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They tell her she’s done amazing.
She spits blood from her mouth and scowls.
It’s ridiculous, isn’t it – that they would praise her for being anything other than bad. They call her Amélie and smile with teeth and she swallows the nausea, resists the urge to purge this darkness from her body.
“You should see a doctor,” says somebody, with that big, concerned smile, as if they care in the slightest if she lives or dies.
You’re bad until you’re good, you’re the villain until you’re their hero, they hate you until they have to pretend not to.
The woman who was Amélie wipes the blood seeping from her nose and says, “I will only see Angela Ziegler.”
“Mercy is busy with other patients,” they say, in the way that means She doesn’t want to see you.
“I will only see her,” says Widow. “You may tell her that.”
*
Angela Ziegler is beautiful, and deadly, and she walks into the room like she’s entering a funeral, says hello like she’s writing Widow’s obituary.
“I’m sorry if the others were unhelpful,” says Angela. “I told them not to refer you to me.”
It hurts, even though it shouldn’t. Like, Widowmaker’s heart slowed years ago, the love congealing in her veins. She has pale skin and cold hands and she knows that people hate it, that she has killed, and it has always given her a mild satisfaction.
This does not give her any satisfaction.
“Okay,” she says, when she means Because you hate me.
Angela seems to hear the silences, says, “Because I thought you might not want to see me.”
She does not treat Widowmaker like she’s delicate, about to break – not like the others do. She grabs Widow’s arm and begins to bandage, and there’s a lot to bandage. Widow saved the whole fucking world, and that comes at a cost, like deep cuts and a certain numbness.
“You’re so scratched up,” says Angela. “It’s like you were trying to get yourself killed.”
It’s a joke, almost concerned. Widow should laugh. She doesn’t. The silence hangs between them, heavy and oppressive.
Angela doesn’t say anything after that.
*
They make her see a therapist.
The woman is young and is always smiling, tells Widow her feelings are valid, alludes to an environment of no judgement. Widow tells her about killing, how it doesn’t really affect her, how the only time she’s ever wanted to change is for other people. Because they care.
The therapist’s name is Emily, and all Widow knows is Emily’s not scared of her.
So she tells her about the kills – women, men, mothers, fathers, children. She tells her about the pleasure it used to bring her (and would still bring her probably, if she did it, which she doesn’t, she’s good now, she’s good now.)
She doesn’t tell Emily about the torture, about the nightmares, about the insomnia. Sometimes she dreams of another woman’s life and misses it, just a little bit, the innocence of a young woman with a young husband and a young, hopeful life.
There is something ugly about realising you’re broken.
There’s something even uglier about realising nothing will ever fix you.
Because they made into this – a killer, a monster, and made it so she can’t even care what she's become anymore.
“What does that make you feel?” questions Emily, peering down at her notepad.
Widow is silent for a long, long time, and Emily only waits, twirls her pen in her fingers.
“Nothing,” she spits finally, like a curse. “It makes me feel nothing.”
*
“We could do with somebody like you in Overwatch,” says Winston.
Widow does not answer – keeps her eyes fixed on the world outside the headquarters, the trees swaying in the breeze. The window in front of her. The small cracks in the glass.
It’s like a prison, except she could leave at any time.
But she doesn’t.
She doesn’t.
*
Angela finds her on the shooting range, because they’re idiots, so fucking stupid; they put a gun in her hand and told her it’s okay to shoot, just not to shoot to kill, to shoot at dummies that are never enough, never –
Angela finds her.
She doesn’t speak while Widow is training, doesn’t comment on Widow’s precise shot. Angela knows she’s good, has seen it firsthand, has had that gun pressed to her temple; she doesn’t need to say anything.
What she does say is, “You should eat dinner with us.”
Widow is silent.
“Okay then,” Angela says. “I get it. At least have dinner with me.”
Widow smirks, says, “Are you asking me on a date, Miss Ziegler?”
Angela scowls. “I don’t know why I don’t just give you up as a lost cause, to be honest.”
“Neither do I.”
“Because there’s a lot of good in you, Widowmaker,” says Angela, “and so help me I’ll fucking drag it out.”
It’s the first time somebody’s called her that since she came here – Widowmaker, not Amélie, not the girl who used to be her.
She can’t cry, biologically, but she thinks if she could – well.
*
So sometimes they have dinner together, and Widow pretends it doesn’t bother her, that it doesn’t nag at her skin. Angela laughs like she’s never killed anybody, smiles like she’s never watched anyone die.
Widow doesn’t laugh, but sometimes she smiles, and it seems to appease Angela.
“You know, most people call me Mercy nowadays.” Angela opens the balcony doors of Widow’s small room. “You always call me Angela.”
“Most people call me Amélie. I hate it.”
Angela laughs. She pulls a cigarette out of her pocket, and Widow actually stares. Angela lights it and doesn’t make eye contact as she takes a drag.
“I know,” she says. “It’s fucking terrible for you. Destroys your insides.”
“I am not judging you,” says Widow. “You’re just –”
“A doctor?”
Widow doesn’t really know what to say. She follows Angela to the balcony and leans against the railings. It’s dark outside, but her keen eyesight can pick up the forest and training courts in the blackness.
“Amélie and I used to be very close friends,” says Angela. “I was destroyed when she disappeared. I was ridiculously in love with her.”
That is a lot more information than Widow asked for. “Oh.”
“You’re not her,” says Angela. “And it’s not a bad thing, really. Amélie could be a bitch. I mean, you can be a bitch too, but it’s different, you have an excuse.” She breathes smoke out into the cold air. “Amélie died when Talon destroyed her. You’re a different person. I know that.”
“But you still want to be around me.”
“Because I like you, Widow,” she says. “Just like you like me – Angela, not Mercy. A lot of people think I’m a person I’m not. Pure. Pristine.” She puts the cigarette out. “Angela can be ugly. I think you know that.”
“Everybody’s ugly somewhere,” says Widow.
“Not everybody cares to admit it.”
*
She goes to dinner with them.
It’s awkward, and uncomfortable, and at first she hates it. But Lucio is determined to befriend her, even makes her laugh with his jokes. She finds she quite likes his music, and asks for a CD, and he beams at her like she’s given him the whole world.
D.va always wants to play video games, and has a surprising amount to say about politics; Winston acts almost fatherly, which is bizarre; Genji is friendly, and Zenyatta seems to know everything about her and still forgives her.
Some of them aren’t her biggest fans, but they deal. Soldier 76 – the man who was Jack Morrison – looks at her a lot, analysing, doesn’t really speak to her, but doesn’t really seem to dislike her, either.
“It’s kind of a family, isn’t it,” says Lucio, who has never really had one, and Widow doesn’t argue.
*
Angela goes on a mission and comes back tired and beaten. She stumbles to Widow’s door, doesn’t even knock.
She collapses on Widow’s bed and sobs. Widow tucks her in, runs her fingers through Angela’s hair, feels her heart ache.
The next morning, Angela changes into one of Widow’s shirts, exposes the bruises and curves of her body to Widow, and they don’t speak about it. They don’t speak about it.
*
“I couldn’t save him,” Angela says a few days later. “I tried so hard, but I couldn’t.”
Widow doesn’t really understanding the feeling, but she remembers the anguish and helplessness of watching Angela cry, and so she says, “I understand.”
“Fucking Mercy, best healer in the damn world,” Angela says, “and I can’t save one child.”
*
“I think I’m in love.”
“Would you like a cupcake?” asks Emily.
“Thank you.” She takes a cupcake. “Do you think I deserve to be in love?”
“Does anybody deserve love?” asks Emily. “Does love care?”
“You’re a terrible therapist,” Widow says sceptically.
Emily snorts. “Think of it like this. We’re all a little broken, aren’t we? We’ve all done some pretty shitty things. But life isn’t give and take. Some people will love you no matter what you do. And the fact that you can love, and that you care about what you’ve done – doesn’t that mean you do deserve to be in love?” Emily inclines her head. “Do they love you back?”
“I don’t think so,” says Widow. “She loved Amélie. If she loves me, she’s just loving a memory.”
“I don’t think anybody’s pretending you’re Amélie anymore, Widow. She would know. If she knows the real you, she’s not going to be pretending you’re somebody else.”
“Still a terrible therapist,” Widow says, and stands. “See you next week.”
“You’re welcome.”
*
She saved the world with a betrayal, one bullet from a gun, and three words.
She dreams about it sometimes, the look in the eyes of the man who’d ruined her whole fucking life.
“Go to hell,” she’d said, and shot him in between the eyes.
*
“So Winston just got an email from this guy who wants Overwatch to –”
Widow kisses her.
Angela freezes in the doorway, one hand on the door knob, the other hovering above Widow. When Widow pulls back, her mouth opens and closes.
“Um,” Angela says.
“I’m sorry,” Widow says.
Angela laughs, like a release, and she grabs Widow by the back of her neck. Angela pulls her in and kisses her again, and again, and again, and –
“Please don’t do this just because you loved Amélie.”
“I told you,” Angela says, running her thumb over Widow’s bottom lip. “I know you’re not Amélie. Also, my love for Amélie was an infatuation,” she adds, “but I’d be happy if I could just spend the rest of my life with you.”
“Forward.”
“Shut up,” says Angela, “and take my shirt off.”
Widow does.
*
Maybe she can't be fixed, but Angela seems to love her anyway.
Widow thinks that's a rare thing.