Upright, Amélie grew in size and presence, from the shadow of an amnesiac to a woman almost regal in her presence, her natural elegance and form. She placed her feet with a balletic lightness that suggested she had scarcely deigned to touch the ground. Like a queen. Like- what else?- a spider in a web. That this was not a web of her own weaving did not seem in the slightest to deter her; abruptly, Zenyatta wondered if she had always been this way. Was this Amélie he was watching now, or the husk of Widowmaker?
"There is a time for silence," he answered. "I am incapable of producing tears, and unwilling to yell." A pause. "Walking seems a fair alternative."
And so he touched his feet to the floor and allowed them to lead the two of them to the hallway, hoping that the reminder of gravity might ground his uncertainty. Stood like this, side by side, it did not surprise him as much as it should have done to learn that she probably stood an inch or so taller than him; what might have been intimidating once, however, had shrunk along with the woman herself. Next to his solid steel she seemed impossibly frail, every bit the invalid Dr. Ziegler sees in her every day. But then, Dr. Ziegler was a consummate professional. Zenyatta still found himself thinking that those long, pale hands put a bullet through his brother's head.
No. Enough.
He promised to speak.
As the door closed unwillingly behind them Zenyatta did not look at her, even askance, for fear that it might further tangle his thoughts before they were spoken. If he could not spread his arms so easily then he wanted to begin in simplicity, and in humility.
"It seems we walk as strangers. Shall I call you Amélie or Madame Lacroix?" Or Widowmaker, he added silently, knowing he need not say it aloud. Ordinarily he would have used her given name without a moment's thought- he had even unthinkingly called Junkrat my friend at one point- but every word between them had weight.
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"There is a time for silence," he answered. "I am incapable of producing tears, and unwilling to yell." A pause. "Walking seems a fair alternative."
And so he touched his feet to the floor and allowed them to lead the two of them to the hallway, hoping that the reminder of gravity might ground his uncertainty. Stood like this, side by side, it did not surprise him as much as it should have done to learn that she probably stood an inch or so taller than him; what might have been intimidating once, however, had shrunk along with the woman herself. Next to his solid steel she seemed impossibly frail, every bit the invalid Dr. Ziegler sees in her every day. But then, Dr. Ziegler was a consummate professional. Zenyatta still found himself thinking that those long, pale hands put a bullet through his brother's head.
No. Enough.
He promised to speak.
As the door closed unwillingly behind them Zenyatta did not look at her, even askance, for fear that it might further tangle his thoughts before they were spoken. If he could not spread his arms so easily then he wanted to begin in simplicity, and in humility.
"It seems we walk as strangers. Shall I call you Amélie or Madame Lacroix?" Or Widowmaker, he added silently, knowing he need not say it aloud. Ordinarily he would have used her given name without a moment's thought- he had even unthinkingly called Junkrat my friend at one point- but every word between them had weight.