Tonight, the shower peels dried flecks of blood from your skin, your hair. Your last respawn had been… five hours ago now? Six? Enough time to paint yourself and the walls with the BLU soldier's blood before the enemy scout had found safety in the opposing base, dragging RED's intelligence with him. The Administrator had ordered an immediate ceasefire, and after an hour's seclusion in your room, here you are. Black tiles, hot water, and a soapy scent to replace the coppery tang that had settled in your nose. Rose-tinted suds rush toward the drain.

You sigh, and roll stiff shoulders.

It wasn't your fault, not really. The scout had to bypass your engineer, sniper, and pyro in order to leave the base with RED's papers. But—you hadn't been looking when Medic took a bullet to the head. You weren't fast enough to block the hall. You hadn't heard until the little shit was right on top of you—and the BLU soldier was barring your way.

Stupid mistakes.

You turn the water up a little higher, as though a good scalding might make them as inconsequential as sending a man to respawn.

Sending a man to respawn in the most inhumane way you could conceive. Fingers tighten against your scalp, shampoo running down over your forehead. You squeeze your eyes shut. Go home, cherie… tell your mother you've failed utterly—

But your mother's face is there, just as it was at the airport. Bright with tears. Your memory is kind, and removes the scarf she had been wearing—you can see her hair. You wonder if her cheeks are no longer so sallow, if she's been able to tend to her flowers.

Are the burns gone?

Has she stopped cradling her arm against a sunken chest?

Hot water wicks your tears away before you even acknowledge them, mingling with the blood and the dust and the soap, disappearing down the drain.

You don't want to think about this. Not now. Not today.

Money. Steady job. Self-sufficiency. Money.

As soon as the job is secure. As soon as the job is secure, you'll send a letter. You promised. Send it with Miss Pauling; she'll make sure it arrives.

If your job is ever secure. You lost the intelligence today.

Stupid, stupid. Stupid mistakes.

The water doesn't prickle your scalp anymore, just hums along as though it were only lukewarm. The tiles are still chilly beneath your feet. You sigh against the water trickling over your lips.

Stupid mistakes, yes—but you recall Medic's earlier observation: a success (or a failure) is made by the team itself, as a whole. The others must have made stupid mistakes, too. Yours contributed to the loss, but so did theirs.

You only hope the information stolen was of little enough consequence.

Slick fingers find the silver knob again, and you let the water run cold before shutting it off completely, shivering as you reach for your towel. Might as well let the others chastise you, if they will. They were all too busy in their own, private grumblings to notice you slip away immediately following the ceasefire.

You throw on some sweatpants and an undershirt before stepping into the hall with your wet towel and soaps in a bundle. You can leave your things in your room, and then head for the mess hall. Lunch hadn't happened, exactly, as it had on the field, and the day isn't yet over, so—

"Docteur, you already seem quite determined that the girl should stay."

Well, for a spy, he certainly isn't being discreet in his volume. The door to the common room, you notice, is slightly ajar. You hover, indecisive, glancing about the hall for any movement. You really shouldn't…

"Nein. I am determined she has the best possible opportunity."

But you do.

"A pretty sentiment," Spy scoffs. "You and I both know better."

"You seem to forget, Herr Spy, that part of this test is a matter of teamwork. And if no one is willing to try—"

"Come now, doctor—"

"No. Medic is right. This is team. Should act like it."

"She has to earn—"

"Does not have to earn being treated fairly," Heavy's voice rumbles. "No one has to earn fairness."

You strain to hear.

"I did not mean…" Spy sighs. "Yes. I did not mean to imply otherwise."

You decide it's best to make yourself scarce before the conversation ends and you're outed as an eavesdropper. The bundle has dampened your shirt, but there's a warmth settled in your chest. You blink back tears again.

Now you're just being silly.

You try not to think of your mother.

In your room, you hang the towel off the door to the armoire to dry, and place your toiletries on one of its upper shelves. The crate still sits, half-empty, in the middle of the floor. The neat stacks of books inside are calling. You peel off your damp shirt and bra, fling them carelessly over a chair. You'd rifled through the volumes only once since arrival (Archimedes was a scientist and mathematician, thank you very much), but you know your favorite is three down from the top of the stack, familiar to your hands, smelling sweetly of ink and well-loved paper.

Every time you find yourself in a bookstore, you're tempted to buy another copy—that one has a lovely illustration, or this one is full of footnotes, or that one is an early edition with leather binding, or this one bears the love of its previous owner, palpable through its worn edges, like a thousand fingerprints coloring glass.

You settle on the bed with the only copy you'd brought—a paperback with pages that aged a graceful yellow. There's still light out the barred window, but no one will begrudge you an early evening, surely? Perhaps they won't even notice you're missing.

Chapter 1. On February 24th, 1815, the watchtower at Marseilles signaled the arrival of the three-master Pharaon, coming from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples…

A knock rouses you from chapter eight, just as Edmond is left in a lonely cell at Chateau d'If, wrongly accused, enduring a sleepless night. Your brow furrows. "Just a second!"

You find your bra and undershirt where you'd left them, and throw a button-down on for good measure before opening the door.

"MAGGOT!"

Oh, god.

"You have not run the obstacle course since arrival!"

Ah, shit.

"And you know what? WE LOST OUT THERE TODAY, MAGGOT. You will run that course whether you like it or not!"

"Soldier, I—"

"Move it, ensign! Move it, move it, double-time!"

"If you'd just give me a—"

"NOW!"

Your boots are on and you're jogging down the hall before you can tell your feet what to do. You clench your jaw. Asshole with his drill-sergeant voice and—

"Hup, hup, hup! YOU CALL THAT MOVING, SOLDIER?"

At least he's right there running the narrow hall with you. Better than standing on the side of the track with a coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other while everyone else does the—

"LEFT!"

Your boots almost lose traction, but you make it out into the dusty yard. The unbearably hot, dusty yard. You squint through white sunlight at the barrels and tires and makeshift track. There's sweat already beading on your forehead. What are you doing out here again?

"NOW GET YOUR REAR ON THAT COURSE BEFORE I KICK IT OVER THERE, MAGGOT! It should be complete in seven minutes."

Yeah. Right. That. The hot, dry air chases all traces of air-conditioned satisfaction from your lungs.

"NOW, GO!"

You have half a mind to tell that firecracker to go to hell because you have a book to read, but… this is a distraction, good as any.

That, and you're not sure yet if he's above trying to send you to respawn after-hours for 'insubordination' or some such nonsense. If you can avoid starting fights at this point in the week, you will.

And so, your feet take up a steady rhythm on the hard, cracked dirt. Orange dust clings to your boots. So much for not having to clean them tonight.

It's a straight path to a set of tire obstacles, then a few barrels you assume Soldier expects you to hurdle, a sharp turn, some more barrels to dodge through, and a loop around to do it again. Joy. At least you have something to focus on—namely, not tripping and falling on your face as you get your bearings on these obstacles.

You make it around once, remaining proudly upright.

"EIGHT MINUTES, MAGGOT! AGAIN!"

You grit your teeth and keep running, trying not to let your breath hitch too much on the dusty air. You're already sweating through both shirts. Once you clear the hurdles, your fingers tug the buttons on your over-shirt free, and you peel the damn thing from your shoulders as you dodge left and right.

"NINE MINUTES. YOU'VE GOTTEN SLOWER, ENSIGN!"

You throw it at Soldier's helmeted head and don't stick around to see if you were successful. At least you're slightly more comfortable now, under the sun's merciless rays, sweat-drenched and panting; there's less fabric between you and the breeze created by your rhythmic pace.

This time, you barely have to focus on the course—your feet know where they're going.

You wonder if you ought to apologize for letting Medic get shot in the head. It wasn't your fault, exactly, no, but if you had been watching his six instead of trying to take point again, maybe—

"NINE MINUTES, TWENTY-TWO SECONDS. HYDRATE, MAGGOT!" He gestures sharply to a watering station tucked in the shade of a nearby shed, upon which your button-down sits, neatly folded.

You draw uncomfortably deep breaths as you slow to a jog, reaching greedily for the tap. Perhaps this isn't all bad. The man isn't completely off-kilter.

And then you realize that Soldier has not had a watch, clock, or time-keeping device of any kind on his person since you began this routine.

Your fingers twitch as you gulp down the water. Your breath slows after a moment of staring slowly off into the desert. Waves ripple in the air, distorting your view of the orange plains. And then, you return to the course.

Before long, the faint wind brings a soft jingle. You turn your head just in time to see Scout breeze right by. And then, he turns, and jogs backward, still steadily ahead, grinning. Show-off.

But you can hardly blame him—that he trods over the tires without missing a step, no need to double- or triple-check his position, is rather impressive.

"You know ya don't have to do what he says, right?"

You sigh between breaths. "It seemed easier this way."

"Figured it out quick, did ya?" Scout laughs.

You give a half-grin. "I'm a quick study."

"Oh?" He waggles his brows. "In that case, I've got—"

"Save it."

Scout only laughs harder and makes a graceful turn to vault the first barrel. As you struggle over, both hands braced on the wooden edge, you envy his light frame. You can clear the barrels no problem, but—you could use some finesse.

"I'm really more interested in Miss Pauling," he calls over his shoulder. "She's something, ain't she?"

"She is." Oh, absolutely. "But she's also rather… busy."

"Always," Scout agrees. "But one day she'll get a day off, y'know?" He weaves between the next set of barrels.

So far, you had successfully maintained distance, but you begin to slow now. But—this was your fourth (third? fifth?) circuit, after all! Scout had only just begun.

You also realize that these are possibly the shortest sentences Scout has uttered to you these last couple days (not counting monosyllabic warnings on the field). Perhaps half his energy was diverted in running. This might be the way to have a proper conversation! You know, if you could catch ample breath.

On the clear stretch, Scout turns to face you again. "So, what's ya type?"

Your brow furrows. "My what?"

"Ya type—like… nerdy guys, tall guys, dark and handsome—"

"I—" You cough. "Um." Really?

"Like… I like dangerous and gorgeous, y'know? Smart. And—"

"Can kick your ass."

"Yeah! Er—" He's flushing, and if you weren't completely out of breath and aching at this moment, you'd celebrate with a leap and a cackle. But he recovers quickly. "So—what?"

You release and exasperated breath.

"SEVEN MINUTES, ENSIGN, CONGRATULATIONS. All it took was some competition!"

You let your steps falter straight into shade and the promise of water, panting. Scout jogs the whole way, expectant. He even jogs in place while you threaten to devour the watering station's entire jug, soaked from your bra to the undershirt, all exposed skin sticky with sweat.

"I don't really…" You shrug. "I don't have one, really?"

"Aw, come on, that's no fun!"

You shrug again, slurp down some more water.

"You married?"

You nearly choke. "No."

"Boyfriend back home?"

You crumple the little, paper cup in your fist. "No."

"Well, if you don't have a type—"

"Scout, please."

He raises both hands. "All right, all right—ya don't have to give me the Death Stare!"

You blink. You… hadn't realized. But if it worked, fine. "I just want to focus on getting this job, all right?"

Scout nods furiously. "Sure, sure." He starts to go off, do some stretches—but turns on his heel, grins. "But after, right?"

"What?"

"After you get the job, you'll tell me? We can hit the bar!" You open your mouth to reply, but he hurries on: "It'll be fun! Maybe you can give me some pointers, yeah? Put in a good word with Miss Pauling for me?"

You press a hand through the sweat of your brow, let a chuckle pass your lips. "Tell you what, Scout, I—" Standing there in the sun, all big, hopeful, eyes and his best attempt at a charming smile, he reminds you so much of home that you have to push the ache from your chest. "If I get to stay, I'll see what I can do." He punches the air, and you shake your head. There is… something else, all bound up with that steady, aching beat of your heart. It can't wait. You clutch your button-down in one hand. "Soldier, am I dismissed?"

"Dismissed, Specialist!" His voice echoes from within the shed, already engrossed in who-knows-what.

"Where're ya goin'?" Scout asks in the midst of a hamstring stretch, dog tags jingling.

You spare a glance over your shoulder, but your mind is already gone from here. "I'm—there's…" You don't let your steps slow, carrying you across the cracked dirt. "I have a question."

"Hello, veteran merc, here!"

"Not—you can't answer it. It's not…" Your brow furrows. Home. "I have to go."

"Spesh—"

"Sorry!"

You push through the base's double-doors, a rush of cool air as your vision adjusts to the artificial light, stars and spots swimming before your eyes. Your boots sound an uneven rhythm upon the floor.

You remember well the way to the med-bay.

Notes: The book is, of course, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, this translation by Lowell Bair.