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"Oi, Ziegler, do you know what holiday is the most tragic?"
Dr. Moira O'Deorain makes a large sweeping gesture, whiskey glass partially full in one hand, open palm in another. Her tie is loosened, top buttons of her deep violet dress shirt casually undone and it's a stark contrast to her usual strict composure. The slump on her chair, the lab coat slung over the back, the flush across sharp cheekbones and sloping nose just revealing smatterings of pale freckles. It's all so... new to Angela. The geneticist looks at her expectantly, heterochromatic eyes expectant, waiting, eager.
The good doctor makes a guess, leaning back in her seat across from her coworker's desk, glancing at the calendar. She takes a sip of her share of whiskey.
"Halloween?"
Dr. O'Deorain grins. It's sloppy, uncalculated and so genuine in its satisfaction.
"Correct!"
Her enthusiasm is that of an excited professor when a student answers a question correctly on a topic they are most passionate for. Her Irish accent is thick, thicker with every sip of liquor. There is not much left of the amber liquid in a crystalline bottle, lit by the warm lights on Moira's desk. There’s another, already empty from before Angel's arrival. The office is a mess, disheveled like its inhabitant. Red hair starts to slip out of where it was slicked carefully into place and dangles in front of her face. She pushes it back with an intake of breath, a grin still wide on thin lips.
God. Why is she so handsome?
Drunk off her rocker, gesturing to the entire room of bookshelves and worn leather seating as if it were an atrium full of students. Angela waits for an answer, enchanted by this strange turn of events. She doesn't regret her detour to the basement labs at all with this display as her reward.
"As a small child, many years ago...too many years ago," Dr. O'Deorain coughs for effect. As if to make a joke about her age by mentioning the distant memory of childhood. Angela grins, only because she is amused. Dr. O'Deorain is making a joke at the expense of herself. Dr. O'Deorain. No one upstairs will believe her.
"I went house to house in a cheap store-bought itchy suit. Got candy, came home and feasted. As many children likely still do these days." Moira waves her hand again and takes another sip.
"And then! And then one becomes a teenager. And you go to parties. Half hearted costumes. Then it continues to adulthood, into... the workplace. Dressing up like whores for fun, of course I do not participate..." she gestures to herself in her decisively masculine dress and then glances at Angela, suddenly sheepish. "Oh, oh of course there's nothing wrong with that Dr. Ziegler-"
Angela rolls her eyes, maybe a tad hot under the collar as well from her share of hard liquor.
"Are you calling my lovingly made Witch costume that of a 'whore'?"
Normally her red-head coworker had a snide and quick witted remark for any of Angela's back talk around the base. Dr. Ziegler avoided Moira like the plague because all of their altercations ended in the blonde physician hot with humiliation as Mora beat her over the head with intelligent, biting insults.
Not tonight now, not in this state.
Dr. O'Deorain slumps her long spine and plays with the glass in her hand.
"Well," she pauses and adjusts her hair again, glancing up at Angela with uncharacteristically soft eyes. Bright blue subdued from a vast ocean to that of an eggshell. Sharp ruddy red nothing but rich chocolate brown. “Maybe... maybe I'm assuming because you looked so... nice. I wasn't there. But I saw the pictures."
Angela snorts with laughter, it's short and tinkling. Moira sits up again, hypnotized as if she's hearing the wind chimes of heaven. Her face reddens further.
"It's true! Winston has them all up in his lab..." Moira raises thin, arching eyebrows and leans in.
"Perhaps... he fancies you..."
Angela laughs harder and takes a longer swig of whiskey.
"Dr O'Deorain! He's a monkey! They're all group pictures anyways..."
The geneticists grin turns mischievous as she searches for more laughter.
"I'm only saying, he certainly chose the ones with your best angles..."
Angela Ziegler, Overwatch's finest doctor, field medic, medical researcher and poster girl for the cause, collapses over herself in a large, loud and unadulterated belly laugh. Moira presses on with pleasure.
"There was a time I was thinkin' of being a wildlife biologist. Wayyyyyy back in my undergrad." she leans in closer. "Spent a course learning about animal observation. Jane Goodall, the works. I assure you, gorillas will fuck. I assume Winston has needs..."
Angela takes a deep breath and giggles despite herself.
"Moira-"
Dr. O'Deorain seems to freeze, snapping into place as Angela uses her given name. It's as if it is the first time her name ever felt right from the mouth of another. The good doctor does not notice.
"Don't tease your boss!" Angela leans in and slaps her coworker lightly on the arm who is still somewhat starstruck and leans back, finishing her last mouthful of whiskey,
"What is your point about Halloween?"
"Right! Right," Moira re-composes, shaking her head of whatever thoughts had distracted her.
"Most other holidays have a... purpose, some sort of significant event, one that transcends a childhood game..."
"I would argue that, but continue."
Her coworker only nods but takes her cue. Her graceful way of speaking slurs into her homeland accent and it's intoxicatingly husky. Angela leans in, dragging her chair foreword
"In the workplace, at least, I find holiday parties are thrown to essentially gather blackmail. My conspiracy you might say. Especially Halloween. Stupid costumes, excessive drinking, there is no aim but to stand around and indulge in... hedonism!" Moira regards Angela with wide eyes, searching for validation.
"I think your Catholic is showing." Angela jokes instead, throughly amused.
"No, no, Dr. Ziegler, this is why I don't dare to show my face as these ridiculous events. It's simply an excuse to get everyone vulnerable, dressed down, drunk and ready to spill their guts for the vultures to pick at to ensure everyone acts just so and save their reputation!"
The Irish woman flops back down into her large leather chair, comically exhausted from unloading her thoughts.
Dr. O'Deorain finally focussed on Angela.
"Dr. Ziegler, shouldn't you be at the party right now? It started..." she squints at her heavy silver watch. "Several hours ago."
Angela cocks her head at her coworker, large smug grin crawling across her angelic features that made her so perfect for magazine covers.
"Am I not already here, according to your definition?" Angela's pale eyebrows are raised in amusement, regarding Moira intently. Vulnerable, dressed down and so, so drunk.
The geneticist seems to finally become aware of herself and goes red, even redder than any drink could impose under paper white skin.
"Shite." she mutters over and over under her breath as she pushes her glass away and sits up, back straight. She folds her hands together and attempts to look sober and professional. It's hilarious as her hair is still fringing into her eyes, shirt wrinkled and half untucked, eyes unfocused, tie still loose around an unbuttoned collar.
"It appears you are."