They stay in Zurich for the remaining weeks of Mrs. Lindholm's pregnancy so that her husband may be present for the birth of their daughter. Angela could, technically, cite a household emergency and essentially take a vacation from school, but that would not only leave her with a dozen quizzes and tests to take once she returns, it would also leave her with too many hours a day to somehow spend. She already struggles to fill her days in without the access to the workshop, and half-measure as being in the class online is, it at least takes up the excess time.
Brigitte is born late into the night, with Angela being none the wiser to the fact until she wakes the following day by jubilant Mr. Lindholm. She wonders if they'd wake her up for it were she their real daughter.
Holding the little lump-shaped human being called Brigitte for the first time is an experience Angela won't soon forget, mostly for how uncomfortable it is. When she imagined what being a big sister would be like, she always somehow skipped the part where said sister would be completely dependent on the goodwill of the surrounding humans to do absolutely everything for her, and completely reliant on them to not die. For example, if she were to drop the girl right now, there exists a non-zero chance of her death, and a quite significant one of her suffering permanent damage. She's also simply conventionally unwieldy due to her size and shape in relation to Angela's stunted own. It's obviously easier for adults to hold her, they do it all the time.
Something of Angela's distress must show on her face, because Mrs. Lindholm takes the infant back with a soft laugh, only for the baby to start crying again.
It's almost inspiring to hear how such a small body and even smaller lungs are capable of crying at an almost painful volume. Almost. Angela might not need sleep in the same way everyone else does, but she can't find it in herself to call the reason behind her broken sleep cycle inspiring. Not when Brigitte does something singularly stupid like kick off her covers at night to then start crying about the cold, waking up her parents and Angela, three rooms over, in the process. Or for no reason at all, as is more often the case. Something has to be done.
On one such night, Angela emerges from her room instead of trying (and usually failing) to fall back asleep. She passes a tired-looking Mr. Lindholm carrying a plastic bag with a used diaper in his remaining arm. He's been sent on a medical, and maybe a parental, too. Which is good. For all of her dedication to be an exemplary big sister, she's entirely satisfied with leaving changing diapers to him and Mrs. Lindholm. Not that she'd refuse to help them if they asked, of course. It's just that they have yet to ask.
She peeks into the master bedroom to spot a similarly frazzled Mrs. Lindholm holding the little bundle called Brigitte in her hands, gently hopping her up and down while swaying to the sides in an attempt to lull the infant back into sleep. Why is the girl still crying after her diaper has been changed remains a mystery to Angela. But such are the ways of Brigitte, and she's read it'll be between two or three years before she grows enough to be as smart as a dog. Same goes for learning there exist designated places to relieve herself rather than just do her business wherever and whenever.
"Is she hungry?" Angela asks, still in the door, momentarily drawing Mrs. Lindholm's attention away from the little human in her arms.
"I already fed her when she woke up last time. That was… two hours ago?"
Oh. Right. She thought she heard something over the music in her headphones some half hour before going to sleep, but was too busy with her Chemistry homework to give it much attention.
Maybe she should just relocate to the couch on the ground floor. Or sleep with her earbuds on. Or maybe get a sleeping bag and go to the cellar for a few months. Yes. That would work better, seeing as sleeping in the living room would mean she'd have to reorganise her timetable to start her homework sometime before midnight, so that her caretakers wouldn't see the light.
"Angela?"
She snaps out of her reverie. "Yes?"
"Could you hold her for just a moment? I can feel a cramp coming. I'd ask Torbjorn, but…"
"Of course." Angela plasters on a smile she doesn't quite have the energy to make genuine. Thankfully, it seems Mrs. Lindholm doesn't have the energy to spot the difference, either.
With great care, the infant changes hands, and Angela finds herself with a familiarly uncomfortable weight in her hands. After an awkward pause, she sits down on the edge of the bed to support said weight on her lap, before turning the bundle around to come face to face with the crying child.
It's curious, she thinks, how all their guests and extended family of the Lindholms keep saying Brigitte looks like this relative or another, when the girl clearly bears the greatest resemblance to a wrinkly, red potato. Especially in moments like these, when she's crying - so most of the time really. Well, up-close Angela is ready to admit to spotting a level of familiarity in the baby's bulbous nose. Not that she'd ever tell anyone that.
She tries gently rocking Brigitte in her arms. Tries. Angela always was smaller than most of her peers after Uncle took her in, and although she hasn't lost a speck of muscle since she stopped growing, she also hasn't grown any. As such, operating weight poses a series of challenges to her, and the specimen in her arms is a very healthy one indeed. A fifth of Angela's own weight, she thinks.
What she does succeed in, is garnering the attention of the crying infant long enough for her to notice she no longer resides in her mother's arms.
The wailing pitters out, as if Brigitte is unsure whether the change warrants further complaints or not. Ah. So the crying was for its own sake after all.
"Guh." Cheeky brat. No. That's a folly. She hasn't got the intelligence to be cheeky yet.
"If you say so," Angela allows. A moment later the child starts squirming in her grip, clumsily extending her tiny hands towards her face. The fact Angela pulls away just enough not to have them swat her nose does not seem to register in Brigitte's tiny mind. At least she's not crying anymore.
She looks up to find Mrs. Lindholm staring at them with astonishment painting on her face.
"You have to tell me how you do that."
"Do what?"
"Stop her crying. When it's me, she just- keeps going until she tires herself out."
Yes. Angela has noticed. It's possible their neighbours have, too.
"I'm sure it'll pass," she says instead.
It doesn't. Not for months still, anyway, and it becomes a regular occurrence for Angela to take the girl off Mrs. Lindholm's hands so that they can all go back to sleep. The plan to relocate to the basement is discarded once it becomes apparent Brigitte does, in fact, find something about Angela worth keeping quiet. It makes Both Mr. and Mrs. Lindholm happy, so Angela summons up a smile whenever she hears the crying and goes to take care of the problem. That's what a good sister is supposed to do, even when she'd like nothing more than to drown the noise out with the sort of noise she actually likes.
The Lindholms are firmly opposed to letting their daughter inside the workshop, even secured in a crib and away from any of the machines, citing Angela's accident as their reason. Thankfully, Mr. Lindholm's leave from his duties means there are two engineers at home for her to learn from, as opposed to the usual one. That said, it's not as simple as continuing with one where she left off with the other. The man sets to creating himself a prosthetic almost as soon as he arrives home, a week after their own return. Angela doesn't mind since he walks her through the process every step of the way. She even sort of understands what he's talking about when they get to the programming part! She couldn't replicate it, of course, but after a year of learning, the numbers don't sound like magic anymore. She even manages to write a code causing the newly built arm to lazily rotate its wrist around.
It doesn't take long for them to build and discard two new arms in favour of the third, and it doesn't look much like an arm at all. More like part of a car assembly line; bulky, industrial, and with a claw for a hand. Mr. Lindholm somehow fits a miniature version of his forge into the thing, with an attachable slag tank to carry around like a backpack. Angela is proud to say she can troubleshoot its software, and even perform its maintenance on her own.
It's ugly beyond reason, the very definition of function over form. Angela knows for a fact it's possible to make it look less like an excavator because Mr. Lindholm tells her that himself. Possible, he says, but unnecessary and time-consuming.
However much Angela may disagree on the matters of necessity, it's enough for Overwatch to take the man back as an active combatant. The house changes yet again, for the first time without Mr. Lindholm in it since his daughter was born. He does come home more often now that Brigitte is around.
Mr. Reinhard, too, comes around more often. A much cherished occasion. His presence is the only one capable of distracting Brigitte away from what Angela sometimes thinks is her favourite person.