;

What Ana and Angela have is not a relationship. Instead, they have an arrangement—or, at least, if one were to ask Ana, that is what she would say—and like most arrangements, it comes with terms. One of them is thus: in cases where they have a significant, public disagreement about a course of action that Overwatch should take, the winner, namely whomever Jack ultimately sides with, is allowed to top the other afterwards.  Privately, of course.

This is rigged, or meant to be; Ana is Jack’s second in command, and her morals and methodology more closely align with his, and so she always, always wins, which is exactly as she and Angela intended.  Having such an agreement has only ever been a pretense, a pretext under which they can vent their frustrations with one another after such an argument, and not have to talk about it.  It is a pretense until, suddenly, it is not, because one day, the unthinkable happens.

Angela wins.

When it happens, Ana feels foolish for not having seen it coming—Jack has been retreating, of late, into himself, increasingly ignoring her counsel, his decision making process growing increasingly erratic as outside pressure on Overwatch mounts.  Recently, Ana had to dress down Angela for telling Reinhardt that she believes Jack’s ability to lead may be compromised, for such insubordination is unacceptable, but privately, she agrees.

If she had foresight, she might have called this off, but Jack surprised both of them, and Ana has too much pride to go back on her word, is affronted when Angela suggests she might allow that.

Ana made a decision, and she can live with the consequences; any implication otherwise is, frankly, an offense.

Still, it has been a long time since she allowed someone else to take control—she does not like the feeling of powerlessness as much as she used to before the Omnic Crisis—and she finds herself struggling to stay in her role even before they begin.

“Are you sure,” Angela asks her again, “That you want to do this?”

“Yes,” she says, too shortly, and has to correct herself to something more deferential, “Yes, please.”

When Angela asks, rather than orders, her to remove her clothes, she says nothing, does not say You should tell me to do it, or You could not force me if I were not willing, because while both of those things are true, it is not for her to say, not tonight, and perhaps it is just taking Angela some time to settle into her role.

When Angela tacks on a please after Kneel, Ana thinks You should have pushed me, but again she says nothing, does nothing other than what is asked of her, for perhaps the problem is simply that Angela does not like to use physical force.

When Angela says On all fours, the correction is far too gentle, does not come with a swat or a threat of punishment, as she herself would do, and Ana begins to wonder if Angela’s hesitation, her offer that Ana might back down from their agreement, was more for her own sake than Ana’s own.

The next few minutes all but confirm her suspicions.  Instead of being rough with her, Angela’s teasing takes the form of light touches to her hips and the inside of her thighs, fingers ghosting over her side and sliding around her to play with her breasts—enough to leave her wanting, yes, but when she whines in a request for more she is not denied it; Angela gives in nearly immediately, moves a hand to rub at Ana’s folds and she is gentle, too gentle.

If Ana were the one in charge, if she had ordered Angela to touch her, and her lover had done the same, then it might be acceptable, but like this?  Like this, knowing that Angela is meant to be dominating her, that they are angry with one another, or ought to be—it feels wrong. Ana is not glass, she will not shatter if Angela is rough with her, does not need to be pitied, to be let off easily only because she lost one time.

It is an insult.

(Even Sam was better than this, learned to be rough with her when she needed it, believed her when she said that it was what she wanted, needed from him at the time.)

How can she escape the embarrassment she feels at the loss, the shock of it, if she is not being distracted from it, forced to focus on her body and her orders and nothing else?  Does Angela think she is too weak to take the punishment she has earned?

And where is the passion from only two hours before, the intensity with which Angela argued?  Why is there none left for her now?  She knows that if Angela tried, she has it in her to be cruel, no matter the saintly show she puts on for others—where is it when Ana wants it?

When she lost, she thought this might be good for her, might be some relief from the pressure of command that has lately been nigh on inescapable, the increasingly vulnerable position Overwatch finds itself in weighing heavily in her mind.  Instead, it is not so at all, is only another reminder that she is perhaps the only person on this base capable of taking command.

The longer Angela touches her—maddeningly softly, but not in such a way that it winds here up, makes her desperate for more—the more disinterested Ana grows, until Angela presses a kiss between her shoulder blades and she decides he has had enough.

“Stop,” says she, and Angela does, immediately, taking a step back and away from Ana.  “This isn’t working.  Are you even enjoying it?”

“Ah,” Angela’s embarrassment colors her voice, “No.”

Ana refrains—only very nearly—from asking if she has to do everything around here, only holds back because that frustration, at least, is not Angela’s fault, and instead offers a solution, “I can talk you through it, if you’d prefer?”

(It is not the same, of course—Angela can still enjoy taking orders, this way, and Ana will not be ceding control at all, but at least she will not feel as if she is being treated like someone who is too delicate to handle this sort of thing. She is not fragile, this will not break her, Overwatch will not break her, even if she feels, lately, as if it might, feels like Jack and Gabriel are pulling her apart, and the weight of the things she has done in the greater good is suffocating her.  If that cannot break her, how could Angela?)

“Yes,” Angela agrees almost too quickly, “Please.”

“Stand between my legs, closer than you were,” she feels it when Angela has complied, still clothed legs bumping against the back of her own bare thighs.  “Better,” says she, and she cannot see her lover’s face, but she can sense the way Angela brightens at the praise, pictures it perfectly in her mind.

(A part of her wants to be cruel about it, make some comment about how Angela is so, so eager to please, it disgusts her—but despite their frustration with one another lately, despite the insults they have traded, now is not the place. Right now, Angela is uncertain, is still learning, and if she is too harsh with her, her lover will fold beneath the pressure.  It is up to Ana to be the strong one, it always, always is.)

“Good,” says she, “You have more leverage from here. Now grab my hair with one hand and pull it.”

The tug she receives in response is tentative at best, and she barely refrains from rolling her eyes.

“Harder, Angela,” she says, “Like you mean it.”  Another weak tug, and she adds, “I won’t let you hurt me,” and that is gratifying, the yank she gets in response, forcing her to move to a kneeling position if she wants to avoid pain, face tilting upwards as she does so.

“Like this?” Angela asks her, voice still uncertain, not matching the power behind the motion in the least.

“Yes,” Ana confirms, but she knows Angela can do better, “But you need to sound more sure of yourself.  You’re in control, aren’t you?”

(Nevermind, of course, that she is not—but that is the thing about power, sometimes just pretending that one is in control of a situation is enough to make it so, or to fool oneself into believing that one is.)

“Right,” Angela agrees, voice shifting in pitch closer to the one she uses in their little conversations with Jack, steadier and more even.  “I can do this.”

Ana is not convinced, but Angela surprises her, then, moves her free hand around to Ana’s front to pull at one of her nipples roughly.  It is good—but then Ana gasps in response, sharply, and Angela says “Sorry, too much?”

When Ana thought about how this would go, about Angela making her scream in frustration, she rather hoped it would be frustration of a different sort.  “Angela,” says she, too annoyed to be as gentle as she should, “If you’re too rough I’ll tell you, but I should think, given how many bullets you have personally removed from my body, you’d know that I can stand a little pain.”

“You shouldn’t say that so lightly,” Angela says then, and perhaps Ana was the one being too gentle, before, because this at last gets a rise out of Angela, has her using a tone that makes Ana wetter than she will ever admit to.  “I won’t always be there to patch you up when you get yourself into trouble because you were too proud and too stubborn to trust someone else to do their job.”

When she says it, she leans down to hiss the words in Ana’s ear, punctuates them by again pulling roughly at Ana’s nipples with one hand, the other still holding Ana in a position where she strains to see Angela from the corner of her eye.

(What she says is not true, of course, Ana is not cavalier with her safety—would not be here, still, after so many years in the field, were that the case.  No one gets lucky every time.  Truly, Ana only steps in when she needs to, it is only that she needs to do so often, because she is the best at what she does.  She knows this, and Angela must too, but hearing it said to her makes shame pool in her gut, and arousal with it; this is what she wanted.)

Ana makes a mistake then, underestimates Angela, allows herself to get lost in her thoughts for a moment, such that it surprises her when her hair is suddenly released, and her head, which had been pulling against the hand in it, jerks forwards, throwing her slightly off balance, and she thinks Angela will break character, again, will ask her if she alright. Instead, Angela does nothing of the sort, moves to kneel, too, as if nothing happened, and brings her fingers roughly against Ana’s clit.  It is too much, too sudden, but somehow that makes it all the better, and Ana rocks into the motion as best she can without upsetting her balance yet again.

While she touches Ana, rubs her roughly, Angela continues to berate her for her supposed carelessness, her hubris—says it will be the death of her, one day—and Ana flushes in shame and arousal both, knows that if only Angela would give her a little more, she could come like this.

(Perhaps Angela is not telling her off for the right things, is not calling her weak for not asserting herself better and convincing Jack to do things her way, is not chastising her for her failure to protect those under her command, is not calling out her hypocrisy in saying she is a protector, when her only skill is lies in taking the lives of others, perhaps this is not what she pictured, but it still is freeing, in a way, to hear herself criticized for things she knows are not true, because it drowns out her worries about the things that are.)

“Inside me,” she says, a request and not a plea.

“No,” Angela says, surprising her, “I don’t want to, and I won’t unless you beg.”

Ana supposes she should not be as shocked as she is by the refusal—she knew, of course, that Angela could do this, saw the stubbornness and pride in her, but still, she did not see this coming, and she will not beg.

“If I refuse?” she asks, between breaths, “What will you do then?”

“Nothing,” Angela says, “If you don’t want to do as I say, you can fuck yourself,” and she huffs a little laugh her own pun, breath hot on Ana’s neck.

Were it not for the rough flick at Ana’s clit that accompanies the joke, the mood might be ruined, but as it is, Ana, although still too defiant to beg, remains interested in allowing this to play out.

It would be easier if she gave in, if she begged Angela to give her what she wanted, or touched herself instead, but Ana is unwilling to admit defeat, could never, would never show that sort of weakness in front of anyone—even Angela, even like this.

(Maybe she is prideful, is stubborn, just as Angela says, but she is not weak, will not fold, will not break where anyone can see her.)

Instead, she lets Angela have things her way, lets her think that she has won, and in truth, it is not so terrible, relinquishing control for just a moment—or, rather, giving the illusion of doing so. She is still in control, she knows this, it is she who has chosen not to plead, after all, not to debase herself so.  

Even without getting what she wants, she still feels herself moving swiftly to the edge, each rough movement of Angela against her accompanied, now, by the panting of her own breath, the hammering of her heart, a tightening inside her, until her orgasm is ripped from her with no warning, and she finds herself held up only by virtue of Angela’s quick reflexes. It is a harder orgasm than she is used to, shorter but more intense, and she is still regaining her breath when Angela decides to pull both of them down to a seated position.

“I think,” Angela tells her, “That I should win more often.”

The statement was made in jest, because Angela has always tried to win, because she truly believes in all the things she argues for, but Ana does not find it so funny—worries, again, that control is slipping away from her.  “You won’t,” she says, a tad too seriously.

“Come on,” Angela pouts a bit, “This was fun, wasn’t it?”

It was, and Ana does not want Angela to know of her concerns outside of the bedroom, so she deflects, says “Of course it was, but it doesn't have to be over just yet.  Let me have my turn.”

In her life, Ana has known war, but she has rarely experienced peace, she has known freedom, but rarely seen justice, and she has known hate, but she does not know, not for certain, if she has ever felt love.  Of course, she loves her daughter, loves her friends, loves her duty, her country, her people—but that is not the same as feeling romantic love, not at all, and Ana is content with that, with what she has had, does not think that she needs to ever be in love with someone to be happy with the life she has led, the things she has accomplished.  Out of all of her regrets, never having been in love is not worth even mentioning.

Most of Ana’s relationships have been purely physical, because she alternately lacks the time, the desire, or the stability to search for love.  While she acknowledges that there have been a few exceptions, they have been relationships built on friendship, or admiration, not love.  Sam was such a one, and for a time she believed Angela was another—and now, she must face that that is not necessarily the case.

Coming back from the dead changed many things, but it was only the catalyst for a change that was a long time coming before her death, that continues even now that she is four months returned.

Perhaps it would be an overstatement to say that, in the years before her death, she and Angela admired each other; it was admiration that brought them to one another, yes, recognition of some kindred spirit, a mutual drive, a need to protect and a willingness to do so by whatever means they deemed necessary, but that did not last.  Towards the end of their time together, towards the end of Overwatch, towards the end of Ana, or the Ana who was never the Shrike, they fought more often than not, found that agreeing to do whatever was necessary only went so far, when the two of them disagreed on what, in fact, was a necessity, and Ana struggles when thinking of the things that they said to one another, that they must have thought about one another, to say that she felt admiration, or that Angela could have felt the same.

She never hated Angela, this much Ana knows, but sometimes, sometimes she was afraid that she might grow to.  

When they fought, they never held anything back—perhaps because of the admiration they felt for one another, in the early days, because they knew the other could take hearing what it was they were to say, or perhaps because their arguments were complicated by other feelings, ones they chose not to give voice to—and Ana winces, now, remembering the things the two of them said to one another.  It was a stressful time, Overwatch’s fall, for the both of them, made harder still that they both felt increasingly isolated and embattled in their respective positions, between the development of the Biotic Rifle and Jack and Gabe’s decision to slowly freeze Ana out of the chain of command, but that stress could not excuse the things they both allowed themselves to say, and it is not an easy time for Ana to remember.

(Ana feels similarly about the breakdown in her relationship with her daughter, but that was easy to make sense of, after the fact, and she knows, now, where the two of them stand, even if it is not always easy between them.  They had blood and a lifetime of love between them; the same cannot be said for how she feels about Angela.)

To say, therefore, that Angela’s response to her return was unexpected, then, would be an understatement.

What Ana expected, upon her return, was anger, was betrayal, was a condemnation.  Instead, she received none of those things—or, she did, eventually, in conversations about the rifle, about her leaving, but never were they such simple feelings from Angela, and never were the conversations themselves as fraught as the ones from seven years before.  It is impossible to judge for Ana, what it is that Angela is feeling, when she voices her betrayal at Ana for having had the audacity to die on her, only to come back as if nothing had happened, because Ana knows that Angela ought to be furious with her, would have said things meant to hurt, if this happened years ago, and instead she is also unmistakably relieved by Ana’s returning, and that relief tempers her anger.

This, in turn, ought to make Ana happy, she ought to be relieved at this turn of events, by the fact that, somehow, they have both of them changed, and grown, and returned to one another more able, or perhaps more willing, to disagree, and to set those disagreements aside, in order to be happy together, or as close to it as they can come.  What Ana feels, instead of relief, is worry. Nothing in her life has ever been so simple, and the lack of a clean resolution to their prior conflicts, the lack of confirmation that that is behind them, the unaddressed feelings and hurts, they haunt her.

Angela says she loves her.  

What to make of that?  It is the opposite reaction from what Ana expected, upon returning, and Ana is not sure that she would be able to believe it, even were that not the case.  How could Angela love her?  After she left, died, Angela’s greatest fear, after she betrayed her lover, taking the Biotic Rifle with her, despite knowing that it represented the greatest perversion of Angela’s life’s work, after what she said to Angela, how could Angela love her?

How could Angela love her, when she struggles to love herself?  Knowing what she has done in the name of duty—what of that she regrets, what of that was not truly necessary, and having seen the nastier parts of herself, knowing whom she truly is: a killer, and not a protector.  There is little enough of her left to love, anyway, after what happened, after her death and the Shrike.  How could anyone love her?

How could Angela love her, when seven years ago they could hardly speak to one another, were too often too angry to be civil, and were avoiding each other more often than not, lest they begin another argument, unable for the first time to set professional differences apart for the sake of their relationship—whatever one might have defined it as?  

(Perhaps, if she asked Angela, Angela might tell her that she felt love, even then, and that is why the perceived betrayal of the development of the Biotic Rifle hurt her so much.  Perhaps she might try to convince Ana that Ana, too, loved her, and that was why Ana was willing to argue about it at all, rather than simply dismissing her disagreement, wanting instead for Angela to come to approve or, at the least, not be angry with her any longer for what she had chosen to do. Perhaps she might claim that Ana’s death put the issue into perspective for her, and she realized that she had feelings all along.  Perhaps—it does not matter.)

Ana worries about what it would mean to love Angela, given that there is still so much between them unsaid, unresolved. One of the reasons why the idea of being in love has never appealed to Ana is that its seems terribly complicated, and her life is difficult enough already without such added concerns, and their situation has more unique challenges than most.

Yet, despite all of this, there are times when loving Angela seems like it could be so very easy to do.  

When she wakes in the morning to find Angela curled around her, and her lover kisses her temple in lieu of a greeting before slipping out of bed to prepare for the day, she wonders what it might be like to wake to this every morning, thinks it might be worth suffering Angela kicking the blankets off of both of them in her sleep.  Perhaps that is not love, but it is a desire for permanence, one she could not imagine herself feeling seven years ago when all she wanted was to run.

When Angela glances around the common room nervously to ensure they are alone before shifting closer to Ana on the couch, and wrapping their hands around one another, Ana considers for the first time whether or not it would be so terrible to allow others to see them like this, despite the uncomfortable questions it might invite about the nature of their relationship before Overwatch fell.  This, too, might not be love, but it is a growing comfort with casual intimacy that Ana might once have avoided, for fear of what it might mean.

When they find themselves where they are now, Angela straddling her thighs in a position that allows them both to, with a bit of awkward bumping into one another at first, reach down and touch each other simultaneously, all the while maintaining eye contact and kissing one another as they please, Ana wonders what lead them to this point.

Their relationship was never meant to last, was not—is not—a relationship, was meant to be a casual mutual pursuit of much needed stress relief, an exchange of power and of favors.  When one of them had a particularly rough day, they could meet one another by cover of darkness and—deal with the problem, in their own way, Angela allowing Ana to once again feel in control of her life and its circumstances, and Ana freeing Angela from that same burden; that is not the basis for love, or was never meant to be.  Over time, things shifted, grew more complicated, until even meeting with Angela felt stressful, and all Ana wanted was to get away from everyone, herself included, to be free of all of her obligations, even caring for her lover, and yet, here she is, one of Angela’s lips pressed to hers, and two of her fingers inside her erstwhile lover.  

(Maybe that is why Ana is afraid, when Angela says I love you, because once, she might have been falling in love with Angela, might even have begun to consider what that would mean for the both of them, to talk about their relationship openly, despite the consequences, to refuse propositions not because there was someone else already meeting her needs adequately, and breaking in new lovers could be a hassle, but because she only wanted one person—and despite beginning to feel that way, things between them still soured, were victim to the outside stresses of Overwatch’s collapse, until rather than feeling comfortable, Ana felt trapped.  It scares her, to think that she could have loved Angela, then, and still ran, and terrifies her to think that it might happen again.)

But this is not complicated, not really, not if she focuses on the details, the way that, when she presses her thumb down on Angela’s clit, Angela gasps against her mouth, and rolls her hips into the touch, or the scent of Angela’s shampoo—not sweet, or heady, just clean, a product selected for its ability to make the curls in her hair loosen to waves, and not for its scent—which surrounds her, as Angela’s bangs fall across both of their faces, hiding the world from Ana’s view as they cover her one good eye, or the way Angela is so in tune with what she needs, what she wants, all the ways in which Ana likes to be touched.

It feels good, to be like this, inside each other, surrounding each other, all wrapped up together.  How could this be a bad thing?  

(How could the gentle pressure of Angela’s free arm draped across her shoulder feel like it is trapping her?  Could this change, again, back from what they have now to the pain and difficulty of seven years previous?)

She is pulled from her thoughts when Angela moves her mouth next to Ana’s ear, panting into it as she whispers encouragements, praise, pleas, anything and everything that comes to her mind and which might convince Ana to let her come faster.  

Some of the things she says are gentle, Perfect, and So beautiful, and You’re so good to me, others are demanding, Harder, and Stay there, and More, please, more, and others are nonsense, little pleased noises of all sorts, and all of them are sufficient to drive any trepidation from Ana’s mind.

(This could not be the same voice that accused Ana of using her, of having slept with her only to ensure that she would stay with Overwatch long enough to let her guard down, and allow her technology to be exploited.)

Years ago, sex between them might have been carefully scripted, an exchange of power and little more, in which both of them kept carefully to their roles, so as not to disturb the delicate balance of their arrangement, to rip the thin veil of pretense that allowed them to carry on pretending that what they had was nothing more than the two of them fucking a few times a month—but now Angela gives as good as she gets, pulls back slightly from Ana’s fingers, shuddering, when she notices herself approaching climax just a tad too quickly, and focuses more on Ana’s pleasure for a minute or two, until she feels they are both equally aroused.  

Even though Ana knows she does not particularly like to do it—and therefore never demands it of her lover—Angela slides a finger inside Ana, and then another shortly thereafter, only because she knows it will help Ana to come faster, and make the inevitable orgasm more pleasurable when it does come.

(Once, Ana called her the most selfish person she had ever had the misfortune to encounter in her fifty-three years of living, because Angela placed her own morals over Ana’s, refused to allow her technology to be weaponized despite how useful it would be, in the right hands, how many lives would potentially be saved by killing the right people with it, because she would not take those losses on her conscience—Ana regrets saying that, now, regretted it immediately, in truth, and she wonders how the woman who is so generous a lover to her could ever have seemed so callous, where they went wrong that such a statement could even for a moment have felt true.)

When Ana moves her free hand to cup one of Angela’s breast, she can feel the hammering of her heart, and notes that it matches her own, and when she pants, Angela gasps in time, as if they were connected in more ways than the sweat sticking their skin together, or by the feeling of being inside one another.

Both of them are close now, Ana knows, can feel her own orgasm approaching as she struggles to keep her movements against Angela’s fingers steady, and knows that Angela will come soon from the quaking of her thighs on top of Ana’s own, and the way her speech has fallen to the wayside, replaced only by little noises and the occasional plea, Yes, Ana, please panted out one word at a time.

(It is hard to believe, now, how distant she felt they were from one another, back then, is harder still to recall a time when, before the arguing, they were ever so close as they are in this moment.  At least Angela’s begging is familiar, but even it has changed in tone, from desperation to some other emotion Ana cannot immediately name.)

It is Angela who comes first, in the end, set off by nothing in particular that Ana can identify, but her lover does not stop, throughout it all, moving against her, and so when she catches the I love you that tumbles from Angela’s mouth amongst so many other phrases, it coincides with the beginning of her own orgasm—and, to her surprise, does not negatively affect her enjoyment of the moment.

When she is finished, she allows herself to fall onto her back on the bed, but Angela does not follow suit, as she often does, stays sitting up, biting her lip nervously and looking down at Ana below.

Ana raises an eyebrow at her, before remembering that the effect is likely rather different now that she only has one good eye, and one full eyebrow—but Angela seems to understand.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Angela tells her, as if Ana had not heard her whisper the same over their call a few weeks prior, as if she had not murmured it in her native tongue before, as if Ana did not know how she felt.

“Did you not mean it?” Ana asks her, and Angela only looks more uncomfortable at the question.

“No,” says she, “Or, yes, or—or no, I did mean it?”  A pause. “I meant it, I just—didn’t mean to say it like that, or just now, or when we were—”

“Angela,” Ana cuts her off, propping herself up on her elbows, “Calm down.  It’s fine.”

“Is it?” Angela asks her, and Ana hesitates, then.

Hesitation is a fatal mistake; she learned that when she faced Widowmaker for the first time.  In the moment Ana takes to consider the question, Angela crumbles before her.

“I’m sorry,” says she, “I can go.”

“Don’t,” Ana tells her, and Angela, already halfway off of the bed, freezes, “I’m not angry—I just need time to think about this.”

(A lie, Ana has had plenty of time, has thought about this often in the months since her return, about what she would say when this moment comes—and still, she has not decided.  Time is not what she needs, but she could not say what it is that might be of more help to her.)

Angela does not say anything, but she does not move further away, either, stays awkwardly half on and half off of the bed.

“Sit down,” she says, and Angela does, but only at the very edge of the bed, carefully avoiding touching Ana, “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

“If you’re sure,” Angela is still cautious, still guarded.

“I am,” Ana says, and considers, for a moment, lying and saying that everything is fine, that she was just surprised, and telling Angela to come lie with her—but she knows it would do them no good.  Instead, she forces herself to be honest, “I’m not, however, sure about my feelings.  I don’t know,” she pauses again, thinks about how to phrase this, settles on, “I don’t know when I’ll be able to say the same, but you feeling that way isn’t a bad thing, Angela.”

(Very carefully, she avoids saying the word love entirely, not wanting to give any false hope.)

“You’re certain?” Angela asks her, “It doesn’t make you uncomfortable

“It didn’t in the moment,” Ana decides to be honest as possible, “Which was, of course, satisfying as ever,” she winks as she says that, as best as she can, and hopes that a bit of levity will ease the tension.

It does, because Angela gives a little laugh, half nervous but half amused, and relaxes her posture somewhat, saying, “Yes, well, I obviously enjoyed myself a little too much.”

“Hmm,” Ana gestures her over, “Better than not enough. Now come lie down, we’re too old to be so active after sex.”  That is mostly said in jest, given the lifestyle they lead, but Ana is tired, if not from physical exertion.

“Alright,” Angela acquiesces, and she is perhaps more hesitant than usual when curling herself around Ana, but she does so—and Ana remembers, suddenly, that neither of them had time to wipe their hands off before this conversation began, and she fights the urge to remark upon it when Angela’s decidedly sticky fingers come to rest on her hip.  A bit of discomfort is worth it, to be able to fall asleep in her lover’s arms, to know that despite all her shortcomings, and all that has happened in her life, she is cared for—even loved.

She fears, still, what it would mean to love Angela, fears that they might grow to hate one another, or that she might not be able to cope with being tied down, that their love would die, and she would be worse off for having allowed herself to be vulnerable, in the name of something that could not last.

(Hesitation is a fatal mistake; she learned that when Widowmaker shot her—but she lived nonetheless, and learned, then, that some things are too stubborn to kill.)

A single word rouses Ana from her sleep—or, rather, she is not woken by the word itself, but by the buzzing of her comm unit, where it sits on the dresser near her bed.  Because of the time, and because it is not the emergency tone, she knows immediately who and what is the message is: Angela, begging again.  

At first, she debates ignoring it; they had an agreement, after all, a challenge, a wager.  If Angela wants to back out of their agreement, she can at least have the decency to wait until an hour at which Ana would normally be awake.

But then her comm unit buzzes again, twice in quick succession, and Ana forces herself to open her eye and sit up, thinking for a moment that there might, actually, be something important going on.

There is not.

[03:17, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: Please…

[03:22, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: Ana, I’m dying.

[03:23, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: Or I would be, if this could kill.

Ana rolls her one good eye, and takes a deep breath to compose herself before responding, fighting back her annoyance.

[03:25, 05/06/2076] a_amari: you’re fine.  and too dramatic

[03:25, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: And you’re heartless.

[03:25, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: I’m suffering.

[03:26, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: Have you no mercy?

[03:27, 05/06/2077] a_amari: that’s your job.  now go to sleep

[03:27, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: I was asleep.

A pause, then, as if Angela is considering something, and for a moment Ana contemplates silencing her comm unit and going back to bed, but her lover messages again just as she is about to shut the unit off.

[03:29, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: I dreamt of you, of the time they sent us both to Cape Town.  There was a terribly boring award ceremony, and you had talked me into wearing that vibrator—do you remember?  I was so desperate for you to touch me, by the time we got back to the suite, and I made you take me right there against the door, and we tore my dress.

[03:30, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: I dreamt of that, and when I woke up, I couldn’t even do anything about it.

[03:30, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: You’re killing me.

[03:31, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: This is cruel.

Ana wants to turn her down flatly—to remind Angela that she lost their bet, and this is the price she agreed to pay—but Angela knows her too well, by now, knows exactly what to say to her in order to pique her attention.  Now she, too, is aroused, remembering well the night to which Angela is alluding, how her lover had passed off her flushed face as the effect of too much champagne, had tried to hide her squirming by accepting far more dances than she might usually, how she had tried multiple times to coax Ana with her into the bathroom, onto a balcony, into a tucked away corner, saying they could make it quick, that at this point she would not last terribly long, if only Ana would please let her come.

Tonight, the situation is not so different—but they have an agreement.

[03:32, 05/06/2077] a_amari: we had a bet, angela.  you lost

[03:32, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: I know.

[03:32, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: But I can’t do this for three more days.

[03:33, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: Ana, please…

For a woman so very levelheaded when she needs to be, in the operating room and on the battlefield, and so resolute when it comes to her morals, Angela can be so very needy in the bedroom, weak-willed and begging.

(If Ana said she did not enjoy that, it would be a lie.  One of the things that first endeared Angela to her was how very stubborn she can be, professionally, how self-assured and determined; to see that break down, like this, for her—it is intoxicating. Were it to change Angela’s behavior towards her outside of their bedroom, she would not feel the same, for she cares for, perhaps loves, Angela for the woman she is already, but here? Here, it suits her perfectly.)

Although she has already made up her mind, Ana’s reply is thus:

[03:34, 05/06/2077] a_amari: you’ve already made it two weeks, angela. what’s a few more days?

[03:34, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: Torture.

[03:34, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: I can’t, Ana.

[03:34, 05/06/2077] a_ziegler: Please.

Ana smiles to herself, then.  The response being precisely what she expected.

[03:35, 05/06/2077] a_amari: call me.  you can try to convince me otherwise

There is hardly time to set her communicator down before Athena informs her of an incoming call.

“Two and a half weeks,” says she, in lieu of a greeting.  “That was our agreement.  How many days has it been?”

“Fourteen,” Angela answers, and then without pausing at all, begins, “But Ana I—”

“I’m not done,” Ana tells her, “We agreed that if you couldn’t learn to control yourself while I was there, then you would have to wait until I got back to come, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” this time, Angela sounds much more chastened.

“What percentage of the time frame have you made it through?”

“Including hours?” Angela asks the question in earnest, and impressed as Ana is by the thought that Angela could do the math in her head quickly whilst so obviously preoccupied, she also really, truly does not care that much.

“Just days, Angela.”

“82.4%” Angela answers without hesitation.

“82.4%?  Would you consider that acceptable performance in any other area of your life?”

(The answer, as they both already know, is no. Furthermore, neither would Ana accept such poor performance from anyone.  They are, both of them, exacting women, who hold themselves and others to high standards, which is precisely what makes this so fun.  She never expected Angela to last even this long, and there is something about the two of them failing—Angela failing to meet the goal set for her, and Ana failing to hold her to it—which is freeing.  When they are together, failure is acceptable, if only under these circumstances, is not shameful or dangerous or any number of other, similar terrible things.  Instead, it can be fun for the both of them.)

“No,” Angela answers, just like Ana expected her to. “But Ana—”

“But what?” she asks, “What could possibly be so important that you think that, suddenly, 82.4% is acceptable?”

“Well,” Angela begins, “You know I dreamt…” and Ana, of course, does know what Angela is going to say, and knows also that she will enjoy hearing it, “I dreamt,” Angela starts again, after a pause, “About that night in Cape Town, about how you teased me for so long—how I was so on edge. When I was accepting that award, and I saw you off to the side, and you knew I’d seen you, and turned the vibration up, it was so hard to keep my composure.  So, so hard not to give myself away in front of everyone, and then when you kept changing the settings when I was talking to the ambassador, I nearly did.  It was almost too much, and I would have let you have me in front of everyone, if that was what you wanted, by the time the night ended—and in my dream, you did.”

“Did I now?” As she asks, she moves one hand under the waistband of her sleep pants—not touching herself, not quite yet, but running softly over the sensitive skin just above where her pubic hair begins—and delights in the knowledge that Angela, whose voice is far breathier and less steady than her own, cannot do the same.

“You were about to,” Angela says, “You had propped me on the piano and pulled my dress up—it tore, again—and your hand was almost at my clit when I woke up.”

Ana hums and then decides to tell her, “I’m almost touching my own clit right now.  Should I?”

Rustling of sheets from the other end, accompanied by a frustrated whine from Angela, “That’s cruel, Ana, please.”

“Perhaps I can wait, it hasn’t been two weeks for me, after all,” she does allow her hand to dip slightly lower, playing with her folds, running her finger lightly over them and always stopping just short of her clit.

A sound almost like a sob from Angela, and then, “Please, Ana, I’ll be good next time, I promise.  Please just tell me where the key is.  I can’t—I was so close Ana, and then I woke up, and I went to touch myself and I couldn’t.  Please.”

“Will you be good?” Ana asks, and her voice is still steady, but after hearing that from Angela she is unable to resist touching herself in earnest, rubbing a finger on either side of her clit for a moment, just to relieve some of the pressure.  “Making promises you couldn’t keep is what got you into this situation, you know.”

(It might be stretching things, just a bit, to claim that Angela made a promise, but they agreed, the two of them, that Angela would not come too much sooner than her, and Angela had said she would be good, would be able to hold off long enough for Ana to come, and that Ana did not have to go easy on her.  Suffice to say that Ana did not go easy, and that Angela had overestimated herself, and a promise having been made, they found themselves in need of a punishment—and to Ana’s mind, a chastity device seemed fitting, just for a short while, until the trip she is now on came to an end.  Of course, she never actually expected Angela to last this long, expected her to back down before Ana ever left, or in the day or two afterward.  Her lover’s stubbornness is greater than she anticipated.)

“I—” Angela starts, then stops, “How close are you? I don’t know if I can—”

“Not terribly,” Ana admits, and the long whine Angela releases in response to that has her rethinking her answer.  If Angela keeps making noises like that, then, “But I suppose I can let you off the hook. Just this once.  The key is taped to the back of the headboard.”

“Thank you,” says Angela, barely audible over the sound of the mattress as she scrambles to grab the key and free herself from the hardlight device, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Just,” Ana’s breath hitches a bit as she says it, “Just keep talking.”

“Shit,” Angela hisses, “I’ll try it’s just—it’s so much.  I don’t know how long I’m going to—”

“I know,” she says soothingly, or as near to it as she can, worked up as she herself is, “I know but just try to last a little longer.”

(She might sound a little more convincing if she were not herself so aroused at this point, but Angela’s begging, her little whimpers and gasps of pleasure, hearing how on edge she is and how quickly—Ana is wet enough, now, that she does not have to reach for the lubricant she has by her bedside, need only slip the tip of wo fingers inside of herself for a moment to gather all the wetness she needs to continue rubbing circles on her clit. So Angela will have to make do with shaky reassurances, for the time being.)

From Angela, no answer is forthcoming, but Ana can picture, from what she hears, just what is happening on the other end of the line.  Her lover is nude, of course—that is how Angela always sleeps, unless she is not afforded the privacy to do so—and will have kicked her comforter down to her ankles by now.  From the rustling she noticed earlier, Ana knows that Angela must have once again put sheets on her bed, likely in anticipation of her own return, and she will have her right fist wrapped in them, or around the headboard; she always grabs at something when she is close to coming, and does not let go.  

Ana does her best to mirror the position that Angela is in, trying to match her as best she can, screwing her own eyes shut when she hears the groan that means Angela has done the same, burying her face in her pillow as she often does.

If she were there, Ana would coax her, tell her Look at me, but she is not, and it is not so bad to picture, anyway, the long column of Angela’s throat exposed to her.  Even though she knows it is not currently the case, she pictures Angela’s throat marked, her own lipstick smeared across it and down towards her breasts.  By this point, of course, Angela will be flushed down to them—and Ana knows that although her own skin does not betray her arousal so easily, she, too, is flushed now.

“Please,” Angela says again over the line, “Please, I’m so close, I need to—” Her words are closer to a sob at this point, and a choked noise cuts her off.

Ana can feel the tension growing in herself, back beginning to arch and toes to curl, and she decides to go easy on Angela, knowing that Angela’s own orgasm will likely help her to finish herself off, “It’s alright,” says she, “Go ahead,” and normally she might say something more, but her own breathing is labored, too.

There is a moment of near silence from Angela’s end, and Ana can hear for the first time the telltale slick noises of Angela’s fingers frantically rubbing herself, before it is suddenly covered by the sound of the mattress groaning as Angela’s hips jerk, and her own name repeated over and over, a litany, “Ana, Ana, thank you, thank you, Ana.”

The sound of Angela’s orgasm itself is not enough to tip Ana over the edge, and she hovers there for a moment, feeling her tensed muscles begin to shake as she hovers there, and then, at the same time as she presses down particularly hard against herself, she hears a little contented hum from Angela, the same sleepy one she often makes when an orgasm brings her very close to drifting off, and the quietest “I do so love you,” from the other end of the line, likely not meant to be heard.

Fortunately, Ana is a quiet woman—or, rather, she is during sex—for she would never admit to Angela that such a thing was what tipped her over the edge, is still not entirely certain how to address the fact that the two of them have now danced around admitting, after so many years, to loving one another.

(Even a recently as a year ago, mere months before her return, she did not think of herself as being worthy of being loved by anyone, or capable of reciprocating such feelings.  It is difficult to discuss such a drastic change within oneself, difficult to find the vocabulary for that.)

In the moment, she does not worry about it, is too busy being consumed by the sensation, is only even dimly aware of Angela saying something to her on the other end of the line.

When she is done, Angela is still talking—this time about her plans for when Ana comes back, what she wants to do to Ana, in the privacy of her bedroom.

Ana only laughs in response, “You think you’ll be getting off that easily?”

“I got off very easily just now,” Angela purrs.

“Enjoy yourself for the next three days,” Ana tells her, smug as she can be whilst still slightly winded, “You still owe me seventeen.”

On the other end of the line, Angela begins to protest, but Ana has allowed herself to be kept from sleep for far too long already, and after her orgasm is feeling even more tired than before.  “Goodnight, Angela,” she says, and hangs up before her lover can say anything further.

Aging was something that snuck up on Ana—a grey hair here, an age spot there, change so gradual that she did not notice it in herself, never taking the time to observe any one change in particular until, one day, she realized that she had come to look entirely different—and this does not bother her, particularly.  If she cared about any of it, she would have taken more note as it were happening, but it is one thing to recognize signs of aging in oneself, and quite another to see them in one’s lover, particularly when said lover is notably younger than oneself.

When Ana began to notice wrinkles around her own eyes, it did not bother her at all—if anything, she was pleasantly surprised to realize that, despite the Omnic Crisis, and all that followed, she had lived long enough to have any—but it does bother her, shortly upon being reunited, when she sees those same lines around Angela’s eyes.  Were anyone to ask her why, she could not say, because she does not find them unattractive, nor is it particularly surprising that Angela might have a laugh line or two at her age, but there is a nagging worry there, something she cannot quite put a name to which bothers her nonetheless.

That same feeling returns two weeks later, when, while Angela is looking for clothing for some event or another, Ana notices that one of her favorite dresses, memorable if only for how its bright color stands in contrast to the rest of her wardrobe, is conspicuously absent.  In response to Ana’s inquiring as to where it went, Angela just laughs, shrugging off the question by saying that in the past three years or so she went up a size or two, and that she does not mind it much, given her age, thinks it is only to be expected.  There is little reason to press the issue, particularly given that Ana quite likes Angela’s current weight, and does not want to give the impression that she feels otherwise, but still there is that something about the statement.

Another three weeks go by and Angela is frowning into the mirror at herself, fingers pushing her bangs out of the way so she can more carefully examine the roots of her hair.  While Ana cannot see precisely what her lover is doing, from her place outside the doorway of the bathroom, she has a fairly good idea.

“Staring won’t make the greys go away,” she says, and watches in some amusement as Angela drops her hands quickly, almost guiltily, turning at once to face her.  That amusement fades quickly when she sees the expression on Angela’s face, far from happy.

“Are they that obvious?” she sounds almost resigned as she says it, crossing an arm over herself in a way that Ana knows, by now, means she is nervous as well, “I hoped that maybe they wouldn’t be so obvious, in the blonde, but—”

“They’re not,” Ana reassures her, before she can continue the thought, “I wouldn’t have even brought it up if you didn’t seem so worried about it.”

“Ah,” says Angela, but it doesn’t seem to calm her any, for she bites her lip and turns her gaze away, towards the shower in the corner.  There is a considerable pause before she speaks again—they have known each other long enough, by now, that Ana knows when to push, and when to wait—but speak she does, “I don’t like it,” says she, “Feeling like I’m getting old.  Before you came back I was the oldest woman here, you know.”

Before speaking Ana shifts her weight, rests against the frame of the door, making sure that there is enough room that if Angela wanted to, she could push past, will not feel trapped during the ensuing conversation.  If her lover were to ask, that is her reasoning—not that she needed time to gather her thoughts, to choose carefully what to say next, although that is the truth.  It would be a lie, she knows, to say that Angela is not getting older, because certainly she is nearing middle age, and it would do neither of them any good to pretend otherwise, but that Angela is older than she once was does not make her old, particularly not in Ana’s eyes.  It clicks, then, what has been bothering her: for all that Angela is clearly older, she is still far younger than Ana herself; if Angela is old, what does that make Ana?

“You’re still younger than I was when we met,” says she, and it is true: eighteen years later, and Angela is still five years from the age Ana was then, even though just a few months under half of her life—and less than a third of Ana’s—has passed.

That does not seem to comfort Angela in the slightest, as she is still staring resolutely in the direction of the shower curtain when she speaks next.  “That doesn’t make me young,” she argues, and she is not wrong, necessarily, but certainly she cannot seem old to Ana, who only recently began to think of herself as being old.

“No,” agrees Ana, “It certainly doesn’t.”  Another pause between them, before Ana asks, carefully, “Is that such a bad thing, though?”

The hand Angela does not have pulled across herself now grips the sink so hard her already pale knuckles turn white, “You tell me.”

“I’m sure I can’t know what you mean,” Ana tells her, and tries not to sound too sharp, even if the comment immediately puts her on the defensive.  Outside of the subject of work, of their differing interpretation of what is right and what is wrong, the two of them rarely argue, but on the rare occasion that they do, neither is inclined to mince words.

“What are we doing here, Ana?  Sneaking around, never talking about our relationship in front of anyone, keeping everything a secret the way we always have,” she turns, suddenly, to look Ana in the eye, gaze sharp, “It made sense then—with how young I was, and you being so much older—but now?  I’m not young anymore, Ana.  Why are we still hiding, unless we don’t know what else to be?”

“Angela,” she begins more sharply than she wants to, pauses and takes a breath before continuing, “There was a rather stringent anti-fraternization policy then, if you’ve forgotten, and you haven’t made any mention of our relationship since my return, either.  I didn’t know it bothered you.”

Angela opens her mouth as if to object, but Ana is not done, has more to say about the matter, “And your age didn’t have anything to do with my attraction to you—if anything, I was worried I was too old for you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Angela says, and if she were not so obviously angry it might sound like a plea, “You’ve been strangely quiet every time I’ve mentioned my age since you got back.  Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”  In her anger, she had straightened up, moved forwards, but now she shrinks into herself again, leans back against the sink when Ana, too surprised by the turn of conversation to argue, does not respond quickly enough, “You don’t have to stay, if you don’t find me attractive anymore.”  When she says this, her eyes flick over Ana’s shoulder in the direction of the door.

“I’m not lying,” Ana says, trying not to be annoyed by the accusation, or at least not to show annoyance.  “It’s just… become harder to ignore, recently, how very much older than you I am, and always have been.  If either of us is too old for the other, it isn’t you.”

Angela laughs, then, relaxing at last, and grins at Ana when she says, “I daresay that’s part of your appeal.”

Hearing that should not surprise Ana, really, not with how eager to please Angela has always been, the way she flushes when Ana calls her a good girl, the age of the various celebrities Angela has mentioned finding attractive before, but it does surprise Ana, nonetheless—perhaps because she always avoided thinking about how young Angela was, preferring to focus, instead, on all the ways in which they were equals.

She really does not know what to make of this.

(Whatever allusions Angela might have made in the past

“That’s… interesting,” is what she settles on, after a considerable pause.

“Does it bother you?” Angela asks her, and Ana is surprised to find that it does not.

“No,” says she, without hesitation, but then, “It’s probably something we should discuss, though.”

“Probably,” Angela agrees easily, and then, stepping forwards to close the gap between them, “Later, though.  For now,” she moves a hand upwards, cupping Ana’s jaw and leaning down just slightly so that they are level with one another, “I can show you just how much I appreciate your current age.”

Who is Ana to say no?

In the years prior to their separation, Angela was never interested in taking control, always content to allow Ana to initiate sex and decide the pace; in the ensuing years she has grown bolder, although she has never said why, and Ana has never asked.  Seven years ago, Ana would not have wanted this, to be lead backwards and then pushed down onto the bed, for she had so little control of the rapidly unravelling Overwatch that she felt she needed to take it where she could—but now, older still, and maybe even wiser, if she is lucky, it does not seem like such a bad thing to let Angela take control for a short while.

(There is also the fact that it is easier, these days, for her to not be the only active partner.  She can only kneel or thrust or do whatever else for so long before she grows sore, and needs to change positions, and Angela stepping up and being less passive is certainly beneficial for the both of them, in that regard.)

So she allows Angela to divest her of her clothing, even if she is moving not nearly so quickly as Ana knows she could, nimble surgeon’s fingers pretending to fumble with the fly of Ana’s trousers, and toying with the hem of her shirt.  Ana wants to complain, to urge Angela to just hurry up, to joke that she is not getting any younger, anything if it would make Angela move faster—but she does not know, yet, how far she can push when Angela takes charge, and rather wants to see how their evening will turn out.

Eventually, it seems Angela has had enough with her teasing, and finishes pulling Ana’s clothes from her, kneeling above her on the bed, a knee just outside either hip.  Ana shivers, from the cold and the scrutiny both.  It is one thing to know that she has aged, and to accept it, but quite another to have just discussed it, and to find oneself wholly bare before another person.  When Angela looks at her she will see scars she does not know the origin of, for they have not discussed them since Ana’s return, including a rather grotesque one along her side, a jagged, light depression against the surrounding tissue, will see breasts that never returned to their original firmness after breastfeeding, and have only grown saggier with age, will see an abdomen which was once well muscled and that now, while still strong, does not look so.

(Angela, too, has changed, has more moles in more places than she ever did when she and Ana were first together, and from this angle her weight gain is more visible—even if it is difficult to know which changes in her silhouette are attributable to HRT and which are aging—but Ana is not looking at those things, is watching Angela’s expression as her own body is scrutinized.)

“Beautiful,” she breathes, before bending down to kiss Ana’s neck, one hand moving to cup a breast, and when she says it like that, Ana can believe it.  She lingers, with each kiss, moving slowly downwards towards Ana’s breasts, murmuring gentle praises between each kiss, stunning, gorgeous, strong, and it may have been decades since last Ana last let sweet words sweep her off her feet, but the increase in her heartrate is not purely due to arousal.

Perfect, Angela tells her before wrapping her mouth around a nipple.  Normally, she would only tease at it, licking it and flicking at it with her tongue, but perhaps emboldened by their earlier conversation, and her admission, this time she sucks at it in earnest, and Ana threads one hand in her hair to encourage her to continue, the other reaching down between the both of them so that she can touch herself.

These days, it takes time for her to be wet enough for a partner to comfortably touch her, and any embarrassment she might once have felt when tending to her own needs during sex has long since faded—and it certainly does not hurt that she knows Angela finds it arousing, a fact which shows as Angela redoubles her efforts at Ana’s breasts.

For several minutes, they are in a holding pattern, nothing escalating between them, and pleasant as it is, Ana finds her patience is beginning to dwindle when suddenly the timing of a particularly hard suck from Angela and her own thumb pressing against her clit coincide, and her hips roll involuntarily, breath hitching in response.

That, finally, is enough to spur Angela into action again, and after a brief—but necessary—pause to fumble around in her bedside drawer in search of lube, continues moving down Ana’s body, lovely whispered into the large pockmark left by shrapnel just below her ribcage, wonderful as Angela’s lips find her cesarean scar, and mine as she moves her hand out of the way and Angela finally, finally reaches her labia.

When she looks down to meet Angela’s eyes, one leg moving to hook over her lover’s shoulder, she does so over the same body which survived the Omnic Crisis, which bore a child, which once was unmarked, unmarred, but thoroughly untested.  Now, despite the shifting geography of her form, new marks and rolls appearing over time, she knows her body better than she did when she was younger, is far more at peace with who she is.  It may be a surprise to look down and see Angela’s face amongst white pubic hair, but her heartbeat still picks up when Angela traces around her clit in little circles, and she still feels that familiar pull of arousal when she feels Angela’s free hand begins to creep up the inside of her thigh.

(There are, of course, some small concessions made for age—that Angela is careful not to move her hips beyond what is now their maximum comfortable flexibility being the most prominent adjustment.  And while once Angela might have dedicated a good deal of time to teasing, she does not do so any longer—it takes Ana longer, now, to come, even with greater stimulation, although those single orgasms are stronger than the multiple ones she might have enjoyed when younger—concentrating immediately on Ana’s clit.)

Years of practice have ensured that Angela knows well what it is that Ana likes, and it is not terribly long before she feels herself beginning to draw close to an orgasm, hips moving in time against her lover’s mouth.  If she were the type to beg, she might say more, or please, or something to that effect, but she has never been the type to ask permission for anything, and particularly not permission to come, when she has always worked at least as hard as her lovers to ensure that she orgasms.

Instead she presses insistently at the back of Angela’s head with one hand, pulling at her hair in the way her lover enjoys, brings her free hand up to her breasts, tenses her thighs in anticipation, holds her breath and—

—Does not come.

A deep breath in, and out, and she tries again to let go, good eye closing this time as she focuses inwards, tries only to feel, not the sweat on her skin or the cold on her nipples—still damp—but the tension of her approaching orgasm, the pressure of Angela’s mouth on her, the warmth and wetness and pleasure.

She is right there, and she thinks yes, please yes, I need—

—Yet, still, she does not come.

After some thirty seconds, she has to breathe properly again, and she untenses her thighs for a moment as she resists the urge to huff in annoyance; normally, this would be enough, and she still feels like she is there, like she could come at any moment, but for all that she tries the orgasm which is so close eludes her.

Angela must notice something, her frustration or the movement or the way her grip on her lover’s hair tightened and then relaxed because she looks up, for a moment, asking, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Ana is quick to reply, and then, embarrassed, but firm enough that it is a request and absolutely not a question, “I just need a bit more, sometimes, now that I’m older, so…”

“Ah,” Angela says, and then, “I do have a vibrator, if you’d like me to get it out?”

“No,” Ana says perhaps a bit too quickly.  From personal experience, she knows that she is very particular about the settings she likes, and doubts that taking the time to find the right configuration on Angela’s vibrator is worthwhile.  “You don’t actually have to do anything differently, it just might take a bit longer than usual.”

(In truth, the added sensation of something inside her might speed things up quite a bit, but even after transitioning, Angela is not terribly fond of penetrating anyone with anything, and Ana does not want to make her feel as if she needs to do anything—they can discuss it another time, when there is less pressure.)

When Angela begins again, she is more forceful in her movements, focusing more on Ana’s clit, and it is nearly at the point of being too much, of Ana wanting to ask her to slow down or ease up—but she is so, so close.  It is all she can do to stay put, to not pull away from the intensity of the sensation, because she feels again that she is right at the edge, and she does not want to lose the orgasm by twitching away at the wrong moment.

A minute passes, another.  Ana tosses her head and fights the urge to whimper, to beg.

Another minute, and Angela rubs soothing circles on her thigh, nuzzles closer into Ana, reaches her other hand to try and hold Ana’s, the way she likes to when she comes—and nothing about the sensation of it is terribly different, but suddenly Ana is there, tipping over the edge and trying not to buck her hips too hard into Angela’s face.

The unexpectedness of the orgasm makes it feel almost torn from her, and she is surprised by the intensity of it—though perhaps she should not be, given how long she teetered at the edge.  Angela helps her to ride it out, and when she is finished moves up the bed to lie next to her, propping her head up on one elbow and idly stroking the side of her face with the other hand.

After a moment to catch her breath, she turns so she can better look at Angela, who is at her blind side, “Your turn?” she asks, not certain if Angela—still fully clothed—will want to do anything, but more than willing should she prove amenable to the idea.

“Once you’re one recuperating, sure.”

“Recuperating?” Ana demands, and then, teasingly, “Just how old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Angela says with a smirk, “I seem to recall someone saying just earlier today how you were much too old for an only slightly-old person such as myself.  And you do seem rather out of breath.”

Ana clicks her tongue, and rolls on top of Angela without any warning, pinning her to the mattress, “I’ll show you out of breath,” says she, using one hand to move a now compliant Angela’s hands above her head.  She leans in as if to kiss her lover, waiting until Angela’s eyes have drifted shut, face pointing upwards, to release her grip, instead bringing both hands suddenly down to Angela’s sides to tickle her.

The sensation is no doubt dulled by the fact that Angela is still wearing one of her many thick sweaters, but she shrieks nonetheless at the sudden sensation, unable to squirm away, pinned as she is.

Returning to Overwatch goes much how Ana expected it would; Reinhardt is tearful, Lena is overjoyed, and Fareeha is a knot of emotions, all felt and expressed at once.  

(Who could blame her?  Certainly not Ana.)

For the most part, being once again at Watchpoint: Gibraltar is—not routine, because there are some things, like dying, and explosions, after which nothing can be routine again, but they are—familiar, in the same way returning to one’s childhood home seems familiar.  Despite a number of changes, mostly to Ana herself, and to the other people gathered, there is a sameness to rejoining Overwatch.  Some things, it seems, can never change (even when she has wanted them to).

This is not, of course, to say that everything is as she left it; yes, she takes the same quarters she once occupied, and yes, owing in part to Fareeha’s presence on base, her favorite tea can still be found in the kitchen, but some people are notably absent.

Gabriel, for one, and for obvious reasons.

Jack, whom she last saw in pursuit of the former.

Angela, too, is absent.  On base, or so Winston assures Ana when she asks, but—elsewhere.  Wherever it is that Ana is not.

That Angela has made herself scarce should not come as a surprise to Ana; for all that they were lovers, once, it was purely in the euphemistic, physical sense, and if there was any deeper affection there, they never spoke of it. Furthermore, for all that Angela can be downright showy in many ways, there are parts of herself she likes to hide, such as anger.

To the public, and to those who do not know her well, Angela is a bright, shining thing, is kind and caring and calm, and certainly, she has the capacity to be all of those things, but that is not all she is.  Sometimes, Ana knows, that tranquil smile masks a slowly building anger, one Angela would not dare show the public, for fear of losing face, fear of how they would think of her, fear that if she is not likeable, then she will be alone.  In private, Ana has seen her shake with anger, be reduced to tears as she tries so hard to repress the feeling, to modulate her emotions and reach what she considers an acceptable level of anger, of fear, of sadness.  

(It was beneficial to both of them, then, their arrangement—Ana was someone to whom Angela could express those feelings, before whom she could be vulnerable, and in turn Angela was someone whom, even if only for the duration of a given scene, Ana had some control over, even as Jack and Gabriel’s disputes grew beyond her ability to mediate—and Ana wonders what Angela has done, in the meantime.  Reverted to her old unhealthy mechanisms of coping, perhaps, or found someone else?  The former is more likely, but Ana hopes for the unlikeliest scenario of all: that Angela has found some equilibrium, even if Ana herself never could.)

Given what Ana knows of Angela, she expects one of two outcomes when she arrives at the door to her quarters: first, that Angela will put up the same calm, distant mask she does before others, when feeling something unpleasant, and politely greet Ana before finding some excuse to dismiss her, or second, that Angela will be furious, and expect Ana to step right in and take control, stealing her anger from her as happened so many times before.

(Third, of course, is the option—slim—that Angela will simply be angry, and that will be that, but Ana has a harder time picturing this; would Angela yell?  Would she hiss?  Would she say nothing at all?  In the most heated of meetings, years ago, Angela’s voice would grow hard and her words would be cold and precise, then later she would shake and sob while Ana tied buried three fingers in her.  Such an outcome seems unlikely today, for many reasons.)

Whatever Ana might have expected, it is not this: Angela pulling her into a hug, as soon as the door is closed, arms trembling around her not with anger but with some other, unnameable emotion.

(This is not the first time Ana considers that, perhaps, they lied to themselves when they laid the boundaries of their arrangement, but this time, the thought is not so easily dismissed.)

Rather than say anything, at first, Ana simply pulls Angela in closer, allows herself to hold someone for the first time in years, and to be held in turn.   When she breathes in, she expects Angela will still smell the same, and it will be almost as if time never passed, save for the fact that this time, it is Angela who holds her.

Of course, things are not the same, and Angela smells different—is different. It is a little thing, a change in perfume, but it is enough to startle Ana from the moment of fantasy she has indulged in, pretending as if Angela were her lover in all senses of the word, and this some touching reunion.

(Angela never loved her, and she never loved Angela, so both of them said—it ought, still, to hold true.)

“Aren’t you angry?”  she asks, stepping back, tilting her head up just slightly to meet Angela in the eye.

You should be, is the implication, and she knows Angela hears it in her tone, wonders if it will be taken as she might have meant it once, a judgement, a condemnation of the way Angela deals with feelings, or if it will be heard, instead, as it is intended now: an acknowledgement that Angela would have the right to be angry, after Ana left as she did.

(Ana is not the woman she was when she left; it is easier, now, to admit her own culpability.)

“Of course,” says Angela, brow furrowing, “But I’m happy too and—can’t we have just this?”

Just once?

Ana is not certain.  What would it do to them, to allow such a change?  Would they truly be able to go back to being what they were afterwards? She does not think so.

But, then, perhaps they could not do so already.  Perhaps the past is already lost to them—they have changed, both of them, have they not?

What, then, is there to lose?

So she kisses Angela, and it is different, already, from the way things were, gentler, sweeter.  Ana does not quite know what to make of the change, is not sure she is deserving of such tenderness—but she will take what she is offered, for she has always been good at taking things.

(Sometimes, she has worried that taking is the only thing she is good at, any longer, taking technology, taking leave, taking lives.  She worries that she takes too much and gives too little.)

When Angela half-leads half-pulls her to the bed, Ana finds herself giving in.

Just this once.

It is strange, to let herself be led by Angela, strange to see how Angela has matured—not that she was immature, before, but she is older now, certainly, crow’s feet beginning at the corners of her eyes, and weight that was not there before pads her hips and thighs—strange to think that the woman before her now, thirty-seven years old, is not young, in any sense of the word, but is younger still than Ana was when the two of them met.

When they break apart for a moment, Angela catches her stare, but what she thinks of it, Ana does not know, for she says nothing, and they are not so close, now, that Ana can anticipate her thoughts.  Years apart have taken that from them.

(But perhaps things, once lost, can been regained—has she not returned?)

This time, unlike years past, they do not undress one another—probably, Ana thinks, this is for the best, she doubts Angela would know where to find the pins in her hijab, does not want the fabric carelessly damaged.  In time, they can relearn this step, she can teach Angela where the pins are and how to fold the fabric.  They may not have a feel for one another just yet, but things can be (re)learned, if need be.

When Ana has finished divesting herself of her clothing, she turns, and takes the opportunity to truly look at her lover, for the first time in years.  What she intends to be a thorough and drawn out cataloguing of changes is cut quite short when Angela turns around and Ana realizes that what she had previously assumed to be the same silicone inserts of years previous are now organic breasts, flesh and blood and fat, are part of Angela’s body, and not only adhesives.  It catches her quite off guard—in the half a dozen years they were lovers, Angela only spoke of any sort of medical transition as a distant, nebulous thing, to happen, perhaps, once her life had settled down.

(Of course, her life never did settle down.  Things grew worse and more turbulent steadily and steadily until finally nothing else could go wrong and Overwatch imploded and exploded both.)

She must stare a moment too long—and truthfully, she does not mean to, does not mean to stare at all, only wonders what changed and how she could have missed it—because then Angela is crossing her arms over her chest in a way that could almost be shy, were it not for the fact that Ana cannot reconcile shyness with the woman she once knew.

“I should have mentioned…” Angela says, teeth sinking into her lower lip at the end of the statement.  It is not an apology—nor should it be—or an expression of shame or embarrassment; she is simply considering.  “Well, next time.”  

Perhaps, Ana thinks, this is new to her also.  

(Ana wants to ask if Angela is happier now, but does not know if such a question would be appropriate, or quantifiable.  In any case, they were never close enough to want to ask such things before, and simultaneously too close to need to ask them.)

“You look beautiful,” Ana says, in lieu of something more meaningful, unable and unwilling both to delve deeper, to threaten whatever temporary peace they have found themselves in, “You always do.”  

“They’re smaller than I had hoped,” Angela confesses, and moves her hand to cup one breast, as if weighing it.  

(This phrasing puts Ana back in the territory of the familiar—Angela has always referred to parts of her body as if they were some foreign object, something wholly separate, and not a part of herself.  In the past, Ana could not imagine what it must be like to conceive of oneself in a way that is so fragmented, to think of the body and the mind as two separate pieces of something greater, but now, having been both herself and the Shrike, she thinks knows.)

"But," Angela adds, a coy smile playing at the corner of her lips, "Much more sensitive.”  

"Really now?”  Ana asks her. "I suppose I'll have to determine the truth of that myself, hmm?"

"Well," says Angela, huffing a little laugh.  "That is what you came for, yes?"

It is not, in fact, what Ana came for—but, then, she also does not know what precisely she was thinking, what she expected from coming here, and this is much better, in any case, that any outcome she imagined, and so she does not contest the assertion when Angela pulls her in for a kiss, follows her one-time lover onto the bed without so much as a second thought.

(That is not to say she will not second guess this, later, but for now, it feels right.)

While Angela leading her might be a change from the usual order of things, they quickly cross into the territory of the familiar once they are on the bed itself, and Ana finds herself on top of Angela, lips returning to their favorite spot on Angela's neck.  Time has not changed everything, and the little sigh her attention elicits is the same as it was before.

Similar, too, is the feeling of Angela's hands on her body, clinging to her as surely as they ever did, one fisted in her hair and one moving down to grab her ass, pulling her in as close as is possible.

There is difference, however, when she moves to play with Angela's breasts—it seems the assessment of much more sensitive was not an exaggeration.  Certainly, Ana is not complaining; Angela always did make such pretty noises, and some part of her did worry about this, not that she would have forgotten what it is that Angela likes, but that perhaps after so many years she would no longer be attractive enough for this.  While she does not think she is ugly, not by any stretch of the imagination, she knows that she is decidedly older, and the twenty-three years between them may not have mattered as much, when she was just beginning to grey and to wrinkle, but seven years apart changes many things.

Many things, but not this, not the way her name is gasped as she plays with a nipple, not the way Angela arches into her touch and bares her throat—a surrender, in years previous and now something else, a sign of trust.  Time has not changed her ability to please Angela, to draw a response from her and to please her.

Or, so she thinks.

When she reaches down, intending to assess just how close Angela is, she finds her still soft.

Immediately, she pulls back from her place at Angela's breast, moves so she can look her lover in the eye.  

"Are you not enjoying this?”  she asks, and if she were anyone else, her voice might waver, and while a part of her is embarrassed, uncertain, insecure, the greater part of her is concerned, concerned that this is not something Angela wants, not really, or that she has done something wrong.

"What?”  is the answer, and Angela seems genuinely confused.

"You're...”   Ana gestures vaguely with one hand towards Angela's crotch.

"Oh!" and now, Angela looks away, a blush blooming on her cheeks which is distinct from her earlier flush of arousal.  "It doesn't really...”   she trails off, and then her tone switches to the same clinical one Ana has heard time and again outside of this room, "Estradiol injections have an adverse effect on the ability to maintain erectile function.”   If, perhaps, she says the words a bit hastily, betraying some emotion that need not be named, Ana will not comment on it.

"Should we stop, then?”  Of all the ways Ana had considered this reunion going awry, this was admittedly an unexpected one.

"No!" says Angela, perhaps a bit more forcefully than is necessary.  "I mean...  not unless you want to?"

Now Angela looks nervous, and Ana is quick to reassure her, "Not at all, I just need you to tell me what to do differently.”  

"Could we just go back to what we were doing before?  It was nice.”  

Ana certainly has no objections—her arousal has faded considerably as they were talking, and starting again from the beginning ought to help that.  So she returns to what she was doing, hands finding Angela's breasts again, and allowing Angela to take a turn sucking at her neck for a moment.

(She considers it fortunate that it is considerably harder to visibly mark her skin than it is to mark Angela's—although her lover is flippant in her use of nanobiotics to heal embarrassing bruises, Ana is a bit more cautious about an over-reliance on the technology.)

This time, what is different stands out to Ana more readily than what is similar—the way their breasts now brush up against each other, the fact that Angela's bangs and her own eyepatch being on opposite sides prevents them from easily making eye contact as they do this, the way her voice, changed both by age and disuse, sounds as she gasps Angela's name.  

For all that is different, this is certainly no worse.  Perhaps her knees are more quickly growing sore from kneeling than they used to, and perhaps things were briefly a bit awkward, but she is no less wet than ever by the time Angela moves a hand down to slide a finger between her folds, cannot help but rock into the motion.

She shivers as Angela whispers into her ear—and she does not catch the exact words, far more focused on the sound of her own heartbeat, but she knows well enough the meaning and suddenly everything is too much.

(She was dead, she was dead she was dead she was dead.  She was dead, and gone, and this was too, and she was never to have it again.  After years alone to suddenly be here, be back like this and to have this—admission, this confession before her, a desire long unfulfilled suddenly offered her—she is not ready, does not deserve this.)

When she hears it, she does not jerk back, is careful, does not want to ruin everything by not being able, yet, to return the sentiment she just—refocuses. Switches targets.  Changes objectives.

(Running from things again, she thinks, and it is not untrue, but if anyone else were to say it she would say she is only buying time.)

Beneath her, Angela's back is arched, her breathing growing more labored, and Ana thinks This is the perfect distraction, knows that if she can only divert Angela's attention elsewhere, she will not need to answer the question, not until she is ready to do so.

So, she says nothing, only moves her mouth again to Angela's neck, hands kneading her lover's breasts and teasing her nipples, feels the heartbeat under her tongue increase as Angela's voice changes in pitch and volume, until she is gasping, begging.

"Please," says Angela, and then again, "Please, Ana.”

(Once, Angela might have called her another by her rank, or callsign, or something else entirely, but after so long spent living as not-herself it is nice, now, for Ana to hear her own name like this, to have her identity reaffirmed so.)

"What should I do?”  she asks, because although she knew, once, the answer to her question, she has learned the value in asking questions, in their years apart.

"Want you inside me," Angela answers, and Ana feels a familiar stab of arousal in response—there is some power culturally ascribed to the act of penetrating, and outside of this room Ana would be quick to scoff, to dismiss it as men being as they are, but instead...  well, there is something uniquely heady about knowing Angela allows her to take a position of power, to know that Angela, proud and stubborn, surrenders to her.

The lubricant is still in the top bedside drawer, tucked in next to a pair of toys and a box of tissues, although the condoms she might once have found next to it have disappeared.  Although it may not be strictly necessary, she reaches for it anyway, makes quick work of slicking her fingers, and nearly as easily gets to work at fingering Angela.

It is not immediate, locating and slipping into a canal, and she is gentle as she does it, but things quickly fall into a familiar rhythm and it is not long before she finds herself slipping two fingers into Angela—in fact, the whole process is much faster than she remembered it being.  That could just be the effect of time, however, and it really does not seem worth asking in the moment.

(They will have time enough for questions later, about many things; a part of her cannot help but note that it never seemed like such a luxury before.)

After a few exploratory thrusts, Ana finds what she is looking for, knows she has brushed against Angela’s inguinal nerve by the reaction she gets from her lover: a sudden jerk of hips, a gasping breath, eyes squeezing shut.  Finding it took a moment longer than she might have considered usual, years before, but the sensations Angela experiences are clearly the same.

Pleased with herself, Ana shifts her weight, knees moving to bracket Angela’s thighs and free hand and forearm up beside Angela’s torso, supporting her weight so she can bring her mouth to Angela’s breasts, can tease and lick and suck and see what new reactions she can draw from Angela.

(It is a good thing, she thinks, that she wears her hair braided now—if it were loose it would get in the way, and she has not a spare hand to move it.)

Despite the not inconsiderable amount of time they spent on foreplay, she goes slowly, knows that doing so will get the best reaction out of Angela—and knows, too, that hearing her lover beg is quite scintillating for herself, and this is the best way to go about it.  She times her movements carefully, circling a nipple with her tongue as she curls her fingers inside Angela, nipping lightly at the edge of her breast in time with a hard thrust.

Soon, one of Angela’s own hands moves to the breast Ana has been ignoring—she can see it in the periphery with her one good eye—and the other comes to join Ana’s hand, arm bent at what must surely be an awkward angle in order to entwine their fingers.  It is… sweet, and unexpected, and utterly unlike what Ana has come to expect from the two of them, and she can feel her eye begin to mist slightly in response to the unexpected tenderness.

(She never thought she would feel such things with Angela, and once she became the Shrike she thought she could not feel such things with anyone.)

To distract herself, she redoubles her efforts, increasing the speed of her motions and feeling Angela react above her, below her, around her.  She feels as Angela’s fingers tighten around her own, hears gasps turn to moans, notes the feeling of Angela’s thighs tensing and untensing between her knees.  

Angela is, of course, not the only one feeling the effects of this, Ana finds herself growing wetter in response to the way Angela is saying her name, the feeling of Angela tight around her fingers, the knowledge that she can still provoke such a response.  

It has been quite some time since she was involved with anyone else sexually, and it seems like longer still since she was able to think of herself as sensual, or desirable.  But now, after years away, to see that for all that she looks differently—acts differently, thinks differently—some part of her elicits the same reactions, is no less attractive than she once was… it is a heady thing.

Also heady is the way she can smell Angela and herself both, their scents combined with sweat and arousal, and the taste of salt beneath her lips.  Above her, the sounds Angela is making are increasing in volume, and she feels the hand she is not holding move between them, reaching downward.

Briefly, she entertains the idea of sitting back, grabbing Angela's wrist, and finishing off her lover herself, but she is not certain, quite, what she might need to do differently, does not want to interrupt this with more fumbling, more questions—she is impatient now, not only from arousal but because she feels her knees growing more sore by the moment, the arm supporting her wait beginning to tremble from the effort.  Maintaining this position for so long is not so easy as it once was.

Despite being tired, she cannot help that her hips roll a little against empty air as she hears Angela begin to plead in earnest, hears her beg, a familiar litany of please and more and her name, over and over, Ana, Ana, Ana.

(Ana decidedly does not think of a phrase beginning with a word that sounds all too similar, dare not do so, but she hears it all the same, in Angela's tone, heard it years ago, if she is honest with herself, but, then, she was rarely honest with herself, not when she could avoid it.  Time and distance have made such things harder for her, have provided greater perspective for the both of them.)

"Please," Angela is gasping, "Ana, please," and Ana realizes that oh, she is still waiting, still obeying rules Ana would not have dreamed applied any longer.

So Ana does sit back, moves so she can look Angela in one eye, their intertwined hands forcing their arms to half hang in the air between them, and orders her to come.

The effect is immediate, Angela's thighs closing tightly, her back bowing, her grip on Ana's outstretched hand tightening.  She is beautiful like this, much as she ever was, and there is too much to look at all at once, and so instead Ana just maintains eye contact, watches an unnamable emotion pass behind Angela's eyes as this happens, rocks her own center against her forearm in the meantime to relieve some pressure.  

Unlike in the past, Angela does not say anything as this happens—makes no noise at all—and so what it is Ana now knows stays hanging between them for the duration of the moment, there but not, a specter not unlike their history—

—Until, abruptly, the moment ends, Angela dropping her half-raised arm, head turning away from Ana's gaze, her now free hand reaching to the side table to grab tissues.

Unsure, suddenly, of what she ought to do, and feeling somewhat voyeuristic, watching Angela clean herself up, Ana moves to sit slightly to the side; in the past, this was always her job, was filed under the umbrella of aftercare, but now, it seems, Angela can handle herself, is more than willing to clean up her own messes.

"There we go," says Angela, signaling she is clean, and drawing Ana's attention back to her face, "Now it's your turn.”  

The second sentence is accompanied with a gesture, and Ana knows the meaning immediately.

"Ah, no," says she, not unkindly but with enough firmness that the Angela of seven years ago would have taken it as an order, and left it unquestioned.

But the woman before her is not the woman of seven years ago, so a question does follow, and swiftly, "Why ever not?  I seem to remember you quite enjoying it.”  

Ana huffs—that is true, Angela's mouth has always been good for more than just asking petulant questions, and there is something unquestionably dominant about the position—and then answers, "I'm sore," says she. "That was more than enough kneeling before.”  

Angela hums, considering, before she perks up and says, "Well, there are benefits to fucking the doctor you know.”  

"No," says Ana firmly.

"But—"

"No.  I may not have been here, but I know well enough that the PETRAS Act impeded your ability to finish testing.  You still don't know the long term effects of nanobiotics, so I won't have them used on me so casually.”  

(Never mind that Ana has been using them on others, but that is a conversation for another day, and she rather suspects that if she mentions the rifle to Angela now then she will not get a chance to come, either kneeling over Angela or on her back.)

For a moment, Angela looks as if she wants to say something else, expression pleased and confused, before she seems to quell the thought, and return to the matter at hand.  "Well, I suppose I could get on the floor and you could stand over me, if you like. I mean, it isn't the most comfortable, for either of us, but it works.  Or there's the chair, which—"

"Angela," Ana interrupts her, before things somehow get more complicated, "There's a much simpler way to do all this.”   She pats the bed with the hand which is not covered in lube as she says it.

A brief frown makes the wrinkles that have appeared on Angela's face deeper, "I thought you didn't like to be...  you know.”   The statement is followed by a vague gesture.

"It's fine," she answers.  

(In this context, with the two of them as equals, it is fine.  In this year, the old Overwatch being entirely destroyed, and gone with it the dread Ana felt then, the terrible overwhelming anxiety and inability to let down her guard for even a moment, it is fine. In this scenario, the two of them having changed and been changed, it is fine.  Allowing herself to feel vulnerable is no longer the danger it once was.)

"If you're certain...”  

"I am," says she, as much strength in her voice as there ever was.

For a moment, they are still, before Angela breaks the silence again, "Well, I suppose you should just lie down then.”  

Ana laughs, then, cannot help it, "You're currently lying on top of all three of the pillows, Angela.”  

"Oh," says Angela, "Scheisse," but she too, is laughing a bit as the two of them switch positions, bumping into each other awkwardly as the dipping of the bed offsets Angela's balance.

It takes a moment for both of them to settle, even after they have switched places, for the laughter to fade and the mood to return somewhat, but it does, and then Angela is the one leaning over her, bangs tickling Ana's cheek.

"Do you mind?”  she asks, fingers trailing the edge of Ana's eyepatch.

Does she?  Ana is not certain.  

"It's hardly attractive," she answers, to avoid having to ask the question of herself.

"I guarantee I've seen worse," is Angela's reply, and Ana supposes this must be true.  She is still considering whether or not to remove it when Angela adds, "You're going to get sweaty, too.  It'll be gross, if it isn't already.”  

That, at least, she cannot object to, and it does feel a bit silly to cover the old injury in front of Angela, whose job has put her in a position to see many a more recent, messy injury.  So she brings her own hands up to her face, brushing Angela's aside, and takes the eyepatch off, setting it aside on the nightstand.  This somehow feels more vulnerable than nudity, more vulnerable than lying on her back and allowing Angela to crouch over her.  

For her part, Angela does not react badly—looks for a moment as if she is studying the injury, assessing it, but does not say anything.  Instead, she presses a kiss to the tattoo beneath it, whispers a word of thanks, and carries on her way, pressing a kiss to the corner of Ana's mouth, then to her neck, trailing lower and lower.

There is a tenderness, here that did not exist before—or, perhaps, one that was not allowed—a reverence to the way Angela's lips touch her skin, and the way clever fingers trail over all the new blemishes on Ana's skin, the scars, the sagging, the stretch marks made more evident by time.  While Angela might have respected her before, might have been awed, that awe was in in the classical sense, with a respect towards potential for destruction, whereas now there is simply wonder, disbelief, and with it an aching gentleness, one the two of them have never known.  

(A part of Ana wishes Angela were rougher, wishes she did not need to watch the emotions play across her lover's face as each new scar is revealed to her—but she cannot stand to look away, knows that now is not the time to run, not if she wants to ever be able to return again.  Still, this would be simpler if only Angela were rougher, if only this were something more like what Ana were used to.  Anger, she can defend against, and all other harsh things, but she is unaccustomed now to anything soft, does not know how to react to being treated so nicely.)

For a long time, Angela's gaze lingers upon one scar in particular, a shrapnel wound in Ana's abdomen.  It would have killed her without nanobiotic intervention, nearly still did, as her supply of grenades and bullets dwindled—and Angela must recognize the severity, must know from the way it is healed that it ought to have killed, if not for extraordinary means.  Her fingers trail along it, and her lips after, and Ana shivers in response, feels her nipples harden just a little bit more, and the physical reaction is distraction enough to compel Angela to move on.

Words will be had later, Ana is certain, a lecture on when field medicine is inadequate, but there are many other fights looming of greater priority too, You left, and You took, and You should have all awaiting them both, so she can hardly worry about it now.  

(Even in the moment, she did not worry about it.  A dead woman cannot be killed.)

Far more pleasant things exist to dwell upon, in the moment, and living in the moment is what kept Ana alive, in the between years, so it is easy for her to brush all thoughts of past, future, past-become-future, future-become-past from her head.

She refocuses just as she learned to, a deep breath, eye closing, focus turned only to sensation—a mattress, too soft beneath her, cool air against her skin where sweat has risen, heat as her internal temperature rises, soft lips moving to suck at the point of one hip, and an aching.

With one hand, she moves to nudge Angela's head over, to move things along, pushing Angela from her hip to her center, and Angela obliges, though Ana can feel her lips curling into a smile as she presses one last kiss—amusement, presumably, at the impatience so uncharacteristic of a sniper.

Ana opens her thighs to give Angela space, and is glad she does not have to ask for this; begging always was Angela's realm.

Of course, this does not mean Angela will oblige her immediately, does not mean that they are not equals in stubbornness.  Instead of doing what it is that Ana wills, Angela bites and sucks along her inner thighs, and Ana finds herself unsure whether to arch into it or to squirm away.  Angela is so close to where Ana wants her, yet so far away, and each time Angela turns her head she just barely brushes against Ana's exposed sex, in a way that is certainly not accidental.  

Rolling her hips a bit towards Angela's face, Ana hopes to force the issue without betraying herself, without losing whatever small battle of wills they have found themselves in—so unlike the games they played in years before, given the reversal of roles, but so similar in other ways—but seven years is a very long time, and Ana almost wonders if losing might not be worth it, here.

Almost.

Instead she bites her lip, tries not to think too hard about what it is she would very much like her lover to be doing right now, and instead brings both her hands to her breasts, hoping that the motion will draw Angela's eye, that the image will be enough to spur her lover to action.  She bites her lip as she does so, not wanting to give away how much she wants this, how much the delay, now and before, has frustrated her.

Still, when a particularly sharp nip from Angela accidentally syncs up with a flick of her nipple, she realizes that this is a game she will not win, does not want to, if waiting longer is the win condition available to her.

(Never mind that her wetness must have given her away already, anyway.  She has been noticeably so since before she was ever inside Angela, and that is something she cannot mask, even if her pride demands she save face elsewhere.)

If she cannot win like this, she will do as she has always done—in the bedroom, and elsewhere—will change the rules to suit her favor.  If Angela will not touch where she wants her to, well, she will touch herself.  No matter what, she will not beg, cannot be made to ask for this.  

(Before, only pride would have prevented her from doing so, but now, it is more than that, is not only pride but a need to know she does not rely on others, a need to feel that she can care for herself, here or anywhere.)

One hand she brings up to the headboard, giving herself something to hold onto, and the other she brings downward trigger finger sliding through coarse hair before finding her clit.  She is not gentle—never is, with herself—and does nothing to hide the moan that escapes when, at last, she is able to find some relief.

That draws Angela's attention, and it is only a moment before she is being hoisted up, thighs over shoulders, hand pushed out of the way by Angela's nose as she moves to finally, finally satisfy Ana.

Had the teasing not gone on so long, she might be embarrassed by the immediacy of her reaction, by how much her thighs are already trembling, by the way she is already rocking into Angela's face, by the way her hand buries itself in Angela's hair, pushing her head forward.  She might be, but she is not—she has waited long enough.  

After so long, it does not seem as if Angela has forgotten any of what she likes, clever tongue remembering the rhythm from years before—one loose circle followed by two tighter ones and then a flick at the clit—and Ana can already feel the hot coil of arousal deep in her stomach, knows that if she wanted to, she could orgasm soon with just a little effort on either of their parts, and as alluring as that sounds, as much as she wants this, has wanted this, a part of her is not ready, yet, for anything to end, so she nudges Angela's face a little lower, to tease at her entrance, and allows the heat to uncoil slightly, allows the tension to fade a bit, her heartbeat slowing slightly and breathing more regular.

(Once this ends, she is afraid of what will happen, does not know where the arguments to come will leave them, does not know if she will ever again be able to be with Angela in this way, or if they will instead lapse into their old ways, will find themselves again unable to be open before one another outside of their prescribed roles.  So she fights it ending, lets the orgasm escape her, allows them just a few minutes longer of this little interlude.)

It is not unpleasant, to feel Angela inside her, but such has never been enough for Ana—not with any partner—to result in an orgasm, and likely never will be. Still, there is something to be said for the knowledge that her lover is inside her, that she is vulnerable now in a way she rarely allows herself to be, and that Angela sees her like this and does not mind, does not care that she is not the same woman she once was, is not the same Captain who was strong, and brave, and never accessible in any way, was almost aloof, the knowledge that she is different, now, after her return, but it does not matter.

(She would be lying if she said that she could have anticipated even that she would want this, but want it she does.  After too many years of being too strong she wants to be allowed to be weak, and to do so in a way that is not selfish, is not her leaving behind all that she has known, is normal, human weakness.)

Soon enough, Angela grows bored of just teasing, moves her attention to sucking at Ana's labia, teasing and pulling on them with her lips and tiny scrapes of her tongue—deliberate, in her intent to only excite but not to get Ana close, again, to orgasm.

Perhaps she still believes that she could win this, that Ana conceded by allowing her first potential orgasm to fizzle out, that she will wring a request from Ana yet.

She will not, of course, could never make Ana beg—would only ever get a command at best—but optimism is something that Ana's lover has never lacked, is to be seen in the way she pursues the impossible professionally, ethically, and here.

Knowing this, Ana teases her a little, lets free a few sounds that she might never otherwise, allows Angela to think that she is more desperate than she is, hears, feels Angela's corresponding hum of contentment.  It is all the confirmation that Ana needs.

"Angela," she starts as if she were begging, and wishes she could see the grin she can feel pressed against her.  Then again, "Angela.”  

For a moment she thinks she has overplayed it—undercover missions were never Ana's forte—but then Angela is pulling back just slightly, looking so smug, "Yes, Ana?”  Her voice is almost saccharine.

"You'll have to try harder than that," says she, flatly as is possible given the situation.

This, at least, startles a laugh out of Angela, a little shake of her head, and then they are moving again, Angela's lips and tongue finding her clit once more.

This time, there will be no backing down, will be no putting off an orgasm.  She can feel it already, in the way her spine is arching into it, in the speeding of her heart, in the way both of her hands grip harder, one on the headboard and one in Angela's hair, pulling blonde bangs out of her face to make this easier.

Of course, Ana can hardly focus on the sudden eye contact, finds herself almost entirely absorbed by sensation, by the desire of all her muscles to tighten until they can do so no longer, all feeling focused on a single point of her body.

So close, Ana thinks, so close, so close, so fucking close.

Just one more hard suck, just one more graze of teeth, and she will finally, finally come.  She closes her eye in anticipation of the sensation, bites down on her lip to silence herself and, and—

—And her attention is snapped away at the last minute by Angela moving a hand to snap near her face.

Fuck.

"Angela," she grits out.

They are, it seems, at an impasse.

Or, so Ana thinks.  Angela has something else in mind.

"I want you to look at me," she says, breaking rhythm only long enough to get the words out, the feeling of her breath an almost unbearable tease in and of itself.

Well.  Ana is not a fan of compromise, not really, it always tastes to her vaguely of defeat, but when Angela is keeping her on the edge like this, not giving her that one final push she needs—a concession may be worthwhile.  Just this once.

So she concedes, opens her good eye and looks it with one of Angela’s, and it does not seem so much like losing now, as she feels Angela suck on her just so, and she thinks—

—She does not think, because that little movement, and Angela’s gaze upon her, and the way she has been tensing in preparation for what feels like so long now are enough, and there is hardly room for thought anymore, only sensation, the pulsing of her muscles and the clenching of her thighs, the way her heart races and head spins.

(Perhaps compromise need not always be a defeat.)

Throughout everything, Angela’s eyes are meeting her own eye, and she could not look away even if she wanted to.  It might be nicer to say her gaze were one of defiance, a final small victory, but instead she is transfixed, is lost in feeling and space and time and possibility and Angela.  Above all else, Angela.

But then, as most things do, it ends.  They break eye contact and then the gulf of time and distance is there between them once more.

Angela is moving to wipe off her face, the sweat on their skin is cooling, and Ana is suddenly very thirsty. She gathers her strength to go walk into the bathroom, knowing that if she lets herself get comfortable now it will only be more unpleasant to stand up later, and ignores the slight shake to her legs as she does so.

When she returns, again, Angela’s clothes have found their way into a hamper, the sheets are once again straightened, and Angela is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for her.  Perhaps, if Ana ignores her, this conversation need not happen, she can just put on her clothes and walk out, and they can say all that it is they need to tomorrow, have this one night untarnished by past or future.  She bends to grab her bra and—

“Please,” says Angela, “Stay.”  

(In her voice, Ana thinks she can hear another conversation, thinks she can hear so many more words; Don’t leave, and Not again, and Not like everyone else.)

Like this, Angela easily seems seven years younger, naked before her as if the time never passed, and Ana finds herself wavering.

Should she stay?  Likely, no—come tomorrow there will be conversations she would rather not have, about her leaving, about her rifle, about what Angela did say and what she yet cannot—but in coming back to Overwatch Ana is already acting against her own best interest and, well, what, then, is one thing more?

(How much could one night mean?)

“Alright,” says she, “Alright.”