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Morning Drabbles

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Waking up as early as you had was peaceful, but the quiet kind of peaceful where you know you shouldn't be awake. You felt like you were looking through a window at the world around you, the small window in your room on the base displaying the purple and orange hues of the sky as the sun began it's ascent in the early morning.
Coffee. That's what would make this better. A mocha latte. An espresso. A frappuccino. The coffee you knew was brewing in the pot in the kitchen would do. Maybe a sprinkle of cinnamon. Maybe you'd treat yourself.
It was early. Not so early as for you to be the first person up- Jack Morrison reserved that spot for himself.
"Force of habit," he'd say, one he never tried to correct. He makes the coffee because he only drinks it the way he makes it, you don't know how he makes it but it's good. Maybe getting old is worth it, to learn how to make good coffee. Ana Amari, recently returned from the dead, refuses to drink it. Says it reminds her too much of different days.
You know what she means when you dream of your mother's cooking, and the smell of alcohol on her breath. Thoughts work their way around your head as you trek through the big empty halls, tall and dark, towards the kitchen. It smells like a summer morning. Maybe you'd go to the roof, watch the sun rise.
You make it to the kitchen. The large industrial sized kitchen was gutted when Overwatch fell. Those machines are pricey, sold for a pretty penny by people who needed the cash. It was refitted with simple kitchenware, cupboards lining the wall next to the door. A sink, an oven, and a coffee maker. The simple equipment made the space look bigger than it really was, maybe someday there could be more.
The coffee pot on the counter was almost empty, the old soldiers drank a lot of coffee and the old soldiers always woke up first. The old soldiers have dreams that bite back. You do too. You start making another pot, going through the motions, filter, beans, ect, before you fill your cup with Jack's brew. The container of cinnamon stares at you from the counter, and you stare back. Hands land on your waist, a surprise in the deafening silence of the morning, and you have to fight fighting, screaming. The soft green glow of Genji's machinery saves you like it has before, like it always does. You welcome the warmth, and reach for the cinnamon.
Words arent needed on mornings like this. It would break the trance-like peace, like the intrusion of a leaf on a still pond. He whirrs as he reaches for the pot, taking the last of the coffee that Jack made.
You're pretty sure he doesn't need coffee to be awake, partly because of his cybernetics, partly because of his training with Zenyatta. You're pretty sure it's just something he does to feel more human. You're pretty sure you do the same. A splash of cream for him, a drop of sugar. He drinks it for the taste, drinks to enjoy.
You both end up on the roof, leaning against each other, drinking in the golden morning, each other, and your coffee. The old soldier is running laps in the field below, he drinks coffee for energy that uses to he run away from his dreams. You would too if you had seen what he's seen. You've seen enough already, and youve barely tasted battle. You move closer to Genji, as close as you can, and you hold on. You hold on.

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You wake between two arms, one hot and one burning. Light filters in between the blinds of your window, and you're reminded of late morning in the desert, waking up next to McCree sweaty and happy.
Lately it's been different. The walls of the Watchpoint are cold and unfeeling and sometimes he is too. You know he's scared, you know you want to help him, but you know he's stubborn. You know you're willing to dig until he lets you help him because God you know that what you have is worth it. So you roll out of bed, leaving a soft kiss on his forehead. It's still impossible to wake him up, and you spend a moment studying his face, memorizing his features. You leave the room and walk to the kitchen, your foot steps loud in the quiet halls, light showing the dust that lingers in the air. The kitchen is blissfully quiet, a pot of coffee still half full on the counter. You make two cups and put it back in the machine to keep warm. You add cream and sugar to one, the other you leave black for yourself. You start to head back before you stop, spying the little metal container of cinnamon on the spice rack on the wall. You smile gently to yourself and add a shake of it to both of your cups, the smell reminding you of those sweet mornings on the ranch when you used to wake up later than him and before anything bad could ever happen to the two of you. You picked up the cups and headed back to your room. When you got there he was still asleep, you left his coffee on the bedside table and sat on the bed next to him, sipping your own. The night had passed by quietly, no sudden outbursts from either of you and you were so, so thankful for that. He stirs next to you, blinking awake.
"G'morning sugar." He said, voice soft and sweet and muffled by the pillow and sleep still attached to his throat.
"Morning, baby." You said, reaching for his cup of coffee, setting yours down as you did. He sat up next to you and accepted it gracefully, wrapping his arm around you. You were thankful for the morning light so you could study his features, you were thankful for his soft smile as he tasted his coffee, you were thankful for the soft kiss he pressed to the side of your lips, and you hoped he was thankful for the kiss you gave in return, soft and filled with everything you couldn't say.
He was.

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You never woke up first. The soldier was always up early in the morning, before the sun was up and before you were up. This morning was different. You woke up too early, back sweaty and breathing hard. You couldn't remember what made you wake, but your heart was hammering in your chest and as you stood to get off of the bed you wondered if this is how Jack felt when he woke up. You kissed his forehead, then stroked his cheek, grabbing his secret stash of coffee beans to make coffee the way you knew he liked it. As you set it to brew, you turned on the old stereo that rests on the counter, to some old station that played crackling music. You returned to your room to replace the beans, only to see Jack rummaging through the drawer he hid them in. You smiled and put them away, letting him draw you in close and kiss your hand. You leaned into him, kissing his head and sighing deeply. He stood, and you walked hand in hand through the halls back to the kitchen.
The halls were less lonely when you had someone walking with you, your nightmare was all but forgotten, replaced with the smell of brewing coffee. You breathed deeply, enjoying the musty smell of morning. Leaning slightly into Jack as he grabbed your mugs, he released your hand and wrapped his arm around your waist. The two mugs were placed on the table with a soft clack. The radio crackled in the background, and a song came on with an old melody and one human voice singing. He took your hand in his free hand, the other tightening around your waist, softly twirling you around the kitchen. It was a big area, used to be an industrial kitchen before Overwatch fell. You sighed happily, leaning into him as he danced with you in the cool morning, and when the coffee pot beeped the song ended, and Jack leaned down to give you a sweet kiss before pouring you both a cup of coffee.
A voice rang out, loud in the almost quiet of the kitchen. Amused, Ana Amari stood there.
"Old soldiers dance well. It is rude to wake up your loved ones early, Jack, even if you are a lonely old man."
"I don't think I'll ever be lonely again." He said, and you just sipped your coffee. You certainly hoped not.