A/n: Character's thoughts in italics.
1. Killjoy
Crackfic
Tracer's happiness is a problem. The thought occurred to Widowmaker one afternoon in the aftermath of a triumphant mission.
Much like clockwork, the girl had shown up right in the middle of an operation doing what she did best—pestering the assassin and hindering her in the most annoying ways thinkable.
And yet, despite the interference, Widowmaker had managed to outwit and outplay the brat, eventually ensuring the successful delivery of the payload to its stipulated location.
"No, no—no!" The Brit, having been on her case the entire duration, had shouted out in dismay as she watched the heli flew right out of range with the payload safely secured, and though Widowmaker wasn't much one for petty self-indulgences, she couldn't quite suppress the satisfied smirk upon hearing the distress in Tracer's voice.
The completion of a mission was always gratifying, but it was what came after that was truly saccharine—and by that, she referred to none other than the look of crushing defeat on Tracer's face, accompanied by the girl's undivided attention as she hurled her routine barrage of childish insults and whiny trash-talk. Widowmaker had always savored such moments; they were truly her highlight of a job well done.
Yet, even as she waited (lingering in plain sight so Tracer could approach her with ease), the despondent sulking did not come that day.
On the contrary, despite her loss, the girl appeared to be in an uncharacteristically chipper mood, merely giving a shrug before brightly saying: "Eyy, well, better luck next time!". And then she was off, zipping down to the streets to chitter excitedly with her teammates without so much as a pout (or even another glance) in Widowmaker's direction.
It was all just a touch disappointing.
Not that the assassin was feeling neglected or anything—non—it was just that Tracer's angry diatribes often served as fine entertainment to otherwise banal missions. In fact, she had gotten so used to them that victory simply didn't feel quite the same without.
Besides, there was just something about the Brit's cheeriness (especially in the face of defeat) that rubbed Widowmaker the wrong way.
Watching the girl from afar, and seeing her flit about all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before subsequently taking off with the excitability of a jackrabbit (right as soon as her team was done packing), she ultimately decided she much preferred the crestfallen Tracer over this uncannily jovial version any day.
It was the day after that she inadvertently discovered the root of Tracer's exuberance.
The two of them happened to be working the same assignment (in a rather rare alignment of interests), and together with Fareeha, they had been awaiting further orders at their designated choke point when the topic came up in conversation.
"So, how was your little date last night?" Fareeha was asking as she double-checked the ammunition in her rocket launcher.
Date? The assassin's ears perked up from a distance, even if outwardly she looked about as bored as ever.
"Oh, it went great!" Tracer enthused, great brown eyes lighting up, "He's honestly everything I can hope for! It's love at first sight, I swear!"
He? Widowmaker's brow arched and her lips twitched. She could have sworn Tracer was—
"He's just so sweet, and so adorable. Not to mention, doting—did I say doting? Gosh, I can already tell he's goin' to make a great cuddle-buddy for bedtime!" The girl just about gushed and the assassin felt her grip on the rifle tightening. "You 'ave to meet him, Fareeha, you'll love him to bits, you will!"
"I'm sure I will." The soldier chuckled, a sound deep and throaty, but sounded to Widowmaker like gravel spinning in a blender. "When are you going to take him back to your place?"
"Eyy, it's a big step," Tracer said, before looking down shyly and running a hand through her tousled mop, "But it's 'bout the only thing that's been on my mind for awhile now, I've simply been wanting it for too long."
Widowmaker could hardly believe what she was hearing.
Mon Dieu, thirsty much?
"If it's the right fit, you should just go ahead and do it, you know?" Fareeha shrugged while wearing this sort of understanding half-smile, and Widowmaker had to resist the urge to shoot her point-blank in the face.
"Yea, that's why I've decided—tomorrow night! Tomorrow is finally gon'a to be the night that—"
Crra-cck.
Their conversation was punctuated by a loud, dry snap, and both Fareeha and Tracer turned to stare.
They stared.
Tracer had on this funny look as she gestured at the assassin's hands, "Um, hey, did you just snap your rifle in half, luv?"
Widowmaker looked down at the two pieces of Widow's Kiss cleanly broken in the middle, her knuckles still bone-white from clenching.
"This old thing?" She said tonelessly and with not a hint of emotion, "I decided I needed an upgrade."
"You only just now decided?" Fareeha's tone was one of incredulity. "Really? Right in the middle of a mission?"
If Widowmaker had a functioning gun, she would have definitely shot the woman in the face. Right there, in the face.
Tracer was still gawping at her, and she decided she couldn't actually bear to suffer her look of idiocy any longer.
Without another word to either of them, the assassin simply gave an imperceptible roll of her eyes, flicked her wrist to deploy a grapple hook, and sailed gracefully away.
See—problem, non?
Widow's Kiss wasn't cheap, which made Tracer's happiness a definite issue.
And why wouldn't it be?
Widowmaker utterly despised the Brit-brat with a passion—well, as passionate as she could get these days. The girl was often going out of her way to annoy her, zipping around thwarting her plans and poking her Brit-nose where it didn't belong.
It therefore made sense why her enemy's joy wouldn't sit all that well with her, and logically, it followed that if the thing bothering her was Tracer's happiness, all she needed to do was terminate the source.
That was how she found herself camped out some thirty odd blocks away from Tracer's little trash of an apartment the following night, rifle sight trained on the one window that had the curtains undrawn. It just so happened to be the bedroom window, and from where she was at, she'd got a real upstanding view (her infra-sight didn't seem to work here and she reckoned the brat must have wallpaper-ed her house with mylar foil).
Should Tracer's little date come over thinking he's down for some sexy time—or as the French called it, faire boum crac boum crac—well, he was in for a whole different sort of crack and boom entirely.
While she was thinking this, the lights winked on through the adjoining window, and even with the curtains drawn, she knew it to be the living room, because it wasn't like she'd stalked the Brit out only about a dozen times.
She's home, the assassin's mind instantly sharpened, fingers moving towards the dial on her riflescope to fine-tune the vision.
Her body was already tingling with anticipation.
Any minute now—any minute they were going to come crashing through that bedroom door, all hot kisses and entangled limbs and fervent caresses, maybe with Tracer moaning low as her lover peels off her top before throwing her down on the bed—or perhaps it'd be the other way round and she'd be the one doing the throw-down, because despite her small frame and naïve demeanor, she's actually really quite strong and looked like the kind that secretly enjoyed dominating her lover by pinning them down with the weight of her body before leaning over to leave a trail of kisses that would start out chastely from the base of the neck but then turn lewd once she moved right down towards—
—Merde. Widowmaker had to physically tear herself away from her rifle sight.
It wasn't like it was actually possible for her to be agitated or anything, but she did find her vision starting to blur and that it was getting uncharacteristically hard to concentrate, what's with the images of Tracer and her man-lover running rampant through her mind.
The nerve of the girl—she's thinking—how dare she bring a man back home, and not even after a few dates. Has she no propriety?
Youngsters these days can be so prurient.
No matter, just wait till she gets a clear shot of that boy-toy. That would teach the immoral vixen a lesson or two in celibacy.
With newfound determination, Widowmaker brought her gaze back to the scope, fingers straining against the trigger.
Yet, a half-hour turned into one, turned into two, and before she knew it, she'd been up there on the roof for a whole seven hours with still no sign of Tracer in the bedroom.
It didn't make sense.
It was already long past the girl's bedtime, but the lights in her living room were still on.
How long do Brits foreplay? She found herself wondering.
Could they have fallen asleep right after doing it on the couch?—How sloppy.
Then after, she was thinking: maybe they are still doing it.
That last thought struck her with some sort of muted horror and left her with a dire desire to find out, if only to gauge the extent of Tracer's stamina.
Knowing such things would prove useful in combat situations, she reasoned, before promptly congratulating herself for her tactical perception. Oui, Talon had indeed trained her well.
Getting up from her spot on the roof, she deployed her grappling hook and sailed through the city streets till she found herself landing on the window ledge of Tracer's bedroom (it was narrow, but it accommodated).
All was silent—which was rather quite a relief, because she wasn't sure what she might have done if she'd heard primal animalistic grunting coming from within—and testing the window, she found that it was unlocked.
Le ditz. The girl infra-proofs her house, but leaves her windows opened.
Sliding it up, she crawled in, landing on the tacky wooden floor with not so much as a sound. Rifle up and at the ready, she was all set to shoot Tracer's ill-fated lover on sight as she stealthily padded out into the living room.
The area was a general mess and looked more fitted for pigs to live in than anything. Days old take-out boxes were stacked atop weeks old ones, and the same could be said for the piles of dirty laundry littering the ground at sporadic intervals.
How absolutely filthy.
Her lips curled up in disdain as she delicately sidestepped all the sanitation landmines and maneuvered her way over to the sitting area at the far end.
The TV was switched on in the background—though it was playing at such low volumes, it might as well be muted—and the couple appeared to be in slumbers, as evident from the sound of light snoring coming from the couch. To whom it belonged, she couldn't tell yet, exactly.
Muscles coiled, she approached silently with her gun leveled, and as she stepped around, she found herself greeted by the utterly scandalous sight of—
—Tracer, soundly asleep, albeit sans the man-slut draped across her petite frame.
She wasn't quite alone, however. Curled up snugly in the nook of her arms was a mangy ball of a mutt—a rescue, from the looks of it—covered in a fluffy, bi-colored coat of cream and coffee, similarly snoozing away.
Widowmaker's lips parted and her gun lowered.
Not quite the lover she'd been expecting to see.
As though sensing her presence, Tracer twitched in her sleep and shifted, her nose wrinkling as she sniffled—once, twice—before hugging the puppy closer to her chest. The sight was sweet enough to make anyone swoon, and if Widowmaker were still capable of feeling anything, she might have probably melted.
But she didn't—she no longer feels—or at least that was what she told herself despite the kindling of a small, unfamiliar warmth in her chest.
Tracer sniffed again, and it suddenly dawned on the assassin that the little Brit girl looked just about as lost and scruffy as the tiny furball sleeping next to her.
Like owner like dog.
Strangely compelled, and unable to stop herself, the assassin leant forward, cool fingers brushing away a lock of that infamously untamable brown hair from Tracer's forehead, gently tucking it behind one ear.
Then, as she made to leave, she paused, before turning right back around and taking a long, lingering look—not because she was mesmerized or anything (gods, no) but because it'd rather been awhile since she last came across a sight so… untainted.
When she was fairly certain she had the image committed to memory, the assassin turned, retraced her steps back out to the open window, and soundlessly disappeared into the night.