Chapter Text
As is often the case with trouble, things start simply. Or, perhaps, not simply, for nothing in Fareeha’s life could be said to be truly so, not when she navigates the shifting roles of Fareeha/Pharah/Amari, not when she must be arbiter of life and death, not when she lies life partly in the public eye, as all agents of Overwatch do. Nothing in Fareeha’s life is simple, but this is simple enough. Happiness, not uncomplicated, not untempered, but near enough.
A kiss pressed to Fareeha’s temple is what wakes her, Angela’s lips on her skin, Strike Team Alpha apparently having returned from their mission while she slept. It is a surprise, but certainly not an unwelcome one; having spent more than two weeks apart, Fareeha is more than happy to see Angela again, to be woken by her, to be in bed with her yet again, whether they will be sleeping or otherwise.
“Guete morge, Angela,” says Fareeha, in her best attempt at a Swiss accent. If Angela’s reaction is anything to go by—a soft huff of breath on her cheek, the feeling of Angela smiling into her skin—she is not as successful as she would like, but nevertheless, she is rewarded for her effort by a kiss on the lips.
“It’s hardly morning Fareeha,” Angela replies, and now Fareeha knows for sure that she is amused, can hear the laughter in her voice. Privately, Fareeha is relieved to hear it—the mission had gone well, Angela had indicated as much in their last phone call, but she knows all too well that even successful missions can dredge up unpleasant memories, can reopen wounds one thought long since closed; it is a relief, then, to hear Angela so carefree, a worry gone from Fareeha’s mind—but outwardly, she plays along.
“Well then,” says she, pretending to ponder her next statement, as if the two of them have not been here many times before, do not know where they are going next, “I suppose I had better stay in bed.” When she kisses Angela, punctuating the statement, Fareeha cannot help but notice her chapped lips, an unfortunate side-effect of too much time spent in the field. Somewhat absently, Fareeha adds chapstick to the growing mental list of the things they need to requisition, but she doubts that she will remember come morning, not if things continue as they are. For now, Angela is kissing her with rather more purpose, moving from her position next to Fareeha to lie on top of her.
When they break for air, Angela smiles a bit cheekily, “Yes, you really ought to stay in bed. Seven hours’ sleep is recommended after all.” In contrast to the words, Fareeha can feel Angela’s hands wandering to slip under her sleep shirt, moving to palm her breasts. One thing is certain: neither of them will be getting their recommended hours of sleep tonight, for neither has a desire to do so.
Nevertheless, Fareeha continues to play along, “And if I can’t sleep, doctor? I don’t suppose you have any recommendations for things that might help me?” Her left hand she moves to thread in Angela’s hair, tightening her grip as she has learned to do from careful repetition, even if this, her prosthetic arm, cannot feel to judge pressure, and she moves her right hand downwards, grabbing Angela’s ass and pulling her closer, enjoying the feeling of firm muscle beneath her hand.
Angela pulls her head back, cocking it as if she is thinking, her innocent expression belied by the fact that even as she speaks she is rolling one of Fareeha’s nipples in her hand, “Well, there are several options. You could take medication,” she rolls her hips against Fareeha’s as she says this, “but you seem to be stuck in bed.” A pause, another deep kiss, “You could meditate, but,” one hand comes to pause on Fareeha’s left breast, just over to her heart, “between your elevated heartbeat and shallow breathing, I don’t think you’re in the state of mind for it.” Another kiss, Angela sucking on her lower lip to make it yet more sensitive than it is already, then nipping at it just sharply enough that Fareeha gasps. If any part of her had not been fully awake yet, Fareeha knows that it must be now. “I suppose there is nothing else for it, then. You will have to resort to… orgasm.”
With that, Fareeha shifts so that Angela may shift a thigh between her own. She is still in her sleep clothes, but they are thin, and tight, and Angela has had the good sense to strip out of her flight suit and into her own undergarments already; after weeks of separation, they need not worry about sensation not being intense enough. Sometimes, after missions gone awry, one of them will need more, the comfort of skin on skin, but such is not the case now, and this is quicker, easier.
(Fareeha also suspects, although she has no way of knowing for certain, that Angela rather enjoys the naughtiness of clothed sex, another thing on her list to remember for the morning: ask Angela if she specifically enjoys such.)
Angela’s mouth has found its way to the base of Fareeha’s neck, now, sucking hard enough that there will definitely be a mark come morning. With nothing to occupy her own lips, words fall unbidden, the results of thoughts half formed, “I love you,” says she, “I missed you,” and “I’m glad you’re safe,” tumbling out. Fareeha moves her hand upwards, from Angela’s ass to her back, the metal spine cool underneath her fingertips of no concern as she feels the rise and fall of breath: proof of life.
As always, Angela seems to know her mind is drifting, and responds accordingly, biting at Fareeha’s neck and pushing her thigh against Fareeha’s clit with more urgency than usual, her meaning clear: stay with me.
So Fareeha focuses, focuses on the feeling of damp fabric rubbing on her thigh, on the pressure of Angela rocking against her core, on the softness of hands which fondle her breasts, on the sharp sting of teeth against the skin of her neck, on Angela, on the feeling of Angela on top of her, on breathing in Angela’s scent, of all the ways in which she and Angela melt into one being.
Fareeha is close, now, as they move faster against one another. Where before sentences escaped her mouth, now there is only Angela, Angela, Angela, and her whole universe contracts to their contact, until, until—
Until they are, quite suddenly, interrupted by the sharp buzz of an official Overwatch communicator.
“Schiesse!” Angela stops at once, for there may be other medics in the new Overwatch, but at the end of the day, she is the only surgeon on base, and this must be a serious emergency for someone to be calling so late at night.
“Mercy on call,” Fareeha hears her say, and finds herself trying not to groan in frustration. If Angela is needed elsewhere—which is nearly certain—then there will be no recourse for the throbbing between her legs, except by her own hand, which is certainly not how either of them had pictured their night ending.
Neither Angela nor Fareeha questions for moment that the transmission is for Angela. Such is the way of things.
Or, it was, but no longer.
Angela stops still, very suddenly, face entirely expressionless. There is a moment of total silence, not even the hum of someone speaking on the other end of the line.
Immediately, dread grips Fareeha. This is Angela, who is unflappable. Angela who has seen the people she loves torn apart over and over, and over again, and looked at them unflinching, sewing them up, caring for them, only to give them the all clear and watch the cycle begin again. Angela who has stared down the barrel of a gun more times than either of them can count, and returned to fight day after day. Never before has she seen Angela affected so, and the prospect of what must have been said to elicit this reaction terrifies Fareeha.
“Angela?” she asks.
A beat, no response.
“Angela?” she tries again.
Repetition brings success. At once, several expressions pass across Angela’s face, and the spell is broken. “This is for you,” she says by way of explanation, shoving the communicator at Fareeha and then backing up, slowly, never taking her eyes off of the device.
“Pharah reporting,” says Pharah, for this is who she is, now, who she must be. In the back of her mind, Fareeha worries about Angela, about her strange reaction, but the greater part of her mind is Pharah, focusing solely on the mission.
“.أهلاً، حبيبتى”
In an instant, the situation changes yet again. Fareeha knows—has known—that her mother yet lives, but their correspondence has, to this point, been one-sided and by letter only. For Ana to contact her like this, through official communication channels, when before her survival had been secret from all but Fareeha herself, can only mean one thing: she is returning.
Confusion, dread, and concern are displaced at once by something unfathomable. Fareeha cannot remember how it was she thought she might feel, to hear from her mother again, cannot remember any concerns about her mother’s return, cannot remember anything as the past is overshadowed by the here and now.
For the rest of the conversation, she is in a daze. She feels so much, so suddenly, that it almost as if she can feel nothing at all. Words wash over her, and she can feel hear herself answering, mechanically, as if someone else were speaking. A part of her thinks this is not how this should go, but she cannot place why, cannot understand what she is feeling, and she dismisses the thought—she needs to focus, as best she can; her mother is returning, even if she cannot quite believe it, yet, and she needs to be prepared.
The actual call is short, no longer than perhaps four minutes in duration, but even afterwards she remains in a fog. As she explains the situation to Angela, tells her that Yes, that was my mother, yes, she is alive, yes, she is coming here—this afternoon, in fact, she hardly registers the words that are leaving her mouth, hardly can keep herself in present.
Perhaps she ought to be concerned that she feels this way, but it is not entirely unfamiliar to her. The intense focus, the rest of the world falling away, mind only on the tasks ahead—before there was Pharah, when her mother first died, and she felt she was no longer Amari, name and rank, this is how she felt in battle, struggling to find the strength to do what needed to be done. Why she feels this way now, of all times, she does not know, but she cannot bring herself to care. At the moment, there are larger concerns.
Among those concerns is Angela’s reaction to the news. It is hard for Fareeha to read her emotions, in this state, but Angela is very clearly not happy with what is transpiring. She is not frowning, but neither is she smiling. While she does not seem sad, (and why would she be?), for a moment, Fareeha gets the distinct impression that she is about to cry. In response, Fareeha reaches out an arm, intending to pull Angela into a comforting hug, only for her to duck away, claiming to need a shower and retreating to their bathroom.
Fareeha notes that she probably ought to shower as well, or at least sleep, but how can she, when there is so much to be done? Ana’s old quarters have long since been emptied, they are running low on the tea both she and Fareeha habitually drink, her weaponry is in storage, the team needs to be told that she is alive, and she needs to be added back into the Active Agent Directory, lest Athena’s automatic security protocols deny her access to the base… were this any other time, for any other reason, Fareeha might be disappointed about the earlier interruption, might be frustrated by the expectation that she drop everything in her life for the whims of another, might be overwhelmed by how much needs to be done in so little time. At the moment, however, she feels hardly anything, having spent years in anticipation of her mother’s return, the situation hardly seems real.
So it is that Fareeha passes the rest of the night, and the earliest hours of the morning, completing tasks with a sort of single-mindedness which is impressive even by her own standards. She works efficiently—perhaps too much so, as before breakfast she is done with all that she can do without the assistance of a more senior agent.
Eating has no appeal this morning; Fareeha hardly tastes her food (and, for once, such is not only the case because it is McCree’s turn to cook, although it certainly does not help). What she wants is to be productive, to announce her mother’s imminent return and be excused so that she may resume preparations—this time with the help of Winston or another officer—but instead, she must sit, and wait, mindlessly chewing too-hard bread and drinking watery coffee. Overwatch has a debriefing at 07:30 hours every morning, and it would be most appropriate to report such then.
Luckily, no one at breakfast questions her unusually tired and disheveled appearance—even if Lena does avail herself of the opportunity to make lewd implication about it—because Fareeha is not certain that, if asked, she would be able to stop herself from telling the truth. After so long having kept her mother’s survival a secret, she can hardly wait to be rid of the burden, and furthermore, she is not really sure she is currently capable of thinking before she speaks. For this reason, she keeps conversation to a minimum, focuses on what she is going to say in the debriefing, and not on present conversation. She hears little, and says less.
In the end, her efforts are for naught, as 76 speaks before her at the meeting, and Fareeha is evidently not the only person whom her mother had spoken to in her absence—worse, 76 has seen Ana, has been able to speak to her directly, when all Fareeha has had by way of contact is a handful of letters across seven years. It is 76, not Fareeha, who is able to tell the team of her mother’s survival, it is he who has seen to it that Ana’s security clearance be reinstated, he who has been supplying her mother with pilfered nanites for her biotic rifle. This last bit of information has Angela berating Jack, and, mercifully, the argument which ensues gives Fareeha an opportunity to slip out of the meeting without anyone noticing.
It seems there is nothing left to be done, now, but wait. Fareeha has never been as good at waiting as her mother is; it is among the reasons why, despite having inherited Ana’s exceptional eyesight and excellent aim, she was never a sniper (the other reason being a desire to be something more than she was at the time—Amari, name and rank, only known with respect to her mother—a desire to be more than a legacy). Had Fareeha her way, there would always be something to occupy her, body and mind, so that she need never be alone with herself at times like this, need never face her own thoughts for too long.
There are, of course, things Fareeha could be doing, unrelated to her mother’s imminent arrival, there is always work to be done on the Raptora, is always benefit to putting in time at the gym, but Fareeha does not wish to chance missing her mother’s arrival, not after so long apart. So she sits, and waits, and tries not to think. The cold floor of the hangar is hard beneath her knees, and she is almost grateful—pain keeps her mind from drifting too far off course—even if she knows that if she complains of the soreness afterwards Angela will look at her with too-soft eyes and touch her as if she is made of glass while healing the ache (Fareeha has never been sure if this is because Angela does not understand the impulse, or if she knows too well what is happening; Fareeha also has never been sure which explanation is worse).
In the moment, time passes slowly, hour seeming to last an eternity, just as they did when she waited for her mother to return from missions as a child. Each minute seemed an hour, then, but looking back Fareeha can remember almost no details of countless hours spent waiting over the years. Today is much the same. There is nothing, nothing, everything still and calm around her, and quiet, so quiet she is almost tempted to shout, just to see if she can still hear, when suddenly, Fareeha hears the roar of incoming engines, and all at once the memory of time spent waiting is gone, as if it never happened at all, and the present consumes everything.
The others have opted not to join her in greeting her mother here, it seems, have stood back to allow her this reunion as it should be, alone, and Fareeha is not ungrateful, but suddenly, after years apart, there is nothing in her universe but her mother and herself, and Fareeha wishes there were someone—anyone—to distract her mother’s gaze from her for just an instant.
Ana has always been strong, in her way, even if she is not so physically imposing as Fareeha herself, and although she is kind and loving, there is something calculating in the way she looks at people which has always made Fareeha feel as if she somehow fails to measure up to an invisible standard. The years have not dulled this strength, nor has the loss of an eye made the sensation of being watched any more pleasant, and quite suddenly Fareeha does not know who she is—does not know if she is Fareeha at all, the child Ana loved, or if she is Amari, the soldier struggling to live up to an impossible standard. She wishes, desperately, that she could be Pharah right now, to show that she has grown strong, that she has become a host unto herself, to be judged and to not be found wanting, to live up to the ideal she has set for herself, proving herself worthy of the tattoo she bears. She wishes, but it is not so.
The moment ought to be one of joy, ought to be loving, ought to be every bit as exciting as the reunions of her youth, but instead it is this, is the mess of Fareeha/Pharah/Amari trying to discover how they fit, and failing, is Ana extending her arms and smiling just a moment too late, is a familiar feeling of failure directed inwards and an entirely unfamiliar feeling directed towards her mother.
A punch of anger hits her in the gut, and she barely makes it to the bathroom before she is sick.