After multiple days of attempting to manually override her own profile in the Overwatch database, Tracer resigned to using her backup plan. The tablet from the ship was equipped with a handful of algorithms of Winston's design, minor programs to help a stranded agent unlock doors or whatever else one might find useful on a mission into enemy territory. Plus, Athena software toying with Athena software should hardly be considered hacking, especially when she told the computer it was an Overwatch approved system update. Between her friend's incredible skills, her minor dabbling with code, and the seemingly attainable goal of changing one number, she was hoping against hope it would be enough.
All she could do was wait as she left the program to run its course. And she hated waiting.
She stayed in the hangar to keep her spirits up. The ship was getting close to completion, and that fact kept her in a pleasant mood; at least she got something right. She had managed to find an abandoned bottle of body wash in the barracks' showers the previous night. There was a delightful view of a full moon from their side of the station. Life was good. Or so she kept telling herself as she kept herself busy.
The sound of muffled footsteps that did not match the familiar click of Widowmaker's heels jostled her from her thoughts, and she whipped around in surprise. Her mouth fell open at the sight.
Gone was the skintight purple jumpsuit. No more visor, no more gloves, no more bracers. In their place was a standard issue Overwatch uniform from a time when the organization actually had masses of agents. A simple design, the black pants with an orange stripe down the side tucked into black boots. Rather than the accompanying black shirt; however, the woman had donned what had likely been provided to the station's crew as casualwear. An adorable blue sweatshirt with the familiar orange logo in the corner hung loosely over her slim frame.
"I was cold," Widowmaker stated simply, carefully inspecting Tracer's face still frozen in shock.
"Oh."
Tracer decided she rather liked the notion that her companion was dressed like an Overwatch agent.
"Looks hot. Warm," she corrected, clearing her throat, "Very smart. You get cold?"
"Not until recently."
"Oh, right. Should've guessed that. Space is, uh, cold," Tracer stated, trying to add a confident nod to cover her floundering.
She turned around and took a deep breath, attempting to not make any more of a fool of herself.
"Find anything else interesting in the barracks' closets?"
"Perhaps," the voice behind her replied, "What do you consider interesting?"
Tracer grunted as she lifted a heavy metal panel. "Well, this was a military and research facility, yeah? Probably not allowed to have nothing too naughty."
"There were no skeletons in the closets."
She almost dropped the load she carried in her arms. "Blimey, I don't mean murder."
There was a pause before she heard, "Is that not an English expression?"
"Oh. Right," Tracer replied, looking over her shoulder, "Hard to tell when you're serious or not."
She smiled at the woman shaking her head before returning her gaze to the ship and lifting the panel to the exposed section of vessel it was to cover. However, she stupidly stood there holding the rather weighty siding when she realized she would need one hand free in order to screw it into place.
"Do you require assistance?"
"That obvious?" she threw over her shoulder with a laugh.
Widowmaker's lips were tugging slightly upwards when she came into view to hold up the panel. "Subtlety is not one of your key features."
"Yeah? Been admiring my features?" Tracer countered, before blinking away to quickly grab a screwdriver. She returned to begin to twist away at the metal before Widowmaker drew a breath to answer her.
"I am stranded on a space station, thanks to you. I have little to do but observe."
A smirk. "Fair. But ain't it wicked to look out the window and see stars?"
The tall woman glanced down as Tracer contentedly screwed the panel in place with a grin, watching as a strand of hair fell across her eyes. In their close proximity, it was hard not to notice a floral scent.
"The views are tolerable," she answered more softly than she intended.
Tracer made quick work of securing the siding, and Widowmaker continued to either help or sit in her usual chair as the day progressed. The ship looked like the real thing again.
At some point, Widowmaker left to go start dinner, and the pilot took another deep breath. Widowmaker as an Overwatch agent. Wow.
While the thought made her feel warm, she did not allow herself to ponder it too long. The world they would return to was a very different place than the quiet of space. And so, in typical Tracer fashion, she sped on to the next thing, keeping herself busy as she finished her day's work on the spacecraft.
By the time she tossed her gloves and goggles into a pile by the dock station's computer, she was content. When she arrived at the kitchen for dinner, she realized she was in for more surprises.
She walked over to where Widowmaker was beginning to plate their meal and instantly titled her head at the interesting combination on the menu.
"Potatoes and soup?" Tracer hesitantly questioned, trying to cover her surprise.
The small frown on Widowmaker's face was almost unnoticeable. Almost.
"Clam chowder was the closest item in the storage room to fish," she intoned before gesturing to the plate of chopped potatoes, "It was also lacking any form of 'chips.' Those were freeze-dried."
She then looked up from the meal to the young woman with uncertain expectancy.
Tracer continued to stare in confusion before realizing exactly what the meal was: Fish and chips. She immediately broke out into a smile she couldn't hold back.
"Thanks, love."
Widowmaker merely nodded, returning spooning the soup into another bowl. But her frown was now gone.
It was admittedly an odd selection, but Tracer decided she was going to every bite of the meal prepared specifically for her. She eagerly devoured her dinner once they both sat down.
"Food's good." She meant it. Weird. But good.
Her dinner partner paused in the process of bringing a potato to her mouth, inspecting it.
"Options are limited here."
The agent swallowed a bite and encouragingly added, "When we get back, you'll be able to try cooking with fresh stuff."
Widowmaker's eyes fell down to the table. The kitchen grew quiet.
Tracer shook her head at her own idiocy. Get back...to what? A world on the brink of a second crisis? Two warring organizations that either saw her as an assassin or, potentially, as a traitor? Or would she return to her previous life as if nothing had happened?
"I've said the wrong thing," she muttered, an apologetic grimace spreading across her face.
Widowmaker shook her head. "You've merely presented a logical problem."
"But it made you sad."
Her eyebrows wrinkled with confusion. Tracer tried to press on.
"Are there things you'd like to do when you're back?"
"We do not know the current state of the world we will be returning to."
So they had been thinking the same thing.
"If the other stuff didn't matter," the Brit said with a wave of her hand, "Just what would you like to do?"
It never failed to surprise Tracer when Widowmaker did not have an answer ready or did not give the typical social cue of a prolonged 'hm' before excitedly answering. The woman still learning her emotions and wants always donned a countenance of extreme concentration, as if meticulously searching to find an answer deeply buried within herself.
And the proud little gleam in her eyes when she managed to secure that answer is what made Tracer's heart do backflips.
"Bread," Widowmaker stated clearly, almost triumphantly, "I would like to bake bread."
Tracer winced. The two stared at each other while she tried to think of an appropriate response.
"Bread's, uh, a bit plain, innit? You could do anything."
Widowmaker leaned back in her chair and fixed her gaze on a nearby wall.
"There is very little that captured my attention beyond a mission. And yet, after monitoring a target in a small town for a few days, I remember that particular scent every morning around dawn," she glanced back to Tracer, "If something then could give me pause, perhaps now it might be something I enjoy."
"That's brilliant. Remember anything else? Something that caught your attention before all this?"
With the shake of a head, she answered, "I have travelled all over the world but have truly seen very little"
Tracer leaned forward against the table before softly asking, "Nothing?"
Widowmaker slowly closed her eyes, her head delicately tilting in the process.
"There were gardens in Versailles," she replied almost wistfully, "Roses."
The sight before her made Tracer smile; it was a shame she didn't have access to a garden here if the memory made Widowmaker looks so peaceful.
Golden eyes opened. "You."
Tracer's smile vanished as she stuttered, "Me?"
She did not receive clarification right away. Widowmaker, in her slow, deliberate manner, picked up the empty dishes and walked them over to the sink, gently placing them down. She turned, resting her hip against the counter. Her eyes were far away.
"All of this. It is like waking up in an unfamiliar place. Existing in the unknown," she murmured, "Dépaysement."
She squared her shoulders as she turned around to face the woman still sitting at the table, her voice growing firm.
"You were the first face I could clearly see. That made me think there was more."
Tracer felt her heart practically take flight at the confidence with which Widowmaker spoke.
She ran a hand through her hair and said with a cheesy smirk, "So not the end of the world you're stuck in space?"
Widowmaker rolled her eyes, turning back towards the sink. Her smile was hidden.
"You are only a mild annoyance."
She woke up with a gasp. Her skin was scorching.
She felt as if she had just emerged from a scalding ocean, panting for air. The salty liquid clinging against her was unfamiliar. Her body had never been able to sweat so profusely before.
The nightmares were also new.
Her heart was hurting with each pulsing beat. She had never felt it so strongly before. It was a new feeling, and a horrible one at that.
She sat up in bed to realize she had kicked off the covers in her sleep. The second her feet touched the floor, she launched herself towards the closet to search for new, clean clothes. The sweatshirt she had worn before was folded on the nightstand where she left it before retiring to bed, but the tank top she was wearing was soaked.
Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, faint starlight glowing through a small circular window in the wall. Light peeked under the door from the hallway.
She opened the closet door to find this particular room was not as well supplied as the one where she had found the first set of clothes. A pair of pants donned a hanger, but they were clearly much too small of her. She knelt down to pick through the duffle bag on the floor, desperately clawing through the dark for something to free her from this disgusting feeling.
When her hand felt cloth, she pulled the item out to discover it was only a scarf, which she quickly discarded with a toss. Returning to the bag, her fingers hit a sharp corner, and her newfound curiosity incited her to pull out the mystery object.
It was a small picture frame housing the image of a man. His face sported whiskers and his hair as well groomed. As she looked at the photo of this stranger, blurry in the darkness, the whispers of her nightmares returned.
The scratch of a beard against skin. The smell of cologne. Whispered sweet nothings.
Her own hands gripping a man's throat, squeezing out every last breath of life.
She screamed as she hurled the picture at the wall, the glass frame shattering as it collided violently with the surface. Uncontrollable sobs broke free, and she curled into herself on the floor by the closet.
Seconds later, the door flung open, Tracer's eyes wide with worry. She paused mid action in tightening the straps of her accelerator's harness, having flung it on before dashing out her room.
The sight before her broke her heart. The breath she was holding slowly released as she inspected the damage to the wall and fragments on the floor.
Her bare feet quickly carried her across the room while avoiding the broken glass, and, without hesitation or question, she bent down to scoop the crying woman into her arms.
"It's ok, it's ok. You're ok."
The lavender face disappeared into the crook of her neck, and she felt the tears press against her skin left exposed by her tank top. She pulled the taller woman on her lap as best she could before her hands rubbed circles across her back.
"You're ok."
The body in her arms continued to shake with pained sobs, and all she could was proceed to murmur her mantra and hold on. She rested her cheek against the top of Widowmaker's head and closed her eyes.
All she had was time, and that was an easy thing for Tracer to give. And while time ticked by, the tears slowly but surely began to lessen. Eventually, the breath against her neck grew steady and rhythmic, and she stilled her hands against Widowmaker's back. If it were not for the occasional sniff, she would have assumed the woman had fallen back asleep.
She glanced over at the shards of glass twinkling in the light flooding from the door she had left open. Tracer sighed.
Widowmaker's choice had not been an easy one.
"What made you decide not to take the, uh," but her voice died off in uncertainty. Medication? Chemicals? The thing that allowed Talon to control her?
She felt Widowmaker's head turn towards her and supply, "Treatment?"
"Not the word I would use," the Brit mumbled, delicately brushing back strands of hair that had escaped Widowmaker's ponytail, "Makes it sound like it helps."
"It does," the other's voice grew stronger, almost angry, sitting up slightly, "I am erratic now. Weak. Crippled by the smallest sensation."
A hand spread warmly against her cheek, tilting her gaze until the two met in a flash of gold and hazel. The gentle, blue light from the accelerator illuminated their faces.
Tracer offered a sad smile. "I think it's bloody brave."
"C'est absurde," Widowmaker whispered fiercely, eyes brimming with tears once more.
"What made you decide not to take it?" the other asked calmly, moving her hand to a shoulder.
Widowmaker glanced down at the glowing circle on Tracer's chest before looking back up. "You said I had a choice."
"You chose to take back your life from them to decide your own fate. Brilliant, that," the young woman summarized softly, giving the French woman's shoulder a squeeze, "Your chemistry will be buggered up for a bit. Emotions are hard even for those of us that've had 'em our whole lives. You're doing great."
She finished with a smile, hoping to see it mirrored back. Widowmaker's eyebrows, however, wrinkled in confusion and the body beneath Tracer's hands tensed.
"You want her back."
"No."
She countered, "You want someone 'good' you can recruit?"
"No," Tracer murmured simply.
"Why?" Her voice hitched as desperation leeched onto her face.
The other woman paused. Widowmaker had not clarified her question, but it was one Tracer had asked herself countless times since their first meeting, since the attack on Gibraltar, since they blasted their way into space. Why? Why did she care? Their original truce? Pity?
Why did she want to help give this woman the world?
She was terrified she already knew the real answer. An answer that went as deep as the hot ache in the pit of her stomach when she thought of the night she tackled Widowmaker to the ground in King's Row. Of her beautiful, dark laughter.
"Hard not to feel like all of this wasn't meant to happen, yeah?" she finally replied, her voice barely a whisper.
Widowmaker's eyes searched hers in the dim light of the room. After a moment, the tenseness in her body melted away, and her head wearily dropped back to Tracer's shoulder.
She shakily breathed, "What if you're wrong? What if what I was is what I am meant to be?"
Tracer tightened her embrace.
"You should get a chance to be happy. Whether that's killing for Talon or doing something else. But you pick. Not them."
Her hand began the process of tracing circles on Widowmaker's back once more.
"Don't scare me like that," she mumbled, snuggling closer, "Heard the noise and thought you were hurt."
Her periwinkle skin was no longer cold. Tracer did not feel any heat emitting from where they touched, but it certainly did not have a particular chill as it once did when their hands had brushed.
She suddenly realized how intimate their embrace was. Her hands stopped rubbing.
"You must be knackered," she tried with a small smile, giving a quick pat on the back, "Let's get you to bed." She could feel her own heat rising to her cheeks.
Widowmaker gave a nod and stood. The Tracer followed suit and gently placed her hand on the other's back, guiding her towards the door; there were dozens of other rooms, and a fresh start seemed in order.
Like many other items over the past few days, Tracer decided to ignore the picture that had been abandoned at the station along with a closet full of personal belongings and clothes belonging to an absent crew.
"I feel like such a twat. She's been in her room all day," Tracer sighed, throwing her head back and looking up at the tall ceiling. "Some help I am."
She was leaning on the wall next to the docking station's computer.
She crossed her arms and mumbled, "Imagine getting all your feelings at once like that."
"I cannot. I am incapable of feeling."
Tracer ignored the comment from Athena and continued her musing, "Omnics figured it out. We should've listened better before things went arse-up," she grumbled, beginning to pace, "How's a freakin' soul born?"
"I am unable to find an answer to your query in my database."
"Try looking up 'rhetorical,'" she retorted towards Athena's screen before frowning, "She's so gentle. Cheeky, but gentle. Just want to help."
"Professionals recommend support from friends and family for significant emotional and mental trauma."
Her fingers slipped into her pocket to graze against the plastic case she was charged with keeping.
"Not that easy, mate, she sighed once more, leaning back against the spot directly next to the computer.
After a short pause, Athena's voice again filled the hangar, "Do you require assistance synchronizing the battery cells to the power grid and performing the diagnostic?"
"'Course not, I'm not daft," the frustrated pilot scoffed before turning to the screen, "Why you ask?"
"Your station has been inactive for approximately ten minutes."
"Oh. Maybe a bit daft," Tracer chuckled before cracking her knuckles, "Alright then, let's get her flying."
The next hour was spent in front of the keyboard. The subsequent hour was spent cursing at another blown fuse and some misplaced wires. However, by the end of the day, and another round of keyboard commands, Tracer felt satisfied.
The second she left the transport wing, all her previous worries came flooding back. Did she go check up on her? Did she give her some space? Should she go make her some food?
Tracer frowned deeply, glaring at the floor. Too bad there wasn't any bread or roses or something else on the limited list of things Widowmaker liked.
But Widowmaker did like cooking, and bringing her food was as good a place as any to start. Tracer walked towards the galley only to find it occupied when she arrived.
A can of beans sat on the counter next to a clean pot. The woman that had been the focal point of Tracer's anxiety had seemingly abandoned the task of cooking, and was instead sitting at the table with her head in her hands, as if massaging away a headache. Her eyes were closed, and the room was quiet.
The young woman in the doorway shuffled in place, murmuring, "All right?"
Widowmaker shook her head no.
Tracer awkwardly looked around the room before asking, "Want me here or someplace else?"
The woman at the table's eyes slid open, staring at the surface where she rested her elbows. Her hands dropped from her face, and she slowly crossed her arms until they were tight against her. Her gaze moved from the table to the floor.
"That is your choice."
Tracer took a small step into the room and firmly asked, "But what do you want?"
There was neither movement nor a response. The agent felt the heavy burden of time seemingly freezing; the room was too still. Sensing she wasn't wanted, she sighed and turned to go.
"Please stay."
She glanced back over her shoulder, her eyebrows hitching in surprise at the plea. Widowmaker's eyes had finally found hers. With a nod, she walked back into the room and grabbed the chair at the head of the table.
"Budge over."
Widowmaker acquiesced without complaint, inching her chair to make room for Tracer on her side of the table.
As she sat down, the other shivered, her crossed arms tensing.
"Cold?"
The response was a single nod. Tracer held out her hand, almost touching Widowmaker's own resting on her arm.
"May I?"
She received a questioning glance but Widowmaker's arms loosened from across her chest, surrendering her hand. Tracer lightly wrapped the lavender fingers between both of her hands and began to gently rub. Warmth soon began to spread with the friction.
"Tracer. Lena—"
"Sometimes we just feel sad," Tracer interrupted, continuing to stare at their hands and focus on her task, "Don't have to be a reason. Don't even need to talk about it, if you don't want."
She did not hear a response. Her fingers massaged Widowmaker's remarkably soft palm, inching towards her wrist and the web-like designs of her tattoos ascending her forearm. What she found there caused her fingers to still.
"Didya feel that?" Tracer breathed, "Your heartbeat."
The response was just as hushed. "Still slow."
"Strong though."
With a small squeeze and a smaller smile, she released her grip, and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. She stared at the table while she nibbled on her bottom lip.
"I finished the ship. Still need to do a flight test. But I think she'll make it."
"You are very skilled," Widowmaker replied, a hint of warmth returning to her voice.
Tracer offered a light chuckle before replying, "Just doing my job, miss."
"Where did the cocky girl from before go, hm?"
"She's not so confident right now," the pilot explained, glancing about the room, "Wants to help. Doesn't know how."
The room once again fell silent and Tracer wondered if it was a mistake mentioning it.
"Lena," Widowmaker murmured as she looked down at the table.
"Yeah?"
Her voice was barely a whisper when she asked, "Do you still have it?"
When Tracer did not immediately respond, she looked up and met the gaze quietly searching her features. An unvoiced question hung in the air.
Tracer glanced away and gave a slight nod. The hand from her pocket emerged holding the small case. No emotion registered on Widowmaker's face upon its unveiling, and Tracer simply reached out to deposit the object on the table between the two of them.
Widowmaker kept her face terribly still and unreadable. But amber eyes now poured over the new presence before them. Tracer saw them twitch with fire. With need.
"Twenty days," she intoned, as if she remembered each minute vividly.
Tracer watched in silence as she slowly reached forward to open the case. The sleek shape of the needle glistened under the direct light above the table. She swallowed a lump building in her throat; after seeing the pain Widowmaker was in the previous night, even she saw the temptation of relief glittering before them.
Widowmaker's voice was airy and almost dreamlike when she asked, "What would you do if I used it?"
Tracer looked between her and the syringe. "Nothing."
"Inconcevable. You are an agent of Overwatch," the other drawled coldly, eyes remaining locked the syringe, "You would not allow me to return to what I was."
"I said you always had a choice, didn't I? Even fading back to all that. But I'd be awfully sad if you did," Tracer murmured.
Widowmaker hesitated before practically whispering, "Why?"
"I'd miss you," she replied with a sad smile, as if it was the most obvious thing in the universe.
"I would still be here on the station," was the practical response.
"Is it really you? Or their version of you?"
Widowmaker sighed as if deflated, "I do not even know who I am."
"You've only had twenty days to get to know her so far. But I like her," Tracer said somewhat sheepishly, trying to offer another smile.
"Amélie?" Widowmaker questioned hesitantly.
"Not Amélie. Not Widowmaker. Just you, love," she replied, her voice confident but warm.
Widowmaker's eyes grew glassy. When she turned back to face the tube, Tracer withdrew her hand; this alone was her decision.
She gingerly picked up the syringe from the case and slowly pushed back her chair. Her grip grew tighter as she stood up.
"I am both," she muttered, her thumb sliding to the top, as if itching to plunge down and push the pump. The arm at her side tensed.
Tracer held her breath. Widowmaker looked directly at her.
"I am neither."
The instrument slid from her hand, hitting the floor with a dull thud.
"À la vie, à la mort," she rasped before lifting her leg and sending it down with all her strength. The plastic crunched beneath her boot. She repeated her assault, continuously stomping, until even needle snapped. Three swift kicks ended with the hard floor glistening with new, clear moisture that had escaped the tube.
And then it was over. Widowmaker again returned her gaze from the floor to the woman sitting with her mouth hanging open. Destroying the vial had made her somewhat out of breath. She blinked as if waking up, seeing her surroundings for the first time, fully realizing her new freedom in what she had done.
She was greeted with an overwhelmingly brilliant smile. In the stillness of that victorious moment, she found herself able to genuinely return it.
The Brit practically laughed, "You know, I—"
"Agent Tracer."
"Oi?" She called over her shoulder with a frustrated sigh towards the small computer on the kitchen counter. It couldn't wait, Athena?
"You requested an alarm upon completion of the system update."
It was time.
She whipped her head around with wide eyes towards Widowmaker.
"Athena," she stated breathlessly, daring to hope, "What's my clearance?"
"Agent Tracer, Security Clearance Level Five."
Tracer immediately pushed back her chair and punched a triumphant fist into the air with a dramatic jump.
"God save the Queen. It worked," she exclaimed, her hands flying to her forehead, "You actually did it, Winny! Ha!"
She would have to remember to thank Winston for that tablet later. But for now, it was time to be a hero.
Looking over at her companion, squaring her shoulders, Tracer asked, "You with me?"
Widowmaker's hands curled into fists. Her yellow eyes were fierce and fixed.
"Oui," she confirmed with a firm nod, "I am with you"
A/N: Buckle your seatbelts, folks, shit is about to get real for our lady gays in space. As always, I am deeply critical of myself and always look to your comments and reviews for guidance—thank you for reading.