Chapter Text
Emily knew Lena was a hero. Even before the recall, before Overwatch was ‘officially’ part of their life together, it was still there. Winston’s calls were hardly subtle and both of them were horrible liars. Worse when they were together, in fact. The redhead allowed herself an affectionate smile as she remembered the two desperately trying to deny having eaten an entire plate of peanut butter biscuits—while the crumbs were still falling from their mouths.
The sun was just setting as she stepped out of the shower, a pleasant shiver coursing over her skin in the temperate evening breeze. Lena had said the job wasn’t far away or dangerous (that first part true, the second an obvious fabrication). She also promised to be home by 20:00 at the latest. Which couldn’t be a lie because it was pure delusion as only pathological optimism could create. Lena’s specialty.
‘Only a tick, love, promise. This one’s gravy. I’ll pick up supper on my way home!’ Emily shook her head, chuckling fondly as her girlfriend’s words echoed in her mind. She stepped over the clothing scattered haphazardly across the bedroom floor like the detritus of an explosion. In the past that would’ve been a pleasant testimony to hasty fingers and touches that were too impatient to care about details like buttons. Lately, however, Lena’s frenetic wardrobe changes led away from the bedroom rather than towards it.
The dull throb of self-pity tried to settle in Emily’s belly but she shook it away, scolding herself with the same words that comforted her guilt-riddled lover. The world needed heroes, didn’t it? They needed Tracer. Trying to keep her for herself wouldn’t just be selfish, it would be cruel. It would be ungrateful.
Lena might’ve been a hero without Overwatch, but she wouldn’t still be alive. Emily’s brow creased, a dart of fear stinging down her spine. Back when it seemed completely impossible they kept her in one piece, in one time. They saved Tracer before Emily even knew who she was. For that she would always be grateful and willing to share. You couldn’t be greedy with miracles.
She thought she knew what it meant to share her life with a hero; that the excitable, charming and far-too-cocky woman that kissed her good morning was the same as the blue streak that darted through battles and back into headlines. And so long as that same bubbly, adorable woman was the one that came home each night (albeit with her hair a mess and mumbling apologies that it was 2 am) Emily could cling to the illusion.
Part of that practiced denial included quiet evenings listening to the sounds of London bleeding through the open windows while she started supper alone, well past sundown. Curry kept well anyway. Perhaps it would be good to open that bottle of wine she’d spied in the cupboard yesterday. Where Lena had picked it up she couldn’t imagine. The spiky-haired pub-lover was a classic ale and whiskey woman, but if she wanted to try something new Emily wouldn’t complain. Lena’s ‘experimentation’ always worked out to their mutual benefit in the end.
Eyeing the label with her limited knowledge but discerning mind she could infer that it was clearly . . . wine. Bordeaux, and from a vineyard with all sorts of accent marks that guaranteed it was foreign and probably expensive.
“Lena, darling, where do you get these things?” Emily fumbled in the drawer for a wine opener, uncertain if they even owned one. This was nearly as odd as the chocolates she’d found last month. Obviously an indulgent gift but one her girlfriend adamantly refused to take credit for or try to explain.
After thoroughly ransacking every kitchen drawer and cabinet without success, it took all of two minutes searching around the holo-streams to find vids on opening wine without a corkscrew. Another four to find a vid that didn’t advocate the use of miniature explosives. Whoever JunkratGetsWasted was, he needed to stop combining his favorite hobbies. A serrated knife, a little patience, some spillage on the counter and a slightly sore wrist but Emily felt a surge of triumph in the sound of the cork popping free.
Wine open, curry simmering on the cooker, the flat full of delicious smells and the clock just ticking over to 19:30. Plenty of time to catch up on her reading. Along with not having a corkscrew, they obviously didn’t have wine glasses. There was something quintessentially pleasing in pouring the drink into a tea cup instead and Emily’s lips curled into a smile yet again. A small irony, perhaps; or just a delightfully tongue-in-cheek retort to the French as a whole.
Settling back into the pillows on her side of the bed Emily pulled the marker from her book and contemplated that the only things missing from such a perfectly relaxing evening were perhaps a crackling fire and, oh yes, her girlfriend. The rock that loved tugging her heart into her stomach gave a familiar twist.
Unsettled nerves bubbled up beneath her ribs and she darted a glance at the time. 19:48. She took a steadying breath, waiting for the pressure to release. This too was part of their life. No matter that she knew Lena was always wrong about what time she would be home. No matter that she knew Tracer had backup—more now than ever before. The numbers on the clock ticking by grew louder with each minute they counted down and her heart picked up speed.
A year with Lena before the recall. Letting her run off to do god-knows-what with no support other than a—admittedly brilliant—gorilla scientist and AI program. It should’ve been better now. Now that so many agents had been reactivated and joined the fight, however illegal. But nothing could seem to defuse the slowly rising panic tightening on her ribs. It had become, and apparently would always be, her own private hell to wonder if her beloved would make it home. The price of life with a hero.
19:57.
A thump from the living room felt like a jolt straight to the heart and Emily finally managed to suck in a deep breath. A wide smile spread across her face as she crossed the hallway in a few short steps to offer a breathless greeting. To a door that was still dead-bolted and chained shut. Confusion had only started to prickle beneath her skin when a sound that was distinctly not a sound pulled at her attention. She spun, instantly stunned by the sight of Lena—no, Tracer—sprawled on the couch. Her accelerator casing was cracked and sputtering badly, blood seeping across tight orange fabric and already pooling on the couch cushions.
“Lena!” Emily dropped everything and darted forward, the tiniest voice in her head noticing that she heard the book hit the ground but not her mug of wine. She was on her knees beside the sofa, prying the signature goggles from her girlfriend’s face, searching for any sign of consciousness.
First aid, basic first aid. It wasn’t that Lena had never come home injured, but never like this. Emily had plenty of practice with cleaning split lips and chafed knuckles, applying salve to bruises and burns. But nothing on this level. The agent had always had the worst injuries bandaged and healed long before she crossed the threshold, cocky grin absolutely unshakeable as she brushed off the latest near-death experience.
Tonight there was no grin. Emily’s hands shook as she fumbled for a wrist, searching for a pulse. Even her freckles looked faded across that deathly pallor. The blood was coming from beneath her accelerator, had the bullet actually gone through the metal casing? It was supposed to be indestructible! She reached for the straps—
“Non,” the cool voice from behind her was so quick and firm that Emily’s hands instantly stopped. She froze, pulse racing loud in her ears and she almost couldn’t hear the panicked thoughts screaming in her mind. The door was still locked but windows were open. She could see her book where it had fallen but no splash of wine. With a sudden, chilling calm Emily felt the pieces slot into place and she looked up over her shoulder, gaze naturally drifting towards the shadows.
Tall.
That was the only possible first impression. Not because the woman had any unusual height, but because the indescribably svelte shape of her entire body was imbued with a grace that seemed to make everything else beneath her. Emily knew who she was without ever having seen her. She often wondered whether she even wanted to see her, given that Lena’s stories alternated between terrifying near-death encounters and confusingly provocative flirtations. What woman didn’t want to meet the enemy? What woman ever wanted to find out it looked like this?
Widowmaker stood at the edge of their living room. A rifle in one hand, a tea cup in the other. It was . . . Christ, under any other circumstances it would be hilarious. In that, I’m about to die and can’t stop giggling sort of way. But Lena was bleeding and the blue light from the chronal accelerator was flickering and if it was losing its charge she wouldn’t just be pale, she’d start fading.
“She’s hurt.” Emily forced words past her clenched teeth, the tension in her jaw the only thing keeping her voice from shaking like the rest of her.
“And the harness is keeping pressure on the wound.” Widowmaker took a step closer, the movement languid as a prowling cat. The lamps fully revealed the blue tone of her skin, dark lips parting in threat. “Take it off and she will bleed out.”
Emily blinked, eyes darting back to the glowing contraption anchored to her girlfriend’s chest. Yes, the blood was indeed coming from beneath the complicated device, soaking into its straps and even splattered around the edges of the light. Who did this? Who had ever gotten close enough to hurt her this badly? The redhead’s eyes narrowed, a sudden spike of rage overwhelming common sense.
“What did you do?!” She was on her feet in an instant, roaring at the sniper. Any survival instinct had gone silent. The world’s deadliest assassin was in her living room and her superhero girlfriend was weak to the point of dying and even with a bloody rifle barrel trained directly on her face she couldn’t stop her feet pushing forward.
Golden eyes fell partially closed, the edges turning up ever so slightly with the hint of a smirk curling at her lips.
“I brought her home.” Widowmaker slung the rifle back behind her shoulder in a fluid movement. She took a sip from the wine in the mug, letting out a pleased sigh of appreciation. There was nothing but perfect nonchalance in her expression as she handed the cup back to Emily and stepped around her, “Naturellement.”
The lipstick on the tea cup was purple. It was a stupid, shallow detail to be noticing in this moment. But with her mind ricocheting off the inside of her own skull and her entire body trembling from the realization that she could’ve been dead twenty times in the last minute, there was something hypnotic about such a tiny thing.
Emily spun, questions crashing together on her tongue. None could find shape though, all going silent as she watched Widowmaker drop to one knee beside the sofa and begin expertly undoing Lena’s clothing without disturbing the harness at all. It was done so easily, as if by instinct. A mechanical necessity, yet unspeakably intimate and the redhead couldn’t deny a sudden flare of jealousy beneath her fear. They’d been together nearly two years and she still didn’t know how to do exactly what this cold-blooded killer was doing with a precision that could only be practiced.
“Donnez-moi le chargeur.” The French words had a clipped edge, her sultry accent sharper and more urgent. For a split second Emily didn’t move, trying to decipher the command with her rudimentary school lessons in the language. Widowmaker didn’t even look up, repeating louder and with less patience, “The. Charger.”
At least that was easy. Emily darted from the room, grabbing the charging station that tended to migrate back and forth between the bedroom and the living area. She dropped to her knees beside the sofa, somehow not noticing or caring about the chill that came from being shoulder to shoulder with the blue-skinned brunette.
A heart-stopping silence unfurled around them. Her own shallow, anxious breath muted any sound from the wires and catches Widowmaker expertly handled. Emily had never even seen so many of these ports opened, secret jacks and cables revealed that she hadn’t known existed. Her throat burned from the knot of emotion tangled inside; confusion, jealousy, fear and clawing, desperate hope. The occasional, subtle movement beneath the accelerator was faint promise of Tracer’s weak lungs clinging to life. Emily took hold of a limp hand, wishing the nimble fingers would tangle with her own the way they had thousands of times before. Even with her eyes fixed on Lena’s face, she couldn’t help watching Widowmaker as she worked. The sniper expertly maintained an impassive mask and yet . . .
“Let go." The terse command was offered a little more gently than the rest. The Frenchwoman’s eyes darted tellingly to Emily’s grip on Lena’s hand. A momentary surge of protest nearly broke past her lips but there was something in that look, mysterious and dangerous as flickering fire but undeniable. With the wordless hesitance of apology Emily released hold of her girlfriend, trailing their fingers to the last second until they parted.
She turned and caught Widowmaker’s gaze watching her, eyes catching each other for longer than either intended. For a moment Emily thought she was about to say something. There was a pause in her breathing, the tiniest part of her lips as though a word were poised to break free. Then the moment ended and Widowmaker’s eyes fixed back on Lena, a mutter that sounded like equal parts curse and prayer slipping out as she pressed a switch on the charger.
Blue lightning arced along the wires, blinding Emily before she could throw up her hands to shield herself. A high-pitched whine filled the room, rising like an electrical shriek of pain. Flashes seared the inside of her eyelids, painting pictures of writhing bolts of power and a twisting shadow that could only be Tracer trapped in its grips. Emily wanted to scream, to tear the cables away and break Lena free but there were ropes holding her back. Arms. Cold and flexible but stronger than chains as Widowmaker held her in place to keep her away from the electrical storm raging before them.
It would be trite to say it was over in a flash. It was many flashes, lasting so long she couldn’t remember if the pain in her eyes was burning from the lights or her tears. It was over when the charger surrendered with a final, tortured squeal and gave over to letting off small sparks and a tiny plume of smoke. Emily pried her eyes open, lights and colors smearing together like a psychedelic nightmare. Strange blobs on the couch coalesced into the shape of Lena. She was still covered in blood but the accelerator had a steady hum more reassuring than any pulse. And she was breathing. A regular rise and fall that was both strong and serene.
“Thank god.” Emily dropped her head onto the pilot’s leg, shuddering as the last of her fear bled out in tears.
It was long minutes before the chaos of emotion began to dry up, tracks of wetness and salt on her cheeks sticking to the polymer of Tracer’s suit. She wasn’t sure when Widowmaker had let go of her; couldn’t even be sure the sniper had held her at all and it wasn’t just a deranged hallucination. Like all of this.
Not more than an hour ago reality was their one-bedroom flat with curry on the stove. It was a hot shower and pajamas and the prospect of cuddling with her girlfriend in bed and pretending to understand her day. Now reality was blood stains on the sofa and blue fingers running delicately—as gently as over blown glass—through the wild spikes of Tracer’s hair.
“Do you—,” Emily found the question catching in her throat, each word the wrong shape. There were a hundred mysteries in that touch, in the whole of this evening. Each one spawned endless roads of winding conversations and the very thought made her . . . tired. There was really only one path that mattered right now and she unglued her tongue, forcing the words free. “Do you want to stay?”
The dulcet rumble of laughter wasn’t quite like anything she’d ever heard before. Affectionate and yet so very distant. It was almost condescending but what wasn’t with the French? And there was no superiority in the weary, relieved sigh that slid out just beneath that sound.
“So like her.” Widowmaker shook her head, the arch of her brow an amused accusation when her eyes roved over Emily. “Sweet and foolish.”
The sniper rose gracefully to her feet, a sudden and jarring reminder of the deadly swift reflexes at her disposal. She had turned and was already heading to the window (again, with that unnerving ease that bespoke familiarity) before Emily managed to rise. She caught hold of the other woman’s wrist without a thought, unconsciously noting the way her light fingers contrasted over blue skin and black ink.
“Stay,” the single word breathed out of Emily in a rush, pushed free before she could lose her nerve. It was invitation more than command but had the effect of both.
Widowmaker froze, one hand holding open the window and her other caught in a grip that she could no doubt break as easily as a dry twig. An aurous gaze drifted from the hand wrapped around her wrist up the pajama clad arm (who ever expects to meet a sexy, French supervillain while wearing flannel?) before settling on Emily’s face.
“That is not a good idea, n’est-ce pas?” The subtle curl of warning beneath that sultry tone might’ve meant her invitation. Or her impulsive bravery in grabbing hold of a woman designed to never be caught.
“Neither is falling in love with an Overwatch Agent,” Emily retorted boldly. Sometimes impulsive was the only way. If she’d learned anything from her girlfriend, it was that bravery could be foolish; that didn’t make it wrong.
For the span of several breaths Emily was certain the assassin was about to fling her across the room. Or worse, simply brush her away like a nuisance and leave without a word. There was no give in her eyes, no hint of thought or emotion beneath her mask. But the coiled tension in her shoulders (amply visible in that revealing catsuit, thank you, Talon) suddenly lessened and Emily felt the tendons beneath her hand release.
“D’accord,” Widowmaker’s surrender was a breathy murmur that made Emily’s heart skip a beat. She uncoiled her fingers, reluctantly letting the other woman go. The sniper stepped back into the room, one hand confidently resting on her hip as a coy smile tugged the corner of her pouting lips. The Frenchwoman’s attention moved from Emily down to the still unconscious Lena, lingering perhaps more than she’d intended before lifting once more, “Only for tonight.”
Emily smiled in relief, grateful that—somehow—this woman seemed to understand what she needed. What they all needed. After all, the world needed heroes. And heroes, it seemed, sometimes needed a villain.