#moirawidow

[xoue]

commission for stardustbond @ twitter

[lethalneuroses]

femslash february day 18

Moira/Widow, folie à deux.

“Pull the trigger,” Doctor O’Deorain commands. She stands lordly on the catwalk overseeing the shooting range, dressed in white like an angel or like the Angel of Death.

Lacroix’s heart is pounding like a bird trying to escape its cage. It will thrash about in its fear until it dies from the exertion. A stupid, foolish thing it is, she is. Her heart is not the prisoner; her mind is. She must will her hands to stillness and her thoughts to serenity. She will shed Lacroix and and leave her dead like the man who gave her that name.

She pulls the trigger. The bullet hits the outer rim of the target. It is pathetic and she is pathetic and she hates herself for that excuse for a shot. Amélie Lacroix is whimpering in the back of her mind, always hating firearms, loathing both the beauty and the necessity of killing.

“Again,” O’Deorain orders, and her voice fills the space with as much overwhelming force as the too-bright lights that remind her of lying on an operating table.

Her breath is short and she is sweating and she cannot keep this up for much longer, but she focuses on the target and lines up the shot and prepares to pull the trigger. She will do better. She will shoot until she does better. Even as her sight pixelates and the gun drops and she collapses, her will is unwavering. She will murder Lacroix with her bare hands and assume the half-mocking sobriquet the soldiers here gave her after she strangled her husband:

the

Widowmaker

lies flat on her back and stares up into a familiar face. O’Deorain is leaning over her and observing the work of Talon’s surgeons as they tend to her. There are tubes in her arms and straps holding her down and not even the modesty of a gown to shield her as they cut her open.

She cannot speak, but she silently implores the face above her.

End it, please, kill me or perfect me, you promised I wouldn’t have to feel—

She is anesthetized but much too awake, and she sees O’Deorain’s gloved hands descend into her chest and cup the organ pulsing there, and she hears the voice say,

“Look, Lacroix, at how slow it is,”

and all she sees is blood on Gérard’s face where she clawed his skin open and how it looked caked on her hands and underneath her nails, all red

red

red

hair is soft under her fingers and she grasps it harder than she should as she awakens from another faint and knows that there will be another surgery, and another, and she cannot hit the target nor kill the memories nor stop herself from feeling.

“Please,” she gasps, and her voice is hoarse, and she pulls O’Deorain down for the warmth of skin against her own and the comfort of something to hold onto. “Make it better. Make it go away. Make it perfect.”

O’Deorain’s arms encircle her, and her lips brush her ear, and the Widowmaker is a child in her arms waiting to be fully formed.

“I will.”