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“Maybe in another life, chérie.”
It’s cold in London tonight. The wind rushes through Lena’s balcony door, chilling her skin, erupting in goosebumps. It’s nearly painful, the bite on her skin, but it seems appropriate for the moment.
Widowmaker stands facing away from her, the lights of London giving the winter sky an eerily peaceful glow. Does the city feel her presence? The presence of death, the wicked wind of a frozen heart? Does she bring the cold with her? Perhaps the city suffers its worst storms when Widowmaker is nearby, stalking her from the rooftops.
“I’m not asking for your next life, I’m asking for this one.”
“It is not mine to give. You know that. Stop this. You’re only hurting yourself.”
“This doesn’t hurt you? Leaving like this? Don’t you wish you could stay? Have a cuppa tea with me?”
There’s a pained glint in her eye when she looks back at Lena. Over her shoulder, over dramatic, loose locks of hair highlighted perfectly by the lights below them. She’s a moving poem, Lena likes to tell her. Widowmaker always brushes it off.
“People like me don’t get to have wishes. No, I don’t feel hurt-- I don’t feel anything anymore. When are you going to understand that? I. Don’t. Feel. That’s the point.”
Then Widowmaker is crouched, poised, ready to leap off the banister and into the city. Into twinkling lights and away from Lena. Always, always away from Lena. She never stays.
“You’re not just lyin’ to me, love, you’re lyin’ to yourself.” Widowmaker freezes then, a scowl and a retort already forming on her lips, but Lena can’t shut up. “I don’t care what those freaky scientists have to say about it, the experiment failed. You know that. You wouldn’t be here if I was wrong!”
She could have been mistaken for an oddly placed statue, really. Her face blank, not a tilt to her lips or a crinkle in her brow. Her eyes hollow, like she’s far away, worlds away, a time and place Lena could never reach her.
And then she’s gone. A body falling, plummeting to the ground, before, with the grace of a swan, she’s twisting and twirling up, up, into a beautiful arc. She lands, perfectly, on a rooftop blocks away, an abandoned office building. Lena thinks she likes to watch her from there.
She nearly lets herself believe that the lithe figure in the distance blows her a kiss before fading into the horizon. She shakes off the thought, then groans as she looks over her thoroughly soiled bed sheets.
Maybe she leaves so she doesn’t have to clean up her own mess.