#fareeha

She’s leaving again. You’ve hardly seen her these past few months as she’s been called to arms over and over and over, and you’re teetering on the edge of decay. It’s like a shot to the heart each time she goes away again, long nights of losing sleep and biting your nails down to the quick, worrying and wondering about whether you’ll ever see her face once more. And even when you do, the thought of her inevitably having to go and fight and struggle to stay alive seeps its way into your thoughts like a virus, corrupting all the happiness and bliss you should feel in your girlfriend’s embrace.

Fareeha isn’t the born soldier everyone (including herself, at some points)makes her out to be. She wasn’t brought onto this Earth to save lives and protect others, even at the expense of her own safety (and your sanity.) It’s the life she chose against her mother’s wishes, against all the warnings she received, and all the pushes she was given to use her talents in other places. Sometimes, you can’t help but wish she would have listened to their advice. Maybe then you wouldn’t be pacing back and forth in the bedroom of the quaint apartment you share with her, —though most wouldn’t know it. It’s filled with your belongings, and it’s home to you. . . But Fareeha’s things go to Overwatch HQ, and they seldom return, left to rot in her locker until she inevitably throws them away.

The bed doesn’t smell like her anymore, and what few clothes remain in the closet hang untouched in the closet like they’re preparing to be sold and not worn. You hear her sigh deeply through the crack in the door, light spilling in from the hallway that leads directly into the living room. There, Fareeha shifts her weight from one foot to the other, her phone pressed to her ear. She hasn’t officially told you that she’s leaving soon, —but you knew the moment her phone rang and she stopped kissing you to roll over and take it that it wouldn’t be long.

Tears prick at your eyes. She’d only gotten back a few days ago, —days that she spent working on reports, instead of falling into the arms of her lover; and now they were taking her away again. It’s times like this when you kick yourself the most for falling for someone like her. Sure, she made it easy enough, with her pretty face and charming wit, and all the times she disappeared just to come back and kiss it better. . . But the pattern was stale now. Your heart was wearing thin.

So the moment she stepped back into the bedroom with an apologetic look on her face, opening her mouth to say what she always does; ‘I’m sorry, angel, I know it’s sudden, but duty calls,’ you quiver a little and shake your head, causing her to clam up entirely.

“That’s it then?” You question after taking a few seconds to collect yourself and swallow the sob threatening to work its way up your throat. “You’re leaving again? And what I think, what I say, what I feel. . . None of that matters?”

Fareeha looks stunned. It’s not like you to break down like this at all. For as long as she’s known you, she’s found that you’ve been stronger about her leaving than she is. But there is something distinctly different about this moment, and you know she can feel the way it weighs heavily enough to suffocate you both.

“Of course it matters,” she replies. “You matter. But this isn’t just about you, or me. . . You have to remember that the world doesn’t revolve around us. There are much bigger things at stake.”

“You promised,” you choke out pathetically. “You promised it wouldn’t be like this when you came back.”

“I know, I know,” Fareeha sighs deeply.

You can tell this is having just as much of an impact on her, but that she’s doing a better job of hiding it this time around.

“I’m sorry. I really am. But I have to go. . . You understand that, right?”

“No,” you shake your head defiantly. “I don’t understand. Not anymore.”

“Baby, please,” she steps a little closer, cupping your cheek in the palm of her hand, “don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

You brush her hand away a bit callously, but the last thing you want is to be touched by her right now. Ten minutes ago, before the call, before she stumbled out of the bedroom to take it, before the world came crashing down again; it was all you wanted. . . But now, her fingers felt like burning coals against your skin.

“It has to be as hard as I’m making it,” you answer. “All the things I’ve sacrificed to be with you, —leaving so much of my old life behind, making changes just to suit your needs, all the shit I’ve forfeited and missed out on to move here and be with you, to get left behind everytime Overwatch wants something from you. I’ve supported every decision you’ve made for yourself, every alteration we’ve had to make together, but I’m tired. I feel worthless to you.”

Maybe it isn’t exactly the right time to rattle all of that off, but God, it was bound to happen at some point with how much you’d been bottling up. Especially after these last few months, caught up in this endless cycle of hurt and misfortune.

“You are not worthless to me,” Fareeha states firmly. “Not at all.”

And you believe her. You know she loves you, and that she does the best she can on any given day, but this downtrodden adrenaline rush has your heart pin pricked, and all you want to do is curl up somewhere and waste away until she comes back home again. If she comes back home again.

“Then don’t go,” you utter, and it sounds almost like a whimper. “Please, Fareeha.”

“Y/n. . .”

Your heart sinks lower. She seldom says your name, and never in that tone unless she knows she’s about to disappoint you.

“Please,” you repeat, a little stronger this time.

“You know what kind of life I live,” she says. “Sometimes, the work I do requires me to leave, and go, and be alone for a while, —and it’s not because I want to. It’s because this is what I have to do. It’s what I’ve been trained for. And I’m sorry that I can’t just sit around and wait for you to be okay with that. I really am. But please don’t take this personally. It’s just something I have to do.”

“It’s been three days,” you say. “You haven’t even been back for a week yet, and they want to ship you off somewhere else?”

“They don’t control when or where disaster strikes,” she reminds you.

“No, they don’t but they sure as hell control who gets called to go fix it,” you argue. “They have a roster full of soldiers, and they can’t give you a week to yourself? A week to be home with the people you love?”

“You’re frustrated, and I understand why. It frustrates me too, believe me. . . But I’m good at what I do, y/n,” she says in earnest.

“I know that,” you answer. “The world knows that. But I can’t keep doing this with you, Fareeha.”

Her face falls. It’s hard to see her look so dejected when you’re used to the bright way she smiles, but what you said was nothing short of the truth. This has been eating you alive for so long, and these last few months have been a dangerous tipping point. Being stuck at home while she fights on the frontlines of every battle they can’t seem to win without her has left you riddled with anxiety, a constant reminder that your lover is unsafe and might not even make it back to you in one piece. It lives in your bones like it’s stuffed into the marrow.

“Please don’t say that,” she says in a voice just above a whisper.

“I can’t do it,” you shake your head, looking anywhere but her eyes as tears begin to trickle down your cheeks. “You leave, and I worry so much that it consumes me. Then you come back, and I feel like I can breathe again, but it’s so shortlived that it might as well not have even happened in the first place. They can’t even wait for your bruises to disappear before they put you out there again.”

“I’m fine, baby,” she urges. “Look at me? Aren’t I perfectly okay?”

She gestures to her strong body as if that’s supposed to make her point for her.

“No,” you shake your head. “You’re not. Do you really think I can’t tell that you’re tired? That you’re exhausted?”

“Of course I am,” Fareeha relents, “but that’s just the way life goes sometimes. I’m a soldier. This is what I am. It’s what I have to do, —it’s all I know.”

You want to offer a rebuttal, but your voice dies in the back of your throat. It’s not that you want to deny her the thing she’s worked at for so long. . . It’s just that this isn’t good for anyone. Not for you and your fragile feelings, and especially not for her. Not when you could feel the weariness in every move she’s made since coming back, and certainly not when they’d promised her a break weeks in advance, only to call her back the very second something went wrong.

“I just need some time to focus on this mission,” she continues. “I’ll make this up to you. I promise.”

“You promised last time too,” you remind her bluntly. “And the time before that.”

“I know,” Fareeha admits. “And I’m sorry that I haven’t been able to keep them. But this time, I’ll make sure things are different. Just let me do what needs to be done, and when I get back, I’ll do everything in my power to make this right. You can have me all to yourself. Please. . . Stay.”

“You stay. If you leave tonight, I won’t sleep, I won’t be able to think straight until you’re home again, I. . . Not tonight. Please, just this one time Fareeha, don’t let them run you into ruins. Put yourself first.” 

“I’m sorry,” she shakes her head, “but I just don’t have that kind of luxury. If I don’t go tonight, I’ll never be able to forgive myself if something goes wrong out there.”

“And what if something happens to you?”

“It won’t,” she insists. “Don’t I always come back to you? Aren’t I always okay?” She questions. 

“Up until this point, sure,” you acknowledge. “But all it takes is one time. One thing going wrong. One missed step because you’re overworked and tired. That’s all it takes for me to lose you, and that terrifies me.”

“Have some faith in my abilities, would you please? I’ve trained for almost my entire life to fill the shoes I do now, —to be a soldier that everyone can rely on! This is what my life’s efforts have been for!” She exclaims.

“And you’ve already done enough for your lifetime and a few hundred others,” you answer. “I’m proud of you, Fareeha. I’m proud of everything you’ve accomplished, of everything you’ve achieved, —but I’m asking you, for once in your life, to think about something other than your job. If you can’t be bothered to put yourself first, then think about everything you’d be leaving behind. . . Your family, your friends. . . Me. . .”

“My work is important,” she says firmly. “It’s part of who I am. This isn’t up for discussion or debate.”

“I’m not asking you to give it up, I’m asking you to take a break,” you reply. “If you want to be a soldier until they force you from the frontlines, then so be it. But right now, I’m fucking begging you to not leave here tonight.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Fareeha insists. “You know that. . . But please don’t do this.”

That sob you forced down before works its way back up.

“Please,” she repeats, “you’ve always known. . .”

She doesn’t finish that sentence, but you know what she’s implying: that you’ve always known what you were getting into. And that’s true. But more than that, you also know she’s been working herself to the bone, and she’s in no condition to be fighting for anyone else at this point.

You lean in to kiss her, even against your better judgement.

“Stay safe, Pharah,” you mumble against her lips.

“Don’t call me that,” she shakes her head, her hands finding their way to your cheeks again. “Not now.”

“I’ll call you what you are to me,” you answer softly. “A soldier.”

“Don’t,” she chokes out. “I’m your girlfriend. Don’t say that to me.”

“Then listen to me, as someone you love, —as someone you know loves you, and don’t go tonight. Stay here. Let me take care of you,” you plead with her.

“I can’t do that,” she whispers. “I have a duty—”

You cut her off without thinking.

“It’s not always your responsibility to fix all the things that go wrong in the world!” You shout. 

She stops to stare at you in something that looks like a mixture of horror and desperate realization. . . Like no one has ever said anything like that to her before.

“Please,” you plead with her, voice softening. “Please, Fareeha. Let someone else take the burden for once. You don’t have to shoulder all the weight in the world every single time someone needs something.”

She searches your eyes with her own, —beautiful and dark brown, but simmering with conflict. The struggle between what she feels is right for her to do as a soldier and the desire to follow your wishes is palpable, even as the room is shrouded in conflict, both spoken and unspoken alike.

“I love you,” you continue, voice lowering again, barely above a whisper now. “I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you. You deserve to rest and to let someone else handle things, just this once.”

For a moment, you can see it in her eyes that she wants to give in, and you feel a surge of newfound hope at the idea that your words might have finally reached the logician inside her. But then she shakes her head and averts her gaze to the floor.

“I wish things were that simple,” she replies. “I wish that I could stay here and hold you. . . But I can’t ignore my responsibilities. People depend on me.” 

You understand the depth of her commitment. It’s admirable, even. But you also know that she really shouldn’t be pushing her own limits under these circumstances.

“I depend on you too, Fareeha.”

“That’s. . . That’s different,” she says, clearly torn.

“You have a duty to yourself and to us,” you add. “Not just to the battlefield. Please, let this fall to someone else tonight. They can deal with it without you, just this one time.”

She hesitates visibly, a battle of emotions at play behind her irises. The breath she lets out next is shaky and uncertain, but she meets your gaze with a sense of vulnerability that you’ve never seen before.

“Alright,” she concedes. “I’ll call back and tell them I’m not fit for the mission.”

Relief floods through your veins like ice water, and you hug her tightly, savoring the warmth and the firmness of her muscles around you.

“Thank you,” you mumble gratefully against the heated skin of her neck.

She pulls back slightly, looking into your eyes with a soft smile.

“I love you,” she tells you honestly.

You return her smile, understanding not only the weight of her duties and the life she’s built, but appreciating the strength it’s taken for her to step away from it all for a bit, even if it won’t last long.

“I love you too, Fareeha,” you murmur. “More than I can say.”

And in the quiet moment that follows, she finds herself thinking that choosing you tonight has been a victory within itself.