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It is all too easy, for Angela, to become lost in her own head. For so long, she has been expected to shoulder the weight of life and death decisions, for so long, the price of failure has been, for her, the deaths of her friends and comrades—it is not surprising, then, that she often does not wish to choose, is not surprising that there are times in which she wishes she could simply stop thinking, stop feeling, wishes that she were someone else's responsibility. She is independent, proudly so, always willing to question authority and to make her own choices, but sometimes... sometimes she wants to be lead.
Today is such a day. A patient—for it is easier to think of her friends as patients, on days such as this, easier to ignore their connection, and better for the patient to boot, as her emotions will only cloud things, will only make it more difficult to do what must be done—needed to be resuscitated twice, and he lived, he lives, but it has been a stressful day nonetheless. Having very nearly lost him, having only saved him by virtue of a last moment change of plans, she finds that she is tired, not only physically, but of thinking. Even now, her mind wanders back to the operating room, tells her You ought to have cut there sooner, and the cause of that should have been obvious, and even though she was successful—not relatively so but absolutely—she cannot stop agonizing over her near failure, over the mistakes she might have made.
What she wants, now, is to stop thinking. What she wants, now, is to never make a decision like that again. It is a foolish wish, one which she knows that she would find unacceptable if it were fulfilled, but in the moment... in the moment she only wants everything to stop, wants someone to tell her what to do, so that if she fails, it will be by no fault of her own, so that she might be free of guilt and what ifs. It is not absolution, it is not even absolute, but it might be enough, if she tries. It might be enough, even if only for a moment. (Sometimes, a moment's reprieve is enough. Sometimes, a moment to breathe, to be free, between the difficult decisions in her life is all that keeps her going.)
Mindlessness can be achieved in many ways, she knows. A lack of control can be bought, can be acquired, but even when she is surrendering agency she fears helplessness, fears the consequences of lowering her inhibitions to do so, and so such is unacceptable to her. (Even when she is losing control, she can never truly cede it. There have been times enough in which she was truly unable to act, and it scares her—more than. She has been helpless enough in her life, has been unable to do what she must to save the people she cares about; she will not be so again.) Fortunately, there are other ways to deal with her problems, ways to separate from her responsibilities only temporarily, without needing to cede control, without needing to give into true helplessness. Sometimes, the illusion of something is just as good as the thing itself.
When she returns to her and Fareeha's shared quarters, she can see in her lover's eyes that she already has an inkling that tonight will be one of those nights, knows that she has given herself away in her slumped posture and faraway gaze. (It is useful for a soldier to be perceptive, and Fareeha Amari is nothing if not an excellent soldier. That said, she is also simply very good at reading people, at watching them and really, truly, coming to understand them. For this, Angela is grateful—some nights, it is easier not to ask for what she needs.)
"Difficult operation?" Fareeha asks her, the question more a courtesy than anything else. Overwatch is small enough, yet, that news spreads quickly—she has heard of the injury, knows how long Angela was in surgery, knows that no one has died. She can conclude, from this, how Angela will feel, but in asking she does Angela the small mercy of being the one to initiate conversation, and asks a question which will allow her to establish boundaries.
Yes, replies Angela simply, one flick of her wrist, not aloud but with a sign. Tonight, she will not be very verbal, cannot be. Words do not come easily when she is so, so far away. Fareeha will understand, she knows.
No response from Fareeha is forthcoming, as she is given time to collect herself and explain further—but Angela finds she cannot. Not now.
In lieu of elaborating, she nearly collapses into Fareeha's lap, buries her face in her neck, and breathes deeply. By now, even the scent of Fareeha is calming, to say nothing of the feeling of those arms wrapped around herself, or the warm words whispered in her ear.
For a few minutes, they are nearly still, save for Fareeha's hand rubbing small circles on her back. It is lovely, it is peaceful, it is not nearly enough. In silence, like this, her mind still runs free and she wants—needs—more. Needs something to distract her, to pull her from herself.
She squirms a bit, and Fareeha loosens her grip so that she can lean back. She makes eye contact, tilts her head to indicate a question, moves one hand in a circle over her chest—please, she is asking.
Nothing more needs to be said—they have done this enough times, been here often enough before, that this scenario is familiar. Maybe, she thinks, that is a bit sad. Maybe, she should not live a life where she needs this so often that it has a routine, but she cannot imagine her life otherwise, cannot imagine leaving Overwatch, leaving her role as a surgeon. At least, with Fareeha, she need not be alone.
Gently, gently, Fareeha lays her down, strips her of her clothes, ties her ankles to the base of the bed, legs spread open. Were she verbal, Fareeha might tie her hands up as well, but not tonight. Tonight, her hands stay free; loss of control is desirable, but to be silenced—that is too much, too far. Instead, Fareeha extracts from her a promise that she will lie still, will not move unless there is something which she needs to say, her hands two y-shapes in front of her body. Yes, signs Angela, with her right hand, and then, with both, repeats Fareeha's motion, still.
One hand moves from Fareeha's full lips into her open palm, good.
Then, nothing further to say, Fareeha begins, does not wait to ease her into anything—nor would she want such, tonight. What she wants is to be free of this immediately, what she wants is something to ground her, and touch will do the trick.
Fareeha's mouth is at her neck, sucking bruises, one hand coming to her breasts, and a thigh moving between Angela's own. She knows immediately what she is to do, knows what is expected of her, and begins to move against the thigh, forces herself to be conscious of the rhythm of her motions, to focus on the pressure against her neck, the sucking on a pulse point—there is blood in her veins, yet, and she will bruise. This is an acceptable injury, a weakness of the flesh she can afford. No one will die because Angela's skin is fragile, not tonight. (She has feared, in the past, the consequences of her fragility—she needs to be strong enough to what she must, she cannot afford to fall in battle—but this, this fragility is acceptable, can even be desirable. Perhaps, it is not the thing to be thinking of now, but she cannot help it, cannot stay fully in the moment just yet. Besides, there is something to be said for not fearing to show injury before Fareeha, something to be said for the security of lying beneath her like this.)
She is not sure how much time is passing, is not really aware of anything that is happening around her, but her body is responding to the stimulation all the same, and before she knows it her rhythm is faltering, her breaths shortening, and she is vaguely aware of a tightness in her body, a locking of her limbs.
Fareeha notices, makes eye contact with her when her hips stutter, and her mind is still far away, is still on thoughts of vulnerability and lack thereof, not here, not now, not on what is happening to and around her, so it takes two taps on her chest to gain her attention before Fareeha sits back, two hands before her body, palms up, wait.
She does, freezes her movements, locks eyes with Fareeha, lips now swollen from kissing, hair beginning to muss, wonders when and how she got so close, becomes aware, suddenly, at the loss of contact, how much she needs it.
Transitioning back to the present, to the feeling of being here and now is not quick, is not easy, but she gradually becomes aware of the throbbing at her center, of the weight of Fareeha straddling her, of the cool of the air against her own wetness. And there is Fareeha, a hand on her cheek, there to help ground her, dark eyes meeting her own, unwavering. (Hundreds of eyes have stared up at her, unseeing, and to be here, to be the one stared at, the one watched over, is enough to help draw her back to the present, is different enough to help break the cycle of her previous thinking.)
A part of her mind is still elsewhere, in an operating theater, on a battlefield, in the rubble of a building, but she is more here than she was before, is more aware of here surroundings, of the gentleness with which Fareeha is touching her. A part of her wants to move upwards, to kiss Fareeha, but she knows what she has been told. Still. So she waits, does not move, even when she feels one of Fareeha's hands move back down to run a finger through her wetness, just brushing her clit.
She is not so close as she was before Fareeha stopped her, will not be able to come from this alone, needs more contact, more pressure, more skin on her own, so the lightness of the contact is torturous. She needs more. Bringing two hands together in front of her chest, she tells Fareeha as much,
Were this another night, Fareeha might not cave so quickly, might draw things out further with gentle teasing touches, might want her to beg for this, but both of them know that it was enough to say just that, was an acknowledgement that she is at least in part here, not elsewhere. For tonight, that is all Fareeha wants from her, for her, is all that she is asked to give. (She understands. There are nights, too, when Fareeha's mind wanders, when she wakes up screaming, when she cannot see Angela for the past, and then, Angela feels much the same. To be in the present again is enough, is difficult enough.)
Mercifully, Fareeha increases the pressure, circling harder on her clit, mouth coming to Angela's own, free hand braced beside them on the bed. Dark hair tickles the edge of Angela's face, and they move together, the two of them, in time. Finding a rhythm is easy enough after time spent together on the field of battle, where they are expected to anticipate one another's movements, and easier still after months of cohabitation, of learning all of the other's habits. Like this, Angela knows it will not be long before she finds herself at the edge again, will not be long before this is over.
Quickened breath, sweat on her spine, she wants, she wants and she is almost, almost there, points of contact between herself and Fareeha nearly burning her hot skin, tightness in her stomach. Just a little more, a little longer. She breaks the kiss—better to breathe— screws her eyes shut and, and—
And she moves, against orders, brings a hand up to rake at Fareeha's back.
Just like that, Fareeha stops, eases the pressure off just enough that even as she bucks her hips she is still too far away, is just barely unable to get enough pressure. On another night, Angela might sob, might protest. Instead, she only looks up at Fareeha imploringly.
This is what she wants, this surrender of power, the ability of another to judge her actions, to decide her fate for her, clear rules which she knows ought not to be broken—this is what she wants, but in the moment, it feels cruel, to deny her. (But perhaps cruelty is also what she wants. Perhaps, a part of her does not want to be judged fairly. Perhaps, she just wants to be punished so that she can be done with it, be free of the guilt which plagues her. Whether or not she has done right, has done good, has done well her job, she cannot help but feel remorse, regret. Punishment is not absolution, undoes nothing, cannot hold a candle to the forgiveness of the wronged party—but the dead cannot forgive.)
You, Fareeha signs, pointing at her, thinking, a pointed hand moving in small circles near her forehead, stop, one hand coming down decisively on the other, a chopping motion. The words are an order, not an admonishment, but they are a compassionate one, as Fareeha's eyes are gentle as can be, brow furrowed slightly in concern.
Yes, Angela replies, one fist flicking downwards. She wants to—needs to—stop thinking, needs to follow orders, be free of the burden of deciding anything for herself, be without guilt or worry or responsibility.
Good, replies Fareeha, hand moving from her mouth onto the open palm below, before she repositions herself between Angela's legs, one hand grasping a thigh, the other running circles over Angela's ribs, her stomach, the points of her hips, gentle, teasing, all the while her mouth sucks marks on the insides of Angela's thighs.
Coupled with anticipation, it is enough to keep Angela aroused, is enough to hold her attention, even if it is far from what she needs. Twice, she has been right at the edge of an orgasm, and now she is becoming hyper-aware of her body, thoughts at last finally, finally, leaving her be, moving her out of the past, out of herself, until all she is is a body, all she is is one thousand tiny points of contact between herself and Fareeha, all she is is what is happening to her—no decisions for her to make, not a thing she can or would do to change her position. For now, all that is left to her is what she can feel, is the body corporeal, without thoughts of morality, or failure, or loss. (All that is left to her is the parts of herself which are not the mind, the parts of herself which have yet to betray her, the parts of herself with which she cannot find fault.)
Fareeha's mouth is hot against her skin, her lips close to where Angela needs the, but not quite there. She focuses on her breathing, doing so as evenly as possible, on the way her chest inflates and deflates with each breath, and the way her body reaches upwards to meet Fareeha's hand. If only the rest of her were permitted to reach out, to touch, to get that little bit closer. If only she could move and—
At last Fareeha's mouth is where she wants it to be, unexpectedly, and the last of her thoughts, of her longing, leave her, and she arches her back, tries to find purchase with her feet, even as her ankles are bound, in the hopes that she can push herself closer against Fareeha's mouth, that they can exist as one being, nothing between the two of them but their own skin. She does not think as she does so, is a being composed only of heat, and pressure, and wanting. For the moment, her world is narrowed to where Fareeha touches her, is naught but sensation. She feels nothing, save for touch, and desire. (Not guilt, not responsibility, not worry.)
Her thighs are shaking, and her breathing, for all her attempts to regulate it, is ragged, is torn from her with each flick of Fareeha's tongue. She is vaguely aware of the feeling of Fareeha's hand trailing up her body to cup at her breasts, but when it does, Angela surprises herself by reaching out to grasp the cold metal of the prosthesis in her own hand.
Not even fully aware of what she is doing, she moves Fareeha's hand in a circle over her heart, palm flat, not to stimulate herself but to give voice to a desire for which she cannot find the words.
Please, she makes Fareeha sign for her, please, please, please.
It ought to be a violation of orders, ought to have Fareeha pulling back again, leaving her wanting once more, but instead, it is enough, at last, to spur Fareeha on further, enough to convince her to suck on Angela's clit just so, to tighten the grip one hand holds on Angela's hip just to the point of pain, like she likes it, to convince her to make eye contact with Angela and then, and then—
Then Angela truly loses her ability to think for a moment, truly loses herself in Fareeha and feeling and this. She is silent, as it happens, hand stilling and mouth simply hanging open, trying to draw in enough air, but there is nothing which needs to be said, nothing that they both do not already know.
When she is finished, Fareeha wipes her own mouth before moving upwards to kiss Angela's forehead, tenderly, pulling her into her arms once more.
O.K., she spells, head tilted—a question.
Yes, signs Angela back, before moving her hands in the motion which is both thank you and good, meaning both.
The concern which marked Fareeha's face for most of the evening eases, and Angela leans upwards to kiss her once again, this time on the lips, enjoying the way the taste of herself is mixed with the taste of Fareeha—entwined together, as they ought to be.
She moves her head back just enough so that she can bring her hands to her chest one final time, points to herself, crosses her arms, fists closed, points to Fareeha, I love you.