Work Text:
Defeat—it was a word Angela was well acquainted with.
Working as a field medic can do that to a person, and so even when she wasn’t patching up others, she would be holed up in her room or office reading papers and adding improvements and repairs to the Caduceus Staff; to be better the next time around.
It wasn’t easy. It never was, but this was the path she chose to take (and usually, she thinks, she never feels as fulfilled compared to the moments in the battlefield, healing people who have sworn to protect others.) But years of lost comrades and civilians she could not save has taken its toll on her. She wears a mask every morning and she has forgotten when she ever put up the facade in the first place.
That is easier, rather than succumbing to the pain. She does not need the pity, and she knows that she cannot save everyone (but she tries—oh, she tries.)
Hope is something Angela has in spades, but her resolve cracks at times. She is only human, and she can only do so much.
In her youth, she never took too much to going outside. Her friends had understood her focus and determination but had always insisted they be joined by her, nonetheless. Months and years passed since she first began in her pursuit in medicine, and she became more immersed in her work. She was always one of the few people to leave the academe and hospital the last, and there were days when she wouldn’t leave at all.
Day in and day out, she would try to save people. Sometimes she succeeded. Sometimes, she failed. Every time the latter happens, it gets harder to sleep. Harder to think about where she went wrong. Harder to think about what their loved ones would feel. Harder to sleep knowing that someone had died by her hands; dreaming of gunshots and explosions and distant screaming when she wishes she could help those afar, but someone is always suffering. Her hands occasionally tremble whenever an operation finishes.
She is a doctor, and her feelings cannot compromise the procedure and the life of others.
During fights, she has lost the initial shock of firing a gun. One life taken, more lives saved. It was a mantra that she had always repeated in her mind whenever she wielded the pistol. Sometimes the lines blur between wanting to save someone and wanting to do what is right. Late at night she thinks of morality. Whose side is the right one? Why must people always resort to violence?
(People are always fighting for what they think is right, she thinks, but they never really think of the repercussions of their actions before it’s too late.)
She ponders about all of these things and wonders if perhaps it was hypocritical considering her line of work; if she is one of the cogs in the system that help drive this continuous violence. Still, she is a victim of war, orphaned at a young age and left with a passion to save others when no one could save her own parents.
It is the thought that lingers more and drives her to remain in her field, and it is a reason for her to wake up every morning. But every day, in a way, the motivation wanes and some days she is left wandering the halls of whatever facility she’s in, unable to get a wink of sleep.
She considers consulting a professional; in a way, she does, consoling herself with a bottle of Pinot Noir and working herself to sleep.
These last couple of days, Overwatch has been faced with defeat left and right, and she partly blames herself for the failures in their battles. If she had been quicker with the staff, or went to this agent rather than the other one, perhaps things might have gone differently. She shakes her head and breaks her train of thought. Lingering in the past won’t change the future, and so she works tirelessly for days.
This cycle continues until Winston knocks lightly on her office door. He knows not to disturb her and he respects her dedication to her research. She knows he is familiar with that feeling—of reaching out to a new breakthrough, knowing it is within reach and it is so, so close and that if one takes a break then that feeling may be lost forever.
“Come in.” Her voice is hoarse and she contemplates about grabbing a glass of water or two. Maybe later.
The door creaks open and Winston walks carefully, avoiding the piles of paper laid on the ground and boxes of documents. “Thank you for letting me in. I know that you’re, well,” he looks at all the papers, pushes up his glasses, and continues, “busy, but we have a new recruit and I was thinking that perhaps you might like to meet her. Show her the ropes, if you will.”
Angela doesn’t know if this is just a ploy to get her out of the office, but she closes her eyes, blinking away the sting of staring too long at the screen. The words have become blurry and she thinks that it’s a good idea.
From afar, she sees a tall and lean woman. Her shoulders are broad and her stance stiff. She reminds her of someone; a person with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue.
“Over here!” Winston calls out. The figure turns around and jogs lightly towards them. She comes to a stop when she comes near them and Angela can see tattoo running below her right eye and cheek. Even more familiar. “Meet Doctor Angela Ziegler: the best doctor around. I’m sure you already know each other.”
“Please, just call me Angela. I’m afraid Winston is overestimating my capabilities. Again.” She laughs then, and extends a hand to the woman. They shake hands and she sees bright, brown eyes. “It’s so nice to see you again, Fareeha.
(Distantly, Angela remembers both of them in their youth, with optimism enough to overwhelm the scarred, older soldiers in their bases.)
“Angela,” she says enthusiastically, “it’s great to see you here as well. But I hardly think it's an overestimation. You've done so much good here.” Winston nods in agreement. “Overwatch is lucky to have you,” she adds as an afterthought.
Angela’s mind is suddenly crossed with bombs and shrapnel; screaming people begging for her to take their lives and end the pain. Her jaw clenches and she reverts back. Not good. Not good at all.
“I’m glad that you think that way,” the doctor ends up saying. She clicks away at the pen inside the pocket of her large laboratory coat. A nervous tick that she never did get rid of. “I can show you around this Watchpoint if you’d like?”
Yes, that is for the better, Angela thinks. She can distract herself this way as well.
Fareeha seems to agree as her eyes widen like a child in a candy store. “I would love to.”
She remembers the first time she was brought to one of the better Overwatch bases. They were still trying to win her over, and the facilities made her heart flip. The possibilities, she used to think. How naïve, she was.
“Okay then.” Winston clasps his hands and straightens his back. “You’re in good hands, Fareeha. I guess I’ll leave you to it.” His heavy footsteps echo for a while before it fades away completely.
“Which area would you like to go to first?”
Fareeha’s mouth opens but is overshadowed by the ever so quiet grumbling of her stomach.
The corner of her lips turn upwards and Fareeha scratches at her neck, cheeks reddening slightly from embarrassment. “Why don’t we go get lunch first? I’m sure you’re hungry from your travel.”
“That would be great. Thank you, Angela.” She says her name, and it seems like yesterday when she last saw her. The doctor rather likes the way she says it, and her eyes are shining again (almost as bright as those ornaments on her hair), and Angela feels refreshed from the sight of the new face.
Click, click, click, the pen goes.
***
Left over pasta from yesterday was quickly eaten by the woman (whether it was from the excitement in wanting to see the facilities or in her hunger, Angela was unsure), and they walk over to the training grounds.
Angela was never one for small talk, but she could try. “If I may ask, where were you stationed before here?” She hasn’t read her file yet, and maybe that’s for the best. It was always better finding out things from the people themselves.
“I was in the army for a while and then recruited by a private security firm. But I’ve always wanted to join Overwatch ever since I was a kid.”
“I’m sure you did. You were quite enthusiastic, even back then.” Fareeha was, but Angela didn’t want to mention the fact that the woman’s mother was against her being actively on duty.
She pauses as if lost in thought. “Have you ever thought of joining? Even before they contacted you, I mean.”
They were in the left wing now. Closer to their destination. The hum of the exhausts are distracting at best, but it is still enough for her to have a decent conversation. “I honestly didn’t think to. I just wanted to help save lives. That’s what I’ve always wanted.” She thinks about the younger Angela and how she would react to Mercy. Would she be proud?
Fareeha follows by her side and nods. “That’s honorable.”
“Sometimes.”
A beat. She feels a hand on her shoulder and she stops walking. Fareeha stares at her—really stares at her—and she thinks of how she can get lost in those eyes. (Dangerous thoughts, she thinks. Stop, stop, stop.)
No word comes out of the soldier, but she simply squeezes her arm and pats her on the back. She wonders if that gesture was a consoling one in the military. She takes a large breath of the fresh air and they continue walking.
They can see the training bots now and a couple of shooting ranges. Fareeha almost bounces towards the training grounds and she only lets out a “go ahead” before the woman rushes. “Be careful!” She says, walking towards her at a slower pace.
Fareeha turns back and smiles, almost too bright under the sun. “I will!”
This woman is dangerous, she thinks.
***
It turns out that she really is dangerous.
Or at least Pharah is, wielding the rocket launcher with perhaps too much accuracy for a projectile weapon. Sometimes, she still sees the young kid during the calmer Overwatch gatherings. Other times, she sees the Ana Amari whenever her brows crease and her eyes squint. All those thoughts go, however, when the sound of a rocket whirls in the air and crashes upon impact, or when they make small talk in the common areas while reading books and magazines in silence. In the end, she figures, Fareeha is still her own person.
The first time they work together, her body is covered heavily with bulky metal plates and her face protected with a falcon-like helmet. Her eyes peak out barely when her head is tilted at an angle, and she has never seen the Egyptian more at ease than when she takes flight.
“I will protect the innocent!” When Pharah says it, she is bright and confident—ready to take on the world. Mercy has never seen someone so positively fixated in a mission (perhaps only rivaled by Tracer, but even she gets distracted at times.)
The mission briefing was a few days ago, and Fareeha spent days looking at maps of the mission location, thinking of strategies and possible areas of attack; where best to flank and where to retreat in the worst of scenarios.
Her effort, in the end, came into fruition. They manage to apprehend the people delivering the payload and the shipments, and people congratulate her on her first mission (in Overwatch, at least.) She bears the full brunt of Reinhardt’s friendly smack on the shoulder particularly well, and Angela can see her being more accustomed to the people here.
“Got your aim from your mom, I see,” Soldier 76 says approvingly.
Fareeha visibly becomes rigid (or more rigid than she already is) and Angela faintly notices the strong jaw clench. “Thanks,” she manages to get out.
Soldier 76 nods and goes back to his own quarters, not bothering to join the rest of the group in their celebration. He waves off another invitation. “Maybe next time. I need some rest.”
“Are you alright, Fareeha?” She comes closer to the armored woman.
“Oh, Doctor Ziegler,” she thumbs at the gold ornaments and despite the bulkiness of the Raptora Mark VI suit, she still manages to look soft. “I am doing well. A couple of bruises here and there but I’ll manage.”
Mercy tilts her head over to Reinhardt. “You’ll probably have one from that man over there.”
Fareeha lets out a small laugh. “It is fine. I feel welcomed.”
With a little more thought, Mercy wordlessly places thumb on the hinge of her arm that is left exposed; a cinch in her armor. “Let’s get you patched up, shall we?”
The woman looks like she's against it, perhaps about to say that her wounds were no big deal, but she simply nods and follows her.
“Don’t you want to celebrate with the others?” Fareeha asks.
“Do you?”
The medical bay is only a few minutes from where they were dropped off, and Fareeha mulls about it for a second. “I can wait. I’ve always wanted to see you work your magic first hand.”
“It isn’t magic,” she huffs.
Fareeha smiles and glides a hand on her arm. Goosebumps rise on her skin and she thanks the suit she’s wearing for not making it apparent. “I am only jesting, doctor. I know how hard you work.” She squeezes lightly. “You do it so well.”
She reddens far too much for a simple comment and lowers her gaze. “I hope you know that flattery won’t get you any special treatment.”
She releases her arm then and laughs. Angela rather likes the sound. (Oh no.) “It won’t?” She says it in a playful tone, and Angela pushes the sudden thoughts that come her way.
They reach the medical bay and thankfully, Pharah removes the armor one by one and sets it carefully to the ground. The medic lets out a relieved sigh as she removes pieces of the Valkyrie Suit and stretches, grabbing a woolen sweater across a chair and pulling it over her undershirt.
She turns back and sees the white of Fareeha’s tank top reddened at some parts and she is suddenly reminded of how stubborn some soldiers can be. ‘It’s alright, doc.' (It usually wasn’t.) “Mein Gott, Fareeha, this is not nothing.” She manages to get the injured woman to sit and grabs some disinfectant at her table. “Can you take off your shirt?”
“So direct, Doctor Ziegler.” Angela is glad that she can still find humor even if she is bleeding. She doesn’t return the quip. Right now, she is a doctor and she is her patient. The white tank top goes up and she can see a sports bra across her chest. (Of course she would be wearing that—why would she assume something different in the first place?)
There are small bruises all over her torso and abrasions at some parts of her skin. “How could you not have said anything about this sooner,” she berates her while cleaning the wounds. Fareeha doesn’t flinch, managing to sit up straight, even.
“There were other people that needed your assistance more than I needed yours,” her voice is quiet, and she can feel her muscles tensing when she places the gauze on her skin. Her skin is taut, and Angela is professional enough to not let her eyes stray.
Shaking her head, she secures the bandages and hands Fareeha one of her shirts she keeps here just in case. It is a bright, blue shirt, and when Fareeha wears it, she can’t help but feel an ache in her chest.
She takes a deep breath. “The injuries aren’t that deep, but they’ll heal soon enough. I won’t be using the fast acting healing.” Her eyes gaze at the shelves and she sighs. “I’m afraid we still have to wait for more supplies, and I can’t risk using it for this case.”
“I understand,” she says and stands up. “I promise not to be so careless the next time around.” All that’s lacking is a salute and Angela thinks that this is how she usually talks to her superiors.
“That’s good to hear.” She folds her suit neatly and sets it down her table.
Fareeha looks at her carefully. “Have you no injuries that need tending to?”
She sets down the Caduceus Staff on her desk and she leans back against it. “Luckily, the team gave me enough cover so that I was able to go mostly unscathed. I have bruises. Just contusions, but nothing major like yours.”
“Are you sure?” The other woman looks worried, and Angela thinks that it has been a long time since someone has fussed over her.
“Positively. Come on, now,” she assures. She gets her keys and places her palm at the back of the soldier’s tense back. “It’s my job to watch over all of you.”
“Then who takes care of you?”
A pause. “I take care of myself.” It has always been the case. At the end of the day, it was always her, and her alone (and sometimes a good bottle of wine if it was one of those days.)
“But we are a team,” she insists.
“Yes,” she says. “You protect me, and I take care of you.”
Her brows furrow, and Angela wonders how the action looks endearing. “That is in the battle, though.”
A gear moves in her head and things click. “Are you—are you asking me if I’m with anyone?”
Cheeks blush and she gestures with her hands. “Well—no, not exactly. I didn’t mean it like that.” She fiddles with the end of the blue shirt. “It is your personal life, and I shouldn’t exactly be prying,” she continues.
Angela settles herself on the desk and sits on a corner with the least amount of things on it. “Well, if you must know,” she says, “there isn’t anyone.”
Her eyes widen then, looking as if she were utterly surprised. “But you’re so—well,” she doesn’t continue the sentence, and instead gestures a hand to point at the doctor. She supposes it was a compliment, in a way.
“I’m afraid that work has always been a priority, and I just never got around to dating much, is all.” It is true (but not wholly, she thinks.) “And you?”
Fareeha looks down then, toes curling inside her black socks. “I guess I’m the same. Climbing up the ranks seemed much more appealing than blind dates.”
She laughs, acknowledging the awkwardness of when she had once been set up. “That is true.”
A silence passes by them and she decides to shake the set of keys in her hand. Fareeha looks up and nods. They exit the medical bay and the footsteps that echo across the hallways seem lighter, somehow.
***
Fareeha looks as if she’s more at home in the Overwatch base.
Ever since Fareeha has found out about the location of her office, she is often visited by the woman and berated whenever she skips a meal. Her words always go along the lines of: ‘You are a doctor, are you not?’ and ‘Please take care of yourself well.’ On days when she felt particularly stubborn, she would find the Egyptian and a plate of food in tow.
She doesn’t deny the fact that she enjoys the care. She enjoys it a little too much than she should be, she thinks.
Angela often sees her talking to Soldier 76 about battle tactics over in the kitchen, or challenging Reinhardt in the training rooms whenever she felt like it. “I guess I am not as young as I used to be,” Reinhardt mumbles after a particularly grueling challenge.
“That was fun, though,” she says, panting in exhaustion.
“That, it was! Until next time,” his voice booms and he shakes her hand, skipping off to the showers.
Angela has been watching their interaction for a while now, and she comes nearer, walking with a bottle of water and handing it out to the brunette. “I hope you aren’t pushing yourself too hard. Your wounds still have to heal,” she says, prodding at her side in a place that she knows doesn’t have any wounds.
She mutters a soft thank you, before drinking the water. (A little bit of liquid runs down the side of her mouth and in a moment, Angela is distracted with the way the water runs down the side of her mouth and onto her chin; the way her muscles move, skin glinting from sweat.) She places the cap back at the mouth of the bottle and she sighs in relief. “Doctor, you are too kind.”
Angela probably is (although she’ll deny that it is anything else.) “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be relocated back to Switzerland.” She doesn’t know why she’s sharing this piece of information. She hasn’t even told anyone yet since she found out, but maybe she just wanted to say it to a friend. Yes, a friend.
“Oh,” she says. Her voice is even, and Angela can’t read the emotion put forth by the soldier.
She sits beside her at the bench and she drinks at her own bottle of water. “I’ll be going two days from now.”
“That’s awfully early,” she says and thumbs at the built up condensation on the bottle.
“I suppose it is.”
Fareeha finishes the water before speaking, wiping at her mouth first. “I’ll try to visit.”
A beat. “Thank you.”
***
Torbjörn wipes a mock tear from his eye, and Reinhardt and Lena give her bear hugs.
“I'm gonna miss you, love!” Lena squeezes and lets go, beaming at her.
“Me too,” Reinhardt releases her from his hold as well. His beard felt scruffy against her face and she scratches against her cheek lightly.
Fareeha is left standing awkwardly at the side, and she palms against her neck. “I was never really good with good byes,” she says. The soldier gives her a lopsided smile, and Angela can only think of the times Ana left the young Amari to serve for her country and for Overwatch.
“I’ll keep in touch,” she replies, and pulls Fareeha into a hug. She feels warm and solid, and places both of her arms around the doctor. She lets go before it lingers too long, and she waves and says her farewells.
She smiles at all of them, entering the airship with her bags at her side.
The trip back to her apartment is quiet, and she feels tired when she gets to the bed.
Sleep finds her, but she wakes and falls asleep throughout the night sporadically.
***
A few weeks in her stay, she makes the mistake of contacting a friend with her home number. The moment that they find out about her arrival, they pull her out of her apartment and into the chilly night air. They put her in a red dress and a coat, and she feels as if she’s far too old for this kind of thing. They end up in one of the more flamboyant bars in Zürich, and Angela daydreams of being back at her apartment and working.
“Loosen up,” she faintly hears. Of course, she tries.
They sit in a booth and Angela is hyperaware of the things that are happening across the bar. Perhaps it is the intuition she has gained from being a field medic, but she sees the faint movements and the subtle cues from the different people as they come and leave the place.
She almost calls it a night before she sees a familiar figure. Surely, it isn’t her. They’ve been sending each other pleasantries via electronic mail, but it has been a couple of busy weeks and communication hasn’t been as continuous as before. Before it stopped, however, Fareeha has been mentioning something about possible breaks. I’ll try to visit you when I can. (Angela pretends to not be so affected by those words.)
As she tilts her head more and stares harder, it is her, wearing a plain shirt inside a leather jacket, and tight jeans. Angela has half a mind to stride quickly to the other woman, but she retains composure easily enough and she excuses herself from her table.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says.
Fareeha turns around so fast that she thinks that the woman might have had slight whiplash from the sudden movement. “Angela!” She exclaims. Her eyes are wide and she grabs at her exposed, pale shoulders. “I was going to call you tomorrow but it seems like fate has other plans.” She grins. “It’s good to see you.”
“It is good to see you, too.” Angela sits on the stool beside Fareeha and in the corner of her eye, she sees her friends doing a thumbs up sign. She sighs and waves them off, hoping that they’d get the message (and hopefully avoid asking questions.)
She notices Fareeha follow her sight to the people she came here with, but she immediately turns her head back to the doctor. “The taxi driver was kind enough to drop me here when I said I wanted a drink but I didn’t expect this place to be—”
“A gay bar?” There were plenty of those here in Zürich, and whether it was an honest mistake by the driver or something they had done in purpose, Angela was still glad. There were couples making out in some of the corners in the place, and with the decor and a neon sign of 'This is a gay bar,' in German, it was probably obvious. (She doesn’t know the extent of Fareeha’s military training, and she doesn’t know if the soldier knows even a lick of German.)
She sips the colorful drink and Angela wonders how something so casual could look formal when she does it. “Well, yes.”
“Are you uncomfortable? Being here, I mean.” She moves in her seat and fiddles with the strap of her purse.
Fareeha shrugs and reclines in her seat, looking more at ease since she came here. “Not at all. I’d be quite hypocritical if that were the case.”
Her ears redden and she orders a martini from the bar. If she was going to keep the younger woman company, she might as well do it with a drink (just for that purpose, of course.)
“It’s alright if you went back to your friends. I was just about drink a bit more and find a hotel to stay at.”
Angela’s eyebrows rise and she shakes her head. “My place is just close. I’d be happy to let you stay for a while.” She sets down the finished martini and places a bill for the payment. “Plus, I was planning on going home early as well.”
“Why, Doctor Ziegler, are you taking me back to your place?” She’s smirking and her skin is just tinged red a right amount; tipsy, and not completely drunk.
“I guess I am.”
Both of them hold the eye contact before Fareeha breaks it, paying for her drinks and grabbing her bag. “Shall we go?”
***
Angela regrets not cleaning up.
Although the apartment isn’t a complete mess, her workspace is full of tubes, containers, and papers. So much scattered papers. There are pieces of books and used coats lying around and she picks them up quickly, placing them by a table to fix later.
“Here we are. Make yourself at home.” She sets down the keys on the table and takes off her coat. “The bathroom is just down the hall.”
Fareeha shuts the door and enters the apartment, placing her bag on the couch. “Thank you. I didn’t realize it before, but I am quite tired,” she yawns, settling against the cushions of the couch and sprawls against it. Before she can fall asleep, she feels a soft tap against her shoulder. The blonde lifts her up with a strength the soldier didn’t know she had in the first place, and ushers her inside her own room.
Fareeha’s eyes widen, and Angela cuts her off before misunderstandings occur. “You,” she points, “are my guest. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
She hurries out of the room before Fareeha can say anything else, and places an extra blanket and a pillow on the couch. The soldier goes out of her room and crosses her arms. “It’ll be bad for your back,”
“Fareeha, I’m not that old.” At that, the soldier laughs lightly. “You can have the bed. Doctor’s orders,” she says with a smile. It isn’t serious, and the woman seems to understand.
She uncrosses her arms and sighs, running a hand through her hair. (How a simple action can be so attractive, Angela isn’t sure, but she averts her gaze anyway.) “Have a good night, Angela.”
“Good night, Fareeha.”
She changes into her sleepwear quickly and as she passes by the bedroom, she sees Fareeha, already asleep.
***
The doctor’s whole body jolts, and she finds her body covered with a light sheen of sweat. She faintly remembers the nightmare. She remembers her parents, and she remembers loud sirens and explosions.
She sits up and wipes away the sweat that had collected. There’s a routine to these types of dreams. It happens sometimes, and depending on the days are the clarity and intensity of the nightmares. In the most comfortable of nights, she is reminded of her most unwanted memories.
As she walks to the kitchen, she doesn’t expect to see Fareeha wearing a flimsy tank top and grey, cloth pants. She seems to have changed from yesterday’s clothing, and is leaning against the granite of her kitchen countertop with her hip, hands wrapped around a glass full of water.
When she sees the doctor, she looks down and breathes sharply. “I’m sorry for waking you.”
“Don’t worry,” she assures, and grabs a cup of her own. She gets a teabag and some honey, and turns on the heat for the water. “Rough night?” She checks the watch. It’s only been a couple of hours since they returned back to her apartment, and the sky is still pitch black.
“Yes,” she sighs out.
The kitchen light illuminates her tired features, and the lines of worry etched on Fareeha’s face. “Do you want to talk about it?” She might as well ask the question, because Angela thinks that she won’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon.
The soldier sets down her glass and takes a deep breath. “Just the usual nightmares. Things that happened before.”
Fareeha doesn’t say more, and she doesn’t prod further. She wordlessly nods and goes to her refrigerator, handing the other woman a bar of chocolate.
Dark eyebrows raise. “Chocolate always makes me feel better somehow.” Angela looks at the packaging. It was one of the better ones here, and she thought that the other woman might appreciate it. (It was far too early for wine, anyway.)
Fareeha lets out a breath and returns the smile, chipping off a piece and popping one into her mouth. She makes a noise akin to a groan and Angela resists the urge redden. “This is really good,” she says, covering her mouth while she said so. “It’s familiar, somehow.”
Angela remembers a time when she gifted Swiss chocolate to fellow Overwatch members and nods. “Perhaps your mom brought some for you when she returned home.”
The other woman breathes sharply. “Yes, I remember.” She fills up the glass with more water and drinks up.
“Your mother was a very dedicated soldier,” she says almost absentmindedly. Ana was determined, and even when one mission was finished she would continue still until her body was the one that gave up.
Fareeha mutters. “I wish she was as dedicated as to being a good mother.”
Before she could think of a response, a ding sounds for the heated water, and Angela pours some into the cup. The steam rose and she blew at them, and she sees the soldier cracking another piece of chocolate into her mouth. “Do you like them?”
“I like them very much, yes.” Fareeha’s gaze flickers to the cup and to her lips, and Angela thanks the steam for covering the red of her cheeks.
“I’ll remember that.”
A beat. “Doctor.”
“Yes?”
Her head tilts, and the tips of her hair barely graze at prominent collarbones. “At first I thought you woke because of me, but is that the reason?”
She contemplates for a while and sips at the tea. “No,” she replies. “I had nightmares as well.”
Fareeha is silent, and she assumes that it’s a signal for her to continue.
“It’s difficult sometimes, to be a doctor.”
“You can’t save everyone,” Fareeha says.
Angela rubs at the ceramic cup for warmth and sighs. “Sadly, yes. Sometimes I doubt if I’m really making a difference being at Overwatch.”
A hand reaches up to her own, and Angela can only think of how warm Fareeha’s hand is. “Then don’t spread yourself too thin.”
“I wish I could,” she whispers. Fareeha is close now, and she can see those bright, brown of her eyes as clearly as she could be. She sets down the tea on the countertop, and she knows she’ll regret this sooner or later, but she places her palm softly on the back of Fareeha’s neck.
“Angela?” Her jaw is slack, but she doesn’t move. “What are you doing?”
She hardly thinks that finding comfort in this way would be the right thing to do; late at night with her temple still throbbing from the dreams. (It’s the way Fareeha stares at her; striking eyes that somehow break her walls and make her feel things she hasn’t felt in a long time.) “I don’t know,” she says. “Why don’t you tell me?” She’s a coward. She always has been. Her hold is loose enough that it’s easy for the woman to step away if she chose to.
But she doesn’t.
The soldier closes the distance between them, and Angela thinks of how soft her lips are, and the soft huffs that release from her nose. Her heart thuds soundly in her chest, and Angela’s hands roam against those broad shoulders and thumb against the slight exposed skin between her shirt and pants. She’s a sturdy person, and she easily lifts the doctor from the kitchen and to her room. They land at the bed and Angela breaks the kiss, taking a deep breath against her neck. Fareeha does the same, but her hands remain at her hips.
“Let me take care of you.” Another kiss. “Please.”
She looks up at her, and it disarms Angela completely. She places a pale hand against her cheek, gliding against her tattoo. She nods, mouth open, and sighs in relief. Fingers glide, and Angela writhes against her sheets. It feels different, she thinks, and almost electric when she realizes that the hand moving on her isn’t her own. They move in circles and Angela faintly thinks that it is how her mind is going as well. Her mind is reeling from the feeling and she feels weightless—fleeting.
Fareeha has a way of doing it to her. She loses her thoughts, her worries, and she feels free.
Her name is the only she thing she can say as the woman keeps going. Fareeha, Fareeha and a long groaned out yes, there—
She sees white, and Fareeha does not stop, tirelessly moving until Angela can only grip at sheets and arch her back, mouth open with a silent scream and eyes closed even if she dearly wants to hold Fareeha’s gaze. She feels fingers pad against her knuckles and a hand against her own, and it is sweet, endearing, and so completely like the woman to do so.
Her body trembles and Fareeha courses her through it, bringing her down from the high. Fareeha kisses her; again and again and again until morning comes and both of them are sated.
***
“Ich werde dich vermissen,” she whispers softly. She thumbs at the decorations on her hair and takes them off carefully, setting it by the bedside table. The woman looks so peaceful and so unlike her stern demeanor during battle.
Fareeha shuffles slightly and wakes up, looking at Angela. She smiles, and she seems so happy. (Angela’s heart clenches.)
“Good morning, liebling,” she says.
The soldier tilts her head. “What does that mean?”
Angela shakes her head. “Ich mag dich.” She smiles when Fareeha still has a confused face. She peppers kisses against the soldiers face and it is enough to set her look in ease. “Ich bete dich an, so, so much Fareeha.”
It’s easier to say it in German. (It’s easier to say it when she won’t understand.)
They spend the remainder of Fareeha’s stay in her apartment and in her bed, talking and making do with week old groceries for food. (She thanks the peace that has taken hold of their Watchpoint in which she is not called into action.)
***
In between missions, they somehow make it work. Angela is thankful for the technology of being able to talk to her even from afar, and she is thankful for the times when they get assigned at the same Watchpoints. During breaks, they visit food stalls and dance to the old music that Angela likes to play whenever she works, and Fareeha would hold her hand and sway her to the beat.
The doctor doesn’t mind being whisked away from her work on occasion, and she certainly doesn’t mind the warmth in her bed; the security of Fareeha’s hold and the assurance of her touch.
There was a time, however, when Fareeha fell asleep when they were talking on the phone. She wasn't sure what came over her, but she whispered in a small voice I love you, and closed the connection. (Fareeha doesn't bring it up, and neither does she.)
Things have been going well, and even though they haven’t clarified what they were, Angela was comfortable with the woman’s presence. Still, at the end of the day, someone always left. Another Watchpoint to defend, another set of people to aid.
Whenever Fareeha leaves, the soldier always kisses her temple and she feels the familiar weakness consume her being.
***
That weakness, she thinks she had felt before, is nothing compared to what she feels now.
She was relocated once again to Giza in an emergency distress call sent by Winston. “We need you here, Angela.” For some reason, even when she was still traveling to the Watchpoint, Angela felt an ache in her chest she could not place.
She arrives at the location, and she sees civilians and agents alike sprawled against the makeshift camp at the Temple of Anubis. The team dispatched by Talon has retreated, but has left casualties that Angela knows she’ll have difficulty in fixing. Tracer zips towards her and greets her before going off and helping in bringing in supplies.
She looks around and finally sees Winston, heavy footsteps padding quickly towards her. “Mercy! Quickly, let’s go,” he says and ushers her to the back.
“There’s more?” She asks.
Winston nods solemnly. He opens the curtain partitioning, and Angela tries hard not to choke up when she sees Fareeha on a table, eyes closed and breathing hard. Streaks of red, purple, and green are littered messily on her skin, and people are around her quickly placing medical equipment at her side. Her body looks so small and fragile without her armor, and the doctor's head spins for a moment. She remembers, at that moment, why it wasn’t wise to love in her field.
She grabs her gloves and gathers a team. She is efficient and fast.
(Winston doesn’t say anything when he sees the tears against her cheeks, and doesn’t say anything when she locks herself in a room to recuperate before working on another set of patients.)
She is a doctor, and her feelings cannot compromise the procedure and the life of others.
When Fareeha wakes, Angela is gone.
***
There are no incidents between the two of them, and no replies sent by the doctor. She holes up once again in her office, and things proceed as they usually do for weeks.
Of course, as the door opens without a warning, she is more than shocked with the break from normalcy.
She sees Fareeha, lips pursed and body bandaged. Angela’s stomach drops, and she closes the computer. “I can’t do this, Fareeha.” She pauses, and tries to find the right words; tries not to be distracted by the sight of Fareeha trembling. “What you want—a relationship—we can’t do this.”
"I—," Fareeha chokes up, and Angela sees her balling up fists at her side. "Why can't you see that I love you, too?"
Her vision gets blurry, and it's hard to say no. It's hard to say no to love when it's easy and is so in reach. It isn't the first time Angela has said no, and she is positively sure it won't be the last. Her thoughts are messy, jumbled, and nearly incoherent. (She thinks that there's a large part of her mind that doesn't want to push her away, but that is where she's always been comfortable.) Wordlessly, she gets up from the chair and moves past the trembling soldier, closing the door as lightly as she can.
That night, she pretends to not see Fareeha leave and pretends to not see her return in the early hours, stumbling and then running to the bathroom as she lets out what Angela presumes to be high amounts of alcohol. (No, if she accepted that, it would mean she cared too much, and no she can't, she can't, she can't—)
Fareeha makes it easier for the both of them when, at least in her observation, she avoids seeing the doctor. Always minutes early in finishing breakfast, lunch, and dinner before she begins, secluded to spending time in their training facilities and resorting back to basic first aid whenever she gets hurt.
Although there would still be times when they would pass by each other in hallways, or Fareeha would get an injury that can no longer be treated by simple means, the soldier always looked straight ahead, but her eye always twitches lightly and lips purse as if to stop the words from coming out. I love you, I love you, I love you—
Because that would mean weakness and vulnerability. Fareeha has already given what she could, and she will not force feelings upon anyone and especially not at Doctor Ziegler. She closed herself off and it pains Angela to see Fareeha do what she herself has done in the past.
(But she is too proud. Both of them are.)
Tracer passes by the kitchen where Angela breaks from her train of thought.
"What's wrong, love? You look," she pauses, as if looking for the right word. "Worried."
She leans against the countertop and distantly, she can hear loud conversations and a booming laughter. Reinhardt, most likely. "It is nothing," she says and resumes stirring the already cold coffee in front of her. She watches the brown liquid swirl around the cup and tries not to think of her.
"Hmm," she taps her chin and stares at the blonde. "It sure doesn't look like nothin'."
Sighing, she carefully sets down the piece of ceramic. "I'll be fine. Eventually."
She pouts, and hums. "Y'know, Fareeha isn't looking so well either." She must have visibly stiffened because suddenly the agent looks like she had put two and two together. "Did something happen?" She asks, eyes wide.
Before she can be further questioned, loud footsteps near and Reinhardt appears with two bottles of beer in hand. "There you are! And Tracer too!"
He pushes the beer in their hands and ushers them out of the kitchen and into the open area, with some of the Overwatch agents already drinking and preparing food. "Ahh merrymaking. It is good for morale, eh? Go ahead, both of you!" He pushes them both perhaps a little too strongly and Angela stumbles. A hand reaches out to grab at her wrist and she regains footing easily enough.
She looks up and sees Fareeha, all dilated pupils and flushed skin. The Egyptian lets go of her hand and she suddenly misses the warmth against her own skin. Angela straightens and sips at the beer. She thinks about home and buying more of her favorite wine (her stock has run out, and she cringes lightly from the memories.) "How have you been?" The question seems too cordial, too friendly, for people who have been actively avoiding each other and Angela wonders if it was the right question to ask.
Fareeha on the other hand looks relieved. She probably didn't want to start the conversation, and seconds ago looked ready to move to another place. "I am," she hesitates, "fine. And you?"
She doesn't want to be the first to break. She doesn't want to be the first one to bring things back the way they were but when she sees Fareeha, her earnest and understanding eyes, all of her thoughts wash away and she does. She wants to break the barrier that she has set and kiss that beautiful face and assure her.
"Do you want to go to the roof?" She takes another gulp of beer and pretends to not notice when Fareeha stares at her lips. "It looks wonderful at this time." Truthfully, it does and the way the sun sets across the skies always took her breath away.
Another look of hesitation crosses the soldier's face, but she agrees and they climb quietly to the top. Their footsteps echo, and Angela thinks if this will be their new normal.
Just in time, the skies are already of a deep orange hue, and she sighs at the sight.
At her side, Fareeha takes a large breath and lets it out in small, steady huffs. "I—I don't want you to hurt me again. I can't do this if—if you're unsure."
Angela is thankful that the rest of the team is far from their conversation. "It will take much more than me to break you, Fareeha."
A bitter laugh escapes her, and the doctor's heart drops. "You know me so well, Doctor Ziegler." Sarcasm is laced heavily in her words, and she scrapes at the bottle's label.
Another bout of silence crosses them and Angela mutters. "Perhaps I don't."
Fareeha nods, taking another sip of her beer. "Perhaps you don't," she echoes.