An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“I want to have with Amélie what you and Reinhardt have.”
Ana had been fumbling around in her deerskin handbag for her keys when he said those words. Even at seven in the morning, it was pitch dark out, and underneath the light of the street lanterns the fog was thick, palpable almost. His breath came out in visible puffs. She glanced at him from her peripheral, half of her arm swallowed up by her bag.
He’d scraped his throat then, embarrassed, and took out his pack of cigarettes, flicked open the lid and pulled one out.
“Long-distance relationships aren’t all that,” Ana teased back, watching how he struggled to light his cigarette. She finally managed to snatch her keys up from somewhere deep down her deerskin bag and unlocks her car with the press of a button. The taillights flared up in the darkness. The bright red gleam shimmered onwards in the morning mist. Gabe rolled his eyes and took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, tilted his head backwards and blew the wisp of smoke towards the dark sky.
Let me see you
Stripped down to the bone
Let me see you
Stripped down to the bone
Metropolis
Has nothing on this
You're breathing in fumes
I taste when we kiss
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
He glances at the open doorway before opening the snap, more out of habit than any actual concern that Amélie sent him something raunchy or that Ana might walk into the guestroom. The sound of the doorbell echoes onwards faintly from downstairs. Gabe faintly registers the noise, standing slightly hunched in front of the settee, eyes glued to the screen of his phone, sunlight fanning out around the outline of his body as if it’s desperately grasping for something.
Fuck, the curse escapes him in an exhale and becomes something tangible in the quiet of the room, you’re just too much, Amélie.
Even in just a simple sport shirt, Amélie manages to look effortlessly beautiful. Her hair is pulled up in a high ponytail – to keep it out of her neck during running, no doubt – but cascades over her shoulder as she tilts her head cheekily, flashing him a playful smirk. What really catches his attention however, is the look in her eyes.
It’s like an interlude to Amélie skimming her tongue over her lower lip and putting a hand on his chest, grabbing a hold of his shirt before pulling him close, closer still, until their mouths are but a breath’s space apart.
Something short I drabbled on the widowreaper discord some time ago when it was confirmed that Reaper’s part of Talon’s leadership. Put two and two together and you might come to the conclusion that Reaper’s behind Widowmaker’s brainwashing. What a nice what-if to explore really.
5 times Gabriel spoke to Amélie, and one time she replied.
1
Gabriel watches her saunter over to them, still holding the bouquet of lilies the presentator gave her after the performance. Her cheeks are rosy and her hair's down now, done away with the tight dot from earlier. Amélie Lacroix looks beautiful, even slightly out of breath, and after she's said hello to Gérard in soft-spoken French, she turns to him. And he's a bit taken aback by how naturally tall and slender she is. Even in her slightly-worn, white ballet slippers, Amélie stands proud, eye-level with his nose.
"Hey," Gabe greets, holding out his hand. "I was really looking forward to your performance and you killed it. You were great."
2
Reaper towers over her, casting a shadow along the white tiles of the interrogation room. Amélie looks up at him, teary-eyed but resolute, biting her teeth broken in silence. There's a big bruise blooming purple on her right cheek. He takes a step forwards, the sound of his boots deafening in the small space.
"God made man in his image," he mutters dryly, as Amélie cowers, scrambling towards the corner of the room.
He looks down on her, the light reflecting off his bone-white mask, and continues, "But he created from nothing and I have something--well, someone to work with. Don't I?
3
She's past the breaking point, halfway between who she was and who they want her to be.
When Reaper enters the interrogation room, she flinches but doesn't jolt out of her chair anymore, in anger or in panic. It took him nearly two weeks to accomplish something that’s normally a process of months. Reaper reckons he has seen sides of Amélie Gérard has never considered, never even wanted too.
He carefully puts the plate down on the table. Her eyes gleam wetly in the fluorescent lights when she looks straight into the sockets of his mask.
"It's pretty good," Reaper says, motioning to the food. "Trust me."
4
Before Widowmaker's brought in for debrief, Reaper takes her aside. Her body doesn't show any signs of emotional trauma, her face is blank, expressionless aside from the arch of an eyebrow.
Reaper wonders what she will look like after the biomedical engineers have gotten their grubby hands on her.
"Welcome home," he says, a tad too wry, a tad too... expressionate; and he clenches his hands into fists when he’s realized his mistake, gloves crinkling loudly, claws pricking into the leather.
Widowmaker regards him for a split-second, not knowing what to make of his words, before giving a curt nod in return.
5
Gabriel Reyes looks at Widowmaker for the first time without a mask and expects... violence.
But she doesn't react, merely assesses him and closes the distance between their bodies. Her eyes are unnaturally bright, even in the dark.
For a brief moment, Gabe considers turning away from her and all this tension and chemistry that’s built up between them. From fuck-ups to successes with blood and murder and gunpowder in between.
He thought he helped build a weapon but Widowmaker's turned out to be so much more.
"I'm sorry," Gabe croaks, the apology slipped out in the space between them before he fully knew what he was saying.
+ 1
Widowmaker laughs in that haughty, chilling way she has and puts her hands on his broad shoulders. As if she couldn’t think of one reason why she should suddenly start to care.
Her face is dangerously close to his when she replies, "I'm not."
And a knife between his ribs would've been kinder than the searing kiss she gave him.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
It’s the funniest thing Gabe’s seen in days and he barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Let me rephrase that,” he says. “You’re the only one getting off tonight. Not me.”
Outside, the evening sky darkens overhead, the setting sun somewhere behind the skyline gives the cityscape a whitish lining and the light that streaks through the buildings, falls on the flowerheads of his potted geranium. Amélie blinks slowly and meets his eyes with hers, folding her hands in her lap, and he notices her mouth’s slightly agape.
She accidentally bumps the tip of her pump against the coffee table.
There’s a touch of nervous excitement to her voice that brings out her accent even more. “You’ve got an interesting approach to the concept discipline, Gabriel,” she says while drumming her fingertips into the meat of her thighs. “It sounds a bit like punishment.”
“Do you remember the rules?” He asks then, choosing not to comment on her remark, toying the tip of his tongue against the back of his teeth.
guns, venom mines, transmutation, seduction, intimidation, etc, etc.
ao3 | day1 | series
.
Widowmaker stirs on the sofa, softly, and slowly blinks her eyes open; the room’s discolored in the glow of the dying sun, the reddish light cascading through the large windows behind her. She settles upright, kicking a couple of pillows off the couch, and hauls a hand through her long, loose hair.
“You’re up… finally,” Reaper says, coming into the sitting area of their hotel suite in full gear.
He walks over to the circular table and unceremoniously plops down in the armchair, starts removing his heavy boots when she shifts into a sitting position, sleepy-eyed still, and massages the spot between her brows. She stretches her arms over her head and rolls her neck, gazing absentmindedly at the bouquet of yellow flowers on the table. One of the open windows in the bedroom thuds shut loudly, probably from the wind.
“EPFCG’s are in position,” Reaper informs her as he takes off his right gauntlet. “Sombra’s working to overload the broadband network. Get ready.”
Widowmaker gets up, maneuvers past the low pouf that’s wedged between the coffee table and the television set, and goes to the walk-in closet. It’s empty aside from a couple of fluffy bathrobes and the disguises Talon selected for them when they checked in. She kneels and drags a blue, hard-cover suitcase from underneath the shoe shelf, enters the number combination, zips it open and takes out her bodysuit. Her helmet’s hidden in a polka-dotted hat case, her boots and the Widow’s Kiss in another trunk.
Her eyebrows furrow together when she finds that trunk empty of her rifle.
Widowmaker hears his padded footsteps on the floorboards – he’s probably in his socks – and turns towards the open doorway of the walk-in closet when he leans against the frame.
Sunlight cuts red along the contours of his body; Reaper’s stripped down to his undersuit, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted to the side, towards the row of windows lined above the king-sized bed. She slings her bodysuit over her shoulder, gathers her helmet and boots in her arms and nudges past him. When she’s put everything on the console table in front of the bed, she tugs the shirt she was sleeping in over her head.
He moves to catch the shirt she throws at him, one-handedly, gives it a once-over, and asks, “Is this one of mine?”
“Where’s my sniper rifle?” Widowmaker counters his question with one of her own, and unbothered with her current state of undress, settles down on the foot-end of the bed, reaching for her pouch with hair elastics.
“Pillows,” Reaper replies curtly before ducking into the walk-in closet, disappearing from her sight, as she does her hair in a high ponytail. She raises an eyebrow at the four pillows propped against the headboard – lumpy and so obviously hiding something – and then stares off the side: at the two shelves that serve as a nightstand, the pink peonies in the glass vase, the nightlight, the white shutters that are folded open, the twilight sky outside offset by the brightly-lit Taipei 101.
She’s pulling the leggings of her bodysuit up her calves when Reaper returns, changed in a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants.
His face’s disintegrating, sallow skin flaking loose along the hinge of his jaw and cheekbones. He stands next to her and helps her put on her uniform; adjusts the dark-colored trim around her hips, zips up her boots and presses his thumbs flatly along the light blue lining of her deep décolletage to make sure the tape sticks to her skin. Her breath hitches lightly when his hands brush over the camber of her breasts, but he doesn’t notice and she’s not going to draw attention to it either.
“I cleaned your gun,” Reaper says gruffly, pushing his thumbs down softly on her collarbones. She remains stone-faced at the admission, trying to ignore his body heat from this close-by. “Attached a muzzle brake so we don’t get any room service.”
“I could’ve done that myself,” she responds matter-of-fact, moving away from him to put on her helmet.
He makes a beeline for the nightstand at the other side of the bed, explaining, “Recon wore you out worse than the flight. So, I figured there was no harm in letting you sleep a couple of hours more.” Picks up the remote for the stereo installation and studies the buttons. His eyes glint red, like the visors of her helmet – man-made, inorganic, machine-like – and he turns to the speaker in the upper right corner of the room, showing off exposed parts of his cranium, skin and shadow shrouding around his head.
“You must really like me,” Widowmaker quips, adjusting the helmet atop her head – the weight a comfort – and fastening the clasps over her cheekbones.
Reaper scoffs, but doesn’t offer any rebuttal, pointing the remote control at the speaker and pressing down on the ‘play’ button until the light flickers green. He skips through the selection on the holographic screen that’s projected in front of him, while she opens the window – noise from down below filling the silence of the room – and props herself on the broad stone sill behind the headboard.
Glancing through her scope, she has a clear shot at the platform, decorated with blue balloons and flowers. Talon made a good choice with this hotel suite.
Guitar music, underscored by simple handclaps, drowned out the white noise from outside. It was an old song, Widowmaker knew somehow from the arrangement and the vulnerable voice of the singer, but how old she couldn’t say for sure. She hadn’t expected Reaper to pick music this mellow to suppress the sound of her gunshot.
She doesn’t comment and buckles the straps of her gauntlet, but her expression must’ve given away her surprise somehow, because Reaper speaks up again, clarifies: “It’s the only American album on the list that isn’t complete shit.” – anything you want, you got it. anything you need, you got it. anything at all, you got it, the singer croons on the track, echoed by backing vocals, baby... –
“I didn’t ask, mon chèr,” Widowmaker responds with a switchblade smile, shifting so she sits cross-legged in front of the open window.
Reaper grunts, puts the remote control back and grabs the bottle of water from the nightstand. He settles down against the headboard and reaches for the tail-end of her ponytail, rubs a few split-ends between his fingertips. She knows he’s thinking of giving her a haircut soon. It’s getting cooler in the room and the white shutters rattle from the draft. She tilts her head to the right, propping the stock of the Widow’s Kiss against her shoulder and getting into position to snipe.
“Ceremony starts in five, main target gets on stage somewhere in the next fifteen to twenty minutes…” He pauses to take a big gulp of water and ah’s. “Power goes out. Communication’s dead. You take the shot.”
“Very well,” Widowmaker acknowledges, waiting to activate the visors in her helmet until the right time.
“Sombra will be waiting in the bus stop at the entrance of the hotel for you,” he mutters gruffly, takes another sip of water. “You’ll head off to the second target together while I take care of things here. Pack. Check-out… Anything you want to keep?” There’s a snide edge to his voice when he asks her.
“I liked the hat case.” Her statement is punctuated by a wry chuckle. They both know Talon doesn’t allow her any personal possessions, aside from her equipment, aside from her gun.
Widowmaker doesn’t know what importance this information has for him, because it isn’t the first time he’s sneaked in a question like this. She caught him mending tears in one of her bodysuits after a mission before too and blew it off as one of his many idiosyncrasies, something to keep his ever-shifting hands busy. Her finger reflexively caresses the trigger of her sniper rifle, cleaned thoroughly, and it dawns on her that she hasn’t even checked her ammunition yet.
She trusts him, the realization hits her hard, with her equipment, with her rifle, with her weapon of a body.
Suddenly her words – you must really like me – didn’t sound so funny anymore.
