Archive of Our Own

It took me weeks to recover, and as horrified Helix techs repaired the very expensive and very cracked, bullet-peppered hull and knit the broken wings of the Raptora, so too did you repair me. I remember the daily physical therapy, struggling to lift myself on bars of cold, pitiless blue medical-grade steel, the room filled with the faint scent of blood-tainted bandages and sticky medical tape. And you were always by my side, your soft fingertips wicking away glistening sweat and gentling the agony away from bulging, tortured muscles as I grit my teeth and “growled like an overgrown puppy,” as you put it. 

Ah, Doctor, that I could always be at your feet, your loyal wolf forever. I would do anything for you…

I told you terrible jokes, the worst I could think of, and you would laugh and laugh and laugh til you doubled over, tears of mirth sparkling from those starry blue eyes, and I would allow myself to reach over and tuck wayward wisps of golden hair back behind your ear. 

The weeks flew by, and I.. I found that I almost didn’t want to recover. 

You reached back one day — our faces hovered mere inches from each other, your light against my dark, and I felt more unsure of this than anything. So used to being in command, reacting without hesitation to everything from enemy ambush to catastrophic engine failure mid-flight. 

But this? There were no drills or training that could have prepared me for this, no field manual with diagrams and step-by-step instructions, and while I had known the affections of plenty of women before, I had never felt..

this.

Your fingertips traced the Wedjat under my right eye, first down and then sharply up towards my nose to draw the hook, a slight lift from my skin as they rose back up to begin the arc, a gentle swirl of a caress feathering across my cheek.

Your hands always were quite warm, my love. “An important trait for a doctor,” as you would tell me later. 

So warm.. 

You hesitated, but a moment later I felt your pale fingers continue their path until your hand cupped my cheek, small pinky slipping down to grip under my jaw and then insistently tip my very, very surprised lips to yours.

We grew closer.

But we also needed each other, and we always found the time. 

Times like this. 

“Remove the armor,” you whispered, and I complied obediently. Slowly. Piece by piece, I disassembled the cold machinery, pulled it free and let it sink gently into the carpet until I stood before you, disarmed  — tall, dark, all sinewy muscle and dusky skin patterned with a lifetime of vicious, jagged scars and ornate tattoos. Black, almost masculine boyshorts, a tight athlete’s bra cut in racerback, the angular “HELIX” logo embroidered in gold discreetly along the elastic bands of each. A pair of well-worn steel dogtags on a long ball chain, dangling from my neck. My uniform, as it were; one does not wear clothing in the Raptora.

Eventually, I found that I did not need the Raptora to feel whole, not when I had you — it was simply a means to an end, and that end was to be your wings, your armor. 

I in my solid black underthings, you seated on the soft, thick plush of our bed, clad in a matching set of delicate black lace and opaque stockings rising scandalously to mid-thigh. A fine pair, don’t you think, Doctor? The magnificent queen and her loyal knight. 

Ah, and now the intoxicating breeze of perfume — cherry, vanilla, violet, the spice of licorice — as your slim arms reach past my shoulders to loop a thin collar about my neck, buckle it lovingly, clip a strap to it.. your favorite game. 

You tug the leash, your lips quirking in a girlish giggle — but I see the hot flush blooming in your cheeks, how you can’t help but bite into the soft pink of your lower lip; you love this, knowing that despite my size and strength and capacity for violence, that I belong to you; that it is you who are in control..

Another commanding tug, but I need no urging — I slither forward onto all fours, crawl to you needily, lap at the proffered hand. Feel the smooth silk of your stockings as I part your thighs with rough hands, savor the stuttered gasp of your breath as I continue to rise, opening my mouth to paint a wet path upwards with my tongue, venting hot breath and my need for you, languorous warm kisses as I reach the swell of your breasts, then greedily tugging and nipping with careful teeth as your whimpers escalate my desire. Tasting those sweet plush lips, biting, slavering from my canines, uncontrollable..

Feel your legs wrap around me, thighs across my hips, ankles crossing behind my waist and pushing me closer to you like a vise, one hand tracing the cuts of my abdomen, old wounds and rock-hard muscle. Feel your small hand reach out to grip these war-calloused fingers of mine, directing them. 

Feel the heat and slick wet of your love for me.

As the weeks tumbled by, we were able to spend more and more time with each other; we found excuses to be together almost every free moment, and our cozy little apartment began to feel like a real home — smiling Polaroids on the fridge, a bowl full of rubbery corks from wines we’d shared, nooks and crannies crammed with the various knickknacks we brought back for each other from missions apart. 

I remember it being the happiest summer of my life. More than the carefree days with my mother, more than my childhood days spent at the various scattered Overwatch outposts, more than anything. 

Out on R&R in some questionable East European back-alley dive, slamming down foamy glass mugs on the bar, one after another, as the flickering neon of a a staticky jukebox crooned saccharine European pop and the solid weight of pool balls clack-clacked into each other amidst good-natured curses — my phone would suddenly spring to life, a bright little beacon buzzing happily in the rather poorly lit bar, announcing a call from one Dr. Ziegler. You playfully greeting my boisterous (and equally drunk) brothers-in-arms as they hooted and declared their undying love and blew moist, sloppy kisses in the background. I, too, declaring my somewhat slurred (but equally undying) love, to your gentle amusement. 

One of those peaceful weekends together, rising with the first rays of the sun to watch you snooze peacefully, just for a moment, before tucking the thick gray of the comforter around your thin shoulders and slipping away to the kitchen. Waking you with the scent of fresh, warm, fluffy homemade blueberry buttermilk pancakes, still steaming on the plate (I can cook, Doctor. I told you!) and a hot mug of black French-pressed dark roast. Tousling your rat’s nest of blonde, plucking out bits of lint as you yawned so wide I thought I would fall in forever.  

A quiet picnic in the shade of an elderly oak, with a simple meal of thick oat-studded brown bread, fresh fruit, and a bottle of your favorite syrupy red Bordeaux. Drinking the Bordeaux straight from the bottle, because I forgot the glasses. Getting a little tipsy together. Holding hands as we lay on the soft red and white checkered flannel blanket to watch the sparse clouds drift by. My head in your lap as I told you about the Wedjat, my mother Ana and my dreams of Overwatch, and you told me stories about Switzerland and the incredible medical technologies you were working on, technology that would save thousands of lives. Peacefully watching the sun flare its last for the day and sink into the horizon to trade places with the moon and the stars. 

Lazy summer days in the sultry heat, all day spent together in bed, tangled up in each other, dozing and reading and simply laying together quietly on the wrinkled sheets, a small fan droning uselessly in the background. I in my usual faded tank and boyshorts and you in a matching pair of simple cotton underwear, our fingers intertwined, the dark hazel of my eyes locked onto the pastel blue of yours. 

You planted comfortably on my lap at the neighborhood park for a sunny afternoon, my hazel eyes locked onto your impossibly short cutoff denims and tied-off shirt as you reached unbidden to wipe a spot of cold ice cream from the corner of my mouth. A perfect, angelic smile as you leaned in closer to press your lips to mine. 

Creamy kisses of frosty vanilla and sweet strawberry swirl. 

I feel that I am in love with you, Dr. Ziegler.

Did you feel afraid
Did I say too much
Too quick to say the words
Too honest in my touch

We had taken to evening walks, and as summer fell away and temperatures began to drop, the trees began their shift into crisp yellows and reds, then released their leaves to dance their autumn dance. I traded loose, aged muscle tanks for thick tweed blazers to stave off the oncoming chill, and you dug out your collection of knitted scarves and soft cashmere turtlenecks. 

“You know, Fareeha, we’ve never talked about… what this is,” you murmured one day, as dusty leaves crunched under our boots. “This — us.”

I stumbled to a halt, and my heart dropped. Why would you say this, if — 

“You know that I care about you deeply, Liebling…”

The sad look in your eyes told me everything, and I felt the overwhelming first lash of heartbreak, that sharpest of ethereal knives, the one that staggers you, sends you reeling. I knew what was coming, and yet.. How had I misread you so completely? All this time, I had thought — 

“But I don’t love you. Not yet, and I don’t know if I can. And.. as a doctor, you know that I — I don’t think you can ever be first in my life. I know that you want to find someone — No, let me finish. I know that you’re the kind that wants a ‘forever.’ And I’m happy with what we have, but..”

…But?

“I don’t think I can give you any more than this, Fareeha, at least — not now. Maybe not ever. I just.. didn’t want to mislead you.”

I nodded numbly, and we walked on in silence as the leaves crumbled under our feet. 

Winter

Helix, borrowing perhaps the Winter Ball tradition of the American Marines, threw a holiday party — although I imagine ours was quite a bit more lavish, given that we were a private security firm, after all.

I don’t think you had ever seen me in a suit before, Doctor. Tuxedo jacket, satin lapels, a four-button vest and a slim tie —all in the deepest black, layered over the purest white of a starched dress shirt. A pair of high service pins glinted at my breast, a quiet reminder of how I had earned the respect and admiration of my peers and employers. And that look in your eyes, the way your lips parted ever so slightly — 

I was tall, dark, dare I say — handsome? in my tuxedo, and you were positively angelic in a tight, shoulderless white cocktail dress adorned with gold filligree, ruched at the small of your back, with matching stiletto heels that made your legs look… ahem. Your hair was up in a flared bun, as if the sun rode astride your shoulder, unwilling to part with such a magnificent being. A cream-colored fur stole adorned your bare shoulders, and that perfume, the sweet, seductive scent I remembered so well.. 

Surely now, you must feel.. 

But after all the slim glasses of bubbly champagne, after all the pomp and circumstance as we mourned our fallen and toasted our comrades, after we danced the last dance, surrounded by soft candlelight and plump red roses... we went outside together, just the two of us, held each other and gazed at the stars as we had all those months ago, fingers laced together, resting our heads each against the other, black against gold… and somehow, without saying a word, we both knew that this was where it ended. We rode the cab home quietly, fingers still intertwined, and went to bed nestled in each others’ arms, knowing that this would be the last time. 

We began to see each other less and less, after that, and it wasn’t long before I moved out. 

Eventually, my commanding officer had enough of me making a nuisance of myself, and handed me a thin manila envelope containing a blue priority flight pass and a formal HSI document stamped with the following in heavy black ink: 

ORDER ISSUE, FIRST SQUADRON, INDIVIDUAL ORDER ONLY

CAPT AMARI, FAREEHA

YOU ARE HEREBY ON MANDATORY R&R FOR THE DURATION OF TWO WEEKS OR UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. THIS IS NOT A DISCIPLINARY ACTION. LT. COMMANDER OVED OF SECOND SQUADRON WILL ASSUME TEMPORARY COMMAND. 

MERRY CHRISTMAS, CAPTAIN. GET SOME GODDAMN REST.

END ORDERS

After I had scanned the notice, he gave me a kindly, paternal pat on the back, told me to get the hell out of his office, and shoved me through the door. So I shrugged and did as I was ordered; I packed my battered, dusty olive duffel bag, the one I’d had since my untested days with the Army, stamped with a faded “AMARI, F” stencil, and took the next civilian flight back to Germany where I was still keeping an apartment. It had just been more convenient to stay in the same city, or so I had told myself.

But the truth is, I.. 

I spent the holiday alone, surrounded by unpacked moving boxes, with an expensive bottle of amber-colored whiskey and a pack of sweet clove cigarettes, a habit I’d picked up during a deployment in the Netherlands. Stared out my open window at the night sky with the lights off, watched snowflakes drift gently to and fro in their lazy haphazard paths, caught in gravity’s inescapable embrace. Wondered how you were doing. 

I padded over to the kitchen barefoot, gingerly seated myself in front of the window on one of the larger cardboard boxes, still duct-taped shut, my knees bent to rest the soles of my feet against the bulging sides of my impromptu throne. I was clad in only my usual black athletic bra and loose lounge pants; I found the brisk cold refreshing, and it kept me.. present. 

Opened my mouth to inhale a deep lungful of painfully cold air, slowly exhaled the warmed air back out between my lips as I tore the thin cellophane wrapper off the little white box of cigarettes, knocked the bottom of the package with a palm to push a couple free and used the tip of my tongue to sticky one, froglike, between my lips. Tossed the little carton onto yet another nearby packing box, sparked the scratched-up steel of my old Egyptian Army-issue lighter to get the cigarette going, and admired the craftsmanship of our insignia as I took a drag without using my hands —  the way I had years ago on the battlefield, my hands occupied with reloading as bullets whined and kicked up dirt around my position and deafening artillery blasts kept things interesting.

Thought I was so cool, I thought wryly as I exhaled a hazy cloud of gray plumes. My subordinates certainly had.. 

Opened the reflective, pompously purple box holding my other prize, tossed the packaging carelessly over my shoulder as I eyeballed the label and grunted with approval, twisted the bottle open and gave myself a generous pour. It was Christmas, after all. Merry Christmas, me. 

The flat gray aluminum pad of my phone buzzed from the coffee table, and I glanced over as the screen blinked to life with a new message — we still texted each other occasionally, and it seemed Christmas would be no different. 

Merry Christmas, Fareeha. 

A brief, warm orange glow from the chunk of curling ash at the tip of my cigarette, another quick moment of brightness in an otherwise unlit room as I took another slow, thoughtful drag, gripped the dented filter with my teeth and vented smoke from my nostrils— reached for the phone and palmed it with my right hand, tapping out a measured reply with my thumb, the other hand reaching up to finally take the cigarette from my mouth and reach blindly for the glass. Took a thick swallow of whiskey, thought about the flavors as I swirled it around the glass, felt the fire warm my throat, spread into my belly against the cold night air. Woody oak, some dark cherry, bit of bitter cocoa nibs.. Anything to keep myself busy, to prevent myself from thinking too much — 

You too, Angela. 

Anything more, and the heartbreak I had finally started to bury might have been overcome, burst forth in a torrent of sorrow and loneliness and the painful need for you that never, ever went away. 

I hurriedly tapped Send to prevent writing something I knew I would regret, watched the thin green transmit bar zip across the screen, and.. couldn’t stop my thumb as it started tapping another message. Angela, I — My vision blurred suddenly, and I couldn’t decide what I should do —  I wanted to talk to you, more than anything, tell you how much I missed you. How you were everything to me, how I would do anything for you, how I — 

Angela, I was hoping — 

Hunched over on my perch, closed my eyes, covered them with the hand still gripping the whiskey glass, but it was too late — hot tears were already dripping down my cheeks, spattering on the smooth glass touchscreen of my phone, and I choked the sob that was rapidly rising in my throat, took huge, breathless gulps of frosty winter air as I wiped my eyes. Hands shaking as I drained my glass in one pull, already sloppily pouring another as the whiskey seared its way down. Mustn’t let my emotions take control, I — 

Angela, I was thinking maybe we could — 

Shoulders trembling uncontrollably, biting my lip, I scrubbed the half-written text and wrote instead, Have a wonderful holiday, Doctor. 

Tapped Send, lit up another cigarette in the dark emptiness of my living room and smoked it desperately as the tears began to well again. Still hunched over, forearms on my thighs, head almost to my knees, eyes tightly shut, as if that would stop me from painting you in my mind. A sudden impact, a loud crack, a crystalline explosion, a rain of sharp glass petals and golden brown droplets as I abruptly hurled my glass against the wall before slowly sinking back down. Drank from the bottle instead, it’s faster this way. Swallow. Breathe. Another flare of the lighter as the tears resumed, pasted thick strands of messy black hair to my face, continued to course their way silently down my face as my shoulders heaved, impacted the overstuffed cardboard between my legs in uneven intervals. 

Swallow.

Breathe. 

I drank most of the bottle that night, smoked the entire pack of cloves, and cried myself to sleep as the snow continued to fall aimlessly outside my open window and 18-year old whiskey dripped down the kitchen wall.

Angela, I — 

Forced R&R again, always finding myself on the southwest rail to Switzerland, drinking myself into a stupor and going home with a different blonde every night, a woman that is never you, no matter how similar her hairstyle, how lovely the lilt of her Swiss. Straining to stack more and more of the unforgiving black iron weights on my lateral pulldowns, my tricep pushdowns, my curls, my bench press, paper-thin muscle tanktop so drenched with sweat I had to wring it dry. Training fresh-faced UN peacekeepers in their shiny new boots and untested weapons at newly established operating bases, to help protect the innocent where I cannot. Back to the Helix gym; pushups, diamond pushups, clapping pushups, one-handed pushups. Pullups, chinups. Crunches and reverse incline crunches and planks and dragon flags.

One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand. Four. Down.

Again.

Again. 

One one thousand. Two one thousand. 

Three one thousand.

Four. 

Captain, you must stop this. 

Beads and rivulets of hot sweat and blackish red blood and sometimes, in private, the bitter salt of my tears — but this time, there are no kind fingers to sweep them away. 

But I never did, and I learned to accept that perhaps it would always be you, and only you. I learned to accept that perhaps I would never have my “forever” — and that I would soldier on, because that’s all I am. Nothing more, nothing less. 

The sudden tears and broken nights came less and less frequently, and eventually I stopped bedding any golden-haired woman that happened to remind me of you.  

Another year went by. 

I was still keeping home in Germany when the first light rain of the season began, and I was able to enjoy it this time, as I hadn’t been deployed. So I rolled out of bed in my underwear and dogtags, tugged on a loose dark gray dress shirt, roughly jammed a couple of buttons through their slots as I sauntered to the kitchen and left the rest undone. Made a quick French press, poured myself a mug and sleepily carried it out onto the balcony of my second-floor bachelor’s apartment, rubbing my eyes as I gave a jaw-cracking yawn, took my first slightly bitter sip and lifted a cigarette to my lips.

One of my favorite things, this. Savoring a cup of fresh, steaming hot black coffee, two sugar cubes, no cream — paired with the scent of fresh rain and sweet burning tobacco from my cigarette, feeling the breeze ruffle my hair, the fresh air on my bare legs and listening to the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops drumming on the steel awning overhead.  

My ears picked up the faint, regular tapping of a woman’s heels, probably someone on her way to a date. I smiled for a moment as I flicked my lighter, cupped the lively little flame with one hand, leaned in while glancing down at the street for who this lucky young lady might be — 

And our eyes met for the first time since I left over a year ago, arms full of boxes, eyes brimming with wordless tears and my heart broken as if it would never repair. Without thinking, without taking my eyes off of you, my hands quietly placed the warm ceramic mug on my balcony table, carelessly dropped the cigarette into a glass ashtray, thin tendrils of gray smoke still curling upwards in protest. Like our hectic first meeting in the Middle East, my eyes imprinted only you, etched this memory of you into my soul forever; simple lab coat as always, a striped blouse in white and navy, black pencil skirt, those short white heels, that shining face looking up at me from the cobbled street as the rain gradually painted it dark with wet. Those clear blue eyes locked on me from under a transparent umbrella, through a spiraling galaxy of sparkling raindrops and dripping shooting stars — and some tall stranger’s arm wrapped around your thin shoulders, in a black wool blazer sleeve like the ones I wore so often. I don’t remember what that person looked like, and it.. didn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. 

I remember your eyes widened in shock, and those beautiful perfect lips parted a moment, as if to speak, to offer some hesitant excuse, as if one was necessary — but I shook my head and smiled slightly, for what was there to say? 

I was rewarded with a sad little smile in turn, and for a moment, I reeled as I felt those perfect months compressed into the span of a moment; remembered vividly our warm little apartment, tasted tart wines and blueberry pancakes, heard the trembling, sentimental last notes of a grand piano from that last prescient dance when I pirouetted you into my arms, held you by the waist in an intimate dip to rapturous applause, your arms around my neck, our eyes closed and foreheads touching as soft red roses landed at our feet. Heard you say with softness, with conviction, the words I knew I would never hear, saw a fluttering veil, silver rings, love in your eyes, the promises I knew we would never make. 

And there, just as quickly, my reverie ended. 

Whatever you might have said to me, you never got a chance; the skies chose that moment to darken overhead, giving way to a heavier pour, thumping along my awning and sending ripples along your umbrella to obscure you behind an impromptu waterfall. The cascade lifted for a moment as you tipped your umbrella up and away, scattering a thousand wet little stars behind you as you gave me one final look, letting heavy drops spatter against your cheeks as you, too, inscribed my memory into your eyes, a silent last goodbye —  and I found myself leaning forward to do the same, callused brown knuckles paling as I gripped the worn dark green paint of the balcony railing, water running in thick clear streams down errant locks of ragged raven hair, my stacks of golden baubles, soaking my half-buttoned shirt as my steel tags orbited each other slowly, clinked against one another, glistened and dripped uselessly into little puddles at my feet as your companion hurriedly ushered you away, down the street and out of my life one last time as a forgotten, half-drunk coffee went cold, and a lonely cigarette sputtered its last as it, too, finally went cold.

I stood there, motionless, as the clouds came and went, eventually bid their adieus and gave way to the perfect clarity that comes after a rain, when the sun shines brightest and true — and still, there I stayed, unable to let go of this last day with you. 

Then, finally, as the sun was claimed by the endless night sky and the moon rose to shine its tranquil silver arc on my homey little street, I quietly picked up my mug and walked back into my apartment, lost in my thoughts of you. Stripped off my soaked shirt, crawled into my bed alone in the darkness, curled up under the sheets and waited for the thick warmth of sleep to take me.

I wish you happiness, my love.

My only, my forever. 

I could be an anchor for your soul
Some romantic line that I forgot about 
I don’t care, it’s good to let it out
Let it out