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overdrivels · 4 years

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The Way to a Heart (20)

<<Chapter 19

When Hanzo wakes, he almost punches himself in the face trying to rub the sand from his eyes, body refusing to cooperate with any amount of finesse. When he is able to focus, he recognizes the interior of one of the medical bay rooms at Gibraltar. The significance of it doesn’t sink in until he sees his bandaged hands where the phantom feeling of his punches still linger.

Disappointment and anguish overpowers the ache and grogginess—he slams his fists against legs—the pain that shoots through him and renders his vision spotty does little to deter him from doing it again.

Reaper left him alive even though he had all the ability in the world to just shoot himself and Genji dead. It was humiliating.

Only the good die young, and he is none of those things.

“You’re awake!”

Dr. Ziegler walks into the room with Genji right at her heels. She approaches, but Genji is faster, interrupting her path.

Genji’s usual mask is off, allowing Hanzo to see the entirety of his face. It is first shocked, then twists into something like rage; it’s strangely assuring. What truly strikes him is not the scars on his face, no, but that his thick eyebrows, so similar to his own but more pronounced, are still intact.

“Genj—”

He is barely able to react—he later blames the drugs being pumped into him at the time—and thanks his lifelong training for teaching him how to shut his mouth.

The punch to the face nearly knocks out his teeth and consciousness. He could've sworn he heard the good doctor curse loudly. Before he is able to recover and give him a piece of his addled mind, his cheeks are enveloped in cool synthetic leather, and Genji's forehead meets his own.

The contrast in temperature is oddly comforting.

"I thought I almost lost you, brother," Genji whispers. The ringing in his ears is not loud enough to drown out the pain in his brother's synthetic voice.

Any protest or words he has dies pathetically in his throat. There is a click of something in the back of his heart, a spark in the depths of his mind.

Instead, all he can do is grab his brother by the shoulders and say, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

---

After all the excitement dies down and everyone is ushered out of his room, he’s subject to a battery of tests (including another one for concussion because Genji really doesn’t know how to hold back) that pass by in a blur. Dr. Ziegler mercifully does not bog him down with the details of his injuries or what happened, simply inferring that Winston will update him when he is feeling more like a person and less of a ragdoll.

Left alone in the room, he finds the quiet to be peaceful instead of distressing. For the first time in a very long time, there is a reign of silence in his heart and a strange clarity to his muddled thoughts that he has never found before. He supposes almost dying would do that to a person, and perhaps that’s the reason why Genji is the way he is now.

Or maybe he really is concussed from Genji’s punch.

He watches sunlight filter in through the narrow windows, the way scarce bits of dust dance and twirl in the spotlight. Time passes by just like that with nary a thought.

Sunlight eventually gives way to twilight. Demons that would normally take advantage of the encroaching dark ready to stab him with past memories and sharpened ‘what if’s are not around. This quiet is peaceful, comfortingly so. Even the pain he should be feeling is dulled by anesthesia and the feeling of cotton stuffed beneath his skin.

It’s only when there’s a quiet knock on his door does he realize the whole day has passed him by. Was he awake the whole time or has he been drifting between sleep and consciousness?

When another knock comes, he realizes he hasn’t answered and the room is a shade darker than before.

“Come in.”

Surprise comes to him slowly and with less intensity than he expected.

"Chef. Why are you here?"

It's strange to see you on the other side of the bed now considering your roles were reversed not too long ago. But something about your appearance tugs at him—there’s a sense of weariness and exhaustion that seems to eclipse his own that he can’t place. He just knows.

You smile weakly, lifting the tray in your hands for him to see.

"I thought I'd bring you some food. Something easy on the stomach?"

Hunger isn’t very high on his list of needs or wants at the moment, but he waves you in with his non-IV-tethered hand anyway. He doesn’t have the heart to turn you or your good will away. The door closes quiet as a whisper as you tiptoe into the room, the lights coming on in slow intervals. Like an angel or a main character coming onto the stage, he thinks.

On the tray, there’s a cream colored ‘soup’ with chopped green spring onions on top and some bread on the side. It is a far cry from the meals he’s expected from you and reminds him of the earlier days when ingredients were clearly scarce and he didn’t know you were a person.

“This is…?”

“Artichoke soup.”

The side of his mouth twitches downward. Whatever little appetite he may have had dissipates. “Have you eaten yet, Chef?” he asks instead.

“Oh. Uh.” Your eyes shift away from him, a sure sign you’re lying. “I will. After this.”

He gives you the flattest look he can manage as he pushes the tray back toward you. He may not be in full control of his facilities, but even he can see that you’re tired and probably in more need of nutrition than he is.

“Yes. You will. Now.”

“This is for you, I can’t—”

“Sit.”

Even as you’re protesting, you still blindly grab at the chair beside you to sit down in. "I can't eat in front of my customers. We can’t eat until—"

He rolls his eyes and doesn't care how undignified that it is or that you see it. "And I am not your customer now, am I? Or is that all I am to you?"

"What, no! You're not, you're—you're not just a customer, you're…” You wave a hand vaguely at him, searching for the words, the anticipation makes his stomach tight. "Hanzo.”

“Hanzo.”

The label, if it could even be called that, amuses him more than he could ever say. Not a customer, not a friend, but Hanzo. As cliché as it sounds, there is a warm and fuzzy feeling that settles into his stomach.

"It’s not as though I haven’t seen you eat before.” As a matter of fact, he liked watching you eat. There was something charming about the way your eyes light up and the single mindedness in which you clear your plate. He has no plans to tell you that, however. “If it makes you uncomfortable, should I close my eyes?”

You grumble something beneath your breath about how this food isn’t yours and some other manner of complaints that just seem childish at this point. It’s with great reluctance that you pick up the spoon and bowl meant for him. But there is something different. Your eyes don’t light up, and you just put spoonful after spoonful in your mouth in quick succession without pausing to savor.

“You don’t like your own cooking?” is the unbelievable conclusion he comes to.

“Not really,” you mumble.

“So you’ve been feeding us mediocre work?”

“No!” It almost startles him how vehemently you protest, and maybe it startles you, too because you immediately back down. “No, I just—look. Sometimes,” you start slowly, eyes searching for the words across the half-finished soup, “sometimes you just get tired of your own flavor. Of your own cooking.”

He wouldn’t know anything about that. Of course there are times he’s tired of eating just onigiri while on the run, but that’s just one dish. There’s also something else underneath your words, too. Uncertainty and doubt.

Irritation bubbles up in his chest, and before he can even stop himself, he snatches the spoon out of your hand with a brief, “Excuse me,” before shoveling the soup into his mouth.

The richness of the artichokes is immediately apparent, mild and full-bodied, made thicker with added texture from potatoes. Yet, despite that, the soup isn’t particularly heavy, its richness cut by the zest of lemon which is tempered by the other ingredients. It’s easy to eat and despite his lack of appetite, he thinks he can eat more.

It would sound stupid to anyone he tells it to, but the soup feels like...a hug.

When he raises his eyes, your mouth is agape.

“I could never get tired of your cooking,” he says. The ease at which the words come to him must be from the anesthesia or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Of all the things that would make you flush. He smiles wide and slow, delighted at your reaction.

This is fun. Enjoyable. It makes him want to tease you more.

“Tha-thanks?”

“No, I should be thanking you.”

For so many things. For introducing him to new foods. For sacrificing so much for Overwatch. For...

The memory of Reaper with the tamale tugs at the back of his mind. He could wave it away, but that he lives because of you and he doesn’t say anything about it would burden him. Being saved by a civilian who wasn’t even there from a foe far stronger than he wounds him, but not showing appreciation for it would wound him further.

He puts down the spoon, and quietly confesses, “Chef. Thank you. Your cooking has…saved me.”

“Oh.” Surprise freezes your expression in place but it quickly melts into a warm smile, one that made you seem to sparkle and come to life. “You’re welcome.”

There’s no way for you to know just how much he meant those words, but he can’t bring himself to elaborate. It’ll be the closest he’ll be able to admit to himself that it was not his own strength that saved him at the end of the day.

---

Apparently Reaper is less violent than his actions and rumors would have everyone believe. Dr. Ziegler prescribes him less bedrest than expected and the green light to leave and return to his routine (barring actual missions) in a few days. Most of his injuries were superficial, and none of the shotgun blasts seem to have damaged anything too permanent beyond repair.

It’s Soldier: 76 who seems most put off by this news, grumbling about how Reaper is an unfair bastard. Winston is ever apologetic, still feeling responsible that they were led right into an ambush after hearing Hanzo’s report. According to Dr. Ziegler, the team was lucky Reaper was carrying normal shotgun clips.

Yes. Lucky.

It’s just been a series of lucky circumstances, hasn’t it? That they were all able to leave with their lives and tell the tale is beyond what most could have hoped for, and Winston apparently did not want to look that gift horse in the mouth.

"We will be leaving the moment we are finished with repairs to this Watchpoint. We never know when we'll have to return. I just wanted to prepare you for that eventuality.” Winston is distractingly huge in this little room as he shuffles on his feet, trying not to knock into any sensitive equipment.

“I understand.”

“That being said, Dr. Ziegler would like you to remain here until you are flight-ready. You will be a part of the last group to leave.”

“Has my new post been decided?”

“You will be informed when you make a full recovery and are back in service. In the meantime, we are trying to keep the number of people who know our next destination to a minimum. Security reasons; I hope you understand.”

The decision comes as no surprise to him.

It isn’t ideal to house Overwatch in a single place where the very country they’re stationed in is pitted against them. It’s even less ideal to have all their forces in one place at this time where the line of Overwatch succession has not been properly established. So far, it’s been a struggle between Winston, the de facto but still inexperienced leader, and Soldier: 76 who was the Strike Commander but claims he has no desire to hold such a title anymore while still meddling in Winston’s decisions. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

However, if the whole of Overwatch is leaving, then where does that leave you?

It’s unreasonable to drag you along, and it's too dangerous to remain here in Gibraltar by yourself, waiting for agents that may never return. Your restaurant has booted you out and by

Maybe you’ll go back to your restaurant and reclaim it for yourself.

Maybe he could be selfish and ask you to remain.

It’s silly, but he’s already gotten used to your meals, spoiled by the attention.

He presses his lips together, refusing to sigh no matter how much he wanted to. The future is yours to take hold of. Whether you decide to take the difficult path of following them or whether you decide to leave and do something else is entirely out of his hands.

As much as he wants to know, he can't bring himself, unwilling to hear the answer. He’ll have to wait for you to tell him—if you ever tell him.

Some more logistics are discussed, but Winston keeps the conversation superficial. Apparently the Junkers are obstinately refusing to leave and he’s had his hands full even without their opposition.

Hanzo has already tuned him out, thoughts wandering to you and what you plan to do.

Surprisingly, McCree visits him soon after. He’s also wearing the standard hospital gown, but doesn’t seem to be as well-wrapped as Hanzo. It somehow annoys Hanzo that the person who nearly led himself and Genji to their dooms is in better shape than he is.

“I saw how it went down,” McCree starts as soon as he sits down with a heavy grunt. “The tamale. You tell Winston?”

“Who was he?”

“I asked first.”

There’s a silent stare-down between them.

A short bark of a laugh tears out of McCree, loud and sudden. He leans back in his chair before changing his mind to lean forward, the hair hanging in front of his face does nothing to obscure the pointed look in his eyes.

“Gabriel Reyes.”

The name takes a moment to sink in, for the veil to lift and the name to become a face.

Hanzo sucks in a breath.

“I suppose Overwatch has some secret to immortality that they plan to impart to us when we reach tenure?” It comes out more critical than he has any right to be, but McCree would have to excuse him—he did almost die, after all, along with Genji and the remainder of his pride.

“If it’s tenure, I’d better be first.” Even McCree seems bitter about it. He supposed it was just as well, McCree was much closer to them and personally knew all three. It must have been a much bigger betrayal to him than it was to Hanzo who only knew of the three from news reports and word of mouth.

He heard bits and pieces of how Genji was a part of Blackwatch and Gabriel, in a sense, saved him from himself.

“...did Genij know?”

McCree pauses, face scrunching up and chewing his lips like he wished for a smoke. “...yeah. I told ‘im so he wouldn’t have to break my kneecaps.”

That’s probably why they didn’t stick to the plan. Genji knew, too. How is he taking the news, Hanzo wonders.

“And you? You tell Winston or what?”

“...yes.” It wasn’t a detail that he could have left out; it was the reason they’re alive and it’s such a stupid reason, too. He thought Winston would react in disbelief, but to his surprise—which now seems so obvious—the gorilla just sighed and moved on.

McCree lets out a breath, slumping into his chair. “Cat's outta that bag, I guess. Gonna have to get him to keep his mouth shut 'bout that 'round Chef. And you'd better do, too "

“And what reason do I have to do that?"

"'m serious. If Chef knew about Reaper, who knows what might happen."

McCree sounds tired. It wasn't his intent to speak to you about that anyway, but now McCree's piqued his curiosity.

“Elaborate.”

"....Reyes was considered one of them. When he wasn’t doing shit like sewing up costumes or drilling us, he was in the kitchens. They were family to each other.” Hanzo breathes in deep through his nose and presses his lips together. "Talon's already done Chef dirty enough and things aren't gonna get much easier either, so we should cut the chef some slack where we can spare, y'hear?"

It doesn’t take him long to answer.

"I hear you."

---

“Please let us know your decision by the end of this week, Chef. I know it won’t be easy, but I can assure you, we will support you regardless of your choice.”

Packing up the kitchen for departure was one thing, but asking you what you wanted to do with your life is another. It’d just be so much easier if Winston told you “Come with us” or “Stay here”. If it were the Head Chef, he’d probably insist on staying because this, for many agents, is home, though he would be just as likely to say anywhere his customers go, he goes.

—”What do you want to do?”—

Hanzo’s question bounces incessantly in your head, burrowing under your skin until they begin to eat at the core of your being.

Again, you’re struck with the ever-persistent reminder that you are not Head Chef Richard. You’re not an expert at managing restaurants. You’re not a world-class chef. You have no idea what you’re doing or what you should do next.

The kitchen is deafeningly quiet and devoid of answers except for your scrubbing, but even that is just out of habit; your mind is elsewhere.

Why couldn’t everything just be the way they were before?

You know what you want to do. You want to return to the past, to the days when the kitchen was the kitchen and when you didn’t have to be responsible for so many things or have to worry about the ever-growing uncertainty that couldn’t even be called a ‘future’. You want to go back to simpler times, to happier times when you weren’t alone and you weren’t given a responsibility that you weren’t prepared to handle long term.

But if you went back to the past, you wouldn’t be able to talk to the agents like you have been. Everyone was nice to you and they didn’t demand things or pick fights like the agents of the past. You were even able to have fun with them unlike before when your only friends were the rest of the kitchen staff.

You wouldn’t be able to go on shopping trips like you did with Hanzo. It was nice. It was the closest thing to normal you’ve felt in a long time. No expectations, no pressures, just freedom. How long has it been since you didn’t have to care about anything except for what was in front of you? How long has it been since you were able to just enjoy yourself? You had fun for once and with an agent, no less.

But what cost did that come at?

Overwatch would now be mobile, traveling all over the world, fighting bad guys and setting things right. There isn’t much that you could do as a cook especially with everyone scattered. You’d just be another body to protect or another factor for them to account for.

On the other hand, this kitchen only has you. From all of its intricacies to its idiosyncrasies, you were the only one here who knew them. Or rather, you only had the kitchen. The plan was always to keep this place afloat until the Head Chef came back. Once he was found and came back, then everything would go back to the way it used to be.

If he came back. What if he didn’t want to come back? Then all you would have done would have been for nothing. Hell, leaving now when he hasn’t returned may as well have been for nothing. If your work was going to be for nothing, then you would’ve never left Cœur d’Artichaut and then at least maybe you’d have a place to belong.

— “I could never get tired of your cooking.”—

—“A chef’s purpose iz to serve their customers. Without them, we are nothing.”—

You groan. You don’t know what to do.

Giving yourself a moment to mourn what should have been and what could have been, you throw your cleaning rag into the sanitization bucket and dump yourself onto the floor. From your pocket, you pull out your communicator, clasping it tight between both hands as though an answer would appear. It doesn’t, and you’re not sure if the many names you have recorded might have an answer either.

The kitchen doesn’t have room for crying or for the weary or the weak—all those should go to the break room. Everyone will have to forgive you if you don’t know what to do and don’t want to move.

A hiss from the direction of the Cellar makes you and your heart rate jump. Out of sheer habit, you grab and brandish the closest thing to you: a spatula.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize who is standing there, and you could only laugh. The drain of adrenaline immediately leaves you weak and cold, and you have to step back and lean both hands back against a counter. The area where you were shot throbs, and all at once, exhaustion tumbles relentlessly into you as though you were an empty vessel to be filled.

“Sorry about that, Agent Roadhog.”

“Mm.”

Roadhog ducks his head, stepping in sideways through the Cellar entryway. The door to the Cellar was originally designed to allow the kitchen carts to fit through with ease, but Agent Roadhog’s sheer girth makes that design choice seem inadequate.

You hurriedly wipe your face with your sleeves, and clear your throat, shoving your communicator back into your pockets.

“What can I do for you? Lemon lime bitters or lemon barley water? It’ll take a little bit since we don’t have anything premixed—”

Roadhog shoves a basket at you, cutting your speech short. Unwittingly, you take it from his hands. It’s a medley of vegetables and herbs.

“Oh, did you want me to make something with this?” you ask, sifting through the bounty. Spinach; radishes that look like they’re heirloom; arugula; kale; scallions; peppers. “They’re really good quality, I haven’t seen these in the market before…”

Your words fade from your mouth as a slow, creeping realization strangles them clean out of your mind. All of these look too familiar in terms of breed. Digging deeper into the basket, you happen upon a batch of mint. The leaf shape, the deep green color are all reminiscent of a different time. You pick a leaf off and put it in your mouth, chewing it slowly. The leaves are an even balance of crisp and soft. It is minty, of course, but there are no harsh or bitter notes that one would expect to find after chewing on peppermint. Instead, it’s sweet and soothing with a hint of fruit. It’s a nostalgic flavor, one you haven’t thought of in years.

“Where’d you get this…?” you ask slowly, trying to see past the mask he wears. There’s no way—

Agent Roadhog grunts and turns, leading you back into the tunnel from which he came. Clutching the basket, disbelief and anticipation running through your veins, you follow.

—-

Walking is a little more difficult than he remembers. There's a persistent pain in his legs from his injuries, but as long as he's not bleeding through his pants, he’s not too concerned. One of the first pit stops he makes is the cafeteria, and to his surprise, there’s already people.

Ana waves at him, gesturing at the seat between herself and Brigitte who nods at him as she tries to choke down whatever she’s stuffed into her cheeks.

“Have a seat, Shimada. Party’s starting without you.”

It seems that while he wasn’t looking, afternoon tea had resumed. In addition to the usual butter cookies, there’s a wider assortment of sweets as though someone were trying their hand at opening a store or someone robbed a bakery.

“...Chef made all this?”

“Sure did. Help yourself. Chef—mmph—makes awesome desserts,” Brigitte says between mouthfuls. She pauses her chewing to clench her fists, a full body shiver on display. “Mm! This is good, too.”

“Of course,” he replies automatically with a swell of pride.

How she managed to convince you to make so many is beyond him. Unconsciously, he looks toward the service window where the lights are on and there is movement inside. You’re definitely working too much. While he can admire a dedicated person, even he knows there are limits to how far one can push themselves before they break.

“What are you waiting for? Have a seat.” Hanzo hurriedly sits down, his lips thinning as he catches sight of Ana’s knowing smile. He ignores her, focusing instead on the selection of goods available.

It’s hard to even know where to start.

The usual butter cookies are a given and Ana seems to be happy monopolizing them. There are trays of flaky twists, sliced roll cakes of different flavors, white round balls of something covered with coconut shavings topped with a single red dot, white rectangles with a texture between sponge cake and mochi.

He goes for a tart-like pastry with yellow custard in the middle that he recognizes as egg tarts first.

The crimped pastry is perfectly flaky, the outer layers crisp and the inner layers toward the tart are moist and soft. The custard is still the slightest bit warm and jiggly, smooth, and tasting of lightly sweetened eggs. It’s almost reminiscent of Japanese pudding except it’s warm instead of cold.

Beside him, Brigitte leans in. “How’s it? Good? I haven’t tried that one yet.”

“It’s good,” he replies as he licks his lips. It’s different from what you’d normally make, but it’s delicious nevertheless. He pours himself a cup of tea

The tea is dark and astringent, almost unpleasantly so alone but pairs well with remnants of his snack with a cleansing aftertaste that reminds him of fruit. It’s not a tea he’s had before and is certainly not one he remembers Ana ever ordering.

He spots his favorite: pan-fried red bean cake and wastes no time snatching three for himself. If anyone accuses him of being greedy, he can just say he needs more sustenance for healing.

Pockets of time carved out like this makes it easy to forget everything that has happened, but given the nature of Overwatch, conversation eventually steers face first into business.

“When we arrived, we thought the worst,” Ana says rather lightly. “Both you and your brother were on the ground and McCree was missing.”

Hanzo grunts. Reaper just left them there after ordering the retreat without any answers as to why and how they were there in the first place.

“Do we know where the leak happened?”

Ana shrugs. “We have a few ideas and Fareeha is busy investigating right now. She’s missing out.”

Hanzo takes one of the white balls of coconut covered mochi, almost choking on an explosion of finely chopped peanuts and sugar that was hiding beneath the surprisingly thin exterior.

“We can ask Chef to save some for her,” Brigitte suggests, oblivious or ignoring Hanzo’s silent struggle. “I’m sure we have enough for that.”

When Hanzo regains control of his windpipe again, he asks, “Do we know anything about their motive? Other than the hostages.”

“We suspect the hostages were just an excuse as you may have guessed. All the shots—except the ones from Reaper—were non-lethal rounds, so they must have wanted to talk.”

“Any suspicions as to why?”

Ana scoffs. “Who knows what that fool is thinking.” She takes a ginger sip of her tea before glaring at the reflection. “He's always had a flair for dramatics, that one. Brilliant in ways I wished he wasn't."

“...you know Reaper?”

“I know him better than I’d like.” She sips her tea and lets out a heavy sigh. “Well, it’s a good thing there were no casualties.” He gives her a look, trying to convey that his current state of being is a casualty. The look is wasted on her because she just reaches for another cookie, skillfully ignoring his gaze.

“Especially with you, Shimada. It would have been bad if Talon could spin the story that Overwatch came back and used lethal force against people equipped with ‘non-lethal’ weapons.” Again, he tries to give her a look and again it’s rebuffed. “I think you’ve been changing. You’re an assassin by trade, yes?”

“Yes,” he answers hesitantly. “Family trade.”

“And killing your enemies is your default.”

“...yes.”

“But no one died on the mission.”

“Not that I was informed, no.”

“You held back. Sure, you hurt them enough to make them wish they died, but you didn’t exactly slaughter them outright, now did you?”

“I…” He doesn’t really remember. As soon as each enemy was felled, he stopped caring. But he remembers having put his hands on people, thrown them to the ground, hit their vitals with his fists, but he can’t recall having to confirm any kills—there was no need.

“It changes nothing. Killing wasn’t a requirement in that mission.”

“But we never said not to. You made the choice for yourself.”

“It was implied. Overwatch is not that sort of organization.”

“And you’re fitting in just perfectly,” Ana says cheerfully. “You have changed, Shimada. You just haven’t realized it yet.”

There’s nothing he can say to that, and he drinks another cup of tea.

He has changed, he knows this, but whether it’s for the better or not is something only the future would know.

The snacks dwindle as more people slowly join the group. D.Va and Winston join them at some point while Brigitte leaves with a whole handful (and mouthful) of pastries. Even Soldier makes an appearance, only to leave after suffering ridicule from the combined forces of Ana and D.Va.

It’s not until late in the afternoon that he finds his opening to get up and leave, but not before stopping by the service window.

For old time’s sake, he rings the bell.

Almost just as quickly, your torso appears at the service window.

“Hello Hanzo. What would you like to order today?”

A warm, molten feeling fills his stomach and rises into his cheeks, forcing a smile out of him. It’s innocuous, but it’s the first time you’ve called his name without a prefix while working. Hanzo has seen some of the world’s splendors in his youth but none of them has made him feel anything like this.

Despite not being able to see your face, you seem more spirited than before, practically rocking on your feet.

“I came to compliment the chef on the buffet. It was delectable.”

“Actually, I only made the cookies and red bean cakes. Patisserie Woo sent everything else through same day delivery.”

“They were all delicious.”

“I’ll let her know.” He doesn’t have to see behind the partition to know you’re pleased. “We should also be getting some meals from a few others.” He can’t imagine these are being sent the conventional way; part of the reason why you had to use the restaurant as a cover was because regular shipments couldn’t be sent here lest the Gibraltar police knows Overwatch is back again.

“Does this mean you’re now in contact with your colleagues?”

You take a moment before answering, hands float between the partition hesitantly and then rest on top of the other. “...yes.”

Inexplicably, his stomach drops at the soft tone of your voice, concern filling the void.

“Did it go well?”

“Yeah, it did.” You laugh sheepishly and the sound instantly makes his worries disappear. Your hands gesture at the group and the treat covered table. “As you can see. Everyone suddenly called and was mad that I was doing these things without telling them, but we’re getting somewhere.”

“I can’t imagine that Soldier approves of it.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

“You’ve gotten cheekier.” Realizing you may not take that the right way, he hurriedly adds, “It’s a good thing.”

“Well, this cheeky person got permission to hold a final farewell dinner.” You hold your fists at your waist, probably puffing out your chest. “Do you have any requests?”

“I thought you didn’t take requests.”

“Well…we’re leaving Watchpoint: Gibraltar and I thought ‘enough rules have been broken, what’s another one’?”

He entertains the idea of asking you for the treasure of the Cellar if only to confirm his suspicions, but that wouldn’t be fair. He then remembers something he saw not too long ago and comes to his decision.

“Miso soup.”

“That’s it?”

“Should I ask for a ten-course meal?”

“Please, no.”

He couldn’t help the sly smile that forms on his face or the burst of mischief. “What if I insist?”

“No.”

“If I say ‘please’?”

“Keep this up and I won’t make anything for you.”

“Three course meal.”

“One.”

“One course and a snack.”

“One item and a snack.”

“Done.” He holds out his hand for you to shake on it which you do with a laugh. Just as he grips your hand however, he adds in just as quickly, “Snack is one whole cake.”

“Are you kidding me—!?”

“We shook on it, Chef.”

“You’re bad.” And then in a more teasing tone, “Are you sure you’re a hero? You should be a villain."

“Why does everyone think I'm a villain? Is it the goatee?” He pauses, stroking his facial hair despite the fact you likely can’t see him. “It's the goatee, isn't it?”

It draws a burst of laughter out of you.

“I like the goatee, you look distinguished.”

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased with this development or your compliments, allowing himself to savor your words a little more, rubbing his goatee between his fingers.

Grinning to himself, he leans in as close as he can to the wall. “Is that all you like, Chef?”

To his delight, you begin to splutter, clearly at loss as to how to answer. He presses himself closer to the partition, ducking his head slightly so he might catch your answer.

Hanzo whirls around suddenly, a thorny presence behind him. Just as he does, a movement catches his eye and his hands rush in before he can even think.

He barely catches the falling teapot by the handle. It’s thankfully empty and he holds onto it with both hands, looking back at Ana who stands a little too close with a funny smile.

“Go on, I can wait.”

---

Dr. Ziegler finally gave him permission to help out with packing up the Watchpoint, warning him not to lift heavy objects.

“No climbing. No jumping around. No backflips or frontflips. Nothing faster than a light jog. And you are not to lift or carry anything over 15kg,” she stresses with a pen in his face. “I know how your wounds look, but you are far from fully healed. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She has to belabor the point a few more times, and he suspects it isn’t really him she’s talking to. When he finally gets free, Winston directs him to you, citing that while the kitchen is mostly packed up, there are other things that require attention.

You tell him as much with a secretive but exasperated smile on your face. The kitchen itself seems more barren than before, its shelves and hangers mostly empty, highlighting the hastily put-together repairs that were attempted after Talon’s attack. It’s a little sad, if he were to be honest.

You lead him into the Cellar, explaining that the past few days were spent clearing out storage spaces and the like. There’s one final thing you wanted help with, and you lead him straight through the winding tunnels and to the imposing wall of the vault.

Standing in front of it now, a door separating him between what is likely the Cellar’s treasure, he finds that he is not as excited about this as he thought he’d be. It isn’t exactly how he had envisioned getting inside, either, but he supposes with so little time left here, he cannot complain.

You knock on the door, now welded on one side like a proper door, but the singe marks make it perfectly clear that it was anything but.

“Password?”

“Golden faerie bread.”

'Faerie bread?'

He didn't have time to ask as the door creaks open. The light that comes out of the room forces him to hide his eyes behind his hand. Even before he’s able to see, the smell of fresh dirt and humid air gushes out, briefly choking his senses. Slowly, he lowers his hand, taking his first steps inside.

The room is slightly humid and pleasantly warm in a way that reminds him of late spring in Hanamura. The room is cavernous and its walls are all dyed in white; it looks like a miniature version of the cafeteria. Instead of tables, lines and lines of shelves stack on top of each other, reaching up toward the ceiling where dozens of lights hang. Meters with shaking needles and crudely put together charts hang between curtains of tubing. These shelves look like they’ve seen better days, some parts frankensteined together with mismatched pipes and tape.

Within each of these shelves, lush leaves of different shapes and sizes spill out in neat rows.

It’s a garden.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome! Happy to have you here! You can look, but touching’s gonna cost ya—hurKK!” Junkrat is immediately grabbed by Roadhog who gives you the briefest of nods and him the hardest of stares before lumbering off toward the far end of the room.

Awkward moment aside, you waste no time launching into a spiel and introducing him to the space. “Welcome to the Cellar Garden. When I first got back, all the plants were already dead and lots of the infrastructure was rusted or broken, and I didn’t have the time to fix it. But Agent Junkrat and Agent Roadhog fixed it up and converted this from an N.F.T. system to a Drip Recovery system so that there’s less maintenance needed when we're not here, but it does take up more space so we can't grow the bigger vegetables—”

The words blend together and become incoherent. Instead, this world of whistles and greens narrow until only you remain. You’re like a child in a candy store, similar to when you both went out shopping, pointing out everything with excitement and wonder and without any of the worries or cares that always held you down.

Freedom and happiness is a good look for you.

And it’s at this moment he is able to confirm something he had thought ever since you first brought him into the Cellar.

“—so these are ready for harvesting. Agent Roadhog and Agent Junkrat will dismantle that section for parts so don’t worry about picking anything from there.”

He watches you roll up your sleeves, weaving between wall after wall of greenery with a spring in your step. Wryly, he smiles to himself as he remembers McCree’s hints.

The treasure is meant to sustain Overwatch and without it, the organization cannot survive. One would indeed think it’s alcohol, enough alcohol to numb the nagging voices and doubts of every agent as they carry out their increasingly morally dubious activities while the world burns around them.

Seeing the walls and walls of vegetation around him, this could also be the correct answer. Even your own hints, that the treasure won’t be of interest to anyone but the chefs, point to this garden.

Perhaps you aren’t aware of it yourself, but this hidden garden is likely a red herring.

No one ever said that the treasure was in this vault-like room. The clues simply said the treasure was in the Cellar. Beyond the Cellar door not only laid the garden, but the office, storage rooms, and break rooms.

More importantly, he caught a glimpse of the first room you entered when you both went on your escapade: a spartan, but well-used dorm room. He could easily imagine a dozen or so people in there, resting after a long shift or sitting in their bunks, playing cards and laughing and joking around, waiting to get caught staying up late like a bunch of school children, but also ready to throw on their uniforms if hungry customers demand for it.

A romanticist like your Head Chef could only have been thinking one thing, and perhaps he was one too for thinking it.

The real treasure is none other than the chefs (and you).

Chapter 21>>

#the way to a heart #my writing #oh my fucking god it took 20 chapters but here we are #the treasure is revealed and i am almost free #just 1 more chapter and an epilogue goddamnit #there's so much i want to say especially about the development of this fic but i need to wait until the very end

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eatbreathewrite · 6 years

Text

The Adventures of Todd and Granny

(Alternatively: “I Saw Granny Ethel with the Devil”)

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V

Luck

The first time this colorful group entered the town’s local bingo hall, it hadn’t been the best of days.

The host had difficulties overcoming Todd the Demon’s hulking presence and couldn’t call out numbers without shaking and stuttering, and eventually just ran from the building altogether mid-game with a gaggle of players right behind him, and there’s no playing bingo when there’s no one else around.

There still aren’t any other players around when the group decides to drop by today.

But the new host is blind as a bat save for whatever is a foot directly in front of him and he drones on without a care, calling out numbers without lifting his eyes from the computer screen that lotteries out the next. And the next. And the next.

Now, it’s the final round of the day.

Todd, sitting at the small round table that seats four (and only four, in the center of the large room with a dozen other abandoned tables around it), holds the tiny card marker in his large claws, stamping down a neon green dot on B-5—the only successful spot on his card, so far, in any round.

Granny Ethel, though, is on fire. Only two diagonal squares away from her third solid BINGO and focusing intently, awaiting the host to call out O-8 and I-23 so she can claim that nice floral area rug sitting pretty on the grand prize table.

Sam and Todd have already agreed between themselves to help Granny Ethel get whichever prizes she wants if they happen to get a BINGO first.

Her only obstacle in this is Theodore—who only needs one more space to land his second BINGO for the day. Unlike Granny Ethel, his eyes are set on a shiny new tablet and he’s intent on claiming it.

Of course it’s all randomized and comes down to luck, but he could do a little better to be a team player. Especially after the lawnmower incident.

Todd could be mistaken, but he doesn’t think he is—Theodore has yet to earnestly apologize to Granny Ethel, and almost an entire month has gone by since then. Honestly. It’s as if he thinks everyone will forget if he just never brings it up again and it will all go away. Well—the salvaged lantana cuttings are sprouting speckled orange and yellow, at least, but it will take a while before they can be transplanted and grow back to their full glory again.

Maybe Todd will be lenient, and give Theodore until then to deliver said apology.

Maybe not.

Granny Ethel gives a little cheer as the next number called lands her another spot on her diagonal almost-BINGO. One more to go!

The same number is on Sam’s card, too, but he’s dozing off and already dropped the card marker back onto the table. Todd nudges aside one of his brown arms and puts a green dot on the center top row for him. He’s closer to a BINGO than Todd is.

The caller clears his throat, taking a moment to cough hoarsely into a polka-dotted handkerchief—then cough again, and once more, before squinting down at the computer screen and doling out the next number.

“Oh! Bingo! Bingo!” Granny Ethel yells, shooting up from her seat and waving her card in the air, moving faster than Todd has ever seen her move (she does, really and truly, get absorbed in the competition).

Her shout rouses Sam from his nap and he sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “Nice job, Granny. That flower carpet is totally yours. Hope it fits in the car, though… Well, if it doesn’t, we can just walk and carry it home for you.”

A big, happy smile spreads across her face as she shimmies around the table and darts forward to the host with card in hand, moving so fast she’s a blue blur in her loose, long-skirted lilac-print dress.

Theodore crosses his arms and pouts, huffing an extremely audible sigh. Always a sore loser, that one.

But, well, it’s their final game of the week, and it’s only fitting that Granny Ethel’s win ends it. The host approves her BINGO and waves her along to the prize table, where she collects her new floral rug in her arms with an elated, toothy smile. It’s a bit much for her to carry, taller even than the white poofs of hair on her head, so Todd holds out his hands and she passes the bundle over to him with thanks.

“Oh, this will look just lovely in my bedroom!” she says brightly, hands clasped together as she shuffles along beside him. “Sam, dear, do you think we have time to redecorate before you give us all a macramé lesson?”

“Definitely! There’s always time to help you out, Granny.” Sam nods pleasantly as they approach his car, which beeps as he unlocks it with his key fob. “I don’t think I’ve seen your room before. It’s the one at the back of the house, right?” He pops the trunk and looks over his shoulder at the carpet in Todd’s hands, and nods again. “Yep; it’ll fit.”

“That’s right. I’m afraid it’s become a bit cluttered—I don’t even let Todd clean it on chore days.”

“No way—Granny, are you a hoarder?”

“Haven’t you seen her house?” Theodore grunts as Todd’s sharp elbow bumps into him, but all he does is roll his eyes in response and skulk to his usual place in the back seat of Sam’s old, half-painted, half-sanded sedan from a year Todd isn’t even sure he remembers. Not bothering to help.

Well, that’s typical Theodore.

Todd finagles the rolled-up carpet into the trunk space, making sure not to crumple or cram it, careful not to upset Sam’s menagerie of old sneakers, a lumpy gym bag, and pile of wadded-up shirts, and closes the trunk securely over it all, satisfied. Then he escorts Granny Ethel to the other side of the car and helps her climb into the back seat opposite her grandson.

He’d let her take shotgun, but there are only a few places he can rightly fit in the small car, and that just so happens to be the front passenger seat. It’s low enough that he only has to hunker down and bow his head and horns just so that they don’t scrape the top and not uncomfortably fold himself up like he would in the back.

Ah, if only Sam had a convertible.

Thankfully, the bingo hall isn’t too far from Granny Ethel’s house—nothing is, really, in this small town, where the edge is only a ten minute car ride in any direction, but when they travel in such a large group, and when Sam offers, some days it’s just easier to drive. Especially when the grey clouds hanging overhead droop and sag, heavy with rain ready to fall at any moment.

(Sometimes Granny Ethel’s bones ache on days like this, too—she never says it, but they all know.)

They hurry into the house, with bingo prize in hand, and Granny Ethel’s first stop is the kitchen, because everyone is parched and in need of a celebratory midday snack. She and Todd had mixed up a nice pitcher of peach tea the day before, and it’s just wonderful on ice, garnished even with tiny lemon slices on the glass rims. That morning, Sam brought iced donuts along, and half of the box still remains for snack time.

Todd tucks the rolled-up rug safely into a corner and sits down to enjoy a chocolate-iced donut while Granny Ethel chatters on about which TV programs they’re set to watch today, and about how she’s always considered trying macramé but just never had the chance. Sam, though, is a pro, and has been practicing it since his mom taught him when he was young. Apparently he is a master at weaving hanging basket cradles for plants.

Theodore, sitting crammed between Todd and Sam’s broad shoulders (though one set broader than the other) broods in silence, barely touching even a single rainbow sprinkle on his pink-frosted donut. Barely touching his peach iced tea.

The small, round kitchen table has become quite cramped with their new population.

Moving through the halls is just as cramped, now, with two fully-grown men and a hulking demon trying to make their way through. It doesn’t help that the hallways are narrow, but at least the bedrooms are bigger and easier to navigate.

Granny Ethel’s room is the largest in the house. Quaint and cozy, with a full-sized bed set against the center of the far wall, between two curtained, arched windows.

And hanging above said bed, on said wall, is a sight Todd thought he’d seen the last of: the old, rusted scythe from the back yard.

Hung up like a trophy, or a prized possession even—only, it’s no longer rusted. It’s clean and polished, with its metal blade shining under the ceiling light, sharp and dangerous as a new cutlery knife. Totally out of place among the knitted and crocheted throw blankets and covered pillows and tapestries and embroideries dotted around the room. Completely out of place among the precious miniature porcelain trinkets crammed along the tops of dressers and shelves, and the decorative plates lining the highest shelves up near the ceiling.

It draws all of their attention except Granny Ethel’s, who doesn’t seem to mind, who overlooks it as another decoration among many.

“I think that rug will look just wonderful in the center of the room, don’t you think, dears?” She perches daintily on the edge of her bed, one hand on her lower back, and smiles at the space of carpet in front of her slippered feet. “The florals match the wallpaper!”

Todd meets Sam’s eyes for a moment, and the message passes through despite the communication barrier, though at times Todd thinks Sam has telepathy for how in-tune he is to most of his thoughts.

But now, the thought is plain as day. Theodore’s eyes, gleaming with that strange little light that mean he’s plotting, always plotting, linger on that scythe for an uncomfortable stretch of time, and though they’d both agreed to keep a close eye on the man, they decide to keep an even closer watch on him while in this room.

“They do match, Granny,” Sam agrees with a little smile, taking one end of the rolled-up rug to help Todd set it down on the floor. “That’s some theme you’ve got going on in here.”

“Charles picked out the florals. I wasn’t always so fond of them, you know. He brought so much color and beauty into my life, and now I can’t bear to get rid of it…” She toys with the fine, silver band around her left ring finger, eyes looking far, far away, seeing something other than the two men and one demon through her thick lenses.

It isn’t often she speaks of Charles, and they all, every one of them, know better than to bring up the subject. It’s an unspoken rule that only Granny Ethel is allowed to speak of him.

The little floral area rug fits perfectly on the floor, not covering too much, not covering too little. None of the edges hit the bed or the dresser, but they do curl up from being rolled for so long. Todd stamps his hooves on the ends to flatten them down—and it works better than steam roller.

Sam brushes his hands clean of imaginary dust, job well done, and claps. “Alright! How’s that look, Granny?”

“Oh, it’s perfect! Thank you so much for helping, dears. It’s such a lovely design I might just have to find a matching one for the sitting room. The one we have there now is looking a bit threadbare these days. But I digress. Today is a macramé day! Oh, I’ve never done that kind of craft before. What are we making?”

“I was thinking we could make hanging baskets for the lantanas. Y’know, before we transplant them back into the garden. I brought rope and beads and all kinds of stuff to make some cool hangers! Plenty of black for you, too, Todd.”

And so, they continue their day by learning macramé, courtesy of Sam and his unexpected talents.

It’s when night falls, when all are safely tucked away in bed (Sam included, because it’s the weekend, and weekends allow for sleepovers Granny Ethel is more than enthusiastic to host, because she’d missed having a full house), that Todd realizes Theodore had snuck away at some point during their weaving lessons—even just for a bathroom break, letting him out of their sight was a mistake.

Now, certainly, he’s snoozing away at the top of the bunk bed they share, and Sam is tucked away in the far corner of the room with a plushy sleeping bag, but all jolt awake when a thump and a startled cry ring out through the house.

Todd is the first to reach her room. He hesitates at the closed door, just for a split-second, if only to steel himself for what he might see (because that scythe did look stable, where it hung, but what if—what if someone did something to it and—?) before barreling through it with every ounce of bravery he possesses.

The scythe had fallen.

Its sharp tip lay embedded in the soft pillows where Granny Ethel’s head most certainly might have rested, once. Cut right through, as easy as a hot knife sinks through butter.

“Granny—!” Sam gasps out.

But Granny Ethel’s head is not there—and neither is her body. In fact, she’s standing safe and sound, with both hands pressed against her mouth, just beside the bed. Fully intact. Safe.

Safe.

“Oh,” she pauses, hands falling away from her face, but hovering in front of it, still, before falling to her heart. “I was certain I’d placed it up on that wall securely.” She blinks, eyes moving from the fallen scythe to the brackets on the wall—one of which had snapped off and lay useless on top of the soft and numerous blankets covering her bed—then to the three gathered at the door, two mostly concealed behind Todd’s large body.

Todd doesn’t waste a moment. His hand finds the back of Theodore’s neck, grips his shirt collar, and he propels him forward, into the room like a badly behaved animal made to stand before its mistake.

“I didn’t—” he starts to say, squirming like a kitten held by the scruff of its neck, feet barely touching the ground, but Todd won’t hear it. He drops him heavy to the floor and points at the scene, eyes livid, feeling a bubbling, frothing rage that heated him like the fire and brimstone of hell—for the first time in quite a while.

“I-I really didn’t do it!” Theodore hisses, shrinking in on himself as Todd’s hulking form blocks the exit, and Granny Ethel’s small form boxes him on from the other side. “I—”

She clears her throat before anything more could be said.

“Dears,” she says in her soft voice, and no matter how soft it is, it always catches their attention as clear as a blaring horn. She leaves it at that, for a moment, as they all three freeze and look to her, obedient, watching as she picks up the scythe by its handle and eases it out of the downy feathers and cotton, holding it between her fingers like it’s made of delicate glass.

“You never have to worry about me. You see, I am blessed with incredible luck. Please, go on back to bed. I’ll take care of this.” A small, serene smile crosses her face—as kind as any of the others, but hiding something underneath.

Something like a secret Todd knows he has to uncover before anything like this ever happens again.

#Todd and granny #original #original writing #it really has been a while so thanks for waiting patiently!#hope you enjoy the latest installment to the series

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