#| inbox.

[mercymedic]

"You look like you haven't slept." Lena's expression is concerned, but unsurprised.

growing closer | @feeling-of-deja-vu

angela sets her mug of coffee on the table, freshly brewed. the steam rises from the top as she pulls her overnight oats from the fridge. it's neatly labeled by day of the week, compacted in a glass bowl decorated with tiny painted flowers.

"i just woke up, actually," she says, turning to lena. her smile is tired, but there hasn't exactly been any recent opportunity for sleeping in.

"guten morgen!"

[mercymedic]

"I have a box of swiss chocolates and some fancy coffee in it for you if you sign off on the report." Bribery at it's finest to escape the medbay. ( @godmarkd )

@godmarkd

angela looks incredulous; it's hard to tell how much of it is genuine and how much of it is her playing into the bit. emre can't even stand, much less leave - besides, he most definitely does not have a box of swiss chocolates conveniently in his inventory.

"mr. sarıoğlu," she puts a hand to her chest, fingers delicately ghosting along the labels of her lab coat, "you wouldn't be suggesting i commit... medical negligence, would you?"

it takes everything in her not to crack a smile, though she's sure that the pain meds are keeping emre's mind more than occupied. still, she busies herself with adjusting the iv at the side of his bed, and she considers that maybe he needs a higher dose.

"ja, i couldn't do that to my favorite patient."

[mercymedic]

The flowers were sent to the wrong address instead of her clinic and the chocolates had been pilfered. Cole has spent the whole afternoon barrelling through town on a dented red pick-up with Mary in tow fighting locales over sparse resources in salvaging Mother's Day. He looks every bit dishevelled of the day's events as he fixes up the bouquet in the vase with one hand with Mary cradled in the hug of his other. In her child-pudgey hands is a crayon colored card glued with construction paper hearts, Happy Mommy Day scrawled across its front. From the kitchen, the oven spews the scent of aromatic herbs baking into Dinner when Angela clicks open the front door.

Cole Cassidy whispers a hurried just like we practiced into the wisps of his daughter's hair as he dents his knees to reach for the heart shaped box of chocolates at the base of the flower vase and rounds to meet his wife. Mary lifts up her card, elbow butting into Cole's cheek, and in unison they greet her, "Happy Mother's Day!" (i imagine mary doesnt say mother's day fully the way she trips over trick or treat but ahgkbtk)

mother's day! @vastiitas

if anyone would have told angela that there existed a future where she would get to come home, welcomed by a loving husband and a happy, healthy child, she would have laughed it off as fictious thing; something from ear-dogged romance novels left unfinished and forgotten with the rest of who she used to be, lost in time to the long stretch of war. but when she opens the door to the other side of her very first mother's day, she remembers Mercy in a way she hadn't allowed herself to for a long time; the promise of tomorrow is no longer a burden for her to carry. it is here for her to live.

it is here, and bright, and hers.

( after everything, hope has led her here. )

angela brings mary into her arms the moment she's close enough to reach her. she brushes away soft brown bangs to plant a kiss to the top of her head, reveling at how her daughter fits into place against her bosom as if she were always meant to be there.

"oh, mary! you made this just for me?" they open her card together, admiring crayon scribbles and construction paper hearts until mary's child-pudgy hands start reaching for the box of chocolates tempting her from her father's hand. angela laughs, leaning up to kiss the tension out of cole's shoulders, the nervous held breath. there's nothing in this world that could make his toddler-gripped shirt and tired eyes look any less idyllic to her. the kitchen could be on fire, and she would still be the happiest women in the world pressed up against him.

"thank you, liebling," she says, kissing him again.

"ich liebe dich."

[mercymedic]

‘ you want me to fix you something? ’ lifeweaver

western movie | @kaiigen

"oh - " angela turns from the open fridge to look at him, almost caught off-guard by the offer. she'd meant it when she noted how lovely it smelled in the kitchen, but she hadn't meant to imply she'd wanted any of the food niran was cooking.

"no - i couldn't," she declines politely, pulling her homemade overnight oats from the fridge; a glass container, properly sealed and labeled, with little flowers printed on the sides. it was actually supposed to be her breakfast, but she'd forgotten to eat until now.

"i'm quite busy... i have to get back to work, ja - " her smile is encouraging as she closes the fridge behind her, shuffling with a restlessness to get back to her lab.

"but, please - enjoy your meal!"

[mercymedic]

❛ Have you been listening? You're running out of time. ❜ -- @metamorphiisis

@metamorphiisis

angela doesn't think about how long she's been here because she no longer knows how long she's actually been here. she tried for the first week to keep track of it all, observing talon agent shifts, mentally tallying her meals of the day, and even trying to rely on her cycadium cycle during sleep intervals. it worked for a bit too—but the mental duress and tactical sleep deprivation has made her lose graps of it all.

under the blinding bright lights angled at her face, angela's glare is subdued into a half-squint that denies her the convenience of glaring directly at her captor, but occassionally, she tries. her wrists, secured behind the cold metal chair tug in a slow twist against their bindings. a pinched nerve has already caused a dull throb, which will only worsen by the hour. moira is always so intentional with her methods, and although angela's very mindful of the psychology of prisoners of war, it's not enough to counter the psychological torture she's been enduring.

she is tired and weary, and bordering on desperate.

at least, if anything, she knows moira is bluffing. as long as angela doesn't talk, the stagnancy is in her control. she's not running out of time, time is all she has. which is worse, but having a tomorrow is all that she has left to her name.

( hope is not always without cruelty. )

as angela lifts her eyes in a second attempt at a glare, a frustrated sigh leaves her. sometimes it genuinely feels like the real torture is being forced to converse with this repulsive woman.

"are you finished—?"

[mercymedic]

I realise I’m a day late – I’m sorry, especially as we talked about people not remembering birth dates! 😭 – but I wanted to boot down your door to say I hope you had the best birthday. 🍰💕

@carnaxe

aw, this is a really sweet ask!!! thank u so much for sending it, i appreciate it & ur thoughtfulness :' ) 💙

hope you have a happy new year!!!

[mercymedic]

❛ Son of a bitch shot me. You believe that? ❜

inbox | @carnaxe

angela can't think of too many different outcomes to come from taunting a drunk man to shoot, but the queen's incredulousness in her voice implies that she genuinely did not forsee that outcome.

this is angela's point of personal disbelief—she has worked on the front lines long enough to be intimately familiar with machismo. the contextuals in which they occur here in junkertown, however, are far less... contained.

it's hardly been a month of being junkertown's infamous refugee, and even less she's gotten used to. at least working with her hands keeps her busy—even if it's as simple as cleaning, stitching, and dressing a shot injury with an exit wound.

her sigh is light.

"well, it's a good thing that he nearly missed..."

odessa's skin is perfectly tan, sun spots peeking against the curve of her shoulder; strong and wide. even as she bleeds, her body radiates a commanding presence. even as angela stands up and above her, just to manage the height difference. as the doctor observes her finished work, she likens it to the days when she would patch up commander jack morrison. revered champions with luck on their side.

until luck runs out.

"it will be a few weeks before you can properly use this shoulder," she says, leading into the next part with a silent expectation that this will all be taken as 'suggestion' and not prescription.

"i advise wearing a sling to support your recovery."