"I think all of this security is silly," Amélie sighed, setting her grocery bags on the counter. "In the house, while I'm out… There haven't been any threats, so what is the problem?"

"We all jes' feel better knowin' there's someone lookin' out for you when Gérard's away," McCree replied, his thumbs hooked into his belt. He'd gotten yelled at far too many times for touching things in the Lacroix house—seemed like everything was expensive or valuable.

"Pah! The weapon of a terrorist is fear. I will not live like that—a life lived in fear is no life at all."

"Fine words, ma'am," McCree replied, nodding. "'S why there's an agent with you. See this?" he asked, smirking as he gestured to his face, "Ain't 'scared." Amélie shot a haughty, yet amused look McCree's way as she pulled brightly colored vegetables from the bag.

"Is there really nothing better suited to your 'talents' than accompanying me to the market?"

"Well, there's always taste tester, ain't there?" he asked, grinning as he reached for a plate of pastries.

"Ne touchez pas," Amélie snapped, brandishing celery in his direction.

"Aww, can't I have one o' them lemon tarts, at least?" McCree whined, "I'll leave the raspberries this time, promise!"

"Lemon is for Commander Morrison."

"What, you make him tarts, but not me? I'm good and truly hurt," McCree clutched his chest, pouting. A soft giggle left Amélie at his theatrics. Americans.

"If you must eat something, have a croissant."

"If you insist," he grinned, snatching up a flaky roll.

"Eat over a plate," she added quickly, "Unless you want to clean my kitchen."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied reflexively.

"I might make you clean it anyway," she added, looking down at his boots, still dirty from his last mission.

"Now, would that be a good use of my 'talents'?" McCree asked, winking playfully as he casually searched through the cabinets.

"It would be educational, no doubt," she smirked, reaching up and opening the correct cabinet.

"Thank y' kindly," McCree smiled, grabbing a bread plate—he at least knew what all the plates and utensils were, even if he wasn't keen on using them.

"You're in France, we say merci," Amélie said, smiling patiently.

"Gesundheit," he replied, chuckling.

"You are an agent, you speak how many languages, yet you cannot learn the simplest French?"

"Heh, Gérard's confounded by the same thing," McCree remarked, biting into the croissant. "'Sides, I think you'd be downright offended at my accent."

"I am not a Parisienne," she laughed. "You will eat French food and drink French wine, but not use French words?"

"It's a lot harder n' eatin' and drinkin'," McCree shrugged between mouthfuls. Relative silence reigned for a moment as Amélie arranged brown-wrapped cuts of meat in the refrigerator. "Gérard bought you a gun yet?"

"Aie, not this again!" Amélie groaned, her forehead thudding against the fridge door. "I've told you, I've told Gérard, I've told Morrison—I don't want a gun!"

"I'm jes sayin'!" McCree replied, holding his crumb-covered hand up, "If y' had a gun, we'd all feel a lot better!"

"I wouldn't," Amélie retorted.

"C'mon now, we can get you a nice little .22, bullet goes in real clean-like, usually don't even come out the other side, so your delicate fineries won't get ruined, only gets messy on the inside—"

"Ugh, spare me, please," she begged, waving him off.

"It don't kick much, neither, aimin's real easy, just pop off 3 or 4 rounds right in a man's nose or throat, and he ain't gettin' back up."

"Th-three or four?!"

"Five'll really make sure they're down—"

"Why would I want to shoot a man three or four times—let alone five?"

"Well, Gérard n' me could do it with one, even with a .22. Jes' about anything'll go down in one if y' put it in their eye. If y' want somethin' more professional that'll definitely do the trick in one shot, we can get you a 9mm…"

"Merde! I don't want to use a gun! I'm not an agent like you."

"We could maybe work you up to something like this if all goes well," he chuckled, patting his pistol affectionately.

"I wouldn't be caught dead with that clunky old thing," she quipped, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Not bein' caught dead is the idea, Amélie," McCree replied, his tone growing more serious. "I mean it, though, we're all jes' worried about you. Hell, Doc knows how to use a gun, an' ain't nobody hate guns more'n her."

Amélie sighed, rubbing her eyes in exasperation. "I'll think about it."

"That there's French for 'no', ain't it?"

"Ah, you're learning," Amélie smirked.