Work Text:
Talavera: a type of fine Mexican earthenware featuring colored decoration on an opaque white glaze. Originating in Spain or Spanish colonies, Talavera is a style of pottery within a larger category of ceramics called Majolica.
There is no corpse rotting, entombed in the gravesite. Under six feet of dry American soil is an empty casket, sealed perfectly, silk untarnished by bodily fluids, and left empty. Crowning the vacant plot is a cold stone topper, a narrow slab of flat grey stone. Smoke floats away as Cole pulls the cigar from his mouth, puffing out a cloud of warm tobacco scented air into the dusk of near twilight. Ash drops from the tip, falling onto the flat plane of the headstone. A twisting breeze blows the sparks across engraved letters gracing the surface. Gabriel Reyes, it reads Friend, Brother, Beloved. Short and sweet. Cole snorts sardonically and flicks the spent filter out to the side. It lands several graves over, and lies there smoldering. As if the man had ever been so sweet in life.
Cole hadn’t wanted to give him a grave, hadn’t thought there was much point to burying an empty casket.
“There ain’t even a body.” He’d growled when Angela had gently recommended they hold a funeral for the former Blackwatch commander.
“It will help you move on.” She had murmured in response, leaning against the cold wall of the firing range, fluorescent lights catching and sending her hair gleaming into curls of gold.
For a moment, the brilliance of her hair had reminded him of Jack, and he’d stared down at Peacemaker then, unable to meet her eyes, spinning the blued steel barrel around and around, ammunition flashing. It was better, he thought, that they had died in the same blast. Cole couldn’t imagine a world that Jack existed in while Gabe didn’t. If Jack Morrison had been the sun, Gabriel Reyes had been the moon, and the two of them had remained ever locked in one another’s orbit. It was unthinkable that anything short of death would ever have successfully separated the two of them.
But they had both died, torn apart along with the Swiss Headquarters and Overwatch had been left teetering on the edge of dissolution, wracked from the fallout of the bombing and the sudden loss of both their leader and second in command. They barely even had time to “bury” Jack, before the UN was pounding at their door. Another empty grave. The bombing hadn’t left many bodies behind, the blast had been too powerful, and first responders were still combing through the wreckage six weeks after the dust had settled. They’d never found either man, and that would have been more suspicious if it weren’t for the vaporized concrete and molten metal twisted at the epicenter of the blast radius.
None of those things were as bad as the memories though. They were worse in those first few weeks, he’d been haunted by thoughts of the two, broken pieces of happier times gnarled around those last few fraught years. Jack and Gabe had been the closest to family that he’d ever had, and Cole had been unmoored and sent adrift in the wake of their passing. It was the kind words from Mercy, Lena’s quiet support, and Genji’s tranquil words, that allowed him to face the world. They’d buried Gabe five rows down from Jack’s headstone, in Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia, as close as they could get to placing the two of them together.
Cole had personally buried Gabe’s dog tags recovered from the scene in lieu of a body. It was fitting somehow, that tags were all they had left. Gabe had spent the entirety of his life in the military, trying to make the world a better place. The metal had clinked, tangling around the mechanical fingers of his prosthesis, before slipping free and pooling cold steel against the dark red lining of the casket. Cole had watched them lower the casket into the grave, had dug up a handful of crumbling soil, had tossed it across the gleaming wooden surface. The old prayers had come to him then, words that he had heard Gabriel say over a hundred graves, a thousand other soldiers dead in the line of battle. It had felt cleansing, the melodic string of Spanish a softer goodbye than he’d have managed otherwise.
It felt a little like burying a piece of his childhood. Like he was closing the final page on the scrawny seventeen year old he’d been, all bones and defiant eyes. Glaring across the table in one of the Overwatch interrogation rooms and listening to Gabe’s offer of a chance at redemption, a chance to be something other than a gang rat running on the streets. Now that life was dead and gone, along with the man who had built it up for him, and once Overwatch was gone as well, Cole had been forced to figure out what to do with his life.
He’d spent the last two years bouncing from place to place, earning his keep nearly the same way he’d grown up; by hunting bounties all while avoiding the one on his own head. In many ways it was remarkably similar to the missions he’d run in Blackwatch, but now he was solely responsible for his missions and gear. And if he fucked up, if he got in a tight spot, there was no backup, no one coming to save him now. There was no low voice in his ear offering guidance, and his pilots were decidedly less chipper than he’d have preferred. His latest mission had taken him all the way from his previous bounty in Busan, South Korea, and landed him in Richmond, Virginia; just south of Arlington National Cemetery.
Cole had been unable to resist the draw of the graveyard, he hadn’t been by to visit Gabe since he’d been buried. It was a remarkably peaceful evening, rather cool for mid-July, and low on humidity. The rich off-green of bluegrass rolls out ahead of him, broken by even, white tombstones, black engraving visible even in the dying light. There are a few other people visiting loved ones, a family speaks in hushed voices off to his right, a soldier cut clean in a uniform stands strong at a grave ahead of him, and on his left, several rows down, a figure cloaked in mourning blacks kneels at a headstone. Further in the distance there is gentle splashing as the fountain ahead spits glittering drops of water in the air. At this distance, with the rays of the setting sun striking a sharp angle, the water appears to be so many streams of liquid fire. It’s beautiful, and he is suddenly intensely grateful that Angela had talked him into setting Gabe to rest in such a place of peace.
He drops down, knees creaking with the movement and deposits the bouquet of wildflowers he’d picked from the path on his way here. They’re mostly ferns peppered with small pastel blooms, and for a single second he thinks he can hear a low voice lecturing him on herbs and native plants. He breathes, the scent of fresh cut grass and flowers cool in the back of his throat, and lets the memories roll over and through him.
“It’s not much,” he mumbles to the empty grave. “I really wish you were still here,” the headstone is silent, the grave empty beneath his boots. “Think it’d’ve made things easier. Don’t know what you would’ve done without Jack though.” He blows out a heavy breath, fighting past a hitch in his chest.
“Just could have used some help these last few years ya’know. There’s been a lot of change ‘nd not all for the better.” Pain curls in his chest and he lifts a hand to rub at it.
“I’ve been counting the days, these last few years, more than I ever have before. Comparing it to the life you had, all the things you achieved…
“I’m waiting for the day that I wake up and realize I’ve outlived you.” He takes a shaky breath in. Lets the thought wash over and through him.
“I wish I knew what happened. I think if I had someone to blame, everything would be easier. But no one seems to know what happened. I swear I’ll find out, I’ll get back at them. For you. For Jack.” His voice is raspy, even to his own ears, and he brushes a hand over the engravings as his words fail him.
His phone chimes then, something soft and melodic. He glances down at the interface on his arm, an unwilling smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Clearing his throat, he slides a finger along the screen, opening the call.
“Everythin’ alright?” His voice is still tight, the words coming out stressed.
His lover's voice is deep and mellow, soothing and graced with the lingering hints of a japanese accent. “Everything is fine. Are you almost done?”
“Nearly. Gonna pay my respects to Jack while I’m here.” Cole flicks his eyes to the left, five rows away.
A light humm comes through the phone, vibrating pleasantly in his ears. “I’ll start dinner then.” There’s a pause, and the soft rustling of clothing. “Be careful, Reaper has been spotted in the area.”
He pauses at that, sending the receiver a cautious look.The talon mercenary had been hunting former Blackwatch operatives, and Cole had known in his gut that it was only a matter of time before Reaper came for him too.
“Don’t worry about me darlin’.” He drawls softly, “I don’t spook at shadows.”
A soft huff of air comes through the receiver, close enough to a laugh for him to consider it a win.
“Tell you what,” Cole says into the phone. “Don’t worry about dinner, there’s somewhere I’d like to take you.”
“The restaurant you spoke of earlier,” His lover’s voice is soft and more a statement than a question.
“The one that Gabe ‘nd I used to go to,” Cole confirms. “It’s not too far from here, let me say… hello, to Jack. I’ll pick you up.”
“That will work for me.” Hanzo’s voice is soft, “hurry home.”
There is the soft click of the call ending, and Cole blows out a breath, running his hand over Gabe’s name one more time before standing.
“I’ll see you soon, old man,” he mutters to the white headstone, “I’m sorry it’s been so long, I won’t be a stranger.”
He closes his eyes and allows himself one more second, lets the emotions flow over and through him, and then he sets his feet on the path between graves. He looks around as he walks, the world has descended into true dusk now, and everyone with any sense has left. Chills run down his spine. Now, with night encroaching, the graveyard feels colder. Wind whips at him, and he pulls his sarape tighter around his shoulders, the gold and crimson weave a shield against the chill. Graves blur together as he walks the short distance between Gabe and Jack, not even fifty paces between their final resting places. Many of the headstones are smudged with age and half forgotten memories. Some are more crisp, clean lines speaking of much more recent loss. A few of them bristle with flowers and many are graced with small figurines, pictures, or flags. Gifts from well wishers, other people like him, visiting old ghosts, locked in old memories.
Jack’s headstone is much less personal. It had been placed by Overwatch, with none of the touches that Gabe’s grave had been given. Cole had chosen the words placed on Gabe’s grave, had handled the ordering himself, but Jack’s grave had been placed almost before they even had confirmation of death. Not that the blast had left much confirmation behind.
He approaches Jack’s grave, boots and spurs clinking softly as he pauses on the loamy surface of the lawn. Brilliant colors swim into view, flashing brightly in harsh rays of the setting sun, they hit at an angle, turning the object into a flame of azure and vermillion glaze. He stops. Blinks. Rubs his eyes and then blinks again. It’s a vase, brightly colored with bold geometric shapes, leaning gently against the headstone. Its pattern brings back a sudden flood of memories. Blood in sand and the desolate emptiness of the deep desert, shaking hands unearthing old pottery from red dirt, and a low voice in the melodic tones of Spanish.
A spill of dark red flowers gleam upright in the vase, their color fresh and still flecked with drops of water. Their rouged petals are narrow and scooped, numbering dozens surrounding a glistening pale throat. The stems are long and slender, bowing under the weight of the heavy, fragrant blooms. A breeze rustles through them, knocking several petals loose, and they drift across Jack’s grave slowly, looking for all the world like drops of blood. He squints his eyes and looks at the vase suspiciously. He taps the vase with one boot, spurs clinking, and he pulls his leg back quickly, watching the clay with a wary eye. It sits there, for all the world looking like a normal vase of flowers.
It could have been left by someone from the old team, but hairs tingle along the back of his neck, down his arm, and distantly he hears his instincts whisper: See. See. His flesh hand shakes slightly as he drops onto his heels and brushes gun roughened fingers along Jack’s engraved name.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?” He growls, half to himself, and half to the wind. The words are half torn from him by a fiercer gust of cold air, and he inhales deep, the chill shocking even through the red and gold weave of his sarape. An acrid scent invades his lungs, drenching his nose and throat with the caustic burn of old ashes. He coughs, eyes watering and pivots, searching through the liquid lining his eyes. He tilts the brim of his hat back, squinting, but the graveyard is empty. There is no fire, just the rich rolling green of the lawn, and neatly spaced marble.
Pivoting he flicks his eyes across the graveyard, tilting the brim of his hat up for better view, searching for the source of the scent. But there is nothing, and the next gust only brings back the scent of dirt and old flowers. Shadows flicker in the corner of his eye, and his hand drops to the cold weight of Peacekeeper at his hip. He feels suddenly exposed, like he’s walked into a firefight unaware, and he spares a moment to curse the proliferation of low headstones around him, the complete lack of cover.
The breeze stutters, stills, and then flips, blowing back the opposite direction. The scent of ash and old fire fills his nostrils again and he turns around in alarm, spinning Peacekeeper in his flesh fingers, ready to fire, and then there is a black boot kicking it out of his hands. The loud clatter of metal and broken pottery echos in his ears, but he doesn’t have a moment to spare towards the desecrated graves because suddenly there is a dark figure on him, gloved clawed hands flashing in his face, silvery bright in the low light.
Cole throws himself back in alarm, and tumbles over another headstone in his struggle to avoid Jack’s grave. Claws snag in his sarape, tearing the fabric free from his shoulders and he looks up into the bone chilling white mask of Reaper. Fury flashes through him, and Hanzo’s warning words come rushing to the forefront of his mind. He snarls under his breath and gets his feet under him. Reaper may have left a trail of bodies in his wake, but Cole had been killing for a long, long time. Bloodlust washes through him, gracing his tongue with the ozone tang of adrenaline and clearing his head, narrowing his vision to the dark figure in front of him. If Reaper thinks that this will be an easy fight, he is wrong. Cole is not dying here, not with the spirits of his mentors at his back.
Eyes lock on him from across Jack’s grave. Darkness burns in the hollow pits of the skull mask, and the figure tilts its head curiously.
“I am not dying here today.” Cole snarls at him.
He pulls a knife from its concealed place on his thigh, and spins the curved blade, holding it lightly in a backwards grip, metal finger slotted neatly into the handle. Hands twitch at Reaper’s side, and Cole catches the dim gleam of leather holsters under the folds of the coat. Cole lunges over the headstone, blade sweeping at the unprotected throat of the mercenary. Reaper blocks and the blade skitters across black vambraces, sending a sheet of sparks glittering towards the ground. The force of the movement pushes them both backwards, and Reaper is forced to sidestep to avoid the headstone behind him. Cole pushes in, blade an arch of silver lightning as he slashes again and again.
Rage crackles through him. Reaper isn’t even fighting back, in fact he seems almost bored as he deftly avoids each pass of Cole’s knife. Each feint he makes is recognized, every blow blocked, and the man makes no attempt to go for the firearms holstered at each one of his hips. Frustration makes him sloppy, and his next strike is deftly caught by Reaper, clawed hands clamping onto his metal wrist with frightening strength. For the span of a single breath, they stare at one another, and then with a flash of hot pain the karambit is spinning through the air, his metal wrist dangling uselessly at an odd angle.
“Just as impulsive as you always were,” Reaper growls in a voice like crunching gravel.
Cole gasps through the pain, wide eyes locked on Reaper’s masked face as an alarming bolt of realization slams through him. His heartbeat is wild in his chest, a thousand galloping mustangs pounding blood through his veins, and he knows he is breathing far too fast, panic sending him into near hyperventilation. His flesh hand clutches his wrist to him, keeping the useless limb tucked in close to his body. Something gleams in the corner of his eye, and he spares a single second to glance sideways. Peacekeeper lies, half buried in soil and colorful pottery. He flicks his attention back to Reaper just as the man notices the same thing. Black boots take a single threatening step towards him, but he’s already rolling.
Cole threads his body between tombstones and manages to sweep Peacekeeper back in his grip. He twists back to his feet as the wraith lunges at him and he gets off a single half cocked shot. It goes wide, just shy of Reaper’s head, and clips the side of the bone mask, cracking it and blowing the hood back with the force of the blow. Cole rushes in, determined to take advantage of the mercenary’s weakness, but the body dissolves into shadows under his hands. He yells, swiping through the smoke with a snarl on his lips as the mercenary vanishes into the lengthening darkness of night time
White glitters at his feet and he looks down to see the bone mask, webbed with cracks and crumbling in the grass. Darting his eyes back up, he scans the area, searching for any glimpse of shadows, any sign of smoke. A headstone darkens to his left and Cole moves towards it. He squints in the night, swearing softly and hunts smoothly forward. The smoke rolls across more headstones, billowing towards the cracked gate of the graveyard. Cole scrambles after it, it’s damned fast, but appears to have some struggle fighting the wind. He slams through the gate, and locks his gaze onto Reaper just as the figure is going corporeal again. Peacekeeper barks in his hand, and the force of the bullet punching into the wraith throws him to the side. Cole smashes into him, pinning Reaper against the rumpled metal of his shitty truck. A ghost looks back at him, and he stares into the pain lashed face of Gabriel Reyes as hot blood gushes over their bodies.
“How are you still alive?” Cole’s head is spinning. “Why are you here?”
“That’s a dumb fucking question,” Gabriel snarls in his face. “Why are you here?”
“Visiting you!” Cole slams him against the car, hand fisted in the man’s coat. A huff of pained breath breaks free and dark red smears across one of Cole’s windows.
Surprise flashes across Gabe’s face, bright and startling, before it quickly vanishes, schooled into flat neutrality.
“Why are you hunting Blackwatch agents,” Cole hisses, “Why are you working for talon.”
“If you believe that, you’re a damn fool,” Gabe’s voice is flat, emotionless.
“The shotguns-”
“I am the only one who uses shotguns?” Gabriel’s voice is thick with sarcasm.
Cole’s thoughts feel slow, adrenaline draining away as nausea sets in, heavy and thick like molasses.
“Why are you here?” he makes himself repeat. His voice feels far away, distant and foreign like it belongs to someone else.
Gabriel mutters something too low for him to hear, and Cole tightens his hand. He takes a breath, but Gabriel cuts him off.
“I can’t say good-bye,” he croaks. For the first time since the start of their conversation, Cole feels like he’s actually looking at the Gabriel Reyes he remembers. The man who ran their team, tough but caring. The man who fought alongside him, who taught him and took him in, and gave him a second lease at life. The man who would have followed Jack Morrison to the end of the Earth. But not, it seems, capable of following Jack Morrison past Earth.
“Talon made me this way,” Gabe says bleakly, “they couldn't let me die in peace, they had to go and make me a monster.” Smoke leaks from his mouth and his eyes gleam, backlit from within.
“Why didn’t you find me?” Cole’s voice is thready, “I-I would have listened.” His hands are slack in Gabriel’s coat.
“You aren’t listening,” Gabriel all but snarls, “they made me a monster. Where could I have gone?”
“There could be nothing so terrible about you that I would turn away from you. You… were there for me when no one else was, you gave me a second chance,” Cole stares into the face of the man who’d been the closest to a father that he’d ever had. “I would have given you a second chance.”
Something flashes across Gabriel’s eyes then, and the corners of his mouth pull down. He opens his mouth and for a single bright second, hope curls in Cole’s chest, sparking like a live wire.
There is a horrible screech of rubber on asphalt, and the hot stench of burning tires. Both Cole and Gabriel startle, and as Cole looks to the side a motorcycle pulls in, sleek and gleaming silver metal. There’s a man on the back of it, a bow clenched in one hand and the other already reaching for the slender quiver of arrows strapped to a leather clad back.
“Hanzo,” Cole calls, hand dropping free of Gabriel’s coat as he steps into his partner’s line of sight. A rush of old smoke fills his nostrils as Gabriel dissolves.
“Fuck,” he curses fervently as the shadow slips into the night. Hanzo is by his side in a flash, arrow nocked and aimed at the cloud of smoke as it vanishes into the night.
“Are you ok?” Hanzo’s dark eyes are narrow and steady as they glide over Cole’s figure.
“It’s not mine,” Cole assure’s as his gaze locks onto the blood coating Cole’s flesh hand. “It’s ok, he’s gone,” his voice is dull. He feels like he’s aged twenty years. “Just let him go.”
“What happened,” Hanzo’s voice is low and thunderous.
“Gabe’s alive,” it’s an incredulous statement and he laughs, voice cracking.
“What.” Hanzo’s voice is flat.
Cole laughs again, stuffing his bloody knuckles against his mouth. He’s distantly aware that he’s shaking, and Hanzo’s arm slides around him, warm and stable. Cole leans into his side, shoving his face into the smooth leather of the motorcycle jacket. He inhales a breath of his lover's scent, sweat and the woodsy smell of kodo incense. Salt drips into his mouth and he’s not sure if it’s all the blood on his hands or the bite of tears prickling at his eyes.
“That was Gabe, he’s alive.” He can barely force the words out, they sound more and more unreal with each repetition.
“Breathe,” Hanzo’s voice is calm, breath hot against the side of his face. Fingers touch his hand, and Cole allows his fist to be guided gently away from his mouth.
“The alarm on your arm activated,” Hanzo says softly.
Cole glances down at the blinking light on the fractured wrist of his arm. It must have gone off when Gabriel snapped it. The pain registers all at once, and his knees go out as the last of the adrenaline slips free of his body. There’s a soft umph of breath, and arms wrapping around him.
“It is ok,” Hanzo soothes, his figure curves over him, a protective shadow.
Cole breath hitches and he curls his working hand in Hanzo’s jacket, burying his face. Cole shakes softly, tremors running through his body. Hanzo’s hands brush softly up and down his back, through the shorter hairs at the back of his neck. And Cole…. Lets Gabe go. This isn’t the end, that he’ll run into Gabe again. But for now, he allows the closest man he’d ever had to a father figure walk away, lets him reclaim what fragile peace Gabriel can wrest from his afterlife. He lets the emotions pass over and through him. Until peace reclaims his worn out form and only he and Hanzo remain.