Work Text:
Never stay out later than you needed to.
That was the unspoken first rule when you lived in King’s Row. During the day, everyone made nice and pretended that every wound Mondatta’s assassination had left behind was healed--scarred, and still tender in places, but healed. At night, though, Omnic and human gangs skulked the alleys and streets, angry and spiteful and looking for any excuse. Emily supposed she was far luckier than most girls power walking home through the dark; she knew that at least one person was looking over her.
Maybe they were a bit miffed at her for being so late, but that was something to talk about at home over tea and dinner. Emily had an excuse, at least; she couldn’t just leave the office when someone called the hotline, whispering about pills and asking for any help to spare.
She glanced down at her watch, clicked her tongue. Nearly midnight. Lena would have a right fit, was probably already in the middle of one. Emily brought out her phone and checked it--no messages sent her way, which wasn’t that unusual due to Lena’s particularly illegal line of work. Emily still shot her a text to let her know that she was alright, and alive, and on her way home.
Hands grabbed at her arms. She was jerked back with a yelp, muffled last minute by a cold, leatherclad hand clamping over her mouth and hot breath against the back of her neck. She drew in a startled breath through her nose, smelled liquor and stale smoke.
“Easy does it, love, easy does it,” a woman grated in her ear. “Don’t scream now.”
Emily swallowed bile and a scream, and the hand over her mouth was removed as she was pulled deeper into the alley. Her heart raced hard in her chest as four figures surrounded her; three men, and the woman who had spoken. She was a tall, muscled thing; hair cropped close to her scalp on one side, piercings glinting from her ears. The men were all shaved bald, with varying levels of facial hair.
Emily noted, in a panic, that they all had knives. Sharp, glinting in the muted streetlight.
“I’m going to empty my purse,” she said, her voice shaking only slightly. “You can have everything inside.”
“Smart little bird,” one of the men grated. He twitched, looking around with a grimace--like he felt something watching them. Emily certainly hoped something was watching them.
“Phone too,” the woman snapped. “Drop it.”
Emily slowly knelt, laying her phone on the pavement. Then, she turned her purse inside out, let everything fall. The most clean shaven of the boys went for her wallet, plucking out bills and her cards. The last man, the most silent, kept his eyes on her.
Emily swallowed. Took a step back. Her heartrate increased when he took a step toward her.
“You have what you want,” she said in a croak. “Please, just. Just let me go home.”
“Not everything,” was the chilling answer.
“I wouldn’t take another step,” Emily warned quietly. “I’ve got friends in high places.”
The man laughed cruelly. He took another step.
Thunder cracked open the night, and Emily felt a rush of air whizz against her ear. Her earring, a cheap little clip on, shattered; the man coming towards her, however, had no such luck. He stumbled back with a yell, clutched at his ear--torn, bleeding, no doubt deafened.
“What the fuck?” the boy with her wallet shouted. There was a flash of blue light, and he was knocked flat on his back, out cold. The woman reeled, but when Emily blinked, she was face first in a garbage can, her legs kicking out futilely.
The bearded man turned on her, knife raised. “Stupid little bi--”
Another roar from above, and the blade went flipping through the air, clattering harmlessly on the ground. He gaped down at the handle stupidly, before he was tackled off his feet and into the dark shadows.
The man with the wounded ear righted himself, baring his teeth. He reached out with a bloodied palm, cursing hoarsely. He wasn’t expecting a svelte shape to come swinging down from the fire escape, the soles of metal boots finding purchase in his shoulders and knocking him against the brick wall with a sickening crack.
Emily curled in on herself on instinct, her body shaking as her body began to come down from the rush of adrenaline. She was sweaty, and her hands wouldn’t stop trembling as the assailant pushed off from the wall, landing to the concrete, and retracted the grappling hook. Powerful muscles moved beneath cyanotic skin as a rifle was slung to one shoulder, seven red lights blazing from the shadows. The lights dimmed, and it wasn’t Widowmaker who stepped from the darkness, but Amélie.
Emily could tell, because Amélie was in front of her in three quick strides, her brows furrowed and her usual scowl set deeper. She was so close that Emily could see the muscles in her jaw flex as she ground her teeth, as sure a sign of irritation as the flaring of her nostrils.
“I’m okay,” is what Emily said softly. “Amélie, dear, I’m okay. None of them touched me.”
“That,” Amélie said in a hiss, “is a lie.”
“You know what I mean, sweetness.” Emily looked over Amélie’s shoulder. “Lena? Everything alright?”
There was a beat of silence, and then Lena blinked into view. Her chest was heaving and she practically vibrated from the tension, swallowing over and over. Amélie stepped aside, and then Emily found a superhero clinging to her tightly. Lena was in her pajamas--a pair of shorts and a tanktop, the accelerator sloppily slung on top of it. Emily started to fuss, nearly raised her hands to fix the tangled straps, and found Amélie already there.
“I’m good, they’re good--knocked them out, called the police.” Lena’s words were coming out rapid fire, a jumble. “Handcuffed one, tied up the other. Lady’s in the bin. When Amélie called I thought I--I thought we’d be--”
“Fool,” Amélie admonished. Her voice was curt, but her eyes were soft. “If you were any faster, we could start fitting in more engagements on the battlefield.”
Lena’s ears flushed red. “Why, you--”
“They don’t call them quickies for nothing,” Emily added, and the tightness in all of them eased with a burst of laughter. As sirens began to sound in the distance, Emily gathered her things. “I should stay, give a report--”
She found an arm winding around her waist, and the hiss of compressed air as Amélie pulled her against her side, and sent them flying. Lena was blitzing from the scene in another flare of blue to follow them home. Amélie dropped Emily off by another street corner, taking back to the rooftops while Lena slowed down, wrapped an arm around her own and walked her back home.
Amélie had let herself in when they finally walked in the door. Lena put her accelerator in the charging port as Emily hung up her coat and scarf, flopping to the ground with a weary sigh. Lena was pressed against her side in the next breath in, practically wrapped around her. Emily stroked over her wild, windswept hair and let her cheek rest on the crown of Lena’s head.
She only raised it when Amélie joined them a moment later, changed out of the ridiculous catsuit and into one of Emily’s old t-shirts and a pair of leggings she’d bought the woman for Christmas.
“Will he be okay?” Emily’s voice broke the quiet. “The man you shot.”
Amélie’s eyes hardened and she gave a derisive snort. “He is concussed, dizzy from the bloodloss, and he will never hear from that ear again; but he is alive.”
It was one of the stipulations, the compromises that Emily had put into place for the both of her lovers. No killing unless there was no choice. Something that would have been impossible to ask from the infamous Widowmaker, had it not been for the very public, very played up ‘rivalry’ she had with Tracer. Tracer would prevent Widowmaker from assassination, and Amélie could not suffer for it--so Emily understood it, at least.
“I should have killed him,” Amélie said after a moment, her voice thick with venom. “I wanted to. I want to.”
Amélie and her visor would have been able to see the intent, the desire, even from meters away. Emily offered her hand, knowing that Amélie was not the type to hold others, or let herself be held. It was a moment before a cold hand landed in her own, fingers curling between hers.
“Maybe if you switched your rifle for a paintball gun,” Lena said suddenly. “And just shot him in the arse for a few weeks.”
“Lena, no,” Emily said. She looked over to Amélie, and saw the woman’s face drawn in thought. “Amélie, no.”
“It would not be lethal,” Amélie said a little too fast. “It would just sting. A lot.”
“And I could blink in with some water balloons instead of pulse bombs,” Lena piped up. “Sock’im right in the jewels with it and be out before he knew what hit him!”
Amélie’s lips curled into a smirk.
“No,” Emily said, finally laughing. “Girls, no.”
“You never let us have any fun,” Lena complained good naturedly, nuzzling closer. She tossed her legs over Emily’s lap. “At least let us egg his house?”
“Sombra could smoke him out,” Amélie mumbled.
Emily rolled her eyes. “As fun as vandalism and assault sound, pets, I have a better idea.” She gently pushed Lena’s legs to the side and disentangled herself from the couch, starting a slow walk to the bedroom. She tossed a look over her shoulder to Overwatch’s number one field agent, and Talon’s most notorious assassin, and gave them both a look that had them near scrambling to their feet.
“Right, then,” Lena said, nudging Amélie in the ribs. “Race ya! Loser has to double bottom.”
“So you’ll be losing on purpose then?”
“No need to call me out, goddamn.” Lena waggled her brows. “But yeah, pretty much.”
So predictable, said the roll of Amélie’s eyes. Emily laughed at the both of them, and finally felt at peace for the night.