Tracer catches her newest teammate in a rare moment of reflection. Reaper wants the ever-optimistic British woman to leave him alone as he wallows in his misery, but of course the time-traveling Overwatch agent won't leave well enough alone.

/

"To have died once is enough." Virgil

/

"I never would have pegged you as the sentimental type."

The harbinger of Death casts a glance over his shoulder, letting his clawed glove drop to his side. The soft scraping sound it makes against the glass window seems loud in the stillness as he looks at the chipper young British woman standing in the doorway.

Tracer waits for a burst of anger from the mysterious former Talon agent. She's only ever seen him in combat situations, where the wraith embodies fury and death in everything he's said or done. She watches him closely for a long moment before he strides forward towards her, footsteps heavy and loud as they break the silence.

She rocks back a little, going rigid and her hands spasm, on the verge of drawing her pistols from the holsters on her arms.

But the Reaper doesn't reach around to grasp the shotguns belted behind him. Even as he stalks towards her, she notices how he carefully keeps his darkly gloved hands in full view. His form trails black, shadowy mist at the edges as he tries to push past her.

Their shoulders clip and it throws her back a step. She watches him freeze with a harsh breath.

Tracer narrows her eyes, fully prepared to tell the vision of Death to buzz off. She isn't about to let him rage at her about something that is his fault! "Oh, come off it, now! I'm not trying to start nothin'. We're s'pose to be on the same team now. I just wanted to come up and say hi and see how you were taking things. We've fought a couple of times and I wanted to make sure there weren't any bad feelings between us. After all-"

The former Talon agent lifts a hand sharply, cutting the usually bright, young British woman off from her indignant rambling with a start. Tracer jerks back, rare fear blossoming in her clear brown eyes.

Silence hangs between them, heavy with fear that he can almost taste. Something in his chest he thought had died years ago aches dully. The chipper, confident, spunky young woman-who'd been almost like family to him-is completely rattled in his presence. And that hasn't bothered him till now...

She watches warily as the wraith-like figure slowly lowers his hand, curling it into a fist which he presses into his side. He's beginning to blur at the edges, and Tracer can no longer clearly see the rise and fall of his chest. All she knows is his heavy breathing, which sounds like it is being drawn in from between clenched teeth, rasps loudly in the small observation room.

The Reaper turns away again, with a harsh sound of frustration that she wonders if he realizes he's let out, and Tracer instinctively reaches out again, placing her hand solidly on his shoulder. "Wait, please! Sorry! I'm so sorry!" God, she sounds like Mei, apologizing like this! "I just don't know what to say, but I know I want you to feel welcome. There's already so much opposition to Overwatch... I can't bear to see us torn apart from the inside again!"

"Don't get your hopes up..." he responds, voice so quiet and harsh with what she has to guess is disuse that she has to strain to hear him. "It's just a matter of time."

She frowns angrily, at first assuming he's making a threat, and her chest rises with an indignant protest hot on her tongue, when she registers his tone. It is neither soft nor gentle, but-after playing his words over in her mind-she picks up an undertone of dismay to his words.

"Why would you say that?!" She demands instead, the hurt in her tone reflected in the scrunched up form of her eyebrows and the way her mouth twists in displeasure. Her grip on his shoulder tightens, and in a blink she's standing directly in front of him again, her other hand is balled into an angry fist at her side. "You don't know what we've struggled through! We can get through this! We have to!"

He laughs. It starts as a slow, gurgling rumble which builds into a rasping guffaw that leaves him breathless and his sides aching. All the while Tracer just stares at him, righteously angry, her brows pulled down and her jaw muscles spasming as she grits her teeth.

"This is serious!" She snaps angrily, glaring. "Quit your laughing!"

It takes another moment but when he can speak again, the Reaper simply lets out a darkly amused snort and shakes his head. "I understand all to well what Overwatch has been through... That's why I know this is going to fail yet again."

The wraith intends to leave it at that, and turns to ghost through Tracer, letting go fully of his corporeal form. What takes him off guard, as he loses what should be any amount of tangibility, is that Tracer's grip on his shoulder doesn't move. He jerks his head back to look her full in the face, his breath coming a touch faster, a little more ragged. She stares back with a quizzical look, confused by pretty much everything he's said so far-what little of it there is.

"How could you possibly understand...?" She asks in astonishment, clearly trying to understand. Needing to understand. She feels like she's missed something that should have been obvious now that he's said what he has. But what? "What aren't you telling us?!" Tracer demands sharply.

He just stares at her, wondering how she can be keeping him here, fixed in place, unable to pass through her. He hasn't realized until now just how much he's come to accept the ability and utilize it, despite his loathing of what he's become.

She stares back in return, searching his masked face for something. Anything.

The wraith's breathing, harsh and heavy, fills the void between them for several long moments, and just when Tracer's all but given up any hope of getting something more from him he breaks the silence once more.

"Winston was right. You picked up that damn stubborn look from me."

Tracer's eyes narrow slightly for just a moment, full of confusion, doubt, and suspicion, before the realization smacks her full-force. The usually bright young woman stumbles back, jerking her hand from his shoulder and drawing it to her chest like she's just been burned.

"No..." She gasps before smacking her back into the wall next to the door. She hardly even seems aware of it as she stammers on in shock. "No! Gabriel's dead! You're dead!"

This kind of reaction-shocked, aghast, even repulsed-usually would have brought the harbinger of Death some joy, or at the very least amusement; but today, right now, he can only stare at the young woman with whom he's worked with for years. Who he very recently made a not-inconsequential attempt to kill, a rising feeling of emptiness threatening to swallow him.

"Sometimes I wish that were so," he rasps, tone heavy and cold. But mainly tired. So very tired.

"Mercy!" Tracer blurts, determination lighting her eyes. Reflected in the sudden set in her jaw. "Mercy can help. Mercy can fix anything! She always knows what to do. I mean, there's got to be something-!"

The British woman moves to make a dash for the doorway, and this time it is the Reaper who reaches out, his clawed grasp catching her coat. He hauls her back and shoves her into the wall with a guttural sound of pure fury. Tracer freezes, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest, eyes wide with fear at his unexpected display. The wraith is once again positively radiating ghostly black smoke. He's barely there, and she's all too familiar with how that feels. Just not this rage that burns him from the inside.

"Mercy is the reason I am the way I am. Mercy did this to me!"

He feels her try to recoil, like he's just slapped her with the force of his words-which he can understand why; he's positively spitting with anger-but she can't move any further with her back scraping against the wall and she's not strong enough to overpower him.

The harbinger of Death continues fiercely without prompting. "Talon took one of Angela's untested designs. One she was foolish enough to leave unsecured and unprotected. They used it on me, turning me into this thing, hanging halfway between life and death!"

Reaper is positively radiating fury, black mist enveloping him, leaving him barely visible. His grip threatens to crack her clavicle, she feels the talon-like tips of his gloves nick her skin through her jacket and under suit, and breathing is proving somewhat difficult. But Tracer watches him with wide eyes soft with sympathy.

"You're still in there, Gabe," Tracer persists, reaching up to put a hand on his forearm. She feels him go rigid, like he's expecting a fight. "Talon can't take away who you are! They can't take that from you."

"There wasn't anything left to take when they found me-trapped in a crevice under a couple tons of concrete. Every bone in my body shattered. Internal organs ruptured. One lung collapsed. And for some godawful reason still alive! Any purpose I ever had died the day they took Overwatch from me. The day Jack took Overwatch from me! That stupid farm boy from Indiana. I didn't have to take him under my wing but I did! Can't believe I ever took pity on his sorry ass..."

Even as the Reaper vents on and on in anger, his fierce grip on Tracer's shoulder lessens, and slowly she can begin to see the edges of his frame through the black smoke that had fully enveloped him. When he is finished, the tiredness has returned to his voice, leaving him sounding cold and empty. The heaviness of his hand on her shoulder-grip slack-tells her that if she wasn't in the way his hand would have dropped to his side by now.

"C'mon love... I still believe in you. I still believe you're in there, Gabe," the young British woman insists, tone soft. She gives his arm a gentle squeeze. Most of the tension has bled out of him at this point, and she watches the proud set of his shoulders sag under the weight of his own exhaustion. His hand finally does drop to his side, slipping through her fingers. She doesn't resist the movement.

The silence reigns once more, and though she knows it's faint she hears the quiet, labored rasp of his breathing.

"Don't count on it," he murmurs finally, turning away once again. She doesn't stop him as he departs through the doorway to the observation room. Tracer understands that her old friend needs some space. He's been through more than she can imagine, and his heart is weighed down by more costly decisions she can even begin to fathom right now. But he's here, surrounded by old and new friends. Maybe here he can begin to heal.