#maybe i just need to be cartoonishly chained down to sleep

[frightfulmouse]

Got that wedge pillow but my shoulder/back is apparently just determined to commit suicide bc after a couple weeks of me going “hm, maybe my problems are solved!!” my body figured out out how fuck shit up anyway and I woke up at 3am once again to have to ice my stupid back

[dukemassetti]

@evcravens​ said: u know... Wildcard babey just remember you did this to yourself...................

Orion is 25 years old and thinks he’s a golden fucking god. Maybe he is. He hasn’t slept a night alone since he moved to Paris, and the most work he has to do is a few meetings and lessons before setting up somewhere and drawing, painting, hell, even sculpting. In a city like this, none of it seems odd; even the chain smoking fits. He’s enjoying that now, window open to the breeze and two people having shuffled out not five minutes previous, when a knock sounds so loudly on the door that it could be la police. 

He stamps the cigarette out in the ashtray on the sill and moves, not with any urgency despite the pounding starting again. Robe, robe, where is — ah, yes, he pulls the blue silk over his shoulders and knots it well enough to be decent. Running a hand through his hair, still wet from the shower, he sighs and considers that’s the best the stronzo outside will get. Split level penthouses just can’t offer the same security as one level and your own security key in the elevator.

He takes a moment to roll his eyes at the lack of a peephole on the door before he opens it, wide enough to stand there, blinking, at the confusion before him. He opens his mouth to say something, because what, but Everett Craven, young CEO extraordinaire and 30 under 30 media darling, beats him to the punch. ❝ Would you please — ❞ he starts in frustrated Italian before remembering where he is and course correcting. Should Orion tell him he is Italian? Maybe, but it’s funnier to watch him struggle through nascent French. ❝ You stop. ❞ He finally manages to get out. Orion raises a brow.

❝ That’s the best you’ve got ? ❞ he asks in rapid French, shaking his head. ❝ Abysmal, ❞ he continues in Italian. ❝ Seriously, if I were Parisian I’d have you thrown out for that. Of the country, I mean. ❞ 

Craven stands befuddled for a moment, as if the thought of another man in Paris speaking Italian was simply unheard of. Orion takes the moment to study him. He’s remarkably dull, upon first glance, apart from his tie being slightly eschew. It’s largely not even visible beneath the tan sweater-vest, and the crisp white shirt rolled up to the elbows is the only other indication that he ever unwinds at all. Finally he gets his voice back in working order.

❝ Well, ❞ he says, like the word is too common for his mouth, or perhaps it’s been poisoned, ❝ Well. This should be easy, then. ❞ Craven clears his throat at the exact time that Orion’s robe falls a little off his shoulder. He doesn’t straighten it; he can feel it’s covering everything else fairly well, and he enjoys watching this new toy squirm a little. ❝ I need you to keep it down. You’ve interrupted three conference calls, and I only got in two days ago. ❞ 

Orion waits for a follow-up, but none come. ❝ You’re the neighbor, ❞ he states, not a hint of a question in his voice.

❝ Yes, and I’d appreciate a quiet night. ❞

That gets a smirk. ❝ You would ? You see, I’ve been appreciating — ❞       

Everett holds up a hand, but his eyes say he’s uncomfortable, not demanding. Orion grins. ❝ I don’t want to hear it. Just, once ? I’m about to take a call from America tomorrow. Surely you can wait it out one night. ❞ 

Now he’s leaning against the door-frame, amused. Can he make this uptight ridiculous man say stop fucking so loudly every night? Unclear, but he’s certainly going to try. ❝ Wait out what ? ❞ he asks, tilting his head. ❝ I’m certain I can deduce your meaning, but you really haven’t been clear... ❞ He waits, watching the muscles in Craven’s jaw tighten. He looks better in person. There’s a magnetism that just isn’t there in the photo shoots he’s had done since his father stepped down as CEO. He watches him swallow hard, clearly not sure what to do with someone so comfortably outside Craven’s boundaries.

❝ Whatever... dalliances you have lined up, just stop them for a night. I assume I can’t bribe you into it, considering your living situation, but — ❞

❝ You can bribe me, Craven. ❞ He almost jumps at the sound of his own name, which makes Orion laugh outright. ❝ My name’s Orion. Obviously, I know yours, with all the magazines and that. Now... for the bribe. ❞ He rakes his eyes over Craven’s lanky frame one more time. It has promise. He can’t really tell what’s going on with this many layers, though. ❝ Take off the vest. ❞

❝ What ? ❞ The outright offense in his tone makes Orion smile harder.

❝ Lose the sweater and I won’t have any ‘dalliances’ tomorrow night, ❞ he promises, using air quotes to really seal the deal. Craven has lost that boss-man presence rather quickly, and now looks quite intimidated, though he tries to recover.

Spluttering, he stands up a little too straight, narrowing his eyes at Orion. ❝ That’s it ? Just take it off, here, in the middle of the hall ? ❞

He’s reacting like Orion asked him to bare his ankles in Victorian England. One brow raised, he opens the door a little further. ❝ Unless you’d like to come inside and do so, which is on the table. ❞

Everett Craven whips the sweater vest over his head like he’s about to use it to put out a house-fire. Orion well and truly cackles, watching the flush spread down his cheeks and under the collar of his shirt. ❝ You are a lunatic, ❞ he hisses, arms still partially in the vest. A for effort, though. 

He takes a moment to evaluate Craven’s shoulders — broader than he would’ve guessed, narrower than his own — before relenting. ❝ Alright, alright, ❞ he says, shaking with laughter against the doorframe, ❝ Go, I swear, I’ll be quiet as a mouse. ❞ He mimes turning a key in his mouth, and he’s still laughing when Craven shuts the door to his own half of the penthouse, nearly half a minute before Orion remembers to go back inside.

Everett really should know better by now, Orion thinks to himself as a familiar knock sounds. They’ve played this game for weeks, and over the course of those, he’s managed to learn a thing or thirty about his snobbish neighbor. He always wears matching socks, for one; Orion made him take off his shoes the second time he came to request his silence, and the vest. They’ve established a pattern of sorts. Everett probably is trying to figure out whether or not it’s extortion, but Orion knows he’s in the clear. Everett doesn’t have to keep showing up barefoot, asking for silence. He could simply deal with the embarrassment of listening to Orion bringing someone to orgasm, or hearing the dull thud of the headboard in the background. 

He’s repressed, that much is clear. Otherwise he’d simply tell his fellow cronies, half of whom probably have some teenager sucking their cock under the desk, that he had an annoying neighbor. As it stands, Everett would rather die, it seems. When did he start calling him by his first name?

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter. His fellowship is ending soon, just as Everett’s business trip. It’s strange, how close their schedules align. All of this runs through his head as he makes his way to the door, lackadaisical now because this time, he’s just fucking with Everett. He opens the door with safety glasses on, and he swears that Everett’s eyes bug cartoonishly out of his skull.

❝ What on earth could you possibly be doing at an hour like this ? ❞ It’s 3 in the morning. Orion debates on telling Everett that 3 in the morning is an acceptable time to have sex before deciding to pick his battles.

Instead, he opens the door wide, and Everett seems to realize he’s fully dressed for the first time.  He follows a little warily, but Orion doesn’t pay it any mind, barefoot in jeans and a henley that are now covered in dust. ❝ Wasn’t sleeping, ❞ he says, which isn’t the same as being unable to sleep, but Craven doesn’t have to know that if his assumptions suggest otherwise. ❝ Thought I’d try my hand at this one more time. ❞ He’s got a hammer and a chisel laid out on the work bench, the overhead light illuminating a statue in the center of the open room. It’s a fawn, half-emerging from the stone, wide-eyed and with a hint of wisdom in its eyes. 

Everett slides his hands into his pockets. Orion knows he’s kept weird hours due to all his calls, so he’s not surprised to note that he’s fully dressed, not a hint of pajama pants in sight. He sighs, but Everett isn’t paying him attention any longer. He’s walking around the sculpture with something like awe in his eyes.

That’s not good. It’s actually bad for him, and Orion takes it in decadently, relishing in every tiny detail of his expression. ❝ You did all of this ? ❞ Everett asks. He’s mentioned he was an artist before, but someone who views Orion as he does probably thought he made a bunch of nude portraits or something. Orion shrugs.

❝ Sculpture isn’t my thing, but it kind of reminds me of you. ❞ He’s unabashed in his compliments, uncaring of whether he comes across as weird or overly invested. Orion’s feelings are always right there for you to see, if you’re looking hard enough. Right now, it feels like Everett’s looking.

They stand there, staring at each other, Orion waiting for Everett to respond. It takes a minute or so, looking from Orion back to the sculpture again and moving around it. ❝ I’d at least consider myself a stag, ❞ he says, that dry, acerbic humor of his coming out with a faint bite. Orion laughs.

❝ If anyone’s the stag, it’s me, ❞ he argues, ❝ But that probably gets a little Electra complex. Try not to think about it so hard. ❞

There’s a moment of stunned silence before Everett Craven laughs. It’s astonishing in that he hasn’t ever heard it before, and he feels a bit proud, to have earned it after so long waiting. He shakes his head, and looks at Orion with cheeks stained red again. Orion himself hasn’t blushed in years. It’s more charming than it aught to be.

❝ Were you really... having sex, every night I came ? ❞ It seems like he’s been working up to the question for a while. 

Orion shrugs. ❝ Yeah. That bother you ? ❞

Now it’s Everett’s turn to gesture noncommittally. ❝ Not as much as it did. Do you ever lie ? You can be so... ❞

❝ Nope. ❞ Orion pops the ‘p’ and grins. ❝ You gonna admit my art is impressive yet ? ❞

❝ Working on it, ❞ Everett says, falling right back into that dryness now that the hint of sincerity has passed. ❝ Maybe not now that you’ve said it for me. ❞

❝ I’ll make you a deal, ❞ Orion offers, stepping closer. The statue casts weird shadows on the room, and on Everett’s face. It’s only up close that he sees it properly. They’re the exact same height, which makes eye contact uncomfortably intimate somehow, but he keeps it.

❝ Alright. What’s the deal ? ❞

❝ Either you dissect my work in detail... ❞ Orion reaches out, thumb tracing that impossible cheekbone he’s been staring at for almost a month. ❝ Either that, or you give me a kiss. ❞

In spite of how far he’s come, the offer still gets a rise out of Everett. ❝ A — a what ? ❞

❝ A kiss. You know, you and another person, you push your lips together, sounds a lot less appealing than it feels — ❞

❝ I’ve been kissed before, ❞ Everett snaps, and Orion can’t help laughing, because it sounds so much like it’s been inflicted upon him. 

He shakes his head, noting that Everett hasn’t pushed his hand away from his face, though now he’s only gently holding onto him. ❝ Well it’s either a kiss or an in-depth art critique in the next ten minutes, ❞ he says, grinning. ❝ What’s it going to be ? ❞

Everett looks at him as though he’s insane. Then he looks irritated, before it crosses into fond, and then again into a blend of the two. ❝ You’re ridiculous. You aren’t even a real human being, I’m convinced — ❞

❝ Choose, Craven. ❞ 

❝ — some villain. You’re kind of insufferable, a menace to society, really — ❞

❝ And ? ❞         

They stand looking at each other for a moment before Everett grasps Orion’s wrist, still near his face. Even his ears are red, now. ❝ And I — I will take a kiss. ❞

Orion is moving before he finishes the sentence, shutting him up as quickly and efficiently as possible. Everett misses three calls the next morning, but a strange man claiming to be his assistant calls each to apologize personally. Something in the tone of his voice suggests neither him nor his employer are all that sorry.                    

[solarbird]

The Armourer and the Living Weapon, Chapter 4: I miss you so much, but I am afraid

This chapter is worksafe. But I will repeat the CW: this story, as a whole, is going to be be pretty fucked up. Yes, more so than the chapter that needed a cut for violence. You have been reminded.

[AO3 link]

"That's her, then?"

"Her, now, yes," Widowmaker replied to Tracer, as the video from her security cameras rolled. "She ... looks much the same, really, other than her colouring." She tilted her head, and smiled. "So beautiful," she whispered, hands raised in front of her mouth. And beautifully done, love. Oh, you must be so happy.

"She gonna get anything from that laptop?"

The assassin snorted. "No. I bricked it before 'defecting' - the login screen appears to work, and network probes will show an apparently functional system, but in reality there's nothing there to be found."

"Nice. Useless and delaying," said the Overwatch agent.

"Thank you."

"You really should come in," said Winston, over comms. He'd also been watching the video, a mix of worried and impressed. "We can provide a lot more protection here, at Gibraltar."

"She's fast," said Tracer. "But not as fast as me. I can take 'er."

"Do not underestimate her," said the assassin. "She is still feeling her way into herself. I am... concerned, given what I see here."

Lena turned to her lover. "Should we go in, then? It'd be safer, that's for sure."

"If it is an option, I... I think so. I want to contact her - I think I can still reach her - but I want to do it on my terms, not hers." She reached towards the display, unconsciously, touching it. I miss you so much, but I am afraid...

Winston blanched. "The offer wasn't for..." He frowned. "No. I won't do that. I'll talk the others into accepting it, one way or another. The offer is to you both. Lena, should I send an Orca?"

"Nah, I've got my flyer. I can get us there on my own." She leaned over towards the padd's camera. "I know it's gonna be a fight, so - thanks, luv. You're the best."

Widowmaker kept watching the footage as the two Overwatch agents talked, wishing she had audio, as Emily looked up, out of the corner of her eye, noticing, at last, the camera that had witnessed her exhibition. She gave it a discerning look, smiled, chained up to it, and blew a kiss, mouthing, "I love you. See you soon."

-----

"No, she wasn't there," Oilliphéist said, sadness in her voice. "Not in weeks, I don't think."

Moira nodded across visual comms. "I am entirely unsurprised, but we had to check."

"I ran into Sven, though! It was so nice to see him again. But he was leading a strike team, and they attacked me so I killed them all. He apologised, before he died, and it was so sweet. I told him not to worry - we'd bring Widowmaker home."

The doctor nodded, looking a little concerned. "Did you dispose of the bodies?"

"Oh, absolutely. I swept the entire building clean. I even dusted!" It wouldn't do to leave a mess in Widow's house, after all.

"Did he say anything more?"

"Just that they were hoping to beat anyone else to her."

Moira nodded. "Yes - Akande changed his mind about that once a particular someone found out about you. You're certain you got them all?"

"Oh, yes - it was great fun, you'd have loved to see it. And once I catch up to Widowmaker, maybe you might - I found a couple of active cameras, and I'm pretty sure they were hers."

"Good. Hopefully, I will - I'd've liked to monitor your first real field performance for analysis purposes." She steepled her hands together. "How do you feel?"

"Wonderful," she said, bliss warming her voice. "Everything is so perfect."

"Thank you. Now, if you'd kindly move on to London - Oxton will appear there sooner or later, and I don't see any reason you can't set up a welcome home party. But lay low until then, do you understand?"

"Awwww," said the killing machine, "do I have to?"

"Yes, but don't worry, if my intelligence teams get a definite location on either of them, you'll be the first to know."

Oilliphéist smiled. "You're so good to me."

"Yes," said the Oasis Minister of Genetics. "I am."

-----

Lena landed her personal flyer outside the Overwatch facility's main entry door, the large one, next to the guidance tower. Over comms, Athena chirped, "Welcome back to Watchpoint Gibraltar, Lena Oxton. Winston is waiting for you inside. Widowmaker, it is required that you leave your rifle in the flyer."

"No," said the Talon assassin, flatly. "Under no circumstances."

"I assure you it will go untouched, and that this facility is quite secure."

Lena broke in. "She can't, Athena, it's part of her. Winston, you there?"

"Hi, Lena. Yes, I am. There has to be a way to do this - her being disarmed on base is the price for sanctuary."

Widowmaker shook her head, and repeated, firmly, "No," while thinking, This may have been a mistake.

"Widow," said Lena, "you've let go of her before, a lot of times. I've seen you. You don't sleep with her. I mean... I know."

"Of course," she smirked. "But she's always in reach."

"Would..." The teleporter's brow furrowed. "...would you trust me to hold her for you?"

"You do not know what you are asking," said the Talon assassin.

"I... I think I might."

The assassin breathed in sharply, surprised, a little shaken despite herself. "And you are asking intentionally?"

"I am," she nodded, looking into the spider's eyes. Not looking away, she continued, "Winston, would that do? Will the team accept it? If not, we... should just leave now."

The blue woman contemplated the offer, hard, diving into racing thoughts, weighing the options, taking a long, deep breath... and found, to her surprise, when she resurfaced, that she was already offering Lena Oxton the Kiss.

Lena nodded solemnly, taking the extension of her lover's self gently into her arms. "Are there... correct ways to handle her?"

"No," whispered the assassin. "Just... just care. And trust."

"May I use her strap, to put her over my shoulder?"

"Of course."

"Thank you," Lena said, gently. She shifted the rifle onto her back with gentleness, letting her lay against the side of her accelerator. She was surprisingly light, and felt unexpectedly comfortable resting there, on her back. "I have the Kiss, Winston." She felt a little like crying, while smiling - a strange feeling, but a good one. "Widowmaker is unarmed. So... how 'bout it?"

Five tense minutes passed before the comms board lit up with Winston's voice. "It was an argument, but... good enough, for now."

Lena let out a long hoooo, and offered Widowmaker her hand. "It'll be all right. Nobody else touches her. Nobody." The assassin took her lover's hand in her own, squeezing it, wordlessly.

Together, Widowmaker and Tracer stepped out of the flyer, Widowmaker sticking close by Lena's side, heading towards the base's massive, reinforced primary doors. Entering, they heard Athena's voice over the soft hissing of the door's quiet glide, saying, "Your sanctuary status is confirmed. Welcome to Watchpoint Gibraltar, Danielle Guillard,” and Widowmaker smirked, just a little. Clever, she thought. But now I know you know.

Lena blinked, eyes adjusting to the lower light. “Winston? You in here?”

“I am,” he said, meeting them as they rounded the corner. “Conference room A, please. Follow me.”

The three agents maintained a tense silence as they made their way up the stairs and down the short hallway and to the door. “After you,” said the scientist, opening the door. Lena smiled, a bit determinedly, and nodded to the assembled Overwatch agents, who smiled at her, and did not smile at her spider.

"Where's Ana?" Lena asked, while sitting down, just to get it out of the way. It was, after all, the largest elephant of several in the room.

"On her way back to Egypt," Angela replied, from her position at the table. "She was vehemently opposed to this, and, well..."

"Fareeha too?" Lena asked, just before the rocketeer burst in, and kissed Angela on the head.

"Sorry for the late," said the flying agent, before she noticed Widowmaker's rifle on Tracer's back, and Widowmaker herself, unarmed, next to her. She shuddered a little. "That is a very strange sight."

Lena snickered, just a little. "Yeh, I bet. She's not heavy, tho'. Hardly know she's there, and me havin' her seems to keep everyone happy enough."

"I cannot tell if you're talking about the rifle or the assassin," Genji added.

"Both?" hoped Lena. Widowmaker glared a little, but also smiled a little, and it was hard to tell which carried more weight.

"Happy enough," interjected Jack Morrison, "for now." He shook his head. "So. This new operative. Do we have a codename for her, or is it just... Emily?"

"Just Emily, so far."

"Knowing O'Deorain," muttered Angela, "it will be something dramatic, and almost cartoonishly Irish."

Widowmaker glanced at the Overwatch doctor and laughed a little, a mix of surprise and actual agreement, covering her mouth with her hands to keep it from becoming a giggle. Lena laughed, too, but everyone else in the room just stared at the legendary assassin in shock.

"You can laugh?" asked Mei-Ling, first to recover.

"She's pretty funny once you get her goin'," chirped Lena. "You'd be surprised!"

"Yes!" said Mei. "I would!"

Widowmaker reverted to her cool, aloof public self before admitting, "The doctor is... entirely correct. It will be both. I suspect it is why she was not permitted to name me. But if she has a free hand, it will be exactly as Dr. Ziegler suggests." She smirked at at the Overwatch medical lead. "Did you work with her in Blackwatch, Angela? Or is this knowledge of her habits more recent?"

"A bit of both," replied the doctor, carefully. "We shared data on a few projects, until I discovered her complete disinterest in ethical standards. And with her position as genetics secretary in Oasis, I cannot completely avoid her even now - not even knowing her Talon connections." She peered at the Talon defector. "But... do you remember me... Danielle?"

The assassin considered the question. "The correct way to put it would be that I have access to memories of you, even if they are not mine, and I do not process them as such."

"Compartmentalisation or complete dissociation?"

"I am not a psychologist. But... I believe the latter would be the more correct... term? Phrase?" She tilted her head, a small frown on her face. "I am surprised you accept this so readily. You haven't even hinted about trying to undo me, to put Amélie back together."

"I knew Amélie well," the medical doctor said, old ache surfacing just a bit into her voice. "And... I have some idea of what they did, physically. She is gone, and, facial features aside, you are nothing like her."

"Thank you," said the sniper, dismissing the smallest of doubts and the tiniest of disappointments from her mind, for now.

"You're welcome," said the doctor. "Let's move on from this painful topic, shall we?."

"Yes," agreed Winston. "We have given you sanctuary. Are you willing to give us intelligence on Talon?"

"If you..." she scowled, and started over. "If we can deal in a satisfactory way with our situation with Emily - meaning that the three of us are safe and alive - and if Overwatch is part of that... I will be willing to provide as much information as I have about Talon to you."

The scientist gorilla nodded, as Morrison jumped in. "A little sweetener wouldn't hurt. How can we know what they bothered telling you? How much of that is even real?"

"A fair critique, that this will answer." She picked up a notepad from the table, and a pen, and wrote down four names, four intelligence groups, and a series of numbers. "These are the top Talon moles in MI5, MI6, Interpol, and the DGSE. I have worked directly with each of them in the past; they report to Akande's personal intelligence director. The numbers are the routing codes through which they receive their payoffs." She slid the notepad across the table. "You're welcome."

Hana Song leaned in, and looked at the names. "Woah, that's - you came prepared!"

"I did."

"How'd they piss you off?" asked Morrison. "What'd they do?"

Widowmaker raised a single eyebrow. "I did not realise you were so insightful."

"Well?"

The assassin smirked. "One was sloppy on an assignment and will probably be discovered soon on her own. One has held a grudge against me since I broke his hand for putting it on my body without my permission; he is not smart enough to realise he was very lucky I did not kill him at the time. The third booked me in the worst hotel in Amsterdam for an assignment and I had to burn my luggage. The fourth..." she shook her head. "Who carries around tubs of butter and salt in their pockets to eat as a snack? It is grotesque, and he needs to die."

"Really?! " said Lucio, over comms, from Brazil. "Just... straight butter?"

"With added salt. From his pocket."

"That's just weird."

"Be happy you have not even been burdened with the smell. Death is the only correct response."

Morrison flinched visibly, and, after a moment, said, "...I can't argue with that as much as I should." He blew out a breath, cheeks puffed, putting the imagined odour out of his mind. "If these check out..."

"They will."

"...then this will already have been worth it, as far as I'm concerned."

"Try not to implicate me in their extraction," said the assassin. "They are by no means the only Talon agents in European intelligence." The 'and I have the names of more' was left implied.

The soldier nodded. "I know."