Tags! ❥ featuring: Sojourn, Brigitte + Wuyang!!, Angst but also not the way u think, potentially doomed Love between you and Emre!! or maybe not!!
WARNING -> Graphic Depiction of Violence, hemoptysis(coughing blood), heavily sustained Injuries, Reader is badly hurt
The Fanfic Series M.post
⊹₊✎ ⋆A/N 1): Huge Credit to @circuscarnage for their Entry that inspired this Imagine + gave their own input in!!! (also sry it took awhile to finish)
You and Emre?
After having been impromptu assigned Together for a disaster that was one particular Mission, had become a known duo within Overwatch eversince.
Besides his good looks, welcoming personality and his Mohawk having become your easiest Target to tease, what had actually sealed the Deal for you, as bit of a cliché it may sound, was just how made for eachother you two were.
There was no Eye of any Storm that wasnt concourable when you two would pair up. No Casulty unsalvagable when having had eachothers Backs.
Yeah, you guys had something special.
Infact, that Chemistry of yours had been praised as the honored example of how Teamwork should look within the Overwatch Divisions.
Oh, how you loved using that Praise. Every single time and without fail, when going up against any silly banter there was between your Friends. Never taking it personally when they had denied your clear and obvious Victory over what ever the Groups banter had been about.
When the rare occasion did arrise, of you two having been assigned seperatly, always got the other one little souvenirs from your Missions. It was always disscussed how neither of you needed to bring the other something, yet always laughed together from never listening to eachother...
...Honestly, there seem to be just too many Memories you two have made in your Time together on Overwatch, time together as a Duo. An Item.
Those Late Night On-Calls Together. Their Conversation and Air as comfortable they may have been, carried this certain Tension left unspoken between you two. To shy to mention it.
You cant help feeling "...lightheaded", when you recall that time Emre would drive you around Gibraltar on his Motorcycle. Especially how he would rev the Motor while speeding up on purpose? Asshole.
A 2-in-1 Deal on showing you off towards anyone you two had left in the dust while making your "!!Heart rac..."e. Oh, and how he loved doing that to you. Maybe, really just theorizing here, Emre often got into trouble on your Accorde just on wanting to m "ake up!! pl-" for it later.
Oh God, but thats not exactly something you want to think of right now. Youre currently On-Duty and all, better focus up!
But.. Emre, huh? You cant help feeling bittersweet over him. As he was the best Partner you had ever been teamed-up with, there is just this slight bitter taste in your Mouth over things not having developed as you wouldve liked, past that.
Past all the Formalities, the coy Smiles, dodging your Coworkers teasing over you two while having jokingly brushed it off.
" ... F.. Wak. p... !! "
...But that was years ago-
"-AKE U-"
--You cant breathe. Youre strangely unable to move.
Bit of a tough luck you seem to be having. As your frantic Attempts on trying to gasp for Air get blocked by you coughing up Blood, the added Reason to your frenzy; The harsh, bright Light up to your Eyes and the deafening Rumble you cant seem to make out.
It hurts to breathe, to move. You struggle. What have you been training for all these Years, if not for this Moment alone?
You better sober up Agent and do it fast.
What you know of so far, is your current supine Position, deducting from how your Bodys own Reflex made your Head far extend to the Side. Whatever is blocking your Airways, giving it a better chance on it escaping from there and your Chance of survival. If you even have a shot, that is.
You seem to be capable on moving your Arms, so you do. However which leaves you to no avail as they cant seem to stretch as far as you wouldve hoped. The numbness of your Hands doesnt hinder you on discovering something solid hovering right above. Despite your Struggle, unable on pushing it away.
"Stay with me, Dammitjust- Stay. With. Me"
A Voice. Its Origin coming from anywhere but your own Head, surrounds you. Paying attention to it seemed like a smart move, if only the Pain wasnt debilitating you to the point of your Mind fading blank.
Wait. Pain?
Pain, where? coming from where? Your Throat? Is that why you cant breath?
Harsh attempts between breathing and trying to gurgle out whatever seemed to block your Airways, the Reason as to why you've been streching your Neck as far to your side as you could all this time, that you only recognised the taste. The metalic Taste of Blood, as youre fighting so hard against it to not continue seeping down your Throat. Wherever the Hell it came from.
Noting the Boulder above you, something must have fallen on top of you. Something large. Anything resembling of heavy Structures flashing before your Mind. Hitting and pushing didn't do shit for you as it continued to stay right there. Seemingly taunting you how you didnt have the strenght to conquer it.
Should you continue hitting the Boulder? God, you can't think straight.. weren't you supposed to cover your Head in-case of an Earthquake? Despite your desperate, weak hits from your left hand curled up into the idea of a Fist, maybe its a good thing that whatever is there, seemed to be atleast strong enough as to hold itself where it had fallen before you.
One thing is certain: You need help. Clearly. You need to find help, Anyone. Anything, any Human or Omnic at the Base.
Going additionally against and over everything you had been taught on First-Aid-Safety on the Field. You jerk your Body in an attempt of lying on your Side with the Goal on Positioning yourself prone. Atleast, that way you imagine on regulating your Breathing better by spitting the Blood from your Oropharynx.
"DONT MOVE-" -The sudden White flashing before your Eyes, making them snap open. The Shock from taking in the unexpected Scenary wasnt why you froze, however.
Horrifying Waves from your Knee, didnt seem likely to be causing your Oxygen Struggle. Its your Chest. Chest. Chest. Armour. Ribbcage.. Lung! Its your Lung. A part of your broken Ribbs punctured your Lung! Thats why you have a hard time breathing! explains the Blood too.
Your Victory on deducing the Cause of your Pain, instead with satisfaction, unfortunatly still leaves you on quickly needing to mend your Viability on not turning Fatal.
Pressing your left Hand against the right Side of your Chest, Reflexes of your Military training gracing you; does Nothing. Yet you still hold on, pressing and whatever could help in-theorie stabilize your current State, for your life really is depending on it.
Your Life. Apart of its gloriouse Days and golden age, you really did dream of spending it with him. You see it, you finally after so long, you see him again. Maybe having expected more of a welcoming smile, rather getting yelled at.
"FUCKING- stop moving alr-!!"
He's aged a bit. New look? Oh, he's always been the one to try out something new. "Look!! your tea- there is- I can hear people out there, okay? Im getting you out! So just--". The grey Streaks look quite sexy on him, admitting to yourself in-thought.
Your "Boulder" infront of you, all this time. Emre. Your Emre. In your mind, grinning to yourself over certain memories flodding back to you over having him above you again. Though now is really "-not your fucking Time! You hear me?!" over these inapropriate thematics.
You try to say his Name. With any Attempt thats still left within your Body and not having joined the rest of it on the dusted, Concrete Remains you two lay, ever the Romantics, on and under. Was it that fuzzy feeling in your Chest that has knocked all the Wind out off you that you cant say his Name? Why cant you hear yourself?
Comfort on having seen him, you slowley fade to sleep. Planning on conversing with him when you feel more energized.
But, for him? He watched in Horror as you continued oozing the Blood from your Mouth. You weren't even looking at him anymore from the disgusting Way your Eyes had rolled back. You had stopped fighting from, by the looks of it, your open Mouth pooling the Blood inside of it. There were no sounds, gurgling, heaving. You stopped fighting and he can't do anything besides starring at you dumbfoundedly.
What was for you, remembering a silly Crush, was for him seeing his own beneath him. Dying.
You're Dying.
---
Sojourn yelled out, louder than the last Times. "Where leaving no one Behind! Again: Open Fire!". On command, the rest of the gathered Agents, along with Brigitte and the newest recruite Wuyang; were all firing on what seemed to be the Remains of Wintson's old Office. The last Place your Tag gave off your Location from.
By some means on having striked luck, besides their Weapons having hammered on Concrete from all their Attempts, some of the Metal's Strukture had finally, finally broken off lose. Though the Prize left your Peers their Stomache turning.
"Oh my god-", Brigs eyes were tearing up on seeing your repulsive Body, heaving, needing Air from the Shock. "Is-", before asking anything Sojourn had already cut her off. Reminding her to not loose herself. Both of them together had grabbed you with the plan on getting you to Mercy as soon as they could. Laying there, alone, in your own pool of Blood, seemingly half dried but alas, making it easier as you practically slid on the Concrete.
Wuyang couldnt do anything but stare in Shock and holding his own Breath. Less than four hours ago, you guys were talking about your favourite games. He remembers how cool he thought you were from your Battle scars and Stories you had gloated to him jokingly. Which was four, hours, ago. He was warned how gruesome things could get, front lines in an on-going Omnic Crisis. But not this Soon.
"Move, move, move!". Already a Strechter on-Scene, Brigitte had to hold herself from Vomitting as all three of them were holding on the Strechter's railing while racing towards the Ship Echo should have probably parked close-by.
To their avail, Mercy was still in Switzerland, making the flight between the Headquarters and to her approximately seven Hours.
Seven hours you dont have.
Yet Sojourn didnt dare on calling your Time. Not before having tried her fucking hardest, that is.
They wont leave you to die. Like he seemed to have done.
...
Continue to read Chapter 1.5
My Overwatch Masterlist :>!!
⊹₊✎ ⋆ A/N 2): Btw, yes u will live. Also, it really is true that Gibralter and Switzerland r like 7h away by flight!! little fun fact
Blizzard. How dare you make a pookie directly up my alley like this?? How dare you make me like Emre Sarioglu so much???
Warning: heavy angst ahead, emre kills his loved ones and guilt eats him alive
It isn't supposed to happen like this. He knows he's become a danger to everyone he cared for, so why did he foolishly give in to his desires?
The familiar smell of smoke and burnt flesh fills his nose, his eyes watering from the heat as he surveys the burning wreckage. His memories are a blank, a black spot in the images that swirl inside his head. The last thing he remembers is shouting your name, shouting for you to run.
Y/N.
"Y/N!" He panics. "Y/N!"
He prays that you've somehow escaped the devastation he's caused, that you've somehow gotten out of the explosion's range and are safely hiding away, but he can feel his heart sink the more he searches through the rubble. His throat tightens as he stumbles around the pile of concrete, looking for any signs of life.
"Please," he whispers. "Please be alive."
His heart stops when he sees a bloody hand sticking out from underneath a steel beam and he pushes the beam with all his strength, panic screaming in his veins as he braces himself to recognise your corpse underneath, but it's not you. He exhales shakily, guilt twisting in his chest for feeling relief at another's death but tells himself it's only because it isn't you.
His fingers bleed with every stone he turns, painting over the grey with red and sending spikes of pain through him, yet he pushes on. He has to know, even if it means confronting the fact that he killed you.
"Y/N!" He tries again, hoping that this time you will reply, even if it's with a weak cry, but his ears don't pick anything up.
Please, please, please, please. Don't be dead. Don't stain my hands with your blood. Don't make me the reason for your death.
He slumps against a nearby wall scorched with burn marks, exhausted from the search, fingers tingling from the various cuts, and closes his eyes. Maybe it's good that he hasn't found any sign of your body, it could mean that you managed to escape, that he hadn't killed you.
But it could also mean that he's obliterated you beyond recognition, and that's why he hasn't found your body yet.
The latter line of thought scares him and he feels his hands clench into fists. He can never forgive himself for this, for not resisting his foolish heart's desire to see you once more, for putting you in danger when he swore to protect you.
He reluctantly opens his eyes to resume his dreaded search, combing through the rest of the rubble for any sign of you. He almost gives up, almost deludes himself into thinking that you made it out safely when something catches his eye.
The light from the flickering flames glints off a familiar piece of metal, a simple key attached to a chain, and he crumbles to his knees. A wail of grief claws its way up his throat, ripping free with a sound that echoes amidst the crackle of fire. He screams, clutching the broken necklace to his chest as memories flash in his mind in tattered pieces, glimpses of a time when everything was brighter.
A soft smile. A laugh that made his heart flutter. A gentle touch.
"You didn't have to do all this for me, Emre."
"I didn't. But I wanted to. Take it as my promise to make sure you always have the freedom to choose your own path."
The blush on your cheeks. The way you buried your face in your hands.
"May I?"
The way you turned around. The way you bared your nape to him. The way you trusted him enough to show your vulnerable spot.
The coolness of the metal as he put the necklace on for you. The warmth of your body traveling up his fingertips as he closed the clasp. The warmth of your hand as you grasped his hand.
"It looks perfect on you."
"Thank you, Emre."
The heat of the fire flares, a stark contrast to the cold metal pressing against his skin, and he feels something wet on his cheeks.
Tears.
He can still cry.
So he weeps. He doesn't stop, doesn't try to hide it. After all, he's the only one who can hear it, see his broken self. No one else will ever know what happened here, no one else will remember the lives that were lost here. Only him. Only he will know of the blood that was spilled, the tragedy that occurred, and it will haunt him for the rest of his life.
He prays that you died quickly, that you didn't suffer, but he doesn't know who he's praying to anymore. All the gods out there have forsaken him; the only god that's left who can hear him is the one that takes over his body — and that god never listens to him.
He can still hear it in his head, the command to return, to get up and move. Its robotic voice threatens to take over his body once more, to force him to leave but he stubbornly refuses. He wants to stay put, to curl up beside you, close his eyes and see you again. He hates this nightmare he's trapped in, and wants nothing more than to wake up.
But he's already awake. The nightmare is real, and there is no escape.
He punches the broken slab of concrete in frustration, ignoring the way his knuckles burn from the abrasion. It's nothing compared to what you would have felt, flames devouring you whole, white-hot pain tearing you apart.
All because of the man you loved.
He wonders what you thought when you looked at him. If the colour of his right hand whenever he takes out his siphon blaster is any indication, you would have seen him transform into a mass of black and red, heard the robotic voice he hears in his own head. Had you run in fear from the monster he had become? Hated him as he aimed his gun right at you? Had he even aimed at you, or had you only been caught in the radius, fleeing for your life?
Did you hate him in your final moments? Did you regret loving him? Would you want to see him again?
He doesn't know if he can bear seeing hatred in your eyes. You've been angry before, but never for long, and it's normally not aimed at him. Maybe it's good that he doesn't remember what happened after the entity took over, then he doesn't know what it looks like for the one he loves to be afraid of him, to hate him. Still, a part of him wants to know so that he can burn the image into his mind, a penance for his sins.
The self-hatred eats away at him as he sits next to your corpse, which has been burned beyond recognition. The only reason he knew it was you is because of the necklace. He'd had it engraved with your initials on one side, and the other with his.
"Why a key?"
"Keys unlock things right? I want you to unlock your own path, and me giving you a key is me promising to help you with that."
He'd said all that, and still left you anyway. He tells himself it's because you needed to find the path on your own, that only you knew what you wanted, but a small voice in his head sneers at him, pointing out that it didn't matter because you just wanted him by your side. He didn't need to do anything, he just needed to be there, as an encouragement.
He'd felt guilty the night he left. Unable to face you, he'd slipped out without saying a word. The only thing he did was leave you a note, explaining why he left. He knew why you wanted to stay in Overwatch, and he didn't want you to follow him just because. All your life you'd been dragged around by various people, told what to do, and he didn't want you to leave Overwatch just because he did. It was better if you didn't know until it was too late, that way it was up to you what you did.
Would it have gone differently if he'd just taken you with him? No, you might have been taken over by the same entity that's inside his head now, and he would rather die than subject you to that.
He's tired. He's so tired of all this. At some point, he drifts off to the only place where he can't be haunted and memories begin to flood back.
He remembers the first time he met you. He'd been sent in with a squad to bail your squad out, but when he got there, the only ones standing were you and one member of your squad.
"Don't recall asking for help." You'd frowned at him, bleeding from various wounds.
"Clearly." The grin on his face immediately faded when you swayed, then collapsed into his arms. "Falling for me already? We just met."
You didn't answer. You'd fallen unconscious and wouldn't wake up until a week later. That was the next time he saw you. He was at the firing range when you'd stepped into the booth next to him, loading your pistols.
"I have yet to thank you."
"So are you going to?" He grins, taking aim with his rifle.
"Do you want my thanks or not?" You deadpan, firing a round.
"Of course I do! I put in so much time and effort to catch you before you hit the floor, you know?"
"Thank you for your sacrifice." You roll your eyes, loading another round into your pistols. "That's all you're getting."
"You're very welcome."
The second time he'd met you was at the same firing range. This time you were there first, fully focused on the target in front of you.
"Sheesh, what'd that target do to you?"
"You here to talk or shoot?"
"Someone woke up on the wrong side of bed today."
You only grunted in response, firing another round into the poor, beaten-up target.
He left you in peace as he warmed up, then turned to look at you. "Care for a challenge?"
"Only if you don't mind losing."
He had laughed. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed like that. Maybe that was when he started falling for you.
You'd won that challenge, then demanded a rematch because you'd noticed how he'd let you win. You'd even threatened to keep him there until he stopped letting you win, and he found himself asking for a rematch after a while, no matter who won. It was only when Reyes had come in, asking why you were running late for a meeting, that the two of you decided to put the challenge on hold.
After you left with Reyes, he'd checked your target. You'd held back on the last rematch to make the score a draw, if the smiley face made with bullet holes was any indication. He huffed a laugh to himself and saved an image of your target for safekeeping.
He still has that image.
Against his will, he opens his eyes once more. The flames have died down, leaving only ashes in its wake. Your necklace is still sitting in his hand, the metal as cold as your body. He pockets it, fingers brushing along the engraving of your initials as he lets one last tear slip.
heyy, i’ve never requested anything before but i was wondering if you could write something about a female reader being insecure about wuyang being so nice to everyone. she may feel inferior and not special to him and ahhhh idk i hope that makes sense love u mwah
twin i havent caught up on the comics yet so this is canon divergent
ᥫ᭡ walk before you run
ᯓ★ synopsis after recently joining overwatch, you’re feeling upset and left behind by the fact that you can’t catch up as quickly as your boyfriend can
❀ tags angst. written w fem reader in mind but no pronouns were used. CLIFFHANGER. no comfort (yet…). reader’s a bit… A BIT toxic. n jealous n territorial
divider by pixopix
when you and wuyang started dating, everything felt… amazing.
he's a great boyfriend; attentive, kind, not afraid to be sensitive. and you loved him for that.
but ever since you both joined overwatch along with anran, it would make sense that you two would be busy getting down to work and helping out with the coalition, so alone time with him was rather scarce.
so you were determined to make an effort to keep your relationship alive.
"hey!" you call out, seeing him walk along the hallways, carrying a medium sized box.
wuyang perks up to the sound of your voice, head whipping around to show a bright smile on his face right before he calls out your name.
"it feels like i haven't seen you in forever." a bit breathless from your jog towards him, you take a small peak on what he's handling. "what's all this?"
"oh, just some salvagable parts of tech from gibraltar." he chirps. "juno and winston can use this to boost up the new command center, it is very outdated."
you laugh. wuyang's always been willing to help, ready to lend out a hand, and it's a trait of his you admire greatly.
"i was thinking. . . after this, do you wanna get some downtime together?" hope drips from your voice. "just the two of us?"
his smile falters. "uh— i would love to!"
you beam up at him, already jumping in excitement.
"but—" your mouth falls. "i kinda told lucio and hana that i'd help with cleaning up the new hangar."
"oh." you try not to sound disappointed. overwatch was trying its best to scrap each other back together after talon's attacks, of course he'd be busy.
his kindness is never something you can fault.
wuyang can sense the drop in your mood before he quickly adds in, "i promise we can hang out when i’m free!" he turns towards you before reaching a hand out to hold yours in reassurance. "just the two of us."
you muster up a smile. you had your own duties to worry about, there's no time to be selfish right now.
"okay, just the two of us." squeezing his hand, you feel him respond back with his own firm but gentle tug.
wuyang nods eagerly before walking away, holding the box with both hands now and leaving your own to fall to your side.
it's been a few days since then, and you've been busying yourself by spending time with the other members, learning and helping whenever you can.
but there are some nights when you've come to miss home, miss the stability of your safespace, miss wuyang.
you try not to mull over it, telling yourself that there's a bigger picture to worry about. some agents probably spend days before reuniting with each other in the midst of all the missions, so you had to be strong yourself.
or so you kept telling yourself.
but unfortunately, everyone has their limits.
even though you're surrounded by the team, you can’t stop the way your chest feels heavy.
its aching and pulsing, a constant reminder that you're in a completely new environment, with entirely new people. quickly realizing to yourself it was because you were having trouble with adjusting to big changes.
and the one person that can give you a sense of familiarity is nowhere to be seen.
you don't bother masking a sociable persona soon after that, too tired and exhausted from the nights of loneliness and ache. you still assist around, still contribute on field missions, but no one bothers to talk to you after the task is done. and you're nothing but alone.
you soon spot him in the cafeteria one day and suddenly, you felt like you could breathe again. your steps feel lighter as you stride towards him, feeling your mouth tilt up while a hand reaches out.
"wuyang—"
"hey, man!" lucio's cheerful voice interrupts you and you see him put an arm around your boyfriend.
"we're planning to do some games with the new recruits, no pressure, just some team building hang-out stuff. wanna come with?"
stopping in your tracks on the side, you watch him blink, as if he's remembering something at the back of his head before clarity appears in his eyes. you wish— you hoped he'd say something else, a little 'sorry, i have plans with someone else' or a 'i might have to pass', even a small mention of you.
you hope that the thought of you didn't disappear from him.
wuyang smiles, nodding eagerly "of course!" before lucio whisks him away. his back is now turned towards you.
you try not to mull over the fact that he didn't even feel your presence when you were in the same room.
it was a quiet saturday night. everyone was busy with paperwork or something menial so you spent it rotting away in your room. you miss your old perception of overwatch, it got you thinking that maybe you should have kept all of this as a faraway dream. you wonder how can wuyang can keep his optimistic attitude while all of this is happening.
was something wrong with you?
god knows how much you admired the coalition with their efforts in peace and unity, so why aren't you having a good time? why are you being left behind, forced to watch others run while you've barely been able to get used to walking?
a knock interrupts your thoughts, and you stare at the door in a daze before the person hesitantly knocks twice more, forcing you to get up.
"um… hi."
its wuyang. he has a shy smile on his face and his eyes dart around your face, finding something you can't name.
"its—" he coughs, face a bit warm. "how've you been? this past week was crazy, we barely had some downtime."
"yeah." you mumble out, feeling no energy at all.
his brows furrow a bit. "a-are you okay? are you sick?"
he steps closer, a hand gently holding on to your arm. you feel all the bottled up emotions pulse through you, all the hurt and sadness weighs heavy on your chest until your eyes threaten to sting.
"i'm fine." and by the hurt look on his face, you might have said it a bit too harshly. "i'm sorry, i just… aren't you busy?"
wuyang shakes his head, another hand coming up to touch your forehead. "are you sure you aren't feeling sick?"
you step back, leaving his hands to fall at his sides. "it's not important. plus, i told you, i'm not sick."
"something's wrong." he says it so surely, and you resist the urge to laugh cause like, how the fuck would he know anything about what's happening to you?
"just- just leave me alone." feeling frustrated, you step even further into your room and wuyang follows forward, a confused look on his face. "you had no problem forgetting about me this past week so… stop acting like you care."
at this point, you're far too angry to think irrationally, too eager to hurt him back.
"care? of course i care." wuyang exclaims, looking betrayed that you would even think of saying such a thing. "i know we haven't seen each other in a while, but it was for a good reason.”
"good reason, like what? frolicking around? playing games and hanging out?" you bite back, crossing your arms.
he takes a deep breath, composing himself before shutting your bedroom door for privacy. you huff and look to the side before watching him run a hand through his front bangs.
"you.. you promised you'd come see me." you mumble out, "but then i see you around with everyone else… but me."
"i was— i'm trying to help out," he fires back, and by the look on his face, you're sure he's feeling frustated now too, "just because you're too selfish to try and branch out, doesn't mean i have to do that too."
your breath stops to stare back at him. is that what he thought of you?
biting your cheek, you try to blink away the water in your eyes. it hurt that the one person who brings— no, brought you comfort was thinking that way of you. but you suppose you are a bit selfish.
but is it really bad you felt this way? he's supposed to be yours. you can't help but feel jealous and territorial when he's around spreading cheer and kindness like fucking santa claus. but he wasn't santa claus, he's yours.
sometimes you wish you could just keep him all to yourself.
wuyang seems to have sensed the change in the air with the way his shoulders uncurls from how it was hunched. "i-i'm sorry, i shouldn't have said that." he immediately backtracks.
"yeah, but you thought it." you smile bitterly before turning away from him, not strong enough to look him in the eye nor hide the way your voice shakes.
"get out. and don't—" you say firmly when you see him take a step forward, "don't talk to me right now."
at this point he looks like he's ready to cry too, so wuyang nods weakly, "okay. if that's—that's what you want…" he says reluctantly.
he sneaks one more look at your back, resisting the urge to reach out before your bedroom door closes on his face.
summary: long before the omnic war, long before any ounce of justice and anger plagued ramattra's mind, there was peace. and peace for the omnic came in the form of you; his lover...or as close as it came to, because neither of you ever placed a label on it really.
but once the war came barreling down, the urge for justice and vengeance took your beloved omnic from you, both emotionally and physically. but what happens when you find him on the brink of death one year later? is there a chance for reconciliation; a possible rekindling? only time will tell.
word count: 2k+
content: angst, oneshot, mentions of war, death, abandonment, allusions to violence, i think that's it (?)
a/n: first work done !! hope you guys enjoy :3
˙ ˳ ⁺ ➽ navigation , masterlist
what does it mean to yearn? does it mean to desire something you have? or to dream of something that was taken from you? or rather, it means to desperately long for an individual who was once yours but due to inevitable circumstances, was taken from you. and you mourn, but it is not that they're dead; it's virtually worse because you comprehend deep down that they are alive and well, they're just unattainable—out of reach.
once, all you had to worry about was yearning for something as uncomplicated and mundane as what to have for dessert later that particular night. you were content, at peace; peace, a precious time on earth when everything was alright, or at least that's how it appeared at the time. for you and many others, you spent your days without a concern or care in the world.
upon meeting the omnic monk by the name of ramattra through a mutual friend however, your days suddenly seemed all the more whole—brighter. despite your dissimilarities, namely you being a human and him an omnic, a mutual respect was established between the two of you. and that respect ultimately blossomed into something more, something sweeter; a feeling that filled your chest with a heat so warm it felt akin to an embrace.
you both took things gradually, unhurried. because at the end of the day, you’d always thought you’d have more time. and who would blame you for thinking otherwise? your romance was short-lived, but nonetheless euphoric. ramattra was a sweetheart deep down, and god did he love spending time with you. whether it be via picnics at quaint little parks, or movie nights at home with you, he didn't mind or care because he was still spending time with you.
when the omnic crisis struck however, you were left grasping at straws; anything to keep your dear omnic companion by your side. but ramattra—with that same stubborn streak, one you’d grown to love and admire in the year you’d known him—was overcome by anger, rage, a prominent sense of justice. and thus, he left.
seldom is there ever a true winner in war, that you came to realize the hard way. and this war was vicious, with both omnic and human sides taking their own respective number of hefty casualties.
the war lasted around four years, and within that time you tried to forget; all the touches, the whispers, the tender looks, and the words full of love and a devotion so great it almost hurt to think about. to shut out the memories of a time you longed for, the greatest what-if of your life, you studied engineering. you took classes, had hands-on training, and started work specializing in the repair and engineering of machinery and the like. nevertheless, he always inevitably arrived at the forefront of your thoughts. it was infuriating at times, you’d done so much to forget just to be reminded of him at the slightest figure walking on the street that looked so eerily similar to him. yet other times it was more despairing than anything. because despite the hurt he’d caused by leaving your side, there was still some part of you that was still so irrevocably in love with him; that stupid, damn omnic.
“there is something there, y/n, something that i cannot deny no matter how much i may try to. but still, it is not sufficient for me to stay and do nothing,” ramattra had said, his cold, metal hands held yours as he stood at the entrance of your apartment, “i have a duty to my people, to fight for what they deserve as a race. i cannot just stand by and watch as more omnics are killed simply for existing.” he’d practically begged, imploring for you to understand—you’d never known omnic hands could tremble, but as his shook with an overwhelming feeling of sorrow and pressure, you realized they could.
that was the last time you saw him. and that was around three years ago, he’d left about a year after the war had begun. your head ached with a searing pain just thinking about it. well, sleep wasn’t coming any time soon at this rate.
you hurl the covers aside, sitting up on your bed. rubbing your forehead to will away the sudden headache, you stand and head for the haphazardly thrown sweater on your chair adjacent to your bed. it’s late, and perhaps you shouldn’t be out of bed, much less preparing to go outside, but right now anything but staying indoors will help your coming headache.
with a resounding creaakkk, you pull the front door open and take a step outside. one long, invigorating deep breath of fresh air is all you need for the headache to begin dissipating, and you begin wandering; you're not quite sure where you’re headed, all you know is that you need the walk, the recess from the walls and roof that warehouse so many unbearable reminders.
the walk is mostly a blur; you’re operating on autopilot at this point. stepping through pavement, soil, and grass, you end up at a playground a few blocks away from your home. it’s empty, lacking the customary giggles and squeals of children playing about. with a fatigued sigh, you squat down at the top of a nearby wooden picnic table. this was the same park you and ramattra often visited, sitting at the picnic tables to enjoy a brief lunch; and even though ramattra didn’t require the usual sustenance like a human did, he still came for the sake of being within your presence.
now, sitting by your lonesome, the moon hanging high up in the sky illuminating the area, you realize just how much you’d taken for granted all those stolen moments you’d spent with your former partner. and by aurora, if you could go back and redo everything, you would; and you’d try ten times as hard to make ramattra stay.
after a few minutes, you jump down to your feet and turn on your heel, getting ready to head back home. yet a subtle glint of metal makes you cease. you warily step toward it, it’s barely visible, hidden behind the bushes at the rear end of the playground but the light from the moon and the streetlights combined are enough to elicit even the slightest of glares. as you approach, it becomes clear what it is exactly, or rather who; ramattra.
your legs seem to stop of their own accord, holding you in place. pressure forms at the pit of your stomach, it threatens to make you keel over and puke—there’s no way it’s actually him, right? but it is. even after three years of not having him around, you still remember the face of the one your heart just couldn't seem to abhor. so against your better judgment, you kneel next to him where he lies seemingly unconscious; his faceplate and the metal all over his body are scratched up horrifically. several wires appear to have been torn apart in a heated altercation. and once again, going against what your brain cries at you, you take the unconscious ramattra with you.
—
ramattra’s not quite sure how he’d ended up in such a predicament. one minute, he’s leading the newly-formed null sector in an assault against an overwatch outpost, and the next, he’s just barely making it out with half his wires still functional. he’d clearly underestimated the strength of the simple outpost, and he knew he’d need to plan more thoroughly in the future; to be more cunning.
but why is he here now? where even is here? his optics scan over the distinct walls lined with posters and picture frames, and recognition only registers when he spots the picture frame settled atop the nightstand next to the soft bed he lies on; y/n.
his chilled, metal body remains eerily still even as the door to the bedroom swings open and you come in.
“you’re awake...” you mumble quietly to yourself, but he hears you. you had been working on fixing him up whilst he was unconscious, having only been able to repair the wires that’d been torn.
“y/n,” his voice comes out in bouts of static as it slowly registers the repaired wires and voice box, “why am i…here?” he asks, wary, cautious, almost as if shielding his robotic heart from you.
you lean against the doorframe, arms crossing beneath your chest, “i took you in. you were beat up pretty bad. sorry i didn’t ask for permission before touching you with my filthy, human hands.” you spit out, a frown creasing your face as your eyebrows furrow the more you look at him. your words surprise both him and you, you hadn’t realized just how much resentment had built up over the years; and now confronted with the reason for that very resentment, you can’t help but let go.
ramattra glances away, scuffed up faceplate twisting away from your view, “you don’t need permission. i figured you’d know that by now.” is his only response. and boy if he thought that would suffice in calming you, he was dead wrong.
you take four quick steps toward him, jamming a figure against his chest, “you figured i’d know? really? and what else do you figure? that leaving was a great option? that it actually caused change for the greater good? look around, ramattra, i don’t see your people any more free than before you left.” you retort back, furious, because the whole purpose of his departure—his abandonment, was for him to bring justice for other omnics. and yet, nothing had changed, the omnic people were still being hunted, killed, and for what? it almost deemed ramattra’s leaving as useless.
ramattra doesn’t say anything. he remains quiet, stiff, and the urge to rip that metal faceplate off has never been greater for you.
“i never meant to hurt you,” his voice eventually breaks through the silence as he finally sits up, metal joints creaking and squeaking, “what i did wasn’t for me, it was for m-”
your voice cuts through his, “-for your people, yeah, yeah, i fucking know, ramattra. you’ve made that clear so many damn times it’s been practically seared into my brain.” you sneer, and perhaps two years ago, maybe even two months ago, you would never have dreamed of showing your beloved omnic anything but that same tenderness he’d shown you before.
ramattra finally looks up, and he stands from his position, his massive robotic figure towering over you. he gently takes your hand and squeezes it between his two cold palms, somehow still as gentle. “my love for you never wavered, y/n, it simply just…wasn’t meant to be,” he says, and if you didn’t know any better, it almost sounds like he chokes over his words, “we have vastly different goals; we are not even the same species.” he speaks.
“and that never stopped you before, did it? what changed?” you reply, trying to blink back the tears that begin welling up at the corners of your eyes.
“you know what happened, y/n…” he sighs out.
“yeah. but maybe some part of me had hoped that you had cared about me enough to stay.” to stay when no one else would, it goes unsaid, but ramattra is aware.
he has nothing to say to that, and only retracts his hands from yours, “thank you. for helping me.” he says, and begins walking past you, arm brushing against yours.
“...where are you headed now?” you ask, almost afraid to hear his answer.
“to liberate my people,” he replies, turning only a bit to look at you, “i…i am unsure if this is the last time we will meet. but if it is, i want you to know that i never stopped caring for you.” he states, and those are his last words to you before he departs once more.
and just like that, you’re left to yearn anew for a love that could never be.
TW: depression, angst | freja skov x depressed spouse | brittany murphy by slayyyter
"love?"
freja slowly opens the bedroom door, light spilling into the dark room. she sees your body sat on the wooden floor, unmoving, yet alive and breathing. the look on your face is uncomfortably cold. you hold a pillow in your arms, tears staining the fabric.
freja is familiar with silence, but this... this is a silence so loud, she struggles to comprehend how deafening it must be for you.
she doesn't do well with comforting, so she does what she knows best- simply being there. even if its in the shadows.
she sits down next to you, holding your weak hands. she bites back her cries. she has to be strong for you. she knows one day you will find your strength to escape from this darkness, but for now, she will love you through this, every day, one day at a time.
even if it means,
she sits on the cold bathroom floor as you take a bath— you forgot to clean yourself for two weeks.
she makes crappy grilled cheese, but her heart swells each time you take a bite— you forget to eat.
she already makes the most money and pays all the bills— you're able to take a break from any work load.
she signs you up for virtual therapy sessions, and hires a psychiatrist to check on you in the comfort of your home.
she wears your favorite color, (attempts to) make your favorite foods, shows you funny videos, trips on purpose to distract you from troubling thoughts— anything to bring joy to your day.
she asks you for your input on anything and everything— she wants to remind you that your voice matters.
she noticed you don't look in the mirror anymore. she stands with you while brushing teeth, fixing up your hair, and kisses you every fleeting moment you glance into your reflection.
she dolls you up occasionally, even if you're not going out the house. she wants to make you feel present with her, and ground you from any troubles taking your mind.
she reassures you, you are the most beautiful person, inside and out, and no depression can take that away from you.
in health and sickness, she swears to love you.
author's notes: please seek help if you are struggling. please do not harm yourself. there is so much more joy waiting for you.
Y/N had been with Overwatch since its early days, a constant presence among the team that fought for a better world. She had stood beside Jack Morrison, Gabriel Reyes, and the others—welcoming each new member with open arms, her kindness a stabilising force amidst the chaos of their missions. She had watched the group grow, felt the pride in seeing young recruits like Tracer and Mercy join the ranks, and spent countless hours training, strategizing, and forging bonds with every individual who entered their fold.
To say she had become family to them would be an understatement. She was the heart of Overwatch, always there to lend an ear or offer comfort during the hardest of times. Her presence was steady and grounding, a quiet beacon of support to every soldier, medic, and scientist who walked through the doors of the organisation.
But the explosion—the one that tore through the headquarters—changed everything. The night was forever etched in the memories of all who survived. It was meant to be a final, desperate mission—a last-ditch effort to save Overwatch from its inevitable downfall. But the mission went terribly wrong.
Amidst the chaos, the blast that rocked the building tore through the heart of Overwatch. Jack and Gabriel, once brothers in arms, had been caught in the explosion. Many thought they were dead, their bodies lost to the flames, but they were alive, altered, and changed in ways no one could comprehend. Yet, what few knew—what no one knew—was that Y/N had been caught in the blast as well.
The explosion had been fierce, taking down walls, crumbling entire floors. She had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her body, caught in the debris, had been irreparably torn apart. She had fought for survival, her last moments filled with a final, desperate cry for help—only for her voice to be swallowed by the fire and the destruction.
When they found the wreckage, there was no body to bury. No sign of her except the void that had been left behind.
Overwatch mourned her loss deeply. In the absence of Jack and Gabriel, who were presumed dead, there was still a sense of something missing. But it was Y/N’s absence that left the largest hole. Jack had often looked to her for support, and without her presence, his leadership faltered. Gabriel, quiet and brooding, had always found solace in her company. Without her, the darkness in his heart seemed to deepen. Even the others—Genji, Tracer, Mercy, and Cassidy—couldn’t ignore the pain.
Genji had been one of the hardest hit. Despite the quiet resolve he wore, he had always found a kinship with Y/N. She had been the one to help him when he struggled to accept his new body, when he felt like a mere shadow of his former self. Y/N had given him the space to grieve, to find peace, and in return, he had trusted her completely. Now, that trust was left in the air, an unspoken promise between them, and with her gone, Genji was left questioning his purpose.
Cassidy, too, struggled in the wake of her loss. He had been the one to crack jokes, to lighten the mood, but with Y/N’s death, there was nothing but silence. He still remembered the way her laughter filled the room, how she could ease even the darkest of moods with a few kind words. Cassidy tried to keep up the façade, the tough exterior he had always worn, but without her, it felt hollow. He couldn’t pretend everything was fine when the one person who truly understood him was gone.
The days following the explosion had blurred into weeks, and the weeks into months. The fractures within Overwatch deepened as the organisation slowly crumbled. With the loss of both Jack and Gabriel—those who had once been the pillars of Overwatch—the team fell apart. They struggled to hold on to the remnants of what they had built, but without the heart of the organisation, it felt impossible. The void left by Y/N’s death was a heavy weight they could never escape.
Genji had retreated into his training, focusing on his kata, hoping the rigid structure of movement would quiet the ache in his chest. But each swing of his sword felt emptier than the last. He could feel her absence like a constant tug on his soul. No longer was there the gentle voice reminding him to breathe, to ground himself. No longer did he feel her presence in the quiet moments, where he used to sit with her and talk about the struggles of his past. Now, there was nothing. The silence was unbearable.
Cassidy, too, had distanced himself. Where once he would have leaned on her for comfort, now he drowned his sorrow in whiskey, letting the burn of alcohol dull the sharp edges of his grief. His usual sarcastic smile had faded, replaced by a hollow look that never quite left his eyes. It was almost as if he had lost the ability to smile altogether. He tried, sometimes, to slip back into the familiar façade of his old self, cracking jokes when the others needed it, but the laughter never felt real. Not without her there, not without the way she could make him feel like it would all be okay—even when it wasn’t.
Without her, the days felt longer. The mission briefings were sombre, the usual light hearted camaraderie replaced by a sense of loss that lingered in the room. Even the recruits, those fresh faces who had come to fight for the cause, could feel it. The absence of Y/N had settled over everyone like a dark cloud.
As Overwatch disbanded, it became clear to the remaining members that they had been fighting a losing battle for a long time. The global situation had only worsened, and their resources had dwindled. The organisation, once a symbol of hope, now felt like a distant memory. And in that loss, the faces of those who had come together as a family in the early days of Overwatch slowly scattered.
Genji left first. There were whispers of him continuing his journey alone, seeking peace in places far from the wreckage of Overwatch. He had always been the one to look inward, searching for his place in the world. But without Y/N, there was no one to help him find his balance. The burden was his to carry now, a weight he would have to bear alone.
Cassidy stayed behind longer, long after the others had gone their separate ways. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the place where everything had once felt so alive. He still held out hope that maybe, just maybe, things would change. That someone—perhaps Jack or Gabriel—would return, and they could pick up the pieces of Overwatch again. But deep down, Cassidy knew the truth. Overwatch was gone. And Y/N... she was gone, too.
It wasn’t until one of the last days in the old base that Cassidy stood before the quiet memorial they had made for their lost comrades. The walls were adorned with photos, medals, and memories—symbols of those who had fought and fallen. He stood in front of the small, makeshift tribute to Y/N, her name carved into the stone, her smile forever frozen in the photograph placed beside it.
His hand hovered over the stone, a hesitant touch that trembled as if he were afraid to let go. He’d never told her, not in the way he should have. Never said what he felt. Now, all he had were the memories—the moments of shared laughter, the quiet support, the warmth of her presence when everything else seemed cold.
"I should’ve said something," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "I should’ve... should’ve told you how much you meant to me."
But the words fell on deaf ears. The silence around him felt suffocating, and Cassidy found himself lost in the void she had left behind.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was. She had been taken too soon, her light snuffed out in an instant. She had been the glue that had held them all together. And now, they were all left to pick up the pieces of a broken world, without her to guide them.
Genji had once told him that grief was a path everyone had to walk alone, and Cassidy didn’t know if he could accept that truth. He didn’t want to. He wanted Y/N to be here, to hear her laugh, to feel her presence as if it were still a part of him.
But it was gone. Just like her.
Overwatch had fallen apart, and so had they.
And all Cassidy could do now was carry her memory with him, the weight of it heavy on his shoulders, as he walked away from the remnants of a once-great team.
Three years have passed since Overwatch disbanded, and yet, the world remained in turmoil. Global instability continued to ravage the planet, and as tensions grew, a handful of familiar faces found themselves drawn back together. It began with Tracer. She was the first to reach out to Winston, urging him to consider the possibility of reinstituting Overwatch. She believed in the cause, in the need for unity, and in the hope that, maybe, this time, they could make a difference.
Winston, though hesitant, agreed. The old wounds were still fresh, but the call for action was undeniable. Slowly, the team began to come together once again. Genji returned from his travels, silent yet resolute in his commitment to the cause. Mercy followed, her heart heavy but determined to heal what she could. Cassidy, despite his reservations, re-joined as well, his determination outweighing his reluctance.
Yet, amidst this reunion, one thing remained absent—the one thing that weighed heavily on them all: the loss of Y/N.
As the team gathered and the plan to revive Overwatch took shape, they couldn’t shake the absence of her warmth, her laughter, her unwavering support. Y/N had been the heart of Overwatch, a constant presence who had welcomed every new member with open arms. Her kindness and steadiness had been the glue that held them together. Now, in the quiet aftermath of her loss, they all felt the emptiness.
Cassidy, in particular, had struggled. Despite his usual bravado and sarcastic smirk, he couldn’t escape the ache in his chest whenever he thought of Y/N. Her absence left a coldness he couldn’t ignore. The other members of the team tried to move forward, but Cassidy often found himself lost in his own thoughts, haunted by the memory of the woman he had lost.
But everything changed one day.
The briefing room was quiet, the usual tension before a mission thick in the air. Winston had gathered everyone, but there was an unusual weight to the room, as if they were all waiting for something—someone—to fill the silence. Winston’s large frame stood at the front, his eyes scanning over the team.
“I have something to show you,” Winston said, his voice steady but there was an underlying tension in his tone. He pressed a button on the terminal beside him, and the large screen in front of them flickered to life.
At first, they all thought it was just a new mission briefing. But then, the image on the screen shifted, and what appeared was… Y/N.
For a moment, the room was frozen. It wasn’t her, not truly. She stood there, her face familiar, her smile warm—but there was a faint, mechanical hum in the air, a slight distortion in her form. This was not the Y/N they had lost. This was a hologram.
Cassidy’s breath caught in his throat. “No... no way,” he muttered under his breath, standing up and stepping closer to the screen, his gaze locked onto the image.
“She… she looks like her…” Mercy whispered, her voice trembling. She could see the resemblance—Y/N’s kindness and strength in the hologram’s eyes, but it wasn’t right. It was a projection, not the real thing.
Genji stepped forward, his voice calm but heavy with sorrow. “Winston… What is this?”
Winston’s eyes flickered with an unusual sadness, but he answered in a steady voice. “It’s a projection—a hologram based on the data I collected from Y/N’s neural patterns. I’ve been working on it for months, trying to find a way to bring her back... or at least to preserve a part of her. Her voice, her memories, her presence.” His voice faltered slightly. “I couldn’t bring her back, but I wanted to give you all a piece of her. I thought it might help with the pain… the loss.”
The hologram of Y/N smiled, her features soft, almost too perfect. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there,” she said in a voice that was unmistakably hers, though it carried a certain digital echo. “I never wanted to leave you like that.”
Cassidy felt his throat tighten. His hand curled into a fist at his side as he fought back the swell of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. The hologram’s smile was both comforting and painful. It was like seeing a ghost of the past, a cruel reminder that the Y/N they had known was truly gone.
“Why didn’t you tell us about this sooner?” Genji asked, his voice quiet but full of a quiet intensity. “Why keep this from us?”
Winston sighed, his eyes full of regret. “I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up. I wasn’t sure if this would even work… if it would help you all. But when you came back together to reform Overwatch, I knew it was time.”
The hologram of Y/N continued to smile, her hands resting gently at her sides. “I know it’s not the same, and I’m not really here. But I wanted you to know that I’m proud of all of you. I know the world is still a mess, but I believe in each of you. You’ve always had my back, and I’m still with you… even if it’s in a different way.”
Cassidy clenched his jaw, stepping closer to the projection. His eyes were burning with unshed tears. “You’re not really here,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “You’re not really here.”
The hologram nodded, her smile never faltering. “No, I’m not. But I’ll always be in your hearts. And if I could be there to fight alongside you, I would.”
Genji looked down at the floor, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as if trying to ground himself. Mercy wiped a tear from her eye, her heart aching at the sight of the woman they had loved, even if she was just a projection.
Cassidy turned away, his voice hoarse as he spoke. “You don’t get to just come back like this. It’s not fair. It’s not right.”
“I know,” the hologram replied softly. “But maybe… this is the best I can do for now.”
The room fell silent as the projection flickered, the image of Y/N slowly fading. Her last words echoed in the empty space. “I believe in you… all of you. Keep fighting.”
And then, she was gone. The room was left in a heavy, almost suffocating silence, each of them grappling with the truth of what they had just seen.
Winston sighed, his shoulders heavy. “I’m sorry, everyone. I couldn’t bring her back… but I hope this helps, even a little.”
Cassidy didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at the empty screen. He knew the hologram wasn’t Y/N, not truly. But for a brief moment, he had felt the warmth of her presence again. And even if it wasn’t real, it was enough to remind him of the person they had lost.
But as he stood there, the weight of the loss pressing down on him once more, he knew that the fight ahead would be harder than ever. And yet, there was something new in his heart—something akin to hope.
Even if it was just a hologram, they weren’t alone. And perhaps, just perhaps, that was enough.
Weeks later, during a particularly difficult mission, the comms crackled to life with a familiar voice—a voice that carried the same calm, the same authority they remembered. It wasn’t the hollow echo of a prerecorded message or the usual robotic tone of Athena. It was a voice full of life, warmth, and precision, just like the Y/N they had once known.
“Objective A is now online. Proceed with caution,” the voice rang out, clear and steady, offering the same strategic guidance Y/N used to. Her words were just as comforting as they had always been—reassuring, calculating, and full of the humanity they had sorely missed. The only difference was that this time, she wasn’t standing beside them. She was guiding them from the comms.
It wasn’t a ghost of the past. This wasn’t a simple hologram or memory of her. Y/N had become the new AI for Overwatch.
Winston watched in silence, his hands hovering over the console, his heart heavy with the knowledge that Y/N had been more than just a colleague, more than just a friend. In his grief, he had done what he thought was necessary. He had transferred parts of her neural patterns, her memories, and her essence into the systems of Overwatch, creating an AI that would carry her voice and knowledge forward.
It was an act of preservation, not resurrection. Athena had been replaced—no longer the voice that announced missions and objectives with cold detachment, but a voice full of Y/N’s spirit, guiding the team as she once had. The humanity they had lost was now encoded into the core of Overwatch's operations, but it wasn’t truly her.
Cassidy stood still for a moment, the sound of her voice washing over him, and something inside him twisted. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. But hearing her again, even through the artificial filter of a machine, brought back memories of the woman who had always been there—of the Y/N who had welcomed them, supported them, and fought beside them.
For the rest of the team, it was the same. A familiar comfort, but one that stung. Y/N was gone in body, but her voice—their Y/N—was now the one directing them, the one filling the void left by the AI that once served them. The warmth of her guidance would never be truly replaced, but in this new form, she was still there. Still a part of Overwatch.
＃OVERWATCH !! ♡ — DON'T WASTE YOUR HEART IN MOURNING ME (MOIRA X READER).
#. synopsis! — left to grapple with moira's sudden departure from your life, you spend a harrowing afternoon reminiscing on the good, the bad, and the deliciously bittersweet .
#. characters! — moira .
#. warnings! — angst, liberal use of curse words .
#. word count! — 6.1k .
#. others! — navigation & masterlist .
#. alt accounts! — @ddollipop (nsfw), @hhoneypop (moodboards) .
The apartment feels larger now than it did before. It’s quiet in a way it never was when Moira was around, —always with her little tics, tapping her long, ever-manicured nails on the kitchen island or pacing about in one of the rooms. . . She did that latter thing a lot near the end, with more dramatic touslings of her hair than in the time before. For a moment, you fear the downstairs neighbors must be celebrating her departure, and the thought of it almost makes you laugh. The silence is laden with memories in every nook and cranny of this place, and it dawns on you now that it feels much like it did back when she and you were moving the first of many boxes in, ready to start a new life together.
Only this time, there’s no promise of eternal love or any of that other bullshit that she always warned you was a fool’s game to play with.
Moira, Moira, Moira, ever the pragmatic one. . .
There’s a faint scent of lavender-heavy perfume that lingers throughout, reminding you that she wasn’t just some figment of your imagination. At one time, she’d been the love of your life. Or, she was who you thought would take that title, anyway. Nowadays, you just aren’t so sure, and perhaps that’s been the hardest pill to swallow thus far. The scent reminds you of her, —of the way her brows would furrow deeply when she was displeased, of how she always took her coffee black and poked fun at you for the additives you refused to drink it without. It reminds you of her arms wrapping ever so sweetly around your waist, her chin coming down to rest on the crown of your head.
You blink and try to focus on something —anything— else. It’s hard enough to deal with it all, but you’re just torturing yourself with it at this point. Your eyes sweep the room, the cream-colored walls, landing on a painting you’d created several years ago. It was lackluster now in terms of honed skill, but there was something so endlessly passionate about it, so full of vibrance and promise. Reaching out, your fingertips graze the glazed canvas, and it’s like you’re right back there again. . .
The gallery buzzes with excitement, the sounds of light, casual conversation and clinking wine glasses echoing through the wide halls. You stand before your own work, amazed that it’s hanging here in this exhibit of your prowess, even if this gig had been a long time coming. To see it actually displayed here made your heart soar. It was the biggest step you’d taken in your career since moving to this city and it felt so incredible that your sacrifices were finally paying off.
You’re caught up in the whirlwind of congratulations, thanks, and small talk, —but none of that is enough to keep your eyes from drifting over to her; a tall, ginger-haired, sophisticated woman standing a few feet back from one of your pieces, staring at it intensely enough to feel unnerving and intriguing all in the same breath. Dressed in a finely pressed suit the same color of the wine in her glass, her sharp, calculating gaze turns to you as you approach her nervously, feeling small both physically and metaphorically standing beside her.
“I can’t quite tell if you like it or not,” you muse, trying to sound playful, even if the real intent was just to have her offer her unfiltered opinion so you could stop guessing what she thought of it.
The way she was staring at it made you feel like she thought there was some kind of hidden message carved into the paint strokes. When her eyes flicker to you, you notice that they’re different colors, —one red, one blue, both deeper shades, and you get lost in them for a moment before she laughs softly, and you have something else to fall into.
“Oh, I like it quite a bit,” she answers.
There’s an accent clinging to her words, but you haven’t quite placed it just yet. That doesn't stop it from making your stomach twist itself into knots though.
“It’s quite captivating.”
You almost blurt out that you could say the same of her, but you let that sentence die on your tongue before it has the chance to see the light of day.
“I’m glad you think so,” you smile softly, “it was my favorite of the bunch. That’s why I placed it in the center of the exhibit.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” she nods. “How much would it cost to purchase?”
Your eyes widen. It wasn’t necessarily unusual for paintings to be arranged to be sold during these events, but that tended to come with recognition from the local art collecting scene that you just didn’t have at the moment. For you, this exhibit was more about reaching a wider audience and allowing the public to see your pieces than it was making any kind of profit. . .
“Um. . . I— I don’t know, how much would you be willing to pay?” You swallow, at the risk of sounding unprofessional.
She gives the painting another glance over, then turns back to you.
“Does a grand sound fair?”
Your jaw almost dropped to the floor.
“S-Sorry?”
“Two?”
Holy shit. All of this seemed to have gone from zero to a thousand (or two. . .) in the blink of an eye, and you have to take a second to collect yourself, lest you seem anymore clueless than you’ve probably already come across as.
“Does. . . fifteen hundred work?” You dare.
“Certainly,” Moira nods decisively.
You give her your information so she can send the money your way in a few days time when she comes to pick the painting up at the end of the exhibition. And when the time comes, you walk away with one less painting to lug back to your apartment, fifteen hundred dollars richer, and with a new phone number added to your contacts with her name attached.
It was almost funny. Maybe you’d have laughed if you weren’t already on the verge of tears. All of this has really come full circle, and you’re just not sure you appreciate the irony of it all in the moment. Here you are, standing in front of this goddamn painting, the one that had acted as a catalyst to meeting Moira in the first place. . . And it’s back in your possession, because she couldn’t even be bothered to take it with her. As much as you love it for what it represents, there’s a part of you that wants to pluck it off the wall and slam it out the window right about now. Or maybe beating it with a baseball bat or something would feel more satisfying.
Whatever the case, you’re getting tired of looking at it, so you avert your gaze elsewhere and let your back touch the wall beside it. Stupid painting. Stupid apartment. Stupid Moira and her stupid decisions that have plagued your life for the past five years, and those stupidly long nails that traced perfect shapes along your hip at night, and her stupid lips with that goddamn orangeish gloss that always stained yours when she’d kiss you—
“Ugh!” You groan.
All this reminiscing has reminded you of how electric it felt to be in her presence back then, how magnetic she’d been from the start. Those sharp eyes that matched her wit, those clever jokes she’d throw your way (some of which went over your head, admittedly), —and the sweetness of her voice when it came to you. She was kinder with you in subtle way, would place her hands on the small of your back in public, taking care to tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ears if the need arose. You hate that this fallout has left you wondering if it was ever truly affection at all, of if she was simply protecting her own self-image.
You’ve questioned a lot of things about her over the years, but whether or not she was genuine in her love for you had rarely been one. But now, that conversation is back on the table, and it’s woefully one-sided this time.
One text lead to many. At first, it was hard to tell if she was simply interested in you as an artist or if that interest expanded to you as a person, but she quickly put your worries to rest when she began flirting with you in a way that even you, in all your obliviousness, had to acknowledge was more than playful banter between friends. Slowly, your life became intertwined with hers, and looking back, it seemed to happen in the blink of an eye. One late night date at a fancy bar and you were practically groveling at her feet, so desperate for her to see you as her equal. She spoke with you about science and philosophy, —her words acting as a forewarning for what was inevitably to come, even if you didn’t realize it at the time.
She was very hush-hush about her working endeavors, but you knew she was employed by Overwatch. That alone explained why she couldn’t divulge all the information of her duties to you, and you were okay with that. The secrecy got worse as time went on. Especially after she was publicly shamed for her “poor regard for the ethics of the scientific community” or whatever. The city isn’t small by any means, but it wasn’t large enough to spare you the fate of being tied to her name. You’d been seen attending various events with her, and many of the wealthy clientele that purchased paintings from the local galleries soon put two and two together. At that point, your paintings began selling at a much slower and much less financially liberal rate.
Moira insisted that it was okay. That it would pass eventually as she became involved with a different organization, —or. . . A different branch of the same organization? You weren’t sure. She never explained much, and you didn’t like to pry. If Moira wanted you to know something, she would tell you. Anything beyond that was best left alone.
Equally mesmerizing and maddening all at once, she insists that all is well. That everything will be okay. That all of this heat on her name is a fad, that once she proves herself, the tides will turn in her favor. . . And you believe her. You take smaller, more intimate jobs and refrain from showing your face at the local galleries for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. She talks you into moving in with her, taking you from your one-bedroom studio apartment to the top of the most affluent building in the city. You tell her it doesn’t feel much like anywhere you could call home, and she brushes your concerns away.
“It’s all the empty space,” she says. “We’ll decorate.”
You do, and somewhere along the line this apartment begins to feel exactly like you insisted it couldn’t. You sleep on sheets that smell like her, bury your face into her pillow to breathe her in when she gets up at ungodly hours of the morning to leave for work. She hangs that painting she bought from you about a year ago by now up on the wall near the kitchen and the living room, and she glances at it often when she sits at the counter. When she manages to make it home in time for dinner, you sit together and eat. . . Sometimes she’s just shy of talking your ear off, and others, she doesn’t say much at all.
She cups your cheeks and insists that everything will be okay when you get overwhelmed. She learns how to be gentler with you, learns how to be more sensitive. You learn how to trust her more and how to avoid stepping on her toes when her days are hard. Sometimes, you convince her to turn that magnificent brain of hers off and watch something stupid on the television with you, —trashy reality TV that she doesn’t really get, but likes to watch you giggle at more than anything else. If you’re lucky, she won’t wake you when you doze off in her lap, she’ll just gently massage your scalp and let you rest against her.
Slowly but surely, the apartment is filled with lots of things. Books, trinkets, little pieces of decor. . . Love. She doesn’t declare it often, but every now and again, she’ll get the urge to remind you. Usually it’s just before you fall asleep, her long arms pulling you against her chest, mumbling a confession so quiet only you can hear it above her heartbeat; like it’s a secret she’s keeping from the rest of the world.
You feel bad that sometimes you wish it was.
“Do you even understand what’s happening?” You ask one afternoon, frustrated and angered by her continued neutrality towards it all. “To me?” You add. “To us?”
Those eyes that you’ve always loved so much flash with anger and a hint of something else, something you don’t really recognize on her. . . Guilt?
“What is there to understand?” She challenges. “My work is important. I thought you understood at least that much.”
“And mine isn’t?” You counter.
“I never said that,” she shakes her head. “I’ve never not supported your career choices, —need I remind you how we met?”
She says that and gestures to the hung painting on the wall. You nearly scoff.
“It’s one thing to support me, Moira, it’s another to be proactive about it.”
She frowns.
“I’m sorry our relationship has caused you so much distress,” she hisses.
“That isn’t what I’m saying,” you bite back.
“Then what exactly are you saying, y/n?” She questions, but you can tell by the way she says it that she’s not really looking for an answer.
You still offer one anyway.
“I’m asking you when enough is enough, Moira.”
Her expression hardens, a shield silently snapping into place.
“Enough is never enough in science,” she says to you, like you’re some underling in her lab she’s giving a lecture to.
There’s a cold, detached sentiment in her tone, —one that makes your heart ache. Because you love her, in spite of all this.
“Progress requires sacrifice.”
You laugh, but it sounds so bitter that you hardly recognize it came from you.
“Sacrifice? You wanna preach to me of all people about sacrifice? —What about us, Moira? What about the sacrifices I’ve made, endless ones, mind you, to be here and stand with you and back the things you do? This kind of mindless complacency because I care, and I only ever want to assume the best of you. But what about me? What about the life we’ve built together? Does that mean nothing to you?”
Moira’s eyes flicker with something you can’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something like fleeting sorrow.
“Of course it means something to me,” she says softly.
You hurt her, and you can see it on her face. A part of you wants to reach out, take her by the wrist, kiss this better. . . But you don’t. The argument hangs heavy in the air, a chasm widening between the two of you. She turns away and leaves the apartment for a while. It’s nearly midnight when she returns, and she sleeps in the guest room for the next few days. You catch brief glimpses of her every now and again when one of you is coming or going, but there isn’t really anything to say. It’s a stalemate, and you’re both a little too stubborn for you own good.
Moira cracks first after four days, a rare showing of compassion on her part. You come home to a nice, home cooked dinner, and she coaxes you into sitting down and eating with her. It’s not like it takes much convincing. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her cook, but you’re reminded of how much you’ve missed it as you eat what she’s prepared. After some awkward small talk about what you’ve both been up to over the past few days, and you holding your tongue on any snarky quips, she sighs.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she tells you. “About us.”
In the back of your mind, a part of you steels for a breakup. For some dissolution of everything you’ve put your heart into, and somehow. . . It feels like something that was bound to happen. And that’s the worst part. Still, you nod and put your fork down, giving her your full attention as she speaks with careful measure. It’s the first real conversation you’ve had with her in over half a week, and you’re determined to make it count for something.
“My work is very important to me. You must know as much by now. But I do understand your frustrations, and I’m sorry that my career has interfered with yours. There isn’t much I can do about it, but I acknowledge your frustrations, and if I could make this easier for you, y/n, you know that I. . .”
You sigh.
“I do,” you say softly. “I know.”
She nods.
“I also know that I can be difficult to be with at times. I know that I get so caught up in my experiments that I fail to leave time for anything else, but I try. Because I care for you very deeply, and I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose what we have together, what we’ve built. . .”
“I know,” you repeat.
Moira sighs.
“You’re still angry with me.”
“I am,” you admit. “But I appreciate that you’re trying to make things right, and I. . . Should apologize to you too. For what I said. I know that you care about me, and about our relationship, and I’m sorry that I questioned that. It was wrong.”
She seems pleased with this, —more than willing to let it be water under the bridge.
Things admittedly don’t get much easier in the fallout. Not in terms of your career, anyway. Your works are tainted by the woman you call a lover, and your name is blackballed across the community. It’s a constant struggle to reconcile your own morality with the dubiousness of her’s, and yet you really can’t imagine life without her. So you stay, and you sleep in her bed; —your bed. The one you’ve built with her. You stuff it down and vent your frustrations to the walls of your painting room.
You glance to the door but make no move to go near it. God, all this shit those walls have heard over the years. . . You don’t even wanna think about what kind of therapy they’d need if they were sentient. It’s almost enough to make you shiver. This entire apartment, for that matter, is like some kind of twisted mausoleum of memories; good and bad. The bed you’ve slept alone in more nights than you can count over the years is the same one she undressed you so many times on, picking you apart like you were perfectly cooked ribs just sliding off the bone, and fuck it makes you so mad that she’s just thrown everything away like this. That couch you’ve cried on out of sheer overwhelming frustration is the one where she urged you onto her lap, the one she covered you up with a blanket on those times she came home to find you napping there.
It’s been three years since that argument was settled at the table. It’s been three days since she sat you down in the same chair, in the same room, at that same goddamn table, to tell you she was leaving. That she didn’t know when or if she’d be coming back. That Overwatch was just too stifling, that she needed to get away, to explore. . . And in the process, she’s left you alone. Again. The echoes of that last conversation haunt the empty space. You’re mad. You’re so, so angry that this is the way she left things, and it’s eating you up like boiling water in your veins.
All that time you’d spent making sacrifices, letting your art be devalued so she could search for some secret key to humanity’s shackles while keeping you chained in this fucking apartment. The chandelier hanging from the ceiling just didn’t fix everything the way it should have for the way it raised the rent of this goddamn place. You check your phone, knowing there won’t be any kind of message or call from her, but silently hoping there might be. That maybe, just this once, she’ll prove you wrong. . . That she’ll just come back and say she’s sorry, that she made a mistake and wants to make it right again.
But there’s nothing.
You choke back a sob and train your eyes on the apartment walls again. They’ve seen nearly everything from start to finish, and yet you just don’t feel like you can let them watch you weep now. They held your back when Moira pressed you against them, her hands traversing you with more muscle memory of you each time, and they held it again the night she said she was departing while you slid down it, heart heavy enough to pull you like gravity itself.
Now, these walls bear silent witness to your grief. The silence wraps around you like a cold, unwelcome blanket, frigid on your skin like her hands tended to be. It amplifies every thought in your head, every memory of her, all the things she’s just left behind now like it was easy. Like it was all meaningless fodder for her when to you, it was just shy of everything. It was what you fought for the hardest, what you sacrificed for the most, what you were willing to crawl on your hands and knees for above anything else. It’s hard to believe that she’s gone, just like that, but the absence of her presence now, the absence of her things, makes it all too real.
You let your head tilt upward, catching the barest sight of the painting just up and to your left. The thing that started it all, the beginning of the end, and it feels like such a cruel joke now, —like a reminder of everything you’ve come to lose.
More than anything, you want to be angry. You want to tear this place apart with your bare hands, destroy every reminder of her, every piece of her that still lingers in this god forsaken apartment. . . But you can’t. You just can’t bring yourself to do it, and not just for the fact that the costs will be far too much to repay in the aftermath. Instead, you simply slump further against the wall, letting the tension melt into exhaustion, and letting all this weight crush your spirits in way only something uniquely Moira ever could.
The love you held, the love you received, the dreams you shared, —all of it and more is tangled up in this place, in the memories that permeate every room. You’re surrounded by it, but even if you leave, you know all too well that it’ll just travel with you. There’s no escaping this, and that’s the scariest part. Your hand drifts to your phone again, almost involuntarily, as if by some miracle there’ll be a message from her; something to explain that her hand was forced, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t want things to end the way they did either. Maybe there’ll be a goodbye that doesn’t feel so goddamn final, maybe she’ll ask you to wait for her because she knows you would if she requested it.
But there’s nothing.
Just the same void that’s been growing since she walked out the door.
The tears come before you can stop them this time, a pent-up release of all the emotions you’ve been stuffing down for three days. Anger, sorrow, confusion, frustration, all of it and more, mix together and spill out through your eyes as you curl up on the cold floor, folding in on yourself, trying to feel as small as possible in hopes that you might just disappear altogether.
You can almost feel her hand atop your head in a comforting gesture, the way she used to pet you like a cat because she wasn’t sure what else to do when you cried. You can still hear her voice ringing in your ears.
“We should talk,” she says, a sense of hesitation present which was wholly uncharacteristic of her. . . Moira wasn’t the type to hesitate.She never had been.
Her usual confidence has been replaced by something tentative, and that cut deeper than any words ever could.
“Is something wrong?” You ask softly, because something surely was, even if you didn’t know what just yet.
“Just sit, please,” she requests, and you do, ignoring the sense of deja vu.
“Moira?” You utter, and she cringes visibly at the desperation on your tongue.
“I’m leaving.”
Your mind stills. There’s no way you heard that correctly, or perhaps you just need to clarify what she means, maybe she’s going somewhere for a time, but surely she’ll return, surely she’ll come back—
“L-Leaving?” You repeat after a few moments of silence. “What do you mean leaving?”
She looks to the floor, like she’s searching the grooves of the tiles for the right way to explain.
“Overwatch. . . Has made a fool of me for too long. And I’ve stupidly allowed it for the sake of access to their equipment and their people, but no longer.”
This wasn’t news to you. She’d always shown a slight disdain for her employers, but her relationship with her superiors had gotten notably more hostile in recent months. She spit more venom when speaking of them now, scowled when she saw anything to do with Overwatch in the media. . . But you never thought it was this bad.
“So you’re leaving your job?” You seek to clarify.
“Yes, but. . .” she pauses. “I’ve been presented with an opportunity that I cannot pass up.”
“A job offer?”
“Something like that.”
You frown.
“This is way too cryptic for my taste, Moira, can you please just—”
“I’m going away.”
Another pause, this time from you as you let her words digest.
“. . . going where?” You ask eventually.
“I cannot tell you,” she replies decisively, and for the first time, you’re tempted to ask why.
For so long, you’d been fine to simply accept what she couldn’t divulge to you. It was what it was. But not this time.
“Don’t you think I deserve some kind of explanation for all of this?” You question, raising your voice slightly. “You can’t just tell me you’re leaving, that’s not how this is supposed to work, Moira, we’re partners—”
Her face tightens, uncertainty morphing into resolve. Her tone is pointed as she cuts you off.
“I know it’s not fair,” she tells you bluntly, voice steadier than before. “But this isn’t about fairness. This is something I need to do for myself.”
This only makes you angrier.
“And what about me then? The person you’ve, I don’t know, —built a fucking life with? What about me in all of this, you can’t just throw me away and give me no explanation! If you need space, just say that you need space, you don’t need to play a cryptic game with me, I know you! Why the secrecy with me of all people?”
The woman you’ve always known to be so confident now seems so vulnerable before you, and it almost makes you feel guilty for being upset.
“It’s not about secrecy. It’s about protecting you, protecting myself and my work. . . If I told you everything, it would compromise too much. I will not put you in danger.”
“But putting the woman I love in danger is just fine by you?” You hiss. “Don’t tell me you’re protecting me, don’t make this out to be some noble act on your part. What are you so afraid of telling me?”
“The information you’re after is something I cannot disclose to you.”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m a stranger meddling in your affairs, we are partners! We’ve been together for half a decade, we share a home, you can’t just leave!” You shout. “Don’t you think I deserve a proper explanation after everything we’ve been through? After everything you’ve put me through?”
“What you deserve and what I can give you are rarely the same thing, and you know this.”
You scoff.
“This isn’t about you,” she continues. “This is about protecting the things I value, which includes you, whether or not you believe as much right now. If I were to reveal details, it would jeopardize everything: my work, my safety, your safety, and I’m doing what’s necessary to prevent that. I’m not willing to risk it. Because I know you as well, and I know how stubborn you are. I’m doing everything in my power to keep you out of a situation that puts you in harm’s way.”
“And what about the risk of losing me, huh? The risk of losing everything we’ve built together? You’re just walking away without giving me any proper closure, —dropping this bomb on me and expecting me to take it in stride? Just swallow this like it’s not going to turn my world upside down?”
Tears threaten to spill down your cheeks.
“How is this any better?” You demand.
“It has nothing to do with you,” she retorts. “It has nothing to do with walking away from you.”
“Yes it does, because that’s what you’re doing!” You argue.
“I am making a choice that I believe is best for my career and for both our safety. I’m ensuring that my choices don’t put you in danger. You of all people must understand that by now.”
The silence stretches after her words and you feel the weight of them mix with your mounting frustrations.
“You think you’re protecting me by shutting me out like this?” You question, hurt evident in your voice. “By just up and leaving without giving me any real explanation? How is this supposed to make anything better?”
“I never said it was supposed to make anything better.”
You laugh, bitter and sarcastic. Her frown deepens.
“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” she tells you in earnest, but it’s hard to believe it in the moment.
What do intentions matter in this case if it hurts you all the same?
“What about us?” You question, voice breaking. “What about the life we’ve built together? You can’t just erase it all and pretend like it never happened. You can’t do that.”
Her eyes flicker with a brief flash of something like guilt, but she masks it quickly.
“My decision wasn’t made to erase our past—”
“Our past?” You interrupt.
She runs a hand down her face in frustration.
“My decision is not about erasing you,” she revises. “It’s about ensuring that my actions don’t put you in a position I can’t protect you in. I’m taking the steps to ensure that my choices don’t harm you.”
“You’re harming me right now!”
“And you can heal from this!” She snaps. “But there’s no guarantee you’ll heal from what could happen to you if I don’t make the choice I’m making right now. I’m taking the necessary steps to protect what’s important, and that includes making tough decisions.”
You feel your hands start to tremble. Because of what, you’re not sure. . . Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s anxiety, maybe it’s grief.
“Don’t try to justify this to me,” you shake your head. “Don’t try to pretend like you’re doing this for anyone but yourself. After everything I’ve done for you, all the sacrifices I’ve made, you’re throwing everything away like it’s worthless? How is that protection?”
Her gaze hardens.
“You know well and full that I do not make uncalculated decisions. This is no different. I’m making a choice that keeps you safe, even if you don’t recognize that right now.”
“It’s not about what I do or don’t understand!” You shout. “It’s about trust! It’s about being fucking honest with me! You’re not even giving me a choice in this, and that’s not fair! You’re making choices for the both of us alone that we should have been making together!”
“I’m not asking you to like or agree with what I’m doing, I am telling you what’s taking place because I care for you, and I believe you deserve that much,” she states. “But this conversation does not change what has to be done.”
“So that’s just it then?” You question in disbelief. “You’re throwing me away and I don’t even get a say? You’re just gonna up and go and leave me to pick up the pieces by myself?”
The rest is a blur. She gathered her things while you sit around in a daze, pinching yourself every so often, convinced that you’ll wake up and it’ll all just be a nightmare. You’ll tell her about it when you wake up and she’ll tell you you’re ridiculous with a lopsided smile on her face, and she’ll roll her eyes when you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her chest. It’ll all feel better when she kisses the crown of your head and mumbles that she’ll see you when she gets home from work.
But she doesn’t.
“Moira,” you practically whimper as she emerges from your shared room with items smushed into a travel case. “Don’t. Don’t do this.”
She pauses, unable to meet your gaze completely. Like she’s ashamed in all of this, as much as she wants to hide that away.
“This isn’t easy for me either,” she tells you.There’s a twisted coolness to her voice, like she’s rehearsed these exact lines so many times before now.
“But I’ve made my decision. There’s nothing more to say.”
“Please,” you choke out, not caring how pathetic or childlike you sound as you beg for this woman not to exit your life and leave you high and dry. “Please don’t do this, don’t leave, please don’t go, we can figure something out—”
“We can’t,” she shakes her head. “I’m leaving, and I don’t know when I’ll return. I don’t even know that I’ll be coming back at all.”
“But I love you,” you utter in desperation.
“I know,” she says, her voice colder than you ever thought it could be. “But love isn’t enough right now. This is bigger than us, and I can’t ignore that.”
You reach out and grab the sleeve of her button-up shirt.“Don’t do this to me,” you plead.
But when you look into her eyes, all you see is resignation.
“I wish things were different,” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but still laced with that same finality. “But I can’t change what I have to do. This isn’t about us, it’s about something far bigger, and I need you to trust me like you always have.”
“Moira.”
Her thumb strokes your cheek in a tender gesture that feels like a cruel contrast to the words she’s saying.
“You’re stronger than you think, and you’ll be okay,” she continues. “And maybe there’ll be a day when I can come back. But for now, you have to let me go.”
You feel sick to your stomach, hand clutching so tightly around her’s that it likely hurts, but you can’t help it. You shake your head as your throat squeezes and you open your mouth slightly to speak, but nothing comes out.
She pauses in the doorway, her back to you, and for a moment you think she might turn around. But she doesn’t. Instead, she simply says, “Take care of yourself.”
The memory fades and you feel hollow. Raw, like the wound has been ripped open all over again. It stings like it’s been covered in salt. You blink, realizing now more than before that you’re alone, on the floor in this cold, empty apartment. The echo of the door as it closed behind her for the last time rings in your ear, over and over, a sound you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.
So you don’t.
You sit and let it fester. And maybe you’ll wait around for her and she’ll come crawling back some few odd years later. Maybe you’ll move on and search for her in the face of every potential partner you sit across from at warm cafes.
As you sit there, the painting looms in your vision, its once comforting brushstrokes now a bittersweet echo of a time when everything felt whole. It’s a reminder of what was and what might never be again and it makes you nauseous just to stare in its tainted direction. But you’ll keep it hung no matter where you go, and you know that. . . Because Moira loved it. And you love her.
Just a few angsty headcanons for my overwatch favs because I'm having a bad day. Enjoy!
Mentions of self harm, chronic pain, SA and other abuse below the cut. Please read with caution and minors DO NOT interact. 18+
☣️ Hazard: He hides it well but his body aches, all the time. Phantom pains, chaffing until the skin is raw, muscular stress from uneven limbs. You name it, he's dealt with it. He metabolizes the pain as just another part of life and has learned to mostly ignore it but some days, especially after a particularly rough mission, it all comes crashing back and he can barley stand. He laughs it off, makes excuses to slink off on his own and as soon as he's alone he collapses. Screwing his eyes shut and just trying to breath through the pain. Feelings of loss and weakness crashing over him like a wave, threatening to drown him. He sits like that, in a heap, for hours, sometimes a full night. Just trying to lessen the pain or ignore it until it fades back into the dull ache he carries every moment of every day. It's still better than the alternative but sometimes it threatens to drive him mad.
🦉 Reaper: Sometimes, alone in the middle of the night, Reaper hauls himself to the bathroom and stands in front of the mirror. Staring with hallow red eyes at his own reflection for hours, trying desperately to spot any remnants of who he used to be. He drags claws fingers over his cheek bones and chin, trying to see something besides a monster. Trying to pretend it's a living face once again. He stares at himself until he's disoriented and angry. Sometimes the mirror takes the brunt of the frustration and pain, other times he turns it on himself. Tearing at his face and body just trying to bleed like he used to, or hurt in a different way. Something, anything to make him feel alive. Nothing ever works and eventually the rage and desperation dies down into exhaustion and surrender and he leaves the room in a cloud of smoke, letting his body come apart in defeat. Knowing he will be called back to work soon and the cycle will start all over again.
🐸 Lucio: Sometimes before a show and often times after one he will make cheerful excuses to head to the bathroom or his dressing room for a few minutes. As soon as the door closes behind him and he's sure he's alone he sinks to the ground, already hyperventilating. He curls into a ball, digs his fingers into his hair and has a panic attack. Sometimes they last 15-20 minutes. Other times he only allows himself 1 or 2 minutes of shaking on the ground, sobbing, struggling to breathe and pulling on his hair. The panic, the pressure, the risk he endures every day would get to anyone but he doesn't allow himself much. Just those few minutes of complete despair and terror. He's had panic attacks since he was a child so he knows how to deal with them but he can't stop them. So he just makes sure he has his time alone to come undone, even just for a minute or two before pulling himself back together, plastering on his happy face and going back out to face it all again. He has a reputation to uphold and people need him. They can't think he's weak or not enjoying himself, so he never lets anyone see it.
🪷 Lifeweaver: Most of the time he is all smiles and confidant quips but some nights, sitting alone in what ever safe house he is hiding away in, alone, the tears come. He sits tall, back straight, staring straight ahead as tears run a river down his cheeks. He doesn't sob, he doesn't shake. He just lets the tears come and burn his eyes as he thinks of his family, his school friends, his exes. All people he couldn't keep in his life. All people he was forced to turn his back on or watch them turn their backs on him. Niran is a people person but the path he has chosen in life forces him to spend most of his resting hours alone. Completely, staggeringly alone. He has learned to cope with it for the most part. Tea, music and novels help. As well as losing himself in his work, but some nights he can't escape it and the tears overwhelm him. Flooding him with memories of people he can't have, people he can't afford to love. People who have betrayed him or given up on him. Or worse yet, people he has betrayed or abandon. He can't tell which is worse but he sheds tears for all of them.
🐰 D.va/Hana Song: Not much gets to this streaming super star but there are dark parts of the internet she can't quite stand to look at. Once, near the beginning of her career taking off she took some time to scour the internet for what they were saying about her and what she found left her stomach in knots. She found hate forums, webpages full of threats and worst of all, a lot of people fantasizing about assaulting her. She closed the computer and never spoke of it again, never daring to look or let it get to her but sometimes the thoughts sneak back in. She tries to be a hero and entertainer and devote herself to her fans and her country but every once in a while it breaks her knowing how many people out there want to hurt her, take her against her will, humiliate her, etc. She gives everything and it's still not enough for some people. They want to take more and she can't ignore it. No matter how much she tries. One wrong step and people would descent on her like hungry wolves.
🟡🟣 Moira: Her confidence is unwavering but sometimes even she has to admit she might have gone too far. It's not uncommon for her to wake upon the middle of the night in a cold sweat, struggling to breathe, dizzy and sickly pale. The throbbing pain in her arm threatening to overtake her. She did this to herself yet in the wee hours of the morning, alone in the darkness. She can't help feeling like a victim. The pain is unimaginable and while she has learned to manage it with painkillers and injections to slow the spread, it's still there, it's still happening. Her own brilliant work eating away at her flesh. Sometimes it makes her so sick she can barley move, too dizzy to stand and too nauseous to eat. In those moments, despite herself and her ego, Moira wonders if she will be able to save herself after all. For all her plans, theories and experiments, she is still withering away, painfully. In those few, rare moments of weakness she wonders if she will be another victim of her own ambition.
