares at us like he can't even string words together, he's too angry, and then the door shuts again.
"He will never defeat his own ter-ror," Reaper declares in a good imitation of She-ablo's mocking tones.
Ana looks amused as I collapse into a pile of giggles. Jack looks at me like I'm crazy, but I've just remembered the day Reaper did an impression of the Skeleton King, and that when I asked if he wanted to play with me, he said yes.
I have got to get some copies of that game.
===
Six high-end dedicated gaming pads with overnight shipping aren't cheap, but Talon had a lot of money before I stole it all, redistributed it, and reserved a comfortable percentage for my own use. Six copies of Diablo 3 (50th Anniversary Ultimate Deluxe edition, of course - gotta have all the bells and whistles) barely equal the cost of shipping the pads. I know six units is way more than Reaper and I would need for ourselves, but I have every intention of browbeating McCree and Uncle Jack into some competitive play, and Tia Ana might want to join us, and maybe, when Widow comes back...
Team Talon vs. Team Overwatch. I like that idea.
The fact that it's a miserably cold, dark, rainy day just makes it all the better when the stack of boxes is delivered and I go down to sign for it. I open them all right there in the foyer, Solen breaking down the packing materials and taking them away for me. Each pad hums to life eagerly and Diablo 3 installs in minutes, with patching only taking a few minutes more. They came with padded carrying cases, so I slip the straps of three cases over each arm and head over to the locked office I've turned into my little science lab, where I stash four of them. Then I practically bounce into the living room where...Reaper is a dejected ball of canine misery in his doggy bed.
"Where's Tia Ana?" I ask, dropping to one knee and scratching him behind the ears.
"Meeting," he grumbles.
"Get up," I tell him, standing. "And follow me."
He doesn't move. "Why?"
"Because Justice has fallen on the world of men..." His ears perk, and I with grin I finish, "...and it's time to defeat your own ter-ror."
Slowly, Reaper's head comes up. "Sombra..."
I heft the cases slightly. "Brand new gaming pads, fresh installs, Fiftieth Ultimate Deluxe."
He still doesn't look enthused. "...Sombra."
Doesn't he want to...? My heart plummets. "Unless you didn't mean it when you said you wanted to play together sometime..."
Reaper boils into smoke and re-forms in the hoodie configuration, then promptly crushes me to his chest. "I meant it," he growls, hugging me tighter to show that it's himself he's angry at, not me. When he feels me relax, he says quietly, "I don't deserve you."
"If you want to punish yourself," I tease, "roll a barbarian. Otherwise, tell me where we're playing because we still have to get through campaign before we can do adventure mode, and the less I have to hear Leah whine at me, the better."
"My room," he says with a chuckle, and he gives me one last squeeze before releasing me. "I don't want Morrison interrupting us."
I'm actually going to play Diablo 3 with Papi. Suddenly giddy, I grin up at him, and he leans back in momentary surprise before hugging me gently again and pressing his mask briefly to the top of my head.
"I didn't imagine it," I murmur as he lets go again.
Reaper turns back from heading to his room. "Imagine what?"
I jog a few steps to catch up to and follow him. "The time I yelled at you and waited on the stairs to apologize. I thought I'd imagined you kissing the top of my head, but I didn't, did I?"
His back stiffens slightly. "No," he says after a moment. "You didn't. And you were right. That man is...less dead than I thought he was."
That makes me stop for a moment and hug the gaming pads in glee before hurrying to catch up and follow him into the room. "Does that mean you want your old battle-net account back?"
Reaper turns to look at me in surprise. "That thing still exists? Of course it does," he continues before I can say anything. "No, leave it where it is. Gabriel Reyes is legally dead. We don't need some Blizzard employee banning me for being hacked, or worse, figuring out that Gabriel Reyes is not dead."
"If you trying to hide the names you gave your characters," I tease, "I already saw them."
He sits on his bed and takes the pad I hand him, head tilted in thought. "I don't even remember what they were named."
I sit next to him and turn my own pad on. "I'll have pity on you and not remind you, then." I give it a beat, then add, "Besides, that way I don't have to show you what mine were named."
Reaper laughs.
=
"No hug?" Ana asks in surprise as Reaper flows past, early the next morning.
Guiltily, he comes back and stands up into the hoodie configuration to hug his old friend good morning, then dissolves without a word and flows into the can in the corner. Ana looks at me in confusion.
"We were up late and then he had a rough night," I explain, giving her a hug myself. "He needs to give his mind a rest, and that means sitting in the can for a while."
Ana reclaims her teacup from the side table and gestures for us to sit on the couch. "What were you doing?"
I curl up on the other end of the couch. "Playing Diablo 3, running through campaign mode. I thought it would be a good distraction, and possibly a way to redirect aggression towards Uncle Jack and McCree by turning it into friendly competition."
"A very good idea," she says warmly. "And it certainly sounded like you enjoyed yourselves."
Oh, geez. "You could hear us? I didn't think we were that loud..."
She smiles tolerantly at my embarrassment. "Don't worry about it. It's hardly the first time I have overheard such things. Was it your first time...?"
I shake my head ruefully. "Not by a long shot. But it was our first time doing it together and it felt so good we just kept going, you know?"
"You anticipate doing that with him again, then?"
"Oh, absolutely. Probably as soon as he wakes up..."
The sentence trails off because McCree's door - which, I realize had been ajar for half a minute - has suddenly swung open, but there is no cowboy standing behind it. Instead, the echoes of what was probably a mad scramble for the bathroom spill out, and faintly, I can hear the sounds of retching. Shit.
"Did you know he got drunk last night?" I ask Ana, my eyes wide.
Her eye is wide, as well. "No. I did not expect him to over-indulge again so soon. What caused...?"
"I think he overheard us," I tell her, standing up, "and I don't think he knows we were talking about Reaper and a computer game."
Ana thinks for a moment, then swallows a laugh. "Oh my. Yes, I can see how that might sound different to his ears. Where are you going?" she asks, because I'm crouching by the can.
Reaper's out cold. Before I answer, I close the lid and give him a hit of endorphins. "I'm gonna go explain things."
Carefully, I charge one hand as I venture into the cowboy's room. The bathroom door is wide open, and my feet make no noise as I slip in and discharge the energy, making his hair stand up. It's not really long enough to pull back easily, and he probably doesn't have any clips, but this way I can get it out of danger. He doesn't seem to notice, but then again he's also busy. I perch on the sink and wait for a quiet moment.
"We weren't talking about you," I say when he stops to catch his breath. "I was playing a computer game with Papi."
"That's...not as much of a relief as it could be," he says shortly.
"Jesse...you don't have to worry about me taking advantage of your drunk ass."
He gives me as incredulous a look as he can manage without turning his head too far.
I sigh. "Okay, listen. Any teasing I do, any shit I give you, I promise I will never do anything more than look."
He seems to be finished. I fill the cup his toothbrush was in and hand it to him so he can rinse and spit.
"You promise," he says bitterly. "Well, that's all well 'n good, you won't try nothin' with me. But what if I try somethin' with you?" A glance at me, then he stares into the cup before taking a second mouthful of water and swishing it around. "Against your will," he clarifies quietly after he's spit and flushed.
"Would you?" I ask. "I didn't think you wanted to go there, and not just because of Papi."
"I don't. Especially after hearing you don't want to, either. But get a feller liquored up, and his brain ain't the only part of his body he starts listening to."
...oh. Oh. "Jesse McCree, are you getting shit-faced because you can't get laid?"
He glowers at me. "That ain't the only reason, and I'll thank you to not ask any more questions like that. Now, I'm gonna take a shower, so...d'you mind?"
He's going to take his clothes off. Free show! "Not at all! Go right ahead."
Jesse stands up, smooths his hair down, and gives me a hard stare. "I meant, d'you mind not looking."
"I'd rather look, actually."
My implied appreciation for his unclothed body seems to make him uncomfortable. After a moment, he steps into the shower fully-clothed and closes the door. Now protected by frosted glass, he shucks off his clothes before tossing them over the shower door and onto the floor of the bathroom. I wait until the water's going before I gather them up and go into his room. It only takes a minute to dump the dirty clothes in the laundry assemble a set of fresh ones. I leave them, neatly folded, on the edge of the sink and close the door behind me.
Ana looks extremely interested when I emerge.
"New plan," I tell her as I reclaim my seat. "Next time he goes to get drunk, I'm gonna follow him and see if I can't keep him from drowning himself in cheap whiskey, since obviously trauma isn't working."
"And Gabriel?" she asks.
"I think it would be best for him to stay here."
"Good, we are in agreement." Ana smiles softly. "Perhaps he would like to show me how this 'Diablo 3' is played."
=
It's getting towards evening when Tia Ana looks up with a frown and says, "Where is Gabriel?"
Living room can is empty. Bedroom can is empty. Here we go again. "He's probably in a bad place," I announce, closing my screens. I check his room first, but he's not there. Then I check mine, and see his legs spilling untidily out from my closet. Back to the living room. "Yeah. He's in a bad place. I'm gonna stay with him."
Ana smiles at me. Jack looks confused. I hang the Do Not Disturb sign on my door before I close it behind me.
Reaper's wisping heavily in the corner of my closet. It almost looks like he's covered in very fluid black fuzz. I grab the blanket from my bed and sit beside him, tucking it around both of us before cuddling up to him and hugging his arm, my head resting on his shoulder. By coming into my room, he's saying he wants to be found, he wants to be comforted. And even in this form, he'll still feel warmth wherever my body touches his.
It's almost like when we were with Talon, in the last days when he was falling apart, familiar and comfortable enough that I don't even have to fight to keep my memories in their subdirectories as I nestle down and let myself slip into sleep.
=
I wake up to Reaper lifting me, carrying me, setting me down on my bed and covering me properly with the blanket. Then there's paws on the mattress and a doggy nose pushing its way under my arm as he snuggles up as the doberman. I hug his neck and scratch gently at his ears.
"Do you want to talk?"
A lazy eternity of gentle petting later, he answers, "Yes."
"You do deserve me," I say in as firm a voice as I can manage while half asleep.
"I don't see how," he replies in a dry growl. "I certainly don't think I've done anything good enough to deserve half of what you've done for me."
"What," I grumble. "Is this the year twenty-thirty? Because I thought we stopped blaming the victim way before I was born."
He trembles for a moment before saying, "Well, I was born before that happened, so it doesn't apply to me."
"Papi," I snap.
He laughs. "You can't stop me from blaming myself for things I've actually done," he says, but it's in a teasing tone.
"No, but I can make you think about it. How much of that would you have done if you hadn't had your red-eyed twin telling you lies and feeding you bullshit?"
Reaper goes utterly still for a long moment while I wake up enough to realize what I've just let on that I know, and then he starts shuddering.
"It was all my fault," he growls. "How could they not hate me?"
"It was sabotage," I counter fiercely, "and you know it."
"I should have been stronger."
"Says who?" I demand, but there's no answer because we both know who. "That's bullshit, Papi. No one is that strong. No one is so perfect they account for everything and make no mistakes."
Reaper doesn't say anything, but I know what he wants to say.
"Not even that asshole," I tell him firmly. "You think I wasn't all over Talon's systems from day one? I was passing information to Ana since just after I found that music for you, and warning Genji about things since about the same time. He wanted you to think he was all-powerful, but he didn't even know what this little shadow was up to."
"So you think you're-" he snarls, but cuts himself off.
"Remember why I gave you slippers." I give him a moment to think about that, my fingers still scratching behind his ears. "I fucked up royally. And I still haven't gotten all the kinks out of your swarm."
Reaper shudders again. "If I hadn't...obeyed...he would have made me."
It doesn't take much to infer the threat. "Controlling you through your swarm?"
He nods minutely.
"Papi, that was a big fat lie. Your swarm isn't smart enough for that."
A snort that could have been laughter, then a whine.
"He made other threats?" I ask gently, and he nods again. "If he could have followed through on them, he would have done that instead of trying to get you killed or starve you to death. And if he'd been as all-knowing as he tried to make you think he was, wouldn't he have known I was feeding you and do something to stop me? He didn't even deny my requisitions."
There's a pause before he growls out, "Damn it, hija, stop making sense. You're ruining my brooding."
"Make me, Papi."
He growls, but it's the affectionate mock-angry growl.
"I got more bad news," I tell him, settling back down and pulling him closer. "I may have stolen your kill."
That makes him stop and look at me. "Sombra, what did you do?"
"Set off a data bomb to wipe Talon's systems. If he was dumb, it ate him."
He thinks about that for a minute while sleep tugs at me.
"I'll let it slide this time," he says in an amused growl, "but if he survived, we kill him together."
"As a family," I murmur. "Widow gets a shot, too."
"As a family," he agrees.
===
Uncle Jack is immediately on board with the idea of competitive solo play, so a few nights later he's sitting in one of the living room chairs while Reaper endures me using him as a backrest on the couch, both of them rolling fresh barbarians and racing to see who can get through campaign - because this is Uncle Jack's first character - first. Ana's doing a bit of quiet work from her usual chair, which is good when the program I left in the bar's system alerts me that McCree's ordered his first drink of the night.
"Time out," I announce as I close my screens and sit up. "McCree's gone drinking. I'm gonna see what I can do to keep him from getting too drunk. Papi, I expect you to play nice if Tia Ana goes to bed before I get back because I will be very unhappy with you if you maim or kill Uncle Jack. Got it?"
Reaper starts wisping from the shoulders. "Acknowledged."
I kiss the cheek of his mask. "Good. Have fun, kick his ass, call on the Talon channel if you need me. Time in."
They resume playing under Ana's amused and watchful eye, and I go change into something a bit fancier before heading out.
=
McCree's favorite bar is the closest one, which isn't a surprise when you consider that he'll have to stumble home while too drunk to read the numbers on paper currency. A bit of stealth lets me slip in behind a couple coming out, and I quickly scout the place out. McCree's at the bar, chatting up a brunette in something dark and slinky, so I sit at a table fairly close behind him and flag a waitress down. The screen I open says TWO SHOTS OF TEQUILA, A PITCHER OF WATER, AND SILENCE, and the bill I'm holding up is big enough that she just smiles and gives me a nod. My drinks arrive a minute later, and I flip her a screen that says KEEP THE CHANGE.
McCree's talking about riding horses, and the brunette is clearly amused but uninterested, when he says, "...love to take you for a ride and introduce you to my lil' deputy, Willy the Kid."
The brunette is spared the need to respond politely because I am laughing hysterically from my table.
"Really? Really, amigo?" I choke out as he turns to glower at me and the brunette makes her escape. "That's what you call it? Willy the Kid?"
Furious and embarrassed, he slinks away from the bar and sits across from me. "And what would you call it, then?" he asks.
I slide a shot over in apology and he tosses it back. "The Alamo," I tease, sliding him the second shot. "Unforgettable, but regrettable."
"Hey! There's nothing regrettable about my lil' deputy!" Angrily, he drinks the second shot.
"Easy, amigo. I'm giving you shit." I pour him a glass of water. He's halfway through it before he realizes it's not booze. "I know you got a sixteen-hand-horse in your stable."
McCree chokes, then finishes the glass and gasps, "How-?"
The screen is small, there's no sound, and the file is very old, but it's undeniably him in his early 20s and he's skinny-dipping. His face goes red when he realizes what he's seeing, and he drinks a second glass of water trying to get himself under control while I chuckle wickedly and start looking up famous cowboys.
"You're an evil woman, Sombra," he says darkly as he gestures a waitress over and orders his usual cheap whiskey.
"I know. What about One-Eyed Charley? I'd think that would be the obvious nickname."
McCree shakes his head. "One-Eyed Charley was actually a woman. Doc Hollidick?"
I make a face. "If you just went with James, you'd be Jesse and James...Jesse James?"
"I like the pun, but I'd be explaining the joke all the time," he says regretfully. "Wild Bill Kicock? Hi...cock?"
"Too subtle. You'd want to do something like Wild Dick Hickock."
The whiskey arrives. McCree looks thoughtfully at it, then drinks it straight down. "I'm thinkin' up dick jokes with my sister, and it's my dick we're talkin' about. My sister, who has seen my dick." He sighs. "I ain't drunk enough for this."
"Well, it's gonna be harder to impress the ladies if the horse won't leave the stable," I tell him, refilling the water glass.
He takes it, but he doesn't drink. "Can I ask somethin' personal?"
"It's only fair; I've seen your assets. Ask away."
"Were you the sort of girl that men like me take to movies?" he asks quietly, not looking up from the glass he's holding.
"Si," I answer, just as quietly.
"Does your Papi know?"
"He didn't at the time. He does now. Why?"
McCree glances up at me, then drops his gaze again. "That thing you did with my hair. I'm just wondering what other tricks you can do. What other tricks you have done."
"I've had to wake the horse up a couple of times," I admit. "I can also make it feel like an electric cattle prod."
He flinches. "Well, at least y'all can defend yourself. When you don't have that machine pistol, I mean. You can't exactly slip that into your purse or walk around with it just hanging out."
"Unlike your Colt 45?" I tease.
That gets him looking up at me in confusion. "What? No, I got a Peacekeeper-"
"I meant the one you keep holstered in your pants, cowboy."
For the second time, McCree's face turns red.
"You as good a shot with that?" I ask, grinning. "How fast can you reload?"
McCree pulls out a few bills, throws them onto the table, and starts walking out.
Gleefully, I follow him. "I didn't even make a joke about quick-drawing," I say as the door closes behind us.
"Y'don't have to," he grumbles. "I'm already thinking them up."
I have to laugh at that as I catch up and walk beside him. I'm expecting him to go find another bar, but instead he just goes back to the safehouse.
Reaper's waiting in the living room when we enter, and there's no sign of Jack or Ana. "They went to bed," he growls before I can ask, wisping slightly from under his crossed arms. "You're back early. And sober. Why?"
McCree flushes in embarrassment and turns towards his room. I start giggling. "Willy the Kid," I choke out before collapsing onto the couch to muffle my laughter with a throw pillow.
Jesse makes his escape, while Reaper seems to be in shock. I can practically see him wondering if he wants to know why I'm laughing and deciding it's better not to ask because he's not sure he just learned the nickname of his pseudo-son's penis, but he suspects that's what it was, and "McCree's penis" has got to be close to the top of the list of Things He Does Not Want To Think About.
"Good work," he says finally, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. "You kept him from making a disgrace of himself and made him suffer."
"I'll let you tell Uncle Jack in the morning," I offer, still snickering.
Playful wisps curl out from his biceps. "Apology accepted."
=
"My turn," Reaper growls as we head into the kitchen. "I want pancakes."
I gesture him to the stove. "Be my guest. Tell me what you want me to do."
He stands up into his usual form, with hands, which he rubs together in anticipation. "Eggs," he commands, reaching for the whisk.
At first, his pancakes seem unnecessarily complicated, but then I realize he's making two batches at the same time. Working together, we quickly get two generous stacks of pancakes piled up. The second, smaller stack is buckwheat, and I assume it's for McCree.
"Smells good in here," Jack says from the doorway as I'm dividing bacon among three plates and Reaper's cutting his own pancakes for a change.
"Breakfast is on me," Papi says as he carries his plate to the table. "You're welcome."
"You made pancakes?" Jack looks at me, then back to Reaper, and his expression softens. "Thanks, Gabe."
Reaper starts wisping from the back of his head and shoulders, but also from the chest. "I wanted pancakes," he says before melting into the doberman and climbing into his chair. "By the way - Willy the Kid."
His timing is perfect - McCree's just rounded the corner and now is staring in horror while Jack puts two and two together and realizes what he's just been told. The awkward, embarrassed expressions are almost painful to watch because Uncle Jack doesn't want to think about McCree's penis any more than Reaper did.
Papi, of course, is wagging madly. "There's buckwheat on the stove," he says helpfully, ensuring the cowboy doesn't just flee.
Breakfast is full of awkward looks and uncomfortable silence while Reaper enjoys his pancakes and McCree doesn't meet anyone's eyes. Instead of leaving when he's done, Reaper just sits there and drinks in the tension. Jack's the first to flee with a mumbled excuse about checking in with someone. Once he's gone, McCree takes a deep breath and raises his head to meet Reaper's eyes.
"I don't know if this was meant to be an apology or a trick," he says evenly, "but if you're trying to rebuild that burned bridge between us, this ain't the way to do it. Don't take the things I like and use them as bait. All it does is make me not want to trust you."
Holy shit. When I told McCree to use his words like a big boy, I didn't think he'd actually do it.
Reaper's tail curls downwards and he hunches over a little. "You came back mostly-sober. I was feeling generous."
"So you were using me as a tool to make Jack uncomfortable." He pauses to see if Reaper will try to deny it, but there's only guilty silence. "Real mature, Gabe. You got beef with me, give it to me straight. You got beef with Jack, leave me the fuck out of it. You told me to trust Sombra, and I do. But I ain't rebuilding fifteen years of broken trust with her. You want me to stick around, you follow those two rules or I'm catching the first flight out to someplace warm and dry, and I ain't looking back."
Behind Reaper's back, I flash McCree a thumbs-up. He meets my eyes briefly and then goes back to staring at the highly uncomfortable doberman.
"Up to you," Jesse says when it's clear Reaper isn't going to say anything. "You want to rebuild, you say yes and agree to treat me with at least a little respect. You want to never see me again, you say no and I'll go smoke at your grave and probably cry a little and that's it, the man I was proud to serve under will be dead and you'll never have to look at my ugly mug again." He takes a few breaths to steady his voice before he continues. "One word, Gabe: yes or no?"
Reaper whines low in his throat, looking as miserable as I've ever seen a dog. "Yes," he growls. "Stay."
And then he's a river of black smoke flowing out of the room and the can in my bedroom registers that he's at 100% baseline mass.
"Next time you go drink," I tell McCree, "you let me know. They're all on me."
He raises a skeptical eyebrow. "As many as I want?"
"As many as you want. I won't get in your way."
That doesn't seem to reassure him. "And the morning after?"
"I won't fuck with you, and I'll make sure he doesn't, either. You got cojones, cowboy."
"You would know," he deadpans. "You've seen the video."
That cracks me up. After a minute, he allows himself to smile and chuckle quietly.
"I'm gonna go make sure he's not spiraling into depression," I say when the laughter dies down. "Later today, we'll be going outside."
"The park?"
"Just the back yard. Reaper won't want to be around strangers. He'll want to run and physically exhaust himself, and he'll want to be fussed over, and he won't want to risk fucking things up completely with you. So if you were to join us, throw a Frisbee or some tennis balls for him or just sit and give him pettings, he won't argue. He'll just be quietly confused and grateful that you want to spend time with him."
McCree gives me a raised-eyebrow look of appreciation. "You are an evil woman, but you use your powers for good. I'll be there. You've all but given me an engraved invitation, and I'm not a big enough fool to refuse it."
He ambles out of the kitchen, tossing a two-fingered salute to me as he goes, and I head to my room.
The instant the door closes behind me, Reaper boils out of the can and forms into the doberman, tail between his legs, standing beside the bed like he's been told to stay off it. I sit on the floor beside him and hug his neck until he sprawls half over my lap, whining and trembling and trying to bury his nose in my hair.
"I know, Papi," I murmur. "I know. You angry at yourself and you don't think you deserve good things."
"He would have walked away," Reaper says so quietly that it's barely even a whisper. "I fucked things up that badly. Sombra, what am I doing?"
I stroke his neck and scratch behind his ears. "You struggling to put yourself back together after that asshole did his best to break you apart. You hate because you had to hide how much you care, but Jesse, he needs to know you care. You don't have to hate anymore, Papi. You can let it go, and no one gonna mock you for it. They know you been hurt. They not gonna think it's being weak, because they know it's you being strong and fighting against what that asshole made you believe."
He thinks about that for a minute or two. "I wanted him to suffer. He deserved to suffer. But it hurt."
"That because you care about him, Papi. That asshole wanted you to be a monster of hate. He wanted you to kill your friends. And he wanted you to think it was all your idea so you'd hurt yourself while hurting them, because he knew you were too strong for him to take down unless he tricked you into taking yourself down."
"I'm my own worst enemy," he sighs, but the trembling's stopped. "Now what?"
"Don't fight too hard when people want to do nice things for you," I tease. "If you need me to yell at you so you feel like it's okay to not be a dick to them, fine. Just say the word."
"Please?" he asks in a dry voice.
I hug him again. "You got it, Papi. Feeling restless?"
"You know me too well, hija."
"Then let's go outside. Frisbee?"
Reaper scrambles off my lap, tail wagging madly, and noses the red disk out of the bag. He doesn't let it go until we're out in the backyard, and then he's off and running before it's even left my hand.
A few tosses in, McCree ambles up and I grin at him. Reaper comes back with the Frisbee, but stops uncertainly a few feet away. Jesse doesn't hesitate, he reaches for it and Reaper doesn't fight to keep it. Then, without a word, he throws the disk and there's a second of hesitation before Reaper turns and chases it down.
When he comes back this time, he brings it straight to the cowboy and his tail is wagging.
"This is surreal," Jesse says after a few more throws, making sure Reaper's out of hearing range. "But it's a good surreal, y'know?"
I wait while Reaper comes back and runs off again before replying. "Imagine how this has been for me."
He gives me a piercing look. "What do you mean?"
"I'm only seven years younger than you."
Another couple of tosses while he does the math and thinks about that.
"So I'm guessing you grew up idolizing the guy who's currently a dog chasing a Frisbee," he says finally. "And Jack, and Ana, and now you're living with them and helping...the dog...not be the ruthless killer he turned into and reconnect with them instead." A pause while Reaper runs up, hands over the Frisbee, and runs off again. "Yeah, I can see how that's weird for you. Lena used to have moments of just...stopping to be amazed that she was actually part of Overwatch."
"What about you?" I ask.
He scoffs. "I was an ignorant, snot-nosed brat. Barely knew who they were, wasn't impressed in the slightest. Only started to appreciate what they'd done after I got to know them."
Reaper runs up, but detours to the shade of a nearby tree and flops down, panting.
"That's our cue to go sit and pet him," I tell McCree, who laughs.
We sit, one on either side of the doberman, and lean comfortably against the tree. For a while there's just quiet petting.
"Hey," McCree says idly. "Those screens you do. They can play video. Can they do sound?"
"Of course," I tell him. "I just didn't want the whole bar knowing what I was showing you."
"Could you play a movie?"
I tap into the safehouse network. "Sure. What do you want to see?"
"Can you get Rush Hour?"
Papi's tail starts to wag slowly. Jesse and I pretend not to see it.
"Easily."
The screen is big enough for all three of us to watch easily, and half the morning slips comfortably away. The majority of the next hour is spent with Reaper alternately chasing the Frisbee and just running laps, and then we go back inside where he laps up half a liter of LRF.
"That stuff wouldn't actually..." McCree starts, watching Reaper drink.
I try not to grin too broadly. "The nanites activate when they enter a bioelectric field, and they're programmed to rebuild Reaper. I don't know that they would, but I'm sure they would try."
"Well," he deadpans, "that's moderately horrifying."
"If you need distraction, I've got a gaming pad loaded with Diablo 3 just for you," I offer.
He looks uncomfortable while Reaper looks interested. "I've never...your Papi didn't exactly encourage playing games."
Reaper manages to look guilty.
"Plenty of time now, cowboy," I tease. "Come on, we'll show you-"
"No," Reaper says quietly.
"Papi?"
"You show him. I'm going to take a nap."
I lean down to scratch his ears. "Okay. You change your mind, you can join us."
With Papi curled up in his doggy bed, McCree and I settle on the couch for a nice session of teaching my trash cowboy brother how to kill demons. After an hour or two he calls time out for a bathroom break, and I take the opportunity to arrange the sleeping doberman with both bears. Not just because it's adorable - although it is, and I take pictures - but because the plush toys help keep him from having nightmares.
"Why does he have a teddy bear?" McCree asks when he comes back. "Why does he have two teddy bears?"
"One of them is mine. The big one," I clarify as I settle back onto the couch. "It was my Christmas present year before last."
"You never gave me a big ol' teddy bear for Christmas," he grumbles, flopping sullenly onto the other end of the couch.
Reaper opens one eye. "You want a teddy bear?" he asks in a challenging sort of way. "Fine. I'll get you a teddy bear."
Although he tries to hide it, McCree looks genuinely touched.
=
Around six, McCree stretches and says, "Okay, I think that's enough for me today."
Jack looks up from the pad he's been working on. "Make it to seventy?"
"Nah. Close, though. Think I'm gonna mosey on over to the local watering hole." He gives me an inquiring look, one eyebrow raised, asking silently if I'm going to keep my word. I nod, and he nods back before putting his gaming pad in the closet and leaving the room.
"I'm going to follow him, try to keep him from getting completely drunk. Papi, you gonna behave yourself while I'm gone?"
Before Reaper can answer, Jack's walking over to the closet where the gaming pads are kept. "I think I'll see how fast it takes me to get my barbarian to seventy," he says in what's undeniably a challenge.
"You're on, Morrison."
"Okay. Remember, no maiming or killing, or you'll regret it." I make it sound like a threat, but after this morning's conversation, he knows it's a reminder.
Reaper's tail wags briefly before he growls, "Fine."
Jesse McCree is waiting for me outside the gate. He nods as the gate closes behind me, and without a word we start walking.
"He didn't want to play with me," he says quietly after about a block.
"Gonna take time. What he wants is to play against you, express some anger by being better than you."
"That sounds like him," McCree says dryly. "So, we're still on for you payin' for my drinks?"
"As many as you want," I assure him.
There's silence for a minute or two before he says, "I still don't know how I feel about him. What he's done, what he's become. What I should forgive, what I shouldn't. If it's okay to want my old boss back."
"I can't answer those for you, amigo."
"I know. I need to talk to him, but..."
When he doesn't continue, I say, "...but you don't want to risk losing the little bit you've built already?"
He sighs. "Yeah. So here we are. Me to drown my sorrows and think about my life, and you to watch a sad little cowboy whose dad doesn't love him."
We're at the door; bastard timed it so that I can't immediately refute any of what he said. I follow him to the bar and pay for the bottle of bourbon he picks out, then clear his tab while I'm at it. McCree retreats to a corner table to start drinking. I start looking around to see who's watching the cowboy with speculative expressions that sharpen when I don't follow him.
One promising lady makes eye contact with me, her straight, dark hair cut short at her jawline, her almond eyes lined with green. I make my way over to her.
"I saw you watching my brother," I say by way of hello.
"The cowboy?" she asks. Her accent places her - or whoever she learned English from - around Turkey. "I didn't think there were any left."
"He's the last," I confirm.
"Really. And he's your brother?"
I hop up onto the barstool next to her. "Adopted. His family died in the Omnic Crisis."
We chat for a while. I spin her stories that are mostly true, things he did with Overwatch and Blackwatch but with the tell-tale details left out. Finally, she says, "Do you think he would let me...ride his horse?"
"I think if you're really interested, you should go over and ask. The worst he can do is say no, right?"
The almond-eyed woman downs the last of her drink. "I'm going to ask."
Smugly, I watch as she goes over to McCree's table and leans down - giving him a deliberate view of her cleavage - to say something quietly enough that no one else can hear. He looks astonished, points to me and asks a question, then gives the lady a broad smile and tips his hat. She straightens back up and heads for a stairway to the upper floor, while he grabs the half-empty bottle and saunters over to me.
"Help," he murmurs as he hands me the bottle, that broad smile looking stiff up close, his eyes panicked. "The horse is asleep!"
Oh my god. I am so glad I don't blush, but he can see in my expression how awkward this is for both of us. Well, I'm not going to let my effort go to waste. Cringing, I charge the hand not holding the bottle and press it against the front of his jeans before discharging the energy carefully. There's an almost immediate swelling that presses back, a grunt from the cowboy, and then he hurries off while I wish drinking his bourbon would have an effect on me. Any effect on me.
Fifteen minutes later, a shout of "Yee-haw!" echoes down through the ceiling. Several minutes after that, the almond-eyed woman comes back down the stairs, flushed with pleasure and with her hair in distinct disarray. As she makes her way to the door, another woman catches her arm, this one a blonde in a low-cut red top and dark pants that look like they were painted on. The two women have a quiet exchange, and the blonde looks in my direction.
McCree swaggers down the stairs looking extremely pleased with himself and comes over to lean on the bar next to me.
"Got another race in that horse?" I ask in an undertone. "Blonde in the red shirt looks like she wants to find out."
He looks startled. "How...glass of water, please," he says to the bartender, who obliges. "If this is a plot to keep me sober, then I will fall for it gladly." He gulps down half the glass before stopping for breath, eyes somewhere over my head and probably on the blonde. "Awwwyeah, Colt 45 reloaded and ready for action. Howdy," he says as the woman comes up to us. "I couldn't help noticing you noticing me."
"Is it true you are ze last cowboy?" the blonde purrs in a French accent. "I find zat...intoxicating."
McCree puts his glass down and offers her his arm. "I am, and if you're feeling faint, maybe I better take you upstairs where you can...lay down."
She giggles, feeling up his arm under the guise of clinging to it. "And will you show me your gun, monsieur cowboy?"
"It would be my genuine pleasure, miss."
And with a tip of his hat, he leads her upstairs. I have enough time to look up a place nearby that will deliver a steak dinner, place an order, and have the order leave the restaurant before I hear "Yeehaw!" from upstairs. By the time McCree swaggers down, I'm back in his corner table with the bottle of bourbon and the steak dinner waiting for him.
"For me?" he asks, startled. When I nod, he sits and pops open the container. "Sombra, this wasn't part of - you didn't have to buy me dinner."
"I do a lot of things I don't have to," I tell him. "You want to drink the rest of this bottle, you should probably not do it on an empty stomach."
He frowns at me, eyebrows drawing together. "You're still going to let me drink as much as I want?"
"That was the deal."
"You weren't trying to bribe me into staying sober with those ladies?"
I arch an eyebrow at him. "Would it have worked? You said that wasn't the only reason."
"No," he admits, cutting into his steak. "It wouldn't."
McCree eats his dinner, but the bottle remains untouched.
"Let's go back," he says when he's done eating.
"Not going to drown your sorrows?"
He shakes his head. "Not in the mood. Besides, you haven't had anything. I don't feel right making you sit here and watch me make a mess of myself after you bought me dinner and...helped me exercise my horse," he finishes, blushing slightly.
I shrug. "Not hungry. But if you want to call it a night, we'll head back. Just let me know the next time, so I can properly finance your complete debauchery," I tease.
"Fine by me," he says, chuckling.
=
Reaper's lurking in the living room again when we come back. He flows out of the can and stands up into his usual form. "You're still sober," he says, clearly skeptical of this development.
McCree smirks. "Your Sombra found a couple fillies interested in my Colt," he says smugly. "Wouldn't do to disappoint the ladies, Gabe. You taught me that."
For a moment, Reaper looks like he wants to facepalm except he doesn't have a face. "Whatever," he growls, and flows out of the room.
"Thanks, Sombra," McCree says warmly, giving me a hug I didn't expect. "I mean it. I owe you."
"I only take payment in favors," I tease, but he just nods.
"I'll remember that. Good night."
"Sleep well, cowboy."
The smirk comes back. "Already did," he says as he swaggers off to his room. "Already did."
There's a Papi-dog waiting on my bed when I get into my room, chewing idly on the squeaky steak with his back to the closet. He doesn't say anything until I've changed and crawled under the covers.
"You got him laid?"
"Only because he's so bad at picking up women." When Reaper laughs, I take the plastic steak and toss it out of bed. "Did you behave?"
"Seventy and twelve paragon levels before he hit seventy," he growls in satisfaction.
"Good work, Papi." I hug him before snuggling back down. "I'm proud of you."
Surprised and wagging, Reaper lays down beside me with his head on his paws. "Good night, Alé."
"Good night, Papi."