The landscape rarely differed, even when the dreams were his own. Fjord found himself on a beach alongside a sea so deep and wide it could swallow anything whole. This. This was as it always was.
The waters were dark tonight, but he felt comfortable here in the deepest moment of night. The light of a full moon and all the stars reflected across the black waves like diamond dust, and a familiar wind gently caressed his cheek and left the well-loved taste of home on his lips.
He sat a handful of feet from the surf, listening to the water sigh its affection for the shore and finding his breathing falling into that same rhythm. Whisper, break, hush. Whisper, break, hush. He followed that unchanging cadence for an age. Breathe. And breathe.
Whisper.
Break.
His breath caught on a sharp pain low in his chest.
He inhaled hissing through his teeth. The pain ripped through his chest again, sharper and deeper, then he felt liquid filling his lungs. He doubled over, gasping hard for air but choking even harder on it. Blood came up his throat, and it tasted as much salt as iron.
He coughed it into the sand, then coughed again, and still again. He coughed up blood until the sand grew black as the water, but there was always more. He gasped and choked until it sounded like he was sobbing too. Maybe he was. The pain still clawed into his chest.
He clenched his jaw tight and pressed both hands over his mouth. His lungs kicked, he tasted more blood, but he fought. He forced himself to swallow. He couldn't. There was something else in his throat.
He dropped his hands and retched hard.
What he spit out was long, and slender, and living.
It darted toward the sea, but he grabbed it in a fistful of wriggling flesh and reddened sand. What he held was a snake, black with three yellow eyes on his head.
It lunged at his neck, but he closed his hand around its throat.
He drew a startled breath.
He realized he could draw a breath.
He sighed deeply just to inhale into the bottom of his lungs. It was painless. He laughed softly in relief and wiped his mouth and cheeks with the back of his free hand. Exhaustion quickly settled in, but he felt calm, and he breathed steady again.
Slick though it was in his blood, he held the small snake secure with his fingers firm around the base of its head. Eyes opened along its body, all that familiar yellow, and it bared its fangs in threat. He simply pressed his thumb up under its throat and forced its jaws shut.
It glared ineffective menace at him. He considered it for a moment, then tightened his grip.
Then tighter, and tighter.
Slowly, until he felt its ribs breaking under his fingers. Its eyes went wide until they were more black than yellow, and it thrashed wildly against his hold. He clicked his tongue and grabbed its tail with his other hand. He held its body taut, like a particularly insolent length of rope.
He said nothing. There was nothing to say.
This thing had been in his head and inside his heart. It already knew everything in there. Or, should've.
If the warning signs went unheeded, he was not to blame.
He adjusted his thumb under its jaw. Quickly—snap.
The tide was coming in.
Gently, inevitably, relentlessly pulling the beach into a sea so deep and wide it devoured everything whole.
Fareeha Amari is a little old to be playing Cops And Robbers—according to the Oh-So-Wise Opinions of many twelve-year-olds like herself, including herself some days. The truth of it is: it’s easy to convince anyone to play a variant on tag if it’s pitched just right. The Manhunt variation is basically Cops And Robbers, especially if playing with one Jesse McCree, especially especially when he pulls his bandana up over his nose to cover his face like that.
Sometimes, Ana and Gabe watch her wheedle Jesse into playing. He always resists at first. There’s work to be done, he has a meeting in forty, he just doesn’t feel like playing with a kid right now. Always, he indulges her in the end. He doesn’t have the fortitude not to. She admires him; he’s got the job she dreams of, is in good standing with the people the world looks up, and he’s only just a smidgen older. Every kid has that teen they just want to be. Some days, Fareeha wants to be Jesse.
So, they go: Fareeha trying to catch Jesse, Jesse sometimes letting Fareeha catch him—much to her indignation. Ana and Gabe watch them. They quietly marvel at how Jesse can play at this when only a dozen or so months ago, he would pull up his bandana over his face like that, load his revolver, rob a convoy blind, then run from the cops, the feds, the United States military.
Except, he’d never let them catch him—much to their indignation.
Jesse playacts his own history for Fareeha, who isn’t struck by this fact at all. Not because she’s silly or stupid or some other adjective people are quick to ascribe to twelve-year-olds. It’s just that nobody talks about it much these days really past conjuring some Romantic image of an Old West Outlaw, especially not to Fareeha.
No, Jesse would never let anyone risk breaking her heart like that.
Even more, nobody would do that to Jesse.
Fareeha’s admiration, some days, is the only thing keeping him convinced he’s capable of doing better and making amends for the person he used to be. Some days, the way she looks up to him is what makes him believe that he’s worth all the work and trouble of doing better. So, no, not a soul talks to her about the full scope of just how much of a real-life bad guy Jesse used to be.
Still, how strange it is to watch him do all this for play, how strange it must be for him to be so distanced from that life now that it’s become easily a game to amuse a girl who’s become like a sister to him.
Jesse will play the bad guy, Fareeha will play the cop, and she’ll catch him right before he needs to head to a mission brief.
I’m dumping this bit of a lengthy riffing here that I was throwing around Discord before I consider whether or not I’m rewriting it as a proper one-shot:
Jesse McCree is 18 or 19 or so when one day Reyes goes off to take care of something classified somewhere abroad. Jesse’s between assignments, so he's got a bit of free day after he’s gotten all sorts of smaller errands and responsibilities out of the way. In the late afternoon, he wants to hang out in the Strike Commander’s office. Morrison, never Jack to Jesse, is always amicable, on account of his relationship with Gabriel.
And, maybe it's the one place indoors Jesse is allowed to smoke without getting reprimanded. The one place, full stop really, because even outside someone is going to reprimand him for it because he shouldn't smoke at all. (Later, when he's an important fixture around here he can more confidently be an ass, break the rules, and smoke wherever he likes, but he's just some kid now.) Jack's office is the only place he can do it in peace—on account of Jack growing up in rural Indiana, he’s always forgetting some key things about how smoking is bad, how especially folks young as Jesse shouldn’t do it.
"I won't bother," Jesse promises. Jack believes him. Jesse's been around long enough that Jack knows he's a quiet kid actually, bordering on overly meditative. So, that’s the arrangement into the evening, with Jack trying to get some work done and with Jesse perched up on the windowsill smoking and watching Jack's headline wall. There's some coverage of a press conference from that morning. Jesse saw it broadcast live. He watches a lot more news ever since joining this outfit. He can’t help himself: "How'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
Jesse gestures at the headline. Jack catches it right before it cycles out. It's some reassuring headline defending Overwatch's latest. "I watched it. How'd you make them do all the work for you? Charm only goes so far. Had to be doing something else too."
Jack looks at this kid, who in this moment is so unassuming. But Jack's seen how much this kid can get away with through nothing more than confident, radiant charisma. Jack senses a teaching moment, one that Jesse could cause a lot of havoc with, "You wanna learn something about diplomacy?"
Jesse takes a long drag and an even longer exhale, and he lilts his head just enough, charming, "I'm listening."
And, maybe, Gabe comes back to find the two of them smoking and conspiring. He disapproves on principle of how they choose to do it, but he's very glad to see they're spending time together. Gabe leans against the door, watches them for a little while, before coughing loudly and remarking on the lack of fresh air in here. He calls them on smoking indoors, points out the window doesn't even open, demands to know why they’re overworking the filtration systems. The edge in his tone isn’t as sharp as it ought to be, though.
With that party broken up, Gabe sends Jesse off on an errand, "Run down to the server room and pull everything we have on [whatever]. Compile it into a brief. And I mean that, make it brief this time." Jesse starts off. Gabe stops him, motions hand it over. Jesse gives up the box of cigarettes, and he goes off on his task without protest. Gabe saunters over to the window himself, "None of his usual attitude. He's in high spirits."
"Even he has one or two good moods."
"You're a bad influence."
Jack takes one last drag and snuffs the rest. "Not any worse than some."
Title: Cafmaker
Part of: Things you said… (2 of 56)
Prompt: …when we first met
Pairing: Ordo Skirata/Besany Wennen
Fandom: Republic Commando
Word Count: 610 words
Summary: Ordo thinks it’s quite rude to ask Besany to make them all caf after they’ve ruined her night, him especially.
Notes: Part of a prompt series following moments centered on what Ordo and Besany have said to one another.
See this on AO3.
It seemed discourteous to make a guest prepare caf for everyone, especially when that guest couldn’t rise to her feet without pain, courtesy of those she’d be serving caf to. It bothered Ordo more than he expected.
He sought her in the kitchenette off the common hall, and he found Besany had her head bowed, one arm braced against the counter, the other gently cradling her ribs. Rough night still ongoing. He dallied by the door to keep his distance. Not that there was much distance to be had in these tight quarters. Qibbu didn’t want anyone drunk on the luxury of space, apparently.
“I can make caf.” He kept his voice soft, but still, she jumped. He held up his hands, gesturing apology, gesturing he meant no harm. Very much necessary after all she’s seen tonight—after all she’s seen him threaten tonight.
Slowly, he walked into the kitchen, moving along the periphery of the room, giving her as much space for as long possible. “You should, ah…” He cleared his throat. He struggled to find the simplest words for her now—a trouble he didn’t have not as Corr, not as an intel agent. “You should lie down for the night.”
“I’m fine.” She stood tall. What a tenacious one. Still, she glanced warily at the cabinets.
“Point blank with a PEP laser could’ve been fatal.” He came beside her at the counter and opened a cabinet to set out mugs: thirteen were here, Fi and Sev should be back soon for fifteen, Boss and Scorch and Fixer were asleep so twelve… “Not that General Tur-Mukan knew it could kill you, but—” …wait, Fixer had just woken up, so back where it started with thirteen, no, Corr said he didn’t want any so it’s twelve. “Would you like some caf, ma'am?”
“No, thank you.” Eleven. “And, as I said to Kal, call me Besany.”
“Besany.” In his own voice for the first time, her name was soft on his lips. The fluttering made him wish the room was bigger. He focused on arranging the mugs, all identical, on the narrow counter. Two rows of fives, soldierly straight. It left one mug lonesome. He reached into the cabinet for another. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like any caf?”
“You tell me to get some sleep, then you insist on caf, Captain.”
“Tea is the optimal suggestion. I can make tea as well.” He prayed to the forgotten gods of his people that he wouldn’t need to rummage through the main kitchen downstairs for it. “If you like, you may call me Ordo.”
She smiled, and she managed to radiate warmth from underneath all her exhaustion.
“I mean it.” He rubbed at imaginary water spot on the rim of the unnecessary mug with his thumb. “You should rest. You look tired. The room at the end, on the left. It’s not great, but the blankets are clean. I’ve made sure of that. Nobody will bother you.” He shrugged. The motion felt awkward. “Actually, I’ll probably bother you to bring in the tea. If you’re having it.”
The electric kettle hummed to itself while it worked at a leisurely pace.
She ran her hands over her cheeks. She paused, hands along her jaw framing her face, her shoulders not exactly held straight back—and she considered him a moment. She dropped it all with a short sigh, barely more than an exhale. “Tea sounds great.”
She retreated from the counter and stopped at the door to point down the hall. Frankly, it was the only direction to go in.
