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Luck Be A Lady Tonight

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“You are not going to engage Tracer in any situation that isn’t you putting a bullet in between her eyes,” Reaper growled, punctuating his statement with a shining claw prodding her collarbone. “Am. I. Clear.” 

“As crystal,” Widowmaker drawled. “There’s no reason to hound after me on this. Do I need to remind you of the success of Mondatta?” 

“The museum,” Reaper retorted. 

“A failure followed up by a success in Oasis,” Widowmaker countered. “Reports say that I gave Tracer a concussion that had her out for a week.”

“You could have taken her out permanently, but you didn’t.” Reaper tapped her collarbone again, this time digging the tip of his claw in deep enough to draw a pin point of blood. “Don’t. Let it happen again.” 

“Fine,” Widowmaker said, “I won’t.”

--

“Huh,” Tracer said as she propped her chin against Widowmaker’s shoulder, the cold-hot paradox of her accelerator digging into her spine. “This seems awful familiar, don’t it?” 

“Familiar enough.” Widowmaker kept her scope trained on the back windshield of the corrupt politician's limo. The mission dossier had only slated him for elimination; Widowmaker did not know the why’s. “This is a nice change. Usually by now you’re whining about justice and goodness and digging a knee into my kidney.” 

“Yeah, well, this time I’m not gonna put up much of a fuss when you take that old bastard out,” Tracer said. Her nonchalance about the imminent murder sent a chill up Widowmaker’s spine, pleasant and blooming. She had never expected Tracer to be capable of such...casual malice. 

“Dare I ask why?”

“He’s a facist fuckfaced pig who can’t stand the sight of anyone who ain’t pale and blond like him,” Tracer whispered, her voice pitched black with venom. “Frankly, I think Talon’s doin’ us a favor.” 

Widowmaker could almost agree. She noted the limo stopping by the front entrance to a five star restaurant and almost wanted to gag at easy and cliche her job had just become. Where was the challenge? The flair? 

“Before you do that,” Tracer said against her ear, her arms finally winding around Widowmaker’s waist, “mind givin’ a look about...two clicks to your left, half a click up?” 

Widowmaker paused. Rolled the request in her mind before slowly obeying. It took a moment for her scope to refocus, and what she saw made a brow arch; four empty beer bottles arranged on a fence, perfectly aligned in a row. 

“I want you to try and hit all four,” Tracer told her, “while I distract you.” 

Widowmaker wanted to laugh and let a chuckle roll out of her chest through her throat. “You can’t be serious.”

“I sure am, love. I want you to try and put one bullet in’em a piece.” 

“That is beyond child’s play. That,” Widowmaker snorted, “is a request so simple I could do it with my eyes closed.” 

Tracer hummed. “Wanna bet?” 

“...Pardon?”

“I said, wanna bet, love! A gamble, a wager, y’know, a good roll of the dice.” Tracer giggled against her cheek. “You hit all four of those bottles, all one shot-one kill bullshit, an’ I’ll keep my ass out of your hair for your next four assassinations.” 

Widowmaker sucked in a breath, and an odd mix of disappointment and excitement whirled through her. Four missions where she was guaranteed a proper win? No Tracer to tussle with, no annoying little fly to interrupt her shots? And yet, somehow, the thought of those missions without those very same elements left her thinking, How boring

Still, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. “And if, by some miracle, I lose? What would you demand of me?”

“A date.” She could hear the smile in Tracer’s voice. “Just one date with me. No guns, no punches. Just you, me, a nice dinner, maybe a movie.” 

So, nothing to lose and so much to gain. Widowmaker smirked. “Acceptable.” She pressed her eye against her scope and lined up the first bottle. She was anticipating the squirming fingers against her ribs and the loud Boo! that Tracer shouted in her ear, and the first bottle shattered when she pulled the trigger.

The second went in much the same manner, Tracer failing to pull her attention away even with a soft, gentle tug to her ponytail and a harried, Oh my god Widow look Reaper’s out there snoggin’ Doomfist! As if Gabriel would be so sloppy as to allow public displays of affection during a mission.

“Bugger, you’re good,” Tracer murmured low in her ear as she shot the third bottle. The praise sent another shiver down her spine, and Widowmaker found herself swallowing a sudden lump in her throat, hyper aware of how closely Tracer was pressed against her; hip to rump, chest to spine, lip to ear. The smell of her perfume and the leather of her jacket would have made her head swim, at any other time. 

“After this bottle goes,” Widowmaker forced herself to sigh, putting in her sights, “I will claim the head of that politician, and that does not count for one of the four targets you give me. Understood?” 

“Oh, completely.” And as Widowmaker’s finger rested on the trigger, Tracer pressed tightly against her back and purred against her ear, “And after you blow the Nazi’s bloody brains out, I’m going to rip this fuckin’ catsuit and fuck you ‘til your cum’s all over my face.” 

Her finger slipped, her arms jerked, but she still squeezed. Her shot rang out as Widowmaker turned her head around so fast she almost broke her neck, openly gaping at Tracer’s pleased little grin. She blinked rapidly, before she remembered the bet, and checked through her scope. 

Widowmaker’s lips parted. “I...I missed.” 

“Mm, brilliant.” Tracer’s body moved off of her own, and Widowmaker remained still even after she was given a patronizing pat on the ass. “Meet me round the corner from the underground ‘round ten, yeah? Wear somethin’ fancy. Ta!” 

Widowmaker set her rifle down as the sound of Tracer warping through time faded. She put her face in her hands, mortified, and Sombra--who had no doubt heard the entire exchange through the comm piece tucked in Widowmaker’s earring, burst out, “HOLY SHIT.”