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She imagined that scent again, rich and warm and filling her nose. Pretending they were clad in leather, rough and unyielding against her skin. Angela shook and wanted and felt.
She burned in a way that had nothing to do with the shower water. And when she stroked her clit and came, shuddering, a laugh echoed in her ears.
She rested her head against the tile and gulped in air as streams of water ran down her head, as she washed her hand clean.
She could scarcely believe it had actually happened. The whole encounter had taken on a mystical air. Angela closed her eyes and began teasing her folds again, caught somewhere between memory and fantasy and lacking any desire to escape.
The smell of ash and fire was welcoming now, much more so than the sterile, chemical scent of the medbay. Though the place looked a mess, there undoubtedly was a system of organization.
You want anything to drink? Got a kettle somewhere around here. Despite the pounding of her head and her reluctance to answer the question, Angela smiled at the sight of the coffee machine her host held aloft.
The red handle and heavy bolts on the sides made it look far more intimidating than its purpose could justify.
She could only hear his voice grow slightly more muffled, and the sound of cabinets opening and closing, until he returned victorious to the table with a bag of coffee grounds in hand.
How do you think I got through med school? I can handle this. Ana and whipped in the same sentence were dangerously distracting thoughts, but Angela was more concerned about making her mentor look bad.
Some things had changed a lot since then. She was a comfortable member of Overwatch now. She had her own quarters in the base.
The coffee machine beeped and he poured them both a mug. Angela, who had long since overcome her distaste for the bitterness, drank hers black.
Transport time is precious, and Angela bit down hard on her lips. She remembered a pale, blood-streaked face, one arm barely hanging on by sinew and muscle, a wound in the torso that had nearly gone all the way through to the spine.
They were injuries that did not faze her until the agent was dead, and then they became horrific. But she blamed herself, and her own opinion mattered so much more than all the rest.
And the Caduceus is coming along, though I still need to get it into a more portable form. Maybe another month or two? Her third cup today, now that she was thinking about it.
She was tired of having this argument, and she suspected he was too. He looked as gruff as ever, but Angela knew him too well now.
She could recognize the concern, as touching as it was irritating. But you need to trust me on this. When was the last time you went home? Then, catching her pointed look, he gave a reluctant smile.
Evening at the Swiss base was bustling, everyone finished with their work and heading for dinner or the common rooms.
The two of them made their steady way from the practice range up to the dorms, where Jack and a night of mission recaps and planning awaited them.
A team was returning from Finland after a nasty skirmish with some rogue omnics, which meant that Angela would be working overtime too. If guns make her that uncomfortable, maybe we should just let it go.
When Gabriel gave her a sideways glance, she hurried to catch herself. Gabriel laughed, a deep, full-bodied laugh that made other people in the hall look around, smiling, wanting to be in on the joke.
As it was, it was slightly grating. You want to switch? Ana was surprised by how much that suggestion rubbed her the wrong way.
And the amazement, the awe on her face whenever Ana demonstrated for her. Then his grin faded. She takes bullets out of people.
The way she was absolutely absorbed in every shot she took. She devoted herself completely to whatever she was doing. It had been a little alarming, at first, especially since she was so unsure the first time they were on the range together.
Ana had arrived back at the base with shotgun pellets in her torso. She could only remember bits and pieces of it, but mostly she remembered how calm Angela had been.
It had been a different person who had pulled the lead from her side than the one she always watched over, nervous and blushing, on the practice range.
She looked down at Ana on the bed and seemed to look through her. She saw only the wound, not the woman bearing it.
This suit of hers. Going into combat alongside us. Just let me know if you ever want someone else to give her a hand too.
With the shooting, I mean. Or maybe even inspired by you. He snarked off to Aberman yesterday and I had to stop her from pounding him unconscious.
Gabriel grunted, a grin curling his mustache upward. Gabriel and his crew running circles around the New Mexico desert, almost outgunned by one kid with a revolver and a nasty mouth.
Maybe she just wanted the chance to compete with another sharpshooter. Feel the thrill of balancing between life and death again, that elusive euphoria that had vanished since Fareeha.
They had reached the dorms. She was at the end of her rope. Frustrated, fed-up, on-edge, distracted, unprofessional, immature.
There were a number of things Angela was feeling about herself recently, and few of them were positive. There was nothing wrong with throwing herself into her work, even if she was running on caffeine and self-loathing.
If the other medical staff had noticed her state, none of them had said anything. Maybe they just took her for granted now, as much a part of the medical bay as the white walls and beds and IVs.
Angela in her office past three AM, muttering to herself as she worked. With her glasses on, she looked decades older than she was.
For the most part, Angela ignored the AI. What did it know about her? What did anyone else know about her?
About what she was thinking and feeling? It was an efficient way to cope with stress. She knew that, so it was hard to be concerned about her own well-being.
It had started with Reneau. Not her first loss during an operation, but her first since joining Overwatch. It had been almost two weeks ago now, but during quiet moments, she still relived the surgery.
Had she made a mistake? Cut a little too deeply? Surely there was something she could have done differently. And even if nobody else blamed her, it was a weight she would carry for the rest of her life.
Reneau, joining the ranks of the other ghosts who clung to the hem of her lab coat, weighing her down. If it had, it might have been acceptable. Losing someone on the operating table was as good a reason as any for a breakdown.
But the real reason, the same pathetic excuse for a distraction that had consumed Angela since the first day she visited Overwatch, was much harder to reconcile to herself.
Angela usually ate alone, frequently bringing food back to her office, but Mei-Ling had waved her over and invited her to join her.
It was impossible to say no to her smile. Just a scientist, not a fighter. The mess hall was one of the rooms on base that peeked out of the mountain, and at that time of day sunlight was streaming in.
Angela had tested him before. He was nice, straightforward, answering questions when asked but otherwise rather quiet.
How is the life of a doctor? I signed on for this. Saying the name felt like too much, a secret that was obvious in how her tongue caressed it.
What is she like? And she had wanted to, sitting there, with a friendly face across from her. She could tell Mei-Ling.
It would be fine to just say it. But to say it aloud would be to admit a truth that Angela was still fighting: She should not feel such things, think such things, about a woman who had lain on her operating table.
About a woman who outranked her in every way. About a woman who was a mother and a captain and an incredible shot and—. And she did think them, and she did feel them.
And even the acknowledgement of that simple fact made the tension curl up in her stomach and her throat. The words died before they could ever come to life, far too humiliating to say.
She was realizing now that her infatuation was not going to die of its own accord. It would not be like all her other erstwhile crushes, a fleeting thing that was easily handled by fantasy and time.
It was a different monster, feeding on her lust and their every interaction. An obsession, really, and a dangerous one.
Such were the thoughts that had been consuming her. She sat in her office and carefully ran tests with her suit, self-reproach her only companion.
She could not sleep. Her screen was flashing with a reminder: Ana on the practice range at four. Just seeing the name there made guilt and anticipation coil in her stomach, shame following soon after.
She carefully straightened up her desk, noticing how her hands shook, how her movements were sluggish. Somewhere deep down she knew it was unwise to keep going like this, but that was an easy thought to ignore.
She had made incredible progress on both the Valkyrie and Caduceus systems over the past weeks, and if she could just finish them, maybe then she could sleep.
Ana was already there; Angela could see her through the glass windows as she approached Ballistics Range Two.
Her mentor was wearing a black tank top. Angela took a deep, steadying breath, sternly ordered herself to focus, and scanned in. Instead of the usual fluttering in her stomach, though, Angela just felt exposed.
She was in a sorry state and she knew it, and she had no doubt Ana could see it too. Her fingers left sparks where they traveled.
Angela looked away, glared down the range at the bots lined up against the wall. She was supposed to be practicing. She could handle herself.
Then she turned away, suddenly businesslike. But rather than heading for the center of the floor, she walked toward the door.
When Angela hesitated to follow, she turned back, a half-smile on her lips. Something to get the blood flowing.
Out the doors of the practice range, down the hallway to the stairs, and up three floors to the dorms. She led Angela along, and Angela followed, even when she began to suspect where they were headed.
Angela looked at the nameplate and found her heart beating faster. Ana scanned herself in, offering Angela a little half-smile as she threw open the door and beckoned her in.
Ana was inviting her in. The furniture was military-issue, all sharp edges and bland colors. The bed was made, the desk tidy.
Angela recognized the blue jacket slung over the desk chair. There was a duffel bag in one corner. The only welcoming things about the room were the windows and the sun coming through.
Angela stood there, frozen, unsure what was happening. She was unprepared for Ana to understand her, much less for her to chuckle and raise an eyebrow.
She found herself blushing, wishing the floor would swallow her. Angela could not formulate a response. She gnawed at her lip and stood still, urging herself to answer yes, yes, please, Gott—.
She was not a teenager. She did not need looking after. Sleeplessness and arousal bled into anger as Angela stood there and looked at the woman before her.
Anger at Ana for trying this, and anger at herself for allowing it. Did nobody trust her to take care of herself? Was she a child to Ana, as much a child as Fareeha?
Ana remained unmoved in the face of her sharp words and creased brow. She merely looked at Angela, her face blank and almost uninterested.
Angela stared her down for a moment longer and then, realizing that she was indeed acting every centimeter the petulant teenager, strode into the little en-suite bathroom and closed the door harder than necessary behind her.
It felt good to wash herself off, to be clean again, even as the dull ache throbbed and throbbed in her chest. She felt the stupid urge, still, to prove herself, to assert that she was more than whatever she looked like.
But in the tiny shower, scalding water pouring down on her until the room was filled with steam, the anger dissipated as quickly as it had come.
In there, with nothing at all to focus on but her own thoughts, Angela remembered how tired she was. She thought of the weeks past, a blur now of caffeine and endless work.
People on the operating table. Her Valkyrie suit underneath her hands. Reneau, eyes roaming desperately about the operating room but seeing nothing, nothing.
She had joined Overwatch to save the world. And she had told herself that she would be perfect, perfect, try as hard as she could.
That life was within her hands if she fought hard enough. Her superior was still there, sitting at her desk and working at her computer, when Angela emerged.
She glanced over and then stood. Angela accepted them awkwardly with the hand not holding her towel up and shuffled back into the bathroom, where she discovered that she was holding sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt.
They were soft and comfortable and smelled like Ana. Angela just looked at her, annoyed but lacking the energy to do anything about it.
You do enough worrying about other people. Angela sat on the bed. Then, reluctantly, when Ana just raised an eyebrow and refused to move, she slid her legs under the covers and sat with her back to the headboard.
Ana smiled and shifted upright. She tried to think of something to say. Something that would make up for everything. But all that was there was the guilt and shame burning, always burning, in the pit of her stomach.
She was alarmed to find that her voice was thick in her throat and her eyes were stinging. She wished she could blame it on the sunlight, could blame it on fatigue, could blame it on anything other than the disaster of a person she was.
I was supposed to be able to look after myself. I—all of you are so strong. I wanted to be a hero too. Suddenly Ana was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring sternly down at Angela.
They were so close together. Angela could reach up a finger and trace the Wadjet where it curved along her cheekbone. I know that, habibti.
And I respect it. But this is Overwatch. We look out for each other. Angela looked away, blinking furiously, trying to get rid of the tears but succeeding only in sending them down her cheeks.
How she wished she could let herself believe the things Ana was saying. How she wished the guilt and shame coiled in her stomach like a venomous serpent would dissipate.
Their faces were very close together. Angela had already hit rock bottom. What else was there to lose? Months of flirting, of a body pressed against her own and a low voice murmuring in her ear, of two women pulling the trigger together.
It had been inevitable. Her heart was thrumming much too rapidly. She was finally doing it. She pushed her back into the headboard, their noses brushing, her arms keeping Angela safely in place.
It felt so perfect there, half-under the sheets, Ana Amari kneeling over her and holding her down as they learned the taste of one another.
Once she had gone, Angela slid down and buried herself in the sheets. They smelled like the woman she had just kissed. She could sleep like this.
An unfamiliar bed, yes, but one that reminded her of Ana with every breath. She thought it would take a while to calm down enough to allow for sleep.
Her cheeks were still flushed, and the uncomfortable dampness between her thighs made itself known every time she shifted. She replayed the kiss in her mind, over and over, and let her hazy thoughts travel slowly into more and more tantalizing territory.
It was in that way that she fell asleep, consumed by Ana Amari. At dinner, with Reinhardt and Jack on either side of her and the mess hall in its usual uproarious state, she was quiet.
She was paying no mind to the conversation. Her thoughts were all for the young doctor hopefully slumbering back in her room.
She thought of how Angela had looked on the training range, her eyes out-of-focus, wandering, lost. After dinner, the gym. It was even harder to keep herself distracted there.
In the morning, if Angela chose not to mention it, Ana would oblige. It was flattering, really, all the blushing and stuttering and worshipful eyes on her.
It was more than flattering. Angela had proven herself bolder than expected. And in the morning? The morning started earlier than she would have liked.
When Metis woke her at seven with an alert about a terrorist attack in the southeastern United States, Ana already had a headache.
She had breakfast with her daughter, as usual. Every time they had it, Ana felt it slipping more and more from her grasp, but this time had been particularly bad.
They had tiptoed around each other in the weeks since then. Forced politeness, deliberate avoidance of the argument, empty conversation.
Maybe she frequently smiled like that for other people. I got him to tell me a little bit about the moon, too. You may unsubscribe from email communication at anytime.
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