Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Something is wrong.

This is the first thing Amélie Lacroix thinks, as she’s lying in bed, staring out the window and wishing she had a ground level apartment.

Gérard is out on ‘business ventures’, and she's been left alone for the next week. Of course, he has to leave on the one day she has to rest. After a particularly difficult performance last night, leaving her falling into bed with half a face of make-up still on.

She didn't want him to leave this morning. Something about it was off, a sense of wrongness in her gut that only twisted and tightened like a knife in her chest as she watched him drive off into the dark.

So, instead of facing the world, she went back to sleep. When she woke, a few hours later, sunlight slapping her in the face, she just pulled the blanket over her head and rolled over.

It didn't last. Eventually, she grew bored, wiped her bleary eyes and thought of going for a run. She was always restless, even after a performance. She’d practiced it for what felt like years, but what amounted to barely more than three months. Her first stint as a solo choreographer - which she was immensely proud of - and she’d chosen one of her favorite pieces. La Danse Macabre.

As the days had passed and she was still furiously changing around the movements, the gestures, the steps, her nervousness had grown into an irritable ball of constant stress lodged in her throat, and God, did she feel terrible for how short-tempered she’d been to Gérard recently. She’d been given a great deal of trust, and if the crowd’s applause and standing ovation was anything to go by, it had paid off.

And, as per tradition, every part of her ached terribly.

As Amélie climbed out of bed, she noted sourly that her bundle of anxiety and nerves hadn’t faded. She still felt the stress - that she must be doing something, that her job was not yet done, and she was still on a timetable, but now she was late late late, for a very important date.

She stretched in the shower, regretting that she hadn’t done so the night before to ease the knots in her back. The near scalding hot water eased some of the pain, but did not melt away the anxiety. The restless energy inside her was fighting to break loose.

Amélie paused in her third lap of the apartment - after she had found absolutely nothing on the TV - to fiddle with the radio channels, surfing past the bright candy pop songs and bursting bass to find a classical music station. A smile slid across her face as she heard the last of what sounded like the Swan Lake finale fade, and the opening notes of the Danse Macabre dripped out.

She slid back from the countertop, adjusting her footing, remembering the steps she’d gone over for months. She didn’t have as much room as she liked, but she made the best of it, spinning and whirling across the wooden floor. She’d grown fond of the story she’d thought up in her head; on the night of Halloween, a grieving lover meets their ghostly beloved in a cemetery one last time before they must fade from the world, all the while the forces of life and death are trying to rip them apart. The costumes had been incredible - white tunics that swirled across the stage for the forces of death, flowery skirts for those of life.

She had, maybe just a bit, cried after seeing the finished product. The two lovers, dancing together as best they could as the body of the ballet followed wherever they went, fighting each other and reaching their hands toward their own.

The jerky movements of both the living and the dead, turned graceful by their fight.

Maybe just a little pretentious, but she was just starting out.

The violins crooned sweetly, then rose, higher and higher, the xylophone rattling like bones, the sweet melody of the flute, all brought together as the lovers were torn apart, then reunited, and the violin sang sweetly, the orchestra breaking in as they were interrupted yet again.

She slowed, floating, a slow turn as the music calmed, eyes shut and visualizing the image she’d created, and held her breath and waited, the volume rising once again, as the climax drew nearer, and -

A pounding on the door shocked her from her reverie.

She froze, not quite balanced yet, the sudden heat flushing her all at once, muscles still sore from the night before, as someone pounded against the door again. “A moment, please!” She called over the noise, scrambling to turn the volume low on the radio that was now bursting with the orchestra.

She pulled her still damp hair back behind her ears, grimacing at how she knew she must look before pulling open the door and plastering a forced smile on her face. Three police officers stood at her door. One leaned against the back wall, split off from the other two, all three with faces impassive.

Amélie pursed her lips. “Is something the matter, officer?”

The officer closest to the door bounced his leg just faintly, in an almost anxious way, and answered her with forced friendliness. “Is your husband home, Ms. Lacroix?”

She had to force herself not to sigh at the way he butchered the name - as if it were pronounced “lacrux”. She shook her head at him. “I’m afraid not, sir, is there anything I can do for you?”

At that moment, the officer leaning on the wall lifted his comm unit, speaking into it too faintly for her to hear. She noticed, abruptly, that none of them had any name tags. “I didn’t catch your names, officers..?” That familiar bundle of anxiety had returned, climbing up her throat.

“Howell,” the last spoke for the first time, a look on her face one could mistake for eagerness. “Ms. Lacroix, could we have a look around your apartment?”

She tightened her grip on the door, eyes flicking from one officer to the next. “Do you have a warrant?”

“Ma’am, this is an urgent matter,” the first one said, his friendly smile now more like a grimace.

“Do you have a warrant?” She repeated, her voice and eyes hardening. This was not right. They were not right.

The eager one’s fingers brushed her gun, still holstered. The one behind them finished speaking to whoever was on the other end, pocketing the comm unit once again, and the man closest to her smiled not in the fashion of a predator fixing to catch his prey, but a man simply doing as he was told.

She slammed the door shut.

Against the protestations of the imposters, she locked the door with trembling hands, before making a break for the upstairs bedroom. She stumbled on the steps, nearly sliding down them but she pressed on, shutting the door behind her and placing another barrier between her and them.

Below, she could hear them pounding against the door, no longer knocking, but now - the thought sent a chill through her - trying to break it down. “Open this door now! ”

She swiped her phone from the nightstand, her mind a jumble as she began to call the emergency number, then realized: What if they were real police? What if Talon had police in their pocket? Would they answer her call? The man could have been calling for backup below - She needed Overwatch. There was a slim chance they would get here in time, but she wasn’t sure if she had a choice.

Her first thought was to call Gérard - but there was no way he would answer.

Ana . Surely, she would help. She slapped the button, then stuck the phone between her shoulder and ear as she slid a long case from beneath the bed, the beating of the door downstairs punctuating the ringing cell.

Sent to voicemail. She cursed softly as she called again, flipped up the latches with her shaking fingers, and pleaded with any deity she knew that she would make it out of this.

“Amélie?” Ana’s voice came through the speakers, half muffled, hard to hear over the sound of her front door slamming open.

She launched into an explanation, breathless, her voice filled with the sense of hopeless despair that would give anyone a heartache.

"Hey, hey, slow down. Take a breath.” Ana’s motherly tone clicked into place - the one she’d heard when she spoke about her daughter.

She did as she asked, taking a long, shaky breath. Then, she whispered, “What do I do?” Her voice was so small, feeble. Weak. She hated it.

On the other end, she could hear the faint purr of an engine starting. “You’ll be okay, Amélie. I’m on my way and I’m bringing friends. Remember what I taught you?”

In a fraction of a second, Ana’s voice had switched off concerned mother to commanding officer. It was, just a little, reassuring. “I do.”

“You took martial arts when you were younger, right?”

“I still do. Sometimes.” She kept her voice low, leaning against the bedroom door to try to guess where the agents were. She flinched as a loud crash came from downstairs, abruptly silencing the low music.

“That’s good. You can fire a gun, and you can kick their ass. Can you barricade the door?”

“They’re already inside,” she whispered.

“Then lock yourself in another room and barricade that one. Keep yourself out of the line of fire.”

The voices downstairs calling out to her killed any response she had before it left her tongue. Ms. Lacroix, they called sweetly, it’ll only be worse for you the longer you hide. Come on out, now. Perhaps if they stopped to listen, they might hear her heart beating out of its chest.

She moved from the door, turning the lock as she stood, then began to drag the nightstand from the bedside to the door, achingly slowly and loudly.

“Ms. Lacroix.”

She gasped, the nightstand squeaking to a stop. The voice, just barely muffled, came from what sounded like the other side of the door. The handle jiggled. “Ms. Lacroix,” she coaxed, “we won’t hurt you.”

In response, Amélie crept across the floor to her rifle’s case, and began to load it with ammunition. Never keep a loaded gun around, she thought grimly, unless your husband is a high profile target.

“We just want to ask a few questions, is all.” The woman’s voice sounded as if it were right against the door.

With shaking hands, she aimed the rifle at the door.

“If you let us in, no one has to get hurt.”

She took a long breath, then let it out as she set her finger on the trigger.

“Ms. Lacroix,” the agent began, and never finished.

Amélie squeezed the trigger.

A cry of pain came from the other side of the door, as the wood splintered and a hole appeared, chest high. A sickening thud. Then another, and another, as the woman fell down the stairs, crying out in pain, until one last thud, a crack, and the woman’s abrupt silence. Her gut clenched as the sickening scent of coppery blood seemed to flood the room.

“Oh, God,” she breathed, tears threatening to spill.

Ana’s faint voice came through the phone, more panicked than she’d ever heard her. “Amé? Are you there? Amé?”

She took a moment to collect herself, taking shallow breaths, before picking up the phone from where it lay on the floor.

“I’m.. I just - I just shot someone.” Her voice cracked as she said it, the words making it true. “I - Oh, God..”

“How many are left?” Ana spoke calmly, though with an edge of steel in her voice. The panicked tone may as well have never been there.

“Tw- two, maybe. There might be more.” She pressed her hand to her eyes, forcing herself to breath - she couldn’t breathe. “I can’t do this, Ana, I can’t -”

“I know you can. I’m almost there, okay? Is the door barricaded?”

She let out a laugh. “I shot through it. I shot through the fucking door -”

A loud crash came from the door, as it nearly buckled under the weight of whatever had hit it. Amélie screamed, dropping the phone on the floor. She needed the rifle. Rifle. Rifle.

She scrambled across the floor, managed to snag the barrel, and the door burst open.

The two agents stared her down, eyes cold and guns pointed right at her head. She’d killed their partner, she realized, a wave of dread settling over her. A friend, maybe. She’d murdered one and now they’d get revenge on her for not going quietly. A weak laugh bubbled from her throat. She’d completely destroyed any chance she had.

“Do it,” she snarled, angry tears streaming down her face, her grip tightening on her rifle. “I dare you. Shoot me.”

The two of them exchanged a look, before one shrugged, lifted the butt of his rifle and struck her across the face.

Her head snapped back and she felt herself hit the floor, a crack reverberating through her skull. I’ll kill you too, she tried to yell, but it was trapped in her throat by the sob wracking her body. Or, was that vomit?

The man who’d hit her let out a bark of laughter - soured by the sight of the cracked and splintered door, with a perfectly round hole in it. Her arms were wrenched behind her back and her cheek pressed against the floor, something warm and slick and red running into her eyes. She couldn’t see through the cloud of red. A boot dug into her back.

The other man - the one who’d spoken to her first - said into his wrist, “Primary target’s not here. Secondary target acquired.”

Cool metal wrapped around her wrist, and the muzzle of a gun pressed against her neck.

“Affirmative,” the agent said.

The tense silence was only broken by her panicked breaths, and the creaking door.

“Understood.”

She shut her eyes, forcing herself to breathe more evenly, though the rising silence felt as if it were building, as if any moment she would hear one last bang and it would all go dark, and she’d be found with a bullet in her head, never again to speak or dance or laugh or see Gérard - “Just shoot me already,” she whispered, and for a moment, thought she’d gotten her wish.

The man in front of her knelt down, grabbing a handful of her hair and pulling her head back. “Unfortunately for you, mademoiselle, we have need of your husband.” His eyes flicked up to his partner and nodded faintly.

“No,” she whispered, as a needle pierced her neck. A gloved hand held her steady, despite her struggling against it. “No!”

The agent looked at her with disgust, but maybe, just a little pity.

The world faded around her, and she fell.

Chapter Text

She does not feel pain any longer, and she is thankful. The world exists around her, a constant stream of which she no longer feels a part of. She is an observer, watching people and machines and wounds come and go. They open a vein, she does not feel the blood pouring out. They ask a question, she answers through lips that are not her own. She floats on a bed of clouds, in blissful silence.

She is not sure if she dreams. The world around her is always muted, its people always ignorant, and she can do nothing. Cannons fire. Blood splatters. Blades shine silver.

Once, she stares at a monster that paces her bed. She watches its eyes, and does not blink. The thing stops. It leans in close, scoffs, and dares her to try something.

Be careful what you wish for , she wants to say. She only glares.

It laughs, and snaps its fingers in front of her face. When she flinches, it smiles a smug grin and disappears.

Sometimes, she sees a flash of violet. Usually accompanied by sarcasm. Sometimes a giggle. It’s the one thing she remembers from her time inside. Among all the murky memories, she remembers a floating violet.

She does not remember her rescue. When they explained it to her, later, she did not understand. They tell her she transmitted a message to them, stealing an agent’s comm unit and hijacking an Overwatch frequency. She doesn't remember it. She does not remember them.

Their faces are wrong.

She cannot tell how she knows, but they are wrong. She cannot recognize them, but they can't have changed. She cannot recall what Gérard looks like. Even in her memories, he has become something fuzzy. As though his face were cut out of a photograph. It is the same for the rest of them. She remembers Ana’s tattoo. Jack’s hair. Lena’s accelerator. Gérard’s jacket.

In the transport, she feels too watched. The strike team, with their uniforms of blue, cannot be distinguished. They all look the same. She drifts in and out of sleep, she thinks. Time passes too quickly and not at all.

Her hand is wrong. She studies it and twists and flexes her fingers and forms a fist and it is too pale, too bony, near skeletal. There is a patch on her elbow, meant to match her skin tone, but it is just a few shades darker than her bloodless skin.

“Amélie?” Someone asks, drawing her attention from her fingertips.

The someone kneels by her, head tilted to the side and eyes concerned. She does not know who it is.

“Yes?” She answers, and her voice feels wrong, too. Scratchy. Raspy. Perhaps she is sick.

“How are you doing?” They ask.

“I don't know,” she answers.

The someone frowns, and she thinks perhaps she made a mistake. Should she have lied?

She turns her full attention to the someone, eyes wandering over their face for a hint as to who they are. She lingers on the eye. It has a tattoo stretching beneath it, down to the cheek. Ana .

“If there's anything I can do..” Ana trails off, her eyes filled with regret.

Oh, Ana, you guilt-ridden fool.

As Ana stands, and begins to leave, she grabs the woman’s arm. Ana’s eyes are back on her in an instant, wary of her. Perhaps frightened of her.

“Don't blame yourself,” she rasps, and her eyelids are so heavy. “It wasn't your fault.”

Perhaps it is a trick of the light, that she sees a wetness in the corner of her eye. Ana looks as though she wants to speak, but hasn't the words. She shakes her head.

Ana leaves. Too many others are in her place. Watching her. Waiting for her to say - do - something wrong. Their eyes burn her. She does not like being watched.

When she wakes, she was not aware she was asleep. Another someone is next to her, their face a mask.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello,” they echo.

And though his face is wrong, she would recognize that voice anywhere.

“Gérard.” She feels a prick of something in her chest, a little thing that makes her heart quicken and her body tense.

She slowly lifts her hand, and traces her thumb across his jaw, a movement that feels so familiar though his face is so foreign. Her fingers glide across his face, as she tries to find an aspect that she can remember. It is all so wrong.

She can't figure out what is wrong. This is how he looked before, isn't it? She can't find the difference. But she can't recognize it.

He's close to tears, she realizes. His lip trembles and water wells in his dark eyes, he swallows and tries to speak, but cannot find his voice.

“I missed you,” she says softly.

He takes her hand and holds it tight, as though if he let go, she would slip through his fingers like sand.

“Mon Dieu,” he whispers, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

She does not know how to answer, so she doesn't, instead pulling him closer with her free hand.

His fingers hover over hers, and his expression changes for a moment. Her ring finger is bare. It's a silly thing to miss. It can be replaced. But for some reason, it nearly reduces her to tears.

“I'm sorry,” she begins, but he shakes his head.

“I don't care.” His smile is almost sad, and his pity is too strong. “You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”

She falls quiet, and holds him just as tightly until she drifts back asleep. 

“What is your name?” The doctor leans against a counter, their head cocked as they watch her.

Hesitation.

“Amélie,” she answers, after an awkward beat passes between them. She should know that.

The doctor frowns, and sweeps their sun bleached hair out of their face. She studies the doctor, trying to discern whether or not she should know them. Her first instinct, when she saw the white coat, was to panic. Too many images flashed through her mind. Blood and needles and sparking explosions in her head and the sense of drowning on land.

Now, though, Gérard sits with her. She thinks. The same curls and soft face and kind eyes. She isn’t entirely certain that it is Gérard, and it scares her. The anxiety stabs her lungs, and a pressure builds up in her chest.

“And what’s my name?” The doctor stares into her eyes, daring her to look away. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the answer. Her eyes are pinned to the doctor’s and she cannot tell who this person is, and the panic builds up in her chest and it feels as though it’s going to bubble out of her throat unless she looks away -

She drops her eyes to the floor. It’s taken too long for her to answer.

“Amélie?” Gérard prompts her, trying to sound casual, but she can hear the stress in his voice.

“I don’t know.”

The doctor, disappointed, turns to Gérard. “I’d like to perform an MRI-”

“Angela!” She blurts suddenly. Angela Ziegler. Of course it’s her. They’ve spoken before, haven’t they? They know each other. “Your name is Angela.”

She raises an eyebrow, then appears to be thinking for a long moment, but her stare sends chills down her spine.

“As I was saying,” she says coolly, “an MRI scan may help determine what’s going on. With your consent, of course.”

Gérard says nothing, watching Amélie in a way that makes her skin crawl.

“I think that would be good,” she ventures. Too many people are watching her. Too many eyes.

Angela sets her clipboard down. “Excellent. We can have it scheduled for tomorrow, and I think it may be a good idea to keep you here overnight.”

Her hand tightens on Gérard’s. “I.. would appreciate it, I think, if I were able to sleep in my own bed.”

She watches the two of them carefully, eyes narrowed. A beat passes. “Of course. I’m sure you have much to talk about.”

She exhales, a great pressure escaping her chest. “Thank you, Angela.”

Gérard moves to leave, taking her hand once again, when Angela adds nonchalantly, “I’m sure you won’t mind having some agents positioned outside your home.”

Amélie’s blood runs cold. “Can I ask why?”

“Well, we can’t know for sure what Talon has done to you, or if they want you back.”

She bites her lip and glances away. “Of course. I understand.”

And, because Angela just loves to ruin her day, she adds, “Jack wants to debrief you before you head home.”

This time, Gérard snaps, “Can’t it wait? She needs rest, Angela, you said so yourself.”

She simply shrugs, turning back to her clipboard. “I don’t control him, Gérard. If you have a problem, tell him .”

“I can deal with it,” she mutters. “I’m not that fragile.”

“I’ll let him know you’re coming, then.”

She does not like that plastered on smile of hers. They both know that something is wrong. But they will not say it. I dare you, she thinks. Say something.

But Angela says nothing, just as she knew she would.

Chapter Text

Jack suspects her.

She can see it in his face, his tense jaw, narrowed eyes, furrowed brow and the left corner of his lip turned ever so slightly upwards in contempt. Not to mention he has the habit of clenching his fists in what he thinks is a subtle gesture.

For the thousandth time, she repeated, “I don't know.”

Jack sighed, studying the file of loose papers that sat on the table between them. It was thicker than it ought to be. “You can't remember a single thing? ”

Amélie rubbed her eyes. “Jack, please. I just want to go home. I've told you everything I know.”

A flash of frustration crossed his face, quickly replaced by his typical no-nonsense front. “Angela mentioned your..” he gestured vaguely to his own face. “Issue. Do you think Talon had something to do with it?”

Amélie leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table and widening her eyes theatrically. Putting on her best American farm girl accent, she pressed her hand to her chest as if she were scandalized. “Well, goodness, Commander Morrison, I must say I had not thought of that! Those dastardly villains!”

Jack stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment, in which Amélie only tilted her head and lifted an eyebrow.

“Good to see you're yourself again,” he said flatly.

She noted, happily, that his jaw had relaxed, and his grip was not so tight on the thick folder. She softened her voice, a sad little c’est la vie smile appearing. “If I remember anything else, I'll call you right away. For now..” she trailed off, exhaling.

He took a moment to consider this, eyes trained on hers. “Fine. But the moment you think you remember-”

“I’ll call, Jack.” She stood, much less gracefully than she would have liked with her shaky legs, and began to leave the interrogation cell.

“Amélie?” He caught her arm as she passed, his face a mask.

She stilled.

“Be careful.” He offered a grim smile, but she saw the caution behind his eyes.

“Of course.”

She couldn't leave the cell quickly enough.

She could hardly stomach stepping into her own home.

Gérard rested his arm around her shoulders, and she took comfort in the sense of him being close by. But she couldn't bring herself to walk up the stairs to the bedroom she and Gérard shared. In her mind, she could see the Talon agent’s body rolling down the stairs, landing at the bottom with a thunk.

She could hear it, too. All too well.

She excused herself to the bathroom, dismissing Gérard’s concerns as if shooing away a fly. She asked him to find something to watch, and said she’d only be a few minutes.

Maybe longer.

Amélie began to strip her baggy clothes off, thankful that she wouldn't have to keep tugging her pants back up to her waist. Gérard claimed that they were her size, but..

Upon seeing herself in the mirror, she nearly gasped. Four months.. Her body was no more than thin skin stretched across bone, the wrongness of her hands amplified against her entire self. She could see her ribs. Had she been starved?

Everything about her had become slight and frail. Her cheeks were hollow, horribly dark eye bags nearly gave her the look of a night spent out partying and too much laziness to remove her make up. Her eyes were too large for her face.

Not to mention the numerous scars scattered across her body, some stretching across her entire torso. She traced one - eyes locked on the reflection - a scar that stretched from her left breast down to her belly, and a mirror image beside it, that formed a V across her torso.

Shuddering, she tore her gaze away from the mirror and set about warming the water.

No matter how high she tried to make it, the water never felt more than a faint lukewarm temperature. Not good enough. She wanted it scalding hot.

After a few minutes of fussing with the water, a knock came from the door. A stab of fear struck her.

“It’s Gérard, cherié.”

Amélie slowly sat next to the tub, leaning her head against the cool porcelain. “I'm fine.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

She waited to hear his footsteps fading, holding her hand out against the spray of water.

“Amélie?”

“Oui?”

A moment of hesitation on his part; he wasn't sure what to say.

“Je t’aime.”

Amélie felt her heart clench, a smile forcing its way to her face.

“Je t’aime, mon cher.”

She wasn't sure when they had begun speaking to each other in English. Sometime after they had grown accustomed to having company over, usually from Overwatch, English had become the default language at home. But to hear Gérard talk in their native tongue felt so decidedly like home she felt tears welling in her eyes.

She missed France so much.

After he left her to herself, Amélie slipped into the shower, less washing herself than letting the water pound against her back. She touched her forehead to the cool tile wall, allowing her eyes to drift shut. The water wasn't as hot as she’d have liked, but it did just fine.

She lifted her head back into the spray of water. Gingerly, she began the laborious process of washing through her hair, though the thick mass felt less like hair and more like a rat’s nest. Probably smelled like it, too.

Amélie finally managed to tame some of her wild mane, though most of it felt like a lost cause. Cutting it all off would be easiest. She lifted a lock of dark hair to her face, frowning. It had taken so long to grow it all out.

Sighing, she leaned her head back into the spray of water, shutting her eyes tightly.

A harsh voice demanded, “Where is he?”

“I don't know!” She spluttered, gasping for breath.

“That's not an answer.” At once, the hand that held a fistful of her hair shoved her head back under. After an agonizingly long minute, her head was wrenched back upwards and she coughed up the water in her lungs, each breath she drew feeling like shredded glass in her throat.

“Who is in Blackwatch?”

“I don't know what that is, please-!”

Amélie’s eyes snapped open. She stumbled backwards, tripping through the shower curtain and her head slamming against the tile.

“Amélie?” Someone called, concerned.

“I’m- I'm fine,” she stammered, gingerly touching her fingers to the back of her head. No blood, at least.

“What happened?” His voice finally made sense again, muffled by the door. Gérard.

“I- I slipped.” Amélie slowly stood, using the sink to pull herself up. It was difficult to keep her footing; the room now slick from her spill. Shakily, she turned off the water and sat on the edge of the tub.

In a way, it was almost relieving to know she had been tortured. At least now she had some inkling of what had happened to her. But what she remembered was a single moment in what Jack had said were four months. Four months, missing .

And Blackwatch. Whatever the hell that was. For a moment, she considered asking Gérard- but the idea of that frightened her. She wasn't supposed to know about whatever this Blackwatch was.

So maybe she would do some of her own digging.

Chapter Text

Her dreams are memories, that night. Only flashes, moments and feelings and scents that she drifts through.

Gérard’s hands on her waist as she spins, stage lights burnt into her mind. The scent of roses. Bright red burnt against white, soaring through the air, glinting silver crowns and hair that sparkles. Violins screeching to a frantic halt, trumpets bursting with emotion, gentle lullabies.

She holds her hand out to Gérard, a sly smile on her lips as he stares at her in wonder. She spins towards him and lifts her arms, and he takes her waist to steady her. They dance across the stage, golden set and the fine costumes worn by the corpse de ballet sparkling in her peripheral, but she and he only have eyes for each other. She twirls and leaps and he is there, keeping her from falling.

The tone of the music changes, something soft and sweet, near sad. Their dance becomes fragile, delicate, and she teases him, stepping away to leave him in the cold before taking his hand once again to dance. The black fabric of her skirt nearly bounces with her steps. She is the black swan, and he is the prince, transfixed by her beauty and her dance, unknowing of her plan to steal him away.

They reach the finale, as he dips her and she touches her hand to his face, she lets her head fall back, a soft breath escaping him as she does so. He does not notice the blade sliding into his chest, between his ribs, until it is too late. His eyes widen as she pulls it free, a disgusting squelch, and he collapses, and she with him.

Amélie woke in a cold sweat, her chest heaving. Gérard lay next to her, fast asleep and oblivious to her nightmare. Shaken, she clambered out of bed.  

Amélie crept down the stairs, her legs barely holding her weight, and stopped to lean on the back of the couch. Her hands trembled and she couldn’t escape the feeling of the blade in her hands.

God, she can hardly remember her time with Gérard in their ballet classes. Back when Gérard was still Giselle. They'd met so young, two children playing the part of swans. She remembers the soft giggles of the other girls, as they all struggled to learn the steps and dance in sync with each other. Holding hands and hopping back and forth and twirling together and trying to hold in their laughter as the White Swan and Prince did their part.

Gérard flashing a shy smile at her, as they danced. Helping her with her unruly hair, complaining about the dance mistress and  practicing together.

And later, after he came out, the two of them becoming separated by the advanced classes, until the pas de deux- the step of two.

She was overjoyed when they were paired together, she as the Black Swan and he as the Prince. And they danced and danced until they knew the dance like a beloved bedtime story; never forgotten and always in the back of their minds. If she tried, she could probably do it now.

Glancing down at her shaking legs again, she thought, perhaps not.

Amélie carefully made her way to the kitchen, sliding open a cabinet that hid the wine. To her surprise, rather than the amber Cognac they'd kept for the longest time, there was a tall, thin bottle of vodka.

He's been drinking.

“Fils de pute,” she muttered, pulling it from the cabinet. The thing was already half empty, clear liquid sloshing about inside.

How could she be surprised that leaving him alone for four months would lead to a relapse?

Leaning on her toes, she took a wine glass from the cabinet and helped herself to a generous helping of the vodka. She drank it near carelessly, some liquid sloshing over the side and dampening her nightshirt. She set the glass down, pinching the bridge of her nose. God damn it. 

Drinking vodka from a wine glass at two in the morning because she was upset her husband was doing the same. What happened to her?

Amélie stopped to look at Gérard’s phone, resting on the charging port in the darkened kitchen.

If he knows about Blackwatch..

Surely, she was being foolish. And paranoid. Regardless, she pulled it off the port and typed in the six character password - a mishmash of the year she and Gerard were born, as well as their anniversary. She scrolled through the basic apps, and felt a knot of guilt for looking through her husband’s texts, emails and phone calls, made worse by the lack of anything to even suggest ‘Blackwatch’.

Who is in Blackwatch had been the question her torturer had asked. So it was a subdivision of Overwatch itself. Something no one knew about. But they had thought she might have information regarding it, meaning Gérard could possibly -

Amélie bit her lip, glancing toward the stairs and the bedroom. No sign of him waking.

She scrolled through the call history, looking for any unfamiliar number or name, but nothing jumped out at her. Her own name caught her eye.

Gérard had called her cell phone almost nightly while she’d been gone.

Why on earth would he do that?

She leaned against the countertop, scrolling further. So many calls. To Ana, Gabe, Jack. Had he always talked to so many people so often?

She adjusted her search, moving to any PDFs that could be on his phone. Only a few ancient books from the last century.

Nothing. Except-

A voice mail from Jack.

As she selected it, turning the volume low, she knew that she was absolutely going to hell.

“Hey, Lacroix- just letting you know that we’ve got the building under surveillance. Got a Blackwatch team watching it just to make sure there's nothing suspicious.”

Amélie took a shaky breath, her grip on the phone tightening. He knew. He knew what it was.

“Call me back if you want details. Take care.”

A click.

Fuck me.

That morning, she woke up to Gérard singing.

Amélie groaned, pulling a pillow over her head and burrowing under the blanket.

She didn't recognize the song he was singing, probably some new pop song on the radio, but regardless, he sang loudly and incredibly off key to the little voice accompanying him. The scent of eggs and sausage wafted up to the bedroom, and her stomach grumbled.

“I’m sleeping , you asshole!” She called, a little laugh escaping her despite the pounding headache.

“Not anymore! Time to get up!”

“ Ugh, ” she answered, shaking her head as Gérard tugged on the blanket. “Five more minutes, mon cher. ”

“You and I both know that's a lie. Come on.” Without waiting another moment, he picked her up, a devilish grin on his face.

Amélie yelped, wrapping her arms around his neck quickly to keep from falling. “Oh, my god, it's freezing, Gérard!”

He laughed, carrying her down to the kitchen bridal style. “Well, maybe some breakfast will warm you right up.”

“Don’t you dare drop me-”

“I’m not going to drop you!”

“I will kill you -”

“I’m not dropping you!”

Amélie shook her head, hiding her giggles. Gérard had laid out two plates, heaping with eggs, bacon, sausages, and the like. “How much did you make? ”

“Way too much,” he answered, setting her down. “I may have had some issues with serving size. Just eat what you can.”

Just as they began to eat, the phone rang.

Gérard’s phone sat on the counter, chirping frantically. His brows furrowed as he picked it up, turning it over in his hands for a moment before answering the call.

“Angela?”

She could just barely hear Angela’s voice through the phone, but pretended to ignore it and ate slowly.

“Gérard, hi, how’s Amélie?”

“She’s fine. We’re doing great.”

“So happy to hear that. You wanted to see the Shimada-?”

Amélie paused, glancing at him. A flash of surprise, then concern passed over his face, which he replaced with a smile toward his wife.

“Give me a moment, Angela.” Gérard put the phone against his chest, sighing softly and directing his attention to Amélie. “Sorry, I have to-”

Amélie nodded enthusiastically, shooing him away with a hand as she swallowed. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine here.”

He gave her a relieved smile, putting the phone back up to his ear. “Yeah, uh, how can I-”

“Once you get here with Amélie, I’ll let you know. Just talk to me.”

He moved toward the other room, and Angela’s voice faded.

Amélie kept eating, watching his back out of the corner of her eye. Shimada. Where had she heard that before? She wracked her brain, keeping her face impassive as she ate. Shimada Shimada Shimada clan. The Shimada clan was a crime family that she’d heard mentioned.

Her stomach dropped. What was Gérard wanting to see one for? That he had to talk to Angela about? God, Gérard, what did you do?

When he returned, explaining away the phone call, she simply smiled and nodded, asked if he was going to finish his plate, and acted as naive as she’d been before. 

Chapter Text

She and Gérard were greeted by a smiling blonde woman in a lab coat. She felt her cheeks warm as she stared at the woman, not yet recognizing her.

Thankfully, Gérard noticed her apprehension, and said smoothly, “Good to see you, Angela.”

Angela greeted them both, that smile staying firmly in its place. “The same to you. If you’ll just follow me, I can show you where you’ll be getting the MRI.”

Angela explained the technicalities of the machine, but Amélie paid no attention to most of it, until she said-

“The scan should take half an hour, but-”

“Half an hour? ” Her mouth dropped open. “What am I supposed to do for half an hour in a tiny tube?” Just the idea of being inside it made her feel sick. Such a small space and for so long..

“Well, the idea is that you don’t move around.” She smiled sympathetically, shrugging.

Gérard put his hand around her shoulder. “Would it be possible for me to stay in here with her?”

Angela hesitated, looking between the two of them and to her clipboard. “I.. suppose, but there was something I wanted to-”

“It can wait.”

Amélie hesitated, turning to look at Angela again. “Is there.. Another way? At all?”

“Unfortunately, no. I understand your apprehension. But we’ll be here with you the whole time.”

It went better than she thought it might. She answered simple questions from the intercom, and did simple actions she was told, with Gérard talking her through her anxiety. It helped, somewhat. She still felt acid in her throat as she got to her feet.

And she didn’t fail to notice the look Angela and Gérard exchanged, with the doctor giving an unsubtle nod to the door and a raised eyebrow.

 Amélie cleared her throat, quickly crossing to him and pulling him into a hug, resting her chin on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she murmured in his ear, and felt the surprise in his body relax as he embraced her. Abruptly, she pulled away.

 “So, when will we have the results?”

 Angela cleared her throat. “We should have them in a day or two. I’ll call-”

 “Fantastic.” Amélie flashed a smile, leaning on Gérard. “Time to head home?”

 Angela had a sort of awkward expression on her face, like a deer trapped in headlights. Her eyes flicked to Gérard’s face, expectant.

“I do, actually, need to talk with Angela.”

“What for?” She asked innocently, tilting her head to the side.

He lowered his voice, glancing toward the doctor. “My hormones.”

Amélie’s face grew hot, and anyone might have mistaken her anger for embarrassment. Lying right to my face. “Ah. I hadn’t realized.”

He gave a one shoulder shrug, smiling good-naturedly. “Don’t worry about it, cherié. I’ll catch up with you?”

Through her anger, she managed to smile and nod, not trusting herself to speak as she watched Gérard and Angela walk off down the hall together. He lied. Right to her fucking face. For the sake of, what? Interrogating some criminal? She waited for them to pass a corner before she followed after them, pulling her ponytail into a quick bun and abandoning her dark jacket in the room, in hopes of keeping the liars from recognizing her by a glimpse.

She didn’t dare take her eyes off them. She still couldn’t trust her brain to see Gérard and not a monster. Well, she thought viciously, perhaps he already is a monster. Perhaps he’s been hiding it and now I can truly see it.

Small black hemispheres in the ceiling reminded her that she wasn't in an ordinary hospital. This medical wing was likely under heavy surveillance, and even more likely being watched right now. Well, she would have to move quickly.

No matter how many times she ran through the possibilities in her head, the only one that she found plausible was that Gérard was interrogating the Shimada. The Shimada that was in the medical wing.

She wasn’t a complete idiot. She could connect the dots enough to realize that either they were hurt being ‘obtained’, or -

Tortured.

She’d held firm to the belief that Overwatch would never do such a thing. It was inhumane. But now that she knew of the existence of Blackwatch - something with a name that implied it was bad news - she was having difficulty finding it in herself to blindly trust the organization. Especially if Gérard was lying to her face.

Up ahead, the pair slowed by a curtained off section, before slipping through. Amélie kept on walking, mentally marking which bed they had stopped at. The further she walked, the more curtained off areas appeared, and, if she listened closely, half lucid words from inside. She was not supposed to be here.

Amélie scanned the ward for any hiding places, entertaining several possible ideas about hiding in a janitorial closet, pretending to be a cleaner, and simply waiting outside and pretending to be absorbed in her phone. She dismissed them, as she began to circle back around, and wracked her brain.

There.

The bed next to the curtained off area was having its sheets stripped, as a person in scrubs and a face mask wiped it down. She waited, as she hoped was inconspicuously, until the team finished and left, before slipping inside and yanking the curtains closed. She leaned as close as she dared to the other area, listening intently.

“Is he going to be alright?” Gérard asked, voice tinged with genuine concern.

“He’ll have some scarring, but it appears the cybernetics bonded well. He’s in stable condition and getting better.”

“That’s a relief,” he murmured, so low Amélie could hardly hear him.

“He’s on a lot of pain medication and a minor sedative, but I’ll let you know once he’s ready for questioning.”

Silence.

“If you could.. Update me on his condition?”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty, Gérard.”

What did you do, Gérard?

“Regardless. I would appreciate it.”

A beat passed.

“Of course.”

Amélie strained her ears, trying to hear anything else, until the curtains loudly slid open and shut, and footsteps began towards the door.

She took a deep breath. Counted to thirty. And slipped through the curtains.

What caught her eye first was his jaw. Made of some kind of darkened metal, his mouth was just hardly open, eyes glazed over and staring at nothing. The black metal was sporadic, as far as she could see, until the thin blue blanket hid the rest of him. His right arm was only a stump. His face was horribly scarred, something like a burn stretching from the side of his face down to his chest.

She stumbled backward through the curtain, gaping at the man. What the fuck did they do to you-

Her thoughts were abruptly cut off by a low voice.

“What’re you doing here?” Someone said behind her.

Fuck.

She spun, a confused smile and an American accent covering her fear. “Sorry, I was looking for the bathroom?”

“Amélie, what the hell? ”

Blinking, she quickly studied their face, hoping she might magically recognize whoever had caught her.

Bearded, brown eyes, dark skin, beanie-

“Gabe?”

Oh, God, please let that be right.

Her guess paid off. Gabe stared at her like a fish out of water, mouth trying to form words but unable to make any noise.

“Look, I made a mistake-” she stammered, mentally cycling through a list of excuses she knew wouldn’t work on her friend. “I- I was just-”

“Jesus, Amé, come on.” He jerked his head towards the door, his eyes mirroring her confusion and franticness. "The first time I see you in months and you're- what, spying on hospital patients?" He lowered his voice for this, as if anyone could be listening. Remembering the cameras, she realized there might be.

She nodded quickly, leading the way out of the ward and toward the front lobby.

“What were you thinking?” He muttered under his breath, eyes scanning the halls as they walked.

She took a deep breath. Collected herself. “Gérard lied to me. I wanted to know why.”

“Your husband works for a pretty important organization, Amé.”

She stopped walking. Time for a bit of a gamble. Assuming Gabe knew of it.. She snapped, staring in cold fury. “Overwatch, or Blackwatch?”

He stopped, staring at her, incredulous. “How-”

“Amélie?” Gérard’s voice caught them off guard, both exchanging warning looks before turning to him with smiles on their faces.

A dozen panicked thoughts ran through her head like a stampede, and her throat tightened. You're making me do this. Uneasily, she forced a laugh, gesturing to Gabe. “Look who I ran into!”

Gérard’s confused look split into a grin as he first shook Gabe’s hand, then pulled him into an embrace. They must have gotten closer while she was gone. She wondered, for a moment, just how much had changed while she was gone. How many new friends had Gérard made? How many times had he made himself sick? How many times had he tried-

Gabe looked at Amélie in a panicked confusion, before slapping Gérard on the back. “I was actually on my way to see you, but then-”

“It’s just so wonderful to see you again,” Amélie interrupted quickly, beaming. “I’m sure you must be so busy, though."

Gabe cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, I do actually have to get going. Jack.. wanted me to..”

And, like a true liar, Gérard covered for Gabe, interrupting him to say goodbye. “Of course, yes, we won’t keep you. Best of luck, Gabriel.”

She smiled at Gabe, giving him a little hand wave and a warning look as Gérard pulled his arm around her and started off down the hall. “So, how did it go?”

“How did what go?” His brow creased.

“Your talk with Angela?”

“Oh!” He laughed, dismissing his sudden lapse in memory. “Sorry, I was- it went well. She was just making sure it was all- going well, you know. As doctors do.”

She raised an eyebrow, but nodded regardless. So he was going to continue with his act. Fine. If he was going to lie, so was she.

Chapter Text

To be perfectly honest, Amélie hadn't the faintest idea how to go forward. She spent the rest of the day in a bit of a daze, trying to distract herself with anything in the apartment. She wandered from room to room, leaving the TV on in the background for some kind of noise.

Gérard, bless his soul, wasn't sure what the problem was. He suggested they go out to eat, but the idea of being surrounded by people made her feel queasy.

Let’s watch a movie, he’d say, and she’d answer, I don’t want to be still.

We could go out, he’d suggest, and she would fret, what if they find us?

What about having someone over, he’d ask, and she’d shake her head, because she didn't quite know how to say I don't trust any of our friends politely.

Her mind wandered to his drinking. She should ask him about it. But then, she thought, she’d be a hypocrite. She wanted to drink away the Shimada, Blackwatch, Talon, everyone’s suspicions. She managed to keep herself from screaming that she knew he was a liar and begging him to tell her what Blackwatch was. If he had really hurt the man with the metal jaw.

Somewhere, deep in her heart, she felt that she was in a nest of vipers. She didn't know how to find more without incriminating herself. If she were discovered, they would say she was Talon. That she faked her own kidnapping.

Her own torture.

She shook these thoughts from her mind, but they kept piling up, an endless flood of accusations and mistrust.

With a little sigh, she turned to Gérard, her eyes wandering over his form as he sat at his desk, filling out paperwork. How many secrets have laid on that desk without my knowing?

“I think I’m going to bed,” she said, hating how quiet and meek her voice was.

Gérard, so absorbed in his secrets, didn't hear.

Amélie crept up behind him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his cheek. “I’m going to bed,” she murmured against his skin, listening, for a moment, to the beating of his heart.

His previously tense body relaxed, and with an easygoing smile, he turned his head to give her a peck on the lips. “Are you feeling alright, cherié?”

His eyes gave him away. Concern. Wariness. Suspicion.

“Just tired .” She met his gaze proudly, daring him to object. “Angela said to get lots of rest, too.”

“Of course. I'll just be another hour to finish this up.”

How many times had she heard that before?

“No more than an hour,” she said sternly, kissing the top of his head before she straightened. “Promise?”

“I promise.” His face seemed genuine. But she had thought that before, hadn't she? And he had lied before.

She shook her head again, and climbed the stairs to their bedroom.

An explosion echoes in her mind. Sparks flash around her and metal digs into her flesh, her throat is raw.

Jack stands over her, a sickly grin stretching his face. He hefts a gun. Flips the safety off. Cool steel kisses her forehead. She cannot protest until it fires, and she is holding the gun. He crumples.

Step into my parlour.

Is it working? What is she doing? Doctor-

Restrain her!

She's not viable, sir.

Get that bitch under control!

She gasps, and chokes, and cannot breathe; the hands around her throat are too strong.

She's flatlining.

Clear!

A burst of pain brings her to reality, where she realizes her cheek is pressed against the hardwood floor.

She places her palms flat against the floor, taking a moment to breathe. She focuses on the feeling of dragging in a breath, holding it tight, and exhaling.

After what feels like far too long, she pushes herself up and sits back against the bed, resting her head against the mattress. Behind her, a soft groan and the sweeping sound of blankets dragged over sheets.

Gérard actually went to bed. How kind of him.

“Amé?” He mumbled, half asleep.

She didn't answer right away, instead pulling herself to her feet. “Just getting some water. Go back to sleep.”

She waited for his eyes to drift closed before slipping out of the bedroom.

The world felt so vague around her. As if she were floating down the stairs, to the kitchen, and straight to the cabinet that hid the vodka.

Like clockwork, she pulled out a glass and filled it, the same as before. Took a drink and let it burn her throat. Grabbed her cell phone and, before she had time to rethink her actions, dialed Gabe.

She waited.

This was a terrible idea. He must be asleep. Or working. And he’ll be so-

“Amé?” He picked up, much to her regret.

“Hey, Gabe,” she said tiredly. “How's it going?”

“It's four in the morning.”

“Oh. It is.” She glanced at the blinking time on the stove, before settling in and sitting on the countertop.

“What are you even doing?”

“I have questions,” she said flatly. “You know the answers. And you didn't tell Gérard what I saw. So you maybe trust me a bit.”

A sigh from his end. “And you just absolutely had to call me this late?”

I don't want to go back to bed, she thought, and instead blurted out what's been on her mind for the past hours. “Why do you have a Shimada hiding here?”

“Jesus Christ, Amé.” He sighed, and fell silent. She thought, for a moment, he might hang up. “We’re saving his life. He - it's complicated.”

“I've got time.” This is all she said before taking another drink and struggling not to cough it up.

Hesitation. “Look, I don't know if we should be talking over the phone about this.”

“So what?”

“So it could be bugged. ”

She groaned, rubbing her eyes with her arm. “Then what? Where do we meet up? How?”

It took so long for him to answer. Achingly long. “Gabe, please,” she asked softly. “It's killing me.”

“Okay, fine. I'll- I’ll find you soon. Just give me some time. I'll let you know.”

“Just one question?” She can feel those answers sliding out of her reach. Slipping through her fingers.

“I- okay. Fine. One.” He's resigned now.

She thinks for a long moment, biting her lip. “How much does Gérard know?”

And to her horror, Gabe laughed. “He's.. he's neck deep in shit, Amé.”

She dragged her hand over her face, a shuddering breath escaping her. With a quiet, “okay,” she hung up. Amélie dug her fingernails into her palm and pressed her fists to her eyes, willing her tears to dry up.

Part of her wanted to scream and cry and swear at Gabe. To force him to give her answers. But kicking up a fuss wouldn't help her. She needed to approach this calmly. Carefully.

She drained her glass of vodka and, with a bit of difficulty, made her way to Gérard’s computer.

His computer had the same password as his phone. You would think an agent of a secret organization would be more careful with his passwords. His computer gave her access, dozens upon dozens files that he’d been looking at previously sliding open. She hesitated, overwhelmed by the pure volume.

She hadn't the faintest idea where to start.

She hovered over a file entitled OW and tapped it. Even more files unfolded, labeled with abbreviations and numbers. She took a deep breath, her eyes already protesting against the bright light.

I can do this, she thought to herself, clicking on a file labeled BW. It asked for another password.

I can't do this. She began to search the desk for a sticky note, her movements stumbled and frantic. Merde.

A neon green paper caught her eye, tucked under a drawer of office supplies. She tugged it out, scanning the chicken scratch pen marks. Scribbled out numbers and letters, some circled or underlined, or traced multiple times. She scowled.

She squinted at the computer, then slowly started to tap in one of the numbers on the paper.

She did this for what felt like hours - until a beep caught her off guard and she nearly fell out of the chair.

A notification sat blinking in the corner of the screen.

UNKNOWN - 4:29 AM

You're sloppy.

“What the fuck,” she whispered, tapping on it. A window unfolded, it's logo - a skull - spinned briefly before cracking in half and parting to reveal a chat window.

The only message sat at the top of the window, staring at her. You're sloppy.

Just underneath it, smaller text read message has been viewed.

Below the chat box - User is typing..

She waited, holding her breath and staring at the text.

A new message popped up.

RECEIVED AT 4:30 AM

I know you’re not G. Overwatch agents all have a keylogger on their work computers, and one that tracks the mouse clicks. It's advanced shit, but I’ll tell you how to disable it. Don't reply to this message until the logger is taken care of.

Amélie painstakingly followed the instructions given to her, her hands shaking and lungs hardly able to breathe.

After she stopped the processes of the keylogger, she answered the message.

SENT AT 4:37 AM

Who are you?

She watched the window for what felt like hours, until they answered - a friend.

SENT AT 4:38 AM

What should I call you then, friend?

RECEIVED AT 4:38 AM

Sombra.

She turned this word around in her head for a moment, knowing she’d heard it before, but failing to place where. She was too drunk for this.

RECEIVED AT 4:40 AM

You're looking into Blackwatch. So am I. We can help each other.

She typed slowly, her fingers shaking and vision swimming.

SENT AT 4:41 AM

How?

RECEIVED AT 4:41 AM

You’ve got the hardware and the opportunity. I've got the software plus the knowledge. We need each other to get it.

RECEIVED AT 4:42 AM

And I have reason to suspect that Blackwatch is involved in some shady dealings. And violation of human rights. I don't suppose you know anything about that?

She leaned back in the chair, chewing on the words for a minute. She could figure out what they were up to. Find out who's involved. Make sure Gérard isn’t a violent criminal.

SENT AT 4:44 AM

Okay. How do we start?

Chapter Text

Amélie spent the rest of the morning waiting on an application to brute force Gérard’s password. Sombra explained it to her, saying that it would test every possible combination of numbers, letters, and symbols until it reached the passcode. The problem, though, was that the more characters the password had, the longer it would take for the computer to reach it. Even adding one extra character slowed the machine by what felt like twice as long, though her sense of time was likely destroyed by the drinking she’d been doing. Regardless, Sombra assured her that they’d have the password in a day or two.

And now that she had a purpose, Amélie couldn't rid her mind of thoughts of Blackwatch and Sombra. Of how they might be connected and if - possibly - Gérard and Sombra had been in touch. After the chat window had closed, no matter how hard she looked through the computer’s files, she couldn't find anything that seemed like a chatting application. She hadn’t the faintest idea how it had come to be on his computer, and she wasn't sure what frightened her more - Gérard was collaborating with Sombra, and she was falling into a trap, or he had no idea someone had been spying on his computer.

Sombra had explained that the keylogger, after a certain time, was able to recognize typing patterns of its users. It had flagged hers as unknown, and not Gérard’s typical typing.

She didn't ask how Sombra had access to the keylogger.

At a quarter to six, Amélie cleaned up the evidence of her night drinking, resisted the urge to vomit, and went back to bed with Gérard.

She drifted in and out of sleep, thankfully never long enough to have more nightmares.

Several times, she woke to Gérard shifting and pulling her closer, and with some guilt, she allowed herself to pretend that nothing was the matter, and snuggle close to him. Maybe she should be treating him with disgust. Horror. For what he had done in Blackwatch.

But she missed her husband dearly, and wanted to pretend that nothing had changed, that she was safe in his arms and nothing could change that. Except the panic-inducing blare of the alarm clock. Gérard’s hand slapped at the clock, fumbling for the snooze button, while his other arm hugged her tightly.

She grumbled under her breath and squeezed her eyes shut, her arms wrapped around his neck and their legs tangled together.

“Call in sick,” she murmured, lips hardly an inch from his ear.

“You know I can't do that,” he answered, and turned his head towards her to kiss her cheek.

She pouted and slid her thumb along his collarbone, giving him her best puppy eyes. “Mon cher, please?”

To her credit, he seemed to consider it for a good ten seconds. “Can't.” Carefully, he slid out of the bed, managing to untangle her from him. He pulled the blanket up over her, planting a last kiss on her forehead, and disappearing from her sight.

She sighed, stared up at the ceiling. Rubbed her bleary eyes. “Please?” She called, hardly able to hear his response, muffled by the bathroom door.

“I have to go, cherié!”

“You do not,” she retorted, slowly sitting up and pressing her hand to her head. An angry garage band was beating away inside her head, a throbbing headache. She shouldn't have had so much to drink. Amélie made her way out of bed, rubbing her eyes again and snatching her phone off the nightstand.

She peeked at the screen, and promptly dropped the phone.

Oh, fuck, it was real.

A single notification sat shining on the screen, expectantly waiting for her to open it. The number was blocked. The message read simply, I have the password.

With shaking hands, she snatched the phone and powered it off, setting it on the nightstand. Part of her thought, that's not real, and another answered, you made your decision. She went down the stairs two at a time,  unable to stop the acid bubbling in her throat until she was in the guest bathroom, bent over the toilet and vomiting.

She wiped her lips.

Sombra had her personal number.

Sombra knew exactly who she was.

Sombra could find her.

Amélie pressed her hands to her eyes. She shuddered, wishing more than anything to curl up and stay that way for the next decade. “Fuck,” she whispered, before feeling the acid in her throat once again and knowing she was going to be sick.

“Amélie?” Gérard called, his voice tinged with panic.

She took a moment to breathe. “I'm fine,” she answered back, voice ragged. “Just.. sick.”

Gérard loomed in the doorway, eyes wide. “Amé?”

She smiled weakly. “Hey.”

He knelt next to her, wet hair dripping into his eyes. She watched a droplet slide off a strand of hair, onto his nose, and trickle down to his chin, before dropping onto his leg. He held his hand out, touching her shoulder gently. “What happened?”

Amélie shrugged, smiling in what she hoped was a easygoing way. “I’m- I’m alright. Really.”

He cupped his hand to her face. “Maybe I should stay home.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes.

“You're freezing,” he murmured, his fingers warm against her jaw.

“I'll be okay,” she answered, though her voice felt small.

He shook his head. “I’m staying. I shouldn't even leave you alone, regardless.”

“The building is being watched, isn't it?” She felt a sudden stab of panic - was she supposed to know that? Was she supposed to know Blackwatch could be outside her door at this moment?

“Either way.” He gave her a halfhearted smile. “I'll stay. You'll rest.”

She could tell just by looking at his eyes. There wasn't any talking him out of this. She was grateful. But he seemed not to realize her illness was a disguised hangover, and she couldn't help but feel guilty.

She’d assured Gérard she was fine to walk by herself and shooed him off so she could take a shower. For the longest time, though, she simply sat in the spray and let the water wash over her. She made certain her face was clear of the water.

She sat in the water until her skin was pink, though she still felt none of the heat. It was far removed from her, a distant sensation she didn't quite grasp, like a memory.

After she’d dressed back in clean pajamas, Gérard fussed over her and ensured she was comfortable on the couch, propped up by pillows and covered in blankets. She didn't object to being pampered. 

Gérard had put on some competition show that she still hadn't grasped the topic of. She wasn't paying much attention to it, her mind wandering far off and thoughts of Sombra and Blackwatch and the Shimada swirling in her head.

She craned her neck, watching him work in the kitchen with his head bowed and a look of complete concentration on his face. Her sweet liar, with no idea that she had secrets too. Her gaze wandered to his study, the knot in her stomach tightened, until she was certain she would be sick again. If Sombra was right, then.. She’d know his secrets soon enough.

Chapter Text

It took hours for Gérard to sleep. He kept insisting on staying up to make sure she was doing alright, but she assured him - multiple times - that she would be fine.

It took an inhumane level of patience to wait for half an hour, watching the minutes tick by, blinking at her and almost gloating. When the time finally came, she eased up the stairs, slowly testing each stair to ensure it wouldn't creak.

Gérard lay on his side, his breathing steady and even. Amélie carefully stepped closer to the bed, spotting her phone sitting face down on the floor.

An image flashed across her eyes - her face pressed to the floor and Ana’s faint voice calling out to her through the phone. With a touch of guilt, she wondered if Ana knew about Blackwatch too.

I didn't leave it there, she thought, her heart stopping.

She hovered by the bed, watching the back of his head, before slowly reaching for the phone.

He stirred.

She snatched the phone and began to back up, her eyes unmoving from his figure. Just sleep, she thought, her grip on the case almost tight enough to crack it. A cold wall hit her back, and she nearly jumped, fumbling for the door and cracking it open just wide enough for her to slip out.

Amélie used the last of her self control to slowly walk down the stairs, powering the phone on with shaking fingers. Had he seen? Did he know what she was planning? She wasn’t able to push these thoughts out of her head as she paced the living room, looping through and around the furniture. Maybe it would be more subtle if she just sat down, but her body was sparking with energy, her body shaking as if she were left out in the cold as she waited impatiently for the phone to turn on.

The moment it flashed brightly at her, blinding her for a split second, three more notifications appeared on the phone screen as it chirped. Loudly.

A myriad of curses ran through her head as she quickly muted the phone and whirled towards the bedroom door, waiting with her breath held to see if Gérard would appear, knowing exactly what she was up to.

A beat passed.

Two.

Three.

Not a sound came from the bedroom, and the door stayed shut. Amélie ran a hand through her hair, let out a breath, and began to read through the messages.

RECEIVED AT 6:44 AM

I have the password.

RECEIVED AT 8:54 AM

You there?

RECEIVED AT 10:21 AM

Hey. Amiga. Buddy. Pal. Friend. Answer me.

RECEIVED AT 3:13 PM

If you’re dead, say defenestration.

RECEIVED AT 4:01 PM

It means throwing someone out a window.

What the fuck, Amélie thought, not for the first time.

Quickly, she tapped out: I was busy.

The reply was instantaneous.

RECEIVED AT 11:26 PM

Oh, hey, you’re alive. Nice to know.

RECEIVED AT 11:26 PM

We have work to do. Get on the computer.

She rolled her eyes, glancing back toward the bedroom door again before sliding into the seat at Gérard’s desk. Sombra’s texts hadn’t quite calmed her nervous energy, but they did smooth over some of the spikes.

After disabling the keylogger, she quickly pulled up the file that had asked for the password, waiting for the chat window to appear once again. Sure enough, the spinning skull appeared, and a blank chat log replaced it, except for the words: User is typing..

A long sequence of numbers appeared in the log. Amélie typed it into the textbox, but hovered over the submit button, her chest tightening. It wasn’t too late to turn back. Pretend she knew nothing. Stay naive.

And though she, briefly, entertained this notion, she knew that there was no way in hell they would be able to keep her from finding out their every little secret.

It did not stop her from thinking that by tapping the button, she’d signed away her soul.

RECEIVED AT 11:31 PM

What do you see?

She ignored the text at first, taking a look herself. Files were separated into PERSONNEL , PROJECTS , and MISSIONS . Amélie gaped at it like a fish for a moment, thinking, it actually worked, and hesitantly opened the first file. It was organized by ranking, from top to bottom. She frowned, moving to the top and feeling her throat close.

Reyes.

He was at the top of Blackwatch.

The fucking commander.

She let out a shaky breath, remembering their conversation the previous night. Of course he would know. Of course she would trust him. Because she was a damn idiot.

RECEIVED AT 11:34 PM

You really need to stop dying on me.

Despite her anger, it drew a chuckle from her, and she shoved her emotions to the back of her mind.

SENT AT 11:34 PM

Files are grouped into people, missions and projects. People are grouped by ranking.

RECEIVED AT 11:35 PM

Missions and projects are going to be where the shady shit is at. Look for dragon or deadlock in the missions.

SENT AT 11:35 PM

Dragon? Deadlock?

RECEIVED AT 11:36 PM

I’ve got some vague evidence of Overwatch fucking with the Shimada clan and with a gang called Deadlock in southwest America.

No, she thought, her eyes widening slightly. That couldn’t be a coincidence. It couldn’t be a mistake that they mentioned the Shimada clan. Sombra must know.

This was a trap.

She’d fallen into a trap.

Amélie shuddered, and pressed the panic down, trying to logically think it through. They both had been investigating Blackwatch, albeit for a short time on her end. It wasn’t impossible that their paths of investigation had crossed, especially if the Shimada was a recent development. That was it. She was fine. She was fine.

Slowly, she went back to the first page, and tapped on the missions. Grouped by most recent. Sure enough, one titled DRAGON-ACQ appeared. She tapped it.

A case file unfolded before her, a large block of text, followed by images, personnel profiles, and specifications.

A chill ran down her spine as she read through the mission report.

At 21:17, Hanzo Shimada and Genji Shimada were spotted in Hanamura, as intel had predicted. The two fought each other, ending in the eldest - Hanzo Shimada - injuring the youngest fatally. The team was unable to arrive in time to catch the eldest. Genji Shimada was taken on board the transport, and resuscitated multiple times. Successfully stabilized by Ziegler. The Shimada clan believes that he is dead, and the mission was a success.

The mission was a success.

These words swirled in her mind as she read through the reports, saw the pictures, and laid her eyes on the leading officer for the team in charge of this “rescue”. Gerard Lacroix.

She felt acid in her throat, and had to lean back and try to keep breathing steadily as the word slammed against the inside of her head. Fuck.

With clumsy fingers, she answered Sombra.

SENT AT 11:46 PM

They knew that one of the Shimadas was going to die, so they waited for it to happen before swooping in to save him. He’s part of Blackwatch now.

RECEIVED AT 11:47 PM

Holy shit.

Amélie pressed her palms against her eyelids. This was so fucked. It was so fucked. Gérard was part of this. Gérard let a man be attacked and nearly killed because it benefit Overwatch. While she was gone. Being tortured and destroyed for months.

He was drinking his fill and sharing his secrets with his friends in Blackwatch and letting men almost die because he was told to.

And that begged the question: how many missions like this had he gone on?

How many people hurt while he watched?

Well, she thought bitterly. I’ll know all his little secrets before the morning.

Chapter Text

True to her word, Amélie discovered all that her husband had been hiding from her. Every dirty job, interrogation, “acquired target”, and hidden mission. Frustratingly, however, she did not learn all of Blackwatch’s secrets. Anything her husband wasn't involved in was covered in black bars, and read in bold letters REDACTED.

She compensated for this with a generous helping of vodka.

She noted with regret that there was maybe an inch left in the bottle, and no matter which way she turned it, it did not magically grow larger. She would have to go out tomorrow, she realized, if she wanted to keep this up.

Regardless, she settled in next to the computer, sipping her glass and trying her best to be unaffected by what she read.

It did not work.

When four in the morning rolled around, Sombra intervened.

RECEIVED AT 4:02 AM

You should get some rest.

Amélie had to squint at the screen now, despite its brightness turned down as low as she could. Her eyes burned.

SENT AT 4:03 AM

Why

RECEIVED AT 4:03 AM

It's late, and you have shit to do tomorrow.

SENT AT 4:05 AM

Im staying homw

RECEIVED AT 4:06 AM

Then we can work on it in the morning. I need you clear headed.

Amélie groaned at the implication, but knew Sombra was right. But the idea of being forced to go to bed by her fellow conspirator was too close to how Gérard tried to make sure she took care of herself, and vice versa. It was almost embarrassing.

SENT AT 4:07 AM

Fine

SENT AT 4:07 AM

Good night

She began to turn off the computer, but the soft ping caught her attention.

RECEIVED AT 4:08 AM

Take care.

With a faint smile, Amélie watched the chat window fade into that spinning skull, then close. She rebooted the computer, took her glass, and downed the last of it, and pushed the images she’d seen out of her mind.

The bloodied faces.

The broken bones.

The black bags.

This proved more difficult than first expected, and she found that she couldn't bring herself to go back up to the bedroom. Instead, she reclaimed her place on the couch, cradled her phone close to her chest, and did her best to sleep.

She feels the blade press against her ribs. It slides along her skin, slicing her open as easily as paper. She is frozen in place, forced to endure the cold metal against her skin. It does not hurt her.

A gloved hand reaches into her chest. A scent that makes her gag wafts out- rot.

She cannot breathe through the stifling smell, forcing its way down her throat. She cannot scream.

The gloved hand now holds a black, rotting heart.

Amélie woke to a face inches from her own.

She did not have time to scream - more gaping like a fish - before she promptly slammed her palm into their nose.

The stranger stumbled backwards as she tried to escape from her makeshift bed, her legs tangled in the heavy blankets.

“Amélie, it's- it's me! It's Gérard!”

She began to speak, the words coming out of her mouth making no sense even to her. She stammered, and stopped, her eyes wet with tears.

“I didn't know,” she managed, her face heated. “I didn't..”

Gérard held his nose, and a thin trickle of blood appeared, dripping to the floor. “It's okay,” he answered, his voice nasally.

She quickly got up, moving to grab a tissue from the kitchen and hoping that he did not notice her shaking hands as she held it out to him.

Gérard pressed it to his nose, even now giving her an apologetic smile - but his eyes a storm of a whole other emotion. Suspicion? “I didn't mean to scare you,” he said quickly. “I - I thought you were having a bad dream.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, cupping her hand against his cheek.

He shook his head, waving his hand as if to shoo off the very idea that it was her fault. “It's my fault, cherié. ” His voice caught on the last word, and she caught hold of that other emotion in his eyes. It was not suspicion. It was pain. Emotional or physical, or perhaps both. Likely, both.

Gérard began to speak, the words tumbling out of his mouth as if he were in a hurry to say them, or perhaps trying to keep himself contained. “Angela called this morning, she said she thinks you could have, ah,” he hesitated, “face blindness?”

“Oh,” she said.

“But she wanted you to come in to take a test to see if you had it, just to, you know, be sure. Is that alright with you? You're feeling better after-”

“Yes.” She interrupted him, shoving her shame down deep into her stomach and plastering a fake smile on her face. “Yes, that sounds excellent. And you have work to do, don't you?”

He frowned, drawing her eye to the bright red blood on his lip. She felt her face heat again - she couldn't even recognize her own husband - but shoved it down once again, though like a suitcase packed too tightly, it kept bouncing back up.

“Yes, I do,” he said cautiously. “But if you're not feeling well-”

“I’m much better.” They both knew she was not. But perhaps it was better to pretend.

Gérard hesitated on this, watching her. “I was thinking we could have some guests over later, as well.”

“Guests?” Her smile tightened.

“If you were up to it, of course.”

Her mind raced. He wanted people watching her. To make sure she wasn't up to anything bad. To keep his secrets safe. She wondered how many of her so-called friends shared those secrets.

“I don't see why not,” she answered innocently. “When is Angela expecting me?”

“In an hour or so.” Gérard pulled the tissue from his nose, inspecting it, and determining that his nose was no longer gushing blood. He grimaced. “I should go clean up.”

Dried blood had crusted along his fingers and face, the color of rust. The images she’d seen the night before flashed through her mind, and couldn't help but feel queasy.

“I’m sorry,” she started again, but he waved her off.

“I'll be fine,” he said easily, and went off to the bathroom.

Amélie took a shaky breath, sitting back down on the couch and spotting her bright red phone halfway underneath the couch. She waited to see if Gérard would reappear, but he stayed in the bathroom, and so she powered it on.

The flash burned her eyes, and she had to shut them tightly for a moment to press back against the oncoming headache.

RECEIVED AT 6:54 AM

Do you have earbuds?

SENT AT 7:12 AM

Yes, why?

It didn't take long for her to reply.

RECEIVED AT 7:13 AM

I have a plan. I'm sending a zip file to your phone, do not open it. Get your earbuds so we can talk without anyone else hearing.

SENT AT 7:14 AM

This sounds like a terrible plan.

RECEIVED AT 7:14 AM

Do you trust me?

She leaned back, chewing on the idea. She shouldn't. It was idiotic. But, then again, she’d already gotten this far. She’d already trusted her with Blackwatch. With her husband’s secrets. Stupid idea.

SENT AT 7:16 AM

Yes.

Almost immediately afterwards, a file was sent to her, labeled with a string of numbers and letters.

RECEIVED AT 7:17 AM

Don't open that, no matter what. Get the charger for the phone and your earbuds. Quick.

Amélie did as Sombra asked, preparing for the day and hiding her charger in her bag. She held up one of the wireless earbuds, inspecting it closely and hesitating before slipping it into her ear, hiding the other in her pocket.

SENT AT 7:21 AM

Ready.

When the call appeared across the screen, she did not give herself any time to think about it and answered it.

She wasn't sure what she’d expected Sombra’s voice to sound like - maybe synthetic, something like an omnic’s voice. She didn't expect to hear a lilting accent and a voice filled with confidence, almost amusement.

“Heeeeey,” Sombra answered, sounding like a teenager answering the phone of a friend. “How's it going?”

Amélie smiled despite herself, touching the earbud self consciously. “Sombra?”

“You got it. Where are you?”

“Home,” she answered, keeping her voice low in case Gérard came looking for her.

“‘Kay, well, I need you to get to Overwatch HQ-”

“I’m heading there soon. I have a-” she hesitated, unsure how much she should reveal. “Appointment.”

“Shit, really? Awesome. I'll tell you what you need to do when you get there.”

“I actually have something to ask,” she started awkwardly, her voice strained as she mentally ran through the list in her head.

“Fire away, amiga.”

Amélie blurted her first question, regretting it halfway through the first word. “How did you find out so much about Overwatch?”

Hesitation.

“I don't like seeing corruption,” Sombra finally said. “People abusing their power. Using it to hurt others. I'm doing my best to put a stop to it.”

“So, you're, what, a hacktivist?”

Sombra laughed on the other end, a sweet sound. “I mean, I guess you could say that. It sounds kinda silly.”

“And Overwatch was..?”

“Yeah. Yeah, there's a lot of shit. It's a little scary.”

“How are you going to-” Amélie stopped, leaning against the bedroom door. “Take care of it?”

“Gonna make a neat little file of all the nasty, illegal shit going on and drop it right on the UN’s doorstep. They won't have a choice but to take care of it.”

She considered this. Could stolen documents be of use? Or would they dismiss it?

“And I’m counting on your help for it, you know.”

“You're what?”

“We made a deal, didn't we?”

She could stop what was happening. This hit her in full force, somehow simultaneously lifting a weight off her shoulders and hanging one around her neck. She wasn't just finding secrets anymore. She was helping people. Making a difference.

“We did,” she answered, a genuine smile on her face now.

Chapter Text

Amélie watched the streets race by, her eyes snagging across swatches of bright clothing and store signs glowing in the morning light. It hit her, suddenly, that she had not been properly outside in months. She’d been staying inside to keep her sense of safety from being shattered, but really, she wasn't much safer in her apartment than out in the park. She rested her forehead against the window, her eyes drifting shut.

“Sleeping?” Gérard asked, his tone amused.

“Mm,” she answered.

Something about him was off today, she thought, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was paler than usual, bags under his eyes and his hair messy. Gérard typically sported what he once called a ‘bedhead’ look, with his curls ruffled and looking like he’d rolled out of bed, but he spent far longer in the mirror than she did, ensuring that it was perfect.

Once, when they were drunk and laughing at silly things, she’d asked why he did his hair like that.

He’d answered, his words slurred, “No effort is hot.”

“You spend hours fixing it,” she’d said through her giggles.

“I do not spend hours,” he retorted, patting his hair self consciously. “Besides it's, it's, like a bedhead. A bedhead look. But hotter.”

“Since when is bedhead hot at all?”

Conspiratorially, he’d leaned closer, cupping his hand around his mouth as though it were a great secret. “You wanna know what I really call it?”

She covered her mouth to hide her giggles.

He said slowly, hot breath tickling her ear, with a devilish grin - “The morning after.”

It wasn't really that funny, looking back on it. Silly. But to her drunk self, it was the best joke she’d ever heard, coming from the lips of her lover that she’d spent plenty of “morning after”s with.

But now, he looked like a mess. A nervous mess.

Working up the nerve to say something.

She could tell when he was about to speak - a sharp inhale, then silence, as he abruptly changed his mind and tried to say it once again.

“I know you've been under a lot of stress,” he began. “And that it may not feel like anyone else could understand.”

She cracked her eyes open, looking over at him with a raised brow.

“I-” He stopped. Tried to start again. And finally let it out. “I know you've been drinking.”

She cringed and could not meet his eyes for a moment, then steeled herself. “And I know you drank while I was gone.”

He began to speak again, then stopped himself before a single word escaped. Took in a shaky breath. Tried again. “I did. And I'm sorry.”

For a moment, it was silent, as if that was all there was to say on the topic. “But,” he continued, “I’m trying to get back on my feet. And.. I would be happy to help you, too.”

“Or we could forget ever having this conversation,” she said sullenly, sounding like an annoyed teenager. He’d drunk himself into a stupor for who knows how long, and suddenly now he wanted to be better. It's okay when he does it, but not when she does.

In the back of her head, she knew she was being irrational. That she was heading down a dangerous path. And he didn't want her to end up like him. That's all it was. But god, did she resent him for acting like this. Like he was better than her.

“Amé,” he said, his worry cutting through any anger he might've had. “I - I don't want you to end up like I did.”

She remembered it well. When he’d started hiding his drinking from her, had his own private stash, volunteered to take out the garbage every day so she wouldn't see the bottles he’d emptied. His shaking hands and constant insomnia. The sweat on his brow and the pleas for her to let him have just one glass. I can stop any time I want, he’d said. Then why don’t you? She had answered. His eyes when he’d answered - begging, pleading, almost fearful. I don't want to stop.

She could only imagine how much worse it had been while she was gone.

“Okay,” she said simply, the memories of those days sticking in her throat with a bitter taste.

He spared a glance at her, a glimmer of hope in his face. A cautious smile. “No more drinking?”

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, before blowing out a slow breath. “No more.” 

Angela gave her a simple task. On the computer screen, there was one large face sitting in the middle. Below it were six more faces. Supposedly, she was meant to match the faces - implying that any of them were the same. She could not find much similarity. The faces had no hair or any clothing, and she felt more and more embarrassment leak into her face as she struggled to match them. She couldn't pull her mind off Gérard nor Sombra. The shaking of her hands bothered her more than she cared to admit. And Angela’s quiet judgement of her as she reviewed her matches pushed her nearly to tears.

“Are you alright, Amélie?” She asked.

“I’m fine,” she managed, anger leeching off her embarrassment. “I - I need to use the bathroom.”

Angela pointed her in its direction, and she was out of the room before she saw her angry tears.

The dim lighting somehow made her look worse, highlighting her splotchy face and deepening the bags under her eyes. She rubbed her face angrily, hating the way the salt of her tears stuck to her face. She yanked a paper towel from the dispenser. After running it under the cold water, she pressed it against her face, waiting for the heat in her cheeks to fade. She wanted so badly to scream.

Amélie pulled the towel away from her face and tossed it in the bin. Her face was still a little red, but less splotchy and her eyes weren't as puffy. She didn't look as though she were crying in the bathroom. She ran her hand under the water and used it to smooth back stray hair, and patted the back of her neck.

Instead of running back to Angela, though, she leaned against the cold wall and shut her eyes. A buzz jolted her from her state - her phone in her pocket. She slid it out, watching the screen dully.

RECEIVED AT 8:31 AM

How's it going?

She laughed bitterly and stared at the message, her anger somewhat muted at the memory of their conversation that morning. Helping people , she reminded herself. She was here to help people. And herself.

SENT AT 8:33 AM

Fine. What do we need to do?

As she had come to expect from Sombra, the response was instant.

RECEIVED AT 8:33 AM

Once you're available, I need you to get into the strike commander’s office.

She gaped at the phone, as if Sombra would be able to see her horror stricken face. Jack’s office? She had to get into Jack’s office. Her fingers fumbled as she typed her response.

SENT AT 8:35 AM

How??

RECEIVED AT 8:36 AM

I don't know. Make something up. When you can, call me.

Amélie ran her hand through her hair. This was too much. She wouldn't be able to. Breaking into Jack’s office had to be the worst possible situation to be found in, and now that she knew what Blackwatch was doing-

She shut her eyes. Let out a breath. She was capable of this. She just needed to be subtle. Put it into steps. First thing to do was return to Angela. Act as if nothing was wrong. Then, pretend to go looking for Gérard. Claim that she got lost. Hopefully find Jack’s office empty. In fact, Gérard might even be talking to him right now. He’d claimed he had some pressing matters.

Amélie pulled herself together once again, and made her way back to the examination room.

“Everything alright?” She asked kindly, though her eyes were wary.

“I felt sick,” she answered honestly. With embarrassment.

“Something the matter?”

“I-” she hesitated, watching the doctor’s face. She tried to notice the same features she’d known before - logically, they were there. The same face stared back at her. But wrong. She couldn't put her finger on why it looked so wrong. “I’m fine, really. You have the.. results?”

If Angela noticed her falter, she said nothing of it. “Yes, actually.” Her tone became more professional as she began to speak, clipped. “My suspicions were right, it appears that you sustained a brain injury that affected your ability to recognize faces. Prosopagnosia is its official term, though most people call it face-blindness.”

“Face-blindness,” she echoed.

“There's a difference in the way that faces and inanimate objects are recog-”

“Can you fix it?”

“The brain is a very complex-”

“Can you fix it?” She hated the way that sounded. Like a plea.

Angela sighed and smoothed the wrinkles of her white coat. The image of blood splattered across that pristine color came far too easily to mind. Amélie felt herself close to tears again, and stamped down her emotions.

“I’m sorry, Amélie. There's no treatment for it.”

No treatment. No way to see her husband’s face and know it was him, at a glance. No way to keep herself from thinking him an intruder, and her about to die. No way to keep herself from panicking when she sees his face.

Perhaps, she thought bitterly, now I see the truth.

Angela kept talking, as though she hadn't brought her world down on top of her.

“I’m going to refer you to a psych professional, because some of the things I've heard are concerning, and frankly, due to your experience, you should have already gone.” As Angela took a breath for another sentence, Amélie interrupted.

“I wanted to ask about Gérard.”

“About.. Gérard?” She smiled politely, but her eyes betrayed the suspicion. Everyone suspects me.

She cut to the chase. “I know he was drinking while I was gone. How bad?”

Angela hesitated and glanced at the door, as though Gérard was standing right outside and listening in. With a soft sigh, she set her clipboard down - trying to make herself seem less professional - and idly toyed with the lowest button on her coat. “I’m telling you this as a friend, not your physician, alright? It got bad. I would say a severe depression episode, and severe withdrawal symptoms. We had to keep him in here for a few nights.”

We had to keep him in here.

In the medical wing.

It got so bad he nearly killed himself.

Amélie nodded slowly and ran her hand over her face, swallowing her feelings again. No time to feel. No time to do anything but act. Get to Jack’s office.

“Thank you,” she said awkwardly, forcing a smile onto her face. It didn't feel as convincing as her others, but perhaps that was appropriate. “I think I’ll go find him now.”

Angela finally stopped fumbling with the coat button and smiled sympathetically at her. “I think he's talking to Gabe right now, do you remember the way?”

She nodded, gave her a little wave, and made her way out of the medical wing - or, she would have, had she not recognized the hallway she passed through. The label on the door.

The ward full of empty beds but for one.

Genji, she remembered, thinking back to her and Sombra’s discovery. She hesitated, thinking maybe she could sneak inside and talk to him - help him - but the buzzing of her phone in her pocket reminded her that now was not the time.

“I’ll come back for you,” she promised, deciding that this was one thing she would not lie about. She would find him again and she would help him. And Sombra would help her, or else their deal was done.

As she moved away from the door, she slid a single earbud into her ear, and called her new friend.

Before Sombra had the chance to speak, Amélie filled the space with her own words. “I’m finished up here and I'm heading to the office. I don't know how much time I have, but I need you to let me know what to do.” She spoke in a whisper, unsure if anyone around would notice her talking to herself.

“Awesome. I've been working on getting inside - that file I gave you is a Trojan. Ordinarily I’d email it to our guy, but I don't think he's that dumb, so it's up to you. Plus, I've got a little program that should help you with opening that computer up.”

“ And how does that work?” She mumbled, peeking around a corner before pausing in front of Jack’s office.

“You got your charger?”

“Of course. Give me a moment.” Amélie knocked on the door, waiting for a long moment of no response before she eased the door open.

The office was sparsely decorated, with almost no personal effects around the desktop. A small box sat in the corner behind the desk, with frames of photographs poking out. Where Gérard’s workplace had been messy, Jack’s was meticulously organized, a single pen laying flat on a notepad, perfectly perpendicular to it. His keyboard and mouse were nowhere to be seen, though, despite the large computer monitor sitting on the desk. Perhaps it was a tablet.

She slowly reached around and powered it on.

A shimmering blue keyboard appeared flat on the desk, sending her stumbling back from the desk.

The screen was opened in Jack’s email, one from Gabe open in the inbox. It said simply,

We need to talk.

Looking down at the keyboard once again, she whispered, “This is so gimmicky.”

“What?”

“He has a holographic keyboard.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Nope.” Amélie shook her head, forgetting for a moment that Sombra couldn't see her. She pulled her charger from her bag and slowly plugged it into the phone and the computer. A window appeared, asking to transfer files from her phone. Slowly, she tapped it, and selected the zip file Sombra had send her.

“Unattach your phone before you open it. Just in case.”

“Just in case?” She repeated, as she did so.

“So you don't get the virus, genius.”

“Ha ha.” The small bar showed that it was transferring to the computer at an achingly slow pace. “It's taking a while,” she said nervously, glancing at the door.

“Sorry about that. It's a big file. Once you open it I should be able to-”

Sombra was interrupted by muffled voices outside the door. “Someone's here.” The voices slowly grew louder.

“Hide!”

“There's nowhere to-” Amélie covered her mouth as the handle turned, and, after inspecting her options, ducked under the desk.

“I just don't think he's right for this, Gabe.”

“What's going on?” Sombra whispered into her ear.

Amélie bit her lip and pressed herself against the back of the desk, staying as quiet as possible.

“He’s- Jesus, he doesn't deserve prison. He's just made a few mistakes-”

"I was willing to look past the fact that he's a gangster-"

"Formerly," Gabe interrupted.

Jack made an irritated noise, then continued, "He's been nothing but trouble. He blew the entire mission, and now I've gotta figure out how to explain that some hothead in a damn cowboy hat, who should've been locked up to begin with, decided stealth just wasn't important in the middle of a covert op. That's it. No more. End of story." Jack’s tone was familiar. Stubborn and irritated, but trying not to show just how much the situation pissed him off. And failing.

“He cannot do better if we just lock him up and throw away the key, Jack, what part of that do you not understand?" Gabe, however, didn't care that his anger showed. Anger and conviction. "He just needs another chance."

Footsteps moved closer to the back of the desk.

The computer. The cord that had been connected to it sat on the desk, its plug hanging off the side.

A long moment of silence passed between the two of them. “And what if he does something? Blows up a base for his Deadlock pals?”

“I take full responsibility for anything he does.”

She began to reach for it while they spoke, but yanked her hand back quickly.

Someone drummed their fingers against the desk. “Christ, you're serious.”

“Deadly.”

She reached again, grimacing.

“I'll give you a month. If he doesn't shape up, he's out of here. Got it?”

She slowly slid the cord off the desk, gripping it tightly. The silence returned and she shut her eyes, taking a deep breath.

“Thank you, Jack.”

Unmistakable footsteps started out of the office, but she realized with a seize of terror - one was still inside. And he was moving to the back of the desk. She yanked the cord under the desk with a faint swish and tried to make herself as small as possible.

“I’m working on it,” Sombra whispered, moments before a phone rang.

“Who is this?” Jack’s voice answered, edging on suspicion.

“It's a friend.” This, she heard from two ends: on Jack’s line and on her own.

“A friend?”

“I need you to do something for me, commander.”

His feet shifted, and he moved towards the door. “Who are you?”

“My name isn't important. I need you to step out of your office.”

A pause.

“I need an answer.”

“Commander, surely, you know not to fuck with the one in control of your building, don't you?”

The lights flickered.

Amélie shut her eyes, covering her mouth to control her breathing.

Jack's voice turned dangerous and low, a growl. “What do you want?”

Sombra’s voice was sickly sweet. “Oh, would you look at that? Commander Reyes is stuck in the elevator. It would be so unfortunate if he were to have a little fall, wouldn't it?”

Her breath caught. No. She wouldn't do that. She wouldn't kill Gabe. She couldn't.

Jack did not arrive at the same conclusion. With a cautious tone, he said quietly, “I’m leaving the office. What do I do?”

The door opened and shut, and Amélie could still hear her voice, so casual, in her ear. “Walk down the hall. Tell anyone anything, and poor Commander Reyes will have a nasty fall.”

Amélie slowly crawled out from under the desk, her shaky legs hardly able to support her. She leaned against the desk, watching the computer screen.

“Are you alright?”

She stayed quiet, taking deep breaths.

“Hey. I'm talking to you. You alright?”

Oh. “I’m- I’m fine. Is he-?”

“He's far enough away that you can get out. I took care of the surveillance cameras. So be quick.”

“How did you..?” Amélie slowly made her way out of the office, peeking her head around corners and trying not to look as skittish and shaky as she felt.

“Download finished. I needed to get him out of there before he figured out you were inside.” She said this quickly and evasively, so unlike her typical confidence. “Give me a second.”

Her voice became that sickly sweet tone once again as she spoke to Jack. “Now, commander, I want you to take a left. Yes, that room. Or should we see if Reyes wants a little trip?”

Amélie quietly made her way through the halls. She listened to Sombra’s instructions to Jack, a sick knot pulling tighter in the pit of her stomach. This was the kind of person she’d agreed to work with. Using threats of murder and violence. A gear clicked into place. Perhaps she was relying on Jack to get something done.

Perhaps this was part of the plan, and Sombra hadn't thought she deserved to know.

Everyone was keeping their secrets, it seems.

Chapter Text

Amélie did not remember the chaos. She remembered, faintly, the shrieking alarms and red lights of the halls, bloody tiles broken by silhouettes rushing past her.

She did not remember running into Angela, only seeing her face - lit up in red, dark shadows forcing the image to warp into something dark and terrifying.

She did not remember hiding in Angela’s office as the doctor made sure her other patients were safe. She recalled sitting in the corner, her hands pressed over her ears and eyes shut tight.

She did not remember seeing Gabe and being unable to recognize him without his beanie. She remembered the tall stranger with curls, asking her over and over again are you okay while she could not shake the feeling that she knew them.

She did not remember when the alarms finally ceased, or when she met a stranger with a glowing blue chest and a cheery accent that insisted they were friends. She remembered finally being able to lower her hands from her ears and the cold tile against her back, then darkness rushing in to greet her.

She woke at home, in her own bed.

Soft sheeting pressed against her cheek, blankets tugged over her back. Yawning, she slowly made her way out of bed, with a little groan as her feet touched the cold floor.

“Gérard?” She called, pulling the blanket around her as a makeshift robe. No answer. A spark of worry lit in her chest, though she pushed it aside.

She went about her morning rituals, but opted to dress in sweatpants and a baggy shirt rather than her typical ‘housewife’ look.

Amélie walked down the staircase, calling once again, “Gérard?”

A small, neon green post it note was stuck to the refrigerator. She tugged it off, skimming the words.

Went in early this morning, too urgent to wait. Stay safe, I'll be home late.

-G

She frowned, glancing at the clock. It was past noon. How had she slept in so late?

Regardless, she dug through the kitchen for breakfast. Cereal without milk would have to do. She set about finding something to watch, but nothing appealed. Instead, she found the radio, and selected a classical music station.

An explosion sent her stumbling backwards.

Amélie clapped her hands over her ears, blocking out the triumphant sound of cannons and an orchestra playing loud enough to burst her eardrums. Her fingers fumbled as she found the volume knob, twisting it sharply. She leaned back against the counter, her breathing sharp and erratic as she willed herself to calm down.

The song faded softly, until she heard the radio host say casually, “That was Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture.”

She slammed the power button, pressing her hands to her face to force back the images that came to her eyes. Everything came back in a rush - her kidnapping, her drowning, her - her face blindness. And Blackwatch. She'd forgotten all of it. For a few blissful minutes she’d forgotten everything that had gone wrong in her life.

“Fuck,” she whispered, pressing her shaking hands to her ears. Fuck fuck fuck.

She slid down to the floor, leaning her head against the counter and fighting back the angry tears. Okay. Okay. Gérard is at work. He's not getting back for a while.

She's alone for now. Except there’s people watching the building.

She needs to talk to Sombra.

Phone.

Amélie pulled herself to her feet, taking a breath. She was fine. She was calm.

Her phone, however, was nowhere to be seen. She searched the entire apartment and not a single hint as to where it might be. Okay. Fine. She would have to get on the computer to talk to Sombra. Gérard was gone all day, what was the harm?

Before she did, though, she stopped by the wine cabinet.

The bottle was gone.

She'd promised. And meant it, too. But she would have really liked to get a little buzzed, in light of today. To forget everything again, if only for a few minutes. Scratch that. She wanted to get roaring drunk. She spent far too much time looking through Gérard’s old hiding places, even trying some new ones. Nothing.

With a frustrated groan, she moved back to the computer, booting it up and quickly turning off the keylogger. She waited on the screen, watching for the spinning skull to appear.

Nothing.

“Where the hell are you?” She snapped at the monitor, tapping on random files and opening browsers. No Sombra. Her eyes snagged on the date in the upper corner - it’s not supposed to be Friday. No, no. She went on base on Wednesday. And that was in the morning. How had she missed two days? Two days. Four months. I’ll forget everything.

No, I won’t.

She swore at the screen, slammed her palm on the desk, and resorted to pacing the length of the apartment. She was filled with nervous energy that she couldn’t get rid of, though she entertained the thought of dancing, she quickly shoved it away. Two days.

Perhaps going out. She still needed to talk to Gabe. He’d promised.

She grabbed the home phone off the counter, scrolling through the contacts before she found Gabe’s. She drummed her fingers against the countertop as she waited for him to pick up. She only got voicemail. She dialed again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Again.

She was about to hang up when Gabe’s exasperated voice came through the speaker. “Could it not wait?”

She blew out a breath, bouncing up and down on her heels. “Gabe!”

“What do you want?” He sounded - almost exhausted. Guarded.

She scrambled for a non-incriminating answer. “I - I wanted to meet with you.” Weak, but hopefully he would get the hint. Or he would accuse her of hacking the organization. At least they would get to the point, then.

He was quiet for a moment. “Look, it’s really busy here right now. I can’t talk. I’m sorry, I’ll call you ba-”

She had already hung up.

Amélie squeezed the phone tightly, her knuckles white. There was no point in getting angry , she tried to tell herself, but despite that, she slammed the phone onto the countertop. Two days.

Amélie did nothing more for a few moments. Instead, she breathed in and out, trying to rein in her anger and frustration. But it had been building and building since she got back. All the suspicion and worry and secrets. She found that, more than anything, she wanted to hit something. Hard.

Instead, she pulled herself back together, and tied on her running shoes. It hadn't taken long to find them - Gérard had kept the apartment nearly the exact same as it was when she had left. Without the blood, though. Amélie carefully made her way through the building, remembering the possibility of running into people keeping an eye on her. But they wouldn't stop her from jogging, would they?

Unless she was under house arrest.

She took her typical route around the block, relishing the feeling of her shoes slapping against the pavement to a steady beat. Staying inside was nothing compared to this, with the wind in her hair and all her anger and anxiety being pounded away with each step. She regretted not going out sooner; maybe Gérard wouldn't suspect her so much if she stuck to her normal routine.

Does Gérard suspect her?

After thinking on this for a moment, she decided that he did not suspect her - yet - but was only worried.

That still meant he’d be watching her.

Amélie shook her head slightly, wiping away the thought like steam off a mirror. However, when she saw the park - her typical rest stop - she stumbled and nearly fell, just managing to catch her footing. The trees loomed over her, dark and menacing. When she had last seen them, they were tall and bright and full of green leaves. Now, their leaves were rotting on the ground, twisted branches reaching out like fingers to her.

Four months. Two days.

She swallowed, but her throat tightened and she couldn't breathe. She stepped back from the park that had once felt so safe, but now stood as a reminder of everything, and she ran.

She ran and ran until her lungs were screaming and her legs were jelly and when she finally stopped, she was home again.

This isn't home.

With shaking legs, she sat down on the steps and buried her face in her hands. No tears came. How long she stayed like that, she didn't know. But she felt eyes on her. A chill ran through her as she remembered the agents outside her home. Perhaps it wasn't so hard to think Talon might have some of their own.

I need a weapon.

She quickly got up, taking the steps two at a time and slamming the door behind her. She made sure it was locked.

The apartment was dark, the only light slanting across the floor from the open windows.

She went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water - it nearly slipped out of her shaking hands - and downed the entire thing.

For a moment, she only leaned against the countertop, her eyes shut. Things should go back to normal. She should leave all this alone. Pretend to know nothing and leave Sombra for who knows how long. It was too dangerous. For both of them.

What about Genji?

She bit her lip. He needed help. And she’d promised. Even though he hadn't heard it, she’d promised herself. She needed to help him. And, for that, she needed Sombra. If only she would fucking show up.

Amélie went back to the computer, a terrible plan taking hold in her mind. Sombra had started talking to her because the keylogger had flagged her typing as unusual. So, theoretically, if she were to turn it back on.. and announce her presence to Sombra and Overwatch. She would either get Sombra, or be arrested. The choice should be simple. Just wait for her.

She was so tired of this.

She activated the keylogger.

Chapter Text

It didn't take Sombra long to appear after Amélie had begun clicking around Gérard’s classified files. The spinning skull opened the application, to a single message from Sombra.

RECEIVED AT 3:04 PM
What the fuck are you doing?

Amélie leaned back in the chair and allowed herself a satisfied smirk as she watched the screen - User is typing.. It had worked. Her terribly risky and altogether unnecessary plan had worked. She wasn't entirely sure whether or not that was a victory.

RECEIVED AT 3:04 PM
Are you trying to get arrested?

RECEIVED AT 3:05 PM
Killed?

Her smirk melted as she disabled the keylogger once again.

SENT AT 3:06 PM
I lost my phone. This the only way I could contact you.

RECEIVED AT 3:06 PM
Did you not think that I had a reason for radio silence? Just for the fun of it? Just so I could leave you in the dark?

Amélie scowled at the screen. Sombra was right. She didn't have a good excuse. And she'd likely put both of them in danger. However, her anger did not seem to realize this fact.

SENT AT 3:07 PM
So you can just do whatever the fuck you like and leave me alone with no idea what's going on? That fucking stunt with the commander? You planned that, didn't you?

RECEIVED AT 3:10 PM
Look. I did what had to be done. I have the info. I'll share it with you when you're not borrowing your husband’s computer.

RECEIVED AT 3:10 PM
Really, I'm sorry. But yesterday was too close.

A shudder ran through her. Yesterday. That she can't remember.

SENT AT 3:12 PM
What happened yesterday??

RECEIVED AT 3:13 PM
What do you mean?

SENT AT 3:14 PM
I can't remember what happened yesterday. I can't remember anything since you getting Jack out of the office.

Amélie’s knee bounced beneath the desk, a beat growing more frantic during Sombra’s silence. How much did she know? How much was she to blame? Is she the reason behind the blackout?

In the other room, someone knocked on the door. Amélie jumped, and quickly rebooted the computer with shaky hands. Don't answer it, she thought. I could hide. It tempted her. To run back up to her room and hide under the covers and pretend no one was home. She even started walking toward the stairs, when whoever stood behind the door knocked again.

Her eyes caught on the set of chef’s knives sitting on the countertop. Perhaps she didn't have to be defenseless. Then again, she’d had a rifle last time. And killed someone. What good had that done for her? Regardless, she slid the blade from its pocket, wincing at the sound it made as it dragged against the wood block.

She would not let them scare her again.

Leaning back against the door, she called, “Who is it?”

“Who do you think it is? It's Friday, Amé.” Ana’s voice floated through the door and she felt a relieved sigh escape - not Talon.

It was lesson day.

Amélie unlocked the door, clumsy fingers taking their time in the chain lock. “I completely forgot, I’m so sorry,” she said, pulling the door open, and forgetting for a moment that she held a chef’s knife in her hand.

Ana stood in front of the door, wearing a bright blue hijab and holding the case of her rifle. She did not miss the knife in her hand. “Are you cooking?” She asked, face guarded.

“No, no, I..” she trailed off, silver glinting in the corner of her eye. “I’m so sorry, I thought - I thought Talon -”

Understanding bloomed in her face, followed by concern. She smiled sympathetically. “I know how you feel.”

Amélie raised an eyebrow as she pulled the door open wider to allow her inside, before setting the knife down on the counter. “You..?”

Ana stepped into the apartment, her eyes seemingly drawn to the base of the stairs. She was here. “Anyone part of Overwatch has a fear of Talon. After what happened to you..” She didn't seem able to finish the sentence, before she clapped her hands together and forced a smile. “Are you ready to go?”

“I don't know where my rifle is,” she admitted.

“Well, you can borrow mine,” she said quickly. Ana cleared her throat, nodding toward the hall.

Amélie hesitated, glancing back at the computer. There wasn't a way to refuse this without raising alarm. And, besides even that, she hadn't spoken to her in so long. With a faint smile, she nodded.

Amélie adjusted her grip on the rifle, stretching her fingers to get a solid feeling of the rifle. A ribbon of heat had pulled taut inside her chest, and with each breath it seemed to pull tighter and tighter. She pushed it aside, squeezed an eye shut and focused on the target ahead of her. The targets - on the other end of the range - were usually white silhouettes outlined in black, with dots of red emphasizing the best place to aim.

They’d been replaced with simple circular targets.

Ana’s hand rested on her shoulder; she’d very clearly noticed her apprehension, and in a motherly fashion was trying to ease her anxiety. She was grateful for the concern, but the hand on her shoulder distracted her from the shot. She squeezed the trigger.

The shot was off by half a foot, at least, and Ana raised an eyebrow. “Feeling alright?”

“Is that a trick question?” She snapped, reloading the rifle.

Ana sat down next to her, crossing her legs. “Do you want a break?”

Amélie tightened her grip on the rifle, taking aim once again. “I am fine.” She emphasized this by firing. And missing. For fuck’s sake. “I can do this.”

“How are things with Gérard?” Ana asked, idly watching her prepare for the next shot. This was what she had enjoyed about her ‘lessons’ - simply taking aim and firing while Ana held a simple conversation with her.

“Could be better,” she confessed, peering down the scope again.

“Oh?”

“Well,” she said, firing again, “it turns out both of us were drinking. Which isn't the best, you know, but, um..” She shrugged. “Yeah.”

Ana made a sort of choking-laughing sound. “Well, isn't that a nice coincidence.”

“Ha ha,” she said dryly. “How's Fareeha?”

“Worried about you. Asks about you when she calls.” The answer surprised her. She had been somewhat close to Fareeha, but enough to be missed? It was hardly more than talking once or twice a month. She smiled slightly, trying to imagine her face - and falling short once again. All her memories of Fareeha left her with a blurred face. Her smile twisted as she took aim once again.

Ana blew out a breath, then said regretfully, "She enlisted while you were gone."

The news threw her shot off, just a slight jerk - enough to send it far off from the center. She shot a glance back at Ana. "Really?"

She acted nonchalant, but Amélie could see the worry falling over her. "Got into an argument about, well, this - " She waved her hand vaguely at the practice range " - and she thought I was too protective. You know, the whole Overwatch spiel, she wanted to help. So, next thing I know, she's just telling me she enlisted and we won't be talking for a while."

"Damn," she muttered, shaking her head slightly. "Sorry to hear that."

Ana smiled, though it was resigned. As if she'd given up. "She's old enough to make her own decisions. I won't get in the way of that." She glanced at her phone, as though out of habit. "She might be home for the holidays, though."

A small smile wormed its way onto her face. "It'd be nice to talk to her again." Fareeha had always been a slightly intimidating woman - she got that from her mother - but she was clever and a bit of a smartass, and plenty of fun to hang around. The first time they'd met had been awkward, at one of the parties she and Gérard loved to go to so much, but they had bonded over the struggles of living with someone part of a global peacekeeping organization. Like when they left at four in the morning.

Amélie fired at the target, noting that she’d hit the exact center. 

"Nicely done," Ana commented, not once looking up from her phone. If she didn't know better, she'd think Ana had some kind of psychic ability. A mother always knows.

"Thanks." She grimaced at the thoughts of Gérard's deployments, and waved them away, focusing on her target once again.

"How are you.. holding up, otherwise?"

“I’m - surprisingly - not that fragile, you know.”

“You answered the door with a knife, Amé.”

She paused. “That's fair.”

“You're not being affected by that in any way at all?”

Amélie pursed her lips, firing again at the target. Much more than you could ever know. “I’m having some difficulties with memory.”

“Difficulties?” Ana raised an eyebrow.

She weighed how much to tell her, jumping between everything and forget you even said it. Ana was her friend. One of her closest. The instinct to bare her soul was overwhelming. “I don't remember anything that happened yesterday. Or the day before that. All I remember is -” she grimaced. “Alarms going off. Then I woke up this morning and it was Friday.”

“You're kidding me.” Ana’s eyes were wide. “Have you told Gérard?”

Amélie slowly flicked the safety back on, setting the rifle down. “He left early for work. I didn't get the chance. And I have no idea where I left my phone.” She touched her ear, thinking of Sombra. Did she know where she was? Is she watching? Does she know what happened to her?

How much does she know?

Ana pulled her back to the present. “Have you talked to Angela?”

“I.. yeah, she referred me to a therapist. I don't know when that's happening, but..” She shrugged.

“And.. your thing, with faces?”

Amélie wrinkled her nose, trying to remember the word. “Ah.. Proso-something. She called it face-blindness.”

“Face-blindness?”

“My brain sees faces like - like a kind of blur?” She paused for a moment, trying to think of how best to word it. “You know how omnics all kind of look like they have the same face? And you have to look at other stuff to figure out who they are? Like their clothes? I kinda have to do that with people. Like, hair, or eye color, or hats, or..”

“A tattoo?” Ana guessed, her own fingers reaching up for the tattoo under her eye.

“Yeah! Yeah.” Amélie gave her a faint smile. “It's actually.. really helpful. I can recognize you almost instantly.”

“I’m glad, then,” Ana said, almost sadly. Like she didn't know how to approach this. She pulled her into a hug, surprising her. “Any time you need to talk, I’m here,” she said kindly.

“I.. appreciate it.” Amélie pulled away, smiling awkwardly.

They spent another half hour like they were, Amélie practicing her aim and Ana catching her up to date on what had happened while she was missing. It almost felt normal. Ana drove her home and dropped her off with a promise that any time she was needed, she’d be there. It didn't stop the nagging whisper in Amélie’s head. Where were you four months ago?

She shook her head as if a dog shaking off water, combing her fingers through her hair as she first made sure Gérard wasn't home, then went back to the computer. She drummed her hands against the desk as she waited for it to turn on. The computer took its time, purposely torturing her.

She sighed with relief when the spinning skull appeared again, the chat popping up where she’d left off. Sombra hadn’t said anything since, but now - User is typing..

RECEIVED AT 4:16 PM

What happened to you?

SENT AT 4:17 PM
I had to go. I'm back now and I need answers.

RECEIVED AT 4:17 PM
Don't we all?

SENT AT 4:18 PM
Not the time for sarcasm.

SENT AT 4:19 PM
I can't remember anything from yesterday. Did we talk?

RECEIVED AT 4:20 PM
ayyy lmao

SENT AT 4:20 PM
What?

RECEIVED AT 4:20 PM
nothing

SENT AT 4:21 PM
Please focus.

RECEIVED AT 4:21 PM
We talked yesterday, then your husband almost caught us and I ended the connection. I was trying to play it safe.

SENT AT 4:22 PM
I don't remember that.

RECEIVED AT 4:23 PM
Is there something you aren't telling me?

SENT AT 4:23 PM
What?

RECEIVED AT 4:24 PM
You just lost your memory? No idea what happened?

Amélie stared at the screen for a long time, reading over Sombra’s words. Is it a good idea to tell her? Almost absolutely not. But then - her chest tightened - what if she could help her get her memories back? What if she could - hack into Talon, somehow? Find surveillance footage. Who says I want to see what happened? It would be horrible to watch, surely. But for peace of mind.. knowing what had happened to her was better than guessing. Ignorance may be bliss, but she didn't want bliss. She wanted to know.

SENT AT 4:26 PM
I was kidnapped by Talon four months ago. I got back a week ago. I can't remember anything that happened between then and getting back. All I have is flashbacks and dreams that make no sense.

RECEIVED AT 4:28 PM
Holy shit.

Amélie let out a bitter laugh, leaning back.

SENT AT 4:29 PM
Yeah.

RECEIVED AT 4:30 PM
I had no idea. That's terrible.

Amélie wrinkled her nose and glanced at the black webcam of the computer. Would you let me see you, she wondered, briefly entertaining a thought of what Sombra looked like. Dark eyes, she decided, like a warm cup of coffee. Short, spiky hair, in some kind of punk style. Tattoos. Maybe a big, dark trench coat, like a hacker from a century ago. She smiled at the thought of this, a mysterious hacker in leather here to save the day.

SENT AT 4:31 PM
They asked me about Blackwatch. I want to know what they’re up to. Can you give me that information?

RECEIVED AT 4:31 PM
Maybe. Definitely not on your husband’s computer, they’d detect the data transfer. If you could get another, maybe.

SENT AT 4:31 PM
Fine. I’ll see what I can do.

Amélie was yanked out of her thoughts on how exactly to find a new computer by the phone ringing. She rubbed her eyes as she made her way toward the home phone sitting on the counter, the vibration of the casing setting it spinning in a circle. For a moment, she thought it might be Gabe - but Gérard stared up at her from the screen. She tapped accept.

“Amé? Are you there?” He was out of breath.

“Yes?” She leaned against the counter, watching the computer screen from a distance to see if Sombra had said anything.

“I, um- I’ll be home late tonight. But I was thinking- after you have your appointment tomorrow-”

“Appointment?” Amélie felt a tightening knot in her chest, thinking back to what that could possibly be.

“Your, um, therapist. Angela mentioned it, I think? But, um, afterwards I was thinking we could go see a movie? Together? Because we haven't gone out in so long and I was thinking that we could have some fun together-”

A smile broke out on her face. “Yes! Yes. Yes, that would be fantastic. I- I would love that.”

She could practically hear the smile in his voice. “Great. Good. I, um, I’ll be home late tonight- don't know when I'll be back- don't worry about it. Je t’aime, cherié.”

“Je t’aime, mon cher,” she answered, her eyes drifting closed with a smile dancing across her lips.

Gérard let out a soft laugh and hung up.

Amélie stayed like that for a moment, letting her mind linger: they were going on a date tomorrow. A hint of normalcy creeping back into her life. Date nights and whispered conversations with candlelit dinners and raised eyebrows and teasing gestures, sitting in a darkened theater and leaning on each other during the scary parts - Gérard always pretended he was being flirty when he was hiding his eyes from the movie’s scares. Are you scared, she’d whisper, holding back her giggles. Of course not, he’d answer, with lips on her neck and a little hitch in his breath when a loud sound came from the speakers. She’d turn to him and plant a kiss on his forehead, laughing quietly and hearing the shushing of the people around them.

A chirp from the computer pulled her from her reveries.

Amélie quickly moved back to the computer, sliding into the seat. A message from Sombra sat on the screen.

RECEIVED AT 4:34 PM
You still there?

SENT AT 4:37 PM
Yes. I’ll be busy tomorrow, does anything need to be done?

RECEIVED AT 4:38 PM
We need to lay low for now. I'll tell you when we can make our next move.

SENT AT 4:38 PM
I’ll work on getting my phone back. Or a new one.

Amélie began to close out of the computer when a message caught her eye -

RECEIVED AT 4:39 PM

Wait.

SENT AT 4:39 PM
?

RECEIVED AT 4:40 PM

You don't have to go.

RECEIVED AT 4:40 PM

We could talk, if you like.

RECEIVED AT 4:41 PM

Doesn't have to be about conspiracies.

Amélie paused, watching the screen for a moment. Talk. About what? Maybe I can find more about this hacker.

SENT AT 4:43 PM

Alright.

Chapter Text

When the blinking Calling.. text appeared on the screen, Amélie scrambled for a pair of headphones. She found a cheap pair of earbuds - still connected with wires - that looked as if they hadn't been used in a decade, and kept trying to twist themselves into a knot. It would have to do, she decided, plugging them in and tapping Accept.

“Hey,” Sombra said, her tone slightly off. Concerned? Confused? Nervous?

“Hi,” Amélie answered, feeling just as awkward. “You wanted to-?”

“I’m just worried about you forgetting something and fucking up.” Blunt. “With your.. memory stuff. Since you don't know how it works.”

“I was actually thinking-” She hesitated, weighing her options. Of which she had none. “If you could look into Talon? I know that might be risky or impossible or something but the thing is that I’m-”

“I get it.”

“Really?” Amélie let out a breath, leaning back in her seat. “That- I know it's dumb, but I thought maybe if I knew..” I could beat them. They wouldn't have any more power over me.

On the other end, it was silent. Then a small breath. “It's a hard one to pull off. But I can try.”

Before Amélie could thank her, she continued, “I won't be able to get it tonight. Maybe tomorrow. But I'll try.”

“I- really, thank you. So much.”

“Well, you helped me out, so, why not?”

Amélie smiled slightly, toying with the cord of the earbuds. “Can I ask you something personal?”

A pause. “Maaaaaaybe.”

“How did you get started with.. this?” She gestured vaguely to the computer, before remembering she couldn't see her. Or, Amélie thought, watching the dark eye of the webcam, perhaps she can. “Computer stuff.”

“Not as personal as it could be. Um, well, when I was little, I got into this habit of fixing stuff. And one of the things I really liked to mess with-” She stopped to laugh- “It was this ancient thing and I was so sure that at any time it was gonna finally die, but it just kept wheezing along, with the speed of an elderly turtle, and every time something went wrong, I’d fix it up, and it’d go on for another week or two before I had to fix it again. And, um, ‘cause I spent so much time fixing it up, I spent a lot of time on it. And I sorta started figuring out ways to make it even better with a ridiculous amount of research, you have no idea, and I started ripping computer parts from wherever I could find them, and turning this century old computer into Frankenstein’s monster. And so, you know, I started thinking- I’m good with the hardware, right, but I know barely anything about the software. So I just dove right in and started learning as much as I could, and I was actually pretty good at it, you know, and I just kept upgrading and upgrading and, um, here I am.” She cleared her throat, then sighed softly. “I dunno. I like seeing how stuff works. It's just- we use so much of this shit in our daily lives, you know, and so many people have no idea how to fix it and they end up taking it somewhere that charges way more than they need to. Just- all this tech and most people I meet have no idea how to fix their goddamn router.”

A beat passed in silence for a moment, before Amélie said hesitantly, “I’d like to learn. If you’d teach me. You don't have to, I mean, but-”

“Teach you?” Sombra seemed to think on this for a moment, absolute silence on the line. Amélie held her breath. “Well,” she said, “if that’s what you want to do. It might even be a little fun. After all this blows over.”

Amélie grinned, drumming her hands against the desk. “Awesome. Great. I-” After. After all this blows over. “Sombra..” She bit her lip. “What happens after this?”

“What do you mean?”

“After you.. reveal all of this. What happens?”

“Well, um, probably a UN investigation, and that could take a long time, and then-”

“I mean-” She stopped, taking a deep breath. “What happens to you and I?”

“Well, um, that's a good question. You'll probably be in witness protection, and I’ll- shit, I’ll be back to this again with the next one.”

“The next one.”

“The next company or organization that thinks they can get away with whatever they like. That can get away with hurting people.” Her voice became tighter, like she was trying to keep herself from being emotional.

She has history with this, Amélie thought, shocked she hadn't realized it sooner. She’s been hurt by these companies and organizations, and this is her justice. Hacking their tech and compiling evidence and making sure they won't hurt anyone again. Amélie said softly, “What happened to you?”

An irritated sigh. Or, perhaps, resigned. “Back during the Omnic Crisis.. well, you get the idea. I'm not the first person to have this story.”

She knew the story very well. She’d heard it everywhere, on the news, from a friend, even an overheard conversation at a restaurant.

“Dead. Everyone. Except me. Lone survivor. People kept saying it was a miracle. I don't see how.”

“Sombra..”

“ Look. I don't do the whole pity thing. That's all you're gonna hear, that's all you need to know. Overwatch-” Sombra cut off suddenly.

“Sombra?” She asked cautiously, cupping her hand around her ear against imagined sounds.

“Give me a-” She cut off again.

“What's happening?”

Amelie's question was shortly answered by a burst of sound, followed by static. She ripped the earbuds from her ears, a dim buzzing filling the silence left by them.

The conversation had disappeared off the computer, out with a snap, and for a moment, Amélie doubted that it had even been there in the first place. The wire of the earbuds hung from the desk, swaying softly and brushing against the wooden floor.

Slowly, she reached down and picked up one end, holding it to her ear and hearing only static. It abruptly cut off, and she was left in the silence of her home.

Amélie could do nothing but stare at the screen for a long moment, her mouth half open and eyes searching for - what? She didn't know. Amélie took in a deep breath, doing her best to diffuse the pressure in her chest.

Fuck.

Her first thought - she’s dead. Her second - she’s been taken. Her third - they're coming for me.

It could be said that Amélie had tended to jump to the worst conclusion, even before all of this had happened to her. Now, with paranoia running high and confirmation of one of her worst fears, her mind was already running away with the worst possible conclusion.

Talon found Sombra. Talon would find her. Talon was coming. Talon was already here. Sombra was dead. Gérard was dead. Gabe was dead. Ana was dead. Everyone is dead. Talon is coming. There is no escape. No gun no phone no help no one.

And then, a change of pace - Overwatch found her. Overwatch knows. I'm a criminal. They're coming to find me. Torture me.

At some point, while she was locking the door with fumbling fingers and holding a cooking knife in her shaking hand, Overwatch and Talon had bled together, forming a bond that would not or could not be broken, cemented together despite their constant battles. They were part of each other, she thought, you cannot have Overwatch without Talon, nor Talon without Overwatch. They will always be connected, she decided, and they were both the enemy. While they tried to tear the other apart, she and Sombra were the third party, the ones trying to keep the peace and stop the bloodshed. Overwatch was no longer a peace-keeping organization.

Her only problem was that she didn't know if Gérard was too deep, or if he could be saved.

I have to try, she thought, staring at the door and the windows and all the ways someone could break into her home. Too many. They would drag her back kicking and screaming. Or, better yet, dead.

She wasn't sure how long she stayed in her position, sitting by the door as if waiting for Death itself with only a thumbtack in hand. The sunlight streaming through the blinds slowly made its way across the floor as the sun set, gliding across it as easily as ice. It passed over her face, but she did not feel it's warmth. It faded, and the moon’s soft rays replaced it. The apartment was lit silver, and if she lifted the blade, it glinted in the light.

At some point, Gérard came home. She heard the keys jingling in the lock but did not acknowledge them, wishing suddenly that she’d left a chair under the knob. Her husband stepped inside, radiating exhaustion, his keys ringing as he set them on the countertop and his eyes caught sight of her. His face was warped by the lighting cast across it, turning him into something demonic.

“Amélie?”

She blinked, her eyes finally taking note of him. “Gérard.”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” With a tap, he flicked on the light, forcing Amélie to cover hers. She grimaced, peeking out at him from under her hand. “I was..” She reached for an answer, but found none.

Gérard began to unwind the scarf around his neck, sitting beside her on the couch. He raised an eyebrow, watching her face as he slid his heavy coat off. “Is everything alright?”

She hesitated for a moment, then said plainly, “Not at all.”

Gérard gave a sad, sympathetic smile and nodded, reaching across the distance between them and sliding her closer. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. Gérard’s hand slid through her hair, his arm pulled around her and his heart blessedly slow and calm. “Do you want to talk about it?” He murmured, the low baritone sending vibrations through his chest.

“Not really,” she mumbled.

“Do you want to talk at all?”

“Not really,” she repeated, her eyes drifting shut.

Gérard, to his credit, managed to stay in what must have been an uncomfortable position for a while. Long enough for Amélie to be close to falling asleep by the time he picked her up and carried her up the stairs.

She leaned over the sink, staring into the warped mirror, and, more specifically, the red boil on her face. It started as a little red spot, then quickly grew and grew until it covered her cheek. A wave of nausea rolled through her. Tenderly, she touched her fingertips to the reddened skin, swearing for a moment that she felt - something. She continued to press against it, searching for it again, when a little spot of black on her cheek caught her eye.

She leaned forward.

A little spider sat on her cheek.

She swiped at it frantically, nails scratching her reddened cheek.

A flood of spiders burst from her cheek, sending her screaming back from the mirror.

Her head slammed against the floor and she felt the creatures’ spindly legs climbing across her face, her chest, skittering onto her tongue and down her throat.

The moment Amélie woke, her hand slapped against her cheek. She coughed violently, feeling acid bubbling in her throat as she stumbled out of the bed, nearly tripping over the tangle of sheets and blankets. Her body shook with each breath she took by the time she reached the bathroom doorway, the taste of acid on her tongue, phantom legs skittering after it.

It shouldn't have been a surprise to anyone that she began retching after a nightmare about spiders.

Her hair stuck to her forehead, wet with sweat and pulled from its ponytail by her tossing and turning. Amélie combed her fingers through her hair to tame it back, nails digging into her scalp as she did so. She shuddered. Ghostly spiders still crept across her arms, crawled under her skin. She shook violently, smacking her arm against the bathroom wall to shake the feeling of monsters crawling around just under the surface. “Fuck,” she seethed, fear and anger joining hands to beat on her. She slammed her arm against the wall again, pins and needles racing from her wrist and up her arm, the pain pulling her back. “Fuck!” She yelled.

Amélie covered her face with her hands, her body beginning to shake with sobs. I can't do this. I can't do this anymore. It's all too much. No more. Please. Not again.

A quiet knock at the door. “It's Gérard, cherié.” He leaned in the doorway, disheveled with sleep, his eyes the only part about him that looked alert.  

His face still so wrong.

She opened her mouth to speak, to explain, to apologize, but her voice would not work. Instead, she smiled weakly at him, wanting to reassure, knowing she could do no such thing.

He sat down next to her, head leaned back against the tiled wall, and set his arm around her shoulders. “What's up?”

Amélie rubbed her face. “I- I’m having all these- these nightmares- and they're so real -” She didn't risk saying more, still feeling the spiders run across her hands.

Gérard nodded slightly, like he was working it out himself. Little gears turning in his head. “I know the feeling.”

“What am I supposed to do?” She whispered.

Gérard kissed the top of her head, easing her hair out of her face. “You just have to push through it.”

She laughed sourly.

“I’m serious. You say to yourself, I can, and I will.”

“That sounds dumb.”

“Say it.” He nudged her, smiling faintly.

Amélie sighed, shutting her eyes. “I can, and I will. Va te faire fourtre.”

“A beautiful addition.”

Amélie rolled her eyes at him, before taking his hand and squeezing it gently. “Je’taime.”

“Je’taime,” he answered, squeezing back.

Chapter Text

The office of Dr. Jacob Singh was shockingly similar to that of Amélie’s grandmother. The seats - soft plush couches and armchairs - were decorated in florals, and the waiting room was lit with warm, yellowish lighting that made it feel cozy. It was an odd thing, she thought, that the office almost looked like a suburban home. She liked it. Almost immediately upon sitting down on a loveseat with Gèrard, the both of them had sunk into the seat and fallen into each other.

At least it had helped to lighten the mood.

Amélie sat with her legs bouncing nervously, hands clasped together in her lap as Gérard attempted to make small talk and didn't do well. Twice already, he’d picked up a tabloid from the end table and read the cover aloud with a conspiratorial tone, waggled his eyebrows and touched his hand to his chest as though he’d been scandalized. “Donald Drumpf’s secret affair with Joe Biden,” he read, hardly able to reach the end of the sentence with a straight face.

“You're awful,” she whispered, covering her mouth to hide the laughter. The receptionist, sitting behind the desk, pursed her lips at them and pushed her glasses up on her nose, before going back to her computer and typing obnoxiously loudly.

Someone peeked around the wall, eyes landing on her. “Amélie?”

“Dr. Singh.” A wave of nausea rolled through her as she stood - had that been the wrong person? Did she make a mistake?

But he smiled and nodded, shaking her hand. “So nice to meet you. Dr. Ziegler is a friend of mine.”

“Thank you.” She forced a smile, scrambling for a moment to remember Angela’s face.

Dr. Singh and Gérard talked for a moment, but Amélie’s mind was wandering back to Angela - and, by extension, Genji. She shut her eyes a moment, willing the image of him to fade. Jaws of metal and dead eyes lingered in the dark.

“Ready to go?” Dr. Singh, still smiling, gestured towards the door.

“Oh, um, of course.” Amélie smiled awkwardly, waved at Gérard, and followed the doctor into his office.

He gestured to another plush armchair, before seating himself across from it. She cleared her throat, sitting. What are you even supposed to say in this situation? Hello doctor, I’m here because I’m planning a conspiracy against a government agency.

“Have you ever been to any kind of therapy before?” Dr. Singh had pulled out a folder - she recognized a few of the forms she and Gérard had filled out together.

“Um, no.”

“Any previous mental issues?”

“Nothing diagnosed, no.”

Dr. Singh raised an eyebrow, but moved on. “What's your family like?”

“Well,” she started awkwardly, “I’m married to Gérard, and I’m an only child. We’re not..” She grimaced. “Kids aren't something we’re thinking about.”

“What about your parents?”

Amélie rubbed her eyes, suddenly regretting this. If all they were going to talk about was family bullshit - “I don't speak to them.”

“Can I ask why?”

“They don't like my husband because he’s trans,” she said flatly. “They think we’re secretly lesbians.”

Dr. Singh was taken aback for a moment, then he nodded with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Amélie shrugged. “I’m over it.” She was definitely not over it. Her parents were never the type to scream that “The Transgenders” would all go to hell. Instead, they would sit back and make a face, barely contained contempt, and ask questions that made it seem like they were purposely trying to piss her off. They hadn't had a problem with him before, when they were kids and he came over to help with homework. Only when they were told he was trans. They'd turn up their nose and ask if maybe this Gérard was a bad influence. And always said his name with disgust. Like just saying it would bring the devil down upon them.

And Gérard had insisted he was fine, it was okay, he was used to it. That broke her heart more than cutting off her parents. He would've dealt with anything for her. No matter how hateful her parents were to him, he brushed it off like it was nothing. But it wasn't, and she knew they would get worse and worse.

And they did. Outright screamed at her in front of him that they should never see each other again, that he was manipulating her, trying to take advantage of her.

She’d never felt happier than when she’d - finally - swore at them, told them exactly why they were disgusting, horrible people, and she would never speak to them again.

Their shocked silence was gratifying, and Amélie had simply taken Gérard’s hand and marched out.

A year later, she was legally disowned. She didn't mind.

“And how are things with your husband?” Dr. Singh had his pen again, ready to write on his papers. Taking notes on her mental state.

She pursed her lips. “Strained.”

“Would you mind going into detail?”

Amélie rubbed her eyes. “Well, um, he's had a past of alcoholism. And nightmares. And now that I’m.. back, I’ve started having the same issues.”

“You've been drinking?”

She sighed. “I wanted a drink on my first night back. I was still.. jittery. But I thought we had cognac and- we had vodka instead. So.. he was drinking while I was gone. And that sort of pissed me off and I-” She laughed sourly. “Because I was pissed off that he drank, I started drinking.”

“How did that go?”

Amélie glanced around the office, suddenly finding it hard to keep eye contact with the doctor. “I, um.. I was drinking nightly. While he was asleep. Until I ran out.”

“You've stopped now?”

“As of two- three days ago.”

Dr. Singh marked that on his papers. She could only imagine - pathetic.

“Have you been talking to any friends?”

“Yesterday, I went out with a friend to a shooting range-” Dr. Singh paused, raising an eyebrow. “We go every Friday,” she explained. “She thought it would be good for me to get back into my schedule.”

He nodded, and let her continue.

“And Gérard mentioned- there's some holiday party next week. He thought maybe if I was feeling up to it, I could go, but..”

“But?”

“I don't know how I’ll be in a big group of people. I don't know, I might just go for a few minutes to say hi, or maybe just stay home, but I know Gérard wants to go, and I don't want to make him go alone, and..” She and Gérard had always gone to the parties in the past. Stayed for hours. Before he’d sobered up, it almost always ended in a mess - he told her last year: never get wasted in front of your coworkers. Thankfully, he’d stuck to his own advice.

Dr. Singh simply nodded, then set his clipboard down on his lap. He folded his hands and said gently, “It's up to you if you want to talk about what’s happened to you. If you’d like, we can wait until next session to talk about it.”

She hesitated. How much to tell? How much was confidential? How much would he tell Angela? Even Jack?

“I.. think I’m okay to talk about it.” She said this slowly, with the enthusiasm of someone dipping their toe into ice cold water.

And, of course, Dr. Singh only watched her expectantly.

“I don't remember anything that happened after I was taken.” A little lie, but mostly true. “Just.. flashes. Images. Sounds. Like it was all a dream.” I’m still in the dream.

“Such as?”

She closed her eyes, leaning back. “Scraping metal. It was cold. White. I think.. a needle?

A quick scribble on his paper. “Did anyone ever speak to you?”

Amélie dug around in that murky section of her memories, sifting through the blurs of black and white. Who is in Blackwatch?

“Gérard,” she answered.

“Pardon?”

“They asked me about Gérard.” She pressed her palms against her closed eyes, letting out a breath. “And where he was. I didn't know, so I couldn't answer. So they tortured me.” Her voice trembled.

Dr. Singh was quiet for a moment, the air in the room filled with tense silence. He leaned over, pulled a tissue from a box, and handed it to her. “Anytime you want to stop, Amélie, we can. If this upsets you too much-”

“I’m not a child ,” she snapped, tightening her grasp on the tissue in her hands.

Dr. Singh still had that damn smile on his face. Like he was pitying her. Asshole. Like he was walking on eggshells, he chastised, “Being upset doesn't make you childish. It's a perfectly reasonable response to what’s happened to you. Talking about something can help, but so can taking your time to process it.”

Amélie sat up straighter, a deep anger burning in her chest. In a matter of fact tone, with an undertone of irritability, she spoke. “They drowned me over and over again until they were satisfied that I was a clueless idiot, they cut me open and played around with my internal organs, they made me into a pincushion and starved me. I am not sad about it. I am not spending my days crying in a corner with a box of tissues about the cruelty of Talon. I am pissed off that these people haven't been found and punished. They’re off, doing who knows what to another innocent who has nothing to do with what my husband does and what Overwatch does.” It's their fault this happened to me.

Dr. Singh stared at her with wide eyes for a fraction of a second, then cleared his throat awkwardly. “I.. I see.”

“Is this appointment over yet?” She asked sharply.

He glanced at the clock as she stood, brushing off her pants. “It's- we still have half an hour left-”

“Consider it over.” Unceremoniously, she yanked open the door and flung it shut behind her, rolling into the waiting room like a storm.

Gérard had stayed on the loveseat, half a dozen gossip magazines spread on the table. He held one in his lap as she entered, and smiled up at her in an embarrassed way that would've been endearing had she not been angry enough to snap a pen.

“Is it over already?” He asked, quickly getting to his feet as she marched out the door.

“The doctor’s an idiot. We aren't coming here again.”

“Amélie-” He caught her arm, glancing back at the door. “You can't just walk out.”

She pulled her arm back, her face burning. “Already doing it. If you won't drive, I will.”

He sighed, glancing between her and the closed door. “Angela won't be happy.”

“Fuck Angela.”

A moment’s pause. An exasperated smile slid across his face, before he shrugged. “Fuck it.”

Hours later, the two of them were halfway through a stack of crêpes - covered in a frankly unnecessary amount of sugar and jam, not to mention Gérard’s tendency to drown them with syrup - while lounging in the living room, a soap opera playing in the background. Amélie leaned on Gérard’s shoulder, opting to steal bites off his plate rather than grabbing her own.

Gérard just finished his off and gently pushed her off his shoulder, to her protests. “Do you want more or not?” He lifted an eyebrow, unable to stand with her weight tugging on him.

“Stay here,” she groaned, eyes half open and head half asleep.

Gérard rolled his eyes, but did as she asked, reaching as far as possible to set his syrupy plate on the coffee table. “You have sugar on your cheek,” he noted, brushing his thumb across her face. It lingered there, and she opened her eyes, smiling lazily.

Gérard watched her with a sense of regret behind his eyes, studying her face - the dark circles under her eyes, her gaunt cheeks, pale skin. It's not your fault, she wanted to say. But it is, another part of her thought, venturing back to the images she’d seen in his computer. His handiwork. His secrets brought her to this.

But that wasn't fair. She studied him right back, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the dark circles, the shadows of his face stretched long and his exhaustion. How hard did he work himself? What did he do to rid himself of the guilt? He tried to drown it, she knew. What else? Did I do this to you?

She banished those thoughts from her head and leaned forward, touching her lips to his jaw.

Gérard caught her cue to end the self loathing party and slid his hand up into her hair, his other arm around her waist and a chaste kiss to her forehead.

Before all this, they weren't so slow. Their movements used to be near frantic, hardly able to get enough of each other, lips crushed together, hands creeping beneath their clothes, rosy perfume and musky cologne swirling together into one. Now, they were slow and sweet, fingertips lingering in hair and chapped lips against burning hot skin.

Neither of them wanted sex. Even if they’d been in the mood for it - unlikely - they both had the thought: what would happen if Amélie didn't recognize him? If she woke up the next morning and screamed at the naked stranger in her bed? Logically, it shouldn't be a problem. But regardless, it stubbornly refused to leave, the thought that she wouldn't recognize him again. And knowing that there was no way to fix it. Stuck like this.

Amélie was the first to break away. The thought had lodged itself in the back of her mind, and now that it was there, she suddenly didn't feel too romantic at all.

She slid her hand down his arm, before squeezing his hand tightly. “ Je’taime,” she whispered.

“Je’taime,” he answered, maybe trying to give her a sweet smile, but only managing one filled with regret. He was never very good at hiding his feelings.

“Gérard?” She asked suddenly, impulsivity taking the reins.

“Yeah?”

“What's Blackwatch?”

His reaction is, at first, hard to notice. He goes still, eyes searching hers, widened by hardly a millimeter. A moment later, he relaxes and raises an eyebrow. “Where did you hear that?”

“Talon,” she says honestly. Accompanied by a lungful of water, she wants to add, and doesn't.

“Really,” he says, and now she can see the worry in his eyes. Panic.

“They were asking me about it.” Interrogating. Torturing. Take your pick.

“I thought you couldn't remember?” He's probing now, wondering if all she’s said to him is a lie. If she's an inside agent or if she's just traumatized. Maybe she should play the part.

She rubbed her face. “The.. first night I got back. I took a shower. When-” She pushed her hands into her hair, taking tight grips of her long locks. “When the water hit my face, I had a flashback. And I-” She couldn't say this to him. She couldn't tell him how she was tortured. She couldn't do that to him. Too late. “They were interrogating me. And they asked about Blackwatch.”

“Amé..” He started, his voice kept low by - what? Horror? Panic? Fear?

“I don't want to talk about it,” she snapped. “I just- that's all I can remember.”

He squeezed her hand. “It's.. it's just another Overwatch branch. It's nothing to worry about. Promise.”

She couldn't meet his eyes after that, pretending to pay attention to the screen. Nothing at all. Sombra was gone, because nothing she should worry about. A thought seized her - Gérard took her.  He wouldn't. He's done it before. He couldn't. How many people has he hunted down? Too many. She needed into the computer. A file - a file on Sombra. I can save her.

Chapter Text

Accessing Gérard’s computer proved more tricky than before. First, they had to head out to a movie - the date that she had so looked forward to. She kept catching herself thinking about a few romance killers: Genji, Sombra, Blackwatch, the knowledge that her husband was a murderer. Didn't make for the best small talk while waiting for the movie to start.

They’d stuck to tradition, picking a horror movie off the few that were in theaters this time of year. They never had any particular in mind, but more recently, they’d opted toward more psychological than slasher. Amélie had her own suspicions about why Gérard suddenly couldn't stand hacksaw murders in a cabin in the woods, but then again, she felt just as sick at the idea of someone being cut open.

They’d settled in at the back of the theatre, a container of popcorn set between their feet and a shared drink in the cupholder. Gérard entwined his fingers in hers, watching the opening of the movie with wide eyes. The plot so far was fairly typical - a chain of murders all connected across the country, with an attractive FBI agent intent on finding the killer.

Amélie grimaced at the scene in which the bodies were inspected. Gérard squeezed her hand tightly, sensing her unease.

Bodies on slabs. Bloodstained gloves. Slicing into the skin.

Her heart was frozen, she couldn't get enough air.

A hand slides into the chest cavity.

“Gérard,” she whispered, her voice hardly loud enough over the shrieking violins of the film.

And out comes -

“I need to go,” she managed.

A rose.

She was out of her seat before Gérard could reply, trying to avert her eyes from the bloodied roses the doctor continued to pull from the body. She left the gasps behind, sliding out of the dark theatre and into the light with a heaving chest. She leaned against the wall, shutting her eyes tightly.

An employee, standing across the hall, flashed her a sympathetic look. “Too scary? I heard it was pretty bad.”

Amélie ran her hand down her face, taking a deep breath. “I don't like gore,” she admitted.

The employee nodded, making a disgusted face, most likely imagining the nasty things happening inside the theatre. “Gross.”

“Very gross,” she agreed, the v-shaped scar on her torso burning against her skin.

The employee wished her luck on the movie, before continuing down the hall.

She couldn't even get through a damn autopsy scene, let alone a shitty two hour horror movie. After another minute, Amélie managed to gather her strength, and marched back inside, spotting Gérard easily. His face was one of exaggerated horror, grimacing at the sight on the screen. Purposely, she did not look.

Amélie slid in next to him, casually taking a handful of popcorn as if nothing had happened. The scene had changed, thankfully; a surreal one had replaced it, in which the hero walked through door after door and found that they couldn't find the way out. The rooms grew more strange with each pass, becoming larger and twisted and cavernous abysses in the floor, always with bodies covered in flowers draped across furniture as though they were guests.

Gérard leaned over to her, whispering that the killer had threatened the agent.

“And the flowers?”

He simply shrugged at that. Evidently, no explanation was provided.

The movie dragged on - Amélie couldn't tell if it was an especially good movie, or she’d just become more fragile. She hoped it was the former, but knew it was the latter.

The killer turned out to be the agent’s high school sweetheart, with a passion for nature and a hatred of litterbugs. Amélie hadn't enjoyed the several scenes that showed flowers being neatly positioned inside the corpses.

“That was ridiculous,” Gérard complained as they made their way out of the theater. “Just because people litter, they get murdered?”

Amélie rolled her eyes, leaning on him slightly. “That felt like a drawn out pollution PSA.”

“And the murderer that was across the entire country just happened to have dated the agent in high school. Complete coincidence. No correlation there.” Gérard almost sounded frustrated.

She only smiled and listened to him talk, enjoying the little details he’d picked up on, the plot twists he’d guessed, the betrayal he’d seen coming a mile away. He picked apart the plot until he started reiterating his points, then waxed poetic about the beauty of the shots and the acting and dramatic effects. He latched onto the symbolism, the motifs, and eventually decided that if given the time, he could write a better plot for it.

Most of the way home, he continued on about the movie, comparing it to ones they’d seen in the past - in her opinion, much better movies - and talked about the lead actor’s lack of depth whatsoever.

By the time they got home, the sun had set hours ago, and it was well past a reasonable time to sleep. Gérard fell asleep quickly. Amélie did not.

She stared at the ceiling, blankets tugged tightly around her as Gérard slept peacefully beside her. For how long, she didn't know - at some point she’d lost track of time. Any time sleep felt mercifully close, she was yanked awake by the sensation of falling through the air. She’d even grabbed Gérard instinctively, nearly waking him.

Finally, she rolled onto her side. The clock beside the bed blinked at her, reading 3:24 AM. She groaned softly, tentatively touching her feet to the cool floor. Gerard's phone sat on the nightstand next to the clock, close to dying. After a glance at his sleeping form, she slid it off the nightstand, thumbing through the innocuous notifications lining the screen. Nothing to arouse suspicion.

She palmed it, stepping lightly to escape the dark bedroom and Gérard’s soft breathing.

It was even darker downstairs, curtains pulled over the windows to hide the moon. Amélie slowly made her way to the small balcony, flicking the locks on the door open. She took a deep breath, then pulled them open, filling the room with a cool breeze and bright moonlight. She drank in the fresh air, her hair lifting off her shoulders in the wind.

She shut the doors behind her, set the phone on the seat overlooking the skyline, and braced her hands against the railing. The city stretched out above her, skyscrapers and lights surrounding her, stars hidden by the life below. This view was what had brought her to the apartment. They weren't above the city, but a part of it. The people on the streets below and buildings up above, all oblivious to her and Gérard’s existence.

In a strange way, it was nice to know that in the grand scope of things, she did not matter.

Jump, something whispered to her.

She tightened her grip on the railing, peeking down onto the streets. No way she’d survive a fall like that. Good.

She could feel the sensation of falling through the air, gravity tugging on her until she slapped against the ground with a crunch .

And they'd take her body away, to a dark little morgue, and cut her open for the last time, and maybe instead of a flower they’d find that she was already rotten inside, rotten to the core. A withered heart and collapsed lungs, shards of ribs like knives and a skull neatly bashed in. Maybe she would still have a pretty face.

Most likely, it would be a closed casket.

She leaned over the side of the railing, her eyes trailing after the headlights in the street.

Did she want to jump?

She wasn't sure.

Behind her, Gérard’s phone buzzed.

Eager to distract herself from this sudden dilemma, Amélie grabbed the phone and sunk into the seat, sliding it open to a texting history between him and Jack.

RECEIVED AT 3:26 AM

Sorry for sending so late. Need RVSP for party, y/n?

Amélie said nothing, pursing her lips at the text. Jack’s face next to his name smiled at her, his face reddened - he must've been drunk to let anyone see him smile, let alone get a picture.

She wouldn't have to go to the party if she jumped.

The city called to her, buildings leaning in close and lights beckoning her closer.

Not happening.

Amélie pushed through the balcony doors again, shutting and locking them behind her, before setting Gérard’s phone on the counter and sliding over to his computer. “Long time no see,” she muttered, remembering the last time - when Sombra disappeared. She pushed past the memory, unlocking the computer again and disabling the keylogger. For a moment- she watched the screen expectantly, hoping to see that spinning skull. Of course not.

She shoved those thoughts away, moving on to the files, though stray threads picked at her mind.

Would Sombra care if she died?

She made an irritated noise under her breath, pulling up the Blackwatch files she’d gone through before. She wasn't sure how to tell if any were new, and everything had obscure code names.

She’d care if Sombra was dead.

More and more, as she searched through the files, thoughts of what she might find shoved into her head. Images of her dead, bullethole in her forehead, or beaten bloody by some goon. Tortured. She'd let this happen. She’d let her get hurt.

No, she hadn't. She hadn't even found anything yet.

Which gave another suggestion - maybe worse than her first. She’d been duped. Sombra had made off with the info and pretended something bad had happened to her so Amélie wouldn't push into it. She was a naive child and Sombra too advantage of it. Which was more likely? Which was worse?

Amélie smacked her wrist against the desk, forcing herself to focus on something other than the possibility that she was a complete dumbass.

As she sorted through the files, she tried - and did not succeed - to put herself on autopilot, in hopes that it would help her tune out the small storm forming in her thoughts. Refusing to stay organized and letting her please for just one damn minute focus on something relevant -

Nothing that she could find made any mention of Sombra. No hacking, kidnapping, killing, torturing. She was just gone.

Which left even more options.

Sombra tricked her, Talon got her, Overwatch but not Gérard got her, she was murdered by some other asshole she pissed off -

There is no way for this to end well.

Amélie pushed out of the desk, shutting the computer off as she did. No Sombra. Not even a phone; Gérard said they’d grab it tomorrow. All she wanted was to talk to her about - what? Something, she guessed.

Did she even care about Blackwatch’s mysteries, or did she just want Sombra?

She was hard pressed to answer.

She missed having a friend that didn't baby her.

If they really were friends.

Amélie glanced back toward the bedroom door, half expecting Gérard to step through it. She shook her head slightly, ghosting across the room to the kitchen, heading toward that damn cabinet again, but of course, it was empty. No bottles. Maybe he was hoarding them all. Maybe he was getting drunk off his ass when she wasn't looking.

The kitchen, lit by the moonlight, looked ghostly, blue and white and glimmering in the moon’s - wait - she’d shut that door -

A sickening fear came over her as she stared down the barely open doors on the balcony, just an inch wide gap between them. She’d locked them, hadn't she? They were closed when she left. And she hadn't noticed - creaking doors - her stomach churned.

Someone was inside.

Chapter Text

Amélie snatched Gérard’s phone off the counter, blindly tapping Jack’s contact. Good enough, she thought, her eyes wandering to the bedroom door.

They want him dead.

But would they already be inside the bedroom, or slipped around her and checking the rest of the house? What are assassins supposed to do?

“Hello?” Jack’s voice came through, oddly not sleepy at all. Was he still awake at this time?

“I think someone broke in,” she whispered, slowly creeping up the stairs. She was wasting time. Gérard could be dead.

“What-?”

“There's no time , just get-” An arm snaked around her throat, cutting her off and dragging her back down the stairs, leaving her feet kicking. She choked, trying to slam her elbow against the attacker’s gut. “Who-”

The phone was ripped from her hand, then tossed across the room. A gloved hand pressed against her mouth.

Not again.

She managed to find her footing, though her attacker was trying to keep her off her feet. Amélie took a small step to the side, forcing the attacker to adjust their footing, grabbed their elbow, and brought her free hand back between their legs, punctuated by a sharp “ fuck” from them. Their grip on her throat loosened, and she took the opportunity to slam her elbow into their neck. The attacker stumbled backwards, and Amélie spun on her heel - who says martial arts are graceful anyways? - and tackled them to the floor.

Their face - mask - helmet - looked like a skull, with glowing red eyes glaring back at her. The hell-?

The Talon operative took advantage of her surprise to slam her onto the cool ground, pinning her in place with hands around her throat. A raspy whisper came from behind the mask, though it was impossible to hear what they were saying over her pounding heart and blood roaring in her ears. Amélie grabbed onto their wrists, soft leather digging into her neck, and hooked her ankle around theirs. The move locked the agent in place, and gave her the ability to simply roll over and end up on top again, slam her knee into their sternum, and - with a certain finesse - drive her fist into the mask repeatedly.

Half a minute later, the thing had begun to crack, much to the outrage of the agent pinned beneath her. They struggled against her, even punched back at her, with some kind of metal knuckles on the gloves, which definitely hurt, but Amélie was overcome with fury and couldn't bring herself to care about the blood dripping from her face onto the body below her.

“Amélie?” The voice was murky at first, muffled, like it was from their downstairs neighbors rather than right behind her.

“Amé,” it said again, and behind her, the safety of a gun was clicked off.

She froze, the world suddenly changed, as if all the color had been sucked out of it and now flooded in again. The agent’s bartered face and mask was in full color, deep red slick across it. Her knuckles stung, her hands soaked with blood, and a wet warmth on her face from where she’d been hit, too. A throbbing pain in her face, cuts on her face that made themselves known. Gérard was speaking to her, asking if she was alright, what happened, is she okay, please answer, just talk to me-

“I’m fine,” she finally spoke, her voice hoarse.

“Stand up,” he said, his tone dangerously calm. How long had she..

Amélie turned to see her husband, not pointing the gun at her, but at the agent. Had she really thought he would be threatening her? She slowly stood. Turned towards him. She could've collapsed, a sudden fatigue falling over her.

Gérard, though, looked more at home than ever with a gun in his hands. Like he was meant for it. He shifted his stance, keeping his sights trained on the agent’s cracked mask, one eye faintly glowing red and the other gone out. “Who are you?” He asked, though all three of them knew the answer.

The agent did not speak, simply laid on the ground with a heaving chest, the mask amplifying their gasping breaths. Didn’t even reach for a weapon.

Amélie finally spoke, after the years long silence, “I called Jack.”

Gérard simply nodded, clicked the safety on again, and handed it to her. “I’m going to search them. Keep this.”

The gun was heavy and cold in her hands, and though she’d handled rifles before, something about this felt off. More intimate. But she did as he asked, aiming at the agent, keeping her sights on that red eye as Gérard searched them quickly and easily, finding two guns, five knives - one in each boot, strapped to each arm, and the left thigh - and an honest to God grenade.

Just after he’d finished, a loud knock at the door startled all of them. “Lacroix? You in there?”

Gérard answered through the door. “We’re fine, Jack.” He slowly got to his feet, a bit of blood soaking his sweatpants, slid the locks open and let Jack inside.

Jack looked as though he’d been attempting to relax, but hadn't found the opportunity, evidenced by his casual jeans and t-shirt with a bullet proof vest thrown on just to complete the look. Not to mention his signature socks and sandals.

The humor of the situation was, just slightly, offset by the gun in his hands.

Gérard and Jack had a brief conversation, occasionally glancing at her and the Talon goon she didn't dare look away from. The mask had cracked along the side, revealing olive skin beneath it, though the exact tone was hard to tell beneath the beginnings of a bruise and blood dripping off the plastic. She allowed herself a faint smirk.

“Team’s on its way,” Jack said, making his way over to the agent and setting a foot on their chest. “You really did a number on this one.” He flashed an appreciative look at her, with a faint layer of confusion just beneath it.

“Thanks,” she muttered, eyes moving to Gérard’s, an exhausted smile on her lips- and that was enough for it to go to hell.

The agent knocked Jack on his ass, ripped the gun from his hand, twisted his arm backwards and turned it on Jack’s head. “Drop your gun,” they rasped at her.

Jack’s eyes went straight to hers, and he gave a faint shake of the head. Don’t.

“I’ll shoot him,” they warned.

Amélie's hands shook, the gun more noticeably so. Gérard held his hands out, trying to calm the situation, warning the both of them, and, with a certain grace, lunging at the agent and knocking the gun from their hands.

It fired.

The rest of that was a blur of movement and noise, blood spurting and the three of them all struggling, Amélie trying her best to get a shot at the agent, but she didn't dare fire when Gérard was in the middle of it. They yelled and cursed, fists flying and the gun skittering across the floor, wet with blood, leaving a trail of bright red, and she kicked it away before any of them could reach for it again, and screamed, stop, please, stop!

And, moments later, she fired.

At six in the morning, Amélie Lacroix was sitting in the waiting room of the Overwatch medical wing, next to a table of tabloids, waiting to hear if her husband was dead.

It wasn't an ideal state.

A nurse - she thought - had come by to fuss over her face, pressing a bottle into her hand and giving her vague instructions on how to deal with the myriad of cuts on her face.

Amélie went away to the bathroom, and realized why people in the waiting room had been giving her such wary looks. Her face was speckled with crusted blood, and dry blood was halfway oozing down her face from the cuts she’d gotten in the fight. Her nose was red and swollen, and the beginnings of a bruise had formed under her eyes by her nose. Against her sickly pale skin, she looked almost monstrous. She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, wet it and began rubbing - gently - on the red dotting her face.

It almost looked like rust, she thought, as she smeared it off. Like she was a metal statue, left out in the rain. Dull and lifeless.

She inspected the bottle the nurse had handed to her, a generic brand that read liquid bandage. It didn't take too long to figure it out, and she began smearing the clear liquid across her cuts. It did a good job of hiding them, giving her a semblance of normality. Other than the probably broken nose.

She found her seat in the waiting room again, and resigned herself to waiting and letting her mind wander.

She wouldn't have recognized a doctor if she’d tried, but she was trapped in the past two hours, replaying it in her head, seeing the blood and that mask and hearing the yells and the pained gasps. Gérard’s wide eyes as he touched a hand to his stomach and it came away dripping with blood. His body collapsing.

And no one would give her any damn news, after hours of waiting.

Her legs bounced as she waited for something, anything, and it took what felt like hours for a pretty blonde doctor to tell her kindly, “He’s pulled through.”

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, a weight lifting from around her neck. “Can I - could I see him?”

The doctor - Angela - frowned. “He’s not awake yet, he was just pulled out of surgery, and-”

“Please.” Amélie leaned closer to her, hands tightening on a magazine. “I need to see him.”

Angela hesitated, glancing around. “Well.. I suppose.”

Gérard’s room was quiet. The only sound was the heart monitor, in that less than reassuring way. At any moment, she expected it to suddenly flatline. For him to slip away, even after she’d been told he was in the clear. He wouldn't leave her like this. Amélie found a seat next to the bed, watching Gérard’s chest rise and fall underneath thin sheets. He looked so peaceful when he slept. The years melting off his face.

She leaned her head against the wall and resigned herself to waiting.

It didn't take long for Jack to appear, leaning in the doorway and awkwardly knocking on the frame. “Hey.. uh..”

“Morning,” she said flatly, giving him a little wave.

Jack didn't smile. “Let me know when he wakes up, will you? I - well, he did save my life.”

“Thankfully not by sacrificing himself.” Her tone was cool. She wasn't sure if she meant it to be or not - she’d just insulted the commander.

He didn't seem to mind. “I’m glad he's okay. I’ll- I’ve got some paperwork to deal with.” He laughed awkwardly, before turning on his heel and escaping the situation.

For a moment, Amélie considered following him. Maybe he’d lead her to the Talon agent that had done this. God, was she tempted to exact some of her own revenge. But Gérard’s soft breaths pulled her back to reality, as she waited for the cocktail of drugs they’d given him to wear off.

He was so frail now. Made of glass. A sweet face she wouldn't recognize if it proposed to her. His hair had been pulled back, somehow worsening his face. Sickly and gaunt, a thin coat of sweat. His eyes moved back and forth behind his eyelids, almost frantic. He’d wake up soon.

She could've stopped this. The thought, one of many similar, kept chipping away at her head: she could have prevented this. If only she’d - what? Killed the agent? Could she even bring herself to do that? Yes.

She’d killed one before. Maybe this one was an angry friend.

Her grip on the seat tightened, white knuckled until she forced herself to let out a breath. It was self defense. It wasn't her fault. It was self defense.

And yet they still had taken her.

She’d simply have to fight harder next time, then.

Kill them all.

“Am.. Amé?” Gérard was trying to sit up, blinking away his confusion.

“Morning,” she said softly, plastering on a smile as she knelt next to the bed. “How do you feel?”

He rubbed his face. “Like I just got cut open.”

“Good guess.” She took his hand, squeezing it gently. “They said it went well. We can go home soon.”

Gérard was already drifting back to sleep, and she doubted he’d remember a word she said.

 
As uneasy as the medical wing made her - scalpels and bloody white coats and the lemony scent of cleaning supplies - she wouldn't dare leave Gérard. So she stayed in that room watching her husband fall in and out of consciousness and doing the same, waking with fragmented dreams and the sense of danger. Only snatches of conversation and glimpses of the clouds. Being high in the air, only to fall.

Not her favorite way to spend a day.

She got it in her head, after having a brief conversation with Gérard and watching him fall asleep again, that she could go see Genji. And now, in the morning, when the hospital was busy could be a good cover. So many people flitting around, who would see one that didn't belong?

She did not admit to herself that she was, also, curious about the Talon agent.

It took ten minutes of silence for her to get up her courage. She stood, squeezed Gérard’s hand, and slipped between the curtains hiding him from view. She could just barely remember how to get back to Genji, twisting through the halls with uncertainty. At last, she’d found it again and pushed through the doors, catching them open.

The Shimada was on his feet, pacing the length of his little room, when she yanked the curtains shut behind her and he froze.

He was wearing a hospital gown, and it did little to conceal the extensive cybernetic replacements. From what she could tell, most of the prosthetics had been adjusted to a flesh tone just a touch too light to blend in. His jaw, though, was still black metal, and his face was scarred. His eyes were considerably more alert as he looked her up and down, likely considering if she was a threat.

She opened her mouth to speak, and found that she was completely unprepared for the possibility that he wasn't drugged up and unable to walk. “Hi?”

He stared back at her, eyes narrowed. “Hello.”

“Okay, so, I know this is a bit weird but I’m actually here to help-”

“I've had enough of your help,”  he spat at her, bristling with anger.

“No, no, actually-” She ran a hand through her hair. “I’m not.. Well, sort of not Overwatch. My husband is.”

“And I should care?” He was already done with this conversation, before she’d even started.

“Because I am here to get you out of this bullshit,” she snapped back, keeping her voice low. “I know the deal they gave you and I know it was fucked, and I’m here to try to help you.”

The anger in his face drained, until she realized he wasn't angry at all- not outraged. He was tired. “I appreciate the sentiment, Ms.-”

“Lacroix,” she supplied.

“Gérard’s wife? Amélie?”

She blinked at him, then nodded. “He-”

“Talked about you, yes. He visits often.” Genji glanced down at his hands, his hands balled into tight fists. She couldn't help but admire the prosthetic; it was sleek and glossy, and at a distance could be mistaken for a real limb. Perhaps that was what he had wanted.

“I hadn't realized..” She pursed her lips. “Look. I am.. working on a plan to get you out of this.” She hadn't ever brought it up to Sombra. She needed Sombra to even think about a plan, and yet she was alone now. Genji didn't need to know that, though. “With a friend.”

He stared at her, unaffected, though - with a glimmer of hope? “And how is that going, Ms. Lacroix?”

“It's a rough idea,” she admitted.

He turned away from her, tracing his hand across the bed. She wondered if he could feel the fabric: the texture, the softness, the weight of it. Maybe he was thinking the same. “Is that all you came for? To let me know you may be able to make me a criminal for a whole new reason?”

“You don't want to get out?” She faltered, stepping closer to him.

Immediately, though calm enough to make it seem like a coincidence, he turned to stare at her again. “You are not a trained operative. Forgive me, but I do not have faith in your abilities.”

“I want to help you-” She started, but he held up an immaculate hand.

“Your help is not needed. I would like it if you would leave, now.” He nodded to the closed curtains.

“I-” She rubbed her eyes. “Alright. Okay. I’m sorry.”

He relaxed as she gave in, though it pained her to do so.

“If, at any point, you want to talk about.. this, you'll be able to find me. Okay?”

He sounded amused, but conceded. “Fine. Now get out.”

She couldn't help but feel a bit foreboding as she did, thinking that he’d come around, eventually, and she could help him. He had to.

Chapter Text

For the second time in a week, Amélie was being debriefed by the strike commander.

Angela had given her some pain meds to ease the throbbing in her head, and a splint for her obviously fractured nose. She rubbed her fingers against it lightly, grimacing at the memory of the agent who’d given it to her.

She couldn't tell if the goosebumps on her arms were from the freezing temperature - anything she touched felt like ice - or from the concoction of anxiety, paranoia and bitter anger that’d been stirring in her since this morning. It didn't help that she’d been waiting for the commander himself for at least fifteen minutes. In a small, lonely, cement gray interrogation cell. It certainly didn't help the aforementioned cluster of mental issues.

Finally, Jack stepped into the tiny interrogation room, tired as ever with dark bags under his eyes. The standard look around Overwatch HQ, apparently.

“So,” he began, taking a seat. “What happened?”

She appreciated he didn't attempt small talk - she was far too tired for it. Amélie launched into her story, conveniently leaving out the fact that she was going through Gérard’s phone and computer. I was just getting water, and I noticed the balcony door was open, so I called you. The agent attacked me. I fought them off until Gérard woke up, then you showed up.

It didn't go on too long; it was a simple story. Jack asked a few questions, some just phrased differently, and she answered honestly.

He gave her a tired, plastered on smile, said she was free to leave and held the door open for her.

“Jack,” she said hesitantly.

He stopped, watching her carefully. “Yeah?”

"Did you-” She grimaced. “Did you find anything on that Talon agent?”

Jack glanced at the half open door, then, agonizingly slowly, pulled it closed. He dragged a hand down his face. “Ran her fingerprints. Her name’s Lily Sotelo. And we have no idea how she got a gig at Talon.”

“Lily Sotelo,” she repeated, mind drifting back to the attack. “That's all you have?”

He pursed his lips. “I shouldn't be telling you this. Talon’s already..” he trailed off, suddenly awkward.

“Kidnapped and interrogated me? I’m well aware.” Grow a spine, Jack.

He grimaced at her, glancing away long enough to look guilty, then stubborn. “I will not be putting you in more danger by giving you information.”

“So I’m just going to be left in the dark?” She didn't break eye contact with him, forced him to hold her gaze.

“You might have forgotten, Ms. Lacroix, you are a civilian. You are not entitled to what info I share, and as a matter of fact, you will not receive said info in your lifetime unless you decide to join Overwatch, and even then, you will not gain this information unless it is pertinent to your duty. Do you understand?” Jack’s tone had lost all sense of familiarity, and once again, they were strictly business. He spoke to her as if she actually were a recruit. She preferred it that way.

“I understand.” She rose, scooting the metal chair back as slowly as possible, causing it to drag against the floor and squeal. She and Jack eyed each other one last time before she stepped through the half open door, leaving him in the room alone.

Gérard was cleared to go just after eight in the evening, and thankfully he had gotten some color back in his face. Amélie had to practically force him to let her drive, so keen was he on proving his health.

She kept glancing at him as she drove - a terrible idea - and he dozed during the ride, a cycle she saw he was trapped in. He would relax, his eyes drift closed, at last, peace, and then they would snap open and he would breathe in sharply: not quite a gasp, not a simple breath.

With the state both of them were in, they shouldn't have been driving at all. She held the steering wheel with white knuckles, hands cramped by the time they got home.

Amélie hadn't slept in over a day, and what little sleep Gérard had gotten didn't seem to help him much. The first thing he did after stepping into the apartment was collapse on the couch, groan and maybe fall asleep.

She noted, not without unease, that the bloodstains from this morning had gone.

Amélie set about making something for them to eat - the cafeteria food had been terrible - and found she was hard pressed for anything that didn't require at least twenty minutes. Her growling stomach protested.

Finally, she settled on a pack of instant noodles, left the water to boil and returned to Gérard, who was lying on his stomach with his arm hanging over the side of the couch.

She watched him silently for a moment, hesitating to bother him. It's my fault. She should've stopped the agent - Sotelo.

Should've killed her.

Slowly, she knelt down next to him, putting them at eye level, if he were to open his. “We have a bed, you know.”

Gérard did not lift his head, instead groaning tiredly and whispering, “Shhh.”

Amélie brushed his sweat-slicked hair and her lingering anxiety aside, pressed a kiss to his feverish forehead, and pulled herself to her feet. “Hungry, or tired?”

“Both,” he mumbled.

“Food’s going to be ready in five minutes, maybe,” she glanced at the quickly boiling over pot, “Or sooner.”

“You can't cook, chérie.” His voice was muffled.

“I’ve definitely noticed that.” She quickly brought down the heat of the stove, wincing as the water boiled over and sizzled on the metal burner. She didn't have anything to stir it with - for fuck’s sake. She found a wooden spoon, doing her best to handle the current crisis without alerting Gérard.

“Is something burning?”

“Water does not burn!”

“And I thought that, until I met you.”

She scoffed loudly at him, dumping the solid brick of noodles into the water as she did, and failing to escape the splashing water that stung her wrist. “Ow- merde-”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, don't worry about it!” She half sang, laughter bubbling in her throat as Gérard lifted his head and side-eyed her suspiciously.

In the end, they had a meal of just slightly undercooked and unevenly flavored ramen, but that's fine, because everyone makes mistakes, and not everyone is good at cooking, Gérard.

Gérard elected to sleep on the couch, and to be honest, Amélie wouldn't have wanted to climb the stairs either. She brought down the quilt, the nicest pillow they had, and let him quietly rest.

She wasn't ready to sleep just yet, though her body and mind dragged down with each step. She resolved this by popping a cup into the coffee maker and - stealthily - borrowing Gérard’s keys.

While the machine churned, she watched him carefully, searching for any sign of faking sleep. But it seemed he was out, at least for now.

She took her coffee, her keys, her coat and set out once again, the bitter wind slapping her in the face the moment she stepped outside the building. Coat flapping behind her, she slid inside, fingers fumbling on the controls to start warming up the interior.

She didn't know what she was doing. Not really. She skipped through radio channels as she pulled out of the parking lot, waiting for something to pull her out of reality. The expected instinct came over her, as she navigated the all too familiar streets - get out of here. Just drive and drive and never look back, watch the sun and moon rise and set and keep driving, until you find what you're looking for, that inner peace, sense of self, home. Make yourself anew.

She settled for cruising along the dark roads, following the street lights that glowed ever so gently in the foggy night.

Dark clouds slid over the moon, and sure enough, little droplets of rain splattered across the windshield. She glanced at them quietly, as they slid down the glass, collecting together.

She was drifting off the road. She scowled, corrected herself, watching the thin white line in her peripheral. The road, soon wet, reflected the traffic lights, red flicking into green.

God, she wanted to go home.

When did she stop thinking of this as home? She spared a glance in the rear view mirror at the stark white splint on her nose, her tired eyes. Maybe it had when she started getting beaten by Talon goons on the regular.

Home was in Annecy, shielded by mountains and looking out on the gentle lake, the sense of peace always waylaid by tourists trying to find the museum, or the film festival, or whatever else they came for. The canals, her own personal Venice. When she was younger, she couldn't wait to get out, to see the world in all its glory, climb every mountain, swim in every sea, brave the cold of the Arctic and the heat of the Sahara - take in everything the world had to offer her.

And yet, all she wanted now was to go back. She’d achieved none of what she thought she would, much less all that she’d wanted to, and all she had to show for it was a broken nose and emotional baggage.

She could coax Gérard to go on vacation, maybe. He couldn't work with a hole in him, could he? Would he?

She could never make him retire, she realized. Not now. Not while he thinks he’s achieving his life’s work - keeping peace in a chaotic world. Making a change.

Maybe that was their fundamental difference. Gérard wanted to make a big enough ripple in the water to save the world, and she was content to ride it out.

Live a mediocre life, and quietly fall into the dark without so much as a splash.

Is that really what she wanted?

The rain had started falling harder, fat drops slapping against the windshield. The glow of the streetlights was amplified in the droplets, foggy yellow narrowed to pinpricks of light. Up ahead, the park - her park - sat neatly in the rainstorm, the little creek’s waters swelled up, turned opaque by the sliding mud.

On impulse, she turned into the tiny parking lot, the car sliding just barely on the slick road. A brief spark of panic found its way into her chest, but she smothered it, slowly and deliberately parking right up against the curb.

She let out a slow breath as she leaned back, watching the rain slide down the windshield. She tapped off the windshield wipers, then ran a hand through her hair, scowling at how greasy it felt. She’d been neglecting herself. Forgetting about simple things.

She rested her hand on the door handle. Water still streamed down the windshield, splitting off into rivulets. Without thinking, she popped open the door, and cold water splashed onto her wrist. She shuddered, but pushed the door open further, as raindrops plopped down onto her hand.

Her heavy coat was not a raincoat, but she couldn't bring herself to care, and slowly stepped from the car, lowering her head to keep the water off her face.

It was hard not to think of what had happened in Talon, that faint memory she barely had a grasp of, of trying to breathe and finding no air, her head dunked again and again into freezing water. She could feel the rasp of her throat from hacking up water for days, the water that clung to her eyelashes and skin that felt like slime rather than any kind of nourishment.

She straightened, holding tightly to the car door, but still keeping her head low as the rain soaked through her coat. I am not defined by my past.

Slowly, cautiously, she closed her eyes, lifted her chin, and faced the sky.

Plop.

A drop slapped against her cheek and fell away, sliding down her neck.

Another drop against her eyelid. It hovered uncertainly, then slid down the side of her face.

She took a deep breath, waiting for something. She didn't know what. A flashback, revulsion, sudden inspiration or a memory, anything.

Plop. Plop. Plop.

The water fell harmlessly against her face, seeming to pause and inspect her, before sliding away.

“I am not defined by my past,” she said aloud, the words soft.

The sky rumbled, laughing at her.

Her face wet with the rain now, she said again, louder, “I am not defined by my past.”

She looked silly. She knew that. Some lost woman standing in the rain trying to find herself, shouting at the sky a dramatic line she’d probably taken off some movie. Shit, maybe she’d even gotten it from that horror movie.

The thought brought a laugh to her, thinking she was borrowing some fake deep bullshit from a terrible movie.

But for now, at least, it worked. She was okay. She would pull through. And she would do what was needed.

If only she could figure out what that was.

Chapter Text

It took her what felt like ages to get back home. Too many times, she felt her eyes drifting shut as she drove - her coffee was long forgotten in the cupholder, far too cold to drink. At some point, she felt that each time she blinked, it became harder and harder to open her eyes again. Her fingers fumbled with the keys, cold enough that they felt numb.

Gérard was still asleep when she slid inside, splayed across the couch. He looked close to falling off, one leg resting against the floor and the other hanging off the cushion.

She slid out of her coat awkwardly, goosebumps rising along her arms as she did her best to pull him back onto the couch, fingers wandering over the bandage on his chest after she was forced to roll him over onto his back. His chest rose and fell, soft breaths hardly able to be heard over her own heart. His expression was tight - brows furrowed, nose wrinkled, mouth just faintly curled into a grimace. A bad dream, maybe. She’d had her fair share, after all.

How long had she gone without a nightmare? Two days, maybe. Actually, it probably didn't count if she hadn't slept in that long.

As she moved up the stairs, she tiredly peeled off her wet clothes, sticking to her skin irritatingly. She flung them into the corner of the bedroom, and, finding that to be good enough for now, fell into bed. She tugged the blankets up to her shoulder at random, ending up with a lopsided blanket that didn't quite cover her toes, but decided it wasn't worth the effort to fix it. She tucked her feet up, let her eyes fall closed, and slept.

At least, tried. She drifted in and out of sleep, tossing and turning most of the night. When she caught a glimpse of the alarm clock, it read tauntingly, 1:02 AM.

Va te faire foutre, she thought tiredly.

It felt like much longer than a few hours, but eventually, she slipped away.

She was in a morgue. She knew this instinctively, seeing the silver drawers lining the wall. She walked, barefoot, across the cold tile, pausing at the first drawer, before sliding it out.

The woman she’d murdered lay on the tray, blank eyes forever open and staring. A small dot of black bloomed across her shirt, soaking it through. Blood. Her neck was twisted at an ugly angle, from tumbling down a flight of stairs, she noticed. A thin vine snaked around her neck, seeming to grow thicker and longer as she watched it correct the snapped bone, aligning the woman’s head with her body.

Her fingertips ghosted over the corpse’s eyelids, and she eased them shut.

She slid open the next drawer, and knew it was Genji’s. A half assembled man lay sprawled in the drawer, torso split open to reveal a delicate system of clockwork tick tick ticking away, dead eyes wide in horror, mouth open in a silent scream. Nestled inside him, where a heart might lay, was a small, white flower with hundreds of petals. A few had fallen from the bud, floating through the mangle of clockwork before being caught and ground to nothing inside the complex machine.

She closed his eyes, and moved on.

The next drawer she knew to be Sombra’s. A body lay flat in the tray, white sheet up to the neck and a lace mask shaped as a skull resting on her face. Small, purple flowers sprouted from the veins in her wrist, twisting around her fingers before rising gently towards her. Little faces, pulled taut on their string by the puppeteer.

She reached for the mask, and the drawer slid shut.

The next drawer was Sotelo, she knew, as she slid it open. The helmeted mask still sat on her face, half crushed, slick with blood. It's red eye no longer glowed. From her bloodied eye grew thick green leaves, spreading across her head and face, down to her neck and shoulders, wreathing her in a crown of stinging nettles.

She touched her hand to the blood spreading from her chest, and stepped to the next.

This drawer she knew to be his. Black and white roses were entwined around him, sprouting from his neck and twirling down his body like an anaconda, thorns digging into his flesh. The soft petals had created a bed beneath him, sweet and fragrant. Gérard’s peaceful face stared up at her, eyes shut as if he were asleep. Were it not for the blood seeping from his skin, she would think he was.

She touched her palm to his cheek, and the drawer slid shut.

The last drawer opened.

Her own face stared back at her, mouth just slightly open as though surprised. Eyebrows lifted in shock, staring into nothing. As she watched herself, flowers began to grow from her mouth. White lilies bloomed from her, trumpets raised high and proud. A sickly sweet scent spread through the air, and she leaned closer, and -

She lay in the drawer. She could not speak. She could not scream. She choked on the lilies, petals drifting from her open mouth, tears brought to her eyes, as she saw herself lean down, inspect the horror before her, and ease her eyes shut with two fingers.

In some ways, the darkness was a relief.

She was surprised to realize that the screaming she woke to was not, in fact, her own, but rather Gérard’s.

The first thought she had was that Sotelo was back.

Amélie stumbled out of bed, her legs shaky, and yanked her robe from the bathroom, tying it quickly as she rushed and almost tripped down the steps in the dark. “Gérard?”

Gérard had slid off the couch, tangled in a mess of blanket that he was struggling to escape from, letting loose an almost animalistic scream. He kicked wildly, his own hand finding his throat and clawing at it in desperation.

“Gérard!” Dread crawled its way through her, digging its nails into her as she knelt in front of him, waving a hand in front of his face. “Mon cher?”

If he recognized her, he showed no sign of it, and instead grabbed her wrist, babbling too quickly for her to understand a thing he said.

“Gérard-” She tried again, reaching for his shoulder. He recoiled from her touch, his back pressed against the couch, and kept trying to speak. His grip around her wrist tightened, white knuckled.

I did this to him, she thought, feeling as if she’d just put her heart through a meat grinder.

He managed one word: “Please-” before the fear slid off his face, replaced by confused relief. “Am- Amélie?” He let go of her wrist and stared at his hand, a new horror in his eyes.

His face was lit by the moon behind her, giving him a gaunt look that simultaneously gave the tears in his eyes a bright shine.

“You're okay,” she whispered, hesitantly touching her hand to his shoulder. He melted at her touch and let her pull him closer, a sharp sob in his throat. She held him tightly as tears pricked at her eyes, but stayed quiet, murmuring reassuring words to him for who knows how long.

“It's okay,” she said. “Just breathe, mon cher. Just breathe.” 

They didn't sleep deliberately, but of course, it crept up on them, as they sat curled on the couch together with the television playing, voices of over dramatic actors easing them to sleep.

Amélie tried to sleep. She wasn't quite sure if she did, but the late night movie seemed to be different each time she noticed it, so that must've been something.

At some point, after the light through the blinds began to stretch across their faces, grown golden red, she gently pulled away from Gérard’s maybe-sleeping-maybe-resting form, and set about writing a small note. Getting breakfast so I don't burn down the apartment. - A

She borrowed one of his neon green sticky notes, slapped it against the black refrigerator, and set off.

Gérard’s favorite meals were always the simplest, but since Amélie could probably set water on fire if she tried, she opted for a fast food breakfast. She ordered quickly, feeling, almost, a semblance of normality as she went through the mundane motions, handing money to the cashier through the window, nearly dropping a bag into the parking lot.

But as she got closer and closer to home on the drive back, greasy food filling the car with its stench, she couldn't help but think of what might be waiting for her. Gérard, dead in his sleep. Another Talon agent taking advantage of his wound to put a bullet between his eyes. A crime scene, bustling with Overwatch agents and the police, who would all see her walk in, stare at her in horror, Gérard’s bloodied body hanging off the couch, taunting her - you couldn't save him.

What she did not think to find when she walked into her apartment, two brown bags in her hands, was a stranger and her husband in the middle of a conversation.

The two of them broke their conversation as she stalled in the doorway, confusion clearly written across her face. “Gérard?”

The stranger spoke. “I was, uh, just checking up before I head in today. Oh, and - “ they seemed to remember something - “Picked this up for you.” They slid a cell phone from their pocket, holding it out to her.

Amélie blinked again, embarrassment washing over her as she took note of the black beanie and realized it was Gabe. Idiot. “Sorry, I didn't- um-” she set the bags on the countertop, moving to take the phone from his hands. “You bought me-?”

Gérard quickly shook his head, sitting up straighter. “No, no, I just asked him to pick it up for us. Since..” he gestured vaguely towards his wound.

She slid her fingers across the sleek surface, forcing an awkward smile. “Thank you.”

Gabe cleared his throat, standing. “Well, um, I just wanted to make sure you guys were doing alright, since, you know.” He tugged the hem of his beanie down over his ears, picking his coat up from where it had been dropped over the couch’s arm. “You still on for that party this Friday?”

Gérard and Amélie exchanged a look, both uncertain. Before either of them could answer, Gabe hurriedly rolled past it, giving Gérard a mock salute. “Hope you're better soon. And, Amé-” He locked eyes with her, gaze suddenly intense. “I look forward to talking to you soon.”

Oh.

She smiled half heartedly, waving him goodbye as he stepped out the door.

He wanted to talk about Blackwatch. Now? Or later? Fuck - at the party? 

She’d have to go now, then. She’d have to go to a shitty holiday party filled with agents so she could learn more about their secrets, and somehow, not get caught. Sneak into a bathroom with Gabe, as if it were a party full of high schoolers trying to get drunk and lucky. That is, if it wasn't a trap in the first place.

Would Gabe pull her into a trap?

They were friends, weren't they?

Without missing a beat, Gérard pushed himself off the couch. “So.. I smell food.”

“How could I have ever tried to fool your bloodhound senses?” She rolled her eyes, smiling just a little as she tossed one of the brown bags at him. “Bon appétit.”

They spent the rest of the day lazily, watching whatever came on and making snarky comments to each other about it. 

“He has about all the skills of a first grader playing pretend.”

“Less than.”

All the while she traced the outline of her new cell phone, fingertips sliding across the black screen, and a burst of vibration in her hands pulled her chest tight.

Have mercy on me.

She made sure Gérard wasn't looking, then spared a glance at her phone screen. Glimmering up at her, a single message.

RECEIVED AT 6:13 PM
Miss me?

Chapter Text

The plan to talk to Sombra was the same as usual - wait for Gérard to pass out before even attempting it. She watched the clock nervously, the minutes achingly slowly counting upwards as their movie went on and on. Once in awhile, Gérard would stifle a yawn and she’d hold her breath. So close. If only he would go to bed.

Around the two and a half hour mark after Sombra had sent her the message, she realized something. He wasn't going to sleep. The movie had ended and a new one begun, yet another movie about a secret agent on the run.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, silently willing him to sink into the cushions and let his eyes drift shut. But of course not - he watched the movie, his attention pinned to the screen. Perhaps he saw himself in it. He was the hero of his story, doing what was right, saving the world by cracking skulls and tearing down resistance. He needed this to assure himself, perhaps.

Was that fair? She didn't know quite how far his views stretched. If he regretted it, enjoyed it. Was it better to prepare for the worst? Hope for the best?

He wasn't a cruel person. She refused to believe so. Maybe he thought what he was doing was best. But he had the best intentions in mind. He wouldn't hurt people for his own enjoyment. For most of their childhood, he’d let people walk all over him. Polite and shy and anxious. Never hurtful.

Maybe he had a hidden side. She’d never know without Sombra’s help.

Maybe he would tell her himself.

The impulse to ask him struck her like a belt, a sharp and stinging need to know .

She smoothed over that impulse, pushing off the couch and sliding her phone into her pocket, feeling it burning against her side. “I think I’ll head to bed.”

“Feeling alright?” He glanced up at her, eyes questioning, concerned. Suspicious.

“Fine, fine.” She gave him a tired smile. “Just haven't slept well.”

Gérard leaned forward, pushing off the couch just enough to give her a one armed hug, so that his wound didn't press against her. “Sleep well, chérie.”

“And you, mon cher ,” she answered, slipping away from him.

Her feet were silent as she made her way upstairs to the bedroom, the weight of her phone dragging her down. She was hyper aware of it - of Sombra - she was back - safe - where had she gone?

The moment she eased the door shut, a sweet click, the phone was out and open to the chat history, filled only with those two words - miss me?

You have no idea, she thought, thumbs tapping out the fastest message she’d sent since school.

SENT AT 8:43 PM

What the fuck happened?

She didn't care much for Sombra’s casual snark when the last she’d heard of her was gunfire and a cutoff message. As much as her return had eased her fears, the situation warranted a bit more seriousness than cute nonchalance.

And, for the first time in her conversations with her accomplice, Sombra did not answer immediately.

Amélie began to pace the bedroom as the seconds ticked by, the minutes wore on, and silence from Sombra continued.

She fussed over the phone in her hands, then sourly tossed it on the bed - only to return to it seconds later in hope of a new development. “Come on, you shithead,” she muttered.

As if hearing her insult, a message popped up onto the screen.

RECEIVED AT 8:51 PM

Long story. Not important.

SENT AT 8:51 PM

I thought you died.

RECEIVED AT 8:53 PM

Sorry to disappoint you. Still kicking, but here's the relevant shit: I need to be careful about when we talk, or else we’ll have a repeat. You don't text me first, wait for me. Got it?

She ran a hand through her hair, shut her eyes and took a long, slow breath. Okay. Okay. Fine. We’re fine.

SENT AT 8:54 PM

Fine.

RECEIVED AT 8:54 PM

Speaking of. I need to go now. Don't text. Wait for me.

Amélie stared at the screen of her phone, hardly registering it. Mother fucker. Her fingers tightened on the casing, white knuckled grip, and if she could she would snap the damn thing in half - I waited three hours to be told off?

And now she had to stick with the pretense of going to bed. And actually attempt sleep, after that - whatever it was nightmare. Fuck, she wanted a drink. And yet, nothing in the house. Fucking bullshit.

She dropped the phone on the bed, picked up a pillow, pressed it to her face and screamed.

A few moments later, she heard from downstairs, an almost worried but not totally: “Are you dying?”

She blew out a breath. “I’m fine!”

A second’s pause. “Cool!”

She did not sleep. Probably. Most of the night was spent staring at the ceiling and thinking back on how she could absolutely not sleep ever again. Not even a chance.

Gérard woke her up.

He slid into bed next to her, mumbling reassurances that it was him, promise, as he pressed a kiss to her forehead and warm arms tugged her close.

Maybe sleeping wasn't so bad, she concluded, snuggling closer against him.

And, of course, he had work today. The blaring alarm on the nightstand shocked her out of her doze, and she slapped her her hand around it until she finally got it off.

Gérard’s arms shifted as he stretched, a tired groan on his lips.

“No,” she whined, wrapping her arms around his waist. “No work.”

He snorted quietly. “I can't be sick every day, chérie.”

“You can be shot, though.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Not yet.” She finally opened her eyes, glancing up at him with a little smirk on her face.

He yawned, specifically lifting his arms away from her. “Well, unless you plan to do so, I still have things to do, and..”

“Please?” Just this once. Don't leave. Don't get hurt again. Stay here, safe, happy, forever in this moment. No more conspiracies and secrets. Just the two of them, in this perfect micro-moment.

But all things end.

Gérard shook his head, tracing his fingertips along the side of her face, studying her eyes. “Je t’aime.”

She groaned, eyes drifting shut again. “Asshole.”

“I know.”

After Gérard left, she didn't have any idea what to do. The apartment felt emptier than usual. Hollow. Shadows were longer, the sun was glaring, air stale and stiff. At one point, she pulled open a window to get a breeze, but the bitter cold that filled the apartment made her change her mind almost immediately.

Time seemed to pass in slow motion and on fast forward all at once - it’s been ten in the morning for three hours, at least - wait, wasn't it just noon, how is it two?

She made do. Tried cooking lunch. It did not work. Watched a few more movies, or at least went through the motions of it. And as much as she tried to convince herself she wasn't waiting for Sombra, of course she was. Waiting by the phone for a text like it was high school all over again.

She distracted herself with anything she could think of, paced the apartment half a dozen times, switched channels on the TV back and forth, and reread a book she hadn't touched for at least three years. Then, at last - the phone buzzed.

She scrambled over to it, dropping the book on the couch.

RECEIVED AT 5:49 PM

Sorry about that. Slight emergency, but it's been dealt with.

SENT AT 5:50 PM

How long can you talk?

RECEIVED AT 5:50 PM

Not sure. I should be good for a while, though.

SENT AT 5:51 PM

What have you found?

RECEIVED AT 5:53 PM

I guess we’re getting right to business. Long story short: a metric shit ton of bullshit.

SENT AT 5:53 PM

Is that good?

RECEIVED AT 5:54 PM

There's no chance that Overwatch won't be done for once this gets out. So, yeah. Also, a very recent interrogation clip. You were attacked?

She already knew about it. Figures.

SENT AT 5:56 PM

Talon agent got inside my place. No one died.

RECEIVED AT 5:56 PM

Ouch. I found that agent’s interro clip. It's.. not great.

SENT AT 5:57 PM

What do you mean?

Sombra did not answer, and instead, she received a video. Not great. What did that even mean?

She tapped on the video and it filled the screen, an image of what looked like camera footage of an interrogation cell. The same kind she’d been in.

The agent - Sotelo - was seated at the table, and she had to squint a bit to see her face. For the first time, seeing her without that terrifying mask.

The dark gray armor had been stripped off of her, leaving her in a fresh white shirt that hung off her frame, far too big for it to be her own. A stark white patch of gauze covered her eye, though what looked like blood had dried where it had oozed down her face. The beginning of a bandage was just visible above her shirt, and she was cuffed to the center of the table, forcing her to lean forward in her seat. The most hard to swallow part of the image was that she stared straight into the camera, and Amélie felt as if she could see her through the screen.

Amélie hadn't realized the video was sped up until, in the space of fifteen seconds, an Overwatch officer entered the room, sat down, gestured wildly, and left.

Sotelo hadn't said a word.

Amélie glanced at the time stamp in the corner, scrolling through the hours quickly. The only tell that she wasn't staring at a still image was when she shifted in her seat, the speed painting it as quick, jerky movements. The timestamp kept going, hitting four in the morning, then passing through to noon, evening.. it just kept going.

A few times, the agent would come in again, probably asking questions, offering her deals, threatening to give her a life sentence. At one point, she rested her head on the table, maybe sleeping.

At this point, the footage slowed. She held her breath.

The Overwatch agent stepped inside, holding a water bottle with the label torn off.

Sotelo shifted, not quite awake yet.

The agent shook the bottle, kicked the table leg.

She still did not raise her head.

The agent uncapped the bottle, tipped it over, and poured the water over her head.

Sotelo jerked upright, trying to lift her hands to fight off the agent but finding them still cuffed to the table.

The agent poured out the rest of the water, soaking her through, and dropped the bottle in her lap.

Sotelo was fuming. She’d wrapped her hands around the chain of the cuffs, leaning back as far as she could, glaring at the agent.

The agent leaned close to her, whispering something.

She slammed her head forward and broke the agent’s nose.

The blood was clearly visible on the footage, bright red against the agent's face and staining Sotelo’s already soaked through shirt.

A sickening knot in her stomach, Amélie closed out of the video, her hands shaking as she tried to type out a message to Sombra.

SENT AT 6:09 PM

When was that

RECEIVED AT 6:10 PM

Three days ago. Right after medical care.

SENT AT 6:11 PM

How long

RECEIVED AT 6:13 PM

As of this morning, 51 hours without food or water, limited sleep, and isolation besides the agent you saw. She’s still in there.

Amélie set the phone down and pressed her palms to her eyes, fighting off the image of Sotelo staring straight at her. This is your fault, she taunted. After a moment to breathe - in, out - she picked up the phone.

SENT AT 6:16 PM

What do we do?

RECEIVED AT 6:17 PM

Can't do anything yet. Not until I release this stuff.

SENT AT 6:17 PM

We have to do something

RECEIVED AT 6:18 PM

Look. I know you're upset. But if we interfere now, we’re in deeper shit than we already are. She's just going to have to hold out.

SENT AT 6:19 PM

Then why did you even show me that?? If we can't do shit to help her what is the point?

RECEIVED AT 6:20 PM

In case you got too comfortable with Overwatch again.

There was no denying that her words were a warning. The company she was keeping was entirely Overwatch. Hell, she was even headed to a party on Friday filled with them. For information, she thought. Or a trap.

Her phone buzzed again.

RECEIVED AT 6:22 PM

Gotta go. Same deal as last time. Good luck.

Amélie blew out a slow breath, leaning back on the couch. “Perfect.”

Chapter Text

Amélie hated parties. Up until recently, she used to love them - there was nothing more intimate than a crowd. She loved the chance to talk to her friends and relax instead of stressing about whatever needed to be done. This time, though, an anxious worm had been burrowing in her chest, growing bigger and bigger as the minutes wore on and the time for the party crept closer.

She’d called it a work party before, but it wasn't quite. Overwatch was far too big for a huge gathering, so it was more of a small group of friends than an actual party. Ana was hosting it this time, while Fareeha was visiting her dad. Her home was shockingly large, on the outskirts of the city where it had just made the transition to suburbia. She and Gérard greeted Ana warmly at the door, all smiles and politeness - “Happy holidays!” - and Amélie quietly slipped away. She’d only promised Gérard an hour before she wanted to go home.

She needed to find Gabe. Sombra had disappeared once again, radio silence, and the knowledge of what was happening to Sotelo was eating her alive.

Her nightmares were getting worse, too. Gérard had been spared, but now she was infected - waking up in a cold sweat at least three times during the night, struggling to get back to sleep, memories of drowning taunting her from the edges of her subconscious. She couldn't ever breathe . She almost faked sick just to keep from coming to the party. But she needed to know. And he was willing to tell her, wasn't he? He’d promised her over a week ago.

She made idle conversation for a while, glancing over shoulders for him, growing more nervous and impatient the longer she waited. She’d explode if she had to wait any longer.

At last, she caught a glimpse of him - it took a minute for her to tell, but the beanie gave it away - between Jack and Gérard, with a big fat smile on his face. He caught her eye, the smile sliding off his face for just a moment. He excused himself from his conversation, then wandered over towards her, near the back of the room.

“Evening,” he said, awkwardly.

She pursed her lips, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Get me a drink and then we’ll talk.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “We’re on the same page, here, right-?”

She snorted. “Don't flatter yourself. Meet me outside for a smoke break.”

She could her him laughing to himself as he slid into the kitchen, and she rolled her eyes as she made her way to the back patio. The door gently clicked shut, and she leaned against the wall next to it, breathing in the cold, fresh air. This was already a mistake.

No. She’d come too far to turn back now. He would help.

Minutes later, the door opened again, and Gabe handed her a red plastic cup.

She wrinkled her nose, eyeing the dark liquid. “What’s this?”

“Beer.” He swirled his in his own cup, then gulped at least half of it down. “How much do you know?”

She didn't make eye contact with him, staring out into the dark. The weather had jumped between rain and snow all day, a slick coating of ice on most everything and a spattering of snow on the ground, like powdered sugar on a glaze. “More than I’m supposed to.”

“Figured.”

She took a long drink, grimacing at the taste. “How much are you willing to tell me?”

“More than I’m supposed to,” he echoed.

She took a deep breath and sipped the bitter drink. “Is he the same?”

“Elaborate.”

She rubbed her face. “Is he hiding some big terrible secret from me? Is he a sadistic murderer? Does he drink the blood of virgins? Does he transform into a wolf when he sees the full moon?”

Gabe choked on his drink, a laugh bubbling out of his throat. “Jesus. No, he's not. As far as I know.”

“Comforting,” she muttered into her drink.

“You shouldn't..” He blew out a breath. “It's not something you should worry about.”

“What, the human rights violations or the lack of oversight?”

Any remaining light-heartedness was sucked out of him at her words. “I’m sorry?”

She lowered her drink, turning to look him in the eye. God, she was so tired of hiding. Walking on eggshells, trying not to let on just how much she knew. “I've seen just what Blackwatch does, Gabe. I know you're Blackwatch Commander. I've seen the aftermath of the ‘interrogations’. I know the deal you offered Genji Shimada. I know exactly what I shouldn't worry about. ”

He gaped at her, the concern in his face warped to panic. “You're kidding me. ”

She turned away from him again, sourly draining the rest of her shit drink. “How much were you planning on telling me, again?”

“Amé,” he started.

“How much of that was your idea? How much shit did you pull? How many people did you torture, or force to join, or assassinate? This isn't a fucking peacekeeping organization, it's a prettier version of Talon.” She shot a glare at him.

“How did you even find out about this shit?” His eyes locked onto her, pinning her in place. “It's important.”

She sighed quietly, some of her weeks old anger fading. “His computer. I guessed the password. I got access.”

“Amé, that's- that’s not good.”

“I know.”

He leaned in closer, nearly hissing the words: “They're already fucking investigating you, Amé. They know.”

That familiar knot of anxiety in her chest twisted tighter around her lungs, forcing her heart to beat quicker. “What?”

“You’re accused of stealing files.”

She shook her head slightly, eyes wide. “No, no, I - I turned off the keylogger, there's no way they could know.”

He turned away, rubbing his face. “Fucking shit, Amé. You knew about it?”

“I-”

“Turning it off is one of the most suspicious things you can do!”

They know. They saw her trying to get Sombra’s attention, they knew each time she’d used his computer, seen the files - they might even know about Sombra. Fuck, they have the missing camera footage from her breaking into Jack’s office.

“What do I do?” She whispered.

He turned back to her, real pain in his face. “I - Shit. You have to get out of here.”

“And go home?” She was panicking. It was spreading from her chest; her hands shook as she squeezed the plastic cup.

“You have to go on the run, unless you're going to stand trial for this.” Gabe ran his hand through his hair, pushing the beanie back on his head. “Why did you do this?”

She opened her mouth to speak, trying to think up an excuse, sifting through the panic in her head, and finding nothing. Why?

“Go home. Now. Get out of here, head to - to - the U.K. They don't want Overwatch operating there, you'll be okay for a while.”

“And after that?” She raked her fingers through her hair, her breathing shaky.

He was quiet for a long, long moment. “I don't know. I’ll.. I’ll work on things over here. Try to.. clear your name. But you need to get out of here.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, still shaking terribly. “Okay. Okay. I’ll go home. And, and when he’s asleep, I’ll-”

“Get out of here.” Unexpectedly, he pulled her into a hug, and she felt his heart beating just as hard as her own. “Be safe, okay?”

She nodded absently, pulling away from him and moving to the door. Fuck. She’d ruined everything. Her only chance at helping - she couldn't even warn Sombra now, until she gave the signal. It was all fucked.

Amélie looked around for Gérard, feeling the nausea billow in her chest once again as she did. There.

He stood by the wall, talking and laughing with someone - Ana?

She took a deep breath, then interrupted him. “Gérard, mon cher,” she whispered.

He paused, glancing at Ana, whose expression had turn concerned, and turned to her. “Is everything alright?”

Quickly, she shook her head. “Can we go home, now?”

“It's barely been-”

“ Please.”

He hesitated, looking from her to the room, then bit his lip. “Okay. Let's go.”

Gérard made his excuses to his friends, and they slipped out to the car, the sun having set while they were visiting. A thin sheet of ice had collected on the car - they had to crack it to pull open the doors.

The drive home was quiet, though Amélie’s mind was racing. She had to run. There was no other choice - if she’d gone about this herself, without Sombra’s help, maybe she would be okay, but giving away files to a soon-to-be whistleblower? She’d fucked up so badly.

She wanted to throw up.

How could she tell him? How could she say that she’d looked through his things and found out his secrets, and now she had to run away from the consequences?

She just had to hide until Sombra leaked the files. That couldn't be too long. A month at most.

Once they got home, she played sick, dropping her coat over a chair and falling onto the couch, acting as though she were exhausted. She just needed him to go to bed. Then she could - she could -

Never see him again.

Would he be held responsible? Would he be thrown in prison?

What do you do in a situation like this?

It didn't feel real. She’d backed herself into a corner and she couldn't convince herself it was real, that she had to run or end up like Lily Sotelo, starving to death in a cold little cell. She couldn't do that. She wouldn't.

Again, it struck her: Overwatch was no better than Talon. That’s what she told Gabe, and that’s what she’d thought. If they were willing to do what they did, and have a clean conscience, then what was the difference? There was no winning this war.

She feigned sleep on the couch, waiting to hear the sound of Gérard making his way upstairs. When her phone buzzed.

It sounded like a car engine to her, amplified louder in the silent apartment, and she waited for Gérard to walk over to her, pick up the phone, and -

She waited.

And waited.

And waited.

At last, Gérard’s soft footsteps went up the stairs, and the door opened, but didn't click shut.

She held her breath, listening for more. Not a sound.

Slowly, carefully, she slid her phone from her pocket, the glowing screen hurting her eyes.

RECEIVED AT 10:03 PM

Call. Now.

Her hands shaking, Amélie stared at the screen, dread in her throat and a snake in her chest.

She tapped Call.

The phone rang for a long moment, agonizingly long, drawn out for what felt like hours.

“Hey.”

Sombra’s voice - sweet, soft - brought a wave of relief crashing down, and tears pricked at her eyes. “Hey. I, um, fucked up a little bit.”

“What happened?”

“I..” She hesitated. “I talked to.. An Overwatch agent. And.. they know. That I’ve been in the computer.” She rubbed her face, willing the tears to dry. “And I’m probably going to be arrested soon, so I need to.. go.”

A soft breath. “Damn.”

She laughed weakly. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. I’m.. leaving tonight, I guess.”

“Are you sure?”

“I don't know if I have a choice.” The tears were falling now. They streamed down her face and she wiped at them angrily, sniffling.

If Sombra heard it, she didn't mention it, thankfully. “I’m sorry.”

“It's not your fault, it was me-”

“Amélie.” Her voice was almost resigned, now. To what?

“I’ll figure something out. I'll be okay. Promise.”

“Amélie.” She said this again, more urgently.

Amélie leaned back on the couch, sighing softly. “Yeah?”

“I’m.. sorry.” Her voice was so sweet. Regretful. Maybe it was partly her fault, but she’d been the one to-

“Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”

Chapter Text

Jack Morrison didn't care for parties. They were loud and obnoxious - just like you, Gabe would say - and he almost always had work to do. Like tonight. The paperwork on his desk was towering over him now, a square foot of legalese and empty signature lines.

To make things worse, Petras had been breathing down his neck recently on the addition of even more recruits to Blackwatch. One slip up and he was out.

Reyes isn't my employee, he rehearsed in his head, on the drive home from Ana’s place. We’re coworkers. I don't control him. Friends? Not as much anymore. He couldn't quite tell when it had started. He’d started distancing himself from the others. He wasn't sure why. Probably made him look like an asshole to them.

Get one taste of power, and it all goes to shit.

Jack rubbed his eyes after he’d parked, a wave of exhaustion crashing into him. His phone chimed from where he’d dropped it on the passenger seat; he swiped it off as he stepped out of the car, almost hesitating to look at it.

Just the phone needing an update. Figures.

Gérard Lacroix couldn't sleep. He’d been trying long enough, what felt like hours, and at this point he was considering taking something from the pill cabinet to get himself halfway there.

The night terrors had come back, because of fucking course they had, and he wasn't sure if it was worse to remember your nightmares or not have a clue what had you so scared in the first place. He’d only even picked up on the terrors after he’d stayed in the medical wing.

Since he couldn't even handle his damn coping himself.

I do not scream in my sleep, he’d snapped. Angela had only pointed a gloved hand to the camera in the corner of the room - are you sure?

It was worse when he woke up than when he was asleep. He didn't remember a thing from then, and then - when Amélie had come to see what was the matter, he hadn't seen her. He’d seen a demon made of shadow, stretching, towering over him, fingers made of long, curved claws and a grating laugh.

He didn't tell her. She had enough problems.

 

Jack made his way inside, boots crunching ice outside and clunk clunk clunking against the floor. He flicked the light on. The tiny kitchen was dimly lit by a single bulb - the other had gone out, and he kept forgetting to replace it. He dragged himself into the living room, fell backwards onto the couch, and let out a long, tired sigh.

He should've stayed at the office - the molehill of paperwork would only become a mountain the longer he ignored it. Finished reports of missions to read, future mission plans to condone, requests for more funding in the R&D department. He got his dream job, right? Leading the peace of the world. Saving the planet. But no more missions for him. Just stuck behind a desk, signing off on a never-ending pile of paper.

Not what he pictured back in the day.

Underneath him, his phone beeped. He grunted, lifting himself off the couch just enough to pull it from his back pocket.

URGENT

OVERWATCH

WATCHDOG INITIATIVE

Mother fucker. He regretted most things about Overwatch, but having to mediate with every department, initiative, project, whatever was one of the worst. But then again - an urgent call. That was new.

He tapped accept.

Gérard wanted to help her. He really, really did. But he didn't know how he was supposed to. If she wanted space, comfort, to talk about their feelings nightly. He might as well flip a coin.

When she was gone, for all those months, he’d wake up and think she was still there next to him, he only had to reach out for her and she’d be there, warm and soft and asking him to stay home today, just this once, please? And he would reach out across the cold sheets for her, and find nothing. And he would remember, again. She’s not here. She's gone. And sometimes - she’s dead.

And then he would lie to himself, and say she would be back soon. She’s running out for breakfast so she doesn't burn the place down. She actually tried to cook and any second now he’ll smell the smoke. She's out for a jog. And his favorite - he's still asleep. It's just a dream. He’ll open his eyes and she’ll be there, half asleep, leaning on him like a pillow, having stolen all the blankets.

And she wouldn't be there no matter how hard he tried.

Jack didn't have patience for this. “What is it?” He snapped.

A nervous voice came from the other end - the technician was barely out of his teens. “Well, um, sir, there's a weird-”

“Faster.”

“The Lacroix line - there's an unknown voice on it, the recognition software went wild - no matches. And, um, I think they're using some kind of code-”

“Give me the audio feed.” He was already on his way out to the car again, his phone set on speaker.

“Sir-”

“Now!” As he climbed inside, he stuck the phone to the dashboard, the connection automatically forming as he started the engine.

Sure enough, the sound of Amélie Lacroix’s voice flowed through the car’s speakers.

“I’ll be okay. Promise.”

“Amélie.” This voice must’ve been the one that fucked with the recognition. He’s sure he’s heard it before, if only he could think..

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

Jack was going way over the speed limit, ignoring the ice on the roads, on a beeline for the Lacroix place because he knew he had heard that voice before, if he could just place it -

“‘Step into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly. ” That would be the code. He could swear he heard it before. That damn voice.

“No,” Lacroix whispered.

“It is the loveliest parlor that you ever did spy.”

“Don't do this.” Her tone was almost desperate.

She was protesting? The stranger might be a handler and telling her it's over, but did she really want to stay? Were they telling their superiors?

“The way into my parlor is up a spiral stair, and I’ve many wonderful things to show you there.”

Like a flash, he realized where he recognized it. The hacker who’d threatened Gabe. Made him hand over the keys to the castle. Mother fucker. If he wasn't in a hurry before, he was now.

The next sentence the two of them spoke together, though Lacroix’s voice sounded more monotonous. All emotion had slipped from her tone.  “‘I’m sure you must be tired, love, with soaring up so high. Will you rest upon the little bed?’, said the spider to the fly.”

“I need a team at Lacroix’s place, now.”

“There are pretty curtains pulled around, the sheets are soft and thin, and if you’d like to rest awhile-”

The technician burst through the feed, leaving it on in the background. “Y-yes, sir! I’ll- I’ll tell-”

“Now!”

“I’ll snugly tuck you in.” The hacker and Lacroix were perfectly in sync. It was, just a little, terrifying.

He wanted to end the call, but he needed to hear what they were saying. Not a recording of it later, he needed it now.

The hacker spoke this time. “Your target is Gérard Lacroix.”

Son of a bitch. He ran a red light, grimacing to himself as he did.

“Acknowledged,” came Amélie’s crisp reply.

“Additionally, retrieve his hard drive.”

“Acknowledged,” she said again. Her accent was much more pronounced, now.

He was so close. He could save him. Gérard didn't have to die. He turned the wheel sharply, the car groaning and whining as he skidded across the ice.

“Rendezvous on the rooftop.”

“Acknowledged.”

And just like that, the call ended.

Gérard twisted and turned, but did not find sleep. He stared at the ceiling. Sighed. Turned on his side. Mr. Sandman, please knock me the fuck out.

In the morning, he would wake up and assume she was still gone. That’s what happened the first night she got back. He had woken, stared at the wall, the resigned fear settling over him like a fog, and then - the bed shifted. Just slightly, as she moved in her sleep. She was here. Home.

Behind him, he heard footsteps climbing the stairs. Amé. She wasn't gone. Not dead. Coming to join him, so they could finally get some rest. Maybe nightmares were bothering her, too. He’d certainly seen the effect they had on her. Disappearing from the bed, only for him to find her leaning over the toilet. Wandering around the apartment like a ghost. Refusing therapy. Drinking. Maybe he was encouraging it.

Her shadow grew long across the ceiling, backlit by the stair’s light. “Hey,” he said, more tired than he meant.

She was quiet. Maybe she was half asleep.

He twisted, turning to face her silhouette, long and thin. Dangerously thin. She'd lost so much weight. “Amélie?”

Something is wrong.

Jack didn't worry about parking correctly. He slid into the space, slammed the brakes, threw it into park and practically leaped out of the car. He’d taken his gun from the glove box, but no bulletproof vest this time. He took the stairs two at a time, almost stumbling down the hall, and pounded on the door. “Lacroix!”

No answer. He took a breath, stepped back, and slammed his shoulder into the door. “Gérard!”

Gérard started to sit up, studying her darkened face. As she moved closer, silver glinted in the light. “Amélie?” She was not herself. He could see it now; her face was emotionless, as if she were asleep with her eyes open.

Downstairs, he heard someone pounding against the door. Yelling something.

She moved toward him, steps as light as a ghost. And, before he’d even understood what she was doing, she had buried the silver knife in his chest.

She was sorry. She really was. But time had run out and she had pressure on all sides. She wanted, more than anything, to tell Amélie to run away, just like she wanted. To save herself.

But after that attack on her safe house - which was supposed to be safe and off the grid , hence the name - she couldn't keep making excuses to the higher ups. She couldn't claim she was getting more information.

The paper with the code words had sat next to her computer, glaring at her, waiting for her to do her damn job for far too long. She read off the words and they tasted like copper, sour on her tongue, and knew that Gérard’s blood would be on her hands. The only thing worse than her pleas to stop was when she recited the next verse. Her voice dead and emotionless, so unlike the cheerful optimism.

She’d liked Amélie. She wanted to save the world. To help people. That Shimada, the Talon agent. It was refreshing. Even after being kidnapped and tortured, she wasn't bitter and jaded.

Sombra had enough bitter anger to last a lifetime.

Jack slammed into the door, again and again, yelling for Gérard. And there was no answer.

The door, finally, slammed open from his weight and he stumbled into the darkened apartment.

“Gérard!” He held his gun tightly as he made his way up the stairs, and, what else did he expect to see?

Amélie Lacroix was turned from him, and she delicately slid a chef’s knife from Gérard’s chest, hands and blade slicked with blood.

She turned to look at him, her eyes narrowed, grip on the knife’s handle tight. With one fluid movement, she grabbed a handful of her husband’s curls, yanked his head back, and slit his throat.

Jack, a man of action rather than words, thought to himself, fuck it, and rushed her.

She slid out of the way, kicking out a leg to trip him, sending him across the floor. By the time he got to his feet, all he saw was a trace of her running down the stairs.

He should've stopped her. Chased after her. Shot her. But instead, he rushed to Gérard’s side, blood already trickling from his mouth, gasping, wet breaths. She must've hit a lung. He ripped a sheet off the bed, wrapping it around his throat, trying to staunch the heavy flow of blood spurting from him.

Gérard's panicked eyes stared up at him, hands reaching for his throat, tugging on the fabric.

“Just - just stay still.” Jack forced his voice to be calm, though he stammered as he tried to press down on the wound in his stomach. He tugged Gérard’s shirt to the side, then finally pulled the rest of the sheet down, wrapping it around his body like a makeshift toga.

Downstairs, the door slammed shut.

“Don't do this,” he muttered, pressing hard on Gérard’s chest. “You're gonna get through this, alright?” His voice was getting angrier as time dragged on - where was his damn team?

He’d left his phone in the car. Damn it.

His mind was muddled. He didn’t quite see what was happening around him, taking it in but not understanding it. Someone stood over him. Pain bloomed in his chest. He gasped, his breath caught in his throat, and coughed, an ugly, wet noise, grating against his throat. I’m dying.

Gérard’s face was speckled with blood, like freckles across his cheeks. His eyes were no longer wide - half closed, sleepy, ready to fall into unconsciousness.

“You are not dying on me!” Jack hissed, then, carefully, reached underneath him to pull him to his chest. If there wasn't a team coming, he’d just have to carry him there himself.

Gérard gasped in pain, but seemed to understand what he was trying to do, and wrapped his arms around his neck, muscles trembling.

Jack managed to get to his feet, stumbling a bit and pressing his free hand against Gérard’s neck. “You're fine,” he said again, his comforting tone turned more stubborn.

He was just heading to the stairs when a wheezing noise came from Gérard - he was laughing.

“Listen,” he grunted, shifting him just slightly as he made his way through the apartment, “You live through this, I’ll learn how to pronounce your name.”

He could practically hear his response - a bad and entirely unoriginal inside joke that’d become his and Ana’s standard response when the others did something dumb: fucking Americans.

Jack got down the stairs quickly, doing his best not to jerk Gérard around as he did. “How we doing? We’re alright, right?”

In response, he coughed - a new bloodstain appeared on the sheet.

A beat passed. “Totally normal.”

He laughed weakly, and, shockingly, the sound wasn't reassuring.

Jack carefully but quickly loaded Gérard into the passenger seat, taking his hands and pressing one to the side of his neck. “You're gonna be okay, alright, but you gotta keep the blood inside. Where the blood is supposed to be.”

He laughed again, but the sound was ugly, like he was dragging the breaths against his throat and shoving them back in. He was almost definitely in shock. He’d thought he’d slowed most of the blood flow outside, but he couldn't do shit about internal bleeding.

Jack spoke to Gérard for most of the drive, keeping him awake, watching the sheet grow redder and redder. With the way it was wrapped around him, it looked like a bad reproduction of Julius Caesar.

Et tu, Amélie?

The trauma surgeons whisked him away on a gurney, and told Jack he couldn’t follow. Go get cleaned up, they’d suggested.

His hands were slick with blood. He watched it disappear down the drain, the water turning pink. He scrubbed and scrubbed, and couldn’t get clean.

He didn't leave the waiting room. He couldn't sit, either. He paced the length of it, waiting for news back. He’d left his phone in the car; he hadn't the faintest idea of how much time had passed, but he was afraid that if he went out to get it, he’d miss the news.

He’d lost too many friends to lose another.

His first thought. It's freezing.

The whiteness surrounded him, figures blurred through his vision.

He took a breath. Slowly, in, out. Was he dead?

No. Not yet. But he was so tired. So, so tired.

Angela Ziegler was no stranger to collapsed lungs. Nasty business. Took a while to heal, and draining the air from the chest cavity was costly. In some cases, surgery was needed. Unfortunately for Gérard, he was the latter. As well as near a catastrophic amount of blood lost. He was able to be resuscitated, multiple times, and eventually put into a medical coma.

The bleeding wouldn't stop. She wasn't sure just what had happened, but the more blood they replaced, the more he lost.

Finally, they had to call it. Time of death: 11:04 PM.

Jack put in the report that night. While it was all fresh in his mind. Gérard Lacroix, killed not in action, but in his sleep.

He’d reviewed the footage. Listened to the recordings. Gone back to the crime scene. Sure enough, the computer’s hard drive was missing. Just like she’d been told to.

Amélie Lacroix was a traitor. To her husband, her friends, and the world. A deep cover agent, set in place for who knew how long. She was a good actress. Even tricked Angela. If they hadn’t caught onto her, maybe Gérard would still be alive. She’d keep funneling secrets to Talon, but he thought - maybe selfishly - that it was a trade he would make.

When he finally let himself sleep, he heard over and over again in his head: Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

Chapter Text

He does not feel pain any longer. He watches idly as the people walk around him, passing in blurs of white coats, red trailing behind them. They speak to him, but he does not hear it. They press a needle to his skin, but he does not feel it. Fire burns in his chest, and he feels something, but he does not know what.

He thinks he dreams. The world around him is either dull and dark or white and wispy. Flashes of color across his vision, people passing, but no one pays attention to him.

Once, someone leans over him, their lips drawn into a snarl - or a smile? He watches them, feels his vision going dark again, and tries to speak, but finds he cannot.

They snap a finger in front of his face. He does not blink. They smile and fade away.

His world goes dark again and he wants to cry, please, I don't want to stay in the dark.

Sometimes, he sees a flash of green. It never speaks. It hovers for a time, then zips away.

He does not remember the attack. They explained it to him later, but it did not make sense. They tell him his wife stole his files, and gave them away. That she tried to kill him. He doesn’t remember it. He does not remember them.

He was dead. He was so, so cold, and he was dead. A pinprick of heat in his chest, but so cold.

No, that's only a nightmare.

Do you have dreams when you die?

Is it oblivion, dark and cold and silent, or do you spend all of eternity in fabrications created by your dying mind, addled by shock and horror and resignation? Do you dream of your wife, a sweet smile on her lips, or your murderer, a silver blade in her hand?

Your love or your hate?

That's.. that's not right.

It can't be the same person. It shouldn't be. Why would she do that?

What have you done?

He took a breath, gasping as it dragged against his sore throat, remembering the pain. In his chest or his neck? No, both. It was both.

Why?

He is gone, but not. Alive, but not. Something about it is off, a sense of wrongness inside him that twists and turns like a knife in his chest as he remembers what has happened.

He should not be here. He should not be alive.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw only white ceiling tiles. Machines beeped around him. Something was on his face - he couldn't quite figure out what it was. He lifted his hand. An IV hung from his arm, taped in place. He touched his fingers to his face and found only hard plastic. Something is in his mouth. A demon has forced its way down his throat, clawing at the flesh to cram itself inside him, taking hold of his lungs and squeezing all the air out -

He flailed, the machine’s incessant beeping turning frantic as he tried to pull the mask from his face, gasping for breath. Cold, skeletal hands grabbed his wrists and pressed them to his side, adjusting the mask back over his face. Talon. Talon! Talon had him.

What have you done to her, he tries to say, but the demon in his throat steals away the words. The world around him fades, darkness pushing in on the edges of his vision and enveloping him.  Where is she?

They removed the tube after he woke up the next time. He took his first breath in what felt like decades, wincing at the pain in his throat. His hands had been strapped to the bed, but they were in the process of removing them, leaving just the faintest red impression on his wrist.

They adjusted the bed, helping him into a sitting position as the sedatives wore off. He stared at his hand, the whorls and spirals in his fingertips transfixing him. He could swear they were moving and shifting, changing by the second.

He stayed in the bed for what felt like days, drifting in and out of sleep, sometimes waking to nurses bringing food or to an empty room.

Once, when he was awake, the door slid open. He watched, still clinging to the last grasps of sleep, as a doctor in a long, white lab coat strolled in.

“Gérard,” Angela said kindly, her head tilted to the side. “How are you feeling?”

Angela? No, he was at.. Talon, wasn't he? Or a hospital? Or - where?

“Where..” He coughed, every breath feeling like he was swallowing sandpaper. “Where am I?”

Her smile widened at his words. “Don't worry. You're in a safe place.”

“Where?” He insisted, before going into another coughing fit.

Her smile had fallen, just slightly not right, like a neon sign hanging lopsided. “A classified facility.”

Are you Talon, too? No, not ‘too’. That meant Amélie was - no.

“Am - Amélie?”

If her smile had been hanging off the building before, now it had fallen and crashed onto the asphalt. Still glowing, just barely. “She’s not been found yet, but don't worry. You’re safe.” As she spoke, she moved to his bedside, sitting neatly in the chair beside him.

They took her again. They’d stolen her away again to give her more scars and lost memories and questions she didn't know the answers to.

He tried to straighten himself, sitting up taller, and locking eyes with the doctor. His voice was rough, but he forced himself not to cough. “F- find her.” Please. Help her.

“I promise you, we’re working on it.” She righted her smile and set her hand on his, in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture. “How are you feeling?”

He pulled his hand away from her and touched it to his neck - a flash of silver danced across his vision. “What happened?”

“Gérard, we’ll talk about that later, for now-” She seemed almost uncomfortable with the topic, but trying to push him away from it proved to be like herding cats.

“Angela, please.” He finally had to burst into another coughing fit. The very air he breathed tickled - not quite the right word -it felt like swallowing glass.

She sighed softly, looking away. Surgeons tend not to be the ones to break the news to their patients, he thought, a tinge of bitterness worming its way into him.

Finally, she spoke. “Gérard.. you are, officially, dead.”