Our life is twofold; Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality
- The Dream, Lord Byron
Brigitte circles the mat, pacing Reinhardt step for step. They're both looking for an opening, but it's almost always him that attacks first. True to form, he leads with a feint which she easily reads. She prefers to play the waiting game when they grapple, letting him wear himself out a little before going in for the–
–with unexpected speed, he lunges for her. Reinhardt can be quite quick when he wants to be, and she hadn't anticipated such aggression this early in the match. One broad hand catches the backside of her knee, his shoulder pressing snugly into stomach. When he yanks her legs out from under her the rest of his momentum brings them both to the floor.
Brigitte scrabbles frantically, trying to slip from his hold before he can get her into his guard but it's too late. He has her.
His weight presses down, his arms pinning hers while his hips hold her firmly in place. She struggles to get him in a position to flip, but it's no use, her brain has frozen, forgetting the movements. At last she stills, recognizing defeat.
"So, what did you do wrong?"
The words are gentle, the tone almost teasing in it's rebuke. It's what he always says when he's trying to teach her something; he likes to see if she can carry her own analysis first though.
She can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, ghosting over the shell of her ear. He still hasn't released the pin, despite his victory.
Everything is warm.
"Uh...I panicked." She struggles to remember each move, each reaction. What should she have done? "I – should've tried for a roll sooner."
"Hmmm, that is one option."
It's not the answer he's looking for. He'll only release her when she gets it right, but her brain is a haze of static, frazzled thoughts. She's so very warm.
"Yeah? And the other option?" She gives up, waiting for his answer. Is it her imagination, or can she feel one of his hands cupping the back of her head?
The hard planes of his body intersects hers, a familiar tangle of hard and soft. Heavy. He's immovable, unrelenting. She can feel the heat boiling up between them.
"This."
He tilts her head to the side, mouth dipping to the junction of her neck and shoulder. Sparks of sensation leap from that point of contact, racing through her veins. She realizes, at some point he's released her arms. One of her hands comes up to caress the back of his head, holding him to her.
Oh, she's got him now.
In a flash she pulls her knees up on either side of him, right foot out to push. At the same time she pulls his opposing shoulder so that they roll, ending up with her astride him. He's released her throat in his surprise, and she sits back, gloating.
"Shouldn't have let your guard down."
It's the most natural thing in the world, seeing him like this. Her hands stroke across his chest. Somehow she's never noticed how small they are compared to the span of him. His arms come back up, snaking around her back and she expects that she'll lose her position – but he doesn't throw her. He pulls her against him firmly, tugging her down towards his face –
When Brigitte awakens, its to the confusing sensation of pleasure mixed with a squirming bewilderment. Her conscious mind flounders, still half-entrapped in the lingering trails of sleep. The warmth remains, pooling in her belly like hot buttered rum. Tendrils of sharper sensation grip her even lower, and as her mind comes fully awake she registers that sensation as...arousal?
What the heck?
She rolls over in bed, curling on her side in a fetal position. One hand plumps her pillow while the confusion swirls through her mind. Both the heat flaring in her and the last tendrils of the dream drain away, leaving only bewilderment and exhaustion. Weird, is the only thought her sleep-fuzzed brain can manage. It's dark and cold in her room. The sound of the ocean through the rock walls is a comforting white roar. Sleep is still so close; it'll be all too easy to just close her eyes and sink back into those unknowing depths.
Can't help your dreams.
Logic asserts itself, offering solid comfort that allows her to pull the covers more snugly around her and fall back asleep.
The next morning when she wakes up, it takes Brigitte a moment to realize why she feels a little off. Just a hint of disquiet, that at first she attributes to having overslept. She checks her pad, realizing that actually, she's awake before the alarm can sound. Only by 3 minutes though, which makes going back to sleep pointless.
She yawns, stretching like a cat beneath the covers to preserve the cocoon of warmth there. Despite the popping of joints and the pleasant stretch of her muscles, she feels a queer, lingering sort of mental tension that at first she can't place, not until she sits up in bed and the memory floods back.
The dream.
She hasn't had a dream like that ever - as far as she's aware. More often than not she doesn't remember them in the first place, which may be what makes this one so odd. Never mind the physical sensation -
She shivers, the chill of the room sinking into her skin as she makes her way from the bed to the bathroom. As she waits for the shower water to begin steaming, she turns the memory over in her mind dubiously, examining it like a foreign coin.
It had started out so normally. Sparring with Reinhardt, an everyday occurrence; it wouldn't even be the first time she'd had a dream about that, or metalsmithing, or any other number of things that have become her routine. But that feeling...
Brigitte steps under the spray of the shower, basking in the warmth and giving herself the mental count of three before ripping off the band-aid.
She'd had what was basically equivalent to a sex dream, starring Reinhardt.
She shudders again. The water isn't as warm as she had thought, and she cranks the handle a little further to the left. Soon the spray is hot enough to be uncomfortable, and she sinks down into a crouching position to give the water extra distance to cool off before it reaches her.
Yeah, so what. It was a dream, and dreams are weird. They're like a test of mental gymnastics for your brain: seeing how far it can bend and twist to accept whatever happens as normal. Natural. Consciousness is like a switch, snapping the high-wire and throwing everything into shocking reality.
The water soaking her hair drips down over her forehead, runs into her eyes and mouth. She blows a hard stream of air, spraying a fine mist of water onto the shower wall, still enjoying the warmth too much to get up and start washing.
You can't control your dreams. She knows this, so she shouldn't be embarrassed by it, or even give it a second thought. It means nothing more than the fact that she's neglected certain needs for far too long.
Well.. She'll just have to deal with it.
Brigitte feels considerably more relaxed as she scarfs down her breakfast. So much so that she's sunk into a haze of half-thought, have pleasant unawareness and at first she doesn't register that Lena is talking to her.
"–plans for Christmas?"
Brigitte jerks her head up, a link of sausage almost falling into her lap. "Sorry, what?"
"I was just asking if you had any plans for Christmas," Lena says patiently, scooping up another forkful of egg and tomato into her mouth.
"Oh! Uh…"
Brigitte hasn't really thought about Christmas. Maybe she should. It's only a month away and she hasn't even thought about gifts, or asked Reinhardt when he wants to go back to Sweden.
"Well, I usually go to my parents house and spend the week with them." Brigitte nibbles the sausage off the end of her fork. "Nothing crazy. What about you?"
"Emily and I try to join Winston here every year for hols. He cooks a mean Christmas dinner, we put the telly onto that 24-hour yule log channel and we exchange gifts." Lena leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "And this year I didn't wait 'til the last minute on his gift! I think he'll be darn chuffed when he sees it."
"Yeah?" Brigitte hadn't even considered getting her teammates gifts. Dang, she really needs to get it together. Gifts for her parents, siblings, and teammates - looks like it's time to rework the budget. "What did you get him?"
"That's a secret." Lena winks at her. "Not that I think you'd tell, but, y'know. Fewer people know, less of a chance he'll find out."
Reinhardt's arm lands heavily on Brigitte's shoulders and she jumps. "What are you two whispering about over here, eh?" He leans in over the top of them, and she can feel the heat of him against her side. Its familiar. Normal. She can smell the spice of his deodorant even through the thick fabric of his sweater.
"Oh, uh...not much." The words spill out of her mouth a little too quickly. "Just Christmas plans and..things."
"You are thinking of Christmas already?" His arm falls away as he goes back to digging into his own plate. "No doubt you're eager for the holiday feast. Ingrid cooks enough to feed an army!"
"Oh that's right, you lot celebrate together don'cha?" Lena chases the last bit of egg and tomato around her plate with her spoon. "That must be some rowdy gathering. Your mum must know how to put up with a lot!"
Brigitte laughs, because Lena's hit it right on the head. Their gatherings are every bit as loud and boisterous as she probably imagines. Her family, combined with all her nieces and nephews and Reinhardt are unruly, but no one can bring them to order faster than her mother armed with a long wooden spoon.
"Mama knows how to handle us." She smiles, thinking perhaps this year she'll take some pictures to bring back to show everyone. Or even a video, right at the moment Ingrid declares lunch to be served. It's a sight to be seen.
"Do you have a very large family?" Mei asks, listening in on the conversation. That's right; Mei had told them a great deal about herself last night. Brigitte isn't sure many of them had returned the favor.
"Yeah, so I have two brothers and a sister, Ella, Liam and Mikael –" she goes on to outline the family dynamic and name all eight of her nieces and nephews. They're all of an exuberant young age that makes the family gathering so hectic, even the oldest of them seem to forget their manners in their excitement on Christmas Eve. She even explains Reinhardt's relation to the Lindholms, which Mei seems to find extremely interesting.
"I didn't know Overwatch ran in your family!" Mei jokes. "It must be nice, to have them close."
Brigitte smiles, though it is a bit strained. That's how she had felt too, at first. More thrilled with being able to be near her Papa and Reinhardt than concerned for what might lay ahead for them. Now that she knows what missions are like...well.
Don't worry about it.
Brigitte falls back on her mantra, closing off that thought. Papa and Reinhardt have survived the Omnic War and tens of other missions. They're strong enough to handle whatever comes their way.
She finishes her chat with Mei, and as Brigitte gets up to put her dishes away she can still feel the ghostly imprint of Reinhard's arm bearing down on her shoulder.
Winston calls a meeting just after sims that afternoon.
As they pile into his war room, Brigitte can tell from the look on Winston's face that whatever they're about to talk about won't be pleasant. There's a rigid set to his jaw; it's almost grim.
Or maybe he's just cold. All of them walking through the massive door to his compound has let in a burst of icy air that the heater seems to be struggling to mitigate. Brigitte has to repress her own shudder as the cold sinks its claws into her, clinging eagerly to the lingering sweat on her back and shoulders. Note to self: bring blanket to next meeting. She takes her usual seat between Reinhardt and Lúcio and tucks her feet up onto the chair.
"Okay, just a few things to go over before we get to the topic of our meeting today." Winston pushes his glasses up on his blunt nose, peering down at his pad.
"First, as you know the holidays are coming up and I'm sure you all have your own uh, traditions or practices you want to observe. I'm planning on suspending normal activities for three weeks, a week and a half before Christmas and through New Year's. Those of you who want to stay on base, just let me know, and of course if you need more time off just send me a message. If anyone has any interest in still practicing over the holidays, that can be arranged."
Practicing, over the holidays? Brigitte wonders who of their group other than Hanzo might want that.
Winston taps his pad. "Second, I've got the official word from the RDF. They've declared that the omnic threat has been unquestionably eliminated and the army has withdrawn completely from Krasnoyarsk. Lieutenant Zarya tells me that they've been given holiday leave."
There's a pleased murmur from around the room, and Brigitte pumps a fist in victory. It's a great outcome, the one that they all had hoped for - peace at last for the Russian people. She feels a burst of warmth, imagining all the soldiers reuniting with their families.
Another tap of the pad. By the way Winston looks around to them Brigitte can tell that they're about to get to the main topic of today's meeting. He waits until the murmurs die out, as if loathe to break the happy mood too soon. He even buys some time fiddling with the projector remote, clicking the display on before clearing his throat.
"That's all for general announcements. Now, on to the issue at hand today."
With another click a picture appears on the screen, heading a news clipping that's completely in Russian. The unsmiling face of a woman in a sharp black suit stares down at them, cold and yet somehow regal in her beauty. Her dark hair is tied back into a low ponytail. Brigitte has no idea who she is.
"This is Katya Volskaya. She is the CEO of Volskaya Industries, and the creator of the Russian mechs called svyatogors."
Looking around the room, Brigitte sees recognition on only two faces: Reinhardt's, and her father's. She herself only barely recognizes the name; it had appeared a few times in her readings when Brigitte had been preparing for Krasnoyarsk.
"To the Russians she's a great hero. The svyatogors that her company produced were integral in Russia's victory in the first Omnic Crisis. And just under two months ago, Talon tried to assassinate her."
The news is like a shockwave rippling through the room. Brigitte turns to see Lúcio's eyes widen, mirroring her own expression. Angela raises a hand to her mouth, McCree swears, and Hanzo and Genji become, if possible, even stiller. Only Reinhardt, still as a statue next to her takes the news in stride, not even flinching at the proclamation.
An assassination attempt?
The news settles uncomfortably, alarms pinging in her brain. There had been another assassination of an important figure not all that long ago, and now this? She hadn't expected this at all. And the Russians had kept completely silent on the subject, even when they'd been right there!
Armed guards following them everywhere they go. An unspoken tension that seems to fill the camp.
Or maybe, she just hadn't recognized the signs.
"They tried to assassinate her?" Lena is the first to recover, leaning forward in her seat. "But why?"
Winston opens his mouth, but Torbjörn beats him to it.
"She's the most powerful woman in Russia. Her company and products are worth millions. An' he just said that she's a great hero to her people. Is it any wonder that Talon would want her dead?" He slams his prosthetic hand on the table, a hard clunk that reverberates through Brigitte's elbows. "I don't like it. This is too close."
Her father's eye narrows, staring down at the dark wood. "They targeted her before Russia ever considered callin' for help. They targeted someone whose closely linked to anti–omnic tech. They killed the most well–known omnic rights activist. Make no mistake about it, what they're planning has got everythin' to do with omnics, and they're tryin' to pick off our people before we can get a force together that can oppose 'em."
He's talking about the agents who haven't returned the call yet, of course. The missing, presumed dead people that Brigitte knows that Winston hasn't been able to reach. She doesn't like what he's saying. It sounds too much like he's insinuating the start of another Omnic War.
Around the room, discontented sounds. Hanzo hisses something to Genji, while McCree rubs a hand across his chin. Brigitte finds herself rubbing her fingernail worryingly over a scratch on the table, and tries to still her motion.
"Um, yes." Winston drums his blunt fingers on the tabletop. "That is what it seems like. From what I've been able to gather, the assassination attempt involved the Reaper, the Widowmaker –" at this, Lena lets out a soft huff of air – "–and someone we've never seen before. Some kind of...technology manipulator. Whoever it was was able to get the equipment inside Volskaya Industries to work for them, despite presumably having none of the access codes or keys. We can't discount the possibility that it was an inside job"
Instead of messing with the table, Brigitte now finds herself chewing on her thumb. Couldn't they catch a break? Just when it seemed like they had really accomplished something, here was something new to worry about.
"It could have been a sleeper agent. Talon have proved themselves capable of playing a long game." Genji's voice is low, sharp, more synth than organic. Such a far cry from his normally cavalier attitude that Brigitte guesses he's had close, personal experience with this.
"What can we do?" Angela says beseechingly. "We have all these suspicions, but what can we make of them? What action can we take?"
"Yeah, can we just go hunt down Talon and like, crush them?" Brigitte's punches one fist into her cupped hand, her suggestion only half–joking. She would love to go take down the organization that's plagued Overwatch. That's plagued the world. But of course, such an attack would invite the kind of trouble she isn't sure they're ready to handle.
Next to her, Reinhardt laughs. "Don't I wish it!"
Winston rubs his eyes. "That's just it. We can't do anything. Not until we have concrete intelligence that they're plotting something. And for that, we need, well...informants."
Isn't an assassination attempt concrete enough?
Brigitte clenches her fingers until her nails dig almost painfully into the meat of her palm. It's so frustrating, this powerlessness. She had heard it over and over from her father over the years, how being in Overwatch at times was more of an exercise in vexation than real, global change. Had he been talking about this? This constant waiting game?
"Perhaps we should pay a visit to some of our old acquaintances." Genji makes a fluid motion with his hand, as if walking an invisible coin along his knuckles. "They have been known to be helpful before."
Winston looks discomfited. He shifts in his chair, bunching his shoulders up in a protracted shrug. "I'm...not sure that's the best idea."
"I would be happy to look into him for you."
Him?
Angela gives Genji a stern look. "It would be far too dangerous for you to attempt it yourself." They're clearly talking about the same person..
"Oh, I might be able to get Hanzo to help me." Genji is back to teasing, the tension stripped from his voice. He nudges Hanzo's shoulder with his elbow, which earns him a sharp look.
"No, no, I think we should wait until after the holidays are over to make any moves." Winston interrupts before the discussion can go any further. "I won't say that something like that is..uh..out of the realm of possibility, though."
"Excellent." Genji seems pleased by not being turned down outright. Brigitte feels like the discussion has completely gone over her head, and turns to Reinhardt for clarification. His mouth moves, shaping the word: after.
Winston clicks the remote, killing the projection. "So, that's all I know so far. Talon failed their assassination attempt, and as far as I've been able to see they haven't made another since. Sorry I couldn't end the meeting on a more positive note but…" he trails off, looking around as though expecting someone to speak up. No one does.
"Well, if no one has any questions, meeting adjourned."
As Brigitte walks back through the hall leading towards their mess hall she can see Mei making her way towards them. Mei, being part of Overwatch's research sector has been tackling a problem every bit as insidious as Talon, and she's doing it almost alone. Though she'd been invited, Mei had declined to be part of their sims and meetings, instead focusing most of her free time on collecting atmospheric readings around the Watchpoint, parsing through her own data or else staying shut up with Winston in his lab.
It is kinda cute, how those two get on. Mei's exuberance complements Winston's more stoic nature, an exchange that seems to benefit them both.
Brigitte waves as Mei passes them by, her arms full of her laptop and external hard drive, Snowball bobbing along behind. She must be heading to meet him now. Good. Winston might need some cheering up after that meeting, Brigitte knows she does.
The bulk of them are headed to the kitchen. It's Friday, which means she gets to help Reinhardt try a new recipe out. The rest of the team split into groups, some doing a clean sweep of the mess hall while Torbjörn retreats to do a security system check, Angela checking the stock of the medbay and Hanzo and Genji, the most mobile of them check the Watchpoint's perimeter, checking the camera's blind spots. It's a routine born out of the necessity of the Watchpoint's upkeep, but as Lúcio puts on some music Brigitte dares to think that even this can be fun.
Reinhardt begins to pull ingredients out of the fridge, stacking them in a growing mound on the counter as she watches. Brigitte always tries to guess what they'll be making before Reinhardt tells her. He keeps it a secret, but sometimes the ingredients give it away. Tonight when she sees the trifecta of carrots, celery and onion she knows enough to guess that it's going to be some kind of soup - and when she pulls the largest pot out of the cupboard, he nods approvingly.
She takes the vegetables from him and slaps a cutting board down next to the oven so they can talk while they work. "So, gonna let me in on what that was about?"
Brigitte wastes no time in pumping him for information, sharpening a paring knife and trying to sound casual; as though she's absolutely not dying to hear it.
Reinhardt tosses a whole stick of butter into the pot and then cranks on the heat. "If you like."
"Yes, I like." She slides an onion towards herself, peeling the papery outer layers off into the trash. Slicing off the top and bottom, she halves the onion and begins to dice. "So, who is this mysterious 'him' that Genji was talking about? An informant?"
First lengthwise, then widthwise, Brigitte chops the onion with increasing rapidity, only nicking a fingernail once. She's getting better at this.
"He was an informant, of sorts." Reinhardt see-saws his hand at her, and the tone of his voice makes it clear that whoever it was was an unwilling informant. "One we went through a lot of trouble to procure."
Brigitte's eyes sting. Oh crap. She always forgets to run the oven fan, and now the onion has gotten to her. Stabbing pain, like a toothpick right on her eyeballs. There's no help for it; tears well up, but that just makes everything hurt more. "Yeah? How'd that come about?" She tries to surreptitiously rub her eyes against the sleeve of her shirt.
Reinhardt catches her doing it and holds out a teatowel for her to wipe her streaming eyes on. He toggles on the oven fan, then sets to stirring the onions that she tips into the pot.
"There was an intelligence mission, back before things started to get bad. I was not assigned to it, I was away on other business – but the aim of the strike team that day was to capture a suspected member of Talon." Reinhardt pauses, shaking some pepper into the pot before continuing. "They had reason to believe this person would be, ah - amenable to discussion."
Brigitte raises an eyebrow at him. "That sounds an awful lot like something that might be up Blackwatch's alley." She begins to work on the celery.
Isn't that what Blackwatch was for? Putting the thumbscrews to people who didn't want to talk?
"What? No! No, there was no torture. Nothing under the table." Reinhardt shakes his head at her, silvered hair flying with the force of his denial. "We merely decided to overlook some of his more egregious lawbreaking. Him, being an omnic named Maximilien."
An omnic? Part of Talon? Brigitte frowns. She's never even considered that omnics might work with the very people concerned with inciting hate against them. "An omnic, huh? Kinda surprising. Talon seems pretty...uh...anti-omnic rights. Doesn't seem like they'd find an omnic sympathetic to their cause."
Reinhardt lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "Perhaps they worked out a deal, I do not know. I believe Talon operates much like Overwatch once did; with many moving pieces. It may be that not all those in Talon employ support their ideals, and seek other connections."
Brigitte tips the celery into the pot. "Yeah, I guess so. What was special about Maximilien, then?" The carrots are last, and she peels them with alacrity.
"He was a known conspirator with Doomfist, who we were struggling to apprehend." Reinhardt stands, one hand tucked thoughtfully under his chin as he remembers. "I understand that in exchange for some information on his whereabouts, Overwatch agreed to not to turn Maximilien in to the authorities. He's a crafty one, Maximilien. He has made his fortune in money laundering."
Brigitte adds the carrots to the pot, then tucks the cutting board into the sink. "So, Genji wants to see if they can put the squeeze on him again?" It's an intriguing thought: a reconnaissance mission. Though whether she'd be much use in such a scenario is another question entirely.
Reinhardt nods. "Yes. Though, the mission was very dangerous last time, Maximilien is well protected. I do not think it would be possible to get him alone now, even with Genji's connections."
"Do you think all of us together could pull it off?"
"It is...possible." Reinhardt looks troubled. "I do not think he would be expecting it this time. But we have only the hunch. No way to prove his involvement, or evidence that he's supporting them. I think it best that we wait."
Behind them Brigitte can hear the indistinct rumble of conversation at the tables in the mess hall. The other agents are content to wait while dinner is being made, now that they've cleaned the tables.
She wonders how many of them are stewing, as she is, in their own powerlessness.
The sharp sound of sizzling tears her out of her melancholy thoughts. Reinhardt has a slab of green-speckled, very fragrant meat cooking in the skillet now, and her mouth waters at the smell. So hungry. She had forgotten to grab a snack between the end of sims and the meeting.
Swallowing back a mouthful of saliva, she watches as he chunks up the meat with a wooden spoon.
"You know, if Talon can convince an omnic to help them, they probably have contacts in all sorts of places. Powerful connections. There's no way they'd be able to get near someone like Katya Volskaya without that," she muses, giving voice to the thought that troubles her most. The Russians have always been very private. What sort of power is that far-reaching?
"It is true. Talon has a number of contacts, both willing and unwilling. It is possible- no, it is likely that they are blackmailing many of them."
Blackmail. Yeah, she could see that.
Mulling over those words, Brigitte ends her inquiry.
They cook in tandem for the next hour, (or rather, Reinhardt puts the rest of it together, while Brigitte cleans up their mess) and the kitchen steadily warms as steam boils off the soup. When they turn on the oven to brown some french loaves Brigitte has to remove her sweatshirt, it's positively toasty in there.
"You've got something on your arm."
Brigitte turns to see Reinhardt pointing at her. She lowers both her sponge and the vegetable knife she was washing, eyes following the path of his finger.
"See it? Just there." He reaches out to touch her shoulder, poking her guild tattoo.
It's a stupid joke, one he's pulled a hundred times before. He likes to spring it on her when she's least expecting it, though she hasn't fallen for it in over a year.
"Oh, ha ha. Very funny." She swats his finger away with a wet hand to his uproarious laughter. She can't believe she actually fell for that!
In retaliation she unslings the now–damp tea towel from her shoulder and twists it tightly. When his back is turned, she snaps it at him, hitting squarely above his left buttock. The sharp grunt of surprise that leaves him is undignified, almost a snort. She has to bite back her laughter, turning back around and pretending to wash again, as if it definitely wasn't her fault.
"Did you just - whip me?" Reinhardt bellows in mock-outrage.
Brigitte shoots him a wide-eyed, innocent look over her shoulder. Who, me? Her poker face is spoiled somewhat by the twitch at the corner of her lips, and she turns back before it can split into an outright smile. It's in her nature to escalate things, she can't help it. But he started it!
Reinhardt grabs her from behind in a bear hug, burly arms trapping her arms against her side and lifting her so that her feet leave the floor.
Oh, right. It's in his nature to escalate too.
She drops the knife in the sink with a clatter before she can accidentally stab something. They really shouldn't be roughhousing like this in the kitchen, surrounded by hot burners and pointy objects, but it's never stopped them before.
"Ha-ha! What are you going to do now?"
His face is tucked against her back, his beard scraping the juncture of her neck and shoulder. The flesh there prickles, at once itchy and ticklish. She has to suppress a shiver.
Damn.
He's got her pinned well; his chest is solid as a wall against her back. The strange tingling in her neck distracts her, makes her hesitate just a second too long before enacting her escape. Bowing her arms, she frees up enough space to slip free and then jabs his gut with her elbow - a light hit, just sharp enough to force him away. He hams it up anyway, acting like she's outright punched him.
"Guess you can't handle me after all." The words come out a touch too breathlessly, so she flips her ponytail nonchalantly and flicks an invisible speck of dust from her shoulder; feigning cockiness. "Better luck next time."
"Cheap shot!" Reinhardt grumbles good-naturedly, rubbing his stomach and turning back to the stove to turn the burner off.
"All's fair in war!"
"Nein. All's fair in love and war," Reinhardt corrects her, and she rolls her eyes.
"Whatever. You're just sore that you can't pin me."
The team finishing the mess hall cleanup don't even bat an eye at their bickering, a testament to how routine it's become. Sometimes they even join in, turning the mess hall into a cacophony of amiable taunts and jokes.
"Man, if you two cooked as fast as you slung those insults, we'd be eating by now!" Lúcio chides them, and Brigitte pokes her tongue out at him, blowing a noisy raspberry.
"Dinner is almost ready!"
At Reinhardt's word Brigitte sets the cleaning aside and springs into action. Everyone pitches in: setting the table, sending out messages to those not present, and helping distribute dishes.
The rest of the team trickles in, half of them chilled and wind-swept from their duties outside and looking gratefully at the steaming pot on the stove. They form an assembly line; deep bowls a filled, slices of thick bread passed around, plates filled with dark greenery. Brigitte warms her hands in the steam coming off her soup. The chill of the stone walls is no match for the warmth filling the table right now.
"Woah, what is this?" Lena exclaims, her mouth full.
"Tortellini soup, with spicy sausage." Brigitte answers, blowing on her own spoonful.
Angela scoops a spoonful up, looking approvingly at the hearty portions of spinach and tomato that swim in her bowl. "It smells delicious."
"Id ig!" Lena replies from around her bread.
After her first bite, Brigitte can't help but agree. Though she's not as big a fan of spicy food as Reinhardt is, the heat from the sausage is the perfect balance of flavorful and warming. She might have to take this recipe back to mamma.
With dinner finished they round the night with a rousing tournament of Mekkan, a popular fighting game.
Papa merely tuts and rolls his eyes as he watches them begin, retiring to his room for the night before the fighting really begins in earnest. He's not that big a fan of video games.
He's the only one that leaves. Even Angela decides to try her hand at the game, of which there really only seems to be two schools of playstyle: either carefully-crafted combinations of attacks and quick defense, in the case of Winston and Genji, or random button-mashing, in the case of everyone else.
Unsurprising, Reinhardt is out first.
"They do not make these in my size!" he complains, shaking the controller. His thumbs are so large that he always ends up hitting multiple buttons in his enthusiasm to attack, cancelling any effective action.
"That's no excuse, look at Winston!" Lena points to him as he hands his controller off to Genji, who is next to play. The black plastic virtually disappears in Winston's dark palms, but he handles the buttons with amazing delicacy and alacrity.
"What? No, no, it is hard to play when you have hands this big," Winston protests, to Reinhardt's approval. "I've just, uh...had a lot of practice over the years."
"Ah, this brings back some memories," Genji murmurs wistfully as he turns the controller over in his palms. "Many an hour of my misspent youth were in the video arcades around Hanamura."
Next to him Hanzo shifts, eyeing the controller. It'll be his turn to play next; maybe he's hoping to pick up a few tricks from his brother.
Lena and Genji go head to head in the next match
Watching their fingers fly over the controls is almost dizzying, each of their movements faster than Brigitte's eyes can follow. Despite the speed of their motions, Genji wins handily. Lena gives him a high-five and relegates herself to one side of the sofa to watch the rest of the tournament.
Next up is Hanzo and McCree, a match Brigitte thinks she can guess the outcome of before either man even touches their controllers.
Hanzo has been watching each match with laser focus, eyes flicking between the character's movements and the movement of each player's fingers. McCree has been sinking into the leather sofa, hat tipped low over his eyes. He might have actually been sleeping through the matches.
They both transform once the controllers are in their hands. Hanzo, more animated than Brigitte has ever seen; McCree, alert and grinning, eyes sparking. Each man leans forward, intent on the game. Hungry for victory.
Hanzo's watchfulness proves to be his edge - after a protracted battle he takes down McCree's character, a burly man with a bolo tie.
"Aw, man! I want a do-over. I don't know any of these controls!" McCree complains, but his tone is exaggerated, joking.
"The battle would have been over much sooner had you not mistaken the jump button for the punch button." Hanzo's voice is dry as he relinquishes his controller to Brigitte, but it's tinged with humor.
"Was that a joke, brother?" Genji reaches over to place the back of his hand on Hanzo's forehead, only to have it swatted away. "I think you must be getting sick."
"Why, he only gotta sense o'humor when he's delirious?" McCree teases, and Hanzo shrinks away from them both. He stalks away from Genji, moving to one of the recliners on the periphery and shooting the two agents a look.
"Children." A soft mutter that Brigitte can barely hear.
She watches the archer for a moment as he perches in the chair, cross-legged and fastidious even in relaxation. It's a little surprising that he stayed for the tournament; it seems he really is settling in here. It's almost enough that she wonders if he's going to reconsider his stance on becoming an official member of Overwatch.
Wondering must wait, though. It's her and Lúcio going head-to-head now, and she has no confidence that she's going to win. She's played games before, but never Mekkan.
Brigitte lets the game select a random hero for her, and Lúcio does the same.
"You're going down, Lu," she mock-threatens as the screen loads, bumping his shoulder with hers. They're both sprawled on the floor, leaving the sofa for the older members of the team.
"That's what you think!"
As it turns out, Lúcio wins - but it's close. Neither of them are particularly good at it, playing more cautiously than either of the other competitors had. Their match takes the longest; nearly 5 minutes, and concluded with one lucky hit when Brigitte's thumb slips off the guard button. At the end of it, she gives him a fist bump and hands off the controller. She's warm and full, and pretty okay with just watching the rest of the games unfold. Reinhardt gives her a conciliatory pat on the shoulder as she leans back against the sofa.
The tournament closes. Angela defeats Mei to Brigitte's surprise. She plays with careful precision, her movements slow and simple, but deliberate. Despite her victory, after she hands off the controller to Lena she nods to the group and retires to bed, leaving only two teams left to fight for the final round.
Then it's Winston up against Lena. Despite the speed of Lena's button-mashing, he defeats her soundly and offers her an apologetic pat on the back. Lena waves him off. "Ah, rubbish. I knew I couldn't win against you, big guy!"
Brigitte thinks she could've predicted the final outcome of the tournament, which is that Winston ends up duelling Genji for the crown. He lasts far longer than any of Winston's previous combatants, but still ends up losing two minutes later. Laying the controller aside, he gets to his feet, clasps his hands palms-together and bows to Winston.
"I concede to superior skill," he says, amused.
They haven't wagered anything but bragging rights for the victor, so the remaining members barrage Winston with fist bumps and high fives. Genji and he shake hands, Genji remarking that they'll have to play again sometime, before both he and Hanzo retreat to their rooms for the night.
Lena, as peppy as ever suggests a movie, and as it plays into the night Brigitte relocates herself to the sofa once Angela, Winston and Mei retire for the night. She finds her mind drifting, vague half-thoughts that turn into half-dreams as she begins to doze through the midpoint of Die Another Day Redux. Only when Reinhardt shakes her awake at the end of the film does she realize she's fallen asleep at all.
"Oh, sorry." She rights herself, straightening her sweatshirt and rubbing at her eyes. Somehow it's gotten really warm in the room; no wonder she fell asleep.
When she rolls into bed half an hour later she wonders briefly if she'll have another weird dream. Playing with the thought, she casts it aside with the realization that, one way or another she can't control her dreams, so there's no point thinking about it.
She pulls the covers up to her chin and closes her eyes.
Brigitte keeps her shield up, circling left to provide cover for Torbjörn while he sets up a turret.
They're in the middle of a sim, three days after her dream. Winston has really dialed the difficulty up lately; he and her father had worked out a new method of tracking both the hits that they receive during a match and the hits they land. There are now accuracy leaderboards and real–time feedback from Athena, letting them know what their current health status would be. It's really something, pretty useful, especially–
Thock!
An energy projectile smacks her left rerebrace, interrupting her thoughts.
"Brigitte, noncritical injury, left arm." Athena's voice rings in her ear and is presumably relayed to Angela as well because she turns her beam onto Brigitte as a reflex. She's not really using her caduceus tech, but the simulation of it still registers in the system.
Brigitte adjusts her shield, cursing mentally at her own inattention. That's the third time this match that she's been hit with her defenses up; a poor display.
Reinhardt grunts and heaves a firestrike off to their right. Her eyes instinctively flick to him at the sound, even though she's seen the sight so many times before. Him, in his winter gear with an auxiliary shield strapped to his arm, still throwing his hammer around like it weighs nothing. Normal, everyday Reinhardt.
Brigitte turns her eyes back towards an approaching not and flicks out her mace.
"These new bots are an improvement!" Reinhardt exclaims to Winston and Torbjörn after sims, giving each of them a hearty pat on the back.
"I agree. They are much closer to what we faced in Russia," Genji adds approvingly. McCree points to the leaderboards, clicking his tongue approvingly at his kill count while Hanzo rolls his eyes.
During the post–sim discussion Winston usually goes over areas of the session that went well, or what could be improved on. Today she's not really listening. Her mind wanders, eyes fixed on one point of the unremarkable white wall.
"Brigitte, you took a couple more hits than normal today but you also got more critical hits on the targets. Keep up the accuracy, guard a little more. Reinhardt –"
She hears her name just in time to nod in response to Winston's words. Obviously he noticed her lapses, but thankfully he doesn't linger on them. Still, it's a little embarrassing. Everyone has an off day, but making the same mistake twice isn't something she does normally.
Can't protect the team if you're not paying attention to them.
The thought is sobering. Maybe that's just what she needs though; discomfort is a fine teacher. She meditates on the thought through dinner, participating in the conversation much less than normal. The liveliness of the team around her only reminds her of how much she cares for each and every one of them. How she should be giving her best every day for them.
Of course Reinhardt notices her silence. He corners her after dinner, following her down the hall and tapping on her shoulder before she can disappear into her room.
"Shildlein? May I come in?"
She nods and holds the door open for him, ignoring the tiniest quiver of unease.
Ordinarily she might just flop down on her bed and he would join her, both of them laying back and gazing up at the dark stone ceiling as if it contained a glittering array of stars. Tonight she merely perches on the edge of the mattress, one toe playing with the border of her area rug. He takes a seat next to her, the familiar lurch of the bed echoing a similar leap in her stomach.
"What's up?"
"I was about to ask you the same. You are awfully quiet tonight." Reinhardt looks down at her, giving her an opening to speak. He hasn't outright come out and asked is something wrong, and phrasing the question as a statement gives her an out to ignore it if she doesn't really want to talk. The barely-concealed look of curious concern on his face eases some of the lingering tension in her, and she returns his look with a smile.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Really." Her eyes trace the wide stripe of the scar over his eye, the strong curve of his jaw. He has a crumb of bread stuck in his beard. "I was just thinking about some things after sims. Didn't think I did as well today as I could have."
The concerned look breaks, morphing instead into one of understanding. "Ah. Well, we all make mistakes sometimes. You must simply resolve to do better!"
"Yeah, I know. I was just thinking, on a mission I can't have an off-day, or else someone's going to get hurt. Just kinda put a damper on my mood is all." Shrugging in an offhand manner, she reaches out and plucks the crumb out of his beard. She doesn't want him to think she's going to dwell on the thought.
Reinhardt reaches out, sweeps one hand around her shoulders and crushes her against his side. "You did better than any recruit I've ever seen on your first mission, and have performed admirably in all the simulations. I do not think you have anything to worry about. And besides, what is your team there for but to help? We will not let you fail!"
Warmth blooms like a flower in her chest, spreading delicate petals of sensation through her entire body. She knows everything he's said is true, logically. But knowing it and hearing it come from someone else are very different. Part of her shies away from the compliment, instinctively embarrassed by the glowing praise; an equal part basks in the attention, soaking it up as though she's been parched for affection.
"Thanks, Reinhardt. I know it was a fluke. I won't let it bother me for long." She returns the embrace, squeezing tightly and pressing her cheek along the swell of his chest.
They remain like that for a long moment, until his grip begins to loosen.
"Well, if you want to talk more, you know where to find me." Reinhardt lets her go and heaves to his feet with a grunt. "And if you are not better by morning, we will find something to do to cheer you up, ja?"
Brigitte follows him to his feet, offering a casual, two-fingered salute. "Alles klar."
She heads to bed two hours later. Despite the chill of the room she feels warm; Reinhardt's praise still smoldering like banked coals.
Brigitte lowers the barbell until it barely taps her chest, then pushes it up with a sharp exhale. Her arms wobble as the bar reaches its peak. Reinhardt hovers overhead, his hands ready to catch should she falter. She stares through him to the ceiling, focused on keeping her shoulders retracted and her back arched.
"Two more." He is counting for her. She's going for a PR today, 3 reps of what was her max weight two weeks ago.
She lowers the bar again, the metal lightly kissing her chest before she grinds it back up. The barbell rises much slower this time, her arms quivering with the effort. With a grunt, she forces the bar all the way up.
"Good. One more."
Down the bar goes again, and Brigitte's arms feel vaguely like they might not belong to her anymore. She can feel the tension screwing the muscles taut, the rusty creak of tendons as she forces the stop just above her chest. It's so damn heavy.
The bar presses down, and she pushes back. She can feel every ridge and scratch of the textured metal pressing into the calloused meat of her hands, dull pain blossoming like a florid bruise.
She doesn't mind. The pain anchors her, keeping her focused.
"Come on, you're almost there," Reinhardt urges her as the bar creeps up. His hands hover just next to hers, ready to catch.
Brigitte knows she's lost. She can feel her muscles hit their limit, an invisible wall that won't let her get those last six inches up. The bar descends again, the struggle now turned to keep it from crushing her chest. Reinhardt's hands close down. The bar lightens considerably, then floats away as he takes it from her and reracks it with a hard clink.
"Close! I think next week you will have it."
As Brigitte sits up, she can tell she's going to feel it tomorrow. Her muscles feel rubbery, twitchy, very much how she thinks a newborn foal must feel. She raises one hand to rub at her chest.
"Ohhhh man, that's gonna be annoying tomorrow."
"Do you need a massage?" Reinhardt begins to remove the bar clips, and she gets up to help him.
"Maybe. After we get you done." She slides the clip off, waggling it at him teasingly. "Not trying to get out of testing your max, are you?"
Reinhardt snorts. "Never. Add one more 11, bitte."
She obligingly slips the plate onto the bar and returns the clip, taking her place at the head of the bench. Hopefully he doesn't need her help quite yet, she's not sure her arms can take much right at this moment.
Reinhardt sprawls across the bench, pulling himself under the bar into position. He's so much bigger than her that he overflows the bench, his hips almost hanging off the end of it. When he unracks the bar the movement causes his tank top to ride up, exposing a slice of pale flesh.
Absentmindedly she finds herself watching the flex of muscle there as he begins his reps. The movement of the hem of his shirt is almost mesmerizing, rhythmic. Her eyes follow the dusting of silvery hairs that march down his stomach to disappear below his shorts.
The bar clacks as he reracks it. He's finished his warm-up set already, and he's starting 25kg above her max. He makes it look so easy. Then again, he's quite literally twice the size of her. For him it is easy.
"Geez, you could at least try and make that look difficult." She rubs again at her sternum, exaggerating a scowl. He only flexes at her, grinning.
He asks for another 20 kg on each side, and she obliges. While he rests between sets she occupies herself with some dynamic stretches, hoping to mitigate some of the inevitable soreness. Being able to lift her shield and mace tomorrow would be good. As soon as he lays back down, she takes her position again, determined to watch this time.
He's getting close to his max. The speed of the bar has slowed, but he still pushes through each motion fluidly, only the faintest hint of a wobble on the last rep. When the bar comes down on the hooks he sits up with a groan.
"Elevens now." Reinhardt mops the sweat from his forehead with a cloth. "And then I will test my one-rep max."
These will be the two sets he needs her vigilance most.
Instead of five reps he only does three for the next set, the quivering of his arms intensifying. He's going to be benching about three times her max when all is said and done. She can't decide whether to feel impressed or jealous.
"Fives now."
The last ten kilos are a struggle. Her hands hover next to his, poised to assist the second it looks like he'll fail. Teeth bared in a grimace, Reinhardt inches the bar all the way back up and then drops the weight onto the rack with a crash and a gusty exhalation.
"Nice work!" She clasps his hand, helps him sit back up. "So...about that massage?"
True to his word, and despite his own soreness Reinhardt does give her a massage. He must be improving his technique because the touch feels better than normal. Almost tingly.
Maybe impinged a nerve. She thinks sluggishly, brain turned to mush under the onslaught of sensation.
She returns the favor.
Despite the massage by evening she can tell tomorrow will be rough. The soreness is setting in already, and she pops a few pills to head off the ache before flopping onto the couch and moaning aloud to the room at large. Lúcio, Lena and Reinhardt are ensconced there, the only ones feeling sociable tonight.
"I don't know why you guys do that to yourselves." Lúcio shakes his head at her, flipping through the channels, looking for something interesting to watch.
"Pain is weakness leaving the body!" Reinhardt crows, thumping his chest with a fist. "I enjoy it!"
"It does feel kinda good, in a weird way." Brigitte agrees.
"Yeah, certified nuts, the both of you." Lúcio rolls his eyes at them before pausing in his flipping. On screen a familiar figure clad in red and white moves through snow, climbing into an ornate sled. "Is it too early for a Christmas movie?"
"It's never too early!" Lena dispels his worry with an enthusiastic shake of her head.
Brigitte can't help but agree; Christmas is one of her favorite times of year. In less than two weeks she and Reinhardt will be heading back to her parents house.
"Man, I wish I could go home for Christmas," Lúcio moans.
"Wait - why can't you?" Brigitte is confused. She had thought Lúcio was making arrangements.
"Well - it's not like I can't go home, but mae thinks that Vishkar are still after me. Says it's too dangerous for me to visit now. I'd fly her and all my brothers and sisters out here, but she thinks they'll take the opportunity to seize the house or bug it or something if they leave." He tilts his head back onto the sofa, sounding glum. "Just sucks."
"Aw, Lúcio–I didn't know!" Lena puts a hand on his knee, Christmas movie completely forgotten. "Emily and I always do hols with Winston here, you're welcome to join us!"
"Yeah! And I'm sure my mamma wouldn't mind an extra at the table this year!" Brigitte offers. If she had known, she would have asked him way before now.
"Aw, you guys are too kind, really. It's not that big of a deal. It's just a couple days!" Lúcio backpedals at the intensity of their gazes, as though surprised by the vehemency of the offers.
"And we'll be back shortly after Christmas. Papa and Mama sometimes travel for New Year's. So we could hang out and have a drink then!" Brigitte says, already planning ahead. She's supposed to head back the 28th, maybe she could pack leftovers to bring to him.
Lúcio sits up suddenly, almost vibrating with excitement. "Yo, I have the best idea!"
"What?" Lena and Brigitte answer simultaneously, with Reinhardt lagging a second behind.
"We should have a New Years Party!"
This proclamation is met with silence.
New Years Party?
It's not a bad idea. Brigitte has been to a few before, even travelling to Berlin one year to celebrate with some friends at Brandenburger Gate. There had been music, lights, hundreds of people milling about ready to ring in the new year.
Despite the lack of reaction, Lúcio is still talking. "I could set up in the mess hall and DJ for the evening - I have a few experimental tracks I wanted to run by you anyway, Brig - and we can buy champagne or those little wine spritzer things and some lights -"
"That sounds like a great idea! It's been ages since we had a good bash around here." Lena is completely on board now, hopping on Lúcio's planning train with alacrity. "Emily goes to visit her cousins over New Year's usually, so I could stay here and help make drinks or bake! I have a great recipe for sangria."
The excitement is catching. Brigitte can feel her own enthusiasm rising the longer they talk, her head filled with thoughts of an almost dance-club like scene of throbbing bass, flickering lights and flowing drinks.
"Wait - would we be dressing up for this?" she asks, remembering one party her parents had dragged her along to. It had been at the house of a stuffy older woman, a friend of her grandmother's and she had been forced into the sort of lacy horror her mother thought of as an elegant party dress, and stiff, shined shoes.
"Oh yeah, wouldn't that be ace? A fancy party!" Lena nods excitedly, as though Brigitte had offered a suggestion, not a question. "It's been ages since I've seen everyone smarten up!"
"Wait, no, I meant-"
"Ah, I have the perfect shoes for such an occasion!" Reinhardt steamrolls over her, smashing his way into the conversation like a bullet train. "I have not worn those since the United Nations awards presentation!"
"Oh, does that mean I can wear one of those vest things that makes me look like a waiter?" Lúcio adds excitedly.
Should have kept my mouth shut.
By the end of the night the party planning has taken on a life of its own, and word has spread to the rest of the agents, many of whom trickle in to join them in the living room. To Brigitte's chagrin, the idea of an 'elegant party' seems to appeal to all of them, and all the credit goes to her for the suggestion.
"I suppose this means I will have to rent a tuxedo. I do not have all-black accessories." Genji gestures to himself with his trademark humor.
"Indeed, I will have to as well," Reinhardt says. "I only hope I can find a store that caters to those of my height!"
"Maybe they'll give us a discount if we rent as a group." McCree points to all the men in the room, a total of five of them including Hanzo. Winston and Torbjörn are not in attendance, and Brigitte wonders briefly how exactly those two, with such extremes in their builds, would find a tuxedo that fits anyway. She's never seen her father in anything fancier than a pair of khakis and some leather work boots.
Mei taps her shoulder. "Want to go dress shopping together?"
Brigitte smiles weakly, trying to feign enthusiasm she doesn't feel. Dress shopping is a legal form of torture. "Uh, sure! When were you thinking?"
She, Lena, and Mei hammer out a time to go into town together. Angela declines to go, citing the fact that she already has everything she needs; Brigitte envies her preparedness. The only bright light on the dark horizon is the fact that she'll be going with friends; hopefully their presence will help make it a bit less painful.
"Man, I should've kept my mouth shut," she grumbles to Reinhardt as they walk down the hall together towards their rooms. "I was only asking if we had to dress up, not advocating it!"
Reinhardt chuckles. "It will be fun! You'll see."
"Yeah, fun for you. You don't have to wear a dress!"
Brigitte pushes her door open, intent on wallowing in her misery a little longer before bed. Reinhardt snags her wrist before she can get inside, pulling her back towards him. "Is it really so bad?"
Oh, he shouldn't have asked that question.
"It's just...so boring. You have to go to the store and find one in a color you like, and then it has to be the right size, and you have to try it on, because even if it looks good on the hanger it could still look terrible on you, and more often than not it does look terrible, so you have to keep trying and trying and trying, and most of the time you have to go to more than one store-"
Reinhardt stifles her rant by enfolding her in a hug so tight that her voice is muffled into his chest. "I yield, I yield! That does sound terrible."
By his tone she can tell he's more amused than anything. Still the hug seems to help; her irritation fades by degrees until it's nothing more than a husk. The warmth of his embrace seems to act like a tranquilizer, soothing away all thoughts in a wave of raw physical comfort.
After a minute Brigitte surfaces.
"Maybe I'll get lucky and it won't be so bad this time." She mumbles the words into the blue fabric of his sweatshirt. And indeed the prospect of a shopping trip seems, at least temporarily, not so bad.
"That's the spirit!"
When she wakes the next morning, Brigitte feels positively cheerful. She's shed the gloom of the night before like water off oiled feathers; even her aching pecs and the looming specter of the shopping trip in two day's time can't dampen the pervasive lightness that buoys her.
She whistles through her shower and heads for mess hall. Already she can hear the low rumble of conversation in the kitchen and smell a heady, complex aroma that might be holiday spices or apple cinnamon.
Rounding the corner she finds the team tucking into layers of fluffy pancakes and tall glasses of milk, Reinhardt rocking to oldies while he flips pancakes on the sizzling griddle, still in his pajamas. He's even got a ridiculous pink apron on, something that Lena had bought him as a gag gift two weeks after they'd first returned to the Watchpoint. It stretches over his massive frame, short enough that the frilled bottom just barely hits his waist.
When he smiles at her and bids her a good morning, she feels warmth like effervescent bubbles fizzing and popping in her stomach.
Oh.
A/N: To the 3 people still reading: bet you thought this was abandoned, didn't you? WRONG! Not even on hiatus, technically, but I'm writing so slowly it'll be months between updates probably. School has been kicking my butt lately and I have only had a decent break where I wasn't studying for a test once, but hopefully near Thanksgiving and Christmas I'll be able to update again.