Chapter Text
Thousands Rally in Petras Protests
Repeal Debates Divide UN Assembly
Overwatch Agents Exonerated
Every headline screamed for attention. Bold, blocky letters somehow conveyed the maniacal enthusiasm of journalists all wetting themselves as they grappled and clawed past each other to grab readers. Swiping through the day’s news Emily wondered if the reporters even understood the full impact of each revelation. For the world, certainly; but for individuals? For people like Lena and Winston. For the family and friends of the heroes, the people that loved them regardless of what anyone else thought.
Smaller headlines hinted at other stories the way office gossip whispers around a water cooler. Ghosts Among Us: Cheating Death by Dying. Financial Irregularities at Vishkar Corporation. Talon Goes Dark. Russia Opens Talks With the West. These were the real stories, but no one had any facts. Or at least, no two facts were the same. Athena had been learning new tricks. Emily smiled and swiped through another page of articles, all of them noisy, adamant and clueless.
The familiar sensation of being watched lifted her eyes in time to see her companion slip into a chair across from her at the bistro table.
“Bonjour, mon amie.” Widowmaker gave a subtle tilt of her head in greeting.
Emily smiled, putting the tablet aside and leaning forward eagerly. “It’s good to see you, Widow. Or Amélie. Amé?” Warmth crept up her cheeks as she awkwardly fumbled through different names. She gave up with an embarrassed chuckle, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you go by these days.”
“Je n’ai pas de preference.” The assassin gave her typical, elegant shrug. “Whatever suits my company.”
“Widow, then,” Emily decided with a small sigh of relief. That was how she’d always thought of her and probably always would. Despite Amélie Lacroix being granted legal pardon. Despite the dozens—hundreds?—of times she’d heard Lena’s voice wrap so affectionately around ‘Amé.’
The assassin hadn’t bothered to camouflage herself like she did in the past. Afternoon sunlight illuminated the powder blue of her skin with a warmth that rendered her closer to marble than death. She garnered more than her fair share of attention, but that was less about her color and more about, well, everything else. The waiter that came rushing over stumbled into and around three separate tables before arriving, breathless, by their side. Before he could even open his mouth Widowmaker was issuing orders.
“Nous voulons deux verres de vins, s’il vous plaît. Un Bordeaux pour moi, et elle prendre une petite syrah. Merci.” She didn’t pause, didn’t look up at him and certainly didn’t bother to notice his terrified hamster expression.
“Right, that’s uhm,” the waiter’s fumbling reply had a telltale trace of Scottish brogue in it too. Poor lamb. “That was a Bordeaux and a—?” He looked over to Emily, silently begging for help.
“Petite syrah if you have it. If not, whatever is closest will be fine.” She offered her most reassuring smile, watching his tortured expression melt into a puddle of gratitude. She waited until he was out of earshot before cocking a scolding brow at Widow. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“Barbaric tongue,” the Frenchwoman scoffed, barely hiding a tiny smirk. The same as always happened when Emily tried to chastise her for having fun.
“How does going official feel?” She settled back in her chair, scrutinizing the sniper as though there’d be some physical transformation to go along with her government contract. Useless, of course, since no military bearing could ever hold a candle to the dancer’s disciplined poise.
“A target is a target. The trigger feels the same.” A bored flutter of Widowmaker’s hand dismissed the entire subject.
The chill that stole down Emily’s spine was one she hadn’t felt in a while. She had grown accustomed to thinking of Widow as simply a woman, an ally, someone she could trust and understand. Moments like this when death was so blasé and meaningless in her cold voice were a jarring reminder that there was a lot of Widowmaker she’d never know. Parts of her that Emily didn’t want to know.
Fortunately, the wine arrived and saved her from those thoughts. The enthusiastic waiter had filled both glasses to the brim but wisely didn’t linger at their table. He might’ve hit more furniture getting away than he first did coming over. Emily took a sip, sighing appreciatively at the taste. That she’d learned the mannerism from Widow wasn’t lost on either of them and dark lips definitely twitched towards a smile before focusing on her own drink.
The wine glasses Emily bought had been put to good use (they’d also had to be replaced a few times since Lena eventually broke not just one but three). Over a number of hesitant evenings Widowmaker had patiently guided her through the complex world of oenophilia, pretending not to know that Emily was learning about more than wine. The pretext served them both: giving Widow a reason to visit and Emily the dignity of an actual person, not an afterthought. Along the way Emily discovered she couldn’t stand the rich, earthy wines the Frenchwoman seemed to favor and fell in love with syrahs and pinot noirs instead.
“How are you settling into the new flat?” Small talk felt natural with the sniper. Lord help her, it really did. Firstly because it was polite and Widowmaker thrived on etiquette, but also because Emily found she genuinely cared. It was these small details that added context and depth to a woman that could otherwise be painted in such broad brushstrokes that she became a caricature of herself.
“It is-,” Widowmaker stopped herself short, weighing several answers and her audience. It was a small testimony of respect that she didn’t fall back to the same instinctively rude and superior response she’d give others. “Sparse. I have not needed furniture for quite some time.”
“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Emily’s mouth went sour and she reached for her glass. If there was anything Widow didn’t tolerate (and that was an excruciatingly long list), it was pity. Another sip of wine washed away the taste and let her put a bright smile back on. “But it’s an easy fix. Give me a weekend and a few sales and you’ll be kitted out in no time. Pretty soon I’ll be drinking at your place for a change.”
Even said as a joke Emily couldn’t deny the grain of truth beneath her laugh. These rituals she and Widowmaker had developed were inevitably going to change but she didn’t want them to go away. What had started as the occasional evening in the flat grew to tea once in a blue moon as well, sometimes entire meals or—once—a long, rainy afternoon. Brief and random minutes built into hours, the familiarity turning into comfort. Comfort bred boldness. Before Emily understood how, she had a cell number for getting in touch if there was an emergency. The definition of ‘emergency’ gradually broadened until it included restaurant recommendations, complaints about not being allowed to kill rude cabbies, and pictures of Lena looking particularly cute in her sleep.
“I look forward to it.” Widowmaker’s quieter tone tactfully acknowledged what went unsaid. Then her usual air of languid superiority returned and she made that distinctive scoffing sound in the back of her throat, “But furniture is not the only problem. Decoration is proving trés difficile. I’m sure you can imagine why, no?”
Before Emily could laugh at the assassin’s melodramatic scowl, a sudden wind rustled hair and napkins into disarray. Menus went flying on the breeze and Widowmaker’s sharp reflexes snapped theirs out of the air, one eyebrow twitching up wearily.
“Cheers, loves! Miss me?” Tracer appeared like a blue bullet, her voice momentarily stretched by Doppler Effect. If the rest of the bistro patrons were upset by the tempestuous arrival any grumbles of complaint were swiftly overwhelmed by murmuring awe.
“How could anyone miss you, Lena?” Emily pointed out, Tracer’s kiss on her cheek evoking an irresistible smile.
“Dunno, you’d have to ask this one.” Tracer turned her attention to Widow, mischief even brighter in her eyes. She leaned down, about to give the assassin the same greeting but pausing long enough to tease, “All those bullets and she never hit me once.”
“I will kill you when I’m ready.” Widowmaker’s indifferent tone was softer at the edges, low and dangerous but undeniably intimate.
If Tracer’s kiss to the sniper’s cheek lasted a little longer Emily made a point of not watching. Just as she didn’t let herself notice the hint of violet flush that crept up Widow’s face. Lena dropped into a third chair between them, smiling that irrepressible grin. The sniper’s own expression was at war, torn between how dare she look so fucking cute and merde, je l’aime. Emily’s French wasn’t top notch, but she had enough basics to know what Widowmaker said when her eyes got that dark glint.
“So, what’re we talking about?” Lena slid Emily’s glass over to take a sniff, grimacing at the smell.
“Your deplorable taste.” Widowmaker rolled her eyes and swatted the hand that tried to reach for her wine as well.
“Nope, that’s bollocks,” Tracer shook her head, tousled spikes of hair exaggerating every movement. “My taste is top notch. Proof is sitting right here at this table, yeah?”
Emily felt warmth creeping up her cheeks, a quick glance at Widow confirming that the sniper was fighting a smile as well. It was a particular magic of Lena’s, this ability to make everyone feel special. No dissembling, no awkwardness, just a heart wide enough to welcome the whole world and still have extra on the side. Emily had thought that was what she’d miss most, but it never really went away.
“You have something, don’t you, cherié?” Widow gently nudged Tracer. Then again, less gently.
“What?” Lena blinked, caught by surprise in the middle of one of her ‘no, I most certainly was not staring, thank you very much,’ moments. Her freckles looked even more adorable dusted across pink cheeks and she quickly tore her eyes away from Widow.
“For Emily?” Widowmaker prodded, impatience a thin veil for the fondness underneath.
“Right! Yes, that. Got it!” Tracer fumbled inside her jacket to retrieve a sleek black box. She slid it across the table, her smile turning nervous. “It’s not much, love. But I—we, that is—thought you’d like it.”
Just the way she stumbled over the words and kept glancing to Widow for encouragement told Emily exactly whose idea it had really been. She lifted the gift curiously, looking for hints in either of the faces watching her. It looked like a jewelry box, long and narrow for a necklace or tennis bracelet. Instinct told her with absolute conviction that it wouldn’t be either of those things. Fancy gifts might be Widowmaker’s style, but she wouldn’t bother with anything so impersonal. Emily cracked the lid open and for a moment her breath caught, then tumbled free in a sigh that turned to a soft chuckle.
The metalwork was beautiful, polished to a high shine and engraved with her name. She delicately lifted the corkscrew out of its plush velvet lining. Even the etched filigree looked like custom work.
“I know the last one went missing during the move,” Lena explained, a quieter tone confessing that she was speaking for herself now. The swell of emotion in her voice matched the shimmering of her eyes. “Widow wouldn’t let me get the ordinary bottle shop kind. Said you deserved something proper. A—what was it, love?”
“Something worthy of you,” Widowmaker supplied without taking her eyes from Emily. “The right gift should be either a reminder or promise of good memories.”
“And which is this?” Emily fought to keep her tone light, to keep the wetness building in her throat from seeping into words.
“Both.” Widow’s touch was shockingly kind as she brushed Emily’s fingers, guiding her to flip the corkscrew over. On the back, engraved in letters just like on the front, was a message.
In Vino Veritas
It took a moment for Emily to decipher but then a bubble of laughter burst in her chest, clearing thick emotions and squeezing a few stray tears from the corner of her eyes. Of course. It all went back to that night, didn’t it? Even with everything that had changed since, that one evening was the turning point. Emily couldn’t bring herself to regret it.
“Thank you.” She beamed at Widowmaker. The assassin made some noise of demurral, her eyes slipping away from the unsettling sight of naked gratitude.
“’S not just a gift, you know,” Lena chimed in. Her hand had found Widow’s on the table, unconsciously taking command to speak for them both. “It’s an invitation. You’re still part of our lives, Em. You’re always welcome.”
“I’ll come visit soon. I promise.” Emily looked back and forth between them, choosing to focus on Widowmaker with a wry smirk. “I have to help make sure the flat doesn’t end up decked with old RAF enlistment posters and football jerseys.”
“Oi! No fair. She’s already got her art all over the walls and is threatening to throw out my favorite pillow!” Tracer huffed, affronted.
“It has been drooled on more than a rented bib,” Widowmaker countered without batting an eye.
“Then it fits right in, doesn’t it? Goes well with that chair what’s had fifty years of other peoples’ arses sitting on it.” The grin spreading across Lena’s face was absolute contentment, a smug cat napping in the sun.
“Ruined, cherié, is not the same as vintage.” There was even a smile gracing Widow’s lips, her whole face lit from within.
Emily sat back and listened to the two bicker happily. Perhaps passersby on the street didn’t hear the affection in their voices, or notice that blue and white fingers stayed tenderly interwoven. Emily saw it all, just as clearly as she’d seen it the first night Widowmaker stepped into the flat. She’d had time to make peace with this truth.
Lena was hers for nearly two years. Yet never hers alone, because Tracer had belonged to someone else all along. It didn’t matter if that was the rest of the world, Overwatch or only Widowmaker herself. Emily treasured their time together for another year more, watching her girlfriend reconcile two halves of her life into a single whole. When the day came that Tracer won out over Lena, she’d been expecting it for so long she couldn’t even pretend to be surprised. (Which made the slipstream pilot pout very cutely for a while.)
Resenting what cannot be is almost as futile as longing for what never was. Emily had always been grateful for Lena. For their time together, for the heart she opened so easily and the love she still gave without question. Now, though, Emily was grateful for Widowmaker too. They were both miracles, in their own way; brought back to life and thrown into danger. They deserved each other, balanced in a way that made them both complete.
Tracer and Widow gone to lengths to prove they still wanted her to be part of their lives, be it as friend, drinking buddy or referee in the next petty spat. Truthfully, though? Watching the way the two argued and smiled as if the entire world had ceased to exist, Emily knew that so long as they had each other they’d never need anything else.