Chapter Text
"Get a grip, Angela." I told the bathroom mirror with a shaky voice, and all I got in return was a pitiful look from a woman in way over her head. "Damn it. You are an idiot. And she's..." I thought of her and the mere idea made my legs weak and my abdomen ache.
The past day I'd been confined here to this infirmary room. Its bathroom, a private affair attached right to it, was my only true privacy. Doctors waltzed in and out of my room otherwise, and I'd grown rather sick of it.
So I paced back and forth across the too-big, tiled room, ruminating. Even though the events of the last night jumbled in my mind, and Moira had all but spoken to me about it since, no matter what I did, I could not get her out of my head. The woman was a parasite, worming her way into my brain, ensuring every thought led back to her. Every thought.
Letting out a frustrated grumble, I closed my eyes, relenting.
"Damn you." I whispered, my fingers slipping down the elastic waistline of my pants. I braced the sink with my other hand, practically panting through my urges.
Did she recognize her own cruelty? Not a day ago Moira O'Deorain had brought me to the most intense orgasm of my life, only to push away my later advances. Not just that, but tortured me with belittling insults under the pretense of caring for my health, only to later flash me a pretty smile... touch me so carefully... god, screw this.
Discipline. What a joke.
I rubbed my hand down against myself and I was already slick from my persistent thoughts, pulling it back up just to wet and warm my clit between my fingers. No matter how I tried, I still could not shake the sheer intensity of the climax she had orchestrated me to, the memory of the gradual build-up and sweet rapture of release unlike anything I could have ever done alone.
I was always too impatient, quick to want to finish. Doctor O'Deorain taught me something new, but also something I could not replicate.
My fingers caressed down again and I continued the motions, desperation puppeteering me to masturbate, all while the mirror watched back, judging. Just a glance is all I intended, my vision shooting up to see a mess of a woman; wavy hair tied sloppily over my shoulder, rings of dark under my eyes, lips hurt with bite marks. But my eyes locked there, and I wondered how she could look at me and care at all.
Begrudgingly I watched myself weaken and fall apart to the sensation of my own fingers, saw my own blue eyes full of hunger, far from satiation. Is this what she saw when she sat me on my desk and unraveled me? Had I looked so pathetically horny then, too, even with her inside me?
My hand slid all the way down now, and with my legs stood apart I tried to penetrate, tried to feel that sensation again. Not deep enough. I strained my wrist, spread myself as much as I could comfortably. I hit it once. I gasped, reaching, more. I managed only but a second time. My arm hurt.
No, I would not be able to get it, not in the way she had, and especially not here like this. I thought about the feel of it, the scent of her against me when she held me, and the fact I could not have it right then made me want to die. A small whimper left my throat, all while I slid my fingers in and out and over the outside of my cunt.
Would she ever humor me again? By the way she touched and reassured me after our last conflict, every cell in my body knew I could have her at least one more time. The consideration put my mind in the most heinous of places.
"Please," I groaned quietly to myself, the tiles of the bathroom picking up the word and throwing it around cruelly. Stroking my clit slowly with the lingering warmth of my insides, thinking of her, I begged an empty room. "Please, doctor. Please."
But the whispers found none but my own ears, and the pitiful cries for sinful assistance sought to embarrass me. I feared if she could hear me now, see the fruits of her labor in the form of my animalistic need for gratification with all but her name on my lips, she would laugh. I could imagine her mocking voice already, asking again if I had truly given up so easily.
Or would she be disappointed in my lack of self control, just as she had been so disturbed by my advances in the dark of the infirmary? Would she find it filthy for me to touch myself to the thought of her tongue or any other god given part on me, or the imagining of how the skin of her thin waist or the structure of her hips might feel beneath my fingers?
I contrived how I could seduce her properly, make her feel good, too. I needed for her not to deny me. I needed for her excuses to run dry. My wrist ached.
What I really needed to know was how far she would follow through with this. Moira had enabled a side of me which should not exist at all, and by doing so, made it far, far worse. Though, had she regretted the act altogether she would not have held me like that, or tried to convince me of my own horrid state of body and mind. Moira would not have taken care of me, or offered to take responsibility for things in my absence.
Ahh, she really had enjoyed it. Just as much as me. My face turned hot with the glad realization, and my hand sped its motions.
Like watching another woman - a stranger - my gaze pinned to the image in the mirror. Her mouth hung open, gasping and thirsty, a glaze over her eyes as though intoxicated. Did the woman in the mirror know how worthless I am? Could she tell just by looking at me that I am shameful, or was it not until I started begging aloud that it became all too obvious? Though shame came easy anymore, something about watching the reflection of my face so pathetically wasted on a high of sexual urgency gave it a new kind of potency.
Discipline - the word clawed its way to the front of my skull while I tried to focus on anything else. Had I truly never been taught? I thought about Ana, a mother to me who simultaneously lay the foundations for my career, her words of praise when I obeyed and did exactly as she wanted.
'Good girl, Angela.'
'You've done well, Angela.'
'Such a good job you are doing, Angela.'
'You deserve a reward, Angela.'
Gently my fingers flicked over my apex to the rhythm of the imagined voice. I shook my head, gripping the side of the sink hard as if it could bring me back to reality. Not that.
What is wrong with you? Why think about that now? I felt nothing but admiration for that woman, but she had, in fact, always made me feel better when things seemed wrong. She taught me that, should I follow the rules, do perfectly, be the best at what I do, I would be rewarded.
Moira seemed to agree with the rewarding of obedience. I followed her rules and she praised me for it. When I admitted my mistakes, apologized for everything I had done, she rewarded me with comfort. I thought I began to understand her, if only gradually.
I needed to deduce how to get her to say those words to me, the ones Ana had given me a hundred times. I tried to imagine it, her hot breath on my ear, encouraging me, telling me I deserved to feel good, calling me perfect. I shivered.
"I'm... a good girl. Mmfh, I'm - I'm so... hff, so good," I breathed, leaning heavily on my palm, locking my arm straight while my fingers worked. I'd long since given up on attempting to replicate her touch, instead falling back to my old ways of quick gratification.
When I felt a hint of it - the wave I wanted to ride to completion - I bit back a throaty moan. It teased and threatened to take me, but I needed one more push. Closing my eyes, I tried to think of hers. I could practically hear her voice, low and rasped and amused at my tiresome efforts. I throbbed to think of her mouth on my skin, gentle teeth grazing and biting, nursed by a hot tongue. I wanted it on my breasts, my stomach, my thighs.
"Please," I asked again as though she might hear it now, as if she were a benevolent god I called out to for salvation. "Please f... mmf, fuck... me. I need it, d...doctor... Please." I whispered my pleas one more time, my voice finding strength and ringing around the pale room.
Further, further, further. More, more, more, more-
And it hit me, a quick flurry of blooming, pulsing energy, sending my body weak and doubling me over. I saw and comprehended nothing, only the burst of pleasure, and I rode out the small wave, holding myself up just barely. I gasped and fought small moans, and I thought my thighs might give out under me.
My cunt throbbed in the aftermath of its finish, and though I relished the moment of sanctity it was impossible not to compare it to the last time. Far shorter, far less intense, and with no eyes to watch me reach it. Disappointment and yearning writhed in my stomach, and with a final, regretful caress of my fingers I pulled my hand free.
That was only a day after the events of my office. Two days later, I faced my release from captivity. Or so I thought.
"Luckily for you, Doctor Ziegler, you are rather stable. Enough to stay in your own quarters for now. The wonders of modern medicine, right?" The tech who had been taking my vitals for the past day did a final scan of my chart, chuckling a bit. "Now, this is just a precaution."
"Well, that's wonderful, but... I'm fine, really. I don't think it's necessary what-so-ever." I tried a smile, knowing just how unconvincing it would be. He picked up the insertion device he had placed to his side. It looked like a glorified staple gun.
"Doctor." He scolded lightly, "you should know better than anyone why this is procedure. We do this for every high risk agent." He returned the smile albeit genuinely, holding out a hand in asking for my arm. I knew he was right.
"I... Alright." I sighed, giving him my wrist.
"Thank you. Now, a little pinch-" He said cheerily, and with a click, he pressed the trigger, a sensation like a bee sting hitting the soft skin of my arm. "All done!"
I pulled my hand back from him, feeling only a little bit violated. I held my arm, studying the spot. Under the pale skin of my forearm now lay a small, blinking device meant to monitor me. A temporary measure to automatically contact help should my vitals display anything alarming. I knew it was for my safety, but still, I hated it. I was never one to consider physical enhancements of any sort, and this felt invasive.
"Thanks. I apologize for arguing. And for generally being a burden, I guess." I tried to laugh, sounding pathetic in the process. Nervously, I stood from my seat.
"Never." He followed, his hand going to my arm to guide me to the door. He tried to be comforting. "You are very important to us, Doctor Ziegler. We want for you to be healthy and recover as quickly as possible. And we will assist in that process any way we can."
I suddenly felt sick.
"Right."
"Would you like me to walk you to your quarters? Will you be alright?" He asked, stepping out into the hall with me. While my body still felt heavy, my muscles were not nearly as weak and my dizziness was gone.
"No, I'm fine." I answered, and it came out short. I am not sure I cared what he thought, anyway. I did not want to be guided home. I had other plans.
"If you insist."
I was already off, and I plodded through the blinding marble hallway feeling almost alive again. I had slept quite enough - nearly three days' worth. My final destination would not be the comfort of my own bed, but rather the medical wing.
Beep. Red.
Beep. Red, again.
"Nngh, what the hell?" I grumbled, scanning the keycard for the fifth time, placing it comedically slowly and precisely onto the card reader, just to be faced by another red light. I leaned forward, exhausted from the trip over, my forehead hitting and resting on the door to the lab.
Until then, I had not considered the possible existence of work withdrawals. Going from 100 to 0 sent my mind spiraling, my ideas with nowhere to go. I needed to write them down, run tests, finish my projects. At very least I needed to go over my notes again, even if that meant bringing them home with me. I had been hoping to slip in quick without being seen, but now I stood, stuck outside like a fool.
Sitting in the hospital bed with nothing but my thoughts had already been borderline torture. I needed something to do on my break. I feared what might become of me if I were left alone in my quarters, and resolved that I would find a distraction, no matter what. Ideally, that distraction would be work. Now, I only needed to find out why I couldn't -
"Ziegler, what on earth are you doing?" A gruff voice from behind me. I jumped, swinging around to the source, only to come face to face with a perpetually grumpy looking soldier. Wonderful.
"J- Commander Morrison. Hello." I cleared my throat, tried to stand up straight. My muscles ached.
He looked around as if he were seeing things, like the existence of one Doctor Ziegler in the medical wing at Zurich might be some sort of oddity... as if the commander being there was any less odd.
"Shouldn't you be in bed? ...Or something." He frowned, the lines in his brow deepening.
"I have been in bed for almost three days, sir. I was discharged today."
He nodded as if to hurry me along so he could get to his point.
"Yeah, yeah. But you can't be here. Did no one tell you?"
It took little effort to wrack my brain for the memory. Right. How could I have forgotten?
She had told me. It was on that night, the one where she embraced me and belittled me and cared for me. The one on which I'd surrendered.
That is the word. The instant she smiled, I raised my flag. In that very second she could have pushed me to the floor, kicked me in the ribs - and I would have remained complacent, peeling myself from the tile only so I could see the look of affection on her face just a bit longer. This time her reaction was not satisfaction toward herself. Moira had been happy with me, with my behavior.
Afterwards she stood over me, her fingers combing my hair idly, admiring her prize. I had a feeling she had somehow expected the outcome, like my tears and begging to be understood by her were only a matter of time. Yet, nothing could make me care. Not when she had just forgiven me, told me I had done a good job, only to soothe me with gentle fingers, repetitive motions designed to heal my pain.
I recall my body growing weary, the calming of my emotional turmoil putting me in a state of diminuendo. I felt able to let go, so I allowed myself to lean into her, pressing my face against the soft lower half of her shirt.
"I'm tired." I whispered, the full timbre of my voice refusing to release. I closed my eyes. "I'm so tired, doctor." And I meant it in so many ways.
I feared she might scold me for leaning against her, as though my existence were dirty, as though I might taint her. She did nothing of the sort, and instead replied quietly.
"So rest. I'll not leave 'til morning."
My heart ached at the offer, but dread still lingered in me despite my fatigue. I shook my head ever slightly.
"I can't. Have... to do. My office, I have to write... reports. My project..." I tried and failed to clearly express my worries, but it was legible enough for her to click her tongue at my persistence.
The doctor's hands landed on my shoulders, the weight and warmth like a blanket. I thought I might fall asleep until she sank down on a knee, soft words on her lips.
"You mustn't worry about it. I offered my help, remember?" Her hands remained on me, practically holding me upright. "You will be taking time off to recover. Understand?"
I'd have argued had I not felt so far gone, and had her voice not begun to sound commanding. Something in it made me feel the need to obey. Just in case.
"When? I mean... how long?" I muttered, looking to her with heavy eyes. The tears on my cheeks had dried, my vision no longer blurred by them. The dim light and my lack of glasses still made it hard to read her expression fully. She leaned in close, the mismatched colors of her eyes piercing mine, mastering me.
"Until I say."
I fought a chill. The old, rational me would have fought with her, told her she had no right to such things. But the voices in my head which usually worked chaos into my emotions sternly stepped on every impulse rising to the surface, all in favor of seeing her smile when I nodded and said:
"Okay."
Because Moira O'Deorain had the potential to rescue me. In all my dislike of relinquishing my fate to her, her offer to help would make things easier. I could let go. She could take over, assist me in recovery. She could think for me.
No one else could do this for me but her.
She was my savior.
The conversation rang around my mind, making me ache for her again. I took far too long to answer the man standing before me.
"Ziegler! Answer me. Did no one tell you?" He repeated impatiently.
"D-Doctor O'Deorain! Did." I stuttered, a bit startled out of my fantasy.
"Perfect. Then you should know you would be wise to leave." He crossed his arms, looking down his nose at me. I couldn't understand why he was being so short with me. I found it unreasonable.
"Sir, I know I was told not to work, but I wanted to take some notes back with me. T-to look over while I am on leave. If that is alright."
Jack scoffed, but his face turned confused when he realized I was truly not getting the entire picture.
"No, not just leave, doctor. You are restricted." He frowned again, muttering something about O'Deorain not explaining properly. "I admire your persistence, but you are not permitted in this wing. At all."
"R-restricted?" It was my turn to scoff, letting my professional demeanor crack. "Why am I restricted? This is MY department." I had a hard time keeping my voice a level volume, and he took it as permission to raise his own.
"For exactly this reason! I've been informed on multiple occasions of your inability to properly manage your work hours, as well as the obvious disregard for your own health."
"B-but that shouldn't be reason for-" My hands were shaking.
"And in the same vain, by being physically and mentally unwell, you risk the safety of every other person in the lab. You are a hazard." I tried one more time to interject, but he practically spat at me. "You are on leave, Doctor Ziegler, and you are currently restricted, too. But because of your constant disregard for your own work environment and peers, you are also receiving a write-up."
I thought I might throw up. My heart pounded into my throat, making it hard to breathe. I was being punished. How was this fair? Me, imperfect. Me, in the wrong. Never once in my life had I received a written statement of incompetence.
Ana was going to hate me. I could already see her disappointed face, the way her brow would draw together over thin lips, a stiffness to her posture while she crossed her arms. I needed to be flawless. I needed to remedy this. Maybe I could hide it from her, but not for long.
"Commander. Please, don't. If there's anything I can do, I -" I tried to calm down in hopes of persuading him, the anxiety shaking my words.
"There will be no arguing, Ziegler. It is already put through." He held his head high. Meanwhile, I felt as though I were shrinking.
"Already? B-but, I... Can't you understand, I-?" I plead, a hand going to my mouth, only for him to grunt disapprovingly, shutting me up.
"I'm trying to figure out why you're still standing here." He growled. "Do I need to tell you again?"
"No. No, sir." My eyes stung.
"Good. Now, go home. Better yet, don't leave your quarters until you're recovered. I don't want to see you around until you're back to work."
"Yes. Y-yes, sir." I ground out, finally turning to make my escape with blurry vision, only to see O'Deorain approaching from that very direction. My heart leapt, but I couldn't stop.
We made eye contact, a brief, strange moment of connection. I recalled her own words, and I felt them in my soul: 'Truthfully, I am disappointed'. My face felt hot with embarrassment, tears stinging my eyes, breaths shallow and labored. I pressed my lips together at the sight of her, silently begging for her not to mind me as I sped past her. She said nothing, only looking to me with surprise.
Before I left the hall I thought I heard the two speak to each other, but I could not make myself care. I just wanted to go home.
Home. This was not my home. I did not have a home. This place, this prison, did not care whether or not I killed myself. It encouraged my loneliness, harbored my anger, amplified my festering self hatred.
After everything I had sacrificed for Overwatch, I felt betrayed.
I rushed to my door, only to pause in front of it, keycard in hand. My tears may have subsided by the time I arrived, but dread remained. Besides the overwhelming sense of failure, the reckoning with a stain on my clean record, I would now be tasked with sitting alone. Just me, in my small 'apartment', no work, or company, or purpose. In the infirmary, I could be bothered by the occasional doctor or friendly face. But this... the idea of it seemed like torture.
Unable to overcome the hopeless anticipation of what lay on the other side, I sat in front of my door, sinking my head to rest on my knees.
I didn't work constantly just because of passion. My love for medicine did drive my desire for progress, but... sinking every waking moment of my life into work did so much to tune out my problems. If I never stopped thinking about my projects, I wouldn't have time to think about my lack of love life, or family, or hobbies, or now, lack of friends. Now, without it, everything I had been keeping at bay with a carefully tended wall of brick and mortar would be granted permission to seep back in through the cracks.
"Doctor Ziegler." The familiar voice drawled from above me, and I thought for a moment I'd dozed off and begun to dream her.
"Has she fallen asleep, I wonder?" She asked herself, a bit amused at the notion. "Come, now. Are you alright?"
With difficulty, I lifted my head to spy her dress shoes on the floor in front of me. I let my eyes lift, scanning from the floor up to her work attire, the lab coat she wore stark over her dark underclothes. She peered down over a small frown, her red hair pushed back and neat and proper. Just like before. Except this time, she seemed to care.
"Doctor," I rasped, "why are you here?"
"You ran away. Looking rather distraught, I may add." She reasoned. I shook my head.
"Nothing new." I grumbled. A few beats passed and I almost wanted to just put my head down and close my eyes again.
"Are you feeling better?"
"I'm fine."
She went silent, watching me. I stayed on the floor, fiddling with the cuff of my sleeve. A sinking, depressing feeling took hold. I felt worthless.
"Should I go then?" She asked, and my gaze shot up and mouth went open to beg her not to. Reigning myself in, I bit my lip, looking away toward the floor.
"...No."
She hummed, curious.
"Alright."
"B-but you have work. So you should not listen to me." I stuttered halfheartedly.
"Your argument would hold much more weight if you were not sitting on the floor."
I peered up with palpable irritation, but it did little to phase her. Sighing, I stood. My body seemed so heavy, and I struggled. She offered her hand.
"I'm fine." I lied, and when I faltered once she took my hand anyway, holding me steady.
"Don't be so sure."
I bit back a snarky comment, because her face lacked the usual smirk, disturbingly replaced by genuine concern.
"W-Why are you really here?" I queried nervously, my curiosity getting the better of me when she did not let go.
"You tell me, doctor. You waited outside your door. Told me not to leave..." Her hand tightened its grip on mine.
"I wasn't waiting for you, I-" I bit my lip, stopping before I dug myself a hole. I wanted to do anything other than tell her my true feelings.
"So go on inside, Doctor Ziegler." She let go.
I stared at her, then turned halfway to the door, then back to her. Moira watched my hesitation as if she knew. How could she know? No matter how hard I tried, my hand with the keycard would not move to the reader.
"I can't." I shook my head, hands quivering nervously.
"And why not?"
I paused, but shook my head again, knowing very well I could not lie to her. But I couldn't tell her the truth. It felt shameful, stupid. The last time I thought she might understand me, I was swiftly proven wrong. She watched me there in front of the door - a small, troubled woman - and when she spoke again, I almost thought she might be testing something.
"If I ask you a question, will you answer me truthfully?"
A sharp feeling in my gut, an intrinsic knowledge that she would reward me if I did. It was in the way she tilted her head, looked down on me with such earnest and ownership.
"Yes." I barely whispered, and the atmosphere in the hall changed.
She leaned in.
"Tell me. How do you really feel, Doctor Ziegler?"
My breath hitched, I clenched my teeth. I felt on the precipice of a ravine, nothing to catch me. I felt on the verge of suffocation, a pillow held just above my face.
"Scared," I barely managed, my voice shaking. She took a step toward me, but I did not feel cornered. Even backed up against my door, keycard in a shaky hand, I wanted her close. I needed her to be.
"Of what?" She pried with a whisper, and her hand slipped up over my chest to the base of my neck. I nearly swooned at the touch, my heart racing in anticipation of where she might touch me next.
"Being alone." I said, my own hand meandering to find her wrist, where I grabbed at her sleeve, encouraging her.
"And what would you like me to do?" Moira asked, once again searching for the permission, the password which would permit her to do more than just look. My face turned tight with desperation, the familiar craving sneaking its way into the spot between my thighs.
"Come inside." I practically begged. Her expression softened and I could tell I did it right. I satisfied her request. Dazed eyes locked to hers, and with a clumsy, blind hand I slid the keycard over the receiver.
Beep. Green.
Moira's fingers found the handle for me, her other hand sliding up my neck to the side of my face.
Click.
She leaned down, turning the handle for me and putting her weight on it, overtaking me completely.
"Good girl," she whispered as reward for my honesty before her lips found mine.
I stepped backward, pushing open the door.