sorry if this is unintelligible; I attempted trying to do...'automatic writing', as it were, and tried very hard to refrain from editing it afterwards to see how it ended up.

She's at it again.

Angela is standing in the doorway with an unspecified folder wedged between her arm and her side. She's holding her 'self medicating' mug up to her lip, but both of them know she's only pretending to take a sip to give her time to think. Obviously, "what the fuck are you still doing awake?" is not the best way to start a conversation, but at 3:17 in the morning, anything goes. Moira turns around in her chair to face her.

"Well...this is my room, Doctor Ziegler. Could you at least knock next time?"

"Absolutely not. I can only imagine what sort of..." she leans a little further into the room, clearly searching to see if Moira's rabbit was still alive. It was. "...deplorable things you could be up to in here."

"Rude..." (this was directed more to the rabbit-suspicion than her unnecessary hostility).

Angela nearly leaps across the room to throttle her. Takes another fake sip. And another. And another. And...another, until somehow she's full-on screaming at the other woman about who knows what.

Moira doesn't react, and instead idly stares at her -

chest rising, falling,

rising, falling,

rising, and falling -

while ignoring whatever horrible sounding words she must have been saying ("disgusting" and "unethical" and "illegal, above all").

It's funny, isn't it? How someone like Angela, how someone as 'kind' and 'compassionate', as her colleagues described her, could have such hate and vitriol inside of her. Had they seen this side of her? Did they know? Would they let her?

She's so cute when she's angry.

"Don't look at me like that," spoken with such a heavy dose of venom that it forces them both silent for more moments than either of them are comfortable with. Angela considers apologizing, but, as always, she does not. She drops the folder on Moira's desk, still not meeting her gaze, and is gone as quickly as she appeared.

"No use for this," she mumbles, promptly brushing it off her desk and into the garbage can next to it. The sound of it hitting the ground stings, and she winces. Hmm. Wouldn't it be nice to just steal the life from someone and give it to someone more deserving? - and this is promptly scrawled into her idea, O'Deorain. You've done it again.