((Split into two parts because it was getting long (second part coming who knows when). Side story for my main fic 'gaining ground', so I would highly recommend you read that one first to avoid spoilers.))

Rust bucket. Toaster. Scrap heap. Bag of bolts. Tin can.

Tekhartha Zenyatta was vastly familiar with these terms, as he suspected most omnics were.

There were still so many that opposed the mere existence of their kind. Fear, perhaps, or resentment over wrongs the years had not yet dulled enough to erase.

He'd lost count of the times people had ranted about 'your war', as if it were his in any way but name. He had been a pile of unassembled parts while the omnic crisis raged, casually minding his own business, but he doubted that mattered. Humans were not concerned with technicalities. They were all raw emotion, hurt and hate and all the other things they told him he could not possess as they spat in his face and dismissed his life as nothing more than a dream.

Zenyatta had spent twenty years hearing the same insults, and he was, if anything, tired. Two decades deadened the impact somewhat.

So to arrive at Overwatch and find that the entire team did not welcome him with open arms was not surprising. Mildly disappointing, yes, but nothing he hadn't already come to expect.

Genji was the one to take offense.

"You should not have to put up with it," he told him, as if it were news.

"I should not," Zenyatta agreed readily.

"Then why do you?"

"It is easier."

Genji cocked his head to the side, and the dubious dip of his tone was unmistakable. "I did not take you for one to choose the easy way out, master."

"Ah," Zenyatta hummed, "you thought I meant easier for me?"

"Don't you?"

Zenyatta considered the question. He steepled his fingers in front of him, sensors focused on the training range that spread out before the two of them. Far below the lithe form of Lena Oxton zipped between manufactured obstacles in a blur of yellow and blue.

While he had only graced the halls of headquarters for a matter of days, he'd already taken to watching those on the training range when he had the opportunity. There was something fascinating about seeing the different ways they approached what was ostensibly the same place. The goals they set, the targets they marked, the weapons they chose...

"Confrontation is not always the answer," he said eventually. "You must know when force can be applied, and when it will only cause something to break. Have you heard of the tale, perhaps, of the sun and the wind, who held a contest to decide the stronger? They decided that whoever could force a traveller to remove his coat should win. And so it was that the wind blew with all the force he could muster, yet the more he raged, the harder he blew, the tighter the traveller wrapped his coat around himself. It was the sun that warmed the traveller enough that he removed his coat of his own volition."

Genji was quiet. "You think you will win them over?"

"I think words do not trouble me so much, and I have the luxury of time," he said, watching as Lena leaped over a stack of metal crates and dived for the finish line she'd marked in white paint. "Demanding an end to vulgarity will not change the opinion of those around me, they will find a way to make it clear. Far better, then, to give them the chance to learn."

"And if they do not take that chance?"

Zenyatta shrugged. "Then it is their loss."

There was one individual, however, who took things to another level. Zenyatta had been warned in no uncertain terms upon his arrival that the man might present difficulties, and that he was best to avoid him and remain on his guard. Something about him was a fascination to Zenyatta though.

He was accustomed to the disdainful glances that humans could shoot him - to cruel words, snide comments, whispered hate that was far too easy to overhear, intentional or not.

What Jamison Fawkes brought to the table was a manic fury he had never before witnessed. There was something off about it, something beyond the hatred that bordered on fear. Jamison looked at him as if he were a threat. He looked at him as if he were two steps away from an attack.

Zenyatta did not know if he should be offended or flattered. It was, however, refreshing. His first meeting with the man gave him a lot to think about.

Angela tracked him down the next day with nothing but apologies. "It was my job to keep an eye on him, this was... well, we were hoping for a more careful introduction. I don't know what he said to you but I'm sure it was inexcusable."

"You have no need to worry, it was my fault for startling him," he assured her.

"None of this is your fault," she said firmly. "If the world was only a little more open minded..."

"Then my brother Mondatta would have had very little to do," Zenyatta remarked, and immediately regretted it.

They grew quiet at the mention of the other omnic. It might have been months ago, but his death was still fresh enough that the name left an impact, a shadow that hung in tangible swathes around them.

Zenyatta's admiration for him had run deep. Remembering still hurt, like the scrape of metal parts that didn't sit right inside his chassis. He knew though that Mondatta would not want them to suffer at his loss, any more than he would want them to take up arms in the name of vengeance. Death was only a natural part of life – it was a tragedy to lose him so soon, but something that must be accepted.

If philosophy were a true cure for pain, Zenyatta suspected he would have transcended all earthly woes long ago, but the sting of an absent friend was an important one. It marked the loss of something significant. It marked his own capacity to care. It marked the fact he'd ever held the capacity to begin with. To acknowledge it was not to be overcome by it, for to feel nothing at all would be far worse.

"Well," Angela said, pulling on her usual smile, "in any case, Jamison is the exception to the rule. We want you to feel welcome here - your choice to join us is greatly appreciated, and I'm sure in time things will settle down."

Zenyatta inclined his head. "You have my thanks."

The pleasantries seemed to soothe over the earlier misstep, and Angela invited him to tea with some of the other Overwatch agents. It was with genuine gratitude that he accepted.

While Zenyatta could not drink, he did enjoy the brewing of tea, and considered himself to be well versed in the art. There was something to be said for watching humans enjoy a beverage he had created, in the simple appreciation they were quick to voice.

Thusly Angela, Ana, Satya, Winston, Mei, Genji and Hanzo soon became regular companions for a warm drink and a pleasant chat - although Hanzo took a great deal of cajoling.

It was a welcome routine, and Zenyatta took comfort in it as the days passed and he began to contemplate the best approach to the problem of Jamison Fawkes.

He knew the Junker was avoiding him. There was nothing subtle about it. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of wild blonde hair disappearing around a corner, or the clatter of peg leg and crutches, but any time he did intrude before an escape could be made he was always met by pure hostility.

Genji was no help at all.

Any begrudging respect the cyborg held for the man quickly eroded one overheard slight at a time. Zenyatta was only thankful his old pupil was wiser than to act on his indignation, much preferring to list off Jamison's faults in an almost childish tirade.

The latest offence was apparently Jamison referring to him as an 'evil hover toaster', which Zenyatta found mildly amusing, and Genji remained unimpressed by.

"He thinks he's funny, even when no one laughs. He's rude, obnoxious, and… I don't think he showers very often," Genji tacked on, seemingly as an afterthought.

"Nor do I, Genji."

The cyborg sighed. "Master... you're made of metal."

Zenyatta's jokes had a way of going over people's heads sometimes. It was an endless disappointment to him.

He did his best to soothe Genji's irritation with the usual mix of anecdotes and philosophy, and wondered, not for the first time, if there were a simpler solution to the problem he was not seeing.

For all the flaws Genji was quick to list, tales of Jamison's recent bravery were not hard to come by, and it was common knowledge that he had formed a bond of sorts with the youngest agents.

If that were true, then it stood to reason they would have a better understanding of the man. It was an ideal place to start.

Lucio he had spoken to before, and had been impressed by the young musician's talent and sincerity. Both a firm supporter of omnic and human harmony and a dreamer prepared to fight for the rights of others, he was the perfect example of what Overwatch should stand for. They had many excellent conversations on the progressive nature of cities like Numbani to the teachings of the Iris.

On the subject of Jamison, however, he remained surprisingly vague.

"He's… I dunno, fun? Little too intense sometimes, but kinda in a good way?"

"He seems very different from yourself."

"Yeah, you could say that." The fond smile Lucio had worn faded, and he folded his arms, glancing to the side rather than directly into Zenyatta's sensors. "Look, I'll be straight with you man… he's got issues that are really not my place to get into, but he's a good guy when you get to know him. That's all I can tell you. Just… don't push him. He's real touchy about the whole omnic crisis thing. You being here… it's gonna take time."

Zenyatta nodded solemnly. "Then it is a good thing patience is something you and I both understand."

"It's something he'll test," Lucio warned. "But… I think it'll be worth it. For him too."

"In that case, I look forward to it," Zenyatta said, with complete earnestness.

Zenyatta's talks with Hana Song were fewer and often brief, but when he finally managed to ease the latest conversation away from balance patches and corporate sponsorship over to his own concerns, she didn't even blink.

"Who, that loser? Pfft, yeah, I'm basically an expert." With her elbow propped up on the kitchen table she rested her chin in her hand, the other still busy scrolling through her phone. "Take it from me, Rat's just a huge dork who loves puns, blowing stuff up, making people think he's tough, and pretending he's not insecure when it's totally obvious after, like, the tenth time he tells you how great he is. Also he'll start burning things if he gets bored. Or angry. Or… yeah, just don't leave him with anything flammable."

"Fascinating," Zenyatta said.

He was partially preoccupied with the task of making tea, yet another regular part of his endless quest to distract Genji from the anti-omnic sentiment that continued to waft through parts of the base. A camomile blend this time - calming qualities seemed prudent.

As he set it to brew, Hana sighed. He heard a click as she set the phone down, and when he turned to look she was focused on him.

"For real though," she said, "he's a big softie deep down. Wants to be friendly even when he thinks people want to kill him half the time, and then he gets all attached and doesn't know what to do about it and maybe almost gets himself killed trying to do the right thing even when I tell him he's being an idiot, and… yeah."

She shrugged, letting her hands drop back to the table. "Maaaybe not too big on omnics though, but you probs already knew that."

"He made it clear the first time we met," Zenyatta agreed wryly.

She winced. "Wow, glad I missed that conversation.

"Calling it a conversation would be generous."

"Ouch . For both of you."

"Indeed," he said. "I had hoped a warm introduction might do well, perhaps assure him that my presence was benign, but I may have achieved the opposite. I believe he hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Hana protested, or maybe attempted to reassure him, he wasn't sure.

Zenyatta simply waited.

Eventually Hana slumped in defeat. "Okay, yeah, that sounds like a total lie when I put it like that," she admitted. "What I mean is he doesn't hate you , just this… image of you he's built up in his head. Trust me, I know what that's like."

"Then what is your advice?"

She grinned. "I thought you were meant to be the wise one."

"Wisdom comes in many forms. To take only my own council would be a mistake."

Hana frowned. She picked up her phone again, but it appeared to be an act only to keep her hands occupied rather than any interest in the device. "Honestly? I don't know. I'd say let him get to know you but he'd probably rather shoot his other leg off. Just… don't be what he wants you to be. Show him he can't make you into that, cos really, he's looking for an excuse to hate something. It makes things easier."

"He may think it does," Zenyatta agreed, checking on the tea, "but hate is a heavy burden to bear."

"Maybe," she said softly.

He poured one steaming mug, and offered a second to the girl although she politely declined. Setting the lone beverage down on the counter he turned his attention back to her.

"It sounds to me as if you may have troubles of your own. If you are ever in need of a willing ear, I always have time for such pleasant company."

She turned her phone around in her hands. "I'm fine, honest. But thanks anyway."

Any further conversation was cut short as the distinctive sound of peg leg and crutches clattered their way into the kitchen. Hana looked up with a start, but somehow managed to plaster a smile onto her face and offer a friendly wave. "Hiya, Rat!"

Jamison didn't bother to respond, his attention was fixed firmly on the omnic.

Zenyatta offered a greeting of his own and was met with a steady glare.

There was no disguising the open contempt written across the man's features, nor the hostility in his approach, although Zenyatta suspected Jamison very much intended him to notice.

"Far as I know ya don't eat or drink nothin', so what ya doin' here ?" he demanded.

While hardly polite, it was not the worst thing he could have expected to hear, so Zenyatta simply gestured to the cup of tea resting on the counter. "You are correct, I do not, but I took the liberty of preparing some tea for Genji. He seems troubled of late, and I thought it might do him some good."

Jamison just narrowed his eyes. "Well, if ya done then maybe ya should go give it to 'im, rather than hangin' about in everyone's bloody way."

Ah. If there was a moment to push for progress, Zenyatta doubted this was it.

"I suppose I should," he said airily. Picking up the cup, he inclined his head to Hana. "Thank you for the conversation Hana, it was most pleasant."

"Sure..." she said, looking uncertain.

With the tea clasped in both hands, he drifted off toward the doorway, a path that unfortunately took him past Jamison. The man seemed to tense like a coil wound ever tighter the closer Zenyatta moved, yet he stayed rooted to the spot, his wild gaze tracking his movements. His muscles twitched. And there it was, as Zenyatta had always known, that telling gleam of fear so artfully masked behind all his venom.

He only offered the man a nod and a gentle word of farewell before he left the kitchen behind.

Patience was the key to any victory. It had never failed him before.

The first attempt on his life was not so much a surprise as it was a disappointment. He'd known the moment he'd seen Jamison up on that cliff that it had not been for a well needed heart to heart.

The man still moved all wrong, tensed, prowling forward with those wide eyes and fingers that would not still. There was no tentativeness to his words, only raw and unguided hate amidst bitter, chewed out lies. Oh, Zenyatta had known. The problem was he couldn't think of a polite way to admit it.

So, like any well meaning omnic, he'd ignored the matter entirely, and then Jamison attempted to throw him off a cliff.

It was instinct that caused his body to move. A pressure applied, force he knew how to redirect with a simple twist and flick of his arms. Years of training amidst his travels left no hesitation in his reaction.

Just like that, the pressure flowed off him like water, and Jamison went tumbling over the edge. Zenyatta just had time to catch the terror in the man's eyes. He disappeared in a whirl of flailing limbs, and Zenyatta hovered where he was, wondering if he could have reached out to grab him.

A splash hit several seconds later.

It occurred to him that he may have just killed a man.

Cautiously, Zenyatta peered over the edge at the churning water below. There was no sight of the gangly Junker, not even a gleam of his bright orange prosthetics amidst the dark blue ocean.

Being constructed entirely of metal, circuitry and wiring, rescue attempts on his part were out of the question. With no other options he contacted Athena and sent out an alert to nearby agents that could assist.

Then, he backed up from the edge and lowered his hover until it was a mere handspan from the ground, and waited patiently.

Fretting about the matter would be unproductive. Jamison would live or die, and until he was in a position to influence the outcome there was no need to trouble himself. He could question his own actions later.

If he was lucky, Jamison would have the same opportunity.

One thing Zenyatta was sure of was that Overwatch deserved commendation for their swift response. In only moments Winston was on the scene, Commander Morrison seconds behind, and as he relayed the situation they wasted no time in launching into action.

Soon they had Jamison back on dry land, and after a bit of work they had him breathing, hacking up sea water while he shivered miserably against the ground.

It was a pitiful sight. Despite his instincts Zenyatta kept his distance.

He could catalogue potential injuries and medical complications based on his understanding of human physiology, could sense the sudden, wretched discomfort of a being jerked back to consciousness in a body barely functioning, but he could not act. Steel hands would never be the comfort he wished them to be.

Morrison had clear control of the matter and the omnic hovered ten feet back, offering the only thing he could under the circumstances. He sent out harmony to soothe the soul, to ease the pain and in turn calm the body as it did the mind, an energy that hovered in a golden glow above the Junker. Zenyatta felt a measure of satisfaction as he watched it swirl. Physical wounds were not his specialty. They never had been.

The question, then, became how to extract himself now that his usefulness was at an end. Angela was on her way, Jamison was stable, Morrison had settled into his natural role as commander of any disaster he walked into, and Zenyatta had other things to be doing. He knew his face was not the one Jamison wanted to see. Given the way they had so recently parted, he wasn't even offended.

Silently he drifted backward, closer to the door.

He could have ended things like that, calmly passing on what information he had when the doctor arrived and finding Genji for a cup of tea and a meditation on the nature of karma, and the importance of safety rails, but Jamison had other ideas.

Jamison had decided that he wanted to be upright.

The man lurched into a sitting position with a complete lack of grace, startling both Winston and Morrison, and proceeded to sway like a sapling in the breeze. His eyes were unfocused, mouth agape. His blonde hair was dark with sea water and stuck to his pale skin in wet clumps. If he was conscious, it was barely, and if he was thinking, it was nothing sensible.

Morrison was unimpressed. "Lie back down and keep still," he warned, "Angela is on her way but you don't want to worsen anything before she gets here."

Jamison did not listen.

It was doubtful he could hear at all in such a state, though this did nothing to ease Morrison's obvious exasperation. The man reached out to settle a hand on Jamison's shoulder and help him back into the recovery position, but his attempt was cut short.

The second he made contact, Jamison flinched. He pulled back from Morrison's grip and bared his teeth in a snarl that made its threat explicitly clear.

The Commander froze.

Jamison managed to hold his pose for all of a second before his balance wavered and he toppled back to the ground. He did not rise immediately, but lay still, drawing weak and ragged breaths.

Winston was the first to speak. "Is he alright? Given, uh, the circumstances I mean?"

"Alright enough to disobey orders," Morrison muttered, but there was an underlying discomfort to the words, and the frown on his face that was uneasy.

Zenyatta wondered if it were his first time realising the extent of what he dealt with. He, of course, had known for a long time.

Omnics were good readers of body language. This was only natural, considering the majority of them lacked mobile facial features, and couldn't rely on a raised eyebrow or a downturned lip to dictate the shifting mood of a conversation.

He observed people with an attentiveness for every part of them - their movements, where they placed themselves, the distances they chose, the speed they reacted, how they angled themselves or idled, what drew their attention.

Jamison had given him a lot to work with. He was animated, to say the least. The most important conclusion he had drawn though was that Jamison looked for threats. Constantly. When he found them, he was swift to return his own.

The sad truth of the matter was that such behaviour was never drawn from thin air.

All of this he could have explained to Morrison, except that he did not trust himself to speak for fear of worsening an already terse situation. His voice would only fuel the fire. What better way to spur Jamison's irrational behaviour than to give him the threat he sought, to reveal himself now, when the man's disorientation and helplessness were the most obvious?

Idly, he contemplated his chances of making a hasty retreat while he still had the chance.

Any such fantasy was soon cut short as Jamison visibly strained, hauling himself upright for a second time.

Morrison's hands were splayed open, cautiously raised a respectful distance away, but he didn't make the mistake of attempting to touch him again.

"Um, maybe it's best if you just take it easy for now?" Winston suggested.

For a moment it seemed as if that was where the matter would end. The figure of Jamison did nothing but sit, and as the seconds ticked by Morrison's hands began to lower, although he still maintained his watchful stance. Then, with eerie slowness, Jamison's head began to turn.

His gaze swept across the rocky surface of the cliff, past Morrison's stiff shoulders, past the hulking silhouette Winston cast against the morning sun, drifting onward until finally, like a latch snapping into place, it found the omnic.

Jamison stared.

Jamison only really stared like that when he wanted to make a threat. Under normal circumstances, his eyes darted intermittently in all directions, checking his peripherals and snapping to any movement or unknown quantity he needed to assess. Zenyatta was vividly familiar with the particular way Jamison could pin a person with his gaze though. He'd experienced it to some extent almost every time they'd crossed paths since his arrival at headquarters, and when he met those eyes now he recognised the intent behind them, even as he understood how hollow it was.

Sodden, swaying, and wordless, the menace was dampened. It was almost a parody of itself, were it not for the sheer determination poured into the act.

And what response could one conceivably give to that?

Zenyatta had been mocked, and ridiculed, and accused of far more horrors than he'd had the time to possibly accomplish, he'd been written off as no more than a heartless machine playing a part, and twice even condemned for blasphemy. So, it was fair to say he'd seen his share of hostility... but for all the distaste he'd met in twenty years of life he didn't think he'd ever encountered anything quite like that stare. It was in equal parts what made Jamison so fascinating, and so continuously unreachable.

Beneath that gaze Zenyatta did not wilt, but he waited.

Later, when Angela had checked the Junker over and Morrison finally relaxed enough to take a step back, he came to stand by Zenyatta's side. It was with a very careful kind of casualness that he asked about what had happened.

Zenyatta did not consider himself much of a liar, in the same way he did not consider himself a fighter, but he was perfectly capable of fulfilling both roles when the need came.

"He was admiring the view when I came up, I fear I must have startled him for he lost his balance and fell. It was entirely my fault. I should have left when I realised he was here."

Morrison studied him. "You're sure that's what happened?"

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

There was a shrewdness to the man's gaze, but whatever suspicions he had he appeared to shake them aside. He sighed. "No reason. But I trust your word, and you shouldn't blame yourself. It was an accident, and you called for assistance as soon as it happened. Fawkes may well have slipped even without you here and then no one would have known before it was too late."

None of them questioned his story further. Everyone was far more concerned with making sure Jamison was well, and didn't immediately throw himself into harm's way the second their attention drifted.

It was only much later that any doubts were expressed, and only Genji who spoke them aloud.

"He really slipped? That's all that happened?"

"How else would he have ended up in the water?" Zenyatta asked.

With his faceplate removed Genji's expression was bare to the world, narrowed eyes and thin lips amidst a sea of scars that pinched and twisted his pale skin. "Master, if he attempted to harm you…"

"If he did, then it has worked out very poorly for him," Zenyatta pointed out, tilting the pink watering can over the flowerbed. "I appreciate your concern, Genji, but I do not require your help in this matter."

Gardening was a noble hobby, he had decided, and a fantastic way to pass the time. All it required was care and patience, and life would flourish.

Genji paced the small terrace with none of the calm the place deserved, and it was clear he was working up to something more to say. He paused by the shade of the overhanging roof, faceplate tight in his hands. "He takes advantage of your good nature," he said softly. "I do not trust him. He's unstable, he's killed before."

"And you yourself have never taken a life?"

Genji looked up suddenly. "That is different."

Serenely, Zenyatta drifted over to the cramped vegetable patch Mei had been cultivating. "And has your brother not attempted to take yours? Have you not offered him forgiveness despite actions he felt compelled toward?"

Genji was silent for several seconds. He heard the sharp click of metal as his faceplate snapped back into place, and the cyborg moved out of the shadows to stand beside him. "The past I can forgive. This is in the present. Don't grant him more opportunities than you can afford, please. Your life is just as important."

With a hum of agreement, he held the watering can out in offering to his former pupil. "Thank you, Genji, but I know what I am doing. Please do not burden yourself."

Hesitantly, Genji took the watering can and began showering the plants while Zentyatta folded his hands in his lap, content to watch. He enjoyed moments like these. The simplicity of them, the gentleness - there was no urgency here, no danger, nothing but the effortlessness of existence.

He almost missed Genji's words, they were spoken so quietly. "It's not a burden."

((So... my doctor thinks I'm depressed. Which, honestly, would explain why writing's been hard for me recently. I do want people to understand that I'm not abandoning projects though. A lot's going on in the world right now, so make sure you all stay safe!))