Work Text:
“One last late entry, Dr. Ziegler.”
Angela snapped her bag shut in place of huffing her annoyance. “If it’s Obo from accounting again I’m sacrificing his papercut finger to Odin.”
The nurse smiled slightly. “You’ll be relieved to know it’s an actual injury doctor.”
“Oh, thank Gods.” She slid off her coat as she exhaled. “Can’t imagine what they were getting up to on Christmas Eve. Well, actually, I can.” She remembered Christmas at the Lindholm’s when Brigitte was still a baby, and Torbjörn had decided it would be fun to deep fry a whole duck for dinner because Jack said he did it with a turkey once. Torbjörn, being Torbjörn, hadn’t made sure the bird was completely thawed before chucking it in a vat of oil. If she hadn’t been there with her staff, he’d have some very embarrassing scars to explain. “Training injury?”
“Of a kind, Doctor.” The nurse came forward, slipping her an intake form and saying quietly by her ear. “Blackwatch.”
“Oh, damn it, Cole,” she spat immediately. He couldn’t go five minutes without burning, cutting, stabbing or shooting himself. Some days she had half a mind to duct tape his hands together just so she could get some peace. Or maybe she’d just steal his cigars.
“Not quite, Doctor.” The nurse said quietly.
Angela furrowed her brow, wondering how Genji might manage to damage what little blood and bone she’d manage to keep attached to him when she looked at the paper, and all thought stopped. “Oh,” she said. “So that’s where she went.”
Moira was in a sorry state. A mess of blood and dirt was on her cheek, she was nearly folded and leaning to her right, that decrepit hand that sat somewhere between sickly blue and deathly purple gripping tightly at her side. Gauze was hastily wrapped around her middle and up over her right shoulder while her left, her dominant, hung limply. She was in a skintight Kevlar bodysuit, similar to the kind Angela wore beneath her own armor. As stupid and unprofessional as it was, Angela stared for a long moment without doing anything at all, watching Moira breathe, thin frame expanding and shrinking. Were she to guess, a couple ribs were broken.
Suddenly, Moira’s head snapped up. Angela couldn’t help but think that she’d never seen Moira’s hair so out of place. Or that it was only a few steps removed from curly without all the hair gel. “Ziegler,” she wheezed.
“Dr. O’Deorain,” she replied. Moira was any other patient, minus the gross ethical negligence associated with her existence. But besides that, a meaty bag of blood and bones. A very hurt bag. “Wondered where you’d slithered off to.”
She huffed, almost a laugh. She made no protest to Angela’s guiding hands; one on her right shoulder, the other cradling the apparent broken arm as she had her lie back. The nurse had already assessed the risk of internal bleeding and determined it low enough to proceed with the standard body-scan. Angela wasn’t too fond of the machines that assessed most basic physical ailments and traumas, technology was as full of error as humans, but they were efficient. And meant she didn’t have to touch Moira more than necessary.
They were silent, for a moment. Angela watched the scan light, a dull blue bar, fall over Moira’s form, following her slight curves and peaks as it passed over and over, building a 3D model from the inside out. The woman kept her eyes closed without instruction. She had to be familiar with the machinery as well. Angela always told herself to not think of Dr. O’Deorain, especially not on the occasions they were forced to be in each other’s presence, but right now it was impossible not to think about the woman, about where she had been, and what she’d been doing in the dark little corners of Reyes’s pet project.
More importantly, it was hard not to wonder why she was there at all. “You could have taken care of yourself.”
Angela could see Moira’s eyes move beneath her eyelids-she was probably rolling them at her. “If I could have taken care of myself, Angela, I obviously would have.”
Her face twitched. “Dr. Ziegler. And I don’t know, you seem to delight in annoying me.”
“I do not delight in coming to the infirmary in the dark of night with a broken bloody arm and,” she shifted, wincing, “ah-three-feckin’ broken ribs, shite.”
“Careful, your Irish is showing.”
Moira’s eyes snapped open to glare right at her.
Angela took quite a bit of delight in that.
The scan showed exactly 3 broken ribs, a very broken arm in addition to a shoulder fracture, indicated massive bruising beneath the suit and what looked like a large slash. “Is your suit self-healing?”
“Yes.” She gritted her teeth.
Going into professional mode, more or less, Angela pressed a few buttons on the examination table to summon necessary equipment, first of which was an IV of pain medication. She administered this to Moira’s arm in preparation to set it, then, carefully sitting her up, unwrapped the gauze. From the scans, the injuries beneath the suit would require stitching, but it would have been much worse if not for the suit, which maintained pressure and had kept her ribs mostly in place. Usually all there was to do with ribs was wrap and wait it out, but Overwatch kept an invigorating pain medication to make the healing easier and get their agents back on the field as soon as possible. She didn’t know if Blackwatch was allocated any of that…Moira’s healing with startlingly effective and all-encompassing, though Angela had, on moral ground, never investigated quite how it worked. Nevertheless, she couldn’t help herself and asked, “why can’t you heal yourself, anyway?”
“Do you not perceive the broken arm?”
“Of course I do.”
“I need it to heal. The left one, specifically. I can’t channel anything worthwhile. And it’s excruciatingly painful.”
“Well, no one can say you’re long winded,” she said, shifting over to Moira’s left. More button pressing led to probably Angela’s favorite feature of the body scan-the ability to take constant concentrated scans of one particular area, allowing what was essentially a live feed of whatever internals she needed to see; mostly broken bones, and in this case, the fragments of Moira’s arm and shoulder that she needed to put back in place. It was a careful and somewhat slow process, but with the pain medication Moira should only feel uncomfortable. She did check to make sure it was fully effective before she started moving things. Moira didn’t make a sound, leaving Angela to stew in the thoughts of what exactly made Moira work. “I assumed there was wiring or something in your arm.”
“To assume, Dr. Ziegler, is to make an ass of oneself.”
“I can turn off the pain medication.”
“Your morality prevents you.”
“At least I have morality. Fine, then. How does it work?”
Moira was quiet.
“Well?”
“Pardon me, I never thought I’d get to hear you swallow your pride enough to ask how my abilities function. Was enjoying the moment.”
She really, really thought about putting out the pain medication. She moved to set the shoulder and gave Moira an expectant look, which finally coaxed the only thing Angela had ever wondered about the despicable woman.
“Nothing physical, in so as relating to technology like Captain Amari’s eye or Genji’s…everything. Your nanites cause rapid cellular regeneration and healing. I made a formula that can replicate that; when applied to myself, it de-generated part of my hand before it re-generated itself. Now it, well, if I’m honest, I don’t understand it all myself, but I do know that the effects, healing or non, travel through my veins, my nerves and even my bones. I must be able to move my arm to utilize them. If I can’t move my arm, I can’t use it. Besides this,” she said while letting out a pathetic puff of yellow from the port on her palm.
That was fascinating. And that fact pissed her off. “So, you stole my technology and liquidized it?”
“I based my own research on yours, Dr. Ziegler. I cited you in every paper I’ve written, so get off that moral high-horse at least.”
She rolled her eyes. “I wish I didn’t know that. I don’t even want to know what you did with-“
“Cancer research.”
“What?” She was prepping injections. There were two, one for long-term pain relief, and another to encourage bone healing. It would reduce the cast time from six or so weeks down to three. Perhaps even shorter, depending on when Moira could produce a biotic orb.
“Cancer, genetic disorders and anomalies. Disease. I’ve always felt it required examining things on the cellular level and your biotic technology operated on such a level, so I adapted from it…Correcting and eliminating these aspects of existence have been the focus of my research for the entirety of my life.”
Angela paused. “Like, the whole thing?”
“Yes? You are not the only child prodigy in the world, Dr. Ziegler.”
Angela stared at her a moment, realizing, to her chagrin, that she actually did want to know more about her. That Moira, beside her ethical shortfalls, was an utter mystery. “Well yes, but I still just…was a child. Played with Barbies and all that.”
“I never said I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t, I stole my brothers G.I. Joes’ instead.”
Angela acquired a pair of extra-strength scissors, made for the Kevlar bodysuits. She would have to remove a sizable piece of fabric to avoid the suit’s self-healing properties from getting in the way of her work. Moira surprised her by asking the next question. “What was it, Dr. Ziegler, that made you decide to pursue the path you did? Surgery is your specialty, is it not?”
“It is,” she responded, slicing through the suit without doing the typical warning of the patient she was technically required to. Moira simply watched as she uncovered almost the entirety of her torso, revealing the nasty gash beneath. And a surprisingly muscular physique. Kudos to the Blackwatch training regimen. “And, well, I suppose you can say I simply followed my parents. Mother was a surgeon, Father was an army medic, though he retired, bad leg. And, well, you know as well as the rest of the world how they died.”
“I do,” she said quietly. She was already medicated, but Angela swabbed numbing gel over her skin before prepping a suture and needle. There were machines that did it faster, but she’d always trusted her own hand more. She prodded Moira’s belly with the needle, watching her face for a reaction, before starting to sew. Moira lifted her head, watched a moment, and then laid it back down.
“Well, O’Deorain, I suppose you’ve made me ask the question of why you ended up in genetics.”
“Take one look at my face and ask me that again.”
Angela, confused for a moment, looked at her. Moira blinked pointedly. “Oh! Those…are natural?”
Moira huffed, the first hint of annoyance. “Yes, they’re bloody natural. God, you and everyone else.”
“Well, it is a very unusual case of heterochromia, and you are well known for self-experimentation, Moira.”
Moira raised her head up, corner of her lips pulled up in a little grin. Angela cocked her head to the side. “What?”
“You just called me Moira.”
She stopped mid stitch, then huffed and pulled the thread through. Her face felt hot, and she just prayed she wasn’t really blushing…God, she couldn’t believe herself. She blamed it on sewing up the torso wound. It’d been...a long time since she was this close to another woman. Even in a medical capacity, what with all the postdocs she had at her beck and call, which had let her put time aside for research between field assignments…God she needed to get laid. And get her brain back in line. “Stop looking so satisfied, you’re just a, a bad influence. Either way, you were your own inspiration then.”
“That and my burgeoning brilliance. No one else around me had an explanation, so I sought to find one myself and became utterly fascinated.” She gained a sudden, uncharacteristically fond smile. “Prompted my mum to take me to the library for the first time. “’ave got nothin’ to teach ya lass, go learn it for yerself.” She’d cook and listen to my little bouts of madness for hours.” She smiled then, but not without a deep sigh and a shake of the head.
Angela felt the sadness in the rise and fall of her abdomen beneath her latex glove. It made her pause once again. “You miss them, don’t you?”
Her abdomen bounced as she scoffed. “Aw, is that sympathy? I haven’t even gotten to the tragic part.”
“Don’t even try, Moira; it’s too damn late for that now.” She snorted. Maybe it was the hour, or maybe it was the tone of her voice, but Moira…was grabbing her interest. At this point, she felt compelled to wonder where the descent into more than questionable scientist came from. “And I think we’re both too tired.”
Moira quickly loss whatever silliness had come upon her. She looked…she looked strange. Like she couldn’t believe what she was doing. “You’re right. I try to treat wherever I may land as my home…but I miss Dublin terribly.”
Angela nodded, quiet. “I never thought I’d be saying this to you, of all people, but I’m sorry you’re so far from…from your home.”
Moira exhaled, staring off, not just away from Angela but to somewhere else entirely. She finished the first stitch and moved on to the second before she spoke again. “I know it must be different for you, but I genuinely wish, Angela, that you’re able to do something this season with people who care deeply for you.”
Angela didn’t know what to say for a moment. “I have a flight to Sweden, so, yes, I will. Thank you.”
Moira frowned. “I’m not making you late, am I?”
“No, actually. It’s not for another few hours.”
“Oh, good.”
Angela finished sewing her up and bandaged over the wounds. “What are your plans?”
“Well, Ireland, until,” she gestured to herself. “My plane left hours ago.”
A wash of sadness fell over Angela at once, and she didn’t bother feeling mad about it. “What…did happen?”
“Emergency mission. If I go into much detail Reyes will have my arse on a platter, we were on a mountain or hill or something, I don’t know, and I, well,” she made a wiggly gesture with her arm, and the power of deduction told Angela it was her “wraithing” move, “I went too far and fell straight down. Jesse and Genji fished me out of the rocks and brought me here. Reyes I guess told them to go forward and they both chewed him out for wanting to go ahead without a healer. And Reyes chewed me out for not being able to see in the dark like a feckin’ cat.”
Angela let out a long puff of air, the kind that stood in place of words when there really wasn’t much to say, but to not respond felt wrong. “Merry fucking Christmas I guess.”
Moira let out a burst of laughter, wrapping an arm over her chest. “Merry fucking Christmas is right.”
She helped Moira up and cut off her supply to pain medication. Her arm was in a sling, and she got her a damp rag so she could clean off her face. “There might be a late flight you could catch.”
Moira blinked, then seemed to think. “I suppose. Though he wanted me to work on a few projects “since your in town”,” she said the last with a bitter swipe of the cloth.
Angela really did not like Moira.
But pissing off Overwatch’s higher command, besides Ana, had always been a hobby of hers.
“Fuck him.”
Moira looked baffled for a moment. “Pardon?”
“Fuck him. Get a flight. You expected to have the time off until the mission failed, did you not?”
“I did.”
“Then take it. You can’t do any field work for a bit anyhow,” she gestured to her arm.
Moira seemed to study her a moment, slowly rising from the table. She grabbed a large dark jacket off a nearby table, one Angela had not noticed before, and draped it over shoulders with a little of Angela’s help. She looked sort of like a bond villain with all the black. Angela gave her a standard pain medication prescription and the number for the Overwatch infirmary should she need further assistance before she was able to heal herself. They walked out together as Angela shut it all down for the night, locking the door behind her. In the darkened hall, she looked up at Moira, and Moira looked down at her; but for a brief moment, they were seeing eye to eye.
“Nollaig shona dhuit, Dr Ziegler.”
“Frohe Weihnachten, Dr. O’Deorain.”
They parted. Angela made her flight with time to spare.
Three days later she was sitting with a slice of apple pie at the Lindholm’s when her phone buzzed on the table. She opened it up.
Jack Morrison: Hey, have you heard anything about Moira taking unsanctioned leave? Reyes is having a hissyfit.
She typed a quick “nope” and put down her phone, smiling.