#willemses

--

In his scope, a gloved hand appears, big and foreboding. James tsks under his breath; white wisps of warmth slipping through his lips. Says, “Bruce, get out--”

But when he looks up, there’s no one there.

James thinks he’s seeing things. Because Bruce shouldn’t be here right now, Bruce isn’t here right now. Bruce is working.

Working. In Los Angeles. Without James.

He pops the collar of his coat up, inhales through gritted teeth, peers back into his scope.

Something flickers in the distance. His target, still and unmoving, an arrow piercing through his throat. Shiny with blood. Shiny in the moonlight.

The horizon remains unoccupied. Silent snowfall.

Unsettled, James picks up his rifle and leaves. His footsteps disappear under fresh snow within the hour.

--

“Stay out of my ops, Greene,” James says, voice flat in the small room.

Bruce sneers. Teeth bright and shiny. “Stay out of my room, Willems.” He replies with an easy attitude. James rolls his eyes. He’s not going to walk away, not right now.

Not when he knows Bruce is going to get satisfaction out of watching him walk out.

“Thought you wanted me in your room,” the blonde says, somewhat clipped. To keep from smiling, he licks his lips, surprised that they still taste a bit like snow.

“I thought you wanted me in your ops,” is Bruce’s response. He uncrosses his legs from his position on the bed and smiles up at James, a little softer, a little more genuine this time.

James closes the distance between them in two steps. Puts his hands on Bruce’s knees, leans in. “Don’t fuck with my missions, Bruce.”

“What’re they gonna do,” he asks, chin up now, gaze hooked directly into James’. Tidepools for eyes. Nothing like forgiveness. “Fire you? You’re a freelancer.”

James’ breath is hot on Bruce’s face. Bruce starts to hum. Clair de Lune, James realizes, as he says, “You only get so many strikes.”

Greene’s mouth tastes like blood and the beach and nothing like forgiveness. Willems lets himself drown.

--

The mission crashes and burns ten minutes in. Bad intel, bad planning. A handful of excuses. But a fuck up is a fuck up.

Is a shot James never takes, is one that gets by him.

Is the fact that, for the first time in a long time, the blood on his hands is his own. Hullum frowns, like he has something distasteful in his mouth.

James swallows. His tongue is heavy and tastes like copper.

--

There’s a memory that slides into his mind: Greene’s eyes locked onto his; Greene’s smile, pointed, scrutinizing; Greene’s arrow from his crossbow pressing directly into his throat, right above his jugular.

Widowmaker feels himself smile. Slow, at first, lips curling past sharp teeth.

“You know,” he hears himself say, and he’s not sure if he’s speaking in Russian or not, “they have stories. About wolves and little boys all alone in the woods.”

“Little boys getting eaten up,” Greene supplies. Shaky Russian. He’s trying. Widowmaker appreciates it.

“What are you, Greene? In this story?”

The force against his throat gets harder. Almost seems to pierce the surface of his skin. Greene narrows his eyes, stares down at Widowmaker’s icy blue ones through thick lashes. “I think you know.”

Widowmaker bites his lip. Stares down at the arrow, then back up at Greene, who remains still and unmoving. His suit is partially covered by the leather jacket, but Widowmaker can still make out the orange insignia. “Are you going to kill me?”

Silence.

In English, this time, “are you going to kill me, Greene?”

The archer leans forward. When he speaks, he doesn’t speak to Widowmaker. “Don’t do this, Willems.”

He speaks to James.

This is the way Widowmaker remembers it. Greene’s eyes, Greene’s smile, Greene’s arrow to his throat. But James remembers Bruce’s crinkled eyes, his crooked smile, Bruce’s ultimatum resting on the base of James’ throat.

He says, don’t do this, Willems, but it comes out sounding like, people have left me before, and I don’t know why. He says, don’t do this, Willems, but what he means is: are you going to come back, if I let you live?

Widowmaker sits back. Widowmaker closes his eyes, feels the sharpness of the arrow at his skin. Widowmaker hesitates.

Then James says, “okay.”

--

Elyse is kind and funny and clever and beautiful. So is Widowmaker. James is not. Elyse is genuine. So is Widowmaker. James is not.

To James, Widowmaker has always been a character. A mask he puts on and doesn’t take off. A switch he hits when Hullum orders him to. Smart and seductive and to die for. James himself, on the other hand, is…

James is--

He still likes watching Power Rangers on Saturday morning. He still likes going to the gym three times a week. He still eats the crust of his sandwich before taking a bite of the middle.

And he still falls in love with Elyse, just a little bit at first, before all at once. Widowmaker would mock him, because it’s not love, love is for children, and--

Elyse kisses him back, soft and careful and slow, everything that James is not. He cups a hand around her cheek and for the first time, closes his eyes.

--

Bruce was sent to kill me, James says. But he made a different call.

That was a different time, then. A thousand miles, a thousand days away from here. James still has red in his ledger but Bruce still looks at him with the same crinkle in his eyes.

So what?

There is saying in Russia: they hang the thief who stole five kopeks, but honor the one who stole fifty. James says, I’ve got red in my ledger, but what he means is: they honor me, in Russia.

James says, he made a different call, but what he means is: I owe him a debt.

--

“I kissed Elyse,” Bruce says unevenly. He holds the bow upright now, the length of it nearly as long as his entire body. “I’m--I thought you deserved to know.”

James doesn’t speak. James can’t speak.

“If you want to punch me, you can do it now.”

“Why would I do that?” James’ voice comes out flat and low. “Bruce.”

Bruce stiffens. “She’s your girlfriend,” and he goes back to being very interested in his bow.

“Yeah, but she can be yours.”

“Excuse me?”

“I just thought,” James tilts his head. He’s supposed to be good with words--no, Widowmaker is supposed to be good with words. James flubs his sentences and uses strange voices and accents to tell jokes. “I mean. I’ve kissed you. On multiple occasions. In several different places.”

“That’s different,” Bruce says, but even he sounds doubtful. “You’re… you.”

“And?”

“And…” Bruce sighs. Lays his bow out across his lap and ducks his head. “I don’t know, James. I don’t fucking know. I like you, but I think I like Elyse and I think--is that weird?”

“I think we’re complicated,” James says after some careful delineation. “And I like you too. You like Elyse. I like Elyse. Elyse likes both me and you… well, I’m assuming she likes me. I know she likes you.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow in response.

“You can fuck more than one of us, Bruce,” James remarks, and it’s not much but it’s enough to make Bruce huff out a laugh. “I’m serious. God didn’t give me a great ass and a great bod for nothin’.”

“Right,” the other murmurs, brightly and warmly enough to keep James from worrying.

“I can talk to Elyse. If you want.”

“Talk to Elyse about what?” A new voice comes echoing down the hall. James makes out Elyse’s form first--sees the dark red trim of the BYTE uniform before anything else.

James smiles at Bruce. Bruce shoots him an uneasy smile back.

Talk to Elyse about what, indeed.

--

The memory that crosses his mind goes like this: James is standing in the center of a large circular room. James is holding a gun in his hand. There’s a paper target at the end of the room.

James fires. Unblinking. Unhesitant.

He hits the target dead center. When James blinks, the target collapses, gives way to a human figure. Hits the ground with a thump and he watches the blood pool.

The world burns.

“Good,” a voice soothes in Russian, over his shoulder. James hums Handel’s Water Music to try and put out the flames.

James doesn’t feel soothed. He never listens to the song ever again.

--

Bruce kisses Elyse and James watches, eyes trying to take in the whole thing, trying to memorize it, trying to save it--

(Bruce’s hand on Elyse’s cheek Elyse’s hand in Bruce’s hair soft skin soft touches soft kisses and Elyse’s eyelashes brushing against his face and Bruce’s quiet noises as Elyse hums)

--and he doesn’t feel alone. Doesn’t feel left out. He hums Archduke Trio under his breath when Bruce takes his hand and kisses him too. Hums a little louder when Elyse hugs him from behind, head on his shoulder.

It’s a good memory.

--

Another breeze rolls by. Not enough to startle James, but just enough to swing a loose curl around Elyse’s face and frame it.

James reaches away from his scope, gently wraps a finger in her hair (gold between tired hands), tucks it behind her ear.

Elyse smiles. Gold in the sunlight.

Between the sharp blue of the sky and the golden rays of sun framed through orange and yellow leaves, Elyse and her smile might be the most beautiful thing on this horizon.

James feels a gentle touch on his arm. Bruce’s hand stilling him. His rock in a storm. His tether. Bruce’s eyes, shining; gleaming in the light.

James closes his eyes; the sun is warm on his face.