I...did not intend this to happen. You see, how i write, i research character get a feel for their personalities and then stick them into situations to see how they play out. Think of it as a little simulation and i guess...i guess here we are. Yes, it does parallel "Don't Worry About Me" as well as "At the Seams". But they don't intersect per say, just parallels never touching. I am putting myself into the habit of reading my works out loud to feel the flow of the words and by golly did i choke up. So here you are, an end that perhaps none of you wanted.
Where have the years gone?
Widow stands in the center of the laminate hardwood, watching as her, her, students file out of the studio. It is not large by any means, barely larger than her, her, own apartment. It's small, impeccably tidy, but hers.
Hers
A life that is hers, the rest of the day is hers to waste or perhaps spend wisely. And here she stands, facing the mirrored wall and the reflection of her, of Widow. To see herself in a leotard again, despite the prosthetics she once thought were ugly, they are now a part of her.
Acceptance and contentment.
She smiles and sees her reflection smile back.
Soft, almost uncharacteristic, but now she isn't quite sure what is or isn't characteristic of Widow.
Still discovering.
With a toe pointed to her side, Widow closes her eyes and remembers a music from long ago with the image of a ballroom she holds so fondly. She sees the people seated at tables that slowly fade away when she catches sight of her love; the dancefloor with just the two of them. And she remembers:
His stiff posture and two left feet; a testament to being a soldier rather than a dancer.
How she led and how he was so willing to follow, their closeness, the lightness of her heart in that very moment.
Love.
The muted regret.
It's all so faded now, the emotions changing every time she pulls them out of the dark dredges of her mind. How it started so perfect before deteriorating, the yelling, the manipulation, and the lies. Was it all just made up in her head, something Talon planted there or did he really...
Widow tries to hold onto the good parts. She embraces how choked she feels and how her forehead strains with how deeply her brows are drawn. The memories are hers to shape and mold; it is her choice to make them pleasant.
Every emotion that rampages through her; the good, the bad, the ones she doesn't have a name for. They don't make her weak.
They make her human.
The door chimes, a student that has forgotten her shoes no doubt.
Widow pauses, collecting herself for a moment before turning to face the door. Not a student; the woman stands tall, straight, and proud with shoulders drawn back. The stature of a soldier, not a dancer. Her breath catches just like that day and again she finds herself becoming lost in the memory.
The day of her marriage.
"Greetings." Fareeha speaks smoothly.
The light glints off of the metal parts of her face, still a mystery that Widow has yet to uncover. There is a touch of warmth in her eye, but it is overwhelmed by a cloudy glaze. Tired, Fareeha looks so tired.
It has been years since they last met on that abandoned battlefield.
The time they spent together was filled with actions, not words; with touches, and then hopeful whispers bordering on promises of a better life.
"Hello." Widow replies, unsure of why Fareeha has found her way here, half impressed that she was even able to track her down.
She's skipped three towns since their last encounter and shed four names. It's been a blessing that enough time has passed for bigger fish to move ahead of her on the watch lists. An old face, lost to the grind of life.
Fareeha steps forward, her confidence eases away to slight hesitation, as if she is treading on sacred ground. Her delicate steps stem from the same emotion that makes her lip catch between her teeth, it isn't like her to tiptoe around a question.
"The Peacock Spider?" She asks referring to the odd name of Widow's dance studio.
"Oui," Widow smiles fondly with a soft cuckle. "It was Lena's idea."
More than a stepping stone; a friend. Widow is happy to admit that now.
The mention of the pilot stiffens Fareeha's shoulders, a deep frown now mars her face. A flash of anger before the same impassive mask that keeps Fareeha safe. Widow narrows her eyes ever so slightly; so the rumors are true.
"It is nice place." Fareeha says. She stays on the edge of the dance floor, having the basic courtesy of not tracking dirt onto the meticulously cleaned surface.
More silence, neither of them ever had a knack for small talk.
It piques Widow's curiosity even further. What is Fareeha trying to get at, the woman rarely does anything without a plan in mind, a trait that Widow knows well. So why?
Why is she here?
This time, Widow has the confidence to ask; that or she has lost the ability to care.
"Do you need something from me, Fareeha?" She asks. The name feels foreign on her tongue but familiar to her ears. Overwatch has caught themselves the attention of the news these last few months. Not all of it pleasant.
"Yes, actually." Fareeha finally relaxes, finding comfort in speaking business rather than personal affairs.
Perhaps some things never change.
"I want you to join me, to join Overwatch." She finally says. A request but more commanding than Widow expects her tone to be. Still her choice.
Something chokes up the edges of Fareeha's words. Perhaps hopeful.
It is shock at first with Widow's lips pressing thin, half surprising yet half not. She knows what this is all about. The altercations between Overwatch and Talon have risen. More and more agents are defecting and the public finds itself on a tipping point. Of course they'd be scrambling for an upper hand now that…
Widow sighs, this shouldn't surprise her. The past always catches up and this time, she doesn't think she can run away from it.
But she'll damn well try.
"Come," Widow takes Fareeha's hand, gently pulling her onto the dancefloor without facing much resistance. "Dance with me."
She doesn't want to think about the world right now and how it seems like it's coming apart at the seams. It's been two lifetimes of fighting and surely a human can only take so much. It is time for some peace, a repose and perhaps a moment to simply live.
"My shoes-"
"Irrelevant."
"I don't know how to dance."
"Then I will teach you."
Her posture is stiff; a testament to being a soldier rather than a dancer.
A flick of Widow's finger and the song begins to play over the speakers. Fareeha doesn't know it, but it is a song Widow holds very dear to her heart. And she can say that now, this fondness, she can say that about a few more things other than this song.
What do I mean to you?
"I don't have time." Fareeha whispers quietly, tensing at the sensation of Widow taking her hand and resting the other on her waist.
"Please," It is the more desperate than Widow has ever heard herself sound.
Desperate to escape, to put some distance between herself and the trials of the world. Desperate to run and find a corner of the sky where she'll finally be left alone. Desperate...She made the choice to leave it all behind but it would seem that her choice doesn't really matter in the end.
"Dance with me."
Fareeha stares at her, contemplation. Her choice to make.
And so she does.
Or at least tries to, Widow wouldn't go as far to call it dancing on Fareeha's part. The grace she shows in the air doesn't immediately translate to the dancefloor, but her movements become stronger and swifter as they go along, falling into a rhythm. The stiffness doesn't leave Fareeha's shoulders and Widow finally relents that perhaps dancing does little to ease Fareeha's mind like it does for her.
Disappointing, yes, but Widow understands and accepts. It leaves her feeling a bit embarrassed.
When the song ends and they find themselves standing face to face, hands resting on each other's body, Widow can feel the steady breaths that Fareeha takes. She wonders if Fareeha is more machine than woman underneath her clothes, if her souls is as tired as her eyes are.
"Come with me." Fareeha asks one more time in the silence of the room. She hides her desperation behind all the masks the world has forced her to don. A request, a choice.
Widow can't even say that she wants to join her.
Distance has made Widow so much happier. It has given her a new life to explore, pupils to teach, so much that both Overwatch and Talon took away from her.
"I won't." She answers. No guilt, it is what she really wants. It is her life to choose, her path to walk and she'll keep putting this distance between herself and her past until her final breath.
It's the first time Widow has ever turned Fareeha down.
"I'm sorry." Widow whispers. Not for her choice, no, but perhaps for the lack of remorse she feels for making it.
Fareeha closes her eyes, her hand tightens on Widow's shoulder. Is she angry? Hurt? In the past Widowmaker wouldn't care, but now…
Who is Fareeha is Widow?
Who is Widow to Fareeha?
With a breath, Fareeha releases her grip, her hands falling to her sides as she turns away. No words, no tears, nothing more left between them. Perhaps there is an answer to her question; is Widow a regret to Fareeha?
A failure.
A silent line on the other end of Fareeha's call for help.
"Stay with me." Widow blurts out at the last moment, unafraid to show her concern for Fareeha.
Strike Commander Fareeha Amari, still leashed to her past, tethered to her problems with her mother and the look of disgust she, on rare occasions, lets slip when she stares at her reflection for too long; a slave to everything that has molded her into what she is now.
A woman so tired, a woman who deserves peace and Widow wants to help.
"I won't." Fareeha says so distantly; wistful, almost regretful. It churns this thing in Widow's chest that she can now call a companion.
Perhaps, Widow has found who she wants to be.
Perhaps, Fareeha won't allow herself to do the same.
"Peace be upon you, Khalil."
And so she is gone.
It isn't long until Widow is greeted by another visitor, another plea for aid. Another person from her past. Widow can feel it closing in, the news has been becoming louder, sides being drawn. Something is bound to give.
She lays it all out for Widow, all the intel that they can spare, all of it upfront so Widow can make her choice.
Her choice.
Yet it still feels forced.
Widow looks out the window of her little apartment, over the skyline of the city she has found her place in. In her hand, a cup of a curiously salty green tea. It doesn't burn on the way down. Just warmth.
She wonders who she will be when tomorrow comes.
Distance, a thing that Widow and Lena share.
A girl who runs away from all her problems.
Perhaps that's where Widow learned it from.
She can't run now, half buried beneath fallen rubble only moments after she ordered Lena to escape. Their only chance to set things right, the woman who-
Another stab of pain surges through her, so vivid, so raw. She embraces it. Alive, better than the muted static that she remembers her mind to be a lifetime ago. It's ending now; all of it, her time here, perhaps even the entire world.
We do good work, fight the good fight
Such a foolish notion.
It all seemed so much simpler back then.
"Over here!" A shout breaks over the cacophony of alarms. Pounding feet and weapons pointed at her face.
Overwatch uniforms. How ironic.
Their forms become bleary, blurry, bubbling at the edges as if a figment of her imagination. They part as a blue figure pushes through.
"Widow." So much panic, so much regret that it makes her heart ache.
It's too late for that now.
She knows that there isn't a medic to save her, Widow had shot her long before this fight.
And she didn't want this to be how it all ends, she hoped for a quiet passing in her quiet room, perhaps holding the hand of someone that meant something to her. And yet it would seem that Widow cannot run fast enough to keep her past from catching up.
Walk with me
Sit with me
Dance with me
"Stay with me." Fareeha screams. An order, as if Widow was able to make that choice.
She does. She smiles, squeezes Fareeha's hand, anything to keep her here with her. If not for her own selfishness, then perhaps to buy Lena enough time. It's no lie as she looks at this woman, this fine woman so strong despite everything, with so much affection. So much, so much…
Everything is so fucking loud.
It didn't have to end this way. They all made their choices.
Is Widow angry with Fareeha? Of course, there is not denying that. Widow is angry with everything, with everyone, with herself and the situation that was presented. How it has come to this; to die on the battlefield fighting for something she didn't care about.
Because now, Widow cares about life and all the little things in it. The moments of watching a cheesy film with Lena back at Overwatch. Her sparring matches with Fareeha. A session for meditation here and there with Zenyatta. To her walks in the marketplace and watching the dance recitals of her students. Yes. Widow would go as far as to say she misses all of it.
Perhaps Widowmaker's plan backfired on her.
To infiltrate, gain their trust, tear them apart from the inside out
Perhaps she has let herself be entrance by the notion of a normal life.
Perhaps it would've been easier to die as Widowmaker and to live as Widow.
She looks up at Fareeha. Fareeha Amari who is still so damned awkwardly compassionate and disgustingly soft. She doesn't care that she's surrounded by the enemy. One last time.
She has nowhere to go, unable to keep putting this distance between herself and her past.
She gives in, like Amelie did two lifetimes ago.
Widow reaches up and pulls gently Fareeha down. Hesitating with their lips barely touching. A choice, a final courtesy.
A kiss so soft...Uncharacteristic?
She doesn't know what to make of it.
And for now and forever, that is enough.
"I'm sorry"
Fareeha chokes on her breath at the words that ghost across her lips.
"and thank you, cherie."