Tracer's eyes flitted open and the poor girl winced as every cell in her body ached with pain. A cool hand rested on top of her feverish forehead, alleviating some of the discomfort but the pain was enough to make Tracer nauseous.

Moving to her side, Tracer began gagging, shutting her eyes as the bright light blinded her. Someone began rubbing her shoulder and muttering something in French. Wait, French? Tracer turned her head back around and looked at her caretaker.

Widowmaker had Tracer on her lap, soothing the Londoner and trying to take care of her. Tracer was so tired she didn't even complain, merely asking, "Where?..."

"Shh," Widow whispered, running her hand through Tracer's hair. "They will hear."

"Who?"

Widow didn't answer instead craning her head upward to look out a window? Where were they? The heat and humidity hit Tracer like Reaper's shotgun, they certainly weren't in brisk London anymore. Where was Reinhardt? Where was Reaper? Why was Widow still here? Why-

Tracer sat up instantly, doubling over as she gagged. Widow didn't complain, merely moving to Tracer and pulling her hair back as she threw up. Widow kept whispering in French which was nice but didn't answer any of her questions.

"Quiet, Lena," Widow whispered. "The State Troopers will be gone soon."

What? Troopers?

Wiping her mouth, Tracer groggily peeked out the window Widow was looking out of. It looked like they were in the middle of nowhere. Cornfields stretched as far as the eye could see along a winding interstate road. The sun beat down high on, making the road warp and distort in the light.

Three police cars were parked about twenty feet from their location, bearing the logo of the Indiana State Police agency on the side. They had pulled over a massive ancient pickup truck and at least seven officers and a K9 unit were surrounding the truck.

Tracer wondered why there were so many officers for one truck until she saw the driver.

Reinhardt stood by the truck, laughing and talking as calmly as he could to the officers as they interviewed him. Next to Reinhardt the officers looked like children, being easily dwarfed by his size. He wasn't wearing his armor, which Tracer found odd, but instead a red and black checkered shirt (sized XXXL), comfortable looking jeans and work boots.

He was rather charismatic for a towering German being surrounded by police and the officers must've liked him as well as they chuckled and smiled at his jokes. Tracer was about to ask Widow what was going on but the sniper pressed a finger to her lips, silently saying, "I'll explain later."

But Tracer could put two and two together.

Somehow they had friggin' got to the United States in a matter of hours, got to Indiana and were on the lam. Simple. Except the million questions exploding in Tracer's head, or maybe that was just her headache.

Tracer understood why Widow was hiding, but not why Tracer had to. Until one of the officers showed Reinhardt a picture. From this far away it was difficult to distinguish what it was but Tracer could spot her bright orange pants and glowing Chronal Accelerator from here. It was a blurry picture of Tracer running in East End, London.

They were looking for her.

Tracer doubted it was for her autograph as well.

The thought chilled her blood. Tracer sat back down, leaning against the wall, gobsmacked. Widow didn't say anything, she sat across from Tracer watching her warily as if deciding what to do or say. Widow didn't look very good either (or maybe that was due to her blue skin). Her hair was let down in tangles, her eyes were rimmed red, cuts and bruises scarred her face. She had even traded her bodysuit for a casual t-shirt from the Indianapolis International Airport gift shop, shorts that showed off her long legs and sneakers.

Tracer looked down at her own outfit, unsurprised to find she was wearing something different as well.

Her aviator's jacket was cut off of her body leaving her with her simple white t-shirt. Her Chronal Accelerator was still on her chest, buzzing quietly. Her trousers were removed and replaced with shorts (blimey her legs got tanned as well, how long was she out for?) and only her shoes were left intact.

Tracer looked at Widow and pointed at her face. Widow got the message, brandished a little bag and handed it to her. Tracer pulled out a small mirror and examined the reflection.

Blimey, Tracer looked rough.

Dark circles ringed her eyes along with healing cuts and bruises along her face. Her freckles were lost in Tracer's now tanned complexion. Tracer's signature spiky hair was now down and let loose over her forehead, reaching down to her shoulders.

Her hands shaking, Tracer put away the mirror and slid the bag back to Widow. What the hell happened? Tracer remembered saving Widow and Reinhardt but the rest… ugh. She was going to be ill again.

Thankfully, the police cars drove off and Tracer heard Reinhardt calling after the officers, recommending them to listen to Hasselhoff.

"Come, it is safe now," Widow said, standing and offering a hand to Tracer.

Weakly, the girl took it and stepped outside.

They were hiding in a shed parked by a derelict petrol station. Tracer had no clue where exactly they were but it was definitely middle of nowhere.

Reinhardt spotted Tracer and Widow and burst out in a broad smile. "Lena!" he boomed. "Come, come! We must get you some food and water! I have Doritos!"

Tracer didn't feel well enough for Doritos but she took a sandwich and nibbled on it as they sat and talked by the car. Tracer and Widow sat in the back of the pickup truck while Reinhardt was on the floor, stilling towering over them as he sat. Widow kept watching Tracer as she ate but she didn't complain, she was too tired to.

"First off, what happened?" Tracer asked, her voice crackly. She took a drink of water.

"I am not sure, really," Reinhardt admitted, still smiling broadly. "All I remember was one moment, I was inside the building, the next I was outside! You saved me and Amélie!"

Tracer winced, expecting Widow to snipe Reinhardt right then and there but she didn't do anything, just kept watching Tracer.

"Gabriel was gone as well," Reinhardt continued, his smile turning into a frown. "We had to move you, so we ran. We, ah, commandeered a vehicle, fled to a nearby airfield and flew straight here."

"Not exactly straight here," Widow corrected, frowning.

"Ah, yes, well, first we landed in New York-"

"Crashed is more like it."

"Got a car and drove to Indiana!"

"How… long was I out for?" Tracer asked, fearing the response.

Reinhardt looked uncomfortable, he tore tiny bits of his sandwich out, tossing them aside for the nearby birds. "Well, about that Lena… You see, you-"

"Two weeks." Widow answered bluntly.

"What?!"

Tracer stood up immediately but regretted the action. Her mind swam and her stomach flipped. Widow stood, taking Tracer's arm and gently sitting her down. After ten seconds, Tracer's vision cleared. "W-what do you mean. I was out for two weeks?"

Widow frowned. From here it looked like she was mad, pissed or impatient by Tracer but the more she looked at her the more Tracer thought her frown looked like… concern?

"You weren't waking up, mäuschen," Reinhardt explained, his one good eye brimming with concern. "We weren't sure what to do. At one point, your chronal accelerator… deactivated? You began to fade before our eyes!"

Tracer was speechless. Had she damaged her chronal accelerator in that fight? The idea of fading away again scared her. Tracer's chest felt tight and it was getting harder to breathe. Widow put an arm around Tracer's, her skin was cool to the touch despite the weather.

"Reinhardt could not contact anyone from Overwatch," Widow said. "And Talon was looking for me, so he thought the best choice was the Overwatch History Museum, out here."

Tracer stared at Widow, wondering why she was still here. Wondering why she hadn't incapacitated Reinhardt and killed Tracer while she was unconscious.

"Amélie looked after you, most of the time," Reinhardt said, to Widow's horror. The assassin frowned, her blue skin turned slightly purple. Was she even capable of blushing? "The two of you hide in the back of the truck as I drove, I looked more normal than you two. She didn't even sleep she was so concerned-"

"Wilhelm," Widow growled. "I have already explained myself. I do not require much sleep, therefore I was the optimal choice when watching over Tracer."

"What about her clothes?" Reinhardt asked. "You changed her."

Widow's blush deepened. "I- she was getting a fever! It was to keep her safe, our primary objective!"

"And her hair?"

Widow's hand flinched like she wanted to grab for her rifle but it wasn't by her side. "Reinhardt!"

Tracer felt her cheeks heat up and it wasn't because of the weather. "B-but the police, why were we hiding from them?"

Widow turned her glare on Tracer but that was probably her default expression. "I am an agent of Talon and an international assassin, the police wouldn't be fans of mine."

"And they are after you because of this." Reinhardt pulled out a copy of the Telegraph. Tracer stared at the headline in horror.

FORMER OVERWATCH AGENT CHARGED WITH TREASON, LINKS TO TERRORIST CELL DISCOVERED.

Tracer snatched the newspaper and read it. Apparently the damage that Reaper had done had leveled the entire building, injuring dozens of people and killing dozens more. Tracer was blamed for that, they accused her of being a terrorist. There was an accompanying picture of Tracer being carried by Widow as they fled the scene.

"Known assassin and former acquaintance of Overwatch, Amélie Lacroix, is seen here carrying Lena Oxton, callsign: Tracer, as they escape the destroyed building adjacent of King's Row. Eye-witnesses place Oxton at the scene as the building exploded, the former pilot was apparently injured from her own terrorist act, requiring Lacroix to escort her to safety. The United Nations condemn her actions and working in a joint-operation with Interpol and the CIA to detain-"

Tracer dropped the newspaper, staring at the paper in wide-eyed shock. She was branded a terrorist? Her? But she- that wasn't…

Her breathing picked up as panic welled up in her chest in a lump. Tears poured from her eyes as she ran her hand through her hair in a panic. Widow wrapped her arms around Tracer and hugged her. Tracer calmed down, mostly in shock and confusion, as Widow squeezed her gingerly, shushing her gently.

Reinhardt stood as well, picking up the two girls and hugging them as well. "It is alright, Lena," Reinhardt told her, his voice quiet and comforting. "It will be okay. We will deal with this, mäuschen."

Tracer nodded mutely, looking at Widow. The assassin's expression looked anguished, as if she didn't know what to do. It must have been hard on her as well. With that picture out in the world, Widow would be branded a traitor, there was no denying that she was helping Tracer. Talon would be coming after her to kill her.

Widow was no longer an agent of Talon, she wasn't Overwatch. She must've felt as lost as Tracer had.

Reinhardt put the girls down and Widow let go of Tracer. "Finish your food," Widow instructed. "You will need your strength."

By the time they were halfway to the Overwatch History Museum, a twenty minute drive mind you, Tracer had eaten two weeks worth of food and she still felt a bit peckish. Since Reinhardt was so big he took up most of the front seats, Tracer and Widow were crammed in the back. The thought of her being back here with Widow, unconscious made her squirm a bit.

"Thank you," Widow said. Tracer looked up, in confusion, but Widow refused to make eye-contact.

"For what, mate?"

"Saving me," Widow answered, looking out the window. "You didn't have to save me from Reaper, but you did. Thank you."

"What'd you mean, I didn't have to save you?" Tracer said, frowning. "You saved me first. Plus, we're mates. Or we were. Or we are… ugh, I don't know."

"We are… mates who try to kill each other now and again," Widow said, a smile forming on her face.

"Sounds like me mates from secondary school," Tracer giggled. "But… yeah, if you want to be."

Widow stared at Tracer for a few seconds then shrugged. "I must get some rest," she sighed. "I didn't get much sleep whilst you were out. You drool in your sleep, by the way, cherie. Bonne nuit."

Widow put down her visor, leaned back and promptly fell asleep. Tracer wondered just how tired she was and contemplated sleeping as well but she had had enough sleep for a while. Tracer leaned against the partition and into the front two seats. "Ya think Widow's alright?" Tracer asked.

"What do you mean?"

Tracer leaned forward more, turned down the radio, and glanced back at the sleeping Widowmaker. "I mean she seems more… nice?"

"Amélie was always kind."

"Amélie was, not Widow," Tracer said, rubbing her sore throat from the last time she strangled her. "It's like… whatever Talon did to her seems to be, I dunno, wearin' off?"

"It is possible," Reinhardt hummed. "Perhaps her condition requires… upkeep, like my armor and your chronal accelerator."

"The longer away she is from Talon, the more…" Tracer didn't want to say normal. "She changes?"

"Perhaps," Reinhardt considered. "We do not know her full condition, what kind of brainwashing she underwent."

Maybe it could be reversed, Tracer thought. She was behaving uncharacteristically kind and warm. Maybe it had to do with the thought of Talon now hunting her down. Maybe it had to do with her condition weakening. Maybe it had to do with her increased exposure to Tracer and Reinhardt.

Too many maybes. Too many variables, it was frustrating. It would be nice to have Widow on her side, er their side that is. But what does Widow even want?

Half an hour had passed before they reached the museum. Tracer leaned in and gently shook Widow by her shoulder, the assassin woke up rapidly and pulled away from Tracer quickly, wincing.

Widow cursed rapidly in French as she grabbed her arm. "W-wha- sorry love," Tracer said, leaning in to help but Widow scooted back further.

"No, no, I'm fine," Widow cursed again. "I heal fast."

"I told you, let me reset your arm," Reinhardt chastised gently.

"It is fine, Reinhardt."

"Wait, what happened to your arm?" Tracer asked.

Widow's expression morphed into one of guilt, Tracer supposed it was hard to maintain a poker face while in pain. "My shoulder was dislocated when… when you grabbed me. Moving me at the speed of sound was too much, even for my body."

"What?" Tracer gasped, she had caused that? "I'm so sorry love, I thought-"

"It is fine," Widow snapped. "I reset my shoulder, it is still a bit stiff but it should heal."

Tracer felt a pang of guilt. She thought she was gentle when she handled Widow but physics wasn't on her side this time. "Wait, what about you Rein, are you alright?"

Reinhardt parked the car outside the museum and chuckled. "I am okay. My armor took the brunt of the damage, the right leg was completely destroyed but I am unharmed."

Guilt racked Tracer but she was glad that Reinhardt wasn't hurt and that Widow's injuries weren't anymore severe. "Um, sorry again love-"

Widow grabbed Tracer's cheeks and squeezed them to shut her up, moving Tracer's face close to Widow, she all but snarled, "Do not apologize, cherie. It will make your efforts to save us useless. I'd rather be hurt and alive than dead."

Widow gently, but firmly, pushed Tracer back and went back to rubbing her hurt shoulder, still glaring at Tracer. It took Tracer a moment to realize she was only glaring because of the pain. Her cheeks turned red despite herself.

The group set out to the museum. It was a simple silver building that gleamed in the sunlight but still in scenic nowhere. A massive statue of Jack Morrison was out front, saluting the patrons as they entered. The museum was a beautiful celebration of the success of Overwatch but now was largely abandoned and left alone to crumble away.

It was a depressing sight, Overwatch was over for barely a month and things were already going downhill. Tracer nearly died several time and now she was branded a terrorist and hunted internationally, her friend/assassin is going to be hunted down by a terrorist organization and her other former friend is now an undead, immortal monster that tried to kill her.

Tracer looked at Widow and poked her arm. "What's… what's gonna happen with Talon now?"

Widow shrugged. "Two things may happen, Talon will hunt me down and murder me."

"Crappy option."

"Or, Talon will hunt me down and recondition me to… 'correct' my behavior."

"Crappier option."

Widow raised an eyebrow, smirking at Tracer. "Oh? And why is that?"

Tracer rolled her eyes, smirking. "I told you, ya numpty, we're mates I… like you, even if you're trying to occasionally kill me."

"Foolish girl."

"Silly spider."

Widow scoffed but she was smiling. "You must realize, then, if Talon finds me and reconditions me I will be sent to kill you."

Tracer thought about it for a moment. She knew they were technically enemies but they never really fought seriously. The only time where Tracer took their fight seriously was when she successfully killed Mondatta. But they never fought seriously, almost as if they engaged in dances, flirting with death.

But the idea of Widow actively trying to kill her, as seriously as she killed Mondatta was a sombering thought.

But Tracer shrugged and bumped her shoulder against Widow's. "No prob, luv. I'll save you if that happens."

Widow raised an eyebrow, smiling. "If they reactivate me, we may need a, ah, safe word."

Tracer blushed, scratching her cheek she grinned sheepishly. "Maybe something you'd never say then?"

"Something from your ridiculous lexicon, then?"

"Oi, what's that mean?"

"You were raised in the highest society, surrounded by the influential, yet, you insist on intoning out your words like an enfant sans éducation."

"You've got a problem with my accent, mate?"

"Non," Widow smiled, almost devilishly. "It suits you. It is charming and, ah, how do you say. Cute."

Tracer stopped in her tracks, her face perfectly red as Widow and Reinhardt continued their trek. The heat rushed to her cheeks and she felt dizzy, it must have been this sweltering weather and not her hammering heart against her ribcage.

She followed them into the museum, trying not to think about how Widow's lap felt against her cheeks.