Archive of Our Own

It's dark out still. But the outdoor fireplace made of stone is idyllic and the pergola above them well-lit, wound with a hundred shimmering little fairy lights, and they have throws and blankets and they've been safe and undisturbed for hours.

Ashe drove her back to the farmhouse, when she felt she could leave – but she didn't want to go back inside. She wanted to remain, beneath this night sky they'd once shared and remember, remembering him as he was, and the pergola was a good compromise. There is much and more to talk about. Admitting to what's stirred in her heart. She will for the rest but not – not tonight. Amélie just holds her, head against her chest and the outlaw's arm around her shoulder, an open bottle of wine and two glasses half-full, Bob settled the next seat over, the sound of his needlework mixing with the crackling of the fire somehow soothing.

Of course Ashe had asked what he was making, and he shook his head, to tell her to wait. It's been hours now and she looks inquisitively at the more determinable article and pulls a face; it's likely going to be a scarf, and she doesn't need another one. Bob thinks differently. Ashe reads his hand gestures and scoffs, opting for a more… universal response with her middle finger: but the omnic has been living with her temper for years and they both know Ashe will take it in the end gratefully anyway. Like all things it passes, when she has settled back against her.

It is nice, for her family to be here. She would have chosen no one else.

Amélie holds her hand a little tighter. Ashe notices and smiles, stretching their arms out together to admire; the muscles the spider enjoys on her so gradually tensing, pronounced. She has run out of tears… for now. Ashe's fingers are calloused and sunworn, not suited to the desert and neither the cold, but they so easily weave with hers. If they reached into the sky they could pluck out the stars.

Tomorrow will be here soon – and the rest of her life.

She will never forget.

But it will be different.

"Hey, look," Ashe says, inclining her head from where it's been resting against hers, to the band of pink and yellow on the horizon. "Sunrise."

It is beautiful.

It almost makes her cry.

Buttery toast with smoked bacon is still one of her favourite things.

She hadn't said a word. But Bob had excused himself inside and returned with the much-needed sustenance a while later, and now they get to watch it, the sun's solitary climb into a crisp winter morning, wispy breath visible as it has been all night. It was damn cold out here, even with the fire going… but she didn't care. Still doesn't, not with her girl snuggled up still mostly in her arms beside her, carefully picking at miniature pieces of cut toast with a fork.

Amélie's looking at the two photographs she'd leant against the empty wine bottle. The first is her wedding photo, Ashe not missing that this is the first time she hasn't tried to keep it hidden or private… and the second is hers, the one she stashed away in a drawer in her office to look at fondly, to think of her, and has absolutely no business being here in France. She'd asked her how she'd gotten it, and Amélie had given her her best Gaelic shrug – or just her best impression of Bob.

It's fine. She ain't affronted. She's probably right. She brought things with her too, still safely inside.

It's not the time. She wishes selfishly it could be. She surrounds herself with people and she'd be miserable otherwise but she don't trust them to stay. The last couple of days… it's been difficult, she won't lie, but, arguably Amélie's given her the greatest guarantee she possibly could – 'cause she chose her, as only one other person in her life ever has. It's her that she wants, faults and jealousy and all. They're still dressed in black, although the veil Amélie wore to the graveyard, a bookend, is now missing: and Gérard's ring, deliberately left behind in a stoppered glass like she might have used for one of her poisons. Ashe had thought then, that somebody opportunistic might take it – someone like her – but to do that they'd have to break the vial.

And if they do, well, go on, then. Go write a different story.

Amélie kept hers. It's around her neck on a chain above the black turtleneck, but it isn't threatening. Not in the slightest.

Ashe is finished with the bacon. The extras she's swiped off Amélie's plate. Might as well wash it down with early morning wine. Seeing as it's not night anymore, it'll do as some liquid courage to ask.

"So what now?"

Big question. But she knows Amélie's been thinking about it for weeks. It's why they're here, after all.

"We leave somewhere."

Immediate. Ashe smiles.

"Run away with me?"

She smiles back. She remembers, too.

"I think – I don't have to know. I can figure it out with time, as I go."

About the ongoing journey, and the people. This woman as alone as she was.

But not anymore.

It never gets better: not really. There'll still be days she needs assurance; she's spent many with Bob in her time. But slowly change comes. And she lives again.

She hasn't forgotten, sleep deprived as she is, that yesterday she saw Amélie cry. She broke her curse. Imagine that. Some kind of unordinary miracle. She's not different necessarily – trauma doesn't just go away, neither of them naïve enough to think it. Just… this wretched thing was done to her and now, it's not the only thing in her life anymore. The grief will always be hers, though it won't devour her. She'll keep it forever. She'll keep her, Ashe, forever too, taking moments of happiness as they come. Really it's not that unusual. It's what anyone trying to live in this harsh world would do. Finding what you want, making it yours… protecting it.

She has a chance now to be the Amélie she always was, closer than ever to the waking dream she saw dancing on a stage in a theatre and she couldn't look away. And Ashe knew then, what she needed to do. It's what she'll always do.

And when she does have to cry, she'll hold her. Make her tea, buy her flowers, surround her in undefiable love. Just like always.

Not knowing what she'll do next, the freedom to choose…

Her chest feels warm for the familiar feeling. "I like my certainties… but it doesn't sound so bad when you say it."

Amélie chuckles into her own wine glass, drowning in red.

"You stole me back," she says. "Never forget that."

Her smile quirks again. She's so good at drawing them out. She finds she has enough charm left in her to carefully disentangle the wine glass first before pulling her back closer to her, resting a kiss on her forehead.

"I'd do it again."

"My rebel," Amélie says, fondly. Ashe likes being her definitive, for so many things: and she knows her lover could be content like this, yet it seems there's still something else left on her mind. Her spider moves away so that she can look up at her, admiring her chin with her thumb. "I know what I want." Her fingers curve. "But what do you want, Ashe?"

She can't just turn it back on her like that.

Especially when—

…she really has been thinking about her this whole time. These last few days have hardly been about— her. Apparently they were. Ashe feels safe in Amélie's eyes. She shouldn't but she does. She needn't say she can tell her anything; she needn't thank her, either. The Calamity has, everything she wants. Almost.

If she…

Maybe she still—

Let it not be said that she don't cover her hesitations well, regarding her beloved thoroughly in turn: claiming those fingers beneath her chin as she closes her eyes.

"I think, maybe we should get some actual sleep."

Before she says anything stupid.

"It does not sound like you will make it."

She hears that bland concern, 'cause it's false. Ashe grunts. "I'll get Bob to carry me in."

"He works too hard. As do you."

"That's why I'm on vacation. Starting now," she counters: and if she had either her hat or Amélie's veil within reach, she'd lower it over her eyes for effect. Maybe even fake a snore.

"Then you'll have no complaint if I do this."

Up she goes. Like every other time. Except this one she's more lucid, not escaping or drunk or indignant; already safe. Just because she can.

Ashe smiles where she can't see. "Honey, you probably should have saved carrying me for right now if you wanted me to blush," she muses, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and neck. Y'know, like she did? When she caught her after swooping over theatre stages?

"I don't need to." She wonders why as the pergola slowly retreats, a memory already. "That you allow me to do it says more."

Ashe scoffs, laughing miserably at herself. "Spent a long time building that image."

"Build another."

Yeah, well, maybe she will.

Amélie sleeps well in her arms.

It's only a few hours, in a strange place, but as they load up the car in the late afternoon she thinks she would not mind if one day they returned here for longer: or not at all. That's the nice thing about possibilities.

She falls asleep again during the drive north, as does Ashe. The outlaw calls ahead to the hotel to say they'll be arriving late and shimmies her way across the backseat to bury her face tiredly in her shoulder, muttering that she's getting too old for this and these all-nighters, and Amélie smiles warmly for her, a hand in her fluffy hair, because she did not have time to deal with it after her shower before they left.

Some things are not optional. Not when they become foundations, or are things the body demands for when the heart makes itself known. She sleeps. It takes a lot of rest to metamorphose. It isn't comfortable at all, but it will do.

She briefly stirs when it's already dark, but they are not there yet. Ashe is talking, words quietly reverberating through her shoulderblade.

"That far still, huh? You want a break? I'll drive." Pause. Bob either signing or she's deciphering his look in the rearview mirror. "Give me some credit. It's nothing we haven't done before. I've easily got a few hours in me. Just stop for coffee first and I'll be right as rain."

Presumably he says no. Ashe shrugs and clicks her tongue.

"You're supposed to be on vacation too, y'know."

Amélie can imagine his response. That this is what he has chosen to do, to stay with her, until the end. That he would do anything for her – including the person she has chosen as a partner, for however long that may be.

Whatever his family needs.

Yes. She has gained so much, and could easily sleep in its comfort again.

"I can't," Ashe says. "I know I was thinking, but… no, you don't get it." She sighs. "'Course I do. I know and I will. But now ain't the time. I can't ruin a good thing."

She frowns in her slumber. Ashe doesn't notice. What other plans has the leader of the Deadlock Rebels been making? She is supposed to be leaving her troubles and misgivings behind.

Ashe makes a low exhale. "That's what you think. We're not talking about this no more, you hear me?"

Although, she did bring hers. She has no right to talk. Ashe murmurs disgruntlement and that she's going back to sleep and the car returns to easy silence, and in a few short hours they will be in Paris.

Some would say it is fortuitous to arrive in the city of lights under a cloak of darkness and these days, she would be inclined to agree.

She's spent what feels like the entire day sleeping but Ashe still finds herself yawning as they traipse up the flights of stairs at the hotel 'cause of course the dang elevator's out, and the hallways are fancy but they're dingy and the cheerful green crown on the wall's peeling and dinner service is already over and Bob's been left to cart up their surplus of stuff and the stairs wind round and round and she doesn't know why she bothered paying a premium for this when there's already been so many bumps.

Amélie stops at the door to the suite first, her eyes following the familiar stain of woodgrain. It's been so long, since they were last here. When it was all they knew. To her spider it's as it is in her memory, made real again. Ashe unlocks the door and it's the same – the same suite she first invited her home to and for some reason she'd shown up… and Ashe presses a perturbed, grateful palm to her hairline because she half honestly thought she wouldn't, once the perfume of a mysterious stranger's presence had worn off. But she had. And she kept coming back, night after night, 'til eventually they didn't bother meeting at Luna's anymore. She missed her when she couldn't find her. She wanted so badly for her to stay. Weeks later her business here in Paris was done, and she was heading home – and that was that.

Amélie… saunters. She looks at ease here. Gracefully she sits on one of the plush antique couches, crossing one leg beneath the other. She's still wearing black – and she looks damn good in it, though Ashe hopes she brought more varied wardrobe than that. This is their well-deserved and earned vacation after all. She's wearing her beret from the cemetery, too, specifically adorned for the foyer after they got out of the car, to stand foreboding and rich at the front desk. Her girl smiles, as Ashe sits alongside her. Although it's a little hard to define with that veil of hers in the way.

"Hmm," Ashe muses. "Think it's time we were rid of that."

"It's in vogue, chérie." She poses – a palm splayed on her bare neck, up tendons, Ashe not averse to admiring what's on show – and exhales, amused. "So they say. A prop has practical uses. They always have. For instance, if I were to throw it, as distraction – a visual sleight of hand – or, to recant emotion without need for words…"

She looks set to demonstrate. Ashe feels less keen. "And yet if you keep it on, it makes it very difficult for me to kiss… you…" she pauses. Wetting her lips whilst she points a sharp forefinger at her and swallows, Amélie's destructive smile lengthening below her veil, 'cause she's usually the one wearing a hat and refusing to take it off. "Pot, kettle, I know."

"You better." She stays unmoving as Ashe reaches for it – undoing the clips that hold it in place one at a time, taken away 'til it's forgotten, and she's perfect; adjusting her hair where it falls on her cheeks, fingers smooth.

"There," she says. "Now I can see your pretty face."

Amélie smiles. It's weaker flattery, and she might prime her for more. But she remains silent, Ashe teasing her fingers through strands of her lover's long hair, and Amélie looks at her like—

Ashe looks away. There's a lot of memories, here in this room. She shouldn't live in them. Shouldn't let the past continually haunt her. Isn't that a lesson she also ought have learned these last few days?

Yeah. She's been trying to learn it for over twenty years.

And by all accounts, she'd say she's failed.

She isn't despondent. Amelie's right there and she holds her hand, soft concern.

"I should go help Bob," Ashe motions, weakly. Get some air to clear her head, try again later.

Amélie blinks. "Tell me."

If it were so easy. She surrenders to look at her, no more than that. She has to be fierce. She knows. She has nowhere to start but the thing she says is—

"I kissed you goodbye here."

She cried her miserable heart out and the spring rain hid it. She wasn't supposed to have one at all: then she fell in love. Her fingers flex on the upholstery. She has a lot of feelings, about this suite. Enough good in them so that she didn't mind coming back, did all that surveillance last time so they might as well use it, wanted to. Just—

It's nothing like hers. But it's still hard.

Amélie reaches for her unprompted, fingers delicate on her face, as she did back then. No longer in the other room. She hasn't kissed her properly in days – or weeks. It's nice. Familiar, like she's saying she's home after a long day apart. She doesn't know the amount of time the kiss lasts: easy to get lost in. She missed her too, she did, and it's more than it was. Quietly Amélie moves away, eyes clouded, forehead ardently pressed against hers.

"Bonsoir, ma chérie."

She says it with love. If she's trying not to make her cry again she's doing a terrible job at it.

But it's better, this memory—

Amélie looks at her, blinking. Her eyes tremble. There's colour in her face, a richer, violet hue. Weighing something deeply as she always does. She's hers now, she is. All this way to realise it. To let it all go.

"Hold me," she whispers.

Not in a comforting way.

A romantic one.

Has she been too careful? She's been hollowed out and humbled so much, and Ashe wants—

"Now?" she echoes. The returning gaze is intense. Simple. "I don't want to rush you into anything."

"You don't want to."

Ashe lopsidedly smiles. "That's the opposite of the problem, Blue. I just— wanna give you some space, if you need it." She had to say goodbye, she's reawakened so much. "You've been through a lot, and I don't—"

She wants it to be—

Genuine. Because she's a sensitive romantic soul and it shouldn't be about, making it up to her, or proving anything, it should be—

She thinks about kissing her again. She could if she wanted. Hell, she did. Where'd that Ashe go? The one that followed her initiative when she saw a pretty girl all alone in a cabaret bar? She was so fearless. Didn't matter what she walked over.

She thinks she's willing to bet, but—

What if Amélie doesn't feel the same?

So kiss her and find out, then. Kiss her because you care. Kiss her so she…

She doesn't know where she's going with this feeling anymore.

Particularly when Amélie thinks again, accepting her with a melodious smile.

"You over-worry. I love that you do," she says, kissing her cheek, so gentle.

She cannot resist her. Not when she's right there, and she's well aware of that. Amélie continues to tell her. Moving her focus. To her lips. That she's okay. She wants to. Her, the singular weakness she'll permit. Everything shrinks. This, their cathedral. Adoring her. Ashe breathes less than Amélie does, heart stammering at the cold air exhaled mercifully on her ear, all her thoughts just this girl, asking— knowing that whatever she'll say next will bind her.

Amélie kisses her neck first. Softly.

"Make my heart beat."

Shit—

Ashe exhales out through her mouth, the air in her shivering: the rest of her, too, all the way down to her toes.

She has to remind her.

…screw it.

They'll burn bright. She takes her face in her fingers and kisses her recklessly and Amélie widely smiles against her, a deep rumble in her throat as she receives her. "I also can't," Ashe manages, because it eats into valuable kissing time, "keep being the bigger person."

However messy it is.

She wants her out of that mourning dress. She wants her in her best, kissing her through unrelenting surfaces and her knees nearly buckle on furniture far more than twice, and there's surely carnage left behind in their wake but she just doesn't care – thrown out on the bed beneath her, which once upon a time she would have complained about and she still kind of does as her warning smile darts for her nerve, the hidden strength her darling has… and that she can also be softer with it, Amélie crawling over her in the midnight hour wearing nothing, one last request.

"Do not be too gentle with me," she says. She's shaking. Kept close, always. Surrendering the last of her trust and Ashe's seeking wrist pressed against her cold cheek. "I shall not, break again."

She'll honour it.

Maybe she's weaker, for having once been able to refute her every want. But she doesn't feel that way.

They shouldn't live in their memories. So they'll make new memories, where there used to be sad ones.

She should probably sleep – but that would mean she would have to close her eyes, and she would miss her.

Ashe is still out cold. Overworked: her fault this time. She kisses her intermittently and the outlaw responds to the feeling, but there are no words in her right now – which means she has been done well. To love her was… spontaneous… somewhat sudden… but it isn't a new feeling. It felt… right, so she pursued it. She never was quite like everyone else: particularly now. It isn't so different from what they'd do at home. That's good, she thinks. So long as they are safe, they can be themselves.

It is ceremonious. She loves watching her afterwards this close, when she gets to see her come alive, the ruby red of Ashe's eyes stark in the blue gloom.

"What time is it?"

"Little after four," Amélie says, without moving away. She repeatedly curls the always fluffy short hairs at the back of Ashe's neck, never allowed to grow that long, her limbs wound through with hers.

She is stunning in the dark. Coveted in her afterglow. She appears nothing less than happy, softly humming as her shoulders click.

"Mm. Does breakfast count towards a date?"

"Yesterday's was not?"

"Well, when you put it like that," she smirks. "You fancy going out with me, sugar?"

"You know of a place?"

"The stars in your eyes would be a good starting point." She does not miss a beat, and Amélie duly closes them, swallowing galaxies… but she's still fondly smiling, Ashe unfailingly noticing both. "See, you like it," she teases. Amélie nudges her elbow pointedly with her own, and Ashe stills it, refusing to do anything else but win. "Too bad you're in range. Should've planned our your steps better."

She sluices her fingers through hers, that hand that's on her arm. If she pressed hard enough, the outlaw's skin would turn the colour of bone.

"This is the game you wish to play?"

Ashe laughs, short; she's never been wary of her scathing, has no self-preservation when it comes to her at all. "Been in plenty of scrapes. In the West we play dirty."

But they are upfront about it; that's the difference. For a gang that pulls heists, if something goes awry of course they want to get out… but they'll do it loudly. On purpose. Guns ablaze, so they will be noticed. That's how they establish themselves as a threat. It's only when the niche is carved and the success is heard that they settle upon brokered words.

It is interesting – she wouldn't want to be involved in it if it weren't. She was made to be more precise and she still is. She is a fresh perspective, and it fits. In Deadlock, if there's a fall, they take it together; return unstoppable and stronger.

Ashe's decree. They're a family but she's the leader. And yet, Amélie is confident enough. She leans towards her, closer, against her reputation, smiling with her teeth, venomous, and Ashe doesn't breathe out.

"I can play worse."

"I love it when you do."

Because she still has one hand, Ashe studiously kisses her ring finger, the join, and Amélie appreciates the romance of it, her acceptance. Ashe keeps her eyes closed in her labouring: flickering up part way through to gaze affectionately into hers, a sharp inhale as Amélie rests her palm on the chasm between her lungs, trigger finger pressed over her heart.

"Is there still sadness here?"

Her lip curls. "No." Another kiss, on her knuckles this time. "How 'bout yours?"

She hasn't thought much on it, but—

"It feels like love."

It's heavy. Wanted. Her outlaw breathes her smallest laugh, undone all over again, shoulders shaking because she feels it too.

"You're right."

It is a good reminder and rebeginning, for their vacation. Ashe kisses her softly and she loses track of important things, like time… but not forever.

So she, asks.

"What of tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow – today – boutiques, after our eats. You promised you'd let me buy you something. You swore."

"I did," she allows. "So long as you permit me to do the same." Ashe grins.

"Can't wait. Otherwise, galleries, sightseeing… less legal sightseeing. Curious about your favourite rooftops. There's those gardens Bob wanted to see – you don't have to come. Though he'd be happy if you did. You and me, though… we have that dinner boat date on the Seine in a couple days… probably should finalise some of the other restaurant reservations tonight after they open, then there's Luna's of course… baked in downtime else Bob would actually end me…"

Amélie watches her continue to think. Ashe has their whole itinerary memorised, as she knew she did. It isn't quite what she was asking. She avoided it beneath the pergola, dismissed it to Bob in the car, the river of conversation already rushing away. They are both guilty of it, Ashe most of all: too occupied with worrying, about providing for an unknowable future that she's not enjoying the present. It's one of her rules. There's always something more, she says. Another heist, more lucrative. Another deal she can make. More, until the void is finally filled.

It never is.

She knows that, better than anyone else.

"…you think the Mona Lisa'll look nice above the mantle?"

"Ashe."

"I'm joking." Come now, chérie, she knows you better than that. She will scope The Louvre out five seconds after they enter. And if she were kidding, her eyes would not be so alight. "I mean it. I'd pick something more… normal. Not like, Texan normal, my family had pictures of themselves and bull horns on every lintel, just, boring things. Nice scenery, or landscape. Somewhere to dream about when you're sat there looking up at it."

She considers.

"I cannot imagine anything you do would be boring."

Ashe bundles herself and the bedclothes up, gleefully moving closer to her with her amiable smile.

"Not when I'm doing it. Boring's not really the word I'm looking for. It's just… stability, y'know? You do it long enough you get comfortable. Start having those little things you can really rely on…"

She looks meaningfully at her. Amélie is as still as any statue: she could belong in a museum. Is she saying—

Does she want—

Forever?

Say it, please.

Ashe grimaces a little, beneath her kiss. Her expression is complicated, fingers coarse at the back of her neck. It's that same secret from their bedroom, that day she collected Gérard's ring. The answer she keeps on dismissing.

I know what I want…

Her fingers curve.

Please, tell her.

The melancholy sits. Ashe senses it, sighs.

"…I've always wanted more than I can have," she admits. "And I do. I do think of you. I picture you there looking up at a mantlepiece with me – anywhere I think, I just see you." She drops her gaze, sighs at her perceived little foolery. "You shouldn't give me free rein, though. 'Cause I won't stop."

Amélie tilts her head, pensively. "Do not decide for me." Firm, yet sweet. "I would not have asked you here with me otherwise. Dream, ma chérie – these days I cannot help but do the same."

Now she's got her. The heart is a lonely hunter but still the huntress has it, an unmoving fawn in her sights.

"You mean it?"

"I'll never tire of you."

"I'm jealous and insatiable."

"I know."

"Most people don't want that."

"I do."

"I—" She hesitates. It's what she wants to hear but she's— afraid. "I made an oath, Blue. I don't go back on my word. Running my gang's who I am at this point, I think I'll… spend the rest of my life, doing this. People like us, we don't get to retire."

Is she not evidence enough?

"You could."

She also doesn't mean it, has never really considered it. Ashe gently frowns at the idea.

"Yeah, but if I did I wouldn't be or mean anything anymore…"

And that's the most intrinsic thing about the woman she's in love with. The measure of her worth, unfairly tied to her success: the insurmountable she must surpass yet she never arrives. She makes her judgements. She becomes hostile, on sight. Loathing. Do it again. Emptier. Do it better. Look at me; look at me. They don't. They never will. More demanding of herself than perhaps her parents ever were in their neglect, who taught her to be that way.

Her tone nearly breaks her heart. It makes her feel a little… angry. That she thinks she is never enough. Can she not see herself as she does? No one – not Bob, not Cassidy, no one – has ever succeeded in talking Ashe down from this ivory tower. It is the way the world has been to her. And she might one day also fail it, but she will try. It is worth the effort it takes. She will spend the rest of this life doing so.

Until 'nothing' is infinite and limitless, and not a bad thing.

She won't make her continue to think about the end. It is not the option that was on the table. Soundly Amélie kisses her, to take it away.

"You mean everything to me." Does she understand? It is her, exactly as she is, that she wants. She smiles and she accepts it, but, she's really not used to being loved. Always the doubt that she'll change her mind, that she doesn't deserve it. Fearing she will leave. No. She won't. She sees you, Ashe. She sees you. So she'll convince her. "I do not need to know every detail: I said to you that I don't have to, that we can slowly figure ourselves out, at our own pace. So long as we are together." Amélie rearranges the hair surrounding Ashe's cheekbones, so she is fierce. "But we are a partnership. If I move forward, so do you. If you ask me what I want—"

"—it's only fair that you get to know mine."

"Exactly."

Ashe cooly exhales through her smile, a little frustrated. "I'm too heartless for this," she says distantly. "I'm not letting you down too easy?" Amélie shakes her head, but the outlaw's expression wavers, knowing she's being unfair. "Sorry. I didn't have anyone except Bob for so long I'm still— catching up— once, your life was good."

Is that what she believes?

"It wasn't a perfect life, no life ever is." It's hard for her to hear, but it's the truth. None of this she takes for granted. Beyond Gérard, everyone else had always been secondary, and she couldn't always have him. She takes her hands, their hands, fingertips mussing flaking black nail polish. "It will not be the same as what he and I had. I would not want it to be. You are you, Ashe. I choose that."

Life… she is unforgiving. Even more than Widowmaker is. Some days they will cry and it will seem impossible; then in another time they will wonder why they ever hurt. There will be good days, as there will be bad ones. What she means, is, she wants to share them all with her.

Whatever she's looking for, she may find it here…

With her.

Ashe is thoughtful. She's tired again, still hungry, dancing with these insecurities she hates most – she's trying, she can tell.

She kisses her cheek and she knows it's going to be a half-answer.

"Can I have a bit more time?"

Amélie smiles.

"Of course, chérie."

If it's to be memorable it needs to be perfect.

She knows that's an impossible feat, something she could spend forever and longer chasing, but—

She wants to take this home, when it's over. She wants to show her how much of a positive difference she's making in her life, in these days when the only thing that's on her mind is her: when she's just Ashe, spending a few weeks in Paris with her girlfriend.

The boutiques are fun. No one had batted an eye in the hotel when she'd ordered flutes of champagne at breakfast and she still feels the buoyancy even now, ignoring every zero on the price tag and holding up anything that catches her eye against Amélie, who judges her choices coldly.

"Pink is not my colour."

She says whilst wearing white-trimmed faux-fur boots and lavender-grey tights, still that black turtleneck but topped off with another beret and the fuzziest, comfiest coat she owns – and fashionable, compared to Ashe's own choice of red longcoat competing with more layers, as many as humanly possible and wide-brim hat.

"We could try findin' it again in purple," she says. Though she promised to let her buy her something, there should still be an element of… anticipation. Slight surprise. Nothing garish. So it could be anything she inspects, even the wildcards. "Now you can't go arguing with this one."

It's a simple enough black evening dress, almost sheer in its webbed patterns at the hem, but the fabric catches the winter light in the shopfront well, and Amélie's head tilts more amenably.

"It would go well with the scarf." Would it? Ashe's nose wrinkles, unconvinced. "Although the shoes…"

"I'll buy you new ones."

"I can't have you get me everything," she says. Ashe's flirtatious smile widens. Yes, she can. She don't need to lament when she's got a bottomless purse. One dress? Starting point. If she's got it, she should flaunt it. Amélie's approach is more astute – she has no idea what she's dressing her up in, but she hopes it's fancy. Maybe a suit. Kind of been hatching an idea she might suggest they wear their gifted choices to Luna's Cabaret: which means she should probably find something for Bob, too, the omnic sat comfortably in the chair by the door reading one of Amélie's books with multiple bags piled up alongside him, this far from the first store.

Ashe holds up the black dress to herself, swaying on her feet, like she's wearing it. "Maybe I should take it for myself if you don't want it. What d'ya think?"

Her girl's eye flicker, charting her.

"It would do," Amélie regards. "Though I would dress you in white."

A white dress.

She's been thinking a lot about white dresses.

She feels the flush threaten past her collar and she will not let it show, not here, dismissively scoffing.

"White," Ashe says, holding her teeth on the t. She ignores that Bob is looking right through her, sensing the hole she's about to dig. "That's only a quarter of the palette, sugar. Clashes terribly with my hair on its own."

"Then, accents," Amélie easily counters, inspecting further racks. Fair: it'd be more than just the one thing she'd be wearing. "Jewellery." She thumbs the buttons on the blouse before moving to the next. "Me."

"You sound rather sure of yourself."

"Oui," she smirks, so deliciously. "I would compliment anything."

She would so love to find out.

Definitely not in here.

"You wanna take the long way back to the suite after this?"

Over rooftops, balconies, crisp afternoons becoming cold evenings. She says it more cryptically for the hovering omnic girl at the register, who's been listening in to every damn word. Amélie understands, though; hums gently for her decision.

"I would… enjoy that."

They make their purchases. Ashe sends Bob back to the hotel by himself, along with the multitude of bags – and not without a carefree smile and a pat on the shoulder before he goes and the omnic ducks his head, that this distance between them is okay, 'cause she knows he'll be there waiting for her later – and once he's gone she ropes Amélie into a couple more boutiques with his memorised measurements for a suit. She can't make him carry his own gift back, that's just mannerless; he raised her better than that. She knows what he likes. It usually aligns with hers. One fashionable purchase to carry is a statement, something else to hold – her gloved hand in Amélie's mittened one, as they walk down the banks of the Seine.

It's getting dark now. 'Cause they stopped for lunch at a bistro first. They're definitely late.

Not that she has any other engagements. She can do anything: anything she wants. It's kind of freeing, really. Makes her feel more like an outlaw, not one that's got business and rules. She enforces them for a reason, but…

Amélie pauses by the railing next to the murky canal.

"Over there."

"There? Where?"

She guides her chin, her touch so casual. "That open rooftop, with the greenery."

Ashe scans the dim skyline, finding it. "You owned the whole building?" She nods. "Damn." Even for nigh infinite money that's kind of impressive. "You use it during recital seasons?"

"Sometimes," she says, remembering. "I was safe. Protected as only those of that calibre achieved." So she claims. The irony of Overwatch successfully saving anything is not lost on her. "I would do interviews for magazines in the downstairs parlours; parties, rarely. Usually the two of us, alone. We both loved this city. He would stay here for weeks with me if he could."

Ashe smiles, amused.

"I'm guessing he wasn't meant to."

She chuckles. "No. I overheard far too much – but no one knew. So we thought."

It's a different type of sight-seeing, wandering through rooms she can't even see, in a house that's long changed hands by now, no one knowing what happened there. Ashe can't imagine Amélie's family would want anything to do with her, has never mentioned them once. She doesn't… mind this way of wandering, these glimpses. So long as Amélie's okay, and she is. This distance is fine.

Ashe shrugs her shoulders in the cold, and leans her back against the railing, boot kicking iron. She has to release Amélie's hand for this angle: but she swaps them, holds it again.

"This one is colder than the other," Amélie states.

Ashe snorts. "You can tell all that through mittens and gloves?"

"I can." And she almost believes her, until the smile sneaks in. "I haven't held it all day."

Snicker. So she's funny now. Not that she wasn't always. Always knew there was that rebel in her; she just encouraged it out to play, like she wants to again now.

Ashe waits. Holding her smile. Serious. "Is there anyone else you want to check in on? I have the resources. We don't have to go through Sombra. Frankie could find out on your behalf if you don't want to see 'em."

"No. There is no one else left."

So fast. Her expression doesn't change even as Ashe holds her sinking frown, trying to decide if it's an auto decline out of habit to keep herself safe. It's… alright if she does. She can tell her. But there… isn't anyone. She knows exactly how that feels; when the only family you've got is the one that's every day beside you and it don't matter if you share blood, or in her case, even have it at all.

She can't imagine a life without Bob. She's not living without him again – she meant it after the Crisis and she still means it now. It's not the same, but… Amélie couldn't have pictured a life without Gérard in it, either. How many things in life did she want, that she's had to since pack away? She's only seen a fraction of those boxes.

She's not as strong as Amélie is. Waking up in a world every day without the love of your life in it… she couldn't, can't, but she must. Ashe knows she herself couldn't do it, doesn't know how to live without her anymore – if Amélie needed her to, she'd burn everything down; for her, softer. She's forged herself too but with shields and parlays. Neither of them have really nurtured themselves. Yet somehow here she stands: and Ashe is glad for the open door, that she's more, reclaiming what she lost.

Amélie sighs. "I am good at killing." It's true. Death becomes her. She's seen her do it. "I was made for it. Living… not so much. Not anymore. I may yet never manage to be good. But I refuse to haunt my life any longer."

It's not a bad oath. Maybe once they go home they can both sit down and talk about their precious things. Maybe she'll pull out the contents she has in that one drawer, let her see her hurts, her smallest victories… tell her everything.

"I'll work on it with you," Ashe says, quietly. "If you want."

The fond love settles on the corner of her smile. She wants her to have it all. She wants to be the one to give it to her. She wants almost too many things these days.

Amélie's thinking too. Concluding things. Her hands in hers saying, if you will have me.

"Emotions make me—" she stumbles on the word. Weaker, Ashe thinks. She can't ever admit it. It's almost worse than her, back when she couldn't say something as unforgiving as I love you. "—unstable," Amélie decides.

"I always liked having them as fuel myself."

"That is because you are strong."

Hardly. She grins, having thought it of her all too recently, tongue running across her teeth. "So you fall for it."

"It isn't true?"

She's smugly teasing her, smile held like a high ground. She's seen her laid bare. Loves her even so.

She isn't afraid to approach it.

"I've learned, you have to take a bit of mess if you want the gain."

"You awoke them in me. It is your responsibility." Hmm, maybe it is. But she isn't quite done. "I believed, once, it would frighten you to know me. Instead you saw a self in me when no one else did – when everyone thought me irredeemable, or useful, you saw someone… worthy. Perhaps a mirror of yourself." Her smile lengthens, and Ashe can't deny it. From the first they saw fragments of themselves in the other. Unwarranted, at times. No less true. "You did not see someone that needed to be saved. You joined me: you retaught me what love means. And I have erred, misunderstood, but found it. I do not need any others. Only you."

It's like—

When other girls were out there dreaming, she always thought it needed more bravado; more fireworks, like the biggest gift you can get her is the thrill of a successful steal and driving away in the getaway car.

But here it's quiet. These are things she should not do. There's people walking by and lights winking on in the streets. It's not a revelation. She knows how much she loves her. Maybe Amélie'll hurt her, but. She's come to accept that. Yet she admits that love so openly and Ashe feels the red creep back into her cheeks, 'cause it's like—

They never write about what happens next in a fairytale, but she'd like to.

She just has to believe. Just one more time.

The outlaw smiles up at the darkening sky. Finding some other deflect.

"Think you'd break a few hearts back at the Gorge, saying that. Plus another that's currently much closer."

Bob, she means: her heart's already in tattered pieces, can't break it again. In her periphery Amélie laughs. "Exceptions may still be made. It is inevitable to lose some things. I do not wish to forget, but I no longer fear it, if those memories grow distant. Love preludes grief. I know that. We change, too… we already do. Only then can new flowers bloom. With careful hands…"

She raises theirs. Ashe's eyes slant towards her wispy gaze, clouds of cold breath becoming indistinguishable as Amélie's fingers on her cheek prompt her to look, no more hiding.

Two lovers kissing in Paris. She closes her eyes, to be swallowed up by it.

This is what they've found. It's not different but it is, and Ashe exhales, smiling on her lips.

"Guess it's my turn to make you cry."

She doesn't think she'll see Paris in anything else but winter, but that's alright.

This is the city she loved in and the one which she faces final demise.

It's still involuntary. It just happens. These tears are not shed for sadness, none for false notions of regret. She realises, now, that she will mourn for the rest of her life. It is not a bad thing. Not when she is alive and she is kissing her and the journey has been made and soon another will begin. She does not know yet where this road leads, but that is fine.

She is Amélie. Widowmaker. What she touches dies. She can shoot you through a crowd or stand solitary beneath a spotlight's halo and reduce you to emotional rubble. It is in her name. Grief, personified, and she is a master of her craft. She is always separate; she can drop you to the floor or raise you to new heights. She wanted to cry, she did. She wanted the purpose they offered. Weakness was a vulnerability – so she rid herself of it. At her request the pain was gone but not enough when its numbness abstained, ricocheting in her body bittersweet like Luna's song. She was perfect poise and she was waiting, and then… that wicked smile. To its owner it did not matter what she was or could be, merely that she had fallen for her and offered up her solace.

She is Amélie. Widowmaker. Girlfriend to a foolish, brazen, aggressive, unstoppable outlaw, her partner in crime and in life. Her beloved does not know how to rely on others. She cares about her family, but nearly everyone she's ever loved has left her. So she keeps them at safe distance, until her heart's full of thorns and even she's convinced it's not there.

Ashe needs her. She relies on her adaptability, her estimations, her perspective… she understood her. Over time they showed themselves. She's cursed now; she can't live without her anymore. The outlaw has admitted to it… and so has she.

She was a hunter at rest and now she feels more weary. It is easier not to feel, to think. Ashe challenges these things. By making her believe it may be possible.

She took something unruly, and did not say 'do not be less' – only, be wild, with me.

And that is what Amélie Lacroix, Widowmaker, needs.

The trigger has long been pulled. When it will connect she does not know. She is the trajectory and the reason and for her she cries.

She'll always have her. So long as she lives.

Maybe even longer.

It might be imperfect… but is that not equally also weakness, when everything is shared?

For her, she longs to.

She could be seventeen again. It would play out exactly the same.

Ashe is hungrier than he ever was.

"I want you," she whispers, kissing her fingers on one uncovered hand.

When did she do that? She is supposed to notice these details and instead her mind had wandered. Her fingers are blue but that is not unusual, blinking away remaining frozen tears for the colour of her desire.

"After dinner."

Her partner makes a non-committal, that's just too long sort of noise, close to a grunt. She champions normality, she cannot complain. One of them has to adapt to the change in time, Ashe still on Arizona hours – not that it would stop her from sleeping during the day.

It is snowing, now. The fog off the river has rolled in quick. Ashe is cold. She can see it on her face. They should move but the outlaw is rooted.

"I'll do anything, I just want you. Amélie, I—"

She is not.... begging... she is rather familiar with her sounds when she does. It is surrender, though. She is at war with herself. Which means – ah, that other thing. What is so difficult to tell her? She's looking at her coat. Fingers now mussing the fabric: deeply unnerved, or, nervous.

She has not been this way for her for a while.

"What?"

It does not seem that she is ready yet. Her outlaw's face distorts and her eyes scrunch down into her cheeks with that forced smile, that staggered laugh, like she's stumbling downstairs to arms that have caught her.

"After dinner," she repeats.

A spider will simply have to be patient. There is no use prying it from her – too stubborn. When she makes up her mind – when she's ready – she will be here; for now, the moment.

And after dinner, bliss.

"You are wearing, another hat."

"So take it off for me."

"Ugh. Must I do everything?"

There. Gone. Now they may dance unhindered. The record scratches on the player as it loops, one hand returning to hers and the other regaling the small of her back, a waltz with no shoes in a big empty suite in the middle of the night.

It has been a wonderful memory, these days… and aside from hat-shaped pests, only two work-related interruptions and those she'll allow, cause for more champagne and a dozen red roses with the closing of this chapter in Deadlock's legacy. Ashe had also said it demanded tiny pastries from the bakery near Luna's that she likes, predetermined breakfast for the next two days and rather savoury but she did not mind.

She has spoiled her, her greatest treasure. Completely. Not anything else to whisk her away from her, not at all.

The spider waltzes her, to the beat of her heart. The music is… complimentary. Unneeded. Their clothes in various stages of disarray upon their return, sleeves askew off shoulders, no longer prim and perfect; an eventful evening. It was not fair that so many others got to see her so beautifully red and untamed at that restaurant but now, Amélie has her all to herself. Down here she is content to dream. They could waltz from the balcony across rooftops and spires, and if this were an old, silent movie they might.

"You have gotten better," she smiles.

"Your doing," Ashe flirts lowly, grinning beneath extra-long lashes. She did not have to learn. She still makes rudimentary mistakes at, everything, and most of her devoted practice suspiciously only occurs with her, but Amélie enjoys their dancing all the same. Ashe's more exuberant. Hers, slower. One day she might even allow her to lead, Ashe in no hurry for it – it's clear she enjoys the safety of being spun out only to then be returned to her, her heart doing quiet somersaults every time. It does it now, catching her breath. "Think I was missing out. Should've stolen my way into a dancer's heart sooner."

She rolls her eyes, her hands back in place. "You are so predictable."

She grins. "And you love it."

Yes. She does. "Although if you had not found me so mysterious, my table would have remained empty."

Ashe muses, looking down at their feet, the potential tangle in the turn something she still struggles with. "If it intrigues. What could be is always exciting… but when I do I commit."

It is apparent: everywhere in this room, from the vase of roses to their scattered belongings to the record and their dance, the two of them together. Once again at home here; their suite now, sharing everything she has. She'll play the game, but on her terms. Always off limits before. Now, she completely collaborates.

She thinks her truth is within reach. So carefully held in her hands.

The door to the hallway opens. No cause for concern – merely Bob returning from a self-appointed errand. The omnic's hand stoically remains on the carved doorframe: thinking his discovery would best benefit if he again left on another task, but Ashe turns warmly to him and releases Amélie's hand to grandly wave him over.

"Get in here," she says when he still doesn't. "How else you gonna see my progress?"

She passes herself off to him. Amélie folds her arms and watches bemused as Ashe fusses and arranges his, mostly right, the omnic caught up in his ward's latest scheme whether he wishes to or not.

"You'll be fine, don't look at me like that," she assures him. By choice, Bob does not like to do things poorly – and with his hands secure in hers, Ashe is hearing the rest of his concerns entirely through glances. "Wouldn't have offered if I didn't want you to, Bob. I ain't forgetting it's you and me."

She comes with her own attachments, and strength. She shows him what she knows; mixed results. Reminiscent of a daughter teaching a father how to dance whilst she steps on his shoes.

"See, you're getting it." Looking toward her now and inclining her neck with a smile. "There's room in here for you too."

Amélie raises one sculpted eyebrow, and frowns. "I don't think—"

"Indulge me." Alright then. One more isn't going to hurt. It will hardly be a waltz anymore, but—

Bob is a much better listener. He learns quickly. Ashe is so happy here, with her two favourite people. It's almost infectious. She laughs and Amélie can't help it, the outlaw's finesse vanishing as she falls into line dancing, inevitably: not those finger guns again. She thinks that they're funny, that they net her a response, and the spider covers her mouth to hide the forming smile when she winks at her, knowing it's true… and at the end of the song Ashe stands there with both of their hands in hers, sincere.

"Thanks, Bob."

Her voice is thick, like she's holding onto tears.

She won't say it; she's too full of pride. But he embraces her lightly and Amélie is reminded, that love exists in so many forms. Her girlfriend has never been rich in love: they move on from her. Deciding once she's yielded her heart she is not where they belong. Bob, though. He came back. The smile in his eyes, that her happiness affects his… the worst offenders say omnics and humans cannot co-exist, that they do not mean anything to one another. Ashe would rue this world for her, but if anyone threatened his existence—

Her killing hands know what she would do next.

And those offenders are wrong. Cruelty is not unique between humans and omnics. Humans deconstrue other humans all the time. Everyone needs a family to come home to… including her.

Even if the way is lost. Even if it's hard.

Ashe falls asleep on the empty sofa after, wanting to be the three of them a while longer, safe with the people she trusts. Amélie sits adjacent on the other, reading next to Bob whilst he knits, almost done with the final detailing of the scarf now; he has admittedly had a lot of time to himself.

It has been a week. Since Annecy. Tomorrow evening they will go to the Cabaret. Ashe has already asked her to wear the dress that she bought her – and presented Bob with his gifted suit in desire of the same.

The fire crackles. Snow falls beyond the window, and Ashe rolls over in her sleep.

She is not worried. But she has been thinking about it.

"You know her mind," Amélie says to the pages. "What she wants." He keeps knitting. Her eyes narrow, detouring to the artificial hard light masquerading as flames in the grate, then him; not quite a confrontation, but an acknowledgement. "I want to believe I am part of it… no, I know. I wish…" she exhales her quiet laugh. "Merde." This is the part where she'd dwell with either boxing or shooting but… she does not think it would work this time. This secret leans more… positive, a yearning, where only the passage of time will yield it. "She will not come to me. You, though. It is no question, but… you will help her?"

He regards her unblinking. Despite what they say, Bob is not that difficult to read. He is always willing, quick to act when called upon, and his current reluctance stems from his unending loyalty to Ashe, making it complicated: Amélie suspects he wishes to assure her. Likely more than he feels he should say.

So she is stalling, then.

Love can make you do impossible things. Perhaps Ashe plans to—

She feels the intrusive smile under her breath. No. No, it couldn't possibly be.

Eventually the omnic nods, lowering his project into his lap so he may speak.

'I will.'

Her relief is in her words. "Thank you."

For having been there. For making her who she is.

They arrive at the Cabaret between sets, Luna mingling with her clientele.

It is a different world, here. Pinks and reds and the feeling of blue. Bob is dashing in his outfit and Ashe is handsome in hers, accented by a pair of rose studded earrings that Amélie had retrieved for her when she wasn't looking. She insisted on a heavy overcoat on their walk over, but Amélie had planned for that: a high waistline and a cream coloured blouse tucked into it with short sleeves. She is very beautiful. Ashe said she was more, after her initial low whistle at her reveal: the black dress she chose fits her well, exactly her tastes.

Ashe decides to barter drinks, Bob dragged along. Which leaves her to enter her old dream alone. Luna notices her immediately and bids her current table their forgiveness – if anyone else were planning to welcome her latest guest, it is now irrelevant and communicated that Luna herself will, meeting her by the draped walls and Amélie finds her hands taken by the omnic's far colder ones.

"Madame Guillard," she says, like she has deeply missed her. There is no hiding from her insight: that she knows a great deal more about so many different things. "They said you were gone."

"I was," she says. She left her languished self here without a word at Sombra's urging. Packed her bags, and ran. "I am still. I am returned only for the night…"

She glances behind her, at the rest of her entourage. Ashe must be getting a good deal; several bottles are already lined up on the counter for her and Bob to choose from.

Luna follows her gaze. If she recognises her companion, and she likely does, she doesn't immediately call it out.

"Ah, the chance." She doesn't laugh but she seems pleased. "The last song you asked for me to sing…"

Did it help her? Did it lead her back?

Did she cry?

How little she knew then when she heard it. She remembers Luna's wish as she mourned with a heart neither of them possessed. It is no longer an almost. She… feels. So many things. So different. To hear her sing again in person, with Ashe, like she once did with Gérard… it has been a long held desire. Amélie breathes out, unsteady, too big for her.

"I have another request."

"Anything for you, Madame Guillard."

"Luna, the two of us cannot be seen here so openly…"

Because it was once a haunt, it might trickle back. She would not want to bring the songstress too much undue trouble.

"Upstairs," she suggests: like it is nothing out of the ordinary for her to offer it. "You won't be disturbed."

She nods. There is a song as a gift, too, but her words are waylaid by Ashe's arm coiling fervently around her elbow, her body, her waist, slouching up close.

"We about done?" she quietly whispers on her ear like an affectionate kiss, her mouth barely moving on the off-chance of lipreaders. "Figured out our arrangements?" She's tense; there's inciting trouble and then there's foolishly strolling right into it, and though they're not actively being sought and she wants the night in Cabaret Luna as much as she does she worries, because it's not her lair.

Amélie hmms quietly at her and Ashe smiles, releasing her: so that she might address Luna instead.

"Found myself rather captivated by you, black cat," she says, not above the challenge trying to flatter an omnic presents. "Here I am, crawling back. Didn't even introduce myself." Amélie thinks she would kiss her knuckles if she could, but instead the outlaw ducks her head as she bows her respect. "Enchanté."

Luna laughs, melodically. "A charmer! You would have to be." Ashe snickers. The pink in the walls is now in Amélie's face and she denies it. No, she is not won over. It has not worked on her, not more than— more times than she count. "The night is forever yours. What is lost may still be found. I am glad it is true. I will sing, for you both, so you may dance; I have the perfect score. I have kept you in my confidence long enough, Madame Guillard… Mademoiselle Ashe." She never told the singer her paramour's name… and Ashe did not have her opportunity, her eyebrow thoughtfully scaling as Luna glides away to her awaiting sea.

"Definitely too tricky. Wonder what else she's really involved in…" A mystery for another night, Amélie thinks: Ashe agrees, returning wholly to her. "Where to, Blue?"

She looks up, past the swing. "The balcony," she says, able to make it out thanks to iron railings. "The rafters."

"Sounds good. Lead me there."

She takes her hand and guides her to the curtained door: and all the way up the short flight of stairs, Amélie doesn't let go.

They've come a long way, still farther.

Bob's downstairs, taking his time carrying up the wine. Really he's just as much of a devotee of Luna as they are. Up here it's their own little world, the songstress keeping all her patron's focus for herself.

Except one.

Her heart thuds. She'd make easy prey. Luna spins her lovelorn dreams, drifting up to their secluded balcony. Amélie is so beautiful in the dress she picked out for her. So contented. She's everything, she really is. And Ashe thinks—

It could be insensitive, to tell— to ask her now.

She looks at her a week ago in that same old suite and whispers, what is it that you want—

The problem isn't not knowing. She's known for months.

It's— simply… terrifying. The hardest thing she's ever had to do, feels like. She can't ruin this. She can't. Might ruin itself in the end no matter what she does. It'll be the biggest commitment of her life.

And that in itself scares her.

For the leader of the Deadlock Rebels, no light thing.

…

Now or never.

"Amélie."

She looks at her immediately. The woman she wants. She can tell her anything. At the very least, she'll listen.

"I've been thinking about permanence," Ashe says. "About you and me. That once you told me there wouldn't be a future for the two of us but I wanted, want there to be. And there is. I want to be with you. I've always wanted you, Blue. I want you in my life, I want to dance dangerously with you. Who you are, where we'll go, who I'll be – I want to do it all with you. And this— it's the one way I could reckon to tell you 'bout how much I mean it, that I love you, and want to share everything good or bad with you, and I…"

She has it in her hand.

And she gets down on one knee.

"Amélie, will you marry me?"

Her blood thunders in her ears and she stands aghast with wide doe eyes and says nothing.

She is so vulnerable and scared.

And then she's on her knees and she's kissing her, she's kissing her, she's kissing her.

"Tu es une belle fou—"

She is, yeah. Her voice quavers. "That's a yes, ain't it—"

"Yes," Amélie affirms on her lips. She tastes iron, it's Amélie's, bruised. "Yes. Yes."

Each one a punctuation: fingers shaking, seeking her… and then she stops, to look her bravest love in the eye.

"I will marry you, Ashe."

She promised herself she wasn't going to fucking cry but for once in her life it has to be the right thing when Amélie kisses every one of those individual tears.

She'd be a liar if she said she wasn't still scared. It ends where it starts – dancing – out into the stars. Where she stays. Now, and ever. The bloom has fully set in; it's terminal. She's learned that about love. The idea can be good, but the reality's so much better. And she knows, now, that she won't ever again have to miss what'll always be here right in front of her.

She believes that. They both do.

It's all gonna work out.

Well, no one knows for sure.

But they'll try. Unstoppable. This life they'll keep on building, together—

Perfectly imperfect.