Speed prompt, written in 121 minutes. Please note this story isn't connected to the others. Well, not much :3

It was after midnight when there was a gentle knock on my motel door.

I'd long since changed into my old comfy nightgown and tucked myself into bed with a good book, and it was a surprise that anyone would visit this late at night. Perhaps someone had been nursing an injury they'd been hesitant to tell me about after the battle…? Mercenaries were always full of such false bravado around each other, and it was only when they were alone at night that their wounds began to ache.

I put a bookmark in and set my book aside, climbing out of bed to answer the door. I hoped it wasn't too serious; Winston slept very soundly and he was the one guarding my suit and staff. If someone was hurt, I'd have to nurse a wound the old-fashioned way.

I wasn't sure who I expected, but I was definitely surprised to see Fareeha on the other side of the door. She'd been at dinner with the rest of the team and I was reasonably certain she wasn't wounded—I'd been watching her a little too closely, and not for very appropriate reasons. Not that I'd really know for certain, though—she never let me examine her after the battle and she was very secretive about any injuries when I suspected she might have sustained them. Soldiers, I'd thought dryly, secretly rolling my eyes at how hopeless they were at seeking appropriate medical help.

But… if she wasn't wounded, and she was at my door at midnight…? I wondered if I might end up going to bed with more than just a good book, after all…

She didn't speak straight away. "I've thrown my shoulder," she said eventually, as if it was a grievous injury.

That didn't seem like the sort of thing a soldier would bother much with—I wondered if it was just a opener to get in my room? "Let me take a look," I told her in case she was injured, showing her past me and gesturing towards my bed. It was the only thing on the room to sit on.

She sat somewhat hesitantly on the edge of it, eyes darting down to my nightgown. "I woke you up," she said in a tone of voice that seemed to mean, 'I am a terrible person and I'm bothering you'.

I shook my head as I walked around her. "I was reading, and it's not bother." I smiled at her before I knelt one knee behind her on the bed. "And, besides, it's what I do."

Just as I reached towards her shoulders and she said with some urgency, "My right shoulder!"

That was odd. "Okay…" I answered carefully, wondering if she'd had bad experiences with other medical staff before? It would certainly explain her reluctance to receive a check-over after battle.

I would have normally asked my patients to remove their clothing before an examination, but Fareeha seemed the brink of saying 'forget it!' and running off anyway, so I left it in case her injury was serious and this was the only opportunity I got to treat it. I could feel well enough with her thin sweatshirt on, I supposed.

I probed her joint—she flinched, and it did seem quite swollen, which meant I might just end up going to bed with my book, after all. It was hard to tell, though, because she was quite muscular and without looking at the skin, I had difficult in determining if it was fluid or muscle. I spent some time trying to figure it out anyway, isolating the tenderness to the Supraspinatus tendon. Just as a matter of course, I reached across to her left should so I could feel the thickness there and determine how swollen her right shoulder was by comparis—

"Stop!" she shouted much louder than she needed to, and shoved my hand away, recoiling like I'd been holding an axe over her. "I didn't say you could touch there!"

I threw my hands up in a 'yield' position, my heart pounding. "Alright, alright!" I told her, stunned by her reaction. My first thought was 'past abuse', so I trod carefully. "It's alright, I won't touch you anywhere you don't want to be touched," I told her as slowly and as calmly. "I was just wanted to get a comparison between your two shoulders so I could see how swollen this one is, that's all."

That didn't calm her. "Well you can't!" she spat, and then looked so conflicted I thought she was going to either shout at me again or cry.

I wasn't sure how to proceed with her—I wanted to consider my own safety, but I also wanted to help her if she was in pain, and with whatever pain ailed her—so I just lowered my arms slowly and waited for her next move.

When she saw how nervous I was, she swore at herself in Arabic and stood anxiously, taking a breath and staring at me with the intense concentration of someone who was focusing on not exploding with emotion. She didn't burst forth with it, though. She just pushed it all back down inside her looking so ashamed, and then spun, marching towards the door.

She shouldn't leave like this. She wasn't in a good place. "Fareeha—!"

She stopped in place at the door, waiting.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

I took a careful breath. Definitely past abuse, I thought. I couldn't think of any other explanation for all those emotions and all that guilt. "Please—Let me look at your shoulder. I promise I'll ask before touching any other part of you."

She flinched like I'd hit her, and then turned back towards me, such intensity on her face. She looked so tormented, so angry with herself. When she very suddenly took three fast, heavy steps towards me for a moment I thought she might throw me against the wall—I couldn't have stopped her—or struck me, or, well, anything, really—but in an instant she was up against me and—

She kissed me. Ferociously. Passionately. The sort of kiss you'd give someone who you'd been desperate to kiss for a long time, and even though I'd certainly thought about her that way and it was most welcome, the shock of it all made it difficult for me to enjoy the embrace.

Maybe it's not abuse, maybe she can't accept she likes women? I wondered as she pulled me up against her hard body. I kept my hands by my sides; I was too scared to touch any of the places I'd admired on her because of how she'd nearly bitten my head off just for touching her shoulder.

She noticed, and pulled away, her deep frown returning. "God, I'm sorry! I'm sorry I—"

"You don't need to apologise, honestly you don't," I reassured her quickly, and then paused. "I just… wish I knew what was wrong, Fareeha. You're obviously really upset and I wish you'd tell me? Please, I want to help."

Her face hardened. "You wouldn't help me if I told you. You'd hate me."

My eyebrows jumped. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

Maybe it was abuse? "I think you'd be surprised." I took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Try me. Helping is what I do."

For a moment she stood there, brow wavering, lungs full, faltering and on the brink of letting it all out. She's going to say it, I realised, hanging on each quiver of her perfect lips. Say it, Fareeha. Say it. I truly thought she was going to, but then something snapped in her and she turned her head roughly away and closed up again. "No," she said finally. "No, no I can't." She spun and made toward the door again, and, instinctively, I reached out to stop her.

I shouldn't have, not after what happened before. But I did: I grabbed her elbow gently, expecting nothing more than for it to stop her. It didn't. The fabric slid easily of an unexpectedly smooth surface underneath and I ended up with a handful of it as it pulled down off her left shoulder—

—to reveal the steel cog and alloy sheath of a mechanical joint.

We both looked at it. Through the top of her jumper, I could see it lead down through a prosthetic arm.

I suddenly understood. "You're part-robot," I realised aloud. But why would she hide that? It wasn't so uncommon.

She snatched her jumper back and made a beeline for the door again.

I used more force this time. "There's nothing wrong with that, Fareeha!" I was saying as I tried to stop her. "Lots of people are! It's a miracle of modern medicine that we can replace lost limbs with brand new—"

She struggled with me; from what I knew of robots she could easily have crushed me with one hand but she was trying to be gentle. "I'm part-robot!" she told me, her voice rising. "I'm a robot! I'm omnic! Don't you get it?"

I didn't—?

She was getting more emotional. "You and the rest of Overwatch fought us! You fought against us for decades and we slaughtered millions and millions of innocent—"

"Did you kill them?" I asked her. "Did you kill all those people with—"

"With these hands?" She held them up. "Maybe! Who knows what they belonged to before they were attached to me. I could have been anything before I become this mongrel of—"

I held her hands by her sides, shouting over her. "The war is over, Fareeha!" I let that hang for a moment. "The war is over! And when we fought it, we fought against violent killing machines who wanted to destroy humanity," I told her. "Not against amputees with prosthetic limbs who dream of saving the world. Not against people who want to keep on fighting for justice even though they've lost limbs. Not against you."

That struck her to the core; I saw her eyes fill with tears.

I kissed her, this time. I couldn't help it; she was in so much pain. Her lips felt soft and human, the tears spilling down her cheeks were human. There was a human heart beating in that chest; I could feel it as I put my and to her torso. That pain was so human, and I ached to relieve it; to piece by piece take the clothing off her and show her she could feel human even if part of her wasn't. Now now, though: not while she was crying. Not while she hated the mechanical parts of herself and boiled with self-loathing. But, god, I yearned to heal that pain.

I didn't stop kissing her until I could feel her begin to relax, until the tears had stopped rolling off her chin. I only pulled away when I was sure she wouldn't think I was trying to escape her.

I touched her mechanical shoulder. "Do you think I mind this?" I murmured.

She couldn't look at me. "It's more than just that arm."

Oh. Well, it didn't change anything. If anything, it made me even more curious about her. "You can show me, it's alright," I promised her. No sooner had I said that, she immediately tensed up in panic again and I realised it had sounded like an invitation. I put a quietening hand on her stomach. "Not now. I'm just saying when you want to, you can feel safe to."

She swallowed, still looking down between us, her long black lashes veiling her lovely doe eyes. God, she was beautiful. She was so beautiful. How could she possibly think she was anything but? In any other circumstance, I would have kissed her again. Not now, though.

It took her a moment to relax again. "Thank you," she murmured. I could barely hear her, and she was holding onto my forearms so tightly that I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her everything was going to be okay.

"I'm sorry about…" she let that sentence trail off, lifting her eyes from the floor and looking hesitantly up at me. "Will you fix my shoulder? It's been aching for hours, I can't sleep…"

I exhaled with relief, giving her a smile and a gentle nod.

She sat on the edge of my bed again, and finally—finally—relaxed as I tended to her.