NOTE: My apologies for the delay once again, but-HAPPY NEW YEAR, friends! I'm sort of embarrassed at how time has been getting away from me... but hey, I'm doing better than the TF2 comic updates so that counts for something, right?

Warning in this chapter for: alcohol and drunkenness

You find yourself unwilling to climb into bed after your post-surgery shower, dinner, and five-chapter session of Monte Cristo. Sunrise does come early with Soldier's rendition of reveille and the scent of slightly-burned coffee, but ten o'clock in the evening is hardly late, and there's a lively buzz under your skin. A buzz that you desperately hope has nothing to do with Medic's prodding this afternoon; in any case, it makes the very thought of sleep unlikely.

So, you poke around the halls of the base, trying your best to look like you have a destination in mind. Somebody is playing a radio again, a jazzy old tune that could be Glenn Miller or Artie Shaw… old stuff. Your parents' age of music, something from your childhood. Hell, probably Medic or Spy's age of music. Your brow furrows. How old is Heavy? Or Engineer for that matter?

You won't bother theorizing about Pyro. You can start asking about age if and when you finally learn what gender they are and what their bloody face looks like.

You spare a glance into the cluttered rec room and quickly try to move on before you disturb-

"Where ya headed, lass?"

Busted. You slowly turn on your heel and try to think of something. Somewhere. Anywhere. "Uh-nowhere." Good job. "Wandering."

Demo and Sniper are kicked back on opposite ends of the sofa, each with a bottle. "Well, then!" says the Scot. "Pull up a seat, Specialist!"

You hesitate for the barest moment before entering the room. As far as you can tell, the television isn't on. No cards out, no books. Just a drink, it seems, and one sofa cushion available between them.

You grab the nearest mismatched dining-room chair and drag it within reach of the coffee table. If your companions think anything of this decision, they say nothing as Demoman produces another brown bottle from between the cushions beside him and slides it over the gouged tabletop. "Ah always say, if ya can't sleep, have a drink!"

Your brow creases, but you seize the chilled bottle and pop the top on the edge of the table in a perfectly shameful fashion. Your grandmother is rolling in her grave, but everything in this base could go up in flames tomorrow and nobody would miss this shitty fiberglass and plywood furniture. The cap gives a satisfying pop. "How did you know?"

He shrugs. "Nobody just goes wanderin'. Now-drink! Homemade scrumpy, tha' is."

You think you've heard of scrumpy, but you can't remember what it is. Not that Demo has steered you wrong before. The first sip is crisp, cold… cider. A smile immediately catches your lips and you take a long draught. There's an aftertaste of cinnamon, like pie. "It's lovely!"

Ever-silent Sniper makes a sound like a chuckle, and your eyes shift to his bottle. It's one of those piss-poor beers from the refrigerator.

"Do you have a problem with things that have a flavor besides 'bitter'?"

He takes a sip from the bottle. "Nah, it's just that Demo doesn't usually share."

Your brows arch straight to your hairline.

"Now tha's not true. Who brought ye that dark brew after last furlough? Sure as bloody hell wasn' Scout, was it?"

Sniper shrugs his lanky shoulders. "But it wasn't the home-brew, was it?"

Demoman waves a dismissive hand. "Ye didnae ask." He fixes his good eye on you. "Don't listen ta this piss-throwin, sheep-hu-"

"What?" You're not sure you heard that correctly.

"Hm? Don't listen to tha piss-throwin, sheep-"

You can feel the crease between your eyebrows. "Piss-throwing?" There's a sinking feeling in your gut, a nagging memory from the battlefield that… no. No, it has to be another creative insult and nothing more.

The men exchange a look.

And then Sniper crosses an ankle over his knee, reclining further into the sofa. "You mean it wasn't in me file?"

You blink. "It's… literal?" No.

"Yeah, actual piss." He takes another sip off the beer. "You're tellin' me you've gone almost two weeks an' you ain't seen jarate?"

Your mind ticks back a few days to the shards of glass in your hair and your unfortunately soaked coat, heavy and sticky on your arms and shoulders. "It… definitely smelled like…"

"Piss," Sniper nods.

"Piss," Demo agrees.

Well-damn. You take another swig from your bottle. "...yeah."

Their ensuing raucous laughter, you assume, is brought on by the taut mixture of disgust and utter regret plastered on your face. Sure, it's a clever use of one unfortunate byproduct of sitting hours in one place but please. Between a bullet to the brain and a face-full of piss, the headshot is by far the more respectable defeat.

"I wish I didn't know this."

Of course, that only makes the men laugh harder, and, frowning, you hope Sniper chokes on that beer.

"Start drinkin' a little faster an' maybe you'll forget," Demo laughs with a cyclopic wink.

"We work in the morning."

Sniper grins. "So ya need to forget before that."

You toss back another swallow from the bottle. "You should have to suffer with me. You and your jars of piss." Elbows on your knees, you pinch the bridge of your nose. Ugh. This is so far from all right. Hair soaked with piss. Forget showering; you're glad respawn exists. So, so, so damn glad.

"Jarate," he corrects.

You give a most unladylike snort.

Sniper settles the heels of his boots on the coffee table, folding them one over the other, tipping the beer to his lips again. He peers over his shades. "What if I go drink for drink with ya?"

A terrible idea. "Bad idea. We're working in the morning."

"Ha! You can take 'im, lass," Demo chuckles. "Man's a damn lightweight!"

You assume the man in question is rolling his eyes behind those aviators. "Am not." He shrugs. "'Sides, don't hurt me none if she's wantin' to act responsible. But, there's always the first respawn of the mornin'. Nothing better for a 'angover."

One more drink of the scrumpy as you assess your teammate. Sniper is tall, yes, but rail-thin. You've got more mass. You can take him on easily, especially if he's been drinking with Demo for some time already. What could three or four drinks hurt? It might even quell the restlessness in the pit of your stomach, send you to your room, lull you to sleep before midnight.

"All right, Sniper." You finish off the cider, savoring the cinnamon on your tongue. "What's the poison?"

He shakes his head, a tiny grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Don't wanna have an unfair edge-I've got standards, y'know." He nods toward the third party. "Demo, whatcha got?"

Demoman doesn't need to be asked twice; he leaps right up with a steadying extra step. You take this as a sign that you have the unfair edge: only one drink down while these two have been at it longer than you can guess. "Ah've got just th' thing!"

For a moment, you think he'll run right out of the room, but he skitters to a halt at a rickety-looking cabinet in the far corner. When the doors creak open, you learn that, rather than shelves holding games for slow evenings as you originally assumed during your tour of the base, the shelves sag under the weight of liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes-many empty, never thrown out for lord only knows what reason. And, by some miracle, Demoman reaches his hand back to the rear of the cabinet and tugs forth a square bottle, only knocking one out of place, slamming the doors shut just before the thing teeters off the edge and to an unforgiving doom on the concrete floor.

Demoman brandishes the prize above his head before returning. "Rum!" he declares, and saunters back to the sofa, missing one vital detail:

"Shot glasses?" you ask.

Demo scoffs. "What, we cannae trust you to measure out your own?"

Well, when he puts it that way… "Fine, fine. I'm sure we can both keep things even." Of course, it might balance out Sniper's head start if he shorts himself on each drink, so really, it doesn't matter either way, you suppose.

"Ladies first," offers Sniper with a grin when Demo presents the bottle between you.

You take it up, clenching your fingers around the thick bottle, down from the neck where your teammate had held it. Indeed, you realize, slowly, as you take your time to swirl the dark liquid about, he holds all his bottles that way.

But you-you're going to tip it back like a cold cuppa.

No matter how this goes down, that Aussie beanpole will be out in under four shots, and you can go to bed with a nice buzz.

Oh, gods. You were wrong, wrong, so wrong, so very, very wrong.

Well-no-not exactly completely wrong. Sniper is as much a lightweight as you anticipated, but six shots in and he's so fucking drunk that apparently he looped back around from horizontal to-to-fucking upright. He won't go down. And the more he drinks, the more ornery he gets and wants less and less to just-stop-just-concede.

"'At's anothah one. Drink anotheah one. Or rr yah done? Cos I'm not done, shheilah."

He had to have shorted himself a great deal not to have collapsed over the table by now.

"Go-on, then, go-on! Or yah done?"

You just want to go to fucking bed. No-wait-not… just bed. Sleeping. Sleeping. Work tomorrow.

"Ffine." You snatch back the bottle and-you're… you're irritated. Sleep. You need it. But you also just feel so damn nice, you know? Like… wow, you feel a giggle bubbling up in your chest, so you let it out. So it doesn't build up too much pressure in there, yeah?

So now you're giggling in the middle of a shot and whoops there it goes.

Rum splattered from your lips all over the coffee table and all over your shirt and all over the sofa which means all over your drunk-ass teammates.

Which of course means everyone is laughing like a tom-fooling idiot, covered in rum.

Sniper, doubled over with only the arm of the sofa holding him somewhat upright. Demoman, snorting over his brown bottle, slapping his knee like seeing someone burn their damn nose snorting a shot is the funniest fucking thing he's ever seen.

Which reminds you, this fucking hurts damn it shit.

You're desperately rubbing at your nose, but it's not working and holy hell it burns. "Tha's it oh shitshitshit that's it it's over!" You snort. You keep snorting because oh, gods.

"Aha! Ha-ha! Tha's it, Oi'm tha winnah-kneww it!"

You try to roll your eyes but you still can't get the fucking alcohol out of your nose so it's pointless. "You-nnghshit-flakin', piss-ggghhhhh."

Meanwhile, Demo is laughing to damn tears; you can hear it.

Probably time to cut your loss… your… time… you should leave. You look like enough of a kook. And you're still snorting.

Burns like the devil, though, so you're going to keep the fuck at it. And make your way out. "Good-gghhhnnnight, asshhholes."

They only laugh harder, and you still haven't moved from your chair. You just… need to work up to it. Just a-just a second.

At least the men can't seem to get any more words out, either.

You push straight up from your seat-get it over with. Ohhhhhhhhhh boy, not a good idea, stomach heaving, head spinning, but shit, you're upright, so bed it is. Well, bathroom to flush out your nose and then fucking bed. No-not. Bed. Just bed.

"Ghhnnnight."

"G'noighhahaha."

"An' good fookin luck!"