Reinhardt was a loud man. This was something Brigitte has always known; first from the tales her father told her, then from firsthand knowledge of the man himself. He laughs loudly, he speaks loudly, he eats loudly, he drinks loudly, (she doesn't think she'll ever be able to beat him in a belching competition); she doesn't think it is possible for a man that big to do anything quietly.

Residing in a castle as large as they do, it would be expected that she wouldn't hear him some of the time, but if anything the old stone walls amplify each sound. Sometimes she can even hear the skitter of mice late at night.

Which is why it is so strange that she can't hear Reinhardt now.

It is half-past two. At this time he is usually in his workshop roaring along to Hasselhoff and polishing his armor, or else in the sitting room, working his way through his stretches with much groaning and popping of joints. Even if he were reading the news she would be able to hear it; he can hardly make it through the front page without exclamations of disgust or interest.

She puts down the samples of tecra magnesium and neo-duraluminum she has been testing in favor of looking for him.

There is no Reinhardt raiding the fridge. No huge form sprawled across the sofa (I was not sleeping, I was doing that meditating that Genji has recommended!), or tinkering with small pieces in the workshop. That leaves only one place to check.

As she approaches his door, she tries to step quietly. She doesn't want to disturb him if he is in the process of 'meditating', as he sometimes does. His door is open just a crack. It doesn't close properly anymore; it has been ripped open enthusiastically too many times.

There he is.

His back is to her and he is sitting hunched over at his desk against the opposite wall. There is something strange about how he looks. His shoulders are quaking up and down, his whole body trembling minutely, and -what is that sound?

Brigitte presses her ear closer to the opening. She can hear the roughness of uneven breaths, and something that sounds like a high-pitched, strangled whimper.

Her heart sinks, and she slips away from the door. He is in one of his rare moods. He gets like this, sometimes. Usually after having a particularly tough sparring session and a little too much Schneider Weisse. He becomes morose, reminiscent; lost in the memories of people he couldn't save. But she has never seen him cry. Even papa said he hadn't shed a tear at Jack Morrison's funeral. Did he receive some terrible news?

She returns to her work bench, troubled. She doesn't know how to react to this. Should she talk to him? Ignore it completely? Reinhardt, while being an emotional man, is not one to wallow in more negative emotions. If he wanted her comfort, he would have come to her would he not? Or is he trying to spare her from worrying about him? She knows he did not like to show weakness, even to her.

Her warring thoughts are too distracting. She puts down her tools and rests her head against her palms. She decides that she will give him until tonight to talk about it. While she won't push him about it, she wants him to know that it's okay to unburden himself on her. Maybe if she goes extra hard during their sparring tonight, and plies him with a little more beer he will open up.

Feeling relieved now that she has a plan, the auburn-haired woman resumes testing the materials she hopes to build a lighter shield with.

When Reinhardt at last throws open his door, she is working on calculating the conductivity of her samples. She looks up when he calls out a greeting, and shows him what she is doing. There is no sign that he has been crying.

"I am thinking you should go with the tecra magnesium, Schildlein. I hear that nothing compares to its strength!" He remarks as she explains the numbers.

"Strength isn't everything, as papa always says!" She laughs.

"Pah, that old dog. It is my strength has saved his sorry arsch more than a few times, let him know that!" Reinhard calls back dismissively, disappearing out the door that leads to his workshop.

They work in their respective studios for another hour until 4. Brigitte has an alarm on her watch that goes off at 5 til, and she abandons her project in favor of changing into her sparring gear. She meets Reinhardt in what is probably her favorite room in the whole castle: the dojo.

It is a large room, the floor is made up of padded mats and the walls are lined with more of the same. There are mylar mirrors set above the mats, tilted at angles so each surface of the room can be seen.

She is kneeling in the center of the room waiting for him when he arrives. He's wearing his usual loose gi pants and a tank top, which echoes her own outfit. They do not speak; they have an understanding. This room is a place meant for worship; glorification of hard work, exaltation of the sweat that will soon be pouring off their bodies. Talk will come after.

They meet in the center, bow respectfully to each other and then each drops into a defensive stance. They circle each other warily, and it is Reinhardt that strikes first. He throws a low kick that she dances away from, and turns into a side-strike that can't avoid. He hit barely clips him, and he attempts to grab her lagging foot. Their sparring is a dance that is at once fluid and sharp; their strikes and dodges flow together like water, then erupt into jagged lines of force when hits finally connect with their mark.

It is Reinhardt who wins the first round. He catches her as she stumbles trying to avoid another sweeping kick, and pins her in the ground, one arm across her throat as his legs trap her lower half. She can feel the power behind the heavy limb that is snugly under her chin, and she taps his shoulder lightly with her free hand to show submission. He lumbers to his feet and offers her a hand up before they square up again.

Again and again they come together, Brigitte testing her speed against his raw power. She is much faster than he is, but he possesses strength that is impossible to win against unless she wears him down first. Near the end of their normal hour, she finally takes him down. She is on top of him, her legs snug up under his arms and her weight squarely on his chest so he cannot buck her off. She has one of his arms in an arm bar, the other she feels patting her back in submission. This time it is she who hops up and offers her hand.

As the hour of sparring comes to a close, she puts her all into it. Ducking, dodging, weaving, harrying him like a mongoose fighting a bear. She keeps going, even when the hour is up which she can tell surprises him, but he doesn't bat an eye. Another fifteen minutes find her pinning him twice more, and as he gets up from the last one with a groan she offers him a weary grin and a thumbs-up. It's over; there's no more fight in her tonight.

Together they spray down the mats and wipe them clean, then retire to their respective rooms for a quick shower. Brigitte comes out from the bedroom still towel-drying her hair to find Reinhardt fully dressed and slugging back a tall glass of water. It's partner is sitting on the kitchen counter closest to her, condensation beading the outside.

"Thanks!" She gulps down the water thirstily, and slams down the glass with a watery belch. "Where do you want to go tonight?"

"Hmm..I am feeling Königshalle. They make the best sauerbraten!" As if to echo his sentiments, Reinhardt's stomach growls mightily.

Brigitte laughs. "We better get there soon, before you decide to eat me!" She throws her towel onto her bedroom floor and pulls on her coat and boots, racing out to meet him in the garage. She starts up the little Volkswagen and in no time at all they are sitting in front of the pub.

When they go through the front door they are greeted with many cheerful hails from the regulars there and the barman, John.

"It has been TOO LONG!" Reinhardt declares, even though they were here not three days ago. "John, a plate of sauerbraten and an Eisbocker, if you please!"

Brigitte takes her spot at the bar to his left, greeting everyone warmly. She is well-known here too, in no small part due to Reinhard's frequent visits and his tall tales. They spend a companionable dinner chatting with John and a few of the regular patrons that stay to talk. Reinhardt regales them with the tales of their most recent mission at Overwatch-minus any sensitive information-and works his way through three plates of sauerbraten and several pints of lager. She makes her way through a more modest two bowls of Lumpen und Fleeh, but can't resist a slice of black chocolate gateau. She has only one pint as she is the driver, and she knows there several bottles of chilled Schneider Weisse waiting back home.

They stay for nearly an hour and a half-normally they would stay for two, but she leans in close to Reinhardt and alludes to the surprise she has at home for them. He is in a good mood from the food, company and drinks and acquiesces easily enough. He pays for their meal and roars a merry good evening to everyone before they depart.

"Wait here." She pulls out a seat at the dining table for him once they are inside and runs to fetch the Schneider Weisse.

"Brigitte, you sly girl! Where have you been hiding these?" He declares as he sees what she is holding, but she only smirks in response. They will surely disappear overnight if she reveals their hiding spot.

She pops the caps off and hands one to him, then takes a deep swig of her own. Ah, it truly is delicious. Smooth, fruity, it goes down a treat. As she watches him enjoy his, she feels her contentment faltering at the thought of what she must do. She doesn't want to spoil the happiness of this moment by making him remember something that will upset him. At the same time though, she doesn't want him to feel like he has to hide anything from her. She's his squire; he trusts her to maintain his armor, to maintain his body, why should mental maintenance be any different?

She squares herself. "So….Reinhardt. Are you doing okay?" He eyes her for a second, a slightly bemused expression on his face so she adds, "I mean, are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, of course!" He booms, taking another swig of his drink. "Never better! Though," he waggles a finger at her, his beer sloshing, "don't think I didn't see what you were trying to do today, young lady."

She feels coldness in the pit of her stomach. He knew she was there? And he didn't say anything?

"Well, I-I just happened to.."

"You were trying to wear me down! Ha, don't think that will make me go easy on you tomorrow, now that I know that you've been holding out on me!" Reinhardt continues, talking over her.

Oh. He was talking about the sparring.

"OH, that? No, no….I was just feeling extra energetic today, I guess." She replies. "What I mean is.." Ah, heck. There's no easy way around it; it's Reinhardt. She knows she has to be direct about these sorts of things, and so she lets it out. "I mean, I saw you today. You know, when you were...in your room." She's hesitant to say when I saw you crying, that sounds too much like an accusation.

She didn't meet his eyes when she said it. She didn't want to see the expression on his face, knowing he hasn't wanted her to see him so vulnerable. It's hard not to look though, because she is curious. She wants to know how he feels about it.

She can't keep her eyes down any longer, flicking them up to his face. What she sees is surprising; his hand is raised halfway to his mouth, the Schneider Weisse only half drunk. His mouth is open in a a surprised little 'o', as though this confession caught him right as he was about to take a swig. What surprises her most is his color. His whole face is white! He looks as if he might be sick!

"Reinhardt?" She can't keep the note of alarm out of her voice. "Are you alright?"

"You...you...saw me?" His voice comes out rustily, like a stuck gear grinding into motion.

"Well, I-yes, I did." She lays the confession at his feet. She won't hide from what she's done, even if he is embarrassed about it. She just wants to get this all out in the open so they can work through it.

"I never wanted you to see something like that." he squeaks, his voice pitched abnormally high. He's not meeting her gaze. Is he self-conscious? She doesn't want him to be. It's perfectly normal, everyone has those moments, even her! She tells him as much, and he makes a funny choking sound.

She comes out of her seat, crossing the table to where he's sitting and pries the beer from his still-frozen hand, taking his cold fingers into her own.

"Reinhardt, really. It's okay. Everyone cries, and it's not weakness to do so."

His head jerks, his good eye showing confusion. "Crying?" His stiff fingers relax into her grip. "You thought I was...crying?"

Now it is she who pins him with a befuddled look.

"Yes. Weren't you?"

"No, n-I mean, yes!" He splutters, pulling his hand from her grip and folding his fingers together nervously on the table. "I was feeling...sad, ja."

There are many things that Reinhardt is good at, but lying is not one of them. He's doing it now, she can tell. His tone is neither convincing nor sincere, and the way he's fidgeting makes him look like a child caught doing something naughty.

He doesn't lie. Not to her. Not since the time he lied about taking care of a wound on his back and it got infected. She had made him swear on his honor that he wouldn't, even as she lanced the angry swelling. And since then he had remained true to his word.

But here he was now, lying.

"Reinhardt…" She can't keep the note of testiness from her voice.

"Um, I-I think I have had too much to drink, I am feeling sick!" He stands up abruptly from the table, shifting it a few inches in his clumsiness and stumbles towards his room. She follows in pursuit.

"REINHARDT!" She squeezes herself in between him and the opening to his room, barring his path. "What is going on?!"

His face is bright red, and he still won't meet her eyes. Her ire deflates. Whatever it is, he must be truly ashamed of it.

"...you promised not to lie to me." She says quietly.

She can hear him take in a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

"I know, Schildlein. It's just…" the answer comes slowly, each syllable dropping reluctantly from his mouth. "I was...I was…" He gulps a quick breath, then chokes out the last word.

"Onanieren."

She frowns. The word is not immediately placeable. She knows Onanie which is to...to..

Oh. Oh.

Now it is she who flushes in embarrassment as she realizes what exactly he has just confessed to. And she who has forced him into it!

"Oh, well... that's..fine. It's fine. Totally normal. Completely normal to want some private time, I mean, we all need it sometimes." The words are spilling out of her mouth, she's unable to stop them. She begins inching out of the doorway, away from him to her own room. For some reason she keeps talking, as though it can squash down the awkwardness that is now rising between them. "Yeah well, uh...sorry for cornering you like that. Good night!"

As she slips down the hall and into to her bedroom, she can hear the squeak of the door as he tries to close it and it inches back open.

She is going to fix that tomorrow!