Speed prompt, written in 68 minutes. Prompted on Tumblr with: "Widowmaker appreciates good food and goes to high-end restaurants in fake ID's and uses untraceable credit cards, she picks a spot that's a little bit too close to where Lena lives to be a beliveable coincidence. A stalk-turned date ensues." I did a bit of a twist on that.

It had been yonks since I'd been back home in London, and half the bloody city had grown an extra ten stories while I'd been gone. You'd think I'd be used to all that by now—what with all the time travel—but it was still jarring. There was also a gigantic new shopping centre right next to my flat on the East side as well which meant I had the great pleasure of watching some lady on an animated billboard shampoo her hair while I ate my breakfast... and my lunch, and my tea. I bet I was even going to end up have dreams about 'smooth, full-bodied hair!' eventually.

Anyway, after all that advertising, and despite the fact that I didn't need smooth, full-bodied hair because I'd always lopped it all off, capitalism got too much for me and I ended up in the shopping centre, checking out what sort of shops had opened there. I could always do with another pair of trousers, right? Although… having said that, more tops were what I really needed. It was pretty difficult for me to find ones that looked alright with my Chronal Accelerator and that actually fit underneath it, though, so I always ended up buying trousers and shoes instead.

I'd just ducked into a really posh shoe shop to take a peek at some boots that were probably way too much money for me when I spotted some really long, smooth hair that definitely didn't need extra body.

I knew that hair.

I knew the hourglass body attached to it, too—and the blue-tipped nose and blue-white, corpse-like pallor. She wasn't wearing her sprayed-on lycra uniform and pointing a gun at me this time, though. She was shoe-shopping in East end.

What was Widowmaker doing here?!

I may have ever so slightly freaked the bloody hell out and recalled outside to the window, pressing my face against it to watch her.

My first thought was that she'd come to kill me. Of course she had, right? After all, why on earth would she be in East London knowing I lived here unless it was to kill me? I watched her for ages before I was absolutely, positively, dead certain she had no idea I was here. I actually saw her smile, and not in a creepy, evil I'm-about-to-top-you way, either. Apparently she really liked those heels…?

It was weird. Totally and utterly weird. I felt like my Chronoal Accelerator was malfunctioning again and I'd been transported to some alternate universe where she hadn't been brainwashed and turned into a monster and was just a normal person again. Well, a normal person with a heart condition, anyway.

I followed her through a series of shops—boy, did she seem to have a lot of money, Talon must pay pretty well—and by the time she'd reached the last of the shops and headed out to the car park, she had so many bags I had no idea how she was managing them all.

I followed her out because I still couldn't work out what she was doing here; part of me was still a little bit worried that she would pull a rifle on me the moment I let my guard down.

Her car was a bloody Porsche—jet black, of course—and after she'd put all her bags in the boot, she scanned the car park around her. That was suspicious, wasn't it? She must be up to something after all, otherwise why would she—

She took her top off.

That was—erm, alright, kind of unexpected, and—whoa. You know when you really shouldn't look at something, but you can't look away? Yeah, that. She was fit.

I kept watching because I thought she was going to change into her Widowmaker uniform—I promise that's why—but she was just turning a nice blouse she'd bought in the right way and taking her sweet bloody time about it. She did at least have a bra on: one of those lacy ones that look very pretty but which itch like mad. She didn't look at all bothered by it, though.

I was bothered by it. Every time I pointed guns at her now I was going to be stuck picturing her in that bra; like I didn't cop a distracting eyeful every time I was face-to-face with her already.

Note to self, I thought, peeking through my fingers, stop this immediately. I considered duplicating myself five seconds ago and covering my own eyes so I could un-see it, except in my experience having two versions of myself at the same time caused more problems than it ever solved and I always ended up with two sets of memories instead of one and they had really odd dreams about it later.

Once she had the blouse on, I completely ignored the 'stop' command to myself and followed her at a safe distance as she sashayed out of the car park. You know, just in case she was doing something evil after all.

She headed straight up the road to Greenhill Towers, the poshest restaurant for miles, which I knew for a fact had a whole lot of meeting rooms for rich people who wanted to do business in private.

I bet it's a meeting with Talon, I thought, and tried to follow her in.

I got stopped at the door. "Sorry," the host told me in a French accent as he looked me up and down like I might be local riff-raff. "You need a reservation to dine in this establishment." From his tone of voice, what he really meant was, 'you look too poor to eat here', and he was completely right.

"I'm not planning on dining in this establishment," I told him, maybe taking the piss just a little, "my—friend just walked in here and I wanted to have a quick chat with her."

His face looked like he might just have smelt something horrible. "You are friends with the Comtesse Mirelle Dupont?"

Comtesse Mir—I scoffed. "That is rubbish," I told him flat out. "She is not a 'Comtesse'. Her name is Amelie Lacroix and I—"

"I saw her credit card myself, Madame," he said, in a voice which suggested he didn't want to address me with an honorific. "I know who she is, so if you don't mind, perhaps you'd like to find a restaurant more to your—"

"Thanks, I actually do mind," I told him sarcastically. I wasn't going to get past him walking like a normal person; I'd have to blink past later when he wasn't looking properly. I'd not walked outside for maybe a whole minute before another waiter came up to the haughty host and whispered to him.

The host took a great big sniff through the long nose he'd been looking down at me past and then beckoned me to come back.

Weird. I did anyway.

He did not seem too happy about what he was about to say. "Apologies about the mistake," he said stiffly, "it seems the Comtesse is expecting you."

Beyond him, at a table in the restaurant, Widowmaker was looking right at me, and not through a sight for one. She raised her wine glass slightly and then took a delicate sip from it, a smug little smile on her face.

That's when I noticed the table was set for two. There was a waiter there, holding a chair out for me.

My jaw dropped. You had to be bloody kidding me…

The host cleared his throat. "Shall I take your coat?"