Warning for: alcohol, discussion of drugs, death, and possibly dissociation

After that surgery, you just wanted as little awkwardness as possible to accompany your dinner.

The table was piled high with hamburger fixings, a steamy platter in the middle of the table, and you cast your eyes over the chairs without really seeing. Heavy is here, and Scout, but the rest seems… out of focus. Your stomach turns a little, despite the fact that any painkillers would be long out of your system after being patched up with the medigun, and you decide to be thankful that Medic chose to stay behind to complete his notes on the procedure. There isn't much more prodding you can stomach today. You slide into your seat beside Scout, clearly putting the finishing touches on his plate.

"So," he says, offhand, "magical freakin' experience or what?"

Gods, you hope the embarrassment doesn't show on your face. "Or what," you grunt, helping yourself to the first platter you can see. Green beans. The heavy heat swimming through your blood stretching out the seconds like a click, click, click, hands on a clock under fluorescents, glinting on glass, peering into your chest with something like admiration, and-

"Hey—ya all right there?"

A chill creeps along your spine, and you snap your eyes shut, taking your seat properly. "Sorry." You nearly drop the tongs. "I'm-uh-the morphine is just wearing off, I think."
Heavy, at the opposite end of the table, does brilliantly at covering his incredulity.

Scout covers his frown with a turn of mock-annoyance. "Morphine? The doc uses diddly sh-crap on me!"

You vividly recall the boy having no problems saying 'shit' (and worse) multiple times on the field, but then, you realize: gentlemen don't swear at the table. He wasn't joking about the way his "ma" raised him. The thought brings the whisper of a smile to your lips. "He said he was going to stop using it once having the medigun on all the time won't 'interfere with the data'."

Scout snorts. "Sure." He digs into the burger on his plate. "Doc's pretty greedy with those meds. Pretty sure he hadn't opened the cabinet in a year before you got here. Not sure what he's savin' 'em for."

"Emergencies," suggests Spy dryly. "Perhaps one day we won't be able to rely on miracles." He pinches an unlit cigarette between gloved fingers.

"You wishin' ill on the equipment, there, Spy?" asks Engineer, amusement playing on his lips.

"Non. Merely expressing a desire for appropriate preparation in a worst-case-scenario."

"Engie and the doc test everything every day," scoffs Scout. "You think they'd let us shoot at each other if nothin' worked?"

You can see the arch of Spy's brow in the shift of his balaclava. "Are you certain you wish to put blind trust in things you do not understand?"

A shiver passes over your skin, like the smoke that might curl from his cigarette. You wonder if he knows something you don't. But-of course he does. That's his job, after all.

You push the beans around your plate.

"Speakin' of-" Scout gives you a sidelong glance before returning to his food. "-do ya trust him?"

There is a strange spike of adrenaline that rushes through your fingers, triggering an involuntary tremble, and you wonder if, perhaps, the morphine had not completely worn off after all. "Who?" you ask, though there is no doubt.

"Medic."

You wet your lips, and know without looking that bloody well everyone is listening. "He's the doctor," you reply slowly, and if any of them knew your history, they would know this was a piss-poor answer and an even poorer lie.

Scout fixes you under his gaze this time, brow creased. He has never looked this serious before. "He doesn't have a license anymore, ya know." But the boy's tone is light and you have no idea what to make of this.

The breath stops in your chest. This is a question you've never had to ask yourself.

What's better: a doctor with his papers and a sheaf of death certificates, or a man with knowledge and blood?

The only answer you have right now is "What the fuck."

Scout's lips are a serious crease. "Ya didn't know."

Engineer raises a hand. "Now—now hang on-y'all've gotta understand, he did have one..."

"He don't now." Scout shrugs.

Your mind flicks back to the plaque on Medic's office door; it held only his title. No MD. No PhD. Nothing.

"An' ye think the rest of us are right an' proper?" Demo snaps over his bottle.

You can't help but flinch a little at that, though Scout seems unmoved. "She's got a right ta know! I get it; we're mercenaries or whatevah, but when somebody's shootin' you in the back one minute and pokin' around your insides the next-"

"What?"

You're not sure who said it. It's like you heard the question from a distance, through the muffled, heavy silence that followed.

Scout stares fixedly at his plate. He had not meant to give away that much information. Spy and Heavy are staring hard at the boy. The others won't look at you. Your mouth is dry, hands fisted in your lap.

"What are you talking about, private?" Soldier, you realize, demands again. "Are you accusing a fellow of treason?"

"Yes, Scout." Seven heads whip around to the double-doors. Medic stands there, arms folded neatly across his chest, pristine again even after surgery. "Do finish. I'm quite anxious to hear the full accusation before we begin throwing one another under zhe table, hm?"

Scout firmly keeps his eyes on his lap, and you just want to slide out of your chair and melt into the floor. "You shot her," he says, low. "Yesterday. You coulda fixed her."

Your brow furrows, and you can't look at any of them. Yesterday, you'd lost half your hand on the field and would have been dead useless. You should have just charged off the way you had planned. You never should have let Scout and Heavy take you to Medic. It was a waste of time then, and it's a waste of energy now. You're the problem here, and your throat tightens.

But Medic's lip just curls in disgust. "Could I? I told you then, und I will tell you now: zhe medigun cannot regrow limbs! Would you have preferred that I let her bleed out?"

"You coulda fixed that." The boy's fingers curl in his lap, and you bite your lip. You're the problem. Miss Pauling can send you away tomorrow little more cause than this, and she would be right. Perhaps you should go. This argument is worth nothing.

Medic barks a short, humorless laugh. "And then what? Let her run around the battlefield without fingers to fire her weapon? Let her get torn to shreds vithout any means of defense? Her death was completely painless-"

Crack! Scout strikes the table with his hand, hard. "BUT DIDJA HAVE TO USE MY GUN?" The choked sob makes your blood run cold, and you can taste the blood that trickles where your teeth had pierced skin.

Engineer is on his feet in an instant, brows knitted together, leering, even as he hustles to Scout's side, clasping his shoulder. "The hell have you done, Medic?"

But the doctor is quite unmoved. "It was the most efficient, painless method available to me. Zhe specialist's death was instant; ask her." Cold eyes peer over his spectacles, and your blood chills further under his gaze.

You find strength in your next breath, and clasp Scout's forearm. The boy is stifling tears, turning whatever pain had been in his voice into a snarl. "Scout," you say, and your voice wavers. "Scout I'm sorry. It's all right, really. I didn't even know what happened until I was in respawn." You don't understand. You squeeze his arm gently, and keep talking. "I didn't feel it. I wasn't even sick after." Your brother would never let you hug him. Not even in the hospital. Not even when he finally broke down in tears when your mother was at worst. You seize Scout's shoulders, try to make him look at you. "It's all right."

He shakes his head furiously, all traces of the tears that had been shining in his eyes gone. "No. No it's not," he hisses. "Do you have any idea what I've done with that pistol? Do ya?"

"Scout—" Engineer tries to keep a hold on him, but to no avail; he shakes off your hand and the Texan's.

Scout pushes through to where Medic still stands, arms crossed neatly, but—In an instant—Spy is there, placing a firm hand in the middle of the boy's chest. "Don't," he says, so quietly that you almost cannot hear.

He tries to sidestep, but Spy is there, smoothly mirroring his movements. "He's a fuckin' bastard!" Scout protests.

"Oui," Spy agrees, grimly. "But would your mother want you like this?"

Like a blow to the stomach. "D-don't you talk about my ma," he says through gritted teeth.

But spy's eyes are impassive. "Well?"

"No."

This time, when Scout tries to storm past, Spy lets him, and the boy disappears through the doors without a backward glance at the doctor.

There is a wretched, sinking feeling in your chest.

"Well, gentlemen," says Spy. He fixes you in his gaze. "Mademoiselle." You find you can't move in any direction, only stand like you're sinking into the floor. "I believe we may continue this later."

In the general murmur of assent that follows, you almost miss a muttered: "Walk with me," as Spy passes the doctor, who nods and joins his departure.

"Solly," says Engineer, "why don't you an' I get this cleaned up? Put some leftovers in the fridge."

"Acknowledged!"

This jolts you out of your place rooted to the tiles. "Let me!" You blurt.

Engie shakes his head. "Nah, darlin', we can take care of it. You kin take a plate with ya if ya like—"

"Please." This is easy; it comes spilling off your lips without prompting. "I insist. You all go on ahead."

The man doesn't like it, but the set of his jaw is resigned. A shallow puff of breath leaves his lips. "All right. If ya need anything, you tell us, ya hear?"

"I will."

You won't.

But as the mercenaries hesitantly depart, you begin clearing plates with a set fury. Heavy might have touched your shoulder on his way past, but you're unsure; your mind winds down and down until there's only the sink, a cupboard of Tupperware, a stack of filthy dishes, and the tiles on the floor.

On your last trip to the table, a bottle slides across the scarred wood to stop just short of your plate. The label, in flowing script: "Ballantine's," and below: "Liqueur Blended Scotch Whiskey." Established 1837, evidently.

You do like scotch.

You lift hazy eyes to Demo, who leans heavily against the back of his chair. For a moment, you're afraid he's been there the entire time. But-he must have left to fetch...

"What's this?" you ask.

"After today, ye need it more'n I do lass. I prefer to think of it as a toast to the next year gettin' tae know you."

Rather than a sloshed goodbye, remains unsaid.

Your brow furrows. A gift? You frown. "Demoman, I've… really made a mess of things. I can't."

But he shakes his dark head, cocking a brow over his eyepatch. "Things were always gonna change. Doesn' matter if it was you or some other poor bastard lined up tae join the team." He shrugs. "It isn't yer fault." He gestures with his own bottle in hand. "Take it, lass. There's a fight twice a week as it is, whether you're here or not." He winks in an exaggerated fashion with his good eye. "Trust me."

With a something like a smile crookedly lifting your lips—though you cannot feel it reach your eyes—you crack the bottle. "Thank you." And take a sip from the mouth. It burns, but it burns good and you let yourself cough softly, tears springing to your eyes over the caramel-dark, smoky flavor.

Demo grins. "To th' battles," he proposes, and clinks his unlabelled brew against yours. "On and off the field."

The second sip is smoother, and, though it cannot melt the chill lodged in the pit of your stomach, it is a start.