#aaatc

He seems to grumble in agreement, and you both turn over to the awaiting dog food bowl. There, watching you both with her fluffy white head high in the air and sitting like goddamn royalty, is Major. Her dark eyes bore into you, and you wonder how a dog can feel so passive-aggressive.

You groan, meandering over to feed them. You dig around in the cabinet near their food bowls, feeding them both once Minnie finally decides to plop his ass down. You pour their bowls, and despite how their tails both wag (Minnie's large black one making even louder thuds than before, a stark contrast to Major's silent white tail swaying, they sit still. You watch them, hand poised in the air. Then, you drop it in a sharp swipe, and they pig out.

"Animals," You chide, but the smile on your face is heartfelt.

That aside, you slowly turn back to your many monitors. All of them show different museums, but one in particular is blank and waiting for you to fill it with digits, addresses, IPs -- you yawn.

"Coffee first," You grunt, spinning on your heel.

...

You sip your dirty iced chai latte, curled up in your computer chair. A few lines of code, some intense digging, and one convincing phone call later as a museum curator, and on the screen sits a long list of information about your newest little treat.

A gold tongue from some dead Egyptian king that you really did not care much about -- you cared about how many tricks there'd be in its defense, as well as how much that puppy would go for.

You didn't think you were incapable of slipping through the booby traps yourself, it was just a lot funner smarter to let others do your dirty work for you. Like Talon! Fucking idiots. If they stopped just running in or doing big ass, entirely conspicuous heists, maybe they'd have a higher success rate. Though, you supposed with them it was less about the success of stealing and more about watching the look of loss on their opponents' faces. Mauga specifically, the guy was a fucking beast, and also, he hated you.

He thought you were too shady, which was honestly the smartest observation you'd ever heard him make.

You nodded along to the music, a grin on your face as you typed up a new code -- an alert, one that would certainly get the attention of more than a few people.

If you think I'm stupid now

You should see me when I'm high

And I'm smarter than I look

I'm the dumbest girl alive

You tap Enter, a sly grin on your face as you rest your chin on your hands. Your phone goes off with an alert, looking like any other one your phone might receive -- missing kid, bad weather. A traditional yellow triangle, a general hazard symbol, but instead of any of the average black warning symbols -- a silhouette of a dog's head, mouth open to show the thick fangs.

Attention! A valuable artifact (Gold tongue, approx. 2,000 years old) was last seen in Cairo, Egypt. Dig site managed by Wayfinder Society, under surveillance of Overwatch hero Venture.

It finishes in the longitude and latitude, and you hop up from your chair to get ready, a skip in your step.

...

You were unaffiliated -- at least, that's what you called yourself. Your priority was you, not some organization that half the time seemed more interested in fighting than winning. You thought it was stupid as fuck how some of them just went head-on, no show of subtlety or preservation.

Which was to say, because you wanted that fucking gold tongue, and for every other villain who got the message to fail spectacularly, you made the alert a mass one. Civilians, heroes -- everyone got it. The idea was that they'd listen to it, prep for the not-at-all subtle fight head-on from Talon, and would be so preoccupied with that, they wouldn't notice you slip in. Better yet, Venture would relocate it and you'd just snoop to where. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

Of course, you had some of your own prep to do.

And your top priority was the hero Venture.

You eye their file on one of your monitors, humming along to the music as you get dressed.

Sloan Cameron, Mexican-Canadian, home was previously Nova Scotia, family both there and Mexico, roaming with the Wayfinders currently, joined at 16... You run through all the info while you finish getting dressed, buttoning up your jeans.

"They got their fucking PhD at 20? What the fuck..." You huff. You had never gotten yours, but you knew that shit was impressive. You slide on a simple baggy t-shirt from a concert you'd been to a while back and a flannel over that. You tug your flannel on over it, then go to lace up your beaten-up docs. A few rings here, some chains, fixing your facial piercings, sliding on your glasses with some subtle make-up to enhance your eyes and make your lips kissable.

You do a little spin in the mirror, grinning slyly then smiling demurely then smoldering.

"Ahh," you sigh, snatching your keys up as you glance at your phone. You pull up an app with the same dog silhouette as the alert you sent out. When it pulls up, a long list of heroes and villains floods your phone screen. You tap the end of your phone against your pc, smiling as you watch the one listed Venture brighten with a loading symbol.

"Time to ruin someone's day."

With those chipper words, you give your dogs sloppy kisses on their heads, grab your keys, and then head to the museum.

...

You don't head straight to the dig site, because that'd be too obvious. Instead, you head to the smaller Wayfinder Society sanctioned museum. It looks only moderately busy, and you can spy some of the workers walking quickly from a side door. Your smile is hidden by your motorcycle helmet, but you shift the grin on your face to something less sinister as you tug it off.

When you head in, you let a beaming smile take over your face and head straight to the front desk. A woman sits there, her name tag reads Lily, and you saddle up to the desk as you run a hand through your wild hair.

When her eyes flick up to see who's approaching, you make sure to tilt your head back enough to emphasize your jawline. You keep your eyes half-lidded enough to look at her through your lashes, your smile easy, and once you see her brows hop up, you give yourself a pat on the back.

Hook, line, and sinker. You tap an inconspicuous finger against the watch on your wrist. It blinks red on the side.

"Oh! Welcome, uh --" Her face goes red as you lean casually against the counter, resting your chin in your hand as you peer down at her, "How can I help you?"

"Hi," You let your voice drawl, "I was wondering if you guys were taking internships right now? Summer's coming up, and I've just been super interested in this recently." You give an easy grin, tilting your head. Your eyes drag meaningfully from her green eyes to her lips, her throat -- you watch her swallow.

Ah, what an ego boost. But God, people are fucking predictable. Pathetic.

"Anything for a good resume, ya know? Or even --" You let your expression brighten in false excitement, "If I could just get a small interview to help work on my Master's thesis, that'd be great! Are you --" You let your eyes widen in embarrassment, then lick your lips, pretending not to notice when her eyes follow your tongue piercing, "Sorry, ignore that, I don't want to be a bother--"

And, on cue, she takes the bait to argue that no, you were not being a bother. So predictable, but at least it was making this run smoothly.

"No, no! It's no bother, I totally get it. I, um," She tilts her head down bashfully, and you pretend like you give a fuck as you lean farther over the counter. "I actually just got my Masters, so, like, yeah! Yeah, I get it--and if you do need an interview--"

"Lily! Mi amiga, can I get your help real quick-- Oh! Hola!"

Well, fuck. Maybe you were bitching too much about her predictability that God had to humble you. Your expression of shock is too obvious, so you lean into it as you tilt your head at Venture.

This was gonna be one of your least favorite acts to pull, but desperate times, ya know?

You watch as Lily shoots them a disgruntled glare, to which their eyebrows go up and they throw their hands up in surrender. You pretend not to notice their eyes flick between the two of you before their mouth goes in a little o.

Ah, yeah, you're sure if this was sincere, you'd be pissed about the cockblock too. Unfortunately for Lily, you were painfully uninterested.

Anyway, moving on from that --

"Oh my god! Are you Venture? This is actually great timing, wait--" You press your face into a look of utter dazzlement, smile wide and stars shining. You slide off from your position leaning against the counter, walking a little closer as you tactically slide off your glasses and into your hair. The lack of barrier reveals the depth of your eyes and pushes back some hairs that were obscuring the softer apples of your cheeks.

You spy Lily flip them off in your peripheral, and you swallow a chuckle. You gaze into their amber eyes, beaming. Your hands come up to gesture as you speak, but before that, again, you slide your tongue across your peachy lips.

Their gaze doesn't follow it, but you see the way their left-hand stretches, fingers flexing then curling. Ah, well, honestly kudos to them for not oogling you. You were fucking hot, and you made sure of it.

Note to self; Venture does not think with their dick. Lily sure as fuck did, and honestly, good for her.

"I was just telling Lily that I was looking to interview someone for my Master's thesis? You'd -- I mean, I totally get it wouldn't be a priority, you're a hero -- but it'd be a dream, and super helpful! I just -- I totally get you saying no, but I have to ask, ya know?"

Their eyebrows hike up, and you see them glance over at Lily. You're too far turned now to see her from your peripheral, but it's some sort of sign of go-ahead, because they focus back on you with a beaming smile. They clap, and okay, yeah, they do have pretty big hands.

You push that thought aside because you (unlike Lily) could not be thinking with your dick at the moment. You had to secure the bag, first and foremost.

"Ohh," They sing, but their hands slide down from the clap to tap on their thigh. Nervous tick, likely. They had definitely gotten the alert you sent out earlier, but since they were here -- that certainly confirmed the gold tongue was either being moved or they'd assumed it was a distraction from a possible ambush to the museum. You'd figure it out. But them being here meant there was definitely other OW officers at the site for backup. Inconvenient. "I'm actually in the middle of something, but! I'd be super happy to set up something soon!" They smile at you, and you're honestly a little impressed by how genuine they are.

Then, curiously, "What's your major? I dualed in History, Archaeology, with a minor in anthropology!" Were they a fucking monster? Who does that to themself? As if reading your thoughts, their grin is bright and a smidge sheepish, "I was super indecisive. Anyway -- that interview!"

You yank out your phone from your pocket, "Swap numbers? Or, well, I mean, if you have like a business phone --"

And then this bitch has to throw a wrench in your goddamn plans.

They give a sheepish smile, but you see in their eyes that this motherfucker was scheming. "Lo siento, pero since I'm, uh," their face almost looks uncomfortable, "an Overwatch officer, that's kinda..." they trail off, then give you a little grin, "ya know? BUT!"

Their grin is back full force, and you spy dimples in their cheeks. "You can get Lily's number, she does all the times and appointments!"

Then, not at all subtle, they spin on their heel and jog off. You internally smack yourself over the head for eyeing the curve of their toned shoulders -- this had to be more karma for you making fun of how Lily was so easy.

Ugh.

Well, that fell through. Sure, you could send out alerts -- but if you'd tapped your phone to theirs, you could've bugged it and that would have been so convenient. Fuck them for being a good friend and trying to let Lily bag you.

At least that confirmed that they were here, which meant something was happening.

You spin on your heel and smile at Lily, sliding out your burner phone -- identical to your regular, sans your special little app.

"Can I get your number, please?" You purr it out, because you were kinda awful.

Her face goes red and she simpers.

...

So, con: without bugging Venture's phone, you couldn't track them.

Pro: after spying on the dig site with one of your nifty little mechanical bugs, you confirmed that the gold tongue had been moved.

Another pro: OW enforcements had left after a rather rushed attack from Talon and some other miscellaneous thieves.

Presumably (hindsight: this was wishful thinking), that meant that Venture had chilled out and moved it back. Your mechanical bug confirmed as much when you saw the gold tongue in the dig site, rope lining the scene to mark off the area.

You gave a chuckle at how utterly wrecked the tome was up to that point -- at least those booby traps were definitely out of the way now.

Now was time to get ready.

You slip into a full black get-up. Black cargo pants, pockets full of things that would probably get you arrested for no less than 10 years, a skin-tight long sleeve black turtle neck, black leather gloves. You slip on your holsters for your guns, a holster on your thigh for a dagger, and two small knives go into inconspicuous pockets on your docs.

You hear Minnie boofing excitedly, his tail thumping as per usual. You take a moment to plop down on the ground, letting him run to you. You'd have been absolutely slammed to the ground if not for Major walking behind you, your back pressing into her fluffy white coat.

He licks your face, but you pop your tongue at him to stop. You still had some make-up on and didn't want him ingesting any.

"You two ready, babies?"

Minnie gives an ear drum ringing bark, while Major simply wags her tail.

You give them both kisses, struggling to stand up as Minnie adamantly refuses to leave your lap. The hulking Cane Corso mix still thought he was the puppy you'd snatched off from a dog fighting ring.

You huff, slinking over to your bed. You reach under it, sliding a board out of place on the floor. You pull out a simple black dog mask, sheer lining over the eyes making it wholely black. You slip it into your bag and tug on your bulky black jacket to hide the harnesses of your guns.

You grab your keys, this time to your car. Black, sleek, and fast.

You click your tongue and both of your dogs come up, waiting for you to unlike the door.

Then, you load up.

...

You whip your car into park far from the site, eyeing the very distant lights of some tents. Not everyone was asleep, but you had confidence in your abilities. You kill the engine, slipping out and letting out Minnie and Major. Minnie blends in with the dark night while Major seems to absorb the little moonlight from the crescent in the sky.

You pull your mask from your bag, slipping it on. When it darkens your vision a touch too much, you huff, sliding on some night vision lenses. It looks fucking ridiculous with your dog mask.

You don't rush, sitting on the fine sand as you pull out your phone. Your bug was on low battery, but you still succeeded in having it speed through the wrecked path to the gold tongue. All clear.

You hop up, sliding your phone into your pocket and stripping off your bulky jacket, tossing it in the car. Then, you slip a gun out of its holster, checking the silencer. Check.

You look to Minnie and Major, both of them sitting with entirely still, straight tails.

You lift a hand, and they stand. A swirl of your finger, and they're off, Major leading Minnie, running fast on the outskirts of the tents in the direction of the tome.

Showtime.

...

You slink through the entrance to the tome, eyeing where Minnie stands and waits for you. With the low light of the torches, you toss your night vision lenses into a pants pocket. Your eyes squint at him, but he doesn't look nervous by Major's absence. Odd of her to not be with him, but she was also a frustratingly smart dog -- could be that she found something worth noting.

"Alright, alright," You mutter, pulling out your phone. You had both your dogs on trackers, and sure enough, the red dot that was Major was roughly the same coordinates for the gold tongue.

You pocket your phone again, huffing as you start slowly in that direction. Your steps are silent, and regardless of your confidence in how empty the tome is, you stick to the darkest edges of the tome's walkways.

Minnie sticks close behind you, his nose nudging around your feet as he sniffs the ground. You squint down at him, pausing. Something wasn't right.

Too often people ignore facts and intuition. Facts were irrefutable, and intuition was unmanageable. It tore at your gut lining and made your ears ring, physical indicators that something was not right. Major ran ahead on occasion, she was (sorry, Minnie) top dog. But that, plus how hard Minnie was sniffing? He made you nervous when his head was to the ground, because his sniffer was pretty fucked frankly, so if he smelt something--

You hold up a hand, and he stops full tilt. You curl your fingers slowly, and he immediately drops low, his head dropped. You crouch low, your eyes squinting ahead.

What to do?

You could be paranoid, but personally, you just didn't believe in paranoia. There was no such thing as being too careful, and the ill feeling in your gut had held true this long.

Feelings were irrelevant, though. You had the gut hunch something was up -- so the only thing that mattered was what you could do.

Leaving wasn't an option, Major was ahead and with the gold tongue.

Step 1 was moving then, cautiously. You slowly move along the wall, silent in your crouch. Minnie makes himself as small as he can as he follows you.

It could be a trap, which was honestly pretty likely. You bring your gun up, digging into one of your many cargo pockets for a modified scope. You had hobbies, almost all were illegal, but one of your favorites was tinkering. Improvement, if you wanted to make it sound better. You snap the scope on, peering at the small circular lens. As opposed to an obvious red dot laser pointer, you'd switched it to something more subtle. Your aim wasn't bad, contrary to that, you were a fucking stellar shot, but again, it never hurt to be careful. The scope gave off a pointer light that was only visible through the lens, making it far less obvious than just having a stray red light appear on your target.

You feel Minnie's cold nose press to your thigh, and you almost coo. Poor baby was nervous.

You run your hand across his head, peering down at his twitching ears and stiff tail.

Baby wasn't nervous, baby smelt something -- a someone.

You fight back a groan, because you could bet your goddamn sports car who.

Motherfucking overachiever.

...

Sloan wasn't a paranoid person, they were smart. They had the degrees to prove it -- not that degrees proved intelligence, because they'd met tons of very dense people with degrees. The point being, and entirely related, they knew something was up as soon as that alert went out.

They may or may not have had a slight hyperfixation on this particular brand of thief. Mostly because they couldn't even say for sure if you were a fucking thief or if shit was just being swiped by workers. No place was airtight, Wayfinder Society included. Sure, there'd be alerts like those, but that didn't directly indicate anyone. Talon never refuted or agreed that it was them, Mauga had even laughed in their face! Qué cabrón!

So, as a sort of fun little side project, they had made a little corkboard. Alerts that lead to bounties and thefts, assassinations that were announced via more alerts before the bodies were even found -- so obviously someone who functioned on the down low but had an ego. Honestly, it felt like a newsboard for villains. Here's what you can steal near you! Want spare cash? This person is wanted dead or alive! On the topic of that, here's where to find a dead body! On the list of occurrences, they listed dates, locations, then cross-examined for other bizarre events at the time.

Two instances occurred in the same area as crimes you'd played a part in -- two cases of arson. Big fucking cases of arson, but the context was what got them. The first was about five years ago in Los Angeles, and they could remember hearing about it at the time. A discovered sex trafficking ring supported by embezzled funds from discontinued films, all led by some B-list producer. He'd been loaded.

Then, one night, his estate went up in flames. The same night, before the fire had started, there'd been insurmountable information leaked; photos of victims, recorded audio, videos, falsified inventory, and income. The guy had been virtually dead before his body was ever found.

Which begged the question of why?

Sloan wasn't obtuse, either. Arguably, they prided themself on their perceptiveness. Perceptiveness was a key to finding things and making discoveries. And this whole thing? A huge discovery waiting to happen.

Anyway -- they got off-topic. Point being was that that was a very moral thing for a definite criminal to do. Which meant that whoever it was had some set of morals, a code of ethics. And that piqued their interest.

The other instance was, again, a huge thing of arson about 2 years ago. It was also in America, near NYC. A small establishment, a bar, had been absolutely obliterated. But, interestingly enough, both of the other businesses surrounding it had been emptied for different problems; the bakery by it had a convincing report of a small gas leak, and the restaurant by it had their freezers go out overnight and all their food went bad. The fire had exclusively affected that business, which was discovered to have numerous kennels in the basement, and ledgers with names and bets were leaked the following morning. An illegal dog fighting ring.

So, a vigilante?

But did vigilantes kill people?

A villain with a bleeding heart?

Regardless of your morality, you did steal precious relics of unprecedented cultural and historical value and that pissed them off bad.

Sloan huffed, leaning farther behind the rubble of the tome's halls as they watched the bug fly through the halls.

Something was up, and Sloan was determined to put a face to their little side job. When they saw that bug, oddly shiny and certainly not native to Cairo, they waited. They hid, curled up behind some rubble to watch.

Then, shortly after that bug did its little round, then promptly plopped to the floor in a way that was embarassingly obvious -- a huge ass white dog came in.

The dog had to be a Great Pyranese or some mix, but that was negligible, because Sloan connected the dots almost immediately.

In the first fire, for evidence purposes, Sloan had printed a photo of the family and pinned it to the incident. Included in that family was a large, white dog that had the same mismatched brown and white as the one they were currently staring at.

Which was now whipping its head to them.

fuck.

Sloan darted out, faster than the dog could run away. Interestingly, it didn't bark at all. It hardly growled, but the way its lips peeled back to show sharp teeth and drooling spit was threat enough.

Unfortunately for it, while Sloan had a great sense of when something was up, they had no sense of danger. It's why they made such a great adventurer!

Without pausing at the snapping of its jaws, Sloan slips around and lifts it under an arm. The dog was huge, making the carry uncomfortable, and they hoped they weren't hurting it as they awkwardly carried it back into their hiding spot. They had their other hand a loose grip over their jaws, and if Sloan didn't have utter confidence this dog would be smart enough to bite the shit out of them and run, they wouldn't restrain it at all.

"Lo siento, bebé," Sloan whispered, feeling genuinely bad. "I just gotta keep this thing safe, alright? Won't hurt you at all."

As if proving that this dog was far too smart for its own good, it stilled in their grip. Blue/brown eyes met their own amber ones, and Sloan loosened their grip. Then, as if unimpressed by them all together, it snapped its head to the entryway.

A minute passed, then another, then --

oh.

"Puta Madre," and with that, the dog in their grip goes back to fighting and snapping. Because Sloan had, in fact, just been shot with what must have been...then flick their gaze down. Some sort of fucking tranq, which -- okay, fuck, it hurt like hell.

They had, from some very unorthodox and maybe questionable research projects and adventures, a very good idea of how long they'd be up. But, they had little doubt you'd come out of the shadows if they stayed up. So, they release the dog and let their hands dart to their shin. It must have been in view enough from their odd position to avoid letting the dog slip away.

They let themself wobble, their body slowing. They hope it's convincing enough when they go slack.

They hear a huff, silent.

"They really are a major overachiever -- first that fucking PhD at 20 and now this? Get a fucking life, Jesus."

Okay, well, honestly they were a mix of flattered and indignant. Because fuck yeah they were an overachiever, they loved their work...and they did have a life. Their life was work, with some like -- OVA episodes. They had a one-night stand, like, three months ago. And last week they went to an amusement park with some friends from work!

Off topic again, ugh.

They listen for the crunch of gravel.

...

As soon as my foot touches the gravel of the gold tongue's marked-off area, you hear Minnie bark. You go to whip around, but immediately your movement is stilled by the sight of a very familiar drill pointed at you.

What the fuck?

Your shit carried enough to down a horse, so what in the shit was this bitch doing up. You watch them, stunned, as they lift their leg enough to yank the dart out of their shin. They wobble a little, but part of you knows it's likely just from the blooming numbness (assuming it was just taking a minute and they weren't immune, really they were such an overachiever) in their leg and not the weight of their drill while balancing on one leg.

But, more than anything, thank fuck you had your voice modifier on. It was habit to turn it on when you put your dog mask on. If you didn't, with the very fresh interaction you had earlier, they probably would have recognized you.

"You really are an overachiever."

They grin, "Thanks! Now--"

But you don't wait for them to finish, flicking your wrist behind you. Immediately Minnie growls, lumbering forward. Major was big, sure, but she was leaner than Minnie. Her coat just made her look hulking. Minnie though...

The cane corso bends low, slobber dripping and jaws snapping. Major doesn't move towards them, taking your hand gesture to circle the gold tongue, her eyes locked on Sloan.

"Oh," their voice is a little lower, their amber eyes darker and locked onto Minnie, "Hola, bebé más grande."

Then, things happen all at once. You spin on your heel to run to the gold tongue, Minnie darts forward to maul, and you hear the firing of up of their drill. Fuck. And part of your heart stops, because you have never trusted the so-called goodness of heroes, and what if Minnie gets hurt?

A moment too late, you logic that they hadn't hurt Major, but the realization is made too late as your run stutters. You whip back to check on Minnie, only to find him barking down a hole.

This shit was not going according to plan.

As if on cue, you feel the Earth beside you cave, you lose balance, and suddenly your back is pressed to a warm chest. Which, in any other setting, you'd be very pleased with. Unfortunately, there was also a much smaller stun gun poised against your side while their drill-clad arm blocked you from running off.

Minnie and Major were too far from you to risk attacking, with your body obstructing Venture's, and you under threat. They look pissed, lips peeled and slobber dripping. They don't move, and you make sure as you inconspicuously flash your palm out.

"Hot," You joke dryly.

"Qué?"

With that, you drop your head, then promptly slam it back into their face.

Crack.

You hear them hiss behind you and feel the hot spray of blood on the back of your neck when they talk next, seeping through your clothes. Unfortunately, surprise attack or not, their hold doesn't let up. But it does wobble. Thank fuck for the tranq.

"If you could just," warm blood on the back of your neck, "leave, that'd be great. I really don't want to show your babies their parent getting escorted out in cuffs," their voice is low still, seemingly unbothered by their likely broken nose. Well, honestly, maybe the tranq wasn't in your favor for this. Could they even feel their face right now?

So then unstabilizing them was the goal, not pain.

"I dunno," You chime, flippant, "I'm typically into cuffs." Best to distract them -- because who the fuck flirts while held in the arms of someone who could almost certainly break your back like a twig? You do, but that's okay, there were worse things wrong with you. You slowly twist your palm, but you feel that drill press into you, squashing you back into them.

"Do you," their voice is a little strangled, and serves them right you think, "always talk this much? Also," their voice stiffens up, flatter, "call off your dogs. Send them out."

"Talk much in what scenario?" You question, your palm still turning slowly, your dogs tense-- "Like now or in--" They step back, taking their chest away from your spine, and you wonder if you just flirted so hard they got the ick to leave -- like new power unlocked ---

The stun gun flips on and you crumble. It switches off, and you hear Minnie howl.

You were definitely on a tie crunch now, and this whole fucking shitshow changed your priorities. You needed to get the fuck out. Because you can't blame the big baby, but he barked like a goddamn bomb, and while howling in the night wasn't uncommon in the desert, you never know when someone will check.

A choked noise comes from your throat, and you practically fall onto their drill, which wobbles more but holds you up.

"I'm going to ask again," their voice is a little slurred but low and unlike the chipper raspy tone you heard at the museum. "Call them off--"

Fuck this.

You dead weight entirely, lifting your legs off the ground as you throw yourself back into them, and when the stun goes off, you expect it. Your body spasms, but you push through it.

They had that shit on the lowest setting, and while you were out of practice, you weren't a fucking pussy.

"Fuck--"

"Suck a dick," You bite out, tasting blood in your mouth.

You both fall. Except it's into the hole they dug.

Your dogs scramble to chase after you, and you're both scrambling, crammed into the tight tunnel. Half standing on the odd curve of it going from horizontal to vertical, it's at least a foot above your head. You'd have to pull yourself out when you were standing.

Right now though, you were stuffed down here, almost chest to chest with this bitch. Close enough to smell their breath, the faint smell of sweat and dirt, and when you both breathed, you could feel a suffocating heat from them as your ribs expanded, almost touching.

You feel the stung gun pressed to your side, but what mattered more than that was the gun you had pressed to their hip.

"Rock," You croak out, "meet hard place."

A beat of silence.

"You said it wrong," was this motherfucker laughing at you?

For once, you're the one taken off guard. You blink, your eyes struggling to adjustin the tunnel and dim lighting from above. The tranqs had to be getting to them.

"What?"

"It's rock and a hard place." their voice is slurred, and you feel the stun gun at your side wobble.

they were fucking crazy.

"Look," you hiss, "I just want that stupid fucking gold tongue! It's like -- one of however fucking many --"

"It's still the only one like it--" For the first time, they sound pissed.

"Boo fucking hoo."

The stun gun presses painfully into your side. You hear Minnie growl above you both, trying in vain to nip at the top of their head.

"Cállate." A little less slurred, only from the genuine annoyance that fills it.

You feel a feral grin slide onto your face, "Aww, did I piss off Overwatch's new golden child? But I've heard you're so sweet--"

Then, they move.

Their moves were sloppy from the impending loss of consciousness, but they were still way stronger than you. Their free hand, because they'd dropped their drill above when you both fell to avoid crushing you both from being jammed so tight, darts to your wrist, twisting the gun away from their jaw.

The stun gun presses firmer, but you speak. And this time, you do what you do best -- you're fucking mean. "Sloan Cameron, birthday August 6th, raised by your..." You make a show of tilting your head, the nose of your dog mask brushing theirs, "Grandma, right? I wonder how she's doing in Nova Scotia. Still going to mass on Sundays or is she doing Saturday evenings?"

They freeze.

"Would be a damn shame if the whole joint went up in smoke."

The grip on your wrist is painful, "Yo te voy a matar."

You shrug, "Irrelevant. You kill me, it'll still happen. You think I work alone?"

A bullshit lie, because you always work alone, but you do have people who owe you favors.

"You..." They pause, their breath shaking, then, calmly, "You don't kill civilians." Your eyes adjust, and you hate how their amber eyes are so bright and see you.

You stiffen, licking your lips -- too late you realize your tell, because how the fuck did they know that about you, and why were they paying attention?

Their wrist shakes, and you feel the grip loosening. Their legs wobble. With a grunt, you take advantage of it, your brain rushing on adrenaline. Your free hand slams a palm up into their jaw, their head slams back into the packed wall of dirt and rock, and bam -- they're out.

...

Crawling out had sucked. Minnie's bark had proven that yes, paranoia was real, because no one ever left their tents to check it, convinced it was just the general noise of the desert. You grabbed the gold tongue and dipped.

Showered and in bed, you realize something.

Venture, Sloan Cameron, they were the first hero to see you.

You had a profile now.

A face.

...

Overwatch has listed a new villain! Identifiable by a Cane Corso mix and a Great Pyrenees mix. Their attire may vary, but a consistency could possibly be a black dog mask. They seem to be behind a series of assassinations, thefts, and at least two identified cases of arson. If you receive anything with this logo...

Your app logo appears, the general yellow hazard triangle with a black dog head silhouette. You run a hand down your face.

Please call local authorities, who will notify Overwatch. The name Overwatch has given this villain is Canis.

They give a digital, very accurate drawing of what your mask looked like.

"How fucking creative."

You knew exactly who was behind it.

Mostly, you hate that they thought the same as you. It was literally the whole joke behind Major and Minnie; Canis Major and Canis Minor. The big dog and the little dog.

...

And it's not the last time you see them, either. You never do your threat, because that's all it was -- an empty threat. You hate that they seem to know.

They're never as angry as they were that first time, which you aren't entirely sure as to why.

But with the new identity, the name and the face, you're a little bitter. And a lot spiteful. So, you tackle the Wayfinder Society with a new sort of ferocity. You lock the fuck in.

One of your biggest talents was being a major inconvenience, and you were about to prove it.

...

Sloan groans, tugging a dagger from their boot to cut at the net. It looked like thin metal wire, but they'd cut through tougher materials. Except -- the dagger sticks. What.

"It's magnetic!"

They slowly turn their head down, peeking through the gaps to see you standing and gazing up at them. Another late night at a dig sit and this is what happens? Unfair. Sloan pouts.

"Ya know, you could've just said hi."

"I'd rather not. Have a good rest of your shift! Make sure to keep your head away from the night," They can hear the smile in your voice, "I'm pretty sure it's strong enough to yank that eyebrow piercing right out! A shame -- you look good with it."

Sloan leans precariously away from the net, feeling the metal accessories on them tug at the net oddly. The flirt flies over their head, because honestly they couldn't care less.

"Rude!" They holler at your retreating back.

You don't steal anything, Sloan realizes later after getting down and checking the site.

...

They watch you tumble down the hill, laughing because god, it felt good watching you eat dirt.

It was the little things in life.

They'd been ready next time you tried to plant a trap, eyeing the boulder now at the entrance they'd been very purposefully telling everyone to avoid. They'd left that defensive booby trap just for you, and it was great watching you run down the cave in the dead of night. You stumbled when the texture of the ground changed to sand, promptly rolling down a dune.

"Asshole!"

"Takes one to know one!" Sloan sings, voice much brighter with their win as they shift the boulder out of the way and head in. You don't come back for the night.

...

Of course, not all meetings are as mischievous.

Sloan wipes at the blood on their lips, eyeing the red staining their white shirt. They didn't really care, but their grandma had raised them with first impressions in mind.

Speaking of --

"You sent her flowers," Sloan hummed, wiping harder at the gushing blood of their lip. You were flimsy but sneaky, and you honestly snuck in a good throw of your elbow. They could feel a tooth wobbling in their mouth. "Wanna tell me why? I'd really appreciate it!" They keep their voice chipper, "Like for instance, the fact you know my home address! Are you a fan? I'm flattered!"

The last bit was laying it on a little thick, but it was said with the singular intention of pissing you off.

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer--"

"You have friends?" Sloan quipped, voice raspy as usual. It enhanced the wry tone of their voice well.

You pause, snapping your head to them from where you're currently trying to manage your dislocated shoulder. Sloan's honestly just shocked that you aren't reacting more to it.

"Who needs friends when I have enemies like you?"

"That's not how it goes."

"For me, yeah, it is," With that, and whatever that means, they are ready to dip. Still, one hand holds a gun trained on Sloan.

"Did she like them?" Your voice is so casual, polite even.

Every time Sloan thinks they've gotten something on you, closer to some sort of truth, you do this -- bring a new piece to your very large, convoluted puzzle.

Sloan knows that they shouldn't be so enraptured by that. But curiosity is their thing, wanting to know and explore. There's nothing more enticing than what they don't know -- unfortunately for them, you were very much an unknown.

More than Sloan knowing they shouldn't be so, frankly, obsessed -- they know they're not doing their job. Because you're honestly pretty weak. You're unpredictable, quick as a whip, and nifty as hell -- but they could have gotten you so, so many times. Even now, they could catch up to you, knock you out cold, and cuff you.

"She did, but next time in your little stalking session --"

"It's not stalking!"

Sloan blinks at you, eyebrows raised, because you sounded flustered, "Stalking session -- she has cats. The roses were okay because she kept them locked up in her sewing room, but next time, make sure they're non-toxic. Please and thanks!" The last part is surely tongue-in-cheek.

Sloan doesn't pursue you when you run.

...

You fucked up.

You sort of knew you were fucking up, the more you hassled Sloan -- and since when were they Sloan and not Venture? The more it became a game, when the fights felt more like dancing or a vicious game than a fight. It was good, being with someone who had a viciousness in them that matched yours. Where you had ruthless cunning, Sloan had pure strength.

The difference between the two, though, was that ruthless only really works when you're aiming to maim or kill. Clawing someone's eyes out? Tried and true method. A shot to the throat? Effective. You were an assassin, not a fighter.

So, somewhere along the way of touch-and-go bloody noses and bruises, mean comments and their chipped grin, you realized you were losing that cunning with them

Cunning was used to kill, and you did not want Sloan dead.

Of course, your timing is always impeccably late.

When Reaper had come to you with a request, you were disgruntled. You were typically the one dropping intel to other wayward souls, offering clues and info, proclaiming new bounties for people to grab. It was odd and scary alarming for him to reach out to you, offering payment for your sniping services.

Except, it would be an actual ambush.

You'd argued initially, as politely as you could. Because however bad you were, Reaper was worse. You could say no, but if push came to shove, what he was really saying was help me as an ally or die as my enemy. You, understandably, did not want to die. You had dogs to feed.

Plus, badgering Sloan was sort of getting in the way of your primary source of income -- theft and murder. You had a lot of money, but the number Reaper dropped had you foaming at the mouth.

So, begrudgingly, with your life on the line and a decent reward for it at the very least, you show up. You station yourself, ignoring how clammy you feel. God, maybe you should have just argued and tested him. Because the options here were almost certainly the same -- win or lose. Win, you keep your life and what semblance you have of freedom as someone with half their life hidden away, or lose, you're fucking dead or locked away and wishing you were dead.

You load a clip into your sniper.

You don't kill civilians. Their words ring in your head.

And you don't kill heroes either. But here you are, proclaiming to the world and against your will that you are the enemy. You were aiming to shoot the good guys, and Reaper had made sure that you'd been given actual bullets. Your tranqs were discarded.

You breathe shakily, and then you see Tracer step in.

Apparently, the whole point of this was to beat them off (read as: prove a point) and steal their supply of goods they were about to ship off.

You ignore how it'll probably get damaged during this, either blown up by someone or soaked in the biohazard that was blood.

When you feel a chilling look at you, you realize.

You were to take the first shot.

When brown hair, curls caught and pushed around by goggles enter your field of vision, you almost shoot from the jolt your body gives and the following twitch of your finger.

If you shoot now, it's one less bullet.

One less bullet for them to possibly get, one more bullet for someone who isn't them.

You're kind of fucked in the head, you realize. You breathe, and you lock in.

You needed to take every precaution to keep them safe, even ones you didn't want to. You were cunning. A planner. Even now, you had a plan -- for the worst case.

It hits her shoulder and there's chaos.

...

You'd been heavily protected, but even at the end, you're bleeding heavily. You wobble, but you keep your shaky vision on the sight before you.

Sloan, Venture, on the ground. They're beaten, worse than you. Your skin itches, and you have the thought Is this my fault? It makes you feel even dirtier. Because couldn't you have done more? You could have tried to say something -- but Reaper would have known. The fucker knew everything, even more than you at times.

Above them stands Reaper.

You don't know where to aim for a moment, but your hand moves for you.

Reaper's mask lines up in your scope.

And you would.

After all the rounds you'd done, all carefully non-lethal because you were a damn good shot, you'd make this one count. If you had to.

Your hands shake.

"Canis," His voice calls.

And your heart shutters. You feel like fire ants have rained down your body, biting and stinging -- it's a cold wave of fire that makes your vision almost tunnel.

Because Sloan heard him. You spy their head turn, still pressed to the ground. Their goggles are gone, dark curls matted and messy.

Please don't let them hate you.

You don't know if it's meant to warrant a response, but luckily he talks, as your voice seems lost at the moment. Shame, shame, shame. "Final shot, please, dear."

Dear.

This motherfucker.

But what do you do?

Your dogs at home. You needed to be free for them -- but you're sure someone would come and love on them. Sloan would, and you'd set up procedures for your devices to message and distribute your belongings.

If you shot Sloan, you'd hate yourself. They'd hate you. God, they probably did now. Because somewhere along the way, you sort of felt like they forgot you were a bad guy. But there was one thing you could do to fix it -- maybe.

But assuming you shot Reaper -- there were still others. The heroes were down, and reinforcements hadn't arrived. If you didn't take this shot at --

"Canis. Now."

You lock in your scope, your mouth dry.

You shoot.

...

You lay in your bed. On your counter are many, many stacks of bills.

A tip, Reaper had said. You wanted to throw it in his face. You took it anyway, because you'd already come this far, hadn't you? Sloan probably hated you, but at least you could buy something nice for yourself.

But they were also alive. Sporting a wicked scar probably, but alive. You'd hacked their medical records as soon as you got home, breathing out slowly when you saw the check-in time at the local hospital.

Broken ribs, concussion, shattered wrist, dislocated jaw...

Then there, the listings for your bullet wound. You'd aimed at their abdomen because you needed to make it look bad, but you'd distinctly chosen the farther you could off the the side on their hip. It shattered the surrounding bone, but they avoided internal damage to organs.

You feel the lumbering, heaving weights of your dogs getting onto the bed.

When Minnie's wet nose hits your cheek, you realize your cheek is already wet.

You give a shuddering sigh, sitting up sharply.

Your stomach rolled.

Major nudged her head into it as if sensing the dread filling your empty stomach.

You felt bad, and you needed to do something about it.

You pull up the bouquet site.

...

Sloan sits in their hospital bed, flipping through channels that they surely weren't registering. In their defense, they had a lot on their mind. Most of it, they really preferred to just not address at all.

Their phone buzzed on the side table, and for a moment they wonder if it's an alert, or if maybe you did more stalking and got their number --they push those aside. Today was going to be a you free day. They needed it, after --

They snatch their phone, humming, "Hola!"

"Mi niñe!" Sloan's abue croons, and it helps them sink into their bed. "Are you okay? I woke up this morning to more flowers! Tu amiguito está bien? They included a note that just said lo siento -- well, not lo siento -- it said sorry, but you know what I mean!"

Well, so much for having a you free day. Sloan sighs, eyes watching the cartoon on the tv. "¡Yo estoy bien, abuela! Just a little roughed up from a fight -- you know how it is!" They hear her give a scrutinizing hum, and they know a lecture is in the works.

Their grandma supported their passions and was a huge advocate for them being a hero. She was the one who taught the importance of doing what's right, but Sloan knew that didn't mean her worry was mutually exclusive. So, they tried to keep it light and spoke before she could worry, "What are the flowers? I told them last time to think of los gatitos! So hopefully you can put them inside with Sylvester and Tweety."

"It's a very bright bouquet! Mucho amarillo y naranja! And some purple and white. It looks like sunflowers, your favorite, zinnias, and some African violets! There's a lot of alyssum too -- next time, tell them that they addded too much for it to be an accent flower!"

Sloan had a lot of information they just kept bundled in their head; history, anthropology, family recipes, fauna, flora. They'd helped their grandma with her many potted plants growing up, and once she'd settled and they'd stopped moving for her work, they'd helped her in the garden. Plus, knowledge of plant life was very useful when they were running around different environments -- all with different dangers.

One bout with Amanita Muscaria when they first traveled out of the country at 18 and they brushed up heavily on all plant life.

But gardening with their abuela -- that held the best memories and the kindest knowledge. When to support a tomato plant, how to pick the best strawberries and blackberries, what sort of bugs left what marks on the leaves, and how to solve it without spending a penny -- Sloan made sure to keep all those moments tight in their head.

One of them was the meanings of the flowers, something their abuela mentioned when they were younger in passing, and Sloan had snatched a book from the library to read all about it and impress her. She was, and they loved how happy it had made her to have them share her passion with her.

Which was to say--

"It is a lot of Alyssum, mi sol...Did they make you angry?"

They also got their perceptiveness and general nosiness curiosity from their abue.

They close their eyes, blocking out the cartoon. Their head plops back down on the pillow, their brows scrunching a little at the wave of dizziness. They were mostly healed, strung up for an IV after getting an embarrassing amount of blood transfusions. Some bones were still cracked, but so many others needed healing that Mercy had only done what was necessary and left to try and work on everyone else. Lúcio was sure to try to help once he wasn't on bed rest from the fight. They were honestly impressed that they weren't six feet under after it all.

But your shot -- Sloan was not stupid. You had killed many people, clean shots galore (god, there was something wrong with them), but your shot at them was non-fatal. Fuck, they'd even commented mid-battle with Tracer how their sniper -- unbeknownst to them at the time, you -- was a terrible shot! Sure, they landed, but none in places that really mattered. At times, they even missed by an inch.

A singular inch.

Sloan wasn't stupid, which meant that yes, they knew you could have killed them. And you didn't. But you were there, a first for you as far as they knew, so why? You'd been unaffiliated -- unnamed and without a face until they gave the public one.

Did someone make you?

They gently roll their neck and let it pop.

Another little side quest for when they got out of this too-sterile hospital room.

"Mi sol?"

"¡Lo siento, abue! Just thinking. And..." They sigh, because this part made everything so much more confusing (they weren't confused at all, it was just that for once Sloan didn't want to know the truth -- to unlock that box), "I'm not angry. They did do something that should have made me angry, though."

Their abuela is silent, which Sloan knows damn well means keep going.

And Sloan just lets it all fall out -- they coped best after talking about it, "And I really, really should be. We shouldn't even be friends, and I don't even want to call us that! But they keep -- me hacen reír, abuela. And they're smart, and loads of people are smart, but they're mean about it and they play tricks on me -- it's fun. But this time -- I think...I think they did play a trick, but not one they wanted to, and it could have ended really badly. I think...I think someone made them do it, but I don't know. Because they--" have never shot me before.

Tranqs? Yeah. But even that first night you met -- you hadn't been aiming to kill. You didn't kill heroes or civilians, your track record was exclusive to the corrupted. Because Sloan had dug, truly dug, a while into your little dalliances. Some of them had no info, but others-- others were awful. And taking in that dog--

You functioned outside of the law, and that's what made you dangerous. You cared more about punishing the guilty than protecting the innocent -- a very not good quality. And, also, you stole very valuable objects, which was generally just not swell.

They hear their grandma hum, then, "Do you want to be? Angry at them?"

No. Sloan can't say it quite yet.

That's all the answer their abue needs, "Sometimes what matters most is this: riñen a menudo los amantes; por el gusto de hacer las paces. If you're worried about all of this in this first place -- that's the answer, yes?"

Well fuck.

...

You avoid the area for a while. About two weeks. You watch Sloan's medical chart and ease up as they are released.

Then, you get a call from your current least favorite person.

Reaper.

...

You picked at a loose string on your black turtle neck, feeling far too hot in the room with them all. It was meant to be some sort of meeting, one Reaper had thought it best for you to be involved in. It was at a port near the coast, though at this time, it was pretty much abandoned. The drive had been long, and you'd fed your dogs before leaving.

You really just wished they'd leave Egypt already.

You cross your arms and watch the swaying of the moon in the water -- it looked black in the night.

"It has come to my attention that not all of you are aware of our special guest tonight -- Canis, step forward."

There's that feeling in your stomach. That snake of foreboding that screams something isn't right, run, run, run! You freeze like a rabbit in a gun sight, your eyes wide behind your mask.

Because really, you'd been slipping since you fixated on Sloan. That was the best word for it the safest one.

Something was coming back to bite you in the ass, you knew it.

You don't disobey, because that would throw shit awry sooner than you could think of a plan. But what plan was there to have when a whole group of fucking villains, all tethered to Reaper with a ball and chain, were surrounding you?

You blink, moving your feet closer.

You were going to die -- die as an example.

One time, a long time ago, before you ever realized that something with you wasn't right -- that you didn't care for the world. That you resented a society that hated one another -- one where the rich got richer and the poor got poorer. And you hated the heroes too -- too obsessed with their own agendas and beating the bad guys to help the helpless. Lift a builder off you? Sure. Advocate for better healthcare? Not in their expertise. And you hated the villains -- because they were just as obsessed with their own shit.

Point being, you were sitting with your best friend you hadn't spoken in so long, and they looked up from their book to gaze at you, their eyes nonchalant. I'd miss you if you died. A blunt statement, led on by the death of a character in their book.

At the time, you'd laughed and poked fun at them for their sentimentality.

Now -- well, you hoped they'd still miss you. Miles away, years between -- you hoped above the disappointment of who were and what you had become there was sadness when your name flooded the news screen when the body of Canis was identified.

You hoped Sloan would, but you also didn't, because you had already given the overachiever enough grief.

You knew your dogs would, and you hoped when your pulse flat-lined and your watch picked it up, that Sloan would listen to the message with your address and their care regimens. You didn't really have anyone else to give them to --

You were going to die alone.

You always sort of knew you would, you weren't built to be shared with others.

"Thank you, dear," You feel his hand curl around your shoulder, and you want to vomit. You keep your gaze on the black water.

"Now, I believe we all noticed Canis's help at our little ambush."

Yep, you were fucked. You were fucked, and you should have known he'd notice. You were too damn busy being obsessed with fucking Sloan.

You let your eyes drift, eyeing the things that catch the flint of the moon. Weapons, chains, boats --

What was that? You squint, wishing you'd put on your special lenses to see better.

"And for their efforts, I thought I'd give them a reward! A few extra thousand as a last meal -- did you buy yourself something nice, dear?"

Well, that explained the tip.

You were going to die -- so with a sincere fuck it, because flippancy always suited you best, you opened your mouth.

"Call me dear one more time and I'm stuffing that fucking pistol down your throat and making you choke on it."

Understandably, this was not well received. Some villains guffaw, others laugh, and some pull their weapons on you too. You keep your eyes on that dot. Then, you feel a faint tremble under your feet.

You hope it's not too late -- but timing for you was always poor.

You feel the cold metal of Reaper's pistol pressed into your side, a decided lethal position. Looks like the bitch was going to prove a point.

They're so obsessed with their yelling, their own fucked up Bacchanalia, that they don't notice the growing tremble -- you hope they don't.

"So I thought," His voice bellows above the resonance of his underlings, "I'd give them some lessons myself--"

The ground bursts open. You don't even have to give your eyes time to adjust before you beam, and you hope they hear it in your voice because you still have this damn dog mask on, "Sloan."

They were okay, and this was the first time you've said their name just to say it, not like that threat the first night you met.

Their eyes widen, just a hair, and you watch as they dart forward to grab you. You step forward to break from Reaper's hold.

BANG!

You always thought it showed how small Reaper's dick must be to not use a fucking silencer -- just like a small dicked man to make a big show of some bullshit to prove a point rather than be smart.

For a moment, the pain doesn't even register. You watch blood fly, your eyes adjust enough to see some fleck Sloan's tan skin like stars in the sky -- you loved stars. You used to think you'd go to college for astronomy.

The next part -- that's what you notice. Because Sloan was good, an amazing hero, but Reaper had been at this for years. You both were in fucking middle school when he came onto the scene. And, regardless, the bitch was fucking fast.

The breath is knocked out of you as a leg slams into you, and yeah, now you feel that bullet wound.

What a bummer.

You watch Sloan's face as you fly back, realizing as they completely pass up Reaper that you were the priority. How long since you'd been a priority for someone? But then it clicks -- they were reaching out for you.

You didn't have the port under your feet.

Their mouth forms words, you watch as their hands fly to their metal boots, pressing a button and you watch with fascination as they release steam and mechanically unlatch from their legs.

Cool.

Your back hits the icy water.

...

Sloan didn't hesitate. Or maybe Venture didn't hesitate -- but that was a lie. Or maybe right now, they were just some mix of the two. Who they were before it all, and the self they let dominate the battlefield.

Sloan wasn't an angry child. They were bubbly, a little shy at times, too energetic -- odd. Too smart for their own good, and while they had a few friends growing up, they had far more bullies. Changing around school so much never helped, as it was far harder to make friends and far easier to make new problems.

So the moment Sloan had come home with a chipped tooth in elementary, one of their adult tooth so there was no excuse it'd just fall out and grow back fine, their lips busted from the new sharp edge and the punch that caused it all -- their abue sat them down.

If someone punches you, you punch them harder.

The next week, Sloan was sitting with a wide grin on their face in the principal's office, chipped tooth gleaming and knuckles bruised.

The other kid had gone to the ER.

Which, really, was a whole different story, but point being -- Sloan had always had something a little dark in them. Not of their own choice, or that they even really fed into it, but they had a sort of strength and drive that was bestial in a sense. And they put all that violence into Venture; onto the battlefield. It was just a large playground -- full of bullies and fists.

So, as they dive into the water, their gear abandoned up top, they come to a decision.

Once you were safe, not bleeding in the Mediterranean, they were going to treat Reaper just like they did that kid.

Killing was not something Sloan thought about, it wasn't something they ever considered. Detainment was the goal. The closest they'd felt to it was when you made that empty threat about their abuela, but it was mostly from how delirious the tranq made them. Once their heart rate settled, they calmed as they realized you didn't kill civilians

This? This was leagues above that.

Their eyes burn from the salt water, but they don't stop peering into the blackness. The flashlight in their mouth shines -- a dog mask, almost blending in with the black sea -- you.

They swim fast, grab your waist, and the limpness scares them.

Sloan pushes passed the feeling. Right now, feeling was not the answer. It was about what they could do -- Mercy.

They break from the water, gasping around the flashlight in the water. The port was too high, they needed help --

They snatch the flashlight from their mouth, almost sink, then smash it back to the water to begin treading. The light moves wildly like a neon sign.

"MERCY!"

The angelic woman was a beast when she needed to be -- a fucking veteran in the most real sense. Quick as a whip, she comes into view, not even grunting as she grabs their hand and lifts.

She tries to drop you both gently onto the landing, but her speed has Sloan tucking around you as you roll. Your mask flies off.

Oh.

Well, that made sense.

But now wasn't the time.

"Don't leave! They need -- they need your help. Heal them please." Sloan had pouted, sure, but this was pleading. They weren't the type to be embarrassed about it. Their hands move deftly to your pulse --

In their back pocket, their phone dings, but they're unaware.

"Start CPR, now," Mercy moves down to the flooding blood pouring from their side, and Sloan wonders if they bleed that much last time.

No, they realize, they had not. They push it aside, because that was not a safe thought currently.

They tilt your head back, clear your throat, and begin compressions. Then, air -- your lips are cold. They're soft, and it makes them think about how soft they looked in the museum when they unknowingly met you for the first time. Lily would not be getting that date.

You were theirs. And that's a possibly unhealthy, possessive thought to have, but it sticks in their brain like a new set of cells.

The bleeding stops, but their compressions don't. You were --

"Revive them." Their gaze moves to Mercy, "Please. I know--" They're a villain, that I'm not, they're not a hero, this is probably incriminating and suspicious. "I'll do anything -- just please."

She blinks, her battle-ready face melting a little, "Okay -- but you need to get back to battle then. I'll be -- temporarily out of commission. Cover me."

Like that, Sloan hides deep down and Venture comes out. They grab their gear from the floor.

...

Sloan finally falls down into the uncomfortable hospital chair, huffing. It'd taken a lot of convincing, but the other OW members had let them sit with you alone. They had poked, prodded, and asked constant questions -- it was nonstop.

Tracer especially. But it was in the way she smiled, how she didn't squint her eyes in suspicion, how she had just laughed and clapped them on the shoulder. Tracer, Sloan thought embarrassingly, fucking got it. They figured she must, with Widowmaker.

She'd bugged everyone away after a moment, her smile wide with a few quick words, "Welcome to the club, mate."

Fair.

Sloan groans as they shift, tugging their phone out of their pocket. You wouldn't be up any time soon, strung up with IVs, your vitals weak but steady.

So, they go to scroll.

Except, they have a message from an unknown number -- oh. Their hand clenches, eyes moving across the text.

Hey, overachiever. If you're reading this, I'm dead! Major L, right? Hopefully, it was something cool at least -- or like, my body is missing and I become a mystery. Maybe you'll dig me up!

Sloan frowns.

Okay, bad joke to make. You're probably frowning reading that, my bad. But here's what you need to know!

Minor "Minnie" is the big Cane Corso mix. He's a big baby, even if he acts tough. He'll take a while to warm up to you, but just make sure that you have some treats on you when you pull up. Here's his information:...

A ridiculously long series of instructions.

Now, the top dog, Major. She was the one you nabbed, the big fluffy one. She's a real priss, but she'll adjust quicker than Minnie. Let her come to you, do NOT pressure her. Her info is:...

More instructions, more tedious than the last.

You don't have to take them, but I'd like you to. There's other shit I have that'll be sent out, different messages to different people. Glorified strangers, people I took a shine to but don’t talk to -- the life of a Villain is really solitary, who knew? But those two are the only things that matter, and I want you to have them. You're kind, and you'll love them. They'll fucking love you.

That was probably the nicest thing you've ever said to them, but this was a text that was made in the scenario you were dead and gone. Their breath shudders, but they refuse to look at you.

A series of hand gestures are drawn, all with commands.

These are their little tricks! They'll be able to help you with work or snooping. Major is mute and hard of hearing, but her sniffer is the best. She can help with finding lost treasure! Minnie is loud, super loud, but he's real good at alerting. If they're together, Minnie'll bark to let you know. His sniffer is kind of fucked from some past abuse. And this, app includes a tracker for them both! And all my passwords to my computers, blah blah. Do what you want with it, but I'd rather it be in the hands of you than anyone else. There's info on everything in my computers, you're pretty much god now with my brains and your brawns. Congrats!

Then, like a noose being laid around their neck, reads a much shorter paragraph.

You're the closest thing I have -- or I guess had, now, -- to a friend. I know I shouldn't have, but I wish I could've known you as just me. Not a villain, or anything else. Maybe I would have actually gotten your number.

Sincerely,

Your Canis.

"You're lookin' real hard at your phone -- holy shit, i feel like I died -- did I die?" Your voice is raspy from drowning, and Sloan pries their eyes off their phone screen to look at you. They wonder what you're seeing, looking at them in this moment. They stand, and their expression must give something away.

"Oh my god, did I? I did! Well, that's fucking --" then, your mouth snaps shut. Your eyes widen, slowly looking down at the phone in their hand. Sloan watches with something brewing in their chest as your face reddens. It was like when they got to crack open a geode, but so intense they stepped forward -- pulled in. Compelled.

"So you don't have friends! Well, besides me," Sloan chirps out, but it's off with how tired their voice is. "And I never realized you lived so deep in Cairo! How do Minnie and Major manage?" They watch your face like a hawk as they smile, a softer close-lipped one. "Lots of walks," your voice cracks.

"Hm, maybe I'll come with you, I have been told I don't have a life," They tease, leaning closer.

The face you're making now -- it's all you. It's not trying to fool anyone, not like in the museum. It's soft and flustered, and your brows furrow, your lips pout. You look like a cross between disgruntled and petulant, and Sloan feels like they just discovered the new Mona Lisa or David -- a mix of the two in you.

"Well, this was not the outcome I was expecting for that text."

Sloan wasn't either, but Sloan had gotten used to the new and unknown that followed you around.

They loved it. And that was an issue. A big issue. They watched you, smiling wider as your eyes flicked to them in the corner of your eye.

Sloan could handle it.

So, slowly, they let their hand lift to your jaw. Their coarse fingers brush the soft skin, and their body is racked with a shiver of gooseflesh. The blush on your face worsens, and they see faint beauty marks along your face, enhanced now with the flush.

Sloan was a lot of things, but subtle wasn't one.

They always went after what they wanted -- being a part of the Wayfinder Society, new historical finds, their degrees, traveling, helping others, and advocating as a hero.

You weren't going to be any different.

"Can I kiss you?" They ask simply, their eyes pouring into yours and then darting out as you lick your lips in nerves. Their thumb brushes your cheek, you give a stuttering breath, and their own cheeks flush as they smile wider.

It was interesting, seeing you go from the flippant self-proclaimed inconvenience that you were to this: something soft and pliant. Your breath brushes their lips, but then it's your lips.

How like you to take them by surprise.

"Next time, don't ask," you mutter, smiling at them with something mischievous but thrilled.

So, they don't, siding their hand to the back of your neck to tug you back to them.

Not that you were really complaining, you found being with them to be the equivalent of being alone -- which you decisively chose to not focus on more than absolutely necessary (ie. none, you made that realization and then promptly fucking ignored it). However, it was because of their very constant proximity that you noticed what was making them so fucking optimistic, more so than usual. They were nervous you wouldn’t enjoy where you went -- and you clocked this on on day 2, the first full day back. 

“Sooo, Angie,” Sloan hummed as you looked over the list of what you’d need to pack -- half this shit you didn’t have, because you hadn’t been allowed to have it, like a personal cell phone. The one before had been worse than a fliphone, personally tapered down before being handed off to you, and you didn’t bother telling them that it didn’t matter -- that all the things they thought you could do with it were bullshit. “Where are they going? Just out of curiosity! Maybe my next dig site will be close or something!”

Mercy glanced at you, and you knew what she was thinking: That defeats the purpose of taking missions and training independently. You had thought it too, more than once. Because this was not, in fact, the only time Sloan had made a comment like that.

They had utter intentions of visiting you when they could, and you were too selfish to tell them no. You were working up to it, but again in line with your selfishness, you much rather have the conversation closer to you leaving so it didn’t fuck up the short time you had left together. “That information is classified,” Mercy hummed. You could see Sloan fighting back a pout by your side -- they wouldn’t do so to Mercy. Something about feeling bad about trying to make her feel bad. Your brows quirked up, because okay, that’s kind of vague as fuck. Now an official Overwatch agent or not, you were constantly skeptical of them.

People in power were people in power, and you had it on good authority that power corrupted everyone.

“However, I can confirm that they’ll be in good hands. They’ll be training with one of our… long-time associates.” Okay, even worse, because that part you were unaware of (you had it under the impression you’d be training alone) and that made it all even more vague.

Sloan seemed to feel the same way, because you could feel the bench you both were sitting on wobble a little as their foot tapped a pace that could put Junkrat to shame, “I could just keep training them.” 

It was a mutter, and you were sure you weren’t supposed to hear it at all. Mercy didn’t react, so you figured she either didn’t hear it or was acting oblivious on purpose. 

You honestly shouldn’t have been enjoying how hard they were taking this, the pouting and prodding, but something in you was basking in it. How they were eating up your time, making themself a part of your packing process (not that you had much to pack currently, they were currently hogging the list you'd been given), how they were interrogating every aspect of your departure. It was nice, and that realization made your hair stand on end. It was nice that they cared, and you were probably sort of sick for loving every moment they were torn up about this -- or maybe just a little fucked up because it was making you physically nauseous.

“Who’s it with?” Sloan questioned in a voice that was trying and failing to sound casual. 

They were probably going to cyberstalk the shit out of whoever it was, and you turned down to the toast you were eating for breakfast to hide how your lips melded into a smirk instead of that default, dry little smile. Sloan was nosy, and you'd learned this far back when you first met them. All their paperwork was full of interconnecting annotations, scrawled links (they were adamant about handwriting things), and you'd even spotted a few bits of conversations they'd eavesdropped on.

“Also confidential -- Again, they’ll be in good hands," Mercy said the last bit with a bit of firmness, but you could hear the ever-present softness in her voice. She was soft on Sloan -- loved their enthusiasm about helping. You could understand it, they were frustratingly charming. “Perhaps you’d rather spend your time helping them get ready for their trip -- like getting that new phone? I’m sure they’ll be able to call you when they land.”

Sloan perks up immediately, and you’re sure it’s at the idea of you both finally going out to town together. They were stupidly excited about you now no longer needing to be on house arrest. They’d even whipped out their phone to schedule in random outings between getting ready for you leaving and for them getting ready to leave -- they’d be leaving on a dig site the day you left. You found the timing downright suspicious, because you knew they were here for your rehab -- which meant they should have been gone the moment they were healed since you weren’t their responsibility anymore.

“So they’re flying?” They were not, in fact, focused on you both going to town. 

You want to slam your face down on the table as you grin harder.

…

Packing what you’d had was meant to be a short affair, as it was mostly clothes and a handful of belongings. You’d started last night when you both arrived back -- thinking too hard to even consider sleep. Sloan had never been in your room before now (that was too much, and the physical boundary made you feel like less of a house cat), and you ignored how their brows scrunched at the hardly lived-in room.

You were busy glaring down at your suitcase, teeming with clothes that you were fighting to properly fit in. On your bed were the items you’d be leaving out -- a handful of outfits for the next 3 days. Successfully packed away was a handful of books, sketches from Sloan, and your not at all prized moldavite. 

They mosey up to you, peeking down at the mess of clothes in your suitcase. Their lips quirk, brows hopping up, and you know they’re going to poke fun, “You never pack a bag before?” And you, with your dry little smile and almost squinted eyes, peer at them as if to say, does it look like I have?

Because you hadn’t -- ever. Well, at least not in a very long time. Before everything -- before here and before there. You never had to. Even coming here -- well, what was there to pack? A whole lot of fucking nothing. Unless you count ashes. 

“I’m gonna take that as a no, amiguito!” They smirk at you, and you roll your eyes with a lack of heat that makes you feel borderline pathetic. 

“Your observational skills are phenomenal,” You blink at them slowly, “Are you going to impart your obviously superior wisdom?”

“I am -- and someone is feeling particularly sarcástico,” Their raspy voice expresses no upset, only a type of fond amusement that seemed to be a constant with you. You couldn't help how the small failing made you a little more bitter than usual, but they seemed to find your sordid attitude enjoyable.

Dickhead.

They move your clothes out, then pause to glance at you, “Is it okay if I…? I just thought it’d be easier for me to show you! I traveled a lot when I was younger -- I mean, I do now too, obviously, but now I mostly just pack the necessities for work and stuff -- but I’m also great at packing furniture! Not that it matters with this bag. Anyway--” They pat your overstuffed suitcase, “Ropas?” 

You sigh, motioning to it with a hand, “Ropas.” You parrot, crossing your arms to watch them. The grin on their face at hearing you speak Spanish makes your eyes snap to your suitcase, away from the deep dimples and maple-amber eyes.

In no time flat, your clothes are packed, and you had successfully learned how to ranger roll your shirts -- though it was glaringly fucking obvious who did what shirts in your now fairly spacious suitcase. With that out of the way, they snatched up the paper of things you needed for your trip from your nightstand, grinning at you in a way that had your lips twitching to match -- they were an infectious. Like a goddamn disease. 

“You know what time it is?” They sing, waving it idly.

You breathe, almost snorting through your nose. High noon, you think, but you know what the real answer is. “Adventure time.”

They’d shown you the old media, and you’d made a general comment that of course they liked it, their hero name was fucking Venture. You’d been shocked to realize they hadn’t even made that connection.  “Adventure time! Vamos!” And with that, they start a brisk walk to the door, and you huff, but follow along without even contemplating the action. 

...

The initial drive through the woods, as HQ was in the middle of nowhere away from the city to avoid civilians, was an unwelcome reminder you should have mentally prepared for. The dense forestry, the occasional bump in the path that had you both wobbling, all of it made for a herculean effort to not let your mind drift.

Instead, you focused on the music, eyes scanning the song title running across the screen. You had come to terms with the fact that you were oblivious to more modern music, thanks to where you were before.

Caught a vibe! Baby, are you coming for the ride? I just wanna look into your eyes

"Te gusta?"

You flick your gaze to Sloan, taking them in for a moment. They had on sunglasses as they drove, overshirt thrown in the back to drive in their tank top with the summer heat fighting the AC hard. You didn't have a license to drive a car, but you were pretty sure they were supposed to have both hands on the wheel; instead, they were relaxed in their seat, one hand low on the steering wheel while their other arm rested on the middle console. You were unsurprised at their fingers tapping a beat.

Maybe we can the 405 Hypnotized by the lights Man, this must be the life!

"Yeah," You finally hum, resting deeper into your seat, fighting with your bones to not melt into the seat. "I like her voice." At least you weren't the only one looking too docile, Sloan was practically liquid in their seat under the warmth of the sunroof. The sunlight made their brown hair cast a halo, frizzy hairs glowing.

Neither of you feel super pressed to speak, and the silence is new, but not unwelcome. You almost stop to wonder how many other people Sloan could stand to be silent with, but that train of thought makes you feel pathetic, so you snip it quickly. Latching onto the music more to avoid that, your own fingers tap to the beat, and your heart clenches at the feeling.

You wondered if there would be a day you'd enjoy it -- making music. "Oh, oh, demonios, you'll love this one -- well, let me translate -- you're welcome for my amazing singing voice," Sloan perks up at the new beat, sitting up a little in their seat, and they do sing. You can't help but notice their pitch isn't perfect, the way they miss notes -- but you find yourself watching them, that familiar feeling of suffocation seeping into you.

May the infinity be left without stars Or the wide ocean lose its immensity But the black of your eyes may never die And your canela skin, remain the same If the rainbow lost its beauty And the flowers their perfume and color My sadness wouldn't be as intense as the One of missing your love

I care for you and you and you And only you and you and you

They beam, singing the lyrics just low enough for the original to be heard. But you pick up the words, their smile, the way they theatrically lean over in a way that certainly isn't driver-safe to stage-whisper it all to you.

You don't know the expression on your face, and you can't help the feeling of silk, chiffon, crêpe, lace, and organza on your skin, how it almost truly suffocates you. The way it all brushed against your skin makes your breath die in your throat, all because of some fucking singing. For a moment, the light of the sunroof feels like a stage light, like you're up and about to perform --

"Amiguito?" Their tone doesn't quite make you click in, but it lets your eyes adjust to them glancing at you, brown eyes wide but focused on you in a way you'd only seen them gaze at fossils with. Maybe you were a fossil -- held in time, in a memory, buried deep down in your head, waiting to be found.

It's when their hand moves to the dial to turn the music down, that you snap back in.

Not for them, hardly for you, but for that rage you could feel burning low in your stomach. For the performer, the clown, the pierrot, the canary -- your hand darts out and stops them from turning it down. You wonder if your hand is cold or if theirs is just warm.

"I'm good," You say, and you hate how faint your voice sounds, then, "Don't frown at me like that--" They weren't yet, but they might as well have been with the dramatic look of skepticism they'd perfected. And then finally a song you know comes on, one from before everything, and you dare not thank any god for the win, because what had they ever done for you? "I know this one!"

The chipper tone of your voice could be fake, but it could also be genuine, and currently, you can't tell which nor do you care enough to try.

"For real?" Their voice blurts out. The furrow of their brow melts into an excited grin (it was rare you knew a song they played, and they'd found it odd, you knew as much). "Alright! Well, subas el volumen! C'mon," They tease, and you latch onto to that -- the gold of their hair under the sun and the music -- music you'd never hear in that place.

And something in you tears into that -- that this small thing -- it meant you were free. You were out, you were away, and you open your mouth.

You don't sing.

"TAKE A LOOK AT MY GIRLFRIEND!" you scream, and if Sloan jumps, you hardly care. You don't look at them, at their eyes, because one glance and you'd feel like you were back up on a stage.

Instead, you feel your ears pop as the windows go down, the sunroof peeling back. You feel your hair whip, and before you can think better of it, you look to them.

Except they're not even looking your way, eyes on the road, grin wide and you can see the chip in their tooth plain as day, and the laugh in their voice when they scream makes the feeling of luxurious fabrics on your skin burn away like the house you were held in.

"SHE'S THE ONLY ONE I GOT," Their scream matches yours, and for a split second, you're too fucking shaken by the volume of it to continue, but then -- you just scream louder, at them, at the music, at everything.

"NOT MUCH OF GIRLFRIEND, I NEVER SEEM TO GET A LOT," Your voices warble, and your throat aches, and you wonder who Sloan is screaming at -- what they're thinking of.

You hope it all turns your vocal cords raw.

...

There was a stark difference between driving through the sands of the desert and the city. In the desert, you kept yourself tucked in the bed, far too paranoid about getting sand in your eyes. Frankly, you fucking hated the desert -- the view and the warmth were nice, you could admit that, but the sand had you walking like it was a manual activity. You blamed it for losing the biking race with Sloan, the terrain had you disoriented.

You were a sore loser, despite how you'd attempted to act like you weren't. You'd resolutely refused the geode they'd shown up with after out of stubbornness, and then Mauga happened, ultimately ending the conversation.

Driving through the city -- it was familiar. Nostalgic. You sat in the passenger seat, eyes on the passing buildings. The thrum of the engine, almost silent in its smoothness, had your body relaxing.

There was so little you chose to remember about your life before everything, but you knew your parents would drive you around as a child to calm you down -- put you to bed after some tantrum. You wondered if you would fall asleep still if it were night, knowing that the only other person in the car was Sloan -- if your body registered them as such a nonexistent threat to you that it would let you curl up against the window and doze under the passing streetlights.

You didn't want to know the answer.

...

The top priority is a phone, and you fiddle with it as you sit in the car, because it had been a long time since you'd had one. A real one -- shitty Overwatch glorified pager aside.

"You gotta put in my number! So we can -- demonios, you're about to call servicios de emergencia -- no, no, back button, cancel," they snatch the phone from your hands, quickly closing out of the white and red screen. From this view you could properly admire the phone case you'd gotten in your favorite color, avoiding all the more elaborate ones of things you didn't completely recognize.

"...oops." You say simply, leaning back in the passenger seat with that default smile on your lips. It might be a little more genuine, because you took a little pleasure in making Sloan sweat things out. Served them right for constantly making you sweat shit out. By existing.

They slowly turn their gaze up to you, their face back into that skeptical look, but you watch it melt into something a little more thoughtful. it wasn't the first time you'd seen this look on their face, it appeared for the first time when you'd stared blankly at some pop culture thing they'd tried to show you. Except it wasn't new, it was at least 5 years old, and you'd told them that no, I don't know what you're talking about.

It was fairly common in the beginning, because Overwatch had resolutely refused to give you unsupervised access to any of their technology. And you -- well, you didn't give enough of a shit to argue. You didn't think they'd listen to you if you did. You wouldn't, in their shoes. So all media consumption had been strictly through Sloan, who never had a reason to give you their phone, so you'd never even touched a new model.

"When was the last time you had a phone?" They ask slowly, eyes on you a little wide, eyebrows a little furrowed but not by much -- then it seemed to click that that might be a bad question to ask. Mercy had given them explicit instructions to not ask about anything predating your time at Overwatch.

Knowing Mercy, you weren't sure if that was a precaution or her just trying to be nice by not bringing anything before now up.

"I mean -- you don't have to answer that! It was just --" They wave their hands vaguely, and you wonder what reason they think they're offering you if they don't even know.

"A long time," You shrug, curled up in the passenger seat. The window is at your back, the warmth of the sun seeping in through your t-shirt. You didn't personally care if talking about it all was a real rule or not -- though Sloan certainly did.

They were probably thinking the same as Mercy, even if they didn't know a damn thing -- that asking the wrong thing would make you crumple up in their hands like a crushed origami crane.

The thing about having so much of your life being revealed as wrong -- it's that it was always normal to you. Which meant some part of you didn't care enough to be upset about talking about it all --and on the other hand --

You had a memory of your grandmother, one before everything. You can't remember where you were sitting, but it was hot. The air smelt like mown grass, so probably outside. You couldn't remember the sound of her voice, but you could remember her arm around you as you laid your head on her shoulder.

You don't know how you got to talking about it -- secrets. You always thought too much -- but she listened to all of it. At least, you assumed she did. You hoped she did.

Her words had stayed with you, even if her voice didn't. It's normal to have some things you don't tell anyone. You just carry them with you until you die. You wonder what she carried in her heart -- what she had decided to bury inside her.

You'd never have to share anything -- all of it was yours. You could die with all of it inside you, never sharing a single moment with anyone, never sharing a single thought that kept you up at night. It was all nestled behind your ribs, in a hole, a chasm -- a black hole. You'd swallow it all up, carry it with you, stored in the darkest and deepest parts of you.

You watched Sloan -- watched how they cocked their head, a pout almost forming on their lips before they snuffed it out. They did that sometimes with you -- dialed it back. They morphed into something a little more thoughtful than they did with others -- you weren't fucking blind. You'd seen them with Junkrat, Tracer, Echo -- the brief interactions that you'd watch like a hawk, though you never showed it.

Sloan treated you with a sort of slowness sometimes that made you think of how people handled wild dogs. You didn't know whether to be indignant or touched.

"Well!" They chirp finally, that bout of molasses in their body leaving as they lean across the middle console to show you the phone. You'd rather bark at them that you could figure it out yourself, thank you very much. But some part of you -- right now you can't shake off the molasses in your bones. So, you sit and listen, like you tend to do with Sloan.

"This is the home screen -- we have to get you some games! Ohhh, I can give you my login for books and stuff --" they go on and on, and finally, they finish with adding your first contact: theirs.

Sloan <3 Cameron

...

Other things you need are grabbed: travel packs for toiletries, some more athletic apparel (specifically in black)...the list went on, but there were instances here and there that made the excursion exclusive to Sloan.

...

"Look at these! Qué lindo -- we need them! It's a must," Sloan comes to a full stop with the cart, peering at some keychains. At the pace you were behind them, walking with far less power, you have to walk a little to see. "We could put them on our phones! Be matching!" Sloan coos, grin on their face that has you wondering if they're poking fun or if they're being serious. It's the way their eyes squint just a touch more than they should -- not sly enough to be called lidded, but a derivative undoubtedly.

"You already have like three on your phone," You roll your eyes, though then they settle on what it is they're looking at -- "Oh."

"You like stars, right? Los necesitamos! And you're going off for training," they sing, glancing at you with those squinted smiling eyes, "It's perfect! A reminder of your favorite friend --"

"Only friend," You say bluntly, and then you're far more distraught at the admission you made -- that you're friends -- than the fact you only have one. You drop your gaze from their face in a snap second, focusing on the keychains in question.

A matching keychain set of two constellations -- you recognize them immediately. Canis Major and Canis Minor. They had slid it off the post, running their finger across the engravings in the wood. You recognize Canis Major as the slightly larger one; painted white with the constellation engraved in it a blue. The smaller one, Canis Minor, was painted black with the engraved constellation a warm yellow.

Your hand moves before you can even think about it, finding yourself wanting, and you snatch the keychains from their hands and toss them in the basket.

You don't look at their face, resolute to ignore the interaction, "I'm getting Canis Major."

You don't see their smile, eyes firmly ahead and figihting to not glance in your peripheral, but you hear it in their voice, "I was just gonna say I wanted Canis Minor! Perfect -- now what's next..."

...

You sigh as you sit under the sun, soaking up the delicious heat.

You couldn't help that you ran cold, your fingers and toes almost always bordering numb. The warmth -- it always made you pleasantly drowsy, which you did sort of despise. It was aggravating having something thrust calm and comfort upon you not of your own volition --

"You like the ice cream? I know I've brought you pints, but it taste so much better from an actual truck!"

Speaking of.

You slowly peel your eyes open behind the sunglasses (Sloan had forcibly given you them when you kept squinting at everything, complaining about how bright it was), tilting your head down to look over at them.

At the vanilla cone in their hand, you shake your head, "I don't get the difference between a vanilla cone from a truck versus the store--"

"It's the best one! Yours is crazy--"

You had gotten double chocolate chip with caramel swirl -- and very slowly nodded when they asked if you wanted it dipped -- then again when they asked if you wanted toppings -- you got cookie crumble and mini chocolate chips.

It was nauseatingly sweet -- you loved it.

You cut them off, "And a special treat -- I can't get this from a pint."

Sloan's smile doesn't leave, their head cocking as they fire back, "If you could, I'm pretty sure your teeth would be rotten! Then how would your body be found if you died? We wouldn't be able to compare dental records."

You wondered if they even registered that as a downright bizarre thing to say, but they were right, "I don't even think I have dental records -- at least none with my complete adult teeth--" It was true, you doubted any of your records from there had been actually updated to a real medical journal...was that how that even worked? Plus, besides vitals, Overwatch hadn't done much else. You hadn't brought it up, and neither did they.

Or more accurately -- you lied to them. Not like they could prove you wrong.

They blink at you, vanilla ice cream melting down their tan hand, "Qué significa?"

...

Day 2 comes to a close. You get random texts from Sloan through the night, and the sequence of events is embarrassing on your part.

Sloan <3: hiii Sloan <3: helllooooo Sloan <3: cnt cnt cnt I know ur awake

You certainly were, because you had literally just gotten to your room for the night. It's that text that makes you respond though --

You: did you just call me a cunt?

You were still getting used to texting, because it had been so long. You take what feels like forever, and during that time, you see Sloan's text bubble appear no less than three times.

Their response is instantaneous. Sloan <3: NO NO IT'S SPANISH Sloan <3: SPANISH SLANG Sloan <3: IT MEANS CONESTA, i was telling you to answer, i swear on my abuelita

You: Sounds like a lie someone would say if they were calling me a cunt. You're on thin ice. :)

You figured the smiley face emoticon was warranted -- you were almost always smiling.

Again, they respond back so much faster than you, it's aggravating.

Sloan <3: I wasn'tttt Sloan <3: Also that text sounded scary in my head

You: I put a smiley face on it, why would it be frightening?

Again that chat bubble appeared and disappeared -- and you toss your phone off to the side to go to bed with a smile on your face.

You were MIA for about a decade -- you weren't fucking stupid. You totally knew that the punctuation was abnormal. Kidnapping aside -- you didn't live under a rock before then.

But if Sloan by your side, their eyes, their smile -- if all of it had you trialing after them all the while it practically had you itching with hives -- then you could bother them a little. Small inconveniences. Your karma for them was only a fraction of the shit they were putting you through.

...

The next day, after breakfast, the usual -- you're confronted with Sloan. A very, very excited Sloan. Keys in their hand, sunglasses pushed into their hair, souped-up in some cargo shorts and a band t-shirt you don't entirely recognize -- it has almost all of their tattoos on display. You knew them well, not by looking, but from Sloan taking the time to explain them to you. When you'd expressed an interest in tattoos, aside from the copious sketches, they'd shown you all of theirs.

Well, almost all, they'd cut themself off at one point, blinked, let out a very abrupt laugh -- then moved on with vaguely red ears before you even registered to ask what the ones they wouldn't show you even were.

People were so bizarre about their bodies -- though you suppose you understood. Objectively.

"Quieres hacerte un tatuaje?" They blurt out, but you'd already scrunched your mouth and responded.

"Do I want...a tattoo? Or does that just sound like 'tattoo'?" You'd gotten far better at Spanish, partially from Sloan...partially because you'd idly picked up a book about a month into Sloan mentoring you.

Just for the sake of it. Just to know.

They blink at you, their amber eyes a little brighter, then grin, "Yes! Yep -- you wanna get a tattoo? I may have checked in with my tattoo artist once this whole--" they wave their hands, "you moving, us getting promotions, thing happened! I was thinking of maybe getting a small one, but then they had an opening because someone canceled -- you could get a big one!"

The fact they thought of you -- considered you when you weren't there, it makes you instinctively roll your neck a little, a shudder of that itch trailing down your neck, "I don't have money for that," you state the obvious, blinking at them. It was true, the only way you'd bought the necessities for your trip was because of a card Mercy. Some business credit card or the like.

"I do!"

And nuh huh, no thank you.

"You're not paying for me to get a tattoo."

"You're right! I currently am not -- but I could! It's really not a problem -- The sign-on bonus for Overwatch was crazy! And plus, I still have been getting paid for doing paperwork while I'm here --"

"No. I'm not having you pay for it."

"It's not a big deal--" Their brows furrow, and you know they're pressing. Gently, but pressing.

"It is. I don't have money or income, so no. I'm not going to owe someone something before I even have proper income." You properly glare up at them from your seat in one of the sitting room recliners, and they look a little shaken -- well, maybe shaken wasn't the right word.

It's the scrunch of their brows, the turn of their mouth, how their fingers tap -- Frustrated.

Then, as soon as you make the realization, it slides off of them like they're molting, and they just gaze at you, their eyes looking far too perceptive, "I wouldn't make you pay me back. It'd be like a birthday gift!"

A birthday gift.

It was nowhere near your birthday, it'd passed in silence, no one knowing, and Sloan had been frustrated just like that moment -- the scrunch and the momentary purse of their lips, the unsteady rhythm of their fingers.

"Or a like -- goodbye gift! Well, not goodbye, but a gift before you leave. And, plus, you're not..." They clearly struggle with how to finish that, their hands gesticulating as they do, tapping paused, "my mentee anymore! It's like a graduation gift!"

Oh. Now you know why they struggled.

A criminal. That was the word they were looking to find -- that they'd replaced. You don't know what you feel more off; an odd sort of drowning warmth that they changed it, or anger because that wasn't your choice.

Or maybe you did have a choice -- you were just too much of a coward to choose differently.

You feel warm callouses nudge at your hands. Reflexively, you unclench them, and you feel that familiar ache in your knuckles and the hissing sting of your flesh as your nails unbed themselves from your palm.

You watch their hand -- large, tan, calloused from work and fights -- gently dip into your loose fist to drag across the length of your palm. Smoothing it out, as yellow painted nails drag up your fingers, uncurling them.

Like always, you never move away. You don't tell them no.

You think of sitting on the cot with them -- how you'd held hands. How you held their hand. You hadn't touched them since then, and they touched you less than they did before. Even in such a short time -- it was obvious.

You gaze at their hand, swallowing. And maybe just to avoid hearing their voice along with feeling their touch, because you feel like you'd truly dig your teeth into them if they overrode both your senses -- that you'd latch on that much harder. You'd much rather have your own inconsistencies -- moments of weakness like holding their hand in the cot -- because at least you built your walls back up after. Put a brick in the hole you reached your hand through to hold theirs.

You speak so they don't, "I don't -- need one. Right now. Don't know what I'd get -- but..." You heave a sigh, "I do want a piercing."

Then, because you don't move away, that warm hand wraps around your wrist, and your tugged up and out of the recliner. You, like Icarus, look to the sun before your wings melt and you crash back down to Earth. They smile, dimples beaming, but their eyes are lidded -- and it was rarely ever a sly look with Sloan.

Only sincere, soft -- sweet. Too sweet.

"They can do that! Vamos!"

You let them guide you away, to the car, to the toutside.

...

You give Sloan an unimpressed look as they pout, crossing your arms. They always looked silly like this -- the expressive demeanor but the objectively intimidating appearance. You couldn't have muscles like them, covered in tattoos, the piercings -- they certainly got looks on the street -- and not look like you beat at least a little ass.

"I wanna knoooow," They whine, and you feel your cheeks involuntarily heat at the glance one of the workers gives you both before she laughs.

"No," You press, sitting farther back in your seat, "It's a surprise."

"This was a surprise --" they guffaw, "mi sorpresa! To you!"

"And now I'm returning the favor. How does it feel?" You definitely sound smug.

They slacken in their seat, giving you a look that can only be described as dirty before huffing playfully, "Esto es grosero por tu parte."

You turn to them, that little smile on your face shit-eating, "Pot, kettle."

They splutter -- sitting up, mouth a little ajar, eyes widened just enough. They go to speak --

Your name is called and you stand up, giving them a wiggle of your fingers, because two could play at this shit.

But, Sloan liked a lot of things, and one of them was the last word, "But I was going to offer to hold your hand!"

There was no way they didn't say that with the sole purpose of embarrassing you -- why the hell else would they yell it? Instead of speaking, you choose to flip them off over your should.

You hear their laugh as you slip behind the curtain.

...

Sloan blinks at you, squinting at your face -- they even move your hair this way and that to gaze at your ears, scan your eyebrows, searching. They lean back, looking confused, and you even spy their eyes dart to your chest -- when their eyes come back up to your face, you cock a brow.

Their response is a sheepish smile and shrug, "Ay! I have some -- I just didn't expect you too --" then they back track, eyes widening as their hands come up, "Not that they wouldn't suit you! I mean --"

"I'm just going to stop you right there," You slowly speak, mindful of how your tongue moves. You catch their eyes on your mouth, slowly widening as a nauseatingly bright smile comes to their face -- awe. They looked thrilled.

"You got your tongue!? That's so fucking cool -- perdón por la mala palabra! Wait, wait, this is perfect, stick your tongue out," they order, digging in their pocket, trying to find something.

You're suspicious immediately, but you listen to them on instinct -- which that was just concerning.

Then, their phone comes out, and before you can fully register, they snap a photo, "A contact photo! I needed one for you! And this is hilarious."

They show you -- and you admit that it's objectively funny, with your tongue limply out, your brows furrowed in indignation and confusion, a glare in your eyes...but you've also got blood on your teeth and the inside edges of your lips and your tongue is swelling.

You suppose it's a niche humor -- one you figure would probably be found in them. You don't get paid to look at decrepit crypts, mummified corpses, and literally beat people until they either run or go unconscious, and not have some sort of macabre sense of humor.

You huff through your nose, "Let's just go pay, Sloan."

They blink at you, but you're already turning to the counter, preoccupied with making polite conversation with a woman about the care for your new piercing.

It was the second time you'd said their name.

...

Notes

♥ WILLOW, besides Meet Me at Our Spot, does a song called Marceline. This is a roundabout reference to the Adventure Time joke. Marceline is Very Reader x Sloan coded, spec. Sloan to Reader.

♥ Piel Canela may be sung by Sloan, but I thought it was more representative of Reader to Sloan. I care for you and you and only you etc is VERY symbolic to Reader caring specifically for Sloan.

♥ Cupid Chokehold is also Reader to Sloan song! For SO much, but the title is the best one; love literally having them in a chokehold. They are attached to Sloan regardless if they try to not be.

♥ Minnie and Major easter egg! They are symbolic. Minnie is a former fighting dog who is very sweet and protective, hence Sloan. Major is reserved and looks more intimidating than she is -- more brains than brawns.

♥ Ice cream! Reference to my College! Venture prompts. Sloan's favorite is vanilla, they dislike very richly sweet things and prefer more subtle sweets.

So, after a very long conversation, you decided you were not dating. In no specific order, the points made were: your priority should be yourself, Sloan was constantly busy, and it'd be best for any possible thing to happen after you had come to a conclusion about what you wanted to do above sea level.

So no, Sloan still had only about 2 relationships grand total in their 20s, was currently single, and was competitive not jealous.

Three facts.

So, as they sat sunbathing on a private beach bordering the Atlantic in Rio de Janeiro, they were absolutely not watching you have fun with another sea monster. Because it was irrelevant and did not involve them.

But there you were, racing, and for once, they saw you lose a race. Because the (objectively, they weren't blind) very pretty sea monster whose name might have been Bruna, they didn't care couldn't remember, was fast as hell. And could breathe under water. And spend all night under water with you. And didn't get wrinkly.

Fucking osmosis.

They were not jealous, so they took a deep breath, plopped back, and soaked up the sun.

...

Sloan groaned, rubbing their eyes. They'd fallen asleep -- if they got any sort of sunburn, they were going to be so embarrassed.

The sun had gone down, their skin cooler, and they breathed a sigh of relief as their hands didn't feal any sting on their cheeks.

"Hey!" they did not frown at the sound of Bruna's voice. She was perfectly nice. "Your human's up!"

Oh. Well.

They hear you splutter, and they try not to rush putting their hands down from rubbing their eyes to see your expression. Their eyes go to you, and they see exactly why they hadn't gotten a sunburn.

There you were, now with the sun gone, taking down an umbrella you'd set up for them.

"They're not mine."

Yeah, Sloan mentally corrected, I totally am.

"For now," Bruna said sagely, and when Sloan looked at her, they felt almost insecure under her icy blue eyes. She cocked a brow, as if to say, You're fumbling them and it's pathetic.

They see your head whip around, but they're too focused on not being completely obvious about how not at all jealous -- territorial -- possessive -- god, were they always this insecure? They didn't think they were in their past relationships.

"Bruna!"

"I don't mind," Sloan blurts out, and your head whips to them even faster than it had Bruna. Bruna's lips quirk, and Sloan has to fight to not pout at the faint look of approval. "It's, uh," they wave a vague hand, "fine! Totally fine."