It wasn't much to take apart his arm, but they'd improvised worse in the field. Hell, he remembers one time when Reyes used a rifle cleaning kit to help get some of the sand stuck out from between the wires. Constant improvements. Patch jobs. He doubted whoever made the arm in the first place would be too pleased.

But then Reyes takes off his mask, and McCree can't help but stare. There he was. The man who taught him to be something better, who gave him a chance to redeem himself when others were ready to throw him in a prison to rot for the rest of his life. The man who. Who he considered a father, sometimes. He feels like that reckless kid again, working together post op, talking about what went wrong and what went right. For a moment, he expects Reyes to chew him out, to haul him off to some training and teach him how to improve himself.

But Reyes was dead, and he's the Reaper. And now his face is scarred, his eyes red and black, constantly decaying and regenerating and that grief wracks him again. He sucks in breath like he's been suckerpunched. And it all comes spilling out.

"Shoulda stayed in Blackwatch, dammit." He grips tight to the edge of the couch, trying to steady himself. "Shoulda stayed, things could have been different, you could have- You could still be alive-"