#not always in the mood to be told to off meself innit

[mars-ipan]

every time one of my posts shitting on terfs gets notes outta nowhere my fight or flight is triggered

[murderousginger]

Cherry Red

Cops & Robbers epilogue???

Warnings: They’re criminals, guys, they do bad things.

Word Count: 2,982

Song inspiration here

Warm rough fingertips danced along your bare back, stopping to trace along the horse tattooed upon your shoulder. The cool rings made you grip your champagne flute tighter as the hand -- which most certainly was not your husband's -- dipped from your shoulders down your exposed back to the indent above your waist. 

"Backless dresses suit you much better than men's clothing, pet," his breath tickled your ear as he rounded you, his red beard unruly compared to his sharp black suit. "You lied to me those years ago. You are a Shelby."

"You ever hit me again, Mr. Solomons, and I'll gut you in front of God and Polly," you smiled as you tipped your glass to him, your wedding ring gleaming against the flute. "Keep that in mind tonight."

"I don't remember you being so brave those years ago," he squinted, looking over your dress. As his gaze followed the line of your body you cocked your hip, showing your leg through a slit in the gown. His eyes widened before snapping back to your face. "Pretty creature gained courage with a ring on her finger."

His hand lingered on your waist as his fingers played with the edge of your cherry red dress. You lifted your eyebrow at him but refused to move out of his grasp. 

"You looked me in the eye far more when I was dressed as a man," you countered before finishing your glass in a gulp. "Perhaps my witchcraft only works on you when you're reminded of my body. You forget what you told me?"

"Which part, love?" He smirked as his free hand smoothed his beard.

You leaned forward and pressed your hand on his chest as you whispered into his ear. 

"Funniest thing about pretty creatures, pet," you drawled, mimicking his accent. "The most colorful are usually the likeliest to kill you dead without warnin'."

You pulled back and looked around the room with bored eyes. You could see Arthur shooting glances your way as he conversed with a man, and John and Esme were at a table across the crowded ballroom. Esme wrangled their youngest and John's glare fixed on Alfie's arm. His fist was tight on the table as Esme drew his attention back to his family. Finn and Isaiah were both talking in a corner with the help, darting glances your way from time to time.

You raised your glass to a maid and nodded for her to bring her tray over. She smiled nervously and hastily cut through the crowd. 

"Mrs. Shelby," she said, eyeing Alfie standing so close with his hand on your waist before her eyes snapped to yours. 

"I'm bored of champagne," you monotoned. "Get me a whiskey, please, Dolly. Mr. Solomons? Would you rather rum? Gin?"

His eyes flashed and you felt his fingers flex on your side. 

"Don't drink the stuff, meself," he said. "I suppose, when in hell, I'll have a whiskey."

"How courteous to fall to our level," you teased as the maid tittered away to fulfill your request. 

"I've seen no white knight come to your rescue yet, pet," his cold rings pressed against your bare spine. "Why do I feel glares but no one has dared interrupt us? Where is my good friend Mr. Shelby?"

"I've no need for a good man, let alone a knight, Alfie," you smiled and raised your glass to the ballroom. "This is my dear husband's fundraiser. He's around somewhere talking old men out of their money and into his favor."

"Ay, Birmingham and London wasn't enough, he had to join parliament," he chuckled. "And his wife's scandalous attitude has gained more than one headline in the papers."

Alfie's hand raised to graze along your tattooed shoulder. 

"You show you are marked so openly," he murmured. "Like a badge rather than an abomination."

"God never visited Small Heath," you laughed. "No need to gain favor of an absent father."

"Blasphemous with a smile," Alfie shook his head and pressed his lips into a tight line. "Perhaps you should be in men's clothes with the balls on you."

"Says the man with his hands on another's wife at a very public gala," you smiled curtly and squinted at him, as if assessing him and finding him wanting.

"How will the papers headline it?" Alfie said, leaning closer as if to tell a secret. "Another man touching the good politician Shelby's wild wife. Her bare back at that. Scandalous, innit love?"

You laughed loudly and threw your head back, running your fingers along the seam of his suspender inside his jacket. You felt him freeze under your touch as you pressed against him, taking in the spice of his cologne as heads turned to follow your laugh to its source.

"Aren't you a prominent beacon in the Jewish community, Mr. Solomons?" You pushed the words into his ear, velvet draping over him as your grin grew Cheshire-like. "I'm not the only one that can suffer a scandal, and I can promise a pious man will make more headlines than a Shelby."

The maid returned with a stiff 'ma'am' as she handed the whiskey glasses to you both. You murmured your thanks, sipped your drink as you deftly took a step away and turned to face your adversary. 

You looked over his shoulder to see you had Polly's full attention, her scowl cutting you as your glance stuttered on her. She nodded once slowly as she glared daggers one more moment before returning to her conversation. The signal was loud and clear: behave. 

Your eyes searched the ballroom again, finding John's jaw set as he held a toddler, his eyes squinting at yours in question. You winked at him, a smile curling on your lips that you tried to hide by the rim of the whiskey glass. He was not amused.

"Getting all your orders signed to you, love?" He chuckled. "Did you get in trouble with your family? Not as free as you'd like to think."

Alfie smiled wide, a wolf who realized he found a soft spot, and took a large gulp of his drink. He grimaced, clearing his throat as he frowned at the glass. 

"I'll forgive you this once," you said, your attention returning to him. "So it won't interfere with our business."

"Business?" Alfie frowned. "You would never interfere with my business with Tommy."

"No, Alfie," your eyes hardened as Alfie's expression blanked. "I do mean our business."

"Alfie, old friend," a warm voice called from behind you as a familiar hand rested on your back. "I hope you didn't start business without me. Some of my guests require more attention and it becomes difficult to get away. I see you found (Y/N) to entertain you."

Alfie watched as Tommy came up beside you, all ease and familiarity as if it was instinct. His suit was crisp, every corner of his appearance perfect and every bit a politician, down to the fake turn of his lips. His fingers played with the fabric against the small of your back and goosebumps covered your skin as he talked with the increasingly agitated man in front of you.

"What do you mean she's in charge of your shipping business?" Alfie's voice had clipped, his games falling aside as his shock got the better of him. 

"Exactly what he said," you smiled. "If you would like a piece of our shipping gin -- and possibly your rum -- to the Americas, you'll need to speak to me."

"Ah," Alfie said, tongue circling an eye tooth as he reassessed you in Tommy's arms. "So the soldier had become a general herself."

"More like a queen," Tommy said, leaning down to kiss your cheek as he pulled you into his side. 

"Wouldn't the charity be better business for a woman to run?" Alfie frowned, squinting between you both. 

"Lizzie is running the charity," you supplied, your fingers running along Tommy's arm that stretched along your middle. "We're a modern company, Mr. Solomons. Multiple women can run multiple pieces."

"I was hoping to introduce you two, make the transition smoother," Tommy said as his jaw ticked. "But you seem to have shot straight for (Y/N) before I could."

"We've met, we did," Alfie said as he twisted his beard in his hand. "Had a nice little discussion all those years ago, didn't we pet? Thought it only proper to give her a hello while you were busy."

Tommy's face was blank, his eyes half lidded as if bored. If anyone could shut Alfie Solomons' erratic energy down, it was Tommy Shelby and his nature of being completely still. Looking between the men was like looking between fire and ice. Both were dangerous, conniving, and ambitious to a fault. 

Alfie was loud, erratic, constantly flipping moods, expressions, energies, to keep everyone around him on their toes. You never knew when he would strike because he constantly tapped on walls for weaknesses. By the time he had done what he wished, no one flinched because it was old hat. You couldn't tell whick way was up or down by the time Alfie was done with you.

Tommy, on the other hand, preferred to be still, watchful, quiet. People often would see his blank face and -- unable to read an expression -- take whatever he said as truth. He would hold himself still until everyone forgot he was there and when he would strike there would be nothing but astonishment and dust in his wake. He was a ghost.

Tommy licked his lips, letting the air thicken between them before he unwrapped himself from your waist and took your hand. You placed your drink on a nearby table. His eyes instantly warmed as they left Alfie to look you up and down. 

"Do you like this dress, Alfie?" Tommy asked as he twirled you slowly in front of the man, letting the long red fabric frame you. "I picked it out myself. I believe it's from Paris, right love?"

Alfie grunted, looking between you and Tommy with suspicion.

"It is," you said evenly, allowing him to spin you in front of the man like he was showing off a jewel in the light. 

"Your taste has always been rich, Tom," Alfie squinted. "No doubt about that."

"It's made from a very fine silk, I believe," Tommy went on, ignoring the comment, his eyes dancing between your figure and Alfie's confused face.

"The thing about it is the cut," he went on, leaning toward Alfie as if conspiring. "My beautiful wife can't wear undergarments with it. Low back, that slit up the side, how the dress flows over her more like water than fabric. Very unfortunate, don't you think?" 

Alfie's eyes widened as he eyed your body even closer. He reddened slightly as he finally made his way to your face to see your eyebrow cocked at him daringly, the smallest curl of your lips a mix of a snarl and a smile.

"Very unfortunate, indeed," Alfie mumbled. "Why are you telling me this, Tom?"

"Oh no reason at all," Tommy tilted his head and winked as he pulled you closer to him, his hand dropping yours to rest splayed on your hip.

"You're going to dance with my wife, Alfie, while I grab a smoke," Tommy said, the edge to his voice sharper than his locked jaw. "And you'll figure out the conditions for our joint alcohol smuggling effort during that dance."

Tommy's blue eyes burrowed into Alfie as he waited for an answer. Alfie nodded slowly and extended his hand toward you, a grimace on his face as you dipped your head and accepted his hand. His hand extended yours out as his other rested on your waist, flitting over your skin rather than holding. He was nervous like a clumsy child that was told to set the table with fine china tonight.

"Oh, and Alfie," Tommy called before Alfie could pull you too far away. You both looked back at him, but only you had a sparkle of mischief in your eye.

"She might cut you if your hands wander," Tommy said, his eyebrows raised as his chin and voice sank. "I'll shoot you in the fuckin' face."

You exhaled a sharp laugh as Alfie's hand on your waist all but hovered above you, his face white as a sheet as he pulled you away from your husband. Tommy gave a nod and moved within the crowd, finding a place next to Polly for a moment. You looked around the room for a moment before reading your eyes back to the uncomfortable man in front of you.

"I will, you know," you smiled as his mouth quirked. "Cut you."

"With what blade in that dress?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," you said.

Alfie grunted and looked over your shoulder, no doubt looking for the positions of the Shelbys.

"Stop being grumpy, it's lame," you laughed as you rubbed his shoulder. "We have business to agree upon."

"Easy for you to say, pet," he mumbled. "Didn't realize I would be holding a bomb to me chest tonight over business."

"Isn't that the only way to do business?" You frowned. "I even wore red to alert you. I thought you knew better."

"Fuckin' should've," he breathed. "Alright, now, let's get to it then."

----

As the song ended, you and Alfie had agreed on a preliminary run of a limited amount of his rum going in your next shipment to America. If the numbers and shipment went well, you would ramp up within a fortnight. 

"May I have this dance?" Tommy appeared, his hand outstretched and pushing the two of you away from each other. 

"I believe we have amenable terms for now," Alfie bowed his head as he kissed your hand, in much better spirits than when the dance began. "I will leave my favorite cutthroats to go forth and ruin someone else's night with their fuckery. I do believe I need to return home and wash the sin from my clothes before it stains."

"Goodnight, Alfie," you said warmly as he easily transferred you to Tommy's side. "Safe travels home."

"Goodnight," Tommy said, all edge of his voice gone as his attention was only on you, his mouth dipped to kiss your shoulder. 

Alfie looked between you two and exhaled a soft laugh before he turned away, shaking his head. 

"Are we going to dance before you leave me to Polly to be yelled at, or was that just a way to cut short my time with your ally?" You murmured as his hand tickled your back. 

"I can dance," he said as he kissed your neck and swept you into his arms. 

You giggled as his hot breath tickled your ear and he pulled you across the hall. 

"So Polly is unhappy with me," you laughed as you pulled back to look him in the eye. 

Tommy sighed. 

"You threatened to make a scene, love," he said as his eyes softened. "With Alfie of all people."

"I think she's more upset about the half a glass of whiskey I had than dealing with Alfie," you said, earning a confused look from Tommy. "Alfie was only trying to make me uncomfortable."

"You didn't flinch a bit," Tommy toned. 

"Oh! You're jealous," you gasped. "Did Alfie Solomons upset my dear husband, king Tommy?"

"No one's to touch my wife but me," he said, roughly tugging you to the other side of a pillar as he pressed you against it in the shadow. 

He lifted your chin with his finger as his knee pressed between your legs and his other hand found its way into the slit of your dress and squeezed your ass. 

"Will you take me right here, Mr. Politician," you taunted, grinding a little against his knee as his eyes caught flame. "Need to prove your claim that boldly? Not enough to dangle me in front of your colleagues?"

"You're bored of the parties," he said as his head tilted and his hand wrapped around your throat, holding you against the pillar. "You aren't made for the pleasantries of the light."

"I'd much rather us in the dark," you tipped your chin up, your hands roaming up his chest and neck to pull him close.

"I hear you," he panted as your foreheads touched. You teased, your breath on his lips as you kept just out of reach. "But tonight is about what's best for this family."

"I agree," you smirked. "Our little one deserves a good life."

Tommy's mouth slacked and his hand dropped from your throat as you chuckled. 

"S'why Polly's upset," you whispered into his open mouth. "The whiskey. She called it last week. John was in the kitchen. Why do you think your little brother had grown so protective over me again?"

You smiled, taunting as he stood frozen.

"Did you fear he was trying to claim me again?" Your hand traced his jaw before you closed his mouth. "I'm yours, Tommy Shelby, just like this child is."

"Well, Mrs. Shelby," his voice was hoarse as he pushed the words out, shoveling them like gravel. He cleared his throat as he licked his lips. "Perhaps we should retire for the night."

"And leave your fundraiser?" You asked, your brows raised. 

It was not like him not to be the last one in the ballroom, talking to every last person as if to stuff his pockets with every cent and favor he could. You bit your lip as you watched the gears turn behind his soft eyes. He had completely melted against you. 

"My poor pregnant wife must be exhausted from the stress of the night," he said evenly, his hand tickling your thigh. "And what sort of man would I be if not to take care of her?"

"What sort, indeed," you smiled as you kissed him softly.

[joyfullynervouscreator]

A Labour of Love

for @asparklethatisblue who gave me nwalin feels when I was intending to go to bed early...

word count ~2k

He’d begun finding these small… notes. Nori recognised Dwalin’s handwriting, and Dori had managed to teach him enough to realise that the letters – written on paper of a quality he used to nick for Ori, and in an ink Nori was pretty sure would have cost Ori a month’s pay per bottle in Ered Luin – were addressed to him. He had also managed to – well it wasn’t guessing, not really, Dori also began with D, after all – figure out that the letter were from Dwalin. At first, he had wondered what they were, but he’d shrugged it off as some sort of nobby courting custom and simply given Dwalin kisses in return.

Now, however, as he stared at the surprisingly large collection before him, he began to wonder – was it a hint, of such incredible subtlety that he’d rather considered it beyond Dwalin, who was as solid as a Dwarf could be; completely opposite his own twisty mind? – if Dwalin realised that he couldn’t read them. Counting – a quick tally showed him a total of 23 pieces of paper of differing sizes – counting was easy, any thief had to know how much he’d stolen and how much he’d been paid, but letters had stumped him for more than a century now, and Nori hadn’t really noticed the lack of literacy in his daily life before these blasted letters began appearing.

 Elsewhere:

“Nori doesn’t like my poetry!” Dwalin exclaimed, barging into the King’s study and falling back onto Dís’ sofa. The King of Erebor frowned, her clever fingers continuing to move her small needle, the silk thread becoming a repeating pattern of triangles and squares that Fíli had favoured since he was a dwarfling.

“I thought it was quite good, honestly,” she murmured, shooting Dwalin a look of sympathy, “I mean, the part about him stealing your heart might be a little obvious, but overall you did very well.”

“But he hates them!” Dwalin despaired. “He never even comments on finding my notes, let alone the words I write for him.” Despondency writ in every feature, Dwalin turned over, hiding his face in a pillow. Dís tutted, pulling her thread taut.

“I’m sure Nori doesn’t hate your poetry, Dwalin,” she hummed softly, putting down her embroidery hoop and crossing to perch on the edge of the sofa, stroking his hair softly as though he wasn’t older than her. Pressing a kiss to the back of his bald head, she hummed a small tune; a lullaby Thorin had once written, in fact, though none of them remembered the words by now. Dwalin chuckled.

“It’s better than Thorin’s at least,” he smirked. Dís laughed.

“Also better than Balin’s,” she retorted, pinching his ear gently. “Now, if you want to move forward in this courtship, I do think 23 poetic descriptions of why you love Nori is enough to move on to the Family Songs… even if he hasn’t responded.” Dwalin just groaned.

“But he deserves the right words, Dís!” he exclaimed, with such dismay that Dís had a hard time keeping the mirth off her face.

“Maybe you could ask him?” she suggested. “I know that’s a bit…unorthodox, but, surely, you can’t claim he hasn’t conveyed interest?” Dwalin grumbled something unintelligible. “Sorry?”

“Balin!” Dwalin growled. Dís laughed.

“Aye, I can see your trouble, Cousin,” she admitted, returning to stroking Dwalin’s hair. A flash of insight occurred to her at that moment. “Dwalin?” she asked carefully, “are you sure…”

“Of course, I’m sure!” he growled, “I wouldn’t be doing this stupid courtship ritual if I wasn’t sure!”

“I know that, cousin, please, do credit me with some intelligence!” she tossed back at him, flicking his ear with displeasure. “I meant: Are you sure that… well, are you sure that Nori knows how to read?” Dwalin stiffened.

“He must!” he exclaimed. “I mean, Dori can read – he and Balin have literary discussions all the time – and Ori is a scribe, Mahal’s Beard!” Dís hummed thoughtfully.

“Yes, cousin,” she murmured, “but Nori’s never exactly struck me as the type for scholarly pursuits, if you know what I mean.” She winked at him, disarming Dwalin’s scowl with her fond smile. Dwalin frowned.

  “Nori?” Dwalin called, walking into their home – Balin had frowned at him for moving in with Nori before reaching the appropriate stage, but even he had to admit that evicting Nori would be counterproductive at best; the thief had simply showed up in drips and drabs, until he had seemingly always lived in Dwalin’s house.

“Dwalin!” Nori exclaimed. Dwalin frowned; Nori was never surprised to hear him come home.

“Everything alright?” he asked carefully, running through scenarios in his mind. Nori was in the bedroom; there were several reasons – good or bad – for him to sound like he wasn’t particularly pleased to have Dwalin home just yet.

“Yes!” came the chirped reply, which did nothing to soothe Dwalin’s nerves. Nori was… well, chirpy wasn’t among the list of Nori’s moods, as Dwalin knew them, at least, he finally decided, scratching the back of his head.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, steeling himself for anything as he opened the door.

Dwalin stared.

Nori looked up, a guilty look fleetingly appearing on his face, lit by the flickering of the candles disturbed by Dwalin opening the door. That was not the reason Dwalin was struck dumb in the doorway, however. Scattered across the bedspread – carefully arranged in rows of eight – were every note of poetry he had left for Nori. The last space was blank, almost like it was awaiting a final letter of completion.

 Nori felt his ears burning, watching Dwalin stare at his collection. He might not know what they said exactly – though he had a feeling they weren’t shopping lists, for example – but he had kept each one, taking them out every now and again to trace the N in his own name and feel the warmth of Dwalin’s love run through him like a shiver. Honestly, it didn’t matter what was written on the pages in Dwalin’s careful hand – less practiced than Ori’s, even to Nori’s eyes – because every letter was put there for the sake of Nori, for Nori to find in the most obscure places Dwalin could think of, and in Nori’s head that meant as much as the words themselves.

“You kept them,” Dwalin breathed, and Nori would have said that he sounded relieved, if it wasn’t a ridiculous notion. He nodded. “You… you can’t read, can you?” If the words had been challenging or harsh, he would have denied Dwalin’s claim, but the warrior’s rumble was soft, tender like the large hands that reached for him, pulling him close.

“No,” Nori admitted, feeling small and vulnerable. Dwalin hummed, his big arms firm around Nori in the way he liked to be hugged.

“Aye, Dís thought so,” Dwalin murmured, “I been drivin meself spare for weeks wondering why you’d not responded to a single poem.”

“They’re poems?” Nori wondered. Dwalin hummed. “Why would you write poems?”

“I’m not a terrible poet, love,” he chided, pressing a kiss into Nori’s hair, “and it’s traditional, innit.” Looking up, Nori realised that Dwalin was blushing just as vividly as he was.

“Traditional?” he frowned, turning his head up for a kiss.

“Yes?” Dwalin asked. “Step five in the dance of courtship, as first described by Sunna of Khazad-dûm in the First Age: ‘The beloved must be made aware of their traits and habits the lover finds most…” Dwalin trailed off, his blush deepening. Nori raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of the sentence. “Well, pleasing…” Suddenly, his collection of letters was infinitely more precious, Nori thought. Dwalin continued briskly, his ears red, “and if the beloved responds favourably, the next step of courtship can be initiated.”

“Nobs,” Nori sighed, shaking his head, though part of him – a large part of him – was inordinately pleased with Dwalin’s small love letters.

“Well, I didn’t know you couldn’t read them!” Dwalin defended, and Nori suddenly realised that Dwalin had believed he was putting a stop to their courtship by never mentioning the letters. Moving out of Dwalin’s arms, he scooped up the letters carefully, forming a stack in his arms and moved into the main room.

“Bring the pillows,” he called back over his shoulder as he put the stack on a small side table and added another log to the fire, lighting a couple of wall sconces for extra light.

“What are you doing?” Dwalin asked, appearing in the doorway with the pillows off their bed.

“Come here,” Nori asked, reaching for him. Beneath him, the large warg skin protected his knees from the chilly floor. Dwalin moved slowly, placing down the pillows; reclining on them when Nori pushed him down. “Read them to me,” Nori murmured, fetching the stack of letters and putting them down beside Dwalin, taking up his favourite cuddling position along the warrior’s side. Dwalin stared down at him. Nori smiled, leaning up to kiss him. “Read,” he prompted, “please.” Pressing his mouth against the top of Nori’s head, Dwalin picked up the first piece of paper.

“My grey-eyed Thief,” Dwalin began slowly, somehow feeling more emotional reading the words than he had when he was penning them down…

These are words, and no more than strokes of ink on the page. But they are yours, to keep, for the rest of our days. For each morning, each noon, and each night, whether spent upon duty or enjoyed with delight. I don’t quite know how, but you stole my heart, And all I can pray, is that you will not tear it apart.

My star, my love, my pin-prick of light, you bring me joy, even in the darkest of night.

…Putting down one page, he blindly picked up another, feeling Nori’s soft lips pressing kisses against his neck as he continued…

What if I told you, I wanted to love you for the rest of my life? Would you let me? If I gave you the key to my heart, my soul, Would you cherish and protect it? Would you fill my days with your grey eyes, smiling or sorrowed? Would you let me hold you, and hold me in turn when I need it? Would you want to grow old with me Until death do us part And the Maker calls us to His Halls? “I love you,” Nori whispered, when Dwalin put down the last piece of paper. Dwalin turned his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “So much.”

When Nori felt stable enough to leave his arms, he gathered up his stack of letters once more, neatening the pile and stowing it away in the box he had had Bifur make for the purpose when the first three letters had appeared. Pulling Dwalin along by the hand, he set the fine wooden box on his nightstand before crawling into bed, wrapping himself around Dwalin’s bulk once more.

 Three days later, Nori was off doing something related to his work as the Black Owl, and Dwalin was getting into bed alone, tired after a long day. Beneath his pillow, something rustled. Lifting it, he stared at a folded piece of paper, a finely crafted D on the side facing him. Pushing the pillow out of the way, he opened the small piece of paper, surprised to see his hands tremble.

 Dwalin, it said, in letters that looked like they were made by a dwarfling. Dwalin stared, moisture quickly gathering in the corners of his eyes as he continued to read the letter, picturing Nori labouring over each pen-stroke; his tongue made an appearance in the corner of his mouth when he was focused on some minute details.

Love me tomorrow, for it is a new day Love me again, like you did the first day Love me always, for my heart beats for you Kiss me sweetly and gently upon tomorrow morning Tell me tomorrow that today wasn't a dream Hold my hand to guide the way Hold my heart to keep it safe Tell me sweet nothings as I begin to sleep And I'll always remind you that I am yours alone Truly and forever until we're reborn Then I will find you once again To tell you I love you all over again

 Dwalin fell asleep with a smile on his face.

@life-is-righteous @pandepirateprincess

dedicated to @hattedhedgehog because you let me ramble at you.

[docholligay]

A Tragedy in Four Acts

THE UNPROMPTED FIC NOBODY ASKED FOR. I’ve alluded to this moment a bunch of times in the fic verse but never really sketched it out to now, and I, after receiving my shitty news, decided I really did want to finish this. So, 3,000 words, and I really hope you enjoy. Entire OW verse is here. 

Tracer

The shots rang through the still air, one, two, three, and Tracer felt a shock of hot pain run through her. She gasped with the surprise of it, more than the pain, the idea that the sound of the gun could ever be connected to her own welfare a shock to her, even after seeing so much in this world.

She looked back at the darkness, and saw a cowboy hat receding, as if he could not stay to see.

Tracer looked down at the hand she had clasped to her stomach, and rubbed her fingers together, the hot dark blood smooth between them.

She gave a half-smile to herself. “Well. That’s unfortunate.”

She could hear her teammates in her ear, telling everyone to get back to the rendezvous, that they had been successful, good job, and the calming replies of her safe team.

She hadn’t been paying attention. Normally, such a thing would not have been unusual, as the phrase, “I’m sorry, what?” was intimately known to her, and had been all her life, lost sometimes in a daydream of her own. No, it was the nature of it that was unusual, she was generally quick and keen on the battlefield, if nowhere else, and this was the first time she had ever stopped, stock-still, just to stare. A woman’s silhouette in the moonlight, who must have been Widowmaker, who Tracer knew so little about, a woman from a thousand years away, before she had even been lost to time.

Her wound became less amusing as she began to feel weak, growing chill in the cool of the night. There would be time to wonder about how she came to this later.

She stumbled against the wall, barely holding herself up, and tapped her earpiece. “Tracer ‘ere. I’m down, and I need assistance.” There was no reply, and Tracer tapped it again. “Tracer down,” she took a shuddering breath, “can you ‘ear me? I--I need ‘elp.”

Tracer hit the earpiece again, and realized she could not even hear herself. It must have malfunctioned. Had she checked it before the mission? Jack had told her a thousand times, but sometimes, when she was busy, things slipped her mind and now...

I am going to die.

She was deep in enemy territory, in one of the side alleys where she made her trade, flitting in and out of the light, and they would never find her in time. After a lifetime of near-misses, this was the final chapter for Lena Anne Oxton, callsign: Tracer, Overwatch agent, adventurer, and noted aviatrix.

She looked down the alleyway and saw a stone fountain, bathed in moonlight.

I might have to die, but at the very least, I can do it by a lovely little fountain, and there’s worse things, aren’t there?  I know there are.

She closed her eyes and gathered up her strength, and half walked, half fell to the fountain, laying down on the cold side of the stone, moonlight glittering off the water.

There. Much better.

She looked down at the water gently dripping into the fountain, cool and burbling in the silver rays of light, and dipped her hand into the water, the blood drifting into the clear of the water, cloaked in the dark. She shivered, a chill coming over, her deepest breath less satisfying than she’d like.

“Do you know what I do when I’m afraid, Lena?” Her father had drawn her onto his lap as they sat in the waiting room.

“What, daddy?” She leaned back against him.

The voices echoed down the alleyway and bounced off each brick, surrounding the small round fountain in the spotlight of the night.

“I sing a little to meself. Anything what comes to mind, doesn’t matter.”

“Then you’re not scared.”

“Gives me something to do, any’ow.” He gave a hollow laugh and began to hum a tune.

She felt herself begin to struggle and float, and sang softly to herself. “Fortune’s always hiding...I’ve looked everywhere. I’m forever blowing bubbles, pretty bubbles in the air.”

___

Winston

There was always a worrying moment when the group reassembled, as Winston practically held his breath, hoping everyone would come through the door and he could relax.

There had been plenty of times, in the older organization, where people had not come back, and yet, it never got any easier for Winston, any of those times.

Tracer wasn’t back yet, but that wasn’t unusual, necessarily--she went further out than most of them, down back ways and side streets, and the thrill of victory sometimes distracted her, and so she took a bit more time to get back than usual.

Pharah, it seemed, was not really in the mood for Tracer’s dallying.

“Tracer, return to the rendezvous.” She tapped at the earpiece again. “Tracer, this is Pharah. Do you copy?” She sighed heavily and tapped it one more time. ‘Tracer. Rendezvous. Immediately.”

WInston looked at Pharah, a strange, wavering feeling rising in his stomach. “Maybe she’s ...hurt.”

“She had better be. Seriously.”

“Fareeha!” Mercy scolded, scowling at her. Missions made her nervous.

“Oh, I am only joking.” She looked over at Winston. “I am sure she is distracted.” A beat passed, and Pharah looked around the rendezvous. “Is everyone’s radio working?” She examined them as they nodded assent.

Winston was not at all like Tracer, and, in many ways, he thought this might be why they were so compatible. But it did not help him at all as he tried to think like her, tried to imagine where she would go and down what side alley she might have sped.

It’s fine, Win. You worry too bloody much. Her voice rang inside him, high and cheerful as a bell.

The air was cold, and the streets were quiet, and he felt a shadow come over him, the memories of the day on the moon like glimpses at the corner of his eye, and he tried to ignore them. That was then. That was before. That wouldn’t happen to Tracer.

If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now, of course. She can be careless. But she’s born under a lucky star. She always says so.

A man of science is not necessarily a man of truth.

A sliver of moonlight caught his eye through a side street, glowing like a blade of silver in the night, and he followed it.

It was almost idyllic as a painting, the light off the water glittering like diamonds, the blue and silver of the stones in the moonlight playing against the orange of her uniform, the dark burgundy seeping into the shadows.

“Lena!” It escaped his throat like a wild bird from a cage, the letters barely intelligible, more a cry than a name.

He ran toward her, and all the old prayers from that day came up. Please no, please not this, please not her, I don’t want to be alone, please help, please no, please not her...And the fountain could never get close enough fast enough.

He reached her, and she was breathing. That was all that mattered, in one moment. But only for a moment, as he noted the dark red spreading over the stone and dripping into the water, writing warnings in its curled script.

Tracer looked up at him, eyes wide. “Win…”

He put his hand under her back. “It’s okay, Lena,” He lied, though mostly to himself, “you’ll be all right.”

“Don’t think so.” She said weakly. “Love you, Win.”

“Lena, stop it.” he gritted his teeth. “You’re here to stay. You told me that.”

“What day is it?” She had looked over through the glass, as Winston put their plates on a tray to take into the timelocked room Tracer called the Bug Jar. “Innit something?”

“American Thanksgiving.” He had answered, holding the tray in his hand. “I brought us turkey from the cafeteria!”

Tracer ignored the food, just kept looking at him. “Aren’t you American, then? Should ‘ave the day off, you should.”

Tracer had started speaking again a month ago, and she seemed to be making up for lost time.

“I’m--” he pushed his glasses up on his nose, “I don’t--I don’t take holidays off, usually.”

“Well, why not?” She pushed at him as he stammered his way through the first double sealed door. “Cafeteria’s food not brilliant as you think, Dr. Winston,” she laughed, “Proof you ought to leave the lab, so it is.”

“I don’t have any reason to.” He set down the tray.

“Cooking that bad in your family, love?”

He sat down, practically muttering into the gloppy potatoes. “I don’t have anyone. No family. No friends.”

She had been uncharacteristically quiet for a few minutes, and then sat down and placed her hand on his.

“Well, that isn’t true, now is it love, what am I then? Oxtons are a rowdy bunch, they are, and they’ll ‘ardly note another body at the table, if we get me out of ‘ere ever.” She smiled and rocked forward, bouncing with excitement. “And me Nan never met an ‘oliday she didn’t like, so we’ll give you a proper American Thanksgiving, next year, when I’m out.”

He shook his head. “It’s--”

“You took care of me, now didn’t you? You do, still now. We’re friends, Win. ‘ope you don’t mind if I call you Win, us being such firm friends and all.” She patted his hand. “”Ere to stay, I am.”

You weren’t supposed to move someone who’d been seriously hurt, but the slick red over the stones made Winston think there was no waiting for Mercy to get here, and he scooped her up into his arms, and ran as fast as he could, but like the fountain had, the tactical van seemed further and further away, no matter how fast he ran, a treadmill that was set too high for him.

“I found her! She’s been shot!” It was all he could say, over and over, and the words that came back to him seemed garbled and nonsense.

He had never felt simultaneously more and less human in his life, the pain of losing Tracer  tearing like a wildfire through his chest.

___

Mercy

“Winston. 76. Hold her down.” Mercy’s voice took on an air of command it lacked in all other situations, at the sight of blood, slipping an oxygen mask over Tracer’s face,  and Winston obediently laid her down and pressed down her shoulders, 76 following suit at the other end.

She looked down at Tracer’s wound, her mind calculating exactly what she was going to have to do and precisely how unpleasant it was going to be. She grabbed a compress and looked at Tracer’s face.

“This is going to hurt badly, Lena, I’m sorry.” She pressed down as hard as she could, trying to stop the bleeding.

Tracer screamed the pained, senseless cry of a trapped animal, twisting against Winston and 76, who held her fast.

“I need blood!” she barked at Pharah, who moved quickly to the cabinet affixed to the wall of the tactical vehicle, flinging it open and grabbing a bag of cool red blood.

Pharah knelt down next to Mercy, awaiting further instruction--it was not the correct moment to be thinking all of this, but still Mercy did--that what she loved most about Pharah, both individually and as a commander, was her ability to follow orders if the person giving them clearly knew better. She would not lose a teammate for pride’s sake, however individually proud she was, and Mercy cherished this about her.

Mercy looked at the bag. ‘This is O positive. She is negative. I can’t use it.”

Pharah opened her mouth to say something, but shook her head and sprang back to the cabinet, rifling through it with renewed vigor. Tracer took a shuddering breath, her heart racing with all its might against the cruel insistence of the bullets that it simply stop trying. She was beginning to decompensate. Tracer was very tough, Mercy had learned over the years, but there is no human body that does not have its limits, and Tracer was rapidly finding hers.

Tracer gave a soft, tearful moan. “Daddy, ‘elp me.”

Mercy closed her eyes against the sound of it, but there was a dull and decidedly non-professional ache in her chest. Where was Pharah?

“Fareeha!” She called desperately to the cabinet.

“That is all there is!” She turned to Mercy, a look of apology and frustration on her face. “There is nothing else.”

“Es kann nicht sein,” she mumbled to herself, but, as her mind wandered, she found it must be very possible, for it happened, and all it took was one mistake, one person at the hospital misstocking her tactical vehicle, and mistakes happened, and it seemed, now, that mistakes were happening to Tracer, and she was bleeding to death on a cold metal floor.

And Mercy could not stop it.

Mercy shook her head at Pharah, and looked back down at Tracer’s body, never taking the pressure off the bleeding, her mind whirling through a thousand different options in each of the four languages she spoke. Nichts. Rein. K’lum. Nothing.

Pharah’s face grew soft, and she reached down and gently touched Tracer on the shoulder. “Oh, Lena, no.”

The vehicle was quiet save for the sound of of Tracer mumbling incoherently to anyone who would help her, struggling for breath.

There was a dark moment, Mercy had found, where you realized the game was over, and there was nothing that could be done, and those final moments as life left someone drug on like hours, a reminder of how she had failed someone who depended on her, and her face fell.

“Jack?” she asked softly. “I need you to--” she stumbled over the words, “I need you to get me the morphine.”

___

Pharah

Pharah looked up at Mercy, and her face changed, the tenderness replaced by determination.

“No. Not like this. Not today” She reached under Tracer’s collar and grabbed the ID tags, snapping the chain from her neck. She looked at the tags, and then tossed them to the side of the van. “It is what I thought.” She rolled up her sleeve. “However much you can take from me without killing me, you should do it. And quickly.”

“Fareeha, it might n--”

“I am not speaking to you as your wife, I am speaking to you as your commander!” She regretted the snap instantly, and she softened. “Angela. Please do it.”

Mercy looked over at D.VA. “Come here. Press this down as hard as you can. She will not be liking it.”

D.Va nodded and came to Tracer’s side, kneeling down next to her, overlapping Mercy’s hands and quickly pressing down, Tracer bucking against it with renewed force.

“Settle down!” Pharah scowled down at Tracer.

Mercy quickly pulled apart the packs of needles and line. She was a deft hand, and though Pharah had seen many talented medics on the battlefield, she had never seen Mercy’s equal. Pharah was no medic, but she knew Tracer would already be dead but for Mercy’s skill.

Mercy slipped the line into Pharah’s vein so quickly she barely felt it, and she looked at Pharah softly.

“I will have to watch you. It is fast.”

Pharah nodded. “I will be honest with you.” She looked back at Tracer, searching for something to say, something that would make everything feel less dire. “If you waste this opportunity, I am writing you up.”

She thought Tracer would laugh at that, if she could. If she were not calling for her parents and struggling to stay alive.

Mercy broke the horrible soundtrack of an uncertain future, quietly singing a prayer as she bent over Tracer.

“yimalei rahamim aleha…”

People loved Pharah because of the things she was sure of. She was sure, as a commander.

“L’hahlimah, u-l’rap’otah,”

She knew the way people moved, and she knew how to move them, and she was always sure as she opened her mouth to issue the words. If she was not sure, she would not send them.

“L’hazikah, u-l’hay-otah...”

But of some things, Mercy seemed ever more sure than Pharah.

V’yishlah lah bim-hera, refuah shlemah...”

Pharah’s eyes moved back over to the wall of the van, where Tracer’s tags lay on the floor, the light gleaming off them, the raised text bouncing into the air.

“Religion.” Pharah looked up from the form at Tracer.

“You mean, what do I believe?” Tracer kicked back on the couch. “That’s rather a difficult question now, innit? I’ve seen so much, in me life, and its left me with a lot of questions, mind, but I think there’s some possibility--”

“Tracer this is not a philosophical question. It is more,” she shrugged, “what do you want us to do if you are dying?”

“Not dying, not necessarily, Fareeha. Badly hurt, maybe.” Mercy’s eyes grew soft as she reprimanded Pharah.

She looked back over at Tracer. “Correction. What do you want me to do if you are badly hurt?”

Tracer thought for a moment. “I dunno. ‘Old me ‘and maybe. Be nice to me, for once in your bloody life.”

Pharah sighed and wrote down ‘no preference.’

She looked back over at Tracer, lying on the ground, and the thin red line that connected them, just barely holding her to this earth.

Pharah slipped her hand around Tracer’s. and held it tight.