Ever since Lena's return she hasn't said very much.

As a doctor you assure yourself that this is a normal response to the trauma she has experienced. Physically, mentally, and emotionally the overall experience has been a great stressor on the girl just barely of twenty, so when her answers of basic medical questions are short and clipped, her previously boisterous personality now dim, you tell yourself it is only normal.

As a friend concerned for another friend's well-being, that song is harder to sing. It pains you, not being able to reach out to comfort her the way you want. But every time you so much as think of doing so she shies away, a vacant stare in her eyes as she digs her nails into her palms and sighing with relief at the spots of blood that well underneath. Proof. Proof that she is real and she is here. It's not a method you approve of, but you cannot find it in you to reprimand her behavior after all that she's been through. It is her way of staying sane you justify to yourself. You'd be inhumane to take that from her when she's already lost so much.

As an agent who has sworn to protect and save everyone you are able and with wishes to save even those you aren't, you're suffering. Overwatch may have been successful in bringing Lena back from nonexistence, but after months of phasing in and out of time, it certainly has taken its toll on her. You are beginning to fear the damage is permanent.

How do the Americans say it? You can pull the girl out of the Slipstream, but you can't pull the Slipstream out of the girl.

Or something like that.

It is with a bubbling of nervousness that you stride down the hall of the medical bay to the room that holds your one and only patient at the moment. With so little to do besides make sure that she adjusts smoothly to being a solid entity once more and watching over her vitals to ensure that her body doesn't reject the accelerator, you find yourself pacing the halls frequently. You almost don't know what to do with yourself in the times you are not with her or typing up medical analyses and reports to store in her file (so empty before the incident, now almost larger than even Morrison's).

Sometimes you consider sitting in there with her, just in case your constant presence is the catalyst for her to start talking and laughing and joking and Gott you wish that she had never been chosen for that idiotic trial run in the first place.

It was selfish, but you found yourself missing her more than you ever did when she was officially declared dead.

The sturdy plastic of your clipboard digs into your palms as your grip tightens. Maybe she still was. Maybe this girl, this Lena, was not the one you sent off with chides to be careful and stay safe. This Lena could not be yours because your Lena would never look at you with such broken eyes, your Lena would never allow silence to grace your ears for more than two seconds when she had so many stories to tell, your Lena would not so easily give up her smile and her cheer.

Heaving a sigh for composure you nudge open the hospital door and what greets you does not surprise you, but it always saddens you.

She's sitting upright, turned away from you her gaze goes out the window, looking beyond the low roofs of the base buildings, the sea twinkling in the setting sun like stars in a midnight sky. Day and night, coexisting, water and fire. Her hands gently rest upon her lap, relaxed at first glance but you notice the ways the pads of her fingers press into her thighs, caressing the threads of her blanket methodically, probably imprinting the sensation into her memory.

Just in case.

You don't want to startle her, so you gently rap on the doorframe and clear your throat. It takes her a few seconds to respond, swiveling slowly to finally face you, and her eyes...so vacant and broken still you feel your breath catch and the tears want to come but no you will not allow it.

You made an oath and you made a promise to her. You will be strong at a time where she is so weak.

"I'm just here to check your vitals for now," you explain and pause, waiting to see if she'll respond. She doesn't, as expected, and you push yourself into the room, beelining for the machines and trying your best to ignore how her eyes follow. She watches you in silence and you furiously take down notes - her heart rate: 83 bpm, her oxygen levels: 90 mm Hg - and you try to tune out the silence but how can you when it's so deafening and scheiße you just wish she would say something -

"Did you...did Overwatch announce my death...while I was gone?"

You swallow and close your eyes, exhaling softly. Her voice was quiet and cracked at certain inflections, stiff from disuse. It was rather morbid, but you supposed beggars couldn't be choosers. "Yes, we did. Well, technically you were announced MIA," you say and jot down some last few notes before lowering your clipboard, turning on your heel to face her fully to show she had your complete and utter attention. "But to the public it was essentially an obituary. A funeral was held for you," you mutter that last part quietly, almost ashamed to be admitting this to someone who was very much alive...in the literal aspect, at least. "A memorial service as well. It was quite beautiful actually. I'm sure you'd appreciate how many people attended in your honor."

You feel the urge to slap yourself. Why should she appreciate so many people thinking her dead when she was lost in the time stream, suffering in ways none of them could imagine or even want to imagine? It was a dumb thing to say, but you are not sure how else to comfort her being as out of practice that you are. It's awkward but you want her to see you trying, so you stay silent, letting her take the words as she would.

Lena says nothing for a moment, taking the time to digest what you've said and you give her all the time she needs to do so. She drops her head to her chest, turns to look out the window, her lap, you, the wall across from her, and you again. She takes a deep breath and - oh you hope against hope - there is a glimmer in her eyes, something akin to a spark trying to kindle a fire long extinguished, one that has survived underneath a pile of simmering ashes that has only been able to show itself when a gentle breeze carried some of them away. It's your first glimpse of Lena, your Lena, since her return and you dare not hope but you do. You're unable to help yourself.

"Were there a lot of people?"

"At the memorial service, yes. It was open to the public and there was a candle vigil and some speeches given by some officials, from Overwatch and the like. It really was quite wonderful." And then you offer her a smile because you are not sure what else to do.

She nods, thoughtfully and you see her trying to picture it, a far off wonderment in her eyes. It's enough to sway the spark and it glows a little brighter. She squares her shoulders and looks to you again, her voice steady and louder. "And the funeral?"

"The funeral was a more private affair," you say as you pull a chair to her bedside to sit in. Your height drastically changes and you are now below her eye level so she has to look down on you. But you want to show her you're more than willing to spend time talking to her because you are. You want her to feel comfortable in her own skin again, in a place she once so quick to call call home after only being there a week. You want her to be able to confide in you again, to smile at you as she always would when you were the one who needed reassuring.

You had felt a little guilty, needing a child to comfort you when the stress weighed down on you in an attempt to bring you to your knees, but overtime it came as a comfort to be able to rely on someone when you couldn't even rely on yourself.

So you cross your legs and rest your clipboard on top with your hands clasped on top of that. "Only Overwatch members and personal affects were allowed to attend." You wave your hand flippantly. "You know, your old RAF team members and commanders, family and close friends…." Quickly you shut your mouth, cursing at your slip and when you gaze up to brown eyes you see that it is too late to take it back.

Her mouth is open in awe, eyes wide and alight and shimmering.

You steel yourself but you can't help but feel sick.

You wish for the silence once more.

She's leaning forward now and your back reflexively presses to your chair and oh how you try to look away, to escape from that hopeful gaze because you feel yourself burning underneath it. You do your best to hide your squirming but, you know not if this is a blessing or the opposite, she doesn't seem to notice, too wrapped up in her rose-colored imaginings.

"My parents…?" Her voice a whisper, so faint the words barely hit the air, spoken as though afraid saying the words aloud will smash the carefully constructed illusion she has conjured. You curse how it is your hand that holds the hammer, you cry inside to think of how you will break this girl once more, perhaps worse than the Slipstream ever could.

As you think of the words you will use to respond, carefully turning them over and over in your head to deal the least amount of damage, she breathes again, so soft. So delicate.

(Your hand pulls back, raised to strike, a concentrated force of potential energy as it sits at its peak.)

"My mum and dad….they came to the funeral? A-and the memorial service?"

You shake your head and bite your lip, trying not to give yourself away through tears. "No, they uh -"

"Okay yeah that's asking for a bit much, huh?" You recognize that tone, from before. Light but strained. Fast. It's odd to see it come out at a time like this and you hate that it has. "No they wouldn't attend two services, especially not some candle vigil. They were never very public people," she muses, more to herself than to you. You open your mouth to correct her when she turns to you again, eyes still hopeful and mein Gott you want to slit your own wrists at the look she gives you. "Just the funeral then?"

Your mouth opens then closes, you pause, it opens and closes again, your brow furrows. You wish you knew how to put this without actually having to tell her, but you know it wouldn't be fair to her if you lied, so you're stuck, not wanting to lie, not wanting to tell the truth either. You're at a standstill, but your fault is forgetting how brilliant of a girl Lena is. She quickly picks up on your mood, on your lack of a proper answer as time quickly passes and the hope vanishes without a trace, leaving behind a fizzled out spark.

Her gaze drops to her lap and you find that you hate yourself.

It's silent for a prolonged moment, neither of you knowing what to say or how to say it. You don't want to leave her, but you almost feel as though she'd rather you did. Once again you are stuck at a standstill and you blink back tears as your hand fumbles to your side for your clipboard.

"They...they told me they were unavailable that day," you explain lamely, almost hating how you excuse their horrible decisions but wanting to give Lena some reprieve from the thoughts you know are bouncing in her head.

She scoffs at that, followed by a bitter laugh and shake of her head. "Too busy for their own daughter's funeral? It'd be a laugh if it weren't so pathetic."

You frown and tap your clipboard idly with the heel of your wrists, your lips pressing into a thin line as less than pleasant thoughts directed towards Mr. and Mrs. Oxton race across your mind. "Lena, you were truly and sincerely missed by a lot of people," you press, trying to make sure she understood her value and worth because by dammit you were not going to allow her to slip like sand through loose fingers again. You let her wallow in her own self-pity and self-degradation without taking action for too long.

Your firmness seems to spark something in her - a curiosity maybe or, you'd be a fool for hoping again so soon and so immensely, perhaps actual belief in your words and a willingness to listen, to accept her circumstances as they stand and let you in and just for once be her shoulder to cry on or whatever she felt she needed to push through this. She doesn't lift her head entirely to face you straight on, but you see the way those brown eyes shift, the way her breathing pauses and quiets, straining to hear your voice.

"I mean it. I was...we were all so devastated when your signal cut off and the plane disappeared off the radar. We looked for weeks...months before finally deciding to sign that stupid death certificate because none of us wanted to entertain the thought for a second that you were really and truly lost to us." You take in a deep breath and your shoulders shake and you realize that you're crying now. Feebly you raise your hand to discreetly wipe them away, hoping she hadn't seen but you feel her eyes on you and you know she had. Your hand drops back to your lap uselessly as more tears fall.

"We missed you so much, Lena." You sniffle and laugh breathlessly, choked up by your tears. "I missed you so Gott verdammt much."

Throughout your speech she still hasn't lifted her head, but her breathing is off now, slower and more strained. Her head is ducked down further, the shadows cast by the window darkening her face. Worry sets in and you fear you weren't able to get through to her, when she laughs, a hoarse chuckle but so reminiscent of her laughter before the incident your heart gives a lurch as heavy nostalgia and yearning hits you.

"Well," she starts, finally lifting her head to face you, head cocked to the side and the light catches the shimmer of falling tears on her freckle-dusted cheeks. "It seems my parents could learn something from you lot, huh?"

You offer your own smile and laugh then lean forward to brush away the tears from her cheeks. She doesn't flinch or shy away and you tally up another victory for today, the first in awhile, but hopefully not the last. "I think the only thing I would like to teach them is that my caduceus staff has more uses than just healing." You tuck some stray hairs from Lena's face behind her ear and smirk, a hint of rare mischief lacing your next words. "For instance, it could make a fantastic substitute for a rectal thermometer, although perhaps just without the actual thermometer functions."

It only takes Lena a split second before realization dawns on her, a wide grin splitting her face in two and she's surging forward, hands wrapped around her midriff just below her accelerator as she guffaws loudly. You join her with your more refined laughter, although you feel even so this is the most undignified you've ever been in a bout of mirth, it rings out so loud.

More tears fall down her cheeks as you both rock back and forth with your laughter, but you don't dare wipe these away. Instead you opt to lean forward again, lifting yourself from the chair as you brush back her wild bangs, and place a tender kiss on her forehead. Her skin is warm and your heart flutters because it's only really settled in that she's here.

Before you have a chance to pull away two slender arms yank you forward, the edge of the bed digs into your thigh but you hardly have time to notice because Lena's face is buried in your chest and her shoulders are still shaking with laughter and sobs. Your coat strains as she balls the fabric in her fists, pulling you closer and closer and you begin to thread your fingers through her hair, nails skimming across her scalp as she holds you so tight and so close you think that you will never separate again.

You find that you do not mind if that were to be the case.

A/N: An idea I've had for some time now. I like to play around with headcanons of Lena's life before OW and two of my favorites are: shitty parents or being orphaned. I don't know why I like seeing my little sunshine suffer. I need to be stopped probably.

This idea morphed as I wrote it from the original and there's a couple scenes I cut out entirely due to them disrupting the flow. Also, I'm getting into an awful habit of writing in second person lately and I don't know how to stop.