The continuance of @katrani‘s commission re: the Doomfist short!
You can find me on patreon or my ko-fi!Comments welcomed! Entire OW universe is Here. 1,159 words.
Some years from now, (if time is to be trusted at all) Emily MacNair will be lying in bed, dozing happily and dreaming of nothing at all. If she would be dreaming about anything, it might be how soft her sheets are, or how comfortable the house is, or how lovely it is to be lying next to her beloved girlfriend, and how very happy she is, as happy people often reflect on these things in the gentle arms of slumber.
Suddenly, there will be a jolt next to her in bed, a gasp and a cry, and she will not quite understand what is happening, her mind still being on the theoretical clouds of how lovely the curry Tracer made last night had tasted, but she will feel Tracer leap from the bed, feel the room’s buzzing energy change as she unhooks her accelerator from its base and clips it tightly around her body, and it will come to her what is happening.
Whenever it happens, it breaks her heart anew. Her girl is bright and kind and sunny and scarred.
“It’s 3:46,” she will say, holding Tracer close on the dark wood floor, “on March 15th. We’re in London, in your little house, that’s always been yours, Lena. You’re here with me. I’m holding you, Lena, and ye aren’t going anywhere.”
Emily MacNair, formerly of Inverness and currently of London, will hold Lena Oxton, callsign Tracer, formerly and currently of London, but with a bit of a vacation nowhere or nowhen at all, and gently stroke her hair, and repeat the incantation to the consistency of time, and Tracer will simply bury her head in her shoulder, her tears crossing each freckle as effortlessly as time passes through us all.
@docholligay FOUND IT
Rhio's Tunglr Stuff 