#formerlyrunephoenix6769 overwatch fanfiction

[formerlyrunephoenix6769]

Shattered: Chapter 9

(AMELIE)

 High up in the French Alps, Amelie carefully eased the light sports car round the airpin bend, navigating the twisting and turning roads that often gave way to sudden steep drops offering her breath taking views of the sweeping countryside of Annecy.  As she eased the car down a sudden incline that looped back on itself, descending to the lush valley below, she tapped a perfectly manicured finger nail against the screen of her scroll,

“Angela, can you hear me?”

A voice like one of earlier Omnic models replied, accompanied by the tell-tale crackle of static feedback. As she continued to descend, the doctor’s voice began to come through clearer,

“… ould have come wit.. busy here.. accident..”

Crinkling her brow, the ballerina tapped the screen again in frustration,

“I cant hear you. The reception has always been crap up here. One second.”

Placing both hands on the wheel, she concentrated as a smaller car began to approach from the opposite direction. Normally this mountain pass would be backed up, a sluggish snail snaking down the mountainside but thankfully the busy season was beginning to wind down and the ‘pearl of the French Alps’ would return to its quiet and peaceful existence.

It had only been a few months since Overwatch’s great technological triumph had resulted in disaster, the highly specialised aircraft had phased out of existence and fallout around the accident was astronomical.  Every newspaper and TV pundit speculated to the exact nature of the ‘Slipstream Incident’.

Was it an accident, or was it sabotage?

One publication had gone so far as to have a small tally, counting the number of days the pilot had been MIA. Others had reported every minute detail of the young woman’s stellar career in the RAF, hailing her an Omnic Crisis Hero cut down in her prime. A King’s Row street rat done good.

Nobody had known where the leak to the press had sprung from, but the speed and the intimate details of it fueled paranoia in the ranks of Overwatch.

In a bid to plug it, all none personal had been asked to leave the bases and all Senior Members had been recalled for the unforeseeable future in an attempt to enact damage control and not allow other agendas to fall by the way side.

All the while, no matter what they tried, Overwatch’s best and brightest couldn’t find the answers to the most burning question.

What had happened to Lena Oxton?

At the news that the higher ups were winding down the search and allocating resources elsewhere, Gerard had been beside himself. He had parted that Lena had told him that something hadn’t felt right but he had pushed her, brushing it off with bravado and schnapps. He talked of personnel claiming to have seen his prot��gé’s ghost on the base and the Gorilla had taken to cloistering himself in the hanger where the accident had occurred, not surfacing for days at a time.

In a bid to get to the bottom of it, Gerard had taken on yet another away mission that only served to drive the wedge further between him and his wife.

Amelie had admonished that she understood, but she felt that he was pushing himself, and Gerard had snapped uncharacteristically, demanding,

“What could you possibly know? You’re a dancer for christ’s sake! - ” He had taken to pacing, his eyes taking on a wild look, “- So you took a few classes. You have no fucking clue what this entails, that someone could have done this deliberately, snuck in and took one of our own, from right under our noses! -”  In a rising rage, he had thrown his clothes in his mission bag,  “- If it was me, I’d want my mates to get to the bottom of it and bring those fuckers responsible, to heel!-” He had poured himself a lavish dram of expensive whiskey as he  continued on his angry tirade, “- If it happened to me, is that what you’d want, me to be left behind, forgotten? Why don’t you stick to what you know, Amelie, and let me get on with my job?”

Gerard’s dismissal had felt like a slap in the face. That he deemed her attempt at improving herself and taking an interest as nothing more than a flight of fancy that he indulged. Placating her rather than listening to her grievances or realizing that she was becoming increasingly unhappy.

That she did in fact know what it felt like to be constantly reminded that in a blink of an eye a loved one could be gone forever. That she lived it every time he walked out of that door without a backward glance, instantly forgotten.

He had spent the next few nights in his study on the chesterfield, whilst she had made arrangements to begin renovating her families ancestral home. With an appointment to keep with a surveyor, she had risen with the sun, leaving him a note before setting off on the long drive towards Chateau  Guillard in the South of France.

 Hitting the valley floor, her scroll crackled back to life,

“Amelie? Are you still there?”

Coming to a T junction in the valley floor, Amelie leaned forward checking both left and right,

“Oui, Angela, I’m still here.”

Her best friend continued,

“I was saying that I would have joined you, leibling, but everything is up in the air right now.” There came a pause of indecision, “-How long are you planning on staying for?”

Satisfied there was no on coming traffic, Amelie took the left turn that would gently snake along the lake side, away from the nearby village, and up through some trees towards the driveway that led the boathouse and only point of access to the grandiose Chateau,

“As long as it takes to make good headway on the renovations,” She gunned the engine, her beloved sports car purring as it began to eat up the tarmac with ease, “ It is far easier for me to co-ordinate from here than back in Paris.” In the distance she could make out the tip of the north bell tower, the rest of the property obscured by the hillside and heavy forest, adding sourly, “-I am ‘sticking to what I know’ and being a dutiful housewife.”

“Amelie, “ On the end of the line there came another pregnant pause, as if Angela was carefully choosing her words, “- I’m … I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that.”

Amelie sighed, maybe she was over reacting and choosing to quite literally run for the hills was petty, but she had no intentions of rattling round their Parisian home with Gerard’s words echoing off the walls, mocking her and calling out her already felt inadequacies, for however long his chosen mission took. And neither could she ignore the anger that during the long drive had fashioned itself into a dull rage sitting in the pit of her stomach. No, she would be much better off throwing herself into a project and far away from the continuous press cycle that didn’t seem to be letting up anytime soon.

“I don’t care what he meant, it’s the fact he said it in the first place.” Either side of the road the trees were struggling with their Spring plumage allowing shafts of morning sunlight to break through the branches dappling the road ahead, as Amelie pressed on, the speed of the car matching her mounting frustration, “-I’m sick and tired of being side lined, Angela. All I have ever done is support him and now I just feel like …. Like I’m being taken for granted.”

The ballerina slammed on the brakes so as not to over shoot her turn off. Peering through the rearview mirror, Amelie slowly reversed back before carefully easing the low sports car in between two beautifully sculptured gateposts with her family crest intricately engraved into their surface.

“I know he’s stressed and I might sound like a spoiled bitch but…. I need some time alone… I need time to figure out what I’m going to do with myself.”

As the car slid down along the smooth driveway, a break in the trees offered an unadulterated view of the sweeping turrets and stone verandas that made up her idyllic childhood home in the centre of the lake, Amelie pressed a button to roll down the window and let in the fresh spring mountain air. Far off in Switzerland, Angela’s voice full of concern filled the small sports car.

“What are you saying? …. Are you thinking about getting a divorce?”

“What? NO! God no… I’m furious, but I’m not ‘that’ furious…-” She continued to leisurely cruise along the driveway taking  in the way the sunlight twinkled off the waters of the gargantuan lake that skirted her lands and the village that hugged its shoreline on the other side.  “-  I meant, what I’m going to do with my career, continue with ballet, or quit and find something else?”

The doctor asked, perplexed

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.. No.. Maybe? ..-” Gripping the steering wheel tight, Amelie took in a huge lung full of air,            “-I need to clear my head.”

“How about this?” Another pause, “How about… I finish up here. Twist Jack’s arm into making an exception, and I come down an join you? End of this week, beginning of next week or when ever I can?”

Approaching the boat house, the French woman spied an unfamiliar green car parked to one side of the closed gate that would lead into the boatyard, and a white workman’s van on the other.

“Oui, that sounds perfect!” Slowing the car to a crawl, she peered out of the driver’s side window, as a man dressed in a suit, a hard hat and high vise jacket alighted from the car.  Distractedly, she added, “Angela, I think the surveyors here early. I’ve got to go.”

“Alright leibling, I’ll call you as soon as I have news.  Love you.”

Her scroll let out a high pitched whine,

“Love you too, cherie.”

Canceling the call, Amelie pulled the sports car up along side the man who waited patiently on the side of the drive way, clipboard in hand.

He broke into an easy smile,

“Ah, Mrs Lacroix, I presume?”

Leaning slightly out of the window, Amelie looked up returning his smile,

“Oui, oui, am I late?”

“No,-” He laughed, “I am early.”

Using her scroll, she typed in a code and waited for the gate to begin to painstakingly slowly slide back.

“Oh thankgod, traffic was a nightmare coming out of Paris.”

He gestured with the clipboard,

“Quite a difficult place to reach and surrounded by a lake no less. I can see why you asked for a surveyor.”

The gate slid back fully and Amelie carefully slid the sports car into the wide boatyard and into one of the waiting garages. In the rearview mirror, she watched as from the white workman’s van, two men got out wearing navy blue boiler suits and carrying work bags.

Unclipping her scroll from its snug on the dash board, she stashed it in her hand bag before pressing her thumbprint to the  ignition starter and alighting from the car. In the early morning sun, the three men waited taking in their surroundings. Approaching her as she exited the garage, the surveyor asked,

“Would you have your I.d?” He pulled out a device from the depths of his pocket, “It’s so I can scan it and start the clock.”

The french woman blinked,

“Yes, of course.” Pulling out her purse she teased her national identity card from its snug, “There you go.”

Gently taking it from her outreached hand, the surveyor gave it the once over, inspecting the card and looking back at her, before swiping it along the device.

“It’s policy,-” He kindly offered, “Stops people like this lot,-” Tipping his head towards the workmen, “-Fudging the numbers.”

One of the workmen came to casually lean against the wall to the left of her,

“It’s a grand place you got here…” He slowly began to roll up his sleeves, “- Boats the only way to get there, right?”

Taking back her i.d card and slipping it back into her purse, Amelie nodded,

“Oui, I’ve been coming here since I was a child, so I handle the boat usually.” Turning her back, she leaned up to activate the garage doors and the locking mechanism.  “- If you are worried about access, the village on the other side has a much wider marina and much larger boats for hire. The cost is of no object. I’ll get a good deal.”

 The workman let out a whistle through his teeth,

“Lucky for some, eh?”

Amelie attempted to humbly wave him off,

“No, no. My relatives left me .. shall we say.. comfortable.”

He gave her a lopsided grin,

“Is it true you’re a Countess?”

Amelie crinkled her brow in confusion,  stammering,

“What.. what ever gave you that idea?”

His workmate gave a mirthful shake of his head,

“What he means to say is. . When we heard of the job.. we.” He gestured with his hands, “- researched the place. It’s got a rich history.”

Rudely butting in, the first workman continued,

“So are you?”

She opened her mouth, gawping like a fish for a few moments taking in both their eager expressions, before laughing,

“I ,” She gestured to herself, “- am not a Countess per se. But… there is an old defunct title attached to the property , that would, if such things were important in this modern era…, make me a Countess.”

The first workman turned to his colleague,

“You owe me 5 bucks!”

“God damnit!”

With a small shake of her head at their antics, she finished checking that the security was locked down on her beloved car.

 As she made her way across the courtyard, the three men followed close behind, nearly bumping into her when she stopped at the door that led into the boat house. Her fingers tapped danced lightly across the keypad, with a click the door opened and four entered the gloom. With a brittle bark of laughter, the surveyor patted his pockets,

“One sec, I forgot something. Be right back.”

The other began to rummage in his work bag. On the side wall, Amelie flipped open the electric box to activate the winch that would slowly lower the sleek looking speed boat into the murky water. She turned round, surprised to find the first workman so close. He shot her a grin as she sidled past him to the safe box where the speedboats ignition key was kept. The remaining workman flanked her on the other side, so close she could almost feel the breath on her skin, the tiny baby hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle as she hesitantly reached up a finger. Trying to keep the shake out of her voice, she shouted over the screeching of the winch,

“A little room gents.”

The second workman grinned at her wolfishly,

“Oh Amelie, where you’re going there is gonna be no room at all.”

He made a lunge at her. Instinctivly, she thrust up the heel of her palm connecting with his nose, as she has been taught to do in her self defense classes.  He staggered back, gargling and cursing as the other workman grabbed her in a choke hold from behind. She tried to scrabble into her hand bag in an attempt wrap her fingers round the pepper spray she kept there. As she struggled to breath she remembered Ana Amari’s words, if ever grabbed by a bigger opponent relax into it and throw them off. Amelie dropped her hand bag, pushing back into him, using her strong legs from years of ballet throwing them both off balance. He staggered back, the sudden loss of opposing force adding to his momentum, crying out as he collided with one of many winch handles that aligned the wall. The loss of grip on her windpipe gave her much needed inches to turn her head and sink her teeth into his muscular arm, causing him to scream in agony.  She kicked out with her feet at the nose busted workman, who dodged to one side, his feet knocking her handbag into the water.

“Get the fuck hold of her!” He yelled.

Trying to shake her off only caused Amelie to grind her teeth down, filling her mouth with flesh and the metallic taste of blood. He let go shoving her away from him. The surveyor came through the boathouse door for a split second distracting her. She didn’t see the south paw closed fist that collided with her jaw causing her to reel and her vision to blur.

“Go down, you fucking whore!”

A second swift punch hit hard in her gut knocking the wind out of her and caused her to collapse onto the wet stone floor.

She thought she heard the surveyor say,

“Dont break the merchandise!”

“Cunt broke my nose!”

“Yeah well the fucking bitch took a chunk out of my arm.”

Amelie spat the contents out of her mouth, trying to suck in huge lungfuls of air. If she could just get into the water maybe she could swim to the castle like she had plenty of times as a teenager or when the boat was out of gas. She made as if to crawl.

Someone caught her by the hair,

“No, you don’t.”

She felt a sharp prick in the back of her neck and she was left to flop on the slick flagstones. Someone turned off the winch, and the only sounds was the water lapping against the stone work.

“She’s a god damn wild cat. Thought you said she was a dancer?”

Her vision began to swim with black and purple dots and her tongue felt flaccid and swollen in her mouth. She attempted to move but her limbs refused to her obey her. The surveyor rolled her over onto her back, crouching down to inspect her.

“Ballerina, to be exact.”

Wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve, the workman with the broken nose peered over his shoulder,

“She’s a fucking ballerina??”

With soft, gentle fingers, the surveyor examined her jaw, turning her head this way and that, regarding her thoughtfully. As Amelie slipped into unconsciousness, she heard him say,

“She’s the wife of THE target, what else did you expect?”

https://formerlyrunephoenix6769.tumblr.com/post/182608876761/ithought-it-would-be-much-easier-to-make-a-post

Link to the whole “Shattered” universe and full story.

[formerlyrunephoenix6769]

Goal!

Summary.

Domestic Widowtracer. Lena gets a delightful surprise when Amelie watches the World Cup.

--x--

Lena sat crossed legged on the sofa, cosy in her pj bottom’s and England jersey as she slurped on her noodles, watching in fascination as Amelie yelled in French at the TV. Lena thinks Amelie is swearing now, having been on the receiving end of similar sounding words many times. Who knew that the refined French woman would become so unravelled over 22 grown ass men chasing a ball?

One of the players dived to the ground putting on a performance that an academy award winning actress would be proud of!

“Get up!” Amelie screamed, as she ran her hands through her hair, causing her usually pristine pony tail to become slightly askew. For a brief moment, Lena was convinced she could see a flush come to her partner’s cyan skin.

So this is what got the former sniper’s dander up?

One of the opposing team’s players tripped up a French striker in a way that even the former Overwatch operative was willing to agree was a wanker move. Widow jumped off the sofa screaming,

“Come on Ref!!!! Are you blind???”

Lena stopped mid chew, noodles dangling out of her mouth, chop sticks paused in mid air as Widow turned, a slightly terrifying look on her face, demanding,

“Lena, did you see that?”

Lena nodded wide eyed, not willing to admit that she had given up on following the match a good while ago having found something else far more entertaining.

“Gaaaa! Sacre bleu.”

Throwing her hands up in frustration and her pony tail bobbing, Amelie stalked from the sitting room disappearing into the depths of the apartment.

Lena returned to stirring her noodles with her chop sticks, brown eyes glued to the tv screen as the ball continued being passed back and forth. Minutes passed before suddenly a French striker, taking advantage of a Croatian mistake, broke through the opposing defence to sweetly chip the ball into the top left corner of the net. The roar of celebration in the stadium filled the sitting room.

Suspicious of Widow’s sudden quiet, Lena called out,

“Babe?”

Curiosity getting the better of her she placed her noodle bowl on the coffee table before padding barefoot through the apartment. “Babe?” she called out a little louder noticing their bedroom door slightly ajar, soft light spilling into the hallway. Peering through the door the former pilot stated,

“Babe, you just missed a goal.”

Widow was hunched over, seemingly in a world of her own, typing furiously on a light screen the back light casting her features in an eerie glow.

“Luv,” Lena asked with piqued curiosity, “Whatcha doing?”

She entered the room peering over Widow’s shoulder quickly reading the screen before in one swift move she slammed off the lightpad, exclaiming, “You can’t assassinate the referee!”

Widow’s eyes narrowed as she huffed,

“I can’t see why not! He is an idiote!”

Lena grabbed the lightpad dock holding it behind her back,

“Nope! You can’t just off some geezer willy nilly cause you don’t like their call.” Attempting to mock scald her, Lena added, “Besides I thought we said no more killing?”

Amelie pouted, “Not even a little bit?”

Lena grinned, it was a rare sight to see French woman pouting as it was usually the English girl’s tactic. God, is this what Amelie had to deal with every time the pilot gave her the puppy dog eyes when wanting to get her own way?

Widow suddenly towered over her attempting to reach round for the lightpad dock as she coaxed,

“Just let me find out where his lives.”

Lena backed up slowly, her shortness putting her at a slight disadvantage as Widow advanced, devilment in her yellow eyes grinning that wolfish grin that made Lena weak at the knees. She retreated untill her back came dead against the wall as Widow continued to stalk towards her. Still attempting to keep the last vestiges of her dignity, the British woman defiantly raised her head as Amelie leaned over her, pressing closer and cutting off any chances of escape.

Lena tried not to gulp and remained resolute as Widow’s other hand attempted to reach behind the smaller woman and craftily sneak the lighpad dock from her grasp. Plump, moist lips hovered dangerously close to Lena’s ear,

“Will you not let me play cherie?”

The hot air ghosting her earlobe, that raspy voice, caused Lena’s skin to goose bump and prickle with static. Lena squeezed her eyes shut mutely shaking her head.

“Not even a little bit?” Came the seductive growl.

Lena caught her own bottom lip between her teeth as she slightly turned her head only to find Widow’s blown yellow eyes watching her in predatory amusement. Lena’s own raked down over Amelie’s fine features finally alighting on those enticing full lips.

She could have some resolve, god damnit!

It was as if Widow could sense her weakening as she pressed her body further into the smaller woman.

“Come now my pet, don’t be foolish.”

Lena nuzzled Amelie with her nose, those alluring lips just millimetres from her own. If she didn’t do something now she was a goner. Quickly she caught Widow’s lips in a kiss, feeling how the french woman grinned into it. Just as she felt Amelie beginning to relax Lena pulled away, impishly bopping her on the nose with her fingertip,

“Nope pop!”

In the split second as Widow’s features gave way to baffled disbelief and confusion, Lena wriggled out of her position before speeding through the apartment waving the lightpad dock over her head, only to have Widowmaker hot on her tail tackling her into the sofa with an Oof, causing Lena to collapse into giggles as Amelie poked her in the ribs.

“No fair!” Lena squealed in delight.

“All is fair in love and war my cherie!” Amelie triumphantly declared, as straddling her, she wrestled the lightscreen dock from the Londoner’s grasp.

Two could play that game, Lena thought as she gripped the front of Amelie’s jersey pulling her in for a searing kiss, the lightscreen long forgotten as hands dipped below the hem of grey yoga pants only to grasp firm ass cheeks. Amelie’s eyebrows shot up and her eyes narrowed playfully, smirking down at the younger woman.

“Ah, this is how it is going to be is it?”

“All is fair in love and war!” The mussy haired pilot cheekily repeated.

Amelie laughed, it was light and breezy, a sound Lena would never stop trying to illicit.

“You win!”

“You surrender?”

“Oui!”

Lena couldnt help herself,

“Just like the French,eh? Always giving up!”

Amelie wrinkled her nose in a mock scowl,

“Right, you’re in for it!” She announced, as once again she began tickling her tormentor with earnest.

Lena let out a delighted shriek, laughing and wriggling beneath her captor before exchanging soft fluttery kisses that quickly devolved into to long and languid ones. Somewhere the Croatian crowd booed in dismay and Lena didn’t notice as one slender hand reached out activating the lightscreen and began quickly tapping away. She certainly didnt notice as later, slick with sweat, her own screams and curses coming quicker and louder, loud enough to drown out the forgotten match, a digtialised sugar skull appeared followed by an address somewhere in Moscow.

Collapsing bonlessly against the sofa, Lena snuggled closer to Amelie, sleepy eyes half lidded, she smiled that lazy smile as a French striker scored the winning goal and Amelie continued to card her fingers through her messy hair, caressing her scalp in the way that Lena liked.

“Lookit that luv, your lot won!”

Lena’s smile widened as Amelie drew her closer, lips ghosting her forehead.

“Oui, I most certainly did

(all ow fanfiction tagged under formerlyrunephoenix6769 ow fanfiction,  feel free to comment/ like/ share.. written for @call-signtracer )

[formerlyrunephoenix6769]

A Heroes Welcome.

Summary.

Who is there after the bullets have stopped and the cameras are no longer rolling? 

Companion piece to Shattered. Occurs before the events of Reflections.

---- x- -- 

She’s the poster child for Overwatch, just about everyone knows her name or her face. Over the years, public opinion had slowly turned against the organisation, giving way to protests that on occasion had turned violent and eventually the PETRAS act. It had been a few years, give or take a few months since the fateful day Watchpoint Switzerland had been reduced to a crater. Since then new information had come to light about corruption and the legacy Overwatch had left behind was far from unsullied. For days headlines dominated the big screens in Piccadily Circus, now it had given way to holopad news sites on the subway, people often discussing, over coffee or on their daily commute, some new thing Overwatch had done or one of the agents had said. Others sat in pubs watching the wide screen telly, vocally passing harsh judgements and nasty comments, much like they had done when Dr Angela Zieglar, ashen faced and with black circles under her eyes from exhaustion, as the most senior living member of the team, had been forced to give evidence in a tribunal about Overwatch’s dealings, televised from The Hague. Now the ex-Overwatch agents were scattered all over the world. Some had taken strides to move forward, to attempt to rid themselves of Overwatch’s far reaching shadows. Others, such as Winston and Lena, had not been so lucky. Being the name and face of the once respected peace keeping force, had its draw backs. .

One such day, Tracer and her girlfriend, Emily are nestled in a high backed booth at the King's Head trying to have a spot of lunch and a pint. A group of drunken punters, in football jerseys were waiting for the match to start, only for a fresh news bulletin to come through, the sombre BBC news anchor and a political 'expert' are debating whether oversight of Overwatch should have happened sooner. A collective groan rings out and the group began to rowdily debate how useless or oppressive they had been. The war is over, don't you know? They are a relic of an old time, who did they think they were pontificating about right and wrong when all along they had been corrupt to the very core?

The footage of Numbani plays over, of Tracer flickering in and out of existence.

A guy barks with laughter, not knowing that within ear shot sits Overwatch's chipper mascot.

"The silly cunt got what she deserved!"

The barman's eyes dart over to land on Emily.

"Leave it out, Trevor."

One bloke fakes a high pitched girly scream, whilst another attempts a roar beating his chest like King Kong.

"I bet you, she fucks the gorilla."

"That's enough!" The barman shouts, his eyes once more flickering in Emily's direction. "I wont have that sort of talk in here. It's a family establishment."

Tracer’s knife and fork hovers in mid-air at their cruel words, they don't know or maybe they just don't care that good agents risked their lives for the peace they take for granted and that some of those agents didn’t return. And as her cutlery hovers, her face falters a little. Emily reaches out, with a soft hand on Lena's trembling one.

“Dont listen to them.”

Tracer flashes a weak smile, nodding,

“I know, I shouldn’t." Carefully placing her knife and fork on her makeshift napkin, she slides out of the booth. "...... I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

In the bathroom, she splashes water on her face and tries to dab it dry with a paper towel, her gaze lands on newspaper and magazine cut outs, stuck to the wall, of her and her team mates with lewd comments attached, or defaced with devils horns, eyeballs scratched out and bulls-eyes over their foreheads.

“Whore!” ‘Death to Ow!’

It takes all her strength not to cry on her way back to the booth. She tells Emily about the graffiti, who tries to make her laugh by showing her one she found on the subway of a flying overlord Mercy, with ridiculously large knockers, shooting lasers out of her eyes, incinerating teeny tiny stick figures who were gripped in chaotic panic.

“I’m going to send it to her.”

Lena giggles,

“You would never!”

“I’mma gonna do it.” Emily playfully threatens.. Pressing the button, she proudly grins. “Sent!”

Slipping the phone in her pocket, they prepare to leave. Emily goes to pay the check and the group of punters are still griping about Overwatch except this time their conversation has taken on a blue hue, discussing loudly who they would and wouldn't fuck. As Emily accepts her change from the server, she sees Lena waiting by the side door, cheeks aflame, her head hunkered down into her shoulders like a turtle in an attempt to make her already tinyself as small as possible.

This woman, who was sweet and kind and goofy, this woman who didn’t think twice about throwing on her jacket and guns the first second she heard on the police band radio that people might be in trouble. Who wouldn’t think for a second not to blink through a burning building. Who wilfully stopped muggers on the street and believed that there was good inside people, even if it needed a little coaxing. This woman couldn’t sit down in the home city she had saved on numerous occasions, to a nice plate of fish and chips in peace?

Collecting her change, she walked past the punters only to hear one of them loudly exclaim,

“I’d bend that Tracer over, and I’d Slipstream something into her.” The rest of the group broke into gales of laughter as he gestured with a thrust of his hips

Incensed, Emily whirled round, only for Lena to grab and gently tug her sleeve,

“It’s alright, Em....”

“But, Lena.. It’s not.”

“Leave it off... No point making a fuss. Just a bunch of lads having a laugh. No harm done, eh?” Once again she flashed that altogether too bright and brittle smile..”It’s part of the job, innit? Being famous an all that!” She gave a toss of her head in an attempt to dislodge a lock of hair out of her face.” I’m used to it.”

At that, something inside Emily broke.

“Lets go home.”

As they stepped out onto the overcast streets of London, she slipped her arm through Lena’s in a bid to get closer and glean some of her warmth. Maybe it was the chronal accelerator or maybe it was just Lena, but she somehow always seemed toasty, and Emily was often left wondering how the ex-pilot could run about in leggings and a blue zip up hoodie. Lena walked with her hands shoved in her pockets, and her head bowed in her blue hood. As they meandered down the street, Emily’s phone pinged. Fishing it out of her pocket, she quickly swiped right, reading the message she giggled, bringing Lena out of her morose mood,

“What?”

“It’s Angela.”

Lena’s eyes lit up slightly,

“Lemme have a look.”

It was a photo of a disapproving Angela, a goofy Fareeha, bent double, laughing in the background with the caption.

‘I know at least 6 ways to kill a man, undetected. They won’t find your body for days.’

As if sent by vengeful gods, the heavens burst, huge globular raindrops battering the pavement, the sort that if one hit you it would drench you to your skin. With a squeal, the two girls dashed to a nearby doorway, taking refuge in the wide awning of what used to be a bank. A small girl clutching her mother’s hand, blinked and gasped. Her eyes going wide at the sight of Tracer.

“Mummy!” The little girl excitedly tugged on her mother’s hand. “Mummy, look!”

The mother distractedly engrossed in her phone, replied,

“What is it darling?”

“Mummy, look it’s Tracer!”

“Dont be silly dear”

“It is!” The little girl pulled a little harder.

The mother looking up from her phone, glanced at Emily and Lena before doing a double take.

“Cheers love,” Tracer saluted cheerfully, “The cavalry’s here.”

The little girl squealed in delight, vibrating, like she had her own mini chronal accelerator. Lena crouched down so they could both be eye height,

“What’s you name?”

“Poppy.”

“That’s a really pretty name. And what do you want to be when you grow up.”

“Just like you.” She grinned a gap toothed smile. “Mummy can we have a picture?”

“No, dont bother the lady.”

Looking up from her crouched position, Lena smiled,

“It’s no trouble at all.”

Pulling her daughter a little closer, the mother tersely replied,

“I’d rather not.”

“But Mummy!” Came the high pitched, upset whine.

Lena turned her attention back to the little girl. Straightening her lapels, she said in mock seriousness,

“Dont ever forget, the world could always use more heroes.”

She winked.

The little girl puffed out her little chest, nodding, attempting a little salute of her own.

“Come along Poppy.”

“But Mummy!” The little girl began to protest.

“Be a good girl, Poppy," Lena encouraged in her bright cockney accent, "And listen to your Mum, kay!”

The mother began down the street while the small girl reluctantly followed, waving goodbye enthusiastically to Lena, who returned the gesture. She remained crouched down, in the darkening early winter evening, on the grey busy streets of London, head bowed. Emily reached out a hand to rub her back, when Lena whipped round in a flurry,clinging to Emily for dear life, body racking with sobs. Wrapping her arms around her, she pulled Lena in close as she could, rubbing soothing patterns on her back.

“Oh Lena.” she sadly murmured.

She held her, in that doorway, in a city that wouldn’t be standing if not for Overwatch’s intervention.

“I’m sorry, Em.” Lena pulled back wiping furiously at her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, “It’s just....”

Emily held her close, one hand stroking Lena’s cheek,

“Shush, it’s ok. I know. I know.”

“It’s just...” Lena started, before trailing off. “I...”

Emily took in the crestfallen look, her red rimmed, big brown eyes. Lena sucked in a sniff. Emily pressed a gentle, chaste kiss against her lips.

“It’s ok.”

She pulled her back into a hug, one hand cradling the back of Lena’s head as she sank back into her, hiding her face in the crook of Emily’s neck and green scarf. She held her, in that city bustling with people who had no idea of the sacrifice the woman in her arms had given so freely and with little expectation of anything in return. The two of them in their own personal bubble as the oblivious and often callous world continued around them.

(saved from my old blog. All ow fanfiction tagged. Feel free to like / comment/ share.

[formerlyrunephoenix6769]

Fairytale of New York. (A Tracer fic)

A Lena Oxton fic, inspired by gif below.  Tracerliy angst. Eventual Widowtracer fluff. 

@erollazureus 

SET DURING ‘SHATTERED’... (you can find over on AO3 under runephoenix6768)

Summary: In charge of Watchpoint Gibraltor over the holidays, Lena reflects on what brought her here.

Europe was gripped in the unforgiving clutches of one of the worst winters on record. It was Christmas Eve and at Watchpoint Gibraltar, Lena Oxton pensively watched as a soft flurry of snow began to blanket the military base in its festive embrace despite the bitter cold. Fareeha and Anglea with Ana in tow had flown to Canada to spend a few days with family. Morrison had gone where ever it is super soldiers go, cryptically parting he would return within the week.  And so being the most Senior Member of staff, it had fallen to Lena to oversee the remaining personnel.                

The base was quieter than usual, running on skeleton staff made up of those who had volunteered for their own reasons or had nowhere else to go.  In a bid to lift the spirits of those who had been rostered, the pilot had arranged a small impromptu Christmas party for the skeleton staff.

It hadn’t gone quite to plan.  

Nobody having either the skill, time or patience to make party food the decision had been made to order in, only for McCree to have cocked up momentously the amount needed. From noon onwards trucks had arrived in a constant stream and the remaining members of Overwatch had found themselves knee deep in Turkey, Stuffing and all the trappings of the usual Christmas dinner fare. There hadn’t been enough fridge space to store it and cancellation of the dishes that kept coming in some sort of nightmarish Dickensian novel in reverse, they had been firmly told was not an option.

It would almost be comical if not for being placed on the company card and Lena could only imagine the bollacking she was going to receive from on high when Morrison finally checked the already lean budget.  

Well at least the Shambali monk and his protgee had put the extra to good use, filling up trucks and driving into the nearby city in order to find a homeless shelter and feed those that might not be as well off or lucky.

Good will to all men and all that jazz.

Lena had gotten dressed in Christmas Elf regalia ready to add a little Christmas cheer only to find McCree already started drinking and singing dirty carols in the cafeteria, meaning she had to remain on base to keep an eye on things.  

It had started off great, a little bit of food, a little bit of good cheer. McCree had pulled out DVa’s karoke machine and everybody had joined in. Winston had surprised them all with a fantastic rendition of an oldie from some guy called Dean Martin, in a baritone no one knew the gorilla had, resulting in Jesse bawling crying.

And it had all gone downhill from there.

The garish paper Christmas hat on top of his Stetson, slightly askew, looked tragically ridiculous as the alcohol turned his tears of beauty into tears of lamentation that no amount of comfort could quell.

Awkward at the sudden emotional outburst Winston had retreated, knuckling off at high speed, back to his laboratory in the bowels of the building, whilst Lena had made herself a hot port and settled down beside the distraught American ready to ride out the coming storm. He had parted how he missed his friends, Ashe, B.O.B and Echo and had continued to drink into the depths of his melancholy until he passed out on a nearby sofa.  

As everyone knows, misery loves company and Lena had found Jesse’s dark mood was contagious.

Sat at a table from where she could keep an eye on him and take in the view outside, her gloved finger tips played along the side of her half full paper cup, gently pressing until it threatened to tip over only to let it fall back down and repeat it again.

Once over, in this very same building, it had been her, Winston and Emily happily enjoying the festivities like a small family.

But so much had happened and changed, good and bad, and it was now sitting alone that Lena found the one thing she regretted the most coming to mind.

----x----x----x---x---

When Overwatch collapsed in a whirl wind of bad press and the corruption had come to light the fall out had been astronomical and no one had gotten away unscathed. Due to the ‘death’ of Commander Morrison and Captain Amari, the position of most Senior member had fallen to Angela Ziegler who had been questioned mercilessly on national television for all to see in a tribunal at the Hague about the comings and goings of Overwatch and it’s shadowy counterpart, Blackwatch.  

Lena had dodged the bullet, so to speak, due to her relatively ‘low rank’, Angela’s stalwart protection and bull headed demands that Lena remain as far away from the press/debacle as possible. However, when you are the face of an international organisation that has spectacularly fallen from grace, it wasn’t the easiest of things to do.

No matter where she went, she was instantly recognised and she often had to bear the brunt of the public’s misplaced ire. Due to her association with the Peace keeping organisation and the barely concealed knowledge of her condition, Lena had struggled to find work.

In fact, if she was being honest with herself, she had struggled in general.

Having joined up to the RAF at 16 all she had ever known was military life and the order that it provided. Not to mention the precariousness of her chronal disassociation, she found it was stability she craved, something set in stone, routine, anything tangible that would ground her to the present.

And so she had returned to the RAF.

Surely her skills as one of the best pilots they had ever produced would stand in her favour?

Instead she had found slight pity and a firm no from the institution her family of generations had dedicated their lives to.

They didn’t want her back, couldn’t take her back.

Surely she understood that her ‘condition’ made it nigh impossible to pilot the aircraft at the RAF’s disposal. Whilst yes, her skills as a pilot were nothing to sniff at and she would make a valuable instructor for the next generation, the King’s Royal Defence forces recruitment was at an all-time low and they couldn’t run the risk of any association with the PR disaster that was Lena Oxton and her former employers.

Though they appreciated her service, for the sake of King and Country, their hands were tied.

It was the first in a number of setbacks that came in quick succession.

Her heroics forgotten, replaced with revulsion and in some cases outright hostility, door after door slammed shut in her face and opportunities that had once been flooding in became suddenly scarce.

After contacting lawyer, the pilot had found that the merchandising contracts had fallen into escrow due to the financial commitments of the organisation and that no member of the team had made any money from their likeness being used. Most of the original companies such as Bandai had dropped their licensing when Overwatch fell. Now companies who did make money from such things had no obligation to pay them.

At first she lived off her savings and the compensation from the Slipstream accident but she struggled to acclimatise to civilian life. She found that no aviation company in the world was willing to employ a pilot who could just suddenly phase out of existence if her chronal accelerator malfunctioned, no matter how much she tried to reassure them.

“Sorry, Miss Oxton, it is a risk we just aren’t willing to take. Surely you understand?”

‘Surely you understand.’ became a statement that dogged her just as much as her catchphrase which random strangers took to screaming at her in the streets of her beloved London, with mirthful malice. Due to her celebrity status security firms couldn’t take her on and the police force made it known that her help was ‘unwelcome’. They had everything under control and they didn’t need some army brat telling them how to do their jobs, though many of them had conveniently forgotten that they were able to go home to their families due to Overwatch’s interference.

Over the years, she had sporadically kept in touch with Angela who was off working in a refugee field hospital somewhere in the Middle East, but more so Winston who the pilot visited often due to her chronal accelerator needing to be serviced every six months. During these visits she had gleaned that the scientist wasnt faring too well either. Though brilliant many companies were willing to take on a Silver Back Gorilla as an employee. He refused Moira’s invitation to join the Oasis team due to her demanding full disclosure of his work and her suspected nefarious dealings, choosing instead to retreat from the public eye completely, preferring to deliver lecturers online and making small inventions for everyday life.

All the while the gaping hole left by Overwatch was slowly filled with global escalating violence and terrorist organisations. Often after such an attack, Lena’s apartment on King’s Row became a target for harassment or the press to such a point her neighbours complained and her landlady had to reluctantly serve her with an eviction notice due to breach of the peace and so had begun a constant migration from dwelling to dwelling, the standard of accommodation slowly getting progressively worse to the point that Lena made the decision to put her cherished belongings in a storage unit as it was pointless packing and unpacking. It doubled up as a secondary place to crash when in between accommodations.

She had made it into a nice cosy space, nestled in between her state of the art motorbike, a vanity purchase when she had got her first compensation payment, and her mint collection of OW merchandise.

Running low on savings and being unwilling to deplete her compensation reserves she had taken any job she could to make ends meet.

The children’s party circuit hadn’t been a bad gig, if you didn’t count how it always ended in some parent jeering about how the mighty had fallen or some drunken wanker making a pass. She had often found a few weeks work slinging pints in one of the many pubs in the winding streets of London, the landlords happy with the extra influx of cash once word got round and punters came in to ogle the famous Tracer like she was some specimen in a museum.

All would be well until some punter and his mates would decide that Lena and Overwatch was the cause of the world’s problems or someone started throwing round accusations to such a degree that the publican would think the ex- agent more trouble than she was worth, being politely let go, or the young woman would leave of her own accord.  

The only thing she kept on her person from the old days was her mobile scroll which she checked numerous times a day like an addict needing a fix. Once over it had pinged constantly, but as the other agents had moved on seeking the light far from Overwatch’s tainted reach, now it remained mockingly silent.

A constant reminder that the world did not need them or have use for them even as it burned. Often leaving Tracer to wonder if she was the only one that still believed in what they had once stood for?

That she was itching to get back into the fray.

Somebody had to do something!

She had parted as much to Winston at their Christmas get together, whilst Emily had remained cautiously silent. The Ex- Agents had regaled each other with their old exploits and teammates shenanigans.  For the first time in years, Lena had seemed genuinely happy. Her chipper demeanour returning properly.

But on their return to London, Lena was no longer able to hide the cracks that had begun to emerge.

To hell with the PETRAS Act.

It was a law passed down to Overwatch, not her personally, right?

She began taking to the streets in the dead of night much to Emily’s disapproval.

And then the call had come.

Lena had snatched up the battered piece of technology at the first ring,

“Winston, is that you luv? It’s been too far too long!”

Ending the call, Lena had babbled excitedly, much to Emily’s dismay,

Winston was reactivating Overwatch!

Her girlfriend couldn’t understand why she would be so eager to return after everything the organisation had put her through. Lena had immediately began stuffing clothes into her RAF duffle bag,

“Look at the state of the world! Somebody has to do something!”

Emily had replied,

“But why you? Don’t you think you have given them enough without adding turning you into an enemy of the state? …. Let someone else do it!”

Lena had retrieved her trusty pulse pistols giving them the once over, before placing them in holsters,

“Isn’t that part of why you liked me in the first place, because I always do what’s right?”

Emily had been unable to let go,

“Yes, but this is different. Overwatch ruined your life! They left you high and dry! Now they are back, ….. If you stayed out of it maybe the public would see that you aren’t part of it anymore and you would be able to get some normalcy back in your life?”

Lena

“You don’t understand.. The world needs us!”

Emily’s pale skin had mottled red, hiding her freckles and beginning to match her fiery hair, as she angrily demanded,

“Are you sure you’re doing this for the world and not yourself? The world doesn’t need this. YOU don’t need this…. You just wanna be back out living the glory days!”

And Emily had been partially right and Lena had not wanted to hear the ugly naked truth, choosing instead to spit,

“See, knew you wouldn’t understand. You don’t know what it means to be a hero.”

Hurt and furious, Emily had quietly replied,

“I don’t understand what it is to be a hero? Being a hero means getting beaten on the street or being unable to go for groceries for fear of getting jumped? Being a hero means not being able to find an apartment cause landlords don’t want any trouble?” Emily’s voice had got increasingly louder,  “-Being a hero is you crawling through my window as I try to patch you up? Being a hero means becoming a criminal??? You’ve got some twisted sense of logic. You live in a storage locker for Mondatta’s sake!”

In a fit of temper and frustration Lena had shouted,

“If you don’t like it then you know where the door is!”

The shout had echoed off the concrete walls and the storage facilities empty hallways. Stunned, Emily had closed her eyes. Giving a brief shake of her head, she had softly added,

“I am just trying to look out for you.”

And Lena had sniped back,

“I don’t need you to look after me. What I need to do is my job!”

“Even if it kills you?”

Silently, Lena’s knuckles had turned white as she gripped her motorcycle helmet.

Emily picked up her jacket,

“Oh I forgot,-” Shrugging into it, she added, “Heroes never die.”

Zipping up her jacket, she left.

It had been like a slap to the face. In the awning silence and aftermath, Lena had screamed throwing her helmet across the small space.

The very next morning, Lena had mailed the remainder of her things to a Parcel hostel in Gibraltar, packed up her bike and had ridden to the ferry port, catching the first one to Spain without a backwards glance.

Emily had found a new girlfriend if her social media was anything to go by and Lena had thrown herself into her duties at Overwatch.

There had been stilted communication enquiring as to each other’s health, after years together it wasn’t as if they had stopped caring.

But is wasn’t the same.

It hadn’t been how Lena wanted it to end.

--x---x---x

McCree’s wrist watched beeped, playing a ridiculous Christmas melody only the cowboy’s strange humour would find funny, causing him to roll over with a loud snore.

The church bells from the city began to chime, muffled and eerie due to the heavy snowfall.

Not a creature stirred not even a mouse,

Well, if you didn’t count McCree.

She was pretty certain McCree didn’t count as a creature.

Giving a little shake of her head, the bell on the end of her hat giving a pathetic tingle.

“Merry Christmas, Oxton.”

Giving her cup a swirl, she swamped the contents pulling a face at the cold liquid.

Beside her, her palm pad pinged, letting her know that the remaining security teams were about to commence their checks of the base. With the tip of her finger she began to scroll through all the data, pausing at a particular live feed.

She wasn’t the only one alone for Christmas.

What could it hurt, to spread some Christmas cheer?

Coming to a decision, she hurriedly pocketed her palm pad and made her way over to the fridge, piling a plate high with a little bit of everything. Unceremoniously, she shoved it in the microwave, leaving it to heat as she began tearing open the cupboards. Finding two clean cups she popped them in a bag along with a bottle of unopened Famous Grouse McCree had left on the counter.

Setting a dinner tray with a knife and fork and piece of tinsel, she retrieved the heated plate, before looping her wrist through the handles of the bag and setting off to her destination with a spring in her step and her Christmas hat tinkling away.

---- x --- x – x---

Stepping into the long corridor flanked either side with empty cells, Lena slowly approached the only one occupied. Coming into view under the light that hummed quietly overhead, she peered through the bullet proof glass into its depths to see the weak bunk lights cast its occupant in shadows, whose head was bent concentrating on the pages of a book.

Lena gave a polite cough.

The occupants head remained bent, one slender finger curling at the edge of the page the only indication that they had heard Lena’s arrival.

It’s not like they could miss it, Lena thought, between the racket of the jingling bell and the clinking of the cups.

Patience not being one of her virtues, the pilot fidgeted slightly.

Not looking up from the book, the occupant said,

“Why am I not surprised that even on the most sacred of days, I cannot find respite from your annoying presence?” Closing the book on their finger so as not to lose their place, they asked, “-What do you want?”

Lena took a small step forward,

“I came to wish you Merry Christmas.”

Looking up from the book, two bright yellow eyes landed on the pilot. Raking up and down her form, the eyes narrowed and the prisoner’s purple lips drew back into sneer. Bracing herself for a cutting remark, Lena was surprised when the French woman broke out in laughter.

“I never thought that you could look anymore foolish than you normally do, but I stand pleasantly corrected!”

Lena pulled a face,

“Its called getting into the spirit of things!”

Amelie Lacroix continued to laugh.

“Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Alright, alright, leave it out. ” Lena approached the cell delivery shoot, “You know the rules right?”

Amelie threw up her hands and remained on the bunk.

The ex-assassin had fled Talon and had sought out Overwatch’s help. In exchange for information, they would oversee Widowmaker’s medical needs and maybe look into rehabilitation at a very far off juncture. But for now she remained under lock and key. Any attempt at escape would forfeit the aforementioned agreement and she would be left to fend for herself.

Lena awkwardly manoeuvred the tray on to the shoot and used her card to activate the system. With a whoosh, it slid into the cell.

The pilot ducked into a nearby cell grabbing the blankets off the bunks. She heard a curse in French.

“Careful,” She called out, “It’s hot.”

Coming back, she dumped the blankets on the floor. She watched as the French woman poked the plate of food with the plastic fork regarding it with suspicion.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s from some of the best restaurants in town.”

Amelie’s fine eyebrows knit together,

“I would hardly refer to this as haute cuisine!”

“Well some folks tonight have a damn sight less.”

The French woman silently regarded Lena before proceeding to nibble on a piece of turkey.

Unscrewing the cap on the whisky, Lena poured out generous amounts into the two cups, placing one in the tray. Hovering over the activation button, she asked,

“This won’t kill you, will it? It won’t mess up,-” She gestured up and down the woman, “- Whatever is going on with you?”

Amelie threw her a sarcastic smile, as she leaned against the glass,

“I find your concern at my potential death rather sweet, but no. It won’t kill me. You will have to try much harder than that.”

“Trust me, I did!”

Inside her cell, Amelie edged closer. Her yellow eyes became hooded and the hint of a smug smirk played at the corners of her lips as she purred,

“Did you really, though?”

For a moment the pilot paused. In a bid to hide the heat that threatened to spread across her cheeks, Lena activated the tray,

“Shut up and eat your dinner.”

Making a small nest in the middle of the blankets on the floor with her foot, Lena plopped down crossed legged and wriggled so she could lean her back against the glass. From within her cell, Amelie mirrored her actions.  Taking out her palm pad, the pilot selected a gentle Christmas playlist. The two women lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence as Amelie daintily ate her meal and Lena sipped at her drink trying not to pull a face at the slight sting.

Edith Paif’s voice began to play softly through the small speakers.  Amelie closed her eyes with a small hum. The delighted sound caused Lena to shift on to her side so she could take in the view.

“She’s one of my favourites,” Amelie parted.

“I know.” Lena softly replied.

Taking a small sip of her own drink, Amelie regarded the pilot with a look she could not fathom

Averting her gaze, the French woman began twiddling her fork between long tapered fingers,

“Why are you here?”

“To wish you Merry Christmas, of course.”

Amelie lifted her head. The steely glint was gone from her yellow eyes, replaced with something Lena couldn’t name. The French woman’s voice asked softly,

“Honestly?”

Lena began to pick at on embroided snowflake on her leggings. The silver material twinkling in the overhead light.

Why had she come here? Had it been to find some respite from the crippling loneliness she sometimes felt after the bullets stopped whizzing overhead? Had it been in a bid to seek comfort from someone who might understand what it was like to be so harshly ripped from a previous life, only to be left on the outside looking in?

Speaking in barely a murmur, she replied,

“I don’t know.”

Through one of the small one inch holes set at intervals in the glass, Lena felt hot breath on her ear causing the young woman to slightly startle,

“Merci.”

Quick to recover, Lena kept her features neutral as she deadpanned,

“Mercy isn’t here.”

Lena remained composed as she watched Amelie’s eyes narrow and her mouth tighten. Her lips drew back in a sneer revealing white teeth as she was about to no doubt deliver a scathing retort.  Lena broke into a wide cheeky grin.

Amelie let out a string of playful expletives in French whilst Lena laughed.

“Do you think I’m that stupid I don’t know what merci means?”

The French woman grinned,

“Yes!”

Lena swatted at the glass,

“Oi!”

“I think you will find that it is pronounced Oui!”

“Ahhhh, word play!” Lena giggled, “…. Finally, a sense of humour!”

Suddenly becoming serious, Amelie placed her fingertips on the edge of the hole,

“I mean it, Lena .. Thankyou. ”

Searching the other woman’s face for any hint of deception, the pilot hesitated.

Finding none, she cautiously reached out, pausing at the lip on the indent. Quickly, she used her teeth to pull of her leather glove leaving it fall to the floor.

“I think that’s the first time you have ever used my name.”

Slowly she reached out, never taking her gaze from the yellow eyes that watched her in curiosity through the barrier. Her finger tips grazed feather light against Amelie’s own and she was pleasantly surprised by the unexpected warmth she had discovered.

“Merry Christmas, Amelie.”

The ex- ballerina pressed her fingertips against Lena’s,

“joyeux Noel, petite nuisance.”

Lena rolled her eyes,

“I knew it was too good to last.”

Taking sip of her drink with what Lena could only describe as a down right salacious wink, Amelie replied,clinking her cup against the glass,

“Naturally.”

With a grin, Lena repeated the action. 

“Wouldnt have it any other way!”

[formerlyrunephoenix6769]

Reflections.

Summary.

After a successful mission on King’s Row, Widowmaker lays low at Castle Gulliard whilst contemplating her next move. 

Prequel to Shattered

--x-- 

Between Numbani and Kings Row, she was too hot to move freely.

The sign of a job well done.

She grinned inwardly at the irony of the words as she lounged in the heat that as a child had seared her veal like skin, causing her to retreat to the cool shade of the alcoves offered in the grandiose and sweeping architecture. Such childish impulses no longer afflicted her, now she basked in the tendrils of flame that licked her skin and warmed her muscles.

She had intended to take a moment of respite, in this place that held gossamer whispers of a past life, but for Sombra, a well-stocked wine cellar had been too good of an opportunity to miss. The French woman was not naive enough to believe that her ‘friend’ had just casually dropped by, like an annoyingly over eager neighbour, with fresh pastries and cheeses, from the cobble stoned village that skirted the edge of the Gulliard lands.

Such was the illusion of her sanctuary.

It was an intrusion Widow was willing to tolerate, for now.

Keeping a mask of indifference, she was loath to watch, as in passing the Mexican hacker had flicked the wedding photo of a spectre and Gerard, stating “Nina, no esta mal.” followed by a playful knowing smirk and blink heralding that the image had been stored to memory, before routing through the bottles of the extensive collection within the cool cavernous arches in the bowels of the castle until she found something to her liking.

For now, Amelie Lacroix was intent on enjoying a glass of wine even with the annoying interruption.

The lake was still, save for the ripples of the bobbing fish and the concentric circles caused by her acquaintance trailing her toes in the cool waters that surrounded the Gulliard ancestral home. Silence occasionally broken by the hooting of some bird far off in the distance that Widow knew, if the urge took her, she could skewer out of the sky.

To the untrained eye and ear there was no wind shear to speak of. Perfect conditions for a kill shot.

She coolly observed a mallard alighting from the mirror like surface, counting in her head the wing-beats, the distance, and the trajectory. It was hardly a challenge, not worth wasting a high calibre bullet that would no doubt reduce the creature to little more than soft tufts often found within the pillowcases of the wealthy.

One,

Pump,

Two,

Pump.

Amelie closed her eyes, embryonic pinks mixed in with flashes of purple and blues, trailing her fingertips across the baked granite beneath her as she imagined caressing the trigger of Widow’s Kiss. A deep intake of breath through her nose and slowly out through her mouth, that could be akin to a sigh, as in her mind’s eye the bird faltered in mid-air before pin wheeling to the earth below. Widow felt a sense of peace.

A tentative slap on her ankle brought her out of her reverie,

“Mi amiga, no me oiste?”

“Je ne t’ecoute j’amais!”

They both shared a look before laughing.

An acquaintance out of necessity, not a friend, the annoying wisp of Amelie reminded. Widow leaned forward offering the wine bottle, remnants of dust upon the label written in a language that was almost obsolete in the later part of 21st century stave for those few that knew it. Like taffeta clinging to a Madame, a sign of prestige and fashion long passed but no less regarded. Sombra waved off the advance.

“No , no, I have what I need here.” As she pulled a small net from the waters, “You can keep your pigs swill.”

Sombra continued to reel in her delights. The bottles of clear liquid, that in the 20th and early 21st century had been available over the whole of Europe which was now difficult to come by and it had once been claimed was capable of running cars, staving off cold, the elixir for fighting bears with AK47’S and eventually Omenics, clinked off each other.

Widow watched as her acquaintance retrieved her preferred beverage from the cool depths, the bending of her back showing off the cybernetic hardware grafted to her skin. Curiosity got the better of the sniper,

“Does the water not short out your circuits?”

Sombra looked nonplussed, “Are you living in the 21st century, me amiga?” Dipping her legs further, she submerged her thighs as if to prove a point, “What good would it do if every time I took a shower I had to worry about such things?” Using her hands, she dramatically made a splash as she triumphantly claimed the bottle she was looking for.

She grinned whilst pouring herself a lavish dram, necking it back in a way that Amelie would cringe at but Widow understood. “Only the best for Sombra!”

“There is no accounting for taste.”

“The Russian’s knew what they were doing. “

“Unlike now?”

“Mi amiga, in this fucked up world nobody knows what any of us are doing anymore!”

Widow tipped her head in agreement before lapsing into a comfortable silence. Toying with the stem of her wine glass, she ran through her head how each glass receptacle was either a concave or convex shape. Each glass shattered or broke in its own unique way. Each different type of tempered glass and liquid within bringing its own variables.

Sombra spread her hands showing a light screen video, the glare of the water making it almost unintelligible, she cursed under her breath. Between her delicate fingers and technological nails, the Talon operative tapped until she was satisfied with the contrast of the footage showing the exact moment of Widow’s triumph; the decommissioned Overwatch agent recognisable by the bright colours of her signature uniform, blinking in and out of existence, as the bullet slid like a needle through her chronal accelerator continuing into the forehead of the target.

One shot, one kill.

“Did you know she was going to do it?”

“Do what?”

“Her Marty McFly thing.”

The footage of Tracer patting her chronal accelerator with panicked fervency continued to play.

“Oui, I was counting on it.” Swilling the glass in the palm of her hands, she noted how the liquid briefly coated the sides, reminding her of venous spray. “Nobody wants to die, not even Heroes.”

For a brief moment in free-fall as the red brick buildings gave way, the sniper hadn’t been so sure, as she aimed through Lena’s sternum. In a split second where her and her rival were suspended in the air that had seemed to last for eons, she squeezed the trigger. Widow had found herself wishing for the British agent to blink as the recoil propelled her backwards. The tight feeling in her chest only abating as the exquisite moment of defiance gave way to broken resolve, before Tracer blinked out of time, only to come back with the pained realisation that she had somehow failed.

The youthful innocence that no one in their line of work had any right to possess, shattering into a thousand pieces. The lithe body of the ex-RAF pilot slamming her into the rooftop, as she demanded to know “Why?” The glossed coral shell coloured lips pulled back over gleaming white teeth, the flurry of expressions causing the smattering of freckles to chase each other across the bridge of her upturned nose and her huge doe eyes brimming with a myriad of emotions Amelie recognised but Widow was not meant to feel.

The memory brought goosebumps to her skin and a luxurious shudder down her spine.

Olivia Colomdar slyly watched her through long dark lashes.

“What if she hadn’t?”

The thought reached into the recesses of her sternum, catching her heart in a vice like grip. Knowing every part of her behaviour was being catalogued and at some point could potentially be used to betray her. Widow remained aloof as she took a languid sip of her wine.

“Then ce la vie. I clinched an Overwatch agent.”

Like a gnat intent on committing suicide, the hacker pressed further,

“Why didn’t you finish her off?”

“I flung her off a roof.”

The hacker played grainy footage taken from a nearby surveillance drone, showing Widow making her way up the ramp into the VTOL as Tracer stood below.

“You had plenty of opportunity to finish the job.”

“She wasn’t the objective!”

“All former Overwatch agents are the objective.”

Those snatched, precious moments of life Tracer elicited in her, Amelie was not willing to trade and she often wondered just how much Sombra suspected about her strange fascination with the Overwatch poster girl.

Would it come to a point where she would have to be eliminated? She could do it now and have done with it. Sombra broke into a toothy grin, raising another shot of clear liquid, “One shot , one kill.” She guffawed. “Should be more like, what do the English say? Two birds with one stone?”

One shot, one kill indeed.

Widow remained silent as Amelie asked, “Have you ever flipped a stone?”

The smaller woman rolled her eyes, shaking her head, “I had better things to do than throwing rocks into what little uncontaminated water we had. “

Widow uncoiled, feeling her bones crack and her muscles stretch in an altogether familiar way. Gracefully alighting from her perch, picking up a pebble, she weighed it in her hand. Her other hovering over the soft, exposed neck of the unsuspecting woman.

It would be so easy to push the smaller woman under the water, gripping her by the back of the neck, holding her down as she thrashed uselessly until bubbles ceased to break the surface. The French assassin could dig out the cybernetics in case they contained any tracking devices and discard them at her earliest convenience. She could wrap the body in a tarp and net, secreting her former acquaintance in the dark waters underneath the house.

But much like her first kill, it would be messy and lacking finesse.

The coding extraordinaire had her uses, that maybe one day the sniper would have a need for. Maybe for now Widow would sit back, safe in the knowledge that she was aware of the Los Muertos former member’s double dealing. In the Mexican hacker’s own words, “Information is power, mi amiga, and no one can hide.”

A small reprieve.

Olivia would live to see another day.

Taking a stance, Amelie flicked the stone out, watching it as it curved before lightly kissing the surface, skimming the mirror of her childhood before disappearing into the inky depths.

One shot. One Kill.

(All Overwatch fanfiction will be tagged under formerlyrunephoenix6769 ow fanfiction, )