A/N:
Actual last installment! Please enjoy~
Content warnings: mentions of limb loss, mild blood, and alcohol consumption.
-Reddie
"Yikes," Dominga shakes her head, observing the gaping holes where Coppélia's arms were once attached. "If you're asking me how long it'll take to get you patched up, this is two, pushing three years of repair work, at the very least. Even longer if you're still gonna be dancing."
Coppélia responds, "Don't worry. We're taking time off, so take as long as you need on repairs."
"You don't have to sugarcoat it for her, Coppélia. I already told her I disbanded the company." Coppélia and Dominga both turn at the sound of Giselle's voice. She walks in carrying old sponge brushes from the outdoor storage shed, turning eyes to Dominga, "Were these the ones you were looking for?"
"Yeah, that's it!" Dominga leaps up, snatching them up. "Okay, I'm gonna head down to the studio and get some work done. I'll see you ladies later." With that, Dominga gives two brief embraces and takes off in a hurry, the door not quite closing behind her. Giselle finishes the job for her, before looking to Coppélia.
"So now can you tell me what happened to you back there?"
Coppélia teases fondly, "I promised I would, didn't I?" Giselle's metal index finger pokes at her forehead in response, before tracing down to her chin.
"You did." She leans in like she's going to kiss Coppélia, only to murmur, "Now tell me."
And so Coppélia tells the whole truth: that all along her arms could produce hard plastic bombs, and that she set one off when Widowmaker decided to capture her instead. Coppélia admits that Widowmaker had managed to drag her halfway through the hall before she set it off, and that in the explosion, the only feat she managed was a getaway. Going further, Coppélia confesses that the bomb probably wasn't even necessary, that she did it hoping to finally get rid of her arms, or otherwise die fighting like she should have so long ago. She only barely explains what happened in Russia, before Giselle stops her.
"That's enough…"
"I still have more to—"
"For now, that's enough," she commands, but there is a gentleness in her words that conveys a lack of anger. Taking her hand away, she sets a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner, Giselle. I was… too ashamed. I already caused you so much trouble by staying. I should've left and just…" She ducks her head in shame, but Giselle lifts her chin up again, to look into her eyes.
This entire mess, the destruction of everything Giselle had ever clung to almost feels… freeing. To know that all had been lost makes her ache with emptiness, but she finds potential in that pain the same way she had when she began pointe work. Something about being here, away from Annecy and in a foreign friend's home, refreshes her. Laguna Beach now sets her at ease in a way that it didn't while they were on tour. Now, it is as if the performance is finally over, and Giselle can come home to a lover instead of a bottle of wine.
And maybe Coppélia might feel the same, with her arms gone and no more dancers to harass her when Giselle isn't looking. And yet all Coppélia can dwell upon is everything she's done wrong, like Hanzo brooding over a canteen in Lijiang as if every wrong he'd ever committed weighed visibly on his shoulders.
"You and Hanzo," Giselle chuckles, shaking her head, "must have gotten along rather well."
"What do you mean… by that?"
"Let me tell you something I told him, Coppélia. No one undoes their mistakes," Giselle leans in close, wrapping her arms around her, "but dying doesn't rectify anything either."
"You're no fair," Coppélia says, voice wavering like she's weeping. All she can do to show her appreciation is nuzzle into Giselle's embrace. But it doesn't feel like enough. Speaking her thoughts out loud, "Everyone in that company wanted me gone. Even you could feel it, and yet you defended me so much. What can I possibly do, to make it up to you?"
Stay with me, Giselle wants to say, but it sounds too imposing. Besides, this love is worth far more than a life debt.
"You don't owe me anything, Coppélia. All I ask is that you choose what you think would make you happiest."
"I love you, Giselle." Coppélia croons, shifting so that their foreheads meet. "You make me happy. May I ask again… if we can be together now?"
"My answer is already yes."
They can't tell who moved first. But when the kiss does happen, Giselle and Coppélia can't really bring themselves to care.
Three years take off and it's summer again. Hanzo finds himself safely arrived at a Russian hotel, having just received pay from a client near the border of Kazakhstan. He strips off his bloodied clothing with a wince, before bathing himself in darkness and silence. If he closes his eyes, he thinks he might be able to better hear the wind whirling outside. The sounds of that storm somehow soothe the storm within until he hears Genji scream. His canteen is empty.
He has a fitful night's rest, drifting in and out of deep sleep.
In his dreams, he seizes at least one lost opportunity: learning a simple ballet lift from Coppélia, dressed in their attire from the New York interview. As he looks down, he sees Giselle's old weathered pair of men's ballet flats fixed to his feet, tinted red by the Moroccan earth. They stand on the parapet of the castle in Alicante, and Coppélia moves to do an arabesque. His left hand is fixed securely to the middle of her frame, supporting her. But he faces the opposite direction, unable to tear his eyes away from a blurry picture on the horizon. He's waiting for Jesse to come back, so focused on it that he almost doesn't hear Coppélia speak. She repeats her usual words of encouragement to herself, hardly a murmur, but something about it seems powerful.
That's how he notices the stark difference between their positions: she is looking forward, and he can't stop looking back.
She directs her attention to him, speaking in Jiyeong's voice, "Hanzo. You're more than a monster. I promise."
He genuinely wonders aloud, "And what would you know about it?"
As soon as he's awake, he's moving on again for the nearest airport.
Still suffering jolts of anxious hyperawareness from his recent job, he concedes internally to drowning it at a nearby bar. On the way there, he passes by a theatre. One of the coming soon posters at the entrance displays an omnic dancer with familiar glowing yellow eye-lights.
An explosion in the London sky hits him, followed by trembling metal limbs, St. Paul's Cathedral, roaring protestors standing in the snow, and a quiet reassuring mantra. The words return to him jumbled by the passage of time, but they rise above all else, as if trying to beckon him back to a home he knows doesn't exist anymore.
"What I choose now," he exhales without thinking, "is all that matters."
Hanzo looks up at the poster, seeing Coppélia's new dainty arms, before looking at his own hands. And what has he chosen now? He has to tear himself away from the poster before he gets too wrapped up inside his mind, inside of realities that no longer are. But of all things, the memory of an omnic dancer and her director stay close to his heart among a million little memories, as if rooting for him to stay alive despite the overwhelming desire to be dead.
At the bar, he wishes he had stopped believing in second chances. He believes time and liquor could possibly drown the notion for good, give him an excuse to expire already. As he downs another shot of whiskey, he nearly doesn't notice someone claiming the seat right next to him.
"Well," a familiar, comforting drawl greets, "fancy seeing you here, darlin'."
Hanzo lifts his eyes from his shot glass, blinking back tears as he recognizes the man sitting next to him.
"Jesse…"
"Good to see you again," Jesse's eyes crinkle, "Hanzo."
No anger presents itself, only warmth. Hanzo buys him a drink, still intending to leave after the evening ends. But Jesse seems to understand, as he throws his arm around Hanzo's shoulders, toasting to the hope that tomorrow never comes. The thunder outside roars in agreement, as rain begins trickling down.
There is no such thing as home, but moments like these come pretty close.