[ Reinhardt hasn't been to her home yet, come to think of it. And what a first invitation it would be— she'd discussed with Jack and tried to convince him to tell the crusader himself. It was starting to unravel, his intricate facade he had kept (not so) well, and Rein didn't deserve to be the last to know. Really, he should've been the first.
Angela had been an accident, in the end, but it seemed to be the beginnings of an avalanche. Now the mountainside was sleeting off and all Jack could do was struggle to stay atop it, and his hesitations were evident to her no matter how she brought it up— gently, straightforward, nudging him along, giving him a shove. She didn't want to continue to pester him so she takes it into her own hands, at least knowing she can mitigate the fallout and they can have a proper discussion after.
It's cruel to go about it this way, though, isn't it? To invite him over, unknowing, just to say she wishes to speak with him and catch up. How unbeguiling. No one deserves that either, much less Reinhardt. The man who's always given his all to those around him, protected them through thick and thin.
He's invited in and she finds her biggest mug to fill for him and there's plates of apfelstreusel, with a mighty slice for him and a dainty sliver for herself, settling at the bar beside him. The middle of the kitchen practically glows— there's gold-red apples in a golden wire basket in the middle, the ceiling yawns above them with open timbering, and sun shines right through all the windows around the little cottage. This is the biggest room for the biggest man she knows, and it's still warm from the oven with spices in the air. The streusel's still hot.
Her fork sinks in to scoop up the first bite, passing through the dollop of whipped cream on the side, and then right into her mouth. Much better than her last attempt. ]
You said your home was in the first region? I hope you didn't have to travel too far, then, and we can pretend we're nearly neighbors.
( closed ) to reinhardt
Angela had been an accident, in the end, but it seemed to be the beginnings of an avalanche. Now the mountainside was sleeting off and all Jack could do was struggle to stay atop it, and his hesitations were evident to her no matter how she brought it up— gently, straightforward, nudging him along, giving him a shove. She didn't want to continue to pester him so she takes it into her own hands, at least knowing she can mitigate the fallout and they can have a proper discussion after.
It's cruel to go about it this way, though, isn't it? To invite him over, unknowing, just to say she wishes to speak with him and catch up. How unbeguiling. No one deserves that either, much less Reinhardt. The man who's always given his all to those around him, protected them through thick and thin.
He's invited in and she finds her biggest mug to fill for him and there's plates of apfelstreusel, with a mighty slice for him and a dainty sliver for herself, settling at the bar beside him. The middle of the kitchen practically glows— there's gold-red apples in a golden wire basket in the middle, the ceiling yawns above them with open timbering, and sun shines right through all the windows around the little cottage. This is the biggest room for the biggest man she knows, and it's still warm from the oven with spices in the air. The streusel's still hot.
Her fork sinks in to scoop up the first bite, passing through the dollop of whipped cream on the side, and then right into her mouth. Much better than her last attempt. ]
You said your home was in the first region? I hope you didn't have to travel too far, then, and we can pretend we're nearly neighbors.