Sequel to Old Wounds, chapters 1 & 2, written in 102 minutes.
Angela wondered if Amélie had followed her home. She didn't think so, but she looked upwards at rooftops as she walked anyway, checked behind her when she turned corners, and listened for sounds between her own footsteps. She heard nothing; it was the early hours of the morning in a residential neighbourhood, so of course she heard nothing. She was probably alone. She certainly felt alone.
She hadn't really noticed it before—that loneliness. On her way home, she was normally thinking about Mr So-and-so and wondering if the antibiotics had helped, or remembering an episode of a serial she'd watched the day before, or, sometimes, wondering where the rest of the old Overwatch crew were. How they were, and making idle plans to visit them.
But now, as she let herself into her tired little apartment and slipped off her shoes, it really hit her how quiet and empty her place was.
Amélie's right about drinking this by myself, she thought, holding the neck of her bottle and walking barefoot into the kitchen to get a glass while she zapped her frozen dinner in the microwave. It's a little telling, isn't it?
Then again, she thought as she poured herself a glass, maybe I'm only drinking it by myself because I'm actually by myself, and it doesn't mean anything about me being unhappy?
She sat down at the table with her instant dinner and glass of wine, taking a mouthful of food and staring blankly out her living room window. Was she unhappy?
Not unhappy, exactly, she decided, stirring her food absently with her fork. Just…
Well, she didn't expect to be here like this, did she? Her professors at medical school used to wax poetic about her bright future, and when she joined Overwatch, that's how she felt: that she was going to change the world. That her ideas—so many ideas!—would become reality and be rolled out to the millions of people who needed them. That years down the track she would be standing on stage to a chorus of thunderous applause as someone handed her Nobel Peace Prize for her breakthroughs in trauma medicine. That people would stop her on the street to tearfully thank her for saving their husband, or their daughter, or their father, with her technology. That she'd go to bed at night knowing she'd helped make the world a better place.
Instead, she was sitting here drinking alone after finishing a late shift at a drop-in clinic.
She stared down into her wine. Alright, maybe Amélie has a point, she thought, and then just drank the rest of the bottle. So she was unhappy, now what? Did Amélie just expect her to turn around and say 'Okay, I'll join Talon' after what Talon had done to Amélie? An organisation that Amélie herself was half-running away from for medical treatment?
It was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. If Amélie claimed to know Angela like she did, how could she ever believe that Angela would join an organisation that had done such things to her friend?
Angela didn't understand, but she couldn't stop thinking about it. She couldn't focus on the chores she had to do around the house—she ended up putting clean clothes right back in the washing machine—and when it came to following the terrible TV serial she always watched to relax before bed, she missed most of the dialogue and then had no idea what was going on. All she could think about was why Amélie would want her to join Talon—and, well, Amélie herself. Why she was here, what she wanted from Angela.
Some things never change, Angela thought to herself, sighing. A decade later, and she was still unable to stop thinking about Amélie.
Turning off the TV—it was a lost cause, she couldn't focus on it—she had a big glass of water and then wandered into her bedroom. When she went to close the blinds to change into her pyjamas, though, her hand paused on the drawing cord as she faced the window.
What if Amélie was watching her right now?
Ridiculous, she thought, scoffing at herself, I must be drunk. As if Amélie would have any interest in spying on me all evening!
And yet…
There was something… about that idea.
After all, she knew Amélie had spent some time secretly watching her, because otherwise, how would Amélie know which wine Angela had purchased last night? Amélie could very well be watching her right now, and there was something appealing about the thought of Amélie perched on a nearby rooftop, peering through a magnified rifle scope at her window.
It was even more interesting to imagine why she'd do that. It couldn't be part of Talon's plan if Talon didn't even know she was here, so it must be for her own private purposes. Realistically, Angela didn't know what those purposes could be, but… well, she knew what she hoped they were.
If Amélie had been watching her for this long, what did she hope to see…?
Angelia was still quite tipsy; if she hadn't have been, she probably would have talked herself out of all of this nonsense, closed the blind, and gone to bed. But she was tipsy, and so she didn't talk herself out of it.
Instead, she left the blind up and slowly unbuttoned her work shirt.
It was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. It was far more likely her grizzled neighbours would see her than Amélie would, and yet… here she was, slowly shrugging off her shirt in front of an open window.
Underneath, she had a rather nice bra on—pale blue and, ironically, French lace. If Amélie was watching, Angela wondered what she thought of it. Amélie had always liked pretty underwear, too; they used to go to high-end retailers in Paris together and fawn over the designer sets. Amélie had never seen her in one, though.
Well, if she was watching, she had now.
After Angela had stood like that for a moment, she took a little breath and reached around her back to undo the clasp, pausing a moment before she finally let the lace fall down her arms.
She was standing here, in front of the window, topless. Amélie had never seen this, either. Angela had no idea if there was any chance she was watching now, but god it felt good to imagine she was. To imagine she liked what she saw and that she'd go home and think about it.
Thinking of Amélie watching her, thinking of Amélie's eyes on her skin, it was electrifying. It woke something in her that she'd long since put to sleep—a hunger in her that she'd sensibly abandoned in a city full of people she didn't know or trust.
She pulled out her ponytail, too, and let her blonde hair fall over her pale shoulders, looking down her front and imagining Amélie drinking it all in.
She felt 25 again. Like she'd just been introduced to this beautiful and enigmatic French girl with legs that went for eternity. God, it felt so good.
She could hardly bear to put her pyjamas on, but in the end, she couldn't just stand in front of her window half-naked all night. She was tired, a little drunk, and probably upsetting her neighbours. So, she reluctantly dressed, tucked herself in bed and resolved to try and sleep.
If Amélie had been watching, she wondered what her appointment at the clinic was going to be like tomorrow night.