For anything worth having one must pay the price; and the price is always work, patience, love, self-sacrifice - no paper currency, no promises to pay, but the gold of real service. - John Burroughs
Brigitte has been acting strange lately.
Reinhardt knows he is not always the most observant, but these changes have been marked and rather sudden. Retreating to her room more often. Distracted during mealtimes. Excusing herself from movie nights on occasion, and spending more and more time holed up in the workshop.
Reclining in bed, Reinhardt reflects on these recent changes, uncertain as to whether they bear some sort of intervention. There are many possible explanations for them, but the one that stands above all the rest is also the most logical conclusion: last-minute Christmas preparations.
Scrolling through his pad, Reinhardt knows she's not alone in this regard. He had been startled by the fact that it is less than a week before they fly out to Långenäs, and yet he is still only halfway done with his preparations.
Yes, shopping could explain a great deal. And Brigitte is particular about her gift giving. More than once she has worried herself into a frazzled state, scrambling to find gifts that meet her standards: useful, thoughtful, and long-lasting. These have been her standards for as long as he's known them; the Krug that she gifted him when she was nine is testament to this.
The explanation fits. He will wait until Christmas is over and see if her behavior resolves itself. If it doesn't, then they will talk.
Sighing, he looks down at his pad. The array of tools filling the screen are mostly foreign to him. It is on Torbjörn's recommendation that he's searching the website at all; weeks ago he had gone to his friend, requesting a list of possibly tools that Brigitte could use. He'd been provided one, and the message:
The stuff at the top is what she needs most. Send me what you want and I'll order it, it's cheaper through the Guild.
He had done that, and paid Torbjörn for the equipment. A set of 600 gram wolf jaw tongs and a #97 swage block had been delivered to the Guild, and Torbjörn was to fetch them when he went out tomorrow to pick up his own order. Useful, which he knows Brigitte will appreciate. But Reinhardt's standards for gifts are very different than hers. He values gifts that come from the heart - gifts that make the giftee know that he values the depth of their friendship. Brigitte, Torbjörn and Ingrid all deserve something nice.
Torbjörn and Ingrid were relatively easy compared to Brigitte. Their gifts are stashed away in his closet already, bagged up and ready to transport. Having been friends for over thirty years now, the gifting between them has fallen into an established groove. Brigitte's interests however are still evolving.
Closing the tab of tools, he lets the pad fall onto his belly and his head fall back onto the pillow.
Really, this should not be so hard. She's his god-daughter, he's known her as long as she's been alive. He knows what she likes!
Cats. Dessert. Metalsmithing. Weightlifting.
A frown. The list really should be more extensive than that, but those are the things that float to the top. They've remained consistent throughout the years, even as other, more mercurial interests have faded; her minor obsession with paleontology, strange fascination with construction machinery, and even the "horse phase" had died quiet deaths eventually.
Which leaves him exactly where he is right now.
Staring at the ceiling, he feels the chill creeping through his flannel shirt. The winter nights are here in force. Stubborn as he is, he refuses to turn the heat on for his room, preferring the cold for sleep. Besides, the heater is often no more than a warm breeze that sinks into the cold stone and dissipates.
Reinhardt slides his feet under the bedcovers, pulling them up to his waist and punching the pillow into a more comfortable mound. He props the pad up against the bunched comforter. The soft blue glow of it washes out the rest of the room, leaving him cocooned in darkness that feels heavy, like sand. It's late, and he really should be going to sleep, but he won't be satisfied until he has at least an inkling of an idea.
Think.
He begins to search randomly, combining her interests in a search engine to see what pops up.
weightlifting cat
working out cat
cats metal smithing
dessert cats
dessert weightlifting
On the last one, pay dirt. There are an array of things under the shopping tab, and he scrolls through gleefully. Most of them are clothes motivational slogans, but a few are witty remarks on the motivations behind working out. These suit her, most definitely. She already has one such shirt; he's seen it many times before. Black, the sleeves ripped off, the yellow print faded in places from innumerable washes. Usually paired with the set of red overalls that protect her legs when she is smithing-
A lightbulb goes off.
She's been wearing those overalls for years too.
"Hah! Got you," He mutters, victorious. Navigating away from the page, he punches in a new search. Now he's got it. A new set of overalls, perhaps a new shirt, and maybe, just maybe-
-Brigitte, scurrying around the Watchpoint in a threadbare gray sweater, at first he thought because she simply likes to wear it, but now he thinks-
-a new sweatshirt too. He had forgotten how much she hates clothes shopping. Now he remembers; she would rather wear her garments until they fall apart before dragging herself to the store. It's perfect.
Now the only problem: he has no idea what sizes she wears.
With a groan of disgust Reinhardt sets his pad aside. He will have to get creative tomorrow.
"Are you alright?"
Reinhardt circles the mat, his arms held up in a guard. He's half-tempted to drop them to goad Brigitte, but it doesn't look like she has any intention of attacking. They've been circling for nearly three minutes now, and though she's dodged his jabs admirably the flat sheen of her eyes tells him she's miles away.
"Huh?" One quick blink and she's back. He takes the opportunity to go for a sweep, and it is her return to attention that is her downfall. He catches her ankles with his calf and she lands hard on her rump.
The mat crinkles as Reinhardt offers her a hand up, which she takes with a sheepish grin. "You attention today is poor. Is everything alright?"
"Oh, sorry...yeah. Everything's fine, I'm just worried about, uh…"
"Christmas shopping?" he supplies.
"You guessed it!" Brigitte bounces on the balls of her feet, springing back into her guard again. "Just some uh, unexpected trouble with some of the presents."
"Shildlein, did you put off your shopping?" he teases, perfectly aware of his hypocrisy.
"No! No, I got it all weeks ago! It's just...taking a bit longer than I thought to put things together." Her eyes dart cagily. Ah, a secret project then.
He drops his hands and checks the wall clock: 9:26. They've done scarcely half an hour of sparring, and most of it spent guarding. Still, he knows when he has lost.
"Go on then." He begins unstrapping his shinpads. Shadowboxing it is, then.
"What?"
"Go finish your work. I will give you the rest of the week." He points a finger at her, feigning sternness. "But after Christmas, I want your full attention!"
"Really?" Brigitte looks stunned. She shouldn't be; even he appreciates that sometimes, other things come before training.
"Yes, but if you stand there much longer I might change my mind…"
The threat stirs her into action. She snaps him a casual salute as she shucks off her pads and tosses them into the storage bin, then is gone in a flash. That project must be really important to her; normally she'd out up more of a fuss. Normally he would too, but he has a good idea who that 'project' is for, and is more than a little curious.
When the door clicks shut behind her he takes up his stance against an imaginary opponent and begins to fight.
"Man, how can you stand that?"
Reinhardt looks up from his lunch to see Lúcio eyeing him.
"Hmm?"
Lúcio points, gesturing up and down at Reinhardt's attire. "That!"
Reinhardt looks down at his black tank top. It's no different than any of his other workout attire.
"Are you seriously not cold at all? I'm freezing!"
Lúcio certainly looks it. He's dressed in a pair of black sweatpants and a thick, brilliantly green scuba-necked sweatshirt. A steaming bowl of chili is cradled in his palms like a warming stone.
The sweat is still chilling on Reinhardt's back. Shadowboxing had not proved enough of a challenge, and he had taken an extra fifteen minutes to pummel a heavy bag. Body warmed from the effort, he hardly feels the cold, especially with chili heating him from the inside.
"Cold is good for the muscles!" He flexes his left arm at Lúcio, the right one too occupied with his bowl. "A natural treatment for inflammation!"
"Oh, is that why you do it? I just thought you and Brig were crazy."
That earns a belly laugh. It is not the first time that particular accusation has been flung his way, and it will not be the last!
"Speaking of...where is she?" Lúcio looks around, as though realizing for the first time that Brigitte is not at the table with them.
In fact, it is only Lena, Angela, Torbjörn, Reinhardt and he at the table for lunch. Winston and Mei's absence is not unusual; the two scientists have taken to holing up in Winston's office between and even during meals; Reinhardt has the impression that they may be close to some kind of a breakthrough.
The Shimada brother's lunchtime attendance is spotty at best. If Genji attends, inevitably Hanzo and Zenyatta will show up as well. Today is not one of those days.
McCree has eaten and gone, partaking in conversation before excusing himself to go enjoy his usual post-meal cigarillo, much to Angela's chagrin. If anyone is crazy, it is him; Reinhardt cannot understand how a man from the American South can stand the freezing winds whipping over the cliffs.
"Brigitte? She must still be in the workshop." Where she has been for the last two and a half hours. He leans in, cupping a hand close to his lips to whisper conspiratorially, "I think she is working on a Christmas present."
"Yeah? Must be some Christmas present." Lúcio cocks his head, braids flopping heavily into his shoulder. "Should I text her? Or, like...go get her? She doesn't normally miss meals."
Lúcio's concern for his squire is admirable. He is a good friend to her.
"Che." Torbjörn scoffs, apparently having been listening in. "When she gets like this, wild horses couldn't drag her out of there. Save your breath, lad."
Reinhardt nudges his friend, terribly amused. "Sounds familiar, eh?"
Torbjörn shrugs off his elbow with a grunt. The half-hearted roll of his eye tells Reinhardt that he too remembers those days long past. Not food, not injuries, not even the birth of his second son could keep him away from his workshop then.
How like him she is.
"How about I fix up a tray for you to take her after lunch?" Reinhardt watches Lúcio perk up at the suggestion. "I think she will appreciate it."
Later, when Lúcio's slippered feet disappear around the corner, Reinhardt sets to washing the dishes. Those two have become thick as thieves ever since their arrival to the Watchpoint. Unsurprising, considering Lúcio's friendly, open nature and Brigitte's own boisterousness. They are nearly the same age too.
His washcloth stills, remembering the twinkle in Lúcio's eye. Perhaps his preoccupation with Brigitte involves more than just friendly concern.
"L'amour." A sigh. Yes, how could he have forgotten? Those two are in the springtime of their youth; it would only be natural that deeper affections should blossom. Poor Lúcio, contending with Brigitte's metalsmithing will be quite the challenge.
He smiles in fond remembrance, even as a thread of melancholy winds its way around his heart. The memories drift through him, alighting in his mind's eye like petals on a glassy lake.
"Be safe out there." Soft lips against his own. Waves of cascading amber hair that smell sweet as summer hay. He had returned to her in one piece; luckier than others.
The warm press of a body, hard planes of muscle concealed in soft curves that fit neatly within his arms.
"Go to sleep, Wilhelm." Sleepy lashes blink above the black curve of the Eye of Horus.
He had had a few whirlwind romances himself during his time in Overwatch. Dangerous situations and close quarters tend to forge the sort of bonds that stick tenuously, after all. But time, distance, and death had riven them. So many had left, while he had stayed, as was his duty.
It is still my duty.
For an instant he feels the full weight of the years; the stiff ache in his fingers and wrists, the darkness clouding half his vision, the tingling of the scars on his left arm where the feeling had never quite come back.
He feels very old.
"Bah." Shaking his head, he clears the gauzy memories and welcomes the aches home. What's done is done.
Intent on a shower, he's on his way back to his room when Brigitte's closed door sparks an idea. She is enmeshed in her project, unlikely to surface until dinnertime. Now is his chance!
The door to each of the rooms is warded with an old-fashioned lock and key system. He, like most of the agents keeps his unlocked at all times, trusting his teammates to not intrude upon his privacy while he's away. Perhaps that's why he feels just a little bit guilty as he pushes the door to Brigitte's room open.
As the lights come on he observed the cluttered floor, the tangled nest of blankets and pillows on the bed. Not all the clothes have made it to the hamper; ample evidence of her current fixation.
He ignores his urge to tidy up and instead hunts through the dresser drawers. The top drawer is cracked only an inch before he spies folded bundles far too small to be shirts, and closes it. Socks are arranged neatly in the next drawer. Drawer three is paydirt: columns of stacked t-shirts. He pulls the neck of one open, flips up the tag and spots the small, bold letter M. Medium. Easy enough to remember.
Now, if only he could find those overalls…
The contents of the rest of the drawers do not yield them. It's certainly possible that she's wearing them now, depending on the manner of project she's undertaken, and then he will have to simply guess. Still, he goes to her closet and slides open the door.
Three rolls of paper tip out, spilling onto the floor before he can catch them. They're banded too tightly for him to make out much but the blue color and the faint grid that signifies an engineering diagram, and he shoves them back into the corner in what he hopes is the correct spot.
When he lifts his head his hair brushes a hanging object that he realizes are the overalls in question. Good. No more trouble.
He closes everything up, ensuring that all is left as he has found it, then flips the lights off. Closing the door behind him, he's relieved to not have been discovered. That would have been difficult to explai-
"Reinhardt?"
A bright voice, loud as a whipcrack in the empty hall. He turns to see Angela emerging from her room, watching him closely.
"Yes?" He tries not to look guilty.
"What are you up to?"
She's clad in black leggings and a powder blue athletic top, a half-full water bottle is clutched in her hand. On her way to the gym then. Her eyes flick to the closed door behind him, and he has the distinct impression that she must have noticed the fact that the lights were off.
"Eh, I was...doing research."
Angela arches a pale brow at him. "In Brigitte's room?"
He shrugs, then drops all attempts at pretense. "It is impossible to guess clothing sizes these days, you know."
"Ah. A Christmas present then." Angela's brow clears and she smiles mildly up at him. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."
As he watches Angela makes her way down the hall, he thinks of the dark chocolate cherry cordials he has stashed in his closet for her. They're a throwback to earlier times; he hopes that she still likes them.
Back in his room, with a few clicks, Brigitte's presents are ordered. Now he will have to go into town tomorrow, but that is fine. He still needs to pick up some bags and tissue paper for the rest of his gifts (none of that wrapping paper nonsense, his thumbs haven't the dexterity), rent a tuxedo for the upcoming New Year's party, purchase a tie and some silk ribbon for his hair, ensure that his shoes are shined - wait, maybe he should order some polish also, and -
With a huff of discontentment at the thought of everything he still must do, he begins to write a list. For a supposed time of relaxation, somehow the holidays have become very busy!
Arrangements have been made for their departure in two days time. Lena will be flying he, Torbjörn and Brigitte out to Långenäs, and will return to get them on December 27th.
Reinhardt's presents are neatly bagged up, his tuxedo has been ordered and with it a tie. Genji, Lúcio, McCree and a reluctant Hanzo have all put their rental orders in at the same time as him in order to receive a 10% group discount, with Torbjörn scoffing at all of them.
"Waste of time."
Reinhardt knows his friend has particular trouble with finding suits in his size. They simply don't make them in his waist size and inseam. Reinhardt can empathize; his troubles stem from the opposite side of the spectrum.
In these last few days he's taken time to wrap up as many loose ends as possible. His presents are retrieved, bagged and ready to be placed under the Lindholm's tree. McCree has helped him pick out a suitable tie for the upcoming party, though he'd had to steer the man away from recommending some of those strange, stringy Western abominations. He's stocked the kitchen and given it a thorough cleaning in preparation for his being away; there are plenty of instant meals for them. It will only be five days, surely they will survive.
He's planning on coasting the rest of the way to the holidays, but after lunch that Monday he gets a surprise. Winston finds him in his room at the time when sims would normally run. At the light rap on the door he calls out a welcome, expecting Brigitte only to see a black tuft of hair poke through the crack in the door.
"Can I talk to you for a bit?"
Reinhardt follows Winston out towards his private quarters at his beckoning. Walking with his friend, he tries to guess the topic of today's discussion. Winston has been very busy lately, it could be something interesting about his research - but no, he would call a meeting if there were any great breakthroughs. Perhaps an update from Russia? Reinhardt hasn't received a reply to his congratulatory email to Zarya, but then again he expects that she's been busy. The cleanup of the army camps and the omnium must have been intensive.
Winston does not look overly concerned, so Reinhardt is optimistic that whatever the news is, it is not too dire.
Inside Winston's study the clutter on one of his tables has been pushed aside, a map laid out on its smooth surface. Waxy red x's cluster at points on each continent, and little post-it notes have been stuck alongside some of the marks, filled with small, neat writing. Marking locations of anomalies?
Bypassing the table Winston heads for his computer, waking the display as he flops into the tire seat. The dark room brightens as Athena raises the lights, revealing stacks of books and an extra seat on the other side of the desk with the map.
"You remember Andreas? The guy with all the omnics?" Winston says over his shoulder, dragging Reinhardt's attention back to him.
Reinhardt is a little embarrassed that it takes him a few seconds to remember who Winston is talking about. When the memory clicks, he snaps a finger in recognition. "Yes! Of course I remember."
It feels like a long time since that day; much has happened since then. He has done an abominable job of following up on everything from that disastrous mission.
"Well, I think I told you before that I was trying to track down his son."
"Yes…" The son. The one who had collected all the omnics in the first place, and who had not visited his father since.
Reinhardt settles for standing just behind Winston's shoulder, watching as Winston opens one of the folders and scans through the documents inside.
"Well, it took awhile, but I finally found him."
He double-clicks on a file. The face that blooms on the monitor is unsmiling, thin-lipped, dark-haired. An unvariegated blue background and the black name card peeking out at the bottom of the photo tells Reinhardt that this is unquestionably a mugshot.
"A criminal?" He states his observation, still searching the face for any hint of recognition. Andreas's face is hazy to him at best; the old farmer had been wearing a hat the day they had met him, and the rest of his face had been an indistinct meshwork of sun-beaten lines and wrinkles.
"Yes. Or well, he was." Winston scrolls down past the picture, moving on to what looks like photocopies of official documents. "He has quite the rap sheet. Mostly petty crime; theft, trespassing. A lot of stuff like that from 2042 up til 2055, when he completely disappears."
Reinhardt folds his arms, still curious. "Prison?"
"Actually, no. I thought that at first too, but there were no records of incarceration beyond a few short stints in jail. It's far more interesting."
Winston navigates back to the folder with all the files and selects the next one. This time a photocopy of a driver's license pops up. The features are older, the hairstyle a little different, but it is unquestionably the same man. Reinhardt eyes fall on the name: Reynauld Porter.
Hovering the mouse just below the spot Reinhardt is looking, Winston hums. "On all other records I have the son's name as Jules Mayer. When I search this name up through all normal avenues, I get nothing."
Reinhardt can tell Winston is enjoying this, in a way. Tracking down difficult info is just as satisfying to him as completing a particularly tricky mission. "And where did you have to go to find this information?"
Winston grins, though it looks slightly pained. "Trust me, you don't want to know. What I found is him, under another alias - Renard."
"Fox?" Reinhardt's french may be rusty, but he still remembers the story his mother had once read to him about the fox and the little prince.
"Yep." Winston keeps scrolling, and the photocopy disappears, only to be replaced with paragraph after paragraph of neat text.
"A codename?"
"Of sorts. Apparently he became some kind of...trader. He was rubbing elbows with some pretty powerful underworld connections. I tried tracing his movements, managed to keep track of him up until 2072 when he disappeared for good."
Winston slumps back in his tire, steepling his fingers on his chest. Reinhardt's mind turns, puzzling over this information. Nothing Winston has said shocks him terribly; in fact, it resolves some of his lingering confusion. The kind of reception they received the night of the stakeout now makes sense.
Reinhardt tugs at his short beard, thoughtful. "So, what does it all mean?"
"Um... I'm not actually sure."
Winston picks a bright yellow cap off his desk, turning it over and over in his fingers. Reinhard recognizes it as the lid to a peanut butter jar.
"I guess it doesn't really tell us much except for the fact that whoever stole those omnics was probably someone he used to work with. Which narrows it down to...uh, a bunch of people who don't want to be discovered."
Reinhardt laughs. "Well, you did well to even get this far!"
Brow knit slightly, Winston looks down at his hands. He's still fiddling with the lid. "Yeah, I suppose so...but there's one thing that still bothers me. You remember that teleporter?"
Reinhardt inclines his head. The teleporter, a sign that Lúcio was so sure meant Vishkar involvement.
"Well, I investigated a little bit on some of the contacts that 'Reynard' made. Of all of them, the one that made the least sense was a man named Simran Devi. He seemed like a pretty ordinary guy, no real ties to Null Sector, Talon, or anyone else important." Winston stops spinning the lid and holds up one thick finger. "But get this: he's an ex-Vishkar employee. And his brother is a current Vishkar hard-light tech."
Perhaps Lúcio's suspicion has more merit than he had first thought. "Interesting. So you think Lúcio is right, then? That Vishkar was involved?"
Winston puts the lid back on his desk and heaves himself more upright, angling to face Reinhardt. "I'm saying we certainly can't discount it. It could still be that someone stole Vishkar tech and repurposed it though. But what I'm most worried about is: what if Vishkar were the ones stealing them?"
"Perhaps they...they are looking to make better products?" Reinhardt starts optimistically. "Anti-war machinery? Knowing the capabilities of the old units could help." Even he doesn't believe that, though. They would not need physical specimens for this; there is ample documentation and footage for them to achieve such technology without resurrecting old hardware.
"I don't think so. I'm more worried about them improving their offensive tech, actually." Winston says, giving voice to the thought that Reinhardt was trying to avoid.
The silence spirals between them, heavy with implications. After a moment Winston shifts, rubbing a hand over his face.
"Sorry, I don't mean to worry you right before Christmas." Winston sounds disappointed with himself. "It was just...I thought you might find it interesting. Try not to worry about it, there isn't much we can do with the info anyway, like everything else. I guess it's just something to prepare for if we're expecting the worst."
Reinhardt cannot yet say what that worst scenario would be. But whatever it is, they will be ready for it.
"So, uh...you're flying out the day after tomorrow?"
Winston attempts to steer the conversation back to lighter matters, and Reinhardt is only too happy to oblige him.
The R240 Borealis is loaded and fueled, his duffel bag is packed and slung over one shoulder. Torbjörn is already in the hangar waiting. Reinhardt stands outside Brigitte's door, listening to the rustling within.
He hasn't seen Brigitte since lunch the previous day. She had skipped dinner last night, and the note on the Workshop door had been very plain: "DO NOT DISTURB".
So he hadn't.
His hand is hovering over the door's plain plastisteel surface. Hesitant to knock, lest he hinder her packing progress, but curious, wanting to know if she needs any help. He knocks.
"Coming!"
When Brigitte opens the door she's still in her pajamas. Reinhardt can see behind her a mess of clothes stuffed into an open bag on her bed, and a scattering of shoes on the floor.
"I'm almost done, sorry. Woke up late," she says, before he can say anything. The bruised shadows beneath her eyes are testament to a late night. "Gimme just two minutes."
"Do not rush. It's no hurry."
Despite his reassurances, she does. The remaining clothes and toiletries are stuffed haphazardly into her bag as he watches, and she closes the door briefly only to emerge a minute later fully dressed.
"Ok, let's go."
"You forgot your pad." He points out, darting to pick it off her bed.
"Hmm?" Brigitte looks up at him, her eyes pinched with tiredness. Has she slept at all?
"Here." Reinhardt hands her the pad and then takes her bag. Herding her down the hall, he watches how the tips of her sneakers scuff the floor with each step, the laces of the left shoe flopping loosely. She's dead on her feet. Whatever project she's been working on it has consumed her like nothing he's seen before.
"Morning!" Lena hails them cheerily as they approach, helping them situate their bags into the jets little underbelly storage compartment. "You're right on time! Checks are complete and we're ready for takeoff!"
They situate themselves in the Borealis, which has three sets of double seats. Torbjörn takes a spot up front with Lena, and Reinhardt folds down the middle set so that he and Brigitte have more leg room. They strap in as Lena taxis the jetplane out of the hangar, and Reinhardt aids Brigitte as her fingers fumble with the clip.
"Power lever advance for takeoff!"
Brigitte's head nods like a heavy flower even as the roar of the engine rattles the light aircraft and the thrusters press them into their seats. The jet arrows into the sky, swiftly climbing above the gray clouds in an ascension that has Reinhardt's stomach plummeting to his knees. Small aircraft takeoffs are the most difficult.
Looking over, he fully expects to see Brigitte's wide eyes and a white-knuckled grip on the seat, but for once she seems to be immune to the fear. Her head is tilted back on the headrest, eyes half-closed. Exhausted into a state of sedation, perhaps.
"En route to Långenäs, ETA six and a half hours. Sit back and enjoy the ride, loves!" Lena announces cheerily overhead as they reach their cruising altitude and level off.
The sea of clouds below throws soft white light through the windows into the cabin, bright as freshly-fallen snow. Reinhardt watches them undulate in the wind, letting his ears and stomach adjust to the altitude. Flying so high above the clouds always fills him with wonder; like he's racing over the landscape of heaven.
There's something pressing against his arm.
It's Brigitte. Dozing, having forgotten to recline her seat. To save her neck, Reinhardt leans over her and finds the lever, pushing the seat back as far as it'll go. The jolt wakes her, and she blinks up blearily at him for a moment before flinching back, startled.
"Easy, Shildlein. I was just adjusting your seat," he says, a little amused.
"Oh…" She sounds dazed. "Sorry. Didn't mean to fall asleep on you."
"Not a problem. You can sleep the rest of the way there now, you look like you need it."
"Gee, thanks. 'Least the effort was worth it though." Brigitte murmurs as she strips her coat off and bunches it up as a makeshift neck pillow.
"You're done?"
"Mmhmmm." A small secretive smile crosses her lips before they split wide in a yawn. Her eyes slip closed.
"I am proud of you for finishing it! Now, rest." Reinhardt squeezes her hand, lingering for only a moment before leaving her to her well-deserved sleep.
Pulling out his headphones, he syncs his pad and then picks out a holiday medley to start the long journey off. As the first strains of Weiße Weihnacht ring through his ears, he feels the burgeoning excitement of the season creeping through him.
Christmas is almost here.
A/N: Shorter chapter this time. I fully expect the next one to be longer, though it won't be out until my classes have let out for winter break. Thanks for sticking with me.