Note: My apologies for the delay, but I daresay this chapter is rather worth it. ;) Special thanks, as ever, to diananock and kilgamesh, my betas, and to my editor, Shiqq! Aaand, I don't think we actually have any content warnings for this chapter, so, without further ado...

You had forgotten about the mess you left half-swept into a corner this morning, but there it is, amber shards and scattered white pills. You suppose you ought to finish what you started or risk cutting your feet when you undoubtedly forget again in the next hour.

With a sigh, you sling your coat across the rickety chair and unbutton your undershirt, which follows in a sweaty, wrinkled heap. From the wastebasket, you pull a couple discarded, half written letters and smooth them out, deliberately not looking at the words. Even so, scattered phrases mock you in spotty ink: "wish I could call," "hope you're doing well," and worst, "I'm sorry"-among them. Picking through the shards to salvage what pills you can is a welcome distraction from the weight that settles in your chest. It takes a great deal of focus not to slice your fingers or get any pieces stuck to your skin-after all, the med-bay is not the place you want to go after successfully avoiding it for the night, even for tweezers and a band-aid. What pills you can recover are shoved in the top drawer of your bedside table. The glass and all the rest are swept up in the papers and dumped in the wastebasket.

At last, you throw yourself on the bed, ignoring the pathetic creak of the mattress. Despite being healed not long ago, weariness settles into your bones. Monte Cristo is an arm's reach from your position, but your eyes are suddenly so, so heavy. Without even lifting the book, you know what happens next-

Edmond Dantes has completed his rebirth as the mysterious Count of Monte Cristo-a man fabulously wealthy, full of charity, a man almost inhuman in appearance and manner, wit and strength. A man who has all that a mortal could desire but cannot escape his thoughts of pain and mortality, suffering and vengeance.

So difficult to let go. If you could find some way to burn the images of creased skin-sickly pale like it's faded into the bleached white of every crisp sheet and corridor-and blood on tile, rusty-brown and flaking… You bury your face in the crook of your elbow. You sink your teeth into your skin until the pain lets you breathe deeply, focus past that mire of melancholy.

If you could let go, maybe you'd be stationed on a ship right now instead of playing mercenary. Your stomach flutters. Well-perhaps you're not so disappointed in your situation as you should be. It's selfish, but why wouldn't you be happier this way? The Navy was all too eager to throw you out on your ass at the first sign of trouble. But Miss Pauling, she knew, and she wanted you here anyway. Medic, he saw and offered to help. Maybe he wasn't a doctor, not really, but he'd helped you more than any certified asshole you'd ever seen. He's a bastard, and he's off his rocker, sure, but… he never tried to tell you that you are.

You wonder what Medic is cooking. More than that, you wonder if he looks as much a mad scientist while tossing vegetables into a pot as he does filling a syringe or drawing his bonesaw across an enemy's throat. It's very hard to imagine him slicing vegetables faster than flesh without that manic grin. You're tempted to go down to the mess and see for yourself, but even this too-firm mattress is far more appealing than standing under your own power right now.

The sun through the window is warm on your bare back, making the room unfathomably comfortable. You'll just have to content yourself only speculating what the doctor must look like in the kitchen. Perhaps he does seem perfectly ordinary, much the way he did after battle today, humming and almost content. You wish you'd had the time to figure out what song it was. The tune seemed naggingly familiar.

You're awake before realizing you even fell asleep. The clock reads 6:30-just enough time to commandeer the showers before dinner. You sit up, straps tightening around your thigh, and frown. Apparently, you neglected to remove the Lancaster before settling in for a nap, and now you must decide whether to just leave it on or tuck it under your pillow for tomorrow. Would anyone notice if you wore your gun to dinner? Was an attack particularly likely between now and bedtime?

Yes, someone would probably notice, and yes, someone (Scout) would probably say something. No, attacks outside working hours don't seem to be the norm. In any case, you'd really just rather avoid commentary on what will likely be termed paranoia. With the… stress reaction, the shell-shock, Medic hasn't ordered any restrictions, but you'd rather not push your luck.

Besides, you've been doing very well, if one pointedly ignores the thing that definitely didn't happen on the field first thing today and certainlywasn't remotely related to an enemy spy.

You unbuckle the holster and slide the pistol under your pillow before tucking the leather straps into the armoire. From there, you select some jeans and a button-down, a clean undershirt and underwear. You press these items to your bare chest before realizing you ought to at least pull the dirty shirt over your shoulders for the trip to the showers.

It ended up not mattering, as you met no one on your way. Still, you know that if you'd gone without, you would have given half the base an eyeful. That's just the way things work.

Of course, one person on this base has already seen it-in a purely professional context. So, really, it's not like he nor anyone else has actually seen anything. You've… really never had to worry about interacting with your doctor anywhere besides the office or hospital. Never actually thought about having to take meals with someone who has not only seen you with most of your clothes off, but has seen you with a great deal of your skinoff.

And that train of thought can stop right where it is because you need to board a different one. One... not so goddamn weird.

Shower. That's safe. Hot water eases the leftover tension from your back, perks up sleep-slowed muscles. The air still smells like a commingled mixture of at least four kinds of soap and cologne, the steam making it all feel like an extraordinarily clean sauna… as long as one doesn't inspect the floor for the countless grains of sand scattered around the drains. Still, it's not at all unpleasant. After all, it doesn't smell like sweaty, bloody men anymore.

When you suppose twenty minutes have gone by, you reluctantly turn off the water and dry off, dress yourself fairly neatly, comb your fingers through your damp hair. From here, you return to your room to drop off the dirty clothes in a half-full hamper, and head back toward the mess hall. The smell, even before you put your hand on the door, is brilliant-warm and inviting, buttery and savory. It's homely and enticing all at once, and your stomach suddenly realizes how very empty it is. Eagerly, you push the door.

You stop immediately in the doorframe, heedless of the creak of hinges as it closes behind you.

Somehow, when you had tried to picture Medic being domestic , you still imagined him in full field doctor regalia, coat buttoned and , it had never occurred to you that he might actually take it off.

But there he is, dishing up a plate with his shirtsleeves rolled up, just bare hands and forearms. The plate settles into Pyro's very much gloved hand, but you can't stop staring at the well-fitted vest and shirt across Medic's back, at the pull of muscle under the skin of his arms.

Honestly, you act like you've never seen a man before.

You tell yourself you'd do the same thing if Pyro showed up without a fire-suit, or Spy without his mask, or-

"Mrmrrmph."

Medic glances over his shoulder and relinquishes the plate into Pyro's full custody. "Oh-Specialist."

You shift your gaze quickly to the table. No one there. "Am I early?"

"Not very-as you can see, everything is nearly ready." He returns his attention to the stove, to the assorted pots and pans there.

Your ears tune into an energetic pop and sizzle. Something, you realize now, is frying. There's an empty space left on Pyro's plate-not that you'd paid attention until now. The rest is covered in what could be rice and-yes-lentils. But Pyro isn't paying the slightest attention to what Medic is finishing on the stove; you get the stomach-turning feeling the empty eyes of that gas mask are staring at you.

"Hey, Pyro," you say.

"Mrrph!" At least the muffled voice seems cheerful. You'd hate to think you were being rude by not greeting them when you came in. You had just been a little flabbergasted-understandably so, of course.

Medic scoops two flat, roundish cakes onto Pyro's plate. They smell amazing, each a lovely golden-brown. "Looks good," you offer.

"Mrmrumr mrrmrph!" Their free fist is shaking a simple 'yes,' but their head is tilted, still staring.

You feel like you should say something, but you have no idea what.

Fortunately, Medic speaks first, before a ridiculous half-sentence spills out of your mouth. "Of course it's good!" He returns to the sizzling pan, scooping more cakes onto a platter at his elbow. "You'll like it better once you've tasted it." He pauses to stir a pot. "Pyro, are you sure you don't want Scout's portion?"

They shake their head. "Mr mrgmrr."

"Vell," he says with a glance, "be sure to come back if you change your mind."

Pyro flashes an 'okay' with one hand, and, black, empty lenses never leaving your eyes, gives you a thumbs-up before exiting, steaming plate in hand.

You have no idea what you've done to get a thumbs-up or what it could mean or why it might be used as a goodbye, but you gave a smile in response and managed an "enjoy dinner" and that's what really counts.

And now, you're standing just inside the mess hall, alone with Medic under circumstances that are definitely not medical. You have no idea what to say.

Nervously, your hand rakes through damp hair. Your eyes flash to the table. It's not just empty-it's unset. "Can I help?" tumbles out of your mouth before you even finish processing.

Good manners-good manners. You can practically hear your mother saying that good manners can fix everything.

"No." The doctor doesn't even turn from his work, and you immediately deflate. You're confused. You're irritated.

"I can get the dishes out," you insist. "It isn't any trouble to-"

"I know."

Then what the hell? "Medic, really-"

He waves a flippant hand in your direction, dishing more cakes onto the platter and covering it with a large bowl. "Just get yourself a drink and have a seat; I'll take care of it in a moment."

You debate marching to the cupboard and setting the table anyway. He hasn't even looked in your direction since acknowledging your presence. Gently insisting that he'd like to do the work is one thing, tossing your offer to the side with simple "no," is quite another. You stop the trek you've started and redirect yourself to the refrigerator. Well, if he wants to do all the work himself, that's his business, you suppose.

The heavy door opens with a creak. The selection is quite the same-water, shitty beer, eye-wateringly sweet tea-and you hope your paycheck comes soon so you can throw some good lager and bourbon in here. You wrap your hand around a bottle of water and take a seat close to the end of the table. No sooner do you crack open the bottle than the sizzling starts to die down and you hear the clink of porcelain in its wake. You bring the water to your lips and try to quash the thought that, conversationally, Medic is much better in the operating room. Friendlier, anyway. Which is saying a lot, considering how much of a bastard he is even doing what he likes best.

And then, the covered plate of cakes is set in the center of the table, followed by two pots, each on their own trivet. You try to ignore the play of muscles as he sets each cast-iron container but his cuffs are rolled to the elbow, and for some reason that makes it as fascinating as if you'd never even thought he had arms under that coat. You take another drink of water so he doesn't notice how rude you're being.

"What are we having?" you ask when he disappears behind you.

For a moment, you wonder if he didn't hear-and then you feel him at the back of your chair. You can't help but tense at the sudden closeness as he passes a plate around in front of you, close enough to see the veins, blue and purple, under the skin of his wrist and in his hand. You can't move. " Schwäbische Linsen mit Spätzle ," he says; you can feel his breath stir your hair (you, yourself, are not breathing), a little chill prickling over your damp scalp, "und Latkes ." The tension leaves you all at once and air rushes in when he moves to the next spot and sets another dish. "It's… Swabian-style lentils over a pasta-er-dumplings- Spätzle -vith potato pancakes."

He continues around the table, setting each plate. You probably overreacted slightly at his being so close-something to do with coming off the battlefield not long ago, you're sure. Now he's at your other side, setting the place at the end of the table, looking at you expectantly through his spectacles. Right-you're having a conversation.

"That sounds really fantastic." Your mouth is on auto-pilot. You should say something else. "It's something you ate at home?"

Medic's face relaxes into what might be nostalgia. Nostalgia-or satisfaction at your polite compliment. "Oh, ja -we vere very near to Swabia, and even if my grandparents were not natives of it, this sort of food was very common." He bustles back to the counter, and you can hear the ring of silverware. "Latkes, I learned from my father-these were always around for holidays and zhings."

In all honesty, you hadn't expected him to tell you so much. Even saying that he lived near Swabia feels like a huge amount of information-not that you have a good idea where Swabia is, nor what's around it. Knowing he had grandparents and a father he grew up around makes him seem a lot less like a mad mercenary doctor and more… ordinary. As he moves around the table again, setting a knife on one side of each plate and two forks on the other, shirtsleeves rolled up and medical equipment nowhere to be seen, it's almost difficult to imagine that this is the man who-just today-spilled a scout's intestines on the hot, desert sands, and laughed freely, mingling scarlet blood and orange soil in a syrupy dance. You frown.

Medic leans over your chair again to set your utensils. You can smell his cologne even through the savory scent of supper, something spicy and dark like-

"Hey, Doc-is dinner about ready? I'm wastin' away here!"

You can practically hear Medic roll his eyes as he steps back just as casually as if he were nothing more than a waiter who did this every day, leaning into personal space to set a damn table you already offered to set. "You don't even like lentils! You could have made yourself something else at any time."

You turn your head to see Scout swaggering between you and Medic to his usual seat, followed right after by Engineer and Demoman. "Yeah, but it looks like you've got other stuff here-"

Medic slaps the boy's questing hand away from one of the lids. " Nein! Sit down!"

"All right, all right, geez," he grumbles, rubbing his hand and taking a seat. He does a good job of ignoring the pointed chuckles from the other side of the table.

Next through the door is Heavy, who boisterously compliments the smell of the doctor's cooking, to which the man in question preens. And then Spy, gliding in with an unlit cigarette between his lips and a bottle of wine in his hand that he does not offer to share, and Soldier-punctual to the second, you suspect-and finally, Sniper. As Medic finishes tidying up the stove, Demo offers to get drinks, and you politely decline, with plenty of water still left in the bottle.

The murmur of conversation that begins is pleasant, and you let it wash over you for a minute, not even really realizing that no one has tried to touch the food since Scout was admonished-until Medic is at your shoulder again serving you.

You try not to let your mouth hang open too long.

First is the Spätzle -what you recognize as the sort of rice-shaped pasta from Pyro's plate. Medic goes around the table and places this first. Then, a rich mixture of lentils in a dark sauce, over the noodles, and when Scout opens his mouth to protest, the doctor utters a sharp "you eat it right, or not at all." Last is a helping of two latkes on each plate, still leaving a pile of several more on the platter. And just before you take your first bite-

You realize Medic is sitting across from you tonight. And he appears to be waiting to gauge your reaction. You suppose it's because you're the only one who hasn't eaten his cooking before, and the doctor is nothing if not prideful. So, you take a bite of the main course and try not to feel terribly scrutinized.

It's brilliant. Savory, with just a hint of sweet earthiness from the lentils, tart, creamy and filling. "Medic, this is fantastic."

He grins, all sharp edges and glee that could turn a stomach-and now you can line up the man on the field with the one across the table. " Danke ." He takes a forkful of his own, seems to study it with pride. "I rather think so."

Well, at least his modesty is consistent.

There's a range of assent mixed with rolling eyes and dry chuckles across the table as the rest tuck in with no less gusto-save for Scout, studiously picking around the lentils to eat any Spätzle that escaped the flood of actual nutrition.

Conversation gradually picks up and ebbs and flows like normal, turning from the day's battle to what the weekend might bring, and then-

"Ensign, I haven't seen you out on the courses lately," says Soldier, helping himself to another of the latkes (which are also quite brilliant).

Oh, boy. You run up and down the field every day. You fight. You die. You run some more. There's really no reason to go out and run an obstacle course afterward. "We get a lot of exercise on the field," you say, evenly.

"That may be true, but we must always stay in tip-top shape, and that means PT-PT for everyone!" He eats half the cake in one chomp.

"Soldier…" You finish your water. "...isn't the point of PT to stay in shape when you're not in combat?"

He nods, helmet bouncing. "And we are not currently in combat, ensign!"

Indeed. You bite back a sigh and try a change of subject instead. "Soldier, you keep calling me 'ensign.'"

"Because you're a squid."

You can't help but chuckle. "Yeah, and you call everyone else 'private'-were you in the army?"

"Uhhh-" Scout sends a glance between you and Soldier.

"In the army? In the army? "

Oh, shit. You begin backpedalling as fast as humanly possible. "Er-the Marines?"

"Here we go," mumbles Scout.

"I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT I APPLIED FOR EVERY BRANCH OF THE UNITED STATES MILITARY! ARMY! NAVY! MARINES! AIR FORCE! EVEN THE NATIONAL GUARD! AND DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED, ENSIGN?"

Your mouth moves but nothing comes out because, really, you don't want to even hazard a guess. You might suppose that he was rejected by all of them, but even that feels unlikely as he doesn't seem angry or embarrassed or even ashamed.

"I WAS TURNED AWAY FROM EVERY SINGLE ONE."

Oh. You should offer your… sympathy?

"AND IT WAS THEN I REALIZED: IT IS NOT UNCLE SAM'S RUBBER STAMP THAT MAKES YOU A SOLDIER! HAVING THE SOUL OF A WARRIOR MAKES YOU A SOLDIER. IT IS YOUR WILLINGNESS TO FIGHT!" He thumps his chest. "Those rejections made me realize I already was a Soldier! So-I shipped myself off to the European theater AND KILLED NAZIS." Soldier thumped a fist on the table. "AND I HAVE BEEN GRATEFUL TO HIM EVER SINCE!"

Your brow furrows. "To… Uncle Sam?"

"TO UNCLE SAM!" He raises his glass in a toast that you belatedly, bewilderedly, meet with your own.

As Soldier downs his glass, you find your head spinning just a little. The War ended… twenty-four years ago- when you were born . If what he said is true, Soldier would have been at least eighteen in 1943, making him…

Soldier would have to be at least forty-two years old.

What.

The realization must be showing on your face, because Spy rests a gloved hand on your shoulder, and when you meet his gaze, rolls his eyes. You hope that means there's some logical explanation for this-like, maybe the soldier is having you on.

But Spy offers nothing more, and returns to his wine.

"So, if you don't want to run courses for your PT, ensign, there's a whole building full of equipment! There's no excuse! BE THE SOLDIER YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE!"

Well. Apparently you aren't as adept at distraction as you thought, or you overestimated Soldier's distractibility. You had almost forgotten about the training annex… you recall the boxing ring no one had deigned to tell you existed-empty, ready, and waiting while you sat (nervous, so afraid of being brushed off and declared useless) across from Miss Pauling. You can feel your heart start to hammer in your chest at the mere thought, how good it might feel to fight, for once, not to kill -perhaps Soldier wasn't so far off after all. You take a breath. Should you?

Soldier is staring at you from down the table, somehow appearing to peer through the helmet that hangs over his eyes. Most of the others are listening with casual interest, probably wondering how you'll dig your way out of this.

Might as well.

"Does anyone know how to box?"