Archive of Our Own

Some days are for bullets.

Fatalities and endings, or new beginnings. Their seemingly metaphorical simplicity, their finality. In a single moment she lost everything. In another she gains. This gang that's hers as well as theirs and inexplicably they care, naturally included in everything where once there only used to be two.

Other days are for punches, the adrenaline backed by defiance. Kissing her a little too long. A grapple hidden high in the ceiling or a silent waltz in the dark. Where she lives for herself. Breath hers. Smile too. Shared bike rides begun a little before dawn, so they'll reach the valley as the sun starts its creeping rise.

Others still for knives. The actuating sharpness. The profound absent longing, so briefly felt. The inhale Ashe makes before she marks her collarbone with a bruised kiss; the way the outlaw whittles down prospective buyers until they understand she's a fury and a threat. The colour a person can bring. The pain of it. Of what's lost and what she now has, of a heart not yet done and with so much more to give, for her – for only her. The beauty of it, and the vice. The smile she'll never see again, the memories of a day she indulges for a time until it's more than she can bear and he stays hidden but not forgotten.

She forged this knife. It's hers. When she had nothing, she had this: Widowmaker. She carved herself from fragments as a weapon and a weapon's purpose is to kill, and now she's chosen otherwise. About what she wants to do. What she has to do.

She's been thinking about that a lot lately, the lengths people go through for love.

"I ain't hearin' what's in it for me."

In some ways she hasn't changed at all. She's exactly the same girl as she was, in love with someone in charge of something greater, forced apart.

It's funny where life takes you. The outlaw's ruling is particularly harsh as she enters her office, but it's understandable, when business partners have a habit of cloying more than they deserve. Everything today has been equally disinteresting, but the moment Bob passed her a fresh cup of steaming coffee, bitter and rich and just the way Ashe likes it after a harrowing few hours of coercing, and the last slice of a recently baked cake complete with salvaged leftover pink rose frosting, Amélie went, finally having reason to intercede.

She can't hear the omnic buyer, but they're talking. Silence on this end other than an old antique fan on the desk, not far from where she leaves her wares. She should leave, too. The sooner this deal's made the sooner she'll be hers. The office is warm in the golden hour, filtering dust. Unlike some it can't be put off. She can't ask her to. A while ago she kissed her here. She's been working on this transaction for months. The most important piece of paperwork she'll ever do, memory overlaid in her mind. Ashe doesn't look away from the holo – appearances, acts, hasn't really acknowledged her this whole time other than the barest slanted smile – but she does sit a little more crooked in her chair, two of her fingers catching against her littlest one still on the desk and Amélie feels her other hand tense.

She lingers, and she knows.

Ashe exhales contemplatively.

"I'm taking five."

The buyer's hand movements speak for them, betraying their nervousness: as does the garbled voice in Ashe's earpiece as the outlaw rolls her shoulder back the other way, uncompromising, clicking her tongue.

"Yeah, and if you want me to even consider your low ball offer," she says, gesturing at nothing and turning narrowed knives back toward them on the desk, "I'm taking five."

It's a ruse. She knows it's all for her. It wouldn't matter if they agree but the buyer acquiesces, a show of their hand to how much they really want what Deadlock has, and the projector stutters off and Ashe's entire demeanour changes, precariously leaning all the way back in her embossed swivel chair, with snickered relief at the ceiling before she finally, finally looks at her and takes her hand fully.

"You're a saint you know that? Your timing couldn't have been better."

She would do so many things for that smile. So many more. This life with her the one that she wants.

She has her undivided attention. Five precious minutes to share with her a lifetime.

Likely she can guess. She always gets morose with too much time. But unlike all those others, this feels… different, and she can't adequately put it to words.

She breathes, slowly. Not in rhythm with her, never, but perhaps one for every two.

"How's the deal?"

"On my last nerve," Ashe says, with another expressive smile, that she's worn down. "I'm good. It'll work out. Probably got a budget. Doing a whole bit with a timid in-between to try to garner charity from me when they fully understand… psh. Heard it all before. Sometimes I wish they'd least try harder." She shrugs. Working with people rather than going through them, twisting their necks and having them dance to her tune… she is far more forgiving than she is. "How's life in the warehouse?"

"Superfluous. Bars knows what she's doing – even if Zeke will actually listen to me."

"Ain't that sweet," the outlaw grins. "You know, I think you might actually be their favourite."

She shrugs. She probably is.

Silence. Ashe's fingers press into her palm, like pinpricks.

"How 'bout you?"

"Fine."

She's unconvinced. Perhaps more concerned considering the platitude. "Seeing as though Bars has it covered. Why not take a ride? Or dance. Do something you wanna do. That makes you feel most like yourself."

Not unreasonable suggestions.

Except.

She looks at her, sincerely.

"Not without you."

She likes those things. She loves them, in fact. But her interests pale without her. She is as she was, waiting, Rapunzel confined in her tower. She's been here before. She put these things away for a reason. To survive. She lost all there was to have. Now she wishes to gain. She'll forget and she'll remember, and she'd like to have— everything. And maybe it is dependant, but without Ashe to share in them…

Maybe she just… misses her.

The familiar sadness permeates. To miss something tangible is different. The bullet found its mark, a long time ago, and lodged – she wouldn't pull it out. To be this, she can't be without it. If she tried—

She wants almost too many things these days.

Ashe is constant, and safe, and hopelessly loves her. She looks at her so fragile it almost breaks her heart and it's unfair that it doesn't. The red button flashes irritatingly away on her desk already, indicator of an impatient held caller whose only thought is themselves, and Ashe glances toward it and clicks her tongue again, dissatisfied.

"It's fine," Amélie insists, looking away. "I am. I shall… run through drills with Bob, or similar, until your meeting is finished."

She doesn't move. "Hey." Almost stern, still commanding. Full of warmth enough to persuade her to surface and look back even as Ashe stands, not quite her height. It might as well be mountains. "I'm glad you came down. We'll talk more later, 'kay? I'll think of something fun for us both to do." She nods, numb. Easier. She's used to this assessment. That she's still this way, of her being irreparably broken, that it isn't enough. Ashe gently frowning. "Good. I'm holding you to that."

She's being selfish. She asked for this. She should have taken what time was offered and not squandered it.

"I—"

She places a finger over her lips. "Mm-mm," Ashe objects, crookedly smiling. "Heard it all before."

She has nothing left in her to say, her heart cavernous: and it's temporary to kiss her, but it means more to Amélie that she does than the outlaw will ever know.

A bullet is a love letter but it's almost impersonal.

The warehouse wasn't converted for her but she's the only one that uses it. She elects for the intimacy that's contact, the force of a struck blow; dressed for the occasion, the cold metallic echo ringing in her ears. She strikes against the cushioned handguard again and again in continuous flurry, the omnic resolute and unblinking. It's why she likes him as a training partner. He never buckles. He doesn't tire, and he doesn't ask.

The concern is there. She knows. Instead she'll excel. It was not just her mind that was subjected in Talon's experiments but her body… and it would be easy to think of it only as the permanently visible. No. Her heart rate slowed, but the weapon they gave her was not her Kiss. It was herself. She was taught how to use her hands. Dug deep and found diamonds sharp enough to cut. The dexterity, the startling finesse that dancing her whole life had given her, repurposed. She wondered sometimes if it was lucky coincidence. If without it she would have been incapable of showing promise.

You've been distant lately, Lacroix.

By your design.

Simply another stage, another spotlight.

Another death to wait.

She's meant for slaughter normalcy isn't for her. How else is she meant to express—

Pondering anything unusual? Dangerous?

She was content with decay; to merely function. Now she's disturbed her. It's her fault.

No. Never.

It's her own fault.

Nothing breaks that she cannot mend. She swerves and kicks the handguard and lives in that moment, where Bob doesn't move and from the continued exertion the muscles in her leg barely ripple.

"Again."

There's no time to think or forget or remember. Another set of punches. Another five, ten kicks. More, and more, and more. Emotions can be worked through, Ashe had said. No, no— dismissed. She doesn't want to think about it. She is fear itself. No remorse. No shame. She won't stop. She isn't restless, not like last time. She'll keep going until she collapses. Until she is perfect.

This way is—

It isn't—

Enough.

They can think what they want. She cannot allow herself to falter.

She breathes heavy, clenching her fists. Her knuckles feel bruised. She needs the rifle. She needs the sound, the feeling, nothing else making her heart race quite like the Widow's Kiss.

Bob stays quiet. It's not his place. As Amélie relaxes her stance the omnic knows that she's done, for now, but not complete, turning toward the nearest wall so he doesn't see the grimace. "Firing range next," she states, efficient. She can hear him behind her taking off the gauntlets. "Ten targets. Varying distance." She pauses. Breathes low. Finished. So is he. "Thank you."

He hasn't gone. She doesn't move either. She feels like shards embedded in skin, the immeasurable, never-ending secession of a thousand cuts, and it weighs so… so much. Ashe can never understand it. No matter how hard she tries. This trauma will never be hers; she has enough of her own. But Bob?

She was too little to understand when the crisis happened, safe behind secure fortified walls, caged, as she should have been her whole life. Last time she was cornered. Nothing left to her but the thrill. She did not care for days. Only for moments. This is different. She knows how to survive with a knife gently slid into her ribs. But this time, this time—

There are things that you should never have to do.

But you did them.

He… carries his burden so serene in his silence. She might have survived, but in irony the omnic was the one to live.

Amélie's next breath is stilted, and shaky.

"How do you do it?"

She's asked him why, before. Understands his reason. But never how.

How do you measure what you've done against the countless things that you want—

—and live?

Her wall doesn't answer. No echo without violence. In her own solitude Amélie persists, elbows pinched as the omnic slowly shuffles to stand alongside her, commiserate and trusted and familiar, and considers.

She glances to his hands as they move.

'One life. Choose well.'

Yes. The message that signalled the ending of the war. She smiles somewhat sadly, always so bitterly envious of such finality.

"I have lived so many lives already," she says. She has ended as many more. "Is this one I can—" she inhales, and her empty heart aches— "learn to have?"

It's like a precipice. She can't cry but the words stick in her throat, hard to digest. She sees everything of importance; it's something she cannot help but do. But she doesn't see the walls of the warehouse. Neither can she see the Gorge. All she can think of is her face, her kiss and her smile every morning; that she tastes of cigarettes and cheap whiskey and only ever wants what's best for her. She wants to try. She wants her to feel. Improbable, impossible. She wants to take care of her. She wants that too. It can be so easy. She could stay in her bitter broken jealous heart forever and never be avowed again. She is everything, and life is open to her.

Bob's hand whirs against her shoulder. She's not ready for a hug, but she knows from the experience of Ashe pretending she doesn't want one from him when jobs go badly that that's what he wants to do, and so it is. On reflex her own hand moves upward, halfway between warning and acceptance, because she doesn't dislike it.

She understands. There was someone who needed him more. He needs her too. They still do.

"I see," Amélie says. "You found each other."

He nods, and in Bob's eyes she can see a slight smile.

It's still… not enough. But it's good to know that she's not alone. To have Ashe, she gains and has so much more. Especially Bob. His unerring loyalty and quiet devotion.

"Ten targets," she repeats, a little less absent. "Varying distance. If you would."

This time he goes. But first he fully turns to her and hands to her a towel and she does not deserve his kindness, but Amélie inhales its freshly laundered scent all the same.

It is still a solemn rite, her passage of arms.

She suits up. Embracing the routine. She might be free of their discretion but she's still using what they gave her. More than a few days and she finds herself… irritated.

It's steadying, to know exactly who you are.

Ashe is there toward the end of it. Today's round finally fucking over and the deal's not quite done but it will be tomorrow, and for the interim Deadlock can continue to run itself and maybe be put to bed, and the outlaw smiles for her dangerous girl in the armoury's cloister but doesn't interrupt, breathing in the wall of warm evening air as she leans against the open doorframe.

She gets a cursory glance of recognition and yeah, now she knows there's definitely something. Might have even stung a little bit, although she's not deliberately aiming for that. So tightly wound, like a fuse that might trip any minute. She really needed her, earlier… found refuge in old familiar ways. She would ask what she's doing but that's apparent, really, more than just promised drills.

She had some ideas. She still has some ideas of what they could do – but they're kind of all rapidly morphing into one, and now Amélie's finished adjusting her heels and has moved onto silently assembling her gun and she's picture-perfect Widowmaker, it's opportune.

First things first, arguably the most important. Ashe fondly kisses her cheek as she drops herself down on the metal bench alongside her, and given that she almost leans into it and sort of smiles against her mark, she'll take it as a successful opening.

"Sooooo," she says, a recognisable gleam in her eye and far too many syllables coupling it. "Here we both are."

She's loading blanks into the cylinder. Sighs short and doesn't discontinue.

"Whatever you're thinking: no."

Ashe tuts. She might be intimate with her patented mischief but she could at least let her offer it first.

Her fingers skitter along the bench toward her, Ashe's elbow perched on her left knee as she further regards her.

"I could make it more interesting."

She doesn't hum. Doesn't respond much of anything than with an almost melancholy blink.

"It doesn't need to be more interesting. It's training."

The outlaw snorts. "Training for what?"

Silence. The worry churns in the pit of her stomach and settles in Ashe's brow but Amélie won't answer if confronted, set in her ways, and that just means she further has to speak her language.

"A contest, then," she offers. "You versus me: firing range. Whoever hits the most. And we finally settle who's the best shot."

"Haven't we answered this question?"

"Sure, at the beach," Ashe shrugs, inspecting her nails. "At least a half dozen times. At a bar fight… on that last job… in bed."

She lets that last one pause. Can't help the smallest snicker, particularly when Amélie remembers a smile before sighing, shaking her head. "You are awful, chérie."

"I'm awfully good at it," Ashe counters, and finally Amélie's eyes snap to her.

They're still warm. But distant. Calculating. "There is no competition. I was trained by the best."

"And I was trained by the west."

Predictably she sighs. She's pretty certain there's an ugh and Americans in there if she listens hard enough. "Haven't you fallen for me enough times?"

"I'm not done yet," she grins. She absolutely has a plan. Something sublime. She doesn't look away: she safely knows she's intrigued. "Ain't you the least bit curious? You, me, sunset, right at home out on the range – but the catch is, this time, you're using Viper."

Her scoff's audible. "Viper," Amélie incredulously murmurs, glancing toward its dimly lit display case. "That old thing?"

"She don't mean that, honey, don't listen," Ashe says without looking. The spider likes her finery but dismissing her spokesperson as an out-to-pasture antique? Mm-mm. Nope. You don't get to do that then walk away. Not unless your name is Amélie Lacroix. It's fine, though, because this way, she'll know it better. "And in exchange, I use yours."

"This is just an excuse for you to get your hands on my rifle."

"Yep," she says shamelessly. "It's a work of art. I wanna know, how it feels…"

Amélie looks down, to the Kiss in willing hands rested against her knees.

"Heavy."

Ah.

Not guilt or regret but something much more complicated, carefully sealed away and now prised open. She's been thinking so forward, lately – admitted to others that she wants a life with her, and even now with time and distance that equal thought still chokes her – and it isn't surprising. She just wishes it didn't hurt her so much.

She is not alone. She's not. There's no sides anymore, when Ashe lifts her hand; thumb against her lip's curve and fingers shaping to her cheekbone then neck, but she doesn't force her to look. "Well, Viper ain't clean," she says softly. She only looks at her, even as Amélie doesn't. Her whole entire world. "Don't worry about me. We doing this, or not?"

She barely smiles against her thumb.

"You're playing with fire."

Ashe smiles.

"My favourite thing."

She has her hand claimed by hers instead, now: forefingers wound sideways around her own. Her spider intently studying each and every one of her nicks and scars, her flecked black nail polish from where the afternoon has weathered it, raising them all to her lips, carefully, intimately kissing the join between her index and middle fingers, featherlight but solder. Saying what she is unable to with words. That it hurts but she's here and it helps. So casually affectionate in a way Ashe herself often is, all those years just melting away, slowly revealing herself again, like that time she performed at the theatre and maybe one day is here and now… and when she looks up Ashe just smiles for her – pleading with her visually, so very charming and soft and irresistible, Amélie's own mouth sliding to a considerate, defeated pout.

She doesn't have to say yes. But it'd be nice if she did.

"Fine," she sighs, the exact same way she said it to her earlier. "But only because you asked."

"You spoil me."

"Yes," her spider smiles, finally warm. "I do."

It's a small gesture to kiss her hands, but it is a reminder that love endures.

They belong to Viper now. She might have offered her a pointless, passable gambit, but first her outlaw has to show-off and demonstrate, because it would be rude of her not to. The setting sun bakes on its descent and leaves Ashe's face cast in shadow, and her recently kissed index finger flexes seductively on the trigger as she scopes out the distant bullet-peppered target, extending that second where Amélie feels most alive.

She's seen her do it a hundred times. It's not notable. Viper sounds and the shot hits true, and Ashe's honeyed lips smirk.

"Your turn, sugar."

She can't see her gaze beneath the hat's brim but she knows Ashe's eyes are rooted on her – as are the myriad rest. Bob was admittedly supposed to be here, but how the rest of Deadlock are so attuned to appearing for free entertainment she'll never know, scattered about on rock formations and talking amongst themselves until their perceived fun begins, Bars diligently watching the empty orange valley.

Not that there's anything unserious about shooting. Especially when Ashe is so incessant that she's the better shot.

She should give this contest the due it deserves, if she were not Amélie Lacroix.

Amélie sighs. Her visor lowers into place. Ashe is still watching her closely, intent. "Don't they have anything better to do?"

Ashe laughs. "Wouldn't miss this for the world."

"I thought you had a business to run."

"Sure," she grins. "And I'm taking stock of the assets."

She barely dignifies that with a scoff but it's enough for Ashe to run with, Amélie looking at her dour with unseen eyes, the outlaw already scheming.

She doesn't say anything more though. Just watches her settle into place, and breathe. The sun is at a terrible angle. A slight breeze from the west. She'll compensate. Ashe suggested they first do practice shots, to allow her to 'build up her confidence', but really it's unnecessary. This is who she is. This is what she does.

"By the way," Ashe says, distant but close, like it's whispered soft upon her ear, "the west looks good on you."

She feels… a shiver. She fires and she doesn't miss, blank landing perfect. It's not long enough, that trajectory. Amusing that she thinks, thought of it as eternal. She breathes short, almost disappointed by it.

"I'm ready."

"Don't want to get a few more in?"

She knows her too well. "No."

She shrugs, placated, enjoying this in a way she fails to understand. It isn't a deal, or a game. It isn't even a date – definitely not with all these unwanted chaperones – but she treats it like one, Ashe meandering away from her and leaning Viper against a crate of empty beer bottles, their agreed upon targets to make this settlement a little more challenging given the regular can be rather predictable, her outlaw uprooting one and rotating the opaque green glass round in her fingers, like she might do a bullet.

"I was thinkin'… if I do yours, and you throw mine, it won't be even. We need a designated, neutral third party."

She considers her. "You'll be tempted to cheat."

Ashe hmms at her, those red eyes gleaming as she tips her head back high enough for her to see them. "Maybe. Or one of us could be inspired to go easy."

She holds her angle, and Amélie doesn't blink. She… did allow her victory, once, for sentimental, personal, smile related reasons. The outlaw never gave her the impression she suspected purposed loss… or maybe she just knows where her own priorities lie.

That's different. This isn't team sport, but individual culpability. She is the best at this. She will know it, as she insists.

"Bars," Amélie says.

"Bars," Ashe agrees, fingers closing on the bottle's spout – but not before it imprints into the palm of her hand after tossing it slightly upwards into the air, easily caught again. She looks at the omnic sniper, slouched in her vigil nearby, listening in to every word. "Wanna show us both how it's done?"

Bars chuckles, and that's all the warning either of them give: Ashe turns and launches the translucent target not across the firing range but out over the canyon, and Amélie hears the click and the shot and the shattering of glass synchronous as her eyes meet its immediate demise.

The triplets holler and whoop, loudly. Ashe holds out both her hands, marvelling.

"Now that's a perfect shot. Pinnacle as always," she says, looking over her shoulder. "But we'll keep ours over near the usual place, 'case you miss."

Amélie runs her tongue over her lips.

"I don't miss."

Ashe laughs. She's just— she's so— infuriating. She doesn't give herself time to dwell, she just… proves otherwise. Fine then. They'll do it her way. She's waiting. She's close enough to kiss, arms so takeable, but it's not her cold she's seeking.

Surrendering the rifle to her almost feels… wrong. She's held it before; in downtime, passing it to her, but never to keep, or to fire. It makes her skin crawl, to see her wielding it with that final end in mind. Makes her think not of cooling sunsets but places deep underground where she once had to dig herself out… that Talon recently wished to make their Widowmaker anew.

There is a whole family here who would not let that happen. No. She has her. She has her now, her exhale and the jitters and the intimacy in her eye.

"Ashe—"

"What?"

Caught in her throat. Barely able to breathe.

She can't. Fail.

She won't.

Her outlaw is in deep, but she'd end all this in an instant if she asked.

The spider swallows her words. "Nothing."

Not nothing. Unerring, machine-like, dead. Overwhelming. Silently Ashe takes her empty fingers and leads her to the bottle crates, and Viper, but taking it would mean having to let go of her hand.

"You wanna shoot first, or should I?"

"Whichever you want."

"Depends if you can let go."

She half-smiles, very slightly shaking her head as she meets her eye. "I don't wish to."

"You can have it again after," Ashe reasons. "Promise."

They never… defined something to play for, not like they did at the beach. She remembers her flush. Those so many wonderful hours she stole. Perhaps this is it: something that will always be given, regardless.

Viper awaits. She picks up the well-maintained rifle, recently polished. Slowly introducing itself to her, the way reunited lovers do. And over cared for, almost, far more than necessary. It's a little heavier. Ashe watches the process, signalling for Bars to join them, for Bob to judge, for the triplets to watch, everything in its place. Not that the leader of Deadlock takes their trust for granted. She does not steer any of them wrong, and she earns it, every day. She'll be there for them, so long as they're there for her, and Amélie knows Ashe is well aware of what she will pick.

"I'll take point."

"Got your back." Like it's any other heist on any other day. "Whenever you're ready."

She disturbs her preparations no longer, Amélie already peering down the scope. It feels different. An unexpected uncontainable excitable thing in her hands, but much like what's made for her it's eager, and she slowly breathes out, air misting close metal, and in.

This is what she was made for.

Bars knows the cue: they've worked in tandem enough times. The bottle sails toward inevitable end; she'll merely make it sooner. She can hit a singular specified target rooftops away, picked out of a crowd of people, through an unexpected obstacle. It's of no consequence. It all happens so slowly; the collective baited breath, the seconds, the moment she'll strike.

Amélie fires – acutely aware of unanticipated knockback, a ricochet of complaint down her arm recognisable as pain.

Glass shatters, exactly the way it was supposed to – because she missed.

She blinks. The world doesn't end. Everyone misses. She doesn't. Beside her Ashe whistles, eyebrows expressive. Amélie blinks again, tilting her head; outcome so unbelievable, so wrong as Viper lowers and she rolls one shoulder, the one that still hurts.

"I will get it," she says, methodically. She didn't miscalculate: she accounted for everything, save Ashe's ingenuity.

The outlaw's gaze alone taunts, a finger curled over her chin. "Hands further apart," she offers. "It'll help with the bite."

"I can do it," she retorts, a little harsher and austere: a little more deadly, Ashe parried successfully into silence. She's good at reading between her lines. Not these ones. This is— this is what they trained her for, what she asked for, her purpose in life to end it, and with that gone—

What can it possibly be now?

She exhales. It's a little too… emotional. Fraudulent. Words no longer caught but rising, like bile. A distant, remembered feeling, for those still able to cry.

Viper shakes in her hands. No, it doesn't. She merely straightens it. That's all.

"This ain't Talon."

It bothers her. It shouldn't. "You needn't remind me. I know."

"Seems like you don't. We'll chalk that one up to practice," Ashe muses, not oblivious, and Amélie scoffs under her breath, because doesn't she get it, she doesn't need fucking practice—

Still too emotional. It's not her fault. She's not the one who missed.

The one who made her would certainly have something to say, if she could see her now. A great many different things, and her punishment would be—

Well, they could not complain if the given mission was a success.

Not that there is one.

Not that she has any reason to be here.

Not that she can feel anything at all.

"Watch me," Ashe suggests. "Don't think about anything else."

Her eyes vivid and bottomless as the blood that she wishes to spill.

Very well, then.

Impress her.

The world doesn't end, because everyone misses, but it is a surprise. She's watched her shoot a hundred different times and now is just another, yet the entire axis shifts. So confident and able, working tirelessly to be the person she wants to be. Yearning to be free. She never thought about it before: about the muscles that clench in her arm as she supports her rifle, the same ones that tame Viper, and its kick. A deceptive strength to keep herself and those she cares for safe – to keep them safe. Ashe and Amélie.

Her shoulder rolls, pre-emptive, braced for the familiar. Hair falling across one eye but she doesn't bother to move it, just breathes. She's desperate to win. To mean something. How frighteningly similar. How beautiful, and breathtaking. She has always had so much more than she does, her love blind, because prejudice has no place amongst outcasts and family.

Hurt them, turn on her, and there's no going back.

Not a purpose. But enviable, all the same. Something to strive toward.

And quietly, Amélie realises, that even in her bets and dares that Ashe's opinion of her is not lessened: that how she feels for her has always been unconditional. As inexplicable as love itself. That makes you change. That makes you want.

She isn't thinking about anything else.

"Ready."

Reflexive glint. Explosive, exploding glass on the horizon, a thousand tiny grains of sand. And her outlaw's spreading smile as she jumps off the ground in a half-circle, whooping for her captive audience but mostly for herself, and back again.

"I'm Elizabeth Caledonia Calamity Ashe and this is now my favourite spot in the entire Deadlock Gorge—"

Ugh. What was that comfort all for, if she's just going to be— like this.

"It's not that impressive."

"Nuh uh," Ashe snickers, with that damnable smile of hers. "I did good."

Lies upon lies, except for when they're not. She's folded one arm beneath the other and she's certainly not sulking. "You haven't won yet."

She expects another affirmation, that she's definitely going to. But instead Ashe's shoulders settle, and she smiles wider for her.

"There it is." Amélie's eyes narrow, uncertain. "You're having fun."

"I am not."

"But you're considering it. If you could – do anything with an opportunity to make it that way, to really light a fire in you – what would you do?"

What a strange, impossible question. But if she were able to, and did—

Amélie drops Viper against her open palm, and considers. An unwanted audience is many things, but also plenty of capable hands.

"Throw all of them," she says to Terran. To P.T., to Zeke. "Until there is not a single one left."

Ashe is delighted by that answer, if the gentle swoon in her sigh and the wild-eyed expression is anything to go by – why contest, when they could continually remark upon one another? – but there really isn't any more time to think about it.

"There's my girl. Let's do this."

She doesn't need to imagine the serenade of shattering glass. Some things must be broken before they can mend, and some things never are. This time she doesn't miss, and her shoulder still stings but surely less, and it's not what matters. What matters is the living memory, the now: the chaos and destruction, one for sorrow one for grief, one for bitter stupid hope.

They have to hit every one. They must. There is no other way. Four versus two would not be fair, if it were anyone else. She has time. She dismisses her own, beyond counting. She makes the momentary opportunity to eviscerate the target Ashe is aiming for and successfully she does, the same parting gesture offered to her by Ashe in return, seamless, because if the triplets are good at anything, it's throwing things.

Cycles, routine. She points one out to her outlaw and she lights up the now purple sky, for her. Celebratory confetti continually pouring down, if confetti were a rainbow of broken glass shards. Perhaps it can be. It could be, if they want. And it is fun. It is. To be in this moment with her.

And then, instead of throwing four, the gang throws eight.

Any other time and Ashe would tell them that was cheating. Not right now. She shoots the closest two whilst Amélie instinctively takes the furthest three. Your left, my right, a beautiful ballad of seconds, and only one still falling, a little lower than previously remembered—

It breaks moments before it hits the ground to a shotgun shell, both outlaw and spider's attention revolving toward Bob, guilty. "Hey!" Said together. Same timbre, same way; looking back to one another, and laughing.

Ashe's is bolder, more unkempt, as it always is. But she loves to hear it no less. In her shoulders and all the way down to her fingers, across every part of her sunworn smile.

If she could not remember anything else of today, then this one second, where her gaze rediscovers hers and she laughs all over again, would be the one she would choose.

"Close one."

"We're fortunate Bob will forever cover you."

She snickers for her smirk. "Yeah, probably," Ashe allows. She knows it's gentle teasing… and true. Bob earning a thankful pat on the shoulder now he's close enough for Ashe to do it. It's what he chose, after all. The onslaught of bottles has ebbed, though, and the outlaw looks questioningly at Zeke, with one more still in hand. "That the last?"

He nods. "Told you we chewed through 'em too quick," Zeke says to his brothers, but Ashe shrugs.

"Eh, felt about right to me. What do you think, Blue?"

She exhales. "Yes. We had…" she might regret saying this, but she really, really doesn't— "fun."

Ashe knew it. Knew it from the start, really. Found her. Found a way to tell her, that it's okay. That if she wants to feel, and she's reconciled that she does, it's okay.

Some things don't need to break. Some things you get to keep. Her outlaw takes the final offering from Zeke, spinning its weight between her fingers, like she did the very first.

"You wanna do the honours, sugar?"

It's a privilege. And if anyone's the victor, it's her.

This time she doesn't miss. Her spider's watched her and she's learned and really thought, about the way she shoots, 'bout what Viper really means.

It starts slow. She comes to say her last goodbye but finds that she can't. She kisses her in the backstreets of a Cabaret and stays by her side until morning. She arrives fretful and afraid and impossibly feeling, an assassin left on hold with love stirring in her heart, and that night in their suite they were so, so alive.

And then it builds. She has her side of the dresser. She has her favourite mug. The spot on the couch in the hideout that's reserved as hers, right between Zeke and P.T. She vocalises; her perspective, a better way for a heist to go, for them not to be seen. She puts a life back together and she learns, and yearns, and wants even more. She's seen it. And most those things the outlaw also wants, too.

It isn't always ideal. It's probably not what she expected. But she hits her shot and she's still not necessarily free of her self-imposed expectations, so safe in the part that she plays, knows how hard she tries, and as Viper lowers and Amélie smiles more genuinely satisfied and at ease Ashe feels inclined to tell her.

"I love you."

"I know," Amélie says gently, endlessly sincere, her answer immediate. "I really, truly do."

You take what was left to you. And you make it yours.

Ashe has to stand on the very tips of her toes to kiss her forehead and she hears her murmur really, this isn't necessary for the display of affection but it is, it is.

She's definitely the winner: 'cause in everything, she gets the girl.

It's in the bath where she finally gets the opportunity to look.

Ashe has been thinking about this for weeks: never subtle, not when she's acquired a stash of candles and rose petals, and also an array of scented bubbles, her girlfriend's to pick from. Amélie elects for lavender – peaceful, calming, reminds her of summers in Provence and worlds in which she left – and settles her embrace over Ashe's ribs, listening to the outlaw hum.

It's the same song she keeps failing to play on her guitar. But really it wouldn't matter what she chose. The day was long – longer still, after the sun finally set, more collective time spent with the Deadlock Gang until the stars slowly came out – but the nights are hers, always have been always are, and as in those beginnings it's the first opportunity they have to discuss what's on their mind.

If they want. Not necessarily with words. Ashe was always the one to talk in her borrowed suite, Amélie confined to silhouetting windows; now she needn't. Now, she gets to hold her. Gets to slowly lift one of her arms higher out of soapy water and run her fingers over muscle and sinew… the newfound appreciation of her limbs not going unnoticed, Ashe's chin inclining ever so slightly from where she was deliberating her way through expensive, artisan confectionaries, imported direct from master chocolatiers.

"Arms today?"

They shiver, as expected, Amélie's fingers so cold, and it only highlights what she missed for so long. She handled her Kiss with ease. She's perhaps the only one who could. The only one she'd trust, rather than allow.

She draws letters, shapes into prickly skin, and Ashe presses her tongue over her upper lip, a quiet chuckle. "Yes," Amélie says. "It is one more thing I learned about you."

"That I'm better?"

She smiles against her shoulder. "Inconclusive."

"That's more conclusive than an outright no," Ashe muses, her next choice something dark and decadent, faintly smelling of strawberry. "I'll take it."

She bites it in half. She thinks about her teeth, the way they feel, that they'd be better suited against her flesh, and perhaps later, Amélie will ask. It isn't off-limits, seeing as though she isn't the one these current clients need to see… and it'll be something to remember her outlaw by until they fade.

All things do. Time and its march as relentless as the ensuing distance it bears. As its grief. Already the present is past. Shooting bottles out on the Gorge already done. Naught is immune to it, and no one. She still thinks, still feels that melancholy…

Ashe doesn't miss it, aiming to dab fondue on the end of her nose. But the spider is not so occupied as to forget to turn her face away before she does, sugary sweet instead coming to rest against her lower lip.

"You missed," Amélie says, deliberately. Ashe gives her a reckoning look – a scowl, she'd say, because she didn't say it earlier, tried to be nice, wow you're just going to pull that one out on me now – but it soon turns playful.

"Or did I?"

Obvious. So dangerously close. She kisses her finger, pink, and then finds her hand, her arm, her mouth, water gently sloshing and bubbles dispersed for her reciprocated insistence, both Ashe's hands either side of her face.

She hums low, her eyes still closed. "You taste good too. Like blueberries." She sighs at her. She really thinks that flirting works. And fortuitously it does. She is the most charming, moreish creature she's ever met… but when Ashe opens her eyes she's more serious, swallowing. "You're more than enough for me. Flaws and faults included. Did we— I didn't— go too far for you out on the Gorge, did I—"

Only here she questions it. Only where they can be vulnerable.

"No," she assures her, true. "Sometimes I get a little too… absorbed. But you: and what you've made, what we've made together, are here to help me out of it. To remind me…"

It's over now. Ashe says it so often but neither of them really believe it. Not when she thinks about it almost constantly. She haunts herself. In every spare moment when there's nothing, just the past and its void creeping up on her until she's back in chains of her own making.

The candle's flicker. Amélie's fingers tighten around her middle, over hers. It's warm. It's safe.

"It feels as though I am against an edge and if I fall I may not come out the other side," she says, so quiet, Ashe's heartbeat so slow, almost matching hers. "What am I? Who am I? Is this what and where I deserve? It's… frightening."

Too many things, too many hers; not enough time. She says she wants them and she means it, yet—

Deciding to move forward is one thing. To do it quite another.

Ashe doesn't say anything. Just runs her fingers over and along hers beneath the water's surface whilst she thinks, watching steam rise up the wall. Finding the small things that can be controlled.

"Do you want more leighway?"

"Not really."

"You enjoy Deadlock though, right."

"Yes."

"You want me to do less."

She shakes her head… but notably to Ashe, to herself, she hesitates.

"It's not like that—"

"No, no, it is like that," Ashe says, like it isn't a terrible thing. "You miss me."

Her hand over her heart. Over Ashe's heart.

"Sometimes more than I can take."

At her behest they took it out. They hadn't wholly succeeded. And then Ashe. Ashe, with her careless, callous, calamitous hands, sought to put it back. And she'd allowed her to, wanted her to. She cannot allow herself to forget, and still… she knows now the outlaw barely had her own heart to give, worn and whittled away. Yet somehow the spider has it.

"I worry that I will lose you," Amélie whispers, like it's hard to breathe. "That none of what we are will have happened."

What is worse than offered hope?

To have it taken back.

If anyone were to understand that, her outlaw would. She's hurt her. Again and again she has. But it isn't about that. It would hurt more to be without her, so she refuses. What would she do, if she had to live without her?

The streets would run red at her absence. It would all be so wretchedly empty, so meaningful.

Amélie closes her eyes, and exhales admittance. Everything changes so fast, almost unbearably. Losing everything never stops hurting. She will never not grieve the life she lost. She loves her more than she can help, and they are here, now, but no matter how bright her love burns no fire can withstand forever. "I won't stop you," she says, her chin resting on Ashe's shoulder, nose pressed against her neck, watching the outlaw blink in her periphery. "I want you to be who you are, I love you for that. But I cannot help this way that I feel. Even when I have you completely, every time else."

Ashe clears her throat, a little thick. "You sound like you're working your way up to another sorry there, Amélie," she smiles. "Don't. Some feelings ain't pretty ones. They're complicated, ugly… you'd rather die first than admit them to yourself. But that makes us human. We already know it takes some adjustment. I'm headstrong, you're emotionally sentimental— me too. Me too. And that's why we talk," she turns as she finishes, the backs of her fingers and thumb glancing her cheek. "I'm always here for you to talk to me."

She smiles considerably at that, for there is no doubt. "Yes," she agrees, for all of it, and in her ribs Ashe laughs. "Honesty."

"Tell you what. When this deal's over, we'll go somewhere – for real. No business, no deals, no calls, no little favours. Just us, none of the gang. Anywhere you want."

It sounds like a dream. There's surely a catch.

"Is Bob joining us?"

Ashe snickers. "You try talking him out of it."

Impossible. So be it. She knows she would bring her the world… but there really is only one place.

"And what if I said to you… Paris?"

Her head turns. Oh, she sees the leftover feeling it gives her, as of yet unspent. The last time her outlaw was there she kissed her goodbye to the sound of spring rain in her suite. The last time the spider was there, she was given an unexpected ultimatum, a choice. She… misses France. She misses her haunts. She misses her memories with her and those without so very much. It would be nice to make them anew. To share, to show her those places, as they both are now. To say—

Ashe is back to her usual self, albeit with a lopsided smile, her nose wrinkling. "That really wise?"

Because of Talon… if they are even still there. She regards it, the danger and her outlaw. "All the same," she says, sincerely, "I wish to."

"Then I suppose we'll just have to do it."

She expects… maybe more argument. No, not even that. Sense, perhaps.

"You'd do that for me?"

Face in shadow, hair askew, a certain little smile.

"I'd do anything for you."

Time is relentless. It is not often kind. But there are always those strewn along its path, to make it more bearable. And slowly space shapes, and she gives it meaning. Right now is slow, with her every detail. That she can kiss her as Ashe at last fully moves and sinks against her, surrounded by bubbles and scented lavender and the leftover taste of strawberry fondue.

There's soap in her hair and for a while they do and say nothing, content to exist.

She's silently listening to her heart, Ashe peaceable and half asleep, when the outlaw murmurs another honesty.

"You know, you make a pretty good outlaw."

"You think so?"

"I know so," she says, without opening her eyes. "I meant what I said, about the west looking good on you. But you don't have to be. You're free. You don't answer to anybody."

"I answer to you."

"Yeah, well," she can feel that resulting smile on her skin, "we're all allowed one weakness, aren't we?"

"What makes you so confident that it's equally you, for me?"

It takes Ashe a moment: sloshing water and shuffling until she's kneeling in the base of the bath, and making herself more presentable, expression coy and peering up at her beneath long eyelashes, almost, leaning in with her red smile ever so slightly.

That they both took a chance.

That she trusts her…

She knows what comes next. Amélie expectantly leans forward even as Ashe stops too far away and the spider frowns – pouts, perhaps, far too much discovered power – and the outlaw chuckles.

"That tells me everything I need to know."

As does this.

"You are my weakness, Elizabeth…"

She says it so softly, sincerely, and both Ashe's perfectly painted eyebrows raise and her mouth opens to say something, anything, but she comes up empty. For once, a complete loss for words.

"Better fix us both then, sugar," she breathes. "Kiss me."

Now she's being needy, because she's asking. Greedy, even, but Amélie doesn't mind giving it to her. She'll take root and they will grow, and she keeps asking in every departure, every reunion – kiss me. Don't stop kissing me. Don't leave me, Ashe.

Never.

Some days are for wonder, and for weakness.

It's long past the definition of late when they finally make it to bed, pale streaks of a pink dawn showing in the sky beyond the windows, carefully hidden away. Her most favourite person in the world has another meeting in a few hours, and she has another day of warehouse management and listlessness to endure, but for now, for forever, there's this.

The scent of flowers freshly blooming. The inhale of dew. These final shared embers of a departed summer, the earliest touch of fall. The smell of rain after warm sun and spent late into dreary afternoons watched from open doorways, the sound and simple presence of another person, of many persons, comforting, to witness it with you. Crowning the real queen of the bottleshooters after much debate that's somehow neither of them and instead Bars. Resting her head on Ashe's shoulder and the smile her beloved makes as she returns the same, outlaws and pirates and rebels and queens. It's her. It's always been her. An offered hand when she needs it most. An errant kiss – many kisses, as necessary as breathing. The last squid ring passed onto her plate.

It is still… hard. Although she is not beholden to those that made her anymore. The past is so merciless, as she is. Her purpose something to continually define. Seasons change. She does too. Every day is a little more. There are other things, to bury. She writes a letter she doesn't send asking for those things she's denied herself. But perhaps one day soon she will. It isn't perfect; no life ever is. It won't be easy. But she thinks it will be worth it. She wants her to know that she's loved. That she does deserve it. That the both of them do.

She thinks, there again in Ashe's arms, that she wants to be happy again.

The forgiveness she needs, perhaps, is to forgive herself.

She's been thinking about that a lot lately, the lengths people go through for love.