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easyfoodnetwork · 4 years

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Who Will Save the Food Timeline?

The internet’s most comprehensive archive of food history — a passion project of one dedicated librarian — predates Wikipedia. Now, it needs a new custodian.

In the long timeline of human civilization, here’s roughly how things shook out: First, there was fire, water, ice, and salt. Then we started cooking up and chowing down on oysters, scallops, horsemeat, mushrooms, insects, and frogs, in that general chronological order. Fatty almonds and sweet cherries found their way into our diet before walnuts and apples did, but it would be a couple thousand years until we figured out how to make ice cream or a truly good apple pie. Challah (first century), hot dogs (15th century), Fig Newtons (1891), and Meyer lemons (1908) landed in our kitchens long before Red Bull (1984), but they all arrived late to the marshmallow party — we’d been eating one version or another of those fluffy guys since 2000 B.C.

This is, more or less, the history of human eating habits for 20,000 years, and right now, you can find it all cataloged on the Food Timeline, an archival trove of food history hiding in plain sight on a website so lo-fi you’d be forgiven for thinking it was a GeoCities fanpage. When you look past the Times Roman font and taupe background, the Food Timeline happens to be the single most comprehensive inventory of food knowledge on the internet, with thousands upon thousands of pages of primary sources, cross-checked research, and obsessively detailed food history presented in chronological order. Every entry on the Food Timeline, which begins with “water” in pre-17,000 B.C. and ends with “test tube burgers” in 2013, is sourced from “old cook books, newspapers, magazines, National Historic Parks, government agencies, universities, cultural organizations, culinary historians, and company/restaurant web sites.” There is history, context, and commentary on everything from Taylor pork roll to Scottish tablet to “cowboy cooking.”

A couple of years ago, I landed on the humble authority of the Food Timeline while doing research on bread soup, a kind of austerity cuisine found in countless cultures. The entry for soup alone spans more than 70,000 words (The Great Gatsby doesn’t break 50,000), with excerpts from sources like Maguelonne Toussaint-Samat’s A History of Food, John Ayto’s An A-Z of Food and Drink, and D. Eleanor Scully and Terence Scully’s Early French Cookery. Before long, I fell into the emotional condition known as an internet K-hole, following link after link after link for hours on end. From olla podrida to hodge podge to cassava to taro to Chex Mix to Johnnycakes, the Food Timeline covered everything. Did you know that mozzarella sticks go as far back as the Middle Ages, but back then they called them “pipefarces”? I bookmarked the site and returned to it time and time again, when I was researching, writing, or just bored and hungry.

Despite the Food Timeline’s incredible utility, few people I spoke to had ever heard of it. Those who had always marveled at its breadth. “Oh my god, it’s nirvana,” Taste of the Past podcast host Linda Pelaccio said to herself when she first stumbled onto the Food Timeline. Sandy Oliver, a food historian and fellow fan, was stunned by its completeness and simplicity. “It was one of the most accessible ways of getting into food history — especially if you were a beginner — because it was just so easy to use,” she told me. “It didn’t have a hyperacademic approach, which would be off-putting.”

When Oliver learned that the thousands of pages and countless resources on the Food Timeline were compiled and updated entirely by one woman, she couldn’t believe it. “Oh my lord,” she thought. “This is an obsessed person.”

The Food Timeline, in all its comprehensive splendor, was indeed the work of an obsessed person: a New Jersey reference librarian named Lynne Olver. Olver launched the site in 1999, two years before Wikipedia debuted, and maintained it, with little additional help, for more than 15 years. By 2014, it had reached 35 million readers and Olver had personally answered 25,000 questions from fans who were writing history papers or wondering about the origins of family recipes. Olver populated the pages with well-researched answers to these questions, making a resource so thorough that a full scroll to the bottom of the Food Timeline takes several labored seconds.

For nearly two decades, Olver’s work was everyone else’s gain. In April of 2015, she passed away after a seven-month struggle with leukemia, a tragedy acknowledged briefly at the bottom of the site. “The Food Timeline was created and maintained solely by Lynne Olver (1958-2015, her obituary), reference librarian with a passion for food history.”

In the wake of Olver’s death, no one has come forward to take over her complex project, leaving a void in the internet that has yet to be filled — and worse, her noble contribution to a world lacking in accurate information and teeming with fake news is now in danger of being lost forever.

It isn’t often that we are tasked with thinking about the history of the food that we eat, unless it shows up in a Jeopardy! question or we ask our informal family historians to detail whose mother passed down this or that version of pound cake. But there are plenty of reasons to pay close attention: for curiosity’s sake; for deepening an appreciation of and respect for cooks, food, and technique; and for gathering perspective on what came before us. “Very few (if any) foods are invented. Most are contemporary twists on traditional themes,” Olver wrote on the Food Timeline. “Today’s grilled cheese sandwich is connected to ancient cooks who melted cheese on bread. 1950s meatloaf is connected to ground cooked meat products promoted at the turn of the 20th century, which are, in turn related to ancient Roman minces.”

The problem is that these days we’re overloaded with bad information that can be accessed instantaneously, with few intermediaries running quality control. “I think it’s a little too easy to turn to the web,” Oliver, who was also a longtime friend of Olver’s, told me as we talked about the legacy of Food Timeline. “What I worry about is that people aren’t learning critical thinking skills. Once in a while I run into someone who has never used a primary source — wouldn’t know it if it hit them on the head. Libraries are where you’d find that stuff. It’s not the same as using a Wikipedia page at all.” Or, if not a library, a mammoth resource compiled by a certified reference librarian herself. Whenever a reader would write in asking a question, or when Olver herself would become interested in the provenance of a certain food, she’d turn to her personal library of thousands of food books, and her litany of professional resources and skills, and write out detailed answers with sources cited on her website.

As Olver emphasized proudly in a 2013 interview on Pelaccio’s Taste of the Past podcast, when you Google “food history,” the Food Timeline appears first in the search results, even though she never “paid search engines for premium placement, solicited reciprocal links, partnered with book vendors, or sold advertising.” Over the years, thousands of emails poured in asking Olver for help finding the specific information they were looking for, like the history of a weird cheese or a grandmother’s pie recipe.

“One of my favorite groupings of people are those who are looking to recover family recipes,” Olver explained to Pelaccio. “I love that! As long as you can give me a little bit of context, then I have some direction.” She would often cook the recipes people sent her so she could gain a better understanding of the legacy of certain foods. Occasionally, she would struggle to come up with an answer to readers’ questions. “If anybody out there knows the answer to this, please let me know,” she began on Pelaccio’s podcast. “I’ve been asked repeatedly over the years for a recipe for ‘guildmaster sauce.’ It is mentioned on some of the old railroad menus and on fancy dining car menus, but we are not coming up with a recipe or other references.” She never got the answer.

“One of the reasons she wanted people to learn about food was for the simple basic fundamental fact that it kept people alive,” Sara Weissman, a fellow reference librarian at the Morris County Public Library and occasional Food Timeline collaborator, told me. “It was that simple. There was no pretension about it.” Olver found food to be a universal subject of interest — everyone had something to share and everyone had something to learn.

“Yesterday I took the entire day off from work because I wanted to research seitan wheat meat,” Olver told Pelaccio. “My whole site is really driven by my readers. What is it that they want to know?”

The Olvers’ former family home is a modest colonial that sits on a shady suburban street in Randolph, New Jersey, about 10 minutes from the Morris County Public Library, where Lynne worked for more than 25 years. It is fastidiously clean and welcoming, and Olver’s library was still the focal point of the house when I visited a little more than a year ago. As she amassed primary sources to build out the Food Timeline, the sitting room filled up with bookshelves to house her more than 2,300 books — some dating to the 17th century — as well as thousands of brochures and vintage magazines, and a disarrayed collection of other food ephemera, like plastic cups from Pat’s and Geno’s and a tin of Spam. “One of 10 top iconic American manufactured foods, SPAM holds a special place on our national table & culinary folklore,” Olver wrote on the Timeline.

Despite Olver’s intense fondness for it as an object of inquiry, Spam did not hold a special place on her palate; she never tried it. A picky eater, she detested lima beans, pistachio ice cream, calamari, slimy textures, and anything that even edged on raw. When she was in high school in the early ’70s, her favorite dish to make was something she called “peas with cheese,” which is as simple as it sounds. “She would take frozen peas and she’d melt cheese on it, mostly Swiss,” then cover the messy pile in Worcestershire sauce, Olver’s sister, Janice Martin, recalled. “We called Worcestershire sauce ‘life’s blood.’ It was coursing through our veins.” (Sadly, the Timeline does not include an entry for peas with cheese.)

Making peas with cheese as a teenager was the beginning of what would become a lifelong interest in food for Olver. Libraries also captured her attention early on: At 16, she took her first job as a clerk in the Bryant Library in Roslyn, New York, shelving books in the children’s department. There, she was mentored by two older librarians, whom she loved. “She was an introvert,” Olver’s sister told me. “When it came to research, she was fascinated by ferreting out information that nobody else could find.” In 1980, she graduated with a degree in library science from Albany State University, where she also worked as a short-order cook, making sandwiches for students and faculty at a university canteen.

“Libraries are where you’d find that stuff. It’s not the same as using a Wikipedia page at all.”

Olver and her future husband, Gordon, met at Albany State and married the year after Olver graduated, in 1981, after which they worked in Manhattan (Lynne at a law library, Gordon in reinsurance), then Connecticut. They eventually had two children — Sarah and Jason — and settled in New Jersey in 1991, where Olver found a job as a reference librarian at the Morris County Public Library, eventually becoming the head of reference, and finally director of the library.

It was during Olver’s time as a reference librarian that the seed was planted for the Food Timeline. It began as an assignment to explain the origins of Thanksgiving dinner to children, to be published on an early incarnation of the library’s website. Around the same time, Olver was asked to write a monthly print newsletter to share library news, which she named Eureka!. One section of the newsletter was devoted to “Hot Topics,” as Olver and her colleague Sharon Javer wrote in the first dispatch. “Each month, this lead feature will focus on a particular theme: holidays, New Jersey events sources, census data, and so on. Included in this sizzling section will be answers to arduous questions, practical pointers and many marvelous morsels of information.”

Eureka!, in a sign of things to come, began to take over her life. “I remember one time saying to her, ‘How come we’re buying all this colored paper?’” Gordon, her husband, told me. “The library wouldn’t pay for the paper, so she was buying it on her own. When the library realized it was taking so much of her time, they asked her to stop. Meanwhile, she had put so much time and effort into it that she said to them, ‘Just pass it over to me, I’ll take it.’”

When the family got a Gateway computer in the late ’90s, Olver began teaching herself HTML, and by 1999, she was combining her interest in the Thanksgiving dinner project and the Eureka! answers column into a hybrid website she called the Food Timeline, where she could focus on providing well-researched food history on her own time. An archived version of the 1999 Food Timeline still exists and looks — unsurprisingly — more or less the same as the one now. “We still hand code html & today’s readers comment the site is ‘ugly,’” Olver wrote under the site’s “Market Strategy.” “We acknowledge: what was cutting edge in 1999 is now stale. Conversley? [sic] FT looks so old it’s become vintage.”

Olver wrote everything on the Food Timeline with a royal “we,” including her responses to readers’ emails, despite the fact the project was largely hers, with an occasional assist from others. “‘I don’t want anyone to know that it’s just me,’’’ Sarah recalled her mom saying. “She wanted people to believe that it was a network of volunteers,” because she felt that it lent the site more credibility.

“We acknowledge: what was cutting edge in 1999 is now stale.”

While Olver worked at the county library by day, by night she was creating an online resource for anyone who wanted to know more about Johnny Appleseed or chuck wagon stew or the origins of Sauce Robert. By the website’s first anniversary, Olver was already spending upwards of 30 hours a week on the Food Timeline, compiling and posting all the information she was digging up and answering readers’ questions about the origins of their grandmothers’ crumble recipes. “If you came in the house and you wanted to know where she was, and she wasn’t cooking, she was in the office on the computer,” Gordon recalled.

Eventually, even the cooking fell behind. Olver’s children came to expect burnt grilled cheese sandwiches at meals Sarah said. “She would be like, ‘I’ll leave these [on the stove] and go do my work,’ and then she would forget because she was so into what she was doing.”

Over time, the audience for the site expanded, and Olver’s subtle form of fame grew with it. She was named a winner of the New York Times Librarian Award in 2002, and, in 2004, Saveur put the Food Timeline on its Saveur 100 list of the best food finds that year. In the mid-2010s, she was asked to contribute to the Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America and consult for America’s Test Kitchen.

Sarah and Jason recalled taking their mother to a cooking class at the Institute of Culinary Education in Manhattan during that time period. “She was so excited about the teacher of this class because she had heard of her through her research,” Sarah told me. “When we got there, the teacher was like, ‘I’m looking at my roster of students and I see that Lynne Olver is here. Where is Lynne Olver?’ Mom kind of timidly raised her hand, and this chef was like, ‘I’ve been dying to meet you!’” The chef who left Olver starstruck was just as starstruck to meet Olver.

For years, Olver lived something of a double life. As the director of a mid-size suburban library, she was known to hand out PayDay candy bars to her staff on pay day and shovel snow from the building walkway during snowstorms, while as the founder of Food Timeline, she brought her computer on vacation, dutifully responding to readers’ food history questions within the promised 48-hour window. “I think she started on the internet as a way to reach a lot of people,” her sister said. “A lot of people who wouldn’t go into the library.”

The night before her wedding, in September 2014, Olver’s daughter, Sarah, noticed that her mom wasn’t acting like herself. While the family was sitting all together in the living room, Olver got up to go to the bathroom; minutes later, she was in the throes of a seizure. Sarah called 911, and Olver was taken to the hospital. The family stayed with her until doctors sent them home in the early hours of Sarah’s wedding day. The wedding had to go on, though Olver was too sick to attend. Doctors diagnosed her with leukemia the next day.

Olver had known for a while that she was sick, but didn’t want to ruin the wedding, so she had put off telling anyone. “She’d be like, ‘I’m dying, but let me put everyone else first,’” Sarah said. Olver was kept in the hospital for two months, but fought hard to be home for Thanksgiving. “It was my first time cooking Thanksgiving dinner because she wasn’t feeling up to cooking — and I ruined it,” Sarah said. “The turkey shrunk off the bone. That was one of the only things that made her laugh in a really long time.”

“Knowledge is power, but sharing knowledge is the best.”

When she was diagnosed with leukemia, Olver used the Food Timeline’s Twitter account to grumble about the food in the ICU at Morristown Medical Center, where she stayed until she was transferred to specialists in Hackensack two months later. “It was a chicken cutlet with some kind of sauce on it,” Gordon recalled; the post has since been taken down by the family. “She said, ‘This sauce, I don’t know what it is, I’m not eating it. It doesn’t look very good. It’s not a natural color.’”

Following her stay at the hospital in Hackensack, Olver returned home to wait for a bone marrow transplant. “She had to use a walker because balance was a problem, but very shortly after getting back from the hospital, she was walking around and doing all of her Food Timeline stuff again,” Gordon explained. She was responding to emails, diving back into her research. “On her birthday, March 10, she said, ‘I had a glorious day.’”

The reason? “Someone had written in with a question that she liked.”

A little over a month later, Lynne died of leukemia, only one year short of her retirement from the library. She had been planning to spend her retirement working on it full time: Earlier that year, she had renewed the Food Timeline domain for 10 more years.

A year after Olver’s death, her family began to discuss what would happen to the Food Timeline and who could take it over. “What we know is that we couldn’t do it justice ourselves,” Sarah said.

To anyone willing and able to maintain Olver’s vision of an ad-free, simply designed, easy-to-access resource on food history, the family members say that the website and her library are theirs, for free. A couple of people have put forward their names, but the family felt that their hearts weren’t in the right place. “One woman had shown us what she had done with her website and it was just full of banner advertisements,” Gordon said.

“It has to uphold her vision,” Sarah added.

Olver’s book collection — if a price were to be put on it — would be worth tens of thousands of dollars, Gordon estimates. So far, there have been no takers for either the books or the task of keeping the site going.

“The Culinary Institute of America initially expressed interest,” Gordon said. “But three months later, they came back and said, ‘We don’t really have the ability to take that volume of texts and dedicate [the task of updating the site] to a specific person. I said they were missing the point; I wasn’t looking to give them the books unless they wanted the website, too.”

The Food Timeline was — and still is — a great democratizing force. “I think Lynne liked that the internet was for everybody and by everybody. Knowledge is power, but sharing knowledge is the best,” Lynne’s sister, Janice, told me. “If you hold the knowledge and you can help everybody get it, that’s where it’s at.” Lynne Olver, an award-winning reference librarian, wanted everybody to know exactly what she knew.

“I would second anybody who says that they want Food Timeline to be brought up to date, who know how to keep that valuable digitized information where people can get their hands or their minds on it,” Sandy Oliver told me. “I’d hate to think Lynne had spent all those hours doing all that work and have it just slide into oblivion. I’d love to see it continue in whatever useful form it can.”

Dayna Evans is a freelance writer currently based in Paris. She last wrote for Eater about the rise of community fridges across the country. D’Ara Nazaryan is an art director & illustrator living in Los Angeles. Fact checked by Samantha Schuyler

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2AEYzmX https://ift.tt/3gQZZdN

The internet’s most comprehensive archive of food history — a passion project of one dedicated librarian — predates Wikipedia. Now, it needs a new custodian.

“Libraries are where you’d find that stuff. It’s not the same as using a Wikipedia page at all.”

“We acknowledge: what was cutting edge in 1999 is now stale.”

“Knowledge is power, but sharing knowledge is the best.”

The reason? “Someone had written in with a question that she liked.”

“It has to uphold her vision,” Sarah added.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2AEYzmX via Blogger https://ift.tt/2AHBVKT

#Blogger #cooking #Eater #food #recipes

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allofthisnonsenseplease · 7 years

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Unfinished Reaper76 fic, covering SEP through a meeting post-recall

A/N: This was based off a potential theory of what caused the rift between Jack and Gabe and why Jack maybe wouldn’t have listened to Gabe about Talon agents in Blackwatch. (which I didn’t even get to 9_9)

BUT. The Uprising comic pretty much puts a big ol’ hole in that theory, so I’m scrapping this. I don’t have the energy to deal with all these conflicting bits of canon lore ‘cause there’s one article where Angela was talking about how badly they were at each other’s throats, but then there’s the Uprising comic where Gabe all but admits he’s doing shady stuff and Jack does not even bat a lash, just trusts him to get on with it as they focus on the current emergency so

Anyways, it’s roughly 19,500 words and I thought a couple of the scenes came out okay so here it is for what it’s worth.

Rural Indiana was a lonely, flat slice of corn-blanketed eternity. Combine harvesters rumbled through the fields. Small towns flanked the highway every now and again to break up the monotony. Traffic was sparse, and half of the vehicles on the road were old-style pickup trucks. The place felt like it had cocooned itself in thick layers of tradition, resisting change since before the beginning of the Omnic Crisis. Zipping along the highway on his motorcycle, dressed all in black from boots and leather jacket to gloves and full face helmet with its mirrored visor, Reaper felt conspicuously out of place.

The sensation nagged him, urging him to speed up, to hunker down lower and present less of a target. He did his best to ignore it, almost able to feel the old prickling between his shoulder blades when he knew he was rushing into an uncertain situation. He ignored the speed limit signs, keeping to the flow of traffic. As the miles rolled past and the by-now familiar scenery cycled through again and again, his thoughts drifted back across a gulf of more than mere years and distance, calling up dusty memories from a different life.

---------------

The new recruit thrummed like a live wire, a bundle of raw nerves beneath his stony facade. A shiner was rising to dark prominence on one cheekbone, and smeared blood on his chin testified to a split lip. There was a sharp glint in his eyes that made Gabriel think of blue glass marbles. His gaze was clear, but empty. Everything he felt had been shoved ruthlessly away where it wouldn't show during their dressing-down. That was what crackled like electricity beneath his skin—all that emotion held in check. The kid was a quiet one when he wasn't sounding off on cue. He was serious to a fault, insanely focused, never to be caught shooting the breeze or grumbling about the training or all the med bay visits and side effects that went hand-in-hand with the enhancement program. He was practically a robot.

Which was why it had taken Gabriel by surprise when Morrison had suddenly lashed out over a bit of teasing. Something had finally gotten under his skin, and that was an accomplishment that easily trumped whatever punishment duty they'd be given for having trashed the common room.

When they were finally dismissed, Morrison strode out of the commander's office, head held high. Gabriel followed after him, a curious smile tugging up one corner of his mouth. They hadn't gone more than a few feet when he murmured, sing-song: “Someone got in trouble.”

Morrison's shoulders visibly tensed as his steps faltered. He kept control of himself this time, however, and continued on without a backward glance. Gabriel only barely caught the words: “So did you,” muttered under his breath.

Gabriel shrugged. “Wasn't the first time, won't be the last. Tensions can run a bit high sometimes.”

The offer for a truce was ignored. He wondered if he'd been too subtle.

“So, what set you off, Farm Boy? Not like you haven't been the butt of jokes since day one. Finally reached your limit?”

Frigid silence was his only answer to the question. He'd been like that earlier, too, just before he had taken a swing at Gabriel out of nowhere. Or, almost out of nowhere. Gabriel and a couple other recruits had been relaxing in the common room when Morrison had come in. An exaggerated shiver and joking: “Brrr! Did it just get colder in here?” had opened up a volley of jabs about Morrison's personality.

No one had expected to get a reaction out of him. It had never happened before and, frankly, ribbing him was getting boring, turning into more of a habit than anything else. Something had touched a nerve, though. Morrison had practically tackled Gabriel, and it had taken three other recruits and their commanding officer to eventually pull them apart.

Gabriel prodded his nose as he followed after Morrison. It was still a bit sore, but given how copiously it had been bleeding half an hour ago, that was a marked improvement. He stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders as he walked, feeling for stiffness or bruises, and found little enough to take notice of. The accelerated healing that came with the super soldier treatments made short work of simple brawls.

As Morrison reached his room, Gabriel continued on past, murmuring as he went: “All the personality and charm of a combine harvester.”

Morrison's fist slammed into the wall next to the door. Having already completed his regimen of enhancements, Gabriel judged that it wouldn't be long before hits like that started doing serious structural damage. As it was, he could see a faint impression in what had been a flawlessly smooth surface. He met Morrison's furious stare, thinking again of light shining through pale blue glass.

“Stop talking about me like I'm some kind of machine! I worked hard to get here!”

Gabriel snorted. “So did the rest of us. Hold yourself apart all you like; it doesn't make you any different.”

Besides, from what they'd all heard, Morrison had been hand-picked for the program. Invited to join. Maybe he'd worked hard in his previous unit, but he hadn't been working hard to become one of the elite. He'd been graced with an opportunity the rest of them had struggled and bled for.

Morrison opened his mouth, then closed it, biting back whatever retort had come to mind. For a minute, he simply stood there, frowning as he studied Gabriel. Then, abruptly, he opened his door and stepped into his room.

“Good night,” he said before shutting Gabriel out, and, for a wonder, his tone was very nearly civil.

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Reaper hadn't discovered the property entirely by accident. He'd been searching for something—a clue to make sense of the past, a piece of something lost. He hadn't ever been sure what he had expected to find in the various public records databases of Indiana. Unsurprisingly, there had been nothing relevant connected to the name Jack Morrison. Searching only the family name had left him inundated with results, which he scrolled listlessly through while faded memories stirred like unquiet ghosts.

Jack had told him that his father owned a farm in Bloomington. He'd told Gabriel Reyes all about it, eventually. About how boring it was, about how he'd always wanted to do more than plant, grow, and harvest crops year in and year out. He wanted to see more, to be more. He'd been driven by a need to prove himself, but to who and by what standards were questions that had always gone unanswered.

There had been moments of nostalgia mixed in with Jack's recollections of the town he'd grown up in. Golden Boy had soaked in the sun-drenched beauty of his home, and had remembered certain details with a clarity and fondness which gave him the human warmth he so often appeared to lack. He'd told Gabriel about running barefoot through cool, dry grass, climbing trees with their dry, sun-warmed bark, hunting frogs along a creek so clear that the water was barely visible where it ran slow and smooth as glass. He talked about the fields turning to emerald and gold at sunset, about snowy dawns when the whole world blushed rosy pink as the sun crested the horizon. He talked about the vast plains and the endless sky, and the sensation of feeling so unbelievably small and insignificant as he tried to envision the wide world that existed beyond that huge, empty boundary.

Reaper had already seen one Indiana sunset. An echo of Jack's voice had reached his ears.

“...so bright that everything seems to shine. The colors are so vivid they hurt your eyes.”

Emeralds and gold.

He'd ridden on long into the night and slept dreamlessly through the sunrise. His goal was a tiny piece of property well off the beaten path, hidden away in rural Indiana. Reaper didn't know what to expect, wasn't sure what he would find there. Probably nothing, but he'd been gripped by restlessness ever since he'd stumbled across the listing less than a week ago.

The property had been purchased not long after Jack had been promoted to Strike Commander, and it hadn't changed hands since. There was nothing in the scant records to suggest a connection to Overwatch, but the owner's name had grabbed Reaper's attention, and his instincts had screamed that this was no coincidence, that Jack had had something to do with it.

In all likelihood, it was nothing but an unused, long-forgotten safe house. Too far from anywhere to be useful, investigating it would probably turn out to be nothing but a waste of time. Reaper could acknowledge that much, even as he raced on toward it.

That name.

Jack had never been particularly creative, but even he had usually managed better. It felt like Jack was taunting him from the past with might-have beens.

The little parcel of land was owned by a man who Reaper was fairly certain would turn out to be fictional.

Ray S. Morrison.

Reyes-Morrison.

Come find me, the tiny speck on the map had whispered.

And Reaper had gone.

-----------------

It was oddly fitting that the change in Morrison's behavior should start with fighting. The day after they'd been chewed out, he strode into the common room where Gabriel was lounging on the couch, joking with the other members of his squad. All conversation died, and the atmosphere roiled with a mix of resentment and amused anticipation. Morrison was one of them on paper, but he wasn't one of them. He'd always held himself aloof, always put far more effort and attention into outdoing the others in the SEP than he had into forming any sort of bond with them.

Already fully healed from their brawl, he came directly to Gabriel, planting his feet and falling so naturally into a soldier's at ease stance that it was almost impossible to imagine what original personality must have been stamped out by basic training. Only his eyes held a spark, like the tiniest of flaws in a pair of matched marbles. Gabriel didn't move, didn't even tense up like some of the others. Nothing in Morrison's manner—direct though it was as he held eye contact—was aggressive. Without acknowledging anyone else in the room, Morrison offered an olive branch.

“I wanted to get in some extra training. I came to see if anyone wants to spar with me.”

It was a small, stunted olive branch. The invitation clearly had only been meant for one person. Still, it was a start. Gabriel bit back a smile as those around him shifted restlessly, wondering what the hell was going on.

“Can't say I'll be as energetic as usual after today's extra cleaning duty,” Gabriel drawled, “but I don't mind taking you up on the offer.”

Morrison nodded, a tight, controlled movement that gave away no indication of whether the teasing had struck home. It had been his fault, after all, that both of them had been saddled with extra work. Not that two piddling hours of cleaning would have made the slightest bit of difference to the enhanced stamina of anyone in the SEP. A full day of training, punishment detail, extra rounds on the mat—bring it on! Gabriel grinned as he stood up and followed Morrison out.

Trailing him to the gym, he studied the set of Morrison's shoulders, the taut line of his spine, his purposeful stride. He also saw how Morrison unclenched his fists and tried to surreptitiously wipe his palms off on his pants. A quick glance back confirmed that, although several of the others had spilled out the open doorway to watch them go, the overall weirdness of Morrison initiating contact—willingly and of his own choice—had left them temporarily too stunned to follow. For the moment, Gabriel and Morrison were alone.

Seizing the chance, Gabriel hurried his steps until he was practically treading on Morrison's heels. Morrison glanced at him and started to pull away, but was stopped by Gabriel's hand on his shoulder.

“You scared, Golden Boy?” Gabriel murmured the words so that only Morrison could hear, and felt him go tense beneath his hand. Morrison shrugged him off and hurried forward.

“No,” he said curtly.

He sped up every time Gabriel did, keeping his distance, until both of them were sprinting down the hallway at top speed, skidding as they went around corners. Morrison was shoving Gabriel back, growling at him to back off, while Gabriel grinned and grabbed at his collar, at the sleeve of his t-shirt, trying to slow him down. He'd caught a hint of pink on Morrison's cheeks when he'd asked that initial question, and an alternative had occurred to him. 'Scared' might have been the wrong word.

'Nervous,' now....

Nervous made some sense, and slid a few extra pieces into place, besides. As Gabriel collided with Morrison, knocking him through the door into the gym, he wondered if maybe the Mightier-Than-Thou Golden Boy was just plain bad with people. Gabriel figured he could at least do Morrison the courtesy of finding out. Maybe it would prove interesting.

“See, güero, if you wanted to fight me, all you had to do was ask.”

Morrison gave him a withering look which melted into a tiny, grudging upwards quirk of his lips as Gabriel grinned back at him.

“How about a friendly wager,” Gabriel offered. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside as he climbed into the boxing ring used for one-on-one sparring. “Bet I can put you on the mat before our audience arrives.”

Morrison glanced reflexively back over his shoulder, though all was quiet from the hallway. When he turned back, a faint smirk had eased some of the chill from his expression, and Gabriel was certain that there was a flicker of eagerness in his eyes.

“I'll take that bet.”

---------------

Indiana just didn't end. It wouldn't have felt quite so imposingly large if there was only more to it—more people, more cities, more than just mind-mindbogglingly vast fields and the occasional patch of scruffy forest. A dyed-in-the-wool city boy, Reaper was ill at ease with so much open space stretching out to all sides of him. He wanted the comfort of streets like mazes, brick and mortar boxing him in, steel and glass reaching for the clouds, wanted the sky to be something held up like a canopy overhead and glimpsed in thin slices between towers. The sky was too big out here, too bright. It was endless. He remembered Jack talking about staring up at the stars, remembered the wistful tone of his voice, remembered even that, back in another lifetime, Gabriel Reyes had half-expected an invitation that had never come.

Reaper sped up, letting the roar of the engine drown out his thoughts. Distantly, he knew that it wasn't good to be rushing in without a plan, wasn't smart, but thinking only led him back to Jack, and thoughts of Jack clouded his judgment. This wasn't a mission, anyhow. It was something personal. Reaper simply needed to know what he would find, be it nothing or....

What could possibly be waiting for him there? The entire trip was utter foolishness. It was probably nothing more than a coincidence. He could have sent a few grunts to check the place out. At most, it would only be a forgotten safe house. The place was likely abandoned, run down, left to rot after the fall. Reaper would be lucky if it even afforded him a decent place to hole up for the night before he turned around to flee back to civilization.

He still kept going.

At sunset, he turned off the highway. A sprawling town had grown up around the exit, all gas stations and convenience stores and cheap motels giving way to a few cookie-cutter neighborhoods. He sped through it all, taking the main street out of town, then turning off onto one country road after another, letting the series of dusty lanes lead him past more fields green with cornstalks that towered over his head. Jack had told him once that they sometimes made mazes in the fields for festivals. That bit of trivia made more sense, now.

He drove on into the creeping darkness of evening, until at last he came to an overgrown track leading into a wooded area along the side of the road. Pulling off, he quickly found a cluster of bushes thick enough to hide his motorcycle. He had planned to leave it behind, not wanting to chance being heard as he approached. The property was close now, and he wanted an opportunity to take a look at it before going in. Listening carefully for any odd sound, watching every step in the silvery moonlight that fell sparsely through the canopy above, Reaper made his way quietly down the trail.

------------

After that first surprise sparring match, Morrison slowly began to thaw. It became routine for him and Gabriel and a mixed group of the other soldiers to unwind in the gym with one-on-one matches. Although he would spar with the others, Morrison openly favored Gabriel's company. It was Gabriel he always sparred with first, and it was Gabriel who he always watched in the following matches. The weight of his attention prickled like goosebumps against Gabriel's skin, and made him more curious about the self-contained farm boy who got his kicks out of fighting.

Watching Morrison in his own bouts, Gabriel saw him learning. Morrison picked up moves and counters from Gabriel's fights and employed them against his own opponents, although not always successfully. He wasn't bothering to practice them first, just watching how Gabriel fought and then mimicking pieces of it, incorporating it into his own relentless, vicious style.

He took his victories in stride and shrugged off his comparatively few losses. That, combined with the chance to beat the shit out of the operation's Golden Boy drew in plenty of soldiers looking to face him on the mat. Morrison's seeming indifference to his own wins or losses invited a certain amount of ribbing, but as the days turned into weeks and he was gradually accepted by the others, that coldness in his manner started to fade. He talked more, got a bit cocky when he'd had too many wins, and cursed when he made a mistake that cost him a match. He was still stiff, but he took his hits, bled, held his own, and held no grudges. Bit by bit, the barrier between him and the others wore down until he was a fixture among Gabriel's group at lunch, and no one seemed to remember the arrogant, ostracized loner he had started off as.

One evening, heading back to their rooms after the evening's sparring, Gabriel reached out and ruffled Jack's hair. “Proud of you, chico,” he said, grinning.

Frowning, Jack batted his hand away. “I lost twice in a row. Can't get that hold right,” he muttered.

“Not what I meant.”

Gabriel laughed, then took a closer look at him. The frown was still in place, deeper now, and his down-turned gaze belied a focus that was far from the familiar route they were walking. Pausing in his tracks, Gabriel watched him continue on, oblivious to the fact that he was now walking alone. When it became clear that Jack wasn't going to wait, he hurried to catch up.

“You're really serious about that.”

As Jack glanced at him, something flared behind his eyes. His upper lip twitched in the beginning of a snarl before his expression smoothed out into a taut frown. “Why shouldn't I be? I've lost thirteen matches.”

“So? Be glad you lost against us, and learn from your mistakes. Thirteen's not so bad considering how long we've been at this. How many wins do you have?”

Jack shrugged, eyes trained straight ahead.

“Come on, chico. You can't tell me you weren't keeping score both ways.” Jack's silence was answer enough to that. “Concédeme paciencia,” Gabriel said with a sigh. “What is it with you? I get wanting to be the best—every one of us gets that—but you....”

He stared at Jack, and saw again the person who had entered the SEP with a chip on his shoulder and no time to spare for his fellow soldiers. The walls had suddenly slammed back up after weeks of slow progress, and Gabriel felt a sudden urge to knock Jack on his ass. A deep breath and the application of hard-won self-control kept that impulse safely buried as they came up on Jack's door.

“Come find me tomorrow night and I'll teach you that hold.” Gabriel all but growled the command. There had to be a way to actually get through to the idiot!

Jack hesitated, still not looking at him, then nodded and disappeared into his room. He closed the door between them without so much as a 'thanks' or 'good night,' and Gabriel curled his lip as he turned away.

Ingrato. Gabriel wondered why he was bothering trying to drag Jack out of his shell. The man had the potential to be a good soldier, sure, but it was something more than that which made Gabriel want to face him head on. Whatever Jack was looking at, it sure as hell wasn't the people around him. His standards had been set someplace else, and he was fighting alone to reach them, blind to the helping hands around him.

That was the problem. That was what bothered Gabriel so much, what crawled right under his skin and wouldn't leave him be. He'd spent his whole life facing off against people who looked at him and saw only a stereotype, only their own prejudices. He was his own man, and had no time for people who judged based only on their own preconcieved notions. Jack, though...Jack didn't even see him.

It pissed Gabriel off, and he wasn't about to let it continue.

--------------

The path wound through forested countryside for over two miles. It was overgrown and showed no signs of recent use. No streetlights lined it—those had been left behind miles and several turns ago. Light from the stars and quarter moon filtered down, slivering leaves and rough bark, washing out color and leaving the world black and white. He wind soughed through the leaves. The crickets were deafening. Owls called, and Reaper wished them good hunting as he went about his own.

Disassembling, he ghosted along low to the ground. Most traps or surveillance equipment would be hard-pressed to catch him in that form, although as a cloud of nanomachines he was little more than raw instinct focused on a goal. It kept his thoughts from wandering, at least.

He came upon the house with a suddenness that left him whirling back like a miniature tornado out of the clearing he'd spilled into and back beneath the concealing shadows of the trees. Slowly, carefully, alert for any alarms his presence might set off, he reformed his body and surveyed the property he had come so far to find.

The house was little more than a shack sitting in the middle of a clearing. Single story with pale siding, a few windows with the blinds drawn, and a storm door outside the heavier wooden one, the whole thing looked too well kept up to have been abandoned since Overwatch had fallen. There was a small garden to the right of the door, and beyond that, Reaper caught the glint of moonlight on glass—a greenhouse, nearly as large as the shack itself. The garden in particular was far too tidy for there to be no one home, but it was such a strange, unnecessary detail for a safe house that Reaper hesitated. He stared unseeing at the ranks of plants: sunflowers towering over rows of tomatoes, peppers, lacy carrot leaves, squash vines, and a border of marigolds.

Had it been just a coincidence after all? He knew all too well how the world made a habit of casual cruelty. To dangle a hint like that before his nose, only to snatch it away...

An opportunity to strike against the feeble new Overwatch?

A chance to settle an old score?

Had he really expected to find Soldier: 76—to find Jack—here?

More than likely, the name meant nothing. The shack belonged to some loner, some apocalypse nut preparing for the end of civilization. He'd probably bought the place after the Omnic Crisis, hoping that if the machines rose up again, they wouldn't be able to find him there.

Cursing himself for an idiot, Reaper remained staring at the shack, rooted to the spot by a deep, searing anger. He had come all the way out into the middle of Indiana—out into the nowhere in the center of nowhere—all for nothing. More fool he, to still be so tightly tethered to the past.

Reaper caressed his guns, thinking how easy it would be to pull them from their holsters, open fire, lob a grenade or two, raze the shack and the greenhouse and the neat little garden. The image of the smoking crater he could leave in its place felt temptingly satisfying.

But, no. With an effort of will, he uncurled his clawed fingers from around his weapons. That was the rage talking again. It didn't control him. He couldn't let it control him. There was too much he needed to do, and none of it allowed for him devolving into some destruction-crazed beast. He took a deep breath, feeling the dark smoke of nanomachines eking out of his mouth slow to a trickle and finally stop altogether.

It would take only a few minutes to check and be sure. After that, he could blast the shack off the face of the earth. Bad luck to the owner for having been born with a name unfortunate enough to attract the wrong sort of attention. He wondered, if the incident ever made it to Overwatch's attention, if 76 would realize why, if it would cause him grief to put the pieces together and guess Reaper's motivation. The thought gave him a sick sense of pleasure.

Let him pay attention to the unsavory missions now. Let him see innocent blood shed for no other reason than a person was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He was far too late to do anything about it.

-----------------

It took Jack a little while to find him that evening. He'd probably checked the usual places first—the common room, or the gym—but Gabriel had intentionally slipped away from public places. He'd come up with an idea. By the time Jack showed up outside his door, Gabriel was feeling well-pleased with himself, and excited to put his plan into action. He didn't even give Jack a chance to speak, only reached out and hauled him inside before anyone else came down the hallway.

For just a moment, Jack was left speechless. The look on his face, the way his eyes went wide with surprise, made Gabriel grin. If Jack had been on his guard, a stunt like that would have at least earned him a solid punch to the gut. As it was, Jack simply settled his ruffled feathers back into place, fixing his expression back into his usual impassive mask.

“You said you would teach me that hold.”

“I remember. But first, we're gonna have some fun, you and me.”

Jack took in Gabriel's grin, glanced around the room, and suddenly looked as if he might bolt. The startled look was back in his eyes, and the tips of his ears had gone red. Realizing what must have just gone through his mind, Gabriel laughed and slung an arm around Jack's neck, pulling him in to roughly muss his hair.

“Not like that, güero! Get your mind out of the gutter!”

Jack must have heard the rumors. Interesting, since Gabriel never saw him talking much with the others. He snuck a glance as Jack ducked away to straighten his shirt and smooth down his hair. The idea of tumbling Jack into bed and wearing his pride down into moans and pleas was undeniably appealing, but Gabriel wasn't looking for a chase to spice up his sex life. Unless Jack made the first move, his freckled farm boy looks weren't going to be enough to tempt Gabriel.

“How about we go for a run?”

Confusion met his suggestion. “You want to tackle the obstacle course while it's dark?” Jack guessed. He sounded skeptical. It was a standard drill they'd both been through too many times.

“I said 'fun,' chico! No, I was thinking more of taking a jog into town.”

Jack stared. “Now?”

“No time like the present.” Grinning, he waited for the realization to hit.

“Do you have passes for us?”

“Nope.”

“Are you serious?” Jack practically hissed at him, darting in close while glancing nervously back at the door. “We can't just leave the compound without clearance! We could get kicked out of the program!”

“After they've invested so much in us?” Gabriel snorted and flicked Jack between the eyes. “Use what little brains God gave you. They're not going to let all that time and money go to waste over a little infraction. Besides,” he added, his grin daring Jack to back down, “we'd only be in trouble if they caught us.”

Jack glared at him, silent, hesitating. Gabriel could practically sense his resolve weakening, and he pushed.

“Come on, chico. A nice, refreshing run, only a few miles there and back. We won't even break a sweat. I know this great Mexican restaurant—authentic, tastes like it came out of my grandmother's kitchen—that's open late. We can grab a bite of real food before heading back.”

That earned a snort from him. “Are you trying to talk me into going AWOL with you, or asking me out on a date?”

“Just appealing to your sense of adventure. You're not going to tell me that you can't sneak out for a couple hours after all that super soldier training, are you?”

Questioning Jack's abilities, even though it was transparently obvious that he was only doing so to get a rise out of him, struck a nerve. Jack glared daggers at him, but he wasn't arguing, and he wasn't leaving. He just stood there, arms crossed, tension thrumming across his shoulders. Gabriel could practically see the gears turning. It was a chance to prove himself, to show that he really was as good as he thought he should be. It was a challenge, and he couldn't back down without losing face.

“I'll go,” Jack said at last, “if you stop calling me by those stupid nicknames.”

Gabriel laughed. “Only trying to be friendly, güero.”

Rolling his eyes, Jack turned toward the door. “Enjoy your run.”

“Oh, come on. You aren't really going to leave over that, are you?” When Jack didn't hesitate, Gabriel rolled his eyes and gave in. “Morrison.”

It stopped him immediately. When he turned around, he was smiling—smirking, almost. There was a definite gleam of triumph in his eyes.

“All right then,” Jack said with no small sense of satisfaction. “You ready to go, or not?”

Feeling as though he'd lost, somehow, Gabriel motioned him out into the hall. “Once we're outside, follow me. I've got our route all planned.”

Although the SEP was top secret, the base was—comparatively—not heavily guarded. Most of the surveillance was pure tech, and Gabriel had paid enough attention and logged enough hours on security detail to have found a few blind spots. He led Jack outside and then cautiously across the grounds, timing the occasional patrols that wandered through, and pointing out the cameras and motion detectors to Jack. Even though it was only a bit of fun, his heart was racing as they slipped past the outermost ring of security and into the wooded area that surrounded the compound. Grinning like a kid getting away with cutting class, he stifled the urge to shout into the still night around them. They still had a long run ahead of them, and he wasn't about to get caught right out the door.

That had been the night Jack had first told him about Indiana, about how the beauty of his hometown could sneak right up on a person. He hadn't been what Gabriel would normally call talkative, but as they had sat in the restaurant over tamales, huaraches, and carne a la tampiqueña, the sporadic conversation had turned to home and family, and Jack had volunteered a bit of information about the countryside where he had grown up. He'd been relaxed, even happy in his nostalgia. It was a side of him that Gabriel hadn't ever seen before, a bit of warmth behind his chilly determination to be the best at everything.

When Jack had realized that he was sharing pieces of himself, he'd clammed up. Still, his smile hadn't disappeared. It had been the first major crack in his armor, and, although they still had to sneak back into the compound, Gabriel had already counted their excursion as a success.

------------------

Reaper let his body dissolve into a swarm of nanomachines, a process that came so easily that it unsettled him no matter how often he did it. The familiar fear that this would be it, that he wouldn't be able to pull himself back together this time flashed across the forefront of his mind. Quickly, he buried it with thoughts of the shack, of finding an entrance, exploring the inside. He focused on that directive alone as he fell to pieces. In moments, there was nothing even remotely human lurking beneath the trees.

Soundlessly, Reaper flowed across the moon-silvered grass like a living shadow, then fetched up against the side of the shack, blending into the darkness pooled there. On more than one occasion, he had seen recordings of himself doing that. Disguised by shadows, the roiling cloud of nanomachines looked like the writhing darkness caught beneath closed eyes. He hated that he could be so reduced—an entire person turned into an illusion, the result of rubbing one's eyes too hard—but the ability was undeniably useful.

There was a window just above him, shut, of course, but it wasn't as if an old shack out in the middle of nowhere would be airtight. He drifted up toward it, probing along the edges for the smallest gap that would allow him to slip through. When he found no opportunity there, he moved to the other window on that side of the shack, expecting better luck. Met with the same result, he hesitated for a moment at the unexpected obstacle, then dropped low and circled around to the back.

No windows, no door. Around the next corner, he found two more windows, both sealed tight. The only option left was the front, which was more direct than he had intended, but the shack was beginning to frustrate him. By the time he discovered that there would be no getting in there, either, he was nearing the end of his patience.

It wasn't a good idea to allow himself to disperse too far. Doing so pushed the bounds of his consciousness, left him spread thin. It was possible that one day he would exceed his limits and fracture his consciousness beyond repair. At the moment, however, he was fixated on a goal which had been denied him. Frustration took over and he exploded into a thinning mist of nanites that swarmed the house. He pressed up underneath every plank of siding, swept the windows once more, washed over the roof, trickled down into the thick grass that grew right up to the sides of the shack.

There was no place for him to slip inside. The shack was completely airtight, sealed so thoroughly that not even the smallest of his nanomachines could find a way in. Reaper retreated, drawing himself back together as he fled to the cover of the trees. He pulled on his human form, and the difficulty of building it back up compared to the ease of dissolving into his component nanites reminded him again that humanity was something lost to him, merely something he wore like a shroud. That thought took a back seat, however, as he considered the shack.

There was no longer any possibility of it being a civilian dwelling. Nothing that airtight was habitable, not without some sort of hidden ventilation system that would require specific upkeep. This was no peaceful escape for someone uninterested in human company: this was a safe house.

Reaper cursed himself for having given up on tracing the sale. He would have put Sombra onto it, except he knew that she would have dogged his steps right to the front door if she'd found out. If he was right about the safe house, then this was something that he needed to do alone. It was annoying that he didn't have all the information, but it was only a temporary setback. He simply needed to be patient and reconsider. At the very least, sooner or later, someone would have to come out.

Almost as soon as that thought had occurred to him, a sound cut through the nocturnal buzzing and rustling of the local fauna. There was a quiet click, a creak, a soft groan. Reaper spotted the source of the sounds immediately, and watched in shock as someone inside the shack opened a window. There was no light on inside, no further sound. All he had seen was a quick glimpse of pale fingertips pushing the window upward, then nothing. Nothing but the pitch black darkness beyond the open window.

It was a trap of some kind. It had to be. The timing was too perfect.

Behind his mask, Reaper smirked. Let them wait, then. Whoever was in there would need sleep. He did not. At least, not so much as he had back when he was human. Reaper flowed up into the nearest tree large enough to afford him both a perch and mask his presence. Settling into the crook where a branch met the trunk, he watched the shack and waited.

--------------

It wasn't until they were trying to sneak back in for the night that things went wrong. The problem started with a patrol coming across their route later than scheduled. If it had only been that, then they would have been saved by stillness and the presence of a large, shaggy mulberry tree. Unfortunately, Jack hadn't been able to keep still until the pair was far enough away, and had shifted, heel coming down on top of a dry branch. The crack rang out almost as loud as a shot in the quiet night, and drew the attention of the patrol, who closed in on them quickly.

Taking one look at Jack's stricken expression, Gabriel made a snap decision. “Stay here. Be silent until we're gone, then sneak back in.”

“But—!”

“I outrank you, güero!” He whispered with as much forcefulness as he could. “This is an order!”

Before Jack could argue, and before the patrol could get too close, Gabriel stepped out from behind the bush. He put a little extra sway into his steps and smiled widely, glad that he'd had a beer at dinner. They would be able to smell it on him and, although he wasn't even tipsy, he could play it up easily enough and hopefully keep them distracted in case Jack got antsy again and moved too soon.

It was a stroke of luck that the pair knew him. They believed his story about sneaking out alone to get a bit of decent food, and escorted him back inside without bothering to check the area. They hadn't taken their rounds into account, either, leaving that section of the compound unguarded aside from the cameras. Gabriel hoped that Jack had been paying attention and remembered the route that would keep him out of sight. If it hadn't been for Jack, he probably would have tried to outflank the patrol and sneak back in, but as it was, he hadn't thought it possible for both of them to get away clean. Better that only one person take the fall, and he trusted himself to keep quiet about an accomplice more than he did Jack.

In the end, it was as he'd predicted. Being a successful example of the enhancement program meant that the brass weren't going to be too hard on him. He earned a brief lecture and a month of additional cleaning duties—a stricter punishment that when he and Jack had gotten into that fight, probably because they wanted to make a point about keeping everything in-house and under wraps. He accepted the punishment without complaint, and didn't give it a second thought when Jack kept his mouth shut about having gone along.

It wouldn't be until years later that he would think back and wonder if maybe he should have expected more loyalty, if Jack's silence should have been a warning of things to come.

At the time, it didn't matter. What did matter was that Jack was coming out of his shell. Three days after their trip into town, he found Jack waiting for him outside the cafeteria at dinnertime. The moment Jack spotted him, he stepped away from the wall and caught Gabriel before he could go in.

“Come with me.”

“Mind if I grab a bite first?”

“Never mind that. Just come on.”

Gabriel drew himself up to his full height. It had been a long day working with a pack of new recruits. He was tired, hungry, and short on patience. Jack wasn't even really looking at him, and didn't seem to notice. His focus was on the hall, eyes tracking the movement of everyone around them. When he finally noticed Gabriel hesitating, his gaze alighted briefly on him.

“Please,” Jack said, tacking it belatedly onto his request as if a lack of manners was the reason for the delay.

With a sigh, Gabriel gave up on food for the time being and followed him through the halls. They headed straight for private quarters as Gabriel hoped that whatever it was Jack needed to talk to him about wouldn't take long. His stomach was rumbling, and it didn't help that something in the corridor smelled faintly of food. Gabriel sniffed, catching hints of peppers and grilled meat, wondering why it should smell so much stronger here rather than just outside the cafeteria. His confusion lasted right up until they entered Jack's room where a pair of plastic bags on the desk held the shapes of take out containers.

“I brought you dinner,” Jack said, although Gabriel had already guessed as much. “Help yourself.” He sat down on the edge of his bed, leaving Gabriel the desk chair.

There was a huge amount of food. Each bag held three boxes with different dishes. Some were things they'd ordered the other night, while others were favorites of his from different visits. He looked sidelong at Jack before digging in.

“How'd you guess?”

Jack shrugged. “The staff remembered you. I asked what you liked best.”

Grinning, Gabriel found a plastic fork in one of the bags and dug in. “Muchas gracias, chico.”

“It's Jack,” he said, testily.

Gabriel chewed slowly, taking a moment to study him. Jack was tense as he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the sheets at his sides. He was frowning down at the floor between them.

“You know, I don't think I've ever heard you call me by name. It's Gabriel. Gabe to my friends.”

Jack looked up at him, appearing far more uncertain than Gabriel would have expected. “Gabriel.” He said it as if afraid of springing a trap.

Shaking his head, Gabriel turned back to the food. “Can't take a hint, can you, Morrison?” He caught Jack's wince out of the corner of his eye.

“Didn't want to presume,” came the mumbled response.

“I don't sneak off base with just anybody, Jack.”

He'd expected another wince, not the soft laugh that caught his attention and had him staring helplessly at the rare sight. Jack's eyes had a way of crinkling up when he laughed that made them glitter. He had a dimple, too, which should have been too disgustingly perfect, but suited him too well to be anything but cute. Gabriel dragged his gaze away before Jack caught him staring, and motioned at the food with his fork.

“You want some of this?”

“Yeah. Pass the empanadas.”

They polished off the food together, chatting amicably between bites. Gabriel did most of the talking, complaining about the green recruits he'd been saddled with, telling a few funny stories about them, and jokingly warning Jack about what he would have to put up with once he was finished with the regimen of super soldier treatments.

The stories were oddly familiar and comforting, reminiscent of what they themselves had been like early on. Gabriel tried to keep that in mind when he worked with them, tried to remind himself what it had been like before the SEP had made him better, faster, stronger than he ever would have been on his own, but it was hard sometimes. He'd learned to keep a lid on his temper, but that only meant that his fuse, shorter some days than others, led to a controlled explosion rather than a big bang. He knew for a fact that a few of the recruits were afraid of him, and as he sat in Jack's room, seeing the grin light up his friend's face over his grumbling, he wondered what Jack's bunch of trainees would make of him in a few months. Would he still be cold and aloof, or would instructing polish another facet to him that Gabriel hadn't seen? Would he be fair, or would he hold his recruits to the same too-strict standards he judged himself by?

Wondering about all that, Gabriel stood up and began clearing away the empty containers. He was just tying the second bag shut when Jack spoke up.

“You never taught me that hold.”

“Hold? Oh!” He laughed, having forgotten the throwaway comment from Jack that had prompted the promise that had led to them bonding over food. “I'm a bit stuffed at the moment, Jackie. I think—”

He'd made the mistake of turning his back on Jack, and wasn't prepared for his friend to barrel into him with all the force he could manage across the two feet that had separated them. The sneak attack very nearly knocked Gabriel down.

“That's how you want to play it?” he growled as he stumbled.

They grappled, each struggling to take the other down in the cramped space, and bumping into Jack's desk and chest as they went. The furniture rattled, thumping against the wall as framed photos fell over and a cup of pens went clattering to the floor. Without enough room to maneuver, they were at an impasse, neither one able to gain the upper hand. Then Gabriel lunged, knocking them into the bed. Jack lost his balance and toppled over, dragging Gabriel down with him. The bed creaked ominously beneath them and was ignored as they scuffled, grunting and shoving and oblivious to anything except the need to win.

At last, Gabriel managed to flip Jack onto his stomach and pin his hands down.

“Ha! My win! Give it up, Jackie!”

Not ready to concede, Jack bucked beneath him. Gabriel was straddling him, and pressed down, trying to force him to stillness just as Jack thrust his hips up. In a moment, both of them suddenly realized the position they'd found themselves in, and the immediate sense of awkwardness was compounded by the fact that they were on a bed. Gabriel laughed shortly, reflexively. Jack cleared his throat and went still beneath him.

“I give.”

He moved as soon as Gabriel was off the bed, getting to his feet, and keeping his gaze carefully averted. He was flushed to the tips of his ears, which Gabriel could have put down simply to the brief exertion were it not for the clear signs of tension running through him. Jack wiped his palms reflexively on his pants, and cleared his throat again.

“You'll teach me the hold tomorrow, then?”

“If you don't mind giving me one more night. Hell, I'll be up for a good while yet. Come find me if you want to learn it later tonight.”

Jack looked at him—actually met his eyes, although his cheeks were still rosy pink—and smiled. “Thanks, Gabe.”

Something within Gabriel stirred to life just then. He nodded and saw himself out, heading straight for the showers, intent on washing away the memory of Jack's body pressing warmly up against him.

------------------

There was no movement from the shack again until shortly after dawn. The window remained open all night, a tempting invitation aside from the fact that Reaper was convinced that whoever was inside knew he was there. Why they hadn't come out to face him was a mystery, one that left him uncertain and determined to find out what was going on before he made his move. He could think of one person who would be arrogant enough to give him a way in like that, then ignore him—the one person he'd come hoping to find: Jack Morrison. The quiet was unsettling, though. Jack should have confronted him. Soldier: 76 should have charged out, guns blazing. He'd expected recriminations, attacks...he hadn't expected to be left alone.

As the sun crept above the horizon, slowly returning color to the world, the faint scent of coffee on the breeze told Reaper that his vigil would soon become more interesting. Sure enough, sounds drifted out from the open window as the occupant started their day. He saw a shadow pass by inside, and heard the other windows being opened, but from his vantage point, he couldn't see who was inside. The need to know was starting to get the better of him. He was almost certain it was Jack inside, but a small part of him hoped that he was wrong, hoped that it was some no-name operative that he could blow to kingdom come without any fuss. Jack was a double-edged sword: a thorn in Reaper's side, but his death would mean something. Reaper tried not to think too hard about exactly what.

Then, as the sun rose high enough to strike sparks off the dew on the grass, the front door opened inward. A man stood there, indistinct in the shadows behind the storm door until he pushed that open and stepped outside, a mug of coffee in one hand. He wore a blue flannel with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows over a black shirt and a worn pair of jeans. His hair was stark white, his face badly scarred from his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and over his cheek. Another scar cut across his lips. He was too far away for Reaper to see his eyes clearly, but he remembered their particular shade of blue. Heat surged within his chest.

Soldier: 76, the man once known as Jack Morrison. Seeing him dressed as a civilian, Reaper wondered suddenly what name he went by now.

It was a stupid thought. The man probably had a dozen aliases, each as boring and forgettable as the last. Bland, Midwest farm boy names for the man who had been chosen as Overwatch's poster child: the blond, blue-eyed cookie-cutter image of wholesome American strength.

The old rage and disgust churned in Reaper's gut, so much stronger since his ressurection. If only Jack hadn't been so fixated on the impossible standards he'd set for himself, if he hadn't been so damned desperate for every chance to prove himself to himself, then maybe things wouldn't have gone south the way they had. If he'd actually stayed at headquarters and done his goddamn job instead of rushing off on every mission that came across his desk, then maybe he wouldn't have missed the scum making a grab for his power. Maybe there would have been no bombing, no need for Overwatch to be shut down. Maybe Gabriel Reyes wouldn't have died.

Reaper snarled, animal fury ripping the sound from his throat before he could clamp down on the impulse and regain his calm. Once the anger flared up, it was hard to control. He'd had to work at that, and the path leading him to Talon was strewn with dead bodies paying testament to the times he had failed. He dragged his self-control tightly around himself, eyes trained on 76, barely resisting the urge to put a bullet in the man's skull.

“I know you're out there,” 76 said before taking a casual sip of coffee. His voice was rough as busted concrete. Apparently, the mask hadn't been exaggerating that. Damage from having been caught in the explosion? It hadn't been so gravelly before.

He was just standing there in front of the house. Why was he just standing there? He had no weapons, no armor. He knew Reaper was there—or, rather, he knew someone was there. So why...?

“There's enough coffee for two, if you decide you want to talk, Reyes. Pretty sure we both have questions.”

The name cut through Reaper like a knife, leaving him frozen in place. 76 remained deceptively calm. He stood still, sipping his coffee, waiting for a response that didn't come. Finally, he squinted into his mug, then swirled the dregs of his coffee and tossed back the last swallow in an incredibly familiar motion. How many times had Gabriel watched Jack do exactly that? Reaper stared after him as 76 turned and disappeared back inside, shutting the storm door, but leaving the other open.

Reaper remained where he was, feeling as if he had just walked into a trap. He hadn't honestly expected to even find Jack here, not really. It had been a long shot from the start. More than that, however, was that he had never been on the defensive in the scenario he had considered. He shouldn't have been unable to get into the house. He shouldn't have been expected. This was all supposed to be on his terms, not Jack's. Back in their SEP days, Jack had always been the one ready to rush in while Gabriel was the one with a plan. So why did it feel like their roles had been reversed now?

That damn name on a deed, a dot on a map, a cruel joke about what might have been. Reaper pushed away the old memories. Let them start flowing and soon he'd be drowning in them. What Jack had meant to him in another life didn't matter. All that mattered was what Soldier: 76 meant to Reaper. He was an enemy—potentially the enemy, given all he knew. He was in the way. He was....

76 strode back out of the shack. He had traded out his coffee mug for a trowel. Without looking around, he went straight to the small vegetable garden and knelt down in the grass beside it. As calmly as if he believed himself to be alone, he began turning a row of earth between a squash vine and the border of marigolds that circled the plot. Now that Reaper was paying attention to the garden, he noticed a tray of green shoots on the ground nearby. New additions.

Reaper didn't think that suicidal people added to their gardens shortly before death, but if 76 wasn't ready to meet his maker, then why the hell was he making such a target of himself? He was defenseless! No pulse rifle, no sidearm, no armor, not even his tactical visor! And yet he had the balls to step outside, sip his coffee, kneel in the dirt, knowing that Reaper was nearby?

Jack always had been good at being an insufferable prick. That had come easily to him. It was the rest he'd had to work for, and when he'd gotten tired of putting in the effort....

Whatever Jack's strategy was, Reaper no longer cared. He dropped out of the tree and sped across the few yards of sunlit grass, nanites buzzing like a swarm of angry hornets, until he could pull himself together to tower over 76, one shotgun unholstered and pointed at his unprotected skull.

“Tell me why I shouldn't blow your head right off, old man.”

76 only turned over another trowel of earth, crumbling it further with his fingers. “You're older than me,” he said.

“I haven't aged so poorly that I've gone senile. Have you forgotten that the last time we saw each other was down the barrel of a gun?”

The old soldier actually laughed. The sound of it was so rough, so unexpected, that Reaper almost flinched.

“Did you come here to take shots at me, or to actually shoot me?” He looked up then, finally, and Reaper froze.

Somehow, despite the memories and the dreams and the nightmares, somehow Reaper had forgotten just how blue Jack's eyes were. He'd forgotten how piercing that frank look of his could be, spearing a person straight through to the soul. His irises were still that same, stunning ocean blue, his look still sharply focused enough to make the rest of the world fall away. Now, however, the pupil of his right eye was a cloudy white, and Reaper could see him fighting not to squint. When the silence went on a beat too long, 76 went back to his work.

“Forgot you hadn't seen me without the mask. I'm blind in that eye, and my sight's not too great in the other. Doesn't matter much around here, though. And don't make the mistake of thinking that'll give you an edge on the battlefield.” He tapped his temple. “My visor patches straight in to replace what I've lost.”

Reaper laughed, the sound hollow and forced. “Battlefield? I could kill you right here and you couldn't do a thing to stop me.”

Eyes on the dirt beneath his fingers, 76 nodded. “You're probably the only person who has any right to kill me. That doesn't mean I'm ready to die, and it doesn't mean I haven't taken precautions. Still, if it comes to it, at least this is one more thing off my bucket list.”

'What precautions?' would have been a sensible question. Instead, Reaper found himself asking: “And what thing would that be?”

Jack smiled up at him, a wry twist of his lips that summoned up a ghost from Reaper's past. “I wouldn't have been able to bring you to meet my parents, but I'd always wanted to bring you home.”

------------------

Gabriel never said a word to anyone about Jack having gone with him, and he was certain that Jack didn't either, but there was still a subtle shift in behavior. Maybe Jack had just needed that one little crack in his golden boy mask, one deliberate act of impropriety in order to relax a bit. Maybe breaking the rules had been a much-needed chance to blow off some steam.

Whatever the case, he became more approachable after that, less intense. On the nights when they sparred with others for fun, Gabriel noticed that Jack spent less time watching the other top fighters, and more time talking one-on-one with whoever he had just grappled with. Although Jack wasn't suddenly all smiles and sunshine by any means, he seemed to actually be making friends. Listening closely whenever the others talked about Jack when he wasn't around, Gabriel heard fewer complaints about his attitude and abilities. There weren't so many jokes about him, either, and those that Gabriel did catch were noticeably less bitter.

It was likely that Jack's inclusion was due in part to the dwindling numbers in the SEP. Less than a quarter of the participants remained in the program, and several who had completed the treatments—including Gabriel—were being placed in command of units of normal soldiers. A few had already seen active duty. One had not returned. Jack might still be something of an odd duck, but with so few of them left, he was their odd duck, dammit, a survivor of the same process they had all suffered through to become the best of the best. Finally, Jack was one of them.

Gabriel was pleased with the change, not least because he felt that it was due in large part to his influence. He was still Jack's apparent favorite, even though he no longer needed to act as the link between Jack and the others. They spent more and more of their scant spare time together over the next month, sometimes in companionable silence, sometimes swapping stories of home, sometimes arguing, and sometimes, Gabriel would simply listen while Jack talked. As it turned out, Jack got chatty when he was comfortable with someone. Gabriel wouldn't have guessed it based on his first impression, but it was a pleasant enough discovery, particularly since Jack had a nice voice to listen to—rougher than his appearance would suggest, warm and just a little low. More than once, Gabriel nodded off on his bunk or at his desk, lulled by Jack's quiet rambling.

When he was just talking to fill the silence, Jack told Gabriel about everything—who had asked him for help learning a particular throw, who wanted tips on shooting, who was getting bad news from home, who was sneaking out to meet with who. All of that made it highly amusing for Gabriel to hear whispers from the others that Jack was tight-lipped and a good listener. Somehow, the SEP's ice prince had become the go-to man for those needing to unburden themselves or seek advice.

Jack was more bewildered about it than anyone. He frequently recounted the things he'd said in an effort to be helpful, watching Gabriel intently for any sign that he'd said the wrong thing. His confusion led him to ask several times how he had ended up playing camp counselor, but Gabriel simply bit back a laugh at his agitation and pleaded ignorance. Privately, he was fairly certain that Jack's way of focusing one hundred percent on the person in front of him had a lot to do with it. Attention like that made people feel important, valid. Jack might be confused and grasping at straws when a response was expected of him, but what showed on the surface was attention, consideration...thoughtfulness, even. When a person was speaking with Jack Morrison, that person was all that mattered in the moment.

In Gabriel's personal opinion, it didn't hurt that those baby blues of his were really something else.

-------------------------

Reaper looked around at the shack, the tiny garden with its little, green tomatoes and peppers just starting to ripen, the greenhouse beyond. “This pathetic heap is your home?”

“Hardly.” Jack's chuckle sounded more like a hoarse cough. “This is a forgotten Overwatch safe house, rigged up with enough explosives and EMP devices to leave a sizable crater and kill even you should my vitals quit while I'm within the perimeter.” He squinted up, baring his teeth in a grin. “Just in case you got any ideas.”

He might have been lying. Reaper wouldn't have put it past him. Regardless, both of them knew that Jack wasn't in any immediate danger. Reaper sheathed his shotguns, trying to tell himself that he was merely granting 76 a temporary reprieve. The old bastard would make his move sooner or later, and Reaper was certain to be quicker.

“No,” he went on, turning back to his work. “I just always wanted to bring you out to this part of the country. It's boring as hell, but....” He shrugged. “It's got its charms.”

“Why are you here? Why were you waiting for me?”

“Wasn't waiting for you.” His attention was trained more on the dirt beneath his fingers than Reaper looming behind him. “This is only one of the places I go to ground in-between jobs. Figured you'd make it out here at some point, but it wasn't like I could plan on being here when you did.”

“You lured me here.”

“Who, me?”

The smirk in his voice was too much. In an instant, the shotgun was out again and Reaper blew a hole in the soft earth mere inches from Jack's left hand. Dirt fountained up from the blast, showering Jack and pattering against the leaves of his plants.

For just a moment, Jack remained very, very still. When he finally did move, it was only to inspect the damage and push a bit of earth back into the hole. He sat back on his heels, brushing dirt off his shirt and jeans.

“Mind doing that five more times right in a row? I'll have to break out a bag of planting soil to replace what scatters, but you'll save me a bit of time.”

Reaper contemplated emptying the clip into the plants instead of the earth: shredding the vegetables, mowing down the sunflowers. He decided against it, but only because he was fairly certain that Jack would just sigh and clean up the mess. He'd always been a stubborn bastard, and hard to rile up when he knew it was coming. Somehow, Reaper didn't think that had changed. The shotgun got put away. Whatever game 76 was playing, weapons wouldn't be much use unless Reaper really planned on upping the stakes.

It was galling, though, to have come all that way only for Jack to practically ignore him.

Squatting, Reaper stared intently at Jack's face, studying the changes. The differences were all superficial. He didn't even look much aged, despite the white hair, which had already begun sprouting before everything had gone to hell. Whatever cocktail of chemicals they'd been shot up with back in the SEP, Reaper figured it did something to combat aging, as well. Jack should have looked far older than he did. Hell, he shouldn't have been able to move the way he did as Soldier: 76, but Reaper had seen enough recordings of him in action to know that Jack hadn't lost much of his edge. As he stared, studying the shape of Jack's chin and brow, the line of his nose, he was assailed by an unwelcome deluge of memories and impressions all mixed in and muddled together. Jack's younger self overlaid him like a ghost, bound up in 76's very bones, in his every movement. Despite his scars, anyone who had known Jack well ought to be able to recognize him instantly without the visor.

The scars themselves were far from pretty, and the fact that they still remained as furrows in Jack's flesh spoke volumes about how bad the original wounds had been. Super soldiers healed fast and clean from most ordinary injuries. Jack's face had been laid open too badly to heal properly though, and Reaper knew from experience that injuries like that took some doing.

They didn't...ruin his looks. Certainly not in Reaper's opinion, but he'd had enough scars to learn not to be bothered by them even before everything went down in flames in Switzerland. The scars robbed Jack of his fresh-faced Boy Scout looks, but they gave him something in return. He looked more rugged, handsome in a damaged sort of way, but Reaper hadn't yet met a soldier who wasn't damaged one way or another. They lent him the sense that he was not to be fucked with. Even as Strike Commander, he hadn't looked particularly intimidating. The scars changed that.

He kept seeing the old Jack—it took a lot to repress the possessive his Jack—in that weathered face. Emotions and memories he hadn't dealt with in years stirred and bubbled to the surface.

“You invited me in,” Reaper said, as much to disturb the quiet as to try again for answers. “Why?”

“You weren't ever much of the outdoorsy type. Figured you'd rather talk over coffee than out here.”

“What makes you think I want to talk to you?”

Jack laughed his raspy laugh again. “You haven't shot me yet.”

“You're unarmed. I can kill you whenever I please.”

“But you won't.” Again, just for a moment, he turned away from his planting to look directly at Reaper, an almost mischievous smile playing across his lips. “I'm betting my life on it.”

Reaper's fingers twitched, itching for the feel of his shotguns' triggers.

Jackass.

------------------

Friendship with Jack gave Gabriel certain insights. As talkative as Jack could be when the mood took him, some subjects were off-limits. His family, for one thing, was noticeably glossed over amid his descriptions of growing up in Indiana. Gabriel didn't get the sense that it had been particularly bad, but obviously there was something between Jack and his family that he wasn't comfortable discussing.

Jack remained focused on his shortcomings, and seemed oblivious to many of his redeeming traits—particularly the ones that couldn't be quantified by the brass or the scientists. On the one hand, it meant that he was constantly striving to improve. On the other hand, Gabriel didn't think pushing himself so hard could be good for him in the long run. He did what he could to get Jack to loosen up. They snuck into town a few more times, stayed up too late watching movies together in their rooms, played basketball or card games, and generally just had fun together in their downtime. Jack was surprisingly enjoyable company once he let himself relax. It didn't hurt that Gabriel had noticed the way Jack had started to light up when he caught sight of him. Although, he did wonder if Jack, himself, had noticed.

The more time they spent together, the more Gabriel came to see Jack in a new light. Having been selected for the SEP, Jack was, as a matter of course, determined and unwilling to back down from a challenge. He carried those traits well, blending them with a quiet charm that only came to light once he had begun bonding with Gabriel and the others. What might have come across as arrogance or a ready aggression before was now tempered by familiarity. Jack was fighting his own internal battles—all of them were—but the tension affected how he carried himself and, therefore, how he came across to others. He had a good heart buried not-so-deep beneath his standoffish manner, and that was slowly becoming apparent as he mingled more with the other soldiers. Gabriel was proud of him and, like so many of the others who had begun to confide in him, found that he was drawn to Jack.

No two ways about it, Jack was good looking. That wouldn't have been enough to hold Gabriel's interest back during Golden Boy's reign as Ice Prince, but now that Gabriel had melted through that frosty exterior, the person he'd grown to know turned Jack from eye candy to attractive.

Though awkward about showing it, Jack cared about people. He did his best to help those who came to him, whether it was for something as simple as training pointers, or as messy as a long-distance break up. More, he cared about whether or not he said the right thing at these times. Sometimes, it was all Gabriel could do not to laugh when seeing Jack nearly wringing his hands while recounting his responses. He took everything seriously, although he was at least self-aware enough to notice this. Once, he even let slip that he knew the standards he set for himself were too high, but Gabriel didn't notice that making any difference. Something in Jack drove him hard in the pursuit of perfection.

Jack had an odd sense of humor, too. He responded too seriously when Gabriel made jokes—as if he'd missed the fact that the comments were meant to be funny—but he had a subtle, self-depreciating sense of humor that wasn't immediately apparent. One-liners that Gabriel dismissed early on as Jack merely being a bit lame took on a sharp edge of amusement as they got to know each other better and he learned to spot the tell-tale glint in Jack's eyes. It had taken him by surprise when he'd first noticed it, and he still wasn't always sure if Jack was kidding around or not with some of the things he said—using the Boy Scout motto 'Always prepared,' or calling his hair 'cornsilk blond'—but it was reassuring to think that Jack wasn't so high-strung that he couldn't poke a little fun at himself now and again.

On the rare occasions when Jack laughed—really laughed—he seemed almost like a different person. The last traces of boot camp tension were driven out of him as his shoulders hunched up and he curled in on himself, nose crinkled up and eyes glittering between pale lashes. He had a habit of covering his mouth when he laughed, hiding his grin behind his hand, or pressing his fist to his mouth as he shook with muffled laughter. It was oddly endearing, and that realization was Gabriel's first clue that perhaps getting closer to Jack was not going to be without consequences.

Gabriel grew more aware of Jack: of his presence or his absence, his moods, his expressions and his voice, his body. In particular, he became startlingly aware of how often they touched. Before, it had only been during sparring that he would feel the heat of Jack's body pressed up against him. That much hadn't changed, and Gabriel was soon grateful that he'd always been so competitive. The drive to win kept him from focusing too intently on how it felt to have Jack flush against him, beneath him, breathing hard and flushed with exertion. No, what shook his composure nowadays were the accidental brushes; the pats on his shoulder that had started out tentative then grew eager as Jack became accustomed to their friendship, the jostling and playful shoving as they raced each other or fought for control over a tablet or remote.

The warmth of those touches left Gabriel craving further contact, and although he was conscious enough of the urge not to act on it outright, he still found himself gravitating toward Jack whenever he was nearby. Gabriel had thought that he was managing his growing attraction well, until he overheard a couple of his buddies talking about how close they had gotten and joking about exactly how he might have whipped Morrison into shape.

More embarrassed by how obvious he was being than by the thought of rumors, he resolved to take a step back. He didn't want to be interested in Jack, particularly as he had no indication that Jack was interested in him. Besides, he didn't need the complication.

-------------------

“Fine. I'll bite. What did you want to talk about?”

He tried to pretend that this would work like an information exchange. Watching Jack giving most of his attention to his precious gardening, Reaper told himself that this wasn't anything like how it had been toward the end—back when Jack hadn't been willing to spare him the time of day—and even if it was, it didn't matter. He felt like he'd been doing an awful lot of lying to himself ever since he had found the property record, and that knowledge made him long for the feel of his guns in his hands and an uncomplicated target to aim them at.

“Plenty left unsaid between us. Where do you want to start?”

76 was giving him leave to ask questions? There was no guarantee that the answers would be truthful, but....

“I get your whole vigilante angle. You always were chomping at the bit to be out on the front lines, face all over the news when the reporters got wind of your good deeds. Missed having your ego stroked when you disappeared after Switzerland? Of more interest to me is why you've been raiding old Overwatch bases.”

He didn't even try to defend himself against the accusations, which sparked a fierce and bitter sense of vindication. Jack the Golden Boy, Jack the perfect, Jack the shining, gilded facade hiding the rot deep within Overwatch.

“Been looking for information. And if I'm gonna be busting up gangs, it pays to be better armed than them.”

“Information about what?”

“About what happened to Overwatch.” His voice was almost imperceptibly quieter. Reaper only barely caught the change.

“You want to know what happened?” Suppressed anger bubbled within him, finding release as smoky tendrils of nanites that seeped out from behind his mask.

Jack didn't shrink from the menace in Reaper's deceptively calm tone. “Yeah. I do. Haven't found much that wasn't destroyed or compromised, but—” He drew a deep breath and sighed. “—I've been hoping to confirm all you told me.”

He couldn't believe that Jack would dare—that he would have the utter balls—to say that. For just a moment, shock eclipsed Reaper's fury. Was the old man trying to get himself shot? Sitting stock still, he glared at Jack as he fought down the urge to backhand him, to seize him by the throat, to finish off Jack fucking Morrison then and there with a shotgun blast to the head, precautions be damned.

It took a lot to master the urge, but he managed, and was even able to laugh once he was certain he'd forced himself past the roiling swell of rage. He didn't miss the fact that Jack's face went a shade paler at the sound, and he sneered. Typical Jack: no reaction to anything unless it had to do with his own shortcomings.

“You would know all that if you had listened to me.”

“I know.”

“Probably could have saved some lives.”

“I know!” He calmed himself with a visible effort, and settled back on his heels. “I know,” he repeated, quieter.

“Might even have saved Overwatch.”

“You think it was worth saving? I'll admit, I wasn't around the way I should have been. But for the rot to spread as far as it did so easily....” He shook his head. “Overwatch was a mistake.”

“It was sabotaged,” Reaper growled. “Its perfect, hand-picked leader abandoned it, running off on any little above-board mission that crossed his desk, smiling for the cameras and tossing out optimistic sound bites.”

“They wanted me as a figurehead—” Jack snapped, falling so easily into an old argument.

“They wanted you because you brought out the best in people!”

Silence fell between them. Reaper hadn't realized that the words they'd so often shouted at each other had become a habit that had followed him from another life.

It was Jack who spoke up first. He stood, dusting off his jeans and turning away to head back for the shack.

“And look at what I brought out in you,” he muttered without turning around.

----------------

It had been a long week. Gabriel remembered going through survival training as a rookie. He'd hated it back then, and he hated it now, watching a pack of recruits struggle through it. Jack probably would have enjoyed it. Fucking Boy Scout was probably all about the big outdoors, wilderness survival, starting a campfire with only a couple sticks to rub together—all that garbage that modern tech ought to make easier, provided that if anyone got stranded during a mission they had their gear with them.

Being the CO, Gabriel had had it a bit easier—it hadn't been his survival skills being tested, after all. Still, it had been freezing fucking cold, and the week had started off with a torrential downpour. As if mocking him, the weather had warmed up just as soon as they had returned to the compound.

Short-tempered despite the blessing of warm weather after that cold snap, Gabriel put his exhausted recruits through their paces, then gave them the afternoon off. His afternoon was slated to be spent going over their performances to be sure every one of them knew what they needed to work on, but at least that was something he could do from his own room. He was looking forward to the comfort of his bed, the warm, dry sheets, treating himself to his small stash of junk food, and getting some peace and quiet underscored by his favorite bands rather than the screaming multitudes of nocturnal insects and creatures that infested wooded areas.

At least, that had been the original plan. Coming around the corner, he caught sight of Jack waiting for him beside the door. Jack brightened perceptibly as soon as he spotted Gabriel, and he started forward to meet him, though it must have been obvious he needn't have moved. Gabriel eyed him warily, feeling suddenly tired. The mood he was in, Jack's chatter would only grate on his nerves.

“Welcome back, Gabe. I mi—”

“Want to let me at least get in the door, Goldilocks?” He brushed past, deliberately not meeting Jack's eyes, but then—

“Is everything all right?”

There was genuine concern in the question, and Gabriel made the mistake of glancing back to see the same writ clear on Jack's face. The idiot wore his heart on his sleeve when he wasn't in Ice Prince-mode, and his earnestness was Gabriel's undoing. With a sigh, he jerked his head toward his room.

“Come on, if you dare. I'll tell you now: you follow me into that room, and you're gonna regret it. I fucking hate survival training.”

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, failing to hide his smile. “Is that all? For a moment, I was afraid one of your recruits got dragged off by a bear, or something.”

“Bear would've brought them back out of pity!” Gabriel scoffed. “Inside. You really wanna hear; I'll tell you all about it.”

For nearly an hour, Gabriel talked Jack's ear off, complaining about the weather, the drop site and the trek back to civilization. He told Jack about how half his squad lost rations to hungry raccoons, how one man broke another soldier's finger while stomping around in a panic after a snake crawled into his sleeping bag in the night, how one of the idiots had set up his bedroll near a patch of poison ivy and rolled face-first into the stuff, and how one of the girls had startled a skunk on the first day and gotten three of the group sprayed. Eventually, his complaints and stories eased into his impressions of each individual member of the squad, their strengths and weaknesses, their high points during the exercise, and their lows. He talked until he was sick of talking and was left sitting slumped on his bed, back against the wall, hands limp on his lap, almost too worn out to gesture.

Through it all, Jack listened to him, smiling crookedly, laughing softly at the funny stories, and prompting with short questions when Gabriel paused. Under the full focus of Jack's attention, Gabriel poured everything out until he started repeating his complaints about the rain and wind and biting chill.

“I hate survival training, Jackie, God, I hate it. Give me training battles, give me the obstacle course, hell—give me the SEP injections!”

Jack whistled low.

“Just don't push me out into the middle of nowhere only to tell me to leg it back to base! Damn!” He slammed a fist down onto his bedding. “Waste of my fucking time.”

Silence welled up between them. From where he sat, head drooping, Gabriel could see Jack's legs. He was wearing shorts, showing off muscular, well-shaped calves. Gabriel let his gaze trail slowly up, taking in Jack's arms, lightly freckled beneath the fuzz of golden hair, and resting on his thighs. His hands, notched by tiny, white scars, fingers squared off and callused, hung between his knees. The light blue shirt he wore stretched over his stomach, chest, and shoulders, hinting at the muscles beneath. Idly, Gabriel wondered how much difference the SEP treatments had made. Jack would have been powerfully built, anyway, but Gabriel was curious what he would have looked like had he been shaped only by genetics and hard work.

Jack was watching him, head tilted to the side. When Gabriel's gaze met his, he got to his feet and headed toward the door.

“Come with me.”

“What? Jackie, no. I got shit to do. I have to put together write-ups on every recruit I dragged out with me—”

“Come on, Gabe. Just for a bit.” He came back and grabbed Gabriel's wrist, tugging until he got his way and Gabriel let himself be dragged off the bed.

“This better be worth it.”

Jack flashed him a tight smile before turning quickly away and pulling him out the door. He led Gabriel through the halls, then up a flight of stairs to a maintenance door leading onto the roof. A storm was gathering, or rather, had already begun and was now racing toward the compound. It had been startlingly warm and humid after the early spring cold snap that had made the exercise such a pain in the ass, and now, as the sun set, the horizon was dark with ominous-looking clouds. The wind was picking up, and heat lightning flashed in the thunderheads, arcing down in the occasional jagged streak.

“That's a big one,” Jack said quietly. He paused, eyes on the incoming storm, before giving Gabriel's hand one last encouraging tug and hurrying forward.

A low concrete wall bordered the roof, uninterrupted aside from the top handholds of a ladder leading down to a slightly lower section. Jack vaulted over, ignoring the ladder, and disappeared from view for just a moment. As Gabriel neared the side, he saw Jack striding purposefully toward the edge of the graveled section of roof he'd landed on. Tired as he was, Gabriel took the ladder down and turned to study Jack, wondering what was so important and hoping it wouldn't take long.

Even grumpy with exhaustion, though, Gabriel still found himself staring at Jack. There was an eagerness in his features that Gabriel rarely saw, an almost childlike excitement as he gazed hungrily at the flat mass of slate gray clouds darkening the sky. They could see the hazy area beneath where rain obscured the boundary between sky and earth. Jack pressed his hands flat against the low wall enclosing the roof, leaning forward, straining to be just a bit closer. The wind ruffled his cropped hair, and Gabriel smiled as he thought of grassy fields bowing before the gusts in waves.

“I've always loved thunderstorms,” Jack said. “Don't know why. Something about the pounding rain and the lightning and the sound of thunder....” He closed his eyes, smiling as he took a deep breath through his nose. “Everything looks clearer just before, you know?” he asked without opening his eyes. “The light's different. Trees look greener. Stuff stands out more.”

Glancing at Gabriel, his smile dimmed, went a bit lopsided. He lost some of his tension, heels dropping down so that he was no longer balanced on the balls of his feet leaning out toward the storm. “Guess that sounds a bit weird. But I've always liked how the world looks right before a storm hits.”

He was staring at Gabriel now, and it was true enough that some quality of the velvet sky behind him and the fading light combined to make the soft blue of his shirt more vivid, the gold of his hair more striking. His eyes were an intense steel blue.

With a sigh, Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. He was running on fumes, and didn't have the energy for Jack at his most golden right then.

“Jack. Did you seriously drag me away from my bed just to talk all poetic about storms?”

“I wanted to help you relax.”

Gabriel growled. “I hate rain. Pretty sure I've bitched about it enough that you oughtta know—”

Gravel crunched beneath Jack's boots as he approached. “I brought you up here for the privacy, not the storm. I just...got a bit distracted for a moment.” A sheepish grin winked on and then off again as he ducked his head, glancing back toward the horizon. The light was fading fast.

“Privacy?” Gabriel took a step back and then another as Jack kept moving closer. “You had that in my room.”

“Yeah, well.... I thought—” His cheeks were faintly pink, but he cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and looked Gabriel in the eye to continue. “I thought I could help you blow off some steam.”

Laughing softly, Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest and drew himself up to his full height. “You propositioning me, Jack?”

Surprisingly, Jack did not back down. “If you want to call it that. I've seen you watching me. Am I wrong in thinking that you wouldn't mind...uh...some benefits to our friendship?”

This time, Gabriel laughed so hard that he actually stumbled back against the wall. The reaction made Jack hesitate, but he did finally step forward, not quite crowding, but near enough that Gabriel felt the familiar tug of his presence.

“I'm not looking for complications, güero,” Gabriel warned, grinning. It seemed that not even the nickname was enough to put Jack off, however.

“Don't complicate it, then,” he said with a shrug.

He stepped closer, enough that Gabriel could feel the heat rolling off his body despite the wind. Still, he hesitated, eyes on Gabriel's, waiting. The moment drew out, threatening to become awkward. Gabriel lost patience with it.

“So, were you offering to blow me, or not?”

A look of relief flickered across Jack's face, and Gabriel realized suddenly what he'd been waiting for. Jack dropped to his knees, eager now that he was certain his offer was welcome, and Gabriel couldn't help laughing. Subtleties and implied meanings had always been lost on Jack.

There was nothing subtle about the speed with which Jack had Gabriel's belt undone and his fly open. He was startlingly quick, trying to distance himself from his nerves, maybe, or possibly just afraid that Gabriel would change his mind. Either way, his fingers were deft, sure as they drew out Gabriel's cock and stroked to wake his interest. By the time Jack replaced the warmth of his hands with the wet heat of his mouth, Gabriel was hard and aching for more. Groaning, he let his head fall back against the wall as Jack's tongue lit up nerve endings and sent tiny shocks dancing through him.

Pleasure drove away lingering tensions and frustrations. The past week slipped from Gabriel's mind. His thoughts grew hazy around the edges as heat pooled in his core, driving back the chill while leaving his extremities cold and beginning to tremble. He hadn't expected it to feel so good, and stray thoughts plucked at his fraying attention.

Jack was good at this.

Jack had done this before.

The question of Jack's sexual preference hadn't been one that Gabriel had allowed himself to seriously consider. Frankly, it hadn't mattered. Now, with Jack on his knees, lips stretched around Gabriel's cock, one hand on the base of his shaft, the other fondling his balls, Gabriel found that he wasn't the least bit surprised. Gratified, certainly, but not surprised.

It took a fair amount of self-control to let Jack stay in charge, to keep from grabbing onto fistfuls of his hair and fucking his mouth. He let Jack set the pace, savoring the sharpness of his unfulfilled urges against the immediacy of the pleasure Jack was giving him. He tried to stay quiet, knowing that he and Jack wouldn't be hidden in the unlikely event that someone else should come up to the roof and stroll over to the edge. The risk of actually being caught like that was minimal, but it still sent a shiver running through him, crashing against the waves of sensation radiating from where Jack coaxed him toward orgasm.

Privacy? No. That hadn't been Jack's reason for coming up to the roof at all.

Thunder rumbled. The storm was close. Gabriel could hear the sound of rain over the pounding of his heart and the roar of his breath and the quiet, wet, pleased sounds Jack was making. The rain was heavy, harsh, sounding strange to his ears, somehow, although he couldn't find it in himself to care. He could feel the chill mist of the oncoming storm against his face, or maybe that was merely the wind cooling his sweat. Lightning flashed, bright enough for him to notice with his eyes closed. Jack's teeth scraped lightly over his skin, dragging a groan from him as he shuddered.

A few more passes like that and Gabriel stiffened, back arching away from the wall as he came. He felt Jack trying to swallow without letting him go, and he looked down at the thatch of blond hair, the long, straight nose dusted with freckles, reddened cheeks, and puckered lips shiny with saliva and semen.

Slowly, Jack drew his head back, lips clinging all the way until they released Gabe with a soft, wet 'pop!' Jack looked up at him, grinning crookedly, then flinched as something struck the top of his head.

“Ow! What the—?”

They both looked to see what had hit him. Bouncing across the rooftop was a hailstone an inch wide. Another joined it as they watched, then another and another. With a shout that broke up into laughter, Jack jumped to his feet, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm as he ran for the ladder.

“Hey! Jack-ass! Wait for me!”

Clumsily trying to tuck himself in and do up his pants, Gabriel ran half crouched over as hail pelted him. He shadowed Jack up the ladder, so close that he was nearly kicked in the chin as Jack hauled himself over the top. They ran together for the door, laughing and yelping as hailstones struck. Gabriel practically shoved Jack through, then slammed the door shut behind them. Hard as he tried, he couldn't quite manage to glare as Jack laughed breathlessly, absently rubbing his head where he'd been hit.

Jack turned to meet his eyes, grinning and suddenly gorgeous.

“Feeling better?”

-------------------

“Where do you think you're going?” Reaper demanded.

He fell apart in an instant, racing to outflank Jack before he could make it to the door. Jack walked right through him as he began pulling himself together, stumbling as the cloud solidified in his path. Reaper jerked back, nanites buzzing as Jack's blundering interrupted the reconstruction process.

“Watch it!”

The threat implicit in Reaper's growl would have left Talon grunts cowering. Jack merely stared at him, squinting, until Reaper remembered that the old man was mostly blind. He chuckled darkly, and deliberately stepped back into his way.

“Tired of my company so soon? Weren't you the one eager to talk?”

“To talk with you, Reyes! Not to sit here and be railed at! I wanted a chance to discuss what had happened—”

“Just because you started this doesn't mean I'm letting you dictate the rules! Typical Jack Morrison,” he spat. “Only has time for the rest of us if it doesn't tarnish that Golden Boy gleam!” Reaper stepped aside and gestured furiously at the shack. “Go on. Run away! It always worked for you before!”

If Jack started for the door again, Reaper resolved to kill him the moment his back was turned. If he was to be denied vindication, at least he would not be denied the satisfaction of laying the matter to rest. There would be no Angela around to bring Jack back. No more second chances.

Rather than retreating, however, Jack merely sighed heavily. “How do you propose we do this without slogging though the old fights? I'm not a young man anymore. I don't have the energy for that shit.”

“You're asking that as if anything got solved.” Leaning in, Reaper poked him hard in the chest, ignoring Jack's wince when the claw went through his t-shirt. “Got some news for you, cabrón: it didn't. Those old fights followed me to the grave.”

“And then followed you right back out again,” Jack snapped. “I get it.” He heaved another sigh. His scowl was so deeply ingrained that it might well have been carved onto his face. “Christ. Come inside, will you? I haven't had enough coffee yet for this.”

Without any further hesitation, he headed for the door. Reaper watched him for a moment, hands hovering over his shotguns and thinking to himself how easy it would be to just end it once and for all. If he put Jack down, all the old fights and arguments would be less than a ghost. They would be nothing but unpleasant memories, and memories faded.

In the end, Reaper held off—again. Even knowing that he might not be able to escape the house if it was sealed up, he wasn't afraid that it might be a trap. Jack had always been far too straightforward for traps, and it seemed that very little about him had changed. Accepting his invitation, Reaper stepped inside.

---------------------

Gabriel tried not to think too hard about his relationship with Jack. He'd gotten Jack to acknowledge him. They'd formed a friendship. That was good enough. If Jack sometimes yanked him into a secluded corner of the base to suck him off, well...that was just stress relief. They weren't fuck buddies because they didn't fuck. No nudity, no kisses. Just the touch of warm, callused hands or the wet, sucking heat of a mouth. Jack didn't treat it as if it meant anything, and Gabriel went along with it, giving just as good as he got whenever Jack was having a bad day. They didn't dwell on it. They didn't talk about it.

Treating it so casually was probably what kept them from being found out. It certainly wasn't discretion that protected this new secret between them. Jack didn't much seem to care where they were when he went down on his knees, so long as no one was currently around and so long as they weren't in his or Gabriel's quarters.

It was an odd reluctance, avoiding their rooms. When Gabriel broke the unspoken agreement of silence to question him about it, however, Jack evaded, shrugged it off, changed the subject. Eventually, Gabriel quit asking.

Soon enough, they barely had time for any of it—questions included—anyway. Almost immediately after Jack had completed his SEP treatments, what was to be called the Omnic Crisis broke out across the globe.

Reports came flooding in about omnics turning on humans in ruthless attacks, slaughtering both the forces sent against them and defenseless citizens alike. The things were being manufactured by the hundreds in omniums that should have been shut down permanently, and none of the embattled countries worldwide were having any luck getting in and shutting the factories down. It was hard to tell if the mass-produced Bastion units were “thinking” the way the first wave of violent omnics seemed to be, or if they were only mindless drones programmed for death and destruction. Either way, they were lethal and absolutely merciless.

With all of humanity under threat, the Omnic Crisis became priority one for every soldier in the compound. Testing on the SEP candidates was set aside. Even those still undergoing treatments were assigned to units which would be sent out against the omnics. After having been insulated from most of the outside world for so long, this violent disruption of routine had the entire base buzzing like a kicked beehive.

Having no unit of his own, and with no time to be assigned one to train, Jack was placed under Gabriel's command. Gabriel was glad enough of it. He would feel better having Jack as a second, both to keep the regular soldiers in line and to have someone he trusted to watch his back. They'd run through training exercises at the compound, of course—everyone had—but it was during the Crisis that they were tested under fire on their ability to work together. To Gabriel's private relief and public pride, they passed with flying colors. Their personal strengths and focuses complimented each other and made them a formidable force, with or without a troop of unenhanced recruits for backup.

Jack was a big picture sort of guy—give him the mission objective and he would see it carried out come hell or high water, even if he had to deviate from plans or disobey a direct order a time or two along the way. When a mission called for stealth, Jack had no problem using the threat of his pulse rifle to make a target of himself in order to provide Gabriel with just that little bit of extra cover. More than once, he did much the same when Gabriel, focused on all the little things that could add up to success or failure, life or death, needed to help a wounded comrade to safety. Gabriel lost count of the times the idiot would stand up from behind cover and advance on a wave of omnics, picking them off one after another to cover soldiers following an order to retreat.

It was hard to reconcile Jack-on-the-battlefield—larger than life, expression caught somewhere between a grin and a snarl as he single-mindedly took down his targets—with the chatty, self-conscious friend Gabriel had found in him. Surrounded by murderous omnics and the rubble of toppled cities, Jack almost seemed to regress to the cold, machine-like recruit who had first turned up at the SEP compound. His drive to push himself reasserted itself in nearly suicidal acts of bravery, hostile charges, a determination to win so strong that it almost seemed personal, although Jack never mentioned losing any family or friends to the omnics. Maybe, to him, knowing the names of victims wasn't necessary to make it personal. The omnics' success would be his failure. Maybe that thought alone was enough to goad him on, leave him shouting defiance in the face of death. He had more close calls—and took more years off Gabriel's life—than any other soldier in their ranks.

And he was—it had to be said—captivating. Jack embodied humanity's drive and determination to overcome, to survive. It was as if all the hopes and dreams of everyone in the world burned within him, pushing him on beyond the bounds of endurance, transmuting him from a grimy, scientifically-enhanced soldier rising from a trench into a shining hero standing up to defend the weak and punish the evil. Jack was practically a goddamned superhero—not that he noticed—and Gabriel found himself caught between feeling the need to push himself so that he could remain on equal footing with his friend, and the obligation born of leadership and genuine concern to rip into the idiot every time he disobeyed an order, exposed himself to unnecessary risk, or got himself wounded. Half a dozen missions into the conflict, and Gabriel was already certain that Jack would not survive the war.

-----------------------

The storm door clattered shut behind Reaper. The actual door behind it was three inches of reinforced steel that nevertheless looked completely normal from the outside. Jack didn't hang around to close it after them, and Reaper left it wide open. Assuming that Jack couldn't shut it automatically would be stupid, but at least Reaper wouldn't be responsible for locking himself in. Maybe Jack was careless enough to put himself in an enclosed space with a killer, but Reaper didn't intend to let his guard drop so foolishly, history or no. He kept one eye on Jack and took stock of his surroundings.

Inside, the shack was even smaller than it looked from outside—no surprise if all the walls were at least as thick as the front door. Reaper stood in a near-barren sitting room; white-washed walls and dark, cheap carpet furnished with a tiny, sagging sofa that had seen better days and a coffee table littered with crumbs. 76's visor and mask lay on a square of white cloth on the table, along with a small tool case and a tiny screwdriver. There was a pillow on one end of the sofa, and a flat screen on the opposite wall.

He followed Jack into the next room, a kitchen only delineated from the sitting room in that the floor was tiled with linoleum. The walls were lined with cabinets and cupboards, cut off at one end by a squat fridge sitting beneath a toaster oven. A coffeemaker sat next to the sink, and Jack pulled down a can of coffee grounds and set about making a fresh pot.

While he was at it, Reaper spread out some of his nanites, sending them to search through the cabinets for any surprises Jack might be hiding. Drifting into every nook and cranny, they mapped the space. They traced a small supply of pots and pans, a scrub brush and spray bottle beneath the sink, a few cans and vacuum-sealed pouches in the higher cupboards, along with a small set of plates, bowls, and glasses. No hidden cache of weapons, no detonators for the bombs Jack had said were buried on the property. The most dangerous things in the kitchen were the usual implements: a block of knives, a pair of kitchen shears, a few forks in a drawer.

“Coffee'll be ready in a few,” Jack said. He tapped the side of a mug with one knuckle. A couple packets of creamer likely taken from a diner sat on the counter next to it, and he'd already spooned in some sugar.

Reaper stared at the mug, knowing that Jack had only ever taken his own coffee with a splash of milk or creamer just to thicken it up a bit; never with sugar. Apparently, Jack remembered how Gabriel had taken his, as well. The small, casual gesture felt starkly out of place, far too normal for the way Reaper had spent the past years, or even for all that lay between them. He fled the kitchen, telling himself that he simply needed to thoroughly explore the shack before he could even begin to focus on talking.

“Bathroom's on the left,” Jack called after him. Reaper couldn't tell if it was meant as mockery.

The bathroom had a door, but it had been left open. It was bare save for a single towel and the basic features: a toilet, sink, and a shower cubicle that looked barely large enough for Jack to fit. There was also a vent in the floor, through which fresh air could be pumped into the safe house. Frowning, Reaper sent a small cloud of nanites to follow the vent to the far end. If they could make it through, then he had a back door into the safe house...and Jack had simply invited him in and left him alone to find it.

“Coffee's up.” Jack passed by, hands full with two mugs of steaming heaven. He took almost no further notice of Reaper, merely set the mugs down on the coffee table. Reaper was behind him in an instant, one gauntleted hand around Jack's neck, claws grazing the ticking of his pulse.

“You're too trusting,” he growled.

“Pretty sure you've told me that before.”

Even as Reaper pressed the tips of his claws pointedly against the delicate flesh of Jack's neck, the man didn't flinch. He didn't even tense. It was infuriating, and Reaper yanked his hand back with a snarl.

Jack stepped away and sat down on the couch, belatedly tugging the pillow out from beneath himself. He took a long swig of his coffee, and squinted up at Reaper.

“All right. Bring on the unfinished business. I'm as ready as I'm going to get.”

--------------------------------

The battle had been brutal, and all that victory had won them was a trail of destroyed omnics. They'd shot, blown up, and otherwise deactivated every single robot in the little town, but still hadn't taken out more than a large omnium could build in a single day. They had arrived too late to save the town, which had come under attack merely for existing along the quickest route for the now-destroyed omnic troops to meet up with the main body of their forces. For all that the omnics had only been passing through, their assault had been meticulous and devastatingly thorough.

It was always easier to avoid thinking about the victims during a firefight, but as they had put the last of the omnics out of commission, Gabriel had noticed more and more of the carnage left behind by the machines' attack. Jack was taking it in, too. It wasn't the first such battlefield they'd seen, and—heaven help them—it wouldn't be the last. Maybe it would have been easier if such sights no longer affected them, but Gabriel knew deep down that the sorrow and pity that weighed on their hearts was part of what kept them human. Three years of fighting omnics, of blitz attacks and losses and locking down emotions while there were still enemies functional had hardened them enough to keep moving, to do their job and not break down over the senseless loss of life, but the pain still seeped in through the cracks. Coming across kids was the worst. Gabriel usually had to look away. Catching glimpses of Jack, it was obvious he was feeling it, too.

They trudged out of the ruined town, through a hell of corpses and destroyed omnics, toppled buildings and smoking rubble. The road was pitted with craters and strewn with busted chunks of asphalt. It was standard omnic strategy, even in small towns like this one had been. Destroy the roads leading in and out, and the city would be crippled, easy pickings for the bastion units.

A short plateau rose up not far outside the town. Their extraction point was on top of it, and transport would be arriving an hour before dawn. Until then, all they could do was dig themselves in and wait. Twilight fell, easing the heat of the day as they climbed in silence. The stars came out, brilliant pinpricks of light undimmed by the coal-red glow of dying fires from the town.

When they made the summit, they found a place to wait out the night with the reassuring solidity of a boulder at their backs. Gabriel settled in and immediately pulled out a med kit. A bullet had grazed Jack earlier in the day, leaving a gash high on his arm. They had managed a hasty field dressing in town, but now, with nothing trying to kill them, he wanted to take a better look.

Jack fidgeted beneath his hands the entire time, making it difficult to re-wrap his arm after it had been properly disinfected and stitched. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet, so Gabriel was relieved when he finally broke the silence to ask a question, even if the question was a strange one.

“Do you believe in lying by omission?”

“What do you mean, 'do I believe in it?'”

“Do you count it as a lie? Something left unsaid, I mean. Or does a lie actually have to be spoken?” He leaned back against the rock, staring down at his hands as he twisted his fingers together.

“I don't know. Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“What's it matter?”

Gabriel was starting to get annoyed. The mission had been too little, too late, and he could only assume that Jack was asking in order to gear up to rail against their intel. Neither of them had known exactly how bad the situation on the ground was going to be. They'd expected survivors. Unfortunately, they had been far too late for that. Destroying the omnics had allowed them to vent their rage, but wreaking vengeance for the dead had left Gabriel feeling hollow and useless.

“Omission or outright lie,” Gabriel started, “if we don't know what we're walking into—”

“That's not it!” Jack's fists slammed down onto the packed dirt to either side of him.

Keeping a rein on his own temper, Gabriel studied him, looked for clues in the crease between his brows, in the frown etched onto his face, in the tension of his shoulders. When Jack turned his head, Gabriel was close enough to see the pleading in his eyes.

“Jack. What's this about?”

“I....” He hung his head, shoulders hunching forward. Jack was far too large of a man to look tiny, but he was doing his damnedest to manage it. “I haven't been entirely honest with you.”

Gabriel drew back. Just a little, just enough to get a good look at him. “How so?”

The way Jack peeked up at him without lifting his head reminded Gabriel of a puppy that knew it was in trouble.

“You said you didn't want complications,” he mumbled.

It took a minute for Gabriel to recall when he'd said that and why, and another moment to work out the implications. No, he hadn't wanted complications. Still didn't. And him being Jack's commanding officer now only added a whole new set of potential problems. He wasn't sure what to think or how to respond. Stalling for time, he asked the first question that came to mind.

“What is it that you want?”

Jack sat straight up. “Nothing! I don't—! I'm not—!” He sighed and slumped, leaning back against the stone and staring out across the darkening horizon. “Forget I said anything. Sir.”

“Come on, Jackie, don't do that.” Reaching out, he tried to muss Jack's thick, cropped hair, only for his hand to be batted away. “I'm asking you what you want, Jack. It's a simple question. If we can't talk to each other, we're through as a team.”

“You said it like I might think you owe me something. Like I'm expecting you to change your mind.” He drew his knees up and folded his arms over them, nesting his chin there. “I just didn't feel right keeping quiet about it any longer.” Closing his eyes, he hid his face deeper in his arms. “I have feelings for you.”

With a sigh, Gabriel leaned back. He looked up at the stars, thinking about complications, thinking about what he had with Jack, what he wanted from him, what he owed him, what they meant to each other and what that might mean.

“You picked a hell of a time to bring this up,” he said eventually.

Staring out over the ruddy glow from the town they had failed to save, Jack shrugged. They'd both seen too much death, but today had been exceptionally horrific. Whether Jack had spoken up out of the reminder that no one was guaranteed a tomorrow, or simply because he'd been trying to distract himself, it was clear enough that he needed comfort. Hell, Gabriel could use some himself.

They had sat down close together to begin with, but Gabriel moved closer still, leaning against Jack's side and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, careful not to jostle his injury.

“We've got a long wait, and it's going to get cold up on this rock. Get some rest, Jackie. I'll take first watch.”

Although Jack had initially tensed up at the contact, he relaxed soon enough, and even shifted to rest his head on Gabriel's shoulder. He sighed, going quiet again, but not drifting off. He offered no protest as Gabriel brought his hand up to pet his hair.

They stayed that way for a long time, each taking solace in the warm, living weight of the other pressed close. It was a far cry from their usual method of stress relief, but Gabriel was hardly in the mood for a blow job, and he was certain that Jack wasn't, either. He wondered if all that would stop after Jack's admission. He probably should have put a stop to it three years ago when Jack had become his second. A difference in rank, a war against a powerful, merciless enemy, and now Jack had feelings for him. Something that had started out so simple was quickly growing far more tangled than Gabriel had anticipated.

He looked down, and flyaway blond hair tickled his lips. At some point, Jack had finally fallen asleep. His breathing was deep and even, and Gabriel tightened his arm just the tiniest bit around his shoulders.

He didn't want complications in his love life. Never had.

But he'd have been lying to himself to say that he didn't want Jack.

#cornfuck and the reaper #fanfiction #unfinished fic

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instantdeerlover · 4 years

Text

Who Will Save the Food Timeline added to Google Docs

Who Will Save the Food Timeline

The internet’s most comprehensive archive of food history — a passion project of one dedicated librarian — predates Wikipedia. Now, it needs a new custodian.

“Libraries are where you’d find that stuff. It’s not the same as using a Wikipedia page at all.”

When the family got a Gateway computer in the late ’90s, Olver began teaching herself HTML, and by 1999, she was combining her interest in the Thanksgiving dinner project and the Eureka! answers column into a hybrid website she called the Food Timeline, where she could focus on providing well-researched food history on her own time. An archived version of the 1999 Food Timeline http://gti.net/mocolib1/kid/food.html" rel="nofollow">still exists and looks — unsurprisingly — more or less the same as the one now. “We still hand code html & today’s readers comment the site is ‘ugly,’” Olver wrote under the site’s “Market Strategy.” “We acknowledge: what was cutting edge in 1999 is now stale. Conversley? [sic] FT looks so old it’s become vintage.”

“We acknowledge: what was cutting edge in 1999 is now stale.”

“Knowledge is power, but sharing knowledge is the best.”

The reason? “Someone had written in with a question that she liked.”

“It has to uphold her vision,” Sarah added.

Fact checked by Samantha Schuyler

via Eater - All https://www.eater.com/2020/7/8/21271246/food-timeline-lynne-olver

Created July 9, 2020 at 01:26AM /huong sen View Google Doc Nhà hàng Hương Sen chuyên buffet hải sản cao cấp✅ Tổ chức tiệc cưới✅ Hội nghị, hội thảo✅ Tiệc lưu động✅ Sự kiện mang tầm cỡ quốc gia 52 Phố Miếu Đầm, Mễ Trì, Nam Từ Liêm, Hà Nội http://huongsen.vn/ 0904988999 http://huongsen.vn/to-chuc-tiec-hoi-nghi/ https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1xa6sRugRZk4MDSyctcqusGYBv1lXYkrF

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