Archive of Our Own

She has to admit, this isn't exactly what she'd had in mind when Ashe had promised her a trip.

"It's summer," her outlaw says, trying her damndest to smooth over that which she's neglected to share. "We go to the beach in summer."

She can imagine. Ashe mentioning it offhandedly; the rest of Deadlock thinking she meant all of them, because it was what they usually did – and by the time Ashe had realised their assumption they'd packed their bags and were at the proverbial door ready to leave, and denying them would mean letting her family down.

Amélie sighs, even if her fondness betrays it. "You couldn't say no, could you?"

"I can say no," Ashe states, hot air and bluster as she folds her arms: defensive. But she shuffles from one foot to the other, a hint of a smirk pulling at the side of her mouth, because Amélie knows her better, and she can't lie to her. "Don't you dare tell anyone."

"Not a soul," she agrees. She could tease her with it, but there's no need – Deadlock's important to her. It always will be. It's important to her too, now, but it doesn't chase the disappointment away, that it won't be that somewhere they've talked about, just the two of them.

She's well aware it wouldn't be the grand escapade – just a few short days at the beach, together. And for a while it had been that, daydreamed about, and she doesn't want to share.

It's why she's frowning. Why Ashe is covering her cheek in red smears.

"I can't afford to be away for more than a few days," she says. Still working. That's fine. That she knew. "I'll make it up to you, sugar. Cross my heart."

She sounds so persuasive, so charming – those honeyed words have won so many over in her time. But Amélie keeps her frown, playing the game, because now she's more intrigued: to see how far Ashe will willingly bend, and she likes how much affection she's showering her with in order to win her over.

"We can crash a party I have to go to," Ashe continues, and now there's a small pout as she runs her fingers over her chin toward her painted lips, because she thought that first suggestion might do it. "Find a closet that I can kiss you senseless in…"

She leaves the rest to her imagination. And Amélie does indeed know what those plans of hers entail, and she half smiles, in spite of herself.

Ashe grins. Winner. "Ah, there's my girl," she says approvingly, claiming her victory with another kiss – finally allowing herself to kiss her on the mouth, and Amélie relents, because Ashe is nothing but an excellent kisser. "Nice big house, private beach… it'll be fun. Won't even know they boys are there half the time."

She sounds very sure of it, of herself, and as ever, Amélie can't help but believe it.

"I'm convinced," she says. Ashe's hands are linked at the back of her neck, feather-light, and she tilts her head at her, fringe falling in her eyes.

"You were messing with me."

"Would I do that to you?"

Ashe laughs. "Yeah," she says. "You would."

"That's what you like," Amélie muses, finger tracing along her collarbone. "And what I like, too."

Ashe is back at her mouth, and Amélie knows that her judgement is right. "Our little secret, Blue," she whispers. It's true. So many aspects of themselves that no one but the other gets to see… no one else but Ashe, red eyes intense and hungry and in love with her, and it's a wonder to have all those things, to equally feel it for herself.

Maybe it isn't the longest vacation. Maybe it isn't only theirs.

But it's a start.

The rest of the gang will be waiting on them, she's fairly sure, for the outcome of their discussion. They can wait a little longer as Amélie kisses Ashe for herself, her outlaw sighing as she does it.

"Actually I have another request," Ashe murmurs, after a few more, and Amélie blinks at her: permission, waiting for her to ask. Ashe rolls it round her mouth and into hers, contemplative. "What are your thoughts on pink?"

They're in the car and Ashe has spent forever fussing, since the moment they left the Gorge. She's still at it, curling errant fingers through strands of hair and allowing them to bounce free one handed, and whilst it's been a returning habit on the ride over now she seems decidedly self conscious, and it's stopping her from getting out of the car altogether.

One hand's on the wheel where she parked, the other still messing. Rental: everyone else bundled into the usual get-away vehicle with Bob, dressed down to hide insignias, but no one had batted an eye at her going alone. Clearly Ashe has done this before, the penchant for fast things extending past motorbikes to convertibles. What she hadn't allowed them time for was to comment, breezing right on by.

Amélie had assumed it was an in-charge, air-of-superiority thing. Not uncertainty, needing assurance. Not where she's nervous about something, and perhaps not even about the colour in her hair.

The house is beachfront, its exterior traditional and unimposing despite the size, complete with wrap around veranda. It wouldn't surprise her if Ashe owns it – safehouses scattered across the rest of the state and country, she suspects – or perhaps she'd bought it recently, specifically for now. She's always telling her not to spoil her, but Ashe never listens.

Maybe that's it, and Amélie takes her outlaw's absentminded hand with one of her own. "Stop," she says, gently. "You look cute."

It works, because it successfully takes her mind off the house. Ashe preens at her, even as the flush instead settles on her bare shoulders. "Do I?"

"Yes," Amélie insists. Perhaps not for her choice in attire – her sense of style hopeless, even in this – but the pink, dip-dyed ends of her hair? Yes. She'd helped her with it as she'd asked, painted Ashe's nails her favourite purple whilst she'd painted hers red.

Subtle marks, that she's hers. Amélie runs her forefinger over one, along slightly bubbled purple paint. An imperfection. Perhaps she should fix it.

"See, now I don't really want to get out of the car," Ashe muses. She's not fully recovered from her fluster, but there's mischief in that grin of hers when Amélie looks up. "Because that's the first time you told me I was cute."

Amélie sighs. She's getting bolder, she thinks, and Ashe's ego really doesn't need to be added to. "You're insufferable."

"You love it."

She does. Insufferably charming, full of clichés and always hers. And she is cute – beautiful, knowing her colour combinations. One day she'll stand her ground through that stunning red that so frequently adorns her and it's something Amélie secretly looks forward to seeing her do. But right now she's less black and red, more pink and orange; she's never seen her wear them before and the summer colours suit her, reminding Amélie of sunrise, sunset.

She wants to ask. Wants to know what else is on her mind. Wants her to feel that she can tell her anything.

"It's nice," she offers after a moment, as the silence stretches. "The house."

Ashe nods. Biting the corner of her lip; her biggest clue, that there's something. "Yeah. It just… seemed like something I should do. Somewhere for any of us to go that isn't just a dustbowl, even if it's still not really near anywhere."

She wonders if that's true – if what she meant to say was 'somewhere that's ours', where they can be who they are, but she couldn't quite bring herself to.

So many. So many possibilities and they're all endearing, and it's…

Her hand is on her chin: easy persuasion. Ashe exhales, even as she holds her still.

"It ain't too much?"

Less house. More Ashe.

She smiles at her, her honesty. "I like it," Amélie says. "How you think."

Ashe murmurs, two steps away from going scarlet, the slant in her expression more familiar. Longing. "I don't suppose we can skip the beach and get straight to the part where I carry you inside and devour you in bed, can we?"

Tempting. Amélie chuckles. "No."

"Worth a shot," Ashe says, shrugging. But she's still smiling, unrushed, because there's always later, and she seems a little more at ease about her financial decisions, and with the rest of Deadlock undoubtedly arriving soon, that's when she needs to figure herself out by – some ways behind because Bob actually adheres to driving below speed limits, instead of right at them, unless necessary.

Amélie drops her hand from her face. "Now if you think you can withstand the compliments to your hair," she says, "we should get out of the car."

"I can handle anything," Ashe announces, placing both hands back on the steering wheel, not that that's necessary, and Amélie can feel herself smiling at her, again.

"Indeed," she agrees, as always. "Shall we?"

She's still rigid and determined as she nods, teeth on her lip to reiterate her certainty – but Amélie's already out, and she meets her at the door as Ashe opens it.

"Ma cherie," she offers with a hand held out, a slight turn of a smile that's echoed right back at her in Ashe's own as her girlfriend takes it.

"You can try, but I'm the one that's going to win."

The triplets openly object, loudly. Jeering, taunting, but the main complaint seems to be about how she's sat on Bob's shoulders, and how that isn't fair.

Ashe shrugs. "You can get in your own tower if you want," she muses. "No one's stopping you. Besides, this makes it much more fair, considering there's only two of us for you to knock down at the same time, whilst there's three of you I have to hit."

Today's rules. They're still not satisfied. Whatever. They've had due warning, and the second Ashe pulls the barrel back on the water gun they scatter, scrambling to assemble a precarious pyramid whilst under constant fire. Constant water? Whatever. Their expressions are priceless as they go down into the shallows, and Ashe just laughs at their misfortune, a very sorry looking and soaked set of three as they resurface, practice for the real event.

It can't be said she didn't warn them. And they're taking her more seriously, and Bob roots himself more firmly in the sandbank, because it's not the first time Deadlock's hosted a water gun fight.

It's loud, Amélie thinks. A not so distant cacophony far from her idea of what an afternoon at the beach is, which is to relax. She sighs beneath the red striped umbrella, snapping her book shut – if she's not going to be able to concentrate, she might as well watch. She doubts honour among thieves extends to the scoreline on friendly competitions.

She isn't alone. Bars beside her, not participating, out of place with a hoodie instead of his usual cape – at the very least, she's much better dressed for the beach.

Amélie rests her chin in her palm as she watches. The three brothers are finally in their tower and taking advantage of Ashe's predictability, which is having mixed results. Losing ones.

Even if she cares about them Ashe won't go easy on them, because she likes to win more. And she'll give it a hundred and ten percent of her effort to make it happen, even if the game is somewhat strung in her favour. Amélie smiles to herself, bemused.

Bars is still looking out past the horizon, and so she asks him. "Who do you think will win?"

Immediately he looks in Ashe's direction.

"Likely," Amélie agrees. "The two of them together are unbeatable."

She sounds more wistful than she intends, and Bars glances back at her.

"The two of you are the same," the omnic says – the only thing he's ever said to her, done and ended, and Amélie blinks at him, surprised. But it's also unmistakable. As a sniper it pays to be observant, but the two omnics whose company she now keeps are so… clued in to emotions in a way that she often still fails to be, she realises, as that's why he said it. Because from his perspective it's something that's irrefutable. Something that can't be denied, else he wouldn't have offered it.

"I want us to be," she admits to silence, and they already are. Less attention on Bars and the truth and more spared for Ashe. Ashe, narrowly avoiding a dip in the sea because Bob has excellent reflexes… and Ashe, lining up her returning volley through her scope; and Ashe, pink.

One of those things is less like the rest. But her hair shines in the afternoon haze and she's resplendent; enjoying herself.

It would be impossible not to be drawn to her, when she's at her best.

Ashe has been avoiding it, looking at shore, but she knows Amélie's likely long given up on doing anything else she had planned, and eventually the outlaw can't help it. Stealing a glance and finding her spider looking right on back, the slight exchange of smiles and fondness as she does, the fact that she's now plummeting backward freefall into the sea for doing so.

Worth it, honestly. The outlaw resurfaces to Bob, already trying to fuss – he's always been like that around water – and she waves him and his concern away as she climbs back up into position again with his assistance.

"I'll get all three of ya for that," she announces, enough to send a shudder down anyone's spine. Not that she's got anything to prove to them – they know it, know it's not all serious: only mostly, for effect.

That and the shine in Amélie's eye that she can see, even from out here. It's about the competence. The putting on a show. And Ashe laboriously takes her time for her final hat trick, taking Terran and P.T. down until only Zeke's left standing, and he follows the other two face first into the effective pool.

She smirks. "Told you," Ashe says gleefully, arms resting on Bob's head as she laughs. "Don't ever bet against me."

There's a thud as Ashe drops down alongside her in the shade, having successfully fished her three underlings out of the sea.

Amélie was, however briefly, back in her book; but it's easily put aside as she glances over at Ashe on her back, already looking over at her.

"Hey," her outlaw grins.

"Hello," she says – softer than hers, as chaste as the kiss she lightly places on her cheek. But Ashe seems delighted by it, regardless. "You won."

"I did," Ashe affirms, smug. "Every year they lose that bet, yet they're the ones that've run off to do something else and I'm the one that's exhausted. Doesn't seem fair."

"They're young," Amélie says.

"We're young," Ashe objects, closing her eyes.

Youth can easily make you believe you can do anything, which is… probably what Ashe meant with her rebuke. She can't, but Amélie knows that if it were possible, she'd give forty a wide berth and a sound disregard. That or she'd rob it blind for its wealth, its worth.

Amélie shakes her head. Strange, not-quite metaphors, that don't really make any sense.

Still, Ashe is easier to understand, and her eyes are still closed. Amélie watches her exhale, inhale; rhythmic. Relaxed. Not moving or responding as she brushes hair from her eyelids. And despite what she said, half asleep already.

Her outlaw mumbles at her, hand over hers, but her grip's lax. "Give me five minutes, sugar," Ashe says, the only thing that's coherent, the rest of it lost to barely audible murmuring – although Amélie's fairly certain of her saying that she loves her.

Working too hard. She still has work she should be doing even here, to be sure of further investment and forthcoming money, that her family will stay well cared for; forever taking a bunch of outcasts and making sure they're all safe, through hell and back. And if P.T. and Terran and Zeke want a water gun fight in her off-hours, they'll have one, because she'll make the time.

Really, all Amélie has to do is look at Deadlock to know why what she is has never really fazed her – or them. Why everyone just accepted her as she is.

She might not be the best person in the world, a liar as well as a thief, but… it's a good place to be, to belong at Ashe's side.

Amélie moves. Not enough to wake her but so that she's nearer to her as she reads, and Ashe isn't so unaware that she doesn't curve herself against her as she sleeps.

"I got you something."

Her head's still fuzzy – heat haze, a needling reminder of why she shouldn't take a nap on the beach, even if Amélie's lap had made an excellent pillow – but that admission brings her right back round, because she doesn't often buy her things.

Not unprompted, anyway. Ashe had asked Bob to fetch drinks from the house, and Amélie had offered to go with him and further, saying she needed the walk, and Ashe had returned to slumbering on uneven sand – after applying sunscreen, because she'd rather not wake up again baked and crispy, thank you very much. There's still a blot left on her nose, and Ashe rubs the back of her hand against it as she peers at her, rolling back onto her knees as she waits for whatever it is. If there is something it'll be entirely earnest: something that amused her. Something that reminded Amélie of her, and she really, really wants to know what it is.

The mocktails that Bob brought back? Boring. Into make-shift sand holders with those. Amélie sits herself back down beside her, and it's not that she's reluctant, exactly, just that she's figuring out emotions. Her own sentimentality against Ashe's, far more buoyant.

She knows gifts aren't necessarily things Ashe likes, because she told her. It depends who's giving them. She's still watching her, and her spider sighs, shaking her head at herself, which could really mean anything, and it only makes Ashe want the surprise more.

"Hold out your hands."

She does. Hands that break and shape and tear it all down. She's about to say they don't have all day, that it's fine and she's fine, but then Amélie deposits the piece of pink plastic in her fingers.

It's small. Pointy edges. Ashe rolls it from one hand to the other and the shape becomes clearer, as well as the cartoonish grin the shark has for a mouth that's a bit like her own as her tongue presses against her teeth and she looks at Amélie, still quiet.

"I didn't think you'd gone that far up shore, where there's souvenirs."

"It reminded me of you," Amélie admits, looking away. Suave and off-handed, like it isn't that big of a deal.

It is. "Really," she grins. "Because I'm dangerous, charming, and—" Ashe tilts her head for effect, forefinger propped against her chin, smile spreading further. "—cute?"

She said it once. She's going to hold onto it forever. But Amélie shakes her head, marginally.

"Goofy."

Of all things.

Goofy.

She's not—

Alright, maybe a little bit when she's being overdramatic and playing coy and flirting with any passing, improbable fancy to perhaps achieve what she wants, but—

Goofy.

"You shit. I can't believe this is the impression you have of me," Ashe says, snickering as she reaches for Amélie's hands, a small tug of war for her spider's wandering attention, because she really, really thinks it, and she thinks that it's funny. "I want a do-over."

The struggle stops. She looks at her more serious, no longer remembering how to laugh, hands still in hers. "It's too late," Amélie says. "When I am in love with you for who you are."

There's red in her cheeks from her sincerity, but Ashe doesn't falter. Secure in it as she leans toward her, thumb against her mouth.

Safe bets… her favourite kind. "Oh, so I am the rest?"

"You are many things, cherie…" Amélie murmurs. "All of them mine."

Now she does. Falters. Not even for her saying it but for how much she wants to be, more than Amélie might ever know. But Ashe covers for it well as she kisses her.

"Y'know it's way past time we answered this."

"It's pointless. I already know that it's me."

"Uh huh," Ashe says, clicking her tongue because it's absolutely her, and Amélie just frowns. Pouts, almost. It's kind of cute, worthy of mentioning, if it weren't her own pride that was on the line and she'd best defend it. "You've never seen me in action before. Back at the vault? That was just a taste."

She has the water soaker in her hands, held casually downward like it's actually Viper, because it's not time to show her capabilities off. Not quite yet. The pink shark bobs at one end as she sways, her self-assured grin well-founded.

Amélie can't argue that. She also can't argue it because Talon had, however briefly, considered her a worthy replacement. She scoffs, out of direction but not out of bluster.

"You are going down, Elizabeth."

Ashe chuckles. "Try me, Blue."

Her eyes narrow. Oh, she will. But Ashe has something else to say before they confirm what she should know, that she is the better shot, because she's not without her impulses.

"I think we need something to play for," Ashe muses with false idleness, and Amélie rolls her eyes, because she can see a mile away where this is going. "A wager, if you will. Like, say — if I win, I get to kiss you. And if you win I still get to kiss you, but it's like, hot?"

Amélie sighs. Low stakes, in her humble opinion – purposefully rigged because Ashe doesn't like to lose, so it'll still feel like a win. Their hastily sand sketched arena has drawn a crowd of not just Bob, but Bars and the rest, and there seems to be an evenly split opinion of who will be the victor between them, but they're simultaneously well aware Ashe pays them so they haven't been particularly vocal about who they're supporting. Yet.

Ashe is waiting. Probably thinking she's mulling her way through her presented scenario.

She is, a little. But it's not enough, she thinks, and Amélie has other ideas. She hasn't picked up her own provided water gun yet, and instead she crosses established footholds toward Ashe, musing.

"When I win," she begins, one hand settling on Ashe's waist at the now shattered distance, her every word measured as she looks her in the eye. Quiet; Ashe unable to look away, and never does Amélie break it. "And I will win—" her other hand brushes down her girlfriend's shoulder, thumb catching against the strap of her swimsuit, deliberate. "I'll tell you what I'm playing for, cherie…"

She steps closer and Amélie whispers her promise in Ashe's ear, and her outlaw goes through several fetching shades of pink, just like her hair.

"But only if you do your best against me," Amélie affirms to her, as she withdraws. "I want you as you are."

Possessive. Eyes intense. A shiver going down Ashe's spine.

Yes. She'll enjoy this.

She smiles as she walks away. "I'm holding you to that, sugar," Ashe manages as Amélie retreats to her side of the sand, and Amélie's eyebrow raises slightly as she turns and looks back at her.

"You recovered faster this time."

She sounds impressed, and Ashe is grinning – devilish and designed for trouble. "Yeah, well," she acknowledges. "Incentives." But she coughs because she can feel her fluster creeping back in, and she's not unaware of the immersed audience, and she's got so many reasons to win right now.

Or lose. Maybe she should go ahead and douse herself given how distracted she now is. Gunfight, waterfight. All to play for.

"First one on the ground loses?"

Amélie shrugs lithe shoulders, nodding. "If that's what it takes."

Ashe turns, striding back several steps, as does her spider, finally picking up her soaker. The weight isn't familiar as it takes her a moment to account for the difference, and that's in her favour.

"Bob, call it."

The butler nods. She'd ask him to call shots too, but she figures the triplets will do that of her own volition. They've all definitely got money on this.

Her inspiring thought's true. She's spent many an idle moment pondering their marksmanship, and she's better. So much better. It doesn't matter that Ashe would willingly tear down empires for her: it won't stop the outlaw from winning, and Ashe's pride is her ally.

Amélie's still standing there, serene; and whatever she's thinking, it doesn't show. Figures, when she invited Widowmaker out – so cool, calm, endlessly alluring – so much more assassin than she has any right to be with the way that she's dressed, sunglasses now perched atop her forehead, because today she's the one that means business.

Well, so is she. She's just used to making a display of it. Life's little pleasures and all: working up to it before—

Will she still let her do that, if she loses?

Shit, shit, shit.

Ashe shakes her head to clear it, and Amélie absolutely knows what she's thinking about. Minx.

But it breaks her meditations. Brings her back.

"Are you prepared for me, cherie?"

"Never," Ashe replies; the contradiction's automatic, as is the quirked corner of Amélie's mouth. This contest, yes, but – her? No. She never saw this coming. Never knew how much all of it would be. How good it feels that she loves her. That this, who's the better shot, is something they can openly ask. "But, I'm ready to find out when you are."

Amélie half smiles. Thinking the same. And Ashe takes that as a yes, as does Bob, wading out between them and he's giving her a look she knows well, that she's biting off far more than she can chew. That or he's too used to her being sore and him being the nearest, biggest target to vent her frustrations on.

Well, not today. Like she said: incentives. Lots of them.

Bob counts down from five. Her eyes flicker from his hands to the sand, to Amélie's hold on her gun, and finally meeting her attentive gaze before back to Bob.

He steps away and out to safety, but there's no shots fired. They're both too experienced for that, knowing the other would take advantage of their commitment – and Ashe circles one way, and then the next, and Amélie doesn't move at all save for her eyes. Waiting to see what the renowned outlaw will do, so she can react.

The gang's silent, not that Ashe is looking to check. All she's got is her own steady breathing, Amélie still stationary. The most patient predator in her web… and then out of nowhere she moves, and Ashe finds herself narrowly avoiding the blast of water sent at her shoulder.

Warning shot, she thinks; she wanted her to avoid it. Not a miss – that record's still intact – and the slight smirk on her girlfriend's face tells her she won't be so forgiving next time.

It's good, in a way, because it finally spurs Ashe to action, as was Amélie's intent. Her outlaw fights by onslaught, by constant pressure and fire, literal or otherwise; it's served her well, and it's how she tackles this now. For her part she prefers to settle in one place, out of sight, out of reach, but she strafes one barrage, then another, dancing her way across the sand as she avoids and retaliates.

She gets a hit. Ashe gets a hit. They're not playing for points, and the tempo only increases. Her shots precise, Ashe's to scatter. Amélie barely acknowledges Deadlock's cheering, the sand, the sun, the sea – just her and Ashe.

That she's the one who's going to win this.

One shot is all she needs.

Ashe has a tell. Amélie's known it before, for far longer than she'll admit. Affirmed it in her practice at the firing range back home at the Gorge. And she takes advantage of it, lingering in one place a second overlong so Ashe thinks she has the upper hand, that she's done it and got her right where she wants her—

She doesn't, because Amélie avoids the shot. She ducks, firing directly at Ashe's hands on her soaker, and her outlaw has no choice but to let the water gun go, and it's quickly followed up with several rapid bursts aimed at her feet, designed to make her trip. Really, Ashe wasn't thorough enough with her rules.

Inevitably she takes a misstep on their less than solid surface choice and falls flat on her back, instantly pressing a hand against her forehead as she groans.

"Dangit."

She doesn't move after that. Just drags her hand down her face, balling it into a fist as she drops it on the sand, blinded by the mid-afternoon sun.

A sun that's promptly blocked out by Amélie: the jut of her neck as her head lilts, smirking, soaker perfectly balanced over her shoulder. "Well, well," she says as she regards her, a saunter of its own. "What do we have here?"

Ashe scrunches up her nose. "You cheated."

"I used the rules you gave me, vague as they were," her spider replies. She's so dignified, above such things as gloating, except that she really kind of is. Her smirk continually tugs at the corner of her mouth as she crouches down alongside her, musing to herself. "Even if I had to bend them."

That part makes Ashe smile, even if she's still feeling kind of sore right now. Cabaret's; dancing. Long nights repeated in hotel rooms. Staying. But she sighs again, and it's a mixed feeling that's in her voice.

"You weren't even trying to hit me."

To win, yes. That she managed it without doing it—

Well, maybe that's something to admire. Or to be afraid of, or both. But Amélie hums at her words, pensive, cold fingers at last lingering against her cheek.

"And ruin this pretty face of yours?"

How many times today is she going to be absolutely outdone by her? At least once more as Ashe's mouth pops open, inhaling, surprised, all the blood in her face making itself known. And she thought she was the relentless flirt who made other women lose sense of themselves.

Ashe holds her hands up, just barely off the sand. "I surrender."

The fingers on her cheek coil against her chin. "That's better."

"Whatever shall I do," Ashe smirks, insinuating for all that she's worth, and Amélie rolls her eyes. "Though I did almost have you."

"You didn't."

"Did."

"You are being dramatic," Amélie sighs, releasing her face. "And petty."

"And you still haven't kissed me."

"That was your wager, not mine."

She deliberates. "Owe me for it?" she suggests, genuinely. "For later."

Fair, Amélie reasons. But there was something else she asked her to be – to do for her, no matter Ashe's insistence. Still messing with her, just a little. "You think you deserve a kiss?"

"I deserve," Ashe says," more than one."

She doesn't miss a beat, the overconfidence now serving her well, and Amélie chuckles. "Of course you do," she agrees, leaning over her where Ashe meets her half way, kissing her breathless before sinking back down into the sand.

"I want pizza."

Terran.

"We are not calling out for pizza."

"I want pizza too."

Zeke.

"I just said—"

Ashe grumbles through her denial with her hands, although Amélie thinks she's fighting her second losing battle of the day as P.T. joins in the chant for that which passes as pizza here in California. If there's another thing she really misses about Paris, about France, it's the food.

And the wine. It's… drinkable, and she's sifted her way through several glasses well enough, the same as everybody else with their own beverage of choice, sat in the sunken living room with the faint, flickering glow of a fake fireplace as they are.

"Fine," Ashe says, likely because it's become a craving. Or she's allowing herself to be a little less stern, revealing soft spots and that's here, with her family in the last few days of summer, and she'd rather they were happy. "But you'd best ask Bob nicely to head up the road to wait for it."

Precautionary measures. And Bob – or bringer of pizza as he's now known, the soon to be saviour of hungry, varying levels of intoxicated individuals – nods his agreement, willing to do whatever she asks.

Ashe isn't as drunk as she could be, lounging against the sofa proper as she waves the triplets and their gratitude away as they spirit themselves out of the room to find a menu. She only gets that drunk when there's something preoccupying to be upset about, and there isn't; right now it's a more managed steady buzz, enjoyed.

There's a reason for that. A whole damn one, and the instant they're alone the polite distance goes. Amélie knows what she's after and obliges, Ashe's hand against her neck and collarbone as she pulls away to breathe.

It's not long enough, and Ashe's eyes are still closed, imagining. Remembering as she smiles; opening them to see her, even better. "You taste of wine."

"You taste of cheap whiskey."

She sounds disappointed. Ashe's lip curls, holding back the laugh, part of her knowing she'd say something like that. It's kind of funny, really. Each time the diluted annoyance is never at her, but more a growing dismay Amélie has with herself, that Ashe is so American, and that she fell for her charms regardless.

She isn't the first… although she might be the last.

Yeah. Another time. "It ain't cheap," Ashe states, because that at least is true. "But I like your taste better."

It works, as it always does, and Amélie's lips part as her eyes sketch over her face, fingers just as soft. "Flattery again, I see…"

"You noticed?"

She pauses in her wandering. Smiles. So slight and just for her, meeting her gaze, and yeah— yeah. It's so, so worth it. Ashe wonders if she should just kiss her – make the most of it, whilst everyone else is gone – but Amélie seems pensive. Wanting to keep pace, but whatever it is it's taking her longer to measure, with the same deeply thoughtful look Ashe is so used to. What's different about it this time is that she doesn't seem to reach her careful conclusions by the time she shakes her head, eyes clearing, just asking.

"Tell me," she says, "other things you like about me."

Ashe almost doesn't know where to start.

But she does, lacing a lonely hand with hers. "You're calculated, decisive," she says fiercely. Things that Amélie knows for certain about herself, but not from the perspective of the woman that loves her. "And you won't let anyone keep you down. How you dance… your focus when you're looking down a scope. The look on your face when you're thinking, 'bout it all… that you're not put out by anything I do. I love everything about you, sugar, and I miss the way your lips feel against mine."

The last's a poorly kept secret. Particularly as the hand that was resting against her girlfriend's shoulder has found her cheek, thumb cresting against her lower lip.

How long has it been, since she kissed her soundly?

Hours.

Minutes?

Seconds…

All of them way too long.

It's fortunate that the solution's easy. That Amélie kisses her first, nothing more to say. This? She loves this. This way, and there, and here. Amélie's fingers against her face as she sinks; Ashe could kiss her for hours and she previously has, and it won't last that long because there'll be pizza, more whiskey.

She just— needs her to know.

She can feel Amélie's smile in her mouth, her own matching it, and there really, really isn't anything else.

"Boss!"

They both freeze. There shouldn't be anyone: more time left to them than this, but unmistakably it's one of the triplets, several rooms away. Terran, Amélie thinks, and the spider sees Ashe's red eyes flare – a furious calm, that his timing's perfectly shit – but the look she gives her is more sedentary as she reluctantly departs from her mouth, a 'hold that thought' whilst she duly glares in the direction of the disembodied voice.

Amélie's eyes flicker down at the pristine couch as Ashe shouts back. "What!"

She can imagine what her outlaw isn't saying. That she's busy, that he better take the damn hint.

He doesn't. "What do you want on your pizza!"

Ashe scowls at the door. "You know damn well what I want on my pizza!"

"They don't have pineapple here—"

Terran appears in the doorway, head down as he obliviously scours the menu, his ignorance of Ashe's thinly veiled threats apparent.

And then he looks up.

"It's Hawaiian," Ashe says.

He looks down. Back up again, because he's found it. Deer in the headlights and Ashe has no pity for him, leaning against her girlfriend's shoulder unashamed, because she's got things to be getting back to and maybe the idea of that will get him out of here. "Oh. Right, yeah," he manages. "I should… go?"

She nods, small and plenty, scrunching her nose up again. "Yeah, you really better should."

He mumbles – an apology, how long the food will take, or well, something just as stupid as he turns tail and scurries away.

Ashe sighs. Amélie opens her mouth, equally amused and disgusted as her smile spreads, looking pained.

"Pineapple?"

Of course that'd be one of the most expressive looks she's gotten out of her.

Ashe nudges Amélie in the ribs, and the spider laughs. Not just for her liking pineapple on pizza, but the whole spectacle – the dismissal of Terran, that he came to ask what she wanted in the first place, that Ashe really doesn't mind anymore if the gang know about the two of them…

Her girlfriend's still figuring out what's sparked her humour this time, even if Ashe's grin is still securely set: because she loves seeing it, the small feelings, how animated Amélie can get.

"You care about them," Amélie says, leading her to her answer. "This really… is a family, isn't it?"

Ashe chuckles. "Hey, you asked to be part of it."

"I did," she concurs. "And I don't regret asking to, cherie… not for a moment."

There's something else in Ashe's eye – a way she looks at her sometimes that isn't about fluster, but… similar, as though she's managed to catch her off guard. That her words have hit her square in the chest, that she can't believe her luck… and yet she also does, because her outlaw's certainties tell her it's so.

Perhaps it's her own spin on things. But she doesn't need to know it all, Amélie thinks, when she knows much of it is love.

And whatever else it might be she dismisses, because the interruption's forgotten, Amélie's fingers back against her neck as Ashe leans in.

"Now— where were we, Blue…?"

"Right about here," Amélie says as she kisses her again, this time with no distractions.

Ideally, because inevitably someone else has to shout across rooms, this time asking what Amélie wants as toppings on hers.

"Oh, just forget it," Ashe resigns, sighing as she grumbles under her breath and Amélie laughs into her mouth.

It's a different sort of solitude than she's used to.

Pleasant, in a way; the night's silence only broken by the distant tide washing its way past the shore, and her own breathing, the crease as she turns to a new page in her book. The veranda wraps around large swathes of the house but here's prime real estate, and private, situated off the master suite.

Ashe watched her slip away. Missed her. But every other distraction's over now as she drops less-than-elegantly down beside her, and Amélie angles her cheek toward her so she can kiss it, even if she doesn't look up from her book.

As nice as it's been to spend time alone, it is equally nice for her company.

"How are the kids?"

She means the gang. Four in particular, and Ashe stops long enough to smile. "Sleeping," she mumbles at her ear, having successfully made her way to her neck, just below it. "Safe and finally out of trouble. It's just you and me left, sugar… even if there's some trouble I'd like to get us into…"

She leaves red print down her neck. There's no real response – to her words, to what she's doing – other than her spider's ever thoughtful hum, and that only makes Ashe want one more.

"You chose a good place," she murmurs. "It's a nice view."

"It is, isn't it?"

"You didn't even look," Ashe says. Not at the beach – and still not at her, and she pouts: clicking her tongue against her teeth as she considers.

She's maybe eighty five percent certain that Amelie's pretending. To read, that she's unbothered by the more determined marks she's leaving on her skin: either work. But her hands haven't moved, and neither have the eyes. Reading the same sentence over and over, she'd think, her the tiniest distraction away.

She's been very patient for her reward. She remembers the promises Amélie uttered in her ear, soft as a caress, and now – now she wants…

"Amélie," Ashe whispers plainly as she continues. Pestering, because she's so much better than any book. "Amélie…"

Finally she puts the damn thing down, turning to her, a wicked gleam to her as she tilts up her chin, and Ashe accepts the offered kiss with a hunger.

"Is that better?" her spider asks, after a moment.

"Hell yes," Ashe says, returning it, and Amélie chuckles, satisfied.

"You have been good," she says. "Waiting until now." Her hands wander through exposed abs, visible beneath the cropped shirt Ashe has spent the evening wearing – and then higher, fingertips dipped in the cracks between her ribs until they're pressing higher still, and Ashe's eyelids flutter.

"I feel like I'm going crazy, just thinking about you…"

No resistance to her. Breathy. "Hmm," Amélie muses, pleased to know the effect she has and not at all above it. "Are you certain you did your best for me, cherie?" she whispers.

Ashe nods, unable to say anything else at all, and it only encourages Amélie to kiss her again.

She's quiet for a while, if soft appreciation can be called that. Amélie hoards them all, every one; the night is, after all, young. There's plenty of time for Ashe to work her nerve, to trust herself with words, what else she also wants.

"Take it off for me," Ashe manages, the next time they break away for air, already dragging Amélie's hands down to persuade her. "Take it off—"

She does. Easier access. No more bathing suit. Kissing her, small touches; the most efficient of multi-tasking as she meets Ashe's eagerness, slowly becoming her own. Where the only thing left is her name, and she'd like to—

Well, there was something else.

Ashe clearly thinks it can wait until later, because when she's thinking it's transparent, her thoughts on something else than her and they shouldn't be, even as Amélie persists with her pause. "We should head down to the beach again," she affirms. "To the sea."

"We were down there all day."

"Just us," she clarifies, steady forehead against hers. "Like this."

It takes Ashe a moment, automatic refusal for anything that isn't here and now… but when she understands what Amélie's seeking there's a rich scarlet in her face, because it's also appealing. Because skinny dipping is the sort of thing people talk about and do and it's awkward, sure, but— yes. Yes, because a warm summer night with only the moon and the waves to know of it is—

"You'll owe me," Ashe grins.

Amélie presses her nose to hers. "You'll have your due," she concedes. She slowly returns clothing to its proper places as she pulls away, making a point of it, and Ashe bites her lip. What was the point of stopping, again? Swimming in the sea naked?

Yeah, that doesn't really help.

"Alright," she says with a shrug, because it's rare for them to be chasing a whim that wasn't originally hers. And it's undeniably good now she's thought about it, and Ashe rolls her shoulders. "Let's do this."

She does a little run with her fingers – finger guns – and instantly Amélie pulls a face.

"Don't do that."

"You know you love them."

"I don't."

Ashe just laughs, because she knows better, blowing her a kiss for good measure.

Her hand is in hers.

Cold. Warm. Fire and ice. Footprints washed away once they'd walked the short distance together, stopping where land meets sea.

They've both been quiet, but it isn't a lack of anything to say. Just companionable silence. Amélie focusing on the sensation of Ashe's pulse against her wrist. So alive… and willing, to indulge her, to give her anything she desires, her outlaw's frequent looks and her own returning assurance making her think that perhaps Ashe is nervous.

That or it's the intimacy. That there's things Ashe knows how to be, as does she, but this one is new – a first.

She likes that it's that. That she allows her to see.

Ashe sighs, gentle and content. It's instinct that tells Amélie that, from knowing her, and the skyline doesn't keep her.

"This was a good idea."

"I have been known to have them," she says with slight amusement, and Ashe snickers.

It doesn't last because she's smiling again – prompting Amélie to move so that she can take hold of both of her hands with hers. "You are beautiful," Ashe says, sincerely. "And mine—"

Her final word is broken, and her eyes are glossy. Like she's about to cry. Her outlaw's so emotional, much as she'd insist she isn't.

"And you are mine," Amélie says, and with them they spill over; Ashe blinks the remainder away, but Amélie catches the one that did manage to escape. "Elizabeth."

Her smile's quieter.

"I like it when you say it."

She smiles back.

"I know you do."

"Kiss me, Blue…"

She does.

"Ashe?"

For a moment she's afraid, because the place is unfamiliar. Because she should be at her side and isn't. But before her eyes can adjust there's movement and her outlaw's returned, hand finding hers between crisp sheets.

"I'm here," Ashe whispers, soothing. "I'm not going anywhere far."

So she did unwrap herself from her embrace. Probably for the peripheral paperwork she's seen, that Ashe has yet to do. It explains much, but it's still dark and early and this night is theirs, and Amélie shakes her head, not wanting that.

"No," she murmurs, possessive and still half asleep, holding her back. "Stay here..."

She gives in immediately. Or at least she thinks she does as Ashe kisses her, lazily, and Amélie can just about pick out her hair, her eyes. "Okay," she says. "Five minutes."

She opens her mouth, to argue for forever – or perhaps ten minutes more would do – but soon forgets, just happy to have her returned. That she's here, no reason to fear sleep, and Amélie easily drifts back into it.

The next time the spider stirs there's at least a little light, dawn a recollection rather than recent, and she pushes herself up from the mattress, balancing herself on elbows to look across the room at Ashe, sat on the couch in underwear and an old tattered t-shirt surrounded by sums and numbers and deals, even if her attention's now back on Amélie's accusatory pout.

"It was almost an hour," she defends, not that Amélie remembers specifics. Or cares: what matters is she's over there and not over here, and her frown deepens – absolutely, entirely unaffected by her outlaw's charming smile.

She can't. Resisting it is futile. Always Ashe's way, and that smile knows what it's capable of.

Amélie shakes her hair out as she turns to sit upright, covering the sigh she has for herself at being so ceaselessly undone by it, and she spends a few moments more contemplating. Her still in bed, swathed in white. Ashe over there, working.

"It's too normal," she muses, shoulders sinking.

Specifically the sneaking away from nightly affairs, because there's never enough time before morning: something that must be done that can no longer wait, and even that can vary, depending on the person. How committed you are.

They are.

"We could do with some normality," Ashe says offhandedly, shrugging with faint disinterest as she returns to her paper, and Amélie sighs, short. Right now? She can perfectly understand the predicament she placed Ashe in yesterday, multiple times, when she'd given the outlaw the false impression her book was far more interesting to her than she was, and for that alone she probably deserves this, even if only for the irony. Still, Ashe isn't yet done with her thought, gesturing. "I guess you could call this the benefit of being able to take your work with you."

"If you did have to depart for an office on any morning, cherie – I wouldn't let you leave."

She says it with confidence, but Ashe just shrugs at her, again. "Someone has to put pizza on the table."

Amélie shakes her head. Thinking, as she tries not to smile. There's a lot to remember, that stands out to her regarding last night, but the pizza was… the steady descent into overindulgence. The familiar game the Deadlock Rebels had decided upon, of cheering and toasting to things that they liked and were grateful for. One of those things their Boss, and another one of those things being her…

There's a great many things, that she's gained here.

That thought finalises it. Moving. Decided for her as Amélie leaves the night behind, to cooler floors and warmer smiles, even if Ashe seems intent to not leave whatever she's begun unfinished. It's alright. The sooner she reaches equilibrium the sooner she'll be hers, and the spider retrieves Ashe's almost empty mug from the coffee table as she passes her by.

"We can both provide for pizza," she says as she refills it: rich and aromatic, the second of them always stronger. "And I think you deserve a break."

"I've had one," Ashe says from somewhere behind her. She's chewing her lip as she concentrates; clicks her tongue in annoyance at not clearing as much of one thing as she'd expected… the downside of a buyer's market, really. "An entire day. And I'll have this afternoon – and there's also that party we're going to tonight."

She takes the offered coffee as Amélie sighs. "The party doesn't count, if it's still work, which it is. And you hate getting up early."

"I can sleep in plenty when I get home," Ashe says, and Amélie doesn't doubt that she will. "I want to make the most of my— mm—"

Whatever her sentiment was is gone, given the next she looks past her shoulder Amélie's there: one hand that lingers on the edge of the sofa, the other brushing white hair aside, catching her lips with her own.

"Good morning, cherie," she whispers.

Ashe is grinning. It's so much better when she's smiling, when there's a hint of a laugh. "Sugar," she says back, and the pun nets her not an eyeroll for once but a smirk, and her heart definitely skips several beats for it. Which wouldn't be a problem if Ashe weren't intent on kissing her spider more, but she'll manage. It's worth it; especially when Amélie allows her hair free, fingers dashed against her cheek instead.

She hasn't said it yet this morning, that she loves her – but she is. Right now. Right here.

And she said it to her plenty last night, in the leftover signs dotted over her chest, and Amélie presses a thumb against one now, the skin a purplish red. Those eyes of hers are infinite, likely lost to similar thoughts, but Ashe is patient, and when they meet with hers she's long been smiling.

It's almost catching. "What?"

A gentle question, because she knows most of those answers already. But her spider's right, because there is something else. "I wanted you to know something," she says. "Something important. That if you ever need to get away from it all, this house'll still be here."

Amélie muses. "If I need to run."

"Not running," Ashe insists. "A refresh."

Amélie considers. Measuring the differences and finding the slight nuance in her outlaw's pedantry – that it's a break, but only if she needs it. If it all gets a little too overwhelming. Ashe would continually run to trouble, rather than away, but even she understands, knows from experience, that when it's personal… sometimes you have to.

It's an option. A fallback, open ended; but it's also missing one thing.

"I would rather remain at your side."

Ashe grins through her teeth. "I'm that much of an incentive?"

"Ashe…"

"Alright, alright," her girlfriend says softly, the shrug in her shoulders serene, even with the indicative that she needn't fish for the answers she already knows. "But I don't think that'd matter so much. Because I'd be here with you."

"Hmm," Amélie considers, looking at Ashe for a moment. Her eyes, vivid: her heart, open. Wanting nothing more than to be with her. "I like the sound of that, cherie."

"Thought you would," Ashe grins, shuffling in her seat as Amélie finally makes to sit with her on the couch. She presses her heel against her own leg as she turns to face her, resting a hand pointedly against the spider's uncovered knee. Maybe she's thinking about it – and she's invited Amélie to do so before, but she doesn't want to assume.

Amélie places a hand over hers. Holds it still whilst she relieves the other of its bit of paper, finally winning her over… and Ashe gets the message, hands making for her neck and shoulders as she climbs over her lap and presses her body against hers, weight on her thighs.

She's almost kissing her, breath tickling against her cheek. Thinking about it as she exhales. "I'm having," Ashe says, "a great weekend."

She could say it. That she is too. Or she could kiss her, and show her.

Ashe reluctantly allows her to depart her lips as Amélie heads for her neck – no bites allowed there, not until tomorrow when the party's over – and her outlaw laughs as she nuzzles against her, cold.

"You're so distracting, love…"

Good, Amélie thinks. Her self-given reward is another breath-stealing kiss; and then she picks her up, Ashe's legs instinctively wrapping around her waist as she stands and adapts because the kiss doesn't end, spinning the both of them back to whence they were, where it so often ends.

"This isn't what I had in mind when I said that yesterday," Ashe voices idly, as her back meets already rumpled sheets.

"It's only fair," Amélie says. Direct; efficient. She might have turned down the idea of Ashe carrying her inside to their bed, but there was never anything said against her doing so. "Now, we are one for one."

"Falling from heaven," Ashe murmurs, her joke from the theatre never forgotten. But as desiring as Ashe clearly is her lover persuades her to pause, warm against her cheek as she looks her in the eye, to better see her truth. Because she knows it's different for her, that it feels different; that if right now's merely to please her, she needn't. "Sugar, you know you don't have to—"

Amélie shakes her head, much as she's allowed.

"I want," she says, very carefully, "you."

Despite it being the end of summer she thinks it's somehow gotten hotter than it was yesterday, if her gang gently sizzling in the sand is anything to go by.

She's fairly sure Zeke's not long for this world as he's lying face down in grit, and that his brothers are closing in on the same level of lethargy, sprawled next to one another and intermittently complaining to the other that you're too close, go away; and as for Bars, if he retreated any further under Amélie's reading umbrella he'd be back inside, and somewhere down the line he's found himself a less decorated hat that almost matches hers.

Honestly it's a rather pathetic scene. If this is their second and also last day? She had plans, and now their aversion to the present weather is what, just going to cancel them? Ridiculous. If she can manage it they sure can, even if the second Ashe leaves the shade for sunlight she wants to sprint back into it and apply several more generous layers of sunscreen.

What she needs is a rallying cry to whip this sorry lot into shape, given the only one that's paying her any mind right now is Bob: but the butler also doesn't really count, even if the parasol he's somehow manifested to hold over her is a blessing. More importantly, it's fortunate Ashe has just the thing to make them do what she wants.

"Listen up, B's," she announces. "An A is speaking."

It nets her a mixed response. Mostly nothing. Amélie glances up at her and groans, audibly. "Ugh."

Ashe isn't dissuaded, hands on her hips. They are B's, all of them, and it's pretty damn good.

"I don't get it," muffles Zeke after a moment, still face down in the sand.

She tuts, nails pressing into her forehead. It's too hot to be irritated but she can feel it stirring all the same. "Don't make me explain it. Look, can y'all just listen?"

Terran sits up, frowning. Somehow she doesn't think it's to listen, and she's right. "But you're our boss, uh, Boss," he says, focusing on entirely the wrong thing. "Doesn't that mean you're a B too?"

It's amazing how fast that garners everyone's attention. Ashe's mouth pops open, the lines on her face harsh and hard as she glowers, because he really, absolutely, did not just say that – but unlike last night he's altogether too terrified to backpeddle, because he's also kind of right.

"Ten percent," she says.

"Boss, no—"

"Ten percent of your next cut," she says, dangerous, "and I don't kick your sorry ass straight back home. You wouldn't want to disappoint Zeke and P.T. now, would you?"

What she's saying is it's too late for her opinion of him, but she's playing for guilt, the gains right to the heart. Yet even with that incentivising her underling's clearly already given up, flat on his back in the dirt at the idea of being penniless – which he won't be, and damn, is she exactly like this when she loses? Ashe runs a hand through her hair. Great, now she's got two prospective teammates for her game playing dead in the sand, and she'll be revisiting yesterday's losing scenario far sooner than she'd like.

Amélie lowers her book to her lap.

Here we go, Ashe thinks.

"By your logic, cherie," she says, because as ever she's been giving her statement due thought, "I'm also an A."

She— isn't wrong, actually.

Ashe makes a non-committal noise as she drops her hand to the back of her neck.

"That's fair."

Terran miraculously recovers, sitting up and gesturing between them, wide – not fair, not fair, not fair – but he thinks better of any vocal complaint. That or it's just P.T. covering his mouth and vigorously shaking his head, because he really needs to quit whilst he's ahead.

Ashe just folds her arms. "My girlfriend has to have some privileges," she says openly, not hiding it – perhaps the first time she's been so direct about it, even if they've all known from day one. "And some perks. Including having her own team, and that'll be Team B, because we're playing volleyball, now. The three of you with me. Bob and Bars with Amélie. Got it?"

There's a little bristle to it, and not from her demand. Not that she thinks they'll disprove, not that it matters if they don't – it's her business, not theirs, but it's more about… being known. Re-establishing the boundaries she's set, the spoken ones, the image of herself, that it's without a shadow of a doubt.

It's just words. Small ones. They've already long accepted Amélie as one of theirs – as hers. And Ashe buries her momentary fluster by making to unbury Zeke instead, hoisting him up from the sand one handed, a deadweight shape of a man hung helplessly as she passes him off into the waiting arms of his brothers.

"Let's get moving," she instructs. "We need a gameplan."

Amélie saw. The change, and the significance. Felt a spark in her own chest as the moment passed and nothing's different, and a… further swell in her heart, that Ashe did. That it's her influence for something positive in her, that she isn't afraid of love and its weight anymore.

It sounds silly, even if it's true… and not quite unfamiliar. Maybe the prose in her novel is affecting her, not as far along as she would have liked to be by now, but—

It will keep. Ashe has her attention now. She's taking a simple game of volleyball with the same level of seriousness as she would the final stages of preparation prior to performing a heist, wilful and thorough, and—

"Oh, one last thing," Ashe adds, interrupting herself. She doesn't leave any of them wondering to it, stride bold as crouches down beside Amélie to kiss her on the cheek, briefly lacing her fingers with hers. "See you on the court, Blue."

Amélie is expressionless behind her sunglasses. But the reluctance to let her depart is somehow more telling, and Ashe offers her another set of finger guns as she walks away. She's probably imagining the eye roll for them given that she laughs, but Amélie isn't. She's just watching. The way Ashe's face lights up, the familiar corners of her smile spreading through her cheekbones, that she's herself and truly happy…

She leaves, Amélie staring after her with a quiet longing: Bob on one side, Bars on the other, waiting for her to say something, and eventually the spider does.

"I guess we have to do as she says."

She gave in. Instantly. She would do anything, if it's for her. And both omnics know it as they exchange a look, and she sets the pair of them with a withering, appropriately vacant stare amplified by black lenses, wordlessly daring them to identify it, but they don't. Bob just smiles, and Bars just sighs.

It's the final point to make, and Amélie's just tied up the score.

Across the court Ashe has called for time-out, talking her team round with lofty inspiration and bribery in the form of more pizza for tonight after she heads out if they do well. Amélie has less to offer for her own. Bob compliments her prior spike, and Bars' passing interest in a contest doesn't extend to conversation. It's not really needed, anyway: she knows they'll both perform adequately, well, and they have. She glances through the net, to Ashe and the brothers and their malformed circle, discussing strategy in hushed tones, the difference between them like night and day.

Amélie muses, turning the ball over in her fingers. Weighing herself. She wants to win, as does Ashe. Only one of them will, and yesterday that was her – but today's outcome is less clear, and she feels less… adamant.

She wonders if it matters less to her because it's different, that the subject's more arbitrary. Marksmanship, she has to be the best at; it's what she is, Widowmaker, what her purpose was. She does not fail, and it belies her self esteem, much as it exists. But thinking that the spider finds herself as determined to win this competition too, not less. That competitive, driven nature? It's something they both share.

Ashe is done inspiring. The triplets fan out, and Amélie returns to her starting position.

The additional player has helped Ashe's team immensely – even accounting for human error, that her team's reflexes are arguably better. Each time someone tries to make a play their opposing someone shuts them down because they know them too well in perseverance and pressure, and the match has long become a game of taking advantage of minor mistakes.

Like now. Zeke hits the ball short, and she's closest, and Amélie knows that if she hits a spike now, Team B will win.

She's about to. But she doesn't. In that final moment the spider makes her returning pass moderately difficult to intercept rather than impossible, and Ashe hits the ball back and Bars doesn't make it in time.

The outlaw woops in delight, punching the air and high-fiving each of the three brothers in turn: even Terran, because as furious as she gets with all three of them she's never mad at them for long, particularly when they literally serve her up victories. She's still celebrating as Amélie folds her arms to watch her, Bob moving to stand alongside her, doing the same.

Amélie glances to him, knowing he has something to say.

"You did that on purpose."

She chuckles. She did. "It's worth it to see her smile," she says back quietly. And it is – and it really, truly is when Ashe catches her looking and beams wide, like nothing else matters.

Bars knows, even if Ashe remains blissfully unaware, and behind them he scuffs sand with his heel, because what really isn't fair is when both your teammates prioritise Ashe above everything else.

There are worse things to be, Amélie thinks.

It always comes back to the two of them and this.

Doesn't matter where. Inevitably there's open sky and a phased moon, possibility simultaenously above them and at their feet – even if this time Ashe would have to say her feet are somewhat sore from the duration she's spent in heels, that it had seemed like a good idea to walk down the coast back to the beach house despite the distance, and even going the last of the way barefoot hasn't really helped.

But it's alright. If it's her one complaint to walking back, she can live with it. The moon doing its thing, the night breeze that signals summer's end… things that will change, and things that won't, like…

Amélie's hand in hers. How certain she is of her. Tonight she was a dream. She handled her prospective clients so well, indulged in trashtalk and mockery about the eclectic tastes of the elite – Ashe had even stole her away into a closet like she promised, not that Amélie had needed much persuading, when her own capability had been equally doing things to her. And then they'd talked – about nothing, about everything. All in all it was a good, productive evening, and the house is finally in sight, and now they're walking toward the end.

Or the beginning. Depends how you look at it.

"We should've had Bob bring the car up."

Ashe chuckles. If Amélie thinks so? Probably. "Oversight," she agrees, and her shoes clack in her hand as she gestures. "Not that I've minded. I'm feeling somewhat more sober now, at least…"

She trails off. Whiskey, wine. Amélie's searching, intense eyes.

She'd ask her to say, what else is on her mind, but the slight tilt of her head is encouragement enough.

"We never had the chance to be a team," Amélie voices. "Aside from tonight."

It's true; all their competition this weekend has been in opposition. Her girlfriend's tone's a lament, that it's over… gone without the opportunity for it to be otherwise, to prove what they truly are, and for Ashe's part she purses her lips, whistling wind through her teeth as she contemplates.

"It's us against the world every day," she decides. "Aren't we always that?"

Amélie's consideration is never… variably expressive, her eyes flickering back down toward the road to better think. And then her spider surprises her: with a soft, slowly guarded smile, unable to conclude anything else. "Yes," she agrees. The look on her face so fragile. And worth so damn much, more than any heist and every opportunity she's ever had could give. "Although I would still like to, the next time that we're here."

"Next time," Ashe concurs. "When it's just us."

She hasn't forgotten. Here's not everywhere, but it's somewhere and a start.

Maybe it is a beginning, Ashe thinks, mulling it over for what little of the way home that's left, because they're already in the drive. Amélie steps up onto the outer deck, expecting Ashe to do the same, but she doesn't; and not the second after, either, and that's when she turns to look.

It's just hit her. Ashe's eyes are fixed dead ahead, and the lopsided grin flits across her face, tugging, gone.

"You know what the best part of this is?"

Amélie doesn't, shaking her head, but she also steps back down. She can see the chewed lip; knows that, whatever it is, it's serious. "Tell me."

The permission only makes it harder, but Ashe persists. Even as her heart hammers, that saying it might make it all go away.

"Not having to say goodbye."

High above them the moon waxes sweet, and Ashe's vision blurs as she scrubs at an eye one handed. God she must think she's ridiculous, brought to tears at the notion that there isn't, that there won't be an end, that she won't be left behind, that this time it'll be forever – but Amélie takes that hand with hers, and she's smiling.

"All this time," she says gently. "You were a romantic."

Ashe laughs, blinking away more tears. "Like you didn't already know that."

She chuckles. "I wouldn't have chosen anyone else. In that way, you are both so alike…"

Amélie trails off, but she knows who she means. Most often her remembering Gérard causes her pain, but this… right now it's merely a quiet yearning as her focus glazes; fond memories.

And then she looks at her the same way.

Maybe one day Ashe'll ask. Maybe one day she'll tell her.

For now, her kiss says enough, Ashe leaning forward to meet Amélie halfway and lead them through it, messing blindly with her fingers and letting the moment last, as she wants.

She's very good at this, and Amélie leans back into her several more times, greedy. Taking, wanting: everything she has, and more. Amélie keeps one of her hands for herself but the other finds its way to her outlaw's face along her jaw, thumb against her cheek.

Not that Amélie stops kissing Ashe through her tears, each of her emotions. So that she's sure. So that she knows she's loved.

She took so many risks, in the beginning. And they've all paid off.

Even this.

And Ashe is—

So, so in love with her.

She never repainted her nails. Her loud, sentimental, sentimental, attention-seeking, unstoppable outlaw: where her affection toward you won't erase her desire to win, so that she's worth something. Who tells one too many jokes, who kisses her like she's everything, who cries at having someone who loves her most.

The woman who has her heart, imperfectly perfect as she is.

Eventually Amélie says something between kisses, a finger barely pressed just below her lip to persuade her to wait. "If you keep at it, a girl might be inclined to never let you go…"

"Will you?" Ashe dares. "Never?"

She hums her answer in her mouth. She'll take it as a yes, hers to keep, and it lasts, and lasts, and lasts.

They should head inside. There's a thousand and one things they should do, but all of them can wait.

"Stay with me," Ashe whispers.

It's no longer a question. Not an expectation; not desperation like the request that came later. Just… knowing what her spider's answer will be, and wanting to hear it spoken out loud, just because they can. Because it's nice to be wanted, and loved – and the both of them need it.

How far they've travelled to get here. Here where they want to be.

Amélie rests her forehead against hers.

"I will."

She always will.

"And," Ashe murmurs, grin threatening the edges of her mouth again and Amélie can feel it, "I'm a better shot than you."

She's never going to let that go, even with the score stacked against her, and Amélie smiles.

"We'll see, my love," she says. "We'll see."