Widowmaker is taken aback by how easy it feels to walk beside Tracer. The ever-present familiarity gnaws persistently at her edges, and she has to beat back the instinct to whirl on any sudden movement in her periphery. So perhaps easy isn't the right way to describe it, but it certainly isn't as dreadful as she'd expected it to be.

For her part, the tiny Brit has remained unusually quiet in comparison to her near-constant chirp and drawl. Perhaps the silence is what Widowmaker is truly comfortable with. So she tells herself. She wonders what's got Tracer's tongue, though she knows she should simply be enjoying the respite. She studies the smaller woman out of the corner of her eye. Her hands are jammed in the pockets of the tragically threadbare grey hoodie draped over narrow shoulders. The chestnut tufts of hair crowning her head stick up even more wildly than usual, as impossible as it may seem. Widowmaker saw her tugging at it worriedly while doing recon prior to their rendezvous at the café.

She might inquire, she might not. Widowmaker isn't really sure what to make of any of it. As much as she relishes the sudden peace and quiet, it is jarringly out of character for Tracer.

She fixates on her companion's silence, although she still hasn't figured out why she cares. It's an anomaly, to be certain; anomalies can be dangerous. It's entirely possible she's being led into a trap.

Perhaps guilt is claiming the diminutive Overwatch agent, having cast her lot in with one of the most-wanted criminals on the earth. Perhaps she wrestles with second thoughts. That seems incredibly likely. The risk that Talon's programming will override their tenuous alliance isn't a small one. Still, Widowmaker cannot deny that her stomach drops a fraction at the thought.

She worries her lower lip with meticulously-whitened teeth before remembering her lipstick. She smooths a thumb over, hoping that the purple skin beneath remains concealed. The words nip at the back of her throat, aggravatingly simple. She nibbles at a cuticle, willing them forth. To no avail.

Fortunately, a pair of doe-brown eyes turned toward her sympathetically curtail her stumbling thoughts entirely.

"Bet this is a real sight for ya, eh luv?" Tracer says wearily, though not without a dose of cheer. Her voice is far more measured than is typical, however. Widowmaker can't help the slightest quirk of her lips in return.

"There is much on your mind, I assume?" She asks simply, grateful for the silence to have been broken.

Tracer rolls her shoulders. Widowmaker follows the lithe movement. The primitive beginnings of a memory summon a flash of compact muscle rippling beneath alabaster skin, sprayed with freckles. She looks at her feet. One in front of the other.

"I feel like that might be a given, yeah?" The tiny Brit quips, hands still balled in the pockets of her hoodie. "Didn't even think I'd get this far. Don't 'ave a plan, now that you're 'ere. Not trying to kill me."

Widowmaker raises her eyebrows at that. Tracer laughs, loudly and earnestly.

"I know, I know. I've 'ad so much time." She says, shaking her head. "For all the times I've fantasized about this, too. Maybe that's why I dunno what to do, yeah? Too much expectation."

The Frenchwoman averts her eyes down the boulevard. She is unsure of what to say. She certainly cannot relate. Fantasy is a flight of fancy she is unable to justify. She needs to know what to expect as concrete fact, not muddy the waters of reality or probability with haphazard daydreams. Not that she wouldn't like to; time would certainly pass much more quickly and pleasurably, were she able to selectively pluck herself from the present. It simply isn't something she is able to do. It must be easy for Tracer, though, if her mind moves as tangentially as her lissome little frame does through time and space.

"I didn't expect I'd ever stop fighting you." Widowmaker admits. "Yet here we are."

"'Ere we are." Tracer echoes.

They lapse into silence, the only sound shared between them the sound of their shoes on the pavement. Widowmaker's heels click sharply in contrast to the muted scuffle of trainers. Their elbows brush occasionally; innocuously. It is still enough to breathe life into Widowmaker's nerves. The contact spurs nearly-painful crackles of energy through her frozen body. She keeps her gaze dutifully trained ahead.

"So, ah." Tracer interrupts, her voice apologetic. "You said you remember us."

"Oui." Widowmaker responds, hazarding a glance at the shorter woman beside her. Molten brown eyes meet sharp gold, cautiously curious.

"Can I ask what exactly it is you remembered?" Tracer asks. "If ya don't feel like sharin', I understand. I just wanted to know what brought ya 'round."

Widowmaker can't help the smirk that curls the edges of her lips.

"Ilios. The inn." She says simply. Tracer's cheeks turn a very sudden, possibly alarming shade of pink. The flush rolls heat from the Brit in waves, and Widowmaker takes a deep breath she doesn't need.

"Oh." Tracer chokes out, rubbing the back of her neck, tugging at the wispy hair there. "Okay. I 'spose that'd do it, yeah."

Widowmaker's gaze rakes up and down the stammering, blushing little thing before her. The Tracer she recalls now was a far cry from this. All lazy movement and sinewy power, self-assured to a fault as they tangled themselves around one another.

Although, now that she thinks about it, there were moments of stammering and blushing. Decidedly more cursing, however.

Tracer clears her throat. The rosiness still clings to her freckled cheeks, but her eyes are a touch clearer.

"And that was enough to make you wanna change?" She asks. Widowmaker frowns. Change?

The brunette appears to recognize her misstep and raises her hands, apologetic. Widowmaker purses her lips.

"I am curious. Nothing more." She says, assuming a brisk tone. "I am… different than you. Or any other human, I would assume. But I wish for autonomy. I was someone, once. Someone that I no longer am. This… Amélie, she is gone. But she made choices, non? She chose to love you."

Tracer winces, just the barest amount, but nods for Widowmaker to continue.

"I have not considered that there might be choices that yet remain to be made. Perhaps the thought interests me. I had not considered it." She says, scratching the insides of her palms lightly. "Not until you reminded me that once, I did have a choice. And you are the only one to extend their hand. I have not been able to discern if that means anything, but it is a better offer than I can ever recall receiving."

They've stopped walking. Tracer's jaw flexes as she combs through what's been said. As if by reflex, Widowmaker lifts a hand to graze the pads of her fingers coolly across the sharp angle of her jawbone. A warm breath flutters against her wrist at the contact. She does not miss that Tracer's eyes have grown nearly black, and she feels a slight tug deep in the pit of her stomach.

"Et je ne me sens pas la moitié comme mort quand je suis avec vous."

"I don't speak French, luv." Tracer murmurs, heavy-lidded. Widowmaker's fingers slip from her jaw to gently ghost over parted lips, almost impossibly warm to touch. She is not sure what spurs her forward, to touch this woman, her most dogged adversary, in such a gentle way. It is a gentleness that she isn't able to rationalize. Something she shouldn't even be capable of. Amélie touched Tracer like this. Far too soft. Wistful fingers twitching over expanses of pale, warm skin. The touch is full of something that does not make sense to Widowmaker. But still, she traces the bow of an upper lip, reverent, on pure instinct. Instinct makes sense to her. She can work with this, for now.

"We should find somewhere private so that we may speak at length, non?" Widowmaker murmurs, eyes raking over her quarry. Her savior. Her worst nightmare. Tracer shudders, pulling back. She says nothing, eyeing the assassin carefully with shadowed pupils. Widowmaker wonders if she did something wrong. She cannot tell. Then, a rasping cockney accent cuts through the weighty silence.

"Yeah. I know just the place."