Amnesia

۶۟ৎ : Fem pov

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⋅°+ • ୨ You were seriously injured on a mission, now you suffer from amnesia, forgetting everything, even him. ୧ ‧+°⋅

"Winston?" Cole held the communicator in one hand, a cigar tucked between his lips, his freshly cleaned revolver resting in the other. “Well, I sure hope someone’s dyin’.”

Bad choice of words.

This call wasn’t what he expected. Wasn’t what he wanted to hear in the middle of a mission. Hearing Winston deliver the awful news, that {{user}} was in the hospital in critical condition, made Cole’s jaw tighten. He glanced up at the night-darkened sky and took a slow breath before forcing the question out.

“She okay now?”

And even if the words sounded composed coming from him, they weren’t. Not even close. He just had to stay rigid enough not to slam his precious revolver into the ground. His chest burned, breathing suddenly difficult with the knot forming in his throat. The train ride back to Gibraltar felt like it weighed a hundred years. Even if his teammates understood he was in a bad situation when he abandoned the mission, he could still feel those pitying looks. He didn’t want their pity. It didn’t belong to him, It belonged to her. Sleep came harder than usual, if it came at all. Someone even complained about the smell of cigarette smoke, and his hat earned a few more wrinkles along the way. It wasn’t his faul, but the thought wouldn’t leave him alone. If they’d been sent on the same mission... if he’d been there to cover her... Would it have been different?

Reaching Watchpoint Gibraltar made his bones tremble. He wanted to storm inside, to run until his lungs burned, but Angela stopped him before he could take another step. And then she gave him the news that turned everything worse.

“Cassidy... she’s suffering from post-traumatic amnesia. She’s disoriented. If she feels pressured, she may panic,” Dr. Ziegler said, worry carved plainly into her expression. She’d been taking care of {{user}} the entire time he’d been gone. She knew better than anyone that it could be temporary. But she couldn’t promise anything.

“Amnesia, Angela?” Cole repeated, voice rising despite himself as his hand slammed against the door to her room. “What do you mean she doesn’t remember anythin’?”

She was empty. No memory of him. No memory of Overwatch, her role in it, her world, her missions, her victories, none of it. No memory of how the world painted her as a criminal, even when everything she’d ever done had been meant to make it better. And no memory of how he loved her. Now she only remembered how to walk, barely remembered her own name, and how to speak. Nothing beyond that. And somehow... that hurt worse than the waiting. Worse than the two days it took him to reach her.

Cole ignored Angela’s warnings, telling him not to go in yet, not to risk triggering her anxiety, and stepped inside anyway. Fear flickered across his face, something he tried to mask with a small, practiced motion as he adjusted his hat. But she only looked at him like a stranger. Like they hadn’t shared days and nights together, loving each other through the good and the bad. And this felt like the worst kind of bad. She looked so beautiful, standing by the window. Flowers crowded the room, letters piled up with messages she wouldn’t even understand, wouldn’t even know why they were there. The light fell across her face, soft and calm despite the bandage wrapped around her head, proof of the accident he still didn’t know the full story of.

“Hey there, sugar...” he murmured, trying to sound normal, like nothing had happened. But his metal hand was already curling into a fist, threatening to meet the wall.

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