#some of them i’m sad the shutter speed was too low cause i took a few of my friends

[piierrote]

favs from some 35mm photos i took last autumn/winter (where my shutter speed was too low)

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (8)

/falls to knees

THIS CHAPTER IS DONE, GODDAMN IT. THANK YOU, @dickbutt-writes-again FOR YOUR ENDLESS PATIENCE WITH ME AND MY SCREAMING AND UNSURENESS HOLY FUCK

Thank you everyone for waiting, please enjoy Hanzo making a fucking ass of himself.

<<Chapter 7

The warehouse is busy with different people bustling around, chatting, carting items around into trucks, the thick smell of hot food (made even thicker by the steadily rising summer heat) hardly willing to remain contained in their boxes. A cap is pulled tight over your eyes and you remain by your truck tucked deep in the corner of the room, keeping your back to the rest of the crowd, pretending to inspect the ridiculously long handwritten list in your hands.

The loading takes a little longer than usual, but it can’t be helped. You had vowed not to make the same mistakes as the last few times and ordered more food just in case. (There’s a voice in your head that taunts you for your inadequate portion management that you quash with a childish ire.) This was for the protection of Overwatch. The shipments must be carefully timed and portioned out to avoid suspicion from customs and various markets here on Gibraltar. These long intervals you’ve picked masks your presence better and makes you more available to the agents.

You tell yourself it’s the most optimal solution.

(There are days that you truly regret having taken Overwatch’s reputation and wealth for granted in the past—abundance of ingredients to play with and test, an unlimited budget for the best of equipment and staff; it is the stuff of recent dreams.)

Asim comes out from the shadow of your fully loaded vehicle and closes the shutters behind him, leaning heavily against his empty hand truck, his tank top thoroughly soaked.

“All done, boss.” He wipes his brow with a gloved hand and brushes his curly hair out of his face. “Man, Argus is lucky. She doesn’t sweat.” Behind you in the middle of the room, Argus Twenty stands out like a sore thumb in her semi-formal wear, giving orders and instructions to various people like a conductor. “Me? I feel like I just took a bath.”

“She’s an omnic,” you reply flatly, frowning over the list, “and you’re still on therapy.”

He shrugs, a sort of self-satisfied smile on his face. “It’s still not fair.”

“You know what’s not fair? The price of fish,” you sigh, leaning heavily against your scorching truck. It shakes against the added pressure. “Even with negotiations and switching to a new vendor, we still had to eat an eight-percent increase.”

“Climate change,” Asim supplies bitterly. “You know it’s been bad lately, but it’s only going to get worse, they say, since the fish are migrating elsewhere and ruining a ton of businesses here. Do not get me started on cryogenically frozen fish or grains—that’s even worse. It’s hard just getting our share even with your negotiations.” He jerks his stubbly chin at the general direction of the rest of the warehouse. You turn just head slightly to see some people notice and wave, carts passing around them. A pang of welling pride and equally growing sorrow jolts your insides.

You smile at Asim instead, tugging the hat over your eyes further. “They like you.”

“It’s all your fault.”

“I can’t make people like you.” If you had that power, the world might actually be a much better place. “It’s all you. They like you for who you are.”

The man hides a shy smile into his fist, sealing it in there before looking at back at you solemnly. “If you hadn’t left, they would know you and like you, too.”

“I...I prefer it this way,” you say, resting your list against the lower half of your face. “I don’t regret my decision.”

Asim makes a noise of discontent. “Glad someone doesn't.”

“What was that?”

“What Asim means is that we'd wish you showed more consideration toward us.”

You wince at the sharp words and Asim give Argus a wave as she comes up behind you both, seemingly finished with her duties. She crosses her arms, staring steadily at you through the slits of her eyes.

“Sorry. I was really trying to keep this order lean, but…” You wave your hands helplessly before resting them over your mouth.

“No, not that,” the omnic starts. “It's just...it’s been several months since you have decided to lend your aid to them, dear." "And?" "Is it not time to return to us?”

Oh. This talk again. You frown, squaring up your shoulders. "They still need my help." "Until when? Until they've become established again or until they are dismantled?" You clench your teeth, sucking in a sharp inhale. "Please, my dear, the sooner you wipe your hands clean of them, the better."

“Argus,” you say exasperatedly, “you’re the one who said that you’ll go along with this. Please.”

“But not for this long. Two months, three, perhaps? This is too much. We have received rumors of more formers being taken by Talon. It’s only a matter of time...”

Is that why the agents are suddenly getting assigned missions? You will need to ask Athena about the details—it’s not your business and unrelated to your job, but...

“Argus is right, boss.”

You stare at Asim, the weight of something unpleasant in his eyes pressing down on you. “Come on, not you, too.”

“If Talon comes and gets you, everything’s finished.”

“I’m not an agent,” you remind him. “Chefs were never considered agents, so…”

Argus sounds far less patient now. “And under what basis do you believe Talon acknowledges such a distinction? What if they see you there and you become collateral? Will you wait until they’re all killed before you come back?”

Because there's always been that distinction. Because they're heroes. They're brave people who deserve better than a dogged death by an organization that thrives on the destruction of others. "I have confidence in their operations, and I'll stay there until they don't need me anymore." "And when will that be?” Beneath Asim’s accusatory glare, you open your mouth and draw a blank. You thought about this before. You pondered this before, but did you ever come up with an answer? Did you even want to come up with an answer? What did you tell Argus when you announced you'd be helping Overwatch?

"I don't know." The quiet confession leaves a terrible taste in your mouth. "You don’t—? Are you joking me?” Asim snaps, suddenly in your face. "I’m all about fighting for what I believe in, but not when so many people’s lives are on the line, when your life's on the line." "We were prepared for the consequences when I decided—" "When you decided! You didn't consult anyone else!”

“I consulted Argus!”

“After the fact.”

Your mouth hangs open at your omnic colleague.

“Listen,” Asim says, “I don't want you to give up everything so fast. You worked hard to get to where you are, to get”—he waves a hand at the warehouse—“all this established. There’s too much that can go wrong, the longer you keep this up. You know what the world will do to you if they find out?"

The unyielding pressure from both sides forces cruel words to shoot up to the surface, cocked on your tongue, words that would cut so deep you knew it'd kill them, but you barely manage to keep them trapped behind your teeth. Your heart races, your face flushes with the effort, and you force yourself to divert your eyes into the ground and collect your breath.

“I will take full responsibility when that happens,” you finally say solemnly, looking both of them in the face.

“Taking full responsibility by yourself isn’t even going to begin to cov—”

“—do you believe your life will cover the damage—”

The two of them stop abruptly, either having realized they’re causing a scene or there’s little point in continuing the argument. The omnic steps forward, a gentle hand on your tense shoulder, tugging gently at your sleeve where the embroidered image of a scaly heart sat.

“I apologize for being short, but we are concerned for you. Promise us. While you still have the chance, I ask you to please return to us. We cannot continue without you.”

"But…”

Asim holds you by the elbow, a stern look in his eye. “If it’s about the food and money, they can get it themselves. They’re not helpless. They don’t need you. You’re not being kind, you’re being selfish.”

For some reason, those words had more force than the ones before it, striking something so very tender inside you that you choke on the harsh insults and threats you kept stifled inside. They rise with such a vengeance and ferocious speed, you have to yank away your arm and turn away and seek refuge in the cabin of your vehicle. You vehemently ignore them calling your name in urgent, helpless whispers.

You slam the door of your truck closed, fumbling with your seatbelt, and drive off hurriedly through the door with your cap tipped low. Your eyes burn and your skin feels like it wants to burst. You ignore the fading figures disappearing from your mirrors, the feeling of longing and deep-seated sadness solidifying and demanding your attentions.

Overwatch is not a mistake.

What you’re doing is not a mistake.

This was the worst plan (or therefore lack of) that he has ever gone through with, Hanzo decided while wedged up in a precarious corner of the ceiling.

Weeks of saying "thank you" to a tray and the fading echoes of a bell is just a token gesture of his gratitude, but he cannot escape the solemn timbre of his brother's voice, urging him to show his appreciation properly.

And how does he show it? By breaking into the one place he is not allowed in. If he’s honest with himself, he knows he could still leave and pretend he was never here. But pride is so very selfish that it will take away everything from someone else and still never be satisfied. It is so destructive, it will even kill its host and leave behind nothing. Not even itself.

Hanzo knows that it is bad, that it is all-consuming in no productive way, but the thrill that it gives, the little bit of power it offers for just a moment is so very tempting—he’ll have control of his life for a fleeting moment.  (After the moment’s passed, well, that’s a different story.)

You’ll have to forgive him for this (if you catch him, that is).

Surprisingly, there are very few places to hide in the kitchen and even fewer with a good view of the Cellar door. The ceilings are much lower than that of the cafeteria’s, compact and spartan. Everything was set up neatly in rows that lead straight from one end of the kitchen to the other, a wide breadth of space between each station for people to come and go without bumping into each other, and a dim light that light up the bottom of these stations and counters. Racks that stood against the walls were all wiry and without anything more solid than the mostly transparent containers that filled them.  

There’s no doubt this space was meant to hold more than a single cook, but despite that, there are no obvious hiding spaces at all.

Even more surprising, Athena did not try to stop him, didn’t even utter a word or sound an alarm as he slipped his way in here with little more than the clothes on his back. Perhaps he had an ally in the AI yet. Or maybe she’s waiting for the opportunity to gather incriminating evidence before presenting it to all to see.  

He resists the urge to sigh; sound echoes surprisingly well in this space. (It's not particularly surprising—most of everything in here is made of metal.) Neither the subtle rub of fabric or the wink of an eyelash is able to escape notice here, and he doesn’t dare move from his chosen spot.

There’s no telling when you’d be back, but historically, you’ve never missed serving breakfast even for risers earlier than himself, which means that he has another hour and a half at most. It’s more than enough time to understand this space and plan out his next course of action.

Slowly, he runs his eyes around the room, eyes having adjusted well enough to see the details.

His eyes lingers around the door he knows is his target. It’s a little larger than the four transparent doors lined up beside it. Those lead to small rooms, lined with the same sort of racks that were out in the kitchen, but they were bereft of anything except for a stray box or two and a sack of something. One of them had something a few familiar boxes lined up at the front—the picture of an orange plastered on one and a cow on another. Drinks, then, but far too few to be able to sustain the base for even a day.

He narrows his eyes.

Is that all the food in the base?

No, it cannot be.

A base with people whose appetites are like Zarya’s and Roadhog’s should always be stocked with food. There must be more somewhere he’s not seeing. In the Cellar, perhaps? If you store alcohol in there, it’s not unreasonable to assume that it could store other food items.

No, he shouldn't think so far into it—if all of them have been well fed up until this point, there's no reason for him to think beyond that. It's none of his business.

He redirects his gaze back to the Cellar door.

There’s a biometric panel is integrated directly into the steel, barely standing out among the smooth metal. The door itself looks deceptively standard, but judging by the implements on the door frame, it's a little more sophisticated than it's made out to be. No hinges. No gaps. No seams.

He drags his tongue slowly across his lip.

It smells of a challenge, and reminds him of an old teaching from so long ago: if it exists, it can be killed or destroyed. It has not failed him yet. (Though, there’s a nagging in his heart wants to remind him of a time when that was not true.)

The question is how discreet he wishes to be. While he is no thief, his skillset is closely aligned with one as much as he loathes to admit it. He’ll have to get close to the door, conduct his reconnaissance to determine just how much effort will be required to break through it.

If it managed to stand up against even the covert operation division of Overwatch, it won't be any small amount of effort to get inside. And for that gunslinger to speak well of you, your skills must not be so terrible either. It would be pertinent to take caution, maybe learn a bit more about you from this environment.

Everything else is rather spartan in its own way with little to indicate what could be beyond that door—everything here has a purpose, no more and no less. The floors are lined carefully with black rubber mats dotted with holes. Pots and pans were stacked neatly beneath some counters, all surfaces are clear of anything extra, the sinks at the very far end of the room near the service window seem to be clear of dishes—those are all stacked and lined up in their rightful places.

Though, he can't help but notice on one of the shelves, among the meticulously lined drinkware, there seems to be a small gap where several cups should be. Something nags at Hanzo’s mind about that space, but he's unable to place a finger on it. Maybe because it’s such a careless contrast compared to the rest of the shelves where everything is ordered and neatly aligned, no space wasted.

If this was anything to go by, he may have just developed a profile of you: detail-oriented; tireless; meticulous, and if he were to interpret this with his few interactions, he could even say that you are a very dedicated omnic, following your program with utmost devotion. It’s admirable.

Though, there cannot be that much to do in a kitchen besides cook and clean, now is there? But if that were so, where are you now?

Looking at this place, immaculate despite the hectic image that the action of ‘cooking’ conjures up in his mind and the number of customers you cater to, spacious despite the single omnic it holds, his impression of this space itself is simply lonely.

He dismisses the thought with a grim viciousness.

Omnics do not get lonely.

You likely connect yourself to Athena, anyway, spying on everyone and their appetites. There is no reason to align his sympathies with someone who hides in the shadows, watching everyone with such attentiveness, compiling data to use for (or against) them.

Without warning, light suddenly floods the kitchen and Hanzo has to tighten his grip against the walls, rapidly blinking the stars out of his eyes while biting back a groan.

You must have returned.  

A childish excitement buzzes just beneath his skin at the realization, his heart pressing so hard against his skin, he feels like it will burst with the pressure. He forces himself to calm—there will be plenty to do in the next few precious seconds.

To his surprise, it’s the Cellar door that slides open with a hiss rather than the swinging doors that led to the cafeteria. The speed is surprising considering how thick the door seems, if the door frame was anything to go by, it must be at least ten or fifteen centimeters—thinner than some bank vaults he’s seen in his day, but thicker than any standard door by far in this base. The frame shows that the door is much wider than it initially seems. It seemed to sink into the wall  and will not be as simple as just slipping a piece of paper or jamming something in between the door and frame. Maybe he can get through from the other doors beside it? The ones that look like freezers?

From within the darkness emerges the beginnings of a shaky hover-trolley, stacked high with boxes that fill up the empty maw of the doorway with nary a gap. There’s a pause and a shuffle and one of the larger boxes shift. Hanzo dares crane his head out a little more. Are you stuck?

The trolley then comes through slowly and without the frame of the door holding everything in place, Hanzo can see how precariously everything is stacked. The room itself seems to take a sigh of relief when everything makes it into the room, wind rushing into the Cellar door. From his angle, he cannot very well see the person behind it. But the rapid speed at which the door closes tells him that you’ve stepped into the kitchen and the door will not remain open long enough for anyone to barge in after another person.

“Oh geez, I’m late, I’m late.”

That voice.

The faintest hint of an unconscious smile makes its way onto his face. He knows this voice. It is, without a doubt, you.

He’ll finally be able to lay his eyes on the elusive chef—you’ll no longer be a torso and a voice and a bell, but something he could finally put a face to blame if his food is inadequate. He’ll finally know the face of his opponent, the guardian of that rumored door.

“Come on, get it together, me. Allons, allons-y.”

Time seems to slow as the cart backs itself up just slightly and begins to turn. He hears the squeak of a boot against the rubbery floor, and a shuddering sigh. From behind the massive tower of boxes and containers, someone comes into view.

And Hanzo’s breathing stops short in his throat.

His thoughts dissolve into static.

You’re a person.

The archer watches numbly as you begin to unpack the cart, taking box after box and spreading them out onto the closest countertop with single-minded determination and practiced efficiency. While you’re not wearing a chef’s uniform, he’s sure it’s you. There’s a level of confidence in the way you navigate this space, placing things with a familiarity that no one should have unless they’re here often.

Vaguely, it feels as though he’s no longer in his own skin or even in the same reality he was just in mere moments ago.

You are a human.

Not a service bot.

Not an omnic.

He should not be surprised, but he is. Suddenly, he snaps back into his own body and Hanzo finds himself furiously reanalyzing all the information he knows, or thought he knew; the facts are quickly becoming lies.

The tinny echo in your voice could easily be attributed to the metallic (and lonely) nature of the kitchen. The disappearances are not for maintenance, but because you’re human and require rest. He is then reminded of those late nights when sleep escapes and taunts him like some mythical being and how you're always ready to prepare tea, and that you're already preparing breakfast for the early risers not even two hours later.

Even worse, he overlooked a ridiculously simple concept: omnics have no concept of taste, it is foolish. Their scant decades of existence on this Earth has not yet granted them the technological advancements necessary to distinguish taste, let along masterfully combine them into pleasing dishes that his stomach would not reject. For an Omnic to be a chef is not only ridiculous, it is laughable.

He wants to slap himself.

A disgrace.

The information clicks so cleanly that the implications behind it makes his head spin.

This was a terrible idea.

He should not have taken up the bet. For once in his life, he should have listened to his younger brother, of all people, and left this alone. His heart is not made of steel or stone, and he knows he has better manners than to take advantage of someone who works so hard for something so foolish as a crutch for his own inadequacies.

He glances at the service window, so far away, and back at you who is struggling to keep one of the glass doors open to carry in a large cardboard box.

For a moment, maybe to soothe his own conscience, Hanzo thinks of going down to assist you. It will invite trouble, accusations, and your ire. If these kitchens were as sacred as McCree makes it sound, then he should pretend he was never here.

‘Like a coward,’ his mind whispers.

Hanzo grimaces and makes the amateurish mistake of leaning his head back against the wall a touch too hard.

“Who’s there?”

It’s only due to years of practice and familiarity with those words from the mouths of numerous victims that does not react badly to the sudden spike in his heart rate, that he does not shrink into himself or otherwise even blink, only instinctively isolating his breathing to his throat and clearing his mind of unrelated thoughts.

“Hello?”

As if he’ll answer with a bit of goading, but the thought is endearing naïve.

Beneath your breath, but still ridiculously loud and tinny, you warn, “Jesse, I swear if that's you…”

Something in his stomach tightens and a chill settles into his chest, and he furrows his brow.

This is becoming risky. He has already gotten basic information regarding the door—there are more questions still (is the door protected by single-factor authentication or multi-layer? Multi-factor? Is it connected to Athena? Are there other security measures beyond the door?), but it doesn’t matter at the moment.

Hanzo waits, endures your slow searching gaze and various attempts to get him to speak until you’re turned around, away from the service window he plans to escape through. (The double doors leading into the kitchen from the outside are out of the question—they swing and there’s no guarantee his exit would not be heard or seen.) He moves carefully but swiftly along the wall toward his destination.

Maybe it was unfortunate timing. Maybe he’s lost his touch having been cooped up in this base without the urgency of needing stealth. Maybe you’re just that aware of your territory.

There are many ‘maybe’s, but it does not erase what happens next:

“Agent Hanzo!?”

Something heavy falls onto the ground, probably a package.

Hanzo curses to himself. Normal circumstances would have seen you dead, but these circumstances are far from normal—however, he does not intend to stick around long enough to find out what you will do. (Inside, he gives a brief goodbye to the pepperless-foods that he had the pleasure of eating during these past few months.)

The sound of metal clips the air from somewhere behind him as he drops to the ground and makes a straight shot for the window only two island counters and one static one away.

A sound behind him that sets off several alarms in his head makes him peek just underneath his arm and he’s surprised to see it: two wide steps and a lunge snaps up the distance between you both and you’re then in his space.

He finds himself moving without thinking, twisting onto the shiny metal surface that are now decorated with the imprints of his shoes to change direction, escaping a flash of silver that nearly clips him.

“My counter!”

To normal people, he would be an indecipherable blur at best. Only people accustomed to his speed, like Genji or Tracer, would be able to chase after him. It should be impossible for a chef who has never seen battle, who has not had to deal with anything faster than the flailing of a fish, who has been nurtured and protected in this self-made fortress.

He didn’t expect your head to whip around and follow.

He can see it now, a long silver ladle in your hand that strikes out at his foot. One flip puts him just outside your range, but it traps him against another counter and the spilled contents of a smashed box—oranges. He glances quickly to his side—the service window, his exit, is just a little distance away.

One strong leap and a jump is all it will take.

“The kitchen is off-limits, Agent Hanzo.”

Your voice is biting, a jarring contrast to the gentle and genuine concern you had shown up until this point. So, even a mouse will bare its fangs if cornered?

At this distance, he can finally get a very clear look at you and see the dark moons beneath your reddened eyes. There’s something slightly familiar about the gnarled look on your face, about the way you hold yourself despite your stance—squared into a straight line—that vaguely reminds him of the reflection that stands distorted in the head of the ladle you have pointed at his chest.

“Is that so?”

Livid may be the most appropriate word to describe you.

“Get out.”

Without waiting for him to comply or even an explanation, you shoot forward. He steps out of the way and then another when you twist and swing to follow.

One part of him that tells him to stay and test your strength. A more reasonable part tells him to take his leave peacefully now that he’s been seen. But there’s something, a pressure that bears down on his chest and up against his stomach that moves his feet, forcing him to watch and step out of your sloppy attacks.

Like an amateur, you broadcast your movements, your tight spirals are too wide and slow, the distance just slightly miscalculated and short of actually hitting him. Your steps are repetitive and predictable, hardly engaging, and too straightforward (likely the unfortunate nature of your art).  But the intensity behind those strikes and the sharpness in which they're delivered keeps him on his guard, forces him to retain focus. There’s a snarl to your lips and a burning in your eyes that, in his encounters with a mirror, seems far too familiar.

Faintly, in the back of his mind, he remembers a story from his youth of a master of tea ceremonies against a samurai and wonders if this is how the story really should've played out.

The ladle enters his space. His reaction, wholly instinctual and for a moment screams ‘DANGER’, makes him smash it out of the way with the back of his hand. The momentum leads it out. You go with it, swoop the ladle down under and up at his chin. He ducks forward, right into your zone and grabs at your attacking arm.

Your retreat is far quicker than he would've given credit for.

But it was too hasty, unpracticed.

He could hear the popping of joints; the result of a rushed and undisciplined movement. You’re wincing, heaving, but still angry—there’s something about that look that makes him wonder faintly of its origins and its target.

Was that all?

As brief as it was, the display of power and skill of your level could not keep out even the weakest of the Overwatch members (and of those, there are very, very few he would dare consider such).

It’s a betrayal of his expectations most foul.

He had expected a challenge, not an insult. Insults thrown at him should always be returned in kind.

A smirk makes its way onto his face.

Very well. Bring it. He will show you the difference between you both in skill—politeness and gratitude be damned. You attacked first and refused reason, after all.

Hanzo waits for you to regain your footing and stance, waits for the ladle to come back up and steady itself. It's not as though you're a true threat; you’re just a che—

A flash of silver and the scratchy sting on his face shuts his thoughts up. What a sight he must make. He can’t help but touch his face where his skin meets beard, and pulls away with nothing but heat that drops into him like a fireball, igniting him.

That was a good lunge and a good retreat and a good strike. It was a good reminder.

“Get out.”

His smirk turns a touch carnivorous.

Yes, that was more like it.

Your expression morphs into one of more focused irritation. It’s far from a proper look for someone facing him. Those who know the expectations of the battlefield should at least compose themselves, not let themselves get saddled with worthless thoughts and rush through their movements like a fool.

Hanzo wants to crush that attitude. If he is truly your opponent, then you need to see him as one, not as a target or punching bag.

What carelessness.

What arrogance.

No. He takes a breath to calm himself. There’s no reason to get riled over a mere cook. But he can’t deny the strumming in his veins that call for the absolute annihilation of a mere amateur who dares thinks that they could ever match a master. He will show you where that arrogance will lead. This will be quick, this will be a challenge between his patience and his pride—you do not fit this equation. You are, after all, just a cook.

An unspoken signal—maybe you could see the insult on his face—brings you darting forth again, weapon raised and jabbing. There’s not much he has to do beside mind his space, mind your range, and keep a close eye on you.

All your following attacks are careless, easy to dodge. What happened to that one that managed to scratch his face? Was it because he was standing still or because you had a moment of clarity? As the strikes come, he finds himself slipping deeper and deeper into his thoughts and further and further away from the reality at hand.

Where are you looking, he wonders. What are you attacking? What do you see? What are you trying to strike? Because it sure as hell is not him and it annoys him just a bit.

The ladle's head enters his reach and thoughtlessly, he folds his fingers beneath the rim and he yanks it. You pitch forward with a yelp. He nearly raises his foot to slam in into your jaw, but a moment of clarity forces him to slam it back down. No, getting lost in one’s thoughts is deadly, even if his opponent is hardly a challenge.

Almost losing your weapon didn’t deter you and you continue going after him, desperation coloring your attacks. What are you doing? If this drags on, there’s no guarantee that he wouldn’t crush you just to satisfy his pride, just to show he is superior and that your hands are ill suited to wield utensils made for cooking as weapons.

This has gone on long enough.

Once more, Hanzo lets the ladle punctures his space. He folds at the wrist, just under the ladle's head, redirecting it. You attempt a counter-parry, but with a firm chop, the ladle clatters to the ground, muffled by the rubber beneath your feet. To your credit, you do not attempt to pick up your ‘weapon’, instead choosing to retreat in one large step back. Are you giving up?

One inhale. You’re dashing forward again, swoop low to retrieve the ladle, and swing upward—too obvious. He steps inside your reach, pivots behind you. Adrenaline moving his limbs, nabbing your dominant hand and slipping an arm around your neck in a loose, but firm hold. His feet lock against yours. One false move and you’ll be thrown. The fact that you do not even bother detangling yourself shows that you know this much.

Not as foolish as he thought.

But he has won.

“Chef, cease this.”

His own voice, stern and sharp, bounces straight off the walls and equipment. Interestingly enough, he can see your spine straighten and body jerk as though fighting to follow and resist his request.

In a show of benevolence, he releases his hold slowly and steps back neatly. You turn, still alert, ladle held up steadily. Calm. He has won. There is nothing for him to prove anymore. “I do not mean any harm. I only came for tea.”

Your mouth twists and your expression slackens, but there’s no give to your posture.

“Truly.”

You narrow your eyes, and he thinks he’ll have to defend himself further when nearly a minute passes before the head of the ladle and your shoulders dip. He remains perfectly still while you slowly slip into a more neutral stance, the tenseness in your shoulders dissipating just a bit. Now that you’re calmer, it’s easy to see that you do not look entirely well. There’s a tremble in your hands that he hadn’t noticed before. A result of too much adrenaline? Weariness? Or something else entirely?

“If that is all,” you murmur, not quite meeting his eyes, “please wait outside.” You gesture at the door with a small swing of the ladle.

He blinks and tries not to let his surprise show.  

Is it that simple? Really?

“Will it be sencha today?”

“Ah, no. Moroccan mint.”

Naked surprise colors your face. For a moment, he thinks he sees the actual person behind the anger and the person behind the professional facade before it returns.

“I understand. With or without sweetener?”

“With.”

You nod and walk a short distance away, back never left exposed to him, and stop to face him once more. For a moment, he wonders what you’re doing before he realizes you’ve placed yourself between himself and the rest of the kitchen. It’s almost laughable—you do not have the skill to stop him even if you wanted to and you’ve just demonstrated that clearly. If he takes you out, there is nothing stopping him from accessing the Cellar door you’re protecting.

It’s almost disappointing. Almost enough to dampen his desire to uphold his part of the bargain with McCree. A treasure guarded by a weak guard cannot be so valuable.

He resists the urge to sigh. He’ll need to think about this later. The stack of boxes left forgotten and stray oranges on the ground catches his eye.

“Would you like some assistance with those packages?” he asks, gesturing with his chin.

Your face shifts from professional stoicism to shock to embarrassment to a poor attempt at maintaining your composure.

“Thank you for your offer, but I will manage. Please wait outside, I’ll have your tea shortly.”

“It would be no trouble. There are many boxes here.”

The makeshift weapon remains tight in your hands and determination begins to exude from your stance.

“I appreciate the offer, but this place is for chefs only. Please wait outside.”

A flicker of anger and irritation that he’s becoming far too acquainted with reignites inside his chest. Are all the members of Overwatch so unreasonable that they’d even jeopardize their own health? Reinhardt, you; who else on this base is so foolish?

“Do as you wish.”

At least he has gained information on the kitchen and the characteristics of the door; he’ll be better prepared for next time. (If the skill he saw tonight was the extent of your skill, he has nothing to fear. The cowboy’s warning were far too exaggerated.)

He’s keenly aware of your watchful gaze on his back as the door slowly swing to a close behind him. hen the swinging doors finally rest and he can hear you working, he lets out the long-suffering sigh he's been holding in up until now, deflating.

Well, that could have gone worse.

He loiters around the cafeteria, watching the sun crawl against the ground with static in his mind until the bell rings and a tray with a familiar teapot and teacup slides into view—deep down, as illogical as it may seem, he’s just a little disappointed that nothing accompanies his drink. It feels strange walking up to the window now that he knows what lies behind it. Like some type of magic or illusion has been ruined.

“Thank you for your patience.”

He nods, nearly forgetting that you cannot see it. “No, thank you.”

He doesn't know how he could have ever mistaken you for an omnic. Your voice is definitely nothing like Genji’s. It’s the illusion of the echo and the fact that you talk to a wall that must have confused him. And your hands—human hands—peer restly over the sill, tapping just as he’s about to pick up his tray. Do you often place your hands out in the open? Has he missed it all this time?

“Agent...Hanzo?”

“Yes, Chef?”

You take a shuddering breath before saying, “I...I apologize for the misunderstanding. I did not realize how important tea is to you. But the kitchens are off-limits to non-kitchen staff, so please understand.”

If he's playing the part of the fool, he may as well make it convincing. “It is inconvenient to wait on you for something like tea, Chef.”

The words draw a sharp inhale from you and tension to the air.

“These are rules, Agent Hanzo,” you say slowly, “I cannot allow that.”

“Rules set by whom?”

“The previous Head Chef.”

“If I am correct, this Head Chef is not here, and as such, you should make the rules.”

“I don't—I’m not—I…”

“Oh!”

Winston seems surprise to find anyone here at all, shifting awkwardly in the threshold between the hall and the room before he sheepishly pads his way in on his fists.

“Good morning, Hanzo. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Hanzo couldn’t say that he expected the same and nods curtly.

“Tea, huh? I guess everyone takes their breakfast different.” Hanzo has no time to correct him when the gorilla turns toward the service window. “Chef, what’s for breakfast today?”

Hanzo winces as you splutter, remembering that his antics likely led to a delay in your schedule. (Well, you refused his help and decided to challenge him despite your lack of prowess; it’s not entirely his fault alone.) He can’t imagine in the few scant minutes you’ve spent preparing his tea that you had managed to put away those boxes or even started on preparing breakfast.

“That’s, um, I didn’t—I’m very sorry, but…”

Hanzo couldn’t stand to remain, the awkwardness of the situation tugging at him and bids a hasty leave, yanking the tray out of the window. Perhaps too hasty or perhaps it’s karma, either way, he could not say it was not well deserved.

The teacup wobble precariously and falls off his tray, rolling against the window sill and smashes to the floor, the sound rippling and tearing through any other noise in the cafeteria. Winston’s mouth drops open, spectacles slipping down his face.  

“Oh my.”

Heat creeps up Hanzo’s neck as he chances a glance at the service window. Your hands are frozen in mid-air. He watches as they come down slowly and your torso inches forward, a dull ‘thunk’ accompanying an abrupt stop; he definitely does not feel something squeezing the air out of his lungs when a weepy voice whispers, “...are you kidding me?”

Chapter 9>>