Archive of Our Own

It’s on Hanzo’s third week that Genji leads him towards the holding cells within the watchpoint. They are below ground level, but hold tight with security. Through a thick, barricaded door they enter a steel confinement. Several cells hold on either side of the hallway, but Genji informs him that they were rarely used even back in Overwatch’s prime. Now, only the medical cell is in use.

“Do you know the name Widowmaker?”

One of the best snipers the world has seen. A controlled, brainwashed woman. An agent of Talon.

“Yes.”

The hallway echoes their soft footsteps towards the end of the corridor.

“We apprehended her a month ago and brought her here. Angela is determined to fix the damage that’s been done.” Genji’s voice is only steady, but a hint of worry tugs through his new, metallic features.

They stop at the last door, strangely spaced out from the others.

“She killed her husband,” Hanzo says. Genji nods.

A cold hand travels down Hanzo’s spine at that. Even as he struggles with what his brother has become, he is still breathing. He didn’t truly kill…

“If we could help her, she could help us in return.”

Just like me, brother?

“You want another sniper?” Hanzo’s voice rises for a moment, taking offense at his own, solo skill being unwanted but Genji doesn’t react. He only moves to open the door.

“We may need two snipers for two separate missions, Hanzo.” His tone is light, before adding, “You’re not worried about a mental and physically tortured person taking on your bow, are you?”

He grumbles at the ludicrous thought, causing the light of Genji’s visor to flash brightly. It’s a new expression of humor or happiness he’s come to find within the steel cage surrounding his brother. When he had only flesh, Genji had the worst, cheekiest smiles. There was no hiding his teasing back then, just like now.

The door opens into a small, lab like room. Medical equipment and supplies are neatly tucked away. Mercy looks up from a lone holoscreen. The briefest frown touches upon her lips at the sight of him, but Hanzo doesn’t bristle as he usually would. There is something else intriguing his attention now.

“Angela,” Genji greets warmly. The doctor moves to him, touching his hand with familiarity. Hanzo looks away from the personal touch and instead finds an open window peering into a pale room a better view. It is a simple room. A bed is the most apparent object to fill the space as it’s pushed up against one wall. A simple curtain is pulled away to show a toilet and small shower place. Against the farthest wall, where the window almost doesn’t touch, sits a woman.

Widowmaker.

Genji and Mercy exchange a few words, before she steps to the window as well. She picks a tablet off the sparse counter and flicks through it as Genji steps beside him.

“This is Amélie Lacroix.” Mercy speaks evenly, but Hanzo spares a glance to the woman. The corner of her eyes are tight, concerned and caring.

“Rehabilitation is taking time. Her skin is still suffering from deoxygenation, but her pulse has risen since I first took vitals. There are other physical therapies that I am performing as well, but for the moment, she is stable.”

Hanzo stares at one of the world’s greatest killers. A loose, cream colored sweater covers her torso. Long sleeves slip over her hands as she curls them over her stomach. Her legs are close to her chest, as if she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. Long, dark hair spills over her shoulders. The thick strands fall in front of her face, hiding her away.

“It has been four days since any incident.”

Hanzo tears hir eyes away from the fragile form of the creature before him. His brother’s gaze is impossible to pinpoint, but he feels it upon him.

“Incident?”

“A trigger will cause her to relapse back. She gets violence and unresponsive.” There is the briefest frustration that touches the doctor’s brow. “Zenyatta visits her daily for emotional and mentally therapy, but he has warned us that it will take time for her to heal.”

His eyes travel to the visor hiding Genji’s true eyes. They hold still, simply waiting for his reaction when Hanzo turns his gaze back to Widowmaker.

“Why tell me this?”

“Everyone within the watchpoint knows she is here for safety reasons,” Genji supplies with ease. “If she were to somehow escape, we’d need everyone prepared.”

Hanzo narrows his brow slightly. The woman seems motionless, but occasionally her hands with twist over the other in the cream cloth. As if her fingers long to scratch skin.

“And she is to be stopped without lethal force?” he asks harshly.

Mercy turns on him, firm, “Yes, if at all possible. Amélie is my patient, I won’t have any unnecessary harm coming upon her.”

Her scolding nearly causes Hanzo’s mouth to twist unpleasantly, but he finds Widowmaker’s small form to be contradictory to her reputation. Although her blue skin is strange, it is not unsettling. The smallest breeze would push her over. A too strong of a hand could break her bones.

This is supposed to be a killer of men.

He is unimpressed.

“I’m about to help Amélie perform some physical activity. Soldier: 76, Tracer, McCree or Genji will assistant me while doing this.” Her explanations are clear. If she weren’t so self-righteous she would be a great teacher. “You may watch, but you must remain in here.”

Having his brother in there with Widowmaker causes Hanzo to be silent as Mercy gathers a tray of supplies. The two slip past him and into the room. Genji enters first, greeting Amélie before Mercy does.

Security, incase Widowmaker snaps and tries to kill the doctor.

Mercy sets the tray on a small table in the corner. Taking only a small plastic cup and a few colored pills, she approaches Widowmaker as Genji hovers behind. He does not interfere, but the way he tenses upon the balls of his feet is unmistakable.

“Good afternoon, Amélie,” Mercy greets warmly. “Are you ready to take your medication?”

Slowly, the woman lifts her head. Her curtain of thick hair falls away from her eyes. Hanzo inhales sharply, blindly unprepared at seeing Widowmaker.

Gold irises surround a vertical pupil, demonic in shape. A cold blooded creature that hardly breathes. More disturbing features rupture as his stare is caught in her appearance. Sharp, jagged fangs fill her torn mouth.It seems her front teeth were somewhat spared but the rest are mutated bone fractures. The corner of her lips are stretched and torn, allowing a terrifying view of her disturbed teeth deeper along her jaw. Pale, white scars strike around the ripped blue flesh upon her face. A thing that can barely contain its own fangs.

The stories surrounding Talon’s monster were gruesome, but Hanzo didn’t believe they could truly make a monster.

The woman—if he still dares to call her just that—nods slowly to Mercy. Carefully freeing her hands, pointed claws protrude from her fingernails. Upon such small, dainty fingers, they curve wickedly. Mercy doesn’t seem to have fear as Widowmaker’s fore claw scraps against the doctor’s palm to retrieve a pill.

It is difficult to swallow the medicine and water in such an open gaped mouth, but the woman manages. Tilting her head back, a tremor runs along her throat as she swallows. Then, she takes another pill.

Hanzo does not move. His gaze is unable to be torn away from the creature Talon ripped apart. Mercy helps the woman to her feet, as if she barely has the strength to stand by herself.

He understands Genji’s caution now.

*

This medicine is nicer. It’s colorful. A whole rainbow of red, blues and yellows, like a striped snake.

Mercy holds her arm with a gentle firmness. The doctor seems to balance the two qualities perfectly. Taking her to her bed, Genji shadows them. He always agitates her, not because of the threat he is, but of how nervous he is for the doctor. Those light, negative emotions always seem to cling to the edges of her being. Perhaps some things are simply too hard to strip away.

It may be just her mind, but her mouth is already feeling numb. Sometimes her fangs will catch her flesh and cut through her blue skin. A constant ache always circles her jaw and lips. The pills… she doesn’t remember their uses, but she knows they make the pain go away. Mercy explained it at first, and she’s sure if she asked the doctor would tell her again in a heartbeat, but Widowmaker doesn’t care.

There isn’t any trust, but there is the concept of Overwatch and the good things it once did. Widowmaker isn’t well enough to let a bright, hopeful emotion fill her chest just yet.

It’s the same routine. Mercy takes her heart rate, explaining all of her actions and the meaning of them. It’s nice. The doctors at Talon never talked. Then, basic cardio and stretches, to help her heart rate. She’s began to feel it more, hear it more. It is neither unpleasant nor comforting.

Her heart rate is taken again. Mercy leaves for only a moment to retrieve her lunch. The atmosphere is tense with Genji left, but his visor is brighter for a moment. Zenyatta’s pupil seems concerned, but not as caring as Mercy. She can’t blame his tight limbs. She killed his mentor’s brother after all.

Food is served, simple, bite size pieces that she can keep inside her jagged lips. It doesn’t feel like a chore to eat today. When Mercy asks what else she needs, she tells the doctor she is tired, and wants to rest.

They finally leave her in peace.

Her naps always happen around this time. It’s a constant she looks forward too. The slight escape and feeling of safety under the covers keeps her mind steady.

Mercy and Zenyatta keep reassuring her that they only want to help her, but the walls she stays in makes her jittery. Sometimes her dreams are of doctors bursting in to once again drag her mind away from her own hands, but she wakes up.

She fought the first week, and tried to escape at every chance. A primitive fear held her within the cage, but she refuses to use that word anymore. This is her room, where she will heal, and be better.

Her fingers move under the covers where she curls up tightly. They want to touch the sharpness pulling at her mouth but she stops them. Whenever she had time to herself in a Talon hideout, she would prod and touch all her ruined features. The claws make it impossible to grab things normally, and sometimes her sheets and blanket will have to be replaced after a bad night.

There used to be a mirror, but it triggered her ‘incidents’. To see her eyes, slanted and hollow, only brought back terrible things. It’s now just a black sheet of glass, shiny but not reflective.

She has to let her fangs and claws be for now.

If she wants to heal, she will heal. Zenyatta keeps telling her so, and now it sticks as a mantra she falls back on whenever the room makes her claustrophobic. There is a barely there trust, but she clings to it with Zenyatta and Mercy. They are the only people she’s actively spoken with.

She sleeps, avoiding the many reasons why she shouldn’t let herself heal.

*

A warm cup of tea keeps her fingers steady. She holds back from tapping a claw against the plastic cup, not wanting to draw any more attention to her hands. A yellow sweater keeps her warm today.

Zenyatta sits across from her on the ground. They both seem to enjoy themselves like this. The omnic was eerie at first, and made Widowmaker uneasy, but now she drinks tea with him. It is the only time she is ever alone with one person. When asked why, why he wasn’t afraid, he assured her he could defend himself it needed.

Mutual trust is essential if he is to help her. She agrees.

“How are you today, Amélie?” he asks. His voice is a gently stream, coaxing against her caved in shoulders.

“I am…” she searches her own chest, trying to grasp the smallest flicker of emotion, “anxious.”

It is not an unfamiliar word. Zenyatta rests both his hands on his thighs, quietly viewing her. One of the reason she enjoys his presence is because his expression cannot shift into fear or shock at her appearance. He simply appears peaceful.

“Thank you for telling me this,” he says first. “Why do you feel this way?”

She stops, checking her teeth before she accidentally bites into her flesh.

“I had a dream last night about a kill,” Widowmaker speaks slowly, “I am afraid of hurting someone here.”

Her heart sped fast in the dream, becoming alive at the shot. The perfect shot. It was a clean kill.

Now, she only wants to hide away. The images stained against her eyelids are bloody and dark. It seems too easy to undo all of Mercy’s and Zenyatta’s work by a simple memory. Her claws itch to scratch the remembrance out of her brain.

“I see that you are afraid of this, but you have not hurt anybody following that. You have not hurt me.” He points this out with calming ease. “The last few times you had a dream about a kill, you did not react well, but now you speak calmly with me.”

Her incidents are usually triggered after a dream, but not always.

“I… yes, I haven’t hurt you…” her tongue longs to add ‘yet’ to the end, but she keep her torn mouth closed.

She killed Mondatta. It wouldn’t be difficult to take out his brother as well.

“That is improvement, Amélie,” the warmth blooming in his robotic voice helps her to raise her eyes a little higher.

The omnic extends hand, just between them. It is the positive contact that both of her caretakers have spoken about. In the past she has refuses him, but he is patient and does not hold offense.

Now, she lets one clawed hand leave her cup to curl loosely around the metallic digits of the monk. He is still, gripping her hand lightly in turn.

“Your hands are feeling warmer,” he notes gently.

“It is from your tea, Zenyatta,” her mouth twitches albeit painfully. If she could smile, she would have tried. “It is always lovely.”

“Thank you, I’m glad you enjoy it.”

The moment she tugs away, he lets her go. Pulling her sleeves back as to allow better movement of her hands, she sips at her cup. Zenyatta begins speaking again, asking her about any other dreams, or feelings she’s had in the past day.

*

Hanzo is unsettled for days after his viewing of Widowmaker. Taking to the practice range with his bow, the familiar motions fail to help him collect himself. Sleep has always been a vengeful enemy, but his flask of sake has only a bitter edge. Drinking was his first escape, but not he wanders late at night. The cold air bites into his flesh but it doesn’t slow his heartbeat.

The slow and reluctant time spent with Genji is tiring. A constant battle erupts behind his lungs about whether this thing is truly his brother. Alive. Scarred. Still breathing, still saying his name with a boyish tone that now rings steady and peaceful.

Both he and Zenyatta insist upon ‘meditation’ together. The thought would have suspended Hanzo in disbelief about his restless brother making peace, but he is not the same.

Genji is not the same.

He tries, for Genji’s sake. He wants him to heal, the hopeful fool. Hanzo has rejected the thought of regaining the honor he once had, the strength, but he will do what Genji wants him. It’s not redemption, but maybe it’s punishment for what transpired years ago.

First, it is only a constant strain. Hanzo feels wrong, out of place beside the monk and his student. He can’t breathe until the mediating is over.

Sometimes the jagged teeth and ripped blue flesh of Widowmaker will disrupt his thoughts.

Genji makes a joke one morning, causing Hanzo to ungracefully snort. The session is different. Besides his brother, Hanzo finally seeks a calm state of mind. He wants to let go of the drink and sleeplessness. He wants to know what a light soul feels like, just for one, dream like moment.

Meditating slowly becomes easier with Genji.

Zenyatta begins conversations, asking simple questions to Hanzo. The answers he gives are also blunt and short yes or no or ‘I’m fine’. Genji talks about first going to the monastery, the anger and denial he felt towards his own body. It took a long time for him to see his own limbs as simple prosthetics, instead of foreign pieces attached to what was his own flesh.

Hanzo breaks into anger  before Genji still confesses that he wants him to heal like he once did.

He does not deserve redemption, nor Genji’s forgiveness.

Hanzo breaks.

For the first time in nearly fifteen years, Hanzo feels his brother’s embrace.

*

“Hanzo,” the monk’s robotic voice stops his still.

“Zenyatta,” he greets lowly, unsure of what the omnic desires.

“I would like to continue our sessions together, but without Genji.” Zenyatta’s fingertips hold together lightly, even as Hanzo narrows his brow. “There is still anger within you.”

“Must you pick me apart for your own pleasure?” It’s a rash accusation, but Hanzo has already felt too much today.

Zenyatta is unswayed.

“Healing will not be an easy path, but you will not be lost if you walk it.” The monk is still, unreadable. Hanzo keeps his fists from tightening.

“If you agree, we will continue our mediation with Amélie.”

The name catches him off guard, stalling his breath for a moment before his lungs squeeze tightly within his chest.

“Widowmaker?” he asks slowly.

“Yes, but please, address her by her name. That moniker is not hers anymore, and like you, she is trying to leave a terrible road.”

Long hair spills into his mind like it spilled over her shoulder. The woman with sharp, inhuman eyes is seeking recovery.

He’s not sure what possesses him when he answers, “Fine.”

*

A thick, blue knitted sweater keeps her claws hidden today. The sleeves overwhelm her hands, and she refuses to even pick up her cup of tea. The simple comfort she’s come to known with the omnic monk is disturbed by Genji’s elder brother.

The man who almost killed him.

Hanzo bowed when he first came into the room. She nodded back as politely as she could but never took her eyes off him. Now, he holds a cup of tea without drinking from it. Zenyatta is unfazed by the tension rising off both of their skin even though Hanzo’s expression is steeled.

Her vertical, unnatural pupils must make him feel uneasy. An assassin in his own right, he must be braced for her attack.

She agreed to this. Hanzo Shimada has family blood on his hands just as she does. She wanted to meet him, the man Genji somehow forgave. He is only cool control and tight anger. It surprised her how well he keeps himself. Knelled upon the ground with them, he seems as if he’s ready to pray. He has a trim beard and goatee. A tight ponytail only allows a sharp bang free, but even then gray stains around shorter hairs by his temples. Older than she, but he holds weight in his mahogany brown eyes. The same pressure she knows by heart.

He does not have fangs and claws with terrifying eyes.

Slowly straightening, she answers Zenyatta’s questions clearly. Hanzo’s gaze does not make room for notice, but she feels his eyes the few times he looks to her.

She will not be mocked or afraid of the likes of him.

Taking her tea after telling about another bad dream, she sips with her carefully held claws. He has the grace to not stare. It must be a vile sight. A quick onslaught of anger burns her lungs. It’s a welcoming sensation, but it makes it harder to breathe.

“Hanzo, how well have you been resting?”

When Zenyatta asks this, Widowmaker raises her eyes. Dark flesh decorates underneath his eyelids, and wrinkles pull at the corner of his eyes. Weary.

“I do not sleep well.” He speaks slowly, as if it’s painful to reveal this weakness. “I can only manage two or three hours.”

She almost snags a piece of her mouth. Carefully shifting her jaw, her cheeks hurt for a moment. Sleep is an escape, but only conditionally. Naps are her preference, a quick slip into darkness without dreams.

Hanzo’s dreams must be too haunting.

His gaze meets her as Zenyatta speaks. For a moment, there is only two sinners in the room. Guilt paints them red with a stain only each other can see.

“Are your dreams that bad?” she asks softly, interrupting Zenyatta’s sentence. Hanzo somehow straightens more, meeting her gaze. There is that hint of repulse in his eyes at her features, but it does not weight down his irises.

“No… I can’t seem to settle my thoughts,” his voice rumbles deeply. An ancient tone moves through his words, as if he is an elder above all else.

“I see…” she murmurs, before shifting her torn mouth over her fangs. His stare burns upon her, dropping to her torn and scarred lips.

He makes his own nightmares.

“Being able to settle your mind before sleep will aid you, although I may want you to seek additional help from Dr. Ziegler. Rest is important for the body and mind.” Zenyatta eases in softly, calm as a little stream of clear water.

She breaks away first, placing her cup down as to tug her sleeves over her fingers. One claw catches the soft fabric before she fixes it swiftly. Fury flares inside her again, as if she can’t get sights upon a target. The man beside her is causing swift agitation but she can’t pinpoint it exactly. Many have stared, and still do, at her ruined mouth and terrifying teeth. That is not his problem.

Does he only see a monster beside him? Indulging in a fantasy of getting better? Of healing? Does he see a face fit for the crimes it committed?

Her teeth shift, and she longs to gnaw on her lips. To make them bleed and hurt.

“Amélie?” Zenyatta asks softly. Both he and Hanzo look to her now.

“Yes?” she whispers, trying to keep her jaw close.

“Are you alright?”

Hanzo’s gaze brushes against her eyelids when she closes them. Breathing softly, letting her lungs settle, she untwists her hands from squeezing the other.

“I am… frustrated.”

It’s not as difficult as she thought it would be to speak loosely in front of another person. Really, she hasn’t had privacy in so long but now that she does, it’s as if the awakening emotion in her chest only wants to be shared. What he bares to both of them can’t be so different from her own sins.

Zenyatta lowers his hands into his lap.

“Can you tell us what about?”

A fang digs into her lip, cutting into the flesh. The raw, unhealed pain aches deeply for a moment before she answers.

“My progress.” Emotion. What emotion is she feeling? It’s anger, maybe towards Hanzo but there isn’t any real ground behind that. Anger towards herself? Yes… Frustration at her aching mouth and colored pills and stationed walls.

“I don’t feel like I’m improving.”

He gets to walk outside. His brother breathes beside him. Why can’t she heal like that?

“Your progress may seem slow, but it is there.” Zenyatta’s voice offers soft reassurance. “Amélie, you are coming from years of harm. In just a few weeks you are already doing remarkable better than when we first found you.”

Resentment. It clicks into place perfectly within her brain. It’s not anger at him or even herself. The teeth that hurt her own mouth, and the claws that frightens others.

When she was told she would be conversing with another killer, she hoped he’d have fangs and claws. The face of a monster would mirror her own.

Her eyes lift to Hanzo’s. The elder brother of Genji remains unflinching underneath her slit like stare. His brow narrows for the smallest moment, a slight divot in pale skin. The accusation resting on her tongue may make him tremble.

Smothering the rising energy in her throat, she swallows. Widowmaker sweeps her hair back and acknowledges Zenyatta’s words.

The rest of the session goes by with the robotic hum of Zenyatta’s voice. It’s interrupted by Mercy, and a tray of soft food and pills. A relief already touches around her aching mouth at the sight.

“Amélie,” Hanzo says, bowing softly to her. Her head nods in return, sharing a lingering look that doesn’t make her try to hide her fangs.

“Hanzo, it was wonderful meeting you,” she speaks honestly.

A gold ribbon trails behind him as he leaves.

“Mercy?” she asks quietly after her medication is swallowed. It will make her sleep soon enough, and allow the pain to lift, but first she must do this.

“Yes, Amélie?”

“Will you tell Hanzo I wish to meet him? Alone.”

*

Hanzo stands still, watching through the glass. The doctor speaks briefly with Widowmaker and helps her rise out of bed with a gentle hand. Zenyatta told him physical contact is grounding to her. At first, she rejected the hand touching, but now she is the one to reach out. The blue of her skin is still cold, but her heartbeat is rising.

She is healing, but slowly.

“Why do you think she wants to speak with you?” Genji’s voice is low, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” Hanzo answers.

Being only inches away from her was surreal. He thought he would find the beast hidden in the woman’s eye but only found grief. The taunt draw of her mouth revealed the pain she keeps at bay, and with curled fingers hiding within her sleeves, she is not proud of her claws.

Widowmaker, one of Talon’s best assassins, looked small and pathetic.

Shame had touched through him when she spoke about her frustration. How dare he see only a monster, when he deserve none of the kindness given to him here? Genji’s forgiveness is too light. The bizarre façade of most everyone acting like he hadn’t committed fratricide is a fever dream.

Here one killer is, asking for the company of another.

“You can say no, Hanzo. My master thinks it’s good she’s asking for someone’s presence but I only wanted you to meditate with her and Zenyatta.”

Mercy has Widowmaker on her feet, leaving her to come back to the medical room.

“I can hold my own, Genji,” he offers, lightly. In a small glance, confidence in no way leaves him be. A brainwashed, struggling sniper won’t be difficult to stop.

A small tilt of the green visor causes Genji’s concern to shine before he nods. Mercy enters the room and approaches Hanzo with only a professional demeanor.

“She’s ready for you. Do not cause any stress for my patient.” Her warning rings as he steps past her. Narrowing his brow, he longs to rebuke the doctor but doesn’t look back as he enters Widowmaker’s room. His attention slips into vertical pupils. Gold shimmers around the strange shape.

A beautiful color.

Her long hair is tied back. Dressed in a light tank top and soft shorts, she stands in the more open space of the room. Slowly, she bends down to touch her feet. She folds in half, allowing her main of hair to brush against the floor as she presses her palms flat against the ground.

“I’m surprised you came, Hanzo.” As quiet as she sounds, nothing can hinder Widowmaker’s alluring cords. Straightening, she begins another stretch with her legs.

“You don’t have to stay here. I know I’m not pretty company.” Her arms arches over her head before breathing out quietly with the stretch. Her gaze only flickers to his with a fang filled mouth.

Annoyance touches through Hanzo as he huffs out, “Do you not believe I can make my own choices?”

Slowly lowering her hands, her claws curl slight as she cups her hands out of sight. The torn, scarred corner of her mouth twitches in what could have been a smile. Her jaw immediately tenses as she drops her gaze.

“Now I do,” she murmurs through jagged lips.

Hanzo crosses his arms, stepping closer to her vicinity. She follows his movement to where he shadows the wall before continuing another stretch.

“Are you in pain?” Hanzo remembers Mercy helping her to her feet, contrasted to right now where she seems elegant and poised.

“Sometimes.” Her answer is honest. “Medicine helps a lot, but it is also the source of it. There’s no simple way to undo genetic mutation.”

Mutation. Hanzo finds himself scowling at the word just as she tilts her head. The long ponytail falls over her shoulder before she brushes it back.

“What do you know?” she asks, allowing him a moment of grace as she bends down to stretch once again.

He waits until she straightens to hold her gaze.

“Talon experimented on you. Brainwashed you.” If she’s leading the discussion down this path, he’s not afraid to follow. “They made you into the perfect killer.”

She nods slowly, twisting on her stationed legs as to stretch the muscles along her back.

“They wanted something without emotion,” her voice is quiet, “They wanted something made of a human being but lacking humanity.”

Her hand ghosts to her mouth for a moment, both claws and fangs so near in a sharp display. A flinch trembles through her before lowering her hand.

Hanzo is still, but his body tenses at her frail, given form. At any moment she could snap and lunge at him like a rabid animal, but she seems more human now. The consciousness of her own torn cheeks and lips with her bowed head creates weakness. She is not Widowmaker.

She is aching grief and scarred tissue.

He sees only his reflection.

“They are the monsters,” he nearly growls, causing a soft noise to leave her throat. Perhaps a laugh. He only makes himself a hypocrite for saying so, but the woman before him was forced to bare the blood on her hands.

“Many believe that Talon and I are the same,” her soft acknowledgement.

“You want to be here, don’t you?” His question demands an answer, causing Widowmaker to stare for a moment at his intensity.

“Yes…” she speaks quietly.

“You are not the killer that is spoken of then.”

Her jaw twitches, pulling her fangs across her torn cheeks. For a moment, he wonders if she’ll make herself bleed, but she breathes out slowly.

“Be honest with me, Hanzo,” she starts slowly, “Are you frightened of me?”

His eyelids refuse to close against the vertical darkness encased in gold.

“I was before.” It stings his tongue a little to speak this.

“And now?” she prompts, holding her tattered lips carefully.

For a moment, they are the only existing beings. There is no one behind the black glass listening, there is no real walls holding them inside. It is only two damaged people, and he, confessing to her she’s not the only monster. Pathetically, meekly, he approaches her fangs with his gnashing beast within.

“I find you to be the least difficult person here.”

For one brash moment, the cold sniper pulls her scarred, torn lips into a fang filled smile that echoes softly with a laugh. Quickly, her hands comes to her jaw as her eyelids squeeze tightly shut in pain. Sharp breaths leave her mouth, causing him to step forward in quiet alarm.

“I must agree with you, Hanzo.” Widowmaker raises her head, still covering her mouth but allowing the smallest crinkle to touch her eyes in lightness.

*

He agrees to come back, and eat dinner with her. Mercy is excited that she is asking for the company, but Widowmaker can see the distaste in her eyes towards the elder Shimada brother. The words he spoke to her still ring in her mind, tugging at the light emotion in her chest.

Slowly, his presence becomes easier. Her hair stays tucked behind her ears, and though her hands always tend to curl together, reaching for objects doesn’t make her hesitate. His stares are upon her face. The piercing gaze, like that of a bird of prey, cuts past her savage mouth and fangs. Sometimes he’ll behold her scarred skin and vertical eyes with a hard brow, but it doesn’t make the urge to kill come alive.

She meets with Zenyatta every day, but on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Hanzo will join them. The little time they share are moments for her interest to hold in his strong but slow words. Guilt is a heavy thing. He doesn’t feel deserving of the forgiveness and help he receives. In his own, rumbling cords, it seems there is nothing that will allow him to heal.

His moment of weakness lets her breathe slowly. She is not the only one envious, and feeling trapped. A few of his marbled glances reveals his seething rage built inwards.

Hanzo and Widowmaker are probably the most complicated people upon the watchpoint, and yet, she’s never felt more at ease with someone else. There is still the reluctance to lift her eyes, or hide her mouth even though it hurts to move her raw flesh, but he doesn’t move away. There isn’t the burden of remembrance of sin upon every look they share.

One night, he joins her in her room. Along the wall and upon the ground, they lean in comfortable silence. Daintily, she pulls her claws through her hair strands, and braids the thick mass. He watches her fingers, and the wicked talons upon them as if viewing a thread and needle.

“How long is your hair?” she asks, always finding his black strands pulled back tightly in a gold ribbon.

For a moment, he breathes softly. Her jaw shifts, wanting to bite into her flesh but she restrains the motion. Hanzo’s hands rise as he straightens. Kneeling, as if before her, thick ropes of muscle illuminate greatly upon his arms at the simple motion of freeing his hair. The strange dragon tattoo runs along his left arm is inked in careful, ancient designs. Strength is not foreign to man, neither is beauty.

Perfect, black locks stop just below his chin. Brushing against his beard, Hanzo carefully wraps the ribbon around one fist. His hair threatens to fall into his eyes, but a few careful fingers brush back his bangs.

She lets her torn lips part in a quiet awe. Deep irises lift up, presenting himself like a gift to her unholy eyes. It’s strangely vulnerable, and she clings to it. A craving arises. Sharp and sudden. It settles behind her lungs, holding firmly against her slow beating heart.

Jagged, shaking fingers ache to reach forward and touch what can only be soft silk. Her claws dig into her own palms, reminding her swiftly of Hanzo’s culture, and personal wants.

“Il est inutile de discuter de votre beauté.”

Her murmur reaches him, causing his brow to divot slightly.

“Amélie?”

Her lips want to move upwards, but a breathy sound leaves her throat instead. English never justifies her native tongue’s meaning.

“It is useless to argue such beauty.”

Hanzo stills. The compliment of beauty is no stranger to his ears, but he bows his head for a moment. It feels off, as he was rebuked or angered. His hair turns, hiding him away in unknown armor.

Confusion strikes her center, causing the craving to fester inside her chest.

In a quiet motion, he unravels the ribbon from his hand. She watches the careful movement of strong fingers gathering his hair and tying it back. No matter what he does though, one sharp strand remains free upon his head. It frames dark mahogany irises.

They stay in silence until Mercy asks Hanzo to leave.

*

The dream is full of blood. Through the haze of drugs and therapy, Widowmaker rises. She can’t feel her heartbeat, but she must escape. Talon waits. Her targets still linger, alive.

Her claws dig into the black glass, attempting to shatter it but it only shrieks under her force. They watch her like an animal, a test subject. They’ll make it hurt, but Talon promises cold nothings. She pushes the button beside the bed. The doctor will come, and she’ll kill her.

Widowmaker waits in the darkness. Crouched upon the balls of her feet, her jaw works silently. Sharp teeth already cause puncture marks in her bottom lip. Blood drips down her chin as she waits. There’s not enough room for her fangs. She’ll make room. Nervous, hungry claws shred the sleeves of the shirt she wears. Her sharp talons create ribbons of blue flesh along her arm, but it doesn’t change her heartbeat, it doesn’t feel like pain.

The door opens with a concerned voice calling a name.

She lunges, hoping to catch the doctor but her shoulder hits the butt of a gun. Soldier: 76 swiftly moves as she kicks out upon the floor. A pain filled grunt echoes as her foot connects to the soldier’s ankle, but he slams her back down to the ground. He shouts, saying a name that fits in a space far in the back of her head. His strength overcomes hers as he turns her over to her stomach. Twisting her arms painfully, she tries to break free of his grasp but feels the doctor’s warm hand against her neck.

Sharp metal slips underneath her skin. Her breathing shifts to something a little louder, but she knows what will come. They’ll tear her skin apart and put it back together a new color. Her limbs and details will be wrong. A killer is all that will be born to their deeds.

Her muscles loosen, as if all the strings are cut. A quiet force slips her eyelids close, and Widowmaker sleeps.

*

“Hanzo.” D.va stops him down the hallway. He turns, waiting for the young woman to jog up to him. Possibilities roam his mind at this interruption as almost no one bothers his morning commute to the training center.

“Mercy needs you. It’s Amélie.”

He stills, taking in D.va’s easeful state.

“Is she alright?” he demands, turning on the balls of his feet towards the cells. She calls out in surprise before smaller footsteps attempt to keep up with his.

“She had an incident last night, relapsed for a little bit. Mercy thinks she came out it pretty quick though but she needs to make sure.”

His pace doesn’t slow as he briefly considering what harm could have come upon others beside herself. The news would make D.va much more grime, but she seems only bored by a simple errand. Brainwashed but recovering, Wiowmaker is still lethal. He holds to that thought as they move down to the lower grounds.

Just last night she was complimenting his hair. He eyes scrunch close, as if physically pushing the memory aside.

“Hey, it’s okay. They’ve got her settled down now.” D.va huffs in keeping with his jogging.

“How so?” he demands, not looking back.

Footsteps echo in the hallway as they enter the cell holding division. It feels looming and claustrophobic as he nears her door.

“They usually keep her wrist and ankles tied down, but this morning they only had her wrists cuffed. I think it’s because she’s doing better, and Mercy doesn’t want her to relapse with bad memories of what the Talon doctors did.”

They stop at the door, but Hanzo does not delay in throwing it open. Leaving D.va in the hallway, he only hears an unimpressed sigh from her. In the medical room, Soldier: 76 stands off to the side. His mask is trained on the window allowing a view to Widowmaker’s room. Both Genji and Mercy straighten at his appearance.

“Hanzo,” Genji greets, coming forward to place his hand on his shoulder briefly.

“Amélie had an incident,” he states, allowing a moments look to his brother in a hello.

“Yes,” Mercy’s gaze is hard, this time in concerned and not directed towards him. “I need to do a simple psych evaluation to insure Amélie hasn’t relapsed completely. In order to do that, I need personal material to work.”

She breathes out quietly, and Hanzo notes the dark circles under her eyes. It’s a quiet reassurance that Widowmaker’s doctor is determined in the very least. Even if his personal affairs with Mercy aren’t friendly, gratitude touches through him at this.

“In previous tests I would ask her about Gerard, her husband, but I want to ask about your time alone with her.” Mercy speaks as Genji is still, tilting his head only slightly while he watches Hanzo. “Her experience with you shouldn’t bring immediate trauma back to the surface.”

Her implications is plain. He has been her only true companion, the only person she’s requested time with. Mercy and Zenyatta may be of comfort, but they are still workers trying to make her better. Attempting to touch her wounds would only rip open his own, so he hasn’t tried. They’re encounters have only been distant, comfortable silence.

That makes him her only ally.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks.

Mercy shoulders loosen by a fraction. “Tell me what you and Amélie talked about yesterday. Something to connect to her well being instead of being within Talon.”

Hanzo brow narrows as his body wants to draw tight. That time is theirs, and theirs alone. Her eyes lingering over his face as he left his hair down was soft. The vertical pupils framed in gold beheld him dearly instead of with judgement.

It is for her good that he speaks.

“She asked how long my hair is,” he rumbles quietly. “I showed her.”

Genji’s visor brightens for one, quick moment. Turning to his brother, the metal helm only nods.

“Anything else?” Mercy prompts, tired but needing to complete her task.

“We don’t converse much,” he finishes flatly. Mercy stalls only a moment before looking to Soldier: 76. Without a word, he joins the doctor at the door and enters Amélie’s room.

Swiftly, Hanzo moves to stand in front of the window. Without concern faces now holding him back, he can see her in her bed. Railings now line the sides, but the person he finds lying still is only a shadow of the one who asked about his hair.

Widowmaker’s eyes are far away, as if not truly awake. The vertical pupils shift wildly at Mercy’s and Soldier: 76’s entrance. Carefully, Mercy pulls a seat besides Widowmaker’s bed, and begins talking quietly.

Her mouth is stitched and bandaged. Patches of white are stained red but she could still talk if she wished to. Those scars lacing along her ragged mouth is by her own doing, not Talon’s direct work. Even then, they are the ones who cause her to chew and rip apart her own jaw, as if wanting to view her entire set of fangs.

Blood hot anger rushes Hanzo without warning. Genji’s presence beside him is merely a shadow as he stares at the woman cuffed to her own bed. Her wrists are down by her hips, padded in thick leather straps but bandages line her forearms. Those too, are stained red. Where her claws stained with her own blood before Mercy found her?

“Did she do that to herself?” Hanzo demands, refusing to look away from the scene.

“Yes,” Genji answers quietly. “Without a gun in her hands, she tends to harm herself.”

Widowmaker. The killer Talon made will kill someone else.

“It was worst before,” Genji’s voice nearly causes Hanzo to flinch. “She wouldn’t talk, or even be still for Mercy to dress her injuries. Now, she comes out of it faster.”

Hanzo is silent. His fists curl tightly, nearly trembling if not for his own control.

“She asked about you.”

In the silence after that sentence, Hanzo’s heart drowns his ears before he turns his gaze at the green visor staring back at him. The heat in his body fades like a dying fire.

“She didn’t want you to see her.” The cyborg’s gaze shifts slightly to the window. Mercy’s presence seems calming enough to Widowmaker as her frantic, inhuman pupils settle upon the doctor’s face as she keeps speaking.

“Why?” Hanzo asks like a trembling breeze, before rising like a steel tempest. “I’ve already seen her fangs and claws. Does she think it will repulse me now?”

“I think she doesn’t want to look even more… unwell to her only friend.”

Friend. Hanzo’s skeptical look tells Genji what he thinks of the word.

“You were the first one she ever asked to see, personally and on her own time.” Genji contemplates, slightly amused. “I consider that friendship, if nothing else.”

If nothing else. Hanzo huffs. Anger is not the only thing stirring inside of him. At Genji’s observation, it creates unease. Is his younger brother still seeing things different? Does he believe in a delusional hope?

“I will respect her wishes than,” Hanzo speaks. He understands the damage already done but refuses to widen the wound any further. Stepping past Genji, he lets him go silently but that doesn’t leave him without weight. Down the hallway, Hanzo’s thoughts are still locked away in Widowmaker’s cell, circling blue skin and sharp teeth.

*

Healing, for whatever the reason, is a very itchy process. Maybe her impulse control is weak. Perhaps her mind is simply still trying to crawl out of the acid bath that Talon dunk her in before Overwatch found her. It could simply be that her hands have nothing else to do so her claws want to rip the bandages off her arms.

Mercy has already undone her cuffs. As padded as they try to make them, her wrists still ache. It hasn’t even been a full twenty-four hours since her relapse, and they’re allowing her to roam her room freely. Since she was able to converse with Mercy just fine, she suggested that she may be rehabilitating faster than they thought.

From her oozing, bloody mouth to her own claws still having dry flasks of her own blood underneath the nails, she doesn’t think so.

Zenyatta once used a phrase to help her describe her feelings… One step forward, two steps back. Fitting.

At least there’s enough relief to take her medicine by herself today instead of through an IV drip. Those make her skin crawl. Before they dragged her here, she didn’t feel the cold metal of the needle, but now, it makes her want to scream.

It hurts, but the pills will kick in soon. She can feel the torn flesh barely hanging as an excuse for her bottom lip. Buried under aseptic and bandages, her mouth has done dry from all the gauze. Her cheeks were spared this time around. The first day she was tied down here she chewed through her right cheek. Mercy was forced to use her staff to reverse the damage she did to half her face.

Her fangs are not gentle in anyway, especially to her.

A small flinch moves through her when she pictures Hanzo. His gaze has been unapologetically real for her. The slight horror turned to simple interest at her jagged teeth and sharp claws, but what about this?

Mercy said they would keep him away until she’s not bleeding anymore, but a part of her still fears of what he’d find here.

She’s slump on the edge of her bed. A new sweater smells like clean detergent, and hides her hands in over sized sleeves. Her hair falls, greasy and unwashed for a few days now. Her shoulders cave in, as if wanting to give up on her rib cage. What she knows as disturbing vertical pupils haven’t lift from a certain spot on the floor.

Pathetic. Gross. Sad.

Sad.

That’s an emotion. Not one she feels, not now. She feels… apprehensive. Self-revolt. Disgust. Fear.

She misses Hanzo.

Nearly tying her sleeves together, she rolls her knuckles against the other through the fabric of her sweater.

*

A mission pulls most of the agents away from the watchpoint. Hanzo remains. It’s been nearly two weeks since Widowmaker requests him to leave her be. He still obliges that request. Repeatedly he’s gone through similar motions. Mediation sessions with his brother, speaking with honesty and expressing emotions that he tries and fails to keep from making his body trembling. The only relaxation motion he can find is shooting with his bow. The other agents are noisy, unconcerned. D.va keeps shadowing him with light questions focused on the infamous Talon sniper.

For once, it’s peaceful here.

He hasn’t been outside for some time today. The air is cool, but not biting. Perhaps the stars will be clear tonight.

Widowmaker would enjoy the sight, he assumes.

A dangerous thought strikes him. Already restless, he closes down the training center, and leaves his bow and quiver in his room. Through the quiet watchpoint, Hanzo’s footsteps pat against the floor.

The image of her bandages and the bright color of red patches are what he sees when someone mentions her name. If she sends him away again, he will go, but at least he will take a better person in place of the wounded creature. It escapes his reason as to why she feels shame at the thought of his tainted soul viewing her. Her claws and fangs are nothing new. How could he judge her?

That question, along with her cuffed wrists have been his only companion these last few days. Genji reassures him that she wishes to see him, but only when her bandages are gone. His master is patient with Hanzo’s restlessness, but that only agitates him further.

She truly is the only companion he seeks. Everywhere else is a minefield of memories and scars and bruises. Her torn lips that twitch when she wants to smile offer a small oasis. He shouldn’t allow himself to indulge in such comfort, but his actions have been dictated by his crime for so long now. In truth, she makes him feel something besides the guilt.

His teeth press down on the inside of his cheek. A dangerous line is stretched out in front of him, resembling the hallway outside Widowmaker’s room, but he steps forward with still lungs.

Athena isn’t down in the cells here. The bodiless robotic voice set Widowmaker on edge when she first was here, and so automated mechanics keep her medicine and wellbeing on schedule when Dr. Ziegler isn’t present.

It’s simple to slip into the medical room first, and then knock on her room door. His eyes don’t allow a look through the window.

“Hello?” comes her voice, confused in the static of the speakers over his head.

“Amélie,” he breathes. “I want to see you.”

Silence echoes with his last uttered syllable.

“Come in, Hanzo.” Her words allow him to loosen his tense stance by degrees.

Unlocking the door with his palm, it swings open silently. On the edge of the bed sits Widowmaker. Dark hair falls down her shoulders, and her arms curl loosely around herself. Her mouth is held carefully. He can count the new scars along her tattered lip but at least the bandages are no more. By the way her claws are hidden, he suspects her arms are still healing up, but she returns his gaze. Wary and tired.

“I thought there was a mission,” she asks quietly, watching his slow approach with vertical pupils.

“There is.” He stops, keeping a respectful pace from her hunched form.

Dryness sets upon his mouth. A dullness touches the edges of her eyes were brightness once shined. Relapsing. Falling down. Failing. It’s written over her fangs and agape mouth.

“Do you want to go outside?”

An emotion sparkles in the reflection of her gold irises, but she doesn’t dare let it bloom beyond that. Her gaze flickers over him as her hands rub together over a protection of cotton.

“That’s dangerous, Hanzo.”

He sighs quietly, turning his head for a moment in frustration. Reluctance paints her skin at her slow rehabilitation, fangs and claws included. The fear of harm still keeps her in this little prison. It’s the same situation as before, but this time, he knows her.

“Do you not believe I can make my own choices?”

She raises her head at that. Silently, her jaw moves, as if aching to tear her fangs into something. The moment passes, and she moves her hair back.

“You are stupid, but so am I,” she declares with a twitch of the corner of her mangled mouth.

Something lighter shifts in Hanzo as she slowly stands. Her blue skin and cool night has him stalling for a blanket. She simple rips off a smaller, purple covering that keeps around her shoulders.

“Hanzo,” she stops him before he opens the door. “I know your culture is different from mine… but I would like to hold onto your arm.”

For the first time, he notices her height. Only an inch below his own. It’s simple to hold her gaze and find familiarity in her strange eyes. Something he never sought out before. Something he never dared to let himself consider. She still keeps herself away, allowing a respectable distant but he closes it in one stride.

“Very well,” he murmurs, offering out his tattooed arm now half covered by a shirt sleeve.

“Merci,” she whispers as her cold hand comes against his skin. Carefully, she curls her claws into a fist as to not touch him with the sharp talons. Goosebumps arise, causing him to steel his muscles to avoid trembling. Slipping closer, the cool body radiates into his side. Her shoulder is nearly pressed against his backside, and for a moment he envisions her cool, scarred cheek leaning against a shoulder blade.

The door opens. Her fingers tense as they step through it.

“If you want to return, say the word.” Hanzo doesn’t need her going past her limits. If anything, this is supposed to be freeing. A hint of comfort along a rough road that seems to hold no end in sight.

The only answer he receives is the sometimes labored breaths she lets slip through her teeth. Mindful of taking it slow for her recovering heart and lungs, the hallway leads them to a slow release. At this door, fresh air slips against Widowmaker’s cheekbones. She inhales, closing her eyes for a moment.

Her hand holds securely against his arm. He feels guarded, as if an enemy will slip out of the shadows to suddenly attack her. Keeping his stance loose and steady, he doesn’t want her to fear tonight. He knows that she could break any moment, but he can restrain her if needed.

She already spoke both their thoughts when she declared their foolishness. Yet, here she is, walking at his side as he takes her through the watchpoint and eventually, upon the roof.

There is the soft sound of the ocean far underneath them, but beyond that, a certain stillness rests in the air. Sitting down beside her, her hand doesn’t retract from his arm. With the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, she slips the corner between her skin and his. He parts his lips to complain about the needlessness of it, but her sharp eyes silence him.

He relents, just this once.

Holding her mouth carefully, Widowmaker tilts her head back. The stars over the watchpoint are near dazzling. The slight taste of sea salt and grass must be still tumbling over Widowmaker’s sense as it does his. Her deep breathes are calming. The rhythm helps his own body to keep pace.

“You must really like me,” she muses. He looks to her, but her chin still tilts backwards. A dark waterfall of hair cascades down her back, nearly shimmering in tune with the stars. Quiet. Radiate. Scarred. Strong.

Her statement slips deeper into his chest, infecting the light feeling already blooming between his ribs. Does she know that feeling? Does it frighten her as it does him?

His hands want to curl into fists. If it were possible, he’d ripped out the sensation. She deserves this besides his own selfish wants of her closeness.

“You’re still so frighten.”

Now her eyes come upon him. In the darkness, her pupils widen to an almost normal state. Real, even as the fangs threaten to puncture her ripped mouth again.

“I am not frightened of you,” he nearly growls, knowing that they went through this before.

“No, not of my fangs and claws anymore, but you keep guarding yourself.” Her hair shifts as she does, falling to hide half of her face. “I don’t blame you.”

It’s a soft surrender. The same voice that kept him running after the Shimada Clan fell. The piece of him that refuses to accept his brother’s still beating heart is now covered in metal, or the soft reassurance of forgiveness.

“I killed my brother. You have every right to blame me.”

She reappears, gold irises unreadable even as her jaw is held tensely.

“Why?”

The breath in his lungs stop. A bunched fist against his tattooed arm holds carefully for fear of cutting his skin with sharp claws. Her face is scarred with the ache of years and sin.

“Because it was my duty, my honor.” His chest stirs with acid at that. Nothing upon her blue canvas shifts.

“And my burden.”

His sin. His undoing. His end.

The cool skin barely separated by a blanket keeps him still. An anchor. She shifts slowly, pressing her knees against the length of his thigh. The scent of lavender touches his senses.

“I don’t remember killing my husband.” Her voice comes like the softest breeze. It lessens the blows against his skin. “Those here who don’t believe I was always a sleeper agent defend me with excuses of Talon’s brainwashing. That they were the ones who did this, to both me and Gerard.”

Her lungs stop at the name. The fist against his arm tightens, causing worry that she might be cutting her own palm but she stills just as quickly. Her jaw opens, as if loosening the muscle and trying to not bite down on her still healing lip. Hanzo keeps his gaze straight, as if he’s intruding on a private piece of her soul.

“I woke up on the bed, and he was right beside me. As if we both were just sleeping. His blood was on my hands, and I knew. I knew what I did…”

A hitch in her breath stalls her words. His fingers move, but remain closed. The starlight touches her cheekbones with a gentle light he only wishes he could.

“Being made cold at first was a gift, and sometimes, I still wish I was.”

Widowmaker draws her hand from his arm. He lets her go. Gently tugging back the sleeves until the disturbing claws protruding from her fingers are visible, she holds her hands like weapons. The torn flesh acting as her cheeks allows sharp peeks of the fangs nestled deeper in her mouth.

“I am Widowmaker.”

Hanzo turns his gaze slowly, finding her unholy eyes staring back. The mirror reflection of grief and guilt is too much to behold. In the quietest moments of the night, a single tear falls from each of her strange eyes. The teardrops startles her as one clawed hand reaches up to brush it off. On her finger, it glistens.

“I know,” his voice breaks. Slowly, waiting for the rejection that never comes, his finger wipes away the other tear. It almost touches on the first scar lacing along the curve of her mouth. Sparkling eyes turn back to him, stunned with a deep ache and a long held fear of never recovering.

“Such beauty, is wasted on the soul of a killer.”

They both know the truth. With a strangled swallow and a soft nod, Widowmaker presses into the space along his shoulder and neck.

“I know,” she whispers.

Her cold cheek jolts his skin alive. Angling her mouth carefully, she keeps her fangs far from him while still leaning into his chest. Reluctance keeps his hand hovering for a moment before it touches against her waist. At her soft sigh, the heavy sound of remembering comfort, he pulls her closer against him. Her hands curl against her stomach, but he lowers them gently against the rooftop.

The stars breathe with their strangled breaths and empty chests. They know who they are, but they know what is waiting for them if they dare allow other’s hands to grace their stained skin.

“Hanzo,” she murmurs, “I’m going to fall asleep.”

He only tugs the blanket over a part of exposed blue skin.

“Then sleep.”

The softest sounds emits from her agape mouth. It warms his neck and stills his beating heart. Perhaps at the comfort of another sinner, or simply a body that doesn’t feel wrong, his eyes close. His arm still holds tight against her waist, securing her against him as they slip away under the stars.