Unknown
She opened her eyes, once again confused as to where she was. The beeping of an EKG machine met her ears, and she wondered vaguely why she fell asleep in a patients' room – though she didn't remember doing any operations recently.
Then she remembered that she was the patient. The memories rolled over her – of bullets and blood and shock and pain – and she suddenly found it hard to breathe. She could have died. Only years of practice pulled her back out of her dark memories, and she forced herself to find something else to focus on.
She glanced around, taking in the unfamiliar room; she must be in Santa Marta. Unlike her patient rooms, this one had windows; apparently it was either really early or really late, since it was dark outside. Continuing to the other direction, she found Gabriel in the chair nearest her bed, eyes closed and arms crossed. She was surprised to find him there, considering he was the leader – the Commander – of their mission; wasn't he needed elsewhere? Still, he did tell her he'd be watching her back – even if he had to carry her away with bullet wounds.
Not that she blamed him. They couldn't have known that they were lying in wait in a different room – the room that, admittedly, Cooper cleared terribly – to sneak up on them. It had been the best call to make, even if it had ended in her injury.
Speaking of injury, she looked down towards her chest. There were bandages, so she was fairly certain that she had stitches, rather than being healed – which was odd, seeing how they should, at the very least, have had her Caduceus staff to heal her. She remembered Gabriel bringing it along – at least, she thought she did. That might have just been a dream.
She shifted, sparking a gasp of pain as her stitches tugged – yep, she definitely hadn't been healed – and she saw Gabriel's face twitch as if he'd heard her, even in his sleep. She bit her lip, trying to keep from waking him; surely he was tired. He'd probably been watching over her since she'd been placed in this room. Fortunately, whatever drugs they'd pumped into her dulled the pain quickly, as if it were only a bad memory.
Then the door opened, a nurse bustling in, and Gabriel practically flew out of his chair. Angela noticed that his guns were conspicuously missing – someone had probably confiscated them from him; understandably, considering when she'd walked into Jack's room in Naples he'd nearly shot her. That didn't stop him from trying to reach for them, but the nurse – who either had experienced his rough greeting before or had nerves of steel – ignored him to check on Angela.
"How are you feeling?" The woman asked when she saw Angela was awake.
"As well as expected." Angela told her, ignoring Gabriel for the moment to focus on the woman. The woman moved about, checking her vitals and making sure she was properly healthy. She was about to leave when Angela stopped her. "May I see my chart?" The woman vacillated, unsure whether it was appropriate to do such an action.
"Don't worry about that," Gabriel cut in, much to Angela's chagrin and the nurses' relief, "just send the doctor when he's awake." The nurse agreed, and quickly left the room before Angela could ask for anything else. The bedridden blonde glared at Gabriel.
"I don't see why I have to ask the doctor, seeing how I'm his boss." Gabriel shook his head and sat back down.
"Isn't it inappropriate or something for a doctor to deal with their own surgical care?" He asked, and she rolled her eyes. He was absolutely right, but she didn't care – she just wanted information, some semblance of control in this insanity her life had become.
"Reading my chart doesn't mean I'm interfering with their work." He just looked at her, and she made a face. "Okay, fine, I probably would have – but that doesn't make it inappropriate." More like a conflict of interest, but he didn't need to know that. "I am a doctor, too, you know." She huffed. "What I really want to know is why they gave me stitches instead of just patching me up with the healing stream."
"I doubt that's in your chart, Angela." He told her patiently, too patiently, and she sighed. She knew he was right, but she was trapped in this bed, unable to do anything, and it was extraordinarily frustrating.
"No, it wouldn't be." She replied after a long moment. "But the amount of stitches I have would." She retorted, inappropriately cheery – it was that or burst into tears, and she wasn't going to give into that if she could help it. Besides, she knew he was going to lecture her the moment she let this conversation die – because he'd been against her going into the field, because he was afraid of her getting hurt, because he'd carried her away with bullet holes.
"Really." He deadpanned, and she just sighed and looked away. She really didn't care how many stitches she had – the only thing that mattered was that she wasn't actively bleeding out. It was her need for control, which she completely lacked laying in this bed filled with stitches, that drove her need for her chart, and she was smart enough to realize that. There was a long, uncomfortable silence, before he finally spoke.
"Do you know how long they had you in surgery?" He asked quietly. Of course she didn't – she had been unconscious – but she could hazard a guess if she wanted. She considered making a quip about it being in her chart, but figured it would be better to stay silent and opted to shake her head instead. "Almost seven hours." While it wasn't terribly surprising, considering they had stitched up all of her wounds, it was longer than expected.
"I'm… sorry?" She said it as a question, mostly because she wasn't sure what he wanted from her. It wasn't her fault she got shot – that blame laid squarely on her shooters, or (if you reached a little) Cooper for clearing an unsafe room, or (if you reached a little more) Lewis standing between her and the door instead of the other way around, or (if you reached even further) his for telling her and Lewis to stay behind. It also wasn't her fault that the surgeon decided to stitch her shut when he had other tools at his disposal – but it wasn't like she had much of a say in that, seeing how she'd been unconscious. Not that she could truly blame the nameless doctor, either; he probably didn't know how to operate her staff.
"Seven hours, Angela." He repeated, as if she hadn't heard him. "I had to carry you, broken and bloody, out of that damn factory. You'd lost so much blood on the way in, I wasn't sure you'd come back out." Nothing she could say would take away the haunted look in his eyes, so Angela stayed silent. Besides, he wasn't looking for reassurances – he could see with his own eyes that she was fine. His eyes searched her face, looked at bandages that were no longer blood soaked, and was silent for so long that Angela wondered if she should say something.
"I didn't want this for you, Angela." His voice was thick with emotion. "When I heard those gun shots, when I saw you on the ground–" he broke off, covering his eyes with one hand and taking a harsh breath.
"Gabriel," she murmured, reaching one hand out as if to comfort – then overextended, sending pain through her chest and forcing her to pull back with a wince. He didn't seem to notice, and for that she was grateful; he was overwrought as it was.
"You were on the ground, blood everywhere. And I had to leave you there, on the ground between me and their guns." They both knew that was the right call – even when he'd appeared over her in that nightmare of a reality, she'd known he'd taken care of the danger before coming to her aid. It didn't make the choice any easier, though; she knew all about hard choices. His voice was harsh, the words were pouring out of him.
"You were bleeding out, and I'm not a doctor. Hell, I wasn't even a damn boy scout as a kid." He lifted his face back up, desperate eyes meeting her own. "You weren't supposed to get hurt." It wasn't really a confession if both of them knew that, was it? "I wanted to keep you safe. I was supposed to keep you safe. I wanted you behind me, so that, if anyone were to be hurt, it would be me." He lifted his gaze to hers, almost panicked. "Angela, I would never put you in danger, not willingly, not purposefully. Never."
"I know, Gabriel. I know." She found herself comforting him, voice gentle, which was an odd turn of the tables – she'd always expected that, after getting shot, she'd be the one in need of comfort. Then again, she'd always been one to put her needs behind those of others.
She hadn't realized how much it would shake him – and she wasn't sure that he had either.
"I gave you the order that nearly got you killed, Angela. I can't– that's not okay. It will never be okay." He ran a hand over his head. "I just wanted to keep you safe, out of the line of fire." He gave a harsh laugh. "If it hadn't been for that ridiculous looking suit of yours, you would be dead. There were four bullets buried in the damn thing – including one in the back." He fixed her with such a look, and she tried her best to look innocent because they both knew that it had happened before he gave the order to stay behind.
"My suit isn't ridiculous." She protested instead, but that so wasn't the point. She shifted, not knowing how to fix this, not when he was looking at her like his dog just died. She fixed bodies, not emotions or memories; she couldn't even help herself on that matter. Still, she had to try for his sake. Angela held out a hand, beckoning with her fingers for him to take it. Hesitantly he grasped her fingers, clutching them too-tightly, as if they were a lifeline.
"I am alive, Gabriel." She whispered firmly. "I am alive and I will be fine – once I get rid of these damned stitches – because you saved me." She gave his hand a weak shake; any firmer and she'd be gasping from pain and that would not help anything. "You don't always have to take a bullet to have my back, to save me, Gabriel." Angela gave him a pointed look. "In fact, please avoid getting shot as much as possible. I hate having you under my knife." He laughed again, brittle and short – but she'd gotten him to laugh, and that was something, wasn't it? They were quiet for some time, the only sound her heartbeat amplified by the EKG, their hands still clasped in a near-desperate grasp.
She worried her lip in the silence, thinking – and the EKG gave away her heart as it began to beat faster.
"Angela? Are you–" Gabriel's worried eyes flashed up to hers, spurred by the sudden increase of her heart.
"When you said this would end in heartbreak – you weren't talking about me, were you?" She whispered, cutting him off. It had made sense at the time, because of how personally she took all of her patients – but seeing him now, it made her wonder. He wasn't this panicked when Jack had been in her care – and two people had died under her hands the very same day. It might just be because he'd seen Jack hurt before, countless times before probably, but she wasn't sure that she believed it.
"No, I wasn't." He confessed in the growing silence, the words strangled and forced. The EKG machine amplified her shock, and she hated it for making her more transparent than normal. She squeezed his fingers tightly, unsure of what to say in the face of such a declaration.
She felt like they were on the edge of a knife, and she wasn't sure which way they were going to fall – which way she wanted them to fall.
One side was safe and the other was unknown.
"Angela, I can't–" he cut himself off, tearing his hand from hers to bury his face in both, and she ached for its loss.
"Gabriel–" she had no idea what to say, what to do, to make this situation any better. She knew what he wanted – for her to stay out of the field, but that wasn't a conversation either of them were up for – not with emotions so raw and open, not with three bullet holes in her chest and her blood on his clothes, not with her steadfast determination that was present even now. She hated that she was trapped in this stupid bed with stupid stitches when he was obviously hurting not five feet away from her.
"I won't let you die, Angela." The words were harsh and spoken into his hands, as if he were afraid of what he'd see should he look at her. She could expect no less a promise; after all, wasn't that the same promise she made every time she stepped into their operating rooms? The EKG machine announced her pounding heart for the world to hear. If she could risk it, she'd take the damn sensors off, but she didn't want anyone thinking she was dying – unless death by embarrassment counted – and barging in on this.
She came to a decision all at once and sat up, biting her lip against the twinge in her chest, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Angela nearly collapsed when she slid out of the bed – only a firm grasp on the rail kept her upright, but only barely – as her head swam and, inexplicably, her knees ached. Either she made a noise or he just chose that moment to look up.
"Angela, what in the– get back in bed!" He snapped anxiously, rising to his feet and reaching out carefully, as if afraid he'd break her. She was grateful for him standing – that made it so much easier to wrap her arms around him, but not too tightly because the IV was still in her arm and ouch that pulled, but the ache was worth it. He stiffened, arms raised above her carefully.
"I'm sorry I scared you." She whimpered, her cheek pressed against his chest – where she could feel his heart pounding as rapidly as her own. His arms settled around her slowly, one arm securely at her waist and the other hand on the crown of her head. "I was scared, too."
Her eyes welled – she'd nearly died – and he held her as her tears soaked his shirt.
"I've got you, Angela." He whispered, carefully supporting her form. "I've got you."
It wasn't until her knees buckled and threatened to collapse under her mere minutes later, with only his arm at her waist kept her upright, that he forced her back into bed, but lingering hands betrayed how loathe was to release her.
"Go back to sleep, Angela." He told her gruffly once she was safely tucked in and he'd pulled his hands back to himself. "We can talk about it when you're better." He turned to sit back down, and once he was settled, she cautiously held out one hand in silent query.
"Just until I fall asleep?" She whispered when he hesitated, her eyes showing how much she needed the tactile comfort. He nodded, dragging the chair forward so their joined hands could rest comfortably at her side on the bed.
There was no more room for words – not while her chest was filled with stitches and his was soaked with tears.
She was woken a second time by the doctors' arrival, Gabriel's hand still in hers. Once it was clear there was no real reason not to, Angela had her staff turned against her. Within a few hours she was up and moving about, though her chest would always bear faint lines as a reminder of what had happened in Venezuela.
They spent another four days in South America, though it wasn't nearly as violent as that first day. Gabriel and Angela – the air between them heavy with words unsaid – returned to the Venezuelan factory as soon as she was up for travel, so that they could help the agents left behind in protecting it until they were relieved by the military. The words were much too private to be said in the field, surrounded by practical strangers. Instead, she pretended like it didn't bother her – that she wasn't back in that factory, that she hadn't been shot three times (four if you counted the bullet that hadn't pierced her back), that she wasn't slowly crumbling to pieces inside.
She was an expert at hiding herself away, though, so no one – not even Gabriel – knew how frayed she was. She dove into her work, her duty, as if she hadn't been carried away with holes in both her body and her heart, as if her blood wasn't – even now – staining the ground in this factory they were defending, as if she weren't terrified even as she was determined. She looked Lewis over firmly, not believing he was fine until she saw it with her own eyes. She checked over hostages that had nowhere else to go and the other agents that had been left behind in her wake, and kept herself busy until it was time to go.
Somehow, the others didn't seem to know about her nightmares, even with the close quarters. She wasn't sure if they knew, but Gabriel had gotten to them – or if she'd somehow, miraculously, not alerted the entire team to her nighttime misery.
When they arrived back in Zürich, Jack and Ana were waiting for them. When Angela deplaned, a bag of gear hooked over one shoulder, Ana seized her and looked her over with careful eyes.
"Ana…?" The name escaped her lips hesitantly.
"We'd heard you were shot." Jack explained as the woman's face relaxed as she took in Angela's unbroken form.
"We were worried." The woman pulled her into a brief hug, and when she pulled back Angela smiled at the two of them. "Are you alright?"
"I'm just fine." She assured them both, glancing back towards Gabriel without thinking. "Gabriel got me to Santa Marta and they put me back together." She forced her voice to be cheery, because if she wasn't cheery she'd cry and she didn't need anyone else trying to pull her out of field work. It was hard enough handling Gabriel; she didn't need the other two on her case as well.
She walked back, Ana on one side and Jack on the other, leaving Gabriel to bring up the rear. They were talking, but she barely heard the words – somehow she managed to make appropriate sounds to keep the conversation flowing. Now that she was home, all she wanted to do was curl up in her bed. Angela knew she should go downstairs – to the infirmary, to make sure there wasn't anyone needing her attention; to the lab, to see if there had been any breakthroughs, to see if they needed a push in a new direction; or even to her office, where she could read more reports or continue more research. She had a duty to those below, but that didn't stop her from separating from the other three on the eighth floor. Citing exhaustion and the need to unpack from the last few days, she ducked off the elevator to hide herself away.
Angela wasn't surprised to find Gabriel pounding at her door almost five hours later – had it really been five hours already? She was honestly surprised he hadn't sought her out sooner, but she supposed he was taking care of his duties like she should have been. She knew she should go downstairs, bury herself in work, but she'd been moving and working – anything to ignore the fact that she was shot three times and all the blood and pain that came with it, to try to forget about the heavy words said in the dark, of wondering what would come next – for nearly a week, and she couldn't manage to force herself to get off the couch that she'd collapsed on.
She just stared at him, one hand on the door, while he looked her over – as if she'd have gotten hurt since he'd seen her in the elevator only a few hours ago. She'd be more indignant if it was anyone but Gabriel – he got a brief pass considering the events of the past week.
"No one had seen you in a while." He explained finally, and she could understand how that would be concerning, seeing how he and the others often had to shepherd her to bed – or to eat. Normally she'd have been downstairs, unpacking be damned – well, to be fair, she hadn't unpacked anything from the bag that was still in the middle of her floor – because there was work to be done. "I just wanted to make sure you were alright."
"I must have lost track of time." Angela tried to line she used so often, but it just came out tired. He raised an eyebrow.
"For five hours? In your room?" His tone was gentle. She knew he could see the red tint to her eyes that clearly gave away what she had been doing in her room. She shrugged helplessly, unable to think up even a lame excuse.
"Do you want to talk about it?" The familiar phrase dropped from his lips, low and intense. Angela nodded hesitantly, but made no move to let him in as she looked down towards their feet.
"I don't want to fight, Gabriel. Not tonight." She knew there would be a fight – it was absolutely inevitable, with her stubbornness and his protective streak and whatever it was that lay between them – but she wasn't up to dealing with it tonight.
"That's alright." He wasn't dumb – he was just as aware of the fight looming on the horizon – but even he knew better than to push his luck. "We'll just talk." He assured her. She nodded, a small, lifeless motion, and moved to the side to let him in.
They moved into the living area, with her curling up on one edge of the sofa and him sprawling on the other, leaving almost a full cushion between the two of them. She made no comment on his seating choice, instead shifting so that it was easier to look at him. Angela sat quietly, and he seemed content to wait for her to speak.
"Why do you do it?" She finally broke the silence, glancing over at him. He looked over at her questioningly; she didn't blame him, seeing how there were so many things should be referring to. "Why do you go into the field?" She amended. "You know why I want – need – to go, but you – you could stay here. Avoid getting hurt." Angela tore her gaze away to look at her hands.
"Would I sound full of myself if I said it's because I'm a better soldier than many of our agents?" She choked on a laugh, glancing towards him incredulously.
"No more than if I said I was a better doctor than most of the medical division." She admitted after a long moment of consideration. Even if she did seem to see him on the patient rosters just as often as the strike teams.
"Good – because it's true. Not really their fault, seeing how I got enhancements courtesy of the U.S. government, but still." Angela wasn't shocked – she'd seen his file. It was pretty locked down – she doubted anyone in the medical division aside from Gloria, the ex-head, knew about it.
"So, since I'm better solider I'm also a better pick. I can't be everywhere," he gave her a pointed look that she ignored, "but I – and Jack – go wherever we will do the most good. Lead the soldiers, keep as many alive as possible, take hits that others can't survive." He shrugged.
"I go into the field, take more bullets than probably I should, but the mission is a success. I live – because our medical staff is excellent," another pointed look, but one she preened under, "and so do our men." He glanced over at her appraisingly. "Does that answer your question?" Angela nodded slowly, before leaning back in the sofa.
"I didn't realize how much it hurts, getting shot." She murmured, a hand resting on her chest where one of the bullets had lodged. "Strange, isn't it? I've fixed up so many bullet holes, but I never really knew what they were like." Oh, she understood the abstract – pain medicine was doled out in varying doses, and she understood that they hurt – but there was understanding and there's understanding.
"I hope you aren't telling me you wanted to get shot." Gabriel growled. "I could have saved us both a lot of trouble." Angela shook her head.
"No, I didn't want to get shot." She shuddered, hand fisting over her chest before dropping. "I could have done without the experience." She admitted. Angela had been faced with the mortality of others – over and over and over again, waking and sleeping – but that was the first time she'd been faced with her own. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, forcing her mind to stay in the here-and-now, away from the factory and the bullets and the pain, opening them again suddenly when she felt Gabriel move to put his hand on her shoulder.
"Are you still with me?" He asked, watching her face carefully.
"I'm still here." She whispered, giving him a small smile. "For now, at least." He nodded and pulled his hand away, but he made no move to shift back down the sofa to where he had originated.
"Do you ever get used to it? The pain, I mean?" She glanced sidelong at him. "Because I've got to be honest – it was really awful."
"Getting shot isn't supposed to be a party, Angela." He retorted, exasperated. "It's supposed to fucking hurt – you know, so that you don't let it happen again."
"But you just said that you take more bullets than you should – and you took bullets for me on purpose – so answer my question." She pointed out, crossing her arms and hoping she didn't look like a petulant child. While she hoped to not get shot again, she was realistic enough to know it would probably happen again. She also knew she was skating thin ice, too close to a conversation that she couldn't have, but at the same time with information that she needed.
"I'm not a good judge for that, Angela," he finally responded, glaring down at the ground instead of her, "considering those enhancements we were talking about earlier." He turned to look at her. "You said you don't want to fight, and I'm trying to respect that – so drop this, please." She bit her lip but nodded all the same – she had realized she was playing with fire.
"Sorry, Gabriel." She murmured, pulling her knees up to wrap her arms around them. "I wasn't trying to upset you." He sighed.
"I know you weren't." He acknowledged, though his tone didn't have her convinced. Her lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, before sobering again.
"I keep dreaming about it." She muttered into her knees. He wanted a different topic, and if she couldn't talk about the wounds, she'd talk about her nightmares. Angela doubted he was surprised – she certainly wasn't. She had nightmares about everything – why wouldn't the scariest moment in her entire life be there, too? "I – they're really upsetting." She whispered, glancing over towards him, asking permission with her eyes – the first time she'd ever asked for permission to speak since joining Overwatch, silently or aloud.
"Whatever it is, Angela, it's alright." He reassured her. "I'll listen."
"You were there – you saved my life – in Venezuela, but in my dreams…" She hesitated; her memories of Venezuela after she was shot were scattered, but the night in the infirmary was still vivid, even now. She knew her words would upset him – they upset her – and she didn't want that.
"Tell me, Angela." His voice was low, and he shifted on the sofa again – she wasn't sure how, as she didn't look. Angela bit her lip hard and stared at the loveseat across from her.
"In my dreams, you aren't there." She admits, like it's some terrible crime instead of a nightmare that she has no control over. "You're dead or you're somewhere else, I don't really know. You're just absent, and I just know you aren't coming." Angela shrugs, trying to appear blasé but only looked small, tucked up as she is. "And then I have to patch myself up, or one of the others is trying, and sometimes I survive – and other times I bleed out in agony." She blew out a breath, closing her eyes against their sting.
"It's stupid – but you promised – just like I promised – and in my dreams – it just – it hurts, I'm dying – and you're not there." It comes out, broken and disjointed, barely even coherent through her babbling and the sobs in her throat, but it's there, ugly and wrong. She buries her face in her knees, hugging them tighter, because she can't look at him, can't bear to see if his eyes are still gentle or if they are harder, meaner, because he wasn't there in her dreams and what's to say that it wasn't an accurate reflection of reality? She dreams of the dead so often, and that's certainly fact – why wouldn't this be too?
And though she'd been hoping, she was still surprised when his arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled her against his side. Her arms loosen from the death grip on her knees and she twists, fisting hands in his shirt and pressing her face against him again – a move that almost feels natural.
"Go ahead, let it all out." He murmurs, hand stroking her hair gently, soothingly. "I've got you."
It's some time before she's calmed down again – but she stays where she is, one cheek pressed to his chest, listening to his lungs and heart. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's assessing them, but the rest of her is letting it soothe and ground her – a familiar sound against the overwhelming tides of terror and grief and panic.
"Gabriel?" She whispers thickly, voice muffled by his shirt.
"Yeah?" He rumbles back, the words echoing in her ears from above and below. She worries her lip.
"What are we doing?" It sounds stupid – childish, even – out loud, but it had been nagging her since Venezuela. His whole body – the arm around her, the chest under her – stiffens for a moment before he relaxes again.
"Well, from what I can tell," she already knew his response was going to be sarcastic, damn him, "we're sitting on a couch in your rooms." She rolled her eyes – a movement lost on him, since she still hadn't moved.
"You know that's not what I meant." He sighed – a big, heaving movement that made her head rise and fall with it.
"Angela, we don't need to do this." His tone was resigned, but she couldn't – wouldn't – accept that as an answer.
He'd taken the time to make sure she was settling well – and then making sure she'd take care of herself when it was obvious she would allow that to fall to the wayside. He kept her secrets – all of them, even the ones that could get him what he wanted most – and didn't make her feel ashamed of them. He'd taken bullets for her and put her back together when she was broken and bleeding and dying. And now – now he was holding her so carefully that she thought she might just break.
They had to fall over the edge, one way or the other.
"Please, Gabriel," she begged, "I can't – we can't – keep doing this – whatever this is. I feel like I'm going crazy." And maybe she was – maybe her nightmares had finally driven her over the edge, maybe she just didn't get the whole friend thing, maybe she was imagining everything – but she needed an answer.
"You're not crazy, Angela." He muttered, which still wasn't an answer. She shifted so that she could twist her face to glare up at him, still practically sprawled against him and unwilling – unable – to care that normally she'd be embarrassed.
"Gabriel." The word was a reproach and a plea wrapped in one, and he closed his eyes, lips moving silently for a moment before he looked down at her with resolve. Finally, maybe she'd get an answer.
"I care about you, Angela – more than I probably should." He murmured, cheeks reddening slightly. Of course he did – she knew that, or they wouldn't even be having this conversation.
"I care about you too, Gabriel," she replied, brows furrowed. He rolled his eyes upwards briefly.
"Dios mío; Angela, you're supposed to be the smart one," he muttered, before his eyes returned to her face. She bristled and opened her mouth to retort, but was swiftly cut off by his lips on hers. It was a brief kiss, just long enough to get his point across and to set her cheeks aflame. He pulled back to look down at her, a small smirk playing at his lips once he took in her face.
"Understand now?" She nodded dumbly, relieved that she wasn't crazy. Really, what was there to say? She sat there, twisted in the same mildly awkward angle, long enough for him to look concerned.
"Are you alright, Angela?" She wasn't quite sure that alright was an appropriate descriptor, but it would do; she nodded, clearing her throat self-consciously and licking her lips.
"What, ah, what happens now?" They had fallen into the unknown, and she wasn't sure where – or how – to step; the rules had changed but she hadn't been given a copy. He laughed, a low and rich sound full of self-derision and leaned back against her sofa.
"Nothing, Angela." He told her firmly, which only made her more confused. "Nothing changes; I don't expect anything from you." She just stared at him – she didn't even know where to begin, what to say, because she didn't even know what he was talking about. He didn't expect what, exactly? "What? I don't – Angela, I'm not trying to coerce you into doing something you don't want." Oh. He thought that – her face turned scarlet, but she powered on resolutely. She was an adult and she could have an adult conversation, even if it killed her.
"Gabriel, you're not coercing me into doing anything." She insisted, gripping his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her on the planet. He made a sound of disbelief, and if she were sitting apart she'd throw her hands up in annoyance.
"Angela–" he began, as if he could convince her that he was somehow in the wrong, but she cut him off.
"Gottverdammt, Gabriel, I'm not a child. I am capable of making up my own mind." And here they were, fighting, when it was the last thing she'd wanted to do tonight. At least it wasn't about going into the field, which was a small mercy – but she imagined they'd get there eventually.
"I never said you were a child, Angela." He growled back, meeting her glare with one of his own, his body stiff under her hands. "I just don't want–"
"But what if it's what I want?" She demanded fiercely. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. "Please, Gabriel," she said, confusion and longing in her voice, "what happens now?" He smiled down at her gently, shifting his weight slightly on the sofa beneath her.
"Right now, you relax and let me hold you." He told her gently. "We'll figure the rest out as we go." It wasn't the answer she wanted, but she wasn't foolish enough to expect a better one. She allowed him to draw her back down against his chest, doing as he said and relaxing against him.
"This doesn't change anything, does it? With Overwatch?" She asked, closing her eyes. "Because I'm still going to – probably – do things you don't like, and this – whatever this is – can't affect that." They would argue and fight – heavens knew they'd already done enough in the past and they had another argument slated for later in the week if he had his way – and she wasn't sure how this would, could, affect this.
"Of course it doesn't. You're still Dr. Ziegler and I'm still Commander Reyes." Angela sighed in relief. "We're still going to argue." He admitted with a sigh. "I still get to boss you around." He teased and she made a face.
"Is that what you've been doing all this time? I'd wondered." She retorted, and he chuckled.