Chapter Text
The front wheel of the food cart wobbles and squeaks with each rotation, the uneven movement making the collection of plates and covered dishes rattle against each other. Irritation bubbles up from somewhere deep in Amélie’s chest as she glances down at the rickety cart. The noise makes her angry, she realizes. A dull anger, not worth acting upon. Doctor Ziegler—Angela—has told her this is normal. Eventually she will grow accustomed to the disproportionate pangs of feelings that crop up from the smallest of stimuli, and she will no longer fixate on each one as an overwhelming experience. Amélie wishes her brain would hurry up and adjust.
‘Deprogramming’ is what Winston called it. ‘Cognitive restoration’ is the term Angela uses, preferring the more positive connotations. ‘Tightening the loose screws’ is what the junker Jamison said when she ran into him in the infirmary after one of her sessions. That meeting was met with another one of those pesky pangs of irritation, but that one she understands and feels was entirely justified. Whatever the term, Amélie has been going through the process for six months. Six months since Overwatch liberated her from Talon, from those people that took everything from her, that made her—
Breathe. Focus.
Amélie forces her fingers to loosen from the death grip she has on the cart handle. There are going to be days where she loses progress, but today is not one of those days. Today is a happy occasion, marking six months of hard-won freedom, and she is going to try her best to be happy. Even if the idea seems foreign to her now.
Automatic doors slide open, and Amélie strides out of the shadows into the sun, the cart picking up its annoying rattle on the metal floor panels and disturbing the peaceful morning. Just beyond the communication tower is a spot with a perfect view of the Alboran Sea. This is her destination, and the cart goes quiet as she pulls it across the packed dirt and soft grass. The tables she has assembled are industrial metal, not polished mahogany like she remembers from before. With a clean, white tablecloth draped over the surface they are almost the same. The chairs are different, too, pulled from the mission planning rooms or borrowed from the agents’ dorms. Hana’s bright pink gaming chair sits crammed between a metal bench from the target range and a stool from Torbjörn’s workshop. The dinnerware and cutlery are from the kitchen commons, a far cry from the polished silver she inherited from her grandmother years ago.
This is not better or worse, she thinks. Just different.
Cooking was never one of Amélie’s interests, before. Her family could afford a live-in cook, and her fame and Gérard’s wealth meant she never needed to be in the kitchen unless the urge struck her fancy. Even now she would not call cooking a passion; she is not sure what passion even feels like at this point in her recovery. But cooking is at least interesting, and something that can hold her focus, unlike reading or music or the arts that her doctors have encouraged her to explore. And she always enjoyed entertaining. What better way to commemorate the date than by giving back to Overwatch, even in this humble way?
Still, her talents lean more toward amateur than master chef, so most of the foodcart’s contents were purchased fresh this morning from a bakery down in Gibraltar. Amélie transfers each basket, plate, and platter from the cart to the dining table, inspecting them one by one for imperfections: the baked croissants, flaky and golden, perfect little crescents in their linen-lined basket and matching dish of farm-fresh butter. Blocks of pain au chocolat with chunks of dark chocolate oozing from their centers. Piles of crêpes both sweet and savory, layered or topped with maple syrup or powdered sugar or cheese, ham, mushroom, and artichoke.
Self-restraint keeps Amélie from stealing a taste of the melted chocolate and hazelnut spread she puts out with the bowl of chouquettes, all liberally sprinkled with pearl sugar. The platter of éclairs requires two hands to move, the serving tray laden down with pastries filled with crème pâtissière in flavors of coffee and pistachio and drizzled with caramel. She has to pause and breathe in the sweet-tart scent of the chaussons aux pommes, her mouth watering imagining the taste after they are drizzled with wildflower honey. The macarons were worth the trip to the specialty shop on the edge of town, their nutty almond taste and bright colors happy additions to the table.
The brioche is the only item she actually baked herself. An unassuming loaf, it is far from perfect; she used too much yeast and the caps on top have bulged out over the pan in uneven lumps. There are no drizzles of golden syrup, no icings or fondants, just the simple golden-brown bread, fresh from the oven. And yet this is what gets a place of prominence in the table’s center. Amélie arranges the brioche on a white china serving plate next to another dish of butter and stands back, admiring the spread. A proper French breakfast fit for company.
“Ah, good! We are the first ones here!”
Amélie startles, whipping around to find Reinhardt and Ana stepping down onto the grassy outcrop. The giant of a man has a carafe of coffee in one hand big enough to provide for all of Overwatch and his other free to assist Ana so she does not trip. Her arms cradle a silver vase from which dozens of golden flowers sprout, the delicate blooms dancing in the ocean breeze.
“Bonjour ,” Amélie says, smoothing down the front of her high-necked blouse and stepping forward to help Ana with the bouquet. “What is this? Non , you did not have to bring this.”
“They are for you,” Ana replies. Her voice is warm like baked bread, and she passes the vase to Amélie with a gentle smile. “Black-eyed Susans. For encouragement. We are proud of you, dear.”
Reinhardt sets the carafe down on the extra table Amélie brought out just for that purpose. “Plus she couldn’t resist an eye joke.”
“That, too,” Ana says with a laugh.
Emotions war within Amélie that she cannot properly identify, some mixture that makes her feel uneasy and her cheeks flush with heat. Blushing is an odd reaction to experience. She is not sure if she wants to shy away from this woman she once tried to kill, or embrace her for the second chance she has allowed. Amélie settles on ducking her head politely. “Thank you. They are beautiful.” She gestures to the table, already planning where to place the flowers. “Have a seat, s'il vous plaît .”
More well-dressed agents show up in groups of two or three, and the seats at Amélie’s table slowly begin to fill. With them comes more food: Zarya with a heaping bowl of tvorog, Lúcio carrying two pitchers of açaí, guaraná, and papaya smoothie straight from the freezer, Genji and Zenyatta carrying bowls of natto and white rice. At the far end of the table, Satya struggles to fit her platter of litti and chokha next to Torbjörn’s knäckebröd and roe spread. Even Morrison shows up with a cornbread loaf, which brings some good-natured ribbing from the others; Jack’s definition of a full breakfast is usually a granola bar and black coffee.
As they take their seats, Amélie notices a few empty chairs around the table. An unfamiliar emotion curls uncomfortably in her chest. Her eyes scan the group before she leans to the side to ask Angela, “Are McCree and Hanzo not coming?”
Angela glances down the table, as if searching, then turns a gentle smile Amélie’s way. “I’m sure they’re just running late. Don’t worry, they’ll be here.”
Amélie nods, but the feeling in her abdomen persists. A taut, warm sensation that pushes upward, makes the muscles of her throat tighten and her eyes sting. Disappointment, she realizes. How odd to have such a reaction over such an inconsequential thing.
Even though she knows she should be embracing these new emotions, Amélie pushes this one down and clears her throat. No one notices so she tries to get their attention by tapping a spoon to the rim of her glass. On her other side, Emily seems to be the only one who hears the light ringing. “Hold on, I’ve got this.” She brings two fingers up to her mouth and whistles, the shrill sound as effective as a dinner bell. The chatter falls away and she gestures to Amélie. “The floor’s yours, luv.”
“ Merci .” Amélie draws herself up to address the group. “I wanted to thank you for coming. I know you are all busy.”
“We wouldn’t miss this for the world!” Lena exclaims from Emily’s other side. “Six months is a big milestone!”
Reinhardt taps the table with a knuckle. “Yes! It hasn’t been easy, but you have not given up. We’re all very proud of you!”
A swell of agreement echoes around the table, the others nodding and offering their own words of support. Amélie takes it all with grace and a polite smile. “Thank you. And thank you for being patient with me, and…and bringing me back from Talon. You could have killed me, but instead you brought me here and helped me heal. I do not know if I can ever repay that kindness.”
“Aw, sweetheart, you know us here at Overwatch are all about second chances.”
Amélie startles at the voice from over her shoulder, turning to find McCree and Hanzo stepping into the grass. They have both cleaned up nicely, though the cowboy’s dress clothes are partially covered by the serape slung around his shoulders, and that hat is still perched atop his head. At least he tried. Each man has a basket in hand and a sheepish look on his face. “We apologize for our tardiness,” Hanzo says, then side-eyes McCree. “Someone had some trouble with the oven.”
“Baking ain’t exactly my strong suit. That’s why I should leave it to those far more capable,” McCree counters. He leans down to give Amélie a kiss on each cheek and a charming smile. “And you don’t owe us a damn thing, Ms. Amélie. Havin’ you back is thanks enough.”
“Quit flirting and sit down, you’re letting the food get cold,” Fareeha complains, eliciting laughter from the others. “What did you bring?”
Hanzo and McCree set out their baskets. “Homemade jelly and biscuits. Made from scratch, just like Mama used to make.”
“Biscuits? Or biscuits? ” Lena asks, flicking the gingham cloth off one of the baskets and scoffing at what she finds. “Americans. These are not biscuits.”
“We ain’t havin’ this argument again, Oxton, I’ve told you…”
They fall into their old disagreement about American and British biscuits, and Amélie feels something inside settle in place when the last two agents find their seats. She is full, but not from food. The sensation sits higher in her chest near her heart. Pleasure? Satisfaction? Contentment? She is not sure, but she thinks she likes it.
Everyone helps themselves to the spread, piling their plates with food and passing platters down and across the table. Reinhardt is a dear and helps pour drinks for people even though he nearly knocks over the container of cream half a dozen times. Amélie starts with the basket closest to herself and finds several jars of the jelly McCree mentioned. They are various shades of red and gold, and they even have a ribbon made of twine wrapped around the top. Curious, she picks one up at random and admires the way the light refracts ruby and violet through the facets of the decorative glass. A little white label on the side bears McCree’s bold scrawl. Wine Jelly.
“McCree?” Amélie asks. “What is this?”
“What it says on the tin,” he replies, busy heaping his own plate with two of everything in range.
She frowns in confusion. “You made jelly, out of wine? Real wine?”
McCree laughs. “Well, it ain’t fake wine, if that’s what you’re askin’.”
“You wasted wine—” Amélie stops herself, looks down at the jar, then back at McCree. “What wine did you use?”
A rather telling look passes between Hanzo and McCree, one that strengthens the growing horror in her gut. “Just a few bottles we found…in the kitchen?”
“My bottles?” The way her voice jumps in volume kills the conversation down the table, all eyes turning their way. She pays them no mind, too focused on the fire of betrayal lit inside. “You used my wine?”
“Now, Amélie, hear me out—”
“You took my wine and turned it into this, this—” She holds up a jar and shakes it at him. “ Travesty! This pedestrian condiment! Wine takes years to get from vine to table! Years to ferment, generations to perfect the subtle nuances of a bottle, and you waste it like this!”
English falls away to French as Amélie continues her tirade. She can feel her emotions running away from her, shock and outrage and indignation, feelings she has not experienced in years running rampant. She is not prepared for the onslaught, but she cannot slow it down. Next to her, Angela’s eyes grow wide and a tentative smile spreads across her face. Many of the other agents wear similar expressions, shocked at the sudden outpouring of passion from the stoic Amélie. The only one who seems unaffected is McCree himself, who simply goes about slathering a hunk of Amélie’s brioche with butter and the offending jelly.
“I buy nothing but the best, Jesse McCree!” Amélie cries, slamming the jar down onto the table and rattling the cutlery. “Oh, if you ruined my Château D'araignée Cabernet Sauvignon there is no amount of cognitive restoration or screw tightening that will save you because I will hunt you down like— mmph! ”
Amélie finds her mouth suddenly full of biscuit as McCree stands and shoves one in her mouth without fanfare. Rather than choke to death she is forced to chew, and…and…
Flavor bursts on her taste buds. Full-bodied and smooth even in jelly form, the tartness of the blackcurrant is tempered by the sweetness of the sugar. Amélie can still catch the herbal notes, still taste the vanilla from the oak barrels. Cool and creamy salted butter blends with the berries and grapes. Beneath it all is the warm, fluffy give of freshly baked bread, edges toasted for that crunch of texture. A perfect bite.
“Well?” McCree asks. “That ain’t so bad, is it?”
Amélie looks down at the slice and the missing bite, the unassuming morsel amongst all these delicacies, and feels her face break into a genuine smile. “Oh, that is…that is… magnifique! ”
“I think you dodged a literal bullet there, McCree,” Ana says, smirking as the cowboy lets out a sigh of relief. “And take your hat off at the table. What, were you raised in a barn?”
McCree does as he is told but cannot help but snark back, “That wasn’t funny the first hundred times you said it, you know?”
The meal continues on, food shared and conversation flowing like wine, laughter in the air, and the morning sun shining gold and bright on their skin. Amélie watches from her place at the head of the table with a lighter, fuller heart. She wanted to give a gift to these people, her family, a family that she is still unsure if she deserves. But even now they give back to her just by being there. They are a table of second chances, and she is thankful to be counted among them. Amélie thinks maybe with a family like this, things are going to be okay.
Smiling at nothing at all, she takes another bite.