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“I won’t be gone for long,” Angela squeezes his hand tightly and gives him a sad smile.
“A year is long,” grumbles Genji under his breath. The doctor lightly laughs, but the laugh quickly trails off when she sees the look of despair in his red eyes, brows furrowed.
“Nine months, Genji. I promise I’ll contact you as frequently as I can. And remember to take your medications. While I trust Dr. O’Deorain knows how to treat wounds… I- nevermind. Just don’t cause any trouble worth attending to.”
They share a knowing look, one of equal distaste towards that particular doctor. And a looming truth lingers in the air, a circumstance given to Genji ever since he officially joined Blackwatch. Angela solidifies it, “Genji, you and I both know I’m not your primary doctor anymore. You are in her care.”
He knows this. Knows that with every injury, he should be turning to Moira. But whenever the opportunity presents itself, he always chooses his favorite doctor first. Even on mandatory checkups with the Irish doctor, he sneaks into Angela’s office to have it done there -- and by some miracle from the hands of a certain angel, the record is officially cleared. Now, at least for nine months, he’s forced to do as he’s told.
“If she tries anything, contact me immediately,” the angel says firmly, squeezing his hand again. “And please, take care of yourself, at least for me.”
Genji’s gaze is down to the floor, so Angela reaches and gently guides his chin till his eyes meet hers. She’s always loved his eyes, not for its colors but for the exposed emotions that’re often suppressed by a facade of fierceness and apathy. “Promise me,” she almost whispers.
Fear, says his eyes. Longing and fear of losing something so dear all over again. Fear of that witch who probes and reaches into all of the wrong places, who mixes progress with ill-morality, who makes monsters instead of men.
Then he blinks, and it’s all masked by stoicism. “I’ll try.”
And he tries, tries so hard to stand firm as he watches her plane ascend into the sky. Angel wings returning to somewhere so far he doesn’t even attempt to reach. Nine months, he reminds himself. He can do nine months, yes. He’ll try, just as he promised.
However it’s hard, especially when the week rolls around and it’s checkup day. The witch stares at him with those intruding heterochromia eyes, dissecting his body like a weaponized experiment. But that’s what he is, isn’t he? A weapon reconstructed and rebuilt for a military organization, meant to execute and inhumanely operate in the shadier sides of Overwatch. He’s expendable, malleable, in need of upgrades and replaceable parts. Blades on his ankles, shurikens dug deep into his knuckles. Can he really criticize the doctor for conducting inhumane experiments when he himself isn’t one?
But deep down, somewhere beneath his understanding of this truth, he doesn’t want to accept it. He wants to be treated like a human being.
He grits his teeth in hatred when she stabs a needle into his skin, injecting who-knows-what to further her research. He clenches his jaw as she observes the way his joint bends in a dissecting way. He fights the urge to lash out when she shakes her head, thinking of other ways to improve his speed for battle purposes, to replace them with something sturdier or more flexible. He hates the way she comments about his organs and scarred skin, tone detached and uncaring.
Suddenly, loud thumping footsteps make their way down the hall, spurs and everything. Then, that recognizable cowboy is here, leaning against the doorframe.
“Ya done yet?” Cole asks in that deep voice laced with intimidation. It never works on Moira, but Genji appreciates the attempt.
“I need to recalibrate some of my personal records because someone has been avoiding my appointments,” Moira’s callous tone shares its distaste with her glare. “So please, excuse yourself.”
“Nope,” Cole says immediately, seating himself on a stool across from Genji who's currently sitting on the medical bed. Genji raises a brow, to which the cowboy winks in return.
Moira groans but knows its’ a losing battle to try to kick the stubborn man out. She’s got a tray in her hands now full of equipment obvious for drawing blood. Genji isn’t afraid of needles or seeing blood, but the thought of Moira being the one to conduct the procedure makes him anxious. Irritated. Aggressive.
“As long as you don’t overreact, it’ll be over before you blink,” the doctor bluntly states, reading Genji’s anxieties like an open book.
When Genji’s glare doesn’t subside and he jerks his arm away when she draws near, she rolls her eyes. “Would you prefer Mr. Unsanitary to do this,” flicking her head towards an offended Cole who’s immediately ready to launch a rebuttal — but she continues, “or a qualified professional?”
The cyborg squints at her, but again, he has to do what he’s told. And as he sits there, letting the doctor draw blood and offer questionable medications, the feeling of guilt eats at him. As Overwatch’s prized weapon where much expenses and efforts were fueled into him, he’s supposed to unconditionally obey. They own him, and he owes them everything. They gave him life, a new purpose, and a shelter that tries to act as his new makeshift home. Moira’s probably just trying to do her job, similar to Angela.
“Good. See how appointments are easier when you actually let me work.”
A hindrance , the thought crosses his mind. Genji’s being a hindrance the further he rejects Moira’s “aid.” Being a selfish man when he’s nothing but a weaponized project. He’s supposed to be probed, touched, altered. Supposed to obey and listen, just like how it was in the Shimada clan. He’s supposed to be involved in his father’s business, to carry on their legacy. To help his brother as the next heir. He can’t be a burden again like he was to Hanzo.
He can’t live, but only serve. That was the life he was brought into, and the life given to him again when he was reborn.
“You’re not satisfied with this, are you? The wires and all that metal. I can rebuild you into something better.”
He can’t say no, can he? He doesn’t have the right to say it, to speak for himself because a sword doesn’t speak but waits to be used and to be sharpened.
“If it’s a human body you want back, I have the capabilities of putting that into fruition.”
A sword has no desires. No wills or dreams. It bends for its master, protects them, kills for them. It’s a tool. It has a hilt meant for hands to hold around its neck, hold it firmly with malice or respect. Reaching hands, intruding hands, dark and sickly-
“Hey.”
Genji snaps back from his daze and widens his eyes. Cole’s suddenly close, and he’s got a tight grip around Moira’s wrist, preventing her hand from reaching any closer to Genji’s skin.
“That’s enough,” Cole continues, tone dark and commanding. “You’ve finished your shit right? Don’t touch him any further, doc.”
The doctor only glares at him before snapping her arm out of his grasp. She rubs idly at her wrist, soothing the mild pain from the tight grip. “He’s my patient. Our business doesn’t concern you.”
“It does ‘cause he’s my partner,” he counters and stands between her and Genji. The cyborg can't help but sit in awe.
Moira holds back the urge to spit how stupid that rebuttal personally sounds, and instead scoffs. She turns her back to them, storing the tubes of blood away, and flicks her hand in the air. “Dismissed, Shimada.”
It takes a moment for Genji to process her words, still awestruck by Cole’s intervention until hesitant gloved fingers brush against his wrist. He looks down at the gloved hand, then up towards Cole’s brown eyes that are asking for permission.
Permission, giving him the right to decide what he wants. To indulge into desires that do exist, that are valid, that make up his dreams and a life he deserves to have.
The cyborg finally nods and lets Cole take his hand, holding it firmly as they leave. And it’s here that Genji remembers Angela isn’t the only one who knows he just wants to be loved.