*sings* happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, lexa is dead and i am crying, happy birthday to me; suggested by an anon! tw for guns so be careful!
they meet in unusual circumstances
amelie’s father is in town for a business meeting
he glances at her as he walks out the door that evening, detours for a moment to step into her space and pretend to kiss her cheek- the picture of familial devotion. a paparazzi coos, snaps a picture.
‘no matter what, don’t go into whitechapel,’ he hisses, breath heavy and wet in her ear. ‘i don’t need the bad press.’
amelie fakes a brilliant smile. ‘yes, sir.’
he ‘hmphs’ at her, then pats her head and walks out, trailed by his guards and a group of people in suits asking questions.
amelie reaches for her phone and looks up the directions to whitechapel.
she drives there, through the dark grey stones, ominous and looming and ugly and half-destroyed. she hates england, she decides.
amelie parks in front of a seedy club front and climbs out, looking around. a man eyes her from across the street, and she shoots back a condescending glare.
‘ooh, love. makin’ eyes like that ain’t gonna get ya nowhere. not here, at least.’
amelie startles, turns to see an unfamiliar girl leaning up against the doors of her car. she does a double take.
the girl is all spikes and vibrantly pink hair and union jacks and, as amelie watches, she runs a finger down the impeccable paint job on the maybach.
‘twin turbo v12,’ she says appreciatively. ‘nice.’
amelie swats her hand away, and the girl laughs, hopping back and studying her closely.
‘little too nice for this part of town, though. maybe out in surrey. but not here.’ she leans in. ‘my advice, love? ‘less you want your car pinched, go on and out.’
amelie scoffs. ‘please. as if.’
the girl shrugs, fiddles with her goggles. ‘well, that’s your choice. y’know, my granny always said that carelessness gets you the hippo. then and again, the old bat was mental, so-’
she’s cut off abruptly by a bang! amelie jumps, hissing when she slams her hand into the window.
‘shite,’ the girl says darkly, and then she produces a gun out of nowhere and shoves amelie back.
‘get in the car,’ she says, not looking over. ‘get in the car and go.’
her expression is changed from its previous playfulness- amelie can see this girl with blood on her hands, standing in near-darkness. she fumbles for her keys, unlocks the car with a click, and just as she’s stepping over and bending to slide inside, a man emerges from the alleyway, whistling, the subtle bulge of a gun inside his jacket.
‘hey,’ the girl says, demeanour abruptly casual, and he turns, eyebrows flicking up.
‘well, if it ain’t tracer. where’s the cavalry?’
‘tracer’ tightens her grip on the gun, tilts it up a little further. ‘what’re ya doin’ back there, roy?’
‘nothin’ much,’ roy says. his teeth are pointed when he smiles. ‘just hanging around. you got a problem?’
‘i wouldn’t if i hadn’t heard a shot.’
‘you wanna hear another?’
‘hey. you know the rules.’
‘i do.’ roy says, and then looks at the car, and amelie, frozen beside it. ‘that’s a real nice car, sweet cheeks.’
‘lay off her.’
‘i might have to lay on her first.’ he grins, predatory.
tracer’s expression shifts into something darker; the gun rises. ‘sure you wanna go there?’
‘oh, honey. i’m already there.’
and then he pulls a gun and whirls and points it at tracer. she doesn’t even seem to move, but then there’s a blur and he’s on the ground and tracer’s foot is planted in his throat and tracer’s tossing his gun up and down.
‘roy? ya good there, mate?’
silence. the voice sounds suspicious when it asks, ‘roy? how ya doin’?’
‘shit.’ tracer whispers, peeking around the corner. ‘aight love, move your bottles.’
amelie blinks at her in confusion for a moment before squaring her jaw. she is a lacroix, and she will not be ordered around. ‘no.’
‘okay. then i’ll leave you to the fella with a mach, then.’
the footsteps are getting closer.
‘machine gun. get in the goddamn car.’
the guy rounds the corner, blinks stupidly, looks between roy’s unconscious figure and tracer, and then howls and raises the gun.
‘go!’ tracer yells, and amelie slams the accelerator.
the next morning is disorienting. amelie scrolls mindlessly through the endless points on her tablet, still trying to work out whether all of last night was a dream.
an article catches her eye; she clicks on it idly.
‘druglord killed in face-off in whitechapel with unknown shooter- the blood of three people was left on the scene, one of the man, mr. alwood, one of his guard, in critical condition from a gunshot wound, and the blood of the unknown shooter.’
it might be a coincidence, she thinks, and the internalised voice of her father is screaming at her no to go.
but because amelie lacroix has never listened to anyone, least of all her father, she does, pulling into a slot in a half-trashed car that she ‘borrows’ from the lot on fenchurch street.
the place is surrounded by yellow tape and blue-coated officers and distrustful eyes and amelie knows that tracer won’t be anywhere near.
so she drives.
she finds a seedy-looking alleyway, makes inquiries with a few sources. her father is a little more than just an honest businessman.
tracer is hidden inside a lair; the woman guarding it mutters a few words into a com, then frowns, evidently displeased, but waves her inside.
she travels down path after path in the twisting halls of the evidently enormous underground.
amelie finds tracer behind a sheet marked ‘307′, the familiar voice shouting obscenities.
amelie ducks around the sheet and sees a blonde tuft of hair and a lab coat and a lot of blood.
‘stay still, lena.’
‘well, i goddamn hope that- bollocks- dammit, angie, are you even trYING TO BE GENTLE-’
tracer- lena, apparently- stops short when she catches sight of amelie.
‘what the hell- fuck- are you- angie- what are you doing here?’
‘um.’ amelie says. ‘to thank you? i don’t- i’m not sure.’
tracer laughs, half-hysterical. ‘thank me? well, shit. wouldn’t have thought the princess would’ve summoned up the humility.’
amelie’s spine stiffens. ‘don’t call me that.’
lena yelps as the doctor plucks the last piece of- glass?- out of her stomach, and sighs, swabbing disinfectant over it and bandaging it.
‘stop getting into trouble,’ she warns, and then pulls on a new pair of gloves, pausing to study amelie for a quick moment.
‘if she dies, call me. or anyone. she does stupid things.’
‘like save both of your lives.’ lena says, and amelie does have to admit that’s a fair point.
angela sighs fondly and leaves, the curtain falling back. lena huffs.
she’s not wearing the goggles, her face small and naked without them, her brown eyes quizzical as they study amelie’s profile.
‘how’d you find this place?’
amelie laughs a little, humourlessly. she wishes she’d never come. ‘my father isn’t an angel.’
‘hey. if it makes you feel better, neither was mine. had a nasty habit of goin’ at it with people on top of tables.’
they sit in silence for a moment before she speaks again.
‘thank you. you saved my life.’
‘well, no shit. do i get a prize?’
‘i’ll kiss you,’ amelie fires back, and relishes in tracer’s shocked silence until she realises what she said.
‘i- did not mean to say that.’
‘well, no shit, sherlock.’ lena fires back, dissipating the awkwardness.
she sits there, and lena doesn’t question her presence. they bicker, and talk, and discuss the horridness of english food and traffic and lena complains about being shot.
the idea gets stuck in her head; kissing her. lena’s hair is soft, probably, her lips softer. amelie wonders. she went to an all-girls school; it was a common occurrence, but lena is different. they talk and they talk and they smile and amelie finds herself laughing (english humour is horrible but wonderful simultaneously) explosively, the opposite of prim and proper
the next time she checks her watch, it’s eleven. lena’s on painkillers now, a little drowsy, and as amelie rises to go, she grabs at her. amelie relinquishes her wrist to lena’s searching grasp, and her brown eyes blink up.