"The magic of Christmas never ends and its greatest of gifts are family and friends."
Unknown
"Brigitte?"
A rough hand shakes Brigitte out of the sleep she hadn't even realized she'd fallen into. First a haze of confusion - where am I? - before the interior of the jet registers in her bleary brain and she puts two and two together.
"We're here?" She rubs her eyes and tries to get out of the seat before realize she's still buckled in. Sleep-clumsy fingers fumble for the clip, only to be hindered by the folds of her sweatshirt.
"Yes, we are here. You slept the whole trip away!" Reinhardt laughs as he tucks his pad away, helping her unclip her seatbelt.
When she stumbles out of the jet, she realizes he's right. She barely remembers boarding this morning, but something about the brightness of the light beating down from overhead feels wrong. It feels like it should still be morning.
Wind sharp as cold steel cuts right through the thin layer of her sweatshirt, whittling away the rounded edges of her thoughts. Her exhaustion had been a blessing today; it's been a long time since she's been able to sit through a flight without being on the edge of terror. Maybe I should do this every time. She pulls her duffel bag from the undercarriage with a yawn, heaving it and her bags of presents over one shoulder.
"Have a great Christmas, you lot!" Lena says, closing the baggage compartment with a snap. "I'll be back at six on the twenty-seventh!"
They send Lena off with a chorus of well-wishes and waves, watching as the jet taxis awkwardly through the snow on the Lindholm's extremely long driveway before shooting off into the blue. Brigitte watches it go, feeling a bit amazed at the steepness of the climb. She had slept through that?
Might not sleep through it on the way back.
Utter exhaustion had inoculated her against her phobia this time, and even had the added benefit of neutralizing her preoccupation with Reinhardt. For the first time in the last week it's been manageable. No pesky butterflies, no hair-trigger awareness of his every action. She can't help but worry that it's going to come back.
Brigitte shakes her head a little, trying to rid the thoughts like irksome flies. Worry about it later. Right now the most important thing is, she's home.
That's the first, and clearest thought that she has as another gust of wind comes, whipping through her hair. It smells of burning leaves and the metallic, icy scent of the cold. Home.
"Home" is modest; a bermed, sandy-colored building built right into the hills that make up their forest land. It's unassuming enough, but Brigitte's helped enough with the defense system (and added her own flair) to know that nothing, not even something as innocuous as a mouse could slip through the perimeter undetected.
The front door to the home opens with a squeak, and Brigitte looks to see a fair, apron-clad figure standing just inside the threshold.
"Mama!" She jogs through the snow up the driveway to sweep her mother into a fierce, one-armed hug.
"Brigitte." Arms enfold her, navigating cleverly around her bags. "Welcome home."
Her mother smells like lussekatter and flowers; sweet, a little spicy, and utterly familiar. Held in her arms, for a moment all Brigitte's worries fade away. There's no room for anything but the swell of love and happiness, and she doesn't even mind when Reinhardt joins them and enfolds Ingrid in a hug, sandwiching Brigitte between them.
Home.
Ingrid holds the door for them as they struggle through the entryway, taking bags of presents from them to tuck away for later.
Compared to outside, the house is almost humid, the air warm and heavy with the smell of baking bread. Ingrid bends to welcome Torbjörn with a kiss. Brigitte goes to add her sack of presents to the rest and ogle the Christmas decorations.
As usual, Mama had outdone herself. Six stockings hang from the mantle over the fireplace, one for each of her siblings and Reinhardt. They're empty, but come Christmas morning Brigitte knows they'll be sagging under the weight of candy and baked goods. Fat green garlands are strung from the ceiling's support beam, wound with red ribbon and a strings of white lights. Mamma had even changed the curtains; instead of the usual oatmeal-colored floor-to-ceiling drapes, they were now a deep, velvety red.
And the centerpiece of it all: the tree. Tucked against the wall right next to the fireplace, it's positively enormous; the tip of it nearly scraping the ceiling. It's decked with the usual assortment of heirloom ornaments, candy canes, and strings of lights, no branch left unadorned. It's a wonder some of them haven't snapped. A quilted brown tree skirt collects pine needles under the tree. Beneath the yeasty scent of bread wafting from the kitchen, the crisp, verdant smell of pine fills the room. Memories of Christmases past converge, spurring excitement that dissolves the remaining fog of her exhaustion.
"You arrived just in time, there's still plenty left to do!" Brigitte can hear Ingrid tease from the hall.
Brigitte can well believe it. The spread her mother cooks up each year could put a buffet to shame.
"You have only to say the word!" Reinhardt says, hanging his coat on the rack and then arching his back from side to side with a chorus of pops and clicks. "I have been sitting for far too long!"
"Got to update the system first." Torbjörn heads straight for the stairs that lead to the workshop. Nobody bats an eye as he goes. They're all used to his eccentries; constantly updating the house's defense system is one of them.
Then her mother's attention is on her.
Brigitte knows what is expected of her, it's been the same for years now. Still, that gleam in Ingrid's eyes is always a little intimidating.
"I'll be right in!" She heads off the request before her mother even opens her mouth, and lifts the duffel bag in her direction. "Let me just put my bag away first."
Her feet take the familiar path through the house, down the stairs into the basement, to the oak door just down the hall from the workshop. She thumbs one particularly deep dent in the wood - the consequences of trying to open it with a hammer in hand - and twists the knob.
Yep, Mama has been here.
The room smells like clean linen and a hint of ozone from where a vacuum has been run. Her blankets have all been folded and stacked neatly on the end of the bed, her covers tucked with militant precision. Her usual array of tools - often scattered over the floor - have been placed in a bucket on her desk.
She shouldn't have left it a mess. She knows her mother; Ingrid takes pride in her house, and is a master of organization. A trait that Brigitte failed to inherit.
Oh well. She'll have time to sort the tools later.
Tossing her duffel bag on the blue comforter, she kicks off her shoes and then trots out the door, nearly tripping over Mitzi. The aged Persian gives her a look, then winds carefully around Brigitte's legs in greeting.
"Hey girl!"
She scoops up the cat, cradling her in her arms. Mitzi, seventeen years old and now more white than gray looks the same as she always does: grumpy. The cat blinks lamplike golden eyes up at Brigitte but doesn't protest. In her old age she's become a lot less resigned when it comes to being babied.
Brigitte carries Mitzi with her all the way to the kitchen, following the scent of baking bread and the low rumble of conversation. Once inside, she can see the evidence of Ingrid's industriousness..
Reinhardt stands at the table, slicing cold sausages for the julbord while Mama stirs something at the stove. She's been baking mjukkaka from the looks of the flatbreads on the cooling racks.
"- we're at a bit of a standstill. Perhaps if we can regain contact with previous agents we can begin to establish a tree of intel-"
It seems that they've landed on the topic of Overwatch. Predictable.
Letting Mitzi down, Brigitte snags a mjukkaka and stuffs it in her mouth just in time to get a light swat from Ingrid's teatowel.
Wash your hands, her mother mouths over Reinhardt, and Brigitte does. She can guess what will come next. When Ingrid indicates the ceramic pot of flour and her open recipe book she knows: it's time to work.
Cooking alongside her mother has become a tradition only in the last three years; after spending extended time on the road with Reinhardt, these few days around the holidays are the only real time quality time she gets with her family any more. Her siblings are all busy with their own families now, she's occupied with her work, and Papa still takes on quite a few projects for the Guild on top of his Overwatch duties. Long hours of kneading dough for lussekatter, mjukkaka, and kanellängd make for quiet stretches of time where she and Mama can talk at their leisure about anything that comes to mind. Despite how dismal she is at baking, she appreciates these moments.
Also, she's quite convinced that Ingrid will not give up until she's produced a passable lussekatt. The rich, spiced buns are a staple of St. Lucia Day, and though she's been outside of Scandinavia for the holiday these last three years she thinks her mother is trying to give her her own means to celebrate.
Baking continues the rest of the day, with Ingrid relegating Reinhardt and Torbjörn to the less-intensive preparations. Brigitte fills her mother in with general talk of Overwatch happenings, skating over the more dangerous aspects of their only mission. Ingrid must know though, because at the end of the day after they've cleared the dinner table of dishes she pulls Brigitte aside.
"Are you really doing well, älskling?"
Her mother's eyes are piercing and knowing at the same time. It startles her; she hadn't thought she'd been acting any different. Has in fact felt more normal here at home than she has in weeks - so how does she know?
It takes Brigitte a moment to find her answer. "Yeah, I am. Really." Because really, after all that she's been through she does feel fine now.
Her mother touches her face, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "It just seems that...well, that you're a bit older, is all." She pulls her hand back, the curve of one knuckle touching her own mouth as it curves in a small smile. "Silly of me to worry. I suppose it's just that you're growing up."
"No, it's not silly!" Brigitte rushes to reassure her. "I think anyone would be different after joining Overwatch, though. Going on missions and stuff...I always heard Papa tell stories about it, but once I was actually there in Russia it was like-" she puffs out her cheeks, trying to find some way to explain the vast, unknowable difference between the two "-like, uh...I don't know. So different. I never heard much about preparing for missions and dealing with stuff after. I guess it forced me to grow up a little."
The smile on Ingrid's face widens, but her brow softens into something a little more melancholy. It's a look Brigitte isn't quite sure she likes; too sad for her normally-cheerful mother. "Yes, it does."
Brigitte thinks back to her breakdown after Krasnoyarsk, how Reinhardt had told her of his own struggles. Amari had helped him. Who had helped Papa?
The look on her mother's face tells her everything.
Warmth tinged with sadness and a little surprise washes across her in a rush when she realizes her mother has, in essence confided in her. It's a strange feeling; regarding her mother as Ingrid, a woman separate from just Mama. Ingrid understands.
Brigitte envelops her mother in a hug. "Don't worry, Mama. I'll tell you if I have any trouble."
Her mother's hands squeeze around her shoulders, surprisingly strong. "Good."
Exhaustion and the comfort of her old bed work their magic on Brigitte. She collapses into it early that evening, then doesn't stir again for the next eleven hours. It's only when she wakes up to a warm weight pressing against her face and a half-dead pad that she realizes what's happened: she's slept right through to nine.
Breakfast has already been had by everyone else; they're in the full swing of preparing for tomorrow. Brigitte helps herself to toast and milk and then throws herself into the mix too. There's still so much to prepare: the cheese and cured meats and fish for the julbord, julmust is moved to the fridges many shelves to cool. There's pepparkakor and rulltarte to bake, and Mama's favorite apple pie.
Then there's the task of clearing away the pine needles that have dropped overnight, vacuuming the floors of flour and spices, ensuring all Christmas presents are properly labeled and stacked in the large trashbag that serves as tomte's delivery vehicle. Brigitte helps Reinhardt stuff stockings for her nieces and nephews, and she's so excited at the prospect of Christmas Eve that even the flutter she feels when her knee accidentally brushes his is almost unnoticeable.
By that eve they're all exhausted, but the fridges are full to bursting and every countertop has been laid out with serving dishes in preparation for tomorrow.
Brigitte collapses onto the sofa and raises her glass of beer to her family, toasting them for their efforts. Torbjörn and Reinhardt raise their own steins in turn, while Ingrid tips her mead glass, amused. Mitzi lazes on the tree skirt in front of the fire, while Tigris, still spirited plays with her flicking tail. It seems almost everyone is tired.
Despite all the work, Brigitte's mind still churns with excitement when she turns in that night. There's so much to look forward to tomorrow, she wishes she could just fast-forward to the minute her siblings arrive.
She pulls the comforter up to her chin and closes her eyes, forcing slow, deep breaths. Easy. Easy. Repeating the mantra to herself, it gradually takes on the low, rumbling tone of Reinhardt's voice.
Easy, Shildlein.
And at last she sleeps.
She's awake before her alarm goes off the next morning. It's like she never went to sleep; the excitement buzzing through her is electric, better than caffeine. It's Christmas!
Or rather, Christmas Eve. But in true Swedish tradition, she and her family always celebrate this day.
Bounding upstairs still in her pajamas, she gets to the kitchen only to find it empty. A quick check of the fridge finds a ceramic container full of risgrynsgröt with beads of moisture still clinging to the inside of the lid. Mama must have made it recently.
Sometimes her parents take the morning for themselves, spending some time in seclusion before the madness of the day arrives. While she's ladling some into her bowl, heavy footsteps and the creak of the floor alert her to Reinhardt.
"Good morning, Shildlein."
His voice is thick, sleep-gruff. Apparently she's not the only one that just stumbled out of bed; he's clad in festive red and green pajamas that she distinctly remembers being gifted to him in recent years by one of her siblings. His hair is in disarray, one side of his beard flattened while the other side is tufted in different directions. It's ridiculous. It makes her feel -
"Morning!" she says before she can start blushing. Reaching hastily for another bowl and spoon she slides them over to him, painfully aware of her own state of half-dress. No bra, her ratty gray sweatshirt, silky sleep shorts - she feels positively naked. At least he seems too sleepy to notice.
She takes a seat at the table and hunches over her bowl, eating quickly while he runs the coffee maker. When he takes the seat next to her, he's close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from him.
The silence feels strange. Tense, like he's waiting for her to say something. Even though it's almost certainly all in her head, Brigitte cracks under the pressure.
"So...you ready for all the kids?"
It's sort of a running joke. The arrival of her siblings and their children each year is like watching wild animals loosed from the zoo.
Reinhardt smiles. She curses the little flip in her stomach at the sight. "I will be. After another cup or two." He wiggles the coffee cup at her, then takes a deep draft of the steaming brew.
"Well, you better get it down fast. They're supposed to be here around 10." Brigitte checks her pad - 8:23. "Which means I better hurry. Gonna make sure the house is kid-proofed before then."
Maybe it's a little cowardly, how quickly she finishes breakfast. But there's only so much conversation to be had before they're properly away, and she does have plenty to do...
For the next hour she absorbs herself in checking every inch of the house. Tool are put out of sight. Her father's workshop has already been securely padlocked. All the presents are hidden in her parents bedroom, to be presented tonight by Tomten Torbjörn.
As she vacuums a fresh dusting of needles out from under the tree, Mitzi watches her with clinical interest from the floor but doesn't move, even when Brigitte nudges her rump with the hose.
"Fine then, get needles in your fur. See if I care."
Poor Mitzi. Brigitte wonders if she knows what is in store for her later today. Most of the kids love their cats, though their love at times tends to be far too exuberant for either Mitzi or Tigris's liking. In fact, come to think of it she hasn't seen Tigris at all today...maybe he knows what's coming.
Ten comes around quicker than she expects; at fifteen till she's just finished wiping down the bathroom counters when she realizes she still needs to shower. She washes in record time and throws on the most festive clothes she has: a pair of khakis and a dark green polo shirt.
Classy. She can already hear her sister groaning.
Running upstairs, she crests the landing just in time to see the first car pull up. It's a red SUV, tricked out with the newest hover wheels; undoubtedly Mikael's. He's the only one among them that cares enough to pay for a nice rental vehicle.
He parks in the spacious driveway, and Brigitte watches eagerly as he and his wife lift little Luka out of his car seat. Luka was only a few months old the last time she saw him; already she can tell he's so much bigger. As they walk towards the house she crouches behind the door, listening intently until the sound of footsteps draws close.
"God Jul!" Throwing open the door, she hollers the words in Mikael's face. Luka goggles over Mikael's shoulder at her, a chubby eleven-month old clad in a blue sweater patterned with snowflakes.
Mikael, used to her antics over the years doesn't bat an eye. Instead he bops her on the head with one of the gifts in his hand.
"God Jul, Bri." He smiles at her, a familiar wry grin. Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, her youngest brother is an almost perfect hybrid of her mother and father.
"So good to see you, it feels like it's been forever!" She addresses both him and his wife Laurie, ushering them inside. "And Luka's gotten so big!"
"Check out what he can do now," Mikael says, gesturing to his wife. Laurie obligingly sets Luka on two feet where he stands shakily, clutching at her leg. He looks with wide eyes from his mother to his father, as though confused.
"He just needs a little encouragement."
Brigitte opens her arms wide, and Mikael points to her. "Go say 'hi' to tant Bri, Luka."
It takes a few tries, but eventually he waddles the few steps toward her and she scoops him up victoriously.
Brigitte is too busy fawning over her nephew to hear the clatter of approaching footsteps. Her parents and Reinhardt appear in the hall with more exclamations of welcome and she moves, finally letting her brother through the doorway proper.
Luka reaches for his mother at the sight of Reinhardt, and she returns him, stifling a giggle. He was too young to appreciate how big Reinhardt is when he was here last in Easter, and seems to instinctively shy away from the loudest, largest member of their family. That's how most of her nieces and nephews were at first too.
They move into the sitting room, with both Mikael and his wife trying to convince Luka to at least look at Reinhardt. He's got his face tucked against his mother's neck, a fat thumb popped into his mouth.
"Come on, Luka. He's not scary!" Mikael grabs his son's free hand, jiggling it to get him to turn his head. Ever obliging, Reinhardt lays spread-eagled on the floor, pretending to be asleep. His white hair has fanned out in a wild mane, and he peeks at Luka as Laurie lowers him to the floor. It takes Luka a moment before he warms to the idea of approaching a stranger but eventually he does, crawling cautiously over to Reinhardt to tug at the fold of his red turtleneck, and pat curiously at his face.
Something about watching Luka poking Reinhardt's sideburns with his stubby fingers makes Brigitte feel a strange sense of yearning. What had she been like with Reinhardt at that age?
That's not weird at all.
Yeah, thinking about her as a baby playing with Reinhardt was a little odd. She wasn't blind to the age difference between them, but paying deliberate attention to it is more than she wants to examine.
They play together on the floor until the next car turns in. Over the next hour everyone arrives. Liam is after Mikael, dragging along Hugo, Lisa and Molly. Molly, his oldest, and Hugo, his middle son seem to be fighting; the harried air about him and the fact that the two are steadfastly avoiding looking at the other tells Brigitte all she needs to know. Only Lisa seems unperturbed, poking away at a pad placidly.
Theodor and his wife Marianne are next, bearing several boxes of what Brigitte suspects is beer, if the rattle of glass from inside them is to be believed.
"You owe me, Mikael, Liam!" he yells over the growing din inside the house. "Bringing everyone's stuff is getting to be too much work!"
Theodor is the only one of them who still lives near home, in Gothenburg proper. As such her siblings usually send their gifts to his house instead of lugging them along; if she hadn't had Overwatch transport, Brigitte might have done the same. She has before.
Ella and her husband are last, nearly half an hour late. She and the twins and Emelie arrive bearing Christmas bags, while her husband drags in a cooler after them. They're swarmed in the doorway by the rest of their nieces and nephews, and after a moment of watching them struggle Brigitte finally intervenes.
"Hey sis, God Jul!" She swoops in, picking up Lisa who is wandering towards Ella, still looking down at her pad. "You look like you need a little help!"
Ella does look frazzled. Her auburn hair is coming undone from its bun, her purse hanging in the crook of her arm and each shoulder laden with bags of presents.
"God Jul, Brigitte," she says wearily, then wrinkles her nose. "Why are you wearing a polo? Don't you have a sweater or something more Christmas-y? If not, I know what you're getting next year."
"Missed you too, Ella."
To say the house is utter chaos would be an understatement. They manage to confine the damage to the basement living room, which has sofas and chairs enough for everyone to have a seat and watch their offspring. Talk flies over the squeals of laughter coming from the floor. Reinhardt is playing dead again, only to come roaring to life when enough small hands poke him with cries of "Vakna! Vakna!"
It's only an hour and a half before the children's clamoring becomes increasingly hungry. Luka is taken away first to a quiet room to be breastfed, while Brigitte leads a line of people upstairs to eat. There's a small spread of food; more snack food than anything, really. Just enough to tide them over until the main event.
"Why don't you take them outside, Brigitte? It's a nice day." Ingrid suggests as the last of the food disappears from the plates. Her suggestion has dual meaning; her mother prefers to be undisturbed during the last and most important phases of her cooking - the meats.
The ground is thick with snow that's wet and heavy, beginning to thaw. It's an ordeal to get the kids bundled back up into their winter gear, but well worth it. Reinhardt drags along an array of brightly-colored sleds, plowing a way through the forest to what has been dubbed "the sledding hill"; a stretch of land that Torbjörn has painstakingly cleared away over the years. Steep at the top, curving to a long, flat slope on the bottom, it's the perfect sledding surface. Many times over the years she and her siblings had raced down that hill, dodging the tree stumps that Papa had been slow to remove.
The twins, Nicole and Ellinor immediately set to racing each other, with Hugo hot in pursuit. Brigitte takes Chris down on her sled, followed closely by Reinhardt and Lisa. Wind freezes her face, stings her eyes to watering as the speed crests and then levels out, a warm rush of adrenaline chasing after to set her heart to pumping.
She loves sledding.
They sled as long as they dare, before Emelie begins to complain that she can't feel her toes. Returning close to the house, Brigitte helps everyone un-bundle and then gathers them all in front of the TV downstairs, swaddling anyone who wants one in a thick blanket. Her timing has been perfect: they arrive just in time to catch the beginning of "Kalle Anke och hans vänner önskar God Jul"
Reinhardt falls asleep. Brigitte herself might even fall into a half doze, but the smell of cooking meat wakes her. From upstairs comes the rhythmic clink of plates being set out.
"I'm going to go help," Theodor mutters to them quietly, getting up. Ella follows. Setting up the julbord is labor-intensive, no matter how prepared the food is.
When Theodor returns twenty minutes later and gives her a thumbs-up, Brigitte wakes Reinhardt. "It's time!"
The julbord is a sight to be seen.
Leaves have been inserted in the table, elongating it so that there's room for all of them. Each surface is groaning from the weight of dishes piled high with food. Brigitte's stomach rumbles, acutely aware of just how long ago lunch was.
Ingrid stands at the head of the table, watching as everyone takes their seats. When at last they're seating, positively vibrating with hunger, she smiles.
"Let's eat!"
As hands begin to reach for dishes Brigitte barely remembers to pull out her pad in time; she has promised Lena that video, after all.
There's so many rounds of food. They take dishes, passing them around so everyone has a chance to try. Brigitte forces herself to take small portions of everything, determined to be good this year.
First is the sill, pickled herring, potatoes, and thin slices of knäckebröd. Then comes the Christmas ham, pâté, cold meats and crackers. Nibbling at a honeyed slice of ham, Brigitte eyes the next round of food eagerly; the warm dishes are her favorite.
Thick meatballs soaking in their own juices, potato and cream casserole, a large metal bowl full of pork gravy for dopp i grytan, more mjukakka and lussekatter. Brigitte and her siblings help the littlest among them with the dopp i grytan, ensuring that they don't drop their bread into the bowl itself during the dunking. Everything is washed down with ample amounts of julmust, the spicy, fizzy drink that she craves year-round.
As she starts in on her fourth meatball, Brigitte resigns herself to returning to the Watchpoint 5 kilos heavier. Mama's cooking is just too good.
Halfway through dessert she spies Papa slip out of his seat and exit the kitchen silently. The children are too preoccupied with their rulltarte to notice, making a mess of the jam filling. It's another ten minutes, and the last crumbs are being picked off of plates when the sound comes.
Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!
The heavy pounding of a fist at the front door nearly makes Brigitte choke on her rulltarte, even though she's been expecting it. Then the door creaks open.
"Tomte is here!" a hushed chorus of voices gasps. A few small heads turn toward the sound of the door, though it's impossible to see anything from here. There's a scraping sound, as if something heavy is being dragged over the hardwood floors.
"Have you prepared his porridge?" Ingrid says to the children, eyes wide and serious. "If you don't, he won't come back next year."
There's a race for the fridge; Emelie, the oldest reaches it first and rummages inside. For them the "porridge" is Ingrid's risgrynsgröt, amply prepared earlier that morning.
"I'll get the bowl!" Molly says importantly, and Brigitte lifts her high enough to grab one.
The older kids, accustomed to the tradition work together to make the porridge, while Mikael explains the custom to Luka, who is still too young to understand.
"Tomte is the protector of the home, a little creature who lives under the floorboards. He comes every year around Christmas time, bringing presents to the house. You have to leave him porridge as thanks for all his hard work, otherwise he will get angry and play tricks on you!"
Lisa, for once not looking at a pad is regarding them with remarkable seriousness, picking at a stray lock of blonde hair. "I don't like tricks."
"And you hafta put butter on top! Tomte likes butter!" Emelie says, cutting off a knob of butter large enough to sink halfway into the warm rice pudding.
"That's right, tomte likes butter," Brigitte agrees, laughing inwardly at the thought of Papa's expression at the sight of that yellow mound. Even Mama's risgrynsgröt might not be palatable with that much in it.
The sound of scraping has stopped, but the subtle sound of things shifting and moving in the living room continues. He's setting the presents under the tree.
"It's ready!" Molly shouts as Emelie plants a spoon in the bowl, lifting the porridge to her dad. "Can we give it to him?"
"Wait a moment. Tomte doesn't like to be disturbed when he's working."
The kids twist and jump like eager puppies, and it's only when Torbjörn crinkles his garbage bag up theatrically that Mikael gives the nod of approval.
Emelie snatches the bowl away from Molly before she can go running with it, much to her chagrin. She shakes her head, glasses slipping down her nose. "Not you, this year Luka has to give it!"
Each year they've taken turns, but this is Luka's first Christmas. He's not nearly coordinated enough to carry a bowl, so Laurie holds them both and carries them into the living room, a horde of grandchildren dogging her every step.
Torbjörn is there, clad in a red suit and hat lined with white fleece, brown work boots on his feet. He's the picture of Santa Claus; the new hybrid tomte that has become popularized. His cybernetic eye is covered by a black eyepatch, and both of his hands are clad in long, velvety gloves. A black trash bag is slung over one shoulder.
Beneath the tree is a vast array of wrapped bags and boxes, glittering like many-toned jewels in the flickering light of the fireplace.
"Tomte, this is for you!" Molly blurts out as Laurie approaches. "Luka can't hold it so good, so she's holding it instead."
Torbjörn accepts the porridge with a stern yet appraising look; Brigitte can see how his beard twitches as he stirs it, spoon nudging the knob of butter. As he takes a mouthful, the children wait with bated breath.
"Hm. Good." His voice is an even rougher approximation of it's usual gruffness, approaching a growl. "I will stay."
Nicole and Ellinor let out a squeal. This means that tomte will stay another year, and sit to watch them open presents.
As they swarm around the tree Brigitte watches her father pick at the porridge around the butter, and smiles.
Present opening takes the better part of an hour, and the aftermath looks like the explosion of a paper factory. Balls of wrapping paper and wads of tissue paper are everywhere, decorative bags and bows festooning the floor.
Complete and utter chaos. Her chaos.
All the children want to play with their new toys, and Brigitte takes some time to shoot off holiday texts to Lúcio and Lena while they do. A quick clip of the destruction goes along as well, just to help them appreciate the scale of it. She receives a message back instantly from Lena, whose fingers apparently move just as quickly as the rest of her.
Wow, you weren't kidding! It's like a war zone in there! Things are a lot quieter over here.
Followed by a picture of her and a red-haired woman sandwiching Winston for a selfie. Behind the trio is a very familiar whiskered face, one red-draped arm slung around Mei's shoulders. From the angle of the photo part of a plate is visible, and the soft, orange glow that illuminates their faces gives her the impression of a candle-lit dinner.
Happy Christmas from us!
Then another, more blurry photo: one of the long tables in the mess hall lit by a central candle with an unfocused gleaming gray smear that seems to be moving out of the frame, and a figure that is undoubtedly Hanzo, one hand held out to block the camera.
Brigitte snorts laughter and forwards the picture to Lúcio. Looks like they're having their own brand of fun.
Part of her wishes she could be celebrating with them too; Overwatch has become her family away from family after all, but in less than a week's time they'll be having their New Year's celebration. She can wait that long at least.
The evening draws on, and once the kids start trying to steal each other's toys she knows it's time for the wind down. Wrapping paper and boxes are cleared away, the living room returned to order. Reinhardt takes his seat in the brown recliner next to the Christmas tree, and the grandchildren gather; some hanging off the back of the seat, other's sprawled on the floor, Molly perching boldly on his knee.
Brigitte hands him a red-covered, well-loved book. When he flips it open, the pages turn almost instantly to the right chapter; the book's spine has been bent open to it so many times, it's a part of its memory now.
The Yule Tomte and the Little Rabbits, the traditional story a whole month in the making. Her siblings read one of the twenty-four chapters each night leading up to Christmas Eve, when Reinhardt finishes. Even though all of the grandchildren have heard it before (with the exception of Luka) they sit at attention, listening raptly.
That familiar warmth curls in her belly as she listens to him read. His voice is low and even, his timbre roughened slightly with age; it's as though Father Christmas is reading the story himself.
From the corner of her eye she can see Papa and Mama cuddled up close together listening too. He's still in his tomte outfit, a red as bright as the side of a barn. It's a perfect accompaniment to Mama's softer look, her carmine sweater dress casting an orange reflection from the firelight onto ger fair skin and hair. Papa's eye sparkles. There's something so raw and soft in his gaze as he stares at Ingrid that Brigitte has to avert her eyes; it feels as though she's intruding upon something terribly private.
Will someone look at her like that, someday?
Has Reinhardt ever looked at someone like that?
She tries to imagine such a look being turned on her. It's lucky that no one's attention is on her; the flush in her cheeks feels hot enough to burn. She tries to put the thought from her mind, settling back into the story.
It's over far too quickly. The tale is a short one, but holds them in its spell for the ten minutes it takes to read. The excitable mood ramps down, becoming something more comfortable. Luka, who had been rolling a red ball on the floor at the start of the story has fallen fast asleep. The rest of her nieces and nephews have settled into a half-lidded, content daze; Molly has slowly slid down Reinhart's leg until she's almost dozing on his lap.
Tigris, perhaps lulled by the quiet sits on the floor, batting at Luka's toy curiously. His fur blazes fiery orange in the firelight.
All the adults have been put in thrall too. It's a long, leaden moment before the first of them moves.
Ingrid rises from her seat and scoops up Molly, tucking the drowsy 8-year-old in one arm. "Time for bed, små."
It's the easiest thing to shepherd the children into their beds when they're so sleepily pliant. Brigitte helps the most tired of them brush their teeth and tucks them into bed, then heads to the kitchen, feeling unusually tired herself. Maybe she's getting old.
When Ella pushes a warm glass of glögg into her hand she accepts it without question, taking a deep draft. Dark, fruity, a little spicy; the perfect nightcap. This is the adult's tradition: once the kids are off to sleep, they gather at the table to drink glögg, talk, and exchange their own gifts.
Clutching her glass, she relaxes into a chair and tucks her feet into the seat.
"Good work on putting them to sleep!" Mikael says, patting Reinhardt heartily on the shoulder. "It's a nightmare wrestling them to bed most nights."
Ella collapses heavily in the seat next to Brigitte, pulling his own glass of glögg close. Theodor rummages through the fridge and returns to the table holding a bag of lussekatter aloft victoriously.
"Hah, they are nothing compared to you four. You were a nightmare to entertain!" Reinhardt says, sweeping his finger around Brigitte and her siblings.
"What did they do?" Laurie asks. Brigitte grabs a lussekatt of her own and nibbles at it, rolling her eyes heavenword. Laurie's asked the wrong question.
"Where do I start? Mikael would always-"
Reinhardt launches into a detailed description of the antics of Christmas's past, a story that is surely going to take him another twenty minutes. Mama and Papa nod along knowingly, while Brigitte exchanges a look with Theodor. They were rambunctious, sure. But Reinhardt has a knack for amplifying the energy of any situation tenfold; he was as bad as any of them were.
"So, how are things with Overwatch?" Ella nudges Brigitte's elbow, leaning close to mutter under the current of Reinhardt's story. "Seems like you've been busy. Haven't heard much from you in the last year."
Brigitte takes a sip of glögg guiltily. She's pretty terrible at keeping up communication with anyone anymore. "Yeah, sorry...we've been training hard up until the holidays. Had my first mission a few months ago, and-"
Filling in her sister with only the bare-bones details doesn't take long. Aside from the regular day-to-day operations and her mad scramble to finish Reinhardt's armor in the past two weeks, she really hasn't been all that busy. She really should talk to her siblings more. Maybe that'll be her new year's resolution.
"That's not too bad. Only one mission, at least they're not shipping you off to the States or something."
"Yeah, I don't think anyone but McCree has checked out the old Watchpoints outside of Europe. I'm fine with staying here though." Brigitte doesn't want to think about that eventuality. It's possible, very possible that once Overwatch is running efficiently, she will be shipped off somewhere. Separated from her family. "But what have you been up to? Nicole and Ellinor still playing football? They've both grown a lot since I saw them at Easter!"
Talk dissolves. From around the table Brigitte can pick up the threads of other, smaller conversations that have broken out; siblings catching each other up. Maybe she's not the only one who's been bad at keeping in touch.
"Oh yeah. Nicole and her team won the summer tournament this last year, actually. I think Ellinor is losing interest though; she wants to try something like gymnastics, I think. She's been watching Emelie do cartwheels and handsprings and thinks it'll be fun." Ella pauses to take another deep draft of her drink. Her cheeks are pink, a sign that the glögg is working. "You know, I think Hugo has taken a shine to you."
"Hm?" Brigitte chews her way through the last bite of her lussekatt, only half listening.
"Yeah. Liam said wouldn't stop asking if you were going to be here on the drive over." Ella laughs. "He could hardly get him to shut up!"
"Really?" Brigitte searches her memory. Though she'd spent time romping with all her nieces and nephews this afternoon, she can scarcely remember Hugo saying two sentences to her. "He didn't talk to me very much."
"Oh, yeah. He clammed up as soon as he saw you. Silly kid crushes. Give him a hard time tomorrow, I bet he'll turn redder than a tomato!"
"He has a crush on me?" Brigitte feels absurdly slow, parroting the words back to her sister. It's just so unexpected.
"What, you didn't notice? He normally talks everyone's ear off!" Ella raises an eyebrow at her over her drink.
"Oh, uh...I guess I just thought he was growing up…"
"Eh. Is it really that hard to believe? Cool hobbies, Overwatch member, prettiest girl of the family-" Ella reaches out to pinch Brigitte's cheek, "- I wouldn't be surprised if Theodor's kid goes through the phase too in a few years. Just be a good sport about it and I'm sure he'll get over it by the time we see you again."
Brigitte is left wondering if it's she who has drunk too much glögg. Maybe she's not as observant as she thought.
Kid crush, huh? Well, it's no big deal. Her cousins are going to be here only another day then everyone will head back home, not to be seen for another few months. She'll be forgotten quickly enough.
Letting the last thought of that strange conversation slip away, Brigitte watches as Liam gets up from the table then returns, dragging bags of packages. "Hey, anyone want to help with these?"
Gifts pile up next to each person, one from each sibling, from Ingrid and Torbjörn, and even from Reinhardt. Brigitte ends up with a neat stack of six gifts, and feels distinctly guilty as she adds only envelopes to everyone's piles but her mother's. Normally she's got at least one real package for half of the family, but what can she do? This year at least two of those gifts are too large to be worth transporting.
As they all tear into their piles, she eyes everyone else's gifts with interest. A case or two of beer for each of them, courtesy of Theodor and Mikael. That's what they gift every year now. She gets two six packs, one that looks like a Russian brand of stout, the other something undoubtedly American. Her brothers have fine taste though, she trusts everything will be good.
The next package she opens is from Ella; it's hefty, flat and rectangular. She isn't surprised to reveal a huge box of chocolate liquors. There's even a note:
Bri, don't eat all these in one week. I know you would. Ella
P.S:. SHARE THEM WITH YOUR TEAMMATES!
Pff. She won't eat them all; she has some self control after all! Still, her love of dessert is legendary. It was kind of Ella to think about her teammates.
There's one more package and a card, but the name on the card is written in her mother's hand, which means that the gift must be from Reinhardt. She opts to open the card first.
The message inside is heartfelt, almost absurdly sweet. Her mother has always had a way with words; maybe that's why it's always her that writes the note, and Papa who signs with her. Though she knows it, it's always nice to see how proud her parents are of her. Torbjörn has even scrawled a note under their signatures:
Guild credit is taken care of.
It's short and to the point, but still it makes her smile so hard that her cheeks hurt. How'd he know she'd taken a guild loan? The cost of Reinhardt's armor had risen unexpectedly, especially after the last-minute developments and she'd had to sign to pay installments on the last portion of it. Papa's high up in the Guild though, and friends with the Treasurer. He'd have his ways.
Reinhardt's present she picks up last. It feels a lot lighter than the presents of Christmas's past; unlikely to be tools, then. She's quite sure most years he just asks Papa what she needs, because she always unboxes highly specific parts and equipment. This time when she pulls open the flaps it's to see the strangest thing: clothes.
On top is a black tank top. The words: "I LIFT SO I CAN EAT MORE" are printed on it in bold white letters, and she knows instantly that she's going to be wearing it as soon as the weather begins to turn toward spring. It looks like he's even gotten the right size, which is surprising. He must be more observant than she's given him credit for.
Beneath it is a sweatshirt in the most plush sherpa she's ever felt. It's a deep orange-red, almost rust colored, and when she lays it out she can see that it's a quarter zip with a large central pocket. It too is the right size.
She squishes her fingers into the material, torn between putting it on right now or waiting. It's been so long since she's worn anything but the gray sweatshirt she'd brought from home, and it is so soft...she's a sucker for soft things. Clothes are an unusual but not unwelcome surprise, and these show a depth of thoughtfulness that surprises her. She never knew that he paid attention to what she wore.
There's a strange feeling somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, but she pushes it down before it can be fully realized.
She makes her rounds, thanking everyone for their gifts. Ingrid and Torbjörn she enfolds in an enthusiastic hug, and Papa nods as she whispers her thanks to him. When she makes it to Reinhardt she cocks an eyebrow at him, feigning surprise.
"Clothes, huh? I never thought I'd see the day."
Oddly, that seems to embarrass him. "I-well, I just thought you might need-"
"I'm kidding, I'm kidding! These are really nice, thank you!" She cuts him off before he can even get the sentence out, not wanting him to misconstrue her teasing. "I've been needing another sweatshirt. Mine's getting kind of worn out."
"I noticed." He lifts the card she'd given him, pointing at the I-O-U message printed inside. "And I am curious as to see what I'm owed."
That's another thing she hadn't thought of ahead of time. When is the right time to show him? Right when they get back? At the party? His birthday?
"New Years. I'll give it to you to kick off 2077." Her mouth seems to have a mind of its own, yet as soon as the words leave her mouth she knows it's the right decision. Her decision to stay up all night before they'd left had been a stupid one; as exhaustion-fried as her mind had been, her work might not have been up to par. She'll give everything a check-over when they go back, and those few days will buy her some extra time.
"New Years!" He clutches at his chest, feigning shock. "I must wait until next year to get my present?"
"Yes. I promise it'll be worth it!" She offers a thumbs up, ignoring the way the glögg seems to have turned everything soft and warm around the edges. Tipsy, she might be a bit tipsy.
They move to clean up the kitchen, disposing of trash, packing up gifts, yawns punctuating the low chatter now. Festivities certainly take a lot out of them.
Mikael gets everyone's attention by tapping his glass with a fingernail.
"Thanks for a great day, everyone! I'm glad I get to celebrate with all my family. It's been too long. But, sadly I'm old and tired, so it's time for me to turn in. Happy Christmas, everyone!"
Brigitte raises her own glass in agreement. "Happy Christmas!"
He starts the trickle of people leaving the table. Papa and Mama are next, followed by Ella, Liam, Theodor, and finally Reinhardt. She supposed she can't blame them; they had to travel a long way to get here, and it was an eventful day. Exhaustion clings to her as well, but stubbornly she doesn't want to give in.
Christmas is her favorite holiday. When she was a child she would wake up in the wee hours of the morning, creep out of bed and then go lay beneath the tree, reveling in the almost magical glimmer of lights sparkling through the pine needles. The days had felt longer when she was young, evergreen with endless hours of playing in the snow, wrestling with her siblings, and stealing lusskatter when Mama hadn't been looking.
Now, she wonders where the day had gone.
Melancholy ripples through her as she surveys the empty table littered with glasses. She lets it linger for only a moment, then chides herself for being so silly. You still have one whole day with everyone, she reminds herself as she gathers all the glasses from the table and rinses them in the sink. Make the most of it.
Yes. Those days might be past for her, but she wants the same for her nieces and nephews. Making the most of the time with her family is what makes Christmas special now.
Brigitte turns out the lights, and goes to bed.
The excitement of Christmas Day takes a toll not unlike a particularly gruelling simulation, Brigitte thinks when she wakes up the next morning to find herself physically exhausted. Maybe she'd overdone it running up the sledding hill last night.
She tiptoes past the sleeping bags full of sleeping people and heads upstairs, where Mama is standing over the counter whisking batter in a large glass bowl. From the waffle iron preheating next to her, Brigitte can guess what they'll be having for breakfast.
"Want some help?" she offers. "I promise I'll get most of the batter in the iron."
Ingrid laughs, and passes her a cup and the cooking spray. "I would like to see that!"
True to her word she only drips batter onto the counter twice as the stacks of waffles pile up on plates. By the time they're pouring the last cup of batter, most of the house's inhabitants have been drawn to the kitchen by the sweet smell, and Theodor is setting the table.
Brigitte settles down with her own plate in between Mikael and Molly. When she reaches for the syrup, she spots a pair of wide brown eyes staring at her.
It's Hugo.
Catty-corner from her, his fork poised over his own plate. As soon as her eyes meet his he looks down, stabbing at his syrup-drenched breakfast.
The conversation from last night echoes through her mind. Hugo has a crush on you. Now that she knows what she's looking for it really is apparent.
Pretending not to have noticed, she bends to eat her own food, ignoring the continual glances coming from him. When she's finished eating she ruffles his hair on the way out of the kitchen, and he blushes all the way to his blonde roots.
It's kind of adorable, actually.
The kids want to spend the morning playing out in the snow, as she had suspected. Her calves protest the first time she tries dragging Lisa up the hill, but eventually her fatigue is forgotten and she loses track of the time and her exhaustion. Nicole and Ellinor kick off a snowball fight that ends up leaving them all sweaty, shivering, and snow-dusted.
This kind of innocent fun is something she's missed.
All too soon they're being called in for lunch, and she realizes that they've been playing for hours. The way her muscles quiver as she shucks off her snow bibs is reminiscent of a killer weight session, and it's probably a good thing her nieces and nephews are leaving tomorrow. Most certainly she won't be able to get out of bed, let alone pick them up.
The leftovers have aged well, and they're finished with the leftover risgrynsgröt from last night, spiced with cinnamon and vanilla.
Under insistence from the parents, the kids aren't allowed back outside after lunch. Their clothes are still drying in the mudroom, their hair still crusted with sweat. Instead they settle down for several rounds of Clue, teaching Chris and Lisa the rules as they go.
As the games roll by Brigitte tries to etch these moments in her memory; the squeals of laughter, the warmth of shoulders and knees pressing against her, even the momentary outbreak of bickering between the siblings. When the kids want to play with their Christmas gifts she sits back to snap pictures of them.
After Russia, moments like these definitely mean more to her.
It's disappointing when dinner is concluded and everyone is sent to bed once again. Time has passed in the blink of an eye, and even the kids feel it. They whine and beg to stay up a little longer, and the adults indulge them tonight, letting them watch a Christmas movie on the couch downstairs. Perhaps trying to ensure they're worn out for the trips back tomorrow. It works; by ten they're all drowsing.
As Brigitte tucks Hugo and Molly into their sleeping bags, she reminds herself that it will only be a couple months until they meet again. These last months have passed so quickly; Easter isn't so far away.
She heads for bed herself and curls up, still wearing her sweatshirt.
"Mama, do we hafta go?" Nicole says for the fourth time over her breakfast. "I wanna stay and go sledding!"
The clock is ticking past eight; Ella is slated to leave at nine, but the twins especially are resistant. They pick at their waffles morosely.
"Yes, we do. Mommy has to go to work tomorrow, and it's a long way back," Ella says, not unkindly. She has no plate of her own, merely sipping at a mug of milky coffee. Flying is one fear that Brigitte and her sister share, and the flight from Gothenburg to Cardiff isn't the shortest.
"Awww, mom!"
Brigitte smiles a little at the chorus of complaints, knowing that they won't be the last ones today. Molly has already been making overtures of annoyance as well.
She sees Ella and off with a hug and a promise to keep in touch - they both swear that they'll message at least once a month - and waves until the rental car hovers out of sight. Liam is shortly behind her, shepherding his kids out urgently. His own flight leaves in two hours, and, in his own words: "Getting the kids through check-in is going to be a nightmare."
Brigitte hugs Molly, Lisa and Hugo fiercely before they leave. "Write to me through your daddy if you want, okay?" she says, smiling a little at the way Hugo's eyes light up. "I'm kinda slow to respond, but I promise I'll answer."
And then they too are gone.
Theodor and Mikael stick around through lunchtime, then gradually make their way out as well.
"I'll try not to be a stranger, Ma!" Theodor waves out the window as he goes. He lives in Gothenburg proper, scarcely thirty minutes from the house. "Thanks for everything! Happy New Year"
Mikael waves Luka's tiny arm at them on his way out, and blows an enthusiastic kiss. "Enjoy the beer, you lot! Let me know what I should bring to Easter!" His car turns sharply in the driveway and then steers silently down the hill, through the trees and out of sight. She, Papa, Mama, and Reinhardt all watch as it goes, waving until the brake lights have disappeared, then return inside.
It's just the four of them again.
The crackling of the fire seems strangely loud once the door is shut, the house so terribly silent. Brigitte mourns the loss. She turns on the TV, hoping to fill the emptiness, but it's not quite enough. All at once she's looking forward to returning to the Watchpoint, to the hustle and bustle of the other agents.
She still has one more full day at home; Lena returns the morning of the 27th. The best way to spend the next day has to be with Mama; maybe with a little persuasion she could teach Brigitte how to make semlor.
The next morning something unusual happens. Papa scoffs loudly over his coffee, a sound so sudden and surprising that she looks up. "What's up?"
He doesn't answer for a few moments, apparently struck by what he's reading. After a few seconds he shows her his pad.
"FӦRÄLSKADE TONĀRINGAR MӦTER DӦDSMASKIN!" The article headline blares.
"Teen lovers' run-in with death machine?" she parrots skeptically. There's a picture along with the headline, an old historical photo from the omnic march on Stuttgart that's been tinted orange for dramatic effect. "What's that about?"
Reinhardt pokes his own head up at her words, interested.
"I'll give ya two guesses, and the first doesn't count," he snorts, pulling the pad back toward him. Before she can even guess, he continues. "Bastions."
"Bastions?" This time it's Reinhardt who answers. "What about them?"
"Some kids sayin' they caught sight of a Bastion comin' out of the forest at them." Torbjörn stabs at one of his eggs, the tines of his fork squealing on the plate. "Likely story. If it were a Bastion it woulda mowed 'em down where they stood."
Brigitte frowns, shooting a glance at Reinhardt. He's looking at her too; they both are thinking of the night on Andreas's farm. Torbjörn's astute enough to catch their looks.
"No, I don't think it's a Bastion," he says. "More'n likely it's just some service 'bot what got its hardware fried and is now wanderin' around in northern Sweden."
"Sweden? It is here?" Reinhardt sounds as surprised as she feels; having not read the article, she had just assumed it was an outsider source. She pulls out her pad and begins searching for the article herself.
"Aye, so they say." Papa goes back to eating his eggs, still glaring down at his pad.
Brigitte finds the article in question and reads it for herself. Apparently two teenagers had snuck away from their house yesterday evening and encountered a monster in the forest. Police had found tracks they considered to be consistent with a Bastion unit leading out and back into the treeline, but hadn't found the unit.
"This is weird," she says, scrolling all the way to the end of the article.
"Yes, it is. There have been no sightings of Bastion units for five years at least!" Reinhardt agrees.
"Like I said, it's not a real Bastion. The hardware in those units shoulda been broken down by now, those components can't withstand 20 years of rust." Torbjörn shrugs. He continues looking down at his pad, and by the time he's finished his plate he heaves a deep sigh.
"What?" Brigitte knows that sigh.
"I'm going to stay here a little longer. Got to check it out." Papa tucks his pad into his pocket, taking his dishes away.
She's not surprised by this declaration. There have been other false sightings before, and each and every one he's taken upon himself to investigate. Some part of him still feels deeply guilty for his part in the Omnic War; the part of him that created the Bastions.
Ingrid touches his shoulder fondly on her way to the sink with her own plate. Brigitte thinks that Mama might be happy that he's staying a little longer, even if it's for this reason.
"Okay. You want me to ship the hauler to you?" Brigitte asks, thinking of the heavily-outfitted vehicle still sitting in the Watchpoint's bay. It's like a travelling workshop, and has everything he normally needs to handle a real threat.
"No, I think I got enough here for this." Papa waves her off, then shakes his head, sending his beard swinging. "Guess I better get to work."
He disappears into his workshop, where she knows he'll be for the next several hours. Looking back down at the article, she snorts a little herself. Never a dull moment.
When Lena lands in the melting snow the next day, she doesn't look surprised to see only Brigitte and Reinhardt emerge from the house.
"Got some work left, does he?" She says when Brigitte fills her in. "Winston said he had some things to deal with here still. That's a bummer; he's going to miss the party!"
Looking back toward the house, Brigitte knows Papa would be all too happy to miss it. He's not much for formal events.
Mama stands on the doorstep, watching them pack. Brigitte runs back to her once everything's loaded up, opening her arms.
"Be good, Brigitte." Ingrid hugs her tightly, the sweet smell of her drifting all around. Mama, that smell says. Home. Brigitte feels an unexpected lump in her throat; leaving this time is harder than ever.
"I will."
The sky is still a faded violet hue, the stars winking faintly. Lena's chronal accelerator is the brightest thing around, with the sun is still behind the horizon. It's an unseasonably warm day compared to the last week. Too bad she'll be cooped up for most of it in the air.
Brigitte waves goodbye to her mother and enters the jet. She buckles herself in and looks out the window, not wanting to lose sight of the house until she absolutely has to. Her fingers twist into the soft material of her sweatshirt nervously.
"Ready to go?" Lena's voice crackles over the intercom, a familiar cheeriness that helps buoy her spirits despite her nervousness. She gives a thumbs-up, and Lena returns the gesture. The sounds of the engines deepen as the jet turns.
Brigitte's stomach flutters, her hands sweating as the thrusters fire. Something warm touches her hand, and she turns to see Reinhardt covering her hands with one of his own.
"Can you handle the flight?"
"I kinda have to, don't I?" she jokes automatically. That fluttery nervous feeling is still there, but it deepens, morphing into a warmth and tingling that seems to steal some of her breath. Maybe she's hyperventilating. "Guess I should've stayed up all night last night so I could sleep through it again."
He laughs, a rumble she can feel all the way through his fingers.
"Indeed, you should have."
The jet lifts off into the sky, a swooping ascent that sends her stomach down somewhere into the vicinity of her knees. On a whim she clutches his hand, and he accepts her death-grip with ease. It only seems to compound her nervousness.
"Just gotta make it back," she breathes to herself. "Just a few more hours."
Reinhardt squeezes her hand in his. "We will make it, Shildlein."
God Jul - Merry Christmas
Älskling - darling
Små - little ones
Vakna - wake up
Kalle Anke och hans vänner önskar God Jul - Donald Duck and his friends wish you a Merry Christmas
Julbord - A classic Swedish Christmas buffet.
Mjukakka - round flatbread
Lussekatter - saffron buns
Glögg - mulled wine
Risgrynsgröt - rice porridge
Pepparkakor - ginger cookies
Julmust - dark, sweet soda that's similar to Coca-Cola or root beer
Happy belated Holidays, everyone!