Work Text:
I.
The future is imperfect.
Lucio knows this, despite everything. He holds out hope that the imperfection will diminish over time, but with each day that passes, he wonders if anyone else cares. It’s arrogant to assume, of course, but the future is imperfect. No one seems to care to fix the ills of the world anymore, since the disbanding of Overwatch. Even worse, with that disbandment, he must now go back to relying on his own resources to continue the unending pushback against the vulture corporations circling the prime real estate he calls home.
Vidigal.
He’s traveled the world--every length and breadth of it it seems like, and everywhere, the dreams of the future are alive. Sickness is eradicated, medical advancements charge ahead, and the world over, it seems everyone has turned away from war and have opted to pursue more intellectual endeavors. But Lucio knows it is not the case. Everyday, he hears about the corporations encroaching upon his homeland like a shadow. Even now, hundreds of years later, the white sandy beaches and breathtaking vistas are enough to incite greed.
The future is imperfect, and the government--both his and the corporations that lobby it--still fight to wipe favelas from the map.
Lucio pushes his headphones from his ears, and lets the sound of the wind and ocean fill the sudden silence when the music stops. When everything else feels like unwanted weight, this is the moment where it does not.
II.
He goes to the same woman whenever his locs need touching up. No matter where on Earth he is, Lúcio has met no one else that can touch his hair the way she does. It feels nice--quiet even--to sit in her kitchen, a futbol match going on on the old television set, while her children kick the ball around outside, emulating their athletic heroes. She sees him as one of her own children, Maria does, and Lucio never turns down an offer food. This time, she’s managed to save up enough to buy crab from the market, and the scent of it boiling in the stew is enough to weaken him.
Her hands smell of beeswax and shea butter, and she cleans up the parts in his hair deftly. Lucio knows he’s tender-headed, but he barely winces when she’s working on retwisting his locs, her weathered hands slick with coconut oil as she greases his scalp.
“The never feed you when you do those shows over in Europe?” Maria asks him, tsking in disappointment. They always have this conversation. She thinks Lucio is too skinny, and so she sends him off with a Tupperware full of food when he has to travel again.
The thin static of a droning cheer comes from the television. Someone’s scored a goal. The children run in from their own match to see, chattering as the replay comes on. Maria scolds them for being too loud but Lucio tells her it’s fine.
When she’s done with his hair, she hands him an old mirror to inspect her handiwork. Even though Lúcio knows it’s stellar work, he looks anyway. No one will ever accuse him of vanity, but he has to admit there is a stark difference between the scruffiness he sported hours earlier, and what he looks like now. Gently, he ties the locs back, securing them with a simple black hair tie.
Maria washes her hands, grabbing a broom to sweep up the hair on the linoleum floor. Lúcio offers to help but she shoos him away.
Later that evening, they sit down to eat. Maria and her two boys help set the small table, and Lúcio serves the food. The boys chatter about the futbol match, while Lúcio discusses his upcoming tour with Maria, who smiles indulgently.
She is of an older time, a quieter time, but she is proud of him.
“Just make sure you bring my bowl back, eh?” She teases when he’s standing on her front stoop, preparing to leave. His tour doesn’t start for another few weeks, but Tracer’s sent a message and he’s needed elsewhere; somewhere colder and far crueler than his familiar and comfortable hometown.
Maria knows none of this.
“Clean and ready for the next meal.” Lúcio promises. She leans in, drops a motherly kiss to his forehead and whispers a prayer for him to remain safe and to eat more. Lúcio smiles, leaving in the night, leaving home and family and warmth and light and familiarity.
III.
“You’ll be alright.” He tells her, “You’ll be fine.” The healing should be working, but she’s fallen into a trap. It was an accident. She shouldn’t have been here anyway, but she’s been caught up in the skirmish.
She’s going to bleed out without ever knowing why she was shot to begin with.
As the light in her eyes fades, Lúcio holds her hand. Sometimes the healing works, and sometimes it doesn’t, but he doesn’t need Mercy to tell him it’s too late. Bullet wounds to the stomach are delicate and require immediate and constant care.
Her hand goes limp in his, but she’s smiling.
She called him an angel just that afternoon.