The morning dawns cold and bright. Fall is beginning to dig its roots into the German countryside.
Reinhardt wakes as he always does, precisely three minutes before his alarm goes off. He rolls out of bed with a grunt, stretching the stiffness that has settled into his joints as he slept. He stumbles sleepily to the bathroom where he toilets and washes his hands. He makes it as far as his doorway before memories of the previous night come flooding back.
Meine Gott. Did that really happen?
It had.
He lets out a disgusted groan. Why hadn't he kept his big mouth shut? If only he had picked up on her misinterpretation, she might've believed that he was having some kind of emotional breakdown!
No….not his squire. She was too smart. She was dogged in her pursuit of the truth, and knew him too well. He couldn't lie to her; shouldn't have tried. The realization didn't make his reality now any easier though.
Well. It was obvious from their goodnight last night that she wanted to pretend that it hadn't happened, which was his wish as well. So, he would!
Resolute, he throws open the bedroom door and stomps to the kitchen. He takes in the sight of their half-finished Schneider Weisses on the table, and collects the bottles. They might be flat, but it would be a shame to let good beer go to waste. He drains them, then rinsed and recycled the bottles.
Hmm, what would be good today. Perhaps omelettes? He rummages through the fridge, collecting ingredients. They are getting low on eggs; he makes a mental note to pick some up on Sunday when they go to the grocers.
As he fires up the stovetop he pulls up Looking for Freedom on the sound system and sets to cooking.
One less-known fact about Reinhardt Wilhelm is that he loves to cook. It is a skill learned later in life; after he joined Overwatch he had been stationed at the Watchpoint at Gibraltar which had lain mostly dormant for many years. Eating powdered rations and fruit had gotten old fast (how could Winston stand it?) and there was no way to cater in elaborate meals without raising suspicion, so he had learned to make the food he wanted to eat. It had even become something of a ritual with him and the other agents; everyone taking turns cooking, washing dishes, getting groceries. It had become fellowship .
He hums along to the refrain as the oil sizzles and pops in the skillet, and throws in some dried herbs, fresh veggies and ham from their leftovers earlier that week. As the next track comes on, he cracks four eggs over the whole mess and stirs it all together until it's blended evenly and waits for it to set. He might belt out the refrain for Crazy for You as he waits, but there's no one there to witness it, so what's the harm?
Once the omelette is cooked, he folds it in half and slides it onto one of two waiting plates. That one is for Brigitte; to his omelette he adds some spicy chili flakes to the mix and cracks twice as many eggs. Ah, it smells divine!
Once he has two piping hot omelettes set on their plates, he turns to the table where he expects a bleary Brigitte, as is their ritual. She isn't there. Well, he isn't going to let her lay in all morning!
He goes to her door, which is shut. He knocks firmly three times, and calls, " Schildlein! Do not sleep the day away, breakfast is ready!" And then goes back to the table. He starts in on his omelette and washes each bite down with a swig of lemon water (Angela says it is good for his kidneys), adding some hot sauce to the mix about halfway through. By the time he is bringing the last bite to his lips, she has still not turned up.
Well, perhaps she wishes to dine alone this morning. He stifles the creeping sense of unease that perhaps she is more bothered by last night than he thought, and rinses his plate in the sink. Then, he pulls on his sneakers. A digestive walk is just what he needs. As he closes the door behind him, he thinks he can hear the creak of hinges opening down the hallway.
Morning in the countryside is beautiful. The sun is beginning to creep over the horizon, the sky a cloudless orange that morphs into tones of pink and blue as it rises. The air is brisk and cool and he is only in his pajama pants and a long-sleeved top. But the cold he has been told is good for recovering muscles, and he is strong enough to weather it.
He increases his pace to a fast walk. Were he a younger man he might have run, but he feels the impact in his knees now as he never has before. Not to mention, the good doctor has told him that walking is better than running on one's joints.
By the time he circles back through the woods to his home, his muscles are warm enough that he hardly notices the cold. All around him the forest is coming alive; birds are singing, squirrels scurry through the underbrush and he even spots a deer, though it bounces away before he even gets close.
"Run, little friend!" He roars to its retreating back, "Enjoy your youth while you have it!"
When Reinhardt comes in from his walk he sees that the table is empty. The drying rack next to the sink has two sets of plates, forks and glasses in it which means that Brigitte is up. As he goes to the living room he is close enough to hear strains of music coming from behind his closed workshop door. She must be working on his armor now. Normally he would go in and rib her about oversleeping, but he thinks that it must have been deliberate. She is avoiding him. He isn't certain that the best thing to do now is corner her into an unwanted conversation. When she is ready, she will talk.
He decides now is a good time to work out some of the more persistent aches and lingering muscle tightness in his body. His afternoon stretches are well and good, but they are more designed to limber him up for their sparring sessions. He retreats to his bedroom and utilizes what is perhaps his favorite gift from Angela: a heated massager. There he works his tight trapezius, his spinal erectors, his hamstrings, even his piriformis. He groans his way through some of the worst knots before deciding he's had enough of that and instead pulls up the news.
Absentmindedly, he lets the massager work his neck while he flicks through the front page on his holopad; Die Mannschaft won their last game 3-1 last night, good, he had missed it. There are plans in the works to install a new solar power grid in west Germany; he thinks they would have better luck with one near the Wetterstein Mountains, but he's not a solar engineer. Rumors of a Bastion-54 unit in southern Sweden; bah! They are seeing ghosts everywhere, even 20 years on! He puts down his tablet, making a mental note to laugh with Torbjorn about that last article when he sees him next.
His muscles feel as loose as they ever do. Perfect, as it is time for his drills! He changes into gear more suitable for his workout, throwing his sleepwear into the hamper.
As he goes down to his workshop he can see that the door is open now, the lights and music off. Brigitte is gone, but the door to her workshop directly opposite his is closed. Light glows through the gap under the door. She must be hard at work on her own projects now. He leaves her be, and closes his own door as to not disturb her. His drill sessions tend to be... loud.
He warms up with just his rocket hammer; he disables the rockets at first. He wants to practice the swing without assistance; it's important that he be able to swing it should they suddenly malfunction. Half of his workshop is open wide, unencumbered by equipment or tools. Instead there are thick silicone mats inlaid into the floor. He hefts his hammer, testing it with a few warmup swings before he remembers that he's supposed to be wearing ear protection. Brigitte would nag him about protecting his hearing if she were watching; he can hear her chiding as clear as day. Reluctantly he pops in some foam plugs, then begins to pummel the mats.
"HRAAHH!" Each swing is met with a loud cry; the knight expels his breath at the hammer meets the mat with a boom, putting as much force behind each hit as he can. He pushes himself as he continues; to swing faster, to snap the hammer back into position faster, to hit with more force. He continues this onslaught until his arms tremble and he can no longer maintain good form.
"Hahhh.." His breath comes in panting spurts, his heart beating almost out of his chest as he struggles to recover. In his workshop he has a mini-fridge stocked with water bottles and a few local beers. He selects a water and drains most of it between breaths, then dumps the rest over his head. His silvery hair clings to his neck, soaked with sweat and water. Pushing himself feels good .
As his heartbeat calms, he enables the rocket mechanism and begins again. This time he is able to go longer, swing harder, aided as he is. The thunderous crash of the hammer shakes the whole workshop; he can't see it, but tools shiver on their hooks. His empty water bottle shudders off the mini-fridge and jitters across the floor.
Reinhardt swings until his strength once again gives out, then takes another a break. He fetches the errant water bottle and grabs a new one; this one receives the same treatment as the first. Then he returns to his hammer. For his last drill, things get a little more complicated. He cannot actually practice firestriking in his workshop; it is too destructive. instead he mounts small motion-capturing sensors along the hammer's head and shaft, booting up his special program. He rolls down a projector screen that hangs from the ceiling, and as the program starts a small blinking dot appears on the screen.
He swings the hammer in a parody of a firestrike, and a lick of color appears on the screen; the strike's impact zone. Now he practices trying to land his hits on the dot, which flits around the screen every few seconds. It glows blue every time he lands a hit. He forces himself to count ten perfect hits in a row before he lets himself quit.
Ah, now he is well and truly worn out. And mightily hungry! He lays the hammer in its cradle; he will polish it and remove the trackers after lunch. As he leaves the workshop he sees that her door is cracked open, the lights on. He can't see her through the gap, but he thinks she must be at lunch.
Yes; she has left the lunch spread on the counter for him. Meats, cheeses, thick slabs of bread, a heart of romaine. He fixes himself a heaping sandwich and adds a liberal squirt of mayonnaise ( you really should watch your cholesterol , Angela sighs) and, as an afterthought plucks some extra romaine leaves from the heart in an approximation of a salad. He stomps into the living room balancing his plate, a glass and a couple bananas and settles himself into his favorite recliner.
The knight eats leisurely, flipping between the news channels and sports channels until he finds a game worth watching. When he is done, he sets his plate aside and thinks briefly about how easy it would be to put up the foot of the recliner, lean back and practice a little meditation- but no. He needs to go polish his armor, which he had been waylaid from yesterday.
No, you were polishing something else, hm? The sly voice in his head sounds a lot like Amari. She always did have a crude sense of humor.
He finds himself back in his shop soon after, cranking up the Oldies on the sound system and retrieving some rags and a tube of Glänztschnell . He lowers his armor in its suspension system and sets to work. As he moves each joint he notices that none of them squeak, and that a persistent dent on the right breastplate has been worked out. Ah, Brigitte. Still staunch in her duties, even if she is avoiding him.
By the time Reinhardt has finished buffing every surface to gleaming perfection, he realizes it is almost time for them to spar. He puts everything away and then begins his dynamic stretches. As he does, he wonders a little at whether or not she will show up. She has never failed to show, but then again, she has never avoided him either. Well, no matter what she is feeling he will not let her slack on her training
When he makes it to the dojo, he finds her kneeling in the center mat awaiting him. She meets his eye when he arrives, which is promising. The set of her face though is strange; it is almost pained. Well, perhaps any issues between them will be worked out with a good session.
They bow, and the fight begins.
Brigitte fights terribly that night. Reinhardt deliberately leaves wide openings to test her, none of which she takes. Her own movements are hesitant, slow, as if she is questioning each one. These mistakes allow him to pin her easily. Again and again she is forced to accede submission. By the time their sparring is over, she has not managed to pin him once. When dojo is cleaned she departs quickly to her room, and he retires to his.
In the shower he wonders if this is going to become a bigger issue. She is not herself. Has his confession really disturbed her so? He couldn't see any way out of it, not at the time. As he scrubs the water out of his hair, he sighs. He's no good when it comes to matters like these-matters of the heart. Emotions . He hopes she comes to her senses soon.
When he pulls his coat on he is expecting that he will head alone to Schwartz Taverne , but she meets him in the garage and slips into the driver's seat.
"Schwartz Taverne?" She asks as he heaves himself into the passenger's side, and he nods. They tend to have a pattern with their visits.
The ride to Schwartz Taverne is short, but silent. He wants to say something, but his voice sticks in his throat. When they get out of the car and stride into the bar, he is afraid that the night is going to be unpleasantly frigid for reasons other than the chilly bite of the wind, but he is surprised. Perhaps it is the atmosphere of the bar (which is rich and warm), or the other patrons but Brigitte seems to thaw. She smiles and waves at the regulars, tugs at his arm to pull him into a seat at the bar between people they both know. The bartender, Ella greets him warmly.
"Ah, Ella, it has been too long!" He cannot hug her across the bar, but he clasps her hand in both of his own and bows over it to give it a kiss. She crooks one dark brow at him, her mouth quirked as though she is trying to hide her smile.
"Well well, look what the cat has dragged in! Finally showing your sorry mug around here, are ya?" She grabs two steins, filling one first with Brigitte's preferred Gaffel Kölsch and his with Erdinger Kristall. She sets the glasses down in front of each of them, peering down her nose at her patrons. "It's been near on two months since I've seen ya."
"My beauty, you know I could not stay away forever!" He exclaims, tipping her a broad wink. She shakes her head at him, black ringlets flying. She knows he cannot talk about his work.
"You old flatterer." She tips her head to the side, as if thinking. "Let me guess...two orders of Maultaschen for you and a hamburger for you, Brigitte?"
"You truly know the way to my heart!" He agrees to the order, before glancing to the left where Brigitte sits. She is nodding at Ella, a small smile on her lips.
"Could I get the burger with extra pickle this time?" his squire asks, taking a sip from her beer.
"Not pregnant are ya, lassie?" Ella calls over her shoulder as she takes their order to the kitchen, and Brigitte chokes on her drink. He pounds her back as she splutters and coughs to Ella's cackling laughter. "Only joking. You're far too young to for that!"
Brigitte manages to get ahold of her breathing by the time Ella brings back their appetizer, a plate of onion tarts. She helps herself to one and shakes it at the barmaid. "If these weren't so good Ella, I would be throwing it at you!"
They are quite good. Reinhardt is halfway eating his third one when a hand lands firmly on his shoulder.
"Reinhardt! Is it really you?" A familiar voice says, and he turns to meet a face he never thought he'd see again.
Though his black goatee is now grey, he recognizes Artur immediately. The two men fold each other in a delighted embrace, slapping each other on the back heartily as they hug.
"Artur, old friend! What a surprise to see you!" He exclaims, releasing the man from his grasp.
"I knew it must be you, Wilhelm! No one else wears that hairstyle anymore!" Jokes Artur, settling onto the stool to Reinhardt's right. The knight raises a finger to flag Ella.
"A drink please, for this fellow here! On me, of course."
"Ah, you don't have to do that-" But Reinhardt shuts him up with a shake of his head.
"Nonsense, I won't hear any argument!"
Artur orders himself the same thing Reinhardt is drinking, nodding approvingly as he takes a draft from his mug. "You always did have good taste in beer."
The knight laughs. "Of course, and I haven't lost it." He leans in closer to Artur, ready to settle into earnest conversation. "So, tell me, what have you been up to all these years? How is Marianna?"
It has been many years since he last saw Artur Fischer. If he remembers correctly, the battle at Eichenwalde was the last time were together; Artur was taken to the hospital to recover from his many bullet wounds and minor blast lung, while he himself was treated by medics at the scene and remained to mop up any omnic stragglers. Once Eichenwalde had been secured he had passed his report onto the next Crusader in line to become Lieutenant and resigned his post. Then he had been free to honor Balderich's dying wish and answer the call to Overwatch.
More than twenty years! So much catching up to do. Indeed, they talk for almost two hours (well, Artur does quite a bit of talking while he tucks into his Maultaschen ) and by the end they've only skimmed the surface to get to the present day. It turns out that after he was taken to the hospital, Artur retired honorably from the Bundeswehr. He and Marianna left Germany with their baby and went to Switzerland, unknowingly echoing Reinhardt's own movements. There they resided for many years until the Omnic Crisis was resolved. They had intended to move back to Germany once the war was over, but by that point Artur had gotten a decent job and Marianna was pregnant with their second child. Only in the last month had they moved back, now that both children were out of the house.
Reinhardt told Artur what he could about his time in Overwatch; the missions and guerilla attacks that were designed to bring the Omnic Crisis to an end. He told him about travelling as a knight-errant, (omitting his dismissal from the organization) and introduced Brigitte, his loyal squire.
"More recently, I have returned to active duty in Overwatch. There is still much wrong in the world that needs righting, and I intend to see that this does not end as it did before."
Artur nods to him over his drink, his face solemn. Everyone knows about the disgrace that befell Overwatch after the war.
Silence falls between them, and they sit companionably for a few minutes; each lost in memories of the not-so-distant past.
"Well, my friend we will have to meet again soon." Reinhardt says as he watches Brigitte trying not to nod off over her drink. They have stayed much later than normal. "There is still much I wish to know!"
Artur agrees, and the two men exchange contact information so they can meet at a later date. Artur wants him to visit and see Marianna, who he had never met in person before, only in holo-pictures that the soldier had shared. "You will not be a stranger to her, she has heard a great deal about you!"
With a laugh and another firm embrace, the men part ways. This time it is Brigitte that pays the bill (minus Artur's drinks, which Reinhardt has already gladly paid for) and they journey home. The ride back is silent too, though he scarcely notices it. He is too caught up in memories that seem much too close after seeing Artur tonight.
It is bittersweet, seeing old friends. Seeing the old soldier in the flesh has shocked him more than the knight cares to admit; a ghost, made solid. He would scarcely be more surprised if Jack Morrison returned from the dead. But still... it was good to see him. Good to know that at least one person from his past had made it out of that bloody war alive.
When he closes his bedroom door he notices that it does not squeak. It also remains firmly shut when he lets go of the handle; the busted hinge has been replaced. Brigitte .
That night he dreams of blood and grease smeared across gleaming armor, and the echoing roar of gunfire.