He strode through the quiet halls of Overwatch headquarters, each step measured like he was on a mission far more crucial than it really was. Down here, past the usual day-shift bustle, lighting had been lowered to a gentle hum, with only the occasional overhead fixture casting elongated shadows on the floor. Soft echoes of distant voices and footsteps underscored how late it was—most personnel had retreated to their quarters or minimal night duties.
To onlookers, Nathaniel Hawkins might have seemed calm, even purposeful. Inside, however, he was waging a small mental war. You can do this, he told himself for the fifth time. Just act normal. She said you can drop by whenever… didn't she? A memory flitted across his mind: Angela Ziegler's smile, warm and reassuring, telling him "We can catch up later, if that's all right with you." That invitation had felt too good to be true then—and it still did now.
At last, he turned a final corner that led directly to the medbay. The sign overhead read DR. A. ZIEGLER – MEDICAL RESEARCH, illuminating a modest patch of hallway. Standing at the threshold, Hawkins's nerves got the better of him. The confidence he'd worn like a uniform half a minute ago seemed to unravel with every breath. He fidgeted, wondering if maybe he should come back tomorrow. Last time, he reminded himself, I had something to say—some big gratitude speech. Now I just… want to see her. That realization felt simultaneously thrilling and terrifying.
He stared at the door. Was it weird just to show up for no real reason? He swallowed hard, pressed a hand flat against the seam of the door, and told himself: Screw it. If she's busy, she'll say so.
He keyed the panel. The door slid open with a quiet hiss.
A familiar antiseptic tinge hung in the air, but it wasn't as sharp as usual—Angela had likely finished any heavy procedures for the day. The ambient lighting inside was subdued, an after-hours glow that made everything feel more personal, less clinical. Machines hummed gently to themselves. Monitors cast small arcs of color on the walls.
At a terminal on the opposite side of the room stood Angela Ziegler, engrossed in a data display. Her back was turned to him. His heart jolted.
Without her customary lab coat or typical uniform, she wore just a fitted blouse and a pencil skirt that hugged her figure with professional neatness. Subtle heels lifted her posture. Her blonde hair spilled over her shoulders in a relaxed style, less formal than usual. She appeared lean and poised, and in the subdued light, the curve of her shoulders and legs drew Hawkins's gaze in ways he hadn't quite anticipated. Or let himself notice before. Stop staring, a voice in his mind chided, but it was too late—he'd already done a slow once-over, drinking in details he felt he absolutely shouldn't. Jesus, her skirt…
He caught sight of the gentle contour of her backside, the skirt accentuating her hips smoothly, and before he could fully register what he was doing, he was… checking her out. Realizing it hit him like a punch. Oh my God, I'm ogling her. A flash of guilt swept through him, scorching his cheeks. Angela wasn't just any random person—she was Doctor Ziegler, the one who'd saved his life, the woman he admired. She deserved more respect than for him to stand here like a hormone-addled nineteen-year-old creep. But that's exactly what you're acting like, he told himself, mortified. It suddenly felt too hot in the medbay, and he seriously considered stepping back out.
Yet for a second, he couldn't tear his eyes away from that posture, how she leaned forward slightly to tap a few commands on the terminal, the subtle shift in her stance. She's so beautiful. He realized with some pang that he'd almost grown used to her standard medical uniform. Seeing her like this, in more casual but still professional attire, hammered home how stunning she truly was. Have I just… forgotten? The question twisted his stomach with guilt. She'd always been striking, but now, without the uniform, it was easier to notice the woman behind the doctor's title. And that realization tied his insides in knots of shame and awe in equal measure.
But then Angela must have sensed a presence. She glanced over her shoulder, eyes landing on him. Immediate surprise flickered there, followed by an unmistakable warmth. "Nathaniel," she said, voice carrying across the hush. "I didn't hear you come in." She pivoted to face him fully, a small, curious smile forming. "Hi."
Just like that, any bravado Hawkins had tried to maintain fled, replaced by a rush of awkwardness—and relief. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, hey," he managed. "I—didn't mean to sneak up on you." He could still feel the heat in his face. Please let her not notice how red I am.
Angela shook her head, stepping away from the terminal. "No worries. I was focusing on these data logs." A shadow of concentration lingered on her features, but it softened into a welcoming grin. "It's nice to see you." She paused, gaze flicking around behind him. "No injuries this time, I hope?"
The question reminded him of the last time he'd sought her out with a real purpose. He swallowed. "None," he confirmed, trying to steady his voice. "I just…" A beat of silence as he realized he had zero plan. The memory of her in that pencil skirt, how he'd had no right to stare, still rattled him. "I—uh, I guess I wanted to see you."
Her brows rose, faint amusement lighting her features. "Oh?" She folded her arms gently, the movement drawing attention to the slim lines of her body again. Focus, Hawkins. "That's the entire reason?"
He let out an exhalation that was halfway a laugh. "Sounds dumb when you say it like that, but… yeah. I just—figured why not?"
Angela's lips quirked upward, and she let out a small laugh of her own—a quiet, melodic sound that made his heart stutter. "Well, I'm not complaining. Actually…" She took a small step closer, her head tilting. "I was about to go look for you too, if you can believe it."
He blinked. "Wait, you were?"
She nodded, a faint pink tinge creeping onto her cheeks. "Yes. I was trying to wrap up here first. I just thought it would be nice to catch up a bit. So you saved me a trip."
Hawkins's heart soared, all that guilt and tension flipping into excitement. She was going to find me. He wrestled down the grin that threatened to emerge. "Glad I could be helpful. I—yeah, definitely. We can talk, or…" He gestured vaguely. "Whatever. I'm free."
Angela observed him for a moment, eyes bright with curiosity. "Well, let's see." She glanced back at the terminal. "I need two minutes to log off these data entries. Give me that, then we can decide what to do?"
He nodded a bit too eagerly. "Sure, no rush." He moved to lean against a free counter, noticing again how her skirt hugged her form as she turned, stepping back to the monitor. A spike of heat flared in his cheeks, guilt returning. She's obviously a friend, someone I respect, not—just some beautiful doctor. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, forcibly directing his gaze at anything else: the line of monitors, a stethoscope on the table, anything. He had to get a grip.
He let his gaze wander around the medbay and immediately saw a side desk, partially cluttered with personal items that told him more about who Angela was beyond the doctor and brilliant scientist role: pictures pinned to a corkboard—her with Winston in a lab, a group shot with Torbjörn and Reinhardt smiling wide, a candid photo of Angela holding a small child in a hospital ward, a snapshot of young Angela in what looked like a casual sweater, standing next to an older couple who shared her blonde hair color—likely her parents, or maybe extended family. There were also some other personal touches on the desk as well: a half-bloomed orchid plant, a tiny, handcrafted figurine of her Valkyrie suit. Subtle reminders that she was more than a doctor—she was someone who cherished life in all its forms. Angela must have noticed where his attention drifted because she spoke up softly.
"I keep meaning to tidy that," she said. "But… it's nice having reminders of friends, family, old experiences. I guess it's a little messy."
Hawkins shook his head, smiling. "It's not messy—it's you. I like seeing… well, your personal side. Usually, I mostly see you in full doctor mode, healing or scanning me. This is… you."
A faint flush colored her cheeks again. "I suppose so." She paused, looking at him with a curious tilt to her brow. "You must have personal corners too—photos or knickknacks. Not that I've visited your quarters or anything."
He chuckled. "I do have a few pictures, yeah. But nothing as interesting. Some old flight patches, a snapshot of me with my father when I was too small to see over a cockpit dash, and the photo Ramos took of us after my first mission with Overwatch in Laos… that's about it. I guess… I never thought to fill my space with more."
She nodded, an empathetic look crossing her face. Perhaps remembering that father references were complicated territory for him. The hush threatened to return. Focus, Hawkins, he told himself. He was once again reminded that he hadn't planned beyond "I want to see her."
When she finished keying in her final notes, Angela turned back, tapping the terminal off. "All set," she announced. She brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then looked at him. "So… any preferences for what we do, if you really are free?"
He hesitated, thinking: I have zero plan. In the silence, Angela gave him a smile tinged with amusement, as if she knew he'd turned up spontaneously. Because I did, he admitted inwardly.
"Well," she said gently, "since we went for coffee last time at that little café, how about we actually try their dinner menu this time? I've been meaning to let you sample the real food there for ages."
Hawkins's face lit up. "That place we went a few weeks ago, right?" The memory of that cozy environment, soft lights, them talking until closing, floated back to him. "Yeah, I'd like that."
Angela's eyes flickered with satisfaction at his eager response. "All right, dinner it is." Her tone had an understated warmth, like she, too, remembered the long conversation that one evening. "The cuisine is really authentic. We never tried it last time, just the coffee, so it's about time."
"Sounds great," Hawkins said—then realized he sounded overly enthusiastic, and tried to rein it in. "I mean, yeah, sure. I can do that. That's, uh… good." Inside, he wanted to smack himself for the lame attempt at casualness.
She laughed softly at his effort, evidently not offended by the awkwardness. "Let me just tidy up a few things. Then I'm all yours." Her eyes widened slightly at her phrasing. "I mean, I'm free to go," she corrected with a light chuckle.
His ears felt hot again, but he managed a nod, ignoring his racing pulse. "Right. Cool. I'll just… wait over here."
Angela took a moment to power down a couple of monitors and lock a medicine cabinet. Hawkins, trying to appear calm, folded his arms and stood near the entrance. He could hardly keep from smiling at how ridiculous—but undeniably exciting—this was. No reason but to see her—and she was about to come find me, too. The notion sent a pleasant flutter through his stomach.
At last, Angela turned around, purse and datapad in hand. "Ready." She gave him that bright smile, the one that seemed to warm the entire medbay. "Shall we?"
Hawkins stepped aside so she could pass, catching the faint lavender note of her perfume. His heart thumped. "Yeah," he murmured, trying to keep his voice steady. "Lead the way."
And with that, they stepped back into the dim corridor, side by side, heading toward a quiet dinner that promised more than just food. It promised conversation, discovery, and maybe, just maybe, a step closer to understanding each other in ways he never thought possible.
Hawkins and Angela stepped away from the medbay doors and into the quieter corridors of Overwatch HQ. The residual hush of late-shift lull cradled them, overhead lights dimmed just enough to cast soft shadows along the walls. For a few steps, they didn't speak—just walked side by side, a pleasant undercurrent of warmth settling over them. Angela drew her sweater more snug around her shoulders; the temperature dropped slightly this time of night. Hawkins, still buoyed by the realization that she had also wanted to see him, couldn't help but sneak subtle glances at her, verifying for himself that this was real.
At the corridor's end, they exited through a side door that opened onto the main building's courtyard. A crisp evening breeze brushed past, rustling the well-kept hedges and scattering a few fallen leaves across the pathway. The sky overhead was a gentle wash of deeper blues tinged by faint starlight. Angela led the way around a corner, following a lamp-lit sidewalk that wound toward the facility gates.
"Well," Angela began, looking at him with a small spark of curiosity, "now that you're back, I'd love to hear more about your mission in Egypt. Everything I heard secondhand was… minimal." She paused thoughtfully. "I understand you had a unique flight training that turned into quite the rescue?"
Hawkins let out a short laugh, recalling the entire fiasco with a mixture of pride and lingering adrenaline. "Yeah, 'unique' is one way to put it. Initially, it was all about cross-training on a tilt-jet—the Orca. I was supposed to get better at heavy-lift and dropship maneuvers. Not exactly my usual fighter-jet territory."
She nodded. "Ray Wilkins was your instructor, right? The updates mentioned once you'd be practicing hovers and the like. I guess it turned… more intense?"
He exhaled, flashing back to the swirl of desert dust and the crumpled transport. "We were mid-flight—just a normal day of flying from one point to another—when we spotted an Egyptian Army truck that had flipped off a dirt road. We ended up landing to pull them out, then rushed them to Cairo for emergency treatment." His expression sobered. "One moment it was training drills, next moment it was life or death."
Angela gave him a sympathetic look, hugging her sweater. "That must've been terrifying."
He nodded. "It was. But it also gave me new perspective. I mean, I know Overwatch is about responding to crises anytime, anywhere. But to see it shift so fast—one minute we're practicing a stable hover, the next we're hauling injured soldiers with basically zero notice." He shook his head. "I've always respected medical roles, obviously, but that day hammered it home further. I realized a tiny fraction of what it's like for you, being prepared for emergencies out of nowhere."
They passed by a cluster of low garden lights, the walkway turning left toward a small gate. Angela laughed softly, but her eyes shone with compassion. "Out of nowhere is exactly how it feels sometimes. You do your job, expecting the routine, and in a blink, it's trauma, triage, life-or-death decisions." She paused, her voice dipping. "But it's worth it. Knowing you can help someone recover, or prevent the worst outcome, is what keeps me going."
Hawkins felt warmth spread in his chest. "Yeah, that's… definitely what I felt. That rescue hammered home the difference we can make." He managed a wry grin. "Even if it was just me and Ray Wilkins flailing around in a big tilt-jet. And Specialist Lindström was there too, filming my training. She ended up helping once we realized it was a real crisis. Sort of changed the vibe from a documentary to an actual rescue."
Angela smiled. "I'm glad. She seems very good at capturing Overwatch stories, but it can be… intense." A soft laugh escaped her. "At least you had the help you needed, right?"
He nodded. "We did. And it showed me a slice of your daily reality—like I said, that pivot from normal to full emergency mode. You're living that pivot all the time, which is… terrifying."
Angela lowered her gaze briefly, acceptance in her tone. "Terrifying, yes. But also validating, in a way. Every time a crisis ends well, you can't help feeling it was worth the adrenaline spike." She shot him a sidelong look, wryly adding, "Case in point: you, Nathaniel."
His cheeks warmed. "I'm not that special, c'mon. I was just another pilot in the medbay. You guys did all the saving."
She shook her head, voice soft but firm. "You keep saying that, and I'll keep disagreeing. The strength it took to come through everything you faced—Egypt or otherwise—never diminish that."
He swallowed, feeling a surge of gratitude and embarrassment. Unsure how to reply, he just nodded, letting a quiet "Thank you" slip out. Angela matched his nod, and the moment settled comfortably between them as they reached the main gates. A friendly Overwatch guard recognized them and waved them through, no hassle.
Outside the base perimeter, the local Swiss town's streets unwound in gentle slopes and neat sidewalks. Modest streetlights cast a gentle glow over cobblestone paths, and the mild evening air carried a faint aroma of bakery goods. Hawkins remembered precisely how to get to the café—a short five-minute stroll from HQ. The memory of their last time here returned: a late-night coffee, laughter about the weird decor, staying until near closing because neither wanted to leave. Except this time, they'd see the café for an actual meal, not just coffee.
The building itself was quaint, a single story with a warm, golden light shining through its front windows. A discreet sign reading "Geöffnet bis spät in die Nacht" hung by the door. Angela stepped forward, opening the door for him with a playful flourish. He chuckled, stepping inside to the gentle chime of the overhead bell. The interior was exactly as he remembered—rustic wooden tables, a few potted plants, an unobtrusive collection of paintings on the walls, and a handful of patrons scattered around, most finishing up late dinners or desserts.
His nose caught the swirl of comforting aromas: melted cheese, fresh bread, roasted onions. His stomach rumbled eagerly, reminding him that coffee alone was never enough last time. Angela gave him an amused smile, clearly hearing it. "Told you the food's good."
They found an empty table in a cozy corner. Hawkins quickly edged around it to pull out Angela's chair, copying something he'd only seen in old-fashioned movies. He bumped the edge lightly, earning a quiet snicker from her.
She settled in gracefully. "You're adorable when you try to be formal," she teased, eyes shining with humor.
He gave a half bow. "Just you wait—I can open doors, too. Maybe even send you a calling card by pigeon if we revert to complete tradition."
Angela laughed, a light musical sound that made Hawkins grin. They both sat, settling comfortably. The low hum of conversation from other guests gave them an intimate pocket of quiet. A waitress approached, handing them menus—simple laminated sheets with the café's offerings. Meanwhile, Angela poured them both water from a small carafe that sat on each table.
"You recommended this place last time because they serve actual Swiss cuisine, right?" Hawkins said, flipping open his menu. He quickly scanned the items: soups, salads, hearty comfort dishes, and a page of desserts.
"Yes," she nodded, leaning forward conspiratorially. "And now I must insist you try something more than coffee. So," she paused for effect, "you should definitely get älplermagronen—it's classic Swiss comfort food: pasta, potatoes, onions, cream, cheese… If you're a fan of carbs and cheese, it's perfect."
He sounded out the name, failing miserably: "Alper… mac… gah…?"
Angela giggled, her cheeks lighting with delight. "Älplermagronen," she said slowly, voice lilting with her endearing Swiss German accent. "Go on, try again."
He attempted it once more, equally clumsy. She threw back her head in laughter, the sparkle in her eyes contagious. "I might have to spend months teaching you Swiss German. Are you up for that challenge?"
He smirked. "I mean, if the reward is more cheesy dishes, sign me up. But maybe don't hold your breath."
With a grin, she patted his hand on the table. "I won't give up on you yet." Then, glancing back at the menu, she said, "I'll probably just get something lighter—a salad, maybe, to offset your upcoming cheese extravaganza."
He raised his eyebrows in playful judgment. "Salad? You sure you want to watch me devour the best Swiss dish of your life, while you nibble lettuce?"
Angela flicked him a mock-annoyed look. "It's not just lettuce; it's got chicken, and dressing, and plenty of toppings." Then she smiled. "It's more than enough for me. But I'm excited to see your reaction to the älplermagronen."
Hawkins closed his menu, nodding. "Done. Let's do it."
A few moments later, the waitress returned. Angela politely ordered a chicken salad with added vegetables in her native tongue, while Hawkins requested the fabled älplermagronen, albeit stumbling over the name. Angela tried to stifle another laugh as the waitress jotted it down, smiling sympathetically at his attempt. With the order placed, they were left to wait in the café's comfortable hush.
Angela rested her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers. "So," she said gently, "tell me more about that rescue flight. You said you realized a parallel to how medics handle sudden crises. Did it change how you feel about Overwatch at all?"
He considered the question. "Change how I feel? Maybe it reinforced the reasons I'm here. I was used to the idea that Overwatch might scramble me for a dogfight or something. But to see how quickly we pivot to rescue, how we can literally haul injured people out of nowhere—it's humbling. And yeah, it reminded me that your entire job is basically bracing for the unexpected. It made me empathize with your daily routine: scanning someone who shows up with God-knows-what injuries, forced to adapt on the spot."
Angela nodded in understanding. "Adaptation is the essence of it. People come in with everything from fractured limbs to exotic biochemical wounds. You can't go on autopilot. And sometimes, it's terrifying, but also unbelievably rewarding."
Hawkins softly smiled. "That resonates so strongly with the tilt-jet scenario. I guess that's the unique thread connecting all Overwatch fields—be it medical, pilot, or intel: the unexpected."
A small hush fell. Angela looked momentarily thoughtful, like she was considering his words deeply. Then she switched gears. "What about you, though, beyond Overwatch? Did you always want to be a pilot?"
He paused. The question was familiar, but it always carried weight. "Honestly… no. Not exactly." He inhaled, deciding to be open. "I lost my mom young. My dad and I were both reeling. His way of coping with my rebellious and angry ass was to push me into the Young Eagles program. Said it was the best future for me; a tradition of service, structure, and discipline. I was a sad and angry teenager, stuck in a grieving household, so I didn't feel I had a choice."
Angela's eyes flickered with empathy—and then a quiet anger. "That must have been so hard. You were… how old?"
"Thirteen, I think, when I first joined. The official training started at fourteen, but the prep was early." He made a wry face. "Most of me hated it, at first. But somewhere down the line, I also discovered I love flying. It was complicated, to say the least."
She exhaled, the hand near her glass curling into a small fist. "I'm sorry. That heartbreak for you—losing your mother—then being thrown into a uniform so soon… I can't imagine." Her face grew more indignant. "Frankly, it's so short-sighted. Children that young shouldn't be forced into military programs, grieving or not. That just… aggravates me. Militarization of youth is something I can never reconcile with."
Hawkins was taken aback by the fierceness in her tone. He recognized her righteous empathy, but it was surprising to see it directed so personally for him. "It's complicated," he admitted once more. "Dad was also grieving, doing what he knew. I've mostly made my peace with it."
Angela's cheeks flushed slightly, and she dropped her gaze. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't disparage your father's decisions. I just… I get emotional about these topics. People as young as you were… it feels so wrong."
He reached across the table, gently tapping her hand in reassurance. "I appreciate you caring. Honestly, it means a lot. And you're not entirely wrong. But in a weird way, I ended up here, serving something bigger than just a single national flag, making a real difference in the world, you know? I got to meet people like Winston, Reinhardt, Fareeha, and…" He paused, voice lowering, "you."
Her eyes flicked up, color flooding her cheeks. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Hawkins felt a rush of panic at how intimate it sounded. But then Angela softly smiled, lips parted in a quiet exhale. "I—thank you," she whispered.
The moment felt thick with unspoken emotion. He cleared his throat to ease the intensity and intimacy of the moment, trying to change the subject. "Uh… so yeah, if life had gone differently, maybe I'd never have joined the military. Maybe I'd be a veterinarian or something. I liked animals, used to dream of working at a zoo after my mom took me to San Diego Safari Park."
Angela blinked, then let out a bright laugh, the tension easing. "A veterinarian? For big African animals, I hope? I can picture you, Doctor Hawkins, chasing zebras with a tranquilizer."
He laughed, relief mixing with amusement. "Right? 'Lieutenant Vet Hawkins' does have a nice ring to it. But yeah, ironically, until you mentioned it just now, I forgot that was even a dream. Maybe it's not too late. Could be a post-Overwatch plan."
Angela's face lit with genuine delight. "I love that idea. You'd be a great vet. You have that gentle side behind all the pilot bravado."
He felt his cheeks heat. "We'll see. I guess, for now, Overwatch is enough."
"Overwatch is enough," she echoed softly, an unspoken camaraderie glimmering in her gaze.
Right then, their waitress returned, balancing two steaming plates. She set a big bowl of älplermagronen before Hawkins—pasta coils mixed with chunks of potato and onion, crowned in melted cheese—and placed a colorful chicken salad in front of Angela. The smell was mouthwatering.
Hawkins wasted no time taking a forkful, blowing on it slightly before tasting. Creamy, cheesy richness enveloped his tongue, the onion and potato adding a savory kick. He closed his eyes, moaning lightly in delight. "Oh, wow. This is… incredible."
Angela chuckled, clearly pleased. "I told you it's better than that coffee we had last time."
He nodded enthusiastically, busy scarfing a second bite. She settled into eating her salad, occasionally glancing up at him, clearly amused by his dramatic enjoyment. "You look so happy," she teased gently.
"Because it's delicious," he managed around a mouthful. "You, Doctor Angela Ziegler, have saved me from cafeteria boredom. Again."
She giggled, sampling her own plate. They ate in companionable silence for a moment, letting the café's ambiance embrace them. A soft lull of background chatter provided a cozy hum. On the walls, old photographs of Swiss landscapes offered scenic glimpses. Overhead, warm lights cast golden tones across their little table.
As he slowed down to savor each bite, Hawkins ventured, "I know we touched on it before, but… your parents, they were lost during the Omnic Crisis, right? That's… that's how you ended up dedicating yourself to medicine and Overwatch?"
Angela set her fork down gently, eyes flickering with an old sadness. "Yes. Both were doctors, actually." Her voice softened. She looked down at her glass, fingers curling slightly as she spoke. "They volunteered in conflict zones… eventually, it caught up with them. I was pretty young. I felt helpless, so I vowed I'd never stand by while people were suffering. Medicine was the direct route. Overwatch… well, they gave me the resources to affect real change globally."
Hawkins nodded, his heart aching at the weight behind her words. "I'm sorry. I get it though. That push to prevent others from feeling that kind of loss."
She offered a small, grateful smile. "Thank you. I—I don't talk about them often, but I owe them everything, including my passion for healing." She inhaled, visibly steadying her emotions. "Sometimes, Overwatch's chaos is overwhelming, but it's also fulfilling. Like your rescue. That's exactly why we do this."
He thought of the battered Egyptian soldiers, how he and Ray had scrambled to ferry them to safety. "Yeah, seeing it firsthand changed my perspective. At least a bit."
Angela smiled softly, then curiosity sparked in her expression. "You mentioned your father earlier—did you two ever reconcile properly before…?"
He hesitated. "We… got to a point of somewhat tolerating each other, maybe. Not the warmest father-son relationship, I know, but I think he realized at some point he was too hard on me. I realized he was hurting, too. We never fully bridged that gap, though, before I lost him as well."
Her hand crept across the table, resting near his. The subtle gesture spoke volumes of sympathy. "I'm sorry."
He breathed out. "Thanks. I've made peace with it, or tried to. The Air Force and the Young Eagles program shaped me, for better or worse. And I discovered my love for flying, which ultimately led me… here." His voice dropped, "And to people I'm genuinely thankful to know."
Angela's cheeks colored once more, likely recalling his earlier mention that meeting her was a bright side of everything. Instead of pressing it, she took another bite of her salad, and he followed suit with the pasta. A few comfortable beats passed, each lost in thought, enjoying the food.
Hawkins eventually teased, "Now I can't stop picturing you calling me 'Doctor Hawkins' as I chase giraffes."
Angela nearly choked on a laugh. "Well, if I have to call you Doctor for once, it'll be a nice change from you calling me Doc. Maybe after Overwatch, we both ditch the chaos and open a peaceful little veterinarian clinic."
He grinned widely. "Sure, you can handle the delicate surgeries, and I'll do the heavy-lift rescue for animals in remote areas. A perfect combination of skill sets."
She swatted his hand playfully. "Stop, you'll make me want to ditch the lab coat and join you on safari."
He quipped, "Hey, veterinarians wear lab coats, too. Don't have to ditch anything."
They burst into shared laughter, the tension replaced by an easy closeness. The conversation meandered from comedic visions of saving baby elephants to half-joking about rewriting Overwatch's deployment strategies to rescue wildlife. Whenever the laughter died, they'd catch each other's gaze and a warm hush would settle in, a testament to the deeper undercurrent linking them tonight.
Finally, Hawkins leaned back, letting his fork rest on the now nearly empty plate. "Man, that was good. Thanks for the recommendation."
Angela smiled, gathering the last bits of her salad. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I was worried your obsession with military rations might make real food too fancy."
He rolled his eyes. "Very funny. I was never obsessed with MREs… I just said some were better than others."
They shared a companionable grin.
The waitress soon approached, collecting plates, offering dessert menus. Angela cast an inquisitive glance at Hawkins, who mock-winced. "If I eat dessert now, I might have to roll back to HQ."
She giggled. "Let's spare you that fate." They declined dessert politely, deciding to end on a high note.
As the waitress slipped away, they found themselves alone with the ambient hum of the café's few patrons. Hawkins felt an almost tangible reluctance to let the moment end, but also a gentle contentment that for once, their conversation had gone beyond surface-level. They'd tackled missions, personal backstories, each other's families.
Angela gazed at him, lips curved in a soft smile. "That was… nice. It's not often I get to just sit and talk without, you know, hooking someone up to an IV or scanning vitals."
He chuckled. "Well, if me not being injured means more evenings like this, I'll gladly stay perfectly healthy forever."
She laughed openly, eyes crinkling, and for a moment, that intangible closeness blossomed again. Then she glanced at the time on her watch. "It's getting late. Should we head back? Or did you want to wander the block and burn off the cheese?"
He almost said yes to a walk—anything to extend this—but realistically, Overwatch had a mild curfew for entry logs. "We can do a short walk, then back. Don't want them to lock the gates," he joked.
Angela nodded. "Sounds good."
They settled the bill, splitting it despite Angela's half-hearted protests. Hawkins insisted on paying for the next outing. She teased that next time, he'd better pronounce älplermagronen perfectly, or pay double. They rose, stepping out into the tranquil Swiss night, hands bumping once in a near casual brush that sent a pleasant jolt through Hawkins's chest.
They strolled a short loop around the block, exchanging lighter conversation—funny Overwatch anecdotes, subtle teases about their first impressions of each other, Angela admitting she once found his wide-eyed stare endearing. Eventually, they curved back toward HQ, the warm glow of the campus lights beckoning.
Even as Hawkins recognized the outline of the facility's main building, he realized their evening was coming to a close. The conversation had been so natural, so fulfilling, that part of him didn't want it to end. But the comfortable interaction they'd built would carry over, hopefully, into more nights like this.
He shot her a playful grin as they approached the HQ doors. "Thanks for forcibly expanding my culinary horizon. Officially addicted to that pasta dish now."
Angela laughed, unlocking the door with a swipe of her clearance badge. "My evil plan to feed you real Swiss cooking is working. Next time, maybe Rösti. But I promise it's not all carbs and cheese… well, mostly it is," she admitted with a feigned guilty look.
Hawkins chuckled, stepping inside the HQ lobby. "I'll just do extra PT to make up for it. All worth it."
And with that, they re-entered Overwatch HQ, the corridor lights glowing in subdued nighttime mode. A gentle hush rested in the hall, perfect for the lingering sense of closeness that followed them. Angela slowed her pace, meeting his gaze with a content half-smile.
As they walked deeper into headquarters, Hawkins felt the warmth of their conversation lingering between them. The softly lit corridors felt different now, more inviting somehow. Angela moved easily at his side, occasionally glancing up with a small, knowing smile that spoke volumes. Now, as they passed the occasional posted guard or technician on a night shift, he tried not to beam outright. There was no official reason to be this happy—other than the fact that everything about tonight had surpassed his wildest hopes.
Angela walked at his side, her posture relaxed, though he detected hints of lingering energy in her movements, like she too felt that subtle current of contentment. Even here—where sterile floors and overhead lighting reminded them they were back under Overwatch's watchful roof—he sensed the shift in their dynamic from earlier in the day. They weren't just "the pilot" and "the doctor" now; they were two people who'd spent an evening discovering new layers in each other.
They passed a short row of offices, each with a glass panel in the door. Flickers of light and the faint hum of machines drifted under some thresholds, but no staff emerged to interrupt them. The hush of late evening gave the hallway a strangely intimate atmosphere, as though it were carved out just for them. Occasionally, Hawkins saw Angela glance over, and each time their eyes met, he felt that quiet spark.
They turned a corner, stepping onto the wide corridor that housed Overwatch's residential wing. The lights here were dimmer, designed to let night-shift personnel rest without harsh illumination. The walls were painted in a soothing neutral tone, dotted with occasional mission posters or Overwatch insignias. Hawkins recognized he was nearing the section where Angela's personal quarters were—he'd only visited once before, but he'd passed it enough times to know the general layout.
A gentle sigh escaped Angela's lips, but not one of fatigue—rather, it sounded like contentment. She looked at him, a small, private smile curving her mouth. "It's so quiet here at night, isn't it? You almost forget it can be so frantic during the day."
Hawkins nodded in agreement. "Right? It's like a different building after hours. Hard to believe half the world's crises might funnel through these halls in the daytime."
Angela chuckled softly. "Exactly. One moment you have medevac teams rushing in, triage stations set up along these corridors… then the next, it's calm as a library."
They continued walking. He noticed Angela slow her pace as they reached a side intersection, as if stalling for a few more seconds of conversation. He didn't mind. I'm definitely not in a rush, he mused, warmth flaring in his chest again. At length, they halted before a narrower corridor that branched away toward the private rooms. Angela looked up at him with a mix of delight and mild reluctance.
"Well," she said softly, "looks like we're close to my quarters." Her voice pitched low, as though she didn't want to break the hush around them. "I suppose this is where we part ways."
Hawkins gazed down the dim hallway. A numeric keypad and small Overwatch panel glowed near one of the doors in the distance, presumably hers. He swallowed, feeling that swirl of anticipation and faint disappointment that the night was ending. But also a sense of something building—some intangible closeness that had taken root tonight.
He turned back to her, letting out a quiet breath. "Yeah. I guess so." Another small hush settled, and he forced himself to speak again, a gentle laugh coloring his words. "I just—I can't believe how tonight turned out. I, uh… hope you don't regret letting me barge in on your free time."
Angela's eyes lit with amusement. "Regret it? Of course not. I've been meaning to catch you for ages, but the medbay's always too busy, or you're off on a mission. Tonight was… exactly what I needed."
He felt a surge of relief, a soft grin tugging at his mouth. "Good. Because I—I mean, I genuinely didn't plan anything. I only wanted to see you. Didn't realize it would lead to a full dinner and me butchering Swiss dish names."
She gave a playful roll of her eyes. "The Swiss dish was the highlight, you know. Your attempts at 'älplermagronen' might have caused me permanent comedic damage." She paused, letting her expression grow more reflective. "Still, I loved hearing about your rescue flight, how it shaped your thoughts on Overwatch, and… everything else. I feel like we both learned more about each other tonight."
He nodded, heart drumming. "We did," he admitted. "I… it's nice seeing you outside the uniform, too. Actually hearing about your life, your perspectives… not just 'Doctor Ziegler' telling me to keep still for a scan."
She laughed, a tinkling, melodic sound that made him want to linger forever. "I promise I don't bite outside of med checks. But yes, it's refreshing. Sometimes people treat me like I'm only here to patch them up. They forget I'm just a person with a fondness for cheese-laden dishes and a weird sense of humor."
Hawkins grinned widely. "Weird sense of humor, confirmed. I mean, you're dealing with me, after all."
They both laughed quietly. Then Angela sighed again, glancing down the hallway. "I suppose we should wrap it up, though. It's late, and I do have an early shift. The medbay never truly sleeps."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Right. I should get some rest too. But, um, I had a question—would it be weird if we do this more often? Like, find excuses to get dinner, or just… talk?"
Angela's expression turned bright, almost relieved. "That's not weird at all. I'd love that." Her voice dropped a fraction. "Sometimes, after a heavy day, it'd be nice to have an actual friend to decompress with. Or—someone beyond 'colleague' or 'patient.'"
"Definitely," he said, mustering his courage. "Let's do it, then."
She nodded, and then the hush returned, not awkward but charged with a sense of next steps. Her gaze flickered around the corridor, as if double-checking they were alone. Then she met his eyes once more. "Speaking of next time—maybe we can, I don't know, exchange phone numbers? Instead of relying on random hallway encounters or me rummaging through duty rosters. We can coordinate properly."
He felt a small jolt of excitement. "Absolutely, yes. I'd like that. I was going to suggest the same." He pulled out his Overwatch-issued phone, tapping quickly into the contact list. Angela retrieved hers from a pocket in her skirt, flipping it open to a data-scan app. With a beep, their devices exchanged information, the screen displaying a successful link. A moment later, Hawkins's phone vibrated with a text:
Angela Ziegler: Test message—now you can't avoid me :)
He chuckled, reading it, then typed a quick reply: Would never dream of avoiding you. She giggled at his response, tucking her phone away.
He stood there, phone in hand, his thoughts swirling. It was such a simple step—exchanging numbers—but it felt like forging a new channel directly into each other's personal space. They wouldn't be limited to chance encounters or official Overwatch comm lines. They could talk any time, about anything. Even that small step might anchor them deeper in each other's everyday lives.
He realized Angela was studying him with quiet fondness. "So I guess we're all set," she said gently. "Now I can spam you with messages about Swiss recipes, and you can send me random updates from your flight deck."
"Deal," he said with mock solemnity. "If I have to carry the weight of your rösti cravings at two in the morning, I gladly will."
She laughed under her breath, then a short silence returned, more charged than before. Hawkins's gaze flicked to the keypad on her door. Another second or two of lingering, and he might do something reckless like ask for a hug or… well, something that might be too forward. But he also sensed a warmth in her eyes, as though she, too, was reluctant to vanish behind that door.
Eventually, Angela exhaled softly, stepping back a half-step toward her door. "Thank you again, Nathaniel," she murmured, voice quiet in the still corridor. "For just… being here tonight. I had no idea I needed that, but I did."
He swallowed. "Me too. I… I never planned to talk about half the stuff we touched on. But I'm glad I did." A small smile twitched on his lips. "And I'm so glad I got to see Angela, who laughs at my butchered Swiss words and is also super passionate about, you know, saving everyone."
She flushed, fingertips briefly brushing the edge of her sleeve, betraying a momentary shyness he'd rarely seen in her. "I'll always care about saving people, but yeah, it's nice to be just Angela sometimes."
Their eyes locked, an unspoken moment passing. Hawkins felt the urge to close the distance, to show some gesture of how much this meant to him, but fear of overstepping held him back. He settled for letting his voice soften, a gentle sincerity lacing his words. "I hope we do this again soon."
Angela's hand brushed the keypad behind her, as though preparing to open the door but hesitating. "We will," she said firmly, a warm promise in her tone. "I'll text you. Or you text me. Or both. We can plan something not so spontaneous. Maybe I'll keep teaching you about Swiss food. Or we can explore your veterinarian hopes and dreams, who knows."
He laughed, both of them stepping a hair closer. "Hey, no mocking my potential future career. It's never too late, right?"
Her eyes gleamed. "Never." Then, inhaling softly, she nodded. "Goodnight, Nathaniel."
He swore his heart did a flip at the way she said his name. "Goodnight, Angela."
With that final exchange, she turned to the door panel, pressing her ID card, and the door slid open. Warm lamplight spilled from inside. She hovered in the threshold a moment, offering him one last lingering look—something halfway between gratitude and the beginnings of something more. Then she stepped in, letting the door quietly slide shut behind her.
Hawkins stood in the hallway, hearing the distant hum of a ventilation system kick on somewhere overhead. Angela's final lingering look replayed in his mind, a quiet warmth settling in his chest as the soft sound faded back into silence. This day… I never expected it to end like this. Part of him wanted to grin like an idiot, part of him felt oddly calm—like a puzzle piece had clicked into place. She'd asked for his number, wanted more dinners, and seemed genuinely excited to see him again.
He turned away, phone still clutched in his hand, and headed down the corridor to his own quarters. On autopilot, he scanned his ID at the small elevator kiosk. As the elevator descended one level to his bunk area, he found himself pulling up Angela's contact info in his phone, reading the name: Angela Ziegler. It felt surreal. He typed a quick message:
Nathaniel Hawkins: Thanks again for tonight. Everything was perfect. Sleep well :)
He hovered, thumb quivering over the "Send" button, then exhaled, tapping it. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped out into the dim hall. A moment later, his phone vibrated. He checked:
Angela Ziegler: I feel the same way. You sleep well too. Talk soon?
A broad grin broke across his face. Talk soon. He walked the final few meters to his door, keying it open. Inside, his quarters were quiet and unremarkable: a desk, a small bed, a shelf of flight manuals, a pinned photo or two. Yet tonight, the space felt lighter, friendlier. He flicked on the small reading lamp, set his phone on the desk, and collapsed onto the edge of his bed with a sigh of contentment.
He let his mind roam: images of Angela leaning across the café table, that proud glint in her eyes when she spoke about saving lives, the outraged empathy she showed about his father's decisions, the sweet relief in her laugh. And how, at the end, she'd basically said she wanted more nights like this. So do I, he told himself, heart swelling. He barely recognized the pilot who'd walked into the medbay hours earlier, so uncertain.
Kicking off his boots, Hawkins decided he'd do a quick shower, maybe glance at tomorrow's flight schedule, then crash for the night. But the evening's conversation refused to let him go. As he peeled off his jacket, he felt the phone vibrate again. Another short text from Angela:
Angela Ziegler: Thanks for pulling my chair out tonight, Gentleman Hawkins. I won't forget that ;) Sweet dreams.
He laughed softly at the screen, typing a playful reply:
Nathaniel Hawkins: Anytime, Dr. "Salad Only" Ziegler. Next time, I'm opening every door for you. Goodnight for real this time.
He locked the phone, set it aside, and lay back on the bed, a final grin stretching across his face. With that last trace of contact, the entire day crystallized into something he knew he'd remember for a long while—a day that started aimlessly, ended with them forging deeper connections. No injuries, no mission brief, just two Overwatch members discovering how easily they could slip into each other's personal orbits outside official duties.
For once, he was thankful for the restful quiet of the HQ at night. Tomorrow, he knew, Overwatch's relentless demands would return—flight checks, possible alerts, new assignments. But right now, tonight belonged to them, untouched by the chaos that waited beyond—an unplanned dinner that drew them closer. And that knowledge let him drift off with a heart brimming with contentment.