#spiderbytefics

Widow doesn’t know, sometimes, what to do with choices. She’s hardly had to make any since she became who she is. But Sombra always demands that she make them: choose the restaurant they’re ordering from, pick which car to jack, do you want to go on a date?

With most of her emotions, few of them as they are, she doesn’t know what to do with. Doesn’t know if she wants them. Sombra wants her to know and, that, she knows she dislikes. But she likes Sombra, so she puts up with it.

Sombra is demanding in this way. If it were anyone else, Widow would have shot them by now, for being so presumptuous, for the arrogance, the selfishness, to ask this of Widow.

But Sombra’s Sombra and not many people like Widow, so she has to hold on to those who do. Or she doesn’t. Many people like Widow. She’s pretty, she knows. She flaunts it, after all, to get what she wants sometimes. Those people, Widow wouldn’t think twice about killing.

Sombra is different because she actually gives a damn. Sombra thinks she loves Widow which is something they have argued about a few times—always, Widow lets the matter rest once she has said her piece, because Sombra can be stubborn when she wants to be, can outwait Widow when she wants to.

Sombra’s special like that. She’s silly, idiotic, callous, but underneath it all, she’s still the most independently capable, motivated, and intelligent person Widow knows. She’s entirely self-made, entirely in control. And she hides it all behind being a cheeky shit because it’s the smart thing to do and Sombra is so smart.

Being with her makes Widow feel powerful. At night, when Sombra’s curled up against Widow’s side, Widow will brush her ridiculous purple hair out of her face, trace the curve of her forehead, and think about how the brain encased in Sombra’s hard head can, and in fact has, toppled small countries on its own. And this very brain thinks it loves Widow.

Widow isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth—usually.

It’s a matter of practicality, really. Sure, she’s not who she used to be and physically can’t process emotions the way regular people can. But she’s not dumb; she knows how relationships work. She was married, for God’s sake.

She knows, logically, it’s about communication and honesty, and reciprocation. Otherwise, it’s just leeching. It’s being deadweight.

Widow can force communication and honesty out of herself. Those are things that are within her capabilities. The necessary skills and traits are useful to Talon, so she has them. Reciprocation is a different story. Reciprocation is difficult.

She likes Sombra, so she will make a conscious effort to keep her around. Sombra tells her that this is what love is.

Widow agrees and disagrees. Of course, she cares for Sombra’s wellbeing, but she cares about Akande and Gabriel, too. She would never claim she loves them, not in the way she might with Sombra.

That’s another thing: uncertainty. She is certain she doesn’t love other people. She isn’t so sure with Sombra.

Sombra can be very convincing, if she puts the effort in—coercion is her whole schtick, anyway—and this Widow also likes and hates. They’ve done a bunch of new and exciting things together, and most of it, Sombra had talked Widow into. Widow values those experiences.

But Sombra also talks Widow into things she’s not so enthusiastic about. Submitting a form to Talon declaring their relationship? Thinking about that day makes her want to murder someone. So awkward.

Sombra also talks Widow into thinking she might love Sombra back. And that’s good if she does, and astronomically bad if she doesn’t. Because honesty. Widow doesn’t lie to Sombra often. Sombra doesn’t care if Widow lies about work since she could find out if she really wanted to but, out of all Talon personnel, she is the farthest from a Talon loyalist and couldn’t give less of a damn about its goals.

Otherwise, though, Widow doesn’t hide much from Sombra. Maybe if Sombra makes Widow feel vaguely embarrassed about something, Widow will try to hide it just to save face, but Sombra sees through that like glass and Sombra almost never means to make Widow feel like that, never maliciously. So, it makes it okay. It does.

Widow can’t say the same.

Other people’s misfortune, especially brought about by her own hand, makes her happy. Makes her feel powerful. She can’t help it if an impulse to be cruel seizes her. It doesn’t come up with Sombra except when she feels cornered and that’s when she feels uncertain and out of her element.

Sombra is excellent at provoking those feelings. Again, Widow doesn’t experience feelings the way Sombra does, so it’s okay sometimes. Only sometimes.

The first time Sombra had said she loved Widow, Widow had called her stupid and left her in the cold. And Widow knew, immediately, that it hurt Sombra.

She knew it would be best for the health of their relationship if she apologized and explained herself, but there wasn’t a strong desire to do that, so she had left it until Sombra came and gave Widow a piece of her mind. After that, Widow had indeed explained, slowly, off kilter, mildly irritated.

It’s a mess. Widow doesn’t mind a mess but it’s not good for relationships and Widow wants to maintain this one. Wants to clean it up, knows which tools to use to do so, knows how to use those tools. Doesn’t, in the end, have access to some of them.

Sombra must know this. Sombra does know this.

Still, Sombra insists on telling Widow she loves her.

Widow can’t stand it.

Widow tries to stand it.

“That’s love, Spider.”

Widow scoffs at the thought.

When she was young, her parents got her a fish and Widow had tried to take care of it and failed spectacularly. The fish had died within two days. Trying isn’t sufficient.

She hardly succeeds, with Sombra.

She can do the easy things, the small things that don’t inspire feelings of triumph from Widow. If Sombra wants to be held, Widow will do it. If Sombra wants a sounding board, Widow will get comfortable. If Sombra wants to fuck with Gabriel, Widow won’t snitch.

She fails, however, if Sombra needs anything close to emotional literacy. Sombra isn’t perfect either, she knows. She is painfully aware. 

Sombra is presumptuous and arrogant. Sombra asks for too much. She doesn’t care about Talon, and Talon is the reason for Widow’s existence. She makes everything a joke, just under half of which fly over Widow’s head. Flaunts what she has and what is wholly unattainable for Widow. 

It feels like a test of Widow’s compliance. Endurance, really. Certainly not love.

“Love can be about endurance.”

It can. Widow knows all these things could count. Should count, considering. But she wants to do better, be better. And she also doesn’t because she can’t and it’s unfair that she should be unhappy with herself for something she cannot fundamentally change.

She’s a bit resentful. She’s a bit tired. She’s a bit unhappy and a bit apathetic about all those things. Never a lot of anything. So, relatively speaking, it’s significant that she feels this way.

But then, full circle, it’s about endurance. She will endure those feelings. For Sombra.

Sombra who endures, always. Whose entire life has been about endurance. Does it as easily as breathing. Sombra is strong and smart, and those aren’t things Widow inherently likes about Sombra.

Widow likes the way those qualities make her life better. Sombra solves problems and does things for her.

If she loves Sombra, then it would be because Sombra loved her first. Does it the best because no one else loves Widow and there’s no competition, really.

And is that fucked up? Is that wrong?

Should she care? Liking someone because they like you doesn’t exactly measure up to terrorizing entire peoples, which she does for almost no money or other benefits other than her own enjoyment and a few more hours with Sombra which, again, is also for her own enjoyment.

Widow looks down at Sombra and thinks in cycles.

Her eyes are closed and she’s snoring, head in Widow’s lap. Widow cards her fingers through Sombra’s hair and feels heady with power.

Widow has no idea how Sombra pulled it off, but she’s hardly surprised since doing unthinkable, and unthinkably stupid, things is sort of Sombra’s schtick. So, here she is, standing in a commercial airport with a neck pillow wedged around her peach-painted elbow and two 4-wheel suitcases at her hip, waiting for her girlfriend to finish taking a piss.

She is, on some level, excited for this actually legal, Talon-cleared weekend-long vacation. It’s not that she thinks she’ll get bored or hate it—after all, Sombra had organized everything and Sombra is one among maybe three people who give a fuck about what Widow thinks about things—but she wonders, sometimes, about the genuineness of her own emotions. She experiences them shallowly. Like they’re dialed down. On occasion, experiences them like a choice; a matter of whether or not she wants to expend energy on reacting to something.

Because of this, she wonders if she fakes them and does it so well, she’s fooled herself. But then what difference would that make?

Yes, she’s happy to spend time with Sombra. Always. It just doesn’t matter to her at all the how and when of it. Doesn’t feel like there’s anything significant about going to a different country with Sombra, partake in new activities with her.

To Sombra, it’s different. She’s been giddy about this for a week, constantly nudging Widow so she’ll lean over and look at whatever part of the travel plan Sombra’s putting together. Sombra feels the urge to see new places and do new things with people she likes to spend time with.

Widow’s okay with sitting in Sombra’s room, with the hip LED strip lights she sees in the “tick tocks” Sombra shows her, doing nothing in between messing around on the bed. Widow’s okay with flying to ass nowhere, Europe, to watch Sombra’s back and shoot people. That’s going somewhere new; that’s doing something new. It’s all the same to her.

But then again, Sombra wants this, so it’s automatically different.

And that’s the extent of Widow’s feelings about this.

Sombra comes bounding out the airport bathroom just as Widow considers going in to check. As soon as she spots Widow, she scowls and moves the pillow from Widow’s arm to her neck. Again.

“You promised,” she reminds Widow.

Widow looks at her impassively. Considers it.

She promised she would “get in the holiday spirit,” but that was before she had known about Sombra’s ridiculous definition of holiday spirit. Still, a promise is a promise. Besides, this was Widow’s gift to Sombra. Specifically, Widow had told Sombra that she gets one do-stupid-things free pass, happy anniversary, chérie, come back to bed.

One occasion where Sombra can drag Widow into something and Widow will comply without complaint, all within reason, of course. And Sombra picks a vacation.

Sombra, who has become a master at staring contests with Widow, having dated her for a year and a handful of weeks now, waits her out. Finally, Widow sighs and reaches up to button the donut pillow at her throat.

“Looks great, babe,” Sombra says brightly, and begins to wheel her suitcase towards the departure hall proper.

Widow sighs again and follows after her.

“Does this even count as a legal vacation if we are using fake documents?”

“Say it louder,” Sombra grumbles, “I don’t think airport security got that.”

Widow tries not to smile. She takes in a deep breath and, indeed, louder, says: “Does this even c—”

“I hate that you think you’re funny now,” Sombra huffs. “Dating me is such an ego boost for people.”

“People?” Widow muses. Sombra ignores that. Whatever. She changes tracks to something she’s actually curious about. “What’s the name on your passport?”

“Sombra,” says Sombra.

Widow squints at her. “Sombra what? You don’t have a last name.”

“Spider,” Sombra deadpans, “Obviously, it doesn’t say Sombra. Why the hell would I put that on my passport? That’s dumb. I’m very good at being a criminal, you know?”

“Yes, baby,” says Widow, “the best.”

Sombra rolls her eyes but the edges of her mouth twitch up before she can control it. Widow can’t help but smile herself. “It’s Jane Smith.”

“That… is so boring.” She wrinkles her nose. “And so American.”

“What? You don’t think I look exactly like a Jane Smith?” Sombra asks.

Widow stares at her.

“Whatever.” Sombra sniffs, snootily, and rubs a hand over the buzzed side of her head. It’s grown out a bit—Widow will shave it for her soon.

“You are terrible with aliases.”

Sombra had given her a fake passport earlier today, back at base. Widow’s now May Parker, a Canadian national since Sombra didn’t have faith in Widow’s fake accent skills and told her, quite condescendingly, to stick to French. The name was a reference to something, Widow’s not sure what, just thankful that Sombra hadn’t ended up printing the name of the first French historical figure that came to mind. Napoleon Bonaparte probably wouldn’t have gone over too well with airport authorities.

At check-in, the woman barely bats an eye at their too-nondescript names. It’s likely not that rare for people to come through airports with fake names in this day and age anyway. Probably, it’s quite rare to have terrorists doing it for vacation, but Widow has to admit their outfits don’t quite match up with that image.

Sombra picks their seats as Widow hauls their suitcases onto the belt. When all’s said and done, Sombra loops their arms together and pulls them towards security.

Sombra keeps glancing up at Widow’s face while they wait in line. It’s her only tell that she’s nervous and Widow can guess why. The sunscreen-like balm they’d smeared all over her, to make her look normal, should hold up for the duration of their flight. Though, she didn’t trust Talon scientists, she could trust their science, so she’s not worried about it.

Anyway, it wasn’t the 20th century. Most body mods were socially acceptable now. Sombra, in all her cyborg glory, shuffles past security with no problem.

It’s another half hour wait at their gate before they finally board. Sombra takes the middle seat, leaving Widow with the window. The aisle seat is, thankfully, empty. She’s not sure if Sombra did that on purpose, but she doesn’t particularly care either way, so she doesn’t ask.

Sombra reaches over and taps both of their mini-TV screens at the same time. A moment later, The Room (2003) begins playing on their screens simultaneously. Sombra makes a triumphant little sound and cuddles into Widow’s side.

Widow drapes her arm around Sombra and sighs.

//

A brief shitty movie marathon later, they’re touching down in Hokkaido, Japan, and Sombra’s tugging her gangly girlfriend out her seat. Widow’s vaguely tired and has already made Sombra promise they’re calling in a favour from Akande for a Talon plane back home after this. It takes a lot of brain power for her to keep up with Sombra sometimes, especially when it comes to silly things like enjoying bad movies.

(Sombra tells her it isn’t brain power that she is expending; rather, it’s called the emotional labour of loving someone.)

By the time they get to their lodging, Widow’s just about ready to pass out.

She pushes the first door she sees and falls into bed. Outside, she hears the rapid padding of Sombra’s footsteps as she explores every nook and cranny in the cabin.

She’s not sure how long she’s been lying down, but next she opens her eyes, the sky is dark blue and Sombra’s face is alarmingly close to hers.

Sombra grins and touches her cheeks. “Hey, you should get up.”

Widow blinks lazily at her. Then: “No.” She rolls around and closes her eyes again. “We’re on vacation.”

“We have to wipe that shit off you,” Sombra says, a note of affection colouring her tone.

She allows herself a few more seconds before she sits up with a huff and follows Sombra into the en suite. It’s a nice bathroom: a big tub, classy tiling, and there’s a big window facing a snowy mountainside, framed by gnarly trees.