Hello again,

Over the past...however long it's been since I've last posted, I've been thinking about the future of the story. I stopped writing because I was stressed. I really decided to take a "break" after I saw a review telling me that it was okay. I caused my so-called "break" to drag out.

I found myself thinking that I needed to stop. So...I did. It was only the other day that I realized how it was affecting me. If you can believe it, it was actually affecting my grades when I stopped. I thought it was because I was writing.

I've read many stories where the author just stopped writing. I didn't want that to become me. There have been many times in my life when I've stopped doing something in the middle. This story means so much to me and I just wouldn't want that to happen.

This will be the final chapter of Halo. I've decided that I'm kind of tired with it and I just don't really feel it anymore. However, I have an ending planned out for this chapter. If you like it, you like it. If you don't, you don't. However, this is for my best interest. I think it would only decline from here and I want to write about something fun for me.

My next fic will be Lúcio x . I have not, of course, come up with all the details but I'll work with it as I go along. I should publish chapter 1 some time in the next week.

Thank you all for being so loyal to this story. You make me smile every day. Without your reviews, I would probably only get to chapter 2.

Sincerely,

Grace

Chapter 9

A big, bushy tree, its green boughs sticking out in all directions, makes its home in the corner of the living room. The fireplace roars with colorful flames, casting a warm glow across the floor (even when the scorching Mexican sun shines as bright as ever).

Although the spirit of winter seems to have thrown up all over the place, my heart is emptier than it should be. I have found myself thinking that, in time, our recent victory might nestle into the space in my heart where Mercy punched a hole, but it hasn't done anything yet and I doubt it ever will.

Now, sitting in an old recliner in the living room, I find myself reading over the same sentence in my Stephen King novel for the fifth time. My mind keeps drifting to an awfully familiar place. I think of Mercy, and I wonder if she feels the same hole in her heart for me. I imagine that she might, but I don't know how to feel about that hope. Hope? Or is it regret?

I'm relieved when Tracer enters the room, sliding onto a brown leather couch beside me and interrupting my dismal thoughts.

"Hey, Jack."

"Hi, Lena."

There's no point in trying to continue my book now. I don't think I want to, anyway.

"So," I begin, "Any plans for Christmas?"

"I'm going home to King's Row," she responds.

"Oh, right. Are you celebrating with Emily?"

"Yeah. Her family's back in Florida for the Holidays."

Emily is Tracer's fiancé. She's American herself, from Miami, but she met Tracer during a semester abroad and they live together in England now. I've heard a lot about her from Tracer, but I've never met her myself.

We sit quietly for a few seconds, Tracer absently drawing shapes with her finger on the worn leather couch.

"What about you, Jack?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"Do you have plans for Christmas?"

"Oh," I say, "Just the usual, I guess. I'll just stay here."

"Survey the perimeter?" she asks sarcastically.

"Ha. I guess so."

"You know, if you want to stay with Emily and me, we have an extra bedroom. We don't use it."

"No, that's alright," I say. "I don't want to be any trouble."

"I promise, it's really nothing," she insists. "We'll have extra food anyway. Plus...Do you really want to stay here alone?"

I look around, considering my options. I've stayed here alone on Christmas every year. Sure, it's pretty lonely but...

"Alright," I agree. "If you swear it won't be any trouble."

"I told you already, I promise."

"Great," I say, "When should I pack?"

"Today, probably," she says, "We leave tomorrow morning."

"Okay. I'll pack now."

I grab my book and head up the stairs, thanking Tracer on the way to my room. When I get there, McCree is sitting up on his bed, reading a thin book.

"Hi, Jes."

"Hey, Jack," says McCree, putting his book text-down on the bed.

I see the title now: Western Suns

"What are you up to?" he asks quizzically.

I'm rifling through the top shelf of the closet, feeling for my suitcase.

"Trying to find my suitcase," I say, "I'm spending Christmas with Lena."

"Ain't you a little old for her?" he snickers.

"Very funny."

I find my suitcase and pull it off of the shelf. It's coated in a thin layer of dust, settled into the black fabric.

"She lives with that girl, right? What's her name...?"

"Emily."

"Right," he says, pointing a finger in the air.

He lets it drop onto his chest. I swipe the last bit of dust off the surface of my suitcase, and zip it open.

"So, Jesse. Do you have any plans of your own?"

"Yeah," he says, "I'm visiting a friend."

"Where?"

"Japan, actually. Hanamura."

"Huh. Who is it?"

He waves a hand in a 'forget it' gesture.

"An old friend."

I shrug and start packing. McCree picks up his book again and continues to read in silence.

I throw in two pairs of jeans, sweatpants, and tan-colored slacks. I get a sky-blue dress shirt to go with them and a sweater. I also take a few plain t-shirts out and stuff them in with the rest. I remember the snow and take an old military jacket with the overwatch emblem printed on each of the sleeves. I finally grab both a pair of loafers and tattered sneakers and zip my suitcase. I remember my toothbrush and head to the bathroom for it. Once I get it, I head back to put it in a smaller pocket along with an extra pair of socks and underwear.

I look around to make sure I didn't forget anything. I then take my suitcase and place it neatly in the closet for tomorrow.

I decide to go get my workout done for today. I head to the door, and wave goodbye to McCree on the way out, but he stops me with one word.

"Hanzo," he says.

I look back at him and see that he's put his book down on the bedside table and is sitting up, legs dangling over the edge of his mattress.

"What?"

"He's the friend I'm visiting...Well, I guess he's more than a friend. He's...special. Special to me."

He takes his book one last time, and covers his blushing face with it. I go into the hall, closing the door behind me to give McCree privacy. Did he mean what I think he meant? If he did... he kept it quiet pretty damn well.

I find the gym and enter to see it completely empty. That's good. I'll be taking a break from working out for a week while I'm in England, and I don't want to get distracted.

This must be the only room in the whole base devoid of Christmas decorations. Even the bathroom has it's fair share of mistletoe and candy canes. I walk over to one of the treadmills on my far left. I turn the biggest dial on the control panel ninety degrees; a medium difficulty run. The belt starts up and I begin to step with it, slowly at first and then faster.

It's about ten minutes before the first drops of sweat start to fall from my hairline. I keep with the motion of the treadmill, pumping my arms back and forth, back and forth. I've been going for twenty minutes now and I'm really starting to sweat. By the time my run is over at thirty minutes, I'm drenched from head to toe, but I'm not tired yet.

I continue to a heavy bag. I decide to grab some wraps from a duffel in the boxing area. I unravel them first (something that Tracer always finds the time to judge me for). Once they're in a pile on the floor, I bend down and find the end. I shoot the loophole around my thumb and start wrapping. I trace the white fabric over my wrist before bringing it up and weaving it through each finger one by one. Once that's done, I bring what's left back down to my wrist and pull it around and around up to my forearm where I secure it tightly on the velcro strip. I get the other wrap and go over the same progress with my other hand. Around the fingers, making it tight before bringing it to my arm. I take a pair of boxing gloves from off the bench next to me. The formerly bright red leather has faded to a dark maroon, white specks of canvas showing through the breaches. I pull them on one by one, using my teeth to tighten the second one around my wrist.

I face the fat heavy bag and consider my options. I make a speedy jab with my right arm, not giving the inanimate object in front of me any time to react. I then cross over with my left hand while turning my back foot and connect higher up, where it really stings. I laugh somewhat evilly and try some combinations. I stick mostly to good old hooks and jabs, throwing a surprise kick in there every now and then. After about five minutes, I start to get tired out. I decide I shouldn't have run on the treadmill for so long. The punching bag looks saggy and defeated, so I decide to end it's misery with a move of my own.

I come up with a plan to surprise the bag before it can punch me back. I shuffle, still in my stance, to the other side of the heavy bag. I then make my move by throwing a light punch, barely knocking it back. However, this is only the beginning of my big victory. I lean toward the bag as it keels, about to bounce back up. I finally throw my elbow at it as hard as I can, knocking it back an incredible distance. It comes back up and bonks me straight in the nose. I cry out and roll back on my heels, my eyes stinging with painful tears. I put my gloved hand over my nose and fall on my back, creating even more hurt for myself. I remove my hand from my face and see disgusting amounts of blood sinking into the old fabric of the glove, coloring it crimson.

"Oh, shit."

Even just speaking hurts my nose. I should feel fear as streams of blood flow down my chin and drip all over my previously white shirt, but I slowly start to fill with something different, a feeling that surprises me. Rage races through my body, starting at my feet and quickly traveling to my face, making the sweat and blood roll down my cheeks quicker.

I'm fucking furious.

I struggle to my knees and stand up from there, placing my hand on a bench for support on my shaky legs. I'm finally up and facing that stupid sack again. This time, I don't bother to weigh my options. I charge at the bag and collide head on, knocking it back again. However, this time I'm ready. This time, I'll finish the job. I punch it back again and again. I jog around the heavy bag, attacking it from all different positions, in every way I can think of. I've completely lost my stance and am now leaning on the bag and using my charging fists to hold myself up. And I'm so mad. I'm mad at Mercy for hurting me like this. I'm mad at Reinhardt for ever questioning my authority, even inside of his thick little skull. I'm mad at McCree and Tracer for being so deeply in love, so utterly entranced in their partners. I'm even mad at Torbjörn for god knows what reason. And I am, of course, mad at Reyes, that backstabbing piece of shit.

But, as I stand here, blood now flying from my lips and chin, getting stuck in my hair and whatnot, I can only think of one person who I want to beat the life out of.

Jack Morrison.

I'm mad at Jack for letting go of the love of his life so easily. I'm mad at Jack for making Reinhardt feel like a useless factor on the team. I'm mad at Jack for being ungrateful for his two best friends, who have always been there. I'm mad at Jack for ever being mad at Torbjörn because who can be mad at that sweet little Swedish munchkin? And I'm mad at Jack for not forgiving or trusting. Because Jack makes mistakes too. Jack probably makes the most mistakes out of anyone!

I find my body unable to remain standing anymore and I collapse on the floor in real defeat. I feel defeated in so many ways, but I also feel light. It's as if there was an anvil on my chest and I couldn't pull it off until now, but now that it's off, I just don't know what to do with myself.

So I start by taking off my gloves. I try to use my hands as much as I can for this task because my face still burns all over. I manage to get them off without too much trouble. I'm not ready to stand up just yet, so I simply place them on the bench next to me. I don't even have the energy to cry anymore. Well, what's the point in crying when it won't change anything?

I stay here for a few minutes until I realize that I'm still bleeding down my shirt. I undo my wraps and put them on top of the gloves. I get to my feet painfully and stumble out of the gym, my hand over my nose.

I cautiously push open the door to the men's quarters and wheeze a sigh of relief when I see no one inside. I go straight to the bathroom and look in the mirror. I jump in shock at what I see. Staring at me with wide but sleepy eyes is a man who looks like he's just been through hell and back. My white hair is matted to my skull with sweat (and a little bit of blood) in at least four places that I can see. Scary amounts of blood are drying on my chin and lips. At least my nose has stopped bleeding. But my nose is still the part that makes me jump. I know as soon as I see it that it's broken. My nostrils are so clogged with blood that I can't see a single white hair within them. The bridge of my nose is mangled and crooked. A shallow but bloody gash runs across it. From far away, my nose would just look like a big bloody hole in my face. My shirt's drenched with blood, so I pull it over my head only to see that it got on my chest, too. A big patch of my chest hair has turned red. I can't clean all of this off in the sink alone. At least my jeans are okay save for a few drops.

I need to hide my shirt, so I temporarily put it in an empty pocket of my suitcase. I go back to the bathroom and pull aside one of the shower curtains. I get undressed, every movement making me ache. My other clothes are mostly clean, so I place them on the counter and get in the shower.

As soon as the water hits my naked body, the soreness starts to go away. I sit on the tile floor with my back against the wall and close my eyes. Warm water flows over my face and washes a good amount of the blood down the drain. I look back down at my chest to see that some of that blood is gone as well except for the amount still stuck in my hair. I reach for a wash cloth from the small vanity shelf and scrub the rest of the blood off my chest using soap. I push open the curtain a little bit to check on my nose in the mirror. Most of the blood washed off the surface of my nose, and I can now see the cut more clearly. It's deeper than I thought at first glance. I need to get it bandaged up before it gets infected. I close the curtain again and finish showering. I wash my hair and try to get the blood out of my nose even though it stings with every rub of the washcloth.

I step out of the shower and onto a fuzzy bathmat. I get a towel from the rack on the wall and dry off quickly, trying not to leave any blood on the towel. I go back into my room with the towel wrapped around my waist. I go to the closet and get dressed quickly. No matter how I feel about it, I know what I have to do. I've been trying to avoid Mercy, but I can't treat my own nose. I head to the medbay down the hall and open the door to see her sitting on one of the many hospital beds with her staff on her lap, deactivated. She's carefully observing the handle of it, probably trying to come up with an upgrade. She looks up at the sound of the door and sees me. She grimaces but retains her composure.

"You look awful, Jack," she says.

"That's not the first time this week someone's told me that."

She crosses the room quickly to get to my swollen nose. She takes a minute to observe the damage and leads me over to a bed. I sit down on the edge of it while she heads over to her desk to get something.

"It's broken, that's for sure," she says, searching around in the desk drawers, "You probably know that already."

I nod.

"At least you cleaned it up. But maybe you should know; warm water contains more chemicals, so you should use cold water the next time you try to heal a wound on your own. Or maybe you should come to me first."

She says this last bit with a tinge of sourness in her voice, making my heart ache a little bit.

"How did you know I used warm water?"

"Because I know you took a shower," she says, and I give her a dumb look, "Your hair's still wet."

"Oh," I say stupidly, feeling at the damp hair on my forehead.

"There it is."

She grabs something from a drawer, closes it, and comes back over to me. I see what's in her hand as she places it on the bed next to me. It's a needle and a spool of surgical thread.

"Sit still," she says.

I do as Mercy says while she pulls the thread through the eye of the needle. I cringe slightly as she brings the needle, now at the ready, towards my face. If there's one thing I'm scared of, it's needles.

"Do you mind numbing it first?" I ask somewhat nervously.

She stops what she's doing abruptly.

"It's an automatic number. Specifically for stitches. The needle is already filled, so the medicine will go into the cut as soon as it enters the flesh. Trust me. You won't feel a thing."

"Alright."

She continues her work, putting her hand on my cheek for support. I get goosebumps as she does it, but they go away as soon as the needle enters my skin. I really don't feel anything but the uncomfortable slide of the thread in my nose as her nimble fingers work the needle in and out. Mercy pulls the string out, her work done, and drops it, along with the needle, into a small metal trash can next to the bed.

"Was that so hard?" She asks sarcastically.

I shake my head, feeling like a child in defeat at the end of a long and painful tantrum.

"Thanks, Mercy."

She gives me a confused, slightly concerned look and says, "Since when do you call me that?"

I don't answer, but stare at my bare feet instead as they hang at rest above the floor.

"Now get going," she says after a long silence, going back to her desk and continuing work on her staff, "I have important work to do."

"Okay."

I stand up and feel dull pain crawling up my back. I walk to the door and have barely cross the threshold when I stop.

"I'm so sorry," I say.

Her back, turned to me, stiffens up and her arms stop their work on the staff. I leave before she can say anything back to me. I suddenly want to cry again, but I'm out of tears. I walk back to the men's quarters, my footfalls barely making a sound on the cold floor. I'm glad to see that no one is present in the room and my suitcase hasn't shifted an inch from its spot near the closet. I'm tired from an uneventfully eventful day and collapse on my bed fully clothed. I close my eyes and place my head against the warm pillow. Before I know it, I'm drifting off into a light and dreamless sleep.

I wake up two hours later to the faint sound of pool balls clacking together down the hall. I turn over onto my side to see the alarm clock. The red blinking numbers read 5:28 PM. I quickly remember that tonight is my day to make dinner. I sit up and stretch my arms over my head. When I look at my pillow, I notice a tiny red spot on the edge; dried blood. I touch my nose and cringe at my sudden sharp pain. The stitches feel bumpy, but I don't think there are too many in there. I get to my feet and step into the hallway. Gusts of laughter echo from the recreation room. I don't have to look inside to recognize that the voices belong to Reinhardt and Torbjörn.

When I enter the kitchen, I hear the TV, blaring intense western music and gunshot noises. I get closer and see that Tracer and McCree are watching HAL-Fred Glitchbot's Six Gun Killer in the living room. I think back to a time when I liked westerns. That was before I met Jesse McCree in all his braggadocious glory. I don't greet them. I don't think they would hear me anyway, since they're fully focused on the action of the TV screen. I open a cabinet above the kitchen counter and pull out two boxes of spaghetti. I also take a pot out of a drawer and fill it with water before placing it on the stove. I go through the process of pouring the raw spaghetti into the water and boiling it over the stove. I also heat up a jar of tomato sauce. Once I'm finished making dinner, I call everyone in. The TV screen is now rolling end credits over the same western music. McCree clicks the TV off, the enthusiastic tune being cut off abruptly. He enters the kitchen with Tracer at his side and they sit down next to each other. Reinhardt and Torbjörn walk in and sit down as well.

"What's for dinner?" asks Torbjörn, rubbing his hands together, his teeth showing in a wide grin.

"Spaghetti," I answer.

"Angela!" calls McCree.

It takes a few seconds to hear the distant response from down the hallway.

"Do you mind leaving some food at the medbay door? I'm working on an upgrade for my staff and I'm nearly done!"

McCree agrees to do so. He then scoops a pile of spaghetti onto his plate and licks his lips in delight.

"Pass the sauce, Jack?"

I do so after pouring myself some.

"So," says Reinhardt, banging his fist on the table which wobbles in protest, "Let's talk Christmas plans. We'll go in a circle. Who wants to start?"

"I'll go first," says Torbjörn, happy for conversation, "I think you all know what I'm doing, but I'll say it anyway. I'm going home to Ada and the kids."

"How many do you have now?" jokes Tracer.

"Still eight," Torbjörn confirms, chuckling and taking a large bite of spaghetti, "Reinhardt's staying with us. So is Mercy's niece."

"Brigitte," confirms Reinhardt, "She asked Mercy if she wanted to come with, but Mercy already has accommodations elsewhere. She didn't tell me what they were."

"Maybe she's staying with Ana and Fareeha again," I add.

Tracer nods and I notice a brief but strange look on her face, almost a nervous glance. I shake it off.

"What about you, Lena?" asks Reinhardt.

"I'm living with Emily now, so I'm going to King's Row. Jack's staying with us." She flashes me a grin.

"Nowhere else for me to go," I say. I immediately regret it when Tracer frowns a little bit and looks down at her food.

I decide to change the topic.

"Jesse's going to-"

"New Mexico," he says, cutting me off quickly.

"Ah," I say, playing along, "Doesn't your sister still live there?"

"Yeah. Her and her boyfriend, Lincoln."

"Right."

We finish our dinner in silence. I find that I'm very hungry, so much so that I have to resist the urge to lick my plate clean. When everyone's done eating, McCree fills one more plate and takes it down the hall to the medbay. Everyone else brings their plates to the sink. When we turn to leave, Reinhardt sticks behind; it's his night to do the dishes. I go to the men's quarters to get an early start on sleep. It's been a long day and I need to rest up for tomorrow's journey to King's Row. We're departing from an airport so it'll be a longer flight than I'm used to. I head into the room and lie down on my bed. I set my alarm clock to wake me up at 5:00 in the morning so I can catch the flight. I don't have to change out of the sweatpants and t-shirt that I'm wearing. As I drift into sleep, I'm faintly aware of McCree entering and getting undressed for bed. I fall asleep slowly, but I don't wake up once I'm under.

I wake up well rested the next morning and ready to get going. I hear the sink running in the bathroom as I slide out of bed. McCree, Torbjörn, and Reinhardt are still fast asleep and, based off of the silence in the girls' room, I assume the same. We have two hours until we have to leave for the airport, so I go to the bathroom to take a shower. I greet Lena when I enter, and undress in the shower, hanging my clothes over the curtain rod. Once I finish, feeling awake, I peek out to see if Lena's still there. The mirror is foggy and the shower next to me is running. I step out, and grab a towel to cover up before Lena gets out. I go back into my room and see that the other men are still sleeping. I head to the suitcase on the floor and select my clothes. I get a gray t-shirt and my Overwatch military jacket. I take jeans and a pair of underwear. I also take a pair of socks and sneakers. I decide not to eat breakfast because I figure they have a Kofi Aromo or something similar at the airport. When I finish getting dressed as quietly as I can, I go back to the bathroom to brush my teeth and comb my hair. Tracer's in her room again, getting dressed. I start brushing my teeth and feel refreshed at the minty taste that hits my tongue. After that, I comb my hair and go into the hallway, rolling my suitcase behind me. Tracer's already waiting for me, dressed in ripped jeans and a jacket with a furry hood. It's a little strange to see her in anything other than workout clothes.

"Ready to head out?" she asks when she sees me.

"Lead the way."

We start to walk down the hall toward the building's exit.

"We can get breakfast at the airport," she says.

"Alright," I agree, "Kofi Aromo okay with you?"

"Always."

We reach the end of the hall and open the door. Dorado's humid morning air greets my face and I have to squint against the sun.

"I called a taxi yesterday," says Tracer, "It should be here any second."

As if on cue, the black and yellow car hovers down the street and stops at the curb where we stand. I gesture Tracer in before I sit down myself. To be honest, I've never trusted these Omnic death chambers. I liked it better when there was a real person driving. It's a quick drive to the airport, and I prefer it that way. When we arrive, we go through a series of automated customs before we can go to our gate. The building is very crowded because of the holidays, but Tracer and I manage. We stop at a Kofi Aromo at the airport where I get a breakfast burrito and a latte. I sleep for most of the plane ride because I want to have enough energy for the rest of the day.

Once Tracer and I have our bags, she calls another taxi to pick us up from the baggage claim. It shows up in only five minutes and we hover away. We ride mostly in silence, apart from small conversation now and then. The sun is setting and it casts a warm light onto the street. Even though snow is falling thickly in front of us, I can still see through the windshield clearly enough. As we pass Big Ben, I notice how its blue, holographic rings of light dance on piles of fluffy snow. Music pumps quietly out of the dashboard speakers; a scratchy yet somehow satisfying wordless electronic beat. I peer over at the screen and see the artist's short but sweet name: Lúcio. I think I've heard of Lúcio before but I don't know where. And then I remember. He's the DJ who invented the weapon that heals with songs. The one who's against Blackwatch. They wanted to recruit him. Ziegler told me about that. Ziegler...

I don't know how long I stare out the window, lost in regretful thoughts about Ziegler, but before I know it, Tracer is shaking my arm.

"We're there," she says excitedly.

I open the door and we step out into the chilly air. Tracer's apartment building looms above us, a modern building which completely stands out from its old brick neighbors. The outside is lined with clean shrubs, thin layers of snow settled upon their leaves.

"I can't wait for you to meet Emily," she says.

The excitement glows on her face.

"You've told me so much about her," I say, "I feel like I know her already."

Tracer laughs at this and leads me into the building as the taxi pulls away down the street. The building is warm despite the cold wind drifting in from outside. The lobby is empty apart from an overweight security guard settled behind the reception desk. We take the elevator all the way up to the top floor where we step off at a long hallway. Tracer's apartment is only a few doors in.

She knocks on the door and it opens almost immediately. Tracer jumps into Emily's arms and showers her freckled face with kisses.

"Oh, Lena," she says, "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too."

"Come in," she says, shooting me a welcoming smile.

I greet her at the threshold.

"You must be the famous Emily," I say.

I shake her hand. She has a firm grip.

"And you must be Commander Morrison. Thank you for your service."

"Please," I insist, "Call me Jack."

"It's nice to meet you, Jack."

"You too, Emily."

"Here. Let me take your coat."

I pull my jacket off my shoulders and hand it to her. She takes it and hangs it on a coat rack next to Tracer's.

Emily is exactly as Tracer described her. She has long orange hair which hangs down her back and sparkling brown eyes.

She has on a bright red christmas sweater with a picture of a reindeer on the front. The sweater exposes her shoulders which are covered in dense freckles.

"I'll make tea," says Tracer. She leaves Emily and me on the threshold.

Emily grabs my suitcase and starts to roll it toward a hallway.

"Make yourself at home, Jack," she says, "I'll take your suitcase to your room."

I thank her and walk into the living room, which consists of a cozy-looking sofa and a wicker chair. I sit down in the chair across from the holographic tv which is playing an old comedy show called The Office. I watched the entirety of The Office when I was fourteen. It's been a while since I've seen this show. The jingly theme song plays behind the screeching of a teapot in the kitchen. Emily walks back into the room a few seconds later and sits on the couch.

"How's that tea coming, love?" she calls into the kitchen.

"Almost done, Em!"

Emily turns to me.

"Your room's at the very end of the hallway. Last one on your right," she says, "Lena says that there might be someone else staying with us later on in the week. She hasn't decided for sure where she's going for the Holidays, so we don't know for sure when she'll be here."

"Who-?" I try to ask.

"Tea's ready, you two!" Tracer calls.

She walks in holding a big tray. On it is a steaming teapot and three cups. There's also a small bowl of something. When Tracer places the tray down on the glass coffee table, I see that the bowl is filled with ginger snaps.

She sits down on the couch next to Emily and leans into her shoulder.

"I was just telling Jack about our surprise guest."

Tracer gives Emily a look as if to say 'Don't say anything about that.' Emily's eyes go wide.

"Right," she whispers.

Tracer is quick to change the topic although I find myself wondering why I can't know about the mystery guest. My confusion probably shines on my face because waves a hand to dismiss the topic.

"It's snowing buckets out there," says Tracer.

Emily puts an arm around Tracer and pulls her close.

"It's been going for a week now," Emily informs us.

I pull a teacup from the tray and they do the same. I take a sip; it's hot and has a nice, minty taste.

"This is delicious," I tell Tracer.

"Lena makes the best tea," says Emily.

"And pancakes," I add.

"You're too sweet," says Tracer, kissing Emily.

I suddenly get a bad feeling in my stomach. I know that feeling. It isn't exactly jealously but more like a sadness. I miss Ziegler so much right now. I shouldn't have told her I didn't trust her. But a small part of my mind tells me that I don't. I just wish that part would go away. I do trust her. I love her.

Seeing Lena and Emily together like this...it just makes me more aware of that hole in my heart that I can't fill with distractions. I can only fill it with Angela Ziegler.

I drink some of the tea as if I can fill the hole with the warmth of it. Emily has already finished hers and Tracer is snacking on ginger snaps. I take one and eat it slowly, savoring the sweet taste in my mouth. We make small talk as we finish the tea and cookies. By the time we're done, the sun has gone down and the sky outside of the apartment's wide window is twinkling with stars behind the snow.

"Maybe we shouldn't have eaten all that right before dinner," says Emily, giggling.

"Should we go out?" asks Tracer.

Emily and I agree to this and we go to the door to get our jackets. As we walk down the hall, I ask where we're going to go.

"There's a great pizza place in the town square," says Tracer.

"Luigi's," adds Emily.

"I'm always down for pizza," I respond.

"Perfect," says Emily.

The walk to the town square is short but cold. The wind pierces my cheeks and neck while we walk and I start to regret not bringing a scarf with me. Emily wears a long, teal scarf covered in pattern lines all the way along it. She sees me looking at it.

"Lena got this for me last Christmas," she says.

"It's nice."

"Thanks," says Tracer. We all laugh at that.

We walk through a brick tunnel and emerge in the square. The King's Row town square screams Christmas spirit. In the middle of the square stands a giant statue of the deceased leader of the Shambali Omnic monks, Tekhartha Mondatta, holding a little girl's hand, a spinning globe in the other. The statue's base is layered in a shimmering pile of snow, stacking up against the little girl's chubby legs and there are lights strung around the edges. Blocking of the alleyway on the other side of the courtyard is a giant christmas tree. It's shining gold star almost reaches the balcony of the Alderworth Hotel.

I expect the square to be packed with people, but everyone is inside the Square's numerous shops and restaurants. The restaurant that we approach has two big, light-tinted windows on either side of the door. Through them, I can see people eating and chatting. A young woman in a pink dress raises her glass to a toast as a black-haired man at another table soothes his fussy toddler with a pacifier. When we walk in, the smell of warm pizza dough and buttery spaghetti washes over my nose. We sit down at a table next to the window with three seats. I order spaghetti and meatballs while Tracer and Emily share a cheese pizza. The server walks away into the kitchen scribbling our order on an iPad fifty-seven mini.

"So, Jack," says Emily, "Lena recently called to tell me about what happened with you."

I'm genuinely confused and my face conveys it.

"Between you and Angela," she clarifies.

Although this doesn't surprise me, I still can't help but give Tracer a jokingly angry glance.

"Nothing really," I reply.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"You've been acting so depressed," says Tracer, "You're not keeping it all that secret."

"Lena!" cries Emily.

"What?"

"No. It's true," I say, "I miss her. I really haven't told anyone."

"You can tell us how you feel, Jack. We won't judge you," says Tracer.

"She's right," comments Emily, "Holding things back like this isn't healthy."

"We're here for you. Take your time."

I almost back out but I also know that I have to say something.

"I'm scared," I say.

"It's okay, Jack. You can tell-"

"I'm not scared of that, Emily. I know you guys are are there for me. I'm scared of losing her..."

And it all connects. It's like the moment when you finally understand a joke you've been pondering. The blow mixes all of my thoughts together. It puts them together and I finally get it.

"It was Reyes."

"Who's Reyes?" asks Emily, "What are you talking about?"

"Gabriel Reyes," says Tracer, "He was a member of Overwatch before it was disbanded. He was also Jack's best friend. After the Swiss Headquarters incident, he joined Blackwatch. Betrayed us, Jack specifically."

"What about him?"

"I lost my trust for him. I had a reason not to trust him. When Angela told me that she saved him, I thought I had a reason not to trust her."

"But she cares about you," says Tracer, "You know that."

"I know. I care about her too."

"You need to make things right," says Emily.

"How? There's a whole week before I can see her again."

"Love can wait a couple of days," says Tracer

"But can it wait a week?"

"No," says Emily, "A couple days tops."

They start to laugh and are still giggling to each other when our waiter comes back with two plates of steaming hot food. Everyone's hungry so we eat dinner and what feels like seconds. It's absolutely delicious. I won't even regret it when I get a stomach ache.

The taste of creamy butter still lingers on my tongue while we walk back to the apartment. It's snowing heavily now and it stings my numb cheeks and nose.

I'm relieved by the warmth of the apartment building. We reach Emily and Tracer's door. After a lot of fumbling around in the many pockets of her coat, Tracer finds the keys and opens the door. I take off my jacket and hang it on the coat rack.

"I'd better turn on the news," says Emily after she and Tracer hang theirs up.

"I'll unpack."

As I roll my suitcase down the hallway, I hear the TV turn on and a news anchor's voice enthusiastically proclaims:

"Snuggle up, folks, because there's gonna be snow, and there's gonna be a lot of it. We expect an about sixteen inches in the King's Row area by morning."

I reach the open door and walk in, closing it most of the way. The room is small but cozy. A tidy bed, its blue comforter pulled up high takes up most of the space. There's a low wooden dresser sitting at the foot. It has six drawers; plenty for the few items I brought along.

I unpack my things quickly, stuffing them into the different drawers of the chest. The sky has turned pitch-black by now, and it's making me tired. I'm yawning uncontrollably into my hand.

I change out of my clothes and turn off the light. I crawl into bed. As I drift off into a deep sleep, I hear the TV turn off and the sound of soft, loving whispers in the hall as Tracer and Emily make their way to bed.

I wake up to the faint smell of bacon and eggs sizzling on a pan. The tiny clock on the wall reads 10:38. I pull the covers off of my sweaty legs and realize that I'm only wearing boxers and socks. Getting out of bed with jet lag isn't an easy task but I've done it before. I get dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and walk into the hall.

I notice something strange as I get closer to the kitchen. I can hear the usual chit chat that comes along with Tracer and Emily, but there's another voice. I can't deny that I recognize it but...

"Morrison?"

"Ziegler," I say, truly shocked.

When love happens, you know it. When you're in love, you want to be with him/her every second of your life. You do stupid things and act like an idiot. If I could write an ending to this story, I would. Call me dramatic. I don't give a shit. If you don't like the ending, scream at me. Feel free. To tell you all the truth, I have a lot of shit going on right now. I'm a mess, to be frank. I call it my mental breakdown. But I can relate to this. In the end, Jack realized what he had to do. He did it and it felt right. I'm sorry if this isn't the ending that you wanted. You probably wanted him to go to town square. To get some chocolates. Have some interaction with Genji while there. Come back. Wake up in the middle of the night and apologize to her because he loves her. I had that planned out. I'm sorry if this ending isn't the one that you wanted, and I'm not satisfied either. But I'm a mess. What else can I really say?

I would like to thank you all once more for sticking with me through this. I would like to thank the millions of bags of microwave popcorn that got me here. I would like to thank the on friend of mine who cared enough to read this. You know who you are. Thank you so much

~Grace

This was a bullshit story and I wish it hadn't ended this way but it's currently 11:56 and I need some time to sleep. You don't have to forgive me.