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On the battlefield, Pharah assesses and neutralizes threats before they are ever fully realized. The Raptora is light, to minimize fuel use and maximize mobility, so she must be ever wary—it would be all too easy for something to pierce her armor, wounding her. In the air, Pharah is always prepared, is a step ahead of her opponents, she must be so to maintain distance between herself and others. Grounded and off of the battlefield, Fareeha is an entirely different story. It is little surprise, therefore, that she cannot pinpoint precisely where this began.
She thinks it may have been as early as her intake physical exam, the firmness of Angela’s hand on her upper arm, grounding her in the present when for moment she loses herself, unable to believe that this is here and now and her dreams of joining Overwatch have come to pass, after all. She wonders if her mother would be proud of her, would finally see something praiseworthy in her performance—or would this be yet another failure, exposing her as a pale imitation of the woman whom she has only ever wanted to please? Will her coworkers hear the name Fareeha, or will it be drowned out by Amari? Which name did they call her by when they considered recruiting her? Will she ever be worthy of—. And then there is Angela’s hand, cold and firm in its grip. Fareeha, says Angela, I need you to follow the light with your eyes for me, please. Questions of Amari fall from her mind; Fareeha follows Angela’s orders.
She thinks it may have been after her fourth major mission, stuck in her flight suit after a hard battle. A bullet lodged in Raptora’s system prevents it from disengaging automatically, and her new hand, unfeeling as it is, is too clumsy yet to trigger the manual release. She is trapped, trapped in the hot and dirty suit which, while it lends her power in the air, here on the ground feels too heavy on her weary limbs. Thrusters cool, it weighs her down, grounding her more surely than an empty fuel tank or an enemy sniper. Stupid of her to get stuck as she is; after years she ought to be better at this. When she got her new arm, she was warned there would be an adjustment period, that she might be clumsy for a time, but it has been months, and still she struggles, is helpless, unable to complete what was once the task of a few seconds. Frustration overwhelms her, and she feels hot all over, when a cool voice cuts through to her. Would you like assistance? The question is more of a warning than it is asking for permission, and before she can answer Angela is working to help her out of her suit, clever surgeon’s fingers picking her armor apart. Pharah is not one to sit idly by, is a woman of action, but Fareeha lets Angela take control.
She thinks it may have been the first time she died, sprawled on her back in a factory in Russia. What she remembers most is the cold, bone deep, remembers thinking that she was not meant to die here, so far from the bright sun and warm air of her home country, remembers thinking that she could not possibly feel any colder than she did in the atmosphere, remembers feeling warmth on the chest from her blood, feeling it cool against her in the freezing air. In battle, Pharah is angry, blood running hot with righteous fury, but here, on her back and alone, separated from her team, Fareeha is so, so cold and scared, and she wishes she could be angry, about this, but all she feels is the chill of regret, uncertainty ice in her veins. A final shudder—a shiver—and her eyes close. Cold, quiet, calm. Suddenly, warmth. Helden sterben nicht, she hears, distantly, and then again, nearer her and more urgent, Heroes never die, Fareeha, stay with me. (There is something else Angela says, but Fareeha does not quite make out the words. It sounded like a plea, but Angela trained to be a surgeon, is confident and assured in all that she does, would never beg anything of anyone.) When her eyes open, she is bathed in the healing glow of the Caduceus, and her body tingles with feeling again. The yellow beam is warm, is comforting, and Fareeha pauses a moment to bask in it before she is Pharah again, before she must launch herself again into the winter air.
She thinks it may have been her first training injury which marks the beginning, a dislocated shoulder courtesy of Zaryanova finds her in Angela’s office after normal working hours are long since over. Both she and Zaryanova are agitated, having not been taken on the most recent mission; there is little enough to do around base, and they are women of action, it should not be surprising that the night found them both unable to sleep. Sparring had seemed a logical option to relieve stress, although now she is beginning to think the better of her decision. The shock of her injury is wearing off quickly, pain threatening to consume her as Angela palpitates her shoulder, ensuring there is no fracture. With nothing better to do but sit as still as possible, Fareeha tries to let her mind wander to distract herself from the pain, but all she can think is that this is it, she may have just ruined her remaining good arm. Each dislocation makes another more likely, and she needs her shoulder strong to handle the kick of her rocket launcher, needs herself to be strong—and Pharah is strong, but Fareeha is not. Not now. She feels her breath come uneasily as she imagines a life on the ground, useless, unable to protect anyone, even herself. Breathe, Fareeha, commands Angela, I need you still as possible in order to relocate your shoulder. Fareeha breathes, and does not flinch as bone clicks against bone, her shoulder slamming back into place. Perhaps she can be strong after all.
She thinks it may have been after the mission in Dorado, a success in name only. What ought to have been a simple extraction went terribly awry, somewhere along the line, and while no one has been reprimanded officially, meaning that none of them are to be considered specifically at fault, Fareeha knows that of everyone her error was the most egregious. Her rocket barrage had been placed just a bit too far to the left, and the cost of her mistake had been three civilian lives. Logically, she knows that more people were saved than died, but the udjat she has tattooed under her eye is a signal to all that she is the one who protects, or that she is supposed to be so. Today, she cannot protect everyone, today, her rockets destabilize a building, leaving it seemingly safe for a family to return to, only to come crashing down once most of the fighting had calms, today, she is a failure, and worse, a killer of innocents. Today, she is unworthy of the title she has claimed for herself, and wishes to be alone in her grief, in her anger, but Angela will not allow it. Instead, Angela sits by her side in silence, waiting for Fareeha to speak to her. Angela is strong, and stubborn, and Fareeha may be both of those things as well, but it is she who breaks first. I failed them, the admission is thick on her tongue, and she cannot look at Angela, cannot see her face as judgement is passed. She steels herself for a rebuke that does not come. I failed them too, says Angela, and many before. The admission does little to ease Fareeha’s guilt, but at the very least, she no longer feels that she must bear this alone.
Perhaps the beginning is irrelevant, and what matters is simply that it began at all. It is not a simple thing, and Fareeha doubts if any amount of reflection could ever clarify the matter for her entirely. Somewhere along the way, Angela and Pharah began a relationship which, in the old days, might have seen them both brought up on fraternization charges, and although Fareeha is not sure, entirely, how the timeline fits with this, she thinks that it was near the beginning. In the meantime, Angela has built them towards this, whether wittingly or not, has connected with Fareeha, with the parts of herself she tries to hide from everyone (the parts that Pharah does not have, strong and independent as she is capable of being). It was never Pharah’s intention to have Fareeha exposed so, not among people who count on her to be steady and strong and everything Fareeha Amari cannot be, but Angela, who is never anyone different, even when she is answering to Mercy, could not understand this if Pharah explained it to her (and Fareeha does not to want anything to be explained).
Correction: it is not unbelievable that Angela might understand, but thinks things are better this way; it is a natural part of being a doctor, to think one knows what is healthiest for others, even if one is wrong. (Selfishly, Fareeha hopes that might be the case, that Angela loves more than just Pharah, more than just Amari¸ a name to which she has no claim, that Angela might love her in her entirety, whatever that is.)
Whatever the case, they have reached the point of here and now, with Fareeha knocking on the door of Angela’s quarters at two in the morning. There is a light shining from under the door, but a Fareeha almost wishes that there were not, that Angela was asleep so that there might be an excuse to turn and flee to her quarters. She needs this, she knows she does, but that does not mean it does not scare her, slightly, to admit such. (Pharah would never need this, neither would a true Amari, but Fareeha is not either of those names, at the end of a long and tiring mission; she is Fareeha she is vulnerable, and she is learning that it is alright to need things, to want them.) It is easier, now, than it was in the beginning, to ask, to be vulnerable and confess that she cannot be strong, always, but she is fighting against the training of a lifetime whenever she does so.
Her anxiety must be apparent on her face, because when the door opens Angela does not hesitate to pull her inside, grip firm around her wrist. Normally, Angela is not so commanding, is content to let her lover set the pace, but when Fareeha is like this she is more than capable of stepping up, taking control, for which Fareeha is immensely grateful. Angela pushes her up against the door the instant it is closed, and kisses her thoroughly, grounding her in the present, and for a moment it is easy to forget she is afraid, to forget everything but the hard press of Angela’s lips against hers, everything but the cool wood of the door at her back, so different from the hot jets of Raptora. For a moment it is easy to leave the battlefield behind, and all its worries, to forget being Pharah and to just be Fareeha.
With Angela’s touch serving to place her in the present, Fareeha’s world becomes just a little clearer, her vision before having been just slightly out of focus, clouded with worry and—something else, she is not sure. She cannot dwell on it when Angela’s teeth nip at her lip, just a tad too sharply too be entirely pleasurable. For a moment, all she is is what she can feel. Pleasure, and pain, and no control of which to speak. (Pharah would never let passion consume her, not for anything, would be logical and in control, and no Amari would allow another to rule them so, would maintain authority even here, but Fareeha wants so badly to lose herself in this, to offer herself up before another and be relieved of the burden of command.)
When Angela breaks the kiss, however, Fareeha feels the edges of her vision begin to cloud once again, feels the impulse to be Pharah, to be strong and to hide that she needs this (but with Pharah, it is not hiding; Pharah need not operate under such pretenses as Fareeha). Sometimes, all it takes is a kiss, stolen in the locker room after a training exercise. Sometimes, it takes less, a firm hand on her shoulder in the transport vehicle. Tonight, Fareeha knows she will need more, more to keep thoughts of the battlefield where they belong, more to keep from sliding into Pharah at a time when she has no need to be in command, more to keep herself from feeling that she needs to be in control, that she is responsible for everyone and everything, that any mistake is her fault. The first step to acknowledging that she is human (Fareeha), that she is not an infallible hero (Pharah), is to admit that she needs this, admit that she is placing herself in the hands of another, even if the admission is a quiet one, a fragile thing held between the two of them.
“I—” Angela is looking at her, so gently, too gently. Right now, she needs Angela to be the strong one, for both of them, but Angela is human too (more human than Pharah, and in many ways as much as Fareeha is), Angela cannot always heed her requests, and Fareeha is afraid, so afraid of asking too much. The thought stills her tongue, and the beat of her heart which just moments ago was a comfort, a reminder, is now too much, too fast.
“You…?” prompts Angela. A kiss is one thing, but unless Fareeha specifically asks, never do things go further. A part of Fareeha hopes that one day she will not have to make a request, but years of asking for medical consent have drilled the need for clarity into Angela. It is… not unreasonable. This is not the only way they could deal with this, merely the most pleasant.
To say exactly what she is thinking feels unnatural to Fareeha, stoicism has been drilled into her over the course of years, but she wants to do this, for Angela. That thought is enough, enough for her to slip into the role she needs, as simple as a desire to please, not to protect. “I dreamt of Ilios,” says she. “I wasn’t strong enough. I couldn’t protect them, or myself, not anyone. And I can’t,” she falters, breathes like Angela has told her to, countless times, steadying herself, and continues, “I can’t escape it. I need you. I need you to help me be here right now and not… back there.” For a moment, she flounders, searching for more to say, a way to explain what she really means, that she needs things to not be her fault, needs to not be in control because then for a moment she can stop blaming herself, stop worrying about outcome of a mission long since finished. She is about to speak again when Angela places a long finger to her lips, halting the thoughts which threatened Fareeha only moments before.
“You need not say any more,” says Angela, and Fareeha wonders what it must be like to know, like that, the meaning behind people’s words when they speak. It is not a question for now; before her, Angela shifts her posture, standing with her feet further apart, her shoulders squared, how she stands on the battlefield (in the operating room, in pre-op missions when she believes their methods to be too violent). She is still Angela, she does not become Mercy in the same way Fareeha becomes Pharah, but she is allowing herself to be differently, to fill space in a way she otherwise does not—taking control.
Fareeha allows this to happen, allows Angela into her space, allows herself to be pulled downwards, obediently spreading her legs enough that Angela can push a thigh between them. In many ways, it is easy to fall into this role once she admits to wanting it, is easy to follow orders as if she were again a new recruit, and not the officer she has become. That, too, scares Fareeha; what if, in her quest to become more herself, she does not like who she finds, does not like the woman left behind when all of her armor is removed? So much of Fareeha is uncertain, and Pharah has learned what all Amaris know from birth—uncertainty means death, on the battlefield.
Before such thoughts can consume her, they are halted by Angela’s firm hand on her jaw. “Stay with me,” she commands. (Somewhere, in the back of Fareeha’s head, there is another sentence, a plea, but it is gone in a flash of not-quite memory, the warmth rising in Fareeha’s body a contrast to the cold of Volskaya.) Fareeha obeys, follows that voice back to her body, back to the pleasant sensation of a thigh grinding between her legs, of breasts pressed against her own, of Angela’s breath, hot on her face. She rolls her hips, as best she is able in this position, and feels the pleasure ripple through her own body as she does so, feels in control of herself even if she is not in control of the situation.
In the meantime, Angela’s lips have found her neck, hovering right over the pulse point with all the accuracy one might expect of a doctor. Angela, not having a pulse of her own, seems to find comfort in Fareeha’s, and always pays special attention to this part of her; for her part, Fareeha has no complaints, especially not when they are doing this, when Angela is in charge. She throws her head back as far as she can, trying to give Angela greater access, and it is a wonderful, vulnerable feeling. Like this, Fareeha is at Angela’s mercy—years of training in hand to hand combat have taught Fareeha just how thin the line is between death and life, how fragile the human body truly is, but she trusts Angela with this, can allow herself to feel safe here, to relinquish control.
A nip from Angela, and Fareeha feels her knees going weak, knows she could come from just this, if she really tried, nothing but a thigh between her legs, a mouth at her throat, hands on her ass and in her hair, and the overwhelming feeling of being wholly in the control of someone else. She grinds down harder on Angela’s thigh, building a rhythm, feels her breathing speed up, and Angela’s grip tighten in response. Both of her hands reach out to hold onto Angela’s shoulders, seeking support, with her right hand she feels the muscles of Angela’s back, strong from supporting the wings of her suit, and with her left she feels nothing, and grips tighter for it. The lights in the room seem brighter now, and a part of her remembers Angela telling her once that this happens because her pupils are dilating.
Focus, Fareeha, focus on the heat without, between two bodies, and on the heat within, and the pressure, against and within, on Angela’s approving hum. Focus. One minute more, just a bit more pressure, and she could get there, just a little longer—
“Not yet,” says Angela, moving the and from Fareeha’s hair to her abs, stilling her. “I promise it will be worth the wait,” she whispers, breath against Fareeha’s ear, before stepping back and giving Fareeha’s panting, shaking form an appreciative once over. “Strip and lay on the bed when you are ready,” says she, turning her back and preparing the bed.
Part of Fareeha wants to dart over immediately, wants to shuck her clothes like a teenager and be done with this, but she needs a moment to cool down and catch her breath before she can trust her legs. Wait she does; not long, just enough that her arousal has faded to a somewhat pleasant buzz, long enough to make Angela look over. Perfect.
Having once again captured Angela’s full attention, Fareeha saunters over, drawing the oversized sweater she is wearing over her head with her one good hand. It is not as graceful as she likes, not as graceful as her left hand would have been, but she wanted to feel the fabric beneath her fingers, to be fully in the moment in a way that she has not learned to be, yet, with her prosthesis. Angela is eyeing her from the bed, finally seeming just a bit ruffled by this encounter, allowing her robe to slip off of one shoulder and expose the top of a lacy black bra. Shimmying off her pants—loose ones she had yanked on after time in the gym, an attempt to exorcise her demons differently—Fareeha wishes she were wearing something a bit sexier for this; her own undergarments not much to display. Before she can even attempt to make a show of removing them, however, she is within range of Angela’s long arms, and finds herself being tugged down and onto the bed by her lover.
Once again she is reminded of who is in control as Angela rolls her over, centering her hips over a pillow laid out for just this purpose. “That’s better,” Angela remarks, having successfully straddled Fareeha. For a moment, they are still, Fareeha gazing up at Angela, who is looking down at her with bright eyes and just a hint of a smile at one side of her mouth. They breathe in tandem and Fareeha imagines that, if Angela’s heart still beat, their heartbeats might synchronize as well. The stillness eats at Fareeha, she wants to be moving, her hands itch to thread themselves in Angela’s hair. If Fareeha were in control here, she would move to break the tension, but she is not; she must trust Angela to make a move, must have faith that what must happen, will, and it is not solely upon her to ensure it does. So she waits. One breath, another, and then she need not wait anymore, for there has never truly been any doubt that Angela would do what needed to be done, would break their impasse.
When she moves, it seems sudden, even though outside of the Valkyrie Angela is not particularly swift. Hands pull down the cups of Fareeha’s bra, exposing her breasts before she is even fully aware that the two of them are moving again. Fareeha moves up onto her elbows to give Angela a better angle, and does not flinch, even a little, when Angela’s cool fingers run up and down her ribcage, just barely brushing the sides of her breasts. Fareeha shivers, mostly from arousal, and Angela moves her lips to Fareeha’s own mouth, the heat of their kiss a pleasant contrast to the cold of her skin.
Fareeha does her best to lie back and enjoy this, to not fight herself and just feel, to surrender control completely. Gradually, she allows herself to be lost in sensations, to relax into Angela’s ministrations. Cool hands continue to ghost over skin, just a tease, continue to draw small shivers and gasps from Fareeha when they find sensitive flesh—beneath her breasts, just inside her right hip, immediately above her belly button. Where her hands linger too long Angela moves to soothe with her mouth, with her tongue, warming both inside and out (Heroes never die Fareeha, stay with me). When Fareeha’s skin is hot and tight, and it is nearly too much, Angela anticipates her need, moves further downwards (Pharah would have taken control here, would have touched herself by now, would not lie idly on her back while Angela does everything, hands twisted uselessly in sheets; Fareeha has faith that Angela will do what needs to be done, and her patience is rewarded, she is not the only one responsible for things ending pleasantly).
Firm hands grasp Fareeha’s knees, parting her thighs, she feels Angela trail kisses up the inside of her thighs and she will her to go higher, higher, can barely stop herself from jutting her hips up in an attempt to get closer. Angela will take care of her, she need only feel, need only feel the hot breaths which warm her while Angela trails a single finger slowly around her outer lips. She wants Angela to touch her, wants her mouth on her, can feel the muscles in her abdomen tighten as she tenses in anticipation, feels herself drip and wonders if it is sweat, or arousal (likely, it is a mixture both). Please, she thinks, but does not want to beg, please please please please please. Angela blows air gently over her clit and she whines, and the words slip out unbidden. “Please,” begs she (an Amari would never beg, would be strong until the last; Fareeha cannot help the word that escapes her, nor the admission that follows), “I need you.” Perhaps Angela was waiting for this moment; she is swift to grant the request, to grant clemency, fingers parting Fareeha’s folds to press a kiss directly to her clit (Would you like assistance?) and Fareeha wants so badly to move, to roll her hips so that Angela’s face is buried in her, but she knows that she can wait, that it will be better if she will.
She is patient, is still as she can be, tossing her head as Angela sucks on her just so, tightening her grip in the sheets when Angela’s tongue dips to circle her center; this is as close to stillness as she can manage, as close as she has ever been able to, as physical a person as she is. If she does not move, her thoughts will wander, and she does not want that, wants to stay right here, where she can feel Angela, hot and cold both at once, where she can feel the way her own throat is growing dry, slightly, her mouth having been open too long, and in contrast feels the sweat pooling in her lower back, the wetness between her legs, where she can feel pressure on her clit, and higher, building within her. She wants to get lost in it, to be lost in this, but still her mind starts to wander, worry starts to creep back in that she cannot, is not—a snap, from Angela, who has brought one hand up to Fareeha’s field of vision, the hand motions her to focus (I need you to follow the light with your eyes for me, please), and everything slots back into place. She is here, not above a conflict hundreds of kilometers away, and she cannot fail Angela’s expectations (she need not step into Pharah, live up to Amari, Angela is here at Fareeha’s side, and will ensure that is enough). The thought alone is almost enough to push her over.
She does not work to stay still now, does not need to, she has found where she must be, does not need to be either controlled or in control for this. All of her is focused on this, on the heat, on the sound, the scent, the pressure. She feels herself teetering on the edge, drives her heels into the mattress further, and rolls her hips decisively against Angela, who has sped up in anticipation of Fareeha’s impending orgasm. They are working together towards this, the two of them, one of Angela’s hands reaching out to soothe the trembling of Fareeha’s thigh, while the other finds her left hand. Fareeha knows she cannot feel her left arm, but for a moment she swears she can, just as Angela meets her eyes and sucks, hard, right on her clit and it is enough—she is warm is, is lost, is nothing outside of this place and time, is here only with Angela and the sensation of being held, of being touched by another person (Breathe, Fareeha). Fareeha is, in the moment, no one but herself, and it does not trouble her that this is so.
Still, the moment must end, does end, and she comes back to herself, to Angela moving up her body to curl around her, face buried in the same part of Fareeha’s neck which had earlier been the focus of so much of her attention, seeming content to just breathe as one. Fareeha moves to curl around her smaller lover, moving into a protective position once again now that they are done. She is herself, for now, and none other, but even so the impulse to protect, to defend is strong, strong enough to have driven the generations of soldiers she is descended from, strong enough to move her even now. Part of her thinks to fight it, to push it down and allow herself to be held, but she is tired, and already she feels she has done enough for one night; part of her wonders if such a desire is not borne of duty, not in this case, but is a part of Fareeha herself, some essential part of loving another she has not known until now. Whatever the case, she allows the instinct to move her unquestioned, rolling an arm and leg over Angela, and lying with her, bodies tangled together (I failed them too). No matter what comes to pass, they are in this together.
“I love you, Fareeha,” Angela murmurs into her neck (Fareeha, Fareeha, Fareeha), and Fareeha can feel the truth behind her words. Angela loves her for who she is (not Pharah, not Amari; Fareeha and Fareeha alone is enough for Angela), and while things may not be perfect—not now, not ever—perhaps they do not need to be. If Fareeha can be enough for Angela, perhaps one day she can be enough for herself as well.