#birthday fave fics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

Water (Is All Around)

Beneath the open sky, there is little risk of the suffocating feeling that sometimes accompanies trying to speak to one another without stumbling over the past. Here there is sun, and clean air, and the beauty of the garden. This is not a tomb.

Fandom: Overwatch Rating: T Category: Gen Characters: Ana, Fareeha Warnings: N/A A fic in which Ana struggles to understand that, although Fareeha does not need her like she used to, she still wants to have a mother. Also on ao3

Some people are uniquely nurturing, know from childhood that they want to be a parent, feel an innate desire to care for others, to cradle their younger siblings and rock to sleep their dolls.

Ana was not one of those children.

She had no interest in her brother until he was old enough to climb trees with her, and while her sisters imagined they were mothers when they played house, she used a toy purse as a briefcase and declared she was going off to work. It was not that she had no interest in traditionally feminine play—she was happy to be a princess with her friends, hosted tea parties for her teddy bears, and never was so still and quiet as when her grandmother taught her to braid and, later, embroider—but she never enjoyed taking care of babies, traded her realistic crying doll to her brother for his building blocks as soon as her mother’s back was turned.

She never imagined she would be a parent, and certainly never thought that she might enjoy it. She had to grow into thinking of herself as a mother, as a person capable of nurturing.

But, much to her surprise, she did. She never liked the swaddling, or the nursing, or even the new baby smell, but she loved the weight of Fareeha falling asleep on her chest, knowing that her daughter felt safest with her, felt immense pride with each new milestone her daughter hit, watching her crawl, and walk, and eventually run, and felt privileged to be able to see the world in a whole new way, experiencing Fareeha’s wonder at each new thing, having her view reframed by a thousand different questions. Motherhood was not what she thought it would be, was not just caretaking, but was the shaping of a new person, the hope of a better future with people like her daughter, curious and compassionate and capable at the helm. It was a chance to build a more peaceful world, and to get to know and to shape a marvelous human being, one that she imagined she would be happy to know even if Fareeha was not her daughter. It was wonderful.

(Yet it did not feel natural, being a mother. For a time, she did not even think of motherhood as something she chose, merely as something that happened to her. She got pregnant, so she got married and had the baby. That was just what one did, what she had been raised to think of as the only option. It was not until her second pregnancy that she realized that she had always thought of Fareeha as her baby, even before the test was confirmed positive, that she had been a source of some anxiety, yes, but never distress. The second pregnancy was only ever a fetus, a headache, a problem for her to solve, but through it she realized she had the ability to choose differently, that keeping her first pregnancy had seemed like a foregone conclusion not because it was what she was programmed to think, but because she had accepted Fareeha as her baby so quickly that it seemed inevitable that she would have her. If she had wanted not to be pregnant then, she could have, would have, chosen differently—because the second time, the second pregnancy, she did.)

It was also difficult, in a way she could not have anticipated.

When Ana had rebelled, as a teenager, cutting her hair short and dressing in men’s clothes, going out with the ‘wrong kind’ of boys and declaring that she did not want to ever get married, her mother had wished that she would raise a daughter like herself, outspoken and all too quick to question authority, eager to go down a different path than the one her parents set before her; at the time, Ana thought such a thing would never happen. She did not believe she wanted children, for one, and knew, too, that she would not place such rigid expectations on them, would not ask a daughter to be quiet and polite, to wear her hair long and be interested in boys, but not too interested, would not think that her baby’s sex determined their future or their interests, would let any child of hers be whom they wished to be. She thought—she knew—she would be different.

In many ways, she was. When Fareeha told her, at twelve years old, that she did not like wearing dresses, wanted to be able to wear dress pants and a nice shirt for a family photo instead, Ana never objected, told her she could wear whatever she liked as long as she at least made herself presentable. When one of Ana’s sisters observed that Fareeha might be going down the wrong path by showing too much interest in other girls, Ana defended her, said that Fareeha was welcome to love whom she chose, and was no less a good daughter because of it—and she was careful to avoid Fareeha being alone with certain parts of their extended family ever again, was always in the room to ensure she could shut down those conversations before they began. When Fareeha wanted to try rock climbing, Ana told her it was dangerous and to be careful, but let her do it, because she knew she could not shield her daughter from every risk, knew what it was to feel smothered by a mother’s overprotectiveness.

And yet, when Fareeha told her she wanted to be a soldier, Ana did not for a second entertain the notion.

She knew, of course, that she should allow her daughter to choose her future for herself, knew well the consequences of doing otherwise, experienced them firsthand in her own relationship with her mother, the distance that grew between them when she was told whom and how to be—but she felt that to let Fareeha go to war was even worse a fate. It would hurt Fareeha, yes, to not be allowed to live out her dreams, but it would surely be worse for her to die. One day, she would come to understand it, would be grateful that her her mother did not allow her to experience war.

(That Fareeha had already experienced war, Ana did not consider. Yes, she was not on the frontlines, but she grew up never knowing when, and if, Ana would return, knew already that fear, and had seen the damage it did to Ana, had felt it in the way she returned a different woman, her mother made a stranger. Fareeha’s choice was more informed than Ana gave her credit for, and Ana had inadvertently already exposed her to the same things she then attempted to shield Fareeha from—or, so Fareeha would later explain was her thinking, at the time. The truth, as they would eventually come to agree upon it, was somewhere in between, that there was a unique damage to the soul that killing would bring her, and Ana had kept her from that, but she was not so shielded from the Crisis and its fallout that she was the innocent Ana believed her to be. She was idealistic, but not entirely naïve.)

In hindsight, it is easy for Ana to see that she should have known better. Faced with the same choice she set before her daughter, to obey or to leave, she defied her mother’s wishes, so it seems obvious, now, that Fareeha would have done the same—they are not so different, after all—but their relationship preceding Ana’s ultimatum was far better, and so she thought, hoped, that it would make the difference, that Fareeha would choose her approval, their bond, over her own wishes.

She did not.

Ana understands why that was, has come to see the ways in which in her absence, gone as she was so long at war, Fareeha came to idolize a fictional version of her, to buy into the myth that so many repeated—that Ana was a hero—and so to believe that in enlisting too someday, she would be honoring a legacy. That idealized Ana, the one who only ever existed in other people’s accounts of her, was in some ways more present in Fareeha’s day to day life than Ana, the mother, flawed and wounded by war. It is only natural that Fareeha would choose to honor the Ana that she knew best.

Natural, too, Ana thinks, that Fareeha would have chosen a legacy over a mother, because she must have known, already, that she did not need Ana anymore. When Ana returned from the Crisis, after so long away, they were virtually strangers to one another; even if Fareeha was always at the forefront of her mind, Ana can acknowledge, now, that Fareeha largely grew up without her present. She feels foolish for ever having thought that loving one another would have been enough to preserve their relationship, when they were both so changed. How hopelessly naïve she must have been, then, to think that Fareeha was not capable of the same stubbornness as she, and to not see that she herself could be equally as cruel as her mother—she cannot believe she allowed things to unfold the way that she did.

But she did.

She did, and now she lives with the consequences of that, of thinking that loving Fareeha was enough to excuse trying to control her, that being family guaranteed her eventual forgiveness.

(That she has never fully forgiven her own mother is neither here nor there.)

For years, they did not speak. In the beginning, it was a mutual decision—they had nothing to say to one another, after that last argument, needed a good cooling off before either of them could begin to forgive the things that were said enough to consider an apology of her own. And then, Ana thought that withholding affection would bring Fareeha around, that she would realize soon enough that being a soldier was not so glorious as she had hoped, and that she would rather have their relationship, after all. Then, when it became clear that she had made the wrong choice, had hurt Fareeha more by not trying to make amends or at least reach out, Ana regretted it, but felt that already too much time had gone by to reverse course. She worried that by that point, Fareeha would not welcome an apology, no matter how sincere. Gradually, that feeling faded, too, consumed as she was by Overwatch’s downfall, everything unraveling around her so quickly she could think of nothing else. After this is over, she told herself, I’ll try to mend things with Fareeha. I just have to fix this, first.

It took her dying—legally, at least—for her to realize that there was no after, for her, that there was always going to be something to take up her time, and nothing, not even her death, would dissuade Fareeha from molding herself in what she believed to be her mother’s image. If anything, it seemed that Ana being declared KIA strengthened her resolve, made her even more determined, at least publicly, to carry on what she saw as the family legacy, with a new tattoo on her face to prove it.

Then, and only then, did Ana come to accept that, even if she did feel she was right about war, and its effect on people, even if she did believe that Fareeha deserved better, there was no sense in trying to dissuade her daughter, and no benefit in not admitting she handled the situation incorrectly. She knew she had to apologize, knew she wanted, more than to be right, to have a relationship with her daughter again.

Still, it did not occur to her that Fareeha would not feel the same way. A letter, an admission of fault, she believed would be enough—and then when that letter failed, another, and another.

It was more than her own mother ever gave her, an admission of guilt.

And it was still not enough. It was still not what Fareeha deserved.

What she deserved was, of course, impossible, was for Ana to have never tried to stop her at all—not in the way that she did, at least—and on some level, Ana came to accept that. She did not forgive herself for what she had done to Fareeha, for creating the rift between them, but she would have been able to live out her life knowing that she was not owed forgiveness, accepting that this was one more regret to add to the list, even if it weighed on her most heavily, had the state of the world not forced the two of them back into contact.

But it did. It did, and she apologized, and much to her shock, the second time, Fareeha accepted her apology.

She has not been forgiven; on that point Fareeha is extremely clear. Forgiveness is a difficult thing, and it will take a long time for her to earn that, to show Fareeha that she deserves it, and for Fareeha to heal enough to offer it to her, but they have come to an understanding that their past cannot be changed, even if they wish it to, and agreed to move forward. For Ana, that is enough.

In fact, it is more than she would have asked for. By the time Fareeha and she were reunited, she had long since given up hope that her relationship with Fareeha would ever be the same, would be truly one of mother and daughter, and so it feels, sometimes, like a dream still, feels like something unearned, something that if she does not hold tightly enough to it, might slip away at any moment.

But she cannot hold on too tightly, for Fareeha resists that still. After so much time apart, it must feel strange to her, to have a mother, and it is only natural that it would chafe, sometimes. She did well enough without Ana, has proven herself to be a fine soldier, and finer woman.

(It used to hurt, that Fareeha did not need her, but now she is glad for it, is glad that she raised her daughter to be strong enough to withstand her disapproval, and her death. One day, she will truly die, and she knows that Fareeha will still be okay, will be able to survive just fine. She has raised a woman who can stand on her own.)

Yet—here she is. Here they both are, standing by a salsabil in the courtyard.

It is out of place, at odds with the modern architecture around it and disconnected from anything that might make it useful, but the sound of the water is soothing, familiar, and just loud enough to obscure a quiet conversation, should someone chance upon them here.

There are more secluded places, of course. If not Fareeha’s living quarters, shared, then Ana’s own, but their private spaces have been the location of so many difficult conversations, of late, that they feel unsuited to the delicate work of grieving. How could Fareeha feel truly comfortable, in a room belonging to Ana? How could Ana dare intrude where Fareeha should have peace?

Safer to be elsewhere. Beneath the open sky, there is little risk of the suffocating feeling that sometimes accompanies trying to speak to one another without stumbling over the past. Here there is sun, and clean air, and the beauty of the garden. This is not a tomb.

And still, bad news. A death, a soldier Fareeha knew, served with, cared for. She does not use the word suicide, when she tells Ana, looks towards the water, weaving its way around the pattern etched in stone.

Once, Ana might have pointed that out, would have told her to say what it was she meant; she has never found it helpful to avoid naming such things, thinks it may ultimately be harmful. Now, however, she reminds herself that it is not her place to say such things. Fareeha is a woman grown, can decide for herself how she prefers to have these conversations, neither needs nor likely wants Ana’s input on that matter.

(It might be hurtful, too, to say it now—Ana knows that. She spent so long thinking that it was an inevitability, being hurt by the world, that the way she felt in the years leading up to Overwatch’s collapse and her time as the Shrike was normal, that she still has to remind herself, in circumstances such as this, that comfort has its place too. There will be time enough later for Fareeha to confront it, when the wound is less fresh, when she feels more able. There is value, in waiting, in allowing oneself to take on one pain at a time. It is not denial, as Ana might once have seen it, is just as much a form of self-preservation as anything. If Fareeha does not yet want to name it, does not feel ready to, it is not Ana’s place to push.)

What Fareeha does want, in telling her this, is a mystery to Ana. Once, she could read her daughter easily, but the woman she has become is not the child Ana knew, no matter how familiar the planes of her face are in the morning sun. It is a terrible thing, too, indecision, alien to Ana in her work and personal life both, but it strikes her just how little she knows of what her daughter needs.

For a few moments, when Fareeha stops speaking, there is only the sound of the water between them, Fareeha’s thoughts concluded and Ana unsure, yet, what she ought to say in response. She thinks this would be easier, if her daughter were truly a stranger, because then she would not need to worry about whether or not to heed the urge to comfort Fareeha, to reach out to her, to say with her touch what she cannot find words for. To a stranger, she would not have the desire to communicate the grief she herself feels, knowing that this is the life her daughter chose, the path she led Fareeha down. If this were not Fareeha, she could just say that she is sorry, and it would be enough.

But this is her daughter, not a stranger. She should say something more personal—do something. She knows it, knows that I’m sorry never helped her in a situation like this, was only a platitude.

Yet she can think of nothing better. To say anything else risks broaching, no matter how unintentionally, that this is what Ana feared Fareeha’s life might be, when she bade her not to enlist. With how aware Fareeha is of that—how painfully so, given their recent conversations—she does not want to risk a misunderstanding, risk her daughter thinking that anything she says is a judgment, an implication, an I told you so couched in different phrasing. That is beyond the point, now. The damage is done. What matters is that she not add to the hurt Fareeha feels already.

Best, then, to keep things simple. “I’m sorry,” says she, from her side of the salsabil.

“I am, too.” There is a tiredness in Fareeha’s voice that ages her, all too familiar.

“Are you going to the funeral?” It feels like small talk, but what else can she say? I wish you didn’t know this pain? I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you? I know how hard it is? No, no, and no, all too close to the arguments of the past, and worse, all things that risk centering herself, here, her wants again, her needs, her feelings. Fareeha does not deserve that.

A small blessing, if one can call it that, Fareeha seems far too consumed by her own thoughts to notice how difficult navigating this conversation is for Ana. “His parents won’t want people to—.” She stops abruptly, shakes her head. “There won’t be a public funeral.” Her voice is harder, there.

“I see.” She does not hide her displeasure. Shame does not help anyone, not with things like this.

“Yes. It’s shit.” Fareeha says it with the sort of anger only grief can bring.

“It is.” Were she speaking to anyone else, she might venture to say something more, but to Fareeha? To Fareeha, it would feel wrong, to comment on the ways in which it astonishes her, the things families feel ashamed of their children for, the lengths they will go to in response to that feeling; her own responses to Fareeha’s choices are surely equally worthy of criticism.

Again, nothing but the sound of the water, the rustling of leaves as a slight breeze finds its way to the courtyard.

She feels it incumbent upon her to say something else. Anger seems a bad note to leave things on—and she is worried for Fareeha, even if she feels she has no right to say as much, given all the pain she has caused her daughter. “Have you reached out to any of his other friends?”

Another shake of the head. “Not yet.”

“It can help.” There was a time, in the Army, and before things with Overwatch really started to go bad, that she could rely on her fellow soldiers to help her through these things; even when it felt like no one else in the world would understand her, they were safe because they knew, too, what it was she was experiencing, and she hopes Fareeha has the same.

(Her own rank eventually robbed her of that, left her with fewer and fewer people to whom she could speak as an equal, until at the end it was only Jack—and he, absorbed as he was in his own problems, was in no place to help her at all. She hopes that Fareeha’s friendships outside her work are stronger, hopes Fareeha’s relationship is better than her own and Sam’s was, hopes Fareeha never, ever knows how that isolation feels.)

“I know,” Fareeha says, perhaps a bit shorter.

She must not want Ana to address her feelings; that is fair. Distant as they are, now, that might sound like an accusation of weakness. Better to stick to other advice, then, “And you’ll want to send your condolences.”

Fareeha’s voice is truly sharp, now. “I’m very aware of how funerals work, Mum.”

Her breath hitches. “You are.” Of course Fareeha is. She had to handle Ana’s own funeral, and Ana cannot believe that she could even for a moment forget that. Fareeha experienced her not-death too, is just as shaped by that time. “I’m sorry,” says she again—as if saying it a thousand times over would be enough. In her previous life, she never apologized, if she could avoid it; now it feels like all she can do. “I’m trying,” She admits, “But I… I don’t know, anymore, what you need from me.”

“Nothing.” Of all the things Fareeha might have said, Ana would not have imagined that, particularly not said so matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“I don’t—I don’t need anything from you.” Fareeha actually faces her now. “I haven’t for years. I just thought…” She trails off.

They are getting somewhere, now, if only Ana can encourage Fareeha to speak. “Thought what?”

Her words have the opposite of their intended effect. “Forget it.” Fareeha makes to leave. “This was a mistake.”

“Fareeha—” Her reflexes are not so dulled by time that she cannot reach across the salsabil to catch Fareeha’s wrist as she goes.

Easily, Fareeha pulls free. “No, Mum,” says she, but at least they are facing one another again. At least she can look Fareeha in the eye.

“Wait.” Ana leaves her arm out, feels on the skin of her wrist the cooler air above the water. “Please.” It is not in her nature to beg, but she does so now. “What should I do?” Her voice breaks with it. She should know. She should know, she should know, she should know but she does not, and it is killing her, is more painful than any wound she has ever had.

Even close enough to touch, Fareeha feels as far away as ever.

“I don’t know.” Fareeha’s cheeks scrunch upwards in a way that Ana recognizes as often a prelude to tears. “You can’t even—you can’t even comfort me anymore.” Once, that might have been an accusation, but now, there is only sadness.

She draws back her hand, puts it over her heart, “I’m trying, Fareeha.” If she knew better how to help, she would, but if this ever came naturally to her, it does not now.

Now, an accusation in full: “You won’t even touch me except to stop me from leaving.”

“I didn’t think you would want me to.” With how far from her Fareeha stood, the salsabil between them, she thought the distance intentional, a barrier to prevent such.

“You didn’t—of course I do!” Now, Fareeha sounds more desperate than angry. Somehow, that is worse. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Because I hurt you, Ana wants to say. That’s all I ever do. To do so would be unhelpful, though, is the sort of self-flagellation that would put the focus on herself, when she wants, more than anything, to be helping Fareeha. “Surely there’s someone better suited,” says she instead.

“You’re my mother.” As if it were so simple.

“That doesn’t make me good at this.” They both know that already; if she were, they would never have gotten to this point in the first place. Even the parts of parenthood Ana most enjoyed never came as easily to her as they did to her husband. “Your father would know what to say.”

“But I don’t want him.”

“And you want me?” After everything that has happened, it is hard to imagine why Fareeha would.

“Yes, Mum! I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t—wouldn’t be dealing with this,” Fareeha makes a sharp gesture with her hands, bringing them into the space between them, “With pulling fucking teeth trying to get anything from you.”

(For a long time, Ana thought that Fareeha switched to English idioms—if not English entirely—during their arguments because it put Ana on the back foot, was a language she was not as good at expressing herself in as her daughter; now she realizes that as much distance as there was between them, as much time as Fareeha spent with her father while Ana was away, it is possible that this is just the only way Fareeha can say what it is she feels. Certainly, Ana did not teach her the words to discuss such difficult things, not when she herself cannot start a conversation like this in any language.)

“I’m not trying to make this difficult.” She hopes her tone is enough that Fareeha sees that for the apology it is. If she knew the words to say to make this better, she would.

“But you do! You do, and it’s exhausting, and I’m trying because I still care about you—because I can’t not—but you have to try too.” Fareeha starts off strong, but gradually the energy behind her words dissipates, desperation settling into a kind of quiet pleading, and then resignation. “Please. Because I can’t—I can’t keep begging you to try to be my mother again. I can’t.”

It hits her like a blow. “I didn’t realize.” If she were a better mother, maybe, she would have, if she knew Fareeha and not just a memory of her, if she were strong enough—no, humble enough—to ask what Fareeha needs from her. “I thought I was giving you space, that you would want me to.”

As it is, she finds it hard to believe that Fareeha wants her back at all, after so long, even if this conversation has made it abundantly clear that she does. Ana truly does not feel that she deserves to ask for any time with her daughter, now that she understands what it did to Fareeha, her disapproval, her absence, her dying.

“Running away is how you solve things.”

(Perhaps it is a bad sign that Ana finds it heartening that Fareeha has the energy left for that anger, but she does. Resignation is worse than resentment; at least to feel that hurt, still, Fareeha must care.)

But what can she say to that?

“I’m sorry,” says Fareeha, when Ana takes too long to find a response. “That was unfair of me.”

“No.” Once, Ana might have been all too happy to let Fareeha apologize to her for such a statement, to take those words as proof that she was the one in the right after all, but she is not, she knows that now—might, in truth, have known it all along. “You’re right,” and there is no use hiding from it. And another admission, too, equally as hard: “I’m terrified of saying something to hurt you, or pushing you away. I know how to fight, Fareeha. I don’t know what to do with peace. Saying nothing feels safer.”

(She never wanted her daughter to know she was afraid.)

“That’s distance, too.”

“I know now.” She should have seen it before, but it is too late for that. The past cannot be changed; the future, at least, is more malleable. She moves around the water, so she is beside her daughter at last, “Forgive me. Please.”

After everything, it is terrifying to ask for that. Fareeha has made it clear that she is not ready, yet, to forgive the past, even if she wants to move forward—and Ana can understand as much, but this? The present? She hopes that at least they have enough common ground that Fareeha can see that at least now, Ana’s intentions are good, even if they play out badly. If Ana has made it impossible for Fareeha to at least acknowledge that much, she is not certain there is any bridging the gap between them.

“Just—be here. Now. Because I need my mom.” That is enough.

“I am here. I am.” A statement, and a promise. She reaches out, finally, to hold her daughter, feels the way Fareeha practically collapses into it, heavier than Ana remembers, but so, so familiar. “I’m not going anywhere,” she whispers, the same way she did when Fareeha was young, as if she were comforting her daughter after a nightmare all over again. “I’m right here.”

The sound of the water runs over the shuddering breath she takes in as she finally lets herself cry.

Some people are uniquely nurturing, know from childhood that they want to be a parent, feel an innate desire to care for others, to cradle their younger siblings and rock to sleep their dolls.

Ana was not one of those children. She had no interest in her brother until he was old enough to climb trees with her, and while her sisters imagined they were mothers when they played house, she used a toy purse as a briefcase and declared she was going off to work. It was not that she had no interest in traditionally feminine play—she was happy to be a princess with her friends, hosted tea parties for her teddy bears, and never was so still and quiet as when her grandmother taught her to braid and, later, embroider—but she never enjoyed taking care of babies, traded her realistic crying doll to her brother for his building blocks as soon as her mother’s back was turned.