Notes: This chapter is shorter, but... on the dense side. You'll see what I mean. Gonna get rolling.

Warning for: disembowelment, medical unpleasantness

Mom, I hope you're well. I'm so excited about this job. I know I'll be gone for most of the year, but I may be able to visit next spring. Your letters will find me wherever I am, so don't worry about that. Well-they'll find me eventually. I'm relatively safe, and very happy with what I'm doing. It's exciting. I've finally gotten somewhere. I just wish-

Mom, I hope you're well. I love where I am right now. I secured the position, and I won't be home for a while, so I just really want to know how you-

Mom, I hope you're well. I wish the best for everyone at home. Especially you, all things cons-

Mom, I hope you're well. I don't know why I didn't-

You throw down the pencil and it clicks against the near-empty bottle of scotch on the library's table. Fucking shit.

"Scout tells me you are on team."

You jump, knees crashing against the underside of the table before your rear smacks back down on the chair.

Heavy stands in the doorway, head bowed a little to fit when he steps through.

"Yes-I-didn't see you there." Your eyes return to the table and you flick the pencil so it rolls across the worn, wooden surface, clickclickclick. There's a dull ache behind your eyes. "What time is it?"

Heavy looks at the bottle, then back at you. "Is time to stop drinking."

A little, burbling laugh bubbles up from your belly. "It started out celebratory."

"Now you are frustrated." He taps a large finger on the edge of the table, indicating the crumpled pile of half-written, scratched-up letters.

You're not laughing now. "Yeah."

"Scout did not know where you went."

You roll your eyes. "He patted me on the back and practically ran out after poor Miss Pauling like a puppy."

"Is…" Heavy's brow knits together, furrowing, and you realize he's looking for a word again. "Is-Spy says it," he grumbles in explanation. "Love of youth. Does not last long. Makes you act silly."

"He's… smitten?"

"Da! Smitten. Good word."

You'd never really thought about it, but you suppose so, trying to blink the growing headache away.

"I may sit?" He asks, gesturing to the large armchair across from you.

" 'f course." Your tongue does feel a little heavy, now that your teammate mentions how much of the bottle is missing. It really is time to stop.

Heavy does, the chair creaking under his weight. "Wanted to congratulate you," he says. "Glad to have you on team." He offers a hand and you clasp it, noting that even after getting to know him, to fight with this mountain of a man, that he controls his handshake well, his grip gentle even as the gesture is firm. The warmth of acceptance washes over you, and you know it isn't the scotch.

When he lets go, you two sit in a comfortable silence, surrounded by the cozy weight that a room full of books provides, as though the ink has spilled off the pages and made the air laden with silent words. Your eyes wander to the newest draft of the letter. You scoop it up, and crumple it to join the others.

"Do you write letters to your family, Heavy?" You ask. It's a bold question. You immediately wish you could take that moment of foolish whimsy back. But you can't.

But Heavy just nods slowly, grey eyes distant. "I write to them often. Call when possible."

You think you read a veiled sorrow in his gaze, but can you be sure? "Is it hard?" Might as well push your luck. Worst case, he loses his temper and sends you to respawn (you've seen no evidence of such hot-headedness in Heavy, however; not like that). Perhaps if you offend him, he'll just break your jaw and send you to the infirmary.

Never mind. Your stomach drops at the very thought. That is the worst-case scenario. No doubt Medic would add extracurricular surgery to a simple broken bone.

But Heavy simply replies: "Da." He surveys your pile of crumpled letters a moment. "But, my family knows I fight." He shrugs. "Am good at it. Pays well."

You nod, slowly-and stop when it makes your vision a little unsteady. "My parents know I'm doing something dangerous, but… not this." You rub your temples. "They think I work for the government," you admit. "But I'm… my mom is very sick. Or was. It's… she was okay when I left, but not very good." You look at the tabletop, scattered with ruined papers, the shelves holding worn books, the rough walls-anywhere but Heavy.

The admission makes your heart heavier, not lighter.

"You are worried. Is understandable."

"I left to help pay for her treatment." You focus on the rising pain behind your eyes. "I don't know what to say to her."

When you raise your head, Heavy suddenly looks years older. There are harsh lines around his eyes, wrinkling his forehead, framing his mouth. "I understand."

And you believe him. The words hang in the dense air, dark and open. The ache behind your eyes becomes the prickle of tears, but you hold them back.

You believe him.

"I'm sorry," you say.

Heavy nods, slow and sure. His grey eyes are warm, empty of tears, as though he had already spent them all long ago. "Am sorry, too."

You try again, later, alone in your room:

Mom, I hope you're well. I want you to know that I secured the job, and I'm very, very excited about where I am, but know your letters will find me eventually no matter where I happen to be. So don't worry about that. As for me, I'm worried- Scratch the line. Try again. So don't worry about that. I will be gone most of the year, but I might be able to visit next spring. I hope so. In the meantime, I want to know how you are. How you've been. Have the doctors- Scratch. Try again. I hope so. I have missed you. Things here are good, but I worry. Scratch. Again. I have missed you. I'm sorry I didn't ask more questions.

You throw away that draft, too.

It's Scout's turn to make dinner tonight, and he chooses something much trickier than you anticipated, given the conversation you'd had with him earlier in the week: scalloped potatoes with rationed ham he spiced up using some wine and kale from the previous week's run into town. The potatoes smell wonderful, heavy and savory, sitting in a glass pan upon the worn table as you slide into your usual seat. The chair creaks. The rest of the team has already arrived, most starting in on their meals as you serve yourself, the metal spoon clinking against the pan as you scoop.

Scalloped potatoes, creamy and flecked with pepper on a plastic plate, red, like so much of your life now. The sauce oozes over your plate, steaming, pulling the hue from crimson to rose. You take the first bite and burn your tongue, but they taste just like your mother made them.

She says your name from across the table.

The fork clatters to the floor.

"Mom?"

You're in a hospital, and someone has dropped a syringe on the tiled floor and it clicks, clicks, clicks, rolls under the wheeled bed with its stiff, papery sheets and silver rails.

The nurse whisks it away, gone before you can see her face, but it's no matter because you're staring at the rusty splatter on the white tile in the corner. Someone bled in here and no one bothered to clean it up.

The place reeks of antiseptic, but it's a goddamn lie.

She says your name again and this time the word is attached to a question, but you're too distracted to know what, exactly, and the doctor slouches in, dispassionate. Mostly-grey with creased skin, sickly pale like it's absorbed the milky paint from every crisp sheet and corridor. But there's still that mark on the tile, rusty-brown and flaking. Every breath brings the suffocating edge, alcohol and bleach, deeper through your lungs, a ribbon of needles snaking into your chest.

And it's cold, cold enough to keep the bodies fresh.

You're screaming.

Guts on display in the white, cold light, fingers thread through intestines, a bundle of tangled yarn, scraping, sliding, staining the doctor's fingers. It's the grey doctor, stained glistening blood-red but it should be blue, should be blue, should be sun and heat not ice and tile, and why? Why should it be blue?

"Specialist."

You gasp, but your arms won't move. Eyes snap open and find a moonlit ceiling.

One breath. Twothreefourfivesix.

It's your ceiling, a silver moon showing through iron bars on the windowpane. There's a shiver crawling over your skin, head to toe under tangled sheets.

Fuck.

You can't remember the last time you had a dream quite like that, vivid and clear. It seems there's a dark veil hanging over your shoulders, cobwebs clouding your head, sticky tendrils left from a nightmare you would like to forget before morning. Slowly, you bring your hands up to your face, rub them gently from your forehead down to your chin.

Yes, it's the way you remember it. Yes, it feels real enough. A glance to the foot of the bed reveals that, no, your insides are exactly where you left them, though they still writhe and tingle, phantom pain just beginning to fade. You reach for the bottle of water on your bedside table and finish it greedily, lukewarm liquid going easily down a dry throat. It clunks hollowly on the floor when you toss it aside, and bring your knees up to rest your forehead upon, squeezing your eyes shut tight.

But all you can see is your mother, her head bare.

The night will be long.