Archive of Our Own

Moira never wore shirts with long sleeves. At most they reached up to her elbows but that was it; it was like an unspoken rule that all of her blouses had to have short sleeves.

To Angela’s surprise and shock, this rule had - at some point, apparently - changed. Immediately after opening the door to her and her partner’s laboratory, her eyes locked on to the covered arms of her colleague. 

Moira didn’t act like anything was out of the ordinary; only gave that same, safe smile she’d always given, a twinkle in her eye as she greeted Angela. Doctor Ziegler would’ve gladly returned that smile like she always had - but today she couldn’t. 

“I see you’ve changed your style,” she tilted her head, hiding pure confusion behind a lighthearted jest. 

O’Deorain only looked at her with that same confusion she herself felt, a slight chuckle leaving her thin lips. “Changed my style how, exactly?” she asked with a curious tone. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with long-sleeved blouses before, that’s all,” Angela clarified, not taking her eyes off Moira’s right forearm. 

As if by instinct, the geneticist turned away from the doctor to arrange some papers; articles, she had claimed them to be when asked. “Perhaps I wanted to bring something new into this awfully dull environment,” she groaned with sarcasm, turning her head back towards Ziegler, her one red eye staring right into Angela’s. Blood rushed up the doctor’s cheeks.

Still, something felt… off . While she appreciated Moira’s playful reaction to the quite unserious of a statement, Angela knew it wasn’t an honest one. But it wouldn’t be polite to pry, she thought to herself, her reddened face letting out a soft hum as an only answer. 

Her colleague clearly appreciated this response, giving a gentle smile in return. While still bothered by the lack of closure, that pretty smile of the geneticist did give her some satisfaction. A lot of satisfaction.

-

The two women didn’t leave their shared laboratory for the rest of the day – instead, they spent time in each other’s company while working on their equally ambitious projects. While O’Deorain’s field of research left Ziegler uneasy at times, she was more than happy to let the geneticist reflect off her own work, in the hopes of her finding less… extreme ways of conveying progress.

Angela did it for personal reasons too. Hearing Moira praise her intelligence and effort whilst reading her studies made the doctor feel more heard than she ever had with her other colleagues. While the entirety of Overwatch appreciated her work, none of them could pinpoint the exact advantages of it. None except the geneticist. 

It felt rewarding, to receive both compliments and constructive criticism on how her Caduceus staff worked and should work. The way Moira’s mismatched eyes lit up as Angela explained how any permanently damaged cell could be rebuilt from nothing with just her nanobiotic healing - it was something beyond compare. She loved it. 

Moira loved it too, Ziegler guessed. She had asked the doctor to provide her with any amount of biotics she could give. For her to experiment with, she clarified. O’Deorain had for most of her career studied the cellular levels of DNA, and how to possibly alter them. Immortality, most would call it. To apply the doctor’s biotics into her research, the geneticist explained, could quite possibly be revolutionary. 

It was during this discussion when Moira’s pale hand reached out for Angela’s exposed arm. A shock of raw coldness shot throughout Ziegler’s body, and she quickly rose up from her chair, recoiling from the touch. Noticing her reaction, O’Deorain immediately pulled her arm back, straightening the black sleeve around it.

“Why on Earth is your hand so cold?” the doctor asked rather harshly, rubbing the palm of her hand and staring at the geneticist’s now-covered forearm. 

“I…” Moira stuttered, clearly at a loss for words. Instead of saying anything, she kept on holding her right arm with her left, trying her best to pretend it’s not even there. Angela saw this as her chance and ran with it. 

The doctor grabbed the geneticist’s right arm, the sudden cold washing over her again, and pulled the sleeve as far up as she could. 

The view was shocking , to say the least. 

Sickly pale skin revealed itself under the dark fabric, having an almost purple tint to it. Thin veins popped up here and there, pulsing viciously. It was revolting. 

Moira quickly rose up from her own chair, pulling the sleeve back down and turning away from the doctor. Neither of them dared to say a word, until Angela finally spoke up, her voice shaken and distraught. 

“Did you… do that? To yourself?”

“Yes,” the unregretful answer felt almost as terrible as the act itself. “I wanted to see what my current research could achieve on its prime target. Not mere rodents or dead people, but living, breathing humans.”

“So you chose yourself, is that it?” Angela’s accusation came with a sudden batch of laughter - she couldn’t believe what the geneticist was telling her.

“Is that so ridiculous to believe?” Moira spat out, rather accusingly herself. Her eyes darted from the doctor to the objects around the room, her desk, Ziegler's desk, the door to the hallway… Angela could smell the uneasiness of the geneticist from a mile away.

“Well yes, in fact it is!” Angela stepped closer to her colleague, who in turn took a step back. “The amount of health risks you’ve subjected yourself to are countless . You could die !”

A horrifying image of the geneticist dead made tears form under Angela’s deep blue eyes. She could not have that. She wouldn’t. 

This arguably didn’t seem to phase Moira, much to the doctor’s disappointment. She only gave that familiar, sly smile of hers, while avoiding blatant eye contact. “What is progress without danger? We’re scientists , Angela. Testing the boundaries of humanity is our job.”

Ziegler couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the disregard of her own life that Moira expressed. She turned away from the geneticist, for only but a moment. She shook her head, in slight disbelief.

She faced O’Deorain once more.

“Does your life mean that little to you?”

Moira seemed taken aback by this question, if not slightly offended. Angela was met with bitter silence, then a deep exhale and intense eye contact. 

“If by ‘little’ you mean the possibility of advancing our chance at survival as a human race, then yes, it does mean ‘little’,” she began, slowly walking back towards the doctor, her nervousness disappearing into thin air.. 

“I would gladly give my life for the chance to witness my work revolutionise the way we view evolution and its boundaries. I have a vision, Angela. And I’m not afraid to kill myself to make it real.”

The doctor shouldn’t have been surprised at the geneticist’s response, it was very in-character for her. Moira’s passion for genetic studies was what Angela loved the most about her, after all. But to witness her colleague wither away right before her eyes – she couldn’t allow it. She refused to live in a world where the brilliant Moira O’Deorain wasn’t there by her side.

Angela couldn’t help but notice how, instead of being at her side, the geneticist was right in front of her, her body inches away from the doctor’s. She had almost forgotten how tall Moira really was, her slim figure towering intimidatingly over her. But she wasn’t afraid. Moira didn’t want her to be afraid either, she knew that much. It was a challenge, an invitation . 

She grabbed the geneticist’s left wrist, this one being of normal temperature compared to her right one. “If you kill yourself in the process, what vision is there for you to see?” she asked firmly, her eyes locked on Moira’s. 

Her colleague didn’t say a word for a short moment, her intense stare not letting go of Angela’s face either. The doctor knew what this look meant: the geneticist was studying her, trying to figure her out, and learn the best way to escape the situation. Angela wouldn’t be so eager to let go. 

“Angela,-” Moira whispered, gently trying to pull her held arm away but to no avail - the doctor kept it tightly in place. Irritation –  anxiety? –   flared up on the geneticist’s face, Angela could see it. “-let go.”

“It’s unlike you to have no words left to say,” the doctor couldn’t help but smile. It felt ridiculous, seeing Moira so helpless and out of her element. She’d always been witty with words but direct confrontation? Apparently not a part of her expertise. 

At this, the geneticist forced her arm away and walked around the doctor, her mismatched eyes avoiding the opposing gaze once more. “My vision is something greater than myself, Angela;” she tried to explain, her voice so calm despite the situation.“Even if I’m not there to see it myself, it is satisfactory enough that my legacy outlives us all.”

“No one should die to succeed, Moira.”

“And whose claim is that? Yours?” 

“Maybe.”

Moira groaned in frustration, rolling her eyes and brushing the palm of her hand through her ginger hair. It had gotten greyer, Angela noticed. For a moment they stood there in silence, the doctor longingly staring at the geneticist while she tried to keep her right hand in place, as if to stabilise it.

“I know what I’m doing,” she murmured, finally looking the doctor in the eye. “Angela, I do know what I’m doing.”

In a blink Moira went from sulking across the laboratory to standing right in front of Angela. She grabbed the doctor’s hands with her slim arms. Angela shivered from the touch. She didn’t dare look at the hands themselves, fearing the view of the dying, pulsing arm underneath O’Deorain’s long, black sleeve. 

Instead she looked at the geneticist’s pale face. The bags beneath her mismatched eyes had gotten larger too, Angela remarked dolefully. Yet she was so beautiful, nevertheless. The two of them rarely held hands, but when they did, seconds felt like minutes, and minutes like hours. But just as those few moments before – this one, too, had to end so very suddenly. 

“I need you to trust me,” Moira continued her plea, “Please, Angela.”

The doctor could feel her colleague’s fingers folding around hers. As much as she revelled in the feeling of their skins touching, she let go. She had to let go.

“No,” she began, a tiny lump forming in her throat from the tears held back. I can’t just stand by, and watch you die little by little everyday, when I promised to save as many as I possibly could . 

I can’t watch the woman I love kill herself in the name of science. I want you to stay here, with me, until we both die together, peacefully, of old age .

She could’ve said those words. There was a slight, rather optimistic chance that O’Deorain would’ve listened.

“I can’t."