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Reinhardt’s five minutes of fame as the posterboy of Overwatch hadn’t lasted long, but he didn’t miss those days. Sure, he loved the attention--who didn’t love attention?--but he was just as happy to see his friends pose for posters and interviews. The idea of Gabriel stuffed into a business-casual suit, denied his beanie, with a microphone in his uncomfortable face was enough to bring Reinhardt to tears of joy in a manner of seconds even years after Overwatch ultimately failed.
Sure, yes, good old Jack made good posters too, but nothing would beat a grouchy Reyes with a coffee and a loose tie standing in the middle of the watch point like he smelled something rotten. Half the time, Reinhardt would launch himself toward Gabriel to ask what smelled so bad, and Reyes would, in classic Reyes fashion, reply: “Journalism is what stinks.” He was only ever met with Reinhardt’s uproarious laughter, and even at his grumpiest Gabriel couldn’t hide that tiny pleased smirk that crossed his face when Reinhardt laughed at his jokes.
When Ana Amari began featuring on the posters, however, Reinhardt just couldn’t place his finger on what about this made him so happy about this. He didn’t delight in her discomfort in interviews and press conferences as he did when young Jesse was forced through the motions, and she didn’t pose as dynamically as Lena did when given the opportunity, so she made for a pretty...typical agent.
Reinhardt remembered standing there staring at one of the promotional materials for a televised press conference with the heroes of the omnic crisis--normal stuff, really--and trying to think what it was about Ana that made her stand out to him. Was it her beautiful brown eyes, always affixed to the horizon as though she had a plan for the betterment of humanity? Maybe. Was it her long black hair unspooling behind her in the breeze? Maybe. Was it the striking image of a woman with a tattoo emblazoned on her face? Maybe.
“Should I be flattered that you’re lost in thought looking at a photo of me?” she’d asked him, coming up behind him with a step so soft she might have been a ghost.
He’d whirled with a broad grin on his face and scooped her up in his arms, taking precaution not to crush her spine, and spun around gleefully.
“Of course I should be lost in thoughts about your beauty!” he’d shouted, laying on the moves subtle-like, as was his style.
She’d laughed, as she always did, and he’d put her down, as he always did. They talked, as they always did. She’d touched his arm, and he’d touched her hair, and she’d touched his face, and he’d kneeled to talk to her daughter, and she’d lifted her daughter on her shoulders so that little Fareeha could speak to him face to face--as they always did.
Reinhardt hadn’t known he was in love with her, although most everyone else had. Perhaps Jack Morrison, as oblivious as he was, hadn’t noticed but everybody else had. They’d seen his dopey stares after she’d left. They’d heard his voice grow softer, almost gentle (though not quite, let’s be real, this was Reinhardt we’re talking about) when he spoke to her. He practically proclaimed his love for Ana Amari with every breath he took, without ever realizing how smitten he was.
When Overwatch disbanded, and they all wandered their separate ways, he did his best to keep in touch with her. The two would call each other and talk for hours of their adventures, or lack thereof. She talked of Fareeha most, of course, but her bounty hunting came up from time to time.
One of his most vivid memories was the time they managed to meet up in Spain for a weekend. Their hair was grey by this time, and she was just as beautiful as she’d been in her youth. They’d met at a tiny cafe, and talked over tea. He could barely hear her voice through his own muddle of thoughts. His eyes lingered on her lips, and her jawline as she turned her head, and her eyelashes as she glanced down at her drink, and he suddenly knew that he loved her more than he’d ever loved a man or a woman in his life.
This realization came to him with a small gasp, and it was perhaps the only time he had been genuinely subtle in his life. If Ana noticed, at least, she didn’t say anything.
The weekend passed much as their interactions always had. They laughed, she gently touched his arm, he lifted her up to sit on one of his shoulders when she grew tired of walking. She left him as she always had.
As soon as she’d left, he’d sat by himself for a while and reevaluated his relationship with the idea of love. He’d always thought of it as something he could experience for anyone. He’d loved Gabriel, and Jack, and Angela, and Genji, and even a few omnics who had been his friends during the war. He’d loved Gabriel’s ward, Jesse. He’d loved Brigitte as a daughter. He’d loved the waiter he’d met once in Quebec with a charming smile.
But now, he found, those loves were somehow dwarfed. He still felt them, of course, but when he thought of love it would forever be followed with the thought of Ana.
He’d looked at his hands and felt that years had been wasted on foolishness and flirtation. Next time he saw her, he vowed, he would tell her of his feelings. What’s more, he determined; they would kiss.
The thought invigorated him as he planned to meet with her again for two months.
After those two months were up, however, news came.
She was dead.
Talon had gotten her.
Some sniper, a woman who had once been a friend of Lena’s if he remembered correctly, had struck her right through the scope of Ana’s rifle. Her body hadn’t been recovered from the field, but after what Talon had done to Amelie, to Gabriel, who knew what they wanted with Ana’s body. Fareeha, all grown, was on the news during Ana’s symbolic funeral. She did not cry. She was stony faced and firm, as she’d been since childhood.
Reinhardt had to pay a contractor to fix the wall he punched a hole through when he found out.
Mourning wasn’t a strong suit of his. He’d lost so much during the war, he’d thought he’d gotten used to pain. He thought that after his mentor had lost his life, he’d become bitter to pain. He’d worked through it, become a stronger man who could now face the loss of his allies. When Jack and Gabriel had been bombed to smithereens, he’d come away from it stronger, he thought. Even with tears flowing, as they always did at the slightest prompting, he’d become stronger. He knew how to mourn now--he’d moved on.
But with Ana, and a love so new to him, he could not simply move on. He was not stronger in her wake. He was weaker, so, so much weaker. He was inconsolable for the better part of a year. Brigitte, bless her soul, had helped him through much. His fathers, his siblings, his cousins, his entire family reached out to him and sought to help him. He appreciated their help, and was eventually able to smile again.
He and Brigitte began touring the world, doing good where they needed to, simply enjoying the world as it was. She’d felt that he needed more time out in the world, as that had been his way of life in his hey-day. She was right, really. He was old, now. He took what joy he could from watching sunsets all over the world, from suiting up and fighting off gangsters and young men with intent to do harm.
He was back in Germany when Overwatch was recalled, and almost back to his old self.
He stood at Gibraltar, out of his armor for a change, simply resting as the young ones took care of business abroad. He found himself with a cup of coffee dwarfed in his giant hands, leaning against a counter as he looked at some “vintage” Overwatch posters that had been hung up by Winston in celebration of the return.
She was there. Her black hair whipping behind her in the wind, her eyes turned toward the future with a determination he’d never be able to match. His eyes filled with tears, but he brushed them away without shame. If Angela passed him in the hallway, she might offer him a tissue, but otherwise everyone would be used to such a display. Gabriel had once told him that Reinhardt wouldn’t be Reinhardt if he were without tears, and this was meant to reassure him that none at Overwatch would judge him harshly for a display of emotions.
He’d appreciated it then, as a young man, but now such things wouldn’t affect him at all.
After all, the love of his life was dead. He was entitled to indulge himself by looking at old pictures of her face.
“Should I be flattered that you’re lost in thought looking at a photo of me?” she asked him, coming up behind him with a step so soft she might have been a ghost.
For the second time in his life, Reinhardt Wilhelm turned to Ana Amari with the softest of gasps.
The coffee mug shattered on the floor as his hands went limp in shock.
“Ana,” he whispered reverently. Tears flowed down his face, unbidden and unacknowledged. A trembling smile formed the words, “Of course I should be lost in thoughts about your beauty.”
She moved toward him and waited for him to kneel so that she could reach his face. He did so, like a knight before his queen. She touched his face gently, her calloused fingers tracing his scar. His hands shook as he reached out toward her cheek as well, looking at her eye patch without a single question in his heart.
“You old dog,” she said affectionately. “I’m not quite so beautiful as I was on that poster, no?”
“You’re beautiful,” he replied immediately. His voice was insistent as his large thumb caressed her face.
“You’re a scoundrel,” she said with a smile.
“I’m in love,” he said.
“Oh, did someone tell you that?” she replied teasingly. She didn’t need to tell him that she loved him too.
“Only my heart!” His bravado made her smile, as it had always done.
“That old thing again?” she said, and if he didn’t know any better he could have sworn that her remaining eye was filling with tears despite her smile.
He drew her close in a hug, careful not to crush her spine, as he’d always done. For a moment, this was all he needed. Ana was alive, and in his arms, and she knew that he loved her. He remembered, however, the vow he’d made to himself in Spain all those years ago.
“Ana.” He pulled back slightly, so that he could see her face. She looked genuinely confused, as though he were deviating from some script she’d planned out in her head.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I can explain the whole--” she began, almost babbling for fear that he’d reprimand her for allowing him to believe that she had died.
“I know you can,” he said, his old face breaking into a smile. “But for now, I only have one question.”
“Yes, Reinhardt?”
“May I kiss you?”
Her eye widened in shock, and her subsequent smile replaced the expression in less than a second.
She closed the small space between them in less than a moment, and her lips found his. After years of being in love with this woman, he was able to kiss her for the first time. He held her close to him and pressed his lips to hers, and knew that no matter what had happened in the past, and no matter what happened in the future, he would stay by Ana’s side.