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Some people are at ease with quiet, with stillness, but Fareeha much prefers to fill silent moments, when she can. Often, new acquaintances mistake it for unease; that is not so, she simply has enough silence in her life already, the quiet of her empty apartment when she comes home, the long hours, mostly uneventful, guarding Anubis, the waiting, between assignments, when everything is still. She has time enough for introspection—it is not, as some assume, anathema to her, is not counter to her open nature—and prefers to enjoy what time she has with others to the fullest.
The same cannot be said for Angela, sitting across from her at the low table in her living room, pensive. Even after two years in Cairo, half of what Angela owns remains in boxes, but Fareeha is over for tea often enough that this room, at least, is properly furnished, two chairs, a couch, a table, a teacup for them each. Tonight, ‘ahmar, sugar in Fareeha’s and a liqueur in Angela’s. The former is customary, the latter reserved for only the most stressful days.
Normally, Fareeha would ask why—would offer an ear, or a shoulder to cry on, if need be. Tonight, she knows.
“The recall,” she says. They both got it. A surprise, and an unwelcome one; even if Fareeha appreciates that Winston called her back as an agent and not merely an asset, like her mother kept her relegated to for years, the invitation reminds her of that familiar disappointment, the rejection. She thought she was over it, has built a healthy, happy life for herself here, at home, one free from her mother’s meddling, and in a job she can fully call her own, but it still stings, a little, to think about, opened back up a well of anger that she thought had long since run dry.
Winston invited all of the agents back, but why would she go back to somewhere she was never truly welcome?
“You too?” That draws Angela out of her brooding, at least for a moment. Her eyes are focused again, sharp as they find Fareeha’s face.
“Yes,” Fareeha confirms. “Meant for me, not Mum.” It feels an important thing to clarify, somehow, brings back a little of the old defensiveness, she is good enough. “Not that she would have answered it.”
If it were anyone else, Fareeha might have said it differently, might have made it clear that she means that it is because Ana is ‘dead,’ but Angela knows otherwise, has been here for Fareeha as she has grappled with the pain of knowing that her mother is alive, still, and will not speak to her directly, the grief, the second loss. Another rejection—and Angela has supported her throughout it as the pain turned to anger, to resignation.
Likely, Angela would say supported is overstating things. Interpersonal issues, particularly familial ones, are not Angela’s forte, but she does righteous indignance well, and serves good tea, so she listened quietly, when Fareeha needed her to, nodded and put a comforting hand on her knee, was angry on Fareeha’s behalf, when she needed someone to tell her that what her mother did was Not okay, and was there to hold Fareeha, when she cried, pulled Fareeha in close to her chest and rubbed soothing circles on her back until she quieted. For Fareeha, that was more than enough, even if Angela never quite has the right words to say, she always has tea to drink and makes time to listen. Few other people can say the same.
In fact, Fareeha is relatively certain that no one else in her life can, not in the way that Angela does. Somewhere along the line, she passed from being a friend to one of the most important people in Fareeha's life—and is certainly the most important positive relationship Fareeha has, her most significant support system, the person she wants to celebrate her accomplishments with and to whom she can complain about drawbacks. With how much time they spend together, it feels, often, like more than a friendship.
But that is a dangerous thought.
It would be easy, too easy, to slip into fantasy, to read too far into all the little habits Angela has, to imagine that the way she curls into Fareeha, on the good, easy nights is an affectionate gesture, and not just a familiar one, to tell herself that their role as confidantes is proof that she, too, is the most important of Angela’s friends, to let herself imagine, when Angela tells her it is too late to walk home, and insists Fareeha sleep in her bed, that she wants it to be an invitation, but is too afraid to say as much.
That is ridiculous, though. Angela is never, ever afraid to speak her mind—sometimes to her own detriment. If she wanted Fareeha, Fareeha would know, because Angela would have said something by now, surely. She knows Fareeha is a lesbian, has for years, and was more than aware of Fareeha’s crush, when they both were younger, even if she does not know that it lingers, still, has deepened into something else, has been tempered by their friendship not into familial fondness but to love. If she wanted Fareeha, she could have her.
But she does not—at least, she has not said as much, and to Fareeha, that is as good as the same. The only reason Angela has for not voicing her feelings, if she has any, would be that she does not want to pursue them, because Angela is not much one for discretion, or tact.
Fareeha finds that charming, most of the time.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Angela says, cutting through Fareeha’s reverie, words spoken as she sets down her cup, careful hands always gentle as they need to be with the porcelain, even when the rest of her motions are sharp, forceful.
“That they sent the recall notice to me?”
A shake of Angela’s head. “That your mother wouldn’t answer it.”
Fareeha can agree, but, “Do you not think I should go?” She has no plans to, is at home here, in her life, has her job, has her friends, has her little interludes in Angela’s perpetually box filled apartment. She does good work, she helps good people, she is more than content, and finally, finally is starting to be recognized as her own woman. Why would she go back to Overwatch, to the organization that allowed her mother to sideline her for all those years?
A pause, a purse of Angela’s lips, “I didn’t say that.”
“That’s not ‘No,’” and if Angela meant No, she would say it.
“It isn’t you,” Angela is quick to reassure. “I don’t think that anyone…” She trails off. “You know how I feel.” She looks down at her hands.
“I do.” There is no use retreading it. When it comes to Overwatch, Angela’s ambivalence is well established, and it is too easy for her to get in the weeds about it. Fareeha has no interest in another two hours of hand-wringing about the right thing, when they both know that there are only less-wrong choices. Not tonight.
Angela does not seem to want to go into it either, not this time, and for a minute, two, they lapse back into silence, Angela contemplating and Fareeha finishing her own tea. If Angela has not spoken by the end of the cup, then she will say something, but for all that she prefers conversation to quiet, she knows, too, the value in giving people time to think. It is clear from Angela’s posture that she is considering something, eyes fixed on her lap as one hand picks at a loose thread on her trousers. There is no use rushing her, at least not yet.
And, selfishly, Fareeha is a little afraid of what comes at the end of this silence. Is Angela considering leaving? If she is, what will Fareeha say? What could she? I’ll miss you does not cover it, but she cannot begin to say what Angela has meant to her, these past few years, not without acknowledging this thing that hangs in the air between them, and she is afraid that, if she says it, if Angela does not feel it too—what would she do then? It is not worth the risk, shattering their delicate peace. She could not bear to lose this.
So she lets it linger, just a little longer, whatever Angela is thinking, even after she finishes her cup.
And, for once, Angela moves first, looks at her sidelong, a little anxious, maybe, to be ask the question, “Are you going?”
“No,” Fareeha says, and she hopes that is the answer Angela wanted to hear, hopes that Angela is staying, too.
“Good,” Angela says, wraps an arm around her, then, tucks her head against Fareeha’s shoulder. “You know I’m no good at goodbyes.”
An understatement, if ever there were.
“Is this one?” She has to ask.
“No,” says Angela. “Not yet.”
Maybe later, is the implication, but Fareeha is okay with that, okay with Not yet, because for now, at least, she is content to wait, to sit in this in between time with Angela, to just be. For now, the quiet is a comfort, is a gentle blanket draping over them, is a shield against the words Fareeha wants to say—and their consequences.
“Good,” is all Fareeha can say, “Good.”
Let the silence linger. She is not ready for goodbye either.