#like he technically lost the cat in his room bc instead of not playing overwatch or whatever he just plopped the kitty onto a pillow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bisymmetra · 7 years

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i. title: détente

ii. fandom: overwatch

iii. characters/ships: jack morrison, ; gen, background ships, might be reaper76 if i make this a thing but rn it’s shipless

iv. warnings: uh, discussion of ptsd/panic attacks/nightmares, but like vaguely? like nothing triggery really but if youre sensitive, brief mention of alcohol, more specific champagne and the pop of it setting off a panic attack

v. tags: dogs, im using forty nine for jack’s age bc the timeline’s all over and i put 45 - 55 in a rng and got forty nine, angela ziegler has #connections, this is five pages and just short of 2k words wtf, tenatively, bonnie the dog, therapy dog, this is jack centered tbh but if i write more hana’s getting a cat, idk if i truly like this

vi. summary: “Uh,” Jack says, the stumble coming out before he can stop it. “That’s a dog.”

“It sure is,” Angela says agreeably, depositing it in his arms and sipping her coffee. “Merry Christmas.”

“It’s June,” he deadpanned, as the wriggling little thing laps at his visor.

vii. notes: i wrote this in an hour and i dont know if i truly like it but bonnie the dog is a thing now. i literally just listened to alberta by eric clapton while writing this. will be on ao3 in half an hour. @snowsheba saw these hcs that inspired this first.

It’s four in the morning the first time he tells Angela about the dreams.

Nightmares, really. The kind that leave him grasping at catching his breath, the sweat on his brow chilly wet and clingy in the Spanish night. The kind that leaves your heart thrumming in his ears. He doesn’t - he doesn’t think this is anything important, really. It should be expected, really. He’s old, now, and he’s been military for forty damn years. He’s seen some shit.

Most people who got up real early to find him already awake didn’t question it - dreams of their own, he guessed, or maybe just expecting career military to be up at the crack of dawn. And they weren’t wholly wrong - years on a farm and years in the military have him waking up earlier than most the base, on the nights where he doesn’t wake up around two or three.

It’s the fourth time that Angela’s woken up at three in the morning to find him awake. The kitchen. this time. The practice range twice before, and once in between that in one of the commons, a book on his lap. (He didn’t much like being there, on one of those nights, but he’d had a nightmare about an incident in Kuwait, and the walls of the room had been suffocating. Hana had also been sitting there, playing some vintage game in the low light. He figured they were there for similar reasons, and didn’t say a word for hours.)

“Jack,” Angela said. The clock on the wall is a bright, neon blue 3:49 AM. Jack, to his credit, manages to look up from his coffee and at her. In the fluorescent kitchen light, her dark circles look more prominent, the mess of her hair tied in a loose not. She has a bottle of water in her hand. She looks exhausted. Momentarily, he wonders how much sleep she’s getting, then feels like a hypocrite.

“Angela,” he musters, swallowing. “Lovely morning.”

“The sun won’t be up for another few hours,” she said. “Why are you up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, which - it isn’t a lie, really. He couldn’t get back to sleep, after tonight.

“Doesn’t seem like you ever do,” she says, sliding down across from him. “That’s not good for your health.”

“I get a few hours,” he says. Three and a half, tonight. “Could be worse.”

“Jack,” she admonishes. “This isn’t - have you been dreaming?”

“Most people do sometimes,” he says, which - technically correct, but not what she’s asking. There is a beat, which is mostly filled with Angela frowning deeply at him and Jack staring at his coffee. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Except it doesn’t really work, because Angela is phenomenal at seeing through bullshit, and this isn’t the first accident she’s seen. (There was once, with a bottle of champagne, and the noise and laughing sounds like screaming so easily and. Jack had excused himself, mumbling, hands shaking. Angela had followed when everyone was distracted. Angela knows. How could he think he could win at lying to her?)

“There are people who can help with - everything,” she says. “I know a few that are - they’re good.” Jack fixates on everything but Angela’s face, feeling naked without the visor. He instead stares at where her neck meets her shoulder, the marks Fareeha had left. There’s a stain on her shirt’s collar, of what’s chocolate, coffee, or blood. It’s dried brown, almost reddish brown in the light. Out the window, the Gibraltar night is interrupted with crickets.

He wonders what Angela dreams of. People she couldn’t save, his mind fills in. Genji’s corpse-body, when they first brought him in. People she can’t save. Gunshots.

Jack sighs. It’s a gesture that makes him feel older than he is.

“They’re just bad dreams,” he says, voice low and deep. It feels like a confession. “Omnic Crisis. Overwatch. Old things. I’m an old man, Angela, it doesn’t mean anything’s wrong just because it keeps me up.”

“You’re not that old, compared to the average,” she muses absently. “You’re only forty nine.”

“Fifty in a few weeks,” he said, hoping for a diversion. “I’m not a young man anymore, anyway. And I can’t really see a therapist, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Why not?”

“I’m legally dead, remember?” Angela nods, clearly contemplative. He closes his eyes. “‘s just dreams, either way. Doesn’t matter a bit.”

There’s a long pause. Angela rises from her seat. “Good night, Jack,” she murmurs.

For days, he waits to see if Angela brings it up again, or tells someone, or something. He’s worried about it.

It’s just dreams, and anxiety and - it doesn’t matter. He just doesn’t want people to look at him differently. But no one does and Angela doesn’t say anything. It’s almost as if their early morning conversation is forgotten.

It’s been nine days when he first realizes Angela didn’t forget at all. He’s sitting in a common room, talked into joining most of the other agents. People are mostly in their own groups. Hana and Genji are playing some Mario Kart thing, the engineers at a table discussing - schematics, he thinks, but he’d heard the words Pop Tarts and doubted himself - Jesse and Hanzo and Fareeha talking in soft voices. Lena, Reinhardt and Ana at a table, Wid- Amelie, he corrects himself - Amelie joining them. Sombra and Lucio at a table hollering about the game Hana and Genji are playing. Who had cajoled two thirds of their ex Talon agents and how is lost on him, but he’s almost glad Gabriel wasn’t here, even knowing - this is a talk for another day. Jack is at one of the old, worn seats, an old book in his lap.

“Jack!” Angela’s voice comes in from the hall, and most look up as she pushes the door open with her hip. It takes only a moment to discern why: in one hand is a mug of what is definitely coffee, and the other is a -

“I got you a present, you’re welcome,” Angela says.

“Uh,” Jack says, the stumble coming out before he can stop it. “That’s a dog.”

“It sure is,” Angela says agreeably, depositing it in his arms and sipping her coffee. “Merry Christmas.”

“It��s June,” he deadpanned, as the wriggling little thing laps at his visor.

“Happy early birthday,” she replies. “You turn fifty in two weeks. There.”

The puppy - which, relatively, is pretty big, a St Bernard if he had to guess - laps at his cheek next. “This is a dog,” he repeats. “Where did you get this?”

“Her,” Angela corrects. “She flunked out of being a therapy dog because she liked to lick strangers or something along those lines. She needed a home. Dogs, I’ve been told, lower stress. You’re going to give yourself a stroke or a heart attack at this rate.”

In that moment, he realizes this is about what they discussed but Angela doesn’t want to say it in public. He can appreciate that much. “Can we even keep a-”

Lena is by his side, scooping her up in a second. Her, the dog, not Angela. “Why are you protesting? It’s a dog! Accept it and move on.” The dog licks Lena’s face delightedly, and everyone resumes talking over each other about - well. Jack rises, giving Angela a look. She just grins back, satisfied.

“Fine,” he acquiesces. Arguing isn’t going to do much, anyway. Angela’d kill him if he tried to return her, anyway, even if he hasn’t had a dog since he was a teenager. His family had kept hunting and herding dogs, all of which loved his mother more than anything. She gave them the most scraps. Lena shoves the bundle of fur back into his arms after one last lick, and he stares at her as she returns to licking his face. Her, the dog, that is. Not Lena.

The dog follows him around all the time. When he sits, she sits on his feet, gets comfortable. Angela tells him she’s a six month St. Bernard. They called her Nessie in training, but she never learned the name and really, it just makes him think of conspiracy theories. (Dimly, he remembers Reinhardt rambling about - he really wants to say Bigfoot, but the memory is twenty five years old.)

He mostly just calls her Dog, which outrages an alarming amount of people. Expectedly, Ana, Lena, and Angela are most fond of Dog. Unexpectedly, he’s caught Hanzo giving her scraps four times in three days. When he enters a room that Hanzo and Bonnie are already in, she’s in his lap and he looks like a deer in the headlights. (It’s actually really fucking funny.)

He sets her on the floor before bed, but she’s always curled up next to him when he awakens, like a really furry pillow.

It takes five days for him to really get used to the idea she could provide actual help.

It’s - another bad dream, because of course it is. Jack gasps for breath, kicks off the blanket, brow slick cool with sweat. His heart pounds in his ears. Him kicking the blankets must of woke the Dog, as she bounces up, presses next to him.

She shoves her head and back against his hands, in a way that would be petting if it was his hands moving, not her body. She licks his face tentatively, as if seeing if that helps. Jack can feel his heart start to slow, faster than his normal calm down times. He moves his hands, callouses running against soft fur. Dog takes this as encouragement, licks him more excitedly. Jack closes his eyes.

Normally, he’d get up. He wouldn’t be back asleep regardless, so he may as well get up. But Dog settles in next to him, and petting her evens him out, makes it easier to settle. He lets himself be lulled to sleep.

In the morning, he names her Bonnie. It seems fitting, somehow. She seems like a Bonnie. He’ll talk to Angela about a collar, soon.

In the meantime, he sits down at the cafeteria table, Bonnie by his feet, and pretend he doesn’t see no less than five people feeding her scraps.

He goes on a day long mission on July 3rd. His birthday’s the next day (he’s getting old, he thinks). It’s a short thing, mission wise. Fifteen hours securing a payload in the heart of London and back.

He’s with Lucio, D.Va, Genji, Mei, and Sombra for it, all these young kids making him feel much older than he is. (Mei, Genji, and Sombra are all in their thirties, he remembers. But he’s fifty tomorrow. They’re kids to him, anyway. They all have much more.. zest than he does.)

He gets back late, and he’s a little sad to not have Bonnie at the door when he enters the room. He discards his jacket to the desk and changes fast, glancing at the bed to locate his dog. She’s sleeping in her exact normal spot, with an approximately Jack sized spot next to her. Jack slides in next to her, and she shifts awake, moving to press into him. She licks his face hello, and he calms her by petting her back for a few minutes.

He breathes easy, relaxed. After a few, he glances at the clock. 12:02.

“Happy birthday,” he hums warmly, closing his eyes.

He sleeps well that night.

now on ao3!

#jack morrison #my writing #overwatch #soldier: 76 #snowsheba #bonnie the dog #is this any good? we just don't know

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