Author's notes: So, welcome to the second part of the saga, I promise you won't have to wait another 6 months before the next chapter is out... It took me such a long time to finish this second act, surely longer than I thought, and even so, I ended up dividing the chapter in two because I had 12.000+ words already and I thought it was long enough.
Anyway, now that it's posted, let me tell you that this chapter follows the same structure of the previous one: it's divided into different sections, the sections are (of course) in progressive order and you can read each section as a little story.
The events of this act take place two months after the end of chapter one.
Warning: NSFW content up ahead. (Even if nothing too explicit was written for this chapter, I still felt the need to warn you, guys)
I sincerely hope you enjoy your reading! Feedback, as always, is highly appreciated.
Love, L.
Variations on a Theme
Act II
The Second Awakening
"His contagious conviction that our love was unique and desperate infected me with an anxious sickness; soon we would learn to treat one another with the circumspect tenderness of comrades who are amputees, for we were surrounded by the most moving images of evanescence, fireworks, morning glories, the old, children. But the most moving of these images were the intangible reflections of ourselves we saw in one another's eyes, reflections of nothing but appearances, in a city dedicated to seeming, and, try as we might to possess the essence of each other's otherness, we would inevitably fail."
Angela Carter ― A Souvenir of Japan
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I - Hero
He was silent, as if absent, staring at her from a comfortable distance. If she hadn't known exactly who that man was, she would have easily thought that he was lazy, expecting the woman to do all the work as he simply watched the time go by… But then she knew, for she quickly recognized the true identity carefully hidden behind that visor: there was something else behind his lack of words – a certain apathy, a given discord rapidly transpiring his evident mistrust.
Yet the woman knew better than to trust her own senses, knew better than to succumb to his ill-advised pantomimes: no, he wasn't absent, and he definitely wasn't lazy; he wasn't just trying to watch the hours fly by ever so lightly. There was more to him than meets the eye, she was certain. His silence meant so much more than mere somberness and indifference.
Shelter.
His silence, in a way, also meant shelter – even if his silence could only contain the man himself alone, far and detached from her existence, and barricaded inside his own thoughts.
His soundless words seemed to reverberate all around her.
His was a twisted kind of silence, the woman pondered. Still, it was well received by her tired ears. Still, it was appreciated by her and her newborn senses.
But it just wasn't like Hanzo's silence; the nothingness of complete understanding the archer had meticulously crafted just for her and that she had grown to love during their cold nights in Gibraltar. That man, albeit still tormented by his past, was the only man she had ever known that was fully capable of sharing her passion for silence.
Silence, for most individuals, was essentially uncomfortable.
People would often think of silence as the tremulous sign that something's not right. There would be questions, and hundreds of loud speculations, all in order to kill that goddamned silence. Hanzo's love for silence was her own love for the element, in a way, as they would both embrace the tranquility of a peaceful, voiceless night. Hanzo would never try to hide behind his own silence for he had no reason to, at least not when she was around. Hanzo would cherish it, just like she herself would. He would never ask her if something was wrong; if her complete lack of phonemes was actually hiding something else: apathy, discord, even resentment.
Hanzo understood silence. Probably, like no-one else could.
Even better than Gerard had ever been able to understand back then – though this, of course, she would never say. Not with words, yet not even with silence.
But this twisted, sickening lack of sounds still echoing words of mistrust all around her was making it hard for the woman to concentrate.
She sighed clumsily through parted lips, a futile attempt at breaking that deafening silence of his – but to no avail. As soon as the air had left her mouth the same old disturbing silence came to embrace her once again, causing her to curse under her breath.
Hanzo would have been the perfect man for the job.
This older, tougher man, standing just a few meters behind her with his back glued against the wall and his arms folded over his broad chest was not the man she would have wanted to accompany her nervous, anxious bones during her very first mission as a reformed Overwatch agent – But Ana's words, quickly ruling out the Japanese archer from the very beginning and stating that there was "no real need for the team to be composed by only two snipers" felt like a cold shower against her skin.
The mission was simple enough, that much was true – that's why they had decided it would be a fine chance for the woman to finally step out into the world again and show what she was truly capable of. Athena had successfully tracked the exact date and location where a meeting between two low-ranked Talon operatives was about to happen. The small team required for the mission was not meant to engage in battle – they were simply supposed to gather as much information as possible; the task, per se, was simply meant to be just another small step in the never-ending crusade against Talon.
But when Ana ruled out Hanzo, Amelie braced herself and hoped for the best, even when she couldn't understand the decision. If the mission was so simple, if they weren't even supposed to engage in combat, why couldn't he be the one working with her? Maybe Tracer would have been a better pick, or perhaps McCree. If looking for subtlety, Genji would have been a fine choice too… but when the old man raised his hand and took a step forward, volunteering for the job, Amelie felt the blood inside her veins begin to freeze all over again.
She never liked him.
Not then, when he was the adored poster boy, and one of Gerard's best friends. And definitely not now.
As expected, Ana agreed with him rather quickly: the vigilante seemed capable enough for such simple assignment. A resourceful, skillful man with an innate sense of leadership. An experienced old dog that was going to test Amelie's truest reasons: he wasn't only interested in finding out whether or not the former Talon operative was ready to strike again – the only thing he was actually trying to unveil was Amelie's most intimate sense of loyalty, he was only trying to test her to see if she was worth his time and trust – and furthermore, he was surely going to use the mission as a way to corroborate whether the woman knew about his true identity or not.
The elephant in the room, she knew…
The older agents seemed comfortable enough around him so Amelie was pretty sure that Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjörn and even Winston knew who this vigilante truly was. The younger kids seemed to pay no mind. Yet the ones in the middle, like Angela, Tracer, Pharah, the younger Shimada, McCree and many, many more were still in the dark.
Hanzo, as a brand new recruit, wouldn't have any reasons to suspect his identity.
But Amelie's case was an entirely different story. She had known him back then. The only question remaining inside his head: could her still struggling memory decipher who he was?
"The meeting's over," The woman said, her words trying to breathe some life into that somber motel room. Yet the man didn't even flinch, he didn't want to leave when the meeting came to an end. Without using a single word, he insisted they stayed right where they were so they could follow the agents, concealing his true intentions behind his completely unreadable expression. That damn visor could hide most anything from the rest of them, yet his voice would give him away every single time. Raspy, intrinsically masculine. Harsh, and eerily merciless.
Hence the silence…
He could fool everyone – everyone but her. Soldier 76 had sheltered his true identity in the shades and shadows of the vigilante who doesn't give a damn about the law. But that reformed woman, the one facing the hurricane of old memories rushing back at her at every turn with the virulence of everything that's new, was perceived as a threat by him.
She had once been the wife of a long-lost friend. She knew things about him, things she could tell, in case she still remembered them – about the real man he had been before that not even his closest friends knew.
The silent stare of a wife, hovering over him and Gerard like a camera capturing their every move, like a radar monitoring their every adventure… a radar they could not escape from.
The woman paid no mind to his wordless suggestions and quickly reached into her bag for her phone to contact the extraction team. Yet he snatched the device from her hand, tossing it aside.
He couldn't talk to her now, couldn't afford such luxury. His unmistakable voice would give him away every time, he knew.
That's why he would always stop talking whenever she was around.
If she was trying to remember him, he was not willing to help her.
He hadn't liked her back then, and her recent past as a Talon assassin was only deepening Jack's profound mistrust towards that woman.
Amelie picked up her phone and placed it back inside her bag. Then she walked back to the window. Still watching the world from her scope, the woman witnessed the entire scene play out before her eyes: both Talon agents were now leaving the cafeteria – a crowded place, of course – stopping only to shake hands on the doorway. The younger agent started to walk northwest yet the older agent, the tall, dark-haired man who seemed to be in his early forties, went back inside the hotel the second his partner was gone.
With a minuscule 'tsk' 76 demanded her attention. The meeting had been briefer than expected and, if the man had to be honest, the agents had been careful enough not to reveal a single thing about Talon or any of their upcoming operations. But the older agent's uncanny behavior seemed promising enough, to say the least, and that was a fact they both could agree on.
Understanding what he was trying to explain without words, the woman sat back down and resumed her surveillance. Overwatch had wired the entire building just in case, from the fancy cafeteria downstairs to the very last room in that hotel. Embracing Jack's silence as her own, the woman observed as the agent disappeared from her sight only to appear again, seconds later, when the elevator doors opened again, welcoming him to the fifth floor. A short walk was all it took for the man to find his final destination: room 535 but he didn't knock on the door – surprisingly enough, he had his own key.
Amelie quickly busied herself, narrating the scenes she was witnessing for her partner to know exactly what was going on inside that room across the street, but the words faded from her mouth the second she understood what was actually happening.
A woman was waiting for the man.
She was considerably younger than he was, wearing black lingerie and quickly throwing her arms around his neck. The man kissed her passionately, his hands landing on her waist with such unprecedented urgency.
Two fingers tapped on Amelie's shoulder, trying to get her to speak again. Yet her constricted throat wouldn't let the words flow free. Even when they both were hearing every single sound coming from that room thanks to the many microphones Overwatch had set all over the place the day before, truth was that neither the woman nor the man were actually speaking. The symphony of sounds that Jack was being able to hear belonged in the soft-spoken world of privacy and intimacy. Such sounds, Amelie pondered, did not need to be explained. Least of all, to Jack Morrison.
She still remembered him, in the back of her confused yet not so clouded mind – the man he had been back then; one of Gerard's closest friends. The poster boy, the heartthrob with the baby blue eyes and the devilish smile… the one always trying to convince Gerard to go for a couple drinks after each mission; the one always so confident, so irritatingly confident.
She paid no mind to his insistence. As her sight went back to the scope facing the window her mind traveled back to that distant time.
How many times had she heard that man say to her own husband that he could do better? That settling down for a ballerina wannabe was not the right choice for a man like him? That she was surely after his money, that he should have never told her about his real occupation…
"Shoot." His unmistakable voice, finally exhibiting his true identity, caught her unaware. She had never thought he would dare speak to her but the command he had just voiced, the harsh course of action he was willing to follow was enough for the woman to stand up and turn around.
"What for?" She demanded, determined.
For a brief instant, Amelie could have sworn that a bitter smirk was taking over his face. Even if it was impossible for the sniper to tell if the gesture was real or not now that the visor and the mask were covering most of Morrison's aged visage, it was easy for the woman to image the same disdainful smirk he had given her on countless occasions in the past.
"We got what we wanted – information." She continued, "I know it's not much, but our job here is done."
As she stepped away from the window and motioned towards the door his hand landed on her shoulder, stopping her in place.
"He's Talon." He said.
She looked down, confused.
"He's the enemy." 76 stated
"They said do not engage." Her voice, colder than ever, reached his eardrums in just a matter of seconds. "What are you trying to do now? If you wanted to kill them off why didn't you shoot them when both agents were out in the street after the meeting was over? Why did you wait?" she struggled under his touch until she released herself from his grip, "If you wanted to eliminate your enemies why would you want to kill one agent, and spare the other?"
A fleeting laugh escaped his lips, she should have seen this coming; should have been more careful.
"My enemies?"
His simple words made it crystal clear for Amelie: it wasn't a matter of us versus them anymore, it had never been. Morrison was not interested in the mission; he couldn't care less about the little information they had managed to gather.
Morrison was only interested in her.
He was testing her, studying her. Like a lab rat, diminished and limited under somebody else's scrutinizing gaze, he just wanted to see her in action; see her crack under pressure, make sure her true intentions would be bare right in front of him for his eyes to judge whether she was worthy of their trust or not…
As if it was up to him to decide…
Feeling like a cornered beast, with her back trapped against the wall, the woman massaged her own temples trying to relax. No matter what Jack was trying to prove, she just couldn't bring herself to kill that man, regardless of his evident Talon connection. That man, just like her, deserved a second chance.
"Jack," she said, even when the sound of his name sounded too unrealistic, too unnatural for the both of them to even try to acknowledge the man behind those four letters, "we got what we wanted, shouldn't we…"
Morrison contemplated her expression change as the sounds coming from the microphones interrupted Amelie's words. Her mouth agape; her breathing, agitated and uneven. Her mind, long gone and drifting helplessly towards a past that was hers no more. Sounds of love and lust, intertwined with scattered pieces of dialogue, summoning the revelation - the woman and the man making love in the room across the street were not husband and wife.
She was his mistress. She was forbidden.
"What's wrong?" 76 asked, mildly concerned.
His question only brought her closer to the edge. The sickening parade of images she was crafting inside her convoluted mind was clouding her judgment: now she couldn't bring herself to envision that cheating pig as somebody deserving of a second chance – the idyllic notion of marriage she had cherished for so long was simply too sacred for her to justify what the man was doing to his wife.
"Amelie?"
The voice trying to summon her now wasn't helping at all. How many times had Morrison tried to convince Gerard that she wasn't woman enough for him?
She walked back to the window, embraced the brand new rifle that Overwatch had recently given her and let her fingers find the trigger.
"Widowmaker, wasn't it? Your call sign while working for Talon? Let's find out whether it was an accurate name for you or not."
Widowmaker.
The one that breaks families.
The one who tears apart the solemn bond between a husband and his wife.
The one that spreads her own corruption, the rotting symptoms of her own sins, all over the place.
The one who contaminates others with her own sad, sad story…
No.
No more.
She stood up and took a few steps back. Slowly, hesitatingly. She couldn't afford to cave in now. Wasn't that exactly what he wanted? To prove that she wasn't worth their time, that the Widowmaker was still pulsating inside of her, waiting for this new version of Amelie to finally invite her to come out and play?
Past the fear, and beyond the repulsion she was feeling, she witnessed the sounds beginning to change once again. Endless symphonies of lust, like a tidal wave reaching for her, were now caressing her confused ears. The second awakening. Sex, in its purest, simplest form; feelings she hadn't felt in such a long time – fingers roaming, hands reaching, arms soaring in the night.
Gerard.
Gerard had been the last man she had slept with, the last person she had allowed to explore the meridians of her body. The ancient touch of his loving agony, now buried underneath the thick veil of time, in the shape of countless years she had lost in the bonfire of oblivion. Years and years; entire seasons of her life that could never be recovered – a missing lover, a broken family, an entire universe of missing moments, like fragments and figments of her imagination, scattered somewhere in between dreams and reality. The feeling now, intoxicating and brand new, was trying to summon the woman she had once been. It was trying to wake her up from her slumber and guide her towards a light she couldn't quite recognize anymore. The face of desire, blurry and distorted just like her own future, offered no true solace for her troubled soul.
It was like watching a faceless ghost hover over her and cover her bones in its complex, burning white halo. The melting fusion of bodies coalescing into one common anima, whilst turning and tossing in bed, equally calling on angels and demons – carnality, it seemed, had a face she couldn't quite recall but, at the same time, it still felt oh so eerily familiar.
He watched her in silence; saw her longing for something that wasn't there, thriving almost maniacally, raptured inside the eclipsing symphonies they were both hearing.
Still, she looked so forlorn, he thought. So confused by the sounds and the memories… So disoriented by all those things she had been forced to leave behind, each and every single thing she had yet to feel again…
She saw him walk towards the window, positioning himself behind the scope; his experienced hands reaching for the trigger, activating the deadly mechanism – taking a life.
"No…" she whispered, brokenhearted. The man, lying dead on the bed now, with his arms spread out in front of his horrified lover, was the vision of a past so familiar it could still brand her skin with such impeccable wrath.
Blood. Blood on their bed.
Amelie's eyes, fixed on the bloody bedsheets, remembered the echoes of her own story. How she had killed her own husband in his sleep.
Blood. Blood on their bed.
76's rather radical take on justice had brought her back to her own room; to the bed she had once shared with the man she loved – to the very feeling she herself had been forced to destroy.
In the blink of an eye, she had lost everything – Morrison's tough determination had made her witness the most iconic image of her own past like a silent, helpless spectator forced to watch the reincarnation of their own worst nightmare.
A second bullet traveled from one room to the other, ending the shaken woman instantaneously. And there both lay, the unfaithful agent and his forbidden lover, naked and covered in blood, in a bed only destined to grow colder with each passing moment. The fire, extinguished.
She didn't say a word when Morrison grabbed her by her nearest arm and dragged her out of that room. Words were far beyond her now, and completely out of her reach. The audacity of that man… using her own rifle to end those people… her brand new rifle, the one Ana had given her, her new beginning… – he had corrupted her new beginning.
As they were walking down the corridor, Amelie looked over her shoulder only to see that murdered love just one last time. Like a scene of broken passion, tainted red and perpetually doomed to die the most cynical death over and over again.
Maybe that was the message, after all, she thought.
Perhaps there was no such thing as a new beginning for people like her.
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II – Name (Pray tell)
Relief came quickly, in the shape of an improvised extraction team. Hovering above them, the small ship sent by Overwatch was not only going to take them back to Gibraltar; it was also a reminder of just how small and almost insignificant that mission had been. Two young men were waiting for them, following Winston's orders as expected, dressed up in their brand new navy blue uniforms. A touch of distinction, Amelie thought bitterly – Just like the blue of her skin had mutated and turned into something new, the old blue that had ruled the organization in the past had changed now; yet it seemed darker now, denser than before.
The two aspiring agents, completely oblivious to the obvious discord between 76 and Lacroix, were simply there to accomplish their mission: get them back home safely; please their superiors and nothing more.
It was better that way – if they had sent Tracer, for example, the speedster should have noticed… yet these two kids, simply following orders and trying their best to become the new teacher's pets were some sort of panacea for both troubled soldiers.
They would ask no questions, after all.
Jack took a seat behind the pilot but didn't stay there for long. As soon as they were airborne he unfastened his seatbelt and walked to the back of the ship where the ex-Talon operative was sitting on her own.
He kneeled before her, observing those vacant eyes staring aimlessly at the heavens above, and all around. Many minutes passed – stretching the very concept of time into a whole new dimension. Her silence, so startling and calm at the same time, was beginning to get to him.
"Are you alright?" 76 asked for the hundredth time, trying to make amends. No matter just how much he had disliked the woman back then, and beyond his current, persistent mistrust towards her, truth was that if she was going to stay with Overwatch, antagonizing with her would prove itself pointless in time. They were on the same side now, he knew. Yet the woman still didn't say a word; it was painfully clear that the storm inside was making it impossible for her to muster whatever it took for her words to escape the prison of her tight lips. When she looked over her shoulder and graced him with a bittersweet grin her eyes could finally see his uneasiness growing stronger by the minute – of course, Morrison was never going to understand silence, she found herself pondering once more. Not in the way that Hanzo could…
Hanzo understood silence, he really did.
It nearly broke her heart to find him waiting for her, standing all alone by the hangar door. The dark bags surrounding his eyes were enough to let her know that he had stayed awake, waiting for the ship to bring her back home. He was nervous, she could tell, using his silence to shelter all his doubts.
She felt compelled to wrap her arms around him the second she set foot on the ground. Perhaps the gesture could not only quiet his fears but also mute the many ghosts talking loudly in her head. Hands reaching for his neck, shapes falling into place for the briefest and yet longest of times.
It was hard to explain – but she belonged there. Not in Gibraltar, not even in the organization. But in those arms. In that silence.
Even when he had never made such demands it was painful for the woman to admit that she still couldn't give him exactly what he wanted from her; that her silence and her borderline naïve affection would have to do. That the only thing she needed from him was his silent complicity; that even if they had created the weakest bond of all, she had never felt so safe. The fragility that such a strong man could provide was fascinating and frightening at the same time – keeping her near, almost gravitating towards him yet never fully landing.
He could sense the tension between the former Talon agent and the vigilante. It was palpable, menacing – disquieting like the dark clouds that precede the most vicious, villainous hurricane.
76 was walking behind them, the echo of his heavy footsteps a constant reminder that they were not alone. Once inside the facility both Hanzo and Amelie began to sense the hurried, quick steps guiding the man through the corridors – debriefing sessions were meant to be boring only this time, that man was tacitly offering a race and Amelie knew, instinctively, that refusing to join him was not even an option. Just as her own heels began to click harder against the concrete the archer grabbed her by the wrist and paused her march, even if only briefly.
Perhaps it was better that way, to let 76 go first. To just let him talk, tell them everything he had seen in her during the mission. She was strong, capable, confident… at least those were the words Hanzo would use to describe her now after the long path she had walked ever since her recovery. The image of that initial woman inside his head, mutating rapidly as days went by and reshaping her - from her imaginary fire he had envisioned in his mind to her resolution not to touch her own weapon – was no more than the shadow of the woman she had become under Ana's tutelage.
He stayed by her side when the vigilante's body disappeared behind the door, his hands resting on the sides of her waist ever so gently.
"Why are you so nervous?" the archer asked, noticing her slender figure shivering under his touch.
She had grown used to those hands of his, he knew, even if his touch had never dared to explore her beyond the crumbs she would always throw his way.
It took her a moment to find his eyes.
And yet another moment, longer, duller than the previous one, to collect her thoughts.
"I'm curious about my report," she said, "76 was sent to supervise me, so…"
She lied, but only partially. What else was she supposed to tell him? He had his faith in her, that much was painfully obvious – and his unquenchable thirst knew no boundaries: it was not merely romantic, it was also profoundly linked to a professional desire; the need to know that she was ready to become a full agent, that she was willing and able to fight the good fight – that the darkness that had enveloped her in the past was gone for good, that there was only light ahead.
She looked down, as if ashamed of her half-assed truths.
Yet she couldn't find the strength to tell him what had happened in that room – that 76 had shattered her balance with just two words; that the true identity hidden behind his voice had shaken her from within, igniting the fire of memories she thought lost to the agonizing flames of oblivion… that the scene taking place in the room across the street had awakened something inside, the feeling now unstoppable and stirring deep within. That the final scene with the lovers sleeping forever in a sea of blood would only haunt her endlessly during the nights, like a missing piece in the tenebrous puzzle that was her own past…
When minutes stretched themselves across the fabric of time, she held on tight to him, trying to find an anchor in the tranquil silhouette standing beside her. One by one they stack upon her shoulders, the doubts in her mind speaking of renewed uncertainties: what was taking them so long? She had done her job well after all – at least, the job they had assigned to her. What had happened after that could only belong in the convoluted mind of 76 and in his twisted, sick sense of justice, and even if the man had succeeded in his attempts of watching her crack under pressure, the woman was still positive it would not be enough to stain the good she had done.
Tension began to call her name when she noticed they had an audience. Rising from the pit of her stomach and constricting her throat all those younger faces were prying in on them as if anticipating each possible verdict.
Hanzo let go of her, even when his concerns were placed somewhere else: among the many faces surrounding them now, only one was missing.
"So, how did it go?" Mei asked, rubbing her hands together in anxious anticipation.
He could see how their friendly pressure was working against her. Their kind-hearted questions were suffocating her.
He looked sideways one last time, still trying to find the missing face amongst the sea of joviality displayed right before him – but to no avail.
But when the cowboy touched Amelie's hands ever so slightly and greeted her, the unwanted jolt of energy opened up the gates for her uneasiness to come to life. One last thought crossed her mind as she walked through the door: the mission had been simple, if Jack was taking that much time to debrief it, then it surely meant he was trying to convince the older members of the organization that she wasn't a good asset. Still, Overwatch was small and illegal – but if they were truly determined to seek international validation once more they couldn't afford to exclude competent agents based on personal disputes.
Amelie left the door opened as she pinned her feet to the ground – the young spectators that had gathered around the two snipers followed her closely inside the conference room, some of them were even craning their necks trying to, at least, get a glimpse of the facial reactions going on inside that room. Hanzo stayed where he was, his back still glued to the wall, waiting for the scene to finally end.
As expected, the faces waiting on the other side of the door welcomed the group with stunned expressions. No matter how much had changed, some things were bound to remain the same: respect for protocols, still at the very top of that list.
76 stood up the second he saw her. His hands at the side of his waist, and that petulant smirk of his adorning his face once again.
Ana was about to speak when she spotted her daughter's velvety black hair among the crowd that had gathered around the door. Pinching the bridge of her nose, the old sniper let out a loud sigh and placed both her hands on the table, staring intently at 76.
"This is what I was just telling you about," the vigilante said calmly, even when the general atmosphere of the room had been strained by tension. "Her skills are intact, but I wouldn't trust her instincts on the field. She lets her emotions overwhelm her – she lacks control…"
A worried Angela interrupted him, her arms quickly making way through the curious crowd:
"Are you implying that there could be some problems regarding Amelie's neural functionality after removing Talon's reconditioning?"
76 folded his arms over his chest and the disdainful smirk on his face disappeared as if it had never existed.
"You are the doctor. I just gave my professional opinion about her recent performance." He said, "I'm not saying that we shouldn't have done what we did – she deserved to be free of Talon's conditioning, and I'm positive we made the world a safer place by erasing the Widowmaker. But perhaps we shouldn't have recruited her. Maybe we should have just let her be free to live her own life." His tone, more amicable now, was trying to make amends with the harshness of his speech. "Maybe that's what we should do: let her go. Let her be free."
"If we let her go – if we let her be free, Talon will try to get her back," Winston affirmed.
"We could keep an eye on her, guard her, make sure she's safe." 76 offered.
A long gap of silence filled the air. But once again, that deafening sound had nothing to do with the pleasant lack of sounds that only the archer could provide. She looked over her shoulder, trying to find his face in the crowd – but he wasn't there. Still, she could sense him near, could sense he was listening to that same silence.
And he was.
With his hands balled up into furious fists.
The old German crusader considered the words said by 76 – "That doesn't sound like freedom to me…" He let out, contemplatively.
Standing by the door, nearly petrified by the words she had just heard, Amelie opened her mouth but no words left her lips – too many thoughts were swimming furiously inside her head, trying to even articulate them into reasonable sentences was beyond her now.
All eyes were on her now.
And the feeling was eerily disturbing.
The older members of Overwatch, still gathered around the large circular table, were staring at her with eyes tainted by doubt. The younger agents crowded together by the door were giving her looks of complete desolation, worry and concern now written all over their faces just as if she was a broken doll no one could repair.
76, making his way to the door, had played her right from the start.
As he walked past her, she finally allowed one of her hands to touch him.
"Why didn't you save me?" She asked, her lifeless voice reverberating all across the room. "Before I could kill your friend, before I could hurt Ana?"
She took a step forward, shortening the distance between them.
"You saved so many people… why couldn't you save me as well?" her voice, gradually coming to life, was beginning to sing the song they had tried not to listen to for so long. "You took this organization between your hands and toyed with it and everyone inside it until you broke it. Still, they take care of you – they listen to you. I was treated like an animal when I first arrived here…" She paused for a moment, remembering her first days in Gibraltar. "The hero, the poster boy… the one who got the statue… where were you, Jack Morrison, when we needed you the most?"
She could feel the crack dividing the ground beneath her feet.
She could feel the black void swallowing them all into such unreachable depths.
Pitch black, like night itself. Godless and sacred at the same time.
The fracture dividing them all, alive once again.
As she turned around and started to leave she could see the palpable doubts reflected all over their faces: the younger ones, the ones who hadn't been around back in the day. Could see a million questions suffocating the ones in the middle: the ones who had cried for him, the ones who still missed him. Silence enveloped her shape then, encompassing the countless answers resting inside the souls and minds of the older members. The ones who knew. The ones who had chosen not to say a word.
She walked through the door, looking down.
She could see it: the fracture dividing the ground once more.
A brand new fracture.
The same old man.
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III – Midnight Theorems I (The first night)
As soon as she left the conference room, she began to wander aimlessly around the base until the moonlight became visible through the curtains. It was like visiting a ghost town, in a way, knowing that everyone was still inside that room, demanding explanations. A part of her felt sorry for them – the old and the young ones. The old ones would surely have to face reproach while the younger ones, the ones who had poured their hearts all over Morrison's loss, were now sinking in a sea of useless tears.
They had mourned somebody who hadn't died.
That man had walked right through the door, had looked them in the eye – and he had lied to them.
When every deserted corridor and every single closed door began to fully shape the labyrinth of twisted thoughts inside her head, her feet led her to the only place she knew she would feel welcome.
His room.
The chamber of his precious silence.
She knocked on his door and waited patiently for the archer to come to her. Grateful as she was that he hadn't chased after her after leaving the conference room, now she was positive that the solace she was seeking could not be granted by anyone other than him. Sage, Shimada – had given her the time and space she needed, in the inconspicuous shape of his absence, molded inside his most metaphorical presence.
But she didn't throw her arms around him when he opened the door. She simply motioned her dormant body inside his private room – a limited, sterile place where his ancient roots could only live in the shape of decorative souvenirs.
He let her use his shower and lent her one of the many training t-shirts Overwatch had given him.
"They must hate me now," Amelie whispered, sitting down on his bed.
His body barely moved underneath the bedsheets. His eyes trained on his own hands, as if afraid to find her gaze.
"They have better things to worry about." He said, sounding harsher than he would have wanted. Still, she knew he was right: before worrying about what she had done, they would have to learn how to trust each other again.
"But I caused this," she sobbed, "All of this."
"No," his hand, leaving his stomach and landing gracefully on her nearest shoulder, made her turn around, "you exposed it." She felt his hand pulling her body down, and closer to his. With a swift movement of her legs, the woman made her way into his bed, finally allowing her head to rest against his warm chest.
It felt natural, in a way, like the expected progression of their bond. It worked that way, or so it seemed, after nearly two months of getting closer and closer to each other. Almost intimately, yes - but not romantically. Loyally, yet not ruled by the paradigmatic voices of adoration. It still amazed her how, without having to use a single word, they had successfully put themselves in such a place. This time, the very first time when she would be asking him if she could stay, she wouldn't even have to use words to let him know, and his approbation, mutually muted, would find her in return.
She had let her own cowardice blind her more than once – always on the verge of asking, always wanting – but never staying.
As Hanzo busied himself, tangling and untangling his fingers in her wet hair, the troubled woman closed her eyes for a brief moment, cherishing the soft ministrations and the immaculate silence the archer was giving her.
Still, his voice, softer than usual, brought her back to reality.
"What's the story between you and that man?" Hanzo inquired.
She shifted in his arms, insecure.
"Do you know who that man really is?"
"I don't know the story – but I know who Jack Morrison was." Of course he knew, she figured. Being a former crime lord, a Yakuza man, he surely knew the names of the ones trying to take him down. Morrison, just like her own husband and the rest of the agents of Overwatch, had once been his enemies. "I thought he was dead."
Her lips created a perfectly straight line and she soon found herself scoffing at the archer:
"That's the problem with the people in Overwatch – they don't like being dead for too long."
He pulled her closer against his chest – the gesture more affectionate than romantic. Still, she stayed in the warmth he had to offer, savoring the manufactured familiarity of it all.
"They all came back," she whispered, "Mei, Tracer, Jack, Ana, your brother… and the list goes on. The only one who never made it back, the only one stupid enough to remain dead was Gerard."
He offered her his renewed silence, the voiceless understanding she was seeking from him.
As expected, she didn't have to ask him if she could stay and spend the night.
His arms and his silence, like a house he had built all around her to keep her safe, were eloquent enough for the both of them.
He truly seemed to be able to understand everything.
He really did.
He would have been the perfect man for the job.
.
.
.
IV – The True Face of a Dragon
A timid kiss landed on his cheek, as the tepid winds of a new day made the curtains dance almost as if a ghost had tried to whisper hello.
Early morning, she left his room in silence.
Dawn had barely begun to grace the rooftops with its yellowish incandescence. The disquieting tranquility of those corridors seemed to echo the laments of those hearts that had been broken by her careless revelation the day before.
It was weird, seeing the place like that for the very first time since her arrival – early morning was a ritual in itself; crowded corridors and the perpetual voices coming from each room to receive the brand new day were the most common elements anyone could find every single day, in the mundanity of Gibraltar.
Perhaps a name meant more than an identity, she pondered, as her ears began to receive the only sounds breaking the silence.
Tired footsteps, the dynamism of clicking metal against the concrete – armor, and youth, collided into one single being.
His brother.
Now she understood who he had been searching for the day before. It had been truly obvious: of all the faces that had gathered in front of the conference room, of all souls seeking answers – Genji hadn't been one of them.
He was walking down the same corridor as her, only in the opposite direction.
He was walking towards her.
His head down, shoulders screaming for some rest.
He wasn't wearing a mask this time. He was carrying his helmet in his hand, balancing the metal against yet more metal as his fingers danced before him.
She tried hard not to look. Tried hard not to stare. It could be potentially rude, she knew.
"Hello," He said, as he walked on by. And his gentle voice guided her chin upwards, her eyes already searching – her education longing to reciprocate the cordial gesture.
She tripped as soon as her eyes explored his visage. Cold fingers landing gracefully at the sides of her shoulders, keeping her from falling.
He smiled, tenderly, before walking on by.
And there she stood, in the epicenter of that deserted corner of the base, looking over her shoulder, observing Genji disappear from her sight. The vision was already tattooed on her brain – his naked face, his warm sympathy still there, in spite of everything.
She felt the air leaving her mouth.
She would never be able to look at the Widowmaker right in the eye, but for the first time since meeting the archer, the very ghost haunting his troubled spirit had finally acquired a face. A scarred face, contaminated by the ashes of a pain that still refused to go away; a pain bound to remain by his side, defining his brother's skin and deconstructing the ones they had been before.
It made her feel sad – to see the lie standing naked before her: both brothers were thinking they had found their freedom, they were thinking that, each in their own way, were making their own ways in life but that wasn't true: Genji still was what Hanzo had made of him, and Hanzo was still what the clan had forced him to be. They would never be fully free of those darker specters: peace and liberty would forever be stained by the flags of their past.
Hanzo's change was more physical than real – the man struggling beneath this renewed body was still struggling. And he would forever remain that way: struggling, fighting the one living underneath his own skin.
The beast she had seen, the blue of its wicked magnificence…
It was hard for the woman to acknowledge the face she had just seen for what it truly was but still she tried, until the thought became crystal clear: Genji's scarred face was the real intervention of Hanzo in his brother's life, and to find that face somehow mirroring the real intervention of Talon in her own life was making her feel uneasy now that the archer's face had shown in the theater of her mind. It pained her to realize that all the connections the archer had been so adamantly trying to find between them were paling in comparison to the brand new bridge she had discovered: she could see her own hell imprinted vividly on Genji's face. The wounds that would hurt them forever were real – like every single scar she had seen on that visage, like each one of the tattoos illustrating her otherwise immaculate body.
Genji's wounds were Hanzo's testimony.
And the spiders crawling all over her skin were Widowmaker's.
Every single feeling she held in her for the archer began to coalesce into one chaotic shade; like an unreadable prism, casting all colors at the same time and hurting her eyes.
The awakening had finally begun to take its toll on her.
So many feelings and emotions had been put to rest by Talon that now they all seemed to be struggling to get out. All those images she had seen, all those ones she had yet to see, were now walking past her in a perpetual gallery of mirages she could not fully understand – their shades and shadows tainting her world in colors she could not fully identify.
She sighed, almost soundlessly, then turned around and left.
.
.
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V – Selected Mistakes
That dreadful day stretched itself through time for as long as humanly possible. Languid hours, filled with tension and reproach, contaminated the entire bay, trapping everyone inside its insidious cage.
She found him again that very same day, late at night, all alone in the kitchen with a smoky cup of green tea resting between his artificial fingers and with his elbows, as if defeated, resting on the lonely table before him.
Amelie walked up to him yet froze in place just a few inches away from the table before sinking down on the chair right in front of him, as if waiting for permission. It surprised her when the young ninja, instead of voicing an answer, simply reached the back of his skull, proceeded to remove his helmet and addressed her with his eyes.
There was an unexpectedly peaceful element inside his honeyed gaze – perhaps his time with Zenyatta had provided him with such a lovely trait. His eyes traveled back to the cup in front of him and then back up to the woman keeping him company now: without saying a single word the younger Shimada offered her his tea, extending his fingers parsimoniously in her direction.
His tea and his eyes, like silent offerings of his most intimate sort of peace, began to make her feel comfortable after such a long and miserable day.
"Why don't you drink it yourself?" The woman questioned, as her fingers ventured the distance and reached out for the cup.
Genji shook his head in silence, before sighing softly.
"It was for Angela. But she's not going to drink it. So why don't you taste it, before it grows cold?"
The sweet scent of jasmine and green leaves mesmerized her for a brief moment.
"Where is Angela?"
Genji looked over his shoulder and back at Amelie's curious stare. Then he signaled the second door to his left.
"Her room. Turns out I'm more of a calm down kind of guy. Jesse is the true consoling type."
She was confused by his simple elocution but chose not to ask any questions.
"So, what is it like?" He asked, casually, "Having to spend so much time with someone like Hanzo?"
There was a strange tone wrapped up around his voice – much like a subtle implication, or a rather sophisticated sense of bitterness.
"I don't have to spend time with him. I choose to – there's a difference." She offered quietly, once again choosing not to ask any questions, this time, regarding the true meaning of the words someone like Hanzo.
"I see…" He said in all simplicity, folding his arms over his chest and observing her as she finished her tea. "At least tell me how he's been doing."
She cocked her head to the side, lightly, taken aback by his sudden question.
"I brought him here because I wanted to have him near; see if the bond between brothers could be repaired, somehow." He paused to offer her an intensified gaze, "But you've been taking up most of his time lately."
It was hard for the woman to understand if he was being friendly or not. His words felt like an exceedingly intricate maze she could not escape from: one minute he was gentle and kind, the next one he felt bitter and sharp.
Perhaps the whole Morrison affair was beginning to take its toll on him too.
"Don't get me wrong," he said, raising both his hands in a defensive stance, "I think it's good for him to spend some time with a woman – reminds me of when we were little, he would always scare them off with his uptight solemnity. If anything, I'm grateful you're taking the time to sentimentally educate him, especially considering you've been through a lot yourself."
A sentimental education… Was there such a thing?
"We're not sleeping together." She rushed her answer.
Genji shrugged, unpreoccupied.
"I never said you were."
None of the scars exhibited all over his face could masquerade the sultry implications of his gestures. Like a scarlet-colored flag, the former playboy made himself visible in the shape of that reconstructed existence of his.
"It's the creases of the language, don't you agree?" he said, "Because you are sleeping with my brother – or at least you slept with him, he told me that much. But you're not sleeping with him."
In her mind, she pictured the broken lovers once again. Their blood had precipitated her answer. And now she had to pay for letting them get the best of her. She tried her best to formulate an intelligible answer, something, anything to say to him but she found herself coming up short every time – their bloody kind of love was still contaminating her every thought, and as the faces coalesced into just one big mess of red, both the archer and her dead husband found themselves trapped inside that room, the receding lights of their broken bodies slowly leaving her. The magnificent dragon, crimson and wounded, trying to soar through its painful last flight.
The ninja leaned in closer, as if he could actually see inside the furious images firing up her mental screen.
"Do you feel as if you'd be betraying him?" he asked, visibly moved, "Your late husband?" artificial fingers broke the distance separating them.
He cupped her hand with his own, with eyes about to rain, as if lost in a painful memory of his own.
"The first time feels like you're backstabbing them – the ones we left behind." He said tenderly. "You explore a new body and somehow you wish you could turn it into something else, a combination of both bodies, perhaps... You feel like apologizing to both: the memory you're betraying and the one who's actually with you."
He stopped, abruptly, and removed his hand.
That door had been sealed for far too long. It was best for it to stay that way.
She watched him in silence, as he gradually regained his composure. He had just invited her into a blurry portion of his past that he clearly could not control – like a macabre pendulum swinging right before her stupefied eyes, his fractured story was almost hypnotizing her.
She saw his eyes, swimming into focus once again – a clear sight that knew no mist, that endured no hazy tragedies.
"He told you I slept in his room last night?" She finally asked.
Genji nodded in silence, almost on the verge of thanking her for not trying to delve deeper into the ghost that had just dawned deep within him.
"It's a good thing then, I guess," She let out pensively, "If he managed to tell you that much, you must be bonding nicely. Even if it's over me, and even if it's in a rather indiscreet manner…"
He looked down, but not in shame. A tender smile took over his lacerated face, then. Brief, but unmistakably eloquent.
"I'm having a hard time coping with this Jack Morrison revelation. Seems I cannot bring myself to fully take it in stride." He said, pensively, as his eyes darted around the room, finally breaking eye contact, "If I said something that made you upset or uncomfortable, I apologize."
Amelie shook her head in silent contemplation. She didn't know his story, and she knew she was in no position to ask him to open up to her and let her in. Still, the blazing truth he had said was setting her soul on fire: it did feel like a betrayal, she knew. Every touch, every shared moment of silence: it felt like backstabbing Gerard's lifeless body. It was like killing him all over again.
She felt compelled to apologize for what she had done, even when she still didn't know the true extent of Genji's involvement in the whole Morrison ordeal.
Reaching out to him, she let her warm fingers find his artificial wrists.
She squeezed gently, sensing his fears.
"She didn't know." He said, "Angela. None of us knew but she… she said she had her suspicions, but she didn't know it was really him behind that visor."
"Then you should be with her now," Amelie whispered softly, as she let go of him.
"I told you: I'm more of a calm down sort of guy. Jesse is the one consoling her now."
He stared at the empty cup resting right before his eyes. Then her figure became a blurry landscape moving in the background, as she stood up and walked away. He stayed there for a while longer, still sitting all alone in the quiet kitchen.
"So, any celebrities you've danced with?" He asked, taking her hand in his.
"Ballerinas are not celebrities," she said, smiling tenderly at him. "Sure some names are bigger than others but… well, there was someone: Amelie Lacroix, she was very good… Though the real celebrity was her husband, Gerard Lacroix, an Overwatch agent."
The young man shook his head in silence: Overwatch agents were indeed celebrities, the world treated them as such; there was no doubt about it.
"What you mean 'was'?" He asked, snaking his arms around her waist, "She retired?"
"She disappeared."
His rage summoned by the old visions; the empty cup, colliding helplessly against the floor, shattered and broke into countless tiny fragments. But much like the pieces of all those distant memories he had just begun to recover, there was no use trying to put it all back together now.
.
.
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VI – Midnight Theorems II or The Monsters That Live in Our Dreams (The second night)
There were too many people on that bed. Even if she couldn't see them, even though they weren't there, she could still feel their ghostly presences hover over her.
It was good having him all for her again. Even if it was just a dream – even if she knew she was only dreaming. The body she had known was there for her, sheltering her once more from the world outside that room. His arms, like strong walls secluding her in his intimate type of affection, were guiding the dance once again, after eternities without him, after countless hours of dreamless dreams.
Her skin was blue.
Cold to the touch, deprived of all feeling.
She climbed on top of him and positioned herself. Graced by his silent admiration, she welcomed him again into the depths of her dormant body – the heat emanating from his core fulfilling her once more. Her every desire, moved by the rhythm of her body, was finding an echo in Gerard's calm satisfaction: each gesture she had come to adore, every change in his features…
The man snaked his arms around her waist and sat down on the bed. He looked over his shoulder minutely – perhaps he could sense their presence too. With eyes closed, he allowed his lips to find her breasts, like blue mountains guiding his way through the night. Beacons of lust and love, cold and mesmerizing. When his tongue began to circle one of her nipples she felt him stop, all motions of his body coming to a sudden halt. He looked up, offering her a puzzled look.
Damn, she was cold.
And his warmth was not enough to make her feel the heat. Instead, her skin was making him cold, as he shivered, and questioned her with desperate, silent eyes.
She tried to hold on to him, wrapping his face in her hands and bringing him closer to her. The kiss felt alive, yet his lips were dead and unmoving. When she let go of him she saw the blood covering her blue fingers, the wounds around his skull and the scarlet rivers pooling around her legs.
There were too many people on that bed.
As the blue woman cradled her dying husband in her arms, like a brokenhearted mother rocking her child to eternal sleep, she heard the sobs and the desperate pleas: the young lady she had seen in the hotel, crying over her man's dead body and staring at her with reddened eyes. The simultaneity of their stories, converging in the cruel desolation of a bed made of death, made her close her eyes and wish it all away. She ordered herself to wake up but when her eyes swam back into focus, she realized she was still trapped inside that room.
Gerard had died once again.
Then she heard the gunshot, ending the woman instantaneously. The ocean of blood had painted her whole world red yet her skin was still blue and cold, inalterable in all its mutilated essence. Only a few crimson drops, like beads of a profane rosary, were left to stain the soulless paradigm of her body.
When she finally opened her eyes and realized that it had just been a dream, she felt deceived by her own senses. She stared at her own hands as if actually expecting to see Gerard's blood covering them – yet her immaculate fingers had nothing to show, nothing but the emptiness of a disturbing dream.
As if guided by the enchanting song of a mermaid, Amelie left her bed and made her way to the storage deposit. There she found them, the venom mines that Overwatch had confiscated from her the night they brought her in. Small and deadly, cold and appealing, that poison whispered mad tales of sins and desolation.
Before she knew it, one of the crystal spiders was resting on the palm of her hand. It would be so easy to use it, so easy to inflict pain and allow that cold blue to overcome her once again – perhaps the Widowmaker could do that for her, maybe she could anesthetize her conflicting emotions, maybe she could put her sorrow to rest.
Frightened by her own thoughts, she left the venom mines where she had found them and abandoned that place. The empty corridors led the way for her, her long legs welcoming the cold of Gibraltar's lowest hours. His door appeared before her eyes, like a guiding North in a broken compass or a possible horizon for a wounded castaway. Breathing through parted lips, she let her hands touch the metallic barrier separating her from him yet she couldn't bring herself to knock on his door, so she simply pushed it open, as silently as she could, and made her way to his bed.
He looked so peaceful while he slept…
She knelt down on the floor before his bed, reaching out, her hands caressed his temples.
"Don't you think it's all a dream?" she whispered.
He opened his eyes and sat up on the bed, his arms, like solid bridges, lifting her up and pulling her close.
"Can I stay the night?"
"You don't need to ask."
Curling up beside him, she let her head rest on his bare chest.
"I killed Gerard in my sleep again tonight." She said.
He answered nothing. It was pointless to even try to tell her that he had already killed Genji a million times in his dreams. Every new dream was darker than the one before. More violent. More tormenting and vicious.
When she used her elbows to shift her position in bed and looked him in the eye, he could sense the void inside swallowing her whole. He watched her in silence as she took off her clothes – the anatomy of pain and frustration that she had to offer differed greatly from the pristine body he had envisioned in his mind.
When she pressed her lips against his he felt the ghosts fly over them. His thin lips did not reciprocate the kiss, still, he breathed into her mouth:
"It's hard to see you as a woman when the only name that escapes your mouth is Gerard."
He could offer her many things. His silent comprehension, his devoted affection, even his confused love, still at the verge of his own sentimental awakening – but he could never bring himself to offer her his body as an empty vessel for her tired mind to toy with.
She stared intently at him, eyes confused yet exhibiting signs of understanding. It was unfair to force him to play this sort of game, she knew. It was wrong to utilize his body as a catalyst for her to be free of her own demons – not when she still could not bring herself to think of him as a man. At least, not yet.
She covered her body with the bedsheets and turned her back to him, ashamed. She was offering him a body he could not call his own – as if he wasn't allowed to think of her as a woman; he was being forced to watch her undress and long for him in a macabre way.
Perhaps she wasn't feeling woman enough. Perhaps it was her way to replicate her power over him, he pondered.
"My skin was blue," She said, her voice nearly extinguished.
"You won't return to Talon, Amelie," Hanzo whispered, caressing her shoulder. "Should you ever find yourself in such a situation, I'll stop you. You have my word."
Only then she finally allowed herself to cry. When she felt his arms wrapped up around her stomach, she exhaled and closed her eyes – yet sleep was still elusive for her. Images of those bodies, the blood staining the blue and Gerard's final breath were still haunting her. The blazing flames of that ancient lust, washing over her and waking up needs she hadn't felt in such a long time – "In that hotel – I watched a couple having sex," she finally confessed, "it's hard to explain, but as I was watching them, I could feel something stirring inside. I could hear an old voice trying to guide me through the darkness." She turned around, staring at him, still trapped in his arms, "I want to feel that again."
He understood then, that the many years she had spent with Talon had repressed her every emotion and now that they had opened up the gates again, everything she hadn't felt during that time was rushing its way inside her, overwhelming her with a million conflicting emotions.
He remembered the night when he showed her the beast – her lips tasting his for the first time.
It pained him to realize she hadn't awoken that day, he hadn't been enough for her to finally open her eyes. His kiss had only brought her closer to the edge, but she had not fully crossed that line.
Maybe his brother was right.
Maybe he had never been sentimentally educated. How could he bring himself to shine his light on her, when he was still living in the dark?
.
As soon as she noticed that Hanzo was asleep, she got up, dressed up again and left his room in silence. Back in the endless corridors of Gibraltar, her legs didn't stop until the cold breeze coming from the bay became a reality colliding against her skin.
There she saw the cowboy's shape, sitting alone, facing the water. A cigarette pressed between his lips and the melancholic aura that would always accompany him.
She approached him silently, sitting down beside him.
He was wearing nothing but his underwear, yet he didn't seem to mind the cold. Love marks had tattooed his neck yet he didn't seem happy.
She remembered such marks, just as she remembered love.
She remembered the thrill and the longing.
Yet the desolation written all over his face was narrating a completely different tale. He was reluctant to speak at first, though he wasn't exactly hostile either. When his cigar became a memory, his lips were finally free to tell the story. Angela was theirs. Shared. She belonged with them: the ninja and the cowboy. Jesse had been the first man she had loved, and the pulsating memory of their rekindled past had recently been brought back to life. But she was also Genji's. And that was alright with them.
Love was meant to be simple, she remembered.
It was supposed to flow from one person to another, and maybe triangulate and reach yet another person willing to share that same devotion. For them, it worked that way.
She contemplated his warmed up face as he told her about his loves – different types of love, they were, but they all belonged in the same symphony of feelings.
It was, indeed, such a simple thing.
But the threat of a complication was knocking on their door: when McCree left Blackwatch many years ago, leaving Angela alone, she had found solace in the comforting arms of Jack Morrison. But then the man had gotten himself killed oh so recklessly. Both Jesse and Jack had left her all alone – and Genji could not help her, still trying to recognize himself in the shape of that artificial body they had given him…
After the recall, they had found their missing balance. All wounds had healed up. It was simple.
She was theirs and they were hers. It worked that way.
But finding out that Morrison was alive, that he had been there all along, sitting at their table, laughing at their jokes…
"Turns out I'm more of a calm down kind of guy. Jesse is the true consoling type." Genji's words were ringing in her ears with the virulence of an enraged god – The man that Angela had loved had looked her in the eye and had chosen to lie to her. "She didn't know… Angela. None of us knew but she… she said she had her suspicions, but she didn't know it was really him behind that visor."
The balance they had found in each other, the perfect cycle of shared love was facing its darkest hour. And they didn't even have to say it out loud, it was written all over their faces: their plural kind of love could not sustain another actor. Their community had been compromised, and she had been the one resurrecting the dead.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, feeling guilty and powerless, finally acknowledging the true extent of her thoughtless actions.
McCree nodded his head in silence and turned his back to her.
It was meant to be simple – like silence. She lowered her head and went back to the corridor. Looking for that door. Looking for that silence.
.
Her slender figure, even if featherlike and graceful as it landed on the bed, should have been enough for the former mercenary to open his eyes. It was unlike him, to be so far from her reach while traveling the ethereal confines of slumber. Her paperweight body shifted on the mattress as she reached out for the archer with one adventurous hand – he barely moved under her touch, a minuscule, nearly imperceptible bridge between his eyebrows was all the proof she needed to understand he was somewhat aware of her presence. Still, the Japanese man wouldn't grace her curiosity with his imperturbable gaze. Far from it, his body turned and tossed on the bed - one muscular arm soared in the night, exposing the ancestral beast.
The dancer smiled quietly as she placed her hands on her knees and watched him sleep. There was something so peaceful about him – something so eerily foreign, wrapping him up in a laconic sense of peace that, she knew, was his no more.
Peace wasn't something they could bargain. People like them – they simply could not wager.
She extended one of her arms and let it hover gracefully over his shoulder. Pale and long digits meandered across his illustrated skin as if desperately trying to commit the shapes and colors to memory. Then the woman leaned over him, her body lingering nearby, the smile on her lips already caressing his arm.
He moved again, causing the woman to lift her hand instinctively. That wasn't her room, that wasn't her bed and her midnight escapade could potentially make her look like a moody teenager. Just as she tried to prop herself up with her elbows like she had done earlier that night, the archer turned again in his sleep and trapped her fragile figure under his torso. It was pointless to even try to get away from such an awkward position, she figured – any movement would be enough to wake him up.
It was true that she was longing to spend the night with him, but she had never imagined she would have to spend the night under him, and pray her bones were strong enough to survive that suffocating weight of his.
As Amelie closed her eyes and tried to join him in the lands of unspoken dreams, she found herself smiling at the irony – even when she still couldn't quite discern why she had decided to go back to his bedchamber this late at night, it was funny to think that such a cold-blooded mercenary like Hanzo would not notice a stranger coming into his room.
She bit the insides of her gums trying to contain the laughter. The assassin, the man who would have been in charge of the Shimada clan was completely at her mercy – she could have killed him a thousand times already…
The smile curling up her lips remained yet the colors had now changed.
Suddenly she realized he really was at her mercy.
She tried to shake herself out of that thought – they had helped her after all; Talon's corruption was not painting her world black anymore. Then why was she feeling like that? So tempted by blood, so desperate to hurt him…
She moved under him until she was able to free one of her hands. Her lascivious digits traveled across his collarbone, nails leaving red trails of fire that had nothing to do with the ever tempting flames of desire. When the first rivulets of blood appeared and began to stream down his torso, her dark smile faded.
Her lips became a thin, tight line.
She had hurt him.
As her hand landed on his skin again, eager to clean the blood and hide what she had done, the archer cupped her hand in his and opened his eyes. He didn't look surprised to find her there – maybe he had always known, all along, ever since she got on her tiptoes and walked through the door…
There was a brief moment of silence; interrupted only by the sounds of the bedsheets moving as he allowed her some space to maneuver – to maneuver, not to leave the bed. Just as if nothing had happened, the archer rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes again. His arms wrapped around her waist and his hands landing on her smooth stomach.
Suddenly it was natural, or so it seemed. To be able to share a bed without even mentioning it. To draw blood from his skin for no reason, without even saying "I'm sorry."
Hanzo could sense her uneasiness. Her eyes glued to the ceiling; her arms crossed over her chest.
He rested his chin on her shoulder and exhaled loudly yet he still refrained from talking. He knew himself – knew how the words tended to sound when coming out of his mouth – too harsh, too abrasive.
"Sometimes I feel like hurting people for no reason," Amelie finally confessed, holding on to him. "What if Talon's…"
He cut her off as he hid his face between her neck and her chest:
"That's not Talon, Amelie – that's human nature."
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