When Brigitte awakes, she is immediately aware of two things. First, that she is quite hungry. Second, she really has to pee.
As she opens her eyes she spots a bowl of oatmeal and a glass of water on her overbed desk. Ah, so that hadn't been a dream after all. She has a vague memory of Reinhardt visiting her, carrying the bowl. He had apologized for coming so early, but he had to leave for the day to return to Andreas's farm, and…
The rest is too hazy to remember. He must have left, and she, still feeling so tired, must have fallen back asleep. Exhaustion had won out for once over hunger. And now, the urge to toilet is going to win out over it too.
She sits up slowly in bed, feeling vaguely like her head has been stuffed full of cotton and beaten like a pinata. Every thought seems to take a long time to register, and every movement seems to happen at half-speed. Looking around she can see no sign of Dr. Ziegler, and for that she is thankful. The good doctor has been very accommodating, but Brigitte hates feeling helpless.
She's needed Angela's assistance to make it to the bathroom every time yesterday; the dizziness that sweeps over her with each movement made it difficult to totter to the bathroom without something to hold on to. She is determined to do it alone today.
She swings her legs over the side of the bed, perching there momentarily to brace for a wave of vertigo, but it doesn't come. That's an improvement. She stands up slowly, holding onto the overbed table until she's firmly on two legs. Scooping up her IV bag, she takes slow, halting steps towards the bathroom, wheeling the table with her in case the dizziness comes. She's sure nothing would irritate Dr. Ziegler more than having her patient fall and crack her head again in less than 48 hours.
Getting to the bathroom is a rousing success. It's so much easier to get around than yesterday, and she can almost forget about the head injury (minus the throbbing of the bruises) -until she turns on the bathroom lights. It feels like someone has slid two needles into her eyes, and she recoils from it, clapping a hand over her face.
"Ow!" She had forgotten how bruised she is.
Gradually the pain fades and she does her business, thankful for the rails on the walls as she gets up. When she goes to wash her hands, she catches sight of herself in the mirror for the first time since the fight.
She looks terrible.
Objectively Brigitte knows that someone who sustained such traumatic head injuries probably wouldn't wake up a day later looking flawless, but she just looks so...grotesque. She's had bruises before, some quite dark but never on her face.
She lifts one hand up to pat gingerly at the thunderous purple swelling creeping from her hairline all the way to her left eye and brow. The flesh beneath it is even darker, almost black. So that's why they call it a black eye. The swollen is contained mostly to the left side of her face, which gives her a chipmunk-cheeked appearance on that side. She didn't even know it was possible for her temple to be swollen that way-perhaps she can get Dr. Zeigler to give her some ice for it. Relieving some of that pressure might make it a little less painful to eat, after all.
Brigitte parts her hair, looking curiously at the silver gleam of the row of staples running front to back there. She thinks she has the faintest memory of those being placed; a blur of white as Dr. Ziegler leaned over her, and a strange tugging sensation on her head. She's had stitches before and those weren't too bad, kind of like plucking a hair to have them removed. Somehow she feels these might be a little more painful to get out later. Thankfully they can be masked by rearranging her hair slightly, though the area around it is still quite tender and her hair is gritty with blood in some places. Ugh, she needs a shower.
First though, her belly is growling with hunger.
She shuffles back to bed, tugging the table and pulls the now-cold bowl of oatmeal towards her. Hot or not, it's terribly tasty, and easy on her sore face to eat. She shovels it in as fast as her wounds will allow, and as she's scraping the bottom of the bowl for the last dregs Dr. Ziegler walks in.
"How are you feeling today, Brigitte?" She asks, eyeing her alert patient.
"Better than yesterday. My head hurts a little less." Brigitte answers, and takes a moment to take stock of the rest of her body. "Still feel a little weak, but not nearly as tired or dizzy."
"That is good!" Angela urges, and taps something on her holopad. "The scan from last night shows no new bleeding, which I'm glad to see." She shows Brigitte the screen of her pad, with two side-by-side images. "In fact, it looks like your body is already starting to clear away the clot. Quite unusual to see such quick healing. Normally patients who sustain these types of wounds remain in a critical state for several days, but I think that might have something to do with it." She points at the black speaker nestled next to the bed that pulses with an easy beat.
Brigitte can't remember how that got there, but she does notice how each time she returned from the bathroom she felt better in the presence of the music.
At her questioning look, Angela explains, "Healing technology from Lúcio, transmitted through music. Quite impressive, actually; I believe it has expedited your rate of healing prodigiously. And speaking of healing technology, I do have something I wish to speak to you about." The doctor settles herself on the side of the bed, pulling a small glass bottle out of her pocket as she does so. She holds the bottle up to Brigitte's eyes, as if showing her the liquid inside.
"I have something I would like to administer to you, to help your brain recover from any damage that may linger. It's fairly new technology, but one I think that shows much promise. I like to inform all my patients of the risks and benefits of this before I administer it though." She swirls the bottle, and Brigitte watches the clear liquid inside slosh back and forth.
"Okay?" Brigitte acknowledges, waiting for an explanation.
"In this vial are nanites. Also known as nanorobots, they are very small robots that have been engineered for medical purposes. Simply put, these robots are meant to enter your bloodstream, go to the brain and aid your body in breaking down abnormally-clumped proteins that could cause damage."
Tiny medical robots? Brigitte has heard of nanotechnology, sure, but mainly when it comes to its use in electronics. She has no idea that they used them in the medical field as well. She looks again at the vial, which still appears to hold nothing but clear fluid. The robots are far too small for her to see, but if she concentrates hard enough she thinks that fluid in the vial might be just barely be more opaque than the glass itself.
It's a weird thought, putting hundreds, possibly thousands of tiny robots in her brain.
"Are there any, uh...really bad things that could happen if I do?" She asks, hesitantly, still eyeing the bottle.
"There are risks with any treatment-but for nanorobots in particular, the risks so far are quite theoretical. It is possible, for instance that the robots could malfunction and target the wrong protein, or build instead of break down. However there have been no...recorded instances of this occurring." Brigitte thinks she might hear the slightest hesitation in Dr. Ziegler's voice, but she can't be sure. So far the doctor has seemed only too happy to explain part of Brigitte's treatment, care and prognosis to her. She can tell that Angela has her best interest at heart, but she has to ask the next question.
"So, what would happen if I didn't get...them? Injected." She points at the bottle. Are robots a them? An it?
"In all likelihood, not much." Dr. Ziegler folds her hands in her lap, the bottle still held in her fingers. "In the past, people who sustained repeated brain injuries had debilitating symptoms and outcomes, often many years after the fact. It is certainly possible that only one instance of brain damage could cause these issues down the road, which I would like to avoid if possible. It is your choice though, of course."
Choices; sometimes Brigitte hates them. She's not the sort of person who likes to deliberate for a long time over what to do, especially when it comes to things she doesn't really understand. She prefers to trust her instincts, which more often than not have proved to be right. She takes the leap.
"Okay, I'll do it."
"Excellent. I'll have you sign here, if you would." Dr. Ziegler pulls her holopad out of her pocket, turning on the screen and passing it to Brigitte. "This is just a waiver saying I've informed you of the possible risks and benefits of the procedure. Being that I'm injecting you with an 'active agent', it's considered a surgical procedure, which means I need your consent to do it."
Brigitte skims the waiver, then signs the pad. As soon as she passes it back, Dr. Ziegler pulls a syringe out of her pocket and uncaps the needle on it, sinking it into the bottle.
"Wait-are you doing that now?" Brigitte asks, a little startled. She had expected that it would be soon, but for some reason she had thought it might be...well, not right that second.
"Yes, the sooner I can administer them the sooner they can begin to work. It's best to treat the brain before too much of the protein can build up and cause damage. That they cannot fix: damage already done." She pushes the air trapped at the tip of the syringe out, then connects it to Brigitte's IV. "Besides; don't worry. These nanites are non-replicating; once they've done their job they will become inactive and eliminated naturally by your body."
As she pushes the liquid in, Brigitte expects to feel...well, something. A weird metallic taste, a smell, a sensation-but there is nothing.
"Now, would you like this out?" Dr. Ziegler gestures to Brigitte's IV.
Would she ever. "Yes, please!" She tries not to sound too eager, but her enthusiasm definitely shines through. It's been irritating, not able to bend her arm without that painful reminder.
Dr. Ziegler removes the cannula from her arm and gives Brigitte a cotton ball to hold over the small puncture wound. She disposes of the tubing, then comes back to the bed.
"Now, I still want to keep you here for one or two more days for observation. That should be enough time to see if you're going to have any adverse effects. I know it's terribly boring, but is there anything else I can do for you?" Angela asks, kindly.
"Um...am I okay to take a shower?" Brigitte replies, pulling at her hospital gown. "I kinda stink."
"Certainly. Just give me a moment to get it ready. You're still experiencing some dizziness, yes?"
Brigitte see-saws her hand; sort if?
"Okay, I'll put something in the shower in case you need a seat."
When at last Angela gives her the all-clear, Brigitte makes it to the shower to find that the doctor has placed a plastic chair in the shower, laid out towels and even stacked a pair of what looks like Brigitte's own clothes on the toilet. She's really quite thoughtful, and the metalsmith appreciates her consideration when halfway through the shower she gets so dizzy that she has to sit down. She spends the rest of the shower sitting, gingerly washing her hair and trying to avoid disturbing her stitches. By the time she's done and dry, even that light exertion has her feeling exhausted and a little nauseous. Her headache has returned as well.
Grumbling to herself about how stupid her body is, she shuffles back to her bed and sees Angela has changed the sheets and added a fresh blanket. Maybe she really is an angel.
As Brigitte settles herself back in bed, Dr. Ziegler approaches with two tubes of cream in her hands.
"Before you sleep, let me just put some of this on." The doctor holds up the first tube, and squirts a little of the white cream onto her gloved fingers. "This will help the bruising to heal more quickly." The other tube is antibiotic ointment that she applies to Brigitte's head, sealing it in with a strip of some clear bandaging. She leaves the tubes on the overbed table and then turns down the lights.
"How long am I going to be feeling so...blah?" Brigitte complains to her, pulling the covers up over her arms. She hates feeling so weak.
"You've just suffered a pretty traumatic injury." Angela replies, pausing in her actions of closing the curtain around the bed. "I would give it at least a week before you start feeling mostly yourself again." When Brigitte gives a dramatic groan in reply, Dr. Ziegler laughs, a light tinkling sound. "You remind me a lot of Reinhardt. He isn't content to sit still either! But-" She points a finger at Brigitte, "-rest is the body's way of healing itself. So, take it easy for a few more days. I promise you'll feel better soon!"
With that she leaves Brigitte to her nap, the echoing click of her shoes fading out of the medbay. Reluctantly, Brigitte closes her eyes and falls asleep.
She doesn't know how long she's been asleep before she's woken up by the sound of heavy footsteps in the room. There's a squeaky metallic sound of the curtain being drawn back slightly, and then a voice.
"Brigitte?" Her name comes out softly, hushed. Still, it is unmistakable.
"Reinhardt?" She yawns sleepily, and rubs the sleep out of her eyes. Ow. Right, she has bruising. She used the bed's remote to sit herself up as Reinhardt pushes past the curtain, bearing a bowl full of steaming soup and some more bread. It's already dinner time? She looks for a clock and finds one on the opposite wall: 5:47?! She's slept almost seven hours, and right through lunch! As if on cue, she catches a tantalizing whiff of savory chicken and her stomach rumbles.
"Angela said you slept through lunch. Are you feeling alright?" Reinhardt asks as he sets her food on the overbed table and slides it close to her.
"Yeah. Just really tired for some reason." She mumbles, tying her hair back in a loose ponytail so none of it ends up in her food. "You're back from the..mission?" She tries to remember what he had told her this morning. "Andreas's farm? Did you find anything?"
Reinhardt takes a seat on the end of her bed as she tucks into her soup, heaving a sigh. He rubs a hand over his face, looking troubled.
"Yes...we went back today. But no. Unfortunately by the time we arrived, the remaining omnics had been taken." He leans back on his arms, making the bed creak. "We searched the woods for evidence of their escape route-I think we even found where they originally placed the teleporter, but nothing else. They removed the bodies, the weapons, the omnics, even most of the bullet casings. Whoever they are, they know how to clear a crime scene."
Brigitte dips a chunk of bread in her soup broth and pops the soaked morsel in her mouth. "Talon, you think?" God, she hopes not.
Reinhardt shrugs. "It is hard to say. The style of this operation is not quite like them. They send in small teams of elite agents and they are after high-profile targets; important figures and powerful weaponry. I cannot think what they would want these omnics for." His tone darkens. "They attacked the Overwatch Gallery last week, seeking Doomfist's gauntlet. If we attribute this thievery to them as well, I do not like what it implies."
Brigitte waits to see if he will continue. When he doesn't, she prompts, "Which is?"
He blows out a breath, running one hand through his hair. "I do not even want to say it." And he doesn't.
Brigitte thinks she might understand what he means. Reinhardt is not a superstitious man, but even he sometimes thinks that stating the worse case scenario practically invites it.
They sit in silence until Brigitte finishes her meal and pushes the overbed table away. She can tell from his posture that he's waiting for something. She has a guess as to what that might be.
"Brigitte…" Reinhardt's voice is soft, laced with regret and shame. "I am sorry that I let this happen to you. I should never have taken on that mission-your instincts were right. I should have trusted you." He turns towards her, his face solemn. "It was my fault that you were hurt. I know I cannot expect this from you, but I want you to know that you have my sincerest apology, and I hope in time you can forgive me for putting you in-"
Oh boy. She knows where this is going.
If there's one thing she knows about Reinhardt, it's that he is great at guilting himself. She saw it in Eichenwalde, when he stood over his old master's remains. He had told her the story of what happened those long years ago, how his overconfidence had lead to the loss of the great General of the Crusaders, and how he had been tasked to go to Overwatch in Balderich von Adler's stead. She could see it in his face, hear it in his voice-that tide of guilt, vast and old as the tide still pulls at him. Now it has been turned to her. She needed to stop this now, before it drowns him.
Slipping one leg out from under the covers, she kicks Reinhardt square in the side, hard enough to jolt him. His shock cuts off his apology, and before he can do anything more than stare in stunned surprise at her, she leaps from the bed, seizes the front of his shirt and then pushes him flat onto his back. Pinning him in place with the weight of her body, she glares down at him. She wants to show him that she's still strong, still able to fight.
"Enough of this, Reinhardt!" She scowls, sticking a finger in his face. "I don't want to hear another word! I am your squire. I knew what I was signing up for when I asked to join you, and I accepted the risks! It's not your fault that some thug surprised me, it's mine!" He's opening his mouth to argue, so she slaps a hand over it. He blows an affronted breath through his nose, but doesn't speak.
She continues. "Listen. I should have been paying attention. I made a mistake. I had many opportunities to do things differently, but I didn't. You would have listened to me if I had really objected to the mission, I know you would have. Okay? This is no more your fault than it is mine." Some of the fire leaves her, gentling her tone. "You can't protect everyone, you know that. So quit beating yourself up about it. I'm fine-" Okay, well, the fatigue settling into her bones and the throbbing of her head beg to differ, "-or, I will be. No lasting damage." Probably.
She takes her hand away from his mouth now that she's had her say, but she can't resist adding one last thing. "Buuuuut, if you really feel so bad about what happened to me, I will forgive you under one condition." She leans in close, feels the warmth radiating off him as she whispers the next words into his ear.
"Bring me a dozen semlor."
She leans back, giving him enough room to sit up as she smirks in a self-satisfied manner. She's managed to shake him out of his guilty torpor, she can see by his still-stunned expression. As she slips off him and back into bed he sits up fully, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
"Shildlein…" He starts, and then falters as if he can't think of exactly what to say. He doesn't need to say anything though. She reaches out to him, nudging him gently in the shoulder.
"Reinhardt, really. Believe me when I say I don't blame you for any of this." She gestures to her bruised face and lacerated scalp. "And I'm going to be okay. So please, don't beat yourself up about it." She says the words softly, willing him to hear the truth of it.
"I...I know that you do not blame me." He says, finally.
"And I don't want you to blame yourself." She insists, noting his careful phrasing. He'll beat himself up forever if she doesn't make him see sense.
"I-I do not-" He starts, but cannot finish. The words come haltingly; struggling fish on the end of a line. Somehow he can't admit to himself that he is not to blame, she can sense it.
"C'mon, Reinhardt." She cajoles, "You aren't responsible for my choices!"
This seems to stir Reinhardt into articulation. "I am responsible for you!"
"What?" She responds automatically, startled. "No you're not!"
"You are my squire." He continues, "I am your knight-your teacher! I am supposed to keep you safe! What could I have said to your parents, if you had been-been gravely wounded? Or killed?" The words pour out of him now. All the fears she didn't even realize he was harboring are spilling out of him like poison. "I couldn't do anything to help you. You were bleeding, and all I could do was-was nothing."
The tension in his voice thrums, alive with bewildered hurt. "I could do nothing."
He slumps forward, elbows resting on his knees as he grips his temples. Her heart aches for him, for she knows at least part of what he's feeling. She's felt it herself; helplessness in the face of his injuries, uncertainty at what she should do, fury at those who inflicted them. Reinhardt's been wounded enough that she's learned to manage these feelings by now, and she thought in light of his history he would have too, but…
She gets out of bed and goes to him, tugging at his arms to urge him to get to his feet. When he does, she wraps her arms around his waist and rests the least-injured side of her face against his chest. His arms come around her, holding her at first in a loose embrace before tightening almost painfully. Touch is good. Especially when he had been injured, she had indulged in frequent contact to remind herself that he was alive. Nothing was quite as reassuring as the warm sensation of his living, breathing body. Perhaps she could provide some of that comfort now.
They stand there for an indeterminable amount of time; feeding off the quiet comfort of the other's presence. Through his chest she can feel the proud beating of his heart, a mantra. Alive. Alive. Alive. Gradually his grip slackens into something more easy, less desperate.
"I cannot lose you." Reinhardt breathes.
She tilts her head back to look up at him, gazing into that pale blue eye. "You won't."
They stand like that for another few heartbeats, before he breaks the embrace. She sits back into bed, pulling the covers up around her. She's quite sleepy now, even after a day full of nothing more strenuous than a shower and that weak pin she managed on Reinhardt.
"Believe me yet?" She asks, breaking the fragile bubble of remaining tension. If he doesn't, she doesn't know what she can say that will make him.
He gathers up their dishes, stacking them neatly before he answers. "I do."
She is pleased to hear that there is no hesitation in his voice this time. It means he really does believe it. Hopefully letting go if this guilt will do him some good.
"Good. See you tomorrow?" She says hopefully as he turns off the room light.
"Of course, Shildlein."
The gentle clink of the dishes fades into the distance as she curls comfortably into her pillow, feeling strangely at peace.