Work Text:
Doubled down in front of the mirror, gripping the sink for dear life as her abdomen spasmed violently, Moira coughed.
Repeatedly.
Something was clogging her throat and her body desperately tried to get rid, but the itching just got worse.
Her throat was raw from the coughing and retching and her ribs ached with every pump from her diaphragm.
Tears formed on her eyes as they shut wide open, feeling like they could come out of their sockets at any moment, and at this point she didn’t know whether they came from the effort of expelling the flowers or the rage and sadness she felt from her state.
She knew what it was, and that just added more humiliation to her position.
Petals.
Delicate, thin flower petals sticking to her larynx. Making it hard for the ginger woman to breathe and sending her body in such a violent distress that she was now crying.
Full blown sobbing from the effort.
All she could think was how much her ribs hurt, how a pounding headache was starting to spread through her head and neck and how much she hated this.
She hated this and she hated herself for allowing this to escalate as much as it did.
Finally, she feels the foreign objects start to invade her mouth.
Which, far from helping, seems to be making things worse.
Her tongue jerked violently as she felt the flowers touch the uvula and triggered her gag reflex.
With her stomach now involved, Moira felt she was going to expel all of her internal organs through her mouth at that very moment, but instead a lump of flower petals fell onto the sink with a wet, gross sound.
For the first time in what seemed like ages, Moira could finally breathe freely.
The tall woman heaved and sobbed, hunched over the sink pathetically as he saw the blood covered petals laying on the sink.
Many were macerated during the ordeal, but a lot of them retained their white color and elongated shape.
She quickly recognized them as Brugmansia suaveolens, or otherwise known as … Angel’s tears
Moira didn’t care anymore if some of the recruits would hear her, hell, Reyes could have barged into the bathroom screaming and she wouldn’t even bat an eye.
All she wanted was to disappear, all she wanted was to sink into the ground and collapse.
Her fiance, whom she thought was the love of her life, has just thrown her out.
The person she thought she could trust had exposed her work when she asked to please keep this until she could stabilize it.
Angela had told her, without even flinching, that she could not love a monster such as her…
And the worst part is that she still loved Angela.
She wanted to hate her.
She wanted to act like she was nothing more than one of the many skeptics she had had to deal with during her years in genetic engineering.
But she couldn't.
She couldn’t and she hated herself for that.
Now, as her legs finally gave up and she sat on the tiled floor with her back against the wall, Moira cried.
She had never experienced a broken heart before, because she had never felt anything for anyone until she met Angela.
To know that there were flowers spreading through her respiratory system was bad enough, but to know they were born from her own weakness made it especially painful for her…
—
Blackwatch has been dissolved for 8 years, and Overwatch has been disbanded for 6.
Moira hasn’t seen Angela in 7 years.
After all that’s happened, she hardly ever thinks about the Swiss doctor, having more important matters to deal with.
She’s too old for that, she tells herself whenever the memories re-emerge.
But sometimes, she finds a news article or her name is casually thrown by one of her colleagues in Oasis.
And every time, without fail Moira has to excuse herself to the bathroom and once she’s sure there’s no one to see her shame, she stops breathing. It’s worse if she breathes.
Two long fingers enter her mouth. After so much time perfecting her technique she’s able to shut down her gag reflex for a little while, just enough time to remain as dignified as possible.
Slowly, calmly, her fingers reach inside her throat trying not to touch anything until they pull the flower out of the way.
Usually it’s one, sometimes it’s two.
Moira looks at the flower with a cold, inexpressive glare at first. But the innocent whiteness combined with her blood gets to her rather quickly, her eyes soften, admiring the beauty of the little bloody plant against her palm…
And crushes it.