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euhemeria · 1 year

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Ways (From What I Understand)

She does not know how to explain it, outside the language of courtly love, and knighthood, how to express it in any language other than longing.

Fandom: Overwatch Rating: T Category: Gen Characters: Brigitte, Fareeha Warnings: None A gift for @ouhhoh; musings on butchness, role models, and first relationships. Also on ao3.

Rarely does Brigitte find herself in the position of asking someone for advice. It is not that she does not need guidance, from time to time, but rather, as the youngest child in a large family, and as one of the youngest people in Overwatch, she finds herself often on the receiving end of other people’s unsolicited suggestions. If there is something she needs to know, chances are someone is going to tell her—whether she asks for their help or not.

Usually, she finds it annoying. She is 23, and she knows that is young, yes, but it is not that young, in the grand scheme of things. She has finished school and been in the adult world for some time now—even if she did spend a good portion of that time living out of a van with Reinhardt, and now as a member of the less-than-legal Recalled Overwatch. She knows adult things! She is confident and competent in the field, and more than old enough to decide so for herself, despite what some of the others may think.

(It is hard not to take it personally, when she hears Angela call her a girl while talking to Reinhardt, saying she is too young to be here. She knows that it is not, is more about how Angela feels about her own time in Overwatch—but still, it stings. At least Reinhardt stands up for her, and when she tells her mother about it, later, Ingrid, who is never one to mince words, says that although she may be just as idealistic, she is less naïve than Angela was, at her age.)

Still, everyone has advice for her. So many of them knew her when she was a child that it is difficult for them to see her as fully an adult, and that is frustrating, to say the least, even if some of the advice is useful.

At least Fareeha understands. The others respect her, because she is a hard woman to not respect, but sometimes, the way they talk about her mother, it is clear that they see, too, the child she used to be.

For this reason, it is easier to go to Fareeha for advice than any of the rest of them, on the occasions she actually needs it. She knows already that Fareeha sees her as a whole adult person, not an extension of her father or the child she once was, and Fareeha gives good advice, besides.

Or, normally she does, when Brigitte asks her about career-related issues, or has questions related to her weight training regimen. Apparently, she, too, assumes Brigitte is less experienced than is actually the case, at least in the realm of relationships.

“I know it’s something a lot of people have a problem with,” Fareeha says, setting her weights back on the rack, “But if you want to have sex with her, you’re just going to have to say that.” Brigitte does not know what to say to that, and Fareeha seems to take her silence as permission to continue. “It doesn’t have to be a big conversation. Be casual about it. Put your hand on her thigh and tell her you’d like to, if she’s open to it as well. People act like sex has to be some big deal, and—”

“That’s not—” Brigitte is mortified. “We’ve had sex!” Her face is always a splotchy red after a good workout, but now she can feel herself going fully pink—can see it, too, in her reflection.

“Oh,” Fareeha does not quite sound surprised, but she does not sound apologetic, either. She straightens and looks at Brigitte somewhat critically, “I don’t see what the problem is, then.”

“Well, we’re… I mean, we’ve been having sex, but I don’t know if we’re dating, or…” She makes a vague gesture with her hands. “You know how it is.”

“No,” Fareeha tells her, “I don’t.”

“What? Seriously? You haven’t had to do the whole ‘What are we?’ thing?” Brigitte had always thought that was a universal lesbian experience.

“Not with a woman I’m fucking, no. I like to know where I stand before I have sex with someone.” She says it like it is supposed to be obvious.

“I do too,” Brigitte wants to defend herself, “And I usually think I do! But then you mean to hook up once, and she stays the whole weekend, and that’s fine. But then you run into each other again, and it happens again and… okay, maybe it can happen twice. Then she says she wants to see you again, and… you know!” She did not think she would have to explain this.

“I have literally never done that.”

“Never?” Given what little Brigitte knows about Angela’s dating history, she had assumed that was how Fareeha and Angela ended up together; it surprises her to hear such is not the case. Rather than say that, though, she asks, “You’ve never had someone you met on an app stick around?”

A half-shrug, “I don’t sleep with people unless I already know them well.”

That surprises Brigitte perhaps most of all. She does not think there is anything wrong with preferring that, of course, but Fareeha never struck her as the type, is confident and open and definitely not above posting thirst traps to social media. Coupled with her earlier comment about sex not being a big deal, Brigitte just cannot quite make sense of it, of what the reasoning would be. It feels like it would be rude to ask Why not?, so she settles instead for, “I can’t imagine only having sex with people I’m dating.”

“I didn’t say that,” Fareeha’s tone says God forbid. “I’ve had friends with benefits.”

Admittedly, Brigitte had not considered that, but it brings back to mind her current problem, “But how do you know if you’re friends with benefits or dating?”

“I ask them where they see things going.” Fareeha moves to go over to the area where they usually do their cooldown but then pauses, adds, “Before we have sex.”

“It’s a little late for that.” Actually, it is a lot late. Somehow, Brigitte feels like admitting just how long she has been maybe-dating is going to be more embarrassing than anything else that has been said, here, so she decides not to say that it has been four months, and that some of the nights that she has slept over, she has just slept. It feels like it should be cut and dry.

“So why not just ask her?” Fareeha moves into the first pose of their routine, gets on her back and pulls a leg towards her chest, stretching her hamstring.

“I don’t know,” Brigitte says, settling down onto her own yoga mat with more of an audible thump, and pulling her leg towards her torso more quickly than she should, ow. “I guess I’ve just never really actually dated anyone.” It makes it difficult, to know how to ask, not knowing exactly what she would be asking for.

“Huh,” Fareeha sounds surprised. “No inclination or never met the right girl?”

“Didn’t have the time.” She was a late bloomer, as a teenager, and then by the time she was starting to notice other women, she was in engineering school. From there, she went straight to traveling with Reinhardt, and on to here.

“Mmm, I can see that,” Fareeha switches legs, does not even pause her movement as she asks, “But you want a relationship now?” as if it were so simple.

“Maybe?” Dating seems like a lot of work, and a lot of communicating, and it feels a little embarrassing, to be 23 years old and to have to explain to the woman you are seeing that I can’t tell if we’re in a relationship or not.

Fareeha concludes the whole second stretch without speaking again, sits up before pulling her arm across her chest, stretching her shoulder. Posterior deltoid, Brigitte reminds herself. Angela wants her to be memorizing these things. “It sounds like you’re at least a little interested.”

“Does it?” She hopes she has not sounded too eager. That would be embarrassing, particularly if this does not work out.

Fareeha pulls her arm a little tighter across herself. “You asked me,” she points out, “Not Zaryanova.”

Well, that is true. Zarya has certainly been in her same position more than once, and may have been the better person to ask, if this were just about whether or not she is dating someone—but Fareeha is in a committed relationship, a serious one, one that seems happy, and healthy.

“I just don’t know how it would go,” she admits. “What I would do.”

“Date her?” Fareeha suggests.

“Well,” Brigitte says, “Yes. But isn’t not that simple!”

Fareeha switches to the second arm, and now she is looking at Brigitte again, head turning with the stretch. “It really is.”

“No,” Brigitte is not certain how to explain the issue. It sounds silly to say I don’t know what’s expected of me, but she does not, not really. “I haven’t really—I mean, I know you, of course, but I didn’t really grow up knowing many lesbians. Lesbians in relationships.”

Or, not adult lesbians. Not lesbians who are older than her, who know more than she does about life, and romance, and what it means to be a woman who dates other women, who could model for her what it meant to be butch and to be in love.

She loved knights' tales growing up, hearing about chivalry, and heroism, and protecting the people you love, but she knows, too, that it is one thing to read about it, to devour books of handsome lady knights and the princesses they rescued, and quite another to put any of that into practice, particularly in the 2070s. Reinhardt does it, sure, lives his life as a knight, but she does not want his version of knighthood, does not want to model herself after a man—not wholly, anyway.

(She looks up to him, of course, has taken seriously her role as his squire, but it is one thing to want to be the kind of warrior he is, the kind of protector, and another to want her version of courtly love to be made in a man’s image. For that, she does not want to be following the guidance of a man, does not even want to compare herself to one—she wants butch masculinity, butch knighthood, butch wooing and protecting and courting. There is nothing wrong with the way Reinhardt lives his life, is much to be admired there, but Brigitte’s version of butchness is not a mimicry of manhood, is something else unto itself. On top of that, she has never seen Reinhardt pursue anyone.)

“You know several now.” Fareeha finishes the stretch, looks at her pointedly.

She knows Lena, too, and Zarya, and thinks Satya might be gay, also, but finds her exclusive use of the word partner difficult to parse. That does not matter; if Satya is a lesbian, she is femme, Zarya’s relationship status is complicated, and Lena… Lena’s relationship with Emily seems good, it does, but Brigitte does not look up to her, in the way she does Fareeha, does not want to pattern herself after Lena, does not hear her talk about love and think I want that.

But, crucially, she knows Fareeha. She knows Fareeha, and she overheard, once, Angela calling Fareeha her knight, and it may have been half in jest, but Brigitte locked on to that, that phrasing, imagined what it would be like, for a woman she loved to say the same of her, and it filled her with warmth, in a way little else has. That is who she wants to be.

So she agrees, “I do.” She knows Fareeha, even if she only got a glimpse, just that once, of that thing that she wants to be. Most of the time, she sees very little of Fareeha and Angela’s relationship, finds it hard to locate the romance within the friendship, the camaraderie, but it was enough to see it, that one time, enough to make her realize that it is something she is longing for, to love a woman like that.

“We’re not enough for you?” It is teasing, she can tell from Fareeha’s tone, but Brigitte knows what she is getting at, is asking what else Brigitte needs.

Normally, here, they would move on to a calf stretch, reach towards their toes, but it is hard to make eye contact doing that, even in the mirror, so Brigitte stays sitting up. “I don’t know. Lena’s long-distance, whatever Zarya has going on is a mess, and you and Angela are… you’re….”

“Private,” Fareeha supplies.

“Right.” That is one way of putting it. Having grown up with her parents, it is strange, to her, to know a couple that does not engage in public displays of affection. “So that isn’t exactly much to go on.”

“What is there to know?”

Everything, thinks Brigitte. There is a whole language that exists between women in relationships, one she has seen glimpses of in passing, a hand at the back, an arm holding up an umbrella, a means of communicating love and protection in a way that is not possession. She wants that, for herself, wants to be in that position, wants to know how to take care of a woman, the way she feels butch women are supposed to.

(To a lesser degree, she wants to know what it is to be taken care of, too, in the way she knows another woman could care for her, at the end of a long day, wants to be a protector, yes, but wants, also, to have someone to look out for her in turn, wants the comfort of knowing that although they understand she is capable of caring for herself, they still want to help lighten that load.)

“I don’t know.” That is, Brigitte thinks, rather the point. All she has is a series of moments, and relationships are far more than that, are all the things that happen in between. “I just know that I want—I mean, if I’m in a relationship—I want me being butch to be a part of that. Somehow.”

Obviously, it will be. How could it not? But she does not know how to say it, outside the language of courtly love, and knighthood, how to express it in any language other than longing.

“Don’t worry about it,” Fareeha tells her, leaning in to the next stretch, apparently satisfied that this portion of the conversation is resolved. “You’ll do fine.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” For a woman who gives perfectly clear orders on the field, Fareeha is not helping her much here.

“Whatever you want. It’s your relationship.” A pause. “Well, whatever you and your partner want.”

“I know,” Brigitte reaches to grab her own toes, makes sure she is mirroring Fareeha, so their faces are pointed in the same direction. “But—how am I supposed to know what that is?”

“You just have to figure it out.” Fareeha lets go of that foot, but lingers sitting up before switching to the other foot. “I’m not trying to be evasive. But it’s different, from person to person, what it means to be butch—or gay, or anything. I can’t tell you what’s right for you.”

“I guess not,” Brigitte breaks the stretch a few seconds early, so she can sit up, too.

Her lingering uncertainty must be clear, because Fareeha reaches out, puts a hand on her shoulder, solid, reassuring. “You’ll figure it out. You’re butch, so whatever you do is what a butch in a relationship does. And if you’re really still nervous—I don’t know, try holding open a door? That’s a good standby.”

The reframing is so simple, the idea that her being butch makes the things she does right for a butch, rather than doing butch things making her butch, but still, it is immensely reassuring. Her way of being is already the right way, whether she has guidance or not, because she is right—but, still, there is the anxiety of the unknown, the potential for embarrassment in fumbling her way through finding what fits her. She likes the idea of holding doors, but, “I never see you holding doors for Angela?” Surely, at least, Fareeha can give her something more, a fallback to try, if it feels awkward, doing that.

“I tried,” Fareeha says, “But Angela isn’t the sort of person who appreciates that kind of gesture.” There is warmth in her voice, fondness. Brigitte thinks it would be a little annoying, if a partner rejected her attempt at chivalry, dismissed it as silly, but Fareeha clearly disagrees.

(As fond as Brigitte is of Angela, having grown up with her around, the two of them are certainly very different people, with different priorities and worldviews. For all that Brigitte respects Angela, admires her even, she cannot begin to imagine what it is to date her—and thinks she herself would be much happier with a different sort of person.)

What Brigitte says instead is, “She’s very practical.” It is an understatement.

“She is,” Fareeha’s smile is, again, fond. “So I check her windshield wiper fluid instead.”

“Her wiper fluid?” Car maintenance is about as far from courtly love as a person can get.

“That way, I know she’s safe on the road,” Fareeha says, reaching then for the other foot. “And I get to feel like I’m protecting her. Plus, it’s one less chore to worry about when she’s busy, so she appreciates it.”

Well, framed like that, Brigitte can see why it might be appealing, when framed that way, why it might feel right to Fareeha, to do it. Maybe she has been going about this wrong, worrying over what to do, and has not been thinking enough about why she is doing it. For her, maybe, it will not look the same, protecting a partner—although, after travelling with Reinhardt, she does know a thing or two about maintaining a car—but that is what it is about, the protecting, not the gesture itself. There are ways she can find to do that, surely.

And the attitude, the wanting, the orienting of herself in a relationship to another person, that, she thinks, she has well in hand, always has had.

“I see,” says she, because she thinks at last she does.

“Good,” Fareeha is rising from her stretch as she answers. “Is that all, then? Because we’re pushing time, and I’m sure everyone would appreciate it if I showered before my afternoon meetings.”

It is everything she needed, yes, but “I do have one more question,” she says as she, too, stands.

“Yes?” Fareeha was half-turned towards the locker room already, but she pauses.

“Does ‘I want to have sex, do you?’ really work for you?” That simple? “No seduction or big lead up or anything?”

“Yeah?”

“Ugh.”

Some people have it all figured out.

#rory writes fic #i just like the idea of brigitte seeing pharah as a role model #like rein is a fine role model for many things #but for gay things. she needs an older lesbian to look to #thats all!

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