#anyways also fought for my LIFE trying to draw holding a fork

[senvurii]

my boy is two years old!!!!!!!!

[largehearts]

welcome home, my heart. // @madefate​ gave me feelings again, can you believe?

      Time has started passing again. Adam isn’t completely sure what that moment was when it felt like everything stopped, before – the plunge? Realizing he would not heal, would not fly again? No – that doesn’t seem right. He doesn’t really know why he keeps thinking about this, other than the fact that this, out of everything else, is what keeps him up at night, sitting curled around his knees in bed, the blanket pooled at his ankles as he stares at the silhouette of Takashi sleeping next to him.

      Oh. There’s his answer – and, really, should he be surprised? It’s always come down to him, hasn’t it? It’s Takashi, after all.

      Adam remembers that moment crystal clear: learning Takashi was lost in space, most likely dead, years ago – that’s when his life drained of colour and most meaning. It’s an overwhelming realization now, that such a long time was spent like that, not even truly realizing how many empty hollows he was carrying behind his ribs, and how they bled and melted into each other as time went by, until it felt like Adam himself was an empty space where he should have been filled out with feelings, all sharpness and edges where once he was soft.

      He’s been trying to sand them down again, but it is a time-consuming process, especially doing it in tandem with the physical recovery he finally plunged himself into – though one could not have happened without the other, he knows, for both of these things needed one thing first and foremost: allowing himself to hope.

      It is a good thing hope itself, impersonated, was brought back into his life – the man next to him, sprawled on his back, breathing deep and peaceful – how can something so mundane tighten Adam’s throat to such an incredible extent?

      It has been weeks – months, actually, Adam realizes, momentarily startled; when has the restarted time sped up so much? – since he’s been able to breathe again. It brings other things; an arm that can now be lifted overhead, palms brought together with a mildly uncomfortable sensation that no longer rams knives into his back, two-armed embraces. And of course, outside their little sphere of existence, it has brought disappearing rubble from streets, restarting Academy programs, recuperating survivors, liquidation of the remaining work camps, the continuation of taking to pieces everything that remains from the enemy, like the robot Atlas and Voltron fought, as well as Sendak’s arm and consciousness.

      But these are not the things Adam wants to think about as he lies back down. He tries to be cautious, but Takashi still stirs – unsurprising, all soldiers are light sleepers – and rather than feeling guilty or trying to backtrack, Adam frees the corners of the blanket so he can slide underneath and press himself to the other, as many points of contact as he can manage. Vindicatingly, Takashi’s arm sneaks around his waist immediately, his face pressing into Adam’s collarbone enough that he can barely make out the question, “Bad dream?”

      “Nah,” he replies softly, smiling as he takes a moment to run his fingers through the other’s hair. “Just thinking.”

      “’Bout?”

      Adam thinks for another moment, of everything the passing of time has enabled them to do that they couldn’t before. He draws a gentle trace with his lips from Takashi’s forehead down to the tip of his ear shell, and murmurs in a way that raises goosebumps on the other’s arm, “Date ideas. I’ll tell you in the morning.”

      Takashi’s soft laughter still rings in his ears when he falls asleep, tangled tightly into each other’s hold.

      “Are you sure you’re not too tired?”

      “As sure of it as of the fact that you’ll get punched if you ask me that one more time.”

      Adam flashes a quick grin at Takashi to soften the edge of the words. Yeah, some corners still stick out, sometimes he still needs that sandpaper. However, the sentiment is just as genuine as it was the first time he told the other he didn’t want him to treat him like porcelain, back when they met at the hospital, seeing each other for the first time after the fight was over.

      He gives the other’s left hand a reassuring squeeze, perhaps a little stronger than normal, using the firmness of the grip to show he still has more than enough strength left, even after such an exhausting session of physical therapy.

      But then, that’s part of the reason why they are here in the first place. After all, isn’t it high time he reaps some of the benefits of his hard work and blood and sweat and tears? Isn’t it high time Takashi does, after how he’s been there right next to Adam literally every step of the way?

      Dinner (because of course there is dinner, Adam would not do this any other way than properly) is fairly quiet and overall pleasant, though Adam can tell Takashi’s attention is partially diverted by what they can see of the floor and the couples on it. Finding the opportune lull in their conversation, Adam spears a piece of meat with his fork while allowing his mouth to tug into one of his lopsided smiles, he remarks gently, “Besides, we have to practice.”

      He cannot resist laughing at the splendidly bright redness that spreads all the way across Takashi’s cheeks, reaching up to cover even his ears.

      A few splotches of it are still there (or are they returning?) by the time they stand from the table, and Adam holds a hand out. It’s a little bit like electricity running through him from head to toe, the way he feels the thrill of expectation and excitement as the other takes it, wrapping their fingers together. At the next moment, though, the pinprickly sensation is washed away by the sheer warmth of skin on skin at their joined fingers, as well as the utter look of adoration in Takashi’s eyes that still, even now, catches Adam off guard, like he isn’t even entirely sure it’s him Takashi is looking at.

      He could make a joke about it, he thinks, if he wanted to try. It would likely not be far from what Takashi is expecting, either, if the way his look shifts a little is any indication. (It strikes him, then, too, just how well the both of them can read each other – somehow, it feels both like a miracle and the most natural thing in the world at the same time.) But somehow, it dies in his throat, turns into something completely different – something that wants to respond to what he is receiving exactly in kind, and that something turns humour into candour, twists the amused spark in Adam’s gaze into something hot, soft and sincere. Into a something that pulls at his insides with urgency until they stop among the others, turn to face each other, and before anything else, Adam brings their joined hands up to press the softest of kisses to the back of Takashi’s fingers with reverence in his gaze that he does not take off of the other’s face.

      (Among other things, the blush deepening confirms what Adam knew already; that he didn’t need the joke at all.)

      They’ve done this, before. Very differently – so much younger and more carefree, neither truly knowing war other than from the textbooks they’d studied and then taught, taking it as something that would not ever reach them, and taking this far more as a joke than they do now. Adam remembers the fumbling, the sometimes accidental and then sometimes deliberate fumbling; he seems to remember how he was flat-footed and graceless, and how Takashi was even then full of a charm he himself was completely unaware of.

      Well, some of it hasn’t changed, at least – Takashi is still looking at him like Adam is the best thing he’s ever seen, and as they finally find each other’s shoulders and a rhythm in which they can step fluidly, Adam knows his own face must also be burning. It’s fine – he may do his best to keep most people at arm’s length, even if they rarely notice, he wants Takashi to know the effect he has on him – in all honesty, he more than deserves to, anyway.

      At some point, as the music shifts into something slower and softer, Adam finds them gravitating towards each other, until it’s a proper slow dance, with feet stepping in between each other and chins settled against shoulders – even the lights dimming a little around them, and for a few moments of utter bliss, Adam isn’t even sure if it really did happen, or if he really is just so thoroughly focused on Takashi and nothing else, that the world outside the bubble that contains the pair of them has momentarily ceased to exist. It would be unsurprising, and not at all objectionable – right here, in this moment, this is all Adam cares about in existence: Takashi in his arms, the warmth of his body as their chests press against each other, his soft breathing that brushes against Adam’s hair over his ear, the silk-like feeling of his hand in Adam’s, his grip tightening just for a moment in response to the way Adam runs a small circle with his thumb over it.

      As far as existence goes, this bubble is fairly small, and for a split second that Adam doesn’t allow to expand into anything that would overshadow the moment, he does wonder if there is a discrepancy somewhere, that he is so happy with something so small, when Takashi has always dreamed of things vast and far away. But it doesn’t seem all that immediate now; it feels like it can’t do harm to allow the moment to become overwhelming; to just let any other thought go, as if all other desires and futures are inconsequential. Because, as much as Adam has always hoped – as much as it was impossible not to feel hope next to Takashi – he suddenly realizes there is belief backing it now, too, that this could be enough.

      That, even if it’s only for tonight (though somehow, Adam knows it isn’t anymore), both of them want the same thing. Just this, as Takashi said back at the hospital, clinging to him even as Adam told him he wants him to be free, wants him to have everything he desires, even if some of those things are so impossibly far away from Adam himself. He is unsure, now, how big a part of him really wanted Takashi to take him up on that offer, even if it was made genuinely, and how much of him would have, in turn, shattered completely if he did.

      But that was before Takashi said yes to him, and that thought alone is enough for Adam to be able to switch off the rest of it, everything that makes him wonder or worry, and focus all the attention he has into the present, with the love of his life in his arms.

      When, after another faster number, they finally walk back to the table, Adam notes with satisfaction that his request was heeded – but even so, he is caught off guard by the way Takashi’s eyes seem to glaze over for just a moment at the sight of the single red rose left by his plate. “Incredible, he says as they sit down, Takashi picking up the flower and twirling it once cautiously between his fingers, and laughing when the other looks up at him, startled.

      “What?”

      “How much of a dork you are,” Adam says, his eyes shining with the barely withheld mirth, which only grows as Takashi rolls his eyes. “Apparently, I’m stuck with it now, though.”

      “Apparently,” Takashi says, his voice deadpan, but his eyes filled with an amount of tenderness Adam keeps forgetting can even exist, and maybe, maybe he’s also just the slightest bit misty by the time he is pulled into a deep kiss.

      As far as the passing of time is concerned, Adam is more than fine spending the rest of his life this way.

[salmonellagogo]

I Just Know

Rating: T

Pair/Characters: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne

Psst Ao3

***

5 Times Jon does not say I love you to Damian and 1 time he does.

***

Jon is thirteen when he understands what it means to have a crush on someone.

Damian is sixteen and Jon watches him.

He doesn't mean to. His eyes are drawn in by themselves. They follow Damian, glued to his back whenever Damian’s not looking.

He realizes that Damian’s feature is very well-proportioned, nearly symmetrical. He has high cheekbones and soft looking lips. His nose looks like it has been broken and set before. His green eyes are framed by thick lashes that have been cousin Kara’s subject of envy.

And it’s those eyes that haunt Jon's dreams. Some mornings he wakes up from those dreams having to rush to the bathroom and runs the shower, eaten up by guilt and still unable to stop touching himself.

Those mornings are particularly hard when they coincide with their weekend patrol schedule. He tries hard to be his usual self. But, it’s difficult when each time he accidentally bumps Damian, it’s as if an electric charge is running down Jon's spine.

“What is wrong with you?” Damian scowls at him. “Are you even taking this seriously?”

“I am!” Jon says. He scoots an inch to the left, away from Damian. “You startled me!” He had flinched unwittingly when Damian touched his arm to gain his attention earlier.

Damian clucks his tongue. “Pay attention, Corncob.”

“Jeez, I am, Grumpface.”

They would have argued some more, but the group of thugs they have been watching choose that moment to begin moving. It’s their cue and Damian doesn’t even say anything to Jon as he shoots his grapple gun and swings down.

Jon rolls his eyes. “It's okay! You don't have to wait for me or anything!” he says and even as he flies to meet Damian, he can't help noticing the graceful arc of Damian's form in the air.

***

When he is fourteen, Jon punches Damian’s face. It’s not that hard of a hit. He doesn’t use his full power. He never does, when it comes to Damian. But still, the hit sends Damian careening away.

Damian catches himself, hands out to break his fall. And then, he launches at Jon. Damian is fast and he has worked with Jon long enough to know when Jon usually lets his guard down.

They never fight seriously. Not anymore, since Jon was ten.

Damian is better than him when it comes to raw skill. Damian has been trained within an inch of his life and he is faster, better from that first time they fought after Damian kidnapped him. However, it takes Jon not all that long to contain Damian.

He grips Damian's wrists, holding Damian down with his body. Damian is seventeen, and he finally hit his growth spurt that one summer two years ago. He’s much taller than the grumpy pipsqueak Jon remembers from when Damian was thirteen. But, Jon hits his own growth spurt this year. He is as tall as Damian now and as broad, and Jon's still growing.

Damian bares his teeth. “Move, or I'll make you!”

“I’d like to see you try, D,” Jon says.

Damian growls. He makes serious effort to budge Jon. Jon knows if Damian genuinely wants to take Jon out, he can. He has other means and ingenuity that are available to the Bats, and often more effective than having super power. Also, Batman has Kryptonite shards somewhere in his vault.

Jon grins down at him.

“I will end you!” Damian says.

“Promises, promises.”

Damian sends him a look that speaks of vehemence. He resumes his struggle with fervor.

Sometimes, holding Damian down is not unlike holding a stubborn eel. He writhes and bucks, moving his lower body, tangling his legs with Jon's.

Jon bites his lip. Okay, maybe this isn't such a good idea. He can feel Damian's legs sliding against his, Damian's knee grazing the inside of his thigh. Recently, almost everything makes Jon's libido goes off. And, having Damian’s warm body under him, moving against him … is just ….

Jon lifts his hips, getting to his knees and using them to bracket Damian's leg. There are stirrings in his lower body parts. Something is waking up and, wow, he doesn't want to explain to Damian what it is he feels there.

He yelps when Damian flips them over, the slightest lapse in concentration and then, there is Damian sitting right there over Jon's hips.

Jon instinctively rises to his feet. With little effort, he jostles Damian from his lap, hands going out to hold Damian's sides to prevent Damian from falling.

“I …, ah! I forgot it's my turn to prepare dinner today!” Jon says, hoping he doesn’t look as mortified as he feels. “Mom will have my head!”

Damian glowers. Jon, in his panic, forgets that Damian hates it when Jon handles Damian like he weighs nothing. But, um yeah, Damian really isn’t that heavy.

“Then go,” Damian says. He glares at Jon and Jon is glad for the exit provided for him.

He turns away and zips out quickly to the higher level of the Batcave. From there, he flies to the exit that is usually reserved for Batplanes, trying to think of something that is not the feel of Damian's weight on his crotch.

***

Damian is a little weird about receiving gifts. For as long as Jon has known him, he has been that way. But, when it comes to giving gifts, he’s the opposite. Jon has several game systems and rolling door of latest Wayne tech gadgets to attest to that.

And it’s not like Jon doesn’t know what Damian likes. Jon knows he likes playing video games as much as Jon does and that Damian likes taking care of his pets. He also knows Damian’s bookshelf stores a few sketch books, all filled to the brim. Sometimes, he even shows his drawings to Jon.

Yeah, so he knows what to buy Damian. That isn’t the problem. The problem is getting Damian to receive it, without having to get into an argument.

“What. Is. This?” Damian asks. He sounds testy and Jon has seen this coming, really.

“Watercolor paint set?” Jon says. “I said I’d get you something for your birthday.”

To be fair, Damian's eighteenth birthday was last week. Jon missed it because he and Dad went to another planet, working with Green Lanterns to save the occupants from genocide by alien invasion.

Watercolor paints may sound paltry, especially knowing Jason gave Damian a real katana from feudal Japanese era last year, but they are the really nice ones. They are artists’ grade and Jon had to walk his neighbors’ dogs all summer to afford those.

“I don't need these,” Damian says.

Jon rolls his eyes. He should be hurt by that, but at this point he has been exposed to Damian too long to take what he says too seriously. He doesn’t know what makes Damian that way, not exactly, but yeah, Damian says that to everyone who gives him things, unless they’re Nightwing or his father.

“I know you probably can buy yourself something better,” Jon says, “but they’re gifts. I give them to you! You have to receive them, even if you don't need them!”

Damian makes a face, but he does not push the watercolor paints back to Jon or argue with him. So, Jon counts that as progress. Maybe, Damian even likes his gifts. Who knows?

Jon doesn't know. He goes back to Metropolis and the small mountain of homework from classes he missed, and does not think about Damian for a while.

A few days later, a rustle in front of his window wakes Jon up in the middle of a school night. It's Damian. Jon recognizes the sound of his heartbeat and he rushes to open the window, but by the time he looks out, Damian has gone away, heartbeat receding fast that he must have taken one of the Batplanes to Metropolis.

“What?” Jon scratches his head and he’s about to close the window again, when he sees it. On his window sill, there is a note clipped on to an letter sized drawing. The note says, I don't know why you feel obliged to give these to me, but thank you, in Damian's neat penmanship. Underneath the note is watercolor painting of Krypto flying under blue sky.

Jon grins.

***

Jon kisses Amelia Shepherd behind the World History shelf. She smells like strawberry, with soft hair and soft lips, soft skin that feels warm when Jon touches her arm. They are supposed to be doing their group projects. But Amelia has been watching and smiling at Jon ever since day one of Geography, and it turns out, she is fun to talk to. It feels right.

It feels right up until Jon kisses her. After that, it just feels awful.

Jon steps back and breaks the kiss. Amelia smiles up at him, tucking stray strands of her long hair behind one ear. Her hands are small. She is tiny. The top of her head reaches only to Jon’s collarbone. And he can break her in half easily if he isn't careful.

Jon swallows and tries to smile. “Amelia … I, uh ….”

Amelia laughs. She pushes Jon to make more room, and then adjusting the books she’s holding against her chest, she says, “That’s a nice kiss. See you around, Jon.”

Jon nods. “See you around,” he says and watches her go.

He doesn't see her again all day.

When he comes home from school, near dinner time because he has lacrosse practice, Damian is sitting with his mom at the dinner table.

“Hi, Mom.” Jon kisses his mom’s cheek. “You’re early, D.”

“Yes, I am,” Damian says. He shoves chunks of pancakes and eggs into his mouth. Today is breakfast for dinner day, something staple in Lane-Kent household. Damian scowls as he chews, but he doesn’t say anything about the food.

“Well, now that you’re here,” Mom says. “I will go to my interview.” She’s already dressed for work. Damian must have caught her just before she’s trying to leave. “Eat before you go, Jon. And be careful out there, you hear me!” She throws that last one just before she crosses the front door, bag slung on her shoulder.

“This is horrible.” Damian puts down his fork and pushes his plate away as soon as Mom is out the door.

“Not all of us have a butler,” Jon says. He sits at Damian's  side and draws the plate to him. “And anyway, how can pancakes and sausages be offensive?”

“Alfred makes better pancakes than this box mix ... thing.”

“Uhm, yeah, heard what I said? No butler in this house.”

Damian scoffs and Jon kind of wants to cuff him in the head. And then, he remembers Damian’s “Father” eats at a fast food burger joint with a fork and a knife, and he snickers.

“What?” Damian looks at him suspiciously.

Jon shakes his head. He devours Damian's left over and digs out the covered plate his mom left for him in the microwave. He eats that, too. Jon is sixteen. He grows another inch last week. He needs all the food he can get.

After dinner and a quick change, they head out to patrol. They start at Metropolis and go out to the city’s outskirt when things get too quiet. They rescue a girl from being run over by a careless driver, beat up a few thugs who try to rob a convenience store, and escort a drunk woman safely back to her apartment.

They get back around three in the morning and Jon hasn’t thought about Amelia all night, but as he showers and changes, he remembers her again and kind of hates himself. It was stupid of him to have kissed her. If he says that it’s a mistake to her, will he get a slap in the face, or simply cold treatment for the rest of the school year? He weighs for both.

He sighs.

Damian comes out of the shower in the middle of his brooding. Jon plasters a smile on his face and says something that gets a thorny response. Jon laughs and they play around with the high-tech laptop Damian gave him last year.

Around five thirty, just before the sun rises, they go to bed. Jon’s bed is narrow, and although Damian has made noises about buying him a bigger bed, Jon put his foot down on account of his tiny room. Damian clucked his tongue at him, but didn't offer anymore.

Besides, Damian fits just right with him. He may not be as petite as Amelia, but Damian is all lean muscle and tan skin these days. Their limbs often get tangled and sweaty in the middle of the night. Jon doesn't mind, safe for a few incidents when he has to creep silently to the bathroom by virtue of something else that has “woken up” because of his best friend.

And right then, as Jon tries to close his eyes, laying on what Damian has dubbed Jon's side of the bed, he listens to the noises of the city. Jon will always miss the quietness of the countryside, but he’s gotten use to Metropolis’ buzz. Damian’s steady heartbeat is among the loudest. He knows that Damian is awake, because he sounds different when he’s asleep. Jon opens his mouth and says, “I kissed a girl yesterday.”

Jon feels Damian stiffen beside him for a moment, before he relaxes again.

“Good for you,” Damian says. He turns his back to Jon and does not move again.

Jon bites his lip. His heart is beating erratically and he does not understand what Damian meant. He stares at Damian's back for a long time before he falls asleep.

***

Jon thinks a lot about how much more fragile Damian is, compared to him. How much easier it is for Damian to get hurt, and he has, on several different occasions when he’s with Jon.

Jon doesn’t even hesitate to fly into the way of a bullet meant for Damian. Nothing much can hurt Jon, but he is not invulnerable. When the bullet hits him, he knows immediately he has made the right decision--as well as … a mistake. The bullet’s not meant for Damian, it’s for him.

The familiar sensation of Kryptonite poisoning is immediate and Jon clutches at Damian, trying to stay upright and failing. His last conscious thought is wanting to punch whoever it is that laughs shrilly behind him.

When he wakes up, the first thing Jon registers is Damian's eyes watching him. Damian is sitting at a chair beside his bed, dressed in civilian clothes and there is a shallow cut just under the peak of his cheekbone. The right corner of his mouth is dark with bruise.

They maintain a few seconds of eye contact, then Damian scrambles up to stand at his bedside, his brows pinched. Jon is distracted for a moment. The ceiling behind Damian's head is high and filled with roosting bats. The Batcave.

“Hey,” Jon says, voice hoarse and throat parched. “What happened?”

“You collapsed. We had to dig a Kryptonite bullet out of your back.” Damian crosses his arms. “Your heart stopped once.”

Damian looks like he’s biting into something sour. His mouth forms a hard line and his nose wrinkles up a little.

“Oh,” Jon says. “What about that guy with the bird mask. The one who ... shot me.”

“In Arkham Prison.”

“Oh.” It seems like the only thing Jon can say. Damian frowns even deeper and now that Jon looks more closely, he notices the dark shadows under Damian's eyes. “Can I get something to drink?”

“Wait.”

Damian goes away. The space around Jon's bed is cordoned off by white curtain and he can't see where Damian goes. Jon tries to trace his memory. He feels a little disoriented and he doesn’t know how long he’s lain unconscious in the Batcave. Batman should have notified his Dad already. His parents can be just beyond the curtain. He has no means of knowing, because the power well deep inside him is empty. From experience, it will be a few days, up to a few weeks before he can use his abilities again.

Damian comes back with a glass of water, a straw jutting out from the rim. He helps Jon sit up to drink, holding the glass for him. There’s a faint tremor in Damian's steady hand. Jon takes the straw between his lips and doesn't comment. Damian smells like soap and his usual coconut shampoo when he leans close. Jon focuses on that.

After, Jon takes Damian's hand before Damian can move away. Damian startles. A few stray droplets of water splash Jon's forearm.

“What are you doing?” Damian asks.

“Stay with me, please.”

Damian’s eyebrows draw closer together. He studies Jon and it feels like a long time has passed, before Damian says, “I … I’m putting this away. I will be back.”

“Okay,” Jon says.

Damian keeps his words. He comes back to sit with Jon. When Jon opens his hand, palm up on the bed, Damian gets the memo and put his own hand on Jon’s.

Jon doesn't ask where his Dad or Mom is. He doesn't ask where Batman is. His heart is racing and warmth spreads into his chest.

He holds Damian's hand until he hears the roar of Batmobile entering the cave and the sound of conversation between his Dad and Batman carry.

***

+1

Damian kisses Jon carefully. A soft press of mouth. A hello and “is this okay?”, all in one. His face is so close that Jon can feel the sweep of Damian's long eyelashes as Damian opens his eyes.

They part for just a second. Jon puts his hand on Damian's nape and pulls Damian in. They kiss properly this time. Jon doesn't have much experience, and it seems like Damian is as rookie as Jon in this department. They learn and it feels good. So good, that Jon has to force himself to break the kiss and sucks in some air.

Damian is a wreck. His tanned skin is flushed, his hair a mess, and his pupils are dilated. And Jon can feel that he’s not the only one affected by the kiss. Damian is as hard as he is.

They are on Damian's bed. Jon’s on his back and Damian somehow ends up sprawled above Jon. Jon slides a proprietary hand onto Damian's back, smoothing his shirt up. He pays attention to the raises and bumps on Damian's back, learning Damian's scars, one by one.

Before long, they kiss again.

“I love you,” Jon says as they part. “I’ve been in love with you for so long.”

Damian’s cheeks flushes impossibly darker. He caresses Jon's neck, up to his cheeks, and kisses Jon once, lightly. “Happy birthday, Beloved,” Damian whispers. “I’ve been waiting for your eighteenth birthday.”

A smile tugs at Jon's lips. “Best birthday ever.”

[xhuuya]

Chapter 7: Rectifier

Read on AO3

Sleep was easier to come by than Angela would have thought, and she slept sound until Fareeha shook her shoulder to wake her. She grumbled and muttered for half an hour, and it took two cups of coffee before she formed coherent enough sentences to converse.

Fareeha had heard enough horror stories about groggy Dr. Ziegler to stay quiet while the doctor moved about her morning routine. She had her feet propped up on a chair, studying a holopad while she waited, brows furrowing as she read through  reports from back home. Her second-in-command was taking care of things, and she reminded herself to respect the mutual trust between them. However, she couldn’t help but be as involved as possible from a distance, even if her team stressed the importance of protecting the prominent doctor in charge of the world’s best life-saving technologies.

“Frühstück?” Angela finished the last of her coffee and peered into the empty mug, not realizing she asked in her native tongue.

Fareeha knew enough of the basics to understand her request for breakfast. She stood and stretched her legs, rubbing the muscles above her prosthetics. “I could go for that. We’ll need the energy for whatever is ahead anyway.”

Angela grunted an affirmative.

- - -

The message Angela received at breakfast was simple enough to understand. It was a text from an unknown number with a time, location, and about as much attitude as Angela had expected coming from a hacker.

[[1046: Geneva. Dinner at 1800. Don’t be late, chica.]]

Angela started to slide the phone over the table to show Fareeha when it buzzed again.

[[1047: Also work to keep your hellhound muzzled, won’t you? ;)]]  

Angela bristled, suddenly quite awake and ready to send a curt reply, but Fareeha’s laughter interrupted.

“Is that how they see it?” Fareeha shook her head and shrugged, chuckling to herself. Noticing Angela’s confused expression, she clarified; “It seems our hacking friend has seen the newest model of the Raptora. The armor is a dark special ops model built to look like the jackal, Anubis.”

“No fair. I haven’t seen it.” Angela huffed and pouted, glaring down at the message.

“Neither have I.” Fareeha grinned, amused by Angela’s reaction. “I approved the idea and design, but otherwise, it’s been in development outside my radar.”

Angela noted that Fareeha was wearing the smaller pieces of the Raptora, and tapped a nail against the metal wrapped around her forearm. “I did always wonder if they would make a model that didn’t scream ‘shoot me’ in any light.”

Fareeha pointed her fork in Angela’s direction, “You say that like golden wings don't do the same.”

“Fair point. However, the issue remains that our mystery hacker has the audacity to say something like that.”

“They have the advantage here, and they know it. That's what it boils down to.” Fareeha shrugged again. She shifted eggs around with her fork, but abandoned the idea of finishing them. “Our options are to grapple in the dark and hope for the best—which is never a good option—or take what information we can and level the playing field. We're being tactical.”

“This is why you're a leader, and I prefer to work with machines, ones with no attitude specifically.” Angela leaned back and sighed. “Yet again I’m wondering why I’m even doing this.”

“Aside from or in addition to the obvious reason of closure?” Fareeha pushed away from the table, averting her eyes as she processed the emotions that caused the question to sound so bitter. She continued without pause to deflect any questions about it. “Talon is up to something, and it’s the only lead we have to follow right now. It’s the right thing to do, and you’ve always been one to follow the righteous route.”

I’m not sure what I’m seeking at the end this time around. Angela finished another coffee, pushing aside the thought of smuggling some of the Swiss grounds with them as there would be more in Geneva. She didn’t know how to respond to Fareeha’s assessment, unable to argue it, but not quite believing it about herself either. She ignored it for the easier reply. “I’ll check us out. Geneva is a good five-hour trip from here, so we should get moving.”

- - -

The wind whistling through the valley stuttered as it shifted, lifting snow banks against the cloaked edges of the building. A single window gave a view of the white-out beyond, broken by a silhouette that approached and lifted a hand to a shimmering edge.

Inside, Sombra chuckled and set her phone down. Helix had been harder to hack than Talon but not by much, and the results were interesting. Based on a quick scan of the files, she could imagine the conversation the commander was having with the doctor about the armor neither had seen yet. She had to admit that it looked good, and she couldn’t help but think she could modify some hardlight in similar ways to match the special cloaking angles that it used.

Her amusement was cut short by a low rapping sound on the safe house door. It was a measured sound, the pattern of the knock  unique to each agent individually. She opened the door with a small flourish and ignored the flurry of snow that chased after the guest. “Araña. So good of you to come.”

Widow didn’t provide the satisfaction of a response, moving instead to sit in the corner of the small room. Her fingers danced expertly over the sleek case she carried and placed next to her legs, managing to open the metal clasps with no more than a whisper of sound. It was obvious that she knew the process intimately, and was pulling her rifle and a cleaning cloth out within seconds of settling down. The motions were habit, formerly a uniform routine to keep her mentality grounded, but that had recently become a method by which to quell the overwhelming anxiety that her newfound past caused her.

“I’ve reached out to the doctor,” Sombra said as she brushed flecks of white from her coat and resumed flicking through screens a few feet away.

“You’ve selected a rendezvous point then.” Widow slid the cloth over the barrel of her gun, wiping away the moisture from melted snow. She thought about the way the steam curled in front of her as the heat of the barrel hissed beneath layers of cold, remembering that blood did the same thing as it splattered across the powder. She had let herself linger behind the scope far too long after this kill, not quite savoring the myriad of novel sensations swirling in her chest.

“Geneva.” Sombra saw Widow look up from the corner of her eye and couldn’t help but smirk. “I thought it was appropriate.”

“Indeed.” Widow returned her attention to the rifle and tried to ignore the pressure in her chest.

It had been seven years, and some of those she couldn’t remember. Even with Sombra’s help, there were moments, lapses in memory, that refused to return. Though she regained a lot of Amelie’s memories, most of her time as Widowmaker was a blur of confusing images and violence. Now she was something caught in the middle, trying to make sense of herself. Dr. Ziegler became a symbol of hope, a last ditch effort to figure out what she had become and if she could ever recover.

Her feelings were still something she struggled to rationalize, and she was quicker to frustration than anything else. Many days she thought to tell Sombra to stop, to let her return to being numb to the world. It was easier to feel nothing at all.

Selfish.

This wasn’t all for her. It wasn’t all for any one particular person. It was much larger than that.

Two rogue agents trying to dismantle a corrupt organization from within, working to save the world from declining into chaos yet again.

Widow was guessing there were at least two people that would doubt that.

- - -

I can’t do this. Angela paced, gnawing her chapped lip. She tucked her hands in the pockets of her large coat, pulling it tighter around herself. The movement made the outline of tucked wings bulge against the thick fabric.

Fareeha stood a few feet away, stoic as she scanned the crowd. She would occasionally glance over to watch thick snowflakes disappear into Angela’s white coat, melting instantly from the warmth of the Valkyrie beneath. As much as she wished to do something to help, she thought it best to give the doctor her space.

“They’re here.”

Angela whipped around, looking in the same direction as the commander. “Where?”

“They’re using a cloaking technology. The overcast makes it harder to see, but it shimmers. Watch closely.” Fareeha didn’t point but nodded her head forward in a general direction. Her arms stayed crossed over her chest, trying to ignore the chill slipping beneath her coat. The feeling wasn’t as intrusive when it was just the weather causing it. “I’m surprised they can keep it active this long.”

“Normally it only lasts a few seconds.” Angela finished the thought. She fought the urge to grab Fareeha’s arm and run, or at least sap some of her warmth to stop her teeth from chattering. Everything screamed wrong about the situation.The Valkyrie hummed, working to stabilize her erratic heart rate, but it couldn’t hope to keep up with the psychological symptoms.

The figure stopped.

The figure disappeared.

“Amigas,” Sombra said from behind them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. “Please, follow me. This place isn’t safe.”

Angela stiffened, understanding that it was not a threat, nor was it a question. “Lead the way.”

Sombra was visible now. Bright purple cybernetics would draw attention anywhere, even in an international safe zone with a decent omnic population. The unease encompassing the entirety of the world made for a lot more insecurity and unresolved anger. Sombra suppressed the urge to cloak herself again as she led the two to a nearby building.

The house was old, built far earlier than the first Omnic crisis. (Location in relation to the water) White paint curled and peeled on the outside, flaking from the wood. Slatted boards were folded next to the windows, and deep green curtains blocked any view inside. A brass lion holding the door knocker greeted them from an equally green door.

Sombra fished a key from an inside pocket and fumbled with the deadbolt. The lock bar slid back with a screech, and the door opened with a similar cringe-worthy sound.

Angela expected a musty feel, to match the ancient exterior, but was surprised by the initial warmth and comfort of the interior. Her heels clicked on glossy hardwood floors and the foyer led to an open living space and kitchen, accented by soft lighting that felt almost natural. A fire crackled in front of plush furniture, arranged in a way that suggested company wasn’t uncommon, or at least wasn’t unexpected.

Angela found herself moving towards the kitchen without invitation, the familiarity of the smell rolling over her senses. It was soothing in a way she couldn’t explain if asked. Fareeha’s hand was on her shoulder before she could take more than a few steps, cautioning her and bringing her back to her senses.

“What is that smell?” Fareeha asked in a way that implied she knew, but wanted to hear the answer anyway. Her gaze tested Angela, reminding her of the situation. It became quite a stern look as Sombra hung her jacket and mosied her way inside, the invitation to follow unspoken but understood.

“Coq au vin,” Angela answered without hesitation. Her brows furrowed as she tried to think of the why behind her familiarity with it. She grabbed Fareeha’s arm again, bunching the fabric of the coat she was still wearing. “Oh no.”

Fareeha didn’t respond, letting Angela sort through the realization at her own pace. She couldn’t keep her eye contact when Angela’s eyes darkened, years worth of sadness catching up to her all at once through such an unexpected smell of all things. She didn’t move, though it would irritate her beyond measure if anyone else made her so unable to act.

“She’s…” Angela started, but stopped, afraid her own voice wouldn’t waver through the admission. The tears refused to come, blocked by a seething anger coiled around her grief, but she still hid her face in the coarse material of Fareeha’s jacket. The armor beneath was hard, unwavering like the person wearing it, and Angela tried to think about that instead of all the other thoughts rolling through her mind.

Fareeha reached for Angela’s hair, stringing her fingers through it to comfort her. The movement felt awkward, restrained by habit and force, but she hoped that Angela knew it was genuine. She considered humming a song, but the thought of anyone but Angela hearing it stopped her.

“Did you not invite them ins-?” Widow was speaking back to Sombra as she moved into the space between rooms, but cut the question short when she saw the two still by the door. She turned her back so quickly that the wine nearly sloshed from the glass in her hand and she mumbled incoherent but akin to an apology.

Angela forced her head up, staring at whatever it was that replaced her friend so many years ago.

She wore a deep red dress that dipped low on her back, the thin straps over prominent shoulder blades framing a large spider tattoo. It was eerie to think that the tattoo was highlighted by the severely cyanotic skin, but Angela couldn’t help think it. Another part of her couldn’t stand how domestic it felt, borderline casual.

What the hell were they playing at?

“Sombra did mention dinner, didn’t she?” Widow brushed her ponytail back behind her, obscuring the tattoo and snapping Angela out of her trance. She didn’t look but she could no longer feel the doctor’s gaze boring into her back. She left them standing there the same way Sombra had as she moved back into the kitchen.

“Angela,” Fareeha whispered, placing both hands on her shoulders and waiting for her to look at her instead of watch their host saunter away. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Angela shook her head back and forth. “Not at all,” she replied as she stepped back, looking from Fareeha to the open area, the kitchen obscured by the single wall, “but we have to do this. Like you said, it’s our only lead.”

And it may be my only opportunity for closure, as you also deduced.

Fareeha took a long last glance at the front door and sighed, moving to take Angela’s coat for her after placing her own on a nearby hook. “Well. At least dinner smells good, even if the name leaves something to be desired.”

Angela couldn’t help a small smile at the ridiculous grin on Fareeha’s face. For as much hell as both of them had been through, Fareeha continued to be the light in so much darkness. Angela would never understand the strength it took to bear the weight of such pain with a pleasant smile, as guarded and ungenuine as it might have been. The Amaris were an amazing bunch.

“Amigas!” Sombra looked up from her position splayed out over a loveseat. “You’ve decided to join us!”

Angela had to take a deep breath before moving to the bar that wrapped around the open side of the kitchen. As much as she tried to relax, her posture was stiff and the wings rippled in irritation at the Latina woman.

“So it’s Sombra then?” She tapped a finger on the counter and hummed, trying to remember if she’d seen the name anywhere.

“Don’t bother.” Sombra stood and brushed imaginary dust off her chest. She tilted her head and grinned, more than confident she knew what the doctor was thinking. “You won’t be able to recall hearing my name. I’ve made sure of that.”

It didn’t sound nearly as ominous as if the other person in the room had said it, and Angela turned her attention to the woman currently making up plates of food for each of them. “What do they call you now?”

“They call me a number of things. Killer, assassin, traitor, cauchemar.” Widow sounded bored at best, but felt the bitterness creep into her native tongue. She dared to hope that she could go by anything else, willing the words to hurt less if she said them first.

“Araignée du soir,” Angela said, referring to the French superstition.

Widow looked up, surprised by the knowledge of it. The ghost of a smile threatened her features, but was replaced by a snarl. “Look how they remind me of it.”

Angela felt sick as she looked at the scars covering the arm Widow lifted. The warped text looked to be both burned and inked into her skin, accented by jagged lines like broken glass. Even Fareeha made a sound of surprise in her throat, caught off guard by the brutality of it.

A quiet rage burned in golden eyes, but Widow turned back to her task to hide it.

Sombra took the prolonged silence as a good excuse to get another chilled bottle of wine, offering some to the guests, which they gladly accepted after watching her open it. She bit back a joke about poison not being her style, and moved to refill Widow’s glass last.

“This isn’t going so bad, yea, Araña?” She placed her hand gently on Widow’s shoulder as she poured, asking in barely a whisper as she watched the assassin struggle through an internal battle.

Widow scoffed but felt her shoulders relax. It was true, it wasn’t going as poorly as she’d expected it to. However, they’d barely touched on anything vaguely important, and she could feel the eyes on her again. “Will you explain?”

“Mm,” Sombra nodded, expecting as much. She doubted that the woman Widow was before Talon mutilated her would have wanted to have this discussion, and this broken version definitely couldn’t.

She spun back to the two standing at the bar and motioned to a lower table. “Let’s not ruin our appetites. We can enjoy our food first, or at least hopefully we can. I’ve never had Widow’s food, and it’s only for such a special occasion that she would cook, I’m sure.”

“Widow?” Angela quirked a brow. A bit too on-the-nose for her taste, but she waited for confirmation.

“Until I think of something better, it will have to do.” Widow was glad her physiology would hide a blush, embarrassed by Sombra’s confession. She wished she’d thought of something so simple as a name. Hearing the doctor refer to her in any way similar to Talon made her skin crawl, but she had nothing else and couldn’t go to correct it now.

Angela noted the blush, a slight flush in the cyanotic skin. It wasn’t obvious, but she was paying attention. As much as she wanted to believe this woman here was a monster, Widow was Amelie. A different version maybe, but she was there.

She was probably paying too much attention, and had to force her eyes away as they all sat down. The shit-eating grin that Sombra gave her confirmed her suspicion that she’d let the look linger too long.

Shit.

It would have been worse if she’d realized that Widow had also noticed.