PROMPT - What would happen if they had been apart, relieved from duty, fired, for a lot of years, and had a reunion of some sort? Would they be huggy-huggy, or just grab a plate of macaroni and sit while they go through old photos of Scout getting his butt whooped?
A bar would be the place to meet - somewhere off-track in the backroads of the world, the dust and grit reminding them of what used to be their home, their base. The bar is falling apart; a wrecked old shell that never really thrived. Perhaps a handful of the mercenaries had wandered in before on a war-less day. The liquor is the same. The spider-webs and groaning jukebox have not moved in the last fifteen years. The upholstery is still in tatters and each gust of wind and sand causes the window frames to moodily creak. An odd lone stranger or two sat at a seat on their own from time to time, only interested in finding the bottom of their glass.
Engineer arrives first - he never left America, and drove to the bar with mixed feelings. He missed everyone on his team and was looking forward to seeing them, but somehow he felt nervous. Things certainly change over time, even if the bar and its roomy, wretched booths have not. He slips into one of said booths after ordering a beer. He had expected to be first. He had no idea where the others truly went, besides a sparse guess of the Heavy moving to his home country, and the Scout going back to visit his family. Engie had brought a little box of things with him, just in case - a few photographs of his new(ish) house and gadgets he had built, a few faded snapshots of their time in the war together, worn-out hats and gloves aged from wear and tear.
The Sniper trails in, the Demoman close behind him; they are already laughing at something and spot the American immediately. Their arms are stretched wide, and they quickly come over. Snipers skin has aged - a tan making him glow but his face is marred with lines both new and old. His hands are in fingerless gloves, their tips stained from tobacco and dotted with calluses. The Demoman had barely changed besides his hair being longer. His remaining eye had sunken in slightly with age but his grin was wider than ever as he slapped a hand on Engineers familiar back. The jokes and laughter began and the first round of beer was poured out in sincerity.
Perhaps a half-hour later, familiar boots are briskly heard outside, and the Soldier peers around to see them. He is still wearing his helmet and usual stern look, but it melts into a smile as he sees his old comrades. He picks up a bottle before marching over and slipping into the booth. Like the others, the lines of his face have darkened a little, but he is in one piece and is quieter than the others remember. Perhaps he has mellowed with age, they think, and as he holds his beer up to the others in celebration, their glasses clink together with a soft cheer.
The Scout follows quickly, and at first they do not recognise the boy. He is no longer quite a boy - he has grown an inch or so in height but his limbs still seem too gangly to fit him, his hair is still short but has faded to a lighter colour, his cheeks peppered with stubble and his midriff has softened very slightly. He is still as bouncy as ever nonetheless, and bounds over to their table, gripping the Soldier and Demomans heads in his arms and excitedly shouting how happy he is to see them. He slips between them swiftly, eyes and smile wide in genuine enthusiasm to see his old friends. He explains that after leaving their little army and doing a few jobs, he became a fitness instructor to kids; working at a school to teach sports to the new generations. He earns a tidy sum that keeps his mother and family comfortable, and truly loves being able to still run and bat so much without all the bloodshed. Engineer talks briefly about his inventions - he has a few patents under his name that bring in more than enough money to keep building new tech under the radar, which suits him just fine. he brings out the box and his ex-teammates root through and chat, when the door swings open again.
Heavy looks over at them, still the big, broad bastard he ever was. He opens his arms and lets out a laugh as he comes over. "Look at you all! You're starting without us!" Medic quickly follows him in, an unheard conversation with someone outside finishing quickly before he comes over. They look well - Heavy has barely changed besides the soft laughter-lines around his eyes and mouth deepening with use. Medics hair has become more salt-and-pepper than the team had ever seen it, new glasses, and he has perhaps gained a little weight, but the two still stand tall and proud, eagerly joining the happy party in the somewhat too small booth.
Pyro comes in soon enough, almost like they waited for the others to come in. They give a shy wave but smile at the others, ordering some food and following the rest of the mercenaries. The team cannot really tell if they have aged much; glimpses of their face was so few and far between that it could be said that some did not see it at all. But Pyro perks up soon enough, the team welcoming them with open arms and raised glasses as they approach.
The talk comes quickly and happily, jests and jeers coming as hard and fast as the beers and food they ordered. The barkeep would certainly be as happy as his patrons tonight. Some of the mercenaries dig out their own photographs to mix them with Engineers - Scout outside of the school he proudly works at, Sniper giving a thumbs-up while holding a fishing rod someplace in Australia, the Heavy with an arm wrapped around his mother in her kitchen. They laugh as Engineer digs out some snapshots from the time they worked together - Scout looking miserable on Medics stretcher with a bullet embedded in his ass, the Pyro giving a peace sign while stood over the burnt body of the enemy Demoman, Soldier yelling as Scout ran into the enemy base.
Tales were told long into the night as food was shared and drinks drained, stories of family members both found and lost, homes lived in, good times and bad. Arms were frequently wrapped around a neighbours shoulders in fun and comfort, and faces ached from smiling. Hours passed like moments, memories swirling and reconnecting, each thought leading to a hundred other good times and battles and moments together. Laughter echoed throughout the bar all night.
Spy is sat a few booths away, listening intently. Engineer never really had been the first to arrive, and he smiles to himself at the fact that after all this time he still silently blends in, peering into his drink. Perhaps he comes over to the others. Perhaps not. Would they even recognise him without his mask? In all the years the team had banded together and fought side-by-side, none of them truly knew him well; the laughs shared and quiet evenings passing by with the Frenchman stood on the fault-line. He was a ghost. Always had been, always will be. Perhaps he should leave. He gained nothing from being here, only a heartache - of course he never connected with his team, with the closest thing to family he ever had. How could they connect to him? He was untrustworthy and dangerous and, in their eyes and sometimes his own, a coward. The rim of his glass of wine rested on his lower lip, before he silently sipped the last of it down. The laughter had quietened somewhat.
A hand rested on his shoulder, and he turned to see the Medics aged yet welcoming face glance down at him.
"Care to join us, old friend?"
He supposed that things never really do change.