Chapter Text
He was one of Talon's best agents, a mercenary who was neither dead nor alive. Deadly accurate with a shotgun and able to burst into smoke in a moment’s notice. He could suck the very life out of someone and use it to sustain himself. A trump card that could wipe whole squadrons off the map.
And Widowmaker found him asleep on the break room couch.
Usually when Reaper had finished a mission he could be found giving a debrief or holed up in whatever place he had staked as his own, planning whatever it was he did when he wasn't actively working for Talon. Widowmaker hadn't actually been sure if he slept or not, or if he even ate or drank. The latter she still didn't have the answer to, but the former appeared to have a solid answer.
That being said, she still knew some of his secrets. Mostly because he'd pulled her aside in confidentiality one day, speaking in hushed, harried tones.
She had promised that yes, she would feed his axolotl while he was gone.
Initially she didn’t understand why he kept the small creature. To be a mercenary was to be ruthless, merciless. It was to have no weaknesses. And yet here was an undead man keeping a small, pink, permanently neotenic animal.
It took her weeks to get an answer out of him, grumpily mumbled. Their regenerative properties. He felt a certain bond with the tiny, regenerative salamander.
Widowmaker had stopped questioning him about it.
The presence of Reaper on the couch had essentially chased off any Talon operative who was interested in catching up on their favourite shows, or perhaps in getting a snack from a vending machine. She’d seen one member beeline to the coffee machine and then practically set the world record for speed-jogging backwards once they had noticed the leather-clad man on the couch.
Reaper was spread out on his side over the entire worn couch, spiked gauntlets resting by his face and dirty boots hiked up onto the fabric. The television was quietly playing ads, something about a ‘getting your free trial today!’ Widowmaker shook her head, picking up the remote and dulling the sound. Not that it seemed like Reaper would be up anytime soon.
He’d likely fallen asleep watching, which was already strange. He’d never shown much interest in mindless entertainment, or in interacting with the rest of Talon. The only conclusion she could make was that the killer was truly and utterly exhausted and had found the first soft surface to collapse onto.
Reaper’s mask was in place, his face hidden as usual. If there was a face beneath there Widowmaker had no idea what it looked like. If there were eyes that were closed, if his face was as relaxed as the rest of his body or if it was tense with nightmares and restless sleep.
Heels clicking against the floor as the elite talon agent drew the blinds at the window shut. No way was she going to wake the sleeping mercenary. There weren’t any shotguns in sight but Widowmaker knew well enough that a puff of smoke and the barrel of a gun could be pressed against her head in a split second.
But she didn’t fear the reaper. She didn’t know what made him tick, but she at least was familiar with how his mind worked. Which meant that she had no problem with rooting in the cupboards for some pre-ground coffee to brew. Disgusting and lacking in flavour, but it contained the caffeine she was searching for. A newspaper was sitting on the counter, indicative that few people had passed through; people had a habit of accidentally taking them as they left. Enough so that a few Talon members had started to leave passive aggressive post-it notes.
Widowmaker glanced over the front pages until the pot had filled. Briefly she thought of investing in a French press, but in a break room for a company of this sorts the utility likely wouldn’t stay whole for very long. She wrinkled her nose as she poured the dark liquid into a dark blue mug then replaced the pot, keeping the bottom warmer on.
Nudging a chair into a convenient spot by the table, Widowmaker sat, crossing her legs, a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
The occasional agent filtered into the room, immediately on edge when they saw her; neither she nor Reaper were a common occurrence in the break room where common members mingled. Most would avoid her eye, not wanting to get caught in the sniper’s sights. A few gratefully went for the coffee pot, ditching the room soon afterwards. A few boisterous conversations died the moment eyes were set on her. She didn’t even have to look up, her presence itself having power.
But she still watched out of the corner of her eye. She listened to their footsteps, to their silence, and to their quiet mumbles. When it was only her and Reaper in the room she could hear breathing. Sometimes it was soft, and sometimes it was more haggard. She idly wondered if it was due to parts of his body turning into that inky black smoke.
Some agents who came in didn’t care about her as much, barely grunting a greeting before setting themselves on a search for the TV remote. They were her favourites. Not because of their rude greetings, but because each and every one were caught in surprise. And each and every one tried to keep their footsteps as quiet as possible, no one even daring to take out a phone and snap a picture.
If something like that circulated Widowmaker was sure she would find the dried out husk of the source the next day.
Widowmaker ended up having to refill the coffee pot only once, making a mental note of those who were brave enough to walk past her and help themselves to the fruits of her labour.
Eventually there was the deep rustle of fabric and the light chink of metal. A crack of one's neck, then the heavy sound of a two combat boots meeting the floor. Reaper had finally awoken.
His head slowly turned, and Widowmaker was sure that whatever equivalent to eyes Reaper had were focused directly on her. He didn’t speak. For a moment she didn’t speak either, instead blinking languidly in a manner that let the man know that she had been present for a decent portion of his nap.
“Coffee, mon ami fatigue,” she offered simply, nodding to the pot with her head before turning her full attention back to the paper. Silence. And then the solid thud, thud, thud of Reaper trudging to the counter, followed by the thumps and clinks of cups and cupboards.
So he did drink.
“Thanks,” he muttered, voice ragged as always. He was out the door immediately afterwards.
Widowmaker waited until the footsteps had faded away before scoffing. “De rien.”