#-- ashe is just trying to LICK HER WOUNDS mccree | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

overdrivels · 4 years ago

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The Way to a Heart (21)

<< Chapter 20

McCree knows there’s no such thing as a perfect mission—the fact that most everyone on the mission got put up in the medbay immediately after is more than indicative of that. Turns out they were found out when Zarya looked up the destination on her own device. (Sombra was kind enough to tip him off when she hacked into his earpiece during the mission). It made him roll his eyes so hard he saw stars. Doesn’t anyone follow proper sec-ops these days?

Hanzo got knocked flat on his ass, having taken more pellets than anyone else. He hasn’t woken up yet but Angela doesn’t expect him to until tomorrow at the earliest. Genji got off lighter in a sense, but he was hit in areas that messed with his general ability to function. Non-fatal for regular people, but crippling for him until Angela and Torbjörn can make the proper repairs. He heard Genji is up and about but won’t be combat ready for a while and Hanzo is still knocked out.

And himself? He’s been laid up for the past day, nursing wounds that he got only because he was being hasty and juggling the looming possibility of a second knee replacement. He got what he needed from Sombra, and a little extra from ‘Reaper’. His business with them is done for now.

As for Lúcio and Zarya, they were slowly overwhelmed by the crowd who kept getting back up. Even a weightlifting champion will have trouble carrying the whole mission alone, so Ana gave Lúcio a boost after Talon retreated so they’d all have the energy to scrape the Shimada brothers off the ground and drive them all back in record time. Unfortunately for Lúcio, the nano-boost stuff Ana gave him is still experimental, and Angela raised hell.

“His muscles were ripped to shreds—!”

“To shreds, you say?” Ana tuts. “Now you’re being dramatic.”

McCree has to wince in sympathy when Angela splutters indignantly, the loss of her composure a rare and dangerous thing.

“How dare—his heart nearly collapsed! This technology, I never approved of it to be used in this way.”

“This technology is no longer yours to control. Just as a parent lets their child out in the world, you can’t dictate what happens to them forever.”

“And just what would you know about parenting—”

“Watch your mouth, Angela.”

The deep, underlying tensions that had been set aside reemerge and both of them have touched nerves that the other should have left alone. Let sleeping dogs lie, as it were. McCree chose to do the right thing and put the pillow over his face, drowning out the rest of the conversation.

After a few seconds, their ‘conversation’ abruptly stops. It’s made apparent why when you knock on his door and enter with a tray.

“Hey, Chef. Fancy seein’ you here.”

He does not miss the exact moment you lay eyes on him and wince.

“I don’t look that bad, do I?”

“No, no. You look...fine.”

You’re a terrible liar—no, correction—you’re an average liar lying to people who do it for a living. You clear your throat instead and try to change the topic.

“I brought you dinner.”

“Well, mighty kind of you.” For both the dinner and stopping what could have escalated in The Fall 2.0. “You bringin’ me food reminds me of old times.”

You roll your eyes, trying hard to suppress a smile. "Hurry up and eat, Jesse. It’s something special."

He rubs his hands together dramatically as you set down the tray on his overbed table.

In his heart of hearts, he hopes your ‘something special’ isn’t Reyes’s version of arroz con pollo—McCree liked to be able to practically slurp down the dish, and Reyes liked to visually differentiate between the rice and chicken and everything else on his plate.

Luckily, it isn’t and he can’t help the way his mouth drops open when you put down his tray.

Enchiladas smothered in a creamy red sauce that stretches when he picks it up with his fork, beaded with bits of meat and diced peppers and onions that he scoops together with his rice and beans. The plate is barely visible beneath all the stuff.

“What’s the occasion?”

Your lips are pressed together in a thin smile that don’t quite reach your eyes. Outlandish and out of character acts like this should make him nervous. They’re usually the signs of someone who is about to do something crazy. He wonders if it’s because you feel bad about their current condition or if you’re losing it.

He’s sure he’s not supposed to eat stuff like this, but it’s already cooked, it’s in his hands, and not even death itself can stop him from taking his first, goopy bite. He can think of the reasons later.

It’s the explosive taste of home that is able to awaken even the most dormant of taste buds—not the home where he fought tooth and nail for his freedom, not the one where he broke his abue’s heart when he told him he was leaving and got kicked out of instead, not the one where he routinely escaped to go to meet Ashe and just shoot things—no, this is home. Where his lita was still alive. Of winter days when the only heat available was body heat beneath blankets and the fire in his mouth from what was then too much spice.

It’s overflowing, it’s sloppy, and best of all, it’s perfect.

No words are exchanged between you both as he devours the dish. Each bite sticks to his ribs, filling in gaps he didn’t even know he had. It sits heavier and heavier in his stomach until he feels like bursting, but he wants to keep eating just to chase that gentle heat.

All good things have to end, and he manages to sneak two licks off his plate before you take it away from him. His tray is clear off and replaced with a stout glass with about a finger’s worth of amber liquid. With widening eyes, he looks at you and you smile back tentatively and almost sheepishly.

“Head Chef Richard won’t need it anymore.” Your jaw is tight and your voice is strained, but he pretends not to notice. (If he had heard those words from anyone else, he would think it was a confession of murder.) Regardless of what caused your change of heart, nothing can change the fact it’s already poured. He picks it up delicately and skips smelling it and goes straight for it.

Even with his diminished sense of taste and smell, the way the alcohol feels in his mouth is incredible—soft and full with that familiar bite that comes like a sharp nibble after a slow, smouldering kiss. It’s a taste that could make him believe in love.

He sighs lazily, letting the last of the sting evaporate from his throat and tongue. He entertains the idea of keeping this expensive secret to himself. He did make a deal with Hanzo, after all. But then again. He flashes a grin at you, tries to make it as unarming as possible.

“Do you mind terribly if I get a bit more? Couldn’t ‘ppreciate it properly.”

"Maybe another day.” Your voice goes quiet and conspiratory as you look around, “Dr. Ziegler would kill me if she found out."

"At least you're finally calling her 'doc'," he mumbled to himself.

"I'm sorry?"

"Nothin'.” He holds out his empty glass with a grin and a wink. "I won't tell if you won't. Our secret."

He didn’t expect you to acquiesce especially since you’ve probably broken more protocol in a single meal than you have in the past however many years. For all of his meddling, even he understands the importance of rationing and sticking to strict schedules. If Reyes didn’t beat it into him, the military-like lifestyle would’ve. When it looks like you might protest, you give an exaggerated sigh and raise a finger to your lips. “Our secret.”

He gives you the largest smile he could manage without re-splitting his lip, not the calculated one he uses when he wants to charm someone, but a genuine one he hopes you can tell comes from the heart. He’d like to think it was conveyed properly when you return the gesture, leaving with the entire tray.

The food in his stomach almost drags him into a comfortable sleep, but you’re back just as his eyes start to droop. It’s disappointing that you don’t return with the whole bottle, but he’ll take what he can get. This time, he takes it nice and slow, appreciating the few flavors he can taste.

“Hey, Chef. Y’got any more ‘secrets' you want airin’ out that I can help with?”

You laugh nervously, a sure sign there is. He waits, arms crossed as best he can and eyebrow raised, letting his silence speak for him and his expectations.

To his surprise though, you return the look instead of buckling under the pressure. For a moment, he feels like he’s staring at your predecessor. There’s a spark beneath your exterior, a fire that’s been lit. If he’s being honest, it makes him just a little proud.

But the standoff doesn’t last long, and all your posturing melts away.

“Well...I don’t know if you’d like it. We have a few forty-something year old wines stored away. I can’t exactly take it with us.”

“Ohh? So you’re not really tryin’ to cheer me up, you’re just gettin’ rid of old inventory. I see how it is.” You smile at him, exasperated, and he can’t feel too bad about it. “Well, guess if it ain’t going to good use, I don’t mind takin’ it off your hands, lighten the Orca’s load. Got a few good ideas for ‘em.”

He’ll have to evaluate their true value, but decades-old wine definitely has buyers and he knows a potential one who he might be able to goad into trading them for a favor or three. It’s not gentlemanly to let a favor like this go unpaid, and he’s already got a few ideas on how to do it.

---

Less than one week until the first of the Overwatch staff are to leave Gibraltar and everyone is as busy as ever. On your instructions, though vague, several members of Overwatch were sent to retrieve ingredients from strange locations: the backdoor of a local dive bar for some wagyu beef; vegetables from an accounting firm stuffed in steel briefcases; a fetch quest between the open market stalls who decided to load them up with miscellaneous ingredients on the way to the final destination, a dinghy full of expensive seafood.

But despite all this, Tracer smiles to herself every time she bursts in through the swinging kitchen doors—doors that were once forbidden now opening for her so easily—to show you her haul for the day.

“Chef, what’s for lunch?”

And instead of being rebuffed or met with the end of a ladle or spatula, she’s instead greeted with an awkward smile and open arms.

It’s more than she can ask for, and she thinks that whatever direction Overwatch is headed toward, it’d be nice if you could be there on that journey, too.

---

Snapping the lid on the last of your lunch boxes, you slide it right beside a large but neat stake of similar containers by the window where the word ‘lunch’ flashes on a sign overhead. Athena has been taking care of monitoring the shares that you can fulfill your order from Winston to limit your hours. Even after a few days of this it’s hard to get used to like it’s a ritual that’s been broken.

There are spots in the kitchen you need to wipe down, containers you have to clean out, areas and appliance temperatures you have to inspect. Even doing the bare minimum would take up more time than Winston allotted you.

Speaking of him, you haven’t given him your decision yet.

It’s hard to.

Ping.

Pin-ping-ping-ping.

The limited time you have to contemplate your choices is then interrupted by the increased influx of messages on your communicator.

Ever since you saw the revived garden, you were momentarily inspired to contact one of your former chef colleagues. It started off innocuously with a picture of the garden but then Patissiere Woo began to prod gently at the fragile bubble that was your self, and you began to divulge until it became an unstoppable stream—your restaurant, your decisions, the agents, the attack; it was all out in open.

She only listened, and in the end, she simply said, “Isn’t this what friends are for?”

After that, communications began flooding your phone as news of your return—albeit late news—made its way to your old coworkers. Offers of ingredients and labor came in one after another nestled in caps-locked insults and endless streams of emojis. There are updates, too. Pictures of your colleagues’ families, of their staff, of their restaurants, and news article links of their accomplishments as though to make up for the years you’ve been out of contact.

Today is no different, but nestled in all of that is a message from Patissiere Woo with an attached interview of Cœur d’Artichaut’s new CEO. You almost didn’t want to read it, unwilling to face the person who took over everything you’ve built and subsequently was forced to abandon.

But the headline seizes you by the throat.

‘Exclusive interview with legendary chef Richard Sauveterre,’ it read. Below it, its subheading blared out: ‘Former Overwatch and now charity restaurant, still doing good for the world?’

The beginning of the interview opens up like a fan letter with a photo of the subject in question. His hair is a little shorter than you remembered and he looks a bit older—more wrinkles—but that steely gaze and thinned mouth that looks ready to fire off commands like knives is still the same. Your heart races, your jaw slackens as you read on.

‘The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, made more distinguished by thick cornrows that trace the sides of his skull like a crown. He is King Midas in a chamber of heat, steel, and raw ingredients that he spins into award winning meals capable of turning the stoniest of hearts into gold.

‘Now he is CEO of acclaimed charity restaurant, Cœur d’Artichaut, whose motto is an age-old French saying: the heart of an artichoke, a leaf for everyone. Previously, Cœur d’Artichaut was shaken by rumors of involvement in criminal activity but Chef Sauveterre refutes those rumors and intends to bring the restaurant’s fame to new heights.’

It goes on to explain the true meaning of the saying and other flowery language before it gets into the actual interview. There are questions about what the chef did before this job (he refused to answer and the writer speculates several possibilities: hermitage and jailtime being the most likely), what his inspirations are (his customers and a hearty defiance toward his father), and so on.

“Have you had a chance to speak with the previous CEO during the transition?”

“No.”

“And is there anything you’d like to say, any message you’d like to convey?”

“...[Y]es... ‘Do it your own way’...The menu...is subpar, but I can feel the thoughtfulness in the service and selections...maybe in a year’s time or so, come back here for a lesson. In the meantime, go out and discover new things...allez-y, allez-y what are you waiting for? Go forth, then come back with all you’ve learned.”

‘Do it your own way.’

His image glares at you and you can hear his voice barking in your ear.

Allez-y. Not allons-y.

‘Get going’ instead of ‘Let’s go’.

Your laugh is wet and ugly and the pot with your experimental miso soup is about to boil over, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. That’s just like him to be to the point yet vague. This Joel Morricone must have had a hell of a time trying to get these answers out of him judging by the amount of ellipses. You can’t claim to understand him or know what he’s thinking, but you do get the message.

I’ve got this, so do what you have to do.

“Chef! Did you see?”

Tracer bursts in through the swinging doors of the kitchen with a holotablet in her hands and a mix of elation and shock on her face. She gasps. The tablet is thrown onto the nearest surface and she rushes to your side in a blur.

“Oh no, oh no, what’s wrong, Chef? Did you hurt yourself? Are you all right? Chin up, let me see.”

Amidst Tracer’s frantic worrying, you could only continue to laugh, choking on emotions and the sands of time that has been given permission to move again.

(Elation turns to terror when you later read the rest of the interview where Chef Richard says, “I am most looking forward to my collection of wines and alcohols that I have kept in my cellar.”)

---

Out of the blue, Elizabeth ‘Ashe’ Caledonia receives a box from someone claiming to be a representative of Cœur d’Artichaut. She knows the name from the lists of charities she has to curate every year. Although just about any charity would let her qualify for a tax deduction, she still has a social responsibility to donate intelligently.

The box itself is nondescript, but the contents had been meticulously wrapped to prevent breakage. There were four bottles of wines; their labels are old, but still in good condition. The oldest of them is at least twenty years. It’s out of character and not something that a charity would be able to give up without a guarantee in return.

There is a note for them, however, and immediately upon laying her eyes on the handwriting, she rips it up with a snarl. That no-good—!!

“Bob,” she snaps, “get me the market prices for all of these.”

The omnic acquiesces, carefully wrapping the wines back up and taking them away for appraisal.

When Bob is no longer within sight, she quickly puts the largest parts of the torn note together and reads it twice. It’s short and to the point and elusive in the sense that it is unsigned. She blows out a long, irritated sigh. If she isn’t able to rise to a challenge like this especially if it involves a charity then she’s disgracing her image.

Now then, how should she answer?

---

There was less than three days until the first evacuations, but Winston could not have predicted this turn of events. Money had always been a concern to him even before your scheme with Cœur d’Artichaut fell flat. The cost of labor aside, it’s the tooling that requires more upfront investments. Flying the Orca, maintaining people’s licenses and certifications, medical equipment, and so on are far from cheap. They’ve made do with connections and deferred payments, but that can only go so far.

He had fully prepared himself for what a new business model would look like with Hanzo’s help, setting up meetings with prominent figures who were once Overwatch’s staunchest allies and reassessing their priorities and strategy.

Yet it seems he cannot underestimate the kindness of others.

He’s cleaned his glasses on his shirt thrice and washed them, but the balance of the several Overwatch accounts only grew. There are no names associated with each transaction, only the wallet ID and the occasional message (some were cruder than others) wishing them luck or providing a contact code hinting at further cooperation. The numbers were arguably higher than when you were funneling the donations through your restaurant.

“Unbelievable. This amount of financial support is unprecedented, and from so many people.”

Athena, a smile in her voice, replies, “It seems the cavalry has arrived.”

It seems that kindness is not dead and there are still as many people who wish for Overwatch’s return as there are those who wish for their demise. Perhaps even more. Winston grins to himself and wonders just how he’ll break this news to Soldier and best rub it in his face.

---

Around this time, there is rarely anyone who drops by the cafeteria. It’s strange being on this side of the wall—the side where your customers usually sit. It’s much more open and much more terrifying, but Athena had barred you from entering your own place of employment.

Well, not for long.

It still doesn’t feel real.

By this time tomorrow, you’ll be leaving Gibraltar. Home to the first Watchpoint you’ve ever worked at, home to the restaurant you helped build, home to the place that gave you so much—a chance, a career, a future—friends, maybe?

You inhale in a stuttering breath. The vastness of the world around you suddenly bearing down yet tearing open a hole around you. In about 24 hours, your future won’t be the same and you will have nothing decided. Instead it’ll be filled with unknowns.

The fear of the unknown is almost paralyzing, overwhelmingly so.

It was so much easier with someone like the Head Chef who, although needlessly strict, guided you and provided a clear path, a structure. Even he says to go off and do whatever, no further instructions.

Holding your phone in your hands and flipping it around, you wonder what would happen if you call the restaurant now? Knowing Head Chef Richard, he’d still be there, either deciding tomorrow’s menu or reviewing documents or testing out adjustments to recipes that would no doubt be delicious. But if he were to pick up and you were to ask him what you should do next, he’d probably click his tongue and give you a one-sided tongue lashing before hanging up. He was always needlessly difficult that way, never giving a straight answer, telling you what to do but also to think for yourself. Contradictory, isn’t it?

The dial pad pops up beneath your thumb and you begin typing in the number of rhte restaurant, hovering over that final dial button. You don’t press it, switching to the photo gallery instead. You spend a few more minutes mindlessly switching back and forth between them, never finding the courage to press that button. Instead, the images of your time here by yourself, watching the agents—the heroes—from afar provide ample distraction.

Junkrat is a sight to see but he’s just a blur in many of your pictures, and Roadhog is difficult to capture for one reason or another, but his plates usually come back empty. Brigitte may be a new addition, but she is a delight, complimenting your food without hesitation even going so far as to suggest it may be better than her mother’s. (Agent Torbjörn rarely spoke of his wife even during his original time of service, but when he did, he spoke of her lovingly. It was little secret to the kitchen staff just how highly he regarded her and her cooking.) It makes you want to keep feeding her.

Between pictures of the other agents, there seemed to be more images of Hanzo than the others.

The way he eats and the faces he makes is refreshing. It’s intense and so thoroughly immersed that it’s hard not to watch. Hanzo would usually sit up straight and begin his eating like it’s a ritual but by the end of his eating becomes sloppy and hunched over like he’s shed all appearances to devour his meal. It brings a smile to your face.

Can you really give this up and leave Overwatch?

“Chef?”

You jump in your seat and turn to find Hanzo standing a short distance from you. How long has he been there?

“Good evening, Ag—Hanzo. Can I get you anything?”

“No. I was wondering who was foolhardy enough to be up at this hour.”

You splutter indignantly. It isn’t even that late. “I-I’m not foolhar—what about you?”

The flat and dismissive look he gives you is answer enough. You press your lips together and watch as he sits down beside you. He may be cleared to leave medbay some time ago, but he’s still not well enough to be neglecting his rest. You’ll have to inform Dr. Ziegler later.

"I thought I might be able to have a snack. I was hoping there would be leftovers?"

"We have some stuff from this afternoon but I don't think you'll like them."

"'Don't think'?" His voice turns teasing, something you had only learned recently was possible. "I thought you kept a record of what we liked."

You let out a groan, remembering the debacle that took place not too long ago and rub the heels of your hands into your eyes. “Agent Fareeha will be deleting all that information the moment we leave the Watchpoint. Something about cutting off 'attack surfaces'.” You sigh. “Years of data, wasted.”

“Does your notepad not have this information?”

“Oh, that. It got soaked with blood, so we had to throw it out.”

Hanzo winces and you can understand the disgust. No one wants to visualize sheets of bloodied paper like some macabre grimoire.

“I see." Tactfully, he changes subjects. "How is your wound?”

“Good. Dr. Ziegler says it’s mostly healed. How are yours?”

“I should be able to return to action before long.” He flexes his fingers and clenches them into a fist. It’s a strangely mesmerizing action, the chorded muscles straining and flexing beneath his bruised skin.

Head Chef Richard’s words echo in your head again unbidden. Their bodies are made of the food you cook. Love them with all our being.

In that case, are the relaxed expressions also because of it or is that just your wishful thinking?

“That’s good.” Being with Hanzo reminded you of something. “Oh! And I let Patissiere Woo know you liked her desserts. She’s very happy about it.”

She had gushed goodnaturedly about having handsome people like her food despite being an omnic. You wonder if she’s being sarcastic or if she truly means it. You choose to believe it’s the latter; it’s better that way.

He nods. “It’s generous of them to provide for us like this.”

“Yeah. They’re great.” Yes, they were great in many senses of the word. Even though you reached out to just one person, the word had spread until all your colleagues were contacting you in an unrelenting wave. The coordinated efforts of everyone despite being scattered around the world brought their efforts straight to your doorstep.

In a way, you feel a little guilty about not having involved them earlier. You had thought you could handle it on your own until everything was settled. Argus must have known that ‘settling’ may have meant a much longer time than expected. Longer dwell times means larger risks. Risks that many people wouldn’t be able to shoulder. It was part of the reason why you didn’t reach out in the first place, but you couldn’t have known this is how things would turn out.

It wasn’t just ingredients they offered, but their services, too. Some of them made it clear they’re willing to fly over and help out, Petras Act and its consequences be damned.

You repeat, “They’re great.”

There’s a moment of quiet before Hanzo speaks up again.

“Chef…” he starts off delicately, “have you decided?”

The question itself is vague, but you know what he’s talking about. You turn your face up to the ceiling for a moment and then look down at nothing in particular.

“Kind of. I’m still not sure.”

He grunts in acknowledgement. “If you were to leave Overwatch, where would you go?”

You’re sure he didn’t mean for it to come out cynically, but a small bolt of anxiety still struck you like lightning. There were several possibilities, but nothing was as appealing as staying here. But you can’t stay if there are no customers to serve and no kitchen to work from.

“Well,” you start slowly, buying time to allow an image to form in your head, “I think I would...leave Gibraltar, maybe? My old coworkers have openings in a few restaurants and said that they would recommend me to a position.”

You had choices, but that would mean starting over in a new place with people you may or may not get along with. It’s scary.

“And if you were to stay with us?” he asks slowly.

If you were to stay, what could you do? You would be moving from one Watchpoint to another with little time to pack, never knowing if you’ll have bought too much or too little ingredients, and the Orca isn’t exactly equipped to be a cold kitchen, much less a hot one. Logistics aside, you’d also be a deadweight if there were ever a fight. You’ve heard countless stories of non-agents or newbies getting in the way of skirmishes and causing more casualties than necessary and you’d be damned if you were to put Overwatch in that position.

You didn’t know which choice was more terrifying.

You let out a self-deprecating laugh that ends in a weary sigh. “I don’t know how useful I’d be if I did.”

Hanzo’s breath hitches and he falls quiet for a moment. That moment is enough to make you nervous—did you say something wrong?

“Chef. People are not tools to be measured by usefulness or uselessness.”

You smile wryly. “If you don’t work, you don’t eat.”

“And if you work too much, you’ll collapse and become a burden.”

Embarrassment and shame pours over you in a stinging wave, the words slamming you with more weight than the ease with which Hanzo says them. You fold your arms tightly against yourself. There’s nothing you can say.

Perhaps Hanzo knows he’s crossing a line because he clears his throat awkwardly.

"Allow me to tell you a story about a man who lost his way and the choices he had to make."

Maybe it was an attempt to cheer you up, but it’s the strangest segway into a story you’ve ever heard. You listen if only to not have to face the harsh truth he just spilled. Of course, you're sure it's about Hanzo’s life disguised as an innocent story about dragons and family. He spoke about the choices the dragon had to make between what his perceived responsibilities and his actual ones, about the pressure he felt from the people who worshipped it and the family he was meant to serve, about the meaning of freedom.

The lesson to be learned at the end, you guess, is that Hanzo is a pretty bad storyteller.

He probably realizes it himself because he feigns a cough at the end and says, “What I mean to say is you need not fear either choice where you have people who...are concerned for you.”

“And what do you think I should choose?”

With something between a smile and a smirk, he claims, “Your presence in Overwatch would be most assuring.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. He probably knows better than anyone else just how much of a liability you’d be if you were to go with them. “That means a lot.” You don’t know if you mean what you say or not, though.

Hanzo probably gets the sense that you don’t. Even for most agents, he’s fairly astute, you think.

“You’ve asked me what I want to eat before and make food for us everyday, but has anyone asked you what you want to eat?”

The question catches you off guard, bringing your thoughts to a halt.

The last few days you have been asked what you want to do with your life—a decision too tremendous to be made in such a short amount of time—but no one has asked you such a simple question. What would you like to eat? There’s so much you’d like to eat if it’s not made by your own hands.

Despite everything, you draw a blank.

“I can’t think of anything right now.”

“Could I make you something?”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You are not asking. I am offering.”

“And if I say no?”

He huffs humorously before getting up. The sound of a door swinging open has you sitting up straighter.

“Hey—!”

“Do not think about it, Chef. You are not allowed in the kitchen; Commander’s orders,” Athena warns before you’re even able to stand up fully.

Scowling, you put your full weight back onto your seat. It only takes a few quiet moments before you grab a stool to sit at the window like your customers normally would. An agent cooking for a chef. It’s ridiculous.

Though Command Reyes would have no problems bursting into the kitchen like he owned the place, cooking whatever he felt like and sometimes feeding it to the staff on break. At least he had some kitchen etiquette, knowing when and what to yell—sometimes a little too loud—and staying out of the way of traffic. His special awareness was very good, you remembered, even if his presence was loud and needlessly all-consuming.

People sometimes said he was a horrible person for one reason or another, but in the kitchen, the only place you really knew him, he never treated you all with anything less than casual respect. He was probably the last non-kitchen personnel to have set foot in the kitchen up until Recall.

Even then, you would watch from inside. It’s especially strange, seeing someone maneuver the kitchen like this. Hanzo looks like a newborn deer, trying to navigate through an unfamiliar world, checking the label of everything carefully, measuring with lines instead of bowls or pitchers already known to hold a certain amount, and opening up every single lowboy and cabinet looking for things.

“Do you need help?”

“Just sit there and wait,” he insists.

He seems less like the heroes that you once revered and watched from afar, but more like a normal person. A very earnest but clumsy person. It’s a little cute, even?

You hide a smile behind your hand lest he sees you and thinks you’re laughing at him. His efforts are to be commended especially after you found him sitting on the kitchen floor, looking like it’s been hit with the aftermath of a hurricane. If you were left in that situation, would you have been able to get up and try again if it weren’t your job? It’s hard to say.

It takes him so long that you could have gone to sleep, but you keep watch as he works his way through his process until the finished product is put on a poor imitation of your plating in front of you. It’s a thick, yellow-ish soup with bits of messily chopped corn added.

“It’s corn potage,” he says. “If it’s not to your tastes, you may dispose of it. It’s nothing much anyway.”

He says it’s nothing much but you saw the amount of effort he put into it. Holding the bowl in your hands allows the warmth to travel through your palms, relaxing your muscles, and thawing the ice around your bones. It makes the anxiety of an unknown tomorrow settle like a crying baby that’s been hushed to sleep.

You take a sip and hold it in your mouth for a moment, savoring the feel.

If you were to nitpick as a chef, there would be a list of things that could be improved upon to make it restaurant worthy. However, this meal isn’t for judging, but for enjoying. And whatever imperfections there are, in a way, is perfection. It’s the earnest taste of something fresh and young and new and exciting with so much room for improvement that you can’t see the end result. It is the product of someone trying their best doing something unfamiliar for you—not because they have to or because they were forced to, but because they wanted to. It’s sweet and salty and chunky with unevenly mashed corn.

Just like the curry, it feels like the food is mending parts of you that you didn’t realize were already torn open and festering. The heat delves in the deepest crevices, warming up parts inside of you that you never even realized were devoid of warmth, sending goosebumps all over your body.

You put down the bowl and hold your hand over your mouth and close your eyes as though it will keep the flavor locked inside you, as though it will keep these feelings from escaping.

“How is it?”

“It’s delicious,” you whisper dazedly, picking up the bowl again and sealing your lips with another deep sip. Whatever comfort that could not be conveyed in mere words are now eaten and digested until they become a part of you.

You make the mistake of looking up from the bowl to see Hanzo at eye-level with the faintest but softest smile you’ve seen from him yet. It’s enough to make your heart jump from your chest to your throat.

It’s difficult to keep eating after that. If the meal was able to fill your stomach, then that look was more than enough to fill your heart.

---

With the morning sun comes your meeting with Winston.

“I won’t ask you if you’re sure as I am certain you gave this a lot of thought prior to coming.” Winston stands up and extends his hand to you. When you clasp it, it feels like you’ve cemented yourself in something far larger but the fear that should accompany it is not there. “Thank you. The world could always use more heroes.”

---

"How are preparations for dinner going?"

Hanzo doesn't need to see your face to know you're grimacing. The panicked fretting of Tracer behind you, rushing back and forth with a frying pan and Winston knocking down everything whenever he turns is proof enough.

“They’re fine.”

It probably pains you to have amateurs in the kitchen with you trying to prepare for this grand feast you’ve been planning.

"...do you think you could find Agent Genji and let him know dinner’s going to be delayed?”

“What, ahem, seems to be the problem?”

CRASH. KA-CRACK.

Lúcio shouts, "My bad!"

“We...accidentally packed away some stuff we needed for cooking, so…”

“Take it off the hob, take it off the hob, Winston!”

“Ri-right you are, Lena—AH HOT!”

The rising symphony of chaos makes your posture stiffer and stiffer and he watches as your hands wind up tighter with each accident.

Hanzo coughs politely. “I see. I should get going and deliver your message.”

He's sure your excuse is indeed true, but has a strong suspicion for some reason it is not the leading cause of the dinner delay. Call it intuition.

“Could you bring this, too?" From beneath the window, you pull out a large thermos and a box. "We made some snacks to share so you won’t get too hungry.”

“I will savor them, thank you. And good luck."

"...thank you," you grumble.

Another crash makes him glad it's not him in there. He's broken enough stuff in your presence and takes that as his cue to go lest a plate or something flies at him. Besides, if anyone asks, he’s still under doctor’s orders to not do anything strenuous. Cooking probably falls under that category.

You call after him, sticking your head out of the service window. “Remember! Share them with Agent Genji, too.” Then more teasingly, “Don’t be greedy now.”

He waves you off without turning back with an exasperated huff. What a meddlesome bunch.

He does not notice Zenyatta coming over beside you and bumping fists as he leaves.

Dr. Ziegler may have said climbing is not allowed, but surely going up ladders and stairs isn’t against the rules.

It takes him longer than usual to get to Genji.

The air is brisk and soaked in the scent of an oncoming winter instead of seasalt. It’s refreshing and each deep breath he takes makes him feel like a new person.

Genji sits with his back to him, hands stuffed in his parka, the LEDs shining obnoxiously.

“Don’t you know the meaning of being discreet?”

“I am being discreet. You’re the one standing up and making a target of yourself.”

Hanzo gives the back of Genji’s head a look and continues standing a moment longer just so it doesn’t seem like he’s listening to Genji’s suggestion. When he finally sits, the LED in Genji’s clothes dim.

“Chef gave us these.”

He puts down the thermos and passes the box to Genji who wastes no time opening it.

“Ah. Til ke laddu and khapse.” Genji picks one of the stiff pieces of twisted dough, waving it in the air. “I usually only see these around New Years when the Shambali would get visitors from Tibet,” he muses.

Hanzo takes his time deciding between the sesame ball and fried dough. Neither of them like they’d be sweet at all. In the end, he picks out the sesame ball, taking a tentative bite out of it in case it turns out to be bitter or something unpleasant.

Instead, he’s surprised at the mild sweetness. The sesame seeds give it a savory flavor, but it does little to mask the taste of sugar. From the corner of his eye, he can see Genji watching him. Seeing his bare face is not as surprising anymore. In some strange way, it was more comforting to see the scars that he has left on Genji’s face than the metallic visage that hides his wounds. It feels more real, and in that, Hanzo can take comfort facing what he has done.

“I’m surprised you can still eat. I suppose that means I need to tune my arms more.”

In a petty attempt to make his brother feel guilty, Hanzo says loudly, “My mouth still hurts.”

“Liar. Angela gave you extra strong stuff for it.” Genji then adds fondly, “I haven’t been yelled at like that in a long time.”

“Do not start.” While it may have been a ‘long time’ for Genji, Hanzo still remembers scolding him for some mistake or another like it was yesterday and knows that the instinctive lecture is still lying dormant within him, just waiting for Genji to do something stupid. He doesn’t know to what extent Dr. Ziegler goes, but Hanzo does not doubt her lectures are any less fearsome.

Hanzo shoves the rest of the ball into his mouth and pours himself a cup of tea. It’s not really a lie that his mouth hurt, but it’s akin to a dull toothache that only happens when he stretches his jaw too wide, but he still wants to make a fuss about it regardless.

Genji makes a noise similar to an aborted laugh. “You remember the song mother used to sing?”

“Which one?” She sang dozens of songs. Hanzo would look each of them up and secretly learn most of them by heart, keeping them locked up in there when she died. He rubs his hand across his mouth and leaves it there to hide the tiny smile on his face, carefully unfurling a precious memory—his favorite—of his mother singing to herself about seeking freedom on a stolen motorbike at age fifteen “You’re not speaking of ‘The Night’, are you?”

“I don’t even know that one. I’m talking about the one she sings with father sometimes—” Genji cuts himself off to hum a few off-key bars. It took Hanzo a few seconds to catch on, and he tugs down his hand to reveal his scowl.

“The one you sang at the Somei group’s wedding and embarrassed the clan?”

“No, it was the Miyama group’s wedding. And I didn’t embarrass anyone. The bride came up and started singing with the Kuroda family’s granddaughter.”

Hanzo throws up his hands with a roll of his eyes. “The Miyama group was marrying into the Somei group—”

“Who cares, do you remember it?”

Of course he remembers. Genji was still young and precocious so everyone humored him when he hopped onto the makeshift stage to sing. The bride, getting emotional, joined him on stage and also began to sing alongside the granddaughter of the Kuroda group. Then the bride dragged his mother to the front and she sang, too. It was the first and last time Hanzo would see his mother perform in front of an audience outside of the holovideos that were kept of her youth prior to her marriage into the clan.

No one dared say anything because their husbands—the head of the Shimada clan, a yakuza lawyer, and the head of another clan—said nothing either. (It was simultaneously nerve-wracking and cheerful depending on where one sat in that room.)

It was even worse when the song was suddenly changed to ‘Lion and Peony’ and the whole venue erupted into song. ‘Embarrassing’ doesn’t even begin to describe the scene. He can safely say he’s never seen so many adults in formalwear make such fools of themselves or weep while singing.

He’s surprised the Genji actually remembers the singing rather than what happened after.

“‘Shima no uta’, was it.”

“Yeah. Remember sometimes father would join whenever he thought no one was around?”

“It’s the only time we ever saw him do anything other than work.”

Hanzo smirks. “It was the only thing he was bad at.”

“Bet we’re better than him.” Without further prompting, Genji begins to sing. Loudly and off-key. Not to be shown up, Hanzo joins in.

Birds fly off at the sounds of their voices and the wind picks up around them, carrying their voices off the ledge.

“You suck at this,” Genji says between lines.

“Not as bad as you.”

Neither of them seem to have inherited their mother’s talents, but that’s all right. For once, it’s something he doesn’t want to be perfect at. They could at least boast they sing better than their father, and maybe that’s good enough.

They talk and eat until the sun goes down. They talk about their father. They talk less about their mother. They argue about their recollection of mediocre events. They laugh over the trouble each of them caused by leaving the clan (though it’s more of Hanzo airing out his grievances).

By the time Athena calls them down for dinner, they’re arguing and nearly at blows over a century-old argument: which chocolate-cookie product is superior, mushrooms or bamboo shoots.

---

The cafeteria is transformed. Most of the furniture has been folded and moved toward the back walls, leaving a large space near the service window where Satya already has the table set. Everyone is assigned a spot with a little nametag tent where identical utensils are already laid out. In the middle of the table is a smorgasbord of dishes, each labeled with the name of the food and color coded for dietary needs.

He’s silently relieved he didn’t have to cook and contend with everyone in the kitchen. Judging by the state of some of the dishes, he has to assume you were either dragged from the kitchen kicking and screaming or you’ve just given up on everything.

This time, there’s a space for himself and Genji. The conversation takes a noticeable lull as everyone tries not to look in their direction, but the anticipation is palpable. Hanzo looks at Genji who shrugs a shoulder at him and begins to walk toward the table. Bracing himself for what would be an awkward stretch of time, he follows and takes his seat beside Genji, ignoring the looks that everyone is trying so hard to hide.

This is expected. This is fine. This will surely go better than last time.

“Oh finally. Thought we were all gonna starve to death ‘ere!” Junkrat shouts, breaking any and all tension instantly. “Now can we get started?”

Roadhog slaps one large hand over Junkrat’s mouth. “Chef.”

Fareeha clicks her tongue. “Oh, that workaholic.” She turns around in her seat, yelling at the window. “Chef! Everyone else is here, come on! Don’t make us come in there!” Everyone else exchanges a knowing look; pot and kettle.

The attention is then shifted away from them. It’s a relief because it gives him a chance to collect himself as he grabs some water.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” McCree limps his way into the kitchen and shouts something that has you shouting back. It takes a moment for McCree to reappear looking like he’s just gotten a kick in the buttocks with you following not far behind.

“Sorry, I lost track of time.”

In your hands was a tray full of bowls. It takes a few moments for him to register the scent over the food on the table, but he jumps to his feet with his hands stretched out.

“Allow me.”

Before you can even protest, Tracer snatches the tray from you and passes it to him with a cheery ‘Here you go, mate’ and D.Va has her hands on your shoulders, forcing you to sit down.

“You’ve worked hard, it’s our turn.”

Reinhardt laughs, raising his glass.

“Finally! The guest of honor. Relax, Chef!”

“But—”

“Here, here.” Ana shoves an empty bowl into your hands. “What do you want to eat first? Chef’s choice.”

“No! Chef, you have to have something to drink first,” Brigitte cries, trying desperately to pour a can of beer into a stein in a hurry over Reinhardt’s hulking arms. “Pass this over!”

Mei also tries to reach over, rushing to pour a cup of tea from the pot closest to her. “Wait, have some tea first.”

“No! BobaAH—Roadie!”

“Water.” Roadhog firmly places a glass of water before you, shoving Junkrat back by the face.

Hanzo had to smile watching everyone fuss over you.

“Hey, brother. Stop hogging that stuff and pass it around.”

He clicks his tongue and grabs the first bowl and hands it over to Genji who sends it down the table. Bowl after bowl is passed from hand to hand. It creates a flowing chain between them, linking everyone together. Here, there are war heroes, super stars, people still seeking their place in life sitting together and sharing a meal.

This scene is only possible because of you. With you here, he only hopes this cafeteria is no longer your jail but has again become a sanctuary where you can be at ease.

Maybe he’s getting old having to think of other people in such a way or maybe Ana is right and he’s changed.

If he’s changed, it’s because of you.

Coming to Overwatch, having a chance to share a meal with everyone like this—with his brother like this—is no mistake.

When he is left with only his own, he tucks the tray beneath the table and can barely contain the saliva gushing from beneath his tongue when he brings his own bowl to his nose. The smell is tantalizing.

Miso soup.

The soup is fragrant, miso blooming beneath the steam like fireworks among the seaweed and tofu and paper-thin slices of daikon radish.

It brings him back to his first day at the Watchpoint and the lackluster soup he had then. He’s sure that you’ve worked hard to improve it. Even though you never usually took requests, you probably never stopped thinking about everyone, trying to hone your skills to please your customers. The bowl in his hands is the ultimate proof.

He takes the first sip.

Immediately, his mouth is flooded with flavor. It’s savory and bursting with life, the faintest bit of sweetness rounding out the soup.When he swallows, he sighs, an unwitting smile creeping onto his face. It settles into his stomach, the simple pleasure resonates in his body, having become all the more complete than before. It warms him from head to toe, lingering in his chest.

It’s the taste of home.

He puts the bowl to his lips and takes a long, deep drink until he nearly chokes, chasing after that warm and gentle feeling with a particular brand of desperation he couldn’t name.

When he has nothing but dregs, he uses his chopsticks to force that into his mouth, too. The daikon is sweet, and tofu is still firm and silky, the seaweed is chewy, and the scallion is so cleansing.

This is satisfaction, this is bliss.

And when he puts down his bowl finally, he immediately catches sight of you staring at him with a smile so wide and a gaze so warm and sparkly, he thinks stars might actually spill from your eyes.

It’s Ana who nudges him out of his stupor, a mischievous grin on her face. “Well, how is it?”

He looks down at his empty bowl and raises it, holding it out toward you. Knowing that the meaning may be lost, he still declares to you, "I would like this soup every day for the rest of my life."

Genji chokes on an inhale and begins to cough violently, spitting out whatever he had in his mouth. It’s the one time he can ignore the sounds of his brother dying, if only just to see you take in the question innocently.

You answer with a smile. “Of course.”

He will lie to anyone who thinks your answer gave him hope and made his stomach twist and flutter. It’s an unfair victory, but it’s a victory nonetheless.

"Wow," Hana says dryly, pouring and passing out glass after glass of soju while maintaining a deadpan stare at Hanzo. "What a cassanova. GG. Get out of here, old man. Who even says that anymore?"

Genji mirrors her look.

"Yeah, get out of here, riajuu. Disgusting. So old-fashioned."

"You tell him, Genji."

Hana and Genji clink their shot glasses. It doesn’t matter if a decade has passed or two, Genji might never make a very, very miniscule part of Hanzo stop regretting he hadn't put him into the ground. (He also has to wonder if someone as young as Hana would know the meaning behind his words, but decides he doesn’t want to know.)

But that thought is short lived when you hand him another bowl as though you’ve anticipated it.

“Thank you,” he says as he grasps the bowl. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s holding your fingers, too, and he freezes. You both lock eyes, unsure what to do and all of his brain functions halt, torn between fully committing to holding your hand in full and pushing the bowl back into your hand so you can take it instead.

“Oh come on, Chef. No serving other people.” Ana picks the bowl from both your hands and thrusts it at him. This time he doesn’t embarrass himself. “Here, Hanzo. Learn how to hold your own food.”

You sputter your protests, but it’s ineffective.

He can feel the judgmental gazes of his brother and several others on him, and his desire for fratricide is reignited. Correction: he doesn’t wish death on Genji. He just wishes for his permanent silence and non-existence. Hana and whoever is snickering can join Genji, too.

Surprisingly, it’s Dr. Ziegler who drops a small selection of food onto your plate.

“Eat up before it gets cold now.”

You give her a look as though accusing her, but you acquiesce amidst some grumbling.

Hanzo did not miss the way people eye you when you take your first tentative bite or the tension in the air hiding just beneath the thin veil of conversation. He’d be lying if he said he did not feel the same way, however, as he watches you chew.

Your face and entire being lights up as you go for another bite. “Oh, this is good.”

The tension breaks like a bubble popping and relief rushes out and everyone begins their conversations and feasting in earnest. Soon, the table is alight with chatter and laughter and the sounds of cutlery.

Between the dishes and the agents, every bit of table space is utilized. Where there may be an opening or gap, it is quickly filled with crumbs or spilled sauce. The fight for real estate for his elbows is fierce, but amidst the jostling and the cajoling, it is not as overwhelming or unpleasant as he might have once thought. Some dishes run out faster than others—apple pie and strawberry cake—but any empty plates are quickly replaced with another from the kitchen.

He and Satya engage in quieter conversation while the table is regaled by stories from Reinhardt, accompanied by the musical beats of Lúcio’s latest album. The musician himself seems to be having his own troubles eating, hands trembling a little too much to feed himself reliably. Zenyatta, though, seems to enjoy helping Lucio by loading his plate with finger food and easy to eat morsels that don’t require utensils. You have no shortage of conversation partners. Whenever one conversation drops off, someone else is there to pick it back up again.

He catches snippets here and there.

Mei exclaims, “We need to do this again soon. Maybe have hotpot or barbeque.”

“If we’re able to get back together again.”

“We will,” she says cheerfully. “I believe in us.”

Then it’s Brigitte who waves at you. “Chef, what did you think of this?”

“I haven’t tried it yet, could you…?”

“Here, here! Give me your plate. Papa, have some, too.”

“Hey—wait, Jesse! Get your own.”

“Yours looked better, Chef.”

“Jesse!”

“Now, now, children. Behave.”

He never does find an opening to talk to you, but when he isn’t engaged himself, he just watches quietly as you eat and talk. The awkwardness leaves your shoulders and you begin asking for people to pass food and drink that they are too happy to give. Without realizing it, you’ve become a part of the table, another member of Overwatch.

An unfamiliar click of something mechanical catches his attention. Ana smiles at him from behind the lens of a camera that looks like it was dug out from an antique shop from the last century.

Torbjörn clicks his tongue at her. “Bah, you still have that old hunk of junk?”

“It’s an antique.”

“You’re an antique,” Torbjörn mutters under his breath.

“What was that, Lindholm? This antique’s hearing isn’t so good, you know?”

Soldier: 76 laughs into his beer. “You never change.”

“Oh shut up, Jack. What’s this about old dogs and new tricks?”

“At least I can still learn ‘em.”

“You wish, old man!” D.Va yells across the table, ending with a good-natured cackle. “Want to redeem yourself in Hearthstone?”

“Fine idea, Ana! Come, my friends. We must pose!” Reinhardt strikes a few, jostling Satya who shoots him a displeased look.

None too quietly, Junkrat whispers at Roadhog, pointing at Ana’s camera. “Hey, Roadie. How much y’think that’ll go for?” Luckily, Roadhog does not deign to answer, quietly shoving food beneath the raised section of his mask.

“When I develop these, everyone gets a copy. You, too, Chef.”

“Me? Oh, thank you?”

The good-natured ribbing between the veterans goes on and on, bringing laughter and teasing to the table. Ana goes around, forcing groups of people together and taking their pictures. At some point, she has you and himself leaning across the table for a picture of you both (with extra people interfering in the background, likely making fools of them). Seeing you laugh so freely and eat while shedding the last of your reservations makes any bit of humiliation worth it.

An elbow digs into his side.「Isn’t it nice?」

Hanzo sounds a touch annoyed when he asks,「What is?」

Genji’s eyes crinkle just around the corner and he points to the large pan in the middle of the table with his chopsticks.「Eating meals from the same iron pot.」

He scowls at Genji’s poor manners and is about to tell him off when a moment of clarity dawns upon him as he realizes how profound that expression might actually be for their situation: people and omnics of different age groups, countries, talents, and ideologies coming together and eating without killing each other. Even their moral compasses all pointed in different directions. They are people who would, under normal circumstances, kill each other, but are now joined by a table of food—one of the most basic of human needs.

But that thought is fleeting and he swats at Genji’s hand.「Don’t point with those.」

「Sure, sure. Whatever you say, sister-in-law.」

「Cheeky brat.」

「Loosen up, enjoy yourself. Look.」

「Good drinks」—glass steins and bottles knock against each other and they all cheer.

「Good food」—Reinhardt sets down the latest tray he’s received from the kitchen before them, Lena already swiping up a few of the treats for herself, shouting with victory.

「Good company」—Genji sweeps his hand, presenting the room of merry agents. Hanzo’s eyes follow his hand, but stop when they land on you, laughing too hard to put any food in your mouth.

「What more could you ask for, brother?」

He hesitates, protests alive and stomping against his tongue, but he holds them in.

He cannot deny what you have done, what food has done. It was because of you that they could all eat like this, talk like this, exchange smiles and sorrows like this. Even though you never saw yourself as important, you and your meals are the glue that held everything together. Where there was only bad blood, people may have found the love they needed to overcome it from your food.

Hanzo heard somewhere that the way to the heart is through one’s stomach, and your food has built you a solid road into his heart. He can only hope one day he can repay the favor and build his way to yours.

Winston stands and clears his throat, raising his glass. “Everyone, I would like to make a toast.”

The table quiets down and all eyes turn on him. To Winston’s credit, he does not balk or fluster.

“Everyone. I would like to make a toast. The circumstances have been difficult, but when have they not? Those very circumstances brought us together to fight for a better world, and now we will be apart for a short while to accomplish what we cannot do alone. They call us ‘fools’ for dreaming and hoping, but we cannot stand by and do nothing as the world plunges into further chaos. I want everyone here to know I am proud to be your friend and grateful for your presence and wisdom and efforts.”

There’s a polite round of applause before Winston continues.

“And a special message to our resident chef.”

Everyone turns to you and Hanzo can see your eyes widen—surprise, embarrassment, and panic pass by your features—and your cup trembles, threatening to fall.

“Chef. There's a saying that an army marches on its stomach. You have sacrificed so much for us and have worked so hard without reward. You may think you don’t deserve it or that your work is meaningless, but heroes come in all shapes and forms.

“Without you, Overwatch would not be where we are today. Without you, we would not have the strength to keep going. Without you, we would not have been able to come together like this. You have supported us quietly in the shadows. No matter what anyone says, we all acknowledge you are our hero. Words cannot express our gratitude to you. Thank you, Chef.”

“Thanks, Chef!”

“Thank you!”

“We love you, Chef!”

“To the chef!”

“‘To Chef!’”

The people around you all begin to cheer and even Hanzo reaches a hand over and pat your shaking back as you hide your face in your hands. As embarrassing as it may be, there is no one here who could ever deny your contributions. You have been acknowledged as one of those heroes you have separated yourself from.

Winston smiles and raises his glass higher, voice booming. “And to Overwatch!”

“‘To Overwatch!’”

“To us!”

“‘To us!’”

Glasses and cups clink together, a cacophony of chimes signalling in a new beginning for everyone.

Epilogue>>

#my writing #the way to a heart #twtah #holy fuck #we're here #i literally have the epilogue ready to go #i just a need or two to go over it and make sure it's fine #i never thought we'd get here #*need a day or two #good god i can't even spell anymore

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