#Waitrose was like the only grocery store I recognized‚ I did not know they were fancy‚ lol

[blagueofchaos]

Assigned normal by the British quizzes:

Except apparently I picked the fancy grocery store for my picnic:

a while back someone shared this quiz in the yennskier server and let me tell you there was some confusion & consternation from the americans in the room. anyway!! regardless of nationality go find out how posh you are. :)

[docholligay]

Valentine's prompt: Brigitte and Dva baking together

It shouldn’t have been awkward. Dva was an international star on a number of levels, and had been so since she was fifteen or so. She was known for being cute, for being capable, for being quick on her feet, and confident to a point that bordered on arrogance, in her worst moments. People imagined her as all sorts of things, and she let them, because it paid to be imagined as the perfect girlfriend, as the cool friend, as the great hero of Korea. No one would have imagined that she was nervous to have a girl over to make cookies. People would have laughed at the idea. 

And yet, here she was, nervous. Brigitte had never been to her apartment. Dva wasn’t even sure they were officially dating, even though they had gone out plenty of times since Christmas. It wasn’t that she thought they were just friends--there were plenty of activities they’ d participated in that didn’t suggest that--but it wasn’t that she thought they were serious enough to be girlfriends, either. 

More surprising to Dva was that she wanted to be. 

She kept telling herself that there were a million reasons she hadn’t addressed this particular issue. They were building a whole new Overwatch headquarters, and Dva was helping with the oversight of it, making sure everything was just so. There were new exhibits coming to the recently-refurbished Overwatch Museum of London, to say nothing of the one they planned to revive in America. Dva had been a key part of all these things, taking a bit of the work off Tracer, trying to convince Pharah she could do just as well and trying very hard not to be insulted by Pharah’s insistence that it was Tracer’s work. It meant there was plenty for her to do that wasn’t dating, and so it made perfect sense that she’d never sat down to have any conversation with Brigitte about what they were, exactly. 

Did Dva even care about Valentine’s Day? She certainly couldn’t remember caring about Valentine’s Day, but it must have mattered some to her if she had stumbled out asking if Brigitte wanted to come help her make several dozen cookies to give out. She didn’t want to give out cookies, much less make them, she was fairly certain, and yet it had come out of her mouth as Brigitte and Winston stood in front of her discussing the new lab setup. 

Winston had smiled after Dva said it, which somehow made it worse. 

Her apartment was a great one. She knew that to be true, at least. She hadn’t thought much about anything but location and having a gaming room when she’d bought it with all money she’d saved from living with her parents back home, and the agent had found her a place ten minutes’ walk from two different underground stations, with a Waitrose on the way, across from some gardens that her balcony overlooked. It wasn’t until Tracer’s eyes widened as they walked toward it that she realized entirely the kind of place she owned, a three bedroom apartment that had Tracer running from room to room, asking why she had never gotten into the video game business. Bright, with wood floors and a marble bathroom, she took a certain amount of delight in showing it to people, that she wasn’t some sort of grubby gremlin child but an adult with nice tastes. 

Now she was worried it was too nice. Ostentatious? The only person in Overwatch with a bigger place was Winston, and that was a rusty old warehouse he’d spend years scrabbling into a home. Would Brigitte think she was bragging? Brigitte had invited her back to her apartment, a tiny studio that was across from a dumpster rather than a garden, but it was warm and sweet and now Dva worried that her apartment showed she had money but not much else. 

Did she have much else? Who was she other than the wunderkind, really, when it got down to it? Mercy had tried to talk to her about it once, having more than a little experience with such, but Dva had shook it away, proud as always. Now she found herself wishing she could ask how to deal with it. She would, once today was over, win or lose. She was in her twenties, but growing up, it seemed, very suddenly, in the light of everything changing. There was no more room to be the talented brat she loved being, if she was honest. 

But that realization wasn’t going to save her from whatever happened today with Brigitte. 

The buzzer rang. Horrifying, but inevitable, like so many things in military life. She ran over to the monitor and flipped it on, Brigitte’s smile lighting up the camera. 

“Hi!” She waved. 

Brigitte didn’t seem shocked or offended by Dva’s apartment building, and so Dva simply nodded and attempted a smile back. “Just come up, the door’s open.” 

She buzzed Brigitte in and turned around toward the open room. She’d already cleaned ip everything that needed it, and the cookie ingredients were in the fridge and pantry. Dva had bought some sodas and snacks this morning, opening the boxes so it would look casual. Hopefully Brigitte couldn’t tell that she’d never had anyone over to her house, and if she could, well, it was a fair protest that Dva had never really had time in her life to imagine it. That was, until Brigitte joined Overwatch, and all of her friends thought it was cute to torment Dva over the flirting. 

Brigitte came through the door and looked around the apartment, the surfeit of natural light and Dva’s simple but sturdy couches and chairs set up in the living room. 

“This place is really nice!” She said it with enthusiasm and without judgment, even if Dva studied hard to find it. 

“Thanks.” She managed. “Actually, I just told an agent to get me something when I moved here a few years ago...I’m not very good at shopping.” 

“I believe that,” Brigitte gave a bright nod, “I remember trying to find you a Christmas sweater for the Oxton party.” 

Dva laughed. It had been silly, hadn’t it? The two of flitting from store to store, Dva not knowing exactly what she wanted but knowing that none of this was it. Brigitte had threated to simply throw one of her sweaters on top of her. But they found something, eventually. They’d spent the whole party talking together. It had been what she wanted, after all. 

She led Brigitte back toward the small but well appointed kitchen, neat as a pin. Brigitte smiled slyly as she preheated the oven. 

“I bet you never use this room, huh?” 

Dva smacked her with an embroidered tea towel, but laughed in a way that let Brigitte know she couldn’t be more correct. 

It was a wonder, to see Brigitte in the kitchen. She had brought some of her own ingredients, not imagining that Dva would have everything they needed. Brigitte didn’t seem to need much of a recipe, just kept whipping things together until there was a dough in a bowl in front of the two of them, being worked over carefully by Brigitte’s broad, strong hands. 

They couldn’t be more different, could they? Brigitte was tall and broad and strong, warm and nurturing and domestic. Dva was small and fine boned, sharp and quick and dangerous, hopeless in the kitchen and barely qualified in even a laundry room. It was odd to imagine that they could ever be together, and the thought made her a bit sad even as she shaped the dough into a disk for the fridge. 

But then, she thought, it wasn’t so unusual. Mercy and Pharah may as well have been night and day on all things not related to their shared ethics, and sometimes even that, and you never met a couple so devoted and in love. The things Emily seemed to love best about Tracer were the things they in no way shared--Tracer was loud and gregarious and daring, Emily was quiet and shy and cautious. So what if Brigitte was the one making dinner? Dva would bring her home every pan and grocery item she could ever want. 

“What?” Brigitte said, and Dva realized she was staring. 

Dva shook her head.”Just thinking. Sorry.” 

“About what?” 

“Nothing.” She picked up the dough disks. ‘The fridge, right? We could watch something while we wait,” she turned around and opened the fridge door, ‘It’s still too cold to sit on the balcony--honestly it’s stupid that I even have one, it’s too cold most of the year. I didn’t think enough about the weather--” 

“Hana, do you like me?” She turned around quickly to find Brigitte looking at her almost...nervously, a cup of tea in her hand. “I mean,” she laughed, “I don’t know how to say that in a grown up way.” 

“I do.” Dva, it turned out, had no idea how to respond in an adult way, and stumbled over every teenage emotion she found herself feeing. “I really do. I want--” 

“I know there is, so much happening with you, and I--the new headquarters, and I know we’re not talking about how Tracer’s sick, but Tracer’s sick--maybe I shouldn’t have said that? I mean, I’m not--she does a great job as commander, still, and you’re helping. That’s, you know, really good, that you’re helping. God, I can’t stop talking.” She looked at Dva and Dva recognized the same strange panic in her eyes. “I don’t really--my brothers and sisters kept me so busy, and my father was always teaching me about...things that aren’t this, you know, at all.” She closed her eyes tight. “I want to be your girlfriend!” 

She clapped her hand over her mouth, and the two of them looked at each other, silent, wide-eyed. 

The oven dinged as it came up to temperature.