"It was quite a beautiful thing, the way we simply just came to be. With no effort or trying, just slowly finding each other's hands in the dark. No chains or promises, just a simple sign of hope. That things will go on and get better."
~Charlotte Eriksson
Brigitte watches as the hatch closes behind them. In the bright glare of the spotlights she can see Zarya illuminated, throwing them a salute. She waves back, though she doubts Zarya can see it.
As the Orca lifts off into the darkness, Brigitte feels many things. Hungry, tired, nervous - those flying jitters never really go away - but mostly, she feels happy.
No. Happy isn't quite the right word. She feels glad.
Glad that they've all survived the mission. Glad to be going home. When did the Watchpoint become home? Glad, because even with the danger and near-misses, she feels like this is where she belongs. In Overwatch.
With Reinhardt.
"We've reached cruising altitude, you're free to move about the cabin, loves!" Lena pipes cheerily over the intercom. She sounds as spirited as ever, and Brigitte envies her seemingly limitless supply of energy. Right now she would like nothing more than to curl up in a ball on the floor and go to sleep, but she can't. She's never found it easy to sleep on a plane.
She releases her harness, groaning as she stands. New aches and pains have manifested themselves in the ten minutes they've been in the air. How bad will she feel tomorrow?
Reinhardt likewise grunts as he stretches beside her. His back pops like a string of firecrackers when he arches left, then right, then back.
"You okay? Sounds like you could use some more stretching."
After the mission had ended everyone had been so intent getting out of their combat attire that they hadn't really thought about proper aftercare. Then Winston had dropped the news that they were leaving.
"Perhaps," he admits, straightening back up. "If you would oblige me."
Brigitte looks around the Orca, trying to find a spot that's out of everyone's way. It's not difficult. Genji and Hanzo are seated at the table where they had played poker on the way down. Genji sits, lotus-style, eyes closed. Meditating? Sleeping? She realizes she doesn't know if he even needs to sleep. Hanzo sits next to him, the hood of his winter coat pulled down over his eyes. By the way his head lolls, Brigitte guesses he is well on his way to napping.
McCree sits on the far side of the table adjacent from the Shimada brothers, his hat pulled low over his eyes. His injured leg is propped on the bench-style seat, a pillow under his injured calf.
Winston sits Lena in the cockpit. Angela is looking Papa over at Brigitte's request. Brigitte had told her what had transpired during their disembarking of the Titan, much to his chagrin. His shirt is rucked up to his neck and Angela is pressing on his ribs, his back, asking him if there is any pain. Lúcio is still in his seat, listening to music.
There's plenty of open space for them to stretch just adjacent to the poker table. She and Reinhardt move through a series of dynamic stretches, working the soreness from their muscles. Arm swings, leg kicks, shoulder dislocates. Angela watches them approvingly from over Torbjörn's shoulder.
Static stretches are where Reinhardt needs her help, being far less flexible than she is. She helps apply extra tension when he hits the limits of his flexibility, pushing the stretch just to the point of discomfort. It's hard work, but well-worth the results. With each hold she can feel the belly of his muscles loosening.
"Feel better?" She stands over him, holding his knee taut while she presses down, stretching his hamstring. His foot is hooked over her shoulder, and it takes most of her strength to keep his leg straight and hold the stretch at the same time.
"Some."
When she releases the last stretch he remains on the ground. He looks tired. Brigitte feels likewise. What she wouldn't give for a warm bed right now. Or a hot tub. Does the Watchpoint have a hot tub? Heat is the best thing to kickstart their muscle recovery, but in its absence she has another option.
"Massage?"
His acceptance is enthusiastic. They pile their winter coats together in a makeshift mattress, cushioning Reinhardt as best as she can from the cold floor of the Orca. Maybe they could install a massage table in here? She makes a mental note to bring it up to Winston later.
As he takes his place facedown on the ground, Brigitte reflects that this may be one of the only missions in their history that she wasn't sewing him up. She could get used to that. Post-mission first aid had become something of an unpleasant ritual with them when they had been on the road. Though, she had gotten pretty good with a staple gun and a suture kit.
She can feel the thick bands of scars through his shirt as she traces her hands over his shoulders and down his back. Yeah, never touching a suture kit again would be nice.
Brigitte digs into the knots along his spine and shoulder blades, using the pad of her thumb to tease apart the tense myofascia. Over and over she works his muscles from neck to waist, finding fewer knots each time. He's loosened up.
"Anyone else want one?"
She extends the offer to the rest of her teammates as Reinhardt remains near-comatose on the floor, still awash in post-massage endorphins.
"I could use one!" Lúcio volunteers enthusiastically, throwing his own coat down next to Reinhardt.
Straddling him is much different than straddling Reinhardt. She rests her weight gently on the swell of his butt, half-afraid that she might squash him. He's so slim. Each muscle jumps like piano wire, taut beneath his skin. Brigitte begins to dig her fingers alongside his spine, marvelling at how her hands easily span most of his back.
Here too it's much easier than massaging Reinhardt. His knots fairly jump out at her, and she's only just begun to tease them apart when he interrupts, squawking. "Hey, hey! Whoah!"
"What?" She stops.
"That's a little too intense for me," he jokes. "Maybe tone it down a notch? Some of us aren't as strong as you and Reinhardt."
"Oh, whoops! Sorry, Lu." She resumes her ministrations, decreasing her force exponentially. She's been so used to working on Reinhardt that she's forgotten what normal people can handle.
By the time she's finished with Lúcio, he too seems to have achieved that near-comatose state of nirvana that Reinhardt is finally pulling himself out of. Brigitte looks around wondering if anyone else would like one.
Angela is sitting and reading a book now, having finished examining Torbjorn. She takes it as a good sign that her father is now standing at the map display and poking around on his pad; surely that means he's uninjured from his fall. Her eyes alight on the fringe of brown hair poking over the pilot's seat on the opposite end of the plane. Maybe Lena would want one?
Brigitte bypasses the sleeping Shimada brothers and McCree, thinking that maybe when they wake up she'll offer a massage to them. Well, except Genji. Parts of his cybernetic enhancements look like muscle, but she's not sure he experiences the same sort of issues that completely organic humans do. Man, that's really interesting to think about. Can you give a cyborg a massage?
She ascends the steps to the cockpit. "Hey, either of you two want a massage? Available for a limited time only!" Brigitte holds up her hands like she's advertising a fabulous prize and then wiggles her fingers jokingly.
Winston declines, though Lena happily takes her up on the offer. "Staring out of the window for hours really does a number on my shoulders," she sighs and leans forward in her seat so to give Brigitte access to her back.
Indeed Brigitte finds a lot of tightness that needs worked out. She remembers her lesson from Lucio and keeps her force at a minimum, using her fingers to read Lena's responses. As she works she takes a look around the cockpit. She's never been in here before. There's a number of orange displays that she can't make heads or tails of, as well as dials and pedals and a steering column that she thinks is called a 'yoke'.
The Orca has a huge windshield that dominates the display, an arresting sight. Brigitte can see the expanse of sky draped around them like a navy curtain, velvety and rich. The night that had seemed so dark has transformed beneath them, becoming a pale blue wash of moonlight. It looks a little bit like an ocean, the way the shadows fall on the soft edges of the clouds. It's beautiful, if not a little terrifying.
She has to look away before she starts thinking about how high up they are.
Brigitte massages until the tightness fades, then releases. By the way Lena slumps in her chair when she's done, Brigitte thinks that she's been dealing with it for awhile now.
"Wow that was amazing!" Lena says, draped bonelessly over the controls. "Can we make post-mission massages a regular thing?"
Winston regards her curiously. "Are they really that great?"
"Go on Brigitte, show him!" Lena flaps her hand limply at Winston, still slumped. "He's never had one before."
"It's not like I can go just go into town and get one done," he says, gesturing at his body. "You know, every time I make a public appearance someone calls animal control."
Brigitte edges up behind Winston, lifting her hands questioningly. He hadn't wanted one before, but she's more than willing to try. When he gives her a nod, she sets to work. Knowing that Winston has never had one, she wants to pull out all the stops. To impress him. She wants...well, she wants to make him feel good. It's a little sad when she really thinks about it, how Winston's been shut away from the whole world for most of his life. It would be good, to give him something nice.
Working on Winston feels a lot like working on Reinhardt. They're both huge, heavily muscled, and she has to go back to full Reinhardt-approved strength to dig into his knots. His hair is an extra layer, one she has to be conscientious of. Pulling out hairs is not enjoyable.
Whatever she's doing seems to be working, because he lets out a surprised grunt.
"Is it okay?" Brigitte pauses in her motions.
"Y-yeah." He sounds almost pained, his voice choked. She's not convinced, so she stops.
"Are you sure?"
Winston takes off his glasses, ducking his head as he pulls out a little cleaning cloth to wipe them. "Yes! Yes, I'm sure. Sorry, just wasn't expecting it to feel so…um…nice." By the way he says it it's obvious to Brigitte that he's embarrassed by his own enjoyment of it.
"See?" Lena says, finally lifting her head up. "I vote we promote Brigitte to team masseuse. Give her a raise!"
Brigitte laughed, settling back to work. "I don't know if I'm that good. I've just had a bit of practice is all." She lowers her voice to a stage-whisper. "You know, keeping Reinhardt in one piece."
"Well, however you learned it's working. I haven't felt this relaxed in weeks!" Lena stretches her arms overhead, then settles back in her seat. She taps her fingers on the Orca's yoke thoughtfully. "All I need now to be complete is a nice hot meal."
"Me too," Brigitte agrees, though being in the air has her appetite diminished. Once her feet touch solid ground though she knows she'll be ravenous. "Say...aren't you supposed to pick where we eat, Winston?"
Winston doesn't respond. He's leaned forward as Brigitte has worked her way down his back, and when she peers over his shoulder she sees that he's staring blankly ahead. His mouth has lolled open slightly.
"Winston?"
His head jerks up, jaw clicking shut. "What? Sorry, uh, I was..um...woolgathering. What was the question?"
"Food, big guy!" Lena laughs, reaching over to give his arm a shake. "Where do you want to stop to eat? It's your choice, remember?"
"Food, right, uhhmmmmm…" Winston's hesitation turns into a drawn-out grunt as Brigitte digs her thumbs along his neck. She has to stifle a giggle. "Um, oh - I don't really care. Whatever everyone-uh else wants to go is f-fine with me, really."
"Oh no, that's not a real answer!" Lena ticks her finger at him. "You get to choose. It's only fair!"
Brigitte continues her massage, amused as they argue back and forth. Or rather, Winston keeps deflecting while Lena tries to push him to give a definitive answer. In the end it is Winston who wins out, and Brigitte ends her massage as he turns to address the rest of the team.
"Okay everyone, we're taking a vote on where people want to stop for food. Any preferences?"
Sleepy heads pop up from benches and the floor as something more pressing than sleep catches everyone's attention.
This starts an hour-long debate over the merits of italian food versus mediterranian food, while Angela insists that Winston should get to make the final decision. Hanzo and McCree get into a particularly spirited conversation, sniping at each other from across the table.
"The body requires a varied diet to remain in peak form," Hanzo speaks to the room at large, his body angled conspicuously away from the side of the bench that McCree sits on. "A lighter fare to keep the mind sharp, and prevent a shape more inclined toward ...excess." The latter half of his words are definitely tinged with disdain.
"Ain't nothin' wrong with likin' Italian food," retorts McCree. "There's plenty'a variety in - wait. Are you callin' me fat?"
Brigitte goes back to standing with Lúcio and Reinhardt, watching the argument unfold.
"Those two sure seem to butt heads a lot," she says.
"Yeah. Jesse's not even fat! He just has a little…" Lúcio holds his hands in front of his stomach, indicating a gut. "You know. Spare tire. Dad bod. Whatever you wanna call it."
"Not you too!"
"I am sure Jesse has had other things to worry about in the last few years," Reinhardt says, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. "He has been on the run for a long time. It does not leave much time for extracurriculars."
Oh, that's right. Sometimes Brigitte forgets that they have identities outside of Overwatch. McCree is a wanted man. Has been for at least ten years. Sometimes she wonders why he returns to America, if he's never safe there.
In the end Winston decides the debate by picking Mediterranean food. It had been five to three split between them, with Genji having no preference and Winston holding his vote until everyone else had chosen.
"Uh, how do we pick a restaurant?" Lúcio asks. "I don't know about you guys, but I've never been to the Mediterranean. Like, at all."
"It's simple enough," Torbjörn says, sidling up to them. "We're not actually goin' to stop anywhere special. We were able to get away with landin' in Italy in the past on account of Ray knowin' a guy with a private airstrip. But we'll just pick a restaurant on Gibraltar, order up and pick it up once we get back."
"Oh, I guess that is easy," Lúcio whips out his pad, presumably to do the same thing that Brigitte is, which is searching up Mediterranean restaurants.
The whole food ordering prospect ends up being a lot more complex that Brigitte had expected. There's a number of mediterranean food places in Gibraltar, all of which she's unfamiliar with. They each pick a different restaurant and comb through the menu, comparing the appetizers and main courses and pitching the ones that sound best to each other.
"Geez, this is a lot of work," she complains to Reinhardt as she tries to navigate a particularly poorly-made website. "I think next time I might just pay you to cook for me instead."
After an interminable time they finally have the place decided when Lena mention something none of them had considered until now: "Uh, Mediterranean sounds good and all, but the restaurants won't be open when we get back. It'll be early morning."
After a long, awkward pause Winston rubs a hand over his eyes. "Fine. Let's just do breakfast."
The rest of the ride home feels a lot shorter than the ride there had been. Brigitte isn't sure if that's because she's so tired that her mind is blanking on part of the journey, or because Lena is actually pushing the Orca faster. It doesn't really matter. She's still eternally grateful when the aircraft touches down, and is the first to disembark once the hatch opens.
Sweet, sweet ground. Even the slap of cold, briny air on her face is welcoming.
Angela and Lena have volunteered to go pick up a smorgasbord of breakfast food while the rest of them unload the trailer.
"You take it easy," Angela warns McCree, pointing her finger out of the car window just before they go. "I still have to examine that leg of yours before I clear you for regular duty."
"Damn." McCree curses as they pull out of earshot. "I was hopin' she'd forget." He seems to resent being labeled an invalid, a feeling Brigitte knows well. She had felt the same way when her head was healing.
"Here, you can use this!" Brigitte fetches a cart from the garage and begins piling their supplies on it. When it's full she gives it to McCree to push inside, where Papa is waiting to help unload.
They've got an efficient system. By the time Lena and Angela return, they've gotten everything inside and are helping Winston guide the Orca into the bay. Zenyatta shows up halfway through the unloading process, and though he isn't much help with the supplies he does bid them all a warm greeting.
"Peace be upon you, my friends. I am glad to see you have returned." His voice is undeniably pleased, and he returns the hug that Genji bestows upon him with a quiet hum of what might be amusement. Strange as it sounds, Brigitte is glad to see him too.
The sun is rising as they close the garage up, cool beams of light cascading over the ocean and reflecting almost painfully into Brigitte's eyes. Her body is confused, sleepiness now warring with her circadian rhythm. She's at that point of exhaustion now where her desire for sleep seems to override everything; even scarfing down a waffle topped with strawberries and whipped cream isn't as enjoyable as it would be normally. She just wants to get some sleep.
"Okay every, get some rest. No sims for the next five days." Winston drops the news on them just before he heads for his lab, sparking relief in her. Good, that means she can just sleep for the next twenty-four hours.
"G'night everyone," Brigitte says, throwing a wave over her shoulder as she departs for her room.
When she gets there she dumps her bag unceremoniously on the floor and looks longingly at her bed. She doesn't sit though. She knows if she stops moving she won't get up for hours, and she's not had a proper shower since they left for Krasnoyarsk. Getting clean will make sleep all the better.
Her normal sleep ablutions seem insurmountably difficult. Staring at her bed still, for a moment she wishes she could fast-forward time. Just switch to the second that she falls into bed. But that of course is impossible.
One step at a time.
Despite breaking the routine down, the shower still almost undoes her. Being under the warm spray is almost like being on the soft embrace of her bed, and she stands under the water in a trancelike haze of exhaustion for a few long minutes before she can overcome her inertia.
When she's finished, the chill of the water drying on her skin motivates her to pull on her pajamas and brush her teeth hurriedly. She in the middle of flossing when a knock comes at her door.
Brigitte looks longingly at her bed. It's right there. She could just pretend that she's already asleep. But what if it's important?
She opens the door to see Reinhardt.
"Hey. What's up?" She notices that he too looks like he's about ready for bed. He's wearing an old sleeveless shirt and his plaid pajama bottoms. Oh no, he better not want to do a mission recap right now. She doesn't mind them normally, it definitely helps to figure out where they can do better, but she'll definitely end up snoring through this one.
"May I come in?"
She lets him in.
Brigitte plops down on her bed in a not-so-subtle hint that it's where she'd rather be right now. "You wanna talk about something?"
"Talk? If you wish," he says. So he hadn't come to talk?
"Oh, no," she backpedals. "Just wondering - why you're here sounds kinda mean - uh...what's up?" she says, lamely.
"I had noticed that you did not get a massage yourself on the flight back."
Oh. She had completely forgotten about that. She had been so preoccupied with giving everyone else one, and then been distracted by the whole food debacle that it had completely slipped her mind.
"Yeah, I guess I didn't," she says with a shrug. "That's okay though."
"You do not want one now?" he says. The expression on his face is so put out that she realizes that he's offering one. Reinhardt is such a stickler for fairness and chivalry, she should have expected this. It's kind of cute, in a way. In some ways he's such an anachronism.
"Well, only if you really want to." She falls back on her bed, bouncing the pillow. "But, I gotta warn you. I might fall asleep."
"I will take it as a compliment if you do," he says.
Brigitte rolls over onto her stomach and shoves her pillow length-wise under her chest and neck, so that her head has room to hang. It wouldn't do to be smothered in her bedsheets. Reinhardt clambers onto the bed, causing it to dip alarmingly. The springs squeak in protest, and she has to smother a laugh into the pillow. Maybe they should've done this on the floor.
He straddles her legs, careful not to rest much of his weight on her hips. Ever since he had accidentally cut of circulation to her legs one time, he had been keen to not do it again.
The touch of his hands is like heaven. Brigitte hadn't even realized how much tension she was still carrying until his thumbs tease apart the first knots. She sighs, a sound that turns into something like a moan when he presses down, squeezing some of the breath out of her. It's really convenient sometimes, how warm he is; her own personal heated massage.
"You know," Brigitte says, deciding that talking is the only way she's going to stay awake through this, "you and Zarya never did arm wrestle."
The hands on her back still, then resume their motion.
"Indeed. I admit I forgot this, in our rush out of Krasnoyarsk." Reinhardt sighs, then brightens. "Ah well, it will be an excuse to see her again!"
She laughs. "You sound so eager for that." Slyly, she adds, "You know, you could've asked her out before we left."
"This again!" Reinhardt hardly falters in his motion. Darn, she had thought he would be easier to embarrass. "I have told you, I respect her as a soldier. As a strong warrior!"
"Mmm, she is pretty strong," Brigitte says. "She could probably bench you."
"It is likely."
"I bet you were quaking in your boots at the thought of arm-wrestling her."
"Brigitte!" Reinhardt tries to punish her by tickling her sides. She squirms and lets out a few undignified sounds before withdrawing her accusation, and he lets up.
Arm-wrestling had probably been the furthest thing from his mind, after that narrow escape. She knows it had completely distracted her from remembering to grab some food before they left. Hell, she had completely forgotten about that wager until they were halfway back to the Watchpoint. Funny, how narrowly escaping death had a way of making things slip from your mind. Pretty strange to think that if things had gone just one shade differently, she could've been laying on the cold floor of the reactor instead of in her bed right now.
"Hey Reinhardt," Brigitte says, trying to keep her tone light. "Did you think that we were going to die? Back there, in the reactor?"
Again, his hands still.
He's probably got whiplash from the abrupt change in conversation. Ugh, what was she doing, bringing up a depressing topic like this?She half-wishes she could revoke the question. Then again, she does want to know the answer...
Reinhardt's hands resume their motion hesitantly, mechanically, as he thinks of a response.
"In this line of work, you should not go into a mission expecting to survive," he says at last. The words are halting, carefully chosen. "We were in a very dangerous situation. If Hanzo had not called upon his - his power, I do not think all of us would have emerged unscathed."
He's trying to spin it as positively as he can, she knows it. Maybe trying not to scare her.
"It's okay, Reinhardt. I thought it too." she admits.
What she wishes she could put into words is the utter despair of that moment. The strange and crushing loneliness of knowing that there was so much she had left unaccomplished. It sweeps over her even now, the specter of what could have been. And yet, there's an undercurrent of emotion that runs even deeper.
Abruptly she turns over, shifting underneath him. He stares down at her, looking surprised. That queer loneliness boils up, scalding her throat. "I-" she starts, but the acid eating at her makes her voice hoarse. She clears her throat and tries again. "I'm really glad we didn't."
And ugh, she finally recognizes the burning when it makes its way to her eyes. Reinhardt blurs. She tries to dash the tears away before he can see them, but there's no stopping it.
"Shildlein," he begins, startled but she flaps a hand at him, trying to let him know that she's fine, she's okay, she just needs to get a handle on her stupid emotions. But the tears won't stop. Now that they're flowing it's like the dam's been cracked. She can't hold them back.
She scoots out from beneath him, tucking herself up in a ball. Stupid little whimpering sounds are escaping her. Embarrassment wars with sadness, which only makes her cry all the harder.
"Shildlein."
The bed bounces as Reinhardt shifts. She's not looking at him, but her body moves as his weight dips the mattress next to her. Suddenly warm arms are around her, lifting her. She doesn't fight it, not even when he settles her in his lap. She only clings to him, burying her face against his chest.
They could've died. They could've died. She's getting his shirt all wet. She could've died. Reinhardt could've died. Could she imagine it? Coming back to the Watchpoint without him? Without her father? Without any of them?
She can imagine it, and that's possibly the most terrible thing of all.
Her emotions don't make any damn sense. The sadness of what she could've lost is a storm raging through her, tearing her up inside. And yet, she remembers it so clearly: the brief moment of acceptance before Hanzo took charge where everything had become clear. She would face death proudly, maybe even welcome it. As long as she was there with Reinhardt in the end, it would've been okay.
Her confused thoughts perpetuate the tears until her breath comes in ugly, heaving sobs. She's hyperventilating, getting a little lightheaded and she tries holding her breath to combat it.
It doesn't work. Her breath explodes out of her and turns into coughing. Her heart races.
Reinhardt brings her back to herself. He rubs a hand on her back, soothing her as her coughs taper back down to wet sniffles. Her nose is running, sticky clear mucus that's hanging from her nostrils and getting onto his shirt.
Ugh, she's so gross. She tries to suck it back in, only managing to clog her sinuses.
The sadness has blown through her like a tornado, leaving her feeling tired and a bit hollow. It was like her emotions had been held on the other side of frosted glass; a thin barrier she hadn't even realized was there until it was broken. Brigitte swipes a hand across her nose, trying to clean herself up a little. It only smears wetness on the back of her hand.
"Sorry about your shirt," she says thickly, using the inside of her own to try and mop up her face.
One of his hands is still making slow sweeps across her shoulder blades. Brigitte is not feeling brave enough to look at him yet; she doesn't want to see the expression on his face.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he says. His voice is a low rumble in her ear.
"Not much to talk about, really," she mumbles. "Guess I didn't realize how much the thought of dying sucks." Her voice wavers on that last note, and she swallows. The tears are still frighteningly close to the surface.
"I know," he says. His hand stops its stroking, instead traveling to cradle the base of her neck. He pulls her to him in a hug, which she whole-heartedly returns even though it smushes her chest against the wet patch of her tears. "The important thing is, you are alive. Do not let fear consume you."
"Yeah," she agrees. She didn't think it was possible to be more tired, but it turns out it is. Being physically and emotionally wrung-out is only half a step above complete unconsciousness. "I...I think I'm okay now. I think it kinda built up without me realizing it."
She yawns, a jaw-cracking breath that still shivers at the end like a sob. "Ugh, I need a tissue."
Reinhardt, kind soul that he is simply carries her to the bathroom and rips off a huge wad of toilet paper. She blows her nose loudly, now too tired to care about how much more she's embarrassing herself, and lets him carry her back to bed. She's strangely reluctant to let go, though she knows she can hardly cling to him all night. She has the strangest impulse to just invite him to sleep over. Maybe under the guise of him being her human teddy bear.
"Don't tell Papa," she says sleepily, gesturing between them. "About this. He'll just get all worried."
Reinhardt pulls the covers over her. "Of course." He pauses, ready to turn away. "Will you be able to sleep?"
Will she be able to sleep? That's like asking if she'll be able to eat semlor if it's put in front of her.
"Mmmyeah," she says, already halfway there. She watches through half-lidded eyes as he goes to the door and flips the lights off. "Reinhar'?"
His silhouette turns back toward her.
"Thanks."
He might say "You're welcome", but she isn't sure. She's already faded away.
When Brigitte wakes up, it takes her a moment to figure out why her face feels so tight, why she's already got a slight headache.
Oh. Right. she had had a thoroughly embarrassing break down last night. All over Reinhardt.
Somehow she can't muster up any shame. As awkward as it had been. she still feels like emotionally wrung-out. Muted.
She checks her pad to find out that it's a little after 8 pm. She's been asleep for over 12 hours then. Though she could definitely sleep more, the empty pain in her stomach motivates her to crawl out from under the covers. If she can get a snack inside her, maybe then she'll be able to go back to sleep.
Walking down to the mess hall she finds that she is not the only one up. Angela is in the kitchen, sipping on a cup of coffee.
"Hey."
The word comes out more of a grunt than a proper greeting, but Angela seems to understand her feelings. She merely smiles over the rim of her mug and nods her head in hello. Brigitte rummages through the cupboard and tears open a box of granola bars. They desperately need to make a grocery run, or else no one is going to have much to eat soon.
Two granola bars help quiet her stomach, making her feel a little more human. Enough that she jokingly asks Dr. Ziegler why, even with nearly twelve hours of sleep she still feels so tired. It's a question she hadn't really wanted an answer to, but it seems to spark something in Angela. Her eyes brighten.
After nearly half an hour of a very thorough explanation, Brigitte leaves the kitchen, mind buzzing under the onslaught of all the new information. Later she's able to parse it into something simple. Angela's Caduceus system works by pushing the body's own cells into overdrive. Thus, every time her beam touches one of them, it causes their own bodies to cannibalize muscle and fat to promote accelerated healing. Ergo, the actual toll of the mission on them has been far greater than Brigitte even realized.
Poor McCree, she thinks. He must be feeling worse than any of us.
She crawls back into bed, mind swimming.
Brigitte sleeps fitfully through the night, waking every few hours. Her body is still confused, and by the time 4 am hits she's not able to stay in bed any longer. She showers and heads for the kitchen again like a bird returning to roost.
Again, she is not the only one awake. Both Reinhardt and Lena are there, partaking in coffee. What is it with them and coffee?
"Morning," she says, meeting Reinhardt's gaze for half a second before her embarrassment forces her to look away. It feels too intimate. Like he's looking at her and remembering every excruciating second of what it was like to deal with her hysterics. "You all sleep well?"
"Eh," Lena seesaws her hand in an 'okay' motion. "Could've been better. Not too surprising though, it takes a couple days to get back into the swing of things."
"Agreed," Reinhardt says, taking a sip of his coffee.
"So, I was just thinking of heading to the store," says Brigitte, going for another granola bar. "There's not a lot of food, and I'm sure everyone is gonna be pretty hungry when they wake up. Either of you want to come?"
In the end, both of them agree.
Lena takes the wheel while Brigitte sits sandwiched between her and Reinhardt in the less-than-spacious bench-style seats. She whistles brightly on the way into town, a sound that Brigitte finds a little too cheery right at that moment.
Reinhardt types up a shopping list on his pad on the drive over which he shares with them, and they each split up to tackle the supermarket in three sections. When they meet again their carts are piled high with what looks like enough food to feed an army.
Brigitte holds up two pies she had found. "Do you think Winston would like this?" One is a peanut butter pie, while the other is a banana cream pie. She thought he deserved something special, since he hadn't gotten to choose their meal.
"Aw, he'll love them!" Lena gushes at Brigitte's thoughtfulness, while Reinhardt nods.
Carrying their carload of groceries in is a task in itself. Brigitte has to fetch the equipment cart to make the job easier, and she and Lena unload it while Reinhardt fires up the stove. He's intent on making a full english breakfast to attract the rest of the still-sleeping team.
It feels good to be back.
It makes sense. You were tired, that's all.
Two days after her emotional breakdown, Brigitte is still trying to rationalize it. It makes sense, logically. She was very tired, and hungry, and maybe a little crazy from the jet lag. A perfect storm of factors.
Those don't explain her other feelings though.
In the aftermath of the mission Brigitte feels...strange. She hates to say it, but she feels like she's become clingy. It probably -no, definitely - has something to do with the fact that they came dangerously close to a failed mission.
Failed mission? Say what it really was. They almost died.
Yes. They had almost died, and that thought still has a hold on her. Even a week later she finds herself thinking about it at odd times, usually when she's alone. Buffing out the scratches in their armor, hammering out the dents in her pauldron, in the long moments when she lays in bed before she can manage to fall asleep - that's when she thinks about it. And it makes her nervous.
Only one thing seems to help: company. Most of all Reinhardt.
It's comforting to be with him. His presence is so large that there's nothing else but him to focus on when they're together, and when he's gone...well. She doesn't like that weird, empty feeling.
To escape from it she sticks to him like glue. He doesn't seem to notice, but it's annoying her. She can't work on his fixing their armor if she can't keep herself in the workshop for more than fifteen minutes!
Get a grip, she tells herself. You've almost died before, this isn't anything new.
Except it is new. Because what's bothering her isn't that she almost died. And besides, she hadn't been aware of the danger to her then, the way she had been in the reactor. She tries to put it from her mind.
It doesn't work.
Each sparring session and meal seems to take on new significance to her. Touching is tangible proof that they're alive. It's reassurance that she didn't wind up with a bullet between her eyes. It's reassurance that Reinhardt wasn't cracked open like a lobster and boiled in a torrent of lead.
She resorts to her pep talks in the mirror again, and they help...somewhat. Though sometimes they make her question if she's cracking up. In the end it is Lúcio that notices her struggles.
"Hey Brig," he says one morning, three weeks after they've returned from Russia. "You got a minute?"
She's rinsing her plate in the sink, wiping the traces of bacon grease off it before she sticks it in the dishwasher.
"Yeah, what's up?" she says, taking his plate and rinsing it too.
"Uh, I just wanted to talk to you about something is all."
Something. That sounds remarkably non-specific.
"Okay."
When he doesn't immediately start speaking, she understands that the conversation is meant to be private. She follows him out of the mess hall and back to his room, looking around at the glowing displays of his audio equipment. The gentle sound of music fills his room, a white noise that drowns out the sound of the ocean crashing against the Rock of Gibraltar. There's a neon-green plush frog sitting on top of his desktop that she doesn't remember seeing before.
When at last he closes the door, she waits expectantly. He opens his mouth.
"Are you okay?"
She almost wants to burst out laughing. The gravitas leading up to this moment had her expecting something else entirely.
"Yeah, I'm fine! Why?" She puts a hand on her hip, eyeing him speculatively. "Are you okay?"
"Me?" Lúcio looks a bit taken aback. His hand flies up to tap his chest, as though checking that it's really him she's talking to. "Yeah, I'm good, I'm good."
"Okay." Brigitte can help but let some of her amusement slip through with that word. She waits, expecting him to continue but he doesn't. "So…"
Lúcio buries his face in his hands. "Ughhhh this is so much more awkward than I thought it would be!" He drops his hands to his sides, curling them into fists and pulling his shoulders back as if steeling himself. "Okay, okay, I'm just gonna ask it: are you and Reinhardt...a thing?" He winces at the last word, as if expecting a blow.
"W-what?" Brigitte had not expected that question. Her face grows hot at the implication. Lúcio thought that-that she and Reinhardt were-
"No!"
The denial explodes out of her vehemently. She actually claps a hand over her mouth as soon as the word escapes - it came out a lot louder than she was expecting - and she can feel how warm her cheeks are. "Why would you think that?" she hisses through her fingers.
"Uh, well-"
She isn't the only one embarrassed, it seems. Lúcio laces his fingers behind his back, twisting with discomfort. His eyes are going everywhere but her face.
"Well, you know, we just haven't been hanging out as much lately, and -"
Is that really how it's coming across? She hadn't ever thought about what her and Reinhardt's relationship looks like to an outsider.
"-you sorta seem like...I dunno...stuck to him?"
Holy crap. Lúcio is right. She already knew she was being, well, clingy. But lately she's been spending every available moment with Reinhardt. Spending time training with him. Cooking with him. Skipping out on her other hobbies. Spending time in his room…
"Oh my God." This time it's she who covers her face with her hands. No wonder he thinks that. It looks bad. Really bad.
Brigitte leans back against the blue eggshell padding of Lúcio's door, groaning.
"Okay," she starts. "I get why you would think that, I guess - but no." She pauses, thinking. The only way to explain this is to tell him everything that's been going on with her. Is that embarrassing? Yes.Is it less embarrassing than having him think she's dating - sleeping with, Brigitte. He thinks you're sleeping with him - Reinhardt? Definitely.
"Okay, sit down." She drops her hands from her face, though her cheeks are still burning. "Let me explain."
They both perch on the black duvet of Lúcio's bed, and Brigitte begins to talk. She tells him about Reinhardt coming to offer her a post-mission massage. She tells him about asking the stupid question that set her off. She tells him about crying like a baby all over Reinhardt.
"So, yeah. If blubbering like an idiot wasn't bad enough, now I've had this...this weird feeling ever since," she continues. There's a hangnail on her thumb, which she chews on absentmindedly.
"I'm sure he didn't care that you were crying on him," Lúcio assures her. "Crying's normal. It's healthy. Probably good that you got it out, really." He leans back onto his hands. "But, what about your feeling?"
Brigitte slumps forward, hands on her knees. It's hard to put words to it.
"It's just...weird," she says. Her eyes fall on one of his speakers, where a colorful display pulses to the beat with rainbow light. "It's like...ever since the mission, nothing feels quite real. Like I'll wake up any second and we'll still be in the reactor."
Lúcio nods, a silent encouragement.
"And, when I'm with Reinhardt it feels more real. Or maybe...it's like his presence takes up enough attention that I don't think about it or something. He's an anchor." She blows out a breath, looking over to Lúcio. "I sound crazy, don't I?"
Lúcio sits forward so fast that his dreadlocks slap against his cheeks. "No! No, you don't sound crazy at all!" He touches her back gingerly, as if afraid she might burn him. "Really. I know exactly how you feel."
"You do?"
The way she looks at him must imply some skepticism, because he leans in, his voice dropping seriously. "Yeah, really."
"How?" She hungers for an explanation. Anything to help her understand this.
Lúcio pulls one foot up onto his bed, knee pointing straight up. He curls his arms around it. "So, it's kind of a long story but I'll cut out all the excess. You know how I pretty much spearheaded the revolt against the Vishkar Corporation, right? To keep them from tearing down the favelas."
Brigitte nods. She remembers how after Reinhardt had mentioned 'The Renegade of Rio' she had looked Lúcio up online and been amazed by him. Both his music and his freedom fighting had become legendary.
"Yeah, well, you can imagine that didn't make me very popular with them." His chin is propped on his knee, a faraway look in his eye. "They may have put a hit out on me once. Or twice."
"They tried to have you killed?!" Brigitte explodes, aghast. There was never a mention of that in any of the articles she had read.
Are you that surprised?
A small voice speaks in her mind, quietly insidious. They didn't report on any of the other atrocities. The curfews, poor working conditions and coercion Lúcio had railed against hadn't been reported either. Not until he had spoken out against it.
"Yeah. They weren't very good assassins." Lúcio smiles, a small, strange curl of his lips. It's not a happy expression. "People with Vishkar tech stick out like sore thumbs in my neighborhood. My people were able to warn me in time." He sighs. "Now, the one that almost got me? That came from someone right outta Rio."
Brigitte thinks her eyes must be nearly popping out of her head. She would have never guessed that this sort of thing had happened to him. He's such an upbeat guy. How had he been hiding this kind of horror? And he's being vulnerable with her, letting her see inside his heart.
Lúcio looks so small, tucked up in a ball on the black expanse of his duvet. This time it's she who puts a hand on his back. "You don't have to talk about if you don't want to."
Lúcio lets go of his leg, uncurling so that he can angle himself towards her. "Nah, I want to talk about it. I think it might help us both." He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the thick locks back over his shoulders. "So, yeah. The last attempt was a close one. Probably some bacana hired someone to scout out the neighborhoods, find someone who had a grudge against me and pay them to kill me. Almost got me too - I had slipped out one night just to get away for a little and I got cornered in an alley."
Lúcio fingers the hem of his shirt, teasing the lime-green fabric between thumb and forefinger. "They tried to gut me. Nearly did too, but I guess they didn't think I was that fast. I kicked him in the knee, ducked his knife and got outta there."
He rucks his shirt up to his chest, pointing. Brigitte looks closely, and then she sees it. A thin, shiny line that wanders diagonally across the slope of his abdomen.
"Oh God, that's crazy," she breathes. "I'm so sorry."
Lúcio drops his shirt and waves his hand at her. "No, don't be sorry. I'm not telling you this cuz I want you to feel bad for me." He inches closer to her, speaking almost conspiratorially despite the fact that they're alone in his room. "I'm telling you because after that happened? I felt the same as you. It was weird."
He holds his hands in front of him, curling his fingers slightly as though trying to grab something. "It was like… I couldn't stop thinking about what would've happened if he had gotten me. Or wondering if he did, and I was like, already dead and a ghost or something. I had nightmares about it for weeks. I was jumping at shadows."
He's got that faraway look on his face again. Brigitte finally recognizes it for what it is; he's haunted. Is that what she looks like, lost in her own thoughts? She wants to bring him out of it.
"What made you feel better?"
It's like watching the sun rise. The transformation of Lúcio's expression from haunted to something serene is almost blinding.
"Two things, actually." He puts up his thumb. "My music," he puts up his index finger, "and Overwatch." He pulls an invisible trigger, finger-gunning like McCree. "Winston reached out to me not too long after all that went down, and I jumped. Gotta say, I was glad for a reason to get out of Rio for awhile. It didn't feel safe anymore."
He gestures to his room, the piles of sound equipment and his spin tables. "And getting away from that really helped me to get back to focusing on my music. It's like...my therapy. I can put down how I'm feeling into a song, and that helps me let it go."
Brigitte nods. She understands how that feels. It's like how she feels when she's absorbed in a new smithing project. Channeling her feelings into something new.
"Do you have something like that?" Lúcio asks, and it feels eerily like he is reading her mind.
She nods slowly. "I do. I just...haven't been motivated to do it lately. My brain just seems to want me to, uh...cling."
Lúcio shrugs. "Well, the whole thing is still pretty recent. Could be that it's just too soon." He holds up a finger. "But, when you're ready, that's my advice. Find an outlet, and don't be afraid to tell people how you're feeling."
Brigitte rubs her hands against her arms. She hasn't told anyone but Lúcio how she's feeling, not even Reinhardt. "Do you think I should tell him?"
"Yeah!" Lúcio bounces off his bed, holding a hand out to her. She accepts it, and he helps her to her feet. "Don't feel like you have to rush it though. Tell him when you're ready."
Brigitte squeezes his hand, still cradled in her own. "Thanks, Lu. You know, I think I already feel a little better."
She might be imagining the darkening of his cheeks, but she thinks her thanks might have embarrassed him. She lets his hand go. In the ensuing silence his music pulses, switching over to a new track.
Lúcio rubs the back of his neck and then points to his laptop. "So, uh...you wanna listen to what I've been working on?"
"Sure!"
When she leaves Lúcio's room to meet up with Reinhardt in the gym she has to admit that she does feel a little better already Talking about it has helped. It's nice to know that she's not the only one with these kinds of feelings.
As she stands over Reinhardt watching him bench press she thinks about what Lúcio had said. Tell him when you're ready.
She takes her place on the bench next, immersing herself in the simple bunch and flex of her muscles. When she's ready. For some reason she feels like that'll be sooner rather than later. She's not very good at disguising what's on her mind.
Indeed, over dinner Brigitte finds herself contemplating just that. The only thing stopping her is the specter of her breakdown the other night; she's already had one emotional blowout. What if this talk sets off another?
She is determined to take some of Lúcio's advice before involving Reinhardt.
After weightlifting she marches down to the workshop, which is currently empty. Though part of her brain nags at her to go to Reinhardt, she ignores it.
"How are you going to finish his armor if you can't spend some time away from him?" she mutters to herself, pulling out her blueprints. Making headway on his armor is the project she is most passionate about right now. Maybe it'll help.
Before the mission she had pretty much gotten the armor design down. Now what she needs to do is decide how she's going to craft it: whether she will draw the plans up in 3D and order the parts custom or create her own molds for each piece. It would be a lot quicker for the first option, but if she does that she won't have any control over the quality of the finished product…
For the first time in a week Brigitte is able to lose herself in her work. When her stomach growls, she realizes that she's drafted right through lunch. She puts her plans away hurriedly. Reinhardt might come looking for her.
When she makes it to the kitchen it's to find it empty but for Winston, whose enormous rump she spies sticking out from the fridge. At the sound of her footsteps, he jerks his head back and slams the fridge door closed. He's wearing an expression that looks decidedly guilty.
"Hey Winston," she says casually, sliding by him to grab a plate and glass from the cupboard. "Anything good in there?"
"Oh, uh, yeah. Lots of leftovers."
Brigitte sees a flash of silver - Winston is trying to hide a fork in the crease of his palm.
"Mind if I grab some?"
When Winston shifts out of the way, Brigitte reaches into the fridge to pull out the containers of leftover lasagne and garlic bread. In the very back she spies two familiar pie tins. They bear a startling resemblance to the pies she had bought for Winston nearly three weeks ago, but of course they aren't. Those had disappeared with the first week, and she had decided to buy another set three days ago. There was after all no evidence that Winston had gotten any pie.
"Have you had any of those pies, Winston?" she asks as she loads her plate up with lasagne.
"Um…"
She turns to find him making a distinctively sheepish expression. It's so unexpected that she snorts a laugh.
"Oh, go on, have them! We got those for you, you know. You can eat the whole thing if you want."
Peanut-butter and banana cream pies do sound good, but they're not really her thing. Maybe if it was a peanut-butter and banana sandwich.
"Really?" Winston opens up the fridge, and Brigitte hears the crinkle of plastic. "They're for me?"
"Of course they're for you! Didn't Lena tell you?" Brigitte punches the REHEAT button on the microwave and throws a piece of garlic bread into the toaster oven. She turns and leans against the counter, looking at Winston in surprise.
"Well, she said there was pie but nobody else had eaten any...I didn't want to be the first one," Winston trails off in a mumble, still cradling the pie tin. That guilty look hasn't faded from his face.
"Well, they're for you. To thank you for the successful mission!" Brigitte pushes the pie gently towards him. "Go on. I won't tell."
As she watches him carry off his dessert, she thinks that maybe each of them have their own coping mechanisms.
Brigitte lasts only two more days before caving into the urge to talk to Reinhardt. It's not that she wants to unburden her feelings persay, it's more that she wants to know what he thinks. Whether he's ever felt the same thing.
Lúcio's recommendations have already helped. Talking with him helped her feel far less alone. She's been working on a 3D model of Reinhardt's new armor in her spare time, building it in the software on her pad.
But still, she wants to know.
Brigitte decides to wait to spring the question on him until the evening. If things go sideways - or, you cry all over him again - she'll have the convenient excuse of being tired to use as an escape.
After a rather festive movie night, ("It's only November, Lena! Why are we watching Christmas movies?) she showers quickly and then finds herself standing in front of his closed door in her pajamas. She's feeling uncharacteristically nervous. Why? The worst that can happen has already happened.
She knocks.
When she hears the muffled invitation, she opens the door and steps inside. Reinhardt is reclining on his computer chair, feet propped up on his bed as he scrolls through his pad.
"Good evening," he says, clicking off the pad's display and turning to face her.
"Hey." She gives him a small smile that feels a little weak. C'mon. It's Reinhardt. He won't care. She wastes no time in spitting out the line that she's been rehearsing for the last ten minutes.
"Can I talk to you about something?"