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The house was just off of the winding River Thiou and cobbled streets of Vieille Ville, between other pastel colored townhouses. The area itself was fairly dated compared to the coastal cities of France; chipped paint and ivy crawling up the sides of buildings, but it was beautiful. Annecy had always been beautiful in that way, mostly untouched by the cancer of modern technology that had progressed cities around the world over the years.
Widowmaker paused in her trek to stare at it, a small fluttering feeling blossoming in her chest. Two stories and yellowish in color, looking brown beneath the moonlight, with dark window sills and roof. There were no lights on, no cars parked in the driveway or along the street, and looked relatively untouched - but the only reason why she was certain that it was unoccupied at all was the À VENDRE sign posted on the side of the building.
“You know this place, luv?”
Lena’s voice cut through the instant of silence, the constant thrum of her chronol accelerator indistinct background noise. She appeared at her left, staring up at the house in question. The moon illuminated her pale skin, plethora of freckles sprinkled around her nose and cheeks prominent and plentiful, even beneath those ridiculous orange goggles she wore everywhere.
She nodded, slight, matte black fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms. Her skin was no longer an ailing blue color, as result of her regulated heartbeat, although it was still a bit too frigid at to the touch. She was undergoing vigorous treatments with the Swiss doctor to maintain her health and return it to normal. Talon had left their mark with her, certainly. Widowmaker, at 33, had endured more heart-attacks in the past month than Dr. Ziegler had ever seen in a woman her age in her entire life. A precaution of sorts, in cast Talon’s best agent had escaped their clutches.
She was a medical nightmare, apparently, her blood pressure much too low and her body borderlining corpse more than human.
It was a process, though, and was getting easier by the day. The sudden onslaught of emotion had both startled and confused Widowmaker; it had been so long, her memories of her past life distorted from the rigorous reconditioning and near constant “treatments” Talon had subjected to, that she was unable to pinpoint what feeling was what in the beginning. More than anything, Widowmaker was a weapon. She was not allowed to feel, she was not allowed free will to think or wonder - a mindset that Angela was desperately trying to pull her from. When Tracer had asked her what her favorite food was, it had almost felt like a devastating blow to not have be able to supply her an answer.
She remembered that she was allergic to cashews, though, and that before Talon, her favorite ice cream was cookie dough, and she very much liked strawberries. Other than that, Widowmaker had no idea who she really was. Amélie Lacroix was another person from herself entirely, and although she would accept her real name, Amélie, reclaiming her surname felt wrong.
Wrong, because it belonged to the man that she had murdered. Her very first kill, the day that the Widowmaker rose from Amélie’s ashes and took control, grinding what was left of the woman beneath her heel. The weight of what she had done to him, the man that she remembered loving with every fiber of her being - she felt that love, still, and what it was like - and the weight of the countless other bodies on her conscious had been enough to bring Widowmaker to her knees. She’d wailed at Gérard’s grave, clutching at her chest, her heart beating too fast, too fast , and begging for him to forgive her. That guilt festered in her still, writhed in her chest, an unimaginable pain.
Angela and the others called it a part of her “recovery.”
Widowmaker herself preferred to call it what it really was. Not redemption exactly, but a chance. There was nothing that could have made up for all the wrong she had done, no parts of her old self but memories to retrieve and restore. She might not deserve to life in the eyes of those who could not ignore her crimes, but Widowmaker believed that she did, if not just to have this chance, but to live with the pain of what she’s done as consequence for her actions. But above all else, this opportunity to live opened doors for possibilities that she didn’t even know existed.
She was discovering herself, her new self; in control of her own body and her own decisions for the first time since Talon created her five years ago.
She’d finally been given a choice .
“I grew up here,” Widowmaker answered slowly, drawing in a deep breath through her lips. Staring at her childhood made her feel something odd. She couldn’t place her finger on the feeling.
Lena puffed out her cheeks, humming softly in acknowledgement. “Huh,” she said, pink lips slowly forming a kind smile. “Quaint little place, I think. But ya know, can't really picture you as a kid.”
Widowmaker made a soft noise in her throat. “Is it so hard to imagine?” She asked, side-eyeing the shorter woman.
“A bit!” Lena said. “Bet you were right adorable, though, with that little button nose of yours. Strange to be here, lookin’ at the place you grew up, innit?”
It was. Widowmaker’s ochre eyes slid back to the vacant house, to the second story window - the one on the right was her parents bedroom, and hers was all the way on the left. She remembered fragments of her childhood, bits and pieces like the broken glass wrapped around her forearm. She’d been a shy girl, a disposition that she had carried even through her adulthood, and had very little friends. There had been many sleepovers in that bedroom, with faceless girls she could not remember the names of, and Widowmaker remembered the first time she had started dancing in the mirror hung up on the bedroom wall. She had overestimated herself, and broke her ankle.
“You wanna go inside?”
The sudden suggestion caught her off guard, and she turned her head to see Lena’s bright eyes staring up at her. Speckled hazel, alight with hope and encouragement. Such expression and depth in those kind eyes. Manicured brows dipped forward, her lips turning down into a soft frown of confusion. “Why would we do that? That would be breaking the law,” she said, although she had no regard for it, she knew that Lena did. It was in her blood.
Lena’s shoulders shrugged, although there was some hesitance. “You’re tryin’ to get your memories back, right? That’s why we’re in Annecy in the first place. Maybe going inside will help you with your recovery.” She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment. “We’re not doing no harm anyway.”
There was a brief pause of consideration on Widowmaker’s behalf. On one hand, Lena was right. On the other, she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to recover those memories, wasn’t sure of the feelings that they would bring forward. They were there, in the back of her mind. Vague, but remembering them was as if looking through murky water - no matter how many times her fingers waded through it, trying to clear away that tarnish, it was never clear.
“D’accord,” she agreed softly, nodding.
Breaking into the house was a moderately quick affair, even without her grappling hook attached at her forearm. Stealth was Widowmaker’s area of expertise after all, and while Tracer attracted attention everywhere she went, what with her chronol accelerator and obnoxiously bright clothing choices, she tucked into the shadows behind her and followed obediently, feebly covering the blue glow of her accelerator with her arms.
The inside of the house itself was dark, so she uncovered it to get a better view of the place so they didn’t have to turn on any of the lights. There was little furniture left - a couch and a few chairs, a dining room table and the kitchen counters.
She took a few cautious steps further inside, Lena trailing quietly behind her and glancing over the place with curious eyes. “A lot more spacious looking on the inside,” Lena observed lightly, and Widowmaker saw her move to run her fingers along the inside of an empty bookshelf up against the wall, but paid her little attention.
The memories came in flashes, of a time where the inside of her childhood home was decorated to the nines, with potted plants and fancy furniture, a grand piano set up in the corner of the room and pictures hung up on the walls. The kitchen, she knew, had been her father’s pride and joy - spices everywhere, an assortment of cookbooks and pots and pans and baskets of fruit from the garden. She remembered learning how to cook all her favorite meals in the kitchen, making a mess of the place just for fun.
Standing on her father’s feet as they danced to old music, her giggles echoing throughout the living room.
Her mother playing the piano, her fingers smooth and quick along the keys, playing the most harmonious tunes with the hands of someone who had done it her entire life. Amélie, sat beside her, her chin cupped in two tiny hands, listening intently.
Christmas parties, where all her extended family would come. She was the youngest of her cousins, but she remembered being hoisted on one of their shoulders as he ran around the house, her arms outstretched, pretending to fly.
Gérard, standing at the doorway with sweaty palms and a bouquet of flowers for their first date. Asking her father for his permission to have Amélie’s hand in marriage, years later, sat upon a couch of white leather.
Visiting her parents, one year before her kidnapping. The hospice bed in the middle of the living room, her mother frail with disease. The funeral, two weeks later. Helping her father clean up the house after he destroyed nearly everything they owned in a fit of grief.
Lena’s fingers tugged gently at her wool turtleneck sweater, breaking her instantly from her thoughts. It was black and rolled up at the sleeves, a bit loose fitting on Widowmaker’s slim frame. The living room was dark again, empty and specious. Lena herself was staring at her, her brows furrowed on her expressive face, looking concerned. “Amélie? You alright?” She asked, her voice quieter than normal. “You’re crying, luv.”
Widowmaker’s hand automatically rose to her face, her fingers brushing against her cheek. Surely enough, her skin was wet with a few escapee tears, her eyes watery. She hastily wiped it away, clearing her throat, her cheeks feeling a slight bit warmer than their usual frigidness. “ Oui ,” she said. “I am alright.”
“You’re remembering what it was like to grow up here, aren’t you?” Lena asked. “Your memories are coming back to you.”
“I ‘ave always had them, I just could not see them as clearly.” Widowmaker explained, meeting her curious gaze. “It feels wrong to be here,” she said after a moment, finally pinpointing the off feeling she’d had earlier, while they were outside. Her fists clenched at her sides, tight, her knuckles aching. “To be in the place my parents lived. I do not know where my father has gone, or if he is still even alive - but for me to be here, is wrong. What I ‘ave become is a stain on their memory.”
“No,” Lena shook her head adamantly, taking a step forward. “You can’t think like that, Amélie. What happened to you, what you’ve become, that’s not on you. That’s on the bastards who took you, turned you into something you never were. You need to look at yourself now. You’re choosing to get better, to turn the tides. You did that. I’d reckon your parents would be proud that you’re following through with reclaiming your past.” She paused, and then reached out to grab one of Widowmaker’s hands in her own, fingers working to slowly loosen her fist. “I know that I am.”
Widowmaker never realized how starved of touch she had been until Lena’s arms were around her.
A woman made into a weapon who would not feel, ice cold skin and little emotion, now craving the contact of another, overcome suddenly with the urge to hold her and never let her go. How ironic it all seemed, she thought, long fingers curling into the soft fabric of the back of Tracer’s jacket, her touch at first unsure and hesitant. Lena responded only by holding her tighter, arms constricting around her, as if they were made to be there.
“I promise you, luv,” Lena murmured, her British accent thick with pure, absolute emotion, and she felt her fingers as they threaded through her long black hair comfortingly. “Just please, trust me on that.”
There was a beat of silence.
“I do,” Amélie breathed, feeling the warmth of the younger woman’s breath on the skin of her neck. She closed her eyes. “I trust you, chérie .”