-notes at bottom-

Torbjorn sighed. He loved every part of the creation process: the initial design phase, the first prototype, the sleepless nights spent solving the fundamental problems that always cropped up…

All except….this.

The fiddly bit where everything worked except for the thing that didn't one time out of ten. In this case, it was...well, a case. Specifically, a spent bullet casing that wasn't ejecting properly. Torbjorn had spent the last 4 hours firing live rounds into a wall and slowly narrowing the problem down.

It was distance, he decided. Long distances. Distances right near the range cutoff.

Torb snorted. It was, of course, his fault. One of the very first problems with this particular turret upgrade was poor long range performance. He had cracked that nut eight…

He mentally counted.

Nine! Nine hours ago. He had increased the fire rate. It wouldn't make any of his bullets more likely to hit but simple probability meant that more bad shots meant more chances to get one good shot. He had also figured that a bullet hose, however poorly aimed, might flush any targets inclined towards potshots out into the open for someone else to take care of.

Someone with a jetpack. Or cyber legs. Or a cyberleg jetpack. He jotted that last one down and circled it.

The increased rate of fire was the culprit. Probably. He gave it about an 80% chance. An increased rate of fire meant more bullet casing in the same time frame. The gas ejection system wasn't rated for that high of an ejection rate. It was a testament to joys of over engineering that it worked nine times out of ten at the increased pace in the first place. The solution was a basic receiver swap over to something rated for more rounds. He even had one in his workshop.

Torbjorn sighed again. In one of his workshop drawers.

In one of the hundreds upon hundreds of workshop drawers. Probably one filled with scrapped parts from a decade ago. He decided, in fact, that he hated this part the worst. At least bugs had an engineering solution. This just had a Have-Torb-Spend-A-Few-Weeks-Cleaning-Up-His-Workshop solution which, if he was being honest with himself, was the absolute worst type of solution.

"Torbjorn!"

"Angela! What can I do for you?" One of the many joys of returning to Overwatch was catching up with old friends and none were quite as close as he and Angela. It was over a decade ago when the fresh out of medical school Swiss had joined up with their merry band and they had become fast friends. Angela had helped translate for him when his interpersonal skills had failed and in return he had acted as a surrogate father figure as she went through the trials and tribulations of figuring herself out in young adulthood.

Angela hugged him a touch too tightly, the slightly oversized yellow t shirt pressing into his face.. Oh. It was one of those problems for Father Torb.

"Shall I get the vodka? I recently got a refrigeration unit working in here and I'm sure we can scrounge up some mixer…"

A horizontal shake of blond hair. "Please Torb," Angela smiled wearily "I'm thirty-seven. I'm beyond drinking away my girl problems." She pulled herself up and sat on a clear spot on the workbench and began to kick black jean clad legs idly back and forth. "Besides, drinking usually makes the problems worse, not better."

Torb went back to rutting around in the open drawer. It may have appeared rude to others, but after a full decade the 'girl problem' talk was quite a well worn and comfortable subject for both of them. Ah! There it was...no, that was a lower rated gas blowback system for semi automatic high powered rifles. "So, who is it this time? Samantha rejoin Overwatch as well?"

A laugh. "Oh god no!" Sam was a guard and the last crush Angela had before Overwatch had closed down. "She was an ass. Didn't like omnics. Prick." Angela lied down on the table, her back against the warm wood. "This time it's Fareeha. Fareeha Amari."

"You mean Amari like Ana's kid?"

Angela grinned."The one and only! Oh god Torb," she pulled her head up and smiled blissfully. "You have got to see her muscles. It's not that she doesn't have any body fat; it's just all in the right places. And she's nice!"

Sam was once deemed nice. Torb had done this enough to not vocalize that observation.

"And not like in how Sam was 'nice'. I only got to see her interact with us. I've seen Fareeha deal out in the field and she treats everyone with the same level of love and protection." Angela sat up and pulled her legs up to her. " And she's so kind afterwards, when I'm cleaning her wounds. And she makes me laugh! And ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my god Torb have I mentioned the muscles? Because I'd like to make sure they're in the record." She hugged her legs close.

"So ask her out." For every problem there were two solutions: the wrong solution and the engineering solution. Asking her out was the engineering solution.

"I can't." Torb pulled his head out of another identical drawer - all lug nuts, why was there a drawer with only lug nuts? - and fixed Angela in a stare. Angela gave him a theatrical frown.

"Common. I'm her boss." A sigh ruffled a few strands of stray blond hair. "Well, not her boss like her boss, but...she's wanted to join Overwatch since she was a kid, Torb." Angela laid back down and spread her arms out. She started to slowly move her arms up in down in the rough approximation of a snow angel. "What if she views me as her superior because I used to be an official member and thinks that she has to accept if she wants to stay?" The snow angel continued. "Besides, I don't even know if she's gay and even if she is gay we go right back to bullet point one, re, quasi superior."

All springs. Oh, this was where he had cleaned the last time he had this problem a few years back. That bode well. "So you're stuck."

The snow angel stopped and the medic let out of a groan of annoyance. "Yes, I'm stuck. The only solution is to act professional and see where things go." Angela sat up once more and rolled a small gear between her fingers. The fidgeting appeared to have not gone away in the intervening three years. "At least I have some research work piled up. I could use the distract-"

So close. This drawer was all magazines. He would've put all the gun parts together, and at this point any high volume receiver could be jury rigged into place. Wait, back up a moment.

Torb looked up from the drawer. Angela was staring past him, mouth agape. Enemy or Fareeha, Torb figured. No, Fareeha. The turret had never been turned off. If it was an enemy he would've heard the tracking servos kick in already. He turned around to look at the door.

Well then. She hadn't been lying about the muscles.

Fareeha stood in the doorway in a light overwatch tank top and green fatigue pants. The tank top did nothing to hide her prosthetic limb or the tightly corded muscles of her remaining flesh and blood arm. Her mechanical arm was halfway to the open door. Too late to knock, Torb thought.

"Ah, Ms. Amari." Angela still stared. She had at least closed her mouth. "What can we do for you?"

A small fidget. She clearly hadn't been expecting Angela in the room. Torb glanced between them.

"I, uh, was looking for, uh, Doctor Ziegler." A blink and swallow. Torb internally smiled. He had seen too much of Angela crushed by straight girls before. It was nice she was getting to rack one up in the win column.

"If you like to talk to her privately I can leave…."

The egyptian shook her head. Mild confusion had replaced shock on Angela's face. Fareeha coughed lightly. Come on, Fareeha, Torb cheered. The engineering solution. You can do it.

"I…." Fareeha blinked and came to the engineering solution and turned to Angela. "I was wondering if you would like to go out to dinner with me?" Angela just nodded. Torb's internal crowd went wild. Fareeha smiled, tension draining from her body in one large rush. "Friday at seven? Does Italian sound good?"

Angela finally snapped out of it and smiled. "Friday at seven works amazing and I would love to get some Italian." No. She'd like to get some Egyptian. Another for the "don't vocalize" pile.

Fareeha smiled again. "Then it's a date! I'll come pick you up in front of the control center Friday at seven. I'll text you the restaurant to make sure it's ok with you." Torb hadn't seen Angela beam that wide in a few years. It felt good. "I'll, uh, see you then!" One last smile and Fareeha ducked out of the door.

Angela stared after her and Torb waited. Five. Four. Three. Two….

"Ohhhhhhhhh mmmmmmmyyyyyyyyy goddddddddddd OH MY GOD TORB!"

There it was! Torb pulled out a gas ejection system from a light machine gun and turned to smile at Angela. It was always a good day when they both got what they were looking for.

-notes: first story I've written in years. Not sure how far this will go. Enjoy! -