Archive of Our Own

Some decades before the start of the first Omnic Crisis, an affliction of the lungs began in several countries throughout the world. First thought to be sudden tuberculosis or pneumonia, the disease rapidly progressed to debilitating stsages, and during MRIs, doctors were shocked to find brambles of flowers growing in their patient’s lungs.

Surgical removal was the most immediate option, and was found to be quite successful after a time. The cause, on the other hand, remained a mystery, as there seemed to be no common physical traits between those affected. Theories surfaced and were quickly shot down, leaving little room for progress or prevention. It wasn’t until post-surgery patients reported in therapeutic sessions that they were suddenly unable to muster any emotions for love interests that any correlation was found; the single common denominator among all patients was the presence of unrequited love in their lives. While still thought impossible by many, the simple fact of the matter was that the brambles and roots seemed to disappear entirely soon after their love was requited, and failing that or surgery, some even died of their condition.

They called it lovesickness, or hanahaki, and there were no means of determining who among unlucky, would-be lovers would catch it, and who it would pass by. It was generally estimated that 2-3% of the population would be subject to it, as common as red hair or green eyes.

Gabriel figured he was virtually immune to the whole thing. He hardly had the time to entertain ideas of romance during the Omnic Crisis or long after, wasn’t even keen on it, really, and no one in his general vicinity ever seemed to catch his fancy in the first place.

And in his defense, he hadn’t yet known about Jesse McCree.

They drink together on Friday nights.

It happens by accident the first few times. Jesse goes up to the roof to smoke and Gabriel to drink beer in peace. There’s enough respect between them by that point that an exchange is offered, one of Gabriel’s beers for one of Jesse’s cigarettes. Eventually, Gabriel starts bringing up six packs instead of singles, and Jesse, on his new salary, turns to buying cigars. It becomes an unspoken ritual of theirs, weekly and almost mandatory.

This is why it shocks Gabriel when Jesse invites him elsewhere, come Friday evening.

“Those Overwatch agents we worked with last week,” Jesse tells him while they dress, fresh from the base showers. Jesse’s hair still drips water, beads falling to dot the plaid pattern of his shirt and the rough-worn knees of his jeans while he pulls on his boots. “Klein and Holland. They invited me out bar hopping.”

Gabriel pauses, hoodie halfway up his arms. “Oh,” he says, then inwardly cringes. It’s not lost on him that Jesse could be doing a million other things on a Friday night besides hanging out with his boss (namely drinking with people his own age) but he hadn’t really ever considered that Jesse might actually do it. Friday nights had been theirs for years now. “Tonight?”

“Mmhmm,” Jesse says. “Holland says there’s a place up Schwanengasse that has good whiskey. Figured I’d like to give it a shot.” He grins. “Or a couple shots.”

Gabriel grunts softly in acknowledgement and pulls his hoodie over his head. His quiet embarrassment at feeling entitled to Jesse’s attention has made him strangely aware of himself and his remaining nakedness. He buttons his jeans quickly. “Well, uh…have fun.”

Jesse looks at him. “That’s it?”

Gabriel snorts. “You don’t need my permission to go out when you’re off duty.”

“I’m not askin’ your permission,” Jesse says. “I’m askin’ you to go with me.”

That makes Gabriel look up in surprise. “Me?”

“Who else?”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says, exasperated. “I think inviting your commanding officer out might kill the mood, Jesse.”

“You’re not—” Jesse starts, then winces a little when Gabriel shoots him a look. “I mean, I don’t think it would. S’just you.”

“You’re the only agent within this entire place that would dare say that to me,” Gabriel replies flatly.

“You go out with Blackwatch agents sometimes,” Jesse objects.

“Blackwatch agents,” Gabriel says, “Sometimes. Rarely.” He props a foot on the bench and stoops to tie his boot, avoiding Jesse’s gaze now. Would it sound too much like a child’s temper tantrum if he said he’d rather it be just them? Gabriel had never cared much for the company of others, aside from a very select few that he counted Jesse among. He especially didn’t care for the company of strangers, who would be new to Jesse’s charms and jokes and susceptible to laughing too loudly. Even the thought of it made Gabriel want to roll his eyes.

“C’mon, Gabe,” Jesse presses. “Would it kill you to play nice for a few hours? We’ll be drunk either way.”

“You’ll be drunk,” Gabriel corrects. He could never quite get drunk, not after SEP. “And I’ll have to make small talk.”

Jesse huffs, a little petulant himself. “Fine. I’ll tell ‘em no, then.”

Gabriel gapes at him. “What for? You said you wanted to try the whiskey.”

“It’s our Friday night,” Jesse says, like skipping it was absurd.

That knocked Gabriel speechless. Something fluttered in his chest, like he’d forgotten to breathe and didn’t quite know how to come up for air. Jesse wanted to skip out on good whiskey and, potentially, good company, just to spend another night on the rooftops with him. He felt fond of the notion, maybe overly fond. The two of them were close, sure, but when had they gotten so close that Gabriel felt giddy at the idea of being Jesse’s first pick?

He liked the concept so much that it startled him a little, and Gabriel cleared his throat. “No,” he said, even though he deeply wanted to say yes, “you should go. It’s been what, two, three weeks since you went out last? You’ll get cabin fever.”

Jesse sputtered a little, flustered and caught. “Well now,” he said, “I suppose I could ask if they’d go out tomorrow—”

“Just go,” Gabriel said, waving him off. “One night without me won’t kill you. Go have fun.”

Jesse visibly deflated. “Are you sure? We could—”

“Jess,” Gabriel says, amused. “Go.”

Jesse sighs and raises his hands in defeat. “Alright, angel. Call me if you change your mind.”

That odd feeling flutters in Gabriel’s stomach again. Something tickles in the back of his throat. “Sure, puppy,” he said, and Jesse throws him a grin over his shoulder as he puts on his hat and leaves.

Gabriel watches him go, then finishes getting dressed. That sensation in the back of his throat grows worse. He clears his throat.

In the end, he ends up on the roof anyway, smoking his own mid-tier cigarettes and drinking beer by his lonesome. Once upon a time he’d done this without complaint, but now it seems too quiet. Now, without Jesse’s voice to fill the silence, without their shared stories and his low laugh—

He coughs. It’s sudden and harsh, and his lungs burn. And he thinks nothing of it, not until he coughs a second time and feels something crawl up his throat.

He stumbles back from the parapet, dropping his beer and cigarette while he doubles over to hack. The bottle cracks open, the ash at the end of the cigarette crumbling and scattering. Something flat and slimy hits the back his tongue, and Gabriel gags and spits it up.

In the dim rooftop lighting, something dark and lumpy hits the floor.

Gabriel stares at it as the coughing finally subsides. His shoulders heave as he catches his breath. After a moment, he reaches down and picks it up.

It’s a flower.

“It’s a morning glory,” Dr. Ziegler says.

Gabriel stares at her. She’s up late, working night shift and tired, hair mussed from it’s bun and her scrubs rumpled. Still, she’d let Gabriel pull her aside into an empty examination room, near panicked and clenching his fist tight.

“A morning glory,” he repeats.

“Yes,” she says, studying the flower in his hand with a frown. “This is…this is a very rare disease, Commander. Your respiratory system is producing these flowers.”

Gabriel feels a faint squeeze in his throat. He isn’t sure if it’s anxiousness or another flower. “I know of it,” he says slowly. “Hanahaki, right?”

“Or lovesickness, yes,” Dr. Ziegler says.

Gabriel laughs.

“I implore you to take this seriously,” Dr. Ziegler insists. “This disease can quickly become deadly. When did you first notice these flowers?”

“Tonight,” Gabriel answers honestly. “But I’m not in love with anybody, doc. This has to be some kind of fluke.”

Dr. Ziegler presses her lips together and takes off her glasses, folding them neatly and putting them into her breast pocket. Gabriel blinks in surprise as she rolls her chair closer and cups the hand that holds the flower, as if she’s about to break some terrible news to him. “Commander,” she says severely. “This is a full flower head.”

He leans back. “So?”

“So,” she says, “Not only are you in love, but deeply. The early symptoms of this are supposed to start with petals. Do you understand?”

“I…don’t think I do,” he admits.

“Have you been experiencing any chest pains lately?”

Gabriel blinks. “I…guess? Figured it was acid reflux, or something.”

“How long?” Dr. Ziegler presses.

“A while? Doc—”

“The fact that this is the first flower you’ve coughed up,” she interrupts, “I’m not sure if it’s a miracle or a death sentence. You need to be evaluated right away.”

He argues. She counters. He ends up getting an MRI.

“It hasn’t spread too far yet,” she tells him as he comes out of the scanner. “But where it has spread, it’s deep. By my estimate, it won’t be long until you are struggling to breathe.”

Struggling to breathe. Gabriel swings his legs over the edge of the patient table and rubs his throat. “This…can’t be right,” he says, his other hand tight on the table. “I’m not in love. I’d know if I was.”

She gives him a look. “You wouldn’t be the first to think that,” she says, “and you wouldn’t be the first to be wrong. Your body isn’t lying to you.”

He swallows. He can still taste the pollen. In the light, the flower had been purple and pink, vibrant and crumbled it places where it fit between his teeth.

“Denial does you no good,” Dr. Ziegler tells him, hands laced together like she’s about to tell him someone died. “You must come to terms with what you’re feeling. One of your options is allowing the feeling to fade naturally, but if you are coughing up full flower heads already, I’m unsure if you have that kind of time.”

“Okay,” Gabriel says, still disbelieving, “and my other options?”

“Either your object of affection returns your feelings,” Dr. Ziegler says patiently, “or you have extraction surgery.”

“Extraction surgery.”

“Yes. But the surgery comes with a cost. All known patients have expressed that they became unable to feel romantic love after the fact. It’s a big decision.”

“Not for me,” Gabriel snorts. “I’ve gone this long without it. What’s the rest of my life?”

“If you’d gone without it,” Dr. Ziegler corrects, pinching her brow, “you would not be here in the medical wing. Regardless, this is not a surgery you can just say yes to. There are regulations. You need to be given informational packets, time to think, consultations. I suggest you get these done quickly.”

Gabriel drops his head back to stare at the ceiling in annoyance. When he looks back down, Dr. Ziegler has risen and is handing him a thick packet of papers, labeled in bold with Hanahaki Diease: Managements, Solutions, and Treatment.

“Read through this carefully,” she instructs. “Maintain your exercise routines, but take care not to strain your lungs. And please, consider your options seriously.”

“It sounds like surgery is my only option anyway,” Gabriel says, “if I’m as pressed for time as you think.”

“Or,” Dr. Ziegler says pointedly, “you could talk to the object of your affection first, before making any life altering decisions. I will always recommend talking before I recommend such an invasive surgery.”

“Tell me who to talk to, doc, and I’ll do it,” Gabriel says, spreading his arms to motion at no one.

She shoots him another look, patience apparently gone. “Monitor your symptoms,” she says, and then she kicks him out.

Gabriel skims the packet on the way back to his room. It contains overly detailed information and graphics about the disease, which he’ll admit makes him a little nauseous, and of course information about surgery preparation and recovery, but a sizable portion of it is dedicated entirely to the aftereffects. Paragraphs on paragraphs coat the pages, all saying things like ‘The absence of the source love may initially come as a shock,’ and ‘It’s important to seek therapeutic counsel post surgery, as many patients describe falling into depression during recovery,’ and ‘You may feel that the love is worth more than your life, which is understandable but ultimately false.’

Gabriel wasn’t sure how he was supposed to be shocked at the absence of a thing he didn’t know afflicted him. He still wasn’t convinced it wasn’t some sort of misunderstanding…maybe there were other causes about this flower disease that hadn’t been discovered yet. Maybe some strain of it had become contagious, and Gabriel had gotten it from someone else.

He enters the dormitory, already considering tossing the packet out. He can’t see a reason not to get the surgery. It isn’t as though he can’t live without love. He doesn’t have time for it to begin with, with how Overwatch keeps him busy. He isn’t good with children and doesn’t particularly want any, can’t imagine anybody wanting to settle down with someone who has to be on planes and transport carriers almost as often as not. He doesn’t have a lover’s face or demeanor to draw anyone to him, and he feels fine with that. Wouldn’t it be simpler to just be rid of the notion entirely?

Quiet laughter breaks his train of thought. Laughter he knows. Jesse’s further down the hall, bracing an arm on the wall and leaning over another agent Gabriel barely recognizes — Holland, he thinks. Jesse says something to him, his voice pitched low, and Holland flushes scarlet before quickly turning to enter his code into the door and pulling Jesse inside.

The door slides shut with a hiss. Gabriel frowns. He’s more glad now that he didn’t go, knowing full well that stomaching their flirtation the entire night would’ve been more trouble than it was worth.

He continues to his quarters, still mulling over it for some reason. He still wishes Jesse had spent the evening with him instead. Would’ve been nice, having his reassurance over this flower disease bullshit. But it’s his own fault, he supposes. He’s the one that told Jesse to go. And Jesse had apparently had a good time, just like he’d predicted. A good enough time that he’d gone to bed with someone.

Gabriel just doesn’t think Holland’s really Jesse’s type. He can’t really remember ever seeing Jesse out with a blonde. And Jesse tends to like them tall, more mature looking. He entertains a selfish thought, that maybe the sex will be bad or at least mediocre, and Jesse won’t want to go out with Holland again next weekend, or any weekend. Maybe—

His throat itches. Gabriel coughs lightly and steps into his room, tossing the information packet onto his bed. The itch grows worse. He feels something at the back of his tongue, chokes and leans over the little trashcan quickly. His lungs shudder with each cough, and eventually, he hacks up another flower, rumpled from its journey up his throat.

Wet pinks and purples seem to stare up at him accusingly from the trashcan. Gabriel breathes heavily, half expecting another to come up. He realizes, belatedly, that this is the second time he’s coughed up a flower head while thinking about Jesse McCree.

“No,” he murmurs aloud, shaking his head. He glances down at the flower again, frowning when he sees a few petals speckled with blood. “No, that’s…”

Ridiculous. It’s ridiculous.

Which isn’t to say that Gabriel is blind, or stupid. He knows easily that Jesse has a pleasantly rugged face, and a killer crooked smile that can make even men that keep to the straight and narrow flush. That drawl of his draws men and women alike to him even if he only favored the one, and Blackwatch training leaves him thick and broad with muscle. But those things were always for other people, for those made of hungrier stuff than Gabriel. And they certainly don’t mean Gabriel’s in love with him. He loves him, sure, but not the way these flowers insist.

Right?

Gabriel’s chest aches. He can’t tell if it’s the misery or his lungs. It has to be someone else. It has to. If it’s Jesse, and Gabriel got the surgery, then—

The flower sits idle in the trash, as though unwilling to give him answers.

Dr. Ziegler told him to monitor his symptoms, so Gabriel does, and he ends up back in her examination room far more often than he expects.

It’s been a long time since he’s gotten sick. SEP had run his immune system through the wringer and left his body well prepared against even a common cold. Gabriel never gets sick, and therefore is unprepared for how dogshit these stupid flowers make him feel.

“You’ve lost five pounds,” Dr. Ziegler tells him a few weeks in. “Are you eating enough?”

It has become clear, in that time, that the cause of this disease is, in fact, Jesse. Gabriel’s thoughts are wandering to him and lingering there more and more and more, and the flowers have gotten worse. More petals have started coming up with the flower heads, and he’s found there is a faint taste of pollen in the back of his mouth nearly all day.

He’s been doing his best to keep his appetite up. It’s hard, when he eats with Jesse nearly every meal. And he hasn’t been sleeping right, either, so there are heavy bags under his eyes and his skin has taken on a bit of a pallor. Jesse was starting to give him strange looks, and that mortified Gabriel more than he could say. Their weekend rendezvous are going thus far uninterrupted, which is both a relief to Gabriel and a curse. It is, frankly, a miracle that he hasn’t coughed up any flowers in front of Jesse yet.

“I’m trying,” he says.

She frowns. “You look unwell, Commander,” she says.

“I know that,” Gabriel returns, irritable. How do people stand getting sick on a yearly basis? It’s a pain in the ass.

Dr. Ziegler purses her lips. “Did you find your object of affection yet?”

Gabriel shoots her a glare.

She meets his gaze evenly, unfazed. “Your symptoms would all but disappear if you came to find out your feelings were returned,” she says.

“They’re not,” Gabriel says flatly.

There is a flicker of an expression on her face at his admittance. To her credit, the good doctor doesn’t deign to say I told you so. Instead, she folds her hands in her lap and asks, “Have you read the packet?”

He did read the packet. He read it so thoroughly he had practically memorized it. “Are…those really my only options?” he asks hesitantly.

“I’m afraid so,” Dr. Ziegler says. She pauses. “You don’t seem so keen on the surgery anymore,” she says.

“I can’t,” Gabriel rasps. His throat itches. “I can’t. If the…if it goes away with the surgery, then I can’t.”

“Commander,” she says, severe. “I cannot stress enough that your life should take priority.”

He knows that. He has things to do, a world to save. There are people out there that can be stopped only by his hand. There are groups out there wreaking havoc on innocent people that he has to contend with. By all accounts, it is not worth dying over these stupid feelings that have overtaken him suddenly.

And yet, the idea of not caring for Jesse anymore made him sick to his stomach. He still barely understood the difference between what he thought he’d always felt for Jesse and what these flowers say he feels. What if he gets the surgery and his entire relationship with the man suddenly means nothing? He considers what it would feel like, looking at Jesse and not feeling any fondness or affection. The thought of it opens a pit in his chest, or maybe it just makes the brambles in his lungs grow that much more.

“There has to be another way,” he says.

“I’ve told you the other ways.”

“Another way that doesn’t involve him loving me back,” Gabriel snaps. Dr. Ziegler stares at him, and he flushes.

“I must presume then,” Dr. Ziegler says, “that getting over him really is out of the question.”

“How can I get over something I only just found out about?” he demands.

“I don’t know, Commander. But if you can’t, and you refuse to tell him, then you must get the surgery.”

“I told you—”

“You are going to die if you don’t do something,” Dr. Ziegler says. “Do you understand that? He will have to watch you wither away and die. You must make a decision.”

Gabriel opens his mouth to retort, then abruptly turns away to cough into his hand. He can feel the morning glories start to come up again, the flower head and the accompanying ruined petals, the lump at the back of his mouth.

Dr. Ziegler stands up and grabs a few paper towels from above the sink and passes them to him. Gabriel puts them over his mouth and gags until he can spit the flowers up. They’ve got longer stems this time, and there’s a strange red hue to them that wasn’t there before.

Dr. Ziegler takes them in her gloved hands to study before she folds the paper towels around them and dumps them in the biohazard waste. “These are bloodier than the first you showed me,” she says.

Gabriel exhales and buries his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare,” he mutters.

Dr. Ziegler puts a hand on his shoulder. “You should talk to him,” she says gently.

He looks up at her, miserable. How many stories had he heard about people being scared off by confessions? Jesse sleeps around and doesn’t appear to be looking for a partner to begin with, but even if he is, he has so many options. Options he wouldn’t be counting his much older boss among.

“At least give it some thought,” Dr. Ziegler says.

He does give it some thought. He determines that Jesse rejecting him would hurt like getting shot.

In the following weeks, Gabriel starts coughing up about three flowers a day.

He still does not tell Jesse. Their Fridays come and go without incident; if Gabriel coughs, Jesse seems to chalk it up to a bad cigar pull. Gabriel forces himself to swallow the flowers down for as long as he can, until he has a moment to slip away to the bathroom or turn in for the night.

He remains painfully aware of Jesse’s smile, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the prickly shadow of his ever-growing stubble. Worse, he becomes aware, for the first time, of the thick silhouette of his thighs and the hair that dusts his arms and chest, the broad line of his shoulders and the cut of his jaw.

Gabriel shakes his head to clear it of such things before he enters the gym for morning physical training. Inside, his agents are already sparring, overseen by a sergeant who nods respectfully when Gabriel enters.

They’re all in the same uniform as always, an Overwatch branded tank top and sweatpants, bare feet leaving muted thuds on the mats. It’s a look that did nothing for Gabriel in the past, but…well. He doesn’t remember Jesse filling out his clothes so much. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he does, but this is the first time it suddenly matters.

It especially matters when Jesse is bent over another agent, knee in his back and the agent’s arms twisted around behind him. The guy struggles under Jesse’s grip for a moment, then taps out, and Jesse smoothly turns him loose.

He spots Gabriel immediately. “Reyes!” he calls, that smile lighting up his face. He turns away from the other agent as if he’s completely forgotten him, his hair wild from wrestling, and Gabriel thinks he’d like to comb his fingers through it. “Come spar with me. None of these fools can give me a challenge.”

His heart skips a beat. He likes sparring with Jesse more than he likes sparring with anybody else, maybe even more than he’d liked it with Jack back in the day. Maybe Jack was more his equal, but Jesse was wild, and damned if he ever made winning turn boring. And he does beat Gabriel every now and then, which always makes Gabriel swell with pride.

His lungs are burning a bit, but Gabriel still calls back, “I’ll give you a challenge, cowboy,” as he pulls off his boots at the edge of the mat and grins.

The other agent scrambles to get out of the way. Good. Gabriel’s focus narrows down to just Jesse, whose hands come up into an loose stance in preparation. They know each other well, Gabriel and his superior experience and strength and Jesse with his quick hands and and footwork. Jesse bounces on his toes and ducks Gabriel’s first swings, grins wider when Gabriel blocks or deflects his own. Jesse steps closer to grab at him and is met with a knee to the gut; he grunts, but recovers fast enough to hook his arms under Gabriel’s knee and around his waist in attempt to flip him. Gabriel lets him do it, taking hold of Jesse’s wrist before wrapping both legs around his arm as they go down, and Jesse quickly taps out as Gabriel pulls his arm at a painful angle.

“I give, I give,” Jesse says, laying flat on the mat after Gabriel lets him go. “Let me go again.”

“You gonna land a hit this time?” Gabriel teases, already up and staring down at him.

“Go easy on me?” Jesse returns good-naturedly, holding out his hand.

“Not on your life,” Gabriel snorts, taking it and hauling him up. He wonders if he imagines it when Jesse’s fingers linger a hair too long, and blanches a bit when he feels an itch in the back of his throat.

Jesse notices, damn him, with those sharp eyes of his. “You alright?” he asks, lowering his voice. “You look a little rough this mornin’.”

“I’m fine,” Gabriel says dismissively, though Ziegler’s words ring in his ear, you are going to die if you don’t do something. “Didn’t sleep well.” He beckons to Jesse again, adding, “Focus up, agent.”

“Yessir,” Jesse drawls, offering him a lazy salute and Christ, one of these days Gabriel should scold him for his casual manner of address.

They go again. Jesse lasts longer this time, takes Gabriel’s hits like a champ and even lands a few of his own. Gabriel hooks an ankle around Jesse’s leg and sweeps his feet out from under him, but Jesse takes it well and rolls as he lands, getting back to his feet in one smooth motion. Gabriel presses into his space and swings—

It’s a split second distraction then, the flower at the back of his mouth, but it’s enough. Jesse gets an arm under his and slides around him, his other arm suddenly looped around Gabriel’s neck. Gabriel quickly bends foward to flip him over his head, but Jesse gets his legs around Gabriel’s waist and hangs on tight, dragging Gabriel down with him and letting out a heavy noise of effort at the weight pressed on top of him. Gabriel braces his feet on the mat and arches, trying to shake him loose, but Jesse just tightens his arms and more puts pressure on Gabriel’s throat.

A lot happens in Gabriel’s mind all at once; he thinks that if he coughs up a flower here, this entire squadron of soldier’s will see, and more importantly, Jesse would see. He thinks that Jesse’s skin is warm against his, heated from activity and slightly damp with sweat. And he thinks that it might be nice, having Jesse’s arms around his shoulders in some other context, that even now, with Jesse’s body pressed up against him, it certainly isn’t bad.

“Tap out, Reyes,” Jesse manages, strain in his voice.

A little longer. Staying in his arms a little longer wouldn’t hurt. Gabriel could take the choking if that’s what it meant.

“Reyes!”

His vision darkens at the edges. His breath wheezes out of his mouth. At the back of his tongue, he tastes pollen.

He taps out.

Jesse lets go of him immediately, and Gabriel gasps for air, pitching forward and rubbing at his throat.

“Why the hell did you wait so long?” Jesse demands.

“Could’ve let go if you were that worried,” Gabriel points out with a rasp. He should’ve elbowed Jesse in the ribs or…or something. He’s never gotten distracted when they sparred before.

Jesse opens his mouth to retort, then closes it and practically pouts. “Now, don’t go pretendin’ you wouldn’t be sore at me if I let up too early,” he says.

Gabriel stares at him. It’s true, he would’ve been. It’s true in more ways than one, and Jesse has no idea just how right he is.

He feels so pathetic suddenly that he can’t help but laugh. And then he coughs.

Gabriel stumbles to his feet, choking, and quickly puts a hand over his mouth. He can’t let Jesse see. If Jesse sees, he’ll ask, and Gabriel doesn’t think he could lie convincingly about it, not to him.

“Reyes?” Jesse asks in alarm, his hand suddenly at Gabriel’s back. “Did I press too hard?”

He flinches at the touch, shakes his head and steps away. The flower feels different this time, thicker and more full, and the pollen tastes off, somehow. It’s coming up fast, shuddering past his windpipe while his lungs spasm hard in his chest. He coughs again, violently, heads quickly for the door. He has to leave, he has to—

Jesse tries to follow him. “Gabe?” he asks, alarmed. “Are you sure you’re alright? Are you sick?”

Is he sick. Ha. Gabriel hacks and braces a hand against Jesse’s chest, pushing him back as he exits the gym and leaving Jesse behind closed doors. In the hall, he finally spits up his flower, and is shocked to find it dyed completely red.

Or…no, not dyed. Grown that way. The flower is spotted with blood, but it’s also changed, not a frilly morning glory with it’s thin stems anymore, but a rose, with a thick stem snapped off just short of a thorn.

Isn’t that just a damn cliche.

Gabriel starts carrying around a damn handkerchief to cough into, like some kind of delicate, sickly maiden.

He feels stupid about it. But it’s easier to just say he’s sick and cough flowers into a handkerchief than it is to hack up flowers and spit them onto the floor. This way, nobody has to see exactly what it is he’s spitting up, and any bystanders can think whatever the hell they like, so long as they aren’t thinking flowers.

The roses get bad. Gabriel coughs them up even more than the morning glories, more spotted with blood each time. He grows more cagey trying to hide them all the time, often having to stuff a kerchief full of petals into his pockets when there isn’t an immediate secluded trash can available.

Jesse worries.

“You should take sick leave, angel,” he says gently one afternoon, just before a briefing.

“I don’t have time for sick leave,” Gabriel replies flatly, which is true.

“But you need it,” Jesse insists. “Lately you’ve been goin’ pale as a sheet, you’re thinner than usual, and you look like you haven’t slept in days. Who’s gonna run Blackwatch if you collapse on us?”

He feels like collapsing. His chest hurts constantly now, lungs burning with every breath. He hasn’t gone back to Ziegler in weeks, despite her pinging him several times for an exam. He doesn’t feel like hearing her repeat what he’s already heard. It doesn’t matter, either way; he’s still no closer to accepting the surgery, no closer to “getting over” whatever he feels for Jesse, and no closer to believing Jesse would ever have any interest in him.

Which is…it’s fine. Gabriel can stomach it if Jesse keeps having his weekend one night stands. Or if he falls in love with someone else someday. He could handle that.

“I’m not going to collapse, pup,” Gabriel tells him. “Besides, this mission is too important for me to just call out.”

They’re catching a trafficker that Gabriel’s been after for months. He’s finally got a chance to catch a DNA sample from the guy, hair and a spit and, if he’s lucky, a condom. The main problem is how he’s getting it, which has him crazy and irritable and not willing to be babied over his stupid love disease.

“Gabriel,” Jesse protests, then grabs his arm and pulls him to a stop. “Angel,” he says, pleading. “I’m worried about you.”

Goddamn him, with the nicknames. Gabriel feels himself flush; hadn’t Jesse calling him angel meant practically nothing a few weeks ago? Now it feels…good, in a way it didn’t before. Gabriel thinks about him crooning angel in that accent of his and nearly shivers.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m fine,” Gabriel insists.

“You’re sick and you won’t even tell me with what,” Jesse says. He looks wounded, very much the kicked puppy Gabriel often compares him to. “After this mission, will you take a break?”

“Jesse—”

“For me,” Jesse tries. “Please. I’m askin’ real nice.”

Gabriel presses his lips together and tries hard not to give in. Rest won’t do him any good, not really. He’s not even sure how long he has before this hospitalizes him. It’d be best if he could get as much work done as possible before then. And still…

“Fine,” he caves, despite his better judgment. “Fine, I’ll take some time. Happy?”

Jesse practically beams.

Gabriel quickly puts a hand over Jesse’s face and pushes him out of the way. “Stop looking at me like that,” he complains, heading for the briefing room again. When did he get so weak for that face?

Jesse jogs to catch up with him, wisely remaining silent. Still, he radiates that he’s pleased.

Gabriel sighs.

In briefing, Gabriel explains mission details; they’re after a Carson Lowe, drug lord and human trafficker thought to have his grimy paws in several distribution rings throughout the States. He was well connected, absurdly wealthy, and constantly on the move while fronting as a legitimate businessman. The rundown: the Lowe has been invited to the grand opening of a close friend’s nightclub, is rumored to plan to be there all night, and had booked a hotel room just across the street.

“Long story short,” Gabriel says, having read through his piece, “this one’s a honeypot. Lowe has enough in the way of security that approaching him directly is out of the question. That said,” he exhales, “he has a type he’s likely to approach on his own. Lowe is heavily rumored to swing both ways, and we’ve got confirmation that he’s got a thing for Southern belles.”

Everyone immediately turns to look at Jesse.

He blinks, looking very much the part of a deer in headlights. “Aw, hell,” he says.

Gabriel turns away from the onlookers and spits up a rose into his hankerchief.

The mission takes place in a week’s time. Gabriel gets worse.

Breathing during training becomes next to impossible, so Gabriel stops visiting in the morning and instead occupies himself with expense reports and mission planning. The office trash can fills quickly with balled up napkins wrapped around crushed petals, bloodstained and speckled with more orange the more he coughs up. Jesse is kept occupied by dance lessons and building layout memorization, for the most part, but he brings Gabriel food from the mess hall when Gabriel remains in his office for too long. Usually he’ll stay for a bit, fretting about but thankfully not questioning how full the trash is.

In the mirror, Gabriel’s cheeks look a little hollow. He’s lost more weight, his skin has lost the warmth of its color, and the bags under his eyes are dark and heavy. Dr. Ziegler corners him in his office to listen to his breathing and lectures him for an hour about letting it get this bad, even threatening to go so far as to declare him unfit for active duty.

He knows, at this point, that the surgery is coming. He’s just not ready to stop loving Jesse yet.

When mission day finally comes, even Gabriel’s resting breath is labored.

Jesse’s dressed to the nines. Gabriel tries not to look at him too much. He doesn’t need to see the way that sheer lace button-down hugs his chest, or the way the jeans contour to his ass, or how the crisp new leather boots fit his calves. The hat is doing him favors too, accenting the sharp slope of his now shaved clean jaw, and that gaudy belt—

Gabriel is trying very hard not to think about his belt, on principle.

“I’ve never done one of these,” Jesse admits while Gabriel neatly rolls up his shirt cuffs, as if Gabriel doesn’t know. They’re set up on the first floor of the hotel, several agents crammed into a falsely homey room, monitors strung up to tap into security cameras, listen in through a tiny microphone hidden in Jesse’s collar, and transmit to an even smaller communicator in his ear.

“I usually send prettier girls than you,” Gabriel says, setting Jesse’s sleeves to rest just beneath his elbow. It’s a tease, and to Gabriel’s mind, bordering on a lie. The bouncer’s already paid off, but Jesse could get in on looks alone if he needed to, looking the way he did.

“Very funny,” Jesse says flatly.

“Don’t know what you’re nervous about,” Gabriel says, swallowing hard and tasting pollen. “You charm everyone you meet.”

Jesse purses his lips. “Not nervous, and not everyone.”

Gabriel scoffed. “Sure.”

“Didn’t charm you.”

Gabriel wishes that were true. His eyes flick up to meet Jesse’s briefly. “Kept you, didn’t I?” he said.

Jesse goes quiet.

There’s a beat of silence. Then, to fill it, Gabriel asks, “What’s the matter with you then, if you’re not nervous?”

“I just feel like a damn fool in this getup,” Jesse sighs.

“You look good,” Gabriel says, more earnest than he means to. He tries not to let his face flush. “This is barely different than your usual getup.”

“I might as well not wear a shirt at all, for all this covers.”

“Since when are you shy about showing off?”

Jesse snorts and glances away, like he’s amused and a little embarrassed at the same time. The little gold hoop in his ear shines against the bronze of his skin. It’s been a long time since he’s worn it. Gabriel thinks maybe he should wear it more often.

A crackle in his comms; Lowe has entered the building.

“You’re up, puppy,” Gabriel murmurs. “Make sure you get this guy for me.”

“Sir,” Jesse says by way of affirmation, and then he’s gone.

It’s already well past dark outside, the nightclub lights casting bright colors and thick shadows over the street. Music bleeds through the walls, a rhythmic thumping that will keep any nearby neighbors awake. Jesse makes his way past the line and tips his hat to the paid off bouncer, who nods subtly and lets him slide on by.

“Loud,” Jesse mutters.

The mic just barely catches his voice above the music, filtered out but still audible. Gabriel takes his place in the chair set in front of the monitors and adjusts his headset. “Easy, cowboy,” he says. “At least try to look like you’re having a good time.”

Jesse doesn’t answer this time, but Gabriel can see him through several cameras. At least from a distance, it’s impossible to tell he didn’t want to be there. He cuts a handsome figure, tall and confident and easygoing, and he sticks out like a sore thumb with that hat.

Lowe seems to have spotted him too. There aren’t cameras in the VIP lounge, but there are on the stairs leading up to it, where a tall, slender man with silver hair has stopped and is looking Jesse’s way with keen eyes.

“Bingo,” Gabriel says quietly. “Stairs, four o’clock.”

Jesse looks over. He tilts his chin up, revealing more of his face from under the brim of his hat, then flashes a smile and heads for the bar.

Lowe doesn’t move, but he looks.

“Come on,” Gabriel says under his breath. “Come on, take the bait.”

“Relax, Commander,” Jesse murmurs, then, to the bartender, “Whiskey on rocks, if you please? Top shelf.”

Gabriel watches him sip his whiskey and glance towards Lowe again. When Lowe meets his gaze, Jesse cocks his head, come here. And, after a pause, Lowe goes to him.

It’s here, as Lowe approaches Jesse with a confident swagger and a look of interest on his face, that the jealousy strikes Gabriel hard in the gut.

He watches as Jesse’s crooked grin fixes on this stranger, this bastard, watches as Jesse turns on his bar stool to face Lowe with open legs. His lungs burn. His chest aches in more ways than one. He should’ve gone to that bar with Jesse before, should’ve distracted Jesse from going home with Holland. He hasn’t known that he wanted to enjoy Jesse’s company that way until recently, but now it seems clearer than ever, with Lowe sliding up to Jesse and leaning in close.

“What’s a sweet young thing like you doing in this kind of place?” Lowe asks, like a walking goddamn cliche.

“Flatterer,” Jesse croons. “I could ask you the same. You look too good to be among this type of crowd.”

Lowe laughs. His voice is suave and borders on high pitched, and it wrecks havoc on Gabriel’s nerves. “Darling, my type of crowd is upstairs,” he says. He takes a moment to order a drink, then adds, “And you don’t seem to blend in here much yourself. It’d be hard not to notice you.”

Jesse leans back on the bar, glass temporarily abandoned and his hand sliding into his jeans pocket. “Maybe I like to be noticed,” he says.

“I’d wager you do,” Lowe says, then boldly moves between Jesse’s parted knees and puts a hand on his thigh. “Did you come here to dance, or did you come here for company?”

“Little of both,” Jesse says. The bartender sets Lowe’s glass down and turns away. Jesse sets his hand on the bar again, and then, easy as anything, drops a tablet into the cup behind Lowe’s back. “But I could skip the dancin’, if I had to.”

“Oh?” Lowe says in interest.

Jesse takes his whiskey glass and tosses the entire thing back, then asks for another. Lowe finally picks up his glass and sips. Jesse gives him a brilliant smile.

This is going well. Perfectly, even. Gabriel expected Lowe to need more persuasion, a dance, something, but apparently just having laid eyes on Jesse, just hearing his voice, is enough.

It makes Gabriel’s blood boil. It makes his throat itch. It makes—

He coughs. A flower burns its way up his throat. He quickly spits it into his handkerchief before shoving it into his hoodie pocket. The other agents are staring at him, even though they don’t dare whisper.

Jesse and Lowe chat a little longer. Jesse feeds him a mostly made up story about ranches in New Mexico, and Lowe listens with rapt attention, looking more and more smitten the longer Jesse talks. In front of the monitors, Gabriel drums his heel on the floor in annoyance, jaw set so hard his teeth hurt. He sent Jesse out to do this in the first place, so he has no misconceptions about whose fault this is, but it still makes his skin crawl to see that scumbag’s hand on Jesse’s leg, to know what Jesse would have to do to get what they need.

Gabriel can only hope Lowe’s skinny frame wouldn’t handle the drugs well.

“Could go somewhere, you and me,” Jesse’s saying, which makes Gabriel snap back to attention. “I’ve got a room across the street.”

“Sweetheart, I have a suite across the street,” Lowe replies, taking Jesse’s hand. If he notices the gun callouses, he either doesn’t say or chalks them up to ranch work. “Shall we go?”

“You’re gonna leave your upstairs company for little ol’ me?” Jesse laughs. “Sure, sugar, we can go.”

“You are much more interesting than my upstairs company,” Lowe says, finishing off his drink. Gabriel bristles at the nickname but sits forward, watching him swallow the last sip. They had approximately five minutes before Lowe started feeling the effects, a few more before he passed out.

“Get going, cowboy,” Gabriel says into his comm. “Clock’s ticking.”

Jesse tosses back the last of his whiskey as he rises from the bar, nudging Lowe from between his knees. He takes Lowe’s hand, the crowd parting tightly around his bulk as he pushes for the door, while Lowe follows close enough behind that he can feel up Jesse’s ass while they walk. Jesse jumps, but only a little; Gabriel’s brow twitches.

“Switch me to lobby cams,” Gabriel commands, and the agents behind him bustle about the equipment. The cameras switch one by one, and Gabriel only offers each one a glance before Jesse finally appears on screen. Lowe has taken to leading him, pulling him into the elevator and shoving him against the wall inside before the doors even have a chance to close.

Jesse grunts, his hat already knocked askew. Lowe presses himself close and wedges a knee between Jesse’s legs, flickers of tongue visible as he kisses Jesse hard. Gabriel casts his eyes away, seething, then quickly mutes his comm line and coughs violently. His shoulders shudder, and he fumbles with his pocket before helplessly hacking up more flowers into his handkerchief. More than usual come out, bright orange and misshapen. Gabriel quickly shoves them back into his pocket without studying them too closely.

“Commander?” one of his agents asks, and Gabriel barks, raspy, “Quiet.”

He regrets it immediately after. The hall cameras catch the slamming of a door, and then Jesse’s out of line of sight, hidden away in Lowe’s grand suite. All he can hear are groans and the shuffling of clothes, Lowe’s desperate plea of “Keep the hat on,” and Jesse’s laugh, his amused promise of “Only if you wear this for me, darlin’,” and the sound of him tearing a condom open with his teeth.

I’m going to be sick, Gabriel thinks, stomach swimming with jealous nausea and his chest burning like his lungs are fit to burst. He can taste pollen and the coppery flavor of blood stronger than he ever has, and each breath is a new stab of pain, like thorns are digging into his flesh.

Lowe is groaning distantly. The mic catches the pop! of Jesse’s mouth. Lowe’s words slur. Between all his moaning, he says, “What did you…do to me…?” and Jesse replies, “Easy now, relax. I’ll take care of you, angel.”

Gabriel stumbles to his feet. His chair clatters to the floor. His heart pounds. His throat seizes. It feels full, like the flowers are lodged in his windpipe. His agents whirl to him, alarm in their voices, but everything Gabriel hears seems muffled. He drops to his knees, gagging and choking. Petals and flower heads and stems sit at the back of his mouth. He doubles over, heaves, and finally the flowers come up.

It is a cluster. Orange and yellow flowers come spilling out of his mouth, ruined and spit slick, and Gabriel realizes with stark horror that the flowers have become marigolds.

I’m dying, he thinks. This thing finally killed me. And, because he can neither help it nor stand it, he also thinks, Angel?

He feels hands on his back, hears voices, Jesse’s voice, growing alarmed when Gabriel doesn’t answer his comms. Gabriel’s body goes taut as he struggles to breathe, still choking as he vomits even more flowers. Piles of torn petals fall at his knees, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and soaking into them, staining the carpet with dark splatters and dusty yellow pollen. He feels his limbs go slack, feels the room spin, hears Jesse cry, “Gabriel!” into their private comm line, and then everything goes black.

He wakes to tiled ceilings.

The bands of an oxygen mask press into his cheeks. Sterile white sheets rub rough against his backside. His hand stings with the tug of tape against his body hair and the dull prick of an IV needle. A heart monitor beeps steadily nearby, his vitals displayed on a screen close to his bed.

For a moment, panic. And then, when both his sharp inhale and the immediate thought of Jesse brings a deep swathe of pain to his chest, he calms. They haven’t given him the surgery yet. Still, it’s only a matter of time before they come to ask his consent again, only a matter of time before this oxygen mask isn’t enough.

The door slides open then, time apparently not in his favor, and an unfamiliar doctor enters the room. “Ah, good,” he says, “you’re awake.”

There aren’t any big insignias on his scrubs. “I take it this is—” Gabriel rasps, then winces at the pain, “—this isn’t Watchpoint: Grand Mesa.”

“Nope,” the doctor answers. “Regular old emergency room, I’m afraid. Your ah, coworkers didn’t have the kind of time it takes to fly you to a Watchpoint.” He takes a seat on a rolling chair and pushes himself closer. “My name’s Dr. Kaiser. I’m here to talk to you about extraction surgery.”

Gabriel exhales, slowly and painfully.

“I’ll take a wild guess and say you’re not keen on it,” Dr. Kaiser says. “But you need to understand how far this has progressed. We’ve already done a scan for you, and if I can be honest…this is the worst I’ve ever seen it. I give you a few days, at absolute best.”

Gabriel’s breathing is audible, wheezing. Each breath hurts worse than any wound he’s ever had. He manages a nod.

“Can I ask if you’ve spoken with your person?” Dr. Kaiser presses. “Because if you already have, it’s my recommendation that we send you to OR as soon as possible.”

Gabriel casts his eyes away. He would almost prefer Dr. Ziegler’s impatient scolding over admitting to this stranger that he was a coward for putting it off so long.

“I see,” says Dr. Kaiser. “Listen, I understand that this is a really invasive and life-changing procedure, but you are at the point where you can’t breathe without assistance. If you can’t—”

The doctor pauses, interrupted by a commotion in the halls. Gabriel can hear raised voices, nurses protesting and a man’s familiar twang…Jesse’s voice.

“Excuse me—” Dr. Kaiser starts.

“Let him in,” Gabriel says hoarsely. “Let him in.”

Dr. Kaiser looks at him, then sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he says, then exits down the hall. The commotion quiets almost immediately, and after a few moments of silence, Jesse all but bursts into the room, still dressed in his mission clothes.

“Gabriel,” he breathes, brows knitted tightly. “Oh, angel, you scared me half to death.”

The name makes Gabriel’s chest squeeze. He sits up halfway, letting out several harsh coughs, and Jesse’s at his side in an instant, offering one of the emesis bags from the basket hanging by the bed. Gabriel takes it and lifts his oxygen mask enough to vomit up three full blooms, then slumps back against the bed and pulls the mask back over his face.

Jesse stares. The bag is just translucent enough for him to make out the shape of the marigolds. He swallows. He says, “Doc told me you’ve got…he said you’re lovesick.”

Of all the ways for Jesse to find out, this was arguably the worst. “I…” Gabriel tries, voice nearly gone from all the flowers scraping their way up his throat. He struggles to find a simple way to explain without giving himself away, then gives up. “I guess I am,” he mutters.

“I don’t understand,” Jesse says, frustration plainly audible. “How could—who the hell wouldn’t—” he cuts himself off, taking off his hat and raking his fingers through his hair. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he finally demands.

If he could count the reasons. Gabriel avoids his gaze. “What good would it have done?” he asks.

“What good?” Jesse repeats. “What…Gabriel, he said you’re dyin’. Why would you keep that from me? And now, you’ve gotta get surgery for this?”

Gabriel just nods.

“And then, what,” Jesse says, growing more and more upset. “You just can’t love anybody after that? Ever?”

“I can’t,” Gabriel admits quietly.

“That ain’t—” Jesse starts, then swallows thickly. Gabriel glances at him and finds his eyes have gone misty. “That ain’t fair. There’s gotta be some other way.”

“There isn’t.”

“What if somebody else loves you?” Jesse blurts. “That has to count for somethin’, doesn’t it?”

Gabriel lets out a wheezing laugh. “Like who?” he says. Jesse opens his mouth, and Gabriel waves him off. “It doesn’t work that way, Jess. It has to be the person that triggered it.”

“It ain’t fair,” Jesse says again, fists tightening at his sides. His voice wavers. “What if somebody else wants to…” He trails off, setting his jaw. Gabriel can already see a prickle of stubble coming back even when they just shaved him that morning.

A burst of affection warms him. Gabriel’s fists tighten in the sheets. He wonders what it will be like, to have Jesse this worried for him while he feels nothing in return. Maybe, when he wakes from anesthesia, he won’t want Jesse’s attentions at all, and Jesse will feel all his apathy and end up turning elsewhere. A lump rises in his throat. His lungs burn.

“Puppy,” he says, because maybe if Jesse leaves him first, then it won’t matter if he gets the surgery. He stretches out his hand, then, softly, “Jesse.”

Jesse blinks in surprise, then steps closer and takes his hand. “Angel?”

Gabriel hesitates a long while. “They’re for you,” he says finally, already feeling another blossom at the back of his throat. “The flowers. They’re yours.”

Jesse stares at him for a moment, then snatches his hand away. “That ain’t funny, Gabe,” he says.

And ah, that stings like a gunshot, just like Gabriel had imagined. “Not being funny,” he rasped. His chest feels like a pit grown full of thorns, like the flowers are swelling even as he talks.

“No,” Jesse says, bordering on angry now, “no, because if it were me, then—if they were for me, you wouldn’t have ‘em in the first place.”

Gabriel stares at him.

“What?” Jesse falters. “They…they said it’s for unrequited love. Ain’t it? So it…” his voice drops down to a near mumble, like he’s only just realized what his outburst has made him admit. “It can’t be me. Right?”

Something tugs loose in Gabriel’s chest. His throat itches, and he pitches forward to cough into the bag again. Jesse puts a hand at his back. Two flowers come up this time, a little easier, and when Gabriel glances at them, he finds them brown and wilting instead of vibrant and yellow.

“Are you…” he manages. It can’t be that easy. Jesse can’t just…love him, just like that.

“Do you mean it?” Jesse blurts. “They’re for me? ‘Cause…‘cause you don’t need that surgery, then. If it’s me, then…angel, I’ve been head over heels for you since I laid eyes on you.” He pauses. “Maybe not that long, but close enough to it. You know that?”

Gabriel laughs. It hurts. He didn’t know that. What’s he coughing up all these damn flowers for, then? His own assumptions? He should’ve asked. God, he should’ve just asked.

“I think I owe Ziegler a few beers,” he says with weak amusement.

“Can I kiss you?” Jesse asks desperately.

“I’ll taste like pollen.”

“Just…” Jesse sits on the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand and hesitates, then cups Gabriel’s jaw and presses a kiss to his cheek, as close to his mouth as he can get. “Angel,” he says softly, “how’d you not know? I thought you saw through me years ago.”

Gabriel’s entire body feels warm. “What do you want me to say? I’m an idiot?” He blinks then, reminded. “Tell me you got what we needed,” he begs.

“You make me damn sick,” Jesse says. “Yeah, I got it. Motherfucker. I’m tryin’ to have a moment.”

Gabriel sinks against the bed in relief. “Good,” he says, then pauses again as the last memory before he’d passed out flickers across his mind. He purses his lips. “You called him ‘angel’,” he says sourly.

Jesse blinks, then rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Did I now?” he says, like he doesn’t know. “Must’ve been a slip of the tongue.”

Gabriel shoots him a look.

“Alright,” Jesse concedes, looking thoroughly scolded. “Can I get away with it just the once? If I was pretendin’ it was you just to get through it…”

“You—” Gabriel starts, then feels his cheeks heat.

“Is that what triggered that fit?” Jesse asks, like he either doesn’t realize or enjoys embarrassing him like this. He takes Gabriel’s hand again. “I’m sorry, Gabe. Won’t call anyone else ‘angel’ again, promise.”

Gabriel swallows. It still hurts, but the muscle of his throat doesn’t pull quite so tight. “Good,” he says. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“You really love me,” Jesse says, either marvelling or asking or both.

Gabriel hesitates, flushed. It feels too heavy to admit just yet, even as the proof of it sits accusingly all around them. The mask, the hospital bed, the bag full of flowers, and Gabriel just as naked under his gown as he feels under Jesse’s gaze. He says, “Isn’t me hacking up my lungs proof enough?”

“Oh, angel,” Jesse says, and presses a kiss to Gabriel’s temple.

The hospital keeps Gabriel for a few days. It’s miserable. Gabriel spends much of his time there awake, coughing up the remains of his wilting flowers. Jesse stays by his side each night, patting his back while he throws up flower heads and loose petals and stems. When Gabriel finally starts throwing up the roots, the hospital sends him home, declaring he’s no longer in danger of suffocating.

Jesse sleeps in his bed when they get back to base. Gabriel’s still recovering, so sleep is all they do for now. Aside from the nightly coughing, Gabriel sleeps well, with his head tucked against Jesse’s shoulder and their legs tangled together under the sheets.

Ziegler performs a thorough checkup when he returns and insists on taking a scan once every two days after that, and eventually, finally clears him as flower free and fit for combat, though she phrases it as “rigorous activity” and again, kindly doesn’t say I told you so.

Jesse frets and worries over him until then. But after, when he’s sure Gabriel’s body can handle it, he keeps him awake all night, presses him into the mattress or holds him in his lap and tells him over and over that he adores and treasures him. Gabriel wakes to his alarm very few hours later, deeply sated and dazed by the attention. It was only two months ago that Gabriel had jealously watched Jesse disappear into another man’s room, and now…

He realizes, after some thinking, that he still isn’t quite sure how his love for Jesse has changed, aside from the physicality of it. And that’s fine; he doesn’t have to give either version up, either way.