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Subterfuge

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So. Okay. Tracer was willing to admit that she’d done some pretty stupid things in her life. Like slamming back three Red Bulls and a fistful of Five Hour Energy drinks to get through a mission in record time enough to catch a football game back at the base. Or like the time she overheated her accelerator and briefly visited a neighboring timeline and made out with herself on camera. 

(It had been the best won game of Never Have I Ever to date.)

This had to be most stupid thing she’s ever done though. And judging by the look on Widowmaker’s face, she was experiencing the same sense of I’ve made a huge mistake. They were crammed in a narrow hallway, dressed down in civilian clothes to blend in for recon at some schmancy party Tracer had already forgotten about. Something about finding out if the businessman hosting this thing is in league with Talon, probably. 

It’s pretty telling that Overwatch has limited options when they send Tracer out for espionage. She’d be aces at it if it weren’t for the damn accelerator. And if it weren’t for her rival/nemesis/enemy with benefits also attending the party with no doubt nefarious plans. They’d caught eyes across the room and moved in to clash, and Tracer supposed that was the second worst idea of the night because Business Guys didn’t like guns in the same room as them.

Who knew?

Which lead to now, the pair of them pressed together in a corner as the bloke’s security detail combed for them. At least Widowmaker wasn’t trying to kill her anymore; turned out that Talon wanted the guy dead too, as he was making it difficult to do nefarious Talon things while simultaneously fucking over the embers of Overwatch. 

“Man, you know, we could have saved a lot of time if we just did the smart thing and communicated,” Tracer whispered. 

“Shut up,” Widowmaker hissed from between her teeth. They were sharper than the norm for a human being, the canines like an animal’s fangs. Widowmaker’s whole body was a weapon, it seemed. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“Naw, we’re fine, love,” Tracer said. The greatest weapon was overwhelmingly stupid optimism, and luckily for the both of them, Tracer had it in spades. “Just uh, chin up, yeah? Silver lining is that we’re on the same side, for once!”

“Are you kidding me? We are not ‘fine.’” Widowmaker pressed closer, forced her harder against the wall. “This is the opposite definition of fine!” 

“Is that your rifle or are you happy to see me,” Tracer deflected, bouncing her eyebrows. 

“Yes,” Widowmaker snipped, and they both froze as heavy feet pounded close by. They both looked down to the glowing blue light of Tracer’s accelerator. That’d give them away in a minute. Widowmaker sucked in a breath, grabbed Tracer’s wrists, and clicked her tongue. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but open your mouth.” 

“You what, mate?” And then Tracer was hauled further up the wall, Widowmaker’s chilled mouth over her own. In the abstract, she recognized the tactical move; she’d seen it in movies too. Make out so that the stomping baddies couldn’t see them. Since the accelerator’s center was squeezed between Widowmaker’s breasts, its light was completely hidden and so were their faces. 

That all made sense, and if Tracer was being honest, it wasn’t the first time she’d snogged someone to keep her cover. (God bless that one mission in Greece with Angela.) But that had been professional and queerly platonic; Widowmaker grabbing her ass and hauling her off the ground with a muted growl wasn’t platonic in the slightest. Tracer wasn’t about to complain either way. Her self help books had said this was what their whole back and forth was leading to. 

The footsteps faded. They were safe enough, but if they didn’t run then no amount of indecent public displays were going to save them.

“Think you can let up on my tit now, babe,” Tracer mumbled against Widowmaker’s lips. “Least take me out to dinner first.”