Chapter Text
The nights are longest in the winter, and that works just fine for Reaper. He hates the cold, but hey, the payoff is more than good enough. It gives him more time to hunt, and God does the man love to hunt.
It's not about the money anymore, nor about his childish dreams of saving the world. He realized a long time ago that things only get better in short bursts; peace never lasts. But he lasts. He has and will live through it all, even though he did technically--officially--die. Sometimes the paperwork is wrong. Sometimes the graves are empty.
The grave couldn't hold me, he thinks from time to time, and it makes him chuckle. Jack would give him such grief if he heard that. Jack was always on his case about being too brooding. At least now he has a reason. Kind of. Maybe it's too stereotypical, but it's fun, damnit. What's the point in being immortal if you can't have fun?
His new self is everything Gabriel dreamed of being back in his brooding teenage years. Funny how the oddest dreams are always the ones to come true.
He hunts with gun and claw in equal measure, but it's always his fangs that make the kill. The way his targets scream and writhe beneath him, the way their flesh pulses against his tongue, the spray of warm blood around his teeth... It makes him hard every single time.
If only Jack could see him now...
He stops where he stands, which, this time, happens to be on the outskirts of a desert town with a gang problem he's been slowly solving. Whenever that thought creeps into his head, it's like someone kicked off his power switch.
If only Jack could see me now.
What would he think? Would he still love him? Reaper is Gabriel, and Gabriel still loves that stupid Captain America farm boy. He still loves him even though he killed him. Fucking God damnit. He should let go. He knows he should let go. But he can't.
Reaper slides his guns back into their holsters and pulls off one of his clawed gloves. There's claws underneath the metal, real ones, growing right from his fingertips, but he prefers the thicker cut of sharp metal. He reaches up with one calloused hand to rub the small gold ring in his ear between thumb and forefinger. It's the last present Jack gave him before everything went to shit.
It's the last thing he has left of Jack. Everything else was taken by the fire, the fire he caused with his stupid temper and the jealousy he now knows had been planted in him on purpose. He knows better now, knows he had been a tool. If only he had known then. Maybe he’d still have the photos and the jacket he had stolen from Jack in training. Maybe he’d still have him, Jack, with his too perfect blonde hair and shining blue eyes. Maybe he’d have something other than memories. But he doesn't.
Gabriel sighs as his stomach rumbles. This happens too often, these pangs of guilt. He slips the glove back on and he's Reaper again. He pushes the memories swirling in his gut back down and he's back on the move.
Back to the hunt. Fuck, he loves the hunt.