Chapter Text
family
***
He's a small bundle of maybe four or five years, mop of dark hair whipping with the breeze and his exertions both. Lena couldn't hear his voice from where she is, but she imagines it's as sunspot bright as the rest of him.
She tilts her head with amusement at his motions, smiling at him. With him. He runs along the space before the Trevi Fountain and his mother, Lena figures, is as exasperated as she is thrilled at the excitement of her little boy.
“Do you think,” she hears later, “we could start a family?”
She turns her head slowly and allows herself the lag to process that. Amélie's gaze is willed forward—toward the Palazzo Poli, the fountain, maybe even the little boy. Tourists mill about and Lena worries her fingers on the knob of her bomber jacket's zipper. The accelerator hums underneath.
Amélie says nothing more and the question starts to linger like a putrid smell, invading, insisting. Lena sniffs, turns to watch the boy again.
She's never thought about it before, really. Has been far too busy to think about little ones, or growing old, or if the accelerator and her condition would even allow any of this. Now's a good time as any, she supposes.
(Amélie's probably already thought about this before, though. She's been married once after all. She came—close.)
“I don't know,” Lena says pensively. She looks sidelong at Amélie and grinds the heel of her shoes on the pavement like she grinds out the next thing: “do you?”
Amélie rolls her lips into her mouth. Hums. It’s noon and the sun is at its highest in the expanse of Rome’s sky. Shadows curl in the faint indents of Amélie’s laugh lines. “How hard could it be?”
Questions of biology notwithstanding, probably: very. Lena blinks. Amélie turns her head and the shadows sitting on the lines of her face slide away, and Lena is stolen one breath: granted one rare view of vulnerability when Amélie's eyes flick just a little to the side, avoiding contact for once.
“You don't think we're too broken for that?” Lena asks before she could stop herself. She casts her eyes elsewhere after. Shame colors her neck and makes her wring her hands.
It would be hard, wouldn't it? Not to mention inconsiderate for any child to grow up in a magazine of a household with far more issues than yesterday's tabloid. It can't be two who are afraid of the dark—can’t be two who are scared of monsters that could come and snatch them away in their sleep. Lena's knee bounces and she flick-flick-flicks her jacket's zipper to the tune of slow-creeping anxiety. She's almost sure Amélie would drop it (and her, she'd apologize, when she's finished beating the shite out of herself for that hideous remark) but Amélie surprises her.
“I imagine it would be… difficult,” Amélie says quietly. When Lena looks, she only finds her thoughtfully watching the boy toss coins into the fountain.
Lena turns to watch him, too. What could he be wishing for, she finds herself wondering.
“We’ve…” she loosens her hands, “done difficult before, I guess, haven't we?”
Amélie doesn't get to answer that one immediately because over at the fountain, the boy reaches for the water. His stance is delighted, fascinated, precarious as he stares at something on the water. Gravity does its thing—he leans too far in and his arms pinwheel, his body keens, and his mother, yelp-shrieking, charges forward to snatch him back.
“Oh!” they intone in unison. Lena's, loud. Amélie's, softer.
And Lena sees it, at that moment. A wee thing with all her headstrong fire and all of Amélie's measured patience, academic prowess in one hand and finesse talents in the other. Lena will teach them all she knows of the world and what's up there in the sky, and Amélie will teach them to love the arts and all the beauty one insignificant body could make here on the ground.
They'll know to feel both warmth and cold and let them into their bones to make them part of who they are. They'll know what it's like to be a hero, to be a survivor, to believe that no matter how low and far and gone you go, something can always bring you back. They'll know kindness and love.
“Oh,” Lena says again when the boy has come down from the fountain ledge dry and, would you believe it, absolutely beaming. For the first time since the question was asked, she smiles. And then she laughs.
Hey, why not. Winston's constructed bigger things out of old, worn, broken parts. Amélie could make a fine meal out of leftovers and salvageable bits of edible chunk. Lena's rebuilt herself many times from the atom up.
Amélie huffs and turns her nose up, glaring at the little boy, but in a second, her expression molds soft.
Mm. They have done difficult before, haven't they?
“A’ight, love,” Lena chirps as she jumps to her feet. Amélie looks puzzled but Lena's proffered hand just waggles its fingers and insists. “Come on up, now.”
“We can't leave—”
“Oh, can it, we won't go far.”
Amélie's face scrunches but she ultimately stands up. With a scoff, no less.
When Lena takes her to the fountain and starts rummaging her own pockets for coins, well, she scoffs a little louder.
“Don't be such a grump. It won't do us any harm, yeah?” Lena chides with a giggle and a victorious flourish of two coins. Amélie takes the one meant for her with a shake of her head, murmuring something along the lines of children and fairytales.
She still tosses it into the fountain, though. And, or at least Lena can only hope, she still makes a wish. Their coins plop into the water. A breeze tickles the space behind Lena's earlobes like some higher being's whisper of wish granted, or maybe even not yet. She still smiles. Amélie quirks a brow at her.
“What did you wish for?”
“What did you wish for?” Lena croons with pumping brows. Amélie crosses her arms, narrows her eyes, and makes it very clear she won't tell.
Lena likes to think she knows, though. Likes to think they wished for the same thing. She grins, and Amélie's lips twitch.
Right then, a buzz sounds up in Lena's ear and even Amélie visibly stiffens, coolly playing off activating her comm by swiping at her hair.
“Talon aircrafts now inbound to Trevi. Everyone move. Symmetra and Genji, Widowmaker and Tracer. Be sure to get everyone out of the streets!”
“Aye-aye, Soldier sir,” Lena quips. She tears off her jacket the same time Amélie starts to shed her too-bulky coat. The switches of Amélie's bracelets click in the same fluid motion and in this generous Roman sun, the purple of her skin shines a light kind of lavender.
“I’ll round them up,” Amélie supplies. Widowmaker now as she hefts her rifle skyward, primed for sniper fire. Tracer’s own accelerator glows blue and hums its own little warm up. People have already started to gape at the two them. “You take them away.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Widowmaker shoots at the sky once, twice, and bellows, stoically, as people stare horrified at them, “it’s not safe here. If you value your lives, you will listen.”
“She means that in a nice, heroic way!” Tracer amends quickly while frantically waving her arms. She grins for what it's worth, elbows Widowmaker as she blinks past—they really need to work on those people skills. “Come on, lovelies. In a couple minutes this place'll be none too fancy and you'll be plenty relieved you got out of here!”
“I’ll see you at home,” Widowmaker says as she arms her graphook. Tracer salutes and yells after her as she zips away.
“We’ll talk more about it when we're back!”
Widowmaker's laughter is rich and full in the comms. Tracer grins, ready.
anything
***
They've always been the subtle kind of sweet, no matter what Hana has to say about their hand holding and surreptitious kisses. Certainly, they're not much for grand gestures. Grand gestures usually mean smoke in the kitchen and soot on Lena's face, and a very grumpy Soldier lecturing Amélie on how it's not nice to threaten to maim people, horrible with instructions as they may be.
They're more, Amélie bearing the sun's heat to watch Lena beat (or get beaten by, that always gets her sulking) Genji on sprints on the watchpoint field, parasol over her head and her lover's favorite brand of energy drink on her knee. More, paying for closet renovations to better accommodate both their clothes and the startling collection of Amélie's designer heels. Swinging by souvenir shops when out on assignments, little keychains that look good on Lena's backpacks or matches the color of Amélie's eyes. Sitting through an absurd sci-fi action movie, or some obscure foreign language film. Writing a grocery list with all of Lena's favorite munchies and Lena memorizing (oh, even learning to pronounce) Amélie's brands of toiletries and beauty cremes for when she's the one with the time to do some shopping.
These days, Amélie thinks about Lena's happy eyes and grateful smiles more than she does Gabriel's teasing snickers and Sombra's squinty looks.
Right now, though, Widowmaker really can't think of anything at all.
The explosion jars both the comm line and the concrete underfoot—that they're levels above is saying a lot. The building across from her perch trembles and the windows of one particular floor shatter outward in a burst of supernova fire. She watches through her scope as the shapes of McCree and Mercy fling out—they freefall until McCree finds his handling on a ledge and is able to snatch Mercy's wrist. They dangle.
Another explosion, another shape: Tracer's bright yellow blob sails out and then down.
Widowmaker waits. Tracer is not recalling. The ground is 20 floors down.
She turns off her comm because everyone has started shouting and she, frankly, doesn't need that kind of panic right now.
Her graphook shoots forth with a fierce hiss. The wind slaps her face around as she jumps off of her perch and lets herself be yanked forward like a ragdoll by her graphook line. Her jaw clenches. Her eyeballs sting with the force of the wind. Tracer spots her coming and spins around to meet her properly mid-air.
They collide the way cars in vehicular accidents do: one big, painful slam. Tracer's accelerator stabs into one breast and Widowmaker's eyes water. Widowmaker's mouth knocks Tracer's forehead and she thinks she whimpers. Their legs jackknife and tangle. Widowmaker wraps all of herself protectively around her partner as the graphook disengages and they freefall, arcing downward.
It's wildly convenient that there are dumpsters just on this side of the building.
She spins them around and lets her back take the brunt of the impact—her spine is artificial and replaceable, anyway. It doesn't quite prevent her lungs from compressing and her breath to come out of her in a huge cough, though. Rubbish flutters up around them—she is very sure that's spoiled food she can smell and something disgustingly cold and squishy pressing up against her cheek.
Pins and needles crawl across her limbs and back. She is very afraid to inhale and very much does not care at all that their teammates are howling success and congratulations in the comms when she turns hers back on.
Tracer is motionless above her. Probably as terrified to move in all this garbage as she is.
(Widowmaker allows herself one much needed, deep breath and instantly regrets it. She gags at the stench.)
The cold, squishy thing on Widowmaker's cheek follows when she moves her head. It's—stuck. Most of the smell is coming from it, she realizes. She gags.
Tracer's accelerator beeps a beep of full charge.
“I think,” Widowmaker says to it, strained, “it’s a little too late for that.”
Tracer laughs. So hard that her body heaves against Widowmaker's and the garbage around them vibrates and she gags a little, once in a while, because of her swooping inhales but she can't help her laughter.
Inching up, she drops a kiss on the corner of Widowmaker's mouth and laughs again, tears starting to run down her face, her eyes the shine of polished mica.
As much as Widowmaker—Amélie, doesn't want to, she feels herself smile. For those happy eyes and that grateful smile, she'll do anything.