#i mean the russian roulette scene is obvious enough and speaks for itself. but the little things. maaannn

[itadooori]

quick lil dae-ho thing

[overdrivels]

Deleted TWtaH Scenes

[Original opening sequence for chapter 1]

The kitchen once held no less than twenty cooks at a time back in its hay-day at peak hours, and at least four during downtimes.

Now, there was no need for that many cooks, however. There were less agents this time, less funds which meant less provisions, and a dejected look inside the nearest fridge yielded even less ingredients that can contribute to a coherent dish.

The only fitting solution was the age-old family-friendly Overwatch (and Blackwatch, of course) version of Russian roulette: the "Surprise Menu".

The small pot of translucent slop bubbled gently by its lonesome atop a gleaming stove meant for the meals of thirty agents of varying tastes.

A ‘ping’ notified you that an order was placed. A quick glance at the name (Agent McCree) already had your hands grabbing for cabinet doors and bowls.

McCree always ordered from the regular menu, even when it contained things that he would leave untouched (like the octopus salad four days ago) or when it would have nothing he liked to eat (he leaves everything half eaten those days, except the bread—he usually asks for seconds regardless of the type).

The previous Commander Gabriel Reyes had forced him to choke down anything that was being served on the "Surprise Menu" that day for being a little shit. Jesse McCree can now eat anything, but the grimace on his face made it clear he would rather not.

Soldier 76’s ratio of “Surprise Menu” to “regular menu” was fairly even. He would take the tray and disappear for several short minutes before returning the tray, completely devoid of any traces of food. You were never sure if he ate all of it or if he has just eaten a little and chucked the rest, though a check of the base's garbage disposals just made you then wonder if he actually flushed the food down a toilet somewhere.

"Thanks, it was good," he would say when returning his tray. Only ever compliments. "Better than sewer rats," he had once said. Though, he did once admit the chicken was too spicy in one of your dishes.

D.Va bristled at the suggestion and demanded for more spice immediately after.

You endeavored to warn 76 of spicy dishes on the Surprise Menu and to find ways of adding more flavor to those of D.Va's.

The plastic tray echoed a finality against the window counter that bounced off the far away kitchen walls and rung in your ears.

You flip through the worn list hanging by the refrigerator nearest you.

Foods must be similar in portion.

Foods must be similar in consistency.

Foods of different color cannot be next to each other.

Foods of different temperatures cannot be next to each other—

You didn't even hear the doors to the cafeteria swing open.

Favorites (at least one for every meal):

Curry with soft beans (ABSOLUTELY no hard solids, no half-cooked beans. Chili is not acceptable substitute!!) Potatoes (plain) Extra short grain rice (extra water) Basmati rice (normal water)

**When cooking rice, wash four times (taste is noticeable otherwise)

A ‘ding’ of the overhead monitor alerted you that someone had placed an order.

Zenyatta did not eat, and Genji's limit was a cup of tea half the size of his fist and a sweet, but they enjoyed sitting near the kitchen window to speak with flashes of your hands and the clinking dishes set in front of them, but never for them.

[Deleted scene of Chef fighting back against Talon]

The video plays.

A team of six sweeps through the cafeteria, and immediately, he sees the issue which has the team swarming the kitchen door and the service window.

The lights were on.

Even though he knows of your fate, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of fear grasping at his chest. They split up into two teams. One checks the window–they signal to the other team around the corner, and they signal back, guns at the ready.

He can see them count down with each wave of their hand.

One.

Two.

Three–

Hanzo expected that when it happened, you’d walk out daintily, the same way you put down a tray noiselessly, the same way your fingers touch the marble service window, the same way you touch your fingertips together when in thought, the same way you gesture–all soft flourishes and curling fingers.

But no.

You stride out through the double doors like a storm, head ducked down to avoid any deviant bullets, armed with only a large soup ladle made to handle a meal fit for five and a deep furrow in your brow with a scowl to match.

And then you begin to swing. Not wildly, but small, precise sweeps of little circles and sharp flicks of the wrist that cleanly disarm the shocked Talon operatives before slamming the underside of their chins. Even he has to give a sympathetic wince when their teeth clack together, or even worse, when they don’t.

Up close, he can see you still wear your chef’s uniform, all white and emblazoned with the Overwatch logo right on the sleeves of your upper arms.

You only had three of them; the other three take their shots through the window.

He sees you reach back with your free hand inside the doors, and immediately, a metal door comes slamming down behind the window. The Talon operatives jerk back, lest they get their arms caught.

He’d never admit it, but he swears that his hair has just become a bit greyer after watching the surveillance video.

[Deleted scene of McCree’s interview with Head Chef Richard v1]

The meal is delectable, but he doesn't taste it. Countless experiences with chasing spirits and tobacco did not come without a price.

Even so, he makes a show picking at his food with enthusiasm. Just enough to show interest but not overly flatter and be taken for a fool.

[Filler]

“Cœur d’Artichaut.” The man flips the card elegantly between his long, thick fingers. “A leaf for everyone. A bit of love for everyone. Sounds good, no? Everyone deserves a bit of love."

He then holds the card still and places a gentle kiss on it, letting it cover his lips as he murmurs, "But what that means is to give and give and give until you’ve nothing left.”

The man takes a moment to pull out a pack of cigarettes and lights himself one, silently offering one to the disguised McCree. Not one to turn down such an offer, McCree takes one for himself, leaning into the flame when the chef holds the lighter to him, his dark hand cupping around the flame and McCree’s face. It’s an oddly intimate gesture that he can't be sure isn't because he's being polite. McCree just hopes the heat doesn’t affect the hardlight contours of his disguise.

A plume of smoke gushes from the chef’s mouth. The grey wisps caress his sharp cheekbones and winds itself around his head, allowing only his lighter eyes to shine through. It reminds McCree of a mythical creature.

"It iz a chef’s responsibility to take care of their customers. Cook ze best food for them. Love them with all our being. We chefs exist for them.” A bitter quirk of his lips accompanies the change in his tone. “We die for them. Their bodies are built on the meals we make, and so we must give as much as we can to help our customers face another day. This, of course, includes love."

"I see ‘love’ is a running theme with this restaurant. Could you tell me what you mean by ‘love’?" McCree raises his tablet and pen.

Just when he’s about to interrupt the silence with another inquiry, Richard takes another drag of his cigarette and stares out into the distance.

"Love,” he begins. “No greater form of love than to nourish another's body and soul. It can be as simple as a prayer or as complicated as picking out ingredients and cooking them in a way that is appropriate for that customer and that one customer only. There are many ways to love and show love. But to give and give and give love but not receive, even the greatest of lakes will run out. Love is an ingredient. Love,” he stresses with a wave of his hand, “iz not infinite."

"But love isn't an ingredient you can put on food, is it, sir?"

The chef's eyes slide over, fixing itself onto McCree's face for a moment, so piercing that he's sure he can see through the disguise. It sends shivers up and down his spine. He’s being measured, judged, like a fish on the chopping block.Mercifully, Richard looks away, letting the smoke rise out from between his teeth. Something like a laugh makes the smoke stutter.

"It is the food. It is the effort. The thought.”

“And so you plan on carrying on the ideals of the previous CEO?”

Richard barks a laugh.

“Of course not. That foolish, naiive child."

“Could you explain?”

“Mm. A naive, desperate people-pleaser. That sort of love means little. People like that ought to have more self-respect.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a chef doing their best, is there?”

Richard waves his hand dismissively. “Of course there isn’t. But doing one’s best to satisfy their customer’s paletes is different from being a doormat.”

[Filler]

"That child does not understand that love can flow in many directions."

[Filler]

"I am here to restore the balance and clean up ze mess my...protégé...has made."

"Hm. So long as my protégé remains a child, then this toy will remain in my possession."

[Filler]

"Even chefs must eat."

[Filler]

"Do parents not give their lives for their children? It iz an obvious conclusion."

Protests and bitter memories that illustrate the contrary almost make it out of McCree's mouth. Instead he swallows them down and replaces them with a, "Of course. There's no parent who wouldn't."

No other lie has ever burned his tongue so.

[Filler]

“I hope this interview has been…enlightening…" There's something about the way that word is said that puts his nerves on edge.

"Oh, it has. Thanks very much for your time."

Richard scoffs, snuffing out the last of his cigarette against the heel of his hand. Tough son of a bitch. No wonder he and Reyes got along so well. The butt makes its way into a pocket instead of on the ground and Chef Richard opens the back door.

Over his shoulder, he calls, "Please do come again in the future. I look forward to reading your article. As thanks, we will have...surprise meatloaf waiting.”

McCree’s shoulders draw back tight and he fights every instinct to not stiffen and turn around. Instead, he keeps walking, a wry and defeated smile on his face.

“Oh, and tell that child that one should not preach about love if without having experienced it in full."

The smugness could not be any less evident, and the door slams shut, allowing the threat to linger in McCree's ears.

Sonnavabitch.

[Deleted scene of McCree’s interview with Head Chef Richard v2]

He’ll have to evaluate their true value, but decades-old wine definitely has buyers and he thinks he may know one or two. 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.

And that’s how he finds himself here, sitting in the very back of Cœur d’Artichaut, bathed in the afternoon sun with his laptop, pouring a tiny pitcher of espresso into his coffee. He never understood fancy places and their need for so much extra silverware and fine china when the food he’s eating is the size of a well-used soap bar.

At least it tastes better than one.

Glazing across the restaurant, he sees the person he’s supposed to thank, still talking to the General Manager, Argus.

With half the cup in his stomach, he puts his hands to keys and types.

‘Chef Richard Sauveterre, a chef of renown fame whose name is given reverence, not in written word, but through the mouths of those he has fed,’ the first few lines of his draft reads.

‘The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, made more distinguished by thick cornrows that trace the sides of his skull like a crown, the remainder cascading down in a neat waterfall down his neck. 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 the CEO of acclaimed charity restaurant, Cœur d’Artichaut. The heart of an artichoke, a leaf for everyone, is their motto.’

McCree pauses for a moment, licking at the scab on his lip, searching for the next words and filling himself with another deep sip of coffee when he can’t find them.

“Pardon the wait, monsieur Morricone.”

“Not at all, Chef.” McCree gets up from his chair and extends his hand. “I’m just glad you made time in your busy schedule for me.”

“Likewise.”

McCree was bracing for it, but the weight behind the chef’s handshake still catches him off-guard. It’s just one strong up-down motion with a firmness that softens as they let go, but it’s that immediate contact, that sheer presence that puts him off-kilter and reminds him that this man is not only a cook but also a world champion fencer who could give some of the lower and mid-tier members of Blackwatch a run for their money in terms of reflexes and sharp wit. It is not only his hands, but Chef Richard makes sure to lock eyes with him, pinning him down. While Gabe would look for weaknesses to be exploited, Chef Richard is looking for gaps to be filled.

At least Richard doesn’t greet him the way he greets Reyes: with more kisses on each cheek than should be necessary. Though he may have to attribute that distance to his current disguise.

McCree begins his usual spiel: who he supposedly is (Joel Morricone, freelance writer, likes long walks on the beach and freshly roasted coffee), why he’s writing this (following up on a previous article he wrote about the restaurant ousting their CEO), and a few general compliments to loosen up his interviewee.

In the midst of all that, Argus brings over Richard’s coffee and replaces McCree’s. Her movements are quiet and unobtrusive, befitting of a high class restaurant like this. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she’s forgiven him for having written an article about them firing their CEO, but he knows better. She definitely debated turning him away at the door when he tried to come in ten minutes ago.

In return, Richard gives a brief summary of who he is and his accomplishments, factually and without embellishments as though he were talking about someone else. The names of awards and institutions he gives are fancy and long and would probably be more impressive if McCree actually knew them, but all he can do is nod and ask probing questions that makes him sound like he actually knows more than he does.

If McCree didn’t know his history any better, he would have missed that the man glossed over the fact he led Overwatch’s kitchens for a good portion of its existence.

Past the initial niceties, McCree begins digging into the real reason for his interview.

“Prior to this position, do you mind telling me what you were doing and why did you come here instead?”

“I came because I saw some article about a former employee of mine leaving behind unfinished business.”

“And where did you come from?”

“My mother’s womb, where else?” he says dryly, and McCree damn near types that down.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it.”

Richard smiles. “No.”

“O--kay. Let me remind you that this interview is confidential and you will be the first to review the contents before public—”

“I am aware.” Then he pauses as if reconsidering, his smile growing wider with a glint in his eye that makes McCree want to squirm in his chair. “If you must know, I was anchored.”

“Anchored?”

He doesn’t elaborate any further and McCree’s brain is working overtime trying to decipher his words and not let it show on his face.

Anchored. Tied down somewhere. Somewhere that you nor anyone else have been able to reach. McCree goes through all the iterations of what that could mean and he lands on either ‘prison’ or ‘out so far in the boonies that technology couldn’t reach him’. Either one is possible with this man.

“Right, next question.” He clears his throat. “Now that you’re here as the new CEO of Cœur d’Artichaut, what is going to be your strategy for the restaurant going forward and your current impressions of things so far?”

Richard’s eyes flit once between McCree’s disguised face and his own cup of coffee. There is a semblance of bitter fondness that lingers in the corner of his lips that is quickly covered by the rim of his cup. For the first time since this interview started, his demeanor shifts. McCree can’t explain it, but it feels like he’s no longer talking to Richard, a professional chef, but Richard, a person.

“Avoir un cœur d’artichaut.”

“Pardon?”

“‘I have the heart of an artichoke’. I love everyone who eats my meals, for everyone who has eaten my meals has a piece of my heart.” He sips at his coffee for a moment too long, . “This restaurant’s motto, ‘cœur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde’, iz something I had said a lot in the past.”

“So the restaurant’s namesake is from you?”

“The saying is not mine alone, but that seems to be so.” There’s a bitter twist to his lips like he wished it weren’t. “As for the direction of the restaurant, a lot of effort has been put already and I will not change what does not need changing.”

“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?”

“Yes. ‘Do it your own way.’”

“That’s it?”

“Did you expect a heartwarming speech?”

“Well, I was expecting something a little more personal?”

“Personal things should be told to the person in question, yes? And not to a...” Richard looks him up and down, real slow and deliberate. A shiver runs through McCree’s spine--the look would make a lesser person shrink in their seats and the way he says his next word would evaporate them from existence. “...mere reporter?”

McCree manages a grin. He’s seen scarier. “You’re right, you’re right. So if you don’t plan on changing the restaurant or giving any words, any menu changes?”

“I’d take away those awful pancakes,” he exclaims with a toothy grin and a flap of his hand, and McCree can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a joke. He doesn’t have to guess as Richard continues. “This menu is like a baby imitating their parents. Too many recipes similar to mine, not original enough.”

“Oh?” McCree puts his hands to his keyboard again. Food seems to be the way to get this man to open up. “I’ve seen raving reviews for ‘em—”

“Bah. Shitty taste buds. Zis thick piece o’ dough cannot be called, eh, pancake. Babies will choke and the elderly will die of malnutrition, zis--non, non, non. Zis is something only someone with bad tastes could like. But ze compote! ‘Ave you tried it? That is the only thing that makes it menu-worthy.”

The rambling critique of your menu goes on and on and Richard’s accent only gets thicker as his excitement pours out in unstoppable waves. As disparaging as though remarks are, McCree can’t help but get the sense that Richard right now is like a proud father, and he wonders how he can convey that to you in his article.

“A chef must always think of their customers. This menu is subpar, but I can feel the thoughtfulness in the service and selections.”

“Humans can eat most anything and survive, but it is a miserable existence. Gladden the senses, bring people together. Our dishes are made with love, but that love must come from somewhere. No chef can provide it all without having received any, and I will continue that mission here.”

[Filler]

“Please, stay for lunch. I do not wish to host a guest without showing proper hospitality.”

McCree suspects he’d probably be murdered if he does agree if not by Richard then by your own staff who already hold a grudge against him for having written an article about your forceful resignation without their consent. (A scoop is a scoop, and it made Richard come back to Gibraltar, so all’s well that ends well.)

“Thank you kindly for the offer, but I think you’ve shown me plenty.”

“It will be on the house.”

“Really, I’ll come by another day. Lots left to do.”

McCree pulls out a handle from his bag and presses a button, the rest of the cane materializing as he uses it to get up. Chef Richard is right there beside him with a hand hovering over his elbow.

[Filler]

“The next time you come we will have our specialty for you prepared: Surprise Meatloaf. Oh, and no need to be concerned; insurance will handle both the trucks you and your friends destroyed.”

McCree turns around but the door clicks shut behind him, the heavy wooden door now much more threatening than before.

He grins wildly to himself, dragging a hand through his hair.

That sonnavabitch.

[Deleted Scene of Reaper encountering Chef]

"Hello, dishwasher."

You turn and gasp at the stranger in the kitchen. “What the f—ATHE–!!”

The man explodes into a tidal wave of mist, and your mouth is covered with one large hand, claws digging to your face, the rest of your body held immobile by the darkness. “Now, now. No need for that, dishwasher.”

Dish–!!?

Paralyzing fear courses through you like lightning. You struggle to free yourself from the confines of...whatever it is that is holding you. You need to alert everyone. You need to get free. A threatening squeeze of your body--your spine pops a little and your recently healed injuries protest the rough treatment--and the bone mask in your face makes you pause for a moment.

“Now, be good; don’t call for help. I’m just here for a house visit.”

He removes his hand slowly.

“A house visit?" Your voice is shakier than you'd like it to be, brain buzzing with fright.

The mist detangles itself from your limbs cautiously, ready to strike and immobilize you against if you were to make a stray move. The blood rushes back into your head and brings spots to your eyes, drumming in your ears and making you more nauseated than you would've liked.

While you're busy trying to reorientate your body, the part-mist, part-man glides slowly around the kitchen, looking around. You can see him pause at some of the injuries the kitchen sustained during the Talon attack.

"Pity. That baker, Woo, really liked this countertop. She'd have a fit if she saw this."

Stunned, you stare at the wandering mist figure. "You know this kitchen, you know Patisserie Woo?"

He turns his mask toward you, and you’re sure that he’s raising an eyebrow behind it. The response, 'Obviously,' exudes from every fiber of his body. .

"Wait, who are you…?”

“Take a guess.”

You narrow your eyes, curling your fingers around your lips in thought. Someone who knows your past. Someone who knows you since you were a dishwasher. The chefs in this kitchen didn’t exactly have a high turnover, but there were very few people who knew you throughout your journey up the ranks. A man who first knew you as a dishwasher and called you such.

"Omar? Frederick? Johnny?"

“Try again.”

The fear and wariness ebbs away as the threat of death evaporates.

You search your memory. There's nothing familiar about this man except the way he stands, arms crossed and staring down at you. If you squint, you could almost overlap a memory with this figure.

“Come on, now. You picked up everything in this kitchen pretty quick. You can’t even figure this out for yourself?”

It hovers over the edge of your memory, just out of reach. Think, who is this person acting like? You’ve seen this behavior before.

The voice becomes soft, endearing almost as he utters, “Come on, dishwasher. You’re smarter than this.”

The image of a man, leaning against one of the counters during the lull between service, watching you attempt a new recipe with calculating eyes. You almost expect Head Chef Richard to appear behind him and slap him on this shoulder, watch them both get up and give each other a brotherly hug.

Your eyes widen.

"Gabriel.” Your mentor's voice and yours overlap in a breathy whisper. "Comman, commander Gabriel Reyes."

There's a hint of a smile in his voice when he says, “There we go, always knew you were a clever little thing, but I go by 'Reaper', now."

A slight flush goes through your cheeks, forcing out the icy sheen of fear that lingered in your veins. Even now, despite being on opposite teams, it is nice to be praised by the former Commander. However, your thoughts are quickly interrupted when you remember that this is Reaper--the Talon higher-up whom the recalled Overwatch were on the look-out for.

"What are you doing here?"

"House-visit," he repeats. You're not quite sure what that even means. "You're not supposed to be there."

Confused, you ask, "Be...where?"

Commander Reyes--Reaper--sweeps his arms out, gesturing at the kitchen in its entirety. "Here. You weren't supposed to be here that night."

Talon. The attack. You gasp, hand flying to your mouth and other protectively against your middle. Your wounds ache at the mention and quickened pulse.

“They were supposed to lure you out," he continues. "Leave the path open so that Talon can use the passage,” he rumbles.

"But I came back..."

"Right. Now I came to give you some information."

"Why would you do that...?"

He shrugs. "Because I'm feeling generous, maybe?"

A small laugh escapes the fingers covering your mouth. That can't possibly be true, but then again, he is--or was--Gabriel Reyes.

"You don’t trust me?"

It’s hard to trust someone who looks like the Grim Reaper come to life.

"I do," you say distantly. "Because I trust Command Reyes. And…” You hesitate. “And, you know, the Head Chef…he really loved you."

"That man loves everyone,” he scoffs. “Don’t bring him into this. Anyway," --he waves his hand around-- "don't you wonder about the attack that night?"

"Yes. Like how they were able to find the passage. It's only supposed to be known to kitchen personnel--wait." Something clicks in your head. "Were you the one who led everyone here?"

Reaper exhales something between a growl and a huff. "No, but someone in your little organization’s turned traitor."

The world got absorbed into a vortex, and you suddenly feel like you're free-falling or sinking or just dying. You can't breathe, you can't hear, couldn't think, not when reality decides to take an unexpected vacation.

You force out a shuddering laugh that sounds grating even to your own ears. "What do you mean 'turned traitor'? There's, there's no one who knows that would ever..."

You sink down to the ground, reality righting itself and your limbs feel like a ton of bricks or that you've been hit by them. It didn't really matter. You're trying to get your brain to function, to think. But the shock of his words were too much. You trust--trusted--everyone at your restaurant.

But...then...

“Turned traitor on you and your organization."

You clench your fists and bring them to your mouth.

"Reaper on premise! Reaper on premise! Repeat, Reaper is on the premise!"

"Took them long enough,” Reaper says at the exact same time you order, “Athena! Cancel the alert!"

"Command overridden. Reaper on premise!"

You give the man a weary look and he returns it with a shrug.

"Can I offer you a meal before you go?”

He laughs. “I don’t think you can make anything fast enough. Those Overwatch brats will be here soon."

You’re already walking to one of the refrigerators while he speaks and pull out a lunch box that was meant for Agent McCree before his mission, but given the circumstances, you’re sure it wouldn’t matter much. You can just make a new one anyway.

"Here you are."

He takes one look at the name written on it and tosses it right back at you.

"Give it to the brat. I don’t take sloppy seconds.”

You don’t even have a chance to retort before he disappears into a puff of smoke, slipping in beneath the door from which he came.

The kitchen doors burst open, Agent Soldier: 76 at the helm. And not a moment too soon.

“Kitchen personnel only!” you say, reflexively.

“Where’s Reaper?"

The other agents are spread out, alert, but some are looking around the place like it’s a tourist attraction. You cringe.

"I didn’t notice anyone here."

His sweeping gaze falls on you, and you’re suddenly an insect that’s been pinned, unable to escape from the piercing gaze of the ex-Overwatch Commander.

"Talk, Chef.” Nothing in his stance bodes any hint of compromise.

You know he doesn’t believe you. Not when you’re standing there with McCree’s lunch in your hands, wrapped and with no dishes around.

[Original scene of Hanzo’s first break-in into the kitchen]

He drops down from the top of the doors, only to freeze when you round the corner.

The words tumble out of his mouth ungracefully. “You’re a person.”

“Get out.”

The biting intensity in your voice is challenging enough for him to forget exactly who he is speaking to.

“I go where I wish.”

It’s the wrong answer.

He sees your eyes flash. In an instant, you’re trying to man-handle him out. Hands clumsily fisted into his gi, twisting, tugging, hips down and bearing weight against his bulk. However, you’re no match for a trained assassin. His reaction is too immediate. He has you on the ground, straddling your hips, pinning both your arms to your back with a hand, his other hand bracing himself on the floor by your head.

You try to buck him off relentlessly, like an animal.

“GET OUT!”

He grits his teeth, and presses tighter against your hands. Your breath comes out in a wheeze, and in the back of his mind, he’s aware that you will have trouble breathing.

“I do not take orders from a mere chef!” he barks.

You seize in his hold.

For a bone-chilling moment, he thinks he may have gone too far in his technique. His grip slackens just a margin.

You twist violently. He gets unseated just long enough for you to aim a knee up at him. He blocks it, and you are scrambling off the ground, hand reaching for something. Anything.

A ladle—you hold it out in front of you, the rounded end pointed squarely at his chest.

“Get. Out.”

He furrows his brow, aware that he’s all teeth and spitting fire. “Is that all you can say?”

“Agent Hanzo, you are forbidden here, get out.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

It’s Satya who stops the fight from the door, well within the boundaries of the rules set.

“Going into the kitchen is against Overwatch policy,” she recites coldly.

He can see you’re still ready to fight even though you are horrible outmatched. If he really wanted to, you’d be dead in an instant.

But those burning eyes promise him something more than a poorly attempted beatdown should he push the matter.

With a huff, he leaves.

She gives him a disapproving look, which he shakes off, angered.

[Filler]

The next day, he’s only mildly horrified to find two turrets stationed outside the kitchen doors, and is suddenly paranoid that there are many more waiting where they cannot be seen.

Hanzo does not know if it's you who ordered them or if the architect had done it off her own free will. (If he has to guess, you had explicitly requested it.)

The architect is extraordinarily good at her job--able to merely look at a building and understand the structure and blind spots even if she doesn’t fully appreciate the depth of this part of her skillset.

He could swear they’re all looking at him--glaring, even--ready to teach him a lesson for his transgressions.

It prickles at him.

[Alternate shopping scene with Chef and Hanzo]

The air, crisp with the snap of an impending winter, chills your lungs as you breath it in. It feels liberating.

The market is as busy as you remember it. Medication and a lengthy preparation time kept you sleeping past the normal time you'd be up and about, searching for the juiciest, freshest, and tastiest of produce. But at 0830, most of them were already snatched up by other more savvy people and chefs who have likely returned back to their kitchens to celebrate their prizes. Now only the more casual crowd remained, a steadily surging crowd.

Agent Hanzo stands right at your elbow, being one of the few agents who were awake when you were plotting to leave and caught you in the act of trying to disconnect yourself from the supplies that are theoretically keeping you healthy. (You’re fine. You can stand and walk with minimal trouble, so a few hours outside shouldn’t be an issue.)

“It is not safe by yourself. I shall accompany you,” he declared like it was a given.

You just didn't have the energy to fight him. After a few failed attempts to even stand up from your bed, you figured it wouldn't hurt to have him around in case your body decided to betray you. Athena, bless her, was blissfully complacent in letting you both go once you promised you would take it easy and forced Hanzo to take responsibility for protecting you (and that you'd both return by lunchtime; she threatened to send other agents after you both and you shudder to think of the commotion that would cause).

So far, Hanzo’s been attentive and pleasant company with an occasionally sharp comment that is more witty than barbed and a helpful hanp.

“Is there anything you'd like for lunch or dinner today?”

“Are you so unwell that you are now taking requests?” he asks incredulously, glancing at you briefly with a raised eyebrow before sweeping the crowd with his eyes.

“Very funny, Agent Hanzo. I’m serious.” You pick up a radish and look it over. You can make radish curry with this. Agent Symmetra would probably like that--something closer to home--or maybe radish salad, or garlic roasted radish with feta cheese, or maybe even grate it into a yogurt sauce. “Since you decided to accompany me, it's the least I could do.” You didn’t have much else you could give to him or do for him anyway.

He scoffs, a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth shows it’s not as condescending or mean as it sounds. “Anything you can make without dropping.”

“That was once! And you dropped way more things than I did.”

“The magnitude is greater,” Hanzo says flippantly, lifting the heavy bags he held so easily back into view. “Whatever you plan on making with this will be payment enough, I’m sure.”

Somehow, you couldn't help flush a little, unsure if it is meant to be genuine or teasing.

“If you don't decide soon, I'll make pepper soup.”

Hanzo just laughs, a light and actually jovial laugh that makes you flush a little brighter. It's a stupid threat especially against an Overwatch agent, but it’s all you have. But even so, he didn't have to make fun of you.

“I'm really going to do it, Agent Hanzo.”

He looks at you, a challenging gleam in his eyes that you've seen far too many times from other ill-fated agents who think the kitchens are a game. The look makes you burn just beneath your skin.

“Aren’t you supposed to reward me for my services?”

“And I will,” you say with a firm determination. “I promise.”

He has nothing to say to that, but the look on his face speaks for him: we shall see.

For the remainder of your shopping trip, Hanzo remains a quiet but intimidating presence behind you as you continued to pick out your produce. Hanzo still says nothing even after moving through several other booths where you take your time to buy and bargain for large and colorful peppers. He wordlessly takes your bags as you get them, refusing to return them to you even after you kick up a small fuss that quickly exhausts you.

[Filler]

A heavy weight in the middle of your back nearly makes you jump out of your skin and you clench your teeth to hold back the noise of pain that tries to crawl its way out of your throat.

At your ear, Hanzo mutters, “Come.”

“Is someone following us?”

He doesn’t answer, weaving his way in and out of the crowd with you held close to his side. Absentmindedly, you realize he’s quite warm amidst the autumn air. As sharp and callous as Hanzo is, he sure is comfortable. It’s presumptuous, but maybe you could ask him if you could take a nap against him when he has the time. Maybe for half an hour or so. Just once.

You’re startled out of your thoughts with a quick jostle. “Chef, hurry.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Stay beside me.”

“Do you see something?”

Again, he doesn’t answer.

You can see him scanning the area as though seeking a route. The number of people have thinned considerably, leaving you both exposed. Hanzo keeps you by the walls of what buildings are around, but those are quickly becoming sparse, too. There’s a constant flex in his jaw and it’s clear to see he’s a little agitated.

“Oh!”

You reach for one of his hands--it’s also very warm and very large--and begin to pull with what strength you had even as he tries to snatch it back. You both need to stay together and this is the best way to ensure it even though you’re very sure he can keep up against your injured self.

“Wh—”

“This way.”

You know Gibraltar better. You know its secrets and its truths and exactly how to lose people here. Hanzo, perhaps knowing this, follows obediently after you--he has no choice, you have his hand.

The bags are definitely slowing you both down and a small ache begins to settle around your stomach and sides--the pain medication must be reaching its end, but you push forward through small alleyways that barely fit the both of you until you both made it into the Siege Tunnels where you both took turn after turn into the winding dimness.

“We...we should be safe here,” you huff.

He nods and says nothing, both of you listening, backs pressed against the chilly stone walls, listening for anything beside the echoes of the whispering wind or cries of the many macaques that call these tunnels their stomping ground.

The darkness makes it hard to see anything, but it only makes everything else just so much more apparent especially the proximity between yourself and your bodyguard for a day. You notice you still have his hand in a death grip but you refrain from saying anything: there’s no telling if the danger has passed yet and you didn’t want to risk making any more noise (and he hasn’t tried to pull away again after the first time). It’s embarrassing and downright childish, but you had to admit you felt just a little safer just having him beside you as a solid and warm presence.

You’ve worked alone for so long, it was nice to be in such close proximity with someone who is not looking to you for orders or putting the pressure of work on you. How many years has it been since you were free of expectations? When was the last time you stopped vying for the approval of others?

It must have been a long, long time. All of your actions had you wrung out and stressed, looking over your shoulder at every whisper and imagined gaze. Were the UN after you? Was the Head Chef there? Were your staff watching your every move and judging you? You didn’t ever feel certain even as you rose higher and higher in the world--it felt like each step toward what most people would consider to be an ‘accomplishment’, you became one step closer to uncertainty, trapped by silver walls and isolated from everyone else around you.

This impromptu trip was a good idea even if it made your muscles hurt. Agent Hanzo didn’t judge you, didn’t try to give unnecessary praise or respect, or treat you any lesser. He’s good company with a discerning eye and even better jabs. Maybe next time you decide to sneak out, you’ll tell him first.

Somehow, you realize you’ve closed your eyes as you were thinking. The cool stone at your back and the warmth at your side is intoxicatingly comforting, the shoulder beneath your head is a little hard—

“Oh! I’m so sor—” You bite your words back, forgetting momentarily you both were on the run, a chill running up and down your skin because what if--.

“It’s fine. I believe we are clear.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Great. We can take this tunnel straight back to the Watchpoint. It’s a bit of a walk, but I think it’ll be faster than going back outside.”

You push yourself off the wall with a grunt of effort. After running around so much and taking a break, your muscles refused to cooperate. Hanzo gives you a strong pull with the hand you have gripped tight.

Again, you flush with the realization. The danger has passed, there’s no reason to keep holding hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t really--I can let go, if you’d like? This must be stopping you from doing your job.”

A contemplative look crosses his face, but it’s difficult to tell in the dark. After a moment’s pause, he gives your hand an experimental squeeze and says, “No. We’ll stay like this. So you cannot get lost in the dark.”

There’s a hint of a wicked smirk in his voice that’s somewhat playful and again, a warmth blooms just underneath your skin; a mix of embarrassment and indignity.

“I can find my way around with my eyes closed!”

“Shall we try? I will not warn you of walls, just so you are aware.” Regardless, he walks with you, close to your side.

“I don’t want Athena to send a team after us, so next time!”

“Next time.” The way he says those words sounds like he’s testing them in his mouth. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but you swear you can hear his smile. “Next time.”

[Deleted interrogation scene between Chef and others]

The facts were laid bare before him once more in the morning when Hanzo speaks to Winston, Soldier, McCree, and a holovideo of yourself and Ana.

It is almost like a trial, the image of your listless face, turned away from the monitor, sits on the central terminal of the meeting room for everyone to see and judge. It's the first time Hanzo had seen you since you were carried out of the Cellar by Soldier--the Cellar which has been opened up by order of Winston and interconnected with Athena's systems, yet the secrecy of it's entire contents remained mysterious by effort of the Junkers and the AI herself. It may be a small comfort to you to know that not everything was defiled, but he doesn't know just how much you knew about the state of your kitchen.

But today's meeting wasn't about that.

You were told to deliver the facts of what you've been doing and your dealings for Overwatch. You did so, slumped in your bed without care for appearances or the usual politeness that came with your service, answers flat and pointed. Normally, this type of disrespect and blatant disregard for manners would earn his ire, but instead, it makes him uneasy.

It is not the look of an injured person on the sliver of your face, but your whole body told the story of someone who has given up after a long, harrowing effort.

You confirmed that you owned a restaurant, the card of which sat on Hanzo's scant dresser. It explained the service, the food, the aesthetic. It seemed so painfully obvious that Hanzo wondered why he never saw the connection before.

When questioned about the previous head chef, you admitted you didn't know where he was. You should have set off for France, but you knew he wouldn't go there. Some personal issues that you never understood and no one wanted to question.

You distantly confessed the amounts you've given Overwatch, the methods for contacting donors, and the sloppy way you went about verifying them. Even sloppier were your attempts to make the transactions seem legitimate and the lengths you went through to protect Overwatch, the donors, and your customers from the potential fallout.

All throughout, you refused to look at them or give excuses, only clinical facts and simple 'yes' and 'no's.

"Anything else?" you ask wearily.

"No, we will let you know if we require further information. You have given us enough for now. Please get a good rest," Winston says.

Nodding at them, you lean back into your pillows, and let out a bone-rattling sigh. Mercifully, the screen turns off

There is a deafening silence that follows.

They have been given a lot of information to digest and Hanzo, long grown out of the habit of writing down thoughts during a meeting, finds himself wishing that he had if only to organize the chaos that you’ve thrusted upon them.

It is an incredible tale, regardless of the number of times he had to hear it. The amount of danger, sacrifice, and sheer naivety involved

"The donors can claim ignorance then."

"It was well planned." Even Ana sounds slightly impressed, toying with the string of her teabag. "If the auditors checked, only Chef would take the blame." A smirk comes over her face. "Ah, doesn't that sound familiar, hm, Jack?"

The man grumbles something unintelligible.

"What's that, Jack? I did not quite hear you."

"The restaurant workers are just as guilty. They are accomplices." Ana rolls her eyes at Soldier's obvious diversion but allows it to proceed by sipping on her drink.

“The way it’s set up, only Chef handles the finances. On paper, as far as the other two go, they can say they didn't know about the operation...”

[Filler]

It's not safe for them to continue sending the money especially not after they had their run-in with the auditors. It wouldn't take long for an investigation to find both the restaurant and Overwatch guilty of money-laundering.

What is the best thing to do?

Hanzo's brows furrows, painfully tight as he rummages through his mind for the correct answer.

He is not well-versed in Gibraltar law and even less so with financial laws involving a charity like yours.

"It's smarter this way."

"Though how they plan on covering the gap is beyond me. The timing is too convenient and matches the auditors' investigation too well."

"Wouldn't it be weirder for them to stop?"