legionworld | ¿Mmm qué dices?

Entry tags:

¿Mmm qué dices?

Who| Sombra, Widowmaker, and a spooky, spooky ghost
What| sometimes you assume your best friend has no heart, and then you're wrong, so you have to apologize....sort of
Where| Talon Beach House™
When| post movie-night
Warnings/Notes|NA

She didn't know.

Or maybe she did— maybe she'd always suspected that Widowmaker carried more of Amélie Lacroix under her skin than she ever let on— picking at healed scars with curiosity in her every movement, eager to see if they'd bleed again. Sometimes even Sombra can't tell where her hunger for knowledge ends and the rest of her begins. She was shaped by it, lived by it, survived because of it...and nearly lost her neck for it, too.

Like Gabriel's starved hatred and Amélie's crippling programming, the truth of it is, she's as fragmented as the rest of them.

But she's also decidedly more grounded. Less scarred for her flaws, and she can tell when she's crossed the line as far as her partners are concerned: that the vulnerability and emotion she'd somehow stirred needs appeasing. They're not enemies, after all.

So Sombra turns up a little later, after having said goodnight to Lena and triple checking her defenses, slipping in through the back entrance with a small gift in hand from the Legion World cafeteria— boxed and wrapped with a holographic sticker of the Eiffel Tower. She'd have gone for ballet slippers but it seemed a little offensive considering the circumstances, and they don't make sniper rifle stickers, apparently.

What a waste.

"Ya llegué~." Called out as she toes the door shut behind her, listening in for any telltale signs of life as she makes her way through narrow halls towards the common room.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The tone prompted Amélie's own lips to curl up into that conspirator's smirk she tended to get when they were both being nasty toward the same target together. She caught herself before it became fully fledged, returning to proper resting bitch face. Sombra almost had her there. But not yet.

Amélie leaned in a bit, nostrils flaring, before making a displeased sound in the back of her throat. "I can smell her on you. Go wash up, then bring my brush in here when you are done." She turned away, free hand pulling the tie from her hair, and surveying her walls for the perfect place to hang the fitbit.

"I will consider forgiving you."

"'Wash'." Sombra repeats, lip curling like she's just been asked to scrub the floors.

Somehow she imagines she could shower a hundred times and it still wouldn't be enough for Amélie's perfect, perfumed, absolutely exacting standards. Which might be why she's currently trying to see just how much she can get away with without completely undoing all her efforts tonight.

"That is what I said." Amélie looped the hair tie about her wrist and ran her hand through her hair. "Despite the mess you prefer to live in and the stench of the clothing I collect off the floor, I am positive you clean yourself at least every other day." Which was good enough that Amélie didn't mind Sombra touching her.

"But normally you do not smell like Lena Oxton." She gave Sombra a scathing look - cleanliness was next to godliness - before her expression shifted back. "At the very least, get out of those clothes. I will not suffer her scent upon my bed." Which was exactly where she was going to gave Sombra brush her hair. Then she would forgive her.

"But you'll suffer her belongings on your wall."

It's a critical little huff: she'd taken a shower before going out, taking another one right after seems excessive— but if this is what it takes, it's what it takes. That, and Sombra's fairly certain that Widowmaker isn't wrong. She'd been huddled up against Oxton for hours, that kind of thing is bound to rub off.

"The wall is not my bed," Amélie replied. "And where else would I display it?". A trophy belonged on the wall. She may not have claimed it herself, but it was part of the joint effort of destroying Tracer.

"Now go. And do not forget my brush."

"Mm." She grunts, dully accepting the last portion of her penance— if only because it's a one-time deal, made for the sake of the team.

So, reaching into the pocket of her coat while Amélie's back is turned, Sombra tugs out one last little pear candy droplet, popping it into her mouth on the way out the door towards her own section of the safehouse, passing through Gabe's territory along the way. All things considered, it shouldn't take long: fifteen, twenty minutes tops if she decides not to rush.

A little time to relax after all that forced saccharine sweetness.

Amélie glanced over to watch Sombra head off, glad that there wasn't going to be any further debate about it. She would have accepted a change of clothing, but if Sombra is going to shower? All the better.

Turning back to her wall, that fitbit was going to get tacked onto it like the trophy it definitely was. Maybe she'll be able to add more things to her wall as time went by. It wouldn't take Sombra long to return, so clearing the ammunition off her bed was going to be priority, loose hair hanging about her like a cloud.

After Sombra passes by his room, Reaper creeps into the common area in a slow and lazy roll of black cloud, like he'd just been meaning to casually pass through.

"Milking this for all it's worth?"

Referring to getting Sombra to brush her hair. Now that's just unnecessary, but it's still amusing to see Widowmaker boss Sombra around. Aside from whatever gifts Sombra had presented to her (from what he can see: that colorful box earlier, and something that looks like a digital watch sporting a color scheme that he knows neither woman would appreciate.

He almost sighs in disbelief. This is just going to bring about more trouble, in his opinion, but he's not their dad. They can do whatever the hell they want as long as they take the proper precautions in not getting their secrets found out.

Amélie glanced over at Reaper as he drew near. "She owes me this," was the reply. "It is simple penance, non?" Besides, she was of the belief that Sombra enjoyed brushing her hair even if she wouldn't admit it.

"Better than what I could demand."

He could've segued into the point of this conversation with something a little subtler, but he never really did enjoy beating around the bush if it weren't particularly necessary.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing worth repeating," came the easy reply.

Amélie certainly didn't want to give voice to the series of texts that lead to Sombra crossing the line. It was over now and the little hacker had made up for it. Once her hair was brushed - an indulgence Amélie rarely got to take advantage of - this would be laid to rest.

And hopefully never to rise again.

Yeahhh, he didn't think that would fly, but while there was nothing gained, there wasn't much lost either.

"I trust this won't be an issue."

He knows Widowmaker can keep a lid on her feelings, and ultimately her own agenda should she have any. But Sombra on the other hand... if she witnessed something as extraordinary as truly upsetting Widowmaker of all people, Reaper gets the feeling that their curious little hacker may end up trying to pry a little more. Perhaps not directly from Widowmaker, but...somehow. Who even knows with that woman?

He could be wrong, but he never lets any pinch of paranoia go unattended in some way or another.

Edited 2017-05-03 07:07 (UTC)

"Obviously." Nothing on her end was an issue when it came to the mission, and when something else was an issue, she would simply eliminate it. One way or another.

"I am capable of working with anyone." As Reaper should well know. "Anything else?"

He does, and he really appreciates that Widowmaker.

Almost a slip of the tongue, he nearly tells her to keep an eye on Sombra. Like he's immediately suspicious of her. His earlier conversation with Sombra regarding their roles here as free agents (implied) didn't help his unease any, but he's nothing but adaptable. Should something come up or should he feel there be a change in plans, he's fully capable of modifying his approach but...

Something tells him that Sombra is trying to get him to stop, or change at least. Most of the time he is adaptable, but his personal feelings still seem to make him hesitate.

"No."

Maybe if he'd been emotionally tamped out like Amélie, it would've been easier.

Lucky for Reaper, Amélie was already keeping an eye on Sombra. She's had her eye on her since their failed Volkskaya mission. This situation they were in, the undercover mission Sombra was on, without immediate Talon command presence made it highly likely that Sombra's penchant to play for herself over Talon would come to the fore. Widowmaker had a certain set of protocols that would be followed if the undesirable came to pass, but Amélie knew how to stave them off for a bit if the itch started to need scratching, so to say. Words, intervention, certain isolated acts... things that could be done to divert Sombra back to Talon and not initiate those protocols.

Yes, it was easier to not feel. It made decisions easier, but it created a hollow existence beyond anything that Reaper was currently experiencing. At least his purpose was his own. Widowmaker was a tool - nothing more.

"Do not stay up late. I am indeed going to 'milk' this last bit of Sombra's penance for as long as I can."

Jokes on you, Reaper doesn't sleep. Well, not much, anyway. Either way, whatever they do to make up for boundaries overstepped is ultimately their own business so he'll just leave them to it. He only pauses to listen before leaving the room in a quiet rush of air.

Gabe was right to pause— though he might not realize it as he leaves in a curling wisp of smoke— the last shadowy trail masking shifting camouflage that dissipates almost simultaneously: her arms folded, hair wet, towel wrapped casually around her neck.

For a beat, she doesn't say anything, watching Gabriel disappear with unreadable interest.

He could have told Amélie the truth. Confessed that Sombra's been tipping the scale to skew their perceptions— their allegiences— but he didn't. Not a single word. Nothing. And it's enough to solidify some faint glimmer of something hovering in the back of her mind.

She turns to Amélie once he's gone, kicking herself off the wall and lifting her hands in a show of compliance. "Better?"

That was a river they were all going to have to cross when it came to it, one of sharp ice and unknown terrors sliding silently underneath the frozen shell. One wrong step and only Talon knew what would break through the surface to consume the foolish.

When Sombra returned, Amélie none the wiser as to the others eavesdropping, pale eyes looked her over with a mild intensity, as though she wanted to be sure she wasn't just seeing things. And to check for that hair brush, of course

"Much better."

It's raised and waved as if on cue while striding closer— as if Sombra isn't just capable of slipping silently through space unnoticed, but also reading minds as well.

"Anyone ever told you you're incredibly demanding?"

"Now and then. Usually it happens when someone is trying to find the way back over a line that should not have been crossed," Amélie replied as she settled down upon her bed leaving plenty of room for Sombra to join her. Hands moved through her hair, to keep it from being trapped underneath her, before laying one down on the mattress by her.

She didn't pat the bed, but it was an inviting gesture.

She doesn't need the invitation to know better, moving to settle down behind Amélie with her knees tucked up under her: claws quick to section out a legth of straight, silken hair. It's not exactly unfamiliar territory. Her own hair is infinitely more fickle— curling with dampness after the shower she'd taken— even after the addition of her long, long extensions.

Working with Amélie's hair? Easy. Painless. Nice, even, though she isn't going to bother admitting it when she starts to brush with a practiced precision.

Even the few snarls in that dark hair weren't too bad; Amélie took good care of it normally and this century had excellent hair products. Eyes falling closed, her breathing settled to something almost shallow - slow and restful - as a part of her unwound into a semblance of relaxation. Amélie especially liked having another work on her hair as the sensation of nails grazing her scalp was rather enjoyable.

Okay... she'll forgive Sombra.

"I used to have it shorter." Murmured words that broke the silence after a few indulgent moments.

Success.

Sombra pauses, wrapping the cared-for section of hair across her knuckles and neatly setting it down across Amélie's shoulder so that it won't tangle, setting her claws to dividing yet another makeshift part and repeating the process. Her tone stays relaxed, conversational.

It's rare to get to see Amélie like this, after all.

"Why'd you change it?"

Had it not been for the hand and brush in her hair, Amélie would've shook her head as Sombra didn't quite grasp the meaning begin such an innocuous statement. It wasn't her fault, though, as Amélie hadn't exactly been clear. So she made a sound in the back of her throat.

"It had to grow back. It was damaged at the end of my uc. It is still longer now than ever before." Her eyes stayed closed. "I no longer have to wear it frequently in a bun."

So it's about control.

Hers, Talon's— the shifting back and forth that she must have endured for the sake of being overridden. Because she had potential, because she was Gérard Lacroix's wife. Wrong place at the wrong time. Sombra's not without sympathy: she can't know what it must have been like for her, but she knows what it is like, getting caught unawares in the crosshairs of something bigger than you. Difference is that she made it out.

Amélie never did.

If she'd been slower, little less methodical in disappearing, a little more attached to the people she left behind in Los Muertos, it'd be easy to imagine a reality where she and Widowmaker weren't anything but alike.

"I like it better like this anyway." Another section brushed and set aside, another one picked up, an easy rhythm. "Even if you do shed like crazy."

Edited 2017-05-08 23:56 (UTC)

¿Mmm qué dices?

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