Chapter Text
At the height of a healthy French summer, Deauville was flush with a multi-coloured wealth of tourists and natives alike, their glowing faces steeped in the shadows of their floppy hats and reflective sunglasses. Beneath the reek of seaside treats and sunscreen, the entire place stank of salt and heat, sticky with hundreds of bodies that swirled and swayed together. Ashe had never been fond of the beach, a medical aversion to the sunshine that made her scarlet as tomatoes aside, she doubted there was anything worse than shuffling between sweaty strangers as salt dries your hair to straw and every unpleasant crevice of your body becomes an airtight sand prison.
She had voiced her concerns that morning, as she and Amélie hastily folded their clothes away into their cases, trying to gloss over the fact, for all intents and purposes, they had little more than twelve hours left in each other’s company.
“Just never liked the beach,” she grumbled, ignoring the heavy feeling in her chest, and jammed a pair of boots vindictively beneath her scrunched-up clothes. Amélie’s clothes were carefully pressed, placed like stacks of envelopes or fluffy white bread. “Y’know how dirty sand is? And don’t get me started on the ocean, fish piss in there all damn day.”
Amélie had smiled, biting her lip over the edge of a muffled laugh. Zipping up her case and propping it against the doorframe, she nudged Ashe gently.
“Let me do it.” she took a bundle of socks from Ashe’s hands and lay them aside, “You pack like a child.”
She unpacked and repacked Ashe’s clothes with the military efficiency that had been hammered into her for the past decade or so, barely even blinking as she lay sets of creased white shirts and black trousers with scuffed cuffs atop each other. Every now and then she would scowl at the unwashed blood splatters on collars and the buttons hanging by their last thread, but it was a soft kind of disdain. Ashe would venture to say domestic, like an exasperated wife despondent over her spouse’s inability to take care of themselves.
“Thanks.” Ashe said, sitting back on her heels as Amélie zipped the case up with a jarring finality.
“De rien.” she responded, getting to her feet. “We shouldn’t stay too long. We have a train to catch.”
The hypertrain they took to Deauville thrummed with excited holidayers and bumbling tourists, fists full of pamphlets and bags stuffed with spare towels. Stuck between a tall gentleman’s damp armpit and the rust worn chassis of a pre-crisis build omnic, it wasn’t exactly the luxurious first class Ashe was used to. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had to stand up in a train, or if she ever had at all. After half an hour of bobbing violently up and down with the train’s carriages and having sliced bright red divots into her palm from clasping on so tight to the grip loop, she decided she’d avoid reliving the experience at all costs. Amélie seemed equally as disappointed with the travel, scowling every time a particularly sudden jolt bounced her sunglasses off of her head and begrudgingly knocked her knees whenever the snotty nosed child beside her wavered a little too close to her silk beach dress. She clutched the cello case where her rifle was stowed, using it as something of a shield to any misplaced hands or fly away knees that might come her way. Ashe almost wished she’d brought Viper, but it was much safer hidden away with the rest of their bags back at the safehouse, where they would return one more time to collect their belongings before parting ways for who knows how long. She could feel the press of the barrel of the magnum squirreled into the back of her shorts, far too small a weapon for her liking, but a necessity if this were to be as quick and easy as they’d like.
“I’m never doin’ that again.” Ashe declared when they finally arrived, hustling into the station, making a beeline to the nearest water fountain where she proceeded to mercilessly scrub her hands clean of whatever heinous disease she’d picked up from that intestinal excuse of a train.
“It’s not exactly first class.” Amélie splashed her own hands briefly, patting them dry as they made to leave the station.
Deauville, like Château de Verre, reminded Ashe a little too much of her childhood for comfort. It was certainly beautiful, crammed with brown and white gingerbread houses that seemed as though they were pulled straight from a fairy tale, and boasted a great many snazzy seaside holiday homes, but the veneer of it all felt achingly familiar. She wouldn’t say that she harboured any kind of disdain for her own kind, but Ashe could practically smell the rich on half of the halcyon holiday families who ambled past them in their designer swimsuits, and the scent was rotten.
“Welcome to the Côte Fleurie.” Amélie droned as they eventually reached the beach’s edge, hovering uncertainly in the shadows cast by the many windowed buildings that towered over the sand. “I hope you have a strong tolerance for the insufferable.”
Humming gruffly in response, Ashe looked out on the ruckus that was streaking the beach into a bustling rainbow. The majority of the beach had been cordoned off, stony faced security guards sweating buckets in their black suits as they waved hordes of glassy eyed socialites into the festivities. These were the exact kind of zombies Fosse spent his time with: beautiful, tanned, and drugged up just enough to not care about how much they spent getting into the entire filthy shebang.
“Fella must’ve sold his left nut to reserve the entire beach for a day.” Ashe watched as a pair of security guards swapped posts, offering each other damp tissues to wipe down their ruby foreheads. “Think we’ll get in?”
“Fosse isn’t stupid enough to hide his business from his staff.” Amélie said, “We’ll tell them we’re with Talon and they’ll let us in if they plan on living.”
“Fair.” Ashe snorted, “...When do you think Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb are turnin’ up?”
Shrugging, Amélie sat herself on a nearby bench. She stared boredly out at the beach party.
“You’re the one with the comm.”
She was right, but Ashe felt hesitant to check it. Foolish as it was, the direct line of contact she had to Shimada that sat in the pocket of her shorts felt...uncomfortable. Intimate in a way. Maybe it was bitterness, or jealousy, but getting chummy with the man who was screwing McCree felt wrong. She’d sworn twenty years ago she wanted nothing more to do with the man, and where was she now? Texting his boyfriend about putting a bullet through a scumbag’s skull? Ashe wouldn’t be surprised if she’d hit her head a little too hard the day they’d killed Larue and had been floating in a comatose nightmare ever since.
Nonetheless, Amélie was right. She took out the comm.
On your right the screen glowed.
Sure enough, just down the street to their right, Shimada and McCree were picking their way between huffing crowds of tourists towards them, eyes averted. To anyone else they were a holidaying couple, pressed shoulder to shoulder as they walked, Shimada hopping every now and then to match McCree’s long stride and adjusting the guitar case that no doubt held his bow, but to Ashe the image was enough to make her stomach churn, instinct itching to make a grab for the gun tuck somewhat haphazardly into her belt. Letting them approach like they were old friends on a day out made her feel all kinds of queasy, but she was sure they felt the same.
“Bonjour, mademoiselles.” McCree said, stopping a few feet from the bench. He was wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt so bright Ashe was sure her retinas would burn off if he took another step forward. Hanzo, on the other hand, was dressed as he had been every time she’d seen him, and she couldn’t help but wonder how he didn’t sweat to death in what seemed like eight layers of black.
“Good morning.” he said stiffly. He was an odd fella, Ashe summited. Certainly not in a bad way, he was just stilted, maybe a little socially inept. He was the harmless kind of blunt that she recognised from her days of mingling amongst the home-schooled kids - intelligent and well-mannered, but clueless in a manner that teetered between charming and irritating. She imagined he was a polarising person.
“Ready to smoke a degenerate?” Ashe wrapped her knuckles on t Amélie cello case, her smirk grim. Not exactly interested in making small talk, she relied on what she was good at: threats and shit talk.
“Abso-lutely.” McCree patted the side of his thigh, a slight lump in the fabric of his shorts giving away his gun’s hiding spot. It looked far too small to be Peacekeeper; Ashe knew that would have him antsy, just like her. Best believe, he was a whizz of a marksman with whatever weapon he happened to have unceremoniously shoved into his hands, but one could never be more confident in a man than they could be with Jesse McCree and the gun his mama taught him how to shoot with.
He used to sleep with it under his pillow back in the day when they’d stake out in the desert, lying bleary eyed in cramped, smoky tents under a sky so wide it seemed to spit out more stars the longer it stayed dark. When she’d asked him why, she’d been expecting him to say something about “just in case”, a “necessary precaution”. But no, soft-hearted, mama’s boy McCree just wanted to keep the family heirloom nearby, no matter if it pressed hard shapes under his pillow and made his neck ache funny in the morning.
“Don’t get too excited.” Amélie huffed, perhaps sensing that, despite the scent of resent lingering in the air, there was a swell of teenaged exuberance whenever Ashe was within five feet of McCree – the kind that made her want to punch things. “Fosse has a habit of being fashionably late. Who knows how long we’ll have to stay at this awful party.”
McCree raised an eyebrow, his face coloured with shock only briefly. No doubt that was the first time he’d seen the infamous Widowmaker seem anything more than apathetic. He grinned awkwardly,
“So, what’s the plan then?”
“I believe it would be best for Mr Shimada and I to have our eyes on the beach.” Amélie rose from the bench, brushing her lap off with prim hands. “And for you and Ashe to scout the party for Fosse.”
The look Amélie gave Ashe was stuck somewhere between an apology and a sentence, her eyes as knowing as they were stern. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to be anything more than miffed with Amélie since their fight in the safehouse, so she saved her venom for a time it would be more necessary, and glared at her like a child, puffing out her cheeks. To her surprise, Amélie chuckled, and Ashe’s stomach did a backflip.
“I trust you can put aside your differences for the greater good.” she turned to McCree, who had taken to running a thumb up and down a zip on the hip of Hanzo’s cargo pants. Boredom? A nervous tick? Ashe stowed it in the back of her head alongside her venom. Maybe they’d both make a return together once Fosse was in the ground and Ashe could reassume her preferred state of incessantly bullying McCree. “Monsieur McCree?”
“Sure can.” he gave Ashe a wink, “No sayin’ we can’t hash things out after this, huh?”
“Oh, you can bet yer ass.”
“Alright, children.” Hanzo cleared his throat, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. The sucker was smitten. “Where do you suggest we stake out, Miss Lacroix?”
“There is a restaurant on this street around 80 yards from the beach.” she pointed to a pretty blue building at the end of the street, its balconies brimming with chattering patrons shovelling oysters and prawn cocktail into their mouths. “The fire escape is unmonitored and gives us easy access to the roof. If anyone asks our business, we say we’re a part of Fosse’s security team.”
“Understood.” Hanzo nodded. He glanced briefly at his own hand clasped within McCree’s, a good luck charm, perhaps.
“And we do the distractin’ work?” McCree asked, “Take care of things if they start gettin’ messy?”
“Keep Fosse busy and try not to die.” Amélie hummed, blinking Ashe’s way. “Right?”
“Well, we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”
They kept their goodbyes brief, wishing each other good luck as they went their separate ways. For barely a second, Amélie brushed her hand over Ashe’s, a wordless stay safe that struck at her ribs like a gory xylophone. She had wanted to say something, but for once in her god damn life, Ashe’s words failed her. She simply hoped that a nod and a smile was enough to tell Amélie the same, to say good luck, I want to see you again.
But then she and Hanzo were gone, heading off together down the street, and she was avoiding eye contact with McCree. Today was going to be weird.
Just as Amélie said, Ashe told the guards she was with Talon - or, rather, she told McCree to tell the guards they were with Talon and he spoke some fancy gobbledygook that made her tongue cramp just hearing it - and they gave way like butter, waving the two of them in.
“Wouldja look at that.” McCree peeked smugly over his shoulder, “All I gotta do is take my hat off and suddenly I ain’t a wanted man no more.”
“Keep wishin’,” Ashe sneered, barging her way past a group of chittering women so thoroughly dunked in fake tan they had begun to resembled rather svelte strips of fried chicken. “I’d recognise yer ugly mug anywhere.”
“A mug so ugly you stick it on the wall?”
“So I can throw darts at it.”
McCree shrugged, following Ashe through the crowds. They scanned the commotion as they went, squinting through flashes of bright sunlight and peroxide white teeth for any sign of Fosse. Ashe figured she’d be able to see him pretty easy, tall as he was, and considering he seemed to attract adoring fans like flies to a hunk of stinking meat. But there was no uproar of noise or tidal wave of movement, just the typical activity of a beach party full of heathens.
“You see him?” Ashe asked. McCree paused at her side, scratching at his head.
“Naw. But I only saw him once, might just have forgotten his face.”
“Doubt it. He’s the kind of handsome bastard that sticks in yer head because you don’t trust his beady little eyes.”
Among the shifting masses, a little further up the beach was a small bar, decorated like a tiki shack with a straw roof, and chairs made of bamboo, and garlands of shells. It was mostly unoccupied, serving only a few patrons who came and went for piña coladas before returning to where they were lounging in the sun. Figuring it was going to be a while before Fosse made an appearance, Ashe nudged McCree with her elbow, nodding toward the vacant row of bar stools.
They made their way over to the shack where two mixologists – a pretty blonde girl in heart shaped sunglasses and a shiny bronze omnic in a Hawaiian shirt that almost matched McCree’s - were juggling cocktails and plates of tiny sandwiches. Ashe settled on one of the thatched stools, shuffling a little as the straw strands poked at her thighs, and the omnic turned to her, LEDs glittering, and buzzed,
“Que voulez-vous, mademoiselle?”
“Uhh...”
“Deux bourbons, s’il vous plaît.” McCree leant over the bar with a polite smile, gesturing to the selection of golden-brown bottles lined up like long necked soldiers on the cramped shelves.
“Bien sur, monsieur.” the omnic dipped their head and began clattering around with glasses beneath the bar.
“Spanish and English weren’t enough for you, huh?” Ashe scowled half-heartedly at the tiny glass of bourbon that was placed before her, a meniscus thin slice of orange clinging to the rim like a pest.
“Yeah, well,” McCree raised his own glass, nodding his thanks to the omnic bartender. “You pick up a lot of languages when you spend half your life runnin’ ‘round the world.”
Ashe huffed, reluctant to respond, or even consider sipping at the miniscule bourbon that McCree had just slid a handful of credits over the walnut board for. Drinking with him again, like they were a couple of spotty teenagers flashing their fake IDs ‘til their livers felt like dill pickles, didn’t feel right. At least yesterday Amélie’s icicle glare had been something of a buffer, Hanzo’s steely desperation to keep a handle on the situation had made it feel more like an awkward business meeting than anything else. Even now, despite McCree’s relaxed shoulders and leisurely sipping at his drink, Ashe could see his knee jittering. Like the zip. Jesse McCree didn’t jitter. At least he never used to.
“You’ve, uh,” he cleared his throat, glancing over his shoulder at the party that continued to swell on, festering like a wound full of pearls and toupees. “You’ve spent more time with this Fosse fella than I have. Anything worth tellin’ me?”
Considering her drink one more time before finally taking a sip, Ashe muttered,
“It’s like Amélie said – he likes to be fashionably late. So, we might be here for a while.”
She didn’t miss the laboured sigh McCree only just withheld. She’d kick him if she couldn’t sympathise.
“Huh.” he swivelled on his stool, throwing his arms back over the bar as if finally resigning to the fact that his boyfriend had left him to simmer in the discomfort of conversation with an ex-friend who’d typically rather aim a punch to his nuts than even attempt civility with him. “Guess we better find somethin’ to talk about then, right?”
“What on this damn earth makes you think I wanna talk to you, Jesse?” Ashe sighed. She didn’t know if she wanted to blank McCree or smash her pathetically tiny glass over his thick skull. All of this just felt wrong, too much, too soon, and not even a fist fight to precede it all. She was much better at proving her point with violence than words.
McCree had barely been forcing a smile before, but the façade fell quickly, revealing a dejected frown beneath the bristle of his beard.
“I figured it was better than passive aggressively ignoring each other.”
“What, like you’ve been doin’ for the past twenty years?”
McCree sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, a habit he clearly hadn’t been able to kick since he was fourteen. Ashe had memories of dabbing at his shredded gums with damp tissues whilst he sprayed her scraped up knees with anti-bac. There was rarely a time when the two of them weren’t beaten up in some way or another, always bruised as apples eating Sunday dinner at the ranch, or sneaking in each other’s windows hours after curfew when they needed to talk long into the night.
There had been many times in the last twenty years Ashe could have done with one of those talks.
“So...” McCree knocked back the last of his drink, seemingly determined to force some kind of conversation out of Ashe. She decided she’d tape his mouth shut next time they got into a brawl. “Widowmaker, huh?”
“She prefers Amélie.” Ashe gritted through her teeth. She’d expected McCree to take the hint and shut the hell up, allow her to rile herself up in silence in preparation for shoving a stick of dynamite up Fosse’s ass.
“Wow,” he smirked despite the disappointment in his eyes, rolling the empty bourbon glass between his metal fingers. “First name basis with one of the most dangerous women in the world. Impressive.”
Ashe didn’t respond. The sounds of the beach made something in her chest turn: gently rolling waves, chattering sunbathers, clinking glasses, even the clashing of different music drifting from the variety of radios scattered about the sand. It wasn’t nostalgia, Ashe was firmly opposed to the beach, rarely went as a child, and it wasn’t as if New Mexico boasted a particularly dazzling wealth of shorelines in all its orange landlocked glory. Perhaps it was the idea of nostalgia – the suggestion of a memory. Another life where she and McCree had grown up in California, or Florida, spent their days bunking off class pushing each other over in the surf and blowing their allowance on chips and soda and cotton candy that they’d roll between their fingers until it was sticky and then try to gum it into each other’s hair. There’d be no red dust stuck to the soles of their boots or smell of gasoline caught between their fingers, just sea and sand and overpriced green smoothies.
“You made a move yet?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?” McCree laughed, and it was the kind of laugh she might have heard when she was seventeen, laid out in the back of the truck that McCree was too young to drive, but did so anyway without a license because he knew he was charming enough to get away with it. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?” she rolled her eyes, “Because I’m pretty sure I don’t have a damn clue.”
“Oh, please.” he moved as if to give Ashe’s shoulder a light punch, but recoiled before he could curl his fingers. Not yet. “I know love sick when I see it.”
“Speak for yourself...you’ve gone soft.” Ashe could only think to bite back, not entirely sure she had a decent rebuttal. Resenting the idea of ever appearing love sick in any capacity, she wasn’t about to let Jesse McCree of all people force her into reassessing the odd gurgling in her stomach that had become more and more difficult to ignore as this week had progressed, and was particularly incessant whenever Amélie was around.
“I suggest you try it. The lives we lead are never gonna be easy, but they at least feel easier when you’ve got someone to share it with.” McCree gave a great sigh before shrugging, turning back to the bar, “But what do I know.”
“Not much, clearly.” she barely wanted to look at him, not while he was spouting this bullshit. She’d never liked admitting McCree was right, and it was unfortunately something she had to do a lot. “You got any idea what you did to my sense of trust?”
He tensed up, pressing his lips together into a thin, pale line. The space between them hadn’t exactly been all sunshine and rainbows before, but now it was frigid.
“...Y’know I don’t think this is a great time to talk about that.” he mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his chin as if he could force the right words out if he tried hard enough.
“Good a time as any, don’tcha think? You’re the one who wanted to talk!” Ashe spat. It took a lot for her to resist the urge to lean forward, fist her hand into his shirt collar and hold his face down against the bar whilst she yelled some sense into him. It wouldn’t be the first time either of them had convinced the other to listen via force, she’d surely lost count of the amount of times they’d dropped each other off in the middle of the desert and drove away, or got into fist fights over the simplest of misunderstandings. Maybe they were just destined to always be teenagers in each other’s company – vigorous, virile, and volatile. “All I ever wanted was an explanation. A reason for why you just – just left me.”
She paused, considering what it was she really wanted. For the past twenty years she’d spent hating Jesse McCree’s guts, daydreaming about all the ways she could knock him out or maroon or publicly humiliate him, she’d never really stepped away from the fantasy and asked herself why she cared so much about someone she’d sworn she’d never let back into her life.
She thought of what Amélie had said, a few days ago in the bathroom, when everything was hazy with pain and steamy windows: hate born of old love is the harshest hate there is. Suppose it did make sense, sometimes you can only really hate people because you care about them. Not that she’d ever say that out loud. Why else would you spend every waking moment thinking about them?
“A goodbye,” she said, quietly, “Would have been nice.”
“...I wish I could have said goodbye.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Leaning his elbows against the bar, McCree buried his face in his hands and groaned. His shoulders sagged, his ankles locked together. He was tired, he’d been tired for the past twenty years. Ashe had too.
“They gave you and me the same talk? Right?”
Ashe thought back to that interrogation room all those years ago: a dingy, dark room in the town police station, perfectly familiar, but all of a sudden full of very dangerous, very professional soldiers with white and red ram skulls emblazoned on their uniforms. As a child when she saw Overwatch agents on the TV, she’d never dismissed the idea that she may meet one of those living legends one day. Her daddy had contacts in enough places equally shiny and sordid, and a business meeting with Jack Morrison wasn’t entirely out of the question. It was ironic, perhaps, that her first experience, instead, was staring Gabriel Reyes down over a tiny metal table in a tiny metal room. He seemed softer in person than he did on the TV, a little more down to earth, more personable than the rest of the bright blue untouchables. He’d been kind in his questioning, and Ashe resented that, so she refused to answer him.
“Yeah,” she responded, thinking about the papers Reyes had passed over the table toward her. How that foreboding logo had blinked out at her, like an omen. “Join his boys club or rot in jail.” she met McCree’s gaze finally, as he rested his cheek in his palm and blinked blearily at her. “You gallivanted off to Blackwatch and I stuck by my guns.”
“Bet you thought I was a real coward, huh?”
She nodded slowly.
“You ever consider what would’ve happened if I’d stayed?”
Of course she did. Ashe thought about that constantly. What an empire the two of them could have had if he hadn’t ratted himself out and turned himself into a statistic. They’d been an unstoppable team when they were kids, who knows what they would have been like if they’d had the chance to grow into each other like that. Who knows?
“No.” she lied, “I try not to think about you much these days.” she lied again.
“Well, I’ll tell you what would have happened.” he said, “We’d both go to prison. Your parents would bail you out because they’d do anything for you and they wouldn’t have given me a second glance because they hated me. I would have spent the rest of my days locked up”
Ashe didn’t say anything.
“I was seventeen, Ashe.” his voice was nearing on a whine, small and hurt, strained in the back of his throat like he was trying not to cry. “What do you expect a kid to do in a situation like that?”
He sighed again.
“If I’d known things would end up like this maybe I would have...” he furrowed his brow, “Done something different.”
“Like what?”
“Well,” this time he did reach out, tentatively resting his fingers against the crook of Ashe’s elbow. She didn’t push him off, not yet. “I would have convinced you to come with me.”
“Turn into some boot lickin’ puppet of the state? No thanks.” she grimaced.
“Blackwatch wasn’t like that. You would’ve fit right in.” he stared wistfully into the middle distance, his gaze lying unfocused on some stain or knot on the wood, “Gabe would’ve had a right handful with the two of us.”
“...What was he like?” Ashe couldn’t deny she was curious about Reyes, the man who’d turned a punk into a soldier and then died tragically alongside his best friend and closest confidant not many years later. The news had tried to smear his name with as much mud as they could once Blackwatch’s schemes were leaked to the public, crucify him whilst the golden boy Jack Morrison was mourned like a martyr. Always grey minded, that had never quite sat right with Ashe.
“Reyes? Oh, well, I could go on for hours.” McCree looked solemn suddenly, perhaps even sad. He wasn’t quite misty eyed, more like foggy, a little lost. “Let’s just say he was just the kind of man a kid without a dad needed.”
“And all that stuff on the news about Blackwatch? Was that true?”
“Yeah. Unfortunately. But it goes deeper than you could ever imagine, Ashe, Gabe was barely responsible.”
“Huh. Nice to know you remained a nuisance, at least.”
“You know it.”
Beyond, the beach stirred, and a hushed wave of gasps and chatter pricked Ashe’s ears. She squinted into the crowd, kicked suddenly into high alert, and there he was.
Fosse stood like a pillar of salt among a chittering hoard of bright-toothed, sun-tanned admirers, toting around martinis stacked with exotic fruits and tugging consciously at the damp hems of their swimsuits. Looking ten times as vile and deserving of a heel to the gut than Ashe thought a smugly dashing bastard ever could, he sipped complacently at his own long glass of pink gin, content to watch his cult of beautiful, plastic-faced drones swarm like worker bees with cocaine addictions of varying severities. She hated to think of what other unsavoury sorts were canoodling in the sand here, what other steaming gutty scumbags she may have had the misfortune of ordering a drink beside.
“There’s our man.” McCree drawled, “So what’s the plan, boss?”
Ashe clicked her tongue against her teeth, considering the odds. As it were, Fosse was practically swimming in sucks ups, moving slowly through the throng, flashing grins at every pretty woman who crooked her delicate fingers against his collar. It wouldn’t be easy to catch his attention – if she were anyone else, that is. He knew her, had talked to her at that awful party at Château de Verre, surely he’d have time to spare for an agent he’d hired to take out a few clueless enemies.
Now, more than ever, her chest ached for Larue. She could only thank god – or, perhaps, Shimada – that she hadn’t put Catoire out of her misery too.
“I’ll talk to him.” She said, watching as Fosse found himself hovering beside a game of volley ball, making idle small talk with a few other sleazy looking business men. They all looked the same, with their dark, slicked back hair and knee-length white beach shorts, those thin pastel coloured polo shirts that every man who called himself an entrepreneur wore to let people know he was an insufferable conversationalist who knew how to chatter of little but himself. She’d known a few too many in her life. “I’ll make up some bullshit apology for missing Catoire, keep him busy enough for Amélie to get her shot.”
“Right. And I watch your back?”
“Uhuh.”
“Got it.” McCree scratched his beard, looking at Fosse with a distasteful tug to his lips. “When are you gonna – “
“Amélie made us wait for forever the first time we spoke to him.” She interrupted, hopping from her stool, “But I’m not Amélie. Wish me luck, Sheriff Woody.”
“Like you need it.”
Ashe approached as confidently as she could with the weight on her shoulders, the vengeance of thousands of people who’d suffered under Fosse’s watchful eye. She hoped she was doing them proud. For a moment, she considered looking out across the street behind her, towards that towering blue restaurant and its flat roof. Maybe catch Amélie’s eye through her scope, a little prosperity before the big finale. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, scared that if she let Fosse out of her sight for even a moment he’d disappear forever, and their chance would be lost.
But she wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Monsieur Fosse.” She announced, tripping over her own terrible accent as she stopped at his side. The moment she met his gaze, the lava bubbling in her stomach cooled, stilled to a gentle wave as she thought of how satisfying it would be to see this fucker’s head get blown wide open. This handsome bastard with his flinty eyes and hang dog face really was about to get extra helpings of his just desserts. “Excuse my accent, never was any good at French. Ashe - I’m guessin’ you remember me?”
Recognition flickered in Fosse’s eyes, overshadowed only briefly by what Ashe could only register as disappointment. She was sure his conversation with these glorified business students couldn’t have been that enthralling, and came to the unfortunate conclusion that he absolutely remembered her, and the objective she’d failed to fulfil. With a thin, fake smile, he waved to his entourage of clones, he lowered their heads, engaging in hush conversation between themselves as Fosse stepped to the side.
“Ah, Elizabeth wasn’t it? Yes, the Talon agent, I do remember you.” Fosse offered his hand, Ashe astutely ignored it.
“I came to apologise on behalf of my partner and I.” she watched as Fosse dropped his hand again, revelling in the miffed quirk of his brow. “Losin’ Catoire the way we did is an embarrassment.”
“Hm. It certainly was.” He curled his lip just slightly, a shrimp pink slither of his tongue darting over his teeth. He avoided eye contact with Ashe, instead opting to stare with a zombie-like vacancy over the squabble of the beach, continuing to twitch and jab his jaw like an animal with rotting meat stuck in its teeth. The roach was high as a kite. Ashe wasn’t surprised.
Oh well, at least it’d be an easier hit for Amélie.
“I’d heard good things about Talon, especially that blue friend of yours. I suppose I was simply out of luck, hm?” the slur in his words was more obvious now, and Ashe had ever been more grateful for the debauched hobbies of the rich and famous. She figured even now, unprovoked, if she slid him a good hard slug to the jaw she could knock his teeth out of place and send him staggering. As pleasant as an image as it was, she knew she’d have to hold out on punching – at least for the time being.
With a sticky roll of his eyes, Fosse began digging around in his pocket, removing his hand to reveal a black, thumb nail sized drive. The sun glinted off it as he held it against the sky.
“And it seems I have no choice but to keep this for myself now. A shame, I’m sure Talon would have had so much fun playing around with all of this.”
He shrugged as he returned it to his pocket.
“Nevermind,” he smirked at Ashe, but the corners of his mouth were lazy, and it slacked into something of a wobbly simper. “There are other organisations who’d pay just as highly for it.”
His watery voice grated Ashe’s brain like the scraping of cutlery against china plates, unbearable, searing straight through the bones in a way that left her shaken. She hoped Amélie would shoot soon, she’d rather be covered in this bastard’s blood than knee deep in conversation with him.
“There surely are.” She responded, trying her damnedest to school her face into a sardonic smile.
“You see, were the situation different, I might even have given it to you and Miss Lacroix anyway.” He continued, and his jaded eyes were suddenly dark with intent and his own blown pupils. A quick flourish of his hand over his shoulder, and the greasy haired types he’d been boorishly conversing with went pale faced, and skittered away to elsewhere on the beach. Ashe braced her right hand tight on her hip, ready to snap the magnum out of her belt and aim for the gut. “Having Larue off of my hands and out of my mind is enough of a blessing I could have overlooked your little slip up. Unfortunately I’d rather not simply give away Overwatch agent intel to a double agent who has the gall to bring one of the bastards onto my property.”
Ashe froze, her finger trigger ready and twitching, longing to sink some lead into Fosse’s stomach and leave him squirming like a mashed maggot in the sand. But she waited, the sniper in her outweighing the impulsive teenager. Fosse leant into her space, his pointy face looming against hers like a bone white sickle. His breath stank of sticky sweet cloying alcohol, and the look in his eyes was wild. God knows what this man had taken before waltzing into this cess pit of a party, but his eyes were red, his forehead studded with sweat, and she could practically feel his skin vibrating as he leant in. Ashe held her breath.
“I have men stationed all over this beach and I will not hesitate to order any single one of them to take you or that oaf Jesse McCree out of your misery.” His hand fisted into the fabric of Ashe’s shirt, tugging her forward, “Me comprenez-vous?”
If Ashe wasn’t completely confident in Amélie’s certainty to bust Fosse’s skull open, then she’d be shoving the muzzle of her magnum down Fosse’s throat by now – but where was Amélie? Why hadn’t she shot?
She glanced, just quickly enough to play it off as nerves, towards the building where she and Shimada should be stationed. For a moment she panicked, wondering why she couldn’t find it, only to spy a row of palm trees, waving like a family of great green hands reaching up to catch the breeze between their frondish fingers. This section of the beach was lined with them, blocking the view from the restaurant. If Ashe wanted this plan to work and give Amélie a clean line of sight, she’d have to lure Fosse toward the back of the beach, all without getting herself or McCree killed in the process.
Her gut told her to just shoot him, risk the public shock in the name of taking out a shit stain amongst his own clamouring cult of a beach party, push the plan aside and do all this the old fashioned way. She knew that wasn’t Amélie’s style, likely not Shimada’s either – typical to their trained profession they found more comfort in the quick, easy, and quiet than the loud, long, and painful. Ashe figured she didn’t have to throw the whole plan out the window, maybe just make it a little more fun.
Amélie would understand.
In the next moment, Fosse was doubling over in pain, gripping his stomach as Ashe fired into the fat of his belly. Point blanc and close range, there was no doubt she scrambled up a few of his organs, and the thought alone brought a smile to her face as the beach erupted into chaos.
“Sale pute!” Fosse screeched, stumbling back. Red was blooming into has hand, dripping onto the sand and staining what was no doubt a ridiculously expensive polo. Ashe grinned, waving the gun at him as though she’d done little more than swat the back of his hand.
“You get what you deserve - puttin’ yer hands on a lady like that.”
“If my men don’t get you I’ll kill you my fucking self.” He fell onto one knee, breaking into tremors so violent Ashe thought he’d sooner kick his own bucket than get within tussling distance of her. Every inch of his skin was lighting up scarlet, and Ashe felt more confident than she had all day.
“Gotta catch me, first.” She fell back into the disaster, disappearing easily into crowds of people split from laughter to screaming in a second. Some of them were running to the streets, kicking up sand, evacuating the beach before they got a bullet in their gut too, others were hiding beneath their towels and parasols, already giving in and assuming that karma had finally come for them and their seedy private doings. She paid them no mind, scrambling through the mess toward McCree, who had pressed himself up against the bar, gun drawn and nestled ready at his chest. She cast a glance over her shoulder to see if Fosse was following - he was, but the image was almost enough to make Ashe laugh. Gone was the bravado of fame and adoration, the readiness at which his adoring admirers would offer themselves over to him. He was stumbling and lurching, getting stuck on uneven dunes and kicking over half empty glasses. No one gave him a second glance, a few even pushing him aside to overtake him.
“What the hell did you do?” McCree yelled once Ashe was in earshot, picking his way over toppled stools and deckchairs. “Why can you never stick to a plan?”
“Oh, shut yer mouth, I’m givin’ the bastard what he deserves!”
“Ashe, that’s not – “ she ignored him, grabbing his arm and tugging him along with her through the hoard. The wall that separated the beach from the street was not far, and it sat starkly in line of sight the restaurant, all they had to do was avoid Fosse’s men, make a show of vaulting themselves over the wall, and Amélie had half her job done for her.
Avoiding Fosse’s men was a breeze, just a bunch of cocky gunmen who thought being able to hit a bullseye made them some kind of crackshot. Both she and McCree could predict half their moves long before they even took aim, and the ones that got a little too close for comfort were treated to a close encounter with McCree’s metal elbow being smashed into their teeth. One fancied himself something of a boxer, and abandoned his gun in the sand in favour of throwing a punch to Ashe’s sternum. It was a decent punch, solid enough that she had to catch her breath for a moment. But it didn’t matter how well he could punch – he was in idiot who’d dropped his gun. Ashe shot him in the knee and continued on her way. By the time they reached the wall, Fosse’s distraught yelling was caught between a flurry of insults at his incompetent grunts and threats to crush Ashe’s throat under his heel. She rolled her eyes, swinging a leg over the wall and sliding over onto the street.
She could hear sirens, faintly, and the panicked chatter of passersby cowering in the shade of buildings whispering words she couldn’t understand, but felt the weight of. They’d have to get this done fast.
Looking back to Fosse, it seemed he’d picked something up on his warpath, his face contorted in pain and his hands pink with blood and rage. A small rounders bat was clutched between his fingers, wet sand stuck to its handle.
“Up for a match?” she jeered, having half the mind to shoot the thing out of his hand.
Fosse didn’t answer, only bared his teeth, a guttural sound peeling from between his lips as he swayed, swinging the bat like a child. He was moving so erratically, a by-product of the adrenaline and drugs no doubt performing a sickening tango in his veins, it would be difficult for Amélie to land a shot when his head dipped up and down like a frightened chicken.
McCree was yet to climb over the wall, and seemed to have steadied himself decidedly in the sand. He was aiming, gun wandering back and forth as he tracked Fosse’s head. Ashe knew he wouldn’t likely shoot, rather let Amélie do the job she’d assigned herself. As good an improviser as he was, McCree was a stickler for plans.
She watched them circle each other, like a snake eyeing up a bird, one poised and planning, the other flighty and fickle. It was with a sudden and unpleasant sinking in her chest that Ashe realised the only way to get Fosse to stand still. They couldn’t risk either one of them holding him down or coaxing him into a chokehold, and the only way Fosse was going to stop jittering for even just a moment was if he had some confidence knocked into him. The bastard had a flair for the dramatic, that much Ashe had deduced, and she was certain he would simply revel in the opportunity to deliver some grand speech if he was granted a victory. Not to mention, his ego wasn’t the only thing he was tripping on.
Holding onto this hunch with nothing but a lick and a promise, she prayed Fosse didn’t know any Spanish as she conjured up what little she could remember and yelled,
“¡Ser golpeado!” McCree wavered for just a moment, shooting her an incredulous look. She pointed furiously at her own temple, lolling her tongue out of her mouth like a sleeping animal. McCree didn’t look sure, but with nothing else to consider, he shrugged and, for the first time in twenty some years, trusted Ashe.
With one step slightly too far into Fosse’s space, McCree let the rounders bat knock him in the head, a resounding clunk of wood against bone enough to make Ashe groan. It certainly sounded like it hurt, but it wasn’t enough to knock someone out, especially not someone so much larger than Fosse as McCree. Good old Jesse though, smart as he was and familiar with Ashe’s unorthodox ideas, knew exactly what to do. He fell to the sand, huffing a great breath as though the air had been knocked clean out of his lungs. He was completely limp, gun discarded at his side, face down – to all the world, knocked out cold.
Atta boy, Ashe thought.
"Patán.” Fosse spat, his face flushing purple in his excitement. He glanced up, eyes crazed, lips pulled back in a dark snarl. Ashe could practically see the steam pouring out of his ears. “And what are you going to do now? Hmm?”
Fosse kicked McCree’s prone form on the ground, digging hard into his gut like he wanted to eviscerate him right there in the sand. Ashe blessed his heart for being able to stay still as Fosse picked and poked at him like a vulture, she supposed he’d been through worse in fights with her.
“No Lacroix, no McCree, no organisation that will come to your rescue now you’ve made a public disgrace of himself,” the pride that dripped from Fosse’s voice was like gasoline, stinking and fuming, burning Ashe’s nostrils and giving her a damn headache. She raised her eyebrows at him, tensing for what she knew was coming. “Good thing that you won’t be alive to – “
Ashe never listened much in English class, but she remembered something about a little device called poetic irony. Granted, what she did remember about that little fella wasn’t much, but she felt, as Fosse made a lunge for the gun McCree had dropped, that it applied right about now.
The air was split with a crack of gunfire, Fosse’s grin was spread awfully over his face like a piece of time frozen into his skin, and his body hit the ground like a brick, falling beside McCree with a wet slap.
Rolling away, gagging and gawking, McCree crawled to his feet, expression stuck between elation and disgust. There was blood splattered on his shirt and gore sticking to the soles of his feet, but Ashe was cackling, throwing her head back in delight as the echo of police sirens harmonized.
“Quite the shiner you got there, huh?” she reached out as McCree leant against the wall, brushing her thumb against the bruise that was beginning to form on his head.
“Hey, don’t touch it, jeez!” he swatted her hands away, laughing despite how swollen the wound seemed. It would definitely hurt for the next few days, and turn into a grand purple thing once it started to heal, but Ashe couldn’t bring herself to care and, seemingly, neither could McCree. His eyes shone as he laughed, breathless with the adrenaline of it all. It took Ashe a moment to recognise this feeling, this burst of happiness and fear and euphoria that was pounding through her chest as her gaze flicked between the crumpled corpse on the beach and the man she’d once called her best friend. A feeling she hadn’t felt since the last time she and McCree had barely gotten away from a stitch up with their lives, a feeling that made her feel twenty years younger and as though all was right with the world.
For the first time in God knows how long, Ashe looked at McCree – the way his shoulders rose and fell with exertion, how his sweaty hair was falling into his eyes. He was so much taller than the last time she’d seen him, older too, more…scarred, if anything. – and all she wanted to do was laugh.
There was a buzzing in her pocket, and she broke the rush for just a moment, fishing the comm out to look at its screen, tilting it so the sun didn’t glare off quite so harshly.
DE RIEN it read in that awful glowing text.
Ashe snorted, and looked to McCree,
“What the fuck does de rien mean?”
McCree, with an official Overwatch license that worked wonders in most situations involving the police, and enough charm to do the job too, stayed at the beach to placate the officers who were flooding in like rats. Hanzo had worried over him when he and Amélie had returned, tracing his fingers gently around the lump on his head, avoiding the slowly browning blood on his shirt. McCree had just laughed it off, assuring he was all good and dandy, just needed a couple pain killers, and it would be probably be a good idea if Ashe and Amélie cleared off soon, at least for the time being.
“We’ll message you when it’s all clear.” He said sternly, “But I doubt the police are gonna take kindly to ya’ll hangin’ around an assassination scene.”
He was right, and they took off in as casual a manner as they could manage, feigning the shock and urgency of two tourists who’d just heard the awful news. They didn’t want to be anywhere too open, so they squirreled their way into the first public bathroom they could find, Ashe jimmying the lock a little until it jammed. It was a little banged up, a little rusty, but it was cool and quiet and no one was getting in: respite, for the first time in what felt like days, and yet what hadn’t been any more than an hour.
“Thank you,” Ashe said eventually, and her voice was much smaller than she had expected. The shock, she told herself, must finally be setting in. “Jesse told me de rien means you’re welcome. So, uh, thank you. I mean it.”
“Don’t,” Amélie waved the comment away, an oddly serene look on her face as she paced before the line of greenish mirrors. “This is all because of you. You did the right thing.”
“Huh. Right.”
“Come,” Amélie beckoned her toward the sinks with a flick of her fingers, peering uncertainly into the ever so slightly warped reflection in the mirror. “Splash your face, you look like you need it.”
Stooping at the sink which seemed to have the least cracks and colonies of black mould, Ashe ran her hands beneath the tap and slapped her cheeks with water until she felt like a human again. She made eye contact with her own reflection in the mirror, grey water dripping from her nose and the wispy hairs at the edge of her temples. How so much could change in ten minutes…something felt different, shifted, like a great change had occurred and she missed it, somehow.
Amélie placed a wad of toilet paper into her hand, nodding at the mess she was making, dripping water on the tile.
“Oh, thanks.”
“You weren’t hurt, were you?” Amélie asked. She hovered about Ashe’s shoulder, watching her reflection dab itself dry. In the dim lights and misty glass, she looked like a ghost, all cold skinned and bright eyed. There was a hollow feeling in Ashe’s chest, the opposite of the adrenaline rush that had spiked through her veins the moment Fosse’s body had hit the floor. There was something unsaid, here.
“Nah, nah, don’t you worry about me.” She prodded lightly about her sternum, feeling where the cocky grunt had punched her. “Fella punched me, but it’ll just bruise, nothin’ to worry – “
Reaching around her shoulder and tugging at the collar of her shirt, Ashe fell silent as Amélie’s arm snaked down her front, pushing aside the folds of her shirt to reveal an angry red mark pressed into the plane of skin just above her chest.
“See?” Ashe swallowed, “Just a bruise.”
“It looks like it was a fairly solid punch.” Amélie stepped around, sliding into the space between Ashe and the sink. She rested her hip demurely against the stained porcelain, refusing to meet Ashe’s gaze as she pushed the fabric back further still. “Are you sure it doesn’t hurt?”
The cold pads of her fingers ventured ever so carefully over the mark, careful not press too hard. If anything, the coolness of Amélie’s skin against the hotness of the blow was a balm, not painless, but that kind of sting that felt right – reminded you that you were alive.
“It’s fine.” Ashe breathed, “I promise.”
“You’re not nearly as talkative as usual.” Amélie remarked as if it were some kind of revolutionary observation. Ashe hardly believed she needed a reason to be short of words right about now, but Amélie sure as hell gave her one, pressing her palm squarely against Ashe’s sternum, fingers fully spread beneath the material of her shirt, still, grounding.
She shifted her hand, and Ashe realised with a little intake of breath that she was searching for a heart beat.
“You know, I felt again, today.”
“Hmm?”
She nodded, watching her own fingers with intent.
“Excited.” The slightest of smiles ghosted the corner of her mouth, Ashe found herself mirroring the expression. “Scared.”
When she removed her hand it felt like ripping off a bandage, but as quickly as she’d drawn back, her other hand came to rest on Ashe’s cheek, a thumb toying with the downy hair about her ear.
“Proud.”
“What’d it feel like?” pressing her cheek into the pressure, Ashe’s chest may as well have caved in when Amélie gaze finally dragged up the column of her neck, locked with her own. It felt as though she were telling her a secret.
“Good.” She said simply. “I’d like to feel it again.”
McCree and Hanzo were waiting further down the beach for them when they returned, glad to see that the spot they were to be whisked away from in just a few minute’s time was much more adequately hidden from the eyes of the public. Amélie had been quick to hustle them away from the bathroom once the message had come through that the coast was clear. Ashe, on the other hand, would have happily stayed cooped up in that calm little corner of the world so long as it meant Amélie continued to tentatively lay her hands on whatever part of Ashe she seemed fit to venture to next. Perhaps she was getting ahead of herself, but Amélie had slung their arms together in a loop as they began their walk, and that was…encouraging if nothing else.
“So you’re off, huh?” Ashe said, her mouth pulled into an odd little line of a smile. McCree looked just as uncomfortable, like all the punch drunk nostalgia of before had begun to sober off.
“Yeah, sure are. Drop ship’ll be with us in no time.” He glanced at Hanzo, who nodded in turn.
“Three minutes.” He said, although he began rustling around in his pocket. “And I…believe this belongs to you now.”
The hard drive glinted in Hanzo’s palm. So much for such a little thing, Ashe thought, as he handed it over to Amélie.
“I cannot say I agree with your practices or whatever it is you plan on doing with that information.” He grumbled, “But we are men of our words. And what you did today was…good. You were good.”
Silent, Amélie nodded her thanks, and stowed the drive away. The look on her face was faraway, as though, all of a sudden, she no longer cared for whatever was on that drive.
“What’re you gonna do now?” McCree said softly. His hands were clasped in his lap, fidgeting awfully. Ashe felt much the same way, and had the urge to do something that somehow still made her skin crawl.
“Go back to Route 66, I guess. Keep doin’ my job, keep those goons in line.” She huffed a humourless laugh, eyes locked on the way McCree held his own hands like he wished he had something to do with them. “But, uh…”
No better with words or emotions than she was at any other time in her life, she gave in, letting the rush of strange, cold water back into her chest and strode forward, wrapping her arms around McCree’s neck and pressing her face into the meat of his shoulder.
“Don’t say a damn word.” She hissed against his shirt. He was tense against her for a moment, before the relief settled in. His arms locked securely against her back, calm and comforting as they always had been. They were teenagers again, with no one in the world but each other, and everything in the world at their fingertips. They definitely still had a lot to talk – argue – about, a lot of qualms to hash out and a lot of complaints to air over drinks somewhere down the line, but for now, this was enough.
Something felt right again.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The drop ship arrived just as Hanzo had said, its great fans billowing up sand in fine crystalized waves and making the palm trees thrash against each other. Amélie had wisely chosen to distance herself from the occasion, aware of all the eyes Overwatch had on her, but not before McCree had given her an uncertain look, blurted out, somewhat shakily “say hi to Gabe for me”. From within the ship – which Hanzo fondly referred to as the Orca – a girl with a great mass of sweeping brown hair and a young man dressed in blinding neon green greeted them. They both looked very glad to see McCree and Hanzo, their youthful faces bright with questions and conversation. Ashe was glad he’d found himself good friends in the time they’d been apart. Not a thought she’d been expecting to have this week.
“Hey!” McCree called just before Ashe could take the chance to make her leave. She glanced over her shoulder, brows raised expectantly. “We should do this again sometime – with less of the surprise assassination?”
“Only if the drinks are on you.”
“I guess I can do that.”
“Can I ask you something?” Ashe had to shout against the ship’s whirring, but Hanzo had disappeared into the ship along with the other agents and McCree has all ears. He smiled, waiting. “Tell that boy you love him. He needs to hear it. So do you.”
Years ago, McCree would have turned beet red at such a comment, but now, older and wiser, he took it in his stride, chuckling.
“You know what, I think you’re right.” His grin took a lop-sided jaunt. “Maybe you should start takin’ your own advice.” He winked.
Ashe watched with laughter on her tongue as the ship closed up like a flower blooming in reverse, and flew further and further into the clouds until it disappeared from sight.
“My apologies for not sharing in your emotional goodbyes.” Amélie reappeared at Ashe’s side, a smirk in her voice. “I wouldn’t want to make myself too much of a target in front of that pilot of theirs.”
“You don’t say?”
“Hm. A story for another time.” Amélie chuckled darkly, staring out over the same summer skyline that dipped into the ocean like a greeting between old friends.
“Oh? There’s gonna be another time, huh?” Ashe teased her, prodding her elbow gently into her side. Amélie simply brushed it off. “Can’t say I would mind. Hell, if I’m meetin’ Jesse McCree for beers again after all these years anything is possible.”
Amélie looked contemplative, those intelligent eyes flicking minutely as they watched the waves rolling. There was something on her mind, that much was clear, but for once that strange mind of hers didn’t seem like such a heavy burden.
“I’m certain the spot I had on that restaurant’s roof doesn’t do the inside justice.” She grinned, and whilst the expression certainly seemed out of place on her face, Ashe thought ever so fondly that it was something she’d like to see more often. “Cocktails, on me?”
“I suppose I might as well.”
Talon wouldn’t send out a ship to collect Amélie until she confirmed to them that the mission was “done”, so to speak, even then she’d have to agree on and make her way to a pickup point first, not to mention pick up her things from the safehouse. She had time to kill, as did Ashe, officially off contract and free to cause whatever trouble she deemed fit – what better way to spend their last moments together than wasting money on overly sweet cocktails and acting, for once, as normal people may do. Enjoying each other’s company, making vapid conversation, admiring the view from the balcony seat they’d managed to bag. It was a bewildering end to a bewildering day, and somehow Ashe didn’t fear the authorities catching on and coming to snap her up.
She received another message on that comm when Amélie excused herself to the bathroom. She glanced only briefly at the message, partly because the strawberry daiquiri she was lapping up had her feeling a little bit foggy on the comprehension end, but also because she didn’t want to miss a moment of this supposed normalcy before she had to fire herself back into a life of crime and calamity.
It was Hanzo confirming that the transfer of payment from his offshore accounts was ready whenever she was, and that – if she didn’t mind – McCree would like to keep this comm line active. Just in case. She grinned stupidly to herself, setting the comm aside and making a somewhat hazy mental not to reply to him later. The sentimentality of it all made her think, for a moment, that she should wave it all off, tell Hanzo to keep the money. Doing the right thing and regaining a friend was payment enough.
She laughed. She was feeling sentimental, but not that sentimental. She’d give him her details tomorrow.
Amélie returned with a pensive look on her face, seemingly distracted enough as she stepped through the balcony’s double doors that she didn’t notice the sizable few sips Ashe had taken from her mojito. Still, she didn’t seem upset, or worried, simply occupied, like her thoughts were elsewhere. She took a deep sip of her drink as she sat, eyes glued to the horizon.
“All good?” Ashe asked, swinging an arm over the back of her chair. She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or Amélie’s company, but she hadn’t felt this laid back in days.
“I’m…thinking about what’s next.” She muttered.
“Oh, I hear that.” Ashe tapped her fingertips against the rim of her glass, considering the slushy remnants that sat at the bottom. What came next for Ashe was a swift return to Route 66 followed by a well-deserved vacation for herself and B.O.B somewhere as far away from France as she could find. What came next for Amélie was…uncertain. Scary, even.
Who knows what would happen when Talon’s finest sniper returned, having failed the job, murdered the employer, and aided Overwatch? She had the drive at least, all that juicy Overwatch intel Ogundimu wanted, but there was no doubt she’d be due some kind of punishment. A couple dozen scheduled visits to Moira’s lab to have her emotions reburied back into the deepest recesses of her grey matter.
It made Ashe’s stomach turn just thinking about it. She assumed it wasn’t her place to ask, but she was on the verge of tipsy, and that had never stopped her before.
“What…do you think is next?”
With a great sigh, Amélie placed the little black hard drive on the table, let it sit on the bright tablecloth before she began rolling it between her thumb and forefinger.
“I have two ideas.”
“Yeah.”
Watching Amélie rise from her seat, Ashe watched as Amélie rounded the table leant against the intricate white balustrades of the balcony. She took in a deep breath of fresh sea air and said,
“One.”
And hurled the hard drive as far as she could. It flew through the air like a little star for a moment, before disappearing into the waves that rolled gently below. It was as though she began to melt, her face lighting up with some kind of divine realisation. Ashe could feel it too, that lifting. Elation, maybe, or just relief.
That shift she’d felt before, it was back.
Amélie was laughing as she turned back to face Ashe, her eyes bright, smart, alive.
“And two.”
It didn’t feel sudden, or as though it were happening in slow motion, not like the movies suggest it should happen. It just happened: Amélie’s fingers curling into her collar, another hand twining into her hair, no space left between them as they met over the space of the table. Ashe had to strain her neck to reach, and her ribs were digging into the edge of the table, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Amélie was cold, her mouth even more so, but she moved like water, flowing compliantly even when Ashe stood to snake her hands around her waist, prizing hold of her hips like she hadn’t been trying to avoid ogling them for the past three days and breathing in the smell of salty air and detergent that caught in her hair.
How they got here, Ashe wasn’t sure, but it was a much better ending to this damn arrangement than she ever could have foreseen when she was confronted in her office like a cornered animal.
Amélie pulled back only so she could breath, gulping and gasping as she rested her forehead against Ashe’s. Her smile was…confused, conflicted perhaps, but it shone in the way that a smile that had been held in for so long should.
“Y’know,” Ashe said hurriedly, her voice all susurrus with the closeness of it all. “I hear Tuscany is real nice in the autumn.”
Talon would be after them until they ran out of men to send, determined to keep their finest asset and permanently shut up the woman who’d betrayed them so readily, but somehow that felt worth it. Ashe would rather spend the rest of her life on the run than live knowing that she’d left someone behind to grow colder still under a cruel organisation’s whims. A very special and increasingly valuable someone.
Amélie gulped down another desperate breath, her eyes shiny with what might have been tears, before kissing Ashe again – and again and again – asking softly.
“When shall we leave?”
Some years later, when life is a little easier and occupations a little less hazardous, retirement will be treating McCree and Hanzo well. On a pleasant vacation in Dorado, they will be mid-way through their meal, hands clasped across the table, when something captures their eye from beyond the restaurant’s peaceful outdoor seating area.
They will be a very odd couple, striking in a manner that you certainly wouldn’t forget none too soon, but to anyone with eyes they’ll appear as happy as could be. Ambling around, arm in arm, lost in conversation like they’d never want to be doing anything else.
There will be a meeting of eyes, a chorus of jeering, they will have those drinks (finally) and everything will seem so far away from a few days in Paris.