#aleksandra... start praying

[aza-writes]

The Last Christmas

A Blood Red One-Shot

A/N: This was supposed to be out on Christmas but some family stuff came up and I was unable to finish/post it until now. I hope you all enjoy! This is only part one of this little blurb. I was going to write four Christmases but the next three would be spoilers for the main books. I'll write more chapters as those parts come out!

Requested : No

WARNINGS: mentions of mental, physical, and emotional abuse, sex, blood, and violence

Aleksandra's POV

Russia : 2005

"Папа, проснись, проснись! дедушка мороз пришел!" ("papa, wake up! grandpa frost came!")

The excitement from my voice is crystal clear to anyone who is listening. Today was Christmas, the one day of the year I get to rest. I get to push my training back a few hours and eat some cookies. I jump up and down on my parent's bed, hoping they wake up so I can open my presents. 

I continue to jump on my father's side of the bed, hoping and praying that he will wake up soon to celebrate. 

"заткнись перед вами, вредители!(shut up you vermin!)" My mother's voice rings from the bathroom. I turn my head around and get off my parents' bed so I can stand how she taught me to; feet together, back straight, hands held behind me. "Разве ты не видишь, что твой отец всю ночь трахал шлюх с другой комит государственной безопасности? Ты позор ты глупая девушка! (can't you see that your father was out all night fucking the whores with the other komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti (KGB)? You're a disgrace you stupid girl!)" 

I rapidly blink my eyes to avoid crying. If she saw me cry her words will only get worse. "разве тебе нечего сказать тебе неблагодарная сука? (don't you have something to say you ungrateful bitch?)" Her tone is harsher than before if that's even possible. 

I choke back my tears, afraid of her screaming at me any longer. "Я прошу прощения, мама. (I apologize mama.)"  She places her hands on her frail, boney hips and stares into my soul. "Зачем? (For what?)" 

I take a few seconds to remember all the insults she threw at me, not wanting to forget one and become a target for more verbal attacks. "за то, что она глупая, неблагодарная, позорная сука. (for being a stupid, ungrateful, disgraceful bitch.)"

She raises a hand and slaps me twice across my face. "полное предложение! (Full sentence!)" 

I take a deep breath and regain composure as quickly as possible to look my mother in the eyes. "Мама, я прошу прощения за то, что я глупая, неблагодарная, позорная сука. (Mama, I apologize for being a stupid, ungrateful, disgraceful bitch.)"  Mother doesn't even bother to respond to my apology. She does the same thing that she always does whenever I upset her; looks me up and down then turns around to go back into the bathroom. "не утруждайте себя поиском подарков. Ваш подарок - новая обувь на пуантах, которая выкладывается вместе с остальной частью вашей практики. (don't bother looking for presents. Your gift is new pointe shoes that are laid out with the rest of your practice wear.)" 

My eyes start to water with dread. "Нет подарков? (No presents?)" I don't understand, I've been good all year. Mother and father get me a present then grandpa frost gives me one as well. What did I do wrong?

As if my mother read my thoughts, her response is perfectly tailored. "Хорошие дет�� обеспечивают свои семьи, все, что вы делаете, это вызываете разочарование и хаос. (good children provide for their families, all you do is cause frustration and chaos.)" 

My eyes continue to water as I watch my mother continue to get ready for the day. She pats on her makeup to look like she's a glass doll that's come to life. Thin eyebrows are drawn on with a dark brown pen; lipstick that is so round that her lips look like a circle except for the heart-shaped bumps at the top; wide, white eyeliner on her water line that she draws on with a melted white crayon that used to belong to me; She smears on pink and purple eye shadow to mimic a look she used to do when she would perform at the Mariinsky Theater; and of course, she cannot forget the power that she taps all over her face where makeup isn't already sitting. 

None of the other mothers wear their makeup like that. Not a single one. 

She hums the same song she always does when she puts on makeup like this. 

What do you see? 

You people gazing at me.

You see a doll on a music box that's wound by a key

Doll On a Music Box from the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang: my mother's favorite song that isn't classical, ballet, or Russian. It's the only non-Russian song she allows in the house. 

How can you tell, I'm under a spell, I'm waiting for love's first kiss

Her voice rings throughout the house, echoing like a ghost's moan in an abandoned building. The light and the soft sound of her singing voice are a stark contrast to the tone she was just used to yell at me for trying to wake my father up. 

I slowly sneak out of the room as she continues to sing to herself in the mirror. I carefully walk into the main area of the house and listen to what is going on outside. Neighborhood children are running around with new toboggans, balls, bikes, and other toys. 

"Aleksandra, тебе лучше надеть балетную одежду, когда я выйду туда! "Aleksandra you better have your ballet clothes on when I get out there!)" 

I sniffle quietly before yelling out, "Да мама. (Yes mama.)" 

Taglist:

@simisimpsfordaredevil

all taglists are open

request are closed

[lettersandinkstains]

14 or 22!

14. FOR ONCE, THE UNIVERSE RESPONDS

She asks the stars questions every night, starting from when she was a lonely child -- questioning how they could glimmer and shine so bright. The questions that always spill from her lips in form of passive secrets and silent prayers for any god out there to listen.

Loneliness is one hell of a drug when one grows up alone -- within cold walls of stone and winter that never quite ends. Summer days are short, miserably hot, and then it’s over. She tries to get her adoptive parents’ attention, pleading for them to notice and say something but there’s ever hardly an acknowledgement. Perhaps a pat on a head that used to make her entire week now barely makes her feel better for a few minutes.

So, Aleksandra prays and she prays hard to the stars that glimmer, within the privacy of her own room and no eyes nor ears to listen or watch. Little spies that await for a failure. And the Universe is always quiet -- and she dare believe, for the brief time in her teen years within the prison of stone walls, busy adults, and a budding garden, that perhaps, Sariel does not exist.

She stopped believing entirely when her adoptive parents left one day without saying goodbye, without so much of a second glance or thought to even bring her with and free her from the prisons of frozen bricks and stone. It was that day, at the age of fourteen, Aleksandra had decided the universe was cruel and she was to go about life alone.

Yet, on the day she was called to Lazar’s office and she stares at the unkempt man who has a lazy smirk and seemed to not care what others thought, Aleks wonders if for once, the universe finally answered her prayers.

[puckish-saint]

May I Request Symmetra, Hanzo and D.VA reacting to being told their s/o died when their last interaction was a fight that ended badly? I need the angst

Symmetra

She follows you out of the kitchen anddown to the landing pad, refusing to end this conversation before shehas said her piece.“You always take their side-”“Idon’t - what? You know that’s not true.” You pinch the bridgeof your nose, wishing you could just make up and part in peace.

“Do I? Because whenever we discusssomething I am alone and you … you gang up on me.”

Fareeha meets you at the landing pad,throwing a glance to Satya and back to you, asking without words ifyou have a handle on this. You nod and wave her away, turning aroundto face your girlfriend in the same motion.

“We’re not ganging up on you, butI’m entitled to my own opinions and in this case I think you arewrong about yours.” The aircraft’s engines roar, a not so subtlecue for you to get a move on and leave the relationship troubles athome. She opens her mouth but you cut her off before she can sayanother word. “We can discuss this after I return. Okay? I stilllove you.”Satya doesn’t say it back. She crosses her armsover her chest and turns away, stubbornly refusing to meet your eyesuntil your shoulders drop and you leave.

Twelve hours later she gets told youwon’t return.

She listens to Fareeha’s report,filled with static and barely comprehensible, talking aboutcomplications, superior force, bad luck. She requests backup andLúcio and Mei are out of the door the second Winston gives theorder. For you every help comes too late. Winston offers her time offwork, counseling, a shoulder to cry on. She declines all three, findsherself thinking of the argument, hanging in the air like a noose,unfinished business that makes her skin itch and her eyes burn.

If you hadn’t gone away like thatthis wouldn’t have happened. Fareeha spoke of you being distracted,didn’t want to pass blame to the dead and it wasn’t your faultthat you died, she never said that, but Satya knows she thought itand everyone else in the room did as well.

She can’t shake the irrationalthought you did it on purpose, died to get out of an argument becauseyou knew you were wrong. You left her hanging, a dozen arguments onher tongue she’ll never get to say.

McCree is the first to approach her andoffer his condolences. He’s unkempt and unshaven when he knocks ather door, and the hat pulled down so deep into his eyes she nearlymisses the red rim around his eyes.

“You, ah, wanna talk? Know you didn’texactly part on friendly terms-”“There is no need fordiscussion.” Satya says primly. If she tells him about the argumentyou had he will take your side even if he thinks you’re wrong.You’ve made absolutely certain no one would take her side.

“Y’sound angry.”

She is. Through his meekness she seesyour arrogance, your conviction that you were right and she was wrongand now you’ve done and gotten the last word in.

“I am not.” she lies and forgetsthat even if he acts like a blundering buffoon sometimes, he stillused to be an agent of Blackwatch, trained to detect a lie a hundredmiles away.

“Listen, I know it’s not my place,but it’s happened before and maybe I can help ya deal withthat-”“There is nothing to deal with.” she snaps,pushes him away to leave but he grabs her arm, light enough for herto pull free, hard enough to urge her to stay. Her hair falls intoher face when she says, very quietly: “I was correct. If thatmission hadn’t come I could have proven I was- I …”

Jesse says what has sat at the back ofher mind ever since the news came, when she searched forjustifications, arguments, anything to prove she would have won theargument: “Does it matter who’s right?”

It doesn’t and that’s the hardestlesson to learn.

Hanzo

The argument drags on long into thenight and by the end of it you’re both going to bed angry. He lieswith his back turned to yours, frowning at the wall, too agitated tofall asleep although you don’t seem to have that problem, judgingby your peaceful breathing. Although, to be fair, he would have beenjust as irritated had you been tossing and turning. There’s nothingright to be done or said, not after the shouting match from earlier.Part of him wonders if it’s his fault, if his own stubborn pride isthe cause for this. That’s the part he carries with him into sleepand that sticks with him when he gets up the next morning and seesyour side of the bed empty and cold. Not even a note, and although heknows where you are and when you will return, it stings that there isnothing. No hearts drawn on a note stuck to a plate of breakfastyou’re always leaving him when you can’t eat together. Just thecold, empty side of the bed and McCree’s frantic call on theemergency comm. Ambush, he says, and Hanzo runs like his life dependson it because there’s only one team out there and his life doesdepend on you getting home safely.

The aircraft is being prepped foremergency departure, Jesse shouts orders like he’s done nothingelse, serape fluttering wildly in the gust of engines starting up.Hanzo doesn’t ask to be on the relief team, he simply boards theaircraft and stares at Jesse, just daring him to say a word. Hedoesn’t and shuts the doors behind them.

The aircraft’s in the air less thanthree minutes when communications to your team break off. As hard asshe tries, Satya can’t reestablish the link.

“Try again.” Hanzo orders. Shetells him it’s no use, there’s nothing to link to, and sheflinches when he punches the wall in frustration. She tries againeven though she knows it won’t work and he waits by her side, praysto every god that will listen that he gets one more chance to talk toyou. Just a few seconds, he’s not asking for more. Just the lengthof time it takes to say ‘I’m sorry’.

They land on the site of a massacre.Dozens of dead and wounded, most of them civilians. Between lawenforcement hunting for Overwatch’s vigilantes and the generalchaos it takes four hours to find your remains. Fareeha, who’s ledthe team and is the only one of it still conscious and alive, criesand the sight is more jarring than the blood and destruction aroundhim. He sits by your side, the white sheet covering up your mangledbody, and apologises. Again, and again, whispered assurances thathe’s sorry, that he was stupid to argue, that his points were mootand you were right. He should have listened to you, and he’s sorry.

He repeats it like you’ll come backif he somehow gets you to understand.

He’s still whispering it - I’msorry, please, I’m sorry, I never meant to hurt you - when theothers lead him away. He tells them to let him be, that you won’thear him and then he realises what he said. Fareeha is the one tohold him through his breakdown.

D.Va

You argue over the phone, angry textsriddled with typos and accusations flung back and forth. Neither ofyou will wait until the other has finished their texts but neither doyou want to call and scream at each other over the phone. Ihave to go and do my job, you write, try to act like an adultwhen I’m back.

It’s a low blow, using her age andyou both know it. She writes something equally stinging back andnever gets the confirmation you received the text. She hopes youdidn’t.

Orisa is the one to carry your bodyback to base, unable to call ahead with the broken communicationssystem. She stands in front of the gates, your lifeless body slungover hers and that’s how the team learns of your death.

Hana takes it with professional grace.It’s not the first time she’s lost people in battle and you meanmuch more to her than any of her friends and comrades but at the endof the day, she knows the drill. She cleans out your locker and yourroom, all your belongings carefully set aside in boxes that now takeup half of her room. She manages your affairs, sends out messages tofriends and family outside Overwatch, and organises the funeral.Through it all she doesn’t allow herself to grief. Everytimesomething like this happens she’s afraid if she breaks down shewon’t get up again. People already tell her the war is no place forsomeone like her. In times like these, losing the first person she’sever loved, it would be so easy to agree with them, knowing they’llbe lost without her skills but not caring either way.

Aleksandra doesn’t offer her earlyretirement. She doesn’t say much at all, but the first chance shegets she drags her out of her room and into the common room, pushinga controller in her hand and taking up the other one. She looks downat it, knows that just a few weeks ago she would have somersaulted inexcitement that she got Aleksandra to play with her. She hates videogames, thinks they’re a waste of time. Now Hana agrees to playbecause she knows it will make her feel as if she helped.

They play a round, Aleksandra wins.They play another one and Hana wins, putting in just as much effortas she needs to. Her thoughts are elsewhere.

“I’m beginning to miss trash talk.”Aleksandra says casually and offers her a lopsided smile. She shrugs.

“Not feeling it.”“Is therereason?”

The only reason there is lately.Whatever she does since you died, it feels like she does it becauseor in spite of your death. Aleksandra pauses the video game, turnsaround to face her. Expecting but patient.

“What if ... “ Hana pauses, clearsher throat. She won’t cry. She doesn’t need to give the othersmore ammunition to treat her like a child. “What if you go outthere and die and the last thing I ever said to you was that yousuck?”

What if you read the last text she sentyou and died believing that’s what she thinks of you?

Aleksandra doesn’t have an answer forher. She offers consolations, that everyone knows she doesn’treally mean what she says, that you knew she loved you even if youargued. It’s all true but it doesn’t help.

You still died and the last thing shesaid to you she meant to hurt. And that’s the knowledge she’llhave to live with for the rest of her life.