Work Text:
When I was a girl, I had a fear of spiders. I was told they felt no emotion, that their hearts never beat, but now I know the truth
In the night, France was cold. The bitter sting of the air clung to her skin, gnawing at her fingertips. Without Moira's serum her colour was returning, her heartbeat felt impossibly strong against her chest and when she looked down to admire her hands, she saw limbs that were not her own. Not anymore, not after Gérard.
Pale and innocent hands. Amélie's hands, not the hands of Widowmaker. Amélie's hands belonged to Gérard's, they belonged to the handles of wine glasses and the gentle keys of her mother's piano. Widowmaker's claws belonged to rifles, knives and throats.
But now, there were no claws in front of her. Only the hands of a young girl who had been so happy.
And where was that girl now?
Adrift. That was the word for it. Vendetta was too preoccupied to worry herself with tracking down a former agent but it didn't mean that Widowmaker thought it was right to stay in Château Guillard. The place was antique, falling apart, and it reminded her too much of her life in Talon. Too many memories that were beginning to surface, like rock eroding, fragments of nightmares chipping away and entering her consciousness, stunning her.
So she went back to Paris, renting an extortionate apartment, just to feel the sweet, bitter air of her capital city. Throughout the day she had stood still by the window and in the night she had made her way to the rooftop. The city below her, the stars above. Gérard above, no doubt, watching her from the heavens. Casting his eyes downward with the look that used to warm her heart.
And she did feel warm. Yes, even while the icy winds shot through her, her heart was ablaze. No matter how cold France could be, Widowmaker had been colder, and now that 'Widowmaker' was gone, Amélie was on fire.
***
"I was talking to Jack the other day." There had always been noise in the Lacroix household. The keys of the piano, the idle hum of music, the chatter between a loving couple.
Amélie liked to listen to Gérard, she prided herself on being able to listen to his stories. He needed someone to talk to, someone that he could just vent to. After all, he was such a busy man. Overwatch, Amélie knew her husband was devoted to his work.
"Who?"
"Morrison, the American."
"Ah," Amélie nodded. "What did he say?"
At that, Gérard had been smiling. "He told me he was worried for me. He doesn't trust you."
To Amélie, at the time, it sounded ridiculous, even offensive.
"Huh?"
"He thinks you could be from anybody, a spy."
"Spy?"
"Yes, some brilliant, sexy, assassin, ballerina." Gérard laughed as he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. "It's hilarious."
Amélie laughed with him. "It is."
"Don't take it personally though." He had been so close to her, always reassuring, always caring. Amélie missed the smell of his skin against hers. "Jack's always paranoid; it makes him a good soldier."
"Good soldier, you sound so professional, Monsieur General."
"Don't," Gérard laughed. "I swear, I should stop talking about work, it'll be the end of me."
"Gérard!" Amélie accosted him. "Don't say things like that."
"I'm sorry…"
***
There was a wetness dribbling down her cheek. A tear. A painful, awful, tear. She reached up and wiped it with her fingers, seeing it glisten against her pale skin. Skin that had been taken from her.
The doctor was not here anymore to relieve her pain. There was nothing to be done to stop the memories or to silence the sobbing. Nothing but…
Amélie stared down at Paris below her. Paris in the night, still not empty but quiet. Drunkards bumbling home. The lights all mostly off, save for a few night owl houses.
Gérard would've never forgiven her if she did this but who was to say he would've forgiven her for anything she had done.
A heavy pit settled in her stomach.
Of course, the worst part, the part that had been tormenting her for the last hour was that Gérard, in all of his kindness, would've forgiven her. Truly, he would've understood her and looking down at her now, he would be calling her brave and assuring her that she was strong.
"I'm not…" Amélie said aloud. "I'm not strong, like you were. I'm not kind, like you were."
And if Gérard had been there, he would've held her hand and told her that she was strong and kind, in her own way. But he wasn't and she was met with the empty air.
"I'm sorry." The flow of tears was strong now, like she was bleeding pain. "I'm sorry."
Like a hypnotists pendulum, her arms were swinging back and forth. She was gathering the momentum for one last graceful soar through the air, this time without a grappling hook to catch her before she hit the ground.
And she was singing; a soft lullaby to send herself to sleep. The rhythm of the rocking soothing her, preparing her for the rocky fall below, into the cobbled streets.
But just as her swan song reached it's crescendo, a voice broke out from the shadows.
"Woah there, chica!" Sombra reached out and grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her back to safety. "Your skin…"
"Gérard?"
"Widow? Amélie?"
Amélie's eyebrows furrowed. "Sombra? What are you… I don't want to talk to you."
"Gabe sent me to get you. It was easy to track you down to Paris."
"Gabriel?"
"Yes." Sombra nodded. "We've made a little group. Not like Talon, different. Baptiste is helping us find a place to stay. He wants to bring us to Overwatch."
"Overwatch? No, I can't go there. No. Get off of me, Sombra."
"Amélie!"
The woman scowled. "Just because you know my name doesn't give you a right to use it."
"You don't get to kill yourself just because you can't live with the shit you've done!"
They both paused.
"Why not?"
"It's not fair. Not on me, not on Gabe."
"I don't care about—"
"Amélie!"
"I told you not to—"
"Just come with us!" Sombra begged. "We want you to come with us. We trust you."
"Do you know what happened to the last person that trusted me?"
"You're not that person anymore. You're not Widowmaker, Gabe isn't Reaper, I'm not Sombra."
"Then who are you?"
"Olivia."
"I don't understand."
As she explained, Olivia pulled Amélie further and further away from the rooftops edge, like a dancer leading a tango. "People change. Like Tarantulas."
"Tarantulas?"
"In Mexico, big tarantulas the size of your hand. They moult, once every… I don't know, and they shed their skin and they change. You've already shed your skin." Olivia gently traced a circle in Amélie's hand. "Please, join us. For me, for Sigma, for Gabriel, for…"
"Don't."
"For me."
Amélie looked back at the night sky and noticed the stars, shining down at her, she nodded to them. "Fine." The two got to the doorway and walked down from the rooftop. When they were inside, Amélie stopped and gripped Olivia's hand. "Sombra… Olivia, thank you."
Olivia smiled. "No problem."