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Reinhardt has waited for years to say anything, one of the few times in his life that he’s ever kept anything quiet. He has spent years watching her, reading into almost every action and word she says, trying to push it out of his head when they’re out on missions, trying to stay professional.
When he’s trying to sleep, she floats through his head, a pleasant dream. The scent of the sharp spices of her favorite tea, the way the tattoo under her eye moves when she smiles, the sharp bite of her wit when Gabe or Jack get a little too uptight. He spends hours with her, on missions, in meeting rooms, eating, relaxing. Her presence is comforting, and sometimes, he lets himself imagine what it would be like to court her, to actually ask her to go out for an evening with him.
But then, it seems, the world gets in the way. Missions, errands, Fareeha’s needs, chores, it just doesn’t feel right - regardless, days, weeks, months, years slip by and still he says nothing. He watches Fareeha grow up, and watches her mother become a fierce protector, sees how motherhood shapes her character as her daughter ages. Time passes, gray streaks across her hair, and she’s still as beautiful as ever. And still, Reinhardt can’t understand why for once, he can’t break his silence.
There are so many justifications. It’s not professional, because Fareeha is so young, because they’re just so busy right now there’s no time for anything romantic, because Jack and Gabriel would disapprove. His reasons stack up, brick by brick, building a wall between them that he carefully tends to, keeping his heart safe behind it.
Ana, too, keeps quiet, for many of the same reasons. She allows him to be an amusing daydream, nothing more. It doesn’t matter if she keeps finding herself thinking about him, appreciating how his voice sounds when he says her name, the easy way he moves despite his muscular bulk, the crisp aroma of the soap he uses, or the way his hair is always mussed up when he arrives to morning briefings, just minutes out of the shower.
He’s comforting to her, in a life that has very few comforts. Some part of him has always reminded her of home, inasmuch as a large German man can remind an Egyptian army brat of that. His humor has none of the sheer oddity of Torbjorn’s jokes, his seriousness none of the harsh edges that Jack and Gabriel have. She knows him, and the shift of his emotions, the flow of his thoughts, almost as well as she knows her own.
That’s the nature of working as a unit, she knows - you get to know your people. If you don’t, you can’t function. She’s spent hours justifying herself, telling herself how easily she can predict Gabriel’s plans too, or how she knows the way Jack takes his coffee. But, she reminds herself, she doesn’t daydream about what Jack would feel like pressed up against her, or what Gabe sleeps like at night.
Years pass, and they settle into the easy camaraderie of life-long friends. They know everything about the other, an intimacy that is both forced by circumstance and a welcome refuge, where they have nothing to hide.
Reinhardt is there when Fareeha turns 18 and is out the door the same day, angry and defiant. When Ana breaks down, all her fears for her daughter bubbling over from choked-back fear and anger, he reminds her of the strong, proud daughter she raised, gives her a safe space to shout and rage, and makes her smile again when the initial storm has passed. And Ana is there every year on the anniversary of the Crusader’s last stand at Eichenwalde, when he’s taciturn and gruff, still caught up in guilt and grief from decades earlier. She blocks his calendar, making sure he can spend the day alone if he needs, and spends the evening with him, an understanding ear when he’s ready to talk.
And after years of this, of stability, support, and solidity, she’s gone. The potential had always hovered over their lives, but the fear had faded, somewhat. You couldn’t be afraid every day of your life, you couldn’t live that way. But now the fear had caught up with them, and Ana’s body was lost somewhere, abandoned in a rush evacuation.
A fog hung over the whole team, but Jack and Gabriel forged ahead. No time to lose. Reinhardt barely ate for weeks. It wasn’t the same without her. A constant haze hung around him - food had no flavor, the sky had no color. He should have known, he thought. He should have said something. He’d missed so many opportunities, so many fleeting moments where a single word could have changed things, but now the door had slammed closed. Another layer of regret and grief to add onto his life. For a man who talked so much, how could these words never have found their way out of his mouth?
A world away, Ana doesn’t regret her choice yet. She should have told him, maybe, but she can’t go back. She’d kept quiet about her own failures - the one thing she found she couldn’t share with Reinhardt. The failures and fears that crept quietly into her head at night were overwhelming, a cascade of regrets and disappointments. She and Reinhardt talked about everything, but she couldn’t let him know how this dragged at her. She wanted him to always look at her as if she was competent, smart, strong, not like the failure of a woman she felt like. To see the changed look on his face would be too much to bear.
She hadn’t planned anything, but when the opportunity presented itself, she let her failures pull her under. And so she’d found herself alone in a hospital, teeth gritted through the pain of her ruined eye, planning where she might go next, and how to keep herself secret. This was a problem she had to deal with herself - she needed time.
More years pass, and she feels like there’s a hollow in her life. Over all her years, she has never really, truly been alone. She’s had family, the military, Fareeha, the strike team - there was rarely even a few minutes where she could be by herself. But now, wherever she goes, she goes by herself, loneliness following her like a loyal dog. Sometimes, she wishes she could at least call, just to hear their voices. To hear her Fareeha, to know she’s okay, becoming the soldier she always dreamed of being. To hear Reinhardt say her name and tell her one of his overblown war stories in the most dramatic fashion, just so she could hear him laugh again.
She keeps an eye on the papers, and pays careful attention to Overwatch. It doesn’t go unnoticed when Reinhardt’s appearances slowly fade away before they announce his retirement, and when Jack makes more and more impassioned statements to the press, defending their organization monthly, then weekly. Maybe it wasn’t all worth it, if this is what it comes to. When the Swiss HQ goes up in flames, she’s ashamed to admit that she feels relief. A tightness she hadn’t recognized releases in her chest as she watches the news videos, listening to the anchors breathlessly talk about how it’s assumed both Morrison and Reyes perished in the explosion.
With time comes distance, and maybe now she can let it go, even as she mourns both Jack and Gabriel. Maybe now, Overwatch can just be the past, maybe where it should have been all along. But she still can’t help but think of how Reinhardt would have reacted, and of how much it would have wounded him.
Years later, when the Recall goes out, Reinhardt is one of the first to answer the call. Armor packed, rocket hammer in hand, and Brigitte in tow, he’s on a direct flight to Gibraltar almost before he’s done reading the message. He’s old enough now to know there aren’t always second chances, and he won’t be missing this one. If Overwatch will rise again, he wants to be there leading the charge.
He’d forgotten what it felt like - the heady feeling of a team all working together, making plans, getting things done, building new equipment and tools. The old habits came right back as if he’d never skipped a beat, and Brigitte told him she’d never seen him smile so much.
Every so often, though, his stomach drops for a moment, triggered by something he can’t quite put his finger on. Sitting in the common room, walking out to the training ground, helping out in the kitchen. Weeks go by, and he finally realizes - she’s not there. When he’s in the kitchen, he’s expecting her and Fareeha to walk in any minute, keen on stealing a bit of whatever he’s cooking. Or on the training ground, it feels like something’s been cut out of the picture because she’s not set up in her usual practice spot, crisp Overwatch blue bright against the gray sky behind her.
That’s when he realizes it won’t be the same. It wasn’t necessarily Overwatch he was missing, it was Ana. He loved his work - how could you not love working together to make the world a better place? But without her, the soul was missing. The eagerness he felt each morning to see her at the breakfast table, the flush of pleasure when she laughed at one of his jokes - all those would be missing, and always would be.
He resigns himself to it, a different life. Different, but still good. There is always work to be done, and now he has a team to work with again. He buries himself in it, enjoying feeling useful again, finding all sorts of tasks around the watchpoint to engage in. He cooks, discusses plans, cleans up the training ground, works out, helps the others set up new equipment, does anything he can to keep himself moving. At night, when the soreness sets in, he has no regrets, though he feels his age. He can be useful, and that is all that matters.
And then one morning, there’s a strange figure on the base, a slim silhouette, standing near the overlook, gazing out at the ocean. He’d missed the briefing that morning, but new agents have been arriving every day, all responding to Winston’s call. He heads over to introduce himself, having designated himself the unofficial tour guide of the watchpoint, which the others are more than happy to allow him.
When she turns to face him, words fail him, as they always have when it comes to her. Her hair is carefully plaited, curled around her shoulder in a braid, an eyepatch crossing over the left side of her face, and wrinkles form at the corner of her good eye as she smiles at him, the tattoo under her eye faded with age.
He can barely believe she is real, this living ghost, a second chance come to life. Too late, he realizes she is talking, and he didn’t hear a word of it, caught up in looking at her, taking in every bit of her he’d been missing for so long. “You’re looking as lovely as ever,” he breathes, reaching out a hand towards her, and a piece of himself comes back as he says it.
Her hand joins with his. “I’ve missed you,” she says simply.
He smiles. Maybe this time, he’ll find the words. He won’t waste this second chance, not like he did when they were young.