#considering they carefully constructed the way each room would be and not just threw furniture in a premade house

[yonpote]

oh are we back to reconstructing the phouse based purely on like ten pictures?

[docholligay]

An Overwatch Christmas Carol: Stave III---The Second of the Spirits

Hello there! The third part of this is up up up, and at 11,000 words I know it’s long, so if you wanted to read it in parts that’s great and okay! I worked hard on this and I hope you like it! 

Her alarm struck, though she had not set it, and she felt at her own body as she awoke from the horrible nightmare. 

Ana, like most people of her ilk, believed herself ready in any moment for any sort of thing that came her way, that she could master it, and tolerate it, and come out victorious. So have all of us, in a moment where we are very courageous in our own homes and beds, said that same. And so despite the harrowing nature of what she had just experienced, it seemed to Ana Amari that anything between a children’s choir and an army might have been just as expected. 

But what Ana was most unnerved by, and utterly unprepared for, was nothing. The alarm sounded, and still it stayed dark, a cold, and quiet, just as her room had always been, and no matter how many times she looked over to the clock, at five, ten, or twenty minutes, still the same nothing answered her back. This was enough to make her brave, as it might us all, and so she spat her words into the darkness. 

“Ridiculous.” 

There was a light from the other room, at that, peeking and shining under the door with a brilliance Ana did not know.. The apartment in Brixton was tiny and dark, and would never have been accused of any manner of warmth by anyone, and yet now the light coming from the living room was golden and warm, dancing light firelight on the walls despite there being no fireplace anywhere near the building. 

“Right then!” There was a chipper, high voice from the other room, “Come on! Christmas is ‘alf over already!” 

Ana stepped out of bed, creeping toward the door. There had been Jack, and there had been Reinhardt, and despite herself, it was getting harder and harder to pretend that it was all something in her mind. And she knew that voice, had known it for more years than semed reasonable, when she reflected upon it. 

She turned the corner into the living room. There was a tree brightly festooned with ornaments and tinsel, and while it might not have been the finest tree in the world it had clearly been dressed with great enthusiasm. There were stockings hung from the edge of the window, carefully nailed in, mismatched and well-loved. The room rang with an echo of laughter, almost as a chorus, but one voice above them all. 

And, on what had been her coffee table, now grown long and covered with a white cloth, a grand feast, ham with a rich, shiny, glaze, turkey overflowing with stuffing, rich turnip and parsnip gratin, dripping with sauce, bowls full of roasted potatoes and mashed potatoes, pigs in blankets, Yorkshire puddings, and mince pies with brandy butter. 

Tracer sat cross-legged on the end of it, in a bright green sweater, which looked thick and soft even from this distance, a crown of red and green gold star tinsel, mixed here and there with  jingle bells, on her head. There was a Christmas pudding in front of her, and she popped a bit into her mouth before she looked up and saw Ana. She swallowed, licked the fork, and grinned. 

“Right then.” She set down the plate, and leapt to her feet, “Come on! Christmas is ‘alf over already!” 

Ana opened her mouth to protest, but if she had to hear another lecture about narrative structure and known mythologies, she was going to lose whatever was left of her mind. Besides, she had little belief that Tracer would care much about her own feelings on Christmas, and even smaller still was that small pang of regret, the part from last Christmas still dancing in her mind. 

“You already said that.” She allowed. 

Tracer stood up straight for a moment, and considered, hand at her chin. “I did, didn’t I?” she laughed. “Was right both times!” 

Lena Oxton had died. Ana knew this. She knew it in the same way that she knew Jack had died, and Reinhardt had died, and she had attended their funerals, and she had seem them burned or buried. But Tracer’s death was newer to her, having been an interruption to the month of November, the dirt on her grave not quite settled. 

It was as, well, unsettling, as her encounter with Reinhardt had been. The room seemed to respond to her, the lights twinkling when she laughed, the smell of the Christmas feast following her about the room like a cologne. The flames seemed to dance and she bopped about the place, and it was only in that moment, Tracer’s eyes glittering brightly, that Ana noticed something. 

She wore no chronal accelerator. Ana never would have remembered her without it. 

Too much. Draw back. 

“You look fairly good, for someone who has been dead for six weeks.” Ana snorted. 

Tracer’s eyes narrowed, and the cheer left her face. 

“Don’t get smart with me Ana, not in the mood.” She scowled, “Doing this for Jack, because I said I would, so I did, and I’m a woman of me word. But don’t think I particularly feel any sorrow over the idea of you spending the rest of your life alone. I don’t, not a drop.” 

Ana opened her mouth for a moment, and then reconsidered. The image of Jack in her mind, of him somehow gathering this group of people beyond the grave to help her, the constant reiteration that this was her last chance, somehow for once in her life, Ana Amari could not come up with some sharp rebuke. 

She looked straight ahead, and frowned, adjusting her scarf. “The night will be over before you know it, so, let’s go.” 

Tracer nodded. “Right then.” She snapped her fingers, and the two them exploded into sparks against the night, rushing off into the present. 

They were outside as the morning sun shone brightly through the streets of London, even the fog feeling it must cast away into the night and not disturb the sacred joy of that beautiful and crisp day. There was the smallest dust of snow on the ground, though you would have been forgiven for thinking it was so much more for the delight in children’s eyes as they gazed out of their windows. 

Tracer ran down the sidewalk, jumped, grabbed onto a pole and swung back toward Ana, all in one swift motion, landing right in front of her, eyes glittering. 

“Christmas morning!” She gestured grandly, London caught in a sort of pause, the hurry Ana was used to at seven am only a distant memory. “‘appy Christmas, London!” 

Tracer rushed over to where a bunch of pigeons were cuddled on the eave of a window, and pulled two large handfuls of birdseed out of her pockets, tossing it all in front of them. 

“‘Appy Christmas, little ones!” 

“Did you just have that--” 

But Tracer was already off, running through the sidewalks and stopping wherever she found someone to greet. A happy Christmas to the little dog with a biscuit, a happy Christmas to his owner with a box of tea, pulled from that same pocket. A happy Christmas to the nurse just walking to home, hoping her husband could distract the kids long enough so she could see them open presents, a gift card to the Pret by the hospital pressed into her hand even as she looked confused. A happy Christmas to the bus driver with a bottle of scotch, rested by his side with bow. . 

Eventually, Tracer seemed to realize herself, and broke into a laugh that seemed to ripple through the street, the lights glowing a touch brighter as she did it, even the icy lace on the windows seeming to glitter just a little more brightly as she dashed back toward Ana. 

“Right, right, I,” She dramatically paused in front of Ana, “Love Christmas. But you don’t ‘ave to!” She interrupted Ana’s protest, “For that isn’t the real point, not ‘ere, is it?” 

“Giving people all these things, but,” Ana shook her head. “Is the point that people will be driven into debt over it? That it’s an excuse to press honest people into working more and harder, and later? The Christmas spirit, for sale at Mark and Spencer’s.” 

“Marks and Spencer, but I’ll allow it.” She rocked back on her heels. “There are plenty of people who don’t understand the meaning of what Christmas is, and often they’re the ones with the biggest trees, and that’s the God’s honest truth. What I show you ‘ere? Ought to be in every day. Every where. Because it isn’t about any ‘oliday, or turkey, or nothing. Is it, Ana Amari?” 

She drew something out of her pocket, a small gold book,, maybe the size of a credit card, and she flipped it open before pressing it into Ana’s hand. A picture of her and Pharah, Pharah only a baby, long ago and oh so far away. They both looked so different. So full of promise. 

“Come on, Ana, there is just so much to see.” 

She looked up from it only to realize that they were inside someone’s living room, parents looking at each other with tired eyes as a little girl ran happily around a dollhouse, placing the furniture in this room or that. 

“Up all night constructing it, they was,” She shook her head, the bells tinkling, “but it ‘ardly matters. Was all she wanted, right?” 

Tracer drew something out of her pocket, and knelt down next to the girl’s dollhouse, nearly nose to nose with her. Ana, whatever Reinhardt might think, had listened to him, and assumed the same was true here, that they could neither see nor hear the two of them, but the girl paused and looked in Tracer’s direction with such intensity that Ana wondered for a moment. Tracer put something in her palm, and closed her hand around it, smiling. 

Tracer jumped back up next to Ana and threw an arm around her, Ana shrugging it off just as quickly as the little girl opened her hand. 

“Look! Mummy! Daddy! It’s a kitty just like Patch! I didn’t seen it before oh it’s just like her!” 

Her parents looked confused, each looking at the other, but the little girl was radiant in that moment of joy, and though Ana refused to look over at Tracer, she could feel the happiness pouring  off her. 

“I don’t know what you--���

“Next!”

But Tracer’s fingers snapped again, and they found themselves back in Brixton, outside of Ana’s apartment building with the falling, tattered awnings over crumbling bricks at windows. It was nothing to look at, but at least it was a place to sleep, and that was all the more Ana thought of it. It looked particularly dreary, if she were being honest, today, where she could see the scraps of Christmas trees in windows, and plenty without, people like her who didn’t participate in the nonsense of Christmas, who were fully cognizant that nothing changed on one day, no matter when that day was. 

“Up she goes!” 

Tracer grinned brightly, jumped on top of a dumpster out back, and grabbed onto the drainpipe, the tinsel in her hair shimmering in the dim morning light, throwing off stars into the daytime. She quickly began to shimmy up, humming “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” as she did so. 

“Tracer,” She crossed her arms and stared up at her, “I have a key.” 

“...You better not pout, I’m telling you why,” Another pull up the pipe, “Lena Claus is coming, to town,” she looked back down at Ana and shook her head merrily, “No you don’t! Left it in your room, then, didn’t you?” 

She did not wait for an answer, simply started back up the pipe, as Ana felt for a pocket that she realized wasn’t there. 

“Tracer.” 

“What?” She turned around, swinging out with one arm, “Bit too old for this, Amari? I could do it all day.” 

Ana huffed, but scrambled up onto the top of the dumpster and grabbed the pipe. 

“Death has done wonders for you health, but not your attitude, Oxton!” 

Tracer nodded. “That IS true.” 

Ana began to climb behind her, grumbling as her hands tried to gain purchase on the cold drainpipe, her hands aching with the swell in her knuckles. Feeling her age, a bit, but also feeling a bit of something else, something she could not quite place. She looked up at Tracer above her, still climbing, toward the third floor, occasionally giving a bit of a bounce, or a swing. 

Perhaps it was a bit....bad. It was true, that Tracer was well in a way Ana had not seen her in more than a year, and that was all she had said. But there was a sudden realization that Tracer so loved this moment, with a glowing smile and a song on her lips, because she was still basking in the joy of what it was to have her body obey her again, just as it had for years. It felt unkind, even if it wasn’t unfair, to criticize her for it, and she could not remember having had the feeling much before, least of all with Tracer. 

“....Just you wait, poppet, got all her gifts ‘ere in her back trouser pocket, Lena Claus is coming to town…” 

Ana struggled to pull herself up, slipping a bit on the iciness of the pipe. 

Maybe not that bad. 

“That doesn’t rhyme!” Another small slip, and a scowl as one of her slippers dangled off her foot. 

“Slant rhyme, innit?” Tracer looked in a window, “Good enough for Shakespeare, good enough for me. ‘Ere we are!” She cocked her head and laughed down to Ana, her nose wrinkling, with its spray of freckles gathering like bunches of holly, those lights in all the windows bouncing again, along with her. 

Ana slipped again, and felt her foot give way, but with a snap of Tracer’s fingers, they were inside a beige-walled apartment much like Ana’s, same layout, same unloveable carpet, same cheap seaming at the windows, but oh, so much more crowded. Not that it was particularly hard to do, but Ana looked at a man and a woman, sitting on their small threadbare couch together, a toddler sitting on the woman’s lap as the two of them directed the three other little children around the tiny apartment, with only a small smattering of toys to distract them. 

Despite this, the apartment felt warmer than Ana’s own ever had, more filled with light despite the bareness of the walls, and maybe it was only the smile between the parents and their children, or maybe it was the chatter in a language Ana did not know, but knew the feeling of without having to understand the meaning, but somehow she felt a certain twinge of what she had felt all those years ago in that miserable military camp, all those Christmases ago. 

She resented it. 

“I suppose I’m supposed to be amazed it’s Christmas here, too?” She glanced sidelong at Tracer. 

Tracer jumped up onto the back of the couch and sat there, cross-legged, shaking her head. “Ana, s’not Christmas here, they’re Muslim, don’t you notice anything? Thought you was,” she made her hands into claws, “the Shrike!” 

Ana glowered, unable to decide if she were more annoyed at herself or at Tracer, and glanced around. Of course she would have noticed, if she had a moment, if she hadn’t been waiting for whatever lesson Tracer meant to lay upon her. 

“Our point in being here, isn’t Christmas at all, as I said.” Tracer pointed to the both of them. “Inconvenienced by Christmas more than anything, they are. All the schools closed, all the meal programs off or offering a bit of ‘am, nothing really to make them keep the slightest bit merry in all the world. But...look at them. ‘Appy to spend the day with their little family.  New to London, right, and filled with something like the Christmas spirit. And that, Ana, is ‘ope. That, Ana, is universal.” 

Ana huffed. “They have nothing.” she pointed her chin to the kitchen, where daal and rice cooked, spiced carefully and beautifully, “Such a meager feast.” 

“But very appreciated!” Tracer jumped off the back of the couch and shuffled toward the tiny corner of the apartment that served for a kitchen. “She’s been working plenty ‘ard, for the meal they ‘ave here. Everyone knows it.” 

The family chattered happily, even as the father had to rise and place a sweater in the sill of the window to keep out the chill from the cold wind that dared to slip inside, and even as the mother smiled sadly toward the large pan on the stove, her eyes full of wishing for something else. But neither of those small, tiny regrets seemed to be able to steal the joy they had at simply being with their children, despite missing a day’s work, despite missing out on the childcare, despite all the things Ana might have laid, not unfairly, at Christmas’ feet, a sense of pleasantness seemed to endure, like cider hanging in the air long after the drink is gone. 

“I--” Ana began to say something, something in the back of her mind, and then shook it away. 

Tracer nodded, as if knowing that the bounds of this room had been reached in their capacity to teach her student. 

“Need to see something a bit more familiar, don’t you? Come on then!” Tracer walked over to the door, and opened it, ushering Ana through, who came along, though grumbling. 

Tracer reached into her pocket and materialized a large cardboard tray, laden so heavily with delicacies that Tracer had to catch it with her other hand. Biryani chock full of meat, paratha so decadent that it looked as if it might melt under the simple wave of Tracer’s hand, sweet rice smelling richly of cinnamon and raisins, and things Ana did not even know, but made her feel a pang of jealousy and hunger all the same. 

Tracer went to knock on the door, thought a moment, and as a sparkle fell from her fingertips, she drew a Christmas pudding out of her pocket, sauce dripping over the sides, nuts and fruits bright on the top. 

“Just so as to welcome them to the neighborhood, try something new, as well.” 

She set it down with the rest of the food, and then knocked. There was a call from inside and the swiftest patter of feet as a little boy rushed and opened it, even as his father rose from the couch to call after him. At seeing Tracer, his eyes grew wide, but Tracer smiled as she put a finger to her lips, and with one last slip into that pocket, took out a 100 pound note and tucked it next to the pudding. 

She turned and quickly went down the hallway, giggling as the father looked all about the place, unable to see anything at all, while the little boy broke into a bright smile himself, and waved. 

Ana found herself waving back, and then stopped herself when she saw Tracer, hands in her pockets, grinning with such a luminosity that Ana would have sworn the hallway was brighter than it had ever dared to be. 

“So you are what, Noel Baba now? Must be nice, to be so easily loved.” 

“Oh!” She slid down the bannister, and at the end, let herself fall into a somersault and popped back up to her feet in one smooth motion. “I’d love to be Father Christmas, really! But of course, no, there’s no real Father Christmas, so near as I know, but, we all sort of are, right? Father Christmas, and all of us spirits, can only come once a year, and so how lucky and powerful can we be? You, on the other ‘and, ‘ave seen that family at the little mail cubbies for six months now, innit?” 

And did not reply, but it was certainly true, that she had seen her. That she had noticed the mother trying to wrangle to children, and the father’s long hours, and the mother has once admired, in halting English, Ana’s scarf, seeming slightly shy of the ragged edge of her own. She had told Ana her name. 

Ana could not remember it. 

“Always ‘ad the power to do what I did, on any given day, right? Could ‘ave given them all that, but didn’t. Could ‘ave given the bus driver what takes you every day a gift, as well. You’ve ‘ad enough chance to be that bearer, Ana. You waste it, and you can’t pin that on me, not rightly.” 

Ana walked down the stairs after her. “I live on the next floor, you have taught me enough--” 

But as she stepped down another stair, her foot plunged into the snow on the sidewalk, and she looked up. On a simple street, still being rebuilt after the Battle, but about half redone with a grocery store and several apartment building patched back together. But even the ruins were decked with lights here and there, a bit of English humor at the edges of a healing misery. 

“Things like that,” she felt compelled to defend herself, “are only patches on, on a bigger problem.” 

Tracer stopped her walking and turned around. “Right then, so you go about with an ‘ole in your trousers til you can buy new? Mustn’t bother with a patch, of course not.” 

She looked over Ana as they stood, nearly nose to nose. Tracer’s eyes did not linger, and never had so long as Ana had known her. They flitted, instead, like a hummingbird, from moment to moment and bit to bit, but somehow you got the sense that she was taking in all of you, whether you particularly wanted her to or not. In her eyes, Ana saw reflected bright lights of gold and white and green, though she did not recall there being lights so near. 

She was still smiling, had never stopped, and this perhaps annoyed Ana worst of all. 

Tracer cocked her head, and she took a step back, looking up and down at Ana. 

“Like there’s no point in apologizing, right?” 

“I tried--” 

Tracer burst out laughing. “Oh, right, right! When you told ‘er that it wasn’t as if your mum were there for you, and so she might as well get over it and see a therapist? Some apology, I’ll say.” Tracer spun around in a pirouette, but than turned back. “And still--” 

“Fareeha is a military woman. More even than me. To the good.  She works things out in probability, in risk, in order. What would be the benefit of sentimentality, for all that? She does not do things that don’t benefit her. She hasn’t since she was a child. She had a plan, even then. She does what needs doing and I--there’s no reason I would fit into that.” 

Tracer looked at her moment, and gave a confused shake of the head. “You really don’t know her at all, do you? No more, at least, than any clerk in the new office, and that’s the truth.” She did not give Ana a chance to respond, to argue. “Come on, then! Let me introduce you to your daughter.” 

Tracer threw her arm around Ana’s shoulder, and though she took a deep breath and tried very calmly not to sock her right in the jaw, she had to admit that the warmth she had felt in those other rooms, she wanted to feel in Pharah’s home. She wanted to know what it might feel like to have the warmth of Pharah’s love, something that had been lost to her for so long. 

Ana had never been to see the apartment they moved into after the Battle for London, and nearly paused for a moment as Tracer let go of her and jumped on the railing and then through the window, but the snap of her fingers gave no moment to think more of it. Their old place, she knew, had been destroyed, parts of it simply cratered in, Pharah rifling through what they had to try and reconstruct their belongings. Mercy, of course, had gone to pieces, by Ana’s measure, some memory of childhood bothering her enough that she kept her distance. The new place had been built of an old shell, like so many things in London, and Pharah had taken pains with the layout. It was a lovely place, bright and welcoming without being devoid of a certain peculiar charm, seeming less like a new-constructed box and more like it might have been in London all this time, even from the inside. 

The furniture was new, and tidy, and Ana nearly laughed to see what she assumed could only be her daughter’s way of making sure everything had its place, and was put into it. Little cubbyholes built in by the door for shoes, books organized by subject and alphabetized, a few lying on the dark coffee table near where Mercy sat, reading one of them. But it was not without its hominiess, the smell of Mercy’s coffee in the air, and even Ana was not immune to it, walking to the mantle over a small fireplace, where a few framed pictures nestled among bright silver and blue garlands. 

“A bit personal innit?” Tracer looked at the mantle herself, ‘Not quite the barracks you imagined.” 

Ana let her fingers rest on a picture of Pharah and Mercy at their wedding, smiling under the chuppah, the pink roses and daisies in Mercy’s hands blooming brightly. Pharah’s hair was in a low ponytail, tightly held and shining, but she wore still the small gold charm in her hair, as she had for so many years. No longer, of course, not after everything that had happened between them.

Ana gave a mirthless chuckle, “All Angela’s, even before she was punishing me.” 

Tracer grabbed at the picture. “She built that chuppah herself, you know. So it’d be a piece of her that was also Ang’s dream. Didn’t put it that way, of course, Fareeha, but that’s what it was.” 

There were other pictures, crowded family tables and smiling faces in different locations--bright beaches and a ski chalet, even one at Disneyland Paris all of them squeezed into the frame together. There were, of course, none of Ana. 

Tracer pointed to one at the edge of the mantle, Pharah and Tracer side by side as comrades they could not have imagined becoming, everything bright and green around them, both smiling, Tracer holding onto an iron gate, but her other arm firmly around Pharah. Pharah wore her usual deep blue, and Ana found herself jealous at the tightness of her grip on Tracer, the way they grinned at each other, Pharah’s other hand at her shoulder. 

“She cared for me, you know.” Tracer said, tapping at the edge of the picture. 

“Yes,” Ana rolled her eyes and turned away from the mantle, her voice brisker and more cold than even that wind outside “I know, she preferred you to me, because she preferred anyone to me, if this is your point I can just go home, because--” 

“Bloody ‘ell, Ana, it’s not what I said!” Tracer scowled, the lights in her eyes near to bursting with the heat of lost patience. “You are so bloody lucky I owe both Rein and Jack a bloody fucking SCORE of favors--” 

“--Well, you don’t owe me any, so you can just--” 

“God no, you’d ‘ad to ‘ave done something kind for me even once for me to owe you--” 

“--Oh, poor pitiful Lena, as if you don’t have enough adoration, you attention hou--” 

“--You meanspirited little desert rat, ought to let you rot, I ought--” 

“--You don’t know the first thing about--” 

“SHE’S ‘OLDING ME UP IN THIS PICTURE!” Tracer had taken it, and held it in front of Ana’s face. Angela looked up from her book, around the room for a moment, confused, and both Ana and Tracer fell quiet. “Didn’t notice, did you? When you looked? But she is. Was just after me last birthday. Couldn’t really stand on me own much.” 

Ana took the picture from her and looked down at it. Of course it was clear, looking at it now. Pharah's arm was at her waist, and her thumb was looped into Tracer’s belt loop, holding her close to Pharah’s solidness. Her other hand was at Tracer’s shoulder, steadying her, as Tracer did her best to hold herself up. She should have seen it. 

Tracer took it back from her and placed it back on the mantle. “Not many people see that, when they look, because that’s way with Fareeha, right? I meant--and you never knew this--she literally helped take care of me.”

“No benefit to ‘er, mostly a drain on ‘er already limited time, being as she was running all of Overwatch herself. But from the time I started to need a bit of ‘elp, now and again,” she passed a hand across the pictures, and small whirls opened, showing she and Pharah together, in a park, in Tracer’s bedroom, out on Winston’s patio, poring over paperwork, simply sharing a lunch together, “Every Thursday, eight to eight, she did. Earlier, it was Overwatch paperwork,” she touched the edge of that whirl in its frame, and it came alive, she and Pharah arguing playfully over a stack of papers, “Pretending it was on business. Got to be more and more, of course. Took the pressure off Em and Win, when I couldn’t ‘ardly do nothing for meself. Cooked, did the washing,” she touched the edge of another photo, and the two of them were in a dark pub, Tracer in a corner chair with the table tucked up close to her, “Got me out the ‘ouse, when she could. When I could, honestly. And,” her voice got soft, “at the fag end of it all…” 

She touched the edge of a silver frame, the whorl opening just a little more to show Pharah feeding Tracer, Tracer’s body trembling. 

Ana looked at the photos, and then over toward the window, where a soft morning snow was falling, so heavy in the drifts that it was easy to forget that it was built of delicate individual lace. Had she been gone from her daughter’s life for so much of that year? She had known that Pharah had assumed the duties of Overwatch, that she was often too busy to be seen, but she had pictured something so much different. So much more in the ways that Ana had isolated herself. 

“You know,” Tracer passed a hand over all the frames, bringing the photos back to themselves, and put her hands on her hips, “I ‘ave had a bit more fun in me life, than that particular bit of it, that much I’ll say. Don’t much like to think about it, though really, you get so much of life, and only, what, two percent of it, maybe three or four at the outside, is all that bad, than what is there to fuss about? But,” She pointed to Ana, “Much as I ‘ate it, you need to know it. You ‘ave to learn to ‘ear Fareeha, love. You must, if there’s any ‘ope at all.” 

Tracer walked away from the mantle, and away from Mercy, and hustled toward the kitchen, small but well-appointed, and laid out in a certain unmistakeable logic that could only have come from Pharah’s own mind. She had put so much of herself, Ana thought, in this home, even as soft as all the furnishings were, and even with the Shabbat candlesticks and kiddush cup tucked into the corner of the kitchen. It was as if Mercy was the rose and Pharah the trellis, growing around the things that Pharah had made. 

Pharah was studying a cookbook carefully in the kitchen, her eyes narrowed as she read the same recipe over and over again, flipping back and forth. She had, on her kitchen island, a very large ham, and several ingredients in front of her, everything examined and re-examined as she quietly mouthed the words of the cookbook to herself. It was silly, to see it as another rejection of Ana herself, and yet she felt herself bristle at it. It was one thing, that Ana knew she kept no particular part of her Muslim heritage particularly close, but it was another to see something so plainly in front of her. 

Ana watched her with such rapt attention that she did not even notice Mercy come up behind the two of them. 

“Is that a ham?” 

“Yes.” She did not look up from the cookbook, but looked back to the ham, and then at her book, flipping through to another part, scowling at it all the while. “I understand how to make the bacon my father sends. I have learned how to make a fry-up. This seems like it should not be that difficult, but...it’s entirely new to me.” 

Mercy stood silently for a moment. It had never been stated, but she thought that somehow it had been agreed by them that though she understood Pharah was not religious in the slightest, and sometimes a bit aggressively areligious, depending on her mood, Mercy herself was, and the idea of using her cookware to make pork turned her stomach, just a touch. Was she being unreasonable? Pharah did all of the cooking and never asked anything of her, and--

Pharah’s head snapped up, as if she could read the thread running through Mercy’s mind. “This is disposable.” She touched her hand to the aluminium roaster the ham sat in. “For Christmas.” 

Ana turned to Tracer. “You came to show me what, that without my guidance, my daughter is going to forget herself entirely? Become some soft Londoner full of pig fat? I should expect a Christmas tree next? I know that, that is why--” 

“Ana,” Tracer looked over at her, “You ever just think of...shutting up, every now and again? Watch. Learn something. God’s sake.” 

Mercy thoughtfully touched at the edge of the counter. 

“Fareeha. I am Jewish, you are Muslim.” She looked at her wife. “We don’t celebrate Christmas.” 

“Oh!” Pharah laughed, the fierce concentration of her dissipating immediately as she looked to Mercy, “Yes! No, no, Angela this is not for us. I was--” She closed the cookbook. “Tracer loved Christmas, very much. I thought that Emily and Winston, that they probably wouldn’t--Emily loves the ham, especially--that it would be hard for them. I thought I would bring Christmas to them, in some small way. I can’t--” she looked back down at her glistening pink ham, “I can’t give them, what it is they want, of course. But a ham, I can give. After what happened,” her face grew dark, and serious, “after what was done to her…”

Mercy looked at her with great love, gave an adoring huff of a sigh, and smiled. “What a beautiful idea.” 

Pharah pulled herself from her red cloud, and nodded happily. 

Ana stared at the couple, both chatting now about the ham, side by side, neither of them having any particular clue what they were doing, but the room was filled with their love of their friends, and for each other, and their child, so much so that Ana could almost smell the dinner they planned to cook. They glowed completely in the light not of what they were given, but what they were giving, Mercy inelegantly pointing out side dishes, Pharah noting what might be in the well-stocked and organized fridge. 

“My father!” Pharah exploded in the thought, an excited light in her eyes Ana had not seen for many years. Had she missed all the times it had flashed? Had she only seen her daughter’s cool, collected gaze? Pharah looked at the aviator’s watch on her wrist, and then up at a small clock on the side of the cabinet. “He should be awake by now. He would know how to make this, though I think Rebecca prefers a turkey for Christmas.” 

Ana could say nothing, merely took a step toward them, mouth agape. 

“That’s right, Ana,” Tracer got up from leaning against the wall, “Despite your very best efforts, she grew up ‘uman. Despite your very best efforts to make ‘er something like you, she ‘as a bloody ‘eart after all, and friends, and a family, and she takes care of them, when they need it. Must ‘ave been Sam’s influence, I think.” 

Ana felt a flash of guilt, and pain, and then anger, and she whirled around to punch Tracer, who jumped to the side as Ana’s fist plunged through the wall but did not stop her pursuit. Tracer dodged again as she came, Ana frustrated by her age, and Tracer’s grin, humbled by the fact that it had never only been her ability to blink that made her a terrifying opponent, angrier yet still.  Until Tracer stopped in front of her, and let her hit. Ana put her full force behind it, wanting to take away everything this smug little Englishwoman was saying, because if she could simply hit Tracer, make her stop, it would not be true. 

She hit. 

The fist went right through her. 

“I’m a GHOST, ANA.” Tracer erupted into a fit of laughter so hard it took her a minute to recover, which was not nearly long enough for Ana’s taste, and put her hands on her hips, affecting an exaggerated accent, ‘You look fairly good for someone who has been dead six months, forgot that awful quick, didn’t you then!?” 

Ana let her fists fall to the side, though she did not unclench them. “Take me home.” 

“Cut a bit close, that did?” Tracer peered into her face. “You know why I put up with you” 

“Jack--” 

“No, though you do owe ‘im a bit of kindness, for ‘is work in the ‘ereafter for you. But that isn’t it, Ana.” She looked over to where Mercy tenderly touched her belly as Pharah talked on the phone, wishing her father a Merry Christmas, beginning to measure out something for a glaze. “Jack believed in you, and I owe him my field career, and that’s the truth. Reinhardt believed in you, and he was always kind to me. But none of that is why. I’m ‘ere because Angela Zeigler did everything she could for me, from the day she met me, even to the end, and so if I have to spend one day in your miserable company, I will do that for her. Because she is a woman what believes in mercy above all else, and still thinks you deserve it, no matter me own leanings. Think on that, Ana Amari. You’ve done nothing but spit in ‘er face, going on years, and she still ‘olds out ‘er ‘hand so you can do it all over again.” 

Ana crossed her arms, but did not take her eyes off the couple. “And you want me to admire this?” 

“No, don’t expect that much from you, but I do want you to be cognizant of it, at the least.” She nodded back to Pharah and Mercy. “Some people don’t count the cost.” 

Mercy smiled as she backed away from Pharah for a moment. “I am having a wonderful idea. Just wait.” 

Before Pharah could say anything, Mercy had her coat on and was running out of the house, and before Ana could even think to protest, Tracer had the two of them zipping after her. The door to the neighbors was right across from theirs, and Mercy knocked on it aggressively, and then looked at her watch, and then knocked again, perhaps deciding it was a perfectly acceptable hour. 

A man, in a warm Christmas sweater, his slippers still firmly on his feet, answered. 

“Angela? Is everything all right?” 

“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she grasped his hand in both of hers, “But I am wondering, if you have any Christmas decorations you aren’t needing? You see, we have friends, and it has been a very lonely holiday for them, and Fareeha and I have nothing to give.” 

“So she’s going to bother this man and his family on Christmas Day.” Ana laughed, “The Christmas spirit. Togetherness. Poor planning. If family love can be made by cheap tinsel, than what is it anyway?” 

“Shut up, you, and watch.” 

The man startled for a minute, but then nodded his head, “Of course, of course, I know you had some unpleasantness this year, and, I’ll never forget that night you came over, when Camilla was sick.” 

Mercy shook her head, as if it had been nothing, and walked in the door, following him as he looked in closets and pulled out garlands and took some ornaments off his tree, and put them all in a box. He bent down to explain to the children what they were doing, and a little girl ran off to the fridge and brought back a fat santa made of paper plates, a little boy with a stuffed dormouse with antlers. 

They chatted happily to Mercy, and she thanked them profusely, dropped the box right inside her door, and continued onto another house, where there was a tangle of lights given and a bag of tinsel, and then the next, where Mercy was given a large plateful of cookies and other sweets from a little old woman, on and on until Mercy could hardly carry any of it, stacked up as it was. Some of them took it oof their own trees, out of their own kitchens, a spare stocking was taken off the mantle here and there. None of it matched, and all of it was secondhand at best, but it seemed to glisten and gleam with joy. 

As Mercy went to round a last corner, Tracer pulled the two of them into small street that would have been called an alleyway in any civilized city, and pulled out of her pocket a tiny tree. She set it on the ground, and blew on it, and it grew to a fine height, not too large, nothing like the giant affair Winston had set up every year in his home since he’d been in London for Christmas, but smelling freshly of pine. She regarded it, and then threw a strand of tinsel here or there on it, so it would look properly discarded. 

Mercy saw it out of the corner of her eye, backed up, and her eyes grew wide as she took it all in, something she never could have imagined. She clung the little box she had closer, running best as she could toward the house, calling Pharah’s name. 

Ana stood for a moment, the snow falling softly still around her. It was snowing quite a bit, for London, off and on, or maybe it was only Tracer’s wish that this represent Christmas as best it could that made it so. She went to open her mouth, once, twice, but could not bring herself to say what she meant to, what she wanted to. 

“She’s done nothing but help the people around her, be kind to them,” Tracer supplied, “So why wouldn’t they, the one time they get the chance, return it? Come on,” She took Ana by the elbow, “night’s coming on fast.” 

Tracer pulled the two of them down the alleyway, and they turned the corner into what might have been a wall but instead was just another street, in a different part of the city, the darkness having fallen in the moment it took them to slide between the bricks. 

Around them, the warehouse and odd converted apartment buildings rose, lights in this window or that, a tiny balcony with a number of rowdy revelers on it, drinking some hot rum thing that Ana could smell even from the street. Tracer bopped down the sidewalk with her, drawing this thing or that out of her pocket for a stray cat, smiling as she looked into the windows, and then they turned the corner, and her smile faded, just a bit. 

It was the same street she had seen with Reinhardt, and yet it lay so still as the last of the light faded from the city that it hardly seemed that it could have been that same place that had been so fresh and alive, every building like tombstones in a row. 

The house was quiet outside, and so grey. Where before, Ana could have ignored that it had once been a simple shipping warehouse, there was no mistaking it now, the cool metal of it tinny and burnished as the streetlights began to fly on. There were no bright sounds of cheer, or games being played. No lights trimmed the bannisters, no garlands played in the windows, and even the small dashing of snow seemed greyer than Ana had remembered when she had visited with Reinhardt. There was no doubt about the quietness settled over this house, and the darkness of it, just one lone lamp lit, the window before it dimming and greying even that. 

She should have expected it, and yet, somehow, it came as a surprise to her. 

“No point in the, ‘narrative structure’, if Tiny Tim is already dead. As I already told Reinhardt.” She looked over at Tracer. “Aren’t I supposed to turn over a new leaf, and prevent your death?”

Tracer shook her head. “No one could do that, love. If love could have saved me, I’d ‘ave lived forever, and it wouldn’t ‘ave been you that did. Just ‘ow life is sometimes. Sometimes, in life, you lose, love, and that’s the bitter truth of it.” 

“So what’s the point? Exactly.” 

Tracer bucked up her chin and smiled. ‘Come on then! And I will show you, what it is you’re meant to see.” 

They slid through the doorway, Tracer not even attempting any manner of gymnastic endeavor to do so. The smells of fresh baking and cinnamon and apples no longer permeated through the house, and Ana looked about for the giant tree with its bright lights and collection of ornaments, the tinsel hung in garlands around the windows and down the stairway, the music playing, and yet there was nothing, just one lone lamp where Emily sat, even the brightness of her red hair dull in the shadowed light. 

She was reading a book, curled up in the corner of the couch by herself, her hair hanging over the side where the light might have touched her face, and Ana noticed that her eyes ran over and over the same page, as if simply playacting at reading while the whole of her mind was somewhere else. 

The door opened, and a cool deep wind flushed in as Winston came in the door, removing his fogged glasses and wiping them on his sweater. 

“Emily.” He gave her a weak smile. 

“Oh,” she set down her book, page still unread, “I wondered when it was you’d be coming home.” 

She rose to her feet, slowly and quietly, and started toward Winston, who just as quietly took off his shoes and put on his slippers. There was none of the laughter or raucousness that Ana had felt in this room, before, and suddenly, not crowded with a group full of Oxtons, it felt so large. So empty. So silent. 

“I’m sorry, I--” 

“Oh no,” she tightened her sweater around her, “no, don’t be.” 

“I went to--” He hung up his coat, and stared at the wall a moment, “I went to take a wreath, to where she was--well--where she is.” He tried to smile. “One of the silver tinsel ones, with all the rainbow colors and bells? She always--” He took a breath.

“Oh aye, she loved those. Would like that, that you did that, I think.” 

“There are some lovely trees, there, I think in summer it’ll be---she loved green--” Emily touched his arm gently, “--it’s a nice place-- brushed off the stone a little bit. For the wreath.” 

Emily nodded. “Was good of you. I have, well, there’s a ready meal in the oven.” 

They stood there, simply looking at each other, until Winston nodded sadly and slowly worked his way over to the kitchen, opening the oven and taking out the meals inside on their little cookie sheet. Emily had bought several, for him, and he took a large bowl out of the cupboard and dumped them joylessly inside, mixing the mash and what passed for a steak braise all together. He poured himself a large glass of wine, and passed the bottle to Emily, and they sat across from each other at the small table, saying nothing as they quietly ate their food, or picked at it, rather, only a few errant bites here and there. 

“It’s the job.” Ana said, barely convincing herself, the Christmas of the past in this same house still dancing in her head. “We lose people. Good people.” 

“Didn’t bring you ‘ere because I thought you’d care about Em and Win.” Her arms were crossed, and she leaned against the wall, looking at the two of them, her eyes glistening. Then she shook off her sadness, the jingle bells in her hair ringing as she did it, and smiled again. “Ana, did you just call me a good person?” 

Ana  chuckled. “Don’t get a big head.” 

There was a knock at the door, and a robotic voice rang out over the house, echoing in the emptiness of it. 

“Angela is at the door.” 

Winston looked puzzled, but rose up to meet it, trying to pick his feet up a little and put on a brave face, giving an unconvincing smile as he opened the door. Mercy’s cheeks were rosy as she bore the ham in her arms, covered with foil but smelling like a dream, salty and sweet and rich, garlands wrapped around her as she struggled to carry them, her eyes bright with the joy that she was determined to bring with her. 

“Happy Christmas, Winston!” She came in the door without even being asked, “I was wondering, if maybe Fareeha and I could join you? For the cheer?” 

Pharah came up behind her, lugging in the tree and hardly swearing at the pine branches in her face, that same snowflake sweater on in that same bright blue, a red bow jokingly tied in her hair from the decorations they had brought. She looked to Winston, and then took a tattered but convincingly repaired wreath off her arm and stuck it to the door with an adhesive hook, and nodded. 

Winston moved to the side as Emily rose to meet them, Mercy embracing them both and hurrying to the kitchen as Pharah rushed back out to the taxi, bringing in boxes and quickly trimming up the home as neatly as she could with the materials she had been provided, doing an impressive job with the few boxes of scattershot decor. 

And as she worked, the room began to change, even so slightly. Emily began to put ornaments on the tree, and WInston asked Athena to play some Christmas music, and in a few moments the room was not as it had been on that night, but it began to take on the glow of a surviving candle, one that might light others, one that might let this place know warmth again. 

“Fareeha worked--” Ana sighed and walked to where she was decorating the mantle seriously, adjusted each bow, “She worked very hard.” 

“Right, she did. Fareeha is like that, as I’ve said. She took care of me, with not a word. Wouldn’t let me protest it, neither. She’s here for Win, and Em, in their time of need, because Fareeha is nothing if not a rock, right?” 

“She is very practical.” Ana continued to say these things, but they felt further disconnected form her, as if she was a ghost herself, simply saying the things that she had said before, over and over again, in a loop, ever so softly. “No,” she chuckled, just as softly, “Zeina. Not me. Sam. But not me.” 

Tracer faced her, arms crossed, but the look on her face was no longer angry, or cruel, but simply searching. 

“You talk and talk over ‘ow an Amari shouldn’t ‘ave to say nothing, and Fareeha never does, but with her actions. But you still never could speak ‘er language, could you? That all being true, what do you think she’s saying? And what did you say to ‘er, running off all the time, never telling ‘er when you’d be ‘ome, or if, wondering if you’d died until one day, it was true? Or, you let it be true. Even to ‘er.  No Ana, you say Fareeha should speak your language, but she always ‘as. You spoke perfectly bloody clear, to ‘er. 

“L--” 

The thought was interrupted by another knock at the door, a door that did not wait to be answered, but simply opened, and a flood of people came in, all bearing various small things; a Christmas pudding here, a roast there, some garland, gallons of drink. The Oxtons came in, chattering and laughing, and kissed Winston and Emily on the cheeks, and told Mercy how she was glowing, and Mark clapped Pharah’s shoulder and told her what a wonderful job she’d done, and sorry that they had taken a bit of time, but the family was a bit like herding cats, wasn’t it. 

Dva and Brigitte walked through the door to calls of ‘hallo’ and ‘happy Christmas’ and an older woman spotted at Brigitte’s hand as she went toward the kitchen with a large bag of rum and brandy and sweetness. 

“That a ring, Miss Lindholm? Thought we might miss it?” 

Brigitte laughed like a little girl, a blush rising to her cheeks, and flashed its brightness. “I never think you miss anything. She asked me today.” 

Dva shrugged, but in that way that indicated she was quite pleased with herself. “Lena’d give me a hard time for doing it on Christmas.” 

“Oh she would! She was wicked!” an aunt laughed, “But I think it’s beautiful. We would ‘ave invited you personally, but expected you back in the Nordics, we did.”

“We would have,” Dva nodded, “but we thought…”

“Of course, of course, love, say no more, it was right kind of you to think of it, and we’re delighted to ‘ave you! Oi!” She called back to the room, “Guess who’s getting married!” 

There were cheers and jokes and a dozen questions thrown at the happy couple, as cookies and plates of food were passed around. Pharah was complimented on the quality of her ham, Mercy was told how beautifully she glowed, a few children hung off of Winston and asked him to tell the story of how he beat Doomfist again, though he always looked a little sheepish when he told it. Emily was rapidly pulled into an animated conversation over the best of the Christmas puddings, and the tree was lit, twinkling brightly if a bit patchwork. 

Ana would have been lying to say that the room took on the same festivity of the year prior, as there was still the sense of something missing, like an empty spot on a curio shelf, where all the dust and all the space let you know something belonged there, but it was warmer than it had been, and it took on that same glow, even if slightly smaller than the years prior. There was laughter, even if there were a few tears wiped away, a few reassurances that the first year is always the hardest, and didn’t Lena do us all such a favor by bowing out so close to Christmas that the sadnesses seemed to roll together? But still the laughter, the warm, the closeness pervaded, and the rum punch was poured, and they banded together, the lights seeming to grow brighter as they did so. 

Parvati jumped up on the back of the couch, and went to hit the side of her glass before thinking better of it and simply whistling loudly, the room turning to her, and, after a bit, deciding to quiet down to a few muttersw, and listen what she had to say. 

“Happy Christmas, everyone. Know that we all ‘ave a bit on our minds, this year. Not the first time we’ve ‘ad it. Won’t be the last.”

It sounded so much like Ana’s practicality, and so little, and she felt something inside of her pull, some realized notion that to know the facts of the situation and to wield them cruelly were two different swords, than there had been so many people around her that had always known this, and it hd been Ana alone who refused to see. 

“Life’s made up of meetings, and partings, and that’s the way of it, innit?. We’ll carry Lena with us, always.” Parvati raised her glass, “To Lena. I’d say may she rest in peace, but, think we all know that’s the last thing she’d want.” 

Everyone took a drink of whatever they had in their hand, the moment not dark at all, but not because everyone in the room was looking away from the shadow. No, they all clearly knew that shadow, and had sat with it, but they brought their own candle into it, burnishing the pain of the loss with the memory of what had been.

Despite herself, she was taken by the notion. Despite herself, she smiled. 

Tracer leaned in close to her. “You miss the love of it, Ana, and that’s your tragedy. You don’t see how love can make something beautiful. You see the reality of it, but you don’t see how love can make a hard reality somehow bearable.”  

In the back of her mind, London stood, bombed out once again and rebuilding, the patchwork of it stronger and better than what had came before. Hadn’t Egypt done the same? And wasn’t she a daughter of Egypt? How horrible, to know that Tracer was right. 

A man began to sing, not a Christmas carol at all, for Ana was beginning to allow the holiday to melt away and see the truth behind it, the core that came together in a million different worlds, some of which had never seen a Christmas at all, and as his voice raised above the din, they began to join him. 

“...pretty bubbles in the air, they fly so high, nearly reach the sky….” 

 Sniffles and tears mixed in, wiped away with a joyful punctuation. 

“...Then like my dreams, they fade and die!” 

Arms were drawn close around each other, the entire room a tight knot of human light against the darkness, as their voices rose even higher.

“FOOOOOOORTune’s always hiding! I’ve looked everywhere, I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air.” 

There was a collapse of laughter, admissions that Lena would have considered it the fittest hymn and carol and battle song of all, and another round of spiced drinks passed around in pitchers. 

“No matter what, nothing sinks them.” There was admiration in her voice, now. 

Tracer’s voice lowered. “Soft Londoners, full of pork fat.” 

She whipped around to look at Tracer. “Don’t MOCK me.” 

“You mock yourself, “ Tracer snorted, “acting as if it’s some manner of courage to push away every kind thing what comes your way the whole of your life.” 

“I--” Ana stopped herself. 

If she valued honesty, what was the lie in what Tracer was telling her? The whole of her life, she had believed that sentiment came to nothing, and it was only encouraging weakness to pad things for herself, for others. How could she ever have thought it would be so simple? She looked at Pharah, sitting alone at the edge of the room, smiling as she drank at her mug, but still somehow disconnected from it all, rubbing at the edge of her watch with a distant look in her eye. 

“Fareeha,” Ana watched her, “Tracer, tell me she will be happy. Tell me I haven’t ruined her the way I ruined myself.” 

“I live only in the moment, Ana. Future’s not me domain,” She gazed over at Pharah and considered a moment. “But I see something...Fareeha, if you look carefully, you can see a red light about her. You can see a shadow on her face. I see an anger, a rage, deep within her, and if these shadows do not change, I fear for what I see in her. I’m only the ghost of the present, and can’t tell you rightly, of course. But you must remember her getting arrested in Dublin, after I died.” Tracer shook her head. “You turned cold, but Fareeha? Puts lines around everything because she knows what’ll ‘appen if she doesn’t. Fire in her may burn down every good thing in her.” 

Ana could not draw her eyes away from Pharah, could not stop seeing the reflection of red light about her, kept telling herself over and over again that it was just from the tree so near, that there was nothing mysterious about it at all, and that every way she had taught Pharah to make an island of herself had not ruined everything. 

The party continued, Pharah eventually being drawn from her chair and brought into the games, Ana convincing herself that her eye was old, and failing her. The warmth of the party continued, drawn close and near with laughter and joy, kisses on the cheek and close hugs, questions about Dva and Brigitte’s plans, stories about Tracer, all coming together into a mulled wine all its own. 

“Right, then.” Tracer said softly. 

Ana looked back to her, a spirit with sharp words and sharper powers, but very much again a woman Ana had simply known, looking at her family with a sorrowful gaze, wishing she could touch them, sing with them, love them. Tracer was like Ana, in that way, she supposed. 

No. Because her family would delight to hold and kiss her again, to hear her voice ring over the room, to see her smile. Ana’s family would not. Pharah barely looked at her. Mercy hated her, after her actions this morning. Her grandchild would not know her. She felt that same pang of jealousy and hunger that she had in the tiny Brixton apartment, deeper now, and more keen. 

Worst of all was the realization that she had chosen this for herself, over and over again, in every word and action. That she had built the walls so high and so well that no one could hope to scale them, that she had laid the broken glass of her own personal miseries across the top and never for one moment realized that her daughter had the strength to not attempt to climb it any longer. That she would urge others never to try, and show them the scars on her palm from her own failures. 

“Can’t stay much longer.” 

Ana noticed the party beginning to get quieter, the lights in Tracer’s eyes beginning to fade, and a sudden panic began to grip her, the sense that she might lose everything she felt she had only begun to grasp, that she was on the verge of something great, slipping through her fingers. 

“You can’t already go. There’s so much more to teach me.”  

Tracer shook her head, somehow growing thinner, and smaller. “I was never meant to be long in this world, Ana. It was always meant to be brief.” 

“I have,” Ana began, and then cleared her throat, and looked to Tracer, “I, I was wrong, not to come to your Christmas party. To your birthday.” 

Tracer leaned against the wall, and the party faded from view, the golds and reds and greens fading into the greys and blue of the city, Tracer now leaning against the wall of an underground station, cap on her head, leather jacket pulled in close. 

“If I could do it over again, I would not have missed your last year.” She paused, “If I could do it over again, I would not have been myself.” 

“Why didn’t you, Ana?” 

There was no anger in it, not this time, just a hanging sadness as she shook her head and leaned against the wall, some annoucement Ana could not quite make out coming over the station. A chill ran through her, in that moment, only the two of them standing there, the hazy glow of fluorescent lights overhead dimming the world in a way Ana could not quite understand, but knew intrinsically. 

“We wasn’t friends, not really, but…I was dying.” 

Ana opened her mouth to protest that this was in the past, that it was not Tracer’s realm. That there was nothing to explain, because it was past now, and so what did it matter, she could not go back and have attended either. She opened her mouth to say that no one would have wanted her there anyway. She opened her mouth to say that she was jealous Tracer had so much of love. She opened her mouth to say, that she had been too proud to admit she was lonely. 

There was a rumble, down the tracks, the train speeding its way toward the station. She could feel the rush of air coming from the tunnel, the lights in darkness, coming. 

“Was dying, Fareeha was trying to bear up under it for everyone, and you couldn’t even--not for neither one of us--not for anyone.” 

The train began to screech into the station, and Ana had the horrifying realization, all in one moment, that it was here for Tracer, and surely enough, as she glanced up to the clock, that horrible long shadow of a hand was drawing toward midnight. 

“I should have gone,” she barked out as quickly as she could, but that terrible, terrible screeching echoed all through the station, shrieking high and loud as she tried to take Tracer’s hand, only to find that it was fading away, “I never hated you, I only, you were allowed to be light-hearted, and I wasn’t, and I was so--” 

Tracer shook her head, her eyes dull with exhaustion, “Can’t ‘ear you, love. ‘Ave to go now.” 

“I can do it different!” She reached out again, “I can learn to be different! I should have been, and I wasn’t, but, Tracer--” 

The doors to the train opened, and Tracer looked at them with a smile, even as her hand shook. “That’ll be me train. I trust you to the spirit what’s coming round next. You must see that spirit, love, no way round it.” 

“What was the point of Jack sending you if I can’t undo any of this!?” She stood in front of Tracer. “I have learned, now, and so you need to send me back, and I’ll do it better,” Tracer’s body passed through her, and she stepped into the car and grabbed onto a pole, glancing back, “LENA!!!”

The doors slammed shut, and Ana pulled and pulled, but she could not stop the horrible droning of the announcement declaring that they were pulling away from the station, and however she screamed and pounded, Tracer could not hear her, but simply looked up at the advertisements on the side of the car, lost in her own world. The train pulled away as quickly as it had come, speeding into the darkness, the only sound in Ana’s ears her own throbbing heartbeat. 

The photo of she and Pharah was cool in her hand.

[shibashiharuka-blog]

Branch’s Perspective - Ch 6

Branch's Perspective

Description: The Original Trolls Story from Branch's Perspective as he battles with his feelings for Poppy and struggles with his lifelong depression over losing everyone he loved and held dear. A few extra scenes have been thrown in to help better understand everyone's favorite grumpy grey toll. A Broppy FanFic.

Disclaimer: I do not own Trolls or the plot, it belongs to Dreamworks Productions

Constructive criticism is welcome flaming is not.

(AN: Hello again! I have another chapter for y'all!  I hope you enjoy!)

Chapter Six

Once Bridget entered her room at the bottom of the stairs, the troll pair dismounted from their positions on the back of her apron and quickly sought shelter under the closest piece of furniture they could find. Once they were sure that they were carefully hidden, they poked their heads out cautiously to observe the scullery maid as she moved to place their friends who were locked inside the cage on a nearby counter top. Before an action could be taken though, Branch and Poppy were slightly shaken when they heard the Chef shout down to Bridget from above.

"Scullery maid!" She shouted before Bridget was suddenly buried under a mountain of pots and pans. Branch couldn't help but flinch slightly as he witnessed her get buried, that had to hurt. Poppy took advantage of the situation though and quickly moved to hide themselves under another piece of furniture in the room, closing the distance between her and her friends, Branch followed her cautiously.

"Wash these pots and pans for Trollstice! The King is inviting everyone, except you." The female bergen suddenly burst into tears after she removed herself from the mountain of pots and pans and threw herself onto her bed. This reaction from her caused the troll princess to stop in her tracks, and look at the bergen with curiosity and worry. Branch wasn't really concerned with this bergens problems but he would be lying if he said her reactions at this moment did not perplex him. For the past twenty years in all of the research that he has ever done on the bergen race, everything he found proved that there was no way bergens could have feelings. The bergens could never find their own happiness and ended up becoming envious of the trolls. So much so that they shamelessly subjected the entire troll race to a horrendous tradition where they ended up as sacrifices so the bergens could feel happiness for one measly day. In his opinion there was no way anyone who could feel anything at all, would ever have the capability to put someone else through something like that. But even though he knew that, believed that he actually found himself looking at the scullery maid behind Poppy with worry as well, and did he actually feel… sorry for her? But why? These thoughts were foolish and Branch shook his head in an effort to shake the thoughts from his mind, he may not understand why she was crying but he knew one thing was for sure, there was no way this bergen was feeling anything.

"Aww, she's in love with the King!" Poppy suddenly exclaimed as they watched the scullery maid cry herself to sleep unnaturally quick. Branch could not contain the look of disbelief that crossed his features as he looked at Poppy after she spoke. Seriously? That was the exact opposite of what he had been thinking, how could she possibly have come up with that ridiculous idea? Did she forget what they were coming here to do? How could a species who ate other species for their own guilty pleasures feel love?

"What are you talking about?! bergens don't have feelings!" Branch scoffed at her. Poppy turned around to glare at him.

"Well maybe you don't know everything about the bergens!" She challenged, but before he could say anything in response she silenced him with.

"Now let's go!" And started closing the distance between them and her friends again. Branch once again couldn't understand Poppy, why in the world was she trying to sympathize with someone they considered their enemy? He just couldn't grasp it, either way he decided that there was no use in dwelling over it right now, all they needed to do was free her friends and escape without being noticed and this journey would finally be over. So, without another word Branch cautiously tailed Poppy while they made their way over to the cage. Once they arrived, Branch yanked the cloth that covered the cage, confusing the group of trolls hidden within. Some spotted him there and were slightly confused as to why he was there, and some were worried another bergen may have come for them, soon though they all realized the reason he was there.

"Guys!" Poppy exclaimed making all of her friends turn to her in relief.

"Poppy!" They all cheered before…

"Celebrate good times come on!" Are they serious right now?! Branch looked frantically between Poppy, her friends and the scullery maid sleeping in her bed, restraining the urge to scream at all of them right now! He had hoped Poppy would silence them from their unnecessary chorus, but of course she didn't, and to his displeasure she actually joined in!

"It's a celebration!" How could they not grasp the situation here?! They needed to be quiet if they wanted to escape!

"Shhh!" Branch interrupted, finally able to get a word in, they all stared blankly at the grey troll for a moment before…

"There's a party going on right here…" Branch wanted to scream…

"NO!" He whispered as harshly as he could, before reaching into Poppy's hair to grab her scrap-booking scissors.

"There is not a party going on right here." Branch scolded them as he began to take actions into his own hands. He jammed the scrap-booking scissors into the pad lock, swiftly twisting them to unlock it and carefully remove if from the cage door. He failed to notice everyone's impressed looks as he did so.

"The sooner we get you guys out of here…" Branch continued, but was interrupted once again by the princess standing behind him.

"The sooner we can save Creek!" What? Had she not listened to anything he had explained to hear earlier?! There was absolutely no saving him now! How could she not understand that?!

"WHAT?!" Branch accidentally shouted, unable to control his shock from her statement. This outburst caused the scullery maid to stir, frightening everyone.

"Hello?" The maid shot up into a sitting position on her bed and even opened her eyes, the trolls all gasped and froze as they prepared themselves for a frantic escape.

"Is it me… you're looking for…" Bridget collapsed back onto her bed and drifted off again. The trolls heaved a sigh of relief before Branch resumed opening the cage door for the Snack Pack and quietly scolded the pink troll for her obnoxious declaration earlier.

"I know you're looking for the cupcakes and rainbows here but lets face it, Creek's been eaten!" Why couldn't she just let this go? He knew she cared about every troll in troll village but was such a slim chance really worth putting all of her other friends at risk? Whether he liked it or not he knew she had a crush on the purple troll but could there actually be something more between them? More then he cared to notice or realize?

"They put him in a taco!" Biggie commented with disgust and disbelief, as one by one her friends filed out of the cage Branch freed them from.

"It was horrible!" Cooper added with emphasis.

"Sorry Poppy… Creek's gone." Guy Diamond stated in an attempt to console the troll princess while resting a hand on hers. It was a strange thing to hear and witness, Branch was not used to all of Poppy's friends agreeing with him for once. They always seemed to back up her plans and ideas regardless of how ridiculous they seemed, though this situation to him was blatantly obvious, he half expected them to go along with her crazy ideas.

"Poppy… how could you possible think Creek is still alive?" Branch asked in an attempt to reason with her, as well as try to understand her. He just could not figure out how her brain worked. In his eyes, as well as the Snack Pack's, there was no other possible solution in this situation, they clearly saw Creek enter King Gristle's mouth, in the five short years he had lived through the annual Trollstice feasts, no troll had ever returned. They should really stop putting themselves at risk here and get themselves back to the troll village. The longer they stay here, the higher the risk is of them being caught, not to mention the higher the chances might be that Chef will locate the other trolls of the village. Even if Chef were to be banished again, she spent twenty years searching for them the last time, she surely would not give up this time either. They needed to leave this castle and relocate, just as King Peppy had done twenty years ago.

"I don't think he's alive, I hope he's alive and that's enough." Poppy argued as she turned around to glare at Branch. The grey troll found himself starting to get angry with her. Seriously? She was willing to put everyone's lives at stake based on hope?! How much more ridiculous can you get?!

"How do you always look on the bright side?! There is no bright side here! None!" Branch snapped at her before coming to a slight realization. It seemed he didn't understand Poppy, just as much as she didn't understand him, their views and perspectives on everything were complete polar opposites and unless someone was willing to open their eyes, they would never come to understand each other.

"There's always a bright side." She argued back, unfortunately before anything more could be said a bright light blinded their vision.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?" Branch, as well as the rest of the group could feel their hearts drop into their stomachs as they realized they had been caught.

"AHHH!" Everyone screamed before they scrambled in all different directions in a desperate attempt to escape. Guy Diamond was the only one to charge toward the Bergen, he sprayed the bergen with glitter blinding her momentarily in an effort to buy everyone time. Branch had to admit, just as he had been impressed with Poppy's quick thinking when they infiltrated the castle, Guy Diamond had impressed him now as well. He never expected him to put himself in harm's way in an effort to buy everyone else more time. He had a feeling most of Poppy's friends were about to show sides of themselves he would never expected to see from them before.

"No! Get back in your cage!" Bridget cried as she wiped the glitter from her face and scrambled to capture the trolls who had now spread across every corner of her room.

"Chef's gonna be so mad!" She cried again as if her pleas would make the trolls get back into their cage. Biggie then yelped as he attempted to escape from underneath the bergen and darted across the room with Fuzzbert and Smidge.

"NO!" The scullery maid cried as she chased after them, but was quickly stopped short when the grey troll blocked her path armed with a fork in an effort to protect Poppy's friends and buy them more time to escape. This was the side of himself no one else ever saw, the effort he would put in to ensure everyone's safety, the sacrifices he was willing to make just to make sure Poppy would always continue smiling. He knew he was no match for the bergen, especially when she armed herself with a frying pan that would undoubtedly knock him unconscious with one swing, but as long as that meant he could buy Poppy's friends enough time to escape, then that would be more than enough for him. Fortunately for him, before that could happen Poppy's loud voice rang throughout the room.

"Bridget STOP!" Surprisingly the female bergen actually stopped to turn around and face the troll princess who was now on the opposite side of the room. Branch had no idea what this pink troll was up to but remained cautious. While the bergen was distracted Branch immediately began to make his way over to where Poppy was.

"You're in love with King Gristle!" Poppy accused making the bergen gasp at her declaration. Attempting to feign innocence she tried to hide her face behind the frying pan she had previously armed herself with.

"Uhmm… I don't know what you're talking about." Bridget commented as she avoided Poppy's gaze. Branch couldn't help but wonder what Poppy was trying to get at here. He still did not believe the bergens had feelings, but even if she did what was she trying to accomplish? As if to prove her point not only to Bridget but to Branch as well, Poppy turned around to grab the pink curtains that hung behind the scullery maids bed and spread them open to reveal the collage of magazine cutouts hung on the wall. Embarrassed that her secret had been revealed, she dropped her frying pan and jumped on her bed to frantically close the curtains again.

"Uh excuse me!" Once the collage was hidden again, she turned to face Poppy and tried to act like nothing had just happened. These reactions perplexed Branch again, her reactions certainly seemed as if she really were in love with the King… and if that were true, it was a one sided love that could never come to be… the King would never notice a scullery maid…

"That's not mine!" She tried to claim, but everyone knew that was a lie, the bergen couldn't even meet the troll princess' eyes. Poppy pulled the curtain back again to reveal a photo that had both hers and King Gristle photos taped onto it. Branch smirked a bit as he continued to make his way closer to her, he still may not completely understand where Poppy was going with this, but he did know that Poppy had Bridget right where she wanted her. As the conversation between the two continued, the scullery maid seemed to pose less and less of a threat, but the grey troll was never one to let his guard down and wanted to make sure that he could protect Poppy in case any sudden movements were made by the bergen, unfortunately getting to Poppy's location was proving to take longer then he had hoped.

"What does it matter… its not like he knows I'm alive." The dejected bergen commented, no longer attempting to hide her secret. Branch was a bit surprised, but not because Bridget had given in to the troll princess. He was surprised by his own feelings once again, he actually felt like he could sympathize with this bergen? But… why?

"Bridget… I can help you!" Poppy exclaimed. Help her? Help her with what? And how? What in the world is she thinking right now? Weren't they supposed to be trying to escape? Why would she waste her time helping the very people they were trying to run away from?

"What if there was a way, we could both get what we want?" This comment caused the bergen to lurch forward toward Poppy. The sudden movement caused Branch's heart to lurch in his chest, assuming the bergen was coming after her. He hadn't gotten close enough to her yet since he had gotten distracted several times along the way while the two were conversing. He needed to hurry; he couldn't let this bergen take Poppy!

"You love Gristle too?" Wait… what?

"You'd better back off… girlfriend." Bridget then hissed shyly at the troll princess and Branch found himself suppressing a laugh. Even he knew there was no way that could be possible. Okay, so maybe this Bergen wasn't very dangerous after all, if she had wanted to eat them she had plenty of chances to do so by now and since Poppy had grabbed her attention, she hadn't made any moves to try and capture them again. He finally approached the ledge Poppy was on and pulled himself up onto it before walking up behind her, while girls conversed with one another Branch tried to piece a puzzle together in his mind. Bridget did not fit the description Branch had always used to describe the bergens she never once appeared very hostile to him either, not to mention he still could not explain why he felt sympathetic toward her.

"No… Bridget no…" Poppy denied before reaching into her hair to pull out a photo of Creek, Branch's heart sank a little bit and he began to realize what Poppy's goal was, but this time he could not feel the anger he felt toward her when she suggested saving Creek again just a few moments ago.

"That troll, King Gristle put in his mouth? That's Creek… and I'd do anything to save him…" As Poppy began to explain things to Bridget, Branch was battling some inner turmoil once again. He could not believe she was still hung up on Creek. There really must be something going on between the two for her to feel so strongly about him still possibly being alive. No one would stake this much just based on hope…

So it really was more than just a simple crush huh…He would be lying if he said he never noticed the attraction Creek showed toward Poppy as well. Branch's heart felt heavy again… he knew he shouldn't feel this way… No matter how much Branch may have disliked Creek, he was certainly better for Poppy then he was. There was no way someone as bright and as cheerful as her would ever want to be with someone as gloomy and negative as him, she was someone he could never have… he knew that. He glanced at the pink troll longingly as she continued to convince Bridget to go along with her plans. He really should just bury these feelings he harbored for the princess, he had been able to do a good job at hiding them for all these years, but their adventure over the past two days has really started to stir them up again, and not only that but those feelings had gotten stronger. He couldn't allow this to go on much longer, it would be better for everyone if he could just forget about those feelings… He would help Poppy and her friends make it back to the Troll Village safely as he had promised, before he'd make sure they would go their separate ways again, back to the way things used to be.

"What do you say Bridget… you get us Creek… and we'll get you a date with the King." Well he might as well go along with this plan as well, there was no way he'd ever convince Poppy otherwise at this point, not that he even could prior to this, but there was no way he was going to help them make her over he'd just be tagging along for the ride to ensure Poppy remained safe. Bridget gently placed her hand on the wall collage of photos above her bed.

"Lets do it?" She agreed, Branch rolled his eyes at the whole idea, still not believing anything good would come out of this.

"A five, six, seven, eight!" Poppy started singing while the rest of the Snack Pack gathered together to start Bridget's make over. Branch just leaned himself up against the wall, not interested.

"When you look in the mirror, let it disappear all your insecurities!"

"WAIT!" Bridget yelled, halting any further progress on her make over. Then pointed right at the uninterested grey troll.

"Why isn't this one singing?" She asked curiously, Branch was a bit surprised she had even noticed his presence, and turned around to face everyone who was now attempting to encourage him to sing.

"Come on Branch! Sing with us!" Cooper started.

"Yeah Branch sing with us!" Biggie followed before the rest of the Snack Pack joined in as well.

"Sing with us!"

"Oh no that's okay." No matter how much they begged or pleaded with him, there was no way that was ever going to happen.

"You don't think this will work?" Bridget asked him, her eyes filled with uncertainty and worry. Well no honestly… he didn't but he knew now was not the time to be blunt about how he was feeling.

"Oh no, no, no, its not that." He tried to reassure her.

"I just don't sing." Please… please don't pry any further then that, he did not want to bring this up right now, nor did her want to be forced into something that was completely uncomfortable for him, especially not for some… bergen.

"Branch!" Poppy snapped at him.

"No he's right." Bridget stopped her, before she began to cry.

"This idea is stupid. King Gristle will never love me!" The bergen cried before throwing herself onto her bed and crying hysterically. Branch felt bad for her, finally understanding why he was able to sympathize with her. Bridget, just like him, was in love with someone she believed she could never have. But regardless of that similarity the two shared, there was no way he could sing… he just couldn't do it. The reasoning behind his refusal to sing was stronger than the sympathy he felt for Bridget. No amount of tears, guilt or persuasion would ever convince him to sing again. Not when there was a possibility that someone could once again be hurt because of him.

"Psshh." Branch huffed as he turned away from Bridget and the Snack Pack attempting to console her, he was of no use here, he knew that so he might as well just leave. He could ensure everyone got back safely from the shadows, there was no need for them to know he was here any longer; obviously his presence now was just a burden.

"Branch! What are you doing? You have to sing!" Poppy demanded as she followed him while he climbed up the curtains behind Bridget's bed.

"I told you, I don't sing." He retorted.

'Don't do this Poppy…' He began to plead with her in his mind.

"Well you have to!" She pushed.

"I'm sorry I can't."

'Just leave me alone Poppy…' He had made it to the windowsill now and bolted toward the window to unlock it, unfortunately the troll Princess was not far behind him.

"No you can, you just won't."

"Fine I just won't."

'Stop it Poppy please… Don't push it any further…' His mind pleaded with her as he got the window unlocked, but for some reason he just could not find it within himself to push the window open as Poppy continued to argue with him.

"You have to!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"NO!" Why? Why couldn't he push the window open? It was right here and so easy to do, if he did he could leave and easily escape this conversation now before it came out… but… he seriously doubted that Poppy would let this one go even if he did escape. One way or another she would track him down to pry this out of him again.

"Why NOT! Why won't you sing?!"

"Because singing killed my grandma! Okay!" And there it was…silence fell over the entire room as Branch finally said it out loud… his secret now out in the open for everyone to know. He could feel the looks of shock and pity surrounding him, all directed at him as he made this confession, and it was making him very uncomfortable.

"Now leave me alone…" He pleaded, giving up on escaping from Poppy now, he did walk away from her though, secretly hoping she would listen to him for once and actually leave him alone. But deep down he knew that she wouldn't allow that to happen… she never did… she never gave up on him. He sat down and averted his eyes away from everyone as Poppy approached him again, just as he expected. Why? Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Everyone else did… ever since they were kids she'd always go looking for him, always include him and always try to get him involved in every party she held or adventure she ever went on. Why wouldn't she treat him the way the rest of the Troll Village did and just act like he didn't exist? Why was she always… so kind when all he ever did was insult her and push her away… why… did she care about him so much?

"How did… singing kill your grandma?" Poppy asked, concerned. Branch still refused to look at her but wondered… was she… trying to understand him?

"What song was she singing?" Okay, that question was a bit ridiculous, but he could understand her confusion. Finally, he lifted his head to look at her.

"I was the one singing." He admitted and watched as the shock registered on her features. He remained silent for another moment before he allowed the memories to flood back into his mind, and began explaining that tragic day to the pink troll who sat in front of him, the day he had been too careless… too carefree. How his grandmother had selflessly sacrificed her life, so he could live, and how he no longer had anyone left. He didn't know it was possible, but he explained everything to her in full detail, from start to finish. Certain parts got to be too much and he thought tears might start to escape so he turned away from her again, facing the window. Poppy may have been able to spark happiness within him again while they were on this adventure, but one thing was for sure, the pain he held in his heart after loosing his grandmother that day would never fully go away, and because of that pain he believed he would never be able to truly be happy ever again.

"I haven't sung a note since." He finished. Well, there it was… Poppy, and all her friends knew everything now. Did she understand him? Did she understand the reason he turned grey? The reason he lived in fear and dedicated his life to protecting the Troll Village from the bergens all these years? Did he explain everything clearly enough?

"I'm so sorry Branch… I had no idea…" Poppy apologized, her apology actually made his heart sting, he wasn't entirely sure why. But it was welcomed, this had not been his intention, and honestly he did not want all of her friends along with some strange bergen to find out everything about him. Had it been just her, maybe he wouldn't have felt so uncomfortable… but, he had to admit it also began to feel like a weight had finally been lifted off of his shoulders, and strangely… his heart began to fill with relief. Before now, Branch could never open up to anyone about his painful past no matter how hard anyone pried. Once again though, here was Poppy pulling something out of him he never thought he could ever share… this pink troll really had a hold on him, it was clear to see no matter how hard he may have tried to deny it.

"I just assumed you have a terrible voice." Poppy tried to explain herself to him, well he couldn't blame her for that, he supposed logically that's what anyone would assume.

"No, no it was like an angels…" Branch responded to her before he turned back to face her once again, looking to her for reassurance wondering how she would respond to him or think of him now.

"At least… that's what grandma used to say." Their eyes met and Branch was slightly taken back by what he saw, her eyes were filled with warmth and… love? That enticing look in her eyes was also accompanied with the most beautiful smile her had ever seen from her; he could feel his heart beginning to race. Poppy then approached him and wrapped her arms around him pulling him into a warm embrace. His heart felt like it wanted to burst out of his chest, but he didn't try to pull away.

"Woah, woah what are you doing?" Branch tried to complain, but Poppy only held him to her ever tighter.

"It's not hug time."

"I just thought you could use one." She replied simply before snuggling against him again. He couldn't find it within himself to hug her back, even though his heart screamed for him to do so, but he did allow her to hug him, and felt himself relax a little bit in her arms savoring the warmth her hug had to offer. He even found himself starting to smile a real smile, but that was stopped quickly once the rest of her friends trotted over and began to wrap the pair into their arms now creating a group hug. It irritated him a bit, but not for the usual reason, this time he was irritated because they had interrupted the tender moment he was able to have with the troll princess. He understood though, that they were only trying to show him their support as well and allowed them to hug him for a minute, he even allowed the scullery maid to join in, before he broke away from the group and snapped at them again with his usual brashness.

"Okay, okay I'll help!" he proclaimed, although he wasn't really sure what he could do. He gave the group a hard glare, attempting to put his wall back up. Unfortunately he didn't think his glare would serve the same purpose toward all them anymore as it once did.

"But I am still not singing!" He warned them and thankfully no one questioned it any further this time. Poppy redirected the groups' attention to the task at hand, and everyone followed her instructions. Branch was secretly grateful the attention was no longer focused on him.

"Okay people! Hair we go!"

(AN: Alright! I really loved writing this part! I hope you all enjoy it as well!)