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#the mind of an inniter never rests with good conscience
mcmoth · 3 years
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Being an inniter is an inherently embarrassing expierence, but only for the reason that whenever I see a beautiful, intricate drawing of c!Tommy, where it's delving into these themes of trauma, abuse, or recovery, where it feels so melancholy and deep, there's always a teeny tiny voice in the back of my mind, saying "THIS IS ABOUT THE 1000% FUNNIER WHITE BOY"
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docholligay · 4 years
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Sleep, Sleep
I’m working on a real thing that is for a patron but it’s going slowly because *gestures vaguely* so please enjoy this shitty hurt/comfort I wrote to soothe myself. 1770 words, all of this universe is here for timeline or whatever
Fareeha Amari was not in the business of shirking responsibility. When she felt she had failed, she was the first to mark ways she could improve, and she was the first to notice the same in others. It was not so much that Pharah sought fault so much as she sought improvement, and the beginning to fixing a leaky roof was finding where the leak came from. But, on a handful of occasions in her life, she could simply admit that it had been a bad day. 
Sitting in a Talon cell, half out of her mind with the pain of torture and the exhaustion of resisting it, she could admit that it had simply been, one of those days. 
They had only been here two days entirely, Pharah thought. She had tried very hard to keep mark of the time. It was so easy to lose it, in these moments. Moira was helping her, she supposed. She kept a tight schedule, and if much of that schedule relied on when and how she chose to experiment on she and Tracer, well, at least she knew when tea time was. 
A more straightforward sort of torture, Pharah might have been able to bear better. But it wasn’t torture, not for information. Other people might care about that--the monster that had once been Gabe certainly got in their face enough--but Moira did not. It was experimentation, and even if they told her every secret they knew, it would not stop. Moira herself pretended little different. 
It would go on until they were rescued or died, and at least that gave them little reason to give any information at all. 
She sat the edge of the small cot provided to them. Tracer lay at the top of it, trembling, her body jerking every so often against her will. Pharah looked away from her. She told herself it was out of respect for Tracer’s general dignity, but even half-mad she knew it was a lie. She simply could barely stand to look. She hadn’t looked down at the stump where her metal arm should rest, either. It hurt. She knew it must look terrible. No reason to make it worse with visual acknowledgement. 
“F’reeha?” Tracer’s voice was soft and wobbling, ““‘M a bit poorly. I think.”
“You need to stop goading her,” Pharah shook her head, “Just lie still, and quiet. They will find us.” 
“What, and let ‘er come after you? Fuck off, then.” 
Tracer had the unique gift of being able to irritate a human being better than a mosquito at the ear, and she had employed this to great effect in Moira’s lab. She tortured them in tandem, which was a unique technique, if she meant to get anything from them, but perhaps it was that she knew the effect of seeing the other dissembled bit by bit was its own brand of horror. 
Pharah had not gotten the worst of it, because Pharah was not medically interesting. Certainly, she had Winston’s unique set of sensors in her shoulder, where a fully functional arm had been installed, but she’d seen enough of that with McCree. Pharah was fine, but Tracer was the real toy, and it didn’t hurt that Tracer was very good at making someone want to hurt her. And Moira had. She had taken great pleasure in it. 
Even Pharah herself, constantly surprised by her own emotions, had not understood what an effective method of torture it would be for her. 
Pharah lay her hand on Tracer’s leg. She could feel the twitch running though it. 
“Rest.” 
Pharah was not the most verbose human on her best day, and this was certainly not her best day. She wanted to tell Tracer it would be all right, that they would come and Mercy would mend what Moira had damaged. But who could know if it was true? Pharah had many faults, she thought, but she was not a liar. She wanted to tease Tracer, to set her at ease, but the words would not come. Pharah was more steel than anything else, in difficult times, and so her words were firm, and decisive, and formal, whatever she tried. It was a comfort, like a child’s blanket. 
A shock ran through Tracer, and she gasped, her back arcing against the cot. Pharah moved to her, and closed her eyes with the sharp, bright pain that moved through her body as she did so. She took a few deep breaths, did her best to ignore it, and rubbed Tracer’s shoulder until her body let her relax again, what could have been ten seconds but felt like hours. 
Tracer opened her eyes just a little, and looked up at Pharah. 
“We may want to consider the outside possibility I won’t be making it to the debriefing.”
“You cannot. That would leave me sole leader of Overwatch. Do you want that on your conscience?” 
Tracer cracked a weak smile. “Not me first choice, no, but” she swallowed, “But this isn’t what I expected to ‘appen, love. Didn’t know it would do this, it’s nothing like when I...anyhow, if I do...If I do..”
“Stop,” Pharah looked away from her and sighed, “I am not your errand boy. We are in pain, and we are tired.” She gave a chuckle, “And longing for the days when torture meant being beaten.” 
“God yes, “ Tracer closed her eyes, “love to be cracked across the jaw just now.” 
Pharah nodded, her hand still on Tracer’s shoulder. “When we escape, when they come for us, because, you see, I am an optimist. Not like you, who thinks Winston would leave you to die here.” 
“Don’t bloody bring ‘im int--” Tracer shuddered and tamped down a squeal of pain into a small squeak. “Oh Fareeha, I’m…” 
“A pessimist, yes.” she moved up her hand, gently rubbing the hair at the back of Tracer’s head, “I can see that. But when we escape, when we are saved, and you heal, because, remember, you have so many times before.” 
“Right,” Tracer gave a little nod and swallowed, “born under a lucky star.” 
“When you heal, I will take you to your horrible little pub, and play darts, and attempt to understand anyone in that godforsaken place.” 
Tracer gave a laugh, weak and small, but genuine, and Pharah grinned. 
“And I will fail. You know that, of course, and you will have to order for me. Again.” 
Tracer’s eyelids fluttered open, her vision hazy but more for Pharah’s benefit than anything. “It’s not as Isla can’t understand you, you know, it’s just the other way round.” 
Pharah shook her head. “I know you have some sort of magic word, for when all I want on this earth is a light beer.” 
“Right, and it’s ‘go somewhere else.’” 
Pharah ruffled her hair. “It’s sometimes easy for me to understand what Moira sees in you.” 
Tracer giggled. “Me own personal brand of charm, innit? Going to be a right shame when I can’t share mese--” 
She gasped, and let out a cry as her body twisted into one terrible contraction. 
“Lena!” Pharah went to move the arm that wasn’t there, and a wave of nausea and pain went through her, but she pushed it to the side, using her good arm to scoop Tracer onto her lap. Tears ran down Tracer’s face as she struggled to breathe against the spasm, Pharah unable to do anything but watch, and hope that her touch offered some comfort. 
Watching her lit a fire in Fareeha Amari, a deep coal seam of hot anger than would not dissipate until her child was nearly grown. She would nurse it and feed it, and never apologize for it, and it would take her years to remember that it had been lit in this exact moment. She never had a friend quite like Tracer, and she never would, because who could be said to be like her at all? And Moira had tortured her like a cat playing with a mouse, and Pharah would remember this, always. 
It released Tracer, and she lay panting on Pharah’s lap. A few moments passed, just the two of them nestled together, in a cold and dark cell, the dire nature of their situation hanging over them like a shadow. 
Tracer could not go on like this for too much longer, Pharah knew. Whatever Moira had done to her had hurt her badly, and she needed help. Pharah knew, in the same way, that Tracer would fight and snipe at Moira to her last breath, even if it accelerated its coming. Tracer could stop fighting like the sun could stop rising in the morning. She was a terrier to the bone. 
But she believed herself, that the team would be looking for them. D.Va was a natural leader when called upon, Winston would hardly stop looking for Tracer, McCree was constantly looking to be made useful, and even the newer team members had nothing but fondness for Tracer, and maybe even Pharah herself. 
Mercy, of course, would never leave Pharah behind. She knew that like she knew the moon still sat outside that cell, watching. 
“Fareeha…” 
“Rest now.” She arranged herself carefully, and pulled Tracer up to her shoulder, leaning against the wall, and wrapped her arm around her. “You want to be fresh to spit in Moira’s face.” 
“Love you, Fareeha” 
“Shut up.” 
She held Tracer close and began to hum and then sing, some Arabic lullaby drawn far from her childhood, though she couldn’t even remember where or when. Who would have sung to her? Maybe she was something better than the sum of her childhood experiences, or maybe there was a tenderness inside her she did not know, or maybe she had grown into something that could give a softer and sweeter fruit,  but in any case, she chose to think of it little in the moment. There would be time later, to wonder where it came from. 
Tracer could not have possibly understood the song, but it sank deep into her, and Pharah felt her sink against her shoulder as she slept, the words carrying her along and comforting her. 
Later, Pharah would not know how long she sang, or when she fell asleep herself, or even exactly when help came. This part of her life, these next few days, would be a blur, scattered with only moments of clarity. This would be true for all of her very long life. But she would remember the song, and she would remember the flickering lights and long shadows, and she would remember that she had been, a good friend. 
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docholligay · 7 years
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Can/t
@rhiorhino‘s commission for this month! After the cat fic, she asked for McCree, who I haven’t written much before, but now...kinda feel like I could do some stuff with. This fic takes place directly after A Tragedy in Four Acts, the rest of the universe is here.    You can find me on patreon or my ko-fi! Comments welcomed!
There are things a man can do, and things a man can’t do.
“Come on, Jesse! Boys aren’t going to dance with themselves, now are they?”
Her laugh still echoed through his mind, sitting alone in his room at the Talon base, and he could feel her pulling at the arm he used to have.
There had been an unspoken rule about the lines between Blackwatch and Overwatch proper, and the instant Tracer had gotten the slightest hint McCree liked men, all of that had gone out the window, as she told him, hopping with excitement, that he had to come out to the club with her. Tracer was never very good at remembering the rules that had been made for her, and less good when they were directly posted.
“Did you know I’m gay as well? I’ll show you best place to go dance, it’s me little secret, but I’d share.”
Like either of those things were any kind of real secret.
He had never been to a gay bar, had never so much as kissed another man, but from what little he knew of Tracer, he knew not to mention that.
That seemed a lifetime away now.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the tattered photograph. He could see his own nervousness in his smile, and hear the babbling brook of Tracer’s mouth as she described what an absolutely brilliant wingwoman she was, and that it was her life’s only goal to get him a number tonight. That paisley shirt of hers was hideous. She did nothing but talk all night, and pulled him onto the dance floor when he got disheartened.
He’d had a wonderful time. She’d made him feel relaxed, and welcome.
And he’d killed her tonight.
There were things a man could do, that he didn’t know he could.
The gun had responded with its familiar vigor to the pressure of his finger, and he had half-expected her to blink away, just out of range. That was what she did. That was her gift, her talent, the whole reason she’d been recruited by Jack in the first place, to hear Gabe tell it, as he gave a brief tour of the facilities within Overwatch, an organization that he did and did not belong to, all at once.
But she hadn’t. She’d been staring at something, and the connection of the bullet to her gut caught her off guard. Jack would have yelled at her for that. She’d gasped, and she’d looked right at him, and McCree knew that, in her last moments, she had known who killed her. Her mouth had silently formed his name, as he disappeared into the darkness.
He hadn’t stuck around to watch her die.
There were some things a man couldn’t do, that he didn’t know he couldn’t.
He tossed the photo onto the side table, avoiding her wide brown eyes, and scooped to pick his cat off the ground.
Billy purred and rubbed against McCree’s stubble, as if he wasn’t a traitor at all.
Traitor was a hard word, now. McCree didn’t even know what it meant to be one. The collapse of Overwatch, Blackwatch, any watch at all had been hard on all of them, and even if Gabe was different now...he was still the family McCree had. The Deadlock gang had always been a loose association of criminals and ne’er do wells, as Yael had put it, laughing astride her horse. They were good enough to work with, but by their natures most of them avoided close associations.
“I ain’t your mommy, Jesse.” Yael had told him once. “We do the job that needs doing, and I pay you, an any crisis of conscience you have is between you and the God you do or don’t believe in.”
Yael had given Jesse a lot of things, but a shoulder to cry on wasn’t one of them. Overwatch had been different.
“She tried to be my friend, Bill, an I killed her,” it felt strangely good to say, not with any emotion, just to spit out the poison inside him, “I don't know what I'm doing anymore.”
It should have felt better, knowing he was a success, knowing that he was an important part of the team, and that he’d done well. And he and Tracer had barely talked in the years since Overwatch had fallen apart. Gabe--Reaper now, McCree guessed, as the world had changed--had clapped him on the shoulder and told him he’d succeeded where some of the deadliest people in the world had failed.
McCree tried not to laugh when he looked straight at Widowmaker as he said it.
There were things only some men could do.
Maybe it was right, finally laying any piece of Overwatch to rest for him. There was no going back now that he’d killed Tracer, if there had ever been a chance of him going back at all. With Ana Amari’s daughter at the helm alone, McCree had a feeling that overwhelming forgiveness was not going to be the order of the day.
Butch, jealous of his brother’s attentions, pawed at McCree’s leg. Widowmaker and Sombra had looked at him a bit sideways when he’d moved the cats in, though he didn’t know what a woman who didn’t seem to be able to hit the broad side of the enemy lately and a woman with a teddy bear in her room had to say about anything. Maybe it was that Reper had let him do it at all.
Little did they know, the man who Reaper used to be, and maybe still was, somewhere, had given him Billy in the first place. Gabe had been a good man, observant but not pushy, and he’d seen McCree’s loneliness and filled it with a cat broken in just the same way he was.
“You didn’t cut the cat’s leg off, did ya?”
“Jesse.”
He laughed at the memory, in the hospital room, and then frowned as he remembered--Tracer had been there, too, with a poorly constructed bouquet made of corn nuts, Marlboros, Coors, and other “cowboy things...innit?”
He had been at the edge, but the others had still shown him more kindness than he deserved.
And maybe that kindness was how he ended up here at all. He saw patches of the old Gabe, from time to time, the one who kicked back in his chair and laughed, the one who loved to sew and tell bad jokes, the one who’d given him a chance, the one who sat in bars with Jack and Ana and reinhardt, and you could hear them teasing each other from the other end of the room.
Even when the UN started to get on Overwatch’s back, they had each other.
Then Ana was killed, and it all began to go wrong. Jack blamed Gabe. Gabe blamed Jack. Reinhardt blamed no one at all, except himself. And then the explosion.
But Jack was alive, in a way, and Gabe was alive, sort of, and McCree half expected Ana to pop up out of the ground, even if she had been dead 7 years. Maybe that would fix it all.
“Careful how you place your loyalties, Jess.” Yael had told him.
There were things a man couldn’t do, that he probably should have.
McCree kissed the top of his cat’s heads, and got up. Stewing in his room wasn’t going to make him feel any better about what he’d had to do--he was a member of Talon now, whatever his reasons for joining might have been, and he’d done what he was supposed to do. Tracer had been a problem for them since before Reaper had even been a part of Talon. Doomfist had brought her closest to breaking, but she’d crawled back to her feet, ready to fight again. It had been McCree who finally put her down, and he was owed a drink.
So he wandered down the hall from his room to the kitchen, and pulled a beer from the fridge, cracking it open against the countertop in a satisfying motion. The chance to get alone in talon wasn’t as great as it might have been, and even now Sombra was probably watching him, having found that the greatest telenovela she knew was everything that happened under the roof of the base.
It was good he’d been taught to keep his thoughts to himself.
Reaper would want them to attack Overwatch soon. There was an unspoken rule, about a chance for recovery, but Reaper wouldn’t leave it too long. Not with Tracer dead,  not with the upheaval it would cause. They’d be weak for the first time since McCree had joined up with Talon. Winston, at least, would be nearly useless for awhile, if not Mercy too. It was a rare chance.
That was the benefit of Talon, if you could call it that. That’d never happen here. They’d all be ready to fight the next day, if you fell.
His boys would miss him though, and not have anyone to take care of them, and that was reason enough to avoid death altogether.
That was how he’d been taught to live in the Deadlock Gang, that every day you ran the risk, and the risk was part of the game, and if someone lost the game, the rest of you still had to play, no questions asked. Yael and Jacinta saw to that, even if privately he sometimes saw the slightest emotion in the corner of their eyes when they buried someone, each whispering a prayer from something that defined them and seemed a contradiction, all at once.
“The verse is ‘ya shall not murder,’ Jesse,” Yael reined her horse nearer to her as they headed to the stable. “Killin’ ain’t the same. I ain’t never killed no one who didn’t have it comin.’ Never did a murder.”
McCree wondered if he had. Probably, his conscience said.
Or if Yael was just talking out her ass after all, trying to make the life she already lived fit the morals she believed she had. He’d seen a lot of that, in his life, of people convincing themselves they were living right, whatever backbend of personal logic that took. McCree didn’t do that, not anymore, and that was a thing he could live with. Just being a bad man was better than being a bad man convinced he was good.
That was a thing he couldn’t do.
This life had given him a lot of things, but it had never given him any kind of security. He’d had boyfriends, since that night Tracer took him out, and she did keep her promise--he’d gotten a man’s number, even if it didn’t come to much, but he’d never had anything lasting or real, and he wasn’t sure if the fault was the job, or within himself. Maybe just being the kind of man who could kill an old teammate wasn’t the best lead-in for a date.
“We are the things that we do, and there ain’t no runnin from that.” Yael hadn’t looked up at him as she said it.
He thought he knew why, now. There was no running from his past, from who he was, from who he’d been since he was rescued from poverty as a gawky teenager. This was who he was, and he had to ride this train to the end. Any chance to split the track off he’d fucked up or otherwise ignored, and that was a fact. He was lucky enough to have what he had, rather than being six feet under already.
He took another deep drink from his beer, and tapped a cigarette out of the pack.
“What do you mean, she survived!?” Reaper’s voice came creeping down the hallway, and McCree snapped up his head to listen.
“Oh, is my English poor?” Widowmaker purred with delight. “Or do you doubt Sombra?”
There are things a man can do, and things a man can’t do.
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