AN: My usual beta is not currently available to save me from my own mistakes, so ignore the typos. The Great Purge will happen Soon™. :3

In hindsight, she really should have known that Reinhardt was not the gentlest of teachers. Jovial, and enthusiastic, and patient—more or less—but he was not particularly gentle. She had learned this swiftly, when just ten seconds into her very first real sparring lesson she was trying to get her stunned diaphragm to work. He helped her back to her feet, smiling the whole time, but when he picked his padded training shield and baton back up, she guarded like her life depended on it.

It would, very soon. Maybe not this time, or next time, but some other time, it would matter.

She wasn't sure what she had expected when she had first told him; with Reinhardt, it could have gone either way. No more sidelines for her, she was going to fight. He would have the backup he needed, and hopefully it would prolong his own sometimes-tenuous wellbeing. She had banked on either boisterous exuberance or firm denial—crazy godfather he may be, but she never once doubted that he took to protecting her with chilling seriousness—but what she got was decidedly neither. She had known that he had heard her, not just her words, but her meaning behind them, when he looked at her, put down his beer, and reached around the small portable table to drag her into a warm, tight hug. He didn't say anything at all for a moment, until he put a bit of space between them, still holding her firmly by the shoulders (and no matter how old she got or how much she grew, his hands never seemed to lose that quality of 'oh my god giant bear paws'), smiling in that particular way when he was truly, completely earnest.

"When next we stop at a large city for supplies, I am going to have to procure us a good, honest set of sparring weapons."

Well. That went better than she thought. She had expected… more emotion. This was Reinhardt, after all.

She had sat on it for a few days until that first real session with him. Her hand-to-hand technique was not entirely novice; like hell Papa would have allowed her to be entirely devoid of some manner of self defense, even if she had grown up within a quick phone call of having several armed, dangerous people fly across a continent to bail her out of trouble.

Or she could have just hidden behind the refrigerator.

Yes, she knew all about the "secrets" her father had hidden in a variety of otherwise innocent kitchen appliances, and how mad it had made her mother. She pitied any robber fool enough to invade their house, for they would take away only the shame of being shot by a toaster, or a washing machine, or what have you.

She had sparred with Reinhardt before, sans any weapons, partially out of boredom, and partially because she did relish the idea of improving her own skills. He was somewhat gentle, then.

He was less so, now. Nor could she fool herself into thinking it had anything to do with these oddly heavy, if padded, shields and batons he had managed to procure from somewhere ("Are these weighted, Reinhardt?" "Absolutely! When we are done, the real things will feel as feathers!" "I am designing state-of-the-art armaments, godfather, not large sacks of bricks. Holy shit."), despite the fact that she might just injure herself if she dropped either on her foot. Forget kettle bells; just picking these up and swinging them around was a workout in and of itself. After a while, it took all her effort just to keep her shield up, despite Reinhardt's friendly ribbing.

"Guard up, Brigitte! That shield is doing you no good down around your knees! Unless you are guarding from your father, ha!"

She did not laugh. No she didn't.

Needless to say, her very first combat lesson was embarrassing. He made up for it with all the warm laughter that could be expected of him, as well as an upheld promise to be responsible for dinner. Which almost went farther towards soothing her injuries than the ice packs did; say what you wanted about Reinhardt's other skills, but the old man could cook.

"I'm a little disappointed."

He laughed from where he was cleaning the last of the dishes.

"Ach, it's your first day! No one is perfect when you learn for the first time. Not even me!"

She rolled her eyes, before wincing and adjusting the ice pack on her hip.

"Not that. I mean… I had been expecting something more…lively, when I proposed this to you. All I got was a 'yeah, sure, okay' and a hug."

"You do not like my hugs?"

"That is not what I said, and you know it." And she stuck her tongue out at him as he shot her a cheeky grin over his shoulder. "Did it really not shock you?"

"Not at all. I know you. I know your family. There is enough fire in your blood that it would have needed an outlet sooner rather than later. I thought that outlet was the entire purpose of this trip, but clearly we were still not having enough excitement for you!" He laughed again, at his own joke. "If you had not gotten such spirit from Torbjörn, then you certainly got it from Ingrid."

She smiled into her beer bottle, unbidden.

"Still, you were thinking of something when I told you, I could see it on your face. You have always been terrible with secrets." She leaned back in her chair, if only for a chance to stretch her sore legs. "What was it? Does it have anything to do with why you hit so hard on my first day?"

"Yes and no." He was silent for a while, and despite her burning curiosity, she knew better than to push. No wonder he and Papa got along so well; when forced, they both dug in their heels and refused to be moved. Eventually, he dried his hands, grabbed another beer from the cooler, and came to join her back at the table. She would never not find amusement at watching this giant man make these perfectly normal folding chairs look like they were made for dolls as he sat in them.

"When you told me that you intended to follow me in, to be quite honest, I was terrified." And Brigitte felt both her eyebrows meet her hairline. "What? Do not give me that look, it's true! Am I not allowed to be terrified once in a while?"

"It's the amount of things that don't terrify you that surprise me."

"Bah! All those other things are easily handled!" And he made a show of popping the knuckles of one fist. If she rolled her eyes any more tonight, it was going to start to hurt. "Things like this, though, are not so easy. What you saw then, what you saw today, and what you will see going forward is that terror. And pride, Brigitte. What a combination of emotions. Have you every felt both at once? You are young, you have time."

Seriously? She felt it at least once a week, watching her white-haired old godfather whup unprepared hooligans and ne're-do-wells a fraction his age across Europe, because he held such upstanding personal justice in his massive heart that he could not keep it to himself. Sometimes she was torn between wanting to cheer and scrub a hand down her face. Yes, she had felt it.

"I am proud of your decision, because to feel otherwise would make me the world biggest hypocrite. I am terrified of your decision, because I know exactly what you face. I have seen it. Or, at least, seen half of it." She didn't quite have it in her to laugh at that one. "But so have you. You've seen its effect on your father. You've seen its effects on your mother. You've seen it on me. You are so smart, Brigitte, you always have been. Even when you were a child, you were no fool." He regarded her, with that same soft smile from a few days ago. "You are an adult, you can make your own choices, and I have no intention of standing in your way. You have given this serious thought, so I will give you my serious answer. If you want to fight, I will get you there. I will push, because you can handle it, and because you deserve all my effort. I do not maintain the illusion that I will be able to do this forever; I am old, and no one outruns time. Well, almost no one. What I can do, before that time comes—and it is still a ways off, do not give me that wet look—is make sure that you have everything you need to some day be better than me. Just know that I am equal parts frightened for you, and so very, very proud of you."

She could not put down her beer fast enough. Forget her soreness, forget her tiredness, she launched herself right out of her chair like her ass was on fire, and threw her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace heartily, and it did the exact opposite of what she hoped it would. Namely, relieve the burning in her chest and the stinging in her eyes.

"Now now, none of that. If your mother finds out I made you cry, she is going to peel my skin off." Brigitte did manage to laugh into his shoulder, then. He gave her another moment, and then disentangled her from his neck, wiping at her cheeks with his huge thumbs.

"Come, let's get you to sleep. We have a lot of driving tomorrow, because I think we should turn this van around and get you to a proper forge."

Her mother came out to greet them when they pulled up in front of the house. All of Reinhardt's recent efforts must have showed, never mind just from rough living for the last few months, because her mother's short hug terminated in her feeling up her arms. Brigitte smiled at her sheepishly. Her sleeves were getting a bit tight. Regardless, Ingrid seemed far more impressed than not, and swept her up again, as if Brigitte hadn't eclipsed her in height and weight years ago. When she finally let, go, she ushered Brigitte towards the house, but not before she saw her fix Reinhardt with a piercing look over her shoulder. Brigitte bit her lip; at least he had the sense to look slightly chagrined from all the way at the van. She laughed as her mother grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, her crisp, if accented German hovering somewhere between irritated exasperation and warm affection.

She only spoke German to him if she absolutely wanted to make sure that he heard every word she said.

"Reinhardt, I swear to God…"

"What, she was always built like that, I swear! Have you seen your husband? He is wider than he is tall, and only some of it is fat!"

"It is not the muscle I am speaking of!"

"She told you then, yes?"

"I am her mother. What do you think?"

"I'm sorry Ingrid, but what was I supposed to tell her? No? She is half Torbjörn, she wasn't going to listen to anything I said, surely."

"I am missing an arm, not an ear." And she couldn't help smiling as her father stomped his way out of the house, with the usual amount of fake acerbity reserved exclusively for Reinhardt. "Not that it matters. The deaf can hear you."

"Ah, I was wondering where you were! Good to see the gnomes didn't kidnap you back to their kingdom in the woods after all."

"I made that armor that you love so much. Don't tempt me to unmake it."

"You could, but then your daughter would build it for me again, and better than you ever did!"

"Hrumph. And don't you forget it." And he gave Brigitte an appraising look-over, before giving her a rough, hearty pat on the arm. "Come on, then, let's get you both inside and fed. With you, I'm pretty sure she hasn't seen a proper vegetable since you two left the last time."

"We've had potatoes!"

"Green vegetables, Reinhardt."

"Bah, green vegetables are what food eats!"

Brigitte shot a knowing smile over her shoulder at her mother. Reinhardt may have been a mean cook, but she was certainly looking forward to veggies that were not either mostly starch and carbs or from a can.

Lunch, of course, was the usual pomp and circumstance that happened whenever Reinhardt was over. All her siblings would still try to fit across his broad shoulders, and to absolutely no one's surprise he made a show of dragging them around the house. The younger ones screamed and laughed like they hadn't done this many times before.

Entertaining as it was to watch, she was really here for what was post-lunch, even as it tied her stomach into knots. Not enough to prevent eating, but enough that both parents could tell something was up. Astute as they were, Ingrid wasted no time pawning all the siblings off on Reinhardt, which wholly distracted them all, especially as they grabbed at his hands and ushered him outside to see "that cool thing Papa found in the woods." Torbjörn shot her an exasperated look, which she flatly returned, until he scratched at his beard and threw his hands up in surrender. Odd. Now she wanted to see the cool thing from the woods. Ingrid smiled and patted his shoulder, before following the loud gaggle made of children and an old man outside. This did not stop him from calling after her.

"Reinhardt might flip, and rightfully so."

"And I promise, I will handle it." She smiled, and let the screen door close behind her.

He sighed, and muttered something into his beard. He rested his heavy metal arm on the kitchen table, and gave Brigitte a long look, which brought the knots back to her stomach with a vengeance. Grumpy as her father acted, it was very much that, an act, she was not surprised at all that he had picked up on her discomfort.

"Alright. Your mother has handily removed those in the house with a penchant to interrupt. So now you can tell me what is bothering you." He stared at her from under one bushy eyebrow. "Second thoughts, I take it."

"What? No. No second thoughts. Not any more, anyways." She rubbed at that back of her neck out of habit, before digging her phone out of her pocket. She turned it over in her hands briefly, before thumbing on the screen and sliding it across the table to him.

"These are just scans, the actual blueprints are in the van." And she watched her father scroll through them, slowly. It was nerve wracking, to say the least. When she was little, he heartily encouraged her any time she would join him in his workshop, and got her a set of her own tools as soon as she could tell him what each was, what they did, and what she could do with them. As she aged, she would get honest critique from him, as appropriate, but always with a sometimes barely-gruff push to do better. To be better. Still, it was a long, dark shadow to live under. She delivered on the Lindholm tenacity well enough, but she had never shared raw blueprints with him before. Not as an adult. Not as a peer. He had done thousands, hundreds of thousands, just like this. "I just… I don't know. Before I begin fabricating, I want a second opinion…"

"Why?"

She blinked owlishly. What did he mean, 'why?'

"Papa, you have done many things like this."

"And? I have seen your work. What do you need me for? I can give you my opinion, but it will be just that; my opinion."

She fiddled nervously with the end of her ponytail, and he signed as he turned the phone over on the table, face side down.

"Listen, Brigitte. I'm old. I'm set in my ways, and I don't do change well. You know that. Your mother has had to live with it for over thirty years, bless her heart. This right here?" He gestured to her phone, and presumably the blueprints on it, "you don't need me for this. You already know how to do all of this. You've been doing it; I recognize all of these systems you've got right here, in some of the servos for the armor, because you've put those exact same ones in Reinhardt's suit. These are even better, because you don't have to jury rig it around what's already there." He looked back up at her, before clasping his flesh hand over one of hers. "My way of doing this is mine. Your way of doing this is yours. Engineers will be able to tell what you designed, simply upon inspection." He smiled under his beard. "Soon, when we hear about Lindholm designs, they won't be talking about me. They'll be talking about you." He passed her phone back to her. "If this is what you want to build, have at it. If it doesn't work, make adjustments, try again. We're engineers, that's what we do."

For the second time in not very long, Brigitte found herself almost launching over a table for a hug. Her father laughed, and squeezed her tightly.

At least she didn't cry this time.

"Thanks, Papa. I needed that."

"No, you didn't." He grinned, and gave her a heavy clap on the arm. "Now, there are three things before I let to run off again with your crazy godfather, righting wrongs with valor and glory, or whatever he's told you."

She grinned, and threw herself back into her chair.

"I promise to eat more vegetables."

"Not that, but sure, we can add that in, too." He gestured back to her phone. "First, since you want my opinion, I think you can do better with the energy source of that thing. Try trimming it down a bit, that one's a bit of a monster."

"Yeah, I could see that. You have any ideas?"

"Lots, but I wanna see what you come up with, first. To that end, you are gonna need more space than my old shop here can afford you."

She gave him a wary look. Wary, and excited.

"I have a feeling you have ideas for this, too."

"I do. I just got back in town a couple weeks ago. Spent a little time with some old friends, but part of what I got out of it was the knowledge that there is a nice, large, semi-used workshop currently operational at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. Nice place, warm, and right now there aren't enough people to be a bother. It has room for a whole team of engineers to not get into each other's way."

Brigitte opened her mouth to respond, but all she got out was an airy squeak. A watchpoint engineering bay? Her father was offering her a permanent spot at one of his old Overwatch forges? Could he do that? Did she care?

The answer, of course, was no, because that sounded awesome! Her father had never gushed about much at all that wasn't his family, but the facilities provided to him on Overwatch's dime was one of the few.

"Heh, yeah, that's what I thought. I figured I might as well, since I know Reinhardt's been itching to get back as soon as possible anyways, nostalgic old fool that he is." He sighed, suddenly more subdued, and it brought her own mood immediately right back down to earth with it. "Which brings us to number three."

Torbjörn squeezed her shoulder, hard.

"Take care of that old idiot for me, please. That mutant son of a drunk giant and a bear will charge headlong into danger regardless of his own wellbeing, as you already know. I'll be down to visit as often as I can, but when I'm not there…" The squeeze got tighter, and he may have cleared his throat somewhere under his beard. "Watch out for him, yeah? I don't have any blood brothers, so he's as close as I ever got. I promised myself I would force him to live long enough to come and cry at one of you all's weddings."

She snickered, put her hand over his, and squeezed back.

"Of course, Papa. I would not ever deny you both the opportunity to cry at a wedding together."

"Bah! You misheard. Him, not me."

Her father had cried at every recital that she or her siblings had ever put on, ever. Momma said that he had wept when she was born, and for every one of his children born thereafter. Her grin got wider, and she patted his wrist.

"Whatever you say."

"Hmph." He strode across the kitchen headed for the hallway towards the back door, but stopped in the threshold, brandishing an almost-threatening finger at her. "And don't you dare tell him that I said any of that."

"I'm gonna tell him."

"Brigitte!"

"I find it cute when you two argue. Like two old dogs with no teeth left."

"You got that from him, didn't you? I'll show him who doesn't have any teeth left."

"Papa, stop."

"Reinhardt, you poor excuse for a godfather, bring your sorry ass over here!"

"Papa, no!"

But he was already gone out the door. Sometimes she wondered how he managed to move so quickly. There was some delighted shrieking from the yard outside, and a roar to echo Torbjörn's.

"You want a go, angry dwarf? Then come! The Lion will humor your tiny efforts! Ha!"

She buried her head in her hands, grinning. There was naught to be done but to head outside, and see if she could mitigate the damage in any way.

This time, next time, and any other time.

AN:

Brigitte and Torbjörn are both hard to write convincingly. Reinhardt, giant muscly cinnamon roll that he is, just writes himself. XD But that's okay, I needed to do more work with different characters anyways.

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*sets traps for typo gremlins*