Short drabble for #McMercy week, day 4: comfort. Enjoy!
Edges.
"I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?"
― Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood
The faint, yellowish luminescence dancing through the curtains was the first indicator telling her that she had stayed up all night again. She knew she wasn't supposed to; she was a doctor – a surgeon – if they were going to make demands, and they surely were, the very first one would always be for her to at least be able to keep her own eyes open during the day.
Angela sighed as she grabbed her favorite mug only to notice that her fourth consecutive coffee had grown cold. She drank it anyways, knowing that the disgusting aftertaste could actually provide her with some renewed, much needed clarity before resuming her internal debate: Torbjörn had designed three different prototypes of prosthetic arms for her to choose and even if each blueprint was intrinsically different from the others, the three alternatives were still balancing out their advantages and their disadvantages.
The first prototype seemed like a no-go right from the start but as hours went by, the doctor was left with no other choice but to accept that there were some high points about this rather simplistic design. It was a typical artificial arm, without any room for movement or articulation but the material was light and it could be easily attached and detached from Jesse's body.
The second option was gravitating menacingly towards the antipodes of the first one: it allowed all articulations to function; all movements required for the prosthetic arm to effectively replace human tissue, muscle and bone were there and, with little training, the handless gunslinger could be able to get himself out there again. But the material was simply too heavy for Angela to go for it – this so-called solution was only going to cause more problems in the future, she was certain. Carrying such a heavy weight was definitely going to damage Jesse's shoulder and neck, let alone the possibility of extended damage all over his collarbone, clavicle and upper trapezius.
The third option was tricky as hell.
It shared all the benefits that the second prototype had to offer and the material was light – only problem was that the entire mechanism depended solely on a very intricate pattern of wires that she would have to plug straight into McCree's nerves for the new arm to work properly and tapping nerves with metal was something she would rather not do.
The results from such difficult procedures had always been shady to say the least – not only the technique had yet to be perfected but it was always as if the body would fight against the foreign material trying to imitate what had once been human.
Angela set the cold mug aside as the clock ticking its seemingly endless tune caressed her ears: 5:45 AM. The good doctor took a good look around before deciding it was time to get some sleep – even a few moments with her head rested against the pillow would suffice before duty would come and knock on her door as impertinent and urgent as ever. Fearing that instant when exhaustion could come into play and blend all different concepts together into one messy nebula of twisted knowledge was approaching her, Dr. Ziegler left her office and ventured her body into the dimly lit corridors of Gibraltar. A brand new dawn was already fighting its way thought each window, encompassing every single object, every single wall in a warm orange hue that was only going to grow stronger, brighter, as minutes went by.
Using one of her elbows to push the last gate open, the good doctor abandoned the medical pavilion of the facility to finally meet the dawning outside. The cool, summer breeze caressed her cheeks and forehead, causing her eyelids to flutter minutely as her tired vision adjusted itself to the quiet image of a world still sleeping. As she walked past one of the many buildings that Gibraltar had to offer, an unexpected shadow caught her attention – the whimsical shape sitting down on the edge of roof, back and shoulders lay back against the base of the old antenna.
The man was an eclipse happening right before her mesmerized eyes: the black edges of his silhouette were being grazed by the timid morning lights, amber hues washed all over him, igniting all colors in a crescendo of orange emanating all around him; making him shine with a light of his own; his darkness receding and giving way to the warmer tones now enveloping him almost completely.
Hat resting beside him, the capricious light revolted all around him as if it was carefully trying to mimic the pristine shadows of what seemed to be a nearly-religious figure; his hair in the wind, the rolled up sleeves of his shirt completing the peaceful scene.
She climbed the ladder and stood behind him – there were many bottles resting all around the sleeping man; empty bottles. She smiled, even if involuntarily, as she recalled all those times she had tried to get him drunk only to fail miserably: the man was resistant; anyone could tell. He could drink for hours only to end up sober as a cold stone.
She took a step forward as silent as can be, afraid her sudden apparition could tear apart such a lovely sight; then kneeled down only inches away from his nearer side, her hands hovering in the impervious distance she could not bring herself to outrun. The good, tired doctor tugged her hair behind her ears as she realized that the capricious light had followed her; its bright luminescence traveling from one body to the other now only to succumb in the little gap of darkness separating her body from his.
Streams of light were swirling their way through his dancing locks, his chin almost meeting his chest; those intrepid rays of light sill enveloping his body, gravitating all around him, only stopping in the exact spot where his left arm should have been.
Moved by him and his communion of colors, Angela finally allowed her hands to rest on his broad shoulders. The cowboy finally awakening; revealing the old harmonica resting on his lap as his body shifted position for his brown eyes to meet her.
"So that was the tune I heard all night long," she began, remembering the old melody that had brushed her ears and kept her awake during such a long night.
Jesse offered her a half smile; his sleepy features suddenly becoming those of a small child that simply refused to leave their bed.
She moved near him and even if she knew they were no longer together; even if she knew he was now her patient, she couldn't help but to feel that rush of nostalgia suddenly invading her core: everything had changed – everyone had changed and, sadly, neither she or him were the exceptions.
The man outstretched his arm to pull her closer as the doctor sighed soundlessly; already admitting that the sacred bridge connecting doctor and patient had already been stained with the indelible marks of a feeling that had never truly forsaken her: what she felt for him was still alive; pulsating through her veins.
What she felt for him was still all colors of unethical.
She tried to fight the comforting embrace he offered but gave up fast and easy as Jesse leaned her head on his chest.
"I should be the one comforting you; not the other way around." She said, apologetically.
"Come now, Ange," he began as his arm tightened around her waist – the woman closed her eyes against his warm chest, the beating of his heart and his quiet breathing rocking her tenderly to sleep. Yet her back and her side were met by nothing but emptiness; the truncated limits and tattered edges of his amputated body could not hold her anymore, "you once belonged in these arms," he said, as if unable to address his actual physical condition.
As she lifted her chin for her eyes to meet his, she acknowledged what those arms felt like – home; she had just returned home.
The doctor planted a soft kiss on his lips before resting her head in the soft, inviting spot between his neck and his shoulder. She had just returned home yet the house was still broken – that missing arm was a missing wall, a hole in an otherwise solid structure.
Her mind went back to those prototypes – she wasn't just willing to reconstitute a diminished soldier; she was willing to rebuild her own broken house.
As he cradled her, and noticing how slumber had finally found its way inside her; the cowboy let his fingers caress her forehead and travel through her hair,
"You still do," he whispered as his back met the cold base of the antenna once more, closing his eyes to join her.