The high pitch beeping of her alarm pulls Lena out the arms of sleep. She fumbles around before finding her phone. She pulls it to her face and turns off the alarm. The clock reads 04:00 (428 minutes 45 seconds since she went to bed). Bleh. Any time before 5 should be illegal. Lena slides her phone under her pillow. A good night's sleep was normally all she needed to bounce back, but she had been sleeping hard. Five more minutes won't hurt.

(2, 198 hours)

What? Go back to sleep brain.

"Oxton," Widowmaker calls out, "If I don't hear movement I will come in there and ensure you are awake."

Git.

Lena throws off her covers and sits up. She doesn't want to find out what Widowmaker would do to make good on her threat, probably dump ice water on her or throw her out the window.

(2, 198 hours past)

Lena rubs the sleep out of her eyes and waits for her brain to make sense of the impression. She always had a good sense of direction and time perception being a test pilot and all, but her exposure to the Slipstream had kicked those senses up to eleven. It had taken her months to be able to put the new sensations into words and even longer to be able to use them on the battlefield. Most of the time it was a useful and lifesaving skill to have, but sometimes... Her sleepy neurons finally decode the impression. She gets stuff like this. It had been 2,198 hours since she last sneezed. What was she supposed to do with that information?

Lena swings her legs off the bed and reaches towards the ceiling, lets her arms drop, and starts towards the shower; immediately she catches her pinky toe on the edge of the nightstand. Lena lets out an oath and hops around holding her foot. The calf of her uninjured leg hits the bed frame. She pinwheels her arms before losing her balance completely, falling back onto her mattress.

"Oof!"

Lena stares up at the dark ceiling. Not how she wanted to start the day, at least she slept well.

Widowmaker listens to Tracer packing up in the bathroom from her seat on the couch. She has been prepared to leave for over an hour. On her tablet she opens a news page she's already read. She only needs to appear busy. She doesn't want to miss Tracer's performance.

As expected, she hears a small crash as something falls off a nightstand. Tracer's phone or charging dock. Within seconds another thud follows, then Tracer appears in the doorframe of the bedroom.

"I don't know what you did-" Tracer starts leaving the bedroom. She immediately hip checks the TV stand and winces in pain."-or how you did it-" She steps directly into a small metal trash can next to the TV. Impressively, Tracer does not lose her balance but stumbles around amusingly. "-but I know you're responsible," Tracer growls having made it to Widowmaker.

Widowmaker doesn't even bother to hide her smile.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, perhaps you should stop running around everywhere. Hmm?"

Was the Underworld famous assassin, Widowmaker, petty enough to mix a sleeping pill into Tracer's tea and then move all the furniture just enough to cause minor injuries? Perish the thought.

"What's the difference between a dirty bus station and a lobster with cleavage?"

It is 04:36 in the morning and Widowmaker is filled with regret.

"One's a crusty bus station the other is a busty crustacean!" Tracer finishes her joke. Which she then follows with ribbing Widowmaker and saying, "Eh? Eh? Did you get it? Did you get it? I think you got it."

The past thirty minutes have been nothing but Tracer making terrible jokes and puns while Widowmaker slowly descended into her personal circle of Hell.

"What time did the man go to the dentist?"

Tracer seems to have taken personal offense to her small bit of revenge. Widowmaker thinks it is because the Annoyance thought apologizing for almost freezing her to death counted for something.

"Tooth-hurty! Because it sounds like two-thirty? No? Alright, next one."

Widowmaker even misses Sombra at this point. At least the hacker could take a joke.

"What do you call a sleepwalking nun?

Oh, thank God. She can see the airport up ahead; they are within walking distance now.

"A roaming Catholic!"

Widowmaker unbuckles her seatbelt and pushes open her door as the clip retracts into the car's roof. While the seatbelt alarm politely dings Widowmaker falls out of the car, hitting the ground shoulder first, rolling into the empty road.

"Holy crap, Widow! Wait until I've stopped the car!"

Widowmaker strolls along the sidewalk leading from the parking lots to the airport's entrance. She steps over the chain divider and crosses the drop off lane. Their car is parked right at the front of the airport near the taxis. Tracer is waiting for her with their bags by her feet, shuffling under the streetlights. She's been forced to wear real pants again, and her hair is still fighting the laws of gravity but is less pointy without gel. Her bruise looks worse in the shadows.

"We have a small problem," Tracer says as a greeting.

Widowmaker looks at the airport. The name AEROPORTO_ G.B. PASTINE is lit up, brightly contrasting with the night sky above it, but the Arrival and Departure signs are dark. Widowmaker squints and focuses on the windows. There are no lights or movement inside the building.

"You forgot to check if they were open," Widowmaker says.

"I forgot to see if they were open," Tracer says at the same time.

Widowmaker rubs her temples in frustration.

"Now," Tracer says holding up her hands, "we can wait an hour-ish 'till they unlock the doors or we could do a slightly illegal, unauthorized takeoff and leave now."

"Can you even do that safely? Don't you need the tower?"

"Well, I paid for refueling, oil, and basic maintenance so the VTOL should be ready to go. Between Charlie, Athena, and myself we can probably take off without hitting any other aircraft."

The image of Tracer yanking the yoke to the side as the VTOL buzzes a passenger jet flashes through Widowmaker's mind, but the Eternal City has completely lost its appeal.

"Fine," Widowmaker says, "Let's go."

They cross the parking lot and jump a fence to get onto the tarmac. The lights for the airstrip aren't on yet, so Tracer puts on her Accelerator, using it as an oversized flashlight. The morning air is barely warm but heavy with humidity. Distantly, Widowmaker hears the cries of bugs and birds from the grass beyond the asphalt.

As they reach the VTOL Tracer leads them over to an area where a variety of planes are parked in rows. While Tracer punches in her security code to the ramp, Widowmaker glances around, rolling her shoulder. Her joints are aching; it feels like the cold sank into them. Her little stunt may have been a tad unnecessary.

Tracer clears her throat and waits for Widowmaker to look at her.

"I would like to propose a truce," she says, "for the three and a half hour flight back."

Widowmaker raises an eyebrow.

"I've got some podcasts I can listen to, and you can do your... thing. We leave each other alone, and I get us back to Gibraltar as fast as possible." Tracer holds out her hand.

Widowmaker looks her over. Maybe it's her lack of makeup, maybe making terrible jokes takes more energy than Widowmaker thought, but Tracer looks drained. It's simply too early, and both are too tired of dealing with the other's bullshit.

"Truce," Widowmaker says, walking past her onto the ramp.

Tracer lets her hand drop with a sigh and follows. The women board the aircraft, metal heels and high impact rubber reverberating off the floor. Tracer slings off her duffle bag halfway but then freezes. In the same instant Widowmaker sees two silhouettes among the shadows-they are not alone.

There is a thud and metallic whirl as the ramp of the VTOL locks behind them. Tracer whips out her pistols. Widowmaker moves back as far as she can, Widow's Kiss ready. The internal lights switch on. Ahead of them Reaper and Sombra stand at the other end of the aircraft. Reaper draws his twin shotguns. Sombra looks bored leaning against the back of the co-pilot's seat. Her coat appears to be covered in grey dust.

"Hey, hey, there's no need for that," Sombra says motioning to their guns with a winning smile, "Everybody relax. We're just here to talk."

Sombra spreads her arms open wide, showing she means no harm. Every part of her appearance carefully constructed, from the tilt of her head to the bend of her knee, to radiate honesty and nonaggression. Her real tells are smaller, safely hidden away after years of manipulating tourists and scamming hardware suppliers.

Sombra's feet point at them, not towards the door. Her smudged fingers don't flick in purposeful patterns when she thinks no one is looking. But most important, the safety of her gun is on.

Reaper is simpler to read: His hood and gauntlets have crisp edges and sharp lines. He stands solidly while the faint smell of ash and decaying flesh wafts off him. He's not planning on ghosting anytime soon.

Widowmaker relaxes her grip on her rifle, letting the barrel point at the floor. Whatever these idiots are here for, it's not to fight. Tracer's eyes flicker around, taking Widowmaker's comfortable stance and how Reaper's guns are only trained on her.

"Was this a set-up?" Tracer hisses, her grip tightening on her pistols.

"No. I have no idea why they are here," Widowmaker replies.

"Check out the ego on this one!" Sombra laughs, "Do you really think Talon would waste their top two operatives on you?"

"So then, Talon's here for Widowmaker," Tracer says shifting her weight, preparing to fight.

"Widowmaker is dead. Talon isn't interested in her," Reaper says.

"Well you sure appear to be, and you work for them," Tracer argues.

"Just because they pay me doesn't mean I work for them. I'm a free agent." Reaper drops his shotguns. "Now put those pea shooters away before you hurt yourself."

"And how can I know you won't just blow me away the second I drop my guard?"

"Because I'm not getting paid to kill either of you. And Widowmaker needs you alive." Reaper addressed Widowmaker, "You do need her alive right?"

"Unfortunately."

Tracer scowls at that, but then her expression becomes more suspicious. "And why do you care what Widowmaker needs?" Tracer asks.

Reaper crosses his arms and looks at Widowmaker; she simply raises an eyebrow. He looks over at Sombra for support.

"Go on. I want to hear this," Sombra says with a grin.

"I owe her," Reaper finally growls.

Tracer glances back at Widowmaker. Widowmaker gives her a small nod.

"What about Miss Night-light over here?" Tracer asks referring to Sombra's glowing implants.

"Sure haven't heard that one before," Sombra says rolling her eyes. "The name's Sombra and I'm not telling you squat. Who knows why I'm here? Who knows why I do anything? But I promise I'm not here to hurt either of you. Not today anyways."

Tracer seems to find this acceptable. She drops her pistols.

"Your name is Shadow? That's real creative."

"At least my name makes sense. What's a Tracer? That isn't even a real thing."

"What do you two want?" Widowmaker asks cutting through the squabble.

"We need help with a job," Sombra says.

"Do you need me to kill another Senator?" Widowmaker asks.

"What? No! No killing Senators!" Tracer protests.

"Calm down, Speedy. It's just basic data retrieval," Sombra says.

"You need my help for that?" Widowmaker asks unimpressed.

"It turned out to be a three person job," Reaper growls.

Tracer narrows her eyes and gives the intruders good once over. "That explosion on the news was you, wasn't it?"

So, that's why Sombra looks like she fell face first into a coal mine Widowmaker muses. Now, she sees the same smudges on Reaper's leather as well.

"I'd like to see you prove that," Sombra says, examining some purple screens she'd pulled up. Reaper shifts in a way Widowmaker understands to be a passive-aggressive "maybe."

Tracer huffs and rolls her eyes.

"Well it doesn't matter," she says, "because there is no way we're helping you with anything. Now get out."

"If that's what you really want," Sombra says in a singsong voice. She pulls a bag bulging with objects out of the co-pilot's seat. "But I wouldn't try taking off I were you."

"What did you do to my plane!"

"All we did was pull the teleporters out of it. You're welcome by the way."

Sombra drops the bag on the floor. Teleporter bases spill out of the sack.

"They were set to go off once the plane reached a cruising altitude. You guys really should be more generous with your bribes. Anyways, I'm pretty sure we got them all but you know," Sombra shrugs, "mistakes happen."

PATHs, Projected Aperture Transdimensional Hubs, were Vishkar's proudest achievement and closely protected secret, the modern equivalent of Venetian mirrors. Despite having made the invention public years ago, no one had been able to replicate the results. Even Talon, with its sticky fingers and deep pockets, had, and continued to fail at this.

But that didn't mean the flops weren't to be dangerous. Creating a stable wormhole is a delicate process after all.

"If you do take off, give me time to set up my satellites," Sombra says, "I want to see if the plane gets bisected, explodes, or glitches around like a bad 3D model

A set up like this was Talon's way of sending a message; a last ditch effort to kill whoever Overwatch sent to pick up the plane. Which in this case was them. Tracer bites her lip while Widowmaker glares daggers at her idiot pilot.

"Look," Reaper says, "We need another professional, and you need transportation that isn't a death trap. If Widowmaker helps us, we can arrange for a third party to take you wherever."

"I don't-" Tracer stalls.

"Deal." Widowmaker interrupts.

"Alright!" Sombra cheers, "Speedy, we'll pick you up at eight. I promise we won't kill anyone important."

"Now hold on!" Tracer protests, "I'm not just going to let you three roam around unsupervised! I'm coming with you!"

Reaper and Sombra look at Widowmaker.

Realistically, they could subdue her, it would be three on one after all, but it would probably end with one of them injured and something on fire. The time skipping freak's existence laughed in the face of 'reaslistically.'

"It's not going to be worth it to fight her on this," she says.

Reaper sighs.

"Whatever," Sombra says to Tracer, "you do that. The grown-ups need to talk now, bye-bye."

"I'm pretty sure I'm older than you," Tracer scoffs and then disappears in a flash of blue and purple light. The ramp of the VTOL recloses after her.

Reaper and Widowmaker turn to glare at Sombra. The hacker has a self-satisfied smile, and her hand hovers over a virtual keyboard.

"What?" Sombra protests.

"Please tell me you didn't send her to another dimension," Reaper says.

"She's fine," Sombra says with a wave, "I can only jam her harness or make it misfire. Besides, I know she's Azul's ah, how do you say, frenemy."

"Frenemy is an enemy you pretend to be friends with," Reaper corrects, "Normally, so you can stab them in the back later."

"That's stupid."

"English is stupid."

"She is an annoyance, and she was my ticket out of this cesspit," Widowmaker says. She can feel a headache coming on.

"She's an annoyance you get to shoot at," Sombra says knowing she is excluded from this category.

Widowmaker sighs; they were getting off topic. She can hear Tracer banging on the plane's hull from outside and making muffled protests.

"Why are you imbeciles really here?" she asks.

"If you hadn't destroyed the taxi we were going to send you to a secure location and get you away from Overwatch's grubby little hands," Reaper says. "If you wanted."

"Also Gabe wanted another shot at Commander Flat-Ass," Sombra says typing something.

"Did he now?" Widowmaker purrs.

You'd be surprised at how uncomfortable a 187 cm merciless killer who dresses like the grim reaper can look.

"We do need your help with the job," Reaper says quickly.

"There turned out to be a lot more... layers of protection than I anticipated," Sombra says wrinkling her nose. "Unfortunately, we can't go back to the first location. But you know, learn from your mistakes and all that."

"And if I say no?"

"To the job or the extraction?"

"The job."

"Then I have no reason to be here and Reaps tries to get both of you out of Italy without Overwatch or Talon or his enemies or your enemies or whoever else noticing. Nothing against you, Gabe, but I wouldn't want to be apart of that mess."

Reaper growls but doesn't argue.

Widowmaker weighs her options. Despite all his talents she doesn't trust Reyes to get them out of Italy quietly. Because they're "friends", Sombra will hold up her end of the bargain as long as she does her part. It's not like she'd be going anywhere soon if she waited for Overwatch's pick up, and continued exposure to Tracer isn't going to be good for either of them, truce or no truce.

But there is the issue of her stability. She feels, well, she feels like she always does: generally indifferent. But she hasn't had any more issues other than the episode with her reflection, and even that only lasted seconds.

Her train of thought pauses when she hears a peculiar thumping followed by the squeaking of flesh on glass. The group turns to see Tracer, accelerator still locked, has managed to crawl onto the cockpit windshield.

"Huh," Reaper says, sounding mildly impressed.

"Now this is prime blackmail material right here," Sombra says framing the scene with her fingers. She starts taking pictures.

Widowmaker looks over Sombra and Reaper. Maybe doing a job with a team she knows how to work with will remind her of how things are supposed to go. Set her right. This might be just what she needs.

There's more squeaking as Tracer repositions herself so that she's hugging the glass. She cups her face and squints into the plane. Widowmaker rolls her eyes and waves.

"Fine. Where do we start?"

Betaed by 2JRC6

Translations

Chica – girl

Azul - blue

AN

/ I can finally stop feeling guilty about Reaper and Sombra's names being in the tags.

Up late because FFnet crashed.

Widowmaker: Unfortunately.

Tracer: Your face is unfortunate.

As a native English speaker I felt cheated when I discovered other languages don't have spelling bees.

Overwatch is fake. Not nearly enough of the characters being offended/befuddled by the way other countries do things.

Why is there ice in the tea? You call that a car? That condiment does not go on that food. Why is the beer warm? What holiday is that? Why is your milk in bags? Where are your bidets? That is NOT how you eat that. /