Don't quite know where I'm going with this. I got inspired by AnnaDeef over on Tumblr. Really, this all started with her reblogging "Sit with Me" and yes i like to stalk through whoever reblogs from me cause you never know. But yeah, perhaps this is more a "what if" fic than anything. i'm in the roll of writing/exploring Widowmaker's character so imma run with it.
Widow hears the commotion outside her room: the pounding of feet and the barking of orders. It piques her interest for a moment, but little more. If it should concern her, then the word will come. What is the point of Widow going out of her way to stick her nose into someone else's business? She is about to return her focus back to her sketchbook when the word comes in the form of a knock on her door.
A sigh, she glances up across the room, the shadow underneath it not of two feet.
What is it this time? She thinks as she peels herself off of the rather comfortable couch, dusting off the charcoal from her fingertips. The door opens to reveal the vague, pulsing shape of Gabriel at her doorstep.
Her eyebrow arcs at the sight, at the sheer state he's in; fading in and out of his physical form. He stands, floats actually, little more than a man shaped shadow. The biting words she has prepared on her tongue shrink back. Widow may be emotionally lacking, but even she knows that now is not the time.
It takes a steadying breath that is more out of habit than of necessity before he finally speaks.
"We've got more strays coming in." Gabriel's words are slow and they grind like gravel, his tone the closest to hesitant that Widow has ever heard him be. "Heavily injured, they want them to join up."
So new recruits, what of it? Widow still does not see how any of this concerns her or why it has Gabriel so shaken up. Could it be that they've captured the cowboy he used to go on about? Even so, why has he-
With a frustrated grunt, Gabriel disintegrates into a pile at Widow's feet and slinks away into her room before she has the chance to react.
It's not worry, no, worry never solves any of her problems, but Widow feels an inkling of something as she gently closes the door and turns. Her eyes follow him, feet carrying her to sit at the couch where he slowly puts himself back together. Together.
"You know who they are." She states, not that she cares, but it will open up a conversation if that's what Gabriel is here for.
He sits for a moment, if 'sitting' could accurately describe the mass of thrumming darkness, a single arm wrapped around two curled up legs. A mouth forms, then eyes and then finally the rest of his face; pensive, almost regretful.
Curious
"One is just some Overwatch grunt." He pauses, mulling over his next words. "The other is Amari's daughter."
The name brings back a face and the touch of hands that guide Widow's own to the proper positions to absorb the recoil of her sniper rifle. The sound of a gentle yet stern voice and then the tears of a small child that has walked into their lesson at the shooting range.
The sound of disappoint.
They are simple visions, muted and hazy, as if watching a movie but feeling no connection to the characters on the screen. A woman…just a woman.
It is better this way, better than the pitiful state Gabriel is in.
The last place that Widow would think to find herself is standing outside the recovery room of the med bay. The operation is done and all is still for now. There will be a new battle to face when their patient wakes up.
But for now…there is peace in the sterile air and the rhythmic sound of the woman's heart monitor.
She doesn't even flinch when Sombra materializes beside her. Being friends, friends, with two agents that have the habit of doing so has made her quite accustomed to it. Perhaps Widow would go as far to say she feels a bit more secure when she notices the gentle buzz that would indicate a clocked Sombra nearby.
Perhaps 'secure' would be going too far.
"Ayy, you are worried." Sombra teases, peering through the glass to the heavily bandaged form on the bed.
"I am not." Widow replies. She doesn't even spare her a glance.
"Liar." Sombra skips over to the door, swiping the panel and disabling the security lock before waltzing in.
It is curiosity, she tells herself, that leads Widow to follow in after the woman.
And it is a curious thing that Widow knows what she should be feeling; how she should be trying to break this woman out of this place, how she should be finding a way to escape herself. She knows that they are a terrorist organization, at least in the public eye. Yet she stands, face impassive as always and fingertips leaving dusty, winding trails in the clean bedsheets from charcoal she has forgotten to wipe off.
She knows if this woman is anything like her mother, then she has a daunting road ahead of her if Talon wants to induct her into their ranks. Perhaps death would be kinder.
Widow looks up, realizing that Sombra has taken her leave at some point, or was she even here in the first place? A glance behind her, the door is closed just as she remembers closing it. The room is still. No evidence. Translocation.
It is just her luck that she feels a stirring at her fingertips followed by a soft groan. Her muscles jerk her arm back, not out of panic but perhaps a residual reflex as she holds her hand clenched at her side. She wants to run, put some distance between herself and this anomaly, this damned mess of something in her chest.
She could prevent the next Widowmaker, she could keep her from suffering what Amelie suffered.
She could do so much in this moment.
But in this moment.
Widow chooses to stand and watch as the woman's head rolls to the side, her eyes scrunching tight before cracking open.
The sensors pick it up and Widow can hear the chiming from down the hall alerting the doctors. It won't be long until their arrival.
In the last few moments that they are alone, Widow can do nothing else but watch as the woman pieces everything together. A slideshow of emotions that begins with confusion, expectance, recognition, realization, and then finally panic.
Her arms, why couldn't she move her arms?
One at the shoulder, the other mid bicep.
Widow reaches out, because…she doesn't know. An attempt of comfort, to prevent her from hurting herself, or maybe just another reflex. Her fingers stroke the sliver of skin not covered by the oxygen mask, warm and soft. They leave behind a small smudge of charcoal beside the tattoo underneath her eye.
The woman stills only for a moment before the door opens and a fresh wave of panic crashes over her.
And so Widow steps back, out the door and pauses outside the window, back in her place just minute ago. She watches the doctors try to calm her down. She sees the woman glance out the window and catch her eyes.
Wide and scared, does she remember who Widow used to be? Does she know what they have planned for her and how much it is going to hurt?
It doesn't matter now, Amelie will become a face to her just as Ana has become a face to Widow.
Widow doesn't even remember the younger Amari's name. The pity she feels is not enough to stop her from walking away, but it is enough to prompt to whisper a small prayer under her breath.