Chapter Text
December was an exhausting month, and Christmas an exhausting time. Angela could remember her immense excitement as a child for the seasonal markets, the lights, the brightly colored decor that adorned every home, shop, and building she passed, starkly contrasting the barren trees and dreadful dead land as winter gripped the earth in her cold and clawed grasp. She remembered being slightly afraid of both Samichlaus and Schmutzli, with telling men in long robes whether or not she’d met her elders’ expectations for the year being just a tad unsettling for her, but chocolate treats and a grittibänz always eased the fear. She recalled waiting patiently, or perhaps impatiently as she fidgeted quietly in her chair, for the unveiling of the tree on Christmas Eve, how in awe she was of its splendor, how she wanted to study her parents’ perfect placement of each piece of charming holiday cheer.
On and on her memory went to presents and places and people she loved, and on and on her recollections spun away in her head like sugar plum fairies dancing to songs sung by the dead. But even then, December was an exhausting month, and the work that piled up silenced those thoughts of Christmas past. The chill that settled in brought with it more injuries, silly slips on ice and complications caused by snow, while both festivities and missions took her friends and colleagues away from their posts, leaving her plate with more portions than she could stomach in one sitting. Angela didn’t mind the distraction.
Beyond that, there were lights to hang, gifts to purchase and wrap, cards to write, cookies to bake, parties to plan, all of the tiresome toiling behind anything fun she remembered from childhood. It was after a day of updating medical records, usually far below her level of responsibility, and a long night of tree decorating, that she walked alone back to her living quarters under dimmed Christmas lights stapled to the ceiling. The others assisting her in hanging sparkly ornaments and shiny garland on such a large tree had retreated to their beds far earlier, but she spent hours upon hours adjusting orbs between branches, trying to reach the bar of winter wonder her mother and father had set for her long ago.
Her eyes were stinging, her arms sore, her fingers pricked from evergreen needles. The scent had stuck to her sleeves, which she wanted gone, if only to keep herself from dreaming of decking endless halls during what little rest she got. A hot shower and a thick quilt awaited her, and the drained doctor sighed with relief as she rounded the final corner before her door.
There, on the cheerful welcome mat at her threshold, lay a paper package, classic and unassuming in its rectangle shape, likely left by Lena, Winston, perhaps Brigitte dropped something off from her family. Genji wasn’t the type to do such a thing, or maybe it was–
The string was tied too perfectly, its knot and loops too practiced and skillful. She stood over it now and stared, her brow furrowed and blue eyes annoyed. Looking over her shoulder, Angela scooped it up, unlocked the door, and slipped inside, dropping it unceremoniously on her small kitchen table.
Her stomach churned. Her chest ached like a rusty cog trying to turn after a century of unuse. Her lungs burned like dust in the heater during the first freeze of the season.
The water in the kitchen sink was freezing on her raw fingers, but still, she felt the need to scrub them clean. It soothed her, calmed her nerves, perhaps because it was routine before surgery. Angela dried her hands on a gingerbread hand towel and sat, folding them in her lap and glaring at the gift in front of her.
Her name, titled “Dr. Angela Ziegler,” and address were written on the side in a very familiar print that only brought the word “slender” to her mind, but there was no return address. One was not needed, and Angela knew whatever was inside, the sender hadn’t wanted it even able to be returned. How it even got here, she could not begin to imagine. Overwatch was strict with what went in and out the mailroom, so there was no way it simply bypassed security, but it wasn’t the first time, no.
Time passed, but it was impossible to say how much. She stayed sitting in that stiff chair, shifting between glaring at the handwriting and gazing at absolutely nothing at all, her thoughts flying through her options. She could open it. She could not open it. She could stick it in the oven at the highest setting and watch it burn and smoke until the automatic sprinklers turned on. She could throw it out the window. She could take it to bed, cradle it in her arms, and kiss it softly like a newborn babe until Christmas Eve or longer.
With the last choice so pitiful, Angela decided to open it. Carefully, she pulled the bow undone, letting the red string fall loose, and tried ever so gently not to rip the paper as it came apart. Inside was a simple box of holiday plaid which she was sure she had once seen on a handsome tie, but she wasted no time in lifting the lid.
The smell that wafted from its contents made her eyelids flutter shut. It didn’t fill the room or make her queasy from its strength, as it was really quite subtle, but the scent was one she chased in her memory on particularly lonely nights. Other times, when she happened to be blessed, or cursed, to come into contact with it, the article of clothing it stuck to remained unwashed for much too long, draped over the edge of her bed or on the floor. It was obvious, then, that Angela hated it. She really hated it.
With a deep breath, she forced her eyes open again to peer inside and pick up a note at the very top. Angela shook her head slowly as she read:
Angela,
While visiting a quaint shop near my old home, I happened across a lovely set of sweaters that struck me almost violently as you. I decided upon the one that would suit both your style and personal color preference best. Grand, don’t you think? Perhaps when you dress yourself in something that made me think of you, you shall think of me.
Nollaig shona dhuit.
Yours,
Moira
The entire letter, smelling of wine, oranges, star anise, and cinnamon, was in her usual print, the same as the outside of the package, except her signature, which was nearly intelligible, but Angela could have picked it out from a million prescriptions written by a million different doctors.
What a stupid thing for Moira to have done. What a stupid thing for her to have opened it.
She tossed the paper aside, fighting stronger emotion, and dug for the sweater, holding it out in front of her.
Cable-knit and wicker. Simple but sophisticated. Comfortable but proper.
Angela hated it. It was perfect.
She hugged it to her face, pressed her nose into it, and breathed, laughing softly at the realization that this was the source of Moira’s scent. Gentle notes of clean peppermint from her beautifully masculine cologne emanated from the wool that scratched at her skin, and she pressed it closer, smushed herself further into its fibers, until her eyes welled up with tears. The laugh turned then into a quiet sob as she dropped her head onto the table and nestled her body as well as she could into the jumper.
It smelled like more than her cologne, really. It carried Moira, her natural musk, and Angela wondered if she’d put it on and worn it about just for that. The mental image made her giggle, knowing the sleeves and torso were much too short for that lanky thing, but Moira had done it for her, probably knowing she would end up cuddling it like a pet with a pair of shoes of their preferred person.
Eventually, she straightened herself out, sniffling all the while, and smoothed the sweater out again for one final look before she slipped it over her head. It fit her wonderfully, but Angela already knew that.
As her chair scooted back while she stood, Angela spotted another paper at the bottom of the box and gingerly fished it out. Written in that same hand, it read:
P.S. I do hope it keeps you warm. I also wanted to inform you that on the last day of the year, I shall be in Basel. Once, I received a magical kiss from a girl as the fireworks lit the Rhine, and I’m afraid it haunts me to this very day. I must return, and so I booked a highly recommended dinner on one of the boats that floats down the river. But the reservation was only available for two, and I am just one. Would you perhaps fancy a trip back home?
Angela pinched the bridge of her nose and slouched back into her seat. Of course, Moira would do this. She would set up some lovely trap in her home country that Angela could easily excuse herself to, that Angela would love to go back to, to see her of all people. There were so many reasons to show… and yet so many reasons to say no. She hated her, for one, and if anyone caught them, to say it could end poorly would be an understatement. But that was part of the fun, wasn’t it? And part of the heartache.
Christmas itself was still some days away, so there was time to decide. The good doctor pulled the collar of the sweater up over her nose and shut her eyes, picturing Moira scribbling these little letters and assembling her present, either smirking to herself in hubris or her face set in stone as she focused on something so important. Then she could see her red and blue eyes light up as she opened a gift from Angela, maybe some handsome accessory like a silver pocket watch or an old edition of a poetry collection. Those were only her first ideas, but perhaps she could do better, something Moira would hate just as much, if not more, than Angela despised the sweater.
Another thing to add to her December list, it seemed. She pulled her knees to her chest and curled in on herself, hiding the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. Oh, how excited she was for December to be over.