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Widow’s first mistake comes when she talks too much about Sombra to Hanzo. In her defense, Sombra is a very interesting person. She’s witty, worldly, beautiful. Widow counts herself exceedingly lucky when she can meet Sombra for dinner and ask her about her day, and then sit back and listen and watch as Sombra details every idiot she fucked over, every innovation she squirreled out. Sombra is the most interesting part of Widow’s life and as such, it seems only natural to bring her up in conversation.
But she must have pushed it too far. Because when she finishes telling Hanzo about the upgrades Sombra made to her visor, he leans back in his chair and regards her coolly. They’ve met up for lunch at a little cafe across the street from the Cabaret Luna, and despite their innocuous surroundings, Widow suddenly feels overwhelming dread over the fact that she has nowhere to hide.
“You talk about this Sombra a lot,” Hanzo says.
“I suppose.”
“It would be good to meet her at some point.”
A montage of all the times Sombra pulled security stills of Hanzo and made fun of his outfits flashes through Widow’s mind. Under the table, her hands curl in her lap. “Perhaps,” she says.
“I have a partner too, now,” Hanzo says. He takes a sip of his latte and, with a Herculean amount of feigned casualness, says, “Maybe we should all have dinner some time.”
“Perhaps,” Widow repeats. She’s not very good at keeping the feelings she has off her face, though, and the corner of Hanzo’s mouth twitches down. He starts studying his coffee cup.
“Perhap,” he agrees. He lets Widow redirect their conversation from there, back to technology and the concert they’re about to attend. When he doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the night, Widow, foolishly, believes that she’s safe.
Widow’s second mistake comes when she gets back to the Chateau. As she’s unpacking her duffel bag, Sombra’s sitting on their bed, legs swinging, asking how her trip went. Widow recounts Luna’s performance, tosses Sombra the bag of espresso beans Widow bought her as a souvenir. Then, Widow tells Sombra about Hanzo’s proposition. She expects her girlfriend to find it funny, maybe ask what he was wearing so she can make fun of it. Instead, Sombra’s eyes light up.
“We need to do that,” Sombra says. Widow stares at her dubiously.
“I thought you didn’t like Hanzo?”
“I love him!” Sombra says. “I think he’s hilarious!”
“Ah. So you love making fun of him.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said!” Widow rolls her eyes. Sombra leans forward, elbows on her knees. “In any case. Don’t you know who his boyfriend is?”
“The cowboy,” Widow says flatly, and Sombra nods vigorously.
“Exactly! So you’ll have someone to make fun of too!”
“Wonderful.” Widow stuffs a sweater into her dresser drawer, then turns and eyes Sombra critically. “I still can’t believe you meet up with him.”
Sombra shrugs. “He’s funny. And he has good stories.”
Widow hums. “Why does he meet up with you, though? He knows you’re Talon, yes?”
“Yeah,” Sombra says. “I think he thinks he’s taking me for a ride, using me as this unwitting double agent.”
“And?” Widow asks.
“And I usually have the contents of his holovid uploaded before he’s finished his first whiskey.” Widow snorts. “But like, that’s the point, right? Neither of them is anything we can’t handle. It’ll be funny. And you have this big-ass house, it must be great for throwing parties.”
Widow stands up and looks out her window, over the leaf-strewn courtyard. “My grandparents did hold events here, when I was a child,” she says slowly. “I do miss those.”
Sombra makes a little squealing noise and when Widow turns to look at the bed she’s gripping the edge, practically falling off. “So?” Sombra asks.
“Fine,” Widow says. Sombra holds her arms out and Widow walks into her embrace, unable to keep a smile off her face. Sombra pulls her down on top of her and any annoyance or anxiety Widow might feel gets dulled, as Sombra’s legs wrap around her.
It’s hard to think about Hanzo or McCree the rest of that night. And the next morning, Sombra takes on planning. Widow was never one for that– Gérard was the one who always wanted to show her off, back when they were together, and in the ballet Widow was far more accustomed to being invited to events than she was to hosting them. Sombra cooks, Sombra is imminently organized, Sombra knows what washing machine setting to use for silk napkins. Widow is happy to let Sombra take care of preparation, especially when it means she can forget about what’s coming.
The day of though, when Sombra’s busy in the kitchen and unable to distract her, Widow feels her regrets in earnest. She paces in the corridor and finally pulls out her phone and texts Hanzo.
> +33 1: How far away are you?
> 03: About half an hour.
> 03: Why?
> +33 1: Maybe we should reschedule.
> 03: What? Why?
> +33 1: This seems like a bad idea.
There’s a long pause. Widow can almost hear Hanzo’s lengthy sigh. Finally, she gets a response.
> 03: I’ve been through this a dozen times with Jesse already. I’m not doing it with you too. We’ll be there in half an hour.
Widow lets out a small sigh of her own, shoves her phone in her pocket, and goes to sweep off the front step, as Sombra had directed her to ten minutes ago.
A half an hour later, the doorbell rings, and Widow answers it. Hanzo and the cowboy stand there. Hanzo’s wearing pressed pants, a button down, and a vest. McCree looks no different than in any of the pictures in his file. Widow’s not even sure if he’s washed clothes.
“Welcome,” she says. She pulls a smile and Hanzo attempts one back. McCree looks between the two of them and sighs.
“You’re Hanzo’s friend, yeah?” he says. Widow nods. “Suppose I should get to know you too.”
Widow wishes she could bite back at the enthusiasm he’s mustered for this endeavor, at how she’d be happy to deny this gift he’s bestowing, if it’s so much more than she deserves. But she looks over at Hanzo and sees the desperate look flash across his face. She remembers that Hanzo doesn’t have a Talon. Hanzo doesn’t have people around him who don’t care about how brutal and selfish he’s capable of being. Hanzo doesn’t have a fistful of people who you know, no matter what, won’t judge you. Hanzo has his brother, who he goes into guilty conniptions about just talking to. Hanzo has his boyfriend, who’s so committed to some infantile idea of justice that he dresses like an eight year old. And Hanzo has Widow.
Widow isn’t a particularly compassionate person. But she likes Hanzo, and he’s given her good company, the past year they’ve been spending time together. And she feels bad for him. She feels obliged to help. Without a cross word, she steps aside and leads the two towards the kitchen.
McCree’s holding a bottle of mezcal. The label looks familiar to Widow and sure enough, when he hands it to Sombra, Sombra’s eyes light up.
“Shit, man.” She claps him on the back and hands it back to him. “I have to finish it up but the bar’s over there, can you–?” McCree swiftly departs for the bar on the other side of the room before Widow, who spends most parties lusting after activities that don’t involve talking to people, can get a word in edgewise. Sombra turns to Hanzo. “Nice vest.”
“Why don’t you help me pick out some wine,” Widow says to Hanzo, before he can respond. She pulls him down to the cellar.
“Thank you,” he says, as they head down one of the darkened hallways. Widow glances over at him.
“It’s not a problem,” she says. “Sombra does that to everyone.”
“No,” he says. “I mean, thank you for helping make this happen. I really did want to meet Sombra, after hearing you talk about her so much.”
“Oh.” Widow looks down at her feet. “Of course.”
“What did you mean? She does what to everyone?”
“I think a red would go best with dinner,” Widow announces.
Sombra and McCree are laughing when Widow and Hanzo get back up. Widow notes McCree’s glass is nearly empty already, and imagines that must have something to do with his smile not fading when she comes into view.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” Sombra tells them. McCree wraps an arm around Hanzo as Hanzo settles at the counter next to him.
“We were just talking about Venice,” McCree tells him, and Hanzo’s face blanches.
“I thought we agreed not to talk business,” Hanzo hisses. McCree shrugs.
“Not business. Just reminiscing.”
“I don’t believe Sombra or myself was employed at the time of the Venice incident,” Widow says. McCree gestures to her.
“See? Not about them at all.” Hanzo rolls his eyes. “Now, do y’all still have those assassins on payroll?” Sombra nods. “Nasty piece of works, aren’t they? Now I don’t like shooting a lady–”
“Then I suppose you like being bad at your job,” Widow cuts in. Sombra muffles a snort, Hanzo looks to be mildly dissociating, and McCree stops in his tracks.
“I was trained,” he says, after a moment. “By the best marksman there ever was. Captain Ana Amari.”
“Not the best,” Widow says.
Hidden behind the counter, Sombra kicks her very hard. McCree’s eyes narrows. “Don’t know where you’re gettin’ that from,” he says coolly.
“Her track record would indicate someone better,” Widow says. She ignores Sombra’s even harder kick. “And in any case. Captain Amari is, if I recall correctly, a lady as well.”
“A lady wouldn’t shoot at me,” McCree says. When Hanzo, Sombra, and Widow all stare at him with varying looks of confusion, repulsion, and exhaustion, he throws up his hands. “I don’t mean that, I just mean– Listen, I’m just saying, I have a code–”
“You have an excuse for being bad at your job, you mean,” Widow says. McCree splutters briefly before folding his arms and staring her down with all his mustered determination.
“How ‘bout we take this past words?” Hanzo buries his head in his hands and McCree’s gruff demeanor quickly breaks as he sets a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. “I just meant– shooting contest. Against targets.”
“I have a range in the back,” Widow says. “I’ll take you up on that. Let’s go.”
“The chicken’s going to burn,” Sombra murmurs.
“You don’t have to come,” McCree tells her.
Sombra raises an eyebrow. “I can keep an eye on them,” Hanzo says to her. Sombra’s eyebrow raises even further. The other three patiently wait as Sombra takes the chicken from the oven, and then they make their way to the shooting range.
Widow parses through her rifles when she gets there as McCree stands, thumbs in his belt loops, hand on his six-shooter. “We’ll be shooting at a considerable distance,” she tells him.
“This gets the job done,” he says. Widow shrugs and loads her rifle. He gestures to the range. “After you.”
Widow makes eye contact with Sombra, who nods. Widow scopes in. Her range is set up with moving holographic targets at varying lengths, and she carefully and precisely shoots each through the head. When the last one is down, a series of scores display beside her. McCree reviews the accuracy and takes her spot, no longer smiling. He fires. He misses several. As his lower numbers pop up, he wheels around to glare at Sombra.
“You cheated,” he says. Sombra holds up her hands.
“You think she’d let me cheat on something like this?” McCree studies Widow briefly and must not find the answer he was hoping for, because he quickly changes tack.
“I didn’t say I was the best,” he says. “I said Captain Amari was. And so– you know–”
Widow likes Hanzo, she wants Hanzo to be happy, to have friends, a community. Widow loves Sombra, she wants Sombra to have her drinking buddies. But this is all too much. The last man with this kind of ego she had to deal with was Gerard, and since she doubts handling McCree in a similar vein is an option–
“I outshot Captain Amari,” she tells McCree. “So then. Am I the best now?”
It only takes McCree a second to put things together. But that second is enough for Sombra to hack his cybernetic arm, and the cybernetics in his torso. He toples over to the side and the six-shooter falls out of his hand before he can pull the trigger. Hanzo shoots up and Sombra holds up her hands.
“He’s fine,” she says, and Hanzo minutely relaxes. He kneels down and helps McCree stand, then helps him towards the door.
Hanzo pauses besides Widow. “I had a poster of Captain Amari in my room when I was a child,” he says.
“I’m… sorry?” Widow says. Hanzo sighs.
“Thank you for the invitation,” he tells them both. Then he hefts McCree up and drags him out.
That night, Sombra and Widow eat chicken and take shots. When she’s putting the dishes away, Widow gets a text from Hanzo.
> 03: I’m glad I met your girlfriend. She definitely is interesting.
Widow swallows. She drafts her response three times before she finally sends it.
> +33 1: Are you still willing to meet me at the steakhouse, next month?
The first reply comes instantly, the others take longer.
> 03: Yes.
> 03: I killed Jesse’s best friend, and he was able to make his peace with that. I think he will be alright with me enjoying fine culture with you.
> 03: And I can’t judge you, obviously.
> 03: But perhaps dinner is a bad idea.
Widow smiles and puts her phone back in her pocket. It’s not what she had in mind, and it certainly wasn’t what she wanted for Hanzo.
But he’s okay. And she got Sombra’s cooking, a priceless look on McCree’s face, and good tequila. All things considered, it was a fun night.