Pure, absolute fluff. And a ton of Gérard screen time.

This chapter is /quite/ long.

Enjoy

We are made by the things taken from us.

There are two reasons things are hidden away. Because they are precious and should be preserved. Because they are hazardous and need to be contained.

[2066 PARIS THIRTEEN YEARS AGO]

"I'm back," Amélie calls closing the door to her dorm room behind her. She hangs up her keys while kicking off her shoes.

"So?" Charlotte's calls from the hallway, "How did it go?"

Amélie slides her leftovers from the date in the refrigerator. "It was alright. Gérard was tolerable."

"Tolerable?" Charlotte repeats walking into the room.

"Mm-hm."

It had been a week since Charlotte had introduced them on a double date. Since that one hadn't been an absolute disaster, she'd taken up Gérard's offer to meet again.

"See! I knew you'd like him, you just had to give him a chance!" Charlotte says beaming.

"Eh, knowing how to make jokes and not stare at my boobs is a pretty low bar."

Their second date had gone fine, another group gathering at a high-end sandwich shop. They managed to glean a few tidbits from each other. Gérard revealed he was a history nerd and Amélie admitted her favorite animal were horses. She liked the ways his eyes sparkled when he talked about ancient weapons and technology. Amélie never thought that anyone could make the transition from the Bronze to Iron Age so interesting.

Rummaging through her purse, Amelie sets up her phone to charge on the counter. A tube of lipstick gets knocked out in the process and rolls around on the granite.

"Oh, I haven't seen that color before," Charlotte says picking it up.

"It's new."

"Where did you get it?"

"It was a gift."

Gérard had insisted on walking her back to the metro entrance once there he produced a small black rectangular box. Amélie held a polite but stale smile in place as she opened it. Whatever it was would either be a sweet gesture or the end of this relationship. A single tube of lipstick rested inside. A nice, if not somewhat bland gift. At least he hadn't got her ballet shoes.

Amélie removes the cap, just as she had done outside the metro, to reveal a piece of plastic molded into the shape of the gloss. She grips the tube the way Gérard had shown her placing his fingers over hers and twists. A triangular blade pops out of the faux gloss, glinting in the artificial light of the kitchen.

Gérard could only hem and haw after revealing to her what the gift really was as if he had just realized this might have not be a normal romantic gesture.

What a funny little man Gérard was. Amélie couldn't wait to see him again.

"Is that a knife?"

"We'll start with the lunge and parry." Gérard slips on his fencing mask and returns to the padded row he reserved for their date.

"So, for the lunge, you move your sword towards your opponent, lift your front foot, step, and-" He darts forward; his foot smacks the pad, landing in a wide lunge. "-push off your back leg!"

He repeats the movement several times as Amélie watches breaking down the movement pattern. First, she watches the general shape of the motion, an explosive straight line at Gérard's imaginary opponent. Then she focuses on weight distribution, which starts over his center and moves to being over his front foot. Amélie is used to keeping herself grounded with her back foot. That's going to feel weird. Finally, the foot positions. She notes how Gérard starts in a slight squat and the feet don't change where they are pointing but the back one slides forward.

"Ok," Amélie says with a sharp nod, "I think I've got it."

"Then show me what you can do." Gérard hands her his epee.

Amélie lines up her feet and raises her blade. Breathe in one, two, three, out one, two, three. Breath in- move. Amélie lunges forward and stabs her blade at the air with a "Hah!" After a pause, she steps out of her lunge and glances back at Gerard.

"That, that was perfect!" Gerard says beaming. His expression changes into mock suspicion. "Are you sure you haven't done this before?"

"Ah," Amélie's face heats up, under the mask as she realizes what she's done. She isn't at work; this isn't a studio at the Opéra. She doesn't have to perfectly execute these new movements or risk losing her spot.

Diue she can't even relax on her own date.

"Maybe I just have an excellent teacher," she replies pulling off her mask and giving him a smug grin.

If Gérard thought her rapid comprehension of the lunge compared to the parry, riposte, and other movements was odd he didn't say anything.

Amélie glares down at the board of black and white tiles before her. With great reluctance, she moves her bishop capturing Gérard's knight freeing her king once again. It's a decent move but ultimately will do nothing to stop the defeat that she set in motion three turns ago.

Gérard moves his own piece towards her king. "Check."

Her king flees a pathetic single square away from his queen and rook.

"And checkmate." He plants his queen next to her king in the corner of the board.

Amélie says nothing, her expression sour.

"You're getting better!" Gérard says a little too cheerfully. "You lost in fifteen moves instead of ten. That's a definite improvement!"

Amélie Guillard did not consider herself a poor loser, such an attitude was not tolerated by her parents or her dance instructors, but she was also not used to being humiliated this much.

When Gérard asked her if she knew how to play chess, she said she did happy, to have an activity she was familiar with. She told him not to hold back because they were dating, that she relished an intellectual challenge. It quickly became apparent she did not know how to play chess the way Gérard did. The first few losses were laughed off, the next four prompted Gérard to offer to tutor her. She refused, externally pointing out they were both already short on free time, internally determined to figure this out on her own.

At the current tally of eleven loses in a row, her pride and memorized internet tips, had finally taken enough of a beating.

"Fine," she says causing Gérard to stop putting the pawns back in the box, "Teach me how to do this."

The chessboard is quickly replaced on the table and Gérard sets up two pawns and one king with that maniac glimmer in his eyes that Amélie is growing found of.

"Chess is a game of skill and strategy, but you don't need to be a genius to excel at it. Really all you need is some sort of plan and the ability to adapt. Beginners are to wrapped up in reacting to the last move instead of directing the game. Being one or two moves ahead of your opponents is all it takes..."

"The épée is considered the more lowbrow choice in competitions," Gérard says while he defends as Amélie attacks him again and again, "because a touch on the toe is worth the same as one to the heart experts with the blade tend to prioritize speed and power over technique. But it makes it much easier to teach."

"Interesting. So how many points is this worth?" Amélie smacks her blade against Gerard's leg.

"Zero," Gerard says with a smirk.

"For turning you into a peg leg? I think not."

"That's an illegal move. This blade is a piercing weapon. You can only score points with the tip. All you've done is given your opponent a nasty bruise"

Amélie gasps at him. "There are rules for stabbing people?"

"Barely."

They've lost their rhythm now, so Gérard takes a step back and motions for Amélie to begin again. Maybe it's the espresso she had earlier, maybe it's the rush that comes with learning a new skill, but a truly devious idea worms its way into her head. Amélie can't find it in her to say no, Gérard's stance is just too perfect, and she's always wanted to try this.

"How about this?"

Amélie lunges forward, making a weak thrust, and steps in again to kick and pivot, sweeping Gérard's front leg. It doesn't go as cleanly as it does in the movies and Gérard crumbles to the ground pinning her leg underneath him. His back hits the mats with a smack and his sword rolls away.

"Also illegal," Gérard announces from the floor.

It's been two months and Amélie has gotten comfortable saying she's in a relationship is someone asks. Their first kiss was over a month ago, they hold hands when walking in the streets now, and she lets Gerard whisper bad jokes in her ear at social conventions. She still tags on bien to all her Je t'aimes even if Gerard doesn't. It's been nice, Gérard has been nice, and she doesn't want it, them, to end but she knows she needs to make this clear now rather than later. Fuck the stupid rule about not talking about your relationship.

She paces back and forth in her apartment waiting for the call to go through, bare feet tracing a lemniscate on the wooden floor.

The dial tone stops.

"Yes, good morning, ma puce," Gerard answers.

"Try another one," Amélie says, rejecting the pet name immediately, "I need to tell you something," she continues her anxiety making her tone cold, "about me as it relates to us- me and dating I mean." She hears him inhale on the other end and presses on before he can say something. "I like you, I like you a lot but, I- I wasn't kidding when I said Charlotte was the fun one. You've never pressured me and I appreciate that but it's been two months and things, things aren't going to go any faster than they have."

"I don't under-"

"Glaciers are going to move faster than me," she finally gets out. "It's just probably going to take me a while before I'm comfortable taking this to the next level, physically I mean, things beyond making out." There is silence on the other end. "I understand this is a deal breaker and that's fine. It's not you, it's just I need to take things slow. I just don't want you to think I'm stringing you along."

The silence is broken by, "So is the next level holding both your hands?"

"That's-"

"Full body contact hugs?"

"Gérard."

"And after that? Kissing while holding both hands? You absolute seductress."

"Gérard. I'm trying to tell you I won't be getting into your pants in the near future! And, and if that's a problem you can move on!"

Gérard's wheezy laughter fades a bit. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I thought you were going to break up with me. I was trying to think of what I had done." His breathing evens out. "I kinda figured that out already. It's been two months. And you know, Charlotte warned me."

"Oh." Amélie's shoulders drop.

"And," there's a pause as he licks his lips, "I've been looking for someone like that, someone similar to me."

"Oh," She breathes.

The film's dramatic music fades into something slower as the credits start to roll down the screen. Amélie arches her back to stretch and then falls back against the couch. Gérard laughs softly sliding closer to her. He slips his hand into hers. She gives a private smile and his fingers a quick squeeze.

"So, what did you think?" he asks as the screen slowly pans rough waters of a river to a rusting bridge.

"It was alright. The special effects were good but that seemed to be at the cost of the plot."

Amélie did like films, she really did, but she liked good films. Films with cohesive storylines, strong world building, rounded characters, good acting, intellectually stimulating plots, and decent special effects. She is a story snob and she is okay with this. Gérard, on the other hand seemed content watching things blow up in colorful ways. At least he enjoyed her snide running commentary as much as she did.

"I know whale oil is flammable, but I doubt anything makes a fireball like that other than gasoline."

Amélie shrugs. "I was talking about the kid running away from home. I know it's supposed to be the 50s but I just can't see a sixteen year old actually surviving that long. I know I couldn't have."

"I don't know," Gérard, says in a strange tone, "I managed it alright."

The shock of the statement causes Amélie to freeze for a moment, preventing her from saying anything stupid. Gérard made bad jokes all the time, but this didn't feel like one. The only thing he'd ever said about his family is that they weren't on speaking terms anymore.

"Oh?" she finally manages to get out an octave or two higher than normal.

"Then again, I had been planning it since I was twelve so that probably helped."

"I see," she says softly rubbing her thumb over his tense fingers, "What happened?"

"The usual," he replies his voice becoming strained now, "my father was a manipulative controlling jackass, and I got sick of it."

"Hmm," Amélie murmurs sliding closer to Gérard. Her mind is racing trying to think of something, anything to make this better. She doubts That sucks balls, or Do you want me to ruin him? qualifies.

"He never hit my mother or anything, but she never could stand up to him." he continues, "Eventually just I ran and hid. I changed my name and joined the one organization that would never let me leave, the military. I haven't... made contact with my birth family since."

Amélie is glad the darkness is hiding her face so Gérard can't see her clenched teeth or damp eyes. If she ever meets Gérard's father, she's going to slap him with so many lawsuits he won't know which way is up.

Gérard clears his throat with a wet cough pulling Amélie away from vengeful schemes.

"I didn't mean to drop this on you. I've been trying to figure out how to tell you for months now. You deserve to know since we're together."

"Thank you for telling me," Amélie says hating how it's the best response she can think of.

Gérard nods. After a moment he sucks in a breath. "I have spoken to a therapist about this, but I can see someone else if you think it's necessary. I know you're looking for a long-term relationship and I know familiar connections can be very important but I'm not-"

"Hey, hey," she cups his face, "Being family doesn't stop people from being assholes. I trust you did what you needed to do. It's fine. We're fine."

Gérard's face breaks into a fragile grin. "Okay." He leans into her.

They'll talk about this in more detail later, what Amélie needs to know, what she shouldn't do, what Gérard if comfortable with, if Gérard even wants to meet her parents. But for now, it's enough that he trusts her enough to mention the basics. Amélie's own last name tugs at her conscious. Soon, she'll tell him soon.

Gérard's fingers run through her hair and his chest rumbles as he speaks again.

"Did you know I made a powerpoint to go along with this speech?"

"Hmm."

"It had lots of charts. I worked hard on those charts."

It's been a year, a wonderful year since Amélie started dating Gérard. It's been a week since Gérard opened up about his family; it's only fair she opens up about hers.

The penthouse is quiet; Charlotte's nature sounds playlist paused. Sound of muffled voices drift up from the apartment below them and the refrigerator gurgles. Charlotte is out on a hot date, an omnic this time. Gérard is sitting beside her on the couch waiting patiently for her tablet to load but he's playing with his mustache in a way Amélie has learned is a nervous tick. She did ask him over because 'They needed to talk' so that's her fault. Amélie has a pack of beer stashed under her bed with a couple of acceptably written romance novels she saves for emergencies. Champagne is for celebrations; wine is for drinking; convenience store beer is for getting drunk.

"You know how I told you I wasn't that Galliard?" she says.

"Yes?"

"I lied." She passes her tablet over. She's signed into her bank account. It's easier to show concrete proof for this part.

"Merde." Gérard swallows hard before finding his voice. "Wow. That is a lot of money."

"It's a stupidly ridiculous amount of money," Amélie corrects. There's a point when money stops solving problems and starts creating them. The Guillards had passed that point long ago.

"All your internet profiles were suspiciously lack of personal information so I assumed distantly related but close enough that people would ask awkward questions but never..." He trails off transfixed by the screen. "It's just that you're so, so-"

"Not a spoiled sixteen-year-old mascaraing as an adult?"

"I was going to say well adjusted."

"Well neither of my parents wanted me to turn into a hellion who wasted the family fortune on drugs, so they did their best to raise me as a functioning member of society.

"Fortunately, my mother is a self-made billionaire who crawled her way to the top, so she gave me some semblance of a normal childhood. Chores, punishments, allowance, that type of stuff. Her family was never really poor mind you, but it still caused quite a scandal with my father started courting her. I'll tell you about it another time. And well, my father wanted me to be actually emotionally attached to them not my nanny."

Amélie watches Gérard intensely as he navigates through the tabs waiting for the first emotion that isn't shock.

There was nothing she could do about being born with a platinum spoon in her mouth, but she tried her hardest not to be the rich spoiled antagonist in every chick flick.

There were rules, of course, she learned growing up.

Always, always, treat the underlings well, whether it be the cleaning staff, waitresses, or guards. Be polite and give the benefit of the doubt. Problems were normally the fault of the system, not the individual. Leave tips when in the appropriate countries, be sure to complement them to their superior if not. Your name could get you in the door, but the staff was the ones who would drop your luggage or spit in your food. So, treat them well.

Don't flaunt your wealth unless you have a good reason, as soon as people realize you're rich their approach will change. Galas, world events, and passive-aggressive family reunions were appropriate places to flaunt. Pulling the 'I'm Rich' card to take someone to take down a notch was fair play but must be done carefully.

Don't show your hand too soon. Dress nice but not covered in designer tags. Mentioning that she spent a summer in Greece was normal, that she flew there this weekend on a whim was not. If she wanted to curate anything that vaguely resembles normal social interactions it was best to not show her hand, ever. She had to learn that one the hard way when she realized at twelve all her friends were friends because her parents owned horses. Thank god most people in dance cared more about if she could pull off a half-decent fouette than if she could buy them all Maseratis.

She still had to learn a lot as she grew up. For example: if people didn't do things the reason was probably money. And the average person did not own a jet. Going to a more diverse private school helped. Working in retail at the mall was eye-opening even though she was fired after a month.

"Could you buy an island?" Gérard asks. She can see the gears in head turning trying to get a better grasp on how much money she has.

"Depends on the size and location," she says resigning to the inquisition. (Being rich was such a strange thing, you had everything and nothing at the same time. Growing up Amélie saw how all the business success in the world wasn't enough for her mother. She saw how his inheritance alienated her father from his siblings.)

"Do you own any boats?"

"No. It isn't really a hobby in my family, so my father only has a handful. I could borrow a yacht if you wanted though."

Gérard mouths the word yacht. He pauses and asked his next question with renewed focus. "How many planes do you own?"

"A few." This probably means Gérard has figured out how she keeps a decent supply of fresh Italian mozzarella and Swiss chocolate in the apartment.

"Exotic pets?" He asks getting bolder.

"Not really. My father was given some Hyacinth macaws as a gift. We kept them for a month or two, I think. Uh, guard dogs. Oh, I did have a horse," Amélie mumbles the last word.

"A horse?" He stares at her, probably imagining her pre-teen room covered in sparkling posters.

"I rode her, trained her, maintained her coat, and cleaned her stall," Amélie says stiffly.

"I see."

He sets down the tablet. "Okay, okay." Gérard presses his hands together in front of his face and breathes deeply. His eyes, dark ink wells she wants to write poetry with, lock on her.

"Why me?"

Because he's nice and funny and oh so smart and weird in the most endearing ways and he's never, ever pushed her, like so many have before.

"Because you didn't want in my pants or my father's inheritance," Amélie says with something that she knows doesn't look like a smile. "You were actually interested in me."

She almost starts as that fear she shoved down so far comes rushing back so fast. (Oh, she's fallen hard.)

Gérard exhales slowly and then nods once. "Alright," he says staring off into space. He stands. "I'm going to need some time to process this."

"Are- are we okay?" she asks reaching out.

This finally seems to knock Gérard out of his stupor. He catches her hand and gives her a weak smile. "Yeah, yes. Yes," he repeats more firmly. "I'm not breaking up with you. I just need some time. It's a lot."

Amélie nods.

Gérard calls her back at some time far too early on a Saturday morning. Amélie presses answer and croaks out, "So?"

"So," He replies, "I did have to wrestle with the idea of me never going to be able to out gift you ever again but then I realized you can buy me a new blade for every holiday imaginable without going bankrupt and that's really okay by me."

It's been said food is the way to a man's heart. Amelie heard that cooking together was a fun bonding activity and she was running out of date night ideas. She called the Guillard family's head chief pleaded for suggestions for a simple meal that two novices could handle. And now she and Gérard are dancing around each other in her kitchen trying to make something edible.

Amélie whisks together the flour, spices, and salt in a small bowl praying there isn't a wrong way to whisk things. She isn't sure why the dry ingredients need to be whisked but she's doing it. Gérard peers over her shoulder studying the recipe printout while running a chief's knife along the sharpening rod she never figured out how to use.

"You know," he says poking at the line of instructions, "if you prepped the sauce with the vegetables you could shave off two minutes."

Amélie reaches over and cups his face bringing his eyes over to hers. "Not everything has to be optimized, mon chéri."

Letting go of his face she spins around him to set the small bowl next to the thawed chicken. The corner of her mouth ticks up when she hears a sharp intake of breath as she slides across his back. She hands over a cutting board, two bell peppers, and a fourth of an onion. "Here. Dice these, mince this."

"Excellent!" Gérard says banishing a knife in each hand. "What's the difference?"

Amélie refers back to the printout. "I have no idea."

Gérard begins slicing and Amélie adds the eggs to the dry ingredients. By the time he is done with the bell peppers, she is brushing the glaze on the chicken tenderloins. The chopped vegetables are passed over and Amélie spreads them over the chicken. After making sure everything is evenly coated, she puts the pan into the oven.

She turns around to see Gérard hacking at one of the mangos with no regard for his fingers. He wiggles his eyebrows, flips the knife over his hand a few times, catches it, and smacks the flat of the blade against the fruit. The trimmings fall away revealing a spiraling pattern, like the petals of a Crysthanamum.

Okay, she's impressed.

Gérard presents it to her. "For the lady," he says with that devilish grin he wears when he knows he's got her.

Amélie does not blush, and if she did it was certainly not in a manner that could be described as cute.

They work together cutting, washing, and arranging the rest of the fruit platter. To burn a little more time the table is set, and drinks are chosen. As the minutes drag on, they sit down and start on the drinks and fruit platter, Gérard carving shapes into the other mango slices, Amélie eating the failures.

A with bit too much force and Gérard's knife decapitates the duck he was working on. Amélie stabs the head with her fork and eats it while he pouts.

"That one was coming along so well," he laments.

"Hmm," Amélie says sympathetically, "It tasted a bit off. Did it land in something? Wait. Do you smell that?"

Gérard sniffs the air. "It smells like something is burning."

Amélie's eyes widen and she sprints out of her chair. She opens the oven door to pull out a pan of very overcooked and burning on the edges glazed chicken.

"Merde," she whispers. She forgot the set a timer.

Gérard prods at a piece with his knife; the glaze cracks under the pressure. He frowns. Amélie suspects his plan to say to assure her it's not that bad has been thwarted. She sets the pan down on the stovetop to cool and turns back to Gérard.

"Do you want to go out?" she asks. She doesn't want to wait for a table, and it would defeat the purpose of the date but at least they would have food.

"What if we just order pizza."

Dinner is a quiet, intimate affair. The burnt smell has mostly dissipated, and the rest is covered up by the candles being used as mood lighting. Little conversation occurs over the sound of forks and knives, the couple too hungry at this point to put much effort into small talk.

"This was nice," Amélie says after dabbing her mouth. Despite the debacle, she means it.

"You want to do this again?" Gérard asks playing with his beer.

"Like next week?" She can probably not burn anything the next time.

"Like permanently. You want to get married?"

"Sure."

Amélie stares blankly up at the ceiling of the soloist changing room. She hasn't moved for the last seven minutes. The cold of the floor is starting to seep into her back and some distant part of her is glad she decided to wear leggings today.

She hears the heavy door being pushed open and footsteps approaching. The panels above her are bland and only faintly dusty. There's a sigh before the face of the head coach leans in above her.

"Guillard," he says sounding more inconvenienced than anything else, "you're scaring the other dancers."

She had already deduced that from the whispering outside but makes a small sound in acknowledgment.

"Gérard asked me to marry him," she says.

He raises an eyebrow. Strangers or friends proposing out of the blue wasn't a common occurrence, but it also wasn't abnormal considering who she is.

"I said yes," she clarifies.

She said yes. Why did she say yes? She wasn't thinking, it just slipped out. (Being bound to another person for the rest of her life. It could be nice, considering it was Gérard.) This was going to change everything. Well, Gérard asked. (The idea of being married to Gérard wasn't that bad.) What was she supposed to do, ignore him? Say no? Like that option created any better outcomes. (Why did that scare her even more?)

"Ah. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

Dieu, she can't believe she said yes. She wasn't thinking it just slipped out. Does she really want to go through with this? Has she known him long enough? (Yes.) What if they divorce? What if she dies? She's going to need an entirely new will. There's going to be so much paperwork and she doesn't even want to think about the bank accounts.

The dance coach tilts his head. "Are you going to be moving any time soon?"

"I don't think so."

What about later? Would they have kids? She doesn't want kids. They're so small and fragile and droppable. One wrong comment, one missed dress recital, one punishment instead of praise and they're scared for life. She can't handle the responsibility. (She understands now why her parents never tried again for a boy.) Does Gérard want kids? All they do for the first two years is cry and poop. Why did she never think to ask?

He sighs again, standing. "I'll go call Charlotte, but don't think you'll be getting off easy. Tomorrow you'll be making up for both sessions."

"Thank you," Amélie mutters from the floor.

The gems glitter under the florescent lights where they rest on the satin cloth. Arrangements of sapphires, jadeites, alexandrites, and diamonds lay before her. Amélie purses her lips as her eyes rake over the variety of engagement rings. The craftsmanship is superb but beyond that, the only thing this collection has in common is the sheer amount of stones piled on each band.

"We're looking for something that's more restrained," her smile is gentle, but her tone is firm, "Classy, elegant."

"Of course, madam."

The jeweler's face twitches in disappointment but complies for the sake of the publicity that will follow with a Guillard wearing one of his rings. He sweeps the collection off the table and searches for a new set.

Gérard's hands settle on her hips and he leans in close hovering over her shoulders.

"I don't know," he murmurs, "If you'd ever get shipwrecked you could have signaled for rescue with one of those or used it to start a fire."

"Shh," Amélie hisses back fighting to keep her negotiation face on.

They collaborated on the ring to keep things moving forward. Gérard had wanted to pay for the entire ring, Amélie had protested refusing to let him bankrupt himself. Gérard had wanted the ring to be a surprise, a gift. Amélie had planned to design it herself, pointing out that as it was her gift, she should like it.

The compromise was Amélie would choose the basic design and pay for the gemstones, Gérard the band and the personalization. That way it would be somewhat of a surprise and Gérard wouldn't be filling for the poor house.

The jeweler returns with rings that are sleeker and have fewer smaller stones, as requested. Amélie turns a few of the rings over feeling the weight and examining how the stones are inlaid. These are much better, she thinks laying aside two or three she particularly likes the design of, but she doesn't love any of them.

A very successful ad campaign in the 1950s was the reasons diamonds were tied to marriage, everlasting love, and inflammation. Before that, all sorts of colorful, cheaper gems were used. And the idea of jewel-encrusted rings caught on among European nobility as a way to show off one's power and wealth to their betrothed in the 1400s. Knowing the shallow origins of most modern traditions way monopiles wriggle their way into everything sucks the romance out of it.

The tradition of giving a ring is nice and Amélie appreciates the current symbolism tied to them but she was never a very sentimental person. She doesn't have to love the ring to appreciate it, as a gift from Gérard it already has enough meaning.

Gérard must sense her hesitation because he speaks up.

"Do you have anything similar with darker jewels?" he asks, "Black diamonds perhaps?"

Oh, Amélie's eyes light up; she hadn't even considered a black stone.

The jeweler's face draws taught but assures them his store can make a ring with any stone they wished. Amélie has to suppress a laugh, she doubts Gérard knows that black diamonds are very cheap because of the low demand.

Amélie takes pity on the man and settles on a medium-sized black musgravite and a basic band.

Amélie taps her foot while waiting for Gérard's lock to recognize her key. He had messaged her saying that had big news to share with her, nothing bad, but important enough that he wanted to tell her in person.

The light finally turns green and with a whirl unlocks. Amélie rushes inside. The apartment is much smaller than her own and she can easily differentiate between what the military was required to provide and what he and his roommate bought to make the place more welcoming. Gérard is sitting on the couch nursing a glass.

"I thought I told you not to panic." He gives her a weak smile as she sits down.

Amélie huffs. "You told me you couldn't tell me over the phone because you didn't trust the line. What was I supposed to think?"

"It's not bad news, it's just big. Lots of things are going to change."

She takes his hand and waits.

"There's been a merger of sorts," he starts, "A handful of divisions have been requisitioned by Overwatch. Someone up the chain asked for my section specifically."

Amélie purses her lips. Overwatch is notoriously difficult to get into despite the organization's size. Neither of them expected an opportunity like this until years later. He should be over the moon about this.

"Isn't this good?" she asks.

He shrugs. "I'm expected to transfer immediately. I have one month to clean up everything on this end and another to settle in at the Watchpoint."

"Ah, just under a month from our wedding." She sinks into the couch.

"Yes. I'd be working out of their Paris location so we wouldn't have to move but most of the paperwork has already been verified. I can't say no without losing my job."

"Is anyone else in your section staying in Paris?"

Gérard shakes his head. "Stuttgart and Mumbai were the most popular spots."

Well, shit. There goes a third of their guest list.

"And I suppose your vacation hours don't transfer?"

The corner of Gérard's mouth twitches. "No, of course not, why would any two employment databases be compatible at all?"

Amélie lets out a small laugh.

"We could push the wedding forward," she says slowly, "Do something smaller. One of those cute little backyard ceremonies."

Gérard grimaces. "If necessary, we can do something like that but I'm afraid I'm going to be selfish and hope we can figure out another option." His voice softens, "Starting our lives together is a big event. I want the ceremony to reflect that."

She knew Gérard would hate that. At times, it feels like he's looking forward to the wedding more than she is.

"What about just waiting another week or two?" she suggests, "We'd have to cut the ceremony, but we'd still be able to use the church."

It would be madness with the time crunch; they'd have to reduce and reschedule everything. It would be madness, but they could still do it.

He shrugs. "It would be better than nothing but sit would be rather depressing to have my half of the pews be even more empty than they already are going to be."

Amélie rolls her eyes with a huff. "What if we waited? Held it after you got settled in at Overwatch, built up a repertoire with your boss, made some new friends?"

"That's a really long time to be engaged," Gérard says sullenly, "I was looking forward to being able to call you my wife."

The longing in his voice makes her soft. A though hits Amélie like a lightning bolt.

"What if," she says slowly, "we did the paperwork before you transferred to Overwatch? That way we'd be legally married but could still have the ceremony later."

"I like where you're going but filling out legal documents at the courthouse isn't my idea of a romantic event," Gérard says but she can see his eyes are sparkling as the idea grows on him.

"Yes, yes," Amélie says, "but if we were legally married then you could use apply for vacation at the DGSE and we could use it-"

"For our honeymoon! You're a genius, this is wonderful!" He jumps off the couch and pulls Amélie into a hug. "I'll get started on creating a list of romantic sites and we can narrow down our top five. And oh, we'll need to get started on reservations-"

"Gérard, darling" Amélie grabs his shoulders, "I own a yacht."

The couple decides such an occurrence is worthy of a proper celebration and breaks out the champagne.

"And that is how I would take over the world," Gérard says with a gesture of finality from Amélie's lap.

Amélie runs her fingers through Gérard's hair while contemplating his proposition. It was a decent enough proposal of world domination, and yet...

"What about the Russians?" she asks.

He gasps. "I forgot about the Russians," Gérard says with quiet horror.

"And it's standard for the shared super processors to run at fifty petaflops. Standard," Gérard jabs his steak for emphasis, "With that much processing power I could create my own real-time mock government. And the identity recognition software is legions beyond what I expected. Did you know it can track a person based on their skeleton? Weight gained, weight loss, body modifications, none of them matter anymore."

Amélie nods and takes a bite of her squash. She can understand a third of what Gérard is saying at this point, but it doesn't matter. The last time she saw him this excited was when she hired the most historically actuate Roman Gladiatorial fighting professionals she could find, and he spent the whole day learning combat techniques.

"Most of the thinktanks have been reverse engineered to find weaknesses in Omnic logic but a handful of AI have been kept."

She loves the way he lights up when he talks about these things. She could stargaze into them forever.

"My new crew is interesting but most of them are married to their terminals. I don't think I'll have any issues with people not pulling their weight, but I've heard my new boss has a stick up his ass."

"Oh?" Amélie says.

Gérard nods somberly. "Incredibly bullheaded is the word on the street. I'm going to have to kiss up hard if to get the changes I want to be implemented."

"Just promise me you'll wash that mouth before you kiss me."

"I'm back," Amélie calls out closing the front door behind her. She takes a moment to hang her coat and lets her bag slide off her shoulder onto the floor. The point shoes make a dull thunk when they hit the hardwood.

"How was your day?" Gérard calls out from another room.

"Fine," she calls back, taking a moment to adjust a painting in the kitchen, making sure it is level. "Same old, same old."

It was a lovely place they'd snatched up. Isolated by a plot of private land but not too far from the city. The house was basic by Amélie's standards but large enough for both of them when they needed space.

A feeling of warmth tinged with pride wells up in her as she glances over the color schemes she picked out and the miss-mash of furniture Gérard had brought with him.

Her new home.

Their home.

She follows Gérard's voice to find him sitting on the couch watching the evening news.

"How was yours?" she asks.

"Productive."

"Hmm," she replies the sound lined with frustration.

It's the same type of answer she's been getting for over a month now. Asking is becoming a formality. It's not Gérard's fault he signed an NDA or a hundred but Amélie hates being kept in the dark. But world security takes precedence over her control issues.

Amélie notes the whisksey glass as she leans over to give him a kiss before sitting down. She slips her legs into his lap. Gérard starts rubbing her feet without complaint as she's still wearing socks, a bargain she struck up long ago. Years of on pointe had not done her feet any favors.

Gérard's thumbs start working away at her arches and Amélie's upper reasoning capabilities start shutting down. The news station is cycling through its biggest story for the day, a crime ring bust in South America that lead to the removal of the ring's leaders.

She watches as teams of Mexican and scattered American Special Forces shove grimy looking men to the ground or load bundles of weapons into crates bearing Overwatch's logo. The organization's military leader name, Strike Commander Reyes, crawls across the bottom of the projection. Amélie watches the scene for a moment before turning to Gérard.

"Did you do that?"

Gérard gives her that infuriatingly attractive grin.

"Maybe."

Living in the same space as someone else every day was something that Amélie tried to avoid. The only reason she roomed with Charlotte is because she was certain her best friend had it in her to survive the experience. Nothing other than death or dismemberment could stop her best friend from becoming a Ballerina.

She and Gérard had managed to see each other every day for a month without going insane so that was good but moving in together still presented issues.

Gérard was nice, clever, fairly clean, and chivalrous but he was of the rougher sex. This meant Amélie had a wonderful view of his broad chest and back on certain occasions it also meant that he saw nothing wrong with leaving specks of stubble in the sink after shaving, that demonstrate his ability to belch the alphabet was a good use of both of their time, and farting without warning was not only fair game but "hilarious."

Now, Amélie has no idea what goes through Gérard's head but the fuss he put up about buying throw pillows and a canopy bed makes it clear he's also going through a mental shift. She considers it a private victory that Gérard swore he could never go back to his old mattress again only a week after installing the temperature-controlled sleep number mattress that cost a small fortune.

Bed sharing was also a challenge. While Amélie had participated in sleepovers before, everyone had their own sleeping bag or mattress, as a result, Amélie had no idea that she kicked in her sleep. For his part, Gérard likes to snuggle, a lot, which was unbelievable endearing unless it was combined with his other sleep habit; trying to climb as far up the headboard as possible.

Amélie left bruises up and down Gérard's legs and woke up to Gérard's body crushing her three times before they created the sacrificial pillow wall to ease the transition.

Probably the biggest challenge for her is that she has to be so, so careful with what she says to him. She already reserved smack talk for Charlotte and one or two of her coaches. But the way his face paled after overhearing some of the sharper banter between her and her father made her never want him to look at her that way.

The burr walnut table that had survived the coup of 1823, two house fires, and being locked in a musty storage unit for a decade was now the centerpiece of the Lacroix dining room. The dark wood glistens under the electric chandelier above. Below the

Gérard's papers are scattered all over his end. The classified documents are marred with highlights and water rings from iced coffee. Above them, pictures of an abandoned club and a map of France are floating on his holoscreens. Gérard chews on a pen studying the information.

On her side, Amélie flicks through clip after clip of ballet dancers dipping and swaying to the same piece of music. A binder full of dance routines is open and several pages have been set aside. She watches one all the way through and scribbles a few words on her tablet but scowls at it when she's done.

"If you were a narcissistic drug lord who had recently had your pride crushed where would you hide?" Gérard asks.

"What are my connections like?" Amélie replies.

"Good enough to make this difficult."

"Prague."

"Prague?"

"Pull the right strings and the Russian mob is very protective. It's nice this time of year and vodka is always great for re-inflating egos." She glances up to meet her husband's eyes. "You didn't say I was smart."

Gérard puts his hands together and touches them to his face creating a second pen mustache over his real one. "Prague," he repeats, drawings out the word.

"If you were a peasant girl who had just been seduced by a lying nobleman how would you express your grief before you died of shock?" Amélie asks, "A fouette is more dramatic but Grande Adage is more controlled."

"I think I would go see a psychologist," Gérard says.

"Sorry, no psychologists in ballet."

"How about the thing where you look like you're going to kick yourself in the face." He turns in his chair and demonstrates the movement as well as his pants will allow.

"Hmm." Amélie nods and jots down Grande battement? on her tablet.

Amélie lets out a sigh of relief after Dr. Winston, the gorilla, excuses himself after they run out of topics for small talk. It's nothing the scientist did, he was perfectly polite and looked just as flustered trying to make conversation; it's just Amélie hasn't been desensitized to having teeth that large so close to her face yet.

A quick glance around the room reveals plenty of broad-shouldered men in military uniforms but none that look particularly like her husband. Amélie shakes her head and steels herself. She promised herself she'd talk to more people from Gérard's work. She doesn't need him to play tour guide even if she really wants him too.

She starts wandering around the room looking for someone who looks approachable. If she's lucky she'll find a kindred spirit hugging the walls. Really, she shouldn't complain, she muses walking past a man with glowing lines on his face and hands, this event is leagues better than the charity balls her family attended.

People had considered her cute back then, with her mother's looks and her father's tongue, until she started having real opinions. As she grew-up not even spending the day shopping for outfits with Maman or tearing into old men's egos with Papa could make the events enticing.

Conversations with the other donors consisted of mansion renovations, business trade gossip, or how the poor little people were weathering the Crisis. Chatting with the hosts or c-list guests normally went better here just as shallow as no one wanted to scare off her family's contributions. Here, in this room full of soldiers, scientists, reporters, humanists, and researchers, people were tackling real problems, working to make a real difference.

Amélie starts towards a waiter with champagne, she just has to actually talk to one of them.

"-credit for catching lightning in a bottle."

The condescending tone catches her attention more than the words. Amélie homes in on a bespectacled man speaking to a blonde woman. The blonde is wearing a designer dress with a matching bag and heels but is clearly uncomfortable in it. She clearly has money but doesn't spend it often. Curious.

"Contaminated petri dishes, photography plates left behind in a drawer, forgetting to wash one's hands after leaving the lab. History is littered with world-changing scientific breakthroughs that were discovered by accident. I am not ashamed that my nano-tech is one of them," The woman replies with a tight smile.

Amélie recognizes that type of smile. She changes her course and puts a little swagger in her step. Time to tear someone to shreds.

"Tying my name to a freak accident and capitalizing on it isn't something I would be proud of."

"Yes, well, thanks to Overwatch R&D has reached the point where it's a stable, controllable, reproducible freak accident now," she says with a surprising amount of cheerful malice, "Unlike your attempts at creating a 'tame' black hole which has remained purely theoretical, according to your team's most recent paper."

Red begins to color the man's cheeks. He turns in a huff and stomps off.

Amélie chokes back a laugh at the show. The blonde whips around to face her. Amélie holds up her hand placating.

"I'm sorry," Amélie says, "I saw that buffoon crowding you. I was coming to rescue you but clearly, you didn't need my help."

The blonde sighs. "Would you believe me if I said most of my conversations aren't normally that aggressive?"

"No need to apologize. Some people need to be taken down a peg. But having a real conversation might convince me of your supposed demeanor." Amélie thumbs over at the bar. "I'm about to blow my allotted calorie amount of the week. Want to join me for fries?"

The first real smile Amélie has seen appears on the blonde's face. "That sounds wonderful."

Amélie holds out her hand once they sit down at the bar. "Amélie Lacroix."

"Angela Ziegler." Angela's smile is warm; her grip is strong but without calluses.

They order drinks and food that is terrible for one's health.

"You wouldn't happen to be related to a Gérard Lacroix, would you?" Angela asks.

Amélie nods. "My husband actually."

"Oh?"

"We've been together for two years, married five months ago." She smiles softly down at her drink. "I was very lucky to find him as he was far outside my social circle."

Realizing what she's doing Amélie glances around the room for her idiot. She needs a topic change. She chides herself, don't bore the only person you've found to talk to. She spots Gérard next to the largest man she's seen and a blonde dwarf.

"There he is. And look, he's made friends." The dwarf laughs at something Gérard says, and the giant takes a posture of exaggerated offense. Both of the men are built like brick houses and Amélie's pretty sure she's seen them tearing apart OR14s in Overwatch propaganda. "Should I be concerned?"

"Oh, Reinhardt is harmless unless you challenge him to arm wrestling or a drinking contest." Angela replies, "Or both."

"Hm." She makes note of this but she's more concerned about the dwarf and the way he perks up when Gérard says Omnium.

"Ah. He was very cordial when we spoke and but the changes, he is pushing for seems rather forceful," Angela says carefully.

"Gérard would call it forward-thinking, but he can get rather excited sometimes. I take it you fall more on the pacifist end of the spectrum?"

"As a doctor, I've sworn to do no harm. Overwatch allows me access to patients and resources I could never reach before, but I don't agree with all of its choices."

"Personally, I'm afraid to much of a pessimist too be a pacifist but the world would be a much better place if more people thought like you." Amélie hopes she's making it clear she takes no offense to the doctor's stance against Gérard's plans. "So, what about you? Any relation to the Ziegler the medical wing is named after?"

"My parents actually. Though one could argue that by bloodlines the building is named after me. And that I'm the head neurosurgeon of it."

Amélie does some mental math and then double-checks it.

"But you're so young." How on earth had this woman completed her doctorate and was head surgeon? Retaking chemistry had slowed Amélie down by a year.

"Well," Angela preens, "They did call me a prodigy."

"One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two three," Gérard mutters under his breath as he and Amélie move around the dance room mostly in time to the music.

It is her wedding so, of course, there is going to be a dance; something simple but impressive. Amélie is lead around the room while Gérard keeps his eyes locked on his feet. If they could get the routine down.

Amélie pushes off Gérard, spins around him, and settles back into her position as follows all without losing step. Gérard's count goes completely out the window and they stutter to a halt.

"Okay, break!" Charlotte yells.

They step apart while Charlotte turns off the music.

"Amélie stop showing off. Gérard try to relax. It's a wedding, not a funeral procession," Charlotte says.

"You are getting closer my friend!" Reinhardt bellows slapping Gérard on the back.

Charlotte claps her hands together. "Alright. Let's try the lift."

Reinhardt gets into position next to Gérard. Amélie takes a few steps back and then rushes Gérard. She leaps and his palms slot in over her hips. Amélie braces as her momentum fades and Gérard continues to lift her into the air. Reinhardt's hands are right there, ready to catch either of them if someone falls. Amélie raises her legs and holds her body rigid. Gérard completes the lockout holding Amélie aloft above his head.

Gérard stares at her.

"Ha!" The sound escapes from his lips and a smile grows on Gérard's face as reality sinks in. "Ha, ha, ha!"

"See, I knew you could do it," Reinhardt cheers.

"Good job. You can let me down now," Amélie says.

Gérard takes a step, and then another, and another, and another until he's twirling Amélie aloft through the air.

"Gérard. Put me down."

"Never!"

Reinhardt's booming laugh fills the room.

"And the stained glass is original from the thirteen hundreds but the mosaics are not. The depiction of Saint Paul had to be recreated three times. Twice due to vandalism and once because his position was too close to being level with Jesus and considered heresy.

"And over here!" Gérard takes Amélie's hand and tugs her further past the pews. "This is the spot where Barron Martian was stabbed to death because of rising taxes."

It is Gérard's wedding so of course, it is going to take place in the smallest, oldest, most obscure, antiquity rich church he could find. Apparently, a large number of people had been given titles or killed here. Sometimes both.

Amélie glances around the stonewalls, wooden pew, and weak electric lights. She's glad they already decided on having a small ceremony. Thirty people would be pushing the fire code.

"-the amour still has the rivets for where leather straps would have been!"

The wedding bands are plain gold, Gérard leaves his undecorated, Amélie chooses to have a flower pattern engraved matching her engagement ring. Inside the Greek words for love Agape - Pragma - Eros - Philia - Ludus – Philautia encircle each wearer.

It's growing ever closer to midnight when Amélie finds her husband hunkered down at their worktable surrounded by a holoscreen and files. She recognizes the piles the spread of information has been sorted into. Center and the holoscreen is Gérard's official projects. Things he gets paid for and has concrete due dates. The right pile is connected ideas and offshoots from the central pile. Things that might be relevant, but he won't get paid for. The left pile is personal projects. Things he most certainly will not get paid for but keeps him from dying in the cubical world of boredom.

Gérard sorts his reading list the same way.

Amélie kisses Gérard on the forehead and drapes her arms over his shoulders.

"I come bearing gifts," she says passing him a steaming mug.

"I love you," Gérard says to the cup. He makes a face and pulls the mug away. "This isn't coffee."

"It's midnight. No more caffeine," Amélie orders with a glare. Gérard pouts but doesn't argue. Satisfied, Amélie turns her attention to Gérard's workload.

"How's it going?"

"I have lots of problems, but now I have lots of problems in a spreadsheet."

Amélie hums and glances over the holoscreen. In the center is a basic spreadsheet with tiny boxes filled with text. A map of Japan is behind that with boxes, and labels, and lines connecting things. A document with a stylized claw on it about weapons trafficking is the only thing that peaks out from underneath the two main windows to be comprehensible.

"Overwatch wasn't built for this," he says gesturing at the map of Japan, "Overwatch was created to get all the best robot killers on one team and across borders without causing national outrage. Not enforce world peace."

"That's why they hired you," Amélie says.

By Gérard's left hand is a folder full of dense legal documents with bit and pieces highlighted. On top of one the pages, a note reads Moon experiment loophole! –Motive. His personal tablet is open to an Overwatch conspiracy theories webpage. From what Amélie understands, Gérard can rely on the forum for a good laugh.

Under his right hand is two personal folders. One is the genius gorilla who Amélie met and seems to be settling in well. Amélie picks the other one up. Inside, a photograph of a young woman smiling as wide as humanly possible greets her.

"Who's this?" she asks, thumbing through the file.

"New recruit."

"I didn't know Overwatch was desperate enough to hire children. Is that even legal?"

"Well the omnics did do their best to remove our most damaging players from the field so Overwatch has gotten a bit thin over the years but that's not why they are interested in Oxton. She's eighteen, graduated at the top of her class in the Royal Air Force. She's very good. We were lucky to snatch her up before Lucheng did."

"She's not going into the field, is she?" Amélie asks quickly.

"Not if I have anything to say about," Gérard mutters then shakes his head, "Currently, a test pilot for Science and Engineering. Morrison might move her up in a few years. If she can wait that long."

"Oh?"

"She's a bit of spitfire. Already chomping at the bit from what I've heard."

Amélie scrunches up her face, thinking about the stories of a new recruit, who she'd always assumed was male, in light of these new details.

"Is she the one who crashed her moped into a ravine?"

"Oh, no, no," Gérard says gesturing with his mug. "She cleared the ravine."

Angela and Amélie did manage to get together for lunch after the banquet and several times after that. Both found it nice to compare experiences with someone else who was deeply involved with Overwatch but still on the outside of the organization. And these lunches allowed each woman to socialized with one person that they weren't colleges with.

This lunch, Amélie is delighted to learn that Angela also hates small talk and is very bad at it.

"Would you ever get a tattoo?" Angela reads off her phone, "or what tattoo would you get next?"

"Hm." Amélie tilts her head back. "I'd like to eventually. Something nice though. Maybe something small for our fifth anniversary or something bigger, like a swan, on my back when I retire. Either way nothing right now, anything that might show the hose would be an issue. What about you?"

Angela snorts. "Pay to have a stranger create a large open wound filled with a foreign substance my immune system will be constantly fighting, breaking down, and the image will naturally degrade with time?"

Amélie rolls her eyes. "It's an art form."

"It's a triple infection risk."

"My turn," Amélie swipes to the next question on the game. "Sky diving?"

"No thank you. It's a perfectly good plane. Why jump out of it?"

"I feel an obligation to oppose your wet blanket tendencies, but I agree with you, too high. Trapeze is much better; you have a net."

"Pets?" Angela asks.

"I had a horse when I was younger. None right now, no time."

"You know me, married to my work," Angela says with a shrug.

"Aren't we exciting," Amélie drawls going to the next question.

"Says the star ballet dancer to the world-class neurosurgeon."

"Touché. All right," Amélie pauses for dramatic effect, "What is your greatest fear?"

Angela drums her fingers against her cup staring off in the distance. "I'd have to say forgetting or breaking sanitary protocol and spreading a contaminant among the other patients. Or dismissing a patient's concerns and prolonging their suffering."

Amélie stared at her.

"Sorry, was that too dark?" Angela asks with a nervous smile.

"God no! It's just my answer seems rather silly now."

"What was it?"

"Spiders."

"Spiders?" Angela gives the dancer a once overlooking for signs of deception. "But you're so much bigger than them."

"Nothing needs that many legs, Angela," she says glaring.

"Alright," Angela takes a drink, "What about octopuses and squids?"

"They're either on my dinner plate or in the ocean, far away from me."

Angela laughs checking her watch. "I'm afraid I have to cut this lunch short."

"Making sure the hospital wing hasn't burned down in your absence?"

Angela sighs reaching for her bag. "Not quite."

"That geneticist hasn't been bothering you again has she? Just say the word and I'll remind her why she was brought on as a second thought."

Angela snorts. "I appreciate your enthusiasm but that shouldn't be necessary. I suggested she be assigned to a real problem project, modifying genes in rats to increase immune resistance, and she's been as happy as a calm. But no, I actually have previously agreed to appointment."

"Really, like what?" Amélie perks up, "Wait, don't tell me. Does the doctor have a hot date?" Angela's hesitation is all the encouragement she needs. "Who is it? A boy? A girl? Omnic? Extra-large bottle of Lysol?"

"Actually, he is quite handsome."

"Oh." Amélie drops the teasing tilt. "Congratulations. Where are you two going?"

"We'll probably stay on base. Not very romantic but cheaper."

Amélie nods in agreement. "What's he like?"

"A lady's man from what I've heard, but most of the times I've seen him he's been unconscious."

Amélie blinks.

"He's a triple amputee," Angela explains.

Amélie burst out laughing. Angela joins in after a second.

"Oh, I shouldn't have told you any of that, patient confidentiality," Angela says covering her mouth.

"Who am I going to tell, the doctor police?"

Amélie stands and shakes her friend's hand goodbye.

It is these types of days Amélie likes best, the weather is beautiful, rehearsal had gone wonderfully, and Gérard has a new project to sink his teeth in. And this time it came from his superiors, which meant he would get paid for it. Even better.

Gérard is sprawled out on the couch leafing through personal profiles monologuing; Amélie hmms in agreement while scrolling through social media.

"Specs does good work but he is weird. I wouldn't be working with him directly but still." He shrugs, "Into the 'yes' pile."

"Miranda, no. Johnson, no. Ali, yes."

"What about the Lopez twins?" Amélie asks, "Or Henry"

"The twins yes, Henry, no."

"Why?"

"Idiot proved he couldn't follow simple instructions. Three billion down the toilet and five safety violations. He's dead to me. Oh! That reminds me, he's having a baby shower in a month. Could you help me pick out something nice?"

"Of course, darling."

Amélie wakes to sunlight filtering in the blinds and Gérard's arms around her. It's a perfect morning to wake up so she basks in the stillness of the morning until she remembers she has work. And she's at least two hours late.

"Merde."

She scrambles forward only to be dragged back to the center of the bed by Gérard and buries his head in her hair.

"Darling," she groans, "as adorable as you are, I need to go to work."

"You work so much," he mumbles into her neck, "miss you."

"Don't pretend you aren't part of the problem, Mr. Chug an Energy Drink to Finish a Five Page Report in two hours." Amélie attempts to pry his fingers off her.

"But it's your day off, remember?" Gérard says with a yawn.

It is most certainly not her day off.

"I got it cleared with your director, both of them."

Amélie stops trying to escape Gérard's grasp and flips around so she's facing him. Gérard still has a bit of sleepy softness too him, his hair unruly and face unshaved.

"Gérard, darling," Amélie says playing with one of his curls. "Is it possible you forgot to tell someone about this plan?"

"Uh, no?" His face scrunches up as he lists them off, "Art director, rehearsal director, choreographer, Reyes, Torres."

Amélie raises an eyebrow and the penny drops.

"Whoops. Happy I managed to get a day off -versasy?" Gérard says with an apologetic smile.

"You mean, happy I went around your back and highjacked your entire schedule without telling you day?" Amélie asks, more amused than anything.

"It's a present," Gérard pouts, "We haven't had a vacation in ages."

"The thought was nice, waking up and having a heart attack wasn't." She walks her fingers down his bare chest. "But I can think of a few ways you can make it up to me."

It starts small a package of cookies going from five left to two, Gérard being too busy at work to meet her for lunch, sometimes leaving his clothes all over the floor, little things. Amélie notices but when she asks Gérard says he's stressed about work, so she leaves it. After a day or two everything she asks Gérard to do is done to the exact letter but nothing more. It's nothing obvious but she can feel the tension leaking into their everyday life and it frightens her.

Gérard sets down her evening snack and sits on the couch beside her. It's all wrong. The chocolate bar is broken up instead of whole, peanut butter is on the chocolate not on the side, and he's given her a glass of white wine, not red. He knows what she likes by now.

"Mon Chéri, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

Amélie frowns. This has been going on for a week and she is done with it.

"What's going on with you?" she demands.

"Nothing. Nothing is going on with me."

Gérard heads back to the kitchen. Amélie follows him.

"Something is going on and I need you to tell me what is. I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

Gérard scoffs and takes a detour through the living room. Now both of them are wandering around their large, well-lit home in nightclothes.

"Just talk to me," Amélie demands her voice rising.

It's their first real argument. It's not their first disagreement or spat, those occurred in the weeks after the wedding after spending too much time around each other. But their first one with yelling, petty antics, and actual bite.

"You want me to talk?" Gérard spins around. "Fine."

"I'm running three projects at the same time, two of which aren't even mine, because apparently I'm the only competent person on this base. Not to mention the time that I've spent trying to get a real person to clarify the tax code for our new home."

"Well if you had said something -"

"So is it so terrible that you cut me some slack with laundry? I keep make time in my schedule for date night but your work always leaves you too exhausted. I don't give a damn if the throw pillows match the couch or not so please stop asking me. And, and, I hate your famous pea soup. I hate pea soup."

Gérard stares at her breathing hard. Amélie, taking it that he's said his part, sits down hard and lets out a strangled laugh. Oh, thank god most of that is fixable.

"You're not mad?" Gérard asks cautiously.

"That you couldn't just tell me any of this? Yes." Pea soup. She's an idiot.

"That I yelled at you," he says.

"Gérard," her voice comes out choked up, "I thought this might be the beginning of a divorce."

"Oh." He sits down beside her.

"We're so stupid." She wipes away tears of relief.

"Yes, we are." He agrees. "Perhaps we should consider a new approach to conflicts."

Amélie snorts. "Perhaps."

Amélie and Gérard recline on the break room's blue couch. Angela had assured them they would be uninterrupted as no one bothered trying to use the broken coffee machine anymore. Angela stands at the front of the room clicking through the projection from her laptop her presentation is running on her voice clear and sharp.

"And that concludes my proposal for the next advancement in the medical nanobiotics field. The healing staff," Angela's profession demeanor slips/stutters for a moment, "Name pending."

Angela sighs a breath of relief and beams at her audience.

"So, what did you think?"

"Short, clever, covered all the important details." Gérard nods in approval. "I didn't even once consider clawing my eyes out."

"You spoke clearly with a self-assured posture, but it didn't sound flat. Excellent presentation," Amélie says.

"Flatters," Angela says with a snort, "but what did you think of the medical jargon? I tried to tone it down enough that the board can understand the basic principles of the staff, but I don't want to make false promises either."

Both of the Lacroixs glance at each other and then try their best to look intelligent and contemplative.

"Er, well."

"You see."

"You two did understand some of the science, didn't you?" Angela asks.

"I understand what you hope to achieve with a few years of development," Amélie says, "and that... current lab test shows it's not impossible."

"I can say with confidence that the nanobiotics and the circulatory system are involved," Gérard says.

Angela stares at them. "You both have degrees. Surely you took Human Biology?"

"Computer science major." Gérard raises a finger.

"I subbed it for chemistry," Amélie says.

"You took chemistry?" Gérard asks, "Why?"

"I thought it would be fun to play with fire for credit. I didn't realize there would be so much math," Amélie says with a haunted look on her face.

Rolling her eyes Angela sits down beside them laptop in tow. She resets the presentation, this time in edit mode. A box of professional text fades into view on screen.

"Let me know when I've lost you." Angela starts up her spiel again.

It's one of the rare times Amélie knows what's happening at the same time Gérard does. It's not as big as the anti-omnic riots in Russia but Overwatch's name is going to keep the story in the news cycle for some time.

She rushes home to find Gérard already there, swirling a glass of gin; nonessential Overwatch employees sent home after the tragedy. She all but tackles him.

"Good afternoon," he mumbles into her hair.

"How bad is it?" Never trust the news outlets to tell it straight.

Gérard sighs, long and heavy. "Bad."

Just past ten AM above the airfield of the Swiss Watchpoint an experimental fighter jet The Slipstream vanished in a ball of light after completing two of its three test jumps. The aircraft reappeared two hundred kilometers off course and crashed into the surrounding fields. The impact, jumps, or some combination had whipped the plane's pilot AI clean. The lone human test pilot, Lena Oxton, body has not yet been recovered. The project is suspended until further notice and the entire branch is being investigated.

The worst of it is Oxton was a bright young thing, optimistic and charming. The aggressive PR push to make her the face of the next Overwatch generation to balance out disapproval ratings had now massively backfired.

While not directly involved Gérard had agreed with the others who wanted more security, more failsafes, and less publicity for the project. Now they were being brought on to the project as part of the cleanup. The first two weeks of the investigation are a flurry of legal documents, arguments, and caffeine shots. Things slow down after that, as Gérard's team must wait on others to finish combing through bits of code and for red tape to be lifted.

Amélie comes home to, "We lost the lead." "We're trying a new angle." "The memorial service was today." "Still waiting on the documents to clear." then "We found something odd."

And finally, she comes home to Gérard rolling one of his throwing knives between his fingers.

"They found her, the pilot," he starts, "The notice said 'her' not a body and there are rumors that after what happened she's only half dead. With the resources Overwatch has I'd say there's a chance, a strong chance, of her pulling through."

"Sound better than anything else you've found out so far." Amélie runs her thumb along his jawline. "Why the long face?"

Gérard clears his throat. "Because the project has been deemed a failure and the pilot has been found they're closing the investigation." Amélie stares at him. "Not all at once of course, preliminaries will still be running for months but the other teams have been dismissed. Something about redirecting resources in a more cost-efficient manner."

"That's it?" Amélie asks, "Just like that?"

"Just like that," Gérard agrees sadly.

"But you still haven't found the cause yet. You're head of relations management. Can't you appeal?"

"I already did. I've been overruled. This is above my pay grade."

Amélie sinks into the couch. "Bastards."

Gérard laughs. "Bastards," he agrees.

Amélie gazes at the fire, watching sparks rise in the air and listening to the wood pop in the background of her podcast. On the couch beside her, Gérard works picking the lock of the handcuff on his wrist, a holdover from a childhood interest in Houdini rekindled when he realized he could purchase a straitjacket.

"Ma Coeur," he starts.

"Hm?"

"Do you ever get the feeling you're being played?"

"All the time when I go against you in chess."

Gérard smile briefly. "But outside of that. I mean, like at work?"

"Sometimes, but as long as I get to perform it isn't much of a problem. Why? Did you hear something?"

"Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. It's just..."

"It's what?" Amélie sits up removing an earbud. "Gérard what's wrong?"

"I think I'm being promoted too fast."

"You think you don't deserve to be rewarded for busting your ass six days a week and fixing other people's many, many problems?"

"The first? No, I deserved that. But again, and so soon? It hurts my pride to say it but it's too convenient." He pokes at the exposed scanner panel on the handcuff. "I haven't been angling for another promotion and there are others who have been in Overwatch much longer, know the politics better. I'm a popular guy but I'm not this popular."

"That is a little suspicious but doesn't mean you're being used."

"Maybe not but at meetings I feel like a placeholder, a rep for the young generation, not someone whose opinion matters. Twice already, I was nothing but a peacekeeper for Morrison's and Reye's groupies."

"That's just office politics, Mon chèri."

"Overwatch's office is the world."

They fall silent, Gérard jiggling the link around his wrist and Amélie chewing on that point.

"I'm afraid someone is trying to use my inexperience is going to make me malleable."

That is a genuine concern, shadowy figures pulling strings or not.

"Then let them," Amélie says, "and play them right back. Take a little bit settle in. Then make sure you being promoted was the biggest mistake they've ever made."

Amélie isn't sure what started it, but one evening over dinner Gérard causally mentions he'd caught wind of a self-defense class starting up on the base. It is being run by a few of the special ops folks who are looking to make some extra cash.

He says it could be a unique date night. Amélie agrees it sounds fun. The idea pops up again over the next few weeks, so they go.

It is fun.

The class is founded on the basic principles of standing strikes, limb locks, takedowns, and ground fighting. There are no forms to memorize, no weapons to play with, and no dirty move is off the table. While the techniques are brutal the atmosphere is one of play and participants spar against others of their own level. Amélie picks the concepts fast. It's just moving one's body through space, just now there's another body trying to restrain you. Gérard falls in love with the grappling calling it a sweatier version of chess.

It does make a great date night, even though they are banned from rolling with each other when one too many rounds end in flirting to the dismay of the other students.

Like most changes it begins gradually, like how the bright green leaves of summer pale in the coming autumn, how the wind become bit sharper, a bit wilder before it storms, how darkness creeps in as the day moves from dusk to night.

It starts with Gerard complaining about projects being assigned up and then dropped weeks apart, teams receiving conflicting instructions, phone calls in the middle of the night, him coming home fuming because red tape and pointless stalemates are keeping him from doing his job.

Once Gérard's superiors finally, finally sort themselves out then the accidents start. Equipment breaks, there is a rise of on the job injuries, a rather intense stomach bug that wipes out half the crew for a week, important documents getting lost in the wind one too many times. Small things that become strikingly obvious in hindsight after the first real targeted attack.

An envelope with Anthrax inside addressed to Gérard's department. caught in random sweep minutes before Gérard arrived at work.

Gerard starts making changes, insisting he's only being cautious. He orders a custom vehicle that has all the self-driving features removed, installs more locks and cameras to their home, more encryption for their systems. Amélie humors him but resolves too push back if things start to go to far.

It turns out the sound of several thousand kilowatts of power forced into visible light can be heard inside the master bedroom. Amélie groans and buries her face in a pillow. This is the sixth since the new security system was installed.

The mattress squeaks as Gérard rolls out of his side. She hears the rustle of fabric as he slides on his robe.

"Darling, just use the remote," Amélie says pointing vaguely at the dresser."

"I need to check. I'll be right back," he promises, kissing her forehead before leaving.

"Gérard," she groans sliding out of bed to trail after her husband through the house, "it's just the raccoons."

"I have to check the motion detectors and camera," he insists, "The AI should know to look for large heat signatures by now. It might not be a raccoon."

"Anything bigger would have set the traps off."

A sprawl of swords, axes, knives, and spears adorn their walls now, occasionally broken up by the stray photograph or rifle. Gérard's collection easily rivaled a medieval weapon's museum at this point, and it was his pride and joy. Its rapid growth over the years was in no small part to the fact that his hobby made him extremely easy to shop for.

Amélie's interests are also on the walls, landscapes, family portraits, black and white shots of her on stage, retired guns, but she doesn't miss how things have changed. Once, things were put up without rhyme or reason, now functional weapons adorn every entrance and exit, conveniently placed at shoulder height. Some of the mounted guns have been specially marked and are cocked and loaded. Panic buttons are hidden in the molding.

Their home is becoming a fortress and while Amélie doesn't like it, knows the risks Gérard is facing, she understands. Better paranoid than dead, right?

"Gérard," she says again, "come back to bed, the security system has it handled."

"What about robots? Raccoon sized murder robots?"

"Nothing is getting past the turrets."

"What about ninjas, Amé?"

"I'll shoot the ninjas."

They're coming up on the living room now. Perfect.

Amélie darts forward puts her arms around Gérard at the same time she sweeps his leg and traps it with her own. Gérard, being in midstride, is now standing on zero legs and do nothing but fall in the direction she directs him. They land on the couch. Amélie pins his other leg.

Gérard takes a moment to take stock of the situation wiggling arms pinned to his side and turning his head so he can see. Amélie gets comfortable in her position as the big spoon.

"Amélie," he says into the silence, "The lights will stay on until one of us turns them off."

She buries her face in his neck and breaths in deeply. There, much better.

"That sounds like your problem."

"I'm so sorry to hear that Angela. That's terrible."

"-such unprofessional actions-"

Amélie leans back in her chaise lounge and rubs at her forehead. She glances around at the bags full of opulent clothing while muttering affirmations into her phone.

"- blatant disregard for ethical principles-" continues on the other end.

With a little maneuvering, she slips her high heels off onto the floor. It's quite selfish but after a day of fighting the urge to smoke with retail therapy, she was happy to get a call from Angela out of the blue. She needed someone to vent to about Gérard's subtle but steady increase in hours. To be assured that this was a normal uptick and things would settle down soon. Or at least there was a good reason for his late nights.

"-arschloch STOLE my research -"

She thinks she knows the reason now.

"I'm sorry Angela, but I don't understand-" she says against the stream of enraged Swiss-German from the other side. It's probably mostly swearing, at this point.

A red tag twirls in her fingers, she eyes the green-silk dress attached to it with mild disdain. Lord knows she has the money to spend and the economy needs all the help it can get. She donates most of the items she buys during splurges but it still puts a damper on the mood when buyers regret sets in so quickly.

Amélie leans back with a sigh and listens to Angela's tirade.

The destruction of the Rome Watchpoint shakes Amélie like nothing else has in a long time. Seeing Gérard laying there in a hospital bed, so still and covered in bandages it knocks the wind out of her/brings her to her knees/stirs up old regrets/ how attached she is. She knew working for Overwatch could be dangerous but assumed only field agents would be at risk for these types of injuries. A foolish, selfish assumption.

Angela assures her Gérard will be fine as Reyes and McCree got to him immediately, they saved his body from long-lasting damage. Amélie wants to thank them in person but Angela says they've already left on a 'covert operation' one that the doctor's tone says she disapproves of. In the weeks following Amélie settles on sending a list of the best lawyers and stock investments she knows through Gérard's work email.

They slowly let go of their staff over the following weeks starting with the groundskeepers and ending with the chief. Everyone leaves with a bonus and glowing recommendations it's simply that many people with access to the grounds is becoming too much of a liability.

Gérard heals slowly, steadily. Working on what projects he can while bedridden and following his physical therapy routine with a religious-like fervor. He's recovered from his concussion in two weeks and walking with a cane in three. There's metal fused to his spine now but it's a small price to pay.

Amélie chases Angela for weeks demanding to let be repaid properly. The doctor finally gives in and accepts the incredibly generous amount of funding after hearing Amélie confess she's one of the few people she trusts to put it to good use.

The bruises are still there after the bandages and splints have been removed. Smaller and softer now; splatters of purple, yellow, green, and red poke out from under Gérard's waistband and sleeves. The colors serve as a morbid comfort for Amélie. It means Gérard's body is still going, still here, still fighting. She finds herself tracing the bruises with her eyes like she's doing now instead of reading the book in front of her. To be fair Gérard is staring off into space too.

"My love," he starts, Amélie looks back at him. He's watching her intently. "I've been thinking, even with all the precautions we're taking two people can only do so much. I can hide behind layers of security at work but you..."

"Gérard I am not going to hide in the house all day. The Opera has state of the art security system and armed guards."

"But they don't follow you on the metro or to the store or out of the country. I'd like to request a protection detail for-"

"For my trips to get milk."

"For both of us." Gérard's expression is serious but nonjudgmental. It's his planning face. The same face he wears when he does calculus or learning a particularly challenging knife trick.

Amélie sighs internally. That face means he's already made up his mind, filled out the paperwork, reviewed the profiles, and gotten the whole thing sanctioned. Her approval is merely perfunctory. It's not like he's done it on purpose. Gérard's 'active' approach to such issues was what made him so good at his job but sometimes it was god damn infuriating.

Large, strong hands slowly take hers. "Overwatch's enemies aren't known for playing by the rules, dear," he says softly, "I just want to protect the one thing that matters most to me."

It had been a handful of months since she almost lost him. If their positions were reversed wouldn't she be doing the same? Gérard's dark eyes plead with her.

"Fine. But I want to evaluate them myself."

They're told to wait in an office composed of rich, earthy colors and smells of old leather. Despite the room's luxury Amélie gets the feeling it's something of a prop to keep from letting a civilian too deep into the base. The faint layer of dust on the desk's touch screen seems to support this theory.

The door opens and a man with broad shoulders, dark complexion, and a buzz cut enters the room, Gabriel Reyes. Amélie and Gérard stand to shake his hand.

"Glad to see you up and about Lacroix," Reyes says.

"Good to see you too, sir." Gerard motions to her, "this is my wife, Amélie. And this is-"

"Commander Reyes, it's a pleasure to meet you." Amelie cuts in.

"Likewise Mrs. Lacroix," he replies with a surprisingly warm smile, "But my face isn't exactly fit for the limelight these days. May I ask where you recognize me from?"

"Please, the intervention of your strike team saved Paris from being leveled. You're a national hero."

"Ah, well it's always a pleasure to meet a member of my adoring public."

"Oh, I'm afraid I wouldn't go that far. See as a champion of the arts I simply cannot support the risk you took, gambling the Louvre and everything within."

"Is that so Mrs. Lacroix?"

"Darling, please," Gérard says sounding faintly amused, "Generally, employers need to have their bosses like them."

"If your action had resulted in the destruction of thousands of years of history and culture, I'm afraid I would have to take rather drastic measures," Amélie finishes.

Commander Reyes raises an eyebrow sizing her up with a rather smug expression fixed on his face.

"Well, in that case, Madam I'm afraid I must ask for your forgiveness because even if I could I wouldn't change a thing. You see I'd say have the people alive so they can make more history and culture."

Amélie leans back satisfied, the politicians can say what they like, she likes Reyes and Gérard trust him, that's enough for her.

Reyes reaches under his desk and produces a stack of folders. "Now then, on to what brought you two here..."

"... in summary, both physical and virtual security has been doubled for Mr. Lacroix on site, a rotating team of six will accompany him for Overwatch related ventures, along with the team that will be watching the house. For Mrs. Lacroix, a similar team will be shadowing you when you are outside the home. If things go well, you should never know they exist."

Gérard nods in agreement, most likely have already gone over this several times before.

"Thank you, sir, for taking time, to meet with us," Gérard says.

"Yes, thank you," Amélie agrees, "I know you can't guarantee his safety but thank you for watching out for my husband."

"Just doing my job, madam," Reyes replies but he glows under the praise. They shake hands again.

Gérard has his hand on the doorknob when Reyes speaks up. "Oh, before you two leave, Mrs. Lacroix if I may have a word with Gerard in private?"

Amélie tilts her head to the side but says, "Of course, I'll be right outside."

The door closes behind her and Reyes fishes a bracelet out of his pocket. He tosses it to Gérard.

"Forgot," he says, "Doc wanted me to pass this on."

Gérard hmms in acknowledgment and busies himself with putting on the vitals monitor.

"Got yourself a feisty one," Reyes says.

"You don't know the half of it." Gérard wiggles his eyebrows.

Reyes pulls a face. "And as your superior officer, I command you to keep that way."

That gets him a chuckle and a hiss of pain from Gérard and his healing ribs.

Reyes' face grows dark. "Lacroix," he says, "I give you my word. I'll do everything in my power to protect her."

Things get better for a while. The attacks stop, Gérard's is allotted extra vacation time, with Reyes' support the others seem to take more of Gerard's warning to heart.

But something changes. Gerard is called away frequently. Late night talks over dinner are traded for text and voicemail. Gerard can't talk about work, too much is classified. His sleep schedule becomes nonexistent, he seems to exist on meal shakes and caffeine shots alone. The dark circles under his eyes fade only to come back with a vengeance. Some sort of internal friction seems to be rubbing Overwatch raw.

His words change too. First it was, I have a chance to prove myself, to make a real difference. And, I'm helping stop gangs, collapsing drug rings, saving lives! Me! Then, They need my expertise. And, What are they thinking? I don't understand. What are they doing? Now when Amélie presses it's, I'm sorry, I have too.

The nights or days Gerard does manage to get home to sleep it's shallow and fitful. It's during one of those nights she finally gets him to talk.

"I've found something," Gérard says sitting on the edge of their bed grasping his water cup with both hands. "Something big."

"How big?" Amélie prods, "Bigger than voting fraud? Drug rings? Terrorist cells?"

"I can't tell you," he says too quickly. "Being close to me already puts you in far too much danger."

"Gérard, I know the risks. We both knew the risks when you signed up for Overwatch! That never stopped you from talking about work before..."

Amélie trials off as the implications sink in. Gérard doesn't meet her eyes.

"Is different than Overwatch," she says, "Or does this involve Overwatch?"

Gérard shrugs. "If I'm wrong. I'm a fool, gibbering mad man but no harm will come to anyone but myself. But if I'm right, the consequences will disastrous. A Crisis level disaster."

"Why not just blow the whistle, leave a goody bag of evidence, and disappear then? We could run away start a new life safe, far away. Leave it for somebody else. You've done enough."

"I wish I could but don't have enough material yet. I've worked too hard to get into a position of trust. The mantels are changing hands; I live in a time with opportunities that will never exist again. Even if my actions can only halfway stop this thing it will be worth it. I have to take advantage of this. I have to do this." He smiles wily but it doesn't reach his eyes. "What is one man's life compared to the march of history?"

Amélie grasps Gérard's nightshirt, tears in her eyes. "Don't you dare say that. Don't you dare. You're not just one man, you're mine. You're my husband."

Gérard pulls her in close, wrapping his arms around her. "Even if my actions Isn't better to fight a war so the children don't have to?" He continues, "Please, let me do this, to protect the future generations. Our future generation."

She tenses at the last phrase.

"Merde," she exhales. "Be careful. Promise me you'll be careful."

"I swear it."

From then on Amélie takes note of Gérard mutterings about the eyes, always watching eyes during his nightmares before she wakes him.

Soothing royalty-free piano and trumpets play over the hidden speakers at the pastry shop blending in with soft conversations and the chimes over the door. Amélie shifts on her feet debating if pleasing her sweet tooth was really worth the twenty extra minutes on her feet. The door opens and the temperature difference causes the scent of hot bread and pastries to rolls over her. Her stomach says yes.

She plays with her purse while she waits. Her watch vibrates. A single message appears on the screen, Code: RAGNAROK.

Amélie's pulse stutters only to pick up at a staccato pace. She steps out of the line and the pastry shop, abandoning her order. A large man in sunglasses is waiting for her outside. Even though the dossier was given to her two months ago Amélie made it a point to memorize the faces of all her Overwatch agents. The small scar on his chin and huge eyebrows gives this one away.

"Ragnarok," the man says as confirmation. She nods.

Amélie lets him take her arm and lead her down the pedestrian walkway. Their pace is brisk but not enough to alarm the crowds. The twists and turns down the road are interrupted once by the agent muttering into his hand. At last, they reach a fairly inconspicuous looking van except for that the window are pitch black.

The agent bangs on the side door three times and Amélie hears the engine turn over in response. He then busies himself with the door's keycode.

Amélie's hands are starting to shake from the adrenaline in her system. She glances around the narrow alleyway noting how a pile of broken glass has been cleared from side road for the van and the location's over crop protects the group from spying eyes. But she can't shake the feeling of unease creeping up her spine.

The agent grunts as the keypad rejects his first entry. He still hasn't let go of her arm, but his grip has relaxed enough that Amélie could make a run for it. She hesitates, trying to assess the situation, her first mistake.

"Can you tell me what has happened?"

"I'm sorry Ma'am. All you need to know is your safety has been compromised," he replies as the door clicks and unlocks.

In the van, she can make out one other figure in the driver's seat. The van could easily seat eight, surely, she's not worth the trouble to have dummy vans driving about. Where are the other agents?

"What about my husband? Is he all right?"

The agent's movements have lifted his jacket sleeve away from his wrist revealing the hot pink of a fresh bruise around his wrist that looks suspiciously like the grip of another large man.

"Ma'am we need to leave."

As he turns back to face her Amélie can make better make out the smudge on his collar, what she thought to be grease or dirt is too red for that. Her body language must give her away because the Overwatch agent reaches for her.

Fear overtakes Amélie and she slams her elbow into his face, her second mistake. The agent takes the blow and staggers but doesn't release her. The driver's door slams open and then shut. The agent adjusts his grip, torquing her arm behind her back, forcing her into the van. She responds with a volley of blind kicks while bracing against the doorframe, wracking her brain for how to escape the hold.

"Help!" she screams, "Fire!"

There is movement in the corner of her eye. The other agent rushing towards them with a thick pen in hand. Amélie realizes she should have started screaming earlier, much earlier. Her other arm is seized. She kicks in return. A hand clasps over her mouth, there is a stabbing pain in her side, and then the world fades to black.

Merry Christmas ya filthy animals.

Translations
Je t'aimes - I love you
Je t'amies bien - I like you
Ma puce - my flea
Ma chéri/chérie - my darling/sweetheart
Agape - selfless love
Pragma - longstanding love
Eros - physical love
Philia - deep friendship
Ludus – playful love
Philautia - love of the self
Mon Coeur - my heart

Reyes: Gérard, I hate to tell you this but your wife is an anime villian.

Gerard: I know. Isn't it great!

Turns out I'm not above begging for comments. I worked very hard on this please say nice things.

Honest, this fic isn't abandoned I just have almost no free time right now that I'm in a doctorate program. I'll post whatever I can when ever I can. Thanks for sticking around.

There's almost no lore for Gérard so- sexy weasel man. His obsession with knives comes straight from me, all similarities to Gomez Addams are an accident. I've never seen the show. As there is no evidence for /what/ he did for Overwatch I thought him being a deskjocky would be a change of pace.

All headcanons are mine, you are welcome to disagree.

Disteal's Lacroix comics have a very similar dynamic if you want more content.

Fair warning: the next chapter is all angst.