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Aug 25, 2018

Veritas Revelata

A One-Shot for Pharmercy Week 2018.

You thought I had an AO3? You guessed wrong darling. So until I can post this there, enjoy my little contribution to Day Seven of Pharmercy week! Read on below the cut. Enjoy! (I’d love any helpful feedback.)

“Instead, she opts to focus on the photo she has taped to the inside edge of her visor. It’s a faded Polaroid of herself as a small smiling child, embraced by a much younger iteration of a particular Swiss Doctor. The beaming smile on the young woman’s face brings warmth to Fareeha’s soul. It’ll be easier to die remembering simpler times. For some reason, as she closes her eyes, she thinks it’s appropriate her last thoughts should be of Dr. Angela Ziegler.”

A brush with death forces Fareeha to realize just how important Angela is to her.

Her retrograde thrusters have failed. She hurtles through the air far too quickly, wholly unable to slow down. In front of her, the grotesque bulk of the gyrating Omnic tears across the skies of Siberia, moving to fly in the direction of St. Petersburg. At the ludicrous speed at which it’s going, it’ll reach the city in just over 10 minutes. Heaven knows what it’ll do when it gets there. And she’s the only person left in the air, her strike team all either stuck on the ground, or knocked out of the sky. Admittedly, the situation seems hopeless. Impossible, even. But when has Fareeha Amari ever let the impossible get in the way of getting the job done? She’s damn well not going to let it stop her today.

Violently, she twists in midair, and lets loose the main thrusters with everything she has left. Screaming through open sky, bits of her damaged flight suit begin to peel off and fall to the Earth. Her HUD flashes with a myriad of colorful warnings as she slams through the sound barrier and keeps on accelerating. The poor Raptora was never meant to go this fast. Nevertheless, she is rapidly catching up with the Omnic monstrosity, starting to gain on it as she angles through the troposphere. Her HUD gives one final screeching protest before visuals die as she hits terminal velocity. Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t need visual pathing anymore anyways. She’s on a direct collision course with the Omnic’s computational core now. The crash is not going to be pleasant though. She makes an effort not think about it as she gets closer. Seemingly in spite of that effort, the Raptora system cheerfully chirps in her ear as she nears her enemy.

“Warning. You are about to suffer terminal impact in 5 seconds. Alter your course of action.”

“Yes, thank you, I had noticed,” Fareeha groans.

“In 4 seconds.”

She should do something about the user interface if she survives this.

“In 3 seconds.”

At the very least, she should make it less snarky.

“In 2 seconds.”

Maybe teach it a few puns?

“In 1 second.”

Perhaps Angela would help her with the reprogramming.

“Impact.”

The Omnic moves. It’s only a few feet, but the damn thing drops in the sky and what should have been a direct collision becomes a desperate skitter across the machine’s surface. Emergency air brakes deploy and are promptly snapped off by both speed and friction. A wing and attached propulsion jet are torn from her back and spin into the void. Fareeha scrabbles wildly for purchase, catching herself thanks only to her prosthetic arm, which claws into the Omnic to leave long gouges in the metal, revealing sparking circuits.

Well shit.

This wasn’t the plan.

Dangling from the face of the machine, Fareeha takes stock of the situation. Her rocket launcher was lost in the botched impact. Her other weapons systems are long gone. And, most insultingly, the damn thing hasn’t even reacted to her presence, opting to instead continue through the air towards St. Petersburg. Evidently, it doesn’t think her much of a threat.

“Big mistake you hunk of scrap,” she mutters.

Fareeha twists to reach the fuel canister on her back with her free hand and removes it. Only 1/2 full. While Raptora’s fuel is particularly potent so as to carry her weight, she fears it won’t be enough. But it’s all she has. After dragging herself up to the command module, she nestles the canister in the gouge she left with her prosthetic. She takes the last explosive charge she has left, originally intended for her rocket launcher, and jury rigs it to blow in 30 seconds.

Atop the Omnic, Fareeha breathes a small sigh of relief. She did it. But as the timer begins to tick down, she realizes she didn’t actually think about what she’d do if she made it this far. Survival had kind of been pushed to the wayside as she‘d run out of options. Damn it all though, she‘s not going to die with this accursed machine if she can help it! So Fareeha does the next most sensible thing. She jumps. Falling, she begins to pick up speed as she hears the thing fly away from her position. Hurtling through the sky once more, she stretches out to slow her descent before flipping in midair to watch the Omnic speed to its timely demise.

The explosion is magnificent.

Finally, Fareeha feels at ease. Strange, considering she’s plummeting backwards through open sky. To be fair, her thoughts are indeed a little scattered. This is completely understandable, considering there’s a very real chance she’s about to die. But despite this, Fareeha feels a bizarre sense of calm. As she hears air whistle through the twisted metal of Raptora, she finds she has very little inclination to flip back around to meet the ground on its way up to meet her. No. She’ll be on the ground one way or the other soon enough, whether she wants to or not.

Instead, she opts to focus on the photo she has taped to the inside edge of her visor. It’s a faded Polaroid of herself as a small smiling child, embraced by a much younger iteration of a particular Swiss Doctor. The beaming smile on the young woman’s face brings warmth to Fareeha’s soul. It’ll be easier to die remembering simpler times. For some reason, as she closes her eyes, she thinks it’s appropriate her last thoughts should be of Dr. Angela Ziegler.

...

When she was a child, Fareeha had had something of a puppy crush on Angela. And just about all of the old Overwatch had known about it thanks to her mother Ana’s gentle teasing. But Angela was a good sport. She had always been more than happy to play when the younger Amari was visiting the base, even when the adolescent Doctor should’ve been working on filing reports and whatnot. They’d had no end of silly fun together. Fareeha still had several fond memories of adventures just the two of them. But the universe had seen fit to intervene and cast the two down incredibly different paths. With Fareeha’s enlistment, Ana’s death, the fall of Overwatch, and the vilification of those who survived, Angela and Fareeha were torn apart for a good many years. And while juvenile notions of intimate affection may have faded with the passage of time, Angela nevertheless always stuck firmly in Fareeha’s thoughts, no matter where she was or what she was doing.

Several long years later, Fareeha received the fateful call. She jumped at the opportunity to join the new Overwatch. It had been a dream for most of her life. It was the best reason she could think of to leave behind her life at Helix. That being said, she would be lying if she said she hadn’t also thought fondly of the added possibility of reunification with the good Dr. Angela Ziegler, her dear friend from her youth. So Fareeha left the deserts of Egypt behind and made for the warmth of Gibraltar.

When she stepped off the dropship however, Fareeha’s cheeks had flushed for reasons besides the Mediterranean heat. Old glimmers thought long since forgotten promptly flared to sucker-punch her in the stomach as Angela shook her warmly by the hand. The woman was breathtaking. Disheveled, sleep deprived, overworked, overstressed, and more than a little irritable, but breathtaking. Fareeha found there was a whole new reason she was glad to have joined Overwatch.

And as the months have trickled by, a beautiful friendship has blossomed between them. As more and more faces both old and new join them, Fareeha and Angela have found themselves spending increasing amounts of time together. Not just in administrative capacity, but in a personal capacity. They’ve rather rapidly became both the best of friends and profound confidantes. Through their time together, Fareeha has come to trust Angela implicitly. Sometimes more than she trusts herself.

Of course, gentle teasing has also begun to take place. Some things never change. Usually, one of Lena or Genji will make a good-natured crack at just how much time the Doctor and the Captain spend in one another’s company. Angela usually just sighs, and Fareeha shoots back slyly with some godawful pun at the perpetrator’s expense. It’s all in good fun. Everyone knows that, in truth, she and Angela are just…

Just…

What exactly?

It is a little unclear, even to Fareeha.

Certainly, she’d had a little crush when she was younger, but…

They’re friends. Nothing more. Surely.

Right?

...

Fareeha’s a little surprised when her eyes open. She hadn’t exactly expected her body would ever function again, to be honest. She’s also a little annoyed at having awoken. She was having the nicest dream about... Fareeha feels her cheeks flush the deepest shade of beetroot as she remembers her Ziegler-themed stupor.

Embarrassed, she props herself up on her elbows. Time to focus on the present. Where is she? By the looks of things, she appears to have crash landed in the middle of a forest. Good god, how fast must she have been traveling to have left behind the tundra completely? Better question, does her team know where she is? She can only hope. Either way, she owes her survival to the thick layer of trees above having broken her fall. That being said, it seems to have broken a few other things as well. Fareeha gives a quiet moan as she realizes that the Raptora suit is mangled. The blue metal of the flight suit lies lacerated and crumpled around her. Oh well. It’s only a machine. It can be rebuilt. She, on the other hand, is not so easily reconstructed.

Fareeha turns her attention to herself. Spine? Intact. Still has feeling in her body. That’s good. Head? Definitely concussed. Still attached to her shoulders though. That’s acceptable. Body? Amazingly, her left arm is fine. Her prosthetic is… oh. Mutilated. Reduced to a lump of metal bolted to her arm. Ugh. Still replaceable at least. Legs? As Fareeha pushes herself further up on her remaining good arm, searing pain shoots into her body. She gasps at the shear intensity of the feeling. Her right leg is undoubtedly broken, but at least the bone hasn’t pierced the skin. But her left leg is… Her left leg has disintegrated. No better than a bloody, pulped jelly. Damn it. It’s doubtful even Angela could save it at this point.

At the thought of Angela, Fareeha collapses defeatedly backwards onto the ground. How long has she been unconscious for? She’s not sure. Any amount of time seems too long. The Doctor must be sick with worry by now. The last thing she wants is to make Angela worry on account of her own bravado. It doesn’t help that Angela is certainly going to blame herself for the loss of the leg, even when she couldn’t have done anything about it. The thought makes Fareeha ache. And what if she were to die out here? She dreads to imagine the guilt she’d inflict on all the members of Overwatch for her own rash actions. But she worries about none more so than the Doctor. This thought fixed in her mind, Fareeha steels herself. She has to make it out of here. For Angela’s sake.

She scrabbles her helmet off with her good hand, then reaches inside to pluck her comms system and the Polaroid from the padded interior. Tucking them into her waistband, she then sets about pulling herself from the wreckage. How is she going to do this? She can’t walk, that’s for sure. But the metal of the flight suit is fairly loose around her. Escape is quite possibly just within her reach. Seems she’s only got the one course of action then. She braces, then pushes off with her good hand, launching herself to the right and rolling. She barely stifles a scream as her legs squish painfully underneath her in the process of pitching out of the blue scrap metal. But she does it. She escapes the impact site.

Tumbling to a stop on hard frosted moss, Fareeha groans again. This is not how she’d wanted to celebrate mission completion. She had, in fact, harbored a shy hope that after the mission, she and Angela would have been able to… something. Anything. Honestly, any time spent with the Doctor seems, in Fareeha’s opinion, the best reward imaginable for a job well done. Sheepishly she wonders if Angela feels the same way about spending time with Fareeha. The idea that she might indeed feel similarly burns hotly in Fareeha’s soul. It’s enough to propel the soldier onwards. Grabbing some nearby branches, she uses her belt to rig a makeshift splint around her still salvageable but broken right leg. No easy task with just the one hand. With the aide of a large stick serving as an improvised crutch, and no small amount of colourful cursing, Fareeha finally stands. She’s more than a little dizzy. But she’s standing. From her waistband she takes the Polaroid and stares at the little image for several long seconds.

“I’m not dying out here,” she whispers softly. “Not today.”

With grim resolve, Fareeha hobbles into the unknown, photo clenched in hand.

...

Their first mission alone together was, frankly, brutal. Fareeha had been excited to share in the company of the good Doctor, or at least, watch Angela do what she does best. But what should have been a simple case of humanitarian outreach had turned into an unabated shit-show with the arrival of a small cadre of Talon agents. They just hadn’t been outfitted for that sort of engagement, as their team had consisted of a host of civilian doctors and Angela. The only other Overwatch representative was Fareeha, who had been tasked with running guard duty. And with Angela preoccupied with her medical responsibilities, she was the only one who was properly equipped for such combat.

But between the two of them, Fareeha distracting enemy fire from the air while Angela shepherded the evacuation of the refugee camp, they had managed to help everyone escape without a single casualty. Well. No civilian casualties at least. Because as Fareeha had roared low over the camp in Raptora, making one last pass for stragglers, some damnable Talon sniper had landed an unbelievably lucky shot. The bullet absolutely shattered her right arm, and Fareeha only made it back to the waiting dropship by virtue of a Herculean effort and unfathomable amounts of adrenaline.

When she crashed at the base of the loading ramp, Angela had known something was very wrong. Whatever assistive synthetic muscles are in that Valkyrie suit are something else, because within seconds the smaller woman had sprinted to the impact site, slung Fareeha over her shoulder, and was hustling back through the craft’s doors to take Fareeha to the med bay, all while while ordering take-off. Talk about Fast-Response. Fareeha doesn’t wholly remember the details of that flight back to base. Excruciating pain, elephantine doses of drugs, and countless hours in the air bleed together to create an unremembered haze. The aftermath of the flight though, she will remember forever. In any other scenario, with a full suite of medical equipment, Angela may have been able to save her arm. But in a paltry dropship medbay, with all her supplies left abandoned at the refugee camp, Angela had been forced to amputate the arm to save Fareeha’s life.

She awoke two days later in the small hours of the morning, head groggy, eyes fogged. And while her stump - oh, that was a strange thought to have, her stump - certainly ached, what actually pulled her from her stupor was the disheveled mess of blonde hair seated to her left, the head held in trembling hands, the soft crying filling the sterile room. A little unsure of herself, Fareeha had reached out with a shaky hand, and caught ahold of Angela’s shoulder. The Doctor’s head had snapped up, and she split into the most relieved, tearful grin Fareeha has ever yet seen. Abruptly, Angela threw her arms around the solider while apologizing profusely for not being able to save her arm. At the time, words had failed Fareeha in her drug and pain fueled daze, and she could only stare dumbfounded into the worried blue eyes in front of her. There had been much to process after that mission. More strongly than anything else however, Fareeha remembers how right it felt to have Angela in her arms.

...

Night begins to descend on Siberia as Fareeha stumbles over the thick layer of frost in the murky half-haze of twilight. She’s absolutely freezing. How the hell can it have gotten so cold so quickly? In her mind, the heat of Gibraltar tantalizes, a now distant memory. Oh what she wouldn’t do to be back at the Watchpoint. Out here unfortunately, all she has to keep her warm are the tattered remnants of the jumpsuit she wears to prevent chafing while piloting Raptora. Certainly not useful for practically sub-Arctic conditions.

For the umpteenth time, she buzzes her comms. She’s lost track of how many channels she’s flipped through during her agonizing trek, trying desperately to let someone, anyone know where she is. All she’s heard is static. No responses, no search team, no random signals even. Just… nothing. They haven’t given up on her, have they? It’s a smoldering, painful little thought. Again, Fareeha wonders how long she was unconscious for. It couldn’t have been long enough for a rescue attempt to have been called off. They wouldn’t do that.

Angela wouldn’t let them.

Not for the first time that day, thoughts of Angela make Fareeha’s heart promptly spark. Why is it that every time she thinks of the long-suffering Doctor, her spirit soars? Even simply picturing the woman in her mind, Angela brings Fareeha joy. She grins at memories of Angela asleep at her desk. Remembers and relishes the many long, thoughtful conversations, that more often than not last late into the night. Melts at the sound of her laugh. Turns pink in remembrance of the way her collarbone softly curves beneath her customary turtleneck, sloping down to undoubtedly softer breasts. The way that Angela…

The realization hits Fareeha like a freight train.

Of course. Of course she has feelings for Angela. Of course she has feelings for her best friend. For the person she trusts most in this world. For the only person with whom Fareeha has ever felt like she can truly, truly, be at peace. Suddenly, Fareeha feels like she could lift off the ground by virtue of sheer happiness. Who needs Raptora? She’s flying on elation, she…

Hang on. What is that? Is that a break in the trees? It is. Has she found a road? Better yet, found civilization? Rallying joyously, Fareeha presses forwards, advancing toward the lazy shafts of light slanting through the pines. She can do it. She’s going to do it. She’s going to make it. She’ll be able to tell Angela in person how she…

Oh.

Shit.

As she breaks the tree-line, the Siberian tundra suddenly stretches endlessly into the distance afore her. Enormous, long rolling stretches of frozen nothing. She’s managed to walk f**k knows how many kilometers on ruined legs back the way she from whence she crashed. Back to the most godforsaken place on Earth. There’s no way they’re going to find her. Woozy from blood loss, Fareeha collapses despondently against a tree before sliding to the ground. Damn it. Damn it! Got her hopes up for nothing. She really thought she had a chance for a second there. Her mind begins to fog. She shouldn’t have pushed herself so hard to walk. Wretchedly, she stares down at the Polaroid in her trembling hand.

“Sorry Angela,” she mutters. “Don’t think I’m going to make it after all.”

The photo slips from her fingers as Fareeha slips into unconsciousness.

...

People are always surprised when they learn Satya plays the violin. Though the architech may not initially strike people as having the sort of time necessary to devote to the mastery of a musical instrument — considering the fervor with which she pursues her work — it turns out she is in fact quite the virtuoso. She plays to relax, to ease the strain from her mind, often playing long into the night after rough days. There had been one particularly such rough day last month, full of political drama and ethical argumentation. The legality and the future of the new Overwatch and all that. The unending meetings had left the members of the team terribly ragged. That night, quite a few of their number opted to get absolutely shit-faced. Nothing builds camaraderie like group inebriation. That being said, Angela and Fareeha decided it wouldn’t be appropriate for them to engage in such behaviour considering one was Chief Medical Officer, the other a Captain.

So together, the two had escaped outside into the warm night air of Gibraltar. Leaning against the railing, they had talked. Just… talked. Made bad jokes. Traded witty repartee. Gently flirted. It was wonderful. Then, they were unexpectedly interrupted by the dulcet tones of Satya’s violin. Another soul who had had forgone the temptation of drink that night, the music she’d begun to make was filtering outside and onto the balcony. The moment was simply too perfect. Pushing off the railing, Fareeha gave Angela a rakish grin and extended a hand in invitation.

“Care to dance, Doctor?”

Angela flushed a deep shade of crimson at the offer, a fact that still gives Fareeha pleasure. But with no small amount of enthusiasm, she indeed took Fareeha’s hand. As the strings of Satya’s violin sang, Angela and Fareeha waltzed beneath the light of the stars. They danced through the night, giggling to each other. To be fair though, what started as coordinated movement slowly devolved into a gentle slow dance. Eventually, they stopped moving entirely. The world disappeared as they stood together in the night air, arms wrapped tightly around each other, Angela’s head buried in Fareeha’s shoulder. Fareeha didn’t even notice when Satya stopped playing to go to bed. She’s not sure how long they stood out there in warm embrace. She never wanted to let go. When Angela began to softly snore however, she’d scooped the woman into her arms, and carried her off to her quarters through the now empty halls of the Watchpoint.

As she tucked the Doctor into bed, Fareeha was struck by how serene Angela looks in her sleep. Dr. Ziegler spends her days burning the candle at both ends, stressing and worrying for the Overwatch family without concern for herself, often only finding respite in unconsciousness. The thought tugged at Fareeha’s heart. She wished the Doctor would take better care of herself. She wondered if there was anything she could do for her. At the moment, the best thing seemed like sleep. So Fareeha rose to depart. But as she made to leave, Angela rolled over in her sleep and began to mumble quietly. Sleep talking. Shamelessly, Fareeha’s lips pulled into a smile and she strained to hear the words being spoken. Most of it seemed to be nonsense mixed with medical jargon.

But all of a sudden, she could swear that she heard Angela whine a little, then murmur,

“…Fareeha…please...”

She’d been flushed down past her chest as she hurried out of the Doctor’s quarters.

...

She is dragged back from the abyss of memory and into consciousness once more when she hears the comms system crackle to life again. This time however, the machine has burst into activity of its own accord. Harsh static hisses in the air, interrupting the frigid tranquility of the Siberian morning. Is someone trying to contact her? Possibly.

She waits.

*kkzzzRSSHHHHH*

Is that it?

*HHSSSSSRZ*

It’s not enough that she has to freeze to death on her lonesome, the universe has to continue to taunt her mercilessly?

*HSsshRKZZZ*

Suddenly, fragments of a cockney accent break in amongst the fizz of static, and Fareeha snaps into focus.

“Ca…”

*KRSHHHH*

“…do you hear me? Captain Amari, come…”

*KRKshhHHHHh*

“...come in!”

Fareeha scrambles for her mic, pulling it clumsily up to her lips. “Oxton? I... I hear you, I’m here.”

“Captain? Oh blimey, we’ve been searching for you for hours, we -“ Suddenly, the British woman is interrupted. “Hey! Gimme that back-”

Her voice is replaced by the musical lilt of a Swiss accent.

“Mein Gott, Fareeha? Fareeha, are you there? Where are you?”

Still quite delirious, Fareeha feels herself break into a silly grin. “Angela? Is... is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me Fareeha! Please, where are you? Tell me where to find you.”

Fareeha’s brain finally kicks into gear. “I’m… not sure. But I can rig my comms to emit a pulse on this frequency so you can triangulate my position.” As she speaks, Fareeha fiddles wearily with her communicator until it begins to give off a slow, steady radio pulse. “There. Angela, I... I don’t think I can last much longer.”

“Oh scheiße. I’m coming for you Fareeha. Don’t fall asleep! Please, hang on!”

“Angela, I...”

Fareeha trails off as her vision starts to fade again.

Stay awake. Alright, she can do that. She singlehandedly took down a rogue Omnic. She made it this far on broken and pulped legs. She needs to talk to Angela. She can sure as hell stay awake.

And she tries. Oh, does she ever try.

But exhaustion and delirium are a devious couple of bastards, and together they gang up to push poor Fareeha over the edge. She groans and slaps herself a couple times. But it is to no avail. Despite her best efforts, she sinks down onto the icy ground. Dammit. She’d really been hoping to see Angela again before she died.

And what on earth is that infuriating noise?

Somehow, it sounds reminiscent of the pounding vibrations of whirling helicopter blades. That, or it’s her own pulse hammering in her ears. Either way though, it doesn’t really matter. She’s tired. So very, very tired. Try as she might, her eyes begin to droop closed.

The last thing she sees before blacking out entirely is an ashen-haired woman borne aloft on golden wings, flying to her side with arms outstretched. Desperately, she calls Fareeha’s name.

An angel.

Fareeha decides she’s probably hallucinating.

...

Ow.

Cognizance swirls murkily in Fareeha’s head.

She’s pretty sick of waking up woozy and confused, not totally sure of her location.

Where is she?

Bedridden in a cold, clean medbay room.

She’s missing a limb.

And to the left sits Angela.

Wait a minute. Haven’t they done this already?

Slowly, Fareeha begins to process her surroundings in the here and now. Awareness invades her consciousness like a virus. Everything hurts. Alright. Okay. They have indeed been here once before. Only this time, Fareeha has lost her leg, and Angela is… snoring.

Her head lain on the side of Fareeha’s bed, the Doctor is fast asleep, hair freed from the usual high ponytail to spill wildly across her shoulders. She’s… she’s beautiful. Tranquil in slumber. Seeing Angela in propria persona is more than Fareeha had thought she’d ever see again. It makes her heart flutter. Gently, Fareeha laces her fingers with Angela’s and squeezes just a tad. The sleeping woman groggily wakes. She appears exceptionally disheveled. How long has she been by Fareeha’s bedside?

As their eyes lock, Fareeha can’t help but smile as she speaks. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Angela replies, a little sheepishly. For a long moment, silence stretches between them as they simply gaze at each other. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, now.” Words to be said swirl in Fareeha’s mind. But anything she thinks to vocalize seems disingenuous. What can be said, in moments like this? The truth. Only the truth.

“Started to think I’d ever get to see you again for a minute there.”

“You didn’t think I was just going to leave you out there, did you?” she replies, concerned.

“No, no, I-“

“I’d move heaven and Earth to bring you home, Fareeha.” She tightens her grip on Fareeha’s hand, seemingly unaware she does so. The sincerity in her tone is shocking.

“Angela…”

“Look, I know it’s unfair of me to ask, but please don’t do something like that again. I couldn’t bear it if you were to…“ Her voice cracks a little as she trails off, eyes beginning to well up.

“No, Angela, I promise.” Fareeha places her newly repaired prosthesis on Angela’s cheek. “I’ll be more careful. I… I could never do that to you.”

“Thank you,” Angela whispers. For another long moment, nervous silence fills the room.

Eventually, Angela clears her throat and removes herself to retrieve the holopad from the base of Fareeha’s bed. “Well, your EKG looks fine and your leg is healing up as well as can be expected, so I think the best thing for you to do is get some rest.” Reluctantly, she stands to leave. “I’ll leave you be, and-“

“Angela, wait.”

“Yes, Fareeha?”

“While I was out there, I… I realized something.”

The Doctor cocks her head in query, smiling softly.

“I realized… I’m trying to say that I… Oh damn it.” What is it that she’s trying to say?

The truth.

“When I was stuck out there, the only thing I could think about was how badly I wanted to be with you here. How much the idea of leaving you alone hurt. How desperately I wanted to hear the sound of your voice just one more time. You’re the most important person in my life, Angela. I’m in love with you.”

Angela’s eyes widen. Her jaw drops just a little. She stands slightly dumfounded, staring at Fareeha. But only for a merest breadth of a second. Without warning, the holopad falls from her hands as she flies to Fareeha’s side.

For the first time, their lips meet, and enthusiastically introduce themselves.

Fareeha’s not sure how much time passes until they break apart, gasping for air as they rest their foreheads together.

There will be other conversations to be had. Other things to decide. But right here and right now, in each other’s arms, they’re together. They’re finally together. It’s all that matters.

#Pharmercy #Pharmercy Week #Pharmercy Week 2018 #Pharah #Mercy #Fareeha Amari #Angela Ziegler #Overwatch #Shipping #Fanfiction #clithroeshewrites #Day Seven #SAPPHIC GAYNESS

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