Many thanks to sov, over on AO3, to whom I owe some of Heavy's dialogue near the end of this chapter.

Of course, would the doctor even be in the medical wing? The last you knew, he had been in the common room with Spy and Heavy—

Perhaps you shouldn't bother him. He'd been kind enough to you already, more than you had any right to expect, practically an interloper on this base, without a full contract and, really, he has better things to do, surely, than answer your silly questions, and you'll have a letter to your mother by the end of the week…

You stand before the metal double-doors.

This is ridiculous. There's a book waiting in your room, a sandwich to be had, another long day tomorrow—and three more after that. Just… just wait.

"Spezialist?"

Bloody fucking hell.

You feel your teeth clench, your eyes squeeze shut. But you open them, turn, try to look… casual. Or normal. Or something like that.

Medic has a notebook in one hand and a pen in the other, spectacles high on the bridge of his aquiline nose. He arches his brow. "Are you feeling all right?"

Oh. You must look a sight, sweat still drying on your skin, undershirt soaked through—you wring your button-down between your hands. "Yeah. Fine. I just…"

"You needed somezhing?"

No. This is foolish.

"I'm sorry. It's not important."

He peers through his spectacles. "Are you quite sure you're well, neue? Perhaps I could just take a look at—"

"No—I—yes. I'm fine. No. Soldier just had me running the course and it's…" He makes a note in the margin of the open page with a graceful turn of his wrist. "It's… hot. Outside." And getting hotter by the second in here.

Medic arches a graceful brow. Graceful. You're stuck on that word today, aren't you? "Hm." The doctor wets his lips, adjusts his spectacles. Why did… why are you here again? Oh. Right. The question you're not asking. "Well," he says shortly, "if zhere is nothing you need—"

You feel your cheeks heat all the way to the tips of your ears. "No. Yeah—I'll just…"

You turn on your heel and do not stop walking until you reach your room to sag against the door with a groan. Holy shit. Why. You killed a dozen men today without batting an eye, and yet, you can't go an hour during ceasefire without embarrassing yourself. You kick off your boots, toss the button-down aside, peel off every sweaty layer, and tug the towel hanging from the armoire over your shoulders. One pair of shorts, underwear, and a fresh bra later, you're sprawled across the stiff mattress again, book in hand.

Well, you're having no worse a time than poor Edmond.

As for Dantès, he remained a prisoner. Lost in the depths of his dungeon, he heard nothing about either the fall of Louis XVIII or the collapse of the empire…

You're on your stomach with a pillow propped under your head, one arm wrapped securely around the pristine pillowcase, when: Knock knock knock.

Not even past chapter ten.

"Spesh! Hey, Spesh!"

You groan. "Please stop calling me that."

A muffled laugh. "It's time for dinner! Unless you're not hungry, a' course, in which case I can eat your—"

You tug on a shirt and throw the door open. "Don't get ahead of yourself, there, Scout." You join him in the hall with a grin, realizing our stomach has been complaining quietly for the last half-hour. "Who's cooking?"

"Demo! He's pretty good—makin' some kinda soup today, and it smells great. Soldier, though… unless it's a hamburger, Soldier can't cook for shit, so plan for it—he's cookin' next. On Thursday."

"What about you?"

"Me? I'm pretty good at just about everything I do. I'll be on dinner duty next week." He winks, and just grins when you roll your eyes. "My ma taught me how to cook."

Ah. "My mom… tried to teach me." The dull ache is back in your chest. You try to push it away. "I've never been as good as she is."

"Yeah, me either," Scout admits. "But I'm still pretty damn good."

You shake your head, turning the corner without looking to your teammate in order to double-check the direction.

"Oh, and uh—fair warning—I think Spy wants to talk to you."

You almost trip over your own feet. "Why?"

Scout shrugs. "Dunno. But he really wanted to come bring you for dinner, and I thought I'd spare ya."

"I appreciate it." You wonder if this has anything to do with your eavesdropping.

"No problem! Kind of a creep, Spy."

You can't help the corner of your mouth sneaking up in a smirk. "I think that's his job."

Scout raises his shoulders. "Eh."

He was right; the mess hall does smell brilliantly of savory stew—but not hotly, you realize as you creep through the door. You draw a deep breath. It's even… faintly minty. You pause, casting your eyes over the room: Spy is already here, in his spot at the end of the table, rolling an unlit cigarette between his teeth. He fixes you under his gaze as you approach, heading for the chair you had occupied that first night, and his dark stare does not abate, even as you shift uncomfortably and avert your eyes, turning your attention firmly to Demo, who sets a heavy kettle in the center of the table as Scout leans across, brow furrowed, frowning into its depths.

"I thought it was soup."

"So 'tis, lad! Cold soup. Pea soup just like Granaidh used to make! Good for guests in the summer—or ungrateful scouts in the middle of the desert."

Demoman begins ladling the stuff into bowls even as the boy in question makes a face and plops down into the chair beside Spy. "Ok, but it was hot when I left."

He chuckles. "Chemistry ain' just good fer explosives, lad; it's a simple task tae make a soup cold."

"Yeah, sure." Scout folds his arms.

Demo steps out from behind your usual seat, and—all the embarrassment comes flooding back. Medic is here already here, too. And, just beyond him, Heavy. The doctor smiles, gives you a nod. "Specialist—you are feeling better, I trust?"

"Yeah. I was fine—I am fine—just tired…"

You hear the creak of the refrigerator door. "Beer, anybody?" asks Engineer.

"Please!" You take your seat, avoiding Medic's eyes, but the man is determined. He removes his spectacles, wipes them on the edge of his coat, studying your face carefully as he does. You force yourself to meet his cool gaze evenly.

"Gut," he declares as Engie sets an open bottle beside your bowl. "If you find you are having trouble sleeping, come see me. Being overtired can affect your performance more zhan you might expect."

"I will."

The medic nods and replaces his spectacles.

You release the breath you'd been holding. Soldier, you notice, is missing, as is Pyro again. Though, now you have good reason to suspect they don't care to remove the mask in anyone's company, and one can't exactly eat supper through a gas filter.

You fetch a spoon from the middle of the table as Scout chatters on about something or other, and you notice (with more than a little annoyance this time) that Spy is still staring. Well, if he has something to say, the man ought to damn well say it and get it over with! You avert your eyes again, taking a spoonful of the thick, green broth—

And out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of the sniper, his lanky form folded over a chair against the far wall, propped on two legs, a bowl of soup resting on his knee.

You nod a greeting, which he readily returns, but says not a word.

The soup is sweet, rich—with just a touch of mint. Cool, refreshing, with a promise to be filling. "This is lovely, Demo!"

The man chuckles. "Thank y', lass. I daresay me mum wouldn' have a complaint!"

You take a sip from your bottle; the beer is… well, it's cold, and it contains alcohol.

"Mama should be proud," replies Heavy, leaning across the table to get another helping from the kettle. "Is delicious!"

"Eh," says Scout. "It's green."

"Eat it, boy—it's good fer ya."

Sniper taps his spoon against the bowl in his lap. "The kid's just spoilt."

"Hey, man, you got somethin' against the way my Ma raised me? Cause I—"

"Gentlemen, please." Spy massages one masked temple. "Scout, eat your supper."

He wrinkles his nose. "You ain't my mother."

"Scout." The Frenchman rolls the unlit cigarette between his gloved fingers. "In case you have not noticed, I am a man who keeps a sound schedule." He passes the cigarette from one hand to the other. "I am also a man you have prevented from having a particular conversation at the time that suited me. So, it is my turn to speak, if you do not mind."

The boy's mouth drops open. "I—"

"Maybe this is surprise, Spy," Heavy interjects over a mouthful of soup, "but things exist more important than your schedule. Dinner, to give example." He laughs, but Spy… is certainly not amused; he pinches the cigarette tight between his fingers.

You're sure you haven't mistaken the warning latent in the Russian's tone. The others appear to have noticed, too, eyes shifting back and forth expectantly, but—

"I can assure you this will interrupt your dinner no more than idle chatter." He sighs, and you almost expect a puff of smoke. "Now—" says Spy. He fixes his eyes on you, spoon halfway to your lips, mouth hanging open. Brilliant. "Specialist. Why are you here?"

You close your mouth with as much poise as you can muster, and set the spoon on the edge of your bowl. Is this question even allowed? You half-expect Engineer to speak up as he did before, but you can—

"Spy!" All eyes turn to Heavy, frowning across the table. "Why do you ask this?"

You swallow. "It's ok, I—"

"I am giving the girl a fair opportunity."

Heavy's brow creases. "Is not your business!"

"Did you not say that I ought to be more flexible?" Spy's fingers twitch.

"Should be, yes! But this is not fair question—"

"Guys…"

"—we do not ask you why you choose lies and backstabbing!"

"Now, now…" Engie raises his hands. "We can all jus—"

"No, no—" Spy's eyes flash. "—let the man continue."

"Girl does not owe you story! Can start over here; does not matter!"

"Do you think I cannot find out what I want to know without—"

"Now y'all really—"

"—asking, mon ami? That I do not ask without—"

"Without other end in mind, no!"

"You—"

"Shouldn't—"

"GENTLEMEN!" The chair clatters to the floor behind you.

The engineer lowers his hands, and Heavy drops his gaze. "Thank you." Spy returns your pointed look evenly, the corner of his mouth catching in the slightest grin. "Specialist?"

You sigh, turning to retrieve your fallen seat, and Medic catches your gaze halfway. His eyes crinkle at the edges, lips turned in something like a smile… he is impressed? Amused? You right your chair, and return your attention to the Frenchman. "I will answer your question." You look to Heavy. "Because I choose to."

You have no idea if honesty will win you points with a bloody spy, but it's all you have.

"But I won't be talking about where I come from—fair?"

"Fair." The man nods.

"Ok." You take a breath, look into the depths of your soup, as though it could tell you exactly how much to reveal, how much to play close to your chest. "I'm here, in part, for my family."

Scout rocks back in his chair. "You an' half the room!"

Spy glares him into silence. "And…?"

You lift the beer to your lips. Ugh. Part of the pay from this week can go toward buying something… more drinkable. "The money is good. Great, in fact, if I get signed on." You set the bottle down. "And—" You consider the words carefully. "—I've never had the chance to be this independent before. I can… do something."

Medic chuckles, and you arch an eyebrow. "Genau!" He shakes his head. "It is apt!"

Demoman catches the giggle, like some kind of infectious cough. "He's right, lass—y' fit right in if murder an' mayhem is yer idea of doing something!"

And now you've got it, too. "I guess… it is a little silly when you say it like that."

"A good sort of silly, it seems." You fall silent, watching as Spy replaces his cigarette in its case, and pulls out a new one. Still, he does not light it before letting it perch between his lips. "It is something to think on, certainly, Specialist."