The fourth night, you sleep like the dead (and try not to dwell on that simile, actually) until you wake to darkness, whole body aching down to your bones. The moonlight glares just enough on the alarm clock for you to know that it's a little after three. Far too early to be up and ready for battle.

You try to roll over and go back to sleep, but shit. Every muscle groans and seizes in protest. So, you hiss, and gently, gradually stretch each limb from where you lie, stifling the sounds of complaint. You've been sore the last few nights, sure, but not like this; you feel like you've been hit by a car, your body has reduced to one big bruise. It defies all understanding! You haven't done anything differently or particularly strenuous since you were fixed up by the medi-gun. And even if you hadn't received treatment, anything major enough to cause this kind of pain is always solved by respawn—

Oh. Shit. You forgot to take your vitamin yesterday.

You sit up, groaning, and open the bedside drawer to dump one of the pills into your aching hand. Even your joints complain as you unscrew the lid. It seems the doctor knew what he was doing in prescribing these. Imagine that.

Ugh—but you don't want to swallow the capsule without water. Grimacing, you push yourself off the bed and set the pill aside. Maybe you should just keep a bottle in here.

You shake your head. Bottled water. It had seemed ridiculous to you, until Miss Pauling explained that anything coming out of the tap here was somewhat hazardous. You didn't inquire any further after that; 'somewhat hazardous' is quite enough of an explanation for you when it comes to drinking water.

You tug the shorts on from this afternoon, slip your Keds onto bare feet, and creep into the hall. It's some distance to the mess hall from the team's quarters; you shiver, and buckle in for a long, chilly walk that already isn't helping your sore muscles. Hell, even breathing seems like a chore in the crisp, night air. Some obnoxious snoring finds its way through this corridor, and it doesn't help the too-early-in-the-damn-morning headache cropping up behind your eyes.

At least you won't be running into anyone at this hour.

You round the first corner. And then, the next, lit only by milky emergency lights placed about every fifteen feet, casting eerie shadows across the floorboards, highlighting a gouge here or there in the plaster and wood, something that might be a scorch mark or old blood. Your sneakers make almost no sound as you move along, nothing but your breath on the air and the faint hum of those caged bulbs. It's… well… you'd have to be half out of your mind not to find it a little creepy.

It occurs to you that you'll have to pass the medical wing on your way to the promise of fresh water. You shake your head. Medic won't be there, anyway. Not at three o'clock in the morning with no in-house patients or emergencies to speak of. The thought eases your nerves.

Medic is…

You're just not ready to speak to him yet. Not when getting this job relies so much on his professional opinion of your health. Not after yesterday.

You have straightened yourself out a bit, yes. You're… pretty confident that you won't be mistaking him for that BLU sonovabitch again. It's just—it's something you're not ready for. Not right now. Not if he plans to write up the final medical report and send it straight to the Miss Pauling's desk…

Your fingers curl, nails digging into palms. Now is not the time to think about that.

The infirmary—dark, shadowed doors and chairs—sits silently on your right, and you pass without incident.

Now is the time to take your vitamin and get back to bed before morning. You have a job to do, after all. There's no room for panic, and no room for sleepless nights.

You fetch a cold bottle from the little refrigerator without turning on the main fluorescents, moving slowly through the grey shadows. There's just enough light from the emergency lamps in the hall to tell Demo's brown bottles from the little, labelled ones shipped in by RED. You clasp it between your fingers and hurry back into the hall, but—

A flash of movement.

You freeze, barely two steps from the door.

There's someone near the infirmary. Collared shirt, tall boots, dark hair—he passes beneath one of the lamps and white light gleams on his spectacles.

In the next breath, you dive back into the mess hall, clutching the cold bottle between your fingers, eyes shut tight, listening…

What color—what color was the tie draped around his neck? Did you imagine the wrath evident in the turn of his lip? Your heart hammers against your ribs. You listen, strain your ears. No sound. Not the click of boots, not the swing of the infirmary doors.

You're not sure if your hands have begun to sweat or if it's merely the condensation on the water bottle that has made your palms slick. You bite your tongue, draw a sharp breath, try to keep the sound muffled in your throat, and peer around the corner—slowly now—

Nothing. Empty halls. Silent shadows.

Like you imagined the whole thing. Not that there was much. But… hallucinating a whole person, surely—

You frown, straighten up, and creep into the hall.

This is stupid.

You march to your room (quietly, no sense in waking anyone up or… drawing any attention whatsoever), sparing a single glance at the med-bay doors as you pass. Nothing. Not a light, not a lingering swing of the doors on silent hinges. Like you'd been wrong after all. Just… tired. You're just tired. It's early. You'll take your pill, get a couple more hours of sleep, and be as good as new in the morning.

Good as new.

The second time you wake, to your usual alarm, the aches have faded to a mere background sensation, as crickets compared to the jarring steam engine of pain that had woken you in the dark. You don your last clean uniform, and stretch in the grey light of morning, loosening your muscles, massaging away the aches, and finally finishing the now-warm bottle of water on your nightstand. New day; new opportunity. Two left after this.

You buckle the Lancaster to your thigh before heading to the kitchen for a nice strong mug of caffeine and a slice of toast. Demo is at the table again, and this time, you catch him pouring a shot of something into his tea. "G'mornin'," he mumbles, setting the brown bottle aside.

"Morning." You bring a mug down from the cabinet with a clink and give it a once-over. There seems to be old coffee ringing the bottom. You grimace, and decide to wash it first.

"So, you like the work all righ'?" Demoman asks as you pour a little soap into the white porcelain (of course, nearly everything here has the team color on it, and this cup is no exception; the outside of the mug reads 'RED' in proud, scarlet letters).

You nod, casting a glance over your shoulder. "It's… I like it." And you do. Truly. All—complications—aside.

"I thought so." He takes a long drink from the mug with a satisfied sigh. "That little smile 'a yours when you nail one o' them buggers in th' face—" He chuckles. "Y'make a charge tae be proud of, that's fer sure."

Your brow furrows as you rinse your mug. Sure, you've bloodied the scout's nose, struck the pyro full in the mask… but in your mind, it seems you'd rather not be close enough to do either. But he's right. It's damn satisfying, and you find yourself smiling at the mere thought. "Thank you." You give the mug another once-over. Better. "Use many shields yourself?" you ask. The way he expressed the compliment, it seemed perhaps…

"Aye, from time to time. Y'ever hear of a targe? Good Scottish weapon! Steeped in tradition! Why—"

"Good morning!" Scout waltzes through the mess doors, chipper as a damn robin. You shoot him a Look; you've only just poured your cup. That kind of energy before breakfast just isn't fair.

"Scout, don't ye know better than t'interrupt, lad? Sit yer arse in that chair an'—"

"Morning, Scout. You were saying about the targe, Demo?"

"Ain't we s'posed ta hold off on that? I thought—"

"It's in the original contract, boy—didn't ya read the bloody thing?"

"Yeah, yeah, I signed it, but—"

Oh. You take a steaming gulp from your mug. You put it together: they must be arguing about secondary weapon sets. Part of the arrangement with RED was to use the standard issue stuff before purchasing your own (plus another four sections regarding what can and can't be used for certain classes, defining your class, regulations regarding approved weapons depots—the damn US military didn't bother with half that amount of regulations…); not that you could really afford to buy anything until you'd received a couple paychecks. You assumed the rest of the team had been made to go standard as a control to see how the introduction of a new class would function and how the team dynamic would fare.

"—smart enough tha' it's not gonna complicate anything!"

"Shut up! Too early for arguing!" The room goes dead silent as Heavy strides, glaring, through the door, and you certainly don't blame anyone involved. He strides to the coffee pot, a great, lumbering giant, and, evidently, not a morning person. You scoot out of the way and take a seat at the table.

"Morning," he greets as you pass.

"Good morning, Heavy."

He mumbles something you're not entirely sure is English and pours himself a mugful of coffee. He drinks the first sip black, then adds enough sugar from the canister to make you certain the bottom of that cup has to be a silty pile of sugar.

Scout drums his finger on the tabletop, and Demo sips from his not-just-tea. "Need a pick-me-up?" he offers, waving the bottle in Heavy's direction.

"Nyet."

"How 'bout you, lass?"

You arch a brow. "What is it?"

He chuckles. "Fine batch o'whisky, it is."

It has to be better than the beer you'd had the other night. You offer your mug. "Thanks!" You could use a little something to steady your nerves today. Keep your thoughts from that incident you're definitely not thinking about. You watch the amber liquid sink into the mug—rather more than a shot, you suspect—as Demo fills your cup to the brim.

"Specialist."

You turn. Ah, shit—if he thinks he's going to chastise you for drinking before seven in the morning… "Yes, Heavy?"

But he simply eyes the pistol on your thigh, quite unconcerned with the mug between your hands. "You will stay with me today, da?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. What happened to his suggestion to stick with Scout? If Medic is anywhere, it's close to—

"Will be only you and me. I need cover; we can try new strategy."

You hope the panic hadn't been evident on your face. It's not that you don't—you're an adult. You can work with Medic. But, after yesterday… You fold both hands tightly around the mug, take a sip, let the liquor-laced liquid calm your whirling thoughts, release the tension already building in your shoulders. There's a comfortable burning along your throat now. "No problem." Why does Heavy expect to be alone? Where will… You shrug off the thought. No matter. You have a job to do, and you'll see it done.

Heavy nods and finishes his coffee in one impressive gulp. He offers a dark smile. "Will make tiny baby-men cry."

"Oh, come on," Demoman rolls his eye. "Gonna keep her all day, are ye? I can't work with the lass?"

You can't help but feel a warm little rush of pride, and hide your smile on the rim of your mug.

"Maybe tomorrow." The Russian rinses his dish in the sink. "I called first."

Scout laughs. "Too slow, Demo!"

Perhaps you're not a complete failure after all.

Notes: My thanks to my amazing AO3 beta, orchiids, and for all the support I've received from the lovely readers. I can't express how much I appreciate all of you! From kind words, to art, to speculation, this is an absoutely amazing experience, and I wish I knew better how to say thank you.

As I said, with the semester going into full swing, I've written far enough ahead that updates will continue steadily, about every 1.5-2 weeks, so we won't have to stop while I get all my coursework done. (And the next chapter is rather lengthier and a bit of a doozy, so we all have a little something to definitely look forward to ;) )

And if you're looking for a little extra entertainment, and haven't already, I have a TF2 blog going under the url purple-compromise on Tumblr if you'd like to join us there for between-update references and antics!