Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a bet.

Not with the red-headed Swede you'd spend months pining after until she eventually put you out of your misery with that kiss you engraved in your heart, but instead with the quirky Brit time-traveler.

You'd been bored with streaming for your ever-adoring - if creepy - fan-base, and had wandered the base to find something to do, when Lena crossed your path. She takes one look at you, figures out your ennui, and makes that fateful wager.

“How’s about a run ‘round the practice course, love? You win, I'll buy you Soju; I win, you get me some Earl Grey. Sound good?”

The offer tempts you: the wager isn't significant, Soju is very hard to find around these parts, and you could banish your restlessness with exercise, so you accept.

In hindsight the odds were stacked firmly in her favour; not that your competitive streak would listen to reason.

“Hana, you've been through that course five times now, and you still haven't beaten me.” Skepticism oozes through every word.

“Those were just warm-ups. You'd better have that Soju ready when I'm back! Athena, start the practice course.”

Drones formed out of thin air - Satya’s contribution to team efficiency - and start flying towards your mech.

You grasp the joysticks firmly, precise movements angling the plasma cannons  for the split seconds it takes each hard-light construct to turn to dust, before moving to the next target.

You move faster, faster , the barrels red-hot blurs in your periphery; the joysticks clicking with every trigger press, and you are one with the machine.

Then the machine stops responding to your commands: a pungent electronic smell fills the cabin, the display flashing “FAULT” at you in harsh orange. You greet the failures with an equally harsh growl; slamming the “electrical isolate” button, kicking open the rear hatch and pushing yourself out to escape the crippled mech.

You pull out your light blaster, but the drones turn to dust before you get a shot off. Tracer runs into the room, her eyes searching you for any obvious injuries.

“Athena told me your mech had malfunctioned. What happened?” It cheers you up somewhat that Lena’s first response isn't mocking you for failure, like your peers in Korea would have done.

“I pushed it too hard and the controls locked up. I don't think it can even make it to the workshop at the moment.”

Lena's empathetic expression speaks more than any words could. Briefly, you wonder how many chronal accelerators she's gone through.

Why did the mech have to lock up on the opposite side of the Watchpoint to the workshops? Spares and repairs for specialised military equipment were not cheap, and you would rather not have to fork out for a new one. You are famous, but not made of money. Some of which would now be spent on Lena’s tea addiction.

You sigh, sparing a forlorn glance at the immobile lump of carbon fibre before trudging to the workshops to fetch a toolkit.

You reach the machine room, and she stands there, plastic safety glasses and apron on, milling steel plates for Reinhardt's Crusader armour.

You're still not sure what it was about that moment that made your brain stop working. Perhaps it was those toned arms, exposed by the short sleeved top she wore. Perhaps how the freckles on her nose wrinkled with intense concentration. Perhaps it was her dark red hair tied in a tight bun. Or perhaps it was how when she finishes the piece and switches the mill off, she swivels on her feet and looks at you curiously with those hazel eyes of hers.

“Do you need something?”

Her voice is soft and lilting, with hints of an unfamiliar accent, and it kick-starts your brain again. Why were you here again?

“Oh, right, I need a drill with, uh, an...a-an M5 screwdriver head.”

Your voice sounds unfamiliar even to yourself. D.Va , famous celebrity, did not stutter, and yet here you are tripping over your own words. What a first impression to make. If your Korean Army squadmates saw this, you'd get no end of crap from them.

Brigitte reaches up to the drill set on the wall near the milling machine, the muscles in her arms on full display, and hands it over to you. You blink, before accepting with a smile and walking over to the handheld drills.

“What do you need them for, anyway?”

“My mech locked up in the middle of the practice room, and I'll have to open it up to see what happened.”

Your voice is grim, but when you're looking away from the crimsonette you at least don't stutter like a schoolgirl. How bizarre.

As for the mech, it would be another long phone call with Tae-Hyun; at the end of it, it wouldn't be the oil on your apron that made you feel dirty.

“I could check it out for you after I'm done with this?”

Yes please is your instinctual reply, but you take a moment to consider it more logically. She mentioned she was working on Reinhardt's armour, so the big guy must trust her for that much. If she screws up, you'll be able to yell at her to ease your frustration at least. Mulling it over, what's the worst that could happen?

And so, an hour later, you find yourself and the redhead (Lena had gone to warn the others) making quite a mess in the practice room as the mech is gradually disassembled to find out what went wrong.

The crimsonette's warm hazel eyes look over to you, deep in thought.

“What's your name, anyway? I just realised I didn't ask before.”

You feel foolish for dragging this poor girl to help you without even exchanging names. Her eyes feel like they're staring into your soul, and you break eye contact to be able to speak.

“S-song Hana.”

She smiles at you, flecks of dust and grease on her light skin.

“Brigitte Lindholm, squire to Reinhardt Wilhelm.”

That's not a word you've heard of before. You pause in the middle of untightening the lid to the power circuitry.

“‘Squire?’”

She laughs softly in response.

“In medieval times, a knight would have a squire to run errands for them, like carrying their armour or making repairs to it. Nowadays I just use a van to transport it, but I still make repairs.”

She reminds you a lot of Reinhardt in that first sentence. It's mildly concerning, considering the tall German’s battle strategy, or lack thereof. Still, it is interesting to learn about other cultures.

“Huh.”

You resume working, the panel coming loose after a few more screws to reveal a swathe of tripped circuit breakers and more of the damned magic smoke.

“Song, could you translate these? I can't speak Korean.”

Her voice is full of humour, but you notice your earlier mistake and cringe at yourself.

“Hana; my name is Hana. Korean puts the family name first, and it's a hard habit to break.”

At your explanation, she bursts into full-on laughter that sounds like the chiming of bells to you, and an unfamiliar feeling bubbles in your chest. Like feeling anxious but… Good? Nice? It's not something you think you can put into words.

“Hey, Song isn't a bad name. At least you don't get called 'Bridge-it’ by half the team.”

You giggle in return at her playfully annoyed tone, and have to concede her point. The banter between you both feels good. Natural, almost, apart from the strange feeling in your chest. You'll figure it out later; right now you need to fix your mech.

You glance at your watch after you finally retrieve the last burned-out servo (literally; the plastic casing had melted around the motor), and sigh.

“Clearly these aren't up to the job.”

The Swede's honey-like voice puts words to your general frustration of blowing thirty-two motors in a single run. Each one was 38,000 Won each, and you can’t say you are getting value for money considering the maintenance panel you pulled off says this MEKA rolled off the production line barely a month ago.

“Hana.”

Maybe you could get a bulk discount if you ask some friends to pitch in? Or how about setting a streaming goal and running a marathon? Until you inevitably collapse and wake up to a flurry of dvaConcern emotes, anyway.

“Hana.”

Oooh, Lùcio could do a collaboration stream where he does all the hard work making music and you provide the fan service, then take a cut of the resulting song. That might be perceived as underhanded though, and could--

“ Hana. ”

A sharp pain to your forehead brings you out of your reverie into the real world. You wince, rubbing your head with your hand.

“You were thinking too much, Hana. C’mon, I've got spares from Reinhardt's armor, and they look like they'll fit.”

So you follow her back to the workshop, and if you deliberately walked slightly slower than her, well, she didn't need to know.

The motors are heavy; you can just about lift one in each hand, but the pragmatic Swede simply lifts the bag and hauls it effortlessly back. You have no idea how she can do it, and it embarrasses you to feel so weak; that's how you justify to yourself the blush on your cheeks when she looks over to you, anyway.

More time passes; how long have you spent with this girl? You thought the fuzzy feeling in your chest would fade over time, but every smile, every laugh and every word of her snarky but sweet voice makes the feeling intensify.

You feel like you're drowning in that girl, and yet she's the only source of oxygen to breathe. It scares you to feel this way, and you excuse yourself to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face until your mind can focus on something other than red hair, toned arms and golden irises.

Staring at yourself through the mirror, locks of hair dripping into the sink, you're pretty sure what this feeling is - a crush - but having only experienced it with guys, you haven't the faintest idea what to do about it.

You dry your face and return to the practice room where your mech lies kneeling, Brigitte putting the final few screws back together, but leaving the maintenance panel open.

The Swede motions for you to get in, but first you press and hold the “SAFE MODE” switch in the exposed panel, waiting for a red light to flash green at you. You clamber in and flick the “electrical isolate” button back on, watching the bunny logo you had baked into the firmware light up the display, before “SAFE” appears in the corners of your eyes. But most importantly, Hana Song, normal teenage girl with a crush, makes room for D.Va, internet sensation and front-line soldier.

“Brigitte, you should leave.”

The Swede's face turns to confusion and offence; as if after using her services you are now kicking her out ungratefully. Hana would be hurt by that expression, but to D.Va she's a nuisance that's getting in your way.

“I need to calibrate my mech, and I'm safe from bullets here, but you might get caught in the crossfire.”

The Swede moves far too slowly for D.Va’s liking, picking up her tools lethargically and evacuating the area. You woop when the door closes (Hana sheds a tear; hopefully Brigitte will forgive you), and using the overhead controls select motor calibration. A diagram of the mech appears on screen.

The mech inches slowly to its feet, before pushing its joints as close to the limits of their motions without tipping over. It reminds you a lot of the bucking bronco ride Jesse took you to a while ago, but without any of the rubber padding when you inevitably fell off, only steel and glass. Portions of the mech’s legs light up green on the diagram as time goes on.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the mech straightens and walks in a circle on the spot, throwing you roughly to the side of the cramped cabin with a yelp. It'll bruise along your ribs, and Angela will yell at you in that motherly tone of hers when she hears of today's escapades, but you'll live. The cabin section lights up green.

The guns whir to full speed, wind blowing into the cabin, before spooling back down and lighting the guns green.

“Calibration Complete” unhelpfully supplies the onboard computer.

You experimentally move the controls, the mech following your movements even more precisely than the old motors. A part of you misses the particular drone the old motors made when you turned, however.

You drive the mech towards the “vehicle exit” door, and Athena opens it wordlessly, the smell of the ocean filling your nostrils as waves crash against the shoreline. The evening feels good, and your mech feels one with you again.

Footsteps other than your own crunch through the soft Gibraltar loam, making you swivel the mech to see Brigitte following wordlessly behind you. You humour Hana by waving through the cockpit - receiving a somewhat reluctant wave in return - then parking the MEKA in the workshop.

You kneel the mech and climb out of the rear, to see the Swedish redhead leaning against the workbench. Time for Hana to clean up the mess D.Va made.

“Look, Brigitte--”

“Hana--”

You share a look with Brigitte before the two of you start laughing like idiots. The tension and apprehension eases from your shoulders with each chuckle until she smiles at you, and all is forgiven.

“Thank you, Brigitte.”

The next thing you know, you are swept up in her arms, your face buried in her shoulder (her hair is soft and smells of wild berries), and you wrap your arms around her in turn, trying to avoid the proximity getting to you.

She gently releases you - a part of you missing the contact already - and yawns.

“I don't know about you, but those repairs have really tired me out.”

Her voice is noticeably drained, as if she'd been hiding her tiredness the whole time, and only just let it show. You're about to reply that you feel just fine, but the caffeine of your Nano-Cola runs out, and tiredness slams into you like a ton of bricks.

“Guess I'll see you tomorrow, Brigitte.”

Her smile is not one of her usual grins, but instead something subtler. It feels… More intimate, somehow. She turns to walk out the workshop door.

“Sleep well.”

Her voice is quiet, but carries through the corridor.

As you lie on your bed a few minutes later, browsing for Earl Grey tea bags in Gibraltar, you realise that even though you lost the bet with Lena, you might have won in a different way.

Chapter Text

In Busan, at your parents’ house (was it ever really “home” to you?), there was only crushing schoolwork or the hazy concept they’d call “your future”. You’d get home to either parental apathy (on a good day) or being berated for even the smallest mistake; start working on your coursework as best as you could (but your best was never good enough for them); then eat dinner in uncomfortable silence until dismissed. In the evening until the small hours of the night, you were free until sleep took hold of you.

At first it hurt: disapproval seeping from your parents - cold looks, defensive body language, quiet but deadly words. Being Hana Song hurt, so you forged a shell of all the things you wanted to be, and used it to weather the storm. You would pour your frustrations into video games, tempering your hot anger with the hammer strikes of failure into a suit of steel for the world to see.

But that suit has its rough edges and imperfections; Hana is quiet and meek, but soft and tender at her core. In the heat of war, however, virtual and physical, you are bold and do not hesitate, running purely on instinct in the right now, for there is never any time to hesitate and plan for the future. Emotions -  your own and those of other people - are for dealing with in the future, not the present. Add these up and you end up with - to quote a Starcraft player several years ago - “a goddamn diva”. It stuck.

When your adoring (creepy) viewers watch you stream, it’s not Hana Song they see, but blazing, glorious D.Va who lives in the moment and won’t go down without a fight.

It terrifies you to know you’re capable of that: how far will you go before the reality that you are not a schoolgirl but a soldier sets in? How long before the mental defenses you have built crumble before you? And what will happen afterwards?

You shake your head; dwelling on such things can only lead to bad results.

Brigitte didn’t seem to have such problems. Perhaps she has not suffered like you have, for she is bright smiles, the scent of wild berries and the warm rays of evening sun that beam down upon you presently. She talks about how the clouds have stories of their own, and how the stars are protectors during the night.

Now, as you watch the technicolour hues of the Gibraltan sunset, your legs dangling off the edge of the cliffs while waves crash into the shores beneath, you wonder what the Swede would say about the glowing sun. Perhaps she’d say--

“You really shouldn’t look into the sun, Hana. It’s bad for your eyes.”

The harsh but melodic voice that floats through the air is not the redhead you were daydreaming of, but instead that of Angela Ziegler, who looks at you with mild concern in her cerulean irises.

“Oh, good evening, Doc. I’ve just been thinking about things.”

Thinking about how Overwatch feels more like a family to you than your actual family ever did; about how you sit in your bed at night - after Lena shouts “movie night” and drags the team in the briefing room with popcorn and old movies, the presentation projector becoming an impromptu cinema - and wonder why your childhood wasn’t like this. But you’ll keep those thoughts to yourself for now - you’re sure poor Angela has enough to deal with without your childhood angst.

“Oh?”

The Swiss woman sits down on the rough soil, and you sigh inwardly. She’s always taken care of you (in that motherly way you won’t tell her you really appreciate), but she has the art of prying information out of people down to a tee. It would be nice to have more time to reflect upon things, to sort out your emotions, past, present and future.

“Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“No, actually. I’ve just finished my jobs for today. What’s on your mind?”

You try to avoid her question, but the blonde doesn’t miss a beat. Fine, you’ll play her game, because if you don’t, she’ll never leave you alone.

“I’ve been thinking about home. My parents. Korea. Did you know they were happy when I was drafted because they disagreed with my lifestyle choices?”

“You mean being a professional gamer?”

“Amongst other things, yeah. I’d stream at night when my parents were asleep, and have ‘sleepovers’ during major tournaments. I’d look like a goddamn panda in the mornings, and then I’d lie through my teeth about not being able to sleep.”

“Nothing’s changed over the years, then.”

Her voice is bright and filled with mirth. It promises bad things.

“Especially with the hiding secrets, Hana.”

Aish . You’d hoped she hadn’t paid too much attention, but once again, nothing escapes the eyes and ears of Doctor Angela Ziegler. Not even your bruised ribs, when the Swiss caught you clutching your side on the way to breakfast the morning after your mech calibration.

You sigh, and meet her playful gaze, which turns serious.

“What’s wrong? You’ve been restless during breakfast meetings, and...even as I say this your body is coiled to run away.”

With visible effort, you force yourself to relax, having not even noticed your muscles tensing up.

“Angela, do you constantly watch my every action for signs of deceit?”

Dr Ziegler has the decency to look sheepish, scratching her neck.

“Fifteen years of combat experience makes you pay attention to everything. If it makes you feel better, Winston has been going through double his usual peanut butter consumption recently.”

That does not make you feel better, knowing that she’s paying attention to the slightest detail. You silently pray she has not listened too closely during your morning showers.

“Angela--”

“I know it’s almost your--”

Your cheeks flare bright red, and you look firmly at the ground.

“It’s not that! It’s… I think I have feelings for somebody, and I don’t know what to do.”

The doctor’s face is the picture of victory, all smug smirk and raised eyebrows.

“Took you long enough.”

“That’s...a confusing thing to say, Doc.”

“Put a group of hormonal people in closed spaces, and make them fight for their lives, and those hormones really want to go somewhere. Why do you think debriefings are held the morning after somebody gets back?”

You stubbornly refuse to think about what the other members do at night.

“Because they want sleep?”

“Or because they want to sleep with somebody.”

Angela’s straightforward nature will be the death of you someday, you swear. Time for a spot of revenge.

“Wait, even you as the youngest member, ten years ago, during the original Overwatch?”

It’s the doctor’s turn to break eye contact, grimacing at a piece of soil.

“I, uh...”

You can’t restrain your giggles at her embarrassment, and before long she’s laughing too. By now, it’s beginning to get dark, the wind cutting through your clothes, but it's good to tell someone about your feelings.

“So, anyway, what do you think I should do?”

She taps her foot against the soil gently in thought, her brow furrowing.

“I'm not sure.”

You gasp in mock shock.

“Angela Ziegler not knowing what to do? What's happening to the world?”

“Perhaps I need a checkup!”

You snicker at that.

“Well, Hana, in the medical world we have to weigh up the advantages of doing something against the advantages of doing nothing. Sometimes you have to act quickly, other times things are best being left alone. We call it ‘first do no harm’.”

‘First, do no harm’. Food for thought. You decide it's time to head inside; your thin clothing can’t handle the breeze without sun to warm you up.

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Don't worry about it, it's what I'm here for.”

Back at high school, when you had a crush (the word sounds so meaningless compared to your feelings for Brigitte now) on a classmate, the advice you got from the few friends you had was to act coy around him, making teasing remarks and seeing the responses you got, until eventually he got the message and asked you out.

You tried your best, but either you were terrible at it or he was oblivious, and nothing ever happened before you were drafted into the military, and relationships in the military were strictly forbidden.

Still, maybe this time it would work?