Work Text:
.
The Watchpoint in south-eastern Norway is built into a rocky hill by the sea. It’s a small base, containing a single bunk room and a communal bathroom, a tiny hangar, and a pokey little kitchen and dining area, and no matter where you are, you can always smell the ocean. Only five Overwatch agents are currently staying at the Watchpoint: Fareeha, Angela, Lena, Hana, and Ana – and despite the small number, conditions are certainly cramped. They’re all sleeping in the same room, and at night, Fareeha has to listen to Lena tossing and turning in the bunk above, and her mother snoring only several feet away.
Fareeha’s glad, then, that she and Angela are currently the only ones in the hangar. They’re both running standard maintenance checks on their suits.
Angela holds a wrench in one hand, and a small spanner in her mouth, gripped between her teeth. She’s frowning as she works, and humming quietly under her breath.
Fareeha finds herself spending more time watching Angela than working on the Raptora suit. She would have been troubled by this, a few months ago when she had first joined Overwatch. Now, though…now she’s accepted her attraction to Angela as something that just is. She can’t deny it, certainly.
And they’ve been flirting.
Oh, they have been flirting. For a long time now. Glances across the room, careful touches and brushes of hands, sentences filled with meaning. It’s pleasant, the flirting. Ever-so-nice.
Angela seems to be enjoying it. She blushes, sometimes, when Fareeha says something especially lovely. And she’s quite forward too. Take off your shirt, she’d said two days ago during a routine medical examination, and then she’d winked.
Winked! At Fareeha!
How perfectly lovely she is, Fareeha thinks as she restores a metal panel to its rightful place on the suit. She tightens the bolt, double-checks it, and then goes over the suit with a critical eye. Everything is as it should be, and so her work is finished.
Fareeha sets down her tools and leans back on her hands, watching Angela work on the Valkyrie suit. Angela Ziegler is many things: a pioneering doctor, a skilled agent and soldier of Overwatch, and a very knowledgeable mechanic, given all the years she’s worked alongside Tornjorn.
(Fareeha remembers how, in the first week after she’d joined Overwatch, they had flown to Alaska to seize a truck full of black market weapons. The operation had been successful, right until the truck had broken down on a remote highway when they’d been driving it back to an old Watchpoint. Angela and Torbjorn had promptly leapt out of the cabin and set about making the truck roadworthy once more: Angela had given Fareeha a wry glance, wrench in hand, and asked, “Why do you look so surprised?”
Fareeha had just smiled and shaken her head, and said appreciatively, “You’re a woman of many talents, Angela.”
That had been the first time they’d flirted. Angela had given her a pleased sort of smirk, and Torbjorn had grunted and asked them to concentrate on the task at hand.)
And now, the two of them alone in the hangar, Fareeha considers Angela, and watches her work.
They’ll be returning to Gibraltar in four days. Tomorrow they’ll be making contact with some old supporters of Overwatch. Today, though, is free.
So, with a touch of hesitance, and trying not to look too hopeful, Fareeha asks, “Can I take you out to lunch?”
Angela glances up, placing the wrench upon the ground and removing the spanner from her mouth. “Lunch?”
Fareeha leans forward, resting her hands on her knees. “You know, that time when we customarily eat food….”
The doctor smiles, and the skin at the corners of her eyes crinkles. “I do know of this fabled lunch, yes. I was just curious as to how exactly you were going to go about it.”
A pause.
Fareeha groans in realisation. “There’s nowhere nearby. And we’re on medium-alert.” That means they can leave the Watchpoint, but they have to remain within five minutes of the base. And the Watchpoint is secluded – the nearest settlement is a twenty-minute drive away. They certainly can’t take the airship…and wearing the Raptora and Valkyrie suits to lunch will be awkward, and entirely unnecessary.
“Don’t give up so easily,” Angela encourages with an absolutely gorgeous wink, before returning her attention to the Valkyrie suit. “We don’t have to go to a café or diner to eat.”
“We certainly don’t want to stay in.” That’s a horrible thought. A terrible thought. What if Lena – who, really, could be as obtuse as anything sometimes – decided to join them? What if Hana saw them and began to tease, in her sharp and clever way? Where would they eat? In that cramped little kitchen?
And Ana. Fareeha’s own mother. There’s a terrifying thought. So, she would say, sitting between them and smiling sharply. Lunch? Just the two of you? How…intimate. One could almost wonder if it was a date. Then she would smile like a wolf. Am I interrupting something, perhaps? Then she’d eat most of the food and make a nuisance of herself.
Idly twirling a screwdriver between her fingers, Fareeha thinks for a moment. Then, suddenly, she remembers the little inlet only a minute’s walk from the base, where a stretch of sandy grass is sheltered from the ocean wind by a large outcropping of rock.
“I know a place,” she says, clearing her throat gently. “It’s only a minute’s walk from here. Close to base.”
“Oh?” asks Angela, seeming very interested indeed.
“It will be perfect,” Fareeha announces. “I think. I can get some food.” They have bread and cheese, and an eclectic assortment of preserved food in jars. “What do you say?”
Yes, she hopes.
Angela looks at her and smiles. There’s a long smear of grease stretching along her jawline. “I say yes. Of course.”
Fareeha’s lips curve up. “Charmer.”
That draws a quiet giggle from the doctor, musical and sweet. “You’re the charmer – asking me out to lunch.”
Fareeha laughs. “You make it easy to be charming.” She checks the time. It’s 12:24pm. “You should be finished with the Valkyrie soon, yes?”
“Mmm, five minutes, I think,” Angela replies.
Fareeha grins. “I’ll go and get the food ready, then.”
“I cannot wait,” Angela tells her, still smiling, before returning her attention to the Valkyrie, tightening a loose bolt with practiced movements.
.
Hana’s in the kitchen filling out a mission report – Lena’s not allowed to fill them out, and hasn’t been allowed to for a long time from what Jesse says – and Ana usually delegates responsibility to someone else. It’s character building stuff, she likes to say, mockingly. Makes good soldiers even better. We are built of gunpowder and resolve and paperwork.
Hana fills the reports out well. She’s a good soldier, and takes pride in work done properly. She glances up from the form as Fareeha enters the room – they still use paper, which is equal parts amusing and annoying – and declares, “I’m cooking tonight.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Fareeha says in relief. Ana’s never been a good cook, and neither has Angela, and Lena doesn’t have the patience for it. Hana, on the other hand – Hana understands spices and textures and combines them flawlessly. Hana is masterful in the kitchen, when she’s not trying to kill people with ridiculously hot peppers and fiery and dangerous methods of cooking.
“I thought you’d be glad.” Hana writes her signature, agent number and name across the bottom of one page, then flips it over. The pen scratches over the paper quietly, leaving neat dashes and curves of ink in its wake. “’Sup?”
“Just getting some food.” Fareeha squeezes past Hana on her way to the fridge, and yanks the door of the ancient appliance open with a grimace. She pulls out half a loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese, two apples and two bottles of water, and several jars of preserves.
“Going somewhere?” asks Hana cheerfully, watching Fareeha pack the small backpack she’s brought along with food. “That’s a lot of food for one person. Even you.”
Fareeha snorts and looks over to the younger soldier. “Yes, I am going somewhere.”
“With who? Is it – oh, Angie.” Hana wiggles her eyebrows, seeming rather pleased by this. “I won’t tell a soul,” she says, in a certain tone of voice that means, I won’t tell if you do me a favour.
“I don’t believe you.” She cannot restrain the wry smile on her lips. She’s fond of Hana, certainly – they’ve become good friends over the last few months.
“I won’t tell a soul if you give me a pair of your thermal socks.” Hana rolls her eyes. “I forgot to bring mine, and it’s cold at night.”
It’s a reasonable request. Fareeha had to borrow Hana’s spare bootlaces on their last mission. “Fine. Take two pairs, if you want – I brought extra.”
“You would,” scoffs Hana, but then she’s flashing a grateful smile at Fareeha. “Thanks! Have fun with Angie. If anyone else asks me where you are – I don’t know anything.”
“And this,” Fareeha says, fondly, “is why we get along. Have fun with that report, soldier.” She ruffles Hana’s hair as she squeezes past again.
“Yes ma’am.” Hana salutes crisply, then returns to filling out the paper form.
.
Angela’s just finishing up when Fareeha returns to the hangar. Together, they pack the tools away, then place their suits upon a cleared bench, ready to put on at a moment’s notice should they need to. Angela shrugs on a jacket, and blinks in confusion when Fareeha gestures at her face.
“Grease,” Fareeha explains.
“I – oh. Where?”
Fareeha bites her lip to keep herself from smiling. “All up that side of your jaw.”
Angela finds a rag and manages to wipe it off. “How long had it been there?” she asks, raising a perfect eyebrow in Fareeha’s direction.
“Half an hour, or so.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“It was cute,” Fareeha defends. “Very cute. Especially when you poked your tongue out while concentrating…like so.” She demonstrates.
Suddenly there’s a sharp, amused glint to Angela’s eyes. “Oh yes. I bet you liked that, hmm?” she inquires, lifting her chin slightly, lips curling up at the corners.
Flushing, Fareeha says, “I – well – yes.” She coughs and tries to gather herself. “Let’s just go to lunch.”
Angela laughs, and touches Fareeha’s arm ever-so-lightly, and says, “Alright. By the way, Fareeha – that’s a very pretty blush you have….”
Fareeha doesn’t know whether to smile or scowl. “Stop tormenting me,” she murmurs, glancing away and wondering if her cheeks really are that flushed.
“You make it so easy! Alright, lunch: I am very hungry, and you look like you want a reprieve from my, ah, teasing, so let us go.”
And with that, Angela’s stomach gurgles loudly, and the two of them laugh before setting off.
.
They leave the base unnoticed and make their way down the little inlet nearby. The air is brisk and the sky is cloudy, but it’s a gorgeous scene: a verdant green forest spreads over nearby hills and mountains, only halting at the sea’s edge, marked by thin strips of rocky beach and sharp little cliff faces. The grey sea stretches out into eternity, sparkling with faint sunlight that breaks through the clouds above. It’s beautiful here, certainly, but more beautiful is her company: currently brushing against Fareeha’s arm playfully as she points out a pair of grey herons flying above.
Pebbles and sand crunch underfoot as they pick their way across the beach. There’s a faint sound from behind them, issuing from the base – a single shout of dismay – and Fareeha whispers, “Keep walking, keep walking – sounds like Lena’s hurt herself.”
“If it’s serious, they can ring me or come to find us,” Angela says cheerfully. The breeze tugs at her hair and sends blonde strands dancing, and she shoves her hands into the pockets of her jacket. “She probably just tripped over in the kitchen again.”
“How can someone so graceful be so clumsy?”
“That,” says Angela, “is a great mystery that cannot be solved.”
A few moments later they’ve reached the inlet. They sit in the shadow of the large rock there, upon large clumps of hardy coastal grass, and Fareeha opens the backpack and begins to inform a very curious Angela of its contents.
“We have cheese and bread, some pickles – onions and olives and dried tomatoes…no gherkins, which must disappoint you greatly.”
Angela, who adores the awful things, adopts a mournful expression. “That’s terrible.”
“For you, yes. For me, no. Apple?”
“Pardon?”
Fareeha holds an apple aloft, and says, with a hint of teasing to her tones, “Keep up, Doctor Ziegler.”
Angela rolls her eyes and takes the apple, her little finger brushing delicately over Fareeha’s wrist. The slight touch makes Fareeha’s skin tingle pleasantly.
“Thank you,” Angela says, and stretches out her legs. She takes in the vista surrounding them and sighs happily. “This is very lovely, Fareeha,” she adds, face breaking into a warm smile. “Thank you very much for this.”
Fareeha is very glad that she thinks so. “It is my pleasure, Angela,” she replies honestly, happy that she can spend time like this with Angela – and in such a scenic place, too.
As beautiful as the surrounds are, though, they do not hold a candle to Angela: Angela, with strands of blonde hair framing her face, and shadows beneath her eyes, and the remnants of a smear of grease upon her jaw.
Angela leans over, slowly and carefully, and brushes her lips against Fareeha’s cheek. The warmth of her breath on Fareeha’s skin pleasant and sweet, and Fareeha cherishes the kiss, just as she cherishes the presence of Angela, who is more than a friend – a perhaps, a maybe, a soon.
Soon.
They have time. They have time to flirt and laugh and spend moments like this together. This is not a thing to be rushed, after all.
Fareeha and Angela sit side-by-side, and they talk and eat and laugh, and they gaze out upon the sea and at each other, soft and wondering and happy.