#traceroutoftime

[  🔫  ]            “Ya ready to get this show on the road?”

    The cowboy flashes the younger girl seated across from him a confident grin, metal fingers curling gently around the tall glass he held before him. Alright, so maybe having a drinking contest wasn't the best idea-- some of the older members would certainly frown down on them for it. But hey! It was just a simple beer (That should keep people off of their backs.) and a harmless game to pass the time. Everyone could do with a break, and honestly, how they chose to spend it shouldn't matter. He glances over to the side, brown eyes meeting Hanzo's darker ones. How he had ever managed to talk the man into joining them to give the start sign for this little match was beyond him. Not like McCree was about to complain.

            “First one to down their drink wins.”

Hanzo doesn’t really know what to make of Tracer. Her energy level is a little bit beyond him, even for someone who grew up with Genji back in his troublemaking years. 

Tracer is very positive, and unfortunately Hanzo is an extremely negative person. He’d find her boundless optimism stifling at best, and infuriating at worst. Still, he makes an effort to be cordial--if not warm--to her, and there is a part of him that would genuinely appreciate it if she went out of her way to be nice to him or make him feel included.

With all the Overwatch vets, there is a certain level of discomfort for Hanzo; he knows that they know what he did to his brother, and that they got to know and care about Genji long before they ever met him. For this reason he doubts he can ever really be accepted by his brother’s peers, and--feeling failure is certain--doesn’t make much of an effort to get closer to them.

    — a low grumble, and seventy-six took a wary step back, avoiding the young brunette’s curious hands. “ it’s not the same, “ he insisted, refusing to let the woman take the visor off of his face just yet. “ what part of tactical visor isn’t quite sinking in? they aren’t goggles -- tracer, quit it. “

     there was no way he was letting her swipe his visor, no way in hell; it was essential for his sight at all, and disengaging the technology from its settings along his jaw and ears left him vulnerable. not that she knew that, but it was a weakness he wasn’t too keen on exposing, teammates or not. a simple slip of the tongue would give away crucial information to the enemy, and he could be killed in a heartbeat. 

     of course he knew she could just as easily swipe them from his face without thinking twice, given her little boost of speed, but he kind of hoped she respected him enough to maybe not do that. he leaned back a little more, her closeness putting his nerves on edge.

     “ we can’t just switch, it’s nothing like yours. “

older meme @traceroutoftime

    “Peaceful my ass.” the annoyed responds was grumbled under his breath, muffled by the mask.

    He needed a moment to collect himself. To steady unsteady legs and catch his quivering breath. The pain that shot trough his body was nothing short of hellish. A reminder to the huge risk he'd just taken. A reminder of a life he saved. A reminder of the man he used to be. That was something he didn't want to be reminded of right now. But that part of him was impossible to ignore now; facing Lena who had come to take him back to Overwatch, or at least to what was left of it. Well... it was nice he was met by someone he knew. Though she no longer knew him. Not truly.

@traceroutoftime

Seldom did Tracer ever expect guests knocking at the door of her flat. Occasionally a neighbor or an old friend. Never one at such a late hour into the night, though it wasn’t odd for someone to end up at the wrong place after a few too many pints, this was out of place.

Roused from slumber with each persistent knock, until she couldn’t ignore them any longer. Tracer crawled out of bed, barefoot in her pajamas she trodded quietly as she could to the door. An unnatural chill seemed to creep through the wood as she unlatched the bolt, leaving the chain fastened and opening the door just a crack. Tracer needed no more then a glimpse of the guest at her door to jolt awake. If the Widow wanted her dead, there wouldn’t have been such a broad approach, showing up right at the front door. More alarming then having been found was how her rival appeared downtrodden, though perhaps it was merely the fact she was absolutely drenched.

“If I let you in.. you have to promise to behave.” Lena felt doubt the Widowmaker had come seeking conflict, at least this time. Once receiving the answer she’d hoped for, she unfastened the chain, opening the door wide.

“Hold on love, lemme find some towels.” Her apartment was a bit of a mess, though it lingered somewhere on the verge of organized chaos with all of her possessions strewn about. Tracer disappears down one hall and quickly returns, offering a way of getting dry, and hesitates in giving the blanket afterwards. If she’s perpetually cold, it seems as though it makes no difference. Tracer offers it anyway once she’s mostly dry.

Lena can’t bite back the question any longer, once she’s made sure the carpet won’t have gotten soaked. “Why are you here?”

     The rain would freeze anyone else. It’s but a few degrees away from being snow or hail, which against Amélie’s skin nearly feels like a pleasant low room temperature. The wetness, however, that accrues the longer she reluctantly raps the obverse of her knuckles against the breezeway door... that is another matter. Her hair is horribly matted at this point, which-- given its length-- makes it appear as though a soaking wet bath towel is hanging from her head.

Not that she notices any of that, of course. She’s far too lost in her own labyrinthine thoughts.

“... bonsoir,” is all she manages to start with, her voice weak and resigned, rubbing at her arms with both of them crossed over her chest, as though shivering. “Do not be dense. You know I cannot promise zhat.”

Despite not doing as Tracer asked, she nonetheless steps inside. The second she’s out of the rain, she unfolds her arms and reaches for the giant mess of soaked hair behind her head, giving it a wringing squeeze to expunge some of the rain. It soaked the floor underneath her, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

The blanket is accepted in complete silence, and she puts it to prompt use across her body. A few deft wipes across her arms, then her legs, then her waist, before she wraps her ponytail up into it to make a semi-turban behind her head. In the middle of tying a knot for it though, Tracer sees fit to ask that question. She knew it was coming, but... she’d hoped to be dry before having to address.