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What Ana expected from her return to Overwatch, she cannot say. Her hopes were not high, certainly, for she had an inkling how uncomfortable it would be for all involved, to realize that she was alive again, that they did not look for her, and she did not reach out to them, but she feels she was unprepared, nonetheless, for the reality of what it is to be back her, among her former comrades once again.
Reuniting with Jack was different—they were both of them destroyed by Overwatch in their own way; he could understand that she had not abandoned her post, and she could see that he was in no position to find her, to reckon with what was happening to them both in that moment. There was no need for apologies between the two of them, not because nothing went wrong, but because they had an understanding, just as they always did before, of where they stood with one another, of their mutual dysfunction, of their shared culpability. She did not have to explain herself to him, because he knew already what had happened, and how she felt.
But everyone else?
Overwatch broke some of them, too, she knows. She saw what it was doing to them, the orders she gave, the things she okayed, she knew, and she asked them to stay, so how can she look at them now? How can she even begin to explain, to atone? It hurt me, too, is a paltry excuse, and far from an apology.
(Even in the moment, there were things she asked of them that she knew she could never ask forgiveness for, and those decisions have eaten at her every day since. Some of those decisions she still stands by, for they truly were for the greater good, but that does not make it any easier to have been the one that made them, and certainly is a cold comfort for those impacted. To apologize for those choices would be hollow, and a lifetime in command taught her that to do so was a weakness. She is not their commander, not any longer, but she can never be their equal.)
It would be simpler, she knows, to avoid everyone, to have kept running, as she did every day in her life as the Shrike. It might even be easier. She believed, once, that they would all be better off with her dead, and although her feelings have shifted, with time, she knows that her coming back is a painful thing. Reinhardt feels abandoned, Torbjörn feels deceived, and Angela—Angela is angry, Ana knows, even if they have yet to speak directly.
Even Fareeha is conflicted about her return. They have agreed to mend things, as best they are able, and Ana is trying, she is, but it is slow going. Two weeks on base, and she can count their conversations on one hand.
Some were fruitful, and so Ana is loath to complain. As Fareeha pointed out to her, they could have spoken long, long before now, had she chosen any method of communication besides a letter, but still, it is painful to be so near to her daughter and so, so far, to be reminded daily of her greatest of failures.
She will just have to content herself with what progress she is making. To do so is not easy, but she is afraid to push for too much, too soon, wants Fareeha to set the pace. It is only right; she is the wronged party, and Ana can be patient.
With the others, too, she has adopted a strategy of waiting. When they are ready, they will come to her, and she will answer their questions honestly, or as close to that as she is able. So far, none of them have come to her looking for answers. She thought Reinhardt would, but he is not ready, yet, for the difficult part, seems content, for now, to be happy that she is alive. Torbjörn has always been nosy, too much so for her taste, but he also has shied away from the difficult questions, has asked about how the rifle he has designed treated her, over the years, but nothing more direct; perhaps it simply does not feel real to him yet. Out of everyone, it is Cole to whom she has spoken the most, but they have not addressed the matter at all, have only pretended nothing happened—it is disconcerting, from a straight shooter like him.
(Later, she will come to accept that he is not avoiding anything, that he simply has nothing to say about the matter. She left them, and it was wrong, but he understands, knows what it is to feel trapped as she did, to have no choice in the moment but to run, and to pick up the pieces afterwards. But now, she is not ready, yet, to trust that anyone can forgive her, let alone to see that he does not feel forgiveness is necessary.)
All in all, it makes for an uncomfortable situation, but Ana did not expect otherwise, knew returning would be painful, even if she never imagined to what degree. When they are ready to talk, any of them, she will be here, is making no effort to hide herself, now that Fareeha has made it clear that her presence is not an unpleasant intrusion in day-to-day life.
Every afternoon, she takes tea in the courtyard just off the communal kitchen. Gibraltar is beginning to cool, at this time of year, but the temperature is still such that she can enjoy the warmth of the sun on her skin, and when she closes her eye, she can imagine she is home—wherever she decides home is today. The smell is not right for anywhere she has lived, the see air and the late blooming flowers an unpleasant mixture, but the smells that remind her most of her past are not necessarily pleasant either, so that is not so great a disappointment. In the distance, she can hear the birds, and the sound of someone landing a transport, and—
—The quiet click of a closing door.
For a moment, she does not move, does not even breath, just waits, and listens, tries to identify the source of the sound. Nothing. She can feel eyes on her, though, and so she sets her saucer down on the bench next to her as quietly as possible while her other hand reaches for her gun. The clink of porcelain on metal is not a loud one, but it may as well be a gunshot, for how silent everything else is in the courtyard right now.
“Ana.” Genji’s voice shatters the silence, familiar in its mechanical quality, but alien in tone. The Genji she knew was angry, nearly always, had a tightness to his speech that belied his frustration with the situation that had been thrust upon him, his rage at the state of the world, and this Genji is not, is frighteningly composed, even at the worst of times. “I had hoped that I might find you here.”
“I’m here every afternoon,” says she, keeping her voice level. He would have seen her reach for the gun, but still, she does not want to seem too on edge. Were he not so quiet she would not have needed to react.
(But, then, he is often entirely silent. Did he close the door loudly enough for her to hear on purpose? Was it a courtesy, a new habit, or does he know how reactive she has become, in the years that have passed? She does not know that she wants to know.)
“So you are,” says he, voice drawing nearer as he makes his way across the paving stones to the bench where she sits. “Alive and well.”
Well might be stretching things, just a bit, but she is hardly going to point that out.
“As are you,” says she, instead. Perhaps it is a bit more pointed than she intends, but both of them know how very unwell he was, when last they spoke. This is a surprising change.
A chuckle, dry and perhaps not entirely amused. He is beside her, now, and she can just see the gleam of his armor in her periphery. The more direct route would have taken him to her blind eye, and she appreciates the gesture for what it is. “It was a difficult journey. May I sit?”
“Let me move over,” says she, because the empty side of the bench is her blind side.
“The ground is fine.” Genji sits before she can protest.
Silence, then. She takes another sip of her tea, waits for him to speak. He does not. Perhaps patience has come with his new found calmness. Part of her wants to see how long he can last, if he will break under the silence, if she can still rattle him, but she knows that is not a kind thought, is one born of years spent on her own, evaluating everyone for weakness, so that if—when—they turned on her, she could protect herself.
“You wanted to see me?” She hopes her voice does not betray what she was thinking, how she feels.
(She is not an animal, caged, but in conversations like this, she feels trapped. Something is coming, and she does not know what. Even if it is a good thing, it scares her. Wherever she goes, now, she needs an out, and it is hard to plan one not knowing what it is he is after.)
Once, she could feel his nervous energy wherever he went, his anger, his fear. Now, he is inscrutable. “We have had a similar experience,” he explains, “Dying.”
“It isn’t so unique,” not here, anyway. They keep Angela very busy.
“Our deaths were different.”
Well, that Ana cannot contest. It is not the same, to have been unmade as they were, and to have been reborn anew, as some rawer, wounded version of themselves, to have had, thereafter, to claw their way back to humanity—or to begin to, in Ana’s case. She still feels a wild thing, sometimes, cornered and injured, ready to lash out. Genji is much further along in his journey than she.
(He has also had longer, she knows, but to acknowledge that feels like she is making excuses. She is not too prideful to admit that his efforts, in recent years, to recover himself have been far more concerted than her own. Downplaying the work he has done to reach this point does him a disservice, and does her no favors.)
“Every death is,” says she, rather than admit that he is right. What does he want her to say? That she is as badly off as he was? She is not, anymore—but she was, nearly. The only real difference between the two of them, at their worst, is that her anger she has always been told to direct inwards.
He disagrees, she knows before he even speaks, can feel the shift in his demeanor. Tranquil as he pretends to be, these days, he is not immune to negative emotions entirely, can still feel frustrated when the person to whom he is speaking is deliberately obtuse. “That is not what I meant.”
“Say what you mean, then.” She dislikes when people talk around things, always has, and she feels her social graces diminishing with age.
“Very well.” She should not be happy, to hear that she has gotten under his skin, but she is. It is wrong of her, she knows it, but being next to him, drawing the inevitable comparison, she feels badly about herself. He is doing so much better than her, and a part of her wants to see the cracks in the way he presents himself, wants to reach under his armor and see all the ways that, despite his foray into Omnic philosophy, he is still so very human, still prone to anger and jealousy and grief as he once was.
(It is a projection, she knows, and not a kind one. When she is alone, at night, she can be honest with herself about that much. With other people near, however, she bristles, needs to badly to be well, to be whole, to be commander they once knew—or thought they did—in control of everything, and so she cannot admit that she has anything to be jealous of when she looks at him. She needs, still, to be better, and for that, he has to be worse.)
“Fareeha knew you were alive.” He cuts right to the chase. “Your return did not shock her the way it should have.”
Perhaps she should have let him take the circuitous route to this, after all, because then she could have headed him off before this point, could have found some way of inveigling. Stated so frankly as this, there is no ignoring the topic at hand. “She did,” Ana confirms. “She is my daughter. I felt I owed her that much.”
Really, she owed Fareeha far more, but that is not Genji’s place to know, and not hers to tell. Maybe one day, she and Fareeha will have mended their relationship to the point that her speaking of it would not be a violation, but for now, it is Fareeha’s story to tell, not her own. If her daughter does not want anyone to know what she knew, when and how, if she does not want to say how she was hurt by it, how Ana failed her, if she does not want their sympathy, or to be so vulnerable in front of them, Ana will not make that choice for her.
A shift, from Genji, genuine discomfort, and then a confession, “My brother does not yet know I survived.”
Another shift, this one in perspective. She thought it was Genji with the power in this conversation, come to lecture her about healing, about the Iris, about what she could be doing better, to be a different sort of person than the one she has become. Instead, he is seeking her advice.
She could give it to him. She could make him feel small, too, if she wanted. She could feel control, could feel needed, in a way that she has not in a long time.
But it would not be right. It would not be right to do that to him, to make him hurt just because next to him, she feels inadequate, these days. It would not be right that she should go down that path, go back to protecting herself from her own pain by denying it, by building up barriers, as if the vision she presents to others of a woman in control could become her reality. It would not be right, most importantly, because this is not hers to talk about, not really. Fareeha, more than she, was a victim in the fracturing of their relationship, and her handling of her death. It needs to be her who decides how to discuss the matter with others.
“You should talk to Fareeha about surviving.” She moves to return indoors, taking her tea with her. “As you said, I died.” If her tone is one of dismissal, then she will have to be forgiven, for that moment of falling into her old ways. She does not think herself his superior, not really, is not trying to place herself above him—it is just the only way she knows to create distance, short of death.
Perhaps one day, in the future, she will learn to be gentler, to assert a boundary without creating a barrier. Today is not that day.
Behind her, Genji still sits in the garden. She takes care not to look back.