Chapter 18: Warmth

Amélie sits on the couch in her living room, the curtains drawn against the harsh sun outside. The room feels gloomy, shadows deepening every corner. Her fingers trace the edge of a throw pillow as she presses her phone to her ear, the tension visible in her hunched shoulders.

"Ah, Amélie! It's been quite a while since I've received a call from you. How have things been? Busy, I'm sure!" Chloe's voice, cheerful and warm, flows from the phone, a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere.

"It has only been 62 days since our last session," Amélie responds quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. She glances at the framed photo on the mantelpiece – Amélie standing with Chloe, taken at a ceremony on a sunny day.

"Still been a while," Chloe muses. There's a pause, the sound of papers rustling in the background. "And I'm guessing this isn't a social call?"

Amélie sighs, her breath fogging up the screen of her phone for a moment. "You're right. I apologize."

"Don't be sorry, Amélie. I'm your psychologist, but most importantly, your friend. You can rely on me if you need to." Chloe's voice is kind, a soothing balm to Amélie's frayed nerves.

As Chloe speaks, Amélie notices a subtle change in herself. Her shoulders begin to relax, the tension easing out of them like air from a balloon. It's as if Chloe's infectiously upbeat tone is a magic spell, chasing away the gloom that hangs over her.

"So, fill me in?" Chloe prompts.

Amélie takes a deep breath. She looks down at her sweater, a loose gray thing that seems to swallow her, making her appear smaller than she is. Her hair, usually sleek and shiny, looks dull today, a reflection.

"It's about the dinner," Amélie starts, her voice wavering. She glances at the photo again, drawing strength from the memory of that sunny day. "What happened after... after I had too much to drink. And then there was this old photo, a Polaroid. But Lena's reaction, that's what worries me most."

She pauses, listening to Chloe's steady breathing on the other end. The silence is comforting. Amélie's gaze wanders to the window, the curtains a barrier against the world outside.

"Take your time," Chloe says softly. "Start from the beginning. Tell me about the dinner, about Lena. Help me understand what's troubling you."

Amélie nods, even though Chloe can't see her. She closes her eyes, and in her mind, she's back at the dinner table, the laughter, the wine.

Amélie's nose scrunches. "Not bonded," she corrects, her voice a whisper in the gloomy living room.

"You two became friends," Chloe amends, the rustling of papers audible through the phone.

Amélie tilts her head away, her golden eyes drawn to the painting on the wall. For a moment, she sees Brian's wide-eyed gaze, his fascination with her pale skin. It makes her feel... odd. "I told him I trusted him," she admits.

Chloe inhales sharply, then exhales in a faint whistle. "It took you 3 months of near-daily sessions for you to say that to me. I feel a bit cheated," she jokes, her tone light.

Amélie murmurs an apology, but Chloe quickly reassures her. "Don't be sorry. That's good. Being able to trust others, especially people you can relate to, is a sign of progress." There's a pause. "But about this thing with Lena..."

A flash of memory: Lena ripping the torn piece of Polaroid from Amélie's grasp. Amélie's palm covers her eye, as if she could block out the vision that twists her stomach.

"Have you ever heard of the concept of the hedgehog's dilemma?" Chloe asks.

Amélie shifts on the couch. "I believe you mentioned it during our 4th session."

Chloe hums in confirmation. "The hedgehog's dilemma arises from the fact that hedgehogs must hold each other to gain warmth during winter. Yet, due to their spines, the closer they get, the more likely they are to hurt one another."

Amélie rises, her eyes staring off into the distance. The room feels colder suddenly, the shadows deeper.

"Imagine," Chloe continues, "fame, fortune, adoration. The entire world falling at your feet, thinking you're the symbol of greatness. A perfect paragon of what's right." She pauses, and Amélie realizes who she's talking about. "Imagine being that. And then one day realizing that the only other human you have a connection with, the only person who can feel comfortable with, is someone who truly despises you."

Amélie grinds her teeth. "Mais ce n'est pas réel!" she exclaims, her voice echoing in the empty house. "So they decided to become attached to someone who doesn't care for them! That is their problem! Not mine!"

"Amélie..." Chloe's voice is empathetic.

"Non," Amélie cuts her off. "Doesn't she understand how it looked? It wasn't fair. She had power, she had the authority. Whatever was supposed to happen happened because what would have happened if it didn't?"

Chloe sighs. "So you're saying you were coerced."

Amélie rubs the bridge of her nose. Her temperature cools. "If you feared what would happen if you refused, what would you do? Tell someone?" Her voice is quiet, almost lost in the stillness of the room.

"That isn't an answer," Chloe presses.

"It's enough," Amélie replies, her tone final. She waits for the dial tone, for Chloe to end the call. But instead, there's a click of the tongue.

"So Lena attached herself to you because she saw an opportunity for stress relief?" Chloe asks, her voice neutral.

Amélie scoffs, her gaze drifting to the drawn curtains. Outside, the sun must be setting, painting the sky in hues of gold and red. But in here, it's all shadows and silence. "What other reason is there?" she whispers, and for a moment, she wonders if she's asking Chloe or herself.

The sun dips lower outside, casting long shadows that stretch across the room like reaching fingers. Amélie stands by the window, one hand resting on the heavy curtain. She doesn't pull it aside, not yet. Instead, she stares at the faded pattern, tracing the whorls and loops with her eyes.

"Amélie, I'd like to better understand your perspective," Chloe says, her voice shifting to that clinical tone Amélie knows so well. It's the voice that means Chloe is about to dig deeper, to unearth truths Amélie might prefer to leave buried.

"The photo," Chloe continues, "why would she keep that?"

Amélie's fingers tighten on the curtain. "As a trophy," she says, her voice flat.

"Why would she hide it?"

"She showed it to Brian." Amélie's voice catches, remembering his wide-eyed look, his curiosity. "Yet kept it hidden from me. Blackmail, perhaps?"

There's a pause, the sound of Chloe's pen scratching on paper. Then, "Now, what about the cookies?"

Amélie freezes. The scent of sugar and spice ghosts through her memory, the warmth of the oven, the way Lena's eyes had lit up...

"You told me you made Lena some cookies. Some type that was important to her," Chloe presses. "Why would you make cookies which hold meaning for someone who you believed took advantage of a situation?"

Amélie opens her mouth to respond, but Chloe continues, her words tumbling out like a river breaking through a dam. "I think you care. I think you do feel some connection to Lena, and that it did mean something to you. But you're afraid."

The words hit Amélie like a physical blow. She leans against the wall, her forehead pressing against the cool plaster.

"Afraid of allowing yourself to be close to someone," Chloe says, her voice softer now. "So you assume the worst. You pretend they're a bad person just taking advantage because it's easier to feel anger that someone lied to you and threw you away. Rather than live with the fact that you found someone who actually cared for you. And you lost them."

Amélie slides down the wall, her knees curling to her chest. The room is almost dark now, the last rays of sunlight painting abstract patterns on the floor. She stares at these patterns, at the way they shift and change.

In her mind, she sees Lena's face as she bit into one of the packaged ones a year ago, the joy. She remembers the warmth of Lena's body on hers, the quiet moments they shared. And then, the torn Polaroid, the look in Lena's eyes - not triumph or mockery, but something else. Something Amélie hasn't let herself name.

"I..." Amélie starts, then stops. Her voice echoes in the empty room, a whisper of all the things she's afraid to say. She closes her eyes, and for a moment, she allows herself to feel the weight of what she might have lost.

The incessant knocking finally stops when Amélie pulls the door open. Her hair is wild and undone, dark bags under her eyes prevalent even with her blue skin. She stands there for a moment, the cool night air brushing against her bare arms, making her aware of how underdressed she is in her pajama bottoms and sweater.

Golden eyes meet blue ones as she cycles through surprise and acceptance. The scent of oranges and ginger fills her nostrils, a comforting aroma that seems out of place in the stillness of the night.

"Sorry for coming in late," Brian speaks quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks uncertain, as if he's not sure he should be here.

"Now is not a good time," Amélie says, her voice low. She reaches to pull the door closed, but Brian's foot stops it. She looks down, sees his worn sneakers, then back up at his face.

He pulls his shirt collar down slowly, a smile stretching across his face as Amélie's expression darkens. In the dim porch light, she sees it - a scar, fresh and pink, mirroring her own. "We match now, don't we?" he says softly.

Amélie lets the door open slightly, just enough for her golden eye to catch the light. It seems to glow in the gap, a beacon in the darkness. "I'm not in the mood to answer questions," she warns.

"I brought food," Brian interjects. He holds up a bag, the logo of a local takeout place visible. "All I want is to have dinner. We don't have to talk or anything. All I want is to sit for a while."

Amélie pulls back, her eyes staring at the back of the door. She stands there, motionless, her mouth slightly ajar as she contemplates. The house behind her is silent, the rooms dark. Just hours ago, she was on the phone with Chloe, raw emotions spilling out. Now, here's Brian, offering quiet company.

"Trust me," Brian says, his voice barely above a whisper.

The door opens slowly, hinges creaking softly. Amélie steps back, then strides towards a table, gesturing vaguely. Brian follows, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space.

He looks around, taking in the drapes shut tight against the world, only thin beams of streetlight seeping through like lines drawn with bright pen ink. It's as if Amélie has cocooned herself in darkness, shutting out the world and its complexities.

Brian places the takeout boxes on the coffee table. The rustle of the paper bags seems loud in the stillness. Amélie leaves and returns with plates and silverware, the clinking of cutlery a counterpoint to their silence.

Bits of chicken and vegetables spread out on her plate while Brian opts for an egg roll. They sit in silence for a while, the only sounds their chewing and the occasional clink of a fork against a plate.

Amélie's stomach grumbles, a low, insistent sound that seems to echo. Brian smiles slightly, a soft curve of his lips. Her cheeks flush violet, a dusting of color in the dim room. "Apologies," she murmurs.

"Don't worry about it," he says gently. His smile lingers, though she can't quite see it in the shadow.

"You're... chipper," she says after a moment, letting the foreign word roll off her tongue. She watches him, checking his reaction as if she'd just uttered a curse.

"I try," he says, taking another bite of chicken. He chews thoughtfully, then looks towards the drapes. "So, how's about this weather?"

Amélie shakes her head, a slow movement. "I've been working inside today."

"I've been on the road mostly," Brian says. He sets down his food, a faint smile on his lips. His hands fall to his lap, fingers intertwining as his eyes focus on something not quite there on the coffee table. "I wanted to bake something. But I also wanted to see you."

Amélie feels her carefully constructed calm begin to waver as his blue eyes shift to focus on her. She looks away, towards the shadows in the corner of the room.

"Why don't you make any real moves in the chess game?" he asks suddenly.

Confusion flushes through her before she refocuses, placing her fork down with a soft clink. "What do you mean?"

Brian pulls out his phone, the glow of the screen casting strange shadows on his face as he scrolls to their chess match. "You're throwing the game. You could have won, but you keep extending it." His face changes, a seriousness settling over his features. "It's not a good game if you try to let someone else win."

Amélie doesn't move, just tilts her head to the side, a bird-like gesture. "Don't you want to win?" she asks, her voice even.

"I want to play with you," Brian says. He makes a move, exposing his king. The piece stands vulnerable on the digital board, a silent challenge.

"That doesn't make any sense," Amélie counters, her brow furrowing.

Brian watches as another inconsequential piece moves across the board. "Why's that?" He moves another piece, equally unimportant.

"I'm not good at games," Amélie replies sternly, her golden eyes narrowing.

"You might not think that," Brian says softly. "But I still like playing them with you."

"But what's the point?"

"There isn't a point," he says, moving another piece. All it would take is a bishop moving one space diagonally. "You're better than you think."

Amélie studies the board, the pieces frozen in their digital stalemate. "Where'd you learn to play chess?" she asks, her voice softening.

Brian chuckles, a quiet sound that seems to warm the room. "A collapsed subway tunnel. You?"

"A trench."

They look at each other then, a moment of understanding passing between them. "See?" Brian says. "We aren't world champions. But even if you might not think it, this is way more fun than fighting champions."

Amélie is about to move when Brian reaches over, his hand hovering over the screen for a moment before his thumb gently moves a piece. Checkmate. A victory screen appears on her phone, a new game icon blinking below.

"You're better at it than you think," Brian says, his voice a whisper in the quiet room. "So quit pretending you're not and do your best."

Amélie pulls away from him, a hand pressing against his chest. His breath hitches as her thumb grazes the bruise there. She falters, her hand hovering for a moment before she rises, putting distance between them. The room feels colder suddenly, the shadows deeper.

"What is this? What do you want?" Amélie asks, her voice quiet but tense. She stands by the window, one hand on the heavy curtain, as if ready to tear it down or hide behind it.

Brian sits on the seat next to where Amélie was, his eyes distant, as if his mind is calculating something far away. The silence stretches, broken only by the faint tick of a clock and the occasional car passing outside.

After a moment, his fists ball. "I-," he starts, the calm, confident façade faltering. "I'm sorry. For barging in like this. I know you probably don't want to see me or talk to me, and I was worried I fucked things up between us. I mean, I'm worried I broke your tru-."

Amélie puts a hand on his fist, pausing him. Her touch is light, barely there. "What are you talking about?"

Brian pauses, his blue eyes darkening yet lightening for a moment as he looks at her. "The dinner. I can't remember anything. But I remember you punching me. I was scared that I did something that might have made you angry or-."

Amélie scoffs, putting her palm over her eye. The gesture is familiar, a shield against memories she'd rather not see. "You didn't do anything. Why would you think that?"

Brian shifts uncomfortably, looking away. His gaze falls on a framed photo - Amélie and Chloe, smiling in a park. "Lena told me I got drunk and spilled wine on myself and then I had to leave. I could remember seeing your eyes and you looked afraid or something. I thought I did something to you and I've been... scared," he admits, not meeting Amélie's gaze.

She curses in French, the words harsh in the quiet room. "You didn't do anything. It was an accident. I-," she pauses, her hand falling from her face. "Lena had a photo of me, and you saw it and tried to grab it and accidentally struck you. The wine bottle Lena held spilled on you as she lunged for it as well, trying to hide it."

"So she did lie," Brian says, looking to the floor. The clock ticks, once, twice. "But why did she try to hide it so bad? What's the point? Why go through all the trouble of hiding it even after I got hurt?"

He turns to Amélie, their eyes meeting. She feels a tinge of something - unease? - as she sees a manic, anxious emotion behind his eyes. It unnerves her, this raw vulnerability, so different from his usual calm.

Amélie begins to explain, her words slow, measured. She tells him about her relationship with Lena, the problems, the drama, the breakup. What it was and what it wasn't. As she speaks, the room grows darker, the last of the streetlight fading, as if the world outside is retreating, leaving them in this bubble of truth.

Brian's emotions remain unchanged, which surprises her. But she assumes he could glean some of it from the awkwardness between her and Lena. His face dark, the bruise on his chest a reminder of the secrets and misunderstandings that have led them here.

She finishes speaking, and silence falls again. The room is a study in contrasts - the warmth of their shared meal cooling on the table, the glow of Brian's phone screen casting strange shadows, the echo of shattered perceptions hanging in the air.

Amélie turns fully to the window now, her forehead resting against the cool glass. Outside, the world continues - a car passes, a dog barks in the distance. But in here, in this room, something has shifted. She feels exposed, raw, like she's played a game she didn't know the rules to.

But maybe, she thinks, glancing back at Brian, that's what trust is. Playing without knowing the outcome, just knowing that the other player won't let you lose alone.

Brian bounces a balled fist on his lap. "I get it," he says, his voice low.

Amélie turns towards him, her face suspicious.

"You've always been the one thing that stayed the same," his words flash through his mind, and he looks downward. "I'm stuck in time," Brian murmurs. "How am I any different?"

An image flickers through his mind - two pink triangles moving with a smile. Amélie reaches out, grabbing Brian's hand and slamming him back-first into the couch until she pins him. The action is sudden, violent, yet there's something else in it - a desperation, a need to make him understand.

"C'est différent," she says, her voice a growl. "I can tell you don't have any bad intentions. You might think you're like me. That you've done a few bad things and that you're just like her." Brian struggles against her grasp, but Amélie stares down at him, her grip like iron. The light, lithe woman presses down on him like an anchor.

"I've seen monsters. Fought with them. Fought against them. Tu n'es rien comme eux."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?" Brian relaxes, his voice laced with a poison she hasn't heard before. "What do you know about monsters? You think you're one."

Brian feels Amélie's breath against his face. Something about this is familiar, a déjà vu that makes his skin prickle.

"You think I'm not?" Amélie asks, moving off him. Brian sits up, watching as her hands reach down to her waist. Her golden eyes peer towards him with an apathy that makes a chill rise up his spine.

She begins to pull her sweater up. Brian lunges forward to stop her, but an outstretched hand halts him. "You showed me your scars," she says quietly.

She pulls up her shirt. Brian feels his face redden before he stops, his eyes widening. Scars mark her, places where flesh had been ripped and stitched back together. Cuts and burns, one stretching from her upper shoulder where her arm is missing, down to her waist. Her bare chest is visible, but his eyes linger on the symbol on her upper stomach - a black widow spider tattooed into her skin. Silvery lines emanate from every leg, holding her together like threads in a doll.

"Do I not look like a monster?" she asks.

Brian stands there, trying to comprehend. Amélie's golden eyes bore into his. She can imagine his face turning to disgust, or worse, pity. She doesn't know which she would hate more.

Brian raises his hands and pulls up his shirt. His own scars are shown to her, faded and almost translucent on pale skin in the dim light. A large circle on his chest near the bruise, shaped like a skull and crossbones, branded like cattle. Another looks like a bone beneath his pectoral, almost decorative beneath one large enough to stretch across his chest like a claw mark.

"I was a hound," he speaks in a low voice. "We're the same." He shakes, even though the room is warm.

She tries to take in his scars, but he moves forward, wrapping his arms around her, covering her bare chest with his own. "I don't think you're a monster," he whispers into her hair.

Amélie lets her arms hang at her sides. Her instincts scream at her to shove him away, to fight, to beat him down. Yet he simply remains there, holding her, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against her scars.

"Je ne veux jamais que tu penses que tu es une mauvaise personne," she speaks, her voice trembling. "Si vous êtes une mauvaise personne, alors personne dans ce monde n'est un héros."

"Don't say it again." She says, Brian shivers, not from cold but from the dangerous tone in Amélie's voice. "I-I won't," he promises, his voice a whisper. The adrenaline starts to ebb, leaving him jittery and hyper-aware. The scent of her shampoo - lavender, maybe? - fills his nostrils.

They stand there for a while, the silence punctuated only by the soft tick of the clock and the occasional rustle of fabric as one of them shifts. Outside, the world continues its nightly symphony - a dog barks, a car alarm chirps, life goes on. But in here, in this room with its drawn curtains and shared secrets, time seems to move differently.

"Amélie," Brian starts, his voice uncertain.

She stays quiet for a moment, then, "Brian?"

He takes a deep breath. "I... I'm scared of slipping back into bad habits."

"I understand," she interrupts softly. Her eyes are fixed on his chest, tracing the map of scars. "If you'll do the same."

Brian feels a push towards the couch. He falls onto his back, and then a strong hand guides him onto his side. His cheeks flush as he feels Amélie's face rest against his back, her breath warm through his shirt.

"The temperature's supposed to drop," Brian comments, trying to move. But then her whisper tickles his ear.

"So then come closer," she says, her voice a command wrapped in tenderness. Her arms, cool against his skin, wrap around his chest. "Stay, mon hérisson."

As the night deepens, the room grows cooler. But neither of them notice.

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Author Note 100k Q and A coming up!

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WOOO that one was interesting and before you all comment about the melodrama and maybe even the tracer bashing I guarantee you that if you paid attention and read back the chapter and the previous ones leading up to this you'll know that we aren't bashing her and you'll be aware that Amelie's perspective on the matter and now by extension of her explanation Brian's perspective is… unreliable. As is most characters in this story those who have been here since chapter one who have made it this far will know that every character in this story has PROBLEMS mental, physical, LEGAL and each one of them is navigating the situation with extremely different perspectives. With some of the motives thoughts and behaviors contradictory at times and others even a bit OOC in some cases. But I guarantee there are legitimate lore reasons for each of these and I hope that when this story gets finished, we will address each of the characters lore and plot points. Anyway im taking QUESTIONS again since we are almost 100k viewers meaning this will be my most popular work by at least a gap of 80k! THANKS SO MUCH.

However. Ive started college again and so unfortunately chapters might be considered "lighter" and less actively posted but FEAR NOT this story WILL be finished.

Also ive been trying to get this fic added to the Tvtropes sections of recommended fics for overwatch given that thing hasn't been updated since like 2021.

(Also here's a link to my Patreon if you happen to have a commission or idea or just want to support me!)

patreon.com/Ravio_The_Thief

ANYWAY GOODBYE