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She doesn’t regret the loss of her arm. She can’t, not when she can look across the hospital ward to the friends that she saved. She teases them about their shrapnel wounds and how they’re lazing about in bed over a few scratches, and they shoot back that she’s a glory hound who won’t be satisfied until her chest is covered in medals.
Fareeha doesn’t mind that it’s her left arm, doesn’t even mind when the prosthetic specialist tells her that it’s against Helix policy for them to recreate the soulmate mark that she lost. Truthfully, it’s something of a relief to know that it’s gone: Fareeha has never liked anyone or anything having control over her, even something as nebulous as fate or for something as seemingly benevolent as a soulmate. She’s seen too many people introduce themselves with their mark, has once been turned down for a date because her mark was different.
She’d shaken her head and decided maybe that was for the best. If others wanted to live their life in such a way, she would not interfere with their choice. But Fareeha dates, flirts, kisses, spends the night - all of those things without ever asking. And if none of those relationships has lasted, she at least knows that the affection was real, and she cannot regret the love she’s given and received.
When Winston calls her, she answers without hesitation.
—
She enters the watchpoint with confidence because she is Captain Amari, codenamed Pharah, aerial ace of Helix Securities; because she has proven herself time and time again and has earned her spot here on her own merits; because she is her mother’s daughter, and Amaris have never lacked for pride; because she is her mother’s daughter, but she wants the others to see her for herself first, the woman and soldier that she has become and not the girl in her mother’s photographs.
Fareeha drops her bag off in her assigned room before going over to the med bay for her scheduled intake exam, and promptly swallows her tongue when she sees the woman waiting for her. Angela Ziegler looks up from her computer, hair falling out of its ponytail and a pen stuck behind her ear, her eyes bright over her glasses.
Was she always this beautiful and I was just an idiot as a child? From their brief interactions when Ana had had no choice but to bring Fareeha to Overwatch headquarters, Fareeha remembers Angela as pretty, yes, but also as way too busy to ever pay her much mind. That does not seem to be the case now, as Angela rises, her face beaming a welcome. “Fareeha, hello! It’s been a long time,” she says, stepping forward. “You look wonderful; I can tell from here that you’re in excellent physical shape, so I’m sure I won’t have to keep you long.”
You can keep me as long as you’d like, a traitorous part of her mind suggests, and Fareeha stumbles over the thought, casting around for something more appropriate to say. “There’s no reason to rush, Dr. Ziegler,” she manages finally. “It is… nice to see you as well.”
Angela’s smile crinkles the corners of her eyes. “No need to be so formal, Captain. We’re unofficial, as you might recall.”
“I’ll try to break the habit for you, Doctor.” Fareeha smiles slightly as Angela’s head tips slightly to one side, clearly trying to decipher if Fareeha is joking or not. “What do you need from me?”
Angela motions to the nearby exam table. “Sit,” she urges, “and either roll up your sleeves or take your shirt off, whichever one gives me full access to your arms.” She turns away, partially to give Fareeha some semblance of privacy but mostly to fetch a small rolling cart that she pulls to within comfortable reach. “This appointment is mostly to address any concerns that you might have and - with your permission - for your initial nanite injection.”
After a brief moment of hesitation, Fareeha pulls her shirt off in order to expose her shoulder, where prosthetic meets flesh. “What’s the purpose of the injection?”
“Better interfacing with the Caduceus staff in combat situations,” Angela explains, still rearranging things on the cart. “It’s not necessary in all applications, where time might not be a factor, but having receiver nanites increases the efficiency of the staff and impacts the success rate of the Valkyrie protocol.”
The resurrection protocol, Fareeha reminds herself. “Then of course I agree.” She pauses, watching Angela’s movements before adding with some amusement. “You can turn around now.”
Which she does, meeting Fareeha’s eyes briefly before focusing on her left arm. “May I?” she asks, already moving over to that side, reaching out only at Fareeha’s nod. She runs her fingers over the shoulder joint, rotating the arm to check the movement before flexing the elbow, wrist and fingers. Fareeha squeezes one of Angela’s fingers when asked, and then stops breathing when Angela looks back at her with a soft smile, her face only inches away. “Beautiful,” Angela says. “I couldn’t give you anything better.”
Her proximity is distracting; Fareeha has a hard time looking away from the quiet curve of her lips or forgetting the lilt of her voice. Had Angela given a slight emphasis to that first word? “I’ll relay that to the Helix doctors,” she says after a brief stutter. “They’ll be insufferable for a month over a compliment like that.”
“At least you won’t have to be around them,” Angela replies, and retrieves a syringe from the cart. “Now, it’s just a pinch-“
Fareeha can’t help but laugh at the warning, as if her left arm were still intact, as if her body wasn’t littered with scars. When she recovers enough to look at Angela, the doctor has the good grace to look slightly abashed, shaking her head slightly before administering the shot.
“Habits,” she shrugs, then looks at Fareeha pointedly. “Captain.”
“Doctor,” Fareeha acknowledges the jab with a smile before pulling her shirt back on and rising.
She walks out of the exam room with confidence and a growing interest in one Angela Ziegler.
—
Angela flirts with her, softly, in little brushes of her fingers across Fareeha’s skin, in certain words being stressed a little more than usual, in bouts of unashamed staring. Fareeha flirts back in terrible puns and outrageous winks, in quick smiles and whispered words, in subtle (and not so subtle) flexing when Angela’s watching.
They both know what they’re doing, and the warmth in Angela’s eyes and the understanding smile they share when they part only excites Fareeha more, just ratchets the pleasant tension between them up another notch. Or when desire flashes through Fareeha’s body and Angela reacts with a sly sidelong look, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. There is nothing of fear or anxiety in the thing between them even though they dance around it, drawing it out, keeping it unspoken. Fareeha’s weathered tempestuous girlfriends and whirlwind romances, and this gentle game of give and take feels right somehow, settles a peace into her chest whenever their eyes meet or Angela laughs.
Hell, even the smell of coffee is starting to be comforting, as Angela always seems to have a mug of it at hand whenever they meet off the battlefield.
Fareeha wakes slowly one morning, only to discover her fingers tracing a long lost shape on the inside of her left wrist. She allows herself for one moment to wonder, and then the question of Angela’s soulmate mark disappears once again into the silence between them.
—
She’s just arrived at the door to Angela’s office when it flies openly, narrowly missing slamming into her. Lena mutters an apology before disappearing down the hallway in a flash of blue light, before Fareeha really registers that it’s her, before she can do more than glimpse at a face that seems stained with tears. She hesitates in the doorway, propping the door open with one hand, looking at the fading light of Lena’s path.
“Should I go after her?” she asks, leaning in slightly and seeing exhaustion painted on Angela’s face before the doctor slowly shakes her head.
“It’s Widowmaker,” she says, and the mention of the woman bearing Lena’s soulmate mark is explanation enough. Fareeha closes the door behind her as she enters, stepping behind Angela’s chair and letting her hands rest on her shoulders.
“I just don’t know what else to tell her,” Angela continues, and Fareeha hums an encouragement as her thumbs move in circles on Angela’s back, working on the knots she can feel. Angela groans softly and lets her head fall forward, and Fareeha smiles to herself as her callused fingers brush through the light, short hair on the back of Angela’s neck.
“Is Ilios still bothering her?”
“Yes,” Angela sighs. “She knows all the different reasons why Widowmaker might shoot her, but she still doesn’t really understand. And she’s constantly second-guessing whether or not she missed on purpose.”
“There’s a lot riding on her shoulders even without wondering if someone out there is specifically trying to murder her.”
“But that’s just it,” Angela protests, though her head remains forward, letting Fareeha continue the massage. “Lena’s been a part of Overwatch long enough to know better, to realize that as long as Widowmaker is part of Talon, she is an enemy. And she’s smart enough to know that sharing a soulmate mark doesn’t suddenly make everything okay. It can’t take the place of trust or respect or honesty. If she thinks that’s all it’s going to take to get Widowmaker out of Talon then she’s going to get hurt.” Angela straightens, twisting in the chair to look up at Fareeha, worry clear in her eyes. “I just don’t want her getting hurt,” she finishes softly.
“Speaking from experience?” Fareeha asks, trying to keep her tone light despite the sinking, twisting feeling in her stomach. She knows she failed when Angela tenses under her hands again.
“Only other people’s,” she says hastily. “I’m beginning to think I should get a degree in psychiatry as well.”
Fareeha nods, tries to acknowledge the joke with a smile, but the silence between them hangs heavily with the weight of the topic that’s come up between them for the first time. She’s unused to the sharp feeling of uncertainty, but she’s never been one to be frozen by indecision, especially when Angela turns back toward the desk, her shoulders hunching forward.
“Hey,” Fareeha says softly, moving to Angela’s side and crouching down, fingers under her chin gently turning her face so their eyes can meet. She feels a little better when Angela moves willingly, meets her gaze without hesitation. “Does it matter? To you?”
“No,” Angela replies firmly. “Nothing about that would change this.”
And so Fareeha leans forward, kissing Angela’s forehead gently, all fondness and affection. Angela sighs into it, a note of relief, her fingers brushing Fareeha’s shoulders before ghosting down her arms and entwining with Fareeha’s own.
They’ll have to talk about it sometime. But now is not the moment. What Angela said is true: whatever the truth is about their marks, it will not change how Fareeha feels. But she’s been here enough times to know that, despite all the best of intentions, it does change things. It’s settled into her chest before: the mute knowledge that there is someone else out there, for her and her partner.
And Fareeha finds that she doesn’t want there to be someone other than Angela. Especially not now, when they’ve barely begun.
“Come over for dinner,” she offers abruptly. “I’ll cook.”
Angela brightens. “I’d love to. A nice date in the mess hall.”
Shaking her head at Angela’s laughter, wondering if it sounds slightly forced and deciding it’s better not to push, Fareeha rises. “We’ll eat in my quarters, okay?”
“Okay,” Angela confirms, then leans into her chair, some emotion that Fareeha can’t identify calming her. “Thank you.”
Say that after you’ve tasted it, Fareeha wants to say, the banter rising easily to her lips. But they both know that’s not what Angela means, and for now it’s better to be gentle. “My pleasure.”
—
Angela comes over in a nice sweater and carrying a bottle of wine, and she says all the right things about the meal. They talk about nothing in particular, ranging across topics, letting the conversation steer itself. Angela comments on the small bookshelf nearby (it’s old fashioned, but they both enjoy the weight and smell of a bound, paper book), and Fareeha learns that Angela has a weakness for romance novels.
“Where the hero always gets the girl?” Fareeha teases, though she’s unprepared for the glint in Angela’s eye as she pauses, swirling the wine in her glass.
“Yes,” she says simply, and the word seems to hold magnitudes.
She walks Angela back to her quarters, all of half a hallway away, and Angela pulls on Fareeha’s shirt. “Just so you know,” she starts, and then kisses Fareeha, certain and tender, pressing in closely like it’s the most obvious place in the world to be. She pulls away only to put her mouth next to Fareeha’s ear. “I’m the hero,” she whispers and disappears into her room, the door closing as Fareeha’s laugh fills the corridor.
Returning to her room, Fareeha pulls out her phone and messages a friend from Helix: Could you send me that photo of me and Tariq? You know the one.
Done. Good luck! Must be someone special if you’re asking for this, she gets back, along with a photo attachment that she quickly saves.
It’s a good picture, one with her and a squad mate smiling at the camera, young and strong and so, so confident. And Fareeha’s left arm, from before the grenade that took it, is raised in greeting, the soulmate mark on her wrist exposed to the camera for all the world to see. Even if she resented what it represented, Fareeha always liked the mark itself: a thick, curved line with several straight, sharper lines. Abstract enough to see several different things represented, but cohesive enough to mean something. Something soft and strong, bold and graceful.
She tucks the phone back into her pocket, feeling better about having quick access to the photo. Just in case she needs it.
—
The truth is this: Fareeha doesn’t expect their marks to match. It’s a one in six billion chance, and if Angela makes her feel something no one else has, she reminds herself that she’s never known anyone like Angela before.
The truth is this: Angela is kind and brilliant and passionate. They’ll spend the morning debating Overwatch policies and how to best reach those in need, and the afternoon soaring through the air together. In the evening Angela will work herself into exhaustion and Fareeha will carry her to bed, where Angela curls up in her arms with simple, absolute trust.
The truth is this: it is not a reveal for the storybooks. They are home from a mission and Angela is hurt, her Valkyrie suit damaged. Fareeha is helping her remove it, lifting the wings off the back and placing them aside. When she turns back, Angela has most of her upper armor stripped, exposing the thick, curved line on her shoulder, the several smaller, sharper lines intersecting in a way soft and strong, bold and graceful.
And very, very familiar.
Fareeha stills, but Angela bites back a sound of pain as she reaches for the next clasp, and Fareeha jolts back to the present, reaching for the fastener herself. “Allow me,” she says, and Angela murmurs her acceptance, leaning against the lockers with her eyes screwed shut against the pain. Even as the rest of the armor comes off, Angela doesn’t move more than necessary, apparently unaware of what’s happening - of what’s happened - and Fareeha guides her through the process of redressing, of getting to the medical wing where Lucio tends to her wounds with his dark eyes worried.
Fareeha carefully carries Angela to her room, and Angela falls asleep in that short distance, her head against Fareeha’s shoulder, the lines of pain in her face finally easing.
When they wake together in the morning, Fareeha hands Angela her phone and waits out her confusion until she sees the mark. As Angela covers her mouth with trembling fingers, Fareeha feels peace bloom in her chest.
The truth is this: this new knowledge changes very little. They flirt and tease and dance around it until the others are sick of them. Fareeha cooks dinner more often as a bribe to get Angela to stop working so late, and it works most of the time. Angela finds battered old paperback mysteries for Fareeha, and the small bookshelf slowly grows into two. If a romance novel or two sneaks into the shelves as well, Fareeha pretends not to notice.
The truth is this: it feels like home.