Angela had been utterly delighted at the opportunity to leave work early. It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy her work---she does, and some might argue that she enjoys it a little too much---but the thought of surprising Lena at home ( with a bottle of wine and some camembert that she plans to pop into the oven, no less ) displaces any feeling of guilt that she may have had about leaving her subordinates to run the medical wing in her absence.

          The world will continue to spin on without Angela Ziegler for one evening.

She unlocks the door as quietly as possible, intending for her arrival to be a genuine surprise. But the first thing she notices is that the living room is completely silent. Strange---isn’t she home? A wistful pang tugs at her heart; she can’t expect Lena to be home all the time, waiting for her like some... faithful wife. That’s not who they are and that isn’t how she’d ever want them to be. Sighing, she drops her umbrella into the holder and closes the door behind her.

           And that’s when she hears the moans.

Blonde brows furrow with wild confusion as she makes her way towards the source of the sound: the bedroom. Along the way she strains her ears to see if she can hear more than one set of them---but there is none. What is happening? Is she---oh no, is she hurt? Angela quickens her steps.

           What she finds is beyond anything that she might have expected.

“Mein Gott---Lena!” She quickly turns her eyes away---it’s not that the sight of her half-naked and spreadeagled on the bed---their bed---is something that is alien to her ( nor can she deny that she doesn’t like it ) but the shock takes a fair bit to quieten down, as do her nerves.

          “You gave me such a fright, Schatzli.” With a laugh, Angela drops onto the bed beside her and gives her a kiss on the forehead. Oh, she does so look pretty when she’s all hot and bothered like this... Her lips capture her lover’s in a quick and hard kiss while her hand wanders downwards until they find the naughty, wandering fingers of the other.

smutty halloween sentence starters

She smiles, lips pulling back just far enough to bare those fake incisors. Their tips brush against her lower lip and even though they’re made of plastic, Angela reckons that they feel sharp enough to hurt.

         “There’s only one way to find out.”

Mischief fuels her steps forwards as her fingers stretch out as if she were a vampire, threatening to bury her imaginary claws into her along with those synthetic fangs. In a dramatic, booming voice, she crows at her---

         “GET READY... FOR THE SWEET EMBRACE OF DEATH.”

And with that she sinks her teeth into her neck as deep as she dares to go, the plastic tips pressing deep into her skin---not sharp enough to draw blood, perhaps, but definitely enough to leave two red miniature circles on her skin; and just before she pulls away, she sneaks in a quick swipe of her tongue over the indentations made by the fangs.

It’s no more than a routine relief effort; a portfolio that Overwatch had undertaken after the physical and political debris of the Omnic Crisis had cleared and the organization settled into its new role as a peacekeeping force. Although the world is (relatively) at peace, humanity continues to tear itself apart: dragging innocent people and omnics alike into conflicts that they had never asked to be involved in. Angela’s never wholeheartedly approved of Overwatch’s methods at times---using weaponized forces, for instance, even at a supply distribution mission to a refugee camp---but it’s efforts like these that make her feel like she’s truly making a difference, that her decision to associate with the organization is worth the compromise in her pacifistic values.

            She can hear another burst of explosions and gunfire, this time louder and closer to the camp than it was half an hour ago. Her brows crease with worry as she looks up from the feverish toddler she had been attending to. She and her medics had been briefed that the guerrilla fighters had agreed to give the refugees a wide berth. When it comes to it, they will fight, of course, to defend the victims that they had pledged to help, but avoidance of unnecessary bloodshed is always preferable.

           The doctor finishes up her examination, assures the child’s mother that she will be alright after completing the prescribed course of antibiotics, and excuses herself to the side. The comms feed had gone disconcertingly silent an hour ago and she blames herself for being too occupied with her work to check in with them more frequently. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Ana Amari with her life---she does; but silence on their side can mean anything. What if the security team had run into trouble and hadn’t the time to call for backup or give a heads-up to the medics stationed at the camp?

The bar was a stark contrast to the rest of the sleepy, traditional neighborhood that was Hanamura---no, it was more like a club. Someone somewhere was guilty of false advertising. The music was loud but low and rumbling, heavy bass drowning out the pounding of her heart against her chest. In the dim lighting punctuated briefly by flashing lights from the dance floor, she could barely see the contents of her glass. Loud, raucous laughter erupted from the rowdy band of Overwatch agents that she had come in with, and she, too, feigned a laugh, although the joke had been lost in the foreign vocals blaring out from the speakers, peppered with a seemingly random assortment of English.

          This wasn’t her scene at all, but the celebration of a mission well-executed was a team-building opportunity that she couldn’t afford to miss.

Angela excused herself and made her way over towards the bar, narrowly avoiding what would have been an embarrassing collision with a giggling couple who were half-swaying, half-tripping their way towards the bathroom. She cast a wistful glance at them as she placed her glass on the cool, greasy surface and sidled onto an empty stool. The bartender cast her a questioning look and she shook her head.

          She found herself wondering what that faceless couple might be getting up to---probably something dirty, something they would regret in the morning; or maybe not.

               Her imagination was getting the better of her---or rather, the alcohol in her drink was.

Angela is only all-too-aware of the distance between them, a silent sea that’s filled up to the brim with regrets over the past six years. The reunion had been cordial, of course. Pleasantries were exchanged as if they were nothing more than friends, as if all those nights tangled up in sheets and each other (and the mornings that followed, awash with sunlight and the remnants of last night’s afterglow) were memories that belonged to other people.

          At first she thinks that she can do this: put on a stoic face, pretend---a skill that she’s acquired to complement her profession. But weeks later and she finds cracks in that smooth veneer she’s so skilled at putting up and realizes that it’s one thing to do so in front of a patient---

          ----and another when it comes to someone she (still) cares so deeply for.

But how? How does she even begin to make amends?

          The morning air is crisp and cool; there’s even a breeze thrown into the mix that stings her cheeks enough to give them a touch of perpetual crimson. But the rising sun is shining on the watchpoint, beckoning at them with the promise of the heroic deeds that are yet to be accomplished. None of that matters now, however. What does is the sight of Lena leaning against the railing, taking in the view of the glittering Atlantic spread out before them. Angela hesitates; is it too soon to breach the inevitable? What if she’s moved on? Could that be the reason for her silence? She nearly backtracks into the kitchen, but there’s a yearning in her heart that aches, one that will consume her waking days for as long as she lives.

           She braces herself against the chill by crossing her arms and burying her fingers in the warmth that the crooks of her elbows afford. 

She tells herself that it’s only a professional curiosity, but really, anyone would be concerned at the way his spine curves, especially when he’s not carrying around the tire on his back as he usually does. Something about it being a decoy for a live bomb---it doesn’t make it look any less lighter than it appears to be. 

         And concern, of course; there’s that as well. It’s her job as the newly reformed Overwatch’s sole medical practitioner to tend to the well-being of its agents, new and old recruits alike. Junkrat---or rather, Jamison---is no exception to the rule, even if sometimes thinks of himself as a separate, loosely affiliated entity.