A Collection of Orphans and Sad Sacks

docholligay:

Anyway I wrote some gross self-indulgent OW, which isn’t even shippy so idk if anyone will enjoy it but my gay ass, BUT HERE WE ARE. 1172 words. Takes place after this and this 

One thing Winston had gained a particular skill for was the sound of the metal stairs that led to his lab. Each person’s echo was slightly different, their own fingerprint–Tracer’s were light and high and fast as she practically ran up the stairs, though with her it was hardly necessary to notice, since at least half the time she was already calling ‘Hey Win!” up to the lab. Mercy’s were sure and soft, 76’s were hard and unyielding, Dva’s…well she hadn’t yet made her way up here, though she could hardly be blamed, with all the excitement of Tracer nearly getting killed on her first Overwatch mission. Had anyone comforted her? Should they? Overwatch now was more a loose association, and sometimes it made structural questions difficult.

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