docholligay:

Here we are, my pineapple upside down cakes, at the end of this series. I have LOVED writing this, and I hope you’ve loved reading it! I want to give a special shoutout to @katrani who besides being a lovely person I’ve had the fortune to meet in person, made this whole thing possible, and I feel very spoiled and lucky that she let me write this. DOC WITH A HAPPY AND HOPEFUL ENDING WTF (oh please, I do it all the time you big babies) 

The entirety of my OW universe, including the first 8 parts of this story, can be found here. 

ET FINI

A pause, like a breath, and the sound of breaking laughter, and then, Tracer’s cry.

“Bloody ‘omophobia, this is!” Tracer leaned across the table, eyes sparkling, “‘ere among me own family!”

There was a certain amount of general din that followed any occasion where the Oxton clan got together, and the June occasion of a wedding was more excuse than they had ever needed to drink and dance and carry on. Six months ago, Winston had been sitting alone in a laboratory, sending a pulse out into time and hoping it could be heard, lonelier than he had ever been in his life.

“‘Ow do you figure, Lena?” Her aunt Lily sat across from her, laughing into a cocktail shrimp.

Then, he’d looked sadly into the little bug jar room he’d filled with her belongings–Biscuit, her blanket, a worn and loved Hammers shirt, a few RC planes, a picture of the two of them in London, as if he could coax her home like a cat that’s gone out, tucking a familiar towel into a box–and hoped he could find her again, knowing the odds were against him. Knowing no one believed, not even gentle, kind Mercy, who had brought him coffee every morning.

But no one knew Tracer like Winston did.

“I don’t like it, and it ‘urts me personally!” Tracer exploded in a bright laugh, rocking back into the chair and taking a drink of her beer and tapped Winston on the leg. “Win, defend me ‘ere!”

When she had returned, it had been Winston again, in the little bug jar with her, coaxing her to try to eat, to try to talk, to try to live, while others looked on sympathetically or pityingly or resentfully or those that didn’t look at all, just wrote cold words on forms that sealed her fate. But he sat with her, knowing no one believed, not even generous, soft Mercy, who brought a little basket of Tracer’s favorite foods and smiled sadly.

But no one saw Tracer like Winston did.

“As a fellow ‘omosexual, I ‘ave to tell you–” Her Uncle Mark leaned toward her, shaking his head, taking his arm from around his husband’s shoulder.

“Misogyny!” Tracer laughed again. “Assailed from all sides, I am!”

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