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“Ingrid, please don’t let Ana cook.”
“Hush, Angela,” Ingrid said, placing an impeccable apple pie in the oven. “Ana will do fine.”
“She won’t.”
“She really won’t,” Reinhardt added, peaking around the archway into the Lindholm’s kitchen.
Ana, who was patiently waiting in an apron to be told what to do, crossed her arms and glared at him. He crossed his arms back and was probably the only man on earth she liked enough, and who was both brave and stupid enough, to get away with it. Her husband had once held the right, but she revoked the privilege after the divorce. “Reinhardt, you’re supposed to support me.”
“Ana, my sweet, I love you. But you ruined my cast iron.”
Ingrid paused. “Your cast iron? Really?”
“Yes.”
“How was I supposed to know it doesn’t go in the dishwasher?”
Ingrid turned back to the counter with a look on her face that expressed she might have overestimated her abilities, but she shook it off. “No matter, cooking is different from washing dishes. Ana, we’re just making pie for now. Here, lets start with the dough.”
Reinhardt tsked, grinning. “Fareeha and I are going ice fishing.”
“You mean Fareeha is going ice fishing, and you are sitting by the fishing hole blaming your luck on her line for stealing all the fish.” Angela said from the dining table where she was doing a crossword in eyesight of the kitchen. This was where she was usually posted during the holidays for the explicit purpose of being the automatic test-taster for whatever Ingrid was making, though knowing Ana was in there as well was making her reconsider her position.
“I mean we are going ice fishing, and you are doing crosswords like a grandmother.”
“I am a grandmother,” she muttered. “My spider plant produced three more plantlets last week.”
Fareeha, pulling on her jacket, poked her head around Reinhardt. “Angela, when was the last time you felt the warmth of a woman?”
“Fareeha,” Ana said, snapping her fingers.
Angela blatantly ignored her. “Ingrid, what’s a six-letter word for nosy?”
“I have no idea,” she said. She was rolling pie dough, Ana watching attentively, almost like a child. Though her daughter, ex-husband, current boyfriend and most of her friends would say that a child probably cooked better. Well, except for baking. She was actually good with that, which meant the pies, at least, weren’t in terrible jeopardy. She could also make lentil soup, which she’d brought in a crockpot when her and Reinhardt had arrived the night before; Fareeha had come a day earlier than that with Angela.
“Prying,” Ana said. She had never made homemade pie crust before, but it didn’t seem terribly difficult.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Zank you,” Fareeha said.
“You would never feel it if I injected an air pocket into your bloodstream,” Angela said, casually flipping to the next page of her crossword book.
Reinhardt quietly shooed Fareeha away, coming around to watch Ana knead pie crust and then roll it out, gently laying it over a glass pie pan and then tapping it into place. “Okay, I guess you can bake,” he said.
“You know how to test me, don’t you?” Ana turned, tilting her head to look up at him with her hands on her hips.
“Tease you, yes.” He bent down and kissed her, giving her backside a little pinch. She yelped, but she grinned into it and kissed him back. For a long while, she thought she was too old for spontaneity like this, too old and too busy and maybe a little too bitter as well. But she’d come to think it wasn’t the age of her, but the age of her old relationship, the damage years of world conflict had by keeping them apart, and bad damage control between the both of them. By the end, the romance was threadbare. She still cared for Sam deeply; they had been friends most of their lives, propped each other up during the worst years, the early ones full of combat and strife, and he’d given her a beautiful daughter…
But she loved Reinhardt.
Brigitte, having come up from her father’s workshop, blinked when happening upon the scene. “Oh, no. Now I have to deal with you two and my parents?”
“We are not that bad,” Ingrid rolled her eyes.
“You are that bad,” she said in tandem with Angela, both laughing.
“I don’t have to deal with this in my own house,” Ingrid mumbled, petulantly peeling an apple. She knew very well that Brigitte and Angela were both right in the matter, and in fact her and Torbjörn would probably win a “Most Grossly Affectionate Couple of Middling Age” award, if anyone wanted to suffer judging the competition. Second place would go to Reinhardt and Ana based off their current performance in the kitchen, one which was cut short by Fareeha yelling from the front entrance for Reinhardt to “get his ass in gear so I can kick it”.
“Where are you guys going?” Brigitte asked, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. It was one of the phenomenally rare occasions that she had it out of a ponytail.
“Ice fishing! Do you wish to come, young squire?” Reinhardt bellowed with a wide grin. He’d called Brigitte that since she was six. Unlike many children, she’d actually taken the nickname to heart and it showed in her armor manufacturing and habit of traveling around Europe with the aging crusader to dole out knightly justice where possible (and make sure he didn’t hurt himself in the process). Double-time now that Ana was fussing about how many times he ran straight into walls at his age.
“Oh, I dunno. Kind of cozy right now.”
“Reinharrrrdt,” Fareeha appeared then in her snow clothes. “Oh, come on, you’re not even dressed?”
“You know, I could go ice fishing.” Brigitte said suddenly.
Fareeha looked over dumbly for a moment before brightening. “You’re coming with us?”
“Yeah! Just let me get ready?”
“Sure!” Fareeha watched her go a moment and then huffed at Reinhardt. “You’re never on time.”
“It all started at my birth. I was late a full week, you know!”
She rolled her eyes and went down the hall. Ana smirked and double tapped Reinhardt’s arm, a signal that automatically had him bending over for a kiss. “You go, habibi. I think we’re supposed to eat the fish you catch.”
“Then we shall all starve,” Angela called.
“Angela, don’t make me get my sandal.”
“That’s child abuse, Ana.”
“You are no longer a child, so therefore it is no longer child abuse.”
“I…think that’s just assault?” Ingrid said cautiously.
“Oh, absolutely.” Ana replied, then gave Reinhardt a pat on his behind that left a floured handprint distinctly over one cheek of his jeans. “Now go, go. I want fish.”
“Fish, fish, fish,” he said, giving her a peck on the lips before actually leaving to suit up for the winter outside.
Ingrid started washing potatoes while Ana carefully laid a lattice of dough over the filled pies. She came over to take said pies and put them in the oven, pulling out the one she started earlier and setting it to cool. She gave Ana the scrubbed potatoes, a bowl for the skins, a bowl for the skinned potatoes and, after a moment’s consideration, a potato peeler, instead of a knife. She started taking out other ingredients for all she had planned for the next day, satisfied to hear the scrape of the peeler against the potatoes and no signs of medical emergency. The entrance door, after an unprecedented amount of time, lightly slammed shut. She waited a few more moments, then turned to Ana. “Do you know my daughter is incredibly gay for your daughter?”
“Do you know my daughter is incredibly, obtusely gay for your daughter?”
“Do you think that will improve?”
“If I am honest, Ingrid, your daughter will have to make the first move.”
“Ah, that’s fine then.” She took out her box of recipe cards, flicking through until she found the one for her grandmother’s semla. She knew it by heart, but the card on the counter was a habit. And maybe a bit of a mental comfort. “Lindholm women are not very patient.”
Brigitte was a squire on a quest with two parts. Part one was to make sure Reinhardt was okay. Considering they were only going to the lake down the hill from the Lindholm house, and that the lake ice was a solid 8 inches thick this year, he would be fine. He’d never fallen on the ice before, and she doubted he’d start now.
The second part of her quest was earning the heart of one beautiful, courageous, hilarious, strategically brilliant, romantically dense Helix Security Chief. This was a much bigger challenge. Her papa had already come down and bore a few holes for fishing earlier in the week. They came to the lake and put on their creepers to make it easier to walk on the ice; Reinhardt and Brigitte headed to three holes that were relatively close to each other. Fareeha went ahead to the little shed just off the lake where there were stools to sit on, as well as spare tackle, fishing line and the like. Reinhardt and Brigitte had brought the requisite ladle-like skimmers to pull slush from the fishing holes to clear them.
“You are quiet, Brigitte,” Reinhardt said. One of the only places he didn’t sound like he was shouting was out on the lake when the snow was heavy. Brigitte had always thought of the snow as mufflers on the world, taking the edges off all the sounds.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
She glanced up at him as she scooped out a cupful of slush, then glanced over her shoulder at the shed. Fareeha was outside of it, picking up three stools with one arm, which also held three boxes, and managing a set of poles under the other arm and a large box that Brigitte knew had enough bait, tackle and line for a party of seven or more. “Nothing,” she said.
“Mmmmm, I see. Well, then think of the fish, ja? Need them for dinner.”
“Right,” she said. She thanked Fareeha when she came with the supplies, who was cheerful as ever to be on the ice. It was a fond memory they both shared with Reinhardt, though she was also pretty sure it was one of the few positive things she had from time with her father. They all settled down, baiting and dropping their lines. Brigitte realized, as she sat on a little stool with her line down a hole, that ice fishing might not be an ideal sport to pick up girls. They were all sitting on tiny stools with butts and noses frozen, none inclined to speak too much for fear of steering away any fish below. Even then, she wasn’t about to try and flirt in front of her godfather.
Man, she should have thought it through more.
Thankfully, Reinhardt, like everyone else but Fareeha, had suspected for a long time that his dear goddaughter had big heart eyes for Fareeha and was fully prepared to give her a proper shot at it. As expected, he caught nothing in the first hour, whereas Fareeha had gotten three fish, and Brigitte one. Pretending to be miffed (alright, he wasn’t pretending too much) he eventually heaved himself to his feet and looked toward the center of the lake. “You’re stealing all my fish Fareeha.”
“Am not.” She smiled.
“I’ll prove it by going right oooveeer,” he gestured in the distance, “there, to that hole, far away from you and your fish stealing line.”
She laughed, covering her mouth. Brigitte wanted to kiss her. “Sure, sure, old man.”
“I am not old!”
“You’re old,” the girls said together.
“Ack, young people!” He waved a hand dismissively with a good-natured smile cutting into any sort of effect his grumpiness might have had, taking up his equipment and moving well out of earshot.
Brigitte said a silent thank you to whatever God might be listening and remained quiet for a while longer, making small, low-voiced conversation now and then over the next hour. She glanced over at Reinhardt at one point, and couldn’t quite see his expression, but by the way he turned to look at her over his shoulder, he was probably calling her chicken. And Brigitte did not like to be called chicken. “It’s nice to just spend time together like this, you know?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s great.” Fareeha smiled. She had a pile of fish by her. Brigitte had four. “I’ve always liked coming here for the holidays. Only time I really liked Canada. Christmas has never felt right warm, y’know?”
Brigitte did not know, she’d hardly left Europe. “Yeah, of course.” More time passed. “You know Fareeha I... really like you.”
Fareeha cocked her head to the side, seeming puzzled a second, then seemed to shrug to herself. “I like you too, Brigitte. You don’t have a stick up your butt like Angela sometimes.” She chuckled. “Like her too though.”
“Heh, yeah…. but…I mean, like, Fareeha I mean I like, really, really like you.”
Fareeha looked confused now. “Uh, yeah, me too. You’ve always been a good friend.”
“No, I mean I, I like you, like you.”
“Like…a friend?”
“No.”
“Best friend?”
Brigitte let out a growl of frustration, though she wasn’t sure if it was at Fareeha or herself. “No, I mean I-ugh! I like you in a gay way! I wanna kiss you on the lips with homosexual intent!”
One could see the lightbulb switch behind Fareeha Amari’s eyes. “Oh! OH!”
“Yes!” Brigitte exhaled in relief. At this point she was so glad to get the point across that she wouldn’t even be that sad if Fareeha said no. Actually, that was a complete lie, but it felt like it was true for a moment. Fareeha was suddenly very bashful, with most of her nose buried in the neck of her winter jacket. She mumbled. Brigitte would be annoyed if it wasn’t kind of cute. She asked her to speak up. She pulled her head out of her jacket and spoke, but too softly to hear. Brigitte asked her to speak up again, and again it was hardly a whisper, something about liking. “Oh goodness, Fareeha, can you speak up?”
“I really like you too!” She blurted at full volume that carried over the lake.
Brigitte smiled, glowing as the words washed over her. She finally got through her, she liked her back! She said it! Out loud! With her mouth! As the weight of it lifted, leaving her light and airy and excited, she leapt from her stool and tackled Fareeha, knocking her down to the ice as they both erupted into giggles.
Reinhardt’s laughter could be heard across the ice. Or it would have been, if either girl had been listening.
Ingrid whacked Torbjörn’s hand away from the pies with her elbow, never stopping the rolling of a meatball in her hand which immediately joined others in the massive pan on the stove. Torbjörn tried again and, again, was denied by Ingrid’s elbow.
“Inga,” he pouted.
“If you want pie you will wait like everyone else, Torby.”
“You torture me. What about-“
“If you want a meatball before tomorrow, you can wash your grease covered hands and roll one as long as you wait until they are all cooked.”
“So, if I want to eat, I help.”
“You help.”
“I help,” he repeated as an affirmation, washing his hands and settling into the work easily.
“Cute,” Angela commented half-jokingly, because it honestly was adorable.
“Settle down with a good woman and you too can be bossed around by your wife,” Torbjörn joked.
Angela waved her hand flippantly. “Settle down? I do not settle, Torbjörn, you know that.”
“Ah yes,” Ana interjected, returning from the pantry with salt and sugar. “You’re above it all, aren’t you Angela? Can’t bother you a bit.”
“Right you are there, Ana.” Angela said, looking over. “What are you doing now?”
“I’m making, uh,” she looked at the fridge. “Gravlax! The, the fish thing. Salt,” she said, holding up the jar. Another simple dish, with a portioned mix of salt and sugar that fresh salmon brined in for about 24 hours or so. Angela was quite fond of it, and Ingrid was happy to have found a dish for Ana to make “on her own” that would be impressive to screw up in any serious capacity. While she’d begun that, Torbjörn tried to swipe a meatball early, getting whacked yet again. But then the entrance burst open, and in walked the chattering trio with way more fish than was strictly necessary but was entirely appreciated. Ingrid turned immediately to thank them and guide Reinhardt, who was arguing with Fareeha about her line taking all his fish even from across the lake, to the room off the kitchen, where there was a table large enough to clean all the fish properly.
In her absence, Torbjörn finally got his meatball. Angela didn’t tell.
The next couple hours leading up to dinner was a mild frenzy. Reinhardt and Fareeha cleaned fish while Ana was finally shooed out of the kitchen so that Ingrid could tie up any loose ends before the next day when all the Lindholm children and grandchildren were arriving. As usual, everything that could be made ahead of time was, and everything that could be half done was as well, so the next day everyone could focus more on actually eating than cooking.
In preparation for a feast of kings, dinner was a light combination of fish and rice and whatever pickled vegetables were in the fridge. Cards came out, enough for everyone to play vändåtta while they drank whatever alcohol Ingrid had not put off limits until the next day-that is to say, beer. That said, Ingrid quit after a couple of rounds and elected to “sit and watch” which meant “sit and fall asleep on top of my husband”.
Angela, however, was the first to quit after three rounds and only a couple of beers. “You’re an old lady,” Fareeha snorted.
“An old lady that likes to sleep for twelve hours when she can,” Angela said affirmatively, wishing all luck with their game and a goodnight. They called their sleep wishes after her as she languidly made her way out of the dining room, around the doorway that led to a parlor and then to the front entrance, at which point she let herself walk normally, knowing no one could see the beers she’d snuck into either of the deep pockets of her sweatpants. Her room was on the second-floor left side, tucked into the corner of the house that faced back, toward the mountain, opposite the lake.
It had a narrow window facing outward. After her parents had died, Angela would sit by the window to watch snow fall when the nightmares were too much. Sometimes she saw moose or reindeer, once a brown bear that had stopped to sit on its haunches and look around. Her favorite was the lynx with two kits in tow and bounced and rolled in the snow like any other children. Either way, whatever had been outside that window had always been serene and otherworldly, a mark of beauty that hadn’t been touched by the war.
Well, except for now. Right now, what was outside the window was throwing pebbles at it and was a bouncing, long, willowy bundle of black that resembled an ink stain against the snow. The little break in its blackened armor revealed a set of eyes that were very obviously scrunched up in annoyance.
After the fifth pebble, she opened the window, gasping against the sudden freezing air. With no sound, and only a faint spot of purple where it once had stood, the ink stain manifested at her window. Or rather, in it. About halfway, with the legs thrashing around and hitting the side of the house.
“Stop that!” Angela whispered harshly, pulling on the ink stain, better known as Dr. Moira O’Deorain, until she got caught in the narrow window, prompting Angela to look up. “Your ass is stuck in the window.”
Moira, voice muffled by the scarf she had pulled over her nose, said, “it is my hips thank you!”
“It’s your ass, too.” Angela said in a louder whisper, rather unceremoniously twisting Moira to the side and pulling her through. The other woman just barely caught herself, preventing a crash that would have brought Reinhardt if not Ana and Ingrid running into the room. She might have been as skinny as a birch tree, but Moira was heavy. Angela closed the window.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph it’s cold out there.” Moira complained, peeling her scarf and knit cap off, followed by the jacket revealing a turtleneck beneath. Sat upon her knees on the floor, she rubbed her hands together and pouted up at Angela. In combination with hair flipping in front of her blue eye and otherwise sticking out wherever it pleased, it was unbearably adorable. “You were late. Very late.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she took the beer out of her pockets and put it on the bed, picking up Moira’s cold sodden clothes and draping them over the back of a chair. “I thought it was going to be a quick round when I texted you.”
“Mhm, uh huh, right,” Moira shook her head. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold and lightly freckled, a rare sight even for Angela, who’d seen the woman naked before she ever saw the freckles. She ran her fingers through her hair, settling it into something of an organized mess that gave her a roguish charm when she wanted. She slipped off her shoes, half laughing. “Last time I snuck through a window I was 16 and it was certainly not below freezing.”
Angela looked her over, slowly smiling. “So, I’m worth the trouble?”
“You are trouble.”
Angela sauntered up to her, put her hands on her cold cheeks and pulled her down into a kiss, the kind one tilted into, almost over-passionate but for the fact it was just like them to overdo everything. Example A: Moira traveling all the way to Gothenburg to sneak into her room for one night, because terrorists weren’t exactly on Ingrid’s guestlist. Even if the terrorism thing was a bit of a misnomer. Sort of. At least, she severed any direct connections after she became the Minister of Genetics in Oasis.
And Angela never professed to make the best romantic decisions. And in her defense, it was supposed to be a hate fueled one-night stand, but everything had gone perfectly, brilliantly, wonderfully wrong. Moira hardly broke the kiss to back up to the bed, sit down and pull Angela into her lap. A burst of laughter came from downstairs, and the redhead grinned against Angela’s lips. “How dangerous, so many other people here.”
“They’re drunk,” Angela smirked, reaching around Moira and picking up the two beers.
“A little thief, too. The angel sprouts horns.”
“Little ones,” she said, kissing her again.
They scooted further on the bed until Moira was leaning against the headboard, feet close to being off the edge while Angela was curled into her. They hadn’t seen each other in months, and Angela would be lying if she hadn’t spent the whole day thinking about pulling her lanky Irish tree through the window. They fully settled into the sweetness of each other, talking over their beers about this project or that one, the rare times Angela did something un-work related because she didn’t know how to use her vacation days, and Moira complained about petty Minister drama. They were soon sitting cheek to cheek while Moira scrolled through her phone, which contained many, many pictures of a new puppy she had acquired in those few months they’d not seen each other. “I want you to come see him.”
Angela tilted her head toward her. “You want me to come to Oasis?”
“I do.”
“Do I have to come in through your window?”
Moira laughed. “No, no. It’s a penthouse.”
“I think that is called a “humblebrag”.”
“Oh, there’s nothing humble about it.”
Angela rolled her eyes, finishing off her beer and shifting to kiss Moira on the lips. Then the cheek. Then down to the jaw, and further down her neck. Moira was no fool and was easily slid down until her head was on the pillows, Angela straddling her hips. She grinned like an imp, sliding her hands up Angela’s thighs, then crept a hand under her shirt, Angela giggling. Just as Moira had her hand on her breast, the door was flung wide open by Ingrid.
“Goodnight Ange-“ She made a choking noise. Moira and Angela, both frozen, slowly turned their heads to look at her, eyes wide as saucers. Ingrid stared back. Angela took Moira’s arm and slowly pulled her hand out from under her shirt.
“Angela,” Ingrid started, stopping. Her cheeks were apple-red from drinking. “Angela, why is there a terrorist in your bedroom?”
Angela looked down at the woman held firmly in place between her thighs and tried to think of the quickest way to end both of their existences. “Um. She’s my girlfriend.”
“What?” Torbjörn appeared and ducked slightly to look under his wife’s arm and now he, too, was staring. Then he was out of sight, yelling, “Ana, there’s a terrorist in here.”
The two women carefully pulled away from each other, sitting on the edge of the bed like guilty teenagers. Sooner than either would have liked (they would have preferred never) pretty much everyone was in the doorway, peering in. No one even noticed that Fareeha and Brigitte were coming out of the same bedroom. Ana came to the front, not believing it at all. Moira’s face was so red with embarrassment she probably glowed brighter than the Christmas tree downstairs.
Ana leaned a little funny as she held out her palms. “What the fuck, Angela?”
Angela breathed deeply, then froze. Because, well, what the fuck? No one had known a thing.
“If I may, Captain?” Moira said in an unusually light tone, surprised her voice wasn’t shaking. “I’m simply visiting. I intended to vanish before morning. I did not mean to be a bother to anyone.”
“Well, she’s a polite terrorist,” Torbjörn noted.
“Moira,” Ana said, “last I recall, you were a minister in Oasis, and Angela wanted your head on a platter.”
“We cleared some things up at a scientific convention.”
“What exactly did you clear up?”
“The head on a platter part.”
“We’re together,” Angela said. “For the last…. year?”
“Thereabouts.”
Reinhardt looked the most surprised. Torbjörn had paid little attention to the goings-on in Overwatch outside of his own work, and because of this Ingrid also knew very little about Moira, so all looked to Ana, who said with a rather final tone, “I am too drunk for this. As long as Talon doesn’t storm us in the middle of the night, I don’t care.”
“Oh, I left that business a while ago,” Moira said.
Ana threw her hand in the air. “Alright. Ingrid, Torbjörn, this is your house. Give her a beer, throw her out the window, I don’t care, I’m going to bed. Reinhardt, we’re going to bed.
Reinhardt cleared his throat and stepped aside to let her pass, giving Angela a little finger wave on his way out.
Torbjörn and Ingrid looked at each other, speaking in telepathy unlocked after over 20 years of marriage. Torbjörn nodded and left. Ingrid waved. “Well. Get some sleep. Tomorrow is busy. And ah, nice to meet you, Moira. I think. Please come through the door next time.”
Moira ducked her head. “Of course.”
The woman left, leaving Brigitte and Fareeha, the latter of whom was smirking. “I never thought I’d get to see you in actual trouble Angela.”
Angela met her eye. “Never thought I’d see you finally get a girlfriend, Fareeha.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Angela looked pointedly behind her. “I don’t think Brigitte owns a “fuck bitches, get swole” shirt that’s what, two sizes too big?”
Brigitte squeaked and scooted out of sight. Fareeha grabbed the doorknob to Angela’s room, said, “touché” and left. In the sudden dimness Angela and Moira fell back on the bed and sighed. Both knew that could have gone better or simply not happened at all. “Perhaps consider locking your door before sneaking your secret girlfriend into the house,” Moira said casually.
“Ah, you know typically I don’t find a reason for a lock. Only certain circumstances.”
“What sort of circumstances are those, Angela?”
The doctor thought for a moment, then stood up. Moira propped herself up on her elbows, watching her walk to the door and then make eye contact as she locked it.
“Take off your pants,” Angela said.
Moira, not one for unneeded questions, quickly did just that.
The next day the Lindholm home welcomed back many of its past residents, the overall population increasing from 8 to almost 30 between all the children, spouses and grandchildren. They gathered in pockets of chatter, Brigitte hopping between to hug siblings and joke with nieces and nephews. She gladly pointed out Fareeha as her girlfriend. She also gladly kissed her in front of her parents, who were both content that the girl had finally gone ahead and been blunt about it, because the doe eyes every time the two were in the same room had gone on far too long. Besides, they knew Ana, which meant they knew with certainty that if Fareeha did anything stupid, she’d be set straight rather quickly, as would Brigitte in the reverse situation. Though both parents were sure the stupidest thing the girls would do is U-Haul it.
They did not know then, but the girls were definitely going to U-Haul it.
Ingrid always tried to do everything in the kitchen, and every year Torbjörn and some mixture of her children would shoo her out to go relax and enjoy herself with everyone else. This time it was Torbjörn, their eldest Maja, and Ana who took over. Torbjörn was taking care of drinks while Maja organized platters for some of the older children to carry out to the tables set around. Ana had pulled out the gravlax from the night before, remembering that Ingrid said for that one to only take 12 hours in the brine.
“How long for the fish, Papa?” Maja asked, pulling semla buns from the second oven, cleverly hidden as if it were a cabinet in the corner since it was only used for when the family was gathering.
“About twenty minutes,” he said.
Neither noticed Ana putting foil on a tray and putting the gravlax in the oven.
“So, uh, cellular regeneration?” Reinhardt said awkwardly, standing beside Moira. He was the only person at the party taller than her.
“Yes, that’s my area of interest.”
“So, you…regenerate cells.”
She sighed. “Reinhardt, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to try and talk to me if you don’t want to.”
He exhaled, scanning the various pockets of people before finding his person, his pretty little Egyptian person to be exact, and managed to remove himself from Moira with some grace and quickly enter his beloved’s orbit. “Ana, I don’t think I’ve seen you spend that much time in a kitchen…ever.” He grinned.
“Rogue,” she said, taking his glass of glögg and sipping. “And I haven’t burned a single thing, so take that!”
“And where shall I take it?”
“Oh-to, to the bank or something! I don’t know the term.” She sipped again, smiling, warming from the alcohol. Well, until he took it back at least. “And no disasters.”
“As long as I don’t try and talk to anyone with a doctorate.” He joked, sitting down at the dining table with a big whoosh of air. A few Lindholm’s passed by to talk, and when introduced to Ana, tease Reinhardt for finally getting the girl he had such a horrible crush on all these years around his arm.
“You had it for me that bad?” Ana raised a brow, half-grinning.
“I still have it that bad for you,” he responded.
Ana felt her heart flutter and quickly planted herself in his lap. They smiled at each other, and kissed, Ana lightly running her fingers over his sweater before snuggling close, head against his chest. The fabric was soft, and he was warm. To be idle with a man who loved her so much was something she’d missed, and she hadn’t realized quite how badly she missed it. “Thank you, Rein. For bringing Fareeha and I here.”
“I’m only happy I could.” His hand rested on her hip easily, thumb playing idly with one of the loops on her jeans. She made him forget they weren’t young as they once were, and he didn’t think he could ask for a better feeling.
“I want to come next year,” She said.
Reinhardt grinned and clapped, very softly. She laughed, took his hand and kissed the back of his knuckles.
“I don’t think I’ve seen Uncle Rein that happy in ages,” Brigitte said where she stood in a corner of the kitchen with Fareeha where they had a line of sight to the older couple across the room. She was still wearing the fuck bitches get swole shirt underneath a sweater. It still smelled a little like Fareeha, like myrrh and cinnamon.
“Same for Mum.” Fareeha leaned back against the counter, arm around Brigitte. She still couldn’t believe it, though, really, it made sense that Brigitte started things. At least one of them had to be the not useless lesbian. “I wish she would have gotten the divorce over with a long time ago…but it’s still a happy ending, I think.”
“I dunno. Is your dad happy too?”
“He’s happy as long as Mum is happy.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She half mumbled, dashing away old arguments that popped into mind. She wished plenty of things about her parents, mostly concerning that they should have split and been friends years ago, but she couldn’t very well do anything about it now. But she could be happy for Reinhardt and her mother. And she could visit her dad next Christmas. And she could be happy for Angela, too, even if she ultimately thought her romance of choice was bizarre, at a minimum. Both because she hated the woman (or had hated?) and the woman herself. Her memories of Moira were vague, but they mostly consisted of curt remarks, purple ties and being intimated because she was tall enough to bonk her head into some of the hanging lights in the Overwatch base hallways.
She’d managed not to bonk into anything in the Lindholm house so far. Currently she was weaving with surprising grace through the kitchen, until she stopped at the main oven and leaned over. “Uh, pardon me everyone, but there’s no timer on this fish.”
“We took the fish out.” Torbjörn said.
“Then why is there a fish in this oven?’
“What?” Torbjörn actually paid attention and furrowed his brow. “Inga, what’s this fish in the oven?”
“What?” Now she was in there and gathered with the other two around the oven. Ingrid furrowed her brow as well before jumping away, flinging the door open and using a nearby kitchen towel to grab the pan and pull it out. She stared, then put it on the top of the oven, pulling the door shut.
“That looks like salmon,” Moira said.
“That’s because it is,” Ingrid said.
Ana appeared now, and all eyes looked to her. She looked at the fish, then the group. “Sorry, did the timer go off?”
“Ana, is this the gravlax?” Ingrid asked, slowly.
“Uhm…yes.”
“Ana…you don’t cook gravlax.”
Ana blinked. “I heard 20 minutes for the fish.”
“I was talking about the trout,” Torbjörn said.
“Oh, so…” There was an awkward pause. “Why wouldn’t you cook the fish?”
“It’s, it’s brined, so, so no cooking needed, and you can just, put it on bread. It’s sort of like a…a sashimi, I guess.”
“What’s that?”
“Sushi without the rice, Mum.” Fareeha called. “Did you forget about sushi, too?”
“Wait, sushi is raw fish?”
There was a collective sigh in the kitchen. Reinhardt, at the table, had his face in his hands. Ana didn’t notice. Maja scooted between her parents, looking at the fish, and went and got a knife. She cut a thin slice of the fish that had been in the oven only God knew how long and ate it. “Huh.”
Her parents each raised a brow. She cut a couple more slices and handed them to Torbjörn and Ingrid, who ate and both seemed surprised.
“Well, you screwed it up well.” Torbjörn said.
Ana cocked her head to the side and was soon passed a piece of fish with everyone else. “Oh, it’s smokey!”
“It actually just tastes like…warm smokier gravlax,” Ingrid said in wonder. “It makes sense. Why did I never-well. Nevermind. It’s a little different, but just as tasty.”
“A Christmas miracle,” Brigitte mused.
From there Ingrid shooed everyone away, plating up the gravlax and putting it on the table with half a dozen other dishes, one of several spreads that would go out throughout the day. Ana went back to Reinhardt, as happy with her accidental success as he was surprised. Brigitte and Fareeha filled their plates and moved from the kitchen to a small corner near a window, chattering with nieces and nephews that came around to pester their aunt and curiously ask for whatever fantastic tales the younger Captain Amari could spin.
Observing it all for a moment, Moira weaved quietly through to a couch near a different window, further down from Brigitte and Fareeha, of which contained one Angela Ziegler with her legs tucked up under her, looking out at the snow. She didn’t startle when Moira sat next to her, copying her pose but with a glass of wine in the hand that hung over the back of the couch. Angela turned her head and smiled softly. “I heard you saved the fish.”
“Possibly,” Moira responded.
“Look at you. Make a decent hero when you try.”
Moira rolled her eyes and slid her hand over to rest on Angela’s thigh. She exhaled, looking over the Sea of Swedes around her. It was fascinating how private spaces became in the middle of a crowd. Their voices were just wisps that melded with the many, and their figures meshed together like the many strokes of a painter’s brush so it was only the impression of the thing and not the thing itself. Much more potent, in her mind. Then again, she figured she was just thinking too philosophically again. “So, this is your family,” she said, idly drawing patterns on Angela’s leg. She was thinking of her own, far away in Ireland.
“What the war left me,” she responded. “And I’m very thankful for it.” She laid her hand over Moira’s, prompting her to meet her eyes. “Could be yours too. Eventually.”
“Eventually,” she said. She looked around, at Ingrid and Torbjörn laughing with a grandchild. Ana and Reinhardt, who she’d long suspected would fall into each other’s orbits, laughing like they were years and years back from this. And the two girls in their own corner speaking with the hushed tones of new love. It was all a sort of mural, this mixed up little family.
One which, she thought quietly, she would indeed like to join.
Eventually.