Chapter Text
Jack Morrison walked into his kitchen and was greeted by the sight of several dead voles lying on his counter. A normal person probably would have freaked out about dead rodents on their countertop that were not there the night before. Jack hadn’t been a “normal person” in a very long time. He sighed and picked each vole up by the tail and dropped them into a baggie before stuffing them in the freezer.
“Thank you, Reaper, but I don’t eat voles,” he said. “We’ve been over this how many times?”
The black, white, and red barn owl perched in the corner of the kitchen let out a soft hiss. Yes, yes, he was so very ungrateful for having such a wonderful hunter as his mate. How did he not starve to death by refusing to eat the gifts his wonderful winged death-machine brought him? How very inconsiderate of him after he spent all night hunting.
“All done playing for the night?” Jack asked as he scrubbed down the counter to make sure no germs were left from the corpses. Reaper let out a soft hiss. “Alright; don’t you hack pellets on the couch again. It took me two hours to clean the last mess up.”
He started making himself breakfast, whistling a soft, slow tune as Reaper fluffed his feathers and started preening himself. He had bacon frying in the pan when Reaper decided that his current perch was unsatisfactory and flew over to the one by Jack’s elbow. He reached up to run his beak through Jack’s graying hair, clicking his beak to get Jack to comply with his wishes. Jack tipped his head towards his beloved companion, letting the sharp beak preen him.
“Yes, how do I manage to get so unkempt while you are away?” Jack chuckled as Reaper preened him. “I must roll in the dirt just to make you clean me, don’t I? I am such a useless owl.”
Reaper nipped gently at the top of his ear and Jack gratefully ran his hand over the odd black feathers. He wasn’t sure if Reaper was a proper melanistic barn owl, but he was fairly certain he wasn’t. He’d never seen black barn owls quite like his Reaper with his band of red spots across his chest and peppered across his back. Still, he was Jack’s best friend and he was grateful every day the grumpy bird decided to return home after a night of hunting.
He could very easily stop coming home. It wouldn’t be that hard for such an intelligent owl to find a nice little nest somewhere and return to being wild. Hell, he half expected Reaper to return someday with a pretty lady-owl in tow. Then they could both hiss at him all day over what a silly, featherless owl he was.
“So, when are you going to bring me home a nice girl?” Jack teased as he turned the stove off. “Maybe I want chicks too, you selfish prick.”
Reaper hissed at him as Jack walked over to the sink to dump the bacon grease into a jar. Jack laughed; yes, yes, what did Reaper need a silly girl for when he had a mate already? Incompatible genitals be damned, Reaper loved his stupid wingless owl. He was stupid and useless but he was Reaper’s and no one else was allowed to touch him. He’d screech and claw them if they tried.
Jack quickly cleaned the pan before he cracked open two eggs and dropped them onto the sizzling surface. He whistled as he cracked another egg in a small dish for Reaper. He smiled as Reaper greedily started lapping it up after Jack placed it in the feeding tray beside the perch. He flipped his eggs carefully, managing to save the yolks, and went to put some bread in the toaster.
He sat down at the table with a hearty breakfast and started eating. Reaper flew over to another perch beside the table, clacking his beak before he started preening his wings. Jack ate in silence, reading the newspaper from the day before since he didn’t have a chance to do so earlier. There wasn’t anything interesting happening in the city, but it was nice to keep up with a world he often found he couldn’t integrate back into.
He’d spent several years in the army travelling the world. He believed them to be the best years of his life with a few quick moments of unbearable pain. He still limped some days when the pain in his leg got to be too much to muscle through, but it was a small price to pay. He was still alive and that was more than he could say for a lot of soldiers after the Omnic Crisis.
He did his best not to think about that war. It was a terrifying time in his life that, while he certainly didn’t regret, left their marks on him and anyone else caught in the crossfire. The States had managed to escape most of the bloodshed on home soil, but a lot of American soldiers died defending the innocent lives of human and omnic overseas. If he closed his eyes, sometimes he still saw the battlefields. Not always, though; Reaper helped keep the worst memories at bay.
He really needed to find some way to get Reaper registered as his personal anxiety owl. He knew a lot of soldiers that walked around with dogs at their sides wearing the special jackets that signaled they were stress-dogs. He knew of a few cats that rode in backpacks wearing the same sort of jacket. Hell, he’d even seen one young veteran clutching a rabbit to their chest as they shook from audial overstimulation. An owl really wasn’t that much of a stretch.
If only Reaper wasn’t such an unfriendly bastard that screeched at everyone that tried to get near Jack. He was pretty sure stress-dogs weren’t allowed to growl; good luck telling a cat not to hiss. He certainly thought it was funny when Reaper fluffed himself up and screeched at people that approached without warning, but he knew that it really wasn’t appropriate. Funny, but not appropriate.
He mopped up the last of his egg yolk with the final corner of his toast just as Reaper’s head snapped around. He hissed loudly at the door a few seconds before someone knocked. Jack tutted him, offering his knuckle for his friend to nip at before he went to answer the door. He did his best to smile at the couple standing on his doorstep, ushering them in as Reaper let out a long screech of dislike at the people entering their nest.
He agreed, Reaper; fuck these two people in particular. Kindly aim your pellets at them. Jack knows you can do it, his little death-machine; he’s seen you hack them with amazing accuracy onto everything he loved.
“That bird is going to kill you one day,” Blaire shivered as she eyed Reaper nervously.
“Maybe peck my eyes out,” Jack shrugged. “I was just finishing breakfast. What did you need?”
He knew what they wanted; it was the same every Friday. They’d beg him to go to some new club with them and the rest of the “old gang” and get drunk and enjoy themselves. They didn’t seem to understand that Jack didn’t like the noise and the closeness after he got back from serving in Indonesia. The proper term was Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; Jack called it “The Living Hell”. He mostly called it that because his friends were a bunch of inconsiderate jackasses that wanted flashing lights and noise regardless of how sick it made him feel.
Maybe if they had flashbacks where they were scrambling through mud and blood to get away from sweeping red lasers they would be more considerate. But, somehow, he doubted that. It would probably just make them even whinier, claiming that the world wasn’t doing enough to keep them safe. Forget the fact that it wasn’t the world’s job to fall at their feet; that was just how they were.
He needed new friends, but he was almost forty years old. New friends didn’t just spring up out of the ground when you had an aversion for mingling with others. He remembered fondly that once he would have happily gone to these bars and had a blast with everyone there. Now, he just wanted to curl up on his couch and watch television with Reaper sleeping on his hip.
“There’s this club on the other side of town called ‘Strobe’,” Greg grinned. “Everyone at work’s been talking about it. Supposed to be really clean with the best vodka you’ve ever tasted.”
“And the bass is supposed to be amazing,” Blaire added as she sat down at the table, eyeing Reaper nervously as he lowered his head menacingly. “You have to come, Jack!”
“I don’t like bass,” Jack mumbled as he picked his dirty plate up. He clicked his tongue at Reaper, smiling as his companion eagerly flew over to the perch by the sink.
Jack had rebuilt his entire house to accommodate Reaper’s need for flight. He had knocked out a good number of walls and changed the cramped little A-frame into an open-concept perfect for an owl to perch wherever he wanted and feel safe and secure. His friends bitched that he put more effort into his owl than he did anything else but Jack didn’t care. Reaper was the only good thing he had in his life right now since he left his family on the farm back in Indiana. He was going to take the absolute best care of his feathered companion and the rest of them could go straight to Hell.
“You don’t like any music,” Greg rolled his eyes. “When was that last time you even strummed a guitar?”
Jack did his best not to flinch. The answer was four years ago when he got back from Indonesia. He’d picked the guitar up that had been left in his care, strummed one chord, thought of his dead comrade-in-arms, lover, and soulmate, and could never play another note. Just thinking about Gabriel made his throat close up and his eyes water.
Reaper hopped off of his perch and pushed himself into Jack’s chest, pulling insistently at the collar of his shirt. Jack ran his hand over Reaper’s head, smiling down into those huge black eyes. Reaper fluffed his wings up and tried to preen Jack’s chest, clicking his beak loudly. Jack’s throat opened up and he was able to take a deep breathe. Reaper always helped; what a good friend.
“You know why I don’t play the guitar anymore, Greg,” Jack said. “I’ll go with you tonight, but don’t think I’m doing it for any reason other than amusing my friends.”
“Awesome,” Greg grinned. “Come on, owl-man; let’s go get your party clothes out.”
Blaire clapped her hands while Jack rolled his eyes. He didn’t HAVE party clothes. He hated parties. There were always too much noise, too many people, and just too much of everything. He’d much rather stay at home and have a few beers while watching television or reading a book while Reaper flew circles over his head in preparation to go out hunting. That was peaceful after a day of stress that no amount of pills could help him control.
Still, better to amuse his friends so they left him alone tomorrow. Tomorrow he could decompress with Reaper, maybe take him out to the outskirts of town and let him fly around for a few hours. Until then, he had to endure his asshole friends.
He led the way up to his room, smirking as Reaper flew first to the railing and then into the intricate cat-tree in his room. He clacked his beak angrily at Greg when he tried to pet him, hissing and fluffing himself up to look bigger. It was so nice to know that his bird was just as annoyed with his friends as he was.
‘In other words, I love you.’
Gabriel hopped up to the window as dusk settled over the world. He clacked his beak at Jack, waiting for his love to open the window so he could go hunt and keep track of him. The special bands around his legs would identify him to anyone in the city that he was a “tamed” owl and employed to help keep the rodent population under control, as well as the occasional pigeon when he could catch the stupid things.
He was not a lazy owl, the damn things were just smart. Amazing, he knows, but the damn things had learned from infancy how to use the city skyline to their advantage. He had not and windows were absolutely terrifying when you were flying at high speeds.
“Jack, hurry up,” Blaire whined as Jack walked over to the window.
“Five minutes,” Jack grumbled as he ran his hand over Gabriel’s head. “You have a better night than me, Reaper,” he crooned. “Try not to eat anyone’s cat.”
Gabriel nipped at the offered knuckle gently, wishing he could tell Jack that he loved him and that he was always there for him. He fluffed his feathers in the adorable way that Jack liked, happy that he could make him smile with the prospect of a night out with his asshole friends looming over him. He was so beautiful when he smiled and he wished Jack smiled more. Jack opened the window and Gabriel flew out, catching an updraft and soaring high above the house.
‘Fly me to the moon and let me play among the stars.’
Up here, he could forget the explosion in Indonesia. He could forget the screams of the dying and the stench of death and decay. He could pretend that the war had happened to another person named Gabriel Reyes and not to him. Up in the sky, flying by moonlight, he was just Reaper, the not-so-friendly mice-hunter extraordinaire.
He was death on two wings, twisting around to catch a bat midflight and wolf it down after his talons had shredded it to pieces. He still found the feeling of fur sliding down his throat unpleasant, but that was how an owl ate and he was an owl so he had to suck it up. That was how an owl do so he must do as the owl do. He had to get Jack to stop watching those really old videos, God damn. He landed on a lamppost and looked around, taking in his impressive territory with primal satisfaction.
He was the strongest owl in the suburb. None of the others dared to challenge him. He was Reaper, the black barn owl that struck fear into the hearts of so many unsuspecting nightcrawlers. He could swoop down without a moment’s notice and snatch a mouse out of the grass, startling whoever was walking nearby. It was so much fun, especially when he screeched at them and they fled screaming about demons.
Sadistic? No, whatever made you think that? He was totally sane.
He took a deep breath, let himself enjoy the freedom for one more moment, before he returned to being Gabriel Reyes. He had a job to do, a job that Jack’s idiot friends did not make easy. This was his purpose now, one that made him feel a thousand times better than anything he had done as a human. There was something incredibly fulfilling about being a guardian to the man he loved, even if he could never just sit Jack down and tell him how much he loved him.
Dropping voles on the countertop only conveyed so much. Yes, he knows that you can’t eat them Jack, but it’s the best he can do, alright? It’s not like he can carry a bouquet of roses home; how would he even pay for that? “Here, fine store owner, I will give you a nice juicy rat for the largest long-stemmed roses you have. No, no, please stop yelling. I only wish for flowers, not your soul.” Damn it, Jack, your humor was brushing off on him!
He watched Greg’s headlights go by underneath his lamppost and took wing. He trailed behind the car just outside the reach of the streetlights. He was a ghost behind them, easily keeping up as they wove through the city. The car might have been able to go forty miles within city limits, but they had to stop constantly because of traffic lights; flying granted Reaper much more freedom to move.
He didn’t understand why Jack was still friends with these people. They had no respect for him and openly mocked him while he was having an episode. They did not try to comfort him, claiming that they were giving him ‘tough love’ when all they were really doing was trying to find excuses for their terrible attitudes. He wasn’t playing up his condition; you didn’t get mad at someone with Irritable Bowel Syndrome for running to the washroom when they accidentally ate something they shouldn’t have. Why whine about someone with diagnosed PTSD having an episode? Because they were jackasses, that’s why.
Gabriel had always been crass in life. He would push and prod at people, loving the reactions they gave. It was a game to him, a game to see how long it took to make someone snap and act in a way that most people never got to see. However, he knew better than to toy with people’s phobias or to push someone to the point of having a nervous breakdown on the spot. He didn’t throw fake spiders at people that couldn’t even breathe when they were around an arachnid and he didn’t run through a PTSD-treatment center clanging pots and pans together while screaming that the end was nigh. He was an asshole and he had better manners than ALL of Jack’s so-called friends.
He hated them. Each and everyone one of the stuck-up bastards. Blaire was the worst because she thought the world owed her something. He didn’t know half of her story, but even if he did think that it was unfair for her mom to run off when she was six, that didn’t give her the right to bully others into doing what she wanted. Playing victim only got you so far before you had to take responsibility for your shitty attitude.
Greg was just as entitled, whining about his job even though the man was the reason his co-workers didn’t like working with him. The man constantly ratted everything out to his supervisor then claimed total innocence of the whole incident. He’d gotten someone fired because they had the audacity to tell him his idea was not the best one available to them.
Amy found fault with everything. “Oh, you think my hair looks nice today? So you’re saying it didn’t look good yesterday. What, you think I’m pretty? Why don’t you think I’m beautiful? Is it because I’m Black?” Yes, she used that excuse whenever she could and Gabriel wanted to claw her damn eyes out for it.
And then there was spineless Trevor who just smiled and went along with everyone else. He was quick to run to Blaire if anyone in their little group showed any sign of stepping “out of line”. The line being to follow whatever Blaire and Greg said to anyone else that got roped into their stupidity. Trevor was quick to sidle up to Blaire and play kiss-ass as long as it kept him safe.
Gabriel hated them all. They were poison to Jack, tearing him down each time he tried to get a solid foundation forming beneath him. He didn’t want the love of his life to only have him. He wanted to see Jack smile and laugh again without Gabriel needing to be the focus of his attention. He wanted Jack to randomly call up a friend and start talking about his day. He wanted people to walk through the door and talk all day with Jack at the table. He wanted Jack to be happy.
He landed on the roof of the nightclub and winced at the loud bass he could hear coming from within. The vibrations were running up his talons and making his gizzard clench painfully. He fluffed his feathers miserably against the noise, feeling his eardrums vibrate painfully in time with whatever the Hell was being passed off as music inside. Blaire and Greg should never have dragged Jack out here; they should have been more sensitive to the fact that Jack still went into cold-sweats whenever he was around loud noises.
He hissed angrily and watched his graying companion shuffle after his friends. He looked like a lost child in his jeans and florescent orange shirt. It was the only one that Blaire had found that she claimed was “suitable” for a club; as if a nice white button down wasn’t suitable to go get drinks in. He wished he could have walked in with Jack, kept a hand on his waist so he never felt like he was alone with the noise and his racing thoughts.
“I’m sorry,” he wanted to whisper. “I’m sorry, Jack.”
All that left his mouth was a soft trill and he buried his head under his wing.
‘Fill my heart with song and let me sing forever more.’