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Once, as a child, someone asked her which sense she would choose to lose, if she had to pick one, and, despite the absurdity of the question, Angela had not hesitated at all before answering—today, she is not so sure. In fairness, there are many things of which she once found herself certain that are now unknowns, things time has brought into question which torment her, which rob her of the confidence a surgeon needs. This is not one of those things. As a healer, a solver of problems, Angela likes for things to have answers, likes to think there is a right and wrong, but here, she is for once content to not know.
A year ago, Angela would have said touch, because, a year ago, no one touched Angela; now there is Fareeha. Now, there are questions.
It begins like this, with Fareeha extending a hand to shake, only to pull her in and clap her on the back. This is the first time they have seen each other in years, and the familiarity catches Angela off-guard. Normally, Angela shakes hands with a patient at the beginning of their intake exam, and never again do they touch her. When her hands pike and prod at sore muscles, read pulse, test reflexes, she is in control, she is touching them, but not the other way around. For Fareeha to do this then, to initiate further contact, throws Angela off balance—literally and figuratively. It is not the way things should be, and she tells herself that this is why she is not her usually brisk, cool, professional self during Fareeha’s examination. Surely, that is the answer, is the reason why she is blushing when Fareeha releases her, why she fumbles picking up a stethoscope, why her skin itches where she feels Fareeha’s gaze upon her. What other explanation could there be?
(It begins like this—smoke in the air so thick that the sky is blotted out, and she no longer knows whether it is night or day. In the distance, the clapping of automatic weaponry, the thunder of artillery shells, the whine of guided missiles—all things she will recognize later, but which are to her now no more than strange noises which tear across her mind. Her mother had held her, to quiet her screams, but Mueti’s arms have gone cold and slackened and she is alone when the soldier comes. He holds out his arms to her, but all she can see is the gun on his back and she thinks nein, no one like that will hold her, not ever, and she hugs herself instead. Mueti’s arms have gone cold, Mueti’s arms have gone, Mueti has gone, but she will not be replaced by one with a weapon. Angela was alone when the soldier came, and she is alone still, no arms around her but her own.)
It begins like this, Fareeha’s hip bumping hers as they wash the dishes together after Znacht. Much of the team regularly eats their evening meal at seven, and Angela sometimes joins them, but the years have not broken her pattern of a five-meal day, and eating far later, and closer to bed, remains her habit. For Fareeha, ten is also a reasonable time for dinner meal, and Angela thinks it is perhaps Egyptian custom—Ana did the same—but it may just be an Amari custom. Regardless, their days often end like this, the two of them alone in the kitchen together at eleven, washing dishes side by side. In the beginning, they stood a respectable distance apart, but the hour and repetition have brought them closer together, shoulders touching as they scrub their plates, hands bumping as they both reach to switch off the faucet, and now Fareeha’s hip, punctuating a pun and a laugh. Angela feels warm, suddenly, and she cannot place why.
(It begins like this—loud laughter echoing through the hallway and into the lab. Angela hears the boom of Reinhardt’s voice and Reyes’ sharp laughter. More voices join them—Amari, Liao, Lindholm—they have been drinking, she is certain, can hear it in the slur of their words, and she imagines what they must look like now, leaning on each other for support as they stagger back to their bunks. Perhaps for the best, she is never asked to join them; drinking with one’s doctor sounds dull, and she is much younger than they, without any war stories to tell or the inclination to tell them. Perhaps when she is older, she will join them, will be their equal. She bites her lip when, the next morning, Morrison jokes with McCree about his drunken antics.)
It begins like this, on the battlefield, Fareeha’s hand underneath her chin, eyes on hers, asking if she is alright. In the sky, she loses sight of her teammates—Genji, to whom she was flying, has stepped back from the ledge—and she is falling, falling, falling, air rushing past her and out of her lungs. She does not think, as she falls, this is it, does not consider the possibility, only is aware of the feeling of air tugging at her hair like Mueti’s fingers once did, seeking out tangles. Not until she feels arms around her, her impact against armor hard, she knows instantly she will bruise later, not until she feels more than hears the roar of Fareeha’s thrusters, behind her, does she truly realize how close she has just come to death. Fareeha sets her down on a rooftop, and she is shaking, shaking, and her breaths are shallow, as if the air stolen from her lungs as she fell cannot be replaced. Then Fareeha’s hands are on her face, eyes locked, and she comes back to herself, back to here and now, to the sound of Fareeha’s voice reassuring her she is alive and safe, that Fareeha will not let her fall, not again, not ever. A part of her thinks, I have already fallen.
(It begins like this—after a firefight she is hiding behind an overturned vehicle. She should be tending to the wounded but all she hears are the wet sounds of her boots stepping in gore, the animal sounds of the injured, the slap-POP! as a knife pierced her skin. Her wound is healed, she did it herself, and she knows, logically, that she is fine, but knowing and believing are two very different things. What she should be doing, right now, is combing the battlefield for survivors, tending to any casualties she may have missed. What she does instead is find her pulse, steady and reassuring, and counts eis, zwei, drüü, vier, feuf, sächs, sibe, acht, nüün, zää… until she is sure that her heart still beats. Later, when she can count her pulse no longer, she will find a reflective surface, and watch her breath fog up the glass to know the same. Now, she counts, again and again, eis, zwei, drüü, eis, zwei, drüü, eis, zwei, drüü….)
It begins like this, with the anniversary of the explosion at the Swiss Headquarters, Fareeha’s hand on her shoulder, strong and steady. It is the first anniversary since Angela learned that Morrison and Reyes lived, and if, for a moment, she thought that would make this any easier, she was wrong—it is not easy, it is harder, if anything. While she lights a yahrzeit candle still, she no longer knows for whom she is mourning, and cannot finish her prayer. Alone, she stands before the candle for some time, the room growing dimmer as the sunset completes, and the only light that remains is the candle itself. For whom is she mourning? Yahrzeit are meant for one’s parents, and to light them for all one has lost is an overindulgence. When she lit the candle for Reyes and Morrison, she told herself that they were like fathers to her, but they yet live. For whom is she mourning? Not for Overwatch, surely, the death of which, like the men who founded it, has now been proven a sham. For whom is she mourning? Not for those others she lost to the explosion, not for the souls of men whose bodies yet roam the earth, not for the organization she has given her own soul to. For whom does she—a hand, on her shoulder. Angela jumps, is surprised to the contact, but a glance reveals it is only Fareeha, who has likely come looking for her because she missed dinner. She did not tell the others she would be fasting, did not know how she could explain to them what she could not herself understand. Of course Fareeha came looking for her, Fareeha worries for her. For her. Fareeha’s hand on her shoulder, strong and steady, no longer alone, Angela breaks down, and at long last mourns for herself.
(It begins like this—her heels sinking in freshly overturned earth, both of them standing over a grave oriented towards Mecca. The funeral ended long before, but the two of them remain, in silence, standing as far apart as they can. They hardly know one another—have only met a handful of times, during most of which Fareeha was a child—but Angela thinks she should say something. After all, she knows what it is to be orphaned, knows what it is to lose one’s mother to violence, knows the feeling of helplessness, the belated urge to protect one’s protector. Moreover, she feels guilty, feels that had she but gone on the mission with Ana they would not be standing here, above an empty grave. Still, words are difficult, her throat tight with grief. What can be said? Nothing that will not ring hollow. She does not speak, and turns to walk away. For the first time since she was a child, she thinks she ought to have hugged someone, and she clenches her fist as she struggles not reach out, has to force herself to keep moving, not to turn around, not to look back. She knows already what she will see. Fareeha, above an empty grave, no arms to hold her but her own.)
It begins like this, Fareeha pulling her roughly into a side-hug with her right arm. The two of them have just set a record in Gibraltar’s training facility, her Caduceus and Fareeha’s Raptora combining to do massive amounts of damage. Part of Angela does not want to celebrate, does not think that being able to do more damage more efficiently is something to be proud of, not whilst she dedicates her life to combatting the harm caused by others. The rest of Angela is thrilled—she likes winning, she admits, likes being the best, and victory is all the sweeter with Fareeha at her side. After all, this is not just her success, it is theirs, together, and Fareeha’s enthusiasm is infectious. On the battlefield and around strangers, she is stoic, is all business, but among her comrades she is not so, is open and expressive and feels genuinely. Whatever reservations Angela might have are forgotten when Fareeha hugs her, even as she stumbles slightly. She ought to chafe at being treated like another soldier, but instead she finds her face splitting in a grin, cheeks growing warm. In the moment, she feels one with Fareeha, like she belongs, and she tells herself that her flush is merely one of pride.
(It begins like this—blood on the once pristine floors of her med-bay, air reeking of burnt hair, and in the middle of it all, Fareeha. Physically speaking, she is fine, now, nothing to show for the fiery crash she suffered save for the burnt section of her hair—something Angela has never managed to make her nanobots repair. Her injuries had been extensive, but Angela is not called the best for nothing, and the procedures required were relatively simple. More worrying is Fareeha’s mental state, today was the first time she underwent resurrection, and Angela knows that others have had trouble adjusting in the past, have been unable to shake the feeling that they should be dead, that their time is borrowed, that death once cheated cannot be held at bay for long. Nothing Fareeha said, when Angela asked her the routine questions, raised a red flag, but when it comes to her duty, Fareeha will force herself endure anything, and so Angela had bid her stay for observation, and is watching her still, hours later, when at last the façade slips. Four hours of tense silence and forced stillness give way to shaking, brown eyes staring at something miles away, breathing uneven, and Angela moves to ground her. Normally, she does this with a hand on the knee, a blanket around the shoulders, but she remembers Fareeha, alone above an empty grave, and her body reacts before her mind does, pulling Fareeha into her arms. The hug is stiff at first, and Angela wonders if she is making a mistake; after thirty years without hugging anyone, she is surely out of practice. She thinks to pull away, but one arm, solid and warm, tightens around Angela’s back, moving her closer to the woman sitting on her examination table, whose head rests on her chest. In time, Fareeha’s breathing returns to normal, and the shaking subsides, but Angela yet wonders who found more comfort in the embrace.)
It begins like this, Fareeha’s hand brushing her hair out of her face, Fareeha’s eyes meeting hers across the table at which they are eating. It is four in the afternoon, and they have made taking this meal together a custom, even if the food itself is never shared. For Angela, this is only Zvieri, not an important meal, and one which she used to eat hastily and alone while working, but this is Fareeha’s lunch hour, and her main meal at that, and Angela would not have her eat it alone, in silence. Doing so is good for both of them, then, as it has the other benefit of forcing Angela to actually take a break from her work and get out of the lab. Additionally, it gives the two of them time together, alone, outside of the pressures of the battlefield or the training ground, time where, unlike their evening meal, they are fully awake. The arrangement is almost domestic, as they eat together and talk about nothing, and when, in training the day before, Lena jokingly refers to it as their “lunch date,” Angela thinks that perhaps she would not object to it being so. If this gesture, so casual, a hand in her hair to better see her eyes, is any indication, perhaps Fareeha would not object either. Suddenly, Angela’s stomach is full of butterflies, and she loses her appetite for Zvieri.
(It begins like this—standing in the dropship, reeking of sweat and gunpowder, muscles aching and mind weary, changing out of the Valkyrie alongside Fareeha, who is divesting herself of her Raptora. This is routine, nothing special about it, whatsoever, save that Angela’s hair is slightly more mussed than usual. Rather than allowing her ponytail to stay up in its pitiful state, she takes her hair down for a moment, shaking it out as she does so, thinking nothing of it. Your hair looks nice like this, says Fareeha, casually as ever, grinning just enough to qualify her comment as one which is flirtatious in nature, rather than mere observation. Oh, thinks Angela. This is not the first time Fareeha has done so, but this time, Angela responds—or tries to—saying that perhaps she will wear it down more often. Then Hana walks in, and the moment is over, but that does not stop Angela from wearing her hair down to their next Zvieri “date,” nervously twirling a finger in it when she sees the pleasantly surprised look on Fareeha’s face.)
It begins like this, Fareeha’s mouth on hers, hands moving to grab her waist. Angela worries that she might not like this, that like the men before her, Fareeha’s lips on hers would fail to excite, would end in an abrupt goodbye, and leave her with no interest in a second date. She need not have—kissing Fareeha is unlike anyone previous, is exhilarating, leaves her wanting more. Perhaps, she dares to think, this might work. Perhaps her younger self’s yearning for a relationship, for passion, was not entirely in vain. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Perhaps she should kiss Fareeha again, and stop worrying about the future.
(It begins like this—the ghosts of a thousand such gentle touches on her skin, her body weaving memory and fantasy seamlessly. Before, the hands she imagined on her body, the lips on her skin, were shapeless, formless, were nothing but sensation with no face or gender. Before, she thought it was enough to take care of herself, to only touch herself. Now, she finds herself wanting to touch another. Now, she closes her eyes, slips a hand between her legs, and imagines Fareeha is there with her, wonders what it would be like to not just have someone, but to have Fareeha there, what Fareeha would like, what Fareeha would feel like, what Fareeha would taste like. At the last thought, she has to bite her lip to stay silent. She resolves to find the answers to her questions, preferably sooner than later.)
It begins. It begins, it begins, it begins, until Angela is nearly out of beginnings, until there is little she imagines they have yet to experience together, until there is only one more logical progression of their touch.
The result of a year of beginnings, of touches meant to comfort, to reassure, to congratulate, to titillate, is this: a conversation. They are, of course, also touching each other, Fareeha’s hands in Angela’s hair, Angela straddling her lap, foreheads touching as they pause for breath. Because they are touching, Angela feels many things, breath hot on her face, the way Fareeha’s abdomen tenses beneath her hands, the slight scratch of the lace bra she opted to wear across her breasts. Because they are touching, Angela feels many things, among them excitement and anxiety, but most of all, she feels ready. She tells as much to Fareeha who, up until this point, has been incredibly patient.
Fareeha pulls her head back far that Angela can see her grin, a special rakish one reserved for Angela alone, “So,” she draws out the ‘o’ just a moment longer than necessary, “how do you want to do this?”
“I’m not sure,” says she, and tries to focus on sensation rather than their conversation, focuses on her own breathing, slightly sped from their kissing, focuses on the warmth of Fareeha’s abdomen on her skin, focuses on anything other than her sudden nervousness. Angela has been the foremost expert in her field since before she could drink, has been expected as a surgeon to always have the answers, and some part of her which was named prodigy recoils at this admission that there is something she does not know, is uncomfortable with revealing a gap in her knowledge, a vulnerability.
“But you do know what you like, yes?” Fareeha’s question puts Angela easily back into a territory with which she is more comfortable, and she nods her assent almost too eagerly, grateful for Fareeha’s intervention. “Then show me,” says Fareeha, not missing a beat.
Oh. Oh.
So it is that Angela finds herself in her current position, sitting between Fareeha’s legs and leaning back against her torso, while the aforementioned leans against Angela’s headboard. The two of them are mostly nude, although Angela opted to leave her lingerie on after seeing Fareeha’s reaction to it. In locker rooms and check-ups, they have divested in front of one another often enough that the process of doing so was relatively painless, even with the additional context of intimacy. Other than Fareeha’s surprise at noticing the freckles on Angela’s shoulders the first time, there was little the two had not seen of one another before, which is further calming to Angela, strengthening her feeling that in many ways this is not so great a leap, that they are ready to be here.
Fareeha holds up her hands in front of Angela, interrupting her thoughts yet again. “Use my hands. Guide me through this.”
Her years as a surgeon are the only reasons Angela’s hands do not betray her nervousness by shaking. Instead they are steady, precise, as she draws Fareeha’s left hand downwards to brush at the sensitive skin on her lower stomach.
“I start slowly,” she explains, tracing idle patterns on the skin just above the hem of her underwear, running a finger along the hollow of one hip, moving Fareeha’s hand so gently that she sensation is barely there, movement marked only be the goosebumps left in the wake of the cold of Fareeha’s prosthesis. “While it is rare, I like to take my time when I have the opportunity, to draw things out by teasing.”
Perhaps Angela imagines it, but she thinks she hears Fareeha’s breath hitch before she speaks, “What do you think about, while doing it?”
“I imagine,” says Angela, pausing to draw the fingers of Fareeha’s right hand into her mouth, moistening them before bringing them, too, to touch her skin, “that they are not my fingers at all, but a lover’s mouth, kissing or, sometimes, licking or biting.” She does not say that lately, these thoughts have only been of Fareeha herself, but instead takes a moment just to watch Fareeha’s hands as they move across her skin, to let herself be absorbed in the moment. “I imagine that my lover is the one teasing me, that they are touching me everywhere but where I want to be touched most.”
This time, she has definitely garnered a reaction, cannot help but notice the increase in Fareeha’s pulse from where her fingers are wrapped around her lovers wrist, feels the movement of Fareeha’s breasts against her back which accompany the sucking in of breath, and there is warm air on the shell of her ear as Fareeha speaks again, voice pitched lower than before, “And where, pray tell, is that?”
“I think you know,” answers Angela, a grin which Fareeha cannot see pulling at the corners of her mouth as she moves one of Fareeha’s hands upwards, slipping it under her bra. “But first, I imagine they play with my breasts, running their hands around the edges,” she demonstrates with Fareeha’s own hand, gradually increasing pressure as she spirals in towards the center of one breast, “fondling them,” Fareeha squeezes, without prompting from Angela this time, and her other hand works at the front clasp of the bra, before she mirrors the motion, “giving just enough stimulation to rile me up, but not enough so that I am satisfied, and I have to be more… assertive.” With this, she arches her back, pushing her chest out further towards Fareeha, and moves Fareeha’s hands directly where she wants them, not so gently as before, a demand, not a suggestion.
Fareeha understands what is expected of her, pinching and rolling Angela’s nipples, giving them the attention she wanted, and Angela may have a surgeon’s hands, may have lithe and nimble fingers, but Fareeha has practice and talent and there is something about not being in control, not being entirely sure of what will happen next, which is intoxicating in a way Angela could not have anticipated. The lines between her fantasy and reality are blurred now, and Angela is not certain who is leading whom, anymore, is not certain she cares.
When she tries—and fails—to bite back a moan, her question is answered, in the form of another, Fareeha’s right hand tracing the line of her sternum then lower, lower, stopping just at the edge of her panties, “Is this where you meant, earlier? Is this where you want to feel me?”
“Yes,” says Angela, “Please, Fareeha, please.” Perhaps her request is inelegant, inexact, but her meaning must be clear enough in her tone, in the hint of desperation, as Fareeha responds accordingly and immediately, calloused fingers pulling aside Angela’s lingerie and finally, finally touching her.
For all that she has imagined what this would be like, somehow this is better, and worse, the teasing all the harder to bear knowing that it is Fareeha who is enacting it. Fareeha who is strong, and gentle; Fareeha who is hard, but touches her with aching delicacy. Such tenderness is one of the reasons she has come to love Fareeha, but now it is almost too much. Their breathing is synchronized, and Fareeha’s heart beats strong enough for the both of them, and all Angela wants is more, to be closer, to become one with Fareeha, as best she can.
When Fareeha circles one finger around her entrance, then, breath hot on Angela’s ear as she asks permission, Angela’s affirmative response is immediate and just this side of frantic. Fareeha is appropriately careful, as ever, inserting only the one finger to begin with, and while the sensation itself, therefore, is not overwhelming, the closeness is, the knowledge that it is Fareeha inside of her is enough that it is near overwhelming. Distantly, Angela is aware of Fareeha’s voice in her ear murmuring something—it sounds like praise—but for once, Angela is allowing herself merely to feel, both physically and emotionally, and not letting anything distract her from how she feels, how perfect it is to be here, now, with Fareeha touching her like this, bodies entwined.
A second finger—calloused, wider than her own, and warmer, Fareeha is so, so warm, always, and Angela is burning where their skin touches, is burning from the inside out—enters her, and it is a good thing Fareeha seems to be done with asking questions, done with expecting Angela to speak, because she could not if she tried. Her head is thrown back on Fareeha’s shoulder, and between murmuring sweet nothings Fareeha is pressing gentle kisses to the corner of her mouth. Perhaps, Angela thinks, they ought to be making eye contact, but feeling seems more intimate, now, than anything she could possibly see, and she would have to change position, moving from where she is, Fareeha surrounding her, in order to do so. Separating, even for a moment, seems unthinkable.
Soon enough, they have found a rhythm, Angela moving her hips in time with Fareeha, pulling her closer, closer, in further, and it is not effortless, not yet, but somehow the effort is nice, forces Angela to be attuned to her body in a way she normally is not. In a way, it is not unlike being in battle, the two of them communicating wordlessly, working towards an end, hyperaware of her surroundings, adrenaline rushing, air seeming much too thin to breathe, suddenly. In a way, it is nothing like battle, she has never felt so safe than she does in Fareeha’s arms, there is no need to be constantly on alert, she can be herself, can put her needs first, for once, can focus internally, and need not be concerned that she is missing anything, so in tune does she feel with Fareeha.
Indeed, she can feel, from the way Fareeha is shifting beneath her, that this is affecting her too. Erect nipples press against her back, and Fareeha’s hips, behind Angela’s own, move in time with her movements. Often, they have been in situations where they have thought and acted as one, but this, feeling as one, knowing that the movements and pleasure one of them feels is translating directly to the other, this is something entirely new. Angela moves her free hand upwards, holding Fareeha’s free shoulder with it, another axis of connection, in some attempt to communicate what she is feeling because it is too much for her to say, it is not just arousal which makes her tongue thick and clumsy now, but emotion, and so touch, which she has long believed the most unreliable of the senses, will have to suffice. Between the two of them, it is enough.
All the sentiment in the world, however, can hardly distract her anymore from the growing pressure between her legs. Fareeha’s thumb has begun to circle her clit, lightly, lightly, and it is not enough, not close enough, all she needs is a little more, just a bit more pressure, just one more point of contact between the two of them. Her thighs tremble, and her breathing is rapid, and she knows she cannot last much longer, knows it in the same way she knows she can only fly so high before she is falling, falling….
Distantly, she hears a voice—her own?—begging (I need you closer, Fareeha, please), and then she is there, and everything falls away but their points of contact, of connection between herself and Fareeha. All there is, in that moment, is Fareeha. All Angela knows is the press of Fareeha’s lips against her skin, the warmth of Fareeha pressed against her, and above all else, the feeling of Fareeha’s body surrounding her, even as she herself has Fareeha inside of her. All there is, is touch.
When she returns to herself, in Fareeha’s arms, the contact is no less pleasant, despite a distinct awareness of how sticky she is—with sweat, with saliva, with the traces of her own arousal. The feeling of belonging, of safety, of connection (intimacy, a part of her corrects) remains, does not fade with the high of arousal.
She turns in Fareeha’s arms, moving to kiss her, to feel again Fareeha’s lips on her own, and sees that her eyes, for all that her pupils are blown with arousal, shine with some deeper and indescribable emotion. One hand moves downwards to tend to Fareeha—who has waited long enough—and Angela realizes that she has no idea what she is doing, has no idea what awaits them.
For once, the uncertainty is comforting.