Author's notes: Last chapter of the year! I hope you enjoy! Have yourselves a merry Christmas and an awesome 2018!
Variations on a Theme
Act VI
A Sentimental Education
"I speak as if he had no secrets from me. Well, then, you must know I was suffering from love and I knew him as intimately as I knew my own image in a mirror. In other words, I knew him only in relation to myself."
Angela Carter – A souvenir of Japan (Burning Your Boats – The Collected Short Stories)
Part A
The Storm
"To hate something that you used to love is such a painful feeling."
Ciel Phantomhive - Kuroshitsuji
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I – Watch Your Mouth
It was hard not to think about the most mechanical aspects of sex.
The activity, so intrinsically human, still derived from the most basal of instincts; past all feelings and emotions, beyond the flesh and the shared sentiment – it still was, indeed, such a mechanical endeavor.
McCree had never complained about angry sex. He understood others needed it to express themselves – loved ones, even occasional companions. He understood, after all, that by turning his body into a catalyst he could at least provide them with a moment of carnal understanding. It was the least he could do, he knew, to make sure the ones he loved would feel better.
A selfless lover, that's what he was: a simple man, always ready to look the other way and suppress his own methods if that helped them – even if that meant quieting the voices swimming inside his head for he knew, he was almost certain of it: when words can't say anything, talking becomes a burden.
Solitude and alcohol, his greatest allies during troublesome times, were simply not enough for others. But he was – his body, that is, the temple of his humanity.
Life didn't grace him with any real, approachable opportunities until it was much too late for him but even so, and even then, the notion that chance and choice were simply not the same had always resounded inside his head, like a lackluster echo always eager to remind him of everything he could have been. Unlike the ones he loved, he had never been given the chance to attend a fancy college, nor life had provided him with the opportunity to grow and bloom inside an organization yet he knew, and they knew, he was the only one who could teach them things they were never going to learn at school.
A real enabler, that's what he was. Sensei. Humble in his teachings, never judging them for their shortcomings or their twisted needs – always eager to receive whatever they had to give.
A man that takes and waits, ever so patiently, because he understands that the time for words will come, eventually.
Only this time, it doesn't.
"You could have at least taken your helmet off," he breathed out, his legs still tangled up around the bedsheets, "Eye contact's still a thing these days, y'know?" A sweaty palm landed on the Sparrow's back – his body more human than what the common eye could see – and the younger man curved his waist until he leaned quietly into the touch. Still, no words would escape his mouth, not even a sound. Nothing.
There was a renewed tension inside that man. He had been acting weird lately.
Every time he would speak to his brother the whole world would go up in flames.
"Still nothing?" McCree mumbled helplessly.
Nothing.
Jesse propped himself up with his hands and looked over the window: it had been raining for hours and even if the storm was being gentle, it still had him trapped inside that room with a man that wouldn't talk to him. Resting his head back on the pillow again, the cowboy closed his eyes and breathed out through parted lips: he was exhausted, still, sleep seemed determined to evade him. When he sat down on the bed, looked over his shoulder and punched the pillow at his back the Sparrow gave him a puzzled look –
"What?" He asked, surprised to see that gesture of absolute despondence taking over the cowboy's face. "It was good, wasn't it?"
The older man nodded, but now it was his time to remain silent. He could understand their needs, could even understand stress and sorrow but the idea had already blossomed inside his head and the thought was beginning to take root and contaminate him: perhaps the bond between the brothers was shattered beyond repair – perhaps trying was pointless, and their endless struggle could only hurt the ones around the two of them.
He could see it inside Hanzo's eyes as well; that point when words simply stop being relevant, when the greatest decision of all begins to weight down upon them.
Is it really worth it?
"Are you giving me the silent treatment now?" Genji went on, folding his arms across his torso.
Nothing.
"Well, you certainly enjoyed that, so…"
The cowboy rolled on his side and closed his eyes again knowing a bit too well that even the most innocuous of words would be enough to set the whole room on fire. A precarious kiss landed on his shoulder, cold and artificial, just like metal.
"You got goosebumps all over your skin," Genji whispered as he leaned closer, "I sort of miss that, in a way – the weather has become one less thing for me to worry about."
"What is that supposed to mean?" The cowboy asked as he sat down on the bed once more, his fingers already reaching for the pack of smokes resting on the bedside table.
The Sparrow reached out to him, as his hands stopped him before he could even choose a cigarette. He stared deeply into his eyes, even when the green lights of his visor didn't seem to notice the cowboy's presence.
"Don't smoke in my room." He sentenced.
There he was again – changing like the tide, insufferably jumping from victim to executioner in a mere matter of seconds.
Standing up and leaving the bed, McCree walked towards the window to check if it was still raining outside. His naked silhouette, contrasting the darkness of the room, was casting a light of its own as the pale moon fought its way through the canopy of dense, dark clouds in the sky.
"Are you like this because you can't seem to be able to talk to your brother without fighting?" The older man let out timidly, resting his forehead against the glass before him. "Is it because you miss Angela?" He added, acknowledging the fact that Genji's unspoken answer could hide the fact that maybe; just maybe, he wasn't enough for the younger Shimada.
Hydraulics hissed as the Sparrow approached the lonely cowboy staring at the rain – he removed his visor and helmet and glued his back to the window, facing McCree, and all his doubts.
He took his hand in his then he looked down.
"It's not what he started," he confessed, "It's what he couldn't finish."
Alarming thoughts began to plague the cowboy's mind – he had seen Genji struggle for so long still he could not bring himself to believe the words he had just heard.
"I know you're trying, Genji… but if it's not working, then please just let it go."
The Sparrow roared, letting go from the cowboy's hand, "You of all people… you know how hard I tried, you know everything I had to go through in order to… How can you say that to me?"
"Somebody has to."
He had never seen Jesse so tense before – the honesty encysted deep inside his words, lacking all sense of emotion, was shattering him to pieces.
"I can't let it go, Jesse," The Sparrow breathed out calmly as he sat down at the edge of the bed with his head hanging low, right between his thighs, "I can't let him go – he didn't let me go back then, when he still had the chance… that was all I ever wanted from him: to let me go, to let me be free." When he looked up again, the storm had set inside his eyes – "It's not what he did, Jesse – it's what he took from me."
The older man scratched the back of his neck as he approached the bed and knelt down before the Sparrow: for once it seemed they were unable to speak the same language.
"You accepted who you are now…" McCree whispered, "We all did."
"Because I had no choice. But he did. He could have chosen to spare me, to let me go."
McCree reached out to him and planted a soft kiss on the Sparrow's lips. Then the younger man smiled, engrossed in the fragile silence they had found after love and war had both been extinguished. He tried to suppress the thought but the image of that man appeared vividly in the theater of his memory.
He should have bitten his own tongue.
"What would he think of us now?" Genji breathed out, as he leaned his back against the mattress, the sheets barely covering his body. McCree tilted his head to the side, taken aback by the unwanted intromission, but still, the cowboy did not grace his ears with an answer. His naked shape towered over him, completely exposed yet paradigmatically inaccessible.
The green light of his visor flickered and flashed briefly at the sight of countless drops of sweat still covering the cowboy's neck and chest. With gentle movements, McCree loomed over his boyfriend with lips that knew no compassion. He snatched the sheets and wrapped himself up in them, covering his body from the waist down in one swift movement. His eyes, detached from the room – from him, one of the objects of his affection – did not even care to grace his man with a simple, meaningless look.
Silence killed him from within, as guilt welled within his guts. Who was he to bring such a ghost to the conversation, after all? Even for him, or even for the irascible version of himself he had shown during the last couple of months, it was low.
The cowboy couldn't even talk about that man; couldn't even remember him without retreating back to the somber depths of his own convoluted, troubled mind. And still, he had summoned Jesse's biggest nightmare all the same, in the midst of the fight, in the agora of peace.
Despicable.
Unforgivable.
Regardless of the Sparrow's previous order, Jesse lit up a cigar and opened the window, allowing the moon to bathe his features in its melancholic, milky aura as countless raindrops came to greet his tired features as the wind shook the trees, inviting the branches and leaves to waltz in the darkness. Stepping out into the night, the man noticed how the rain had stopped, even when the dark clouds above his head were still speaking about an imminent storm. Forearms on the railing, his voice soared in the night, finally.
"You should talk to your brother." He whispered, "Talk – start with a word, then try using another one and so on, and so on. Keep your tone down while you're at it, but if at some point you feel like yelling at him, just pause and start all over again. Just talk, you know." A dense cloud of smoke engulfed his face for a fleeting instant, "And if you can't talk to him, then talk to me, talk to Zenyatta… you're better than this."
It was unlike him, to lecture the Sparrow in such a way.
"I'm afraid the time for words is already behind us," Genji said, walking towards the cowboy. "My brother and I… talking is no longer an option."
Jesse turned around, but even if his words were soft, the distance in his eyes was still there.
"Talking is always an option."
Genji moved closer and rested his chin on the cowboy's shoulder. But the older man moved away from him, and went back inside the room as the Sparrow watched him leave, helpless.
"Then why is it that you can't talk about Gabriel?"
McCree took a deep breath before speaking – he could understand that the confrontation with Hanzo was taking its toll on Genji, still, he could not justify the Sparrow's thoughtless words.
"I understand…" he began, hands on his temples, "I understand how hard it must be to try to patch things up with your brother after everything you've been through. Even if he hadn't hurt you, even if he hadn't killed you, I can understand such images are impossible to shake off: a loved one, attacking you, harming you… I don't know how you ever managed to forgive him – I admire you for it."
"You cannot possibly understand what it feels like." The Sparrow spat coldly, his venomous eyes deconstructing his boyfriend's features with an uncanny animosity McCree had never seen before inside that man.
Trying his best to keep his composure, the cowboy tap his foot against the floor in a feverish rhythm.
"Trust me, I can." He retorted. "I can still remember the closest approximation I ever had to a father trying to murder me."
"It's not the same." Genji yelled, motioning towards the cowboy and stopping right before him, "It's blood. It's family."
When Jesse pushed him aside and stood up, the Sparrow understood that he had said too much. In the name of a pain he couldn't contain, he had shattered their bond.
"Why don't you say that to Amelie?" McCree whispered as he picked up his clothes, "Why don't you try explaining to her that killing Gerard was not a big deal because even if they were married they didn't share any blood ties."
The younger man hid his head in his hands. He couldn't stand to watch Jesse leave.
"Blood… it's good to know that's how you see us. We were the ones who took you in when your own blood tried to kill you… You should have told us beforehand, love, that we were never gonna be good enough for ya." The cowboy mumbled carelessly as he put on his jeans, "And then he called me ingrate…"
"Jesse wait," Genji pleaded, "Don't go like this, I didn't mean it like that."
The cowboy looked over his shoulder; the same icy look he had seen inside the Sparrow's eyes only a few minutes ago was now encysted deep inside his own distant stare.
He slammed the door.
He needed a drink.
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II – Preparedness
Her hands, soft and warm against his skin, helped his senses float for a while, in the impervious vacuum that separates dreams from reality – and there he stayed, for as long as he could, rocked by the tender abyss of nothingness that only she could provide. Until his eyes began to slowly swim back into focus, the edges of her figure becoming more and more real with each passing moment. He looked at her and smiled softly, addressing the anima reaching out to him as a mere figment of his imagination – then he stretched one of his hands and touched her.
Only then, when his fingers anchored her to everything that's current, to everything that's mundane; the precarious curve adorning his lips faded, bringing him back to reality and exposing him as agnostic and skeptical in his own twisted faith.
A certain fury dawned on him, yet he let it slide through his fingers as he rearranged his black robe and watched as the woman moved around his desk and sat on the edge, facing him.
"Were you deployed?" He asked.
The woman shook her head and the archer breathed out softly: at least they had cared enough to listen to him when he said he didn't want Amelie to be sent to Hanamura.
"Then what are you doing here?" The coldness in his voice matched the atmosphere of the last moments they had shared back in Gibraltar. "Does Morrison know that you're here?"
His second question made it easier for the woman to somehow provide him with an answer. Though deprived of words or phonemes, Amelie nodded her head in silent agreement to let him know that the former Strike-Commander had approved her decision. Deep down she had known, all along since leaving Gibraltar, that Hanzo wouldn't be pleased to see her and still his frowny face and his cryptic messages were not enough to stop her: she needed to see him, needed to know why he had lied to her.
The dark circles around his eyes helped her see that her questions would have to wait. If Jack's words were anything to go by, then the weakened bond between the brothers was facing one of its darkest hours once again – and she was intruding, after all.
She didn't have to ask him what was wrong – the symptoms of yet another fight were clearly written all over his face. She leaned closer, cupping his face with both her hands and for a brief moment, the archer gave up and leaned into her touch with his eyes closed and his lips pressed tightly together. He kissed the palm of her hand, ever so gently, then snaked his arms around her waist to finally let his head rest against her stomach. Thin, pale fingers ran through his hair, then, sheltering him from the world outside that room.
"Tough days…"
When his words told her about Meisa and her sons, about Genji and the ambivalent moods they were sharing, the woman took a deep breath and accepted the tiresome waves of defeat he had to offer. Still, it pained her to pretend she didn't know about the maid and her shady position in the whole Talon ordeal they were about to face – even when he had lied to her, her secret was weighing down on her, making her feel selfish and powerless.
He looked up at her, then back at his own hands. For a fraction of a second, he even dared to anticipate the kiss.
But when the moment came, his unfeeling mouth could not find the strength to move.
"Leave." His harsh voice brushed against her lips and his order felt soft against her mouth. The woman backed up instinctively and took a good look at the torn man staring right back at her – that reckless spirit of his, albeit struggling to keep her near, could not afford another battle.
So she didn't fight him.
Amelie got on her feet, placed a soft kiss on his forehead and exited the office in silence. Standing in the rain, the woman crossed her arms over her chest and waited patiently in the night. As still as a statue, contemplating life occurring at the other side of the great glass window, the woman kept her eyes trained on the figure of that man she had grown so attached to, as he moved and walked around the office, pretending to be busy, tricking his mind with vague numbers and obsolete calculations.
When the thunder decided it was time to strike the Earth, the Frenchwoman sat down on a large rock and there she stayed, watching him from afar, welcoming the storm. Every now and then, Hanzo would look for her in the rain. But every time their eyes would meet he would withdraw to the comfort of mathematics, letting his eyes fall back to the many books scattered on his desk as if trying to fool her.
Hours passed her by but the woman didn't even flinch. The weather punished her with wind and lighting yet her eyes could not look away from the real showdown of light and shadow taking place inside that office.
He fought her determination with indifference, yet the flame was already burning and the heartless rain didn't seem to be enough to suffocate the fire – patience was a virtue, they had told him, and she was virtuous in every single way. He stood up and walked towards the door. Stopping by the threshold, he took off his robe and his shoes as he embraced the same storm that had brought her to him.
The man knelt before her as his hands found an anchor in her hips, just like a jaded castaway, lashed by the furious oceans, seeking his own, private shore.
"You can stay tonight, but not in my room." He began, stern as usual even when his eyes were stating otherwise, "Come daylight, I shall ask you to return to Gibraltar." He whispered.
"Come daylight, I shall say no to your request."
They stood up as their lips coalesced to fight back the storm.
"It's a fight, then," Hanzo whispered, with his arms still chained around her waist.
"It's a fight." She said, accepting his challenge.
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III – Alone With Everybody (This Fucking Storm)
Her reunion with Hanzo the night before had left a bittersweet aftertaste in her mouth. The many colors he had shown in the prismatic view of his private world were in perfect concordance with the chiaroscuro that always seemed to accompany him.
The room he had assigned to her was as sterile as loneliness itself, pragmatic and impractical at the same obnoxious time.
Morrison was the first to spot her that morning. Pacing around the deserted kitchen, trying to absorb every inch of that space she now inhabited. He helped her with the coffee machine, but chose not to ask any questions regarding her meeting with the archer – if her sullen expression was any indication for the man to deduce her luck, he was almost certain she hadn't had such thing balancing the odds in her favor. One thing was clear though: she was determined to stay and Morrison knew there was little he could do to change her mind.
"What will you tell the others when they see me?" She inquired, raising an eyebrow.
The man shook his head and grinned softly at himself.
"I don't have to tell them anything. You said it yourself last night: I'm nobody's superior." He remembered her words the night before; sharp as a blade, genuine as the truth.
"Haha... How clever…" Amelie faked a smile as she crossed her arms over her chest, welcoming the aroma emanating from the coffee machine, "Even if that's true, they still see you as their Strike-Commander."
She was probably right, he pondered – they still saw him as a figure of authority, as a boss to turn to or to avoid, depending on the situation. But that was all there was to it: a solemn chain of command that had nothing to do with real, personal interactions between him and the rest of the members of the clandestine organization he had loved so much, back in the day.
"They only see me as a liar or a pariah."
The woman stretched out one of her hands but retracted it before it had reached him – the kiss they had shared the night before had been nothing but the materialization of the pity she felt for him, but nothing more. And when it came to someone like Jack Morrison, a recondite emotion such as pity could only get them so far: "No, they don't." She said. "They still love you, Jack – even after all these years. You can't exactly blame them for feeling the way they do – both your lies and your return must have been a hard pill to swallow… but once this moment is behind us, once this fucking storm is over… you'll be their leader again."
The weather seemed to agree with her somehow. As they both looked out the window they noticed the dark canopy of clouds still covering up the sky. Day and night had been blended into one shared obscurity, or so it seemed.
In spite of their small talk, morning progressed nonetheless, with the typical laziness of a rainy day: slow, and languid. One by one, they all gathered around the large wooden table for breakfast but instead of just coffee and toasts, they got an unexpected arrival, waiting for them. The puzzled looks and expressions that were traveling from one face to the other were not enough to convey the million questions regarding Amelie's presence in Hanamura. Only McCree seemed to be somewhat happy to see her there, while the Shimada brothers, far from showing any signs of sympathy towards the woman, seemed deeply concerned to find her there, even when Hanzo had seen her the previous night – at least they seemed to finally be able to agree on something, Morrison thought as he finished his coffee in silence.
The monk, floating at the far end of the table, seemed to pay no mind to Amelie's presence. Symmetra, on the other hand, did not miss the opportunity to mock McCree.
The architect stood up, walked around the table and placed her hands on Jesse's shoulders. Leaning closer, she whispered: "Here's your cat… or your bird." Satya's bitter sense of humor was actually saying more than they could handle: her sentry turrets had registered activity two nights ago, but Amelie had only arrived in Hanamura, or so it seemed.
"Tell me," Symmetra enquired, "It was you, wasn't it?"
Amelie hesitated for an instant but before she even had a chance to speak, Jack intervened:
"Yes, it was her. I believe that having a former Talon operative amongst us can be helpful," his eyes, unfeeling and bossy, were already searching for the archer's: "That is why I asked her to come join us. I'm sorry, Hanzo. I could not keep my promise."
The older Shimada nodded his head once, his lips a perfect line of impenetrable silence. Still, Satya had her questions:
"Why are we seeing her just now?" She went on, raising a suspicious eyebrow, "And why did you block my turrets? Were you trying to prove them inefficient?"
"Oh, no. Not at all." Amelie retorted quickly, both her hands in the air, defensively.
Satya's doubts were contagious, she noticed, as their expressions began to change gradually, questioning her. She knew Jack didn't want the rest of the team to find out about Meisa and the bodies until Mercy had worked her magic – still, they needed to know the truth.
"I came unannounced, disobeying Jack's order to stay in Gibraltar." She came clean, looking down, "I wanted to see Hanzo – but I was afraid Jack would not let me stay if he saw me… Plus, I knew Hanzo himself did not want me here, so…"
"So what?" Satya pressed on.
"I wanted to surprise him," Amelie confessed, her cheeks turning red.
"You could have just knocked, you know?" Symmetra laughed, "This is such a big place he wouldn't have noticed you here at all unless you went looking for him."
Even when Amelie could understand Satya's frustration, she was not ready to succumb to the scrutiny embedded deep inside her eyes.
"Like I told you – I thought Jack was going to kick me out the second he saw me," The sniper said, "He was, indeed, the first one of you I encountered that night, but instead of telling me off, he said I could actually help. When I told him I wanted to speak to Hanzo first; to try to resolve some… personal issues… he said there had been a huge fight between the brothers, and that I should wait."
Silence encompassed the entire group for a moment: it was true; the dragons were at each other's throats and their moods were affecting the rest of them.
"Since I wanted to surprise Hanzo but I didn't want to interfere – especially during such difficult times, I took Jack's word and spent the night in a hotel." Amelie continued, staring intently at the archer, "Jack and I met outside Hanamura again last night, and he told me that the situation between the brothers had not changed."
"And you decided to come anyway," Jesse helped her. "With Talon out there… you made the right decision."
The woman nodded in silence, understanding the words the cowboy had left unsaid: the bond between the brothers was taking its toll on everyone around them but the bigger threat, the one lurking in the dark, was even more real and more frightening than any fight between Genji and Hanzo. The constant fighting between the brothers seemed destined to resemble the storm outside – dense and dark, menacing and vicious.
Without looking at each other, the brothers stood up and abandoned the place in silence. The cowboy reached out for the Frenchwoman and cupped her hands with his. At least someone was trying to make her feel welcome after all.
One by one they all left the kitchen. Sullied by the sounds of the rain, each hour spent amongst those walls seemed destined to stretch itself far beyond the frail intangibility of time.
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IV – The Broken Nest
As the storm intensified and the day slowly gave way to night, a slender figure crossed the gates of Hanamura. Sheltered by an old black umbrella, the doctor moved around the buildings even when she couldn't really tell for sure who she was looking for, or what her destination might be.
The faint lights coming from a distant room across the gardens guided her careful steps through the stone paths and glossy flowers. Flickering in the wind, the timid incandescence of candlelight was struggling to stay alive. Three young women, who seemed to be in their early thirties, were preparing some sort of ritual, the doctor guessed as soon as she arrived. Sakura blossoms were scattered all over the large wooden table where two naked bodies were being wrapped up in plain white sheets. Cocooned by bamboo and green leaves, the tender cradles they were adorning all around the corpses seemed destined to conceal the fact that the heads were missing.
Angela cleared her throat; she had read about different funerary traditions and rituals all around the globe yet the image was almost macabre.
"Excuse me," she whispered politely, one of her hands knocking on the door even when it was wide open.
The women turned around and stared at the newcomer for a short while before returning to their tasks. None of them seemed to care about the doctor, at least not enough to ask her who she was, or what was she doing there.
One step followed the other and soon Angela found herself standing right before the mutilated bodies. The women still refused to address her presence in the room, their hands were busy, their eyes distant – as if they weren't there at all.
"I'm looking for," She paused, contemplating her alternatives for a moment. Jesse and Genji didn't know what she knew, and they didn't suspect the maid. Amelie was a former Talon agent. There was only one choice. She bit the insides of her gums before letting the name cruise in the night, "Jack Morrison."
Ages, or decades, or entire lifetimes had gone by since that name had left her mouth for the last time.
The women looked at other then back at the doctor – judging by their puzzled expressions, they had never heard that name before.
"76," Angela corrected herself, choosing not to think about the differences between one man and the other, "He goes by 76 now."
Only then the three women nodded their heads and grinned politely at the doctor. One of them even stretched out one of her hands to indicate Angela where he was. The Swiss woman thanked them for the information and left the room as fast as she could – the odor, the sight of death was something she could not stand, even after all those years serving as a field doctor.
Up the stairs, second door to her left.
She hesitated briefly before knocking – even when her visit was strictly professional, they hadn't been alone in years. 76 had always stood in the way, like a thick veil she could not trespass, preventing her eyes from fully uncovering the shape of the man she had loved millennia ago.
He clearly wasn't expecting her. At least, not so soon. With sleepy eyes and a frowny face, the man made room for the woman to step inside. Then he put on a t-shirt, feeling awkward and somewhat frustrated by her mere presence.
"Do you have the results?" He barked, as usually, as he sat down on his bed. The woman nodded her head once, in complete silence, as she stood by the door, almost petrified. "We should call Amelie, then," The old man suggested.
"Genji and Hanzo should join us too," Now it was her turn to bring in others, to stretch the space between her and that unreadable version of Jack. The old soldier considered her suggestion for a while before nodding his head. Then he walked to the door and beckoned the doctor to walk with him.
The sounds of the rain, in fluid conversation with the howling wind and the furious thunder, accompanied their silent steps. 76 ordered Angela to wait for him in the kitchen and the woman obliged. In just a couple of minutes, he returned, accompanied by the two snipers and the cyborg ninja.
No coffee was offered, no greetings were exchanged.
There was just one single moment of pure affection in that room, as the Sparrow held one of Angela's hands in his but the woman let go, discreetly, as they all sat by the counter.
Unlike Amelie's unexpected arrival, the doctor seemed welcomed by the three men. Hanzo even took a moment to say that now that there was proper medical care in the compound the rest of the team would have nothing to worry about. Subtleties aside, Genji couldn't help but feel his brother's comment was only aimed towards the monk but chose not to dwell on it – eyes trained on the woman he loved, the Sparrow said:
"You didn't tell us you'd be joining us."
The doctor smiled quietly at him before her eyes went back to 76 – she had merely been dragged down by the soldier and the former Talon sniper: now it was their turn to explain things as they truly were.
When Amelie shook her head and looked down at her own hands, Morrison understood the task was completely up to him. He cleared his throat, and began telling the tale of his hundred suspicions; his plots and his intrigues, and how each hypothetical scenario had led them to believe that there was reason to doubt Meisa.
Enraged, Hanzo slammed his fists on the counter and his younger brother cursed under his breath – until the doctor silenced their voices:
"Those are not her sons."
After a moment of impenetrable silence, Amelie finally found her voice: "We cannot say for sure that Meisa is involved. But until we find out, we should stay quiet about it. All of us." She offered, conciliatorily. They were only hours away from the funerals; the pain of that grieving mother still seemed real enough to doubt her.
An austere gesture of penance took over their faces, yet it subsided quickly from the brother's visages.
Genji was the first to stand up and leave the kitchen, still cursing under his breath. The doctor followed him outside, trying her best to talk some sense into him.
76 nodded his head once, patted the Frenchwoman on her shoulder, and went back to his room.
Then the archer stared venomously at Amelie:
"You knew about this," He hissed darkly, "How could you lie to me?"
The woman cocked her head a little, taken aback by his accusation,
"I did not lie to you." She retorted, "Unlike you, I tell no lies."
An obscure grin began to curl his lips; then he folded his arms over his chest, "Don't you dare use this to retaliate. I had my reasons."
"I have yet to hear those." She fought back.
He stood up and walked around the counter until he came to stand right behind her chair. Then he leaned in, his lips nearly brushing against her ear:
"And you won't," He whispered,"Not tonight."
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V – Mother
The occasional frog came to greet him, as the archer made his way past the pond. Jumping freely from one water lily to the other, their guttural songs seemed to cheer happily now that the rain had stopped – still, the canopy of dense, dark clouds covering the entire city was reason enough for everyone to believe that the rain was not ready to give up so easily.
Deliberatively away from the fake funeral that was being held at the far end of the compound, facing the immensity of the mountain, Hanzo's feet kept marching on across the great gardens of Hanamura, trying his best to avoid the maid. The thought had kept him up all night, meandering through the frantic highways of his head, questioning him: who was he to keep the truth from Meisa, after all? Even if they didn't know if the maid was indeed involved with Talon or not, he couldn't shake the thought of his own mother, the frailty inside those crystalline but dark eyes of hers…
The condescending wind helped his black hair dance around his broad shoulders – so much gray, already conquering his temples, was already speaking loudly about a receding youth.
He was as old as she was, as old as she had been the last time he laid eyes on her.
Had she been alive to receive the news regarding the death of her youngest son, the woman would have died right there and then, her last breath devoted to cherishing the memory of the one that was no more. Had she been alive to find out that the protective older brother had been the one asphyxiating the Sparrow's dreams, she would have died a thousand deaths in but a brief instant; her love tarnished and eternal, corrupted and saint.
Fate had been kind enough. Death took her in time, or so it seemed. Her final goodbye had prevented the mother from having to bury her own son.
If he had to be completely honest with himself, he had no clue what had brought him there. What had kept him marching on and on, revisiting the splendidly colorful sights of yesterday in the monochrome version of his present.
He hadn't talked to her in such a long time…
Kneeling down before his mother's gravestone, the archer closed his eyes as if afraid of what the silent dialogue could bring. His feet had led him to that place; sheltered between cherry blossoms and the calm waters of the pond – trapped in the scene she had loved so much, that woman had never fully abandoned his son, not even in death. There were sparks of her that were still fighting their way inside the tormented son, the one she had held so dearly during his childhood years, way before indoctrination had molded him, way before weapons and blood and death. So small and innocent, alive between her warm hands – such eyes, she knew, they had been blessed.
The way she would always look at him every time Genji was around was still tattooed inside his eyes, like an eternal flame that could endure even the cruelest of hurricanes. How he would care for his baby brother, how he would look after him with eager eyes while barely dancing on his tiptoes. Her hands, messing with his hair, showering him with love…
What a great brother he had been when they were but little children.
And now he was there, with his old knees kissing the place they had chosen for her, after so much time, after so much blood.
He had always avoided that precise spot, every single year, every single time he would become a trespasser in his own territory to remember the brother he himself had killed.
What was he supposed to tell her, after all?
Mother, look what I've done.
He covered his face with his hands but her image appeared before him, asking him about the past, struggling to recognize her little boy in the shape of that mercenary.
Mother, I'm so sorry.
"I couldn't help but notice you never once looked at Father's grave." Genji's gentle voice surprised him, "It's like you can only see her, but you cannot see him. Strangely enough, you still remind me of him: without shades in between your black and your white, feared but respected; severe… and ultimately lonesome, like a king without his crown."
The archer stayed where he was, rubbing his fingers gently across his face, wiping away his tears.
"Did you tell Meisa?" Genji asked, kneeling down beside his brother. The archer shook his head in silence. "I didn't tell her either. Still, the thought plagues me, brother."
A solitary hand broke the distance between them and landed on the Sparrow's nearest shoulder.
"I know, Genji." Hanzo whispered, "I know."
The dragons gave way to silence, then, allowing the wild winds to become just a distant echo of the hurricane stirring inside of them. Songs of death and farewell followed suit, brought by the breeze, still, the vacant lament seemed destined to reflect the perfidy of an apocryphal torment.
"I should have told you, Hanzo." Genji began, his helmet off, his eyes closed, "Instead of trying to run away, I should have told you about the Talon connection. Everything I heard that day, everything I saw." He held his breath for as long as he could, waiting for an answer that never came, "I thought you would never believe me, but that wasn't it – you were never going to let Talon interfere with the clan but the web was already woven all around us." Only then he opened his eyes, still, he kept his sight trained on their mother's gravestone, "It took me years to realize that even if I had managed to convince you back then, your life would have been ruined all the same. They would have corrupted you, or chased after you, or even killed you – if they had to."
It took him some time to find his voice. His constricted throat, fighting to let the words out, was becoming his worst enemy.
"This isn't working, Genji." It was as painful as it was obvious: no matter how hard they tried, they only seemed destined to cause each other harm.
"I know, Hanzo." Genji finally acknowledged, "I know."
When the Sparrow stood up and looked over his shoulder, he saw the Frenchwoman contemplating the scene from the bridge. He waved his hand at her, then turned around once more, facing Hanzo.
"Mother would have liked her."
The archer nodded. His eyes closed, his hands curled up into fists hanging at the sides of his body.
"You really need to stop running away, Hanzo," The Sparrow said, still standing just a few inches away from his older brother, "From me, from the memory of clan, from everything we never said to each other, from what you did to me; what you did to yourself – from her."
Hanzo's silence, his apathy and his apparent indifference, felt like a slap in the face for the cyborg ninja. They were reaching the end of the rope yet the archer seemed to have given up already.
"Of course you won't," Genji said as quietly as he could, chewing on his fury, tasting the sour nature of their bond, "You are not man enough."
His shadow disappeared before Hanzo could even turn around to face him.
The archer stood up and looked over his shoulder – still, alone in that bridge, the woman waited.
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Part B
If I Should Fall From Grace
"What you did to me made me see myself somethin' awful."
Fiona Apple – Oh well.
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VI – Smoke and Mirrors
That night was meant to be different, in all possible ways.
For the first time since arriving in Hanamura, the conflicted heir had decided to abandon his father's office and join the rest of the team for dinner, even when Genji had already ordered Meisa and her daughters not to worry about cooking or cleaning for them – and the rest of the group had, of course, agreed with him. 76 proved himself a worthy cook, improvising a precarious fire with twigs and larger branches he collected in the gardens. Even if the night was a bit cold, they all seemed to enjoy the fish outside, sitting on the grass, absorbing the majestic nature of the place surrounding them.
The conversation was vague, to say the very least. The cowboy entertained the group with anecdotes of his time spent as an outlaw while Morrison seemed more interested in remembering the good old pranks and tricks the entire Overwatch team would play on poor McCree during his days as a rookie. The doctor would usually come to his aid, defending him from all jokes and saving him from the stereotyped version of him they all were so fond of.
Laughter encompassed the whole group then, during uneven gaps of time, only to fade away in the wind, each and every single time.
Symmetra finally let them in, as she spoke about her days as a student, remembering her childhood, the city she loved so much, the loved ones she had lost along the way. The monk did not say a word – he knew he couldn't talk about Genji's first days in Nepal without affecting Hanzo with his stories and anecdotes, but he also knew he couldn't remember his own brother without affecting Amelie.
Hanzo didn't share any stories of his own either, yet the echo of his laughter could be heard freely as it cruised amongst the trees and the sakura blossoms. He seemed relieved, somehow, and the Frenchwoman thought that perhaps the fact that both he and Genji had at least agreed on something had helped dissipate the clouds covering his sight. It wasn't working – it was cruel and infinitely undermining, yet at least they could both see eye to eye and admit that even if they had tried their best, their reconstructed brotherly bond was just not working.
When dinner was over, they all went back to their assigned rooms. None of them felt brave enough to tempt luck and stay a moment longer if it wasn't strictly necessary – they had miraculously managed to share a peaceful evening by avoiding the most controversial topics of conversation, but their hot-headed nature was as tenacious as it was merciless, and they all knew it for a fact.
His gentle voice reached out for her in the last portion of the corridor. Soft as a breeze, his words carried more meaning than he let on.
"You are welcome to spend the night in my room, if that's what you want." He offered.
The woman turned around and inspected him briefly, allowing her incredulous eyes to see beyond the lines and particular words he had just said. Moving closer, Amelie rested her hands on his shoulders as she whispered in his ear:
"You promised me a fight, archer."
The petulant smirks adorning their faces were finally speaking the same language, or so it seemed.
He held her hand in his and guided her through the maze of cold stone and ancient wood until they reached their destination. He pushed the door open with one swift movement of his arm and the woman finally stepped into his bedchamber, mesmerized by the grandiloquence of the room – he stared at her with hungry eyes, still standing by the door, as the woman carefully inspected every piece of furniture, every book and every little thing she could lay eyes on. But before she could manage to say a single word his arms, like anchors, were already traveling around her waist; his mouth, darkly content, reaching out for her neck from behind.
She tried to turn around to meet his consuming gaze but he didn't let her. Strong fingers, like devious claws, were determined to keep her exactly where she was.
When his hands cupped her breasts the Frenchwoman let out a sigh, almost on the verge of giving up entirely. She closed her eyes, trying her best to breathe him in. Only then he shifted her body in his arms, imprisoning her whole being against his chest – he looked so forlorn, she realized almost immediately; consumed by his own fatuous flame yet frozen in place inside the barriers of his skin.
When he took off her training shirt and pushed her towards the bed the woman obliged, still trapped inside the crystalline fantasies of a body that hadn't felt that way for such a long time. Textures blended together then, mixing the sticky and silky cobwebs of the spider with the scorching touch of the dragon – still she knew the feeling like the back of her hand after imagining and recreating the same old events in the darkest redoubts of her mind. How she longed for him, how she had breathed out his name over and over again.
When he stood completely naked before her, the woman propped herself up with her forearms to admire everything he had to offer.
His anatomy, albeit punished by time and recklessness, was still perfect.
To a fault.
With feverish fingers, the Japanese sniper took on the task of taking off the rest of her clothes. Then he leaned his body over hers, taking in the view, admiring her form with eyes that seemed to know no burdens.
Yet she knew better.
When his lips finally came to devour her mouth he could feel the shape of her half-smile colliding against his teeth. Still, he paid no mind. Then his tongue traveled to her breasts, her belly, her hips, and the woman rejoiced in the feeling as she carefully swam through the sensations, trying her best not to drown.
Yet she still knew better.
When his fingers reached inside of her the woman removed them, bringing his hand near her face to lick herself clean off him and the ghostly hunger still torturing him. Then she kissed his shoulder, ever so tenderly. When he finally made his way inside her the woman seemed to shrink under his touch, too overwhelmed by the moment, torn between her need and his ill-natured, misplaced affection.
His pace was frantic from the start.
But even then, she still knew better.
"Hanzo, stop." Her voice, detached from the ulterior language of sex, brought him back to reality. "You're hurting me."
His erratic movements came to a halt yet he stayed right where he was.
"I'm sorry," He whispered, planting a soft kiss on her lips.
She did not reciprocate it.
When he started to move again, slower this time, gentler than before, the woman ordered him to stop again.
"I thought you wanted this." He let on, frustrated, as he let go of her.
"I do." She said, covering her naked form with his bedsheets, "But not like this."
He covered his face with both his hands, breathing hard through parted lips.
"I'm not a fortune teller, Amelie." He finally retorted, "You should have been clearer about what you wanted from me instead of luring me on."
You disgraced son of a bitch…
"You dare demand clarity from me… had you been clear enough yourself I wouldn't be here at all in the first place." Her bitter laughter ricocheted through every corner of the room, lacerating his ears, rendering him powerless.
And still, she knew better.
"Were you gonna fuck me senseless just because your brother said you weren't man enough?" Her words, like poison, enveloped his whole form, "He wasn't talking about your virility, Hanzo."
He knew. Still, it hurt all the same. He could not bring himself to tell her off for good neither he had the guts to be the man she demanded from him – taking his brother's words and twisting their meanings he had tried to shelter himself in a brand new hiding place, yet she had found him all the same.
She got out of his bed, picked up her clothes, and got dressed.
"Get your shit together, Shimada." She said as she exited his room, leaving him alone.
He punched the wall as hard as he could.
He had promised her a fight after all.
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VII – … But at Least the Devil was Honest
On her way back to her room, the Frenchwoman caught a glimpse of a certain cowboy smoking alone by the balcony. He was staring at his own room, the open windows inviting his eyes in, making him a witness of the heated argument between the ninja and the doctor. Far from their reach, and definitively far from his words, the American man had his naked torso leaning on the railing, the cigar pressed tightly between his lips.
His prosthetic arm was missing.
"You know, if you ask me, I'd tell ya nothing's really changed for the brothers," He said, calling her on, without using her name, "Not a single coin in their pockets yet here they are, the great lords of the castle, making everyone around them dance to their tune."
He turned around and faced her, extending his one good arm for the woman to join him outside.
"Sometimes I wonder what's gonna happen when Talon finally strikes – perhaps we'll be too busy killing each other," He joked, "Can you imagine that? No, Sombra, hold on – I'm not done fighting my own girlfriend, you wait your turn." The smile on his face dissipated quickly, "Or maybe that was their plan all along – for us to kill each other while they do nothin'… perhaps it's cheaper that way."
They sat on the cold stone floor with their legs stretched before them and their backs pressed against the railing.
"This whole thing sure feels like a lovers retreat, doesn't it?" He laughed again, "Days go by with absolutely nothing to do, the view is fantastic… the enemy becomes invisible, we lose track of time, we just don't know what we're doin' anymore."
The woman placed one of her hands on his knee and nodded her head in silence – his honesty was breathtaking. Every single word leaving his mouth seemed to be colored by an atypical sense of truthfulness, so painfully obvious, so exasperatingly accurate.
"It was too soon." He sentenced somberly. "For us to come here, for Morrison to assemble a team… But I can understand why they did it – why wedid it: some things are so incredibly appealing to the eyes, even if they're just for show."
The woman lifted her chin, staring deep into those big brown eyes of him, searching for answers. And the man did not disappoint.
"They sent Hanzo and Genji because they were ready to come back here, and act as brothers… In less than twenty-four hours they had someone else join them because a team was needed for this mission." He clicked his tongue as the cigar danced between his lips, "We all know they sent someone else so soon because they needed someone to babysit the brothers because, like I said, we all know, deep down inside, that if no-one's looking and they are left to their own devices, the Shimada name is as good as dead."
Only then she smiled, "I think the Shimada name is already as good as dead," Amelie said, "I don't think the brothers are interested in the possibility of extending their bloodline."
"Touché." He took off his cowboy hat and placed it on her head. Then he looked down, "This isn't working."
"It's the second time today I get to hear those words." She whispered, resting her head on his shoulder, "Only this time, you're not talking about anyone in particular. None of this is working, Jesse, you're absolutely right."
The cowboy let the cigar die.
"Two men, who used to be close, fighting a never-ending war – dividing an entire organization, seeking allies, choosing enemies, breaking bonds, corrupting everyone around them…"
He looked her in the eye and smiled darkly.
"Déjà vu."
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VIII – Bewildering Nights of Naked Dresses
He had wronged her. And the archer knew, deep down, that apologizing was never going to be enough to properly repair the damage he had caused.
Cowardice had found him, dressed up in his brother's words, with his calloused hands twisting their meaning only to achieve nothing, merely an excuse, perhaps – a pathetic attempt at trying to do all those things he couldn't bring himself to do.
Sleep with the woman you like, free of boundaries and burdens. That sounded a lot like happiness for a man who still didn't know if it was alright for his lips to smile again.
His atonement would have to talk to her in her own language.
His fingers, before him, were still too proud to knock on her door and beg for forgiveness. So he stilled their needs and infected them with tales of music and madly-in-love composers that, albeit long gone, were still reaching for their muse through the simple theorems of their notes.
He knew the melody would lure her in.
The first night she allowed the gentle sounds to guide her through the building. Up the stairs, past his room, and into the great library. There she found him, sitting by the piano, with his eyes closed and a timid gesture of satisfaction plastered on his face. With her hands still resting on the door, the woman received the notes he created for her with eyes wide open. But her feet remained pinned to the ground.
When the melodies ceased to exist, the archer heard her footsteps as she left the room. Still, he waited, ever so patiently.
The second night replicated the previous one but, this time, she dared cross the threshold. With his eyes still closed, the archer could have sworn those graceful feet of hers were beginning to move along the lines of his own musicality. Yet he didn't look at her, still too afraid to face the music.
On the third night, the man finally opened his eyes. The woman walked around the room and finally sat by his side. She didn't dance that night, she merely entertained herself with those prestigious fingertips of his. One note followed the other – the immensity of the silence between them was creating a brand new language.
She performed for him on the fourth night, with arms soaring in the night and legs waging their love and their many, many curses. And then she danced for him again, on the fifth night, only this time she chose to dance to his silence. With his arms folded over his chest, the archer admired each muted figure she had to offer.
On the sixth night, the music returned.
She was sitting by his side, staring out the window. Her mind delighted itself with the monochrome correlations between that man playing music for her and the wonderful and solitary mountain breaking the horizon baring nothing more than its mere presence.
So wonderfully immense, sheltered by that indomitable, eternal ice of his. So alone and still, so full of life, just like some debilitated king.
It took all of him to break the silence that had encompassed them for nearly a week.
"Tell me, Amelie, why do you come here each night?"
He thought she would not answer. But she proved him wrong.
"I come for the silence, the music and the view." With his eyes still trained on the keys before him, the man couldn't see her eyes abandoning the mountain and finding him when she said the last portion of her answer. Then she stood up and left the room in silence.
On the seventh night, the woman sat on the piano as she contemplated the faint columns of smoke emanating from his cigarette as his fingers played. She stared at him, deeply. "There are just so many things I don't know about you…"
He arched one of his eyebrows, eyes still distantly closed.
"I didn't know you smoked."
"Only on occasion." He let out softly. "Do you want me to put it out?"
She laughed briefly, "No, I'm used to it." The candor in her eyes was beginning to speak about faces and places that were hers no more, "Gerard used to smoke – and Jack too. I know, the super soldier, so healthy and almighty, with his white picket fence looks and everything… the man was a fucking chimney back in the day." Amelie stood up and leaned her body on the piano, "I definitely didn't know you could play. You really are full of surprises."
The melodies finally faded from his fingers.
"Meisa taught me when I was little." He said, "When my father saw us playing together one day, he asked her to give me proper piano lessons. It quickly became routine for me, each afternoon right after training, I would come here and learn – according to my father, my body would relax but my head would remain focused this way."
He wasn't just asking for forgiveness. He was trying to recapture yet another moment of his past that seemed destined to abandon him.
Her hands on his hands. Her mouth, brave, finally asked:
"Are you trying to rebuild an empire?"
"No." His eyes found hers, staring back at him. "I'm only trying to rebuild my life. Or what's left of it."
She cupped his face with her hands and let his head rest on her chest. The man smiled quietly: Genji was right – not only their mother would have liked her; she would have been able to see herself inside that woman.
"Why did you lie to me?"
Hanzo stood up and offered her his hand.
Silence found them once again, as they walked the small path separating his room from the library.
There was something heroic about his actions. He was determined to revisit the place where she had defeated him in order to find his redemption.
He put his hands on the sides of her waist and guided her body towards the bed until the back of her knees felt a slight pressure, pushing her whole body down. "I've never been to your room." He whispered as he slowly began to take off his shirt but even if the musicality of his voice was implying a question, the cold fact behind his simple words was gradually starting to reveal and undress a truth that knew no rhetoric. "One day, you knocked on my door and you walked right in. You said you needed someone to talk to… You sat on my bed, exactly like you did just now. The following day you came back, and you sat on my bed again. This time, I sat next to you," he went on, his voice soft and silky, far from the roaring thunder she was so used to by now. Mimicking his words, he sat down on his own bed, right next to her, his hands landing on his knees, "You came back some other day, and then again, day after day. One day you used my shower; one day you asked me if you could stay the night…" He grinned at himself, softly, almost peacefully, "I knew you wanted to stay – knew you would have liked to stay many, many times before that night." Lifting her chin with his fingers, the archer moved closer to her mouth and there he stayed, gravitating near her, "There were some signs, carelessly scattered in between those days and nights, that I should have seen: how you started to dance again, how you began to express the need to share a bed again, to have someone… to belong to someone." He pressed his forehead against hers and closed his eyes for a brief moment, "Then you took off your clothes, and even when I said no I have to admit: it felt natural. That's how the sea weathers the stone; after all… that's how the waters take over the shore. That's how you began to overcome her, to go back to being the one you were before her." His hands on her temples, bringing her closer – impossibly closer to him now. "And so I asked myself, time and time again: who am I to stop her from being the one she was supposed to be?"
She took a deep breath, leaning into his touch.
"But the problem is not that you want to be the one you were before her. The problem is that I can't give you what you had before her." One of his hands landed on her chest, the other, on his own – "From here to there, Amelie, lies a moment of absolute terror. You want to be the one you were before – I can't be the one I was before. I can't afford to be that man again."
"I'm not trying to be the one I was before." she whispered, "I'm some sort of hybrid – between the ballerina and the assassin. That's all there is to me."
He pulled her close and grinned quietly.
"At least you were able to find yourself between light and darkness." He said, his eyes closed, his head on her shoulder. "When I was a child, I was afraid of the darkness. I guess, at some point, I became the very thing I feared the most. Still, it took me quite a while to understand: there are no monsters in the dark – only danger."
"You're not darkness." She said.
"I'm not light either." He sentenced, only to realize that they were exactly the same thing, positioned at the exact same place – using different words, expressing the same thing. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I hurt you. All those days without you made me think that perhaps we should have been braver than this… that night, when the dragon appeared and we kissed… we should have saved that night in our memory. Perhaps we should have treasured it as a milestone in our paths – but nothing more. Perhaps we should have never tried to cross that milestone."
"Hanzo…"
He laughed lifelessly, with a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Even that milestone ended up with your blood, Amelie." He remembered. "I can't shake the feeling that, even when I'm ready to try my best, I'll end up hurting you all the same. Like that time. Like every single time… still, here we are. I'm beginning to think there's no keeping us apart." He suffocated the air in her mouth as he trapped her lips with his, then he stared deeply into her eyes, "That's why I lied to you. I don't want you to get hurt – and Talon is out there."
"You think I can't do this?"
He shook his head and lifted her chin with his fingers,
"No, I think you're more than ready to do this. But I fear there won't be another try for you and me if they get their hands on you." He was being honest. Heartbreakingly honest.
"I thought I heard you say you wouldn't let me go back to Talon."
He had promised her a fight, and he had given her a fight. He had offered her protection, and so he gave his body to hers, as he lay on his bed with her, his arms like houses, keeping her close.
When slumber came, it still felt natural for them. To have each other. To let go of the questioning voices in their heads.
When she fell off the bed in the middle of the night, the archer opened his eyes and got out of bed, eager to help her back up again. But when he saw her there, still asleep on the cold ground, in spite of the loud noise, the bump, the ache in her bones… he couldn't find the strength to wake her up.
He put on his black robe and walked towards the balcony. And there he stayed, with his arms on the railing and his eyes trained on that distant mountain.
Her hands on his shoulders made him turn around, meet her gaze.
"You were gone."
The man grinned softly at himself,
"So, falling off the bed didn't wake you up – but my absence did."
She smiled too, genuinely, as she rested her chin on his shoulder.
Then her eyes traveled the distance separating their balcony from the one shared by the ninja, the cowboy and the doctor. Even when their blinds were closed, the sounds of their love could be heard quite easily.
It took her a while to understand. The symphony of their passion was loud and strident. What they were doing, the festival of love and lust taking place inside that room… it was nor a feast neither a banquet.
It was a purge.
He noticed her attention was elsewhere, drifting off, venturing the cold outside.
"It pained me, at first, to realize you had others in your life. That meant you didn't need me anymore." He whispered in her ear, "But then again, I reminded myself of who I actually was and then I thought: what a fantastic thing it is, the fact that she doesn't need me anymore." He smiled briefly, before adding, "If there's one thing you need to know about me, it's that I'm a very possessive man."
When he heard her laughter once again he turned around, placing his arms on the sides of her waist.
"I like you."
"But…" She said, her hands reaching out to his chest.
"No buts. I just do." Hanzo confessed. "I like you."
She leaned in closer to kiss him, but the man put both his hands on her shoulders, keeping her in place.
"This I'll say, I'll say for the first and last time, Amelie." He sentenced, "You can do better than this – you can find someone better than me. You know that, right?"
She nodded.
But kissed him all the same.
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