Work Text:
After wrapping up a long-term project, there are many things which Angela ought to do, including but not limited to: catching up on laundry, beginning a report of her findings, and restoring order to her chaotic workspace. Instead, however, Angela finds herself headed into the watchpoint's armory. She is not unwelcome there, and has some vague grasp of engineering thanks to the time she has spent working in applied nanobiology and collaborating with Torbjörn on various projects, but it is, nonetheless, a space she will always feel an outsider in. To her, the armory is the domain of the team's engineers, belongs to Torbjörn, Satya, and Fareeha, and while she is welcome to visit, she does not belong there, just as they have no place in the Med Bay when they are uninjured. The tools there are foreign to her, the jargon which is tossed around unfamiliar, and the weapons will never be something she is comfortable with—to be so out of her element always puts Angela ever so slightly on edge.
Still, she ventures into the armory, because Fareeha is there, and where Fareeha is, Angela will never feel truly unwelcome. Where Fareeha is, Angela will always find a place.
It is quieter than normal in the armory, with Satya away on a mission and Torbjörn mysteriously absent—he has been here recently, Angela can tell, for the room is hot, still, warmed by his forge. In the center of the room is Fareeha, buttonfront shirt Angela remembers her donning in the morning long since discarded in favor of staying just in a tank top—when lit, the forge's heat is oppressive, even to those from warmer climes than Angela. She does not look up when Angela enters, gives no indication at all that she notices that there is another person in the room. Such does not bother Angela; Fareeha does have a job to do, after all, and she came here with no expectation of interacting with Fareeha. For her, it is enough, sometimes, to simply be in the presence of the woman she loves.
With her, Angela has a holopad on which she might work, might begin typing up that report which she really ought to be working on at the moment, but she finds that instead of focusing on the page, her eyes drift higher, to Fareeha, wrench in hand, performing maintenance on her Raptora suit. When she realizes she is staring, Angela attempts to refocus on her work before her, to little avail. She writes one sentence, erases it, rewrites, spots the way Fareeha has accidentally smeared grease across her own cheek, and finds herself distracted yet again. Another two sentences, another false start, and she watches the furrow of Fareeha's brow as she concentrates. Again, Angela restarts, writes an entire paragraph, scraps her progress, and realizes she is sweating, in the heat of the armory—wearing a turtleneck on a day when the forge has been lit is always a mistake, but she has little else in her wardrobe.
A few more words, a pause, Angela frowns, erases her work, and sets the holopad aside. The report can wait; she is several days ahead of her projected timeframe anyway; for now, other things occupy her, such as the way the muscles of Fareeha's arms move, the cleverness of her fingers, both mechanical and flesh, as they work on the inside of one of Raptora's arms, and of course, the stifling heat.
It is dry in the armory, more so than in the rest of the base, and so Angela always brings water on her visits there—Fareeha may be used to desert air, but Angela prefers that things be cooler, humid, and knows the importance of staying hydrated, besides. She takes a sip from her water and sits back, content simply to sit in Fareeha's presence. Times like these are the ones Angela likes best, when they have not the pressure of the world's expectations upon them, and need not think of their fears for the future, when they can just be, together, comfortable simply with existing as they are for the time being. Leisure time with Fareeha is little different from leisure without her, but it is comforting to have her close, and Angela breathes just a little easier knowing that the loneliness which has chased her all her life cannot find her here, where she is welcome, and wanted.
Sometimes, Angela wonders for how long things might stay this way, wonders if familiarity will rob her of the sense of wonder simply being with Fareeha now confers, but she cannot imagine how it could, not when there are ever more things she is discovering about Fareeha, and herself, and the two of them together. They have been together for three years now, and despite the feeling that little has changed, with the retention of that breathless wonder of trying new things together, their love has yet to seem stale, because they are growing, together, and changing with one another, so there is always more for Angela to discover that she loves about Fareeha. Last week, she learned that Fareeha spent three months trying to learn how to juggle as a child, and only finally learned when doing dexterity exercises after gaining her prosthetic limb, and that small triumph was what changed Fareeha's outlook on the entire situation; the week before, Fareeha admitted that the poster of Reinhardt she had in her room was used to cover another, personal picture of her mother, so that Ana would not know that her daughter feared she would not return, would not know that she was the last thing Fareeha looked at, every night before bed; today, Angela is learning how cute Fareeha looks intent on a project, grease staining her cheeks. Normally, Fareeha is meticulous, not a hair out of place—even as she works very hard to maintain a casual air, so to see her so uncharacteristically messy feels private in a way that surprises Angela. Were it not for the fact that Fareeha has been clear that she is always welcome, anywhere, she might feel as if she were intruding on a private moment.
(The feeling is amplified somewhat by the fact that the two of them often joke that Angela is Fareeha's other woman, and that the Raptora is her first love. Most of the time, such jesting is playful, but sometimes—sometimes Angela is a little jealous, jealous that Raptora gives Fareeha flight, gives her a feeling of control, allows for her to achieve her dream of being in Overwatch. A silly thought, but one Angela cannot quite shake, especially when Fareeha is crooning and calling it baby.)
Before her, Fareeha leans back onto her haunches, tilts her head in consternation, and taps the wrench against her chin, once, twice. (Probably, Angela thinks, this explains how the grease got on her cheek.) Angela's eyes catch the way the muscles in her thighs flex with the motion, thinks about those same strong thighs wrapped around her—her face, her waist, straddling her hips. This is Fareeha's workplace, and she thinks she ought not to dwell on such things here, but neither of them have ever lived lives separate from their work, anyway, so perhaps there is little point in doing so at all. Especially when Fareeha looks so attractive like this, focused, muscles on display, and beads of sweat dripping down her back. The concentration on her face now brings to mind her expression at other times, and Angela cannot resist her thoughts going down that rabbit hole.
"Enjoying the view?" Fareeha interrupts Angela's thinking, smug grin plastered across her face. Of course Angela is enjoying the view, and she knows it—Angela is not so oblivious to Fareeha's showboating as she pretends, and definitely caught Fareeha flexing unnecessarily a few minutes before, under the pretense of checking the range of motion of Raptora's arms.
"Yes," she replies, taking another sip of her water, legs crossed primly at the ankle. The illusion of propriety is ruined somewhat by the fact that she plucks at her turtleneck in an attempt to cool down—the armory really is too hot for her.
"You know," says Fareeha, and Angela can tell from her tone that she is all-too pleased with herself, "If you're feeling a little... hot under the collar... you can always take the shirt off?"
Rather than deigning to reply to Fareeha's teasing, Angela takes one last glance towards the door of the armory, ensuring that it is closed, and calls Fareeha's bluff, pulling her shirt off in one smooth motion. She is rewarded with not only the satisfaction of Fareeha's pleasantly surprised face, but also does feel quite a bit cooler, with her sweat damp skin exposed to the air.
As she watches Fareeha's eyes follow the bead of sweat that slides down between her breasts, she thinks she could not have planned it better.
"Now who's staring, hmm?" she teases, tilting her head so she looks at Fareeha through her lashes, just so.
Fareeha's eyes snap up to her face again, "Still you, I think. I could feel your eyes on me the whole time I was tuning up that pauldron. I take it you saw something you liked?"
"Oh yes," says Angela, more than a touch of sarcasm in her voice, "Watching you screw things in with those clever fingers of yours really gets me going. I watch you work and I think, 'Why doesn't she touch me like that?'"
"I wasn't screwing, I was applying torque," Fareeha corrects. "I've told you before... but maybe if those 'clever fingers of mine' showed you what they do, you might learn the lesson better. Hands-on is always the best way to teach, you know."
Angela moves to pull her turtleneck back on, but no sooner has she grabbed it that Fareeha stops her.
"What are you doing?" she asks, sounding genuinely confused.
"I'm not walking back to our quarters topless!" Angela laughs, because really, it ought to be obvious.
"Who said anything about going back to our quarters?" Fareeha asks her, expression completely serious.
Oh. Well, that is unexpected... but not unwelcome, even if Angela doubts the heat of the armory is necessarily the best location for a liaison. Biting her lip, she twirls her finger through her bangs, "Well, if you're certain Torbjörn won't be back..."
"I am," says Fareeha, sure as she is of everything.
"In that case," says she, pulling Fareeha closer to her with one extended leg, "I'd be a fool not to learn about the mechanics of screwing from a master."
Fareeha looks as if she is considering correcting Angela again, reminding her that screwing does not mean what she thinks it does, when it comes to the finer points of mechanical engineering—which, honestly, Angela knows by now, even if she pretends not to—but Angela kisses her before she can, draws her in closer, as if skin on skin contact were not nearly unbearable in the heat.
A part of Angela thinks it fits, as the two of them kiss, that touching Fareeha makes her feel as if she is burning, that every touch between them sets her body on fire, as Fareeha's fingers trail lower, and lower, until they reach Angela's knee and can ruck up under her skirt. It fits, that Fareeha is burning, because she is not unlike a sun, who pulled Angela from her unstable trajectory and into a comfortable orbit, because she is warm, and bright, and brings light to Angela's life, because sometimes, to look upon her is overwhelming and yet, Angela looks, time and again.
A part of Angela thinks it fits, but the rest is far more absorbed with the feeling of fingertips sliding up the inside of her thigh, tracing teasing patterns and pulling back after just barely teasing her through her underwear. Only Fareeha could make Angela wish she had the skill for poetry and simultaneously rob her of the ability to form a coherent sentence.
Angela moves one hand to massage Fareeha's breasts, but Fareeha's free hand reaches up to stop her, "I'm showing you, remember? Follow my lead."
Fareeha's right hand reaches across Angela's body, covering her left, skin warm and callused. She brings Angela's hand to her own breast, uses it to knead gently in the way Angela likes through the thin material of her bra. Clever fingers indeed.
Sweat drips down Angela's back as she is pressed backwards towards the wall, lips moving to her own, slightly chapped. Later, Angela thinks, she will tell Fareeha to hydrate better, to apply lip balm before flying, but for now, the dizziness she feels has nothing to do with dehydration—and it can wait, surely, until they are done here.
(Even here, now, Angela never quite loses the impulse to think of things as her training has taught her, not after years spent examining others in order to ensure her health. In her own way, she thinks that it shows she cares—even if Fareeha teases her about being unable to stop her clinical mind. Both of them have work which follows them home, after all, and this is far more benign than any of the other myriad ways in which her work haunts her, is something she might have done even if she were not the woman she was, if they had met under other circumstances in some other, better world.)
When Fareeha's right hand moves to cup Angela's face, she continues the motions of her left as instructed, follows the orders Fareeha has given her.
"Good, Scharï," Fareeha breathes, breaking their kiss, words an echo of Angela herself. "Just like that."
Lips move to suck behind Angela's ear, and she is grateful that Fareeha is not looking to see how deeply she has blushed at the praise; Angela has always cared a good deal about meeting the expectations of others, but here, like this, she feels somehow it means more to her than it has in other contexts. She wants to meet expectations, yes, to exceed them, but it is not because she fears disappointing—instead, now, it is because she wants Fareeha to be pleased with her, to be proud of her. A variation on the theme.
Under her skirt, Fareeha's fingers vary their pattern, dancing closer, closer to where Angela wants her, but never quite reaching their goal.
"Fareeha," Angela whines, when fingers just barely brush her clit through her underwear. It is an admonishment and a plea in one.
"Yes, Angela?" Fareeha's voice is muffled somewhat by Angela's skin, mouth having just been occupied with kissing her pulse point.
Angela tries, then, changing tactics, echoing Fareeha's earlier use of her own pet name, "Ya amar," says she, and then, when a response does not come quickly enough for her, "Please."
When all else fails, begging never has, and true to form Fareeha's hand slips under Angela's underwear less than a moment later. The metal of her prosthetic is blessedly cool against the heat of the workshop, and the contrast makes Angela squirm all the more; it is too much, and at the same time, not enough, as what she wants is Fareeha closer, despite the heat, wants more of their skin pressed together. Even like this, two bodies melting into one, Fareeha can never quite be close enough for Angela's liking.
The illusion of the two of them somehow becoming one is only heightened when Fareeha slips a pair of fingers inside of her, is perpetuated by the fact that all Angela can smell when she breathes in is Fareeha, is apparent as they move in time, Fareeha's right hand returning to Angela's free breast, their hands mirroring one another. When Angela came to visit Fareeha this is what she wanted, or something like it, not necessarily sexual in nature, but this instance of connection, of oneness, the ability to lose themselves in one another, and simply be.
The moment, of course, cannot last, and Angela can feel its end approaching in the way that her hips jerk out of rhythm as Fareeha thumbs at her clit, in the way her thighs are beginning to tense, in the urge she has to grip harder to Fareeha's back, to tighten her hold on her lover. The moment cannot last—but she does not worry over much, does not try to delay its end, for she finds herself orbiting Fareeha, these days, and knows that she will always, always return to her, to moments like this, for as long as she is able. The moment cannot last, but it does not need to, for there will be many more like it.
The metal of Fareeha's hand is no longer cool where it moves inside of her, and Angela arches her back, both in arousal and to unstick herself from the wall. The room is hot, too hot, and Angela is burning, on fire with want and Fareeha and the room they find themselves in, all at once.
Something has to give, she thinks, as her breath starts to hitch, she is teetering at the edge but is not quite there, just needs that one more thing, and she nearly begs for it, opens her mouth to ask the question, when Fareeha beats her to it.
(They are still, in this way, in sync, even as Angela begins to lose all sense of rhythm, Fareeha can yet follow her.)
"Come for me, Scharï," whispers Fareeha, breath hot (too hot) against the shell of Angela's ear.
Come for me, Fareeha requests of her, and she does, wordlessly, gasping for cool air and breathing in only the smell of Fareeha as she comes, body pulling Fareeha inwards, closer, for one perfect moment in which Fareeha is the center of Angela's universe.
And then, it is over, and she is hot, sweaty, and half clothed atop a desk in the armory. Normally, she might cuddle, might pull Fareeha closer in the afterglow, but the heat is still unpleasant, and she wiggles out from between Fareeha and the desk in order to drink again from her water.
When she has set the bottle down, Fareeha speaks again.
"See," says she, wiggling her hands, "Clever fingers."
Angela hmms in agreement, before taking another sip from the bottle.
"But you know," Fareeha's grin is cheeky, "My mouth is cleverer. Want to see what it can do?"
Angela half-chokes on her water, and is about to suggest that they move from the armory and into a cooler location first, when Fareeha cuts her off.
"I've been practicing. I think you'll appreciate it." She frowns, then, a small crinkle of concentration in her brow, "Ich ha di gärn," she says, her pronunciation nearly perfect.
Oh, thinks Angela, and when she repeats the words it is not to correct the pronunciation, but a simple pronouncement that she feels the same.
"Ich ha di gärn auch," says she, I love you too.