Chapter Text
There's a demon on the far side of the kitchen and Amélie doesn't have to look to know it's her girlfriend.
Ashe beelines to the counter. "Coffee," she says, and Bob supplies – not quite scalding, not quite lukewarm, perfect for downing. "Sugar," she adds, her primary acquisition forgotten as she instead seeks out Amélie's cheek to kiss. Brief, short – enough. It's strangely charming, that even in the throes of having been forced to rise far earlier than she'd like, where everything is an annoyance until after she's had that first shot, that Ashe remembers her: recollecting affection and perhaps that, on any other day, she'd slowly rouse in her arms, incentivised by her presence.
It's a streamlined process. Amélie watches her in silence as she prioritises caffeine. They both do, her and Bob, observing as Ashe becomes less beast and more human, and after the second refill her outlaw sighs dejectedly, fingers pressed against her temple.
"It's too dang early," Ashe bemoans, closing her eyes.
A successful diffuse. She glances to Bob, thinking the same. The small fall of his shoulders gives it away, his additional relief.
"It's nearly noon," Amélie contradicts, sipping tea; the beast is contained, else she wouldn't.
"Like I said. Too. Early," Ashe grumbles. She lets her hands drop and opens her eyes, and for a moment her expression's softer. Fond. Amélie knows it, because every morning she looks at her the same; saying hello, without need for words. "Tell me you haven't eaten everything."
"I haven't," Amélie says. Breakfast with Bob is always a… quiet… affair. His timing is impeccable, his repertoire extensive and his manner sublime – at first she hadn't really known what to make of his assumed companionship whilst she ate, but as with many things here in Arizona, it had been a case of gradual growth, becoming accustomed to it. Now it's routine.
On cue she's handed a plate, and Ashe quickly makes a mess of it, tearing through bacon laden toast with her fork, not bothering with a knife. "Whoever had the dumb idea about squaring this job with the other heads first thing in the afternoon—"
Amélie half smiles into her cup, because that someone was Ashe. She pulls a face as she remembers it, sighs. "Remind me against doing that next time."
"You said it was important," Amélie says. She doesn't know everything, because Ashe has kept her safely separate, but she knows there's a brief, and a target, and that the timing is soon. Her outlaw's been heavily preoccupied with it in recent days, and there's been a shift in the gang's mood whenever she's wandered the warehouse. Anticipatory, almost. Wrapping-up.
She puts her cup down, curving her finger against warm porcelain. She knows the steps. Today's meeting is notification of intent, and it's the final prelude before the start. Before Deadlock begins. Before Ashe does.
She still isn't sure, and she wonders what Ashe will say, if she gifts it to her. In a way that's what bothers her most, what she'll think of it. Would Ashe even want someone like her as part of her gang? Would she want her to risk herself?
It's not running if she does. It's stabilishing. About rediscovering who she is, and she feels…
Amélie doesn't know. It's too complex for her to translate to what she does. But it's not pleasant, the sensation in her chest. And yet it's also a choice she's been on the precipice of taking for what feels like too long, and for this, this heist, the first one since she's been here, it's—
Slowly she exhales. Time's run out and she never found the perfect way, the perfect time, so now will have to do.
"I've been thinking," she says, glancing up from tracing patterns. "What if I – went with you?"
For a moment Ashe keeps eating. And then she processes, and her eyebrows raise as she looks right at her, entire attention gained.
"You mean—"
"As part of it… as Deadlock," Amélie continues, leaving no room for doubt. "I have wondered if perhaps it's time, to see if it fits…"
She trails off, because the rest of Ashe's facial features have also changed. Staring at her with her mouth hung open, a brightness in her eye, floored. She's not as well versed as she is, still learning how expressive her different emotions can be, but it's far past surprise. For once she's well and truly speechless, and without it she can't be sure…
She looks down. She feels, a little of... something. It's not sadness. Not concern. As if it's twisting knots inside her, without purpose or place, and it's only when she frowns that Ashe snaps out of it, several fingers glancing against her chin so that she'll look at her.
"Well," Ashe says, "I was working my way up to asking you."
Amélie blinks, all her trepidation gone. "You were?"
"Yeah." There's a small smile on Ashe's face now. A soft chuckle at the irony as she runs her free hand through hair, and then she's grinning, and she's excited because it's who she is and it's not like she's hidden it but now she gets to share it entirely and Amélie wants to go with her. "I mean it's different than what you're used to, with being an assassin and all, but it has its own perks," she says. "You really can't beat the adrenaline on the getaway. Outwitting people. Or planning it down to the wire and having the whole thing go smooth and no one ever knowing until you're on your way out… I guess that's kind of the same, isn't it? But mostly it's just fun, all that work paying off, taking back what's rightfully yours."
She's in her element. Rambling, even as Amélie stares at her, still stuck in her own process, that she's taking her without question, that she's welcoming her with open arms.
"And I'm talking too much," Ashe laughs, smiling as she shakes her head. "You okay in there?"
"I," Amélie tries, trying to reorient herself with every blink. She is, she absolutely is, but— "I didn't… consider that you'd give me… such an enthusiastic yes."
"You, not thinking?" Ashe sniggers, like it's a private joke but with herself. But she understands the significance. Knows it was something she's likely been thinking about for some time. "I mean, we'd have had to address it sooner or later, 'specially if we're on a job, but if you hadn't wanted to, that would have been fine. But you do and—"
She stops, because her grin's just spreading.
"What?"
"You want to be part of my gang with me," Ashe says, resting her elbow on the counter as she props her chin against her palm. "I think this is the best morning of my life."
Ashe is entirely sincere, but now Amélie's feeling something else, like someone's released a glut of butterflies within her chest, and the more she watches Ashe the more they spread. "You're exaggerating."
"Not," Ashe assures her, making for her cheek. It's not an out of ordinary gesture, but it's deliberate, and it takes her a moment to place, that Ashe isn't the singular source of warmth.
As impossible as it seems there's colour on her face, and she can't remember ever… but it's there now, and not because it's too much. No, quite the opposite. Because Ashe's words have been so… earnest, and it's just another way that she belongs. That she's wanted. That it's alright for her to still be Widowmaker, not quite the same as it was – and taken for herself.
It won't be simple, won't be easy, but nothing has. She can make this work. Ashe will support her, she knows, whatever she needs. It's written in her eyes, in the touch against her face.
She leans into Ashe's fingers, lips pressed against her palm. "I believe you," she says, with a scarce, quiet smile of her own.
"Good," Ashe says, satisfied. "But if you're coming with me, we'd better get started."
- - - -
It's the first time she's sat with them like this.
The usual crew had been busy in the warehouse until Ashe had barked the order for them to come over: now they're sat atop empty crates or sprawled out across the floor because their brothers had beaten them to their chosen real estate and there's some japery, some light mockery at the one that lost, but mostly all of them are looking at her.
Together there's only seven of them. Ashe to her left, perched against another metal casing; Bob to her right, non-threateningly familiar, stalwart. But she's… overcrowded. It's been a long time since she were in any sort of spotlight, and the attention reminds Amélie of Talon and the way they'd operate, that she'd only garner it when there was a chance of her breaking from them.
Well. They'd had an unanticipated point. Maybe Moira was right to always suspect how she felt—
It's not like that, Amélie has to remind herself as she forces the geneticist from her mind, standing entirely still. The Deadlock Rebels' curiosity in her is understandable. At Ashe's behest they'd given her space. Breathing room. If she did linger someplace long enough she'd garner acknowledgement, a wave or a smile, but she's never… to them she's still a stranger, and them in return. She knows the omnic is a sniper. That he goes about any task routinely. That the triplets are efficient if overly loud in their work, but that's all. It occurs to her she doesn't know any of their names.
"So," Ashe starts, breaking the ice. She's dressed for business: they both are, on their way out. "Two things. We're going ahead with the stage theatre."
The brother on the floor shuffles to look at the other two.
"Which one was that?"
"Vault."
"Oh, the museum?"
"No, the arts patron."
"Don't both of them have vaults?"
They've lost all interest in her. It's impressive, how fast they've derailed Ashe's planned speech as their conversation flits, running seamlessly from one to the next. Ashe sighs, like she's used to it.
"I'm not finished," she interjects, and it's enough for them to stop talking. "Second. Amélie's coming with us, and before we go and tie up the loose ends I figure it's time you meet her properly – and that you meet them," she adds directly to her, with a half smile. It's gone again as she looks back toward her crew, and if they saw that softness they've been trained not to mention it, all focus back on her.
She should probably say something. She still isn't good at it. Politeness is too formal. An I'm dating your boss and was supposed to kill her but couldn't do it is too much. Even if they were all there, and already know it. "I won't get in your way," she settles with. "I have… experience, but not in this. Not heists. I shall follow your examples."
It's still too formal, really. But she's so used to colleagues and schemes. Not friends. Certainly not family.
She wonders if Overwatch was ever this way, to Gerard, the way Deadlock is for Ashe.
Ashe's arms are folded, boot tapping against metal as she shakes her head. "You know, all you really needed to say was your name," she muses, but she's still smiling at her.
Amélie shrugs, lithe. "They already know my name."
"True." There's really no expectation. No rulebook to play by for how she be introduced, integrated, so long as it happens. Whatever she needs. "Guess I should tell you theirs. Bob. You know him."
She does. He's regarding her with his silence; his reliable consistency something to be sure of, united in their primary reasons for being here. He raises his hand to greet her the same way as he did all that time ago in Paris, only now she understands enough of the motions that come after. A welcome. That he'll help. She need only ask.
"Bars," Ashe continues.
The sniper. He's sat apart from the rest of them, atop several crates, and his only response is a cursory nod.
"Zeke, Terran, P.T.," Ashe says, gesturing to them as a plural. "You don't need to remember which is which."
She will. Names are important.
"You saying you don't know, boss?"
"I'm saying you all show up even if I shout for only one of you," Ashe says, rolling her eyes. "Terran."
"Shit," Terran – the one on the floor – curses, knuckles pressed against his knee as he slouches, and Ashe's grin turns smug. Amélie can almost imagine the scoreline. Not even past noon and she already has one over them, and there isn't three of her. Terran's brothers nudge him in the back of the head, jeering, and he turns around to shove them both away.
"Guess that'll do as a start," Ashe concludes. "Oh. Actually there's a third thing. Bars is in charge while I'm out."
There's a chittering laugh above her as the brothers are far more vocal in their opinion of the imposed hierarchy, but Ashe flicks her hand at them dismissively, already heading away, Amélie falling into step at her side.
"It's always Bars," grumbles Zeke from somewhere behind them, sighing.
- - - -
She had expected another hideout. Not a high rise in the nearest city – an eyesore, the most egotistical display of wealth that preys over its fellow architecture.
Stranger still is that she's in the lobby, and not scaling its exterior. It's a different angle, but an easy thing to lapse back into; behind her sunglasses Amélie's eyes swivel, seeking exits and escape routes, staff and civilian. There's no target here. It's only for a meeting. But the whole place reads like a threat, and back in the car Ashe had said not to let her guard down, and she'll take that very literally, even if she hadn't been advised to.
The lobby is as opulent as outside. Empty marble floor, those waiting forced to stand in small spaces at its edges. Whatever this business does, this front, it's in demand, its seekers with no idea as to who lies in wait at its peak. Perhaps some of the workers down here don't, either. An organisation. An empire.
It's the opposite of Deadlock, and it makes her think of Talon. This gang don't work for them, because that seems to be the trend, of being self serving, but they must be on the radar. Allowed them to continue as they are. Did they have humble origins, or had they simply integrated themselves? She has a lot of questions, and for most of them Amélie doesn't really care what those answers are. Passing thoughts because she's here, but they're not worth anything. This isn't in concert. It's a courtesy, as the job is going to bring them close. So they don't intervene, that clean-up will be there if it gets messy: and one of the places Ashe plans to hit is about half way between home and here.
Ashe has been here before. She knows where she's going, bypassing the queue as she heads straight for the lone unoccupied receptionist at the very end of the desk. The girl doesn't look, doesn't engage, about to dismiss her entirely as she would anyone else with such disregard for the way things are, but the outlaw cuts her off.
"Ashe plus one," she says, leaning against the desk. "I'm expected." There's just the right amount of sweetness behind her authority, a natural charisma.
The receptionist is looking now. Nervous, more clued in than her cohorts to who Ashe is and what her name means. Even, perhaps, to the people she works for… or it could just be Ashe, nice because she wants something. Amélie is aware as to how persuading those looks of hers can be, and if she can successfully charm her, a timid mouse such as this wouldn't present much of a challenge.
"Going to need an answer there, sugar."
"Oh, of course," the receptionist recovers with a start, clearing her throat. "Please head to the elevator. You will be escorted upstairs."
It's a perfect recital, an ever so slight hint at false cheer. "Thank you," Ashe says with an easy smile as she propels herself away, and as she leads Amélie steals a glance over her shoulder, and the girl's still staring after them. Ashe in particular.
"Do you do that to every woman you meet?" Amélie asks as they pass by glass box offices, flanked and observed in every periphery, nowhere to hide.
Ashe shrugs, hands in her pockets. "Only the pretty ones."
"She was terrified of you."
Amélie half smiles. Fear is easy, and Ashe snickers. "Most of them are."
Perhaps she'd speculate her confidence, her competence, but the offices are thinning out and the elevator's sliding open with what can only be described as a person who was hired for muscle, to project strength and threat, and Ashe's smile settles into a hard line of stoicism instead as the man ushers them inside. Now it's calculated. Now it's business.
He doesn't have a key, or a card. Instead he inputs a number in the keypad and now it's hers, memorised as her stare settles on the silver sheen of the closing doors, trying not to think about how small and trapped she is, concentrating solely on Ashe's breathing.
It's a faster speed than hers. Always is. Rhythmic, more certain… and she can see her glancing at her, distracted. Wondering how she's taking everything so far if she were to guess, but Amélie's not here to be a burden, to interrupt her work, and so she gives her no indication, exuding calm. That much is no different than it was.
And a stray, lingering glance back behind her darkened glasses won't be noticed.
The mechanism glides to a halt, and the silver slides open. Another corridor: wide, windowless, fluorescence overhead, and a door at the end, ajar.
The muscle doesn't accompany them. It's Ashe that has to lead and she enters the low-lit office with a stride in her step, no dispute as to her being there, and there's three men with five weapons between them, not including the one they left outside.
Indecent odds. It reminds her more of the backroom of a seedy lounge than the pinnacle of a skyrise. Those who aspire never wear their faces right. It's always pretend; miscolouring themselves. Games. And though her outlaw likes to play, she at least is honest about it.
The door closes. In here is more of a cage than before, and Amélie's keenly aware that she's the unknown. Particularly as she's the unknown. Each stare is so critical. It's striking to how different it is to less than an hour before, and it irritates her.
The one at the desk – his office, his gang – swivels his chair slightly to the left, then the other. "Now who's this, Ashe?"
It's a drawl, but she just shrugs at the collective eye-narrowing, unperturbed. "She's with me," Ashe says with finality. "I always bring a plus one. You should know that by now."
Her tone's curt, and the least-armed man sneers. Short. Balding. Voice as unpleasant as she expects. "What, like your lapdog?"
There's an added insinuation even she doesn't miss, and Ashe's glare is venomous – but she's perfectly capable of defending herself. There's a measured half-step forward as Amélie lifts her tinted glasses clean from her nose, very slowly.
"Don't mock me."
He's not the first. He will be far from the last. But her own threat is quiet, dangerous: that she's dealt with his type before. That it hasn't ended well for them.
"Far easier on the eyes than the omnic," the man continues to his fellows, ignoring her. "Maybe next time we should all bring our piece of—"
He doesn't finish. He would if he were able to, but with her heel pressed firmly to his windpipe, he has far more important things to be thinking about.
One moment, him talking, mocking her. The next her hand on his pressed collar, lifting him clean from his chair and throwing him to the ground like a ragdoll, like it's nothing, like he's nothing – and enough force right here and now and he'd be over.
He splutters beneath her, pathetic. Her eyes are slanted, considering, because she really, truly could—
But it's not worth it. Not necessary. The fear in his eyes is enough, that in hers he sees someone who has taken life before, and she is certain that her point is made, that he will not care to belittle her again.
Amélie releases him and he scrambles away back to his chair. Despite the altercation the other heads haven't moved save for the cursory skirting of hands to concealed weapons in the midst of it all, and Ashe is closer and there's a hand at the small of her back and a half considered smile, that she likes what she sees, what she saw.
"Careful," she says to the rest with a flickering glance, eyes remaining on her. "She bites."