Lena's knee bobs up and down furiously. Everything about what she's doing is a bad idea. The worst idea. The absolute worst.
Ordinarily when she courts danger, she at least comes prepared with an arsenal of aces up her sleeve. Even when in civilian kitting, she's at least packing a modest amount of heat. Nothing flashy; a peashooter pistol has always served her well in a pinch. This time, however, she allowed emotion to interfere. She convinced herself that if she's to be earnest in any attempt to crack through Widowmaker, she needed to be transparent head-to-toe. Which was a stupid thing to think.
If Winston or Mercy or Reinhardt or Torbjörn or anyone were to find out what she's up to, shadowy figures preying on her would be the very least of her concerns.
Regardless; stupid, stupid. Stupid.
Lena doubts the assassin will even show up at all. If she does, she'll likely be towing that damnably clunky rifle with her. Leaving Lena outsized and outgunned in equal measure.
And, whether she shows up or not, Lena is still sitting in the wild blue open, as devoid of protection as she's been since she was born, probably.
Stupid.
At this point, I really deserve to be assassinated.
Groaning, she zips up her hoodie a little higher to ward away the chill rolling off the mountains that surround Annecy. She wraps her hands around the dainty ceramic mug that the French waiter had unceremoniously dumped, (and that's really the only word for it), tea into. She'd asked for the most English variety they had in stock, which was, again, begging to be made a target of.
Her head just isn't in the right place today. Being back here, in this town, was enough on its own to drive her absolutely batty. Why she thought inviting Widowmaker here was a fine idea is well and truly beyond her.
She probably won't even show up, Lena reasons with herself. What reason would she have for showing up? Aside from a rather heated spell of making out on a rooftop and memories only Lena was privy to in the first place, what would inspire the French woman to follow her to a place like this? Anywhere, really? Every time Lena so much as hedges around the topic of Amélie Lacroix, Widowmaker looks fit to burst. Sometimes that means violence, and apparently at other times it means frantic kissing. Either way, she's very obviously uncomfortable.
Lena drops her face into her hands, heaving a sigh. She shouldn't have fussed, shouldn't have meddled. She is juggling a pressure bomb, unsure of exactly how much prodding it will take to set it off. But she promised Gérard that she would take care of Amélie, or Widowmaker, or whoever she is. She'd have done it anyway, but having his earnest voice rattling around her skull every damn day only stoked the pyre she would burn on for this woman.
This is the very same café he had brought her to, all those years ago. Two weeks after Amélie had miraculously reappeared. They sat inside, to escape from the lashing, howling wind that had plagued the city for a week at that point. Lena glances through the windows to the table where they sat, two untouched cups of black coffee between them. Gérard's dark eyes, normally alight with good humor, were shadowed and glassy. His hair hung limp and unwashed over his forehead.
"She is different, Lena." He had told her, voice trembling. "Trauma aside, she is different. When she was returned, all was well. But now… her skin is too cold, her heart beats too slow. She blinks and walks and talks, yet she barely breathes."
Different, different, different. The word rumbled across her mind, a warning of an oncoming storm.
"You love her. Something I never imagined I would be grateful for."
Even now, Lena's gut lurches at that.
"You must promise me; whatever happens, you will search for Amélie. And you will protect whoever she is now. I am uncertain that I will be able to do so."
She should have gone with him.
"Tell no one of what we discussed."
"Take care, mon amie."
That was the last time she saw Gérard. Hours later, she awoke to Winston's immense hands shaking her, tears in his eyes that would not spill. His neck had been snapped. A clean break, Mercy said. He likely felt nothing.
Lena has never believed that.
With a shaking hand, she lifts her teacup to her lips and takes a long drink. The former Lacroix home was not a five-minute walk just down the road.
She has replayed that day in her mind every other hour in the years since. A life claimed to be spent adventuring is a front, she knows. Since Gérard Lacroix's death, her purpose has been nothing but Amélie. Finding her, recovering her, protecting her.
Or, more likely, laying her to rest.
Gérard couldn't have known the extent to which Talon had claimed their stake of his wife. And in the (what feels like) a lifetime since, Lena has come to realize that the woman they both fell in love with is gone. Parts of her might remain, and Lena can do nothing but hope that the scattered fragments that she can dredge up are enough to keep her body free of bullets.
Finishing her tea, she places the cup back down on the saucer, the ceramic rattling in her trembling grasp. She nods her thanks to the waiter when he collects the dirtied dishes and leans back in her chair, watching clouds roll overhead.
Oh, but how she misses being up there.
Before she can ruminate in her gloom even more, however, there is a light hand on her shoulder. Fighting every instinct to speed away, Lena turns at a measured pace she believes would be entirely appropriate for any ordinary human being.
Briefly, she wonders if she's finally lost her mind. It's Amélie.
Dark hair spills loosely over her shoulders thick and abundant, free of Widowmaker's trademark visor. She is clad in a black turtleneck and jeans, though both are still torturously well-fitted. In her hands, she holds a small clutch in a white-knuckled grip.
Her skin. It isn't blue.
Lena has not seen this woman in years. Her eyes feel hot as she continues to stare, drawn to any expanse of lightly olive-toned skin she could find.
"It-it's… 'ow did you… I… I'm sorry." She manages to splutter, a blush heating her cheeks. She rises to her feet on rattling legs. "You aren't blue." She finally gets out, her voice low. Widowmaker, (but God almighty it's Amélie staring at her like she's an abject moron), cocks an eyebrow. Wordlessly, she holds up her wrist to show Lena the thin, faintly pulsing band of light wrapped around it.
"Cloaking." The assassin says flatly. Before she is able to drop her arm, however, Lena darts her hand out to catch it. Her heart sinks a little when she realizes that Widowmaker's skin is as frigid as it's ever been.
"Sorry." She says softly, releasing her grip. The pads of her fingers skirt down the length of Widowmaker's forearm as she lets both their arms swing back to their sides. She can't help it, really. She should try harder, though.
An awkward silence settles between them, much to Lena's surprise. She hasn't ever considered that it would be possible, given Widowmaker's propensity for using gunfire to fill gaps in conversation. She clears her throat, gesturing to the table she previously was sitting at. Without a word, Widowmaker takes the seat opposite her, crossing her legs quite tensely. Lena doesn't think she's ever seen the woman more on-edge. She breathes in heavily, steeling herself for something she honestly did not believe would happen. Before she can get a word out, however, she is cut off.
"Tell me why I am here."
Lena's mouth snaps shut.
"I was sorta hopin' you might fill me in on that." She says, studying Widowmaker intently. Her jaw is taut, and there is something like hesitation clouding those molten eyes. "I didn't think you would."
Widowmaker's nostrils constrict.
"I did not, either." She admits, folding her hands in her lap. Lena leans forward an inch.
"But I…" She begins, but falters. She gnaws on her bottom lip. "I remembered too much to not have questions."
Lena's heart leaps.
"You remembered? Remembered what?" She asks, unable to keep her voice from jumping half an octave. Widowmaker's gaze drops, brow furrowing. Then, she lifts her head to pierce Lena with that gaze, all at once blisteringly cold and searing with intensity.
"I remembered you. Or, more specifically, us."
Lena tenses. That isn't the revelation she's been hoping for. Oh, it's a revelation, to be sure. But she had not once considered the possibility that Widowmaker's memory would be selective in what it revealed. She wishes she hadn't guzzled her tea down so quickly; her mouth is very dry. Drumming her fingers in a muffled staccato against the tabletop, she tries to conjure a response.
She opts for honesty. She's already miles deep in the shit. What difference could another couple hundred meters deep possibly make?
"There was an us at one point, yeah." Lena says, her voice barely larger than a whisper. "It was complicated."
Widowmaker opens her mouth, likely to probe at that point, but Lena raises a hand to interrupt.
"Whole can'a worms there, luv." She warns. "Not sure it's somethin' either of us are ready to poke around in just yet."
The French woman frowns slightly, but nods nonetheless. Lena rests her elbows on the table, folding her hands beneath her chin. She's going to have to tread lightly. It's hard to tell what might set Widowmaker off, but she's desperately more concerned about what that would do to her, not Lena. She sighs.
"We were real in love, if you can believe that."
"I can." Widowmaker says, almost instantly. "I can't feel it. It's all quite theoretical to me. But I can associate the theory, the feeling, with you quite clearly."
Lena makes a small noise in the back of her throat. She's fuzzy on whether she should be happy about that or not.
"Is that why you are so incessantly irritating?" Widowmaker asks. "Because of what we were?" Her tone isn't sharp enough to be derisive, which is an odd color on her. She sounds curious, albeit unsure how to do so politely. Lena snorts quietly.
"If ya ask nicer, I might answer that." She teases. Widowmaker's eyes narrow; Lena cocks an eyebrow. Finally, the assassin sighs mightily.
"Is that why you pursue me with such regularity?" She grinds out. Lena decides that'll do. She chews the inside of her cheek.
"No. Well, yeah. It's part of it." She admits. She tries to ignore the gallop of her heartbeat. "What you remember "theoretically" is somethin' I remember in a very not-theoretical type'a way. But I got my other reasons. Plenty of 'em."
"Such as?" Widowmaker presses. Lena notices she's inched forward in her chair just a tinge.
It's not lying if you don't tell her absolutely everything just yet.
"I want you to feel again." She says. And it's true. It's absolutely true. Probably the truest thing she's said in her whole weird sodding life. "It's selfish and all, yeah. But I guess I figured… maybe if I hounded you just enough, maybe you would find yourself feelin' again. If it worked, then at least you'd 'ave the choice to leave Widowmaker behind."
A heavy silence falls over the pair. Widowmaker's eyes lock tightly to Lena's own. She feels years younger, gripped in the gaze of a woman that she loved more than life itself. Who she knew loved her back, just as much. There is nothing foreign about the way Widowmaker looks at her now, which is why she isn't truly surprised when the other woman finally breaks the silence.
"Perhaps it is time I consider it, then."