Overwatch ➸ Reader Insert Oneshots

Soldier: 76 // Reunion

Prompt 12. "Please don't leave me. I love you."

[Rating: PG13]
[Word Count: 1703]
[Summary: Years after Jack Morrison's supposed death, you run into him in one of the backstreets of Dorado.]
[Genre: Angst]
[Unedited]

Requested by MizuAice

     The last place you expected to hear Jack Morrison's voice was in the backstreets of a small town like Dorado. You hadn't expected to hear his voice ever again, in fact. The chances of him being alive were just so minuscule that you'd disregarded them altogether long ago.

     Of course, there were nights that you'd pretend, for just a moment, that he was still out there somewhere. It was always on the darker nights, when the moon was covered by thick, lowly hanging clouds that left a cool haze over the city. You'd enter your bedroom, accept the fact that somebody would forever be missing from it, and collapse into your blankets with a desperate sob. 

     On your worse nights, when the force of your crying was strong enough to rack your entire body, you would go so far as to imagine him in bed next to you. You'd put so much of yourself into conjuring up the perfect recollection of his face that you could almost believe you were seeing him past the wall of building tears that obscured your vision. More importantly, you'd feel the warmth of arms you hadn't actually felt around you in years. It was your way of coping with what you'd lost that day at the Swiss Headquarters.

     Tonight wasn't supposed to be one of those nights. You hadn't had to resort to playing make-believe with a dead man in months. Even on this year's anniversary of his death, you were able to keep it together and even hold the strength to visit his memorial site on your own. So, to hear his voice again with no warning was worrying, to say the least.

      You had a mission. You had a town to protect. You shouldn't—no, couldn't allow your emotions to get the best of you. Especially not with a gang like Los Muertos on the the loose. They were dangerous, unpredictable. In fact, the entire reason you'd been drawn to them on this particular night was because of the sudden burst of explosives you'd heard from a few streets over.

       "Not anymore."

      There it was again, though. His voice, the same low grumbling from so long ago, ringing in your ears. It was the same voice that had reassured you of yourself so many times in the past, promised to protect you, and confessed that he'd loved you. The sound of it knocked the air out of your lungs and clouded your vision, but you were reluctantly relieved to hear even a paracusia of it. 

     No matter how earnestly you were trying to convince yourself that these perceptions of Jack weren't real, you still couldn't prepare yourself for the shock you felt when he passed you. From your position crouching behind the crates lining the alley, you saw Jack Morrison in the flesh. He was different, yes: his once glowingly blonde hair now held a grey hue; a mask covered the large majority of his face; a pale red scar stretched vertically across his forehead. Even with these differences, though, he was still Jack. He was still the man that you'd once loved.

     He didn't notice you as he ambled past your hiding place. You couldn't help yourself; you scrambled to your feet and called out to him, grabbing at the back of his jacket like he'd evaporate if you didn't have a grip him. 

     "Jack!" Your voice was not your own as you cried his name; it was hoarse and gravely, like you'd swallowed sand. "Jack Morrison. That's you, isn't it?"

     His entire frame went rigid in response. He didn't turn around. "Jack Morrison is dead."

     "He's not." You could scarcely believe that, after all the work you'd put into putting his death behind you, you were making such a confident claim. "You're Jack. You have to be."