Saturday was largely spent in your room, emerging only for a bite of toast in the vacant kitchen, and to utilize the hall's bathroom. The bottle of scotch sat within reach, on the nightstand, not that you are able to stomach more than a sip or two with only one piece of toast and a glass of water in your body. The alcohol swam along your blood every couple hours, releasing the tension that had gathered across your shoulders while dragging up such unwanted thoughts that, by afternoon, you weren't sure if the stuff was a blessing or a curse.

You still have not written to your mother, you realize as the clock reads somewhere between 3:45 and 4:00. But you do not lift yourself from the bed. You do not move your hand to find a pen and paper in the nightstand drawer. You stare instead at the beams above, scarred and worn, as yellow sun streaks between the window-bars, casting creeping shadows that drag along the opposite wall until they kiss the ceiling.

What would you even say?

Mom, you consider. How are you?

But you would want an immediate reply to that question. A reply you would have to wait weeks for—and that was if Miss Pauling even agreed to give your parents a false address, went through the trouble of sending someone to the P.O. box, of forwarding the letter to her, then delivering it here to you.

There is a phone.

But you don't feel right about using it. Not when it wouldn't align properly with the story you had told your parents.

You press the heels of your hands over your eyes. The CIA, of all things. If your father had caught on to your story, he had made no sign. But surely he knew that, after the way your Naval training ended, the idea that someone from "higher up" thought "you had potential for overseas work" was… frankly ridiculous.

All the same, something Miss Pauling said must have convinced him. Or maybe, it was just the money.

In either case, training and then working with the CIA involved little to no contact with family, and in any case where contact was made, your parents could not know where you were, whether it be in or out of the country. And they accepted it. Hell, maybe it wasn't the money—maybe it was all that mess with the Soviets. Every time you heard the crackle of a radio newscaster, you were reminded: it was putting everyone on edge. How much of a stretch was it to believe utmost secrecy was necessary to your faux post with the CIA, even in training?

Paycheck. Your hands slide to your hairline, and clutch at it. Who gives a fuck about secrecy—you need a fucking paycheck.

You turn over, bury your face in the coarse fabric of your pillowcase. The tears are already there, prickling at your eyes. You wonder why you have any left. How many times can one person cry over the same thing?

Mom. How are you? I hope you're not pushing yourself. I don't want to have to rush back because you've gotten an infection again-

No. Your fingers curl into the mattress.

Mom. I hope you're doing well. I miss being home, and I miss seeing you and Dad and-

No. You'll worry her.

Mom. I'm sure you're worried about me; please don't be. Things are fine.

No. You have no idea if things will be fine. Not before tomorrow.

Your pillow sails across the room and strikes the door with a sad, soft thump. It slumps to the floor, and that just makes you angry. Why why why why why are you so stupid—

You curl up tight, knees tucked up under your chest, arms wrapped around your head, burying your nose in itchy blankets, trying to quell the desire to break anything within reach. Fuck. Stupid. You can't do anything properly. You can't keep a job, can't finish a thought, can't help your mother, can't can't can't fucking can't.

A tight, sharp breath through your nose. You grit your teeth. Draw your arms and knees closer. You release the breath on a hiss. The coiled, wrathful thoughts leave, but the tension, the latent, furious energy, still crawls through your limbs, burns in your chest, creeps along your skin.

You need to walk, run, shoot something.

You can't peel yourself from the mattress.

It seems you had fallen asleep that way, because you next find yourself on the floor, Lancaster in hand, grateful that you weren't so trigger-happy that you fired when the next knock came. You rub sticky eyes, squinting at the clock as you call-"Who is it?"-and find it is after seven in the evening. Unless, of course, it was actually seven o'clock on

Sunday—

"Is Heavy. You have eaten supper?"

Still Saturday. You replace the pistol where your pillow should be with a groan. "No," you admit. You walk toward the door, eyeing the space on the floor where your pillow is still sadly slouched. You pick it up and toss it back to the bed before unlatching and opening the door.

Heavy is there, bowing his head a little under the door-frame. "Why?"

You lick your lips, trying to convince your mouth to be a little less dry, hoping your eyes don't give away the afternoon's major activity. "Fell asleep," you say, and don't bother with the 'crying' bit, nor the bit where you haven't been hungry all day.

"Should eat," says the man simply, shrugging massive shoulders.

"Yeah." You lean against the edge of the door, still clutching the handle.

He nods, slowly. "Now."

You study the hulking man in your doorway. Without a doubt, he could easily hoist you over his shoulder and force you to the kitchen, if he so chose. But you are not afraid. Imposing, Heavy might be, but for you, in this moment, he only seems solid-unwavering, not threatening.

So, "All right," you say, and find yourself following the Russian down the hall.

Strange, you find yourself considering, that the great, Red fear of the nation manifested here in a giant that just wanted to make sure you did not starve.

The monosyllabic conversation continues through dinner—affirmation or denial of assistance, of preferences. Leftovers are fixed into something edible. Food is find yourself in the tiny library again, sitting across from Heavy in a little, cushioned chair. His eyes, serious, remind you of the sky when it snows.

"Are you comfortable seeing Medic?" he asks.

You know the surprise shows all over your face. "Am I…?"

"Yes. I know you will be seeing him for experiment." His gaze is steady, not judging; he states simple fact. Still, you find yourself shifting uncomfortably in your chair.

"Yes," you say.

But Heavy's mouth tugs in a slight frown. "Also know you are still upset."

You do duck your head at this.

"Scout is all right, if this is what bothers you." His brow is furrowed slightly when you lift your gaze. You are glad to hear it, and cannot help wondering if your teammate had received a similar visit earlier today. "Saw him briefly," Heavy continues. "He was running courses and arguing with Soldier. Normal day." He shrugs.

"I'm really glad. I… don't want to be a problem."

"Not problem." The firm, stony edge of his voice makes you believe it for a moment.

Silence settles, and you turn your eyes to the titles on the shelves as Heavy shifts a little in his oversized armchair, busying his hands with some tomes left on the table. He piles them neatly. Many of the books are well-worn, paperbacks and faded, hard covers, crinkled brown and blue and black and burgundy.

"You were…" Your eyes return to Heavy as he seems to struggle for a word, eyes flicking through the air like he might find it printed there. "...upset," he decides, though from the way he frowns as he says it, you can tell it is not the word he wanted. "Yesterday, when you learned doktor does not have license."

Your hands worry the arms of the chair. The wood is dry, cracked under your fingers, in need of a new coat of varnish. You have no idea how to explain your concern. "It isn't… legal to practice without a license."

Heavy shrugs. "Is not legal to kill for money."

You purse your lips and try again. "If a doctor doesn't have a license, that means he lost it. And… doctors only lose their licenses if they've-" You bite the inside of your cheek. Done what? Anything worse than poisoning a patient in the name of 'curing' them? "-done something terrible." Vague, utterly lame responses. Well, at least you're coherent.

"You have not also done terrible things?" Heavy asks, and you did not know it was possible to say such a thing without the smallest ounce of blame seeping into the words. No, his voice and those grey eyes were as steady as ever, even and mild.

"It's different." You bite your tongue as the words leave your lips. Why? you're already asking before Heavy gets the chance. "I don't…" You stop. Try again. "I do terrible things… It isn't on purpose." But you do kill on purpose. But they don't stay dead. If you kill them and they come back alive, does that mean it never happened? If they feel pain that is erased in the next instant, have you really caused them any damage?

Does a doctor lose a patient because he chose to?

Heavy must see something in you, because he says no more, only looks on, considering. Does he know you've floundered and come up with no satisfactory answer? Is there some defeat written in your eyes?

At last, he nods, slowly. "Ask him next time, and then you can decide if you are comfortable, da? Do not agree to things if you are not comfortable. If you do," he says seriously, "there will be hurt."

On my part or the doctor's? you wonder, and shudder, recalling the day you tried to kill him in his own infirmary. Perhaps it would be both. "I will," you promise. But you're not sure if you'll have the courage. It is possible that there will not be a next time.

"Miss Pauling will sign your contract tomorrow."

Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline. It's almost as though he knew the somber color of your thoughts. "What makes you say that?" you ask.

Heavy shrugs his massive shoulders. "You are good asset to team." He says it so simply that you are not inclined to disagree. Like it's some invariable truth.

"How can you be so sure?" you find yourself asking, with a pure, genuine desire for the answer. How?

He smiles a little at that, mouth quirking at its edge. "Because is true. You will see tomorrow, spetsialist."