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Happy Mother’s Day to all the sweet mamas out there. I hope with #socialdistancing in place that we are all creative enough to connect virtually! Sending out much love ❤️ and healing grace to the world 🌎 #mothersday #healinggrace #peace #loveoneanother #stayhome #connectvirtually https://www.instagram.com/p/CAAl80QFD9j/?igshid=15388xx7sdq53
@healinggrace Gabriel isn't eager to be removed from his perch, nipping at the hand and forearm pushed beneath his feet. He is tired, however, and climbs his way higher up to the doctors shoulder, feathered head pressed against her cheek.
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“Hey, Doc...” Her tone is rather sheepish, and her tight smile only adds to it. The good doctor has told her off about over working herself after an injury, but the woman had foolishly thought it wouldn’t matter with the synthetic parts of her body, even after so many years of having them. Well... she knew, but she also assumed it wouldn’t happen to her. Stupid, stupid...
“I’ve gone and done something to my arm, and it’s killing me,” she says. She cradling said arm in the other, her fingers limp against the opposite forearm. “Could you take a look? I think it’s the elbow...”
It had taken days. Weeks. Almost two months to pinpoint a location... But Yukiko finally did it. She found Mercy; she found Angela Ziegler, medical pioneer, ray of hope, savior of many. And the only one who could help her.
Now, Yukiko knew that Angela would not be happy to know she'd stolen Angela's research. The thought of her face twisted with anger made Yuki's stomach turn. No, Angela wouldn't be angry -- she would help, Yuki knew it. But... It had been so long. Would she even remember her?
Stop this, she berated herself. This isn't about you. This is about Nikki.
She stood outside the new makeshift Overwatch HQ, its metal doors practically leering at her, daring her to come inside, to confront everything she'd been running from. Her hand had been hovering over the radio button for ages. Finally, with no small amount of pain, she pressed it firmly.
"Permission for entry," she requested.
Silence.
Yukiko fished her old Overwatch ID from her pocket. She held it up to the camera, hand trembling. "My name is Yukiko Koyama. I'm a former Overwatch agent. I... P-Please, I need to see Angela -- I need to see Doctor Ziegler."
Forget aliases and secrecy. She didn't even want to think about consequences -- oh god, stop. No. None of that. This was about Nikki, this was for Nikki, think of Nikki--
"Permission granted. Prepare to be searched." The door slid open with a mechanical screech.
She jumped. More adrenaline pumped into her veins. Her palms were damp. That took much less time then she anticipated.
She was greeted by a concerned guard with a metal wand and a lot of questions. Yukiko answered them absently, and glanced around the place. It was a mess -- she could see some mechanics working with loose wires, and cardboard and rubber mats covered the floor. Idle chatter, occasional intercom messages, and water dripping into buckets filled the air. It was... A lot like the base back in Arizona, actually.
Yukiko was almost upset that the security check was over. She barely remembered what they said to her as her feet carried her over to the medical ward. She accidentally stepped in a bucket full of water on her way, but merely removed her shoe and kept walking.
She stepped inside the infirmary. The walls used to be a bright white, but were now a faded yellow-brown. But, most importantly, standing amidst the people flitting about was... her.
Angela Ziegler.
"Angela," she said, her voice cracking, shoe in her trembling hand, half soaking wet, and suddenly feeling very self-conscious.
send me ‘ hc ‘ + a word and i’ll write a headcanon about it regarding my character
In others, he often viewed it as a weakness, a blindspot; easy access under someone’s toughest guard. Feeling it himself wouldn’t be something he might even recognize. He could grasp that he cared for a person’s well-being, but not that it could be something more personal, warm, and intimate. It would… honestly just be something that would take a while to sink in and would need a very patient hand to help him with. Should he ever get there, Gabriel in love would be clumsy and fumbling at best, but protective and passionate once he’d come to terms with it. Saying the words would still be hard, still taste awkward in his mouth.
As Reaper, he only wants hate and isolation. He’s content to destroy any evidence of the stuff that might mark his past life. If he’s rid of it, he truly is Reaper -- a wraith, a monster -- and not Gabriel, a man who succumbs to something so soft, so human.
