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This is nice.
The thought fluttered through Tracer's head as she lay there, her back pressed against Widowmaker’s chest, the French woman's arm over her bare waist.
Nice certainly was a way to describe it.
She didn't know when it had become like this-- their relationship, that is. Moving her hand to cover her lover's, she thought on it for a long moment, not willing to attempt to free herself quite yet.
When had they changed from sworn enemies-- from rivals-- to lovers and bedmates? Obviously she knew the answer, at least, technically. It was months of harassment and pestering, chasing down the sniper from country to country just to thwart her every move, annoying her in public when she simply tried to exist, from hanging off of her arm walking down the street where she couldn’t shove a gun against her head, to taking her drink at the cafe she found her at…
To cornering her in an alleyway and kissing her just to see the reaction.
Tracer had been more than a little surprised to find herself pinned back and losing control, stolen right from her hands from the other woman.
Thinking about their first kiss made her huff a laugh in the present-- even that had been nothing like now. That had been an attack , regardless of the connotation of lips pressing together, cumulating in a very… violent eruption of their mutual antagonism.
So when did their time spent together go from being reduced to tears out of fear of her own life to comfortably existing, feeling nothing but safe where she was? The Brit was smart, but she couldn’t explain the bond shared between them.
She had heard someone use the term ‘red string of fate’ before, to describe two people.
She wondered if that suited them.
The hungry growling of her stomach interrupted the thought-- probably for the best. Going slow, Tracer gingerly lifted Widowmaker’s arm and let it rest beside her as she moved her legs off the edge of the double sized bed, flattered that the woman didn’t immediately snap awake with the movement.
She trusted Tracer. Enough to roll over and keep sleeping.
With a smile she stood, shivering as the air assailed her naked body. Reaching down for her underwear, she pulled them on hastily, grabbing the closest thing to a shirt she could find nearby. The wad of fabric she picked up, she realized, wasn’t her own. The slinky black shirt had been hanging off Widowmaker’s shoulder the previous night before it was discarded-- forgotten with the rest of their clothes. A faint blush charming its way across her cheeks, she pulled the shirt over her head and stretched her lanky arms above her head with a soft groan.
There was enough light coming in through the window from the sun rising to guide her through the small apartment, bare and boring, as she made her way to the kitchen. There was a TV in the living area, a small couch in front of it, a breakfast table with two chairs…
And none of it to Widowmaker’s taste. It had probably come furnished, if she had to guess.
Tracer had spent enough time here to know where the kettle was, putting on water to boil as she pulled out two teabags for the two mugs she’d washed the day before and left on the counter. One was plain black-- the other a souvenir from the states she’d forcibly gifted to Widowmaker, Route 66 blazoned across the side.
Of course, she prepared the plain black one for herself.
The water only took a few minutes to heat to boiling, and she spent them lost in drifting thought. Nothing interesting in particular-- mostly how she had absolutely no desire to leave, currently, though she knew she had to be somewhere the next day, meaning an evening of travel.
“I believe that’s mine, chérie.”
The hands at her waist made her jump-- she hadn’t heard the French woman exit the bedroom, let alone pad silently over to the kitchen. Tracer settled back into the arms easily, though, feeling her neck heat at the comment.
“I… it was closest,” she mumbled in reply, pouring water into each mug, careful to angle her hand away from the steam.
The low laugh against her shoulder as a kiss was pressed to bare skin, the shirt hanging off desperately to one side, made her smile. Lips brushed teasingly across bruises along her neck from the night before.
“It looks good on you.”
The warmth that blossomed in her chest surprised her, and she caught herself grinning, ducking her head a bit, turning to face the taller woman. The fact that Widowmaker hadn’t bothered to find herself another shirt was to be expected, but her naked state did nothing for Tracer right now.
She stood up on her tip-toes, arms rounding her neck and pulling her down enough to kiss her, lips still curled into a smile. The Brit felt hands shift to rest at her waist, thumbs drawing idle patterns across her skin with a cool touch.
“What was that for, hm?” she questioned after Tracer settled back onto her heels, gold eyes still sleepy, but curious.
Tracer shrugged, looking to the side sheepishly before glancing back. “I felt like it-- that a problem, love?”
Widowmaker raised a brow, still stroking over Tracer’s skin with her fingers. She could tell there was something unsaid between them in that moment, but then the smaller woman had turned back around, breaking eye contact and conversation, resuming her preparation of tea.
“Not a problem at all, chérie ,” she replied simply, going back to pressing idle kisses to the back of her pup’s neck, ignoring the weak, half-hearted protests with a smug smirk, knowing they weren’t meant at all.
This is nice.
The thought ambled through Tracer’s head again, as she smiled and laughed, pressing a warm cup of Earl Gray into Widowmaker’s hands, rolling her eyes as the taller woman complained about the mug assignment, knowing she didn’t mean it, and knowing that this was the side of this woman that only she got the privilege to see and enjoy.
It was nice.