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Published:
2019-12-15
Updated:
2020-01-21
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2/7
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Life on an Everyday Basis

Summary:

Akande sends Sombra and Widow on a stakeout mission in the suburbs of Seattle. It may not be as bad a job as they think.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Sombra knew, the second she got the news alert, that her next few weeks of work would be hell. And sure enough, right after that ping, comes a lengthy email from Akande telling her to compile a full database of the statuses of living Overwatch agents. She spends all night consolidating her files and, right as she’s about to pass out in a energy-drink jittery mess, she gets another email from him, telling her they’re meeting at 9 am. Sombra groans, closes her eyes, and tries not to count the precious few remaining hours before she has to wake up again.

 

When she shuffles into the conference, a small five minutes late, news footage of the thwarted attack on Paris plays on the massive screen. Akande’s profile is light up occasionally by flashes of lasers, and so Sombra can catch glimpses of his scowl. As the footage transitions into an interview with a policewoman who witnessed the battle, the screen turns off and the overhead lights turn back on.

 

“So,” Akande says. “Overwatch has remobilized. And to a degree significant enough to pose a threat to our endeavors.” 

 

Next to Sombra, Gabe shifts in his seat. Sombra’s almost grateful for his mask, it lets her imagination run wild with his expression of constipated guilt. 

 

She feels for him, of course. It’s hard to hold multiple loyalties. But it is kind of funny that he’s still so bad at it. 

 

“We weren’t anticipating they’d activate so soon,” Gabe says. 

 

“I sent you all Oxton’s texts about following Null Sector activities,” Sombra cuts in.

 

“We weren’t anticipating they’d activate in large numbers so soon,” Gabe says, not even glancing at Sombra. “We know now. And we can counter them, now that we know what their numbers are.”

 

“We don’t, though,” Akande says. He stands, hands clasped behind his back, and paces before the dormant screen. “And that’s what makes Overwatch so dangerous. They just had a massively public success. They can capitalize on that and recruit.”

 

Gabe leans forward, his hands clenched. “People remember what Overwatch was like,” he snarls. “What it did. They won’t forgive them that easily.” He doesn’t need to take his mask off for Sombra to know his eyes are flashing, or that his face crumples when Akande simply watches him coolly in response. 

 

“People do remember what Overwatch did,” Akande says, once Gabe slides back down in his seat. “They remember that for all its incompetence and inadequacy, Overwatch very successfully styled itself as something to be believed in. After its fall, Talon monopolized the market in that regard. Ovewatch’s resurgence is dangerous to us in multiple ways.” 

 

Privately, Sombra wonders if that competition isn’t good, if it’ll make Talon stronger. But she has no interest in raising Akande’s ire now. Not when he’s pacing again, not when Gabe is looking so dejected, and not when Widowmaker is watching her from across the table. 

 

Sombra had only just registered Widow’s presence when she came in but now that the lights are on and she’s more awake, Sombra can turn her attention to her. Widow looks perfectly coifed and awake, because of course she does– she’s probably been up since 5 am, training with Akande, showering, eating, and brooding at a stormy windowsill or whatever the hell she does in her free time. She actually seems interested in the meeting topic, even, and Sombra wonders for a moment before she remembers the location of the attack.

 

As Akande’s further philosophizing, Sombra pulls her holopad into her lap. Akande doesn’t look up at the noise of a holo vibration, but Widow looks down.

 

>***: Anyone you know get hurt?

 

After a moment, Sombra gets a response.

 

>+1 33: No. But a Cabaret I adore is currently under investigation. Are we working with someone called Luna?

 

>***: No, and the police have cleared her. She’s got a big pacifist reputation, and I think the police chief’s a fan.

 

>+1 33: That was a fast response. Were you already watching her?

 

>***: I’ve been trying to plan your birthday gift. She doesn’t do private shows, if you were wondering. Especially if you ask her if she’s okay with nudity. 

 

“If you two would like to pay attention once more,” Akande says loudly. Widow looks up, embarrassed, while Sombra simply smiles at him. He rolls his eyes. “We have a mission for the two of you.”

 

“In Paris?” Sombra asks. 

 

“No,” Akande says. He glances over at Widow. “Though I can–” She shakes her head, he nods, and continues. “Your database lacked the current locations of several key Overwatch agents.” The screen behind him flashes to life once more, this time showing a list of ID photos, linked to multiple spots around the globe. “We need to pin them down, so we can surveil or eliminate them.” 

 

“I’ve taken out a substantial amount,” Gabe says. Akande turns to him, looks over his folded arms and slouch, and his expression softens. 

 

“You have,” he says. “And that has made our task tremendously easier.” 

 

Widow rolls her eyes at Sombra, and Sombra stifles a laugh. He doesn’t acknowledge them but Akande must have noticed, because when he speaks, it’s with significantly more bluster. “There’s still work left to do, though. And one of our primary concerns is Agent Alex Kessler.” The globe flips to the pacific and one I.D. photo eclipses the others. “Kessler was one of Overwatch’s foremost cryptologists. We have not noticed them being activated, but if they do choose to answer the recall, that could severely curtail our ability to gain intelligence.”

 

Sombra frowns. “You’re saying they’re better than me?”

 

“I’m saying they weren’t in your database,” Akande says. “So they’ve clearly evaded you so far.” Sombra flushes and pointedly avoids looking at Widow. “Thankfully, other Talon staff have been able to gather some chatter about them. Signs point to them setting down roots near Seattle.” A dot blinks, and a satellite picture of a neighborhood with bright green lawns and nearly identical architecture appears. “We want the two of you to stake out their probable location, pick up their trail if they are not present, and eliminate them if they are.”

 

“If they spot us, they’ll immediately flee,” Widow points out.

 

“That’s why you’re going undercover,” Gabe says. The two women turn to him. “I remember Kessler. They were very indignant about cyberprivacy rights. Got really snippy with me after Blackwatch surveillance shit got public.” He chuckles, a gravelly sound, and Akande smiles at him in a manner far too fond for the context. “They won’t spy on their neighbors, unless they’re a complete hypocrite. Which, granted, they’re Overwatch. It’s possible.”

 

“I don’t understand,” Widow says. Sombra’s worried she does, though, and her heart sinks when the satellite zooms in to focus on one of the houses on the drab cul-de-sac.

 

“Welcome to 874 Holly Lane, Newcastle, Washington,” Akande says. “Your new safehouse. You move out in 1600 hours, agents.”

 

-

 

When Sombra enters the house, her immediate thought is that Akande shouldn’t be so worried. If these are the lives Overwatch agents are living now, the ideas they’re selling are beige walls and Ikea paintings. She can’t imagine that finds many buyers. 

 

Widowmaker seems similarly disgusted. Her lip curls as she sets her suitcase down in the front hall and peers around at the stiflingly clean rooms. “The last piece of civilization we passed was a 10 minute drive away,” she announces. “And that was just a Starbucks and a bank. What do people here do ?” 

 

“Stay in their houses,” Sombra says. Widow has wandered into the living room, and her expression as she plucks at a beaded throw pillow makes it clear what she thinks of that prospect. “Or drive a lot, I guess.” 

 

“I can’t decide what’s worse to be in. This place, or that minivan they gave us.” Widow picks up one of the magazines fanned out on the table, and her expression turns to sheer horror. “Sombra, this is recommending I buy something from Ann Taylor.” She wheels around, almost desperately. “Can you hack Akande’s personal computer? I think this might be a prank. Can you check to see if this is a prank?”

 

“I can’t hack Akande’s shit,” Sombra says. She makes her way over to Widow and flops down on the sofa, resting her head on her hand. “Trust me, I tried. And I think he just really wants us to blend in.” She scans the magazines and makes a face at the copy of Wired . “And maybe he’s made at us for texting during one of his speeches, too.”  

 

“So this is all your fault,” Widow mumbles. Sombra rolls her eyes, but lets her continue to rant. “We’re supposed to stake out Kessler, in here ? How fast can you find them?” 

 

“It’s not just me who’s going to need to do the finding,” Sombra says. She glances around and, when she’s certain the curtains are properly hiding them, pulls up a series of camera feeds– doorbell cams and garage door sensors showing the street they just drove down, rear cameras of various sensible 7 seat cars, and the security camera of the nearby bank. “Kessler probably has their shit pretty well masked, so we’re relying on other people being sloppy here. We keep an eye out for them on all this shit. If they’re around, we’ll spot them soon enough.”

 

Widow sighs and sits down next to Sombra. “We’re looking for a needle in a haystack, basically.”

 

“Please. Hay is more interesting to watch than these dipshits.”

 

Widow laughs, then covers her mouth as if the crinkle at the corner of her eyes won’t satisfy Sombra just as much. “I’m hungry,” she announces. “And I suppose we’ll have to cook, given that the nearest food in walking distance is just subpar coffee.”

 

Sombra smiles, sends her cameras to the flatscreen TV mounted to the wall, and pulls up Yelp in its place. “That’s one advantage of living here, Widow. Stupid amounts of takeout, all on Talon’s dime.”

 

-

 

They settle on Thai. Widow complains about the greasiness, but finishes the entire container of Pad See Euw. Sombra sticks half her Pad Thai in their inordinately large refrigerator. 

 

“I told you mine was better,” Widow says. Sombra makes a face.

 

“I’m just not very hungry. I’m tired.”

 

“Sure. Tired of bean sprouts.”

 

“Bean sprouts are great!”

“What about them is great?” Widow asks, raising an eyebrow.

 

Sombra folds her arms. “Their crunch.”

 

“Ah yes. That’s exactly what I want in my noodle dishes. Something that looks exactly like a delicious, soft noodle, but has the texture of a osteoporitic rib.”

 

“You have no idea what the texture of that is.”

 

“You don’t have to admit I’m right,” Widow says serenely. “I’m satisfied. Satisfied, thanks to my superior noodle choice.” Sombra rolls her eyes. Widow takes a large sip of wine, then contemplates her glass. “You know, for a mass marketed label, this isn’t bad.”

 

Sombra considers telling her that all wine tastes the same, but she’s had enough arguments about consumables for the night. Instead she says, “I really am tired. I’m going to bed, but I’ll probably be up when you come in, so don’t worry about being quiet.”

 

Widow sets the glass down and cocks her head. “I thought this place had four bedrooms?”

 

Sombra freezes. Widow watches her, her expression painfully neutral. “Ah,” Sombra says. “Yes. It does.”

 

“Is there a tactical advantage to us sleeping in the same room, or do you–”

 

“I just forgot,” Sombra says, cutting off whatever question she deeply does not want to answer. “I told you, I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

 

Sombra curses herself the entire time she drags her suitcase up the stairs, dinging the wooden steps and spitefully dragging down the property value of the place. Of course she and Widow aren’t going to stay in the same room, she tells herself. She pulls into the nearest doorway– maybe the smart thing to do would be to compare beds, see which one has the best mattress, but she just wants to lie down, so she does. She makes a face at the subpar pillow she’s stuck with, but she’s sure as shit not getting up now.

 

It’s not that she and Widow are a thing. It’s just that they’re… not not a thing, is the thing. They’ve hooked up a lot. Sombra’s even stayed after Widow’s gone to sleep a few times. So they have plenty of experience sleeping in the same bed, and plenty of experience to tell them it’s quite good when they do. 

 

But it was a long flight, Sombra reminds herself. They’re probably both tired. She gets Widow not being in the mood. And they’re not dating. She hasn’t given Widow any sign she wants to date. She certainly hasn’t told Widow that she’s spent more time trying to figure out Widow’s birthday gift, than she has for all her other present shopping combined. So there’s no problem. 

 

There’s clunking up the stairs, then the sound of wheels passing her door, stopping at intervals, and finally a door shutting behind Widow. Then nothing. Sombra lets out a long breath, sinks her head into the mushy pillow, and moves her hand down between her legs. At least, no problem she can’t handle herself. 

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Sombra is awoken by sunlight gently streaming in through her window. It’s incredibly irritating. In Rome and Dorado, she keeps the windows to her quarters blocked out, to ward off prying eyes. She’s forgotten how obnoxiously bright mornings can be. 

 

She snaps the curtains shut and lies back in bed but now that she’s up, she can hear a thump of a bassline downstairs. Groaning, she leans over and scans her holovid. It’s ten. Widow will probably make snippy comments if she sleeps in much later anyway. 

 

And Widow turns out to be the cause of her sleeplessness anyway. As Sombra descends the staircase, the amorphous thumping because a high-octane remixed Lúcio track. She rounds the corner to find the furniture in the living room pushed to the sides, and Widow doing pushups on the floor. 

 

“Morning,” Sombra says. Widow jolts and falls on her elbows. Sombra gives a little wave. 

 

“We need to go shopping,” Widow says as a greeting. 

 

“If you’re really hungry, just eat the leftovers.”

 

“Not for food,” Widow says. “Though there are some staples I’d like to pick up. We need to get more clothes.” She stands, and Sombra notes that she was wearing flannel pants for her workout. “I’ve been watching the feeds while you slept, and the people here dress terribly. We’ll need to dress terribly too, if we want to blend in.”

 

Sombra starts towards the kitchen, and Widow follows her. “I don’t think we’ll be doing much outside work,” she says. Widow’s already made a pot of coffee, and Sombra pours herself a cup. It’s not espresso, but Widow’s made it suitably strong. 

 

“We might need to, though,” Widow points out. She pulls up her long t shirt to wipe at her forehead, and Sombra catches a glimpse of the abs Widow’s been painstakingly working towards. Sombra takes a long drink. The coffee scalds her tongue. 

 

“Sure,” Sombra says. “Let’s go.”

 

Widow drops the t shirt and looks up at her. “‘Let’s?’ One of us needs to stay here and continue surveillance.”

 

Sombra folds her arms. “But neither of us wants to get trapped in this house 24/7. We can review them when we get back, but I’m not letting you skip out on me.”

 

Widow rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Fine. What are the local boutiques?” Sombra laughs. “What?”

 

“You said you wanted to blend in, right?” Sombra takes her mug and heads for the stairs. “Shower and get dressed. We’re going to the mall.”

 

-

 

Widow must be getting used to their new reality, because she simply looks resigned when they pull up to the white concrete compound. Sombra shivers as they step into the gale force air conditioning, but Widow just looks around them. “I believe all I need here are casual clothes and workout gear,” she says. “We can split up, if you want? You get the former, I get the latter.”

 

“You trust me?”

 

Widow smiles, leans down, and kisses her. “You know what I like,” she says. Before Sombra can properly process, she walks off toward the ominous Under Armor facade. Sombra blinks and walks in the opposite direction. 

 

She walks thoughtlessly past the first few stores, then snaps to attention and begins to critically examine what she passes by. This one seems too formal for their needs, this one too casual. This one seems as though anything she bought here would give her a rash. This one only sells leggings. 

 

She does know what Widow likes. Widow likes leggings– athletic ones, not the cotton novelties that store was peddling. Widow likes suits, because ballerinas and statesman’s wives were always supposed to be ultra-feminine, but no one’s invented sartorial norms for assassins yet. Widow likes that one hoodie with the big kangaroo pocket that Gabe is never going to get back. Sometimes Sombra will see her wearing it for days on end, and she’ll just smile when Sombra teases her about it. 

 

Sombra knows entirely too much about what Widow likes, and Sombra likes the knowing entirely too much. 

 

Her train of thought is interrupted when she walks past a particularly distinctive storefront. Sombra smiles and snaps a picture, ignoring the baleful stare of the Hot Topic employee who ends up in frame, and texts it to Gabe.

 

>***: Want me to get you anything?

 

>213: Haha. I was more of a pacsun teen tbh.

>213: Did widow drag you there?

 

>***: Don’t project.

 

>213: Im not. She came to a bw halloween party once. She literally wore a black and green corset and a shitton of black eyeshadow.

 

Sombra swallows and shoves her phone back in her pocket. It buzzes anyway. Sombra peeks. 

 

>213: Really? Youre into that?

 

A quick reply about stones and glass houses presents itself, but that would mean admitting Gabe was right. Sombra elects to ignore him instead. 

 

She does go in and buy a shredded black tank top, though. She puts it in the Uniqlo bag she eventually gets, and throws away the Hot Topic one. 

 

She meets Widow in the food court, where Widow is waiting with two Starbucks cups– her frappuccino comically dwarfing an espresso cup. Sombra smiles and takes the cup. 

 

“There’s probably an appliance store here. You think Akande would let me expense an espresso machine?”

 

“I refuse to believe you have, in your life, gone through proper expense channels.” Sombra tips her head in acknowledgement, then downs the shot. 

 

“Can I see what you got us?” Widow asks. Sombra hands her the bag, and Widow rifles through the t shirts and jeans. Sombra swears she sees her smile at the tank top. “This looks good. Do you mind if we stop somewhere on the way out?”

 

It’s an innocuous request. Sombra agrees. Sombra falters when Widow leads them to the Victoria’s Secret. She isn’t sure if she’s relieved or disappointed when Widow enters the PINK section. 

 

“Their sweatpants seem soft,” Widow says. Sombra nods. Widow looks down at the piles of clothes and Sombra looks to the adjoining store. They both have seen each other in much better shit than this painfully suburban lingerie. It’s more than a little pathetic that it’s affecting her like this. 

 

But it is. Maybe it’s the frustration, maybe it’s that Widow looks good in black. But Sombra walks to other store. She feels Widow’s eyes on her back as she leaves, as she picks up the black lace bustier and panties, and she makes eye contact with Widow as she walks back.

 

“It would look good on you,” Sombra says, when Widow doesn’t ask. Widow swallows and nods. She picks up the first pair of sweats in front of her and hurries to the register.

 

Sombra smiles. It’s a little mean. But if she’s going to suffer, she’s not going to suffer alone.

 

-

 

They stop by an organic grocery store on the way back. Widow grabs the cheap wine they had earlier, as well as frozen dinners and some supplements. Sombra’s lived off worse. But she’s expecting this stakeout to be pretty fucking boring, and she worked in a kitchen when she was a kid. So after Widow’s done, Sombra winds the cart through the aisles and fills it up with ingredients to meals she half-remembers. Widow trails her, tossing in increasingly absurd items. 

 

“You don’t want that,” Sombra says when Widow tries to add a durian. “Trust me.”

 

“What if we hid it in one of Reyes’s stupid extra pockets? He wouldn’t find it for ages.”

 

Sombra buys the durian and the rest of the groceries. Widow opens a bag of chips in the car and shares it with Sombra as they drive back. They finish it off as they review the tapes. There’s little activity on the block, and anyone they spot matching Kessler’s description is quickly cleared. When they’re done, Sombra starts dinner. 

 

As she cooks, she thinks. As the day has gone on, she’s felt less anxious around Widow. In fact, she’s secure enough now to admit she was anxious in the first place. This was a lot. This is a lot. They’re playacting like a married couple, and Sombra doesn’t even know if she could call Widow her girlfriend. It’s the kind of pressure that could make this whole thing fall apart. 

 

But it hasn’t. And Sombra knows that for her, that’s because she really doesn’t want it to. She doesn’t like to get her hopes up. She doesn’t like to rush in without all the intel. But today was a good day. And Widow seemed happy too. 

 

Sombra doesn’t hear Widow come into the kitchen, but she hears Widow hum softly before she wraps her arms around Sombra’s waist. She rests her bony chin on Sombra’s shoulder. “What are you making?”

 

“Nothing much. Chicken stew thing.” Widow hums again and stays wrapped around Sombra, swaying lightly. Sombra is suddenly far too warm, even with Widow’s lowered body temperature. 

 

“Gabe knows we were at the mall,” Sombra says. “I should probably check in with him. Make sure he doesn’t rat us out, for abandoning ship.”

 

“I already told Akande,” Widow said. “I wanted his advice on something there. We’re not worried about Kessler running right now. It’s fine.”

 

“Ah.” Sombra pokes at one of the chunks of chicken in the pot. “I was worried.”

 

“Don’t be,” Widow says. She lets go of Sombra. “Do you need help with anything?”

 

“No, I’m good.”

 

“You don’t need help setting the table?”

 

“I mean, there are only two of us, but I guess you can–“ Sombra turns and when she does Widow is standing there, holding some bowls, the black bustier visible through her new white t shirt. 

 

Widow smiles. “We still need to eat out of something.”

 

“Yeah,” Sombra says. Widow rolls her shoulders back and Sombra rolls her eyes. “Do you want me to burn our dinner?”

 

“Of course not,” Widow says. “That’s why I offered to help.” Sombra rolls her eyes again but Widow has her back to Sombra, making some effort to ready the table. “I didn’t know you could cook, by the way. It makes those piles of ramen and energy drinks by your desk all the more depressing.”

 

“You’re one to talk.” 

 

Widow snorts. “Fair. Did you just start learning?”

 

“No, I’ve been cooking since I was a kid. Just don’t always have the time now.”

 

“Really?” Widow turns around. “When did you learn? I know you didn’t…”

 

She trails off and Sombra doesn’t blame her. Widow might not know the specifics of her childhood, but she knows Sombra grew up in Mexico during La Medianoche. That tells anyone a lot already, to Sombra’s distaste. 

 

It occurs to Sombra that this is the closest anyone’s come to actually asking her about her childhood in years. It occurs to Sombra that the fact that it’s Widow asking is the most daunting aspect of the question. 

 

Sombra knows the power of knowledge, and she knows how things like this– things that hurt to remind yourself of, things that you try to outgrow or outrun your whole life– are absolutely lethal in the wrong hands. As much as she might like her coworkers at Talon, she doesn’t want to give them the smallest scrape of power over her, much less a cut this deep. It occurs to Sombra that it’s incredibly stupid that she wants to answer Widow anyway.

 

She doesn’t. Sombra turns off the burner and says, “I just picked stuff up, I guess.” She brings the pan over to the table. The second she sets it down, Widow reaches up and kisses her. 

 

Sombra looks at her bemused. “We still have to eat. Food.”

 

“I know,” Widow says. “I just wanted to.” And she says it with a kind of thoughtless honesty that makes Sombra guilty and happy, makes her scarf down her food and practically drag Widow to the couch. Sombra tears the new t shirt. Widow doesn’t seem to mind. 

Notes:

I’m @tacticalgrandma on twitter if you want to talk to me there!

Thank you so much for reading, and any comments or kudos would mean the world to me 💜