#'hold up ya i totally sanctioned that mission get over it'

[aconstantmotion]

Not me crying 5mins into the episode when Threepeo showed up and mentioned Leia, because you know damn well if Carrie Fisher were still here, she would have been all for showing up in this show!

[earpdearp]

just blowing off steam

Wherein Waverly and Nicole take a little trip over to the city together. Totally casual friendly bonding between two friends. Like ya do. 

Complete with tasty treats, hair braiding, and shooting things. Still not a date. Still hovering around 1x09-ish, pre-Willa timeframe. 

Fair warning: they are DORKS.

Also on AO3. Approximately 4,409 words.

Other WayHaught “friends” fics: just coffee and just another tuesday

Waverly Earp stalked down the steps of the municipal building, both frustrated and disappointed.

“Black Badge Consultant” my ass.

She was tired of the sidelines. She wanted to do more. Be more.

Waverly had helped, dammit. She was the Keeper of the Bones, dammit.

Well, was. Was the Keeper of the Bones… since said bones were a shattered mess buried next to the barn.

And the owner of said bones was who Wynonna and Doc had gallivanted off to contend with: Constance Clootie the Stone Witch. Wynonna had said something about heading to the salt flat area south of the Ghost River Triangle. Always with a “Take it easy, babygirl” and a kiss to her hair before leaving without Waverly.

Argh.

Waverly had hoped to capitalize on her sister’s absence. Dolls would be at the BBD office. Maybe a little schmoozing could get her in good with the Man in Charge and the chance for her to Do More.

She had prepped to the nines for schmoozing: a tin full of homemade banana muffins, a tall thermos of her special hot chocolate, and a fat folder of research (the Latin all impeccably translated).

Except in true Dolls fashion, he had ignored the first two offerings, accepted the research, and shut the glass door in her face. It took all of Waverly’s remaining dignity not to blow her stack in the middle of the station. Or throw the thermos through the window.

A few deep breaths had calmed Waverly down, but only because of her next genius idea: Nicole. The police station was down the hall and Waverly came bearing gifts.

Win-win.

And, if Waverly was being 100% honest with herself… she had already set aside a few muffins to share with Officer Haught. It was a warm thought. One she’d had more than once that morning.

Except…

“Oh yea, Haught was in earlier. You just missed her. She’s off today,” Lonnie said, his nose still buried in the file on his desk. He suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. “…Do I smell banana muffins?”

Sighing, Waverly had set a muffin into Lonnie’s eager hands. She dropped another off on Sheriff Nedley’s desk (who was on the phone and gestured angrily before seeing what Waverly had brought). He didn’t smile exactly, but gruffly nodded in acceptance.

After pulling on her ear muffs to brace against the chill, Waverly had stomped out the door down the steps. Which only served to make her feel smaller. Why was she expected to “take it easy” after fracturing her hand when Wynonna had been kidnapped by a serial killer and held hostage but was totally fine to get back to it?!

Argh!

Waverly was just tired of being left out all the frickin’ time. Left out of decisions, left out of missions, just… left out. And taking care of things, the one thing she was super good at… no one seemed to notice. Or wouldn’t let her. Or got by just fine without her.

She started grinding her heel at the cracked ice on the pavement with her boots. The crackling under her boot was satisfying, but it was a short walk back to her Jeep in the side lot (with not a lot of ice in between to destroy).

As Waverly scowled and reached for the keys in her pocket, she felt her phone vibrate. Pulling the device out, she saw a new SnapChat message.

From Nicole.

Smiling brightly, Waverly opened the picture to see… herself. As she was now, just at a distance from a side angle. She jerked her head up to skim the parking lot.

Two rows over, Nicole was waving a gloved hand, green scarf tight around her neck. Her hair was up in its usual French braid, but her clothes were civilian; jeans, calf-length riding boots, and a puffy navy blue coat with a touch of blue fur along the collar. She stood by the boot of her police cruiser, trunk ajar.

Waverly smiled so wide it hurt, relief surging in her chest. As she padded over, Waverly tugged her ear muffs down to her neck and could finally hear a distant shout.

“—verly! Hey!” It didn’t sound like the first time Nicole had called her name.

Waverly almost barreled into Nicole with a hug, but stopped herself at the last second.

Uhhh? What was that about?

Nicole flashed Waverly a wide, dimpled smile. “Sorry for the accidental stalker pic. I tried calling to you but you seemed… distracted.” The corners of Nicole’s mouth pulled down in a dramatic frown as she leaned to the side and looked beyond Waverly. Following her gaze, Waverly saw the shattered patches of ice in her wake.

“Uh… it’s fine,” Waverly said with a sheepish laugh, vapor clouding around her mouth. “I was just… well. Dolls being Dolls.” She trailed off with a shrug.

A knowing nod from Nicole. “Ah. Say no more.”

Brightening, Waverly bounced on her toes. “I was actually looking for you.”

“Oh yea? What for?” Nicole tilted her head curiously.

Oh! Um… …wait why I was looking for her?

Waverly stared at Nicole, her mind blanking out for some reason. Her mind did that a lot lately. “Uhh… Just… to say hey?”

The woman smiled back with a nod. “Well, hey yourself.” She elbowed the trunk closed with a dull clunk.

The sound made Waverly jump slightly, the thermos in her hand sloshing. She was finally aware again that she was holding hot chocolate and a tin of her famous, amazing banana muffins.

…duh!

“No, wait! Not just to say hey.” Tucking the thermos into the crook of her elbow, Waverly popped open the tin with a flourish. “Ta da!” There was a pair of obvious gaps in the collection, but otherwise nearly a dozen muffins glistened in the container.

Another pull to Nicole’s lips, but this time as a baffled (but impressed) smile. “You did this for me?” She looked over the batch and selected a particularly large one.

Yes.

“Um, technically to bribe Dolls. Which didn’t work. …You were the ideal audience, though!” Waverly scrunched up her nose, half-apologetic.

Nicole gave a dry laugh. “Hey, his loss, right?” She bit into the muffin, crumbs flecking her black gloves with yellow. Her eyes bulged as Nicole took a second bite, voice muffled. “Holy shit, his loss! These are amazing, Waves!” A third bite followed a fourth.

Waverly beamed back, more pleased than she should have been. She wondered if she would have been this happy if Dolls had liked ‘em… and immediately knew the answer was a No. “Thank you!”

“Uh, I should be thanking you,” Nicole corrected as she easily finished off the muffin and tried to swipe at her mouth with bulky gloves.

Without thinking, Waverly reached up and brushed at Nicole’s chin with her bare fingertips. The other woman froze. Aware of the line she had just crossed, Waverly retracted her hand with a blush.

What happened to just friends?!

Argh!

They both cleared their throats and looked away. Nicole murmured a thank you and blotted a thumb at the corner of her mouth.

Awkwardly lifting her elbow, Waverly gestured to the thermos to change the subject. “Also: hot chocolate! No marshmallows, but still my secret recipe.” She winked conspiratorially at Nicole.

The woman smiled, but shook her head as she checked her watch. “Can’t right now. Got somewhere to be.”

Oh. Of course. Everyone had somewhere to be.

Except me.

Waverly was disappointed. She started to back away to stammer out a cheerful (if insincere), “Well I—I won’t keep you—I’ll just…”

But Nicole interrupted her. “Hey, what are you doing right now?” Her face was soft and serious.

Thinking of Wynonna then Dolls (then Gus), Waverly had to resist the urge to scowl. Instead, she just shook her head. “Nothing. I’m off today. Maybe pick up more groceries on the way back to the Homestead, otherwise…” A shrug.

The woman smiled back, her voice gentle (hopeful?). “Would you be up for a little road trip?”

Yes.

“Where to?” Waverly asked.

“The city? Well, just outside the city.”

Yes.

“To do what?”

Nicole blinked at Waverly with a head tilt, her voice dry and teasing. “I don’t know about you? …But I’ve had kind of a shitty week—shitty month, actually. Wanna blow off some steam with me?”

It was a resounding Yes. A terrified, intrigued, excited, nervous, heart-pounding Yes.

Waverly stared back. A flush immediately hit her cheeks, and she felt her throat tighten. “I—well—not that… uhh…”

Brown eyes widened in surprise when Nicole stopped to think about how that sounded. “Oh! Shit! No! I wasn’t—Shit.” She sighed and pressed a gloved hand to cover her eyes.

Hand still over her eyes, Nicole popped open her cruiser’s trunk latch and gestured to the boot. Looking down, Waverly saw two large hard cases and one smaller one, along with boxes of ammunition.

“I meant… I was going to the gun range near the city. Shoot some targets? Work out that aggression with a little state-sanctioned violence?” She shot Waverly a cheesy, innocent grin between her splayed fingers over her eyes. She elbowed the trunk closed once more.

Oh!

…Oh.

“Oh.” Waverly scrunched up her face in consideration. “Sure you wouldn’t mind? I don’t wanna be a bother if this is your alone time…” She felt herself stepping back in polite evasion.

Nicole took a small step forward, her breath a wisp of warm vapor on Waverly’s face. “I wouldn’t mind. I’d… appreciate it if you came.”

“…then I’d like to come.” It came out a lot softer than Waverly had intended.

Nicole was pleased. She slid along the passenger side of her cruiser and opened the door chivalrously. “Milady,” Nicole said with a teasing lilt.

“Milady,” Waverly repeated back as she settled into the seat, the door closing on her right with a faint thud. She set the thermos into the cup holder and the tin in her lap. Her purse she shifted from her right shoulder to the floor, the strap snagging on her long, loose hair for a second.

Nicole entered the car a few seconds later, buckling into the driver’s seat with a click. “I have a lane reserved at 11 for an hour. Then maybe we could do lunch after if you want?”

“Sounds good to me!” Nodding, Waverly waggled the hot cocoa enticingly at Nicole. At Nicole’s return nod, Waverly poured a small cup of the (still steaming) cocoa and passed it over.

She had to pull her gloves off with her teeth to accept, but Nicole managed a sip while deftly guiding the car to the main road out of town. She made a delighted humming noise in the back of her throat before draining the cup in one go. Waverly offered a refill that Nicole eagerly obliged with grin. “And here I thought I was gonna have to pick up something on the way into the city. I need to run into you more often, Waverly Earp.”

“I can’t promise every encounter will include banana muffins,” Waverly retorted, soft with faux-apology, as she pulled out one for herself and took a big bite. It was a good batch, indeed. One of her best.

“Oh. Well…” Nicole wrinkled her nose and trailed off. She shot Waverly a dry grin and a wink. “I guess that’s fine.”

“It better be,” Waverly warned, smiling in spite of herself.

It was… nice.

The cruiser was warm (the police radio off for once). Nicole seemed relaxed, her body leaning into her window with an arm thrown up to guide the wheel with a thumb while her right hand palmed the thermos lid. This time, Nicole slowly sipped her second cup of cocoa. Steam wafted around her chin. The car smelled like vanilla, chocolate and bananas.

Really, really nice.

A minute, then another passed in silence. Partially awkward, partially pleasant.

“How’s Wynonna doing?” Nicole finally asked.

“She’s… Wynonna.”

A breath of a laugh. “Right.”

“…She’s good, considering. Thank you for asking. Off doing her Wynonna things, dealing with everything in her own Wynonna way.”

Heard she got kicked out of Shorty’s the other night. Wasted to high heaven then hit the strip clubs. Top notch coping mechanism(s).

“Like she does,” Nicole agreed. Her gaze flicked over to Waverly, voice low and significant. “How are you doing?”

Terrible. Slowly coming apart at the seams. Everything’s going out of control. Everyone’s leaving. Uncle Curtis. Shorty. Gus when she sells Shorty’s. Maybe Wynonna. Hopefully not Wynonna.

Sighing, Waverly crammed the rest of the muffin into her mouth to avoid answering immediately. “It’s been a shitty week—month—for me, too. I think Gus found a buyer. It’s real. She’s selling Shorty’s.”

“Wave... I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” Waverly cleared her throat, eager to change the subject. She glanced over at Nicole, taking note of the fading scar above her left eyebrow. “How are you feeling? Back on full duty yet?”

A quick head-shake. “One more week of paper-pushing. Nedley’s orders.” Nicole gave a thoughtful pause before rolling her right shoulder slightly. “Still get tired at times. I guess it’s a lingering thing from the exposure. And, y’know, dying for a little bit. But… almost back to normal.”

Nicole’s voice was light and nonchalant, but it sent a surge of panic into Waverly’s chest.

She remembered the hospital. Nicole in that bed. Her brow bloodied, skin pale… “Found freezing in a ditch.” Plus, Wynonna missing… The memory made Waverly shudder for several reasons.

A question from Nicole brought Waverly out of her thoughtful daze. “…Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”

Chewing her cheek, Waverly squirmed in her seat a little. She gave a nod when she saw Nicole glance over at her.

“You don’t have to get into specifics, but… do you know what’s going on in Purgatory? Like, on-on.”

Waverly scratched her fingernails along the edge of the tin, carefully considering an answer. She opted for a half-truth. “Sort of.”

“Can you tell me anything about it?”

She sighed. “…No. Not really.”

“I thought so.” Nicole kneaded at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Is there anything I—as in the Purgatory Sheriff’s Department—need to know? Or is there anything we can do to help?”

Waverly felt a brief surge of importance. Like for a moment, she was the “Black Badge Consultant” speaking for the BBD. …What would Dolls say? “Just keep giving the weird stuff to Wynonna and Dolls. It doesn’t seem like it, but they are taking care of it. She’s—they’re the only ones who can.” A small slip of the truth.

“…Okay.” Nicole nodded, eyes on the road. A long pause, before, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Do you mean ‘I’ as in—?”

“…Just me. Nicole. Is there anything I can do to help you, Waverly?”

Yes.

“…No. You can’t. But… this...” Waverly gestured to the car and the open road. She sighed with relief. “…This is nice. But thank you.” A pause of her own. “…I hope I can tell you everything someday.”

Everything everything.

“I hope so, too.”

Returning the thermos lid to Waverly, Nicole flicked her thumb over a knob to turn on the radio. She made an offering gesture to Waverly. “Any requests?”

Waverly smiled and flicked over to the country station. Mostly because it was the only one that didn’t get staticky on the way to the city (the pop station tower was in the opposite direction and was super unreliable). Nicole seemed to know the song, her thumb lightly drumming on the steering wheel to the chorus.

Knew she was a country girl.

Pouring herself a cup of cocoa, Waverly savored a long taste of the sweet chocolate. A second sip surprised her, because she vaguely tasted vanilla. She studied the cup and saw a faint lip imprint on the metal.

A country girl who wears vanilla lip gloss.

They arrived at the gun range shortly before 11AM. Waverly helped by shouldering a box of ammunition and the flat, wide shotgun case. Nicole hefted the pistol and rifle cases plus the other box of ammo.

It was an outdoor range with a handful of patrons already practicing. The air was filled with loud, rhythmic popping sounds and the scent of acrid gunpowder. There was an occasional whirring noise from a paper target returning down the electronic rail for an owner to examine their accuracy.

Inside the small rental building, Nicole flashed her badge at the clerk and gestured to her haul. The middle-aged man just nodded and made a two-fingered come-hither motion for the women to show their IDs and sign a boilerplate waiver. The man passed over pairs of safety glasses and neon-orange ear protectors for the both of them along with a stack of paper targets.

Finding their lane at the far end of the range (thankfully away from the few other people), they started to unload their haul. Nicole and Waverly both chuckled how grateful they were for the hot chocolate, as the outdoor chill was already starting to slowly seep in.

“I’ve never actually been to a gun range before,” Waverly remarked as she set aside her goggles and ear protectors to get to work braiding back her long hair.

“No?” Nicole asked while placing her Smith & Wesson Model 5946 pistol, a Remington 870 shotgun, and a bolt action rifle Waverly didn’t recognize on the lane table.

“Uncle Curtis taught me how to shoot the old-fashioned way: a shotgun and a line of tin cans. Knock ‘em down then put ‘em back up and start over. Lather, rinse, repeat.” A small ache shot up Waverly’s wrist while she was pulling her hair into sections. She ignored it.

A breathy laugh from Nicole. “Right. Of course. I was warned about you small town girls: all armed and extremely dangerous.”

Before Waverly could make a smart retort, pain in her wrist suddenly flared all the way to her fingertips and forced a grunt through her nose. She tried to shake the hand out but every time she flexed into that same position, the ache returned. Waverly groaned in frustration.

“Need some help?” Nicole asked behind her, a paper target with a blue silhouette in her hands.

“Just… having a little trouble. Guess my hand is still working out the kinks from that …stripper attack… on the Homestead.”

“Right,” Nicole said. She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Trying a third time and groaning again in failure, Waverly rubbed her wrist with her other thumb. “And I probably hit the yoga mat too soon after finishing physical therapy.” She smiled sheepishly.

“Need some help?” Nicole asked again. Gesturing to her own French braid, Nicole wiggled her fingers. “Not my first rodeo.”

Waverly nodded, though she almost immediately regretted it when Nicole leaned into her personal space. The woman stood on Waverly’s left side just in her peripheral vision, fingers running through her hair, breath hot on her cheek. Nicole was so close.

Too close?

Not close enough?

She felt fingertips brush her ear and cheek before a muttered apology from Nicole. The woman was focused… almost annoyingly so. Waverly tried to catch her eye with a smile, but Nicole’s glance her way was just the barest flicker before she returned to her work. It only took a minute for the taller woman to interlace a braid through Waverly’s waist-length hair to a simple twist over the left shoulder.

When Nicole finally stepped away, Waverly thought she saw a hint of a blush to Nicole’s cheeks. Examining the handiwork, Waverly shot her a teasing grin. “My hero! Thank you!” She put on her own goggles and ear protectors and flipped through the stack of paper targets.

Nicole looked down, her smile soft. She couldn’t meet Waverly’s eyes for some reason. “You’re welcome.” Clearing her throat, Nicole asked if she could go first, goggles and ear protectors at the ready.

It was like watching a quick, efficient machine. Nicole’s motions from loading the pistol magazine, clicking the safety and pulling back the hammer were a blur as she set into a wide, solid stance. Both hands just barely bounced with each smooth shot. The blue silhouette in the distance was quickly made see-through from the tight cluster of bullet holes over the head and heart. Nicole burned through three clips in rapid succession.

Returning the target with the lane keypad, Waverly wolf-whistled in appreciation. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.” She ran her fingers over the shredded paper, slightly warm to the touch, before setting up a pristine new target and sending it flapping down the lane.

Nicole loaded the shotgun and offered it to Waverly. “Since this seems to be your preferred weapon of choice, Earp.”

“Thanks, Haught!” It was heavier and bulkier than Waverly’s small Winchester at home, the large stock digging into her arm pit. It took some adjusting (with Nicole’s help) to nestle the shotgun tightly between her shoulder and collarbone. Luckily, the bend to her wrist wasn’t as severe at this angle.

The first shot went wide and almost threw Waverly backwards off her feet. She waved off Nicole’s concern and planted herself more firmly. The next 5 shots reverberated down to Waverly’s toes, but completely decimated the target. She found a satisfaction in the hard recoil, especially as each buckshot spray took a chunk out of the paper silhouette.

Eat shit, shit-eaters.

Nicole stood open-mouthed behind Waverly. “I—I think you got ‘im.”

Returning the shotgun to the table, Waverly fist-pumped as she pulled off the strip of paper that remained of her target. “Oh man! That felt amazing! I see why you wanted to come here.” She rubbed at her shoulder where she could feel a small bruise spreading. But Waverly didn’t care. She was proud of herself as she beamed back at Nicole.

Nicole shared her smile. She held up her phone. “Wanna get a picture together? Remember the moment?”

Waverly pressed into Nicole’s side as the woman stuck her phone out in front of them. Waverly glanced over at Nicole. The woman’s dimpled cheeks were flushed from the cold, but her entire expression was relaxed and happy. Waverly knew she was staring.

She was just so—so…

There was a clicking noise when Waverly realized Nicole had taken the picture.

“Wait! I wasn’t looking. Do another one!”

Confused, Nicole thumbed over again as Waverly tilted her head into the crook of the woman’s neck and smiled widely this time. Another click.

It went back and forth like this for the next hour. Just laughter, gunshots and selfies. Waverly practiced shooting and reloading the shotgun, plus got slightly more comfortable with Nicole’s pistol. Nicole focused on the rifle, though her accuracy was impeccable with all three weapons. “Top of my class at the Academy,” Nicole would explain with a shrug.

As they were wrapping up, Waverly got a text from Wynonna to meet at the Homestead ASAP.

[Wynonna says: “To celebrate putting on ice that witch who killed Mattie and made my baby sister scissor a stripper”]

[Wynonna says: “Whoa say that five times fast. Sister scissor stripper”]

Waverly sighed. She did actually want to talk to her sister, but she found herself reluctant to cut the trip with Nicole short.

“Go, Earp,” Nicole said as she stowed the last empty ammo box into her trunk. “I dunno about you, but I feel a lot better. Go be with your sister. She probably needs it.” She winked and patted the belly of her heavy coat. “Plus, I’m full of banana muffins and hot chocolate anyway. I think I’m gonna have to move up that nap I booked for later.”

“An important line-item to pencil in,” Waverly solemnly agreed.

A ping of a new text message. [Wynonna says: “BOOZE BOOZE BOOZE BOOBS BOOZE”]

Sighing again, Waverly nodded. “She probably does need me. Sooner rather than later, depending on how early she started. Ticking time bomb.”

The drive back was a little quieter. Nicole forwarded Waverly the collection of photos she’d taken over their gun range adventure, which Waverly giddily reviewed. They shared memories of guns. Waverly’s were mostly with Uncle Curtis (she avoided mentioning Willa or Daddy), or the boar hunt that converted her to a vegetarian. Nicole’s stories circled around the police academy with epic trick-shots and clumsy recruits.

Halfway back to Purgatory, Waverly’s thumb kept returning to the first selfie they’d taken where she hadn’t been paying attention. But Waverly wasn’t looking at Nicole in the photo, she was studying herself.

She had never seen that expression on herself before. Open and adoring and just… happy. Happy to be there. Happy to be with her. A few thumb-taps later and she had a new phone wallpaper without even thinking. She snapped the phone closed.

The smell of chocolate and bananas had faded, but there was still that vanilla.

As they pulled back into the municipal parking lot, Waverly was reluctant to leave the car.

“So.”

“So,” Nicole echoed as she hit the trunk latch. “I’m gonna go return these badboys to the armory then head home. You off to the Homestead?”

Waverly checked her phone. “Still need groceries. Guess this moves up that pasta I was gonna make. By a few hours.”

Nicole’s eyes were wide with sympathy. “Godspeed with that.”

“I had a great time with you, Nicole.”

“Me too,” Nicole said with a smile. Her eyes drifted lower and she bit her lip.

Yes.

“What?” Waverly asked.

A finger pointed at the tin. “Are you gonna finish those?” A pause as Nicole’s nose wrinkled. “Or… I guess you’d give 'em to Wynonna.” She flashed Waverly a teasing grin.

Oh.

Waverly pulled out one (of the four) remaining muffins and passed the entire tin over to Nicole.

“Are you sure?” Her smile was incredulous.

And totally worth it.

“Of course!” Waverly chirped back. “Ideal audience, right?” She gently set the muffin into her purse as she climbed out of the car. Leaning back in slightly, Waverly ran her fingertips down the side braid Nicole had done for her. “Rain-check on that lunch? I owe you for the range.”

Nicole started to disagree, but seemed to think better of it. A slow smile spread. “…Yes. I’ll try to give you two or three days to plan it this time.”

“That’s all I need.”

[puckish-saint]

Anyone else in the mood for some Angsty-Wing!AU? How about Hanzo, Mccree, Daddy76's s/o's wings become critically injured, to the point where they could never fly again. How do they support their s/o in their time of need??

Technically this is part of the Birdwatch!AU (that I totally plan on continuing!) and some context (ie why Hanzo can’t fly) can be read up on in those fics 

Hanzo

Not everyone at Overwatc can fly, justlike not everyone can swim or ride a bike. It’s a trivial skill hetells himself and it doesn’t matter that he’s the only fieldagent who doesn’t possess it.

He rethinks that opinion when a Talonagent pushes him off the cliff and he falls, unable to catch himselfor even slow his descent. He flaps his wings in a panic, screams forhelp but even when you dive over the edge and fly after him he’ssure you’ll be too late. You’re not, if barely. Less than twodozen metres above the ground you catch him but your wings getentangled, rob you off your balance and you crash into themountainside together, tumbling down the steep slope and are nearlycarried away by the strong river current at the bottom of the canyon.He would have died if it hadn’t been for you, shield his head andspine with your wings that caught the brunt of the fall. They lookthe part, too.

It takes hours to rescue you, thecanyon floor too narrow for the aircraft to land and you too weak tomove to a larger site. He spends the time apologising, begging yourforgiveness, asking for anything he can do to help.

Specialised climbing equipment has tobe set up and by the time Fareeha has reached the canyon floor, herpower armoured wings more than capable of carrying you up again, youhave stopped assuring him you’re not mad. You hiss when Fareehasets your wings into an improvised cast and refuse eye contact witheither of them.

In the following days a lot of ‘if’sand ‘would have been’s come to light. If the team was betterprepared for mountain rescue operations they could have gotten to youfaster. If you had kept a better eye on each other one of you wouldhave noticed Hanzo fall sooner. The biggest ‘if’, the fault, themistake, no one says out loud. If Hanzo had learned to fly instead ofstubbornly refusing lessons, he could have taken care of himself andcaused you harm.

You refuse to see him, have the othersrun interference until you get out of the hospital and avoid himyourself. He makes one or two attempts to track you down but truth betold he’s scared of the conversation he knows has to happen. A partof him is glad you express your anger by ignoring him, even if itmeans sleeping in an empty bed, curling his own wings around himselfin a sad substitute for yours.

Until one night it stops.

He’s almost asleep, has gotten to apoint where he isn’t brought to tears by your absence anymore,doesn’t listen for the quiet sounds of your breathing and rustlingfeathers. The door opens, lets a sliver of light from the hallway in,and closes again. You haven’t said anything but he knows it’syou, knows it by the quality of silence. Saying none of the wordsthat need to be said you crawl into bed with him, skin cold butwelcome nonetheless. He turns around when no wings fold over him likethey used to and without opening his eyes he feels for you in thedarkness and spreads his own over your body, cradling you like youdid him, hundreds of nights and one fatal fall.

He doesn’t know if you cry, can’ttell with his own whispered assurances that he loves you and that healways will, but he holds you through the night, knowing that’s allhe can do and hopes it will be enough.

McCree

When you wake up in a hospital bed, thefirst thing you feel is searing pain. The first thing you hear isJesse’s low drawl, telling you that against all evidence this is agood morning. The first thing you see after turning your head in thevague direction of his voice and opening your eyes is a bottle ofbuffalo sauce on the night stand.

You look up, unimpressed.

“Really?” you say while Jesse givesin to the laughing fit he must have fought against ever since he cameup with the idea. His own wings are only a little singed at the edgesbut yours, yes, wouldn’t look out of place at a barbecue.

“Aww, darlin’, you know how much Ilove chicken wings. You’ve just gone and made yourself prettier forme.”

What you did do was to get caught in anexplosion that would have burned you to a crisp if you hadn’tprotected yourself with your wings. As it is your back and feet arestill covered in the same gooey substance your wings are. You dearlyhope whatever it is has been sanctioned by someone who doesn’tthink bringing buffalo sauce to a patient with severe wing trauma isin any way funny.

He sees your face and sheepishly takeshis hat between his hands.

“‘M sorry. Just thought you coulduse some cheering up.” he says and despite the pain, despite thebad joke, you’re overcome with a fondness for this man that can’tbe put into words.

“C’mere.” you say and hold outyour arms, letting him curl up on the bed and half in your lap, hisweight on your legs comforting. He’s still here, cracking badjokes, loving you. It could have been so much worse.

You’ve made peace with the idea ofnever flying again and thus aren’t surprised when the news come.Your feathers were burned down to their roots and won’t grow back.Only advanced skin grafts and months of physical therapy will let youmove your wings at all. It’s an expected blow but that doesn’tmean it’s painless.

Jesse’s with you every step of theway. He’s there to help you change the bandages, and he eases yourfrustration through the exercises. He makes fun of you looking like aplucked chicken but at the end of the day he assures you with kissesand sweet nothings that he still thinks you’re prettier than allthe stars in the sky.

Eventually you’ll talk about wingprostheses and exoskeletons, ways to get you back in the air at hisside where you belong, but until you’ve healed you stay on theground. It’s hard on him, sitting and watching the others fly andkeeping his wings folded against his back. More than once youencourage him to get up there, that you’ll be fine for a while, buthe doesn’t take you up on it.

“I wanna be up there with ya.” hesays and steals a kiss from you. You’re eating the buffalo wings hemade and are far ahead enough in your recovery that you canappreciate the joke.

“Some day.” you assure him. “Nowget up there before they all outfly you.”

He wants to, it’s in his face, thelonging glances towards the sky, the competitiveness that neverreally left him as he got older. You nod, push him out of the chairand promise you’ll be fine for a bit. He takes off, shoots up intothe clear blue sky faster than anyone else on base can and you leanback and watch him fly, thinking this is almost as good as the realthing.

Soldier: 76

The wound is small and persistent.Shrapnel lodged deep in your wing chafing against nerves and tendonswith every move however small. The pain drives tears into your eyesbut you grit your teeth and continue on, through enemy territory,Jack leaning against your healthy wing, taking weight off the bulletwound in his leg.

By the time you arrive at the baseyou’ve lost feeling in your wing. You try not to think about whatthat means, that the lack of pain isn’t a good thing. Jack knows,even though you don’t speak, and once he feels safe enough toholster his gun he takes your hand in his and holds it.

He holds your hand through the medicalexam, and while his leg recovers quickly, your wing is another matterentirely. A tiny wound, barely larger than your thumbnail has robbedyou of any possibility of ever flying again. And that’s when hestops holding your hand and makes an excuse to leave. He doesn’tcome back.

Weeks pass during which he pretendsnothing happened. He encourages you to get back on your feet again,that there are missions to be planned, objectives to be captured,goals to be accomplished and never breathes a word about how to dealwith your disability. He acts like if he doesn’t acknowledge itsexistence, it will go away by itself. Everytime you tell him it won’tand that you really need to talk about where to go from here hechanges the subject. It’s getting old.

“You can’t keep pretending thisisn’t real.” you say, not for the first time. Lately he’sstarted plain outrunning you if the subject comes up and right now hemarches down the hallway in a blur of fiery red, feathers rustling inirritation. But he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t argue.

“Jack, I’m talking to you. We haveto talk about this. You’re the one in charge of team missions, weneed to figure out if I should sit back and focus on recon or if Ican be put back into the field again. We need to set up trainingexercises, see where my limits are, how I can work around them. Jack,for crying out loud, listen!”He snaps. With two stepshe’s turned around and shoved you against the wall, the painshooting through only one of your wings and making you fight forbalance. You bring the remaining functioning wing up against yourshoulder, prepared to defend yourself. You’ve never seen him thisangry.

“We don’t need to do shit if youstop pitying yourself for one second!” he shouts. “You’re notfucking disabled, you’re just injured. Don’t treat this like it’ssome kind of big deal, because it’s not. You’ll rest, get onphysical therapy and then you’ll go back into the field the same asyou always have. I’m not gonna listen to you act like you lost adamn limb. Your wing is right there, it’s fine.”Youwatch as he grabs a fistful of your bad wing and pulls it out fromunderneath you. It falls, hangs limp and lifeless from your back.Jack stares.

For the first time he seems to realisethat your wing might look fine but it’s far from that. He curls hishands into fists, takes a step back. Looks around as if a way outmight present itself any second now. This he can’t ignore, this hecan’t think away.

“Jack ... “ you say but he shakeshis head.

“No. No, you’re messing with me.You just want to be right, you don’t want to admit you’re wrong,you just … you … God.” He falters, conviction breaking in theface of overwhelming evidence. Then he surges forward, pulls you intohis arms, mindful of your wings and buries his face in the crook ofyour shoulder.

“I’m so sorry.” he says and witha shock that shatters your heart you realise he’s crying. “I’msorry, I didn’t … I didn’t want to believe it. You told me andI just let you go through it alone, I ... “

He breaks off, pets your healthy wingto comfort you or calm himself you don’t know. You rake your handsthrough his feathers, whisper soft nothings into his ear.

“It’s alright. We’ll deal withthis together.”He nods, clings tighter to you and says, voicemade hoarse by his shouting and tears: “I won’t leave you alonewith this anymore. I promise.”